Saturday, August 02, 2008
Well, it's only been four and a half years... when I came back to see how the blog was doing, I was going to delete all those former posts about the show on the student radio, but I became a bit nostalgic. Some of that stuff I'd totally forgotten. I don't remember we got any emails - was that made up...? Surely not.
I was very young when I was living in those countries. I think that was a good thing. But my writing was in very long sentences, wasn't it? I remember wondering why it was so hard to read on air, I had a very gaspy style. My editorial policy was also a bit suspicious. I'm not half as sure of myself these days, but I'm PROFESSIONAL. Hooray. And I'm back at my roots in South London.
Though I'm going to the West Bank in a week or so. Yallah West Bank.
I was very young when I was living in those countries. I think that was a good thing. But my writing was in very long sentences, wasn't it? I remember wondering why it was so hard to read on air, I had a very gaspy style. My editorial policy was also a bit suspicious. I'm not half as sure of myself these days, but I'm PROFESSIONAL. Hooray. And I'm back at my roots in South London.
Though I'm going to the West Bank in a week or so. Yallah West Bank.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Here we are, finally. It's the last one. Making first interview next week with a Finnish girl I know, she's quite funny, so it could be ok. This one I won't be in the studio for but it gives me the opportunity to try out all the exciting sound stuff my computer is now armed with, woo!
The guy who is our anchorman is changing, but the new one seems nice too, and also knows how to mail! Great..
------Begins with song from Aryan.. oh which one.. it's about going out until sunrise with your "sun that never sets" in your arms, etc.
Parklife, as a concept rather than a Blur single, is bigger in Iran than it ever was here. Because of government restrictions on the mixing of the sexes in universities and in the workplace, the park has become the place to go looking for your dream partner. The most practised technique is the passing on of mobile numbers on little pieces of folded paper, usually by the best friends of the interested parties – and it’s traditional that the relationship of the giggling go-betweens flourishes alongside that of the intended matchmaking, which makes it good sport for all.
Tehran is rich in parks, ranging from modest affairs - furnished with wooden benches sprinkled evenly with snoozing old men during the daylight hours, and arranged round a random community facility such as a giant chess set - to the vastness of the Park-e Melat, the national park with a several levels comprising flowers and trees, fountains, kiosks, and places for playing all kinds of sport – as well as a million dark, secret nooks, whose possibilities are explored by young unmarried couples with half an eye scanning the horizon for a raid by the morals police. Being caught in such circumstances with someone you can’t explain away as your brother or sister is an arrestable offence, and could mean a flogging, if you don’t have enough to pay the necessary bribe. But the young Iranians just keep on doing it – getting into their best clothes, slapping on the makeup and the hair grease, and heading to the parks for a night out. Often a mixed group of friends will travel divided into boys’ and girls’ cars, with the aim of avoiding the attentions of the police – only to race each other at breakneck speed through the four-lane highways which slice through Tehran, breaking every traffic law east of Istanbul. They secure a parking space for themselves between the thousands of other cars lining the streets around the park by dint of inching backwards and forwards for fifteen minutes with the steering wheel wrenched alternately in one direction and then the other – or simply just by parking two deep.
Young Iranians are geniuses in finding ways of living their lives the way they want in the face of government restrictions. Signs of a western-style youth culture are everywhere, but measures are privately taken in order to make them less objectionable to conservative elements. In the shopping malls, shops selling ever shorter and tighter girls’ clothes display clear messages at the door proclaiming, “This shop welcomes observers of correct Islamic dress”. At a fast-food pizza parlour, where the girls are invariably dressed in bright colours with headscarves so ethereal they might as well not be there, I came across an advertisement for a special offer – a free salad for anyone judged to be dressed modestly enough. Presumably when the police come round, the owners of such places are called upon to point to these signs and shrug sadly as though reflecting on the decline of morals amongst the youth, whilst the profits of their consumerism jingle in their pockets.
Although there is an exciting atmosphere in Iran because of the freedoms which the young are winning, the rise of youth culture brings mixed results. Iran faces rising statistics of drug abuse – Tehran is a large market for the more unsavoury products of neighbouring Afghanistan. Nightclubs are illegal, and drugs are often taken at house parties where strangers meet and drink alcohol.
There is an ugly divide between those who are embracing the western-style reaction to the government, and those who remain more closely, if not entirely, aligned to the conservative line of the government. Girls in chadors and girls in short coats rarely mix – their choice of dress, even inadvertently, makes a political and social statement which can’t be ignored. The western-style youth find the Islamic dress a sign of backwardness, and those who observe it find the western style degrading.
The Iranian government is pro-modernisation, but anti-western. The Islamic revolution itself was the product of the large-scale popular rejection of the forced westernisation schemes of the Shahs. I spoke to Sara, who had worked as a tour guide before September 11th all but wiped the income of international tourism from Iran’s balance sheet. She dressed to the limit, in lime-green short coats and headscarves so transparent and airy that they seemed to be disintegrating before your eyes. She talked to me about the time of the shah, when women who wished to show themselves progressive dressed in miniskirts, trying to look more western than western women. But she was not uncritical of this, noting that whilst this dress was accepted as a sign of modernisation, women were still effectively barred from numerous professions, and the vast majority of women would remain in the home. Within the Islamic Republic, they are steadily progressing into almost professions and areas of society. Sara herself, though she disliked being told what to wear, was not really bothered – “it’s only clothes, and anyway I want to look Iranian”, she said. She hopes that attitudes will be allowed to develop, and the clothes will eventually follow on from that, so that if a change is to take place, it will be more deep-rooted and lasting than has been the case in the past.
