how talented is he?!?!

I just wanted to post a link here to something pretty amazing. Check it out! It's truly something!
An artist at work

Reporting on Iraq - the whole truth?

I've just returned from watching "Control Room", a documentary about Al-Jazeera's coverage of the Iraq war. It was, in essence, filming the filmers. And it set me thinking about the truth and objectivity and (is propoganda too harsh a word?) in the media. Because throughout the movie, the Americans were continually accusing Al-Jazeera of propoganda, of showing only one side of the story. And all the while, those at Al-Jazeera were adamantly proclaiming that they were showing what the Americans were really doing in Iraq (primarily Baghdad), what the American media was glossing over and wouldn't show.

Both were right in their accusations - because Al-Jazeera certainly had an agenda; and that was to show the uglier things that the American presence in Iraq was producing. To them, that was the truth. But it was a version of the truth, just as what Fox News was showing back home was a different version of the truth. While America was basking in the glory of the fall of Saddam Hussein's regime (symbolised by the toppling of his statue), the "liberation" of the Iraqi people and fighting terrorism, Al-Jazeera was showing the dead and wounded, both American and Iraqi (which Americans, the media included, have always found unpalatable), the effects of the "precision bombs" that weren't so precise, and the curses against George W. Bush, which the Americans interpreted as cheers for Bush. They surmised that the toppling of Saddam Hussein's statue was clever political maneuvering, carried out by mostly Kurdish men who had been brought into the area by American troops, complete with an American and an old Iraqi flag, along with Iraqi currency that Kurds don't use (and could hence tear up in bunches without any twinge of conscience).

But when Al-Jazeera was critisised, often and harshly by American officials who charged the network with incitement, Samir Khader, an editor at the network, pointed to a broadcast showing a crying, wounded child. "Rumsfeld called this incitement," he said. "I call it true journalism. The only true journalism in the world."

Not quite. Because throughout the movie, there were parts where it was obvious that Al Jazeera was far from objective, and its decisions about what to show were certainly selective, chosen to push an agenda. A journalist providing immediate translaton for a US army officer speaking on screen, impatiently shrugged and waved him off when he was done (the soldier obviously couldn't see him, but the gesture clearly showed how the journalist felt about the US troops).

Khader himself, after Al-Jazeera journalist, Tarek Ayoub, was killed when the US military bombed the network's office in Baghdad, proclaimed that he wouldn't allow himself to cry. "It would have been too easy to cry," he said. "To me, this was a crime that needed to be avenged." Is the job of a completely objective media to avenge crime, no matter how close to home the crime has hit? I think not.

The images that Al-Jazeera showed clearly focused on the negative aspects of the war - wounded civilians, a mother who had just been bombed out of her home, people cursing the Americans, and the American President. These were all carefully chosen, to promote a certain image of the war in Iraq.

Neither side -or rather, none of the sides, for surely there are more than two - can lay claim to the whole truth. Each can claim that it is reporting exactly what it sees. But even what it sees, and what it ignores, are choices, and as such, are determined by its own notions, beliefs and yes, with bias. So, it does -perhaps inadvertently, perhaps not- promote its own agenda.

Which leads to another question: why did Jehane Noujaim (the director) choose the Al-Jazeera clips she did, to feature the people she did, and present the views she did? A girl in my class is a friend of hers, so if I find out, I'll post the answer here!

Here's to friends. . . past, present and future

I've been worrying for the past few weeks about my apparent inability to make friends quickly. So many people in my programme seem to have already formed into little cliques that hang out on the steps of the J-school building after classes, that they make a bee-line for in the lecture hall, and that meet up afterwards to go to lunch or dinner. I, on the other hand, wander in, find a seat near the front (to avoid repeating my questions to lecturers, since my voice doesn't carry, NOT because I'm a nerd!!!), and wander out by myself again afterwards.

