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.
Thursday, November 06, 2003
Here's part two. Amazing it's Friday again already. I'm knackered from catching up work after going down to london at the weekend. Saw some presentation about master's courses. Did you know it cost something like 11 thous pounds to study at LSE? In my dreams maybe.
--Amr Diab. Don't know which track yet..
2 - Love in Damascus
Even when you first come to the Syrian capital, Damascus, you get the idea that something’s rotten in the state of relations between the sexes.
On the one hand, you have girls, faces almost shrinkwrapped in makeup, shimmying down the street arm in arm, wearing bras stuffed full of foam and trained at an angle that, occurring in nature, would be nothing short of a victory against gravity; and bejeaned boys in gangs on street corners waiting for girls to come by, hissing and whistling and muttering obscenities and even going for a feel if they can manage it.
But on the other, you have tight familial controls, arranged marriages between teenagers, and all-concealing burka-like clothes.
So with all the cold brashness of the first example of inter-sex relationships, and the conservatism of the second, it came as a surprise to me to discover that Valentine’s day is enormous in Damascus – particularly in the more western-influenced Christian quarter.
Shops that sell useful things at other times of the year (the drapers, the grocery shop, the glass cutter) strip their premises of everything that is functional in order to absolutely stuff them to bursting point wth a gaudy stock of inflatable hearts, that have
“love is a heart glows specially”
or some other frilly nonsense stamped across them.
I suspected at the time that they really must have overestimated the demand, unless each girl over 12 was destined to receive three fluffy hearts, two icky cards and a lamp saying “you light up my life” apiece; and indeed, the sorry inflatables were still deflating slowly in windows by May.
However, seeing as the whole local economy did not collapse, there must have been a huge interest.
I was baffled at first as to who these people might have been that were too absorbed with thoughts of love during the festive period to think about wanting anything so mundane as some glass cutting, or a kilo of apples.
However, as I came to know more Syrians, a common, wildly romantic streak became evident. This romance is embedded in Arab culture, going back before the time of Islam to the ancient Arabic love poetry, which many modern Syrians, including taxi drivers, shopkeepers and students, know off by heart. This beautiful and passionate writing may be described in two parts according to the Cornell Library:
a) a fleeting glimpse of the beloved's face on a deserted campsite, allowing one just enough time to compare her eyes to those of a cow; followed by
b) a hair-raising ride on one's camel with one's tribe to try to forget how beautiful she is.
You don’t see any camels in Damascus nowadays, though the Mercedes is quite well esteemed. But even the toughest looking kid can tell you with ardent eyes about the secret love he once had at school – typically, they passed notes via friends, but didn’t actually exchange above a few words in person - before they were torn asunder by various fates, including familial objection.
Some of the more earnest young men will tell you sadly that this tragic parting from the girl they had planned to marry was the time at which they decided to “go bad”.
Such sincere romantics are fantastically refreshing to meet. Occasionally it works out that an innocent young couple have become smitten with each other, been faithful to each other secretly for years, and then at a later date managed to marry and live happily ever after. But this is a rare story.
For the great majority of Syrian society as a whole, the idea of dating is frankly not on in any form, and in some families a girl may not have any sort of acquaintance with a man outside her family until marriage. But in the capital, among the university educated middle class, and in the other large urban centres of Syria, dating is taking its place in the lives of the youth. However, as so many of the western innovations which have pushed their way in all at once, it has not settled altogether comfortably.
The sexes mix at the universities, but are observed by all, and rumour is a powerful weapon in Syrian society. Nobody dares hold hands, though sometimes you might see a couple sharing the two handles of an ostensibly heavy bag. There are nightclubs, and they have Valentine’s discos, but you never find “nice” Syrian girls there – they’re mostly foreigners and prostitutes. Girls who have the time and wealth to hold up a social life outside of their families go out to juice bars, fast-food restaurants, ice cream parlours and cafes, but are always home before dark, or accompanied by a male relation, or given a lift by parents.
