a kaddish for qaddafi. of sorts.

This one is reposted from kaddish in two-part harmony, but maybe it belongs here as well, what with all the Ibn Khaldun and thoughts about current uprisings in the Middle East and North Africa. Comments are welcome at either site.

I feel like I'm supposed to write a kaddish for Qaddafi. And I'm having a lot of trouble doing so. What I want to do is defend him somehow. Say that he's been maligned for decades. Tell you about the jokes Tunisians (Libya's neighbors to the the west) used to tell about Qaddafi, all the way back in the 1970's...

In those days, Tunisians used to sneak over the border 'basbor de-la-lune' into Libya to work. They'd cross over at night, their passports being nothing but the light of the full moon. Qaddafi put people to work. Even Tunisians.

In Tebourba, people said that just working in a cafe in Libya brought home more money than anything they could do back home.  And so they'd go. And they'd stay until they'd made their fortune. Two years. Five years. And then they'd come home briefly, bearing massive gifts. Sewing machines and heaters. Fancy fuzzy carpet and grandfather clocks. Electric fans and electric ovens. Even if the electricity couldn't handle it. They brought the hope of employment and wealth. And then they'd be gone again. To bring back more.

Tunisians used to joke that Qaddafi gave everyone a car and everyone a house.  Every Libyan, that is. And that Libya was so rich, that when the car ran out of gas, they'd just abandon it right where it stood. Libya was that rich.  It was a very Tunisian joke. Tunisia was surrounded by rich neighbors, and their humor was the worst kind of self-deprecating.

Until last year. When Tunisia led the way.

And then the neighbors followed.

So.

Qaddafi was killed today.

And the media is still making jokes about him. How ludicrous he was. The crimes he perpetrated. Remember when Reagan called Qaddafi a 'Barbarian and a rat fink'?  It was headline in the SF Chronicle way back when. Today, even NPR still felt the need to joke about Qaddafi's hats, his ego, and his tent. The media has enjoyed decades of making him look clownish and stupid. A country bumpkin who ended up in power. Although, he never did hold any official title beyond 'colonel.'

My favorite Qaddafi story is when some Minister in Tunisian President Bourguiba's cabinet handed him an edict, and the first president of the republic signed it, sight unseen. Only to discover that he'd just given his country away. To Qaddafi.  Under the edict, Bourguiba would stay president of the newly combined nation, and Qaddafi would head the military.

Oops.

When Bourguiba realized his mistake, the story goes, he threw the Minister in prison for a while, and went on national TV.

"I'm an old man," President Bourguiba said, "and someone took advantage of me."

Tebourbis told me this story. They loved this story.

And then Bourguiba—right there on the tube in front of his entire nation—admitted that he'd made a mistake.

He picked up the edict in his two hands, held it up for all to see, and tore it to pieces. Khalass. No more treaty.

God, that was simple.

And that was the difference between the two North African leaders.

Qaddafi tried to merge Libya with Egypt, too. And Chad, as well. It just never seemed to take.

I was once in Chad when Qaddafi was visiting N'Djemena. As we traveled south from the capital, the tribesmen were riding north to pay him homage.  Thirty five years later, he still had sub-Saharan and even Tuareg allegiance, even in recent days. He desired a greater Maghrebi union. And believed that kings and royalty were anachronistic in the modern age. That the Middle East and North Africa should let go of monarchy already. For himself, no title, just rule. Seems he was more opposed to titles than despotism.

So.

Long live the revolution. That's what Qaddafi used to say.

But if the rest of the world is holding its collective breath for the blossoming democratic institutions any time soon, you can say kaddish for that one starting right now.

Yes, I know. You're sick of my invoking Ibn Khaldun. But there it is. A prediction of yet another oscillation of elites. The 'Arab Spring' may well be an upheaval against a generation of despotic rulers across the Middle East and North Africa. But expect preexisting opposition factions, parties, and leaders-in-exile (or prison) to step into power vacuum more than democratic proceedings.

