Because Egyptians have been living without their "Baby Dior" store for far too long

I came across this facebook group, advertising for a luxury megastore in Cairo, selling what will probably turn out to be designer collections from two to four seasons ago. Let’s face it, that’s how it works in the developing world: we pick up the leftovers.

While I was pseudo-philosophically pondering on where the Egyptian society is heading - where, in the same country, some people are so poor they actually murder each other to buy subsidised loafs of bread; while in a parallel dimension, 1000+ people are gleefully celebrating on facebook the opening of a 6000 m2 shop, located in the Four Seasons Nile Plaza, s’il vous plait, selling Gucci and Prada - and, oh heavens, Baby Dior - , are and wondering how-on-God’s-green-earth they managed to live without it for so long.

Then I noticed that the website of the store was based in Turkey, and with a few clicks I realized that the store was indeed a Turkish import, and the owner (who is now, remarkably, at the top of a fashion stores empire) was - apparently - instrumental in launching some local designers by giving them support and exposure.

We are so fucking lame we cannot open our luxury goods stores ourselves, let alone encourage our own designers.
I mean, no disrespect but Turkey teaching us how to buy leftover luxury brands?
On aura tout vu.

The facebook page suggestively writes “Beymen Cairo .... You Deserve It!”. Indeed, you do. Up yours you do.

Evolution has skipped the Gulf: Qatari flies his car to London for an oil change

I always believed that Gulfies give Arabs a bad name. Well, I recently discovered that there actually are some Gulfies that give Gulfies a bad name.
Meet $ 47,000 oil-change-sheikh.

Some ultra-rich dumbass sent his car from Qatar to London for an oil change. The car - a $380,000 Lamborghini Murciélago LP640 which was in the latest Batman film - took a 6,500 mile trip to be serviced in Britain.

To me, it’s one of these instances where those $%^&*#* don’t realise that they live in a world where they interact with others and will need, one day, to learn to behave like bipeds.

Besides, as my father said - real men change their car's oil. Pfff.

On the Olympic Games closing ceremony

As I watched the closing ceremony of the Beijing Olympics, I noticed I had light goose bumps, which I wondered at first whether to attribute them to the air conditioning I am sitting next time...

Yet it is the grandeur of the ceremony, and more importantly of the Games themselves, that touches me. It’s the honour of sport competition, it’s the sheer madness of 200 countries competing in the same place, it’s 16 days where people share what are the only human values we truly share (and, indeed, acknowledge that we do): competition, victory, sports ethics. It’s just.. beautiful.

That’s the main reason why I was mad at the random hippies trying to disturb the route of the Olympic flame, before the games. I felt they were soiling one of the very few things that we, we all, remain capable of enjoying in common.

- On another note - China did such an awesome job with the organisation that I am almost relieved we didn’t win the right to host the football World Cup 2010 that were running for. We’d have failed miserably, with our unique and constant theme of dressing up as Pharaohs and running around the stadium...

The Golan Heights: Israel, Syria, and everything in between

" Welcome to the Golan Heights, Marhabtein, Bruchim Habaim!"

The Golan Heights are a strange, strange place. Cast away in their cold north, this bean-shaped stretch of land, which doesn’t seem to fit in either Israel nor Syria, is in many respects a case of its own.

It’s nothing like the West Bank, and there are no talks of resistance, nor Syrian flags on every other house. Nor refugee camps, for that matter.
It’s not really Syria anymore, and it’s not Israel - surely not Israel. The weakening infrastructure and the sight of the Arabic-speaking Druze on the street remind you promptly of that.

View of the Golan/Syrian border, with flagpoles a few hundred metres apart. Surreal...

(Click on the photo for the full screen version. For a Higher-Res photo (without the labels), click here.)

Politically it resembles Jerusalem - both occupied in 1967, both ‘annexed’ by Israel in 1981, and most of their inhabitants are stateless, citizens of nowhere.

That was actually my main question to people there:
Do you consider yourself Syrian or Israeli?

