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About Ramblings of a Hopeless Khowaga

Welcome to my Web site. My name is Chris, and I’ll be your host. I live in Austin, Texas, with my partner, Ray, and our child dog, Mocha. You can read more about me, learn 100 random things about me, and if you’re wondering what the heck a khowaga is, click here. Feel free to browse, read, and leave comments!

Tag: ‘barack obama’



Sweet Anonymity

Friday, August 7th, 2009

There are times when I wonder if Web 2.0 is taking us to a level of public exposure previously only known to politicians, porn stars, and Madonna.  Thanks to the wonder of Facebook (and, I suppose, Twitter, which I haven’t joined because I’m not vain enough to think anyone is interesting in knowing if I’m standing in line at the grocery store), we now have 24 hour access to deep thoughts.

The question of whether the thoughts are actually deep and may be better left unexpressed is one that I think that some ought to ask themselves (although, in full disclosure, I certainly didn’t ask myself that before I sat down to write this here post).  There are, among my acquaintances, many people who comment on every single thing that their Facebook “friends” do all day long.  Some comments are amusing, others are … well, clearly not as amusing as their authors think they are.

The ubiquity of Facebook, Twitter, and other forms of social networking means that it’s now possible to create an entire online persona that you can drag with you hither and yon.  Your Yahoo! account can be linked to your Flickr, which is now linked to Twitter, and Google now knows more about you than the federal government, and all of them can be linked to Facebook.  Facebook, if you’re not careful, can also track what you buy on Amazon and rent from Blockbuster or Netflix.  This means that if you rate a movie that you rented on Blockbuster, the netsavvier among us can find within a frighteningly short amount of time those embarrassing photos that your coworker took at the office Christmas party of you pretending to be Smiling Bob from the “natural enhancement” commercials.

My friend Michael has pointed out on occasion that there are clearly people with nothing to do all day who lurk about on the InterWebz and leave bizarre comments on any public forum that invites comment.  Austin is a fairly liberal town.  You wouldn’t know this by reading the online edition of our alleged “newspaper” [sic], the Austin American-Statesman (which, on a side note, was up for sale for 18 months and has been taken off the market because no one wanted to buy it).

The Statesman did this weird thing where it invited readers to form their own blogs and comment on the news — it’s to the point where I can’t actually read the online edition anymore.  Global warming is a man-made myth.  The president was born on Mars (funny, I was pretty sure that was a reference to Lady Gaga).  And any time an article pops up about gay … well, gay anything, the Bible thumpers turn up and start screaming about Satan (see: Barack Obama).  Someone actually told Michael to go back where he came from, Commie.

It’s enough to make you want to pull out your old government book and read aloud the definition of “socialism.”  Kids, do you want to know some countries that are socialist?  Norway, Denmark, and Sweden.

I’m guessing this is all because the sane people have day jobs and don’t have time to sit around and write ultra right wing conspiracy shit all over the Internet, let alone create a fake Kenyan birth certificate for the president … and can I just ask — what, exactly, is the birther movement trying to do?  If you don’t like Obama, fine (I’ll admit, the enchantment has worn off for me, too) but for gawd’s sake, why is it necessary to be coming up with all of these ridiculous stories about how he’s not really American?  Are we really supposed to believe that his parents faked his birth certificate in 1961 because they knew that he was going to run for president 48 years later?  Because if they did, I’d like their phone number — I want to run some stock options by them and see which ones they like.

I know, I know: this is America, and we have freedom of speech.  However, just because we have freedom of speech doesn’t mean we should always feel the need to use it.  Sometimes the best thing to do is realize that you don’t have anything important to say … and then not say it.

Like this:

Somewhere in Texas …

Wednesday, January 21st, 2009

… a village rejoices, for it has regained its long lost idiot.

I don’t want to write another mushy post about Obama.  Others have blogged longer and waxed more poetic about what the day means to them, and I don’t want to belittle their contributions by trying to force a contrived post about What Obama Means to Me.

Instead, let me share a reminiscence.

Cairo, July 2003.

