Refugee Week: rambling

I was thinking of the coming refugee week and somehow did not feel good about it. I was asked to deliver a Skype session to secondary school about Arabic language and culture. I felt excited about it because speaking about language and culture is one of the favourite things I like to do. When I learned that the session would be held during Refugee Week, I felt disappointed and angry. Why they connect refugees with learning Arabic or the Middle East? There are tens of refugee communities from all parts of the world who have settled in the UK during various times. Refugees are not just Arabs and they are not women only. 

Too much attention has the same negative impact as lack of attention. So I decided to apologise for this session. When I first moved in here, I was happy with that attention given to me as Iraqi but when the same questions of how I managed to become me had been repeated by different people, I started to hear the questions which those people thought of but did not dare to ask. If these questions slipped off their tongues, they would try to hide their patronising meaning with more complements of how special I was. 

Too much attention has the same negative impact as lack of attention when one knows they do not deserve it. 

As I sitting in the train contemplating the moving images outside of trees, I tried to process my anger, my frustration and deep pain. I held my phone, my favourite writing device these days, and started writing whatever came to my mind. This is it. 

When you watch a circus monkey does smart stuff, you look at with so much admiration and give it the biggest applause you can. But in fact at the back of your mind you are thinking "how monkeys are doing that? They are animals and they are not supposed to be able to do that" and you continue clapping. Monkeys may fail to see what is hidden behind your clapping but people do. 

Think of how refugees from what you know now as the Middle East have been put on display in all those events meant to "celebrate" refugees or make them feel "welcomed". Think that most of the attendants clapping their hands as one particular refugee speaks of her struggles,  how she finally ended here and how she is restarting her life. You clap harder but at the back of your head you are thinking "how did she made it. She is not supposed to". You may mean well with your judgement and do not mean to harbour patronising thoughts. 

That refugee with a shy smile, the first welcoming clap was a tone of joy. Then she starts talking, struggling for words to express the rushing thoughts in her mind. She wants to give you the best show, worthy of the time, effort and probably money, you have spent to be there. She needs to play  some smart tricks that makes you wonder "how can she do that?!" While approaching yourself for thinking "she is not supposed to be able". 

She thinks she needs to be articulate, able to make sense of the very nonsense in her life, the unfairness of accidents in hers and her people's lives. She did not choose to be born in that jungle. She might have chosen to leave and restart somewhere else. The accidents of her existence in that place at that particular time allowed her one way out. It has its price. The smart tricks she needs to play to be welcomed and accepted. Otherwise she would be "wooed off the stage". Who wants to watch a dumb boring performer who can't master one trick! So she needs to do her smart trick of eloquence and articulation. The rest of us unable to master the same trick should be shipped back to the jungle they came from and allowed back here when they have something entertaining to say or do.

Beauty and Body Image

A friend posted on Facebook wondering if she was the only woman who never had manicure. I commented that I never had one as well. Some time ago I would have said this loud and proud and would never thought that I needed to change this attitude. 

At that time, I was not interested in how I looked. Back in Iraq, I never cared for makeup, accessories, or even fining colours that suited my skin tone. I used to hate shopping. At that time, I had unhealthy body image as all around me would highlight weight gain, urging me to lose weight to be more attractive. I was unmarried and beauty standards in Iraq recommended slim bodies. My family, friends and colleagues would always highlight that over-weighted women were not attractive to men. Of course, nobody cared for the health issues coming with weight, as most men there enjoyed having bellies shaking as they walked. overweight was a health problem for men, maybe, but for women it made them unmarriageable. 

Being stubborn and rebellious woman, I resisted any attempt to make myself attractive. I felt that any attempt to make myself beautiful meant that I was inviting men to check me out and consider me as potential wife. I remember rejecting gold jewelleries as a neighbour advised my mother that women who wore gold were more attractive to men. 

For years I rejected makeup, accessories and body-shaping clothes. I wore Turkish-designed clothes for Muslim women like an overcoat and was satisfied that it did not show any of my body features. 

When I moved to England, I had to change the way I dress as my overcoats were not practical for London life. The stack of clothes I brought with me did not make sense and were extremely uncomfortable for London commute and the long walks I wanted to explore the city. 

I started shopping for jeans and tops. I was comfortable with wearing jeans and body-fit tops as the notion that my clothes could have sent unintended messages to bachelor men was not valid in England. My continuous trips to Oxford Street for window shopping before selecting an item to buy helped me develop a taste, consider what suited my body-shape and what it did not. For the first time in my life, since I could remember, I enjoyed shopping, in spite of the fact that I did it alone, with no girl friends to ask for their advice. 