And in the new dating arena, girls find themselves distinctly at a disadvantage. Despite the fact that more and more girls are receiving higher education and aiming for employment, it’s still commonly felt that a lady’s real aim is to get married, and everything else is only a complement to this. A boy may be forgiven for a couple of flings, but for a girl it could spell the end of a hope of marriage. It’s still common for a boy to swear love to an unsuspecting girlfriend, in order to sleep with her and talk about it to his friends, only to dump her for somebody “innocent” when he feels the time has come to get engaged. A girl who considers herself to be “modern” is stuck wondering what on earth she should be doing, and has to be extremely cautious before following her feelings.
Young Syrians can tell you any number of tragic stories about love. But one thing’s for sure, if we exclude the small minority of idiots that are bound to crop up in any population – they do know about it.
Looking at it optimistically, there’s amazing potential there for a synthesis in their new dating world, although it’s currently just pumped full of the western ideal of having as much sex as you can manage before you get stuck and have to settle down.
But with a unification of economic and social freedom plus the old Arab romanticism, and the doctrine of personal integrity and respect which comes from their various religious traditions – the young people of Damascus could live to see it become haven for a massive renaissance of Romantic Love.
---Amr rounds it off.
--Amr Diab. Don't know which track yet..
2 - Love in Damascus
Even when you first come to the Syrian capital, Damascus, you get the idea that something’s rotten in the state of relations between the sexes.
On the one hand, you have girls, faces almost shrinkwrapped in makeup, shimmying down the street arm in arm, wearing bras stuffed full of foam and trained at an angle that, occurring in nature, would be nothing short of a victory against gravity; and bejeaned boys in gangs on street corners waiting for girls to come by, hissing and whistling and muttering obscenities and even going for a feel if they can manage it.
But on the other, you have tight familial controls, arranged marriages between teenagers, and all-concealing burka-like clothes.
So with all the cold brashness of the first example of inter-sex relationships, and the conservatism of the second, it came as a surprise to me to discover that Valentine’s day is enormous in Damascus – particularly in the more western-influenced Christian quarter.
Shops that sell useful things at other times of the year (the drapers, the grocery shop, the glass cutter) strip their premises of everything that is functional in order to absolutely stuff them to bursting point wth a gaudy stock of inflatable hearts, that have
“love is a heart glows specially”
or some other frilly nonsense stamped across them.
I suspected at the time that they really must have overestimated the demand, unless each girl over 12 was destined to receive three fluffy hearts, two icky cards and a lamp saying “you light up my life” apiece; and indeed, the sorry inflatables were still deflating slowly in windows by May.
However, seeing as the whole local economy did not collapse, there must have been a huge interest.
I was baffled at first as to who these people might have been that were too absorbed with thoughts of love during the festive period to think about wanting anything so mundane as some glass cutting, or a kilo of apples.
However, as I came to know more Syrians, a common, wildly romantic streak became evident. This romance is embedded in Arab culture, going back before the time of Islam to the ancient Arabic love poetry, which many modern Syrians, including taxi drivers, shopkeepers and students, know off by heart. This beautiful and passionate writing may be described in two parts according to the Cornell Library:
a) a fleeting glimpse of the beloved's face on a deserted campsite, allowing one just enough time to compare her eyes to those of a cow; followed by
b) a hair-raising ride on one's camel with one's tribe to try to forget how beautiful she is.
You don’t see any camels in Damascus nowadays, though the Mercedes is quite well esteemed. But even the toughest looking kid can tell you with ardent eyes about the secret love he once had at school – typically, they passed notes via friends, but didn’t actually exchange above a few words in person - before they were torn asunder by various fates, including familial objection.
Some of the more earnest young men will tell you sadly that this tragic parting from the girl they had planned to marry was the time at which they decided to “go bad”.
Such sincere romantics are fantastically refreshing to meet. Occasionally it works out that an innocent young couple have become smitten with each other, been faithful to each other secretly for years, and then at a later date managed to marry and live happily ever after. But this is a rare story.
For the great majority of Syrian society as a whole, the idea of dating is frankly not on in any form, and in some families a girl may not have any sort of acquaintance with a man outside her family until marriage. But in the capital, among the university educated middle class, and in the other large urban centres of Syria, dating is taking its place in the lives of the youth. However, as so many of the western innovations which have pushed their way in all at once, it has not settled altogether comfortably.
