Random thoughts and ideas on the Middle East

2011-11-27T17:17:00.018+01:00

From Beirut to Tel-Aviv...

Beirut and Tel-Aviv are two sides of the same coin, and yet the two names are rarely combined in one sentence, except in the context of the war between Israel and Lebanon. Both have a stunning coastal line, which make for a breathtaking airplane landing. Both have incoherent architectural style, which illogically make for a charming whole. Both have an ethnic hodge pot, which makes for an uneasy coexistence. Both are generously showered by the rays of sun, as by the rays of bullets, which in the case of Beirut can still be seen echoing off the walls of abandoned buildings. Both are left leaning in their respective national contexts. The inhabitants of both consume mountains of tabouli salad and hummous on a daily basis. This list can go on for pages.

Beirut and Tel-Aviv are of course proxies for a larger similarities between Israel and Lebanon which share a border, but nothing else. No Israeli can enter Lebanon and no one with an Israeli stamp in the passport will be allowed either. The same largely applies in the other direction. Friends in Lebanon tell me that their parents used to be able to drive from Beirut to West Bank, including Israel's proper, and back to Beirut in one day. That will probably remain a dream for decades to come, even if Iran somehow falters and even if Hezbollah's formidable powers are diminished, which is difficult to imagine seeing how it runs a state within a state, in addition to playing the formal political game.

The awareness of an average Lebanese of Israel is virtually non-existent, except for the military might of its tiny but belligerent neighbor, which showers Lebanon with rockets from time to time, the last time being in a not so far away 2006. My Lebanese friends tell me stories of life going on "business as usual" during the war: of them going to the office, hearing shelling of south Beirut, of setting up shelters for those dispossessed from the Hezbollah's areas, of going out in Gemaizeh at night.

Likewise, the Israelis shrink and shudder when they hear something, anything, about Lebanon. For them, Lebanon equals Hezbollah and Hezbollah equals rocket grenades and anti-semitism. I doubt they can imagine that Lebanon's largest synagogue prospers in central Beirut, despite the fact that the Jewish population sadly counts only about 400 Jews, too tired to move or too tied to their land. I doubt they can fathom that Beirut, on the whole, is one of the most liberal cities in the Middle East, that lives for its reclaimed restaurants and shisha pipes and skimpy clad, cosmetically remade ladies. I doubt that they could believe that war is as far from the mind of an average Lebanese as from the mind of an average left leaning Israeli.

And yet, despite this prevailing sentiment of peace and party over grenades and tanks in both Beirut and Tel Aviv, the reality is a little dimmer in both places. Checkpoints staffed by uneasy-looking young men can be found both in the mountains just an hour's drive from Beirut and across Israel and the West Bank. Holidays or celebrations are a particularly weary time in both countries, with military potentially outweighing any civilian presence on the street. That was certainly the case of the parade celebrating Lebanon's independence from the French mandate last week. Given the track record of assassinations in both countries from Izhak Rabin to Rafiq Hariri, it is hardly surprising. On the streets of Lebanon, one can still get in traffic behind a tank.

The only difference is that the Israeli military power is formal and supported by a sophisticated military apparatus, whereas Lebanon's power has nothing to do with its official military but everything to do with Hezbollah, which these days controls much more in Lebanon than tanks and rockets. The fact that Hezbollah's army stretches from south Beirut to south Lebanon is hardly a secret. A lesser known fact is that Hezbollah has an entirely parallel system of government, including parallel schools with a different curriculum, parallel system of hospitals and prisons, and that this fearsome militia owns land all over Lebanon, where presumably some time down the line, it plans to use to settle loyalists, the same way French government tries to build low income housing in the middle of the most bourgeois neighborhoods in Paris.

The parallel between the two countries belies the war and peace politics of the Middle East. It is in the air, expressing itself in how Lebanese and Israelis love, hate, eat and drink. The huge artistic undercurrents in both countries. The exposed brick art galleries of central Beirut and their siblings in Yaffa, on the shore of Tel Aviv. The overpowering role of finance and banks in the economies of the two countries. The business tycoons controlling most of the economy through a sophisticated corporate group structure, spanning banks and industrial companies. The role of expatriates in the performance and even the survival of the state. It is estimated that for every Lebanese in the country, there are about 3 expatriates aroad. In the case of Israel, the diaspora has also not been unimportant, particularly in North America.

Both are insecure of its neighbors and of themselves. Israel carefully observes from behind the self imposed burqa, looking carefully at the Palestinians, Lebanese, Egyptian and Syrians and wondering from where the next punch will come. Likewise, Lebanon looks not only to its larger neighbour, Syria, but also to Israel which could shower it with bullets, shells and grenades if Hezbollah, which the Lebanese government does not control, decides to make one step past the porous border. The two countries are akin to self conscious neighbors, hiding behind the doors of their respective apartments, which, like it or not, are situated on the same floor. Behind each door hide beautiful women, so self conscious that cosmetic surgery remains the only option for survival.

And yet, if I had to isolate the important things that the two people share, whether they like it or not, is the sunshine of the Middle East, its incredible hospitality, the human warmth, its unpredictable spontaneity. All these variables add up to make life which is lived for the moment, as opposed to in five minutes, in five days or five years. And life is not the same when one lives for the moment. In the Western world, we all try to capture the moment, to live for today but we can't manage it because we simply don't know how to, because it is unnatural for us, because deep down we hope that tomorrow will be better, and because we are fairly confident that tomorrow exists, that there will be no bombing, and that life will go on, boring and predictable.

We don't wake up to see the bullet markets which decorate the walls of hundreds of buildings of Beirut, reminding - every day - its inhabitants of their mistakes and their dangers. We don't pass by the plaques in front of restaurants and bars, diligently listing those that got killed by suicide bombers. We don't live in an explosive ethic mix of Bedouins, Druze, Jews, Sunnis, Shia, and Christians and the fear that one day, our little world of Jews or Druze will have to be uprooted, demolished, or somehow marginalized. We don't need to have the same sense of fraternity that unites the peoples of Israel or Lebanon, despite their diverse and sometimes opposing backgrounds and history.

We can live in our egotistical bubble, for ourselves, despite what our religions tells us about brotherhood and sharing and all the other good stuff. And we do - live for ourselves, for tomorrow, for some distant hope of something intangible. It might be more prudent and rational, but it is certainly less inspiring. On the other hand, in Beirut and Tel-Aviv life both is inspired and inspiring. And while the Lebanese and the Israelis might see themselves as being on the opposite sides of the world, they might just be on the two sides of the same coin instead. One can only hope that in a not too distant future, the Lebanese would be able to drive freely to the West Bank and Jerusalem, like they used to do, some sixty years ago and that for Israelis, Lebanon would stop equalling Hezbollah. Until then, the road from Beirut to Tel Aviv will remain an imaginary silk route that unites these two peoples, who both live for today for the fear of not seeing tomorrow.

2011-11-04T18:43:00.008+01:00

Halloween in Dubai

The Dubai International Financial Center is a combination of glass, lights and expats. It is defined by a structure which looks like the arch of the business district of Paris and creates a New York-like microcosm in the middle of what only a decade ago was an indistinguishable patch of desert. Inside this desert financial center hide fast food joints, snazzy restaurants, contemporary art galleries, chic hotels and everything else that makes it an antithesis for what you would one expect to find in the relatively conservative Emirates.

Western culture and habits, for better or worse, seem to have defined, permeated and invaded everything. British accents are ricocheting off the glass walls, containing the odors of fried chicken, and escalators rushing expats from all over the world up to the their exaggerated paychecks and dreams to making it big if not at in their own countries, than here, in the Gulf. If it sounds like the American dream, it is. To be fair, let's call it the Dubai dream.

With only ten percent local Emirati population, it is no wonder that Western customs and habits did not take long to transform Dubai and its financial center in a very much occidental construct. While the local stock markets operate with respect to Ramadan, Eid and other Muslim holidays, they don't skip an opportunity to celebrate Halloween, which in the neighbouring Saudi Arabia would be considered witchcraft, in some cases punishable by death penalty.

It's 31 October and downstairs of the DIFC, Halloween celebrations are in full swing. Upstairs, some British or French expat is probably still crunching their spreadsheets, praying that the numbers will add up and liberate them to the bliss of the sleek lounge to find their pumpkin. Here, at Zumba lounge, Halloween is taken with all the seriousness it deserves. All the waiters and bartenders have their faces painted and are going about their business with the some serious energy. A middle aged chinese waitress looks somewhat curious with sparkles all over her face, like a ten old who has outgrown her party outfit a few years ago.

At the bar, overmaked-up women of all ages are shaking their - either very well supported or outright remodeled breasts - to the sound of the tam-tam, played by an afroboy or an afroboy-wanna-be. Gold visas are being swiped with the speed of lightening. Packs of cigarettes are disappearing in their own smoke. Blackberries are buzzing distracting their owners from their cigarettes. The bar is moving to the noise of cocktail shakers, tunes of the DJ and echoes of conversations.

A half-moon is hanging over a nearby skyscraper as if to prove that there are no limits to to verticality. Surely, Sheikh Mohammed will shortly announce something taller, wider, louder, more grandiose than all the preceding towers. That one will surely reach the moon. If only the fourteen billion of Dubai Holding debt maturing next year were a mirage. Was Burj Al Khalifa worth it? History will show us, though research already shows that considering its construction costs, the break-even point for the tower is also somewhat of a mirage.

Halloween has drowned out the Dubai crisis, the global financial crisis, the Greek debt crisis. Here, at the Dubai Financial Center, there is no crisis, just a party. And the party is clearly on, here, at least as much if not more than, in Paris or New York. Are a bunch of skyscrapers, bedouins, expats and a half moon enough to light up the night? Are they genuinely happy to be there or is being out and seen an obligation as much as social receptions were the duty of the British and the French nobility? What do these people do during the day that makes them so alive at night?

The financial crisis, the Palestinian -Israeli conflict, the real estate meltdown are mixing in their glasses and seem to be going down rather well. Is it possible that all these drinks are meant to drown out their solitude on the other side of planet earth than where they really want to be? Are they trying to prove to themselves that life goes on even in the desert, that we can all hide behind a halloween mask and return to the careless lightness of our childhood?

But, that is precisely the question. Can we drown out the feeling of not being in the right place at the right time? That same evening, walking back from the party, I cut myself which would be no big deal in Paris, London or New York or even in some less glamorous places. In Dubai though, some hotels are owned by pious Emiratis are dry, devoid even of rubbing alcohol. No vodka, no gin, no wine and no rubbing alcohol. And then it occurred to me that no efforts to remake the desert into something it is not can be full proof. Here in Dubai, even on Halloween Occident and Orient can only co-exist to an extent. Trick or teat anybody?

2011-10-06T23:02:00.014+02:00

Contrasts and contradictions

Human experience is defined by a surprisingly few, transformative experiences.Unsurprisingly, those transformative experiences are shaped by human beings. More rarely, they are shaped by an event or a place. And yet, there is a place in this world that touches, in a very profound, albeit in a very different way, almost every humanbeing. The Middle East.

Those that have at least once travelled to this part of the world know that it's like a centrifugal force that pulls you once and for all, like meat grinder from which you emerge substantially the same yet so different. Jerusalem, Baghdad, Beirut, Petra, Mecca - the differences between them loom larger than any real or perceived similarities - and yet, once we are drawn in, there is no right of no return (pun on word intended).

Why is that one can travel to Prague, Lisbon, Saint Francisco, Toronto, Brussels without ever reeling with the same nostalgia that one trip to Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon or Israel? Why is that a short trip to this part of the world - scarred by conflict, marred in instability, marked by so much injustice - makes us all leave a little piece of our heart behind and a burns a little scar on the inside?

In answering these questions there are two keywords - contrasts and contradictions. Contrasts and contradictions that have accumulated over the past few centuries are hiding everywhere, in things material and intangible, permeating the air, invading the spirit, pulling us in the centrifuge of the local experience. For an Arab, a Christian or a Jew, life in the Middle East is a contradiction in terms, an emotional roller coaster, composed of a millions of days, each unique and lived very much for the moment.

The Israelis, the Lebanese, the Iraqis, the Yemenis, the Afghanis and many others drive, eat, dance and interact with the intensity, the warmth, and the hate that is so immediate and burning that it captures the thirst of life in a way unparalleled in any other place in the world. Almost everything in the region evades logic and reason. Almost everything is a matter of the heart, almost to the point where melodrama characterises even the most insignificant events, giving them a new meaning.

When we randomly sift through our memory to find associations with the Middle East, they are probably include some if not all of the following: Iraqi women in black crying out for lost members of the family, Gazan men in military uniforms releasing rounds in the air, Egyptian men and woman manifesting at Tahrir square. These images stand in a very stark contrast with the almost surreal calm of the Japanese after the meltdown of the Fukishama reactor.

Contrasts and contradictions underlie every experience today in the region probably in the same stark way as they did 100 or 1000 years ago. Just think of the barren hills and juicy olives in Jerusalem, the stretching desert and ambitious high rises in Dubai, the semi naked tourists and the very much veiled locals in Cairo, the bullet marked buildings and the happening nightlife in Beirut.

Most of these contradictions are rooted in a tension between religion and modernity and exacerbated by the stress among the religious communities. And yet, these contradictions are not unique to the Middle East, far from it. It is not the only part of the world where religion continues to play a defining role in society - look no further than Malaysia. Neither is the Middle East the most ethnically diverse place - not even close to the American melting pot, where an Iranian immigrant can live or work side by side with a Polish Jew.

And yet, there is something in the the Middle Eastern air that makes it explosive. Zataar, shisha, love, hate, a woman's voice, a child's cry, an explosion, a party. Everything touches the soul, as if seeking to leave an engraving. This cradle of civilisations cannot leave even a cockroach indifferent, let alone its own inhabitants who have evolved in circumstances that require the skills of a chameleon.

There are countless expressions of these contradictions that are difficult to capture unless by a skilled photographer. The keys of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher being guarded by a Muslim to avoid rivalry among Christian families. The women covered in black walking behind their husbands outfitted in Adidas shorts on the beach of Tel-a-viv. Black obayas decorated in miniature christmas trees dominating the storefronts in Cairo. Palestinian shopkeepers selling colourfully decorated mezuzahs in the souk of Jerusalem.

The call for prayer resonating in Dubai Ball, disturbing only the fish in the gigantic aquarium built by the local sheikh. A bearded man and his head-to-toe covered wife sifting through sexy underwear nearby. A woman nestling a medical mask on top of her obaya, already covering all of her face, at the Cairo airport. A man throwing his phone number in a car of a passing lady in the hope of scoring a text back. If that's not obvious, that's in Saudi Arabia.

All in all, the Middle East is like an unpredictable lover. It can be capricious, illogical, melancholic, demanding, welcoming, overbearing, explosive, mysterious, unpredictable. Nonetheless, it is nothing short of a magnet, a centrifugal force that draws us to the cradle of civilisations, to our irrational but precious origins. After one taste, we keep coming back for more, even if this relationship cannot last a lifetime.

2011-09-20T22:43:00.009+02:00

Balance of power in the new Middle East

In the 1980s, the Middle East was a manifestation of an ideological battlefield between socialism and capitalism, played out by the United States and the Soviet Union. In the 1990s, the Soviet Union had some bigger fish to fry at home than bother with the spread of socialism abroad. Conveniently, "terrorism" gave the United States another enemy in the region and a raison-d'être for its continued presence.

As the first decade of the new millennium wizzed by, the fight against terrorism became the new game in town and at one point it looked like the "coalition of the willing" might take over the Middle East. As Rudolph Giuliani plainly put in his recent interview, America's presence is justified in the Middle East for as long as there is terrorism. Unfortunately, he is not the only one to hold this view.

And yet, as of the beginning of this year, the the narrow and narrow-minded focus on terrorism in the region has been swiftly replaced by the focus of revolutions and revolutionaries. Overnight, America became a supporter of the demands of the Egyptian people, then the Tunisian people, then the Syrian and Yemeni people and basically for all of the people of the Middle East, well, except of the Saudis - they really have too much oil.

The events of the past few months have not only caught world leaders with their pants down, they caught the Arabs with their pants - or perhaps more eloquently put - their robes down. Previously, the region was thought to be "exceptional" - exceptionally undemocratic, exceptionally prone to terrorism, exceptionally difficult to develop. No longer. It seems to everyone's surprise, the Arab people have the same demands at karama (dignity in arabic) as do others. Even bigger surprise was the secular nature of the revolutions, which of course put a wrinkle in the plan to fight terrorism in the region.

International organisations and donor governments are simply at a loss. As soon as they manage to draft up another plan to save the Middle East from itself, the tectonic plates shift once again and our powerful Western leaders find themselves hanging of the cliff on different sides. Certainly, the replacement regimes are better, at least on paper, than their predecessors. Better, but less obvious. Until this year, Arab countries were like large multinationals, run by well known and established leaders: Apple is run by Steve Jobs, Egypt by Hosni Mubarak, Microsoft by Bill Gates, Tunisia by Ben Ali.

In the post revolutionary Middle East, the chain of command seems a little more complex. Who is in charge?!, is the million or the billion dollar question. The Dauville Communique, drafted by our G8 masters committed 40 billion to supporting various noble causes in the region - reducing unemployment, giving women more rights, reducing inequalities, improving democratic processes - except no one has a clue what to actually do with these piles of cash.The whole region seems to have slowly converged towards the Palestinian situation - donors pouring cash on vague objectives yielding invisible results.

While the world powers are watching the news from the region as an interminable Mexican soap opera which everyone suspects will have a dramatic end, but are not sure which of their favourite heros will be sacrificed, Turkey has cautiously entered and installed itself as a major power broker in the region. Turkey's ouvertures towards the Middle East in fact predate Arab revolutionary fervor but until recently were unwelcome. After all, it is hardly a secret that Arabs do not look back at the Ottoman era with the biggest nostalgia.

Why now then? In principle, the Turkish model is more readily exportable and applicable to the Egyptian transition but also the wider political transition in the region, Turkey being a multi-ethnic, predominantly Muslim country, with a history of being ruled by the military. And yet, Turkey, with its borders with Iraq, Iran and Israel appeared of minimal interest in the region until Erdogan decided - in a politically shrewd move - to blow up, the conflict with Israel over the Gaza flotilla which, by the way, took place months before.

Various versions of the Turkey-Israel confrontation, resulting in Turkey all but severing political ties with Israel, abound. Regardless of the substance of this debate, Erdogan has clearly seen the flotilla as his entry point not only into Gaza, but in the wider Middle East. Days after the well-publicised spat with Israel, he arrived in the Middle East, triumphant, characterized as the second most popular Turk in the Middle East since Saladin recaptured Egypt, Syrian and Jerusalem from the Europeans in 1100.

Erdogan has much to be proud of. Only months after Obama's famous Cairo speech, America has lost any shred of legitimacy in the region. The fight against terrorism is a broken record that no longer sells, if ever it did. America's support of the Israeli position during the Palestinian bid for statehood in the UN has made it persona non grata for the foreseeable future. In the absence of any other weighty power broker in the region, Turkey might ride the popularity wave.

Pity that it will do so for all the wrong reasons. While Erdogan might have tried to promote his version of secular Muslim state, it is doubtful his message was heard or noticed as much as his promise that "Israel will no longer be able to do what it wants in the Mediterranean". After all, when he stepped of his plane in Cairo, he was greeted by the now familiar Allah Akbar and not Go Secular Turkey! Undoubtedly, this does not much disturb Erdogan but what he might not realise is that Egypt is not Turkey and playing the Palestinian cause is an easy card to play in what will be a tough poker game.

2011-04-14T23:20:00.007+02:00

Echos from North Africa

I have always found it somewhat of a culture shock to find myself on the African continent in less than a 3 hour flight from Europe. As far as the Middle East and North Africa goes: Cairo is 5 hours, Dubai 6 hours, Beirut 4 hours, and yet Rabat is almost around the corner from Paris. By the time you get do indulge - or not - in some moderately eatable airplane cookery and browse through Financial Times or whatever else you fancy, the plane is already lowering itself on leafy green palm trees and you know Europe is far, far behind.

But how far is really Morocco from Europe? After all, it is a former French colony, which has declared independence just over 50 years ago, and the upper social class as well as all of the government still operate entirely in French, which is not the same in Algeria, for all the obvious reasons, or even in Tunisia for less obvious ones. The legal system and the modus operandi of the Moroccan institutions is very much à la française. The locals, when blamed for inefficiency or anything else for that matter, just shrug their shoulders as if to say: "hey, we just borrowed your traditions, it's not our fault!"

While in many ways, countries of the "South Mediterranean"- basically European speak for Maghreb - are linguistically, culturally and commercially closer to Europe than even Turkey, which has for a while been fighting for EU accession, in the most fundamental ways they are worlds apart from Europe, perhaps even more than a continent away. And no Sarkozy talk of his Mediterranean Union project can bridge this in the next few decades.

True, unlike its neighbouring Libya and Tunisia, the subjects of His Majesty have not rebelled, in the region where rebelling against social and economic injustice, corruption, lack of political rights and just about everything else has become as fashionable as fake Louis Vitton bags. It seems that unlike in the neighbourhood countries, where the leaders were caught with their pants down, the Moroccan King - or more precisely his advisors - have been saavy enough to harness all sorts of media. A few days ago, the most read daily boasted the photo of the King busily greeting the head of the domestic anti-corruption watchdog. To his credit, he seems to have got it faster than his neighbours, not least Bashar Al Assad and King Abdullah, both of the same "reformer" generation.

The King, being a descendant from the Prophet, might need even less "communication" to his fellow subjects, of which less than half are literate anyways. His legitimacy is not disputed, and passing by his palaces in Rabat Marrakech or any other city (there is a palace per city policy), there are no crowds demanding any drastic reforms, let alone his departure. The latter is actually against the law, since any criticism of the King is considered as a criminal matter, as a few journalists who have dared to cross the line, swiftly discovered.

Sometimes, one can wonder whether the King fully realises what is actually going on his country, considering that his palaces are surrounded by modern-looking security services and hectares of those leafy palm trees which separate his nose from the pollution of cars and and his eyes from the daily life in the medina. In Marrakech, his palace is surrounded by imposing looking streetlights which standout by the very fact that they do not at all fit with the surrounding misery. Even when the King chooses to take out his Porsche outside the safety of his Palaces, the highways are cleared of cars and guarded by policemen stationed every five meters, and melting onto the pavement in excruciating heat.

Aside from this Disneyland reality of Morocco, the rest is pretty much a sad sight despite all the reforms and laws to improve the daily life of low and middle income class Moroccans. With the exception of a few building blocks on the outskirts of Rabat, destined to create a middle class in a country which fundamentally lacks it, Moroccan cities are interspersed with bidonvilles. Aside from the diplomatic capital (Rabat) and the business capital (Casablanca), other cities are pretty much a sorry sight, which the ignorant Western tourists mistake for some sort of an "authenticity", and from which they hide in the privacy of their luxury villas, riyads and hotels, completely divorced from the local context.

Marrakech, for example, is known as a premium tourist destination, and yet, apart from a couple badly kept and mediocre museums and decrepit medina, there is nothing that catches the eyes except for more of the same: pollution, poverty, unkept children playing in the dust, amid a couple of tired donkeys and fruit vendors. Perhaps the biggest irony is that the most widely known tourist destination in Marrakech is the Villa of Yves Saint Laurent, which is singularly the only impeccably kept place in the city. Needless to say, there is nothing Moroccan about it, except perhaps its gardener and cleaning lady.

What the tourists flocking to Marrakech - an "authentic" North African city stuck somewhere in the medieval times - really see is a lack of an even pretense at progress and development. This is mistaken for originality. Perhaps it is for the best that the tourists continue flocking to Marrakech since the city basically lives off their ignorance and willingness to perpetually pose like a walking wallet. For non-Arabic speakers, the taxi counters are immediately turned off, additional items pop up out of nowhere on restaurant bills, and prices generally quadruple.

In a nutshell, the city is on life support, and it's organ donor is called "the tourist", of which there are basically two types: those which arrive directly to their five star hotel and think than tanning topless around the pool is what everybody in Marrakech does (never mind that a quarter of local women wear a Saudi-style burqa) or those who actually venture into the guts of the city and experience Marrakech grassroots style, which is still very far to the real daily existence of an average Marrakechi.

If tourists and all the services associated with it fled, the economy of entire cities such as Marrakech would crumble like a house of cards. Perhaps somebody should explain this to taxis who are clearly in competition trying to name the most outrageous price. Aside from services, nothing is produced in this city or many other Moroccan cities, whose "artisanat", i.e. crafts are exceedingly manufactured in China and painted in Morocco.

In Europe, we often hear that cooperation between South and North Mediterranean countries is a win-win, due to high unemployment in the the Maghreb and the need for qualified low cost labour in the Europe. And yet, with all the European support and decent laws on books and a relatively competent administration, the Moroccan economy operates like one giant souk, where items are haggled for, bargained, stolen, and sometimes simply wasted. There are a few "islands of efficiency", usually run by expats, which operate according to entirely different principles and deadlines. For the lack of a better analogy, this is a new brand of post-colonialism, and at least to me, not the worst kind.

All in all, Marrakesh might be only 3 hours away from Paris, but it is lightyears away from it. I wonder if it has "gone back" from colonial times, and why despite all the European cash, the linguistic capabilities, the relatively competent civil service, it has not made the huge leaps it has all the potential to make. The answer, I am afraid, lies more the "souk culture" than in an any government procedures or lack of foreign assistance or China's productivity or the King's rule. Bargaining is a certainly a skill, but it cannot be the only one.

2011-01-31T19:29:00.012+01:00

Havoc in the Middle East

The Middle East has been one of the most "politically stable" regions with an average mandate of its leaders oscillating somewhere between 20-30 years. A special mention goes to Gaddafi who has been in power the longest in the region, since 1969, and is in fact the longest standing global leader with no royal lineage. The revolution, unravelling in the region has clearly caught the Arab leaders and the rest of the world with their pants down.

What's more, no one expected the posterchild of stable, secular, middle class Tunisia to be the first to take the tumble. Ben Ali was so firmly at the steering wheel that no one could ever imagine that a self-inflicting burning of a vegetable salesman would bring him to flee Tunisia without even putting up a decent fight. The military said "that's enough" and he just left, of course not after his hairdresser wife withdrawing 45 million of gold reserves from the Central Bank, in addition to his existing personal fortune estimated at about ten times that.

Surprising as it may be, the fact that Tunisia was the first card in the deck to fall is historically important. First, Tunisia is not exactly strategic to the US interests and the French, who have historically been very much present, did not manage to produce any loud noises, at least not coherently. The French Foreign Affairs Minister - who should have known better, having served as a Minister of Defence and previously of Interior - quipped that France can send French troops to help quell rebellion in Tunisia. She was promptly and correctly told to zip it and has since even apologised.

Second, the jasmine revolution could not have been branded as some sort of unruly Islamic revolt that would have all Western politicians looking uncomfortably to Iran and anxiously shifting in their seats. It was simply a plea that eventually became sufficiently desperate that survival took the back seat and that tactics with mortal outcomes, traditionally reserved to Islamists (i.e. suicide bombings) have morphed into secular self-destruction (i.e. self burning). What is less known is that this ritual has sadly become somewhat of a fad with young men burning themselves across the Maghreb.

We can only be grateful the revolts did not begin in the Gulf, where US has more strategic interests (access to oil, military bases etc.) And it is indeed interesting to observe that the Arab awakening has left entirely untouched the royal fiefdoms of the Middle East. It would be temping to say that the people of the Gulf countries are fat cats who don't have an interest in political activism of the sort, but Jordan and Morocco provide a litmus test to that statement. Both are extremely poor, royal and reasonably stable, at least in recent years.

So why Tunisia, Egypt and Yemen? Because Ben Ali, Mubarak and Saleh. Put this way, the similarity is striking - all belong to the old military guard, having been in power for over 30 years, all are secular and enjoy no popular support, all have been propped up to varying extent by Western interests in the Middle East, all have relied on an alliance with the military. And yet, unlike the royal regimes who are confident to have their offspring continue to rule, these leaders have behaved like investment bankers trying to hit their annual bonuses, as opposed to seeing the company performance over the longer term.

Now that these revolts are fully underway, the media is overflowing with speculation regarding how they will play out. In Tunisia, the government has already been formed and only time will tell whether democratic tendencies will install themselves and in what concotion. The elephant in the room is of course the status of the Islamic party, Ennahdha, hethero banned, whose alleged representative, Rachid Ghanouchi, is back home from his home away from home, Britain. There are diverging viewpoints on this and Ayatollah Khatami is already seeing "Islam-based Middle East" in the making. I think many, myself included, would beg (and hope) to differ.

The situation in Egypt is perhaps the most tense, unpredictable and consequential for the "new Middle East" than that in Tunisia or even Yemen. In a recent interview, Hilary Clinton tried to predict the outcome by declaring unambiguously, in total seriousness (and with considerable degree of hypocrisy, if you ask me): "what will happen to Egypt is up to the Egyptian people." While that truism should be so obvious as to sound ridiculous when repeated, it is also not exactly the case. What happens on the streets of Egypt is up to the Egyptians, what happens in terms of political change in Egypt is at least as much up to Americans (or their leaders).

And Americans (and for that matter Europeans) are clinging to Mubarak like surround wrap to old piece of cheese. Mubarak has meant stability and stability is a good thing as far as old friends go. With close to 1.5 billion dollars annual aid from the US alone, Mubrak has been able to rule like a pharaon, to the point that that when Egyptians talk of a pharaon they actually refer to Mister M himself. He's been subject to so much ridicule that there are now actually collections of Mubarak jokes like there used to be for Bush Jr. For a good laugh, see "Making fun of the pharaoh" on Foreign Policy.

What seems to have escaped the America and its incoherent Middle East policy in the is the tradeoff between short and long term stability. The more they have encouraged stability, the more instability has ultimately come their way. This should really not be surprising. For ordinary Egyptians, stability they have had is one frustrating kind: stability of illiteracy, of poverty, of traffic jams, of corruption. In response to this stability sought by Egypt's friends, the only unstable variable has been the rise of Islam to the point the only opposition left standing is the Muslim Brotherhood, ready as always to die for their cause.

The second pillar of the Mubarak house allegedly supported by American interests was democracy. Stability and democracy was what has been shouted through a megaphone by successive American administrations, with none of them stopping to realise that those are actually incompatible. Perhaps they realised those two policy objectives were incongruent the day Hamas won elections in not so far away Palestine, but who wants to downgrade the good old democracy? Apparently nobody.

As a result, Ministries of Foreign Affairs in capitals in Europe and North America are now caught peddling political banalities about how the regime needs to respond to its people, without anyone daring to say a word about the regime itself. This is not a regime that is going to respond to its people because that would equate to self-destruction. There is no need to dig the archives for a confirmation of this, it made loud and clear in elections for the Egyptian parliament being only a few months ago. It was made cristal clear again when Mubarak appointed his 75 year old security chief as the Prime Minister.

Mohammed El Baradai might, for the moment, be a solution that addresses the current predicament. He seems to have more popular support than anyone else and he is backed by Muslim Brotherhood, which is certainly not lacking any popular support. Ironically, I am not so certain that he would be backed in Western capitals, not least in Washington where he is still bitterly remembered as the man who claimed that the Iraqi nuclear programme was suspended in 1990s and hence that the war in Iraq was groundless. It does not matter that he was right, what matters is that he had his own opinion. Whether El Baradei will make for a loyal partner in the region, is far from irrelevant to managing Egyptian succession in Washington and hence, in Egypt itself.

In the meantime, what seems relatively clear is that barring major foreign intervention to prop up Mubarak, the man is over. Reporting from Cairo, Robert Fisk, one of the few experts on the region, basically points out that today the Egyptian president might as well be the main character in Catch 22. Doomed if he orders to the army to shoot the demonstrators, doomed if he does not. There is no reason to believe these angry crowds will tire out and dissipate like clouds, even if Facebook is and phone lines are cut. After all, the average Egyptian does not have either.

In any event, the outcome currently in the cards for Egypt will likely not be either democratic or stable. The "made in U.S" political template is simply not the right one for political evolution of Egypt. The people on the streets clearly do not see the benefits of stability, even though some of it like the peace dividend with Israel and the economic reforms of the Nazif led government, are not inconsequential. The problem for them is less the technocrats and their policies and probably more the politicians and their politics. Unlike stability, they seem to note the value of democracy, but it is far from clear that they are ready for it.

