A Christian Funeral

Attending funerals, or simply visiting the graveyard is highly recommended in Islam, to remind one of one's own mortality, and how all life is a gift from the Creator, and may be taken away at any moment. Yet, it’s been a few too many funerals for me lately. And I was not even affected directly, since I wasn't particularly close to any of the deceased. My recent flurry of funeral attendance reminded me of the imams’ admonition to: "Live each day as if it is your last"—not including drinking up the Henessey as if it's going outta style, aiight.:-). In all seriousness, a funeral is a call to that profound aphorism "Practice random acts of kindness, and senseless acts of generosity."

That said, I was a bad girl, and cut class this morning to go to the funeral of a close friend of my mother, named Lou. The funeral was at 11:00 am in Perry Hall, an hour drive from me. The summer course I am taking meets at 9:00 am, so cutting class was the only way I could attend. Arnold Schwarzennager (my physics prof) better understand.

I was glad I went. Ellen, the widow, seemed strengthened by having so many caring friends and relatives around. Nonetheless, it hurt to look in her eyes, and see the loneliness which accompanies the realization that one will never again see one's best friend and beloved companion on this earth. And Lou had, without a doubt, been just that to her.

To me, Lou and Ellen symbolize the best of the Christian faith, walking in the Path of Hazrat Isa (Jesus--AS). They were high school sweethearts who, in defiance of the statistics, married at a young age and stayed married. They played tennis competitively, cooked, danced, socialized, and participated in church and many other activities, always together.

Then Lou developed diabetes at a relatively young age—a surprise for his family, since he was not overweight, led an active lifestyle, and followed a healthy diet, consuming no red meat nor alcohol, and few sweets. The disease progressed unusually rapidly, indicating a significant genetic component.

Following mainstream medical protocols (“if it don’t work, chop it off”), he was soon amputated just below one knee, and became wheelchair bound. Months later, the other leg was taken. Because of this, he was unable to perform many of the household tasks he’d considered his responsibility as “man of the house,” a circumstance which depressed him greatly. He worried how his delicately built, very feminine wife would handle the gamut of household chores, while continuing to work outside the home.

Ellen reassured Lou that everything would be okay. She embarked on a weight training program, which enabled her to perform the tasks he’d done. She was pleasantly surprised to find she could now lift his wheelchair into the car trunk, which she'd previously struggled to do, allowing his inclusion on many outings. As Lou’s health deteriorated, Ellen’s rose to new heights, as she gained strength from lifting weights and won more tennis matches than ever. Her real estate sales soared, she bought a Lexus, and she and Lou moved into a new home. She looked beautiful, vibrant, and full of life. And she stayed with Lou—loving and caring for him till the end.

The pews of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church were two-thirds occupied, a significant turnout in this large church, and testament to the many lives Lou had touched. The service was heavy on Catholic ritual, to which I don't subscribe, but very interesting nonetheless.

My brother and I were there primarily to accompany my mother, who had been close friends with Lou and Ellen since we moved to Baltimore around 1986. My mother then worked as a real estate agent in an all-white brokerage. As a hijabi Muslim woman, she met snide remarks from co-workers, who speculated that she would never make it in real estate “with that thing on her head.” By then, Lou had risen to the position of office manager. He assured her that the nay sayers knew nothing, and that she would excel. He supported and encouraged her every step of the way. Under his tutelage, she rose to become the top selling agent in the office.

As the service continued, communion was offered, and my mother, who seemed a bit dazed and confused was about to take it, when I told her the significance of it. For a Muslim to take communion is about as appropriate as a Baptist to perform the Muslim sujood (putting one's head to the ground in prayer).

My roving eyes noticed a tall, handsome, built bald man in suit and tie sitting in the front pews. He cried openly, albeit in manly fashion, during the service. I appreciate a man who is not ashamed to cry. Later, he served as one of the pall bearers, and I learned that he was Lou's cousin.

Then, it was time to walk to the graveyard, which adjoined the church. In contrast to the emotion-filled church service, the burial was conducted in what seemed to me, a rather cold, business-like fashion. Before I knew it, it was over, and we were marched back to the church. Muslim burials--which entail ghusul, or washing of the corpse by (same sex) family members of the deceased; ritualistic throwing of handfuls of earth into the grave by male family members; and namaz-e-jinaza, or funeral prayer, conducted at the gravesite--are more elaborate and afford more physical contact/proximity with the corpse and with nature, an unmuted reminder to funeral-goers of the inevitability of death, and of the Hereafter.

The burial was followed by a banquet. My brother and I itched to leave, but stayed on a while longer to keep our mother company. As a consequence, we were introduced to Lou and Ellen's relatives and friends.

Lou and Ellen's son, Jeff, who attended the same high school (Perry Hall) as I, looked sharp in a crisp oxford shirt and tie. I'd met him on a previous occasion, and he seemed to be a well-adjusted young man. The joys of his high school graduation were dimmed by his father’s amputation a few years later. At first, the youth was rebellious at the added responsibility resulting from his father's condition, but soon came to cooperate with Ellen in the running of the household. Since the funeral was attended largely by older people, I was pleased to see Jeff surrounded by a group of young friends, offering him support. He greeted us, and said he planned to continue living at home for some while to make sure his mother was okay.

In between sampling hors d'oeuvres, I met Lou's sister, named Eleanor.

(Aside)
Lou's wife = Ellen
Ellen's best friend = another Ellen
Lou's sister = Eleanor

Ellen + Ellen + Eleanor = Mass confusion!

So, I met/greeted the Ellens/Eleanors, all of whom treated my mother as if she were family. Then it was over to the rainbow table.

Eleanor's daughter (ie, Lou's niece), named Christine, is lesbian. She was there with her partner. Both of them are very open about their sexual orientation. Since both Lou and Ellen's families are quite conservative, I wondered how Christine's announcement of her orientation was received and (later) asked my mother about this. My mother said the family did not take the news well initially, but eventually came to accept it.

