Airports

Everyone who had experienced air travel would tell you this: they hate airports. Or they love airports. You simply can't be indifferent to airports. You can't have an emotional truce with airports. You can't stand on the fence: the fence here will give you an electric shock. So you either love them, or you hate them.

I hate airports.

I understand their importance, though. This indispensable cog in the wheel of modern life. The terminals of 20th century transport that came as an answer to the Wrights' brothers invention. Mass air travel, where people converge to share a confined space of artificial comfort. And the necessary byproducts of this proximity, the safeguards and procedures put in place by man to ensure safe journeying: The queues and passport control and security measures and draconian scrutiny of luggage. I'm fine with that. I'm cool with that. I'm even at a good terms with the invisible tower control officer and the pilot in his reinforced cockpit. I love them all.

That's not why I hate airports.

There seems to be an awful lot of sobbing at airports, at both departure and arrival halls. I used to think it's an ethnic issue, a cultural peculiarity: some folks are less tear proof than others.... But I was wrong, ethnic groups vary only in the amount of sobbing they partake in, not in the existence of it. Here's a wager: go to any airport in the world with a considerable volume of passengers, at any given time of any given day, and there will always be someone sobbing. Here's a worthy scientific experiment: to find out whether the chemical composition of tears coming forth at arrival halls is any different from that at the departure hall.

I've never sobbed at airports, and this is probably why I hate them. Every time I trudge down the infinite walkways, hallways, travel-belts, duty-free zones, the rows of burly uniformed men with Heckler & Koch slung over their shoulders (I haven't seen them yet, but come on, they sure are there stowed away at standby in some bunker, sobbing their eyeballs off while oiling and servicing their gear), every time I undertake this ritual I feel I'm being cornered, being nudged by an imperceptible force, like the suggestive questions of an interviewer; here's BBC Hardtalk with Stephen Sackur, here's Charlie Rose with a devilish inquisitor sitting in for him, ready with the hard ones: Where are you going? Where have you been? Business or pleasure? What are you gonna tell your mother? Do you think your father would have been happier if his passing of age hadn't registered in your face? How are you gonna deal with the PR fallout of your not recalling the name of the infant son of the brother in law of your second removed cousin, who made the effort to come and greet you at the airport, sobbing his eyes off?

Why are you not sobbing?

Here's a scenario of a happy journey: coming home after winning the world cup, or traveling air force one after securing an explosive interview with the POTUS, or being wedged between the cheerleaders of the team who is bringing the world cup home, pressed unto them by the thrust of the plane's engine, watching as they strip off to sun-tan (and hey, it's *always* sunny up there).

But what you get instead is the constipated businessman. The crying infant. The dude with the gigantic femurs caressing your back. The middle aged woman in the aisle seat across the aisle who's sobbing silently before the landing, and ululating through yellow teeth afterwards. The pushing and shuffling, the impatient glares, the exposure to seasonal disease. Here's truth, ladies and gentlemen: there's no room for pretentiousness up there in the stratosphere. Even the guy with the binoculars pointed downward in the direction of the porthole had come to terms with it. Even the trained stewardess had come to terms with it. The truth is here, you can either don your eye mask and tune it out, or whisper furiously to your prayer beads, or try to follow the hollow plot (as hollow as this fuselage) of this trashy novel (belonging to the genre of, you got that right!: airport novels). Aircrafts are airports, an extremity of them anyway: you've been picked up at an airport by an aircraft, you're gonna be dejected at an airport by an aircraft. After the metabolism of time zones and international treaties have secreted their juices unto you. After the pointed questioning and cavity search and soul searching.

The 20th century have divided people into tow groups: those who experienced air travel and those who didn't. The 21st century is probably gonna divide people into two different groups: those who sob at airports and those who don't.

Congrats on a safe and auspicious voyage, everyone. I hope you enjoy your terrestrial time. And I sure hope you remembered to fasten your seat belts.

Al Ittihad: The Red Devils

I don't usually comment on, watch or care about football championships for clubs. I sometimes watch the odd Champions League game if I happen to be at a coffee shop while it's on. But other than that, I have no interest whatsoever.

