Obedience to Authority: If you were Fadia Hamdi, would you slap Mohamed Bouazizi?

By Mourad Anouar

Oklahoma City, March 23, 2012

Another question would be: if you were Mohamed Bouazizi, would you set yourself alight? If I am allowed to write our contemporary Arab World history with all its complexities and incomputable failures, the timeline would start from the moment when Mohamed Bouazizi’s self-immolation inspired revolution in and out of Tunisia, resulting in the unseating of the region’s brutal dictators. For the first time, millions of Arabs took to the streets demanding change after they felt emboldened by Bouazizi’s selfless act of heroism. Any fool can make history, but it takes a genius to write it as Oscar Wilde said. The fool in our Arab World context is Fadia Ahmed whose sense of haughtiness and power abuse outweighed her sense of human dignity, justice and respect for others. Hamdi, when she slapped and humiliated Bouazizi, was just a manifestation of the rulers’ whip to silence anybody who dares confront any form of authority. Bouazizi, on the other hand, exemplifies the genius and soul that has kept mankind striving for equality, justice and dignity for all throughout history.

And if you ask Fadia Hamdi why she abused Bouazizi, the famous fruit and vegetables vendor, she would definitely tell you that she was just doing her job. In other words, she would explain her inhumane act as obedience to authority. No wonder that the same explanation was given by Adolf Eichmann when he was reported to say, according to New York Times(1999), during his trial in Jerusalem in 1961”Now that I look back, I realize that a life predicated on being obedient and taking orders is a very comfortable life indeed. Living in such a way reduces to a minimum one’s own need to think.’

Eichmann’s failure to show any remorse for what he did reminded me of a must read book for anybody who wants to know more about the psychology behind the issue of obedience to authority. Entitled obedience to authority, the book was based on the findings of a very interesting and thorough study that was carried out between 1961 and 1962 at Yale by the book’s same writerStanley Milgram. Traumatized by the Holocaust atrocities and being a son of a holocaust survivor, Milgram recruited more than 1,000 participants from all walks of life to help in finding new ways to improve memory through punishment, which would help in the education process. Some participants were selected to be teachers and others to be learners. The latter were strapped into a chair with electrodes attached to their arms. Placed in separate rooms and communicated without seeing each other, both teachers and learners (confederates) were told that the electrodes were attached to an electric chock generator, and that any incorrect answers from the learners would be punished by getting painful shocks from the teachers, but no permanent tissue damage would happen. What none of them knew was that in reality no shocks were administered.

The results of this psychological experiment were groundbreaking. Although many subjects showed signs of tension, three of them had “full-blown, uncontrollable seizures”, forty subjects obeyed up to 300 volts. Shockingly, twenty five of the forty subjects went up to give a maximum level of 450 volts. The study teaches us that while some of us could be seduced, initiated into becoming agents in terribly destructive process, and without any particular hostility on their part, others may refrain from doing so thanks to their moral compass. Milgram thought (2009) that”The disappearance of a sense of responsibility is the most far-reaching consequence of submission to authority.” About a decade later, Milgram come to conclude in television that “If a system of death camps were set up in the United States of the sort we had seen in the Nazi Germany, one would be able to find sufficient personnel for those camps in any medium-sized American town”

Milgram’s prophetic words were somehow true as around that time in Morocco Ahmed Marzouki, along with other fifty eight military officers, was locked away for more than 18 years in Morocco’s notorious desert prison known as Tazmamart. Marzouki and his inmates were exposed to the harshest forms of torture, oppression, mistreatment and emotional degrading by sadist guards. In his book Cellule 10 as translated by Orlando Valérie (2009), Marzouki spoke about the Hitchcockian scenes he witnessed there “We spent more than 18 years locked up in the dark, each of us in a narrow cell. Twenty nine of us were in each of the two buildings. The food we were given by the guards three times a day was insufficient to survive; we had five liters of water a day as drinking water, for washing ourselves and for cleaning the hole in the floor we had to relieve ourselves in.”  The irony of Ahmed Marzouki’s story is while he was just following orders, as he claimed,  when was caught involved in the 1971 coup in Skhirat [near capital Rabat], he was tortured by others who will surely tell you that they did what they were ordered to do. In the name of obedience to authority, both, his guards and he, did the most despicable acts without batting an eyelid. It is the fear that is instilled inside some of us through different channels that make them see obedience to authority as being dutiful citizens even if they do immoral and inhumane acts.Charles P. Snow explained (1961) that “When you think of the long and gloomy history of man, you will find that far more, and far more hideous, crimes have been committed in the name of obedience than have ever been committed in the name of rebellion”

