Desicritics Author: Ms. Anona

Book Review: The Girls of Riyadh

Ms. Anona — Mon, 7 Jul 2008 13:57:58 EDT

Hooray for the Girls of Riyadh! May you all find true love and freedom while adhering to what is most virtuous of your religion and traditions!

Finally, a tell-all book about everyday life of four young well-off Saudi girls (five if you count the narrator) and is considered the first astonishing glimpse behind the veil. The 'true' story is told over a year of weekly postings published online. The novel reads more like a soap opera really, with each chapter full of short stints of dramas from each character. In fact, this book would be too disconnected and superficial if set anywhere else, barely making it into the adult genre. But, since this is Saudi Arabia after all, a country well-known to fervently oppress women's rights, the reader easily becomes attached to the characters, their mild acts of rebellion, and attempts at finding true love.

Love does not come easy in a land where the hijab is compulsory and mingling of the sexes a mortal sin. In fact, Alsanea goes so far as to say that there is an all-out ban on love. Even Valentine's Day is a threat to campus officials, red roses and cute cards expressing affection confiscated yearly. Still, somehow males and females are able to mingle and dream of catering to their first loves the same as any other around the globe. It is no wonder that a handful of these premature loves fail so drastically and without explanation, even after marriage. Such is the case of the girls of Riyadh, childhood friends that go their separate ways, but manage to stay together to share their stories.

Gamreh, living in Chicago, is dedicated to an arranged marriage before finding out her husband is still in a previous relationship and not willing to leave his girlfriend. She returns back to Riyadh alone and pregnant. Sadeem is also abandoned by her arranged spouse shortly after the first ceremony, moves to London, and then falls disasterously for a Saudi politician. Michelle moves to San Francisco and has a crush on her American cousin who doesn't really feel the same way. But the story, the real story, is brought about by the fourth girl, Lamees.

Lamees realizes she is falling for a classmate. She has stood by the trials and tribulations of her displaced friends, but is smarter and doesn't want to become like them. She wants to be successful in love and sets out to create a strict guideline for herself. She will not give in too easily, or show how willing she is towards him. She remains conservative and in time the boy seeks to ask her father for her hand. In the end, Lamees is the only one of the four girls who is able to follow through on her dreams, the same dream all four women share. Even though there are aspects of modern-day Feminism sprinkled all over the book, the irony here is that success comes for Lamees in a way that is acceptable to their culture and beliefs in how appropriate Muslim women should act.

The story ends happily for Sadeem and Michelle as well, although not as how they intended. Gamreh, however, completely falls off the radar and becomes too burdomsome of a character to even be mentioned in the happy ending. An explanation is given at the end of the book saying that the real Gamreh (name changed) became aware of the scandal and dissaproved saying her name would be further slandered. It gives the book life, like a reality TV show, but as far as writing a novel is concerned, the ending seems clique and fixed.

Still, Rajaa Alsanea’s novel is worth a read, if only because the book is banned in several Middle East countries, deemed as too risqué and un-Islamic. One of the most interesting parts of the book comes from the narration of the anonymous writer herself, which describes the differing emails received throughout the online publishings. Some readers, of course, admire her while others tell her how she is degrading Saudi culture. It is interesting to analyze how the most conservative of this society rationalize their views on the role of women. Overall, The Girls of Riyadh is deemed a real-life incantation of what it means to be single and female in Saudi Arabia and is a story worthy of telling.

Fiction: Malady of the Emotional Refugees

Ms. Anona — Tue, 3 Jun 2008 14:58:08 EDT

So she walked.

The road was not meant for pedestrians, only automobiles, and lots of them. She had always been labeled a non-conformist, a rebel; just for being, just for standing independently. She felt exposed and incredibly alone as she crossed the rows and rows of solid white lines that had just ushered through cars and trucks with enough force to crush her on impact.

She thought about her frail body and marveled at how when walking, just like exercising, her brain released endorphins causing the mind to release pain. Muscles, in essence, held together thoughts of their own, and when worked, their memories were jogged.
********

So she walked.

He had told her to leave. It had happened before, a big argument, sudden eruptions, followed by drastic actions.

It was a beautiful sunny day during the madness of May. The garden was in bloom; windows finally cracked, letting in fresh air and cool lake breezes. As she turned back, the house she had felt so locked inside all year seemed almost close to perfection like she was already on pasture's greener side.

