Wanted Dead or Alive: why we should not be quick to rejoice the death of Osama bin Laden

Recently, the news of Osama bin Laden’s death has taken the United States by magnificent surprise and wondrous joy as swarms of Americans crowded the White House gates with their American flags and the President announced the success of the US Navy SEALS mission to storm into a village in Pakistan and to “smoke” bin Laden out of his compound. The mission was filled with intrigue and danger: military helicopters swooshing out of the sky, commandos caught in a deathly crossfire, shooting at America’s Most Wanted, killing one of his wives in the process, and finally declaring a victory after a decade of war and destruction in the region. An adrenaline-rush of American hypermasculinity on display, as the raid team penetrated the town where bin Laden was staying in, Abbottabad, Pakistan. But it is not just a show of macho military might. It is also the elevation of the masculinity of our soft-spoken and diplomatic President.  As one BBC commentator has noted, this has elevated Obama’s status from “wimp” to “warrior”. This has also significantly improved the President’s ratings (15% increase among the Republicans in fact) and has given a sense of relief and justice to many families of victims of 9/11 attacks. In short, the death of Osama bin Laden has returned the President to the status of a “man”, the United States to the status of world leader and savior, and the American people to the status of self-righteous sense of entitlement and justice. Everybody’s happy.

Sunday night, I was enjoying a nice hot cup of tea with my family members around a pit-fire when I received a text from a friend simply stating, “We killed Osama bin Laden!” At first, I thought it was a drunken joke. But then I received a similar message from a friend in D.C. celebrating in front of the White House. I quickly checked the online news and informed my family of the development. Everyone was obviously surprised. However, after 15 minutes of trying to figure out what had actually happened, we went back to our usual discussions. I, however, tried to follow the news online as the days went on. One of the articles that caught my eye was one on BBC explaining how the code name for bin Laden was, in fact, Geronimo. The name is derived from a 19th century Apache warrior who fought against white North American and Spaniard soldiers, to resist white supremacist efforts of Westward expansion and to preserve Native Americans’ lands and way of life. According to the BBC article, “[Geronimo's] struggle to resist the white Americans has led to him being depicted in a sympathetic light by many cultural historians.”

It is, therefore, no surprise that many Native Americans are upset by the use of the name Geronimo as a code word for bin Laden. To associate a great warrior in their history with a ‘known’ terrorist merely perpetuates negative stereotypes about indigenous peoples and “undermines the military service of native people.” To me, their sentiments of outrage make sense, are warranted, and should be taken seriously. However, I cannot help but to analyze the situation from a different perspective. It make sense to me that the code name for bin Laden would be Geronimo. Indeed, the projects of white supremacy, racism, westward expansion and ‘Manifest Destiny’ have not stopped in the deserts of the Wild West.

Nobody knows why the code name Geronimo was chosen in the first place. However, we should not be surprised by its appearance. Indeed after the attacks of 9/11, a lot of the rhetoric of the fight against terrorism and against bin Laden, such as “wanted dead or alive”, remind us of the old Hollywood Westerns: white dudes with rifles going into uncharted territory (usually deserts) to “smoke out” those “savages”. Of course in the movies, the white dudes with rifles are the good guys. Just like how US’s presence in Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iraq is seen as the ultimate battle between the nation of “progressiveness, democracy, human rights, civilization, good” and the culture of “backwardness, dictatorship, barbarism, savagery, evil.” It is Us v. Axis of Evil. It is our objective and impeccable justice system v. shariaa law. It is our women running for president v. women wearing burkas and staying at home. It is Manifest Destiny Version 21. We have heard this same rhetoric many times during Colonialism and the “white man’s burden”. In our history, we have very rarely allowed the possibility that people of color and people from the Global South have agency, can determine their own paths, can fight for their own rights, and can provide for their own livelihood and happiness. Nevermind that decades of colonialism, pillage, militaristic occupation, and neo-liberal economic policies have left the Global South the unhappy short end of the deal. Nevermind the lack of education, development and opportunities in those countries. Our yardstick for determining “progressiveness” has been how well a nation treats its women/gays/minorities. It is a new Imperialism of tolerant, “multicultural” diversity, because our state has never treated its women/gays/minorities poorly. And should a nation fail to meet the requirements, the United States military (and allied nations) will descend upon it in all of its hypermasculine might and throw the torch of enlightenment into the Heart of Darkness. Colonel Kurtz-style. The irony as always lies in the fact that in our rhetoric of ‘liberation’ we are using the state and the military, two sexist and homophobic institutions, to push forward an agenda of equality and freedom. Naturally then, we are at ease to ignore the violence that emanates from these institutions as we support them to be our protectors against the monstrous Others.

