Gaza Woes

So I had decided not to write about what was going on, but I can’t not anymore.

What the fuck is happening?

Quite simply, the situation is heartbreaking, intolerable, and gut wrenching.

It’s the worst carnage we’ve seen since the 1973 war, and that’s not the worst part: the worst part is that we’ve become so used to the fighting, it doesn’t really mean anything to us anymore. Oh, hundreds of Palestinians have died? How sad. Let’s switch the channel to Mazzika.

I can’t watch TV anymore. I can’t watch the almost gleeful anchors showing footage of dying Palestinians as if to say: “You see! It’s those bloodthirsty Israelis who are doing this!”

I’m not going to say that Hamas is faultless, of course it isn’t. But neither can I say that the Israeli reaction is, in any way shape or form, justifiable. The longer this attack goes on, the more disproportionate the reaction is. I mean, come on:

Since the massive aerial attack was unleashed on Saturday, at least 373 Palestinians, including 39 children [and 22 women], have been killed and 1,720 wounded.

Palestinian militants have also fired more than 250 rockets and mortar shells, killing four people inside Israel and wounding around two dozen more.

That’s in 72 hours. Over 250 Airstrikes occurred in the first 24 hours, 7 mosques were destroyed, and universities were attacked by Israeli F-16 fighter planes.

225 Palestinians were killed and 600 were injured in the first FIVE MINUTES of Israeli airstrikes. Hamas’s home-made rockets have killed just 20 Israelis in EIGHT YEARS.

But, you know:

According to the Israeli military, some 640,000 people live within range of Hamas’ rockets. The missiles are crude and inaccurate, but they wreak a devastating psychological toll on the civilian population there.

So yeah, even though no one is dying, the poor Israelis are going to need therapy. Self defense, my ass. Does Israel really think it’s going to wipe out Hamas? More like turn them into heroes. Ehem, 2006. Lebanon. Hezbollah. Ringing a bell? As Robert Fisk says:

Is Hamas going to say: “Wow, this blitz is awesome – we’d better recognise the state of Israel, fall in line with the Palestinian Authority, lay down our weapons and pray we are taken prisoner and locked up indefinitely and support a new American ‘peace process’ in the Middle East!” Is that what the Israelis and the Americans and Gordon Brown think Hamas is going to do?

Yes, let’s remember Hamas’s cynicism, the cynicism of all armed Islamist groups. Their need for Muslim martyrs is as crucial to them as Israel’s need to create them. The lesson Israel thinks it is teaching – come to heel or we will crush you – is not the lesson Hamas is learning. Hamas needs violence to emphasise the oppression of the Palestinians – and relies on Israel to provide it. A few rockets into Israel and Israel obliges.

I don’t understand how the blood of Palestinians has become so cheap it’s considered a just cost to advance Israeli politicians ahead of the elections. So cheap that Hamas, Palestine’s so-called leaders, are spilling it to garner sympathy for themselves and cement their leadership role. These are people we are talking about. Humans. Civilians.

How is this going to benefit anybody? How is this going to help peace negotiations?

And of course, the media on both sides is painting their side as the victim. English media continues to skew what’s happening as ’self-defense’ (uh-uh, 110 rockets fired on the first day with 1 dead proves those Palestinians are deadly shots alright), and Arabic media isn’t reporting on the fact that there are Israelis protesting against what their country is doing.

But as usual, we might as well be talking to a wall.

And I’m sick of the sudden “let’s blame Egypt” mentality, and not only by Hamas. I mean, good on you Arab leaders, for taking a united stand, but one against Egypt?! Storming the Egyptian Embassy in Yemen? Considering an Anti-Egypt protest in Johannesburg? Hamas killing an Egyptian border officer? Nasrallah asking Egyptians to revolt against their leaders for another country, when they aren’t even doing it for themselves?

I don’t know if y’all have realized this, but Egypt has signed an international agreement with Israel, violating it would mean war. And Egypt can’t open the borders except by agreement with the Palestinian authority, which, I’m sure you also haven’t noticed, were kicked out by Hamas!

