Another Window

A Longer Update

2011-04-16T03:43:00.001-04:00

This is the way a blog ends
This is the way a blog ends
This is the way a blog ends
Not with a bang, but a shupdate.

Not really.

I just feel bad that my last post was a post promising to post more often. It always seems that that's the last thing you see on a blog about to die. "I'll write more soon, guys! Just super busy!" Three years later, Blogger shuts it down due to lack of updates.

In truth, I just got really, really busy. Around mid-November, I start working with a certain organisation in Sudan. I worked at the school and the organisation for about a month, which meant beginning at 8am and finishing sometime around 10pm. It was brutal.

Eventually, I decided to take a job with the organisation full-time. I loved the kids I was teaching, but the school itself was more than I could handle. I've heard stories of bad administration, etc., but this was a different level. I won't bore you with the details, but in the end, I felt that taking a job with the organisation was better in terms of what I want to do long-term, as well as a good way to leave the school drama behind.

That meant that sometime in early December, I sadly - very sadly - bid 23 six-year-olds adieu and went to work for the organisation full-time. Unfortunately, this did not mean more time for blogging. On the contrary, it meant more time spent working. There were weeks in which I worked no fewer than 16 hours a day. Fortunately, however, the position was great experience. Plus, it was only short-term, so I did not have to keep up such a pace forever.

It ended in mid-February. On 22/2, I hopped a flight home (telling only my sister and two trusted friends in Atlanta). I managed to surprise my mom just in time for her birthday and then kept things going by popping into a party with shocked friends that weekend.

All that to say that I am now back in Atlanta. As I write this, I am laying in my comfy, comfy bed, listening to the rain outside, drinking water from the tap, and not worrying about failing electricity. There are worse things for one to be doing.

I'm not sure what's next. A big part of me wants to stay in America and simply enjoy being in my mid-20s. It's time to have a real social life - a real dating life - if only for a year or so.

I don't think I'm exactly done with Africa either and I'd still like to make my way over to Southeast Asia. For now, however, I'm just focused on the next few months.

In terms of this blog, I'll certainly keep it going. I've still stories to tell and experiences to share. If nothing else, I still need to write out the Mr Wang's Part II, the sequel to this post. What's more, I've finally managed to change the address for Another Window. Instead of tjo85.blogspot.com, you can now get here via AnotherWindow.blogspot.com.

In addition, I'm now working on another project...

Short Update = Shupdate?

2010-11-19T11:29:00.003-05:00

I'm working. A LOT. Sorry for not posting sooner. I'll write more when I can.

Also, sorry for the shitty portmanteau.

Abdulla vs. The Sandwich

2010-10-26T17:15:00.000-04:00

"Eat it."

"Nooooooooooooo."

That "no" erupts on instinct from the lips of a first grader. It starts at the back of the throat and forces the tongue against the roof of the mouth before bursting forward as a full-on whine.

"Eat it. You know the deal."

"Nooooooooooooo."

The boy doesn't have the shrillness of his female peers, so the whine isn't ear piercing. Instead, it's one of those elongated protests behind which is a thinly veiled sense of defiance. With every whine, he knows that he's pushing the limits of my authority. What he doesn't understand is that if he just ate, he would be free to go play with his friends.

"Abdulla! You have to eat."

"No!"

This time the outburst is followed by a giggle. He's trying to turn this dance into a game.

"Abdulla," I say in an even tone as I squat down to eye level. "You're not leaving this classroom until you eat it."

His dark brown eyes meet mine. He knows he's stuck. He knows I'm serious.

"OK. One bite..." he replies.

"I don't bargain with six year olds. The whole thing or we sit here all day."

He looks down at what's left of his sandwich. Knowing that he'll never eat the whole thing, I've already torn off a quarter of it and placed it in front of him. The rest of it goes back in his baggage. Hopefully it will serve as evidence to alert his parents that he doesn't like their crap lunches.

Reluctantly, he pulls off the tiniest piece of bread. We sit in silence as he chews and sulks. This could take a while.

So goes lunch for Primary 1B. It starts around 10:10 when I dismiss the kids, row by row, to go wash up. Nearly all of them dash out of the room, dabble water on their hands, and race back. I've had to start feeling their palms to ensure that they at least made some attempt at washing.

Then they dig in. It actually looks like lunchtime anywhere in the West, save for them eating at their desks, as the school lacks a lunchroom. Lunch boxes with cartoon characters are pulled from backpacks, thermoses too big hands for their small hands are carefully placed against their tiny lips, and that generic lunch smell - a mixture of savory meats, white bread, and sugary juices- wafts through the classroom.

"He take my juice!"

"She eat my chip!"

My kids still have trouble with the past tense. I respond with the usual round of mediation.

"Ahmed, give the juice back."

"Fajr, don't eat Abdul Rahim's chips."

Sitting at the front of the classroom is Abdulla. By now, he's taken out his juice and sucked it down. Next, he'll pretend he doesn't have a sandwich in his backpack.

"Abdulla, get out your food."

"I no have sandwich!"

"Yes you do. Get it out."

Little Mawada comes up to me, juice in hand. She doesn't want me to open it for her. Instead, she shows me that she can do it herself. I tell her how strong she is and declare her the conqueror of juice. She flexes her tiny arms and smiles.

Abdulla looks on, a plastic bag now sitting on his desk. I pick it up and remove a hot dog bun with cold, smelly hard boiled eggs inside. Looking down at it, I try not to gag. I tear off a quarter and quickly put the rest back in the bag. I can't blame the kid for not wanting to eat that.

"No!"

"Yes. Eat it or you don't go play."

And so it begins.

After another ten minutes, I dismiss the class to go play outside. Abdulla remains and the dance begins.

I ask him what he actually does like to eat.

"Pizza. Cake. Cheese."

"You had a cheese sandwich yesterday and you still didn't want eat it."

"Oh... but this, this I don't like," he says holding up the sandwich. I back away as not to smell it again.

"And what do you call that kind of sandwich?"

"I don't know. I don't know the English for it."

I don't know why, maybe I was feeling sorry for the kid, but I decided to break one of my bigger rules.

"Bil Arabe... bedt. Aye?"

His eyes wide, he slowly answers.

"Aye"

"In English we call it 'egg.'"

"Egg," he says, slowly turning the word over with his tongue.

All I said was "In Arabic... egg. Yes?" However, I knew this would be enough to send him into shock. The kids are awed when any white person speaks even a hint of Arabic. They suddenly think I'm fluent, which throws them off course. Now, they figure they can't get away with anything. It gives me full authority again.

Unsure what else to do, Abdulla quickly finishes the sandwich and I let him go play.

Remember all those times your mom told you that there were starving kids in Africa; kids who would love nothing more than to tuck into the dry London broil sitting before you? Well, there's kids just like us here too. Kids who just want to eat pizza and cake instead of nasty sandwiches filled with eggs.

Maybe next time his mom sends him in with some gross lunch, Abdulla will go home and tell her that there are middle class kids in Atlanta who wouldn't eat this crap either.

Tom Tom Tom

2010-10-25T16:48:00.000-04:00

Primary 5 - The Sultans of School, the Primary Pontiffs, Kings of Kids, Elementary Overlords, and the Rulers of all that lay within our walls.

The big kids.

Hanging out with Primary 5 is fun. Much of this is because I'm not directly responsible for teaching them anything. As a result, I can be that cool teacher who pops in occasionally and talks to them about whatever they want. They're the oldest kids in the school, so I give them a bit more of the adult treatment. We shake hands and discuss how their day is going. Sometimes I get offered a cookie. Other times, I just listen as I'm told how great Justin Bieber is.

A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting with the class, acting as a second set of eyes and ears while they took a Geography test. They finished early, so they started asking me questions.

"Where are you from?"

"America."

"Duh! But where?"

"Atlanta."

"Oh! Usher's from there! Peace up, A Town down!"

"Exactly" Thank God for people too young to know the phrase Hotlanta.

"What's your full name?" one of the girls asked me.

"My full name's too long, but my last name is Opdyke."

"Opdyke? What kind of a name is that?" one of the boys inquired.

"It's Dutch." I replied.

"So your father's Dutch?" another asked.

"What? No. He's American. And you guys know what Dutch is?" I said.

"Uh... yeah." responded one of the girls with the kind attitude that comes with being ten years old. "We just took a Geography test. Duh."

"Fair enough. So, why do you think my father is Dutch?"

"Because you said his name was Uplike or whatever and it's Dutch." they told me.

"No, Opdyke is my last name."

"Oh," said one of the boys who looked like he'd just had an ephipany. "So your grandfather's name is Uhdenike!"

"Well sure, everyone in my family has the name Opdyke."At this point, they burst out laughing.

"Wait, everyone in your family is named Yuptik?!" they shouted.

"Yes! Of course." I said. They laughed even harder. Clearly, this was one of the year's best jokes. "Why is that so funny?"

"OK. OK." said one of the girls through her tears, "So if everyone in your family has this name, why are you called Tom?"

"Because that's my name."

"Right, so then what's your father's name?" asked another girl between fits of giggles.

"Tom."

"No! That's your name!" cried one of the boys.

"Yes, my father's name is also Tom."

"So then what's your grandfather's name?" another asked.

"Tom."

More laughter. At this point I felt like I was on the outside of an Abbott and Costello routine.

"OK, so if your name is Tom," began one of the girls as she slowly tried to sort out the information I'd given her, "And your father's name is Tom and even your grandfather's name is Tom... then your name is Tom Tom Tom?!"

A hydrogen bomb of hilarity went off. Suddenly, I understood.

The Sudanese -and perhaps Arab culture in general, I'm not sure- don't have last names or family names. They simply have the name of their father in place of their last name. In some cases, if that name is too common, then the name of the grandfather is tacked on.

For example, one of my kids is named Mohamed Abdul Motalib. When I have to call his name, which is often as he is fond of getting out of his seat, I have to say all three names. This is because, as you can imagine, Mohameds are fairly common around here. If I just shout "Mohamed!" then Mohamed Hatim or Mohamed Alshafie will get confused and plead their innocence for a crime they didn't commit.

But, if I shout "Mohamed Abdul Motalib!" the whole class turns and sees the right Mohamed race back to his chair. Though it's a mouthful, it's quite effective.

Back in Primary 5, I finally got the joke. The kids, unaware of things like junior, III, or even IV added onto Western names, found it hilarious that someone could share a name not only with his father, but also his grandfather. In short, looking at a man named Tom Tom Tom was too funny.

So I sat there and let them laugh. It wasn't the laughter of disrespect; it was the kind of laughter that only comes with hearing the absurd.

And why not? It is kind of funny.

Water in Khartoum

2010-10-15T16:58:00.000-04:00

Today is Blog Action Day 2010. This year's topic is clean water.

We all know what it's like to buy water. Each one of us has, at some point, purchased a small bottle of water to hold over our thirst. Few of us in the western world, however, drink bottled water exclusively.

Life here is different, at least for me. In Khartoum, I only drink water that comes from a sealed bottle, just as most Westerners living here do. Though the people of the city pride themselves on some of the cleanest water in Africa, I have yet to be convinced. When I first arrived here, the water coming from my tap was brown and I suppose I've never quite gotten past that (I was later told this was due to mud and wasn't harmful, though this did little to change my mind).

The source of water for most of the city and its surrounding areas is the Blue Nile, which flows from the mountains in Ethiopia. Locals brag that, by the time the water reaches Khartoum, it has yet to be tainted by any major city or industrial area. They drink without fear and, for the most part, are fine. You certainly don't hear any horror stories to match those of the Ganges in Sudan's capital.

Yet, there are still two major problems. First, the water from the tap at my place comes from three large tanks on the roof; most Sudanese don't have this luxury. From where I live, it's more than a three mile journey to the Blue Nile. That's a long way to haul a couple of gallons and, as the temperature has yet to dip below 100F (38C), it won't do much to help your thirst.

To address this, along the street there are drinking jugs with a cup about every 50 meters. They're often located in the shade and many people stop there to cool off and drink up before continuing their walk along the hot streets. Yet culturally, the jugs expected to be filled up by whoever owns the house closest to the street. So, while it might address some of the problem, it still puts the strain of collecting water on someone.

The other, more important, major problem is the lack of any sort of water treatment. That means that, even if the water is fairly clean most of the time, there's nothing between you and the occasional cholera outbreak. What's more, there's no other natural source of good water when something like that happens.

At my school, the kids all drink from water jugs filled with untreated water similar to those found on the streets. The really gross part is that there's only one cup, which all the kids share and then leave on top of the jug. I love my kids, but they're not the cleanliest bunch. Neither are many of the older Sudanese (Sudanese don't use toilet paper- that's all I'm saying). This general lack of sanitary practices only increases the risk for disease.

Which brings us back to bottled water.

Buying water is a pain in the ass. I either buy a few 1.5 liter (0.4 gallons) bottles at a time or haul a giant 5 gallon (19 liters) water cooler bottle the half a mile back to my flat, which is located atop six flights of stairs. Five gallons of waters weighs more than 40lbs (18kg).

There's also the cost. Between the two of us, my roommate and I spend approximately $53USD a month on those water cooler bottles for our flat. In all the places I've lived, I've never paid that much for water -and that doesn't even include showers.

I recognise that I do have a choice in the matter. My other roommate, Amaniel, drinks the Blue Nile water and is still alive. However, due to my desire to be absolutely sure about what I drink, I continue to buy my H2O.

Yet given all this, it's not prices or the bitch of buying water that bugs me. The real issue is that this is an option for me as a rich Westerner, but not for the average Sudanese. For the impoverished people of the country, a few outside taps and the roadside water jugs are their only option. Like I said before, that option includes the risk of disease.

Is clean drinking water a right? You decide. All I can tell you is that, here in Sudan, I'm not about to start drinking Nile water any time soon.

A Solution for Seat Belt Safety

2010-10-13T18:05:00.000-04:00

Warning: this post contains descriptions of old ladies being violently shaken by machines.

Here in Sudan, seat belts aren't a big thing. In fact, 90% of the cars you get in don't even have working seat belts. And the Sudanese could care less. It's like being in a cab in New York - if you buckle up, you're from out of town.

I still try to wear one whenever possible as the traffic can be a little hair raising at times. Case in point, a few weeks ago I was being driven between schools and my driver, who acts like a 16 year old who just got his license (I'm looking at you, Scott), was racing toward a red light. It was a major intersection, so it was equipped with a cool timer that tells drivers just long until the light changes. The one up ahead said 63 seconds. We were 100 meters away, going about 50MPH (80km/h). You don't have to flash back to high school math to figure out that this is too fast.

The driver finally decided to slam on the brakes. Realising this wouldn't be enough, he reached down and pulled the hand brake. As we were thrown forward in our seats, the car skidded to a halt just shy of the crossing traffic. This prompted Phin to turn and calmly ask the driver if he even had a license.

So you can see, seat belts are totally necessary here.

And the new Sudan Academy of Traffic seems to agree.

The Sudan Academy of Traffic (or whatever it's called, it's in Arabic) is actually not a bad idea. Unlike many things the government takes on, this project is not completely futile. The basic idea is that it's a driving school (privately owned) that the government requires you to attend if you want to obtain a driver's license. It's pretty much Driver's Ed; you take courses, practice driving, and have a big test at the end.

However, there is one aspect sets the Sudan Academy of Traffic apart from other driving schools: the seat belt simulator.

The seat belt simulator, or SBS as all the cool kids call it, is a giant machine whose one goal is ~~world domination~~ to help you understand the importance of seat belt safety. And what better way to do this than to place you inside a mock up car and simulate a crash. A really, really bad crash.

You get in, buckle up, and prepare yourself for a wholesome lesson in safety. The SBS proceeds to jerk you forward a couple of times and then, for good measure, flip you upside down. Over and over and over. I'm told it shakes you so violently and so thoroughly threatens your spine with whiplash that it answers the age old question of what it feels like to shit and vomit at the same time. All the while, you're strapped in, begging God to end your life, which is impossible because the seat belt keeps you safe enough to remember this experience forever.

It's all part of the course and the course is required to get a driver's license. So, everyone who wants to drive has to go for a ride in the SBS. Everyone. Including grandma.

The guy who told me about all this said that even old ladies have to get inside and go for a whirl in the Sudanese salt and pepper shaker. To be nice, however, they crank it down a notch.

"When it's the old ladies, it shakes them up a bit and only flips them once," he told me.

Well, I'm certainly glad they're not doing anything that would give them a heart attack.

The SBS is classic Sudan mentality. Any decent ideas that might actually help the problem are overshadowed by ridiculous outcomes.

If I can get any pictures of this thing, I will post them immediately.

Jack and the Beanstalk - Revisited

2010-10-12T17:51:00.001-04:00

Last week, I had my kids read Jack and the Beanstalk. My plan was to do a few lessons surrounding the story. We would read it one day, retell certain parts from memory another day, and then finally act it all out. I'd even planned out which kid would be the giant.

However, after the first day, my kids didn't seem too impressed with Jack, his magic beans, and the hijinx that ensue. After I thought about the story again, it made me consider what Jack and the Beanstalk was really teaching them.

Basically, the two story has two lessons. First, an irresponsible decision, such as trading your only viable source of income for something that is so worthless that the word "magic" has to be placed in front of it, will actually work out for the best (but only after a near death experience). Second, stealing is completely fine.

Let's consider it. The story opens with Jack taking his mother's last cow to the market. Along the way, he encounters a sketchy guy who offers up magic beans in exchange for the cow. Young, naive, and probably just wanted to get rid of the creeper, Jack agrees. He then brings said beans home to his mother, who is rightfully pissed off - so much so that she chucks the beans out the window. The next day, the beans have sprouted into a beanstalk. Jack, being the kind of genius who swaps livestock for over sized seeds, climbs this botanical wonder all the way up to the clouds.

Forgoing any discussion of what kind of mother just lets her kid - the same kid who just the day before proved his idiocy - climb plants that defy all scientific knowledge, I think what bothers me most is everything that happens after Jack makes it up the beanstalk.

Once up in one of Cloud City's sister outposts, he spies a giant castle. Ignoring the obvious warning signs from literature that giant castles are never good (check out what happens when one encounters C.S. Lewis's Gentle Giants), Jack decides breaking and entering is his best course of action.

Inside, everything is huge and made of gold. After some snooping, he eventually finds a goose that lays golden eggs (which, can I just point out, thank God he found this first and not the giant, fungus-filled nail clippers or the huge, golden nose hair trimmer that was surely laying around somewhere). Some recollections of the story say that Jack makes multiple trips to the castle, but for the purposes of this blog, he only goes once.

Fast forward to the giant actually getting home. Consider this poor guy's position; it's obviously he's mentally ill for two reasons. First, he repeats the same line of gibberish before everything he says. It's like very predictable tourettes. Second, he states that "be he live or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread." As he thinks that human bones are a key ingredient in bread, this claim gives us great insight into the severity of the giant's mental condition. Clearly, this is a man who was destined for hardship, save for one thing: his prized possession, a goose that shits gold.

And what does Jack do? He steals it. Sure, there's some inference that Jack and his mom are really hard up, but it still doesn't give him any right to walk into a stranger's house, pick out the most valuable thing, and run off with it.

The poor giant, who just got back home and is probably exhausted from his daily cloud-dwelling activities, takes off in pursuit. The two race down the beanstalk and despite his inferior size and therefore inferior speed, Jack makes it down first. The beanstalk is then chopped down with the giant still on it. As he falls to his death, the last thing the giant probably heard were the cries of celebration coming from Jack and his mother who, with their new wealth crapping bird, will never have to worry about money again.

In short, this story is full of problems. Acquiring magic beans from creepers will not work out for the best. Most often, such beans will either be ecstasy tablets, bits of hash, or just your everyday, run-of-the-mill, nonmagic beans. In addition, climbing giant plants that weren't there the day before is not only unsafe, but is unlikely to lead to giant castles filled with gold. However, if there is a giant castle, there will also be a giant. Unless he's blowing dreams into children's windows with a little girl sitting in his ear, chances are good he won't be friendly. Whatever happens, however, one should not steal his most prized possession and then kill him for trying to get it back.

In retrospect, reading this story to the same kids I chastise for stealing each others' pencils wasn't a great idea. Maybe we'll just read Goldilocks and the Three Bears next week.

Shit. Or not.

Blog Action Day 2010

2010-10-12T09:19:00.000-04:00

Blog Action Day 2010 is Friday!

The topic is clean water. This all fits in very well here at Another Window as I've been wanting to write a blog about the perils of water here in Khartoum. Tune in on Friday and check it out!

Petitions by Change.org|Start a Petition »

The Barf Runneth Over...

2010-10-09T11:06:00.000-04:00

Apparently, I wasn't the only one getting sick these past two weeks. Nearly half the staff at my school in Omdurman fell ill at some point during the last fortnight. One of them even collapsed and fainted on the stairs. Maybe something's in the air, or at least in the food.

Teachers weren't the only ones with some sort of malady. Recently, around two-thirds of my kids have been absent at least one day. Some days, what should be a class of 24 looks more like a few downtrodden kids I kept for detention. Last Thursday, for example, a quarter of the class was missing due to one kind of illness or another. One parent even sent in a letter explaining that their child was sick with malaria and would probably be out for several days.

Other parents, however, forced their children to go to school regardless of their current well-being. Several of the kids in attendance last week complained of stomach aches, headaches, eye aches, and strangely but commonly, of arm aches.

Some of them clearly weren't kidding either. As I rounded a corner last week on my way back to my classroom, I was greeted by one of my students, Walaa, washing his hands. His usual grimace had been replaced by a sickly look and tears in his eyes. Just went to ask him what was wrong, the janitor pointed to the stairs. Three steps, usually covered with a cheap, thin red carpet, were now coated with a chunky, white upchuck that I could only guess had risen from Walaa's poor stomach mere moments ago. I looked back at Walaa. He looked at the ground in return. Poor guy.

The janitor led him to the front office where his mom would pick him up. I gingerly climbed over the now pungent puke and went back to my classroom. Unfortunately, this would not be the last vomit I would see that day.

Later that day, another student, Khalid Hasim, began complaining of general illness. As Khalid is normally somewhat loud and lively, I took him at his word. He too was sent to the front office to await the arrival of his mother. However, in his state, he forgot his backpack and water jug.

Thirty minutes later, I was in front of the room going over word endings ( things like "ll," "ss," and "ff") when little Khalid came back for his stuff. His lethargic movements were those of a boy making every effort not to push his luck too hard. Slowly, he pulled his backpack on and then looked around for his water jug. I spied it under the desk of another student, Mustafa Talal. Seeing how sick Khalid was, I asked Mustafa to pick it up and hand it to him.

I should have expected what happened next, but after only two months in the classroom, my teacher instincts haven't fully developed. Khalid moved forward to receive the jug as Mustafa bent down to pick it up. In slow motion, I watched as Khalid reared his head back and then thrust it forward. With this jolt, his mouth opened and out spewed a thin, orange liquid, as if he'd been holding juice in his cheeks and was now determined to set it free.

And of course, the only thing between Khalid's mouth and the floor was poor, little Mustafa.

Mustafa craned his head up in horror, just as his head and body were covered in vomit. He raised his arms to cover his face, but it was too late. The puke poured over and he was bathed in an endless wave of orange up-chuck.

Instead of leaping to his rescue, I jumped backwards with a yelp. The rest of the class stood and stared, wide-eyed. The room fell silent and the only noise came from Khalid as his stomach continued its relentless torment.

Finally, it was over. I looked up and scanned the classroom, ready for the Stand By Me type reaction I was sure to come. Luckily, none of the other kids began throwing up at the sight of sickness. Instead, the room stayed silent. Khalid was breathing heavily and Mustafa, with more grace and clarity than any six year-old I have ever seen, stood up straight, looked at me, and walked briskly out of the room.

I led Khalid outside, made sure he was alright for now, and got him to the front office. Along the way, I got asked the janitor to mop up what little bit of barf had made its way to the floor. About ten minutes later, Mustafa returned, dripping with so much water that I assumed he'd poured several buckets of water over himself. Perhaps aware that they could have suffered the same fate, none of the other students said a word. I opened up the windows to let some fresh air in and we continued with the lesson.

The rest of the day went on with incident, as did the rest of the week. Mustafa, however, hasn't been quite the same since.

Doctor

2010-10-08T12:45:00.001-04:00

When you move to a place like Sudan, you expect - you know - that you will get sick. Whether it be by food, water, bugs, heat, or anything else, the conditions of the developing world will, at some point, break the defenses of your Western immune system. For example, an Australian friend of mine living in Indonesia recently told me that she too had fallen ill. In her words, she was dying from "white woman meets dirty water in the tropics" disease. She's since recovered.

In short, sick happens.

As I said in my last post, I fell ill with a stomach bug after eating some bad chicken at a Turkish place. Amaniel reckons that, because the Turkish place is expensive (relatively), it is more likely to make you sick. Oddly his theory made sense after he explained that, since the cheaper places get more business, they turn the food around quicker; a more expensive establishment probably leaves its unsold food sitting out too long.

After two days of laying around the house in general sickness, I forced myself to go to work. My stomach problems had subsided, but I was constantly fatigued, which is the enemy of any primary school teacher. Halfway through the day, a request to go home was granted, but with the stipulation that I see a doctor.

Sitting in a doctor's office was not the place I wanted to be while in a developing country. I'd gotten past my initial fears of living here; fears that included no real food, no basic services, or clean water, all of which turned out to be baseless and untrue. Yet, the thought of a doctor's office still left lingering images of third world squalor in my mind.

Since my Arabic has yet to reach the level that allows me to decipher which offices say "doctor" and which say "nasty prostitutes that should be avoided at all costs," I decided the hospital was my best bet for finding a doctor. As I entered the hospital, I was greeted with a waiting room that could have been anywhere in America. After paying 15SDG ($5USD), I was led to the doctor's office.

Inside, I met a doctor who was about my age and spoke pretty decent English. I explained what was going on and he asked me the normal questions about allergies, etc. We then went through the usual lie-down-while-I-poke-you–in-the-abdomen-to-see-if-you're-in-serious-pain routine. After about minutes, he told me it probably was the crappy Turkish food and wrote me a prescription for don't barf anymore medicine. I then went to the pharmacy next door, paid 3SGD ($1USD) for a week's worth of pills, and headed home.

Often times, mundane things require a large dose of patience here. For example, after waiting a month for my toilet to get fixed, it's easy to believe that every task could become Herculean. Looking back, however, my trip to the doctor was impressively easy. Sometimes, this place has a way of surprising you.

Sick

2010-09-26T07:16:00.000-04:00

Last night I dined at a Turkish place and then went for ice cream. The lone waitress at the Turkish restaurant doesn't speak much English, so it's best to point to what you want on the menu. I ordered a falafel and a small Arab shawrma chicken pizza thing. As the waitress doesn't write down the orders, you pray that what you get somehow resembles anything close to what you ordered. The Arab shawrma chicken thing, for example, consisted of cooked chicken and french fries, wrapped in a pizza base, all served with mayonnaise and BBQ sauce. Close enough, I figured. After all, it tasted fine.

Turns out it tasted worse this morning. There's nothing like waking up in the morning and, after only a few minutes, be greeted by what you ate the night before.

I quickly told Phin that I wasn't going to work today. He was good enough to take my lesson plan in with hopes that a substitute would be found. Amaniel came in before he left and presented me with three black pills. Charcoal pills, he assured me, will soak up whatever is left inside my stomach to cleanse the body of whatever bacteria is making me sick. Thanks, I tell him, secretly knowing that I'll need to feel a lot worse before I swallow 150mg of charcoal.

For now, I'm confined to my flat. As I lie in bed, my current state looks a lot like the opening scene of Apocalypse Now in which Martin Sheen lies there, sweating heavily underneath a useless ceiling fan. Outside, I can hear the noise from the street below. Cars beep their horns often, friends shout at each other from across the road, and the tuk tuks sound like fast moving weed whackers that only slow down when you hear a voice shout out, "ruckshaw!"

