Diaspora sucks pt. II

Growing up in a mixed family in diaspora, I did not grow up "Iranian" but rather claimed it for myself, figuring out what it meant from whatever materials I could get my hands on. I learned how to be Iranian mostly from foreign sources. I learned how to be Iranian--or maybe it is better to say I learned how to un-assimilate myself--from reading Malcolm X, Stokely Carmichael and the Black Panthers, from reading Gloria Anzaldúa, from my Ashkenazi Jewish mother, from Pan-Arabism, from Orientalist travelogues. I pieced it together from old photographs, stories I think I remember my father telling me, and other things I just made up. I learned from infrequent trips to my relatives' homes, where Persian was murmured unintelligibly around me.

Memories of those visits have a dreamy, synaesthetic quality to them in my head. The sound of Persian was inextricably linked to the fragrances and flavors of our food: saffron rice with barberries; cool yogurt with cucumbers, dill, and mint; pastries with rosewater and honey. Uprooted as I was in diaspora, what sense of self I had came from the Persian food my mother and grandmother prepared. As Bahman Ghobadi fell in love with cinema through Kurdish sandwiches, as Aziz and Atieh in The Fish Fall in Love mediated their love through cooking, I located one part of my identity in my palate. It has taken me years to try to locate the others.

My mother, like other mothers, maybe all mothers, was burdened with the patriarchal task of providing identity by mothering. In a mixed family, this task was doubled: arranging the seder plate and the haft-sin, cooking kugel and kotlet, and so on. I am still untangling the nexus of Judaism and Iranian-ness. My mother knew how to be Jewish, and so my Jewish identity came easily, in Yiddish phrases, Hebrew school, rituals and holidays; decorated by mezuzahs and candles; marked in stages from my bris to my bar mitzvah. But how to be Iranian? This was a more contested notion, something my mother could not know and something I feel my father was still in the process of redefining for himself, let alone for his children.

Sometimes I think my father only wanted to shield my brother and I from everything he had faced as an Iranian in the U.S. Maybe he thought he was protecting us by raising us as Americans, and I can't blame him for wanting to shield us from xenophobia and racism. Other times I think that he, like so many other young, urban Iranians of his generation, was simply Westoxified, and valued American ways more highly than Iranian ones. In the end, though, I don't really think it was either one of those. I don't think he actively tried to raise us as Americans or to prevent us from identifying with Iran. I think he saw himself as American, and, living in America and having married an American, naturally his children would be American as well.

It was not until I was mostly grown up that I began to realize that my skin was olive-colored and that my eyebrows connected in the middle, that I could pronounce the sounds of Persian words easily (even if I was still ignorant to their meaning), that there was this enormous heritage that belonged to me. I started to ask myself questions: Do I have to be American? Am I white? Am I Iranian? What do these things mean? I had little at my disposal with which to answer these questions, and trying to answer them was a difficult and painful process. Some of them I have answered for myself: No, I am not American. No, I am not white. The others I still struggle with.

The one tool I had to help me answer these questions was the Persian language. Persian symbolized the birthright my upbringing had denied me access to, and from what I had read of Fanon, I was sure that language was the key to knowledge of self. With that in mind, I threw myself into studying Persian. That was more than three years ago; I am still studying, and I feel more than ever that the more Persian I learn, the more I learn about myself.

Due to passport complications, I cannot go to Iran yet, so I am going to Armenia this summer to study Persian language and literature at Arya International University in Yerevan. All this time, I have been trying to learn how to be an Iranian from all the wrong places, and while I'm moving ever closer to Iran, this summer I will still be one country away. In Armenia, Armenians gaze west to Mt. Ararat, their nation's most powerful symbol, which lies just over the border yet beyond their reach, in Turkish territory. Perhaps they will know how I feel when I go and peer over Armenia's southern border into Iran, the homeland I dream of but have never set foot on. Next year in Tehran, I hope. Until then...diaspora sucks.

Diaspora sucks

I wrote this in my journal in November 2008, in the midst of the American euphoria over Obama's election.

