ihath

You see them everywhere. Sitting at their desks, staring at the monitor, murmuring incomprehensible words to themselves. I am talking about computer users. Walk around the office and ask your coworker “what are you doing?”. The answer will frequently be “Writing a document, sending an email or gulp! Installing software”. But what are you really doing, what are you trying to achieve, communicating with a customer?, planning for the future?, learning something new? or solving a problem?”. It seems that computer use has become a purpose on its own.

Busy, busy, busy, I am checking my email, but what have I accomplished?

How many times have you heard somebody swear while using his or her computer? “Damn this software!” a person might say in exasperation. As a software developer involved in software deployment; I had to experience the disappointment associated with showing the user, software that took many late nights to construct, only to be faced with yawns or worst, frustration. What started as a cool idea or a cutting edge technological breakthrough turns to a nightmare when installed on a customer’s computer. People don’t care about technology; they simply want tools that help them get their job done. For about 12 years I have been developing various business applications. Sometimes in a quiet moment when I close my eyes, I can hear a frustrated person swearing at me.

Recently, I watched my friends, a couple in their 60’s, buy a new computer. These are very intelligent people with many degrees and professional accomplishments between the two of them. I watched in horror as they tried to navigate through the maze of technical mambo jumbo and figure out what goes where. This is a couple who wants to write emails, edit documents and browse the internet a bit. Sounds fairly simple. I got many late night phone calls that started like this:

“I don’t know where my email went.”

“A dialog keeps coming up that says are you sure you want to download a plugin, should I click on yes or no?”

“I saved my document and now I can’t find it.”

“The anti virus is removing my attachments, but I need to read those.”

I went over to their place explained technical jargon and told them which dialogs to simply ignore and which ones they should take seriously. In the back of my mind I kept thinking, “My god! this must be overwhelming”. The worst part was the look of confusion in their faces. There was a sense of defeat, like this is too complex and we can’t figure it out. I felt a bit of guilt for having participated in developing this jungle of software mess. This monster that makes intelligent people feel stupid. After about two months of dedicated effort on my friends’ part, they are cruising on their computer taking full advantage of its many features, but after what turmoil.

The problem with computers today is that there is too much technology involved in its usage. To perform the simplest tasks on a computer you need to understand terms like HTML, HTTP, PDF, format, upload, server, database and many others. Imagine if Steven Spielberg had to know the internal workings of a Camera before he was able to make a movie. Imagine if he had to sit around while a technician was fixing the camera, or even worse, if Mr. Spielberg had to open up the Camera and fix the electrical parts himself. We wouldn’t have masterpieces like E.T. or The Color Purple. You don’t need to be an electrician to use a camera; you simply click on a button and start shooting. Getting too involved in the technical details bogs down the creative process. What masterpieces are we missing out on, in the digital world?

I think we software developers should dedicate ourselves to freeing people from software, so that they can focus on their work. We need to build a set of technologies that adapts software to people, rather than expecting people to adapt to software. We should create the camera effect for software. Software that does what its supposed to do while blending into the background without making too many in your face demands.

One day you will walk into somebody's office and see a person, rather than a big monitor.

Ok, I have a confession to make. I hate technology. I suffer from technology phobia. How I ended up being a computer programmer is a mystery to me. The computer geek that hates technology. I am a luddite in disguise. But, then everything in my life is psychotic so why not my career.

I still remember the first computer I got when I was 13 years old. It was apple
IIe. I could use assembly to program it or a software designed to teach kids to program called logo. I was hooked. What started as a hobby ended as a career.

I remember my first job straight out of university. I thought I was in heaven. I got a desk, a computer, manuals, I could play on the computer all day long and the best part was that I got paid for it. WOW! that is so cool. To do the thing that I would have loved to do for free and get money for it. Plus, now I was writing software that other people were using. That is 10 times cooler than those university projects where you wrote some software to be marked by a professor and thrown away. The joy of creating a complex virtual world and then creating it from scratch. Programming to me is like playing with lego blocks. You imagine something in your head and then see it come to life and finally you get the satisfaction of seeing other people use it.

People ask me how I can sit in front of a computer for hours. “Isn’t that boring?”, they ask. If only they could see the vivid, multi colored world in my head while I am doing that. They would realize that my job is only as boring as my imagination is.

