Believing Is Seeing

Apparently people need to believe that something exists, and in some instances have a word for it even, before they can actually see it. Such was the case with the color blue, which has only recently entered the consciousness of people on the timeline of human existence. There is considerable evidence that the ability to see the color blue is a relatively recent development in human evolution. According to scholars, the ancient languages of Greek, Chinese, Japanese, and Hebrew didn’t have a generic word for the color blue in them. Without a word to label the color, strong evidence indicates that these ancient peoples didn’t see it. In the Odyssey, Homer describes the ocean as “wine-dark” – never blue. Wine is not blue. The Odyssey contains detailed descriptions of the trappings of life at that time, but the references to color are limited. Classics scholars note that black is mentioned over 200 times in the Odyssey and white over 100, but other colors are barely mentioned. Red is mentioned about 15 times and yellow or green less than 10. Blue never. There is no word for blue in ancient Greek.

The nineteenth-century philosopher Lazarus Geiger hypothesized that the evolution of reason is intimately connected with the evolution of language. Geiger explains that the last color to begin to appear in the evolution of language from ancient times to the present day is blue. Geiger studied ancient texts and discovered some interesting things about perceptions of color. Democritus and Pythagoras note four fundamental colors:  black, white, red, and yellow. The Hindu Vedas describe the heavens in intricate detail at all hours of the day and night, but never once say anything about the sky being blue. Blue does not appear in the Koran, Icelandic Sagas, ancient stories from New Guinea, or ancient Chinese stories. In short, ancient civilizations did not perceive blue as a separate color the way we do in modern times. It was not distinguished as different from green. The only exception is the ancient Egyptians, who did have a word for blue, and who had figured out how to make a blue dye. Geiger came to the conclusion that the use of language to describe the world is arbitrary. I would say it is not so much arbitrary as rooted in culture, and cultures are widely different.

Neuropsychologist Jules Davidoff conducted research in Namibia to explore the question of whether or not we can see something if we don’t have a word for it. The Himba Tribe of Namibia has no separate word for blue. The word for green is also used to describe blue and Himbans make no distinction between blue and green. This makes sense if you imagine the world in which a Himba lives. Blue occurs infrequently in nature, and probably less or not at all in the native environment of a Himba. When shown a circle of 11 squares in which 10 were green and one was blue, Himbans could not pick out the blue square. But when shown a circle of 11 squares in which 10 were the same shade of green and one was a slightly different shade, Himbans could easily pick out the odd square, while Davidoff could not. Can you?

The picture below reveals the renegade square.

I can’t see any difference in the shades of green in the squares. I imagine that there are many words for different types of green in the Himba language and perhaps even a word for the different shade of green of this different square used in the test. In the daily life of a Himban, an extraordinary range of shades of green are probably perceived. Without knowing anything about Himban culture, I would hazard a guess that being able to recognize the difference between greens of very close color is an important ability that contributes to daily life and perhaps even survival. For instance, when a particular medicinal mushroom has a certain shade of green around the edge then it could be poisonous while a different shade of green around the edge could mean it is edible. I have made up this story about the mushroom to prove a point, but I think you can see what I’m saying. Similarly, Alaskan Natives have no one word for snow but many different words that each describe the type of snow. Thus my assertion that the use of language to describe the world is deeply rooted in culture. (Although how Himbans can see such delicate differences in shades of green and not notice that a blue square is a different color eludes me.) I have to wonder if people with limited vocabularies have limited perceptions of the world.

The word gives us a way to comprehend something within the context of our worldview, and a way to describe it. Without the word, it appears that we are in danger of not recognizing it. Can we see something if we don’t have a word for it? When Columbus arrived on this side of the ocean, he first made land in what is now the Dominican Republic. It is well-documented that the indigenous people did not see Columbus’s ships approaching. (See Charles C. Mann’s book 1491.) It is speculated that they did not have any frame of reference into which they could fit the image of his ships on the water and therefore they didn’t register their existence. I have to wonder what I am not seeing because I have no word for it or frame of reference in the context of my consciousness. I suppose (this is a leap but stay with me) it would be theoretically possible for extraterrestrials to pass among earthlings without detection because we have no word for them and thus no way to comprehend what we see when we see them. They could be a color that has not yet appeared on our spectrum.