Needless to say, such an awfully undiplomatic question can only come from an inexperienced intelligence officer, or a completely ignorant tourist with a camera around his neck, namely, moi.

For three people asked (Prof. Jensen would kick my ass if he knew that my sample had an n=3...), I got three different answers...

1. Willy the Israeli

Born to a Syrian father and a Lebanese mother, he first introduced himself as being Lebanese. Which I thought a little surprising.

A Christian, Willy is 24. He works in a café in Mas’ada. And he does not identify with Syria, where he never really lived; and as for Israel, “well, when you spend 24 years among Jews, you become one of them”. I was baffled.

“So you think of yourself as Israeli?”
He seemed a little uneasy as I put in stark terms, blunt and rude as I am. But he opined.

As he spoke to me in Arabic, he still peppered his sentences with expressions of exclamations in Hebrew, sometimes completely changing languages. I think I gave up mentioning it to him after the 10th time...

The prospect of Syrian sovereignty over the Golan doesn’t excite him the least. “I’d rather stay in Israel, if that happens”.

Or in Sharm-El-Sheikh. Apparently, he likes Sharm-El-Sheikh.

2. Maher: “The Motherland”

Maher runs a money exchange agency in the city of Mas’ada, which I think doesn’t see many customers. All the people who were present when I met him - and insisted on dragging me to his office for coffee - were friends and acquaintances, also sipping coffee.

“Syrian, of course!” with a hint of indignation at my semi-insulting question. But that nationalistic proclamation comes with a caveat: he’s actually enjoying his life and seems in no hurry of returning under the motherland’s wing.
“We work here, in agriculture a lot. We also work with the Jews, you know, trade and things... and we speak the language, too. So business is okay”. He did not specify the kind of business.

When I asked him if he hoped that the Golan be returned to Syria, he acquiesced. Then added: “I think we’re waiting for the Motherland to come and rescue us” - more of a joke addressed more to his friends sitting in his office than a response to my question.

“But it will happen”, he added.

3. Mansour: “بين السماء و الأرض” - “Between Earth and Sky”

We bumped into Mansour as we asked for directions, and he invited us to his house. We’re just exotic I guess.

Father of three and grandfather of two, Mansour lives in Majdal Shams, the Golan’s largest town (pop. 9000) surrounded by his family (the next four houses are his siblings and their families). My impression of Mansour is that he is self-sufficient and quite pragmatic. The kind of guy who got tired of thinking.
His son was among nearly 500 Golanis who go to study every year in Syria; his graduation certificate from Damascus University was proudly hanging in his house, right next to his daughter’s Israeli high school diploma.
A large painting of Bab-Toma (one of Damascus’ old gates - below), by his son, decorates the living room. His balcony uncovers the spreading town of Majdal Shams, and the Golan-Syria border. Quite a sight.

Answering my infamous question, he said --- “neither. We’re between Earth and Sky”.
He didn’t sound like he cared much anyway.

(Willy's photo is by Lisa Goldman, whom you people clearly haven't harrassed enough to post her entry on this trip.)

Samantha Power on the dangers facing UN and humanitarian personnel

Prof. Samantha Power on the role of UN and humanitarian personnel in conflict zones, and the dangers they are exposed to - regarding the work environment or, lately, targeted attacks against them (the attack on the UN office in Baghdad in 2003 -- can you believe it's been FIVE years already?? -- was the probably the most spectacular such attack, and a bit of a personal trauma to Power).
(where this photo is extracted from.)
Article is here.
And if you're curious about Samantha Power, know that she is -- almost surely -- the first Harvard professor to get a feature article in Men's Vogue (where this photo is extracted from.)

(Thanks babe. :)

The killing of the Palestinan cameraman was "justified"

Four months ago, Reuters cameraman Fadel Shana was killed by the Israeli army. He was 23.