She left with nothing but a sweatshirt, empty pockets she filled with broken glass found on the sediment. She clenched it tight as the sidewalk ran out of concrete and turned to grass barely trampled. The inhabitants of the ornate multi-acre estates drove past her silently and without a passing glance. It occurred to her gracefully that if this were just a usual stroll down the block with a few key items of clothing removed, there would surely be an amigo or other bright-eyed cretin waiting to take her for a ride, offering his hand in a friendly advance towards supplying his energy for the muscles contracting in his pants. The thought made her want to spat, but her mouth was too dry. All her flowing juices were used up. This caged animal was set free, but left to die on the side of the road, life's collateral.
********

So she walked.

Her best friend was married today. It started off in a grandiose manner. She looked stunning as an honorable maid should. She only allowed herself a few moments of self-pity, once during the vows, and again when she saw them dance, their eyes lit steady on the other. She should be marrying him, or someone like him, she thought.

A multitude of fruity drinks where offered from every which way. Before she knew, she was drunk. The bride and groom were never the type to retreat to their habitat when a celebration was in store. It was late Saturday night and the town's only nightclub was playing Shania Twain's I Feel Like a Woman, which sounded even twangier than it should.

She wanted to go home, but her best friend nagged her. She didn't know if they would let her in, being a few months short of twenty-one and when they turned her away, the rest of her party had already gone inside. One of the newest radio hits came on, one her best friend loved, and she knew no one would look for her as they rushed to the floor.

Walking home didn't seem like a bad idea, until she got to the edge of town. Cars seemed to have minimized the true scale of the familiar terrain and made the trek seem almost formidable. Speed limits increased and the shoulder disappeared and dipped into a ditch on both sides. She had little option but to descend and let the tall reeds engulf her. The heels of her shoes sank into the softened earth and the blades of grass cut at her ankles. Her dress became soiled, but she didn't much worry. No one ever wore those bulky bridesmaid dresses a second time.

A small stream trickled under her feet. She had driven past the spot more times than she could count, but the flowing water that led to a small tributary had eluded her.

Just then a truck stopped up ahead and was sent in reverse. The driver opened the passenger window and asked if she needed a ride. She obliged. She had never seen him before and was thankful.

"I thought you were swimming down there." he said with a mischievous grin.
She smirked and led him without haste the short path to her home. It was a small town, the type of place where everyone knew everyone else, and everyone else's business. As she jumped from the pick-up, she assured herself that her hometown wasn't the sort of place where bad things happened. Nothing really went unnoticed.

She ran upstairs to her room. The sun was shining and as she looked out the window towards town, the stream she had stepped in couldn't be seen.
*******

So she walked.

It was just over a year ago she could not walk at all. Chemotherapy left her motionless. Long since divorced and never remarried, her boys now had a family of their own in separate cities. They did as much as they could in dire circumstances and somehow she made it through. She felt and looked great with only the front of her shirt draping more loosely around her.

Today she was walking, but not just any walk, the Breast Cancer Awareness Walk. It was invigorating, even though she walked alone due to her friend's last minute withdrawal. She let her mind wander and looked at the stunning architecture of the city. The younger girls were all nice, but wore shirts that read catch phrases like, "Save the Boobies". It was nice that they cared at all, but a lot of them just didn't get it and weren't really empathetic towards a real sufferer.

She had been walking a while before she realized she was lost. The girl in the pink shirt she had been following had turned onto a residential street, which surely couldn't have been the way. The only signs of life were some rap music blaring from a nearby complex, followed by an even louder woman cussing at a diminutive feature. Furthermore, the rain clouds that had been chasing them since yesterday picked that precise moment to let down their bounties.

She sat down on a rock, feeling lost and abandoned. For the first time since being in the throngs of her sickness, she felt like crying. But she had a reason then, and now she felt she had none. It felt even more pathetic to her to be sad and depressed without a valid excuse.

Out of no where, a young girl appeared, dressed all in white. She was spinning, twirling emphatically in the street.

"Excuse me." The old woman yelled after her. "Excuse me!" she yelled even louder, but the whirling dervish did not stop. Instead, she turned a corner and promptly disappeared. What could be seen, however, were the pink shirts of her cohorts a few blocks further along. She was not too far off course after all. She ran to meet the others, none of whom had missed her. Everyone was drenched and she gladly joined in on their laughter and ability to make the best of it.

She looked up. A silver lining appeared around the dispersing cloud formation. She looked back and saw nothing but dark alleys. Like a schoolgirl, she gave a big grin and ran off.

