The Chronikler

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

Love them or loathe them, love songs seem to be written into the DNA of just about every culture. One of the most private and personal of emotions is also, paradoxically, the most public. Although I’m of the conviction that being in love – not to mention making it – is far more pleasurable to hearing about it, I would hazard to say that most of the songs ever sung are about this ever-fascinating subject. Even the alternative forms of music I prefer, though they don’t quite wear their hearts on their sleeves, do deal with love, as well.

Despite the universality of love songs and certain common themes, each culture has its own peculiar way of going about it – and this can say a lot about the nature of the society behind the songs.

Whereas love is a regular theme in modern western music, in Arabic music – both modern and traditional – it often seems to be just about the only theme (with a few exceptions like some Algerian raï music, certain forms of sha'abi music and a new generation of alternative musicians). In addition, while modern Anglo-Saxon music expresses a wide range of forms of love and relationships, and has a tradition of challenging taboos, Arabic pop usually focuses on a safe range of socially acceptable emotions and feelings.

This fixation on love is partly practical, because singing about politics or thorny social issues – or even sexual attraction – can get you banned or land you in serious trouble, as was the case with sha'abi artists like Sheikh Imam and Ahmed Adaweyah.

On another level, the Arab obsession with love in music may reflect the large number of social barriers that keep the sexes apart, as well as the disempowerment and lack of choice many young people feel in their love lives.

The fact that in real life love often plays second fiddle to other considerations – such as social standing, class and familial cohesion – is mirrored in the large preponderance of dramatic (often melodramatic) songs that deal with the torment of romance, the large distances separating lovers, desperate longing, pain, separation, unrequited emotions and dashed hopes.

Arabic songs may often begin with a description of the beauty and inaccessibility of the object of the singer's desires. The moon is often evoked to express the beauty, mystery and distant other-worldliness of the object of one's desire, while eyes and eyelashes are weapons of not just seduction but also destruction. While innuendo is rife in Arab love songs, they rarely venture explicitly below the neckline. More bizarrely for the non-Arab, fruit can often be a marker of beauty.

The lyrics often don't translate well, but here's a verse I penned in English (along with some others below) to give you a flavour:

Hibiscus cheeks, pomegranate lips
You're sweeter than any smoothie I've sipped
As beautiful and distant as the moon
I howl when you appear like a loon
I am your majnoon

[Chorus]

See me soon

Love, your majnoon

There is said to be a fine line separating pleasure from pain, and many Arabic love songs confirm this theory. In fact, the torture endured – sleep deprivation, solitary confinement, etc – by many Arab crooners is surely the kind of infringement on their human rights that should be referred to the international criminal court.

All day, I dream of you
All night, I scream for you
Your killer eyelashes slash me
Tormented by the smile you flash me

[Chorus]

Aloofness, reserve and remoteness on the part of the singer's love interest are part of the painful reality of the parallel world of Arab love.

Every day, I send you love letters with my eyes
But your faraway, unlisted face betrays no reply
How about just a short postcard to say hi
Written in your glance as you walk on by

[Chorus]

Far-fetched and even impossible promises are a staple of Arabic lyrics.

Since we can't afford to rent or buy
Because property prices are sky high
I'll wrap you safe inside my eyes
And fly you to our castle in the sky

[Chorus]

Seas and oceans also regularly lap against the shores of Arab love songs, partly to express the bottomless depth of emotion the lover allegedly feels and partly to reflect the unseen emotional and societal rocks against which their love boat can crash and sink.

Before I could swim, I dived in your sea
With hindsight, I realise that was stupid of me
But when your swirling currents pulled me down
Why, ya habibi, did you just leave me to drown?

[Chorus]

This raises the question of why Arabic love songs so often navigate such narrow, cliched straits. Part of the reason is the "precautionary principle" that governs so much formulaic mainstream culture, which sees artists wanting to stick to the tried, tired and tested.

Beyond that, the reverence of tradition and "timeless" musical principles – as well as fear of the subversive nature of creativity and youth – remains strong in Arab societies, while in the west innovation and subversiveness elicit far less resistance and, up to a certain extent, have actually become part of the process.

