Dispatches, a documentary show in Britain, released clips of Ajmal Kasab's initial confession in the hospital immediately after he was captured after the Mumbai bombings. On the hospital bed, Kasab explains that his father forced him to join Lashkar-e-Toiba in order to provide money for his family (how many times has this been the explanation of alot of terrorist attackers? أين الدولة؟?)...and of course there is the argument for martyrdom that the shooters talk about amongst themselves in the video. It's haunting, but do see it.
And of course I repeat Faulkner here, but he seems to sum it up quite well:
"'Suffer little child to come unto Me': and what did He mean by that? how, if He meant that little children should need to be suffered to approach Him, what sort of earth had He created; that if they had to suffer in order to approach Him, what sort of Heaven did He have?"
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
What you will
The Corner of 81st and Central Park West – Draft 1
Scene I
The time is late – or early – as you would have it: it’s approaching 4am. The location is outside the west side of Central Park, at the corner of 81st street and Central Park West, where the granite wall closing off the park opens up to a path leading to The Delacorte Theatre. Directly outside that opening, pasted to the wall down Central Park West, is a line of bundles of faded floral blankets, sleeping bags of all colors, cardboard boxes, and lawn chairs. They are people. At first glance they look like hobos, hiding beneath the layers of blankets they have acquired somewhere against the gentle breeze that is – even for a July summer night – too cold. At second glance, one realizes they are people with homes to sleep in, jobs to go to everyday, families to return to at night.
Two girls stand uncertainly at the corner of 81st and Central Park West. They walk down CPW uncertainly, passing 82nd, then 83rd, then 84th,, nervously and amazedly searching for the end of the line. They reach the end. It’s almost half way between 85th and 86th street, that much farther from the beloved entrance.
Girl 1 sits tentatively on the bench, next to a bundle of blankets that belongs to the teenage daughter and mother who are huddled at the other end of the bench.
GIRL 1: At least we’re not sitting on the ground.
She’s eyeing the queue already forming behind them. There are three men behind them, two of whom resign themselves to the cracked ground underneath.
A teenage girl cheerfully greets them as her mother smiles with an amused expression.
GIRL 2: I can’t sleep. I’m not tired enough. Why aren’t we in the park?
The old man next to her looks at her with laughing eyes. He speaks, it’s to no one in particular.
MAN: I wonder if we have a chance, all the way back here.
[The curly haired younger man on the other side of him answers as he pulls out a deck of unopened cards and proceeds to cut through the wrapping.]
MAN 2: I’ve been here before, and it looks like we have a good chance. It’s bad if we’re behind 500 people. We’re about five blocks from the entrance; I gather there are about 40 people per block…
The two girls, the old man and the younger man silently calculate, but none come to a definitive answer. It is, after all, 4am. But they all know it’s not near 500 people.
GIRL2: We’re fine!
The mother looks over to Girl 1 now as she tightens the blanket around her daughter and herself.
MOTHER: This is our third time trying. I think we’re going to make it this time. I definitely think we are.
GIRL 1: What time did you get here?
MOTHER: 3.50.
[She gets up suddenly.]
MOTHER: I’m going to check what time the first people in line got here. Keep an eye on my daughter for me, will you?
The daughter still huddles underneath her blanket. The two girls open their box of strawberries, only to find them spoiled. The old man is silent and pensive. The younger man is busily marking off suits on his new deck of cards with a permanent marker. They laugh with pity as they spot a man clad in a business suit running down the street with a lawn-chair in hand, desperately searching for the end of the line.
The mother returns minutes later as the rest watch the flickering lights in one of the rooms in the building across the street.
MOTHER: 9.30…pm…
There is a collective noise of surprise and groan as the group marvels at the dedication and madness of those first ones, and at the potential futility of this entire endeavor.
Scene II:
A mass exodus is in full swing. The line that had been previously huddled on Central Park West is now making its way into the park as it has just opened, with as much order as can be forced on one’s self while fighting the desire to break and make a run for the theater. They move swiftly, quickly, dragging their lawn chairs behind their backs, clutching onto their blankets. Far away across the bend, where the line still continues forward, a man holding a full size air mattress over his head can be seen.
The people move with agile walks, spring in their steps, and a ferocious knowledge of their destination. They are surrounded by luscious green hills and towering green trees, as birds chirp and the first of the dogs start barking. It is an entirely different world in the park – no mind that it’s coincidental timing that dawn broke out moments before the people entered the park. Nonetheless, the truth stands: the world outside was dark and cold; the world inside is bright and promising.
Scene III:
The two girls are lying on a bright orange blanket that is laid out carefully on the mulch. They are at the edge of the path, beginning the end of the long line where it has broken off from the beginning. The teenage daughter and mother are at the end of the first line that is only a few feet away across a cement path that cuts through the park. They have befriended a young woman next to them who could very well be a model.