And then the internet came along. There was so much anticipation so much potential. This was the technology that would transform human kind. Most of it has been a huge disappointment to me. I read somewhere that 70% of all internet use is related to pornography. We have a medium that allows people in India to communicate with people in Portugal in real time. We have a medium that allows people to express themselves and exchange ideas, yet most people choose to use it for fake sex. I can’t believe that people are giving up on experiencing the real thing. The human race is doomed. I can’t believe the people that spend hours and hours surfing the net, most of what is on the net is garbage, what is there to surf about? What a colossal waste of time. Now we have cyber friends, emoticons for fake emotions, we send emails instead of having a straight discussion with a person. I have helped to create a monster.

Get rid of the cell phone. Don’t send an email. Go have a chat with somebody, not in a chat room, but rather by meeting them face to face. Look them in the eyes as you speak, notice how they smile. No software will give you that.

*****************************

Bits of the above post became a 3 minute segment that aired on CBC Radio 1

One day I went to bed next to my handsome Palestinian husband. The next day I woke up to find lying next to me an Israeli man with a hairy back. He was sleeping on his tummy, drooling on the pillow and snoring. How did I end up next to this man? Where am I? What is going on?

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Before I explain to you how I ended up in this Kafkaesque nightmare turned into reality, I need to tell you the story right from the beginning. Let me start right at the beginning when it all started. Many moons ago, I met a dashing dark young man who captured my attention right from the moment I laid eyes on him. He had beautiful dark curly hair and an intense look about him. I was one of those silly people that didn’t believe in love or romance. I never read romantic novels because I believed that all love stories were Hollywood fabrications that had no root in reality. I considered myself far too serious and far too intelligent for silly idle pursuits like love. Only pathetic helpless and naïve women sat around dreaming about the knight in shining armor to come and rescue them. I myself planned to roll up my sleeves and fulfill my own dreams with my own hard work without the aid of a man.

I nicknamed the dashing young man Za’atarah (زعترة ). Za’atar( زعتر) is a herb common in Palestine similar to oregano only with stronger taste. If you never had za’atar then, you are in for a treat. A’antarah ( عنتره) is pre Islamic Arab hero. A’antara was a black slave who fell in love with A’ablah ( عبله) the daughter of a tribal sheik. So I combined the words za’atar and A’antarah and created the nickname Za’atarah. Seemed appropriate considering the fact that Za’atarah was Palestinian, dark and looked larger than life to me. Plus anything to do with food is good in my books.

The evil father would not allow Antarah to marry A’ablah and would instead promise her in marriage to other men of higher stature. A’antra had to travel all over the Arabian dessert sword fighting with all the suitors so that A’ablah would be his. A little bit like Romeo and Juliette, only A’atarah and A’ablah did really exist. All stories and movies about A’antarah end with the happy ending of a happy wedding between A’antarah and his beloved. In real life, they did get married only they were miserable together after marriage. A’ablah would continually put down A’antarah because of his slave roots and treat him in a haughty way, being the daughter of a tribal sheik that she was. A’ablah could not have children and therefore A’antarah had to marry another women because of his desire for offspring. Apparently, they spent most of their time together fighting with each other. No movie has been made about that part.

My Za’atarah on the other hand did not carry a sword, nor any other weapon, but his eyes where as sharp as Excalibur. One glance from him would make me break into sweats and make my heart race. Two weeks after meeting Za’atarah, You would find me walking around with a huge smile on my face like an idiot. There was a skip in my step and I constantly felt the urge to break into song. Yada, yada, yada, yada, insert all the pathetic romantic spiel you want here. Yes, it’s true, when you are in love you feel like a bird that will fly any minute. Like everything in life is beautiful and like everything is possible. ….Pathetic! ha?

Well! to my credit, Za’atarah is an exceptional guy. For one thing, he carried the complete poetry works of the Iraqi poet Muthafar Al Nawab in his backpack and whenever the fancy would strike him he would pick up the book, stand up and start reading poetry. He had large portions of it memorized by heart.

How could I resist?