But when all is said and sung, you have to admire the tenacity of Arab love lyrics, or pity their dedication to hopeless causes. Even if the deck is stacked against their impossible love, some refuse to admit defeat and may still harbour, in the devastated haven of their broken hearts, the dream of reunion.

Never again will I invite such pain
But meet me just this once, then – never again!

This column appeared in The Guardian Unlimited’s Comment is Free section on 20 August 2010. Read the related discussion.

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

A new survey on press freedom conducted by the Amman-based Centre for Defending the Freedom of Journalists (CDFJ) makes for sober reading. Despite Jordan's stated commitment to freedom of expression, only a minuscule minority (2%) of the 500 or so journalists surveyed said that they were entirely satisfied with the state of press freedom in the kingdom.

"Over and over again, speeches on media freedom have not been coupled with practical procedures in spite of all the clear royal messages addressing this issue," said Nidal Mansour, who heads the CDFJ.

A fifth of those surveyed said they had been exposed to attempts to "contain" them, while 57% said they knew of colleagues who had been the victims of such containment. Co-option is also a common practice and one that can be far more effective than intimidation. The vast majority of journalists believed that journalistic favours in return for gifts and bribes were common.

In addition, some 95% of media professionals said that they practised self-censorship. While such crimes of omission are common even in the west, especially in places like the United States, the magnitude of the problem and the number of taboo subjects appear to be far greater in Jordan. Topics that are generally off-limits centre on a kind of "holy trinity": the king and the royal household, religion, and state institutions, including corruption in high places.

A couple of years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Mansour in Amman where he told me about the CDFJ's Media Legal Aid Unit (Melad) which seeks to empower journalists and facilitate press freedom by providing media professionals with training on their rights and legal support.

And it is definitely needed. Despite the decriminalisation of press offences on paper in 2007, an estimated 100 clauses in national law allow legal action to be taken against journalists. An example of this occurred in 2003 when three Jordanian journalists were imprisoned for "defaming" the prophet in an article on Muhammad's sex life.

Jordan is ranked 117 out of 175 countries in Reporters Sans Frontières' annual Press Freedom Index (PFI), while neighbouring Egypt occupies the 143rd position in the league table. As a non-Jordanian, I don't know if this is a fair reflection of the situation there. I agree with my wife's assessment that the quality of journalism is high in Jordan, but certain key differences between Jordan and Egypt lead me to the conclusion that its media is actually more vibrant and outspoken.

What warps the picture in Egypt, as I have argued before, is the existence of large, state-owned media conglomerates (whose publications have become less popular than the independents), and the more frequent crackdowns by the state – triggered by a nervous government under immense popular pressure to change and the media's incessant drive to push the limits of freedom further out. In addition, Egypt's media tradition and modernising civil society movements are the oldest in the region.

"In Egypt, it might seem there is more control of the media. But, in fact, there is more independent journalism in Egypt, so more issues are discussed and come to the public eye," was Mansour's own assessment.

In contrast, Jordan's media appears to be a lot less confrontational, and more willing to wait for top-down reform from King Abdullah II. This is partly because of the reverence in which the royal household is held, with its claims of descent from the Prophet, and the fact that the Hashemites are inextricably linked with Jordan's creation and identity.

In Egypt, the awe and fear of the president were shattered a few years ago, at least in the independent media, and Egyptians are generally under no illusions as to the extent of the corruption and violence of the regime.

Moreover, Jordan, unlike Egypt, is, under its modern veneer, very much a tribal society and one in which the indigenous tribes now make up a minority of the population, with an estimated 70% of the population being of Palestinian descent. This makes its hard-won social tranquillity, particularly with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict leaking toxicity next door, a fragile one – and so many Jordanians are willing to compromise on a measure of freedom in return for stability.

