Obama’s speech was the usual ... a lot of nice words, relatively little behind them, the US administration annexing events to their narrative as they try to stay on top of things. Bouazizi is now an American hero, I guess ...
What’s to like: well, he talked about Bahrain frankly. That’s a change, especially as Feltman was just praising the Bahraini government.
And forgiving Egyptian debts … again good.
And his Israel/Palestine stuff for an American president was … OK, for an American president. The usual blame the Palestinians for scaring the poor, downtrodden Israelis and avoiding the real issues. A dream of papering over Israeli crimes and the Palestinians forgetting all their hopes and dreams.
But on Syria, he said: “President Assad now has a choice: he can lead that transition, or get out of the way. The Syrian government must stop shooting demonstrators and allow peaceful protests, release political prisoners and stop unjust arrests; allow human rights monitors to have access to cities like Daraa, and start a serious dialogue to advance a democratic transition. Otherwise, President Assad and his regime will continue to be challenged from within and isolated abroad.”
The key is for the US to be clear that they are not threatening a neo-colonial regime here; fortunately, there was no mention of military action against Syria. If one thing could make Assad look good, it would be the threat of an American (or Israeli) attack. We know that. Syrians as a whole are an intensely proud and patriotic people. Many who are now protesting would resist that sort of thing.
That would be good to here; yes, yes, that would only encourage Assad, the chorus will claim ... or would it?
After all, the hostility to _us_ claims that we are all driven by foreign regimes.
We aren't;
We are Syrians.
We want a free and democratic Syria, subsevrient to no one.
19 May 2011
BHO? BHA? Bee aytch GO!
BHO vs BHA?
So now the American President, Barack Hussein Obama – BHO – has increased sanctions against the Syrian President, Bashar Hafidh Assad – BHA – and is readying a speech tonight.
The Washington speech will get a lot of play, I’m sure, and the chattering classes will wonder if this ‘resets’ the US in the Middle East. BHO will, I suspect, make noises of praise towards the successes of the Revolution in Tunisia and Egypt even as he will say nothing about Bahrain (a country where proportionately more have been killed in any of the countries save Libya this year, where actual foreign fighters have been brought in and mosques have been bulldozed … but all that by American allied regimes). He’ll make noises of support for the Syrian opposition; they’ll even have a few pseudo-oppositionists (the ones firmly in the pocket of AIPAC and with no real support here) in attendance.
He’ll probably repeat the announcement of increased sanctions on Syria. And he’ll claim now that the same sanctions that were in existence before to punish the Syrian people for having a government that didn’t lick the bootheels of the Israelis are now supposed to show that the American government loves us.
I’m no fan of the Assad regime but I’m not a fool. And Washington seems to think that the people of Syria are all fools. Now, they suddenly hail the benefits of democracy and respect human rights here, where not very long ago some of the same people who claim to be in favor of democracy in Syria were in favor of firebombing Syrians. They claim to like Arab democracy now but when was the last time that an American president called for an end to authoritarian rule in … Bahrain, Kuwait, or Jordan, let alone Saudi Arabia, or supported the democratic rights of the Palestinians? It wasn’t so long ago that they made clear their preference for sectarian rule in Lebanon …
Yet they expect that we are too stupid and too lacking in memory to have noticed these things. A few cheery words and, BAM!, we’re supposed to think of BHO and the USA as great liberators.
Look, it is rather simple: we don’t need American aid to achieve democracy here. I for one do not trust American aid; we know that in the past, the CIA proudly proclaimed its overthrow of democracy in Syria (and did so quite deliberately to get an armistice with Israel back in 1949 as no democratic Syrian government was willing to make a peace). One speech does not change a century’s worth of actions; one speech does not erase what we see here everyday when we see the refugees from Iraq, people who have fled America’s ‘freedom bombs’.
And sanctions that were written by the enemies not of dictatorship in Syria but of all Syrian people cannot be repackaged and sold to us as a friendly gesture. If anything, they do not help but hinder our struggle. We don’t need international law to come down and swoop in and arrest the figures of this regime if they go abroad; we’d be content if they would just go and, if there are to be trials, that they be for us to decide. If anything, these sanctions limit the ability of the regime to go.
Think for a moment of South Africa: imagine if, twenty years ago, De Klerk and the rest in the Apartheid regime had known that, no matter what Mandela and the ANC agreed to, if they were ever to leave South Africa, they’d be lucky to just be imprisoned. Now, think how the end of apartheid might have been different then. People with no options fight on to the bitter end.
And we, here in the actual opposition on the ground would like to see Assad – and all the rest – go … we’d be happy if BHA took Emma and the kids and went back to giving eyetests in Surrey or Middlesex. We’d let him be; we’d even take him to the airport and wish him all good fortune. But this ‘aid’ that’s offered doesn’t help; it hinders that day.
So if they really want to help us – and their help is genuine rather than as part of an ancient goal of keeping the Arab nation squashed beneath their bootheels – the best thing they can do is … get out of the way.
Better than sanctions would be withdraw of military forces from the Arab lands, an end to arms and aid for occupiers, an end to subversion and assasinations here, an end to always smiling when the occupier kicks us … just get out of the way. Nothing more. Just stand aside and let us be. You’ve already done too much damage and the more you do, the worse it is.
Go. Take your puppets with you. Go, Take Assad too, take all your stooges. Just Go.
So now the American President, Barack Hussein Obama – BHO – has increased sanctions against the Syrian President, Bashar Hafidh Assad – BHA – and is readying a speech tonight.
The Washington speech will get a lot of play, I’m sure, and the chattering classes will wonder if this ‘resets’ the US in the Middle East. BHO will, I suspect, make noises of praise towards the successes of the Revolution in Tunisia and Egypt even as he will say nothing about Bahrain (a country where proportionately more have been killed in any of the countries save Libya this year, where actual foreign fighters have been brought in and mosques have been bulldozed … but all that by American allied regimes). He’ll make noises of support for the Syrian opposition; they’ll even have a few pseudo-oppositionists (the ones firmly in the pocket of AIPAC and with no real support here) in attendance.
