Saturday, December 26, 2009

Proud to Be British!

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When I first travelled around North Africa and the Middle East, I was always rather wary of telling people that I was British. Given Britain's imperial history, I was never sure of how people would react to learning my nationality. I needn't have worried, though, because most Arabs seemed to harbour remarkably friendly feelings towards Britain in spite of its past actions in the area. Here are two anecdotes that illustrate this.

Cairo, Egypt
I was standing on the steps of a government building in Tahrir Square in Cairo. As usual, the square was a swirling and totally chaotic mass of thousands of people and cars. While I was deciding where to go next, I noticed a middle-aged Egyptian man in European clothes walking smartly through the crowd. He seemed to be looking straight at me. He climbed the steps, his eyes still focused sharply on me. Perhaps he was someone I'd met while visiting the ILI school in Cairo? But, no, I was sure I'd never seen him before. He walked right up to me and stopped.

"Excuse me. Are you British?" he asked in English.

A little warily, I told him I was.

"Well, I would just like to thank you for Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Dickens."

He shook my hand warmly, turned around and headed back down into the chaos of Tahrir Square.

Fernaj, Libya
We lived in a small village called Fernaj, a few miles outside Tripoli. I was shopping in the village one day when an elderly Libyan man struck up a conversation with me. When I discovered I was British, he seemed pleased. According to him, British troops used to be garrisoned in the area. I asked him how they had behaved.

"They were very nice," he said. "Much better than the Italians. When the Italians ruled Libya, they treated us badly. They wouldn't even let us walk on the sidewalks. We had to walk in the street."

"And when the British were here?" I asked.

"Oh, they were much better. They were not like the Italians."

He paused, obviously lost in nostalgia. Then he continued.

"The only problem we had with the British was on weekends. The soldiers would get drunk. Then they would drive their jeeps through the village and run over our children. But, apart from that, they were nice. Much better than the Italians."
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One Law for All

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I drove out to Tripoli Airport with a Libyan friend to pick up a new teacher who was arriving from England. As soon as I walked into the terminal, I knew something unusual was happening: It was packed with people and there were heavily armed soldiers everywhere.

My friend asked someone what was going on and we were told that Ghadaffi was there to welcome the Foreign Secretary of some other Arab state. I think it was Syria but it could have Iraq or Jordan.

My friend insisted that we squeeze through to the front of the crowd to watch the welcoming ceremony. It was impressive. Ghadaffi was out on the tarmac flanked by a brass band and an honour guard of very smartly dressed soldiers.

The foreign dignitary came down the steps of the plane and he and Ghadaffi embraced. After reviewing the honour guard, the two men walked hand in hand to the terminal, chatting as they walked.

They strolled past the immigration desk, which was manned by an immigration officer who looked about 18 years old.

To everyone's amazement, the immigration officer suddenly stood up and shouted out, "Hey, you! Stop!" Ghadaffi and the visiting dignitary stopped and turned around.

My friend translated the dialogue that followed.

Ghadaffi: Do you mean us?
Officer: Yes. (He pointed to the dignitary.) I need to see his entry visa.

Ghadaffi gave his guest an apologetic look and walked back to the immigration desk.

Ghadaffi: You know who I am?

Officer: Of course I know who you are, Muammar. But I need to see your friend's visa.

Ghadaffi: You don't understand. He's the Syrian Foreign Minister. I've invited him here.

Officer: That's very nice. But I need to see his visa.

Ghadaffi: He doesn't have a visa. He's here at my invitation on an official visit.

Officer: I'm sorry but if he doesn't have a visa, I can't let him through. Everyone who comes to Libya has to have an entry visa.

Ghadaffi: Well, yes, I know that's the law but he's my guest. I'll vouch for him. You can let him through.

Officer: The law says every visitor must have a valid entry visa.

Ghadaffi: But you can make an exception in this case. He's my friend.

