As I said before, I am one of the Breeze Reporters, supported by Seoul and VANK.  Vank Exhibition began today, in December 22nd at 10am. In order to cover this, reporters had to skip school, and write a report after ’ Learning by direct experience’.

VANK Exhibition is stated at Joong-ang National Museum,the largest museum in Korea.

More information on how to come to the museum. http://www.museum.go.kr/EngMain.do

People are not allowed to take pictures in the museum. Instead, I will put up some pictures of the outside.

△The lake is frozen. Other days were super cold, but today was quite warm, compared to other days of winter.

△The Entrance of Joong-ang National Museum

△You can see the N-Seoul Tower. Can you notice it also?

△Are you wondering what this is? Let me tell you about it. In these days, Joong-ang National Museum has special exhibition on history and mystery of Incan civilization. The picture above is stairs designed with pyramids of Machupicchu. So if you climbe of the stairs, it looks like you are climbing up the pyramids.

△This is the view you can see from the very top of the stairs.

△It’s one small building next to the big one.

——————————————————————————

I went inside and I found the place where VANK Exhibition was about to start. It will be continued until 12.27(Sun) and the available time is from 10am to 6pm. Guides will give explanations about exhibition. It’s free of course!!

Since today was the first day, the VIPs, including the vice mayor. All of them were people who work with the president Lee. It was like an honor to me. 

The tape is cut, and the exhibition officially began!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Below are series of some pictures.

△Korean Explanation on ‘What is VANK?’

△This is posting up ‘post-it’s that is written briefly about this:’Korean features that would make people in the world to be amazed at after 10 years.’ Since I took this picture before the exhibition started, there are not many ‘post-it’s but soon after the VIPs, Breeze Reporters and other people put them, the board were filled with pink post-its.

△Korean Postcards

△Information on Korea of foreign textbooks corrected after people such as Korean students asked the pressing company to fix the incorrect information.

△English Version of World Map, produced from VANK, Voluntary Agency Network of Korea(www.prkorea.org)

The head director of VANK, Mr. Park began to explain about pieces of work exhibited in the museum to the VIPs.

△VIPs listening attentively to Mr. Park’s explanation.

△Mr. Park explaining to us, the Breeze reporters.

△Breeze Reporters, not including me, busy taking pictures.

After the Breeze reporters took pictures with the vice mayor, he exchanged greetings with every one of us, individually!!

Apology here. The vice mayor had to go quickly to work for his next schedule, so unfortunately, no one had a chance to interview him.

————————————————————————————–

Dear Mr. R(Jason), I am so sorry I couldn’t ask any questions. However, I will try to answer your questions as fast as possible instead through your email. Of course, I am planning to research and add those to my knowledge before answering yours.  I will do my best.

 ——————————————————————————————

△VIPs putting up ‘post-it’ on the board, posing at the camera, the same time.

[VIPs'  Short message to the world]

• Uh-Yoon-Dae, the chief of National Brand Committee

• Park-Jeong-Chan, the head director(president) of Yeonhap News.

• Shin-Gill-Soo, Eastasia history foundation’s ambassador of marking international terms.

Anyone who want to receive a free world map in an English Version, please leave comments with your email address.

△World Map

.——————————————–

Did you enjoy? I recommend this exhibition to the foreigners, because it will provide them to have a new point of view toward Korea. 

Always yours.

Xiah-J

http://www.redress.cc/stooges/gatzmon20091213

Friday, December 11, 2009

CBC News – Tanzanian police arrested a Canadian diplomat Wednesday on accusations he spat at a police officer and a TV journalist.

Jean Touchette, the personal secretary at the Canadian High Commission in the African country, was arrested by police in the capital, Dar es Salaam, after he allegedly spat at a senior police officer during an argument over a traffic jam on the outskirts of the city, according to Tanzanian newspaper the Daily News.

Touchette is also alleged to have spat in the face of Jerry Muro, a TV journalist with the Tanzania Broadcasting Corporation, when Muro went to the police station to interview and film the diplomat.

“And I asked him why was he doing it to me,” Muro told CBC News. “And he said, ‘I’m doing it because you are taking my pictures … and it’s my privacy.’ “

Muro said the diplomat insulted him, calling him “stupid” and “an idiot.”

Touchette’s case has been handed over to the country’s director of criminal investigation for further action, the Daily News reported. He was freed on bail Wednesday and could face charges despite his diplomatic immunity.

Robert Orr, Canada’s high commissioner in Dar es Salaam, said his staff are investigating the case.

“I think we want to make sure we have all the facts before we reach conclusions about what about exactly occurred and the full nature of the incident,” Orr said.

“I think it’s important to ensure that people understand that Canada holds its public servants and its diplomats to a very high standard of behaviour.”

Foreign Affairs spokesperson Dana Cryderman said the department is aware of the situation and is gathering further information.

UPDATE on Monday, Dec 14, 2009

The following excerpt provides details about the French ambassador being stopped:

Guinea accuses France of complicity in shooting

CONAKRY, Guinea – The French ambassador was stopped and his diplomatic car was searched as troops loyal to Guinea’s ruling junta continued a manhunt for the renegade soldier that shot and wounded the head of Guinea’s military junta, an official said on Tuesday.

The search of a diplomatic car is a violation of international law and is evidence of how uncontrolled the Guinean military has become following the assassination attempt on their leader who was evacuated overseas for emergency treatment last week, said a diplomat who had been briefed on the matter.

Guinea’s communications minister said he could not comment on the search of the ambassador’s car, but accused the French secret service of ‘being complicit in the assassination attempt.’ He said that ‘only France knows where to find’ Lt. Abubakar ‘Toumba’ Diakite, the former head of the presidential guard who opened fire on Capt. Moussa ‘Dadis’ Camara last Thursday, wounding him in the head and forcing him to leave the country for emergency surgery in Morocco.

French Foreign Ministry spokesman Bernard Valero said the claims by Guinea’s communications minister were ‘absurd rumors that I forcefully deny.’ A spokesman for the French ambassador in Conakry said that he had no comment about the search of the diplomat’s car.

The incident was confirmed by a diplomat who had been briefed on the matter and a person close to the French embassy. The two said that the ambassador and his wife had gone to the airport Monday, when soldiers surrounded their car which was clearly marked with diplomatic plates and demanded they be allowed to search it in violation of international treaties. The ambassador’s’ bodyguards were forced to lie down on the pavement as soldiers pointed rocket launchers at them, while the car was searched.

