A few days till I leave for what feels like an age.
My love/hate relationship with Old Blighty & lovley London is almost at an end and the imminent departure feels bitter sweet. I will miss the vibrant ‘Britishness’ of it all, the queuing, the transport bedlam, the long walks in the rambling Essex country side that I always pretend to hate but secretly love doing in near silence, walking besides the man who makes my heart sing.
I will miss the calm of living so anonymously and almost invisibly amongst a sea of people I will never ever see again. My taste buds will always think fondly of High teas in Devon to Dim sum in China Town, & Turkish delights in green lanes.
Yet of all the things that I hold dear it will be my dearest most wonderful friends that I will miss wholeheartedly as I head off to the desert winds and start the next chapter of my life. Impending adventures away from the wisdom of those incredible people that helped me form a better understanding of myself will be a strange challenge and I can only hope that the love I feel for them will continue to light up our communications via other modes.
Thank goodness for skype, for phones, for texts for tweets and even Facebook deserves a mention or an accolade for making it easier to feel the pulse ( all be it electronically) of those I love. Will look forward to finding out if distace truly makes the heart grow fonder or is it... makes the heart go wonder...Either way, its Good bye London, Hello Arabia
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Stars of Science shows of the power of homegrown Arab programing at its best
Like many young people, I grew up mesmerized by the power of Sesame Street. It taught me to read the alphabet before I made it to school; it exposed me to life changing themes like ‘co-operation’ and ‘listening’ and since those early memories of Educational TV I was hooked! Over the years as grew into a person who worked on TV shows rather than just consumed them I have been in search of that holy grail of the TV world and finally I’m thrilled to say… MOVE over Big Bird… The Edutainment Program Stars of Science has landed once more in the Arab world.
A brilliant Initiative of the Qatar Foundation the 9 week program is Educational TV at its best. Who could resist the powerful cocktail of young Arabs, a spirit of Innovation, and shared hopes & dreams to helps humanity. Like sesame Street before it (created as one of the first edutainment format designed to establish mental and emotional foundations for children) Stars of Science offers viewers who are bored of conventional and questionable reality TV formats a chance to watch a raft of young want to be inventors battling it out in front of a Jury to secure their place in a competition that could lead to their ideas moving from a concept to an actual product.
Considering the challenge of having had an entire generation of young people who were reared on a TV diet of trash TV, resulting in a crazy rise of want to be pop stars, it’s extremely refreshing to see scientists, academics and innovators hailed as the new heroes. My heart went out to each and every one of those innovators who stood up full of hope and presented their ideas for everything from Potatoes & people power to lab sampling equipment! Dr. Fouad (the Simon Cowell Mr Bad guy) of the Jury was firm in his feedback but even that didn’t deter the un-selected innovators who later confess in interviews that the experience has just made them more resolute in their vision and mission.
I was powerfully struck by this buoyant optimism of these young people, some who had traveled miles to attend the casting session and the power of a program to move people from where they are to where they want to be in an ethical & ecological way. By communicating clearly as the program did that you don’t have to be a pop star to be a hero, Stars of Science has unleashed a refreshing new and unlikely pin up. Looks like my Big Bird poster is about to be replaced!
A brilliant Initiative of the Qatar Foundation the 9 week program is Educational TV at its best. Who could resist the powerful cocktail of young Arabs, a spirit of Innovation, and shared hopes & dreams to helps humanity. Like sesame Street before it (created as one of the first edutainment format designed to establish mental and emotional foundations for children) Stars of Science offers viewers who are bored of conventional and questionable reality TV formats a chance to watch a raft of young want to be inventors battling it out in front of a Jury to secure their place in a competition that could lead to their ideas moving from a concept to an actual product.
Considering the challenge of having had an entire generation of young people who were reared on a TV diet of trash TV, resulting in a crazy rise of want to be pop stars, it’s extremely refreshing to see scientists, academics and innovators hailed as the new heroes. My heart went out to each and every one of those innovators who stood up full of hope and presented their ideas for everything from Potatoes & people power to lab sampling equipment! Dr. Fouad (the Simon Cowell Mr Bad guy) of the Jury was firm in his feedback but even that didn’t deter the un-selected innovators who later confess in interviews that the experience has just made them more resolute in their vision and mission.
I was powerfully struck by this buoyant optimism of these young people, some who had traveled miles to attend the casting session and the power of a program to move people from where they are to where they want to be in an ethical & ecological way. By communicating clearly as the program did that you don’t have to be a pop star to be a hero, Stars of Science has unleashed a refreshing new and unlikely pin up. Looks like my Big Bird poster is about to be replaced!
Monday, 13 September 2010
Goodbye Big Brother … Good bye Big Brother Arabia
So it’s goodbye to big brother UK tonight. The coffin is out the RIP stings adorn the top of the screen and there are people dressed in black waiting for the final wake tonight but frankly tonight I’m saying good bye to Big brother in a completely other light as I’m still getting over a pervious Big Brother death that took place 6 years ago in Bahrain on a small island near the coast of Muharraq.
The ill-fated death of Big Brother Arabia, or ‘The Boss’ as it was affectionately labeled by Endomol who had previously rolled out a similar format twist successfully in Africa, was elegantly branded by MBC’s award winning Creative department and designed with the type of care and attention to detail rarely applied to a TV show at that time.
It lived (in pre-production terms) for almost 6 months and then once delivered to TV screens across the region, it lasted only 11 days. If it’s nasty and body less death had been predicted by all those people who participated in its creation and production, perhaps it would not have been so hard to see it go in such a confused and chaotic way like an honor killing no one was prepared to take responsibility for.
Unlike UK’s big brother – that is celebrating its achievements, adventures and hours of mind numbing television with the pride of a mother watching their child pick up an achievement award, in a carnivalistic and joyful way, ‘The Boss’ died with no fan fair or learning’s. Actually it died under an invisible cloak that shamed and blamed the program & pointed to its contestants, producers and TV station for threatening Islam, with one woman quoted on the BBC for calling it ‘Television for Animals’.
Ironically, ‘Television for Animals’ was exactly what it was not , as the programs intentions were of being a program that joined the dots between region, showing young people (mostly for the first time) that it was possible to be a young person, practice your faith and have a conversation with the opposite sex without being banished to damnation. The 12 Big Brother Pan Arab contestants gave young people in the region a chance to see what other young people in other Arab countries were thinking, doing & feeling at a time when no other program in the region had. In 2010 reality shows with girls and boys from all over the Arab world living in one place all trying to win the singing, fashion, performance or even marriage competition they are part of are a dime a dozen but back in 2004, Big Brother was a trail blazer, acting as a litmus test to the world. It aimed to bridge the gap between the old and new generations to show that respect, tradition and modernity were possible if you listened or looked at the spirit of what these people in the house were up to for those 11 days. The talked about religion and explained one another’s faiths though the simple act of preparing food, they talked about family, and their aspirations for the future. If that made the program, ‘television for animals’ I am not quite sure what that lady would make of television today.
To say the death of ‘The Boss’ was a seriously missed opportunity to reach out to a planet of switched on moderate young Arabs is an understatement. With a reach of over 2 million + viewers per episode, it could have been the Facebook of its time, doing more for cross cultural communications then a peace summit. It could have offered fresh role models and public debates that would have paved the way for better co- existence between counties and generations.
Now if you will excuse me… I have a TV funeral to attend.
The ill-fated death of Big Brother Arabia, or ‘The Boss’ as it was affectionately labeled by Endomol who had previously rolled out a similar format twist successfully in Africa, was elegantly branded by MBC’s award winning Creative department and designed with the type of care and attention to detail rarely applied to a TV show at that time.
It lived (in pre-production terms) for almost 6 months and then once delivered to TV screens across the region, it lasted only 11 days. If it’s nasty and body less death had been predicted by all those people who participated in its creation and production, perhaps it would not have been so hard to see it go in such a confused and chaotic way like an honor killing no one was prepared to take responsibility for.
Unlike UK’s big brother – that is celebrating its achievements, adventures and hours of mind numbing television with the pride of a mother watching their child pick up an achievement award, in a carnivalistic and joyful way, ‘The Boss’ died with no fan fair or learning’s. Actually it died under an invisible cloak that shamed and blamed the program & pointed to its contestants, producers and TV station for threatening Islam, with one woman quoted on the BBC for calling it ‘Television for Animals’.
