Belfast, Identity and Vanishing Murals

by: Linda Lyke, Professor of Art and her daughter,Grainne Godfree, Graduate student Columbia University

This past July, I was invited to the Belfast Printmaking Workshop in Northern Ireland as a visiting artist. Belfast – the city’s recent history that conjures up grainy images of brick throwing rioters, burning buses, and bullet-ridden pubs – was to be my home for two weeks. Before the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, Catholic and Protestant neighbors had spent 39 years mired in internecine warfare. The Troubles started as a civil rights movement by the Catholic minority in Northern Ireland but quickly descended into a bloody struggle between paramilitary forces. The Catholic IRA fought for equal rights and many desired unification with the South. The UVF defended Protestant supremacy and the union with England. Last year, as the peace treaty held, British “peacekeeping” troops finally left Northern Ireland. Catholics had won equal rights and a powerful political voice. The Protestants had kept their place in the United Kingdom. As watchtowers were dismantled and tourists were welcomed, it seemed the Troubles were finally over.
When I first arrived, Belfast’s violent history seemed nothing more than a distant, if somewhat exciting, memory. The Irish printmakers awed me with their generous hospitality. I was busy every day in the studio and every night with pub crawls, art openings, and family dinners. Friendships develop quickly over a shared cup of tea or a pint of Guinness. (The Irish take their tea and Guinness seriously!) Sights included Trinity College, the homes of C.S. Lewis and Van Morrison, the docks where the Titanic was built, and the Europa Hotel, which has the dubious distinction of being the most bombed hotel in the world. As a visual artist, I was particularly excited to see the political murals in the Catholic and Protestant estates.
During my second week, Belfast’s bloody past and uneasy future became a solemn reality. As I walked to the print shop early in the morning, I passed a huge smoking stack of wooden ballasts. People were staring at the burning heap in dismay. I asked around and learned that Protestant Unionists were gearing up to celebrate the Battle of the Boyne on July 12th – which commemorates the victory of the Protestant, British King William III over Ireland in 1690. On the night before July 12th, Protestants light huge bonfires around the city. A Catholic friend described the night as “a fascist demonstration by Unionist psychos.” My cabbie told me “it was a lovely celebration for the whole family.” Regardless of your religious leaning, the facts remain as follows. The bonfires, built months in advance, are often topped with burning effigies of the pope and the Tricolor flag of Ireland (although Belfast City Council gives grants to dissuade such affronts.) During the days leading up to the 12th, young boys guard the towering structures to prevent Catholics from lighting the bonfires early. The smoking stack I walked by was the result of such a midnight attack.

The tension between Catholics and Protestants continues muted, but ever present. Catholics still remember a time when the electoral system, educational opportunities and access to housing were designed to keep them out of power. The Protestants, like the Israelis, fear that without vigilance their country will cease to exist. Yet despite these grievances, it seemed like Catholics and Protestants were remarkably similar. The capital of Northern Ireland is tiny with only 300,000 residents (compared to Los Angeles’s 3.8 million.) You can easily walk around Belfast in a day. And, completely at odds with my own experience in a diverse city, Protestants and Catholics all look alike, speak the same language, and are nominally Christian. I wondered how Protestants and Catholics retained their separate identities, magnifying their differences to become more important than their similarities. Aggressively exclusive traditions like Bonfire Night and the July marching season enable Protestants to remain insular. (Many Catholics take their summer holiday during this time.) More interesting for me, as a visual artist, was the way that the murals throughout Belfast constructed separate Catholic and Protestant identities.

The Catholic artery of Belfast is Falls Road. An artist friend of mine Robin Cordiner, took me on a tour of the neighborhood one rainy afternoon. Immense, colorful murals decorate the walls and gable-end houses. Many of these murals orientate Catholic Republicans with a global leftist movement. They lambaste Bush, memorialize Ché, and proclaim support for the Palestinians. For the most part, I would say the artists are self-trained, their figures lacking dimension. But this in no way robs the murals of their expressive power. Many murals also portray uniquely Republican heroes, such as the hunger-striker Bobby Sands or the fighters of the 1916 Easter Rising. The murals contribute to the sense of a shared history and help construct a unified Catholic Republican identity.

If you travel up Falls Road, you enter the Unionist areas along Shankill Road and Sandy Row. The change is immediately visible. Union Jack flags hang across the streets. The curbs are painted blue. The murals here are remarkably different than their Republican
counterparts. Protestants draw heavily on their military past for inspiration. In both WWI and WWII, when many Republicans were refusing to fight for the Crown, Unionists were dying in the trenches and the battlefields. They brought back this militarism to Northern Ireland and are extraordinarily proud of their past sacrifice. Robyn explained the trick to spotting a Protestant mural, “If there’s a balaclava, it’s Protestant.” The black clad figures, carrying machine guns, are strangely incongruous with the ordinary folk strolling past. A contingent of Belfast denizens want to move away from the paramilitary murals. In 2006, the Belfast City Council announced the £3.3 million “Re-imaging Communities Program.” This three-year push aims to “help all communities in urban and rural areas tackle the visible signs of sectarianism and racism and to create a welcoming environment for everyone.” Neutral images like those of football star George Best have replaced some of the most incendiary murals, (including those that canonized convicted murderers like Johnny Adair.) Although it seems a bit like trying to erase history, and robs the town of a certain sadistic tourist appeal, I would rather have children emulate footballers than armed thugs. I asked another printmaker what he thought of the City Council’s move to re-paint paramilitary murals. He shook his head, “Oh don’t ask me. I’m not a reliable prod. I’m a gay artist who talks funny, walks funny.” Monolith identity is always an illusion.

Robyn was generally supportive of the City Council’s program. “On the whole the paramilitary imagery is only being removed from sites that are on main arterial routes around the city so the more adventurous tourist will have to delve deep into the housing estates to see the real deal.” Because of efforts to create a more inclusive environment,
Robyn was paid to create murals for a public park. He decided to print (rather than paint) images of fairies out of deference to the large fairy tree in the park. In Irish folklore, fairy trees act as a gateway between the two worlds. Irish fairies are fierce creatures who
exact swift revenge on anyone who ill-treats their trees. Apparently, the vicar in the church behind the park left his post due to the stress of burying so many people that had harmed the tree. Despite the park’s dark history, wee children love to play in its lush garden. Robyn’s views on the Troubles seem to be fairly indicative of mainstream Protestant attitudes. Vehemently against the sectarian violence, Robyn still wants Northern Ireland to remain part of the United Kingdom. When my daughter asked him why he wasn’t in favor of unification with the South, he replied, “My government is in London, my flag is the Union Jack, I use the sterling.” Skeptically, she nodded. Later she whispered to me, “Dude, he’s Irish.”

The murals of Belfast are a visual phenomenon well worth the trip. (A tourist can catch a bus from City Hall or hire a black cab for a more detailed tour.) One of the reasons the Belfast murals have emerged is simply the architecture of the city. Without the flat, gable-end houses, there would be no space for their display. The fact that paramilitary groups fund and protect the murals is another reason for their staying power. In Los Angeles, such street art would immediately be tagged or plastered with advertisements. Throughout the Troubles, the raw expressive power of the murals was used to create distinct Republican and Unionist identities. In Northern Ireland’s new dawn, murals are also being created to foster a more inclusive identity. Sport stars and Celtic folklore offer colorful breaks from urban sprawl. As I took a last glance at Robyn’s fairy park, I thought of the ways that art can act as a healing salve. It’s going to take more than the re-painting of paramilitary murals to ease tension, but perhaps it’s a start.