Girl 1 zips up her red sleeping bag over herself; it is too small for her. It’s a child’s sleeping bag, one she borrowed from her roommate whose friend left it at their apartment. Not many in the city own sleeping bags. It’s noticeable since many have lined the ground with yoga mats. She looks around her over the people lined up at the edge of the path.
GIRL 1: This is the urban use for a sleeping bag.
The man who has managed to successfully keep order since the early hours of the morning approaches and stands resolutely in front of their section of the line. He is from the Theater, clad in khaki pants and a yellow T-shirt clearly labeled (so there would be no mistake): STAFF. He is not old and muscular, nor does he have the build of a bouncer that you would expect for someone at this job. He has a boyish face and golden hair that peeks out from underneath his baseball cap. His voice has enough volume to garner authority and enough humor to win people’s likeness. He has to keep this precarious balance for six more hours, until the clock strikes 1pm.
STAFF: You guys will be fine. Don’t worry, there is still hope.
A light cheer erupts from those who are awake. He moves on down the line, towards the section at the end that is hidden behind the trees around the bend. The girls faintly hear him. It’s bad news. There is a ripple of groans and some get up, dragging their bedding with slumped heads. They are not everyone in the section though. Others stubbornly stay put.
STAFF [as he walks away from the section back towards the front of the line]: I promise you have better things to do with your time!
The mother is napping in a sleeping bag on the pavement. The daughter, sitting on the bench beside her, plays with her iPhone. She has had her breakfast – delivery from Andy’s Deli. It’s become famous, and somewhat of a savior, for those in the line who need food and can’t leave. She looks up now as an African-American man rides his bike around, shouting. Locked to the back of his bike are folded lawn chairs. In the front are big Starbucks cups.
BICYCLIST: Rent lawn chairs! Buy Starbucks coffee! Rent Internet time!
Girl 2 is lying down, one elbow propping up her shoulder. She eyes the group of four young girls ten feet away who she suspects of being high school girls. Their voices echo across the expanse of the park, or so it seems, blocking out any possibility of sleep for Girl 2. She just looks around now and slumps back down on the ground, pulling an old airplane blanket over her.
Staff returns, his faded shouting warning his eventual presence.
STAFF: There are two rules you must follow to stay in this line. One, you can’t leave the line. You can leave only to go to the bathroom, but you can’t have someone hold your place for you if you leave to go somewhere else. Two, no one can join you in this line. Believe me, people around you will know.
Scene IV:
It’s near 10am now. Perhaps. It’s hard to tell the time. A few feet away three friends read the morning’s edition of New York Times as they sip on Snapple. The mother and daughter talk to the model as if they have been good friends for quite some time.
Girl 2 has been reading, resigning herself to the fact that there will be no sleep this morning. The mulch she is sitting on is cruelly located near the dog park of Central Park. The path has been strewn all morning with curious onlookers, smirking joggers, dog walkers who have resolutely decided to keep their dogs unleashed but insist on walking them along the path on which the masses sit and wait, and the dogs, big and small, ugly and cute, lazy and spunky, sniff the food, the blankets and the people.
An elderly woman pulling a curly hair child passes by, looks curiously at the girls, smiles and walks on. She re-appears later, hesitantly stopping near them.
WOMAN: How long have you been here?
GIRL 2 [in a bored voice]: Since 4am.
The girls have lost track of how many people have come to ask them this same question, and have gotten the same surprised look that this woman gives them now.
GIRL 2: But the first people arrived at 9.30 pm!
Is it defense? It sounds almost defensive, as if trying to explain that if she were crazy, at least she were a little less crazier than those firsts.
The mulch has been good, despite the proximity of the sniffing dogs and the cameras clicking at them. The ground is soft, and it is shaded by the high trees that now allows some sun to warm them.
Staff returns once again, an empty plastic cup in hand. He looks disheveled and tired, but his voice does not appear so. He walks towards the end of the line, out of sight, but where the girls can still hear him.
STAFF: There is no hope. Go home.
He doesn’t wait to see the people’s angry faces. He returns to the section near the girls.
STAFF: You’re still ok!
Another cheer. This time a bit more energetic.
STAFF: Ya, be happy. I’ve already crushed 1200 people’s dreams today.
A pretty woman in a white dress and designer sunglasses walks along the cement path next to a curly-haired man. They both pause to take in the sight. The woman looks down on the girls and speaks in a British accent.
WOMAN: What are you all doing here?
GIRL 2: We’re waiting for tickets to “Twelfth Night.” It’s Shakespeare in the Park.
WOMAN: How long have you been here?
GIRL 2: Since 4am.
WOMAN [in astonishment]: Why?