Obedience to authority raises also the question of doing acts of violence in certain circumstances. While some would deem it legitimate when a policeman pulls the trigger and guns down an armless but violent robber who breaks into a certain house, others would argue killing the armless intruder outweighs the danger imposed. The first argument holds that the violence would not have happened if we did have such situational context. That in mind, one should sincerely ask the following question: Would I kill Jews in Nazi Germany, slap Bouazzi, mistreat Marzouki, gas the Kurds in Halabja, shoot a helpless and unthreatening kid like Ahmed Al-Dorra, or sexually humiliate the prisoners in Abu Ghraib?

In the riveting movie ‘The Experiment’, twenty three men were chosen to participate in the roles of guards and prisoners in a psychological study led by Dr. Archaleta to simulate a prison environment. With a select few playing guards and the bulk of the group playing convicts, each participant was promised to receive $14,000 after two weeks. A few basic rules were both given to the prisoners and the guards where the former must obey the latter at all times, while the guards are told to exact punishment for infractions in any matter short of physical abuse. Unfortunately, the study ultimately spirals out of control when one of the prisoners, Travis (Adrian Brody), started showing defiance and lack of obedience toward any type of authority. Considering him the leader of dissent, Barris (Forest Whitaker), ordered other guards to shave Travis’s head and urinate on him later on. The whole movie was about how far a man could inflict all types of sadistic acts on his fellow ones. Toward the end of the movie, after everybody was released and got $14000, Travis’s girlfriend notices that her boyfriend’s knuckles are bruised due to his constant brawling with the guards. An attentive viewer of the movie would connect this ending scene with beginning one when she noted that his knuckles are pristine, an indication that he was unable to do any types of violent acts at the time.

People like Fadia Hamdi, Eichmann, Marzouki’s guards, Abd Majid Ali chemical, Mohamed Al Dorra’s shooter, Lynndie England and the like share the same distorted notion of looking at obedience to authority as signs of conformity, prestige, discipline and duty. Even when it is abused, it would still be tolerated as long as order in society is maintained according to their logic. Klaus Fischer noted (2008) that “it is important to realize that the SS (social security) was perceived by most Germans, especially those who joined its various branches, as a noble elite order that only accepted the brightest and the best. This was part of the Nazi policy of pubic deception, of enshrouding aggression and immoral goals in the noblest form of Idealism.”

As the Arab Spring seems to be still reverberating through Middle East, one can’t help but hope to see more people like Bouazizi who have the ability and courage to defy authority when it is unjust and abusive. Meanwhile, we need also people who are, unlike Fadia Hamdi, rational beings and good examples of authority, not mindless machines. Commenting on the Arab sociology pioneer Ibn khaldoun’s view on obedience to authority, Philip Khoury (1990) noted that ‘he (Ibn Khaldoun) concedes the possibility that obedience to authority also exists “among dumb animas”(such as bees) but insists that in humans, to the contrary, this obedience is founded on the ability to reason and in the exercise of free will. Humans voluntarily agree to submit to a higher authority because their practical reason convince them of wisdom of the choice”

While trying to lead a decent life, Mr. Bouazizi was constantly harassed by the Fadia Hamdi and others. Like millions in Middle East, he could have let it go without having to lose his life, but people like him envision life different from what most people do. Life, according to Bouazizi, means more than just live a peaceful life, bring food home and obey authority even when it is unjust. He wanted, instead, to bring back a dignity that had been stolen from him, and us, for decades, if not centuries.

References.

1-Cohen, Roger. “Why? New Eichmann Notes Try to Explain.” New York Times [New Work] 13 08 1999, n. pag. Web. 23 Mar. 2012. <http://www.nytimes.com/1999/08/13/world/why-

2-Milgram, Stanley. Obedience to Authority. reprint, illustrated. 224 pages. New York: HarperCollins, 2009. 8. Print.

3-Orlando, Valérie. Francophone Voices of the “New” Morocco in Film and Print:. illustrated. 262 pages. New York: Macmillan, 2009. 61. Print.