But what goes for Jordan and Egypt, both of which have a strong journalistic tradition and are striving for reform, applies in spades to the entire region. 'Stop press' seems to be the byword of governments. With the exception of Lebanon and the Qatar-based al-Jazeera network, which is often said to shy away from criticism of its host, the media across the Arab world suffers, to varying degrees, from repression.

So, why is press freedom so seriously compromised in the Arab world? There are different reasons in different countries, but one common thread is the general lack of legitimacy and accountability of the region's regimes who, therefore, view the free circulation of ideas as a fatally dangerous folly.

Another reason is the volatility of the region and the numerous conflicts that plague it, the ethnic and regional fault lines which increase tensions, not to mention the legacy of Ottoman and western colonialism, as well as foreign meddling.

The Middle East's instability is not just a reason but also an excuse. Governments use the shadow of external threats – both real and imagined – to try to intimidate and silence opposition and resist policies and reforms that run contrary to their vested interests.

This is not just an Arab phenomenon, however, and the Middle East's non-Arab countries also summon the spectre of irresistible and sinister outside forces. Iran, whose regime faces a serious challenge to its legitimacy from a vibrant opposition movement, not only occupies the lowest rank of the Middle Eastern PFI league, it is also scraping the bottom of the global barrel, and is “on the threshold of joining the ‘infernal trio’ (Eritrea, North Korea, Turkmenistan)”, according to RSF. The regime in Tehran evokes frightening demons in the form of the United States and Israel to keep its population in check.

Iran itself, not to mention the Palestinians, Syrians and the generic scary "Arab", are summoned by Israeli politicians as the phantom threat that keeps dissenters in check. Although the freedom and independence of Israel's media puts the rest of the region to shame, even Israel does not fare well by global standards, and comes in at only 93 in the PFI. Its oft heavy-handed military censorship, punishment of journalists with links to Syria, its refusal to allow its journalists into the Palestinian Territories and its abuse of Palestinian journalists constitute serious breaches of media freedom.

True press freedom in the Middle East cannot occur in a vacuum. In addition to wide-ranging political reform, the region needs to overcome its endemic culture of paranoia and distrust.

This is the extended version of an article which appeared in the Guardian newspaper's Comment is Free section on 9 May 2010. Read the full discussion here.

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

The al-Jazeera debate programme, al-Itijah al-Mua'kes (Opposite Direction), is well-known across the Arab world for tackling thorny, controversial and offbeat issues. Earlier this week, the show got stuck into the taboo question of whether Arabs, after decades of self-rule, were better off under the oppression of their current regimes or whether the yoke of the former imperial powers was preferable.

At one point, the programme's moderator Faisal al-Qassem described the modus operandi of Arab leaders as a form of internal imperialism and said that some were of the view that home-grown colonialism, which consumes the body from within, was tougher to combat than foreign occupation, which behaves more like an external parasite.

As is the format of al-Itijah el-Mua'kes, the two guest panellists had opposing views on the topic. One, a member of an Arab parliament, was of the opinion that no matter how bad local rulers were, they were preferable by far to a foreign occupier whose sole concern is the pillaging of a society's resources and the subjugation of its people. In contrast, local leaders ultimately have the interests of their society – or at least parts of it – at heart and, with reform, self-rule can be made to work.

 The other, a lawyer with the International Criminal Court, argued that the European powers brought the Middle East into the modern age and set it on the road to progress. In some cases, he opined, there had not been much progress since. As an example, he referred to the railways in Sudan, which were built by the British but have not been improved by the Sudanese.

 Despite the eccentricity of these views, they seem to have a certain resonance with ordinary Arabs. Surprisingly, some two-thirds of respondents to an online poll conducted by al-Jazeera were of the view that their countries had been better off under colonial rule.

 Of course, polls of this kind are unscientific, the make-up and demographic spread of the respondents are unknown and the sample size was too small (6,808). Nevertheless, the result is an interesting one, and it speaks volumes of the frustration felt by ordinary Arabs, caught as they are between the rock of repressive rule and the hard place of foreign hegemony. 

Long gone, it would seem, are the days of heady, post-independence optimism in which Arabs believed that, after shaking off the shackles of centuries of European and Ottoman rule, a new golden age was about to be born. 