Living in Paradise? Eco-Tourism in Nicaragua

 

By Brian Damron ‘08 

“AguaAguaAgua?” The young boy selling drinks in my bus at the Israel Lewites market in Managua, Nicaragua hawked his product so rapidly it seemed to be a single word. “Agua señor?” he asked me, interrupting my preoccupied thoughts for a moment. I motioned him away, lost in my own worries about my fast approaching journey. I had been too nervous to speak to anyone other than the young lady behind me to confirm that I was on the correct bus.

Although Managua, the capital of the Nicaragua, has several western-style supermarkets, almost all of the commerce in the city happens informally. Mercado Israel Lewites is just one of many large open air markets where one can buy nail polish, hammocks, and even armadillos ready to take home and cook. Usually I avoided the markets at all cost, because a single “gringo”, as I was often called, is an easy mark for pickpockets and less than honest entrepreneurs. Despite my reluctance to visit the markets, I found myself at Mercado Israel early one morning last April in search of transportation. 

Every market in Managua is home to a bus terminal. The buses are usually tricked-out yellow school buses bought from U.S. school districts, forming an ad hoc system that connects the entire Pacific coast of Nicaragua. These “chicken buses” (so called because of the high proportion of rural folk who use them due to their relative affordability and willingness to carry any kind of goods) are a cheap and more or less effective means of travel in the second poorest country in the Western hemisphere. Each time I asked if my bus was the one to Villa El Carmen, the person I spoke to gave me a smile and nod, which did little to quell my uneasiness.

As part of my semester abroad with the School for International Training, I was allotted $650 dollars to conduct a month long independent study project on a subject of my choosing. While my friends in the program had chosen serious academic subjects of inquiry such as the process of landmine removal in the post-war country or the role of domestic violence in Nicaraguan society, I had made plans to study tourism at a surf resort. Although this may sound easy, not to mention a bit luxurious, it did not change the fact that I was traveling by myself for the first time with more money in cash than the majority of Nicaraguans make in a year. I turned around in my seat to face the lady behind me once again. “This is the bus that might carry oneself to Villa El Carmen, yes?” I asked in my slow and far from conversational Spanish. This time she laughed. “Good grief,” I thought.

After a few awkward minutes the bus started and slowly made its way out of the market. It would occasionally stop to let vendors on and off who sold items as varied as pizza, mango juice, and an ointment unconvincingly solicited to cure malaria and back pain. Finally, after all the hangers-on had disembarked at their destinations, the driver declared our bus was “Jesus Christ Our Lord” and accelerated into the chaos of central Managua. Where exactly we were, an outsider could only guess, but I hoped we would soon come to the Masachapa highway.

The reason for my disorientation was quite simple; the streets in Managua have no names. In 1972 a massive earthquake leveled the city and plans to rebuild were never put into effect. Shantytowns sprang up all over the city, the forerunners of its current slums, and little thought was given to street signs. The majority of the foreign aid that was invested in the country went to the Somoza dictatorship or into the bank accounts of its cronies. If I wanted to go to the Institute of Tourism, for example, I was told that I needed to go two blocks south of where the old cinema used to be. Thus, it is quite easy to get lost in the city if you do not know your way around. I turned in my seat one last time. My neighbor glared and shouted, “Yes! I’ll tell you when we are there!” Silenced, I resolved to take in the countryside as we drove south, hoping to get a glimpse of the ocean and praying I was on the right bus.

Situated between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, Nicaragua is a land of disparate and unique environments. Known as the land of lakes and volcanoes, one has the opportunity to climb any of its five volcanoes or swim in Lake Cocibolca, home to the only freshwater shark in the world. The humid jungles of the Northern and Southern Autonomous Regions, once hot beds of Contra activity during the 1980s civil war, are now homes only to a diverse array of creatures. An ecologists’ dream, many of these birds, frogs, and insects have yet to be classified. San Juan del Sur, an increasingly popular tourist destination and cheap alternative to the neighboring economic success of Costa Rica, reminded me of the Mediterranean climate of Southern California. Earlier in my stay, I had ventured north of Managua to the coffee and tobacco growing center of Estelí, where I walked through a cloud forest in a nature reserve and stayed with a community-based tourist outfit owned and operated by an organic farmer. INTUR, the Institute of Tourism, knows that the country possesses a wealth of resources to be developed for the national benefit, and perhaps none is more lucrative than what it calls the “Beach and Sun” sector.

For a country in desperate need of foreign investment and a diversification of its industries, the development of tourism seems like a silver bullet. Tourists bring much needed cash inflows, and could provide a plethora of new jobs to a country that suffers from chronic unemployment and underemployment. On the other hand, there exists a risk that foreign-held multinationals could take over the industry, and fail to reinvest the profits in the infrastructure the country requires to expand. Also, if the natural beauty that makes Nicaragua a tourist destination is abused or neglected, the industry could fail, adding to the country’s economic woes. It was with these questions in mind that I proposed to study alternative tourism as a means of sustainable development at Los Cardones Surf Lodge.

At kilometer marker forty-nine on the Masachapa highway in the municipality of Villa El Carmen lays the sleepy hamlet of California. Made up of a few houses constructed of rough-hewn planks and corrugated tin, there is little that distinguishes California from the surrounding forests. As I disembarked my bus, the “Jesus Christ Our Lord”, I waved goodbye and took stock of my situation, realizing I had no plan to cover the fifteen kilometers that separate California and the sea. My salvation came in the form of a beat up Jeep driven by two magnanimous Portuguese surfers who lived in neighboring San Diego.

I hiked the last few miles to the lodge through tall grasses and oak trees, smiling from ear to ear when I at last heard the roar of the ocean. Chris and Tina, the managers of the lodge and my project advisors welcomed me with open arms and were as excited for my study as I was. Tina showed me to my spacious room with a soft bed covered in mosquito netting, where I would spend my first night. I planned to live with a family in the neighboring community of El Zapote, but my home stay sister Mercedes, who works as a waitress at the lodge, had the night off. Over a dinner of red snapper and local greens my advisors gave me the basic history of the lodge.

Six years earlier the owners and creators Isaac and Anne-Laure Sitton, both marine biologists and avid Florida surfers, moved to a deserted Nicaraguan beach and bought 92 acres of oceanfront property and began constructing a home and bungalow. Over the years, using only local labor and all natural construction materials, they have expanded to five bungalows. Nonetheless, at full capacity the lodge houses only 19 guests. Using only solar energy and hand-pumped well water, the lodge is a model of environmental low-impact use and conservation. Though this is an integral part of a sustainable tourist enterprise, I was primarily interested in the impact it was having on the local community and economy.

And so it was that on my second day at Los Cardones and last month in Nicaragua I began my real education about the country and people I had come to learn from. Mercedes Bonilla-Gutierrez came in the afternoon with her best friend Julia and their bicycles, and sitting on her friend’s crossbar, the three of us pedaled down the sandy coast and through the sugar cane fields to El Zapote. Señora Bonilla was waiting for me, unsure of what the only gringo to ever visit the village would think of her home. Of course, she proved to be the most hospitable woman I have ever encountered and the home was cozy enough. 

Señor Gutierrez and Señora Bonilla have two daughters and three sons. Sofia, the oldest, works in a free trade zone in Managua, which is more accurately described as a sweatshop. Free trade zones have multiplied in the two years since the signing of the Central American Free Trade Agreement, and are touted by the International Monetary Fund and World Bank as key planks in the development of the nation. Human rights observers view them as dubious advancements where workers contend with inhumane conditions and are prevented from forming labor unions. 

One evening I read a letter from Sofia to Señora Bonilla (Tonia to everyone except for me). It was then that I discovered that despite her role as a community leader and prominent local supporter of the Liberal Party, Tonia was illiterate. In the letter, Sofia told her family that she had lost her job, and was asking for support so that she would not be kicked out of her small dwelling in the capitol’s slums. I still do not know what became of her.