4-Charles P. Snow, The Two Cultures and the Scientific Revolution . London: Cambridge University Press, 1961. 195. Print.

5-Klaus, Fischer. The history of an obsession:. 532. Michigan: the University of Michigan, 2008. 266. Print.

6- Philip Shukry Khoury, Joseph Kostiner, First. Tribes and state formation in the Middle East. 351. Berkeley: University of California Press,, 1990. 86. Print.

http://moroccoworldnews.com/2012/03/obedience-to-authority-if-you-were-fadia-hamdi-would-you-slap-mohamed-bouazizi/32585

Everything There but Me: Short Story

By Mourad Anouar

Oklahoma City, March 19, 2012

“Home in indifferent eyes of some men and women waiting for the bus around 7.00 a.m. that morning to go to work or school, home was between the little room left between the two backs of two homeless men sleeping on a tick-infested patched up rug near a dumpster, home was felt and carried on the steps of an old lady pushing her cart down the same street where she usually sold her mouth-watering bread whose smell was too intoxicating to pass up. In the same street, few schoolgirls seemed to banter about something interesting, something like schoolwork, but for me it was something like home; home was engraved in the hands of an old hard-working man looking like coming back home from an overnight job, home just wafted through the thronged streets that the taxi cab had to cruise through to get me in time to the airport,”

I don’t remember I was offered an opportunity to prioritize “home or no-home”. But I still remember that the above unedited lines were written with a sickening longing that suddenly engulfed me when I looked out of the plane window as we took off heading toward Florence, Alabama in 2003. For me home was neither a choice handed to me on a silver platter nor was I stripped of it, while I enjoyed ogling at a passing beauty. The ad lib words revealed a sincere moment in my life where I was on the brink of falling into an emotional breakdown. The cloying repetition of the word home may suggest rather nostalgic moments for expats, or a tendency on my part to convey my romanticizing with skipped parts of my life.

Tuesday morning, October, 10, 2003, was not like the other days of the year.  I remember I had trouble sleeping. I was nervous, fidgety, tossing and turning, kicking constantly my bed edge in my new China-made Nike socks. Around 5.30pm, I heard some heavy steps crossing the hallway toward the living-room. The steps were of nobody but mom. She usually woke up around that time to do the dawn prayer. Not sure though, I stumbled out of my bed to investigate the commotion. It was just my mom. I peeked through my room’s door, ajar, to enjoy how she beautifully perform her acts of worship. Half an hour or so afterwards, everybody was awake in the house even our lazy furry cat, Mimi. There was too much noise, but it was enjoyable for me. I sat on a second-hand sofa in the living-room with my two bags nearby. We had a quick but big breakfast: Scrambled eggs cooked in olive oil, pure honey as always my mom stressed, black olives and homemade bread with sprinkled sesame on top.

The delicious breakfast was interrupted by the taxi’s honking outside our house. Perhaps, he surmised we were still asleep, craning with his neck through the slightly open door of our house, the taxi driver yelled at us to hurry up in a demanding way. That is when I leaped to my feet out of the sunken sofa, and I spontaneously started exchanging hugs with my five brothers and one sister, and I left my mom to be the last one to say goodbye. My brothers’ and sisters’ eyes told me that they had cried somewhere away from each other’s and me. At the doorstep now, while my big brother was haggling with the taxi cab driver over the trip cost from El Jadida to Casablanca, Annoyed by their abuzz skirmish nearby, I thought about interfering with bringing them together, but I was too afraid to risk a slew of personal invectives from my perpetually moody brother. I was rather preoccupied with a slow-paced moment of streaming tears that I had delayed all the months I knew I was going to America. Unlike my brothers, I cried in front of them all, for I could not resist the moment’s gravity or their sympathetic eyes. Everybody stood transfixed as I paraded out my two bags and a carry-on suitcase.

The ensuing events were nothing but soaked, to the brim, in tears and sadness. But we, my family and I, were able to get out of it with a less emotionally harmful exodus. I still don’t know how I mustered up a new-found courage to exit safely from this sad moment, which I carried with me into the waiting taxi outside. After that, I only recall how the taxi driver hit the gas, rounded a bend and drove off without caring if wanted to wave at my family from the car’s backseat window.