The girls look at each other and smile sheepishly.
GIRL 1: I don’t know…
WOMAN: Well, are you a big fan of this play?
GIRL 2: Not particularly…
WOMAN: [dubiously] Well, good luck then…
[She leaves].
Girl 1 returns her head to the pillow speckled in leaves from the tree above and closes her eyes with a smile, quite comfortable in the abode they have made themselves. It’s only a temporary mask – sleeping and living in the park – but liberating all the same. Tomorrow the man in the suit will return to his job; the model across the path will struggle to find gigs; the man in line behind the girls will come home to a tense marriage. But for now, in the 10 hours of sitting in the park’s grounds, they are quite content. They must look like fools. But they are happy fools.
Scene I
The time is late – or early – as you would have it: it’s approaching 4am. The location is outside the west side of Central Park, at the corner of 81st street and Central Park West, where the granite wall closing off the park opens up to a path leading to The Delacorte Theatre. Directly outside that opening, pasted to the wall down Central Park West, is a line of bundles of faded floral blankets, sleeping bags of all colors, cardboard boxes, and lawn chairs. They are people. At first glance they look like hobos, hiding beneath the layers of blankets they have acquired somewhere against the gentle breeze that is – even for a July summer night – too cold. At second glance, one realizes they are people with homes to sleep in, jobs to go to everyday, families to return to at night.
Two girls stand uncertainly at the corner of 81st and Central Park West. They walk down CPW uncertainly, passing 82nd, then 83rd, then 84th,, nervously and amazedly searching for the end of the line. They reach the end. It’s almost half way between 85th and 86th street, that much farther from the beloved entrance.
Girl 1 sits tentatively on the bench, next to a bundle of blankets that belongs to the teenage daughter and mother who are huddled at the other end of the bench.
GIRL 1: At least we’re not sitting on the ground.
She’s eyeing the queue already forming behind them. There are three men behind them, two of whom resign themselves to the cracked ground underneath.
A teenage girl cheerfully greets them as her mother smiles with an amused expression.
GIRL 2: I can’t sleep. I’m not tired enough. Why aren’t we in the park?
The old man next to her looks at her with laughing eyes. He speaks, it’s to no one in particular.
MAN: I wonder if we have a chance, all the way back here.
[The curly haired younger man on the other side of him answers as he pulls out a deck of unopened cards and proceeds to cut through the wrapping.]
MAN 2: I’ve been here before, and it looks like we have a good chance. It’s bad if we’re behind 500 people. We’re about five blocks from the entrance; I gather there are about 40 people per block…
The two girls, the old man and the younger man silently calculate, but none come to a definitive answer. It is, after all, 4am. But they all know it’s not near 500 people.
GIRL2: We’re fine!
The mother looks over to Girl 1 now as she tightens the blanket around her daughter and herself.
MOTHER: This is our third time trying. I think we’re going to make it this time. I definitely think we are.
GIRL 1: What time did you get here?
MOTHER: 3.50.
[She gets up suddenly.]
MOTHER: I’m going to check what time the first people in line got here. Keep an eye on my daughter for me, will you?
The daughter still huddles underneath her blanket. The two girls open their box of strawberries, only to find them spoiled. The old man is silent and pensive. The younger man is busily marking off suits on his new deck of cards with a permanent marker. They laugh with pity as they spot a man clad in a business suit running down the street with a lawn-chair in hand, desperately searching for the end of the line.
The mother returns minutes later as the rest watch the flickering lights in one of the rooms in the building across the street.
MOTHER: 9.30…pm…
There is a collective noise of surprise and groan as the group marvels at the dedication and madness of those first ones, and at the potential futility of this entire endeavor.
Scene II:
A mass exodus is in full swing. The line that had been previously huddled on Central Park West is now making its way into the park as it has just opened, with as much order as can be forced on one’s self while fighting the desire to break and make a run for the theater. They move swiftly, quickly, dragging their lawn chairs behind their backs, clutching onto their blankets. Far away across the bend, where the line still continues forward, a man holding a full size air mattress over his head can be seen.
The people move with agile walks, spring in their steps, and a ferocious knowledge of their destination. They are surrounded by luscious green hills and towering green trees, as birds chirp and the first of the dogs start barking. It is an entirely different world in the park – no mind that it’s coincidental timing that dawn broke out moments before the people entered the park. Nonetheless, the truth stands: the world outside was dark and cold; the world inside is bright and promising.
Scene III:
The two girls are lying on a bright orange blanket that is laid out carefully on the mulch. They are at the edge of the path, beginning the end of the long line where it has broken off from the beginning. The teenage daughter and mother are at the end of the first line that is only a few feet away across a cement path that cuts through the park. They have befriended a young woman next to them who could very well be a model.