The joy did not only come from the variety of options available or all body shapes and heights (I can't be more grateful for petite jeans!) It was liberating to shop with my own satisfaction in mind. When I started shopping, I was looking for my practical clothes, and gradually I built a style that I was comfortable with. 

The most difficult job was shopping for bras. In Iraq, in conservative families like my own, it was recommended that the mother would do the shopping of bras and underwear for her unmarried girls. When the girl got married, her husband would do that for her during the first years of their marriage. This was because most of the shops selling these items owned by men and had men to do the sales. Most girls would refrain from working in such shops as it would damage their reputations. (This was before building all the shopping centres where women could have better shopping experience, but it is still the practice in the outskirts of cities where no shopping centres are available).

Here, away from the eagle-eye of judgmental men in Iraq, I could do the shopping myself. It cost me several bras before understanding shapes and sizes, but it was worth it.

This whole shopping experience helped me to understand my body from the outside as much as from the inside. The biology classes I took in school (yes, I studies science in secondary school!) helped me to understand how my body worked. But the independent shopping experience helped me understand my body and develop healthy body image.

Company, the musical 2019

The classical American musical Company gets a gender-swap treatment in London theatres. But does the play need this treatment? Some may think not really. But let's think it over.

In an interview, Jonathan Bailey who played the anxious gay groom Jamie, says that if the musical has been maintained in its old version, nobody would care about a bachelor playing around with women in Manhattan. By turning it to a story about woman hitting mid-30s, the story has made more sense and can relate to women’s experience as they hit 35 when all their friends remind them of the biological hour.

As someone who got married at the age of 40, I saw the play brilliant in a different way.  

The 1970 musical tells the story of a bachelor, Robert, who is afraid of commitment and searches among his married friends for an answer why he should get married and settle down. When the play first came out I 1970, women had been still struggling for equality in the workplace, public life and also private life. The idea that women might be living the life of a bachelor was not common. Art did not bring many examples of female characters going through similar struggles as the one Robert were experiencing. Society was still pressuring women, in spite of the second wave of feminism of the 50s and 60s, to become housewives. In the musical the female characters did not show the depth that males did.

In the contemporary treatment of gender swap, Bobby, a 35 years old woman whose friends are urging her to settle down while she can't find a reason to do so. She spends time with each couple and gets to see that marriage is not really all happy time with another person around all the time. Bobby tells her friends that she would like to commit and there are three men she is considering them as potential husbands. The three girls of the original musical have been turned to males in the contemporary Company: physically attractive flight attendant, the serious and committed who gets engaged to someone else, and the worldly New York’s lover.

In addition to Bobby, two couples have their characters swapped as wives take leading roles in their marriages, which was unthinkable of back in the early 1970s. Susan in the original play was southern belle, and Peter was Ivy league. In the new treatment, it is Peter who is ‘southern belle’, showing feminine traits while Susan looks more masculine.

The play takes inclusiveness and diversity beyond the mixed-race marriages to include gay relationships. The engaged couple become soon-to-be married gay couple Paul and Jamie.

In the night club scene, originally Joanne invites Robert to have an affair which leads to Robert’s realising that he needs to commit; in the contemporary play, Joanne offers Bobby a cigarette which she refuses. Joanne tells Bobby that she needs to be brave and embrace life, instead of just watching it. The scene ends with Bobby realising that she is ready to commit.

The play does not end with Bobby settling down. It ends with her knowing what she wants, wishes for it and the hope that her wishes come true, as she managed to blow out all her candles. 

Nadia

BBC Arabic Film Festival 2019

Finally there is distinguished presence of Iraqi films in a film festival. In the BBC Arabic Festival 2019, more than five productions (short features and documentaries) by Iraqi filmmakers entertained us today in the BBC festival, shedding light on a country in trauma, artists searching for platforms, and films articulate beauty amid ruins.

As an Iraqi, I was not only proud to see these films telling the story of where I came from, but I was also relieved to see Iraqi artists and filmmakers given enough space and receiving recognition for their works.

I could be wrong, but since leaving Iraq, I felt that Iraq had been excluded or its artists were not given the opportunity to participate in festivals addressing the Arab and Middle East art and cinema. It may not be intentional or that Iraqi artists did not promote films as Arab peers, but what I am certain of is that Iraqi literature, art and cinema does not often receive exposure equal to what other Arab countries, which went through relatively similar traumatic experiences.

But today I was happy. Short feature films about life in Baghdad, ISIS and the sex slavery business, documentaries about Yazidi fighter and artist who tried to create art in the aftermath of 2003, showed me today that Iraqi artists were reaching out and what they made was worth watching and is relevant to the overall picture of chaos and disorder in the region.