Sofia’s two children, Juan and Betsy, live with the family in El Zapote. A teachers’ strike prevented them from attending classes at the local school. During conversations with Tonia, who I came to refer to as Mama due to our increasing closeness, I learned that all of the teachers lived in California, which is at least twenty kilometers away via a network of atrocious dirt roads. During the rainy season the roads become swaths of mud and passage by bicycle is impossible. Most of the teachers have to walk both ways each day to give the children a chance at an education and hopefully a better life.

Señor Gutierrez and his two elder sons work most of the year in the sugar cane fields that surround the village. In the mornings they leave the house in the pre-dawn hours and return home before sunset. Though the work is strenuous labor, workers are paid only US$25 every two weeks. Staff members at Los Cardones explained that if they did not have a much better paying job at the lodge they would probably not be able to make ends meet cutting and planting cane. No one in El Zapote is prospering and children with stomachs distended by malnutrition play in barren dirt yards. Mangoes, fish, and shellfish from the nearby ocean and corn planted during the off-season make up the majority of the local diet.

Apart from the sad realities of life, El Zapote is situated in an Eden like physical environment that is absolutely gorgeous. One evening when the tide was up Mercedes and I walked down the beach with our bicycles. On our way home the setting sun painted a masterpiece over the Pacific. As we left the beach and made our way through the forest that borders the sugar cane, I commented that Mercedes was lucky to live in such a beautiful country. A paradise is how I described it. Mercedes stopped her bike, cocked her head, and in a tone of genuine inquisitiveness asked me, “How can this be paradise?” In her reaction I felt my research, my incubating theories of tourism and development and social justice, washing out to sea. 

It is rather easy to fall in love with Nicaragua. The people are some of the most honest and hospitable I have met. As I rode my bike out of the yard on my last morning in El Zapote, Tonia wiped her eyes on her apron and bid me return soon. On the dirt paths old men tipped their hats to me from oxen carts laden with cane; a security guard returning from the lodge stopped me and shook my hand, wishing me well in all my journeys. Nonetheless, I’m sure the residents of this village would gladly trade their slow paced country lives and tight-knit community for electricity, schools for their children, good roads that lead to clinics, and a job with a living wage. Am I the one, as Mercedes would have me believe, that really lives in the paradise of the North?

The answer to this question still eludes me. On one hand, I miss the simplistic life of the Bonilla-Gutierrez family, and treasure the memories of sitting under the star-lit sky laughing with a family that takes care of itself and is full of love. On the other, I give thanks that I have been blessed to live in a nation where the vast majority of people live in relative prosperity. Perhaps paradise is somewhere in the middle. Perhaps it is really a utopia, an idea, by which we can understand this world’s shortcomings and are capable of imagining, hoping to make real.

Apartheid’s Legacy

 

Black Youth in Modern South Africa

 

By Cailtin Croall ‘08 

 

During my travels throughout South Africa, I saw the effects of Apartheid almost everywhere I looked. In the grocery stores managers are white and those that stock shelves and sweep the floors are black. Even in the living spaces, the segregation was blatant. Wealthy areas are still predominantly white. In black townships and informal settlements there are endless rows of tiny mud shacks that stink of sewage. The crime and gang violence that permeates these communities forces white South Africans to keep their distance. I saw Apartheid when I visited township schools and compared the level of education black students received to that of whites, Indians, and so-called “coloreds.” Inferiority still rules the day.

The story of South Africa is a violent and glorious one. As is the case of all African nations, the majority of South Africa’s non-white people are struggling to survive on a day-to-day basis. Under the surface of South Africa’s young democracy is the legacy of European colonialism, greed, and destruction. Since the 17th century, the ports and natural resources of South Africa have been fought over by powerful European nations. Its location at the tip of the continent brought European traders as well as Indian and Asian workers to its cities, creating a cultural melting pot unique to colonial Africa. After the British gave up political control of their colonies in the years following World War II, white South Africans sought to maintain the racially based government and society of the colonial era. In 1948 the white National Party, took political and economic control of South Africa. Their policies of racial categorization and segregation, commonly referred to as Apartheid, have been compared to the German Nazi party of the 1930s and 40s.

During Apartheid, non-white people were forced into racial categories and assigned “homelands”, families were ripped apart, and lives were stripped of hope and opportunity. Whites lived in the more affluent sections of the city, blacks on the outskirts in crowded houses and shantytowns. White people had access to premium education and health care systems, while black students were given practically no education and were lucky to live within ten miles of a doctor. Apartheid ended only thirteen years ago with the stepping down of National Party leaders. This was due in part to international pressure, to heroic political figures such as Nelson Mandela, and to everyday men and women who bravely protested and fought against the illegitimate white government. Although South Africa is now considered a stable democracy, its legacy of white superiority and black inferiority remains the most contentious issue this country faces today.

In the last month of my study abroad, I researched the condition of underprivileged black youth in South Africa. I wanted to learn what issues black youth face in post-apartheid, and the ways in which these issues have and continue to shape their lives. More than anything I wanted to gain some understanding as to what growing up in a black township is like for people in my generation.

The township in South Africa was a grim scene to my American eyes. Tiny mud houses lined the streets, each holding large families, sometimes, two or three living under the same roof. The bit of yard they had was rarely decorated and sometimes filled with the laundry hanging from wires connecting the houses. Living there, you would be one of the lucky ones if you owned a running car. Most people take the mini-bus or train to work. However, many are unemployed. The great and beautiful Table Mountain provided a stark contrast to this depressing scene. The dichotomy between the rich landscape and poverty beneath its shadow never ceased to awe me.

To learn first-hand what it was like to grow up in such squalor, I developed an after school workshop at Langa High School to work with African students where I gained their friendship and trust. Every day I traveled to the school, and spent an hour or two teaching English, writing poetry, and being creative. Here, I had a small glimpse into their lives. Everyday I was impressed, and sometimes even shocked, by the young people’s ability to discuss and write about difficult issues.

During the time I spent with them, I was exposed to many aspects of township life and what it might be like to grow up in one. These black students face immense challenges within their immediate environment. I heard stories of joy and pain. One of my brightest students, Precious, told me of when her father was gunned down in front of her one Sunday when her family was walking to church. As she told me this, tears filled her eyes. But an occurrence like this is unfortunately not unusual in the South African townships. 

Another young lady, Nikelwa, with a beautiful and graceful smile, talked about caring for her aunt who is dying of AIDS and can not be seen by a doctor. A male student, Thulani, who was a bit closed off at first, eventually shared the story of his brother, who is involved in gang wars and drugs because he can’t find work. All of my students spoke of poverty as the road block in achieving their dreams; Zanele dreamed of one day becoming a doctor, Sibu an accountant, cute little Nyalele with her dynamic personality, an actor, and Precious, who loved and cared for people greatly, a physiologist. They shared with me their greatest worries and fears, the joy of family and close friendships, dancing and sports; the elements that make up their existence as black South Africans.

The privileges I was born with became more apparent to me than at any other time in my life. I was born to a white middle-class family in California. My students were black in a nation where the legacies of Apartheid surrounded them and constricted their potential. They are not often able to venture outside of their township and see the South Africa tourists travel thousands of miles to experience.

The comment I heard most often was, “It is my dream to go to America someday.” Their dream, the thing that they have strived for their entire lives, was my reality from the start. I saw that in their young lives most black South Africans do not have the material comfort or family care that I took for granted. They crave an intimacy that is absent; they face circumstances in which it is difficult for their voices to be heard and to be recognized as individual voices.

