So it begins. Almost two years before the actual elections, we already are subjected to the constant coverage of Ms. White Woman and Mr. Black Man competing to see who will be the first minority president of the United States.
And it’s about time. I suppose the only good thing to come out of the Bush presidency is that the country is closer than ever to evolving past the old white man political culture that we have cultivated for so long and elect a minority president. We saw Bush’s political connections in Florida steal him the most important presidential election in recent history. Then we saw his cadre of dinosaurs and their connections to oil companies and big contractors start wars that they could not finish, mismanaging the whole effort the whole time. I think people are finally sick of it.
When it comes down to it, I would love to see an age where the leaders of France, Germany, and the United States are run by women. Angela is proving she can make progress in the quagmire of European bureaucracy, and although Segolene might be a bit of a stretch in France, the experience and married name of Miss Hillary put her within arm’s reach of being the most powerful man in the world. Thanks to Nancy Pelosi blazing the trail by passing successful legislation in Congress, voters are seeing that a woman can indeed govern.
Mr. Black Man, though, offers a similar freshness to the race that has already allowed him to capitalize on the desperation of a country too long led against their will by a jackass from Texas. Obama is a kid, he is a kid who used to smoke grass and snort coke. He is a kid who, wait for it, once learned at an Islamic school. As shocking as these qualities may sound, the man has a card to play in this contest. He is too young to have been corrupted by the oft-cited Good Old Boy network that haunts all senior politicians, which is increasingly attractive when considering Bush’s successor. He also has a younger, more progressive attitude toward the issues currently on the table. At the end of the day, though, he does not have the experience necessary to inspire the most confidence.
Voters do rely a lot on personality, and if he seems to have a competent staff around him, he can indeed go a long way. I think his significance lies most in the fact that he is running at all. Sure, he is hoping that people will take a chance and vote on a fresh face, but the reality of the times, with the threat of terrorism and the need for some nuanced governing to attack issues like climate change and health care, mean that Hillary shows the most potential.
In any case, I raise my glass to a minority candidate with a progressive view of how to fix this country’s devastated foreign policy errors. It is important that the world like us. Bush seems to think that doesn’t matter, as long as we are doing the “right thing” to rid the world of the threat of terrorism. I think we are beginning to realize that this will never happen if we don’t have the support and participation of our peers in the international community. I just hope any democrat can make it happen.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Springtime for Saddam
The end of 2006 saw the dramatic conclusion of the Saddam Hussein story, brought to you by someone with a cellphone who made a YouTube clip to beat all YouTube clips. In the end, this one grainy video nullified all efforts by the “Axis of Good” to paint their ugly version of Saddam Hussein all over the history books.
If it were ever made into a movie, the farcical theater of Saddam Hussein’s last days could only be called “Trial and Error”. Of course, G.I. George Bush and the American government would have loved to see their original script brought to curtain calls of secular throngs of Iraqis dancing in the streets of Baghdad over the death of an evil man, but, sadly, they lost creative control of the project.
The opening act of Saddam’s capture would have made any Hollywood producer proud. Hell, maybe the Weinstein brothers had a hand in military policy at the time, because there could have been no better made-for-tv moment than Saddam being pulled out of a so-called “Spider Hole” covered in garbage with a suitcase of American dollars at his side. Now, anyone who has been to the Middle East, who knows anything about Muslim culture, knows that no self-respecting Arab Muslim, especially not one with an inflated ego such as Mr. Hussein’s, would be caught dead under a pile of garbage, hiding from U.S. Marines with a suitcase of dollars at his side. I mean, give me a break. Has it been so long that we do not see blatant propaganda for what it is any more? The public ate up this story, only too happy to see that this “evil man” was also a coward.
In the war of ideas, the United States tried to take his pride, to take his honor, and in the end allowed history to repeat itself by calling an end to major combat operations in discrediting Saddam Hussein. Unfortunate (depending on how you look at it) though inevitable for the swirling mess of Iraq, it did not turn out as planned.
Fast forward to the last chapter in the saga, where you have a cell phone video broadcast all over the world within hours of his death that shows a dignity to the man enduring the taunts of a violently divided Iraq. As if he knew the world would be watching, he played it masterfully. With a sound bite of “Is this the bravery of Arabs?”, Saddam will be remembered as a victim who died with honor, a martyr to young Sunnis, not an evil psychopath coward.
Just like the producers tried to make a fortune off of a sure flop, the Bush administration naively expected to gain valuable political capital through the death of someone they had gone to great lengths to paint as a worthless, evil man. As it turned out, the show itself was a success. Saddam will live forever in Iraq, the victim of aggression and bias from both his own people and the invading army.
