beyondourheadlines-blog

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

Living the Good Life

When you think of Karachi, Pakistan, the first things that pop into your head might be war, terror, poverty. And although these aspects do affect the lives of many, it's not all there is. My Pakistan, or more specifically my Karachi, is very different. The 24 million (and growing) people residing here surely all leave extremely different lives and see the city from different viewpoints, yet some things are similar for all us. Karachi is lazy mornings, the city sleeping well past sunrise. Karachi is the street food; roasted peanuts and hot sweet potatoes on cold winter days, chilly lemonade and melting popsicles under the merciless summer sun, creamy chai leasurely sipped on roadsides by people of any and every class in any and every weather. Karachi is the beach, black sand glittering and camels with elaborate adornments with giggling children mounted on them. Karachi is freshly washed men rushing to the mosque on Fridays. Karachi is young couples secretly picnicking in the lush parks, under the shade of swaying trees. Karachi is the swarm of young boys on motorcycles racing each other on Sundays. Karachi is the women gossiping while grooming in the multitudes of beauty parlors. Karachi is the wedding celebrations that start at 10 pm and end as the sun comes up. Karachi is the joy of a little girl getting her hand covered by henna designs on the eve of Eid. Karachi is the buses overflowing with people, with the hypnotic truck art almost hidden by the people clinging to the vehicle. Karachi is the boys and men playing cricket on the streets. Karachi is the uniqueness of every sunset. Karachi is donkey carts waiting next to BMWs at a red light. Karachi is it's huge shopping malls, air conditioned and well lit with multitudes of foreign brands. Karachi is the bustle of it's markets, stuffy but brimming with all sorts of mesmerizing goods. Karachi is students rushing with heavy backpacks to school and universities and tuition classes. Karachi is old buildings, made of red clay and with history embedded into their walls. Karachi is it's shrines and tombs, reverence in the air and prayers being muttered under everyone's breaths. Karachi is everyone sitting at the edge of their seats, eyes glued to the TV when Pakistan's cricket team is playing against India. Karachi is it's nightlife, music making the whole neighborhood vibrate. Karachi is more than it's problems. Karachi is beauty. Karachi is movement. Karachi is liveliness. Karachi is light. Karachi is home.

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

Rebuilding the Government in Myanmar

Myanmar, a country with more than 60 years of civil wars and conflicts which are usually put aside by international media, is now facing many inter-political problems as a sudden change cannot take place after NLD, National League for Democracy, was democratically elected. The election was considered the very first fair election after independence. Previous government, which I call a puppet-government, was claimed to be a democratic government after military dictatorship resigned. However, till 2010, Myanmar was ruled by military dictatorship and before the so-called election is 2010, the military wrote a new constitution which would benefit themselves after they resigned. The military government claimed that the constitution was agreed and signed by the whole public. However, here is the thing. In 2008, terrible natural disaster, Cyclone, whipped through the coastline of Myanmar, resulting in one of the most terrible disaster. While people were struggling to survive the aftermath, the government refused to accept international aids. Meanwhile, they drew the constitution and claimed that people agreed and signed. In reality, people did not even have time to read or care about the constitution. In 2010, the election took place, and it was an electoral fraud. A military general came up to the parliament, taking off his military costume, claiming that they were democratic. Many conflicts were not ended and some new conflicts emerged during their regime.

When the new government came in, the military already has 25% of seats in the parliament according to the 2008 constitution. The military is still not under the government. That is creating lots of problems to stop civil wars and conflicts. The Commander and Chief once said that if necessary, military coup should take place. In my opinion, the most important thing the Myanmar needs is that the military becomes a part of government. But now, the military and the government are like two separate governments in one country. The military has completely changed the mindset of soldiers, which gives them false and bad impression on the democratic government. That is happening among people as well. People’s mindsets were ruined by previous military dictatorship for more than 50 years. Now that’s one of the main problem the government is facing. I believe that people in my country really need to be more educated. The education system needs to be restructured, which the government is doing now. But it takes ages. Going back to military, what is being presented in media about conflicts are mostly about highlighting the conflicts and giving false impression on those opposition forces. These armed ethic forces asked for federal states; they want control of their own territory. That is the main reason they are fighting for. Since the military is refusing to withdraw their forces from territory and create peace, conflicts continue to happen. The military has been shelling and bombing ethnic armed force base. However, aircraft bombing and motor shelling also hit civilian villages, causing many fatalities. The new government has no control over the military.

As soon as the military is interfering the process of achieving Federal States, these conflicts will continue. Many people will still have to flee and look for a safer places. The public as a whole has to be involved in re-writing the constitution for achieving Federal States of Myanmar.

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

Dressing for a New Type of Cold (War)

Us Russians are quite good at dressing for the cold. You would have trouble finding a single child outdoors in the winter without snowpants, a hat tied tight around their chin, and a scarf wrapped around their face. The resulting effect is quite comical, with small unidentifiable creatures waddling around like penguins, but at least they’re warm. Women can often be found in long chestnut coloured shubas (fur coats) hanging down to their tall stylish boots, and buttoned high up to their chins. Men in furry black leather hats bob up and down on the streets on their way to work, and at you can sometimes find bundled up old women selling knitted woolen socks and mittens when exiting the metro. Even our diet, which includes brown bread slathered in butter, steaming cabbage soup, and thick slices of salla (salted fat), is intended to give us an extra layer of warmth under our skin in the cold winter months.

But in recent years, for the first time in decades, a biting wind is blowing from the west. This icy wind has been picking up for a while now, mostly carrying sharp words of war that that cut and sting our cheeks, our fingers, and our pride. But this week, for the first time in long while, it blew so strongly that it carried 35 Russian diplomats with it across the Atlantic Ocean. And when the winds of East and West pick up speed like this, as they have done a few times in recent years, unearthing lies and spies, a toxic mess is left in their wake that we often find it easier not to clean up. It is a wind that we have forgotten how to dress for, a wind that blows in warning now but has the capability to turn into a wicked storm of ice and fire.