In the War on Terror, we constantly tell ourselves “those people hate us”, but we are never to blame for that hatred. We are logical, humanitarian, and right. They are irrational, monstrous and evil. This is the basis for the new Eastward Expansion. Yes, we are fighting terrorism. Yes, we are getting rid of dictators. And we are doing all of that by murdering innocent people, destroying entire towns and villages, illegally detaining people in Guantánamo Bay, torturing them in black sites around the world (aka having other countries do the dirty-work for us), and spreading our militaristic influence in the region. Let’s not even consider the trillions of dollars spent in these wars and the outrageous military spending of the United States (which, by the way, is more than the combined military spending of the next 45 highest-spending states, accounting for almost half of the world’s entire military spending).

This is not a question of Osama bin Laden’s crimes, which deserve punishment. But we are quick to forget our own history of racism, imperialism, and militarism in the Middle East and South Asian countries. Since the attacks of 9/11 we have been given many reasons for invading Afghanistan, Iraq and Pakistan. Actually, I take that back. We didn’t really give a reason for rolling our tanks into Pakistan, nor did we ask for permission when sending troops into the territories of a sovereign state. Practically everything is justified in the War on Terror. Branding Islamist fighters as “illegal combatants” under international law covers our legal bases. Asking NATO to join our invasion and occupation of Afghanistan covers our diplomatic bases. Branding our quest to profit off of oil and other business ventures in Iraq as a mission to bring down a terrible dictator with nukes (which he didn’t have) covers our public image as the harbingers of democracy and human rights. Even if there are things that are not justified, who is going to stop Us? Our crimes against humanity will go on with virtual impunity while we point the finger at authoritarian brown/black people whom we once financed, sponsored, supported and protected. When do we see American leaders brought before the ICC, or UN-sanctioned special tribunals? Not with the United States’ veto at the Security Council.

There was a time when the United States had the sympathy of the world. On September 12, 2001, when I was still in Iran, my fellow Iranians went to the streets and lit candles for the victims of 9/11 in solidarity with the American people. And now the same people face heinous sanctions, horrifying inflation rates, and the horrendous prospects of war from Western powers. Clearly, attacking Afghanistan, Iraq and Pakistan is not just about revenge/justice for 9/11.

So again I ask, why wouldn’t bin Laden’s code name be Geronimo? Different century, same imperialism. Indeed, Geronimo was probably considered a terrorist back in those days. I wonder: about a century from now, would bin Laden be a martyred hero who was just trying to preserve a way of life and resist American Eastward Expansion and imperialism? Well, we don’t need to wait a century: he already is.

SH

Abjeez

I have recently re-re-discovered Iranian music that mixes traditional Persian sounds and rhythms with jazz, funk, reggae, blues, rock, and other styles. One of these amazing bands is called “Abjeez” – a band made up of two sisters: Safoura and Melody born and grown up in Sweden. The word “Abjee” in Farsi means “sisters” which is where they got the name for their band. Most of their songs are sung in Farsi, but they also have songs in Spanish, Swedish, and English. However, what is really amazing about Abjeez is that their lyrics are filled with social commentary such as social and culture issues in Iran that connect to universal human issues in general. Not only do they both have beautiful voices, but the cultural blending of different styles and traditions renders a sublimely powerful music.