Comments when I was leaving London, along the lines of, "Oh, you're going back to school. You're going to make LOTS of friends," just increase my feelings of insecurity. Is it a given that you will just suddenly develop a magnetic personality and an irresistible sense of humour when you decide to go back to school? The fact that I'm a journalist, and thus should have no problem holding a conversation with complete strangers, and that I'm not very good at precisely this exercise, just makes things worse.

But over the last couple of days, I've decided that I just might be ok. Not because I've suddenly developed said personality and sense of humour. But, rather, because I've realised that I already have some really good friends. . . amazing people who know me pretty much inside out, and who don't give me panic attacks when I start a conversation with them.

I've been getting back in touch with many of these friends over the past few days. I went out to dinner with Ficali and Anj on Thursday, and with Nayam Qayam on Saturday. I had long phone coversations with Chris, Jag and Moose today. I haven't seen Anj, Nayam and Moose since 98. It's been ages since I've heard Chris' and Jag's voices. Despite the length of time that has passed, however, and despite how much older (and supposedly wiser) we are now, there's still much comfort to be drawn from the knowledge that I can be myself. . .my stumbling conversations, my lacklustre sense of humour. . . they don't matter to these people.

And although we have all grown and changed in different ways, in so many ways, we are still the same. Ficali is still her bubbly little self; Nayam's crises didn't stop her from wanting to know everything about me, and vice versa; Chris' warm queries about how I was adjusting to life in NYC reminded me of the days when she, Jeannie and I used to laugh until we cried in London; Jag's greeting of "MANGU!!!!!" reminded me of all her efforts to draw me out of my shell when I didn't even want to know anybody; hearing Moose's voice reminded me of how she and I used to talk about everything under the sun, laugh and cry together; and Anj's warm and caring personality, reminded me of the good old Kohdee days.

If I've ended up with friends like these, I must have done something right. Right? So, I guess I'll stop worrying, try a little harder to start conversations with my new classmates and leave the rest up to Him :-)

Speaking "Mexican"

I was talking to Nev on the phone today, and he told me a story that made me feel a bit better about the silly situations I get myself into. He was waiting in line for something when a girl came up to him and started talking to him. She asked him where he was from. He told her, and asked her where she was from in response. She informed him that she was Spanish.

"Barcelona? Madrid?" he prompted.

"No," came the cheerful reply. "Honduras."

Both Nev and I obviously have a lot of catching up to do in Honduran geography!

There's more though. She informed Nev that she had thought he was Spanish too! In response, he told her, beaming at the interest she was taking in him. "Yes, I know. I've had people come up to me and start speaking Mexican!"

Her interest in him underwent an immediate transformation for the worse! "I guess I've assimilated too well into the US!" he told me wryly.

The human side of politics

Over the past few days, I've been following the evacuation of Jews from the Gaza Strip, primarily in the New York Times. The feature length stories, usually three or four a day, are filled with descriptions of weeping Israelis, for many of whom their homes in Gaza have been the only ones they have ever known, forced to tear themselves away.

I know that, historically, Gaza should have never been Israel's, and that, at one point, Palestinians in Gaza went through exactly what the Jewish settlers there are going through today. But historical and political considerations aside, the stories of the settlers having to pack up and leave is heart-rending. And the photos that accompany these stories really do take the place of a thousand words. One in particular - from Tuesday, August 16 - spoke volumes louder than the entire story. It is a picture of a young Israeli soldier, himself fighting tears, with his arm around a weeping woman. It must indeed be strange to be a soldier in the Israeli army during this time. . . trained to be ruthless in fighting the enemy, trying to force their own people out of what they have come to see as their homes must be the hardest assignment - at least in terms of emotions - that the soldiers have had.

NYT

Blogable events. . .catching up

During my contemplations about creating a blog, several things happened. . . or rather, I got myself into several situations. . . that seemed to me blogable, at least to allow others to recognise that I haven't gotten any more sophisticated or sensible since my arrival in the Big Apple.