I should be back on my feet soon, but for now, I know one thing: I'm not going back to that Turkish place anytime soon.

12mm

2010-09-17T11:58:00.000-04:00

My hair was getting long and it was time for a cut. I tell you this only because of the drastic measures I took and because so many of you know how long it was only a short time ago.

As I've said before, I don't like getting hair cuts. The experience is too full of confusion and unease, only to end in dissatisfaction. Here in Sudan, I figured things would be no different. Plus, I'd have to deal with the language barrier. What's more, they don't get a lot of blond haired patrons in my neighbourhood.

Time to take matters in my own hands.

The answer? For 70 SDG ($25 USD), I bought a hair trimmer.

Unfortunately, the longest trimming option is 12mm, or about 1/2 an inch. That's pretty short. In fact, the last time I had it that short was in Oslo about three years ago. Not a good idea during winter in Scandinavia, but this is Sudan and it's hot. Screw it.

So, today I switched the trimmer on and took myself down to 12mm. As with any hair cut, it feels quite different and looks a little odd, especially since my hair was more than 15 inches long only two months ago. Some people look good with buzzed hair. My friend Dustin, for example, has sported super short hair for years and does pretty well. I, however, look more like the hulking military type; the kind of guy you'd never guess studied peace building.

It'll always grow back.

Killer Phones!

2010-09-16T10:51:00.000-04:00

"What? No. How is that possible?"

I'm listening to Amaniel speak with his girlfriend over the phone.

"Wait, wait..." He rolls his eyes at me as she continues talking.

He and I have just finished lunch near the Omdurman souk. For 2 SDG ($0.70USD), we each dined on timeas, a Sudanese falafel. Packed with garlic, timeas are nothing short of excellent. The white bread they're served on, however, is less than desirable, but it's all the country has to offer. Now we're headed back to our place in Bah'ry, but Amaniel is stuck trying to decipher what his girlfriend is telling him.

"But there's just no way... hello? Hello?" he says into the phone.

He looks at the phone, confused. Placing it back in his pocket, he looks up at me.

"Must have run out of credit," he says.

"Everything ok?" I ask him.

He smiles and lets out a single burst of laughter. Amaniel does this when he knows he's about to say something funny.

"She told me that phones are killing people." he says.

"What?!" I exclaim.

"Yeah. She said that people are receiving calls from an international number," he continues. "When they answer it, the phone lets out an electric shock strong enough to kill them."

"Bullshit." I tell him.

"I don't know, man. Is there a way for a phone to do that? Like if the number was able to tell it what to do?" he asks me.

"Absolutely not," I reply. "It sounds like a bad horror movie, or at least a scene in Forgetting Sarah Marshall."

"That's what I told her! Not the Sarah Marshall part, but that it's impossible."

"Totally." I say. "Maybe, just maybe, I'd believe it if everyone was walking around with the newest iPhone, but all these crap Nokias? No way."

We both laugh as we jump on the bus to head home.

A few hours later, we're back at our flat. I'm sitting in my room when Amaniel rushes in. He shows me his phone.

It's ringing. The call's an unknown international number.

We look at each other, unsure what to do. He tries to hand it to me; I place my hands behind my back. Finally, it stops.

"We're idiots," he says.

"And hypocrites." I respond.

"Apparently, everyone is talking about it though." he tells me. It seems he went down to the shop to buy more credit and the guys there told him the same thing as his girlfriend. All across Khartoum, the people are scared to answer any calls coming from international numbers for fear of being shocked to death.

We google the number Amaniel received and get nowhere. The country code is +11, which isn't a real country code.

If I'm honest, what I think is really happening is that the government has started the rumour in an effort to limit the people's contact with the outside world. Telling them that answering any international call might get them killed is a fairly good way to go about it too. It might seem crazy, but this is the same government that sometimes presents me with this screen when I'm online:

Dead End on the Information Super Highway.

A little strange, no?

Maybe I'm making too much of it. Maybe some 13 year old started the rumour and things just got out of hand. Maybe not.

Either way, if you plan on calling me from an international number, text me first.

Grandson of a Goat Herder

2010-09-15T13:41:00.000-04:00

At some point, I heard that Obama's grandfather had been, among other occupations, a goat herder in Kenya. It didn't really mean much (why exactly do goats need herding?), but I tucked it away as an interesting fact about the President.

Then I saw a goat herder. Several of them actually.

I wish I had a picture of them, but unfortunately the car was moving too fast and I missed my moment.

The goat herders whom I saw were not a perfect picture of poverty, but they were close. They were men dressed in traditional Sudanese gowns brandishing dried weeds, which they used for whips. A dozen or so goats surrounded each of them and, slowly, they moved across edge of the desert as the African sun beat down upon them. The only break in their slow monotonous trek was the occasional, quick whip to the hind a goat received if it strayed from the pack.

I'm sure all of them have families, dreams, love stories, agonies, opinions, and hopes. Yet, as I watched them walk along the sand, each of them seemed simple and far removed from the world I call home. Could one of these men really be the grandfather of an American President?

Regardless of your attitude toward Obama, the major jump from herder to Head of State, poverty to President, all within three generations, is amazing. I say this not to praise Obama (or his father who received a PhD from Harvard), but to point out the true interconnectedness of our world.

Looking at those men, trying to imagine their lives and their families, I shouldn't picture myself too far removed from their lives. When they go home and see their children, are they looking into the eyes of tomorrow's leaders, or at least the parents of such persons? Will the way in which they raise their children, the values they pass on, or the lessons they teach, have an effect on my future as well?

As I sped past, I gazed back at them. I asked myself, am I looking at goat herders or are these men, whose world seems so distance from mine, actually the harbingers of our future?

Mr. Wang's

2010-09-14T07:31:00.001-04:00

All I wanted was Chinese food. And maybe some beer.

The night started out simple enough. My flatmate, Phin (who moved in with Amaniel and I about a week after I got here), came into my room wondering what we should do for the evening.

"How about Mr Wang's?" I asked him. I'd seen it in his guide book - a Chinese place in a neighbourhood I hadn't been to yet. After a few too many nights of cooking pasta at home, I felt like Chinese would be a nice change.

We pull out his guide book and find Mr. Wang's. A note in the book tells us that, not only is Mr. Wang's pretty decent, but they have one thing for which we've been desperate - beer! We find a map that tells us it's located in the Riyadh district. Mr Wang's is off the map, but instead of a picture of fearsome dragons, there's an arrow pointing to it that says it's 100m west. Sure of our ability to memorize a map that takes up an entire page, we leave the guide book and head out.

Before we can get to Riyadh though, we need to make a stop to pick up a some friends, Carly and Ruan; both are British girls who also teach in Khartoum. They were already downtown at a place called Ozone, one of the city's juice bars that offers decent cakes and a good place to sit for a while. At times though, the image of a juice bar makes Khartoum feel more like the Power Rangers' Angel Grove - all that's missing is Ernie.

The four of us pack into an amjad - cheap, local taxis with which you must bargain before getting in and going anywhere - and tell the driver Mr. Wang's in Riyadh. He seems unsure, (something all too common with the amjad drivers), but can at least get us to Riyadh. From there, we figure we'll ask for directions.

Oh, how wrong we were.

After a ten minute meander through the city, the amjad stops in front of a decent sized hotel with Asian characters on the sign. Through hand gestures, he tells that he'll be right back; he's going inside to ask for directions. He comes out and tells us that this is Mr. Wang's. Unsure, we thank him and head inside.

It's not Mr. Wang's. It's just what it looks like - a hotel. An Asian woman on the desk returns our confused gaze as we enter. Phin approaches the desk.

"Mr. Wangs?" he asks.

"Eh?" the woman responds.

"Mr. Wang? Restaurant?" Phin continues.

"Restaurant? Yes! Yes!" she replies.

"Mr Wang?" Phin asks again, trying to be sure we're in the right place.

"Mr. Wang- no. Mr. Wong?" she answers. The emphasis on Wong as opposed to Wang has all of us thinking that we're simply pronouncing the name wrong. Hey, we've been trying to speak Arabic for weeks; we'll work on the East Asian stuff later, ok?

"Yes! Mr. Wong, then?" Phin says, excited that we're finally getting somewhere.

"No. No Mr. Wong." she tells him.

At this point, the look on Phin's face changes from excitement to confusion. I imagine his inner voice is shouting at the woman, asking her why the she would said Mr. Wong as opposed to Mr. Wang when clearly neither are here.

"Forget it," I say. "We'll ask someone else."

We walk back outside and along the street. Phin calls the restaurant, but they don't speak English. Another restaurant, Beatles, comes into view. Remembering that Beatles was on the guide book map, I lead the group to the next intersection and head left. Over the past few weeks, I've been impressed with my better-than-average sense of direction and now my inflated ego believes it knows exactly where it's going.

I am, of course, wrong. After a few minutes, we flag down a rickshaw, which circles us three times before deciding to stop. As it does, another one sees us waving and stops in front of us. Our foursome splits into pairs and we speak with both of them. Neither has any idea where Mr. Wang's is, despite our best efforts to convey "Chinese restaurant." Yet, the rickshaw drivers have a habit of telling you to hop in the back anyway; you can direct them from there. We try to explain that, if we don't know where it is, this approach won't work. We thank them and walk away.

Undeterred, they follow us as we approach a pharmacy. Often times, a pharmacy has at least one person whose English is pretty decent. However, this pharmacist's linguist skills are a little lacking. We think he understands, but we're sure that he doesn't knows where it is. In a flash of brilliance, Phin phones the restaurant so that the pharmacist can speak to them in Arabic. Mr. Wang and co. don't speak Arabic either (which when you think about it, not speaking the local language is pretty indicative of a decent Chinese place). In the mean time, Ruan, Carly, and I try to fend off the two rickshaw drivers still trying to get us to go with them.

The pharmacist comes outside with Phin and tells the two rickshaw drivers to get lost. He then flags down another one and does his best to explain to him what we're looking for. The rickshaw driver seems to understand, so we all pile in. Pause here to let me mention that rickshaws fit two people comfortably, three people uncomfortably, and four people absurdly. As a result, Phin is forced to sit up front on the edge of the driver's seat as Ruan, Carly, and I squeeze into the back.

We zoom off at the fastest speed a two stroke engine can handle with five people on board. The rickshaw wheezes and threatens to fall apart with every bump, but The Little Engine that Could must have been translated into Arabic (perhaps under the title The Unflappable Determination of the Tiny, Outdated Vehicle) because the rickshaw and its driver stubbornly push on.

After a few blocks, the driver slows and asks a cop for directions. The cop, clearly having no idea, gestures further down the road. Just as the driver is about to head that way, the cop flags down two pedestrians and asks them. Phin shouts "Mr Wang's" at them and they point in the opposite direction. The driver turns around and speeds off in the direction from which we just came.

"I swear if we wind up back at that Asian hotel, I'm gonna be mad," says Phin.

"Don't worry," I tell him. "Someone will know where it is."

This happens two or three more times until we begin to understand that no one knows anything about Mr. Wang's. Our driver keeps asking for directions and people keep assuring us that it's only a bit farther, just in the opposite direction. At this point, Phin is moaning "Mr. Wang's? Mr. Wang's!" as Carly and Ruan laugh in the backseat. I put my head in my hands, both laughing and giving up all hope of finding this place. Finally, the chorus of Phin shouting and us laughing is too much for the driver who, in perfect English, shouts "I don't know the name of the places!!" He then goes back to Arabic and starts pointing out every restaurant we pass.

"African restaurant?" he implores us as we pass an Ethiopian place.

"No! Chinese!" we cry in unison.

Eventually, we wind up in front of a dilapidated building with the word restaurant written in faded letters. The driver asks yet another person where the Chinese place is and they point behind the building. The four of us get out of the rickshaw, positive that this isn't it. The driver convinces us to get back in and he'll drive us around back. Reluctantly, we pile in.

He then drives three miles in the opposite direction. Finally we shout for him to stop and he drops us in front of a bootleg DVD store. Wanting to just be rid of him, we pay the driver and head inside the DVD store. The man at the desk is fully confident that Mr. Wang's is just down the road.

I realise now that I'm an idiot since, every time we ask someone new for directions, I get my hopes up. Clearly no one has an idea what they're talking about. Exhausted, hungry, and jaded, we stumble along the road looking for a place to eat.

Within five minutes we notice the Asian hotel.

Damn it.

We check out the restaurant inside. Not only does it look disgusting, it's deserted. Unwilling to feel as though we failed, we decline a table and walk to the other nearby restaurant, Beatles. There, we dine on pasta (the very thing I was trying to avoid) and resist the temptation to sip on mocktails called "Viagra" and "Super Viagra," both of which consist of as many sweet things as can be packed in a blender. We pay up and head back out into the Sudanese night.

Upon telling this story to friends later, I learned that no one in Sudan is willing to admit that they don't know where something is. It would be impolite. Instead, they'll happily point you down the road just to save face.

So, if you're ever in Khartoum, don't ask for directions. Bring the guide book.

Oh, and I also found out later that Mr. Wang's isn't the only Chinese place with beer. All Chinese places in Khartoum serve beer. You just have to ask for the special tea.

A Fast Fast

2010-09-10T06:53:00.000-04:00

It's 5AM. My bedroom door swings open. As I open my weary eyes, I can make out the silhouette of my roommate, Amaniel. I acknowledge him with a wave as I swing my legs begrudgingly off the bed and place my feet on the floor. There's nothing I hate more than early mornings. Today, I'm only awake at this hour for one reason - to eat.

This is the holy month of Ramadan. It began three days after I arrived and ends today. For thirty days, Muslims across the globe have fasted during daylight hours. That means, for roughly fourteen hours each day, they have refrained from any sort of eating or drinking. In northern Sudan, Muslims make up the majority of the population, so most of the people I encounter here are fasting.

I figured I should try it.

I stumble into the kitchen where Amaniel has been making breakfast. He's been doing this for three weeks and has grown accustomed to the morning ritual of waking up, cooking, and eating, all before the morning call around 5:30. I'm so tired that I have trouble standing, but Amaneil takes over. He thrusts a bowl of lentil soup and a piece of flat bread into my hand and tells me to start drinking water. I pull a 1.5 litre bottle of water out of the fridge and do as I'm told. Food in hand, I head to the living room to eat.

After about ten minutes, I'm full. I don't want to drink any more, no less eat anything else. Amaniel looks out from the kitchen (where he's been eating) and insists that I continue. Like a child unwilling to eat its vegetables, I want to whine and push the plate across the table. Yet, thinking of the long day ahead, I resist the urge and continue eating and drinking.

Just as I take another big gulp of water, I hear a soft hum that grows into a roar as the muezzins from the scores of mosques across the city sing out the day's first call to prayer. This signals the many Muslims of Khartoum to stop eating and begin their fast. For me, it's a call to go back to bed and catch up on whatever sleep I can. Not wanting to neglect the spiritual nature of the fast, I say a quick prayer before I lie down.

An hour and a half later, it's time to wake up for real.

I'm already thirsty.

I go about my morning routine trying to ignore the dry spot in my throat. Once busy, it's easier not to think about it. The same holds true at work; if I'm busy, it's ok. The moment I'm not though, I can feel the parched patch growing. I'm not even hungry; I just want water. My friends tell me that fasting during Ramadan not only keeps you closer to God, but also helps remind you how less fortunate people live all year. I think about this and how those around me who have been doing it for three weeks already. I suck it up.

After school finally ends, I head home. Normally, this is when I eat a late lunch. However, today I have to put those thoughts aside during the car ride home. I try to tell myself not to think about what I'm going to eat tonight either. I've done fasts before (no food for three days, but I still had water) and I know that one of the worst things you can do is to keep thinking about food. One of the best ways to make it through the fast is to sleep. As I'm already tired from the morning's forced feast, I'm happy to sleep.

It's 6PM. I wake up after three and a half hours. More than an hour to go.

I look at the clock, semi-willing it to speed up time. My efforts fail. Maybe if I drink something, my telekinetic powers would be stronger. But then that would defeat the whole purpose, wouldn't it?

My door bells rings. I realise that this is what woke me up. As I sit up, I can see my friend Anda pop her head in the front door. She was cooking for friends, but her oven ran out of gas. I tell her to use our kitchen. Ten minutes later, our apartment is host to several people all gathered in the sitting room as the smell of Anda's cooking wafts in from the kitchen. I still have an hour to go.

Rather than getting upset that all these people are about to eat right in front of me, I tell myself that it's a welcome distraction. And it is. For the next hour - even as the food comes out - there's plenty of conversation and company to keep my mind off things. Around 7, Amaniel emerges from his room. He too has been trying to sleep away the hours.

The last ten minutes prove to be the hardest. Anda's already set out some soup for us; Amaniel and I try not to look at it. He and I move to the kitchen and try to hold a light conversation, both of us knowing that we're not really listening to each other at this point; we're only listening for the call.

Finally, we hear the chant from one of the nearby mosques. Delighted, I gulp down glass after glass of water. A litre later, I grab one of the dates Amaniel has one the counter. Dates or something else sweet are supposed to be one of the best ways to break the fast.

I'm so full of water that I don't rush to eat. One of my friends told me how fascinated she was that people breaking fast don't gobble up their entire kitchen or indulge in a massive Beckyfest - they just eat a normal meal. I can understand that. My body has been without food long enough today that it has given up expecting it. I only eat a light dinner and I'm satisfied.

Overall, it was a hard day, but in the end, it was only one day. Anyone can do it for a day. Hell, some of us are so busy that we do it by accident. I figured if I was somewhat serious, I had to fast for three days. This changed my whole attitude. Now the thought of more days to come were hanging over my head as I went to sleep that night. I was not looking forward to more.

The second day played out the same way. Wake up too early. Eat and drink too much. Wake up again. Go to work. So far, the only difference was that I drank too much in the morning and, once I woke up again, I peed so long my kidneys hurt. All things in moderation, I suppose, even eating before a fast.

The only real difference comes when I get home. A friend of mine had asked me to come with her on an errand. I figured it would be another welcome distraction, so I was happy to oblige. Then I remembered it's 40C (104F) outside. That's what happens when you live on the edge of the world's largest desert.

Walking outside, I have to make a concerted effort to keep my knees from buckling. I'm sweating away any of the precious water I have left in my body. Plus, my head is pounding and all I want to do is drink or sleep. Knowing it can't do the former, my eyes drupe as my brain tries to order my body to shut down.

Have you ever stayed awake for two days or more? For the first 36 hours, you can handle things, so long as you're occupied. After that, however, your body doesn't care what you're doing - talking, driving, eating, or walking - it just wants to drop everything and have a snooze. Walking around with my friend, this is how I felt.

At some point, my friend gets caught up in a conversation with someone. I look around to find the nearest place to collapse. It's one of those chairs made for Kindergartners, the kind where your knees come up to your chest when you sit in it. I crouch down, my ass squeezed into the seat, and I don't care. I can't get comfortable, but at least I'm not standing. We finally make it home and I take an hour's nap.

It's 7:15PM. I'm hanging my head outside my bedroom window, listening. Every noise gets my attention. The hum of a rickshaw, the yell of a child, each sound makes my ears perk. My head is aching and my throat is begging for just a drop of liquid. I've been trying to pray off the thirst, but in these last few minutes, my Earthly desires have taken hold and all I can do is eagerly await the call.

I can hear the click of one of the loudspeakers at a nearby mosque. Wait for it. Wait for it...

Finally, the call comes from one of the mosques. I don't wait for the dozens of others to join in before I start greedily drinking my water. Like yesterday, I'm not even that hungry after all the hours without food. I eat a normal sized dinner and go to bed early.

It's 5:30AM. Amaniel and I have finished eating early and go up to the roof to wait for the call. Around us, the world is calm. Though thousands below are feasting in a frenzy, from this height, the city seems to be subdued by the early hour. The air is cool in the absence of the African sun and a light breeze wraps itself around us as we gaze out into the darkness. Though he and I often discuss our religious differences, the gap between our two faiths is absent in these moments just before sunrise. For now, we are only two men poised to begin a new day full of praise and sacrifice for our common God.

As if one, the muezzins across the city cry out their call to prayer. There is only one God, they sing. Move quickly to prayer; it is better to pray than sleep, they continue. From our perch, we see the city shake itself to life.

The last day of my fast proves to be the most challenging. The fatigue, strain, and difficulties I felt over the previous two days become amplified ten fold. It's Thursday - the end of the work week - and my kids are extra rowdy. Once home, I take a long nap before joining friends at an Indian restaurant downtown. I arrive a few minutes before 7, order three bottles of water, and wait. A few others in our party are fasting and we sit pleasantly as others drink around us. As the sun sets, we hear the call and break our fast.

For me, it is the last day, but for Muslims there is still more than a week to go. As I look around the table, I think back on the last three days. There's a calm clarity that comes with fasting. While forgoing certain things, my mind becomes too tired to process all the events of the day. It quickly cuts through trivial things and focuses on the important aspects of life. As a result, I feel more sure of myself and my decisions, but more importantly, I feel closer to God.

I then consider all those who adhere to Islam around the world. I only did it for three days; more than a billion people do it for a month. Upon breaking my fast on the last day, I am filled with respect and admiration for Muslims across the globe. Though I may different in my beliefs, I come to understand that I have much to learn from them.

Sudanese Rap!

2010-09-09T19:55:00.001-04:00

Hey folks!

Sorry for not posting sooner! The internet here's been a bit shit lately, so I haven't been able to update. I did sort out the problem though by going and getting a "dongle," which upon my recent visit to the UK, I learned is the word for those internet USB sticky things. So, I shouldn't have any major internet issues in the future.

I'm finishing a Ramadan post about fasting and it should be up tomorrow.

In the mean time check it out:

Sudanese Rap!

Chomp

2010-09-03T08:07:00.000-04:00

One of my kids is a biter. Or, so I found out Sunday.

Every class has its rowdiest member and ours is Walla - a three foot tall Tasmanian devil with his two front teeth missing and menacing eyes that could turn Medusa into stone. The teachers suspect that Walla’s family comes from an eastern Sudanese tribe, as his hair is buzzed down, save for one long pony tail in the back (to be honest it looks more like a rat tail). I’m told that Walla has been growing the pony tail since birth and this is the tribe’s tradition. His grimace, coupled with the tribal tail, have given Walla somewhat of a mean look and he seems to believe it is his duty to live up to it.

As a result, Walla is prone to fighting. At least once every day, I catch him in his stance – fists up, left foot back. He looks like something out of Street Fighter; imagine Ryu or M. Bison at the age of six. Sometimes, he’s already hitting another child, screaming as he wails on them. Some of the kids stand up to him; others don’t.

When this happens, I rush over and pull Walla away from his victim and chastise him for fighting. Yet, the next day, I’m bound to find him in the same scenario with another child. I’ve tried harsher punishments, but nothing seems to work. By now, I’m unsure of exactly what to do with Walla.

On Sunday, my class was taking an English exam. Everyone finished early, so we had fifteen minutes to kill before lunch. As long as the kids stayed in their seats and were relatively quiet, I was happy.

During this time, Khansa, one of my nine girls, looks like she was about to burst into tears. She has a habit of pouting until I come over to see what’s wrong. In addition, she speaks so softly that I have to kneel down with my back to the class to hear her. On this particular day, little Khansa is concerned that she hasn’t done well enough on the exam. Just as I go to comfort her, all hell breaks loose behind me.

I whirl around to see Walla screaming and hitting his favourite victim, Mustafa Talal. Several of the kids have surrounded the two and are watching the fight. At lightening speed, I cross the room and pull Walla away from Mustafa. I move him back to his desk as the students begin their usual chorus of "Mr. Tom! Mr. Tom," followed by the details of what happened. As I try to listen, Walla bursts up from his chair and begins screaming. His English is poor, so he yells in Arabic as he tries to offer his own explanation. I shout for the class to be quiet and force Walla back into his chair.

At this point, Walla decides to let loose. Unable to defend himself verbally, he lashes out physically; this is where the Tasmanian devil metaphor comes in. Forgoing Arabic or English, Walla begins yelping in gibberish. Each shout is matched with flailing arms and legs that swing and kick wildly, as if independent from his body. I place my hand on his shoulder to restrain him, only for him to screaming "No! No! No!" Prevented from standing up, he turns his attention to his desk. With all his force, he bangs the desk into the chair in front of it over and over.

By now, all the other children have stopped. I've only seen them silent and transfixed once before (when I wrote "antidisestablishmentarianism" on the board and got them to count all the letters), but this time their silence and awe is coupled with a "what the fuck" look. Their eyes are wide and their mouths hang open as they watch Walla attempt to destroy anything within his reach.

I need to put a stop to this. For one, Walla needs to regain some composure. More importantly, however, I can't let the class think this is acceptable behaviour. As I'm already restraining him -and now the desk too- with both my hands, my only option is to get him out of the classroom. Now.

One of the punishments in Sudan, or at least at my school, is to have the children stand outside the classroom, against a wall, with their legs spread and their arms raised above their heads. Honestly, they look more like they've been stopped by the police and are being patted down than kids who misbehaved in class. Regardless, it's effective and gets the troublesome kids out of the class when necessary.

With great gusto, I tell Walla to get out. All the students knows this means their time against the wall has come. Walla, however, refuses. He continues to thrash about and wail with full force. If I want him out, I'll have to pick him up.

Trying to be gentle but quick, I scoop up the 70lbs (32kg) six year old so that I'm clutching his chest as his arms dangle over my forearm. He wrestles against me and I quickly use my other arm to hold his legs in place as I move towards the door. The other children continue to watch silently.

Just as I'm about to reach the door, I feel a sharp nip just above my wrist. In my head, I realise that I've been bitten; a realisation quickly accompanied with the one word thought, "really?!" However, I'm more concerned with getting Walla outside.

I open the door and place him against the wall. Normally, when he's in trouble, Walla gets quiet and glares at me. Yet this time, he continues his protests with tears streaming down his face. It finally hits me that perhaps there is more to this incident than Walla. I tell him to stay against the wall as I go back inside.

The rest is a blur of mixed explanations and nonsense. In the end, I'm fairly sure that, whatever happened, Walla was provoked, but I'm unable to discern whom to blame. It still doesn't excuse him from hitting another student, but it seems unfair that Walla is the only one in the hallway against the wall. After about five minutes, I let him back inside.

The day moves on. The kids eat their lunch and go play outside with out further incident (Walla doesn't attempt any form of playground justice). I feel bad that I was unable to maintain order or get to the bottom of what happened, but I reassure myself that, no matter how much I do, I won't be able to solve everything. Part of teaching -and all things- it seems is doing the best you can without being perfect. My kids might go crazy at times, but if they can add and subtraction when they head home, I'll have done my job.

As for Walla, he's blessed with something most kids seem to have - a short memory. By that afternoon, he's smiling and laughing again. I know there might be a problem tomorrow or next week, but I'll deal with that then.

I just hope the next time doesn't leave bite marks.

Bargaining for Bed Sheets

2010-08-29T16:29:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you a story about bargaining. When I was about 10, my dad, sister, and I were in New Orleans. We were on our way back from Houston after visiting family and had stopped for the day. My sister and I were far too young to enjoy the real New Orleans, so my dad took us around town sightseeing. At some point, he got it into his head that we should get t-shirts.

It all went horribly wrong from there.

My dad also got it into his head that he would get more shirts than we needed ("I can give them to friends!") so that we could get some sort of deal for buying in "bulk." I don't remember exactly what price he wanted to pay, but I remember he wanted to buy 12 shirts in all. I also remember that he didn't want to talk about the deal right away. Instead, he wanted us to carefully select each shirt and then try to bargain.