He’ll probably repeat the announcement of increased sanctions on Syria. And he’ll claim now that the same sanctions that were in existence before to punish the Syrian people for having a government that didn’t lick the bootheels of the Israelis are now supposed to show that the American government loves us.
I’m no fan of the Assad regime but I’m not a fool. And Washington seems to think that the people of Syria are all fools. Now, they suddenly hail the benefits of democracy and respect human rights here, where not very long ago some of the same people who claim to be in favor of democracy in Syria were in favor of firebombing Syrians. They claim to like Arab democracy now but when was the last time that an American president called for an end to authoritarian rule in … Bahrain, Kuwait, or Jordan, let alone Saudi Arabia, or supported the democratic rights of the Palestinians? It wasn’t so long ago that they made clear their preference for sectarian rule in Lebanon …
Yet they expect that we are too stupid and too lacking in memory to have noticed these things. A few cheery words and, BAM!, we’re supposed to think of BHO and the USA as great liberators.
Look, it is rather simple: we don’t need American aid to achieve democracy here. I for one do not trust American aid; we know that in the past, the CIA proudly proclaimed its overthrow of democracy in Syria (and did so quite deliberately to get an armistice with Israel back in 1949 as no democratic Syrian government was willing to make a peace). One speech does not change a century’s worth of actions; one speech does not erase what we see here everyday when we see the refugees from Iraq, people who have fled America’s ‘freedom bombs’.
And sanctions that were written by the enemies not of dictatorship in Syria but of all Syrian people cannot be repackaged and sold to us as a friendly gesture. If anything, they do not help but hinder our struggle. We don’t need international law to come down and swoop in and arrest the figures of this regime if they go abroad; we’d be content if they would just go and, if there are to be trials, that they be for us to decide. If anything, these sanctions limit the ability of the regime to go.
Think for a moment of South Africa: imagine if, twenty years ago, De Klerk and the rest in the Apartheid regime had known that, no matter what Mandela and the ANC agreed to, if they were ever to leave South Africa, they’d be lucky to just be imprisoned. Now, think how the end of apartheid might have been different then. People with no options fight on to the bitter end.
And we, here in the actual opposition on the ground would like to see Assad – and all the rest – go … we’d be happy if BHA took Emma and the kids and went back to giving eyetests in Surrey or Middlesex. We’d let him be; we’d even take him to the airport and wish him all good fortune. But this ‘aid’ that’s offered doesn’t help; it hinders that day.
So if they really want to help us – and their help is genuine rather than as part of an ancient goal of keeping the Arab nation squashed beneath their bootheels – the best thing they can do is … get out of the way.
Better than sanctions would be withdraw of military forces from the Arab lands, an end to arms and aid for occupiers, an end to subversion and assasinations here, an end to always smiling when the occupier kicks us … just get out of the way. Nothing more. Just stand aside and let us be. You’ve already done too much damage and the more you do, the worse it is.
Go. Take your puppets with you. Go, Take Assad too, take all your stooges. Just Go.
I'm annoyed
I’m annoyed by them. And by them, this time, I’m not talking about the regime here. I’m talking about a different group that’s annoyed me for quite some time.
A group that is hard to define but I see them every time I get on line. They annoy me now just as they annoyed me when I was in the US. They seem to be all over the world …
Who are they?
Well, I do think they probably mean well but from where I stand (well, sit), that’s not what comes across.
I’m talking about the people who have these kneejerk reactions to the events here and in the broader Arab nation. Everything is seen by them solely in how it plays in Washington or in Tel Aviv.
And I’m not talking right now about those other guys, the ones who are all about the power of the mighty IDF or the power of the mighty USAF. Those guys annoy me a lot; the neocons, ultra-militarists, Zionists, American exceptionalists, imperialists, colonists, racists, genocidalists, all of them … so please don’t get me wrong, I really dislike them!
Whom I’m talking about are the people who claim to be for human rights, pro-Palestinian, pro-democracy, pro-Arab and whatnot.
Them, they annoy me.
I see people outside who condemn us for standing up against this regime; they rally to Assad as he’s a ‘hero of resistance’ just as they have rallied to Ahmadinejad and Qaddafhi before. Believe it or not, I got an email a while back from a list I was on back in the States inviting me to a rally to support Qaddafhi! I almost threw up, I was so sickened.
But I wasn’t surprised. I’d seen that attitude in the US. People who claimed to be ‘progressives’, to be for the Palestinians, for the Iraqis and so on. I went once when I was younger to one of their rallies; I saw Palestinian flags among the red banners and thought that ‘hey maybe these are friends’. But then I listened closely. They weren’t pro-Palestinian; they were anti-American. Reactionaries. If the US President, whether Bush or Obama or who knows who, says ‘we’re for this’, they are against. If in his speech tonight, Obama says ‘the US is for one Palestine, complete, from the river to the sea, an Arab state’, those same folks (and you know who I’m talking about) will be waving blue and white flags and asserting that they stand with Israel now. Stalinoids in thinking, reactionary at heart. They are not our friends and never were but would use us for their games.
We are objects to them with our quaint and ‘authentic’ customs and ways of life; we are the benighted ones in our culture who simply need a mighty whitey, a hero from amongst them, to come to us and teach us about our oppression and lead us into the promised land.
I don’t have time for them and never did. They show their colors all the time. Willing to fight their domestic political opponents to the last Arab. We are as objects with no volition.
I wore hijab to one of those big rallies in Washington; “Stop the War” or whatever it was called. I was told I wore a symbol of my patriacrhal oppression, I was talked down to, I was pushed forward as a token. I am no one’s token, I am no one’s dupe. When you treat us like we are stupid, like we do not know your game, we know you are not our friends.
I see apologists for Assad now heartened by Obama; if America is for something, they are against. Why not make it clear we are just objects?
I remember once when Israel bombed Lebanon; a fundraiser for a purportedly pro-Arab group was to be held. I got invited and planned to go, bringing with me a number of friends. I wrote to them asking if it was possible for it not to be a boozefest … my friends, covered Arab muslimas, and I wanted to support the people in the South of Lebanon dying for their religion. Our families in Damascus were taking in refugees, as many as they could; the least we could do in America was to show our support and get in touch with whites who felt the same. But suggesting that, if you want to support Muslims, you might want to make it possible for them to show up at your events was met with a clear “Screw you buddy.”
