Letters from Amman

Dateline: September 19, 2001, Newark Star Ledger

2011-09-19T08:28:00.000-07:00

What I wrote a year ago remains all-too-relevant today. On the 10th anniversary I am proud to have generated a great team and implemented a powerful step toward reconnecting the human family: www.911Walks.org

Date: 2001/09/19 Published in the Newark Star-Ledger, New Jersey's largest daily newspaper

We are Americans, too

Arab community and Islam are not to blame for attacks
By ANISA MEHDI

I sat on the left side of the NJ Transit train escaping New York City that Tuesday. Like so many of us, I needed to see the smoking towers with my own eyes to shake the disbelief from my senses.

Commuters, ordinarily strangers to one another, talked all the way home. The man next to me and I shared our astonishment and sorrow, wondering what the horrible events might portend. He asked why I had gone to New York that morning, and I said that, ironically, I was producing a television documentary aimed at helping Americans understand Islam better. He shook his head grimly and said, "This is going to help."

I asked why he thought everyone was pointing blame at Muslims at a time like this. "Racism," was his simple and precise response. I trembled involuntarily.

You can't tell I am Muslim just by looking at me. I do not cover my hair. My eyebrows are waxed back to dark, defined, dramatic lines, that don't shout, "I'm an Arab!" Not anymore.

Gone are the painful days of a schoolgirl called "terrorist." No one asks about the camels in my yard anymore, or about the bomb in my backpack. My friend's parents can't forbid me to play with them because now I'm grown up. Not that I ever was a threat. I was just a kid who happened to have a different background, trying to peacefully share the same American playground as everyone else.

I grew up in Queens, and there, as anywhere in the metropolitan area, people of Arab, South Asian or homegrown Muslim roots learned to steel themselves against prejudice.

Until last Tuesday I'd forgotten how much armor I'd been wearing in emotional self-defense. What started in school evolved into decades of explaining oppressed people's frustration in Palestine, Lebanon, Afghanistan and Iran. I'd get the evil eye when I suggested that maybe people in other countries might not see our government as the same "good guy" we may consider it to be.

But Sept. 11 shattered my shields and silenced my historical clarifications. Nothing explains this. Nothing justifies this outrageous attack. We are all horrified beyond expression at the evil we have witnessed. This assault is on upright people everywhere: Muslims, Christians, Jews, people of other faiths and people of no faith.

I join Muslims all over the world recoiling in disgust that anyone could remotely associate this brutality with Islam. With Arab-Americans I weep for the children of Lebanon and Palestine and Iraq who have already suffered extreme deprivation and stand now to suffer even more. I weep for the young Americans who will be taunted and ostracized, as I once was, for crimes they would never commit.

Americans, all of us, are stunned by this act of violence.

Yes, it's imperative to find the guilty parties, try them, convict them and punish them. But it's also imperative that we do not blame the innocent and curse a whole community unfairly. The world is home to 1 1/2 billion Muslims - an estimated 7 million in this country. The overwhelming majority are good, decent people.

Islam is a faith based on peaceful submission to the will of God. Muslims are commanded to respect the faiths of others. We are instructed to do what is good and avoid what is evil. Chapter 35, verse 10 of the Quran says: "If any do seek for glory and power, to God belongs all glory and power. To him mount up all words of purity. It is he who exalts each deed of righteousness. Those that lay plots of evil, for them is a penalty terrible; and the plotting of such will be void of result."

Islam allows no excuse for the killing of innocent people.

So why are some Americans reacting so forcefully against Muslims? To take blind vengeance on Muslims or Arabs is another kind of evil that we, as Americans, have been fighting for decades. That evil is bigotry, so starkly stated by my fellow commuter in the shadow of the smoke last Tuesday.

Bigotry and racism won't help: not locally, not globally.

It will take years, perhaps generations, for all the emotional and political dust to settle from the attacks on the World Trade Center towers and the Pentagon. For Muslims the pain and politics are multilayered. We have not only suffered the loss of loved ones but also are suddenly suspect - guilt by association. Numerous acts of violence against Muslim businesses have been reported around the country. Mobs have menaced mosques; women in traditional Islamic dress have been beaten. Many shudder with the knowledge that their homelands may soon come under attack.

I am heartened by what I've seen in many New Jersey towns: calls for solidarity among all our diverse communities and measured military response. The guideposts for action are in our great Constitution and the prayerful words of "America, the Beautiful": "Confirm thy soul in self-control, thy liberty in law."

What your Muslim and Arab neighbors, your doctors, your students and classmates, coffee-shop owners and gas station attendants need now is to be embraced, not rejected. We are not the "them" or the "they" that did it. We are part of "us." We stand with other Americans. Together we can build a more stable and understanding tomorrow.

###

Groundswelling

2011-09-07T14:11:00.000-07:00

On September 6 an inspired audience sat in the Greene Space at WNYC, as Valarie Kaur and fellow panelists Hussein Rashid, Ari Wallach and Beth Zemsky laid out a foundation for a hopeful new social movement for the 21st century. If you’re reading this blog, chances are you’re already pumped, primed, and part of it … Certainly the 9/11 Walks project embodies it … Auburn Seminary, hosting of the event, took the brave step of naming it something: “Groundswel l.” Kaur is the project director as it is conceived by Auburn.

The event was an opportunity for the audience, mostly from the “progressive left,” to learn how to make something of “collective intentional action,” as Zemsky, a social change strategy expert explained. It was a chance to c

onsciously frame a conversation for the future that goes beyond “rights” and “tolerance” to an age of welcome and partnership. It is a time for turning “campaigns” into lasting aspirational world views. It is also a time to include faith.

“Our generation, the Millennials,” said Kaur, “doesn’t see ourselves as black or white, Asian or American, Muslim or Sikh, straight or gay.” (I, who am of another generation with more years here deeply appreciate that sentiment, yet I wonder, who DO they see? We all see someone. Is it possible simply to see character and qualities like honesty, honor, intelligence and humility?)

I went to the microphone at the appointed time, and spoke of the 9/11 Walks. ”We are one way to connect with another person. we are decentralized. We ask people to ‘see no strangers,’” I said, referencing key points made by Hussein, Wallach, and Kaur respectively. ”And we are motivated by the enlightened longings and bold visions expressed here tonight. But we’re responding to one thing more that hasn’t been mentioned. Fear. An underlying fear of another, the other, existing today that makes all of our efforts essential. Fear of Muslims, fear of “crusaders,” fear of terrorists, fear of drones and fighters jets, fear of cyberattack, fear of occupation, fear of physical and cultural annihilation, fear of flying, fear of worshipping false idols, false leaders, and false pretenses. We, the 9/11 Walks, are taking our small steps as an act of hope and courage to make a mark of kindness on the face of fear. What else do YOU see as possible. What else can people do, what else can we do to face and diminish fear?”

One good answer was to make sure to tell your story to another and to hear the other’s tale, too. That makes the other person multi-dimensional.

Another good answer was to keep hope and your aspirational world view front and center.

What do YOU think we can do? We are already on this Walk together … Share what you think.

In synagogue speech, Anisa Mehdi recalls historic ‘compatibility’|

2011-03-30T13:13:00.000-07:00

Originally published in the New Jersey Jewish News, March 30, 2011

Muslim journalist: ‘Use our common ground’

by Robert Wiener NJJN Staff Writer

March 30, 2011

A Muslim journalist called on a Jewish audience in Livingston to “use our common ground as Muslims and Jews to make something positive in history out of something others will certainly use to spew hate and fear.”

Anisa Mehdi, founder and president of Whetstone Productions, a New Jersey-based production and consulting company, was guest speaker at Temple B’nai Abraham on March 22.

In an hour-long address, followed by a half-hour question-and-answer period, the award-winning reporter and filmmaker suggested that Judaism and Islam, as well as Jews and Muslims, had much in common despite centuries of hostility.

“Back to the basics,” she said. “Adam, Noah, Joel, Jonah, Abraham, Isaac, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, Isaiah, Elijah — all of these are considered prophets of Islam to Muslims and they are all mentioned in the holy book, the Koran…. We share values of education and respect for our parents, giving charity, and fasting.

“Islam, like Judaism, is a system of laws and rules — some of which we wrestle with, some of which we take at face value, and some of which we need to reinterpret so they are relevant to today,” she added. “The Protestant Reformation took a long time and was very bloody. I’m not sure this will be any different.”

Venturing into what she called “tricky territory,” Mehdi spoke of historic violence between Jews and Muslims.

“We have the right things and the profound faith that we share, but we also have very complicated politics, and these are the things that need to be discussed,” she said. “We have a long history of compatibility.”

She referred to the “great poetry, mathematics, exploration” by both Jews and Muslims in medieval Spain, as well as persecution and banishment by the Catholics during the Spanish Inquisition.

With the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks coming up in September, she suggested a new Muslim-Jewish alliance in America “to create a productive future. We need friends,” she said.

“We can use your support because you know what it is like to be persecuted and to be a minority that is unfairly targeted.”

After her talk, Mehdi fielded questions about what some audience members suggested was a dearth of moderate Muslim voices.

“My heart breaks when I hear the anti-Muslim sentiment in this country,” said one woman in the audience. “Why aren’t there more moderate Muslims speaking out against some of the things that fundamentalists do and say?”

“Why does it seem like we don’t hear from these moderate Muslims?” interjected Rabbi Clifford Kulwin. “Is it that we are not hearing, or is it because it is not happening?”

“It is there and we’re not hearing it,” Mehdi insisted. “Every time there is a suicide bombing in Iraq on the Muslim side or in Israel, where Jews die, there are condemnations of that act of terrorism by imams and leaders of Muslim civic groups and individuals. They are automatically and regularly condemned, these acts of terrorism,” but mostly ignored by American media.

Later, in an interview with NJ Jewish News, Mehdi acknowledged that tension between Palestinians and Israelis “has been a biggie and will remain until there is a solution.”

“Will we ever see a solution?” she was asked.“Absolutely. I think it might be a two- or three-state solution with Gaza, the West Bank, and Israel, not because of political differences between Hamas and Fatah, but because they are geographically separate — unless there is a giving of territory that connects Gaza and the West Bank.”

Her tone was optimistic.

“It will eventually get better. The Hundred Years’ War ended. We are now allies with Japan, even if the United States committed the worst act of terrorism and the only act of nuclear assault on this planet,” she said, referring to the World War II bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. “Anything is possible.”

Mehdi, whose reportage specializes in religion and the arts, has appeared on PBS’ Frontline, ABC News’ Nightline, and National Geographic Special. She is a resident of Maplewood and a flutist with the Livingston Symphony Orchestra.

SIDE BAR

Speaker’s family honored Thomas

One subject that was not raised at Anisa Mehdi’s March 22 appearance at Temple B’nai Abraham was a “courage in journalism” award her family presented to veteran White House correspondent Helen Thomas.

The $1,000 prize was given to the 90-year-old Thomas at a Nov. 18 dinner organized by the Arab-American Anti-Discrimination Committee.

“The story of Helen Thomas, like my father’s, is one of integrity, vision, boldness, and unflagging determination,” Anisa Mehdi said in an AADC release announcing the award.

The event took place six months after Thomas said in a videotaped interview at a Jewish American Heritage Month celebration at the White House that Jews “should get the hell out of Palestine” and “go home” to Poland, Germany, and the United States. The comments cost the Lebanese-American reporter her job as a columnist for the Hearst Corp.

Mehdi’s family and the AADC presented Thomas with the 2010 M.T. Mehdi Courage in Journalism award after Thomas wrote that “I deeply regret my comments” and before a Dec. 2 speech in which she said the White House, Congress, Hollywood, and Wall Street “are owned by the Zionists.”

Asked by NJ Jewish News why her family presented Thomas with an award months after the correspondent made comments many considered anti-Semitic, Mehdi responded in a March 29 e-mail: “The Mehdi family honored Helen Thomas…in recognition of her long and laudable career in American journalism. Her personal comment at the White House Jewish Heritage Celebration last May does not invalidate 57 years of superb, professional journalism.”

Rabbi Clifford Kulwin of Temple B’nai Abraham said he had not been aware that Mehdi’s family had presented the award to Thomas.

“I don’t know if having this information ahead of time would have altered our decision to invite her,” said Kulwin. Nevertheless, he said, Mehdi “was informative, engaging, and absolutely thought-provoking. In any case, when we invite somebody to Temple B’nai Abraham to speak and share their views with us, we don’t require or expect that everything they say will be pleasing to our congregation. That is not how one learns.”

— ROBERT WIENER|

Anisa podcast

2011-03-18T09:17:00.001-07:00

My March 1 keynote address for Women's History Month is now a podcast of Raritan Valley Community College. You can hear it here: Will the Revolution be Feminized? Arab and Muslim Women in the Public Sphere.

"Going to Church and Mosque in Algeria," Encore of NPR Commentary

2011-02-26T10:15:00.000-08:00

I wrote and read this commentary for National Public Radio in 2005 after conducting documentary film research in Algeria and France. I post if for you now in honor of the Trappist monks who stayed put in a dangerous time and place out of love and respect for their Muslim friends and neighbors -- who also stayed put for the monks.

A feature film on the lives of the monks, "Of Gods and Men" by Xavier Beauvois, is France's submission to this year's Academy Awards. I'm still working on my documentary, hindered not by content but by funding. My film goes well beyond the sacrifice of the Trappists to the extraordinary outreach across religious lines their friends and family have undertaken in the wake of their tragic deaths.

The story is immediate and important.

July 19, 2005

Commentator Anisa Mehdi has the story of Christian de Chergé, a Trappist monk in Algeria in the 20th century.

MELISSA BLOCK, host:

Here's a story about Roman Catholics in Algeria from commentator Anisa Mehdi.
ANISA MEHDI:

Algeria is no stranger to the church. The fourth century theologian St. Augustine was born in what is now the eastern edge of Algeria and wrote his famous confessions there. Christians have been in the area ever since. When the French colonized Algeria beginning in 1830, they brought along Catholic monks to prove to the local Muslims that they, too, had religion.
One of Algeria's outstanding 20th century monks was also from France. In the 1850s, Christian de Chergé was a lieutenant in the French army fighting against Algerian independence. During that time one of the local Muslims he befriended died protecting him. No one would forget such a sacrifice, least of all the pious Christian de Chergé.

After Algeria won independence in 1962, de Chergé became a Trappist monk. He begged to be posted in Algeria. Father Christian spent the rest of his life learning Arabic and studying Islam. In 1972, he traveled from his Algerian monastery to Italy to study at the Pontifical Institute of Arabic and Islamic Studies in Rome. Did you know there even was one? De Chergé dedicated his ministry to building faith together with Muslims. He and his brothers at their tiny monastery tucked away in the Atlas Mountains welcomed Muslims for discussions, retreats and cultivation.
They weren't out to cultivate Christians. They were cultivating honey, vegetables, fruit trees and friendship.

Neither the Catholics nor the Muslims in these gatherings tried to convert the other. Instead, they tried to sow an understanding of the Word of God, to search together for God's will, to create as best they could a model of behavior for the kingdom of heaven. It didn't work. Hell came instead. A merciless civil war terrorized Algeria in the 1990s, and in March 1996 some faction in that bitter war kidnapped Father Christian and six of his brother monks. Two months later only their heads were found. Their funeral was held at the magnificent cathedral of Our Lady of Africa high on the cliffs of Algiers overlooking the Mediterranean. The archbishop of Algiers and Muslim religious leaders, French diplomats and Algerian politicians all attended; so did thousands of ordinary citizens.

Family and friends of the martyred monks are continuing their work, pursuing dialogue in both Algeria and France. Christians and Muslims worldwide must keep moving toward friendship following the lead of these Algerian monks and the late pope, John Paul II. They don't have to believe each other's theology. They just need to uphold the essential codes they share: to show mercy, be just, give charity, love one another and love God.

BLOCK: Anisa Mehdi is producing a documentary film about the monks and Muslims of Algeria.

Copyright © 2005 National Public Radio®. All rights reserved.

RVCC tells stories of women during Women's History Month

2011-02-23T11:48:00.000-08:00

Anisa Mehdi, keynote, March 1, 2011, 7-8:30pm

BRANCHBURG — The stories of women from around the world will be told during events for Women's History Month at Raritan Valley Community College.

From women in Egypt and Sierra Leone in Africa to local women who graduated from RVCC, the college's March programs include a wide range of experiences and perspectives.

The programs are all free and open to the public.

They center on the theme "Our History is Our Strength: Celebrating the Centenary of International Women's Day." International Women's Day is a global event, first celebrated in 1911, that grew out of demands by women, labor unions and socialist organizations for better rights and working conditions for women worldwide. It served as the germ for the eventual proclamation of Women's History Month by the federal government in the 1980s.

RVCC's programs include appearances by award-winning filmmaker/journalist Anisa Mehdi; Sara Flounders, co-director of the New York-based International Action Center; and Ishmael Beah, author of the best-selling "A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier."