Book Review: The Post-American World - Fareed Zakaria

Ms. Anona — Tue, 20 May 2008 11:58:51 EDT

One of the most common complaints about the media is that many journalists do not have the appropriate background to comment on economics and complex political issues in detail. Those who believe this, however, have probably not encountered the likes of Fareed Zakaria, a Harvard grad and well-known American journalist. Lately Zakaria has been stirring up a lot of attention and can be seen shaking hands with Henry Kissinger and other dignitaries as he rapidly rises the ranks from journalist to political advisor. With his latest book, The Post-American World, Zakaria delivers a new twist on a common and slightly menacing message, that America’s hegemony is waning.

'The Post-American World is not a story about America’s fall, but instead about the rise of ‘the rest’, states Zakaria. Countries like China, India, Brazil, Singapore and Indonesia have been ‘catching up’ to the economic status of the United States and for the last twenty or so years America’s status as a sole superpower has been challenged. The innovation and growth coming out of Asian countries has been somewhat surprising and has left America’s monotheistic approach toward globalization and capital in the dust. In a way, the United States can be seen as victim of its own success. America has been forcing open the doors and vexing the constraints of open market forces in untapped economies all over the world since it’s inception, but somehow America has forgotten to globalize itself and allow for the multitude of cultures to penetrate its core.

The new global economy looks more like Bollywood, Zakaria writes, and the United States may be left to grapple for depleting market shares. Surprisingly, Bollywood’s total revenue and number of tickets sold worldwide has actually surpassed that of its counterpart, Hollywood. The film industry is just one of many that signifies the changes in a new world approach to business that is more multi-faceted and not solely dictated by American ideals. Traditional developing nations, in general, no longer feel it is necessary for the West to act as an intermediary in their commerce. Smaller countries in Asia and Africa, for example, have of late formed their own connections unilaterally. This has allowed for profits in these countries to soar. The newly affirmed capitalistic powers of China and India have been the most successful in this way and are most prominently laid out in Zakaria’s book. China has one of the most booming economies in the world with growth that is unsurpassed and India is not far behind. “Indians easily speaks the language of globalization”, Zakaria writes. India is able to prosper in this age because they understand what it means to thrive in the new market economy.

Zakaria’s book offers a historical analysis at the rise and fall of world powers and the reasoning behind each and suggests that the United States acting as the last remaining superpower may go the way of Great Britain in the last century. Britain found itself bankrupt and stretched thin after World War II that resulted in the ceding of its colonies financially, while still regaining political control remotely. America may have the opposite problem, but with the same consequence. Due to its recent preemptions in Afghanistan and Iraq, the world has mostly turned away politically but there is something intrinsically valuable in the message it offers to the world in an economic sense. The world can’t rally behind China’s economy the way it can that of the US, Zakaria writes, but these economies are overall threatening America’s long-term viscosity. In any event, the state of the world will not change overnight. “Great world powers are like divas”, Zakaria exclaims. They don’t enter or exit the international stage without great tumult.

Ordinary Americans aren’t normally accustomed to analyzing the world in the way Zakaria has laid out for them here. Americans tend to take for granted their superpower status as inherited and everlasting and are surprised at the towering rate of development seen in places like Dubai or Malaysia when they become aware of it. Zakaria’s book is not meant to alarm, but ends with almost a plea to the American people asking them in essence not to use fear and lack of world knowledge to persuade them from creating the “inviting and exciting” world as it once seemed to Zakaria as a young and emerging foreign student from India.

The state of affairs of the current world is not an easy ground to walk on and writing about it can make even the most conscience writer feel without adequate footing in a land where nothing is ever nearly as cut and dry as it seems. Zakaria is able to explain these things and more with ease. The result is a piece of literature that will shape even the most expansive worldviews while creating a palpable and interesting mosaic of global influences that shape the present state of the world and show us a glimpse of the future as well.

Stalking Hasan Elahi: TrackingTransience Delusions

Ms. Anona — Sun, 4 May 2008 14:34:20 EDT

“He’s just a media whore.” said Rajesh, my best online friend. “Why are you so infatuated?”

“I just want his data, that’s it mostly.” I said, trying even to convince myself. “I thought it would make a good Grad project. I’m wasting time, I should just forget it.”

It’s been over four months since I first spotted Hasan Elahi on Yahoo! News. His story was just another blip found in passing and I almost ignored it. But wait, I thought, is that a DESI with hydrogen peroxide splashed through his hair looking like the prototype of an ABCD? Interesting. So, I read his story. Then I checked out his videos. Hmm, he’s a professor, easy to find. So I e-mailed him, and e-mailed again. And then I called his hotel room. Whoops!… Uh-oh… rewind!!