The divisions between the people of the Iranian nation are obvious, but it is an ancient nation with a distinct culture and heritage. There are easily as many factors binding Iranians together as there are straining them apart. It’s not impossible to imagine that Iran’s gigantic birth rate – meaning that in 2002, 30% of the population were under 14 – might do something towards unifying them. Those who were born after 1979 have only ever lived in Iran under the laws of the Islamic Republic – and although those laws might be called discriminatory, they discriminate equally against all Iranians together. A young woman from a secular family living under Islamic law now probably has more in common with a young woman from a conservative religious family, who is influenced by satellite TV and the internet, than their respective parents could ever have done. At the moment, were the Islamic system to collapse and a secular government to be put in place, it is likely that vigilante groups would make life impossible outside the home for girls who chose not to dress in the traditional way, let alone forward their integration into society. Iranian opinions on the subject of civil rights have been gathered for a long time around two extreme points, a process aggravated in both directions by aggressive governments and forces of reaction. However, it is to be hoped that young Iranians may come to make use of their force of numbers to bring about more than just an exchange of symbols, but real social change, the desire for which seems to unite them now perhaps as never before. The blacklisting of so many reformist candidates in the run-up to the country’s upcoming elections indicates that the current regime is all too aware of this.
The guy who is our anchorman is changing, but the new one seems nice too, and also knows how to mail! Great..
------Begins with song from Aryan.. oh which one.. it's about going out until sunrise with your "sun that never sets" in your arms, etc.
Parklife, as a concept rather than a Blur single, is bigger in Iran than it ever was here. Because of government restrictions on the mixing of the sexes in universities and in the workplace, the park has become the place to go looking for your dream partner. The most practised technique is the passing on of mobile numbers on little pieces of folded paper, usually by the best friends of the interested parties – and it’s traditional that the relationship of the giggling go-betweens flourishes alongside that of the intended matchmaking, which makes it good sport for all.
Tehran is rich in parks, ranging from modest affairs - furnished with wooden benches sprinkled evenly with snoozing old men during the daylight hours, and arranged round a random community facility such as a giant chess set - to the vastness of the Park-e Melat, the national park with a several levels comprising flowers and trees, fountains, kiosks, and places for playing all kinds of sport – as well as a million dark, secret nooks, whose possibilities are explored by young unmarried couples with half an eye scanning the horizon for a raid by the morals police. Being caught in such circumstances with someone you can’t explain away as your brother or sister is an arrestable offence, and could mean a flogging, if you don’t have enough to pay the necessary bribe. But the young Iranians just keep on doing it – getting into their best clothes, slapping on the makeup and the hair grease, and heading to the parks for a night out. Often a mixed group of friends will travel divided into boys’ and girls’ cars, with the aim of avoiding the attentions of the police – only to race each other at breakneck speed through the four-lane highways which slice through Tehran, breaking every traffic law east of Istanbul. They secure a parking space for themselves between the thousands of other cars lining the streets around the park by dint of inching backwards and forwards for fifteen minutes with the steering wheel wrenched alternately in one direction and then the other – or simply just by parking two deep.
Young Iranians are geniuses in finding ways of living their lives the way they want in the face of government restrictions. Signs of a western-style youth culture are everywhere, but measures are privately taken in order to make them less objectionable to conservative elements. In the shopping malls, shops selling ever shorter and tighter girls’ clothes display clear messages at the door proclaiming, “This shop welcomes observers of correct Islamic dress”. At a fast-food pizza parlour, where the girls are invariably dressed in bright colours with headscarves so ethereal they might as well not be there, I came across an advertisement for a special offer – a free salad for anyone judged to be dressed modestly enough. Presumably when the police come round, the owners of such places are called upon to point to these signs and shrug sadly as though reflecting on the decline of morals amongst the youth, whilst the profits of their consumerism jingle in their pockets.
Although there is an exciting atmosphere in Iran because of the freedoms which the young are winning, the rise of youth culture brings mixed results. Iran faces rising statistics of drug abuse – Tehran is a large market for the more unsavoury products of neighbouring Afghanistan. Nightclubs are illegal, and drugs are often taken at house parties where strangers meet and drink alcohol.
There is an ugly divide between those who are embracing the western-style reaction to the government, and those who remain more closely, if not entirely, aligned to the conservative line of the government. Girls in chadors and girls in short coats rarely mix – their choice of dress, even inadvertently, makes a political and social statement which can’t be ignored. The western-style youth find the Islamic dress a sign of backwardness, and those who observe it find the western style degrading.
The Iranian government is pro-modernisation, but anti-western. The Islamic revolution itself was the product of the large-scale popular rejection of the forced westernisation schemes of the Shahs. I spoke to Sara, who had worked as a tour guide before September 11th all but wiped the income of international tourism from Iran’s balance sheet. She dressed to the limit, in lime-green short coats and headscarves so transparent and airy that they seemed to be disintegrating before your eyes. She talked to me about the time of the shah, when women who wished to show themselves progressive dressed in miniskirts, trying to look more western than western women. But she was not uncritical of this, noting that whilst this dress was accepted as a sign of modernisation, women were still effectively barred from numerous professions, and the vast majority of women would remain in the home. Within the Islamic Republic, they are steadily progressing into almost professions and areas of society. Sara herself, though she disliked being told what to wear, was not really bothered – “it’s only clothes, and anyway I want to look Iranian”, she said. She hopes that attitudes will be allowed to develop, and the clothes will eventually follow on from that, so that if a change is to take place, it will be more deep-rooted and lasting than has been the case in the past.