It was for them never about solidarity with the oppressed but about making themslves feel good; they were the radical hipsters, more radical and hipper than thou. What did mere Arabs or mere Muslims know?
We in Syria – just like those seeking freedom in Libya or other places before – are at best, fools in their reckoning and distractions from the real goal … of being the most radical coolkids on the block … distracting from the ‘real’ issues of building a movement in the west to … get young hipsters laid.
They sing praises of the Palestinians, but please don’t confuse them with what actual people might really want. That isn’t cool …
And they serve as useful idiots for Assad. Distracting the world from the reality.
So, yes, I’m annoyed.
Dorothy Parvaz is free
What prison looks like
I was standing in two fist-sized pools of smeared, sticky blood, trying to sort out why there were seven angry Syrians yelling at me. Only one of them - who I came to know as Mr Shut Up during my three days in a detention center, where so many Syrians 'disappeared' are being kept - spoke English.
Watching them searching my bags, and observing the set of handcuffs hanging from the bunk bed wedged behind the desk in the middle of the room, I guessed that I was being arrested - or, at the very least, processed for detention.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked.
"Shut up! SHUT UP!" said Mr Shut Up.
I'd arrived there moments before, dragged by a handful of hair from a car where I'd been wedged between two armed men. They'd tried to convince me that they were taking me to my hotel, but, of course, I knew that there was no way plain-clothed security personnel would be kind enough to escort me to my accommodation.
I did, however, manage to resist being forced to wear a blindfold, figuring that if they were going to shoot me, they really didn't need a reason to do so.
After about 20 minutes, we pulled off the highway and through two checkpoints. By this point, the rather handsy security guard to my left had pulled my scarf over my eyes.
Armed guards opened a gate to what seemed like a military compound, filled with dozens of men, all plain-clothed, lurking in an atmosphere suited only to cracking skulls - so heightened was the sense of impending violence.
Welcome to mini-Guantanamo; perhaps one of many in Syria where protesters and bystanders alike have been swept up in the wide net cast by an increasingly paranoid government since the start of anti-government protests several weeks ago.
I'd ended up there because a scan of my luggage had revealed that I had a satellite phone and an internet hub with me - the commercially available type, nothing special, and just the sort of thing one might need while travelling in a country with spotty communications.
Still, if that was deemed suspicious, then my American passport, complete with its Al Jazeera-sponsored visa, sealed the deal. The agents couldn't seem to agree what I was, or which was worse: an American spy for Israel, or an Al Jazeera reporter – both were pretty much on a par.
Blindfolded, I was led to the first of my three cells - a tiny, sparse room, roughly three paces across and five length-wise. On the floor, on a ratty brown blanket, sat a young woman whose face was puffy from crying. She said she was 25 and from Damascus and indicated that she had been there for four days. She didn't know why she'd been picked up by the Mukhabarat, the Syrian intelligence service.
She said she was a shop assistant in a clothes store, and the designer stilettos that sat in the corner of the cell seemed to belie any suggestion that this was a girl who had left her house in order to participate in protests. She said she'd been speaking on her phone when she was hauled into a car, blindfolded and driven away.
She had no idea where she was, or how long she was to stay there. She had not been allowed to contact her family.
Our eyes moved to the month-long calendar etched on the wall, likely the artwork of a previous dweller. With unspoken glances, we each wondered how long she would remain there.
A man came to the door a couple of times before he took me from the cell, handcuffed and blindfolded me, and led me to what seemed like a courtyard.
He pushed me up against a wall and told me to stand there. As I did so, I heard two sets of interrogations and beatings taking place, about 10 meters away from me in either direction.
The beatings were savage, the words uttered by those beaten only hoarse cries – "Wallahi! Wahalli!" ("I swear to God! I swear to God!") or simply, "La! La!" ("No! No!").
I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, before someone approached me.
"Who do you work for?" he hissed.
"Al Jazeera. Online."
"Are you alone?"
"So alone."
I was taken to a second cell, this one, with smears of blood on the wall. I found what looked like a bloodless corner and perched until called upon again – at around midnight.
I was again handcuffed, but this time, before the blindfolds went on, I caught sight of a young man, no more than 20, chained to a radiator outside the hallway. He had a legal pad on his knees, was blindfolded, and was quivering so fiercely he could hardly hold the pen with which he was probably meant to ink some sort of confession.
Meanwhile, the beatings and cries outside continued.
I was taken through a labyrinth of stairs, before entering an office where my interrogator awaited me. I managed to talk him into allowing the blindfolds to be removed.
The man - let's call him 'Firass' - was slightly portly and could be affable when he wanted to be (he seemed concerned that there were women being kept at the facility, and tried to make things comfortable for me).
Firass even apologised for the fact that our "formal interview" was taking place in a room containing a bed, crates of potatoes and a refrigerator.
"It's just that we’re so busy these days," he said.
I wanted to ask why the Mukhabarat would be so busy if such a tiny minority was causing problems, but it didn't seem like a prudent moment.
Firass spoke very good English and, at first, seemed convinced that I was a spy.
Then he focused on Al Jazeera, putting the network on the same level as Human Rights Watch. The network had been making a "big problem" for Syria with the UN Security Council, he said.
After four hours of questioning, he sent me to a different room, this one a long-disused office where a terrified teenage girl was sleeping on the couch.
The next morning, my new roommate and I tried to get acquainted, without sharing too many details, as we had been forbidden to do so. She too had been plucked from the streets of a Damascus suburb for reasons she couldn’t understand.
She'd been there for eight days when I met her, and she looked ill. The food we were given three times a day - fetid, random and at times, rotting - mostly had the effect of making her vomit, but she was too hungry to stop eating all together.
There was a doctor on site, parked next to a sign that read "Assad is Boss", but the girl seemed too frightened to see the doctor - no wonder.
Most of the our days were spent listening to the sounds of young men being brutally interrogated – sometimes tied up in stress positions until it sounded like their bones were cracking, as we saw from our bathroom window (a bathroom with no running water, except for one tap in a sink filled with roughly 10 cm of sewage).