Hasan says that the main purpose of his website, TrackingTransience, is to keep the FBI, INS, and all the other ‘three-lettered bureaucracies’ off his back and up-to-date on his frequent and highly unpredictable movements. The website’s design is gratifying as it pinpoints his exact location in real-time along with a photo of the locale.

His idea for the website dates back to an experience where he was apprehended for suspicious behavior not long after 9-11. Since then, he has been proffering the authorities his whereabouts in the hopes that he won’t be further detained and subject to interrogation.

In theory, the project is simplistically brilliant, but for the regular online blogger like myself, Hasan’s site is like a trip down the wormhole if visited often enough. I would personally reckon the experience to the time I tripped off acid at a Phish concert. I felt perfectly fine for the longest time and thought that the blue plastic-like tablet I had taken earlier was defunct, but why was everyone scowling at me? The stage was full of colorful lights and spinning things orbiting all around. Everyone was in a trance, and I seemed to be the only one who was missing something. Where are the musicians, I mused. I never did see them peek out through the thick smoke. For all I knew, they were at home in Arizona!

Needless to say, I got sucked into TrackingTransience. Hasan offers a psychedelic porthole into his life without really giving the observer a glimpse of what lies behind the world of placid and oftentimes ordinary scenery.

The intangibility displayed is the only thing that the observer has to embrace and I was left to yearn for more. Who is this Hasan, and why doesn’t he clean his house? That’s a nice restaurant, I wonder if he’s dining with anyone. What circumstances would cause someone to drive clear across the country and then fly somewhere else? I had to know more.

I waited patiently for him to appear on chat. When he finally did show, he came up with almost laughably dry comments like, “My life is boring.”

“You seem very superficial,” I said.

“Well, I try,” he said, in response.

My hyper-sentimental self was weary of an emotional cripple. Why wasn’t he asking me any questions? I don’t even think I got a “how are you?” out of him. Of course, he had no problem talking about himself. And that’s when I realized I was really talking to every ex-boyfriend I’ve ever had and my memories of one in particular, (who I’ll call Specimen J here) a local DJ sensation, came back to me.

A typical conversation with Specimen J went as follows:

Me (speaking loudly above deafening house music): Hey, what’s going on?

Specimen J (crinkling nose while halting his head bop): What?

Five minute lull in conversation.

Me: That’s great, who did that song?

Specimen J (turning down the music, clearly annoyed): What

It is important to note that in this case the word “what” is not intended to be a question or to initiate a response. By my provocation, I was clearly breaking some kind of unspoken rule of cooldom that I was apparently not attuned to.

“Help! My regular appeal and flirtatious chatting behavior is not working on Hasan,” I complained to Rajesh.

“I don’t get it, just get over this guy,” he said while I envisioned him at work in his Manhattan office. Rajesh is a magnificent listener and multi-tasker. He can chat with me while talking to his boss on the phone, writing two Word documents, and grooming himself, but he has a terrible long-term memory and would probably forget me altogether if I didn’t pop up now and again.

I realized there is something all these people have in common, however, besides the obvious lack of emotional response. They all offer an experience beyond that which can be gathered out of my own mundane life, and in that way, they can never fail. Hasan creates a world where the common is instantly art. It makes you yearn to be somewhere more interesting, even if just a baggage claim in a Utah airport.

“I feel safer this way,” Hasan told me.

“Wow, that’s disillusioned,” I chatted. “What if someone has the urge to commit a hate crime? You’re a pretty easy target.”

“Yeh, I guess,” he said, like the thought had never crossed his mind.

I can’t fathom how someone can feel safer in this way, but somehow my emotional reflexes understand. In some ways Hasan is like the perfect ex-boyfriend. Who wouldn’t want to check up on an ex-fling every now and then without really having to contact them directly? You could just go online every once in a while and affirm that, yup, he hasn’t changed.

“Dude, I’m breaking up with you,” I said.

“What.”

Book Review: Playing - Melanie Abrams

Ms. Anona — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 10:19:29 EDT

I have to admit that I hated Melanie Abrams' debut novel Playing immensely before I read it. I kept putting it down at the bookstore, but something drew me to it anyway. Eventually I dove right in, but originally only with the anticipation of despising it. There was something innately sickening about the storyline detailing Josie, a graduate student who secretly dates an Indian doctor, Devesh, who punishes and beats her in a sexual manner, all the while living with Mary and caring for Tyler, the woman’s six-year-old son.