You can find a few samples of their music from their new album called “Perfectly Displaced” on Youtube and also on Grooveshark:

 

Spread the Word to End the Word

I recently came across this Facebook event, titled “Spread the Word to End the Word,” and decided to do exactly that: spread the word.

Spread the Word to End the Word is a campaign all over the world meant to eliminate the wrong and offensive use of the word “retard” or “retarded” so often utilized when we find something annoying, frustrating, outrageous, backward or stupid. The r-word has behind it a long history of medicalization of people with developmental/intellectual disabilities, “retard” being for a long time (and even still) a medical term for people with developmental/intellectual disabilities. It is a hateful word used out of ignorance to hurt and disenfranchise people with disabilities. A lot of people claim that when they say “that’s retarded” they are not actually referring to people with disabilities. However, the use of this word even when we’re referring to too much homework or a test we just failed, only reinforces the stereotypes associated with people with developmental/intellectual disabilities as being less valued members of our communities who have very little to contribute to society, and who are thus, disposable. You never know who around you has a relative, family member or friend with a disability, who may be hurt by this offensive word.

So please join the movement on Wednesday March 2, 2011 on Facebook and/or take the pledge here, and Spread the Word to End the Word.

SH

Just Because I’m Brown…

A few weeks ago, at a place in downtown Seattle where I volunteer, a man walked in the door and asked where he could set up his prayer mat. He was wearing a traditional Muslim cap and a long white dress with pants underneath, similar to some traditional clothes often seen worn by Muslim men. Upon hearing his question, I immediately understood what he meant. Having grown up in a majority Muslim country and having been brought up learning about Islam, I knew what he was looking for. I told him that he could pray right there in the room. I even took out a compass I had with me to tell him where East was. He thanked me and proceeded to pray. After he had finished, I announced to the office that I was going to the coffeeshop downstairs to get coffee. The walk-in man offered to go with me. He was fascinated by my strange name and my apparently not-exactly-white-looking features and asked me where I was from. I replied that I was originally Iranian. He then asked if I was Muslim and I replied that even though I was born Muslim, I no longer believed in god, so no I was not Muslim per se. I usually don’t engage people I don’t know well in conversations about their background but since he had begun the questioning, I allowed myself to return the questions, so I asked, “What about you? What’s your ethnic background?” He looked a bit surprised by the question and said, “African-American.” It probably took me a second, but I quickly responded, “Oh, so you converted to Islam?” And he affirmed that indeed he had. We got our coffee and returned to the office upstairs.

I have to admit that I was extremely embarrassed by this entire exchange. I had made so many assumptions about this man that I normally did not allow myself to make about people. So I chided myself: just because he’s black, doesn’t mean he’s not American! Just because he’s Muslim, doesn’t mean he’s from some North African country! The point is I had truly expected him to reply that he was FROM a certain African country BECAUSE he was Muslim, even though he was just an African-American who had converted to Islam. How could I, who so often gets angry about people who make these assumptions about my background, make the exact same assumption about somebody else? The implication is: if you’re Muslim, you’re not American. If you’re brown/black, you’re not American. If you’re a brown/black Muslim, you COME FROM some place else; you’re an immigrant.

I am often confronted by a variety of assumptions about my identity, my positionality, my beliefs, my values, my social roles, and my relationships due to the color of my skin. So I thought that if I was able to perhaps list the myriad of assumptions that I’ve experienced in the United States regarding who I am, perhaps I might be able to prevent myself from acting on my own prejudices, assumptions, and privileges, and to liberate myself from my own internalized racism and whiteness.

