September 24, 2004
the very heart of Arab army soil
Despite our skin colour, there are major, major differences between me and an American. One major difference is that my country has never declared war on anyone. Canada is one of the most peaceful nations on earth. Doesn’t mean we’re wimps of course. We have very well trained, smart soldiers and Canada uses these soldiers as peace keeping units working for the UN and in occasional assistance of other countries who are members of NATO only if they deem it as a just cause.
Another difference between me and an American is that even though I grew up in an oil rich province of Alberta, I have absolutely no interest the oil fields of Iraq – BECAUSE I have enough of my own oil in my own backyard to worry about. An American who grows up in the oil rich state of Texas for example seems to still have a major interest in the oil fields of Iraq. Why? Greed? Power? I don’t know, but I will say this: in this point of interest in other nations’ wealth there is a major difference between Canadians and Americans actions globally. Canadians have enough, Americans seem to want everybody elses' stuff.
I will now teach Emirati technician/soldiers how to fix airplanes. I will teach them all about what I know about airplanes. In my view, airplanes have never been weapons. Rather, complex machines that have one unique and captivating ability to lift themselves off the ground, only to slip mellifluously through the variance in pressures of the air enveloping their wings, and daring gravity to hold them back one second longer than it should on solid ground – holding them back from melting into suspension by the magic fluid that draws them there: air. And this is my passion, I love doing this. I love to talk about airplanes in technical depth and about the deep “reason” for their ability, to anyone, for any length of time.
But I am a little bit nervous about this job for a couple of reasons. One is that even though I’m not an American, I look very similar to one & I’m treading on the very heart of Arab army soil in a time when American expats are being beheaded in Iraq, a time when American expats are being murdered at their places of work in Saudi Arabia, a time when American and British expats are being forced out of their places of work by criminals who engage in acts of terror in the name of their god, allah, and in the named of holy war. Two, I’m nervous because I have white skin and I stand out like a beacon of light over here. So I go to work on Saturday with a case of the jitters, an seriously considering carrying personal protection in the form of a Glock, a heckler and Koch, or perhaps even an effective at short range light machine gun of Russian make. Can foreigners carry over here? Must find out for sure. Perhaps I can make an earnest enough case for it to authorities, in the face of the present situation. Perhaps I can get more trained in the army, how to shoot accurately at close range, under the pressure of haveing to protect my family, while being nervous, that kind of thing. Perhaps I should take up karate, boxing, kickboxing, maitai fighting, Russian free-fighting, with serious, serious intent. Just to ward off the potential of any misguided attempts, as it were. But even then how will I keep my family safe? If I have a gun or two in the house, on my person, at the ready, 24-7, how will that protect my family, really? If I know how to fight and neutralize one nocturnal intruder at a time, no matter how big and tough, how will that protect my family, really?
Hopefully, being recognised as Canadian will do the trick. Dang, the sensationalism of terrorism makes it difficult for the average work-a-day stiff, doesn’t it.
Another difference between me and an American is that even though I grew up in an oil rich province of Alberta, I have absolutely no interest the oil fields of Iraq – BECAUSE I have enough of my own oil in my own backyard to worry about. An American who grows up in the oil rich state of Texas for example seems to still have a major interest in the oil fields of Iraq. Why? Greed? Power? I don’t know, but I will say this: in this point of interest in other nations’ wealth there is a major difference between Canadians and Americans actions globally. Canadians have enough, Americans seem to want everybody elses' stuff.
I will now teach Emirati technician/soldiers how to fix airplanes. I will teach them all about what I know about airplanes. In my view, airplanes have never been weapons. Rather, complex machines that have one unique and captivating ability to lift themselves off the ground, only to slip mellifluously through the variance in pressures of the air enveloping their wings, and daring gravity to hold them back one second longer than it should on solid ground – holding them back from melting into suspension by the magic fluid that draws them there: air. And this is my passion, I love doing this. I love to talk about airplanes in technical depth and about the deep “reason” for their ability, to anyone, for any length of time.