My mother seemed to know everyone, from friends and relatives of Lou's, to associates of hers from real estate days. She introduced me to Bill Parisi, a multimillionaire banker friend, who used to process her loans for her. Perhaps my prejudice, but he had the character and charisma of, well, a rock.

I was re-introduced to Anne Kemp, a real estate agent friend of my mother’s and Ellen’s, whom I'd met briefly, years prior. Anne was beautiful, with blazing red hair and bright blue eyes. Her husband had passed away a few years earlier. Eleanor’s husband died a little more than a year ago. And now Ellen’s Lou had returned to the Creator. All three men had been relatively young. Undoubtedly, life and death are the dominion of the Creator. And yet, as I left the funeral, I could not help but think that at least some of this suffering and premature aging/death were linked to the Great American diet.

Wild Beasts

I had an energizing speed walk at Down's Park today, just short of an hour. I went there with my mother, but we walked separately, at our own pace. Down's, off course, is on the Chesapeake Bay, and the number and variety of sea birds found there is always impressive, but today was extraordinary. An astounding thousand or more scaup and other wild diving ducks (which I couldn't definitively ID without binoculars, as they were at a distance from the shore) dotted the vast blue expanse. I finished the walk, my eyes relishing the majesty of the sparkling blue water with every step. It was a perfect walk--almost.
I was doing my cool down (three to five minutes, per 55 minute walk) when I heard someone screaming as if being murdered. Off to one side of the walking path, and adjacent to the Bay lies a small, sheltered pond with an observation deck. It seems a perfect refuge for waterfowl from the ravages of the ocean, particularly on days when the Chesapeake is rough. A pair of beautiful wild swans have taken up residence there; on my last visit, I observed what I believed to be a nest on the far side of the pond (fortuitously unapproachable from the observation deck).

The swans were there today. To my horror, they were being assailed by three little white girls who stood on the deck screaming at the top of their lungs, as one might at a charging grizzly bear. Their father (or whoever the in-duh-vidual was) was sitting placidly on a bench a couple feet away, watching.

"Where in hell is the park ranger, when you need one?" I thought.

I walked onto the deck and stood a few feet away from the girls, who briefly rested their lungs. They screamed again, though not as vociferously, perhaps due to my presence. Again, not a peep from the father-adult.

Since I'm not a parent, I try very hard to keep out of other peoples' child discipline issues, but this desecration of nature (noise pollution) put me on the warpath. I looked the girls in the eye and then over at their father and said sternly, "I'm a biologist, and I really wouldn't recommend screaming in such a manner around here. It's up to you, but it stresses the animals, and is not very good for them." They looked rather stunned, as though the idea was totally alien to them. I walked away slowly, and sat on some nearby rocks watching the diving ducks. Miraculously, the screaming had stopped. I wondered if these children thought it okay to carry on in similar fashion in a kindergarden class, or in their family home, let alone in the perfect tranquility of a park---clearly a sanctuary for wildlife.

Tomorrow, I think I'll get a dog.:-)

Seattle to Join Boycott?

I arrived in Seattle late Thursday. It is a picturesque town, very hilly (somewhat as I'd envisioned San Franciso), and rife with of economic disparity. I'd heard that it also had a reputation for being anti-corporate and anti-war (recall the city was the site of major demonstrations against the WTO a few years back). Indeed, soon after arriving, I saw signs calling for the impeachment of President Bush.

In the first area I visited (off International Boulevard) there were several halal meat/grocery shops on one block, a kebab house, and an Abysinnian resturant. I bought some figs, bananas, and apples for breakfast from the halal meat store. A Somali sister worked the cash register, and several other East African looking women in hijab visited the store while I was there. I asked the Somali for directions to the mosque. It was only a few blocks away. Enroute, I saw a hijab-clad Muslim woman walking along the hilly road, carrying an umbrella to shelter herself from the sun, at home as she might be in Cairo or Karachi.

This part of town seemed quite poor, with very small houses made of siding, many of them old and ramshackle.

Just blocks away was the gargantuan Boeing Plant, responsible for the manufacture of machines used to kill Muslims in other countries, perhaps the friends or relatives of some of those living here.

The East African Muslims in this neighborhood were friendly and welcoming. I saw the mosque, but did not visit there yet. I will probably go there tomorrow and give them some NT boycott fliers.

I wound up going to juma'a prayers at the Eastside mosque. The road it's located on is discontinuous, and I spent half an hour looking for this mosque, after arriving in this upscale neighborhood. A chamelion-mosque? I had almost given up and was about to leave when I found it. The parking lot was full of benzes and BMWs.

I handed out about 100 boycott fliers, which were received without resistance. One Arab brother, after looking over the boycott flier, asked for a stack of them, and then set his son to distributing them.

It's funny that Starbucks, on which I personally squandered a goodly fraction of my income prior to the boycott, is named on the flier as one of the companies subject to boycott for their investment in Israel. And Seattle is one of the cities known for its independent coffee houses (including Seattle's Best, which even those of us stuck on the East Coast are familiar with), a dire challenge to the Starbucks monopoly. Together, Seattle and I will put Starbucks out of business:-)

Tomorrow, inshallah, I will take more boycott fliers to some of the progressive bookstores and coffeehouses in downtown Seattle.

May Allah reward the NT team which put together the materials educating people about Israeli apartheid. They have been a great help during my trip.

Baltimore’s Abu Ghraib

This Tuesday, I found out what it feels like to look into the eyes of a mother whose son has been beaten to death while in custody. Joey Gilbon's mother walked proud, carrying a picture of her son. She had beautiful dark brown skin, a crown of white hair, and deep contemplative eyes, which would make you cry if you looked into them long enough. I hugged her, hardly knowing what to say. "Your son will not be forgotten," I managed to mumble.

I stood with her and the mothers at the entrance of Baltimore's Central Booking Facility on Falls Way and Madison Street. They were there to protest the deaths of their loved ones in custody. So they were in jail in Iraq, you say? Nope, right here, in AmeriKKKa.

