Myths of the Middle East

By Jim | May 1st, 2008 | No Comments »

Myths emerge from interpretations of material events and realities that circulate, proliferate, and then accrue certain power and authority. This Saturday at Changing Hands Bookstore in Tempe, Arizona, Shannon O’Grady and Jim will introduce the book to another group of readers. Myths have been on our minds of late, as they’re pretty much impossible to escape when following the endless cycle of news about the Middle East, most of it flavored with the familiar taste of gloom and doom.

Consider some of these that have become well-worn in recent years (recent decades? recent centuries?):

Myth: Hatreds in the region are ancient and irreversible (e.g., Shia vs. Sunni, Jew vs. Arab).

Myth: People there are destined to misery; fatalism is an inherent cultural condition of the people for good reason.

Myth: Violence is endemic–cultural practices like Ashura being read exclusively as evidence of this claim; human rights are an afterthought but not desired by people of the region.

Myth: Religion is the prime mover, the root of “it all” and always a plausible explanation for a crisis or conflict situation (rather than other explanations–economics, colonialism/history, globalization, politics).

Storytelling has the capacity to speak back to generalizations of this sort. We believe stories that offer intimate portrayals of the people and traditions too often absent from books about this misunderstood region can work against some of the crippling effects of these myths.

I would also be naive not to mention that stories can have diverse effects, so that while some pernicious myths may be destablized others could be consolidated. Stories can even start their own new myths, I suppose. But what makes narrative so important seems to be the detail, the move out of abstraction and generalized assumptions, and into the quotidian, the everyday, the mundane. The human.

Come hear Shannon put a human face on Shia men and women through excerpts from her story of experiencing Ashura up close in Bahrain.

Saturday, May 3, 2:00 PM
Featuring Jim Bowman and Shannon O’Grady
Changing Hands Bookstore
6428 S. McClintock Dr., Tempe, AZ, 85283

More on Women

By Nesreen | April 29th, 2008 | 1 Comment »

Yesterday I was recalling a story to my friends about my summer in Morocco, 2005. Here too I will share it with you. I was living in Tangier for six weeks studying Arabic. Part of our program involved a cultural component that gave us access to lecturers and day trips that revealed local life.

On one of these local trips, it was girls only, because we were headed to the local hammam. The local hammam was essentially a public bath. It was not a luxury spa, as some people might think of a hammam. In fact, in Jordan I had been to the spa, tourist-oriented hammam. But this Tangier hammam was frequented by locals who simply did not have access to proper showers or baths in their own homes.

In the dormitory where we were housed, we were taken care of by a staff that included several Moroccan cooks and housekeepers. On the day that we were to go, one of them, Fatima, beckoned me. She told me to gather the other American women in the program for our visit to the hammam. Bring towels, she said. And soap and shampoo. OK, I responded. So, what should we wear? Fatima smiled and with her hand gestured up and down at my body. I didn’t really get it. OK, so we should wear bathing suits, I asked, looking for clarity. Fatima’s smile merged into a laugh. No, you don’t wear anything, she said. I began to wonder if my Arabic listening skills were failing me, or if my speaking skills were. But it was my cultural skills that were failing me. I was uncomfortable with the idea of bathing in a private/public space completely in the nude. Why can’t I wear a bathing suit, I asked? Nobody wears bathing suits, she chortled. Then she paddled down the hall and down the stairs. I heard her at the bottom of the staircase speaking in high pitches to the other housekeepers. Their laughter carried up to the doorway of my room were I remained standing, still thinking in dread about going to the hammam naked.

At the hammam, we stripped down to nothing and entered into its common space, finding a spot in the tiled room on cold, low benches. To the locals, we were the sight. Let’s face it, we were the sight, this row of foreign girls who used their arms and legs to cover their more private body areas. Each one of us were out of place and under scrutiny by the naked local women, who in contrast to us were voluptuous and curious, bare and comfortable. Fatima tagged me again to lead the bunch, telling me to instruct the girls to get a large cup to pour water over their heads, to shampoo and scrub with a course washcloth to slough the dirt from our bodies.

Once we were equipped, Fatima and with the other two local women who accompanied us, began to queue us up for a thorough scrubbing. We sat on the cold tile bench against a colder wall waiting for our turn. When I was up, Fatima sat me beside her, shoved me against her and scrubbed till my skin glowed crimson and the washcloth bore the dirt and grime of Tangier’s streets.