It was my first trip back to Egypt since I had lived there in the mid 1990s, and I had just been ripped off in one of the most obvious schemes imaginable.  The young man who had waited on us at the restaurant had claimed that I had given him a 50 piaster note instead of a 50 pound note.  I knew which I’d given him, and I knew he was holding out for more money.  I knew that the problem was that my companion and I had started counting our remaining Egyptian money after paying the bill, and that we’d neglected to tip him anything, and he was angry that we had so much and couldn’t spare an extra pound or two for him.

I was pissed and embarrassed at myself for having fallen into the trap, and no amount of screaming in English or Arabic seemed to be making a damned bit of difference.  I knew why he did it, but I was angry anyway.

I had to go back to the hotel.  Heidi, one of my colleagues on this lengthy multi-country business jaunt had joined me for lunch in the Khan al-Khalili, the storied marketplace in the center of the oldest district of Cairo.  When I think about Cairo, I think about the area around the Khan – not necessarily the Khan itself, but the core of the city that dates back a millennia.

The rest of the group had returned to the hotel for a siesta, but I wanted a last chance to visit my favorite part of town, as we were in Egypt for barely 48 hours and I had a nearly physical need to cram in as much of it as I could.  And now I was unhappy because I’d been ripped off like a common tourist.

I was still seething as I hailed a cab from the not-moving traffic on Azhar Street and Heidi and I climbed in.  I told the driver where I wanted to go, and sat staring out the window.

“You look as though you’ll break the glass with your eyes, my friend,” the driver said, and I laughed. He gave a start: he’d said it in Arabic and not expected me to understand.  Here began a conversation I have routinely whenever I’m in the Arab world: how it is that the khowaga, the quintessential white boy, came to know our language and our country and culture.

As is the case with many Egyptian cab drivers, he was not a cab driver by training.  I’ve forgotten what he told me his actual profession was, but as we made our way through the early afternoon traffic back toward Zamalek and my hotel, he waxed poetic about many things.

It was July 2003, I was in the largest Arab capital, and my country was still in the process of bombing Baghdad.

The driver asked me where I was from, and I didn’t hesitate about telling him I was American.  Even in the darkest days of the past eight years, when we joked about changing the translation in our survival Arabic guide of “I am from America”  to “Ana min Canada” I never lied about where I was from.

This day, my cab driver was in a philosophical mood.  “Your president lies,” he said to me.  “He said that the reason your armies were in Iraq was to get rid of Saddam Hussein.  Saddam is gone, and your armies are still there.  Why?  What is the true reason?”

“I don’t know, ” I said simply.

“This man is not good for your country,” he went on.  “All peoples around the world, they felt sympathy for your country in Eylul [September].  We wept.  I have family in America.  I felt as if these planes were hitting me!  But now, we are all so angry at America because of what they do in Iraq.”

“I know,” I said glumly.

The driver looked in the mirror, eyes twinkling, and shook his head.  “Do not take it personally, my friend,” he said.  “After all, we did not vote for our president, either.”  This man, from a country that never had democracy and has even less of it now, was reassuring me, supposedly from the shining example of what democracy is supposed to be.  Although he meant it as a reassurance … and partially as a joke … it’s something that I’ve never forgotten.  Had we really sunk that low?

Yesterday, when I sat around the conference table at work and watched the new president address the nation–and I thought it was an appropriate speech; it may not go down in history as one of the greatest speeches of all time, but Obama said what we needed to hear–I watched with colleagues who’ve found themselves in similar situations.  I thought about all of the times since 2003 I’ve been in the Arab world.  Arabs love to discuss politics, but I’ve refrained.  I have no idea what my country is doing, and I can’t explain it, and I don’t want to defend it.

Barack Obama has been president for a little over 24 hours.  So far, with each executive order, I’ve felt my gut unclench a little more.  Sure, he could turn out to be ineffective.  He could be a flash in the pan.  The next four years could be marked by economic stagnation and turmoil.

But we elected him.  And I’m proud of that.

So this one time? At the movie theater?

Wednesday, January 21st, 2009

I know I’m supposed to be following the national blogging trend and discussing the inauguration of Barack Obama yesterday, but I’m going to do my usual thing and instead focus on an incredibly mundane and tasteless topic.  I’ll talk about the inauguration later.