Twenty-seven people, mostly black, have died in custody at Central Booking and City Jail in recent months, while waiting to go to trial. Many of them were locked up for very minor, non-violent offenses, like non-payment of child support, or loitering.

Baltimore's zero tolerance law prohibits assembly in certain areas. Although the law ostensibly is aimed at drug dealers, it means that a city resident who steps outside his house, if it happens to be in an area targeted by "law enforcement," may be arrested after one or two warnings. (The zero tolerance laws are also an attack on the First Amendment freedom of assembly of some sectors of society--but that is a separate issue.) So, in effect, some of the detainees held at Central Booking were locked up for standing outside their own homes. And while there, they could be the target of murderous prison guards.

One of the recent murders was of 52-year old Raymond Smoots, who was beaten so badly by guards that his family could barely recognize his body. But, his mother was determined to fight for justice in her son's case. In the days leading up to the protest, she stood on a West Baltimore street corner with activists handing out leaflets with the heading "Is Baltimore's Central Booking our Abu Ghraib?" It was from her that I learned of the protest.

The protest was called by the Emergency Coalition for Justice, an umbrella organization which included many of the families of the victims, the All-Peoples Congress, the Million Worker March Movement, the Nation of Islam, the Troops Out Now Coalition, and others. I found out about the protest too late, otherwise, I'd have recommended that Jamaat al-Muslimeen add its endorsement.

At the start of the rally, the organizers symbolically wrapped yellow police tape around the front steps of the Central Booking facility, calling it a crime scene, and demanding the prosecution of the prison guards and police responsible for the deaths in custody. They charged that prisoners were forced to lie in their own vomit and that essential medicines were withheld from other prisoners. One, who had AIDS, was denied anti-retroviral medication, and another, a diabetic, was refused his insulin. A female detainee, Debby Epifanio, died after being denied her medicine.

Despite the heat advisory, nearly 300 people showed up for the rally. Most were people of color. I was pleased to see there was a significant youth continent--mostly anarchists and predominantly white.

Some of the mothers spoke. Other speakers included an NAACP representative in stunning African garb, a Nation of Islam representative, a Christian minister, and others. Notably absent were the "Sunni" Muslims.

Strange, I thought, the NOI Muslims don't pray (formally). But they work for justice. The Sunni Muslims pray. But they (with notable exceptions) don't work for justice. Shouldn't one lead to the other?

A particularly interesting speaker was a prison guard, who decried the abuses of his co-workers, and apologized to the families for what they had endured. He wore shades and a hat to disguise himself so that he would not be fired from his job.

While the speakers blasted prisoner abuse and police brutality, I ran up and down the road handing out fliers explaining why we were there to passing motorists. An hour handing out fliers was like a Racism 101 class. Many of the motorists were leaning out of their car windows, clearly intrigued by the protest. Nearly all the black motorists to whom I offered the flier took it; the only black people who refused the flier were prison guards who were getting off work. But the majority of white motorists refused to take the flier. A white ex-convict, who said he'd spent twenty-five years in the facility we were protesting, helped me pass out the fliers. He said, "Sh--, the white people, they won't take it. They all close-minded." It seemed a willful ignorance of injustice.

The rally over, it was time to march.

"Stop the killing, stop the lies, Raymond Smoots didn't have to die!" we chanted as we marched around Central Booking. The facility is a veritable modern day dungeon, encompassing several city blocks, with thick concrete walls protected by cameras and electronic gates.

On the next block, we found ourselves strolling along side the City Jail. It is a dilapidated old brick structure with grates and barbed wire covering the windows on every floor. We turned the corner, chanting, "Tear down the walls," and "No justice, no peace!" The prisoners could hear us, and some of them yelled back words of appreciation and encouragement. I could almost hear some of my reactionary relatives and colleagues saying, "Would you prefer if these common criminals were running the streets?"

But, the real criminals fill the corporate boardrooms, the halls of Congress, and the Oval Office; they are never the ones to be warehoused when they can't afford bail or a good lawyer.

For Peace in Pasadena

Pasadena still seems very much of a Republican stronghold. In the run-up to the election, nearly every yard on one street I observed was littered with pro-Bush signs. Confederate flags are common place here. The local high school athletic center is named Cecil Rhodes Stadium (after the white supremacist leader of the former Rhodesia). A few months ago, a 15-year old black high school student was killed--allegedly by four older white males--at a party, where he dared appear with his white girlfriend. Some of the accused killers were charged only with manslaughter, and it appeared that charges against the others would be dropped, until the boy's mother raised hell, and the NAACP intervened on her behalf. Hardly the ideal town in which to hold an anti-war protest. Or so I thought.

On March 19, wonder of wonders, I attended a small but spirited protest held by local Pasadena peace activists. Yes, there is such a group! The protest marked the anniversary of the illegal war (held in conjunction with worldwide anti-war protests that day). It was held on a small, well-located bridge on one of the busiest streets in Pasadena (heavily travelled that morning, perhaps due to the football game at the nearby high school). We stood on the bridge, our placards instructing drivers to "Honk for Peace." All six of us. Not exactly the massive DC-area protest that I'm used to, but the sincerity and commitment of the participants compensated for the numbers. The slogans on the placards were rather subdued (my dissident self might have preferred a bit stronger language). But the restrained language perhaps reflected the sagacity of the organizers, who said they'd been protesting in the same spot regularly, since the beginning of the war.

Everyone in the group seemed very genuinely nice. Linda, the organizer, is a retired GWU history professor. I asked in what area of history she specialized. The answer: "Women in military history." I was intrigued and resolved to explore the subject further with her. She seemed very well informed on Middle East issues, and we chatted a bit about the courage of the Israeli "refuseniks" (conscientious objectors in the IDF). She corrected my notion that display of the Confederate Flag (displayed on many of the pickup trucks which drove by us) necessarily made one a racist and pro-war. The Confederate Flag means different things to different people, she explained. Her students were fortunate to have had a professor who made them think outside the box.