And as Mona El-Tahawy so clearly points out:

Has Hassan Nasrallah forgotten that while he rails against Egypt for aiding the blockade of Gaza that he lives in a country, Lebanon, [that] keeps generations of Palestinian refugees in camps that serve as virtual jails?

And the demonstrators in Jordan and Lebanon? Who reminds them that in 1970, Jordan killed tens of thousands as it tried to control Palestinian groups based there, forcing the Palestine Liberation Army into Lebanon where in 1982, the Phalangists, Christian Lebanese militiamen, slaughtered 3,000 Palestinian refugees in the Sabra and Shatila camp?

No one is a winner here. In the end, we’re all losers.

But hey, no use crying over spilled blood, right?

Happy new year.

All-Girl Parties

I have fallen in love…

…with a dress.

Unfortunately, it’s a dress that needs no discernible bulges or love handles whatsoever. And with Tina the talking tummy being my defining feature (white chicks, anyone?), that kind of dress is most definitely out.

Just as well, anyway. Where would I wear it? It’s strapless and ends at mid thigh. Not really the kind of dress I can ‘work around’ to make hijabi-friendly (and can I just say it hurts when I see girls wearing strapless dresses with a Carina long sleeved top underneath? Uggh. It ruins the dress).

The only place to wear it would be…at an all-girl party.

Now, for those who don’t know what they are, let me explain.

Every once in a while, hijabi girls of a certain social class dress up as if they were going to a party. Hair, makeup, dress, shoes, the works. But instead of heading to the nearest nightclub they head to a (girl) friend’s house. There, they eat and dance like there’s no tomorrow.

So basically, they dress up…for other girls.

But believe me, it’s not as lezzy as it sounds.

Basically, I think of it like this: As women, it’s ingrained in us that we want to look pretty for men (bra-burning feminists, simmer down). We want to look pretty. We need to be told that we are. We dress up and wait for the compliments to rain down on us.

But what if you’re veiled, a hijabi? When you’ve decided that only one guy will really get to see you? And you abide by that faithfully, which means not dressing like a hojabi, hiding your body, little to no makeup, and not dating. You abide by the rules so faithfully you become a pillar of virtue and no guy that’s not related to you would dare comment on your looks, starving you for compliments. The piece of cloth on your head seems to signify the death of your sexuality (which it doesn’t, of course) and you start feeling like this asexual being.

So as the years go by and there’s no man in our lives, what to do?

So we dress up, essentially for ourselves, and then go to these all-women parties to boost our self-confidence. To reinforce what we already know: that yes, we are pretty and that one day we’ll get to share that prettiness with someone.

It’s kind of sad to think about.

And I’ll admit it’s not the easiest thing in the world, being a hijabi. And I’m just talking about the desire to be pretty here. I’m not talking about the difficulties it poses in the workplace, while traveling, how you’re perceived, etc. That’s fodder for a whole different post.

Sometimes, I dislike my hijab. I feel like ripping it off, getting dressed up to the nines, blow drying my hair, showcasing my *assets* and watching jaws drop. Exerting my feminine wiles, if you will. Because I know I’m hot and I know I can.

Or even just showing my hair. Believe me, hair makes a whole lot of difference. You can be dressed in a potato sack and veiled, and then in a potato sack and unveiled, and no matter how pretty you thought a girl was veiled, the minute her hair is visible it’s like a light bulb goes on: “hey, it’s a woman.” Kind of like when you see a photo of a girl as a teenager and then a woman.

But I’ve decided that my looks are not going to be what makes me special. Because, in the end, looks fade.

Wow, I kind of depressed myself there.

Elliptical Exercise Machine

What I look like on the machine. Well, not really.

My sadistic trainer got me up on the elliptical exercise machine today.

I hate her.

It’s simply torture. I thought the treadmill, which jars my knee and makes me feel like an old woman, was bad, but this new machine takes the cake.

It’s like you’re a crab. Or walking on your legs and hands.

I finished my hour with very muscle in my body screaming in protest. You know all those endorphins they say you get when you exercise? Lies, all lies. The only high I get from exercising is realizing I’m done for the day.