I can't tell you how many t-shirt shops are in New Orleans, but that day I went to all of them. At first, the owners politely declined, only for my dad to try and convince them that this was perfectly reasonable and a good deal for them too, at which point the owners told him to get lost. And on and on this went. I kept finding the shirt I really wanted (it said "crocodile victim" with big chunks ripped out and red dye splattered around the edges. In hindsight, this may have been a poor choice as it was more of a $10 rag than a t-shirt), only to have the shop owner tell us to take a hike.

After several hours, one shop relented. My dad was thrilled. The shop, of course, did not have the shirt I'd wanted. It was then when I realised that all this "bargaining" still hadn't gotten me what I wanted and we'd wasted hours in the process.

Since then, I have avoided bargaining for virtually anything. Sure, I'll ask if something is available or speak up if I'm overcharged, but bargaining? Forget it.

Enter the souk.

The souks (pronounced sue-k) are the markets in Sudan. You've seen something like it in the movies - the place where endless stalls are selling anything and everything you'd be able to carry away. The catch? You have to bargain; nothing is marked with a price. It might take a little work, but if you want something for cheap, you want the souk.

I wanted bed sheets. After three weeks of sleeping on what can only be described as a rejected hotel blanket, plus the blanket I stole from Lufthansa, I desperately needed something more proper. I'd also procured a mattress from someone moving out downstairs and so, as I'd upgraded from springs and a board across my back, I figured I should upgrade my sheet situation.

With this in mind, my friend Carly and I ventured into the souk searching for sheets.

I'd been to the souk about a week ago during the day. As it's Ramadan, many Sudanese are fasting when the sun's still up and often trying to sleep away the time. As a result, few people are around and the merchants sleep under under tables or on small rugs. At night, however, the souk is alive with the ebb and flow of hundreds of people. We went at night.

We entered one of the covered areas and began trying to navigate our way towards any stalls that might have sheets. Luckily, there is some method to the madness and all the stalls in any given area tend to sell similar things. Somehow, we managed to enter the souk at the section where dresses are sold. Around us, hung hundreds of dresses as far as the eye could see. We walked in further, but could still only see dresses. We kept walking - still dresses.

I cut left and we wound up at the edge of this particular market. Now we were somewhere between toiletries and prayer hats. Looking around, it was amazing at how much stuff was packed into such a small space. Each stall is somewhere around 6 ft (1.8m) wide and 12 ft (3.6m) long, but is packed to the top with items. As we walked, it felt like the souk might swallow us up in a wave of curtains, shampoo, watches, and shoes.

Finally, we found about a half dozen stalls devoted entirely to bed sheets. Each stall was packed with sheets wrapped in plastic. After some gesturing, I found which would fit a single bed and began to pursue my perfect set of sheets.

They were all horrible. To say that I've rarely seen uglier patterns doesn't paint a good enough picture. Let's just say that the set featuring Santa Claus looked like my best option - by far. Given this, I wasn't even worried about the price; I just wanted to find a decent set.

After some looking at the first stall, I managed to locate something decent. It was at this point that I remembered my earlier conversation with Carly. A bed sheet set, I'd told her, should contain three pieces - a pillow case, a flat sheet, and a fitted sheet. She'd looked at me like I was crazy. Then I remembered, the stupid Brits and everyone they've colonised don't believe in the top sheet. They just settle for a flat sheet over the mattress and the pillow case. After that, they cover themselves with a duvet (comforter/ doona/ you know what I mean). That might work in Britain where it never gets above 30C (86F), but here in Sudan, I don't want a duvet; I want a fucking sheet. This meant I needed to buy not one, but two of the same set of sheets. Given my options, that would be hard to find.

After looking through more stalls, I found some I liked. It was time to bargain.

"Bekam?" I ask. This means "how much?"

"Ashra," the merchant tells me. "Ten."

"La." I reply. "Shokran." "No. Thank you."

I just wasn't interested in paying 10SDG (ten Sudanese pounds) per set, so I walked to another stall.

This process repeated itself a few more times before I figured out that they were all going to start at 10SDG and this was where the bargaining came in. Perhaps by buying two, I'd increase my odds of getting a better price? Reluctantly, I went back to one of the stalls where I'd found something I'd liked. I picked up the sheets again and started the process.

Mind you, my Arabic skills are just above the level of shit, which is right below the levels of terrible, horrible, and no good, so I can't have a detailed discussion on pricing. Instead, I had to do the best with what I knew and muddle through when I can hardly understand what he's saying. Imagine now that, instead of Arabic, the conversation was in English. I think this is what it would have sounded like:

"Hello," I say to the merchant.

"Hello. Weren't you just here looking at these?" he replies. Unable to answer, I skip forward.

"How much?" I ask.

"Like I said before - ten each. Ten pounds." he answers.

"Ten?" I ask. I hold up my fingers to indicate ten.

"Yes."

"Five? Five?" I ask. I hold up each set as I ask if each is five.

"No. Ten each - I just said that." he replies.

"Ten? Ten?" I ask.

"Yes. What do you not understand about this?" he asks.

"Ten? Ten?" I ask again.

"Are you retarded? Ten each. Twenty total." he responds.

"No. Fifteen." I counter.

"What? Not fifteen each - ten. You suck at this." he tells me.

"No. Fifteen." I say.

"Dude! Ten. Twenty total."

"Twenty??" I exclaim.

"Yes, finally! Twenty."

"Fifteen?" I ask.

"Twenty," he says firmly.

"No, I'm leaving." I say.

"OK. See if I give a shit. It's only two sheets." he responds.

At this point, I walk away expecting him to wave me back and settle. I'm told this is how it works.

It doesn't. Oh... sheet (come one, you knew the shit pun was coming).

Calling my bluff, he watches as I walk to the next stall only to find out that their sheets are even more expensive (because, as they specifically pointed out as though it was special, they're made in China). Now I'm stuck. I like the first guy's sheets the best and he knows it. Tail between my legs, I return to his stall.

"Ten? Ten?" I say sadly.

"See. I knew you'd come back. They all come back," he tells me with a smug look. I stare at him blankly. "Yes, twenty," he finally tells me.

"No. Not twenty. Ten." I whine.

"Please don't ever have children. It's ten each; twenty total. Now pay me and leave."

Finally, I understand. I hand him 20SDG and sulk away from the souk.

So far: Souk, one. Me, zero.

Next time, I'll stick with hotel rejects and stolen Lufthansa goods.

School Daze

2010-08-27T07:38:00.001-04:00

My second day in Sudan brought me face to face with one of my biggest fears. It wasn't the language, the brown water from the tap, a menu item that threatened to undo my entire digestive system, or even the local crazy guy who looks like a drunk without a drink. No, it was something much scarier.

Children.

That's right. Kids. Moving to a third world country I can handle, but a classroom full of mini people shakes me to my bones.

Even back home, kids unnerve me. Not like a talking cat would (my biggest fear), but because I just don't know how to handle them. Some kids can have a real conversation, but most just stare at me and cling to a parent's leg. Then, they look up at mom or dad and wonder out loud why the scary, fat man with a beard is talking to them. The parent then looks back at me, silently questioning how I could be so bad at interacting with kids.

What do you say to kids? Better yet, how do you handle a classroom full of them?

These were the problems and concerns running through my head when I entered Primary 1B.

Twenty four sets of eyes stare back at me. They can smell my fear.

"Good morning!" I muster.

"Good morning, teacher!" they all shout in unison.

"How are you?" I say, trying to smile nicely while still shitting my pants.

"I! am! fine!" They exclaim, yelling each word louder than the last. "How! are! you!"

Clearly, this dance has been rehearsed.

"I am good," I tell them.

Just as I realise I'm out of conversation, their current teacher saves me and I am grateful. She introduces me as their new teacher - the one who will replace her when she leaves next week. The children eye me up and down. They sense fresh meat, like when you found out you had a substitute for the day.

Now, let's pause. I know what you're thinking -or at least what you should be thinking: why did I move to Sudan to teach little kids when I'm plenty scared of them? The answer is, in short, because I needed an f-ing job. Badly. After living off my mom for seven months filling out endless applications (100+) and spiraling into one of the worst times of my life, all I wanted is a job. Any job. To get one, I needed to build up some humanitarian street cred by leaving in a developing country. Teaching kids in Sudan sounded like a dream come true.

Once there, however, my stomach wouldn't stop turning. Eventually, the kids' eyes turned from me and back to their real teacher, Ms. Eliza, who is teaching them science. For the next two hours, I watch as she runs through an entire lesson, amazed that she just keeps going. She asks questions and they respond. She tells them to be quiet and they are. She knows all their names, gets them to raise their hands, and keeps them interested.

She shows me her shoes and I see just how big they are and how hard it will be to fill them.

The rest of the day is a blur. Eliza shows me her lesson plans, her marking system, and all the other things necessary when passing the torch. It turns out that she's been teaching the same kids for two years and has only spoken English to them. In later days, I come to see just how advanced they are compared to other classes.

At one point, Eliza and I get to talking about why we're both in Sudan. Originally, she came from America after college to be a refugee camp volunteer. After a few months, she was overwhelmed, but didn't want to leave Sudan, so she turned to teaching. Three years later, she knows it's time to move on. I then tell her what brought me here and how I'm not really teacher.

"Oh, I'm not either." she responds. "I just wound up doing it and worked it all out. You'll be fine."

These words echo in my head. If this girl - woman - thinks I'll be alright, maybe I'll be ok after all.

For the next three days, I am her shadow. She's easily the best teacher in the school, not because I'm biased, but because she simply is. Everyone agrees too. My fear of filling her shoes soon turns to sincere gratitude as to how well she's prepared everything for my transition. By day three, I know most of my kids' names and they certainly know mine (I can't walk past the playground without being mobbed by children shouting "Mr. Tom! Mr. Tom!"). Eliza's last day is very bittersweet as I'm sad to see her go, but am beginning to look forward to taking over the classroom.

The school week is Sunday to Thursday (Friday is the holy day for Muslims), so I spend Saturday night feverishly planning the next day's lesson. As it's Ramadan, school starts an hour late, so I don't need to plan as much (and for that I am thankful), but I still need to fill up a solid two hours. After that, they'll have lessons in Arabic, the Qur'an, history, or geography. I'll go by the kindergartners for an hour, just so that they hear a native speaker, but that doesn't take too much work.

The first day of teaching is easier than I expected. I've been around the kids long enough to hide the fear from them. They get rowdy at times, but calm down enough to be taught. Before I know it, the lesson's over and I've made it through unscathed.

The next day proves to be even better. And then the next. Suddenly, I've made it through a week. By now, I know all their names, who's good at what, and who needs to be kept away from whom. Now, they're "my kids" and I think about them when I go home. I feel bad when I have to punish them for something. At times, they go crazy, but their cuteness counters any ill will I may momentarily harbor.

As the days go by, I don't fear them anymore; all it took was time.

That said, they still provide fodder for some pretty good and crazy stories...

The First Day

2010-08-23T16:55:00.000-04:00

My phone alarm goes off at 9AM. Before I can groan, my back beats me to it.

"This bed sucks," my back tells me. "I'm going to ache all day just to show you I don't like it."

"Really, back?" I reply. "Aren't we a little young for aching?"

Apparently not.

No worries though - nothing a hot shower can't fix. I get vertical, put my contacts in, and head for the bathroom. The pipes groan and hiss as I turn the tap. A few drops of water fall from the shower head.

Then nothing.

I go to the sink, clad only in my towel, to see if it works. Nope. It seems the guys who run the building turn off the water once they think everyone's left for work. Mind you, I just endured a 17 hour journey and then a sweaty seven hours of sleep. It should be time for a shower. Not today though.

Letting the joys of water's hot embrace slip from my mind, I get ready the best I can. Shorts are a real fashion faux pas here, so I pull on a pair of linen trousers and a blue dress shirt. For breakfast, I have an orange just to try and quench my thirst. There's a water cooler in the kitchen, but the water inside is brown and cloudy. I figure it's best to avoid it.

At 10, I'm ready to go. Someone is supposed to pick me up and give me a tour of the city and the different schools owned by the company for which I'm working. I'm anxious to see the city by daylight.

My guide finally arrives 10:30. He's about my size, both in height and stature, in his mid-30s, and bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Miyagi from the Karate Kid, just African. His names even sounds like Miyagi. As a consequence, I'm still unsure of his real name and mentally refer to him as Mr. Miyagi in all future conversations.

Mr. Miyagi's English is better than (Unintelligible), but it's still a struggle to hold a conversation. As he winds the car through the city streets, we try to discuss where I'm from, where I went to school, and why I came to Sudan. I ask him how long he's been working for the company, if he has a family, and if he's from Khartoum (he is). Each question is met with a short, but satisfactory answer. When you think about it, the lack of banter of banter isn't his fault - I'm the one in Sudan who doesn't speak any Arabic.

As a result, I try to pick up some Arabic throughout the day. I know the greetings (thank you, Malcolm X biography), but much of the car time is spent with me pointing and asking "Bea Arabee," which simply means "In Arabic." I pick up a few things; Nile sounds like "Neel," thank you is something to the effect of "Shoo-kron," and fuck off is, well, you can pretty much just say "fuck off" (not that I have yet).

The school where I'm working is part of a larger company that owns six teaching centers throughout the city. Three of them are schools with Kindergarten through Year Five and the other three are adult teaching centers. My tour included a stop at each. Inside, the office staff greeted me with a shy "welcome to Sudan" and a smile. The staff, the overwhelming majority of whom are women, wear blue pantsuits (that's right - pants, not long skirts!) with the school's logo. Thin, red head headscarves adorn their shoulders and the tops of their heads. The school colors, I come to find, are blue and red, so the uniforms fit the theme.

At each center, I meet the academic manager and the conversation is the same.

"Oh, where are you from?" they ask.

"America. Atlanta." I tell them.

"Oh, USA. Very good. Welcome to Sudan!" they reply. "Which school are you working at?"

"I don't know yet. I only got here last night."

"Oh! You should work here! We need more teachers!!" they exclaim.

At this point Mr. Miyagi interjects and tells them something in Arabic. Later, I figure out that he is telling them that I am working at the Omdurman center and am replacing someone called "Ms. Eliza." The managers then look disappointed and tell me that, if I ever want to switch schools, they'll be happy to have me.

My tour continues. Each center has a library, TV's in every classroom (this is pointed out to me until I say something to effect of "oh, very nice." Only once I've said this, can we move on), and a teachers' lounge. At one of the adult centers, we approach the teachers' lounge and I can hear voices inside- American voices. From what I can tell, one of them belongs to a black Southerner. When I'm abroad, my identity as a Southerner ramps up (in a good way). Excited, I enter the room.

I am greeted by a man in his late 30s. He tells me he is from New Jersey. Fuck Jersey, I tell myself; where's the Southerner? I scan the room. The only other person is a woman in the full burqa. We exchange pleasantries and she tells me she's from Alabama. I then watch her eyes smile when I tell her I'm from Atlanta and that it's nice to meet a fellow Southerner. We talk for a moment before Mr. Miyagi ushers me out of the room and back to the tour. I was fine with the burqa part -it's all part of the Muslim country experience - but it was odd to hear such a familiar accent coming from behind the veil.

At this point it's around 2PM and I'm hungry. As though reading my mind, Mr. Miyagi asks if I'd like to get something to eat. Absolutely, I tell him. We drive from the teaching center and along the Blue Nile. He points to different buildings, explaining what they are. One looks like a sea shell and is the Burj Al Fateh Hotel. I'm told it is a seven star hotel (at first I doubt this, but upon further research, it seems that some rooms are rated seven stars). Another of the buildings looks like an upside down drill and is the headquarters for an oil company. We then pass along the parliament and the President's offices. This is the nicest street in all of Sudan, Mr. Miyagi says. Clearly some effort has been put into its upkeep, but it doesn't jump out as the portrait of beauty.

We arrive at the restaurant. Up until this point, I've been completely unsure as to what exactly the Sudanese eat. I don't know what I'll be getting, but I'm keeping an open mind. As we enter, there is loud Arabic music blaring throughout the place. I ask myself if it could be more stereotypical. The restaurant has three floors and we eat on the middle floor. I don't notice it at first, but at some point, the music is turned down.

We sit down at the table. There are few other patrons - a group of university students, two men in their late 20s, a few business men - and the tables seem scattered in a nonsensical fashion throughout the floor. We sit down and bottled water is brought to the table immediately. Mr. Miyagi excuses himself just as the waiter brings the menus. I'm worried to see him leave, as I don't think I'll be able to read the menu.

I open it. The left hand side is in English and the right is in Arabic. Easy enough.

The menu gives me a choice between pizza and fried chicken.

"Is this what all Sudanese eat?" I wonder. The waiter comes back to the table, as does Mr. Miyagi, and I order a small Mexican pizza (I still don't know what possessed me to get pizza over fried chicken). Mr. Miyagi orders something in Arabic and the watier leaves.

Our conversation, having reached its high point in the car, stalls awkwardly. Though both of us try, not much can be said, so there's a lot of weight shifting in our chairs as we look at the table. Our food finally comes. My pizza looks like it came right off the Pizza Hut personal pan pizza menu. Mr. Miyagi apparently ordered the fried chicken and three delicious looking pieces come with a hamburger bun, which he eats separately. I tuck into my pizza and it proves to be just fine.

We finish our meal and tour one last center. He then takes me back to my flat. Someone will pick me up at 8 tomorrow morning, he tells me. I thank him for his hospitality and go inside. Once upstairs, I talk with Amaniel for a few minutes and then try unsuccessfully to get the internet working.

By 10, I'm in bed. Overall, it was a good day. The city is certainly different from what I've seen before. Poverty is present on the streets, but the people remain dignified perhaps unaware or unconcerned about the higher standards of living that exist elsewhere.

About to fall asleep, I think about my next day when I will finally meet the kids I'll be teaching. For the first time since arriving, I'm nervous.

Crisis Averted

2010-08-22T17:15:00.001-04:00

So... that was fast.

It seems that a shop two blocks away had the exact cord that I needed. And for what I think was a decent price. He even threw in a pirated version of Roxio Toast and some pirated films (each of which I actually didn't have).

That was way easier than I thought it would be (hence the dramatic post below).

So, back to blogging. More info on life in Sudan tomorrow.

Crap...

2010-08-22T12:07:00.002-04:00

Well, I was planning to post about my first full day in Sudan. I figured that the post would give some insights into what my first thoughts of the place were.

And then a power surge blew up my computer cord.

There was a loud hiss, then smoke, and then nothing.

There's a software type store, complete with an Apple sticker on the front, near my house. I went there and they laughed. They doubt anyone in Khartoum will have a Mac power cord. The ones that might won't be open until 9 (because of Ramadan). I'll go out tonight and see, but for now I wouldn't surprised if I have to get one shipped over.

So, just as I thought this blog was moving ahead again, we've hit a snag. Hopefully, things will be back to normal soon. I'm writing this from my iPod now, so there always that option. We'll see.

Otherwise, all is well. Updates to come.

The Flat

2010-08-19T19:50:00.000-04:00

After two weeks in England, I was ready to have my own space again. I like traveling, but I figured out long ago that I'm not the kind of guy who can live out of a suitcase for more than 10 days. Upon arriving in Khartoum, I was anxious to see my accommodation simply so that I could set up my base camp and move out into the world from there.

(Unintelligible), who picked my up at the airport, winds the car through the city's streets. She doesn't speak much English and my Arabic is even worse, so any conversation is reduced to three or four words at a time. At one point we cross a bridge and I look down the length of a river. I realise that I'm seeing the Nile for the first time (it's the Blue Nile, but, in the distance, I can see where the Blue meets the White Nile to form the river we all know).

As a child, school teachers like Mrs Tanner, Mrs Finley, Mr Clayton, and Mr Drello all talked about the Nile, but it always seemed like something you read about in books. Now, here I am looking at its very beginning. For the first time, it really strikes me as to where I am.

After a few more twists and turns, we arrive at my flat in Bahry, North Khartoum. The building is four stories tall, which is tall in this neighbourhood. After looking around Khartoum over the next few days, I come to find that it's fairly tall in general.

Unbeknownst to me, my flat is on the top floor. After a grueling journey, I'm ready to crash, but first I must conquer the stairs with my combined 38kg of luggage. With every step, I pray that my place is on the next level, but with every floor comes another set of stairs. Finally, we reach my new home, Flat 6.

Inside, it's great - far better than I expected. The door opens into the living room, which has four chairs, a table, a couch, and a TV. Beyond that is a decent sized kitchen, not unlike you would find in a normal sized American apartment.

(Unintelligible) guides me across the living area and opens the door to my new room. It's big. In fact, it might be the biggest room I've ever had, save for the house I grew up in. Inside is a wardrobe, vanity, desk, and a twin sized bed. The floor is linoleum, the curtains are pink, the furtiture seems old, but it's certainly not too bad.

Then I see a door at the back of the room.

I walk up to it, unsure. I thought I'd seen a bathroom already; do I have my own en suite? There are keys resting in the lock. I turn them, unsure what to expect.

As I open the door, the warm Khartoum air hits me. I have my own balcony. Killer.

A view from my balcony

One of my greatest friends, Mike, always seemed to have an obsession with balconies. Whenever he described someone's apartment, if they had a balcony, he'd always mention it with a approval. In a way, it seemed like Mike would be fairly content if all life gave him was a balcony with a good view.

As I step outside, I think to myself "Eat your heart out, Mike." It's a great view and a good size. Things are looking up.

Back inside, (Unintelligible) brings me a Pepsi from the fridge. I smile that it's not a Coke; I didn't want to go all this way just to be offered Atlanta's biggest export. I drink some it politely (it's just as gross as I remember). She gives me my set of keys, tells me some last minute details, and leaves.

My new roommate appears and greets me. His name is Amaniel and he's in his mid 30s, skinny with a goatee and short hair. He tells me that he's from Eritrea and has been living in Sudan for a year. We talk for about 30 minutes; his English is great. He's friendly, considerate, and in the coming days, he'll become my indispensable guide.

Around 1:30, I say good night to Amaniel and close the door to my room. I don't even bother giving it a second glance. All I want right now is to lie down.

The next day, I'm supposed to meet someone from the school at 10AM. Right now, all I can think about is sleep, so I plop down on the bed. It's so hard I get whiplash. The "mattress" turns out is nothing more than a pad about a half an inch (1.25cm) thick. It hurts. There are also no sheets. Although it's hot, I pull out the blanket I stole from Lufthansa for this very reason. No matter what the heat, it's always nice to have some kind of blanket.

I say a quick prayer of thanks for my safe journey and fall into the deep sleep that only the rigors of travel can bring.

In the coming days, I rearrange my room so that it's more to my liking. The desk goes in front of the window, the bed in the center, and the wardrobe to the side. As I move the furniture, I notice the thin layer of dirt dust on the floor. This will become a constant in Khartoum. Dust is everywhere.

Despite its minor flaws (for example, thank God I brought some toilet paper as there is only a hand held bidet), the flat far exceeds my expectations and, for now, I am happy.

The Journey

2010-08-18T17:29:00.000-04:00

(This post long - much longer than I want future posts to be - and choppy. But, I think it gives you the best sense of how long and crappy the journey to Khartoum was)

Before I left the US and England, most people asked me "Are you nervous about moving Sudan?"

"So long as I make through immigration and someone picks me up at the airport, I'll be fine," I told them.

Sure, I had some reservations about moving here (more of which I might discuss in the future), but really the process of getting through the airport alright is what really worried me.

I hate airports. For all the traveling I've done, I have never, ever come to like them. In fact, there are few things I loathe more. When I say I despise them, I want you to imagine the words dripping off my tongue like venom.

I detest them because of the "airport aura" - the feeling of being nowhere and waiting to go anywhere. Some say the fun of any trip is all in the journey. Maybe so, but that's what the plane is for. The airport is nothing more than a massive pause button forever lengthening the time it takes to get to your destination. You try to relax, but you know that if your guard goes down for even a second, you could miss crucial information about a delayed flight or new gate. Plus, you have to constantly watch your shit, carry your shit, or find a place to plug in your shit (and in the case of too many airports, there's no freakin' wireless). In short, they're one of the worst places on Earth - the 21st century purgatory (I'd rather find myself in Hell -there you at least know you've reached the last stop).

All that to say, as I walked out into the Manchester morning last week, I was not looking forward to my journey. So much so that I was unable to muster up much excitement about my destination.

It was 6:30 AM on Sunday morning, so the last of Saturday night's party people were drudging through the streets still foggy, but sobering up. When I finally got on the bus, there were only a few other passengers, two of whom were the last of the Saturday Night Kings, both trying to keep each other awake, less they miss their stop. Their method for doing so involved hitting each other every so often and shouting "Fucking good night, mate!"

The bus ride took ages. Manchester is a big place and the airport isn't exactly close. When we finally got there, I thanked the driver and began the long walk to the terminal, another ten minutes or so.

One of the things I dread most about the airport came next: check-in. Even though you've booked and paid for the flight, the people at the desk don't quite seem to believe you belong there. Then they eye your bags as though it could be the one stuffed with bombs. It's not that they're worried about exploding airplanes; they just figure bombs are heavy and they don't like heavy bags.

I hoist my bag onto the scale, trying to hide my massive carry on and praying to God that I'm under the limit.

It's not. It's 23kg. The limit out of the UK is 20kg. Then the woman's boss comes over.

Shit. The boss is never a good sign. If the boss sees the bag, all chances of me getting some leeway are gone.

The boss doesn't even look at the bag. Instead she congratulates the woman on spotting an earlier passenger who tried to use a fake credit card to pull up a reservation. The boss then leaves.

This is my in. Any point of contact just to pull attention away from the heavy bag, like Leonardo Dicaprio asking Elizabeth Banks out for a steak dinner just so she won't notice his forged cheques.

"A fake credit card. Just what you need this early in the morning," I say.

"I know! Right?!" she replies. "It was a mess."

She smiles and hands me my boarding pass. Sweet.

I move through security at lightening speed (compliments of my ATL training- thank you, World's Busiest Airport) and find some place to have breakfast. I have cereal, which I never do, but it's good.

I wait at the gate and when the doors open, my stomach lurches. "This is it," I tell myself. "I'm really moving to Sudan."

The flight from Manchester to Frankfurt seems too short. I'm convinced that they've let me on the wrong plane (as I think to myself almost every time) and I'm going to wind up in Dublin or Amsterdam. I don't.

The Frankfurt airport is complete and total balls. There's hardly anywhere to sit and nowhere to wait that's not posh. Why put a nice restaurant in an airport? I'd be too worried the service will take too long. Give me a Burger King and stop trying to act so hip.

I search for a place to plug my iPod in and come to rest on the floor, against the wall of a long hallway that leads to the gates. I fear that someone will trip over my legs, only to have that fear replaced by being run over, as the FRA employees all ride bicycles up and down the terminal. The Germans are said to be efficient for a reason.

The gate is finally called (in most European airports, there's a lounge where you wait to find out at which gate your plane will be, instead of knowing it right off the bat like in the US). I find it and claim a seat (which I later have to fight for when a man tries to grab my bag).

For the past five days, that stupid Katy Perry California song has been running through my head. As I sit back, a small Sudanese girl of about 8 starts singing it. She doesn't speak a word of English, but knows the whole damn song.

I survey my fellow passengers to find that I'm the youngest person who is not traveling with their parents and singing "sun kissed skin so hot we'll melt your popsicle." Everyone seems to either be with a family or be look like military contractors. A Swedish soldier with the UN sits down in front of me. Three Norwegians sit next to me. From what I can make out, the Vikings are planning some sort of invasion. They emphasis more pillaging and less raping.

Once on the plane, I'm seated next to two Germans. I have the aisle seat (score!), but the middle German begins the blitzkrieg for the arm rest so soon that I lose my wiggle room. I spend the rest of the flight awkwardly hunched to the side.

Clash of the Titans seems like the best movie option. I wouldn't waste the bandwidth to download it and I don't have to pay too much attention. It begins with the guy from Brassed Off! (not Ewan McGregor, but the guy whose voice is heard right before that Chumbawamba song) and gets crap from there; even Gemma Arterton can't save it. Luckily I manage to sleep for about three hours.