Officer (visibly exasperated): Look. I'm just trying to do my job. You say I should let this man through without a visa. Fine, if that's what you want, I'll let him through. But then somebody else will turn up tomorrow and say that his friend is arriving without a visa and I'll have to let him through. Then the same thing will happen the next day. And the day after that. Personally, I don't care. It's up to you. Do I let people through without visas or not?

Ghadaffi thought for a moment. Then he turned around to his guest and told him that he would have to get back on the plane and go home to get a visa.

The young immigration officer sat down at his desk again and all of us in the crowd applauded.
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Saturday, December 12, 2009

Libyan Rage

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One of the great things about living in Libya was that Libyans were very laid back. Unlike in most Arab countries, it was rare to hear any very heated arguments. Whenever people got into an argument and seemed to be heading for a real confrontation, one or other of the participants would somehow defuse the situation and all would end well.

This would happen at the school where I worked. From time to time, an unhappy student would come into my office with a complaint. Perhaps he thought he should be in a higher class, for example, or maybe the teacher had said something to upset him. It was usually easy to solve the problem but very occasionally a student would reject my offered solution and would escalate matters. These cases always ended the same way. The student would threaten me with "I will take you to Muammar Ghadaffi!" I would hit back with "Oh, no, you won't. I will take you to Muammar Ghadaffi!" Then we would both burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation, we would shake hands, and the student would leave.

In my four years in Libya, there was only one occasion when I ran into a Libyan who refused to be mollified. It happened when I was driving home after a bad day at work.

I passed a car and, distracted by work problems, I pulled back in a little too quickly. There was no danger of an accident but my action caused the car I passed to brake. This infuriated the driver. Perhaps he'd had a bad day at work, too.

Seconds later, the other car pulled up alongside me and forced me off the road. It stopped and the driver got out.

Before he could say anything, I apologized in Arabic. This didn't help. He was really angry. He told me, in English, that I had been very naughty. (All Libyans who knew any English seemed to know and use the word "naughty," usually in very inappropriate contexts.)

I apologized again but this made him even more angry. He was so angry that he called me a donkey, the ultimate insult throughout the Arab world.

I couldn't help but laugh at this. There is just something ridiculous about being called a donkey.

This totally infuriated him. He was speechless with rage and literally hopping mad. He started to approach me but then stopped. From the look on his face, I could see that he had made some kind of decision. Oh, oh. Perhaps this wasn't going to end well.

He walked back to his car, got in, and revved up the engine. He opened his window.

"Surely he doesn't have a gun," I thought to myself, getting ready to dive behind my car.

He played his ace. "I don't like your queen," he shouted. "I don't like your queen." Then, clearly fearing that he'd gone too far, he raced off down the road.

"I don't like her either," I yelled back.

I could hardly get back into my car for laughing.

A Problem with Stereotyping

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Egypt is a very poor country. By definition, any foreigner who can afford to visit the country is comparatively rich. The result is that visitors are constantly approached by Egyptians who want to sell them something or to do something for them that will merit the payment of a tip. So, as a foreign visitor, you soon learn to brush aside offers of help from local people. However, sometimes can sometimes lead to problems.

On one trip to Cairo, I had to take a train to another city. I took a taxi to the main railroad station and carried my bag inside. Like most large public buildings in Cairo, it was a chaotic scene, with thousands of people milling around and making an incredible amount of noise.

I fought my way over to the timetable board and stood there trying to work out the time of the next train for my destination.

Within seconds I was approached by a small man wearing a European-style suit. To my surprise, he addressed me in excellent English. "Good morning, sir. Are you British?" I told him that I was. "And where do you want to go?" I told him.

"That is no problem," he said. "I am the station manager. Come up to my office and I will arrange everything for you."

"Here we go again," I thought. "Someone else who wants to supplement his pathetic government salary with a tip from a foreigner."

However, I wasn't in the mood to deal with the chaos of the station on my own and so I decided it would be worth going with him.

He took me upstairs to his office, which overlooked the chaos of the main concourse.

He told me the price of the ticket and I gave him the cash. (Surprisingly, the price he quoted was the price I had been told it would cost; he hadn't added a "commission".)

