Rant about Leaving a Murderous Terrorist Organisation

I have several heroes (don’t we all), and I’ve referred to a few of them in my rants.  The recent discussions about Western youth becoming radicalised and joining murderous terrorist organisations like ISIS has several times reminded me of the wise words of one of my heroes: the economist, social scientist and all around genius Amartya Sen.

In 2006, when the Iraqi war was already going seriously pear-shaped, prisoners were being tortured in Guantanamo and elsewhere and tensions between Western countries and islamists were consequently at an all time high, Professor Sen wrote an insightful book called Identity and Violence. 

The book resonates incredibly well today.  If I grossly oversimplify its central message, it is that we all have multiple identities.  I will use myself as an example to illustrate:  I am, among other things, a friend, a partner, a daughter, a sister, a humanist, a feminist, an environmentalist, a lawyer, a hockey player, a Finn, a vegetarian, a Linkin Park fan, a reader, and left-handed.  All of these identifies have a role to play in shaping my life.  I can also bet that if I continue the list for a little while longer, there will not be a person left on this planet with whom I will not find an identity in common.

This is the key, according to Sen, to understanding (and perhaps assisting in de-radicalising) the young extremist.  Because nobody is “just” a jihadist.  A person who takes their religion very seriously will see this identity influence more aspects of their life than someone like me, but it will never, ever, become their sole identity.  We are all still the children of our parents, friends to those we like and while religion might influence what we eat, read or listen to, those interests in food, books and music still exist and shape us independently of the underlying religion. 

Religious fervour tends to lead to tunnel vision, in which all the rest of our identities become obscured, but this does not mean that those other identities are not there.  Maybe they can be teased out by non-confrontational techniques – in other words, discussion.  As I said, there will not be a person in the world with whom I will not share at least one identity, usually many.  When you have something in common with someone, you have something to talk about.  And when someone is talking about something, they are remembering that part of their identity and engaging with it.

This is an idea of how to get an obsessive radical to obsess a little less.  It is not going to help in dealing with the aftermath of someone having committed atrocities.  That is what criminal law, prosecutors, courts and the police are there for.

I try to also think of it as a good reminder when I am talking to someone with whom I appear to have very little to talk about.  There will always be that shared bit of identity there somewhere.

Rant about Joining a Murderous Terrorist Organisation

 

I rarely rant about current affairs.  That is for people with more flexible schedules, and nimble minds.  I take time to think my rants through and then to write them.  I’m hoping the topics are not going to be moot a week from posting them.

But at the same time I feel that we are seeing something quite unprecedented here, so it would look odd in perspective, if somebody looked at these ten years down the line, and got the impression that I was ranting about pandas, heels and washing machines, as if there wasn’t a massive war going on, a war which scores of my countrymen (and some countrywomen) were joining.

In this day and age that post-dates Enlightenment by about 250 years, European kids are running off to fight the good fight, not for any noble humanitarian reasons, but in order to force a brutal religious dictatorship on people and off with their heads if they don’t conform.

There seems to be a certain amount of head scratching going on among people of just about every colour and creed in Europe.  We don’t understand why this is happening.  The parents and friends of these facebook-jihadists don’t understand why this is happening.

I actually find it quite easy to understand. 

It is happening because these people are young and because they are confused.  ISIS responds to their twin need of absolute certainty at a time when everything is uncertain and for adventure that just doesn’t get satisfied by playing video games.

Don’t you remember when you were young?  There are all kinds of confusing ideas going on in your head.  Your body is doing funny things.  You are supposed to start behaving like a grown up, having a life plan, deciding what you want to do with your life.  We all thought on some level that we were going to be special when we were kids.  We were going to have a purpose and make a difference.  We were going to change the world.  Now it was dawning on us that we probably weren’t.  Being a lawyer or a lab technician was not the master plan we had vaguely imagined as kids.  The adult that we were becoming was bound to disappoint everyone, but most of all the kid we had so recently been.

Add to that the confusion of living at the intersection of two cultures, which are both pulling you in different directions.  There is simply no way of satisfying everyone around you, the needs and wishes of your parents are diametrically opposed to those of (some of your) friends.

This is when someone comes and tells you that he has all the answers.  No need to make difficult choices, no need to feel inadequate and confused.  The answers are all there, in the holy book.  You are special, you have a mission from god.  You are god’s soldier.  You just have to follow the rules and orders.

But there is more.  You don’t just want certainty and a purpose.  You want adventure.  Boys will be boys, they say.  Boys drive too fast and they commit petty crime.  But that is all a bit lame, all a bit childish.  You get told that you get to go and BLOW SHIT UP.  And you can be absolutely certain that this is happening for a good cause.  Not just a good cause, but the only cause there is.  God’s cause.

Alas, a full circle.  It all comes together beautifully.  God is the answer to your need for certainty as well as to your need for adventure.

Now I don’t know how many of them are disappointed or scared or regretful when they arrive in Syria and reality kicks in.  I understand that the westerners hang out among themselves, so that will probably make it easier.  But I don’t know what happens to these people.  Chopping off someone’s head or taking part in gang rape is presumably a bit more difficult to grow out of than shoplifting.