مرينه بيكم حمد واحنه ابقطار الليل

وسمعنه دك اكهوه او شمينه رحة هيل

ياريل صيح ابقهر صيحة عشك ياريل

هودر هواهم ولك حدر السنابل كطه

As if that wasn’t enough to rock my world, Za’atarah was radically different from all the middle eastern men I had met before him. For one thing he was completely unpretentious. For example, even though he had a Ph.D. and taught at the university, he insisted that everybody would call him by his first name. Whenever somebody would call him Dr. he would just wave his hand and say don’t be silly call me Za’atarah. In the middle east titles are very important. People who have earned the prized Dr. title would be deeply offended if you forgot to address them by it. Za’atrah dressed very modestly too. He wore plain pairs of jeans and plain t-shirts. You might think, what is the big deal with that? Well for an Arab guy that is a very big deal. Most arab men that are able to afford it would be decked out in the best Armani suit, fancy Italian shoes and a Pierre Cardan pen placed strategically in the pocket to impress. Za’atarah was the antithesis of arab middle class pretension and snootiness. The snootiness that I grew up with and was familiar with.

Za’atarah is a brutally honest man. He had no problem telling anybody that he is an idiot straight to his face. Arab culture is all about saving face. I grew up in a culture where people I only met 5 minutes ago would tell me they loved me like their sister. I am talking major white lies, huge unwarranted compliments and massive saving face action. Za’atarah was none of that. Every word uttered by him was precise and measured. Everything he said he meant deeply otherwise he would say nothing. Hence I got the feeling that everything he said he meant, when he said something nice it meant something it wasn’t yet another figure of speech, he deeply meant every single word he said. How un-arabic? Visitors to the middle east find all the compliments and words of endearment friendly. They leave the middle east with the impression that people are O! so friendly. But when you grew up in a culture hearing “O! how are you? I have missed you. Why don’t you call more often?” From a person who won’t answer your phone calls and you know that she hates your guts and can’t stand your sight, it gets nauseating after a while. The insincere compliments always got on my nerves.

When I first met Za’atarah, he told me he was the son of simple peasants. That too surprised me, because Arabic culture is class aware. People from upper classes look down at people from the lower classes. People from lower classes pretend that they are from higher classes than they really are. I knew many people that would live lavishly, drive expensive cars and wear expensive clothes even though they couldn’t afford it, they were trying to create the illusion of being wealthier than they really were. I knew many people that came from humble origins but as soon as they were able to get a good salary they would deny their origins, pretend they were something they were not. In Canada, it would have been very easy for Za’atarah to pretend that his family was some educated middle class bunch. Instead he seemed to almost brag about his humble origins. How un-arabic? To be proud of who you are instead of what you are supposed to be.

Everything about this man was radical and admirable. Plus, he was an amazing cook. He would make me kusa mahshi (zucchini stuffed with meat and vegetables). He introduced me to avocado which I never ate before because I thought it looked weird. What a treat to taste avocado for the very first time. I wouldn’t say that my stomach is the shortest path to my heart but that path is fairly short. I think it was the poetry that impressed me the most, but the food didn’t hurt. Like most Hollywood movies, you should be able to predict the rest of this story. We fell in love, got married and lived happily ever after.

The End

And then the rest of our life together started. Five years into our marriage we moved together to Israel perusing an academic career for Za’atarah. I had grown up in a country where the word Israel was rarely uttered; it was always referred to as the “enemy”. The state of the enemy, the prime minister of the enemy, the Zionist entity were all part of the everyday vocabulary in Kuwait at the time. All maps of the middle east would show “occupied Palestine” but no Israel. I had never seen the state of Israel on a map. Somehow in my mind, Israel was this entity hovering in the air somewhere. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Israel is yet another country that actually exists on the ground and they don’t refer to themselves as the enemy they all have names. Wow! how radical? Well! I was determined to put away all that enemy propaganda, taught to me in school, behind and keep an open mind and adjust as best as I could. But, childhood conditioning dies hard.

Jesus said, “Love your enemy as you would love yourself”. I always assumed that only a select few, a special breed of people were capable of that. I always assumed that it would take massive effort and discipline in order to achieve that. I always assumed that it would be something that people would engage in out choice. Maybe a hint masochism mixed in with that as well. I myself am not too fond of that principle. It doesn’t make much sense to me.