Curving to the left, the taxi driver drove past the Post Office, the Medina Theater, and then swerved to the right toward the road that ran in parallel row with the El Jadida’s beautiful seaside known as the palm tree street. That is where my eye caught spy of the medieval-looking cathedral of Saint Eugene.

Saint Eugene’s cathedral must have been an impressive sight in its day as it is still now. The building reflected its builder’s large-than-life personality. With its domed roof and overlooking the blue Atlantic Ocean, the place stood defiant at the heart of El Jadida. The common grandiosity between the two entities, between nature and human achievement, only few could pay attention to.  Despite the overabundance of moss and alfalfa that covered most of its big-sized lot, there remained some beauty amidst its overall dilapidated condition.

Over years, “word was’ that Saint Eugene’s cathedral was haunted by some restless spirits. People claimed to hear noises, midnight singing and more emanating from there. There was something menacing about the place that kept everybody’s imaginations elaborating on some frightening and sometimes ridiculous ghost stories that allegedly happened around there. One of these stories claimed that two boys who happened to play soccer in the vicinity of the cathedral when one of them booted the ball away to wobble through the air, sail past the other’s boy head over the cathedral’s gate to finally crash into one of its windows. One of the boys, brazen, was goaded into retrieving the errant ball. Abetted by his friend to scale the cathedral’s red brick wall, as the story goes, the courageous boy pried open a weather-beaten French door and stepped into what was going to be his last known whereabouts.  Some cynics, though, argued that the made up ghost stories were channeled by some unknown religious extremists years ago through El Jadida in an attempt to get the place razed and replaced with a new magnificent mosque.

All these uncaused streams of memories and more took place in the backseat of taxi cab. Reminiscing about the old days of the cathedral was entertaining for me, and a technique I used numerous times to kill time, but for today it served to only lighten me up a bit.

Usually it would take an hour and half to get to the Mohamed V Airport in Casablanca, but Mr. Brahim, the taxi driver, I still remember his name till now, was just like other Moroccan taxi drivers who thought their cars are made to fly too. He did the trip in an hour as I counted it in his stereo clock. With maximum velocity, columns of burned oil trailing behind, a blaring noise of a music band I never heard of and a daredevil-style driving, his face features suggested he set out to break a personal record. Thank God, we all made it safe to the airport.

The moment I stepped into the plane, I knew it was too late for me to back off. The flight ticket was purchased two weeks before, and the clothes my family afforded to buy me were already neatly folded and arranged nicely by my mom in my new travel bags.  The plane ascent was felt as I was falling into a bottomless pit, a sensation I translated later as disbelief. I could not believe I was sneaking the love I had nurtured for my country for years out to another land. Had the customs let me carry everything I could, I would carry my home, my family, friends and all my memories. How many freighters would I need to carry the incalculable number of  memories and an eventful life in Morocco? I wondered.

Next to me in the plane sat an old lady with a wrinkled face and a genuinely blond hair. I wondered how on earth you could have such contrast. I tried to figure out how age could intrude on her face but was lenient with her hair. After minutes of thinking it over, I had to accept that age, as humans, could err also especially taking in account the number of world population. I had to believe a made up joke of mine, I thought age could have mistaken her for another women.

Apathetic, Ms. Blackburn, as she told me her name was with a southern accent when we reached Huntsville airport in Alabama, was reading an old National Geographic magazine as the quality of the papers indicated: it was a story about the aborigines of Australia.

She seemed to like what she was reading as her eyeballs bulged out now and then. And whenever she came across an exotic photo, she would lift the magazine up close to her eyes to see it better. Poor old woman. Her weak fingers flipped through the magazine pages with difficulty. I wished I could help her with something. I would not hesitate, I thought, to grab the magazine and read it out for her, while she could lounge on her seat.

I arrived in America exactly in October, 11, 2003, three few years after September 11 when being or looking Middle Eastern would cause you some uneasiness, verbal abuse or in the worst cases assault by some prejudiced Americans. And guess what: I went to the State of Alabama, which is very infamous for being one of the most prejudiced States in America. I was worried; a little scared to be honest. The American Airline 550 aircraft landed atHuntsville International Airport right on schedule at 3.30 p.m to a slightly cold day. After dealing with all the customs hassle, I found myself waiting for my bags at baggage carousel. There, I met again Ms. Blackburn holding tightly to a pushing cart to keep a standing posture. When she noticed I was around, she approached me, while she still clung to the cart. I had a quick and jovial conversation with her, and I was surprised to learn that she was going to the same city I was headed to. What a coincidence? I whispered to myself and at the same time I tried to practice my one year English at the University of Shouaib Doukkali.