The divisions between the people of the Iranian nation are obvious, but it is an ancient nation with a distinct culture and heritage. There are easily as many factors binding Iranians together as there are straining them apart. It’s not impossible to imagine that Iran’s gigantic birth rate – meaning that in 2002, 30% of the population were under 14 – might do something towards unifying them. Those who were born after 1979 have only ever lived in Iran under the laws of the Islamic Republic – and although those laws might be called discriminatory, they discriminate equally against all Iranians together. A young woman from a secular family living under Islamic law now probably has more in common with a young woman from a conservative religious family, who is influenced by satellite TV and the internet, than their respective parents could ever have done. At the moment, were the Islamic system to collapse and a secular government to be put in place, it is likely that vigilante groups would make life impossible outside the home for girls who chose not to dress in the traditional way, let alone forward their integration into society. Iranian opinions on the subject of civil rights have been gathered for a long time around two extreme points, a process aggravated in both directions by aggressive governments and forces of reaction. However, it is to be hoped that young Iranians may come to make use of their force of numbers to bring about more than just an exchange of symbols, but real social change, the desire for which seems to unite them now perhaps as never before. The blacklisting of so many reformist candidates in the run-up to the country’s upcoming elections indicates that the current regime is all too aware of this.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Friday, November 28, 2003
I've just cycled back from the studio.
Found the Amr Diab CD, which got left behind last week due to my over-excited birthday state of mind. Great! Very dirty though.
This week was Cheb Khaled, though I had been planning something else, but we fumbled it 'cos no time to set up beforehand - the indie show were very reluctant to leave, giving us 20 seconds to get everything in the right slots. No way. No room for people to "find it surprising that".. in this one, but I did allow myself a shocking "I had made an error in assuming".. at the end. It must have some sort of structure for God's sake. The show got a mail from San Francisco last week! How cool. Though the guy just said, "God Bless you all". So
---Exciting but inappropriate Algerian music...
5 - Workout Syria
Thanks to exposure to new role-models of western-influenced pop singers and actresses, the traditional mould of the attractive Syrian woman has been broken. This ideal has transformed from the well-rounded peach with childbearing hips to the skinny impossibility with gargantuan breasts currently favoured here in the West.
These days, the fashionable Syrian girl sees no better way to accomplish the projected body beautiful than with a visit to the gym.
It’s actually quite difficult to meet and make friends with Syrian girls, as they’re not in circulation so much as the boys – obviously not enjoying the cat-calls and bum-pinching to which the lads like to treat any lady who appears outdoors alone after sunset; and until about three months into my stay, my neighbour’s daughter Rania was my only girl friend. By this stage Syrian boys had come to baffle me by persistently interpreting short conversations on matters as seemingly innocuous as cheese or the average rainfall as a green light to spend the next six weeks protesting their eternal love and devotion. I thought this new girls’ fad for exercise might bring me the chance to chat with more ladies and see how things were doing with them. Encouraged by Rania, I went off in search of a gym.
Most gyms open at different times for men and women, which allows them to use the same equipment, and for women who wear the veil to slip into lycra without any bother. However, the times chosen proved to be impossible for a girl with full-time work or study, like me. But I eventually hunted out a gym near the university which had a permanent separate section for women.
It was a small area in the basement of a huge men’s gym, populated by noble exercise machines probably invented just after the wheel. They were clearly hand-me-downs from upstairs, made unadjustably for tall people. It was not the dynamic scene I had been led to expect by Rania.
Nobody used the machines apart from me. The others present were all very large ladies, the youngest about 37, who would occasionally drift past as I tried to get some exercise, warning me that I might get tired if I carried on like that. I wondered what they were all doing there – until the aerobics started.
Aerobics was the only activity on offer, and from the start it was clear that each lady was engaged in a life-or-death battle with her own behind. One lady wrapped herself in cellophane; she dropped out at an early stage, dripping and defeated. After a ten minute programme which was hardly gruelling, two of them took me to one side, to enquire bluntly of the embarrassed newcomer who it was that really had the fattest body in the gym. Then they headed for the steam room, which, as one lady admitted, is the real reason that most of them come to the club. There they sat, and basked, and bonded.
It was impossible not to enjoy their cheery approach to the whole occasion. Though the battles with their weight were fuelled by insecurity, it was an absolutely uncompetitive environment. It was clear that these women thrived on the chance given them by the gym to get out of the house and meet new people, and laugh at themselves; a small victory for older women who can sometimes find themselves isolated after marriage. At first I had found the state of the equipment and facilities derisive to their efforts, but then I began to realise that in fact these had very little impact on the true benefits these ladies took home from their workout.
All in all it was a very interesting and sociable experience, but I felt I could have achieved more exercise carrying home a few kilos of carrots from the market; so when the university term came to an end, I followed Rania to the “chic” gym around the corner from our houses.
There it was a different generation of women, and a different story. There were queues for a running machine that actually went at running speed, compared with that of the previous gym, which had presumably been made when humankind still lumped along on all fours.
A predatory instructor stalked from “dual function leg-unit” to “lateral pull-down station”, upping difficulty settings without invitation, and her best friend came in early every day to pile iron weights on her chest and lie on the floor struggling to breathe. There were a lot of girls there, for various reasons – some had just wanted an excuse to buy the cute sports shoes they had seen, some weighed themselves every five minutes, and some were pure-blooded sporty maniacs whose sinewy arms pumped in a blur.
