“Sad to hear of the passing of Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah.. One of Hezbollah’s giants I respect a lot. #Lebanon”.
The tweet resulted in a public outcry with some accusing her of being a sympathizer of an group viewed by many in the US as a “terrorist” organization. CNN acted swiftly to the controversy by firing Nasr.
What a sad way to end the career of a veteran journalist liker her! Nasr and I exchanged a few “tweets” over the past months, and I highly admired her. I saw her as a passionate, hard-working journalist. She represented the best of Arabs. Unfortunately, she made a mistake by voicing her own opinion while working as journalist and representing CNN. In fact, her twitter user name was “octavianasrcnn,” which made it clear that her views were linked to CNN.
As a trained journalist myself, I regard what she did as an error in judgment. She must have gotten so carried away with all the Twitter excitement (which includes crowdsourcing and direct, personal interaction) that she forgot to abide by the fairly rigid rules of mainstream media. Journalists are not supposed to air their personal opinions when they present themselves as part of a news organization. There is no question about that. You will never be viewed as a balanced reporter when you publicly express your opinion, especially about a hot political issue like that of Hezbulah.
However, this was not enough for CNN and they simply let her go. It’s disappointing. If I was her boss and I had to make the decision, I would have given her a warning and asked her to issue a public apology. Sacking her seems a bit excessive, especially for someone who has been working for the organization for two decades and has given so much. Why not give her a second chance?
In addition to putting the word “Hezoballa” and “Respect” in one sentence, Nasr has also made another mistake: she forgot or chose to forget the sad reality of the world we are living in, where there are many watching and waiting for public figures to make mistakes. Those of Arab/Middle Eastern backgrounds are scrutinized more than others. At least that is how things look these days. Think Helen Thomas, who made a similar mistake. Thomas shouldn’t have said what she said. It was unacceptable. Thomas also forgot today’s sad reality. Scrutiny is the name of the game. Forgiveness is no longer an option.
As a writer and a trained reporter from an Arab background I’m completely aware of this scrutiny. I remember when I first moved to the US and was looking for a job; a number of potential employers questioned my ethics as a reporter and asked me bluntly if I would be able to report on issues, like the Palestinian-Israeli topic for example, in a fair and balanced manner. They immediately assumed that I would be biased.
This sense of scrutiny follows me most of the time, so much so that I will likely write at least two or three drafts of this simple blog post to make sure I don’t make a public blunder. It’s sad and frustrating, but there is nothing much I can do about it.
Twitter or not, never forget to stick with basic ethics and make sound judgments, because yes, forgiveness is no longer an option.
As I write this, I’m seated on a train headed back to DC from New York City. This basically means that I can’t keep making up excuses about not having time to update the blog. I do have time (four hours to be exact), and I can’t keep delaying something I wanted to share for a while. No I’m not with a child, for those who are so eager for me to procreate. The news is a major change of my lifestyle. It can simply be summarized as my own food revolution, mostly inspired by a celebrity chef.
But before I talk about the chef and his effect on me, I would like to go back in time to when the journey downhill all started. The story of my deterioration began with my first pay check. Yep, you heard me right, it all went downhill when I got my first pay check, and decided to be fully independent by detaching myself from my mom’s home-cooked food.
I thought dinning out and paying for whatever junk I put into my body was all it took to show that I made it into the adulthood world. So I quickly replaced mom’s Magloubeh‘s and Mlukhyeeh’s with fried chicken and big Mac’s. Please note that I’m talking about the early 90’s, the decade when Amman got introduced to the fast food industry with the advent of what I like to call the ” junk food firsts”, the first McDonald, the first Burger King, and the first Subway.
Yep, back then it was cool and hip to be seen devouring American food. It was empowering to be able to leave with my coworkers during lunch and delve into KFC’s “Zinger” and Arby’s curly fries. Yes, I made it , I thought to myself. I’m an emancipated woman who had just distanced herself from fresh produce and organic farming. Of course, that’s was when I started raking the calories, no surprise here. It was also when I started to feel lethargic, easily irritated and moody. While my downhill journey was just beginning, Amman Junk food stores kept mushrooming.
My deterioration continued for almost a decade until I decided to put an end to the fast food era. Not sure what made the first change. It might have been my moving to a region in the US where health awareness was widespread, or it might have been the fact that I turned thirty and felt my body deteriorating. I started watching my diet and began doing some moderate exercise. This slightly improved my well-being but not to the level that was needed. I knew there was something still wrong in my eating habits. Getting rid of junk food was simply not enough, for some reason.