And I hate sweating like a pig. What’s more, I have very sensitive skin so when I mop up my sweat with a towel (that sounds disgusting, I know), I get a faint rash. And dry skin. But heck no am I losing my soft skin—it’s the fat girl consolation prize for having so much of it, doncha know?—so out comes my Crème de la mer, the beauty cream that costs as much as it does to feed an Egyptian family for a month.

I miss desserts.

CityStars

A friend of mine is getting engaged next week.

And thanks to the insane trend of taking dozens of pictures everywhere we go and immediately uploading them onto facebook, I can’t be an outfit repeater and wear a dress I’ve already worn in another party (well, I can, but still…).

So off I was today to buy something new. And despite my mother trying to steer me in the direction of Beymen or the like, I headed to CityStars.

Ahh, CityStars on a Friday in the middle of holiday season.

I will never cease to get bored of people-watching.

First, we have the Gulfies, who are everywhere since it’s holiday season. Gulfie women wearing makeup like there’s no tomorrow and sleazy Gulfie men who eyeball every passing female.

Then you have the dozens of groups of shifty looking Egyptian men in their 20s, there to girl-watch and simply hang out.

Then you have the groups of tween girls and boys giggling because they’re so cool—out on a Friday night in a group of girls AND boys. What is with that, by the way? Kids as young as 12 holding hands? Girls as young as 10 wearing makeup? At 10, I was still playing with my Barbie dolls. I don’t think I even bought my first eyeliner until I was 13. Kids these days…

Then you have the groups of middle-class Egyptian women, in their ridiculous hijab get ups, being loud and noisy and acting as if they don’t notice the aforementioned Egyptian men checking them out but secretly loving it.

Then you have the families, the grandmas, the kids with their nannies, etc. You get the picture.

Surprisingly, I had fun, despite the crowds and the noise. Even watched a movie and enjoyed it, though I’m not the biggest fan of airfluffy movies.

Did something kind of bad though.

So we’re at TGI Fridays, and the service is atrocious. So atrocious that I call the manager and rattle off my complaints. Then I don’t know what came over me. Feeling devilish, I told him I was a journalist, and that I was going to write about the entire experience. The poor man almost peed his pants and started apologizing effusively, and (since this is Egypt) offered all six of us at the table free desserts and drinks.

I feel bad about pretending to be a journalist, and feel that it’s going to somehow come back one day and bite me in the ass. Karma being a bitch and all that.

Oh well, at least I put the fear of God in the guy.

Abaya Adventure

Today I started my two week vacation.

And yet, there’s no rest for those of us who are gym-bound.

I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, but couldn’t manage to force myself to get dressed. In case I didn’t make it clear earlier, I hate getting dressed. I hate the whole shebacle: what shoes to wear with what bag with what belt and with which hijab etc. If it was up to me, I’d go to work in my pyjamas.

So, I decided not to bother. I got into my gym kit and threw on a abaya [long, black dress-looking garment] over it. Who cares, I thought? I’m going to the gym.

But it seems I failed to realize the novelty of tracksuit bottoms peeping out from underneath a abaya. Coupled with my bright white trainers, and I’m sure I was a sight. But whatever. I’ll march to the tune of my own drum, and I don’t especially care if you disapprove of the way I’m dressed.

I’m off to a very unorthodox Christmas dinner. At the airport. Uh-huh.

Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate it!

Role Model

I hate it when people look up to me.

Today I hooked up with a friend of mine and when I caught her up with my recent doings she came out with “I’m so inspired by you, you’re my role model.”

Dude, if you only knew. Hear that sound? That’s what it’s going to sound like when I come crashing off my pedestal. It makes me feel all squirmy and dirty inside when anyone marvels at my accomplishments. Like, hello? There are people out there doing incredible things, and when you tell me I’m your role model that means there’s pressure to act like one.

I need to go eat a mars bar so I can feel clean again. But I will struggle. An apple it is.

Read The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas today. Liked it more than The Book Thief.