So I don’t know much.  But I think I know why this is happening. 

Thoughts?

I also have an idea (not THE idea, just AN idea) how this could be tackled.  I’ll get back to that in my next rant.

Rant about African Women Part 2 - Josephine Baker

 

 

The second stereotype of an African woman is the wild and erotic “Josephine Baker”.*  Her whole being is mystical and sexual, and since sexuality is scary it must be contained.  One of the first things the colonising Europeans did in the 19^th century in many parts of this continent was to impose western, puritan dresscode on semi-naked tribeswomen.  Nowadays this seems so ridiculous.  The Himba women, for example, in their traditional outfits are beautiful, but not particularly erotic.  Most modern Europeans (the same can’t be said for Americans … the nation of the “boobgate”) can tell the difference between nudity and sexuality.

 

I began to get an idea of the power and scariness of the Josephine Baker, though, when I spent just over a month frequenting a Windhoek gym.  Again, this is not “Africa”, it is just Windhoek, but there were women from different tribes, of different ages, shapes and sizes there.  They all appeared to have one thing in common, though: they were admirably at ease with themselves.  The whole atmosphere in the changing room was just very different to what I have seen and experienced in any part of Europe.  The self-consciousness that a white woman does not seem to be able to escape was almost entirely lacking.  So I began to think that the power of Josephine Baker has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with self-confidence.

 

I wondered why that was.  We are supposed to be more emancipated and aware of our rights in the North.  Yet the bombardment of images of how we should look like – and do not look like – is so relentless that it it nearly impossible not to be self-aware, and consequently ashamed of our imperfect bodies.

 

The tabloid press is a lot less developed in the parts of Africa I’ve been to.  The images of perfect women that ARE portrayed are likely to come from Hollywood, where the pictures are either those of white women or of black women whose beauty adheres very closely to white standards (think Beyoncé or Halle Berry).  Maybe this has less of an impact on the self-confidence of a woman who just looks very different.  Recently the standards of beauty have been ever so slightly relaxing, when women like Lupita Nyong’o have entered the common consciousness.  Ms Nyong’o is strikingly beautiful.  However, her beauty is of such different kind to what I could ever be that I can just admire it, without her images on some sub-conscious level chipping away at my confidence.

 

So maybe that is partly it.  While women in many African cultures are traditionally supposed to be less assertive, and subject to male authority, once they can break away from that and enter the public sphere, they do so with confidence in themselves that is not constantly being undermined by a bombardment of insidious messages of how inadequate they are physically, and how important it is to be physically more adequate.  Hence they are less held back, less apologetic of who they are and what they are capable of.

 

I therefore have come to think, tentatively, that Josephine Baker is in fact Mama Africa.  They are the two sides of the same confident coin.  I have also come to appreciate my time at the gym changing room.  Comments about time spent looking at other people at the gym changing room can come out the wrong way, but even at the risk of that I must conclude that I hope some of the chuzpah those ladies had rubbed off on me!

 

 

*Yes, I know Ms Baker was not from any part of Africa, but French-American.  Her “brand” is fitting for this post, though.

 

Rant about the Inner Snob

Living in Windhoek is not that dissimilar to living in any other city, especially if you have a certain level of income at your disposal.  For the most part we have slotted into the life of the Windhoek middle class rather effortlessly, the only major difference being that we walk or use local cabs rather than drive a massive 4x4.

 

 However, it has been interesting to discover what are the issues where I am unwilling to modify my conduct to how things are done in Namibia and instead insist on doing things my way, regardless of the expense or hassle.  In other words, I have discovered my inner snob, and these are the areas in which it has manifested itself:

 

Coffee:  Coffee provided the first instance for the inner snob to rear its ugly head.  Namibians drink a lot instant coffee, I have even been provided with instant coffee with some warm milk stirred in when ordering a cappucino at a bar.  If it had not been a situation of desperation, I would have refused to drink it.  F has adapted much better, I have blankly refused.  I don’t care if I have to go down to the main building at work for the one pot of filter coffee at the whole Centre or if I have to walk 20 mins to get to a café on a weekend, but I will get proper coffee.

 

Heat:  Namibia (in winter) is the only country in the world where you put your coat on when you enter a building and take it off again when you exit.  I don’t know how they manage to build houses this way, but even when it is a nice 23°C and sunny outside, as it is every day, it is cold indoors everywhere.  I got sick and tired of freezing my tits off pretty quickly, especially when wearing thick socks to bed and fingerless gloves to work was not enough.  So my only major purchase here so far has been a portable electronic heater that I carry around with me wherever I go in the flat.  I see the impact immediately as we have pay-as-you-go electricity, which is not cheap.  No regrets.

 

Sports:  Windhoek is not a sporty place, so we have struggled a bit to find ways to stay fit.  Running along highways (there are no parks) is not enough.  There are two gyms in the city.  We tried the cheaper one right next to our flat for a week.  However, not only was the selection of equipment not impressive, but the clientele consisted mostly of beefcakes who, when not busy admiring their own biceps, were blocking the machines I wanted to use in the nominal circuit and unashamedly oggling at me.  So I snobishly insisted that we invest the significant wad of cash it takes to get a membership at the posh (not only by Namibian standards but by comparison to Geneva, Paris and London as well) Virgin Active gym much further away.  As a bonus, it has a sauna and a steam room, which I use with impunity (see Heat above).