Us Russians rarely give spontaneous outbursts of loud positivity when we meet somebody for the first time; it just isn’t in our character. When we do not smile at you in the metro, or in the ticket office, or on the street as snow swirls in front of our eyes, it does not mean we do not like you. It means we do not know you well enough to take off our scarves and show you our true faces. You see, we are not immune to the cold, we have just become well protected against it. And, indeed, it is only natural that we do not take off our protective layers until we know that it is warm enough. But, if one finds themselves with a Russian grinning at them from across a table behind a cup of hot sweet black tea, or from behind a stopka (shot glass) of throat searing vodka, they can rest assured that they’ve made a real friend.

However, when the two quarreling giants of Russia and the West know they are to meet each other in a world of ice, they come prepared. They both wear puffy jackets that mask their silhouettes and hats that block their field of vision and thick scarves that muffle their words. Their stiff gloved handshake is a bare echo of human contact, and the white puffs of air that escape their lips envelop formalities in a layer of frost. And the longer they stand in the cold, the more numb their lips get, and the less they are able to understand one another. And in a furiously frustrating exchange of icy phrases hopelessly lost in cultural translation, I wonder if either of them notice the warm yellow light emanating from the café behind them. And I try to understand why they won’t go in and sit together at a table, and maybe warm their hands, and slowly peel off their layers.

But I wonder if instead they’re comfortable out there in the cold, or if maybe there’s some blemish on their face or stain on their clothes that they’re too ashamed to uncover the light of warm yellow lamp. Or perhaps they both think that the other one has got a gun or a knife or a string of insults tucked away underneath their coat, and they’re just too scared of their own power. And perhaps as long as they are giants built of intertwining victories and atrocities, there will never be a thaw. Because to survive as giants, they must stay out in the cold; if they move into the warmth, their power will melt. But these giants don’t see the lives that they are crushing under steel booted feet; they are locked in a game with no clear rules or foreseeable end. They are content to spit icy daggers at each other, calling each other incompetent, inhumane, ignorant. Hackers, killers, power-hungry monsters.

And I am furious when I think of the children of those 35 Russian diplomats who had to pack up their lives in 72 hours and leave the country on New Years day (the Russian equivalent of Christmas), because they didn’t do anything. And is it really surprising that they will likely turn their backs to the country that just expelled them? I really do hope some of those children from the American embassy really did get to go to the Yolka (Christmas tree) at the Kremlin, like Putin offered. But perhaps that was just more rhetoric in this complex game of giants. My heart cracks just a little bit more when I see people caught in the middle of this icy blizzard; it has no geographical borders, these warring winds tumble into the Middle East, and into Europe, and in different places they alternate in superiority, but neither will ever win.

And so we dress in more and more layers and don’t show our faces in an attempt to try to escape the chill. But what nobody realizes is that the tighter we bundle up, the sooner we will freeze. I thought that maybe in my bright red coat amongst the giant sea of brown fur and black hats I could stay warm. But as a child of both East and West, this new cold chills me to the bone.

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

Beyond reported deaths, there is always life shaped by conflict

In wars, we speak of death tolls and civilian casualties. We report the statistics of death and forget those of life. I have lived in a war zone for long enough to understand that life goes on, whether this pleases the conflicting parties or not.

What saddens me about war Syria is not solely the tens of daily deaths. It is not sieges, unreported famines, or even the hanging question of millions of refugees and internal displacements. Don’t get me wrong; those are the hideous outcomes of an inhumane conflict, which consumed every aspect, significant or not, of our lives. What does dishearten me, though, are those little daily encounters that slip through our survivalist lives; ones that assure me that this conflict had changed us so drastically, altered our coexistence with disguised hatred, and caused deceit to grow its roots in the minds of everyone - youth and adults alike.

I came back to Syria for my summer holidays and rested my head on my pillow after a long travel. Having lived in a boarding school for only a year, I seriously doubted that any significant changes had taken place in my war-afflicted country, but little did I know that sectarian prejudices were plaguing the hearts and minds of the people, including my family.

It is commonly known that today’s Muslims over the breadth of the world, by no means, constitute one cohesive entity. Since the death of Prophet Mohammad, Muslims’ search for the Prophet’s legitimate successor resulted in a major breakthrough which would later alter the landscape of the Islamic faith. As different groups of Muslims chose to follow the teachings of different descendants of the Prophet, sectarian divisions came into being. This, in effect, meant that Islamic teachings were no longer unified in their essence, interpretations of Quran largely varied, and disagreements regarding what is prohibited, permissible, and what is to be eschewed widened. Needless to say, these divisions came at the expense of igniting conflict and catalyzing the emergence of infinite atrocities amongst people who belong to sects with conflicting ideologies.

It is definitively unrealistic to claim that the social life of pre-war Syria was void of sectarian prejudices. Those are as old as the Islamic faith is, and although they surface most clearly in conflicts and times of political instability, they are easily detectable in the everyday life affairs of peaceful states’ communities. Away from generic statements, I am eager to provide my personal experience with this issue, regardless of whether it complies with the claims of other members of the Syrian society, home or abroad, or not.