But if democratic institutions somehow miraculously do flourish one day—thank this eager new generation (with their cell phones, smart phones, social networks) for finally doing what every generation before them could not manage. Keep in mind how the 'Arab Spring' started. In Tunisia. With one young man. Underemployed, and bureaucratically hampered. One young man with no future at all.

Unemployment of a plugged in hip new generation. Linked in to global scene. Aware of options and lack of options. No movement, uprising, or revolution has solved that one at all.  Not anywhere. Not even here.

The next leader and government of Libya is going to have to do at least one thing that Qaddafi did. He—or she—is going to have to somehow put this next generation to work.

call me daddy — day one in the foster home

Malkah was two. Or maybe three. Or somewhere inbetween. I don't remember. I only remember one thing about that moment. And that would be the door.

The door was huge. And the adults who answered the door seemed huge as well. Malkah had been taught, I guess, her politesse. She was dressed as well as she could be. She was soft spoken and polite.

The door opened. And so she said,

"Hello Mr and Mrs S—" and the two of them loomed over her from inside.

The door opened wide enough for her to step inside.  I think she had a little bag of stuff with her. A change of clothes, probably.

The house smelled funny. Not bad, just funny. Unfamiliar.  Later Malkah would identify that smell as cooking smells. But I don't remember what.  So. Smells, the first impression. That's more the point.

The door closed with a decisive click.

And he smacked her one. Loud and hard, right across the face.

"That's for not calling me 'daddy,'" he said.

He glared down at her. His jowls had turned bright red.

Here's what I wonder.

I wonder if anyone had bothered to tell her what was about to happen.

I wonder if she had any idea of how long she would be staying.

I wonder if she had visitors.

And most of all—

I wonder what that first day must have felt like.

All I know, is that after dinner the whole extended 'family' went into the living room to watch TV.  Papa bear sat in his big overstuffed arm chair. That was the only thing that Malkah noticed. The only thing that mattered.

She found in her hand a giant pair of scissors.

Quietly, she slipped behind Mr. S's chair and sat on the floor behind him.  She grabbed a handful of her long dark hair.

And started cutting.

A memory.

The sound of cutting. Soothing and safe.

Until the yelling started all over again. And the smacking. And the burning.

the retirement

They live on a large island on the west coast. Of Norway. Population 3,500. It's got panoramic vistas of the water in every direction. No high rises. Even the few new houses look sleepy and old.  Wooden houses, right up to the rocks and the water. It looks very very quiet. But they've got a little boat and they go fishing. And if the cat gets lost, there's an animal-man who can conjure kitty home.

If there were any woods, I'd say it was very back woods. But there aren't any. There are just neighbors not too close, and a market you can walk to. Though you wouldn't want to hike back with a heavy load of groceries.  Retired, remember. So, yes. They have a car.

So. They live in this remote, idyllic place. The kind of place I tend to dream of.

And then there's Thailand.

They've been to Thailand thirteen, fourteen times. They're hooked on Thailand.

And they've been to Disneyland. The one in Florida.

And they've been to Spain. And France. And Turkey.

But mostly, it's Thailand.

"What did you used to do?" I asked.

"I worked for a big company. Service."

I'm not sure what that means. And it didn't get any clearer.

They were animated and delightful and energetic. Got in almost at midnight last night. Their host had started to worry. But they'd been to a million places that I myself had never been to in my own city. Truth be told, I know nothing about what-to-do-or-see in my own town.

I've decided that Norwegian is an impossible language. It appears to be composed of mostly slurry vowels.  I can't get a grasp on a single word without some major explication.

I've decided that remote idyllic islands might not be something I should dream about, at least not for moving to in case of actual retirement. I mean, here they are living in Paradise, wishing it weren't quite so cold, and traveling abroad as much as possible.

Actually, they're having the time of their lives.  Visiting places like my home town.

And I've been invited to their remote island.  And sure, I accept, how could I not?  And maybe I will master some of those slurry Norwegian vowels. And maybe I'll go fishing upon that quiet sea. Maybe I'll walk down the path to their painterly water's edge—

Only to discover that I live where I'm supposed to. Only to find that I'm doing what I should.