Despite these limiting circumstances, I witnessed the great potential of these young people to defy the boundaries township life imposes on them. During the time I spent with them, I saw their determination to face all odds with a positive attitude. I saw that despite the difficulties my students face, they somehow always managed to have a bright smile that light up their faces. Of all the time I spent in South Africa, this one aspect of people’s strong and fighting spirit is one I will not likely forget.

Journey to the Holy Land

By Conor Sanchez ‘09

We were trying to get from the West Bank to Jerusalem after a day exploring Ramallah. I sat quietly in my sherut, a shared minibus, while it stopped at Qalandia checkpoint. Qalandia is one the West Bank’s largest checkpoints, separating the Palestinian territories from Israel.

A robust Israeli soldier carrying an M-16 over his shoulder climbed aboard to check our passports. Patrick Rice, my traveling companion and Oxy roommate, handed him our passports, confident our American status would allow us to pass with ease. 
“Your visa is not visible on the passport,” the soldier said, pointing to the stamp we had received upon entrance at the airport in Tel Aviv. The amount of time we were legally allowed to tour Israel was illegible on both of our passports. “I cannot let you pass. I’m sorry.” 
Patrick and I sat there perplexed for a moment. We tried explaining to the soldier it was not our fault the passport hadn’t been stamped clearly. But he merely shook his head and said he could not grant us entry without a proper visa. Patrick and I exchanged worried glances as we began pondering what life would be like living in the West Bank. I pictured my girlfriend, who had warned us against going, folding her arms and saying, “I told you so.” 
The soldier soon exited the vehicle to discuss our situation with his superiors. As we waited, I stared out the window toward the infamous West Bank barrier wall, noticing the stark contrast between the two sides. On the Palestinian side, filth and trash littered the streets, which were dotted with potholes and neglected medians. The Israeli side was neatly groomed, with flawless sidewalks and traffic lights. It was like looking at a border between a third world country and a developed country. Where Juarez meets El Paso, TX came to mind. 
After an agonizing wait, a female soldier entered the sherut and began asking a series of questions. What is our nationality? Why did we visit Ramallah? Whom did I know there? The strangest was, “Are you Christians?” I looked at Patrick, an agnostic, who shrugged. I said I was raised Catholic, which appeared to satisfy her, so she handed us our passports and waved the driver on. Half relieved and half irritated by the inconvenience, Patrick and I took a deep breath and relaxed back into our seats. 
When we returned to our hostel in the Old City of East Jerusalem we learned that two Palestinian gunmen had opened fire on an Israeli patrol unit near the Qalandia checkpoint, wounding four Israelis, around the same time we were crossing. It suddenly became clear to Patrick and me that we were in the middle of one of the modern world’s longest and most bitter conflicts. The complexity of the situation and the danger involved began to sink in. It was no longer just another clip on the evening news – it was reality and we were in the thick of it. 
When I began planning a backpacking trip to Israel, friends and acquaintances often asked one of two questions; Are you religious? And do you have a death wish? The answer to both, of course, was no. Erik Quezada, another Oxy student, Patrick and I simply wanted to travel. Using money we had saved from past summer jobs, we spent thirteen days touring the Holy Land. 
Surprising to some, none of us is of Jewish descent. But that doesn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy eating kosher meals, attending a Shabbat dinner and floating on the Dead Sea. So we did exactly that. 

Shalom, Israel 
Had it not been religion, we soon discovered what else might inspire so many different factions to spill blood fighting over this land. Israel is a beautiful country that extends from the snow-capped mountains in the Golan Heights to the desolate Negev Desert in the south. Despite how small it is (the country is about the size of the state of New Jersey), Israel affords a variety of landscapes and sceneries. 
On May 21 we arrived in Tel Aviv at 4:20 a.m. not knowing a word of Hebrew besides “shalom.” By the time we reached our hostel it was almost 6 a.m. and check-ins weren’t allowed until 11 a.m. Tired, jet-lagged, and unfamiliar with the area, we walked a block and slept on the beach. 
We hadn’t been there more than four hours when our friend Erik had been asked to show his passport three times by the local Tel Aviv authority. Erik, who is Mexican-American with a dark complection, noticed several beachgoers eyeing him suspiciously and pointing to him as they spoke with the police. Patrick and I, who are both fair, were never asked to show any form of identification even though we were sleeping adjacent to Erik.
In Israel, racial profiling appeared to be blatant, but I knew that was unfortunately the way it had to be. Although slightly irritated by the incident, we recognized the necessity for such security measures in a city where suicide bombings are a near-constant threat. 
After a night in Tel Aviv we spent the next two days touring the North. A friend of mine named Chen Blecher who lives in Timrat, a small agricultural community between Nazareth and Haifa, offered to drive us to the major sites and attractions, including the Sea of Galilea, the Basilica of Annunciation (where the Archangel Gabriel visited Jesus’ mother Mary) and the Bahá’í gardens. We met at Arasolov Bus Station and headed north. 
Chen and I have known each other since we were fifteen and although we’re the same age, our experiences growing up have been drastically different. All Israeli citizens must serve in the military at least two years when they turn eighteen. It was shocking to see boys and girls my age holding M-16s as they casually hung out with friends or shopped at the mall. 
For almost two years, Chen, who has yet to see combat, has been training in the Israeli Air Force to become a helicopter pilot. Soon he must decide whether he wants to continue training or attend college instead. If he decides to continue he’ll be obligated to serve nine more years. As a friend, I wish he’d steer clear from the violence, however, I understand the attraction in pursuing a career in aeronautics. 
Upon arrival Chen’s family provided us with two gigantic meals within three short hours of each other. We stuffed ourselves with hummus and pita bread, and washed it down with an Israeli beer called Goldstar. Throughout our time in Israel, it seemed, we were constantly eating one meal after another even if we weren’t hungry. 
At 10 p.m. Chen’s mother promptly sent us to bed and said she’d wake us up in an hour. I wasn’t sure if late night naps were a unique Israeli custom so I asked Chen what was going on. He said we were resting before we went to the night club. 
“Why so late?” I asked. 
“Late? We’ll be early if we make it there by one,” Chen said. Apparently I was novice to the Israeli party scene. 
The next night we caught a bus to Jerusalem, the crux of the Western world’s three largest religions.

40th anniversary 
One purpose of our journey was to learn about the cultures and traditions of Palestinians and Israelis as much as we wished to gain a better understanding of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. 
Interestingly, our trip nearly coincided with the 40 year anniversary of Israel’s Six-Day War, in which they obtained the Golan Heights, the West Bank, the Gaza Strip, East Jerusalem and the Sinai Peninsula. The war may have guaranteed the survival of Israel as a state, but it also brought decades of occupation, illegal settlements, intensified Palestinian nationalism, suicide bombings, a separation wall and a culture of distrust. During our trip we observed many of these tribulations. 
In 2005, I wrote an article for The New Mexican about a nonprofit organization in Glorieta, NM called Creativity for Peace, a three-week program that attempts to promote peace and understanding between adolescent girls from Israel and Palestine. There I met Lara Karam, a native of Ramallah. When I told her we were visiting, she encouraged me to visit the West Bank. 
Lara, a Greek Orthodox Palestinian, has seen her share of violence. Five years ago, her family returned home from Jerusalem to find her grandmother’s apartment barricaded with Israeli tanks and soldiers, who were using the building as a sniper post. Her hometown was facing one of the worst military occupations ever. 
Fortunately, such occurrences have become less frequent in Ramallah. Occasionally, however, firefights between Fatah and Hamas militia have played out in the streets of the city. Many people warned us against visiting Ramallah, describing it as an unsafe breeding ground for hatred against Israelis and Americans alike. We decided to take the risk and see the occupied West Bank, a short distance from East Jerusalem. 
Ramallah, considered the capital of the Palestinian territories, is a community rich in culture and excitement. The streets were chaotic and bustling with pedestrians, who made no effort to yield to traffic. We ate traditional Arabic food, including falafel, kebab and Arabic coffee. We even visited the tomb of former Palestinian Liberation Organization leader Yasser Arafat at the PLO headquarters. 
Unfortunately, Ramallah is not an accurate representation of how the majority of Palestinians live. Most of the region is ravaged by economic sanctions from the Israeli government. Today, over 50 percent of Palestinian families live below the poverty line, which many attribute to the international boycott on the Palestinian government. 
Lara and her friends talked about the impact the separation barrier is having on Palestinians by restricting their ability to travel freely within the West Bank. In some cases the barrier has separated farmers from their land. The wall, which has been under construction since 2002 to prevent suicide bombers from entering Israel, was graffittied with phrases such as “stop the racist wall,” “stop apartheid” and “justice for Palestine.” 
From Lara’s house we were able to see the nearby Israeli settlements of Beit-El and Psagot, which are accessed by private Israeli roads. The settlements in the West Bank have been criticized internationally for inhibiting the creation of a viable Palestinian state. 
Our day in Ramallah concluded with some Arabic ice cream called bouzat haleeb, which is a gummier version of traditional ice cream. As we ate on a nearby hilltop, we watched the sun set behind the Tel Aviv skyline on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea nearly 10 miles away. 
The proximity of everything in Israel never ceased to amaze us.