But I am a little bit nervous about this job for a couple of reasons. One is that even though I’m not an American, I look very similar to one & I’m treading on the very heart of Arab army soil in a time when American expats are being beheaded in Iraq, a time when American expats are being murdered at their places of work in Saudi Arabia, a time when American and British expats are being forced out of their places of work by criminals who engage in acts of terror in the name of their god, allah, and in the named of holy war. Two, I’m nervous because I have white skin and I stand out like a beacon of light over here. So I go to work on Saturday with a case of the jitters, an seriously considering carrying personal protection in the form of a Glock, a heckler and Koch, or perhaps even an effective at short range light machine gun of Russian make. Can foreigners carry over here? Must find out for sure. Perhaps I can make an earnest enough case for it to authorities, in the face of the present situation. Perhaps I can get more trained in the army, how to shoot accurately at close range, under the pressure of haveing to protect my family, while being nervous, that kind of thing. Perhaps I should take up karate, boxing, kickboxing, maitai fighting, Russian free-fighting, with serious, serious intent. Just to ward off the potential of any misguided attempts, as it were. But even then how will I keep my family safe? If I have a gun or two in the house, on my person, at the ready, 24-7, how will that protect my family, really? If I know how to fight and neutralize one nocturnal intruder at a time, no matter how big and tough, how will that protect my family, really?
Hopefully, being recognised as Canadian will do the trick. Dang, the sensationalism of terrorism makes it difficult for the average work-a-day stiff, doesn’t it.
September 22, 2004
my fingAIR prints all over the place
A final letter issued from the army immigration department to the identification badge office indicated that my nationality was Iraqi, while my passport was Canadian. This plus the fact that I had arrived at 5 minutes past 12 (the beginning of the mid-day prayer caused a delay of about an hour and a half.
The army returned from the mosque, and some of them turned their attention again to the lone white guy standing at the reception window. “Come, we will take your fingair print now”. I said “you took my fingair print already two months ago.” “I came only to get my ID badge, process is finished, yes? Look, see, you gave me my army residence visa already.” I tried to convince them. Two of them looked nonchalantly at the photocopy of my residence visa as three other uniformed soldiers were play-wrestling behind them at the incipience of their weekend. “Ah! You need letter, seer. Here, talk to Captain, talk to Captain.” They pointed to a uniformed man strolling confidently and with obvious purpose, across the waiting area.
He acknowledged me and then, I was questioned by this captain who runs the recruitment office and by happenchance, I was questioned also by the chief of the security clerks, who happened to be strolling back from the mosque just then too, a no-nonsense-looking fellow from Sudan. “Are you sure you are Canadian, sir? The letter says you are Iraqi”, the captain asked me, quite seriously as the security chief surveyed the document with some interest. The captain looked into my eyes intently (for any sign of betrayal, I suppose), as he pointed out the - absolutely foreign to me - Arabic letters on the issued letter, circled in red.
I returned his confident stare, as required by the culture, said yes I’m sure I’m Canadian, with a bit of a smile already, then obligingly looked at the letter, then up to the roof for a second or two, engulfed in a lovely feeling of complete amazement at the level of miscommunication that can be achieved in a cross-cultural situation. My pronunciation of "Canadian" must have sounded an awful lot like "Iraqi" somewhere along the way in this process. And while looking up I saw on a TV, mounted high in the waiting area, John Kerry’s mug and outstretched hand, silently begging for votes from all the Arab nationals who happened to be waiting here on Wednesday afternoon at 13:30 in the UAE army recruiting office….
And then, I couldn’t help but start laughing. I just laughed out loud in the presence of the Arab captain and the Sudanese head of security clerks. I asked if someone was trying to make a joke, or what and said I'd enjoyed very much visiting Abu Dhabi six times and hoped that i could come and visit again on Saturday. My reaction seemed to lighten them up quite a bit. Then I quickly phoned Lt. mahmood again to let him talk in Arabic to these guys to let them know that this was somehow a mistake. In fact he knew about it and he’d had the immigration department already issue a new letter on my behalf a few hours ago, indicating that I was in fact Canadian and had faxed it already to their office.