I knew of the concept of sects when I was 9 years old. Someone mentioned the word ‘sect’, and after my question about the meaning of the word, there were many awkward coughs and exchanging of perplexed looks from adults around the room, who clearly understood that such a separatist mentality should not be introduced to children to avoid corrupting their innocent outlook on the world. Granted, back then, naming sects or speaking about sectarianism openly could only take place in family reunions and private spaces in general. The media never dared to mention anything regarding sectarianism –but rather denied its existence, bragging about the cohesiveness of the Syrian society- and mentioning the name of a certain sect in public was considered hugely inappropriate. For my primary and secondary education, I attended a school with students and faculty who belonged to a majority sect in Syria, one that has a history of conflict with my sect, and never had I been explicitly mistreated or discriminated against based on my religious orientation. Maybe the most overtly sectarian remark I received was by a fellow student asking about why I don’t wear hijab (Muslim headscarf) with an undertone of disapproval. Throughout my life, I had met people from all sorts of sects and become very good friends with many of them. I resided a neighborhood where people from 3 distinct sects in addition to those belonging to the Christian faced coexisted. Holistically, sectarianism existed, and many minor daily incidents, (being cursed in the street for not wearing hijab, fearing to walk down a street of an ‘enemy’ sect alone, being warned not to go to a friend’s house because of their sect etc.) could account for this claim, but it was always in the background and never in the forefront of social life.

Upon my return to Syria, I came to understood that I cannot AT ALL enter certain neighborhoods of Damascus anymore. I don’t wear hijab which makes my religious orientation overt, and going to neighborhoods whose residents from ‘adversary’ sects became dangerous. I attempted calling some of my friends from middle school and, to my surprise, no one would pick up. I then found out that they also blocked me on Facebook. Once, I had a reunion with friends and everyone was saying how much they missed each other. A couple friends excused themselves to go use the bathroom, and the rest of the group, who belonged to a different sect than theirs, started bluntly condemning their hypocrisy, saying “I would never believe those bastards. If you only bother to see the hypocrisy which persons x and y in their history manifested and is manifested by the actions of their fighters today, you’d understand that it runs through their veins.” During the Eid (Muslim celebration), two women who clean the staircases of our building show up to ask for a treat on the occasion of Eid. My father refused to give his money to those belonging to the ‘other’ sect, saying he does not feel sorry for any of what they have to go through to make a living because they deserved it. In sectarianism, being from the ‘other’ sect makes you damned. It means that God disliked your soul enough to make you a part of ‘them’. The Wi-Fi was not working properly in our house, and mom asked dad to bring in a technician from our sect to check the router. “I don’t feel safe having one of ‘them’ in the house. You can’t guess what they’d do”. All talks involve ‘us’ and ‘them. It puts every individual belonging to a certain sect in one box; the box is then closed and labelled. Media started naming sects and sects’ names became indispensable vocabulary for political analysts arguing on TV channels.

Although politics in the Middle East have always been intermingled with religion and hence sectarianism, during conflicts this becomes crystal clear. This is also one of the prime obstacles that hinder our quest for democracy and political modernism. Many of the political discussions I had this summer revolved around the interaction between the regime, dominated by members of one sect, and the population, dominated by the members of another, majority sect. The talks were mainly about how the president’s sect would be cleansed if he was to abdicate his power, because in the midst of all this chaos, he is the only figure from this sect in power. They also emphasized how the so-called Syrian Revolution is solely based on sectarian hatred; the fact that the majority of the population coming from a certain sect are not pleased with a regime dominated by a minority sect.

I can site an infinity of examples without breaking a sweat. As the conflict intensifies, people’s belief in the conflicting parties as their political representatives grows, and ordinary people’s interaction becomes hence based on the events of the political arena. Conflicting parties capitalize on those prejudices which were hibernating in people’s mentalities, and just like lighting up a pot of dynamite with a small match, sectarianism erupted intensely in people’s beings as it did before in other conflicts in the region. We were never a cohesive society, no, but we would not hammer our coexistence as badly as we did in the past six years and are still doing. The media tells you this faction did this, bombed this, and deplored that. What you should examine after hearing this is the relationships that die after all of those occur, the insecurity that grows, the black-white “us and them” that gets bolstered, the frowns a child gets from their mother for befriending a child from another sect, and the list goes on. Beyond the big headlines of conflict, life always changes beyond death and despair.

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

Beyond the Hate

Beyond the growing hate towards migrants reaching the shores of Italy, beyond the numerous right wing parties that are gaining power in Europe and the episodes of terror and violence, there are a few rays of hope.

All over Italy, a country which has been and still is the reaching point of so far more than 100.000 migrants from Northern Africa, there are people who didn’t surrender to fear and hate, wrapped their minds around the fact that we are dealing with human beings like us, and started helping out as they could. This led to 14 official permanent refugee welcoming centers, where they are identified and registered, as well as 1.861 temporary shelters all over the peninsula, ready to welcome and provide the migrants with what they need.

These centers are controlled by the ministry of internal affairs and are supported by a big network of volunteers, people who work in another place and devolve their free time to the migrants who reached their country.

After arriving and being identified in one of these centers, the migrants are sent to one of the many refugee shelters in Italy, where they are provided food and shelter as well as basic needs, a community that supports them, volunteer work opportunities, education and Italian lessons.

Around 200 of the migrants that reached the shores of Italy in the past two years now live in a town in the North called Bergamo.

 Bergamo is a town in Lombardy, a region known for the extreme right politicians, who in fact rule the regional government.

However, refugees and migrants in this town, mostly male and aged between 17 and 40, have a place to stay and people who believe in them so much that they decided to get to work and help them.

I am one of them.

I started volunteering in three of the refugee shelters in my town when I met some of the refugees in a volunteering activity organized by an environmental organization. I saw how willing they were to work and connect with us, the citizens of the town where they are staying, and I wanted to help them.

So I contacted the main organization helping migrants in Bergamo, and I asked them what kind of help they needed.

The answer was easy and understandable: Italian lessons and help with the homework.

 The refugees in this center were all male and aged between 17 and 35, they fled violence, poverty and persecution hoping for a stable job and peace in Italy. However, their education doesn’t have any value in my country and so they had to start school again.

They were 25 years old and they were in middle school.

Learning Italian was the main goal of the school, as well as getting a diploma that would finally enable them to work – as they couldn’t before, without an education recognized by the State.

So I put together a small number of volunteers, six of my friends, all aged 16 and 17, and we started going there once a week for two hours helping them with Italian, Math and Grammar.