Ironically, democracy is not really a value innate value for peoples of the Middle East, who have never really experienced it, having for centuries survived in royal regimes, under tribal rule and simply under repression. The only democracies in this part of the world are Israel and Lebanon and I think none of their neighbours are envious of their political systems, for quiet different reasons. Of course, this can never be admitted by any politician for the noble cause of political correctness.

What everyone also seems afraid to admit is that democracy and stability takes time to reconcile. The Egyptian transition, if not managed carefully can result in chaos and a sort of free-for-all that followed the transition from communism to market economy (aka oligarchy) in Russia. Another equally undemocratic faction will take power and the history will see a repeat of the Young and the Restless featuring a Mubarak substitute.

The only hope for some, even imperfect reconciliation of democracy and stability in Egypt is the formation of some sort of a coalition government where the religious based parties could coexist with secular ones. Ironically, the closest country where this system exists is Israel, although Turkey could also be seen as an example. Naturally, Israel will be the last place the Egyptian people might look for a political role model, but without the reconciliation of Islamist based parties with remaining secular based/religious minority movements, both stability and democracy might just be a far away mirage.

2010-12-24T12:38:00.010+01:00

Disinfecting quality of the sunshine - in what dose?

Yes, it is that time of the year. The time to turn off the computer and phone, draw the curtains close, get out the diary and do some reflecting on the year almost passed. I daresay it's better time spent than getting slapped in the face by shopping bags in crowds of Christmas shoppers, whose holiday sprit - at least in France - I always find surprisingly lacking.

So, what happened in 2010? It's a simple question to which the answer is far from evident. Try asking yourself or someone you know what did this year mean for them, and you'll be surprised how much of the answer has to do with banal facts of life: career changes, house renovations, and other types of more or less successful facelifts to their lives. It's all about us what happened to us, as if we were the earth and everything else rotated around us.

While the answer to this question is deeply personal for each of us, the Time qualified 2010 as the Year of the Leak. "We could not control the leaking as if we were all sneezing women who'd just had a baby and we'd just drunk a bottomless cup of coffee and that baby was sitting on our bladder". Bravo, Joel Stein, I was considering unsubscribing and this single article has got me considering sending another cheque to Time magazine.

And it's true that if we look beyond our immediate surroundings, step above our little or not so little problems, and think about what happened in the world in 2010, the past year was really a year of the leak. And one which might not be repairable in the long term. In the short term, governments may be able to dismantle Wikileaks (think US), stop Google (think China), ban Facebook (think North Korea), block any image of women bodies (think Saudi Arabia), or issue their own competing propaganda (think Russia).

And yet this leak may not be a simple physics problem with water flowing in the bathtub of a certain pre-determined size. It might just continue flowing in and out until the leak might indeed become a state of mind. But, I am getting ahead of myself. Before we jump too far into the future, I invite you to look back. Of course, there were Wikileaks, containing nearly a half a million documents, including reports from Iraq, Afghanistan and cables from US diplomatic service about just about every country in the world. Established in 2006 by Julien Assange, the audacious organisation was virtually unheard of until 2010.

Aside from this major leak, there were small leaks all over the bathtub, as if it was shot through with a machine gun. In France, arguably the only entirely independent newspaper Le Canard Enchaîné is entirely founded on gossip provided primarily by disgruntled civil servants. To his great disillusionment, Sarkozy has not yet found a way to sue the paper or its journalists. On the contrary, Le Monde, one of the oldest French papers, is currently suing the President's Office for spying. It appears that the President's Office was seeking to stop Le Monde from publishing further damaging details about the scandal associated with Eric Woerth, French Labour Minister "replaced" in November.

Leaking is not contained to France. Israeli left leaks on the Israeli right and vice versa. In Russia, Putin's and Medvedev's camps are engaged in mutual leaking. In China, the political establishment is engaged in a predictably losing game of trying to contain the real story by shutting down access to Google and Facebook. The Chinese political establishment might want to examine carefully the history of the Soviet Union for hints why such methods are bound to fail. In Italy, everyone these days seems to be leaking on Berlusconi, though sometimes I wonder why the juicy gossip appears in the press at the exact same time when Berlusconi needs to deflect attention from another impending political disaster.

That is not to deny that some leaking has been successfully contained. Only in July this year, Russia and the United States, have quietly swapped spies in a deal that reminded me one of the first swaps of political prisoners during the Cold War. Undoubtedly, much more is contained from the general public than is leaked. We have to get used to the idea that we are not jurors in the courtroom where witnesses swear to tell the whole truth and nothing by the truth. Even for stories that make it out of black boxes, I wonder if the journalistic and blogger community has the capacity to process them (cf. the 2200 page report to the Senate on the Lehman Brother's bankruptcy).

I have to admit that I have no problem with leaking per se. My guess is that unless you are employed by the US Foreign Service or CIA, reading cables unleashed into the public domain by Wikileaks have been at least entertaining, at most fascinating. It has certainly created pretext for some debates over tea, or coffee, whatever your favourite beverage might be. And there is a specific reason for this. I woud humbly propose that there is something dramatically different about these leaks than the Watergate cables, espionage during the Cold War and even the footage of treatment of Guantanamo Bay prisoners.

First is motivation. While previous leaks were motivated by a specific political agenda, a desire to expose a specific political plot, to obtain valuable information about an enemy state, Wikileaks is about none of the above. In its repertoire of scandals are Islandic bankers, the scientology church, even members of UN peacekeeping forces. Secrets closely guarded by the American political establishment were merely the next step in the ascent of the Wikileaks dominance, not its primary target.

Julien Assange does not appear as a man with a political agenda, but a man in the search of a truth - a far more dangerous substance. A man of a certain ideology can be converted, convinced or co-opted, while man in search of a truth risks becoming more stubborn in the face of obstacles. And this is exactly what appears to have happened to Assange, though only time can tell how unbending his willpower might be.

Wikileaks has clearly hit sore spots in many capitals, not only in the United States which is scambling to find grounds for criminal charges against its founder. And yet, most of the very controversial information released by Wikileaks is really no news. The misconduct of American soldiers of Iraq, the thoughts of Saudi king on Iranian political establishment are hardly grounds for newspaper headlines. These are old news dressed up in brand new outfits.

Beyond the scale of the Wikileaks, what is really different about them is that they are no longer about events, policies, countries, but about living people. They talk about what individual people, with names, faces and titles think about other individual people with those other names, faces and titles. They reveal the thoughts of the American ambassador to Italy on Berlusconi, the Saudi King on Ahmadinajad and a host of concrete allegations against specific people.

Wikileaks has made gossip people-specific. Therein lies it's biggest power and at the same time it's biggest danger. In its noble search for truth for the public's benefit, it is targeting the private. There is nothing in the leaks that is not personally offensive to specific individuals, which is exactly why they have all rushed to "dismiss allegations" of the cables. Some of the individuals which Wikileaks targeted are now seeking revenge, making it very personal to Assange.

In our world of political correctness, it seems uncomfortable truths are all the more uncomfortable, even if they are hardly news. It's been a long time politicians have generally politely agreed to disagree and any real disagreements, short of North Korea and the US, are quietly swept under the carpet, at least in the eyes of the public. There is no more rendering politicians naked in public. Perhaps our politically correct world is kinder to all. The paradox though, is that it renders even the smallest truth that much more personal and therefore damaging.

So, does the world need more or less truth? Would the world be a better place if human beings could, like in a sci-fi movie, read though each other's thoughts so that secrets would be impossible? I cannot pretend to have a answer, but to arrive at one I suggest you imagine a friend revealing to you all the defects they think you possess. On the one hand, it is desirable to know who you real friends are, on the other, the risk of losing some friends is real. Do we need more real friends or are we better off not knowing the truth? How much of the disinfecting quality of the sunshine do we really need?

2010-10-14T19:44:00.007+02:00

How united are the United Arab Emirates?

Judging by the popular press, the United Arab Emirates do not exist as a collective. Instead, there is a buzz about the Dubai real estate crisis, the Louvre affiliate springing up in Abu Dhabi, and nothing at all about the other emirates, of which they are actually five more. But, who has ever head of Sharjah? Don't worry, I am not about to bore you with details on Sharjah, if not for any other reason, than because my knowledge of Sharjah is rather approximative.

Back to Dubai and Abu Dhabi - the powerhouse duo of the Emirates - both are in the midst of an economic boom, despite the ambitions of the respective Sheikhs being cut short by the financial crisis. Of course, there has been quite a bit of a debate about the Dubai World crisis and the creative maneuvering by Dubai's ruler Sheikh Mohamed to extricate the emirate of its dire situation, finally resorting - and not without swallowing its pride - to the generous help of the "federal government" (otherwise known as Sheikh Al Nahyan, the ruler of Abu Dhabi).

Not many have asked why one emirate decided to bail out the other, like a central bank would a too-big-to-fail bank, shaking a finger and and making it swear the mistakes would never be repeated. The oft-heard argument goes that the Dubai bail-out was for the broader stability of the country and even the region where defaulting on debt has some anti-Islamic connotations.

But why did Abu Dhabi have to bail out Dubai? Surely, not for the famous Burj Al Arab tower (which has possibly become the international image of the UAE) to be renamed as Burj Al Khalifa? More fundemtally, how did they manage to be so different that one spent through its credit card limit while the other put its pennies away in the piggy bank?

At first sight, Dubai seems like a developing microcosm of Abu Dhabi, with a equally glittering airport, swanky hotel chains where locals shuffle around with the air of inborn superiority among armies of Indian or Philipino staff, enormous malls meant to distract the local population of their boredom and from the fact that they cannot walk anywhere else 8 months out of the year. Dubai seems a replica of an established model, an architectural prototype of Abu Dhabi, with constructions cranes frozen in mid-air as if undecided what to do next.

Scrape beyond the spotless, glittery surface of their hotels, look beyond the personality cult of their respective rules, see though the hyperactively planted high-rise towers, and it becomes quickly obvious that though the two emirates, while only an hour away, are much further apart in their development agenda and even in their cultural approach. If asked who they want to be when they grow up, I would bet their answers would diverge quite a bit, and not only because they are in constant competition between their business and political elites, but because of the fundamentally different visions for their future.

Sure enough, the competition between Dubai and Abu Dhabi is obvious when one reads between the lines of local press, in discussion with business elites and the discourse of the local sheikhs who never actually mention the UAE in their speeches. Sometimes, it's even more obvious. Etihad - a state-owned airline which is owned by the Abu Dhabi royal family - openly claims to be the "the national airline of the UAE". If Etihad is the national airline, what does that make Dubai's Emirates? A foreign competitor?

Unlike its intimidating neighbour, Dubai is experimenting with a specific type of socio-economic liberalism uncommon in the UAE, and possibly more broadly in the Gulf. This is despite appearances given by events like Abu Dhabi film festival, which brings usually skimpily clad (basically naked by Gulf standards) stars from all over the western world. This year's film festival for example is bringing in town Adrian Brody, who is of jewish descent and who played brilliantly a Jewish pianist during the Holocaust in "The Pianist". In a magazine I picked up in Abu Dhabi, Brody says he cannot wait to water slide in the Emirates Palace.

That may be true, but for his sake, i hope he has no cravings for a bagel, for example, because bagels are banned in Abu Dhabi since they are considered as emblematic of Jews. Not so in the neighbouring Dubai. But if Brody really wants a bagel, Dubai is not too far, and besides, one can always make use of a helicopter since all the major hotels are already equipped with helipads.

But Dubai's liberal tendencies go beyond bagels. Walking around its souks, malls, restaurants, are tourists from all corners of the world: British, Russian, German, Egyptian, Lebanese. This is not to say that Abu Dhabi is not overflowing with expats (80% of UAE's residents are expats, the highest ratio in the Gulf), but it is mostly expats of the service trades, those that have to be there, not those who fly and in and out as they please.

The tourism has clearly offended some local sensibilities even in the more liberal Dubai where a British couple was sentenced for having sex on the beach. With all due respect they should have just stuck to sex and the beach cocktails while in Dubai! In the neighbouring Gulf countries, even sex and the city drinks are not so obvious to procure. And while no one has dared to have sex on the beach in Abu Dhabi, I have spotted a new phenomenon whereby some local woman wear an integral viel in hotels (not just niqab). Apparently, these are often prostitutes hiding under the integral veil for the risk of not being recognised in the niqab. I don't really see how a woman can be recognised in a niqab, but then I cannot speak from experience.

Beyond tourism Abu Dhabi is clearly also attempting to diversify from petrochemicals into other industries, but with its more traditional approach, this may be more challenging, unless the tourists are from Saudi Arabia, compare to which Abu Dhabi seems like Ibiza. And so the two emirates continue to compete, locked into a struggle, like two sumo wrestlers, weighted down by tradition, history, and now - debt.

Perhaps the most ironic thing is that their competition is premised on the same economic model, where only minor factors are variable, most others - lack of water, excess of petrol, need for expatriates, climate constraints - are as constant now as they will be in the next decades, if not millenia. Some of these factors are connected to natural limitations with which the sheikh of every one of the seven emirates will have to reckon with.

On the other hand, the model of heavy labour import for a range of industries from financial services down to washing toilets, is a UAE-specific choice, which in fact makes it stand out in the Gulf, where the Saudisation and Omanisation programmes imposing quota of local staff are common. It is a sort of "colonialism meets colonialism" dynamic, whereby the formerly colonised Emirates are resorting to the same dynamics as the British did in the UAE and but also in India and Pakistan, which were also under British control, and from where ironically most of the UAE workers come from.

It's a new sort of colonialism, or modern slavery, where the coloniser gets labour force advantages without having to colonise, occupy or otherwise impose itself. Its a new brand of modern capitalism, where the state controls all the resources: land (all the land belongs officially and practically to the royal family), capital (oil rents go to some unknown extent to the royal coffers), and now labour (expatriates who do not stand the chance of ever becoming citizens).

For the moment, the sheiks can steer their camels whichever way they want, so long as the overall caravan follows some stable direction and no Dubai World pops in its mist. But one day might come where the 80/20 ratio will no longer be sustainable, when the indian construction workers no longer accept the choice of 300 dollars a month or throwing themselves out of the window. And it will be then that the sheikhs will need to reflect collectively and decide the future of the United Arab Emirates as a collective. Perhaps the Dubai World crisis has already taught the sheikhs the value of "united" in the United Arab Emirates. If not, this will be the time do so.

2010-08-24T08:59:00.000+02:00

Genoa - an undusted jewel of Europe

In Europe, there are still a few these heard of but unexplored cities which merit a visit exactly because there is no risk being trapped in herds of tourists, no need to discern between local restaurants and those with pictures on their menus, no need to stand in line to get a ticket to a museum or to book a hotel months in advance. In short, the inverse mirror image of Paris.

Genoa is one of such unique cities, an undiscovered jewel, covered with ancient dust, which the tourism industry has not yet managed to cover by its ever-expanding spider web, on which almost no city guides have been written, and where the hotel industry exists principally because of its port – rival to ancient Venice – and not because it managed to market itself with all inclusive packages for mass tourism industry.

But Genoa is far from just an industrial port city as it is commonly labelled. The city is at once local and international, coastal and inward-looking. To draw an analogy, it is like a snail, confident with itself and uninterested in exiting its shell to wonder out there and show itself to others. It knows that with time, those others will come around to visit it, and then, and only then, will it come out in all of its natural glory and deliciousness of a perfectly aged wine.

Genoa’s relatively unrecognised international status is somewhat perplexing, all the more considering that it gave birth to Christopher Columbus who wanted to discover territories in the hope of connecting his old world to a new one. But all this it not to say that the city is not international. On its narrow cobblestone streets, immigrants of various communities go about their business - Equatorian, Moroccan, Senegalese, Romanian - among Italians who generally do not like to see their country invaded by frankly unwanted immigration.

Here in Genoa, they seem to co-exist peacefully as the sign “Italian Senegalese Cuisine” of the corner restaurant would seem to suggest. But Genoa is not London or New York and the interest of this unique city is not that it is able to peacefully cook a melting pot of different ethnic groups. Its value is precisely not modernity and progressive multiculturalism but its endearing charm of an old lady who under her thick glasses probably recognises that she is slightly out of rhythm with the times, but just does not care to do anything about it. Her children will fix it when the time comes, she probably reckons.

And for the moment, the edifice remains - as it has for centuries - slightly imperfect in its delicate asymmetry, cracking on the surface but shining on the inside, surprising even those most familiar with the turns of its streets. Behind every creaking door - a palazzo, behind every unsightly trattoria -centuries of tradition, every church door - a marvel of sculpture and painting. And that is precisely how the charm of this city can be best described – unexpected. It is not catalogued in countless Lonely Planet Guides, available only as a first-hand experience an old fashioned way to those willing to open the door and try it, without expectations, assumptions or premature conclusions.

Trying it, through its famous Liguirian cuisine, through its UNESCO classified Palazzi, through its Old Port, and most of all, through its inexplicable maze of cobblestone streets, is as sinful as indulging in a gelato. Every act of routine, from buying a foccaccia to picking grapes at a street vendor to getting a plate of pasta at a neighborhood café is like taking a bite of history. At café Mangini, in business since 1876, the almond cookies are every bit as fantastic as is the owner idly sitting at the cash register reflected in the ancient gold adorned mirrors. At Il Balcone restaurant, the pasta is as sumptuous as the chef who proudly displays his carefully framed certificate from the Genovese Order of Pesto Makers.

Perhaps the best part of the experience is the lack of presumptuousness of the Genovese, be they glorified cooks, owners of historic cafes, museum guides or other inhabitants who use the word “scusa” prolifically, but without the shoving which is usually accompanied by “excuse me” in the not so far away Britain. At Zefferino, the Chef - who is given a status of a Professor in Italy – has hosted Gorbachev and provided pesto to Frank Sinatra – but gives a friendly nod to every jeans and t-shirt wearing visitor. In Paris, a much less glorified Italian chef will have no problem telling a disgruntled customer that he is done for the day.

Genoa is not only humble, it is also intimate. The buildings face each other as closely as lovers on the first day, in all their complicity. The narrow streets carry noises of conversations flights below, of raindrops hitting crooked rooftops, of plates and forks being assembled on the table, of the political discussion on the radio. From behind the window shutters noises penetrate - from below, in front, atop - binding the old buildings and their inhabitants in a chain of familiarity. Complicity reins between the old lady downstairs, the baker on the corner of the street, the occasionally passing garbage remover, the sexy neighbour who uses the excuse of the heat to walk around in his tight red underwear.

In this northern Italian city, tradition, whether in cuisine or architecture is not old-fashioned and even if it was, then no one is bothered by it. On the contrary, the Genovese are proud of their palazzi, even if they are not perfectly restored. The Doria family who was in the sixteenth century behind the building of Palazzo Principe, still lives in a part of the Palazzo which is also one of the biggest museums in the city. Every museum guard interprets his job as a museum guide, wanting to showcase their knowledge of their newfound home.

Here in Genoa, time had stopped in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, as the golden clocks of palazzos seem to indicate. But its lack of ambition to renew, renovate or reform is exactly what makes it an undusted jewel of Italy. It has the beauty of Nobokov’s Lalita, the self-awareness of Hugo’s Quasimodo, and the mentality of your great-grandmother. But then, who said that old-fashioned is cannot be endearing, charming and welcoming?

2010-07-10T14:19:00.002+02:00

Ministry of Ridiculous Affairs

My taxi driver, marinating in sweat, visibly exhausted from moving with a speed of a handicapped snail, honking at everyone and everything stationary, and even cursing in his nasal Arabic, put on the handbreak and closed his eyes. Technically he didn't even close his eyes, they just closed, as if he had allergic reaction to everything surrounding him. I understood virtually nothing from what he has been mumbling since this painful journey started, but feel reassured by a running counter - a phenomenon much more rare in this country than donkeys jumping in front of taxis on the highway, as I discovered a day earlier.

The odours of local taxis - let's just call them uninviting - despite the air conditioner blasting something that smells like molded carpet, I would rather this trip end. But no such thing. The driver insistently repeats Mubarak and if I didn't know the name I would think he is talking about his wife who he just surprised with his neighbour in bed. The tenderness is just not there. And then, as all the men in the cars surrounding us had an opportunity to examine me from every angle, we slowly creep up past the Shoura council or the equivalent of the Parliament in Egypt.

In the Middle East, parliamentary bodies if they can be so considered, always bear interesting names. I found the Shoura council already more dignified than the Diwans found in the Gulf countries, which literally translates into "sofa" for the sofa on which the Ministers (tribal chiefs) debate their future of their oil fiefdoms. Parliaments aside, I finally put the Mubarak and the Shoura council together and a little light bulb goes off in my head: all roads were closed because Mubarak is travelling to the Parliament meeting. I have to admit I did not see him in person from my behind the trucks, donkeys and military cars, and yet I have a sentiment that I almost have since his smiling photo in rather stylish black shades is plastered everywhere. Like Madonna's videos from fifteen years ago, the only way you could ever know his photo is as ancient as the pyramids is that the sunglasses are slightly out of style by now.

Suddenly, my driver opens his eyes and the car makes a little leap forward - the physical effect seems as abrupt as if we were on a donkey. I have to admit that this I am imaging, since riding donkeys is not exactly the prevalent means of transport in Paris. And as the car finally moves towards my hotel, I wake up as well and start peering out of my window - this is my revenge to all locals tacking x-ray looks at me when we were stuck in traffic. At least we are even at the end. The ironic thing is that in the bizarre and incredible history of this city, it is difficult for the eye to know where to stop: is it on the bread salesman yelling something, on the mosque towering with its imposing minarets, on the man smoking shisha, on the homeless cat or on the equally homeless kid maneuvering through the traffic to sell water bottles?

My eye stopped on a building, once probably white, now brown with dust, whose title proudly said something along the lines of Women and Family Affairs. Perhaps that translates more elegantly in Arabic, but it got me thinking about the ridiculousness of this title. Imagine an institution called the Ministry of Men and Sexual Affairs? Or better even, the Ministry of Male Activities and Unemployment? At least the latter would more correctly correspond to the local realities. And for those who think that government bodies focusing on "woman issues" are not a waste likely to accuse me of cynicism right about now, I think officially this Ministry no longer exists, the local authorities probably just forgot to adjust the name tag. In any case, if you ask me, a good part of " woman affairs" in Egypt could be aptly addressed by the Ministry of Education, seeing as 60% of woman are still illiterate.

To be fair, it is not only Egypt or other Middle Eastern countries that have Ministries of Ridiculous Affairs. Upon my return from Cairo, I did some googling and it turns out this is worth a good comedy piece. The list is long, so I will refrain from providing any colourful commentary. Saudi Arabia has a Ministry of Pilgrimage (but no Ministry of Woman Affairs - at least the priorities are clear). On the other hand, both Chile and New Zealand turn out to have a Minister of Woman Affairs. In the case of the latter, the site of the Ministry notes that it is the smallest government Ministry in the country, employing only 40 staff. Conclusion: either they have no "woman issues" in New Zealand or these people must be terribly efficient.

Another country with a newly established Ministry dedicated to women - how thoughtful!- is the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. Its website features photos that no words can describe so I suggest you see for yourself. Working against the Taliban is not one of its stated objectives, I guess the Ministry of Defence is working on that already. Last but not least, last year Venezuela's Chavez announced that he is going to establish a woman's affairs ministry and - get this - give it a budget. I've never heard of budgetless ministries, but then I guess I've never been to Venezuela.

And the list of Ministries of Ridiculous Affairs does not stop at women. Liechtenstein has a Minister of Foreign, Affairs, Culture and Justice. If I didn't know better, I would imagine Liechtenstein was particularly touched by the financial crisis and decided to amalgamate all its ministeries into a Superpower Ministry. It is more understandable in the case of Greece which has the posts of the Prime Minister and Minister of Foreign Affairs are combined. Slovenia has a state secretary for Education and Sport as if the two had anything in common. It's almost as if the message is that if one has no education, well, then there are always sports. I don't think this equation would work in reverse direction. India has a number of Ministries with less than predictable names such as Ministry of Fertilisers.

The interesting fact - and a rather unpredictable one - is that India with all its complexity, cast, linguistic and otherwise of its over one billion strong population has a less cumbersome government structure than France with just 60 million. France beats India outright with 7 more Ministries for a fraction of its population. If I didn't know any better, I would think that the Indian civil service is remarkably efficient or that France is that much difficult to govern! Surprising at it may be, here in France, we have over 40 Ministers, Cabinet and otherwise.

To give him credit, Sarkozy has recently announced that in an effort to trim its fat government, French Cabinet Ministers will be limited to 20 councilors each and not one more. It goes without saying that Sarkozy himself will not be making any staff cuts at the Elysee. The message is clear: Elysee does not need to be trimmed. It seems that it has not occurred to our dear President to examine the long list of French Ministries and instead of sacking the councilors, to actually merge the Ministries! One idea, which appears rather evident, would be to merge the Ministry of Health and Sport and Ministry of Youth and Sport.

Others, at least judging by their titles, are so irrelevant that if the no longer existed, I doubt that even my neighbours dog would notice. Several examples jump to mind here: Ministry of War Veterans (how many of them are still alive?), Ministry of Equal Opportunities (that's just an oxymoron in this country), Ministry of Parliament Relations (clearly a uniquely French invention), and last but not least Ministry of Economic Stimulus (seems like the Ministry of Economy and Finance would be entirely apt to providing economic stimulus where needed).

"Princes, brokers, and bureaucrats" a book recently published by a friend on the political economy of Saudi Arabia argues that some Ministries were set up just to address rivalries between princes and to make sure that everyone had a little fiefdom to preside over. I cannot help but wonder how France might be different. Whether in developing or developed countries, the Ministries of Ridiculous Affairs are flourishing. At least in Saudi Arabia where there are no income taxes, I guess no one can complain about waste of public finances. In France, where the results of the work of Ministry of Equal Opportunities cannot be found even under a microscope and where the big plans of the Ministry of Economic Stimulus still leave the average salary at a pathetic 1200 euros, I can - for once - understand my grumpy compatriots.

2010-07-05T23:19:00.003+02:00

Full disclosure

Accounting regulators are buzzing around with new rules about book vs market financial accounting for banks, but for those of you who are not accountants, and who are already getting bored reading this, I have good news for you: this post is not going to be about anything to to with accounting. It is going to be a sort of a personal disclosure statement , accumulated after being tested in different geographical, cultural, and political circumstances.

This is more of a five year, rather than annual report. Management discussion of key findings and forecast for the years to come follows. Note that these are no in particular order, so if your last year's gift for my birthday does not appear first, don't go into cardiac arrest. In any case, unless you are in Paris, I will likely not be able to do much for you in this case.

I guess I'll start with all the little... let's call them Parisian paradoxes. The woman in front of my window who takes a shower in the fountain located midway from my window and a restaurant, who screams on the people on the terrace of the restaurant to stop staring at her. The neighbour, happily deaf in her ripe post retirement age who listens to great jazz at one in the morning and complains the next day if she hears as much as sneeze in the afternoon. And of course, the entire population replacement which happens in August as every Parisien or Parisienne flees Paris at the same time as tourists from every corner of the world congregate here for the ultimate tourist congress.

Other things that I heart for in Paris, again in no particular order.

Driving on the Quay - or better even, being driven on the Quay de la Seine. After almost five years in Paris, I still love to abstract from the frustrated bikers, drivers and the like and watch the buildings go by: diverse, perched on top of the other, surviving all the remodelling the city has endured and adapted to over the years. They are like old neighbours who know each other well enough not to bother with banalities but giddy with all the glamour of their new liposuction.

readings at Village Voice bookshop - a little explanation: the Village Voice bookshop is a petite bijoux hidden in the narrow streets of Marché Saint Germain which is owned by a fiery French woman more passionate about English literature that any professor of literature. On the minusculous chairs hosed up on second floor of her tiny bookshop she hosts readings which gather a crowd as colourful as the authors she invites (Daniel Mendehlson, Michal Chabon, etc.)

anything between boulevard Saint Germain and la Seine - I don't care about the now centuries old rivalry between Cafe Flore and Cafe Les Deux Magots. Getting lost in the galleries and the brasseries of Saint Germain des Pres is a dream. The ideal living location is the hotel particuliere on rue Bonaparte in front of the Ladurée. I have to admit I find it entirely unfair that some editing house has the privilege of squatting in my perfect home. Editing house beware I am coming to get you!

my balcony - or, more precisely, installing myself in the little black chair that measures exactly the width of my balcony and putting a glass of white wine on the little table which fits to the millimeter in the restricted area in front of the little black chair. Who ever said paradise has to be the size of a hippodrome? My paradise measures exactly the size of my behind, between the rail of the balcony and the door.

stumbling onto expos - walking into an unknown expo, unplanned, unprepared, with no preconceptions of what you'll see is, more than the greatest Charlie Chaplin movie, being transported in time and space. The Bettina Rheims exposition at the Biblioteque Richelieu was just one such little, unexpected and inspiring miracle.

speaking English outside - and pretending no can understand me. Of course, my putting up a wall between me and everyone else in English is a total illusion. But, after all, aren't illusions what makes us go on? In my illusionary world, I am having a totally private conversation in a totally public space.

court yards - Parisian courtyards, in all their diversity have so much character that they simply evade description. They are a place of gossip, of undried laundry of pots of disarranged flowers on random balconies, or crooked doors which have seen more than they are willing to let on. Parisians don't like courtyards because there is no view, but in a way there are more view than people care to notice or admit.

reading and writing in cafes - first, I have to disspel the myth, unfounded as they usually are, of Parisians sipping wine at lunch on a daily basis, installed comfortably in their neighbourhood cafe. The reality is that there are two types of cafes in Paris, those whose rotating front door welcomes new visitors every day and those whose used but faithful chairs welcome "les gens du cartier" with the warmth of their own apartment. Whichever it might be, observing in cafes has got to be one of my favourite things to do. After all, in a different era, Hemingway, who lived just around the corner from me, did the same.

And here, I am afraid, comes the unpleasant part of the management discussion. But then, things have to be true to their form. First comes...drum roll please...rather predictably, the customer service. I still haven't frankly figured out what the translation for this bizarre concept might be in French. "Service clientele" seems somehow wrong, and in any case, it is so illusory, it might as well be a fiction of my imagination.

Customer service - or really, the lack of it. Customer service, where are you? the answer is: checked out permanently. This, as I realised, is not just some sort of a forgetful or unintentional omission in France. Its entirely voluntary and requires a strategic response from the client. Some fellow expatriates have suggested playing a victim which apparently incites the person on the other side of the counter or phone to feel pity and therefore "soften up". My advice is to marry a French lawyer or have someone of that profession available.

Air conditioning - or lack of it. It seems to me that I am blessed with a particular talent to go places where the airconditioning, on that particular day, has gone out of order. The other day, a pal at the entrance of what I heard was a chic gym proudly told me that of course (god forbid!) they do not have air conditioning. Why would they have such a terrible thing that leads to such grave respiratory illnesses or the like? Riiiight.

The taxi deficit - semi-permanent and especially accentuated on Friday and Saturday nights, i.e. go get them when you most need them! Walking in the middle of the winter from the Louvre all the way to my flat in the sixth at four in the morning, despite all my futile attempts at charming every cabbie going by, I realised that a driver is not a luxury, but a necessity in Paris.

Real estate agents - an especially despicable category of humans, who deviate slightly from the general homo sapiens model with an extra bullshit chromosome. Beware particular characteristics include: publishing especially attractive ads for apartments which would not qualify for a walk in closet. And I am not talking about Carry Bradshaw's walking closet.

Romantic walks on Pont des Arts - more specifically, this applies when I am wearing my favourite Gaspard Yurenkevich shoes. Sorry, I am not the type of gal who will wip off her shoes and walk barefooted or better even shove them in some oversize bag overflowing with makeup. And the terrifying image of being stuck between two planks of wood, immobile in disgrace, is just too unsexy to contemplate seriously.

Restaurant chefs - particularly those who refuse to understand that salads are on the menu for those either trying to loose weight or vegetarians. In any case, ham is not the essential ingredient, really. Not to mention that there are these funny people calls muslims and jews that don't eat it.