So here is a list of assumptions made about me because I am Iranian/Middle Eastern/Brown/Person of Color. People assume:

1. That I’m Muslim.
2. That I’m straight.
3. That I don’t speak English well.
4. That I don’t understand American idioms and expressions.
5. That I’m filthy rich.
6. That I’m dirt poor.
7. That I know how to bellydance.
8. That I’m gender-conforming.
9. That I speak Spanish.
10. That I speak Arabic.
11. That I come from an impoverished country.
12. That I come from a war-torn country.
13. That I’m not American.
14. That I’m not a US citizen.
15. That I’m religious.
16. That I’m a FOB.
17. That I’m privy to secret information about the “situation” in the Middle East that no one else has access to.
18. That I always feel oppressed or discriminated against.
19. That I benefit from Affirmative Action.
20. That life is easy because I benefit from Affirmative Action.
21. That because I’m a brown female, I’ve been “oppressed” by brown males and am waiting for white males and white female feminists to “liberate” me.
22. That I hate America.
23. That I am Arab.
24. That I would only date within my own ethnicity.
25. That I know every other Iranian in this area.
26. That I know everything about the history, culture and politics of Iran.
27. That I’m exotic.
28. That I’m not familiar with American pop culture.
29. That I’m the spokesperson for everything Iran or Middle East.
30. That I know everything about the history and all sects of Islam.
31. That as a female living in Iran, life was difficult and horrible.
32. That I grew up without any concept of and access to technology.
33. That as a female in Iran, I’ve never done any sports.
34. That I’m a terrorist.
35. That I support the Iranian nuclear program.
36. That I don’t like people from other ethnicities.
37. That “my people” are backward.
38. That “my people” are homophobic.
39. That “my people” are sexist.
40. That I have a people.
41. That I will always defend Iranian politics no matter the policy or the situation.
42. That I’m anti-Semitic.
43. That I hate Israel and want it seen “wiped off the map”.
44. That I “should go home”.
45. That I automatically have a sense of identification with all Muslims, Middle Easterners and other brown folks.
And last but not least…
46. That I’ve ridden camels…everyday…to school.

This list is not meant to be comprehensive or to encompass the experiences of all Iranian/Middle Eastern/Brown/People of Color, but quite the contrary, it’s meant to show how often experiences of people of color are homogenized, uniformed, and marginalized.

Just for interest, indicate the ones you’ve personally experienced and please feel free to add your own in the comments section below.

SH

In Defense of My Countries, My Identities

I have always been in search of words to describe myself. Usually I’ve found the words to be too limiting, too uniform. It has been only the past few years or so that I have had to confront my social identity, my relation to others, my past and eventually my future.

Born and raised in Iran, I could never deny my Iranian-ness. But even in Iran I didn’t completely fit in with everyone. I knew I was different. I did not act like other girls and did not hold exactly the same thoughts and values. When I went to college in the US, I became more engaged with my sexual and gender identity. I ascribed my difference in relation to other girls as a difference in gender. I refused to ascribe to a violently limiting binary system of genders. I began to view gender as a spectrum. But little by little, I disposed of the spectrum idea, founding even that to be limiting. Thus, I came to the conclusion that each individual person has their own gender, which is an ensemble of a variety of things such as their biological sex, their gender expression, their culture, their own self-identification, the identification by others, their class, their race, their religion and so many other factors that affect our notions of gender. But I have to wonder now: this could not possibly be all that differentiated me from other Iranians? Even as mere children in Iran, we knew deep down inside how the world functioned, even if we didn’t have the words to describe it. And sometimes the words were too painfully precise. Yes, I was too American, a remark that many of my Iranian friends did not fail to point out at times. I accepted their haphazard observation and even took pride in it. But for the most part it was a source of play and joking. When I moved to the US at the age of 15, I did not fail to mention to my newly found American friends that I was Iranian – a fact in which I took great pride. At first, this phrase was pronounced with much nuance, with almost a sense of provocation. Were they going to be mean to me? Were they going to make fun of me? Were they going to be surprised? Or simply indifferent? The response most often consisted of an initial surprise, a series of questions posed out of curiosity and ignorance and eventual indifference.