As happy and proud as I was with the participation of many Iraqi filmmaker, I found myself moved by Katia Jarjoura’s Only Silence, short film about a Syrian refugee in France. The film has simple storyline: a Syrian girl, Neda, was  in the process of claiming asylum in France, while the rest of her family, her mother and young brother, were still in Syria. Neda couldn’t enjoy life, though she tried to find her place in Paris, because she was worried about her mother and brother. The last two scenes in this 30-mins drama were powerful and resonate, maybe, with the story of many refugees who had to leave their home countries on their own, leaving parts of themselves back to the dangers of war. Neda was skyping with her family when the family house was attacked by masked men, who took the mother and the brother away, while Neda was watching. The scene ended with one of the masked men staring at the screen and Neda was frozen in front of the laptop. The screen went dark, then Neda was shown, sitting in the immigration office, broken. A voice told her that her case was accepted, ‘welcome to France’ it said, but Neda was not giving a reaction. She couldn’t even show that she cared anymore. What mattered to her had been gone, taken by war and ruin. The country, the family and the man she loved, all were lost.

In the Q & A following, a man noted the melancholic atmosphere of the films about refugees, rejecting what he deemed as lacking hope and ‘depressing’. In another film festival a lady had made the same criticism about and Iraqi film addressing the issue of exile and being refugee in a melancholic way. Before the directors came to answer the comment, most of the audience had released sounds of resentment towards such comment and approved Jarjoura’s response that where we came from was depressing and sad; that our countries had been lost to wars and we might not recover that even we lived in Paris.

On Women's Day

Here we go again on Women’s Day, misogynist posts, videos and messages are circulating on social media, pointing out where women fall inferior to men. ‘women can't drive’ memes and videos are everywhere; the cliché of famous chefs are men not women, scientific contributions are mostly done by men and not women and so on.

Browsing through these posts, which get average hundreds of shares, makes me feel that we are stuck in the 1950s when men lashed at women fighting for their right to join the public life. For years I thought the time had passed when we need to argue that we are equally capable and that we are equally smart.

Dear misogynist men out there, take out your hands out of your pants and look around you. Things have changed. Yes, women, left behind for thousands of years, have made it to the top. They are presidents, CEOs, scientists and mostly much better drivers in spite of what these funny videos show.

Instead of spending the day to bring women down and make her day a joke you laugh at with your buddies, who must share with you the same misogynistic grudge, take the day to educate yourself about what your mother had been through to raise you the person you are now. Educate yourself about what your sister, daughter or girl-friend has to go through on a daily basis to find her place in the world. Acknowledge the support, the kindness and love given to you by the women in your life. And end it with a wish that your little sister, daughter, niece will not have to suffer in her life because she is woman.

If you have no woman in your life at the moment, think of your female colleague and educate yourself about women’s struggle in the workplace. Be kind and supportive in non-creepy way. Simply, don't be the other jerk she has to deal with for the day.  

My husband is not a man of intellect; he basically hates reading and listening to the news. He has a kind heart but considering he had never been in serious relationship and came from a world teaching men to act superior to women, I found it necessary to teach him about misogyny and what does it entail for women. It started as a joke, but now he does not only know the word, but he also can tell when he is acting like a misogynist. He became more appreciative of his mother and sisters; he does not find demeaning to help around the house.

As for us women, we are not that great with each other either. It is really sad that we are not helping each other as it should be. We have been pushed aside for centuries, we are still abused at home and at work. Yet, instead of supporting each other, we turn against each.

Take the day, lady, and think why you are bitching about your colleague, why she is so annoying to you. Is it workplace competition or has become more of personal jealousy?

If you are in a place of your life where you have access to everything you need, think of the million others who do not. Think of the little girls and women around the world who still struggle to access the necessities of daily life. Use your voice and platform to support their struggles. Not because your personal battle has ended triumphantly for you, it has been the same for others. If you have made it to the other side, look behind you and see the millions who are still struggling to get there. If you can’t help, don’t be the obstacle.

Gaining Back What is Lost: Back to Teaching

When my father asked me to follow my sister lead and become a teacher, I firmly said no. I didn't want to teach. I didn't want to end up like the teachers I encountered in my school. 

As a student, I had good teachers and bad ones, but the latter were the dominant type. They were not only bad in the way they treat students, but they were also uninformed, superficial and not quite the role model I wanted to follow. 

I tried to resist my father, but being at that time the good girl I was raised to be, I eventually followed my father's orders and joined the College of Education for women, to become a teacher, like my sister. 