Here are details about each event:

7 to 8:30 p.m. March 1, RVCC Atrium (lower level, College Center), Opening day ceremony: "Will the Egyptian Revolution be Feminized? Arab and Muslim Women in the Public Sphere," presented by Anisa Mehdi; respondents: RVCC professors Brandyn Heppard, philosophy; Jacqueline Skole, communication; Ronald Tyson, English; and Andrea Vaccaro, ESL. Mehdi is an Emmy Award-winning journalist and filmmaker who served as artistic director of "Documentary Voices: Pulling Focus," an initiative launched in Dubai in July 2008, and as producer/director of the National Geographic special "Inside Mecca."

1 to 2:30 p.m. March 16, RVCC Conference Center (Room C), "The Role of Women in the Creation of World Peace," presented by Sara Flounders; respondents: RVCC professors Charlie Bondhus, English; and Saulo Colon, sociology. Flounders, who identifies herself as a grassroots organizer, has spoken at universities and high schools and on numerous broadcast networks.

My Iraq, His War: International Herald Tribune February 12, 2011

2011-02-11T08:55:00.000-08:00

I.H.T. OP-ED CONTRIBUTOR

My Iraq, His War

By ANISA MEHDI

Published: February 11, 2011

REPRINTS

MAPLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY — I was in a supermarket picking up greens, beans and rice for dinner, reflecting on that fateful night in January 1991 when the United States began bombing my father’s homeland and I found out I was pregnant with my first child.

Behind me at the checkout counter was a man in camouflage fatigues and boots, clean cut, in his late 20s: an American soldier home on leave. His jacket listed Iraqi cities — Baghdad, Kirkuk, Fallujah and Mosul. He waited, chatting with a comrade in civilian attire.

My heart clenched as soon as I saw him. From gullet to gut tremors took me over as they have every time I think about the war. Twenty years later my complicit inner American still wrestles with my enraged inner Iraqi. “It was bad enough with Saddam Hussein,” one voice says. “I was against it! I’m sorry,” says another. “You’re not the Mongols; you’re the great democracy! End it!” “It’s out of my control.”

My father was born in Karbala and finished high school in Baghdad. He earned his Ph.D. at the University of California at Berkeley. Dad never lost the accent that set him apart from the fathers of my friends. He complimented the girls in my class who gained weight — a sign that they had enough to eat at home. (The girls, of course, were mortified.)

My dad, M.T. Mehdi, spent his life defending Palestinian rights. His motherland only became an issue for him during his last years.

We visited Iraq a long time ago: my blonde, blue-eyed mom and her three dark-haired daughters meeting my father’s mother for the first and only time. Baghdad’s perfumed evening air met my Scheherazade-inspired expectations; the bustling book market, the clanging copper souk, the world’s sweetest mint tea, and the girls in jeans and tee-shirts all spun a wondrous, unexpected reality.

That was before Saddam Hussein took power, before the devastating war with Iran, before ’91 and decades of sanctions pummeling the population into purgatory; before foreign forces cleared the way for sectarian violence and a reign of terror by criminal opportunists. Before kidnappings for ransom became all-too-common. Before American soldiers were picking off people in the street from helicopters hovering above as if Iraqis were digital images in a video game.

My younger daughter’s best friend and her family fled Baghdad. Her fondest childhood memory is sitting around a coal stove in a once-luxurious home, all the curtains drawn, eating melted chocolate on bread.

When I saw the man in fatigues my heart began to race.

I tried to hold my tongue, but the inner Iraqi and sympathetic American conspired against it. A snide tone came from my stopped-up throat, like steam from a pressure-cooker.

“Have you been to Karbala?” I jerked my chin toward the list on his coat. It was an accusation, not a question.

The soldier raised his eyebrows. Here, at a supermarket in New Jersey, a stranger was talking to him about a place on the other side of the world, and it wasn’t a pandering “thank you” for defending our nation.

“My family is from Karbala,” I persisted, adding a touch of defiance.

That surprised him even more. There was nothing uniquely Iraqi in my appearance: dark curly hair, a jacket, slacks. I sound like I was born in the U.S.A., which I was.

The biggest surprise, however, was mine. He took a breath and said very gently, “No, I haven’t been there. But I hear it was a beautiful city once.”

My heart missed a beat. That’s not what I expected. Entitlement from a soldier, sure. Scorn, maybe; nonchalance at worst. There was none of that in his voice and no pity either. Only kindness.

“Yes it was,” I confirmed, remembering the gilded dome of the Shrine of Hussein, the rich brocade enveloping his tomb, the detailed, glittering mosaics, the chandeliers and the peaceful courtyard shaded with palm trees. My face twitched into something like an upturned smile and I looked away, my eyes beginning to sting and something salty suddenly rising in my throat.

I paid for my groceries and nodded goodbye. He nodded back. As I left I he turned to his buddy. “No one should be there,” I heard him say. “War is hell.”

Anisa Mehdi is a journalist and filmmaker living in New Jersey. She was a 2009-2010 Fulbright Scholar in Jordan.

Pilgrimage and Faith: Buddhism, Christianity, and Islam

2011-01-26T07:18:00.000-08:00

On January's final weekend I'm giving a talk at the University of Richmond's Joel and Lila Harnett Museum of Art.

The exhibition, Pilgrimage and Faith: Buddhism, Christianity, and Islam, has been in the works for several years. I got started on it long before the Fulbright at the invitation of Professor Virginia Raguin of the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, MA. In contrast to the many interfaith conjoinings of Islam with Christianity and Judaism, this program expands beyond theology to participation, hence the exploration of a practice: pilgrimage. What sets this collection apart from other, "high art" amassings of religious art work and iconography, is the inclusion of very personal items -- souvenirs, memorabilia, maps, treasures that remind a person of her extraordinary journey. A wristband. A canteen. A few stones gathered en route. Scraps of writings. Connecting these pieces across time are canteens 1000 years old and centuries-old boxes for carrying trinkets home. You'll also see some books and glorious calligraphy as are now on display at the New York Public Library's well-received Three Faiths: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.

It's interesting to me how religion, faith, spirituality and seeking are perhaps less pariah subjects than even a decade ago. We are learning to look with respect and curiosity at other people's ways. I am all for the multi-lateralism of society. Appreciation breeds far less destruction than disdain.

Year End 2010

2010-12-20T09:09:00.001-08:00

Well my friends. It's the end of 2010. I've been home for just about six months and I see I've not filled in for you what it's been like being back. It's hard to describe re-entry. At first all seemed utterly easy: hearth and home were as if I'd not left (except that Peter had redone our bedroom ceiling and walls - that was a treat!), the neighborhood looked the same,everyone speaksks English. It was the Fourth of July weekend when we landed and so we were ushered into a celebration of America, guests, fireworks, parades. I hurried off to Esalen for a board meeting. I flew to Chicago with mymom and sisters to celebrate birthdays and shop. I took the hedge back from months of overgrowth. And we went to our cabin in Maine for relaxation, kayaking and music-making.

Then I began to notice a gap, a vacuum, a space. From time to time I forgot where things were here -- streets, friends' homes, grocery stores. I watched the sidewalks for huge cracks and the curbs for deep dropoffs like our streets in Amman. Bread costs too much and there's nothing coming piping hot out of an oven, steaming, flat smothered in oil and zaatar. Cucumbers are large and bland. Stuffed rolled grape leaves are expensive.

Hommos here thinks it's Israeli.

I find that understanding all the words around me can be disturbingly banal.

Half and half in my coffee is padding out the lean I'd acquired in Jordan. No access to Petra jars my soul. No views of the great Hercules atop Amman's Citadel saddens my eyes. There is no Hashem restaurant a cab ride away for fabulous falafel and onions, clamor and tea. Beirut, Damascus, Bethlehem and Cairo aren't just a few hours away. I miss last year's world.

Most of the great lessons I learned last year were about living. Too many deadlines deaden. Drink sweet tea seated. Watch the sunset. Talk with friends using both ears. Time is shorter. And longer. And there's nothing you can do about it anyway.

So I've not rushed back into the fray. My last speaking event in Amman was the world premiere of my 1989 film shot in Jordan for NJN, "Classical Caravan," at the home of US Deputy Chief of Mission Lawrence Mandel. Beginning September here I spoke in the fall at Illinois College, Colorado State, the Air Force Academy, Colorado College, Maplewood and South Orange Middle Schools. Representing my family I presented the 2010 M.T. Mehdi Courage in Journalism Award to Helen Thomas. But there's been no big project consuming my time. No overlapping deadlines to fret about. I am able to attempt long form writing and produce shorter pieces for air or Op-Ed pages.

I've been a busy board member at Esalen, The Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey and Masar Ibrahim el Khalil, promoting, raising money, encouraging people to participate in seminars, come see the plays, and walk. Maestro Istvan Jaray returned me to the principal flute chair in the Livingston Symphony Orchestra and there's great music for me to perfect. Muffins are becoming my specialty bake item -- especially made with leftover cranberry relishes from Thanksgiving Dinner. I just finished reading Isabel Allende's Island Beneath the Sea and I expect I'll go ahead and read everything else she's written. And do, in some way, what she does. This is a process of reinvention: what's my next phase?

Sit, drink tea, and figure it out.

I love watching Janna mature at Wellesley College. She's an activist in environmental affairs and justice. Passionate and logical in her arguments. Katie's marching band season was successful. She was named best "high woodwind" for her flute-playing. And she lucky duck, is going to Jordan for Christmas and the New Year. She's charged with bringing back zaatar and Ajloun olive oil.

Marriage is working out fine lo! these 25 years later with ten months apart. I didn't know how comfortably I'd fall back into sharing authority with the other adult or how I'd readjust to balancing independence with partnership. It's better than I could have imagined. We're both eager to dust the physical contours of our home, clear out stuff, rearrange, polish. We listen to records. I'm watching (American) football -- we are Patriots fans -- and enjoying it for the first time in my life. I'm not feeling pent up even if the view is not Herculean. I look out the window of my office on the third floor of our home and remember watching my daughters walk up that street when they were eight, nine, ten ... now seventeen years old. And there's only a year and a half left for me as a mom with a child at home. After that there's plenty of time, insha Allah, to roll out the next phase.

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year. May joy and success be abundant in 2011.

Disagreeing in Colorado October 6-7

2010-10-04T08:10:00.001-07:00

Michael Lame and I got rave reviews for our presentation at Illinois College in Jacksonville. Karen Dean, head of the Habtoor Leadership Center, was especially inspired by our exhortations to the students to think as an active, time-intensive exercise.

On our way to the campus we stopped to see Abraham Lincoln's tomb in Springfield. I was deeply moved to be there. Why? We know Mr. Lincoln is not there. But the symbolism is. His life, courage, trials all there on the walls. I didn't know one of his sons died while he was in the White House. I didn't know his favorite literary references were the King James Bible and Shakespeare. He should become mine. Lincoln reminded me of the profound privilege it is to be an American. A privilege we must protect from intolerance and warmongers.

This Wednesday we're at Colorado State University in Fort Collins. Then on Thursday I address the Air Force Academy and Colorado College in Colorado Springs. Stop by if you're in the neighborhood!

Speaking at Illinois College: Khalaf Al Habtoor Lecture Series

2010-09-24T09:33:00.000-07:00

On September 29 my colleague Michael Lame and I will be debating "Attaining Peace in the Middle East" at Illinois College in Jacksonville, IL.

Scroll down to see the announcement.

On October 6 we'll be at Colorado State University in Fort Collins.

On the 7th I'll address the US Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs.

Check out Wolfman Productions or contact me directly if you're interested in arranging an event.

Stories about Quran Burning Reveal Shortcomings of U.S. Media's Coverage of Islam

2010-09-20T11:53:00.000-07:00

On September 14 Poynter on Line pegged my NPR piece as follows:

"One refreshing take that did address tough questions came from essayist Anisa Mehdi on NPR. Mehdi reminds those who would support burning the Quran that it contains verses that acknowledge and praise Jesus and Mary. Likewise, she reminds Muslims overseas who might commit acts of violence as a result of the act that they, too, should review Muslim principles that favor self-discipline and Quranic verses that warn against lawlessness."

Thanks to Cate Malek, Development Coordinator of the Masar Ibrahim el Khalil/Abraham's Path (www.abrahampath.org) for bringing this shout out to my attention.

Before Burning Quran, Know What's In It!

2010-09-10T14:48:00.001-07:00

September 9, 2010

Read my essay on NPR.org:

"Before Burning Quran, Know What's In It"

And on Facebook

Please comment and "recommend"

"A Christian response to the Islamic community center near Ground Zero

2010-08-20T07:14:00.000-07:00

Hi, friends, I'm back from vacation in Maine and will be writing you a "letter" soon. In the meantime here's a sensible and heartfelt essay reprinted from the Common Ground News Service, www.commongroundnews.org.

A Christian response to the Islamic community centre near Ground Zero
Julie Clawson

Austin, Texas - Last week New York City Mayor Mike Bloomberg stood with representatives of local faith groups and declared that "there is no neighbourhood in this city that is off-limits to God's love and mercy." Personally, as a Christian who fully supports the proposed Muslim community centre near Ground Zero, Park51 (previously known as Cordoba House), his words echoed my heartfelt sentiments.

Yet there are many Christian Americans who have spoken out against this centre, claiming that it is inappropriate and offensive, and that its proximity to Ground Zero would allow Muslims to mock the events of 9/11. Since speaking out in support of the centre, I've even had other Christians accuse me of supporting the work of Satan and turning my back not only on my faith, but on everything the United States stands for.

I'll be the first to admit that, like people of all faiths, Christians sometimes fail to follow the path of love and mercy Jesus modelled for us. We substitute our political leanings or our cultural fears in place of the command to love our neighbour.

It can be difficult to remember that the God we claim to worship is much bigger than ourselves. We do not hold a monopoly on God's love and there are no places where we should not be at the forefront of extending it, working for reconciliation and healing.

Yet, in the continued confusion and misunderstandings sparked by the events of 9/11, I all too often encounter a culture of fear and revenge. Some Christians unfortunately say that the terrorists' actions represent the heart of Islam. They project their fear and hatred onto all Muslims, blaming them for those events and asserting that they desire the destruction of Christianity and America's freedoms.

Ironically, many of these same people are the first to argue when so-called Christians commit heinous acts that they do not act on behalf of all Christians. They go so far as to say they aren't actually Christians, much less representative of the religion, as we saw recently when members of Michigan's Hutaree Militia were arrested for planning to slaughter law enforcement workers.

But this same distinction is rarely extended to our Muslim brothers and sisters.

I wish I could offer an apology on behalf of those who hold such misinformed beliefs - for those Christians that fail to follow in the way of Jesus and who instead oppose the rights of Muslims to worship freely in our country. But I don't speak for them. I can only live my life and use my voice to represent a different side of Christianity, one that truly believes God's love and mercy extends everywhere.

And I can hope with Bloomberg that the building of this community centre will achieve its goal of working for reconciliation and "help repudiate the false and repugnant idea that the attacks of 9/11 are in any way consistent with Islam."

When people of diverse faiths come together as they did last week in New York in support of the community centre, we can start dismantling such false assumptions and collectively take a stand for the truth.

To that end I am grateful for the families of those that lost loved ones on 9/11 who are speaking out on behalf of Muslims and in support of Park51. These include the September 11th Families for Peaceful Tomorrows, who promote dialogue, non-violence and international cooperation, and have specifically spoken out in support of the centre. Out of their own tremendous grief they desire to protect Muslims from the kind of grief that comes from being condemned and ostracised. Instead of fearing some manufactured threat to freedom, they extend that precious freedom willingly to all.

That is Christian love in action.

Sadly, some Christians have not collectively responded well to this community centre or to Muslims since 9/11. I don't want to hide that fact, even as I lament its reality. Some of us have strayed from the core of our faith that is rooted in love and freedom.

I pray we can take to heart Bloomberg's recent words: "Muslims are as much a part of our city and our country as the people of any faith. And they are as welcome to worship in lower Manhattan as any other group." We should transform our collective response into one that demonstrates those very values by supporting religious liberty for all.

###

* Julie Clawson is the author of Everyday Justice: The Global Impact of Our Daily Choices. This article was written for the Common Ground News Service (CGNews).

Source: Common Ground News Service (CGNews), 10 August 2010, www.commongroundnews.org
Copyright permission is granted for publication.

LETTER XXXIV: PILGRIMAGES PART II (The Baptism Site)

2010-07-29T11:51:00.000-07:00

BEGUN: 12 JUNE 2010, AMMAN and COMPLETED: 29 JUNE, 2010, MAPLEWOOD

[Please see Pilgrimages Part I]

Au contraire, our approach to Jesus’ baptism site in Jordan three months later, was a simple test of audacity and a smile.

We’d spent the bulk of the day at play. First we visited the mosaic artist Samaher Khameis at her workshop in Madaba. I feature Samaher in my short film on Madaba’s Institute of Mosaic Art and Restoration. It’s fascinating to see how this intricate art form in process and to imagine men and women tooling over tiny pieces of stone millennia ago. What a legacy – what stories! – they’ve left behind. (Once the invoices for that project are honored – and that’s another story -- I will put up the piece for you to see.)