It turns out that Playing is a fairly good read, flowing rather swiftly, and not nearly as titillating as one would expect. It concentrates on Josie’s confused state and desire to be treated as a small child due to uncertain events in her own dysfunctional childhood. It becomes hard to see how Devesh’s role is to help instead of hurt Josie as the lines between fantasy and reality become blurred and the games become more than just harmless playing. As the contents of her risky bedroom activities start to leak into her daily life and her past come to haunt her, she becomes uncertain as how to go back and reclaim her seemingly previous, more innocent self. In the end, sometimes truths must be unearthed the hard way in order for the healing process to occur.

Although the contents of this book are somewhat taboo, the literature is written in young adult prose making it a very easy read. Except for the main character, Josie, the setting and secondary characters come off feeling somewhat monotonous and the reader is not given much of an impression. The reader is left to dwell in the mind of Josie and forced to empathize with a woman who is a master at being her own victim. There is truth in the story though and in many ways Josie’s relationship with Devish does not seem so radically different than many youthful casual affairs that fail easily. This book is an easy fix for those desiring to fulfill curiosities on the darker side of sexual deviance.

Travel Report: Cyprus - And The Walls Came Down

Ms. Anona — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 08:39:00 EDT

I was in Cyprus a few times on business several years ago and the country, located in the Mediterranean Sea south of Greece, has fascinated me and boggled my mind ever since. It is a surreal place where every kind of worldly atmosphere possible seems to mix and glide fluidly, the most surprising being big tourism amongst political unrest.

It seemed like the epitome of ignorance on the part of the mostly European tourists especially when I got to see the wall. It was located right down the center of the capital and the biggest city on the island. Even the name, Nicosia, sounded like something reminiscent of the Cold War and as I approached it, I think I just stood and stared for a while pretending I was not in a country I had never heard of more than a week ago staring at a tiny modern-day version of former Berlin. All the angst and overall bitterness between Greeks and Turks seemed to rival, if not outdo, the level of silliness of that which I envisioned between the Israelis and Palestinians, geographically not far away. This is why I was surprised, delighted, and actually somewhat sad to here of the wall’s demise on April 3rd.

I call myself an adventurous traveler and my intention that day was to cross over to the Turk side even after I had been advised that I could be detained upon departure. Everyone said that the beaches on the other side were so pristine, untouched. I’m not sure what it was exactly that made me change my mind, but I guess you could say that I chickened out, but to be honest, I couldn’t even find the checkpoint. I think it was the small shack-like building where an intimidating officer stood on command. I certainly don’t speak Greek and just knew I would be deterred.

I wandered into a side door, which was actually a museum/ propaganda piece of the invasion in 1974. Apparently the subtle messages worked on me, at least for that day. I wandered out onto the street again. The layout of the Greek side was enough to keep me occupied for the day. For one thing, the major commercial corridor had sprung up beside the wall. It was littered with cafes and small stores with almost no direct sunlight or enough room for car passage. In fact, the path that I had walked to get there was not unlike the uneven and cramped terrain you might find in a city in Africa except there were art galleries in every unpredictable corner.

The local people seemed standoffish, almost like New Yorkers. They were cynical and quick with the tongue, but would help you out if you really needed it. There wasn’t much public transportation and although I felt put off, I also felt they wouldn’t mind if I hitchhiked. I held out my thumb tentatively like it was a poorly- used cliché. To my amazement, the third lorry driver stopped and brought me the short distance down the road to where I was staying while keeping me intact. The beachfront hotel was amazing and served four types of olives on the breakfast buffet. Soon I became complacent with its five star luxuries. I always wanted to go back to Nicosia and try to pass through to the Turkish side, but on my second trip there was torrential rain, and on the third I met a Pakistani in Larnaca whom I talked to the better half of the day.

Now the wall is gone and was only a small blip on my news screen. I’m not sure what this means for Greece and Turkey, or the world at large, if anything. The only thing that is certain is that a bunch of prime beachfront property just went up for sale and my favorite destination has turned into just another island.

H-1Bs, Immigration Policies and US Jobs

Ms. Anona — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 02:58:09 EDT

Bill Gates recently testified in front of Congress that the cap of 65,000 on H-1B was far too small. He went on to say that if more highly skilled foreign students are not permitted to work in the country after they graduate from U.S. universities, American high-tech companies would lose their ability to develop innovative products. India, of course, supplies the bulk of this highly skilled productivity, but little is known to those outside of the IT world the legalities, and oftentimes corrupted practices taking place right here in the USA.