I confess that I don’t think that there are extraterrestrials among us, although that might be a plausible explanation for some of my husband’s behavior. Invisible extraterrestrials are too supermarket-tabloid for my rational mind. But I do believe that there are forces of nature and spiritual commerce that we fail to see because we have no way to define, name, or comprehend. Some people are more able to perceive and recognize activity on the spiritual plane than others. The history of the color blue reminds me that an infinite array of events transpire in the world right in front of me that I fail to notice because I have a finite brain, a culturally-defined vocabulary, and a limited ability to see. Noticing and recognizing these things would unravel mysteries and enrich my life, I’m sure. I regret that they escape me. With a nod toward Aldous Huxley and his hallucinatory memoirs, we need to open wider the doors of our perception and believe in a broader possible reality. For now, I’m grateful that I can see blue. It’s one of my favorite colors; moreover, if I stopped being able to see it then I would not be able to find my car.

Dress-Up

I saw a news item this week about the strange disappearance of actress Lupita Nyong’o’s gown worn at the Oscars. The gown was a custom-made Calvin Klein designed by Francisco Costa described as “6,000 pearls affixed to silk lamé” valued at $150,000. That decadent price tag twists my brain in knots. I like Lupita and all, but it’s hard for me to accept that you could buy a house for the value of her dress. Seriously? She actually didn’t buy the dress, she just wore it. The dress still belongs to Calvin Klein, whom I very much doubt will auction it off and use the proceeds to feed the homeless. Costa is quoted as saying that he wanted the dress to be “graphic, yet warm and luxurious.” That sounds to me more like a description of a house than a dress. Since the dress costs as much as a down-payment on a house, that actually makes sense in a round-about kind of way.

I am the first one to admit that I’m no fashionista. Some of my favorite dresses came off the made-in-Bali rack at CVS Pharmacy, and cost about $15. No pearls. For many years back in the early 80s I wore a dress I found in a FREE box in Berkeley. I wouldn’t have worn the dress to the Academy Awards, of course. Well, maybe I would have worn it after sewing 6,000 pearls to it. But who has time for such nonsense? You could probably put 6,000 pearls on just about anything and it would become a masterpiece of attire.

This brings me to the next weird thing about Lupita’s stolen gown. It appears that the thieves stole the gown to determine whether or not the pearls were real. The day after the gown disappeared, an anonymous call was made to gossip website TMZ revealing where the gown could be found (in a garment bag under the sink in a restroom at the London Hotel in W. Hollywood) and informing TMZ that the pearls on the gown were fake. The thieves had taken two pearls from the gown and had them assessed by an expert in the garment district. The anonymous caller said the thieves stole the gown because they wanted show the world that Hollywood is fake.

So, did the thieves believe that Hollywood was real before they stole the two pearls from Lupita’s gown and had them assessed? Hollywood is about making movies and movies are inherently fiction; unless of course they’re documentaries, which are often fiction, but not as often as fiction movies. Were the fake pearls the tip-off for the thieves that Hollywood is not real? I would hazard a guess that an awful lot of fake pearls have passed through Hollywood. Heck, I made fake pearls back in the day when I worked in theater. We could make just about anything in the prop shop as long as it only had to last for six weeks. Although I do want to know why Calvin Klein values the dress at $150,000 if it’s covered in 6,000 plastic pop-beads.