Are these your high heels? 
We spent the remainder of our time in Jerusalem, making day trips to the Dead Sea (the earth’s lowest point), the Ein Gedi (an oasis in the Judean Desert) and climbing the Masada, which is an ancient Jewish fortress that was taken over by the Romans. 
Visiting the historical sites in Jerusalem alone can be exhausting. So on our last day, we treated ourselves to an afternoon basking on the beach in Tel Aviv. 
Leaving Israel was even more grueling, however. Expectedly, the Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv has the most intense and meticulous security I have ever experienced. Each passenger must undergo a series of questions before placing their belongings in an x-ray machine. Passengers are then required to completely unpack their luggage in front of an airline security officer. 
My baggage situation was a little unique in that I was carrying my girlfriend Michaela’s bag, which she had asked me to take home for her. She was studying abroad at Hebrew University and had accumulated more than she could handle. 
As the officer began digging through her bag, pulling out a pink vest, a purse and a couple Cosmopolitan magazines, I started to wonder if the officer was getting the wrong impression. Finally, she picked up a pair of high-heels. 
“Is this yours?” 
I thought she’d never ask. 
“Definitely, not,” I said and explained my situation to her. 
To make matters worse I had a Palestinian headscarf in my other bag, which I had purchased in Ramallah. For this, they were a little less forgiving. 
An officer immediately asked me to follow him into a private security room where I was asked to perform the standard procedure of removing all metallic objects from my pockets and walk through a metal detector. I can’t understand why I was forced to do this over a souvenir. Finally, I was allowed to board the plane and return home.

An emerging culture of distrust 
Throughout Israel I sensed an undeniable culture of animosity and distrust between Palestinians and Israelis. Visiting friends from both sides helped me realize that the conflict has become a battle over identity in addition to land. 
When I asked Chen if he thought the war would end soon, he said, “It’s not a war. It’s security. Maintaining security will never end.” Lara, on the other hand, said attacks against Israel would stop if the occupation ended and the wall was taken down. 
In general we found that both sides can be extremely bias and highly nationalistic. While I sympathize with both groups, it was difficult to completely agree with either side. At times I felt I had to be careful with my words. In front of Lara I wasn’t sure whether to refer to the region as Israel or Palestine. With Chen I avoided discussing the human rights record of the Israeli military. 
Aside from the bitterness and tension, I found Israel to be one of the most beautiful and culturally rich countries I have ever visited. In particular, both Palestinians and Israelis love to feed you and make you feel at home, with the exception of Tel Aviv on a Friday morning, when people are cranky and probably hung over from the night before. In that case, you’re better off waiting on your own table. 
Perhaps my age prevents me from fully understanding the deep-rooted tension that fuels today’s ongoing conflict. Nevertheless, for the sake of my friends and the wonderful people we met throughout our trip, I maintain hope that Israel and Palestine will one day coexist without the threat of violence.

Conor Sanchez is a senior Diplomacy and World Affairs major. He can be reached at csanchez@oxy.edu

Influence Still Growing

Americanization in the Far East

by: Prof. Xiao-huang Yin

‘It’s just like China,” I thought to myself as I toured Hanoi, Vietnam’s prosperous downtown. It was my first trip to Hanoi, but the city and its busy street life felt familiar, as if I were returning to my old hometown in China. The sound of the language, the traditional architecture, the streets filled with Chinese-made motorcycles, the dress of people on the crowded sidewalks – everything was so reminiscent of China that I wondered, for the first time in my life, if the ethnic joke that all Asians look the same might contain some truth.
I found out, however, that the Vietnamese have a very strong sense of nationality and see themselves as very much apart from China. What the two countries do share, however, is even more of a surprise – an increasingly heavy American footprint.

I was struck by a feeling of simplicity and honesty in Vietnamese life that used to be characteristic of Chinese society until “modernization” began in the 1980s. When I hired a Vietnamese motorcyclist to drive me around Hanoi, he would take only the equivalent of $2.50 for his fare, though I offered him more. When I mentioned this to a Vietnamese friend, he laughed: “Well, I guess we haven’t been quite corrupted by market economy.”

But I later came to rethink my ideas about similarities between Vietnam and China. While shopping in Hanoi, I found that the Chinese currency, the renminbi, whose principal unit is the yuan, was favored by most street peddlers over the Vietnamese currency, the dong. But when I asked my hotel receptionist if Chinese money was indeed more popular than other currencies in Vietnam, her sweet smile vanished. “The most popular and respected currency in Vietnam is the dong,” she responded sternly. “Dong actually means shield in Vietnamese,” she then added, as if to warn me that Vietnam knows how to protect herself against her giant neighbor in the north.

On another occasion, I was visiting the mausoleum of Ho Chi Minh, and the guidebook claimed Ho could speak five different languages: Vietnamese, French, Chinese, English and Russian. I voiced some skepticism to our guide, and the young man shot back sharply: “What do you mean? Are you challenging Uncle Ho’s language ability and talents?” Up to that point, he’d spoken with admiration of the prosperity of Chinese society, but now his angry voice reminded me of the way Chinese Red Guards defended Chairman Mao in the old days.

Vietnamese nationalism hit me even more unmistakably when I questioned a store owner about the quality of her pearl necklaces. Guessing I might be from China, she retorted: “Only Chinese like to sell fake goods.”

Then I realized what it was that was really making Hanoi seem familiar to my eyes, less foreign. It wasn’t its seeming “Chinese-ness” – it was its many manifestations of Americanization.

Spurred by globalization and the pre-Olympics frenzy, English has become fashionable throughout China. The situation is the same in Vietnam because of the growing American influence there. Touring Hanoi’s scenic spots, I was constantly met with students eager to practice English – the “global language” – with foreign visitors. DVDs and discs of the latest American movies and music spill off the shelves of crowded stores.

For my last dinner in Hanoi, I followed the suggestion of a Vietnamese friend and went to a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet. In both Vietnam and China, American fast-food restaurants are now favored by many as a symbol of progress and modernity. It seems that while America may have “lost” China and Vietnam during the Cold War era, it has regained its ground in Beijing and Hanoi in today’s globalized economy. Ironically, cultural values and economic influence have proven more powerful than military might in winning hearts and minds.