Being mistaken for a tourist - my ultimate favourite is when people ask me when I am leaving. Hmm...leaving where? Well, back home, of course - they reply increasingly hesitantly to me. Well, right after I am done here, I live around the corner. Blank look.

lines - in airports, shops, post offices, grocery stores, brunch places. Being put on some sort of a list does not usually help calm my anxiety at the sight of frustrated people waiting for something they should normally be getting without wasting their time. But the French have a particular affinity with lines and love to discuss the order of everyone in line and complain how long it takes. Well, my advice is, next time they guy at the front of the line tells you it's been two hours he's waiting, turn your heels around and click "buy" on this new great thing called the Internet.

Well, dear friends (and others), as you can see, I wrote this as a kind of stram of concsiousness. However, as I was about to publish this post, it occurred to me that except for driving on the Quay to the office, all the other little insignificant things that I love to do in this city have taken a back seat to all the other routine things that need to get done in a sort of a check-list tradition. Line ups take away from my reading time, dealing with customer service chops into my cafe pauses. So I guess with that my 30 year resolution, if there is such a thing, is to shrink my check list and enlarge my reading list.

2010-05-05T23:38:00.002+02:00

An obituary to the middle class

Obituaries appear on the last page of mostly local newspapers and only for individuals, written with sadness at the predictably eventual end of someone dear or with regret at the untimely end of someone whose days passed by in overdrive much faster than was expected. Rare objects, no longer found or produced, are placed in museums, under protective glass and a watchful view of cameras, intended to assure their permanent afterlife. But what if the subject of the discussion was not a single human life or a physical object, nor a national phenomenon of interest only to a local newspaper but a global phenomenon, such as the decline of the middle class? You might be tempted to shake off the argument as needlessly alarmist, see it as another “clash of civilisations” thesis destined to go up in smoke.

Maybe, but since you have already started reading, I ask that you bear with me just a few paragraphs longer. In communist or socialist countries, the middle class was theoretically omnipresent but practically absent by the general state of poverty – financial and emotional - of the said nations. The former USSR and China of 1980s spring to mind as the perfect examples. In many capitalist countries, the middle class seemed to rise throughout the industrialisation period only to slowly disappear in the smoke of “yes we can!”, where a few lucky were able to climb to the top and many others - most others I should say - faced a great delusion. In the great big United States for example, it is reported that the top 1 percent of wealthy control more money than all of the bottom 95 percent combined.

The great families, the Wallenbergs, the Rothchilds, the Fords were able to – with some luck and some persistence - build their wealth on sweat and blood of their servants, much like the Egyptians were able to erect the great pyramids which the global tourism industry unloads busloads to worship. David Landes wrote in "Dynasties: Fortunes and Misfortunes of the World's Greatest Family Businesses" about the rise of industrial families, explaining why some like Rothchilds, succeeded over generations, while others like Fords, trinkled away their hard earned cash, amortising it over years until one unlucky descendant would discover the honey pot empty.

Other wealth came into the hands of oligarchs, sheikhs and other enterprising men and women much later and mostly by sheer luck. When the pendulum struck midnight, they found themselves standing like a certain Cinderella near a pumpkin, except the transformation worked in the opposite direction and instead of a pumpkin, they found themselves in a gold carriage. Reverse Cinderallas started popping up in quite unexpected places from Eastern Europe to the far away Arabia.

The Arab sheikhs literally woke up overnight realising they have been sleeping on black gold, with a new dream to turn the black gold into real gold, while the Russian oligarchs also awoke from their daily routine dictated by five year plans and discovered – much to their own surprise - that stealing on a mass scale was not only possible, but almost encouraged. “That’s what capitalism is all about!”, a few entrepreneur types said to themselves, mentally equalling privatisation and official theft or assets at the acquiescence of the state. And hereby the former republics of the USSR, formerly united by the symbolism five year plans and never ending lines for never-appearing goods, discovered their own version of the Washington consensus - privatisation as a way of asset transfer from the state to the individuals. Very few individuals, like very few sheikhs, royal descent obliging.

Unlike the old wealth, this newly discovered money was not going to be saved for the rainy day, in case competition would eventually show up and require some re-investment. It was going to be spent - and immediately so - on things that its owners could not previously have, because they were too expensive, not imported into their countries or simply did not exist. From Los Angeles to New York to Cannes, the new money found its way and seems to have squeezed out both the old money and the lingering middle class - those who previously worked for the old money, who made the American or the Swiss or the English dream come true, that made London the European financial center, the Swiss its worthy competitor and the French just grumpy that they did not manage to be one or the other. Until the last financial crisis that is, of course.

The difference between the old wealth and the lucky newcomers to the scene is that they latter had no habit of managing the newfound dollars, pounds, dirhams and roubles except for plough ahead, screaming “faster, glitzier, louder!” They flood the boutiques of the very symbolic place Vendome buying scores of Cartier watches and Boucheron rings with swags of euros that are now very much exchangeable from and to the Chinese yuan. They scout every boutique in Cannes to the point that the most spoken language in this charming and one might say – formerly French city – is Russian. They emerge out of their armoured Mercedes on Avenue Montaigne, covered in black niqabs - only to purchase the most exquisite and expensive dresses the world’s fashion capital has to offer. Whether the cooking French anti-burqa legislation will kill the trend is doubtful.

And whatever legislation is passed no longer really matters, because the evolution of capitalism in most capitals of the world has resulted in the death of the middle class, such that one can shop either at Hermes or at Zara, eat either at the bagel shop or at a five star restaurant, live either in the center of in the periphery. Perhaps the biggest irony of all is that the few rich do not need to work as if their situation was rightfully inherited and permanent, based on some ideological right of passage for the sheikhs or the permanent state of corruption for the oligarchs. Without going to Ayn Rand’s often denounced as extremist critique of capitalism, perhaps it’s worthwhile think about this facet of globalisation and the consequences it carries. After all, it is a global system where the Chinese workers manufacture (for pennies) Chanel sandals bought by Russians in French boutiques (for 500 euros) to where on the swimming pool of their Swiss villa (valued at unestimable and undisclosed amount), while the French shop at Zara for clothes made in the same China (also for pennies) so that those at the helm of those Chinese factories can come to Paris and buy Cartier watches without even counting them.

2010-03-29T12:18:00.006+02:00

On the roads of Paris and social justice

I proudly got my driving licence at the first possibility, which in Canada is at sweet sixteen. For about ten years after, I was bracing Canadian roads and highways, which as any local driver knows are of variable quality, repeatedly abused by all that snow and ice and the omnipresent trucks. And yet, for all those unwieldily roads, the thought of not driving in Toronto never occurred to me. What's an odd pothole or a some ice flying in the windshield compared to the four-wheel liberty? A spot on a otherwise spotless window - I looked past it, as would anyone else.

Almost five years after moving to France, I am ashamed to say I have never sat at the steering wheel. At first, I told myself it's because the subway system is so efficient. Then, I told myself it's because all cars are standard and I didn't feel like nervously shifting around in Parisian traffic. And then, we bought a BMW - an automatic BMW of all - taking away all reason from my little self-excuses and rationalisations. A year after taking possession of the keys of the sleek black beauty, I have still never made contact with the car, except in the capacity of a passenger.

I thought it might be time for that moment of reckoning. Sitting in the passenger seat of my little BMW, which was struggling to make it's way amongst a myriad of motos, velos, buses and small trucks, I realised that I have no desire to ever drive in Paris. It is not that I have any other preferred method of transport - aside from having a designated driver of course! It's more that I find the sight of the co-existence of all the modes of transport in this city slightly unsettling. I should probably admit having witnessed a few velo and moto accidents involving unusual and I would say, by the looks of them, unintended, pirouettes of their drivers in the air.

But then, the voice in my head which was asking persistently "but what about that BMW patiently waiting in the garage?" had a little victory. I decided to seriously consider what lied between me and that little BMW. And is then that I realised: in Paris, the roads are certainly better then in Canada, despite being oh-so-narrow, winding and inevitably one-way (with no logical means to return to the point of original departure). The issue, as it occurred to me, is not with the roads per se, it's more with the road attitude and with the social norms of driving in Paris, the latter courtesy of our Mayor Delanoe.

First, on the road attitude since it's easy to summarise in a few words - jungle where survival of the fittest is the natural organisational premise. Think Italy minus the "mamma mia!" In practical terms, this translates to having to close one's eyes while accelerating as fast as possible to cut off any possibility of being cut off yourself, especially by motos which appear to operate according entirely different rules of the game. All in all, egoistic driving on one lane roads make for an interesting experience, but that even that does not explain all my reluctance to drive in Paris.

I think the real issue is that I realise that driving a BMW in Paris I would be at the bottom of the social food chain. I should probably explain that in Paris, a car driver is seen as a nuisance by socialist velos proudly cutting them at the first opportunity precisely because they can. The velo drivers know full well that if so much as a hair were to fall of their socialist head, the mean car driver would be indisputably at fault (that polluting asshole!). Motos generally have the same attitude, but given their slightly bigger vrumph, they generally consider themselves to be outside of the rules. Buses now have their dedicated lanes, the logic of which I have to admit is difficult to undersand, but which velos use, along with pedestrian walkways. Only taxis are allowed to share bus lanes.

It seems that unless you own a decent car, rules of the game are quite flexible indeed. On the other hand, if you are fortunate enough to be able to afford a car, you'll be the unfortunate creature of permanent abuse on Parisian streets. Velos will force you to drive behind them at twenty per hour as their owners run out of their last breath. Taxis will treat you as as an asylum seeker in the land where they already have permanent residence. Delivery trucks - which have the wonderful habit of stopping exactly in the middle of those one way streets - will not see you as an eventual customer of whatever it is they are delivering, but as an annoying asshole honking behind.

But wait for the best part. And that is that cops, who don't really care for infringements by all of the above, love to stop people in cars which they themselves cannot afford - if anything out of pure spite. Giving out tickets to cars is also a matter of social justice - re-distributing finances from those polluting assholes to the poor velo driver type, even if the latter plows though all red lights of the city. Also, giving a ticket to a BMW driving lawyer or economist makes the statistics go up- since those are the types that tend to actually pay their tickets! Bingo.

Alas, we might not be living in a communist state as many Americans like to think, but that does not mean that those with big powers (the mayor) or little ones (the cops) would not use them to make their version of social justice. The slogan of their party goes something like this: ride the public transport, or be ridden on by public servants. And that about summarises all my fears of french roads.

While in some measure they may be related to the tense co-existence of all commuters, they are perhaps in a larger measure related to my inferior status in the jungle of riders. And so after all this reflection, I decided that in the absence of any more re-assuring methods of transport, I will adopt a pure Carie Bradshaw attitude, continuing to prance around the cobblestone roads of Paris with my nose high up, knowing that on the sidewalk, I am not at the bottom of the social hierarchy.

2010-02-08T22:40:00.007+01:00

The new Russia: old habits die hard?

Arrival at Moscow Sheremetevo international airport. My colleague tells me the international wing of the airport has been renovated but I desperately fail to see where. The only thing that I cannot fail but notice, since it is peering at me from every corner is the huge advertisement for Sberbank - the largest bank in Russia, incidentally state owned and incidentally inheriting its name from its predecessor in the former Soviet Union. For me who happened to spend some time in the former USSR, Sberbank brings forth memories of cement bunkers (ie. bank brunches), in front of which we, obedient Soviet citizens, lined up one one day the ruble was devalued such that my grandmother who managed to save even during Stalin's brutal rule saw her savings reduced to not even a good quality chapka. Well, maybe a chapka, but not more. So it is with some degree of surprise and might I say, scepticism, that I look at the smiling lady on the ad of Sberbank (which in Russian somewhat ironically means "savings bank") and register some words about what is allegedly Russia's leading bank.

Wondering through the airport, my feet on the soil of the former Soviet Union for the first time in over fifteen years, there is naturally a part of me that is curious - what's it like now? How much has it changed? are these obnoxious "new russians" which pop up in their three sizes too tight pants just an exceptional export of this country? How much has changed since we took a shaky Airflot flight from Kiev to Toronto? The realisation had started to dawn on me already at the airport, at the sight of Sberbank lady, people shoving their way though to get in front of us, the nationalistic looking border control guy examining my passport (so seriously as if there was any chance that a Canadian citizen would want to stay in Russia!), but it got confirmed over the days I spent in Moscow.

Everything has changed, but nothing has really moved from its original position. It's as if the pendulum has come back 360 degrees - of course, it has travelled in the meantime, but predictably, it arrived at its original equilibrium position. The Kremlin, all repainted stands in marked contrast with its depressing muddy coloured predecessor, but at its helm shines the exact same communist red star. The babushkas, at least in Moscow, are no longer dressed in Soviet garb - those "dresses" that resemble an old fashioned pyjamas - but they the walk the streets of Moscow with the same heavy step and probably equally heavy hearts. As in the old days, no one smiles or even looks ahead when they are walking on the street, and partly it's not surprising given that the roads have turned into black ice in minus twenty. But something tells me it's not just a question of ice. With a 200-300 dollar average pension, there is indeed nothing to smile about, as I realised when I was delivered twelve euro coffee to my hotel room. For the sake of precision, I'd like to note that it had the taste of the same ice, only melted.

Moscow proves its reputation as the most expensive city in the world, by-passing Paris, New York, and even Tokyo. Moscow's only difference from this trio is that like in the old Soviet days, the service remains generally noticeable by its very absence, while the prices remain noticeable - on the contrary - by the unashamed number of zeros which raised my eyebrows to the point where there were probably somewhere near my hairline. One evening when I almost ventured the courage to wonder out there at the risk of turning into an icicle, I was warned that Pushkin Cafe, the place which was branded to me as the trendy place in town (in my mind, all that meant was no borsh and mayonnaise salad), would set me back about five hundred bucks, apparently because the waiters are all black and the lights are dim. I wondered what Pushkin would have thought about it, but in the end decided to satisfy myself with hotel faire instead (not cheap either).

You might think by now: so what, all of the world's greatest cities have their rags and riches?However, the parallels between USSR's shady past and Russia's bright future, spoken of by Russian Prime Minister, who shoots random bears, forces oligarchs to Siberia like Stalin would have undoubtedly done, and changes the constitution like socks, does not end there. It can be seen in the small symbolisms like the building of the former KGB occupied by the Ministry of Interior or the omnipresent police controlling every intersection and indeed, as I found it upon my arrival to the hotel, not only the intersections. In fact, every "foreigner" - and don't be mistaken - there is still very much an "us" and "them" mentality in Russia - is controlled and monitored by the Russian police. People leaving passports at the hotel for registration receive a curious insert in Russian alleging that the hotel management shall notify the local authorities as to the whereabouts of a given intruder within 24 hours. I suppose I should have felt protected, but somehow I felt the objective of the little white insert was not to save myself from local punks and neo-nazi gangs, which Russia has become famous for.

And indeed, in my brief encounters with the Russian police (miliziya), I did not feel the love. The first time I came in face-to-face contact with the Russian police, is when my driver decided to ask them for directions and was promptly told to get out of the car and surrender his driving licence. After some back and forth and desperate pleas, he temporarily disappeared in the police car nearby to negotiate the settlement. In all my pity for the man, I almost piped up but the idea of this boar subjecting me to the same treatment kept my mouth shut, pretty much with fear. The second incident with the Russian police was at the gates of the British embassy, and served to wipe out any doubts about things having changed. There, after going through all the security ordeals, just as I was ready to sneak in the building, I got intercepted - for the lack of a better word - by the local police which appeared out of nowhere. He promptly disappeared behind the black box where I strongly suspect he took copies of our passports, and as he gave them back to us, even my frozen brain could not help but be shocked by the realisation that all the embassies in Russia are controlled, just as in the good old days.

Twenty years can be nothing or everything. They can change everything on surface: resurrect churches, dismantle communism, introduce goods on selves of stores, spring up restaurants, make the wear of jeans legal, but in a way all these changes are like cosmetic surgery trying to mask a larger disease. That disease has multifaceted symtoms - the unwillingness to give up on the idea of great Russia, the nostalgia for Stalin years when everyone was supposedly "equal", the blind belief in any nationalistic propaganda that Putin and the likes serve on a silver platter, the centralisation of power in the hands of few state organs, who from the offices in central Moscow, operate this theatre called new Russia like a puppet show, lifting hands and feet of the local population and those few foreign souls brave enough to brace the new Russia.

And even that, in and of itself, would not be so strange - after all, there is the great China where Facebook and even Google are controlled and monitored. The paradox of the new Russia is not that is entirely controlled or entirely free, it is that it stands like a bear on skates, uncomfortable at its own sight, straddling from one side to another, between the inconsistencies of new flashy residences and the realities of old communal flats, between a modern Ministry of Interior and KGB, between a soviet style cafeteria and Pushkin Cafe, between a justice system and what the president terms as "negal nihilism". Grosso modo, it looks like Russia today is somewhere between being a part of a global village and a big bear standing outside the global village, wondering what to do next. Insofar as in new Russia, old habits seem to die hard, the step into the global village seems a little off the agenda.

2009-12-21T16:23:00.006+01:00

Guide to apartment hunting in Paris

Why apartment hunting, might you ask? It is not a fox, or a rabbit and one does not walk around with a fusil searching for a man with a suitable apartment advertisement. And yet, metaphors aside, the process is frighteningly close. The target is constantly moving, the circumstances with it, more than one hunter is necessary to get any result, and of course, the last successful ingredient for having a successful apartment hunt is unlimited patience.

Mostly, it is for the real estate agents who never call back and when they call back exceed any quota a reasonable person might allocate for the usually unsatisfactory french customer service. The real estate agents have the cruelty of hunters and are to be allocated to a whole separate category of human relations. Here, stress balls might be useful but entirely not sufficient, I am afraid to report.

One particular problem with real estate agents is that they are not available at any other time other than when normal salary-earning people are working. Visit on Saturday? Of course not, what are you imagining, Madam?! After a few of these exchanges, I figured their joint objective is either to make sure that by the time you found the apartment of your dreams, you are unemployed, or to only rent to prostitues or bartenders, because with their hours, they are the only ones available during the day.

A second serious issue with french real estate agents are the ever flattering descriptions that they dish out for apartments which in other cities might be considered good enough as cellars or some sort of storage space. All in all, what you expect to be a rabbit turns out to be just a fat mouse. It is one deceiving hunt. So, out of compassion for fellow apartment seekers and out of pure frustration (probably more of the latter), I decided to help decrypt the apartment announcements, which bear as much resemblance to their flattering but entirely inconsistent with reality decriptions like rabbit bears to a mouse.

So, here it goes, the tried and tested list of phrases used to lure unsuspicious apartment hunters in a hunt in which they have absolutely no interest:

immeuble recent - shoebox with ceilings where you have to bend down to enter (no, not sexy kind of bending down)

charmant appartement, not be confused with "appartement de charme" - wood ceilings and a creaking staircase, which seems like it might just fall apart at the next step

vue magnifique - last floor, in the former maid's closet with slanted ceilings

salle de bain - standup shower student style

appartement calme - dead area, your grandmother would die there quicker if you moved her there

quartier animé - living on top of a british pub. well, on the plus side, at least the beer is not far.

proche des commerces - living on top of a chinese takeout

duplex - a place consisting of two floors where the stairs are so narrow that the only way you'll ever exit the apartment is in an ambulance

appartement refait à neuf - the son of a friend of the agent's cousin has repainted the wall last summer
appartement en bon état - take your mask, H1N1 gel tube, gloves and hold your breath when you enter the premises

appartement en travaux - feel like being in a remake of WWII ? call the agent and don't forget your helmet

maison: ah! good one...you thought you would rent a house in Paris?!

That's the abbreviated version for the naive apartment hunter, the extended version would take much more space and angry energy. Maybe after my next visit, I will have just what it takes. Until then ladies and gentlemen, happy new year!

2009-11-14T19:45:00.011+01:00

Worlds apart on the Arabian peninsula...

Episode two. Return to Dubai three weeks later. The comfort is still comfortable, yet the glamour ceases to impress. The fountains are still dancing, the weather is at its perfect equilibrium, the airport is as spotless as ever, the service as rapid and slave-like as in episode one, and yet something is missing. That something can be summarised in one world: soul. There is simply none of it to be found here - no feeling in human interaction and no means really to facilitate it - no theatre, no museums, nothing at all to get attached to, despite the flurry of activity in this desert land. In terms of entertainment, there are essentially can be divided in two categories: eating and shopping. The result of the former, as the expats joke is "Dubai stomach" and the result of the latter is the nickname DoBuy that the place has earnestly earned itself.

Of course, to impress the tourists, Dubai now features everything that any other tourist destination can offer: immaculate golfing, magnificent beaches, safaris into the wild. This great all in all, except for one thing these all have in common - they are all artificial - from the new cities being developed by the government to the skiing slopes which did not spring up naturally in Dubai which has neither the mountains nor the snow. Not until it was brought in, that is. Beyond that artificialness, there is an ultimate irony in the nature of the climate and its interaction with the surroundings. Since for most of the year, the weather does not incite anyone to wonder outside beyond the inevitable run to the car parked in the closest possible proximity, no one walks in Dubai and indeed there are no pedestrian areas to be seen anywhere. Even strolling on the beach is impossible, as I was explained by the patient hotel staff at my instance to go walk around, "it is only villas and private beaches, madam". Strolling in the city is likely impossible - indeed except for the Indian construction workers, no one ever goes outside and even they don't do it out of any desire to be outside. In Dubai, a place known for its incredible dynamism, there are no dogs, no cats, no ants, no butterflies, and actually no life whatsoever outside.

When I insisted to the hotel boy that I had two hours and no desire to spend them in another air conditioned perfectly spotless building, he came up with various suggestions which inevitably revolved around going to the mall. Souk Al Medinat, which is supposedly one of the more "local" placed in Dubai is nothing than a mall with oriental decorations. And then, of course, there is the originally titled Dubai and Emirates Malls, which are where most locals, whether single or with families, male or female, looking to buy a plastic cup or a million dollar diamond necklace, spend their evenings and days. And in the absence of competition from any cultural activity, the malls in Dubai are indeed as impressive as everything else. There are ten meter high aquariums with sharks, skating rinks and musical performances and all those activities which in any other place have as much to do with a mall, as a plastic cup with that diamond necklace.

The final destination that met as closely as possible my desire to walk outside was the Dubai Mall, which is conveniently located near the tallest building in the world, constructed in the pointless competition among the Gulf states for the biggest, the most expensive, and quite bluntly, the glitziest. It meets the criteria of being the tallest building, in all its cold highness, pointless and shining, but once again, with not an ounce of the soul of its much shorter and much less imperfect neighbour - the Eiffel Tower, which tingles the heart with its lights on cold winter evenings or warm summer nights. It seems that in the absence of any historical remnants, the local approach has been to create - as fast, as high, as big, as impressive as possible.

Rumour has it that one UAE Minister once told their Egyptian counterpart that if the UAE had the history of Egypt, they would have already toppled the tourism figures of Egypt. And they might have already, substituting malls for pharaons, hotels for Ottoman-era mosques, and orientally styled malls for real souks, the likes of Cairo's Khan al Khalili. This supremacy of Dubai as a hot Middle East destination is all the more surprising given the existence of other hidden jewels of the Gulf like the Musandam peninsula of Oman. Musandam, only two hour's drive from Dubai, is a world apart from it's consumerism, its architecture, its luxurious restaurants and artificial ski slopes and is completely unexposed relative to its glitzy neighbour. Perched between the UAE and Iran, it does not need to offer anything beyond what its nature has endowed it with - the emerald coloured transparent waters, dolphins swimming alongside old boats navigating between its magnificent mountains, and its people, descendants of Iranian, Arabic, Indian, and Baluchistani tribes.

Just a short drive from Dubai, through Sharjah and Ras Al Khaimah, the Deihra checkpoint separating the UAE and Oman is a window to the soul of the Gulf - the Musandam peninsula - with the old fisherman towns the likes of of Khasab, the tiny villages perched between the majestic mountains, and a history of traditions and cultural melting pot that has survived despite the Sunni-Shia rift, the tensions between Iran and the rest of the world, and the lack of tourism and modernity that boasts its neighbour. In Musandam, life tick-tocks according to its own rhythm, without grand ambitions and glitzy malls, but with a sort of bizarre tribal multiculturalism that gives it a soul - something that oil money has not yet succeeded in reproducing.

2009-10-13T18:56:00.004+02:00

The American dream in the Arabian sands

It is commonly said that one's eyes are a window to one's soul. If this statement can be slighltly twisted, I would say Dubai's international airport is a window to the rest of the emirate, the largest in the federation of several comprising the Gulf sheikhdom. With its immense Greek style columns, effervenescent lights illuminating its every square millimeter, and scores of airport employees ready to serve, it is an accurate preview of what is to come. It is of course a widely known story that under the rule of Sheikh Mohammed of Dubai, the place has grown from a pimple in the middle of the desert to a hot tourist destination, a financial center and a hotbed...no, not for international terrorists, but for international architects.

Even for the most avid traveller, Dubai, with its magnificent skyline dotted with intringuingly mishaped and ostentatiously lit up buildings does what it intends to do - awe and amaze. It is not just the famous Burj Dubai but virtually every building decorating its exquisite skyline that is fascinating. Driving around the city's traffic-packed streets, one gets the impression that the ruler of Dubai, who, in the best of Middle Eastern traditions is posted on every corner, gazing at a pool with pink flamingos, had a vision for developing this place that does not just include some rare birds.

Architects were flown in and seem to have been told to go at it, construction companies were mobilised to support their dreams, and in the end, out of the empty and vast desert emerged glass skyscrapers of all shapes, colours and hights, like pieces of lego carelessly thrown around in a half-finished plan. The financial crisis has definitely clipped the wings of the ambitions of the fearless sheikh, as companies, some private, others owned by the said sheikh and his vast royal family have stopped littering the skyline of Dubai with construction cranes. Today, Dubai is on the brink of bankruptcy and is borrowing from its oil-rich neighbour, Abu Dhabi, which pits the royal relations uncomfortably under the spotlight, and -one would imagine - under strain.

Whether this is the end of the sheikh's dream is questionable. Construction cranes might have slowed down or disappeared altogether, but the sheikh and his clan command most of the local economy, consistent with the strange breed of state-driven capitalism common to this part of the world. It is in fact the exact opposite of communism or good old industrial capitalism - here, the states is the industry, the state is the government and the state is the dreamer behind Dubai. The same face overlooking the pond with pink flamingos is behind it all.

It is easy, and in fact not incorect to dismiss this place is a theocracy, where in the mirror image of the 80-20 rule, 20 % of local emiratis (almost all with some linkages to one royal clan or another) control this place, and where the other 80% slave to make the dreams of the 20% come true. The 80% are the indians, philipinnos, chinese, and egyptians who come to Dubai to escape their homeland, and as some argue, to find a different kind of misery. Many come here alone to work and send most of their earnings to their families which they have the good luck to visit at best once a year. The human rights abuses, accidents at the construction cites and the sometimes deplorable conditions of live of these expatriate workers have been widely criticised.

I don't mean to take an argument with that. I just wonder if anyone has stopped to think and realise that in a weird, twisted and unfair way, this place is the American dream for these indians, egyptians and chinese, who are of course a clear underclass here, but an employed underclass, no longer living in the slums of Cairo, Mumbai or Islamabad. In Dubai, they are everywhere: in restaurants, in hotels, in every business or residential building. But, they are also part of a perhaps small but somewhat growing upper class of shopkeepers and cafe owners, which of course does not place them anywhere near the minority locals, but has given them an opportunity to be a part of this project - this dream, which is maybe not their dream, but maybe their children's. After all, the first generation immigrants that have and continue to settle America are also the ones mostly cleaning, repairing and selling as opposed to wearing branded suits and making decisions on Capitol Hill.

Ironically, I doubt if anyone thinks of Dubai as the American dream, particularly that the bitter aftertaste of the foreign policies of the Bush administration has not entirely vanished in this part of the world. And indeed, Dubai would not be an American dream for those educated and trained Egyptian, Chinese and Indian middle classes who are looking to find their dreams in that vast country, but I think it is a sort of a dream for those looking for to find it here. Like all dreams, it is just a fairy table, which evaporates when faced with reality. These people can be told to leave the country at any moment in time, which makes the service here so unparalleled and those receiving the services feel almost guilty. And I was writing this post, the door bell of my spectacular Jumeirah Emirates Towers room rang several times with various "dreamers" offering to clean my room, bring me chocolates or offer anything else my heart desires. It is not my dream, and it is certainly not the limits of theirs, but as it turns out - everything in life, including dreaming, is relative.

2009-09-06T22:50:00.014+02:00

Some thoughts from the land of permanent contrast...

The confusion starts already in Canada, in the terminal of the Toronto Pearson International Airport, where the signs announce in no confusing terms "welcome to the Unites States of America". And just as if to allay the suspicions of any patriot Canadians who may be saying, and not so unreasonably, "wait a minute, I am still in Canada", the Statute of Liberty posted nearby proudly holds its torch. This is not a mistake, and the confrontation with a United States "border patrol" officer Whelmy definitively suspends any illusions. His name makes me want to giggle like a five year old, but then he authoritatively commands as if I was a Guantanamo prisoner "Right four fingers, right thumb, left four fingers, left thumb" and now his name is even more hilarious. He is supposed to "well me" or "mean well" or whatever his parents dreamed up as a name when smoking ganja in the rebellious seventies. He is no such thing. Maybe he'd served in Guantanamo before, but now that they are trying to dismantle it, he got reallocated. Old habits die hard.

I can't help but see the contrast between the country of civil liberties enshrined in the constitution, and where individual negative rights are safeguarded more vigorously that the Mona Lisa, and the fact that, right there, at the very entry to this country with such great civil liberties, a human being is like a feather in the wind. One day you exist, the next day you have been blown away, "sorry about that, Ma'am". Or maybe not even sorry. According to the small text in the entry forms we vigilantly complete, we have forfeited all the rights and that silly Whelmy over there can decide whether I get or not into the country, whether he detains me, and by the way, as the form kindly notifies me, I have hereto thereby therefore altogether forfeited a fundamentally protected right to legal counsel. Back to Guantanamo.

After I deal with Whelmy and he's content and satisfied - not that he would give it away in any way - I am proudly marching on to that dreaded Continental flight to New York where I am expecting to relieve the wonders great American civilisation: get lost in its gigantic museums, hit a jazz club like they don't exist elsewhere, take a stroll in the midst of those great towers and churches and synagogues and columns built by immigrants, media magnates, and just ordinary Joe-the-Construction-Guy types who would sacrifice any museum or jazz club for a medium burger, fries on the side pleeease. And on the corner of 78th and Maddison, where out taxi drops us off, and were we start our adventure at a place called Lady M Cake Boutique (if you don't believe that "cake" and "boutique" can be combined in a single name, here is the evidence http://www.ladymconfections.com), I feel almost proud that Whelmy has admitted me to a place so chic, where I almost feel like an imposture with all the immaculately pedicured toes and powdered noses around.

With my Alice in Wonderland t-shirt, I am really in Wonderland, though Wonderland makes me realise of the urgency of getting to a nearby spa or risk looking like a peasant in the company of Lady M ladies. I am salivating in the expectation of the great pedicured New York with perfect Lady M ladies running around in Central Park, sipping champaigne in jazz clubs and shopping at Barney's side by side with me.

My dreams lives on while I stroll around the upper east side, then crashes and dies as soon as I step outside of the well defined perimeter. And here, I start to understand why the New Yorkers prefer their peculiar street numbering system: to delineate the haves and the have nots, those with the polished guardians standing at the building entrances and those climbing the fifth floor without the elevator, those Lady M ladies whose pedicure wanted to make my toes curl up in total embarrassment and other ladies for whom the word pedicure is simply not part of the vocabulary. That in itself may be banal, for every big city, including our little "socialist Paris" and the almost equally "socialist Toronto", as they appear to most Americans, has its privileged.

What is different here is the enormity of the contrast, the brutalness of it all. After all, many of those people living outside of the "perimeter of happiness" are still without social security and healthcare, while the debate ranges on. Hilary's prior losses on the same front are not encouraging, neither are the ongoing debates. In the "socialist France" for example, a doctor does not have right to refuse a patient on financial grounds. But that's clearly not the argument to bring up in the United States of America. Unless you are Michael Moore.