Photographed by Ed Callow [ torquespeak ]

torquespeak.wordpress.com

– License

Stigma and Discrimination: A Safe Space for All Those who are Vulnerable

Tamian called yesterday and asked me for Mr. Calmright’s phone number. I told him that Mr. Calmright gave me a number which I believed was his CDA network cell phone number but it did not seem to work. I called the number at least twice but did not get through to him.

Antonio called yesterday too. He had concerns about his new home and where he will go next? I told him that “high level” people were working on his case and that I suspected there would be a solution soon. I asked him to be patient some more.

Stigma and Discrimination

Stigma is stigma regardless of who wears the stamp. It is an invisible brand that is stamped on “others” by so called mainstream society. Discrimination is discrimination regardless of who feels the pain of the injustice. Whether we stigmatize and discriminate against Antonio (a street boy) or ”Antonette” (a church brother), the effects are the same - the “victim” becomes more vulnerable; they are prone to violent attacks; they do not readily seek services from mainstream society; and they eventually develop coping skills such as banding together with thier own kind and exhibiting duality in behaviour as a survival strategy.  

As I sat and listened to the participants at the Caribbean Vulnerable Communities PEER training yesterday, I was reminded that the rights of ALL MEN must be protected.

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” That’s what the Executive Director of Jamaica AIDS Support said on December 2, 2009 at the United States Embassy’s panel discussion on World AIDS Day. She was using one of Martin Luther King Jr’s well known quotations. Miss Yvonne, a little lady with a powerful voice knew the quotation more than anyone in the audience.  

I was also convinced that the Northern Caribbean University’s (NCU) team of videographers at the panel discussion was familiar with the quotation:   “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”  

The White Pegasus introduced “Philadelphia”

I watched “Philadelphia” from beginning to end in the cold auditorium with my husband. Before the movie started I noticed the white horse with wings and recognized him as Pegasus. He approached from the front with his front legs spread apart and his chest high. 

Why was their Pegasus white?

And why is my Pegasus black?

Is there a difference between the white winged horse and the black winged horse?

And what about Springteen’s music? 

Hanks’ Opera?

Washington’s business cards?

Which of these men represent the true meaning of Pegasus?

One of my male mute readers told me before the movies started that he was reading “Seeds of Insight.” He dipped his shoulder to the left side and praised God. I smiled and dipped my shoulder to the right side and praised God.  A female mute reader was standing close by and I knew she was engaged. I told her that I would be working soon and how the job found me. She was not surprised because she knew about the ”energy” and the ”attraction.”

I did not see my mute readers after the movie. They left before the story was completed.

Dancing with “Antonette”

Yesterday I also danced with “Antonette.” They caught us on video at the Musgrave Hotel. 

Who defines me? Who defines my friends? Where do I live? Where is my community? Do we understand how teenagers and youth communicate these days?

When are we going to throw away the damn old boxes?

We have a long way to go with stigma and discrimination in Jamaica. The task ahead is great especially in a country where violence permeates the society. 

The Planning Institute says that we are missing our development targets. Why? Could it be that we are missing opportunities for growth and development by simply excluding our brilliant minds? 

http://www.jamaica-gleaner.com/gleaner/20091204/news/news5.html

Male Energy that needs to be released

My discriminating cousin-in-law left on Wednesday. He is one of my seeds; a strong force of positive male energy that needs to be released. In 2002 he brought me the blessings of a job at USAID and now in 2009 he came a day before the call from Uruguay and left after he took the photos of my diplomas. He knows that I am now wiser and more prepared; a mediator for the vulnerable and a diplomat for the Church.

Big Protest in Chapelton

I saw Mass Rudyard and Mass Pearnel on the evening news again yesterday. They were reaching out to the people in Chapelton. Big protest in Chapelton on Wednesday and Thursday!  The people want their hospital to remain open and they were protesting.

I did not notice the hospital when I went up to St. Joseph’s last week. I knew St. Joseph’s was in Mass Pearnel’s constituency though and I could understand why Mass Rudyard was involved.

Wow! A community protest to save the little country hospital brought down two big men from town. And all this was happening under the watchful eyes of the teenage boys on the chosen hills of St. Joseph’s high on top of Mount Zion.

Learning Arabic

In preparation for Eric’s assignment to the Middle East, Eric’s sole job day-to-day is to learn Arabic.  All day, every day.  Me, on the other hand?  The only Arabic I’d ever learned was from our tour guide in Cairo when I was 14.   “Ma feesh for looz” has ever since been etched in my brain.  It means, “I have no money” and is kindly designed to give beggars the Heisman.  Despite the obvious usefulness of this phrase, I decided to hire a tutor and, at least, try to keep up with my linguistically-gifted and time-enabled husband. 

Not only would I be learning Arabic after work, but I planned on overcoming my very recently acquired fear of speaking foreign languages aloud.  Although I was fluent in French, conversant in Spanish, and adept at ordering antipasto at almost ANY Italian restaurant, I was shy to use any of these languages after “the incident” of 2000.  Two days into the New Millennium, I thanked the Dunkin’ Donuts men in what I thought to be their Mother tongue by graciously accepting my doughnut with a warm “gracias!”  Too bad they were clearly Pakistani.  We all had a moment of silent confusion as each pair of eyes met the others in pure dumbfoundedness, until Eric and I left and exploded into hysterical laughter in the car.  It was the last time I decided to “go native” on strangers.

The Taleban and Al’Qaeda: What’s the Difference and What Do We Do Know?

We are pleased to announce that we are co-hosting a lecture with the Afghanistan Development Society.  Professor Fawaz Gerges will be speaking on the complexities of the current situation in the New Theatre at 18.30 on the 1st December.

Coffee Morning with Howard Davies

The LSE Director will be discussing – “Britain in Europe under the Conservatives: The Coming Crisis”. Places are strictly limited so please turn up early so as not to miss out!

Howard Davies is a former chairman of the FSA, as well as having worked as Deputy Governor of the Bank of England and in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.  We’ll be holding this event in NAB2.09 at 11.00 on the 2nd December.

Read more about it here!