I can’t wait to see what the Bin Laden Show will entail, if only we can get a camera crew to his cave on the Pakistani border...
If it were ever made into a movie, the farcical theater of Saddam Hussein’s last days could only be called “Trial and Error”. Of course, G.I. George Bush and the American government would have loved to see their original script brought to curtain calls of secular throngs of Iraqis dancing in the streets of Baghdad over the death of an evil man, but, sadly, they lost creative control of the project.The opening act of Saddam’s capture would have made any Hollywood producer proud. Hell, maybe the Weinstein brothers had a hand in military policy at the time, because there could have been no better made-for-tv moment than Saddam being pulled out of a so-called “Spider Hole” covered in garbage with a suitcase of American dollars at his side. Now, anyone who has been to the Middle East, who knows anything about Muslim culture, knows that no self-respecting Arab Muslim, especially not one with an inflated ego such as Mr. Hussein’s, would be caught dead under a pile of garbage, hiding from U.S. Marines with a suitcase of dollars at his side. I mean, give me a break. Has it been so long that we do not see blatant propaganda for what it is any more? The public ate up this story, only too happy to see that this “evil man” was also a coward.
In the war of ideas, the United States tried to take his pride, to take his honor, and in the end allowed history to repeat itself by calling an end to major combat operations in discrediting Saddam Hussein. Unfortunate (depending on how you look at it) though inevitable for the swirling mess of Iraq, it did not turn out as planned.
Fast forward to the last chapter in the saga, where you have a cell phone video broadcast all over the world within hours of his death that shows a dignity to the man enduring the taunts of a violently divided Iraq. As if he knew the world would be watching, he played it masterfully. With a sound bite of “Is this the bravery of Arabs?”, Saddam will be remembered as a victim who died with honor, a martyr to young Sunnis, not an evil psychopath coward.
Just like the producers tried to make a fortune off of a sure flop, the Bush administration naively expected to gain valuable political capital through the death of someone they had gone to great lengths to paint as a worthless, evil man. As it turned out, the show itself was a success. Saddam will live forever in Iraq, the victim of aggression and bias from both his own people and the invading army.
I can’t wait to see what the Bin Laden Show will entail, if only we can get a camera crew to his cave on the Pakistani border...
Sunday, January 7, 2007
Never Enough Fireworks
OK, the fireworks started going off even before Christmas. Nevertheless, nothing could have prepared me for the spectacle of explosion that marked the new year 2007, a celebration which, by the way, only just seems to have ended. For now, the war is over. Major combat operations in the skies of Reykjavik have come to an end. Of course, I would not be surprised if the next few weeks bring the last of the unexploded bombs out of hiding.
There is something about the darkness that compels you to light up the sky with whatever is available. On some nights, especially the coldest ones, the Aurora Borealis does the trick naturally. But in late December, it is fireworks. From small children to responsible adults, every house and every neighborhood consider it their duty to out-do the people down the street. It is not at all uncommon for people to spend several months’ salary, or the equivalent of a small car, to make the sky above your house explode for a few hours. Even the dogs, at least the ones not huddling in the closet for fear of impending nuclear holocaust can be seen in their front yards with sparklers hanging out of their mouths.
The only lull in the insanity comes late in the evening when Icelanders gather around their televisions to appreciate a tradition that goes back thirty years. For an hour the state-run TV station shows a comedy program poking fun at everything Icelandic, from major news stories to notorious celebrities. The only topic that seems off-limits is, thankfully, Björk. But even I, an outsider with only a limited knowledge of Icelandic, was able to laugh at much of what all around me found so funny. Some of it was in English, and all of it was funny. Icelanders are adept at self-criticism. They know that you can’t take everything so seriously, and that the best way to forge a strong national identity is to recognize the humor in everything that you are proud of. Others (mm hmm) could benefit from their example.
As soon as the show ends, around 11:30, the real show begins outside. It is almost impossible to hear yourself scream, when bombs are going off above, around, and below you. Yes, accidents do happen, some fingers may get blown off, but it is all worth it. It is impossible not to get euphoric at this display of explosive power, an undying remnant of this country’s viking past. Icelandic fireworks, with pictures of blond, helmeted men with beards, are called “cakes” for a reason: it is the ONLY way to celebrate. And when the cakes run out, as they did at a friend’s house, some emergency flares were found in a closet, lighting up the world in a slow red drama that must have looked even more amazing from far away.