Of course we made the mini-pilgrimage to St. George's Church to show Janna the map and went again to gape at the mosaics in Hippolyt a’s Hall (pictured) at the Virgin Mary Church.

Then we drove the long, narrow and winding roads south out of Madaba to Hammamat Ma’in – to the natural hot springs of Jordan that rush from the cliffs of the mountainside above the Dead Sea.

Like the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, CA, Jordan has three waters coming together: salt, fresh creek (as in Wadi Mujib), and hot: Ma’in. At Hammamat Ma’in the main waterfall ranges in temperature from 40° to 60° C (104-140° F).

Imagine the power of that water pounding down on your shoulders: hot, heavy, relentless; healing, soothing, invigorating.

We wore swimsuits with tee shirts and shorts over top. Nearby were women in long dresses with headscarves, smiling and laughing in the spray. There was one man, French, we thought, in a Speedo.

They say King Herod frequented the healing springs at Ma'in (when these waters were known as Baaras) and built a villa at nearby Mukawer. According to tradition, it was at that villa that Salome danced and John the Baptist was beheaded (Matthew 14: 1-12).

Speaking of John the Baptist … to the point of this letter.

We left the Hammamat via the other route: by the Dead Sea. Winding down the muscular mountains with a broad view of both our side of the Dead Sea and theirs. Every time I take in that view I am in wonder: it all looks so peaceful, unified; the land around a lake. Then I remember the contested ownership, the lines, imaginary and real cutting through towns, cultures, salt water, and the trickle called “the Jordan River.”

“Let’s go to the Baptism Site,” suggested Katie, as we turned north with the Dead Sea on our left and the mountains that hide Ma’in on our right.

“Lesh la? Why not!”

The signs are everywhere. Tourism – adventure and spiritual – is business for Jordan and the signage is good. So are the roads.

We drove past our favorite Dead Sea swimming spot, Amman Beach, and all the big hotels. Then we turned left toward the world’s widest partition and drove through the no man’s holy land to a simple entrance arch where three men were enjoying tea and an early evening chat.

“Marhaba (Hello). We’d like to visit the Baptism Site.”

“Yes, but we closed at 5pm,” said Emad, gatekeeper of the moment. It was 5:40.

After discussing the schedule (8am – 5pm) and the entrance fees (seven JOD per person) I smiled and asked, “Can we see it anyway?”

“I’ll ask.”

Within a few minutes we arranged with Emad that we’d pay our entrance with all the dinars we had (16) and that we’d drive him to his home afterward (on the road to Amman) and he escorted us to and through the site, Bethany-beyond-the-Jordan.

According to www.sacred-destinations.com, excavations on the site -- on the east bank of the Jordan River -- only began here in 1996, following Jordan's peace treaty with Israel in 1994. Land mines dotted the infamous and disputed border along the ever-shrinking river.

It took two years to make it safe. Since ‘96 more than 20 churches, caves and baptismal pools dating back to the Roman and Byzantine periods have been uncovered.

You still feel the tension as you approach the Jordan. After guiding us on cool wooded paths to the pools that scholars agree may be where Jesus Christ was baptized by the Prophet John, Emad told us, “I cannot go any farther. The Jordanian soldier will take you from here.”

And a military man stepped forward, gesturing us toward a simple gazebo-like structure with stairs down to the Jordan trickle and the Israeli flag in clear view.

The Jordan side of the river has a wood platform with steps at either end for visitors to descend, just a few at a time, and dip their toes into the 10-foot-wide-water about which so many anthems and spirituals are sung. On the Israeli side, a skipping stone’s throw away, a 20-foot-long concrete slab with steps the length of the slab so many pilgrims may access the water at once. Each country's flag flies high. There is no sign of Palestine.

I was glad we were alone there, that no noise disturbed our reflections but the call of the rula bird -- a brave little lime green bird with turquoise scruff. (Do you know its English name?)

It was strange being so close and so far from “the other side.” No guards but our Bedouin soldier. A peaceful stream between “sides.” A place so heralded, lauded, prayed for and fought for. Just my daughters and me. And the soldier. And Emad waiting for his ride home.

Home is always the destination of the pilgrim.

15 July 2010 -- Just to let you know ..

2010-07-14T16:30:00.000-07:00

Hi! We hear Amman is sweltering in a heat wave. We've got the same conditions in New Jersey PLUS humidity!

On Friday, 2 July, Katie and I landed safely at JFK Airport in New York City. Peter and Janna met us with open arms and brought us to our beautiful home in Maplewood, New Jersey.

We are glad to be here and we also miss our home and friends in Amman!

This is just a brief note to say we're fine. There is much more to come.

Letter XXXIII: Full Moons

2010-07-01T19:00:00.000-07:00

1 July 2010

“The next time I see a full moon,” I wrote on August 6, 2009, “will be in Jordan."

Peter, the girls, and I were on the beach in Old Orchard Beach, Maine. We’d booked two rooms at the Atlantic Inn for the night en route our summer home, still four hours north and inland. It was a spectacular sight floating over the Atlantic horizon and above the dunes and grasses of the Maine coast. It was quiet except for the rhythm of the waves and my heartbeat. What was ahead? Interesting that the full of August 6 was also a lunar eclipse – but we didn’t know or see it.

Eleven full moons were ahead:

(1) A Ramadan full, September 4, midway through the fasting month; just three days after we’d moved into our apartment. We broke our fast that evening with Dr. Younes Assad who became

friend, physician and grandfather these ten months. He took us to the Oriental Cafe on the road to Sweileh, overlooking a great valley with Amman in the eastern distance. In the valley between is the Baka Palestinian refugee city. We enjoyed a refreshing Mint-Lemonade with our iftar. Remind me to make one for you in Maplewood ...

(2) An Esalen full on 4 October when I was in Big Sur for the board meeting, and Katie and Peter were forging Wadi Mujib ...

(3) A Sisters moon in November at the reception for Directors of Admission for Wellesley, Smith, Mount Holyoke, Bryn Mawr, and Barnard at ACOR (American Center of Oriental Research) in Amman ...

(4) December’s first full was on the second, the day I delivered “Inside Mecca” with Arabic subtitles to Alain at Fulbright to give to Basma at the US Embassy (she has since become one of my best friends) to be ready for the screening of the film at the University of Jo rdan on the sixth ...

(5) December was a blue moon month. It’s second full was New Year’s Eve. We celebrated with Peter and Janna here and a party for our local friends ...

(6) Under January 30th’s full moon we took my niece Maeve Chandler to the airport after her ten day visit with us. She's on the left enjoying photos taken in the Soldiers Tomb in Wadi Firasa, Petra, with Katie and my first cousin once-removed, Nadia Mehdi, who also visited us in January from London ...

(7) In late February I was in Jericho – I know I didn’t tell you; I was saving that story as I saved the Jerusalem story, which is still an unfinished narrative. In Jericho, staff of the Abraham Path Initiative was meeting with its new Executive Director, Dr. Yunus Sola. I was honored to attend as both a board member and media strategist. In fact I departed Jericho and crossed back that barbed, desolate no-one’s-land late at night under that full moon. I was the only non-Palestinian at the border there so they let me ride the bus with the locals back home to Jordan. Usually we are segregated. You'll hear more in the upcoming "Pilgrimage: Part Two" ...

(8) The March full was at Petra with my dear friend Alyce Faye Cleese ...

(9) On April 28 I gave a talk at Amman’s SAE – a training center for broadcasting and filmmaking ...

(10) Katie played Juliet, Lady Capulet, and Tybalt in the Modern American School’s drama club presentation on May 27. Need I say she was the most skillful actor on the stage and but for another boy who was a complete stage-hog, she stole the show ...

(11) June 26 we saw the full moon in Umm Sayhun, the Bedouin village above Petra where we had dinner, once again, on Ismail’s roof. This time it was Katie, Mark Tremblay and I. Mark was back on business. We went first to Karak Castle and then a farewell pilgrimage to Petra.

The next time I see a full moon I expect to be in Maplewood, New Jersey. Perhaps I’ll pack up from a day at the pool and grill some eggplant and then cook sweet sage tea – Bedouin whiskey -- in our backyard fireplace until the cheap metal pot turns black.

Odds and Ends: 30 June 2010

2010-06-30T08:46:00.000-07:00

For the past three days fighter jets have been flying over Amman. Sometimes in formation; sometimes solo. Impressive. Loud. Unnerving. They've sliced the sky outside my window on and off throughout the year. But why so many now?

***

"A renaissance man -- with spurs." That's how someone in Amman described my father.

***

A visit to the Numismatic Museum of Amman, appropriately located in the Jordan Ahli Bank, opened a view on economic history

I'd not known: each Roman city (off the top of my head I can name Jerash, Um Qays/Gadara, Philadelphia/Amman, Petra, and Bosra) had its own coinage to be used exclusively in that city. Only Roman imperial coins could be used between cities. How's that for keeping a noose on nationhood?

The Nabatean King Aretas IV (9BC-40CE) had his image on one coin and his first wife, Huldu's image on another. But later, when he married Shuqailat, she was minted in profile with him on the same coin.

What does our currency say about us?

LETTER XXXII: PILGRIMAGES, PART ONE

2010-06-29T05:22:00.000-07:00

June 29, 2010

I suppose it’s all of life, really, but there are certain pilgrimages we single out. The hajj -- the journey to and from and back to Mecca – is one of them and one way or another you’ve been on that route with me before.

So here are two other small pilgrimages from this year’s great one: PART ONE, Jerusalem; PART TWO, the Baptism Site on the Jordan River.

All pilgrimages include the trial of travel. Adventures along the path are inseparable from the achievement of destination. For Katie and me the physical journey to Jerusalem in March was arduous and revelatory. Everything you’ve heard about checkpoints, blockades, the wall, and humiliating treatment of indigenous and visiting Palestinian population is true. Sometimes those humiliations are graciously extended to anyone perceived to be “one of them,” too.

Crossing the King Hussein Bridge (aka “Allenby”) is a short bus ride across one of the world’s widest partitions. A no-man’s-land of dry, hacked off hummocks and razor-edged barbed wire keeps us officially apart.

It’s a great contrast to the welcoming vista across the Dead Sea, from where on a rare clear day we can see the Jerusalem skyline.

The twenty-something Israeli girl at the immigration counter grilled us for half an hour about where we were going and where we were staying. Where is your husband? Where was he born? Do you fly out to the USA from here? (Is this what they call an interrogation?) After repeating my answer as clearly as I could, surrendering our passports, showing her the phone numbers of my local contacts, I finally asked if she’d prefer we stay somewhere else? Did she prefer we return to Jordan? I bit my tongue on “Do you want me to marry someone else?”

It’s interesting how the repeated questioning works on the brain. I actually began to second-guess myself: what are my real intentions? I begin to sense the torture of torture although I've come no where near, alhamdulillah!

A long line was building behind us, including the kind Palestinian businessman who offered us the spot ahead of him on the cue. See where his random act of kindness got him?

Our intention was to go to Jerusalem, transfer to Bethlehem, stay the night at Mary’s House, and then walk 30 kilometers or so along the Masar Ibrahim el Khalil in Palestine with Hijazi Eid. We’d spend the night in a village along the way, complete our walk and return to the convent. The next day we would spend in Jerusalem and return late to Amman.

We intended to see, sniff, taste, and inquire just a bit about life “over there.”

Details of the trip fill pages in my nightly journal. From Bethlehem we drove the “Palestinian by-pass” road that steers the indigenous population away from Jerusalem, to a pathway up a hill just south of Awarta to begin our walk. We clambered over the remains of Bronze Age settlement s (3200-1200 BC) and in the distance saw the burgeoning Zionist settlements of today.

I know everyone has lots to read and I’m grateful you’re with me as much as you are, so I’ll just share a few lines from my notes on our walk through Duma to Wadi Kelt:

March 5

Forget breaking bread together. Women make beds together on their knees! Habib’s mother brought in the mattresses and blankets. The same thin mattresses that we’ve seen everywhere from Wadi Rum to Rasun village in Ajloun, Jordan. We’re in Duma, which means, “rest.” Habib, our host, has two home compounds. This one is for his mother and wife #2, with four daughters. Wife #1 is apparently in another town with three daughters. A wonderful grain and chicken soup for dinner soothed some of the ache of 12-14 miles up and over the hills. No wonder people fight over this landscape.

It looks like there’s enough room for everyone here: an Arab village, an Israeli settlement. Neither intrudes too much, as long as the buildings are flat and low. Even the water problem can be addressed, says Hijazi. “But they don’t want us here.”

Hijazi says the Israelis may build the wall through here, splitting the magnificent view and the people from one another, also the animals from their migratory routes. We saw gazelle!

March 6

Habib traded in Katie’s totally worn-out sneakers for a pair of his daughter’s Velcro-close solid sole sneakers. By the end of the walk the backs of her heels were “compromised” and the soles of the shoes, too. But nothing stopped us until lunch. Saw Canaanite tombs, caves and caverns.

March 7

At the checkpoint en route Jerusalem. We took the public bus with the occupied population. I would say “locals” but Israelis are “locals” too. Katie and I both had scarves over our hair because we planned to go to the Dome of the Rock to pray. As cars with Israeli licenses whizzed by, however, our bus was stopped and all of us stepped off. Katie and I were last on line to be inspected. The soldiers went through everyone’s everything. Except when it came to us. Katie “never felt so happy or so guilty to have an American passport.” I kept a stony face when I took off my sunglasses to look the IDF teenager in the eyes. As I stepped back onto the bus, the IDF guy broke into the song that was blasting on the radio: “That’s the power of love!”

The Dome of the Rock is more beautiful than I remembered. After walking around and taking some photos we went in. We prayed four rakats in gratitude then looked around and saw the place was filling up. Noon prayer was coming. Both of us wanted to stay. We prayed, together, with hundreds of others and a baby boy who would rather have been nursing. Katie, who had practiced saying The Fatiha, the opening chapter of the Qur’an,” read it in Arabic from one of the many available inside.

Then we wandered the narrow, kitch-filled streets. At some juncture the “Palestine” and “Dome of the Rock” key chains and post cards transformed into menorahs and Israeli flags, with Mother Mary and Via Dolorosa souvenirs coming in second. Looking around we were the only ones with scarves; too much leg and cleavage for my taste. But behind the counters Arabic was spoken.

***

All pilgrimages include the trial of travel. Adventures along the path are inseparable from the achievement of destination. The destination on this journey to Jerusalem turned out to be our return home to Amman: wiser, somber, enlightened, and grateful.

Letter XXXI: Christmas, 2009

2010-06-27T10:57:00.000-07:00

I know it's late, but I found this and I thought I’d share it with you:

Knowing we’d be out with Iraqis I put on make up. It seemed heavy looking in my own mirror, but when we arrived at the Tigris Restaurant in Abdoun I saw immediately how underdone I was.

The Thai silk suit I bought at the Inn in Elk at Greg Shaw’s wedding is my best party suit here: three pieces that actually work together. I wore all my gold bangles and my fine Bedouin silver necklace. Lipstick. Hair brushed back. It was the best I could do. But next to the Iraqi women, I was simply an inconsequential American.

My gosh they are beautiful. Just like the Iranians: exquisitely presented with huge almond eyes, arching brows, hair black as night and wedding perfect; dark haired women with men shedding theirs. Black dresses or skirts with beaded jackets. No trousers. Legs exposed to just above the knee with sleek high heels that they walk in as comfortably as if they were Birkenstocks; they danced with that ease, too.

Our hostess, Fadia, is a bundle of light and joy and more. She the mother of Katie’s best friend here in Amman. They are refugees from Iraq but not bereft of wealth. The party lounge atop the Tigris restaurant in Amman’s cushy Abdoun neighborhood was exuberant with Iraqis celebrating Christmas.

The singer was well known to all of them and they sang along gleefully with his top hits, clapping, tocando palmas, as if we were in Sevilla. When our table of 20 got up to dance Katie were on the floor: arms up, hands curling and floating like the Arabs, like the Spaniards, like snakes, ballerinas, and flowers. It was lots of fun.

Then there was talking with Fadia. She has no one left in Iraq. Her mother is in Detroit, two siblings in California, a sister-in-law in Sweden. Only her husband’s parents remain in northern Iraq, and he works there, coming to Jordan to visit his family several times a year.

She lived on Palestine Street in Baghdad.

“Why did you leave Iraq?” I asked. “Was it because of the Americans?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry!” I couldn’t help the tears. All these people, happy tonight, partying, dancing, raising their arms, their glasses, their eyes: all of them self-imposed exile. It’s too dangerous to return. They may never see their homeland again ... because of my country. Are they deep down sad and covering it with the party? Or are they just like everyone else in the throes of holidays? Delighted to distance themselves from the daily grind and let out the inner exultant.

“Tell me about it sometime,” I asked her. “Tell me everything.” She nodded. Then we got up and danced.