My self consciousness, and that of the other American woman, taught me as much about our culture in the U.S. as it did about local Tangier culture. So did the footnote to the this story. Once we were dressed, we waited in the lobby area of the hammam for the arranged set of taxi drivers to come and pick the lot of us up to send back to our dorms. Several of the American girls nudged me. Could I ask Fatima if we could wait outside, where it wasn’t as humid and warm, they asked? OK, I said. But I was reluctant. I knew enough about Arab culture in general to know that women don’t stand around in a public space. When they are outside they are walking from the grocer or the salon or from work. They don’t just “loiter,” though certainly we would not be loitering. That we weren’t loitering was not the point, though. The point was we would appear to be loitering and we were a lot of foreign women. I knew this would raise flags with Fatima, but what could I do but convey the request of the other American girls? Fatima was reluctant to tell us we could not stand outside. She was our chaperon but she was also wanted to make us happy.

Outside the air was cooler, a breeze tickled our noses, but while the rest of us looked comfortable, Fatima and the other local woman in our party were clearly not. The cabs arrived after about 10 minutes. I took the last cab back with Fatima and two other American girls. I sat in the backseat behind the driver. Fatima sat upfront. The driver greeted her warmly. Fatima was in no mood for his friendliness. You left us outside standing waiting for you, she snapped. It was not proper, she charged.

Fatima was clothed, standing outside to please us, and she was made to feel ashamed. Inside, sitting bare naked scrutinized by other bare naked women, I felt embarrassed. Women have enormous discretion and ease in spaces created specifically for women in the Arab world, but once in public spaces, stricter rules of conduct apply. American women have a general discomfort with their bodies. This is only one instance of how different does not equal better, it only equals, well, different. I hope it is a point that gives people from all cultures pause when they go about evaluating cultural constructs unlike their own.

What’s in a hookah, asked the traveler to the Middle East?

By Jim | April 21st, 2008 | 1 Comment »

Used to be water pipes in public cafes suggested the scenes of an Eastern landscape. Not so in many of the larger cities and college towns of the U.S. and Europe, where a combination of Middle Eastern restaurants, trendy cafes, and specialty smoking pubs feature the now fruity, inviting tobacco smells of apple, banana, and molasses. That is, until local smoking ordinances drive the practice underground. But more than a decade ago, hookahs were associated mostly with the Arab world. Even in nearby Turkey, the hookah (called narghile there) has had to undergo a fairly recent resurgence in popularity. Though it may not have gone away in the provinces or in certain Istanbul neighborhoods, the success of cigarette-smoking—and the associations of the practice with indolence in a society undergoing the mania of modernization in the Republican era—appear to have put it almost out of commission, until narghile became cool with the kids. In much of the Arab world, to my knowledge, the hookah, called sheesha in Egypt, never went away. One contributor to Encounters with the Middle East certainly harbors no complaints about that. Hookah smoking can be a portal into the warm social company of locals throughout the Middle East.

In her story “Confessions of a Water Pipe Smoker,” contributing writer and Egyptologist Carolyn Theriault describes the anxious moments before taking in her first hookah at a café on the streets of Alexandria. The clientele were decidedly local, male, and unreservedly welcoming. Understandable questions Theriault asks herself about cultural propriety—can I just walk into the café and smoke, seeing as I’m the only Westerner and woman here? Will I disrupt the harmony of the place?—demonstrate why many Western travelers, male and female, hesitate or even take a pass, rather than diving into the hookah café scene, come what may. Time and again though, the hookah seems like a splendid ice-breaker. It was for this narrator, who appears to have come to know Egypt through the chambers of its hookahs:

From Alexandria to Aswan I whiled away many the hour in swank coffee houses, impromptu tea stands, hotel patios—wherever a sheesha glowed and the kettle was clanking on the fire. Men unquestioningly shared their water pipes. With the exception of that first sheesha in Alex (you always remember your first), none were sweeter than the sheeshas I shared with the site caretakers and staff at our excavation site. In their gracious company, we talked and laughed, and smoked languidly at the door of the dighouse after their evening prayers. (Encounters with the Middle East 63)

Hookah, sheesha, nargile, water pipe. Call it what you will and smoke where you wish—Damascus, Luxor, Istanbul, Tel Aviv—the friendly fumes of the now flavored smoke, the anchored architecture of the object, the inviting spirits of the locals have long made it irresistible to travelers to the Middle East. Here’s hoping the hookah’s success as a global commodity doesn’t diminish its appeal in bringing together people of different lands. Who says a little more indolence isn’t good for the soul now and then…