Like last week. . . I persuaded myself that it was time I got into shape, and decided to take advantage of the free gym at Columbia. Only, the gym is about eight blocks from where I live, and I didn't want to walk through campus in my running gear. . . don't ask why, that's a question for a shrink! Anyway, armed with my water bottle and campus map, I marched off along Broadway, from where, according to the map, I should have been able to get to the gym. But my map was lying, and the gym was nowhere in sight from Broadway.

So I decided to be innovative and try to get to the gym through what my map told me was the neighbouring building. I walked in confidently, congratulating myself on how much my sense of direction had improved in the past few years, and on how innovative I was being in trying to find new ways to do things. I reached a door in the building with a sign that said, in essence, that there was no access to the street from that exit, and no entrance back into the building, without authority with Columbia ID. Ha, I thought, I've got a Columbia ID, so I've got authority, and promptly marched through the door, letting it bang shut behind me. . . only to realise that I was in some no man's land with no exit. It was a deserted, unkempt back "garden" (in extremely generous terms), with piles of garbage bags, uncared for bushes and. . . eek. . . mice!! The place was surrounded by high metal bars, and a locked gate, through which I could see the street and people walking by.

Ok, I thought, so this is not it. But my trusty Columbia ID will get me back in the building, and I'll just be on my way. I took out my ID with a flourish and swiped it on the little swipy thingie that was next to the door.
Nothing.
Ok, so it sometimes doesn't work on the first try. Let's try again, I thought.
Again, nothing.
Ok, so I guess I don't have authority. Now what?

No problem, I thought. I'll just stop passers-by and ask them if I could use their phones to call campus security. Now, most normal people would (if normal people get themselves into such situations) just stop the first person they see, as long as they look relatively decent, and explain the situation. But no, I had to find a certain type of person. . . preferably female, so that members of the opposite sex wouldn't see what an idiot I am, preferably alone, so that the number of people who see what an idiot I am is kept to a minimum, and preferably a saint, so it wouldn't occur to them to judge my idiocy.

So, after eliminating the people walking by for about five minutes, I found my ideal candidate. Excuse me, I called out. She looked at me, slightly startled. I have a slight problem. . . and explained. Do you have a phone I could use to call security to let me out? Sorry, she said, I don't have a phone.
I think she felt guilty then to leave me in my prison and continue on. She stood there, and looked around helplessly. It's ok, I told her. I'll just ask someone else. Ok, she said, looking relieved, and walked off.
My next saviour I decided, was a woman wearing a crucifix around her neck. And went through the same exercise. She too didn't have a phone.
Now in London, the first person I asked would have had a mobile on her. But in this technological wasteland, it was not to be.
It took another five minutes for my next candidate to come along. Excuse me, do you have a phone? I asked her. She looked at me suspiciously and took a step back. I'm sorry to bother you, I said, and went into my spiel again. She, miraculously, had a phone, which she pulled out of her bag, dialed the number (which, for once, I knew) and I explained my situation to the operator. When I was done, I thanked the woman profusely. Do you want me to wait with you, she asked. Touched to the core, I told her I would be fine, and waited until a very amused security guard set me free, explaining that only certain people with AUTHORITY, and not misguided young women, could get back into the building.

What would happen if there had been a fire, I asked as he was escorting me out of the building.
Oh, there won't be a fire there, he replied confidently. And if there was, you'd just have to jump the (25-foot high) gates.
Oh, hehe, I said, nervously. I guess things could have been worse. . .

Starting off

Ok, so here goes. . . my attempt at a blog. After putting this off for weeks, and promptings by friends both in New York and in London (apparently, blogging is the thing to do if you're in New York City, and I need to do all I can to fit in!), and in particular, thanks to regular prodding by my friend Ficali McPipe, I have decided to sit myself down and write something.

So here I am. . . I'm not much of a diary/journal person, so this writing what's on my mind doesn't come naturally. And, after several failed attempts at wit and humour, I've decided to abandon that route, and just write. So this is just what the heading says. Musings . . . wonderings. . . about the world, life, people. . . everything. . .