People can get pretty passionate about dresses. You may have seen the latest clothing debacle focusing on the blue-and-black dress that some people see as white-and-gold. Apparently an optical illusion of a dress was posted on Tumblr last week. Some people see it one way and some people see it another. A heated debate ensued, which eventually prompted the NY Times to run an article in their Science Section about why we see the dress as we do. In reality, the dress is blue-and-black. Apparently many of the people who see it as white-and-gold are crushed that they can’t see the true colors of the dress. The expert at the NY Times explained that if your brain registers the dress as being in bright light it will see blue-and-black, but if your brain registers the dress as being in shadow then it will see white-and-gold. What baffles me is how this conversation about the color of the dress went viral when I can’t get a dozen people to read my blog, even when it’s on a topic of greater import than dresses (such as seaweed or plumbing repairs).

I suppose I have no business talking about dresses since I have no sense of style and as much understanding of fashion as a turtle. Approximately once every two years I go on a four-hour shopping spree and find a dress I like, buy three of them in different colors, and call it quits for another two years. I don’t get why my daughter and daughter-in-law drool over shoes. I go from flip-flops in the summer to Ugg boots in the winter, with Birkenstock’s to bridge in between hot and cold weather. I have been known to fall off flats and sprain my ankle; so if I wore heels I would probably suffer permanent spinal injury.

Last year, when Akili and Tina got married, I practically needed a Valium prescription to shop for a dress to wear to the wedding. In case you wondered, you can’t find a mother-of-the-groom wedding dress at CVS Pharmacy. In the months leading up to the wedding, I spent more hours in dress shops than I had spent in the previous twenty years. I began my search at bridal shops, which was a mistake. I suspect that most of the dresses at bridal shops contain about 90% glue and are made for women who don’t believe in wearing a bra. They even smell like glue. I figured out that the way it works is that you lick the dress and then press it against your tits and it sticks; kind of the way contact lenses work. Since I breast-fed three children in my youth, this method of apparel placement would leave me looking distinctly bovine. In one shop I tried on a dress that was capable of standing up by itself in the corner of the dressing room. It really didn’t even need a person in it because it could clearly go to a wedding all on its own. I wondered if it was haunted and if it had ever killed anyone and I got so spooked that I fled the dress shop. My daughter wanted me to wear something glamorous. Her father took a phone picture of me in a floor-length royal-blue gown that slid off my shoulders and he sent it to my daughter, who approved. But I couldn’t walk in it and the price was beyond my reach. If I fell on my face and broke a tooth, I wouldn’t have enough money left to get the tooth replaced.

A friend took me shopping for an entire day in the Bay Area. She knew a half a dozen super women’s clothing stores. I found an exquisite sheer black jacket with sequins and bought it, hoping I would find a dress to wear it with eventually. My friend knew the salesgirl and talked her into selling it to me at half price. I tried on a lot of dresses that day, but never found the right one. I had been looking high and low for several months at that point and was beginning to worry. Where else could I look? (Under the sink in the restroom at the London Hotel in W. Hollywood?) Would I ever find the right dress? Had the scary dress in the bridal shop put a curse on me? The following day, on the drive North from the Bay Area, I stopped at Macy’s in Santa Rosa and stumbled on the perfect dress, which would look great with the fancy black jacket. It was unequivocally black and martini-olive-green (no question about colors any way you looked at it) and it had no pearls (real or fake). The price was reasonable.

My daughter (who knows a lot about fashion) said the dress I chose was not as glamorous as she had hoped, but that it was very good and she approved. She once told me that when you get a dress for a special occasion it’s a wear-once dress. You never wear it again. I thought she was wrong about that, but now that the wedding came and went, I don’t think I will ever wear the dress again. Nothing else would be an important enough event for such an auspicious dress. So maybe my daughter is right. I wonder if Lupita’s pearl splendor will ever be worn again. If so, they will have to replace the two missing “pearls” to make it perfect again. In my opinion, it was not Lupita’s dress that was luminous, it was Lupita, who is a stunningly beautiful woman.

