Mr Smith was not willing to give up just yet. He looked at me and asked, “Have you ever thought why we keep going? What is it that makes us do the right things?” I broke in, “For long, I have wrestled with that question,” I was giving myself the time to plan my offence so as not to find myself on defence.
“It is one of the most central questions of all. You see, man is good and man is bad. Still man has a void. Man can’t claim his good deeds yet he might strive to own his wrongdoings. A religious man might do what he believes to be good, fearing god, or collecting the required points for heaven. Man, for some reason, is not wired to admit his good deeds; it has to be for something divine. Man expects warmth and comfort; but he needs someone to acknowledge it, even if he has to imagine it. One time I told a friend that I admired his patience with his wife, who was bipolar. He claimed, ‘God spoke to me and gave me the strength.’ That man just could not admit to being good for no reason. I would have taken ‘I love my wife.’ any day. But no, he had to do it for Jesus. You want to know what keeps me going? It is very simple, I have tons of responsibilities and I do my best to fulfil them. Acknowledging the fact that I have done all I can, in itself, lessens my burdened conscience. Unlike religious men, I don’t do what I do fearing god or collecting points so I can go to heaven. A religious man is an ass.” Mr Smith laughed. I grinned and continued, “I have to say that over time, the act of helping and doing the good deeds, becomes automated. It doesn’t make me feel happy; it just doesn’t make me feel bad. Not feeling bad makes me sleep at night. I wake up in the morning and work my ass off to lessen what might make me feel bad at night.”
I have been preached at too many times to count, by Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, and Hare Krishnas. I don’t know what it is in me that calls to “saving”. It’s not just that I don’t believe in a god or gods, but on the off chance that I am wrong and the “Almighty” does exist, I can’t submit to him or her and follow their ways. For me, Richard Dawkins’ definition of God of the Old Testament applies to all gods, on various levels. He, She, or It is worse than all the psychopaths of fictional and non-fictional characters: an ill-minded, sexist, homophobic zealot who could prevent all manmade and natural catastrophes and yet chooses to only watch; a maniac who creates the desire in paedophiles to rape children; a totalitarian dictator who’s more ruthless than any regime or terrorist organisation known by man; a narrow-minded narcissist who preys on self-actualisation. For me, this delusional douchebag is everything that is wrong with us and is precisely what I don’t want to be. Yet, I am not an atheist preacher. I am not an absolutist or chauvinist whose ways are immune to evolution. My core philosophy is that I might be wrong.
Chapter 4
In Racism We Trust
It will only take few seconds to get down using the elevator, I kept telling myself. It took forever and I started sighing impatiently. Lifting my head up to see my way through the door, I caught a glimpse of some of my fellow tenants. The middle elevator doors always opened so slowly that you needed to rush in while they were still opening. Then they closed too fast. You couldn’t make your way in unless somebody pressed the button to hold them. Having learned not to count on the residents’ kindness, I shouldered my way in sideways. My brown skin, tattooed arm, and muscular physique seemed to frighten some people, especially the ladies. In that claustrophobic, clammy space, Malaysian Chinese ladies were commonplace. The Malay women of my block were only programmed for flight, not fight. There was no hiding the Arabophobia. Six years ago, it would’ve pissed me off. Now I just found it hilarious. Sometimes, the dark side of me craved it. Rolling my eyes I muttered, “Run, Forrest, run!” Six years ago I would’ve gone ballistic.
Over time I had come to the realisation that, against my impulses, I should maintain my manners, even if it made for more work. I would keep to my personal space and say, “Excuse me”, “Thank you”, and “I appreciate it”, even greet them. Politeness was part of my code. Observing my compatriots, I had realised that tactfulness was a dying art. So I looked these neighbours in the eye, wore a fake smile and nodded my head. I knew it; I knew that I shouldn’t expect a reply. I should’ve known better but I still expected it! Sometimes it happened, though not often.