Contrasts surround me wherever I look in the United States of America, I mean after the Canadian border. The universities with the most recognised scholars in the world and the state of surprising illiteracy. This is not just a loud statement. The latest OECD study of education systems showed that despite above average spending, America has some of the industrial world's worst rates of infant mortality, teenage pregnancy and general poverty. No wonder education performance is stagnating. No wonder that in my daily interactions with the "general public", I get the impression sometimes I am not speaking English. "What's that honey?" is a question that I hear on several occasions. I doubt they have read anything beyond Cosmopolitan or something of the like, and perhaps it's not their fault. Working without vacation, commuting, and having to pay dearly for everything over high school is not a recipe for well read, well informed population. Not that they could ever be informed with Fox news all around.

I could go on about the Land of Contrasts, otherwise known as the USA. And I suppose that some contrast, some non-conformity, some bumps along the otherwise boring road can be distracting, mesmerising, exciting, diverse, and even creative. The contrast between the walkway of the meatpacking district and the not-yet-reconstructed warehouses surrounding it. The contrast between the artistic world of MOMA amidst the center of the commercial district. The contrast between the chatter of the Greenwich village, the hum of Brooklyn, the silence of Jersey, the dignified calm of the Upper East side. Others are clearly less flattering. Securitised yet least secure. Educated yet clueless about anything non-American. Rich, yet so disadvantaged. Financial center, yet financially ruined. Global superpower, yet globally disliked.

And yet what's puzzling is that they are proud of it all, proud to be Americans, to have an opportunity to climb from one side of the spectrum to the other, just like Britney crossing the stage. They are proud of their shared values and surprisingly, these values are somewhat shared whether you are in New York, Oklahoma, Houston or Los Angeles. Welcome in the melting pot, as long as you are polite and smile at regular three second intervals you can share the same values. Just be proud, just do it. Don't ask of what, no time to think about it today, or tomorrow, or the day after. And yet, walking up and down streets of American cities, I could not help but wonder who exactly is melting in this pot? It seems that whatever is cooking in this pot is certainly not a soup of common values, but a melange of different ingredients which don't necessarily compliment each other, but are already stuck in the pot, and just like a rat, caught in a mousetrap, pray for the days of unlimited cheese, otherwise known as the American dream.

Who wants to be a millionaire?

2009-07-02T22:55:00.012+02:00

I never thought...but I am am a proud to be Canadian!

The day after Canada Day it dawned on me that I am proud to be Canadian. I never imagined I would think of myself as a proud maple-syrop eating; beer and bear loving Canadian, let alone say it. You might be tempted to think that my newfound pride is just a reflection of my generally under-vacationed state and therefore the longing for some hard earned statutory holidays. Since I am no longer living in the land of the Maple Leaf, I can with in all honesty say - you are wrong! In fact, it has been a while now I have cut ties with anything really Canadian except for an occasional reception at the Canadian Embassy in Paris and even that, I have abandoned last year since the celebration consisted of one euro beer and the kind of music you hear playing at Wal Mart on an average Monday. All in all, my natural patriotic tendencies are low not to say non-existent when left to their own devices. On the contrary, I am proud - even if a little exhausted - of hopping on and off planes, trains and automobiles and like to consider myself a citizen of the world.

And yet, over the past years, my patriotism or perhaps, more precisely, the identification with Canadian values, has grown tremendously, without me even realising it. The irony of the situation is that it has happened over the same years that I have been living on another continent, where procuring maple syrop is about as exotic as procuring hairless kiwis and seeing snow - the real thick and relentlessly unmelting one - is about as frequent as the return of the Messiah. Not that I particularly miss either. Not the Messaih that is.

What I miss is all the other aspects of Canada and its people that while I was living there, I did not identify as distinctly Canadian. The Canadian friendliness which I have realised is almost the quintessence of the Canadian being, appeared just normal and ordinary when I strolled down the isles of Indigo while sipping the very unCanadian Starbucks coffee. The multiculturalism without racism, the American dream accessible without giving up healthcare, the access to education without being indebted "for better or for worse" - these were not concepts I gave much thought to. They were as much "givens" for me, as the availability, and indeed the necessity, of bananas to an average chimpanzee. Instead, I what I noticed more were the reasons I did not "fit in" into the perfect picture of Canadian lifestyle - I couldn't find decent shoes, I couldn't (and still cannot) stand beer, I couldn't (and still cannot) deal with screaming hockey or baseball fans, I loathed the absence of any culture.

And then I moved to the UK and then to France and the picture reversed. Perhaps they are right when they say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I daresay it's more than that. It is not that I particularly miss Canada, but from hundreds of miles away, I have learned to appreciate the its merits and its values. And yes, I do regret, sometimes quite terribly, that these values are so evident by their absence in Europe, including in the over-romanticised but still incredible country called France.

This is not to speak of customer service which is so appalling that I have now completely switched all the visa-charging activity to the internet. The net can malfunction, it can steal my credit card information, but it cannot ignore me, insult me or worst of all, ask me until when I am staying in France. Here, I suppose I should explain that since my accent gives away my non-French origins, all salespeople think that I am here in the passing and therefore will never come back their store - reasoning that I can be simply ignored.

But in fact, Canadian values touch on much more fundamental and much less superficial aspects of life. As a first generation immigrant to Canada, I can speak from first hand experiences of the difficulties of integration. However, there is nothing, and I mean nothing even remotely similar to the difficulties of immigrants here. In France, the immigrants generally come from the french-speaking Africa and settle in the non-french speaking French suburbs, where they are integrated among themselves but no one else. No one, including the French police, dares to pay a visit to these areas for the simple fear of being shot. That is incidentally where all the famous car burning take place which have by now become known worldwide.

Welcome to South Africa in France: there is them, and then, there is us, protected in a police state firmly installed by our hyperactive President. The new strategy is that the police does not travel to the the infamous suburbs to deal with the problem children, instead they install themselves every two meters in Paris to protect us from them. It may not be the Middle Ages, but we are still in fortress mentality. To be fair to our hard-core on security president, he inherited the problem from the years of socialist governments which failed so miserably to understand the concept of selective immigration which is the hallmark of the Canadian immigration policy. So now, instead of selective immigration, we have not so selective policing, extensive rioting and a clash of civilisations in one country. Hungtington would surely feel relieved.

And this brings me to explain why today, of all days, I feel so proud to be Canadian. Today, as I needed to send some money to relatives in Ukraine, I had an interesting conversation with North African teller at the bank, who in the good old French tradition, was asking me for every piece of official paper that had my name on it, allegedly to prove my identity. When I ran out of cards to show him, he finally ran out of patience and told me straight out that since I didn't understand what he wanted and that he didn't speak Ukrainian, I should just get lost. There I was, since I had an accent and a non-french last name, I had to be Ukrainian - some sort of an underclass to his North African dignity. I don't speak Ukrainian and I did leave, but I couldn't help thinking - what is it that makes the immigration in European countries such a combustive mixture of frustration and mutual dislike? Where are the smiles, even if fake, of the bank tellers and the courteous "what can I do for you, Ma'am?" And it is then, that I really had a craving for a cup of hazelnut so proudly Canadian Second Cup coffee served by a voluptuous African lady who would ask me if I'd like anything else with it.

Just a smile please, thank you.

2009-06-03T21:25:00.006+02:00

Thoughts on upcoming european elections

Sunday are the elections for the european parliament. Since I am not voting, I didn't follow the whole debate, until today, when unsolicited and unnounced a letter fell into my mailbox, a letter containing the lists of different parties which were putting themselves up for grabs in the european parliamentary squable. I have to admit it is with great indifference that I was looking at these party lists until I came across something, that I am told, has already sparked quite a debate at home - a french anti-zionist party. If you think that I am lying, exaggerating or dreaming, I am afraid, this is the evidence: http://www.partiantisioniste.com. For those of you french speakers, the clips on their website are quite surreal. Depiste Frances rather ambiguous reputation towards the Jews throughout the history and to this day, I was always at its defence, pleading exaggeration of my opponents. Today, I have to say I am still puzzled, to say the least, why in France of all places there springs up an anti-zionist party. If you told me that happened in Saudi Arabia or in Lebanon, I could swallow it since the first has some hard core ideological issues and the second has had a few less than friendly encounters with the Israeli army.

But, what could be the objectives of an anti-zionist party in French elections for the european parliament? Do they hope that once they get in, they can force the European Union with its weak, if not non existent foreign policy, to force Israel to do something, whatever that something might be? In my humble opinion, even if they did make it to the European parliament, they couldn't stop Israelis from eating hummus, let alone doing something on the political front. Though, on a secondary thought, hummus is political, so perhaps not the best example.

For those of you french speakers, I suggest you go the source to hear the rumblings - perhaps you will succeed in capturing some meaning where I have not been able to find any, and where again, in my humble opinion, there is none. For those that have not yet found the courage to affront the conjugations, I don't blame you and will do my best in breaking down their key thesis, or what I was able to make of them.

First, zonism is the nervous system of society. So, now it appears, we are back to the global jewish conspiracy thesis. Here comes the Principles of the Elders of Zion, or I am sure they would have made their appearance in due time if I cared to watch their videos for long enough. But, just before my patience ran out and I pressed the stop button, I caught another interesting one. The other anti-zionists in France are not for real, they are fake guys with fake "institutions". And what institutions would that be? Would he be referring to the vender of the Principles of Zion someone in the Parisian banlieue (worse than Harlem before Bloomberg became mayor of New York, the French police are afraid to even enter).

So, maybe I misunderstand something from the party webiste, so I go back to the infamous ballot to see who are the so-called representatives of this outfit? Well, turns out that the sample is informative to say the least. One is noted as a "mother of a family and head of a company". Whose family and whose company? All that business sounds rather mysterious. Another one is a president of the association "banlieue s'exprime". Another is noted as a 25 year old whose principal occupation is anti-zionist. Ambitious lady. Maybe we should enter that one in a guiness book of records as the most ridiculous occupation in the world. Another presents herself as unemployed and member of the same party. Clearly a winner and a social leader that could have done much with her life that hating something she probably knows close to nothing about, but let's be kind and give her the benefit of the doubt, perhaps she knows something. The big question is "what"?

Last but not least, I couldn't help but notice another candidate whose title is so french in its denial of everything that i cannot really do it justice by translating it in french - "militant altermondialisme et décroissance." And now the drum roll please, the head of the party, a certain 43 year old man whose last name is, no joke, mbala mbala (as in not a typeout, but for real) and his title is "humaniste révolutionnaire". And here, I rest my case for even in all my years in the Soviet Union, I have not heard such non-sense.

2009-05-19T21:33:00.008+02:00

City that never sleeps or City that never stops?

Cliché has it that New York is the "City that Never Sleeps". London, Moscow, Tokyo are commonly seen as belonging to that same Sleepless in Seatle category. Paris, despite its late dining and clubbing culture, but with its socialist-marred traditions like early subway closures, is not generally placed in the same insomniac category. Though no-self respecting Parisian will set his or her foot in a nighclub until well past one in the morning, Paris does not have a reputation of as an overactive broker, more like a semi-retired lady. Maybe as disturbed occasional consumer cocktails, leading to some overly philosophical discussion, but definitely not insomniac.

Perhaps it is a result of our supposedly shorter working hours which protect the fragile and narrow Parisian streets from the hoards of traders, lawyers and other unlucky overworked folk who pour out on the streets of London and New York in search for that beer or cosmpolitain to calm the nerves. Perhaps it is because the foreigners visiting Paris never make it past the steak, frites and vin formula, to make it to the late night establishments. Whatever the historical reasons are, everyone knows that the epicenter of action is across the channel. Even considering the disasterous consequences of the financial crisis on the "square mile", Her Majesty's land is still more reputed for lights and action that the supposedly sleepy Paris.

Frustrated by customer service (or more lack thereof) and in a spout of misguided nostalgia, I bravely overcame my fears of being permanentl stuck in the tunnel and later escavated by an archeologist looking for a lost species of dinosaures, logged on on the eurostar website and booked a ticket. An not just any ticket, but a first class ticket! After all, given the startling price for a 2 hour train ride, who can be bothered to notice the difference? And then, the marginal inconvience of shelling out an extra couple of euros is declining as the euro and the pound (and I cannot believe the words as I am writing them) are almost on par! London on the cheap, now that's what they usually say in eurostar commercials, but every sensible Parisian knows ce n'est pas vrai and every drunken British lad knows that's bullocks. And yet it's not, at least not entirely. London is on sale, victim to its own overambitiousness, its overzealous Adam Smith endorsed accumulation, deregulation, and its mechanical libertarian tendencies.

But has London on sale been able to protect its reputation as the City that never sleeps? Judging from the yawning faces of people on the infamous tube, it seems that not only the city, but its whole population has not slept in months. Forget about the swine flu, the real disease in London is exhaustion - it is chronic and everpresent. A telling example is that perhaps the only business model that has come out of the financial crisis in shining armour is the coffee chain. Nero, Starbucks, Costa, you-name-it are adorning every corner of the city. Uncaffenated is one thing you cannot be in London. And that caffeine is not simply a splurge on extra low fat soya latte (though I have nothing against those), but more of a daily necessity, a low cost, trendy, addictive drug. Having a coffee in london is not a closing note to a lunch as it is in Italy or a welcome to the new day as it is in Canada. It is a constant antidote to exhaustion.

In London, I feel like a piece in one of those toy kaleidoscope where the different coloured pieces, when turned, assemble a different picture every time they are turned. In London, everything and everyone is turned all the time and there is no stop button to be found anywhere. Everyone is rushing nowhere, late somewhere, catching up with time, tring to beat it, yet constantly failing. No wonder that British are always in a rush given that the buses crawl, the tube is typically experiencing "close to normal level of service" and the taxis are not an option even when London is on sale. Down the tube stairs, up the tube stairs, down the platform, down the street, across the crowd. My strategy is always to go through the crowds as if they were invisible, whith my eye closed. Say excuse me, elbow someone, say excuse me, step on someone, just get through, don't faint.

It is not enough that the hustle-bustle-all-around is like being being caught in an unstoppable hurricane or being flushed down the toilet (take your pick). All this is accompanied by what it is tempting to characterise as an accustical nightmare, or a decibels party (take your pick). I could not count the number of times I was told to "mind the gap" or how many announcements about "regular service on all lines" I have heard in a space of three days. Though I always thought my math skills were not so bad, I really cannot count these. I suspect it's a matter of higher mathematics.

Lingering in my mind was the still unanswered question of necessity of all this public guidance. Perhaps the French are lazy, but in Paris - and as far as I can remember in every other city - they only announce when the service is IRregular. Now I can't help but wonder whether the tube employees have some sort of a perverse incentive system where they get paid per annoucement? Surely, the tabloid salesman announcing the next biggest scandal in British history (usually there are 365 of them per year), get paid for every overexaggerated annoucement they make? "Did you know a British MP got reimbursed 50 cents for a Kit Kat bar?" one of them screams in my ear as I walk by. I felt like asking whether he knew what the cost of the bailout of the American banks was, that Iceland is bankrupt and the the UK is not so far away. In the grand scheme of things, is Kit Kat that sensational? Does it really matter than that some overly thrifty MP has unhealthy eating habits? With the UK financial sector in shambles, I just wanted to tell him "buddy, you have bigger things to worry about than Kit Kats". I knew he wouldn't understand and would continue screaming in my ear.

Even at dinner, the waiter is trying to outscream the overeager DJ who was trying to outplay the nearby table where the conversation has reached a normal post-few beers level: deafening. Sweating, he kneels himself down to figure out what I "fancy". I didn't say that fancied him to stop screaming for starters. Stop screaming as an appetiser? That's not on the menu madam. Pity. So, we get a few extra salads at the end, at least he heard the broad lines of the order, the rest is detail. It's not fish and chips in yesterday's tabloids, what are you complaining about lady? Good point...

But, that's just the thing, what am I complaining about? I think what I am trying to do here is to officially protest against the categorisation of Paris as the city that is asleep and London as the city that never sleeps. I can accept as an argument that London never sleeps, but for what reason? I am not convinced that even after the removal of the "no booze after 11 rule", the reason for London insomnia is that Londoners are out and about having good ole time. None of the Londoners I saw on the tube looked like they were having a jolly good time, more like people in a cage, exhausted by the parameters, but unable to change them. All of this leads me to conclude that Lodon may be a city that never sleeps (or more like never stops), but it's also a city where one cannot dream. Paris, on the other hand, maybe a city that sleeps more, but also dreams.

2009-03-27T21:38:00.011+01:00

Sense and sensitivity

We really have a love and hate relationship with an gaping hollow middle. There is absolutely no neutral territory between us, no self-questioning, no doubts. I am either totally up-to-my ears in puppy love territory or in a state of total resentment and misunderstanding for what I have done to deserve this sort of a miserable treatment. It is really by-the-book passionate love affair, with all the ups and downs that are inherent in such matters of the heart. I cannot just look at him in the morning and think "hey, he's alright", recognising some of the positive features of his body, while accepting his mood swings, his sheer unpredictability, his sarcasm. Perhaps my responses to him are in fact stimulated by his unstable and explosive personality: at times melancholic, at times welcoming, at times rejecting, at times indiscernible.

As an ergonomic chair, I adapt to the shape of his body but also to his emotional state of being, usually trying to accomodate him on his days of blues and rejoice on the rare days of sunshine. The days of sunshine, while rare, are exactly what makes the blues and everything else that comes with them worth the wait. The sunny-side up is really what the French would call impeccable, the Americans fabulous and the British brilliant. It is definitely all of those things and many more, making it an irresistible temptation to fly across the world - if need be - just to see him, smell him, embrace him, and perhaps most importantly let him embrace me, surround me, nourish me. On those impeccable, fabulous and brilliant days he can, at the sleight of his hand, order to curtains to be drawn open in order to reveal in all their magnificence his prize possessions, his jewels like the Pont des Arts.

On the days when the impeccable, fabulous and brilliant recede into the background, and the blues install themselves for days, sometimes even weeks, the curtain remains drawn. The audience is simply snubbed and no amount of clapping, whether sincere (the loud overly enthusiastic type that no aristocrat would lower himself to) or artificial (usually with binoculars in one hand, preventing the production of noise of any noticeable decibles) can get the curtain to raise. No amount of praying, begging or self-sacrifice can induce him reverse his decision, and if he does, it is certainly not for any reason connecting to either one of these acts.

It might just be an accident if he finally changes his mind and sheds his steely demeanor - I can never quite figure out what has caused the wind to change. It is something similar to ordering lunch at a 3 star Michelin restaurant and trying to guess what is inside the dish. Even after a lengthy explanation by the waiter, it still comes out to something reduced with something else, mixed with another secret ingredient and all steamed in a pot with a million of other spices. A witchcraft which - for those of us earthly beings is quite bluntly put, unconquerable! Given the mysterious nature of his moods, at times I feel that I have no other option but to adjust, pretend that I am going through a sunny-side-up stage, when in fact both him and I know know perfectly well that it is exactly the opposite.

And this is exactly the dance I have been unscrupulously following all of this week. It has been a masquerade smiles, polite phone calls and half-hearted excuses. I am simply not really sorry about treating him and all of his complexities and explanations the way I do. After all, what can he expect when the rays of sun stop illuminating those irregular highlights in my hair, when the normally open invitation for embrace seems to have suddenly expired, and when he is clearly flashing the sign the French would interpret as pas disponible, the Americans as out of stock and the British as left town?

I guess it must sound nonsensical to say that Paris has left town, but there are days (and lately, these days can pile into weeks and even months), that I can honestly say he has. Paris has left town, leaving me wondering what I am doing here in his quarters, which seem so utterly empty when he is not around. Having patiently waited through all of winter, I have naively thought that spring will bring him a change of mood, but this has simply not happened, though to be fair, he has made some sporadic efforts. Once again, he seems to be going through his blue stage, showering me with rain in the exact moment I finally bring out those favourite suede shoes, sending gusts of wind when I finally master the courage to wonder out for a quick run around the park, and simply shutting down for the evening much faster that I am ready for it.

More than anything, I guess I am angry with him for not controlling his subjects, yes, those other people that I patiently share him with. While on a sunny days (when I can find a place on a terrance of one of his trendy brasseries, which features every model of Chloé, Prada and Chanel sunglasses released in the past season) I am ready to be more forgiving, I am not finding this forgiveness in me given the schizophrenic temperament he has been exhibiting of late. His subjects are becoming more and more rebellious, more and more numerous, more and more unpredictable and dangerously more and more individualist. And that is even before the tourist season brings with it herds of others competing for those very same islands of peace and happiness where I have become a regular.

Paris, I know there is really not point of praying, begging or self-sacrifice to make you take seriously my request, but I urge you to consider that my love for you is not eternal. I can, and indeed have, been offended by your inhabitants whose attitude to sharing makes it difficult for me to share you with them. I know there is no other like you, with museums that dazzle, restaurants that nourish not only the stomach but also the soul, and not least importantly, avenue Montaigne that makes me want to put that Visa to use like never before. As a first measure, I might find other museums, restaurants and shops where my soul, stomach and feet will find their happiness, but this might not just last forever. I am afraid I might stop adjusting to you, like that ergonomic chair, and start rejecting you, as if you were an allergy-causing substance. For the sake of our relationship, I hope you will consider my humble request.

2009-03-22T12:31:00.006+01:00

Islands of small and peaceful

There are two kinds of people: those that are born, live and die in big cities and those who could skip on all the fatigue, pollution and melodrama associated of living in the big apple, big london or even the not-so-big paris. I have always been of firm conviction that I belong to that first type who cannot spend more than a weekend in the country side, and even that, on the condition that there is wi fi access. It is not a question of being obsessed with connectivity, of a blackberry happily blinking along, with being virtually at the office - god no! It's really a question of lights, action, camera; of speed of action; of being a part of something larger (and not just a little bit larger). And I am not speaking from a position of ignorance here - I have lived in a small town! A small student town in the Netherlands, of which, as small towns go, virtually no one has even heard of or ever will. The only good news about this place, which proudly featured in its center - as indeed most European small towns do - a church, a pub, and a bank - was that I could pronounce its name which is not the same I can say of anything else in Dutch. (not to self: Dutch was clearly not my special talent in the language department).

After that experience, I resolved to myself to that I would never again live in a small town. And I have not. While my travel itinerary has been diverse, from Ukraine to Canada to UK and finally to France, I have exclusively lived in big cities. I think my quantitative threshold lies somewhere near 2 million inhabitants. Though it has never been explicitly set, every significant other, friend or relative in my life had at some point understood that for me, no city can be considered to deserve this status if it does not feature museums (note the plural here is no accident), restaurants, night life, theatre, think tanks, universities, and of course, a synagogue - in case I ever have an urgent need to enter into direct dialogue with god. So far it has never happened, but in case such need ever arises, it ought to be urgently satisfied. Besides, a city with no synagogue is not a good sign if I ever want to start eating kosher. Again, it is not likely to happen, but since I am already a vegetarian, who knows what the next weird thing I will do?

So, here I am, in probably what is the best compromise between big city living without big city distances - Paris. A city which I can cross in its entirety (without of course the suburbs, in which no self- respecting parisian goes for one and quite convincing reason: fear) for 20 euros, which is comparable to about 3 subway stops in London. A city which at the same time as being small is incredibly diverse, with little self-contained villages with almost distinct accents, dress-codes and dog sizes. On this last point, you might think I exaggerate, but I assure you not. For instance, in the sixteenth, a dog is an accessory, it must fit in the second smallest longchamp bag, otherwise, it's too slow to walk. In the eighteenth on the other hand, a dog is an instrument of protection and therefore it does not fit in any bag - not even the largest longchamp.

And yet in this compromise, I can't help but think that people like me, who love cities for their action and tireless movement, can only be happy in this whirlwind if they find their oasis of small and peaceful, a sort of a microcosm of reality. In Toronto, it was Queen Street West. In Paris, it can vary from the neighbourhood cafe, which during off peak hours features only two types of creatures - the waiters and the owner's Dalmatian whom I quite got used to, to a yoga studio which does not smell like a mixture of indian food and your neighbours feet (yes, sorry, but it's true), to Luxembourg garden on a sunny day, before everyone else gets there and takes all the chairs (one for the ass, one for the bag, and one per leg of course!). I seems like after years of being treated like an american tourist and being confused myself what my oasis or oases of paradise in this city are, I have finally found them. I have gotten to know all the key characters: the Dalmatian, the yoga instructor, the guy who serves a great brunch near by (and who is open on Sunday!). There is only one wrinkle in the storyline. Since I have discovered them, all these places have become famous: now my facial place requires two months to book an appointment, the brunch place features a line which is becoming less and less reasonable, and today, as a last straw, the yoga class was too full to accept me! "But I discovered it before all these people" I almost screamed in the face of the receptionist who politely offered me to unfold my mat outside the studio. Instead, I just limited myself to a resolute "non".

So, all this drama in my life begs the following question: what does one do when their islands of small and peaceful become invaded? Does one flee to another city or try to find other bubbles of peace? Any advice on this dilemma is welcome. Of course, I could find another brunch place or a smell-less yoga studio, but that would be on the other side of paris, and I would have to take the metro there, which is most definitely not smell-less, particularly on the weekends. In case you didn't know, on the weekends, Parisian men suddenly forget they have toilets at home and start to use the streets as their personal toilets. This may be funny for those of you who don't live in the sixth arrondissement in Paris, but for me, that creates another dilemma: as I decide to have a run around the neighbourhood following being turned away from yoga, I have to treat it as some sort of an obstacle course between (hmm...how shall I say it, number one and number two). The latter usually belongs to dogs, but does not make it any more pleasant for my white adidas running shoes or my nose for that matter. Part of the problem is that I run though the fabulous gallery district and of course I want to be looking around not down! And that brings me to my last thought of the day: Paris maybe the best compromise in the city category, but now it looks like I am going to have to compromise on my bubbles of small and peaceful, sharing them with the invaders, who probably like me, have realised that even here, they need to escape.

2009-02-12T21:53:00.003+01:00

A marriage made in heaven

Here is a trick question: what is common between Islam and communism? As the meeting between the Saudi King Abdullah and the Chinese President Hu Jintao proved - contracts. Yes, you heard me (or rather read me) right. Following the visit of the Chinese president to Saudi Arabia, a range of contracts have been signed between the two countries, covering a range of sectors, including oil, mining and others. The Chinese have even agreed to set up a chapter of the King Abdul Aziz Public Library in Beijing. While the interest of the Chinese in Saudi oil does not take a rocket scientist to figure out, the establishment of an islamic library in a country which officially still embraces communism may raise a few eyebrows. Please include mine in the list.

Naturally , this seems to be a concession on the part of the Chinese in return for those very interesting natural resource and constructions contracts they are bringing home (not to be forgotten at the times of high unemployment in Saudi). But who would have thought that the Chinese would be willing to compromise on this kind of opening to outside forces, particularly as they struggle with some of their own Islamist movements in the area bordering the former Soviet Union's republics? Given today's exchanges of promises, the Saudi's don't seem to be concerned with working with countries whose political ideology explicitly denies the existence of religion. Likewise, Islam, while seen as a menace at home, is not seen by the Chinese as a threat, as long as it stays in the Gulf where they will just temporarily export some of their labour force.

2009-02-09T22:41:00.003+01:00

Echos of the Gaza conflict in Morocco

In both the Arab world and in the Arabophone communities abroad, there seems to be a consensus on the death of the pan-arab ideal, so skillfully animated by Nasser's politics. Since the well-known and failed attempt at a unity between Egypt and Syria, in light of the generally acknowledged disfunctionality of the Arab League (the institution which unites the 22 heads of state of the Arab world), the pan-arab ideal is considered dead. But is it?

Politically this is certainly the case. Even smaller groupings such as the GCC have a difficult time coordinating their policies on a range of economic issues (ex. the delayed and mystic currency union), let alone their political stance. Observers point to the emergence of a 'stable' sunni crescent of Jordan, Egypt and Saudi Arabia and the 'dissenting' shia crescent of Iran, Qatar (and even some non-state actors such as the Hezbollah in Lebanon). This political split became once again evident in the recent Israeli-Hamas conflict in Qaza, where Qatar and Iran lambasted Israel for irresponsible killing of civilians, while radio silence was heard from Jordan and Egypt. The Jodanian leadership, with its own sizeable palestinian population, could win some browny points from their electorate by engaging in populist rhetoric against Israel, chose not to, probably in part to internal standing considerations as well as for the fear of adding fuel to an already combustive mixture. The Egyptian leadership was coerced and coalesced by France to maintain this radio silence, which in any case they had no reason to break. After all Hamas is an offshoot of Muslim Brotherhood - Mubarak's biggest threat.

The sense of pan-arab unity is clearly dead on the political front. Is it so also on the social one? Well, while the politicians were considering the various trade-offs and ceding to international pressure, the 'arab street' for the lack of a better term, was certainly in a clear agreement against the Israeli position. Of course, the reaction to the conflict was not only contained to the Arab world, with several manifestations across European cities, but if one looks closer to the cities where such expressions were the strongest, those cities feature large arab populations. London and Paris are both clear examples of this.

While the inhabitants of the chick and rich Gulf may look down in certain way on their poorer Moroccan and Tunisian cousins, when it comes to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, everyone is clear on which side they are on. There is simply no discussion. As far as Morocco, the suffering of Gazans during the last conflict, clearly reverberated with the people. During my last trip to Morocco, I even learned that some creative Moroccan mind has created and distributed a hoax which persuaded Moroccans to boycott certain outflits such as MacDonalds, since allegedly, a part of its profits was sent to Israel (with the obvious pre-text of financing their military). This may of course sounds absurd to any logical person, who knows that MacDonalds is a franchise and that there is no that it's Moroccan owner would be sending money to Israel, but apparently not to an average macdo consumer in the country.

But a larger question which looms behind all this, is why would an average Moroccan refuse him or herself adecent halal burger because of some alleged link from Macdo to Gaza? The answer, so unintuitive to me, who sees so little in common between Palestine and Morocco, is that this alleged link is somehow real to these people. The Gaza conflict resonates as far as Morocco. For the thousands of Tunisians, Moroccans and other, the whole pan-Arab ideal is much more real that the talk of political and economic unity. They are already voting with their wallets in macdonalds while the politicians are scrambling over their votes in regional and international institutions.

2009-01-24T13:40:00.008+01:00

Russia...another one bites the dust

Just around the corner from the Kremlin, Stanislav Markelov, a lawyer who defended a range of anti-Kremlin characters, along with a young journalist Anastasis Baburova, were shot at blank range in the middle of the day. The Economist has commented that "even by Russian standards, this was brazen." But was it? In a country which, in a rather clear reversal of the "Kremlin spring", is still governed Stalin-style, why do commentators seem to be surprised? As the KGB would have defended one of its members (though at the time there was nothing to defend them from, since it was running the country), the Kremlin is defending one of its own (colonel Budanov who raped and killed a young Chechen woman the night of Putin's coming to power whose family Markelov dared to defend). Observers note that he could have been killed for this act of challenge to the regime, or for any of his other activities. Whatever the real reasons for this bullet being fired, the episode is rather telling of the little change that has happened since Gorbachev left loose the reigns holding together the almighty Soviet Union.

Murders of journalists of media outlets which claim to have some independence from Kremlin have become commonplace, giving one the impression that pretty soon everything will be back to square one. The Russian people will receive a choice of two propaganda newspapers and slightly more propaganda channels, and that will be it. The murder rate of journalists and lawyers might then actually decline to the lows of good old Soviet days. The regime will just send them all packing to Siberia and call it a day, after all, the precedent already exists for a few daring oligarchs and other "activists". Repressing public opinion this way may actually be better for the Russian international image which has suffered significant, if not irreparable damage during the past year.

On this point, Mr. Putin and Mr. Medvedev have only to consult many of their colleagues in the Middle East, where virtually all local regimes systematically supres any attempt at independent press. At least the latter do it more transparently. The Moroccan constitution, for instance, prohibits any criticism of the King, him being the direct off spring of Allah and all. Perhaps Mr. Putin should inspire himself of such bold but at least transparent moves and pronounce his position clearly on the issue - no criticism of the his majesty or any of his encourage. At least then everyone will know they are risking a bullet in the back of the head should the rule not be complied with.