Another woman, who is also an environmentalist, had just returned from a trip to Chile. Quite an outgoing group. I felt rather humbled to be amongst these leaders, who had stood protesting on the bridge before it became fashionable to be against the war, flinching neither at eggs nor curses thrown by ignorant passersby, while I hid amongst the 100,000+ protestors in Washington, DC area actions held during the same time period.

A Moment of Silence

Is there a new wave of propaganda against the Sudanese government to detract attention from the numerous and sundry anti-war actions around the anniversary of the illegal Iraq war this weekend? It seemed like something was underfoot, judging from my ordinarily apolitical Philosophy class today.

The kids in many of my college classes look really young. I mean, junior high (or in some cases, elementary school) young. One of the elementary school-looking kids, a tiny white boy with a perfect bowl-over-the-head haircut walked into the Philosophy class ("Intro to Moral Theory") with an agenda. He mumbled something to the prof about "Sudan" and "moment of silence." The Prof, named Jim, a young-ish redneck type from Arkansas, complete with accent and jackshirt (but not necessarily attitude) to match, is perpetually late. Today he arrived ten minutes late and was in a hurry to start the class, and so rapidly brushed off Elementary School Boy after agreeing to the latter's mumbled request. Jim lectured for a half hour on Kant and Hume and their views on the origin of morality. When it was almost 3:00, he stopped his lecture and handed over the floor to the Elementary School Boy.

Elementary School Boy introduced his subject, "Sudan is a country in Africa, where terrible killings are taking place. The Sudanese goverment has attempted to force 'Shari'a' or Islamic Law on the country..." He went on a la O'Reilly that the Sudanese government had turned a blind eye to the Jan, Janja-weed, killing of non-Muslims in Darfur," stumbling over the word "Janjaweed." "No one knows for sure how many had been killed there, but it could easily be 300,000."

No one moved. In an honors class, with very bright, young students who actually read, everyone was sitting there, swallowing the propaganda.

Prof was adding his two cents: "And as you say, nothing is being done about this. So, just like the Nazi Holocaust, or the Rwanda genocide, just knowing about a horrible tragedy is not enough to get people to act. Like Hume would say, reason is not enough to elicit action. Sentiment, or how you feel about something is what finally gets you to act."

Sudan...what in hell did this have to do with Philosophy, I thought. "Excuse me, but I don't agree with you, " I abruptly told Elementary School Boy. "Actually the Sudanese government HAS done everything it could to stop the killings including applying corporal punishment to Janjaweed militia members. The stats that you mention are very questionable. No one who quotes them seems to be able to identify their source, and the number is probably highly exaggerated. We tend to demonize governments and individuals against whom we have an agenda, as we did in Iraq, but things are not black and white."

The Elementary Boy had a slightly agaust look on his face, which said "You can't be saying this." He had no answers. Jim stepped in suavely and said, "Okay, I don't want to turn this into a debate. It's almost three o'clock. Do we want to have the moment of silence, or not?"

They held the moment of silence. When it was over, I said, "Considering that it is the anniversary of the invasion of Iraq on Saturday, perhaps it would be more appropriate to hold a moment of silence for the 100,000 Iraqis who have died as a result of our aggressive war." "Yeah sure," quipped Jim, trying to turn it into a joke. "Anyone else want a moment of silence?" So it was that the class, complete with its collection of rednecks, drawn from the local KKK-supporting population for which Catonsville (location of my University of Maryland campus) is famous, held a moment of silence for the Iraqi dead.

Stranger things have come to pass.

Some Afterthoughts

Suppose even one tenth the number of alleged Sudanese deaths occurred. That would mean 30,000 dead African brothers and sisters--a tragedy which should concern any person of conscience. That said, I am deeply suspicious of the motives behind the current "Free Darfur" campaign, since it carries a veiled threat of U.S. intervention in yet another independent sovereign nation. Only after my interlude with Elementary School Boy did I learn of the sponsor of the Moments of Silence--Hillel. Evidently the Moments of Silence were part of a coordinated Hillel campaign at campuses around the country. The questions I would ask: Since when did Zionist Jews become so concerned about human rights in Africa? Considering Israel's treatment of the Palestinians, what high moral ground have they? And why the call for moments of silence for Sudan at this particular time?

Hillel has not, to my knowledge called for moments of silence for victims of the Iraq war. It seems to me that would be much more appropriate for three reasons: 1) the U.S. was directly responsible for the murders of innocent Iraqis; 2) unlike the numbers of Sudanese dead, the numbers of Iraqi war victims have been thoroughly documented (in the British Medical Journal, the Lancet); 3) this past week--when Hillel was conducting its moments of silence for Sudan--was the anniversary of the illegal U.S. invasion.

In Darfur, the U.S. is, for once, innocent of direct involvement in the killings. Unlike in Iraq, Darfurian civilian deaths are not the consequence of U.S. taxdollars at work. This is not to say we should not be concerned about Sudan, but we should question the motives of propaganda which demonizes an independent Third World nation. If, as in the Iraqi case, a successful Zionist-instigated Free Darfur propaganda campaign transitions into a Free Darfur military campaign, the consequence may be the lives of hundreds of thousands more Sudanese.

Imperialist propaganda directed at Third World nations--particularly those revealing any semblance of independence from Western powers--assumes a predictable pattern:

PANAMA INVASION: "Noriega is a drug dealer. He's not governing his country responsibly. Panamanians are oppressed under him. He needs to be removed." U.S. overthrows and imprisons Noreiga.

AFGHANISTAN INVASION: "Taliban are bad. They abuse their women. Everybody hates Taliban. So let's help the Afghans." U.S. bombs Afghanistan to smithereens, installs puppet in Kabul, and takes control of Afghan natural gas and other natural resources.

IRAQ INVASION: "Iraq's leaders are bad. They killed Kurds in Halabcha (during the Iran-Iraq war, with U.S. support). Iraqis hate Saddam. So, let's go liberate them." U.S. destroys Iraq, installs yes-man, and pilfers Iraq's oil and other natural resources.