Gym and Video Clips

I’m starting to get into a gym routine. How sad.

I finally caved and signed up for personal trainer sessions, mainly so I’ll have a reason to drag myself to the gym when I’m feeling lazy. So I met my trainer today, and guess what? She weighs as much as I did when I was a fetus, and has arms I can snap like twigs. Fantastic.

Like it’s not bad enough that the only two people in the women’s section EVERY friggin’ time I go are two blonde European-looking women. One is young and looks anorexic, swilling water every few minutes, and one is my MOTHER’S age and yet manages to look fabulous sprinting along in boxer shorts as if she’s strolling down a street, not one drop of sweat daring to mar her face, while I lumber along on my treadmill, panting heavily, with a red face and crazy hair. Oh, and did I mention their swishing blonde ponytails and tiny pert 8-ball-buttocks?

If I wasn’t so fattractive, I could get depressed.

But onto another fascinating aspect of my gym life: videoclips.

I’m not the biggest TV person. But when you’re slogging on a treadmill, TV is as good a distraction as any. Unfortunately, the TVs in the gym only have four channels: Sports, Al-Jazeera, a weird talk show channel, and Mazzika.

Mazzika it is.

For some reason, every time I get on that treadmill, Dolly Chahine’s Ana geyt (I’ve arrived) plays.

I’ll just give you a few minutes to watch it:

Of course all we see in the clip is boobs, butt, gloss-slicked-lips, repeat.

The lyrics of the chorus go: “He must stand up because I’ve arrived, it is only etiquette.” Yeah, I’m sure something will stand up when your top half is falling out of your dress.

I know that all Arab videoclips have basically become excuses for soft porn. But when did the ability to sing cease to become a prerequisite of becoming a singer?!

It seems all you need now is the ability to look smokin’ hot, with a body that lives on air and doesn’t exist in real life. Here are some of my other observations on the videoclips I’ve seen recently:

1. One new singer looks like Haifa’ and one looks like Nancy Ajram. The rest all look the same, with nothing to distinguish them from each other.
2. All the new singers have just one name. They’re so incredible they don’t need a last name.
3. Old men (Amr Diab, Aly El-Hagger, Ihab Tawfik etc) singing to women their daughters’ ages. Ewwy.
4. Locations of women singing: Bed, shower, gyrating on floor.
5. Men crying like babies. Get a backbone, man!
6. No new woman singer has a good voice.
7. None of the lyrics actually mean anything.
8. A lot of transvestite-looking makeup.

Guess it’s time to create some ‘gym’ playlists on my iPhone. But that’s just so cliché: music to listen to that will help me “pump it up?” Gag.

The weather is fucked up today. Intensely cold and intensely dusty. When will it make up its mind? It’s seriously schizophrenic: one day it’s hot, one day it’s cold.

I dreamt I was on a NASA space shuttle yesterday. Weird.

Screwy Internet

So the internet collapsed over the weekend in Egypt, for the second time this year. Kind of ridiculous, really. And for course, as Egyptians, conspiracy theories abounded as to how three undersea fibre-optic cables hundreds of kilometers apart could have been cut at the same time. “It was done on purpose, doncha know?!”

Bet it was the Jews.

It’s weird being disconnected. My fingers missed their keyboard exercises. Honestly, how did people live without the internet?

Anyway, Friday I went out with the family for our weekly lunch, where we pretend to be anything other than a dysfunctional family and where I celebrated my first 0.5kg weight loss by going crazy with dessert. And FYI, date tart with camel icecream is one of the best things you will ever eat. Yes, camel, gross, I know. But it’s divine.

There was a lecture by Moez Masoud on Friday which I really wanted to go to, since he’s one of a few religious speakers I actually don’t fall asleep while listening to. But after that date tart all I could do was crawl happily into bed.

Saturday I had a wedding to go to. I love weddings. They often represent the highlight of a couple’s life–so much hope and optimism. You know 10 months later they’ll be hating on each other. And that she’ll be fugly. Oops, sorry my claws are showing.