My back was facing them and my fingertip was on the glass cover, just over the “open door” button. When the door opened, I pressed and held it hard. Everybody rushed out. Not a single thank you, of course! Before leaving the elevator, I caught a glimpse of a handwritten note on the bulletin board. It said, “A white, tall British man is looking for a cheap, fully furnished master room.” We have an old saying in my town; “One knows which side to eat a shoulder from.” It implies that one knows how to get things done. That saying later came to my mind as I recalled one of the Chinese ladies writing down his number.
The noticeboard was opposite the lift. I don’t know what came over me; I just walked towards it. Displayed was a full-page announcement made for property owners in the condominium. There was no header. It displayed twelve pictures, aligned in a grid. The images were poorly photo-shopped and each surrounded by a white frame. The faded photo in the top left corner showed a convertible, with a black dude taking a selfie in the lower right of the picture. The next image displayed a black man being escorted by law enforcement officers. The third showed a similar scene, except the man was of an Arab descent. The fourth, seemingly unrelated, was a blurred panoramic view of the island. Then two more pictures, one of another Arab and the other of black dudes. They were handcuffed with their backs bent and police smiling from behind. There were three policemen in each picture.
I couldn’t make sense of these or the photo of the black dude taking a selfie, and the car. I guess the last photo was inspired by the movie, Taken. It had four ladies with messy hair kneeling before a couple of Arab dudes and “Human Trafficking!” in blood-spatter font. Under the pictures the announcement stated:
Please be more selective and conscious if you wish to rent your unit to these people as aspects of safety and peace in the environment plays an important role in N Park.
You might end up finding yourself ‘busy’ with the Police or immigration dept. should you rent to them.
Thank you
The stamp of the condominium’s management was on the far left of the page.
Admittedly the announcement pissed me off at some subconscious level; for in recent days, only horrific tragedies had been capable of arousing minor emotional responses in me. I felt my firm grip on each side of the board’s frame as a smirk started to wear away at my anger. That said, my grasp on the box outlasted the smirk on my face. For reasons beyond my control, another self-defence mechanism provoked an obvious sardonic smile, which eliminated any hint of the mirthless grin that may or may not have existed before. For in the realisation of disappointment, one can find an inner refuge distanced from the aggressive impulses of anger. Sighing I muttered, “Man, it's gonna be tough for my people to rent a room here, let alone an apartment.”
As I lumbered toward my bike I vividly recalled a recent encounter with the lady in the management office. I wasn’t sure if she was the manager. In the short period I had been staying at the condominium I had noticed that many of the things I threw into the trash were being removed and left on the side. Things like old jeans, pizza boxes, and broken clothes hangers. I had ignored it for a while, though the growing pile was by an emergency door just opposite my apartment. After studying my neighbours, I figured they were either students or foreign workers. So I decided to pay our management a visit.
From behind the glass door I could see a fifty-something elegantly dressed lady reading. As I made my way toward her desk she lowered her stylish glasses and stared at me. I wore the usual pleasant mask of graciousness. “Hello,” I said. She frowned at me and shouted, “What is it now!” That’s funny, I couldn’t recall a prior visit. Actually, I’d never been there before. Maybe she confused me with another member of my community.
Still plodding towards the
bike, I drifted into another memory. It had happened three days before. It was in Professor Anus-Mouth’s office, a name I had deemed appropriate for the bigot. Seated in his office he noted, “You came highly recommended by Professor Zainul. Is he a good client of yours?”
“I cannot talk about my clients.”
“Very well. What’s your name again and where are you from?”
“My name is Adam and I am Syrian.”
“Oh, are you ISIS?” he enquired smugly.
“What?! Do I look like an ISIS member to you?”
“How can I tell? You’re all brown and have hair on your arms. Oh, and of course you have big brown eyes.”
“No sir, I am not an ISIS member. Can we get down to business?”