A tank - stationed 1 mile away - ONE MILE - decided he and his tripod camera looked threatening, and shelled him - with illegal weapons (know as flechette shells) which is basically a shell that releases 5000 metal darts that went through the boy, killing him along with 14 bystanders, 7 of which are children below the age of 18.

The last thing Fadel's camera taped, before being hit, was the shell arriving onto him. It's chilling. Below is the Reuters video report.

It took the Israelis 4 months to come up with a cooked-up investigation and a cute soundbite for the press release: "It was justified". "Reasonable conclusion" that the camera was a weapon (one mile away, on top of a press car. Right).

Reuters' mildly upset "Factbox: Death of Reuters Gaza cameraman" is a good - but wimpish - description of the events. Wimpish, because it shyly, sheepishly disagrees with the conclusions of the Israeli army, and says that Fadel followed the safety procedures. (the fact that he was wearing a bulletproof vest is actually mentioned by the Israelis as a reason for doubting him since bulletproof vests are worn by "Palestinian terrorists". Fantastic logic. If you wear a vest, you're automatically a terrorist.)

It ends the report by
"Reuters is examining options for legal action and is seeking urgent consultations in Israel to address journalists safety."

I wonder if the cameraman had been Dutch or American - if they would still be sitting there and 'examining legal options'. Probably not.

Or, maybe they would, yeah. The impunity of the Israeli army in these situations -- "yeah, we killed an innocent guy. Bite me" always dazzles me.

Journalist gets shot during a LIVE broadcast -- and continues her report!

Tamara Urushadze is a 32-year old Georgian reporter who was live from the town of Gori when she was hit in the arm by a sniper - on air.
That would've been an impressive enough story - but she actually had her arm bandaged, put on a bulletproof jacket - and continued her report.

Damn. That's courage. we could use a couple like her around here... (see next post!)

(The video was first posted on the Daily Mail website, but subsequently taken by every other blog or website.)

France's role in the Rwandan genocide under the spotlight

A 500 pages report issued by the government of Rwanda points out to the responsibility of France in the 1994 genocide, which has cost nearly a MILLION lives in ONE month.

France has supported, armed, and shielded the Interahamwe, the army-based group of genocidaires who turned their supporters into bloody killing machines against their Tutsi compatriots. France has, of course, never admitted to any wrongdoing - Alain Juppe, former foreign minister, said that France's role was "an action we should be proud of" and hid behind its reputation as a Human Rights upholding country. Minister of Foreign Affairs Bernard Kouchner refused to apologise.

Now, however, France is under the spotlight. Again. I hope something will come out of it...

Read this article for a good analysis of the situation.

Egyptian Jews: "ولا يهمك שום דבר" (‘Don’t you worry about a thing’)

Synagogue for Immigrants from Egypt, in Tel Aviv.

(forgive the long intro. If you prefer to skip to the conversations, just scroll down).

Egyptian Jews are a little, to us Egyptians, a little like... spirits: you believe they exist but you’ve never seen one - and aren’t too keen on seeing one any time soon either.

Jewish characters were ever-present in the pre-1952 Egyptian cinema. Not only as protagonists - films like “Fatma, Marika and Rachel” and its apparent male equivalent “Hassan, Morcos, and Cohen” come to mind - but also, and I might even say more importantly, as ever-present side characters. The downstairs neighbour, or the man fixing watches in the street, or the jeweler (who was always either Jewish or Greek). They were often referred to as ‘Khawaga’ - foreigner, but they were present - in a non-alarming way.

The exodus of Egyptian Jews - in a line, since this is very far from my topic today - began heavily during WW2, as the Germans approached Egypt; this concerned the richest of them, those who could afford to head to the United States or to South Africa. Then, a second wave between the declaration of the state of Israel in 1948 and the Egyptian revolution of 1952, after which things cooled down a bit, only to pick up at an increasingly fast pace in the years after the 1956 Suez war. Today, the Egyptian Jewish community is only composed of a couple of hundred people.