Letter XXX: Pavings

2010-06-15T11:23:00.001-07:00

14 June 2010

They paved our street the weekend I rented a car.

Pave Day One was hot, hot, hot. The road crew went back and forth with the street sweeping truck and two guys trailed alongside, in the heat of the day and the heat of the motor, breathing in the exhaust, brushing and shoveling dust and debris at curbside.

Scoop lift heave-into-truck bed, scoop lift heave-into-truck bed, scoop lift heave …

The same motions I make shoveling snow from my sidewalk in Maplewood, New Jersey, working up a sweat on a cold, sunny day. In Amman it was hot. And he didn’t flag. No work ethic issue in this situation. My arms ached just watching.

As the car rental agent and I concluded our paperwork (they deliver the rental car curbside) the road crew was taking a break in the shade of the shade of the tree to the left of our apartment building. One of them asked for “shwayat ma’ee” – would I bring them some water?

I played dumb American while I thought it over and walked away.

But there was really only one possible response.

I filled two liter bottles in our kitchen and returned to the street with them. “Ahalan wa sahlan,” “Welcome,” I said.

Utter relief filled their eyes; tears came to mine. Gratitude with no obsequious overtones; authentic humility. Polite shared smiles and with “assalaamu ‘alaykum” I left.

Pave Day Two the street was loud early in the morning. My rental was the only car parked on the street and the asphalt truck was laying its smelly thickness on the other side. By 7:00 am I was downstairs ready to re-park. My team smiled to the car go and equally glad, I think, to say “good morning.”

We went to Madaba and the Ma'in Hot Springs that day. By the time we were back in the evening, the job was done. The new layer of tar raised the road a good six inches. Now the height of the curb is only eight inches. It’s easier to step on to and less dangerous to open your door. But what will happen next winter in the rains? Foot-high curbs kept the sudden road rivers channeled in the streets. There will be lots of soaked cuffs and jilbabs next January.

The next time they come through to pave the curb may be close enough to the road to park on.

And someone else will offer water.

Letter XXIX: It's Contentious

2010-06-13T08:16:00.000-07:00

It's contentious. But somebody's got to raise it.

How appropriate that it's raised by contentious, curmudgeonly Helen Thomas.

What are we going to do about different populations competing for the same real estate?

Years and years ago my father, the late Dr. Mohammad T. Mehdi, made an offer – a gimmick of course – to pay to relocate Jews from occupied Palestine to the United States. This would give people traumatized by the Holocaust a safe place to live and would allow exiled, traumatized Palestinians to return home. The point is important to make and to reiterate -- even if nowadays it is entirely impractical. The people of Palestine are not responsible for the horrors of the Holocaust and should not be made to pay for those sins. Helen Thomas knows that.

On May 27, 2010, she resurrected the specter of the terrible wrong done to the innocent people of Palestine in 1948. Maybe she was planning to retire, once and for all, and she knew after so many years in the media, that going out to sugary accolades would not be remembered so much as going out to fiery condemnation. Maybe it was a moment of freed speech after posing all those years of contained, prepared questions.

Helen Thomas has earned the right to share her views. In her 2002 memoir Thanks For The Memories, Mr. President, she writes, “After all those years of telling it like it is, now I can tell it how I want it to be.” Many people far younger and with far less experience than Ms. Thomas promote their views with impunity across the airwaves, on the Internet, and in newspaper columns. If we as a nation agreed with her view we would not be offended. Only when we disagree do we demand penance. For example, less than 100 years ago, how contentious was it to recognize women’s right to vote in this country?

In his 1988 book Terrorism: Why America is the Target Mohammad T. Mehdi wrote, “Terrorism is a violent act against civilians for a political goal of which we disapprove.” If we approve of the political goal, then the violence would be considered necessary. Consider American reaction to the Israeli assault on the Mavi Marmara.

Stephen Colbert suggests as much in his June 9 Colbert Repor t. In an interview with Michael Oren, Israel's ambassador to the United States, Colbert says, "I just want to say that I repudiate what Helen said. She's a friend but I repudiate everything she said. Go back to Poland, go back to Germany -- that's ridiculous. Israel is for Israelis. If anything the Palestinians should go back to where they came from."

The audience loved it.

Oren did not agree, "alas."

Helen Thomas did not say anything anti-Semitic. She spoke anti-occupation. She spoke pro-justice. And she spoke shorthand – a reporter’s specialty.

Unfortunately, in 21^st century America, “anti-Zionist” still plays as “anti-Jewish.” Disengaging these two distinct terms will go a long way in supporting good reporting and possibly even a just solution to this wrenching dilemma.

Thank goodness for contentious Colbert -- who can get away with it. While Helen Thomas goes out ablaze.

As promised, the link to a preview of my film on the Trappist monks of Algeria

2010-06-11T22:05:00.001-07:00

At the Cannes Film Festival this year a feature film called "Des Hommes et de Dieux," "Of Men and Gods," won the Gran Prix.

Since 2004 I've been working on a documentary film on the same subject. Check out the preview of my film, a work-in-progress. I look forward to your feedback.

Letter XXVIII: Preview of "Wellesley" Summer 2010 -- Little Petra

2010-05-28T09:23:00.000-07:00

We went to Beidha, nicknamed "Little Petra" in early April. It is Nabatean, like it's big sister namesake. The canyon leading in is shorter in ength and height. The sandstone wadi more narrow. The site is contained, impressive, and far less traveled. But in its day, this was a place for feasting.

Inside the wall-cut rooms are carved benches. You can imagine firelight, laughter, and reverence.

My complete piece on our visit to Little Petra will appear in Wellesley, the alumnae magazine of my alma mater, Summer 2010. And I don't plan on scooping myself, so here is just a preview:

And so, eight months into this ten-month-meditation, we are at Beidha, a site nicknamed “Little Petra,” about 10 miles from the famed Nabatean capital in south central Jordan. Here, too, the Nabateans carved tombs, cisterns and waterways into pink sandstone; here they carved grand dining rooms and on one ceiling survives the only example of intricate Nabatean painting, with colorful leaves, fruits and figures…

... On Fridays Beidha is a favorite family spot for Jordanians from the south, and we fell in with some folks walking through Little Petra’s canyon to a narrow staircase carved at the end of the gorge. Except for the mother, who was probably my age but looked more worn, it was a youthful assembly. Sisters, brothers, their spouses and three babies. The girls wore traditional garb: long dresses and scarves covering their hair. The boys were in slacks and sandals. Everyone wore smiles -- including the babies who were handed from walker to walker up the narrow, uneven stairs. I got to hold one of them, too. It was completely natural to turn around and reach up for the little boy when his dad faced a three-foot drop. Dad didn’t think twice about turning his son over to “a stranger.” Nor did I think twice when an older son who was helping the girls get down some of the steeper spots, extended his hand to me as well.

At the end of the climb was a small rock plateau with a vista of rugged rocks and the streambed that Peter assures me still rushes with water in mid-to-late spring. There we sat, united in our accomplishment and divided by language.

“Where you from?” It’s a familiar opening gambit, well timed and welcome.

I answered that one in Arabic, since I’m fluent in the openers. “We’re from the USA, from New Jersey. Do you know New Jersey?”

“No.” Smiles, giggles. Next move. “Are you Muslim?”

“Yes.” Ooohs of delight from the girls.

Then Amena, sitting next to me, asked in Arabic, “But if you’re Muslim, where is your scarf?” She tugged at her own, snuggly wrapped around her hair, to emphasize and clarify.

I smiled and tugging the purple Iranian scarf over my shoulders I said, “Here it is.”

Everyone howled with laughter. So far, very good. Only one step to go...

Letter XXVII: Not the Pied Piper

2010-05-19T12:55:00.000-07:00

How different would this year have been if I’d gone to see Kifah Fakhoury in September rather than this week? I finally brought my 1989 New Jersey Network documentary film “Classical Caravan” to the director of the National Conservatory of Music. Dr. Kifah is featured in the first half of the film, which follows the concert tour of the Chamber Symphony of Princeton to Jordan and Egypt. Watching it together was a waltz down proverbial memory lane. After all these years he still didn’t have a copy. Now he does.

How different am I now, from the Anisa who marched straight to the Music Conservatory of Seville, Spain, within days of arriving in 1976, telling anyone who would listen, “I’m an accomplished flute player from the US and I want to play here. Please let me show you what I can do.”

I stopped a stranger walking down the street not far from the conservatory – he was carrying a flute case. “Hi, I’m a flute player, too (toco la flauta también. Quiere tocar duetas?) Do you want to play duets?” He demurred, being a beginner, but he brought me to the door of his teacher, another American, who became my favorite duet partner. We gave several concerts that year and Bonnie Walter, who eventually returned to the US and became a dean of students at MIT, performed at our wedding … nearly 25 years ago.

The dean of the Conservatorio Superior de Música de Sevilla listened to me play. He made me principal flute of the conservatory orchestra and put me into the woodwind quintet that toured the country that spring. We played in small towns and villages in Extremadura, Andalucia, and I can’t remember where else. There was terrific music for flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon and French horn by Hindemith, Ibert … I do remember one rickety stage we played on outside the municipal building somewhere rather hot and dusty. The front legs collapsed under us as we were setting up.

Tonight, so many years later, in Amman, Jordan, Katie and I enjoyed a concert of the Amman Symphony at the King Hussein Cultural Center. They played “Night on Bald Mountain,” the “Romeo and Juliet” overture by Tchaikovsky, and Liszt’s “Hungarian Rhapsody #2.” I’ve played principal on all three of those, most recently last year with the Livingston Symphony Orchestra (not “Bald Mountain.” We played that the same fateful night of the Debussy – see Letter XXV. I was on piccolo for that piece. Barbara soloed.) Well Amman’s principal flutist nailed the Scherzo in the Liszt and that’s a tough moment. With only four stands of first violins it was hard for them to generate the sheer bulk of sound we’re accustomed to in the Tchaik and Mussorgsky. But they made up for volume with energy and intention. At intermission Kifah Fakhoury said to me, “you should join us! Ah, but you’re leaving so soon.”

And I wondered: if I’d come to see Dr. Kifah in that first month, would I have been playing with the orchestra tonight? Would there have been weekly rehearsals and an entirely different set of friends? What about my snuggly nights with Katie, eating chocolate and watching episode after episode of “House”? What about nights out with Basma or Nesreen? What about leisurely editing “Mozart in Maine”? And writing to you? What about not being overloaded?

Spain was the year for bold fluting.

Jordan is the year, apparently, for something else.

I’ll know what that is … sometime soon.

The Monks at Cannes

2010-05-19T05:08:00.001-07:00

As many of you know, Whetstone Productions, the boutique production and consulting firm based on the third floor of my Maplewood home, has been working on a documentary film about the inspiring lives of the Trappist monks who lived in Algeria until 1996.

Now, hot off the press, Xavier Beauvois, a French actor and director, has made a feature film on the same subject. His film, “Of Gods and Men,” premiered at the Cannes Film Festival yesterday (18 May 2010).

Just looking at this photo of the actors in their monastic robes I recognize Father Christian and Brother Paul.

You can see their real photos on my w ebsite.

Whetstone Productions filmed in Algeria in 2004 and in France in 2006. We raised production support from the United States Institute of Peace, from the William and Mary Greve Foundation, and from a generous gift of Cornelius B. Prior, Jr. Beyond his business acumen, Neil Prior is a former Fulbright Scholar and he and his wife Trudie are generous supporters of the Hartford Seminary. All of these sponsors, like the monks, are about interfaithfulness.

In an interview at Cannes Beauvois says: “I went to look at the lives of these monks and I was taken over by it. Everyone fell in love with these brothers whether we were believers or not. This example of tolerance and curiosity for others … the opposite of what we see going on now. So Christians in a Muslim territory live in perfect harmony. They pray with other people who pray. They’re into being. Their message is a universal message. We shouldn’t be afraid of others. We shouldn’t be afraid of peace.”

The experience of Beauvois’ film crew in Morocco was like ours in Algeria and France: a uniting of souls around a transcendent story that calls forth the best from each of us. The team on my documentary is multi-faith, multi-cultural, and multi-talented. We are keen to ride the wave of interest in this tragic and passionate story to raise the funds we need to complete our work.

Whetstone Productions’ preview of our film will be available soon on YouTube.

Meantime, check out John W. Kiser’s soulful and thorough account of the story of these men in The Monks of Tibhirine: Faith, Love, and Terror in Algeria.

Remembering Debussy on Israel's Anniversary

2010-05-17T22:11:00.001-07:00

May 15, 2010

In the month of May many people celebrate Israeli Independence and grieve al Nakba; they lament ongoing violence and fear the next strike. In this sense, times have not changed much since the sad spring of 1974 when the 26^th anniversary of the founding of the State of Israel was bloodied by attacks on the towns of Kiryat Shmona and Maalot in the north. Forty Israelis, including many teenagers, were killed by Palestinians; 27 villagers and refugees were killed and 130 wounded in south Lebanon in retaliation.

I was 17 at the time and had finally been made principal flute in the New York City All City High School Orchestra. As daughter of the city’s best-known Arab, Dr. Mohammad T. Mehdi, champion of Palestinians and challenger to American policy in the region, I struggled through a lot of prejudice to prove my talent. A “blind audition” secured me the chance to solo in Claude Debussy’s “L'après-midi d'un faune.” Every flute player longs for that opportunity. My chance was the night of May 16, 1974.

The attacks happened the day before the concert. Israeli teenagers, like us, were taken hostage by the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine. They were killed as Israeli troops came to rescue them.

My teachers, fellow musicians and the conductor already knew my father’s politics. Everyone recognized his voice from myriad television and radio news programs. Back in the day when “Arab” was the prefix for “terrorist,” Reporters knew that Dr. Mehdi would provide context to acts of violence. He reminded audiences that Palestinians, an exiled people, still longed for their homeland and that some would resort to fighting to get it back. He did not condone their violent methods: hostage taking and airline hijackings. But, he urged the American people that once the Palestinian demand for a homeland was righted the Israelis will be able to live in peace.

Today most people acknowledge that until there is resolution for the Palestinians, the conflict will continue. My father’s message in the 1960s and 1970s was way ahead of its time. Decades ago he was called anti-Semitic and extreme but by the time he died so suddenly in my arms on a cold February day in 1998, he was heralded by many as a moderate that also appreciated the quandary faced by Israeli Jews.

“The Afternoon of a Faun” was programmed just after intermission. Nearly 100 high school musicians sat behind the drawn curtain at Avery Fisher Hall and listened as a representative of the Board of Education came on stage.

“Everyone knows about the tragedy that happened yesterday in Israel. I ask all of you to please stand for a moment of silence, out of respect for the 21 children who lost their lives at the hands of Arab terrorists.”

The room rumbled into a thousand people starting to stand as a shout rang out, filling the hall.

“Golda did it!”

My father meant that he believed the children wouldn’t have died if Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir had not ordered troops onto the scene opening fire. He meant she should have pursued negotiations with the hostage—takers. His spontaneous statement didn’t encompass all the nuances he meant. I, for one, didn’t know exactly what he’d said; I only knew it was his voice and so did everyone on the stage around me.

Instantly my heart boomed so loudly I thought it would echo in the timpani. I grabbed for air, scratched for breath. I took my flute and made my way off the stage, desperate for composure. Gabriel Kosakoff, our conductor and a man who abhorred my father’s politics, came to my side.

“Are you OK?”

“Give me a minute.”

Out front people were confused. My choir director was crimson. Mom was stoic and my sisters were mortified.

The audience settled down. I returned to my chair. Maestro resumed his podium and looked at me: when you’re ready.

I mustered everything I had. I played for my friends who believed in me, for my brave family, for the father I adored and hated right then, for everyone who wanted me to fail, and for those poor, innocent kids who were killed and the people killed in retribution.

Thirty-six years later, as Israel celebrates is 62nd birthday, and Palestinians mark the “Nakba” or catastrophe, 1948 continues to count its victims in lives and livelihoods every day. Until we see a just solution, unless voices like my fathers’ and my own unite together with Jewish voices demanding peace, more Ma’alots and Gazas are in store. I play my flute and take up my pen, hoping the call of the faun may one day trump its hunters.

This article also appears on the Common Ground News Service and the Arab Writers Syndicate.

LETTER XXV: NEW EYES ON THE GROUND, PART II

2010-05-02T23:50:00.000-07:00

March 2010

It was the Easter weekend. We shared that celebration with our friend from Amman, Frances Abouzeid, her husband Alexi, and their extended family in the mountains above Beirut. Midnight mass at a Maronite Church with Alexi leading the choir, and winking at us from the front. Frances' aunt was delighted that I sat there taking notes. "An American journalist!" She dragged me to see the priest. "She wrote that the altar boys wear sneakers! I have complained about this bad dress to you before." She was triumphant. Monsignor was patient. "Now the American sees it too!" She was also pleased that I appreciated the lilies she'd placed on the altar. They were just about to bloom, symbolizing the essence of Easter which is hope and rebirth -- not unlike Hajj, but without the Sanctus and the flowers.