International Winter Camp

Our Polish partner organisation, The Young Diplomat’s Centre, is pleased to open applications to their International Winter Camp called “The Borderlands”. It gathers over 100 participants from all over the Europe and is based on non-formal education and intercultural learning. This winter (7-13 February 2010) we would like to challenge the theme of borderlands what a melting pot of different nationalities and cultures means in practice.

For more information, please either contact us or have a look at www.zabinki.pl.

Reminders!

Our Christmas Dinner Tickets are almost all sold out, so act fast to get one of the few remaining!

2009/11/19 KUALA LUMPUR: A diplomat is being investigated for allegedly using force to outrage the modesty of a saleswoman in the embassy premises in Jalan U-Thant here.

The alleged incident took place on Tuesday afternoon when the saleswoman went to meet the diplomat.

It was learnt that after the meeting, the envoy allegedly grabbed the woman and kissed her several times before she broke free and fled.

The woman lodged a police report stating that he tried contacting her several times after the incident but she refused to answer.

It was also learnt that police have made a request to Wisma Putra to record a statement from the diplomat as he has diplomatic immunity. Police have also requested the tapes from the closed-circuit television cameras at the embassy.

Antonio called me yesterday at 6:08 pm while I was on my way home. I recognized his name on my cell phone screen.

“Hi Antonio!”

“Hey.”

“How are you doing man?” The tone of his voice was different. He was comfortable.

We exchanged more greetings as my son and my cousin listened in on the conversation.

“Allison gone till Sunday,” he said, sounding as if he was really missing her. 

“Really? But Tamian comes back on Friday, right?” I had to give him hope that his angels were not far away.

“Yes,” he replied, with a soft and relaxed tone.

I knew he was feeling more comfortable. I could tell by the sound of his voice.

“Are you going away too?”

My heart skipped a beat as I heard his voice asked the big question that all my men had been asking for months now and I knew that I was going to be honest with this young hopeful boy.

“No Antonio, I am not going anywhere right now. I will be here for a while.”

I then decided to ask him about his parents. “How do you feel now that your parents are back…?”

“Mi feel good.”

“Did you get into anymore problems? I hope that there is no more war.”

“No man.”

I told Antonio that I called St. Joseph’s on Wednesday to talk to Mr. Calmright but was told that he was out of office and that I could call again on Thursday. Antonio confirmed that Mr. Calmright was indeed away on Wednesday but would be back on Thursday.

Mediator

My cousin who is here visiting from the US called me a “mediator” this Ben Johnson morning. I smiled and told him that I was never trained as one but somehow God was using me to mediate in the lives of people in crisis.

“Yes man you are a mediator and a diplomat too.” He insisted.

I did not challenge his statement. If he felt that I was a mediator and a diplomat, then what could I say?

Then we started to talk about the grandparents and their way of life. I laughed out loudly, clapped my hands and jumped three times in the kitchen as I explained My Truth about Rastafari and the Church with Miss Liz paying close attention. 

My husband looked at me quizzically. He had never before heard me talk like that. He asked:”What is Babylon?”

And I explained.

There was silence.

Mrs. Prospect

I called Mrs. Prospect as promised to tell her about the interview. I knew she was eager to learn about the job prospect. I gave her all the information that I had about the organization with which I took the interview. 

“Oh!” She said.

It seems as if, at least for a moment, that some of my readers thought I was being self-serving.

I smiled.

They really do not know me. They do not know Mar Campbell at all.

Seems as if they were saying that I was going after Mary Clarke’s job…apparently she is about to retire. 

Good Lord!

I am here for a specific purpose 

Let me assure you all that I am not going after anyone’s job. I am here for a specific purpose; to sow (thanks Bethany), yes, sow “Seeds of Insight” using the positive energies of men across Jamaica and the world. I am also here to help women to smell the sweet scents just before dawn through my “Senses at Dawn.”

And I want to thank you all for taking this journey with me. I know you are reading because I can “see” you through my computer screen and I can feel your spirits. I can even tell when people translate my blog posts into a language that they understand.

I am here! I am living in a new world and I love it!

Don’t worry! I am not possessed by evil spirits. Rather, I am merely following God’s Design for my life and moving according to the will of the Universe.

HALLELUJAH!

BLESS!

Grävandet i statens offentliga utredningar är allt annat är roligt och det går allt annat än väl. Det började i FRA, mellanlandade i ett vilset harvande bland korvmått och fiskekvoter och nu har jag mycket motsträvigt mött mitt slutmål. Domstolar.

De måste göras mer attraktiva. Tydligen. De bästa juristerna ska lockas till domstolarna och till att försöka bli domare, det är viktigt. Tydligen. Bland mina vänner som läser juridik är det få som lockas till just den världen. Alla vill arbeta med människorättsliga frågor inom ramen för det Europeiska samarbetet, för organisationer såsom Greenpeace eller bli diplomat.

The day after landing in Kuwait, I awoke feeling disoriented.  Disoriented – not because I awoke in a new house, or a new country – but because I awoke in a new way of life in a way.  Already it was searing hot outside and I was completely parched, something I never overcame until weeks after I left the desert.  Eric was due to head into work, but I had the day off.  With only one car and no idea where I was, what on earth was I going to do?  Literally clueless, I paced the empty house anxiously.  A phone rang from somewhere breaking the silence.  Amazingly it was for me.  I didn’t know anyone here.  Who knew me?!

Well, as it turned out: Leslie Tate knew me.  I, on the other hand, had no idea who she was. But THAT hardly mattered:  I had plans.  Leslie Tate was the wife of Colonel Tate, Defense Attache, and our sponsor in Kuwait.  As such, she was in charge of orienting us to life here.  For example, as a first gesture, she had stocked our refrigerator with some essentials before our arrival:  milk (maybe camel’s, maybe cow’s), coffee I would never drink, bread, sketchy frozen Arab pizza, and butterfly-wing thin toilet paper.   Either way, I thought it was a wonderful gesture and anticipated a charitable pay-it-forward system.  Until I got the bill and was asked to reimburse her. 

Leslie kindly gave me a two hour overview of home-making in Kuwait and invited Eric and me to cocktails in her home.  Although the words coming from her mouth were very nice, they didn’t register on her face in any way.  She was totally expressionless.   Her laugh didn’t even crease her skin.  I wondered to myself if her face muscles would eventually atrophe over time from this.  This was a woman who would NEVER get wrinkly! 