 “You looked nervous and worried when we were in the plane”, she told me.

“Yes”, I replied.

“Hold on”, I told myself, what? I wondered how she knew I was nervous or worried, knowing she never looked at me all the long hours we flew across the Atlantic Ocean. So strange. But I realized that it might be the unmistakably divine gift that enables mothers to sense all our feelings without having to look us in the eye.Her true words set my worn out memory in motion and left me pondering, remembering every moment, since I hugged my mom, sister and brothers at the doorstep, the moment when we drove one hour from El Jadida to Casablanca and when I finally stepped into the plane. I remembered when I desperately tried to store into my saturated memory some pictures of Morocco as the fuselage gradually dipped into the sky wide clouds. I remembered as I scanned Morocco’s boundless terrain, the exquisite shorelines, a seemingly stray stork and other beautiful things, I could see almost everything there but me.

Now after 9 years here, happy sometimes and sad at times, I admit I tried numerous times to tame my sense of longing to the point where I could live a peaceful life, devoid of any humanly added drama. In other words, I managed to compromise between an invincible nostalgia and an admitted enjoyment I experienced in my new stay. Every time fear or worry reigned over me, I would responsively rally my exhausted memory to remember my mom’s sincere prayers that she told me the moment I hopped into the taxi cab. Her powerful words served as a protective aura that accompanied me through the years I have been away from home. Her prayers were the magical wand I utilized whenever I ran into closed doors, into moments of despair.  Whenever I was down, or sometimes moved to tears, I would feel reanimated as soon as my soul and mom’s went through some sort of telepathy.

Ms. Blackburn was driven home by her son who was waiting for her at the airport. She was gone, but her remark about me being worried and nervous, while we were in the plane always remained cryptic, open to all interpretations but to one that could soothe my, then, ailing soul. Unable to come up with any answer, I decided instead to put it out of my mind and look for a taxi cab that would take me from Huntsville to my new, unknown yet, home in Florence.

http://moroccoworldnews.com/2012/03/everything-there-but-me-short-story/31869 

Too Many Chiefs Not Enough Indians

By Mourad Anouar

Oklahoma City, March 14, 2012

“Too many chiefs, not enough Indians” is a very telling proverb that nobody knows exactly its originator except it is American. One of its meanings is the fact of having too many bosses, but not enough workers. It could also mean the fact of having too many people who warn us nonstop about the woes of living in a morally decayed society, while these phony people of virtue are the ones who are scandalous and morally corrupt.

The reason I brought this anonymous saying up here because the “too many chiefs “are so many to count in Morocco, while we seem to lack “Indians”.  The latter represents the absence of people whose actions mirror their beliefs and convictions.  Sad to say, our society is teeming with hypocrites who don’t bother to tell us how important we all need to change our society for a better one while they are themselves working on decaying it. Béla Szabados and Eldon Soifer (2004) think that “hypocrites can be seen as displaying one set of standards in their preaching, and another in their practice. They may condemn others for motives or actions which they themselves indulge in” (p. 352)

Although the saying connotes some racial overtones in its birthplace, my intention here is nothing but to raise awareness about this topic among Moroccans who often come in close contact with the “too many chiefs”. I would also like to remind them of those who seem to lack a connection between what they preach and how they live their daily lives. I am afraid that some of us tend to represent themselves as saints, while we relentlessly cover up a dark side of our lives.

The saying so much reflects our nowadays troubled country where we encounter hypocrites on a daily basis. Every one of us must have stories with or of such people whose credibility will not only be lost as soon as their true character  is exposed, but their actions bring about a widespread sense of reciprocal mistrust among people which would result as well in a very tight knit circle of people in whom we trust.