We can blame it on the jetlag.  In all seriousness, I don’t think I’ve ever had jetlag quite this bad before (I remember that it was pretty bad when I went to Saudi Arabia, but the difference there is that I was forced to keep moving so that, even if I was tired all the time, I couldn’t sit around and be mopey about it).  No matter what time I go to bed–and last night, Ray and I were both fast asleep by 9:15, an hour usually reserved for Ray ridiculing me for already being in bed (usually reading) while he exercises the Xbox–I’ve been waking up sometime between midnight and two and unable to get back to sleep.  Last night was a first in that, while this continued to be the case, I was actually able to get back to sleep, although I kept waking up every hour or so until the alarm went off.

So, here’s the tasteless topic: Ray and his friend Debbie decided over the weekend that they wanted to go see the remake of My Bloody Valentine in 3D.  (I should point out here that I haven’t seen the original and wasn’t even aware that it was a remake until we got to the theater.  I had thought that it was a reissue.)  I do enjoy the occasional horror flick–Ray and I have gotten to the point where we usually figure it out about five minutes in.

I’m going to try not to spoil anything for you, but I just need to go on record: this movie was horribly, phenomenally, unbelievably bad.  The only thing that kept us from laughing out loud at several points was the fact that it was in 3D, and, let’s face it, when people are being sliced open and you can see inside of them it’s kinda cool (when it’s obviously fake, as it was here – real blood and gushing trauma wounds make me woozy).

I think, however, that the New York Times may have summed it all up pretty well in its review:

In the way of small towns, Tom’s ex-girlfriend Sarah (Jaime King), is now married to his former best friend and current town sheriff, Axel (the singularly narcotic Kerr Smith), though her eyes still do this weird, flickery thing whenever she looks at Tom. Maybe she just needs an ophthalmologist.

Then, on Valentine’s Day, freshly pickaxed bodies sprout all over town, their hearts nestled in blood-red candy boxes. Axel suspects Tom (because he keeps furtively popping pills); Tom suspects Axel (because of his unconvincing facial hair); and Sarah suspects she needs a manicure.

There’s also a fun sequence involving no less than five minutes of a naked woman running from the killer through a parking lot.  Ray, who was sitting next to Debbie and her teenage son, felt distinctly uncomfortable during this scene — I was more amazed at the fact that she was actually naked, and the move still didn’t score an NC-17 rating.  You know perfectly well it would have been if the bits flopping around had been male.

A good chunk of the movie is set in a mine, and by the end of the film, I was kind of hoping that said mine would cave in and crush the cast, all of whom have either starred in shows on the CW (or one of its predecessor networks) or seem like they should have at one point. So, here’s a Rambling Khowaga thumbs sideways on this one.  The 3D keeps things interesting, but the movie is too long and the cast, like all CW rejects, take themselves way too seriously.

Although I am kind of curious to see the original now.  *strokes chin*

Anyway, my next post will be weighty and historic, I swear.  Almost really :D

The Queen Boat, Reconsidered

Tuesday, November 11th, 2008

It’s been quite a while since I’ve written one of my long boring posts, so if you don’t like them, well, I’m sorry.

We had a guest lecturer on campus yesterday who got me thinking (which I am wont to do from time to time) about stuff I haven’t thought about in quite a while.  I’m not going to use his name because he made himself a bit infamous for reasons that have nothing to do with the talk he gave, and I don’t want people stumbling across my blog by seeking him out in Google.  If his topic sounds interesting, e-mail me and I’ll point you in the direction of his article.

The gist of his talk is something to the following effect: he argues that what he calls a “sexual binary”–namely that one must either identify as hetero- or homosexual–is a western notion that is being imposed on the rest of the world.  If this sounds post-colonialist, you’re not wrong (if you don’t know what post-colonialism is, don’t worry about it — I’m only passingly familiar with it as I think the concept that your thoughts have to be limited by a school of thought is kind of stupid).