But it doesn’t matter where in Reykjavik you are. Every neighborhood is as indulgent as the next. The first time I experienced Iceland, for the big millennium new year in 2000, I was amazed, knowing that the millennium merited such a grand celebration. What I saw this year proved only that it gets bigger and bigger every year. I knew it when I left my house at five in the evening and was knocked in the face by the pungent smell of exploded gunpowder. I knew it when driving down the street in the following week I needed to wait while one last cake was set off in the intersection down the street. I knew it when even though I did not have a vantage point over the whole city, it was the most impressive display I have ever seen.
There is something about the darkness that compels you to light up the sky with whatever is available. On some nights, especially the coldest ones, the Aurora Borealis does the trick naturally. But in late December, it is fireworks. From small children to responsible adults, every house and every neighborhood consider it their duty to out-do the people down the street. It is not at all uncommon for people to spend several months’ salary, or the equivalent of a small car, to make the sky above your house explode for a few hours. Even the dogs, at least the ones not huddling in the closet for fear of impending nuclear holocaust can be seen in their front yards with sparklers hanging out of their mouths.
The only lull in the insanity comes late in the evening when Icelanders gather around their televisions to appreciate a tradition that goes back thirty years. For an hour the state-run TV station shows a comedy program poking fun at everything Icelandic, from major news stories to notorious celebrities. The only topic that seems off-limits is, thankfully, Björk. But even I, an outsider with only a limited knowledge of Icelandic, was able to laugh at much of what all around me found so funny. Some of it was in English, and all of it was funny. Icelanders are adept at self-criticism. They know that you can’t take everything so seriously, and that the best way to forge a strong national identity is to recognize the humor in everything that you are proud of. Others (mm hmm) could benefit from their example.
As soon as the show ends, around 11:30, the real show begins outside. It is almost impossible to hear yourself scream, when bombs are going off above, around, and below you. Yes, accidents do happen, some fingers may get blown off, but it is all worth it. It is impossible not to get euphoric at this display of explosive power, an undying remnant of this country’s viking past. Icelandic fireworks, with pictures of blond, helmeted men with beards, are called “cakes” for a reason: it is the ONLY way to celebrate. And when the cakes run out, as they did at a friend’s house, some emergency flares were found in a closet, lighting up the world in a slow red drama that must have looked even more amazing from far away.
But it doesn’t matter where in Reykjavik you are. Every neighborhood is as indulgent as the next. The first time I experienced Iceland, for the big millennium new year in 2000, I was amazed, knowing that the millennium merited such a grand celebration. What I saw this year proved only that it gets bigger and bigger every year. I knew it when I left my house at five in the evening and was knocked in the face by the pungent smell of exploded gunpowder. I knew it when driving down the street in the following week I needed to wait while one last cake was set off in the intersection down the street. I knew it when even though I did not have a vantage point over the whole city, it was the most impressive display I have ever seen.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Heaven in the Hot Water
After returning from a recent trip to the United States, I realized what a luxury it is to have a constant supply of instantly hot and practically free water at your disposal from any tap or faucet, any time of day or night. Iceland, an active volcanic island with natural hot springs all over the country, uses this precious resource to an almost exploitative scale, but amazingly, it never runs out.
My mother’s nice house in a wealthy suburb of Washington, DC has two showers among its four bathrooms, but they can’t be used at the same time. In fact, two people wanting to shower in the same hour take the risk of a cold rinse if they don’t space them out enough. And forget about running the washing machine or dishwasher while trying to wash your body; it’s just not going to happen.
So I come back to Iceland, where the shower has two knobs: one to indicate the desired temperature (say, 104 degrees Fahrenheit) and one to control the water pressure. Without fail, every shower is perfect. And if you are not careful, you will burn the skin right off your face. My girlfriend, just the other day, was washing her hands and did not just scald herself, but actually burned the tip of her finger!
The trick is that the water needs no heater. The water is just like that when it comes out of the ground. The water IS the heater. Yes, the fact that it is naturally hot water does mean that it contains a bit of sulphur and the associated odor of old eggs, but you would be amazed at the softening effect that has on your skin. It’s like putting a Brita filter on your showerhead and bathing in purified drinking water.
Think of the money it saves, too. No energy needed to power a water heater, and no energy to heat the house at all, since Iceland’s priceless geothermal resource is pumped through radiators in every room in every house. And there’s more. When it leaves the house, it courses through a network of pipes and tubing placed just below the surface of the sidewalks and roads (at least in the center of town), heating the ground so that snow and ice does not collect. In a country with such an intense winter, that is many falls and broken hips avoided at a cost of next to nothing.
Such efficient use of Iceland’s natural hot springs, which heat a number of swimming pools and hot tubs around town also, by the way, ensures a comfortable winter for those of us unaccustomed to living 66 degrees north of the equator. Don’t worry about me. As hard as my day will ever be, I always have a hot shower to go home to.