HAITI: "Haitians are starving under Aristide (nevermind the U.S. veto of all World Bank and other aid to Haiti during Aristide's last term). He's had years to improve conditions for his people and he couldn't do it. Maybe it's time for a change." U.S. kidnaps Aristide. Pro-U.S. government is installed.

Documentation for 300,000 Sudanese dead is nonexistent to my knowledge. I am still looking for it, and will look at the U.N. website today (recall that the U.N. refused to call it a genocide). Reports from independent observers which I find credible say killings have taken place, but that the numbers are much lower than is spewed by the U.S. media. Recall that the U.S. was funding the SPLA (Christian militia) in Southern Sudan. So while the Khartoum government was trying to contain the SPLA (U.S.- instigated) rebellion, the situation in Darfur was deteriorating. By the time the Sudanese government turned its attention to Darfur, many killings had already occurred. The government imposed harsh measures against the Janjaweed militia carrying out the atrocities, including literally cutting off the hands of a number of them, in accordance with Sharia (Islamic Law).

My opinion is that Americans are finally realizing that they were completely and utterly duped into attacking Iraq, and that public sentiment is finally turning against the war. The DOD cannot simply keep issuing denials of reports on torture and other violations of the Geneva Conventions, which are now carried even by the NY Times and BBC among mainstream media. So Darfur is the red herring, which will keep the outrage of the U.S. masses distracted from the consequences of their own government's genocide, and from demanding resignation, impeachment, and other actions in a system where elected officials are ostensibly answerable to their constituents.

“Taliban Country”—Film Review

In this age of CNN and O'Reilly, "Taliban Country" is a documentary that restores dignity to the word "journalist." Carmela Baranowska, an Australian filmmaker, was originally embedded with U.S. marines in Afghanistan's remote Uruzgan Province. The mission of the marines is to "hunt for Taliban and Al-Qaida." They are under the command of Asad Khan--the only "Muslim" to have attained the rank of lieutenant colonel in the U.S. military. Together with Jan Muhammad, a Pushtun warlord, who cooperates with U.S. troops, they regularly patrol Uruzgan villages.

Baranowska's camera effectively captures the tranquility of the Afghan village. Birds are singing, children are playing, and one can almost feel the breeze circulating through the sunny courtyards of the traditional Afghan clay houses. The viewer gets a sense of what (state) terrorism means, when the marines descend upon this quietly serene village, with submachine guns and RPGs drawn, breaking down doors, and violating the sanctity of households. I was struck by the similarity in the behavior of the U.S. military with that of the Red Army--with their infamous house-to-house searches during the Russian occupation of Afghanistan, also aimed at striking terror in the hearts of the Afghan population.

Still, in this scene, perhaps due to Baranowska's presence, the troops are relatively restrained. They find no Taliban, instead arresting a young local, named Janan, and confiscating only nine guns. Janan is turned over to Warlord Jan Muhammad for questioning. His interrogation of the young man is little more than a steady stream of explicit Pashto epithets, capable of making the most seasoned hoodlum in the American inner city blush. Jan Muhammad, master of homosexual innuendo, is the quintessential U.S. approved/appointed Afghan "leader," in the Karzai/Dostum tradition: ego ridden, power hungry, and willing to sell out his people for a small price. The contrast between the arrogant and scurrilous speech of this Tom, and the humility of the soft-spoken Taliban leadership so demonized in the U.S. controlled media is inescapable.

The marines and Jan Muhammad, accompanied by Baranowska, visit a second village, called Passau. They sit down with the townspeople to discuss their concerns. Despite the threat posed by armed U.S. troops and by the ruthless warlord, a villager bravely tries to raise questions about abuses enacted by the U.S. military. He is quickly silenced, by the marines' translator, who condescendingly tells him his concerns are more appropriate as a post-evening prayer topic.

Baranowska, a seasoned journalist with years of experience investigating atrocities in E. Timor and elsewhere, is immediately suspicions. She decides to return..unembedded--to the area, to find out what is really underfoot. She returns first to Janan's village of Masazai. Janan tells her that U.S. troops can't capture any Taliban fighters, so they make a show of nabbing innocent and helpless villagers like him.

She learns that militias like Jan Muhammad's exploit the U.S. presence in the region to gain the upper hand over their traditional tribal allies. Tribe I turns Tom, and falsely accuses their rival, Tribe II, of harboring Taliban. U.S. marines attack Tribe II based on false information provided by Tribe I. Atrocities are committed against Tribe II, which then vows revenge against Tribe I. Thus the exogenous U.S. presence fuels civil war, exacerbating conflicts which otherwise would be minimal and fought on equal footing. Imperialist instigated civil war is an old theme, common to many countries suffering from U.S. "democratization."

Baranowska returns to Passau, where the villagers had raised questions about U.S. troops' atrocities. The reason why this issue was censored during her previous visit immediately becomes apparent. In a raid conducted June 23, 2004, U.S. helicopters landed in the village fields and destroyed the crops, setting the stage for what was to come. According to the villagers, the troops broke china, pottery, and anything else they could find. They hacked through the mosque door, threw Qur'ans on the ground, and defecated in residents' living rooms. Thirty-five villagers were arrested, and taken away by helicopter to be interrogated by U.S. troops. Some were threatened that they would be taken to Guantanomo. The prisoners were tagged like animals before they were finally released.

The filmmaker finds that the villagers have been physically and sexually abused by the troops. Noor Muhammad Lala, a village elder wearing turban and traditional Afghan baggy pants and shirt sorrowfully tells his story. "They tied my hands and put me in a container," he says. He was then forced to take off all his clothes, and spread-eagled against the wall. Marines pulled at his testicles and jabbed at his anus. The elder had a bladder problem and became incontinent in front of his captors who stood laughing at his predicament. I could not help thinking of the resemblance to my own dear, elderly Afghan (ex-)father-in-law, his long white beard, gaunt face with hollow cheeks, and gentle manner. How would I feel if this were done to him?