Ironically, ‘Television for Animals’ was exactly what it was not , as the programs intentions were of being a program that joined the dots between region, showing young people (mostly for the first time) that it was possible to be a young person, practice your faith and have a conversation with the opposite sex without being banished to damnation. The 12 Big Brother Pan Arab contestants gave young people in the region a chance to see what other young people in other Arab countries were thinking, doing & feeling at a time when no other program in the region had. In 2010 reality shows with girls and boys from all over the Arab world living in one place all trying to win the singing, fashion, performance or even marriage competition they are part of are a dime a dozen but back in 2004, Big Brother was a trail blazer, acting as a litmus test to the world. It aimed to bridge the gap between the old and new generations to show that respect, tradition and modernity were possible if you listened or looked at the spirit of what these people in the house were up to for those 11 days. The talked about religion and explained one another’s faiths though the simple act of preparing food, they talked about family, and their aspirations for the future. If that made the program, ‘television for animals’ I am not quite sure what that lady would make of television today.
To say the death of ‘The Boss’ was a seriously missed opportunity to reach out to a planet of switched on moderate young Arabs is an understatement. With a reach of over 2 million + viewers per episode, it could have been the Facebook of its time, doing more for cross cultural communications then a peace summit. It could have offered fresh role models and public debates that would have paved the way for better co- existence between counties and generations.
Now if you will excuse me… I have a TV funeral to attend.
Friday, 27 August 2010
pOach.com
http://www.p0ach.com/about/
WHAT A GEM ! if you read more, you get the feeling that Kuwait must be doing something right to have such fantastic switched on citizens! Great citizen journalist and change maker. LOVE it
WHAT A GEM ! if you read more, you get the feeling that Kuwait must be doing something right to have such fantastic switched on citizens! Great citizen journalist and change maker. LOVE it
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Shankaboot
If you were anywhere near my facebook page these last few weeks you could not have missed the murmur of enthusiasm I shared for the Batoota Films/ZicoHouse/BBC World Trusts Web drama ‘Shankaboot’ that unveiled this week to a curious crowd.
A true Lebanese production with all the passion and can –do spirit that could light up a city – I have been finding it hard to resisit telling everyone young and old to check it out. What makes this production a land mark on Arabia’s media history is not only the fact that it is the first of it's kind but more so, that it is a cross colaboration between a diverse range of talented sparks who have joined the dots to stitch a wonderful peice of media fabric, that refuses to look like a Turkish or syrian soap opera, isnt a goofy FTV/MTV animation, and is proud of it.
Unafraid to tred new ground, the sucess of shankaboot could arguably be due to a number of factors. For some it may work thanks to the delicious filming and editing, or the amazing soundtrack, and its true that they are frankly refreshing to say the least. For me ,its the desolate lovable and belivable characters that brighten my day along side the viewers of this new webdrama that remind me things are still possible in a part of the world that keeps being draged around. A refreshing face of a city that refuses to go quietly.
I love Ruwaida for her verve and vulnerability
I love Sulieman for his outrageously warm nature and ability to walk the line between morality and darkness
I love Chadi’s warped compassion and smooth charm that makes it impossible to hate him and abu Zuhair... well, if you have lived in beirut, you must have had your own version of over meddling gatekeeper.
With an army of over 3,000 fans to date and rising, its going to be intresting to see what impact Shankaboot will have on its avaid viewers. Fingers crossed the crowd stays curious, as the characters take on a life of their own and get transformed with every webisode and click of the mouse that views them. I for one will be cheering them all the way!
A true Lebanese production with all the passion and can –do spirit that could light up a city – I have been finding it hard to resisit telling everyone young and old to check it out. What makes this production a land mark on Arabia’s media history is not only the fact that it is the first of it's kind but more so, that it is a cross colaboration between a diverse range of talented sparks who have joined the dots to stitch a wonderful peice of media fabric, that refuses to look like a Turkish or syrian soap opera, isnt a goofy FTV/MTV animation, and is proud of it.
Unafraid to tred new ground, the sucess of shankaboot could arguably be due to a number of factors. For some it may work thanks to the delicious filming and editing, or the amazing soundtrack, and its true that they are frankly refreshing to say the least. For me ,its the desolate lovable and belivable characters that brighten my day along side the viewers of this new webdrama that remind me things are still possible in a part of the world that keeps being draged around. A refreshing face of a city that refuses to go quietly.
I love Ruwaida for her verve and vulnerability
I love Sulieman for his outrageously warm nature and ability to walk the line between morality and darkness
I love Chadi’s warped compassion and smooth charm that makes it impossible to hate him and abu Zuhair... well, if you have lived in beirut, you must have had your own version of over meddling gatekeeper.
With an army of over 3,000 fans to date and rising, its going to be intresting to see what impact Shankaboot will have on its avaid viewers. Fingers crossed the crowd stays curious, as the characters take on a life of their own and get transformed with every webisode and click of the mouse that views them. I for one will be cheering them all the way!
How do I love Qatar? Let me count thy ways!
I love Qatar for its amazing citizens for being so plugged in
I love Qatar for its shy, honest hard working ethic that sings to me
I love Qatar for it’s willingness to try, to compete, to grow and be part of a global conversation
Having worked in Bahrain, Beirut, Dubai, and London I have always enjoyed dabbling in the norms of a new country or city yet of all my professional adventures I must confess to having something of a crush on the Doha. The can-do spirit of this city and the fantastic people who inhabit continues to amaze me and remind me of what becomes possible when you have a vision. Qatar Foundation (Arguably one of the biggest instigators of my crush on this city) certainly has a lot to do with it !
An Organization so clear in its mission, which it spreads across surfaces that range from virtual banners to the ceramic tiles that adorn the cities sky scrapers with empowering bold words like “Grow” “Create” “Inspire” that are so large they can be seen from miles that is trying to do what its says on the packet. For some people the idea of ‘unlocking human potential’ may seem abit OTT, but person by person that’s what I see all around… and it inspires me. In fact, it inspires me so much I want to wrap up my small life in England and move hear with the man who makes my heart sing, and play a big juicy part in the ever changing landscape that moves with the skyline. The air of possibility and willingness to grow and punch way above what may be perceived as possible has always seduced me and made me giddy. The last few months have given me pockets of time to reflect on what I would and wouldn’t miss if I left my life in England thought of the following:
Would not miss
The commutes into Central London on over packed commuter trains. The weather. The grumpy people
Would miss
The friends and my family & Mr. C’s Family. The smell of spring
Growing tomatoes in our garden
So assuming my incredible husband came with me, and his incredible mother agreed to come and ride out at least 6 months of the year with us it just might work. Afterall, growing tomatoes seems to pail in significance when you can grow potential… and I am now more sure then ever that what the city lacks in quantity it certainly makes up for in Quality, so how do I love Qatar... let me count thy ways...
I love Qatar for its shy, honest hard working ethic that sings to me
I love Qatar for it’s willingness to try, to compete, to grow and be part of a global conversation
Having worked in Bahrain, Beirut, Dubai, and London I have always enjoyed dabbling in the norms of a new country or city yet of all my professional adventures I must confess to having something of a crush on the Doha. The can-do spirit of this city and the fantastic people who inhabit continues to amaze me and remind me of what becomes possible when you have a vision. Qatar Foundation (Arguably one of the biggest instigators of my crush on this city) certainly has a lot to do with it !
An Organization so clear in its mission, which it spreads across surfaces that range from virtual banners to the ceramic tiles that adorn the cities sky scrapers with empowering bold words like “Grow” “Create” “Inspire” that are so large they can be seen from miles that is trying to do what its says on the packet. For some people the idea of ‘unlocking human potential’ may seem abit OTT, but person by person that’s what I see all around… and it inspires me. In fact, it inspires me so much I want to wrap up my small life in England and move hear with the man who makes my heart sing, and play a big juicy part in the ever changing landscape that moves with the skyline. The air of possibility and willingness to grow and punch way above what may be perceived as possible has always seduced me and made me giddy. The last few months have given me pockets of time to reflect on what I would and wouldn’t miss if I left my life in England thought of the following:
Would not miss
The commutes into Central London on over packed commuter trains. The weather. The grumpy people
Would miss
The friends and my family & Mr. C’s Family. The smell of spring
Growing tomatoes in our garden
So assuming my incredible husband came with me, and his incredible mother agreed to come and ride out at least 6 months of the year with us it just might work. Afterall, growing tomatoes seems to pail in significance when you can grow potential… and I am now more sure then ever that what the city lacks in quantity it certainly makes up for in Quality, so how do I love Qatar... let me count thy ways...
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Flashback and Forward to 2010
It took a wile to get everyone adopting the nineties modern beat but it felt like a time that was full of hope when I put that chapter to bed on the eve of new millennium pumping up Prince’s track “ tonight I’m going to party like its 1999!” in my glamour gown.
So what about the Noughties? How am I going to feel tonight, as I kiss good bye to a decade in my Pjamas?
Well it’s got a crap name to start with. I mean what’s that about! In addition to its rubbish name, looking back at the last 10 years all I can think of is senseless wars, & mindless loss of lives (some inflicted by man, some by nature arguably as a result of man).