Well…, after they got this assurance in Arabic (and the faxed letter), from Lt. Mahmood that nothing untoward was going on with this sole "Iraqi-Canadian" white guy in their recruitment HQ, who was delaying their weekend, things just really sped up from there. Al Humdulil’Allah!! (approximately, as they say over here). I got my badge and I'll start work on Saturday, seven o’ clock. About a two hour commute until we get our accommodation sorted out.
Here goes.
The army returned from the mosque, and some of them turned their attention again to the lone white guy standing at the reception window. “Come, we will take your fingair print now”. I said “you took my fingair print already two months ago.” “I came only to get my ID badge, process is finished, yes? Look, see, you gave me my army residence visa already.” I tried to convince them. Two of them looked nonchalantly at the photocopy of my residence visa as three other uniformed soldiers were play-wrestling behind them at the incipience of their weekend. “Ah! You need letter, seer. Here, talk to Captain, talk to Captain.” They pointed to a uniformed man strolling confidently and with obvious purpose, across the waiting area.
He acknowledged me and then, I was questioned by this captain who runs the recruitment office and by happenchance, I was questioned also by the chief of the security clerks, who happened to be strolling back from the mosque just then too, a no-nonsense-looking fellow from Sudan. “Are you sure you are Canadian, sir? The letter says you are Iraqi”, the captain asked me, quite seriously as the security chief surveyed the document with some interest. The captain looked into my eyes intently (for any sign of betrayal, I suppose), as he pointed out the - absolutely foreign to me - Arabic letters on the issued letter, circled in red.
I returned his confident stare, as required by the culture, said yes I’m sure I’m Canadian, with a bit of a smile already, then obligingly looked at the letter, then up to the roof for a second or two, engulfed in a lovely feeling of complete amazement at the level of miscommunication that can be achieved in a cross-cultural situation. My pronunciation of "Canadian" must have sounded an awful lot like "Iraqi" somewhere along the way in this process. And while looking up I saw on a TV, mounted high in the waiting area, John Kerry’s mug and outstretched hand, silently begging for votes from all the Arab nationals who happened to be waiting here on Wednesday afternoon at 13:30 in the UAE army recruiting office….
And then, I couldn’t help but start laughing. I just laughed out loud in the presence of the Arab captain and the Sudanese head of security clerks. I asked if someone was trying to make a joke, or what and said I'd enjoyed very much visiting Abu Dhabi six times and hoped that i could come and visit again on Saturday. My reaction seemed to lighten them up quite a bit. Then I quickly phoned Lt. mahmood again to let him talk in Arabic to these guys to let them know that this was somehow a mistake. In fact he knew about it and he’d had the immigration department already issue a new letter on my behalf a few hours ago, indicating that I was in fact Canadian and had faxed it already to their office.
Well…, after they got this assurance in Arabic (and the faxed letter), from Lt. Mahmood that nothing untoward was going on with this sole "Iraqi-Canadian" white guy in their recruitment HQ, who was delaying their weekend, things just really sped up from there. Al Humdulil’Allah!! (approximately, as they say over here). I got my badge and I'll start work on Saturday, seven o’ clock. About a two hour commute until we get our accommodation sorted out.
Here goes.
September 21, 2004
five mountains at once
Big challanging things, like mountain climbs, happen in real life, it seems, in quints. Will you listen now to my five mountains? First mountain: we are going to have a baby in about three weeks. Second mountain: I have not worked for three months - no cash on hand, in the bank, anywhere - WE ARE BROKE - til I get my first paycheck. Third mountain: my trusty little polo's timing belt tore apart almost exactly when it was supposed to be changed - at 60000 km. My car sits in the garage until I can pay to get it out. Fourth mountain: Getting my mom in law and son back down here is proving to be difficult. She is waiting for the ex husband to remove his name from her flat's registration paper so that she can sell it, without anyone "living there" and my son's waiting for money that the army will pay for his schooling, soon. Fifth mountain: I have a number of big bills coming up and I don't know when I get my first paycheck from the army.