At one point, I glance out the window and see Sicily. Later, I watch the sunset over the Sahara. I'm actually over Africa, I realise.

The commotion prior to the landing begins. Tray tables and seat backs go up, overheard compartment doors go down. Out the window, I can see Khartoum. I'm surprised at how many lights there. Correction - I'm surprised at how much electricity there is.

We finally land and disembark. At the top of the stairs, the Sudanese heat heats me, but not as hard as I'd imagined. I make my way down and onto to the bus that will carry us to the terminal. On the bus, I have my first Sudanese lesson. Don't put anything down you don't want to get dirty. After resting on the bus floor, my suitcase is covered with sand and dust.

Inside the airport, my inner fears come to life.

My school had promised a person would meet me and help me through immigration (I later found out that this was the case with others). This would have been a God sent as the immigration process always intimidates me. I think it comes from the Australians being so intense about Quarantine that they feed you to dingos and goannas if you bring an apple into the country. Although getting into America is no picnic either.

There is, of course, no one there waiting for me.

The airport looks like a long hanger split into three sections (immigration, baggage, and the waiting area). It's well light and air-conditioned, but looks worn and is in no way inviting. It's also very yellow.

I'm the last person from my flight to make it to an immigration officer. While in line, I see several people waved to a small room behind me, but am unsure as to why. When I reach the desk, the officer doesn't look up. I place my passport on the counter and lay my entry permit and immigration card next to it. Without glancing up, the officer takes my passport. Blue with the eagle on the front, but no Israeli stamps in it, so maybe it's ok. He then looks at the immigration card. For the address I have simply written "Khartoum." He doesn't like this.

"What is your address in Sudan?" he asks with a thick accent.

"I don't know yet," I reply, cursing myself for not looking up the school's address like I should have.

"Why are you here?" he inquires. He doesn't look very impressed.

"To teach. I'm a teacher."

He seems to like this. I then push my entry visa forward. He likes this more. However, after another minute, he waves me off to the small room, away from baggage claim and the exit.

I enter the room. It's small and crammed red leather sofas that look like they've been there for 30 years. There's a counter with a glass divider, like a bank, and a queue of about five people waiting. I stand there.

As I'm waiting, a tall man comes up to me. At the time, I thought he looked official (thinking back, he had nothing other than a lanyard with an ID card in Arabic). He asks to see my papers and I oblige. He shakes my hand and tells me to wait on one of the couches. I don't see it, but he hands my passport and paperwork to the woman behind the counter. He then goes to leave and I ask him where my passport is. He points to it. He turns to leave again and I think to myself how sketchy this is starting to be.

At this stage, my biggest concern was watching my passport. I knew that they'd want to see it, etc, but I didn't want it to leave my sight.

After five minutes, the line is gone and the woman calls me. She tells me I have to pay for my visa. This didn't surprise me as it said something to that effect on my entry permit. It's $155 USD.

Now, I'd traveled with about $1,000 USD expecting to need some cash before getting paid. However, I'd yet to find a decent place to store it. Right then, it was sitting in my bag inside a closely watched zip pocket. I bent down and tried to discreetly pull out $160. Just as I'm about to hand it to her, sketchy guy comes and gives her $200. He then motions for me to follow him. Again, I ask him about my passport and he says he'll bring it to me after I get my bag.

Let me pause and say here that this was stupid. I should have waited.

We go past immigration and through security, where my bag (which has a ton of electronics) is rightfully flagged. The flagging process involves writing several white X's on my bag.

My suitcase is sitting on the floor waiting for me and for this I am grateful. After I grab it, however, sketchy dude hands me off to an even sketchy guy, whom I decide to name Eric because, well, he looks like an Eric.

Eric speaks no English and is well trained in waving me forward as creepily as possible. He gets me to follow him to a woman who inspects my bag.

The bag's contents, which are tightly packed, come spewing out as she rummages through them. She holds up my camera, confused. I say camera, but receive only a blank stare from both her and Eric. I then gesture taking pictures and they get it. The camera is haphazardly tossed on the table. She then pulls out my iPod with even more uncertainty. This one is harder to gesture. I place my fingers in my ears and say something like "duh-da-duh-da-duh-da," trying to mimic music. She looks at me like I'm an idiot, but seems confident that it's not a bomb.

They rummage through the rest of the bag (Eric gets in on the act), but seem ok with it. I try to shove everything back in, but of course, am unable to do so. Eric looks like he's getting impatient, so I zip it as much as I can and strap the handles together. Eric then motions (again think creepy, really creepy - like Josef Fritzl combined with an Oompa-Loompa) for me to follow him. Reluctantly, I follow him through to the waiting area.

Up until now, I'd been hoping for someone from my school to pop out and shake my hand. I figure they must be in the waiting area. They're not.

Eric leads me out to the curb. We stand there awkwardly for a moment. Behind us is the airport. In front of us, the parking lot. In between are several people milling about, a few UN trucks, and some random cars. My no-one-at-the-airport plan to spot a taxi and say "Hilton" isn't going to work because there are no taxi looking vehicles.

Then Eric walks into the parking lot. He motions for me to follow.

Fuck that.

I tell Eric I'm going inside. Once there, I stand and think about where I am.

I'm in Sudan. I don't know a soul. I don't have my passport. No one is here to pick me up.

I decide I need a phone. I'll call my contact with the school and ask exactly what's going on.

There are no phones.

Eric is outside again. I figure that when he comes back, I'll try to borrow his phone and go from there.

Just as I formulate this plan, the first sketchy guy comes back. He tells me to come outside with him. In my head, I figure that Eric has sent him to get me into the parking lot. Once there, they'll kidnap me and I'll only be seen again on the news footage of my ransom video.

I tell Sketch that I'm not going anywhere. Some one from my school was supposed to meet me and they're not here, I say. He gets enough of this to tell me that they are here, they're just outside. After a moment, I follow reluctantly.

I walk back outside and a woman hops out of a white car with writing on the side.

"Mr. Thomas. Hi! I'm (Incomprehensible). I'm the PR director with the school."

Forgetting the fact that they'd send the PR director, I still seem suspicious. Eric and Sketch both motion for me to walk towards the car. I do, but only to get a closer look at the writing on the side. (Incomprehensible) gestures for me to put my things in the trunk. I set them down, but then try to pretend I'm stretching. Everyone looks at me confused. I then look at the side of the car long enough to read the school's name and for everyone to understand exactly what I'm actually doing.

Things move quickly from there. I'm happy to get in, but still want to know where my passport is. It's in the car, she says (it is). With my bags in the trunk, I look back to see Eric standing by. Realising now that he did help me and didn't kidnap me, I awkwardly try to thank him. I think there was a handshake and a pat on the back.

I get into the car and we drive off into the darkness. From the cool Manchester morning to the warm Sudanese night, it was 17 hours.

Coming up next: The flat!

Britain, Britain, Britain

2010-08-17T13:28:00.000-04:00

Before I dive into life in Sudan, I wanted to write a little on the rest of my England trip (sorry for the long length of this post, but it's a lot to sum up).

Five years ago, I moved to the UK to live and study for a year. Since then, I've been back a few times and have tried to stay in contact with as many people as possible. Unfortunately, since I last left England more than a year and a half ago, I have been fairly shit at the staying in contact part (save for my friend, Colette).

Luckily, I have great friends who didn't hold it against m.

My trip began with a late arrival into Manchester on a Thursday. I changed planes in Philly and was delayed for more than six hours. Sitting in the PHL airport was quite the scene. Every possible type of person was on the plane: the group of high schoolers going abroad for two weeks; the young couples who find new and creative ways to nap on each other in uncomfortable airport seats; the business men constantly checking their phones, even though it's 1AM here and 6AM there; plus a good mix of Brits and Americans all making small talk as to what events put us on a plane to Manchester. One of the news shops stays open for the 150 or so of us; the guys there tell me this happens about once a week when planes get delayed. Over the loudspeaker, there is an announcement that the two passengers going on the Oslo are going to miss their connection. I mutter "fy faen" loud enough that the Norwegian couple hears it and laughs.

When I finally did arrive, my friend Colette was there to greet me. Colette has always been the best at airport greetings. Once, when she was living four hours away in Newcastle, she managed to get to the Manchester airport at 8AM. Now that's a good friend.

Colette also just bought a house. We took the bus there and, as I said in my last post, it's a work in progress. However, in only the two weeks that I was there, major progress occurred (not to imply that it was my doing), so I'm sure the house will look great in no time.

The next day, we went out to celebrate her friend Matt's birthday. This resulted in several pints and passing a cake around the table. We ate the cake with our hands and, eventually, it was shoved in Matt's face. Matt assures me that he's made better first impressions, but I thought it was all pretty great. The rest of Colette's friends all proved to be a great crowd.

On Monday, we made our way to Newcastle, where I lived back in 2005 and 2006. It feels much like a home away from home; it even trumps home sometimes. It was the first time I lived abroad and the friends I made there and the experiences I had will always hold a special place in my heart. All the events of life's thread eventually shape and change us, but Newcastle somehow seems like more. At times, I consider my life in two parts: before I moved away from Atlanta and after.

Most of the week was spent catching up with friends. There are a lot of people I missed, but the ones I did see were great. Some nights were spent staying in, eating not so great garlic rolls, better pizza, and watching Sex and the City (Hey, I like it ok?! It's funny.). Other nights saw us gathered around a table at a restaurant or a pub just catching up and remembering good times. In addition, my friend Matty and I got a chance to toss the frisbee around in front of City Hall just like we used to. In the end, it was an excellent time and I'm thankful for all the great people there and whom I continue to love.

Newcastle is also one of the most beautiful cities in the world. For me, there is nothing better than the sitting on the Gateshead Millineum bridge, facing West looking back on the six other bridges that span the Tyne. I taken in that view many times and have yet to grow tired of it.

After a week, it was time to head back to Manchester and see another set of old friends. My two roommates and fellow students in Canberra, Torstein from Norway and Francesco from Italy, both made their way over to the UK for a small ANU reunion. Fra arrived first and after showing him a "proper British pub" (as he put it), we went out to Buxton for the day.

Buxton is an hour southeast of Manchester and sits in the Peak District. Fra and I did a small hike through the countryside, took some good pictures, and then headed back.

The next day, Colette gave us the grand tour of Manchester. It's a big place with lots of little districts and easy to get lost in (which I manged to do while frantically looking for a bank a few days later). We had tea inside City Hall, a beer overlooking the city, and exercised Colette's patience by constantly asking questions that she assured us would be "later in the tour."

That night, Fra and I hit the town, stopping by a pub to meet up with Colette and friends and followed by hitting one of the local clubs. Now, we definitely picked one of the more student spots, but I was amazed at how young some of the people were. At one point, Offspring's Self Esteem came on. Fra and I were quickly joined by a drunk 20 year old who, so excited that we were the only other people who knew the words, sang arm-in-arm with us for the entire length of the song. Then the Killers came on and a I realised that these people were probably 13 when the song came out. Fifth Ave club just made the Murtaugh list.

On Friday, Torstein arrived. Within fifteen minutes of his arrival, we were sat in the first pub we could find, toasting to our reunion. This, however, was short lived when the drunk, 50 year old, Mitchell brother look-alike next to us decided to get friendly. He spoke with a strong Mancunian accent and clearly wanted to sleep with one or all of us. He bought us a drink at one point and, while he was at the bar, Torstein, Fra, and I exchanged looks of confusion, followed by shrugs.

"I can only understand about half of what he's saying," I told them.

"If you're only getting half, imagine what we're getting!" replied Torstein.

After warding off his advances, which including comments on how handsome we were, plus palm rubbing and neck licking (Torstein bore the brunt of the latter), we bid him farwell.

After the pub, we went back to Colette's and cooked a Canberra tradition - burritos. For those of you who don't know, while in Canberra (and not at Debacle), I basically lived off burritos. As a consequence, so too did everyone else who lived at 17/10 Coolac Place. Together again for the first time, we didn't miss the opportunity to pleasure our pallets with such a fine delicacy. Josh, Colette's housemate and co-mortgateer, joined us and we greedily ate all of it before poor Colette arrived home from work.

The three of us spent that night and the next day hanging out and catching up. Fra is trying to decide what his next step will be (Paris is ranking high on the options list - never a bad thing) and Torstein has established himself well in Oslo as the coordinator for our alma mater Bjørknes's year-old conflict resolution undergraduate program (he also married his sweetheart, Katrine, and found a swank flat in the city, all since we last saw him). The fact that they were there and few over, if only for a few days, meant the world to me. I couldn't have asked for two better friends.

We also found time to do a quick Manchester football tour, dropping by Old Trafford and then catching a match a the Man City stadium.

My last night in Manchester and, for now, the western world, meant only one thing: a house party. Now, I love a good house party and this one did not disappoint. I did run upstairs and call my family one last time before heading off, so I missed some of it, but I think I caught the good parts. There were maybe 15 people in total (a lot when crammed into one sitting room) and all were in good spirits. Some had been invited simply for potential hook-ups and others found new friends. Fra, for example, spent at least an hour curled up on a bean bag chair with a girl. I tried to clear the room to ensure that Fra made good progress, but unfortunately, she ended the night on the bathroom floor and not resting in the arms of one of Italian friend (who among us hasn't had similar nights?).

I didn't sleep that night. By the time the party ended, it was about 3:30 and I had to be off at 6:30. I said good-bye to Fra and Torstein (who truthfully promised that they wouldn't be able to muster much of a good-bye at 6:30AM) and spent the rest of the night talking to Colette. She and I hadn't seen much of each other for the past week on account of everything else that was going on, so it was great to have some one-on-one friend time with her, even if it was in the wee hours of the morning.

Finally, I packed up the last of my things, bid farewell to some very (rightfully) groggy people and stepped outside into the Manchester morning.

Coming up: The trip to Khartoum - a long bus ride, proof that Germans think people don't want to sit while waiting for connections, and my arrival, complete with a crap airport, an even crappier welcome, and my first glance at the Nile.

England

2010-08-03T14:06:00.000-04:00

My apologies for not posting sooner.

Currently, I'm writing from the sitting room of a house just off Moss Lane East in the Rusholme neighbourhood of Manchester. It smells of wood varnish and dust. Though it still needs work, the house is beginning to feel more like a home than what I imagine it was like when my friend bought it two months ago. Since my arrival, I have helped replace floorboards, ripped out a door frame (that was fun), assisted in installing a washing machine, moved furniture, and stayed up until 3 AM to varnish floors. All this to say that getting enough time on the internet to post something has been difficult.

No complaints though! Being back in the north of England has brought back a flood a greatness. For example, Tesco cookies, Quavers, better beer, even better chocolate, endless Friends reruns on E4+1, and the simple pleasures of hearing northern accents.

And then there's the two things I look forward to the most when being back in England: old friends and a visit to the greatest city in the world.

I won't name all of them here, but to all my English friends whom I've seen within the last week, I'm grateful that, after only a few minutes, it felt like I'd never left. I can't wait until we meet again. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to meet up with everyone due to life's constant demands, so to those whom I missed, there's always next year (hopefully) when I make it back.

In addition, there are to be two very special appreances by an Italian and a Norwegian later this week!

I'll write more of everything when I've got better internet access and a bit more time.

Hair Cut

2010-07-20T19:21:00.000-04:00

"So, when are you going to cut your hair?"

I've been asked that more times than I can count during the last two years.

I didn't have any real reason to grow it out. Really, I just wanted to know what it looked like. Two years ago, I was a grad student having no luck with the Australian women, so I figured what better time to transform my look. At best I would look Sawyer from LOST; at worst, I would look like a hobo. Apparently, God put good money on the hobo end of this bet. But, despite how it looked most of the time, I continued to grow it out. I just had to be sure that I did not, in fact, look good with long hair.

Behold:
(the picture on the left makes it look like my hair was uneven. It wasn't. I think I was tilting my head)

The other thing is that I don't like hair cuts. I like looking freshly trimmed, but the process itself is awful. While living in the UK, I only got my hair cut once (twice, if you count my roommates shaving head); I just didn't want to brave the British barbers.

To me, getting your hair cut is like ordering wine or describing how a car works. I feel like I should know these things, but find myself using small adjectives and and lots of hand gestures. All the while, I feel the judgment of the hair dressers as they stare at me, appalled that I can't describe my ideal hair cut in their secret hair jargon. Being unsure of exactly how words like "layers," "thinning," or "sheering" would work once applied to my head, I sit back and suffer through awkward small talk for the next hour.

As a result of these experiences, I am still slightly convinced that my hair would look awesome if someone would just sit me down and, using simple phrases, explained exactly what should happen with my hair. But, in the two years of hair growth, this never happened. Instead, I got a job in Africa, so like it or not, the long hair's reign was over; time for a cut.

Unfortunately, this experience was all to familiar.

"OK, so what are we doing today?" the hair dresser asked me.

"Cutting it off. All of it." I told her.

"No!! You have great hair!"

Let me pause for a moment. This was the other reason I keep up the long hair facade for so long. Women consistently told me how "great," "beautiful," and "lovely" my hair was. I thought these compliments meant that, given the right cut, I would soon have the greatest hair in the entire universe. The kind of hair that caused swarms of women to follow me endlessly just in hope of running their fingers through it. Being feed grapes and fanned by giant leaves would soon follow.

No, it turns out that this only meant that I have the kind of hair women want. On their own heads. Not on a man. So, the hair dresser conversation continued unabated.

"Nope. Cut it all off. It's over." I told her.

"OK, what do you want done?"

"You know, short...and, um, so I can pop it in the front...?"

Upon using the words "short" and "pop it" I settled in and watch as the hair dresser no-so-secretly judged me for my lack of hair knowledge.

"Why don't we look at the books." she said, more than asked.

Ah, the books. The ones either from the 80s or filled with celebrities. She opened one and pointed to a picture of Ryan Reynolds from about ten years ago.

"Like that?" she asked.

"Um, sure." I said. Nevermind that Ryan Reynolds is movie star and sold his soul long ago in order to look good enough to marry Scarlett Johonson or that he's probably 50 pounds (22 kg) lighter than I am; why shouldn't this cut would work perfectly on me?

This was the result:

Now, that doesn't look too bad, but that's actually a good picture. When I woke up the next morning, my hair was styled to look like a thin framed lesbian from the 90s. Plus, I wanted it short (and you know, "pop it" in the front), shorter than that at least.

The problem was that my friend Mike and I were set to leave for Charlotte the minute I got done at the hairdressers. I was ready to go.

So too was the hair dresser it seemed. She kept complaining about how they schedule appointments too close together. All she really wanted to do was sit down and not look at hair for a few minutes, she told me. Not exactly the best time to ask her to keep cutting, I figured.

Yesterday, I finally managed to carve out some time to go and get it cut again. This time I skipped the salon in favor of the suburban Great Clips, the place where the hair dressers have those redneck mom cuts, but still know how to cut hair.

I walked inside the empty hairdressers and was taken immediately.

"Why do you want to cut it so short?" I was asked.

"I'm moving to Sudan. It's hot there." I replied.

"Sudan! Where's that?!"

And so it went.

Regardless of her geographic abilities, however, the women knew her way to a decent hair cut. Within 15 minutes, she whipped that giant bib off me, rang me up, and sent me on my way. My adventures in hair cuts was over.

At least until I figure out what to do in Sudan.

Life Update

2010-07-17T14:58:00.003-04:00

Welcome (back?)! It's been a long time.

Another Window has recently undergone a face lift, making it the wonderful site before your eyes. The old posts are still around, but the site is going to be a little different. Mainly, I hope it will be funnier.

Why the makeover, you ask?

I'm moving.

Again.

Yup. It's time to head out into the world again. Five years ago, I didn't picture myself as a constant nomad, but it seems that's what happened. As much as I'd like to stay in one place, I'd rather see what else is out there before I settle down.

Where to now?

The Sudan, of course.

Yeeaaahhhhh.

Why?

To teach English.

That and, after seven months of mooching off my mom, looking for jobs in every single corner of the globe, and getting decidedly more desperate, I decided to take Sudan up on its offer as quickly as possible.

This will be my first foray into the third world. This time, the usual questions and concerns that arise when moving to a new place are accompanied by images of the Third World and perhaps too much knowledge of the potential for conflict. It'll work out for the best, but for now, my head still taunts me with nightmares of being surrounded by immigration officials who refuse to let me into the country because my malaria pills have been deemed contraband and, since Sudan won't accept American credit cards, I have no way to purchase a plane ticket home.

"This won't happen, Brain," I tell my head.

"It cooouuuld..." Brain says.

"That makes absolutely no sense," I tell Brain. "Americans go to Sudan all the time. Our friend Paul has been twice in the last year; he was fine. You're being illogical."

"Screw your logic, Spock!" Brain replies. "I'll think what I want!"

And so it goes.

In the end, I know I'll just deal with anything that comes up when it comes up. There's nothing I can do about it for now.

So, tune in for more updates. Not just on life in Sudan, but also on anything I think is funny.

Coming up... How to prepare for serious heat. Step 1) Cut Hair....

EDIT: Apparently, I can't spell "apparently" as shown in the caption of the picture.

Here Be Dragons!

2009-12-31T18:08:00.001-05:00

You've reached the end of the map.

Beyond this point are Another Window's previous posts. A lot of them are political and discuss the 2008 Presidential Elections; others are insights into my first semester of graduate school.

Read on at your own risk.

Domestic Violence

2009-03-14T19:29:00.000-04:00

I wish he had never done it, or at least is alleged to have done it. I wish I didn’t have to force myself to delete his songs from my iTunes or step off the dance floor when his latest –and greatest – song comes on. I wish that picture of her had never made its way online. I wish I could just ignore this one and let someone else speak up; there are always enough people to speak up, right? I wish that were true.

I thought about writing this post when I first heard about Chris Brown allegedly assaulting Rihanna. Then I told myself that he’s only accused of laying violent hands on her, so I should wait and see. I thought about it again when I saw the picture from TMZ with her battered face close to tears. Then I told myself that the blogosphere would be so saturated with commentary that my voice wasn’t necessary. I thought about it again when I watched the women on The View –yes, I was watching The View– discussing the incident and how shocked they seemed that a multimillion dollar “man” would do this to his multimillion dollar girlfriend. Then I told myself I didn’t know what to say.

I guess I need to find the words because clearly the message isn’t getting through. In a survey of 200 Boston youths aged 12 to 19, 46% said that they thought Rihanna was responsible for Chris Brown beating her. 46 percent; that’s 92 kids out of the 200 surveyed. An additional 44% said fighting is a normal part of any relationship. The article says that “women blamed Rihanna as much as men did.”

Now, there are a few excuses that can be offered here. First, the Herald was surveying people 19 or younger; they just don’t know any better. Second, it’s only a sample of 200 kids. Third, we don’t if they survey meant violent fighting or simply arguing when it asked if fighting is a normal part of a relationship. Yet, as I said, those are just excuses and so are questions like “What she did she do to deserve such a beating?” or suggestions that he may have been drunk, stressed, or otherwise not in his normal state of mind.

Let’s remind ourselves that Brown is also 19 and just like the 200 persons surveyed, he too seems to be confused. Somewhere in their lives, he and the 92 kids surveyed missed the lesson that it’s never alright to hit someone. It’s never alright to use physical violence against a person. It’s never alright. Full stop. Period. End of story.

Yet, it continues. According to the Center for Disease Control, 1.3 million women in America are victims of physical assault by an intimate partner each year. Women make up the majority of violence, reports the Bureau of Statistics; 73% of family violence victims are female. Looking at states across America, there were 54,010 reported cases of domestic violence in Georgia in 2006. New York counts 50,088 in the same year. In California, there were 43,911 domestic violence arrests in 2006. Of the women who sought assistance in Nebraska, 80% claimed that their children had witnessed the violence. According to scholars, boys who witness domestic violence are twice as likely to abuse their partners when they become adults. Sometimes it happens even before then. 10% of American teenagers reported being the victims of physical violence in 2007, according to a survey done by the U.S. Department of Justice. Keep in mind, those figures only represent the number of reported cases; the actual figure is likely to be higher. In addition, the American Institute on Domestic Violence estimates the health related costs of domestic violence to be more than $5.8 billion each year.

Clearly this is a problem. Yet, we are often happy to push it aside believing that it affects no one we know, will be dealt with by someone else, or is simply too big for us to do something about. Indeed, this is the case with many problems we as a society face today. However, we are only letting ourselves down if we allow domestic violence to continue. By not speaking out, or even by allowing ourselves to sometimes resort to violence, we are chipping away at the things that make us decent people. No woman or man deserves to be abused by the person whom they often love the most. No one should live in such fear that the website for the Violence Against Women Online Resources program at the University of Minnesota must have a box with red letters and exclamation marks that gives links for persons afraid of someone discovering that they visited the website. No one should be beaten down by any person, either mentally or physically, so that they are made to feel inferior. Most importantly, no one should bear the blame of violence when he or she is the victim.

I understand that we are only humans. Many persons may argue that violence is part of our nature; that it is sometimes inescapable. Others will say that men are more prone to violence and, therefore, it is enviable that they will sometimes use force. As a man, I can only share my story. I have hit other men and been in shoving matches while arguing with my older sister when we were younger. Yet, I can remember two instances quite vividly that highlighted that that violence was never acceptable. The first came too late when my sister and I were growing up. I had aged to the point where any sort of altercation was no longer a fair fight. During some insignificant argument, I pushed her into a corner. I will never forget the look on her face, full of shock and fear. I will also never forget the sounds of her cries as she told our mother how scared she was when I got mad and how I was worse than our father when he was drunk. Her words stopped me in my tracks and put me at the beginning of a long road. It is the one I have walked everyday since; the one that keeps me off the path of violence, violence that I learned as a boy.

It was that road that I stayed on ten years later on a street far from home. A few friends and I were walking home after a night out. The girls in our group asked us if we could say something to the guys who had been following us ever since we’d left the club, as they were uncomfortable having strange men around. Two other guys and I went to talk to them and before I knew it, one of the guys in the other group got angry and punched me in the face. Each man in both groups seemed to stop breathing in anticipation of what was to come next. It was obvious that no one on either side wanted to commit to a fight, but it was also understandable if I chose to fight back. It was only seconds before I realised how stupid it was to hit him back despite the fact that he was smaller than I was. I thought about all the things I stood lose if I did. Then it occurred to me how utterly stupid the whole thing was and how unnecessary violence would have been. I told him to get lost and, with what seemed like a great sigh of relief, his friends led him off. I walked home that night relieved that, despite how difficult it had been to control my temper, I had been man enough to know the right thing to do.

I just wish Chris Brown knew that feeling too. I wish all men could revel in that feeling of relief, knowing that they are not animals, but men. I wish those who hit others could escape the torturous moments of violence by their own hand –moments that their minds will force them to relive over and over again. I wish that those who were violent did not find themselves voicing empty apologises because, all too often, they will only do it again. I wish we understood that violence hurts not only the oppressed, but the oppressor. I wish we understood that by being silent we are allowing the violence to continue. I wish it would end.

Our Disease

2009-02-25T08:03:00.009-05:00

I’ve been working on this post ever since the election and, given the Attorney General’s speech last week, I finally decided I must put something to paper. Initially, I began with an entire page that served as little more than a disclaimer explaining how, as a white male, I basically don’t understand racial problems, nor can I ever hope to. I came to the conclusion that often times, I am the worst kind of discriminatory person there is: the one who thinks he’s above it, yet upon closer inspection, actually harbors some attitudes that only serve to further the problems of humanity. This is certainly true and I doubt that I am the only one who, at times, subscribes to racial beliefs and outlooks based more on what I think is the case, rather than what is fact.