**********
Oh, that explains it, I said to myself as I reached into my pocket to get my keys. I didn’t care about correcting the management lady; I’d never been in that office before so who cared. I had clenched my hands and put them against her desk. “I hope I am not causing any inconvenience; I can come later,” I spoke softly.
“Take your hands off the desk. What is it now?”
Growing irritated, I sighed, “I have a complaint. The rubbish bin is opposite my door and the waste collector keeps putting some trash by my door. I confronted him once; and for that one day only he didn’t put them by my door; after that day, the trash has continued to block my entryway. I cannot stand by my apartment all the time to prompt him to do his job.”
“He is only responsible to collect regular rubbish.”
“Regular rubbish! What is that? There’s a pizza box that has been by my door for almost a week. I think there is something inside. Ant colonies from the whole neighbourhood are by my door.”
“You should take it yourself; it’s not regular rubbish.”
“You keep saying ‘regular rubbish’, but I have no idea what that means.”
“You are all troublemakers.”
“I don’t know who ‘we’ are. You don’t have to be offensive.”
“Troublemakers and stupid!”
“Please stop insulting me.” I remained calm despite my rising temper, “I just asked what you meant by ‘regular rubbish’. I really don’t understand the term.”
Glowering at me she yelled, “Get out… GET OUT!”
“I will respect our age difference and leave. You need to calm down.”
Louder and even more outraged, “GET OUT! GET OUT!”
By this point I abandoned any effort at diplomacy. “Take it easy madam, I am leaving. You need to see somebody; I mean to treat your rage episodes.”
I laughed a bit and shrugged my shoulders as I left. “Poor lady!” I muttered, filling the bike’s gas tank. As a master’s student six years ago, she would’ve got under my skin.
**********
It was hard to forget that day from the third week of my studies. I had arrived a couple of minutes late. For some reason, they had changed the hall that day. Research methodology wasn’t virgin territory for me. Before enrolling for the course, I had done some readings on my own. I have to say, prior to my third class, I had found Drs Zainul and Amirul’s teaching styles interesting. However, it was hard to be objective after our classroom altercation. I remember pushing open the new door and observing the other students, looking for any familiar face. Dr Amirul was walking between the seats.
“I am sorry; it took me a while to figure out which hall is AC018,” I said as I took my seat.
Dr Zainul fixed the projector while Dr Amirul was talking to students in the last row. Finally, the two lecturers stood by each other; Dr Zainul stated, “We’ll be covering quantitative research methods, descriptive methods in particular.” After almost half an hour of covering the main elements of that sort of research, “Now it’s time to put theories into practice,” Dr Amirul announced. “The campus is full of Arab students. So I want you to conduct research on Arab behaviour,” growing excited. “I realise that we have Arab students in the hall, five maybe? A descriptive researcher can approach many topics, like an investigation into the aggressive behaviour of Arabs. No offence!” adding the last words as though to tick the invisible box of political correctness.
Already familiar with quantitative research methods, I had been absent-minded for most of the session. However, that statement got my attention. Dr Amirul’s fascination with Iranian culture and body language had become obvious in the first weeks of the course. I had nothing against his affections; I still don’t. But this was the first time I had heard him compare them to Arabs. Curiously the subject was descriptive methods, which doesn’t actually encompass any comparative elements. Nevertheless, as his criticism of Arab students escalated, he also became increasingly animated in his characterization of Iranian body language.
Dr Amirul announced, “In general, one can conclude that Arabs’ aggressive attitude is elicited by their pre-existing socio-cultural artefact. They lack tactfulness! I’d rather pick an Iranian student over an Arab. They are generally respectful and hard working. Now, I’ll open the floor for your contribution.”
There was only one student raising her hand. “We’ll take questions later, it’s time for your contributions.” The Iranian student nodded her head in agreement. Dr Amirul smiled, remarking, “In Iranian culture, a nod means yes.”
I couldn’t help it but say, “I thought it was universal!”