The progress they were making and the effort they put was outstanding and working with them was a joy. The willingness they have to learn and be useful, the determination to be worth the help they are receiving and to gain economic independence is the reason why I believe in them.

 Of course hate is still here, you can hear it when people talk about them, calling them “extracomunitari” which means “out of the community”, you can feel it and they can feel it.

You can watch it on TV, when politicians try to fuel the fear and the hate in people.

You can see it outside of the church next to my house, that is hosting four refugees from Northern Africa, when exponents of the right wing party Northern League try to blame every problem on these four human beings and the community that is hosting them.

But every time someone says a mean comment about refugees and migrants I tell them: «go and see for yourself who these ‘criminals’ are»

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

Brexit Breakfast

On the 24th June 2016, I woke in the early hours when it was becoming clear that, against all predictions, the UK electorate had voted to leave Europe. 

At breakfast time, my wife and I talked in a state of amazement shock and shame.  Shock that in a world that needs to move together, to share problems and to have an open generous international approach, our country was taking a major step towards narrow nationalism.

I certainly felt shame that I personally had not challenged sufficiently the, to my mind bigotted and selfish talk of the previous months.  I had not wanted to confront and it had seemed easier to avoid an issue that might well cause friction.  It always is easier in the short term and to my shame I took the easy route.

Shame too at the fact that a country, which has prided itself on openness to strangers, welcoming the oppressed and on liberal (in the true rather than political  sense of the word) views should have opted for such a step.  I was proud when the country welcomed the Uganda Asians (and didn't we gain hugely by an influx of hard working determined entrepreneurs!), proud that we were part of Europe, proud that in our country reason was put ahead of prejudice, thought before emotional reaction and care for others before selfish interest.

By breakfast we could almost hear the slamming of metaphorical doors.  Understandable that after a bitter campaign there should be a sense of triumphalism but there was also a frightening lack of any reaching out to the other.  It was more a matter of feeling that something rather nasty had been let off the leash.  We had the impression that many were thinking that, simply because a majority had voted to leave Europe, they were justified to mouth frankly hateful views.

I also mentioned amazement as being in the mix.  Part of the shock was realising that, with a populist movement, the more extreme the views the more applause and that the steady voice of reason had been shouted down by destructive soundbites.  This was the pattern during the run up to the vote. For instance, the IMF gave a measured, reasoned and restrained assessment of how damaging Brexit was to our country and the world but those responding saw no reason to meet argument with rational counter-argument. Far easier just to say "What do they know about anything they are just rich foreigners".  An unpleasant mix of xenophobia, ignorance and the underdog feeling it has a chance to bite back.

That so many should have accepted infantile claims of money to be saved by leaving Europe, claims about Europeans taking jobs, claims about foreigners misusing the National Health Service was frankly depressing.

But what is worst is the lack of understanding that relationships on the international level are the same as relationships in a personal level.  They are constructed slowly and carefully on a basis of consideration, forbearance and growing trust.  If you choose to insult and denigrate those who live around you, you will have no-one to turn to in times of trouble.  If you fail to make others welcome you will not only miss the joy of their difference but your negative views about them will become a self-fulfilling prophecy.  The others, the strangers, the different will reflect your patent dislike back to you. You can erect strong defences and your house may be your walled castle but, although those walls will certainly keep others out, the end result is that they will, most efficiently, imprison you.

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

When Blood Blocks Freedom

A man has exploded himself and has killed dozens with himself.

Within 12 hours it features in world’s major media.  Photos are being published; A young man crying for the beloved one he has lost. A small girl with blood all over her body uselessly shouting among the fallen because as convincing game of thrones may seem, the dead do not hear. CNN would call its international correspondent and The Guardian and New York Times would see who claimed responsibility. Many minds would remember the headlines and for a long time for some the rest of their lives relate the two words “bombing” and “Afghanistan”. Sometimes maybe those are related but nobody asks what was going on before and after and about the things behind the headlines. The headlines will remain isolated on web and lives behind headlines forgotten. But before those headlines are being written. In every city and village across the country TVs and Radios will be turned on to announce the news and though they announce the news of an unfortunate event but there is a story behind the event and behind their existence, that of freedom.

To speak is civil but perhaps it is more civil to shout. You have spoken and everyone has acted like a stone and to stones you shout in hope of hearing the echoes back. But to shout you need to be free…

In Kabul, an asphalt street runs out of the center of the city and after some turns goes straight. Somewhere between where the asphalt road passes the mountain and the last turn, in one of the narrow streets, in a house just like lots of other houses, a young man leaves his room and walks quickly to the hall stands in front of the mirror and looks at himself. Then goes back to his room and comes back with a banner and a sun hat then runs out of the door. He probably walks the narrow street quickly. On the road he is not alone. There are many like him. Young and passionate boys and girls. The crowd gets larger every minute. More people, more banners, more voices. About a million maybe more people come to street and voice up their opinion peacefully. Some of these protests are aired live on some TVs. In a country where it was banned for women to leave their homes without a man a decade ago, the progress is not measured by buildings and asphalt streets but by how many can voice up their opinion.

