Hunger at the Heart of Empire

At Union Station, Washington DC’s central transportation hub, I sat outside a cafe, not so much to pass the time as to delay it, when a young woman with a disheveled appearance walked past my table. My eyes instinctively followed her, not with the surprise one might expect, but with a sense of curiosity. There was something about her presence that seemed at odds with the prevailing surroundings.

A book, Sakhalin Island, by Chekhov rested in my hands. I paused, lifting my head above its pages to keep her in sight. With two or three brisk steps, she approached a marble-clad wall beneath the station’s soaring vaulted ceiling.

This station is one of the outstanding examples of late nineteenth-century Beaux Arts architecture. Designed by the renowned American architect Daniel Burnham, it reflects an academic style inspired by the Arch of Constantine in Rome. The station’s main hall is cylindrical in shape, rising to a height of 29 meters and stretching nearly 60 meters in length.

The woman in a ponytail was dressed in black. Her upper garment, resembling a sleeveless vest, exposed her underarms and part of her large breasts. It seemed she was not wearing a bra. When she reached a large black trash can outside the café, she did not hesitate. She plunged both hands into the bin. She looked hungry. It was as though she had come from far away in hopes of quenching her hunger with the scraps of food that travelers had discarded there.

Suddenly, I was struck by involuntary memories of street children in Kabul. Often, I had seen children collecting leftover and spoiled food from piles of garbage with their small, fragile hands and eating it right there among the trash, one bite after another, simply to ease their hunger.

What difference is there between those children in Kabul and this young woman whose hunger has drawn her to a trash can in a train station of one of the wealthiest cities in the United States? One suffers from the poverty and injustice that result from years of war and bloodshed, which have often been imposed on her through colonial/imperial powers, and the other suffers from a systematic injustice where her government, instead of spending the taxes of its subjects on the welfare of society, uses them to wage wars on countries around the world.

This station lies less than a mile from the US Capitol, where some of the most consequential decisions are made regarding who will have access to justice, freedom, equality, and basic rights. It is less than two miles from the White House, where the most powerful person in the world sits at the helm of the deadliest military on earth, spending billions of dollars while making decisions about war, invasion, and the killing of people whose faces they may never see, even thousands of miles away.

Yet in the heart of the rich imperial power, people are still hungry. To relieve that hunger, they scavenge through the discarded leftovers and food waste found in garbage bins outside restaurants and cafés.

Only a few seconds into her scavenging for food had passed when I heard a woman’s voice behind me:

“Excuse me," and then a short pause ensued to get the woman's attention. "You don’t need to rummage through the trash. Come here, I’ll give you half of my sandwich. I haven’t touched it.”

Without saying a word, the woman pulled both hands out of the pile of trash and quickly walked past my table. A few seconds later, I saw her carrying a cardboard sandwich box, moving away with hurried steps before disappearing into the crowd.

I found myself wondering why she had not eaten the sandwich right away. Then I thought to myself: who knows, perhaps she was taking that half sandwich home to her children who perhaps are hungry too, or a partner who is waiting for a bite.

Rather than calming my mind and heart, these thoughts unsettled me even more. Now, an hour after the incident, as I sit on a train bound for Philadelphia writing these notes, I want to say this: witnessing systematic suffering is a profoundly exhausting and heartbreaking experience, not because of the nature of suffering itself, but because of its systematic and global nature.

Note: this is a translation of a post initially written and published in Farsi on my Farsi blog, 

Why do Americans call the cops over everything?

Yesterday, I was on my way to the university library when I saw, from a distance, two officers in dark navy blue uniforms standing by the side of the road. Both were staring at the ground. Occasionally, they would lift their heads and look up at something deep inside the thick branches of a cedar tree. The female officer was pointing with her finger at something up above to the male officer, who had his legs spread wider than usual. A kind of posture that male officers intentionally do to show how badass they are. He shook his head. Then both of them went back to staring at the ground in front of their feet.

When I arrived, I said hello. "Excuse me," I said, "what have you found here?" The female officer, whose commanding tone made it clear she was a newbie, looked at me in a way that meant, "Mind your own business. Keep walking. Who are you to ask what we’re doing here?"

She didn’t know that I’m one of those stubborn types of people who aren’t easily scared off by a sideways (intense) glare - what we Hazaras call qabighda - just to go on my way. I did not move, did not want to leave without having a clue what the officers were doing there. I kept staring at them, waiting for an answer.

The female officer pointed with her finger toward the base of a tree and said, "Because of this poor little  creature." I saw a lifeless squirrel lying on the grass, its eyes still half open. The female officer continued: "One of the students called us that she found a dead squirrel."