Even the notorious Hoa Lo Prison – the “Hanoi Hilton,” in which American POWs were held during the war, has been transformed into a public museum. One wonders: If John McCain wins the presidential election this November, and then visits Vietnam, what kind of welcome would this Vietnam War hero receive?

As published in the Philadelphia Inquirer July 22, 2008. Republished with permission of the Author.

From Bean to Cup

International Development, Coffee, and Chimpanzees

After graduating from Occidental College in 2006, I moved to Portland, Oregon to join David Griswold ’84 and Sustainable Harvest Coffee Importers to focus on an emerging sector of the company’s business: farmer training programs in the developing world.

During my time at Oxy, I developed a knack at developing grant proposals, and traveled on Richter, Lilly, and Anderson fellowships to sub-Saharan Africa, Vietnam, and the Czech Republic, as well as studying abroad in the Dominican Republic. From these explorations, I had a good sense for how international development is done, but only as an observer. Now that I’m working for Sustainable Harvest, I’ve learned about international development firsthand by writing a grant and developing a project overseas. This has taught me a tremendous amount about international business, the world of development, and the nuances of trying to make the world a better place.

Sustainable Harvest works with coffee growers in fourteen regions throughout Latin America and Africa and sells high quality, specialty coffee to roasters in the US and Europe, including Whole Foods. Sustainable Harvest’s value comes in creating long-term relationships with coffee cooperatives and roasters, so that cooperatives have a long-standing revenue stream for their coffee. This means reinvesting part of our profit back into the supply chain to provide farmer training for cooperatives in need.

Sustainable Harvest has a very innovative model–both economically with a triple bottom line of people, planet, and profits–and for its reinvestment and focus on its supply chain. As I learn more and more about international business, I’ve found that supply chain transparency, traceability, and credibility is a vital tool to differentiate your businesses and insure a high quality product is being transferred down to customers.

My entrance to the world of international development came in 2006, when I traveled to Tanzania on business to learn about the Kanyovu Coffee Curing Cooperative, which borders Gombe National Park—a small habitat for the quickly disappearing chimpanzees and the site where Jane Goodall conducted her groundbreaking research that not only humans use tools. On the ground in the Kigoma District, I quickly realized that the Kanyovu cooperative needed a comprehensive approach to improving the quality of their coffee, and our annual allocation of funds to cover farmer training would only scratch the surface of what this cooperative needed. While most of Sustainable Harvest’s work focuses on training that we can fund ourselves, I quickly realized that the investment this cooperative needed included a multi-year time frame and a much grater fiscal investment for the insertion of training, technology, and infrastructure.

I wrote a grant proposal to The Lemelson Foundation and received funding for a three year project for the Kanyovu cooperative. Now in its second year, this comprehensive international development initiative has brought daily trainings on all aspects of coffee growing, processing and exporting, innovative low-water use coffee processing technology, watershed protection, and infrastructure for coffee drying and storage.

It hasn’t been an easy process—despite five staff members on the ground and my twice-annual visits to the region, but we have been successful in achieving the goals of our initiative. We have also more than doubled the price farmers are receiving for their high quality, specialty coffee from approximately $0.70 cents per pound to over $1.80 per pound (the fair trade minimum price for a pound of coffee is approximately $1.40 per pound).

What have I learned? In the process of doing this project, I’ve learned how difficult it is to do development in such a way that it truly has an impact. In the world of international development in general, there is a tendency focus on the notoriety for the good development deeds your organization has done–sometimes at the expense of actually having impact from your work. At Sustainable Harvest, I’m proud to say that our focus is on community impact. Secondly, it’s important to think about where the new money that development injects in the community is going. Ideally, it pays for health care, education, food security, and better jobs. Unfortunately or fortunately, it also pays for iPods. In Kigoma, I’ve seen both things happen. However, hearing stories about the local hospital reaching better financial security due to community members finally being able to pay for treatments, and families being able to pay school fees, trumps the new Nano I saw in the Kalinzi village the other day. After all, international development fundamentally gives people options and choices, where they once had none. This coupled with more education gives people the tools to make better decisions for the health of our ecosystems and our world. And this idea motivates me to go to work each day and make a difference in our world.

Tradition and Cambridge

 

Picture everybody in their knickers.

I find this strategy helpful at times in reifying the University of Cambridge.

After four wonderful, coddling years at Occidental College – and yes, they were coddling, a term I use purposefully, albeit more broadly than ever before, as I now extend “coddling” to any institution of higher learning with an electronic course registration system, departmental unanimity in lecture times and locations, and/or a lovely lunch lady named Kathy who is eager to make sure you have enough salami and spicy jack on your sandwich – I am now in graduate school, 5000 miles away and an entire world removed from anything in my portfolio of experiences.

Now, the fine folks at the IPO or the Lilly Grant may scratch their heads here and ask (rightfully so), “then what did you do with all that money we gave you the last time you said you wanted to study in England?” There is, of course, no need for alarm: those pictures of the Houses of Parliament and Hampstead Heath weren’t mere postcards. They were real. My time at University College London in the fall of 2005 was real. My work on freedom of expression at ARTICLE 19 the following summer was also real (by the way, do I still owe you a Morocco/Algeria FOE presentation, Professor Akiyama? Sorry again.).

But so far, my time at the University of Cambridge is surreal, unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced.

Allow me to mention four reasons why, beginning each first word for each separate reason with the letter “p.” (This system may seem illogical from the outset, but it will relate to a larger point about Cambridge, so please do indulge me for a moment!)

1. Picturesque. Whether gazing up at the world’s largest example of fan vaulted ceilings in King’s College Chapel, or strolling along the verdant grounds embanking the River Cam, Cambridge is an absolute scenic exemplar in both man’s workmanship and God’s touch. Oh, and there are cows in Midsummer Common. The cows alternate between chewing the cud and staring at me as I ride by on my bike. I rather like those heifers.

2. Posh. By and large, the accents and mannerisms, phrases and idioms are prototypically “English” in the romanticized Victorian sense. Dances are called “bops.” Conversation at The Eagle (famous pub) flits between Symbolic Interactionism and Stephen Hawking, decolonization and DNA (after all, the pub is where Watson and Crick first discovered it). Nigel and Lawrence and John and Edward must constitute at least 10% of the male Christian names here. My Ph.D.-bound flat mate is reading Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic languages and literature. I could go on. 

Whilst Cambridge is irrevocably posh, it is not pretentious, at least not at the graduate level. Coming from a small, humble country-esque town in California, I initially found the entire consortium of peers and experience a great deal overwhelming and a wee bit intimidating. These sentiments reflect my own trepidations just as much as the grandiosity some students & instructors like to project. But I am impressed by the overall friendliness of the students, posh or not.

3. Public School versus State School. The former – which is the rough equivalent of an elite private school in the States – is the storied domicile of English Aristocracy, with schools like Eton, Rugby, Harrow and Winchester College garnering international recognition. Students from the latter – primary and secondary school paid for by the general public via the government – are underrepresented at Oxbridge. 

This underrepresentation of state school students (and general sensitivity to where you come from) raises the larger issues of class structure and treatment of minority and/or disenfranchised groups. While most students seem to be attuned to these issues and are fairly critical of the present status quo, a sense of urgency is not readily apparent. I find this strange. Coming from an undergraduate institution where empowerment is a keystone, Cambridge appears antiquated in its tacit continuation of society’s power relations. 

However, this is not to say that diversity is nonexistent here. In terms of nationalities, Cambridge is refreshingly worldly. To provide two personal examples: my college brings in 50% of its students from overseas (non-UK), and my cadre of friends hails from all over the world – Cyprus, Australia, Lebanon, Germany, China, and India, to name a few countries of origin. So, perhaps in the same vein as Occidental, a diversity of sorts is achieved; and, like Oxy, the choice is left to the individual student on whether to engage it as it stands, or to withdraw in dismissive hostility. Then and now, I favor the former.