In the wake of the election of America’s first black president, there are those among us who would claim that we have reached a point beyond race. We are now living in a country where all persons can finally be judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. Today there are numerous African American individuals who have risen to heights unimaginable a generation ago. Yet, we can still point to those same children Dr King spoke of when he painted a picture of black youth growing up in places like Harlem and Alabama wondering why misery seems to haunt them. Yes, Obama made it. Yet, he is but one man, not an entire race.

When looking to the future of a post-civil war

America

, Frederick Douglas told us “Verily, the work does not end with the abolition of slavery but only begins.” I believe we must take a similar position even now. The work of overcoming our disease of racism not only in America, but throughout the world does not end with the dawn of the Obama administration.

I believe this was the core of Eric Holder’s speech last week. As a nation, we have reached a critical point. Without a constructive dialogue on racial issues, not to mention the many other surface issues that divide us such as orientation, gender, religious beliefs, or heritage, we cannot hope to live up to our full potential as Americans or, more importantly, as human beings. We must begin to try and understand one another so that, in my view, we can discover that we are not so different.

Now let’s stop and pause right there for a moment. The phrase “we can discover that we are not so different” strikes me as an empty cadence that only echoes into the night. We have heard these words before, but have often failed to apply them. In fact, doesn’t it seem that, sometimes, we are so different in our views of the world and the people in it, that we are actually different? What would a white man from the suburbs have in common with the black women from the inner city? How does an Asian American man from San Francisco relate to a Puerto Rican woman from San Juan?

There is no overarching answer. We will each have different opinions and sometimes these differences make the chasm between races or people impossibly wide. Yet many of these views have been shaped by our backgrounds. The way a white child of the suburbs sees public schools will be different than the perspective of a black child who grew up in South Atlanta. Yet, it is not the color of their skin that creates their divide, it is their experience.

How then do I relate to someone of another race? The answer I continually return to is that I am not trying to relate to a black person, an Asian person, a Hispanic person, or any other race, I am simply trying to understand the individual before me. Yes, race has played on the minds of each of us and it has likely shaped our perspectives. However, each person has their own experience. How one black person experiences being an African American will be different to another black person. Though I have been shaped, in part, by being white, I would not expect to relate to a white person from Kansas based on our skin color. In fact, having grown up in and around Atlanta, a city where 61% of the population is African American, there were times, for good and bad, when I was uniquely aware of the color my skin. I would not expect a white person from the Midwest to have a similar experience or to fully understand my background simply on the basis that he or she shares my pigmentation. Instead, I want to be seen for my beliefs and actions and how both have shaped my experience.

We must, therefore, see race as only one aspect of our experience when we approach one another as individuals. I am not a white man, I am simply Tom. There is no black blueprint spread across the minds of forty million Americans, rather there are forty million Americans who are black and have been shaped in part by that experience. Yet, each is different and must be seen as such. What’s more, we must create a world where race need not be a factor that shapes us. Our skin color should not and cannot be a variable in our American experiment.

However, we cannot ignore basic facts that reflect so poorly on our society. If being African American is simply one aspect of a person’s personality, why then do we see such discrepancies in our culture when it comes to race? Though our Attorney General has paved the way for a new dialogue on race, he must also be conscience that he is head of the most racist system of our government. We all know that in

America

, the only system where African Americans are the majority is the prison system.

For too long we as a society have allowed race to permeate our decisions regarding the poor, the uneducated, the hungry, and the sick. If we are to create an America where we are no longer shaped by our race, then we must create a level playing field for all persons. We cannot let the desires of the majority white population outweigh the needs of our minorities. If the exasperated cry for help comes from the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans, it cannot be drown out by the Upper East Side of New York. To cure the vile disease of racism, we must finally admit and address the inequalities that exist between black and white in our country.

We must also recognise that discrimination hardly stops at the line between black and white. This disease of ours has spread its venomous tentacles across many other aspects of American life. It has poisoned how we see women, homosexuals, Hispanics, and many others. Worse still, this sickness does not stop at the borders of the United States. Like any plague, it is not beholden to our constructed borders and instead it passes freely among all persons of this Earth.

Though Frederick Douglas understood that the abolition of the slavery marked only the beginning of the long struggle, he also gave us wisdom as to how we might continue to fight for the principles of equality, liberty, and justice. “Agitate! Agitate!” he said. Today his words are still filled with wisdom. If we are ever to overcome the horrible disease of intolerance, than we must continue to work against any individual, system, or society in which it manifests itself. Generations may pass away before we are ever rid of it, but the hope of perfecting our world is reward enough to continue our efforts each day. Discrimination based on race or anything else is an affront to our undeniable equality as human beings. It is our duty to rid ourselves of this malicious malady and the cure can be found in the decency that exists in each one of us.

The Issues 2008: Wrap-Up

2008-10-29T01:09:00.003-04:00

As this long election draws to a close, this will be the last of The Issues 2008 series. The series began in January while I was back in Atlanta. It has travelled across the world with me and happened alongside two semesters of graduate school (which is why some of these posts were so spread out). It has proved to be a welcome distraction and researching for it has taught me more than I ever dreamed. Above all, it showed me that anyone has the ability to become well versed in any of these issues and all they have to do is spend one or two hours online to have a truly informed opinion based on facts, not rhetoric.

First, here’s a list of the issues I touched on in the last few months:

▪ Abortion
▪ Healthcare
▪ Gun Control
▪ The War in Iraq
▪ The Economy (Part 1 Part 2)
▪ Experience
▪ The Bailout

In addition, there are three other posts I’ve written outside the series, all of which still have some weigh in this election:

▪ Education
▪ Gas Prices

Making History

Let us step back for just a moment, forget the politics of this election, and really see just what an amazing election this has been. With the exception of the 1864 election between President Lincoln and General McClellan, the election held in the midst of a four year civil war that truly proved our strength as a nation, I believe that this has been the most rigorous, unprecedented, historical election process ever held in America. There is no doubt that the elections of 1796, 1828, 1912, 1932, and 1944 were standouts in their own right, but this whole process has been more amazing than any of those.

Think back months ago when pundits were pitting Clinton against Giuliani. Remember when no believed Barack Obama or John McCain had even the slightest chance. Recall Edward’s downfall, Romney’s dominance, Ron Paul’s unending campaign, and Kucinich’s… well, his Kucinichness quite frankly. Consider then the hardest fought primary in recent memory that came down to the first African American candidate or the first female candidate to ever represent a major political party. Then, for the first time in history, an African American was on the ticket of any major political party, at the top spot no less, and whose nomination was presided over by the first female Speaker of the House.

Then think about how the campaign shifted once the two nominees are assured. This election marks the largest age gap ever between two candidates, the first time two senators are running against one another, and one of the only times when both candidates are left handed. We also saw a woman placed on the ticket of a major political party in only the second time in history. In terms of states, Obama represents the first person Presidential candidate to be born in Hawaii, while Palin is the first person from Alaska ever to run.

What’s more, think of all the external circumstances surrounding the election. Russia’s invasion of Georgia marked a major international crisis that created even more discussion around foreign policy, which up to then had focused mainly the wars in the Middle East. Then consider how the candidates addressed natural disasters along America’s southern coastline. There were also the numerous personal questions the candidates had to address ranging from their health, their faith, and the habits of their children. Last, but certainly not least, note how both hopefuls had to completely focus on the economic future of the country in what has the potential to be the second worse recession in our history.

Combine all that with the rise of new forms of communication, such as YouTube, which have allowed the most up-to-the-minute information to reach homes across the globe and then be commented on in only seconds. Look at the incredible ability of both campaigns to fundraise with only a few clicks of a mouse. Remember Saturday Night Live skits, text messages telling followers about Vice Presidential decisions, the role of Drudge Report, and, of course, the ability of the media to place Joe the Plumber in every living room in American within 24 hours.

Make no mistake; this has been the most incredible election in modern times. No matter what the outcome, we should look back at this time period and see this time as nothing less than historical.

Looking to the Future

However, there are negatives we must remember when thinking back on this election. Clearly, there are still lessons to be learned. As I pointed out in my most recent post, our election cycle is rapidly becoming a circus with twenty month campaigns, an increasing role of money, intense negative advertising from both candidates, and obnoxious displays meant only to draw attention (such as Greek columns and campaign suspensions). As a nation, we still have a long way to go in perfecting our political process.

That change starts with each of us. Every four years, we seem to divide ourselves along political lines that are so intense that we steal yard signs, berate one another in public, and even physically assault opposing supporters. Such actions are nothing short of insanity. Chris Rock said it best when he told people to quit getting caught up in which camp they belong to, let the issues swirl around in your head for a while, and then decide where to stand. Even though it comes from a comedian, we might do well to remember such advice. You can agree with liberals on some topics and conservatives on others. Even on certain issues, you might even see the benefits of both parties. Mark Twain once said that the mark of intelligence is being able to hold two conflicting thoughts in one’s head simultaneously.

More importantly, once we do make up our minds, we must avoid that smug sense that those who disagree are wrong and deserve to be ridiculed. Such sentiments lie in shallow understandings of the beliefs from both parties and ignore the basic premise that while you might believe you are right, some one else will not. All too often, we allow ourselves to become so divided that we begin seeing each other as enemies, not fellow Americans. It is time to break the bonds of animosity bred from discord and finally begin to treat one another with respect regardless of opinion.

What I hope you’ve taken from this series is not a persuasive argument to vote one way or the other, but instead a better understanding of the issues surrounding this election and the ability to make your own informed opinion, based on your own values. If we all vote based on good, solid information, then the winner of this election will have been voted in fairly and we can all rest assured that outcome came through reason and nothing else. Come November 4th, an informed opinion is all we can ask of America. Armed with information, go and cast out your voice with your vote.

From the Outside Looking In

2008-10-15T06:23:00.005-04:00

I am constantly amazed at how people outside the

United States

are following this election. It’s not that they simply know who's running and maybe where the candidates stand on certain issues, it’s the fact that they are following it just as closely as Americans are. I’ve seen pictures of the candidates in all major newspapers, both here in

Australia

and in Europe. In Canberra, I’ve watched every debate, along with convention coverage, live on television. Virtually any news site I've visited will have some information on the election, if not an entire section devoted to it. From Al-Jazeera to the Australian, this election is big news all across the world. Plus, it’s not just the day to day updates of the campaign; it’s serious in-depth looks at the candidates’ backgrounds, families, policy advisors, and more.

I was told by someone that following the American election is almost like following a Soap Opera; it’s on everyday and there’s always some surprise just waiting around the corner. I was talking to a Canadian friend and asked her what she thought about the Canadian election going on right now. She told me that she didn’t real care and that she follows the American election much more as it’s “more interesting.” My Norwegian roommate once described the whole process as a circus that is unlike any other in the world.

I think foreigners are watching this election for two reasons. One is that, like I said, they are fascinated with it. They see it as something so unlike their election process that it immediately grabs their interest and they are in awe just watching it unfold. Now, I don’t mean that in the sense that they are impressed. Instead, I think they are often stunned by what they see and spend some of their time trying to fathom why Americans act they way we do. Take Sarah Palin’s nomination. Not to knock Palin, as that’s not the point of this post, but for weeks, I’ve been asked just how in the world she got put on the Republican ticket. I tell them all the things I’m sure you’ve heard (she draws very conservative votes that McCain might have alienated, they’re hoping she’ll take votes away from Obama because of the Clinton issue, her inexperience can be spun to make her seem like another agent of “change,” etc.). Yet, in the end, everyone always shakes their head and says that it’s crazy. They wonder how Americans would stand for someone like her, someone who draws God so far into politics and someone who cannot answer simple questions in news interviews. In the end, people who ask me questions on the election often walk away saying “only in America.”

The other, more obvious reason that foreigners are so caught up in this election is the fact that it has it will largely affect them. America’s policies make the world shake and everyone is tied into the United States in some way. The outside world held its collective breath as Congress voted on the bailout, knowing that whatever action was taken, it would soon reach their markets. Every class I’ve been to outside the U.S. that discusses the modern world has at least a whole session just to talk about the United States. In trying to convey just how important the U.S. election is to the rest of the world, a friend of mine, a Canadian/South African/Australian (I know, right?), once told me that he doesn’t think Americans alone should be allowed to vote in the election, as it doesn’t affect just them. He then laughed and said “besides, no one trusts Americans to make the right decision.”

Though it was said in jest, I have heard similar sentiments from many others outside the America. Many of them are simply worried that America will make what they believe is the wrong choice, John McCain. The overwhelming majority of people who talk to me about the election here and when I was in Europe support Obama. To be honest, I have yet to meet a single McCain supporter outside the United States, even my friend from Georgia (supposedly the country with the most McCain supporters outside the U.S.) supports Obama. In fact, I’ve meet a few people who’ve told me “I wish I were American so that I could vote for Obama.” It doesn’t get much clearer than that.

However, I’m not writing this to tell you that, because the rest of the world supports Obama, so too should you. On the contrary and as always, I welcome anyone who supports either candidate when it’s based on good information and rationale thought. I think there are plenty of Americans who will vote for John McCain based on those things. John McCain is more in line with some Americans’ beliefs than Obama will ever be, no matter what the rest of the world says.

That brings me to my next point: we as Americans are different. We are but human beings like everyone else (and we would do well to remember that, as before we are Americans, we are simply men and women), but when it comes to politics, Americans often think differently. We do share many beliefs, values, and goals with the outside world, but I believe that many times, you simply must have grown up in America to really understand what we’re going through every four years. It’s difficult to explain to a Brit why we still talk about abortion so much, just as it’s hard to tell a Norwegian why we still have guns. Yet, those are some of things we still talk about every election. As Americans ourselves, we may not even know why we are still harping on about such things, but at the end of the day, we know that such issues are still important and therefore must be given consideration.

In addition, the outside world still fails to understand what is actually going on in the minds of Americans. This is different from what I said earlier in that foreigners often want to know what Americans are thinking. In this case, people outside the U.S. sometimes seem convinced that they know what Americans are going to do, only to be surprised when we do the opposite. I was talking to an Australian a few weeks ago who told me that he’d finally accepted that he will never be able to predict whom Americans will pick as president. In 2000, he said, he predicted Gore would win. In 2004, he thought it would be Kerry. Then, in 2007, he was positive that Clinton would be the winner in 2008. “Obviously, there’s something I’m missing,” he told me. In addition, many have told me they are convinced that Obama will not win because he is black. Such sentiments have been reinforced by both the British and the Australian media ever since Obama’s battle with Clinton over the nomination. To be frank, it seems as though many outside the U.S. will be one hundred percent stunned if Obama is elected simply because they believe we are still rooted in racism.

Having said all that, I’m sure there are still some of us who will not vote for Obama because he is black; race is an issue in this campaign, but it’s important to remember that is not, nor has it been, the only issue. What’s more, there are many times that even as Americans we may not understand why any election goes the way it does. Perhaps that is the most important thing we should take away from this process every four years. Though choosing a President should be no small undertaking, it might be time that we stepped back for a moment and considered if such a decision truly warrants, to borrow a phrase from my Norwegian friend, such a circus. Though we have reasons to be separate from the rest of the world when it comes to elections, do we want things like the role of money, lobbyists, indecisive recounts, spin doctors, celebrities, lawyers, or twenty month campaigns to be among those reasons? I believe that, although the outside world may not understand exactly why we are the way we are, there are lessons we could learn from them. For example, having shorter campaign periods, reducing the role that money can play in elections, using the popular vote instead of an electoral college, or simply reducing the insane amount of hype we go through could all be things we could take from other democracies. Though we are a nation like no other, we are by no means perfect. While the rest of the world tries to better understand us, let us try to understand how to better ourselves.

The Issues 2008: The Bailout

2008-09-29T02:52:00.002-04:00

As I watched President Bush address the nation this week, I couldn’t help but notice all the things he wasn’t saying. I saw how the lines on his face had been etched deeper as if to mark the severity of the past week. How he continually wrung his hands together in an anxious manner, as if he knew how awful this all is, but couldn’t begin to see how it might get fixed properly. Above all, how beyond him, this madness stretches back years through past administrations, congresses, and economists. For decades, we have been walking down this path and now our actions are coming to fruition. Rome is burning and we have no one to blame but ourselves.

In my post on the economy in this election, I said that the Office of the President has little power to affect change on an economical level. However, I ignored one critical role a President has when it comes to economic affairs: the power of influence. We have seen past presidents guide the economy with that power. We have seen trickle down theories, deregulation, and the beliefs that the economy will either solve its self or we can adjust at through the power of the Federal Reserve. All these ideas have played a part in the Presidential policies from both parties.

This week, in the midst of everything else, we witnessed an historical event. President Bush met with the leaders of Congress, certain members of his cabinet, and the two Presidential candidates, only weeks before the election, to discuss what can be done to find a bipartisan solution to this madness. Never before have so many leaders sat down at the same table at a time like this. Though little seems to have come from that meeting, it still shows the power of the Office of the President. Imagine the influential power either John McCain or Barack Obama will receive on January 20, 2009. Not since Roosevelt has one person been able to cast such a shadow over the affairs of the economy.

Again, as I said in my previous post, in terms of the economy, when it comes to choosing the next President, it all depends on which course you would like to see our nation travel. How will Obama or McCain influence the current state of our economy? If their current positions on the bailout are any indication, it’s hard to tell an exact difference between the two. Both have come to favour the package so long as it helps everyday homeowners and not just Wall St, limits executive compensation, and has some form of oversight process in determining how the money is spent. Therefore, we need to look back at their previous stances on economic issues in order to gain an insight into how they will influence such issues in the future. Traditionally, McCain believes that the ability of the market to stabilise itself will prevail and the benefits of that will work their way into the lives of all Americans. Obama disagrees; instead he believes that such policies have not worked in the past and, in order to provide for all Americans, the government must guide the economy in the right direction. These views are not too different from somewhat traditional values of either party.

However, I then question why McCain, with his policies being more market orientated, is supporting the bailout plan. Perhaps it is because he believes that this plan is out of the ordinary and such a plan is necessary in the midst of this madness. However, once this bailout is behind us, will he then return to his traditional policies of letting the market solve its own problems and, in a sense, monitor itself?

Personally, I cannot hide my opinion on this issue. Long before this madness began, I have believed that more oversight of the corporations that are owned and operate within America is absolutely essential. I believe that companies in this country have increasingly operated outside the realm of responsibility on several levels of accountability. For example, we have seen CEO’s paid retirement packages that are several hundreds times the amount an average worker makes in the same company. Something must be done as these companies have proven that they are unwilling to monitor themselves or their peers.

I am not denying that a chief executive shoulders far more responsibility than the average worker and therefore deserves more compensation. I am asking, when an executive drives a company into the ground, what excuses can anyone offer up as to why that same person should be paid millions simply to leave? In that same vein, I am not denying a business its right to profits. What I am questioning is at what point do we realise that the endless pursuit of profits can sometimes lead us into dangerous waters and will affect us all should something go wrong. The economy is not something that exists outside our daily lives, able to be guided by an invisible hand that does not touch the rest of us. No, the economy rests on the shoulders of every single American and the weight of that burden carries over into our daily lives. In good times and bad, we are linked to the economy outside the walls of our offices and, should it charge forward like a bull or lumber like a bear, we feel its ramifications each day.

For the moment, we must find a way to solve this madness and the most likely solution currently lies in the hands of Congress. Instead of trying to restrict Wall St in the future and bail it out at the same time, we must first do the latter. I believe that Wall St does need to be regulated in the future, however right now is not the time. Right now, President Bush and both Senators McCain and Obama must use their influence to get the right legislation passed and call on Congress to wait until later, but not much later, for placing so many additional terms of any bailout bill.

The Bigger Picture

Beyond that, there’s a bigger picture that we seem to be ignoring. The War in Iraq has seriously hindered our international standing. We saw that in the case of Georgia when the international community asked if we were even able to defend Georgia against Russia, should it have come to that. With our military power in question, we were still able to point to our enormous economical influence as the justification for our position as the sole superpower. America’s influence extends into every marketplace in the world and that influence gave us the ability to shape policies across the globe without ever putting boots on the ground.

However, without a strong military or powerful economy, what reasons do we have to call ourselves a superpower? Suddenly, the two legs of the giant have broken and our influence is falling from its shoulders. We have ignored, belittled, and undercut international institutions, such as the United Nations, which means that we can hardly rely on them to ensure our status in the world. If our economy falls off the narrow ledge from which it is tittering, our power in the world will fall away with it.

This crisis has proven that America will never stay on top forever. In the wake of our eventual demise, there can be two possibilities in a future that we can help shape. The first, though we have seen this example before from Britain’s’ colonial empire and witnessed its horrible consequences, we can continue on our current path, running the world as we see fit with policies mostly benefiting only ourselves. By ignoring other countries when they disagree and belittling the people of the world whom we use only for our own needs, I believe we are creating a world that is fragmented, polarised, and unstable.

Alternatively, we can accept that we will not be in power forever and the time we have today gives us a unique opportunity to shape the tomorrow of world politics. We can create a world that will never be based around one nation again, but is instead shaped by many countries, all of which have an equal stake in the outcome of the globe. This might seem like it goes against our national interests as it, in an effect, limits our influence in the globe, but I believe that for the long term, it will do far more good for both our national interests and the globe.

Charles Krauthammer argues this idea and rails against what he calls “liberal internationalists,” those who support the idea of lessening America’s power now in order to create a broader atmosphere of cooperation and mutual governance. He writes about these ideas in such a way that it makes the reader sick to think that such notions might be tolerated at all. He suggests that we should continue on our current path of sole dominance, of unipolar power, in the world. All this, of course, rests on the premise that we don’t “wreck our economy,” he says. Well, it seems as though we are about to do just that. Such vulnerability shows that unipolarity has its price: when Rome is burning there is no one else in the world to save it and the cost is now ours alone to bear.

This bailout means more than saving the futures of very irresponsible businesses; it means saving the future of America. Any bill passed must, for now, allow for the bailout process to begin and, I believe, we should save the regulation for later. However, I cannot stress the importance of creating of such regulations over Wall St in the near future. Perhaps you disagree and if you do, I invite you to use your vote differently. Come November, you will have the option to decide how the nation approaches its future economic endeavours. Choose wisely because, as I have said, the future of our country now lies in the very visible hands of the economy. Above all, remember that should we survive this madness, we must choose a path that will never again place such a burden on just America alone. We, as a nation, must see this as a window into our own mortality and realise that we will not be in power forever. With the time that we have left, let us create world that will be better for all, not just those inside our borders. If not, when we do fall from grace, we will find ourselves at the mercy of the next great superpower.

The Issues 2008: Experience

2008-09-18T03:53:00.005-04:00

Experience, many argue, is essential to assuming the Presidency. Yet recently I’ve become confused by both sides as to whether or not experience really matters. If you’ve been keeping up, which I’m sure you have as it’s hard not to, you’ll know that for months, Hillary Clinton lobbed experience grenades at Barack Obama. When Obama won the primaries, John McCain began similar attacks. Then along came Sarah Palin and the tables turned, only to find Obama selecting attack items from the menu of no experience attacks. Instead of getting too caught up in this, let’s step back and ask a few questions and consider some facts before we decide how important experience is to the Office of the President.

John McCain, if you include his time in the military from when he graduated the Naval Academy, has been a public servant longer than Barack Obama has been alive. He served as a naval officer for 22 years, achieving the rank of Captain, and was a P.O.W. for five and a half of those years. He then served in the United States House (4 years) and Senate (nearly 22 years) and is recognised by many, including Senator Obama in his book The Audacity of Hope, to be one of the most prominent figures in the Senate, if not Washington today.

Barack Obama, on the other hand, served as a community organiser for three years and then as a lawyer from 1993 to 1996 where he specifically took on civil rights cases (he continued to be “of counsel” to the same law firm, Davis, Miner, Barnhill & Galland, up until 2004). He served in the Illinios State Senate for eight years from 1996 to 2004 and, finally, has been a U.S. Senator since 2004. There is no doubt that he is the lesser experienced of the two presidential candidates.

Joe Biden, in contrast, assumed his current seat in the U.S. senate in 1973, when Sarah Palin was eight years old. Before that, he served on the New Castle County Council for two years. While in the Senate, he has been the Chairman of both the Senate Committee on the Judiciary and the Committee on Foreign Relations.

Sarah Palin began her political career, after working with her husband’s commercial fishing business and as a sports reporter, in 1992 as a city council member in Wasilla, Alaska; she continued in the post for four years. She then served a mayor of Wasilla, the state’s fifth largest city during her time as mayor (the population in 2000 was 5,469), for eight years from 1996 to 2002. She then served as the chairwoman for Alaska’s Oil and Gas Conservation Commission for one year. She began serving as governor of Alaska in December of 2006. Although her record is impressive in Alaskan politics, she is certainly the less experienced in federal politics of the two vice-presidential candidates.

It would seem that there is an experience issue on both tickets. Though McCain towers over Obama, Biden outdoes Palin. One could easily argue that the first spot on the ticket, the presidential candidate, is certainly more important and therefore, in terms of experience alone, John McCain is the more qualified candidate. There are, of course, other questions to be raised, such as McCain’s health making his vice president more of an issue or how much Joe Biden will actually influence an Obama administration.

However, now with both tickets having an experience “gap,” we are left confused as to whether or not experience matters and even if it is a good thing. Some see Palin like others see Obama, in that they are both vehicles of “change.” Does mean that in order to promote change, one must be less experienced? In that same vein, how can one campaign hurl attacks based on lack of experience when both seem to have weaknesses?

Looking to history for an answer, one sees that Abraham Lincoln had served in the U.S. House for only two years and the Illinios State House for eight years. In comparison, his predecessor, James Buchanan, served as a U.S. Senator for eleven years and as U.S. Secretary of State for four years. There is an almost indescribable divide between the two men in terms of how successful their presidencies were; Lincoln would go down in history as perhaps the greatest President of the United States, while in contrast I would argue, Buchanan can be considered the worst (or at least in the bottom three). This shows us that experience does not always matter.

However, as I can hear you saying it already, that was 140 years ago; today it’s different. Perhaps. Though there is a big difference between Lincoln’s time and ours, one cannot undercut how difficult it was for him. Either way, I would like to suggest that Lincoln and Buchanan best prove what is most important in considering experience: when it comes to the presidency no amount experience can prepare you for the job. It is a job like no other, held by only 42 other persons in history (there have been 43 administrations; Cleveland served separate terms). Only they can tell you what exactly is needed. Unfortunately there are only four remaining presidents. Two of them, Carter and Clinton, have endorsed Obama, while the other two, George H. W. Bush and George W. Bush, have given their support to McCain. It would seem that like everyone else, even the men to have held the job are split in terms of who is best fit to lead to the country.

Given all this, I think that it is time we rule out experience as an issue. McCain has more of it than Obama, while Biden trumps Palin. When comparing the two tickets, it’s a toss-up. Therefore, instead of focusing on the experience issue, we should look more closely at the other issues. Despite his lack of experience, what might an Obama administration do for the country? Even with all his experience, what might a McCain administration be lacking? And of course, vice-versa. No one can know just how well a person will fit into the role of president until he or she takes office. Instead, we should look at the merits of their past record, not its length, and their plans for the future as the best indicators of who will be best able to serve. Forgoing the experience issue does not lend itself to one candidate over the other. Instead, it allows us to go beyond our current impasse and get to the heart of the other issues in this election.

Our 9/11

2008-09-11T00:00:00.001-04:00

A year ago, I wrote how ashamed I was because of how America has handled its role in the post 9/11 world. I told you what I felt on that day of days and how betrayed I felt six years later sitting in a classroom in Oslo. This year, I find myself in another capital city, Canberra, still figuring out what that day meant not just for America, but also for rest of the world.

Last week, I was flipping through my calendar looking at my upcoming activities and saw that 9/11 was upon us yet again. The words never forget quickly came to mind. I paused, as all of us do today, and remembered how my life was changed seven years ago. Those same raw emotions I felt that day came rushing back as my eyes welled up and that same lump in my throat made it hard to breathe.