"What are you going to do with it?, I asked. 

"If you’ll allow me, I know what to do," I said, thinking my suggestion would relieve the officers from suffering under a scorching sun. 

"What?" asked the male officer, with an impatient tone in his voice, who had not yet said a word. 

"I’ll toss the dead squirrel into the woods," - I pointed with my finger about five meters away - and continued, "so that maybe a coyote, a crow, or a hungry fox can snack on it and offer a prayer of thanks for us," I responded.

The officer gave me a sideways look, almost on the verge of laughing - whether out of surprise or mockery, I couldn’t tell - and said, "That’s a very good plan, but it’s cruel."

I went to the library. When I came back, almost two hours later, I still saw those officers standing there, over the dead squirrel. 

"Nothing happened? I asked.

"We called animal control so they can come and decide what to do," the female officer responded in a kind of weary tone.

By then, it was clear to me that these cops lacked the skills to deal with the dead body of a squirrel.

As I walked back home, I kept asking myself, why do Americans always call the cops over everything? Even over a dead squirrel on a sidewalk. What does law enforcement have to do with the dead squirrel? 

Then I thought, well, perhaps this is how a society in need of too much security looks. Or in the words of my friend Ron, a society wrapped in cotton wool. My mind didn't stop there. Then, I thought of massive spending on defense, the omnipresent nature of guns, and the integration of gun violence into everyday lives, and the state unleashing brute force on the streets and terrorizing people. Finally, I convinced myself to surmise that this is what a militaristic culture should look like.

Iranians who are celebrating a death and dismissing the dead

In the neighborhood where I live, there is an Iranian grocery store and a bakery inside, which I usually go to. The grocery store's owner is a pro-Shah. The entire store is decorated with mini Lion and Sun flags. Last night at seven o'clock, I went to get bread and saw a long line. I forced myself to wait in line, which I usually don't, unless I am starving. Within moments, I noticed middle-aged women in the line had their phones out of their purses, showing each other photos of men with white and black turbans. I saw one of those photos from a distance; it was of Gholam-Hossein Mohseni-Eje'i, the former Iranian minister of intelligence.

A tall, middle-aged woman with a large bracelet on her right hand said to the woman in front of her, "kasafat ra nabudash kardan" - they eliminated that filt. She meant Ali Khamenei. One of the women replied, "dasti shon dard nakuna -- thank you so much. "They hit him in a way we didn't expect," she added with a bit of stupification performance.

"Baba, I still can't believe it. They should have taken DNA from his filthy corpse. These filths know a thousand ways to survive," said a plump, not-so-middle-aged woman with a receding hairline.

"Bravo, for three days now we've been dancing and celebrating. We're so happy words can't describe it," said a tall woman who was standing in front of me. Everyone confirmed with cheerful faces, expressing happiness.

I asked the woman in front of me, "Excuse me, when were you last in Iran?" I asked in English, of course. I was afraid to ask in Farsi, afraid they'd jump on me. Ever since I heard about an Afghanistani restaurateur in Hamburg, Germany, who refused to install the flag of the Iranian Lion and Sun flag (or better known as the monarch's flag) in his restaurant, was stabbed to death by supporters of Reza Pahlavi, I've been very cautious since then when encountering Iranians in Orange County.

"Where are you from?" the woman asked me, before she answered my question.

"From Indonesia," I replied, of course not telling the truth to protect myself.

"Two years ago," she replied.

"I read in the news that Iranians living in Los Angeles celebrated the death of Ali Khamenei, but in the same attacks, 165 school children were killed by American and Israeli bombs. Don't you think Khamenei's death and those 165 children are connected?" I asked in order to challenge their moral standing.

With noticeable annoyance and open indignation, the woman said, "Those 165 children were children of Revolutionary Guard soldiers." Another woman interrupted her and said, "No, the school was bombed by the regime itself."

"Did you see or read that somewhere? I asked curiously.

She showed me a screenshot from a social media page that I later looked up and found was linked to Hasbara - the Israeli propaganda organization. 

I left the line without bread.

The knife has reached the bone

In the past few hours, some emotionally charged Afghanistanis have shown a bit of excitement regarding the Pakistani army's airstrikes on Taliban militants' bases in Kabul, Kandahar, and other places. "Pakistan zinda bad - Long live Pakistan"- is a repeated phrase I see shared across social media platforms.  