Early on in my blog entries I wrote wide-eyed about Beirut. This time we went east to the Bekaa Valley. Conjuring memories of grit and fighting from the Lebanon Civil War and the Syrian occupation that followed in the eastern part (Israeli occupation in the south), the Bekaa was full of surprises. There are still checkpoints on the mountain crossings; there are tanks dead on the side of the road with sheep and goats grazing nearby.

A productive winery, Ksara, and lovely small towns with rushing streams and restaurants with rushing waiters dot the lush green valley. But Bekaa’s crowning vision is and has been for centuries, Baalbek.

Although its earliest settlement is not as old as our Petra (which dates back to Neolithic times), Baalbek boasts Middle Bronze Age inhabitants (1900-1600BC). Then came the waves of interested parties: Hebrews connected with King Solomon, the Phoenician masters of Syria, Greeks associated with Alexander, Ptolomaics of Egypt, and then in just barely BC, the great conquering Romans. Later come Arabs, Tartars and Turks. Then French, then … (see above)

But look at the size of these columns! How do they do it?

Is it good taste or gotta take over that has humans building their new cities on someone else’s old one? Maybe it’s the basic REA DNA – the real estate agent gene – that makes us see the one important factor: location, location, location.

They are all at Baalbek. The most magnificent remaining ruins of a monument -- to my eye is the remains -- of the Temple of Jupiter. But don't miss the Temple of Bacchus, either.

Alyce Faye, Peter, Katie and I enjoyed it all. Plus a four-hour fresh fish frenzy at Chez Sami in Juneih, on the Mediterranean coast just north of Beirut. And we visited again with Samia's family.

After Alyce Faye left Jordan we were our nuclear-family-minus-one in Amman.

It was quiet.

Except for the roosters.

LETTER XXIV: New Eyes On The Ground

2010-05-02T23:06:00.000-07:00

March 2010

And then came Alyce Faye Eichelberger Cleese.

We are trustees of the Esalen Institute, and like rooming together at board meetings. Making connections between Jordan and California is not terribly difficult. Lots of golden, rolling hills that turn green with rain – and we had good rain here this winter. Hiking. Adventure trails. Desert. Good coffee. A penchant for kicking back. And natural hot springs. In fact Jordan is one of the few places in the world besides Esalen that boasts the coming together of the Earth’s three waters: salt water, fresh water, and hot springs.

There are big differences, too, of course. Most obvious is the absence of ocean. Our (very salty) Dead Sea (into which the hot springs and cold creeks run) has two visible shores and very little surf. No otters or whales or anything that breathes underwater.

And making me quite at home there’s a rooster on the Esalen campus in Big Sur, California, too. It doesn’t understand that the sun will come up with or without its crowing; it also crows throughout the night in hope. Alyce Faye and I grew to loathe the rooster since usually we were up late and wanted to squeeze in as many extra minutes of sleep as possible before our own early swim in the pool and mad, freezing cold dash to the hot tubs where we luxuriate before breakfast and hours of reports and spread sheets. We called the rooster “Cheney.”

Alyce Faye has a very good eye. Our favorite public beach at the Dead Sea looks like a five star resort.

My bedouin friends, Manal and her brother Ismail at Petra, made us tea on the high cliffs leading to the Deir (Monastery).

Not to mention visiting Samaher Khameis's special mosaic workshop in Madaba. Samaher teaches at the Institute for Mosaic Art and Restoration in Madaba. My short film on the Institute will be on YouTube soon.

And she didn't miss charming downtown Amman.

This was Alyce Faye's first visit to an Arabic-speaking nation; like most people who come here, she loved it. Ambassadors all of us, who return assuring Americans that it’s safe, friendly, respectful of women, respectful of people of varying faiths, easy to get around, visually compelling, and fun. Of course that sentence is laden with generalities, but generally they are true.

Anywhere we go the evil and nasty is an exception. Except, it seems, when we go to the front page of newspapers or to top-of-the-hour headline news. (Whoops! No offense to my dear friends in media who struggle to balance accuracy, information, commercial interests, subjectivity and good writing every day.)

Peter arrived while Alyce Faye was here and we all went to Lebanon.

SEE "NEW EYES" PART TWO.

LETTER XXIII: If it's Thursday it must be Cairo

2010-04-19T09:02:00.000-07:00

March 27, 2010

If you go to the pyramids and your camera deletes all of your photos, did you really see the Sphinx? Those great gimmicky shots from far enough away so it looks like you are holding Cheops by the tip, or blowing a kiss at the big, human-headed cat. And the shots we took in the deep dark recesses of the Queen’s tomb where “No Photographs” is prominently displayed … A smooth few Egyptian pounds to the guy guarding the door makes that all possible. Maybe an offended Queen cursed the flash drive? Or was she jealous of that buff, big man of Memphis, Ramses II?

We were mighty sad to lose those photos but not at all disappointed with our Egyptian experience (except for missing our friends Neil and Trudie Prior there by about 10 hours!). Sufia Lodhi and Yasir Khan (his name is Khan and he is not a terrorist; he is broadcast journalist and involuntary comedian) welcomed us to the guest room in their lovely Maadi apartment. Katie and I had the honor of being the last guests there before they move to Doha, Qatar, where Yasir is starts a new job with Al Jazeera. After he worked on my “Inside Mecca” team, Yasir took a position at the American University of Cairo. Lucky students. Sing to the class if you’re late. Cell phones confiscated if used. Failing grades given as deserved. And a hell-of-an education in production.

Day One was Giza, Memphis, the Saqqara “step” pyramid, and as touristy a lunch as I’ve ever had. But for the lunch the day was fascinating. The tourists at the restaurant were boring. Seen one, seen ‘em all. To be among them eating elementary Egyptian food was hard to swallow but chalked now up to experience. I am deeply privileged to have traveled as a reporter or as family. The world looks differently when you are greeted with an authentic smile of greeting or a deeply skeptical grimace, when you have the back roads to trek and small alleys to shop. No matter how you see them, though, the pyramids are incomparable: still gasp-worthy after all these years. New for me was the hunk Ramses II, especially in his Memphis museum (not as in the photo here). Lying on his back, as the granite statue was found, his muscular shoulders look ready to hunt or hug; his nose is smooth and proud, chin authoritative, eyes gentle, beard coiffed, legs and calves toned to perfection. The loincloth was too heavy to peek underneath.

Recently renovated Fatimid, Mamluke and Ottoman mosques not far from Al Azhar and Khan Khalili are open again; lining a street we nicknamed “Islamic Cairo,” but of course much of Cairo is “Islamic,” and its mosques and monuments pierce the skyline from the Citadel with not-the-boxer-Muhammad Ali-mosque, to the many inhabited shrines of the City of the Dead. Although the architecture of these particular mosques was far from Nabatean, I saw shades of Petra on this bustling, shaded, beautifully sculpted street. It was the patrons and tombs. “Remember me!” booms from the statues of Ramses, from Petra’s Khaznah or “Treasury,” and from the finely adorned, inlaid and filigreed walls and ceilings of these exquisitely restored mosques. Today patrons tend to prefer performing arts centers and sports stadiums – places of the living to anoint their posterity. But for centuries humans raised and praised the dead.

Katie, Sufia and I prayed ‘Asr at Al Azhar that Friday. ‘Asr is the afternoon prayer, not the big crowded congregational prayer that so often is filmed for news reports to fill in video during stories about acts of violence committed by Muslims. The women’s section at Al Azhar was crowded but not stifling. Most importantly, Katie and Sufia talked about religion and faith and the inconsistencies of the twain and practice. Sufia was banished from Islamic “Sunday school” in St. John, New Brunswick, Canada, for asking too many questions; Katie keeps her mouth shut and is getting “A”s in her religion class at Modern American School. But they have the same concerns, mostly to do with hypocrisy, priority, patriarchy, and complacency. I am glad Katie has another adult to hear her. She is blindingly brave, innocently courageous, subjecting herself to the contrary lessons of theoretical Islam and its manifestations. One day she will see, insha Allah, how this experience sharpened her wit and wisdom; meantime she either suffers in silence or has transcendent moments with people like Sufia or her English teacher, Ms. Aisha. Ms. Aisha is Welsh. She told me, “If I’d come to Jordan before embracing Islam I’d never have become Muslim.”

Somewhere between the Mamlukes and Azharis is a bronze souk. I am now determined to buy a bronze minaret cap for our Maplewood garden. (See photo above.)

March 27 is another birthday for my mother. Tonight, as we enjoy Egyptian take out with friends, mom, Pete Bolton, and Janna dine at the Rose Tatoo in Philadelphia. Peter joins board members of the Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey at the second annual trustee dinner at Bob and Buena Chilstrom’s home, celebrating also the arrival of twins to our great education director Brian Crowe and his partner Walt.

God bless them all.

Amplifying the Voice of Muslim Women: A Review of Brigid Maher’s “Veiled Voices”

2010-03-18T00:18:00.000-07:00

“Veiled Voices” is a film filled with loud, bright stories that enlighten an audience in need of authenticity about Islam in general and the lives of Muslim women in particular. Brigid Maher, director, cinematographer and editor, shows sensitivity and skill in bringing these critical-yet-simple stories to light.

Simple? Yes. They are stories of the woman next door: a neighbor who is a mother and wife; a professional who teaches and travels; an individual facing challenges and disappointments who does not yield to inaction but rather overcomes and inspires. These stories unfold gradually as they weave together across borders.

Maher profile s three women: Huda Al Hasbash from Syria, Suad Saleh in Egypt and Ghina Hammoud of Lebanon. These stories are woven together, each round deepening the contours of their lives. We meet them first as professionals, then as wives or divorcées, then as mothers and cooks, balancing the many duties women have worldwide. We meet their husbands, mothers and children. Each round widens the panorama of women’s experience in these Arab and Muslim-majority countries.

Syrian mother and educator Al Hasbash defends wearing a headscarf and goes on to demonstrate that there need be no conflict between wearing a scarf and living a modern life. She teaches dozens of women not only to read Qur’an, but to know their rights. And she sizzles up a fine looking meal for her family while she’s describing her views to camera.

Dr. Saleh is a very public person, teaching at Cairo’s Al Azhar University and appearing on television call-in programs. “We have reduced Islam to a veil and a beard,” she laments, when there is so much more. Having reported on Islam and Muslims for 20 years I confirm her complaint. This is a problem perpetuated in part by Muslims themselves.

Hammoud bravely sticks with her career in spite of betrayal by her husband; she keeps the affection and respect of her daughters who lived with their father after the parents divorced. Students deeply appreciate the model she provides.

Relationships between women and men are good examples of ongoing stereotypes. Due in part to mainstream media, pop culture, and ignorance, a prevailing view is one of oppression of women. We read of “honor killings,” of girls forbidden to go to school, and women prevented from divorce in unacceptable situations. None of these is permitted in Islamic law, even if culture in some Muslim-majority countries turns a blind eye. We feel for Ghina Hammoud who suffered years in an abusive marriage. In contrast, Huda Al Habash’s husband Samir Khalidi is the picture of an ideal partner. He appreciates and supports her calling and is helpful at home, clearing the table and going over homework with one of their sons. Dr. Saleh notes that while she may be qualified to sit on Egypt’s higher Islamic council, the reality is that the men who have the vote will not receive her. Susan B. Anthony had to struggle, too. Without a cudgel, Maher hammers home the point that Muslim women have rights, can be self-expressed, and like their sisters around the world, must overcome hurdles in their lives to accomplish their goals – even if that means redefining their goals along the way.

Some of the footage in this hour-long documentary will surprise viewers. There are rooms full of women studying Islamic law and leadership. They refer regularly to early examples of female leadership in the Muslim community, including the example of Aisha, youngest wife of the Prophet Muhammad. At 17 she was already an acknowledged scholar and teacher. The filmmaker does not impose heavy control on situations, allowing the natural interruptions of life to play out on videotape. A child fussing off camera is not quieted and the interview continues; when a particularly personal question is posed and the subject cries the crew cries too. This is noted and we, the audience, are privy to a behind the scenes moment.

Brigid Maher teaches in the Film and Media Arts Division at American University in Washington D.C. “Veiled Voices” builds on her favored genre: issues of cultural identity and discrimination.

Muslim and non-Muslim women from Malaysia to America are actively engaged in educating themselves and others, leaning on religion as the primary tool in an unwavering call for equality and opportunity. Like the efforts of Azizah al Hibri in Richmond, Virginia and Zaina Anwar in Kuala Lumpur, the women in “Veiled Voices” are part of a necessary and natural movement to amplify understanding of Islam in the 21^st century.

Anisa Mehdi is a Fulbright Scholar in Jordan. She is a journalist and filmmaker. Mehdi produced and directed the National Geographic Special “Inside Mecca,” and was executive producer of the PBS Frontline documentary, “Muslims.” www.anisamehdi.com

Letter XXII: Notes From the Field (with unrelated photos)

2010-03-15T07:11:00.000-07:00

15 March 2010

On Taxis

Seven months into this adventure it’s no big deal to ride a taxi in Amman. I take one or two a day, it seems, getting from home to the balad (downtown) or taking Katie to City Mall (the new fancy one in town, just a step down from Dubai). A cab’s a cab once you can tell the driver where you want to go, and I can. I can even give short cuts and scold them for going the long way around or heading straight into traffic at a certain time of day. Everyone knows Shmeisani bottles up after three pm. Many of our Ammani cabs are shabby. The upholstery is torn, seats ripped, seat belts don’t work and the space reeks of cigarettes.

But there are advantages to cabs here over the cabs back home. In addition to the unreasonably low fares, there is no barrier between you and the driver. There is no slot through which you side your money and awkwardly wait for change to pass back. You hand the guy the dinar. He hands you change. Today I even offered the driver some fresh hot “taboon” -- bread I watched bake at a smal shop near Jordan Television and now carried in bulk home to share with Katie. As a good Jordanian he said “no” the first couple of times. But at the end, just before I hopped out, I tried again. “T’faddal.” He smiled and broke some for himself.

On Coffee-to-Go

Most of the time here we sit and drink our coffee. We sit and drink our tea. We sit for most of our meals. “To-go” is not a going MO. Frankly it’s a civilized approach to food consumption. I like it.

But just in case you haven’t the time and you gotta have java, here’s how drive-through works in Jordan. You pull up to the side of a street near a coffee stand set back from the curb. Roll down your window and shout to guy “I want one black coffee and one medium.” A few moments later someone comes to your car, cups in hand. You hand the guy the dinar. He hands you the change.

On Beauty Salons

Every day is prom day at the beauty salons of Lebanon and Jordan. (They are the only ones I’ve been to on this sojourn so my reporting is limited.) On the outside they may look differently: some have entrances off dusty streets, some are in sleek, marble hotel lobbies. But inside, salons sound and smell alike. They hum. They reek of spray and lotions. And they share an intense commitment to vanity.

Driers, blowers, curlers. Wax, sugar, thread. Gels, shampoos, and conditioners. Polishes, files, and scissors large and small. Clients conspire in a Cinderella compact with male fairy godmothers turning us into princesses or vixens with bone straight hair or hives teased high with flouncing, flowing ringlets.

“Make it a deeper black.”

“Make it a tawney brown.”

“I want streaks and lights,” as if to brag I’ve been in the sun -- “haven’t you?” -- when it’s the dead of winter.

These days I primp myself before going to get my hair cut -- just to have a little dignity on the playing field. Sometimes I think I’m ready to go, even pretty, with my hazel eyes, curly hair, and very present eyebrows. Add a touch of lipstick and voila! Then I walk into, say, Tareq’s Salon in Abdoun, a shop buzzing with blow driers, pulsing with funky music, and filled with real Arab women. Dark eyed black haired drop dead beauties with L’Oreal locks and come hither curves topping spiked heels and tight jeans. Suddenly I’m plain, unkempt, and common: the only adult woman in the room with natural eyebrows and flats on her feet.

And just about the only one with a smile.

Letter XXI: Missing my dad

2010-02-23T08:38:00.000-08:00

Here in Amman, Jordan I meet people every week who ask a question I’ve heard since girlhood: “Mehdi? Are you Mohammad Mehdi’s daughter?” From ministers to media

professionals, doctors and non-governmental activists comes admiration for this man who didn’t back down when times got tough. “I knew him in Beirut,” said one newsman. “He spoke for all of us,” admits a successful banker, “when we were too scared to speak up.”

When I was a little girl being known as Mehdi’s daughter had some unwelcome consequences. A teacher would ask “Are you –“ and then dock my grade because he didn’t like my father’s politics; the parent of a friend would say “Was that your father on television last night?” and warn her daughter I wasn't the kind of girl to play with.

Today is the 12^th anniversary of my father’s sudden and untimely death. I was with him outside the Consulate of Saudi Arabia in New York City, picking up my papers for permission to cover the Hajj for PBS, when he was struck with massive coronary failure. It was over in seconds. But the impact of his passing continues daily, as I meet people who remember him, and as all lament the absence of his voice on the issue of Palestine.