In one of these protests where a young a man with a sun a hat and a banner passionately voices his idea with thousands others, on the streets of Kabul close to turn, they are stopped by barrier. Sometimes the barrier is a bunch of people claiming to be leading the protest who read a paper and end the process. Sometimes it is the containers put by government blocking the way. The first is a paradox since those who voice up stop themselves but the second is not because the freedom is not given by government. A government can be protecting people’s right to freedom but it does not give them freedom, they are already free. This time it was containers but people did not stop though they did stop walking and some minutes later an ice cream cart just like many other in town came close to the crowd and suddenly there was blood and bodies fallen apart before there anyone heard the sound of an explosion. Those close to the cart never heard the sound of the second explosion. But the headlines were there, blood and destruction. The voice of those whose pictures filled newspapers and TV screens will never be heard and every newspaper and TV becomes a container this time blocking their voice by their images. \

Somewhere miles from the capital, in a village where asphalt roads are unknown to kids and there is not more than a shop to buy the daily needs of a family that is not produced locally. Here money is not unknown but is rare and not used so much. People farm and harvest what they need, wheat, barley and some vegetables. Though surrounded by mountains, it is a green village. There is a small steep hill, around and on which houses with narrow pathways are located. An even narrower street going from down the hill all the way to top of it, running through its top and falling on the other side is connecting the houses to each other. There is one thing distinguishing the houses. Antennas. Differently shaped and colored antennas on the roofs of quite every house can be seen. Further from the hill where the river is flowing from the mountain, the small dam, on one side of which the concrete words indicate the INGO’s which helped people build it, is providing electricity for the people. Day and night during summers and only nights during winter. Wires going to houses and each room can be seen, different colors, different types but they all do one thing lighten up the village. Most have televisions that their relatives have sent from city or they have brought in one of their trips. In the evening everyone sets quite so that all can watch the news, the 6PM news. Early in the morning when he goes, the kids have their breakfast, later one or two – the eldest ones – help take out the sheep, goats and cows to join the herd taken by shepherd to the green hills and grassy fields. Then they all gather gaze at the television and watch cartoons. Sometimes children change the networks to see what is on others. And sometimes what they wish does not come up. On this day when they are changing the networks searching for a better cartoon the screen goes black and then pops up the news host with a breaking news. A man has exploded himself and has killed dozens with himself. Mom starts reading a prayer. Mom stares at the television and listens carefully to each and every word and then remembers each and every relative and friend living outside the village. She remembers someone and the sound of prayer stops with her calling one of her children. The child stands and goes to mom. She takes out a phone and the child takes it. Searches the contacts and reads each one out loud, stops at one and calls and gives the phone to mom. Someone on the other side of the line answers. They talk for a while and the phone call ends with mom thanking god and saying goodbye. That night when her husband comes home they talk about the incident for a long time. Days later cars will arrive from city to a village close to them. The cars carry crying women, sad men and a corpse. That night when the man coms home, he looks at the television and the cell phone on it. some years before this would have been a shock and now it is not. The pain is felt right away and sadness occupies every home at once. Isn’t it what connection means?

Behind the headlines talking of blood, death and destruction, there are stories never told. Afghanistan is a battle field of freedom seekers. People voice up and use their freedom, the media portray it and use theirs. Tele-communication helps people feel their freedom and though sometimes they contradict each other or goes against each other but at the end of the day they are all on the same ship, the unseen ship of freedom.

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

Beyond The Migrants Crisis in Italy

Today's western media have pointed their big and influential eyes on one of the greatest Europe's humanitarian and political crisis of the 21st century: the migrant crisis due to the instability of the middle eastern regions. Beyond this there is another big emigrational wave that is as dramatic and as worth consideration as the widely debated middle eastern one. In this text I won't speak about big powers, strong political actors, rich organisations or stable institutions: I'm going to write about normal citizens, doctors, personal of the coastguard, labourers, children. I'm speaking about the people that every day since 2011 are rescuing thousands and thousands of families, children, old women and men, people that come from central and north Africa and strive to reach the other continent full of dreams and expectations that are hardly ever fulfilled.

Especially after the "Arab spring" and due to the geographical position of Italy the numbers got much higher. Daily, here in Italy, we witness dramatic rescues that aren't always successful: the 18th of April 2015 for example, there was the biggest tragedy on sea ever, since we speak of “migrant’s routes”, where around 800 people died drowning, the majority of them stuck in the hold of an old boat that sank in the Mediterranean Sea.  Everyday there are boats, that often are simple unsafe rubber boats, that are coming and approaching islands like Lampedusa, Pozzallo, Taranto or Trapani. Every day the guard coast saves lives of hundreds and hundreds of refugees that have the dream of reaching Europe and come from Morocco, Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Algeria, Somalia, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Yemen, Sudan, Nigeria and others. The Italian ministry of internal affairs declared that in the first three months of 2016, in the southern islands of Italy arrived 24 thousand (the double, in comparison to 2015) refugees from those countries.

An artwork has perfectly described this situation.

I’m speaking about the docu-film called "Fuocoammare" (literally “Fire at the sea”) by Gianfranco Rosi, that already won the Golden Bear in the international film festival of Berlin and is a candidate for the best foreign language film for the Oscar awards 2017. The protagonist of “Fuocoammare” is Lampedusa, the island in which sea died thousands of people, driven by the dream for a better life. This documentary tells us, through the character of a doctor, how it is to rescue this lives, how is it to cure and how, often, it is to verify their dead bodies.

There are black closed sacks with bodies in it shown in their tremendous normality, and there are the tragic stories of the migrants on their journey (one of the most heart-breaking moments of the film is the rap song sung in a refugee shelter).

This is a snapshot of what is happening on the sea “down there”. Saying so, I’m openly attacking the European countries that are closing borders and hiring walls instead of building bridges. It is a big statement of egoism, being part of a union that is clearly only economic, only getting from it without giving anything back.

In this little words I want to give space to those normal Italian citizens, those heroes, often left behind from institutions and media, that are saving thousands of lives in silence.

An Italian moved by the scenes of “Fuocoammare”

Link to the trailer of “Fuocoammare”: https://youtu.be/st22_s7BB1I

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

A Weekend Spent in Lebanon

We wake up early on Friday morning and go to school like every other student in the world, my every day car trip consists of many sights: the public beach near my house called “Ramlet el Baida” where the sun rises in the most beautiful way, and when looking at the other side of the road, I unfortunately need to close my window due to the corners containing trash because it rarely gets picked up.