About Middle East Encounters

By Nesreen | April 17th, 2008 | 1 Comment »

From a region always in the news but rarely known through the medium of storytelling comes an eclectic, insightful collection of contemporary first-person travel narratives from across the Middle East. Encounters with the Middle East collects thirty rich, engaging travel stories that capture uplifting scenes from everyday life and deliver sensitive, bittersweet renderings of people and landscapes often shaken by conflict. It also provides intimate portrayals of people and traditions too often absent from books on the region, while also situating the Western traveler in many tourist destinations, from the famous to the obscure. This timely collection is geared toward a broad spectrum of readers ranging from the armchair traveler to the DC policy wonk; the stories in Encounters present intimate, disarming scenes of the people behind the headlines and policy reports. These narratives demonstrate how Western travelers can find grounds for identification with people who are so often misrepresented in today’s media.

The Papal Visit

By Nesreen | April 17th, 2008 | No Comments »

In DC, we’re used to having a fair number of news story that circulate the globe each day originate here, even while most of us go about our lives detached from those events.

Today was a bit different on account of the Papal visit. Pope Benedict XVI made us all stop and look and ponder. Even if we didn’t see the Pope up close, even if we were just watching on our TVs, just as people in Nebraska and California were, we cared. Even those of us who aren’t Catholic were interested. The Pope is a big deal to be sure.

With each image I saw, I was brought back to spring of the year 2000. That was when Pope John Paul II was in the Holy Land at the same time I was. It was early March, so the chill of the Mediterranean winter still sank into my bones. Pope John Paul II held a huge outdoor Mass at the Sea of Galilee. I was staying near the West Bank city of Ramallah, where buses were transporting those attending the massive outdoor Mass. Some of my distant cousins were going, and there was some expectation that I might attend too. The trip was several hours north, and the buses leaving in the early morning hours would be crowded, chaotic, and cold. Security would mean interminable delays for Palestinians traveling to Israel-proper for the day. I stayed behind, knowing I had the option to see the Pope at the end of the week, as he passed via his Pope Mobile from the Holy Sepulcher Church in Jerusalem’s Old City.

This privilege, my ability to go from the West Bank to East Jerusalem, was not one afforded to my relatives. Though it is only a 30 minute ride from where I was, permits and the nature of the military occupation made their passage unlikely, if not impossible. So on the day of the Papal Mass at the Holy Sepulchre, I went it alone. The cabbie let me off at the Old City’s Damascus Gate entrance. Right away I noticed something amiss. OK, I thought, where are the throngs?

Passing the clothes and cassette merchants outside the front doors, I went in, meandering pass the vegetable sellers, smelling thyme and coriander along the way. At a left turn I met the souvenir sellers amply supplied with as many olive bead rosaries and crosses as Israeli flags and skull caps. I maneuvered easily, a bit too easily. OK, it was Sunday, the Israeli Monday, but where are the throngs?, I still wondered.

When I reached just outside the Christian Quarter, I noticed the locked gate first. The Sunday service was meant to be an intimate experience for the Pope, a quiet and reflective way to end his Holy Jubilee to the Holy Land. The Mass at the Holy Sepulcher was exclusive, not open as the Mass near the Galilee–where an estimated 100,000 where in attendance–was. Nonetheless, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw as I approached the locked gate: less than half a dozen people. The Pope had come to the Old City, to the Holy Land, and as far as I can tell, most people didn’t care.

It was a ridiculous thought, of course. The Pope had been attending Masses, Interfaith Dialogue Meetings and the like all week. Public events brought impressive numbers of attendees. Israel even opened its border with Lebanon to let Christians and UN Peace Keepers attend the Galilee Mass.

Yet here I was at the end of the Pope’s visit, on his very last day in the Holy Land, and I had about 12 people to share it with. Not to disparage my company, but it made me sad. I had missed the throngs and the throngs were missing this: likely the last possible glimpse of Pope John Paul II in Jerusalem. He was 79 when he visited and indeed, already infirm at the time of his trip, he never was to return.

I don’t know why the turnout was so low on that late March day. At the time, the only thing I could think was that everyone was tired, the way they had grown tired of their animosity for one another, of the peace processes that never work, of the road blocks that kept them from humanizing one another. People were just tired because it was the first workday week in Israel and the whole week prior had been a flutter of Papal activity. You see, people who live in the Holy Land are just people, and they know attrition as much as you think you might, but only more so.