Examples of “too many chiefs” that dominate our lives are numerous. Some of us were raised and brought up in a society where their parents teach them to be slick, not intelligent. Our kids lead their lives with the notion that a smart kid is the one who outwits his peers, fools and swindles something valuable out of them. Such parenting creates confusion among little ones and makes them develop a distorted understanding of different concepts.  We would usually be praised from parents and peers for exhibiting such socially accepted practices. Moroccan writer Muhammad Hanafi (2005) confirms that” “we find even inside family relationships, in the framework of one single family, hatcheries of producing hypocrisy where the latter becomes a condition for both establishing a good marriage relationship and helping with maintaining it to the end”

As we embark on another important transition in our lives when we reach the age to go to school, we came face to face with people who are supposed to shape our thinking. Teachers teach us, among other things, to be more productive and hard-working, while some of them were not even on time when they come to school.  And even when they are in class, we see some of them are busy doing a crossword puzzle or reading unrelated-class books. They teach us to abide by the law and they are the first to break it. They break it when they teach us to fear them, rather than respect them. They rob us of a sense of believing in ourselves whenever we instinctually dare contract them on any given issue. They vehemently defend the myth that teachers are always right and students are wrong. They transgress our basic human right to think critically and analytically. I remember one teacher who was a fan of the Arab poet Antar Ben Shaddad’s poetry, especially the verses that extol the virtues of honesty and bravery, but we all were shocked to know he had an affair with another teacher. Before we knew about his scandal, all of us had looked up to him as a role model in a very critical period of our adolescent lives, where we sought a compass-like figure to guide us through.

Away from Morocco, another form of hypocrisy takes place overseas where I have met many Moroccan friends who would make sure to observe the month of Ramadan and try to do all the rituals that come with it, but as soon this holy month is out, they would allow themselves to drink alcohol and have sex before marriage, while they still claim to be practicing Muslims.

Speaking of religion, we just had an incident that caused rage in Morocco where the name of a reputed religious figure was revealed to the public, which was furious at the fact that he undeservedly benefited from the Moroccan government’s commercial transportation licenses, while he was a steadfast advocate of fighting corruption and favoritism. Imam Zemzami is certainly not the only one in Morocco who preached to the masses about how important one should maintain a life of modesty, content and moral straightforwardness, while he or she indulges in all of the sensuous pleasures of life

The reason I focused on parents, teachers and religious figures more than any other segment of society because I believe the three, our teachers, parents and religious figures, are the ones who give us the sense of who we are. They are so important in our lives that no country could prosper and develop without having great teachers, educated and sincere parents and broad-minded and honest preachers. We need teachers who raise compelling questions, not threatening sticks. Our students need teachers to teach them how to reason and explore all horizons. The types of teachers who serve as liberating forces in our lives, not mediums of establishing fear, blind obedience and memories of dishonesty and hypocrisy. The religious clerks that we all strive to hear on Friday sermons are those who believe in every virtue they preach. And before they dare mention it, they should ask themselves if they have the ability and conviction to stick to it.

As any other society, Morocco has bad apples that exist in most society sectors and corners throughout the country. But our increasingly crippled economy and ill society are undeniably indicative of having too many bad apples in our groove. The reality is that bad apples are abundant because we have a fertile soil for them. We are to blame for providing all means for them to grow and ripen. And since it is never late to change, it is up to us to pick out the bad apples and do away with them, everybody on his way. I am sure readers have many similar stories that revolve around the same topic of people who are “too many chiefs”. One can no longer wait but to throw off the restraints of these fake norms in our hypocritical society where many malpractices are rewarded and praised. If we free ourselves of the stultifying pressure and moral bullying of such morally dysfunctional society and people, we would be able to proudly and openly condemn ourselves before others.

It is in such society where prostitution is relatively tolerated, while Muhammad Shukri’s book for break Alone would be banned and deemed morally inappropriate for its sexual frankness. It is ironic that our hypocritical society could “coexist” with prostitutes who are anathema to most of us, but it was hard for us to let people read a book that presents our society as it is with no makeup.

References

Béla Szabados, Eldon Soifer. (2004) Hypocrisy: ethical investigations, Buffalo, NY: Broadview Press.



http://moroccoworldnews.com/2012/03/too-many-chiefs-not-enough-indians/31247 

The Trend of Hating America

By Mourad Anouar

Oklahoma City, March 6, 2012

How strange and pathetic that evincing any signs of admiration or support for America would cause you to be an outcast within your society. You would be seen as less patriotic, a sycophant or often a traitor in the eyes of those who let their hearts be eaten up by a virulent vice called “hating America”. This epidemic tendency of hate has swept through many Arab countries in the last decade or so, notably after the two wars waged by the United States in Iraq and Afghanistan. According to a survey from the Pew Research Center’s Global Attitudes Project released May 17, 2011, the United States’ image has not improved during and after the anti-government uprisings that have shaken the totalitarian regimes in the region.