The classes at my French school are pretty normal and are very much like any other school in the world. During lunch break, we go outside of the school and most of the time you can see almost all the students gathered around a small market called “Zein Market”; there the owner knows as akk and greets us in such a warm welcoming Lebanese way with a big smile; a good cure to any bad school day you might be having. School starts in September and it’s not until the end of October that the temperature cools down and so most of the time hot temperature is nearly unbearable and we finish the day with a headache because of it.

The drive back home is a lot less calm than in the morning ; the traffic at this time of the day is unbearable, the red and green lights are neglected a lot, car accidents happen very often, and worst of all, all you can hear is the honking of the cars .The drive home takes 30 minutes instead of 10 minutes since there are closed roads almost everywhere because one of our corrupted politicians is scared for his safety so he blocks the entire area which forces us to make a huge detour to reach a place that would usually take us five minutes to get to.

At every stoplight Syrian refugees invade your car to beg for money, most of the time they’re young kids, and at that moment an internal debate takes place in your mind, you ask yourself whether or not to give them money knowing it’s not going to benefit them but knowing as well that they might get beaten up if they don’t bring back money to the people exploiting them.

However, arriving home is one of the best feelings in the world. You get a warm welcome from your parents and family and you get to enjoy the scrumptious Lebanese food such as the Taboulé or the Warak enab.

After that it’s a pretty normal teenage Friday evening, you will find most teenagers and adults hanging out in pubs, restaurants or clubs all of which are gathered in the same famous Gemmayzé / Mar Mikhael areas; Lebanese party all night and if they can they would party all day long, nonstop. As for me, you will find me hanging out in the city with my friends, spending my money on taxis because of the lack of common transportations. Even if I wanted to walk to my friend’s house ( a literally 2 mins walk ) it would take a twenty minutes argument with my parents because of the fear of being called out on the street, kidnapped, hit by a car or thousands of other reasons ; it is quite uncomfortable to walk on the streets at any time of the day because you feel as if you were constantly watched.

Waking up on Saturday, you find your Whatsapp filled with messages from friends and family all of them asking the same questions : “Are you okay?” “Do you have any family near where it happened”? and you know that they’re talking about a bomb that must have exploded somewhere in the country. The morning is spent asking everyone you know if they’re okay or if they know someone near where it happened, and then looking at the gloomy pictures, you start thinking about which country you’re planning on immigrating to if the situation gets worse, the rest of the day is spent talking about it: about how messed up the government and country are and how heartbreaking it is to see people dying uselessly. And you even start discussing how sad it is that we actually got used to it. Your Instagram feed is sometimes filled with heart breaking pictures, long eye tearing texts and tributes to the dead and optimistic, hopeful texts that wish for Lebanon to rise again one day like it once did. Sometimes these incidents don’t even make it to the headlines because we sadly live in a “conflict zone” and it’s normal to see this however when you start complaining about the lack of awareness that your country gets, it back fires on you because in the same night of the incident you find all the Lebanese people out with their friends, eating in  restaurants or even shopping in Beirut Souks, and you notice that the people that are supposed to acknowledge what happened the most are out partying and moving on with their lives as if nothing happened that same morning. And you start wondering whether it’s a good or bad thing. I think after everything this country has been through, starting with the civil war in 1975 that never really ended - if you ask me-, we always found ways to get up and keep on living, we learned to cast aside fear. I truly believe that this country has one of the strongest people in the world that know how to enjoy life and have some of the brightest smiles no matter the situation.

Sunday for most of the Lebanese families is what we call a “Family day”. The role that families play in a Lebanese person’s life is huge. No matter how much homework you have, or whatever excuse you may come up with, Sunday is the day where you expected to gather with all your extended family, some go to the mountains, to the South or to the North of Lebanon because that’s where they’re from originally and that’s where all their extended family usually gathers. Living in a very small country that has bits of everything, it usually just takes more or less two hours to get from the city that’s next to the beach to the mountain side. The mountain side has some of the most breath taking views in the world, and is one of the most relaxing places ever. Whether it’s a sunny breezy summer day where you just sit in the garden, eat excellent food and where you’re surrounded by beautiful flowers and amazing company, or it’s a snowy cold winter day where you’re snuggled up with a book, with your family and a beautiful fire, your soul always calms down when you go up to the mountains. You can compare our Sundays to mini retreat trips people sometimes take to find peace. The usual topic that is spoken about within the family revolves around the politics of the country. We start asking ourselves when will these ongoing conflicts end, and when will we be able to live in a stress-free and peaceful country.

Finally, surely not all weekends are like that in Lebanon owing to the fact that Lebanese people are as contrasted as their country, but I think it’s a pretty good general description of the life of a teenager living in the city.

Finally, even though I often (or actually most of the time) complain about my country, I genuinely couldn’t be more proud to belong to this beautiful, multicultural yet unusual Lebanon. Indeed, you won’t find any other country that would be able to rule itself and hold itself together even without a president.

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

Israel Through the Eyes of an Israeli

Israel is a small country, very small country, approximately 20 thousand km squared. Yet, we are a land which people died for, killed for, fought for, for over 5000 years. What is it that attracts people all over the globe to hear about this country, my country, Israel? What makes this land as valuable? Is it god, is it religion? Is it culture, is it tradition? Is it history, legacy, honor, pride? What is it that makes it my home? What right can justify my existence, upon others to live there? Does it have to be a right upon others, or is there a possibility for co-existence in Jerusalem?

I live in the west side of Jerusalem. I immigrated to Israel from Ethiopia at the age of two with both of my parents, because of our religious and national Jewish world view. It is quite interesting, as we discuss movement of Jewish diaspora from part of the world to Israel, we don’t call it immigration but in Hebrew “Aliya”. “Aliya” literally means rise or movement upwards, and by this terminology we indicate on the rise in the holiness level as you move to Israel, the holy land of God. Almost all the Jewish community in Ethiopia (often referred as “Beta Israel” or the “Falasha”), made an “Aliya” to Israel. This is another thing that often not well known to non-Israelis, we are a society which contains different ethnic groups, from all over the world, which have the same national identity as Jews but often different practices of religion and history.