On the plus or minus side depending on which way you look at it, we got to communicate more, in every sense of the word. All this tweeting, mailing, My –face-ing, phoning and skyping, I seem to have lost track of the day and in a place like England, known for its stiff upper lip and for being a culture that had historically asked its people to close its eyes and think of England, it was amazing to see everyone opening out. As a communications Junkie nothing made me happier in the Noughties then the glut of communications outlets that have become as homely and familiar as my own bed when it rains. I counted the number of virtual ways that I share my world and considered why I choose to indulge
1. Facebook (Because it’s a great way to stay connected to secondary friends, people you rarely see who now live in other countries and is the best way to spread your thoughts to people in your wider community. Even my mum has an account for goodness sake!)
2. Twitter ( because I like the idea of it, don’t really understand the point of it and enjoy checking out random topics that become social frenzy waves of communication between total strangers)
3. Linked in ( great Professional advert , re-connector and place to be a grown up)
4. Emails (Every freelancers secret weapon. Have email access…. Can work. ANYTIME – ANYWHERE)
5. Mobile Phone (4 working numbers… its not flash, it’s a necessity and reflective of the new way of work between countries. I am as much in Qatar, as I am in London, Dubai or Beirut)
6. Skype ( The savior ! I love this piece of magic ) Over the years since this brilliant innovation entered my universe I have skype dated with my husband when traveling, organized events & , social gatherings across the globe and even sat in on meetings taking place in other time zones.
Looks to me like all of the above have a space in the next ten years ahead !
Another double edged sword of the decade for me and one of the golden change makers of the decade was the arrival and permanency of Reality TV. Like it or lump it, its hear to stay ever since those crazy Dutch folks locked themselves away in the name of social experimentation the best was unleashed and the wider worlds curiosity.
Personally I love the intention of Reality TV but only in the sense that it can cut through prejudice, ignorance and confusion in an instant and be more of a change maker then years of polite lobbying! Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it’s not an answer to creating world peace but having a window on peoples world ( all kinds of peoples worlds) has offered an unprecedented level of emotional intelligence that’s floating around peoples living rooms, unconsciously challenging, & provoking them.
I know some people had a battering this year, with the loss of loved ones, some people grew and learned something new about themselves and the world around us, some people got married, or had a baby in the biblical or professional sense. Some people were all or none of the above and filled all the spaces in between. Where ever you were this year I hope you enjoy looking back on it and all its good, bad, crispy, scary, fun, delicious moments before looking forward to the New Year ahead and setting some Juicy compelling goals.
For my own part, one of my goals is to remind all those people I love and care about in my world just how special they are. Another goal is to keep joining the dots between 2 cultural hemispheres, bringing out the best in the 2 cultures that I call home in my head, and celebrating my part time status with gusto be it in the virtual world or in the visceral sense.
#its going to be a cracker … Happy new 2010 !
So what about the Noughties? How am I going to feel tonight, as I kiss good bye to a decade in my Pjamas?
Well it’s got a crap name to start with. I mean what’s that about! In addition to its rubbish name, looking back at the last 10 years all I can think of is senseless wars, & mindless loss of lives (some inflicted by man, some by nature arguably as a result of man).
On the plus or minus side depending on which way you look at it, we got to communicate more, in every sense of the word. All this tweeting, mailing, My –face-ing, phoning and skyping, I seem to have lost track of the day and in a place like England, known for its stiff upper lip and for being a culture that had historically asked its people to close its eyes and think of England, it was amazing to see everyone opening out. As a communications Junkie nothing made me happier in the Noughties then the glut of communications outlets that have become as homely and familiar as my own bed when it rains. I counted the number of virtual ways that I share my world and considered why I choose to indulge
1. Facebook (Because it’s a great way to stay connected to secondary friends, people you rarely see who now live in other countries and is the best way to spread your thoughts to people in your wider community. Even my mum has an account for goodness sake!)
2. Twitter ( because I like the idea of it, don’t really understand the point of it and enjoy checking out random topics that become social frenzy waves of communication between total strangers)
3. Linked in ( great Professional advert , re-connector and place to be a grown up)
4. Emails (Every freelancers secret weapon. Have email access…. Can work. ANYTIME – ANYWHERE)
5. Mobile Phone (4 working numbers… its not flash, it’s a necessity and reflective of the new way of work between countries. I am as much in Qatar, as I am in London, Dubai or Beirut)
6. Skype ( The savior ! I love this piece of magic ) Over the years since this brilliant innovation entered my universe I have skype dated with my husband when traveling, organized events & , social gatherings across the globe and even sat in on meetings taking place in other time zones.
Looks to me like all of the above have a space in the next ten years ahead !
Another double edged sword of the decade for me and one of the golden change makers of the decade was the arrival and permanency of Reality TV. Like it or lump it, its hear to stay ever since those crazy Dutch folks locked themselves away in the name of social experimentation the best was unleashed and the wider worlds curiosity.
Personally I love the intention of Reality TV but only in the sense that it can cut through prejudice, ignorance and confusion in an instant and be more of a change maker then years of polite lobbying! Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it’s not an answer to creating world peace but having a window on peoples world ( all kinds of peoples worlds) has offered an unprecedented level of emotional intelligence that’s floating around peoples living rooms, unconsciously challenging, & provoking them.
I know some people had a battering this year, with the loss of loved ones, some people grew and learned something new about themselves and the world around us, some people got married, or had a baby in the biblical or professional sense. Some people were all or none of the above and filled all the spaces in between. Where ever you were this year I hope you enjoy looking back on it and all its good, bad, crispy, scary, fun, delicious moments before looking forward to the New Year ahead and setting some Juicy compelling goals.
For my own part, one of my goals is to remind all those people I love and care about in my world just how special they are. Another goal is to keep joining the dots between 2 cultural hemispheres, bringing out the best in the 2 cultures that I call home in my head, and celebrating my part time status with gusto be it in the virtual world or in the visceral sense.
#its going to be a cracker … Happy new 2010 !
Friday, 7 August 2009
Forget diplomacy – when it comes to cross cultural marriage, it’s all about the Shark fins & Shawarma spice
I had always thought that marrying my non Lebanese boyfriend was never going to be a big event in our household. After all, my elder brother, the only son in a line-up of 3 sisters had already trail blazed with his marriage to a certain ‘Miss Lee’ from Hong Kong, causing much scandal and unrest in family circles fifteen years ago. To have the only prodigal son, tasked with the responsibility of continuing the family name, suddenly choosing to marry a Chinese girl was perhaps not quite the future they envisaged for him in our village. The fact that the only oriental person they had ever met was a former housekeeper at a distant auntie’s house didn’t help. Aware that each culture had it’s norms, the only way they could get married without upsetting the two tribes was by holding 3 different weddings, a civil ceremony in London with friends, Dj’s & a registrar to make it legal, a Lebanese one in a hotel complete with zaffehyh, (traditional bridal entrance) video cameras and our entire village, and finally a Chinese one in London’s bustling Chinatown with all the Chinese relatives and elders who were especially flown in from Hong Kong to give there blessings.
Misss Lee’s family were almost defiantly as unimpressed with the union and took time to warm up to the idea their little girl was marrying an Arab. Like most couples keen to keep respective mother and father in laws on side, my brother and his then fiancé decided that all meetings between the two clans should alternate between Chinese and Lebanese restaurants as this would offer light relief when it came to small talk and give them a way of introducing each culture in an informal setting ahead of all the ceremonies. I must confess to feeling dubious about this plan, however watching everyone tuck into a Lebanese Meza whilst making small talk on the various functions and uses of the humble chick pea in both cultures, and noticing that my fathers use of chop sticks had excelled, I was soon won over and felt warmly opportunistic that perhaps it was not such a bad idea after all.
My short lived optimism was however quickly replaced by panic & fear during the Chinese leg of the nuptials that concluded with the consumption of seven dishes, that represented various aspects of the couple’s future complete with lotus paste ( for fertility) sharks fins (for wealth) & Sea cucumbers ( to give them a good heart) amongst other unavoidable delicacies. Not wishing to offend our hosts or risk burdening my brother and his wife with a lifetime of misfortune (not to mention the potential fall out from insulting a zillion years worth of Chinese culture) all the assembled Arabs, myself included ate, slurped, & sucked & consumed every last mouthful under the proud gaze of our new Chinese family who nodded approvingly at the end of each round.