Girl 1 zips up her red sleeping bag over herself; it is too small for her. It’s a child’s sleeping bag, one she borrowed from her roommate whose friend left it at their apartment. Not many in the city own sleeping bags. It’s noticeable since many have lined the ground with yoga mats. She looks around her over the people lined up at the edge of the path.
GIRL 1: This is the urban use for a sleeping bag.
The man who has managed to successfully keep order since the early hours of the morning approaches and stands resolutely in front of their section of the line. He is from the Theater, clad in khaki pants and a yellow T-shirt clearly labeled (so there would be no mistake): STAFF. He is not old and muscular, nor does he have the build of a bouncer that you would expect for someone at this job. He has a boyish face and golden hair that peeks out from underneath his baseball cap. His voice has enough volume to garner authority and enough humor to win people’s likeness. He has to keep this precarious balance for six more hours, until the clock strikes 1pm.
STAFF: You guys will be fine. Don’t worry, there is still hope.
A light cheer erupts from those who are awake. He moves on down the line, towards the section at the end that is hidden behind the trees around the bend. The girls faintly hear him. It’s bad news. There is a ripple of groans and some get up, dragging their bedding with slumped heads. They are not everyone in the section though. Others stubbornly stay put.
STAFF [as he walks away from the section back towards the front of the line]: I promise you have better things to do with your time!
The mother is napping in a sleeping bag on the pavement. The daughter, sitting on the bench beside her, plays with her iPhone. She has had her breakfast – delivery from Andy’s Deli. It’s become famous, and somewhat of a savior, for those in the line who need food and can’t leave. She looks up now as an African-American man rides his bike around, shouting. Locked to the back of his bike are folded lawn chairs. In the front are big Starbucks cups.
BICYCLIST: Rent lawn chairs! Buy Starbucks coffee! Rent Internet time!
Girl 2 is lying down, one elbow propping up her shoulder. She eyes the group of four young girls ten feet away who she suspects of being high school girls. Their voices echo across the expanse of the park, or so it seems, blocking out any possibility of sleep for Girl 2. She just looks around now and slumps back down on the ground, pulling an old airplane blanket over her.
Staff returns, his faded shouting warning his eventual presence.
STAFF: There are two rules you must follow to stay in this line. One, you can’t leave the line. You can leave only to go to the bathroom, but you can’t have someone hold your place for you if you leave to go somewhere else. Two, no one can join you in this line. Believe me, people around you will know.
Scene IV:
It’s near 10am now. Perhaps. It’s hard to tell the time. A few feet away three friends read the morning’s edition of New York Times as they sip on Snapple. The mother and daughter talk to the model as if they have been good friends for quite some time.
Girl 2 has been reading, resigning herself to the fact that there will be no sleep this morning. The mulch she is sitting on is cruelly located near the dog park of Central Park. The path has been strewn all morning with curious onlookers, smirking joggers, dog walkers who have resolutely decided to keep their dogs unleashed but insist on walking them along the path on which the masses sit and wait, and the dogs, big and small, ugly and cute, lazy and spunky, sniff the food, the blankets and the people.
An elderly woman pulling a curly hair child passes by, looks curiously at the girls, smiles and walks on. She re-appears later, hesitantly stopping near them.
WOMAN: How long have you been here?
GIRL 2 [in a bored voice]: Since 4am.
The girls have lost track of how many people have come to ask them this same question, and have gotten the same surprised look that this woman gives them now.
GIRL 2: But the first people arrived at 9.30 pm!
Is it defense? It sounds almost defensive, as if trying to explain that if she were crazy, at least she were a little less crazier than those firsts.
The mulch has been good, despite the proximity of the sniffing dogs and the cameras clicking at them. The ground is soft, and it is shaded by the high trees that now allows some sun to warm them.
Staff returns once again, an empty plastic cup in hand. He looks disheveled and tired, but his voice does not appear so. He walks towards the end of the line, out of sight, but where the girls can still hear him.
STAFF: There is no hope. Go home.
He doesn’t wait to see the people’s angry faces. He returns to the section near the girls.
STAFF: You’re still ok!
Another cheer. This time a bit more energetic.
STAFF: Ya, be happy. I’ve already crushed 1200 people’s dreams today.
A pretty woman in a white dress and designer sunglasses walks along the cement path next to a curly-haired man. They both pause to take in the sight. The woman looks down on the girls and speaks in a British accent.
WOMAN: What are you all doing here?
GIRL 2: We’re waiting for tickets to “Twelfth Night.” It’s Shakespeare in the Park.
WOMAN: How long have you been here?
GIRL 2: Since 4am.
WOMAN [in astonishment]: Why?
The girls look at each other and smile sheepishly.