Wali Muhammad, Noor Muhammad's son, was also held for questioning. The marines beat him, fingered his anus, and took pictures of him naked. There were twenty marines according to Wali Muhammad, and they stood around laughing and taking pictures of the nude captives. He and the others were held for three days, he says; they become hungry and repeatedly asked for food, but were denied it. An elderly woman, whose veil was removed and who was subjected to a body search, tells of the village women being pushed around by the troops. " We'd prefer death to this humiliation," the villagers tell Baranowska.

Back in Masazai, she learns that Major Cook, of the Civil Affairs Unit, has just visited. One of the village leaders tell her that Cook tried to give him medicines, corn seed, and a radio. Cook asked him if he needed anything. He told Cook, in a message that might have been the cry of the Afghan nation:

"We don't need anything. Don't humiliate us. Don't rob our country. Don't commit crimes. We don't need anything."

Before leaving Uruzgan, Baranowska returns to Passau a final time. The villagers tell her that "due to abuse and maltreatment by the marines," almost all of the families are gone. Of a village of two hundred, only fifteen or twenty people remain. How history repeats itself, I think to myself: During the Soviet occupation, too, millions of Afghans left their homes and possessions to escape life under occupation. Afghans are a dignified people for whom honor and respect are everything. Time and time again, they have chosen exile or death to life under occupation.

The film ends with a footnote that with the initial release of "Taliban Country," the army launched an inquiry into the abuses. They confirmed the detention of thirty-five villagers on June 23, 2004. Answering questions after the screening of her work at the University of Maryland Baltimore Country (UMBC), Baranowska told students that the inquiry had found the charges against the marines to be unsubstantiated; Lt. Colonel Asad Khan had been removed from his position; no others had been prosecuted. Baranowska has called for an independent inquiry.

An audience member at the UMBC screening, who said she and her husband worked for an aid organization in Kandahar, tried to convince the predominantly student audience that the film was an unfair treatment of the U.S. military, and that a tiny minority of U.S. troops engaged in this sort of behavior. I wondered, "Do you think your aid would be needed over there, if the U.S. hadn't gone in and destroyed that country in the first instance?" I politely remarked to her that wartime atrocities by occupying troops are statistically underreported, not over reported, and that the numbers were probably much higher. The bar on war crimes was set early on in the Afghan War, with the U.S. refusal to prosecute members of the Dostum militia who massacred prisoners in Mazar-e-Sharif; and the U.S. troops who murdered Taliban by suffocation in metal boxes. I commended Baranowska for her courage and integrity in reporting the reality of the situation in Afghanistan. U.S. presence in Afghanistan violates the sovereignty of that country, and U.S. troops there, as in Iraq, are occupiers. Hence their behavior is not surprising.

Baranowska's findings cry out for a war crimes investigation.

Eid Mubarak

January 21 is the death anniversary of my son, Hanzela. He was born in Lahore, Pakistan, on November 13, 1989, and returned with me to the States by the end of that year. Three months later, he died of SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) in our suburban family home.

When he was born, I named him Hanzela in honor of the great Afghan freedom fighter of the same name, who was martryed fighting against the British in the earlier part of the century, and whose name is folklore amongst the Afghans. My great aunt, Shima, who was also my son's godmother, called my son "Khairat Muhammad." I never quite understood the name, and was rather irked by her insistence at referring to him as such. "Khairat," off course meant charity, and Muhammad (SAW) was the last in the line of great Prophets, and to whom the Qu'ran was revealed. But why "Charity of Muhammad (SAW)"?

Today as I watch the state of affairs in the world, I wonder what would have become of Hanzela had he lived. Would he have died of suffocation in a tin box, at the hands of U.S.-sponsored warlords somewhere in the Hindu Kush? Would be be one of those held indefinitely on a small island concentration camp, charged with no crime, and tortured from time to time depending on the mood of the torturers? Or would he be in a tiny U.S. cell, awaiting deportation for being the wrong race, religion, creed?

My son's death is a blessing. It is Allah's constant reminder to me that death and life are His dominion, and His dominion alone; even those who exhibit perfect health and youth, like my son, may meet death any instant, if He wishes. I believe it is meant to remind me to live each day as if it were my last, and that I will indeed be held accountable for all my actions in the Hereafter.

Today is also Eid ul-Adha. How appropriate the coinciding of the dates. I think of my cherubic, bubbling son and how I awoke one morning to suddenly find him dead. I look over at the green Book sitting on my bed side table. "Authority belongs to Allah alone," it says to me. Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) (AS), when he chose to sacrifice his son, at Allah's command, recognized just this command:Innal Hukumo Illah Lillah. Perhaps it is this special reminder from Allah that is the "Charity of Muhammad" to me.

This Eid day, let us remember that Authority belongs to Allah alone, and not to any human being, no matter how large an armada they may amass, and let us pray for the Muslims fighting injustice and imperialism worldwide.

A Test of Faith

One of my core values is standing up for the rights of the oppressed. But it is not always easy, especially if doing so involves living in a hot dusty village in the Third World, at the mercy of bureaucratic red tape....

For several decades now, Pakistan has hosted a very large Afghan refugee population. This has helped the Afghans to survive the perpetual destruction of their county by the various superpowers. Unfortunately, it has also placed a tremendous drain on the Pakistan economy, creating deep-rooted resentment among many Pakistanis for the Afghan refugees. The treatment of Afghan refugees by Pakistani society may be likened to that of migrant workers by the U.S.

Asif, my ex-husband, was among those Afghans who fled to Pakistan when the war came to their country. He and his family lived in a hot, dusty sprawling refugee camp called Camp Munda Pul, near the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. In writing my book on the effects of war on Afghan refugee women, I stayed in this and other refugee camps. Every so often, Asif and I left the camp to travel into town (Peshawar), to buy groceries, toiletries and other supplies for his family, or to meet with various officials whom I wanted to interview. Frequently, we were stopped and harassed by Pakistani police, who resented seeing a Pakistani woman (which I appeared to be, in my native dress) with a lowly Afghan. They feigned concern for my safety: Perhaps I was being held against my will? Most of the time, the underpaid Paki cops just wanted a bribe. Since we generally refused to succumb to the bribe demand, Asif would periodically be marched off to the local police station and held for a few hours, until the cops realized he wasn’t going to pay up, and the Chief of Police showed up and demanded to know what his underlings were doing holding an innocent man.