 

TP:  Last but not least, the paper I have found in all toilets here is so thin I feel like I might just as well wipe my bum with my bare fingers.  No thanks.  So the first chance we got, we got some decent double paper and have been happily wiping away since then.  

 

I don’t think I would have guessed many items on this list before coming here.  My inner snob has been an interesting discovery.  Would you guess what yours is like?

Rant about Beautiful Men

So ... As a true believer in equality between the sexes, I feel obliged to follow up my post about good-looking women with one about good-looking men. 

But enough about men, let’s talk about women.  More particularly, about what women do – and should do – when seeing good-looking men.

Stunning women complain that they don’t get approached by men, because men find them to be intimidating.  Surprisingly enough, I don’t have any personal experience of that, so can’t confirm or deny.  But I do know that even us plain-janes get our fair share of cat calls, wolf whistles etc. – all women do.  This is not good; it is harassment.  Harassment comes in many shapes and sizes, and men often don’t understand it, but it is completely, and in all circumstances, WRONG.

Apart from harassment, though, women more often get positive comments about their looks.  This is something that women, as well as men, engage in on an almost daily basis.  We all comment if an overweight friend has slimmed down and is looking better for it, or if a colleague has a smashing new haircut.  In the age old sport of flirtation and pair-formation (or “pulling”, as it is known in England,) often exercised in bars and night clubs, complementing women is a tried and tested strategy.

Not so with men.

It is not common – or perhaps even appropriate – to complement men’s looks.  We are primed still to expect (in the heterosexual context) men to be more active in pursuing women, and women simply have the job of accepting or rejecting wooing candidates.  Some of this is cultural, some biological.  Females are pickier than males when it comes to pair-formation (and not just in humans) since they invest more in child making and rearing.  It is also still the way things are just done among this particular species, and hardly questioned.

If you suggest to a woman that she should complement good-looking men around her, she will in all likelihood resist the idea.  Women often think that pretty men know that they are pretty, and are narcissistic and proud of their looks.  In my experience, this is not necessarily the case.  Encouraged by the example of a friend, I have a few times in my life just walked up to a particularly fine specimen and told him that I thought he was good-looking.  I then proceeded to wish him a nice evening and walked away.  The reactions I got?  Blushing and shy, surprised and pleased “thank you”s.

I used to therefore think that this was a practice to be encouraged.  However, understanding more about harassment, the many forms it can take, and how the harasser often does not understand he is in fact harassing his victim, has made me pause and think twice.  Did I in fact harass the pretty boys?

Rant about Handsome Women

There is a teenage lady in my family.  Teenage ladies are a mysterious species of their own, but not that long ago this particular specimen had a habit of standing in front of the mirror combing her hair and quite unabashedly admiring her reflection.  Her grandma didn’t like it, telling her to stop staring.  I, for my part, didn’t like what the grandma did and told HER to stop it, even though I understood her distaste for vanity.  There are more important forces at play here. 

We are all more or less aware of the pressures on women as regards their looks.  My guess is that it is much worse for teenagers now than it was a million years ago when I was one, and it was bad enough then.  The young lady stopped admiring her reflection soon enough, and will undoubtedly go through a significant amount of self-doubt in the future.  It will be some time, probably decades, before she is again as pleased with what she sees in the mirror as she was a few years back.  Or maybe she never will be that happy with her looks again.

So I say go for it.  Admire yourself, young lady!  It doesn’t matter who else sees it, you be proud, stare in that mirror and tell it, and everyone else, that you look beautiful.

Because there is nothing to be ashamed about in liking your looks. 

And yet somehow we’re made to believe that there is.  A year ago British journalist Samantha Brick wrote an article for Daily Mail in which she analysed the pros and cons of being a beautiful woman.  I started reading the comments to the article – there are a total of 5725 – but had to give up because they were so horrible.  It looks like by declaring herself good-looking Ms Brick had opened some kind of pandora’s box of spiteful comments. 

What Ms Brick said was problematic and in my opinion quite anti-women.  According to her, women are total bitches to those prettier than them – going to such lengths as torpedoing their careers.  While you may expect this to elicit comments, I would have thought the comments to focus on the problematic proposition.  Yet they often did not.  What people appeared to be most upset about was the fact that Ms Brick dared to call herself beautiful when she was (in the opinion of the commenters) not. 

Ms Brick detailed the backlash, including over 1000 hate-filled personal e-mails she’d received, in a follow-up article, calling – understandably – the experience “soul-destroying”.

Who cares what you or I think about the looks of one Samantha Brick?  And what or who would give us the right to voice that opinion anyway?  Where are the manners of all the people who think it ok to publicly declare someone “rather plain with crooked teeth”?  Didn’t their mums teach them anything?

Samantha Brick feels beautiful, and I say good on her.  I hope she has recovered from the upset caused by all the vitriol, and continues to look in the mirror, like my niece used to, and admire what she sees.