GIRL 1: I don’t know…
WOMAN: Well, are you a big fan of this play?
GIRL 2: Not particularly…
WOMAN: [dubiously] Well, good luck then…
[She leaves].
Girl 1 returns her head to the pillow speckled in leaves from the tree above and closes her eyes with a smile, quite comfortable in the abode they have made themselves. It’s only a temporary mask – sleeping and living in the park – but liberating all the same. Tomorrow the man in the suit will return to his job; the model across the path will struggle to find gigs; the man in line behind the girls will come home to a tense marriage. But for now, in the 10 hours of sitting in the park’s grounds, they are quite content. They must look like fools. But they are happy fools.
Rooftop Poem from Iran
Great poem by an Iranian woman from a rooftop while Allahu-Akbar sound in the distance. Quite haunting.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Sonia Sotomayor and the Hearing Committee
The Capitol Hill hearing room these days looks a lot like a scene from the beginning Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix in which Harry Potter is on trial at the Ministry of Magic for using magic outside of school. But instead of Harry Potter, sitting under the spotlight of scrutinizing eyes is Judge Sonia Sotomayor (and of course we must remember that she isn’t on stand at a criminal trial but at a hearing confirmation).
But it is difficult to ignore the large forces playing out in Capitol Hill that at times evoke an image of stubborn bureaucrats blocking Potter’s noble mission to overcome a growing evil threat. What’s at play is a tradition of a club that had long belonged to a group of “wise old” white men who interpreted the Constitutions according to their experiences, observations and prejudices against the experience, observations and biases of a “wise old Latina woman” who will potentially uphold the highest law of the land.
For the past three days, some of the Senators at the hearing have been beating the dead horse of what exactly Sotomayor meant with her “wise Latina woman” comment; almost as much as Rowling’s Ministry characters whose only argument to Harry using magic outside of school was: but it’s illegal. One has to wonder, then, if these bureaucrats are not attacking the person under scrutiny as much as they are defending themselves against an inevitable truth: perhaps they are wrong.
Although there is no one Republican stance against Sotomayor, the bipartisan politics in the hearing have been difficult to hide. And it is plain to see that the Republicans are concerned that a Latina woman who gained “empathy” from the President of the United States will not judge based on objectivity, but from personal sympathies, and that deep down inside, she really does believe and practice by affirmative action. They are afraid that her poor background as a child, her color, her race, her name will inevitably tar her rulings.
And yet, these Senators must at least think, or it must have crossed their mind, that the white, male, privileged backgrounds that belonged to most Supreme Court justices has also shaped how they have ruled in the past. The Constitution is not interpreted objectively, nor was it written objectively. It is only with diversity in opinions in a courtroom can a group of justices strive to an unbiased ruling, because sometimes even a wise white man will not come to the same conclusion as another wise white man. But these Republicans have not acknowledged this. As CNN (wow!) has been reporting, it is no secret that Republicans are afraid of liberal politics reaching the Supreme Court.
Perhaps because they realize they don’t have a case against the judge that these men have interrogated Sotomayor on abortion, harped on the 2nd amendment, and ultimately returned to her wise Latina comment. (“But I was being attacked by dementors!”cries Harry. “It doesn’t matter! Using magic outside of school is illegal!”)
Watching Senator Sessions grill Sotomayor over and over, the fantasy fanatic in me eagerly waits and wants Sotomayor to stop, look at him straight in the face, and admit, “Yes, I’m Obama’s woman through and through.” (Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince reference if you didn’t catch it). It’s the triumph of good over evil! Hoorah!
At the end of his trial, charges against Harry Potter are dropped because they live in dangerous times and the law should have exceptions to allow one to defend one’s self. In reality, it is terrifying to think that the law can become flexible and molded to one’s preferences. We have seen the dangers to this when the Bush administration used fear to justify counter-terrorism efforts that challenged American civil rights and universal human rights.
That is why I was happy that Republican-turned-Democrat Senator Specter and Senator Al Franken challenged Sotomayor on judicial activism, on separation of powers, and the lack of judiciary accountability (which it perhaps needed given the 2000 elections). No, this is not a fantasy, and we live in a world where we don’t know who the good and bad forces are. The most we can do is tend to the weaknesses in our system. It’s not a bad idea to start in the place that upholds the law of the land.
But it is difficult to ignore the large forces playing out in Capitol Hill that at times evoke an image of stubborn bureaucrats blocking Potter’s noble mission to overcome a growing evil threat. What’s at play is a tradition of a club that had long belonged to a group of “wise old” white men who interpreted the Constitutions according to their experiences, observations and prejudices against the experience, observations and biases of a “wise old Latina woman” who will potentially uphold the highest law of the land.