Mohammad Taki Mehdi came to the United States from Iraq in 1949 to study at the University of California at Berkeley. “I was born in Baghdad and reborn in Berkeley,” he repeated to all who would listen. It was easier to say "Baghdad" than Karbala -- at that time rare indeed was the American who'd heard of Karbala. At least those who'd heard of Scheherezade knew of Baghdad. Now, one blessing of the cursed war against Iraq is that more Americans have heard of Karbala. Either way, back in the 1960s most everybody only heard my dad's criticisms of Israeli policy and thought he was anti-Semitic.

In truth he was born in Karbala, Iraq – a city nearly unknown to Americans until the all-out offensive on Iraq in 2003 -- and graduated first in his class from Baghdad's High School of Commerce. He was spared seeing his homeland blatantly destroyed although he suffered watching nine years of punishing aerial bombardments on Iraq and heavy sanctions that left its people impoverished. He was also spared the tragedy of September 11, 2001 and the horrific aftermath for Afghanistan. He came to the US full of hope and trust in its promise of free speech. Eventually he wielded the First Amendment like a cudgel, daring those who would silence him to read the fine print – and all concomitant Supreme Court rulings. Although his full Iraqi government scholarship for study in the United States stipulated a specialty in accounting, he chose political science. The scholarship was rescinded. Dad washed a lot of dishes to get to his Ph.D.

Dr. M. T. Mehdi is best known for his strong pro-Palestinian and anti-Israeli stance. He was a one-man public relations machine to whom all the New York press turned whenever violence broke out in the Middle East. He commented on Munich, Ma’alot, and the Marine barracks bombing in Beirut. He played a role in getting American hostages released from Lebanon. In 1988 he wrote Terrorism: Why America is The Target – five years before the first World Trade Center bombing.

He is less well known for running for the US Senate in 1992, becoming the first Arab American Muslim to run for federal office. He won 5% of the vote in New York State. Dr. Mehdi was the first American to petition the US Post Office for an Eid Stamp. He got the Empire State Building to go green in honor of Ramadan. He was the first to encourage other major public institutions, including the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey to acknowledge the accomplishments of Muslims by raising a crescent and star flag annually in December. In fact, the Port Authority raised this banner at the World Trade Center at his behest. A crescent and star is on the White House ellipse every year during the holiday season alongside the National Christmas tree and menorah representing the Jewish festival of Hanukah. He was the first Arab American to publish an English-language newspaper (ACTION) focused on American and Middle East issues, influencing the career choices of young Arab Americans. He was the first to face unfair deportation based on his pro-Palestinian politics and national origins.

In the time that’s passed since my father’s death, progress has been made in the vital mines of politics and culture that he forged nearly single-handedly. Today, Arab American and Muslim American organizations plow forward, holding conferences, raising funds, challenging the status quo. We hear annual Ramadan greetings from the White House and can purchase the beautiful blue and gold calligraphic Eid stamp. There’s still a long way to go in balancing American policy toward Israel and Palestine and in supporting the growth of democracy in Southwest Asia, but at least it’s on the agenda. Congressman Keith Ellison and others are urging President Obama to “ensure that the legitimate needs of the Palestinian population are met.” But people forget on whose broad shoulders they stand.

There’s no replacing the voice that always came on the radio and television after an explosion, kidnapping, hijacking or killing: a voice that came to put context and reason where only conflict and rage prevailed; a voice with rolling “r’s” and an accent echoing a boyhood in Baghdad and a manhood in Berkeley. A man who suffered for his convictions but never lost heart. He survived beatings, arson and threats to his family. He created a movement which lives on now in structured Arab and Muslim American organizations.

“Are you Mehdi’s daughter?”

Today that question raises unmitigated pride.

Your family misses you, your colleagues miss you, and so do the people who counted on you to speak the truth about so many Arab and Muslim issues. No one has filled your extra wide shoes, dad … but you sure started something.

One of those is the annual M. T. Mehdi Courage in Journalism Award. Last year’s $1000 prize went to Ray Hanania.

Letter XX: Taxes and Times

2010-02-14T02:02:00.000-08:00

14 February 2010

February is tax time because Janna wants to transfer from Temple and all those college application documents are due March 1. Doing taxes, stressful as it may be, is always interesting. It's better than New Year's Eve for reflecting on the past and dreaming what's next. It's a chance to see how different one year was from the year before ... from a place in the next. From my rooster listening post in Amman, I see that numbers this year are different from last but also my ambition, lifestyle, productivity and opportunity. 2009 held a few consulting gigs, a few lectures, and the Fulbright. 2009 -- nice and quiet compared to the chaos and tumult of '08's Dubai escapade, and the Jordan TV documentary training program. The latter was prequel to my Fulbright work at Jordan TV this year. Fortunately Internet access is intermittent today and my tax documents are in a file in Maplewood so I'm on hold and in this break I can write to you.

It's been quite a while since I've posted. January was flush with family: Peter and Janna, then

my cousin's daughter, Nadia from London, and my niece, Maeve from Canada. I'm not complaining about Petra twice in one month or revisiting Amman's non-tourist hotspots, like El Quds Restaurant for mansaf, or Habiba's for kanafe. Waiters at Hashem's recognize us by now and they really appreciate the 1/2 JD tip on the 4JD meal that leaves us stuffed with falafel and hommos.

There's a clothing shop deep in the

old souk with great buys and

saleswomen who know Katie, at least, by name. Jafra DVD shop is now the balad's exclusive distributor of "Inside Mecca" with Arabic subtitles and I have enough copies to be generous. Moreover, I'm up to renting cars and driving. I'd promised myself I'd never drive in this crazy town. But it's not as crazy as Beirut; it's just a notch nuttier than New Jersey, really, and renting gives Katie and me more independence and reduced travel costs. Hey, how about the Dead Sea on Friday?

In early February I wandered around Shmeisani (that's our neighborh

ood) taking photos of what doesn't work about walking in Amman. Security guards got nervous at the bus stop on Mecca Street and at the unused amphitheater and abandoned amusement park under the rusted gondola on the other side of the hill. Taking pictures at the Citadel, that's one thing. Photographing a neighborhood is quite another.

Katie, Janna and I walk ed to the American Embassy in January to collect the "second" passports we applied for so travel to the western neighbor is on the horizon. That's a place where walking is prohibitive. Not only is the sidewalk blocked off but half the street. Armed tanks sit at each corner; military men patrol the length of the block. Pedestrians can't enter but for one spot between cement barriers. I am always saddened by the reality of this formal relationship. Still, nearly everyone we meet says he loves America; they don't even take the bait when I badmouth the Bush administration, although they smile when anyone says "Obama."

We hope to cross the western border later this month. A staff retreat for the Masar Ibrahim el Khalil comes at the end of February in Jericho. Katie and I will spend a day there after walking the Palestine path and seeing el Quds (Jerusalem). Being here has allowed me to play hard as a Masar board member. At the end of January I helped interview for the organization's new executive director. That process let me got to know Susan Collin Marks of SEARCH for Common Gr ound.

She introduced ed me to an expanded concept of tribe -- one that goes beyond DNA, geopolitical borders, and may stretch throu

gh centuries. You know what it's like to meet someone and feel an instant connection, an ease of relationship, a comfort and intimacy that firstcontact ought to preclude -- but it's there. That could be a member of your tribe-by-designation, not by birthright. Coming from a small family with it's count us on two hands and two feet members scattered across the globe, the notion of belonging to something bigger, deeper, pre-destined and chosen, shook me. It brought me to tears. You members of my tribe reading this, you know who you are.

The Masar here in Jordan is feeling growing pains right now. This weekend a delegation of prominent guests from the Global Philanthropists Circle came for a walk and an overnight. These were pretty big players staying in some pretty humble homes. Reports are all of graciousness, gratitude, and good food. Katie and I are getting to know this Jordanian back woods pretty well. We're pointing out the ruins of the Ottoman irrigation aqueducts and flour mill, the pomegranate and fig trees. We know Abu Ibrahim, the region's mayor, and Um Ahmad, Um Ihab, and so many other Mothers-Of, who cook, bake, jar, and make goods for sale to the increasing number of visitors who walk the trail from the Soap House of Orjan to the remains of the Church of St. Elias (Elijah) on the highest hill above the towns of Al Ayoun, Orjan, Baoun, and Rasun. Women are the engines of economic opportunity here. Pilgrims on the Masar are fuel.

February promises to be full of activity beyond the Masar adventures. For one, I'm on another film project. For another, Jordan Television is undergoing a major shuffle, with the Director General summarily ousted a few weeks back and the aftershocks still coming. I don't know what my role will be there in the near future. And the college applications must be completed. I am not welcoming the return of multitasking. It will be interesting to see if juggling skills return like riding a bike.

XIX: Wadi Rum Rocks

2010-01-29T09:47:00.001-08:00

Letter XIX: Wadi Rum Rocks You

January 16, 2010
There's so much to say about a family vacation in Jordan's scenic south. And I will say more, shortly. But briefly, three nights in the WadiRum, two in Aqaba, and one at Petra. We had the best of the desert, gourmet snorkeling, and living history. With my camera we have some fine home movies, too. One day, jeeping and climbing in the Wadi Rum, our car broke down. Mohammed, our guide, wiggled the wires under the hood, we pushed, we flagged down the few passers-by. Stoked on sweet bedouin sage tea we were not discouraged and finally, blistered, overheated and pumped we got it started and got back to camp. That night after a delicious dinner we sat around the campfire inside the big tent and shared songs. We went from Bedouin oud and drums to Guthrie's "This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land." Then Mohammed and Yusuf suggested Queen's "We Will Rock You." Believe me, Wadi Rum rocks you.

Letter XVIII: The Winds Above

2009-12-31T04:50:00.000-08:00

December 31, 2009

Clouds are pushing south, white nimbus shadowed with gray on the bottom side, baby blue sky high beyond like a Vazquez painting. They migrate over Amman almost with a purpose. Are they heading for Mecca, to bless the city with rain again as happened at this year’s hajj? Are they heading to the Wadi Rum, where we go next week for Bedouin food, hospitality and camel riding? Are the clouds only reminding us they are free and we are not? That they can be dry or wet as they please and we accept the consequences? At least here in Jordan rain is welcomed with literally open arms. People don’t rush to shelter. Kids happily stomp in puddles, their mothers smiling while water runs off their headscarves.

There go the clouds and there goes the year. There goes another decade. And what a year. I can barely remember anything before coming to Amman. Let’s see: a great start to the Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey’s 47^th season; passing-the-baton board meetings at the Esalen Institute; a crash course on Final Cut Pro and producing a DVD of the Columbia High School Cougar Marching Band 2008 program; finishing the promo film for Music for All Seasons, finishing the short on the Masar el Khalil in Palestine racing through visa applications and paperwork, the Fulbright orientation and news of Michael Jackson’s death, Greg Shaw’s wedding in Elk, California, then more dizzying deadlines and blind shopping for anything we might need but might not find here. Of course there’s everything here, from reasonably priced Canon printer/scanner/copiers to the best cucumbers bar none.

Right now Katie and I are thrilled to have Peter and Janna with us, filling our apartment with laughter, depth, more clicking keyboards, and stuff. We are hosting a party tonight to celebrate the coming of 2010 with Jordanian and American friends. Next week, when Katie’s midterms are done, we rent a car and drive south.

Happy New Year to all of you and thanks for sticking with me on this wonder filled ride.

To What Are They Committed? Written on December 25, 2009

2009-12-31T00:03:00.000-08:00

AMMAN -- The headline in the Jordan Times read, “Status quo will not hold, warn Middle East experts.” In smaller typeface it read, “Russia, EU, UN must get more involved in peace; Israelis told security by force is dangerous illusion.” It was Tuesday, December 22, 2009. One day earlier, at the Holiday Inn on the Dead Sea, the Valdai International Discussion Club of the Russian Federation opened its one-and-a-half day conference “Middle East - 2020: Is The Comprehensive Settlement Possible?”

Unlike the Reuters reporter whose piece was picked up by the Jordan Times, I only attended the first day of the conference, but it was enough to see that the status quo is all that remains of decades of Camp David’s and other accords, resolutions and road maps.

That’s because rhetoric ruled the day at the Dead Sea. I listened in disbelief to conversations among people who really could make an impact in this region spewing age-old righteous and mean-spirited speeches at one another rather than engaging in authentic, risky, humble explorations of what they could initiate to alleviate the suffering and fear of the people -- "their people -- who are counting on them.

In spite of stated Russian intentions to step up as an influential broker in the Middle East arena it is clear that only fresh ideas put forth by a fresh cast of characters will put

life into this deadlock, and the people who will transform the situation are yet too young. Russian hopes will be predictably dashed upon the uncompromising battlements of today’s Palestinian and Israeli representatives who show neither sign nor commitment to paving any significant new path. Rather, they relish the status quo of no-go and will dare nothing.

Because it would be daring to honor the thousands of lives lost in Gaza, Lebanon, Deir Yassin, Maalot, the 1996 bombing at the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem, and myriad other tragic events stealing souls over the decades, by taking steps to make sure their deaths were not in vain. There was no bold, authentic I don’t-care-if-they-think-I’m-crazy-but-you-need-to-stop-posturing-and-start-talking-turkey statement exploding in the conference room like a truth bomb. There was “you’re wrong and here’s why.” Not much more.

As the manager of the Holiday Inn (where the event took place) pointed out, “We really need results. Last year this time the Gaza war decimated not only lives there on the other side of the Dead Sea, but also devastated livelihoods here. There are real consequences to these meetings.”

As if scripted by Hollywood, Bollywood, or DeadSeaWood, conversation about comprehensive settlement warped into all-too-predictable accusations and finger pointing. Former Russian Prime Minister Evgeny Primakov made it clear that the United States was mucking up the works by dominating the international scene; Palestinian-Israeli peace would only be possible with new players at a table with a different host. Former Palestinian Prime Minister Ahmad Quria, in a white shirt with unbuttoned collar and gray jacket, hopelessly recalled the failure of previous pacts. All previous agreements had been abrogated by Israel, he said, which used accords only to stall for time in which to appropriate Palestinian property. Israeli General Jacob Amidror, stung by Palestinian accusations, asserted that the only reason the West Bank wasn’t aflame like Gaza was thanks to the presence of Israel Defense Forces (IDF), and that Russia shouldn’t call for international intervention in this region when it didn’t welcome international forces in Georgia in 2007.

On nuclear proliferation, Efraim Inbar of Israel’s Begin-Sadat Center for Strategic Studies ruled out all hope for diplomacy in curbing Iran’s nuclear development, concluding, “all we are left with are military strikes.” On the other hand, Russians did not believe Iran had “made a political decision to build nuclear weapons” but rather wanted to follow “a Japanese model of technological development.” Palestinians wondered why Iran was even being discussed, since it does not currently have nuclear weapons, while Israel already does.

Until participants in the process are willing to detach themselves from winning and commit themselves to solving they will not make progress. Solving will take loss on both sides. It will take surrender and sorrow; it will involve anger, apology and humility. It will take greater courage, imagination, and vulnerability than seen at Oslo, Annapolis and Madrid. Solving requires a greater commitment to quality of life for residents of the region than to being right about what went wrong in 1948, 1967, 1992, and yesterday.

Time is the great enemy of the status quo. Algerian Sufi-statesman Emir Abd el-Kader died 79 years before his efforts to liberate his nation from French occupation finally triumphed in 1962. The Italian government under Mussolini executed Libyan freedom fighter Omar Mukhtar in 1931 but 20 years later, with support from the United Nations, Libya declared its independence (“Lion of the Desert,” the movie about Mukhtar’s life directed by Moustafa Akkad was banned in Italy). Ahmadou Bamba , who led the Senegalese in non-violent resistance to French occupation and suffered 15 years in exile, died 33 years before Senegal loosed itself of colonial rule in 1960. In each case, time turned the status quo.

It is tragic that today’s people in power are willing to risk everything for war but not for peace. Time will bring new players. Given the large percentage of people under the age of 25 in this region, there is hope. The status quo will surrender when new teams arrive at an altered playing field. Still aren't we all disappointed that the time isn’t now?

30 December 2009: Some Do's and Don't's for Peace

2009-12-29T21:49:00.000-08:00

My friend and colleague Michael Lame and I usually don't see eye-to-eye. In fact we've made a small business of not agreeing with one another: we give lectures together called, "Disagreeing on Everything: An Arab and A Jew Discuss the Middle East.." We even have an agent booking us! Check out the debate series at Wolfman Productions. Of course that's on hold while I'm in Jordan but you can bet I'll have a lot more to say when I get back.

Meantime, I direct your attention to this article Michael just published on his website, "Rethink the Middle East.Com." (The cute nickname for the organization is, "Rethink ME." Michael's got some very good ideas. But don't tell our agent I said so ...

Pretty soon I'll post my own, dismal reflections on the peace process based on attending a Russian think tank meeting at the Dead Sea last week.