But I had made an error in assuming that all this came down, in the end, to the desire to cut an attractive figure for the men on the Damascus streets. There were many women for whom going to the gym had merely become something they no longer thought about – something to keep them healthy and help clear their minds for the more important business of trying to get by in life.
But here we are talking about the privileged middle-class. For the vast majority of women (and men) in the country, and mostly for economic rather than social reasons, sport has no part in their adult lives. A new active lifestyle initiative at the Ministry for Health may have a positive, measurable impact on women’s condition in poorer areas, as for the first time a comprehensive survey of the lifestyle and health of the entire Syrian population has been undertaken. By way of leadership, the minister himself took part in a fun-run in Damascus last year.
However, it would be a shame if the other benefits of sport were neglected in order to concentrate on health alone. Even women who really want to do so barely ever play the outdoor team sports which encourage a feeling of loyalty and security, and develop skills in the way that going to the gym and doing aerobics do not. It’s especially annoying to think that this is at least sixty percent due to the fact that a handful of daft, bored men have nothing better to do with their time than bother women who feel like doing anything interesting. But anyway, with the welcoming atmosphere of Syria’s all-female gyms, there is definitely a place for fostering healthy relationships between friends and starting to encourage the respect for women’s bodies which is so obviously lacking in the streets.
---Cheb Khaled. Though still not sure if he actually got transmitted, but would like to think so.
Applying for a grant to go and see what sports they like in Mongolia. Hope it works out. I'd like to invite some Mongols here actually.
Found the Amr Diab CD, which got left behind last week due to my over-excited birthday state of mind. Great! Very dirty though.
This week was Cheb Khaled, though I had been planning something else, but we fumbled it 'cos no time to set up beforehand - the indie show were very reluctant to leave, giving us 20 seconds to get everything in the right slots. No way. No room for people to "find it surprising that".. in this one, but I did allow myself a shocking "I had made an error in assuming".. at the end. It must have some sort of structure for God's sake. The show got a mail from San Francisco last week! How cool. Though the guy just said, "God Bless you all". So
---Exciting but inappropriate Algerian music...
5 - Workout Syria
Thanks to exposure to new role-models of western-influenced pop singers and actresses, the traditional mould of the attractive Syrian woman has been broken. This ideal has transformed from the well-rounded peach with childbearing hips to the skinny impossibility with gargantuan breasts currently favoured here in the West.
These days, the fashionable Syrian girl sees no better way to accomplish the projected body beautiful than with a visit to the gym.
It’s actually quite difficult to meet and make friends with Syrian girls, as they’re not in circulation so much as the boys – obviously not enjoying the cat-calls and bum-pinching to which the lads like to treat any lady who appears outdoors alone after sunset; and until about three months into my stay, my neighbour’s daughter Rania was my only girl friend. By this stage Syrian boys had come to baffle me by persistently interpreting short conversations on matters as seemingly innocuous as cheese or the average rainfall as a green light to spend the next six weeks protesting their eternal love and devotion. I thought this new girls’ fad for exercise might bring me the chance to chat with more ladies and see how things were doing with them. Encouraged by Rania, I went off in search of a gym.
Most gyms open at different times for men and women, which allows them to use the same equipment, and for women who wear the veil to slip into lycra without any bother. However, the times chosen proved to be impossible for a girl with full-time work or study, like me. But I eventually hunted out a gym near the university which had a permanent separate section for women.
It was a small area in the basement of a huge men’s gym, populated by noble exercise machines probably invented just after the wheel. They were clearly hand-me-downs from upstairs, made unadjustably for tall people. It was not the dynamic scene I had been led to expect by Rania.
Nobody used the machines apart from me. The others present were all very large ladies, the youngest about 37, who would occasionally drift past as I tried to get some exercise, warning me that I might get tired if I carried on like that. I wondered what they were all doing there – until the aerobics started.
Aerobics was the only activity on offer, and from the start it was clear that each lady was engaged in a life-or-death battle with her own behind. One lady wrapped herself in cellophane; she dropped out at an early stage, dripping and defeated. After a ten minute programme which was hardly gruelling, two of them took me to one side, to enquire bluntly of the embarrassed newcomer who it was that really had the fattest body in the gym. Then they headed for the steam room, which, as one lady admitted, is the real reason that most of them come to the club. There they sat, and basked, and bonded.
It was impossible not to enjoy their cheery approach to the whole occasion. Though the battles with their weight were fuelled by insecurity, it was an absolutely uncompetitive environment. It was clear that these women thrived on the chance given them by the gym to get out of the house and meet new people, and laugh at themselves; a small victory for older women who can sometimes find themselves isolated after marriage. At first I had found the state of the equipment and facilities derisive to their efforts, but then I began to realise that in fact these had very little impact on the true benefits these ladies took home from their workout.
All in all it was a very interesting and sociable experience, but I felt I could have achieved more exercise carrying home a few kilos of carrots from the market; so when the university term came to an end, I followed Rania to the “chic” gym around the corner from our houses.
There it was a different generation of women, and a different story. There were queues for a running machine that actually went at running speed, compared with that of the previous gym, which had presumably been made when humankind still lumped along on all fours.
A predatory instructor stalked from “dual function leg-unit” to “lateral pull-down station”, upping difficulty settings without invitation, and her best friend came in early every day to pile iron weights on her chest and lie on the floor struggling to breathe. There were a lot of girls there, for various reasons – some had just wanted an excuse to buy the cute sports shoes they had seen, some weighed themselves every five minutes, and some were pure-blooded sporty maniacs whose sinewy arms pumped in a blur.