My interaction with Leslie pretty much ended there.  Nice woman, for sure.   I just like my friends a little more animated – - distinguishable from Mme. Tussauds statues, say.   Amusingly, one of Leslie’s dearest friends, Michelle became one of my closest friends.  Michelle was a couple years younger than me and totally fabulous.  Her husband, Chris was our colleague at the Embassy and shared Eric’s off-beat sense of humor.

Hanging out with Chris and Michelle one day. Eric hemmed and hawed and finally asked Michelle, “What the fuck is up with Leslie’s face?!”   In addition to being lifeless, Leslie’s face was covered in a violet-toned foundation.   No, not foundation:  spackle.  In my head, Leslie applied whatever this was with a palette knife, leaving an uneven canvas like a Van Gogh – only less artistic.  Perhaps, it was BECAUSE of this cake make-up that her face didn’t move when she laughed … or sneezed.

Chris and Eric quickly and cleverly put their shared brain to work and nicknamed her “Purpleface.” 

Not surprisingly, Purpleface became a source of a great deal of laughter.   There was endless talk of how she removed the make-up with an industrial sander at night.  Speculation of whether when the make-up was removed it was like “V: The Final Battle”, revealing a lizardly alien underneath “Leslie’s” human façade.  Musing upon musing about what type of light it took to make lavender foundation “blend”:  stage light?  nightlight?  Was she at risk from the “one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater?” I mean, it did sound like Leslie might be a prime target.

The Purpleface material amazingly never became tiresome.  But, it put a strain on Michelle’s close relationship with Leslie.  As a good convert to Catholicism, Michelle doesn’t hold on to guilt well.  It torments her.  And, at some point in Michelle’s conscience the Purpleface jokes and her friendship with Leslie collided. 

To relieve her guilt and live life as honestly as possible, Michelle called Purpleface to confess.  “Leslie, I need to tell you something and it’s not good.  I’ve been talking about your face to…eh, people.  And, laughing about how it’s purple and obviously three dimensional.”  Leslie thanked her for her honesty, told Michelle about how she was trying to hide a very embarrassing case of rosacea, and promptly hung up the phone.

Michelle announced her sad news over dinner one night: “Guys, I spoke with Leslie.  The reason why her face is purple is because she has rosacea and is very sensitive about it.” 

“Awww.  Now I feel bad,” I lamented.  I lowered my head as all four of us fell silent in reflection.  Lifting my gaze, I noticed Eric and Chris still silent but positively bursting.  Their minds raced to create the perfect rosacea quip for the moment, barely containing hysterical laughter.

Leslie never spoke to Michelle again.  A loss for sure.  But, also a lesson learned:  blue-based cake make-up mixed with red rosacea equals purple – not flesh-toned beige.

I landed in Kuwait at night.   From the air, the most distinguishing feature on the ground were the lights from oil plants — which  appeared to be cities in and of themselves.  The view from my window was of the intense darkness of the desert.  The area between Kuwait City, on the east coast, and Saudi Arabia to the south and west and Iraq to the north is nearly uninhabited, save for the occassional bedouin and caravan of camels.  Looking at this darkness all depth perception was blown; I wouldn’t have known that we were flying closer and closer to the ground.

Stepping out into the airport, I felt lost.  Not because of the great abundance of dishdashas, a white robe-style dress for men (it’s like the biggest fasion faux pas on record!  They should really call each other before they all go out.  Do they all shop at the same transvestite store?!).  Nor was it the black abayas for women or the foreigness of the place at all.  It was because I had no idea who or what to look for. 

In fact, it was Michael, a humongously tall, burly Indian who worked for the U.S. Embassy as a driver, who found me first.  I was amazed by his probably innate ability to pick me out of the throng of travellers.  Must be some sort of Mumbai magic.  Or my blonde hair sharply contrasting against a sea of black headscarves, known here as hijabs.   Or that… whatever.

Wisked through customs and passport control, we left the airport and set out into the city.  There wasn’t much to see on the ride home as the highway raced through that empty desert.   And, I went to sleep on my very first night in Kuwait with some disappointment about our locale. 

Even more depressing , I was sleeping uncomfortably in a bed with a valley.  I was awakened panickstricken in the middle of the night by the neighborhood mosque.  I stared out our bedroom window, listening as the calls to prayer from all across the city echoed from minaret to minaret in the darkness.  Jetlagged and unable to return to sleep, I mentally tried to sing along with them despite having little to no karaoke experience in Arabic.

In the daylight of the next morning, Eric and I set out to explore the city.  He knew his way around somewhat as he had arrived a week prior.  And, in true Malawer fashion, Eric knew his way around just enough to get to the most out of the way, hole in the wall, Indian restaurant for the South Asian equivalent of a breakfast sammy:  Keema paratha.  (And by the way, it was outstanding and we have yet to duplicate the deliciousness.  Any good recipes, send them my way!)

What had just seemed like dark, desolate desert the night before erupted into a bevvy of sights, sounds and smells just waiting to be consumed.  I felt such sensory stimulation that my whole body was vibrating with excitement. 

What a little sunshine and meat pockets can do for a place is indescribable!

September 21, 2003

Wednesday

Hello, hello!

Eric and I are going crazy.  We have not yet signed up for satellite T.V. and only get about 4 channels of Kuwaiti-state run television.  Which means a LOT of “Law and Order,” a LOT of Bollywood musicals, and a lot of Mecca.  We did get a movie once.  “Cruel Intentions”.  Explicit language was censored.  Every time a male and female touched each other, even on the arm, it was censored.  Graphic violence?  Censored.  And, you can forget about love scenes.  All in all, the movie was wittled down to about 30 minutes of incomprehensible plot.  Plus it was interruped for nearly 10 minutes of prayer.  Unerstandibly then, we prefer to watch Bollywood to Kuwaiti T.V. and have suffered through a couple of musicals thus far.  Thank GOD I brought some DVDs to watch on our laptop.  Too bad for Eric they happen to be more musicals!

I got my temporary Kuwaiti drivers license yesterday and am officially braving the traffic in Kuwait.  The drivers here are incredibly bad and I drive like an old lady comparatively.  But, I’m getting around a three-block radius.  The worst of the drivers are the muhejabas (the women who fully cover their heads and bodies).  I have seen more than one enter  the ever-present roundabouts talking on her cell phone, holding a cup of coffee, bouncing a child on one knee, all without any peripheral vision.   Also, I’m fairly certain things like stop signs, lane and traffic dividing lines and turn signals are all considered optional…or mere guidelines.  Or completely negligible.  But what do I know?!  I’m still learning.  Afterall, I just got my license!