Three wedding ceremonies and 650 air miles later, it struck me that although we may have consumed completely different food at each of my brothers wedding ceremonies (a whole spit roast lamb at the Arabic wedding vs sharks fins at the Chinese one) and spoke different languages, their were a lot of similarities between the two cultures. The importance of family & respecting one’s elders, being the first and most obvious one. A shared love of ‘gold’ between the Arabic and Chinese community was also noticeable as my brother and his wife were laden down with the shiny stuff at both celebrations. Finally and possibly most importantly, it was the overwhelming significance of the type of food being served that joined the dots between these two cultures as each uneaten mouthful would be an offence not only to the family serving it, but to the culture as a whole.
Over the years, it has given me great pride and joy to notice how the once narrow minds of my relatives who didn’t know any better have since stretched like rubber bands about my brother’s unusual choice of soul mate. The arrival of 2 magniciant little boys who look Arabic to be Oriental, too Oriental to be Arabic has certainly helped iron out even the harshest of frowners in our extended clan. Yet of all the factors at play, my brother’s wife and I have always joked that it was the power of food to unite, that held the most powerful and valuable key to our families hearts and that she was able to win a battle of the hearts and minds thanks to a few pigeon words of Arabic and a honest love for Lebanese’s cooking and my grandmothers lahme Baajine that she can now pronounce perfectly. I could only hope that 15 years on from welcoming Ms. Lee into our lives, that the family would be ready to embrace the latest addition to the family, in the form of my new non Lebanese husband from Devon who had little exposure to the new culture and family that awaiting him.
Armed with the faded memories of awkward introductions and prolonged family silences at my brother’s celebrations I was relived to discover that my non Lebanese husband’s introduction to our fold was smooth sailing, just as I hoped it would be, and yet, However much I would like to believe that my husband’s smooth transition into my large extended family was due to a shared sense of values, It was clear that the ‘food factor’ was just as important now as it had been 15 years ago when my brother and his wife bought the Chinese and Arabic cultures together. Unlike my sister-in – laws passion for Lamhe Bjaime, this time it was my husbands diehard enthusiasm & love for a certain herb affectionately known as Zaatar ( thyme and sesame that is turned into a paste using lashings of olive oil) that offered the perfect passport to my families hearts. Family members, I am told were greatly softened by the rumours that my husband had a secrete passion for submerging every thing he cooked (including any English dishes like Sheppard’s pie,) in a thick layer of Lebanese zaatar. They were also thrilled to hear that his more recent experiments with ‘Shawarma Spice’ had led to a new fusion between Devon and Lebanon in the form of cooking we jokingly thought of as ‘Devonese’ cuisine ( think boiled organic charlotte potatoes from the west country with shawarma spice and salad cream, garnished with tabouleh). Some days my husband delights in teasing me that when it comes to eating, he is more Lebanese then I am and perhaps he is right. After all, it was he, not I that was brave enough to eat kebbeh nayeh (raw meat) at the family lunch celebrations in the village during our trip. Having said that, perhaps he felt he had no choice, just as I had felt during my brothers Chinese wedding fifteen years ago. The fact that my aunty explained that once he had eaten it, it would be considered as a kind of baptism into the clan, and refusing it would be a grave insult to the family, so with a big smile and a steady fork, he ate every mouthful without question. It may have cost him 2 weeks of stomach ache, however my husband has assured me that every mouthful was worth its weight in gold as it somehow cemented the feeling that he was now one of them and I am reliable informed that my dear and much loved grandmother would have defiantly approved.
So if your thinking of going global with your heart and need to act local on a visit home with your soul mate, you could do far worse then hook your other half onto a local culinary delight. Apart from the hilarious exchanges in your kitchen that may ensure, your grandmother/aunts and uncles will be most suitably impressed and who knows… you just might invent the next devonese.
Misss Lee’s family were almost defiantly as unimpressed with the union and took time to warm up to the idea their little girl was marrying an Arab. Like most couples keen to keep respective mother and father in laws on side, my brother and his then fiancé decided that all meetings between the two clans should alternate between Chinese and Lebanese restaurants as this would offer light relief when it came to small talk and give them a way of introducing each culture in an informal setting ahead of all the ceremonies. I must confess to feeling dubious about this plan, however watching everyone tuck into a Lebanese Meza whilst making small talk on the various functions and uses of the humble chick pea in both cultures, and noticing that my fathers use of chop sticks had excelled, I was soon won over and felt warmly opportunistic that perhaps it was not such a bad idea after all.
My short lived optimism was however quickly replaced by panic & fear during the Chinese leg of the nuptials that concluded with the consumption of seven dishes, that represented various aspects of the couple’s future complete with lotus paste ( for fertility) sharks fins (for wealth) & Sea cucumbers ( to give them a good heart) amongst other unavoidable delicacies. Not wishing to offend our hosts or risk burdening my brother and his wife with a lifetime of misfortune (not to mention the potential fall out from insulting a zillion years worth of Chinese culture) all the assembled Arabs, myself included ate, slurped, & sucked & consumed every last mouthful under the proud gaze of our new Chinese family who nodded approvingly at the end of each round.
Three wedding ceremonies and 650 air miles later, it struck me that although we may have consumed completely different food at each of my brothers wedding ceremonies (a whole spit roast lamb at the Arabic wedding vs sharks fins at the Chinese one) and spoke different languages, their were a lot of similarities between the two cultures. The importance of family & respecting one’s elders, being the first and most obvious one. A shared love of ‘gold’ between the Arabic and Chinese community was also noticeable as my brother and his wife were laden down with the shiny stuff at both celebrations. Finally and possibly most importantly, it was the overwhelming significance of the type of food being served that joined the dots between these two cultures as each uneaten mouthful would be an offence not only to the family serving it, but to the culture as a whole.
Over the years, it has given me great pride and joy to notice how the once narrow minds of my relatives who didn’t know any better have since stretched like rubber bands about my brother’s unusual choice of soul mate. The arrival of 2 magniciant little boys who look Arabic to be Oriental, too Oriental to be Arabic has certainly helped iron out even the harshest of frowners in our extended clan. Yet of all the factors at play, my brother’s wife and I have always joked that it was the power of food to unite, that held the most powerful and valuable key to our families hearts and that she was able to win a battle of the hearts and minds thanks to a few pigeon words of Arabic and a honest love for Lebanese’s cooking and my grandmothers lahme Baajine that she can now pronounce perfectly. I could only hope that 15 years on from welcoming Ms. Lee into our lives, that the family would be ready to embrace the latest addition to the family, in the form of my new non Lebanese husband from Devon who had little exposure to the new culture and family that awaiting him.
Armed with the faded memories of awkward introductions and prolonged family silences at my brother’s celebrations I was relived to discover that my non Lebanese husband’s introduction to our fold was smooth sailing, just as I hoped it would be, and yet, However much I would like to believe that my husband’s smooth transition into my large extended family was due to a shared sense of values, It was clear that the ‘food factor’ was just as important now as it had been 15 years ago when my brother and his wife bought the Chinese and Arabic cultures together. Unlike my sister-in – laws passion for Lamhe Bjaime, this time it was my husbands diehard enthusiasm & love for a certain herb affectionately known as Zaatar ( thyme and sesame that is turned into a paste using lashings of olive oil) that offered the perfect passport to my families hearts. Family members, I am told were greatly softened by the rumours that my husband had a secrete passion for submerging every thing he cooked (including any English dishes like Sheppard’s pie,) in a thick layer of Lebanese zaatar. They were also thrilled to hear that his more recent experiments with ‘Shawarma Spice’ had led to a new fusion between Devon and Lebanon in the form of cooking we jokingly thought of as ‘Devonese’ cuisine ( think boiled organic charlotte potatoes from the west country with shawarma spice and salad cream, garnished with tabouleh). Some days my husband delights in teasing me that when it comes to eating, he is more Lebanese then I am and perhaps he is right. After all, it was he, not I that was brave enough to eat kebbeh nayeh (raw meat) at the family lunch celebrations in the village during our trip. Having said that, perhaps he felt he had no choice, just as I had felt during my brothers Chinese wedding fifteen years ago. The fact that my aunty explained that once he had eaten it, it would be considered as a kind of baptism into the clan, and refusing it would be a grave insult to the family, so with a big smile and a steady fork, he ate every mouthful without question. It may have cost him 2 weeks of stomach ache, however my husband has assured me that every mouthful was worth its weight in gold as it somehow cemented the feeling that he was now one of them and I am reliable informed that my dear and much loved grandmother would have defiantly approved.
So if your thinking of going global with your heart and need to act local on a visit home with your soul mate, you could do far worse then hook your other half onto a local culinary delight. Apart from the hilarious exchanges in your kitchen that may ensure, your grandmother/aunts and uncles will be most suitably impressed and who knows… you just might invent the next devonese.