What does all of this leave us, the observers of the "resurgent Russia"? Well, it leaves us observing the return (or perhaps the lack of a departure?) of the good old Soviet mentality - the supremacy of the state in every sphere of life, including of course media. The danger of it all, is that the propaganda of the state controlled media, whether that produced by the Kremlin directly or by the favourable oligarchs, reaches hundreds of thousands of ears and eyes all across the former Soviet Union, with the possible exception of the Central Asia states which were never really fully integrated in the Russophone space. And these eyes and years, a number of which were educated in the Soviet Union, in classrooms featuring a photo of Lenin benevolently staring down at the ordinary folk, might just not know any better than reject it.

All of this gloom and doom coming out of any European or American analysis of belligerent Russia does make one want to start undusting the Cold War dictionary. Not so fast. While Mr. Putin can make the dumfound Duma pass all kinds of legislation prolonging presidential terms or elevating him to the status of god, he should not forget Russia is not Middle East, and he is not the King of Saudi Arabia. And being a intellectual off spring of Stalin just won't do it. Unlike in the Middle East where the spheres of market economy and democracy and clearly separated, this is not the case in Russia.

The King of Saudi Arabia may well tell his subjects "no thanks" to political pluralism, this causes no concern to foreign or local investors, businessman and other economic actors (with the notable exception of course, but that for another entry). Mr. Putin's more veiled attempt to say "no thanks" to political pluralism has however been mistakenly accompanied by a very obvious proof of the doctrine that the state is back in the economic sphere as well. By nominating his friend as the head of the stock exchange, while the latter has lost 77 percent year-to-date, by nationalising assets and supporting/closely controlling state-owned enterprises, taking an obvious strike at British interests in Russia, he has done a serious disservice to Russia and to his own reputation. Ruble is collapsing (see sratfor.com "Russia implodes"), banks are taking a hit despite being protected by the relative underdevelopment of the Russia's financial system, and unemployment is naturally on the rise despite the conclusion of today's "Pravda" to the contrary.

While the state propaganda may claim that the unemployment in January has somehow gone down (note: contrary to every other country in the world!), the reality is hitting Russia with investors moving out assets out of the ruble and out of Russia generally. The lesson to the Kremlin seems to be that while it can still fire bullets in the heads of local journalists without so may as making any statement about it, and poison political opponents abroad, Stalin-style tactics are perhaps not to be transposed on the economic sphere, for the 750 billion US dollars of reserves may just not be enough to prevent another 1998 from happening if investors feel as unsafe as journalists on the streets of Moscow.

2009-01-11T21:49:00.002+01:00

I thought to start my blog-year with... a book review!

I refrain myself (thought I don't know for how long) to white about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, which has now become a subject of daily conversation and manifestation even as far away as in Paris. Though, while the characters and the geo-political context of what I'll write about today may not be the same, the quintessential problematique is not so radically different. Instead of Israel's war on Hamas, please consider the war of the West (I have this term but it is convenient!) on first, Al-Qaida, then the Taliban. (Nota bene: As a welcome sign, the book, unlike many 'commentators' on Afghanistan, differentiates the two).

With no further adieu, I think it's now the time to break the mystery and spill the beans: the book's name is Decent Into Chaos by Rachid Ahmed, a Pakistani journalist, familiar with the region to the point of being able to fluently site the names of local tribal leaders, while at the same time enjoying access to Karzai and Musharraf, among others. The book is a jewel of anecdotes, some documented with detail so meticulous that it gives away the author's journalistic origins, while at the same time making the narrative almost difficult to follow for those not familiar with Central Asia.

Despite the mountains of details, Rachid insists on several key messages, which he craftily waves in the story line. His first claim comes of no surprise - the American strategy in Afghanistan since the 1980s has made it a ticking bomb. As a result, to experienced observers of the region, the 9/11 came as a shock, but not as a surprise. Many forget today, as Fred Halliday often points out, that the cradle of the global jihadist movements is Afghanistan already in the 1980s. Perhaps few will be surprised today that it is not Iraq - even Bush admitted last week that he was disappointed with the intelligence on Iraq he had received at the time. Rachid explains and convincingly documents the failure of the US, and indeed in the "international community" in Afghanistan, but also in Pakistan, and in the Central Asia generally. One can argue that this is no news, and this is hard to deny, but those able to understand why this has been the case, are far and few and between.

The author of the book is one of them. If you are interested in why the US failed in nation building in Afghanistan and why NATO has found itself unable to create a convincing strategy in Afganistan, this is a book you might just enjoy. Just as a matter of preview, I will reveal that Rachid puts the weight of the guilt over Afghanistan on the shoulders of Pakistan (primarily under Musharraf's rule) and the complicity of the American strategy with the Pakistani leadership. This is all of course a story of the past. If you are interested in a story of the future, he has some pretty grim predictions abou the future of Central Asia (and Uzbekistan in particular) which make the current position of the Middle East as the winner in the 'most conflictual region' category seem questionable in the near future.

2008-12-29T19:16:00.002+01:00

Thoughts on the end of 2008

Now, to close the page on this year, I bet anything, dear friends, that you expect me to reminisce - in my usual long-winded tradition - about all the landmark events of this year. I bet you would expect me to speak of the war in Aghanistan, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, or some other rather depressing coming from the Middle East these days. Or, you would expect me to pitch in on the financial crisis, how it has knocked on the door of France - the failing banks, the layoffs, the faltering consumer confidence. I am afraid you might be deceived since I intend to do no such thing. Really.

This year, I decided to close this year with some humour, since I suspect we might all need it for next year. And as I look around me in France, I hardly find anything sufficiently funny to talk about - well, yes, there is Sarkosy, but that one has been picked on this year to the point that even I feel bad for him! Not so far away though, in Italy, the local authorities seem to have a much sharper sense of humour. How about the following for a holiday riddle?

Do you know what homeless people in Milan are having this holiday season? No, not nothing - common, I am not so cruel to make fun of hungry people! No, not soup and croutons, not chocolate cake, not meat roast - wrong, wrong, wrong! They will be having caviar. Yes, that's right - it is not a typo - they will be having caviar, not the artificially produced, but the real kind, all that curtesy of the local mafia. To be precise, it is not the mafia that experienced a bout of sudden generosity towards the homeless (on the latter, I suggest you see a brilliant film Gomorra that came out this year), but the Milanese police (not, that is not a type of pizza). Apparently, the Milanese police has crecently confiscated loads of illegal caviar in Italy and decided to give it away for holidays!

Lesson to be learned: next time you think of your holiday destination, I suggest you give serious consideration to Italy. After all who knows what else can the Italian police confiscate from the local mafia?

Happy 2009! For more of the same, and some of not the same, please keep visiting!

2008-12-21T19:59:00.001+01:00

Political slogans across the Atlantic

What can be in can be in common between the politics in the United States and continental Europe, especially France, which many Americans regard as a bastion of socialism? After all, when France is evoked as an example of a country where social services actually provide (more or less) universal healthcare, this very idea results in revolt among many in conservative circles in the United States.

Well, judging from the rhetoric of our own hyperactive Sarkosy and president-elect Obama, more than one can imagine. It seeems that no one picked up on the similarities between the two presidental compaigns. The famous 'yes, we can!' has of course made rounds worldwide, even in France, where I doubt there are still many, politically aware or not, who are still not aware of the Obama's winning phrase. Of course, whether or not it was really Obama's is subject to debate - see for instance, http://www.politico.com/blogs/bensmith/0208/Yes_we_can_reuse_slogans.html.

That whole debate aside, did no one notice the apparent similarity between the 'yes we can!' and the 'ensemble tout est possible!' which, for those of you not french speakers (shame on you!) translates to 'together, everything is possible'! Now, in general, living in France, one has to note that the level of political awareness and political debate in France is much higher than in the United States, where sometimes it is difficult to separate the prayers from the political campaigning, where the preachers and the 'god help america!' is inseparable from the actual campaigning. In France, while Sarkosy has to some extent breached the norm of divorcing politicians' behaviour from the spehere of religion, thank god, there are no references to god in french presidential campaigning, neither on the right, nor on the left. no god is blessing france, and living here, I am quite content that our economic planning does not involve any religious hopes.

Given such great dissimilarities between the political discourse in the two countries, could the 'yes, we can!' and 'ensemble, tout est possible!' be some sort of a bizairre and meaningless coincidence? After all, there seems to be little contact between Obama and Sarkosy, the latter apparently getting snubbed by Obama on the occasion of the latest G20 meeting. (how dare he!) Not so fast.

First of all, let's see who the slogans apply to. In the US, it was the almightly Joe the Plumber, who has made rounds in local press, both by Conservatives and Democrats, to the point of almost becoming a family member of every US household. What about in France? Surely, the political elites in Frances would not build their political discourse on plumbers? Well, maybe it was not a plumber-figure that lit up the imagination of the French during the election, but - quand même - it was 'la france qui se leve tôt', literally translated 'the france that gets up early'. And just to clarify something, this is no accidental choice, since in france, no one in professional classes gets up early (working day starts about an hour later that in the US, and not because of time difference!) So, maybe we were not obsessed with plumbers, but the plumbers would certainly be part of this france which gets up early. Which, by the way, explains why I am not a plumber...

And if you are still unconvinced by the parallel, I suggest you refer to the following?

http://voiceswithoutvotes.org/2008/12/03/france-from-yes-we-can-to-yes-you-must
This should be convincing evidence that the average intelligence of the electorate, whether in France or in the United States, is sufficiently low, as to buy this sort of rhetoric! And that the rhetoric is aimed at Joe the Plumber! And for the rest of us outside the plumbing profession, I am afraid, we'll have to look beyond the political discourse to understand what we are about to get ourselves into.

2008-11-30T15:37:00.005+01:00

Bombings in Mumbai: reactions on Al Jazeera

There is a certain level of irony in watching news on the Mumbai bombings from a hotel room in Morocco, which has been subject of the same type of attacks over the years, thankfully not recently. Suddenly, I had the surreal feeling of being lucky despite the otherwise unexciting trip - the first time I have been to Morocco without the wonderfully warm, yet not burning winter sun. Lucky that this multi-pronged monster did not surge in Morocco, lucky that colleagues that have just come back from Mumbai and stayed in the same hotels travelled a week before, lucky that my witnessing these horrible events is from a five start hotel room, through the lens of CNN or BBC rather that as an eyewitness.

As Mumbai's surreal three-day siege started to come to their gruesome conclusion, it emerged that outside the Oberoi and the Taj hotels and other tourist targets, another geographically and physically smaller target was hit - the Nariman house (a jewish community center). While the Nariman house may have contained less people, the symbolism behind this target is not insignificant, depsite the ongoing debate on whether it was an accidental victim or a targeted cite or the violence. As far as it known now (two days after the fighting has ended), five people lost their lives at the Nariman house, among whom the rabbi and his wife, who apparently came to India a few yeras ago to teach courses on judaism in the relatively tiny jewish population of india.

Al Jazeera, with its increasingly professional and (ahem - British) staff has decided to join the chorus of voices speaking of the Mumbai tragedy, bringing on the show a surprising guest - the ambassador of Israel (though interestingly, to the US and not India!) Usually, AJ selects the least presentable Israeli counterparts pitting them against a loudly protesting professor from Al Ahram or another such institution, ensuring that the Israeli interlockutor looks incompetent. This time, this was not the case and the ambassador was allowed to answer questions posed to him. It all started rather amicably. And then came the usual: "do you think this is a reaction to israeli behaviour in the palestinian occupied territories?". This was followed up by insistent repeating of this question by the interviewer when Shallai Meridor (the Israeli ambassador) said he saw no connection between the Israeli-PLO relations and the attacks in Mumbai.

Granted, every channel, obviously including Al Jazeera, has its bias, but where is the logic in linking every issue concerning jewish interests around the world to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict? For the moment, not much is known about the attackers of the Nairman house. One of the attackers detained by the Indian police is a 23 year old Pakistani citizen, with fourth grade education. I don't know about you, but I didn't realise that the curriculum of Pakistani madrassas included much content on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. His fourth grade educations allows one to be reasonably sceptical of his understanding of the roots of the conflict. It's also rather improbable that he has been to Israel or Palestine, if only for the tough Israeli security.

This leaves one option on the table - propaganda. Propaganda that attackers have been exposed to in their four years of 'education'. Of course, propaganda is everywhere, in every educational institution or media outlet, and certainly not only in Pakistan. It becomes more alarming however when a rabbi and his wife get killed for their supposed zionism (note to the attackers: many haredi do not believe in the state of israel despite having an israeli passport), or perhaps for their carrying an israeli passport, or for their teaching of judaism, or for their being jewish?

Though in many circles and debates divisions are being created to justify opposing Israeli interests, with various distictions between Israelis/zionists/jews being played to justify some oppostion which is allegedly not anti-semitic. Some, like Kamal Al-Hilbawi, director of the London Center for the Study of Terrorism, interviewed on BBC arabic just a few days ago, argued that attacking Israeli children is legitimate since they will eventlually become soldiers (note to Mr. Al-Hilbawi: an increasing proportion of Israelis is opting out of the army). That being said, most of those who oppose Israel or its citizens, including the Iranian president, are more selective in their critique, at least in public. What is puzzling though, is that Jewish targets continue to be attacked throughout the world not even based a single, but on multiple pre-texts: for the Jewish nature, for their Israeli nature, for their Zionist nature, etc. This 'terminological confusion' sheds some legitimate doubts on the attack on the Nairman house being accidental in nature...

2008-11-03T22:34:00.002+01:00

Impressions of a local foreigner

When I undertake my annual transatlantic haul, I am all too content to finally get on the board of the plane, with or without dinner service, with or without 150 kg neighbours (as long as I am not in between!), with or without the window seat – simply because the procedures in France (and particularly flying out of Charles de Gaulle) is one’s worst nightmare, with no exaggeration. First, the airport which is located in the middle of timbucktwo and is naturally rather unconnected from the rest of the city. Add to this the check-in procedures and the security procedures the apparent objective of which is to prevent you from getting on that plane, without making you lose faith – at least until the last minute – that you will succeed in your mission to finally get to row x, seat y. Whoever directed 'Mission impossible' should have made it take place at Charle de Gaulle. Perfect setting. Consider the following scene:

Me (to the check in counter lady): Sorry I cannot lift up my suitcase to put in on the scale.
Her: yes, well…too bad
Me: (hinting that she might help me – an idea totally lost on her): is there not anyone that can help?
Her: you are funny, madame.

Now, I accept that sometimes I might be funny and normally would take it as a compliment, but somehow not under the circumstances.

Having succeeded to register, then there is the take-everything-off and throw-everything-out-ritual, and the start-your laptop-ritual (which naturally forces me to re-pack my suitcase while I am standing shoe-less and my purse has gone into the open on their lovely conveyor line). In essence, the familiar airport deal, just with no service but lots of attitude. I am trying to stay amused, but while I may well be amusing THEM, I am not finding this amusing at all.

On the return trip, leaving the immense Toronto Pearson which I am guessing was built on projections of it becoming the next JFK, I am thinking “this place is paradise on earth”. For me, the Toronto Pearson is like any decent Canadian house compared to the size of my French apartment – unusably large. This, coupled with its virtual emptiness, ease of passage and generally friendly employees – makes coming back to Charle de Gaulle a repeat of a nightmare for which I need serious psychological help. And yet, aside from all the logistics of it, I am normally happy to return to my status of a permanent foreigner in France, in return for my status as a temporary foreigner in Canada.

The first few trips I have made from France, I was still in my euphoria stage where just the idea of speaking English was a treat that I enjoyed, even at the expense of jetlag, relatively bad food, and the shock of seeing crocks for the first time. This time, the shock came from the question from a salesperson in response to my relatively straightforward request try on some shirts: “where are you from?” And here I was, officially a foreigner - again. I quickly considered the option of trying to explain to her the whole deal on my origins (too complicated and anyways she would have thought Ukraine is a city in the States or something along those lines). So I randomly babble out one word – France - which solicits the usual reaction along the lines of “oh, this is wonderful, you are so lucky!”.

I take my shirts and wonder along to my cabin wondering how can she know whether France is wonderful or not - after all, I could be living in some destitute village picking tomatos? Ps. Tomato pickers please don’t be offended, it just does not seem like a dream job for me. Tomatoes aside, this bring me to the moral of my story: despite the obvious difficulties of life in France (sufficiently highlighted by my airport comparison), and contrary to the common impressions of shirt salespersons, I was only too happy to be back to this side of the Atlantic where I am definitely a more obvious foreigner and where not many even bother to inquire as to where I am from because the very realization that I am from somewhere (ie. not French) is rather obvious (beyond three word sentences) and therefore does not interest anyone.

That being said, a realization that dawned on me is what matters more in this whole affair is not whether others see you as a foreigner, but whether you yourself see you as one and this latter requires point a consideration of what is important to you as a social context. Though I should by all objective criteria feel more ‘foreign’ in France, I could not help but think that this is somehow not the case. After all, home is where you decide to make it, perhaps minimizing or ignoring the differences between you and all the rest. And while to colleagues, friends and just nobodies here I am a confused Canadian, to me, I am a little French, at least for the moment. Which leads me to conclude that one can be ‘at home’ as a local foreigner and ‘abroad’ as a local traveler, all at the same time.

2008-09-21T15:58:00.003+02:00

on the necessity of economic sanctions....

In the toolbox of diplomatic reactions, economic sanctions - either formal or informal - have always featured prominently. Of late, it has been the U.S. that has been threatening 'non-compliant' states with this option or actually implementing it, particularly in light of its already stretched military resources and the inability to throw funds at any more conflicts, given the ongoing war in Iraq and the strengthening couter-insurgency in Afghanistan. Over the past years, economic sanctions have been imposed on Saddam's Iraq, on Ahmadinejan's Iran, and a host of smaller states which were ideologically not alligned with the rest of the international community, or just some of this world's powerful...all with more or less, signigificant if not outright disastrous consequences.

Almost ten years later, the image of suffering Iraqi children is still fresh in our collective memory. The impact of economic sanctions is not only rhetorical and imagined, but has been also quantitatively substantiated. In a seminal 2005 study titled Economic Sanctions Reconsidered, the authors found that the average cost to a target country in a ‘success’ case was 2.4% of GNP and in a ‘failure’ case 1% of GNP. This and other research demonstrates that economic sanctions are no laughable matter, hence their effectiveness in twisting the arms of unwieldy politicians.

That being said, one can ask whether their effectiveness has been on the decline? Sanctions have been recently levied on Iran, and subsequently on Syria, without the same impact as earlier sanctions have had. This may be explained in terms of improved regional cooperation in the middle east, which implies ongoing strong economic relations with countries under sanctions. UAE and Iran, despite technically being in conflict over the islands which they dispute, and despite promoting different streams of Islam, are reported to have a strong and growing economic cooperation. Iran and Syria, while both under international economic sanctions, also have strong economic cooperation, with growing FDI and trade.

In the context of our new multipolar world, where there is always a careless lad on the block who does not really care about the moral wrongs of the 'sanctioned country' (i.e. China in Africa or UAE in Iran), what is the future of sanctions, and are there indeed any alternatives? Well, looking at the unravelling economic crisis in Russia, reported to be the worst since the 1998 banking crisis, I daresay there is. What's best about it, that the alternative is not even part of the 'nasty responses' in the toolbox of diplomatic reactions, it's a natural market reaction. Perhaps these Adam Smith inspired market equilibrium folks are onto something, maybe the markets do self-correct!

Let's have a quick look at the evidence only a few weeks after Russian invasion of Georgia. The Russian stock markets fell by over 50% since May. Capital flight led to two day closure of all Russian stock markets to halt the panic sale of equities. On September 11, the Russian central bank injected $10bn (£5.7bn) into the banking system to alleviate a chronic credit shortage. Further injections will be necessary and apparently budgeted for, as both direct and portfolio investors flee the country. The government announced a plan to boost liquidity by more than $100bn after the biggest market crash in a decade.

Likewise, foreign investors, uninspired by the latest news from the TN-KBP case are also reconsidering. RWE, the German utility, said it was pulling out of a deal to buy a stake in TGK-2, a Russian regional power generator, blaming the cost of the transaction and the turbulence in the country's financial markets. What's perhaps even more important, economic tensions, finally seem to result in a dialogue between the various factions in Kremlin, giving Putin less chance to shut off opposition forces (if they can be so qualified). Given that Putin's power rests ultimately on his promise to be able to deliver Russian out of Yeltsin's oblivion, this is not a threat to be taken lightly.

All this forces an interesting question: why go though the whole shabang of UN Economic Council unanimous decision making to levy sanctions, which have increasingly smaller impact when there seem to be easier and more effective opporunities? Perhaps in the future, certain political actions can have a natural market consequences, which force the regimes in question to change their political direction. Judging from the Russia case, this is certainly plausible. Of course, the caveat to the Russia case is that it is a regime that not only likes to tinker with neighbouring regimes and opponent political parties, but also with shareholder rights and rights of foreigners, all so very intricately related to the interest of foreign private investors into Russia. The good news for the international community, is that disrespect of agreed upon agreements (i.e. respect for Georgia's sovereignity) is often accompanied by disrespect of private ownership rights. A conclusion that then begs itself: goodbye sanctions, hello market democracy!

2008-09-03T19:10:00.003+02:00

On the return of the bipolar power dynamics in the Middle East

Act Number One. Everything in the Middle East is Moving, and Everyone is Negotiating for Something.

Since the Euromed summit re-uniting all of the ‘democratically elected’ Arab leaders of the Mediterranean countries in Paris in July, the rentrée of Bashar Al Assad to the diplomatic scene has been hailed as a sign of a new ‘damascus spring’. Newspapers are buzzing of the normalisation of the relationship between Syria and the West just as they were a few months before on the normalisation of relationship between Libya and the West since Qaddafi’s visit to Paris, where he received royal welcome (including, of course, being able to erect a tent in the garden of the Sarkozy’s official residence). Observers point to the establishment of embassies between Lebanon and Syria, and the re-launch ( at first secret, and now increasingly public) of the peace negotiations between Israel and Syria, as signs of this ‘spring’. That may well be true, though of course the thorny issues between Syria and its satellite - Lebanon (including, inter alia, Hezbollah) - are far from being resolved. Neither is the longstanding dispute between Syria and Israel - principally about Golan Heights, but also about more complicated questions such as...again, the Hezbollah – about to be resolved. Syria has recently come out publicly to say so much, noting that no serious negotiations can occur while a certain Mr. Bush Junior is still located in a certain disclosed location called the White House.

Act Number Two. Pause all Negotiations. Enter Russia.

Putin’s presidency (and his continued virtual presidency) has not gone unnoticed, not only in Europe, where the 27 EC member states cannot agree on the level of sanctions against Russia following the Georgia crisis, but also in the Middle East. Since the deeply unpopular in the Middle East American war in Iraq, Russia has positioned itself in the region as an viable alternative to US power. Russia’s support is now indispensible in negotiating with Iranians over their nuclear regime, where Russia is building the Bushehr nuclear reactor. A similar deal was more recently (March 2008) signed with Egypt, clearing the way for Russia’s involvement in Egypt’s nuclear energy industry. Given the desire for nuclear energy expressed by Jordan, Bahrain, UAE and other MENA countries, Russia is back in the game. And it has more to offer than just nuclear capabilities. Bilateral trade agreements have been concluded at a breaking speed, tying the two regions not only militarily, but also economically.

So far, Russia’s power game in the Middle East has been more subtle than not. Last week, it has gotten significantly more blunt and aggressive. Following Russia’s allegations of US and ‘zionist’ support of the ‘Georgian-initiated aggression’, the all-too-well-timed to appear spontaneous trip of Putin to Syria demonstrates the return of the Cold War dynamics – the emergence of bipolar politics in the region, as if it did not have enough issues to deal with already. During the Syria visit, Russia has clearly raised its voice a notch. By changing its approach from one favouring a signature of cooperation agreements and ambiguous nuclear deals to one which threatens to provide direct military support to ‘hopefully spring’ states as a retaliation tactic, it is signaling a new role for Russia in the Middle East.

Act Number Three. The Bipolar Middle East

This role broadens the ambitions of Russia’s policy, which previously used its good old military capabilities as a source of potential revenue, and which now uses them as a means of re-shaping, or shall I say, solidifying existing alliances. Russia’s agreement to sell high-tech missiles to Syria as a retaliation for Israel’s alleged participation in the Georgian conflict is the direct evidence of this shift of policy. This strategy furthers the objectives of both for Russia and Syria – Russia because the West will eventually need it even more in negotiating with ‘rotten apples’ states, Syria because it sees a boosted military capability as a means to have a more balanced negotiating field with Israel.

US engagement with the Middle East and its crusade on the ‘war on terror’, which seems bunch together include your innocent muslim neighbor and an al-qaeda operative has without a doubt been a fiasco. As Francis Fukuyama points out in today’s FT (Russia and a New Democratic Realism, September 3, 2008), “one of the chief ways the US power has been diminished in this decade is in its moral credibility.” Indeed, moral credibility can be questioned when the US remains the only UN member to boycott the international treaty calling for the stop of the sales of weapons to ‘pariah’ states. In the Middle East, more than in any part of the world, American inability differentiate its actions from ‘the war on terror’ from ‘the war on islam’ has put the nail in the coffin - coffin of the American reputation in the Middle East.

That being said, the role of Russia in the region is not likely to be a positive one, least that statement be informed from historical facts. The Middle East is yet to re-discover the impact of the emerging alternative. When the Lebanese will discover not only the Russian Kalashnikovs peddled by the Eastern European arms salesman, but also more serious munitions sold by the Russian state, the re-discovery of the role of the ‘new Russia’ in the ‘new Middle East’ will truly re-commence.

End of Play.

2008-08-28T23:56:00.003+02:00

Georgia - war of words

As we are watching the war in Georgia, another war in taking place behind the scenes. War of words. It is indeed debatable which one is more important from the strategic point of view. As the Russian army 'withdrew' from Georgia and the international community shakes its finger and shrugs its shoulders at the new noncompliant Russia, the story is already slipping of the news headlines.

What is notable though, is that while the physical battlefield has finally died down, the verbal battlefield is only in its opening stages. I would predict more is to come. While the Georgian president is making regular appearances speaking in Georgian and in his no less fluent English, explaining the events, defending himself, asking for help. Aside from communicating to his compatriots, his communication is aimed at addressing questions of the journalists.

On the Russian side the story is predictably much more colourful. A quick view on the international press over the last two weeks shows that the Russian government has been in a full time PR phase. PR phase, Russian government? This does not all seem to sit to fall together in one sentence. The soviet regime has a tradition of 'communicating' with its citizens through the solemn proclamations from behind the pedestal. This was the usual propaganda, nothing exciting. What's interesting is that more recently the Russian government (and by that I mean all the marrionettes collectively controlled by Putin) has launched a proactive international media campain to spread the propaganda beyond the ranks of already brainwashed comrades.

On August 20th, Lavrov affirmed quiet bluntly in the Wall Street Journal of all places that "America must choose between Georgia and Russia" (http://online.wsj.com/article/SB121919150258855111.html?mod=googlenews_wsj), the basic premise of which was to say in not such roundabout fashion that whatever you little people believe it, you have to choose between us or them (the 'black asses' as Putin allegedly refers to Georgians in diplomatic discussions). In a little more subtle piece published a few days later (August 26), Medvedev himself explains to all of us who might have misunderstood what has gone all over the last couple of days (that Russia annexed Georgian territory) "Why I had to recognise Georgia's breakaway regions"(http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/9c7ad792-7395-11dd-8a66-0000779fd18c.html ). Even more well crafted, the article explains to the Western audiences that their leadership has ignored the "delicacy of the situation" and "Russia's repeated warnings".

Chapeau, as the french would say. The Russians seem to have recognised the power of international media - after all, it's just another way of publishing propaganda. During the Cold War, the propaganda machine was for internal consumption only, and the KGB was busy making sure no one would get the wiff of news outside, god forbid from BBC news. Now, they have woken up to reality that they can 'explain themselves' internationally. Wow, it's like the Cold War, but better!

Maybe it's my black sense of humour, but I cannot wait for the day when Sarkozy or Bush or Merkel or...writes an article explaining why the Russian government lies and manipulates. Such an article would provide some much needed background to the headlines of Russian papers such as this one, from today's Pravda ('truth' in Russian): 'georgia is dreaming of stealing Sochi from Russia.' Well, if Georgians are still able to dream about anything aside having a roof over their heads, it is certainly not about stealing Sochi. With what amunition? Oh, I forgot the Americans and the 'zionist entity' have provided Georgians with prenty.

Or take another headline from a paper similarly titled Komsomol'skaya Pravda (or something like communist truth'): "Nazarbaev says that he supports the actions of Russia." Well, while the title is not a lie per se, it is certainly not news - we all know that the Russians support the crazy leadership of Khazakstan. In light of all this, I have to say I am really looking forward for a retaliation from the west in this 'war of words' from the US, Canada, France, Germany, etc. Condoleeza Rice, with her PhD in Soviet history, seems well positioned to write one.

2008-08-10T19:07:00.004+02:00

The cat and mouse game between Russia and Georgia

The first territorial conflict with Russia since the end of the Cold War. It is slowly gaining the headlines amid the hype surrounding the Olympics. The CNN actually drew a formal link between the two events by showing a Russian and a Georgian athlete embracing each other during the Games. And just like this, CNN reluctantly switched from the Olympics, watched all over the world, to the Russia-Georgia conflict, which does not get the same amount of advertising revenue. Surely, many people around the world have never heard of South Ossetia or Abkhazia. Ironically, the sea of the disinterested and ignorant seems to include Wolf Blitzer, the senior CNN correspondent, charged with conducting the role with the Georgian President Saakashvili today (August 10, 2008).

He seemed to confuse the two territories during the interview, asking Saakashvili about 'south Abkhasia' instead of 'south Ossetia', and interrupting him constantly to ask irrelevant questions. Finally, he top beating around the bush pretending that the viewers are interesting to know what is happening in Georgia and got to the point, asking Saakashvili whether it is true that two thousand Americans are living or travelling in Georgia at the moment. Indeed, what are the measures his government intends to take to secure the safety of Americans in Georgia? Pity the President seemed to have other preoccupations at the moment. Though this seems like an abhorrent question to ask of a man whose country and very capital, Tbilisi, is under an attack from the Russian army, that was not all coming from Blitzer, who also inquired whether the President believes that the Georgian army is as powerful as the Russian. I wonder wheather and when he checked the basic statistics: Georgia's population stands at four million whereas that of Russian at over one hundred and fourty million.

At the same time that I watched the CNN question the Geogrian president, the Russian president declared that he does not wish to talk to his Georgian counterpart. As Russia's ambassador to the UN pointed out, what would they have to discuss at this juncture?! I don't know, but how about Russia's bombarment of the Tbilisi international airport (half an hour after the French Foreign Minister landed in Tbilisi)? How about Georgian's offer for immediate cease fire? How about Russia's bombing of Georgian civilian targets, which Russia's UN ambassador denied with foam coming out of his mouth and employing less that diplomatic Russian terms? (Pity that the UN translators do not dare to translate word for word, giving the rest of the world the impression that those sent by Russia do no speak in the language of a local bouncer at a night club). How about Russia's demand of the UN to withdraw observers from the region? How about Russia's deployment of the marine forces via the Black Sea (resisted by Ukraine), which according to the same infamous ambassador to the UN, does not amount to a military blocade?

Or how about Russian president refusing to talk to his Georgian counterpart? Of course, instead of Medvedev or Putin (sorry, the character play is still confusing) picking up the phone to talk to Saakashvili, Russia continues to bombard Georgia, which, anyways, it sees as an extension of its own backyard. At the UN, it almost said so in a long-winded explanation about the 'historical' roots of the conflict going back to 1991. The reference to 1991 is not circumstantial - this is when the referendum on the idependence of Georgia took place. Today, 17 years later, Russia's ambassador the UN referred to this event as a 'historic mistake', yet this has probably missed the ears of many observers who are unaware of the significance of this reference.