When I was asked what department I wanted to join, I chose English. In school I loved this subject that opened the doors and expanded the limited conservative world I was chained to. I always excelled in it and to continue studying it, even for the purpose of teaching it, gave me some sense of freedom.  

I was good enough during the first two years of the university. Being excellent student did not make a sense for me at that time, when I knew I would end up teaching in secondary schools. My level of English was far better than what my teachers had. I didn't bother attending most of the lectures, especially those that aimed at training students to become secondary-school teachers. However, I loved literature and language modules. I was very good in them. By the end of the second year, when I realized that I could pursue different careers with my study, like translation, I decided to take my studies seriously. In  the last two of my undergraduate years, I was the top student.  

As I excelled in the department,  when I graduated, I had the chance of joining Baghdad Observer, Iraqi newspaper published in English. However,  as the top student, everyone, including my professors, advised me to pursue master degree in English literature. By that time I was deeply in love with the subject of literature. Between the lines of a poem, story or play, I found a hidden meaning of life, a lost passion I always looked for. I convinced myself that I would join Baghdad Observer when I obtain master degree, and then I would probably have the chance to become a writer in the newspaper, rather than just a translator. 

Before the time I submitted my master degree, life changed in Iraq and post-2003 era started, after wiping off the life we knew in Iraq. Baghdad Observer was shut down, and the media landscape in Baghdad started to take different and unfamiliar shapes. By the time I received my master degree, I missed another chance to work in another newspaper, which was published in English, because it was not safe to join the field. My dream to become a writer, a columnist perhaps, who share her knowledge and experience with the world, was killed in the bud. Lacking the companionship of a listening ear or understanding mind at that time made me eager to communicate with the wide world through my words, and what was better than a newspaper that published in English, a language that most of the world can speak? 

Because of the security situation after 2003, I was left with no other career option but teaching. There was a need for lecturers in English and after searching for few weeks, I landed on teaching jobs in two different colleges. During the following years, I finished my PhD in contemporary American poetry, and established myself as lecturer of English and American literature in a university in Baghdad. 

However, deep inside I continued to hate the job. It felt like a wall separating me from what I really wanted to be, which was not a teacher. I felt conflicted. I knew what a huge responsibility it was to stand in front of a class waiting for me to enlighten their minds with the knowledge I acquired, while in fact I didn't want to do that. I felt that I was fraud. I felt that I was bad teacher, even when there were students who admired me and considered me as a role-model. 

This even affected my relationships with my colleagues. I despised many of them for being fraud as well, being as bad and less informed as my teachers in the secondary school. Every year, my frustration with the job and disappointment with academia in Iraq grew deeper. I tried to resist but the system established in Iraq after 2003 was bigger and stronger than individual attempts of helpless academics like me. 

When I came here, I was surprisingly disappointed to know that my fellowship terms did not include teaching. I tried to cheer myself up by repeating the thought that I cherished for many years: I hated teaching. But that was futile. I felt sad, because in spite of the fact that I hated this job, it was the only thing I had been doing since 2003 till I left Iraq in 2015. It was my career for 12 years. To stop doing it all of sudden left me impaired, not knowing what to do. Without teaching, I felt there was no purpose behind my research, which I did not give enough attention during the last two years. 

For two years, I wrote and published articles related to my research, I participated in conferences, seminars and workshops as expected from any academic serious and passionate about their fields. However, nothing satisfied that urge to stand in front of a class and share with them a book I loved to read, or knowledge about literature I recently acquired. 

I did several desk jobs in London, mostly research, translation and content editing. However, the urge for teaching again grew bigger, that I felt there would be no career satisfaction unless I was a teacher again.  Finally, I decided to apply for teaching jobs, even if would be outside the university. 

Last month, I was accepted in a part-time teaching job in Essex. For some reason, I felt extremely happy. Not because the job paid well, or  will change my financial situation drastically. On the contrary, the job proved to be a burden on my budget. Yet, I felt excited to go back to teaching. 

I went to my first lesson feeling proud of myself, excited to stand again in front of a class and share with them the knowledge I had been accumulating for years, but above all eager to regain that part of me I lost when I left Iraq. Teaching was the bigger part of my life in Iraq, it was my self-defining reality, which I lived for most of the day. When I stopped doing it, I felt that I stopped to exist, that I was no longer visible to the world. This was how I felt when I was in my way from London to Essex to start my first class. Though I had a long-day work in London, I was happy to start my class in the evening. 

I walked to my first class, introduced myself to the new students and asked them to introduce themselves. I started teaching and tasted back that familiar air of teaching! First lesson was successful. I gained back what I lost. But, was that what I really wanted?