But I had made an error in assuming that all this came down, in the end, to the desire to cut an attractive figure for the men on the Damascus streets. There were many women for whom going to the gym had merely become something they no longer thought about – something to keep them healthy and help clear their minds for the more important business of trying to get by in life.
But here we are talking about the privileged middle-class. For the vast majority of women (and men) in the country, and mostly for economic rather than social reasons, sport has no part in their adult lives. A new active lifestyle initiative at the Ministry for Health may have a positive, measurable impact on women’s condition in poorer areas, as for the first time a comprehensive survey of the lifestyle and health of the entire Syrian population has been undertaken. By way of leadership, the minister himself took part in a fun-run in Damascus last year.
However, it would be a shame if the other benefits of sport were neglected in order to concentrate on health alone. Even women who really want to do so barely ever play the outdoor team sports which encourage a feeling of loyalty and security, and develop skills in the way that going to the gym and doing aerobics do not. It’s especially annoying to think that this is at least sixty percent due to the fact that a handful of daft, bored men have nothing better to do with their time than bother women who feel like doing anything interesting. But anyway, with the welcoming atmosphere of Syria’s all-female gyms, there is definitely a place for fostering healthy relationships between friends and starting to encourage the respect for women’s bodies which is so obviously lacking in the streets.
---Cheb Khaled. Though still not sure if he actually got transmitted, but would like to think so.
Applying for a grant to go and see what sports they like in Mongolia. Hope it works out. I'd like to invite some Mongols here actually.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
On time this week, even a bit ahead, it's my birthday tomorrow and I don't want to do anything serious. I was supposedly going to do lots of work tonight so this day off didn't make too big an impact, but my brain smelt a holiday a mile off and is bouncing about unable to take Persian poetry seriously any more. Today we read a story about a man who gets chased by a drunken camel, and falls down a hole; he clings to a branch that gets eaten through by mice (one white and one black - in case you see them again) and falls down straight into the mouth of the dragon that lives there. The motto is, "everything sucks." I blame whoever served the camel. There's a better one about a man who tries to fly up to God by putting birds on his chair, they get quite far, then he gets freaked and tries to kill God, who throws back down a dead fish with his arrow through it, then he crashes. Hello, Persia?
Anyhow:
Amr Diab again. I've only got 2 CDs. Another reason to get an mp3 player to take something up there.. but..
Today, we’re going to look at Elections, Syrian Style. Elections in a dictatorship? Some people are no doubt raising their eyebrows. But the 250 members of the People’s Assembly, the Syrian parliament, are actually elected by the people for a four-year term of office, and the last round took place earlier this year.
I wasn’t expecting elections either, and was totally mystified when, one morning, I encountered a bed sheet strung across the Bab Touma roundabout. It had somebody’s name written on it in big pink letters – Fadi al-Somebody and the words, “group B”.
That was all. Strange, but nobody else seemed to be paying attention to it. I got on the bus and put it out of my mind.
However, by the time I arrived home, seven similar sheets with different colours and names had sprung up alongside the original, prompting me to make enquiries. I discovered that this was in fact the front line of the publicity drive for the upcoming elections. In the following days banners proceeded to materialize at an exponential rate not only on Bab Touma, which had commenced to look a bit like a political washing-line, but all over town, along with a horrible rash of personal photographs of the candidates – imagine taking the most unearthly passport photo you can imagine and blowing it up 2 foot square, and you have the idea.
My interest was fired up. What did these people with their sheets and mug shots hanging all over town propose to do for the Syrian masses? What were The Issues? I probed everybody, from the pirate CD king to my landlord’s mother in law, but nobody knew, and nobody cared.
There was nothing of any use in the newspapers, and nothing helpful on the little flyers which began to appear on the walls next to the death notices, full of platitudes about a great country under a great leader. I was absolutely the only person talking about the elections.
Fortunately, I had recourse to the Damascus taxi-drivers for information. They informed me that the people who had put themselves up for election were the likes of rich restaurant and cinema owners, and others with no political experience, trying to get higher up the social ladder by getting a government post on a body that only sits three times a year.
You get a free car for nothing, said one driver enviously.
And apparently, some Syrians were willing to go around town putting up banners on these people’s behalf for nothing too, in the hope that their personal fortunes could be turned upside-down if their man (or woman) secured a victory. In Syria everything depends on who you know, and how close they are to the President.
But since none of the Syrians I spoke to seemed to know what the assembly was actually for, I looked for an official account, and came across this United Nations definition:
“The Assembly enacts laws, discusses government policy, approves the general budget... ratifies treaties, and nominates the candidate for presidency of the Republic.”
Only in “nominates” is there the suggestion that it might actually initiate something with visible consequences. I looked into this unlikely piece of information, and discovered that in fact the ruling Ba’th party nominate the candidate to be nominated, who is unlikely in the near future to be anybody other than a relative of the late president Hafez al-Assad. This candidate is then presented alone for popular vote at a referendum – if he gets a majority, he takes up his seven-year term.
Al-Assad’s young son, Bashar, was elected in 2000 with 97% of the vote.
However limited its actual executive power, the theory behind the make-up of the People’s Assembly is interesting at least. Half of the seats, for example, are reserved for workers and peasants (These are Group A; Group B is for the university-educated). In addition 83 seats are reserved for independents, and there have been promises that, as part of a reform package produced post Iraq-war under American duress, the Ba’th Party may loosen its stranglehold.