First Woman Scenic Carpenter at the Opera

When I moved to the Bay Area in 1978, I telephoned the San Francisco Opera Scenic Shop to inquire about work. A man answered the phone. I introduced myself to him and said that I had worked as a freelance scenic carpenter on college campuses for five years and I wondered if there was any work to be had for a scenic carpenter at the Opera Shop. He laughed. “What’s so funny?” I asked. He replied, “I never thought a woman would have the balls to call this shop looking for work.” That was the beginning of my relationship with the SF Opera, which eventually would span six opera seasons.

I have not thought about my years working in theater for some time. At a recent book group discussion about gender, I related the story of how I came to be the first woman to work on permit as a scenic carpenter in the only unionized shop in Northern California. The union I refer to is the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees (IATSE). A friend who heard my story at the book group that night asked me if I would write it up, so here it is.

During my college years, I supported myself working part-time at on-campus theaters. I was what was then called a theater technician. I constructed and painted stage scenery, hung and ran lighting instruments, ran sound boards, built props, worked as a stagehand and roadie, and moved large objects. I loved being macho. I earned a bachelor’s degree in drama while swinging a hammer.

In the Bay Area in 1978, I landed a job as the master carpenter for the Berkeley Repertory Theater. I worked at the Rep for one year and then I did a four-month stint as a welder at the Denver Center Theater Company, which was preparing for its inaugural season (in 1979). Once the DCTC opened, I moved back to the Bay Area, where I freelanced as a theater technician. Mostly I worked as a scenic carpenter at a number of small theaters in the Bay Area. I got quite a bit of work and was able to support myself.

Although the Opera Shop did not approve of women scenic carpenters, it had no problem with women scenic artists. The carpenters built the scenery and the artists painted (and sculpted) it. The lead scenic artist in IATSE at the Opera Shop was a man, but almost all the scenic artists working under him were women. So it was acceptable for me to work as a scenic artist, and I did so during the active season each year, which lasted from about January through May. When I was laid off from the SF Opera, I called around to the many non-union little theaters in the Bay Area and always found work as a scenic carpenter or stagehand.

During that time, I never gave up on my dream to work as a scenic carpenter in the IATSE (to which I belonged as a scenic artist); and I regularly sent my resume to the IATSE office in SF. I would follow up with a phone call to ask if it had been received and the good ole boy named Perry who ran the office would inform me that he couldn’t find it. I would wait a few months and send it again. Clearly, Perry was throwing it out, because it was never on file. But I could just tell that he knew who I was – that woman who kept trying to get work as a carpenter.

In 1981, the SF Opera staged a historic production of Aida featuring Luciano Pavarotti and Margaret Price. The production required a huge amount of new scenery that had to be built and painted, as well as enough props to cover the surface of the moon. After a couple of months of work, we scenic artists were informed that we were to be laid off for a few weeks to give the carpenters time to catch up. They needed to construct more scenery for us to texture, paint, and dress. The head of the carpentry shop, Pierre, had pulled in every scenic carpenter he could find, all hands on deck, and still he couldn’t produce the scenery fast enough.

Pierre knew me since I had worked in the shop as an artist for a couple of years at that point. I went into his office, shut the door, and broke it down for him. I told him that I was about to be laid off and that probably within a few days I would be working as a carpenter in one of the little theaters in town. He was short-staffed and desperately needed experienced scenic carpenters. I explained that I could not get work through the union hall, which refused to issue me a permit. I told Pierre that I was pretty sure that Perry threw out my resume whenever I sent it in. I suggested that Pierre hire me to work for him temporarily until the carpentry shop caught up and I was needed again as a scenic artist. He agreed to do it and he said he would call Perry and personally instruct him to issue me a union permit so I could work as a scenic carpenter for Pierre. He told me to go down to the union hall the next morning and my permit would be provided and that I should report to work once I had the permit.