My first peek through Egyptian Jewish eyes was through Andre Aciman’s book, “Out of Egypt”. He described the sophistication, the complexity, the simplicity, the hypocrisy, and the love of his family, its problems, its happiness, its confusions, its multiple, and sometimes conflicting identities. Egyptian Jews, if we were to believe him, never integrated, remaining a floating community with variable allegiances and considered Arabic a language only useful to communicate with their servants - which is what the Egyptians were to their eyes anyway. I hated the book, but I loved it.

The 1973 Israeli film “the House on Chelouche street” took it a step further and put in sound the written stories that were, until then, my only peephole to these lost compatriots. In this film depicting the ups and downs in the life of an Egyptian Jewish family who migrated to Palestine, then under British occupation and briefly before the creation of the State of Israel, I heard them speak this strange mix of Arabic, Hebrew, Ladino, and the occasional French or Italian. The hilarious line heading this article - read ‘wala yehemmak (ولا يهمك in arabic) shoum davar (שום דבר in hebrew)’ (“don’t you worry about a thing”) was uttered by one of the film characters, who would reminisce about the good old times in Egypt, when they were rich. Like all immigrants everywhere - it was better at ‘home’.


I randomly met two Egyptian Jews here.

Avi Haim - the Soldier
I met Avi randomly by the old city in Jerusalem - I was waiting for my friends and I sat nearby the soldiers. (I know, I know). They approached me, striking a conversation - a bilingual one, since many soldiers posted in the old city speak Arabic.

His father was born in Egypt. “Cairo or Alexandria?”, I asked? He didn’t know - so he actually called his father to ask him. “Alexandria”, he said victoriously as closed his flip-phone.

I smiled. My father was born in Alexandria, too. Go figure.

Born in Alexandria in 1928, Arie Haim lived in Egypt for 14 years, before moving to France for 10 years. Then his family moved to Israel.
His father spoke Arabic, French, and Ladino - and Hebrew, said Avi.

Remembering the ‘out of Egypt’ book, I imagined his father, biking from the Corniche of Alexandria to the famous - and then posh - Sporting Club.
Then, as Hollywood taught us how the final few moments of a dream look like - a series of accelerating random images flashing before one’s eyes - Arie in Paris, now called Albert, buying a baguette (I pictured the Doisneau photography, I know); World War Two; the move to Israel; ; little Avi in Tel Aviv; Jerusalem today...

...and it all came down to this guy and me, sitting there on these short stone pillars, him in his army fatigues and his M-16 resting on his knees, me in shorts and my feet resting on my backpack, casually chatting in Arabic and in Hebrew.


Shlomi Zaafarani
The irate, blue-eyed clerk at the Avis car rental counter in Tel Aviv, who gave us a dirty look upon arriving (half an hour after the smugly early closing hour on a friday).

Upon seeing my driver’s license, he gave a snarky look, and said - “my father has one like this”.
I thought he was being smug, until he added - “He’s from Egypt”. Cairo was where his father was from.

“There remains some Zaafaranis in Cairo, if I’m not mistaken”, I told him. He nodded. “Yes, I know of family there. Never met them though, of course”.
“You should. Cairo's a great city”.
He was very curious about Jewish Cairo - and if there were any synagogues left. “Three or four”, I ventured carefully - I could think of the one in Old Cairo, the one that’s closed in Adly, and that other functioning one. “Some are open for worship but not all, though”.

It seemed to make him happy.
And he gave us a pretty damn good upgrade on the rental car, too.

Mahmoud Darwish - Photos of the funeral

Photos from the funeral, two hours ago. All photos are available here - and are copyrighted.

Salam ya Darwish..

At the Ramallah Cultural Palace, July first 2008, probably his last public event..

Darwish died on August 9th, 2008 - The ninth of Ab, on the Levantine calendar. Palestinians now have their own Tisha Be’Av, but their Temple had a name. It was Mahmoud Darwish.

I did not know what to expect when I saw Mahmoud Darwish on stage. There was this little man, slightly awkward he seemed from afar, receiving accolades from everyone and whose hand the Prime minister would not let go.