Israelis are the most brutally honest group of people I have ever encountered in my life. In Israel, I realized right from day one that if people don’t like me they will tell me that they hate my guts right to my face. There is no pretending, no white lies, no room for saving face. Nobody pretends to like you if they don’t. At first it was shocking but later on I found it refreshing. No need to beat around the bush. Additionally, Israelis have complete contempt for pretension. Nobody wears suits or fancy clothing. When people want to look casual they put on an old pairs of jeans and an old stretched out t-shirt. Nobody wears Gap or Tommy Hilfiger in Israel. The highest executive to the lowliest garbage sweeper on the streets dress in a similar fashion. In Israel you can’t tell the difference between the wealthy and the poor by appearances. What you see is what you get, from an Israeli person. The socialist past of the country still effects it today making hard work and hand labor points of honor rather than things to be looked down upon.

The things I admired most about my husband were the things he learned by growing up in Israel. I didn’t want to love my enemy but, I was already in love with the enemy. I was angry because I felt that I had no choice in the matter. That morning when I woke up realizing that I was sleeping next to an Israeli guy, I told my Za’atarah that I didn’t want to be married to an Israeli, I want to be married to a 100% Palestinian. I would have never married an Israeli man and I am not going to settle for an Israeli husband now. Za’atarah placed his hand on my shoulder and told me “I never lied to you, I told you about my background right from the beginning. I am who I am. There are things I can’t change about myself. This country is my country. I grew up in it. I don’t care if it is called Israel or Palestine. It is part of my identity.”. I shook my head. “No, no, no”.

Given my own messed up identity, is it any wonder that I attracted a man with a psychotic identity?

I was called the gypsy kid. In my childhood I spent most summer holidays, in the Czech republic. All my cousins on my mother’s side are blonde, fair and have blue eyes. I am considerably darker than the rest of them and therefore I was the gypsy kid. We would play in the front yard and neighbors passing by, would say half jokingly “How did you get that gypsy kid mixed up with the rest of you?”. The other half was malice. And then I would travel back to the middle east and I would suddenly turn blonde. Ok! I didn’t actually turn blonde but that is how the other kids referred to me, “that blonde girl” was a common reference to me at school. Everything in life is relative. I learned that at age 8. Not because I am so smart, but because I had no choice. The constant relativity of my being was hard to ignore.

What right did I have expecting Za’atarah to be 100% when I wasn’t 100% anything either.

And so love my enemy I had to, because hating the person closest to me would have killed me. To you my dark beauty from the land of milk and honey I will learn to love the whole world, even my enemy.

“It may be that God will ordain love between you and those whom you hold as enemies. For God has power over all things; and God is Oft-forgiving, Most Merciful.”, Surah Al-Mumtahinah Qura’an 60.7

hath i a soul
wonder'd hath i
then saw,
ihath

The above was sent to me as an email by Paolo. It contained nothing but those few lines and it was titled “Bliss”. That is the most creative email I have received so far. Notice how much information is conveyed in those few lines. Not only has he figured out what the name ihath means, he is telling me what he thinks of my website and he is compacting all that in 4 short lines. Brilliant!

People keep asking me what the name ihath means and where it came from. Hath is the old English word for have. ihath means I Have. It was inspired by the following poem by Rumi. He tries to describe a state of majesty, but he says he can best describe it by what it isn't than by what it is. Here is a short excerpt.

This that we have now
is not imagination.

This is not
grief or joy.

Not a judging state,
or an elation
or sadness.

Those come
and go.

This is the presence
that doesn't

These stories are what I have right now. The events in my life have been so crazy, It sometimes seems like it can’t all possibly be true. I need to keep reminding myself that it wasn’t my imagination. It all really did happened. There has been grief and joy. There has been sadness and elation. It all came and went. I used to have so many things. I had religion, I had pride, I had nationalism, I had reason, I had friends, I had so many beliefs. All came and went. Memories and few lessons learned are left behind. One day I was reading Rumi and in my dream I heard the word ihath whispered in my ear. This is what I have right now and it is not imagination.