…When Pope Benedict XVI toured DC today, his Pope Mobile on the bed of a pick-up truck, there were throngs. People who didn’t attend mass lined streets of his expected route. People who didn’t show up on the expected route watched their televisions.

I didn’t see Pope Benedict XVI today except by TV. But as with all things evocative, when I saw Pope Benedict, I saw much, much more. I saw Pope John Paul II today, seated frail and hunched yet exuding power, inside his Pope Mobile that was specially made for the rough cobbled roads and narrow alleys of Jerusalem’s Old City.

Lots of Noise, Lots of Poverty

By Nesreen | April 15th, 2008 | 1 Comment »

This article from the New York Times this week, “Cairo: A City Where You Can’t Hear Yourself Scream,” might interest you. It tells about a recent study that shows that people living in Egypt’s capital city are enduring noise levels that are harmful to hearing, as well as general well-being.

As the NY Times writer suggests but doesn’t bring home forcefully enough, noise is the least that residents of Cairo have to concern themselves with these days. The abject poverty and overcrowded conditions common among Cairo’s population is unsustainable. The fissures these conditions have contributed to are already evident in the demonstrations common on Cairo’s city streets. News of these demonstrations, and the human rights violations of Egypt’s government against its population, are, by the way, disturbingly underreported in the American media. Just shows it pays to know where our tax dollars go. Check out which foreign countries receive the greatest share of US foreign aid and you’ll understand what I mean.

More Praise for Encounters Contributors

By Nesreen | April 14th, 2008 | No Comments »

Congratulations to Peter Wortsman and Catherine Watson for having their Encounters stories selected for Travelers’ Tales The Best Travel Writing 2008, just released March 2008.

Peter’s story, “Holy Land Blues” is a delightful memoir recalling his first pilgrimage to Israel in the mid 1970s. This lively and spirited piece takes us to coastal Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, the Negev and the Sinai Peninsula, at a time when the aspirations of the Zionist enterprise where freshly evident throughout Israel.

Catherine’s story “Key to the City,” is another memoir piece of recollections of her time in Lebanon as a graduate student. She rounds out her story by telling us of her nostalgic return many years later to the neighborhood that endeared her.

Encounters contributors Rolph Potts and Joel Carrillet also have stories featured in the new Best of volume.

We hope you’ll consider joining us to meet some of these contributors as they make public appearances to share their stories and explain their relationship to the Middle East. Peter and contributor Chris Kipiniak will join Nesreen Khashan in NYC April 26 at the Bowery Club, 308 Bowery Street (between Houston and Bleeker), NYC. The event starts at noon and concludes 1:45p.m. Chris, incidentally, is a theater actor who recently wrapped up a three-month tour of Argonautika: The Voyage of Jason and the Argonauts. Chris also writes for Marvel Comics and has many other exciting ventures afoot.

If you’re closer to DC, consider joining Joel Carrillet, and editors Nesreen Khashan and Jim Bowman Saturday, May 17 at Busboys and Poets in Arlington, VA, just outside of the nation’s capital. That event begins at 3p.m. and runs till 4:30.

We’ll keep sending reminders as these dates approach. We’d love to see you there to share our enthusiasm for offering humanizing depictions of Middle Easterners. These stories are gems for their humor and levity, as well as their modesty and revelatory moments. They teach us not only about the generous and vibrant region where these stories take place, but also about ourselves, and about what travel, wherever it occurs, should be about.

Congratulations to Encounters Contributor Joel Carillet

By Nesreen | April 5th, 2008 | No Comments »

When we put Encounters together, Jim and I were already sure that we had found some pretty talented writers who shared with us an ethos of what travel should be about.

Our publishers, Solas House and Travelers’ Tales, evidently agree. On Feb. 28, Encounters Contributor Joel Carillet’s story “Red Lights and a Rose,” was awarded the Solas Awards Best Travel Story of the Year. We’re delighted by news of his success! Congratulations Joel!

We first learned about Joel Carillet when he submitted “Half Truths and Olive Trees,” for our review. We loved the story, of course, and you can find it in our collection. For those of you who have stopped tuning into the Israel-Palestine conflict “Half Truths and Olive Trees” will give you reason to reconsider. It tells about a day that Palestinians and Israelis got together to build a structure that would ultimately serve as a site of reconciliation for these two divided peoples. His story is uplifting without being maudlin and it is heroic in its efforts to get us to listen to and see the conflict again, but with new insight and perspective.