Then suddenly those words, never forget, vanished when I thought of all those other days lived out by others across the world. I thought of all those news stories before 9/11 and after that told the tale of families far away torn apart by violence. I thought about those families again when one of my professors spoke on Islamism, what many refer to as “fundamentalist Islam,” and instead of discussing 9/11 or the 7/7 bombings, he focused on how it has affected the people of the Middle East. I thought about them again when my roommates and I watched a news report two nights ago detailing how an American bombing in Afghanistan had possibly killed a high ranking Taliban operative, but had also claimed the lives of 90 civilians, sixty of whom were children. Again, I thought about those families as I saw friends from Lebanon, Georgia, Indonesia, and Zimbabwe and thought of all the other friends I have in places like Iraq and Afghanistan. How, I asked myself, can I value September 11^thmore than all the other days that claim the lives of loved ones across the world?

In an act of patriotic suicide, I tell you now that 9/11 is special only to us. The way we felt on 9/11 seven years ago is the way that people live their lives every single day. That mix of fear, desperation, rage, and grief existing all at once are felt in the hearts of millions each day as their world worsens due to the violence of this earth. When stripped of our patriotic pride that so consumes the politics of this world, we come to find that we are all but mere mortals. Those who were killed seven years ago today were our brothers and sisters, but so too are those who, cut by the same crime of indiscriminate terrorism, died yesterday and those who will die tomorrow. The tears shed for them are no different the tears we shed again today in remembrance.

On this day and on its anniversary for all the years to come, it is right to remember those who died and even more important to remember how we felt. As we reopen our wounds and recall the pain, we must also think of the others who have felt this way. To honor the memory of 9/11, we should do everything within our power to prevent anyone, anywhere, from feeling this way again. No child should know such pain, no parent should feel such hurt, and no spouse need ever be left alone again. We might never end the violence of this world, but every year on this day, we must stop and remember that each life we make better is just one more that will never know the hurt that lives within our own hearts. We must look outside our borders and remember that we are not just responsible only for the lives of other Americans, but for our brothers and sisters of every creed, color, belief, and background. Before our duty to country, lies our duty to humanity.

The Issues 2008: The Economy Part 2, Through the Eyes of the Election

2008-09-06T03:05:00.013-04:00

As I said in the Part 1, the economy is one of the central issues in this election. Like healthcare or gas prices, the economics of

America

affect us on a daily basis. Each day, people find themselves more concerned about their job security, retirement savings, or increasing debt. With the onset of the housing crisis, more people are concerned about the primary invest in their lives, their home, than every before. The trouble is, the economy is probably the most complex issue that directly affects each of us. Since Keynes, people have believed that with the right amount of tweaking, an economy can be controlled, restrained, or boosted depending what policies are put in place. This might be true, but the process by which such control is exercised is so complex and truly understood by so few, that it is far beyond one election and one president to make a major impact. Though it is one of the central concerns among voters in 2008, we still don’t know how to solve it.

That said, complex does not mean impossible. As with any real solution, there are things that can be done in our daily lives to work towards a solution, but even more than that we must work towards changing mindsets.

The Power of Plastic

A major concern in our economy, aside from the housing crisis, is the alarming amount of credit card debt Americans are racking up everyday. The New York Times website recently had a piece (though not an example of good journalism as it was very biased against the credit card companies, it did have some good facts) on a woman in Pennsylvania who was more than $280,000 in credit card debt and had no idea where to begin in terms of paying it off. Eventually, the bill collectors were calling the house so often that she took to putting the phone in the dishwasher. Such a story might seem extreme, but it shows how badly some Americans handle debt. However, it’s more than just a few bad apples.

According to the Federal Reserve Board, there was $968.4 billion of revolving debt in America in June of 2008. Revolving debt is any sort of preapproved line of credit against which a person may borrow when purchasing goods or services. That sounds overcomplicated, so it’s best to think about it in examples. If I have a credit card and the card company has preapproved me for a certain amount of credit (let’s say $1,000), then I can buy anything on that card up to $1,000 over any time period. Because the amount of debt I have could change month to month (one month I might only put $200 on the card, but then the next month I might rack up $500), it changes the amount that I have to pay back. In essence, the more I use it, the more my payments will have to be each month. Therefore, my payments aren’t fixed. It’s called “revolving” because everything can change depending on how much I spend from month to month. It’s different than other types of credit, like car loans or home loans, because with those loans the amount is set ($12,000 for a car, $200,000 for a house, etc.) and the payments you make can be set at a certain monthly number, since you know the amount that you owe will never go up, only down, as you keep paying it off.

Most of America’s revolving debt is from credit cards and even that which is not is still money that Americans didn’t have that was spent in order to purchase goods or services. The revolving debt in 2007 was, on average, $940.6 billion. If there were 301.6 million Americans as of July 2007, and, going on Census Bureau Estimates, persons less than 18 years of age account for around 25% of the population, then there were roughly 226.2 million Americans who were old enough to obtain a credit card. Using that figure, for each of these Americans there was $4,157.97 of revolving debt per person. Honestly, that’s not nearly as bad as I thought it would be, but it’s still worrying. It’s also worrying that not everyone over the age of eighteen has credit card debt or even a credit card. Instead, you have people like that woman in Pennsylvania who are jacking up the average for all of us.

Despite the fact that the debt we find ourselves in may not be as bad as we thought, it is still debt all the same. Debt of any sort can be difficult, but when it balloons into enormous amounts it can become a serious problem. When faced with the financial rigors of 21^st century life, a person just barely getting by after paying the bills and then paying down debt each month has no safety net when faced with hardships such as job loss or an illness. It becomes a dangerous way to live because if something did happen, it would surely mean more debt. The further down the path you go, the worse it gets. There might be “good” types of debt like student loans, which you hope will be more of an investment that a burden, but debt based on consumption, like credit card debt, is often times something we should be concerned about and something we can at least control.

It seems that that is and has been a major problem in America’s economy from Wall Street to Main Street; we seem to have lost the ability to control ourselves and get ourselves out of debt. While the War on Terror rages, ordinary Americans have been told –more than once– to go out and shop in an effort to stimulate the economy. Though this might be an effective tactic to stave off short-term economy lapses, it puts a bad impression on the American psyche: if we consume, all our problems will be solved. We are not just in a housing crisis; America is in a consuming crisis. As a nation, we cannot seem to curb our spending habits, save properly, and buy things within our price range. We have forgotten that we are more like average Joes than excentric millionaires.

As any student of economics will tell you, there will always be cycles in an economy; what goes up must come down. The trouble with being told that shopping will solve our economics woes is that we are ignoring what we should also be doing. We should keep a ready eye to the future to watch for any storms on the horizon and, just in case, we should always have a little stashed away, so that when we do get sick or lose our job, we can at least avoid racking up debt from day one. Though this might seem simple to some of us, there are still many of us, both blue collar and white collar, who do not know how to save and instead live each week from paycheck to paycheck.

What We Can Do

In terms of the nation's economy and not our daily lives, it might seem beyond the repair of our ordinary hands, there is still much to be done. This is more than Obama vs. McCain; real change happens on the local level. Read up on your local politicians and local races. Base your decision on their plans for your community and how it might affect you for the better. A balanced local budget built by leaders who can be held more accountable because they are more accessible can become the building block for nationwide economics. Though there are stark differences between small town U.S.A and the federal government, our politicians keep claiming that the heart of America lies in our own backyard. If this is true and if we keep our local economy sound in our communities, then what excuse will national policy makers have when it comes to the federal level?

In addition, we must not lose site of the lessons learned from the housing crisis; when we vote, we need to keep a closer eye on what Wall Street is doing and what our politicians are doing to regulate such activity. We cannot shut down Wall Street’s free market capabilities, nor should we, but if we keep our ear to the ground we can at least know when to keep the big banks in check. While we’re all aware of the housing situation now and how it happened, we still might be missing other aspects of trade, from credit cards to student loan practices, that have the potential to do damage of their own sort.

When it comes to politicians and how much power they can exert over economics, we must remember that politics and economics can only mix so much before we see an oil and water effect. It terms of the economy, the best thing to do is question just how much you would like to see the two mix. Do you believe that the economy rests beneath the invisible hand and will work itself out free from government intervention (or minimal intervention)? If so, though not always, you may fall closer to the Republican side of the fence. If you believe that the government should place stricter regulations on corporations and economic trade, then perhaps you fall more in line with the Democrats. It may be an oversimplification, but it is one way to think about it. There are intelligent, truthful arguments to be had for both sides and it comes to your own personal choice.

The biggest thing to consider when going to the polls in November is to remember that the economy in and of itself is not necessarily the issue in this or any election. All policy makers, presidents, and congress can hope to do is control what regulations are put in place, which at times is comparable to trying to restrain a wild bull with only a bungee cord. Yes, politicians might find ways to create new jobs by funding certain aspects of the private sector or broadening parts of the government. Yes, though the Federal Reserve may sway to the pressures of Washington, but they can hardly control all the aspects of a global economy in which America plays such a large part. Just as the rest of the world fell prey to our housing crisis, so too are we vulnerable to such a folly outside our borders. Politicians, no matter how experienced, cannot control that. Instead, the biggest aspect of the economy issue is how we as Americans want to spend our tax dollars. The answer to that question lies in other issues of this election. It lies within your own politics and for what new dawn you see our America destined. For this election, as with all others, when it comes to the economy, we must make the politicians accountable only for what they can control and on what other issue they will spend our money.

The Issues 2008: The Economy Part 1, the Housing Crisis

2008-08-12T02:06:00.004-04:00

This election is unique in that in falls on the cusp of what many claim will be, or already is, one of the biggest recessions America has seen since the Great Depression. It lingers like a black rain cloud ready to pour down on the fate of politicians everywhere, drenching them in judgment. We’re particularly looking to the presidential candidates to come up with quick solution. Desires such as these show that we really don’t know how complicated the situation is or how difficult it will be to solve.

Somewhere in the back of our minds, many of us know that this all has something to do with the housing crisis, something which began when houses started losing their value. While there are other issues surrounding the economy, I believe the housing crisis is the core of any discussion on our economic woes. Because of this, I’ve split this part of the Issues 2008 series into two parts. The first part will attempt to explain what exactly the housing crisis is, how it’s had an effect on our economy, and how it’s affected the rest of the world. The second part will look at the broader picture of the economy in the election, some of the other problems, and what we can do to fix some of these things.

I sincerely apologise for how long these entries are. I know that if I were you, I’d be a little reluctant to read every word, but I hope they give you some insights and provide an interesting perspective. Part 1 will be more background on the housing crisis, so if you’re only interested in what Part 2 will discuss (how the crisis fits into the issue of the economy as a whole), feel free to skip this entry. If you do want to read on, sit back and let’s all hop in the way back machine and I’ll try to substitute for Professor Peabody the best I can.

Misinformation

With many issues, we understand their importance, but fail to grasp exactly how or why they happened or what we can do about them. The housing crisis is no different. For me, I only really began to understand what was going on once I started researching for this post (with a big help from this article in the New York Times). The short answer we’re being given by politicians, columnists, and our ever so insightful T.V. news anchors (and the answer that so many of us are buying) is that people bought houses they couldn’t afford. They bought these houses with loans called “subprime” loans, which although they seem great in the beginning, have interest rates that steadily rise to an enormous rate. If these people had read the fine print of their loan, some say, they would have seen what was coming and either avoided it or been ready. Without these people, we wouldn’t be in this mess. “Why should we bail them out?” people are beginning to ask; they made bad choices and now they need to pay the consequences, right? As John McCain said, “it is not the duty of government to bail out and reward those who act irresponsibly” (NY Times).

But is that really the reason that things in the economy are shaping up to be the worse we’ve seen in a long, long time? How could a relatively small group of people who made bad decisions have that big of an effect on the economy? After all, there were only 2.2 million foreclosure filings last year. That’s only 0.74% of Americans when compared to the population of the U.S.- and that includes people who did not have subprime loans. (Find out more here) Unfortunately, it would seem, as with so many things, it’s a lot more complicated than the politicians would have us believe.

The Roots of the Crisis

This whole housing “crisis,” as it has been dubbed, began years back when people decided that real estate in American had become a bargain and a great investment. They weren’t entirely wrong either. For years, housing prices had risen steadily and for the average American, the best investment they could make was in their home. Historically, housing seemed like a good bet too as prices had never fallen nationwide before. Buy property in the right market and watch its value go up- easy as pie.

In time, Americans became crazed with the idea of owning a home. There were a variety of reasons; social standing, wanting a fixer upper to work on, making that good investment, buying where there were good schools, and the list could go on. We really did become obsessed. Just stop for a minute and think about how interested we all seem when it comes to our homes. We decorate them, build on them, flip them, rent them, or just center out lives around them. Not to say there’s anything wrong with becoming slightly obsessed with the place where you (hopefully) spend most of your time; it just makes you realise that if there’s a problem with the housing market, than it’s a big deal.

With all this home buying comes banks, banks, and more banks. After all, that money has to come from somewhere seeing as most of us aren’t walking around with enough cash in our pocket to buy a new car, let alone a house. The banks know this and, just as the nation was really shifting into fifth gear when it came to buying, the banks were starting to change the rules on just where and who that money would come from. Instead of funnelling all mortgage money through their banks, they started letting investors get in on the game. Again, stop and think about it. At the time, it would have made some sense. If people are finding new ways to make money by buying property and they’re doing so at a faster rate, there’s got to be a way for the lenders to make money off all that activity.

What they came up with was letting individuals get a piece of the mortgage market. The banks allowed people to buy investment packages that came in all sorts of forms, from hedge funds to collective investments. As more people took out money to pay for their homes, individuals on the other side of things were making a profit because of the interest the buyers were paying on their loans. As more people got involved, the market just got bigger and bigger on both ends. More investors meant Wall Street banks had more competition so they had to innovate more often. Different types of loans came out with all kinds of variables.

It was great for the average buyer too since they weren’t just limited to your basic fixed rate 30 year mortgage anymore. Let’s say you wanted to buy a house just to flip it in a year after you made some repairs (or just let it appreciate). Instead of having to jump through the hoops of getting a 30 year mortgage for a house you didn’t intend to have for even thirty months, you could go get another type of loan. For example, you could choose a mortgage in which you only paid interest on the amount you took out. Suddenly, you had options. Though you were sitting on a good chunk of debt, you knew you were going to make it back because the price of the house was going to go up and when you sold it, you could pay off the loan and take away the profit. It seems beautiful, right?

Subprime Loans

The real trouble started happening in two ways. One, just like any other sort of capitalist venture, people are always looking for a way to expand the buying market; the more buyers, the more demand and the more potential for increased profits. In this case, that means getting more people to buy homes. Two, the investors wanted a bigger return on their money. The only way to do that was to charge higher interest on loans and, most often, the best way to justify charging higher interest on something is when the risk is higher.

The answer was subprime loans. A subprime loan is often targeted at people who are not normally considered for a loan (it could be anything; bad credit history, no credit history, low income, etc). The loan starts off with a low interest rate and then, over a few years, that rate balloons into something huge. The basic idea is that while your income may not be great now, by the time the bigger interest rate starts kicking in, you’ll be in a better position to pay it off. In hindsight, that’s not entirely accurate.

Subprimes did everything the investors wanted. They expanded the market of homebuyers and they got bigger returns on investments. Sure, there was more risk involved, but the greater the risk, the greater the reward. What’s more, so many people thought this was an acceptable risk. After all, the housing market in America had never declined nationwide. It seemed like you were guaranteed a good return on your money.

Now, I should stop this portion of our lesson for an aside. After all, this is pretty long and you might be getting bored, so what better way to pick your interest back up then to start talking about the government? Awesome, I know. Anyhow, so much of this was able to happen because of what the government had already done or was continuing to do. If you think back to the 1990’s, you might remember Alan Greenspan, that old man in charge of the Federal Reserve. When he spoke his “Greenspeak” (as opposed to the current Bernacular), so many of us thought he was infallible. Well, because of some of the policies the Federal Reserve, or the “the Fed,” introduced during the late 1990’s and early 2000’s, the banks were able to create lax loans like subprimes. The Fed never intended for this to happen. They were only doing what they normally would to halt inflation and keep us out of trouble after the dot-com bubble burst and the recession of 2001-2002 occured. They lowered the rates and policies placed on banks became a little less rigid. So, all the people who want to know where the government was during all this, why they weren’t keeping a closer eye on things, there’s your answer. Though they should have been more careful in thinking that the housing market was less of a risk than other markets, our current state would definitely have been hard to predict. Greenspan himself admits that he didn’t even grasp the full scope of things until late 2005.

The Bubble Bursts

Getting back to the bubble, the initial introduction of subprimes and other new mortgages, along with new investors, did a lot for the market. The housing bubble grew, prices went up (which was what people wanted), and even more people got involved. However, as the old saying goes: what goes up must come down. Such is when the housing crisis began, when the bubble burst so to speak. However, there were more causes than just subprime mortgages.

To begin, yes, there were people with subprime mortgages who didn’t realise what they were getting into. For a variety of reasons (all of which would be too difficult to discover, but ranging from job loss as the economy began to slow or from simply not reading the fine print on the loan and not being prepared for the coming interest rate rise), these people couldn’t afford their mortgages so they were either foreclosed on -when the bank repossesses a house- or they were so desperate to sell their house that they settled for a price that was less than what they originally paid.

However, the economic recession that began in 2001 played a larger role in the housing crisis than subprime mortgages. It brought more people to the brink of bankruptcy for a whole host of reasons, so while they may not have had a subprime mortgage, they still might have had trouble paying the bills.

In addition, the builders began outstripping the buyers. In Atlanta, for example, there seem to be more condominiums than people. However, each day it seems as though another condo building is going up. While thousands flooded into the city during the last half of the 1990’s and the early 2000’s, that steady steam has slowed to a trickle. Now there are condominium buildings across the city where several of the units remain empty. Therefore, the units have to be sold for less or not at all. And this trend doesn’t just exist in the cities. For those of you who’ve seen the suburbs in recent years, you can easily attest to the growing number of new neighbourhoods popping up everyday.

In that same vain, the people who still have money to buy a house don’t generally have as much as they did five years ago (despite the fact that that banks are more than willing to lend it to them; when the economy is slowing down, people will tighten their belt and take on smaller amounts of debt). While they might have paid the rising housing prices across America back then, they are more unwilling to buy homes in areas where prices have skyrocketed. Again, this means that the houses in these areas are either selling for less or not at all.

If housing prices are skyrocketing there must be some form of overvaluing happening. In other words, the market began to correct itself as investors and homebuyers realised that houses were not worth nearly as much as the amount for which they were selling. When a house goes up for sale, it has to be assessed in value. Should a house be deemed worth less than it was a year ago, or worse yet, less than the amount for which it was purchased, than it can put homeowners trying to sell in a dire situation.

This brings us to why exactly the housing crisis has been so detrimental. Hand in hand with people not able to afford their mortgage were people whose homes had lost value simply because the market had become over saturated and so overvalued as more houses were built and the prices continued to rise. Therefore, even fully employed persons who’d kept an eye on their interest rates lost the ability to sell their house for a decent price; they lost the ability to get a return on what is perhaps the biggest investment of their lives.

Now keep in mind, when a house sells for less than the price at which it was originally valued, it not only means bad news for the seller, but also their neighbors. A big part of determining the price of a home in America is determining the value of houses in the surrounding area. If the houses around you are selling for less, than the price of your house is going to go down too. Therefore, even if you have no intention of selling your home anytime soon, you could be sitting in your living room simply watching the value of your house go down- and have no control over it whatsoever.

The Shock Felt ‘Round the World

Think back to all those investors who were buying into the mortgage game. Just as the buyers were either losing money or decided not to sell altogether, so too was the case on the other side of things. Banks could no longer sell of pieces of their mortgages to willing investors and those had already bought into the market saw their investment crashing. This is perfectly in line with the investing game; if no one wants to invest or buy stock due to speculation that it won’t make a profit then its value goes down. All those investors weren’t just Americans mind you, people from all over the world began owning a chunk of the American housing market. Trouble is, once everything came crashing down, it affected the entire world.

For example, in Norway, several townships (namely Narvik, Rana, Hemnes, and Hattfjelldal) placed their retirement schemes into investment accounts sold by Terra Securities and Citibank centered the American housing market. One Norwegian newspaper, Aftenposten, estimates the loss to be as much as NOK 4 billion, which is roughly $800 million USD. When the bubble burst, so did some Norwegians’ dreams of a comfortable retirement. In fact, the entire matter has sparked similar debate to the one we’re having in America. Faced with financial devastation brought on by what must be considered an investment gone bad, what role should the government play? In Norway, many find themselves taking similar sides as Americans. Some claim that people are responsible for their own actions and should have considered all the risks before signing up. On the other hand, some claim that the effects of this loss are so great that something must be done less people find themselves completely decimated. In either case, many believe that Terra Securities and Citibank could have been more up front about the risk.

The banks, caught between the investors and the people who were taking out mortgages, began feeling the crunch too. Apparently, when the banks sold the mortgages to investors, they sold them with insurance packages, making the banks somewhat liable for losses. Again, these are not just banks in America. In the north of England, the lending company Northern Rock was on the brink of filing for bankruptcy only to be rescued by the Bank of England at the last possible moment. Northern Rock has since been nationalised. It shows that the same crisis has been devastating for everyday people, big banks, and investors all across the world, all just in different ways.

In America, Wall Street banks are now trying to be more cautious and are starting to hold back on their trades, afraid that there’s more to come (which there might be). Therefore, as investors sell off their shares and money tightens up, things are starting to look pretty bleak. Since this affects so many people, mostly because ordinary folks cannot pay their mortgage, Congress has now passed the Housing and Economic Recovery Act to help ordinary citizens and keep both the Federal National Mortgage Association (Fannie Mae) and the Federal Home Loan Mortgage Corporation (Freddie Mac) from going under. For the average person, it will create new tax credits and incentives for anyone who has not owned a home in the last three years and buys a new home between April 9, 2008 and July 1, 2009. With luck, this will keep Americans buying homes in large numbers and keep the housing market afloat. In addition, current homeowners can receive an addition tax deduction of up to $500 for singles and $1000 for couples for the state and local property taxes they paid in 2008. As for Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac (which together control just more than 43% of the mortgage debt in America), the law will allow both to stay afloat after each saw its stock prices plummet four weeks ago. Both will receive an unlimited credit line, borrowing privileges from the Federal Reserve, and addition government support (specifically an infusion of capital) if needed. By doing all this, the government is hoping to keep the country from free falling into a pretty big recession.

What It All Means

In short, this is not the fault of irresponsible people who took out subprime loans. Instead, subprime loans are the best example how out of control Wall Street got with its lending practices and how willing we all were to buy homes at any cost with any loan. A few “bad apples” did not cause this mess (as I said earlier, only 0.74% of the population was foreclosed on last year), rather the housing crisis, like the dot com bubble in the 1990’s was like any other investing trend gone wrong in that it was over hyped and over speculated with so much activity that the market did not have time to correct itself before things got out of control. When we finally realised how overvalued the housing market was it was too late, there were too many people involved at such a high cost, and there was no good way to soften the blow. Now all we are left with are the pieces of a housing dream turned Humpty Dumpty and we must try to salvage what we can.

Keep in mind, however, that there may be some positives to come from all this. Although Wall Street might have gone too far in terms of what kinds of loans there are and who controls them, it does not mean we should go back to strict fixed rate mortgages. Instead, there is a need for common sense, a little more oversight, and more sound lending practices on Wall Street. Understanding that predicting all the consequences of the housing crisis would have been impossible, in the future when any investment trend starts to reach the level that the housing market did, perhaps there should be more planning should something go wrong.

In terms of what the housing crisis means for the election and what might be done about it by politicians, pleased stay posted for the next entry in Another Window, the Issues 2008: The Economy Part 2.

95 Days to Go

2008-07-31T03:53:00.000-04:00

Howdy to those of you who still check in on this blog! Apologies for not writing near as often as I should. I've been caught up in the rigmarole of grad school and haven't had a moment to share my thoughts. However, I will be posting again soon and right now I figured I'd let you in on some of the things I'm planning for the blog and things I've already done.

First, I've added links to make posts easier to share on the web. At the top right hand corner of each post you'll see a digg button and at the bottom of each post you'll see links to share entries on facebook, reddit, del.icio.us, stumble it, and digg again. Each of these sites is a great way to show other people what you're interested in online and contribute to the online community's information flow. Plus, sharing this particular blog will increase its traffic too, which would be great!

In my further attempts to contribute to Web 2.0, I've figured out RSS feeds (which are so easy that I'm slightly embarrassed that it took me so long). If you use, or want to use, any form of live bookmarks such as iGoogle, My Yahoo!, Live Bookmarks on Firefox, etc, then simply click the orange button (like the one to the right) at the top of the page next to the web address or the RSS box that says "subscribe to" on the left hand menu halfway down the page. It'll automatically update you as to when I post another entry. That way you'll know when I post and won't have to check in only to be disappointed that my lazy self still hasn't written anything. It's also a great way to save some time when you're online, as all your favourite sites will have alerted you to any new material they've posted.

I'm also planning to put more links in my posts, so things that appear like this are links, so click on them.

Second, I'm keen to continue my Issues 2008 series (hence the 95 days to go title). I'd still like to write an entry on the economy, then perhaps climate change, and finally continue with a McCain vs Obama post. I'd also like to do a post wrapping up the series with a bit of reflection and comments on some of the previous posts (particularly the health care post). However, if you've any topics concerning the election, please comment on this post and tell me what you'd like me to write on. I'm always up for some feedback!

Third, I'm going to post some entries similar to the previous format of the blog in which I share with you some of the knowledge I'm picking up from my studies here in Canberra. There's a couple of issues, such as Human Security, the concept of power, etc, that my peers would be quick to understand, but are largely unknown or at least unarticulated in the everyday world. They're things I think you'll be interested in and I look forward to writing on them.

Last, I'm still in the planning stages of the next big step for the blog before the November elections wrap up. It'll take a lot of work and I hope I can actually pull it off, but all I'll say now is that it will involve some unique perspective, other than my own, on the 2008 U.S. election and some video casting.

With all that said, I hope you keep coming back and I'd like to apologise again for not posting often enough. As always, if there's anything you'd like to see on this site let me know!

-Tom

The Torch Reaches Canberra

2008-05-02T00:13:00.000-04:00

All photos courtesy of Torstein Dale

Never in my life have I seen so many Chinese people. Though I suppose that’s not too hard seeing as I grew up on the east coast, nor have I ever actually been to

China

. Yet, last Thursday, I found myself immersed in a Chinese sea, among hundreds of waving red and yellow flags, listening to the voices of thousands chanting slogans in their native tongue. The torch had made its way to Canberra.

I woke up sometime around 9:30 on Thursday morning. The torch wouldn’t be making its way close to my house until about 11, so I figured I had plenty of time. I had a shower, ate some breakfast, and then set out in making my sign. It was a horrible example of how to make a proper protest poster, as it was six pieces of loose leaf paper taped together, but it did the trick. When I was finished, I had 36’x 18’ banner that read “STOP HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATIONS IN CHINA.”

Since the demonstrations in London and Paris, I figured protesting the torch as it made its way to China was not a bad idea. To me, the torch no longer represented the innocent flame of global harmony expressed through sport; instead, it had come to symbolise the world’s willingness to accept one nation’s domestic policies against its own people. Not to say the Olympics have never breached the borders of country whose policies I might not agree with, but this time seems different. When the games were awarded to Beijing in 2001, the International Olympic committee (IOC) specifically noted that the nation needed to “advance the social agenda of China, including human rights.” That was seven years ago and there have been few major changes in China’s policies.