So, which is better? Well, as with most things, the issue is neither black nor white because the track records of both imperialism and self-rule have been patchy. In addition, the diversity of imperial and post-independence experiences are enormous. Moreover, even within a single empire, performance changed dramatically over time and the colonial experience in each country was marked by key differences. 

In the Arab world, the early centuries of Ottoman rule, for example, were relatively benign, tolerant and prosperous, but the latter period was increasingly repressive and stagnant. In their favour, the European powers brought in ideas of modern science and the Enlightenment, helped abolish slavery and sparked Arab interest in modern technology.

 On the negative side, they often stripped countries of their resources, put in place repressive colonial power structures which were perpetuated by local rulers, and, intentionally or unintentionally, planted many of the seeds of the internal and cross-border conflicts that plague the region to this day.

 Algeria, for example, is still staggering from the wounds of having once been annexed by France, with the mass displacement of the peasantry and the marginalisation of the urban professional classes that this involved. In addition, the roots of the bloody north-south conflict in Sudan, and the massacres in Darfur, can be traced back to the destructive period of Anglo-Egyptian rule.

 The record of self-rule is also difficult to assess and compare, partly because the Arab world of today is so very different from that of colonial times. On the plus side, self-rule has led to massive improvements in such areas as education and healthcare. In addition, a number of post-independence regimes embarked on huge and ambitious programmes to industrialise, with mixed results.

 On the negative side, most domestic regimes have been as oppressive in their handling of the population as the former colonial powers, and human rights abuses in many countries are rife. An extreme example of this would be Saddam Hussein and his murderous rule. But, then again, those who dream of a return to colonial rule would do well to examine the case study of contemporary Iraq, where the US-led occupation is giving the country's former dictator a serious run for his money in terms of destructiveness and malignancy.

 In fact, the question posed by al-Jazeera is perhaps the wrong one, since, in many ways, colonial rule has not ended. Although direct rule stopped more than half a century ago, with the exception of Iraq since 2003, indirect rule never ceased. In broad terms, the region's regimes fall into two general categories: those who have accepted the role of client states and those who have opposed it and been punished and "contained" for stepping out of line. Then, there's the privatisation and franchising of imperialism to multinationals.

 So, in reality, today's Arabs are living under the crushing burden of domestic and foreign imperialism. To my mind, the issue is not which one is better but how to bring both to an end.

 This column appeared in The Guardian Unlimited’s Comment is Free section on 19 February 2010. Read the related discussion.

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

In my previous piece on Arab secularism, both overt and veiled, I promised to consider ways of advancing progressive secularism in the Arab world.

The question of bringing the Arab and Muslim worlds into the 'modern age' has occupied some of the greatest minds of the past two centuries. It has been approached by natives of the region and foreigners, by friends and foes, by those with an honest desire for reform and those with their own agenda.

Some may question why Arab and Muslim societies need to secularise, while others will argue it is a doomed project because Islam and secularism are apparently incompatible beasts.

Well, it is my conviction that secularism is the bedrock of enlightenment because it confines religion to the individual spiritual sphere where it belongs, and leaves the ever-shifting reality of worldly affairs to human resourcefulness. The compelling proof of this is that Europe and the west's success has been largely secular, as was the Muslim world's before that, by the standards of the time. So, what can be done to speed up the train of secularisation and modernisation?

The Guardian's Brian Whitaker explores this question thoroughly in his new book – which I was interviewed for and had the pleasure of reading and commenting on in pre-publication – and in a series of articles for Comment is free.

"The Middle East will only be convinced by Islamic arguments for a secular state," he argues. "Secularists have to be prepared to engage with religious arguments – something they are often reluctant to do."

Since enduring reform comes from within and is usually gradual and incremental; this has also been my position. In self-defined 'Islamic' states, especially those with a vibrant political landscape and nascent democratic institutions, such as Iran, this can empower reformers. While in Arab and Muslim states which are already secular, Islamic arguments for secularism can help steal the thunder of the Islamists and neutralise them intellectually.