But there it was, for a brief moment, right in front of me: Two people. With no papers to grade.
                                                                              

from AIPAC, with love

My mom gets all this AIPAC mail.

"Dear friend," it reads —

The word 'Nazi' doesn't appear until the third line, just before the word 'annihilation.'

The word 'Holocaust' doesn't appear until the next paragraph (a whole line further down from the above).

A tragedy is revealed. A tragedy, I suppose, that if enough people had been paying attention, if enough people had been donating money, perhaps, maybe, possibly — tragedy could have been averted.

But that's if you're reading the 'Dear Friend' missive, which is the most subtle part of AIPAC mail.

What hits you hard over the head every single time you open one of these mailings—are the maps.  Large enough to post on your bulletin board.  Sturdy enough to use for school.

Map One is titled: Israel and its Neighbors. Oh my, how shocking, the map screams out.  Poor little David to the Goliath that surrounds.  This is more effective visually in that the map starts with Morocco and goes all the way to Iran.  Look at all those Arabs, ouch!  Be paranoid, the map tells you. Be very very afraid.  The caption on the bottom reads:

Israel is surrounded by Arab nations and Iran. These countries outnumber Israel more than 650 to 1 in terms of land and 56 to 1 in terms of population.

Map Two is titled: The Iranian Missile Threat.  And it's another high-drama map, this time with looming Iran in the middle almost 3D on the page. In darker color is the range that Iran could strike if it just felt like it.  Gee whiz, all the way to India, though India's not the point.   This map's caption says:

Iran has ballistic missiles that can carry a nuclear or chemical warhead a distance of 1,500 miles. Tehran is developing missiles that could reach the United States.

There are two more scary maps.  I'll spare you. But way at the bottom is the following disclaimer, which I think is hilarious:

These maps are for illustrative purposes only and do not imply any views regarding future agreements between Israel and its neighbors.

Is that a peace threat?  God forbid Israel should have good relations with the neighbors. I mean, what would AIPAC do then to raise big bucks?

When I was a kid, the approach was radically different.

Plant trees, we were told.  Plant trees in the Holy Land. Make it flourish, make it thrive.  We'd buy little leaf-stamps and put them on our own little poster trees. And when each leaf was paid for, we knew our tree would be planted. And that someday we'd see our tree.

It was a hopeful pitch. And I like it much better.

Even the neighbors can sit under my tree. And be shaded from the heat. And eat from its fruit.

That's planting trees. Not pulling ancient groves up from their roots. For security purposes.

Offer me to plant trees, AIPAC, and I'm happy to comply. Even the Occupied Territories could use more trees...

mark

It doesn't seem like over thirty years but apparently it is.  I can't say that I've known him all that time.  I can merely say that we've had the same abbreviated  conversation for probably about that long. Ritualized. Mumbling. Not really checking in. Rote. Playing our roles. Routinized.

But sometime this past year something changed.  Is it that he looked up or that I did? Not sure.

"You're that doctor," he said, actually looking in my eyes.  "Wait, don't tell me ..."

I waited. But the line was going to get restless.

"Anthropologist," I said.

"Right."

And the conversation for a few months went like that—

"Wait, don't tell me—"

I'd wait.

"Archaeologist?" he'd say.

Close enough.

And after all these years of mumbled, "debit or credit?" the conversation took a turn at the check out line.

Slowly, I learned that he had been a history major at San Francisco State. That what he loved most was history. And that he had over three hundred history books in his apartment. And that he spent four to five hours a day reading.

"I have a book for you," I'd say. But invariably I'd left it in the car. And thought it obnoxious to go back out to get it. And then at a certain point, not standing it any longer, Rh cleaned out the back of my car — and I couldn't find the book.  Still can't.  But I've got another copy.

So. Today's conversation took another turn.

"Archaeologist?" he said — after we went through the preliminaries.

"Close enough. Anthropologist."

"Right," he said.

"I still have that book for you—"

"Today's my last day," he said.  "After thirty-three years, I'm retiring!"