Then he sent a minion to buy my ticket and another minion to bring me a Kitty-Kola.

We sat and chatted, and he told me how he had started working for the railroad back in the days when it was operated by the British.

A few minutes before the scheduled departure time of my train, he called in another minion to carry my bag and then personally walked me to the train.

He led me to my seat, had his minion stow my bag in the luggage rack, and then had a porter dust down my seat.

"It has been a pleasure talking with you," he said. "And I hope you have a pleasant journey."

He stood and waited.

Well, he had been very helpful. I pulled out a 5 pound note, which was probably as much as he earned a week. I handed him the note.

He was visibly appalled. He handed the note back and drew himself up to his full 5' 3".

"I do not want your money, sir. I did not help you for money. I am the station master. You are British. I wanted you to see that I operate this station exactly the same way you British used to operate it when you were here in Egypt."

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

I felt about 6" tall.

So much for creating or perpetuating stereotypes of other nationalities and cultures!

Sunday, December 6, 2009

The Last Time I was Arrested

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September 5, 1977. My penultimate day in Libya.


Sue, Mustafa and I were taking a final drive together in the countryside. I spotted some charcoal heaps in a roadside field and pulled over to take a photo of this rural scene.


The Charcoal Heaps


Another car came up and stopped in front of us. A man in plainclothes got out and rushed up to me. “You are under arrest,” he yelled. “You are under arrest for taking photos of an agricultural project.”


Like most of our teachers, we’d been stopped and/or arrested many times before, but I really hadn’t anticipated this happening on my last full day in Libya.


Still, the policeman had the law on his side: In Libya as in most other less-developed countries it is illegal to photograph government buildings, bridges, airports, military installations and agricultural projects. Mustafa tried to argue that a charcoal heap is hardly an agricultural project but the secret policeman was having none of it.

So off we all went to the police station.


The station sergeant was rather nasty and he went on and on about our being Israeli spies.


We listened patiently for a while and then Mustafa gave him a business card. Not his own card but a card of one of our friends, a colonel and the deputy head of the Libyan police.


The sergeant looked at it. He was clearly impressed. “You know this man?”


“Yes, he’s a good friend of ours,” said Mustafa. “He gestured to me. “He’s a student in my British friend’s school.”


“I will phone him now.” And he did.


Now, I couldn’t understand the phone conversation but Mustafa whispered a translation to Sue and me. Basically the colonel told the sergeant to stop being such an idiot and ordered him to let us go immediately.


The sergeant hung up. We waited expectantly. “Well, he says that I must write a report and then it is up to me whether or not we keep you here.”


We could have pointed out that this was not at all what our friend had said. But then the sergeant would have lost face. And he might have reacted badly. So we kept quiet.


He went to the filing cabinet to get some paper for his report. The top drawer was empty. The second drawer was empty, too. The third drawer contained a very cute little kitten.


The sergeant went to the other offices looking for paper but there wasn’t any anywhere.


So in the end he told us that he was letting us go with a warning this time but that we should be more careful in future.


Baby Snatchers

It wasn’t long after Emma was born that I realized life with a child was going to be a lot easier in Libya than it would have been in the UK.


I think this realization came on the first day Sue and I went shopping with Emma in a stroller. Mustafa was with us and was pushing the stroller. When we decided to go into one of the shops, Mustafa parked the stroller outside and started to come into the store with us.

“You can’t leave the baby outside in the stroller,” Sue said.

Mustafa looked puzzled. “Why not?”

“Someone might steal her.”

Mustafa couldn't stop laughing. “Steal a baby? Who would steal a baby?”

We explained that people often steal babies in western countries.

Mustafa replied, “But this is Libya. Everyone has lots of children here. Too many children. So nobody is going to steal the baby. In fact, the only danger is that when we come out of the store, there will be two babies in the stroller.”