This also broadly corresponds with what generations of Muslim reformers have attempted, beginning with the 'Islamic modernists'. The founder of that movement, Muhammad Abdu, sought to "liberate thought from the shackles of imitation/tradition [taqlid]" and to prove that "religion must be accounted a friend to science". Abdu lamented the closing of the gates of ijtihad and that through this manner of reasoned (re)interpretation Islamic morality and law could be adapted to suit the modern world.

However, placing secularism in an Islamic shell is not enough. It needs to regain its credibility by delivering concrete results. Many Arab and Muslim societies seem to be caught between the rock of repressive regimes, often with western backing, and the hard place of the Islamists, who are likely to take authoritarianism to a new level if they gain power.

Secular opposition needs to find a way of offering a viable alternative to the Muslim Brotherhood and other mainstream Islamists in the eyes of the disenchanted. There are early signs of this occurring in places like Egypt where secularists have been regrouping in recent years.

As Whitaker points out in his book, one of the key appeals of the Muslim Brotherhood is not so much their religious identity but their promise – whether honest or not – to stamp out corruption and restore the rule of law. To highlight that Islamism is not the only show in town, secularists need to demonstrate that their efforts to promote democratic freedom and limit the political powers of leaders is driven by a desire to protect the dignity and rights of the individual.

Dressing secularism up in Islamic garments is a useful stepping stone, but will eventually come up against the brick wall of what I term the "God veto" on issues where religious and cultural beliefs are too strong to be reasoned with effectively. A good example of this is the status of women.

In Egypt, for example, although the legal, social and economic status of women has improved significantly over the past century, efforts to create true equality are often derailed or watered down, as occurred during the revamping of the country's personal status laws, by an unholy alliance between religious and conservative circles.

There are also limitations on the ideological plane. Muhammad Abdu's back to fundamentals "salafiyya" was interpreted by secular reformers as an opportunity to jettison Islam's historical baggage and create a new, modern future-oriented society. However, by the likes of Hassan al-Banna, the founder of the Muslim Brotherhood, it was interpreted as an invitation to re-create the "glorious" past of the "pious ancestors".

To overcome this kind of inertia requires a society not to seek guidance from the past but from the future, and this requires the culture to shift away from the tendency to 'emulate' – whether the Islamic past or the western present – and move towards 'innovation', a challenge many ancient societies in decline have faced in the modern age.

Contemporary western societies possess both the confidence and resources to future-orient their perspectives. I don't believe it is an accident that the west's "golden age" has coincided with its domination of the global trading system, and the Middle East's terminal decline coincided with the loss of its monopoly on east-west trade.

Today, the pursuit of knowledge and development is such a resource intensive undertaking that, what had been in the mid-18th century a relatively small qualitative gap, has widened to almost unbridgeable proportions. Most Arab and Muslim societies, as well as many other developing countries, are trapped in a vicious cycle of poverty, domestic and global inequality, ignorance, and systematic disadvantage in the global balance of economic and political power.

To overcome this requires reform in every sphere, from decent education to political freedom, not to mention efforts to promote equality not just between individuals within a society, but between countries in the global trading and political system.

This column appeared in The Guardian Unlimited’s Comment is Free section on 21 April 2009. Read the related discussion.

This is an archive piece that was migrated to this website from Diabolic Digest

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

Though relatively rare, killing a family member in the name of honour should be a cause for shame, not pride, as it reflects a cowardly compliance with inhumane norms.

Killing someone, especially a family member, is something I cannot begin to contemplate. Of course, I realise that it is a sad fact of life that some of the worst physical, sexual and psychological abuses – and even murders – are perpetrated by relatives.

In some ways, it is more horrifying and tragic when abuses are committed not to satisfy some base motives but for the apparently exalted ideal of "honour". Each year, thousands die around the world – from the Middle East to the Indian subcontinent, and from Latin America to China – in the name of family honour. The victims of these crimes are mostly women.