4. People. Brilliant professors. World class researchers. And, of constant note, unbelievable alumni. Nary a day drifts by that I am not reminded by someone, somewhere, that so-and-so world class such-and-such attended Cambridge. In theory, this is exciting, even useful (wouldn’t it be neat to have Charles Darwin in the CDC’s Alumni Directory or to call Dr. Manmohan Singh about your upcoming term paper on India?). However, on a day-to-day basis, I find that the alumni are more often used to unconstructively prod current students. Work very hard and you might not disgrace us. Consider a dry comment by the Praelector at Matriculation (the day we sign the registry and become official members of the university): “Milton, Newton, and Keynes have signed this book. And now you.” Yikes.

This brings me to the theme underlying the Cambridge experience, more or less evident in all these various points, summed up in a single word: tradition. While I find some of the traditions quaint and quirky, as an outsider – and here, an outsider would be anyone who has not studied before at Oxbridge, as the institution is too distinctive to be a shared experience with much else – I find most of the traditions nonsensical, counterintuitive, and occasionally bewildering. Why does the university week begin on a Thursday and end on a Wednesday? Why do some colleges have “bedders” who literally make up the lazy student’s bed? Why must students wear formal gowns to all official church services? The answer to these, and most other institutional “why” questions, is tradition, or some variation of “it’s been that way for 800 years.” Even when the apparent “tradition” does not make sense, “it’s been that way for 800 years” usually suffices.

I wonder if my “paragraphs begin with p” thing will catch on?

Probably not.

Author Stephen Kinzer Discusses US-Iranian Relations

Foreign Correspondent and author Stephen Kinzer visited Occidental College on February 7 as the first stop in his “The Folly of Attacking Iran” nationwide speaking tour. Sponsored by Americans for Informed Democracy, Kinzer is one of two authors speaking on college campuses and other venues around the country to resolve misconceptions surrounding America’s relationship with Iran. The author warned against military confrontation with the Islamic Republic.

In his speech, which was recorded for radio and television, Kinzer outlined the Bush Administration’s “rhetoric of confrontation” against Iran, including the threat of military force without United Nations or even Congressional authorization. These claims that Iran is a threat echo claims used to justify the U.S. invasion of Iraq and rest on similarly dubious evidence, Kinzer said.

Kinzer, author of such books as Overthrown and All the Shah’s Men, outlined America’s historic relationship with Iran, giving context to our current diplomatic relationship. The United States has played an active role in Iran for decades, often in ways resented by Iranians, Kinzer said. In 1953, the United States organized a coup against the popular and democratically elected Prime Minister
Mohammad Mossadegh. After the coup, the autocratic rule of the Shah was reinstated and supported by the United States. Later, the United States supported Iraq in its invasion of Iran. The formative image for many Americans of Iran was created when 52 U.S. diplomats were taken hostage by militant Iranian students in 1979. Kinzer concluded that this history has led many Iranians to perceive the United States as a superpower that regularly seeks intrusion on Iranian sovereignty, and countless Americans to recognize Iran as a rogue state that unceasingly threatens world peace.

The recent history of U.S.-Iranian relations has been marked by misunderstanding and mistrust, notably shaped by both countries’ unjust use of violence and threats of violence. Violent conflict has not served the interests of either country. Military threats tend to deepen hostilities and resentment, thus making future conflict more likely. Serious diplomacy between our two countries is needed, Kinzer said.

Many in the audience felt that the threat of military confrontation with Iran was deflated by the new National Intelligence Estimate (NIE), which revealed the consensus of U.S. intelligence agencies in finding Iran had abandoned nuclear weapons research in 2003 and had not restarted it. The NIE revealed that European diplomatic efforts were successful in convincing Iran not to pursue nuclear weapons research. Now that we know this, Kinzer said, it is time for the U.S. to engage in real dialogue with Iran. Since we know there is little risk Iran will develop a nuclear weapon soon, we know there is time to talk. However, Kinzer cautioned, despite the release of the NIE, the White House continues to hype the “danger” from Iran. Bush Administration officials continue to reject calls for real diplomacy with the Islamic Republic.

Kinzer stressed that the purpose of this tour is to call on Americans to push for real diplomacy. Negotiations are needed to address both the security concerns of the United States and the security concerns of Iran. “A U.S. attack on Iran would be foolish and dangerous,” Kinzer said. “It would risk causing another disaster like Iraq that will cost many lives, American and Iranian. Furthermore, though, Iran now appears not to have a nuclear weapons program; a U.S. attack might convince Iran it needs nuclear weapons to defend itself.”

To conclude, Kinzer summed the purpose of his tour. Kinzer and Americans for Informed Democracy believe that a military confrontation between the U.S. and Iran is unfortunately still possible and Congress needs to act to prevent this from happening and to promote real diplomacy. Kinzer urged the audience and all Americans to put pressure on their elected officials to compel them to act.

SYRIA: Former U.S. diplomat’s ‘mission improbable’ — healing rift

SYRIA: Former U.S. diplomat’s ‘mission improbable’ — healing rift

When former ambassador and Occidental College international policy professor Derek Shearer, right, first told colleagues he was going to Syria as a speaker on behalf of the State Department, he was sure that even if the authorities didn’t shut down his appearances, people would boycott, maybe even hold demonstrations. 
But that’s not what happened, not by a long shot. 
Despite frosty relations between Damascus and Washington, he was treated more like a celebrity than a graying envoy of a hostile state. He was interviewed by half a dozen Syrian media outlets, delivered six lectures to packed audiences and appeared on the front page of Syrian newspapers. 
“Nobody protested my talk at the American Cultural Center, nobody broke up my meetings, nothing was canceled, and the turnout of people was always more than we expected,” said Shearer, who teaches public diplomacy at Occidental in Los Angeles. 
In a lengthy interview with the Los Angeles Times, Shearer said he wasn’t sure why Syria allowed his visit. Only three years ago, after the imposition of U.S. sanctions on Syria. Damascus stopped permitting American-sponsored cultural activities, boycotted U.S. Embassy receptions and neglected demands for entry visas. 
But relations between the two countries appear to warming. The U.S. Embassy in Damascus sponsored a well-attended jazz concert a few weeks ago and gave permission for Shearer’s goodwill tour, paid for by the American government. 
During his visit he spoke his mind about the Bush administration, to which he’s hostile, and the government of Syrian President Bashar Assad. 
Among his speaking engagements was the government-sponsored Syrian Public Relations Assn. and the Syrian Young Entrepreneurs Assn., where he told the aspiring businesspeople that their government needs to give them freer Internet access, let their country join the World Trade Organization and increase relations with the outside world. 
Los Angeles Times: What brought you to Damascus? 
SHEARER: You know, there is this natural tendency to think that whenever an American comes, especially sponsored by the State Department, that someone sent him with a secret agenda. I can tell you that my dear classmate, President Bush, didn’t send me because as you have heard, I’m very critical of him. although I’m personally friendly. 
There is a general message in that America would send people who disagree with the president around the world even if the president wouldn’t like to hear what they have to say. The fact is I am part of the circle of Democratic Party thinkers… 
Plus, I have a list of cities I wanted to visit before I die and always wanted to go to the best chocolate shops, and I’ve done that.

