The Monks at Cannes

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 website.

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

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

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

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

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”

“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)

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.