However, in the past few months or so, I got a brand new inspiration. This might sound a bit cheesy and borders on the cliche, but I don’t care. My inspiration came from a TV reality show. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, a mere reality show has changed my life. The show is called Food Revolution and it is about British celebrity chef Jamie Oliver who went to the most obese city in the US: Huntington, West Virginia to try o change the school’s lunch system. In his show he promotes healthy eating, and encourages the love of cooking. Nothing new, no? True, but the most striking thing for me was the issue of processed food. Yes, that was the missing link. Since I moved to the US, I had fell hard for the convenience of American living by buying whatever processed food I could find to make a quick semi-tasty meal. I thought when in Rome, buy processed. My freezer was filled with frozen pizza, chicken nuggets, potato wedges, pasta meals and others. At least, I was not eating a Whopper, I thought. Little did I know how some processed food can have even a worse impact than some of the nastiest junk food out there.
It was really until I watched this show, and realized how important whole food cooking is that I ultimately decided to make a drastic change in my life. I made a conscious decision to only eat food that is made from scratch. It was easier than I thought. I gathered all the cook books that I owed and made weekly grocery lists to achieve the goal. I didn’t stop here. I made sure to double the size of our moderate garden beds to include a large variety of vegetables that I can grow in our backyard. I rode the now yuppie wave of organic food, and even took the time to watch Food Inc.
The result was remarkable. Not only do I feel better, but I look better. I lost almost 10 pounds mostly by focusing on wholesome food. I have to admit, cooking from scratch everyday can be a burden but the sense of sataifaction that I get after I finish any meal is usually my ultimate pay off. The most fascinating part for me was how I came full circle by actually embracing the home-cooked food that I rebelled against in my early twenties. I found myself looking for my mom’s recipes and making sure that I include them in my weekly meal planning. Yeah, yeah, mothers are always right!
Before I end this rant, I’d like to leave you with this TED talk in which Jamie Oliver talks about the show and his food revolution. I encourage everyone to watch it until the end.
Disclaimer: I never got to finish this post on the train. I got distracted and lost my inspiration. On a positive note, I managed to finish this post two days later, right after I devoured a shrimp linguini made by yours truly and yes, totally from scratch.
My friend Bassam disagrees with me. He tells me he avoids reading any Arabic publications on planes heading to the US.
“It’s out of respect for their fear,” he tells me. “What’s that supposed to mean? ” I ask.
“Well, you know. I don’t want to make people feel uncomfortable while flying. You know how things are now.” “Come on, you’re not doing anything wrong,” I reply. “You should read the book that you like. It’s your right.”
Of course, we didn’t agree, because very few people agree with me on anything but that’s okay.
Unlike Bassam, I didn’t have any respect for anyone last month and decided to take the Egyptian bestselling novel Azazil (عزازيل) with me on a flight from Amman to DC. The first leg of the flight was from Amman to London. Reading a book that clearly displays “the scary language” was not a worry for me leaving from Amman. ÙAfter all, the plane was filled with Arabic speakers who are used to seeing and reading “the language that should not be named.”
It was a great flight. I had three seats to myself. I kicked back and read for five hours while drinking wine and being served food and snacks. Nothing was expected from me and I felt elated.
The second leg of the flight was when I became nervous and started thinking about my friend Bassam and his no-Arabic-publication on-US flights policy. Do I really need to do this? I mean, I could just watch the in-flight entertainment and save myself all the trouble.
The cover of ‘Azazil’
Of course, as soon as the plane from London to DC took off, I pulled Azazil from my carry-on bag and put it on my lap. I had to get myself in trouble because that’s who I am. The middle-aged, all-American looking woman sitting next to me was reading a book that had the word Afghanistan in its title. A good sign, I told myself.
Somehow, I felt I needed to explain myself before I started reading my scary book. I felt I needed to talk to her to make her feel comfortable as she will be spending the next eight hours of her life in very close proximity to me (you know, United economy can get very cozy) .
To my surprise, she was the one who broke the ice and started the conversation. She started telling me about the book she was reading and how much she was enjoying it. Of course, that was my chance to show her my true colors. I showed her my novel and told her point blank that I was a bit nervous about reading it on the plane.
“Why”? she asked.
“Well you know. It’s in Arabic, and I have been reading lots of stories lately about people being stopped at airports and taken off planes just for carrying Arabic books. You know, some passengers get nervous if they see Arabic script on the plane.”
“Quite honestly, I’m very impressed that you actually can read it,” she said.
This is a very good sign.
A few minutes after our brief conversation, the flight attendant passed by us offering drinks.
“I can’t believe that on US flights they make you pay for alcohol,” I told the woman next to me (whose names I can’t remember now because I’m old). I felt I had to say something to keep the conversation going.
“I know,” she said. “You know what? let get me you a drink.”
” What? No you shouldn’t. Come on. You hardly know me”
“What do you like?”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course!”
“Okay. I will have some red wine.”