But that was not the worst of it. Paki police frequently harassed refugee families, tearing down their tents, in clear violation of Qur'anic injunctions to support those who have performed hijarat. Asif’s family was relatively fortunate to have a mud hut in Camp Munda Pul, remote enough that it seemed to escape most of that negative attention. Asif’s female relatives rarely left the camp, and he was their liason with the outside world. Every time he went into town, I worried that he would be harassed. His brothers, tall, lanky, and bearded—clearly Afghan in their style of dress—were also frequently harassed by the authorities. For Asif and his brothers, getting a job in Pakistan, without the recommendation of a U.S. or European national, was nearly out of the question.

By this time, Asif and I were married, and I had filed for an immigrant visa for him. Originally, I’d planned to return to the States, and wait for him to follow me after his papers became available. Although I was teaching him to read and write English in our spare moments, I worried that his inability to understand follow-up paperwork through the lengthy immigration process would lay my efforts to waste, and that he would continue to suffer harassment at the hands of the Pakistani authorities while awaiting processing. A few weeks into the application process, I decided I would wait for my beloved husband to get immigration, and that we would return to the States together—or not at all.

I was worried that Asif’s immigration papers might not be delivered easily to a refugee camp address, and so taking a gamble, I took him to the house of my Aunt Shima (really my great aunt), just outside Lahore, Pakistan’s largest and oldest city. The U.S. Consulate was also in Lahore. Aunt Shima had never met Asif, and had not seen me in years. She disliked him instantly, and, it seemed, me--for my selection of a lowly Afghan, and that too, without first consulting her. But fortunately for Asif and I, Muslim customs dictate that one take in visitors even if one can’t stand them, and Aunt Shima extended us her hospitality.

My great aunt was a towering figure in her village. Her father had been a big land owner in the area, so much of the village property was now hers, although she occasionally gifted small plots of land to a villager getting married, starting a new business or some such. Her house was one of the few permanent structures in the village, the walls of its compound rising high over the smaller clay houses like a castle. It was probably the only house around for miles with marble floors, AC (albeit old fashioned), modern plumbing, and (cheesy, Pakistani) TV. The villagers were like her serfs, bringing her offerings of food, and requesting audiences of her, to seek resolution of their problems. And she, being a school teacher at heart (she had an MA in education from the University of WI), reciprocated by running a school—the only one around for miles—for their children in one wing of her compound.

So, our new abode was considerably more comfortable than Camp Munda Pul. But the puny efforts of the feeble, old-fashioned AC unit against the 110°F heat, and the periodic “load-shedding” (scheduled rolling power outages, common in India and Pakistan) made me long for home. The months rolled by, and the U.S. Consulate was taking its time in sending Asif’s paperwork. I called and badgered them periodically, to no avail. A Pakistani friend, who worked for the U.S. Consulate in Peshawar, told me they were probably checking us out, to make sure ours was not one of the many “paper marriages” between Pakistani/Afghans and U.S. citizens. Or that Asif wasn’t the sterotypical Afghan heroin smuggler. Ah well.

It hadn’t rained in weeks, dust was everywhere, and some parts of my aunt’s village were afflicted with TB. I was running out of money, patience, and time--as I was pregnant, with our first child. Common sense told me I should go home before my due date, so that I could be around my family and modern health facilities when the time came. But, my promise to my husband came first.

To preserve my sanity, I determined to maintain a regimen. For several hours each morning, I gave Asif his English lesson. Then, we would play badminton in the sweltering heat for an hour. After that, we had lunch, sometimes with my great aunt, if she had finished her teaching for the afternoon. After lunch, I tutored selected pupils from her school, and then washed clothes (by hand), since clothing tended to get sweaty very quickly in the heat.

Asif left for a visit to the refugee camp, to make sure his family was doing okay. I was even more miserable alone, tortured by thoughts of returning home. Shakespeare had it all wrong: To stay or not to stay—that was the question. Asif returned from the village and shortly thereafter, I delivered our first child in a clinic in Lahore. I stayed there for about a week, recuperating. My aunt and other relatives were incredibly kind and supportive, and even seemed to have developed a semblance of liking for Asif by this point. Yet, the whole experience was surreal, for I had never imagined I would birth a child in a “foreign” country.

After I felt strong enough, I paid the U.S. Consulate another visit, this time with my infant son, for whom I was requesting a U.S. passport. Incredibly, the U.S. authorities were very cooperative, delivering my son’s passport to me in a matter of days, and Asif’s papers shortly thereafter. The three of us returned to the U.S. to live happily ever after.

Fahrenheit 911 – Film Review

Michael Moore's film Fahrenheit 911, exhibits all the strengths and weaknesses of the liberal left. Moore, an outspoken opponent of the U.S. war on Iraq, brilliantly titles the film after science fiction writer Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. In the original sci-fi novel, it is the job of the firemen, who work for the authoritarian police state, to burn books. The temperature at which the book burning is achieved is 451 F. Moore's analogy here seems to be that the conditions under which unprovoked and–under international law–illegal war by a superpower on an independent, sovereign nation is achieved is when an incident such as 9-11 has occurred, or been permitted to occur.