Anyway, back in this round of elections, a whole new level of play was introduced by the entry of Mohammad Homsho onto the scene. Clearly a thousand times more wealthy and better-looking than the other candidates, he hired whole streets of billboards and the cast of a popular soap opera. He was literally everywhere. Other candidates fought back - tickets at the cinema suddenly became free, food at the restaurant cut-price, and on election day, convoys of buses filled with people from the poor suburbs of Damascus arrived in town, reportedly transported at the expense of the richer candidates. It was they who, for the most part, won. Opposition parties boycotted the elections - claiming this was because of lack of democracy in the process. And a week later, it was unlikely that anybody you asked would be able to remember the name of more than one of the newly elected body.
So, for the enormous aesthetic change that the elections wrought on Syria’s urban landscape in terms of banners and photos and the noisy but poorly attended rallies, their comprehensive failure to make any impact at all on the public life of the country was all the more astounding, and underlined the inordinate value which is placed on good connections in Syrian society. This institutionalised nepotism is a cause of great frustration to the vast majority of the Syrian people, who are unable to benefit from it.
However, when it came to the crunch and coalition forces were on the cusp of invading their Iraqi neighbours in order to forcibly install “democracy”, no matter what the discontent of the Syrians with their own system, they were angry, fearful, and crying out for armed resistance.
It’s worth remembering therefore, as western Hawks set up their morbid card-decks of targets, that the tolerance of disgruntled Middle-Eastern populations toward their more or less oppressive regimes is driven by the need to remain united in the face of a threat of foreign attack and occupation, which would be destabilizing, humiliating and would attract violence to their countries.
In other words, these must people put sheer survival and independence from foreign powers above freedom and democracy in their order of priorities. Which explains the miserable acceptance of the political washing lines, the free cars, the single-party control, and all the substanceless trappings of election time in Damascus.
-----Up comes Amr; news team fight, I try to get out the door without banging my head. The studio's very small; you couldn't have a bath in there.
Will I like being 23? Is It Safe?
Anyhow:
Amr Diab again. I've only got 2 CDs. Another reason to get an mp3 player to take something up there.. but..
Today, we’re going to look at Elections, Syrian Style. Elections in a dictatorship? Some people are no doubt raising their eyebrows. But the 250 members of the People’s Assembly, the Syrian parliament, are actually elected by the people for a four-year term of office, and the last round took place earlier this year.
I wasn’t expecting elections either, and was totally mystified when, one morning, I encountered a bed sheet strung across the Bab Touma roundabout. It had somebody’s name written on it in big pink letters – Fadi al-Somebody and the words, “group B”.
That was all. Strange, but nobody else seemed to be paying attention to it. I got on the bus and put it out of my mind.
However, by the time I arrived home, seven similar sheets with different colours and names had sprung up alongside the original, prompting me to make enquiries. I discovered that this was in fact the front line of the publicity drive for the upcoming elections. In the following days banners proceeded to materialize at an exponential rate not only on Bab Touma, which had commenced to look a bit like a political washing-line, but all over town, along with a horrible rash of personal photographs of the candidates – imagine taking the most unearthly passport photo you can imagine and blowing it up 2 foot square, and you have the idea.
My interest was fired up. What did these people with their sheets and mug shots hanging all over town propose to do for the Syrian masses? What were The Issues? I probed everybody, from the pirate CD king to my landlord’s mother in law, but nobody knew, and nobody cared.
There was nothing of any use in the newspapers, and nothing helpful on the little flyers which began to appear on the walls next to the death notices, full of platitudes about a great country under a great leader. I was absolutely the only person talking about the elections.
Fortunately, I had recourse to the Damascus taxi-drivers for information. They informed me that the people who had put themselves up for election were the likes of rich restaurant and cinema owners, and others with no political experience, trying to get higher up the social ladder by getting a government post on a body that only sits three times a year.
You get a free car for nothing, said one driver enviously.
And apparently, some Syrians were willing to go around town putting up banners on these people’s behalf for nothing too, in the hope that their personal fortunes could be turned upside-down if their man (or woman) secured a victory. In Syria everything depends on who you know, and how close they are to the President.
But since none of the Syrians I spoke to seemed to know what the assembly was actually for, I looked for an official account, and came across this United Nations definition:
“The Assembly enacts laws, discusses government policy, approves the general budget... ratifies treaties, and nominates the candidate for presidency of the Republic.”
Only in “nominates” is there the suggestion that it might actually initiate something with visible consequences. I looked into this unlikely piece of information, and discovered that in fact the ruling Ba’th party nominate the candidate to be nominated, who is unlikely in the near future to be anybody other than a relative of the late president Hafez al-Assad. This candidate is then presented alone for popular vote at a referendum – if he gets a majority, he takes up his seven-year term.
Al-Assad’s young son, Bashar, was elected in 2000 with 97% of the vote.
However limited its actual executive power, the theory behind the make-up of the People’s Assembly is interesting at least. Half of the seats, for example, are reserved for workers and peasants (These are Group A; Group B is for the university-educated). In addition 83 seats are reserved for independents, and there have been promises that, as part of a reform package produced post Iraq-war under American duress, the Ba’th Party may loosen its stranglehold.
Anyway, back in this round of elections, a whole new level of play was introduced by the entry of Mohammad Homsho onto the scene. Clearly a thousand times more wealthy and better-looking than the other candidates, he hired whole streets of billboards and the cast of a popular soap opera. He was literally everywhere. Other candidates fought back - tickets at the cinema suddenly became free, food at the restaurant cut-price, and on election day, convoys of buses filled with people from the poor suburbs of Damascus arrived in town, reportedly transported at the expense of the richer candidates. It was they who, for the most part, won. Opposition parties boycotted the elections - claiming this was because of lack of democracy in the process. And a week later, it was unlikely that anybody you asked would be able to remember the name of more than one of the newly elected body.