Monday, 8 June 2009
"Do the Funky Arabs turn you on"... well, actually Mr Choueiry sorry but they don't
If you have yet to drop your jaws at the Jad Choueiry track Funky Arabs, perhaps you should not bother because if being accepted as a funky Arab is all about injecting botox, gyrating in a designer clad bikini getting my self forcibly tattooed in a public toilet, well, think I will leave it and take my chances with the conservatives. Now before you think I am going all ‘Mary Whitehouse’ on you I wish to reassure you that I am thrilled that “every individual who has participated in the following video is an Arab” but frankly this video should come with a health warning that states THIS VIDEO CAN SERIOUSLY DAMAGE THE CREDIBILITY AND CULTRAL BRILLIANCE OF ARAB COMMINTIES ALL OVER THE WORLD. such irresponsible visual communication about ‘Arabs’ dose little more then sell us as media whores, freak parents out, make girls strive to become airheads and make guys feel like a failure if they have not inherited great wealth or an intrest in blowing their brains out.
“We’ve got sexy girls – Arab youth that will rock your world, Loaded guys – you’ve got to see them when they get their highs”
Oh really…Well that’s good to know Mr. Chouiery. Perhaps you would like to run for a Party king of Lebanon and use that as your manifesto to mobilize apathetic and disillusioned young Arabs who are desperately seeking gainful employment.
For my own part, I am curious as to why the video has caused such a reaction, because after all, haven’t I supported young people across the region when they have wanted to make their voices herd? Perhaps my conservatism stems from my true belief that whilst watching this catchy, shallow video, I fear that tame extremists use it as an example of how hollow our lives have become, and more radical groups would point to these types of visual reference as proof that the devil has possessed young people who must be saved through the discipline of their version of ‘religion’ and that… in my map of the world frightens me. If the philosophy of being a part time Arab is about taking the best bits from 2 cultures and fusing them to become your own uber cultural party then Funky Arabs fails us all because if that is is the message we want to send out about ourselfs, what hope do we have in the way other cultures choose to communicate about us.
“We’ve got sexy girls – Arab youth that will rock your world, Loaded guys – you’ve got to see them when they get their highs”
Oh really…Well that’s good to know Mr. Chouiery. Perhaps you would like to run for a Party king of Lebanon and use that as your manifesto to mobilize apathetic and disillusioned young Arabs who are desperately seeking gainful employment.
For my own part, I am curious as to why the video has caused such a reaction, because after all, haven’t I supported young people across the region when they have wanted to make their voices herd? Perhaps my conservatism stems from my true belief that whilst watching this catchy, shallow video, I fear that tame extremists use it as an example of how hollow our lives have become, and more radical groups would point to these types of visual reference as proof that the devil has possessed young people who must be saved through the discipline of their version of ‘religion’ and that… in my map of the world frightens me. If the philosophy of being a part time Arab is about taking the best bits from 2 cultures and fusing them to become your own uber cultural party then Funky Arabs fails us all because if that is is the message we want to send out about ourselfs, what hope do we have in the way other cultures choose to communicate about us.
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
Lebanon makes it onto the list of least doveloped internet nations in the world shocker!
Although the country in 1996 was among the first Arab countries to introduce the internet, a decade later it ranked among the least developed internet nations in the world. In fact, according to a 2006 EU-funded research report, in terms of international bandwidth per capita Lebanon ranked just above countries such as Ivory Coast, Syria and Iraq, while it had lost the race with countries such as Egypt and Jordan.
Due to the country’s limited and outdated infrastructure, as well as the high cost of telecom supplies and the lack of a proper regulatory environment, Lebanon was not an attractive destination for potential investors, concluded the EU consultancy team. Apart from the introduction of a handful of ADSL lines mainly in Beirut, and much later than initially announced not much has changed since.
Due to the country’s limited and outdated infrastructure, as well as the high cost of telecom supplies and the lack of a proper regulatory environment, Lebanon was not an attractive destination for potential investors, concluded the EU consultancy team. Apart from the introduction of a handful of ADSL lines mainly in Beirut, and much later than initially announced not much has changed since.
Sunday, 17 August 2008
calling all part time Arabs
Not quite English enough to be British, yet definitely not Lebanese enough to be a Phoenician or a full time Arab...Like a huge number of the world’s population - I am part timing on both sides, sliding in and out of each culture with the blinking of an eye. I take the best bits from both and use them at my leisure, raising my eyebrows at the bits that don’t make sense, or do not work for me in my map of the world. I can ask questions and think for myself yet I exist within a culture that thrills me. I am clued up on politics and yet it is not the ruler of my life, dictating who I befriend or don't. I speak fluent English and pigeon Arabic and think in both languages. I love Zaatar as much as I Love Piccadilly chutney.I am new to planet blog and am thrilled to come across so Manny amazing blogs created by full and Part time Arabs and all those in between! I would love to hear from you, as I feel I am not alone in my part timeliness. Thanks for popping in and I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Monday, 4 August 2008
Forget brainstorming sexy ideas to change the world, have you noticed how much these days it’s a all about Blame Storming
Forget brainstorming sexy ideas to change the world, have you noticed how much these days it’s a all about Blame Storming and boy are we Arabs, & Part Time Arabs great at it when we want to be!
Picture the scene…. A conversation starts over diner – a friend starts off loading the troubles of his/her day and how crap his/her boss/aunty/man on the bus/parent/child/ is. Notice who they hold accountable for there miseries. Are they themselves anywhere in the conversation? Or do you hear the fateful words “ X made me SO Angry, upset, hysterical’ as though X had some kind of super hold on them and poured the anger, upset , hysterical feeling all over them using a bucket with a paintbrush to get into all the nooks and crannys.
Now I am as guilty of it as the next man, so please don’t think I am absolving myself from adding my verbal 2 ps worth in blame culture as it is far easier to say that the reason Im far from healthy, stay up soo late and have bags under my eyes, smoke too much etc… is not because I am a lazy bird who hates to break a sweat, who loves night time trash TV and chain smoking its all because I missed a key stage of development because of The War, because my teachers misunderstood me, because I was the only Arab kid in my class, because …. Because… need I go on. My part time Arab status can be a great sheild to hide away from things and yet I know I cant pin this behaviour down exclusively to Arabs, Part Time Arabs or anyone in between however I do notice that the is an added blame factor coming out of our neck of the woods…
I think it is becuase unlike a vast majority of our non Arab counterparts, we can blame really big things like War or being so misunderstood by our parents/society/family members etc… all those people and situations that seem so out of our control…. Its just so comfortable isn’t it, so reassuring that the reason were in a ditch is actually not our fault. Blame it on my cultrure, blame it on the housekeeper, blame it on the education system, the lack of time, too much time... I notice the ease in which we can abdicate any responsibilty for our lives and it freaks me out when i am with my Arab friends who have made moaning and complaining there artform so from now on I have decided to take a stand and try an experiment.
From now on, if anyone goes into a tirad about how unhappy/bored/fed/up/used/abused etc they are... I will ask them the one question I know will allways defrenciate those who want to move to someplace better, more soultions focused and proactive and those who dont. I will ask them the magic words... What do want instead. Intrestingly, I know that this question usaly results in a response about what they DONT want so i repete the question. What do you what instead. By nature, I find the arab side of our culture so keen on a good story, all that wailing, all the tradjady, so not sure what will show up when i ask that question, but going to give it my best shot and will keep you posted on my findings. so my wonderful Part time Me.... what do you want instead?
Picture the scene…. A conversation starts over diner – a friend starts off loading the troubles of his/her day and how crap his/her boss/aunty/man on the bus/parent/child/ is. Notice who they hold accountable for there miseries. Are they themselves anywhere in the conversation? Or do you hear the fateful words “ X made me SO Angry, upset, hysterical’ as though X had some kind of super hold on them and poured the anger, upset , hysterical feeling all over them using a bucket with a paintbrush to get into all the nooks and crannys.
Now I am as guilty of it as the next man, so please don’t think I am absolving myself from adding my verbal 2 ps worth in blame culture as it is far easier to say that the reason Im far from healthy, stay up soo late and have bags under my eyes, smoke too much etc… is not because I am a lazy bird who hates to break a sweat, who loves night time trash TV and chain smoking its all because I missed a key stage of development because of The War, because my teachers misunderstood me, because I was the only Arab kid in my class, because …. Because… need I go on. My part time Arab status can be a great sheild to hide away from things and yet I know I cant pin this behaviour down exclusively to Arabs, Part Time Arabs or anyone in between however I do notice that the is an added blame factor coming out of our neck of the woods…
I think it is becuase unlike a vast majority of our non Arab counterparts, we can blame really big things like War or being so misunderstood by our parents/society/family members etc… all those people and situations that seem so out of our control…. Its just so comfortable isn’t it, so reassuring that the reason were in a ditch is actually not our fault. Blame it on my cultrure, blame it on the housekeeper, blame it on the education system, the lack of time, too much time... I notice the ease in which we can abdicate any responsibilty for our lives and it freaks me out when i am with my Arab friends who have made moaning and complaining there artform so from now on I have decided to take a stand and try an experiment.