One afternoon, the beating we heard was so severe that we could clearly hear the interrogator pummelling his boots and fists into his subject, almost in a trance, yelling questions or accusations rhythmically as the blows landed in what sounded like the prisoner's midriff.
My roommate shook and wept, reminding me (or perhaps herself) that they didn't beat women here.
There was a brief break before the beating resumed, and my first impulse was to cover my ears, but then I thought, "If this man is crying, shouldn’t someone hear him?"
After all, judging from the sound of passing traffic and from what I could see through our window, there were no homes nearby – just a highway, a sprawling old security compound, and what appeared to be an old prison; a few official buildings that had seen better days. That's all I could see from our cell.
When one of the Mukhabarat agents came in, my teenage cellmate proceeded to beg him to allow her to use her mobile phone to call her parents, which, of course, was not going to happen.
She asked about the beatings we'd heard outside, and was told that the men being punished were murderers who had shot people in Deraa.
Later, Mr Shut Up came and took my roommate away for interrogation, which made me worry. She returned an hour later, with no apparent resolution to her problem. She still looked out the window and cried, worrying about her parents, wondering if or when she'd see them again.
I couldn't help but wonder: what sort of threat does this girl pose to the Syrian state that they have to keep her in this rotting room? What are they so afraid of?
After three days, Firass told me I was free to return to Qatar – something for which I was very grateful.
He even took me to his boss's office – again, remember, no one has any names here – where I was given a lecture on Al Jazeera’s coverage of the troubles in Syria, mostly focusing on how a tiny, tiny minority was causing a problem for an essentially happy majority.
On my way out of the compound, I was finally allowed to see it for what it was – a shabby set of offices and cellblocks with pictures of Bashar al-Assad, Syria's president, framed in the sort of metallic stands that might promote two-for-one-drinks offers at the theatre, placed every few metres. The effect was farcical.
I was taken to the airport, but I was certainly not allowed to return to Qatar. Instead, I was dragged, kicking and screaming, onto a flight bound for Tehran (I'd entered Syria with an Iranian passport). Call it a strange brand of extraordinary rendition, if you will.
The Syrian authorities had alleged to the Iranians that I was a spy – a charge that can carry a death penalty in Iran.
Fortunately, in my case, the facts were borne out. After a couple of weeks of interrogations, the investigator in Iran charged with my case determined that I was not a spy, but a journalist.
On Wednesday, without drama or incident, I was released and put on a dawn flight from Tehran to Doha – it was a simple matter of a judge's approval.
Although I have written critically of some of Iran's policies, I was treated with respect, courtesy and care thoughout my detention there.
My room was spotless, my interrogator flawlessly polite, and the women who looked after me at the Evin Prison Women's Detention Centre saw to it that my every need was met – especially the sleeping pills I required, because every night, without fail, I would hear the cries of men screaming in Syria "Wallahi! Wallahi!" and wonder how their wounds will ever heal.
I was standing in two fist-sized pools of smeared, sticky blood, trying to sort out why there were seven angry Syrians yelling at me. Only one of them - who I came to know as Mr Shut Up during my three days in a detention center, where so many Syrians 'disappeared' are being kept - spoke English.
Watching them searching my bags, and observing the set of handcuffs hanging from the bunk bed wedged behind the desk in the middle of the room, I guessed that I was being arrested - or, at the very least, processed for detention.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked.
"Shut up! SHUT UP!" said Mr Shut Up.
I'd arrived there moments before, dragged by a handful of hair from a car where I'd been wedged between two armed men. They'd tried to convince me that they were taking me to my hotel, but, of course, I knew that there was no way plain-clothed security personnel would be kind enough to escort me to my accommodation.
I did, however, manage to resist being forced to wear a blindfold, figuring that if they were going to shoot me, they really didn't need a reason to do so.
After about 20 minutes, we pulled off the highway and through two checkpoints. By this point, the rather handsy security guard to my left had pulled my scarf over my eyes.
Armed guards opened a gate to what seemed like a military compound, filled with dozens of men, all plain-clothed, lurking in an atmosphere suited only to cracking skulls - so heightened was the sense of impending violence.
Welcome to mini-Guantanamo; perhaps one of many in Syria where protesters and bystanders alike have been swept up in the wide net cast by an increasingly paranoid government since the start of anti-government protests several weeks ago.
I'd ended up there because a scan of my luggage had revealed that I had a satellite phone and an internet hub with me - the commercially available type, nothing special, and just the sort of thing one might need while travelling in a country with spotty communications.
Still, if that was deemed suspicious, then my American passport, complete with its Al Jazeera-sponsored visa, sealed the deal. The agents couldn't seem to agree what I was, or which was worse: an American spy for Israel, or an Al Jazeera reporter – both were pretty much on a par.
Blindfolded, I was led to the first of my three cells - a tiny, sparse room, roughly three paces across and five length-wise. On the floor, on a ratty brown blanket, sat a young woman whose face was puffy from crying. She said she was 25 and from Damascus and indicated that she had been there for four days. She didn't know why she'd been picked up by the Mukhabarat, the Syrian intelligence service.
She said she was a shop assistant in a clothes store, and the designer stilettos that sat in the corner of the cell seemed to belie any suggestion that this was a girl who had left her house in order to participate in protests. She said she'd been speaking on her phone when she was hauled into a car, blindfolded and driven away.
She had no idea where she was, or how long she was to stay there. She had not been allowed to contact her family.
Our eyes moved to the month-long calendar etched on the wall, likely the artwork of a previous dweller. With unspoken glances, we each wondered how long she would remain there.
A man came to the door a couple of times before he took me from the cell, handcuffed and blindfolded me, and led me to what seemed like a courtyard.
He pushed me up against a wall and told me to stand there. As I did so, I heard two sets of interrogations and beatings taking place, about 10 meters away from me in either direction.
The beatings were savage, the words uttered by those beaten only hoarse cries – "Wallahi! Wahalli!" ("I swear to God! I swear to God!") or simply, "La! La!" ("No! No!").
I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, before someone approached me.
"Who do you work for?" he hissed.
"Al Jazeera. Online."
"Are you alone?"
"So alone."
I was taken to a second cell, this one, with smears of blood on the wall. I found what looked like a bloodless corner and perched until called upon again – at around midnight.