In a kind of childish logic "you took my toys first", Moscow is pointing the finger in the direction of Georgia for starting the conflict. It is a funny logic given that south Ossetia's government is led by a illiterate (and here I do not mean figuratively, but literally - a man who knows neither how to write nor how to read) was put in place by the Russian government to stir up problems in lieu of Georgia's accession to NATO. And, by the way, this top secret came out yesterday from an interview with a French MP. The Russian reasoning on the order of events which have unfolded in Ossetia has failed not on one, but on two occasions. Speaking on the point of ending violance, the Russians are demanding that Georgia withdraw from South Ossetia before they can consider a cease-fire (i.e. stop bombing Georgian civilian targets). The thing is, it has withdrawn.

The arrogant and racist as-ever Russia is letting its true colours show once again. On the occasion of the extraordinary Security Council session it asked of Georgia and (in the brakets of the US), what it should do given the role of the former in Iraq, Afghanistan and the Balkans? The implications being: if you can mess in other country's playgound's, why can't we mess in yours? True, why can't they? It is not like the European Union, at the footsteps of which all this is taking place, will do anything. China is busy with the Olympics, and can't give a damn anyways. "Hello, US, are you ready for Cold War, part II?"

2008-08-05T21:27:00.005+02:00

My neighbourhood in Paris, Saint Germain des Près has been home to the artistic community of the city and beyond, and therefore subject to movies, paintings, sketches, books, and outright legends. To the point that some of its hallmarks such as Le Deux Magots and Café Flore, in other contexts snobby cafés with more than usual number of Vuitton bags per capita, have become historical hallmarks, tellingly - not only for the tourists but still, for the parisiens et parisiennes. I realise I cannot do justice to this little paradise in Paris in the same way at the famous french writers have, but I after three years of inhabiting here, I cannot help but humbly provide my view of it.

Wondering the perimeter of the 6th arrondissement this afternoon from Saint Sulpice, to Jardin Luxembourg to the gallery district, I couldn't help but thinking that I prefer an attic in the sixth to a stadium in any other corner of the city. Attics in the sixth may be blessed with leaking roofs and crazy hot temperatures in the summer, but equally with an incredible charm of wood beams on the ceilings. And when the tenants of the same attics and appartments in old buildings with no elevators descend the creaking stairs, passing by garbage cans situated in the middle of their courtyards, and the elderly neighbours who seem to spend their life complaining about each other or the concierge (collectively known as 'hell'), they arrive directly in paradise.

Paradise which contains....galleries overflowing with medieval relics, modern art, photographs nestled between designer shops, both much less pretensious than they counterparts across the river. Restaurants with four side-by-side miniscule tables where I am so often tempted to take a cheapter version of the black mud (called expresso here) just to get the flavour of the conversation of the day. Courtyards which range to from chic closed spaces with offices to half ruined and cracked wooden doors, which feature either the name of the resident doctor, or a description of the historical significance of the building. Photo galleries the likes of the new, luminous and innovative Lumas which takes the space of the old Lagerfeld store, which I imagine left to where it belongs more - rue Saint Honoré. Stores which specialise is selling the most banal things under the pretense of being chic: straw hats, socks, baby printed t-shirts, hair-pins.

Note: in any other spot of France, they would undoubtly and promptly go bankrupt, not so in the sixth where everything manages to have its own charm, and therefore survive. Take for instance, this store which seems to sell baby beds and accessories. I couldn't resist taking a picture of this as an example of my point. Looking from the outside in, this place seems to sell nothing, a few funny shaped and crafted pillows and a couple of baby blankets? No, dear friend, I ought to correct you: the store sells dreams and wishes and fuzzy thoughts that over-eager mammas will surely consumer without a second thought. And thus, the charm of the stores of the sixth lives on...

Door to 'little heaven'

For all its priciness bordering onto pretense, the sixth is nothing like its truly chic counterparts - the first or the eighth across the bank, streaming with glitter and tourists. It is neither the grassroots of the third or the fourth, both of course charming in their unique ways. It has the undeserved reputation of being snob, owing to lack of a populist character and some landmarks like the Bon Marché with its service voiturier. And yet it is neither the sleepiness of the sixteenth or the seventeenth with its large buildings and family style living, where one must keep drinking coffee in order to keep awake. The sixth has a character of a young lady, the history of an old man, the structure of a long labyrinth, the style of a fashion house. And yet it is unassuming in its own way.

Perhaps therein lies its charm. The boutique of Yves Saint Laurent in a building with old white shutters reminding passerbys of its history. The chic boutique of famous chocolatier Pierre Herme in a tiny space with a winding queque. The leather bags with prices high enough to make me want to confuse it with a serial number, being seemingly thrown on some ikea looking hooks. And finally its inhabitants, who may be wearing the local supermarket brand at ten euros or the latest Armani dress, and look equally and mysteriosly elegant in both. All that being said, I am guessing you might be started to get bored with my laundry list description, but today, on this fine august day, and despite the general state of closure of everything in the sixth, I felt like delivering an ode to it. Adios.

2008-07-29T17:49:00.001+02:00

Once upon a country

I don't usually use my blog space to write book reviews, but I feel this one is worth it. Recently browsing the shelves of the local bookstore in Paris I came across the title above by Sari Nusseibeh, the famous dean philosopher of the Al-Quds University. My curiosity had the better of me. After a week of being consumed by the book and getting some equally curious glances in the metro, at the hairdressor's and from my extended family (I took it to family vacation in Provence where everyone probably thought I didn't harmonise with the peaceful paysages of south of france), I finally finished it at some early hour last night. Of all the books I have read on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, this one wins my strong recommendation (not that it needs it).

The autobiography of this Palestinian intellectual, unlike much of what is written on the topic - empty air, biased demagogery, useless 'academic research' looking at the conflict through a 'new' theory - this book is rooted in history of arabs and jews in palestine (though evidently and naturally more of arabs than jews) and enriched by the invaluable personal experiences of the author which put him in position to tell stories hetherto unheard, having served in inofficial capacity as an advisor to Arafat and having been part of countless negotiating teams with the Israelis.

Histon lesson through family history

What is perhaps more unique, is that Nusseibeh is able to tell the story of Palestinians life and struggles in this land not since some arbitrary date (1948, 1967, 2002, etc. etc.) but through the history of Palestinian struggle for nationhood, his father having served as a Minister to King Hussein. In other words, Nusseinbeh was born into Palestinian politics before he himself even knew it - as much he admits. The discussions in the family salon between his father and various dignitaries, Israeli, Palestinian, Jordanian, American, British set the scene for his growth and interest in politics, the latter going against his personality, which is more academically inclined than fit for juggling the changing dynamics of this complex region. Nonetheless, in Palestine-Israel, which he pointeldly calls Pal-El, one does not have to go into politics, politics comes to you, with its changing faces, negotiation teams, religious and nationalist factions. Politics has him attacked for applying philosophical principles to Islam, politics has his University almost separated by the Wall, politics engulfs him - to an extent which he leaves the reader feeling - he resents, but
cannot withstand if he wants to have his voice heard. Voice of moderation.

Voice of moderation

As I interpreted it, the book is about the dynamic obstacle course that Palestinian moderates, as he credibly positions himself, have to make deal with to assert their nationalist ambitions. His struggle of a 'moderate' leaves the reader with an incredible sadness and a healthy dose of pessimism for the peace process, if it can still be called so. One of the loudest messages of the book which Nuseibeh repeatedly emphasises, is that being a moderate is a dangerous occupation in Pal-El. For it makes him a walking target, at varying times, of Hamas and Fatah on his 'side of border', and even the Shin Bet, Ariel Sharon, and others who claim him to be 'the most dangerous Palestininan', a 'sheep in wolf's clothing'. Unlike other fascinating episodes Nusseibeh tells with an undeniable skill of a storyteller, this is message that consisentently appears throughout the book. His key point here is that being a moderate (i.e. advocating peaceful resistance and peace negotiations under all cicumstances) is not a position favourite with his fellow Palestinians and indeed their leadership (an interesting question here would be the causality, but I'll leave that for another blog entry) but also, and from my point of view, more surprisngly, with the Israeli politicians.

While observing the dislike of moderates by some factions of the Israeli society with reference to himself, Nusseibeh notes that in general "israelis (repeatedly) went back to the old strategie of hunting down the moderates while leaving the fanatics alone" explaining that "they did this not because our feuding tribes were so far away from peace, but because peace was so near, like a ripe plum reading for picking." He goes on to say that even during the second intifada, "polls on both sides showed that the desire for peace was stronger than the thirst for blood. This scared Sharon as much as it did Sheikh Yassin. If Israeli and Palestininan people were allies in peace, some of our leaders were allies in stroking the conflict." This is perhaps the single most poignant point of the book - the point that peace could have been achieved, at various points, and that it failed not only because of the different positions of the two societies, but because accepting it was not in the best interests of the leadership. Clearly, this is the reason Arafat rejected the historic deal offered to him by Barak, the loss of which - the author seems to concede - was an enormous and perhaps permanent loss for the Palestinian society.

Oslo - everyone's fault?

And it is in this latter part of the book, that the account offered by Nusseibeh, starts to loose some of its credibility. While his desciptions of the dealings of the inner circules of the negotiating teams of the two sides before Oslo are convincing and certainly make for a fascinating read, his analysis of Oslo, while insightful in relating the failure to Arafat's lack of readiness for the talks, faulters somewhat on the analysis of the final failure of Oslo. He seems to be particularly careful in attributing blame. On Arafat role in the matter, he writes apologetically: "for all his failings, and he clearly blew it by not closing some sort of a deal at Camp David - Arafat was neither sufficiently in control nor sufficiently villainous to devise such conspiracy (intifada)." Nusseibeh seems to attribute some failure for Camp David to Arafat, but more his alleged indecision, rather than some express desire to encourage the intifada. It is somewhat understandable he would be of this opinion, even post-mortem of Arafat, given his role in the Palestinian society, and his image as one who has sacrificed everything for the Palestinian cause. Nonetheless, this account of Oslo's failure seems to partition blame to all the participating parties in equal measure, as if he was cutting cake for his children in order for them to avoid fighting for the biggest part. Finally, for Nusseibeh "everyone shares some blame in the summit's failure", which is questionable given his own admission that Arafat said no without making a counter-offer.

If he were to assert that everyone shares some blame in the failure of the peace process in general, this would be a much more palatable proposition. In particular, the parallel construction of settlements by Israel in tandem with the peace negotiations whereby Israel claimed it would withdraw to the 1967 borders, is a point he is undeniably correct in making. Given his familiarity with the key characters of the play, he brings in Olmert to illustrate his point: "in 1997, Ehud Olmert, mayor of Jerusalem, supported the American millionaire Irving Moskowitz who used money from a bingo parlor to build a Jewish neighbourhood in Ras al-Amud an Arab neighbourhood east of the Old City. New regulations were introduced, or the old ones suddenly enforced, to control the institutions they couldn't legally drive out."

Rise of Hamas

Another interesting angle the book takes is on the now much popular and, admittedly pertinent, analysis of the rise of Hamas.
In his view, the islamisation of Palestinian politics dates back to mid-80s . Nusseibeh account serves as a timely reminder of the another tragic mistake of the Israeli policy of support of Islamic factions vs nationalist ones. In particular, he highlights the initial suport of the famous paraplegic Sheikh Yassin as a plausible counter-force to the nationalist aspirations of the Palestinians, and thus Israeli support his 'charity'. Already in those days, the Islamic movement was starting to associate with Muslim Brotherhood and adopted its model of social service provision as a means to win over the minds and souls of ordinary Palestinians. It was a clearly a sign to watch out for, but Israeli wavered on its policy regarding Yassin, at one point releasing him from prison, only to assassinate him again. Of course, that happened when I was in Jerusalem. On the whole, his point on islamic vs nationalist politics is an excellent one, and one which is repeadly made by other experts on the Middle East such as Fred Haliday.

Final word...

Overall, the account offered by the book is riveting in terms of both the detail and the perspective the author offers, his family having over a thousand year history in Jerusalem. While one can select details, as I have above, with which we can agree or disagree, this work demonstrates the humanism of the author - and as he tries to do - of his fellow countrymen. It should be made a mandatory read in both Palestinian and Israeli classrooms. In offering his perspective of the troubles and trebulations of the Palestinian and Israeli politics, it seems that Sari Nusseibeh is following the footsteps of his father, whose life's goal was, as he proudly declares was - "to help his people live in decency and freedom - freedom from foreing oppression, but equally from illusions and from what Kant calls self-imposed immaturity." Perhaps one day he will succeed, inshallah.

2008-05-14T23:01:00.003+02:00

Praha - the Metamorphosis

A trip to Prague for me was like a trip down the memory lane, or more precisely, what could have been the memory lane. A charming town reflecting centuries of tradition, medieval conquest, and at the same time eastern European flare. Having shed communism on an as-soon-as-possible basis, Prague has witnessed an incredible re-birth, and some of the locals that actually fled the city have even come back, confessed to me one elderly inhabitant in all his bristling eagerness to practice his french. The city now rivals many of the jewels of Europe, with its red roofs and colourfully repainted façades, its symbiotic co-existence of modern art deco and medieval style architecture reminicent of Vienna.

It boasts an unusual combination of mediterranean style colourful facades and brick trottoirs, amidst romantic sculptures. In places, and thankfully not too often, it features these massive Stalin era buildings which are meant to reduce humans to ants, or at least make them feel like it. The architectural adaptation of it all is rather hilarious if looked at closer glace: during one of my city escapades, I managed to stumble on a macdo (I think it must have been already there as the berlin wall was being dismantled) featuring the all-familiar arch right under a band of Soviet-era architectural remnants: workers with axes, women in the fields. Basically, all that was missing was a picture of Lenin, Marx or Engels. I wonder how they would have looked 'down' (no pun intended) on his whole fast food enterprise which this building is how harbouring. If I remember my political science 101 correctly, they would have said that this whole capitalist phase is a transition.

No such thing. At least from the 'outsider' point of view, the czech economy seems to be doing rather well, and frankly, the standard of living here puts many french cities to shame. Interestingly, none of the current economic woes seem to be affecting the Czech - there is no vicious cycle of food prices, despite the fact that they are importing the same petrol as we are in france and other european countries. Ironically, price levels in Prague can be compared to a much more third-worldy (yes, I know Stiglitz would not approve my terminology!) Egypt, which is witnessing some serious political upheaval as I write this over the same food prices. Other than that, and despite some insignificant echos of soviet control such as the old trams which hurry the passengers to all corners of the city, communism is certainly a thing of the past. The only other still present but disappearing charasteric is are the old-school grandmas who wear their housedresses while they are riding the same trams clutching interestingly...a range of conspicuously too-chic bags. I wonder what the local 'burberry' sells them but don't dare to ask, since Russian is clearly not on the top list of well-liked languages in Czech Republic and english/french/anything else I can manage to produce two words in does not seem to be in vogue either.

Which brigs me to my next point. Communism might be over but the mentality is there to stay, at least a little longer. From the point of view of service this, I have to admit, was slightly irritating, even when bechmarked by the given the general lack of service in france. It is not that I was craving the 'how are you today?' accompanied by a huge and equally fake smile, but just a little a little more consistency between 'new Prague' and the 'old attitude'. I would say that even in the '5 star world' of michelin guide restaurants (nota bene: if you do not know what is a michelin star, you need to come to france urgently), the service is indifferent at best. Not disdainful as in france, but indifferent. The key message was rather uniform: yes, I can get you what you want, but why are you bothering me to begin with? Same reaction when i was not speaking russian, in response to which I would always get chech under the false assumption that russian speakers understand czech.

The epitomy of the soviet mentality applied to non-soviet context was my visit to the one of the most beautiful, if not the most beautiful synagogue of europe, the spanish synagogue in prague which is ironically guarded by a sort of a nazi organisation of old ladies who literally attack if you dare to take a picture. Funnily enough, the neo-nazi in the synagogue almost made me forget the preceding tour of the old jewish getto, which as I overheard was originally built in the neighbourhood of bordels, which was the only area that would get allocated to the prague jewish community. I really wish that was the only thing I overheard on the tour of the getto, but not surprisingly that was far from it. There were the cemetery stones used to build factories in the period of deficit of materials. Most importantly, there was the quasi-totality of the jewish population which was shipped to a transit camp at Terezin which the nazi portrayed at the 'model' jewish getto, where the children were 'allowed' to receive education. Needless to say, almost no one made it out and today the so-called 'jewish neighbourhood' is jewish only from same point of view as is Yad Vashem. It is a museum of jewish life as it used to be and how it is no longer.

All that to say, there are ideologies like communism that seem to have easy-come easy-go effect on the local populations and some like nazism, that have forever coloured the past and the future. I would guess that is not how most of the locals see it, I can't help thinking that some history can be shed like old fur, and some of it is really like Kafka's metamorphosis.

2008-04-22T23:39:00.004+02:00

Chag Sameach everyone!

As I am struggling to keep the pesach rites this year and convince myself that the matzah that I manage to find in the local supermarket does not taste like the very cardboard it is packaged in (no it doesn't, no it doesn't), I came across some interesting materials on what constitutes proper kosher for passover. For a non carnivore that I am, it does not leave much for imagination. Or for dinner for that matter. after 2 days of staying away from my local boulangerie, I finally headed to the local supermarket in the hopes of scoring some matzah.

Even with my new glasses adjusting to my ever declining sightsight, I did not manage to locate the precious substance. So in all my naivité, I decided to resort to the store clerk, you know these guys in red t-shirts that do not speak any language you can speak and that cannot tell the difference between canned pears and peas. Oh wait, that was in England. there they have to hire the maximum because people cost cheaper than machines.

In any case, I locate the clerk (I think North African) and work up the courage the ask him stright in the face where is the hidden jewel of his store - the kosher isle! with a little delay it took him to process my request, he escorted me to the ethnic food section where he suggested that between the mexican and the lebanese i shall find anything my heart desires. ah bon? I didn't realise mexicans cared much for kosher guacomole but then there are things I still discover. and as for lebanese hummus, with all do respect, why would they make it kosher? Surely not to target the population of the one or two remaining synagogues in Beirut. And I guess neither to increase their export revenues to Israel. Having processed all these confusing thoughts and emotions I decided to go for it: where is your matzah?

And this is when, once and for all, I lost the guy. this was clearly not part of his trainig. I guess he didn't get get to the diversity module in his HR drill. Little does he know, that on the other side of the world, a population of approximately 800,000 people in Israel is creating a market for kosher cell phones. If you don't believe it read on http://www.iht.com/articles/2007/11/02/africa/kosher.php
And just to clarify any possible confusion that could arise out of this admittedly rather confused post, please note that it is not an attempt to bash the local store clerks but to provide a consumer warning. If you find yourself in the kosher cell phone network, you will not be able to call your favourite call girl. or boy. oh boy!

2008-02-12T22:15:00.003+01:00

No need to read sci-fi novels to travel in time. No need for a time machine to bring you from our blackberry obsessed, technologically exhausted times to a world of medieval achitecture, traditional cuisine, and remarkable costumes. The annual Venetian carnaval offers all that. A carnaval worthy of its name, it is not merely a combustion of colourful costumes worn by an alcohol infused crowd, but more like a theater, a conversation between the present and the past. A conversation that to me looked like one which could take place between a renaissance artist and a cubist - what I would tend to qualify as a misunderstanding. Renaissance Venice meeting cubist, simplistic modernity where we are all dressed in the same made in China GAP or H&M or something of the like outfits, where the art of conversation is no longer 'art', and where simplicity has definitely won the war over complexity.

Welcome to Place St. Mark, the epicenter of Venice, the nexus of the routes of the gondolas and the vaporetti, offering an unparalleled setting for the carnaval - a perimeter so frozen in time that even the French architecture in comparison shocks the eye as a modern construction. More like a piece of theatre, during the Venice carnaval the locals masquerade in mediaval costumes, in couples constituted as much of traditional as of gay couples or singles: posing, parading, whispering to each other, throwing mysterious glances around the crowd. Welcome to the Venice of the 17th, 18th or 19th centuries. On these grey, otherwise unremarkable February days, I felt to be a part of history. Not of the history that our generation has created for the next, but that of the last thankfully preserved for us.

The spirit of the event is nothing like North American carnavals which typically end with (at least one) post-mortem in the local paper explaining that the police is on the hunt for a representative of the gang x who shot a representative of gang y. In Venice, the only guns are costume props and the only 'gangs' the myriad of paparazzi-acting tourists chasing after the personified history. At Cafe Florian, built in the early 18th century, the corseted mesdames were sipping tea next to very gay and proudly posing gentlemen drinking the best hot chocolate of the city, if not Italy. Across the place, a local was posing as a Van Gogh. Two maters away, in front of the St Marc basilica, a play was unfolding, which, due to my rather inexistent Italian, I must confess not to have followed.

Reminiscing back at the Carnaval, I cannot help but feel exactly the same way as looking at a recent exhibit of Phoenician civilisation in Paris. How is that what we call 'progress' does not seem to find an echo in the reality of modernity? And secondly, how is that 'progress' has so quickly retreated from the civilisations so historically advanced? Is it really the mass manufactured textiles that no matter where in the world one finds them, say 'made in China', that our generation will be remembered for? Will we be remembered for the electronic tools and gadgets that allow us to communicate with everyone at the same time without saying anything to anyone? Or better even, without saying something to those we should? Will we be remembered for the cubist paintings some of which one passes in Tate Modern without having any idea as to where even begin to appreciate this kind of art? Or better even, pretending to appreciate it because it is 'in'?

Of course I am aware that in saying so I am failing to appreciate all the inventions and architectural innovation, the new artistic directions and the amazing advances in some areas such as cinematography. It just looks like these advances have somehow come at a cost of 'high art', of uniqueness, of the very idea of suffering for beauty. Now, no one needs to suffer for 'beauty' as has been deconstructed by the modern art movement which teaches us to appreciate the 'simplicity of modern' lines (i.e. 5 year old colouring skills). No one needs to appreciate elaborate clothing designs since the former have been mimicked to death and over-reproduced by the influx of cheap exports. Too tempting is the example a louis vitton bag outside selling of that same place St. Mark on the magic carpet of an African immigrant for 20 euros.

I suppose we can be thankful that in spite all the wars which have engulfed Europe and its various kingdoms and clans, destroyed its cities and replaced entire civilisations, certain traditions remain constant. Amid the constantness of certain cities: Pizzas, gondolas, biscotti, and last but not least, the grumpy Italians that are more fed up with their beloved city being drowned by a wave of tourists than by those real waves of the sea. I suppose they are paying the price of remaining an archipelago of tradition in our otherwise modernity obsessed word. Little do they realise how much of an endangered species they are. For who really knows when the traditional costumes be replaced by above touched up images of something far more perfect but far less historic? And if you believe that might be a threat, I just have one question. See you at place St. Marc next February? Rain or sun.

2007-12-08T20:31:00.000+01:00

from the land of gods to the land of God...

The place currently known as the Arab Republic of Egypt has an undeniable place in the archives of history, not least for the marvelous temples created by ancient egyptians, their secrets of beauty and their burial traditions. In the 19th century, Egypt stood at the crossroads of trade from Europe to the Middle East. Some would argue that it has not lost its historically important role - I would beg to disagree. Today, Egypt remains one of the most populous countries in the Middle East, on par perhaps only with Iran, but its influence as the center of power of the Arab world, not to mention beyond, has definitely declined. True enough, the rhythm of life in Cairo makes New York seem like a sleepy village, but for all the hustle-bustle and the constant chaos, which makes the entire city resemble a sort of a giant souk, the echo does not carry far.

Politically, Egypt is embroiled in the succession tango with all of the local media running over each other trying to comment on the mode of succession from Hosni Moubarak, to Moubarak Jr. - aka Gamal. On my last trip to Cairo a year ago, protesting judges got wrapped up and somehow silenced. A year later, I think there is no longer a discussion of whether, just of how Moubarak Jr. will fill in his fathers' shoes. Luckily, the creativeness of current world leaders on this point is not leaving much to imagination, and Hosni just needs to have a little chat with Vladimir if ever he runs out of innovative ideas. That being said, it does not look like it. As it looks, Egyptian political leadership has much domestic issues to deal with, not least of them, problems related to the homegrown Muslim brotherhood movement, which despite clear signs from the government, does not seem to want to hide its head in the sand. Browsing the blogs of Egyptian students and human rights activists, it is pretty clear that the regime does not treat their islamic brothers so kindly with the enormous Egyptian police (as opposed to the 'tourist police', more on which later...) dedicated to controlling the islamist opposition, political and otherwise. It is a sort of Musharaf dilemma: how to control the islamist factions without appearing anti-Islamic, since the latter would not go down so well neither with the large majority of the local population nor with the neighbouring countries whose kings legitimate their position with reference to Islam.

All in all, given the widespread domestic discontent, manifested in the recent strongest wave of worker protests since World War II, the regime has its hands full at home and is not aiming to conduct grand maneuvers abroad. About the latest such move, albeit short-lived, was the Nasserist political merger of Egypt and Syria. While the historical role of Egypt in regional politics is still evident as one walks past the headquarters of the Arab League in Cairo, where one of the region's 'most wanted' man (for whom conference organisers now send helicopters as a sign of respect for his time), Amr Moussa, sits in what is perhaps one of the best maintained and defended castles in the the posh Zamalek neighbourhood of Cairo, the role of Egypt in regional politics in now marginal and seems to have been taken over by the heavyweight Saudi Arabia. The lack of Egypt's political weight may be partially explained by the general lack of respect of its leader, who the locals have nicknamed in arabic 'the Pharaoh', referring to the fact that little Hosni has been in power for the longest in the region, second behind his Libyan neighbour Colonel Qadafi.

More importantly though, the economically impoverished Egypt, with allegedly over 1 million homeless in Cairo alone, cannot punch on the level of the oil rich Gulf states, and Saudi Arabia in particular, which has taken over in all but one dimension - as the authoritative center of fatwas (islamic jurisprudence) in the Arab world. There, the Al Ahzar university and mosque in Cairo is still recognised as a central source, mostly for reasons related to the unpalatability of the Wahhabist islam outside Saudi Arabia. It is true that since the appointment of a reformist cabinet in Egypt in 2004, the place has seen privatisation, liberalisation and financial de-regulation at a record speed, as a result receiving greater foreign investment and improving the conditions for the indigenous private sector. But just a few days in Egypt show the woeful inadequacy of what has been achieved as opposed to what is required to lift this huge country out of absolute poverty and, perhaps even more dangerously, its huge illiteracy. (The current illiteracy rate in Egypt is estimated at over 50%, and is much higher among women, since popping out children does not require any reading or writing skills.)

And even with 6-7% economic growth in Egypt over the last few years, Egypt is still one of the poorest countries in the region, and this is particularly evident outside of Cairo. A short one hour flight to Luxor reveals a complete lack of infrastructure, where the 30 year old Cairo taxis are replaced by tired donkeys, alternating between the ultra-modern tourist buses, carrying the european tourists to rummage through the ruins of the Luxor and Karnak temples and walk down the Valleys of Queens and Kings. Even in Cairo, the humblest western standard corresponds to a single 'up and coming' neighbourhood of Cairo, Zamalek, whose 5 star hotels and embassies are protected by an army of egyptian police, and where I could - almost —imagine myself living, if I ever managed to figure out how to breathe through the cloud of black smoke enveloping the city. I could not help but thinking that given the great inventions of their predecessors and the robustness of the commerce in ancient Egypt, the state of local industry is rather weak and explains why even the tourists who have and want to spend money often cannot find anything worthwhile to spend it on. Egyptian industry is pretty much limited to cotton, light manufacturing and is hugely boosted by tourism, which is doing rather well across the country, despite the periodic bombings and clashes between the police and the disenfranchised Bedouin tribes in Sharm El-Sheikh.

In Egypt, tourism is an ever-expanding sector with formal structures and with let's just call them 'less formal structures' including tourist harassment, practiced by taxi drivers, hotel staff, whoever can ask for money for some sort of a 'service'. This latter category of course includes that very infamous tourist police. In theory, the mission of the tourist police, is to protect tourists, which in reality do not need much protection since the locals are a pretty friendly folk. In reality, I suspect that tourist police just helps the government create employment for uneducated males and since the salaries are ridiculous, like elsewhere in the public service in egypt, their are not shy to ask for 'assistance' from these very tourists they are meant to protect. Left to his own devices for one day, my poor boyfriend got almost arrested a 'tourist police' for...taking photos at the pyramids! He was explained that unless he receives a certain amount about which he was never to speak to anybody, he would take his camera away. Throughout my whole time in Egypt, I had the impression that everything has a price, and at one point I was almost tempted to ask how much for a mummy at the cairo museum. I didn't unfortunately, leaving it to be 'cleaned' by a bored looking lady who was diligently wiping the floors and the statues with the same cloth and chemical solution. This, coupled with the general state of the museum in Cairo made be realise why the British refuse the repeated requests of the Egyptian government to return the treasures from the British museum to their native homeland.

Which brings me to my next and perhaps last point - the culture of the ancient egyptians. And to be sure, there is more of it than one can absorb in a single visit to Egypt. Some of these obedient tourists whom I have seen getting of the ultra-modern tourist buses, often spend a week or two in egypt, in an attempt to get to know more about this cradle of civilisation. The issue is that this rich cultural heritage is not easily accessible. I spent a few hours at the Cairo museum, recommended as the place for the culturally interested, and I have to say that alas, I did not walk out of it any more informed about the Egyptian culture or history than I walked in. Reading a lonely planet guide would have been more useful. This is surely not because there is nothing to see at the Cairo museum, but simply because pieces are arranged like furniture in a warehouse, there are virtually no explanations, except for the rooms that are financed by the development agencies. One finds a similar state of affaires at the pyramids and the ancient temples, where one guide noted that a part of the temple was mounted upside down (!) since it was down probably by construction workers instead of archeologists. If you are interested in seeing the history of ancient egyptians, my advice would be to go sooner rather than later since between the russian tourists who insist on jumping on all top of all the sculptures to take napoleon-style photos and writing something deep like 'Nina loves Boris' ON the statues, and the locals who are willing to sell off any part of their national heritage for a negligible amount of money, I was genuinely surprised there was anything left altogether. The pharaohs, after all, have no religious significance to the new generations of egyptians, who are faced with a religious revival over the the last decade, which places any mosque much higher than any ancient temples which bring hordes of tourists to their country.
Of course, the mosques in Egypt, not least the the Soliman Pasha mosque, hidden behind the Citadel in Cairo, which serves as the burial site for the family of the Pasha, are breathtaking and for a little backshish (equivalent to a bribe or payment in arabic), one can even climb its minaret. But that does not make the lamentable state of historic monuments in Egypt any easier to cope with.

At the end of the trip, I couldn't help thinking that outside the fake oasis of 5 star hotels (which don't get me wrong, I very much appreciated) the real Egypt has declined, as some of the old Cairo bourgeoisie have confirmed to me. A drive through the islamic neighbourhood of Cairo and a walk outside the tourist area of Luxor demonstrate the rate of poverty that is closer to Africa than the Middle East. Politically, economically and culturally, Cairo is no longer the center of gravity in the Middle East. It may be the center of religion, but that may actually be the explanation for the lack in all the other dimensions. In going from the land of the pharaonic gods to the the land of one god, the ordinary Egyptians have won not much that a non-believer can judge as progress, at least not so far.

2007-11-17T13:57:00.000+01:00

Ratatouille not on strike...

The character from the American blockbuster Ratatouille has suddenly entered my life, not in the cinema but on one very real evening this week. There I was, going for my second glass of beaujolais nouveau, a type of french wine that is snubbed by wine connaisseurs but generally adored by the wider pubic to the point that its release on the third Thursday of November, becomes the reason for a nationwide party. Falling prey to the inability to really distinguish between the good wines and their less sophisticated brothers, I happen to love Beaujolais, for its uncomplicated taste and lack of the acidic aftertaste of the bordeau and other known french wines. So it's at this critical point where my head was getting comfortably fuzzy grace à the second glass of this substance, which almost made me forget the prospect of having walk across Paris to get to the office the following day, that I saw Ratatouille.