But this strikes very close to home. In fact, it strikes right at home. Al Ittihad, the football team of my hometown, Aleppo, had qualified to the finals of the Asian Federation Cup by beating Muang Thong (kid you not) of Thailand 2-0 at the second leg of the semi final (and 2-1 by aggregate).

Alright, it's not the world cup. But Asia is still Asia: Japan, Korea, Saudi Arabi, Iran and China. And having observed the trajectory of Al Ittihad so far, it looks like their reaching the finals isn't a coincidence or a fluke of luck, there was an awful lot of hard work involved. Good on them.

On the other hand, I felt goosebumps all over when I watch the game: 70,000 strong fans crowded the (relatively) new Aleppo Stadium. Chanting like maniacs. No doubt, there's one religion in Aleppo these days, and it's Al Ittihad.

Women At The Mall

Out there in the city. Out there in the taxonomized and categorized developments of the city, there exist huge buildings. Buildings that, among other characteristics, have few windows and infinite surfaces of epoxy-coated concrete, dotted with massive sigange advertising the merchandise sold inside.

Let's pause for a moment and observe how it all starts here, with the artwork of the backlit signage. The auctioning of feminine beauty, the distribution of womanly fashion. A model stares at you with open mockery. With her splayed legs and impertinent hips. She dares you to step inside. As she had obviously done before. Before when she was on our side, looking haggard and harassed in a humidity-inflicted sweat. She had done it. She had stepped inside before. And here is what happened to her after.

Aren't we all lucky that before always elapsed before the after?

And now we are inside, now we have threaded our way through the inert cooling infernos, also known as cars, and found the automatic sliding doors. Now we are inside. We are the insiders, the privileged. For here is the harem of modern urbanism. Here is the G-spot of metropolitan pleasures. Here is where the bodily transformation began and never ended. Here is where it all happens. Inside. You would never have known by merely looking at the photoshoped adverts. You would never have guessed.

The four-generational carnival begins with the screaming infant in his crib. Ensconced in his stroller and pushed around by the protective mommy. It's probably one of life's most baffling mysteries that kids cry at the malls. You want to step forward and implore the little angel: why, kid? what do you want more? an exact replica of the tropical forests where our ancestor had dwelt before some of them left Africa? a different, state-of-the-art, multi-billion worth climate control system? you want mommy to ditch the thong and go for a real fig leaf instead? cheer up, kid. Be grateful. You are one of the insiders.

Too bad you can't deposit the infants at the play area.

And then we come here, to the play area. Or to be precise, to the area designated as a play area for kids by the adults. Or to be more precise, to the area whose name is designed to make adults feel less infantile about what they do inside. "Hey honey, let's leave the kids at the play area so that we can go and ..hm.. do other things rather than playing." Will you tell the bozo to shut up? Adults undertakings at the mall aren't any more serious or mature than the kids'.

Kids play, adults play.

Men pay, women don't.

So we are left with the strollers, dodging our way through the crowds. The ladies, their prospect for auditioning at a local beauty contest improving the deeper they move inside. The gentlemen, trailing behind. The marble floor turned gleaming clean with the sweep of their dropped jaws. The Asian maids picking up the rear.

But we must not be quick in our judgement. Putting yourself in the shoes of a judge at the beauty contest, applying the talents of your scrutiny, you would start noticing the flaws. You would notice the residue of the life before. The love handles. The birth stretch marks. The wide hips. They all admit themselves to the fashion avenue and fill up the verbal forms to the suited salesperson with the spiked hair and effeminate smile. They then move through the motion, searching, consulting, trying, grimacing, smirking, buying. And they keep coming, as more sore points unearth themselves and demand the attention of a designer product.

And we are obligated, by the virtue of us being judges in the imaginary beauty contest, to check out the outcome. To see the outcome. To smell the outcome. To follow the outcome to the foodcourt. Watch the procession as she dismisses one sign-boarded menu after the other. The head poised upward, the throat looming at us in profile. We watch as she maneuvers the shopping bags and the trays and the hungry, squealing kids and the distressed maid. And orchestrate the eating process that follows. Fussing over details. And the kids, when they are on their best behavior, evoke an image of a violent prison riot. How could they not, when they have a mommy like this? The hungry overalled laborer gazes. The hungry executive ogles. Taking a mental inventory of such a scene is never an easy endeavor.