I was again handcuffed, but this time, before the blindfolds went on, I caught sight of a young man, no more than 20, chained to a radiator outside the hallway. He had a legal pad on his knees, was blindfolded, and was quivering so fiercely he could hardly hold the pen with which he was probably meant to ink some sort of confession.
Meanwhile, the beatings and cries outside continued.
I was taken through a labyrinth of stairs, before entering an office where my interrogator awaited me. I managed to talk him into allowing the blindfolds to be removed.
The man - let's call him 'Firass' - was slightly portly and could be affable when he wanted to be (he seemed concerned that there were women being kept at the facility, and tried to make things comfortable for me).
Firass even apologised for the fact that our "formal interview" was taking place in a room containing a bed, crates of potatoes and a refrigerator.
"It's just that we’re so busy these days," he said.
I wanted to ask why the Mukhabarat would be so busy if such a tiny minority was causing problems, but it didn't seem like a prudent moment.
Firass spoke very good English and, at first, seemed convinced that I was a spy.
Then he focused on Al Jazeera, putting the network on the same level as Human Rights Watch. The network had been making a "big problem" for Syria with the UN Security Council, he said.
After four hours of questioning, he sent me to a different room, this one a long-disused office where a terrified teenage girl was sleeping on the couch.
The next morning, my new roommate and I tried to get acquainted, without sharing too many details, as we had been forbidden to do so. She too had been plucked from the streets of a Damascus suburb for reasons she couldn’t understand.
She'd been there for eight days when I met her, and she looked ill. The food we were given three times a day - fetid, random and at times, rotting - mostly had the effect of making her vomit, but she was too hungry to stop eating all together.
There was a doctor on site, parked next to a sign that read "Assad is Boss", but the girl seemed too frightened to see the doctor - no wonder.
Most of the our days were spent listening to the sounds of young men being brutally interrogated – sometimes tied up in stress positions until it sounded like their bones were cracking, as we saw from our bathroom window (a bathroom with no running water, except for one tap in a sink filled with roughly 10 cm of sewage).
One afternoon, the beating we heard was so severe that we could clearly hear the interrogator pummelling his boots and fists into his subject, almost in a trance, yelling questions or accusations rhythmically as the blows landed in what sounded like the prisoner's midriff.
My roommate shook and wept, reminding me (or perhaps herself) that they didn't beat women here.
There was a brief break before the beating resumed, and my first impulse was to cover my ears, but then I thought, "If this man is crying, shouldn’t someone hear him?"
After all, judging from the sound of passing traffic and from what I could see through our window, there were no homes nearby – just a highway, a sprawling old security compound, and what appeared to be an old prison; a few official buildings that had seen better days. That's all I could see from our cell.
When one of the Mukhabarat agents came in, my teenage cellmate proceeded to beg him to allow her to use her mobile phone to call her parents, which, of course, was not going to happen.
She asked about the beatings we'd heard outside, and was told that the men being punished were murderers who had shot people in Deraa.
Later, Mr Shut Up came and took my roommate away for interrogation, which made me worry. She returned an hour later, with no apparent resolution to her problem. She still looked out the window and cried, worrying about her parents, wondering if or when she'd see them again.
I couldn't help but wonder: what sort of threat does this girl pose to the Syrian state that they have to keep her in this rotting room? What are they so afraid of?
After three days, Firass told me I was free to return to Qatar – something for which I was very grateful.
He even took me to his boss's office – again, remember, no one has any names here – where I was given a lecture on Al Jazeera’s coverage of the troubles in Syria, mostly focusing on how a tiny, tiny minority was causing a problem for an essentially happy majority.
On my way out of the compound, I was finally allowed to see it for what it was – a shabby set of offices and cellblocks with pictures of Bashar al-Assad, Syria's president, framed in the sort of metallic stands that might promote two-for-one-drinks offers at the theatre, placed every few metres. The effect was farcical.
I was taken to the airport, but I was certainly not allowed to return to Qatar. Instead, I was dragged, kicking and screaming, onto a flight bound for Tehran (I'd entered Syria with an Iranian passport). Call it a strange brand of extraordinary rendition, if you will.
The Syrian authorities had alleged to the Iranians that I was a spy – a charge that can carry a death penalty in Iran.
Fortunately, in my case, the facts were borne out. After a couple of weeks of interrogations, the investigator in Iran charged with my case determined that I was not a spy, but a journalist.
On Wednesday, without drama or incident, I was released and put on a dawn flight from Tehran to Doha – it was a simple matter of a judge's approval.
Although I have written critically of some of Iran's policies, I was treated with respect, courtesy and care thoughout my detention there.
My room was spotless, my interrogator flawlessly polite, and the women who looked after me at the Evin Prison Women's Detention Centre saw to it that my every need was met – especially the sleeping pills I required, because every night, without fail, I would hear the cries of men screaming in Syria "Wallahi! Wallahi!" and wonder how their wounds will ever heal.
Coming Out: Part Two
After what had happened between Katy and I on the night of September 11th, our friendship turned into a capital-R Relationship. We were dating; we were together. That was more than clear enough.
And as long as we were in Chicago, it wasn’t such a big deal to me if we were out; nearly everyone I knew in Chicago, save for Katy, was through my now ex-husband. So, being out as gay was not that hard …
And through the circles I knew from Katy, again, it wasn’t such a big deal. Her friends were not even slightly surprised that she and I were more than friends. Even her family was not all that amazed; one Sunday late in September she insisted I go with her to see her parents up in Northbrook so we headed out to the ‘burbs and had dinner and they were so nice … I assumed that they thought I was ‘just’ a friend until almost the time we left and her mom made a comment about how we probably wanted to be alone … and I realized that she knew …
We were both nerds and even if we did go out dancing a couple of times, we mostly stayed in, watched movies, cooked, read, talked and made out … the last quite a lot. For me, I was more sexually fulfilled than I ever had been before in my life; I was actually with someone I was crazy about and I was actually having the kind of sex I had imagined ….