From now on, if anyone goes into a tirad about how unhappy/bored/fed/up/used/abused etc they are... I will ask them the one question I know will allways defrenciate those who want to move to someplace better, more soultions focused and proactive and those who dont. I will ask them the magic words... What do want instead. Intrestingly, I know that this question usaly results in a response about what they DONT want so i repete the question. What do you what instead. By nature, I find the arab side of our culture so keen on a good story, all that wailing, all the tradjady, so not sure what will show up when i ask that question, but going to give it my best shot and will keep you posted on my findings. so my wonderful Part time Me.... what do you want instead?
Monday, 28 July 2008
Dilemmas of a Part Time Arab
Mondays questions...
Should I try to learn to read Arabic via night school or Salamdal comics?
Did Beirut/Bahrain/Dubai get smaller or did I get bigger?
What’s the difference that will make the difference when it comes to motivating fellow young Arabs to take responsibility for there lives and step into there compelling futures?
Will my extended family ever stop worrying if I will re-marry?
Will I ever stop giving monkeys about my extended family worrying if I re-marry?
How is it that P = B in Arabic?
If I did learn to write in fluent Arabic, would I still be dyslexic in how I write when its in another language?
When will I want to spend my holiday breaks somewhere other then the Middle East?
Is tabouleh without bulghar wheat ; still tabouleh ?
Should I try to learn to read Arabic via night school or Salamdal comics?
Did Beirut/Bahrain/Dubai get smaller or did I get bigger?
What’s the difference that will make the difference when it comes to motivating fellow young Arabs to take responsibility for there lives and step into there compelling futures?
Will my extended family ever stop worrying if I will re-marry?
Will I ever stop giving monkeys about my extended family worrying if I re-marry?
How is it that P = B in Arabic?
If I did learn to write in fluent Arabic, would I still be dyslexic in how I write when its in another language?
When will I want to spend my holiday breaks somewhere other then the Middle East?
Is tabouleh without bulghar wheat ; still tabouleh ?
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Help …I think I’m turning into my mother.
Why else would I become a hysterical clean freak at the thought of my girlfriend’s arrival to
This easy come easy go approach to cleanliness has always worked out just fine with my life. Friends come and go and I have never given the rate of tidiness and hygiene in the house much thought at all and yet, suddenly, without warning, something different has taken over me with the imminent arrival of an Arab friend. …a kind of stark panic and feeling that the faint tea worn stains in my coffee cups are not Ok. The matt on the floor in the bathroom is doing my head in & gets replaced and the sheets are all re-washed for the second time in one day to get even whiter. I take out books on how to get everything clean using natural products cause I feel bad for the environment and I want everything super shiny and when all else fails I resort to bleach – loads of it, on everything, including the offending tea stained mugs. The irrational side of my Arab brain is worried I just may end up poisoning her or worse still making her feel unwelcome cause my house is so out of order. My rational Arab brain says relax, she will have a great time, spoil her with your cooking, your company, and worry not about the stains in the mugs- she will hopefully be having such a great time who cares.
Perhaps when she arrives, I will say something like… “Welcome to my home and so sorry I didn’t have a chance to tidy up” whilst lying through my teeth. Then again perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I will … blame it on my flatmates and hope that none of them speak a word of Arabic!
Friday, 4 July 2008
Could Part time Arabs be part of the soultion in Beirut?
Before returning to Old Blighty and the heart of the Essex countryside, I spent several years working as a journalist and broadcaster in Beirut. If a magazine or radio station had anything going out in the English language I was there eager to communicate. Like most of its inhabitants, I worked hard and played hard and thanks to the wide array of places to park your bum in, I was thankfully much entertained and amused by the fact that since the war had finished, Everyone I met in Beirut had been given a ‘Pants to war- let’s party’ microchip. It made my heady university days seem so safe and sheltered in comparison. Not that anyone believed me.
Post war Beirut in the early 1990s was something quite magical because it felt like every single part time arab had been given a call to arms and at that very same moment had decided it was time to leave there non arab lives and bring there western skills and tools to help re-build the nation. Naive … yes, sadly we were, yet I and a vast majority of those I met with each passing day wouldn’t have thought so at the time.
Very few of us understood the territory, our mother tongue (now rusty from years of non use) tripped us up and made us stand out in a service taxi, on the streets or a wedding and none of us, seemed to have a clear grasp on what the fighting had ever been about barring the obvious and marked milestones that we had watched unfolding from the security of our living rooms. Worse part was, no matter who I asked, I never got one version of events anyway so seemed like a pointless exercise and one that led to a dead end. In the end I took a number of versions and mashed them up with the Robert fisk account of what happened figuring a combination of all of the above would give me a more honest overview.
I remember interviewing a young lifeguard in the mid 1990’s about what he now thought about looking forward to his future now that the civil war was over to which he replied “ lady, the war isn’t over, its just less official and more underground…” How right he was. Who would have predicted that 10 years after the last remaining remnants of war had been forgotten and gentrified, all that official anger would whirl up again and turn the streets into bullet ridden playgrounds for men who should no better and younger men who shouldn’t know that much. Reminds me that part time Arabs have a critical role to play by offering alternative ways of looking at the world – and the places we call home.
Perhaps my naivety is resurfacing and my die-hard optimism is giving me a blind spot. Could the idea that Part time Arabs have an added more open filter in which they see/feel and explore the world around them make them part of any potential solution ? could they really make any difference at all in our motherlands given all the anger, apathy, random politics, questionable motivations … and yet – if Part time Arabs can transcend religious and political obsessions what might be possible? How could a collective intention to create a new path … what if it doesn’t make the blindest bit of difference, what if we knew we couldn’t fail, what if I ask you for your thoughts … answers on a postcard please
Post war Beirut in the early 1990s was something quite magical because it felt like every single part time arab had been given a call to arms and at that very same moment had decided it was time to leave there non arab lives and bring there western skills and tools to help re-build the nation. Naive … yes, sadly we were, yet I and a vast majority of those I met with each passing day wouldn’t have thought so at the time.
Very few of us understood the territory, our mother tongue (now rusty from years of non use) tripped us up and made us stand out in a service taxi, on the streets or a wedding and none of us, seemed to have a clear grasp on what the fighting had ever been about barring the obvious and marked milestones that we had watched unfolding from the security of our living rooms. Worse part was, no matter who I asked, I never got one version of events anyway so seemed like a pointless exercise and one that led to a dead end. In the end I took a number of versions and mashed them up with the Robert fisk account of what happened figuring a combination of all of the above would give me a more honest overview.
I remember interviewing a young lifeguard in the mid 1990’s about what he now thought about looking forward to his future now that the civil war was over to which he replied “ lady, the war isn’t over, its just less official and more underground…” How right he was. Who would have predicted that 10 years after the last remaining remnants of war had been forgotten and gentrified, all that official anger would whirl up again and turn the streets into bullet ridden playgrounds for men who should no better and younger men who shouldn’t know that much. Reminds me that part time Arabs have a critical role to play by offering alternative ways of looking at the world – and the places we call home.
Perhaps my naivety is resurfacing and my die-hard optimism is giving me a blind spot. Could the idea that Part time Arabs have an added more open filter in which they see/feel and explore the world around them make them part of any potential solution ? could they really make any difference at all in our motherlands given all the anger, apathy, random politics, questionable motivations … and yet – if Part time Arabs can transcend religious and political obsessions what might be possible? How could a collective intention to create a new path … what if it doesn’t make the blindest bit of difference, what if we knew we couldn’t fail, what if I ask you for your thoughts … answers on a postcard please
It all started in Feb 2000
Part Time Arab: Not quite English enough to be British, yet definitely not Lebanese enough to be Arabic, or Phoenician or whatever you want to call it. Moved back to London a few years ago after a 7 year stint in Beirut, and am interested in juicy dialog with any funked up, hip and happy creative flavoured 20-40 year olds. Any interesting Lebanese Londoners with crazy stories to tell, a sense of humour or an interest in an invite to A seasonal Glittchy underground tea party for part time Arabs get typing!
Radio, TV Producer, Features Writer
Record Created on February 29th, 2000
It all started with an advert on the Lebanese White pages. The perfect directory for every self respecting Lebanese to mingle and compare notes on every aspect of there lives. My part time arab status was cemented. Did my ad sound too pretentious? Would it stand out amongst the 20 zillion other entries? Can you guess what happened?