That night I couldn't sleep. I stayed awake in bed thinking and processing what had happened. The joy of victory, that I was doing something that was denied to me since I came here, no longer felt, but was replaced by exhaustion and disappointment. I realized that the urge to teach was an urge to gain back a lost life; a life that in exile grew ideal, simply because I was forced to leave it, rather was ready to end it. 

Nadia F Mohammed 

Ashura

In few weeks, London will celebrate Halloween, then the decoration will be put down for Christmas. Premature Christmas decorations, though annoys some people who are saying no to these commercial and marketing strategies, I find them to help in setting the mood for the holidays season and add some warmth to the cold city. 

When the Christmas lights brightens London's Oxford St or the Piccadilly, I often think of my home town and a comparison becomes inevitable. London does not waste any occasion to celebrate joy, life and love, starting with Halloween, Christmas and Valentine. Baghdad, and most of Iraq, wastes no occasion to celebrate death. 

As if the daily bombings and constant conflicts on the Iraqi soil are not enough to remind Iraqis of their inescapable fate to die; as if it is not enough that a new black sign is added to announce the death of a beloved. Iraqis dig for more to mourn, more reasons to add more black flags in the streets. In this time of the year, all Baghdad would be wrapped in black flag to commemorate the death of Hussein. 

After 2003, when Shia, who appeared to be the majority of Iraqis living in the middle and south of Iraq, started to enjoy the freedom of self-expression denied to them by the Baathist regime, Ashura started to feel and look different from what it used to be in the 1980s and 90s. It simply became politicized and identity marker that was unnecessarily emphasized.  

I belong to Shia family. I spent 6 years in Babel before we moved permanently to Baghdad. in Both places, our neighbours were mixture of Muslims and Christians, Sunni and Shia, Arabs and Kurds. But again, at that time these ethno-sectarian identities were not part of any conversation. 

Before I realized that my family were Shia, we used to observe Ashura, but so all our neighbours in Babel and Baghdad. Ashura at the time was simple and warm. Families would cook large amounts of food and distributed to around the neighbourhood. Some would cook harisa  

Or they cook qeema and rice

Which is my favorite.

I used to spend the 9^th day of Muharam carrying a small pot, searching which house in the street would be cooking. I wanted to be the first of my friends to get a share of the newly cooked food.

My favourite Ashura ritual was staying awake from 12 am till next morning between 9-10 of Muharam, which we used to call ‘hija’, pilgrimage. In this context, it used to mean pilgrimage of the night. The exciting thing was that my sisters and I would be staying in the street playing with other kids, while our mothers would gather around one house and drink tea and cookies. The one who served them the tea and cookies had vowed to serve this simple meal because she prayed for something, either the return of a beloved safely from the battlefield, which was a common prayer during the Iraq-Iran war, or a woman deprived of the joy of motherhood would pray for Al Abas to have a baby.

It was the only night around the year where it was safe to go around. My mother would not ask us even to be careful. She was pretty sure that we were safe.

I never associated Ashura with mourning, or sad event. For me Ashura was the time to be free, too much playing and tasty food that we didn’t cook in any other occasion.

Today this joy does not exist anymore. Ashura rituals start immediately after the celebrating the New Islamic year. Black flags would shroud Baghdad; tents serving tea and lemon tea would play poems recited through loud speakers for everyone to hear, even if they don’t want to listen to; streets would be blocked because apparently Shia like to march on foot to Karbala, where the Martyrdom took place fourteen century ago. Life is disrupted during that week, and the only activity to be done is mourning.

Today few people do ‘hija’, few children would stay awake all night playing and exchanging stories the way we used to do. Food is abundant, but it is no longer as tasty. Ashura has become those days of continuous mourning and wailing. They are those days which heavily pass that they seem to linger weeks and months, rather than just days.

In London, today, no one knows why they are celebrating Halloween, Christmas or Valentine, but these celebrations become part of their cultures; celebrating them has nothing to do with being devout Christian, but part of giving oneself the time to enjoy the festivities. However, big companies profit from these celebrations and thus they need to support and increase their investments in these occasions. Every store in Oxford St has to hang on Christmas lights to attract customers, or exhibit red teddies and flowers. It has become commercial and politicized, but at least it is still joyful and warm.

Ashura also has its own patrons, who like to keep the newly developed rituals continue, and to have it as marker of identity. Politicians, Shia clerics in Najaf, and even businessmen need to keep these rituals going and expanding. However, these rituals have become shrouded with death and mourning.   

Nadia Fayidh Mohammed