Miss you! xoxox 

Er

November 29, 2003

Ramadan

While the rest of the world is preparing to celebrate the holiday season, we in the Middle East just finished celebrating the largest Islamic holiday of Ramadan. Ramadan (Rah-ma-dahn) is a month long holiday of both fasting and bingeing…. a nice combination. If you did this in the U.S., people would think you had an eating disorder.

Fasting:

Muslims are supposed to abstain from food, beverages (including water) and tobacco during the day. You can tell who the smokers are because they tend to have the shakes all the time. Even Westerners and non-Muslims are forbidden to eat, drink or smoke in public — supposedly at the risk of hefty fines and even jail sentences! (Okay, I’ll admit it: when people cut me off in notoriously bad Ramadan traffic, I’d pull up next to them and take a long sip of water. Drink this, sucker!) Muslims fast during the month of Ramadan in order to reconnect with God and focus on prayer. In reality, they sleep all day, break the fast at sundown (about 5pm this time of year) and eat straight through until 4:30am (right before the sun rises again).

Traditional food:

Among the many traditional foods eaten during this time are dates (my dogs’ favorites!). There are as many recipes to include dates as there are Bubba Gump shrimp possibilities….”Date bread, date pudding, date pie, date kebab, date gumbo, bbq dates, dates a l’orange…” Dates are sold on street corner, given as gifts to neighbors, and generally spread like crack throughout the city.

Eric also picked up some silver-dinar-pancake-like items at the supermarket which he proceeded to eat with syrup. In reality, they’re not pancakes as we know them and tasted like poo with syrup. They are meant to be eaten with cheese… and, perhaps, dates.

Schedule changes:

Due to this fasting and high concentration on Zzzs… I mean, prayer… work hours are altered. Muslims only work between 10 and 2. All restaurants are closed until after 7pm… even fast food chains. This did not sit well with us as the food at the Embassy sucks and includes strange dishes like “fish puppet” (I’m not making that up!). We cursed the fast food chains, shaking our fists out of the car windows as we drove by at lunchtime …”Daaaammmnn you McDonalds, damn you!” Another Ramadan bonus: sometimes when working with a Kuwaiti, work would not get done at all… “I am…. too famished… and weak from eating my weight in dates last night.”

Halloween?:

During the middle of Ramadan, children celebrate a tradition known as Gurgayan (gur-GAY-ahn). For three days, Kuwaiti kids get dressed up (often as beduoins — try that one in the next Halloween parade!) and go from house to house in groups. Instead of yelling “Trick or Treat!”, they sing blessings for the children of the house (in this case, Camden and Rumble). In exchange, they are given scoops and scoops of candy, nuts, and other treats. We had a ragtag group of kids come to the house this year with their nannies. The older ones didn’t want to sing, but Eric insisted, “No song, no candy.” Man, did they start banging that drum and hollering! I think we got the LLLOOOONNNGGGG, American Pie-version, of the Gurgayan song!

After Ramadan, what’s next?:

After Ramadan, Muslims celebrate a 4-5 day long holiday called Eid-al-Fitr where they….break the fast (again) and eat (that’s right: for 4-5 more days). Amazing!

Thankfully, things are getting back to normal now and we can eat and drink non-alcoholic beverages as we please! It doesn’t sound like a hassle, but when you want McNuggets, you WANT McNUGGETS!

Hope everyone enjoyed a great Thanksgiving! We missed being at home — we were thinking of you as we ate our date stuffing!

Love,  Erin

January 2004

Unexpected Story

I was driving by the Bayan Co-op today (the supermarket closest to my house) and noticed that next to a great looking, beautifully antiqued mosque was a small field of wild flowers.  It looked picturesque, so soft and colorful next to the ornate, stone mosque.  So I pulled into the market’s parking lot adjacent to the mosque and decided to try to take a photo.  There was a trick, however.  This mosque was frequented by orthodox Muslims.  I was keenly aware that with all-male attendance, the mosque-goers might not be so forgiving of me, a blonde woman with a camera, even being that near their place of worship.

I waited until as many men as possible had entered the mosque, leaving me just enough time to hop out of the car, snap the photo, and be on my way unnoticed.  Having exited the car quietly, I casually stood where the pavement and field met in a symbolic barrier.  I stood there a moment to assess the situation and to take a deep breath.  In order to get a good shot, I needed to walk a few paces into the field.   Time was of the essence here, so I bent down and took a couple of pictures (with far less accuracy and thought than I would have liked).

I was beginning to stand in an effort to make a quick escape back to the safetly of the parking lot when an elderly man walked around from side of the building towards me.  With camera in full view, I felt doubly cursed.

To prove there was nothing threatening about a Western woman holding a camera three feet from a mosque window,  I bent down and pretended to be interested in the species of flower.  I even examined the petals, figuring this man may not object to a “true” horticulturalist taking a record of what was likely a weed.

Performance over, I walked, briskly back to the car.  I had barely started the engine when I heard an alarming knock on my window.  It was the elderly man.  Fuck.  I was surely in for a stern lecture about taking pictures and the sanctity of Islam and how Muhammad wouldn’t have approved.  I grabbed my phone and readied the number for the Marine Guard at the US Embassy in case I encountered a problem.  With my finger on the “Send” button, I cracked the window and braced myself.    But instead of a lecture, he shyly handed me one of the yellow flowers he had picked in the field behind me.  He explained in Arabic that he saw me take a photo of the pretty flowers and thought that I should take one home. 

I was stunned.  This is among only a handful of times so far that an orthodox Muslim man has approached me (outside of sales vendors, to help out, etc).  So you can imagine my awe when he not only approached, but with such kindness and gentleness gave me a flower.  I thanked him profusely and smiled warmly as I passed him on my way back home. 

It was such a simple and sweet gesture, I just needed to share it with you.

Love you guys and miss you incredibly!

 E

While Eric was out one day, our gate’s bell rang.  As the dogs ran wildly around and around the house to see who it was and defend the home front, I checked our security camera.  Through the monitor in the kitchen, I saw nothing but street.  Strange, I thought.   A minute later, the gate’s bell rang again and again I saw nothing but my own car parked in front of the house.  Another two minutes and the same ringing broke the silence – or in reality, another rerun of “Mork and Mindy” on TV.  Whatever the case, by this time, the dogs were frantic and confused.  And, I was about to call Embassy security. 