TBC
Radio, TV Producer, Features Writer
Record Created on February 29th, 2000
It all started with an advert on the Lebanese White pages. The perfect directory for every self respecting Lebanese to mingle and compare notes on every aspect of there lives. My part time arab status was cemented. Did my ad sound too pretentious? Would it stand out amongst the 20 zillion other entries? Can you guess what happened?
TBC
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Calling all Cultral Superheros - Its time think global & act local
Dear Arabs, Part-time Arabs, Friends of Arab communities and guests of Arab countries,
Take a pen and paper and write down the five most inspiring and stimulating cultural offerings you have seen in the last 12 months. I’m not talking about the kind that are memorable for the impressive canapés and VIP guest list; I’m talking about the kind of cultural events that leave you totally exhilarated, and offer a fresh insight into the world around you.
Did you see a theatre show with an incredible cast? Read a review about some obscure filmmaker who sent in a short film made on his home PC to a TV station and got backing for a series? Or was there a jaw dropping multi media installation influenced by the new wave of pan-Arabic Hip Hop? Now, I ask you, of these cultural manifestations you have seen, how many of them were created by young Arab artists?
Are there any Kuwaitis, Omanis, Jordanians, Emiratis or Egyptians on the list? A Palestinian…Or a Lebanese perhaps? …Maybe three out of five, two out of five, one out of five… It’s not so easy, is it? Ok, so how about thinking of just one Arab artist who blew your cultural mind?
If you are struggling to list local talent, you are not alone. Nevertheless, judging by the number of air miles clocked up by members of the upwardly mobile Middle Eastern art scene, a lack of talent is defiantly not the problem. The Moroccan artist and photographer, Hassan Hajaj is in talks to showcase his work in
The reason why we cannot recall their names with ease is more likely rooted in the fact that artists from the Middle East constantly struggle to get exposure in their ever-developing home cities; places that tend to put more emphasis on visiting international artists than home-grown talent; leaving local artists to battle it out against a glut of sponsored events and branded shopping experiences that leave little to the imagination.
As the nations of the Gulf vie to become cultural powerhouses of global renown over the next few years, personally I am petrified that all the talent will be forced to pack their bags and move to a place where their creativity will be enjoyed by everyone but their fellow Arabs. An even worse scenario is that the lack of a supportive infrastructure in their home towns will force them to give up and became advertising executives or tabloid journalists instead. Wouldn’t that be tragic?
Don’t get me wrong, I am not suggesting we all have to lock non-Arab talent away to make space for our own. However, the ‘Think Global, Act Local’ cliché is something that I feel has always eluded us in the Middle East and
Arab world, particularly when it comes to cultural practice. Sadly The Third Line and Townhouse galleries of this world are few and far between so isn’t it time we think how we can all contribute to our national art scenes to and help them flourish? Perhaps it is time for the individual to become a cultural superhero. After all, you don’t have to be mad about art and culture to make a difference and make the ‘Act Local’ part a reality. If public relations are your bag, why not volunteer some expertise for the next degree show or youth concert? If you are a chief executive, forget about putting on an elaborate pyrotechnic extravaganza for your next launch and commission some fresh Arab writers, artists or musicians to make your company stand out from the crowd… Get the idea? Imagine just what the impact would be if we each offered our support and skills to create new platforms and possibilities for an ever increasing pool of incredibly talented artists from the region?
With this in mind, please now take a pen and paper and write down the five most inspiring cultural events you hope to contribute to and see in the next 12 months.
No Place Like Home
Age 10 - God
While playing chase in a friend’s garden one sunny afternoon in South London a Statue fell on my six year old sisters head.
Walking into the stark intensive care unit I found my mother bent over her hospital bed crying and praying in Arabic. Her emotions and screams felt alien and theatrical echoing around the walls of St Mary’s. “Mummy please stop doing it like that, “ I shouted … “The God hear wont understand you” I continued with conviction. This bought on another wave of frenzy from my frantic mother I now believe was crying as much over my confused wisdom as the state of my sister who thankfully recoved consciousness the following week.
Age 11 – Boot camp
I know I should be grateful for not having spent my formative years under a showering of bombs, but to the non-war experienced, The Arabic School was as close to boot camp as a 9 year old could dream. As an undetected dyslexic, I was struggling enough with mastering the English language without the pressure to learn a lingo that I hardly ever used. Predicting a lack of enthusiasm each week, the sadistic teachers with starched fringes poking out of there hajabs would pace the corridors and guard the gates for any late comers or those like myself that would be lingering close to exits dreaming up ways to escape.
It seemed cruel justice to spend Saturday afternoons at an Arabic school on the other side of London, learning the aid el kirsey when every other child was watching Tizwas. My brother and I were in our teens, him trying to look cool supporting a George Michael hairdo and wrist bands and Myself in hand painted denim jacket screaming the word “Unique” on my back. As there were only 3 classes at the school my fellow classmates were an assortment of refugee kids, middleclass kids and geeks aged 7-10. It was the beginner’s class and I was not only the weirdest, but also the oldest kid. It’s hard to be cool and ooze attitude when you’re competing with people who are the age of your shoe size… especially when they could read better then I could.
In a bid to keep my dignity and avoid the humiliation of not knowing my Alef- Ba -Te I resorted to drastic measures and would painstakingly transcribe the koranic text we had to learn in faint pencil in a sort of coded phonetic English. This was possible due to a Syrian nabour who would help me transcribe the text each day after school. It was painstaking work, the pencil makings had to be faint so my parents wouldn’t spot them, but I had to be able to read them convincingly. It all seemed worth it at the time, as it meant I would confidently read my English pencil markings above my Arabic homework like a well-trained actress. I became skilled in the art of deception & even allowed for the occasional dramatic pause to show how hard I had revised.
All was going swimmingly well, until one afternoon a supply teacher with a particularly evil streak caught me when he noticed my eyes were reading my book from left to right.
Snatching the book from my hand he looked in utter disgust at my English pencil markings and informed the class that what I had done was blasphemous and god would punish me. Just to make sure I was under no illusion that I had time to meet my maker and deal with the punishment at a later date, he took it upon himself to unleash the wrath of the almighty on the spot in front of the class with the aid of an old wooden ruler.
I ran away at lunchtime.
Age 12 – Dogs and The Lebanon.
One of my best friends at school was Cynthia Stewart. One Easter, I had the pleasure of accompanying the Stewart family to there rural retreat that they shared with Granny Lilly and her unmarried daughter Rachelle, AKA Aunt Hitler and her loud excitable dog Bingo. I say Aunt Hitler because she was fierce and wore a kind of house uniform with a tight hair bun that reminded Cynthia and I of pitchers we saw from Germany in our History Classes.
I spent much of the holiday avoiding Aunt Hitler and hiding from Bingo. I had an inexplicable phobia of dogs. I believed they were dumb and violent, and no one in my house seemed to disagree, so despite the fact that Bingo was a tiny sausage dog that couldn’t do anything but yelp, I was crippled by having him anywhere near me.
For Aunt Hitler the uneasy relationship I had with the animal kingdom was very explicable as she explained to us all over a Sunday roast when Cynthia asked me why how I could possibly be afraid of such a tiny thing “ Well its easy to answer that” Aunt Hitler interrupted in a very self assured tone. “Its because, they eat dogs in the Lebanon of course ” she said wile staring me strait in the eye. “What like Hot dogs” Cynthia responded in a contagious laughter that got everyone, excluding Aunt Hitler in hysterics.
A few hours later, it all didn’t seem so funny and I spent the journey home wondering if it could be true.
Age 15 – The dinner party’s
Despite my attempt to avoid Arabs, there way no getting away from them, especially at the monthly dinner party’s my parents would throw. They were a kind of cultural monthly Anglo-Arab soirée.
There were Shiites, Sunnis, christens, atheists, pacifists, and just about anyone who had an interest in Arab issues including British and French journalists, artists, authors, broadcasters and poets. Everyone had an opinion the state of the Middle East and was keen to share it. Each dinner was a frantic affair that would challenge the most efficient event organiser. I could never work out how my parents managed to invite anyone without sending invitations, or how my mother could handle such complex catering for the 40+ dinner guests mostly on her own with a little help from friends. I used to hate those party’s. We had a rule in my house that I could be as scruffy as I liked when with my friends, but had to wear what I was told when my parents entertained there’s. It seemed like a good compromise until those dreaded party weekends when I would be forced to don frilly white shirts with velvet skits and plaid tights. For all the children that accompanied the adults, my brother and I were put on entertainment duty. We had around 8-10 kids, including our 2 younger sisters to entertain from an assortment of ages, and for the most part everyone entertain med themselves, thanks to a well stocked archive of vhs videos, my little pony’s and Marvel comics.
