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.”