I am almost one decade out of Morocco living in the States – and I suppose I am somehow entitled, based on my perspective, to talk about a controversial and sensitive topic as such – but I have had a number of unpleasant conversations with friends, and sometimes complete strangers, whenever I happen to go back home, in which they expressed their hate for America. And because I think much of this rhetoric is unfounded, such experiences usually leave you face to face with two moral responsibilities that are seemingly irreconcilable.

The first moral responsibility is the gratuitous effort to rebut your fellow Moroccans who mistakenly question your allegiance to your country. It is saddening when your affiliations to your motherland might need to run through a polygraph to rule any doubt out. The second moral responsibility is how much you are able to proudly hold side by side your national flag in one hand, while in the other one a commitment to your sense of morality. While there is no such thing as having to talk negatively about America in order to be a patriotic Moroccan, there remain some people who have gone that far as to label you a traitor if you pursue the path of lauding the United States. In their supposedly “holy war”, they choose to direct their slandering arrows toward anybody who dares spot some good in this vast land; for only evil comes from there, according to their logic.

And I am sure if you ask one of them what is the most hated country in the world after Israel, the answer is definitely America. They would try relentlessly to give you a number of reasons to back up their position. They would definitely tell you the most heard and repeated grievance about the unconditional support of America for Israel in its aggression against the Palestinians. And if you are one of those who are under the illusion that Islam is targeted by a worldwide plot to obliterate it, you would most likely point to the infamous statement by George W. Bush when he declared after September 11 that America was to embark on a “crusade” in the Muslim world. Surely, he would reveal to you that there are too many reasons to hate America.

Usually, when you get politics mixed up with religion, not only are your decisions clouded by human interpretations of divine scriptures, but a flare-up of imminent danger sets in, especially in the minds of religious people who think their religion is always under attack. While it is a hard task to counter this segment of society’s apocalyptic fears and unavoidable Armageddon with more sound exegetical arguments, it is safe to say that this category of people are obviously the ones who are more into the trendy addictive habit of hating America.

But away from the treacherous and unethical practices of politics and the nature of religious polemics, people often find themselves caught up in a difficult life where poverty, ignorance, unemployment, corruption and more are pervasive. If you decide to take a walk with one of the same people who just spewed all his hate toward America and take him away from the realm of politics to our miserable realities across the Middle East and ask him about his possible plans to better his life, one of the common answers you might get: Winning a green card lottery or being hooked up with an American or European girl on a chat room. And the same guy, if you bother to check him out, you would notice is dressed up in Nike sneakers, Levis Jeans and a New York Yankees cap on his head.

The irony here is that we hate America, but most of us strive to live in it. We all wish the near demise of it, but some of us still send our children to study there where its universities are ranked among the best in the world. Sadly, no single Arab country’s university has ever managed to make it to that list. On Friday sermons, our religious clerks don’t miss an opportunity to wish to see America wiped off of the map. The same day if you are a non-practicing Muslim and happen to walk or drive by the American embassy in Casablanca, you would be astonished by how many people are lined up there willing to leave Morocco to go settle in America.

Arab authoritarian regimes used this tactic of hating and blaming America for all our failures as an outlet for the masses to vent their resentment over their miserable lives toward Uncle Sam, instead of pinning the blame on their own country.  It is sad, but it is true that we are barking at the wrong tree. And it is not a secret that the same dictators who always vilify America maintain good relations with its officials behind the scenes.

A balanced assessment of the topic in question is that America is not the all good, nor is it the all evil. As any superpower, it understandably attempts to extend its borders and gain more footing out of its physical sphere in order to preserve a glory and prosperity it has worked hard to attain. It is also understandable that some get largely irked by American expansionist ventures, but we fail to overlook the fact that any nation does what it is best for her and its people. Unfortunately, we who are plagued by the “all evil America” have confined our thinking within very tight boundaries in which we are resistant to step out and take any type of initiatives.

We mistakenly conclude that our lives would get better only if America quits sticking its nose in everything that concerns us. We decide to stay idle, uncertain about what we could possibly do, and there is so much to do, whereas others choose the apian way of carrying through their businesses.