Anyway, it was good. And it was a good time to have good things happen; outside, the world was looking pretty grim. Every day, it seemed like another huge terrorist strike would happen or there’d be a lynch mob looking for Muslims or a war would start …
I didn’t know. When I talked to my family, I could tell they were nervous. The FBI had swung by and taken my brother in for questioning; he hadn’t done anything but he was enrolled in flying classes at Bristow Field and he was born in Damascus and he was an Arab Muslim and some of the 9/11 hijackers had visited there. One of them even shared a surname with him. So he was taken in for questioning, days of it … he was lucky as anyone who knows him – or knew him then – can attest. Meet him and you know he’s not a secret terrorist … he just liked airplanes, a lot. (When I first heard of trainspotters, the first thing I thought of was him.) His pilot dreams of course ended then but …
Anyway, it was good then to be with Katy and have her hold me when I was scared, have her lie with me all night … and she said her lease was up for renewal end of October; I asked her to move in …
Life could have been worse.
Ever since I’d told them that Hisham and I were through, my mother had been urging me to come back to Georgia. And truth be told, before things with Katy changed, I was mentally preparing to move home. Why stay in Chicago for nothing?
As it was, I did feel a need to go back down south; I’d been planning on hopping a cheap flight when That Day happened … but then everything else went south …
I did not want to fly anywhere; especially after what had happened with Amr, I was petrified of getting on a plane (if they’d even let me on); Guantanamo wasn’t yet a watchword but I already had visions of disappearing into some dark cell (and in case you don’t remember, there were reports and rumors of people being arrested and taken away for being Muslim in those days).
I told Katy that I wanted to go but I was scared … “Well why don’t you drive?” she said.
Door to door it’s 750 miles … and that’s a long time alone in a car.
Well I can come with you.
Really?
Yes, if you like …
So, she put in to take a few days off work and we set off together in my little car on a bright October morning. Somewhere in Indiana, I remember, I checked the radio news; war had begun, planes were winging towards Afghanistan. I was numb.
And in case you wonder, I was not wearing hijab that day; I was too scared for one thing, nightmare image of being stopped in some remote place in southern Indiana getting gas while big guys howled for my blood, but I felt naked without it; so I wore a yellow baseball cap.
“Call me Amy,” I’d told Katy, asked her to use her credit card if we needed to. I didn’t want to use my cursed name.
The roads were strangely empty then; I’ve never before or since seen highways so empty and we flew across Indiana, Kentucky, into Tennessee, singing songs along with the radio, trying to catch the hourly news, and chattering, the miles flying by. Darkness falling as we enter Georgia …
I nervously explain to Katy how we need to be on the downlow;
She laughs, of course, no big deal …
You’re not insulted? I wonder, if I deny you?
Just not three times before the cock crows.
What’s that mean? I ask
Well, maybe we can have some time alone?
Yeah, I say, I’d like that, and visions of having her in my old room dance gleefully through my mind.
We reach the Atlanta suburbs, wander down the vast freeways, and, when time is almost at an end, I turn onto my parents street.
We arrive and I introduce, mom, dad, this is my friend Katy, and reverse. Amr’s lounging on the couch listlessly watching cartoons; I learn that this is what he’s done for hours on hours every day since all his dreams crashed. Mom greets Katy warmly, Dad, takes our bags ..
I show Katy my room; we’ll both sleep there if it’s OK with her? I wink so no one else can see me … she nods, I guess that’s fine …
Talking, talking, we sit around going over everything that’s happened, comparing notes on The Situation. My uncle’s store got vandalized right after the event; all the signs were in Arabic and someone had thrown a rock through the window, urinated all over the place … someone else had spray painted his shop. He’d taken down all the signs and ordered new, roman alphabet ones.
There was grafitti on a mosque, threatening calls to different people, screaming obscenities out of passing cars …. Old Mr. Singh down on the corner is scared to go into his front lawn …
Mom serves us tea, asks Katy about her life, how she knows me, what shes does for a living, what and where she studied, does she have a boy friend. Katy stammers, yes, I do have someone who’s wonderful …
My mom asks if marriage is planned.
Who knows, Katy tells her, it hasn’t been that long but we will see.
And me? Am I ready to start looking again?
No, I shake my head, not yet.
Maybe you should try dating, my mother suggests. Now that you are divorced, it is not so wrong.
Maybe, I say, maybe I’ll be ready.
Mom tells me I need to remember to see Rania; I know, I say, and get up and call her.
I’m back in town I say and she says she will be over as soon as she gets baby Abed to sleep … we should meet at Waffle House? So we don’t keep everyone up?
Katy says that she’s exhausted, does she mind if she begs off?
I show her to bed … when no one is looking we have a small kiss
“See you later,” I smile and so does she …
And I go off to Waffle House … one of only 8,000 locations in this city, but I know which one Rania means without thinking, ‘our’ Waffle House, home of all night talk sessions of the Muslim Sisterhood of West Gwinnett, home of studying for exams, flourescent lights, lousy food, the only place that’s open all night around here …
I park my Illinois tagged car, suddenly feeling like a stranger in my own place, walk in and see a new set of faces hunched over their greasy food or drink, a whole new generation I guess. Even the staff is different. Time has passed, I realize.
I sit down, Rania bounces in in a bit …
Rania, whom I’ve known since my first memory, closer to me than my sisters, Rania who figures in so many things. Can we be as close as we used to be? What if I tell her? Will she hate me?
And as she sits, she asks, “Where’s uh Katy?”
“She was tired,” I explain, “so she stayed at the house.”
“Too bad; I’ve been wanting to meet her.”
“Well, maybe tomorrow, yeah?”
And we launch into what’s happening. Rania concerned how I’m doing, what’s up with Hisham? Curse him, I always knew he was a rat … her dad, mine, business is of course down for both of them, hopefully just because it is for everyone. She passed a gas station on 29 where they were selling 67 cents a gallon … unbelievable. And now a war. Her Samir is wondering if they’ll have to leave the country …
“Well, we can always try and pass,” I say.
“As white?”
“Yeah.”
“Easier for you,” she laughs. I have to agree.
More chatter and finally I come around to saying:
“Rania, there’s something that I think you need to know about me …”
“That you’re gay?” she says in an offhand way.
My jaw must have dropped open …
“Yes, how did you know?”
She laughs.
“It’s me Amina, I’ve always known. And better than you, huh?”