For the past three days, some of the Senators at the hearing have been beating the dead horse of what exactly Sotomayor meant with her “wise Latina woman” comment; almost as much as Rowling’s Ministry characters whose only argument to Harry using magic outside of school was: but it’s illegal. One has to wonder, then, if these bureaucrats are not attacking the person under scrutiny as much as they are defending themselves against an inevitable truth: perhaps they are wrong.
Although there is no one Republican stance against Sotomayor, the bipartisan politics in the hearing have been difficult to hide. And it is plain to see that the Republicans are concerned that a Latina woman who gained “empathy” from the President of the United States will not judge based on objectivity, but from personal sympathies, and that deep down inside, she really does believe and practice by affirmative action. They are afraid that her poor background as a child, her color, her race, her name will inevitably tar her rulings.
And yet, these Senators must at least think, or it must have crossed their mind, that the white, male, privileged backgrounds that belonged to most Supreme Court justices has also shaped how they have ruled in the past. The Constitution is not interpreted objectively, nor was it written objectively. It is only with diversity in opinions in a courtroom can a group of justices strive to an unbiased ruling, because sometimes even a wise white man will not come to the same conclusion as another wise white man. But these Republicans have not acknowledged this. As CNN (wow!) has been reporting, it is no secret that Republicans are afraid of liberal politics reaching the Supreme Court.
Perhaps because they realize they don’t have a case against the judge that these men have interrogated Sotomayor on abortion, harped on the 2nd amendment, and ultimately returned to her wise Latina comment. (“But I was being attacked by dementors!”cries Harry. “It doesn’t matter! Using magic outside of school is illegal!”)
Watching Senator Sessions grill Sotomayor over and over, the fantasy fanatic in me eagerly waits and wants Sotomayor to stop, look at him straight in the face, and admit, “Yes, I’m Obama’s woman through and through.” (Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince reference if you didn’t catch it). It’s the triumph of good over evil! Hoorah!
At the end of his trial, charges against Harry Potter are dropped because they live in dangerous times and the law should have exceptions to allow one to defend one’s self. In reality, it is terrifying to think that the law can become flexible and molded to one’s preferences. We have seen the dangers to this when the Bush administration used fear to justify counter-terrorism efforts that challenged American civil rights and universal human rights.
That is why I was happy that Republican-turned-Democrat Senator Specter and Senator Al Franken challenged Sotomayor on judicial activism, on separation of powers, and the lack of judiciary accountability (which it perhaps needed given the 2000 elections). No, this is not a fantasy, and we live in a world where we don’t know who the good and bad forces are. The most we can do is tend to the weaknesses in our system. It’s not a bad idea to start in the place that upholds the law of the land.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Woman as Citizen
About two weeks ago, President Nicolas Sarkozy banned the burqa from French society, which - let's face it - was a long time coming. France has always struggled to grant rights for ethnic minorities without compromising France's sense of civil society and equality, and for Sarkozy, the burqa challenges these values: "The burqa is not a religious sign, it is a sign of the subjugation, of the submission of women."
As a woman and Muslim who doesn't agree with the burqa (read: burqa, different from niqab or hijab), I agree with Sarkozy's assessment of the problem. But in this case, his solution limits the freedom of a citizen under the very state system that is supposed to protect her rights.
Mona Eltahawy's take on Sarkozy's position was surprising - she agreed with him. "The best way to support Muslim women would be to say we oppose both racist Islamophobes and the burqa. We’ve been silent on too many things out of fear we’ll arm the right wing," she writes in an op-ed. She continues to say that the burqa is not Islamic, cleverly pointing out that it causes veiled women to get caught up in a perverted logic through which they perceive themselves as "candy."
Yet as much as I want to agree with Eltahawy, I am hesitant to agree that the best solution is to allow a democratic state to force its citizens to dress in a certain way. How would France, then, compare to Egypt that does not allow covered women to serve in the government or on national TV?
Another country that tried to impose dress rules upon its citizens was Pakistan, when Jinnah pronounced the national dress on the country's citizens. That was 70 years ago. Turn to any newspaper these days and notice how identity crisis remains one of Pakistan's worst problems.
When it comes to covering, we've been beating a dead horse with two arguments: ban the burqa and be considered intolerant and Islamophobes; or keep the burqa and struggle with the limitations a man subjugates on a Muslim woman by keeping her covered. This discussion has been almost parallel to the debate of Muslims' rights in western societies after 9/11. But hardly has the conversation really turned towards a woman's relation to the state.
This is exactly the discussion that Sarkozy's ban poses and the one we're not having. As a citizen, a Muslim woman should have the same rights as any other citizen living in that country - that is, after all, what the equality of law allows them. Which means that like other citizens, she should be able to dress as she pleases. But in this debate, either Islam in the name of man imposes rules on a woman, or the state does.