Here is a taste of Michael Lame's piece called "2010 in the Middle East Part 2"

What Not to Do

Let’s start with what not to do, or rather, what not to say:

1) Stop talking about 242 and 338. They are out of date and out of juice.

2) Stop talking about the Road Map. It’s a map that neither side wanted and neither

side has followed.

3) Stop talking about land for peace. The Palestinians need more than land in order

to build a state. The Israelis need more than a peace treaty in order to sleep soundly at night.

4) Stop talking about a commitment to a Palestinian state, but don’t stop working

towards it. It’s still unclear if that circle can be squared. To be so publicly committed to such an iffy proposition is not wise foreign policy...

What productive actions could the U.S. take in 2010?

Refugees

An unconscionably large number of Palestinians have no citizenship or passports. The United States should explore constructive ways to address this problem without waiting for it to be dealt with in final status negotiations. After all, no one knows if or when such negotiations will take place or prove productive. The Palestinian refugees and their descendants should no longer be held hostage to the “peace process”.

The United States could create a taskforce – completely separate from the Mitchell team – to work towards ending that condition of statelessness...

The West Bank

The settlement freeze issue was so mucked up by the administration this year that it’s probably best not to make it a focal point of its efforts in 2010.

Instead, insist (and verify) that the Israelis significantly accelerate the pace of reducing the number of roadblocks and checkpoints and take other measurable, substantive actions to ease personal travel and commercial transportation in the West Bank ...

Keep reading at Rethink the Middle East.

Letter XVII: Lulled into living

2009-12-20T11:32:00.001-08:00

On 18 October 2009 I wrote (but didn’t share):

When I first came here everything had to happen post haste: get an apartment, get a phone, open a bank account, start projects, learn Arabic, get back in touch with people I’d known here before, even long ago.

Now it is six weeks into the adventure. We’ve been to Lebanon. I’ve been back to the States. This weekend we go to Syria. We have our apartment. We both have phones. The bankcard works as a debit at the supermarket and at other bank ATMs with no extra fees, the Arabic teacher comes twice a week. And I’ve got projects underway.

But I haven’t tracked down Kifah Fakhouri, director of the National Conservatory of Music still, who was featured in “Classical Caravan” of 1989. I haven’t brought a copy of the film to the Queen Noor al Hussein Foundation, headquartered just a few blocks from our apartment – but not so close as to hear the ducks spat. I’ve not reconnected with Basma or Thair, contacts from the State Department tour of ‘07 and Whetstone Productions training program of 2008 respectively.

I’m lulled into living as if there were plenty of time for all to be completed.

And on 20 December 2009 I begin by writing:

Even as I exult in the slower pace of life I notice that the To-Do list is longer than the Things-Done list. I never wrote you about Damascus except to say it was magic and mystery, befitting imagination. Or Petra. Or Eid al Adha and how it was and was not meaningful to have the Eid and Thanksgiving occur together. Or to point you to Salam al Marayati’s powerful piece, “Fort Hood: A Defining Moment for Muslim Americans,” November 13, 2009. Salam heads the Muslim Public Affairs Council, MPAC, and is one of the brightest and best thinkers we’ve got. He reminds me a bit of my dad. Keep an ear out for him.

Two months from that earlier musing I have found more people who know Kifah Fakhouri and I have still not reached out.

I have reconnected with Basma thanks to her setting up an event at Jordan University’s “American Corner” – a screening of “Inside Mecca” in early December where I lunched with professors from the American Studies and En

glish Literature departments who taught me something about both subjects. I never took an English lit class after high school! All the literature I studied was in Spanish. So here I am in Jordan, learning from native Arabic speakers something about Faulkner and Hemingway.

And there are extra fees attached to using our bankcard at other banks. They just don’t list the fees on the receipt; they show up on the statements, instead.

Petra was and Petra is a movie set extraordinaire. Standing atop the ledge of the Urn Tomb, where I stood with a group of Princeton Symphony musicians and my crew in 1988, and looking out over the valley, I saw either total fantasy or a revival of what Nabatean commerce may have resembled several thousand years ago. Did you know that Petra is the site of the first Neolithic human settlements? That people settled here about 2000 years before Stone Age settlements in Europe?

They’re literally “digging” into that now at Petra and a new area should be open to the public by the end of 2010.

It looks like I’ll be among the first videographers to capture it, too.

Katie and I went with Dr. Fadi Haddad, who we met at Thanksgiving and who is a founding member of the Royal Society of Photography. He got permission to drive into the site through the back entrance, through the village to which the inhabitants of Petra were transferred in the 1990s – to give them a better quality of life, and to keep the site protected from cooking, goats, unregulated commerce (sales and begging), and for greater antiquity preservation. The people still work Petra and come down the long, winding back road every day, adults and children, ready to lead tourists on their burros, horses and camels, to sell handmade jewelry and make (and sell) hot tea. We had a divine cup of tea at the farthest lookout point, on beyond the Dyer (Monastery) that’s the famous 900 steps climb from the floor of the Petra site to the top of the rose colored rock. From that promontory, on a clear day, you can see the Negev – according to the sign. It was not that clear when Katie and I climbed. But the tea was hot and sweet and we could squeeze our eyes and at least imagine the Wadi Rum off in the distance. Back home that night we watched “Lawrence of Arabia.”

So what to do about the pace and lack thereof? Write shorter. Edit faster. Make more phone calls. Ease up.

“There are no answers, only choices,” was a line from George Clooney’s “Solaris.” A weak movie with a memorable line and that handsome face.

Or how about Russian President Dmitry Medvedev’s comment to the Valdai International Discussion Club, that “setting unambitious goals is a waste of time”? www.cdi.org/Russia/johnson/2009-172-22.cfm

XVI: Amman Thanksgiving, 26 November 2009

2009-12-12T04:36:00.000-08:00

It’s Thanksgiving Day. Katie and I spend the morning peeling and chopping apples, hand mixing butter, brown sugar and maple syrup (yes, we brought it from Maine), and finally baking the apple crumble. It’s our contribution to Thanksgiving dinner, hosted by the Zureikat family here in Amman.

Of note: in the years I spent as a working-outside-the-home-mom I didn’t bake cookies with my kids. Birthday cakes, yes, the odd banana bread, yes, too. But I didn’t/wouldn’t make time for the “traditional” mom/child pastime. Now I really enjoy it. We cook and converse. No apron-string hanging, rather inventive, interactive cuisine-ing, and talk about God and ethics and culture and school. I’m glad I did the baking bit in this order.

Now back to the main narrative:

All my life I’ve been host family for Thanksgiving, except for once, in 1998, the year my father died. That year we went to my sister-in-law’s home in Maine. Last year, when her father, my father-in-law died, she came to us.

But all those other years Thanksgiving Day started at 7 or 8 in the morning, with my mom in the kitchen with her apron, stuffing the biggest bird we could find (20 or so pounds) and getting it in early for a long, slow roast. We'd primp the house and set the table with our best dishes -- the ones she inherited from my grandmother when she died. There would be cranberry relish, cranberry jello with fruit in it, white and sweet potatoes, asparagus casserole, pumpkin pies. Ummm.

The best college holiday was always the Thanksgiving break. I remember hitching rides Wednesday night from Wellesley neighbors who lived on Long Island and waking tired but eager Thursday morning for the ritual. For years we had the same core guest group: my father’s Iraqi friends from the University of California at Berkeley (all of whom went on to strong careers in engineering and medicine), their families (they married Iraqi women and spent some time back in the homeland as their scholarships required but returned to settle in the USA). There was Mr. Musa, an Iraqi Jewish bachelor or widower who lived not-too-far from us in Flushing, Queens. There was Danny Bank, my big band baritone sax playing flute teacher http://www.discogs.com/artist/Danny+Bank, http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&sql=11:jcfixqw5ldte~T1 , and Linda Pezzano, my dad’s former assistant who went on to market Trivial Pursuit. We were all delighted when those two had a bit of a fling. Linda, may God rest her soul, died a decade ago after losing the battle with cervical cancer http://www.nytimes.com/1999/10/28/business/linda-pezzano-54-marketer-who-aided-trivial-pursuit.html.

When we three girls got to the stage of growing up that meant we could move out, I began hosting wherever I lived. I hosted Columbia Journalism School out-of-towner-classmates back at the Flushing house in 1981. I hosted in Brighton, Massachusetts, when I was a news writer for WBZ-TV and dad and Laila came up from NYC. We used paper plates. When Peter and I lived in an apartment in North Bergen, NJ, we crated our spices and wine glasses a la supplies trekked to the home of those two pious sisters in northern Denmark for “Babette’s Feast” (http://www.press.uchicago.edu/Misc/Chicago/243230.html) to Flushing and served up a sumptuous dinner to a couple of dozen including Linda and Danny. Since we moved to Maplewood, we host annually, serving a brined bird that has a glorious mixture of brown sugar, Dijon mustard and bourbon rubbed under the skin and bubbled into the gravy. Janna and Katie make the cranberry relishes and help peel the pearl onions, and my mother and her husband are among the honored guests. Other regulars are British, Palestinian, and Nebraskan neighbors.

This year, while Peter and Janna carry on the Maplewood tradition, Katie and I were invited to celebrate Thanksgiving with Jordanian friends.

Hala Zureikat is director of Jordan Television. Her friends are a dazzling assortment of talent: a surgeon who lived in Baghdad and photographed daily life there in the 1970s, the renowned journalist Daoud Kuttab (http://www.daoudkuttab.com/), educators, and an Iraq relief volunteer. The women of the group are close friends, getting together when then can for Bible study. The husbands get together when the wives ask them to -- or invite them to a meal.

Conversation flows easily from Arabic to French to English; from regional politics to international affairs; to the best way to roast a turkey. (From left to right, the chef, Hala's kitchen assistant and Hala herself.)

Any body worrying that Katie and I didn’t have a real Thanksgiving can relax. The food was fabulous. The turkey was as moist and flavorful as could be. And side dishes including hommos, tabbouleh, rice, kousa mashi (stuffed zucchini) and spicy greens and beet salad are surprisingly good complements.

(That's Dr. Fadi Haddad carving turkey and Hala's daughter Dahlia passing a plate. Katie standing in the foreground.)

Our apple crumble was served alongside an exquisite homemade cheesecake and a multi-layered chocolate cake. We enjoyed a Bible quiz on the Christmas story (this quiz asserts that – contrary to popular carols -- we don’t know exactly how many kings came to pay tribute to the baby Jesus).

Before heading home at midnight, Katie and I were invited to go to Petra for the day with Dr. Fadi, a surgeon and photographer, that coming Saturday. Notes and photos on that adventure to come.

Thanks to the technology known as SKYPE, we spent a few minutes at our Maplewood table, too, Katie and I on Peter’s computer screen at the head of the table greeting my folks and the beloved cast of Roebuck’s, Riecke’s and Marshood’s.

Just two nights ago now the Fulbright House hosted a Seasons Greetings party replete with turkey, trimmings and pumpkin pie ordered from the American Embassy. Scholars and Fellows brought vegetables, salads and desserts.

Peter and Janna will be with us at the end of the year and we will be feasting with them. There are Butterballs in the frozen food section at Safe Way and I may just store one away for New Year's Eve.

"Inside Mecca" at the Royal Film Commission

2009-12-07T22:20:00.001-08:00

On Tuesday, 8 December 2009, the acclaimed National Geographic Special "Inside Mecca" will be screened at the Royal Film Commission in Amman, Jordan. Producer/Director Anisa Mehdi, who currently lives in Jordan as a Fulbright Scholar, will attend and share her experiences with the audience afterward.

Photo shows Anisa on location with videojournalist and team member Hossam Abouelmagd.

FOLLOW UP, 9 DECEMBER:

The screening was packed, standing room only. Some 40+ people were turned away at the door. The US deputy chief of mission and his wife came too so "men in black" arrived early to sweep the space.

It's satisfying to have made a film that stands the test of time (well, six years at least), and still educates and inspires people. Long, strong legs, as they say in the industry, and a big heart.

Where the Hajj Takes Us -- Washington Post on-line

2009-11-29T02:29:00.001-08:00

The Washington Post.com has published my recent essay called "Where the Hajj Takes Us." I wrote this for Common Ground News Service ... and I'm inclined to think my piece would have been better received there. Wow, readers can be awful -- just read the comments (which I have NOT included with the text, below). Would that people could distinguish between the rogue and cruel criminal and the ordinary, benign majority. So many of us simply do the best we can and often that's not good enough. I count myself in that company.

I am interested in your response to my thoughts on this pilgrimage. And if you also post your views at the Post, I would be most grateful!

This is how to post at the Washington Post:

Where the hajj takes us

By Anisa Mehdi
journalist, interfaith educator

AMMAN, Jordan - Here in Jordan, American domestic news, such as the horror of Fort Hood, has not been crowding the headlines. Instead, the focus is on political leaders' assurances that there will be enough containers of butane gas to heat homes for the winter, sustainable water sources, and expanding Israeli settlements in Jerusalem. Even as these concerns fill the headlines, the Eid al-Adha, the celebration marking the end of the hajj pilgrimage, is a source of hope.

Eid al-Adha means "Feast of the Sacrifice." Scriptural stories say God asked the Prophet Abraham to prove his faithfulness by sacrificing his son. Satan appeared along the path to the altar, decrying God as cruel and false for demanding such a ghastly act. Abraham threw stones at Satan to drive him away. At the denouement, God was satisfied, sparing Abraham's son and giving the grateful father a ram to sacrifice instead.

Up to 10,000 Jordanian pilgrims will perform the hajj this year - joining about the same number of American pilgrims and more than two million others from around the world. Miraculously, with all these people gathering in one place, grappling with crowds, stress, heat, hunger and confusion, Mecca does not become rife with violence, riots, shootings or hostility during the hajj. In more than 1,400 years as a Muslim rite, the greatest danger of pilgrimage remains disease.

How is it that under such trying circumstances, strangers from the far reaches of the planet, belonging to different ethnicities, nationalities and languages, are able to sustain generally good relations with one another during the trying rituals of the hajj?

That is not just the challenge of the hajj, but of Islam itself. The great jihad - or struggle - each Muslim faces in his or her lifetime is how to be the finest person possible. Hajj is a proving ground for the best behavior, practice and expression of humanity.

Usually, it's easy to see how people separate themselves from one another. Many of us labor to differentiate ourselves from others - sometimes claiming superiority or dominance merely by dint of birthright. In Jordan, for example, Muslims and Christians coexist, gently appreciating what they see as the other's mildly misguided beliefs. There are Jordanians of Bedouin stock, and Jordanians from the north or the south, each with their own mansaf and kunafeh, tasty local dishes. There are 1948 Palestinian-Jordanians and 1967 Palestinian-Jordanians, each with historical gratitudes and gripes.

At the hajj, which I have had the privilege to film and report for the Public Broadcasting Service (PBS) and National Geographic Television, those distinctions begin to melt. On the ninth day of the month of hajj, as dusk settles over the Plain of Arafat where the Prophet Muhammad made his farewell speech to Muslims toward the end of his life, many pilgrims, drying their eyes, understand that at essence we are born, we love, and we die; that our identity is ultimately tied to the way we live our lives, not to the nation or tribe to which we were born.

Hajj is as much about the individual as it is profoundly about community and the communion of humanity. God says in the Qur'an, "O humankind! Lo! We have created you male and female, and have made you nations and tribes that ye man know one another. Lo! The noblest of you, in the sight of Allah, is the best in conduct" (49:13).

The great lesson of the hajj is this: more important than where we come from is where we are going.

Anisa Mehdi and is a journalist and interfaith educator. She is a Fulbright Scholar in Amman this year, working with documentary filmmakers and broadcasting professionals. This article was written for the Common Ground News Service.

Letter XV: First screening

2009-11-23T10:51:00.000-08:00

23 November 2009

Today opened the big conference for the Higher Council for the Affairs of Persons with Disabilities (HCD). Le Royal Hotel is shaped like the chimney tower of a submarine emerging from the sea. It is huge! Everything looked ready to go. I’d gone yesterday to check video and audio levels. We checked them again this morning.

The folks running the HCD (http://www.hcd.gov.jo/englishmain.htm) are talented and determined. Prince Ra’ad, who has championed the rights of the disabled for decades, is stalwart, steadfast, and virally optimistic. He is related to the royal family here by dint of the heritage of 20^th century Hashemite cousins plucked from the Hijaz (western Arabia) and plunked down in Iraq and Jordan as monarchs by our friends the British (1921). The Iraqi coup d’etat of 1958, known as the 14 July Revolution established the Republic of Iraq and ended any dreams of regal life in Iraq. Prince Ra’ad came to Jordan as has lived an impassioned and inspiring life devoted to the rights of people with disabiliites. Dr. Amal Nahas, executive director, is fluent in Arabic, English, sign language, and probably French. She’s a graceful intellect and hard working. It is a joy to be with both of them in the editorial process of filmmaking.