Most of the adults would get drunk wile telling storeys or singing songs. There was always an oud, usually a microphone and most defiantly a sing along. Much of the music was of Um Kalthoum or Feyroze, not that I could have told you that at the time, for to my ears, it was a revolting kind of noise pollution. I used to eagerly wait for the nabours downstairs to come up and complain so that the tipsy guests would leave and the racket would stop, but most of the time my parents would invite them in and any complaints would be forgotten about over a glass of whisky.
Age 16 – The Kiss
Having my mother spit in my face after school one day, was not the response I expected from asking is she had a good day.
I met him at a crap party I had to attend to help a friend who needed an alibi from her strict father to see her boyfriend. I didn’t have many Arabic friends and although he was not someone I would have spoken to normally, he was polite and sat with me while I waited long enough for my girlfriend to know if they were still boyfriend and girlfriend. We made small talk; he tried to teach me a few Arabic words. He asked for my number, and offered to walk me to the tube station as I was leaving.
So we walked, we talked … well, he talked, I responded. Don’t recall much about his conversation except that he asked a lot of questions and had a thick Arabic accent and smelt of cheep aftershave. While walking at a steady pace, he grabbed my arm with his hand, and head with the other and tried to kiss me. It was an unexpected and unwelcome move that had me screaming abuse at him in my limited knowledge of the Arabic language. Ashamed and angry he made a swift exit and that was the end of that as far as I was concerned, expect, it wasn’t. His mother had called my mother the following day wile I was at school and asked her if she knew I had been kissing boys. His mother also informed her that I had offered to sleep with her precious son, but because he was a good boy he had refused and walked me to the station instead to make sure I wouldn’t get myself into trouble. Hence, my mothers reactionary face spiting. It wasn’t the idea that it might be true that upset her, because she knew form the old bag that called this was a classic case of shit stirring, it was more the frustration that even the most simple situations were open to interpretation by interfering Arabs who should know better, and that despite the physical distance between us and the home land, there was no getting away from it.
Age 21 - The graduation, the deadline and the inevitable decision to try.
They all met. They all frowned. He didn’t understand them, they didn’t like him. Besides... His socks were disgusting so my mother’s friends informed me. He was a collage beau and they were my family coming to watch my graduation. He didn’t stand a chance really, and despite our combined efforts they just didn’t want to know. What concerned them more was the idea that I had lived in a rough student flat with several girls and the place was falling apart. “ Don’t go up if you don’t want your heart to hurt “ said my mother in soap opera fashion as she passed another concerned parent on route to there own inspection. My flatmates and I had feverishly spent the day preparing for the arrival of our parents and siblings, hiding evince of interaction with the opposite sex and too many takeaways. We hid stuff in the washing machine, under the stairs, inside the boiler... of late nights, and frozen hot water pipes.
I was given funding and a 3-month deadline to find a media job before being shipped out to Beirut to join the rest of the family. I didn’t want to go. I was in love with my parentless London and convinced I would find a reason to stay, but as the summer came winding down and collage friends started buying suits I know it was inevitable as I cried all the way to the airport.
The move
“ How is it that one day life is orderly and you are content. A little cynical perhaps but on the whole just so, and then, without warning, you find the solid floor is a trap door and you are now in another place whose geography is uncertain and who’s customs are strange “
I read and recited that passage from Janet Wintersons book “The passion” daily like a mantra. It summed up the hysterical situation I had found myself living in post war Beirut. There was, in my initial and very English opinion very little reason to stay in there. I walked into a world of tired people and broken buildings, and was ill equipped for the intricate social customs and religious divisions that faced me. The war was officially over, yet a dollar war was as fierce and despite the silence of the sectarian war, there was still a UN missable divide. Each side had there own media, own clubs, and even there own airport. In a country half the size of whales, you didn’t have to be well versed in the ins and outs of Lebanon’s history to know something wasn’t quite right. My father had raised me to take the better of two cultures and avoid anything in extremes; yet, moving to Beirut, there seemed to be nothing but extremes. If people partied, they did it with abandon and without thought of tomorrow, if they drank, they got exceedingly pissed, and if ate out, they had to order enough for the nabourhood.. The electricity supply was a rare as signs of indivualism, or freedom yet you seldom saw an ungroomed lady pounding the streets.
The initial plan had been to spend a few months, meet the family, get a tan and get the hell out of there. It was an awkward introduction after 3 hedonistic years as a student, yet despite the fact that I didn’t fit in, I was utterly seduced by craziness of the city and within months I began to live a good life. My pigeon Arab evolved under the watchful eye of new found friends and as the weeks moved into months, thoughts of my other reality London were but a distant memory until a hilalarious phone call from London where a friend asked if I had been Kidnapped. “ Please call me from the British embassy so I know your not being held there against your will. If you don’t call by tomorrow morning I will contact them and ask them to come and find you “ The well meaning friend said in a serious tone.
I spent several years in Beirut, growing, laughing and learning surrounded by love, from nature, from friendships, from family and myself. How such a reluctant visitor could reap such love was a wonder until….
The 7 year itch
Image a life where every moment felt like a dejavoo, What you said, where u went, and what u did.... where everyday was Sunday. Being partial to a bit of variety, and someone who always loved the flavour of Wednesdays and Thursdays, it was time to jump ship and swim to another shore.
The return.
I only went away for seven years, and had frequent visits back through out, yet moving back to London was a surprise, well, actually it was a slap. A stingy-sharp-leaves-a-mark-on-your-cheek kind of slap that still feels warm at the first sign of trouble.
There’s no place like home
Whenever I need a dose of national pride, I take the bus and go to Edgware rd. It reminds me of all that is good, bad, ugly and great about the culture some of us can proudly call our own. Each time I miss all that is at home I call my teta and eat a shawarma sandwich. The need to find home is no longer desperate, and judging by the range of scrappy apartments I have rented over the past few years, that may not be such a bad thing. I’m not suggesting that home is a place where you can get a shawrma sandwich with toum, but maybe, just maybe, Home is a place you can pick up a phone, or perhaps … Home is a place inside your head where you can take the good bits of two cultures and fuse them to become a member of your own cultural party. For now, home could be Hamra street in a sound clash with hoxton square, & sometimes, home is swimming in Jiyeh and coming out the water to Brighton pier and speaking in Cantonese or Welsh. I almost dread finding it because I’m worried that I wont like it, or that I shall love it so much I would never leave, and besides… there is always the risk that the “God” there might not speak English.
Monday, 12 May 2008
Marhaba....
Ya Marhaba, and welcome.
Like a huge number of the world’s population - I am part timing on both sides, sliding in and out of each culture with the blinking of an eye. I take the best bits form both and use them at my leisure, raising my eyebrows at the bits that don’t make sense, or seem rubbish in my map of the world. (This includes any kind of fanaticism, engaging in conversations about crap Arab celebrities with bad nose jobs or arguing with family on the subject of what age a girl should, or should not get hitched). I welcome people in my life like an Arab, and yet my timeliness ( much to the confusion of my Arab friends) has a crispy no nonsense British feel about it. I love cousa mihshe as much as shepards pies and when I go to someone’s house for the first time, I always take a gift and ask if I should take off my shoes. When I am offered a lift home with my Arab friends they always tell me I am soooo English as I thank them & triple check that they don’t mind. “Wallowwww , Inte kiteer Englizzeyeyeha man, Kiss me again!” they cry with fervent voices on my many trips to Middle earth. With such a wealth of social norms, beliefs, values and mismatched identities to pick and choose from its no wonder that sometimes, when the world goes round really fast, and I watch the news, or I take a 7 hour flight and put my feet in a land that feels different and speaks in my mother tongue, I sometimes get a bit confused.com.
Like a huge number of the world’s population - I am part timing on both sides, sliding in and out of each culture with the blinking of an eye. I take the best bits form both and use them at my leisure, raising my eyebrows at the bits that don’t make sense, or seem rubbish in my map of the world. (This includes any kind of fanaticism, engaging in conversations about crap Arab celebrities with bad nose jobs or arguing with family on the subject of what age a girl should, or should not get hitched). I welcome people in my life like an Arab, and yet my timeliness ( much to the confusion of my Arab friends) has a crispy no nonsense British feel about it. I love cousa mihshe as much as shepards pies and when I go to someone’s house for the first time, I always take a gift and ask if I should take off my shoes. When I am offered a lift home with my Arab friends they always tell me I am soooo English as I thank them & triple check that they don’t mind. “Wallowwww , Inte kiteer Englizzeyeyeha man, Kiss me again!” they cry with fervent voices on my many trips to Middle earth. With such a wealth of social norms, beliefs, values and mismatched identities to pick and choose from its no wonder that sometimes, when the world goes round really fast, and I watch the news, or I take a 7 hour flight and put my feet in a land that feels different and speaks in my mother tongue, I sometimes get a bit confused.com.
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