The following day I caved in to the devil because, well, revenge is sweet. I did not wear my carpenter’s clothes to go to the union office. I wore a long, flowing, pink skirt (with a ruffle around the bottom), a blouse, stockings, high-heeled sandals, and a slew of bangle bracelets. I even put on make-up (which usually I never wore). I sashayed into Perry’s office and told him I was the woman Pierre wished to hire. He reluctantly admitted that Pierre had called him and asked him to issue me a permit. “I need to have your resume on file to give you the permit,” Perry said. Perhaps he hoped this would present an obstacle. I sweetly informed him that he ought to have it on file since I had sent it to him every few months for three years. He actually pretended to look in his file cabinet, where, of course, he didn’t find it. He said he must have misplaced it. I produced a fresh copy from my purple velour handbag. Perry then issued me my permit. When I left his office I walked down a hallway to the elevator. About a dozen young men my own age lined that hallway as they waited to see Perry about work permits. These were not good ole boys from the previous generation but my contemporaries, who had overheard my conversation with Perry, and they gave me a round of applause.

After my visit to Perry, I changed into my overalls and reported to Pierre for work. I swung my hammer for a month building scenery before Pierre’s crew “caught up” and I returned to the scenic art department on the other side of the shop. Remember the guy who laughed at me the first time I called the shop in 1978? I knew who he was and he knew who I was and he wound up having to work alongside me during my month as a IATSE union scenic carpenter. As it turned out, I had even more “balls” than he had originally imagined.

That’s the story of how I became the first woman to work on permit through IATSE as a scenic carpenter in the SF Opera Shop. While writing this account, I discovered that the 1981 SF Opera production of Aida is available in its entirety on YouTube. You can access it through this link. Have a peek at the incredible scenery that I had the privilege to build and paint; and a listen to the magnificent voice of Pavarotti (who passed away in 2007 at the age of 71). The stagehands at the SF Opera who worked Aida said that when Pavarotti sang, the floorboards vibrated beneath their feet and his voice vibrated in their chests. Pavarotti was also a fine human being. The stagehands said he would talk to them as equals backstage, joking with them and asking them about their families. He was kind, generous, and humble. I would like to think that it would have pleased him to know that a young woman carpenter had a dream fulfilled working on his Aida.

Seeing the Magnolia

My neighbor has a magnificent magenta magnolia tree in full bloom during this faux-springtime week of ridiculously warm weather. Despite the fact that winter continues for many weeks into approaching March, that magnolia tree has exploded in celebration for anyone interested in noticing and appreciating the joy. The tricky part about the magnolia is all in the noticing. I have to remind myself to look at it when I pass, to pause for a moment and see it while it’s gorgeous for this brief time.

Philosophers and thinkers have written prodigiously on the topic of aesthetics. I don’t presume to imagine I could add anything new to that discussion. So I’m not saying anything original when I say that the brilliant beauty of that magnolia reminds me that there are forces at work in the world beyond human enterprise. The magnolia takes me out of myself and into the greater, the greater what? The greater all? Greater oneness? The greater.

Sometimes when I am out on my morning walk, whether in my rural suburban neighborhood or in the forest behind Lake Mendocino, I encounter a person who is also out walking and who is talking on a cell phone. There is one woman in particular who always talks on her phone while she walks. She doesn’t acknowledge me when I pass. I feel sorry for her, for all that she is missing on her walks. Our neighborhood overflows with exquisite forces of nature and she is largely missing out on them. Deer and wild turkeys regularly stroll down our streets. The quail with their adorable topknot scurry in a quiver of wings when I approach. This past week I had a remarkable flock of a hundred or more creamy-gray mourning doves in an oak tree beside my deck. They swooped and looped in my back yard, catching the morning light in their tail feathers. A few days ago I saw a charcoal-gray fox loping up my driveway. I bolted from my desk chair and ran to call my cats inside to safety. That got my heart racing, but the fox was certainly a beautiful creature to behold. Early purple crocuses are peeping in my front garden. In these winter months, the graceful live oak trees in our geography are a fling of bare branches draped with chalky-green lichens. I am hopelessly in love with Mendocino trees; the many kinds of oaks, the fir and redwoods, the manzanita, madrone, buckeye, wild flowering plums. How can that woman walk through this wonderland with her nose buried in her cell phone, eyes glazed over, unseeing? It’s almost criminal.