But in our last meeting – the one to show them the “finished product,” so many new ideas came flowing that I began a quiet deep breathing and inward prayer for serenity. No way were we going to go back into the field to add a section on the need for access to public buildings; we were not going to add a still frame photo of a person in a wheelchair looking longingly up a steep flight of stairs; nor were were going to get footage of a blind person tapping along the street with a white cane. Access was not, in fact, part of the initial brief, I pointed out. And we are already out of time and budget. But how to diplomatically disappoint a prince and a client?

Audio, audio was the answer. We came up with the notion of an audio montage calling for hope and a better future. Bring a few young people into the studio and record them saying “’amal,” (hope), add some echo, and weave it into the audio-over-black introduction. Of course now there’s a sound studio involved and … and … and …

… And at the sound studio I was on my own with a roomful of Jordanian technicians looking at me sideways. I decided to establish dominance immediately and pretended a bit of a hissy fit when no one stopped talking about what they were going to do for me without bothering to listen to me tell them what I wanted. They shut up. Then one, Hani, emerged, as an English-speaker. As he began to translate my concept to the team they murmured in Arabic together about how they could do this and how quickly, given my time and budget deadlines. Voices got louder. There was a complication.

“And how old is your daughter?” I asked Nasser, a shaved-head, somewhat overweight and grumpy looking guy. He looked up at me, astonished. “I didn’t say anything in English about my daughter!”

“I know. But I understood you in Arabic.” (This I said in Arabic, and continued.) “You have to be with her tomorrow morning? I have two daughters, one with me here in Amman, the other in college in the USA. How about you?”

Nasser broke into a grin. A father and his daughters. As sure a way to a man’s heart as through his stomach.

From that moment I had a team. Hani, Nasser and I created a beautiful “Amal … for a better future” audio montage.

Meanwhile back at Moon, sign language was taped and added to the lower left of the screen. Nermeen and I finished the English subtitles. And this morning, Showtime.

The JTV news crew there paid no attention to the remarkable sight of chains of blind individuals, holding on one another’s sleeves, making their way into the conference; they didn’t notice the folks coming through in wheelchairs. They taped the speeches from the front, ignoring the sign language interpreter. But at least, bless them, got plenty of cutaways of the seated audience!

So comes this morning and I’m at the over-the-top Le Royal at 8am as Prince Ra’ad instructed (didn’t want to be late due to security in place for the arriving dignitaries including the Minister of the Interior.

We checked audio and video. We talked with the lighting director. Make it dark. Don’t let it be too loud.

Preliminary speeches are done. It’s announced there will be a short documentary on disabilities. (Not the intro I would have written.) The lights come down – not far enough. And there’s no audio. Not even black on the screen – which is how we started: ten seconds of audio only including our masterwork with Hani and Nasser. The very audio “pow” that the prince himself requested.

And nothing.

Finally Dr. Kalabani fades up from black with the first sound bite – inaudible. Ghadeer, too, inaudible. Wala’s father, nothing. We begin to hear the baby cry and the first whispers of Kalabani saying, “Patients get upset when they first meet me and find out that I can’t hear them well. But when they see that I do understand and can serve them, everything is fine.” And everything was fine from there.

Suffering. Doing all you can and it not being enough to make a flawless performance. End of suffering. Knowing you’ve done all you can and at least it’s over.

Photos

2009-11-22T01:25:00.000-08:00

A few images to lighten the reading load ...

Atop the top of the Petra site

At the Orjan Soap House in Ajloun governorate. See Masar el Khalil.

Dead Sea sunset

Petra amphitheatre

Tyre, Lebenon, with Abu Jafar;

At the tomb of Rafiq Hariri, Beirut

Katie atop a pillar of the Temple of Zeus, Jerash, Jordan

Walking the Masar el Khalil in Al Ayoun, Governorate of Ajloun, Jordan

A mosque built at the presumed site of the birth of prophet Elias, on the Masar el Khalil

Katie getting on the school bus

Views from Mount Nebo, Jordan.

Letter XIV: Editing and the Noble Truths

2009-11-17T02:54:00.000-08:00

17 November 2009

[At left: Anisa, Catherine Oberg, Dave Goulding and John Schwally on location in France, 2006, videotaping for "Monks and Muslims: Finding Faith in Algeria."]

There’s a wonderful device in the Star Trek series called the universal translator (http://www.startrek.com/startrek/view/library/technology/article/70299.html). It can translate into your language almost any language being spoken by an arriving alien; and it allows that newcomer to understand you, too. Fortunately we don’t have those, and we’re forced to learn one another’s languages; squeezing us into awkward moments (especially as adults) when sometimes we are reduced to gestures and baby talk. I’m getting good at the awkward moments here in Jordan. Even as I understand more and more of what’s said around me, my ability to respond is limited.

However, there’s a different level of communication pulsing in the edit room. A variation on Gene Roddenberry’s universal translator functions among the screens and the footage and the scripts. The universal edit room translator deciphers tones of voice, body language, and intent to listen. I’ve been studying this language since 1982 and by now I am fluent in understanding the battle of ego and control, the struggle to claim leadership of the creative process, the winner of the I-have-the-best-idea contest. (As if creating a worthy and inspiring piece is a win/lose prospect between team members, rather than a competition among all of us to dazzle all of them.) However, I find I’m still not fluent in making myself dominant if there are swarthy competitors in the edit or in the field – even when my role is boss-lady (I think the nice words for that are “producer” and “director”).

Ideal teams do exist. I’ve had the privilege of working with top professionals who all pull their weight, listen, share ideas and move ahead with the project’s best interest in mind and heart. Like an oiled, finely tuned machine. Like my beloved BMW 320i after Pete Murad, the former racecar driver-turned-mechanic, put his magic touch on the engine. Moving through curves at higher-than-suggested speeds as if the road was one with the wheels. My team here in Jordan 21 years ago fit that bill. Joe Conlan brusquely waving me out of the way so he could get his microphones set in the Royal Cultural Center; Mike Budd braving oncoming cars in Amman’s busy balad (downtown) for shots of the Husseini Mosque. Lou Presti gallantly holding the sungun aloft during an interview with an ambassador in Cairo, as it faded to darkness in the dusking room and we all kept on going ... My team in Kuala Lumpur, Kwa Ndabele, and Austin to introduce the pilgrims of “Inside Mecca.” (http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2003/10/photogalleries/InsideMecca) Dave Goulding recording the ritual slaughter of two large sheep, up close and personal, hot and aromatic … Plus my remarkable Mecca teams: taping through the nights (no overtime), losing and finding their subjects, wondering if food might materialize in the next few hours. Yasir Khan fighting off the aggressive bacteria cocktails that pervade the pilgrimage; Taghi Amirani taping in a helicopter with no safety belts; Hossam Abouel Magd forging into the slaughterhouse at Mina where 800,000 animals may be sacrifice, and emerging spattered with blood. I’m awed, too, by the miraculous work of my first Hajj coverage crew in 1998. Our batteries died in Mina and Dawud-my-crew-chief-from Sudan rigged up the camera to the car to keep our interviews going through the night; like “Crocodile Dundee” he memorized guards at many-a-gate charged with forbidding passage to all – except us (http://www.pbs.org/wnet/religionandethics/week133/feature.html). And the idyllic France shoot of 2006 on the Monks project -- incredibly long days with Catherine, Dave, and John Schwally, but fabulous food and vistas throughout.

But equally there are dysfunctional crews, led by “directors” who fancy themselves the sole creative brain in the neighborhood, directors who cover their inexperience with self-importance, who hide their insecurity in arrogance; one who commands that a team member not even speak with another lest it compromise his artistic supremacy. I worked with one of those in 2001-2002 on the Frontline “Muslims” project (http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/muslims/).

I jot down notes in the field and edit room regularly. This is dated 2 November 2009: “One of the four noble truths is that suffering comes from trying to edit shots by camera people who don’t know how to edit. Suffering is a product of missing cutaways.”

(Doesn’t Judy Garland famously lament the cutaways that got away?)

Suffering is also a product of long pans and tilts with no motivation. And camera batteries dying just when the most profound statement comes from the person you’re interviewing. Or maybe the microphone wasn’t turned on, as in the heart-wrenching interview with Abdul Karim Soroush in Tehran in 1999 (http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/muslims/).

And suffering comes when I don’t establish myself as the Alpha person, but pretend at democracy. I’m not a control freak but I demand to be shown what I want to see so I may choose whether to use it or not. Suffering is working with editors instead of editing oneself – except for working with someone like Catherine Oberg (http://www.darcproductions.org/darcproductions/Home_2.html) who has the shot I want in place before I even name it; she kindly allows me to show I’m needed by letting me suggest the fine tuning of the audio tracks.

So what’s this big preamble about? Suffering in an edit room in Jordan. (And don't get me wrong: I lead a very easy, blessed and wonderful life. My "suffering" doesn't compare to people who really suffer.)

We are by now nearly done with a short film for Jordan’s Higher Council for the Affairs of Persons with Disabilities, http://www.hcd.gov.jo, and http://www.hcd.gov.jo/englishmain.htm. The HCD is about to launch its first national conference and wants a film to set the tone. I was asked to direct.

The field and edit room universal translators are functioning within normal parameters. Even expanded bandwidth.

The field was delightful. As almost always. It’s one of the special treats of this line of work: we go to places we wouldn’t go and meet people we wouldn’t know otherwise. In October we drove two and a half hours south of Amman to Ma’an, within reach of Petra, to the South Society for Special Education, where persons who are blind, deaf, unable to walk, but otherwise fully functioning get therapies and training to integrate into the mainstream. Persons with mental disabilities also get training and education. Centers like these exist throughout the Kingdom but certainly aren’t enough to satisfy existing needs. I can’t imagine we handle everyone’s needs in the USA either, but at least there’s awareness is greater there. The HCD wants to raise Jordanian awareness and is pushing for inclusiveness, access, and facilities. We met a doctor who wears a hearing aid and can’t seem to get a job in a private hospital so he works in a government clinic. (I hope he’ll at least get a wife out of this film – he’s an intelligent and attractive man.) We met a handful of blind students at Jordan University. The young woman we focus on in the film is a senior majoring in English literature. Imagine printing out all your study materials in Braille! These are courageous, stubborn, worthy people and I’d never have met them were it not for reporting. Our seven-minute short invites viewers into their lives for just a moment, and urges attention to their reasonable needs.

[For American citizens reading this you’ll be glad to know (I hope) that the efforts of the HCD are underwritten in part by your tax dollars, through USAID, http://www.usaid.gov/about_usaid/disability/jordan.html. It’s what’s called “humanitarian assistance.”]

Most of the overlong, over-budget edit days are amiable and productive. One day was an entirely different story. A young producer who works free-lance at Moon Productions (http://www.moonproductionme.com/) was seconded to me to translate while the company owner, who is working directly with me on this project, had other appointments. The young man (I’m being nice – he’s in his 30s and has covered three wars) was (I’ll be nice again) trying to impress me with his capabilities. So every time I asked for something – to see a shot, to hear a bite, to try a cut – he had a better idea. We got to see and try all of his. He could tell the editor what to do. Some of his ideas worked. Some did not. But when I wanted to see if my ideas worked I was begging, cajoling, whining. My disability is language. In the 15 minutes it took for him to tell me why his idea was better we could have checked out and nixed or used a dozen of my picks. In 10 hours we cut four minutes. And the first two had been done the day before, in a fraction of the time. By the end of the day, the “young man” was looking for some of his Iraq war footage to add to our piece on disabled persons in Jordan. I finally said, “Look for those shots on your own time. Right now we are going to use the footage we have.”

Enter the owner, looking dashing, back from some client meeting or other. “How did it go?” he asked. And, for the second time in my career I lost it in the edit room. I said I was not pleased with the process or the outcome because I had been stymied at every turn by the owner’s rep. We were late. We were behind. We were off story. He turned up the volume with, “I’m sorry we ruined your piece! We’ll start all over tomorrow from the beginning.”

“I’m not doing this all over again tomorrow!”

“Why not?”

“I will not spend another 10 hours of wasted time. We will work with what we have.”

“But we ruined your piece!”

“You should have been here.”

“I will be here tomorrow and strictly translate for you. We will add nothing.”

“You are hired to be part of a team, not to be a parrot.”

“We ruined your piece!”

The dialogue was far more interesting than I can recreate – which is why I shy away from fiction. I reenacted it for Katie and for my mom by phone later in the day and they were in stitches. But I didn’t write it down. So you’re stuck with my dulled memory.

It went on for an hour.

The next day boss-man was my soul mate on the job. But later he got into it with our project consultant over some changes requested by the client. Same routine: repeated sarcastic mea culpas and veiled you know nothing’s. I finally grew up, interceded, got blown out of the ring a couple of times, but persisted in quieting them, taking responsibility for all that went wrong (sharing the credit for successes), and gave some important coaching to boss-man: I see a lot of me in you. (He’s half my age?) Talent and temper. Your talent is strong. But your temper can undo you. If you want to succeed and grow professionally you need to control your temper.

“I guess I was pretty harsh.”

“Yes.”

“I should call her and apologize.”

“Yes.”

The apology sounded like more of “you’re an idiot,” but my Arabic leaves a lot to be desired. In response to my wide-eyed look when he hung up the phone he said, “that’s how we apologize here.”

We’ve been here nearly three months. And all that seemed so familiar and easy to adjust to is now opening into layers of complexity. What I don’t know I don’t know is what I’m after now. Turn on the universal translator.

XIII: Food and Fall

2009-11-08T11:05:00.000-08:00

30 October 2009

Spinach comes in two kilo bunches here. Massive leaves and long stalks tied with black string and caked with mud. It takes time to pick through and clean it; the lower half ends up in the garbage (a kilo of stems) but there’s spinach for days. We eat it for breakfast (with poached eggs on top as my father used to make), and for dinner, sometimes on its own, sometimes mixed into pasta.

Cooking around here really improved with Peter’s visit and afterward. He’s always creative in the kitchen where I’d just as soon make beans and rice. And day after day, even beans and rice decked with garlic the way Katie makes them so tasty, needs a break.

So we bought piles of apples from the street vendor near the Fulbright House, and made applesauce and hot apple tea. We bought a hand blender at the Duty-Free Shop on the way back from Syria and Katie makes juice from kiwi and pomegranate. We baked banana bread; we stir fry the great vegetables of the Jordan Valley; we roast eggplant and garlic; I made my “famous” Spanish tortilla.

It’s less than a month since Peter went back. We never had our date with arguilla but we did tour the Roman Citadel atop one of Amman’s great hills and heard the call to prayer bouncing through the valleys at dusk; we watched a performance in the Roman amphitheatre, sitting where human bottoms have sat for centuries for entertainment. We ate falafel at Hashem’s – far more famous than my tortilla, and went to the local police station to extend our visas for three more months. This entailed a blood test to prove absence of HIV. The nurse in a hole-in-the-wall clinic pulled blood from me faster than anyone in my life. Not a mark on my arm, either.

Syria came close on Peter’s departure. If “Damascus” raises exotic aromas and images in your imagination they are all right on. Staying in the old city was like a moment out of the Tales of the Arabian Nights. That’s how I remember Baghdad from our 1976 trip: ancient and contemporary; magical and hard-nosed; narrower-than-narrow streets, higher-than-high covered souks, and a sky as high as the history of the city is old. Besides the hand blender, we came home from Syria with a small carpet, a lamp that’s perfect to hang in our cabin in Maine, pistachios and pomegranates.

For the pomegranates are in and they are good. They were squeezing fresh pomegranate juice in the Damascus souks. “POM” brand can come here and bow. We are devouring them like peaches in summer. If Persephone’s pomegranate penalty applied here, Katie and I would be in Jordan several lifetimes.

***

“Fall” in Amman means falling rain. It rains hard. And people don’t seem to flee the downpour. The water is welcome. Children squeal in the park across the street although the birds quiet down. Folks hang out at the hospital door. Taxis still beep for riders. And almost no one uses an umbrella.

We asked a taxi driver why not one evening, as we flagged one down and got in soaked to the bone. “Umbrellas,” he said in very good English even though he’d never left the country, “look silly on a man. They are not masculine.” Umbrellas are for wimps, in other words. And for women? “They make a woman look even more frail. It’s OK for a woman.”

It was a two-dinar ride with this guy searching for the American Center for Oriental Research, up a hill opposite the University of Jordan. We walked in wet to a reception for the deans of admission for Wellesley, Smith, Mount Holyoke, Bryn Mawr, and Barnard – they and the few local alumnae of those esteemed institutions living here. The deans are recruiting in several Arabic-speaking nations. Several of them made a beeline for Katie.

***

After we dropped Peter at Alia International Airpot, Emad brought us to his home for tea with his mother and father. It was a sunny day. The tea was sweet. We stumbled through conversation with fractured language and smiles. He wants his mother and his wife to teach us to cook local food. We’ll go to the market, the people’s market, he says, and buy the freshest ingredients. That’s the guy we hire to drive us places.

For a week we lived off the eggplant parmesan Peter made before he left. Tonight I made shrimp scampi with the frozen shrimp that were also his legacy. On Friday, Emad says, if he’s not driving others to Petra, we’ll cook.