Perhaps it comes down to the fact that I'm old-fashioned but I still think there is something to be said of old-school development tactics - that is, empowering women through education and free thought so ultimately they decide what rights to fight for. This should be a woman's movement after all, and it will succeed, even if it's in the coming generations that we bear witness to this success.
As a woman and Muslim who doesn't agree with the burqa (read: burqa, different from niqab or hijab), I agree with Sarkozy's assessment of the problem. But in this case, his solution limits the freedom of a citizen under the very state system that is supposed to protect her rights.
Mona Eltahawy's take on Sarkozy's position was surprising - she agreed with him. "The best way to support Muslim women would be to say we oppose both racist Islamophobes and the burqa. We’ve been silent on too many things out of fear we’ll arm the right wing," she writes in an op-ed. She continues to say that the burqa is not Islamic, cleverly pointing out that it causes veiled women to get caught up in a perverted logic through which they perceive themselves as "candy."
Yet as much as I want to agree with Eltahawy, I am hesitant to agree that the best solution is to allow a democratic state to force its citizens to dress in a certain way. How would France, then, compare to Egypt that does not allow covered women to serve in the government or on national TV?
Another country that tried to impose dress rules upon its citizens was Pakistan, when Jinnah pronounced the national dress on the country's citizens. That was 70 years ago. Turn to any newspaper these days and notice how identity crisis remains one of Pakistan's worst problems.
When it comes to covering, we've been beating a dead horse with two arguments: ban the burqa and be considered intolerant and Islamophobes; or keep the burqa and struggle with the limitations a man subjugates on a Muslim woman by keeping her covered. This discussion has been almost parallel to the debate of Muslims' rights in western societies after 9/11. But hardly has the conversation really turned towards a woman's relation to the state.
This is exactly the discussion that Sarkozy's ban poses and the one we're not having. As a citizen, a Muslim woman should have the same rights as any other citizen living in that country - that is, after all, what the equality of law allows them. Which means that like other citizens, she should be able to dress as she pleases. But in this debate, either Islam in the name of man imposes rules on a woman, or the state does.
Perhaps it comes down to the fact that I'm old-fashioned but I still think there is something to be said of old-school development tactics - that is, empowering women through education and free thought so ultimately they decide what rights to fight for. This should be a woman's movement after all, and it will succeed, even if it's in the coming generations that we bear witness to this success.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Elie Wiesel's speech
Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel delivered this speech on Friday, June 5, at the Buchenwald concentration camp in Germany. He spoke with no notes.
As I came here today it was actually a way of coming and visit my father's grave -- but he had no grave. His grave is somewhere in the sky. This has become in those years the largest cemetery of the Jewish people.
The day he died was one of the darkest in my life. He became sick, weak, and I was there. I was there when he suffered. I was there when he asked for help, for water. I was there to receive his last words. But I was not there when he called for me, although we were in the same block; he on the upper bed and I on the lower bed. He called my name, and I was too afraid to move. All of us were. And then he died. I was there, but I was not there.
And I thought one day I will come back and speak to him, and tell him of the world that has become mine. I speak to him of times in which memory has become a sacred duty of all people of good will -- in America, where I live, or in Europe or in Germany, where you, Chancellor Merkel, are a leader with great courage and moral aspirations.
What can I tell him that the world has learned? I am not so sure. Mr. President, we have such high hopes for you because you, with your moral vision of history, will be able and compelled to change this world into a better place, where people will stop waging war -- every war is absurd and meaningless; where people will stop hating one another; where people will hate the otherness of the other rather than respect it.
But the world hasn't learned. When I was liberated in 1945, April 11, by the American army, somehow many of us were convinced that at least one lesson will have been learned -- that never again will there be war; that hatred is not an option, that racism is stupid; and the will to conquer other people's minds or territories or aspirations, that will is meaningless.
I was so hopeful. Paradoxically, I was so hopeful then. Many of us were, although we had the right to give up on humanity, to give up on culture, to give up on education, to give up on the possibility of living one's life with dignity in a world that has no place for dignity.
We rejected that possibility and we said, no, we must continue believing in a future, because the world has learned. But again, the world hasn't. Had the world learned, there would have been no Cambodia and no Rwanda and no Darfur and no Bosnia.
Will the world ever learn? I think that is why Buchenwald is so important -- as important, of course, but differently as Auschwitz. It's important because here the large -- the big camp was a kind of international community. People came there from all horizons -- political, economic, culture. The first globalization essay, experiment, were made in Buchenwald. And all that was meant to diminish the humanity of human beings.