The sexes mix at the universities, but are observed by all, and rumour is a powerful weapon in Syrian society. Nobody dares hold hands, though sometimes you might see a couple sharing the two handles of an ostensibly heavy bag. There are nightclubs, and they have Valentine’s discos, but you never find “nice” Syrian girls there – they’re mostly foreigners and prostitutes. Girls who have the time and wealth to hold up a social life outside of their families go out to juice bars, fast-food restaurants, ice cream parlours and cafes, but are always home before dark, or accompanied by a male relation, or given a lift by parents.
And in the new dating arena, girls find themselves distinctly at a disadvantage. Despite the fact that more and more girls are receiving higher education and aiming for employment, it’s still commonly felt that a lady’s real aim is to get married, and everything else is only a complement to this. A boy may be forgiven for a couple of flings, but for a girl it could spell the end of a hope of marriage. It’s still common for a boy to swear love to an unsuspecting girlfriend, in order to sleep with her and talk about it to his friends, only to dump her for somebody “innocent” when he feels the time has come to get engaged. A girl who considers herself to be “modern” is stuck wondering what on earth she should be doing, and has to be extremely cautious before following her feelings.
Young Syrians can tell you any number of tragic stories about love. But one thing’s for sure, if we exclude the small minority of idiots that are bound to crop up in any population – they do know about it.
Looking at it optimistically, there’s amazing potential there for a synthesis in their new dating world, although it’s currently just pumped full of the western ideal of having as much sex as you can manage before you get stuck and have to settle down.
But with a unification of economic and social freedom plus the old Arab romanticism, and the doctrine of personal integrity and respect which comes from their various religious traditions – the young people of Damascus could live to see it become haven for a massive renaissance of Romantic Love.
---Amr rounds it off.
Monday, November 03, 2003
Here's my brother's blog. The best bit:
"My new bicycle, which I just collected, is a thing of great beauty. It's strictly one speed, pedal backwards to stop, but it has working lights front and back powered by a dynamo, and a bell, which is required by German law. Very cool indeed. It's also blue, and quite clearly intended for girls. I'll take a picture of it before it gets stolen."
"My new bicycle, which I just collected, is a thing of great beauty. It's strictly one speed, pedal backwards to stop, but it has working lights front and back powered by a dynamo, and a bell, which is required by German law. Very cool indeed. It's also blue, and quite clearly intended for girls. I'll take a picture of it before it gets stolen."
Friday, October 31, 2003
Ahhhhhh... so that's how you post. You think that once you've pressed one button you've pressed 'em all, but no.
Everything is ok with me, anyway. Today I read this on the university radio, at about 1 and 2/3 the pace of Alistair Cook:
--strains of Dalida's "Helwe Ya Baladi".. sing along...
Next in the firing line
The peripatetic war on terror could soon be coming in the direction of Iran and Syria.. These two countries, which have been linked in the headlines since well before the recent Iraq war, are often presented as choice targets, as nations running amok under the influence of inscrutable fanatics, sponsoring mass murder and sheltering mass murderers.
But what about the people of these countries?
We all know a reasonable American who can convince us that their country’s raging imperialist stance does not represent all of its people.
But we don’t generally have the advantage of similar exposure to reasonable Syrians and Iranians.
With the visa regulations being as they are, we’re much less likely to meet up with a native Syrian or Iranian. Although we may in the near future be rubbing shoulders with them in the intimacy of war – by which I mean sitting and watching guiltily on TV whilst they get bombed - we know very little about them.
This is a shame, because if we could hear past the belligerent political shouting going on above our heads, we might even get on.
So for the next few weeks, turn to this slot for the lowdown about what our counterparts in Syria and Iran are getting up to. I’ll be concentrating on some of the quirkier ways that the humanity of ordinary people in Syrian and Iranian cultures shows itself, from a young girl in Iran who’s changed her name to “Michael Owen” to a Granny in Syria who wrestles visiting Americans into the sea.
As for this week, it’s time to get in a bit of groundwork.