In diaspora, I have to dip my head below the surface to breathe culture into my lungs, take big gulping breaths of santoor and setar, saffron and rosewater, Torah and Qur'an, Turkmen poetry and Azeri dances, and dream of Iran. Hamashun yekian, hame maale mane. When can I stop gasping, when will I not need to be greedy, and simply take it all in every day? Iran is bursting at the seams and overflowing into the Caspian and the Khalije Fars. Iran pours into Azerbaijan, Armenia, Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, and the tide washes them back in: Safavid castles, Armenian churches, pilgrims freshly returned from Najaf, Balochistani winds, Afghan love songs, and Turkmen nomads on camels.

In diaspora it is the opposite: everything presses inwards so tightly it could implode, crushing you with the pressure, so your breath doesn't come out and you hurry through each day trying not to forget who you are. In Mazandaran the rain is fresh and washes the mountain air clean for the people to breathe; here the rain is dirty and just muddies the streets. There, things are budding, popping, blooming, flowers are thrusting their faces into the world; here everything is being shoveled under concrete and painted over; there, people burn pictures of Khatami, let alone Ahmadinejad or Khamenei; here they hold the picture of their Uncle Tom proudly aloft and ululate; there, they're locking themselves in factories, collecting signatures, throwing Ali Shari'ati's "NO" back in the face of the establishment; here, the collective "YES" (WE CAN) is a celebration of the establishment; there, they are fed up; here, they have bought in; there, hope is desperate, revolutionary even, "hope" is an indigenous word in the midst of foreign tyranny; here, "hope" is a campaign slogan.

I'm done with this place. Get me out of here. Take me home to Iran.

Obama: more of the same

Obama has been nothing but more of the same, more of the same, more of the same erosion of civil liberties, more of the same harassment of immigrants, the same broken health care system, the same support for Israel, the same policies of bleeding Afghanistan, and the same (superficially modified) occupation of Iraq. What has really changed is aptly summarized in this cartoon by Brazilian cartoonist Carlos Latuff.

I cannot believe that there are still Americans who insist that Obama is somehow "different" or "better" than his predecessor. He is a politician, and he represents the interests of capital and empire. Prior to the 2008 election, there was a lot of talk amongst U.S. 'liberals' of getting the Republicans out of office (electing Obama) and then "getting back to work" (organizing for social change). It's 2009. Obama is the president of the United States. Stop apologizing for Obama's torture and Obama's wars. Stop apologizing for more of the same. Stop apologizing for Obama.

What Israel means to me

Today is the 61st anniversary of the Nakba, the catastrophe that expelled Palestinians from their homes, massacred them, stole their property and their land, and launched the illegal Israeli occupation that continues to this day. Nearly five million Palestinians live as refugees, and nearly a million of them are survivors of the Nakba, who were forced out of their homes in 1948 and are still prevented from returning by Israel.



I commemorate the Nakba not only for what has been done to the Palestinians, but for how it has affected me, as well. Zionists have attempted to dominate all discourse on what it means to be a Jew, and in so doing have pushed me away from my identity. It is so difficult to be a Jew when there is there is an entity that claims to speak for me, claims to represent me, and is committing ethnic cleansing in my name. Israeli occupation has made it impossible for me to untangle my own relationship with that land. I cannot figure out what Jerusalem means to me while there is apartheid, occupation, and ethnic cleansing going on in that very city. The State of Israel has dragged Eretz Yisroel from the realm of the mythical down into the mundane, and its sacred chronology has been perverted. Instead of waiting for the messiah to establish the Kingdom of God in Israel after the End of Days, the Zionists have attempted to construct it themselves. So what do we wait for now? How can I have a spiritual connection to the Land of Israel when there is a physical entity (and a violent, racist, colonialist entity at that) occupying that space?

So today I mourn, for everyone who has been colonized by Israel: Palestinians and Jews alike. I mourn for the Palestinian lives, land, and homes stolen by Israel, and I mourn for the Jewish spirituality, identity, and innocence stolen by Israel. I hope that the occupation will end, Palestine will be free, and I will be able to reconcile the Jerusalem of my soul with the Jerusalem on Earth.