Just like that, a total stranger bought me a drink for absolutely no reason. It was such a random act of kindness and a nice welcome home to my newly adopted country, where people are genuine, friendly, and generous. Somehow, I proved my friend Bassam wrong. Not only can you read Arabic on the plane, but some flyers find this impressive and might even buy you a drink or two.
I was hoping that by reading on the plane, I might shatter some people’s stereotypes of Arabic readers, but what happened was the other way around. My own stereotypes of Americans being scared of my native language on a transatlantic flight was deconstructed. There is no reason to fear or hide from who I am. The fact of the matter is I am who I am and it is a great thing. After all, people buy me drinks!
My nickname in high school was the “angry smurf.” Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s me, the angry one. I hate things, issues, and people. And worst of all I’m very vocal about it. I’m just not your typical happy, optimistic person, and this drives many, many people around me crazy. So, of course, when the “epic snowstorm” hit the DC metro area I got angry. I was stuck home, with no internet, no cable TV and nowhere to go. My work got delayed and my plans for my upcoming work trip to the Middle East got shattered. All this talk about the snow and how wonderful it is annoyed me to no end. All of these pictures of happy people playing in the snow and enjoying Mother Nature made me furious. How can you enjoy anything when your life just gets interrupted with no back-up plan? How can you be cheerful when you have this unplanned extra time with nothing to do?
I was angry and suffering from a sever case of cabin fever. I cursed the snow, and Mother Nature. I kicked the cats and yelled at the husband. I started harassing Comcast through Twitter (via my phone) telling them that their service is mediocre and that they can’t leave people stranded with no internet and no TV (OMG!) for days like this. I sent angry emails to the office of the mayor in my city complaining about their failure to plow our street in a timely manner. The angry smurf in me was in full effect.
Since I had no TV or internet to distract me, I picked up a book. Yes, a book, one of life’s pleasures that I have been ignoring lately, and replacing with reruns of Lost and Desperate Housewives.
The book I picked was Rana Husseini’s Murder in the Name of Honor. The book tells the story of Rana’s courageous investigative work to expose the heinous ‘honor’ crimes that happen in Jordan. It also sheds light on the unjust judicial system that allows the killers to walk away unpunished. This courageous journalist continues to face a setback after a setback but keeps going. She was threatened, called a traitor and a Western agent, but worst of all the crimes continues to happen with no end in sight. See, she is not as angry, jaded, and cynical like me, which is really good news. I saw the injustices and the violation of human rights in my hometown and instead of staying and fighting the fight like Rana, I cussed and yelled and shouted, and then packed my bags and left. Just like that I gave up and left everything behind me seeking a better life in a new country, where I continued my yelling and cussing.
See, Rana might have shouted, yelled and cried, but eventually she decided to stay and continue the fight. This needs courage and enough determination and will-power that I don’t have. For this, Rana is one of a kind; a courageous journalist that had a mission and kept pursuing it. She is someone who has done service to many female victims not only in Jordan but also over the world. I’m still on chapter five and I have already been inspired by her work. Yes, this book has managed to move even the angry person in me. Rana deserves kudos. Rana is not angry. She is a doer. Read her book.
The night President Obama decided to address the American people I was home, on my sofa, under a down comforter. On the table across from me were a bottle of Chianti and some chips (with zero trans fat!). I was tired, cold, and cantankerous. I had had a long day at work and was dwelling in self-doubt and engaged in a prolonged session of self- flagellation. The last thing I wanted to do was to listen to the president tell us how things were horrible. All I wanted to do was watch crime shows and fall asleep on the sofa.
My husband didn’t like my plan. He wanted to watch the State of the Union. “You can’t miss it, come on, you are journalist. It only happens once year.” I resisted, of course, saying that I was tried of politicians and their speeches, and that the only thing I really, really wanted to do was watch crime shows. He let it go since he is a nice guy, unlike me, and let me flip channels to my heart’s content. I never got to watch anything. I fell asleep before nine, right before the president’ address started and right before any crime show began. Husband wins – once again!
The next morning, I grabbed the Washington Post, jumped on the metro, and headed to work. The main story was, of course, about the State of the Union. Apparently, the president talked the night before about unemployment, green energy, and the economy. Yawn! For someone who grew up in the Middle East and who was weaned on political speeches and patriotic songs, the article didn’t offer anything new or unique.
The story that was right beneath it, though, was one that made my eyes light up. It was about Steve Job’s latest toy, the iPad. Of course, I read the article with great gusto, thinking of the day I buy this toy and how it will enrich my life.
That’s when it hit me that it is actually Jobs not Obama who is altering the way we live, bringing the much needed “change” to our lives. He is the one making us more efficient, more connected, savvier, and eventually happier. Yes, ladies, and gentlemen, Steve Jobs is my Obama.