The woman who had raised her hand glowered at me for a second and said, “I think you should know that we hate them and they hate us.”
As she finished her thought I replied, “The feelings are not mutual.” It was practically impossible to stop myself from responding. I continued, “Lady, last I checked, you are not representative of the people of Iran. Now I know it’s not a democracy over there. As such, I won’t take your word for it. Let me be clear, I don’t hate you. I heard that there are five Arabs in this class,” I looked around the hall, “Please raise your hands if you happen, by any chance, to have any prejudice against the people of Iran. The people of Iran, not their government."
“You imbecile!” As the giggling voices became louder, her mouth gaped in disbelief.
I enquired, “Did you have something else to add?”
She was speechless for few moments. As her mouth dropped in sorrow and her eyebrows arched outward, she continued, “No! Dr Amirul, I wanted to say that you can tell an Arab from the way they walk.”
“What!?” I stood up and pointed my thumb at my ass and laughingly enquired, “Do you see a tail over here!”
Dr Amirul interrupted me, stating, “It is time for questions.”
“Not yet doctor, I have a real contribution.”
“Firstly, what’s your name?”
“Adam.”
“Go on.”
“Very well. First and foremost, all your offences have been received. It’s ludicrous to say no offence and then start ranting. Back to the main issue. Descriptive methods, I suppose. As the textbook goes, and in reconciliation with published scholarly work using that approach, a researcher should start with a title and a background of the selected study. See, the thing is you neither picked a theory nor presented any previous work on the issue. Instead, you assumed that a problem existed. Now one might argue that researchers are allowed to use their observations. Fine! But not actually. This isn’t exploratory research. Moreover, there has to be compelling evidence that a problem exists. You just assumed the nature and the pattern of the phenomenon. There is no mention of the literature on, and I quote, ‘Arabs’ aggressive behaviour on campus.’ Research of this approach is deductive by nature. Yet, you have no theory from which you inferred your hypotheses. The essence of any scholarly work is the method utilised and the techniques employed to test the underlying premises. I guess anybody in this class with a single cell in their brain, would tell you that your exemplification lacked, as with the earlier sections, this element. It goes without saying that you’ve no data to examine. You just concluded with, and so I quote, ‘In
general, one can conclude that Arabs’ aggressive attitude is elicited by their pre-existing socio-cultural artefact. They lack tactfulness! I’d rather pick an Iranian student over an Arab.’
“With that stated, I am obliged to suggest to everybody that your premise was ‘Arab culture is leading Arab students on campus to be aggressive.’ Psychologically, attitude and behaviour are distinct constructs. Even a below-average layman can dissect the difference between these two variables. My point is that in no way can your premise lead you to such a conclusion. You might be able to empirically present evidence that supports or rejects your hypothesis. But not another hypothesis.
“Last but not least, the scope of the study you’ve illustrated is Arab students on campus, which by the way you did not cover, not Arabs all over the world, which you then addressed. As such, your generalisation is a blasphemy against research methodology. Or against any field of science! So if you were my student, you would’ve failed the subject. In conclusion, you sir, are racist! Plain and simple, you are racist! If you like, I can research prejudices and discrimination against Arab students on campus. Judging by your attitude that might be a worthwhile. So if you will excuse me, that’s enough for one day. I am not interested in apologies,”
While walking out I continued, “I just hope that next time you can be more civilised.” Everybody seemed dumbfounded; he kept shouting my name as I reached for the door.
An administrator for the school called me the next day and summoned me to the dean's office. I was expecting an apology. The funny thing is he had the audacity to put the blame on my English proficiency. I knew I had no rights, but I didn’t let it slide. I responded, “As a prerequisite of enrolment, one has to present evidence of English proficiency. I believe attending any class implies the attendants’ English proficiency. Dr Amirul was offensive, so please don’t insult my intelligence with such evasive claims. I demand no apology, just fair treatment. And of course not to be offended again, that’s all.”
An Ishmael of Syria Page 4