Israel and the Holocaust

In the West Bank, a Palestinian man has created a Holocaust museum dedicated to the Jewish victims of genocide in Europe. In Israel, you would never see anything like this for the Palestinians, whose suffering is hidden from the Israeli public. (Israel also vigorously denies the Armenian genocide.) What you do see in Israel is disrespect for the memory of the Holocaust. Zionist politicians love to compare anything and everything to the Holocaust. Right now, they keep repeating that Iran is like Nazi Germany. (For a more accurate depiction of what life is like for Iran's 25,000 Jews, see this). In the past, they have frequently compared Hezbollah, Syria, Hamas, the PLO, Saddam, and many others to the Nazis. These dishonest, inaccurate comparisons trivialize the Holocaust and reduce it to a political tool. This is not a recent phenomenon; it began almost immediately after the Holocaust ended, with the beginning of the Israeli occupation of Palestine in 1948, as the Holocaust survivors were forced to forgive Germany and thus "displaced their anger onto Palestinians." Thankfully, there are Jewish groups speaking out against Zionism and the trivializing manipulation of the Holocaust. But it is not enough to criticize the tactics of Zionism; we must reject it altogether as a racist, colonialist ideology of apartheid and occupation. As always, and now more than ever, Zionism [itself] is the problem.

Sentences issued

Roxana Saberi has been released from prison in Iran and has been banned from working as a journalist in Iran for five years. I don't doubt that every aspect of her arrest, trial, and release have been part of a political game between the US and Iran. However, US coverage of Saberi's treatment has been sorely lacking in context. Saberi, an Iranian-American dual national who reported for Fox News (amongst other agencies), was tried in Iran for working as a journalist without legal credentials. At the same time that Saberi's trial was going on, Javed Iqbal, a Pakistani businessman who had been living in the US for 30 years, was tried in the US for "providing aid to a terrorist organization." His crime was running a satellite TV company in New York, which broadcast Hezbollah's Al-Manar station. He also broadcast Christian programming and "adult entertainment," so clearly his choice to show Al-Manar was a business decision, not an ideological one. Unlike Saberi, who in the end was released, Iqbal has been sentenced to nearly six years in prison.

Why didn't the US media cover Iqbal's trial as hysterically as they did that of Saberi? For one, Iqbal isn't a pretty young woman with American citizenship working in an evil, foreign land. For another, freedom of the press only applies to other countries (especially those the US doesn't like, such as Iran). When free speech or free press issues come up in the US, they are smothered under the blanket of national security.

In other news, the American soldier who raped a 14-year-old Iraqi girl and then murdered her and her family has been found guilty and may face a death sentence. There are many, many others (occupying soldiers, corporations operating in the Green Zone, etc.) who torture, rape, and murder Iraqis daily and get away with it, but at least this one didn't.

Letters

From Mahmood: Tamer Naffar from DAM has a new video of him rapping through the letters of the Arabic alphabet. Earlier Mahmoud made a similar video, so I guess Suhell's up next. The samples on this track are international, from DMX (American) to Seyfu (French, of Senegalese origin) to one of DAM's own songs "Mali Huriye."

The "Ruff Ryders Anthem" sample made me wonder: what does DMX think of Obama now? Leave a comment if you know.

The Bahá'í's of Egypt

It comes as no surprise that almost immediately following great news regarding the legal status of Bahá'í's in Egypt, bad news, and then worse news should follow. The Bahá'í Faith is a monotheistic religion founded in 19th century Iran that's principle beliefs concern the unity and equality of humankind (between genders, races, ethnicities, etc.), which clearly makes Bahá'ís, as we will soon see, Zionist, seditious, pro-colonialist apostates.