After having briefly met Joel, I can tell you that he has seen a lot during his travels that would have caused me to question the decency of humanity. Somehow Joel manages to rise above that tendency, which may be a testament to his own personal faith. So when you read “Half Truths” know that you are reading words from someone who has been to war zones, and has witnessed great distress, desperation, fury and poverty. Knowing that, you are bound to respect the words in “Half Truths” that much more.

Upcoming Opportunities to Meet Encounters Editors and Contributors

By Nesreen | April 5th, 2008 | No Comments »

If you are going to be in New York City in April or Washington DC in May, we have two Encounters events lined up that may interest you. We enjoy these events for the chance it gives us to meet readers who have already come across the book and want to share a favorite story, as well as those who want to learn about the Middle East but haven’t known where to start.

The event in NYC, by the way, features writers of some of the best humorist stories in the collection. Peter Wortsman in “Holy Land Blues,” recounts his first pilgrimage to Israel as a young man in 1975, a time when, according to Wortsman, innocence and romance prevailed over the bleak images we know today.

In his tale, Chris Kipiniak tells us about a single encounter he had buying a rug in Cairo, where an animated and relentless salesman and listless young rug weavers tell the greater story, with much levity, of hospitality in the Arab world.

Saturday, April 26 2008
12:00pm - 1:45pm
Bowery Poetry Club
308 Bowery Street (Between Houston and Bleecker)
New York City

Bowery Arts and Science presents- Bowery Book Party Encounters with the Middle East: True Stories of People and Culture - That Help You Understand the Region Edited by Nesreen Khashan and Jim Bowman, published by Solas House, FREE!

Editor Nesreen Khashan, together with contributors Peter Wortsman (NYC native and resident) and Chris Kipiniak (NYC resident) discuss the narratives of Encounters with the Middle East: True Stories of People and Culture that Help You Understand the Region.

Our Washington DC Event will be held: Saturday, May 17th, 2008
Busboys and Poets
4251 South Campbell Ave.
Arlington, VA
3 PM Discussion at Shirlington Public Library
4:30 PM Signing at Busboys and Poets- Shirlington

Editors Jim Bowman and Nesreen Khashan, and contributor (TBA) discuss and sign their new book, Encounters with the Middle East: True Stories of People and Culture That Help You Understand the Region.

A farmer’s tale

By Nesreen | April 1st, 2008 | No Comments »

My mother is a country girl, sort of speak. She is no longer in the countryside and she is no longer a girl, but if you knew her, you would think to yourself that you met yourself a country girl. I say this in an entirely respectful, sense, one full of praise.

My mother is 70 years old. She was raised in a West Bank village called Taybeh, only a hamlet really these days. Taybeh is famed for being the site of an authentic Palestinian brewery and now, an Octoberfest. I suppose in some ways Taybeh has grown up. But Taybeh remains a special place where, like much in the Holy Land, the old resides lethargically with the new. The terraced hillsides lined with olive trees as ancient as their hollowed ground don’t seem to mind the brewing tanks and casks, the smell of ferment wafting in the air.

Taybeh is were my mom grew up, and while it has changed, I can still imagine life as she had lived it here. I can see her blowing out the wick from her oil lamp before sleep or in the day helping her mother cure or press olives or her father pluck them from the trees. When she was sleepy, I can imagine the tree where she napped under the shade of its generous boughs. Or the fields from where she picked the wild chamomile flowers, with ochre hills on one side of her view and terraces on the other.
Farming has been a way of Palestinian life for two thousand years. Sure there are Internet cafes, burger joints and grid-supplied electricity in some homes nowadays, but Palestinians, when they can reach their fallow fields or aged trees, still farm. They still cure their olives, always preferring the smaller green ones for their bitter taste.

In fact throughout Palestine, the olive harvest remains a tradition that sustains the people there economically as well as culturally and spiritually. To explain the connection Palestinians have to their olive trees would be like trying to describe the devotion a Catholic feels when taking communion. It’s not that you have to be there, but you do have to care as much, and if you don’t it can be difficult to imagine.
My mother still has this reverence for olive trees, and I know that she misses the village where she grew up sometimes. More so, I think, now that she’s older. Yet for mom, being back in her village is more painful than not being back. She can go because she’s an American citizen but she will not be shielded from the conflict’s many manifestations that will await her. I know she won’t go back for now, though maybe she’ll return again soon. Until she does, she’ll just continue to keep Palestine with her in a private way.