Up until this time, I had no real love for my neighbors.  It could have been any one of them ringing that bell : our next door neighbors, at whose kids our dogs could not stop barking while the children played outside until 1 a.m. every night; the servants down the block who had tried to stone a stray German Shepherd to death on our doorstep; or the fundamentalists who lived around the corner.  Lord knows what they  thought of American “infidels” living here! 

It should be understandable then that the ringing of our bell over and over might make me nervous. Fearful of terrorists lined up outside the house to kidnap me, I was about to call Embassy Security when I noticed something in the monitor that I hadn’t before:  a wisp of dark brown hair at the bottom of the screen.   Unsure of what to expect, I brought my big gun, in the form of Rumble, to greet whosever scalp that hair was attached to outside my gate.   An enormous 95lb boxer, Rumble’s scrunched up face and slobbery mouth made most Arab men wet their pants in pure terror (so, maybe it was Rumble who was the terrorist!).   I stood on my side of the garden gate, took a deep breath, and prepared myself for whatever I was to find on the other side.

Neatly combed from one side across his forehead, Abud’s coffee-colored hair was unusually nicely coiffed for a seven year old.  Wait, “sabah wa nos”, he had told us:  seven and a half – very important.  Abud had a solid mini-soccer-player’s build atop a smaller than average frame for a boy his age.  His warm bright eyes and uneven smile made him like a caricature of himself. 

“I am Abud.  I want to see the dog.”  He stated matter of factly.  Even Rumble cocked his head in bewilderment. 

“The dog?” I asked as if there were not 95lbs currently stepping on my foot.  “Not a good idea.”

“Na’am.  I see dog now?” Abud replied. 

“Eh….the dog is not very friendly.” I lied.  In reality, Rumble was seriously rambunctious and could jump higher than Michael Jordan and with more force than a Mack truck.  Being neither Kobe Bryant nor a brick wall, I pictured Abud trampled under my dog’s excited feet being licked to death.

“Dog say ‘woof, woof, woof’ all day.” Abud trudged on in broken English.

“The dog is very big,” I warned. “And, veeeeery crazy,” sounding like a bad Halloween ghost and hoping that it would end the issue.  But, of course, Abud pressed on. 

“I go see the dog now,” he again stated more than asked.  Peeking his head around the barely open wrought iron gate to catch a glimpse of the beast, his eyes were alight with hope.

Fresh out of ways to tell him no, I gripped the leash tightly and opened the thick door with a creek. 

Opening that door did more than invite Abud into our courtyard; to him, it was an open invitation to our lives.  Not only did he visit Rumble that day, but he did so everyday thereafter for months.  Abud even brought his mother over at 10pm the first night he met Rumble, asking me to tell his mother where I got the boxer.  Describing Rumble’s mug, he hooked two fingers into his cheeks, pulling them out and down, saying, “He look like this!”  I couldn’t argue.  Rumble looked exactly like that.

Watching the exchange from afar, you would think that I was introducing Abud to a tiger – not a drooling dog.  As he summoned courage to pet Rumble each day, Abud would begin a cha-cha approaching the dog and quickly retreating, saying “La, la…I scared.  I too scared.”

While he was too afraid to pet Rumble for anything over a second, Abud was unabashedly curious.  He lingered much longer than was necessary, following me around the yard breathlessly asking question after question, like a stream of consciousness:

How old is he?

Where does Rumble sleep?  In a bed?  With pillows?

What does he eat?  Does he like hummus?

Does he pray five times a day like me?

What does he watch on TV?  Does he like Bugs Bunny?  Rumble try that one day.

Does he like Batman?  I really like Batman.

Where are his clothes?

Abud became such a frequent visitor that he wouldn’t just ring the gate bell.  Sometimes, he would creep up on us, unable to wait any longer to begin the cha-cha with Rumble.  One time Eric parked his car and leaned into the passenger seat to collect his paperwork.  Turning to open the car door and exit, Eric nearly had a heart attack as he encountered Abud’s smiling face in the sideview mirror.  It was something out of a horror movie.  “Remember me?  I’m Abud!”

He was, essentially, the Beav and Dennis the Menace rolled into one.  And, we were his Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.

Abud also became our best defender.  During Gurgayan, Abud showed up with a gang of his friends and cousins– younger and older.  After making the rounds about the neighborhood, they circled back to our house, again ready to sing for their trailmix.  All out of candy and nuts and unidentifiable marshmallow-like puffs, the gaggle and their nannies now seemed intent on visiting Rumble.   At this point it was late at night.  And, I was convinced that, put on the spot, Rumble would do one of two things.  He’d either slobber the children like a crescendo’d lick across piano keys.  Or, Rumble would devour the smallest nanny. 

I decided to defer the children to another day, hoping that several would forget to put it in their nanny’s digital calendar. 

“Come back on Tuesday and you can see the dog.” I explained.

The biggest and roundest of the group began to act as mouth-piece for the rest.  I wasn’t sure, but he may have eaten one of the other children since he had been here an hour earlier.  Brashly he declared, “We come tomorrow.”

“No,” I corrected, “we will not be here tomorrow. You are welcome to come on Tuesday.”

“No, we see the dog tomorrow.”  Who was this kid?!  A 10 yr old Mafioso?!  I’ll say it: the kid was an asshole.

Suddenly, Abud confronted the loud mouth.  Standing on his tip toes, Abud twisted a handful of his shirt at the neck, surprising Big Bad Abdullah more than a little.  Through his teeth, Abud grunted, “She SAID Tuesday!”

Abdullah stumbled back a little in shock as Abud turned to us grinning sweetly with satisfaction.

mid-June 2004

What baseball is to America, what hockey is to Canada, what cricket is to England, sitting on your ass is to Kuwait.  Kuwait DOES have a soccer team which no one seems to care much about.  But that only accounts for 11 people who might be in shape in a country of 3.1 million.  The other 3, 099,989 residents consider texting a strenuous exercise. 

Beyond sports, recreation is minimal.  Movies are censored and delayed.  TV is both censored and interrupted five times a day for lengthy prayer.  And, Kuwait is not much in the way of museums or historical sites.  My survival mantra for Kuwait was “create your own fun.”