My daily life is quite normal in my opinion. I am living in an OECD country with well developed Economy and a country with plenty very good universities and opportunities for youth. The cost of living is relatively high compared with our neighbors, yet also the average salary is relatively high as well. We have a lot of inner issue, mainly clashes between our diverse ethnical groups. Often clashes between the religious and non religious part of society, citizens of the center and those of the periphery and also between different political edges. So in my opinion you can live in Israel with the most conflicted opinion and still find some group, someone which will support you and think as you do. Almost all the time, people express their opinion, and there is a constant debate on how to strength the freedom of expression in our country- and I think that what makes our society unique and strong.

As appose to that, there is obviously the part of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It is a great issue, that often disturb our daily life with a military operation every couple of years, or a wave of terrorist attacks. Despite that, in my opinion even at this time, life is much more safe then the images of war which the movies sell us. Ever since we build the “Iron Dome” under attacks of missiles there is no civilians dying. We do have alarms, soldiers in the front in danger of dying and injuring, and other effects such as people in war zones evacuating their houses and jobs and schools temporarily stopping. 

The military service is an obligation within the country, as every teenager, man or woman, reaching the age of 18 is send to the service. It is something in the culture of being Israeli, and usually most youth is willing and support committing to the army. If you do suffer from health issue or you are practicing religious lifestyle you will most likely not be obligated to serve. If for other reasons you avoid service, the army is able to take more serious actions such as jail time. The army service can in some way help in career development in future, as there are many exclusive programs of service and learning a degree. In general I am very supportive of my army and I know the sensitivity of our security and the importance of my contribution to my country.

In general Israel is wonderful country, with short history and complicated and different reality than other countries. Yet, I was inspired so many times by the patient, the will and the courage still existing in our society, always fighting for a better reality, and soon as well peace.  

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

Winter on Fire

 “Winter on fire: Ukraine's Fight for Freedom” is the first Ukrainian documentary that was nominated for an Academy Award for the Best Documentary Feature.  Documentary about the protests in the capital of Ukraine, is a coproduction of Ukraine, the United States, and the United Kingdom released in 2015.  The documentary shows a part of Ukrainian history how student demonstrations supporting European integration grew into a violent revolution calling for the resignation of the president Viktor Yanukovich.  “Winter on fire” shows how Ukrainians were fighting without regard to bloodshed, despair and difficult conditions during winter 2013-2014.  

      Can you just imagine how after a few months the main square of Ukraine, the most cheerful place of Ukrainian capital of celebrations for the whole country became a place of blood and tears…? How country, which was knuckling under everything, launched protests to defend the dignity…? How hundreds of fathers, grandfathers, brothers, sisters, daughters and mothers, put the interests of country above their own? In the end hundreds of destroyed families, that lost dear people for the happy future of the whole nation…  

Why and how it all happened?

21st of November 2013 - Supreme Council of Ukraine didn’t accept the law about association with European Union. Right this day in the evening around 2000 people went for protests in Kyiv.

From the 22nd of November - people who were for the European integration started to gather for protests in main cities all around Ukraine.

24th of November - for the first time police was fighting against protesters in Kyiv with tear gas and physical force. But it didn’t stop crowds of angry citizens. Protests continued.

29th of November - President of Ukraine Viktor Yanukovich officially rejected the offer for Ukraine to join European Union. In the midnight special police force “Berkut” started to threaten, attack, and torture Ukrainian protesters with around 40 casualties.

1st of December – The protestors started to fight not for Europe integration but for resignation of the president and stormed the presidential administration. Fighting between the protestors and the police continued.

8th of December – Around 1 million people gathered to protest against the president and the whole government.

9th of December 2013 - 21st of February 2014 – there were violent bloody clashes between the protestors and police who were trying to stop them. Politics couldn’t decide anything and agree what to do with it.

22nd-23rd of February 2014 – Memorial Days for remembering the people who died during protests ~ 100 people and thousands of victims.

24th of February – the president of Ukraine fled to Russia and is still wanted by the judiciary.

So now, Ukrainian nation has two more important dates - celebration Day of dignity and freedom  - 21st of November and Memorial Day 20th of February remembering people who died during protests, now called “heavenly hundred”.

There were much more than a hundred people, who are not only Ukrainians, but also other nations: Armenians, Georgians, Polish and other. People all over the world dedicated songs and lyrics to them. Especially valued lyrics that were written by young people, who buried body and soul for Ukraine. As an example,  Stepan Stefurak  is one of the youngest fighters of Ukrainian volunteer corps "Right Sector” He died on the 22nd  of September, 2014 in a battle with Russian militias village during mortar shelling when he was 19 years old.

 “Dear mother don't cry”

 Dear mother don't cry. I'll return in the spring.

As a bird that flies into your window pane.

I will come in the morning in the garden with the dew,

Or may be like the rain, I'll fall at your door step.

My dear dove, don't cry.

It has been destined so, my mother,

Already the word, oh mom won't be my own.

I will come and enter your dreams quietly

And tell you how it is in this my new home.

An angel does sing a lullaby for me.

And the mortal wound hurts me no more.

You know, mom, there's sadness here too

My soul oh dear heart, does pine so for you.

Sweet mother, Forgive me for the black scarf

For that, from this moment you shall be alone.

I do love you so. I do love my Ukraine

She, like you, was my only beloved.

 … Every mother understands that she brought up her son not in order to let him go to war, any man does not want to die in a foreign land, sister or brother is not willing to lose the beloved ones. Today it is hard to imagine a farewell to the heroes with another song. The author of this song wrote it from the bottom of his heart. So now thousands of people are crying while listening to it... “Plyné kácha po Tysýni” (Duckling floats on Tisyna) is Ukrainian (Lemko culture) folk song-requiem.

 Oh, duckling floats on Tisyna*

Duckling floats on Tisyna.