First, Syria. Syria’s president, the young, British-educated Bashar al-Assad, came to power following his father’s death in 2000. He looked promising at the time, and there was a period of comparative freedom of expression. People began to demand an end to military rule, corruption, and the setting up of a genuine democratic process. However, freedom diminished, and the flickering light of democracy was dimmed.
But after his fellow Ba’thist, Sadaam Hussein in Iraq, was unable to motivate his people to take part in full scale defence of the regime against American attack, the big question for Assad is whether his current, low-profile program of government reforms will be sufficient to bring his people behind him, and to convince the world that an attack on Syria would not mean the overthrow of a despot, but rather a representative government.
So why pick on Syria now?
Well, the Assad government sponsors groups on the USA’s terrorist list. Organisations such as Hamas and Islamic Jihad, whose militias undertake attacks on Israeli civilians, have occupied offices in Damascus for some time.
Many have now been closed in response to US demands, but the additional demand of expulsion for members of these groups has not been met.
And of course it’s now suggested that Syria has its own horde of forbidden weapons, leading to (or being used to justify) the threat of US economic sanctions.
Syria is still influential in Lebanon, and supports the Hizbollah guerillas who fire missiles at Israeli settlements near the Lebanese border. These Hizbollahis were largely responsible for causing Israel to withdraw from its 18-year occupation of Southern Lebanon in 2000.
But what about Iran, and how did it get connected to Syria?
It’s not even an Arab country – Iranians are Persians.
Perhaps the link has been made because it funds Hizbollah. Why does it do this? Partly through zeal for Islam, partly because Israel and the US are so close – Israel is seen as a sort of American colony on Islamic lands.
Even besides that, the US and Iranian governments revile each other.
(Iran’s people, at least, are on the whole in favour of a rapprochement, but nobody listens to them).
The Islamic Revolution came about as the result of popular resistance against the US-backed regime of the Shahs, and in the aftermath some Iranian students took American embassy staff hostage. The US felt the humiliation of this badly.
On the other hand, a trigger-happy US warship shot down an Iranian passenger plane full of people; and the sorry list goes on through the kidnapping of journalists and others in Lebanon and far beyond.
There is also the matter of Iran’s nuclear reactors, which the Americans claim are for military purposes – inspections are under way, but there’s no guarantee that they will meet with US approval. Which doesn’t comfort the average Iranian, scanning the horizon for a stray B52.
It’s just too easy to think that the Middle East sprang into existence yesterday, with a horde of Kalashnikov -toting dictators at the head of an anonymous brainwashed mass. These lands have long histories, going back before Islam to great Persian and Assyrian civilizations, and then later as regions of the enormous Islamic empire which once spanned across North Africa and reached the borders of China.
This Islamic empire was composing sophisticated poetry and pushing forward the bounds of Philosophy, Medicine and Science even as Europeans were still digging around in their ears and wondering if the result would be nice to eat.
When we look at places like Iran and Syria perhaps we need to take a step back.
So next week at this time, I’ll switch from international politics to an individual tale of love and fear in the streets of Damascus…
---Dalida re-emerges and then succumbs to an interview with an animal rights campaigner.
Can't be bothered to go out, not even with the chance of meeting a ghost. I'm broke, my student loan doesnt get here until 3 days. I'm trying to get a few hours a week in the college library, or being a waitress at Newnham. Newnham is a scary college, with many doors, but none which seem to lead to the exit.
Kay then. Now I know what to do.
Everything is ok with me, anyway. Today I read this on the university radio, at about 1 and 2/3 the pace of Alistair Cook:
--strains of Dalida's "Helwe Ya Baladi".. sing along...
Next in the firing line
The peripatetic war on terror could soon be coming in the direction of Iran and Syria.. These two countries, which have been linked in the headlines since well before the recent Iraq war, are often presented as choice targets, as nations running amok under the influence of inscrutable fanatics, sponsoring mass murder and sheltering mass murderers.
But what about the people of these countries?
We all know a reasonable American who can convince us that their country’s raging imperialist stance does not represent all of its people.
But we don’t generally have the advantage of similar exposure to reasonable Syrians and Iranians.