Friday, November 27, 2009

Not-so-secret Police

One irritating thing about our time in Libya was that you had to be careful what you said to Libyans you didn't know well, because they might turn out to be be secret police. Nobody knew how many secret police there actually were in the country and I suspect that were many fewer than we all thought. However, there is no doubt that many Libyans supplemented their incomes by acting as informants for the authorities.

I operated by the rule-of-thumb that any Libyan who had long hair, dressed in groovy clothes, said he listened to rock music and made scathing remarks about the government was probably either in the secret police or was an informant.

Some members of the secret police didn't try to keep their jobs hidden: One of our friends at Ghadames told us he was secret police the first time we met him.

Others tried to conceal their identity but weren't very successful. A good example was a student in an elementary level class that I taught. One day we were practicing the names of jobs. Part of the lesson went like this.

Me: What's our job, Ali?
Ali: I'm an engineer.
Me: Really? What's your job, Mohamed?
Mohamed: I'm a waiter.
Me: Right. What's your job, Saleh?
Saleh: I cannot tell you.
Me: Oh. Why not?
Saleh: I cannot tell you my job, because I am secret police.
Me: Well, you'd better not tell us then.
Saleh: No, I cannot tell you.
Me: That's fine. So we don't know that you're secret police.
Saleh: Yes, because I cannot tell you my job.

Did he not realize what he was saying? Or did he want to warn us all that we should be careful about what we said in class? Or was he just joking? I never found out. But I noticed that the other students were never very friendly to him in later lessons.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Trying to Turn Back the Clock

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I love Egypt. It's a fascinating country,
partly because the pace of change there is generally excruciatingly slow. This is particularly true in the countryside, where life for most peasants is pretty much the same as it was a hundred, or a thousand or three thousand years ago. However, as the following story shows, even Egypt isn't totally immune to "progress".

Sue and I first visited Egypt for Christ
mas 1970. The highlight of the trip was a couple of days spent in and around Luxor - and the highlight of these days was a visit to the Valley of the Kings. We crossed the Nile by ferry and then hired a horse-drawn carriage to take us to the Valley. It was a wonderful experience, especially as there were very few tourists in Egypt at that time.

Six years later, while we were living in
Libya, we decided to visit Egypt again, this time with our daughter Emma and our friend Mustapha. Once more the highlight was to be a carriage ride to the Valley of the Kings. So you can imagine our disappointment when we arrived in Luxor to find out that it was no longer possible to tour the Valley by carriage. All the carriages now stayed on the Luxor side of the river and the only way to visit the Valley was in a coach full of other tourists. Not at all what we'd had in mind!

Those of you who know Sue will not be surprised to hear that she wasn't going to accept this state of affairs. We wanted to tour in a horse-drawn carriage and that was what we were going to do. The first step was obviously to find the man who had driven us around six years earlier. Undeterred by the fact that all we knew about him was that his name was Youssef and he used to drive a carriage, Sue told various people we met that we needed to see him as soon as possible. And, this being Egypt, Youssef appeared later that day at the restaurant where we were eating.

After greetings and handskaes all around, Sue explained that we wanted him to drive us around Valley of the Kings the next day. Youssef explained that this was impossible because he was now based on the Luxor side of the Nile and carriages were no longer allowed on the other side. Sue brushed his objections aside. She told Youssef to bring his horse and carriage to the jetty the next morning and we would find a way around the problem.

And we did. The next morning, we rented a felucca (one of those wonderful Nile sailboats) and hired a crew of workers to lo
ad the horse and carriage onto it. As you might imagine, this involved quite a few workers. It also involved scores of spectators, who stood on the bank shouting encouragement and (contradictory) advice to the workers. But it worked, although the poor horse looked totally bemused by what was happening.

Youssef crossed by felucca

Then, while Youssef accompanied his horse in the felucca, we took the normal ferry across the river.

Sue and Emma on the ferry

We met up on the other side and then proceeded to tour the Valley in style in Youssef's carriage. Progress be damned! Some things are just better the way they used to be.