The Kuwait Special Olympics was conceived innocently enough as a comparison of who was in better shape: Sam, the Navy SEAL and former BUDS instructor or Eric, professional buffalo wing-eater.  Sam could outrun Eric.  Eric could bench press two of Sam.  Naturally, Sam was a faster swimmer. But, Eric did have a mean uppercut.  Eric could smack a baseball farther.  And, they both actually argued over who sucked more at basketball.  And, yes, we all realized that the comparisons stopped making sense long ago.

Wouldn’t it be fun then, we all mused, if they really played out these games and named a victor.  And, wouldn’t it be funny to do it drunk… in full Kuwaiti dishdashas?!  I’ll be the first to tell you: it WAS fucking hilarious! 

I was impressed with the various interpretations of dishdasha.  If this were a fashion show, the boys would walk down the runway with the announcer’s voice heard over dissonant, melismatic Arab pop music: “Here is Ay-rique in his white dishdasha.  Note how he wears his collar open.  He looks like a leettle talib (student) but is rrreally a bad boy at heart… Ah, and here is Chris looking breezy and comfortable in his manjamas – rrready for a night on the town or just rrrelaxing at home with his prayer beads.  Out comes John and Jon.  Don’t they look cute as wannabe tough guyzzz.  Nobody looks tough in a dress; you know that, you pussycats!  And, finally Sam:  Sam is wearing a daring black dishdasha with a coordinating black and white headscarf.  He embodies the leader of a terrorist movement.  Arafat, Qadafi: eat your heart out!!”

Ticket to entry was drinking a six pack of beer.  This, in and of itself, is kind of a feat in 120 degree weather.   And, late spring in Kuwait is not only hot but also stiflingly humid.  The water literally gets sucked out of your body and beer can’t quench it fast enough.  In a move of self-sabotage or pure cockiness, Sam showed up to Chris’ house buzzed from having attended Happy Hour for the two hours prior.   On top of all that, the group downed several pizzas and totally abandoned every one of their mother’s “10 minute rule” about exercising after eating.

These Special Olympics were organized like a triathalon only with seven continuous events – a SEPTathalon, if you will.  The men lined up loosely at the starting line, the shot gun sounded (probably just some fucking random Kuwaiti fireworks, in reality) and they were off!   First among the events was two laps around Chris’ insanely large block.   Rachel and I quickly jumped into my jeep with both a camera and a water gun.    The “athletes” were already huffing and puffing as they rounded the bend the second time. 

The next event involved drinking a beer and blowing up really teeny and stubborn balloons.  They were intended to be water bombs, which in their failure to take on water turned into torture devices.  Sam grabbed a balloon, pulled in a deep breath and promptly threw up – making this spew the first of the night.  But certainly not the last.  

Next they ran through an empty lot, climbed up a big sand dune and arriving at a playground where they scrambled over arch-shaped monkey bars as we squirted water and shouted ill-conceived insults at them.  

Back on the ground, the boys found themselves at their next challenge:  the pallet run.  I can’t imagine why a bunch of perfectly good wooden pallets – the kind raised by forklifts in warehouses  – would just be lying around this electric tower in the middle of an empty residential lot.  Probably from some private fireworks delivery – every day’s a holiday if you have fireworks to fire off at 3 in the morning.  But I digress…and here they were.  For their challenge, the boys had to lift one pallet and carry it around the electric tower several times.  Again, while being photographed, doused with water and taunted.

Moving on, the men were to bat three eggs cause that’s just plain fun.  And return to the house to complete 25 push-ups and chug yet another beer.  The push-ups elicited a lot of reverse chugging so the net effect of barfing and drinking was really zero.  One out, one in.  And off they went for another lap around the whole course.  At this point the weather had cooled to a mere 100 degrees, but the boys were still sweating up a storm.  I’d have bet they were glad to have a little ventilation in those dresses. 

As the boys began their second lap around the course, Rachel and I waited for them at the hellacious balloon inflation station in view of the last stretch of their run.  We watched as John jogged steadily down the street.  And, we also watched as Eric, Chris, Sam and Jonathan popped out of the bushes well in front of John, looking one way up the street (apparently not seeing John), looking the other way down the street (apparently not seeing us) and saying, “Yup!  The coast is clear! Come on guys!”   Rachel and I, of course, harassed them significantly for their duplicity.  John, on the other hand, quickly sailed ahead, harassment-free to win the title.  

John “received” the gold medal at the Kuwait Special Olympics.  “Received” is very intentional as it was really just an award for who cheated the most stealthily.  And, amongst this crowd, that deserves an award.   John had rolled his beers under the couch during pre-game, left his beer in my car at inflation station and dumped half of them out while fake-puking during push-ups.  John was more sober than Michelle who hadn’t had a drink in three-months.  Thank goodness the prize was well-earned!  The gold medal was, in fact, a hand-made crown and a portable potty-seat… so the winner could be a king on his throne. 

The boys were too drunk and rowdy to be angry with John until the next day.  Sweaty in their “restrictive” American gym clothes, the boys had long stopped barfing in favor of hysterical laughter.  Sprawled against the floor pillows of Chris’ diwaniya, Sam displayed his wide range of tattoos including the piece-de-resistance “Narvy” tattoo.   In short, Sam was in the army and had “Army” tattooed on his arm.  Then, he joined the “Navy” and hired a tattoo artist to change “Army” to say “Navy”.  The result, of course, is “Narvy” and is now hidden under an actual sized eagle.  

“Chris, someone said they saw a group of Kuwaiti men running around the neighborhood last night.  Did you see anything?” asked Chris’ next door neighbor.   Again, Kuwaitis doing any form of exercise is a reportable offense.  Kuwaitis doing so in dishdashas is unfathomable.  It would be as if we saw someone jogging while dressed as a giant taco.  But more alarming.  “Nope,” he responded as he picked up the illegal beer cans from around his driveway, “I didn’t see a thing.”

Standing at our front door in early July, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  It was the first time, after ten months of living in Kuwait through neighboring war and the threat of beheadings that I wanted to go home.  I was disgusted, sick to my stomach.  And powerless to the scene.

Standing at our front door, I watched as our neighbor harassed and beat a woman.  It was not violence meant for killing; it was violence meant for defeat, for punishment, for pain.  I was never sure whether this woman was a wife, a relative or a maid for the family.  But she was being beaten and thrown out of the house for an offense I couldn’t understand though the men were screaming.  A little boy stood at the front door shrieking with terror, tears flowing down his round cheeks. 