I myself hoped that Adnan Pachachi would be the next Iraqi president. Anybody whose last name is that of an Iraqi national dish has to be ok. Pacha is a slowly cooked combination of sheep's head, stomach, feet and other variety of meats in broth. It might sound disgusting to you to look into a pot and see a whole sheep’s head looking back at you, but we Iraqis love all our heart attack inducing dishes. In fact, I think that all heads of state should be named after national dishes. Imagine Fettuccine Alfredo, prime minister of Italy, Gordon Bleu, President of France, Seashell Paella for Spanish president or Zucchini Tempura for a Japanese prime minister. Doesn’t that sound more palatable than their real names. The Russian president is already ahead, only he is residing in the wrong country. Poutine is Canadian for French fries smothered in gravy and melted cheese. Mmmmm! digusting. If heads of states where named after food, it would make deciding on who to vote for during election time that much easier. Instead of thinking about complex policy issues and figuring out if you trust the promises of the candidate and then deciding if extra marital affairs should weight on your decisions, we all know what our favorite dishes are. Deciding between two dishes is so much easier. Ok who would you rather vote for

Ice cream Sundae or Jalapeno Nachos

Cheesecake New York or Colonel Kentucky

Tahini Shawarma or Baba Ghanough

We each could decide without any hesitation, who our favorite is. Plus, imagine how much fun election campaigns would be. Instead of the boring speeches we would have cooking shows. Instead of empty promises, instant gratification, feed me now. The “proof is in the pudding” would have a whole new meaning. As in, feed me pudding and I will believe you. Who cares about foreign policy, just make an international potluck dinners. Forget about armies and make mean chili sauce for export to the enemy. The country that makes the most deadly chili will rule the world. The only draw back is that Ronald McDonalds might win elections in the US. That would be a real farce.

Plus people would talk about their president or prime minister in whole new way. I find him way more appetizing that the other guy. I can’t stomach that candidate. He gives me diarrhea. She is a real dish. That last election campaign left a bad taste in my mouth. Tart, will become a good word for a politician, so will the word fruit cake. Do you see the potential here? It is endless.

Ok, ok, ok. I confess. I am obsessed with food. Gluttony is my favorite mortal sin. I have never met a cuisine I didn’t like. It really is my down fall. I like it all, Italian, Japanese, Indian, I like it all. Can you tell that I started a diet only two days ago and now all I can think about is all the food I am not supposed to eat. I know what your are thinking. Surely a serious person like ihath, somebody who is preoccupied with important world affairs can’t possibly be wasting her time with that futile womanly quest called diet. But, believe me this serious lady has asked her husband: “Does this dress make me look fat?” more times than she cares to admit.

[ Advice for married men: When your wife asks you the question “Does this dress make me look fat?”, telling her that it is her fat ass that makes her look fat and not the dress will not flatter your wife. It might be a guaranteed method for ensuring she won’t ask you that stupid question again, but it won’t be healthy for the relationship.]

Apparently there will be elections in Iraq in January of 2005. If I was running for any public office in Iraq I would change my name to Dolma Fasanjoun. Dolma is an Iraqi dish that consists of stuffed grape vine leaves and stuffed vegetables, like zucchini, eggplants and other vegetables. It is an amazing dish that is popular all over Iraq. Fasanjoun is a dish common in the south of Iraq. It is Chicken that simmered in this brown purply sauce. The sauce contains walnuts and pomegranate juice. I don't actually know how to make either dishes, but I am good at the eating part. For my election campaign I would forget about leaflets and posters and instead give out small tupperware containers with dolma in it. "Vote for the candidate that feeds the best" will be inscribed on each package. Everybody in the whole of Iraq would vote for me.

All kidding aside,I did hope that Pachachi would be the next President, simply because I thought he was more qualified for the job. However, I am happy that the US did not force its preferred candidate and allowed Ghazi Al Yawar to get the position. I don't know much about Mr. Yawar but I wish him all the best. I think credit is due to the US government today. I just read the list of people in Iraqi new government and I am happy that the list includes people from a wide variety backgrounds and political views. The list includes several women as well. I think it is a good start. Lets wish them all the best on a difficult task. Today is a happy day, so lets celebrate. Forget about the diets and food restrictions. I don’s like Pacha that much, we can always make up a national dish called Yawar. Preferably something with rice and meat.