I’m stunned. Barely able to nod.
“Katy’s your girlfriend, isn’t she?”
I nod. “How’d you know?”
“Do you ever listen to yourself?” she’s grinning and imitates my voice. “’Katy is so cool, she’s sooo pretty and sooo smart and she knows Old English and she’s got such pretty hair.’ “
“I sound like that?”
“Yeah.”
“That obvious huh? But …”
“’Mina! No buts … as long as I can remember you’ve always been like that about someone. Ms. Burton, Hind, Lori, on and on … ‘oh isn’t she soo beautiful’ … and never once about a guy …”
“Hisham?” I counter.
“No, you were all ‘he’s smart and he’s funny and he’s educated’, but not once about him being cute!”
“Really?” I’m shocked.
“Nope, never about a guy. Remember when we used to sit here and Nour or me or Khadija would say something about a guy?”
“Yeah, you were all horndogs!”
“Uh huh, and you never joined in and would change the subject.”
“So you knew all this time, huh?”
“Not knew, suspected is more like it. But I can follow your eyes as easily as anyone and …”
“So why didn’t anybody tell me?”
“What, ‘hey Amina, you’re a fag!’, like that you mean? What would you do?”
“Start reading Quran?”
“Yup. Heck, I am pretty sure I straight up asked you a bunch of times and every time you changed the subject or got self righteous.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah, huh.”
“So you’ve been ready for me to come out, right? For how long?”
“Maybe since we met Hind.”
“Ten years. Damn. You knew. I didn’t. Damn.”
She says nothing.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What would that have done? I figured you knew you were gay, but were just scared.”
“yeah, more or less.”
“So, you’re still Muslim, right?”
“Well yeah,” I say. “but I’m a sinner now.”
“So what do y’all,” she finally looks embarassed, “you know, what do y’all like do?”
“What?”
“I mean, you and Katy …”
“You’re asking me about lesbian sex?”
“Yeh. Is it like different?”
“I guess,” I shrug. “I mean it’s way better than with Hisham, that;s for sure. But maybe that’s just because, well I’m gay, right?”
“yeah.”
“So does this change stuff between us?” I ask.
“No, I knew, idiot! I’m just glad you finally figured out too …”
And that was how I first came out to the first person in my family; no shock, no dismay … just an ‘of course’. And Rania and I stayed thick as thieves even if she was a happily married, covered, conservative Muslim housewife and I was … well, me.
She met Katy the next day; they got along famously … and we kept it our secret for a long time … eventually I did move back to Atlanta and came out to my parents but that, as the poet says, is another story.
And as long as we were in Chicago, it wasn’t such a big deal to me if we were out; nearly everyone I knew in Chicago, save for Katy, was through my now ex-husband. So, being out as gay was not that hard …
And through the circles I knew from Katy, again, it wasn’t such a big deal. Her friends were not even slightly surprised that she and I were more than friends. Even her family was not all that amazed; one Sunday late in September she insisted I go with her to see her parents up in Northbrook so we headed out to the ‘burbs and had dinner and they were so nice … I assumed that they thought I was ‘just’ a friend until almost the time we left and her mom made a comment about how we probably wanted to be alone … and I realized that she knew …
We were both nerds and even if we did go out dancing a couple of times, we mostly stayed in, watched movies, cooked, read, talked and made out … the last quite a lot. For me, I was more sexually fulfilled than I ever had been before in my life; I was actually with someone I was crazy about and I was actually having the kind of sex I had imagined ….
Anyway, it was good. And it was a good time to have good things happen; outside, the world was looking pretty grim. Every day, it seemed like another huge terrorist strike would happen or there’d be a lynch mob looking for Muslims or a war would start …
I didn’t know. When I talked to my family, I could tell they were nervous. The FBI had swung by and taken my brother in for questioning; he hadn’t done anything but he was enrolled in flying classes at Bristow Field and he was born in Damascus and he was an Arab Muslim and some of the 9/11 hijackers had visited there. One of them even shared a surname with him. So he was taken in for questioning, days of it … he was lucky as anyone who knows him – or knew him then – can attest. Meet him and you know he’s not a secret terrorist … he just liked airplanes, a lot. (When I first heard of trainspotters, the first thing I thought of was him.) His pilot dreams of course ended then but …
Anyway, it was good then to be with Katy and have her hold me when I was scared, have her lie with me all night … and she said her lease was up for renewal end of October; I asked her to move in …
Life could have been worse.
Ever since I’d told them that Hisham and I were through, my mother had been urging me to come back to Georgia. And truth be told, before things with Katy changed, I was mentally preparing to move home. Why stay in Chicago for nothing?
As it was, I did feel a need to go back down south; I’d been planning on hopping a cheap flight when That Day happened … but then everything else went south …
I did not want to fly anywhere; especially after what had happened with Amr, I was petrified of getting on a plane (if they’d even let me on); Guantanamo wasn’t yet a watchword but I already had visions of disappearing into some dark cell (and in case you don’t remember, there were reports and rumors of people being arrested and taken away for being Muslim in those days).
I told Katy that I wanted to go but I was scared … “Well why don’t you drive?” she said.
Door to door it’s 750 miles … and that’s a long time alone in a car.
Well I can come with you.
Really?
Yes, if you like …
So, she put in to take a few days off work and we set off together in my little car on a bright October morning. Somewhere in Indiana, I remember, I checked the radio news; war had begun, planes were winging towards Afghanistan. I was numb.
And in case you wonder, I was not wearing hijab that day; I was too scared for one thing, nightmare image of being stopped in some remote place in southern Indiana getting gas while big guys howled for my blood, but I felt naked without it; so I wore a yellow baseball cap.
“Call me Amy,” I’d told Katy, asked her to use her credit card if we needed to. I didn’t want to use my cursed name.
The roads were strangely empty then; I’ve never before or since seen highways so empty and we flew across Indiana, Kentucky, into Tennessee, singing songs along with the radio, trying to catch the hourly news, and chattering, the miles flying by. Darkness falling as we enter Georgia …
I nervously explain to Katy how we need to be on the downlow;
She laughs, of course, no big deal …
You’re not insulted? I wonder, if I deny you?
Just not three times before the cock crows.