There is a famous story about the 19^th-Century French writer Gustave Flaubert, who is the author of the classic novel Madame Bovary. Flaubert is credited with being the “inventor” of literary realism and he is often considered the quintessential aesthete. He was obsessed with precision and beauty of language. During a period of malaise, before he wrote Madame Bovary, he was persuaded by his friend Maxime Du Camp to travel to the Middle East. According to Du Camp’s diaries (although Flaubert never mentioned this episode in his own diaries), as Du Camp and Flaubert drifted down the Nile on a boat, in the midst of extraordinary scenery, Flaubert turned to Du Camp and declared, “I will call her Emma Bovary.” I have always identified with this story. I interpret the story to mean that Flaubert was so far inside his own head that he did not even see the gorgeous Egyptian landscape. He was too busy writing Madame Bovary in his mind to see his surroundings. I confess, I am guilty of the same.

It’s easy for me to criticize the oblivious cell-phone-lady. But I do the same thing in my own way far more than I would wish. While walking in the beautiful forests and meadows behind the lake, I all-too-often remain stuck in my head, writing novels, writing grants, writing blog posts. I “time travel,” remembering the past and projecting into the future, instead of experiencing the glorious present. I must constantly remind myself to come back to the moment and see the red-shouldered hawks swooping from oak to oak. I must remember to come out of my head and look at the beauty that takes me out of myself and my small life; to bear witness, to appreciate, to admire. The natural beauty in my surroundings calls me to participate in the moment, to actively see the miracle of that dazzlingly pink magnolia. 

For Raif Badawi

The persecution of Saudi Arabian writer and blogger Raif Badawi by the Saudi government has haunted me for weeks. I think of him, his plight, and his family every day. Raif is a 32-year-old writer and political activist who founded the blog Free Saudi Liberals, which was taken down by the Saudi government when Raif was arrested in 2012 for “insulting Islam” and was tried for “apostasy,” which is punishable by death. He came to my attention because I am a Freedom Writer for Amnesty International, which has been working extremely hard to save his life.

Raif was tried and sentenced to be flogged with 1,000 lashes, to serve 10 years in prison, and to pay a large fine. The extreme barbarity and inhumanity of his sentence is deeply disturbing. He is to be flogged (beaten with a cane) 50 lashes every Friday until he has received the total 1,000 lashes. He received the first flogging of 50 lashes on January 9 (in public in front of a mosque) and it nearly killed him. For a couple of weeks afterward, doctors stated that he had not healed from the flogging sufficiently to be flogged again and further flogging was postponed. Raif is diabetic and has high blood pressure. Doctors say that a second flogging will likely kill him. Each Friday for the past few weeks, he has received a last-minute reprieve from another flogging, while mounting attention has focused on his plight from around the world.

Raif is the father of three little girls. His wife Ensaf Haidar and his daughters fled Saudi Arabia (on the heels of death threats) and are living in exile in Quebec, Canada, where they have been given political asylum. His wife continues to take a lead role in efforts to free him. Raif wrote:  “As soon as a thinker starts to reveal his ideas, you will find hundreds of fatwas that accuse him of being an infidel just because he had the courage to discuss some sacred topics. I’m really worried that Arab thinkers will migrate in search of fresh air and to escape the sword of the religious authorities.” I have to wonder how a country comes to choose to destroy its best and brightest sons and daughters.