Ever since 1960 the Bahá'í Faith and its adherents have not been legally recognized as a religion by the Egyptian government (thanks Nasser!) This is especially sad considering Egypt was the first Arab nation to recognize the Bahá'í Faith as a religion in 1925. Identity cards in Egypt, which list religion, are "essential for access to employment, education, and medical and financial services, as well as freedom of movement and security of property," and even though Bahá'ís are not recognized under Egyptian law, in prior years they were able to obtain identity cards because they were paper cards where one could write in a religion. Some Bahá'ís got away with actually writing in "Bahá'í," but the majority of them simply inserted a dash "-" and this was what was also put on their birth certificates. Since 2000 though, when Egypt began digitalizing their identity card system, Bahá'ís were denied even the right to insert dashes under their religious affiliation. This marginalized the ever shrinking Bahá'í community of Egypt even more. Recently though, after a long and difficult battle, Egyptian courts have finally decided to allow Bahá'ís to again insert dashes on their identity cards.

Good news comes with a price though. Almost immediately after the ruling, "Dr." Hamid Siddique "filed a lawsuit against the Minister of Interior...demanding the Minister to cease issuing ID cards to Baha’is. He further demanded that all those who were issued ID cards with a dash “-” listed in the religion field should have their Egyptian nationality withdrawn." In case you didn't catch that, Egyptians who are Bahá'í should HAVE THEIR EGYPTIAN NATIONALITY WITHDRAWN simply because they are Bahá'í. As a fun side note, "Dr." Hamid Siddique has written extensively about the Bahá'í Faith, claiming that it was a religion started "under the protection of Russian, Jewish and English colonialism, with the aim of corrupting Islamic belief and dividing the Muslims and diverting them from their basic aims." A claim obviously based in something other than ... reality. As ridiculous as his statements are, they are fairly common among "radical" (insane) clerics who twist Islam around to justify the harassment and even killing of Bahá'ís.

"Dr." Siddique is quite the character, but the case filed next is, amazingly enough, even more ridiculous: Yousself el Badry, a Muslim cleric, along with other clerics and eighteen lawyers (which is clearly necessary) want Bahá'ís prosecuted for the recent outbreak of violence in the village Showraniyah. The outbreak of violence, mind you, was perpretrated by a (Muslim) mob against Bahá'í families! Yes, that's right, an angry mob first threw bricks and rocks at Bahá'í homes, chanting things like "Bahá'í are enemies of Allah," and later returned to set five homes on fire by throwing Molotov cocktails, at the same time making sure to "[cut] off the water supply beforehand in order to prevent rescue attempts." Yes, clearly these Bahá'ís were responsible for somehow creating a radical mob that burned down their homes, and should be held accountable for it. A video of one home burning is provided on both the above links, and is also hosted on YouTube:



I think what is most difficult and frustrating in dealing with the way Bahá'ís are treated, is realizing that Bahá'ís are taught to respect the laws of whatever country they reside in, even if those same laws treat them as sub-human, as undeserving of even the most basic human rights. Violence is strictly forbidden (so any thoughts of defending themselves against violent mobs with Molotov cocktails are out), and their beliefs center on the equality of women and men, eliminating prejudice, and eliminating extreme wealth and poverty. They are even forbidden from proselytizing, which makes one wonder what it is that the Egyptian government (along with the Iranian government, which has an even worse history with Bahá'ís) is really afraid of when it comes to their Bahá'í citizens...

For those interested in following the cases of Bahá'í in Egypt, this link - Bahá'í Faith in Egypt is a great blog which follows developments.

(Thanks to Hoda for the initial link)

ملح هذا البحر ("Salt of This Sea") - Review

Soraya, born in Brooklyn in a working class community of Palestinian refugees, discovers that her grandfather’s savings were frozen in a bank account in Jaffa when he was exiled in 1948. Stubborn, passionate and determined to reclaim what is hers, she fulfills her life-long dream of “returning” to Palestine. Once there, slowly she is taken apart by the reality around her and she is forced to confront her own anger. She meets Emad, a young Palestinian whose ambition, contrary to hers, is to leave forever. Tired of the constraints that dictate their lives, they know in order to be free, they must take things into their own hands, even if it’s illegal. (film.com)

This past weekend, I attended a screening of Annemarie Jacir's first feature-length film, ملح هذا البحر ("Salt of This Sea") at Tribeca. Not only did it open with one of my favorite Marcel Khalife songs, include the talented Suheir Hammad in the cast, and host a cameo appearance by Tamer Nafar of DAM, but the plot line offers plenty to think about regarding 'home' and identity. I won't summarize the plot here, but I recommend watching The Real News Network's interview with Suheir Hammad as well as Inside the Middle East's interview with Annemarie Jacir (both below) to get a better feel of the film. For good reviews, check The National and Eye for Film.