So, for the enormous aesthetic change that the elections wrought on Syria’s urban landscape in terms of banners and photos and the noisy but poorly attended rallies, their comprehensive failure to make any impact at all on the public life of the country was all the more astounding, and underlined the inordinate value which is placed on good connections in Syrian society. This institutionalised nepotism is a cause of great frustration to the vast majority of the Syrian people, who are unable to benefit from it.
However, when it came to the crunch and coalition forces were on the cusp of invading their Iraqi neighbours in order to forcibly install “democracy”, no matter what the discontent of the Syrians with their own system, they were angry, fearful, and crying out for armed resistance.
It’s worth remembering therefore, as western Hawks set up their morbid card-decks of targets, that the tolerance of disgruntled Middle-Eastern populations toward their more or less oppressive regimes is driven by the need to remain united in the face of a threat of foreign attack and occupation, which would be destabilizing, humiliating and would attract violence to their countries.
In other words, these must people put sheer survival and independence from foreign powers above freedom and democracy in their order of priorities. Which explains the miserable acceptance of the political washing lines, the free cars, the single-party control, and all the substanceless trappings of election time in Damascus.
-----Up comes Amr; news team fight, I try to get out the door without banging my head. The studio's very small; you couldn't have a bath in there.
Will I like being 23? Is It Safe?
Monday, November 17, 2003
Bit late with this one - it was Fridays. Was nearly late to the broadcast as well - my stomach is to blame. I don't know what's wrong with it. I won't be entering any "Best Stomach" competitions. At least not as a serious competitor.
Last time, Dalida came out of the CD player again (how?) but Amr Diab got in first this time, singing track two off "Akbar Wahad".......
Few people in the west have ever heard of the Muslim Women’s Olympic Games.
But since their founding in 1993, they have taken place every four years, and 2005 will be the first year in which they are held outside of the Islamic Republic of Iran.
Most people would find the idea of Iran organising an international women’s sports tournament somewhat unlikely. The fact that in the last Games, five-aside football was one of the most hotly contested disciplines, might come as an even greater surprise. Who are these girls who take to football in a land mostly renowned in the West for its oppression of women?
Let’s take a step back for a moment, to take note that in Iran, all females over the age of nine must wear hejab– Islamic “modest dress” – when outside the house.
This hejab might consist of anything from the all-concealing black tentlike chador, to a chic tailored “manteau”. The manteau is a summer coat which might reach above the knees, worn over some designer trousers and sandals, and topped off with a headscarf and sunglasses worn à la Holly Golightly.
The problems that this clothing law presents to the playing of sport when there is the slightest possibility that a male might be watching, are obvious. So how on earth do they play football? I went to Kerman, in South Western Iran, to watch the competition for the women’s second division championship.
Dressed in hejab, I attached myself to a team from Hamadan, as they entered the venue of the tournament. It was a closed sports centre, and entirely devoid of men, apart from the policeman at the entrance, who was charged with foiling the infiltration of any male into the sports centre whilst the tournament was in progress. As far as we knew he was successful in this, the only males to attempt to get in being the three young boys who hovered longingly for a while outside the door, trying to persuade him to let them have a peek. Once inside the girls changed into their kit.
The tournament was a knockout cup to see which teams would be promoted to the next division. Eight squads of 12 players from all over the country attended, some of whom had travelled for more than 24 hours in a minibus in order to play there. The city of Qom, the hugely conservative religious heartland of Ayatollah Khomeini’s revolution, was, to my surprise, powerfully represented. I imagined Khomeini writhing uncomfortably as the fans screamed:
“Qom, Qom, Qom! Allez Allez Allez!”
I was watched respectfully but carefully as I chatted to the players about why they had chosen to play football, and about who their heroes were. One girl had changed her name to Michael Owen – and it had stuck to the extent that several of her teammates could not remember what it had been previously.
In fact, I had not been allowed to exchange conversation with the players – to the extent that minders physically dragged me away from anybody who approached – until they had been informed that they were under no circumstances to discuss the issue of Islamic dress with me.
However, the chilly atmosphere that this warning created was soon dispelled by the players’ incredible enthusiasm for “The Beautiful Game.”
The tournament had everything, including breathtaking displays of ball skills – and the post-goal celebrations were particularly impressive, including victory congas, lambadas round the corner flags, and messages written on undershirts, becoming visible as the shirt of many a triumphant striker was thrown into the adoring stands.
And adoring we were, but actually nobody was watching any of this apart from me and a handful of bemused mothers.
This is where the problem comes. The will is there to get women playing sport, but the law forces it to remain something unseen. The head of the Iranian Women’s Sports Federation, a relative of a high-ranking politician, is putting pressure on international makes such as Nike and Adidas to come up with a design for Islamic football kit which would allow the players to move around freely – her organisation has already produced an outfit enabling Iranian women’s horseriding tournaments to be televised.
The development of sport in Iran is a tale of transforming western style innovations into Islamically acceptable forms.
In comparison, some other more liberal countries where the wearing of hejab is a matter for personal choice, impose another choice – hejab or sport – doing nothing to facilitate the playing of sport for those who choose hejab, and depriving them of the benefits to health and confidence.
For example, a British Futsal team from a London mosque attended the Muslim Women’s Games in 2001 – the first team from a non-Islamic country to attend the games. They were an amateur team who had not played before, and though they put in a fantastic effort, they were mercilessly pulverised in every match by the national teams of the Islamic countries. Imagine Manchester United pitted against a newly-formed secondary-school team, and you can see the contrast. The captain of this team expressed her fond wish that Britain would be able next time to send a team of high-class Muslim players to the games.