Youssef introduces Emma to Hatshepsut's Temple


Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Being naive

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Most of us who worked in the Tripoli school were firmly on the Arab side in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict and we were appalled by the way in which both the USA and the UK constantly backed the Israelis.

So it was not surprising that, when the Libyan government organized an anti-UK-government rally outside the British embassy, three of our British teachers participated. Holding signs denouncing British government actions, the three of them were interviewed on that evening’s news broadcast on Libyan TV. The next morning, the local newspaper (which was government-controlled) ran a quote from Ghadaffi himself praising the teachers’ participation in the rally. That evening at school, a lot of students walked up to the three teachers and praised them for their pro-Arab stance.

The following morning, I was working in my office when I got a call from the Ministry of Education and was ordered to report immediately to the Director of Private Schools.

When I sat down with the Director, he looked very serious and asked, “How long have you been in Libya?” I told him it had been almost three years. “And still you do not understand anything,” he said in an exasperated tone.

He went on, “I have had a complaint from the head of the security forces about three of your teachers who took part in a demonstration at the British embassy. He told me to warn you that you must never allow such a terrible thing to happen again. If it does happen, he will close down the school and deport you all.”

I was at a total loss. “But it was an official demonstration. And the government TV interviewed them. And Muammar Ghadaffi himself praised them. So where is the problem?”

“Oh, Jeffrey, you are so naïve! Everything you say is true but you are missing the most important point. It doesn’t matter what the teachers were protesting about. All that matters is that these were British people protesting against their country’s government. We cannot allow this to happen again, because we do not want any Libyans to start thinking that it is permissible for people to protest the actions of their own government. Now do you understand?”

I did.

Did Kafka Live Here?

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As director of the IH school, I was responsible for obtaining exit visas for teachers who wanted to leave the country.


Arranging an exit visa for a teacher to leave for a weekend in Tunisia or Malta wasn’t too complicated. I simply had to fill out half-a-dozen forms and then supply proof that the teacher had paid all his income and social security taxes. Since teachers often went abroad for both short and long vacations, I quickly became expert at arranging holiday visas.


However, when the end of the year came and I had to obtain visas for four teachers who were finishing their contracts, I found that arranging final exit visits was much more complicated.


One complication was that I had to prove to the Immigration Ministry that each teacher had paid his or her phone bill. At first, I didn’t see this as a problem, because none of our teachers had phones. (The waiting period to get a phone line installed was something like 9 years.) Little did I know!


I went down to the Telecommunications Ministry and asked the clerk to issue letters stating that the teachers did not have any outstanding phone bills. He told me, very firmly, that the ministry did not have a policy authorizing this. I tried to talk him around. He was adamant.

So I went along to the Immigration Ministry and explained the situation. The officials were sympathetic but said there was nothing they could do without proof that the teachers didn’t owe phone bills. Without this, the teachers would just have to stay in Libya.


I headed back to the Telecommunications Ministry. I begged. I pleaded. I even started to show irritation, until I realized this would scupper any chance of cooperation from the clerk. It was all to no avail.


Almost physically shaking with frustration - don’t forget this was my first year in Libya - I went outside, had a cigarette and racked my brains for a solution.


I went back in and marched up to the counter. “My brother, what do I have to do to get a phone line?” I asked.


“Everyone knows this,” the clerk replied. “You fill out this application form. Then we look to see if you already have a phone. If you do, we stamp ‘Rejected’ on your form. If you don’t have a phone, we stamp ‘Accepted’ on it.”


I was jubilant. “Okay. Give me phone application forms for these four teachers.”


You can probably guess the rest. I submitted the applications. The clerk gave me copies of the applications, each one stamped ‘Accepted’. I took the letters to the Immigration Ministry as proof that the teacher did not have phones and therefore could not possibly have any outstanding phone bills. I think the immigration officials were impressed by my ingenuity.

Anyway, it worked and I got the teachers’ visas.


P.S.

Of my four years in Libya, I think there was only one business working day when I wasn't involved in some way or other with arranging visas for teachers. As you can imagine, it was the worst aspect of my job.