I was disabled by culture.  I wanted to help, but there was nothing to be done.  While Kuwaiti law officially forbids such an act, local police will rarely act at all – in fact, they would be more likely to support the man’s position whatever that was than to believe a woman’s testimony.  And, the U.S. Embassy security had no jurisdiction to act if it didn’t threaten U.S. property or personnel and could not legally interfere in a private Kuwaiti affair no matter how offensive.   Eric was in a meeting and unable to pick up his cell phone, despite my many and desperate attempts to contact him. 

I was pacing frantically thinking of how I could end this torture.  What if I slammed my iron gate behind me as I approached them yelling to end this scene? I wondered.  In a flash of disappointing clarity, I sized up the situation: not only was I outnumbered, but I was newly pregnant and would likely be injured for interceding.  If I sent my very protective and menacing Boxer to disrupt them, I was sure he would be killed outright.  Beating a woman was only slightly more severe than beating a dog.  Killing Rumble would be easy and thoughtless.

I weighed my other options and came up with none.  So, horribly, I tried to ignore it.  Anxiety hit me in the gut like a baseball bat, and I sat on the couch trying hard to convince myself that the family’s business was private.   But after 15 seconds, I found that I was too nervous and returned to the door.  

Having been a victim of violence at the hand an old boyfriend, I was sickened to think that this was even unfolding in front of me.  And, that I was watching this abuse play out with no way to help this woman.  The noise of each blow was excruciating.  Each strike brought back flashes of painful and unresolved memories.  Instead of feeling fear or embarrassment as I had many years ago, what I felt was fury.  It ignited as a fiery ball of energy and coursed electricly through my veins.  Electricity with no outlet.  The only release for this outrage was to crush my neighbors, bashing them through tears until my hands bled and I was physically pulled away.  I still imagine doing that.  But with my hands warming my pregnant belly, the instinct to protect was simply greater than the instinct to harm and I remained inside the confines of my tall gates.

So, again I stood watching – not from a corner of the door as I had before, but blatantly watching from my front porch – hoping, almost urging the family to notice the witness to this horrific behavior.  I almost felt that by keeping my eye on the woman, I could ensure her safety.  But of course that doesn’t work. 

In such a conservative Islamic country, domestic violence is common although taboo to discuss with strangers.   It is aeb, shameful to talk about.  I felt it was ironic, then, or perhaps insulting that the family chose to continue the bruising on their front lawn.

I could hear her screams of pain, fear and the horrible blows that caused them even from inside their house.  Then, I saw her – running, stumbling into the neighbor’s yard.  A man from the family picked up a shoe, presumably hers, and began to strike her with it in repetition as a taxi screeched to a halt in between our houses.   A brother of the main tormenter sidled up and spat on the woman as he verbally assaulted her.  Someone threw a small, disheveled bag, maybe it contained her belongings, at the three.  One of the brothers took it and hit her roughly in the side, knocking her back to the ground.  There was a flurry of loud and turbulent activity surrounding the car.  She was shoved inside and then she was off.

In the street between our houses, only one shoe lingered – a haunting reminder of what just happened.

I met Aliyah at one of the first gatherings we attended in Kuwait.  About my age (27 at the time), she was adorable, dressed in jeans and a stylish tank top, sitting cross-legged in the corner of the sectional joyfully sharing photos.  Her chestnut colored hair was stylishly short, showcasing her big, bright eyes which sparkled when she spoke like every little bit of your interaction thrilled her.

“Do you want to see these?”  Aliyah simultaneously hoped and asked me while making room next to her on the couch.  The photos were of the South African honeymoon Aliyah took with her second husband. Now divorced, the narrative that wove through the photos was alternatively of adventure and sadness – as if she was reviewing the album to see where her relationship went so wrong.

Aliyah closed the album, paused in thought, and turned to me, bubbly and energized once more by her surroundings.  Her enthusiasm and warmth immediately drew me in and Aliyah and I became fast friends.

Over many months, Aliyah and I spent hours getting to know one another.  She spoke American English better than I did, singing or almost laughing every word.  But housed inside her exuberant exterior was so much despair.  Aliyah embodied the hardships of a new generation of Kuwaiti women.  As the eldest daughter in a very wealthy and well-respected family, Aliyah was sent from private school in Kuwait to the United States for college.  Following college and looking for a reason to stay longer in the U.S., Aliyah convinced her father to allow her to remain as she pursued a Master’s degree in Criminal Psychology.

“Wow,” I remember remarking, “what are you doing with such an interesting degree?”

“Nothing.”  She answered bitterly.  Her dad wouldn’t allow her to work in that field or any other.  He wanted her to stay in Kuwait and concentrate on marriage.  Her third marriage.  And, in a traditional Islamic society like Kuwait, getting another respectable family to agree to a third marriage would undoubtedly be challenging.  Despite the fact that the first was harmlessly wrong and the second was harmfully wrong, Aliyah was the one who was branded.  She was branded and trapped.

Like her, Aliyah’s younger sister, Dana was also very well-educated in the U.S. and forced to return to Kuwait to marry.   And, like her sister, she was miserable.   Their father bought them toys to placate them: a luxury SUV for Aliyah and a convertible sports car for Dana.  The day she received the car, I was visiting Aliyah’s house.  When Dana returned home from her first joy ride, she slammed the door and screamed throughout each enormous room of their beautiful house,  “I HATE THIS PLACE!!!” The echo off the marble floors and walls left an eery anguished reverberation followed by an equally unhappy silence.

January 2005

Spent much of the day catching up with old friends and colleagues.  Had lunch with Gary, Sam [both now permanently stationed back in DC] and Phil [Eric's best friend].  Was so nice to have the “big brothers” around me.  They were all upset that I hadn’t yet called them.  I explained that I was highly hormonal and didn’t want to burden them.  They laughed hysterically and then scolded me for not calling anyway.

Sam recalled that his wife Rachel, the most emotional solid person I know,  got a little bit like this around the end of her pregnancy too.   He later joked in an email to Eric that “not only did I have to deal with my own wife’s hormonal imbalances.  Now, I have to handle your wife’s, as well.  Thanks a lot!”

So, feeling better overall.  Now if only this kid would stop kicking my bladder every night…

xo  E