With the visa regulations being as they are, we’re much less likely to meet up with a native Syrian or Iranian. Although we may in the near future be rubbing shoulders with them in the intimacy of war – by which I mean sitting and watching guiltily on TV whilst they get bombed - we know very little about them.
This is a shame, because if we could hear past the belligerent political shouting going on above our heads, we might even get on.
So for the next few weeks, turn to this slot for the lowdown about what our counterparts in Syria and Iran are getting up to. I’ll be concentrating on some of the quirkier ways that the humanity of ordinary people in Syrian and Iranian cultures shows itself, from a young girl in Iran who’s changed her name to “Michael Owen” to a Granny in Syria who wrestles visiting Americans into the sea.
As for this week, it’s time to get in a bit of groundwork.
First, Syria. Syria’s president, the young, British-educated Bashar al-Assad, came to power following his father’s death in 2000. He looked promising at the time, and there was a period of comparative freedom of expression. People began to demand an end to military rule, corruption, and the setting up of a genuine democratic process. However, freedom diminished, and the flickering light of democracy was dimmed.
But after his fellow Ba’thist, Sadaam Hussein in Iraq, was unable to motivate his people to take part in full scale defence of the regime against American attack, the big question for Assad is whether his current, low-profile program of government reforms will be sufficient to bring his people behind him, and to convince the world that an attack on Syria would not mean the overthrow of a despot, but rather a representative government.
So why pick on Syria now?
Well, the Assad government sponsors groups on the USA’s terrorist list. Organisations such as Hamas and Islamic Jihad, whose militias undertake attacks on Israeli civilians, have occupied offices in Damascus for some time.
Many have now been closed in response to US demands, but the additional demand of expulsion for members of these groups has not been met.
And of course it’s now suggested that Syria has its own horde of forbidden weapons, leading to (or being used to justify) the threat of US economic sanctions.
Syria is still influential in Lebanon, and supports the Hizbollah guerillas who fire missiles at Israeli settlements near the Lebanese border. These Hizbollahis were largely responsible for causing Israel to withdraw from its 18-year occupation of Southern Lebanon in 2000.
But what about Iran, and how did it get connected to Syria?
It’s not even an Arab country – Iranians are Persians.
Perhaps the link has been made because it funds Hizbollah. Why does it do this? Partly through zeal for Islam, partly because Israel and the US are so close – Israel is seen as a sort of American colony on Islamic lands.
Even besides that, the US and Iranian governments revile each other.
(Iran’s people, at least, are on the whole in favour of a rapprochement, but nobody listens to them).
The Islamic Revolution came about as the result of popular resistance against the US-backed regime of the Shahs, and in the aftermath some Iranian students took American embassy staff hostage. The US felt the humiliation of this badly.
On the other hand, a trigger-happy US warship shot down an Iranian passenger plane full of people; and the sorry list goes on through the kidnapping of journalists and others in Lebanon and far beyond.
There is also the matter of Iran’s nuclear reactors, which the Americans claim are for military purposes – inspections are under way, but there’s no guarantee that they will meet with US approval. Which doesn’t comfort the average Iranian, scanning the horizon for a stray B52.
It’s just too easy to think that the Middle East sprang into existence yesterday, with a horde of Kalashnikov -toting dictators at the head of an anonymous brainwashed mass. These lands have long histories, going back before Islam to great Persian and Assyrian civilizations, and then later as regions of the enormous Islamic empire which once spanned across North Africa and reached the borders of China.
This Islamic empire was composing sophisticated poetry and pushing forward the bounds of Philosophy, Medicine and Science even as Europeans were still digging around in their ears and wondering if the result would be nice to eat.
When we look at places like Iran and Syria perhaps we need to take a step back.
So next week at this time, I’ll switch from international politics to an individual tale of love and fear in the streets of Damascus…
---Dalida re-emerges and then succumbs to an interview with an animal rights campaigner.
Can't be bothered to go out, not even with the chance of meeting a ghost. I'm broke, my student loan doesnt get here until 3 days. I'm trying to get a few hours a week in the college library, or being a waitress at Newnham. Newnham is a scary college, with many doors, but none which seem to lead to the exit.
Kay then. Now I know what to do.
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