Rana Husseini – a courageous and outspoken Jordanian journalist who has dedicated most of her career to campaigning against this warped cultural practice – will publish a book on the subject at the end of May.

Murder in the Name of Honour (pdf) continues Husseini's groundbreaking efforts to break the silence on this disgraceful crime. The book shines a human light on some of the victims of honour killings, exploring their lives, circumstances and deaths – an epitaph to women whose families and communities would rather forget.

The first case Husseini investigated, back in 1994, was that of Kifaya, a young woman from a very traditional family in a conservative neighbourhood of Amman, who became pregnant after being raped by one of her brothers, Muhammad.

Instead of understanding and sympathy from her family, the poor young woman who had been violated by her own kin was forced to marry a man 34 years her senior to cover up the scandal. When the marriage ended in divorce six months later, the perceived shame led the family to decide that Kifaya had to die, and her other brother, Khalid, was forced to carry out the ugly deed.

Although most honour killings are ordered by men and carried out by men, Kifaya's father, who worked abroad to provide for his family, had no idea of the plot co-hatched by her mother, and the news of her death devastated him. "I would never have allowed anyone to kill my daughter, no matter what," he confessed to Husseini.

The fact that Kifaya was a victim twice over – once for being blamed for her rape and then being murdered for dishonouring the family – is not unusual in the grizzly annals of this type of crime, where a woman's virginity is worth more than her life. In fact, there are women in the most conservative circles who have paid with their lives for the malicious gossip of others.

Husseini points out that only a small number of men are murdered in the name of honour, despite the fact that they played a major role in the supposed dishonour. Indeed, men – even rapists – do get off lightly in this type of sex-related honour crimes. But her assertion overlooks the fact that there is a whole other world of honour that overwhelmingly claims men as its victims: the vendetta – think Romeo and Juliet or mafia films but in real life.

One place where this dated practice, known locally as 'el-tar', still continues, despite decades of efforts to wipe it out, is Egypt's stronghold of conservatism and tough traditions, al-Said (or Upper Egypt). Highly codified and ritualised, some of these feuds can last for generations, perpetuated by a stubborn belief in "el-tar walla el-aar" ("revenge is better than disgrace").

It's not just the fact that someone can muster up the ability to murder a loved one that disturbs, it is also the cruel manner and abandon some people bring to the task. One father hired two thugs to rape his daughter for two hours – as punishment for shaming him – before killing her. To my mind, there is no way a father like that can be anything but completely diseased in the head.

The crime can also be cruel on the chosen executioner. Families often choose one of the younger men – often a minor – to carry out the crime because he will probably get off with a lighter sentence, although the powerless youngster is condemned to a lifetime of trauma and often regret. "I know that killing my sister is against Islam and it angered God," said Sarhan, a young honour-killer Husseini visited in prison. "She was close to me, she was the one who resembled me the most," he said. "I alone cannot change or fix things in my society. My whole society has to change."

And change is coming gradually. Thanks to the efforts of Husseini – who has endured slander, unpopularity and even death threats – and other activists and campaigners, the issue has become a very public one in Jordan, and concern about it has grown in other countries, particularly Pakistan.

This breaking of the taboo has incensed many, not because they approve of the crimes but because of the shame and embarrassment it brings upon their societies. At one level, this is understandable: although honour killings are pretty isolated occurrences, many in the outside world have the warped idea that most Arab and Muslim men are bloodthirsty women-bashers. However, sweeping the issue under the carpet is not an option, and it must be dealt with.

Although Jordanian campaigners have so far failed to change the law that enables honour murderers to get off lightly, the struggle is as much about changing cultural perceptions and attitudes as it is about legislation. Public and judicial tolerance of these crimes is wearing thin as the silent majority begin to raise their objections to these barbaric acts. "The protection of every woman's life should be a key issue for the government and community alike," emphasises Husseini. "Real honour is about tolerance, equality and civil responsibility."

This column appeared in The Guardian Unlimited’s Comment is Free section on 3 May 2009. Read the related discussion.

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]

VN:F [1.9.3_1094]