But before I tell you more about my personal encounter with Ratatouille, I can't resist the opportunity to weigh in with a few cents on the french transport strike - I think it might also help put this episode in the context. And in case you are not the unlucky parisien or parisienne having to put on your walking shoes or try to sneak out of your bed to chain one of the public bikes so no bastard neighbour contemplates to snab away your only means of getting to the office - we the unlucky parisians, have been faced with a general strike of all the transport workers. The interesting feature of this strike, I must note, is not that there are no minimum service requirements on the subway, nor the sight of people virtually falling onto the rail tracks while a much awaited 45 min late train finally emerges out of the abyss, but its very unpredictability.

We simply do not know whether there is a general paralysis or just a cardiac arrest. As one subway worker explained to me when I dared to inquire in the morning about my prospects of getting home at night, "mais, ce sont des grevists, madame, bien sûr on ne sait pas s'ils viennent ou pas!" which translates into something close to "of course those who want to strike don't tell us about it in advance!". Ah oui? I guess I should have figured out the perverted logic there. It's not enough to strike, for maximum effect, lets keep it a secret from all those stupid people who will insist on perpetuating the mean capitalistic structure of our society. Voila! The next blow to capitalism in France is that the general strike of french transport workers has now turned into something of a national complaint campaign, with every organised labour group protesting against some perceived injustice and even the non-labour movements such as students finding related reasons to smash windows and walk around the streets of Paris, screaming populist slogans.

It is in this general context and I as was comfortably starting to forget the episode of having to high jack a cab to get back from the office and the less-than-comforting prospective of having to do the same on the following day, that my friend says 'est-ce une souris?'. for a moment there, I misunderstood the question, but when I turned around I saw a little grey mouse not any less daring than in Ratatouille.

As I am writing this, I am not sure what is more embarrassing, the fact that I still go to see children's cartoons or the fact that I go to bars which puts to shame Darrell's 'My family and other animals'. So, in all my naivete, I get up and summon our waiter to explain himself. Result: no one moves and I am starting to raise my tone. Finally, the neighbouring table, who, I might add, is having dinner and not just drinking wine like us, explains: 'ils savent, mais ils s'en foutent', which translates to something like 'they know, but they dont really give a !)%£!!'. Ok, clearly. Finally, the waiter slowly moves towards our table, realising that this wierd one (me), is not about to shut it, and explains in what must be one of the most 'convincing' explanations in the world: He comes here from time when it's cold outside, he is not dangerous, it's ok. oh really? HE does?!!!! So this is it, apparently, the general closure of the subway is having an impact on the local mice population, who are cold, figure it, and are coming over to have some Beaujolais as well. I think this will become my benchmark for all the illogical explanations to come...

2007-11-04T16:36:00.000+01:00

from the land of petrodollars

'There are no poor people in Bahrain', tells me my Bahraini colleague, as we drive through Manama in her huge 4x4 SUV that reminds me of the hummers and the like which help the fellow canadians back out of their unshovelled driveways. In Bahrain, almost everyone drives a huge truck, but certainly not for a fear of being snow stuck, but for the simple fact that petrol is .25 cents a liter, so why not? The fuzzy and cute ecological considerations are non-considerations in the Gulf where oil is cheap and not about to run out, at least in the near future, and where 'there are no poor people'. As such, the air conditioning becomes a threat to health as it forces the temperatures to drop below any level of comfort and where SUVs are more the rule than the exception. Al Gore would be turning in his grave, if not for the fact that he is not yet dead.

Almost every developing country, and most certainly those that find themselves in the Middle East, can be described in terms of disparities of wealth. In the Gulf, it is not really the disparity of wealth but the abundance of it that is so striking. The diamond jewellery that makes an eye disturbing contrast with the black obayas, the SUV convoys of the 'royal family' right of Kingdom (a recent movie on bombing of a foreigners compound in Riyad), the hotels and restaurants of the Gulf are a whole different story compared to their poor Middle Eastern neighbours, and frankly speaking, compared to 'industrialised' European countries as well.

All in all, it is not the difference between the 'have' and 'have nots' that's striking, but the extent of the 'haves'. The trendy Parisians from the 6th or the 16th arrondissement or the upper east side New Yorkers pale in comparison with the wealth of the Gulf, in part because they just do not have enough of it, in part because they do not possess the skill of showing it. Perhaps only the nouveaux riches Russians can compare with their taste for bling bling and luxury. Having money in the Gulf is not something that one hides, and while in the Western world, one can only make inferrences about one's financial situation by the presence of the latest Vitton or Prada bag (and even there is always a suspicion it was made in Turkey), in the countries of the oil rich Arabian peninsula, no guessing is required.

In a business conference, the royal family and its advisers are allocated very VIP looking rows, which I, as a speaker in this event, for one instant pondered whether I should dare occupy, only to quickly realise I am not quite there yet. No conference proceedings start until every scheduled royal family member arrives and until all their perfume and coffee boys are ready to make their non stop rounds to make this event bearable for the royal family. No one dares to say a word until the local sheikh addresses the common folk with a pre-written speech on something having to do with improving the standards of living for the people of his nation.

The celebrity-like treatments of the 'haves', i.e. the royal families of the Gulf, is a fundamental feature of this region. From their personal coffee and perfume boy, to the VIP table, to the VIP car, to the special falkan shipped for His of Her Excellency from some impoverished African country, no mistakes can be made. According to the latest Forbes ranking of the world's richest individuals, there are 'only' 31 Arab billionaires who carry a combined wealth of $126.6 billion, or $4.1 billion per individual. That seems rather modest compared to the number of millionnaires and billionaires globally, but considering that the Middle East represents only something like 5% of world's population and that the wealth is so tightly controlled, make no mistake about the implications of these figures.

Children are often asked what they would like to become when they grow up, and I think I have now finally found my answer; a sheikh in a Gulf country! Please note that sheikh is a gender sensitive term, and I am not sure whether I would want to be a Sheikha. Let's face it, women in the Gulf, even if they can drive and interact with their professors not only through a screen as is the case in Saudi, and even those lucky few born in royal families, are not in the same league. But this has not stopped the trend adopted by a few tricky parents in this part of the world to name their daughters 'Sheikha'.

2007-09-16T22:57:00.000+02:00

jordan, israel and everything in between...

10 days in any other part of the world would not and could not have been the same. a 10 day trip in the middle east even in circumstances where nothing and no one explodes, threatens to explode or pose any other physical danger can be, if not physical, than at least a mind-blowing experience no matter how mentally you think you might be prepared for it. In 10 days, most of which I spent in Jordan in a conference, I managed to enter a country I never intended to go to (by mistake), witness an almost-war and meet people who are part of an actual war - all of this without intending any of the above to happen. I sometimes have the impression that in this part of the world, 'search for truth' or 'discovery of facts' is useless, reality is rubbed under one's nose and showered effortlessly. these little tidbits of local reality demonstrate undeniable complexity of life in the middle east in a way that no conventional media can do justice. perhaps some mediums are not meant to depict some things.

In fact, a friend recently forwarded to me the following article as a joke (www.theonion.com/content/news/middle_east_conflict_intensifies). It clearly cannot said to be deep or particularly knowledgeable and yet it captures as much of the reality of the various middle east conflicts, maybe- conflicts and almost-conflicts as any other mainstream piece of journalism on the region, likely to be written by someone dogmatically attached to some untenable ideal of 'how things ought to be', whether sunni or shia, jewish or muslim.

The violence has become habitual to the point of being banal. The news of a bomb in an Iraqi market is as unsurprising as a suicide bomber in Israel, as unsurprising as an IDF airstrike on Gaza as unsuprising (and yet astonishing!) positive assessment of the Iraq war by a US general (even one who claims authorship of his speech). the analysis of the events is usually as banal as these events have become.
a lifetime in a small european city can give me enough inspiration to produce a semi-constipated article about some local town developments, months in paris give me the inspiration to write a few stories, 10 days in the middle east and i genuinely do not know where to begin. there is so much similarity between all the conflicting parties and yet a sea of difference, so much hope and yet walls of dispair, so much development and yet so much poverty and underdevelopment, so much religion and spirit and yet violence that undermines any trust in religion and faith in humankind.

my travel plans entailed no more than a quiet trip from amman to jerusalem and then back to paris through tel a viv, no flights over baghdad or syria and yet i feel like i go the taste of all of the above. having talked to a few locals that have attempted to cross the jordanian border and cross through the west bank to jerusalem, i got mixed impressions including the possibility of spending 5 hours in 35 degree heat in 2 taxis and a bus that brings passangers between the two borders. I have never heard of a more elaborate border crossing procedure, but nothing is to be taken for granted: there are the palestinian refugees that no arab country in the region seems to hear about, the iraqi refugees that jordan is trying to stop at its borders, and the general atmosphere of an uneasy peace. so, I get on the plane for what will likely be the shortest trip of my life - if not for the fact that royal jordanian does not have the best 'parking spot' at ben gurion airport, the whole flight would have taken 20 mins.

Getting to israel was going to only be half of my problem, getting to my appointments, as I soon realised, was going to be much more complicated. Some, like the embassies which are all located in East Jerusalem for what I suspect are political statement reasons, can be easily found and subject to a number of security checks and business card verifications, accessed. (Such political statements are somewhat ironic, particularly for the Brits that on some sunny day in 1948 promised this piece of land to the jews, the hashemites and the palestinians. the brits have since made other promises and their office in jerusalem is not an embassy but carries a politically correct name of a consulate). Please mind the gap.

Locating 'non-consulate' premises such as local NGOs, think tanks and even offices of international organisations, requires more careful planning. The World Bank office for instance, does not seem to have either a street or a PO address, the primary identifier being sister Mary's school. one place i was not expecting to look for a 'sister Mary school' is palestine. when I arrive there, I realise that the price of the taxi ride includes the uncertainty factor for the taxi driver who might not be easily allowed back into Israel...and that is how I learn that I am actually no longer there. but where am I? apparently, that is not a question any local can answer. since the separation wall is being constructed, it is unclear whether this territory will be annexed to israel or to PA, when and on what terms. for the moment, i am in a grey area, which, momentarily, bring to mind images of Hamas shaking kalashnikovs on the streets of Gaza. But not here or at least not now, life is quiet in the small surrounding village with rose orchards and olive trees.

I am standing on the balcony of the local office housing international organisations with a local official who signs as he tells me the history of his family and his undeniable roots to this land, which no european or north american could ever understand, it is a feeling transcending religion and nationalism, it is a personal feeling, close to the heart of every local. I stand there choking on tears and trying my hardest to appear professional. i never thought that on some random balcony somewhere between ramallah and jerusalem i was going to realise the difference between having sympathy for someone and feeling for someone. it is morally easy to dismiss hamas militias making regular appearances on fox news, it is simply incomparable to do the same with someone who is a complete outlier of this image, someone who could pass for an israeli, for a french - except he was born palestinian.

I managed to re-enter the Israeli proper despite my driver's insistence to the local border officer that his name is Henry (he was actually a Palestinian christian) and the lack of an israeli stamp in my passport to which he didn't take kindly. I think this was probably the only situation where my suit was useful during this whole trip! back to the west jerusalem, i sat down at hillel cafe not too far from Sbarro pizza and all the other cafes on jaffa street around ben yahuda which have been blown up time and again during the intifada. its a difficult feeling being on both sides of the wall, being on both sides of the war. Even not many war correspondants have managed it, aside from the likes of robert fisk (see his latest 'war of civilisations'). for the rest of my trip, I felt like a non-combattant caught up in a familiar conflict having switched armies. Was I deserter temporarily or a permanent defector? I am afriad neither.

in the days to come, i tried to reconcile internally the narratives of the palestinians with those of the israelis I have met. I have to admit to failure. The first thing I saw when I opened the paper at that hillel cafe in front of the bombed restaurants was the IDF flights over Syria, which to this day remains as wrapped in mistery as a new born in a baby blanket. The second, and equally disturbing headline was the neo-nazi attacks on religious jews and foreigners by FSU immigrants to Israel. Although the physical security situation seems to have improved as compared to my last visit during the Intifada, the climate of rifts within the respective community of Israelis seem evident. While the Palestinians remain divided along Fatah-Hamas and tribal affiliations in the Arafat vacuum, the Israelis do not seem as an integrated whole either. It is not only that the two narratives do not reconcile, it is difficult to even identify a narrative.

Each clings desperately to their side of the story, and tries to justify injustice by another injustice. And just like that, on my flight back to Paris through Amman (which I randomly discovered was on no other day than 9/11), there was another attack on an Israeli army base in Gaza with another 70 army teenagers injured. In the Amman airport, I just did not feel like arguing with a american sitting next to me full of opinions on cnn bias towards the israeli side and the too generous coverage this attack was receiving. I was offended perhaps but too tired to take sides and argue and explain. too distracted by the sight of a little iraqi boy travelling through amman to get plastic surgery after someone had intentionally set him on fire. on 9/11, i would have hoped for people if not to 'feel for someone', than to at least have the humility to sympathize. And until my next trip to the middle east, I am afraid I will stop here.

2007-08-28T22:19:00.000+02:00

my trip to Toronto or...reflections on what is a home

after 8 hours of a display of a rather mediocre american film making and the same amount of time of being slapped around by various body parts and carts of the passing stewardesses and stewards, i pass through the security, manage to pull off super-sized suitcase (only injuring one person in the process!) and finally...the doors open. i am out. after two years of wondering the world, with detours mostly in various countries in the middle east, and travelling almost exclusively between the 6 and the 16 arrondissements (i.e. home and office) in paris, i am back to home. or am i?

i cannot deny (and no offense to all of you my dear fellow ex-torontonians) that after being gone for that long, my impressions of the city changed quite remarkably. In most cases, it was a question of perception, in some, like the mushroom harbourfront boom, a case of a real city change. I will just highlight a few thoughts and impressions that were particularly striking to me...

Impression 1 (looking around me on the plane): why is what appears to be hmmm....a 10 year old girl three times my size? why does that not qualify for child abuse? I tell myself to think more politically correct and not stare. i am still shocked and as i am sitting there, tying to crank up to volume of my ipod to outplay the neighbouring kid whose video game consistently makes quite a noise when he kills someone or something (about every 10 seconds), it hits me that any hopes i had for a cheap shopping heaven are wildly misguided. yes, after verification, i am can honestly report: my size does not really exist in most stores (ok, with the exception of Gap Kids but then i didn't find anything that went with work suits). this is of course not to mention the style...i still wish i took the picture of someone wearing a super nice dress with these ridiculous looking galoches...I think they are called the crocks?

Impression 2 (sitting in a cute italian resto): what is wrong with this waiter and why does he keep coming every few minutes with all the questions about the food? is he trying to sleep with my friend or with me? why are the glasses of wine the size of three in france? the service so quick? the prices so cheap? i do the calculation again, and it is still dirt cheap compare to france. i think i could not even have a bottle of water for the price of two glasses of rather drinkable italian wine. ok, its not french wine, but it is drinkable still. at most other places, waiters kept asking me if i want red or white and seemed terribly confused by my insistance to know anything beyond the colour description (mental note to self: they think you are a snob). conclusion: no, the waiter is not trying to score, at least not that way, he just wants a tip. in france, we don't really tip, and in part because of this and in part because they just don't give a crap whether you meal suits you or not (after all, why would you order something you don't like?), the service is rather consistently non-existent. so, my suggestion: if you want some decent french food with a bad french accent and great service, do yourself a favour and eat at Le Select Bistro at Wellington and Spadina (thank you Neil).

Impression 3 (sitting in the US border office at Niagara falls): no, i didn't steal anything at duty free, i was just there with a friend who promised a quick procedure to renew a visa. mental note to self: a quick procedure to renew a visa does not exist. i should have known it from my rather trying experience trying to get a working visa in france. after having spent 3 hours in the hallway of this lovely office equipped with Fox news, i finally realised that my presence was really really not going to help my friend. this observation stroke me as i heard the following announcement on Fox: 'a middle eastern man is on the run on the main street of chicago, police is on the hunt...' i will not say anything of all the middle eastern men sitting in the same waiting room but my passport with stamps from just about every middle eastern country did cause additional questioning of my all-too-patient friend. Advice: if you need to renew a US visa, do not bring me with, it will substantially lengthen the procedure. and then you will have to take me out in order to compensate for the long wait. You see, its a lose-lose situation for you.

Impression 4 (trying to buy books on foreign policy of the middle east): please don't call me a geek, that is not nice. Astonished that some Indigo stores exclusively carry books on gardening, golf and cooking. If you don't cook, garden or play golf, sorry, tough luck. well, in the case of cooking i understand, and hope someone else does it for you. but gardening?! we don't garden in paris, that's what the public parks are for. no, those are not for taking a piss although some french men do not really follow that logic. so, yes, no gardening, in part because we have no houses, so unless you want to plant your favourites roses in the park where they could be subject to 'pissing' risk, i wouldn't recommend it. lesson: indigo at bloor and bay is the only decent bookstore where there is actually a foreign policy section. i learned that the biggest foreign policy issue in canada is the little bit of troops in afghanistan. and what gets front page of what is perhaps the most respectable paper, the Globe, is not 20 billion weapon sales to Saudi Arabia, but a local shooting at some club. After that, I had to buy the IHT every day.

aside from these rather specific episodes, there are other more general thoughts running through my head, with which i will not bore you...at least not any further. the vast nature of this country is just so incomprehensible to paris urbanites that are used to fight for every centimeter of closet space. the cosmopolitanism is really a model of incredible success and things like mosques and churches being located next door are a completely unique phenomena, which i assure you, do not replicate themselves in europe. the 'american dream' jobs (yes, i know you will not believe me) are much easier to get, even if you don't belong to a specific privileged circle of former lords. this should explain my successes in europe btw, my grandfather had some high class relatives i think...

and just when i finally started to get used to the suspiciously friendly people, the shining CN tower (copied from the eiffel tower), the banal music from the 80s in supermarkets, the 3 people size food portions, it was time to say goodbye. despite all the things that made me feel like a total doofus at times, there are things i knew i would miss before even leaving. my friends. the language. the queen streetcar eastbound. the american style coffee. the veggie restos. the lack of pretence at anything larger. not the american border patrol. not the onion rings on the menu. not the Gap kids.

all this melodrama made me think about the places i have called 'home'. back to paris, not unlike the feeling i have after coming back from my work travels, i was happy to be back home. it is i suppose strange to call a place where most people treat you as a tourist 'home', but paris has become, despite or because of my efforts.

i suppose one can only realise what is home when the place you thought was home is discovered to be no longer, or at least not in the same way. i haven't yet decided whether i am lucky to call two great cities home or whether i am just a 'globalised' human being with no preferences. everything is on the indifference curve...and now ladies and gentlemen, i invite you to revise your macroeconomics...or was is micro already?!

2007-07-15T18:01:00.000+02:00

fête de bastille à Paris - Bastille Day festivities

Just thought of sharing a few thoughts on what is perhaps the biggest nationwide holiday in france - fête national otherwise known as 14 juillet, when the french stormed and liberated bastille. for the french, this is THE holiday, the reason to be proud of france, to be french - en gros, the quintessential of the french identity. my professed ignorance of french history prompted me to do a little research on the holiday with the hope that it would make me feel just a little more french, that i could better understand the pride or whatever the millions of people who 'stormed' the center of paris felt yesterday. Yes, they still storm the center of paris, possibly not so differently as they stormed Bastille on the 14 of july 18 1789, but more on this later. my ignorance-prompted research revealed that the storm was indeed french style - too much fuss for too little outcome - the attack on Bastille apparently released 7...yes, not 70, 700 or 7000 prisoners.

are there are any parallels to be drawn between 1789 and 2007? well, allow me to contest that from my humble foreigner point of view, there are. first, on the storming aspect. imagine a city with over 2 million inhabitants and almost as much in tourists who flock to see fireworks in a city where all the roads are suddenly blocked by police which, by the way, does not much differ from the deployment of the UN troops in Lebanon - these are not some wimsy police cars we are talking about here, but serious ammunition, capable of dispersing crowds with water, breaking doors, etc. in fact, it is not only the police that is deployed but the army as well. perhaps they got bored after the parade and wanted to stay in town some more before they get shipped off to the aforementioned lebanon or an african state where france still tries to assert its non-colonial power. all in all, arriving for these fireworks which astonishingly started on time this year, requires some serious storming indeed.

so, one would think that storming the trocadero or another area from which these magnificent fireworks could be seen is where all the parallels would end. personally, I am not so convinced. although i cannot opine to know the details of this important national holiday, the 'retreating' part was not any easier than the 'storming' part. without further adieu - retreating is on foot. that is, no bus, practically no metro, and of course no cars. I don't know about you, but what is exactly the difference between middle ages and now? they retreated on foot or horses, we retreat on foot, which seeing as how i live across the river and basically across paris, is no walk in the park. so the tradition continues as it all begun, the french are making too much fuss for too little outcome. would i have known that i would have to have a claustrophobia attack and a 2 hour treck ahead of me, i would have hesitated whether it's all worth for 7 prisoners. but then, i am not french. even after the fête de la bastille. quel dommage.

2007-06-24T21:28:00.001+02:00

Is the virtual overtaking the real?

There is no point repeating the obvious, which by now became a standard phrase, an over-used observation of the reality that a blindman could not go unnoticed. Yes, the revolution in information and telecommunications technology has contributed to making us a globalised little village or a flat world, as Thomas Friedman likes to call it. It is certainly indisputable that the ability to connect to people across the world through audio conferencing facilities, cell phones and blackberries has increased exponentially as has purportedly the productivity of people working across the world. It’s as real is at gets, our virtual world. That is perhaps the problem as well as the solution. When the virtual becomes more real than the real, have a certain line been passed? Should we bother to notice that we are transitioning from the real to the virtual or should we barely re-define the meaning of real?

Unlike all the other impacts and consequences of the ICT revolution, this question has not become a topic of cliché conversation. This mélange of the real (or what we still think of real) and the virtual on humans has not been really addressed neither by those claiming to study globalization nor by anyone else for that matter. And yet, for what it’s worth, the record might be worth reviewing. Putting aside the early inventions of Sir Graham Bell, I suppose it all started with cell phones which only ten years ago were strongly suspected of giving brain cancer and were thus used with caution. Even in the absence of any health related concerns, these awkward apparatuses used to simply warm up too much to become addictive for most of us even most heat-in-the-ear-resistant creatures. Then came the ever-improving versions of cell phones (for many of us working people replacing home lines), msn messenger, skype, and finally the ultimate privacy-denying device – the blackberry. In parallel with this, online social, dating and professional tools have also flourished.

Probably not many of under 30-40 can honestly say to have never experimented with skype or messenger, not to mention the principal culprit – email. I have to admit, I obviously do use and abuse email and in enormous quantities and have come to accept it as the necessary evil. Ask yourself however, how many days have you passed in the office when at the end of what seems like a marathon without amphetamines, when at the end of the day you wonder what has happened between 9 and whatever the lucky hour that you finally pressed the ‘shut down’ button? Ask yourself also, what portion of the communication you have transmitted and received today, yesterday or the day before has been productive? Adam Gopnik, a New Yorker journalist, pointedly notes in his recent novel the rise of

“..a whole new class of communication that are defined as incomplete in advance of their delivery…Every device that has evolved from the telegram shares the same character. E-mails end with a suggestion of a phone call (‘Anyway, let’s meet and/or talk soon’), faxes with a request for email, answering machine with a request for a fax. All are devices of perpetually suspended communication.”

I don’t know about you, but I find more truth than humour in his observation. If you are still not convinced, please consider the following fact, which I myself I am also not sure whether to classify in the category of comedy or tragedy. According to an article recently published in the Wall Street Journal, 18% of respondents of poll admitted to reading their emails in the bathroom. I could never really understand newspaper reading in the bathroom, but email?!!

At the same time, all kinds of psychologist and life coaches are falling over each other to help us get on with our lives, having written boxes worth on ‘literature’ on time management (read here: dealing with the INBOX). In principle, inbox management seems simple for most of us who can find the delete button. Yet even this theoretically simple step appears to be a nothing-but-obvious self-questioning of whether to trash the received emails (which may contain tasks and requests I have not yet followed up) or deleting the no less precious emails proving that you have indeed I have been overworked and have tried to reply to all the emails, both useful and useless.

What about all the other ICT tools that have recently boomed further validating the flat world theory - the LinkedIns, Facebooks, Plaxos, and Second Lifes of our world, among many others. At first, I ignored the occasional request to join Plaxo, LinkedIn and others but I have to admit this resistance did not endure. For better or worse, I finally gave in. Since then, I am now plugged in not only to my work and personal accounts at all times, but I now also being spammed by email notifications and on top of it all, being pulled by sheer curiosity to have a daily ‘facebook check’ (okay, I confess … 3 times a day !). As if my regularly over-flowing inbox which regularly threatens me to stop sending emails unless I trash emails was not enough.

Apparently not. After all, you can really miss serious news if you leave your facebook page unmonitored for too long – one of my facebook friends went from single to married in 3 days, including the intermediate stage of being engaged and the finally the last stage – ‘it’s complicated’. No, he does not live in Las Vegas. Besides the addiction element, there is the guilt trip aspect as well – it is someone’s birthday, they have posted it for you to know it since they know you will surely forget to wish them. So, not only do you know but they know that you know. As if Birthday Alarm could not remain the master of that domain. And yet, for all the ‘faults’ of facebook, I would be too much of a hypocrite not to admit its addictive nature and its usefulness for being connected to dispersed contacts across the world.

What about blackberry and the latest and trendiest Second Life? Allow me to offer you my assessment of the first: a semi-useful, semi-destructive spamming device, which effectively reduces the attention spam of an adult to 2 minutes and reduces their basic politeness to nothing. Not only that, but as you might have noticed if you have clients or superiors equipped - or maybe I should say ‘armed’ with this device - their messages normally do not come with greetings, thanks you’s or sincerely yours, let alone other content useful details. Not to mention the fact that they come at all hours of the day given that the clients, the bosses and loved one increasingly find themselves in a different time zone then your dear self.

Thanks to the proliferation of blackberry and the increasing acceptance of the concise, to the point blackberry messages that effectively can be summed up as: just do it. (thank you Nike), I think we miss the point of it all in the midst of all the daily urgencies. My personal favourite: I need this by cob (close of business) today. I often wonder to myself: is the blackberry empowering its users to express urgencies that were hereto known or find urgencies hereto not defined as such? I also often wonder if the people on the sending end realize how those on the receiving end feel. I have to admit, sometimes I can’t help but think of myself as a sort of a glorified secretary, a-not-yet-automated answering machine. All in all, an intelligent (or so I hope) blackberry responding robot.

What about messaging and texting outside the professional context? Electronic gadgets supporters say that sms and emails are intrusive – funny our bosses never seem to think so. For me, this is a puzzling, not to say outright ridiculous idea. Why would a friend be afraid to ‘intrude’ on a Saturday afternoon? After all, what are we supposed to be doing on weekends than spend time with friends? Personally, I do not recall particularly receiving texts at all the weird hours of the morning, so the whole intruding theory is bypassing me entirely. What is intruding, or rather annoying, is the following sequence:

Friend: do you want to get together today;
me: sure, what do you have in mind?
friend: café x at location y?
me: I can meet at 4 but at the café across town
friend: 4.30 is better for me, etc. etc.

I have seen this kind of a dialogue continue for half an hour or more. Length of time required to sort out this conundrum over the phone: 30 seconds. Personally, I remain, except for rare occasions, yet to be convinced of the usefulness of sms as opposed to the ‘normal’ old-fashioned phone call. But, next time I have a funny thought during the funeral of a friends’ relative, I will make sure to be discreet and send them an sms, as opposed to wait until after.

Last but not least – Second Life. Second Life – for those of you yet unfamiliar (where have you been for the last 2 months by the way?!) is a downloadable programme enabling its users, called "Residents", to interact with each other in a structured environment. I would argue that before Second Life, we, as a society, have been merely standing at the door leading to the Virtual World. After Second Life, figuring out which world we are living in and what the distinctions between the virtual and the real are, is becoming increasingly difficult. Consider the concept with the full somberness it deserves: we are paying to interact with others on the computer.

And not only that, we are now suing each other on Second Life. No, this is not some sort of a twisted joke. A first law suit related to Second Life has been registered last year, in which a Pennsylvania lawyer was suing the publisher of the rapidly growing online world Second Life, alleging that Second Life has unfairly confiscated tens of thousands of dollars worth of his virtual land and other property, which he has previously bought. Note the key terms here: bought virtual property, suing company for confiscating his virtual property. Unfairness and even breach of law is being invoked. ¨Perhaps I am simple minded but I have one recommendation to our plaintiff here: get a life. Clarification: a real life.
So here I am in the midst of our wonderfully electronic powered world and I am forced to conclude the following - the day when we are, or at least some among us, are running away from technology might not be far away. Personally, I might myself one day in not too distant future be tempted to desert the virtual world. No, I would not dare cut myself off completely for I couldn’t take the risk of not being able to reach anyone. After all, if I am not on facebook, LinkedIn, plaxo, while at the same time being logged in on msn messenger and skype and patiently waiting for a vibration of my cell phone (which these days only vibrates with messages but rarely rings with actual calls), I might simply risk being forgotten. You might think I exaggerate, but try it.

2007-05-27T17:08:00.000+02:00

on islam, breastfeeding and sexual relations

for all of you confused out there, there is a way to treat these subjects together...
ladies and gentlemen, fasten your seatbelts

http://memri.org/bin/latestnews.cgi?ID=IA35507

2007-05-27T16:50:00.000+02:00

begging tips...on champs elysee

this will not be one my usually long and somewhat serious posts, so if this is what you are looking for, you light not want to read on.

unlike in most european countries i have been to, begging in france is an active activity. it is not at all about standing in the corner of a store, a market or a metro station, but rather about going out there actively to explain people the reasons why the situation has some about and why should should they be particularly touched by the beggar's particular story as opposed to that of competitors. i have gotten quite used to this sort of a strategy in the paris metro. bonjour madames et messieurs, je suis au chomâge...i can say i have heard this a few times before.
yesterday i have, however heard a new and i have to admit, a rather creative one - i was stopped to ask whether my phone can be borrowed to call the police. how nice of him, really, he was even taking the responsibility to call the police, after i am assuming he took off with my phone. now here i must give credit where it's due, this was not the usual chomâge story...
voila...some creativity lessons for all of us boring people out there
bon dimanche

2007-05-03T22:27:00.000+02:00

On global warming, North Africa and French presidential elections

In a place called Texas, it may still be denied but in Paris it is a subject not only of the usual small talk but an earnest bewilderment and a honest debate. The weather. For those of you my dear friends who are still in Canada, please don't mumble terrible things about me when i say this but the reality we are hit with a tropical weather. I had to perform a sort of striptease on the way to the office one bright morning not so long ago in the following order - coat off, jacket off, sweater off...and I am sorry to be so boring but i had to stop there - not all parisians did.

I know april an august start with the same letter but i thought that all other parallels end there, apparently not - we now have august weather in april figure it. a sort of paris in the middle east phonemenon. so while all of you my dear canadians are still angrily scraping snow off your frozen wiendshields i am trying to figure out how to strip down without being indecent since, as those of you reading my previous emails know, Paris is not airconditionned. as a general matter of fact. I was explained succinctly once - c'est ne pas possible. that about summarises it. there is one obvious benefit of this global warming effects for me - aside from not having to scrape snow off my wiendshield - i am now in the same climate in morocco and tunisia and paris. which is not exaclty the same for those poor seals who one bright morning just took off on one large but melting piece of ice, titanic style from one of the north provinces of canada. yes, as you can see i read some canadian press although as you can also see not so attentively.

So, coming back to this banal topic of weather and middle east, which loyally finds its way into everything i write these days, i have to say at least i don't get sick travelling anymore, which is otherwise not so difficult given my 24-48 hours mission impossible style trips to North Africa. Yes, despite all our technological advances the idea of going to morocco or tunisia for 1 day sounded a little foreward to me, but exprience shows that if you move like an energizer bunny on a fresh battery, you can just squeeze it in without missing any planes, traines or automobiles (sorry I couldn't resist the reference to an all time classic). and if you don't believe me, i did it last week to paris-tunis-paris in that sort of style.

so i arrive at some time close to midnight and have to decide between a dozen of taxi drivers who are fighting over who will get this poor sucker that they can just tell they can rip off. so i pick a dude who looks the least scary of them all. Please remind me next time not to trust my intuition re: taxi drivers. I had to sit next to him while he drilled me the whole way about all the details about my personal life: he was rather suprised to find out I am married and with children. Just a little white lie to stamp out any adventurous ideas...