His specialization is the Arab World, and his particular grief is that the West is imposing this sexual binary on the Arab World when human rights groups, NGOs, etc., identify a certain subset of the populace as gay or lesbian, even when those people may not identify as gay themselves.

For the record, I started having problems with this guy’s talk when he contradicted himself by suggesting that Arabs have learned the concept of being exclusively “gay” or “lesbian” from the West, but then later said that he knows there are Arabs who do identify as gay or lesbian and that’s OK.

Now, he’s not one of these guys suggesting that homosexuality is a western disease and that it’s an unnatural behavior learned from the West — what he’s saying is that in a good chunk of the world, sexuality is more polymorphous than a simple binary.  Men who are married to women and have children also have sex with men, for example, and that these societies have constructed space to allow this behavior.  What he’s arguing is that the insistence from outside that these people be recognized as “gay” and given rights that they’re not asking for is actually causing more harm than good.

And then he brought up the example of the Queen Boat.  The story is recapped as follows: in May 2001, police raided a nightclub in Cairo (the Queen Boat — it was one of the nightclubs that’s on a large boat that goes out for a two or three hour cruise on the Nile that are popular among tourists and Egyptians alike) that was a reputed gay hangout.  52 men were arrested and charged with debauchery (there being no law against gay sex in Egypt), and the trials spanned over months.

Several international gay rights organizations picked up the banner and pressured western embassies to take up the cause of Egypt’s “repression of homosexuality.”  The western gay press ran stories about “Egypt’s Stonewall.”

The problem was this: none of the men arrested identified themselves as gay, even under allegations of torture.  The gay press attributed this to a long-standing social stigma against homosexuality, but Our Speaker suggested another explanation: none of the men actually considered themselves gay.  Many, in fact most of them were married and had children.  Instead of being Egypt’s Stonewall, it was a trial that went nowhere, and with the exception of two men who’ve been in jail for years, most of them were free within a couple of months, badly embarrassed at having been accused of “licentious behavior.”  Several of them have since emigrated from Egypt (with wives and children).

Our Speaker argued that the international attention did more harm than good–Egypt at the time had no law against homosexual acts.  Parliament is now considering them, however, in response to the Queen Boat incident.

I was trying to digest all of this–I think he’s got a point, although I think there are problems with his analysis–when a friend of mine, an Egyptian doctoral candidate in history, raised her hand and made a counterpoint that I’d been waiting for.  The Egyptian government was, at the time, facing rising opposition from Islamist parties who were accusing the government of being corrupt and amoral, and were holding themselves to be the protectors of virtue.  Shortly thereafter, the Egyptian government sanctions a raid on a well-known gay nightclub that’s been operating for years and charges everyone on board with amoral behavior.  Coincidence?  She doesn’t think so, and neither do I.

Another example our speaker brought up was the novel/film ‘Omaret Ya’qubian (The Yacoubian Building), which was very popular the last time I was in Cairo in 2006.  Among the characters in the novel–which is a sort of Egyptian Peyton Place, following the lives of the inhabitants of an apartment building in downtown Cairo–is the self-identified homosexual character Hatem, who engages in a relationship with a Nubian soldier, Abed Rabbo.

Our Speaker argued that the novel is essentially Islamist in tone, even though the author clearly thinks he’s being very sophisticated.  Hatem, who lives alone and is the passive partner in the relationship (read: “bottom”) is identified as شاظ “shadh” (or “shaz,” as the Egyptians would pronounce it) which means deviant or pervert, but is also common street slang for gay.  (I started to have problems with his talk around this point, because he was saying that the book was mistranslated into English because shaz used to only mean “deviant” in a much broader sense, even though now anyone who reads the book would read it as “homosexual,” which the author is on record as having said is what he meant).

Abed Rabbo, on the other hand, is married and has a son, and is never identified as a shaz.  (Abed Rabbo later murders Hatem … well, it’s complicated).  Hence, Our Speaker puts forward the suggestion that the behaviour is only deviant because Hatem has sex exclusively with men, and exclusively in the passive role, for which he is “punished” with death at the end of the novel.