You spoke of humanity, Mr. President. Though unto us, in those times, it was human to be inhuman. And now the world has learned, I hope. And of course this hope includes so many of what now would be your vision for the future, Mr. President. A sense of security for Israel, a sense of security for its neighbors, to bring peace in that place. The time must come. It's enough -- enough to go to cemeteries, enough to weep for oceans. It's enough. There must come a moment -- a moment of bringing people together.
And therefore we say anyone who comes here should go back with that resolution. Memory must bring people together rather than set them apart. Memories here not to sow anger in our hearts, but on the contrary, a sense of solidarity that all those who need us. What else can we do except invoke that memory so that people everywhere who say the 21st century is a century of new beginnings, filled with promise and infinite hope, and at times profound gratitude to all those who believe in our task, which is to improve the human condition.
A great man, Camus, wrote at the end of his marvelous novel, The Plague: "After all," he said, "after the tragedy, never the rest...there is more in the human being to celebrate than to denigrate." Even that can be found as truth -- painful as it is -- in Buchenwald.
Thank you, Mr. President, for allowing me to come back to my father's grave, which is still in my heart.
Thoughts on Obama's speech in Cairo
Obama's speech to the "Muslim world" in Cairo this past week was nothing less than exhilarating, at least for those in the U.S. who have been waiting restlessly for more honest dialogue about main concerns that Muslim countries have with the U.S. Obviously criticisms have been raised in the media that Obama was (predictably) a bit too vague, a bit too ideological, a bit too contradictory. Perhaps, but Obama also spoke more directly about Israel-Palestine, misconceptions from both the U.S. and Muslim countries, and threat of U.S. imperialism than any other government leader.
Still, I am a bit curious about the decision to make a speech in Cairo. Does where a speech is given matter as much as what is said? It does in diplomatic circles - it presents a certain context, it sets a particular but unspoken background. And at times not so unspoken. Today, Obama spoke at the Buchenwald concentration camp in Germany, to make a particular statement. Obama spoke in Turkey earlier this year for precisely a particular reason as well - as he said, because Turkey precariously teeters between Europe and the Middle East. And now, Egypt, which has been a center for Islamic progress for centuries.
And yet curiously enough, Obama has chosen to speak to the Muslim world in countries that are essentially in the periphery of the region the government, and I suspect the larger U.S., considers to be threatening and unstable. I bring this up because Obama not only dealt with issues concerning Islam, religion and humanity. He spoke of problems concerning political development, democracy, women's rights, and Israel-Palestine. Thus he was not speaking to the Muslim world, but to an unstable region.
To distinguish a Middle East identity - geographically or ideologically - is simplistic and exclusive. And yet, to state that Egypt and Turkey are in the periphery of this amalgmation of a region requires some sort of explanation of what this core is - for which I admit I have none (we might as well mix Afghanistan and Pakistan into the mix, further blurring geographic boundaries). But it is no secret that Turkey has actively tried to remove itself from a largely Middle Eastern identity; and Egypt is shunned by many states in the region precisely because of its close ties to the U.S. and Israel.
So what precisely has been the impact of Obama's speech in the Muslim world? What would the impact have been if he had delivered the speech in Palestine, or Pakistan, or Iraq? What are we dealing with here - states or religion? I'm afraid the solution is getting as murky as the problem.
Still, I am a bit curious about the decision to make a speech in Cairo. Does where a speech is given matter as much as what is said? It does in diplomatic circles - it presents a certain context, it sets a particular but unspoken background. And at times not so unspoken. Today, Obama spoke at the Buchenwald concentration camp in Germany, to make a particular statement. Obama spoke in Turkey earlier this year for precisely a particular reason as well - as he said, because Turkey precariously teeters between Europe and the Middle East. And now, Egypt, which has been a center for Islamic progress for centuries.
And yet curiously enough, Obama has chosen to speak to the Muslim world in countries that are essentially in the periphery of the region the government, and I suspect the larger U.S., considers to be threatening and unstable. I bring this up because Obama not only dealt with issues concerning Islam, religion and humanity. He spoke of problems concerning political development, democracy, women's rights, and Israel-Palestine. Thus he was not speaking to the Muslim world, but to an unstable region.
To distinguish a Middle East identity - geographically or ideologically - is simplistic and exclusive. And yet, to state that Egypt and Turkey are in the periphery of this amalgmation of a region requires some sort of explanation of what this core is - for which I admit I have none (we might as well mix Afghanistan and Pakistan into the mix, further blurring geographic boundaries). But it is no secret that Turkey has actively tried to remove itself from a largely Middle Eastern identity; and Egypt is shunned by many states in the region precisely because of its close ties to the U.S. and Israel.
So what precisely has been the impact of Obama's speech in the Muslim world? What would the impact have been if he had delivered the speech in Palestine, or Pakistan, or Iraq? What are we dealing with here - states or religion? I'm afraid the solution is getting as murky as the problem.
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