Now to get used to the permanent darkness…
My mother’s nice house in a wealthy suburb of Washington, DC has two showers among its four bathrooms, but they can’t be used at the same time. In fact, two people wanting to shower in the same hour take the risk of a cold rinse if they don’t space them out enough. And forget about running the washing machine or dishwasher while trying to wash your body; it’s just not going to happen.
So I come back to Iceland, where the shower has two knobs: one to indicate the desired temperature (say, 104 degrees Fahrenheit) and one to control the water pressure. Without fail, every shower is perfect. And if you are not careful, you will burn the skin right off your face. My girlfriend, just the other day, was washing her hands and did not just scald herself, but actually burned the tip of her finger!
The trick is that the water needs no heater. The water is just like that when it comes out of the ground. The water IS the heater. Yes, the fact that it is naturally hot water does mean that it contains a bit of sulphur and the associated odor of old eggs, but you would be amazed at the softening effect that has on your skin. It’s like putting a Brita filter on your showerhead and bathing in purified drinking water.
Think of the money it saves, too. No energy needed to power a water heater, and no energy to heat the house at all, since Iceland’s priceless geothermal resource is pumped through radiators in every room in every house. And there’s more. When it leaves the house, it courses through a network of pipes and tubing placed just below the surface of the sidewalks and roads (at least in the center of town), heating the ground so that snow and ice does not collect. In a country with such an intense winter, that is many falls and broken hips avoided at a cost of next to nothing.
Such efficient use of Iceland’s natural hot springs, which heat a number of swimming pools and hot tubs around town also, by the way, ensures a comfortable winter for those of us unaccustomed to living 66 degrees north of the equator. Don’t worry about me. As hard as my day will ever be, I always have a hot shower to go home to.
Now to get used to the permanent darkness…
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Presidential Pardon?
The celebration of Thanksgiving means a great deal to Americans, and to me specifically, because it is about being thankful for food, and then eating it. No roses or teddy bears, no going to the mall and shopping for hours and hours. Just being together with family, and remembering that what is important has nothing to do with what Hallmark tells us is important.
My favorite part of my favorite holiday is, of course, watching George Bush look like an idiot with a creature that seems at least his intellectual equal, if also his moral superior. On the White House lawn, George gets to talk about being thankful for what makes AMERICA the best place on earth. For five minutes he gets to justify decisions that have killed thousands of innocent people on all sides. For five minutes he gets to grant the gift of life to one lucky turkey in a feeble attempt to divert attention from the thousands of soldiers he has condemned to death by fighting a poorly planned war for all the wrong reasons.
With the nauseating smirk characteristic of the face of our nation, Bush posed for a photo op with the bird. For a minute there it looked as if we might get lucky and the restless bird would use his beak to snatch out one of Bush’s eyeballs, much like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, but unfortunately the secret service was able to contain the little guy.
Bush was not able to contain himself, apparently, as he said in his speech that BOTH turkeys would be pardoned. Normally, they have two birds: one to eat, one to save. This time, we are led to believe that the White House would go hungry, and both turkeys would go home. Well, in true Dubya form, the second animal was nowhere to be seen, probably because they would not allow cameras in the kitchen preparing the president’s lunch. Maybe that second pardon means sending the bird to Abu Ghraib to be barked at by German Shepherds until it dies of completely “natural causes.”
I, for one, eagerly await the pictures to leak from that scandal...
My favorite part of my favorite holiday is, of course, watching George Bush look like an idiot with a creature that seems at least his intellectual equal, if also his moral superior. On the White House lawn, George gets to talk about being thankful for what makes AMERICA the best place on earth. For five minutes he gets to justify decisions that have killed thousands of innocent people on all sides. For five minutes he gets to grant the gift of life to one lucky turkey in a feeble attempt to divert attention from the thousands of soldiers he has condemned to death by fighting a poorly planned war for all the wrong reasons.
With the nauseating smirk characteristic of the face of our nation, Bush posed for a photo op with the bird. For a minute there it looked as if we might get lucky and the restless bird would use his beak to snatch out one of Bush’s eyeballs, much like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, but unfortunately the secret service was able to contain the little guy.
Bush was not able to contain himself, apparently, as he said in his speech that BOTH turkeys would be pardoned. Normally, they have two birds: one to eat, one to save. This time, we are led to believe that the White House would go hungry, and both turkeys would go home. Well, in true Dubya form, the second animal was nowhere to be seen, probably because they would not allow cameras in the kitchen preparing the president’s lunch. Maybe that second pardon means sending the bird to Abu Ghraib to be barked at by German Shepherds until it dies of completely “natural causes.”
I, for one, eagerly await the pictures to leak from that scandal...
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