 Still, I am neither in the process of openly renouncing a deep-seated love for my own country Morocco, nor do I try to be another Uncle Tom to exhibit unrequited love for a country that I think possesses some good. It is very hard to subdue the invincible nature of your patriotism and avoid falling victim to the lure of depravity. The key is to genuinely balance your love for Morocco and commitment to the moralistic judgments you are supposed to adhere to.

But for the sake of impartiality alone, I endeavored to see through the multilayered fog that has accumulated in front of our eyes for years preventing us from seeing the good qualities of America. The real problem is not the mistakes carried out by ill-advised policies on the part of this country here and there. But what we should do is to stop propagating the anti-American fairy tales and start taking responsibility for our own actions.

As debatable as this topic is, there would surely be enough room for arguing on the basis of seeking the truth. But to those who are obsessed with a bogus Jihad against America, I wish they would at least have the minimum effrontery and guts of one of the heroes in the novels of the French writer Stendhal, who hated America so much that he decided not to go there after he asked the question “to go or not.”


http://moroccoworldnews.com/2012/03/the-trend-of-hating-america/30142

Do you hate your boss?

By Mourad Anouar

Oklahoma City, January 26, 2012

Please select one of the following: My boss is….

A) – Monster

B) – grizzly

C) – terrible

D) – All of the above

My friend’s wife thinks her boss can be all of the above. “No day would come by without her coming back home from work with the worst and most painful experience she has ever had with her boss”, my friend Adam told me. I would not be surprised if she has indeed thought of the perfect set up to get rid of her boss. She might have thought of a bunch of mischievous scenarios with no incriminating evidence. But I am certain she thought of quitting her current job several times. If you really hate your boss, does what I mentioned above sound familiar? Is this what you face every day? Have you also thought of the perfect mischievous scenarios? Do you keep thinking that there must be a way around, up or out of this awful situation, if you could only figure out what is it?

My newly-hired friend Chris who works for a food processing company has the same “I hate my boss syndrome”. He baselessly claims his boss hates him “just because he is white”. His boss is African American by the way, but I don’t think she is racist. Through my own experience with her, I noticed her positive attitude and open mindedness, which proves his claims unfounded. To be honest, my friend Chris is lazy, really lazy. And because I have known him for years, I know that his main problem with his boss is his lack of loyalty towards his job in addition to laziness.

Yeah, sorry Chris, I have to be honest about it. And don’t tell me now you have tried it. No, you have not because you don’t have it. I am talking about loyalty in case you are clueless. And if you don’t know what is it? You still can learn it. It is never too late.

As most people, Chris, I don’t think you signed up for this job to work for a difficult boss. Probably when you accepted your new job, your boss seemed really nice, so nice that you thought you were the luckiest one on earth. And probably your bon temps at work was short-lived as your boss turned out to be a poltergeist.

Like my Friend’s wife, Chris thought of quitting his job probably more than the possibility of finding a solution. Honestly, quitting a job for feeling not up to the challenge seems to me an unjustifiable surrender. May be you cannot change your boss’s hot temper, for example, but you can alleviate its intensity to a lesser degree.

Chris, how many times did you tell me you lied to your boss? How many times did you fail to report your work malpractices to your boss? Do you remember that day when you told me you had been doing this job just for money, not because you love the job you do? Well, Chris, all of these are signs of a lack of loyalty. In other words and blatantly, you are disloyal to your boss.

As a matter of fact, being loyal to your boss is part of your job and a key indicator of your success. Which loyalty? Not the one you are thinking about now. Loren B. Belke, the author of “The First-Time Manager,” comments on this unsuitable loyalty. He notes “Loyalty has fallen into widespread disrepute. Blind loyalty has never had much to recommend it, but being loyal does not mean selling your soul. Your company and your boss are not out to rip the world. If they are, they are not worth your loyalty”

If you can be loyal to your boss without selling your soul, then you are on the right track. Loyalty simply means to be punctual for your job. To love your work and enjoy doing it. to Embrace your obstacles with a strong will and to manage your duties with integrity.

In learning how to do this you will master a valuable lesson about management, human behavior, work quality and how not to belittle your job. These skills can be turned around into survival, and even success, strategies.

Still, all what you need to do, Chris, is to summon that intrepid soul dwelling in you and join the opposite side, the loyal side.