It was a month ago, for the Centennial celebrations of the municipality of Ramallah, and Mahmoud Darwish was of course the ‘clou du spectacle’. Dalia had offered me an invitation, for my birthday. I went alone.

Before arriving to Palestine, I admit I knew little about him.

I now know that Palestine worships him - we have observed three days of mourning. The Cabinet observed a minute of silence, and the Prime Minister called him “the man who, through his humanity, give their humanity back to the Palestinian people”.

I confess: usually, poetry bores me. I would not have gone to that reading if my friends hadn’t - rightfully - made it seem like a big deal.

The only Darwish verses I knew were the über-famous poem he wrote in jail, on a pack of cigarettes, after his mother visited him but the jailer decided to spill the coffee on the floor - which was also sang by Marcel Khalife, and which begins with

أحنّ إلى خبز أمي؛ وقهوة أمي؛ ولمسة أمي..
وتكبر فيَّ الطفولة يومًا على صدر يوم
وأعشَق عمري لأني إذا متّ، أخجل من دمع أمي

I long for my mother's bread, my mother's coffee, her touch
Childhood memories grow up in me
Day after day, I must be worth my life
At the hour of my death
Worth the tears of my mother

Sitting in that ultra-crowded auditorium, we had to suffer a couple of ridiculously long introductory speeches from various officials. People were getting impatient and were close to booing the final speaker -the deputy mayor, I believe.

Then it was Mahmoud Darwish’s turn.

There, among that huge and very diverse crowd which almost held its breath as the man spoke, I understood.

Darwish did not write verses - he spoke verses. Even when he read prose; he spoke verses. It’s a different art, a different gift.

Pre-Islamic art history classes will teach you about two dueling poets, Al-Farazdaq and Jarir. The first was said to ‘carve his verses from stone’ so much they were elaborate and complex; the second ‘scoops his verses from an ocean’ - so easily they seemed to come to him.

Darwish is a bit of both. Sometimes, like in the verses above, a arrangement of simple words creates a meaning so much larger than the mere juxtaposition of these words. In others, you will need to repeat the sentence twice or thrice, in your mind, for the multiple layers of meaning to sink in. And when they do, you will smile.

You will smile, even if he is discussing the most tragic topics of all. Darwish can make your lips smile and your heart ache, all at once.

I will not discuss a favourite poem, for I simply have none. Yet.

But whether you’re a poetry aficionado or, like me, simply curious to know why Darwish is so often called ‘the poet of the Nation’, read him. Read.

(Correction) On the article in Al-Quds with the mystery author

"Gilad Shalit... Is he a Hamas hostage?" is an article by Noam Shalit (the father of Gilad Shalit, the Israeli soldier who... of course you know who it is!:), in the Palestinian newspaper Al-Quds on Tuesday August 5th, was widely quoted inside and outside of Israel, by pro- and anti-Israelis, especially in its concluding line,

"While Hamas is holding Gilad Shalit hostage, in practice Shalit is holding thousands of Palestinian prisoners in israeli jails and hundreds of uninvolved thousands of Palestinian citizens as hostage, until he is released from Hamas' captivity".

Wanting to know more about the article and the context of this sound bite (especially that Noam Shalit was very recently petitioning the Israeli Supreme court to reject any truce with Hamas and screaming against the liberation of any Palestinians), I looked up the article in Al-Quds and, lo and behold, the online version said that the author was...


.....Gershon Baskin, director of the respectable Israel/Palestine Center for Research and Information (IPCRI). There's not a single mention of Noam Shalit in the article, he's not quoted or interviewed.

So I went and found a hardcopy of the newspaper and indeed, it said Noam Shalit wrote the article! Madness!

So I messaged Gershon Baskin and he replied by saying the following:

“The article was written by Noam Schalit and sent to al quds by me - al quds says that they corrected the entry and it is entirely credited to Noam, as it should be.”

So, mystery solved. Apologies for having misled anyone out there...