But, finally, the Muslim Women’s Olympics raises a sticky question. The Olympic ideal is supposed be that of inclusion and universality. But one cannot ask a Muslim sportswoman who feels she must compete out of sight of men – if she is forced to, it is obviously a different matter – to perform in a mixed arena, and one cannot expect other female athletes to agree to compete in an untelevised, all female environment. The inclusion of non-Islamic countries such as Britain into the Muslim Games is a hopeful, if tiny, sign of unification however – and one must wait and see whether this is continued, when Qatar takes up the flame for the first time in 2005.
---take it away, Amr.
Have an essay now. Am going to prepare coffee, and clean my brain off.
Last time, Dalida came out of the CD player again (how?) but Amr Diab got in first this time, singing track two off "Akbar Wahad".......
Few people in the west have ever heard of the Muslim Women’s Olympic Games.
But since their founding in 1993, they have taken place every four years, and 2005 will be the first year in which they are held outside of the Islamic Republic of Iran.
Most people would find the idea of Iran organising an international women’s sports tournament somewhat unlikely. The fact that in the last Games, five-aside football was one of the most hotly contested disciplines, might come as an even greater surprise. Who are these girls who take to football in a land mostly renowned in the West for its oppression of women?
Let’s take a step back for a moment, to take note that in Iran, all females over the age of nine must wear hejab– Islamic “modest dress” – when outside the house.
This hejab might consist of anything from the all-concealing black tentlike chador, to a chic tailored “manteau”. The manteau is a summer coat which might reach above the knees, worn over some designer trousers and sandals, and topped off with a headscarf and sunglasses worn à la Holly Golightly.
The problems that this clothing law presents to the playing of sport when there is the slightest possibility that a male might be watching, are obvious. So how on earth do they play football? I went to Kerman, in South Western Iran, to watch the competition for the women’s second division championship.
Dressed in hejab, I attached myself to a team from Hamadan, as they entered the venue of the tournament. It was a closed sports centre, and entirely devoid of men, apart from the policeman at the entrance, who was charged with foiling the infiltration of any male into the sports centre whilst the tournament was in progress. As far as we knew he was successful in this, the only males to attempt to get in being the three young boys who hovered longingly for a while outside the door, trying to persuade him to let them have a peek. Once inside the girls changed into their kit.
The tournament was a knockout cup to see which teams would be promoted to the next division. Eight squads of 12 players from all over the country attended, some of whom had travelled for more than 24 hours in a minibus in order to play there. The city of Qom, the hugely conservative religious heartland of Ayatollah Khomeini’s revolution, was, to my surprise, powerfully represented. I imagined Khomeini writhing uncomfortably as the fans screamed:
“Qom, Qom, Qom! Allez Allez Allez!”
I was watched respectfully but carefully as I chatted to the players about why they had chosen to play football, and about who their heroes were. One girl had changed her name to Michael Owen – and it had stuck to the extent that several of her teammates could not remember what it had been previously.
In fact, I had not been allowed to exchange conversation with the players – to the extent that minders physically dragged me away from anybody who approached – until they had been informed that they were under no circumstances to discuss the issue of Islamic dress with me.
However, the chilly atmosphere that this warning created was soon dispelled by the players’ incredible enthusiasm for “The Beautiful Game.”
The tournament had everything, including breathtaking displays of ball skills – and the post-goal celebrations were particularly impressive, including victory congas, lambadas round the corner flags, and messages written on undershirts, becoming visible as the shirt of many a triumphant striker was thrown into the adoring stands.
And adoring we were, but actually nobody was watching any of this apart from me and a handful of bemused mothers.
This is where the problem comes. The will is there to get women playing sport, but the law forces it to remain something unseen. The head of the Iranian Women’s Sports Federation, a relative of a high-ranking politician, is putting pressure on international makes such as Nike and Adidas to come up with a design for Islamic football kit which would allow the players to move around freely – her organisation has already produced an outfit enabling Iranian women’s horseriding tournaments to be televised.
The development of sport in Iran is a tale of transforming western style innovations into Islamically acceptable forms.
In comparison, some other more liberal countries where the wearing of hejab is a matter for personal choice, impose another choice – hejab or sport – doing nothing to facilitate the playing of sport for those who choose hejab, and depriving them of the benefits to health and confidence.
For example, a British Futsal team from a London mosque attended the Muslim Women’s Games in 2001 – the first team from a non-Islamic country to attend the games. They were an amateur team who had not played before, and though they put in a fantastic effort, they were mercilessly pulverised in every match by the national teams of the Islamic countries. Imagine Manchester United pitted against a newly-formed secondary-school team, and you can see the contrast. The captain of this team expressed her fond wish that Britain would be able next time to send a team of high-class Muslim players to the games.
But, finally, the Muslim Women’s Olympics raises a sticky question. The Olympic ideal is supposed be that of inclusion and universality. But one cannot ask a Muslim sportswoman who feels she must compete out of sight of men – if she is forced to, it is obviously a different matter – to perform in a mixed arena, and one cannot expect other female athletes to agree to compete in an untelevised, all female environment. The inclusion of non-Islamic countries such as Britain into the Muslim Games is a hopeful, if tiny, sign of unification however – and one must wait and see whether this is continued, when Qatar takes up the flame for the first time in 2005.
---take it away, Amr.
Have an essay now. Am going to prepare coffee, and clean my brain off.
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