Moore appropriately begins the film by reminding viewers of the conditions under which the "President" of the U.S. assumed office, focusing on the disenfranchisement of Black voters in several Florida counties. For readers of the NT Forum who have been following the reactionary role of Fox News in the railroading and blackballing of Muslim leaders and causes, Fahrenheit reveals an interesting point about Fox: With the polls still open on Election Day 2000, and all the major television stations broadcasting that Gore was well ahead in the Florida race, suddenly and gratuitously, the Fox News Channel announced that Bush had won that state. The other stations, embarrassed at their perceived mistake, quickly followed suit, retracting their original broadcasts and announced the putative Bush win–a win so dubious that the case eventually resulted in dozens of Congressional Hearings and ultimately wound up in the Supreme Court. But on Election Day, the announcement by Fox News of Bush's win might well have influenced results at the polls; more importantly it raised questions of whether Fox reported or fabricated the news. (For more on Fox News, see the critical documentary Outfoxed now playing in selected area theaters and available on video soon.)

In Fahrenheit 911, Moore uses humor to cover an otherwise heart-wrenching story: the story of a president who covers his own ineptitude in neglecting the national security interests of the country prior to 911 by going to war to destroy an innocent and defenseless Iraqi nation. Off over 500 members of the U.S. Congress, only one has a son or daughter in the armed forces in Iraq, says Moore, who in the movie is shown somewhat comically accosting these fast-retreating legislators before the cameras, audaciously requesting them to volunteer a son or a daughter to fight for freedom and democracy in Iraq. He rents an ice cream truck and drives around Capital Hill reading the Patriot Act over the loud speakers of the truck as a service to Congress members, who have signed away the First Amendment Rights of the people, with scarcely a glance at the text of the draconian bill they have signed.

Fahrenheit has the integrity to show extensive footage from un-embedded journalists: Iraqi children screaming with pain from napalm wounds, trucks laden down with civilian corpses, and the terror experienced by Iraqi women during house-to-house searches by U.S. soldiers. Moore's interviews with U.S. soldiers revealed the diversity of attitudes among these young men and women. One young black marine, a Muslim, said he preferred jail to being returned to Iraq to fight other people of color, who had done nothing to him. Another, a bespectacled Caucasian youth, reported that once the adrenaline was pumping, and the right music was playing in the tank or humvee, he would shoot up the enemy without qualm, preferably to the tune of "The roof is on fire..."

In a profoundly personal touch, Moore juxtaposes the bombed out areas in Iraq with scenes from his hometown of Flint, Michigan. Footage of Flint's slums with their rampant unemployment and ramshackle housing shows a striking resemblance to parts of Iraq. Ironically, this desperately poor U.S. town, and many others like it, is prime recruiting area for the U.S. military. Here, says Moore, the children of poor Blacks and Whites, who have few employment options, and often view the military as a means of paying for college, are picked up for military service–to go and kill the children of poor Iraqis.

In contrast with his clarity on the inhumanity of the war, Moore seems confused about the driving force to go to war. Through various interviews, Moore brings up the point that plans to attack Iraq were clearly laid out well before September 11. Perhaps the first quarter of the film amply emphasizes Bush's ineptitude, inaction, and his vacation panacea–when the going gets rough, the Prez goes on vacation. And Moore cuts poor Bush no breaks for going on one vacation after another early in his administration. In one scene, Bush appears in a Florida kindergarten classroom (actual footage) reading a children's book with the class as part of a photo-op. As he sits in the classroom, an aid enters to inform him that the first plane has crashed into the World Trade Center. The Commander-In-Chief remains exactly where he is in the kindergarten, calmly reading the kiddy book, with a slightly moronic look on his face. Moore's voice over explains that perhaps Bush's inaction stems from the fact that no secret service members are around to suggest an appropriate response to the President. It is clear from this and numerous other scenes that Moore might not put money on Bush's intellectual ability.

Someone more focused, agenda-driven, and amoral even than Bush had to come up with a plan to attack Iraq--in defiance of the Security Council, the U.N. General Assembly, the EU, and NATO; in contempt of traditional U.S. allies France and Germany; and in utter disregard for worldwide protests. And that someone had to be determined enough to persevere with the plan, even if no WMDs were found; even if the U.S. image and alliances throughout the world were tarnished; even if it meant years of U.S. occupation of Iraq, at costs threatening to bring down the U.S. economy; and even if it meant heightened hatred for U.S. imperial policies and increased risk of terrorist attacks on the U.S. itself. Yet the illustrious film-maker offers no suggestions as to the masterminds of such a well thought out scheme. Perhaps in consideration of his career as a Hollywood film-maker, Moore carefully sidesteps scrutiny of the political allegiances of the men formulating policy for the Bush Administration: Wolfowitz, Rumsfeld, Perle, or any of the other AIPAC affiliated-Neocons to whom Bush routinely reports. Interestingly, Wolfowitz and Perle, despite their vociferous and unabashed push to attack Iraq, barely appear in the film. Instead, Administration mouth pieces--Rice, Powell, and George Dubya himself–are shown repeatedly throughout the film. They are like puppets with unseen puppeteers.

The film spends considerable time exploring links between the "Saudi" royal family and the Bush family, and the fact that numerous Saudis were permitted unencumbered exit from the U.S. immediately after 9-11, when all other flights were grounded. Moore hints that perhaps these Saudis ought to have been detained and interrogated before they were sent on their merry way. He mentions joint investments by the Bush family and members of the Bin Laden family, intimating that the Bin Laden family might not be as estranged from Osama as previously believed, and that this, too, is cause for inquiry. Shockingly, the otherwise politically shrewd Moore seems almost completely unaware of the servile role of Saudi Arabia, and the subservience of its military, intelligence and judiciary to U.S. interests. Without the use of Saudi airspace and intelligence sharing, the "success" of both Gulf Wars, might have been in question. But no Saudi sits on the President's cabinet or in his closed circle of advisors which formulate U.S. foreign policy. Several self-described Israeli citizens, however, do sit on these boards, determining the allocation of U.S. taxpayers money. In his preoccupation with the Saudi royals' imaged role in 9-11 and his complete inattention to the very real Zionist role in the Iraq War, Moore misses the boat on who is the policymaker and who is the obsequious executor.

Sadly, the release of Fahrenheit 911 in the heat of the election summer and well after the decimation of the Iraqi population, leads one to wonder if Moore may be a dupe to the Other War Party–the Democrats.