"Mazel tov," I said, realizing that was culturally inappropriate. "Congrats," I said. And "yikes— I still have that book for you—"

I ran home with my four bags of groceries and left them in the car.  I scoured the garage. No Ibn Khaldun.  The one I wanted to give him was pristene. I'd given it to bio-father about thirty-five years ago. It had never been opened. And yet Al-Muqaddimah is one of the most profound takes on world history that ought to be read in the West.  It was written in 1377, and — and you're probably sick of hearing me talk about it.

Scoured upstairs as well. All I could find was my own home edition of Al-Muqaddimah. You know, the one with all the paper clips, stickies and underlining.  It was sitting on top of the three volume edition that I hold as close to sacred as I can manage.

I took a breath, and grabbed my own copy. And headed back to Andronico's.  He still had five more hours before leaving the grocery forever. Yet still, the line before his register seemed as endless as it did every single time I'd stood in it.  Wow. In a few more hours, no more Mark! But the uncaring line would pile up anyway.

I handed him the book.

"Do you want it back?" he asked, noting the clips and stickies.

"No, keep it," I said, hoping that my notes might help.  I realized suddenly that he too might not read it, just as biofather had not. But that the notes might help him engage and make it more user-friendly.

"It's written in 1377," I added, hoping that would help.

"A primary source!" he said.

And he beamed.

cut off kid on extreme left

I don't have a date for it.  I don't remember it. I don't know who gave me the photograph. Probably T who found it among the last remnants of my dad's stuff. But there it is in black and gray and white. A telling photo circa early 1950s.

The kids look like the seven dwarfs lined up in a line that surely lasted no longer than it took the photographer to snap the picture over and over and over again until they just couldn't stand it any longer.

Starting from the right, there's:

Pretty: The adorable little 7 year old dwarf holding one of the two piggy banks for this obviously staged kid-tzedakah Zionist Kodak moment.  And then there's:

Fatty: No more than 8 years old, but with a well defined double chin and bushy hair not quite tamed by her mother's desperate and likely painful comb. My guess is that her parents are both Holocaust survivors. She's got that overfed precious-child next generation look. And then there's:

Nosy: Looking over her shoulder to the end of the line, at me, it turns out.  I don't remember this at all. Not one face rings a bell. This one's got a superior look on her face, but I could be wrong.  Pretty, Fatty, and Nosy curiously all have the same little ribbon-tie peaking out of the collar on their blouses. Is this called style for little kids in the early '50s? And then there's:

Sharpie: The only dwarf looking straight at the camera, as if to say WTF are we doing here? Of all of these kids, I imagine that she's done by far the best. Become a journalist, maybe. Or more likely a social worker. Which was de rigeur for 1950s Jewish girls who grew up and wanted to work.

Who are these people? Were we a class? Or just Zionist guinea pigs taught that it was our duty to give give give to the Zionist enterprise.

The sign in the back says Keren Ami which means 'The Fund for my Nation' — and a bunch of coins are spread about the table in front, clearly emptied from one of the two piggy banks.  There's a male teacher (or something) standing benevolently in the back with his arms around all the lovely dwarfs, save one.  He has a pencil moustache and looks a lot like Walt Disney, only Jewish.

The next dwarf is a boy dwarf:

Goody-Goody: The tallest of the dwarfs. He stands there looking older, maybe 9 or 10, leaning on the table with his fabricated smile plastered on his face—like he could hold (or maybe has been holding) that pose all afternoon as the photographer tried to capture something print worthy. And next to him, another boy dwarf:

Clueless: Tabula rasa of the lobotomized sort on his round little 6 year old face. This little dwarf has got an actual suit jacket on, and a white shirt with cufflinks.  He's one of the two littlest ones. Him—and the last little dwarf next to him on the left. This photo shoot must have been a dress up affair. Somebody actually cared.  Looks to me like the little dwarfs had been told to look their best. Or rather, their parents had been told.

And that leaves the last little dwarf.

She's the one not encompassed by the arms of the Disney grown-up.