Despite holding official citizenships of both countries, I never felt myself overly American.[1] Throughout high school and even the first few years in college, I insisted that I was not American, regardless of my social status. Never until now had I ever questioned why I was so vehemently opposed to being American. Furthermore, what does being American even mean? I posed this question to a few of my American and foreign friends but none of whom could provide a satisfactory answer. But one thing was clear: you do not need to be born on American soil to be considered American. In fact it was not until I was doing a study abroad in France that I accepted and made my own the American identity.

During my three months in France, I met and interacted with many different people from all over the world. One of the first things that was always asked in class from professors and fellow classmates was national origin. My initial response was immediately: the United States. If I somehow felt as if I was going to have a longer relationship with this individual I always added: “But I was born and raised in Iran before moving to the US.” However, throughout my stay, my response, even to people with whom I knew I would have no major or very little contact, slowly became: I was born in Iran but I come from the United States. Finally it turned into what I had been feeling for a while but had never pronounced out loud: Iranian-American.

It would be too narrow-sighted and utterly false to claim that going to France was the ultimate experience that pushed me into this brilliant new identity that I had forged for myself. So I retreat. Before traveling to France, I had become relatively active with the Seattle community organization of Iranian-Americans. It was there that I met a lot of Iranians from all walks of life and from very diverse backgrounds. I talked to people who clearly felt one side of their identity weighed more than the other, and then there were individuals who easily described themselves as Iranian-Americans and found no irony or contention in saying so. I knew I was one of them but I felt that I first needed to define being American. But can I even define being Iranian? I would be lying if I said Iran was a homogenous country with very little diversity, hence the question is never posed like it is in the United States. As an atheist upper-middle class Persian born and raised in the city, who am I to ignore or worse – assimilate the experiences of millions who are lower-class, religious, Kurd, Turk, Azeri, Arab, Lur, Afghani, Turkmen, Baluchi, and the multitude of other ethnicities that make up this beautiful country, into my own narrow experience as an Iranian? And I have to wonder: do other ethnicities and classes in Iran make the Iranian identity their own as I do?

It had been some time that I had completely washed my hands off of Iranian politics, even if I followed the news regarding the nuclear program and the 2009 elections very closely over the past few years but I never commented or even allowed myself much thought. Even when talking to friends genuinely interested in international politics, I refrained from getting myself too involved. I could not because it was too painful. I could not be emotionally invested in an issue that was tearing me from within. What I didn’t realize until the last six months was that only by confronting my fears, my prejudices and privileges, and by actively engaging with my Iranian and American identities and communities could I truly heal my wounds. I cannot move forward without confronting my past. And if I am to call myself a true activist and continue on the route of anti-oppression work, how can I simply disregard the political realities of US-Iran relations, the consequences of which affects my identity and my relations to the people around me at every level?

And even yet, my overly active and critical brain does not permit me to read back upon these words and not reproach myself for throwing myself under the ugly and violent grasp of nationalism. Many terrible things have been done under the name of nationalism and it is precisely nationalism to which I am subjecting myself by defining my identities as a haphazard mix of a multitude of cultures, histories, and politics from two different countries I call home. But when I am faced with the threat of the destruction of everything that I hold dear in Iran and in the United States, I cannot help but feel a deepening desperation of clinging onto what little I feel is left of my past for a morsel of stability at present, and hopes of a brighter future. As much as I would like to join hands in the common fight against racism, imperialism, and oppression, without regard to nationalism, I cannot raise myself above the unfortunate realities of borders. My experience of the world is deeply rooted in histories. Thus, I can never own the Iranian-American identity without fully engaging in its politics and the consequences it entails.

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[1] The usage of the word “American” here is meant to refer to the United States. I fully understand the white/north amero-centrism of the usage of this term. With my deepest regards to my fellow Latin/South Americans, the term is used out of ease and to differentiate it from being a “US citizen.”

SH

Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day is just a heteronormative, classist, and capitalist excuse to normalize the pressure to be in monogamous relationships and spend money on pointless, and often tasteless, objects.

SH