LAT: What have been some of your most interesting experiences here? 
SHEARER: What I’m excited about is to see a country that has such great potential for doing well in this era of globalization. We went out to dinner once at Narenj Restaurant and we got introduced to jallab juice, and what I thought that there are some men I know that made a fortune by mixing good American juices with sparkling water and selling them and I thought there could be great Syrian healthy juices if you add some sparkling water to jallab and a few others we don’t have in America … 
At my lecture at the American culture center, five or six Americans came up to me and said, “I just told my university I am taking the year off to study Arabic,” and at first their parents said: “You will be killed. It’s not safe.” And it’s safe and they are having great time. 
LAT: You spoke before a number of Syrian institutions, many of which are official or government financed. What was that like? 
SHEARER: I spoke at Damascus University at the school of political science… I was the only American speaker allowed on campus in three years and was told that the minister of higher education had said that any member of the university faculty that meets with an American will be fired. 
But when I was in Washington I met with Syrian Ambassador Imad Mostapha… My advice was: Stop winding up the Bush administration because they are winding down. Think ahead and start making whatever signs you want to make and that you are going to be a bit more open because you don’t want to wait until January. You want to start the process … so when the new administration comes in you can move more quickly. So I was allowed to speak … 
LAT: Do you feel that there is a a gap between how Syrians see American policy and how Americans see it? 
SHEARER: I think most Syrians I met understand that the last few years have been very difficult and part of it is Bush’s fault and part of it is the Syrians’ fault. It’s a vicious circle. I mean remember [former U.S. Secretary of State] Madeleine Albright came for [President Bashar] Assad’s inauguration in 2000. But when 9/11 hit, and Bush responded the way he did, in dividing the world into us and them, and made bad guys out of people, the Syrians responded by saying if we are the bad guys we will do bad things. It spun out of control… 
One guy asked me a question today: … did whether I thought the policy of the U.S. was “creative chaos.” Actually, the chaos is the result of bad policies which mean having the bad guys with guns killing a lot of people, women and children and others… 
There is a great potential for improving the relations between Syria and the U.S … and if we don’t try the worst-case scenario is really bad, and it’s worse for the people who live here than it is for us. I mean we can retreat to the United States and nobody in the world has the ability to destroy our society, but chaos in the Middle East…you see already. You have a million Iraqi refugees in your country.

LAT: What ties could be built? 
SHEARER: I met with Honey Sayed and “Al-Madina” FM radio team. They are young people, not political, but they want the freedom to create a very exciting business and want to have their radio station connected up to satellite radio, so that if I am driving across the country in the U.S., one of my choices would be Syrian FM radio. Right now we can’t do that, but we should be able to. 
There should be music festivals, where our rock ‘n’ roll and hip-hop groups could come here… There is a hunger among younger smart professional people for that… 
There are all these personal ties between Syria and Americans … so at the level of people to people we are natural friends and have a lot in common. So there is no reason why, if we could get past a lot of the government problems, bad behavior on our part or your part, we could be real allies. This is where I’d like things to end up. It’s not going to happen overnight but I feel pretty strongly that a new administration headed by Democrats is more capable of making that a reality than another version of the Bush administration. 
LAT: Do you think that public diplomacy efforts are working? 
SHEARER: No, not working, because they have been doing it with their hands tied behind their back. Because of Bush’s policy and things like Abu Ghraib and others have just made it hard…The actual good public diplomacy on both sides is hindered by the guys on the top. 
LAT: Did you meet with any dissidents in your visit? 
SHEARER: I don’t know. What’s a dissident? And I am not going to name names if I did. But what I know is there is a new generation, and what they have learned to do is to operate in Syria without being put in prison and still maintain dialog with the government and foreigners. 
I met with the Syrian Public Relations Assn. and it’s a government-sponsored group and their issue is: “How do we re-brand Syria in the world? How do you get people to see Syria as a wonderful, historic and normal nation?” 
Well they have the same problem we have in the United States. Bush would do something like Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo and destroys the general image. No amount of public diplomacy can counteract the pictures of Abu Ghraib. 
LAT: What should America’s policy be toward the ongoing indirect peace talks between Syria and Israel? 
SHEARER: If we are talking about the current administration, I don’t think it will actively encourage or actively undermine. And if [peace] happens, Bush would be smart enough to celebrate it and take some credit and say, “See, being tough in Iraq got us results,” and spin it. And if it doesn’t happen on Bush’s watch … then it’s a low-hanging fruit for the new president. “See we can check that box. We got one problem out of the way so we … can engage and talk about other things” 
LAT: And if it doesn’t happen? 
SHEARER: It will be different if it’s McCain or Obama, because the Republicans … are still going to be skeptical of Syria. I think Obama and the Democrats will be realists and be more willing to engage, because they have people that have dealt in the past with Syria. Obama will be able to deal with more confidence with Assad, and won’t have to fight with his advisors…. 
I think that having the permanent unresolved state of war is not in Israel’s interest or in Syria’s interest, and that Syria and Israel are not natural enemies.

‘Mile High City’ Gears Up for the DNC

By Kera Bartlett

Arriving in Denver the week before the highly anticipated Democratic National Convention, one would expect to find the calm before the storm. Instead I was greeted with the storm before the storm, in the form of torrential rain, flash flood and tornado warnings. Even snow in the higher elevations. The ‘Mile High City’ sure knows how to send out the welcome wagon. 

In less than a week, this friendly and beautiful city will be turned upside down with the invasion of tens of thousands of delegates and their families, over 15,000 members of the media and the Democratic political elite. Signs for the DNC are plastered and hung every fifteen feet in the downtown area. Official merchandise shops have begun popping up in empty mall units in anticipation of the eager visitors. Hotel rooms have been sold out within a ten-mile radius during the week of the Convention for over a year. Seeing opportunity in the high demand for housing, many clever locals have put their apartments and homes up for rent for up to four thousand dollars a night. 

I came to Denver on a research grant from Occidental College with the intent to study the foreign media coverage of the Convention events. I am also promoting the “Rebranding America” report that fellow students and I created this spring addressing the next administration’s potential foreign policy. Securing a reasonably priced sublet for the month, I have been able to explore this city and see many of its sites and attractions before it is overrun next week. From the intriguing Denver Art Museum to the Cowboy Lounge where western hats, jeans and boots are the official dress code, Denver has the Rocky Mountain spirit that the Democrats are hoping to capture in the upcoming election. 

A week ago, I spent a full day volunteering for the Obama campaign in Denver, hoping to gauge the city’s enthusiasm for the young Chicago politician and possibly earn a ticket to the Obama Convention speech. I met many residents hard at work answering phones, entering voter data into computers and going out in shifts to canvas neighborhoods, all hoping to contribute to the campaign that is breaking many of the rules of Presidential politics. Their enthusiasm is mirrored by the tens of thousands of Colorado residents that applied for tickets to Senator Obama’s speech at Invesco Field the final night of the convention. With only half of the available “public seats” allotted for Colorado residents, the demand for tickets was overwhelming. Last Thursday, I was answering phones when the Convention Committee sent out a mass email alerting tens of thousands of hopeful residents that they had not received tickets. Within minutes, we received several angry phone calls from rejected potential attendees. Luckily for the campaign, I had also received such an email, and could sympathize with the callers. After learning that I was committed enough to volunteer for the campaign after being denied admission for the speech, their anger quickly subsided and we bonded over our shared enthusiasm for the campaign. 

In the coming week, the city will temporarily become the center of US politics and the world’s attention will turn to the events in Denver. Each day will be full of panel discussions, meetings and inner-party debates. Each night will feature primetime speakers, fabulous parties, celebrity appearances and fund raisers. In the end, the Candidate and the Party hope to have inspired a nation and gain momentum for the home stretch of this epic presidential election process. Check back next week, when I will be reporting on the events and surprises that make up the Democratic National Convention.

Kera Bartlett is a senior Diplomacy and World Affairs major. She can be reached at kbartlett@oxy.edu

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