What’s that mean? I ask
Well, maybe we can have some time alone?
Yeah, I say, I’d like that, and visions of having her in my old room dance gleefully through my mind.
We reach the Atlanta suburbs, wander down the vast freeways, and, when time is almost at an end, I turn onto my parents street.
We arrive and I introduce, mom, dad, this is my friend Katy, and reverse. Amr’s lounging on the couch listlessly watching cartoons; I learn that this is what he’s done for hours on hours every day since all his dreams crashed. Mom greets Katy warmly, Dad, takes our bags ..
I show Katy my room; we’ll both sleep there if it’s OK with her? I wink so no one else can see me … she nods, I guess that’s fine …
Talking, talking, we sit around going over everything that’s happened, comparing notes on The Situation. My uncle’s store got vandalized right after the event; all the signs were in Arabic and someone had thrown a rock through the window, urinated all over the place … someone else had spray painted his shop. He’d taken down all the signs and ordered new, roman alphabet ones.
There was grafitti on a mosque, threatening calls to different people, screaming obscenities out of passing cars …. Old Mr. Singh down on the corner is scared to go into his front lawn …
Mom serves us tea, asks Katy about her life, how she knows me, what shes does for a living, what and where she studied, does she have a boy friend. Katy stammers, yes, I do have someone who’s wonderful …
My mom asks if marriage is planned.
Who knows, Katy tells her, it hasn’t been that long but we will see.
And me? Am I ready to start looking again?
No, I shake my head, not yet.
Maybe you should try dating, my mother suggests. Now that you are divorced, it is not so wrong.
Maybe, I say, maybe I’ll be ready.
Mom tells me I need to remember to see Rania; I know, I say, and get up and call her.
I’m back in town I say and she says she will be over as soon as she gets baby Abed to sleep … we should meet at Waffle House? So we don’t keep everyone up?
Katy says that she’s exhausted, does she mind if she begs off?
I show her to bed … when no one is looking we have a small kiss
“See you later,” I smile and so does she …
And I go off to Waffle House … one of only 8,000 locations in this city, but I know which one Rania means without thinking, ‘our’ Waffle House, home of all night talk sessions of the Muslim Sisterhood of West Gwinnett, home of studying for exams, flourescent lights, lousy food, the only place that’s open all night around here …
I park my Illinois tagged car, suddenly feeling like a stranger in my own place, walk in and see a new set of faces hunched over their greasy food or drink, a whole new generation I guess. Even the staff is different. Time has passed, I realize.
I sit down, Rania bounces in in a bit …
Rania, whom I’ve known since my first memory, closer to me than my sisters, Rania who figures in so many things. Can we be as close as we used to be? What if I tell her? Will she hate me?
And as she sits, she asks, “Where’s uh Katy?”
“She was tired,” I explain, “so she stayed at the house.”
“Too bad; I’ve been wanting to meet her.”
“Well, maybe tomorrow, yeah?”
And we launch into what’s happening. Rania concerned how I’m doing, what’s up with Hisham? Curse him, I always knew he was a rat … her dad, mine, business is of course down for both of them, hopefully just because it is for everyone. She passed a gas station on 29 where they were selling 67 cents a gallon … unbelievable. And now a war. Her Samir is wondering if they’ll have to leave the country …
“Well, we can always try and pass,” I say.
“As white?”
“Yeah.”
“Easier for you,” she laughs. I have to agree.
More chatter and finally I come around to saying:
“Rania, there’s something that I think you need to know about me …”
“That you’re gay?” she says in an offhand way.
My jaw must have dropped open …
“Yes, how did you know?”
She laughs.
“It’s me Amina, I’ve always known. And better than you, huh?”
I’m stunned. Barely able to nod.
“Katy’s your girlfriend, isn’t she?”
I nod. “How’d you know?”
“Do you ever listen to yourself?” she’s grinning and imitates my voice. “’Katy is so cool, she’s sooo pretty and sooo smart and she knows Old English and she’s got such pretty hair.’ “
“I sound like that?”
“Yeah.”
“That obvious huh? But …”
“’Mina! No buts … as long as I can remember you’ve always been like that about someone. Ms. Burton, Hind, Lori, on and on … ‘oh isn’t she soo beautiful’ … and never once about a guy …”
“Hisham?” I counter.
“No, you were all ‘he’s smart and he’s funny and he’s educated’, but not once about him being cute!”
“Really?” I’m shocked.
“Nope, never about a guy. Remember when we used to sit here and Nour or me or Khadija would say something about a guy?”
“Yeah, you were all horndogs!”
“Uh huh, and you never joined in and would change the subject.”
“So you knew all this time, huh?”
“Not knew, suspected is more like it. But I can follow your eyes as easily as anyone and …”
“So why didn’t anybody tell me?”
“What, ‘hey Amina, you’re a fag!’, like that you mean? What would you do?”
“Start reading Quran?”
“Yup. Heck, I am pretty sure I straight up asked you a bunch of times and every time you changed the subject or got self righteous.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah, huh.”
“So you’ve been ready for me to come out, right? For how long?”
“Maybe since we met Hind.”
“Ten years. Damn. You knew. I didn’t. Damn.”
She says nothing.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What would that have done? I figured you knew you were gay, but were just scared.”
“yeah, more or less.”
“So, you’re still Muslim, right?”
“Well yeah,” I say. “but I’m a sinner now.”
“So what do y’all,” she finally looks embarassed, “you know, what do y’all like do?”
“What?”
“I mean, you and Katy …”
“You’re asking me about lesbian sex?”
“Yeh. Is it like different?”
“I guess,” I shrug. “I mean it’s way better than with Hisham, that;s for sure. But maybe that’s just because, well I’m gay, right?”
“yeah.”
“So does this change stuff between us?” I ask.
“No, I knew, idiot! I’m just glad you finally figured out too …”
And that was how I first came out to the first person in my family; no shock, no dismay … just an ‘of course’. And Rania and I stayed thick as thieves even if she was a happily married, covered, conservative Muslim housewife and I was … well, me.
She met Katy the next day; they got along famously … and we kept it our secret for a long time … eventually I did move back to Atlanta and came out to my parents but that, as the poet says, is another story.
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