As I said, I thought I’d gotten up in plenty of time to walk the two blocks from my house to watch the torch go by around 11 am, but since I’d dragged my heels a little that morning I left the house with only about ten minutes to spare. Sign in hand, I briskly walked towards Canberra’s main street, Northbourne Ave. About half a block away, I could see a mass of people all walking south towards the city centre. As I got closer I could see they were all Chinese people, the overwhelming majority of them draped in flags, wearing Beijing 2008 t-shirts, some with their faces painted red and yellow, and all chanting something in Chinese. This wasn’t exactly the kind of crowd in front of which I expected to hold my sign.

I had agreed to meet some of my friends at a certain intersection, so I stepped into the stream of red and yellow that was making its way in that direction. As I walked, I saw hundreds of students behind and in front of me, all waving flags and chanting. After about 100 meters, I passed three white students holding a large banner that read “Free Tibet!” Yet, just as I was able to make out the banner, the three students were engulfed by Chinese people screaming and pointing at them. The pro-Tibet supporters seemed ready for this attack as they straightened up and started shouting in English “Free Tibet! Free Tibet!” I tired to stop and watch, but the crowd was pushing onwards and I was quickly forced forward.

After another 50 meters, I saw an older woman, about 60 or so, holding up a small sign that read “Free Tibet!” and calmly saying “One World, One Dream” (I later saw that this was the slogan branded across many of the Chinese students’ t-shirts). Again, I watched as a crowd of about six or seven Chinese surrounded her and started shouting and booing.

When I finally caught up with my friends, they told me the reason everyone was headed towards the city centre was because the torch had already passed. It turned out I’d missed that leg of the rely. They told me that they’d seen it, but it wasn’t that exciting. Instead, they suggested, we should go where the torch was supposed to end its journey through Canberra and see what was happening there. Since I wanted to see something that day, I agreed and we all piled into one of my friend’s car, drove past the city centre (on side streets seeing as all the main thorough fairs were closed), and towards the park with “Stage 88,” the final leg for the torch rely.

I had been to Stage 88 once, on Canberra Day about a month before. It’s nothing special at all, just a big stage set up in the middle of a park near the lake, south of the center of the city. For my Atlanta friends, picture the stage that gets set up in Piedmont Park for Screen on the Green and it’s pretty similar. That day, however, it was like walking into Tiananmen Square. All around me were thousands of Chinese people either waving flags or sitting beneath giant banners written in Chinese. What struck me most was that, just like the route along Northbourne, the overwhelming majority of the Chinese crowd was only 18 to 24 years old.

Just as we worked our way into the crowd, the final runner made his way up to the stage and used his torch to light a large cauldron, making the flame bigger than ever. There was presenter on stage proclaiming how great it was to have the torch in Canberra and what a glorious day it was for Australia. The head of the IOC then made a speech, followed by a local politician. The band then struck up the Australian national anthem, followed by a few Australians mumbling the words in an almost reluctant tone.

Next, said the presenter on stage, was the Chinese national anthem and before she could even finish was what she might have said, she was drown out but the cheers of thousands of Chinese. With the slow roll of a snare drum, the anthem began and with that the crowd took on a life of its own. As if from one body, the hoard of red and yellow slowly drew breath and shouted their anthem in a sole voice louder than any of the previous chants that day. Along with the single echo of thousands voices came fists pummelling the air and fingers pointed at the stage as the ground shook with feet meeting the earth. Memories of Australian pride felt on moments ago were washed away out in the swell of Chinese nationalism, which overtook the crowd in a storm. Everywhere, white Australians looked at each other in unease as the Chinese screamed their anthem to the heavens. This, they seem to say with their eyes, was not a glorious day for Australia, but a day for the Chinese- a day for their national pride; it only happened to be taking place in Canberra.

As the anthem ended and the uproar died down, my friends and I decided to move to a different part of the crowd. We pushed our way past the thousands of others all struggling to go one direction or another and slowly made our way to the back of the mob. As we walked we saw a few lone “Free Tibet!” signs, but they were nothing compared to the Red and Yellow banners that seemed to act as a barrier between earth and sky.

Closer to one of the facility buildings for the park (at this point we were making our way to a bathroom), we came across two white men having a heated debate with several Chinese students. As we got closer, a crowd started to gather around them and the students’ voices grew louder and their words harsher.

“Have you ever even been to China?!” screamed one Chinese woman who was about 18 years old and carried a flag.

“Yeah, you don’t know anything, man!” another student exclaimed as he stuck his index finger in the face of one of the white men, both of whom were trying to remain calm.

“Tibet is part of China! Fuck your signs!” shouted a young Chinese man on the periphery of the crowd. His sentiments were soon echoed by three dozen more of his fellow country people.

As the situation grew more intense, I could see the two white men shifting their weight uneasily in the middle of the crowd. They seemed determined not to give up their ground, but were beginning to wonder what the outcome of this conversation might be. Just as the mob seemed ready to pounce, a few police officers wandered over. Without saying anything, they quietly encircled the crowd, anticipating any sudden outbreaks. I don’t know whether the students noticed their presence or not, but the mob slowly began to dissipate. The two white men looked at each other with relief and then parted ways.

My friends and I stuck around for a few more minutes and then slowly made our way back to the car. Along the way, I asked my friend, who was born and lived in China, but spent a significant portion of her life in Canada, what she thought of all this. She told me that she was glad that so many Chinese people felt proud of their country, but it did worry her how extreme they were getting.

There were rumours that the Chinese embassy had bused in most of the students and I asked if she thought they were being used or brainwashed in some way. Absolutely not, she told me. Although it was almost certain that the embassy had bused most of the Chinese to Canberra, it was because these people wanted to go- and not because they had been brainwashed in any way. The nationalism we were seeing was a grassroots movement coming directly from the students in the crowd, not from the Chinese government.

“When everything else fails these people,” my friend said thinking out loud, “be it the government, their local economy, or whatever else, all they have left is nationalism. All these people aren’t taking this international criticism very well. They think the world is attacking them in way, perhaps even suggesting that China doesn’t deserve the Olympics, which only serves to swell the national pride. Everyday people want to show the world the good parts of China and want to be a respected part of the world. To protest their chance at showing that is seen as an attack.”

Perhaps she was right. For me, I have a problem with China having the Olympics because they blatantly did not clean up their human rights record when told to do so. However, that goes for all of China, not just Tibet. All these “Free Tibet” signs did nothing to protest the Olympics or the problem that China didn’t fulfil its promise. Instead, they touched on a larger issue of whether or not Tibet is part of China. If you want to have that argument, another of my friends claimed, that’s fine, but it’s a bigger issue that should be discussed another time and under different circumstances- it’s not something that can be summed up on a protest banner. By protesting “Free Tibet!,” most of the people weren’t protesting the Olympics, they were questioning China itself, at least that’s how so many of the Chinese people in the crowd that day were seeing it.

Ask yourself, if someone questioned your country, how would you feel? I don’t mean another one of your country people, I mean someone who has never been there and knows only what the newspapers tell them. For me, I face such questions all the time. I’ve been in classes where America bashing is almost popular. Sometimes there’s good reason and sometimes not. Often times, I might even agree with what other people are saying, but there’s a big part of me that says, “Stop. That’s my country and while you may have some points, you’ve got no place to judge how we handle our affairs.”

My Chinese/Canadian friend seemed to agree. “For most of these students and all Chinese,” she told me, “there’s a sense that non-Chinese have no idea what they’re talking about. After all, many of them have never been to China longer than to connect planes in Hong Kong. Even if they have, even if they’ve lived there for ten years, speak the language, and possibly know more about the country than the everyday student, there’s still that feeling of ‘you’re not Chinese, so you just don’t get it.’”

I can certainly understand that feeling. I have told people in the past, “well, you’re not American, you just don’t get it” (funny enough, it mostly happens when we get to talking about police entering your home without a warrant). Let’s also consider the people of Iraq for a moment, how do you think they feel with all these foreigners who don’t even speak their language running around trying to rebuild their country? Even if we’re trying to do some good, there’s still going to be that feeling of resentment because we’re not Iraqi, so we just don’t get it.

This also builds on a bigger issue, which in this particularly long post can only be touched on for a moment. The day after the torch blazed through Canberra was ANZAC Day. ANZAC Day is a day to remember and pay tribute to the soldiers of the Australian, New Zealand Army Corps who were slaughtered (truly slaughtered) at Gallipoli in 1915. There are many traditions that go along with ANZAC Day, but one of them is the dawn service at the War Memorial in Canberra. Each year, thousands of Australians come together before the dawn breaks (meaning that they get there around 5AM at the latest) and pay tribute to those who died on a battlefield thousands of miles away. They sing hymns and the national anthem, listen to a history of the ANZAC’s, place wreaths on the stone of remembrance, and watch as the dawn breaks just behind the War Memorial. The day serves to remind each Australian of the sacrifice those soldiers paid, but more so, the day serves to sew most of the country together, reminding every Australian that he or she is one of many in a nation bigger than one’s self.

Such things reach deep down into our psyches and pull out the best and worst in us. Americans are no strangers to such national pride (e pluribus unum) and while we should often remind ourselves of the scarifies others have made in pursuit of the lives we now lead, lest we forget, we must also be careful to respect the dead, not use their memories as the means by which we bring ourselves together. Instead, we should forge our unity out of an understanding that we are all alike in some way and if nothing else, we are all pitted against the harsh realities of life in similar ways. There may be rich or poor, black or white, young and old, but somewhere across those great divides is the common thread of humanity, the fact that we are all but mere mortals.

Such a sentiment should also extend beyond our borders. It must reach across the oceans and stretch into the hearts of other nations. Instead of hiding behind our modern national identity, so often expressed as “us” against “them,” we must allow our similarities to transcend our local mindset and run along the Great Wall, or over the waters of the Sydney Harbour, or even through the streets of Baghdad. Only then, once we stop seeing each other as one nationality or another, can we start to see each other not for where we came from, but for who we are and what we believe. Does the fact that I’m not Chinese mean that I don’t understand that human rights issues are a problem? No. Does the fact that an Iraqi didn’t grow up in American mean that he or she shouldn’t have an opinion on America’s Middle East policy? No. By changing the way we think, might we one day solve the world’s problems? Yes.

It brings us back to those thousands of Chinese in Canberra last week. Each one of them was bursting with national pride from hosting the Olympics. Perhaps they should not be proud because the games are taking places within their borders; perhaps they should be proud because they are but one of many participants in a great expression of the common thread of humanity expressed through sport.

The 2008 Olympic Torch

2008-04-07T19:10:00.000-04:00

Note: my series on the Issues 2008 will continue, however I’m going to start posting other things in between.

Since the torch began its journey in Greece, its passage has been wrought with protest and has grown into a larger debate: should the nations of the world protest the Olympic Games in Beijing because of China’s treatment of Tibetans?

Yesterday, the 2008 Olympic torch reached London and the blazing flames were nothing compared to the fires of rage burning inside the hearts of thousands of protesters. They came in support of Tibet, to speak out against China’s presence and human rights violations there, and to keep the issue on front pages everywhere. Several were Tibetan or had close to ties to the country. Many of them only wore t-shirts stating their message and chanted slogans, while some carried sings, banners of Tibetan flags.

Others, however, did everything in their power to disrupt the event, stop the torch, and even extinguish its flame. These particular individuals were far from what I would call “peaceful protesters.” They overstepped the accepted boundaries of Western style demonstration by becoming disrespectful and forceful. Just as in America, freedom of speech is an honored right in the United Kingdom. That right, however, goes hand in hand with the idea that while you may voice your opinion, you should never infringe on others’ right to voice theirs. Yesterday in London, some protesters crossed that line and ignored some of the most basic principles of Western democracies.

However, so did the British. Reports from the event say that police went into the crowd and confiscated protesters' pro-Tibet shirts. Throughout the day, thirty five people were arrested for disrupted the event (including a man who tried to grab the torch), however at least eight of the protesters claim they were only chanting slogans. Others who witnessed the events claim that police were overly brutal to anyone who came too close to the sea of officers surrounding the torch.

Watching the events unfold in London, it was easy to settle on either one of two things: either the activists are going too far and the torch rely, a act of unity, is not the place for a demonstration or the further the torch travels towards China under a veil of unity, the more the reputation and the peaceful nature of the Olympics is tarnished. Many politicians seem to fall into the former category, which those in the latter are seeing that as the acceptance of China’s human rights record and the nation's treatment of Tibet.

Personally, I see the predicament the world’s governments are in. China is an important part of the world because of its economy, population, and growing influence on global affairs. Yet, if it were a smaller, less influential nation it is very likely that we would lump it into a category with Zimbabwe, condemning the government’s actions and calling for reform. Therefore, it is fairly clear that because so many of our interests lay within a nation with a questionable human rights record, we are pushing the importance of human rights to the background and allowing our economic instincts to take over. This is an ugly line to start walking, but for the world’s politicians, it would seem they have little choice.

Yet, shouldn’t that line stay in the realm of international affairs? Although China does have a history of what many Westerners consider human rights violations and our politicians are forcing themselves to swallow it, there is no excuse for allowing China’s violations to begin creeping into our society. The West has been championing itself as a protector of the individual and an ally of freedoms for more than half a century, yet scenes like the London torch rely show us that we still have a way to go. In an effort to maintain the peace and keep the torch on track, British authorities overstepped their bounds and began encroaching on the rights of ordinary people. Yes, protesters who physically tried to impede the torch’s progress should have been stopped. But no, people wearing a pro-Tibet t-shirt should not have been bothered. In an effort to condone China’s actions, we cannot modify our own behaviour to the point where we are suiting them more than our own people’s rights.

What’s more perhaps we should reassess our relationships with nations who would hinder the freedoms of their people in ways we’ve not yet dreamed. Though it may seem unfortunate, the 2008 Olympics have now brought this issue to a head and it is time we stopped trying to sweep it under the rug.

In an interview with torch bearer Konnie Huq, the same woman who almost had the torch stolen from her by a protester, she said that she was glad that she lived in a nation where these sorts of protests were allowed to go on. She may be right, but if the British authorities continue to overstep their bounds, things won’t be that way for long.

Edit: 08/04/2008:
And now Paris:

In addition, to all my friends in Canberra: the torch makes its way here on Thrusday, 24/04. If you're in town, I invite you to join me in protest against China's human rights violations. Nothing violent, just a few signs and our presence.

The Issues 2008: The War in Iraq

2008-03-20T14:47:00.000-04:00

It’s time to talk about Iraq.

It’s been five years to the day. Five years with 3,990 American soldier deaths (for a better look, click here), reports of the costs ranging between $600 billion to $3 trillion, and untold Iraqi civilian deaths. All that, and we as Americans don’t know what to do with our war.

The politicians have been talking about it, but it seems like none of them have it right. McCain treats the war like the Bush administration, recently claiming that “defeating Islamic extremists is the challenge of our time. Iraq is this war’s central front” (Foreign Affairs, vol 86, 2007, page 20). Obama and Clinton, on the other hand, both think we can leave and forget about it, all the while neglecting the fact that we started it. The war has become another black and white, red or blue, all or nothing argument in America.

I am one of few people who opposed the war from the beginning. I was so against it that the day it began, I stepped off my intended path of military service and found a new one. I don’t say that to pat myself on the back, I say it because though I knew something was wrong, I like others did not speak up loud enough. Instead, I allowed my voice to get drowned out by cries of WMD’s and September 11 connections. Just as politicians failed America by leading us into a war fought for false pretences, I failed my country by allowing myself to be silenced.

For years, I have tried to regain my voice on this issue. If the conversation turned to war, the room soon knew my opinion. I’ve had conversations with family, friends, teachers, classmates, co-workers, politicians, pastors, strangers, and soldiers about it. I’ve tired so hard to make myself heard that for months I drove around with a huge sign in the back of my car calling for the end to the war and the recall of our American troops. I got the finger and I got the thumbs up for it. I’ve tried to be reasonable and I’ve been obnoxious. I’ve cursed and cried about it. I’ve yelled about it and written letters about it. I’ve started prayer groups for it. I’ve gotten myself in a Masters degree looking for answers on it. In short, I’ve done almost everything I can think of just to do something about the war that I refused to fight.

Yet today, I have fewer answers on the issue than ever before. For the last nine months, I’ve been studying it in the classroom and on the side. Some are starting to label me an amateur expert on this issue, yet I still feel like I’ve only scratched the surface of this war. Normally in this blog, I would try and impart wisdom through a better understanding of the issue, yet I feel there isn’t one. I feel like anyone who says they understand the war is lying. Any presidential candidate who tells us that there’s a comprehensive plan is lying. The war in Iraq is more complicated than any one of the reporters, political pundits, or military analysis knows; more than any of us knows.

Why? Because this Iraqi opera has a thousand different tunes being played all at once by a million seperate instruments led by dozens of directors, composed by one super power, and watched by an audience of international critics. Even if we pick up our instruments and leave, there will still be so many who play on. As horrible as it, this is our opera, America, and the fat lady is no where in sight.

As much as I hate to say this, truly hate it, I think we must stay in Iraq. This isn’t Vietnam. We started this and it is OUR fault that things are this way. It is not the fault of the Iraqis. It is not the fault of Iraq’s Middle East neighbors. It is not the fault of terrorists. It is not the fault of the rest of the international community. All of those are only players in our game. It is one hundred percent the fault of America. We started this nightmare.

No, we did not ask for this. No, this is not what we were told was going to happen. We were lied to, cheated, ignored, and abused in the worst possible way and every person who led us down this path should be stripped of their titles and so intensely berated that generations will pass away before such a thing is ever conceived again. Yet, this is where we find ourselves. To fix this, we will have to give more priceless lives of our American heroes. We will have to spend more money at a time when we have none left to give. We will have to forgo so many American dreams to make this right. I honestly have no other words to convey how bad this is, America: we fucked up and now we have to make it right.

Now what? This is our fault, but it does not mean we must go at it alone. Though we have done it before, we must again and again appeal to the international community for help with Iraq. There will be seemingly endless arguments to follow, but all will be deserved. There will be countries and organisations that turn their backs, backs that never looked so broad, but we will deserve it. We will lose our standing in the international society and will probably never achieve such status again, but we will deserve it. We must beg and plead for forgiveness and assistance until our throats are raw and our lungs are empty. All we can hope for is that someone will hear our cries and offer some assistance in some way. We must take anything that comes, for we are now the beggars. In time and with God’s grace, enough countries, organisations, and individuals will come to our aid so that we can finally turn Iraq into the country that it wants to be. No longer can we tell its people how they must act, that sun has set. For a new dawn, we must allow the Iraqis to choose for themselves, however much we might disagree.

If we do not, we will have gone back on everything that is American. We will have intervened into the heart of individual affairs and then left ordinary innocents to clean up the mess. If we do not, we will have created a society rooted in fear, mistrust, and anarchy that exists apart from our lavish kingdom thousands of miles away.

This is not a black and white political issue. The answer to this war is above politics and lies in a higher realm of human affairs, a realm where we transcend polls, pundits, and partisanship and are finally able to hear the cries from the better angels of our nature. As wretched a song they might sing, we must listen to them, move forward, and do what is right.

The Issues 2008: Gun Control

2008-03-10T10:19:00.000-04:00

I never intended to write this post. In considering which issues to write about in this series, I put gun control low on the list. Not because it’s unimportant, but because it is one of the issues that is so wrapped in argument, emotion, and misinformation that it becomes hard to talk about. Everyone seems to have a different idea of what gun control should be or what the current system does now.

I should warn you from the start that I am pro-gun control, so read this post with a critical eye. Most of my views stem from the fact that I believe, though I have no hard data from an unbiased source to prove it, guns in the home do more harm than good. I also believe guns are the unfortunate result of several other things wrong in our society, but I’ll discuss that later. However, I have known a few gun owners in my life who make me believe that guns in the right hands can be owned and kept responsibly. Such things make me realise that, although I may disagree, perhaps America as a whole should embrace a compromise on the issue. Again, we’ll get to that part later.

Like I said in the beginning, I never intended to write this post. What changed my mind was a shooting that happened earlier this month when a man named Rafael Vazquez was eating at Wendy’s fast food restaurant with his wife and 4 year old son in Florida. When his wife and child got up to leave, Vazquez went back to the counter to get a toy the employees had forgotten to put in his son’s kids’ meal. He was standing at the counter when another man, Alburn Edward Blake, walked out of the bathroom, shot Vazquez, fired the gun at several other patrons, and then killed himself. Authorities believe that Vazquez never knew what was happening and died instantly. He is survived by his wife, his four year old son, and four other children.

It was completely random and a true heartbreaker. While it’s true that people walk into Wendy’s everyday without getting shot, should we not wonder what we can learn from the man who did not? Should we not consider the lessons taught at Virginia Tech, North Illinios University, and an Amish schoolhouse?

Let us ask ourselves what would have happened if one of the patrons at that Florida Wendy’s had been armed. Could someone have stopped the violence? Perhaps. Perhaps someone could have been quick enough to react in that situation. Perhaps someone could have shot the shooter before he injured more. Perhaps something could have been done. Perhaps not.

In all honesty, what would a responsible gun owner have been able to do in a situation that played out in less than thirty seconds? The shooter took his own life, meaning that someone else pointing a gun at him probably would not be stopped him. Others argue the same thing for Virginia Tech; what would have happened if other students were armed and able to stop Seung-Hui Cho? Personally, I think it would have made things worse. Students would have been caught between a mentally unstable man with guns vs. responsible gun owners hunting him down. I think it might have looked like something out of the old west, with shoot first and ask questions later.

To be fair to the gun advocates, they argue that if Cho or other killers had known that others had guns, they might not have committed such terrible crimes. I see their point, but it almost seems like an arms build up on the individual level; once more people start carrying guns, even more people will get guns just because they think everyone else has one. Pretty soon, we’re all at school, work, or Starbucks sitting on edge, just waiting for something to happen. It doesn’t seem like a good way to live. Maybe you don’t agree, but I just can’t bring myself to believe that more weapons makes the world a safer place.

Yet, it certainly doesn’t seem like a good idea to ban handguns tomorrow. First off, there’s the second amendment. Some think it’s outdated and should simply be changed, but I believe that would set a precedent which would take us towards a far too dangerous future. Secondly, there’s the argument that banning handguns will only push the sale of arms underground and make things worse. While I normally choose to air on the side of optimism, I have to admit that the argument has merit. A full out handgun ban in America in the next five years would probably not be effective.

Where does that leave us? Like other issues, maybe we should start looking at the bigger picture. Why is there so much gun violence in America? Why do we seem so angry or so ready to grab a gun? Is it true that we see too much violence in the media and are slowly becoming accustomed to it? Perhaps we all have a Jack Bauer complex and feel the need not only for a cell phone that works miles underground, but for a gun. In addition, though I am a big fan of LOST, I still find it ironic that the writers made sure the characters found guns on a desert island. It seems that guns have permeated our culture to the point where even an island in the south Pacific isn’t safe. Whether by our own hands or by our television sets, we let guns into our homes everyday.

It also seems that America is angrier than any other country I’ve been to. We seem more on edge and distrustful of our neighbors. We seem to further remove ourselves from our society everyday by shutting ourselves into cars, cubicles, and gated communities. Perhaps we’re quick to draw a gun because we’ve stopped trusting one another to make the right decisions or we simply feel so isolated that we feel the need to inflict harm on others in a fast food restaurant before killing ourselves. Whatever the reason, we are facing problems in society that are bigger than bullets.

What then, are we to do? Leonard Pitts, perhaps America’s greatest columnist, recently summed up the gun debate by saying “it has always been defined by its most extreme voices, its most uncompromising, ideologically pure voices.” He's correct. He also went onto to call for a compromise and recognition from both sides. On one side, people must recognise that there are normal people who enjoy guns and are able to maintain them responsibly. It would also help if the other side would concede that an assault rifle may be a bit unnecessary. Both sides should also find common ground, said Pitts. “Manufacturers who flood poor, violence-prone neighborhoods with cheap handguns ought to be held accountable” and “guys who sell guns from the trunks of their cars are nobody's friend.” Again, he’s all too right.

So, let’s do just that- find a compromise on the issue. Just as there are so many who do not want to live in a country where everyone has a gun strapped to their waist, there are plenty too who do not want to live in an America that takes away their right to own a weapon. Can we begin to move forward from this deadlock? Can we start to register more guns, for everyone’s protection, not just in an attempt to isolate gun owners? Can we recognise that the way Jack Bauer uses a gun is not the right way? Let’s get back into the folds of our American society so that we trust each other again and are there correct the mistakes of men like Alburn Edward Blake. In the absence of his father, let’s all make the world a better place for Rafael Vazquez’s son.

The Issues 2008: Healthcare

2008-02-11T16:09:00.000-05:00

First let me say that I’m sorry this entry took so long. Here I was promising to do a series on the Issues in ’08 (a promise I’ll still going to keep), yet I haven’t been keeping regular posts. Some of it is because I’m temporarily back home in Atlanta, which means catching up with old friends and spending as much quality time as possible with my family, but it's also because of the amount of research I had to put into this particular entry. Armed with Google searches and know-how when it comes to sifting through hundreds of pages of information, I went out looking for some specific figures and facts on healthcare. My search took me through the American census records, statistics from the World Health Organisation, several private medical insurance homepages, and, as always, the occasional Wikipedia page (the latter obviously had to be verified by reliable sources, but honestly, who doesn’t like Wikipedia?). I found lots of numbers and lots of interesting information, all which I hope to impart to you. Hopefully, this entry will explain my findings easily so that you won’t get as confused as I sometimes was.

In this election, there’s a lot of talk about the future of America’s healthcare system. All the candidates seem to have a plan of their own and, while some are not so different from others, they range from government provided healthcare to completely private healthcare plans. Personally, I think it is the most important issue of this year’s election, for reasons I’ll get into later. I also think that, like so many other issues, it is immensely complicated and I can’t even begin to explain it all or how it got that way. Instead, all I can do is present you with some basic facts (unfortunately in this case, they come in the form of numbers) and then tell you what I think.

Let’s start with the fact that today in the United States, there are 45.8 million people without health insurance (according to the U.S. Census Bureau). That’s more people than the population of California, Florida, or New York State; it’s nearly double the combined populations of America’s 10 biggest cities. What’s more, that number continues to rise each year.

Those with health insurance pay an average of $3,695 per year if they’re single and those with a family pay about $9,950 annually, according to the Kaiser Family Foundation. In addition, says the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, more than 85% of insured people still have out-of-pocket health costs each year, the average expense being about $255 per family. The only good news is that Americans pay smaller out of pocket expenses than any other nation relying on private healthcare, save South Africa (according to the World Health Organisation). Yet even so, this means that each year the majority of unmarried Americans with no dependents pay about $3,950 in insurance premiums and the average American family household pays around $10,205. On the national level, that’s about $618.2 billion going towards insurance premiums every year. The average family income was $70,700 in 2006 (that’s the average mind you, not the middle income, which is closer to $48,000). That means most families are spending at least 14.4% of their income on health costs- and that doesn’t include what the government withholds for Medicare and Medicaid.

Really what all those numbers mean is that we as individuals spend a good bit of our own money trying to stay healthy. In addition to that $618.2 billion, however, we’ve also got a government footing a huge medical bill. According to the World Health Organisation, the American government ranks second in the world when it comes to spending the highest percentage of total government expenditure on healthcare (Switzerland is first, but not by much). While our government spends about 18.5% of its overall expenditures on healthcare, countries like Norway, Sweden, France, the United Kingdom, Germany, Australia, Chile, Argentina, and Japan all spend between 12.7% to 17.6% - and they all have universal health coverage.

All told, the U.S. government spent $653.3 billion caring for people in 2006, according to the Federal Budget of that same year. That’s $2,094 per American. Japan, the nation with the third strongest economy and a type of universal healthcare system, spent $1,900 per person in 2006. Therefore, the government is spending a higher percentage on healthcare than other countries, including countries that do not rely on private insurance markets, and we’re still spending that $618.2 billion of our own money each year to stay healthy.