So I love weddings but not so much the spanx I have to wear under my dresses so I can trick potential suitors into thinking my body is a lean machine. I do love the food buffet though. And analyzing the many, many ways Egyptian women can wrap their hijabs (and I’m sorry, but the ’spanish’ style will always = maid to me. I can count on one hand the number of girls I know who actually look good in that style). There are no words for the things I see. They scar me for life:

Yesterday I finally got around to visiting my hairdresser and plucking my eyebrows, which were a hair’s length away from becoming a unibrow (get it?)

And today I bummed around at home (I was sick, boss! cough cough) and contemplated finally allowing my winter wardrobe to see the light of day. Tomorrow I’ll seriously contemplate it.

Question: Why does facebook keep showing me an ad with two women kissing? The caption reads: “Curious girls: The new social network for lesbian girls!” Wtf?

Nile FM

I spend a lot of time driving. I get bored really quickly so my car is well-stocked with CDs.

Unfortunately, I’m not the neatest person in the world (think Cilantro bags, empty water bottles, papers everywhere) and so the passenger seat of my car is basically a bunch of CDs. Some in their cases, but most not to facilitate easy CD changing while I’m driving.

A couple of days ago, a friend of mine gathered all my babies up and dumped them in the trunk of the car, saying she doesn’t understand how I can drive with such a ‘messy’ car. And since then, I keep getting in the car and driving off, forgetting to get my CDs from the trunk. Then I realize but I’m too lazy to park the car and go get them.

The point of all this is that consequently and not very willingly, after two days straight of listening to Nawal el-Zoghbi, I’ve started listening to the radio.

So, honestly, what is with the radio?

I faintly recall that when nile and negoom fm first began, we could listen to some good music. Now, you’re lucky if you hear a couple of songs in 15 minutes. Why is most of the airtime dedicated to ads? Or to ridiculous hosts asking ridiculous questions/ talking about ridiculous topics? Why is everyone so perky perky perky?

I have pretty eclectic tastes and I switch from “love Arabic music/ hate English music” to “love English music/ hate Arabic music” every couple of months. Now I’m in the I love Arabic phase so I was listening to the negoom fm station. But then the stupid ads started annoying the hell out of me so I kept switching from the Arabic station to the English station whenever the ads started, but clever station owners have synchronized the ad segments. So, I had to suffer through fascinating ads selling:

1) Cars (“Everyone needs toyota al-araby!”)
2) Detergent (“Oxy albamby.” Stupid jingle is in my head).
3) Installing a swimming pool (“Easier than buying a swimming suit!” Huh?)
4) Suicide hotline (“Call me when you need someone to talk to”).

And it only gets worse from there. And why does it seem as though all the ‘characters’ in the ads are falaheen? And would you honestly have me believe that there’s this farmer calling another one to tell him that there’s a client who wants their produce tonight, but the latter tells him what a shame, it’s too dark and he won’t be able to go to the fields today? But not to worry! the ad tells you. Now you can buy a new Nokia phone, which comes with a torch so from here on out you can go to your fields whenever you want to. (“Elhamdulela!” the farmer says).

So I’m all for targeting your customer, but are farmers really the target market of Nogoom Fm?

I need to get my Britney Spears and Mohamad Hamaki CDs back.

I should get up now and get dressed, I have a Christmas party to go to. But I’m just not the mood. Think I’ll just sit here and eat my healthy yogurt and orange. Probably for the best anyway; I don’t exactly enjoy watching people get drunk. Though it is kind of amusing to watch.

Diet and Holiday Ponderings

Today I semi-began dieting. How I hate that word—it’s “DIE-iting,” for God’s sakes. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

But ehem, given that it’s my first day, macaroni bashamel and chicken pane is not too bad, right? Oh well, I can do the starvation thing tomorrow. Today I needed all the energy I could get to sit at my desk for 13 hours straight. They’re slave drivers at work, I tell you.

But Christmas vacation is looming on the horizon. Where oh where can I go? Spending a week sleeping in bed seems like a wonderful idea. Or I could, you know, jet off to a land of snow and beauty. Decisions, decisions.