Well-made films that artfully depict a Middle Easterner in diaspora 'going home' are few and far between. Unlike many young Americans who 'return home' to their country, Soraya is not a spoiled brat who just wants to party and extend her Western life abroad; she has a historical memory, is fluent in her language, and does not experience culture shock. If anything, the political blockades on her personal journey are what she cannot get over. In many ways, she is privileged. While it is certainly not easy for her to enter, it is far easier for her to obtain an entry visa in comparison to Emad's slim chances of leaving Ramallah. Yet, at the same time, she is not entirely privileged. She is a Palestinian of 1948, unrecognized by both the Israeli occupiers and the corrupt PA. The dynamic between Palestinians of the Nakba and Palestinians inside the territories is one often not explored, and I appreciate the film bringing that rift to light.

I saw a lot of myself through Soraya's character. I know how it feels to romanticize about a place from afar, to obsessively memorize the old songs and poems of my parents' generation, to desire possession of a foreign passport. I know how it feels when you return 'home' and are taunted by natives who claim you are nothing but a tourist, like the following argument between Emad and Soraya:

Emad: "Do you think Palestine is just oranges [referring to the famed orange trees of Yaffa]?"

Soraya: "(in Brooklyn-accented English) You don't know me! (in Arabic) Don't tell me I don't know what Palestine is. I know what Palestine is."

Yet at the same time, I am too conscious of my status as an Egyptian born and raised abroad to know I can never fully repatriate myself. There were points in the film where I couldn't help but get annoyed at Soraya's complete oblivion and naiveté towards her condition. Whenever asked the question "Where are you from?", her standard response is "Here [Palestine]." She only responds with "Brooklyn, NY" whenever the opportunity is convenient for her. Yes, she is Palestinian, and like all Palestinians she has the right to return-- but she is also of the diaspora (her Brooklyn 'tude is a testament to that). If she weren't, why else would she crave the subjective aspects of Emad's life? She is not a Palestinian born and raised in Palestine, and she has trouble coming to terms with the fact that she never will be.

Identities are not static. I don't believe one is simply a monolith of "American" or "Arab", "Palestinian", etc., just as hyphenated identities ("Arab-American") are not enough. We in the diaspora carry a multitude of identities around with us thanks to the many experiences and people we come across. Soraya is just as much a first-generation New Yorker as she is Palestinian, with many shades of gray in between. To deny that fact is to affirm what racist White America tells us everyday: that we don't belong here, and therefore we should just pack up and "go back to where we came from".

Plans for DVD release are still up in the air, but check the Facebook page in the meantime for updates on local screenings.

Occupation, Past and Present

From Feministe: Trial for soldier accused of raping and killing a 14-year-old Iraqi girl and her family. Occupying soldiers commit horrible offenses like this constantly in Iraq, but most of them go unpunished. Anything less than a full, incommutable life sentence for this monster will be unjust (but sadly, not surprising). Troops out NOW. Not August 2010. Today.

On a less depressing note, from Mahmood, check out this great Palestinian short film ولد جدار و حمار ("A Boy, a Wall, and a Donkey"). English subtitles are included.

And via The Arabist: The US Army Pocket Guide to Iran (1943)
It's a guide for US troops stationed in Iran during World War II, featuring wonderfully Orientalist illustrations, and such gems as "Don’t try to tell Iranis how much better everything is in the United States. They think most things are better in Iran." Ain't that the truth! You can see the full text of the guide at this site, which has other interesting propaganda, such as this Pocket Guide to Iraq from the same year. (Thanks Hoda)