One user even wished that Syed Asim Munir (the Pakistani army chief) would liberate Afghanistan from the grip of the Taliban. One user wrote, "Pakistan's airstrikes have made the groundwork for resistance against the Taliban feasible."

Another user warned that "In these circumstances, one must be vigilant that the people must not be deceived in the name of the homeland by the Taliban criminals. A homeland that is under the criminal rule of the Taliban is not a homeland." As the old proverb goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

After reading these comments of those emotionally invested Afghanistanis, obviously with a sense of responsibility, regarding Pakistan's strikes on Taliban regime bases, now I understand better the conversation I had with an Iranian friend who told me, "You know, every year around this time, we Iranians used to look forward to Nowruz Eid, this year, we're counting down the days and hours to an American attack."

Now I better understand the situation of those Iranians who are waiting for American bombs. And I also better understand the desires of those who are under the rule and oppression of the Taliban and are happy about Pakistan's airstrikes on Taliban military bases and wish for their country to be freed with the help of Pakistan.

"kard ba ustukhan rasida" -- The knif has reached the bone-- [i.e., they are at their breaking point], a popular proverb in Farsi, is what my Iranian used to explain to me the situation of those living under oppression, whether in Iran or Afghanistan.

I mean, what parallels of anguish. From those Iranians who wish for American bombs to those Afghanistanis who hope for Pakistani strikes, it is a deeply unsettling time. 

What a world we are living in!

Wishing for bombs

These days, some Iranians are dying to see the US attack their country. This morning, I was talking to an Iranian friend, Reza, who told me, "You know, every year around this time, we Iranians used to look forward to Nowruz Eid, this year, we're counting down the days and hours to an American attack."

I didn't have the words to express myself, except to acknowledge a subdued sense of sadness. I said that an attack, no matter the form, is bad. He then asked, "Is the attack by the mullahs and their deadly forces, who have killed thousands recently, good?"

I said the answer is negative (i.e., of course not). An attack, from any perspective and by any state or actor, is horrible. I mean, people should not reach the point where they wish for a foreign attack on their homeland.

Then, my Iranian friend, with an angry retort, countered, "Imagine a prisoner who is tortured daily and whose agony is unending. He or she wishes that one of the torturers would end the torment with a single bullet. Can you now understand how much some Iranians suffer?"

"Have the people of Iran really reached this point?" I countered.

Eventually, I told my Iranian friend that I do not allow myself to pass judgment on this matter because I do not have the experience of what those in Iran are experiencing, and my understanding falls short, too. "The question is, will their situation improve with a US attack?" I asked.

"Now compare this situation with Afghanistan. Would you wish for a foreign intervention that would lead to the overthrow of the Taliban, who are killing your people, the Hazaras?" Reza irritably followed with his analogical question.

"Not militarily," I said.

"Well, why not for Iran?" he asked bitterly.

"I have no answer," I replied.

Imperial boomerang: violence comes home

Finally, the violence comes home, to where it started and to where it belonged, and from where it was deployed and executed. It's an imperial boomerang, borrowing Aimé Césaire's concept. For years, their force kicked down doors in Iraq and Afghanistan, now their own doors are being kicked down by their own brute force. In this case, violence is not a two-way street; there has been no direct confrontation with the production of US violence from those affected countries; rather, it has had a boomerang effect, coming home where it belongs. 

Photograph source: The Atlantic

The US did not "invade" Afghanistan

The western media has always framed the presence of US and other international forces in Afghanistan negatively. We constantly read and hear from the media the word “invasion” to articulate the presence of US forces in Afghanistan.

It is true that US forces are using the territory of Afghanistan in the war against terrorism, but does that mean that the US invaded Afghanistan? Simply put, the answer is no. This is because the United States was invited by the Northern Alliance, and the two united to stand against the Taliban, who at the time had seized almost 95% of the country.

Nine years of US presence in Afghanistan have passed. There are about 36,000 US troops who are not part of ISAF serving in the east of Afghanistan. As of October 2009, the ISAF had 67,700 personnel from 42 different countries including the US, European countries, Australia, Jordan and New Zealand. Now, does that mean that 42 countries invaded Afghanistan? Continue reading...

Cycling and Exploring

I made this video for my Farsi blog readers but then I thought I should post it here as well. The pink bicycle helped me to explore the Duke Campus, the city and also do some shopping but at the end of the day both my knees felt stiff. Some may find it funny to see me on a pink bike (which is for women) but guess what, I don't really care what others think of me. I don't have a car and I needed to explore the campus and what would be better than a bike. You might ask then why a pink? Well, that was the only bike that I had access to.