These are my five mountains to climb. With the twist of unplanned adventure mentioned above, I suddenly have to climb them all at once. Maybe I can just move all of the mountains closer together and stradle as I climb? Cheat the system as it were. Or perhaps I should just achieve the first peak - get my wife to the hospital and get the baby delivered nicely, THEN, 'stead o' going down again, just hop on over nimbly to the next peak and deal with it at a high level - too and then on to number three as nimbly able and on to number four and the last.
five mountains at once. AAAAAAHHHHH!
These are my five mountains to climb. With the twist of unplanned adventure mentioned above, I suddenly have to climb them all at once. Maybe I can just move all of the mountains closer together and stradle as I climb? Cheat the system as it were. Or perhaps I should just achieve the first peak - get my wife to the hospital and get the baby delivered nicely, THEN, 'stead o' going down again, just hop on over nimbly to the next peak and deal with it at a high level - too and then on to number three as nimbly able and on to number four and the last.
five mountains at once. AAAAAAHHHHH!
September 17, 2004
books about uae!
I've just become an affiliate of Amazon.com and now, miracuolusly, I promote books that relate to this blog, books about the UAE and Dubai. If you are a reader of this blog, everytime you click on a link below to amazon.com and decide to buy one of these books, I get a "referal fee". Soon I hope to be a millionare using this method. Thanks for your attention to this promotion.
September 04, 2004
sections of life
Over the past three years I’ve taught beginner English classes up to advanced English levels. I’ve had in my classes at all levels, ladies and men, Arabs: Iraqi, Afgani, Syrian, Jordanian, Palestinian, Saudi, Yemeni, and Emirati. No one Arab from Qatar, Bahrain, Kuwait, or Oman, though. Nor, never once have I had in my English classes an African Arab: Egyptian, Sudani, Ethiopian, Somali in my classes, have I had. I’ve had many, many Persians in my classes.
Am I a lucky man? Yes. I’ve learned a lot from my students, month to month. I’ve learned a lot about this unique culture that is housed by the cozy, cosmopolitan country that is UAE.
Today, I told my last class I was leaving for good. No longer here now to teach English, you see. I’ve been hired by somebody else to teach something other than English. That felt good – to close a chapter like that. I’m generally not good at closing chapters. My life is rather a series of headlong rambling sections where the new section is generated in the chaos of the last section sputtering, faltering but never quite really closing before the move to the new is completed. A perpetual contractor I’ve been. Now for once I’ve closed the chapter. I told my colleagues and my boss that the new job required my to go tomorrow and the next day to begin a paper trail and it was a wonderful feeling to have been cheered by my boss. It was a wonderful boost to hear them say there was always a spot for me if I needed it there in the future. Much better than being lied about, lied to, and then transferred to a new school just to satisfy the political notions of an American middle-manager gone wacky…. Don’t ask.
So onwards now to the new employer. Soon all will be revealed. I’m hedging now because I don’t want to jinx anything you know? Sounds ridiculous I know, but anyways. Just trust me on this on and watch this spot in the next few days ok.
Am I a lucky man? Yes. I’ve learned a lot from my students, month to month. I’ve learned a lot about this unique culture that is housed by the cozy, cosmopolitan country that is UAE.
Today, I told my last class I was leaving for good. No longer here now to teach English, you see. I’ve been hired by somebody else to teach something other than English. That felt good – to close a chapter like that. I’m generally not good at closing chapters. My life is rather a series of headlong rambling sections where the new section is generated in the chaos of the last section sputtering, faltering but never quite really closing before the move to the new is completed. A perpetual contractor I’ve been. Now for once I’ve closed the chapter. I told my colleagues and my boss that the new job required my to go tomorrow and the next day to begin a paper trail and it was a wonderful feeling to have been cheered by my boss. It was a wonderful boost to hear them say there was always a spot for me if I needed it there in the future. Much better than being lied about, lied to, and then transferred to a new school just to satisfy the political notions of an American middle-manager gone wacky…. Don’t ask.
So onwards now to the new employer. Soon all will be revealed. I’m hedging now because I don’t want to jinx anything you know? Sounds ridiculous I know, but anyways. Just trust me on this on and watch this spot in the next few days ok.