Commerce concluded for the day, we make our way back where we have come from. We depart the state of inside-ness. We will be back, though. We are the junkies. We have become ensnared in the daily farce of mall worship.

We will be back.

Deer in the headlight

why did it freeze with fright?
immobile with fear?
who could blame the deer
in the headlight
when this wasn’t
what it’d bargained for
a pair of light
so overwhelming,
so bright.
with its bulging eyes and fixed stare
gone in a nanosecond
of a quivering flare


maybe we shouldn’t be very critical
of the deer in the headlight
for it may never have known
that hard metal was were
the floods of blinding light
were mounted
nor did it learn of the nightly habits
of those who excelled at evolution
but failed when exhalations of breath
were sampled


it’d be futile to argue
who got the right of way
when the deer stood still
in the headlight
nor we could know for sure
whether the deer had it all planned
had us all scammed
with his primal fears
his proclamation
his sneer:
your impressive gear
is nothing but an entrapment
my own primordial jeers
are your predicament


and then there’s the ritual
of scraping body parts
of washing blood and dry bones
of becoming entrenched in the philosophy
of prevention
of commemorating headstones

Please! No more deer in the headlight


and then there are the groups
who vow to sue
who revel in self-introspection
long overdue
as if everyone else had no clue
as if mattered
to the deer
in the headlight

On Secularism

I realize that any discussion that touches on secularism can't satisfy the subject without addressing religion as well (secularism being, by basic definition, the separation of church and state), and that all discussions with regards to religion end up polarizing the interlocutors. But as the saying goes, sometimes a man gotta do what a man gotta do.

There's a school of thought out there that argues that if a majority of people in a society thought it's in their best interest to adopt religion as a reference in legislation, then, by the virtue of democracy, their wish must be granted, and that we, indeed, ought to regard this process as purely democratic.

I can not disagree more.

It's sometimes forgotten that democracy, as outlined by its pillars, is far more encompassing than the simple concept of majority rule. Freedom (of choice, expression, etc) is a quintessential part of democracy. Respect of and accommodation of minorities (a sect, religion, school of thought, or a political view that form a minority group in a society), is another quintessential part. Equality of individuals before the law, regardless of their religious leanings, is also an indispensable part of a democracy.

The question that presents itself here is: is there any theocratic set of laws on the face of the earth that satisfy the above parameters?

I'll volunteer and say: no, there isn't.

Any law that is derived from a scripture is, by default, designed to serve those who wholeheartedly believe in that particular scripture and its religion. The 'others' are more or less considered inferior, or in at best regarded as different, and hence bestowed upon with a different set of rules. This arrangement negates equality and treats individuals on the basis of their religious views (or the lack there of). As far as I'm concerned, marginalizing those who do not subscribe to your world view and calling yourself a democracy is a very unfunny joke. It's no wonder, or a coincidence, that 'minorities rights' is a determining factor in the democracy index. Of course, majority will have to decide (either directly or through representatives) when it comes to the things that require collective agreement. But that doesn't mean that a majority could render a minority inferior or non-equal since they do not conform to the view of the majority. Suggesting that that could happen in a democracy is suggesting that a democracy is innately suicidal and self-negating.

Secularism is the indispensable, inseparable companion of democracy. When you impose the laws of the scripture on people, it will be considered an affront to God when an individual breaks that law, not merely a violation of a law (as it should be deemed). Please be advised that I'm not anti-religion, nor I'm against religious parties participating in a political process (under the condition that they observe the secular components at all time). The question, then, whether I believe in God or not is irrelevant.

Eventually, if a majority decided that their society must adopt a scripture as a legal reference, then it's all good and dandy. By all means go ahead and do it. But please, don't call yourself a democracy, 'Pluralistic Theocracy' or 'Mulla rules by rotation' could be more accurate.

Religion is a wonderful thing. Its beauty is characterized by it being personal and spiritual and private. Religion is best practiced at Churches and Mosques. Let's keep it that way.