She's apart. Other. Like the others, dressed up for this moment by her mother. Evidence: The done-up knotted scarf around her neck— but not the same kind Pretty, Fatty, and Nosy have on. And instead of light colors, she's been done up in darkness.  And on the way far left is this last little dwarf, and who (in shock) I recognize to be a 6 year old me. But here, we'll call her:

Downer: This little dwarf has eyes of resignation. And there's that wholly recognizable melancholic mouth. Not even trying. Her hands are folded around each other dutifully set—but in her right hand, she clutches a tiny envelope. Her tzedakah offering for the piggy bank, which is for the Keren Ami, which is for the building up of the Zionist entity. And the indoctrination of little Zionist children. And little Downer dwarf has the look of utter despair on her dark little face and her deep little eyes. Unable to attempt pretense—in that sense, just like all the others.

And so there they are in the photo, starring—from right to left—the seven little dwarfs, six of whom are enveloped by the warm embrace of the Disneyesque indoctrinator into the faith:

Pretty, Fatty, Nosy,  Sharpie, Goody-Goody, Clueless, and Downer.

And written in pencil on the back of the photo is:

                                           Cut off kid on extreme left.

And that would be me.

And of them all, I know only what happened to me, know only what I've become. Professional Other. Woman in Black. Professional Mourner in a Kaddish in Two-Part Harmony.  Morose little Downer that I am— The unenveloped kid to be cut off on the extreme left.

And I'm okay with that. It's somehow fitting, somehow just and right.

I don't have a date for it. Don't remember it. But this snapped moment captures us all midstream in the delicate art of becoming.  Or perhaps we always were, and never changed at all.

god forbid you should have a good time

Does this happen to you? It happens to me every single time — and I can't seem to ever remember that it does. And then (for some reason) I'm actually surprised by it. And then mad at myself for being surprised. Because (after all) I should have expected it. It happens every time, right?

The point being that I should just never take actual vacations. Not even a weekend's worth. And definitely not at my favorite place in the world (apart from the Sahara), and that would be Big Sur.

This time it was a camping trip with the new girlfriend. I'd made reservations for this camping spot long before I'd even met the new girlfriend, that's how determined I was to take a couple days off.  Don't get me wrong, I DID bring work with me. Papers to grade, because it's already that season. So. I felt pretty protected from god forbid having too much of a good time.

Unfortunately, I had a good time.

More than a good time.

And when the weekend was over and I got home — there was a flood in the garage. And no, I won't describe it.

So. Instead of taking that well-needed post-camping shower, I got out the good plunger and worked at the drain in the garage.  After about an hour, the flood subsided, but not enough to proclaim it cured.  After all, this has happened before. After a trip to Paris (for work, of course) and some other trip I don't remember, except that I had fun. Fun being the operative word that brings down the waterworks chez moi.

I'd been warned the last time or two that the sewer pipes (like the water line before it) was in far from stellar condition.  The house is, after all, over a hundred years old.  The pipes may or may not be original, but they're old. And ceramic. And broken. They've been at war with the tree roots out front for decades. I've observed their war up close and personal when I had to replace my water line.

So. Was I surprised at the diagnosis? No. Sticker shock, yes.  Half my savings, down the drain — literally.

Is there a point at which everything that can go wrong will already have done so, and I can go away for two days of camping in the dirt and smoke and pretend I'm relaxing, and not come back to some portion of my 1907 cottage having a little shit fit?

Is it just bad timing? Am I unconsciously going on vacation exactly at the time my house most needs my attention? Is my house really a big furry cat who needs to make a fuss every single time I go away? Or am I supposed to go away more often in order to train it?

I'm pretty sure that if I'd had a crappy time, I would have come home to an intact house.  I'm pretty sure it's the fun my house is complaining about.  I'm pretty sure. But I just can't prove it. The experiments are just too costly.

All I know, is that next time I plan a trip just for fun, I'm going to sneak off and not tell my house at all.

Except that now, with a broken sewer line, there's not going to be a next time any time soon.

This has all happened before. And it will all happen again.  Just when we're the most decadent. The cylons attack.