Now let’s take a moment. If our government’s healthcare spending is already exceeding the healthcare spending (proportionally and literally) of nearly every other country in the world and people in those countries don’t even have to pay insurance premiums, why are we spending all this money? Whatever side of the healthcare debate you agree with, you have to acknowledge that, either because of government spending or individuals paying insurance companies, Americans should be sick when we think of how much we are really paying for healthcare. If nothing else, I think we can all agree that somewhere, the system is in need of some serious change.

If you’ve heard many of my other views in the past, you may think that I’m about to tell you government sponsored healthcare, like that of many European countries, is the way to go. After all, many of these nations provide good health coverage and their citizens rarely, if ever, see large healthcare bills when they get sick. Personally, I’ve lived in two countries like this and it seems to work well. One night in Britain, I enjoyed an ambulance ride, a bed for eight hours, a decent meal at the hospital, a doctor’s visit, and prescription drugs all for nothing - no cost to me at all, and I’m not even British. In Norway, I had an American friend who needed a CAT Scan. The doctors charged her $125 and apologised for the large bill. Clearly, it works in these countries, but would it work for America?

I don’t think so. Having all hospitals run by the government instead of operating like businesses is almost un-American. The idea behind our current hospital system is that each is allowed to operate for profit and that free market interaction generates competition with other hospitals. Because of this, hospitals must continue to innovate, provide excellent care, and operate efficiently. It’s guiding principle behind America’s free market system.

There’s also the issue raised by many opposed to government-controlled healthcare: anything the government touches will become overly bureaucratic and mismanaged. While our current system may not be the best, these opponents say, it is far better than the alternative. They may have point. Looking back to the example of Britain, a series of interviews with employees in the National Health Service done by The Guardian, showed the number one complaint was that too many politicians used the healthcare system as a political tool. The system the U.K. relies on is becoming a political problem and while the Parliament tries to sort it out, quality care is declining and wait times for doctors are increasing. As a result, more Brits are turning to private care – a system with which Americans are all too familiar.

The trouble is that people will always need healthcare and, under the current American system, too many are unable to receive it or unable to afford quality care. Even if someone doesn’t fall into either of those categories, it seems unfair that they should have to pay so much to be healthy. If government controlled health services are not the answer, then what is? Let me put forth a modest idea and fell free to critique it as you like: perhaps we should try a system of national insurance. Instead of paying private insurance companies to provide the means making health services affordable, the government should provide the insurance.

It sounds insane, I know and although it’s far from a perfect plan, it’s at least something new on the table. If we eliminate the insurance companies and provide universal coverage for people, then they’ll be free to choose their doctors, hospitals, and services. The medical industry will remain untouched by government hands, save some necessary regulations to make sure that the medical field doesn’t get out of control, and in essence, such regulations are already in place. For most Americans, the only thing that would change is the name of their insurance provider would be “U.S. government” instead of “XYZ company”. We’d pay into the plan through taxes and, instead of having them go into the black hole of Medicare and Medicaid, they’d be funnelled back to all Americans in the form of medical insurance. Under such a plan, each American could opt for top coverage and have the insurance to pay for it. In addition, hospitals would be forced to provide top of the line services because, if they don’t, then Americans can take their insurance to another doctor or hospital.

In addition to a new form of coverage, we as a nation need to question just what exactly is going on in the healthcare industry and understand that part of the problems there stem from larger problems we face elsewhere. For example, when we choose to award doctors with huge salaries as compensation for the almost unimaginable debt they incurred during medical school and residency, we are driving up the cost of medicine. Does a doctor deserve to be well paid? Yes, but there must be a balance between the doctor’s salary and what the patients are forced to pay. Perhaps if we mend other areas of our society, such as education debt, than we can find ways to improve our healthcare system. The same goes for hyper inflated costs of medical lawsuits. A national insurance will certainly not solve all our woes, as some of these problems span more than one branch of our society, but it's a start.

Again, I understand the idea of entrusting the government with large sums makes everyone uneasy, but consider one more time how much we’re already giving in addition to how much we pay to private companies. With a national insurance, we could easily pay the same amount of money we already do, but avoid getting jerked around by insurance companies trying to make a profit and we could insurance every last American.

What’s more, as a nation, should we not view healthcare as a basic human right? After all, we are guaranteed the right to life and the right to pursue our own happiness. If we are sick, we are hardly in a position to take advantage of either of those. By maintaining a healthy nation, we are maintaining our basic American way of life.

The Issues 2008: Abortion

2008-01-20T17:28:00.000-05:00

For the first in the series, I figured I’d tackle a big one. The big A word to be precise. As the argument enters its 35^th year since the decision of Roe v. Wade, the landmark Supreme Court case which legalised abortion in all cases up until the point when the fetus was considered “viable” (generally between 24 and 28 weeks, but now most abortions do not occur after 18 weeks), we seem no closer to narrowing the gap between the two opposing sides. Many in the United States still wish to see Roe v. Wade overturned, thus making most abortions illegal. Others continue to fight for abortion rights, all the while asking why they are fighting a war that seemed won thirty five years ago. Supporters on both sides hold fast to their convictions, which in itself should be commended, but the rest of us are caught in the middle and, in this case, there seems to be no clear compromise.

Yet, how does abortion affect us? Does it even have a major impact on Americans- enough to warrant so much discussion in our homes, churches, government, schools, and streets? Personally, I thought that it was nearly a non-issue. Yes, I thought, some women are faced with the decision as to whether or not to have an abortion, but really the vast majority of America is not affected. I was wrong.

It turns out that “at least half of American women will experience an unintended pregnancy by age 45, and, at current rates, about one-third will have had an abortion” (all my facts are coming from the Guttmacher Institute where abortion rates are recorded and analysed; their figures come from data, not a bias, and can be found at here). In other words, “about two out of every 100 women aged 15–44 have an abortion; 47% of them have had at least one previous abortion.” In addition, “women who have never married obtain two-thirds of all abortions and about 60% of abortions are obtained by women who have one or more children.”

It seems that abortion affects more people than I thought. If half of American women experience an unintended pregnancy, then roughly a quarter of Americans are going to face a decision as to whether or not to have an abortion (not to mention the fact that it is always a potential possibility for any woman). What’s more, if one-third of American women do choose to do so (as the figures above say), then roughly 17% of Americans will have an abortion in their lifetime. Another hot issue in the 2008 election is healthcare, but only 16% of Americans lack health insurance. I certainly believe healthcare warrants discussion in political campaigns, but if more Americans are affected by abortion, then abortion too certainly deserves discussion and cannot be dismissed as a non-issue.

Though I can agree that it is an issue, why has it come down to this? Why aren’t we asking the broader question of why women are facing the choice of abortion? Should we not provide better health education, more available forms of contraception, and a better society so that those ill equipped to handle the responsibilities of a child do not have to resort to this? Even the president of Planned Parenthood supports these things. By educating people about sex and allowing them to make informed decisions in safe environments, we can reduce the numbers of abortions preformed every year and have something both sides can support.

Despite this, we cannot avoid the looming question of whether or not the practice of abortion is right. I wish it was as simple as Kang the cartoon alien put it, “Abortions for some, miniature American flags for all!”, but unfortunately there is no way to avoid the logic of both sides.

Many of those on one side of the issue, those commonly called “pro-life”, say that life begins at conception. The moment the sperm meets the egg, there is life growing inside the womb; any efforts to end that life constitute murder.

People on the other side of the spectrum, the ones referred to as “pro-choice”, claim that it is too difficult to pinpoint when life begins and therefore, laws should not be made based on guessing. What it comes down to, according to this side, is each individual woman’s decision as to whether or not she wants to have a child after the point of conception.

The trouble is that most people can easily fall on both sides of this logic. Most people agree that murder, as in one living being killing another, is wrong. It’s a fairly basic law accepted by the majority of societies that you can’t go around killing people. However, most of us also think laws that hinder our own personal choices and decisions are wrong and not what government is for. After all, the constitution is based on protecting us from such a government. Therefore, it would seem that anyone could simultaneously believe that murder and government encroachment are both wrong. So, when it comes to abortion, who’s right?

When I think about this, I constantly come back to an opinion piece I read in The Guardian a few years ago. Written by a British woman, it described her trek across America researching our perspectives on abortion. She was fascinated that we are still so hung up on it, while it has been legal in her country (save Northern Ireland) for forty years and has caused little consternation. In the end, she concluded that she understood the sentiments behind those would label abortion as murder. However, she still wasn’t convinced, as there still is no scientific way to pinpoint exactly when life begins. Because of this, and as uncomfortable as it made her, she concluded that abortion should be available to women so they can decide for themselves.

Personally, I am inclined to agree. I think about it as a Christian, yet I have no idea what Jesus would say about this. In the end, I believe that rather than subject an entire population to one law based on an educated guess, it is better to allow women to exercise their own free will and choose for themselves. If you believe that abortion is wrong, than you should not have one. But, if there’s any woman out there with just the slightest sentiment that abortion is not, in fact, a moral sin, than she deserves the freedom to act on her own judgment. It makes me very uncomfortable that one day, when faced with my judgment, God may tell me that abortion is the same as killing and that I provided the means to purge the innocent. However, given the information I have before me, I will continue to go forward believing that any woman who chooses to have an abortion is not committing murder and that she is only exercising her right to privacy, dignity, and equal treatment under the law. America is based on a freedom that allows everyone to pursue their personal choices and if that choice includes the decision to have an abortion, than I will not stand in any woman’s way.

The Issues 2008

2008-01-20T17:25:00.000-05:00

The funny thing about American elections is that they are talked about all over the world. In Oslo, Norwegians follow the campaigns of Barrack Obama or Rudy Giuliani. In Britain, people would ask me what I thought about Hillary Clinton’s ties to Washington or John McCain’s efforts at campaign finance reform. From Al Jazeera to The Age in Melbourne, The Guardian to the Guadalajara Reporter in Mexico, if one of the candidates sneezes, it makes news. As I’ve said before, the world revolves around Washington these days and everyone cares what goes on there, be it for better or worse. Sometimes I think the rest of the world is holding its breath during this election more than we Americans are.

Part of all this makes me feel awful because of the other side of this political coin. How many of us knew the major players in latest Australian election? What about Ireland’s stance on abortion? Had that many of us even heard the name Benazir Bhutto before three weeks ago? I personally know a little here and there since I’m studying these things, but I still fall short more often than not. At times, it’s downright embarrassing that I and other Americans don’t know these things.

What’s more, sometimes we know even less about America than we care to admit. My sister recently forced me to admit that I didn’t know certain details of my own country’s most important establishments. She asked me who the only female supreme court justice is and I had to tell her I had no idea (Ruth Bader Ginsburg, by the way). Not only did I receive a stern lecture from her for not paying more attention, I was also wholly embarrassed since I considered myself to be “informed”.

Therefore, I’ve decided to do a series of blogs on “the issues” in 2008. Parts of each entry will give a brief background on the topic and then I’ll tell you my own personal opinion. Hopefully, this can provide those you with some interesting insights into what should be done for the future of our America. If nothing else, it will at least stir up your own sentiments, so that you can vote based on your own beliefs. What’s more, I hope that you are open to the ideas presented here. Whenever I read or hear a well structured argument, I’ll at least let it sit for a minute or two before I decide if I agree or not. Like I’ve tried to do in the past, I won’t come out and attack anyone’s intelligence for believing otherwise. Rather, I encourage anyone with opposing beliefs to comment as to why. I hope this works out and if you have any issues you’d particularly like to read about, feel free to comment (remember that you don’t have to a blogger account to comment; you can even comment anonymously).

Remember too, that above all else, it is important to make your voice heard and that no one can silence whatever opinions you have- they are yours and just as important as anyone else’s. It is especially important this year as we go into the elections, both primaries and the November election, that you make your voice heard with your vote.

Just a Quick Note

2007-12-01T12:30:00.001-05:00

Do you remember the time that the guy who runs this blog didn't update it for a while? Yeah, me too. That guy needs to get with it.

Hi everyone! Lately, I've been getting a few emails, facebook messages, and comments from people telling me how much they enjoy reading "Another Window" and how I need to post more often. Let me first say "Thank you" a thousand times over! For a while there I thought only my mom and my sister were reading this (and while I love them, I could tell them all this over Skype much easier), so it's great to hear that people are reading and enjoying. What's more is that every comment I've gotten back so far has been positive in some way which means a lot to me. Perhaps the best was one I got from a girl who graduated high school with me saying that although she didn't agree with everything I've said, she respected the way I approach each topic. That means a lot to me because I write all this to express how I personally feel and maybe shed some new light on the topic. However, if people disagree, I want them to feel that they can write to me and express their views without being ridiculed.

As for posting more often, I will certainly do so in the near future, however, right now I'm caught up in exams and just finished a massive essay on a very boring topic. I've got a few ideas rolling around my head that I've jotted down, but have yet to flesh them out into a full fledged posts. I think by the week before Christmas, I should have one or two things up and will then continue in full force around the second week of January.

What's more, I've decided to continue this blog after I leave Oslo in the middle of December. I'll be moving back to Atlanta for a few weeks and then moving to Canberra in mid February, so I think that while the peace and conflict studies portion of my degree may have ended, my need to share what I'm learning and express my thoughts will continue.

So thank you again for reading and I hope you'll keep visiting! As always, feel free to leave comments or message me, even if I don't know you. Talk to you soon!

-Tom

Let's Talk About Gas Prices

2007-11-14T18:41:00.000-05:00

Lately, seemingly every email, every facebook group invite, every myspace survey (oh, the amazing ways I spend my free time), and most news headlines have mentioned something about the skyrocketing price of gasoline. There are a few ideas floating around the wonderful world of the internet about how to stop these painful prices. One, which was apparently suggested by a former Coke executive (whom I don’t know if I would trust even if this were his idea), tells us if we boycott Exxon Mobile, prices will go down because the largest supplier of gasoline will be forced to lower its prices in order to entice customers back to their pumps. Once Exxon Mobile lowers its prices, the idea suggests, the other companies will be forced to follow suit. Another idea suggests that if we boycott all gas stations for one day, they’ll take such hit that they’ll be forced to lower gas prices.

I would love to believe these things were possible. However, a little Google recon tells me otherwise. After wading through the clearly biased sites, I found a few reputable sites (The NY Times, NPR [you can decide if you think they’re biased or not], NBC, BBC, CNN, etc) that told me that such ideas wouldn’t work the way we want them to. One suggested that if we stop buying from Exxon Mobile, the other suppliers would be so burdened by the increase at their own pumps that they’d be forced to buy some of Exxon’s stock (something gas companies actually do already). Hence, Exxon would be selling its gasoline one way or another. As for the one day boycott, many pointed that people would only buy gas the day before or the day after in order to compensate and therefore gas companies wouldn’t be too affected by a one day boycott. So what can we really do about gas prices? Better yet, why are gas prices so high? Better still, why am I standing on my soapbox asking you all this? After all, I’m just some poor student who is currently biking to and from school everyday. Well, it turns out this has a lot more to do with international affairs that you might have thought.

Let’s start with why gas prices are so high. Unfortunately, there are some reasons that are simply out of Americans’ control. For example, China and India have become major consumers of oil in the last few decades and, as these Asian giants continue to industrialise, they’re only going to need more of it. While the price of oil doesn’t generally follow tradition supply and demand economics, there is no getting around the fact that a higher demand means that countries and companies must start looking anywhere and everywhere for oil. Unfortunately, the cost of that search will be passed onto the consumer. There’s also speculation that oil reserves are running out altogether since the Earth has only a limited amount.

In addition to the increased demand, there are countries like Venezuela that are using oil revenues to fund all sorts of domestic projects they’d otherwise be unable to afford. Regardless of how you feel about Hugo Chavez, it’s a fact that he supports raising the price of oil so that more money can be pumped into the Venezuelan economy. Unless we do something drastic, and probably illegal, Americans can do nothing to stop such efforts to increase oil’s price. This doesn’t necessarily make Chavez “the bad guy”, rather he’s using a highly valued export to provide his country with money it needs; something many leaders have done in the past and the present.

How then are Americans responsible when it comes to paying the price at the pump? For starters, there’s the issue of how commodities are bought and sold. Before you fall asleep from just thought of commodity trading, let me promise you that I’ll try and make this part brief. Remember Enron? It turns out that even though the company went kaput, its legacy lives on. Enron made most of its money by the electronic trading of energy commodities, including oil. This means that people can buy energy commodities like some people buy stock, all electronically. You hold onto a stock long enough hoping that its price will go up and when it does, you sell it for a big profit. When it comes to energy commodities, picture buying up oil contracts instead of buying stocks. Traders hope that the price of oil will go up so that they can sell it at a better price. Enron made a fortune by doing its business electronically since, if nothing else, less paper means more money (and also makes for less shredding). Electronic trading also means that more people can get into the market since it is more accessible. With more people come more opportunities and fewer risks; a buyer will always find a seller, perhaps next door, perhaps in the next hemisphere.

As it turns out there was another reason for Enron’s success in electronic commodity trades- the U.S. government has yet to regulate such activities. Hence, people can buy as much energy as they want this way. Electronic commodity trading has exploded in the last few years and the increased buying and selling of oil is believed to have raised the price of oil by $20 to $25 USD per barrel. You can then guess who’s paying the price while these traders get rich. That’s right- we are. So far, the U.S. government has yet to implement any polices that would curb these activities.

Unfortunately, there’s still more to the petroleum puzzle and this last bit is a two-parter. Many news sources, politicians, media commentators, and even OPEC itself have cited instability in oil producing countries as a reason for rising oil prices. When such countries might not be able to provide oil has they have in the past, the price of oil goes up because there’s speculation that the supply is going to decrease. In some countries, such as Nigeria, civil unrest has impeded the export of oil and prices have gone up. In other cases, there have been outside factors that have presented unstable conditions. I’m sure we can all think of the biggest example: Iraq.

The War in Iraq has not given us the access to the Middle East’s oil like some had hoped. In fact, it has done quite the opposite. Because of the instability brought on by the U.S. led invasion, Iraq is now in a state of civil war that has no end in site. We all know this and so do the people who fix the price of oil. Since the war began, we have seen an increase in the price of gas rise three fold. You can call this liberal propaganda if you like, but step back for a moment and you’ll realise it’s true.

Recently, the international community’s assertions about invading Iran have also led to an increase in oil prices. Again, when an oil producing region is unstable or might become unstable, the price will go up. By using hard nose diplomacy and flexing our muscles in the Iran situation, we are doing nothing more than putting fear into the people who help control the prices at the pump.

What’s more, the War on Terror is not only responsible for creating unstable conditions in the Middle East, it has also caused OPEC to raise prices for another reason- the weakening value of the American dollar. To date, President Bush has requested $800 billion to fund the war and most of that money is borrowed. Initially, Bush never thought Iraq would turn out like this, so his administration didn’t plan on paying much more than $50 billion for Operation Iraqi Freedom. Unfortunately, the administration's estimates were well off and we’re now stuck scrambling for money wherever we can find it. As we spend more on the war, we as a nation plunge further into debt. As that debt increases, the value of the dollar plummets. Though there are other factors that have contributed to weakening our currency, our debt is a major factor and one which we can easily do something about. The weakening dollar was the reason for OPEC’s latest price increase and that means prices in USD’s must go up (barrels of oil are priced in USD’s). What’s worse is that OPEC has been talking for some time about switching their pricing to euros. If oil is priced in euros instead of dollars, it will further undermine the dollar and continue to drive up prices of gas in America.

It would also seem that we are not alone in high gas prices; in fact we seem to have it great compared to others. In Norway, they’re paying roughly $8.60 a gallon (and they have their own oil!). I was in Britain earlier this week and they’re paying somewhere around $7.67 a gallon (and that’s in northern England; imagine what it is in London). My Australian friends tell me that it’s about $4.21 USD a gallon down under, but was half that just eight years ago. It would seem that we’re not the only ones who are suffering through this, but what’s interesting is that the price of our gas does seem to be increasing faster than everyone else’s. When I lived in Britain, it was about £0.79 per litre, now it’s risen 20p to £0.99; that’s only a 25% increase over two years. Compare that to our 56% increase in the same amount of time and you begin to see that, although we pay less now, our gas prices are climbing much faster than those in other countries.

While it may seem like a lot of this is well out of our control, it’s important to remember that any problem it can be fixed; some problems are just bigger than others. In this case, it will take a lot of change of the federal government level. First off, start writing your members of Congress about making laws that regulate electronic commodity trading (you can find info on how to write Congress on the left hand side of this page, under the links). Senator Carl Levin (D- Michigan) is a big advocate of such legislation, so feel free to Google him. If we can regulate such trading, we might be able to get back $20 to $25 per barrel, which would mean that prices at the pump could decrease by $0.75 per gallon or so.

We also need to start speaking up about this war and how much it is costing us. People like Saddam Hussein shouldn’t be ignored so that we can save a few bucks, but we could certainly plan things better so that if, God forbid, we ever do something like this again, it doesn’t turn the whole region up side down. I certainly don’t have a solution to end the war tomorrow, but something must be done to curb our spending. If the trend continues, not only will we not be able to afford gas, but the dollar will drop so low, that we’ll stop being able to afford a whole lot of other things too.

Most importantly, the only way to do something about gas prices thinning our wallets is to get away from our reliance on oil. We’ve heard it a thousand times, but we still aren’t listening! While the demand for SUV’s is down and people are now seeking vehicles with better gas mileage, we are still a long way from getting out from the grips of oil. Here are some things we can do:

Start demanding better public transportation in your town or better yet, start using the existing transit.

Try walking wherever you’re going, even if it’s the grocery store. I have a good friend who rarely drives anymore simply because he walks almost everywhere. If he has to drive somewhere, he almost always goes with someone else so that both people are benefiting from the same trip. He’s saved loads on gasoline and seems to love walking more than he ever liked driving.

Try supporting local businesses whenever possible. Many products from local merchants come from the nearby area. The closer the product to the merchant, the less distance it has to travel; less distance equals less fuel used.

Carpool. Carpool. Carpool.

When you do get somewhere, park and start walking. Don’t just move the car from one side of the parking lot to the other when you want to go to a different store. And while you’re at it, park at the first spot you find and don’t do laps looking for a closer one.

Park and get out at fast food restaurants and banks; drive-throughs only burn up gas as you idle.

Think about getting a car with better gas mileage. In fact, consider getting a scooter if it’s viable. Another good friend of mine has one and gets at least double the mileage of what he did when he drove a car.

Keep your car finely tuned so that it isn’t wasting gas.

Again we've all heard this stuff before, but have yet to listen. Just as necessity is the mother of invention, convenience is the proud parent of apathy. When will gas prices become so inconvenient that we actually start doing something?

Women's Issues

2007-11-13T13:06:00.000-05:00

Many people think that gender studies is really a guise for the proliferation of feminist thought and, no matter how you feel about the concept of feminism, it does seem to be true that most gender related courses revolve around of the role of women in the world. The gender course my group is taking, aptly named “Gender and Conflict”, is no exception. We’ve had ten sessions now and have discussed the role of women, or lack thereof, in conflict and peacebuilding far more than we’ve considered the role of men. Statistically (because, at heart, don’t we all just love good numerical representation? Perhaps I should draw a chart…), we have only spent one session discussing the masculine perspective, which means that nine times out of ten, we’re talking about women.

While I disagree that the word "gender" should become synonymous with women, I do believe that a focus on women is a good thing, at least for now. Much like African American studies at colleges in the States, women’s studies needs and deserves its own classes since the issue has been ignored for so long. Honestly, which women did you learn about in high school; Susan B. Anthony, Harriet Beecher Stowe (but only for Black History month), or maybe Clara Barton? By giving classes on the study of women, today’s students can hopefully learn the perspective and the role of females in the past and in the present, something rarely found in the mainstream classes.

As a student of History during my undergraduate degree, I took a variety of such mainstream courses, ranging from “America in the 1960’s” to “Early Modern Thought and Culture” (the latter was a class that focused on the historical writings following the Renaissance. Being the amazing dork that I am, I enjoyed the class a lot.). My favourite of all the classes I ever took while doing my Bachelors was called “the Age of Extremes,” which traced the paths of popular ideologies in the 20^th century. We sometimes called it the “isms” class because it talked about things like liberalism, communism, socialism, fascism, and so on. The instructor, Dan Jackson, was nothing short of amazing. However, he did one thing that made me, as a feminist, cringe. A little more than halfway through the year long course, we came to a session focusing on the women’s movement. Dan began the class, which consisted of mostly men, by saying that this was the token session intended to address women’s issues. He then proceeded to fumble through the lecture and failed to accurately answer any of our questions. Mind you, I normally loved this professor because his teaching style was usually the exact opposite; Dan normally spoke so well and knew so much that you began to wonder if he had actually lived the events he was describing. But, when it came to women, he fell right in with most historians, as he had no idea how to describe their historical role. It is because of things like this that we desperately need courses focused on the study of women’s issues, so that their history might catch up to the common historian.

However, I believe that we must see most women’s studies courses as only temporary in the long term. We tell ourselves that history and international affairs must incorporate all aspects of our culture, not just those shaped by American and European males, in order to accurately teach the modern world to the common student. American and European men are certainly not the majority of the global population, so why must they be in our studies? Traditionally, it was they who had the power to pen the events of our society, but as that changes, so must our studies. As we progress, we must adopt the experience of women, along with other groups who have been ignored for so long, into the classroom so that figures like Catherine the Great stand shoulder to shoulder with Abraham Lincoln and Winston Churchill.

With that in mind, we do need to recognise that women can’t always be lumped in with everyone else; there are differences between men and women, particularly in the present. Some issues in today’s world cannot be solved if we avoid addressing the problems only women generally tend to face. For example, in many countries, there are “refugee camps” in which people displaced by conflict or brutal governments can take shelter. The camps tend to be a cluster of buildings that represent a community of sorts; there’s a dining hall, buildings that house people, etc. Several people involved in organising and up keeping these camps have noted the importance of addressing the specific needs of women. In one instance, female refugees were being raped on their way to the bathroom. Some believed that if more and brighter lights were installed in the buildings, men would be deterred or at least less likely to surprise potential rape victims and perhaps give the the women a chance to escape from their attacker. It worked; once the lights were installed, the number of rapes decreased. Since such considerations had been overlooked while the camp was being built, the safety of many refugees, if not the majority, was ignored. No woman should have to endure the sheer horror and inhumanity that is rape, especially not when it could have been so easily avoided. Unfortunately, there will still be the threat of rape in these camps and other places, but if the needs of women are at least addressed, we can hopefully decrease the likelihood of it happening.

More importantly, we must recognise that women have a much greater role to play in international affairs than always being the victim- women can just as easily be warriors. In many countries, females have broken from their traditional roles and become soldiers in conflict. In some Latin American civil wars, female combatants have made up 30% of the fighters. However, once the conflict ended, many of these former fighters claimed that they were forced back into their traditional roles, like caring for the home and raising the children. It seems that we can overlook a woman’s gender when it’s needed, but when it comes time to get back to the reality of living, women’s issues are again ignored.

From a peacebuilding perspective, we need more of a focus on the experience and role of women or we risk ignoring potentially half of those whom we wish to help. Many people involved in post conflict reconstruction claim that, in the beginning, women's issues are among the most important issues that need to be solved. However, as the process goes on, women's problems seem to get pushed farther and farther back. Are other issues important? Yes, but should some issues overshadow women to the point that they are ignored? No.

Most of us, however, will not be involved in some type of peacebuilding operation (after all, isn't that what God made Norwegians for?), but we could still do well to better incorporate the role and experiences of women into our daily lives. It’s important to remember that the experience of our neighbours, both at home and abroad, might be different than our own. When faced with a problem, it will help us all to remember that understanding and paying attention to someone else’s perspective might be vital to solving that problem. If we can all do that, we might be a little better off.