Again, he kind of has a point here, although I kind of think that Our Speaker would do well to review, for example, The Celluloid Closet for examples of early gay and lesbian characters in film, who almost always met a tragic end.  One of the explanations of this is that it helped anyone in the audience who was having conflicted issues about feeling sympathetic toward the gay character feel better when he or she “got what they deserved.”  Indeed, audiences who watched the film version of The Yacoubian Building were reputed to cheer Hatem’s death, even if they had been sobbing moments earlier when Abed Rabbo’s son took ill and died.

And then this got me thinking about Prop 8.  I know, it’s kind of crazy that thinking about the tenuous relationship between Islam and homosexuality in Egypt might have gotten me thinking about Prop 8 and the enormous backlash against the Mormons for funding it.  Believe me, I’m all for holding the church accountable for their part–but Californians actually voted for it.  I find it interesting (anthropologically speaking) that someone could stand in the election booth and vote for Barack Obama, arguably one of the most liberal Democrats to run for office in years, on the one hand while voting for Prop 8 on the other and see no contradiction.

What, I wonder, was the tipping point?  I don’t believe that it’s as simple as “the Mormons poured a bunch of money into the campaign and that’s why it passed” (note to Michael: I’m not saying that I don’t think it’s A reason, I’m saying that I don’t think it’s the ONLY reason.)

I don’t have answers to this, I’m merely posing the question: what made the people of what is, next to Massachusetts, considered the most liberal state in the Union decide not only to ban gay marriage but to retroactively alter the state constitution, thus potentially invalidating 18,000+ marragies already on the books?  The LDS campaign may have pushed it over the top (in fact, I’m fairly sure it did), but there was already a solid base to begin.

How could we have made history by electing our first black president and shattering the racial glass ceiling, but reaffirm separate-and-unequal status in several states all in one fell swoop?  Are we the sacrificial lamb being offered up?  “We’ll elect a black guy, but the immorality has to stop” — is that it? Trust me, I’m kind of used to it.  I live in Texas.

But it doesn’t make me happy about any of this.  It just makes me wonder what’s really going on here.

If I have any more thoughts, I’ll share.  You can, too.

Meet Bob

Wednesday, October 8th, 2008

In one of my more recent posts, I made reference to my all purpose scapegoat, Bob in accounting.

I have a long history with Bob. Bob was invented by a high school classmate of mine as a recurring character in a series of extraordinarily poorly written … I’ll call them “stories” for lack of a better word … that we wrote, one paragraph at a time, in our trigonometry class.

Bob was originally the god of high fructose corn syrup breakfast cereals and bad plot twists (in that order), which is how he was so useful to our budding (and usually contradictory) careers as authors. (Only one of us who were involved in this endeavor is actually a published writer, and it ain’t me.)

Later on, I decided that Bob needed a day job, what with the new health backlash against high fructose corn syrup, and the clear evidence that J.J. Abrams has usurped the title of god of bad plot twists away from Bob.

I resurrected Bob shortly after 9/11, when I was fairly convinced that the various commissions were actually going to identify a specific person whose fault it was that the attacks were able to happen. Of course, it wouldn’t be the head of anything (plausible deniability), or anyone you’d ever heard of. It would be some random cog in the machine in mid-level management. Someone who didn’t put the right fax in the right person’s inbox. Someone who saw the chatter traffic and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. And all of a sudden, I realized: it would be Bob in accounting. 9/11 would, I was convinced, be Bob’s fault.

It doesn’t matter where Bob actually works in accounting. He’s sort of an all purpose scapegoat. John McCain thinks that Freddie and FannieMae are to blame for the financial meltdown; Barack Obama disagrees. Split the difference: blame Bob.

In fact, I heartily offer up Bob to anyone who basically wants to say the following: “Why in the name of almighty Bob are we spending so much time and effort worrying about whose fault it was instead of just working of fixing the damned problem already?!!!!”

And so, to the United States electorate, I offer you this: when commissions are tying up broadcast television; when the Fed has imploded and we’re all living in cardboard boxes on the street and eating from soup kitchens … don’t blame Bob. Blame the government for not blaming him and getting on with the business at hand.

 

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