My mother, don't swear me,

My mother, don't swear me.

Oh, if you will swear me at dark hour,

If you will swear me at dark hour.

I don't know where I'll die,

I don't know where I'll die.

Oh, I'll die on foreign lands

I will die on foreign lands.

Who will prepare a grave for me?

Who will prepare a grave for me?

Oh, another people will prepare,

Strangers will prepare.

Won't you regret, mother?

Won't you regret, mother?

Oh, my son, how could I not regret?

My son, how could I not regret?

You were laying on my heart,

You were laying on my heart.

Oh, duckling floats on Tisyna

Duckling floats on Tisyna.

 P.S.: There is a little bit lost sense in translation from Ukrainian, so If you didn't get something or want to listen to it - just Google.

 Moreover, other countries expressed great support for Ukraine. Polish wrote and sang a song "Give a hand of help to Ukraine". During the toughest times once in the evening this song was broadcast on the all TV channels in Poland. Other neighbor countries helped with food, guns, medicines, etc.

Oppositely, Russian politics used the weak state of Ukraine to take Ukrainian territories. As a result, Civil War became a war between neighboring countries... They took Ukrainian popular tourist resort Crimea and for already two years there are fights for the South of Ukraine. People immigrated around Ukraine or even to other countries. A lot of cities were destroyed, children don’t have where to study anymore, adults – where to work.  It is still dangerous there… And no one knows when is the end...

[beyondourheadlines-blog]

Mexico-Can it be Defined?

I was born and raised in Mexico and not even because of that I can describe nor explain what Mexico is. When I came to a United World College, I was obviously not expecting people to know about my country and to be really informed about reality, not even I do nor am. I came with an open mind and with strong willingness to overcome the stereotypes that I could come across, and so I did. “How is it that you have never drunk tequila if you are from Mexico?”, “Do you have any other food that is not tacos?”, “It is in your veins to know how to hop borders”, “What do you mean you do not own a donkey?” These are some of the ideas I have come across in this little time in UWC. Yes, some people drink and like tequila; yes, some people eat and like tacos; yes, some people hop the border to get to the US with different motives; yes, some people own donkeys. But it is not to define a whole community of persons by tequila, tacos, hopping borders, and owning donkeys. Is not that ridiculous? However, this is what happens; people reduce other people to simple elements that are generalized to an entire community. I have never drunk tequila, I eat more than just tacos, I have never hopped any border, and I have never even seen a donkey; does that imply I am not Mexican? According to some people, it does. For me, it clearly does not. The media, Mexican and foreign, have sold to the world a misrepresentation of a Mexican. I am not to say that there is in fact a correct representation of it, I am against classifying people by anything that makes them what they are, of reducing them into language conventions and social constructions.  Nevertheless, I do recognize how important is the context of an individual and how each of them is affected by that of the community, i.e., I cannot deny or neglect the history of the Mexican society and how it keeps having an effect on the lives of the individuals now; if I did then how could I ever understand others? That is what is missing all over the world, real mutual understanding. And it is not possible to achieve it if it is not by acknowledging that every individual has its own narrative and so should be considered as not less and not more than a person that has value just for its own sake, and also that the events of the past have a great effect on what we are now and who we are to become in the future as individuals and further as community.

When I was in elementary school, I moved from a private to a public institute, and so the first day on the latter I was afraid of not being able to fit and to create friendships with the people there, I guess because I thought they were or I was different. I was closed to one environment and because of the preconceptions transmitted to me by the community I had that fear. But even from the first moments in that school, I could talk and listen to people and so I started knowing some of them, realizing that this difference, this barrier that I thought could exist between them and me was not-existing. I identified them as people, not more and not less, and so I could be friends with them. In sixth grade, I went to Mexico City (not for the right reasons, I can admit) along with 37 students from my state, to meet other 962 from all around the country. Five days was all I had to meet these and more people, and even though I did not meet every single one I did get to talk with some and the prejudices that I had of the people from other states disappeared. Again, the preconceptions transmitted to me of people of both my state and from my country were stopping me from the realization that every single person should not be prejudged and that individuality should be embraced rather than neglected. Later on, in high school I went (not for the right reasons once again) to shelter homes for physiologically disabled people, and by talking to some of them I could understand two things: that even though they are Mexicans as well they were isolated and left out of participating in any issue, and that they are people as any other and they should not be considered as a different part of the community but just as valuable as any other.

It takes no more than one individual that is not as the others to break a stereotype. Is not every person an exception? I consider so, as I exemplified before. A lot of people find it convenient to describe and identify others by their nationality, their skin color, their sexual identity, their ideologies, etcetera, but this is to limit them to experiences that would not let for the existence of a personal identity. I believe in personal identity and so I defend it. I know some things, I ignore some others; I have studied in several schools and lived in several houses; I keep some friends, I lost touch with others; I have enjoyed, and I have suffered. There is no single person that shares those same experiences and that has the same thoughts as me. As a Mexican I am expected to have a sense of belonging to a nation, but I do not. This is not to say that I do not value the cultural richness of the Mexican society, but that I do not like to limit not even myself to that and I feel a great sense of acceptance to others and so I might especially like some aspects of Mexican culture and dislike some others, as well as I can do with any other culture in the world. This is a great reason for that I defend personal identity and despise stereotypes: limiting a person, in fact a nation, to some practices and beliefs, is for me to dehumanize; every single person has different thoughts and does different practices, and so to limit another person to, for example, tequila, tacos, hopping borders, owning donkeys, and being lazy, is to deprive oneself from the possibility of understanding that person. To create an assumption of how, for instance, I should behave and think is neglect my individuality, which I think should be rather embraced by oneself and others. I am not to say that Mexicans are more than that but that persons are more than that; people living in Mexico, or in any other place, have a value that is not determined by none of their physical characteristics nor by their context but by what they are, and so there is no point on limiting my words to the people of Mexico but to extend them to every person.