Raif’s writings question fundamentalist Islam and terrorist tactics. His lawyer, Waleed Abulkhair, has also been imprisoned. Last week, seven American activists who are members of the U.S. Commission on International Religious Freedom sent an open letter to the Saudi government requesting that they be allowed to receive 100 lashes (each) in Raif’s stead, and offering to present themselves for flogging. Among the seven who sent the letter are Christians, Jews, and Muslims; some are democrats and some are republicans. One of them is Princeton Professor Robert P. George, who has stated that he signed the letter fully prepared to actually be beaten if it were to come to that. In addition, two members of the Norwegian Parliament have nominated Raif and Waleed for the Nobel Peace Prize. Human rights organizations say that the actions people are taking on Raif’s behalf (writing, faxing, and emailing letters; signing petitions; calling the Saudi embassies throughout the world; demonstrating in the streets) have blindsided the Saudi government, which apparently never expected so much bad press for this decision. The Saudi government is purported to be overwhelmed by the effort to free Raif and dismayed to have become one of the world’s greatest villains of the moment. (Click here to sign the Amnesty International petition for Raif’s release. You can also take other actions:  click here to go to the Free Raif Toolkit with more information.)

Raif’s ordeal touches me in an acutely personal way because I too am a writer and blogger. If he was able to take back his words and to go back in time and not create his website, would he do it? Would he choose to spare himself this torment and to keep his family safe in the country they love? Oh, the tremendous power of words; mightier than the sword. But there is no turning back for Raif. So much damage has already been done to him and his family that it cannot be undone. I do believe in healing, in the amazing resiliency of people, their ability to courageously move beyond trauma and celebrate life. But oh the damage that has been done here. Of course I pray for Raif’s safety, his release. I pray that he will be allowed to leave the country and join his family, to finish raising his beautiful little girls. But even if this happens, if this is the best we can hope for and it comes to pass, such irreversible damage has been done.

If Raif is allowed to join his family in Canada, he will never fully recover from the physical and mental blows he has suffered. Perhaps he will fear speaking out again. Perhaps when his hands hover over the keys of his computer, he will feel that searing pain in his back from the lashes and his hands will tremble. Where will he find the courage to speak freely when this terror seizes him? Maybe I am simply projecting my own cowardice on a man who is braver than I can comprehend. I also think of his wife and children in that foreign land. Kept from the land they love, the culture and community that is in their hearts. If he is allowed to join them in exile, he and his wife will suffer the pain of the exile for the rest of their lives, that separation from the daily, small, beloved aspects of life in their homeland. Their daughters will grow up in an alien country and will never fully comprehend what they have lost by their uprooting. They will never retrieve the sweet feeling of comfort they once had in their native home; and some intrinsic measure of their culture will remain forever lost to them. Will they ever feel at home in the world?

How will Raif be treated if he is allowed to flee to Canada? He is a Muslim and an Arab. I don’t know what it’s like in Canada these days, but in America Raif would be suspect because of his appearance, his accent, his clothing. Sadly, most Americans stereotype Muslims and Arabs (even thinking all Arabs are Muslim), and they are often viewed as terrorists (no questions asked). Ironically, Raif, who has suffered so much for denouncing fundamentalist Islam and terrorism, would be at risk because of this stereotyping. In the current climate, he would be at risk of being shot for putting his hand in his pocket at the wrong moment. Where in the world will Raif find peace and justice?

As I sit here in the safety of my study, relatively secure in the belief that I will not be persecuted for writing these words, I am seized by a flash of fear. Am I as safe as I believe? When I press the key to put these words out into the world, will I start a chain reaction that could cost me my life, my health, my sanity? That could endanger my family? That scenario is unlikely; but if they came for Raif in the morning then they could conceivably come for me in the evening. They put out a fatwa on Salman Rushdie for writing The Satanic Verses and he and his wife were forced into hiding. When I press the key to put my words into the world, there is a tiny chance that they will go beyond the small circle of my readers. There is a tiny chance that I could find myself in a Kafka-esque predicament, a fatwa out on me, the need to hide, to leave my home. Because who knows where words will go and what consequences they will bring? So I hesitate. My hand shakes. Am I safe in my obscurity? Am I safe in my country? How far removed am I from Raif and his horrific fate? Is my safety an illusion? 

As I prepare to press that key and release my words, my heart beating loudly in my ears, I must ask you:  If ever I am imprisoned, beaten, tortured for words that I have said, will you stand up for me? Will you speak up for my life and my right to say what is on my mind? If ever I disappear, will you come find me and set me free?