He didnt think I was that old...I didn't think he was going to be so anoying. so it seemed we were even until he pulled over somewhere in the bushes which was apparently a gas station and proceeded to explain that since I am his first client (it was now 12 at night) i have to pay for gas if i want to get to the hotel. To make a very long story very short, I don't think i can explain in words my relief when i finally saw the name of the hotel on the skyline and decided to take my finger of the dial button ( my brilliant strategy was to call home to tell my boyfriend i am lost with a wierd taxi driver in tunis). never underestimate the intelligence of a woman. but to give the dude a credit, he only ripped me off once although he could have done it many times seeing as how i would have paid anything to just get to my hotel. a sort of an honest rip off, if you will.

the rest of my taxi drivers where illiterate enough to take me for a french tourist and of course feeling comelled to share their political views on the french election with me. they all seem to support the socialist candidate who doesnt mind if the whole of africa settles in france. the socialists still have this cute a fuzzy idea that everyone call live here in a big happy family even without periodically setting everything on fire in some areas.

In my missions imposible, i have also had to drastically adjust my expectations of just about everything - hotels, travel habits, accent (better speak with Arabic accent otherwise no one understands street names!) I know this will probably astound most of you who know me or those of you who has seen me travel before. I went from Queen of England style of different suitcases dedicated to different parts of my warderobe plus a suitcase of reading to do on the plane to a roller case which magically fits all and in quantities that do not make the french security have panick attacks over possible explosives in my various parfume and other toiletries. I swear, next time they stop me i will just spray the whole bottle on myself before I surrender - just to prevent loosing another bottle of perfume on the security people, I am sure they have enough already!

I now even have a post missions impossible strategy. Once i get tired of them, I think I know what I will do - I will apply for a job with the Turkish government. I know this might again sound a little strange seeing as how I dont speak ay Turkish or do not know anything about Turkey except that the capital is Istanbul and that hourses share highways with cars and that no one except for store owners speak english - but...as a Turkish colleague convincingly explained to me recently: if one does not want to work ( and by that i mean at all); one gets a job with the Turkish government. Looking at him, I am starting to hear what the man is saying. Its sort of a flexible hours job with regular nap breaks in the middle. So the cat is of the bag i am afriad on my retirement plan.

But before i retire, i will probably stay a few more years in this sometimes puzzling place called france where the second most discussed topic (after the tropical climate) is the presidential elections which will stop mr. chirac's 12 years of monarchical rule in the country. its been a semi-comical thing watching the elections in france. in Canada, i never found the world of canadian politics any more interesting that the blues games (both just seemed so utterly boring, sorry for all of you sports fans out there) but here politics is a different kind of animal - with many more interesting faces. here, we even had a socialist-bordering on marxist-bordering on patient of a mental institution candidate who suggested...please fasten your seatbelts before you finish reading the end of this sentence...to dissolve the stock market. by that i mean, extermnate, irradicate, annulate...all in the name of social justice.

Yesterday for the first time since chirac faced mitterand 12 years ago, we had two presidential candidates debate their respective presidential pacts. In general, it resembled a middle eastern souk, where you bargain until you can no longer and the sale person tries to look offended in the end that he could be pushed this low. On Sunday the cat is going to be out of the bag...for the sake of the frenchies I pray that we do not have return to socialism in france, otherwise i might as well return to my native odessa, except i would have to rewind the clock as well.

So please all the prayers for all of us frenchies and frenchies-wanna-be during the sunday mass please...shabbat prayers accepted as well.

2007-04-15T22:49:00.000+02:00

This Canadian seal hunt is really appaling. Please support the worthy cause.

http://multimedia.hsus.org/specials/seal_hunt_2007/index.html

2007-03-25T17:11:00.000+02:00

The difference between first world and third world is usually defined in income per capita. This is fundamentally wrong. The sole characteristic which is always relevant in differentianting developed from developing countries, is not income per capita (however expressed: puchasing power parity, nominal GDP per capita, etc.) but the income gap between 'the rich' and 'the poor'. In all developing countries, the rich control the majority of wealth while the poor have to content themselves with the remaining wealth which is also in large part generated by serving the upper classes. my last trip to morocco made be think of this divide, as well as the divide between the urban and the rural. Taken together, the income gap and the urban/rural divide are much more direct and easy means of gauging development then all the complicated economic theories can dream up.

2007-02-16T23:04:00.000+01:00

A great shame

Reading the daily news, I stumbled onto this article today. These days, rarely are the news surprising, particularly those coming from the middle east. the headlines have been static for months: another bombing in baghdad, another denial by iran to stop their nuclear activities. Even the holocaust denial statements regularly coming of tehran are almost losing their impact on the international community. The following article published in Jeruslam Post is, on the other hand, deeply disturbing. The fact that israel itself has turned away from those who it was originally created to support is a betrayal is an unparalleled moral failure.

http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?cid=1170359865046&pagename=JPost/JPArticle/ShowFull

2007-02-13T22:53:00.000+01:00

the new cold war - not as cold, but windy

The State Department press release issued on February 13 following the conference on Security Policy in Munich where the Russian president has made his now famous tirade, claims that "no shift is occuring between the US and Russian relations". According to Tony Snow, the White House spokesperson, "...the United States has been working aggressively, including with Russia, to work in a multilateral fashion on a
series of key issues." Is the White House intentionally downplaying what it understood a turning point of transatlantic relations, or is it 'playing stupid'?

The former alternative is unlikely given the strength of the commentary and the choice of venue for its delivery - after all, it could have been also delivered on lower levels and in a more bilateral fashion. One should also not forget Ms. Rice's doctorate in Cold War international relations. If no one else in the White House has received the signal correctly, it would be rather surprising if she did not.

A more plausible proposition would suggest that Putin's speech did succeed in raising some eyebrows in Washington and other capitals, yet its impact is being downplayed for the fear of creating a greater rift. This game of 'downplaying' played by Mr. Snow in his communique today is not so unfounded. First, the US has been once again been 'caught with their pants down' to borrow from a not especially bourgeoise but accurate expression. While Mr. Putin has recently been not as cooperative with his American brothers as his administration was during the early years of his presidency, the strength of his expression and his isolation of the US as the culprit has been of surprise to the US, even given the latest ideological disagreements over the Iraninan sanctions.

The second, and somewhat related reason behind American reluctance to respond in any stronger terms than saying that Russia is an 'important ally', is that Russia is seen as flexing muscles and is not being taken seriously. The Economist estimates Russia is still less of a player than it was since "it no longer has the network of Soviet client states." While the latter maybe true, this does not by any means that Russia is to be ignored in the international relations calculus. In this regard, Mr. Putin's speech served exaclty its purpose - not necessarily insigate a crisis in the cross-atlantic relations, but to remind the various audiences at Munich that hybernation is finished. The bear has long time shaken off the sleep in domestic matters including the high profile trial of Khodorkovsy and the recent oil nationalisations, aka Venezuela but with a different rhetoric.

Moscow's recent power struggles with satellite's states over gas arrangements already showed the western european states that Russia will not tolerate being marginalised in the European politics. Russia's current G8 presidency, although a mockery given these recent dynamics first with Ukraine and then with Belarus, is another reason not to take Russia's ambitions too lighlty.

The Economist may be right in noting that its satellite states are long gone and most wish to get amnesia to forget their soviet past. What it does not pick up on is the alliance of convinience, not necessarily ideology, between Russia and China. Supported by this dynamic, Russia has re-discovered a new source of power, re-established a long forgotten strategy, in addition to its typical natural resource weapon. This strategy previews greater involvement of Russia in the Middle East.

Thus, Russia is not to be ignored not only, and not even primarily, for its recent bullish behaviour vis-a-vis its European neighbours, but its growing willingness to present itself as a viable supporter (read:alternative) to a number of countries in the Middle East, thus re-engaging in the proxy war that characterised the Cold War. This involvement will play itself out not only by military deals with Iran and as analysts suspect other nations and 'factions'. It will also take form (and is already starting to do so) through official high level contacts in the region. Mr. Putin's high level visit to Saudi Arabia, Jordan and Qatar this week goes to demonstrate that the Munich tirade was not just a fit for attention, but perhaps a new 'suprise' act in Mr. Puntin's play. Suprise it is, since there have been no Presidential level visits to Saudi Arabia, for one, for approximately 80 years. A second surprise, certainly unnerving for the US, has been the apparent welcome received by the Russian president. A red carpet and a 21 gun salut was awaiting him in Saudi Arabia, a long term US ally, recently disillusioned by the process of Iraq stabilisation and increasingly worried about US inability to contain Iran.

Apparently, Middle East leaders as a whole are taking Russia seriously, and have granted Russia an observer status in the Organisation of the Islamic Conference in 2005. Bilateral relations with the current government of Iran and Hamas are also strong. Saudi Arabia might just follow suit. This act may continue for long after he is gone and Mr. Puntin's appointed successor is sworn in. If so, the superpower confrontation, played out in the Middle East, maybe a deja vu of international relations. Perhaps not a full-blown Cold War, but a wind of the era?

2007-01-23T15:41:00.000+01:00

Segolene's thoughts on Canada...

While I was never particularly fascinated by domestic politics in Canada, I have to admit the French scene is much more engaging not only due to the upcoming elections and the challenges associated with registering for them, but also simply due to the french political culture. After all, in what other country will you find political debates where the politicians are talking in complete unison? by 'unison' I do not mean that they are not in complete agreement, quite opposite, they are in a state of constant and complete disagreement on everything, as a matter of principle of course. by 'unison' I mean that they are talking at the same time, after all this strategy, however unfamiliar to foreigners, avoids them actually have to listen to the opponent's opinions and argue against them as opposed to reiterate the points carefully drafted backstage by their campaign managers.
And in what other country is there such a range of political opinion? From Le Penn who keeps a consistently racist and so-far-right-that-left-cannot-even-be-seen-on-the-horizon rhetoric (one no longer knows whether to take seriously or just to forgive him due his old age) to my personal favourite Segolene Royal. Sorry, Segolene I don't have the accents on my keyboard!

While Segolene's feminine talk and soft approach (read: no approach) politics - I want to give everthing they deserve to my people! - may work with some at home, it just doesn't seem to pay off for the poor lady abroad. To prove her political maturity, Segolene has been increasing her appearances on the international political scene. I found particularly impactful her series of tea meeting with Chinese housewifes. Apparently, the number 10 of the Chinese cabinet was too busy to see her.

Apparently, local political incompetence refuses to stay local. Segolene's latest commentary is spreading outside her native France to Lebanon, China and now...Canada! Selon Segolene, Quebec should have the independence it deserves. At least this remark demonstrates the consistency of Ms. Royal's approach - neither does she understand the practical implications of her domestic propositions, nor does she seem to understand those of her foreign policy statements. And while on the foreign policy scene Canada is most definitely not a loud player, Ms. Royal's remarks have managed to rub even the Canadians the wrong way.

http://tf1.lci.fr/infos/elections-2007/0,,3383704,00-mot-royal-qui-herisse-canadiens-.html

2006-12-16T19:28:00.000+01:00

Contrasts of Istanbul
Just came back from a supershort trip of Istanbul, the cradle of Ottoman empire and some would say civilization more generally. Even more than Morocco or these other 'third world' places, Turkey is a place of bizzaire contrasts. I am sure the biggest is the the jutaxtaposition of the urban and the rural, but unfortunately I cannot attest to it since I parachuted into Istanbul on Sunday and left only 2 days later. Other contrasts stand out:the contrast of Turkey which is applying to the EU with the Turkey that throws its possibly most famous and only Nobel winning writer Orphan Palmuk in prison. The contrast between Turkey which is secular yet where the sound of muaddin's call for prayer prierces the air at the designated hours of the day, no different than it does in Cairo or in Rabat. The contrast of Turkey that is modern and educated with the population which does not generally speak foreign languages, except of the people in the services industry, which - on the contrary - seem to be able to bargain and sell in every language under the sun. The contrast of Turkey which embraces Muslim and Christians, and yet where the churches converted to mosques clearly show the direction of the current government and the fruitlessness of any papal visits. And finally, the contrast that summarizes everything about Turkey into one picture - the donkey cart with peasants amidst a sea of cars I saw in the next lane on the highway leading to the Kamal Attaturk airport. It is this agrarian image of Turkey's peasants, wrapped in layers of unrecognizable clothing and covered in a veil resembling more those famous red Russian scarves that does not seem reconcilable with its modern, fast, and seemingly developed centers like Ankara and Istanbul.

2006-12-02T16:49:00.000+01:00

I think I am due for another update. After almost 2 years away from home, I have to admit its getting harder to keep in touch with everyone, so I hope you can find in your heart to forgive me for the mass email. I hope some good ole commercially induced christmas spirit can help you do just that. Here in Paris, the Christmas decorations are not fooling anyone, since outside its still 15 degrees and prices are also if anything higher, rather than lower than normal…but the shopping craze is starting to kick in nevertheless and there are people everywhere, except of course Sundays. For one musn’t forget, we are living in a country with deep catholic tradition, which in parallel prides itself on being non-religious. Actually, I think a good half of french politically motivated books are about this process of reconciling the secular state with its catholic history and more recently its growing muslim popuation. The whole banlieue story (burning cars, etc.) only added spark to the already raging fire. Only six lines into the email and I am already off on a tangent!

Suffice it to say that the mood is up in anticipation of christmas holidays, and I would probably join the shopping craze too if not for the fact that by the time I leave the office, I can kiss good bye the idea of buying anything since another one of france’s traditions – and this one I think purely cultural – goes something like this “one shall close shop by 8”. Unfortunately, despite the friendliness of the local folk and my general familiarity with all the local shops, my impression is that they are not going to change their ways anytime soon, and certainly not on my account. Actually, some shop owners are having a hard enough time understanding me during normal working hours, let alone later. I recently stopped by a local shop to get some sort of a french saussage, pointing to the thing and saying that I just want this orangy looking thing. The man of course immediately broke into the monologue about the type of the sausage that it is (blah blah blah) only to register pure indifference on my face. I was then forced to explain to him that this is actually for my very much meat eating boyfriend and that I actually don’t consume any dead animals. Well, although the expression on his face is rather difficult to put in words – it was equivalent to what I would imagine the expression of a priest when told that you don’t believe in god. I have to admit, I never tried to do that, but it should give you the idea…

Other than strange social encounters, my courage to dive into social coversations is growing, but not nearly sufficiently fast. This is despite my courageous - and I would even go as far as to say - stoic efforts to take classes after work which means never coming home before 9. I am sure on some level its paying off, and according to my professor, my vocabulaty is rather decent, but arriving to the point of getting the social lingo that is often not in the oxford dictionary is a whole different story. Trust me. This of course does not much faciliate social interactions, but at least I got to a level of mutual understanding or misunderstanding, and even I am even trying (and this is really a key word here) to plunge into some work related activities in french. I know this must be hillarious to most french speakers, but I am actually the most french speaking member of our team at the oecd, and thus I have the priviledge to work with the Maghreb countries which are entirely french speaking. It’s a strange beast colonialism, some countries revolt against it, others like Morocco embrace it. Maybe on some level, the Moroccans appreciate being independent and being governed by a decendant of the Prophet, but on the other hand, most of the government and business (i.e. anyone who knows how to read and write) are french speaking as much as they are arabic speaking. And proud of it. So, often times, not only do I found myself in unfamiliar places, but also in unfamiliar french speaking places. Depending on the moment, I tend to see it as hell or as paradise. All in all, it’s a love-hate relationship. It was a little more on the hate side when I was in the region during Ramadan, which implied going until iftar (Arabic for breaking fast – about 6pm) without food. I tried to sneak in some granola once as we we trying to catch a taxi, the driver stopped, shared his thoughts on eating during Ramadan, and then drove off (without taking us I must note). I thought of sharing that revealing my cultural affiliations, but on a second consideration I decided to keep it to myself.

Going to Rabat last week was a little better, for one I could eat, and also I reached the new height of delivering a presentation in french to a fairly big audience and not having tomatos thrown at me. Maybe its because they’ve had a drought for the last few weeks. I put up some pictures, but unfortunately not much since I was mostly stuck in the hilton (http://www.flickr.com/photos/tomamico/sets). Of course, we also wondered around in the local souk which reminds me a little of the walls of jerusalem on some level, since the souk is incapsulated in this round wall which multiple entries around its perimeter. Being in the souk is obviously very much a local experience in every sense of the word, and hence always interesting. Pity there is no way I can ever pass for a local and mingle in. In a way, the souk and the medina are not very local but also very telling historical places in these countries, unlike in europe where the monuments, the bridges, and the parliament buildings forumulate the history. Of course, the mosques (which I always confuse since they are typically called into hassan something or mohammed something) are beautiful, and maybe I would appreciate them even more if I was allowed to go in. In any case, I find that it in only in the souk where one can catch the local flavours, gauge the level of poverty, take a temperature on social cohesion, see the attitude toward foreigners. For me, the souk, and travelling by train are the two most interesting methods of really seeing these countries - which is basically the opposite of taking an official tour. The urban centers are always very polished (except for the souk), and you don’t really get the sense of a developing country reality until you take a train and see the makeshift bedonvile homes along the way amidst the newly build train stations build on EU or US aid. I could not help but wonder if it is the general religiousness of people that helps they deal with the reality of living under a plastic ‘roof’ and walls put together of scraps next to newly constructed blocks of flats and train stations. In a way, every one of us depressed western people could benefit from living the real life in one of these countries, I think it would make us a whole lot happier. But of course, the reality is that my stomach barely accepts the local 4 star hotel food, and even that with a pack of antibiotics.

As a result, I am always happy to find myself in a paris, even it can be rude to those unfamiliar with it. According to a friend, some japanese tourists even had to get evacuated ty the local embassy due to a shock of the local reality and seeing that not all parisians are stylish, skinny, rich and smell good. I suggested to her that the real shock may be due to the fact that they are not allowed to buy more than four items from the louis vuitton store. Joke alert: this is true, and they often try to avoid it by giving money to others with local passports who can get them an extra one thousand euro bag. I think I should quit my job at the oecd and bring those vuitton bags I see in millions in moroccan souks and sell them at a discount here to the japanese tourists. And since I cannot think of any ideas more creative, I am going to stop here.

2006-11-17T10:03:00.000+01:00

thought of the day:
the only place one cannot have a carte de fidelite is at a funeral home

observation of the day:
it seems highly ironic when french people ask non-french people for directions. i suppose it does not help their love for aglophones!

2006-11-05T17:56:00.000+01:00

paris inspired...
as the cold is setting into the streets of paris, it is still magical to see the sun reflecting of the grey roofs of the buildings, while sitting at a terrace of a cate with artificial heaters and pretending that it is still fall. there is only so much pretending I can do though since I no longer have to fight for a place in the sun. This, as much as the temperature outside, is an indicator of winter coming. It is so sad seeing those normally bubbling terraces empty or leaving the office in the dark every day. the shimmering eiffel tower always compensates. How I wish I had a camera that could capture the image the way i would like it to. this would be the greatest discovery of mankind! if becoming a real parisian means no longer noticing the tower, the appartment windows that light every night and the little ladies rushing to take their baguettes pas trop cuits than i hope i never become a vrai parisienne.
a bientot!

2006-10-22T20:00:00.000+02:00

so much security for such a small man. nicolas sarkozy may be small but he made himself resonate in the breathtakingly beautiful hall of sorbonne this weekend. he resembles a bulldog, once he bites into his victim, he does not let go easily. his speaches are full of rhetoric and stories of maghrebian ladies living in france's banlieus looking for protection. no doubt, they need it. as an outsider though, his statements seems obvious almost to the point of seeming too simple. once you get through the well structured responses and the colourful examples, and the jokes of course too-which he manages to still here and there in between the tirades - the ideas are obvious: immigration should be selective, work weeks should not be legally restricted to 35 hours, and france does not have space to absorb 900 million inhabitants of the african continent, although most of them would prefer france. The only thing that fails my comprehension is how can anyone in their sane mind argue against these principles. And it seems to be, as an outsider to this whole election drama, that perhaps these are not the ideas being opposed by the french opposition parties that are close to winning. Here of course, one has to exclude the likes of Marie Le Penn.
Watching this debate, I came to the perhaps odd conclusion that the contestants in for the french presidency are perhaps not really talking about the same issues - in france, perhaps it is not the opposition of ideas but their prioritisation that will or will not bring sarkozy to the throne. And a throne it is in france. Bon chance alors...

2006-10-17T23:05:00.000+02:00

photos of tunis and rabat. stories to come...
http://www.flickr.com/photos/tomamico/sets/72157594313758097

2006-10-15T23:18:00.000+02:00

A propos Hard Candy...
I think this movie came out a long time ago in the US and Canada, but just came to France. I was talked into seeing it and following is the essence of my review. I don't normally write comments about movies i see but here i think it was warranted.

my review:
if you are in the mood for some serious sadomasochism, and please take note of the word 'serious', this might be a movie for you. otherwise, i would advise to save the 2 hours of your life. trust me, even watching commercials of soap is more useful/interesting/exciting. somehow, the creators of this wonderful piece forgot to mention the word 'pedophelia' in its description. I am not sure how this is possible given that this is the point of the movie - well, it does not really have a point, but this is what this 'film' allegedly tries to explore (without, I might add coming to any conclusion or a hint of thereof). when you watch the preview for this chef d'oeuvre, it sets up an intrigue of older man meeting a younger girl of in the net. interesting. here is a preview of this the trailer omits: a crazed teenager trying to cut the testicles of an alleged offender for about half an hour. A Saturday night killer (and by that I mean your Saturday night). Actually, this movie can kill the mood of any evening. so just to sum up, if you are in the mood for some sadomasochism, you have found what you are looking for. otherwise, as I said, even soap commercials are better. at least they don't leave you nauseous.

2006-09-14T23:01:00.000+02:00

An interesting take on the power struggle between hamas and fatah. true enough, unlike in other countries of the midde east, in the palestinian case using islam as a ideology to protect intrenched political interests has backfired.

Click here to read the Jpost article

2006-09-07T22:57:00.000+02:00

I guess I felt a sudden pang of nostalgia. By the way, Kundera has wrote a fabulous novel about nostalgia last year.

I cannot say that I am nostalgic for Toronto in particuar, but more nostalgic for the feeling of familiar. the shape in a way doesnt matter, its the structure that matters.

I miss buying flavoured coffee after getting of the metro in a semi-sleepy way
I miss having rasberry lemonade and one of these huge salads at Fresh on Queen Street
I miss listening to the radio, I never listen to it in france!
I miss re-runs of friends and sex and the city which I have seen a million times!
I miss the sitting in the sun between the four ugly towers on Wellington
I miss walking around incognito in sweatpants and with huge sunglasses on sat mornings at Eglinton

But, tomorrow I probably will be happy to face paris again and try to find something new, something that has changed in the little street which i take to go to work everyday.
If I was a patient, I would be diagnosed with a case of 'fleeing nostalgia'...

2006-09-04T22:42:00.000+02:00

Ladies and gentlemen, some humour curtesy of Al Jazeera...surprising? yes! hillarious? definitely!

Why did rents go up in Ain el-Rummaneh district overlooking the southern suburbs? Because it has a sea view now!

Why are coquettish elderly Lebanese women very happy about the war? Because it took them back 30 years.

Early one day, a man rushes desperately to the dentist. "Please take out my bridge, or the Israelis will bomb it!"

After Saudi Arabia decided to donate half a billion dollars to rebuild Lebanon, Hosni Mubarak, the Egyptian president, ordered the capture of six Israeli soldiers at the border.

Amid a mass evacuation of foreign nationals from Lebanon, Palestinian refugees who have been stranded in Lebanon for nearly 60 years are ecstatic: The Palestinian Authority has decided to evacuate its nationals as well.

An Israeli recently arrives at London's Heathrow airport. As he fills out a form, the customs officer asks him: Occupation? The Israeli promptly replies: "No, just visiting!"

2006-09-04T21:47:00.000+02:00

the word fascinating rarely sprints to my mind after watching a documentary - perhaps I am too harsh of a critic, perhaps it is always challenging to imagine what a truly fascinating documentary would be like. unlike a movie where the main elements of success such as camera work or depth of lead roles are generally agreed upon, there is a lack of even a basic consensus of what the purpose of a documentary should be. as a genre, documentary is similar to freestyle music, it is not considered prizeworthy because it obeys by established rules of cinematography but precisely because it does not. Is a stellar documentary one that claims to show 'reality' either fundamentally by changing or confirming our perception of it or one that, aka michae moore, does not pretend to be 'objective' - one that is truthful to its angle, or one can say its bias. being a sceptic that i am, i dont believe in bias free documentaries. or for anything else bias free for that matter.

preables aside, the CNN documentary in the footsteps of osama bin laden was nothing but excellent. not for its camera work, and not for the rarity of its perspective but simply for the fact that it showed one of the most sought after man of our times not as an enigma, eternally sought after and inaccessibe, but someone has been inaccessible to the international intelligence community only. from circles within the saudi regime, to insiders within multiple mulsim regimes ranging from africa's sudan to pakistan and afghanistan, osama bin laden has been openly operating until the end of 1990s. what's more, he has been frank with a number of journalists, western and muslim, in pursuit of his brilliantly executed media campaign. time and time again, he has given excusives to cnn and abc journalists, in fact it is almost surprising he has not gotten to the neo-con media like fox news a chance to convince its audience. i guess mr bin laden thought he would be preching to the converted and there he would probably be right again.

the documentary is also excellent because it does not show osama as a ideologically blind, but as rational.
Unlike the radical Egyptian clerics of Muslim Brotherhood of the likes of Qutb, by whom he has been allegidly influenced, Osama appear nothing like a rabid fanatic spewing hatred. On the contrary, it made me think that in the absence of context of 9/11, of khandahar, and pakistan, walking down the street, he would seem like a man of peace. And this brought me to wonder whether being ideologically defunct and radical can be reconciled with being rational. looking at osama's interviews with his cooly determined face and his almost smiling eyes certainly conveys an image of somene rather rational. a man who has put together a training manual for jihad and established vacation schemes for al qaida is as rationally calculated as it gets. he is not the sheikh bakhri, nor the mohmmed khomeini of our times. funny thing, could it be that in war as in business it is the same qualities that matter, the variable being the ideology. if so, osama could be a profitable businessman. by exploiting other's religious ideas, he achieves his own. substite some words here, and mr. bin laden is not so far from the western pursuit of logic as we would like to believe - could it just be the same equation with different variables?

2006-08-07T22:21:00.000+02:00

A few interesting pieces about the logic of the Israeli-Lebanese war:

Profits of war, interview with Jonathan Nitzan (canadian radio)

http://bnarchives.yorku.ca/204/

Nasrallah's last speech (Al-Manar tv)

http://www.memri.org/bin/opener_latest.cgi?ID=SD123306

Yemen too has something to say about Lebanon (Al Jazeera)

http://www.memri.org/bin/opener_latest.cgi?ID=SD123106 .

Iran caught in its own lies - apparently even lying requires some intelligence!

http://www.memri.org/bin/opener_latest.cgi?ID=SD122806

2006-08-03T22:05:00.000+02:00

Last week I saw a phenomenally touching film at the Institute du Monde Arab called Zozo about a lebanese kid who became an orphan during the lebanese civil war. the film was preceeded by a letter by the director who was supposed to present the film in paris, but who for obvious reasons could not come. the scenes of the civil war could not be more similar to the current war raging in lebanon. the impact on the civilian families does not seem to be any different either. as Zozo, a 10 year old kid, becomes an orphan and immigrates to denmark to live with his grandparents, i could not help but feel guilty - for all the lebanese kids who have become orphans and for all the human loss in lebanon. at the end, I almost felt guilty for israel's current war. it was just the following day that i realised why the IDF has caused so much damage in Beirut so far - the fact that hezbollah has been storing missiles within civilian appartments. the israeli government does a really lousy job of publicizing these fact, of making the world aware of the reasons for their actions. we should feel hurt for all the lebanese dying or being injured in this war, but with so little real information as to why these rocket attacks continue, we might end up feeling guity. after zozo, I certainly did.

for more comments on this film, you might want to see http://imdb.com/title/tt0448267/usercomments

2006-07-18T22:37:00.000+02:00

So much media coverage of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, of the Lebanese-Israeli conflict, so little quality analysis, so little perspective, so much bias. reading the news on al jazeera and jerusalem post are like reading about two separate conflicts. There is really no point going over the numbers, it is both true and sad that over 300 lebanese have been killed over the last weeks. it is equally true and sad that 1000 people have been murdered and more than 7000 injured by over the past four years of the palestinian intifadas on the israeli side.

perhaps in this conflict people are too focused on numbers, on the various humanitarian crises, the true and the imaginary. the issue is not with the numbers, but with the substantive questions. true, less isrealis have been killed over the incessant years of intifada than palestinians. this is besides the point. the key here is desire. if one people fears or thinks that the other would destroy them if they had the choice, they will react strongly, perhaps overreact. this is not an excuse but simply an obvious explanation of human nature. the programmes which showed palestinians and lebanese and iranians overjoyed at the death and capture of israelis show the strength of this desire, the extent of hatred. the same cannot be said of the other side. perhaps this is my bias, but i cannot imagine many israelis rejoicing if the same fate of met a palestinian or any other citisen of neighbouring arab states. it is this fact that the iranians, the syrians, the palestinians, some lebanese want the israelis (and in some cases the jewish people as a whole) disappeared that matters. it is the fact that if iran and hezbollah could make the katyushas reach precisely the hospitals, the schools or any other civilian infrastructure, they would not blink.

it must be admitted that israel has a more effective military. yes, the IDF can do much more damage than the katuyshas. that is not the issue for it is not the raw numbers that matter, but the intent. the issue of intent is in large part connected the arab media. people in the arab countries would be much better served if they media did not explicitely cater to further inflaming public opinion: for in the long term it does not make their lives any easier. the fact that saudi arabia, jordan, egypt and other gulf states have almost sided with israel on this matter is no negligible sign. perhaps there is a positive externality in some undemocratic tendencies of arab states. 'no' to muslim brotherhood in egypt also means the same to hezbollah in lebanon.

2006-07-10T23:45:00.000+02:00

I think it is almost a year that i read reports from baghdad where the journalist is questioning whether this latest bomb is indicative of a civil war in iraq. is this one particularly aweful in that it signals the slidding towards the beginning of an unstoppable conflict? does it signal of a new particularly violent stage?
i am not sure where i am being overly presumptious, but at the expense of being simplistic, is it not obvious as day that there is a civil war in Iraq, that it has been going on for quite some time, and the only obstacle to it becoming something on the scale of darfur in the military presence of the US?
As Clawson suggests in his latest article on the future of Iraw in MERIA, in all the possible scenarious on Iraq, no matter how positive, would put it at 2010 at minimum for the realistic beginning of a reconstruction process. He has a good point when he suggests that there cannot be a long term peace without both sides feeling that they cannot annihilate each other in the absence of international troops. i suppose this is very IR realism-like, but i can see a grain of truth with it. i dont see the south africa reconciliation commission style happening here.

2006-07-09T23:03:00.000+02:00

Reading 'the beatiful and the damned' makes me feel complexed. fitzgerald gives english the depth of french of russian, his words create a picture so nuanced as to be difficult to imagine at times. in a way its paradoxical, i have to re-read some lines, while others paint a picture so clear as to make it competitive with visual art. he makes me wonder what happened to contemporary literature, is language atrophying? is evolution of language like evolution of fashion? where are the fitzgeralds of our time? perhaps it is a naive question, but can language, much like fashion, go out of style? if so, i think we might be losing something worthwhile. i can't stop but think that perhaps all these trends, like simple lines in fashion, contemporary art trends (read: squares and circles, at times even overlapping!), 'modern' language is nothing but a elaborate cover-up for a lack of something to say, lack of skill, and maybe even a lack of emotion. looking at the exibit at the modern art museum of paris homme pare, i couldn't help but think that we've regressed. even the gian galianos of this world do not at times compare to the old school craftsmanship, unpretentious, elaborate, timeconsuming, unique. being honest with myself, i wish i could be fitzgerald rather than our contemporaries.