On the surface, policies such as the one Bill Gates is advocating for would seem like a win-win situation for both U.S. companies and foreign immigrants, but of course it is much more complex than that. We all know very well the debate against more immigrants working in the U.S., i.e. the loss of jobs to Americans and brain drain in foreign countries. This is all very well documented and I do not wish to engage the reader in such a debacle. I wish to speak of something less spoke of, dare I say, ‘secret’ of the IT world, this being the fraudulent role of small mostly Indian-run recruitment firms. The lawless and unethical practices are something only desis or those working higher up in IT seem to know about, and it would shock typical Americans the way it surprised me when I was let in on the secret.

The Process: Although there are some very big and respectful recruitment firms out there that supply legitimate human resources to big companies specializing in IT, most of them in one way or another resort to smaller privately owned recruitment firms to supply them with links to highly-skilled staff. These smaller firms recruit fresh graduates from U.S. universities or bring over foreign citizens who have been working in IT abroad. The agencies then train the recruits in a specialized area, either concentrating on a specific software, application, or industry. When they are done training, the recruitment firms will assist in the placement of jobs in the specialized area and will take a portion of their salary thereafter. Along with the percentage taken out of their paycheck, the recruits may have to pay a flat-fee for this service and the fee may be quite substantial if the company is filing for the recruit’s H-1 status or any other INS document on their behalf.

The Problem: Although there is nothing illegal outright defined in the above process, the system allows for a plethora of infringements to take place. The first is that the majority of these small firms persuades and even push their recruits to design fraudulent, or fake resumes, giving the applicants five or more years of experience in the specialized field they are applying for when really they have next to none. The companies that hire these recruits mostly frown upon this process and claim they are not at fault as they attempt to successfully sift out these sort of applicants, however I have spoken with a broad range of immigrants that were able to obtain jobs in this way. This seems to be more the norm than the exception leaving in its wake unethical hiring standards throughout the whole of the IT industry. To my knowledge, faking resumes and lying to potential employers is not actually illegal unless it is for the federal government, but there are bound to be traces of illegal activities, such as fraudulent tax forms and false promises to the employees that must occur to maintain the system.

The system unfairly promotes non-citizens because citizens cannot be trusted to maintain the integrity of the fraudulent system. If the immigrants do not oblige in giving potential employers what their recruiters want, they may be sent back to their country, or, per their contract, may be fined. New immigrants rarely have the time or patience to get engaged in the legal system and are mostly pleased to find an easy access to corporate America. One of the extreme cases I have been confronted with was a friend of mine who was entitled to pay $500 each month to his recruiter even though they were not finding him a job. The company that had hired him was an Indian-run company and had found it more profitable to ‘virtually enslave’ their employees while they waited patiently for their green cards. His only option was to leave the country or oblige, as per the INS guidelines, he could not change employers until first receiving a paycheck.

Another contact of mine came here from abroad and returned shortly thereafter. He was brought here under false pretenses from his recruiting agency and was unwilling to lie or beef up his qualifications to find a position even though he had more relevant experience than any other of the recruits. This system rewards lying and unethical behavior and can even leak into national security measures. When these kinds of recruits get a position, they may have access to materials and documentation that they should not be privy to because they do not actually have the pre-determined experience and have instead created a fraudulent persona.

The Solution: When I find fault in something America does, the first thing I do is look over the pond. Europe is much more advanced at socialized systems and maintains more government control over processes such as this one. America has decided on many issues to circumvent government oversight in favor of lower taxes. In many European countries, there is a national board, such as the U.S’ Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC), which regulates issues on employment and can bar recruits if they are found to be fictitious in nature.

The EEOC’s role in the U.S., however, does not go much beyond making sure discrimination does not occur in the hiring process. The reason the U.S. may not want to initiate this type of oversight seen in Europe may have to do with the fact that the U.S. would have to open up certain employment sectors to foreign nationals. Contractors for many government agencies in the U.S. right now require their employees to be U.S. citizens, for example. Also, at this moment, foreign nationals having extensive experience overseas are not given any type of preference over those with the same or lesser experience obtained in this country. These things would have to change and would create a more even playing ground for foreign nationals in these sectors.

One thing for sure here is that desis are incredibly resourceful when it comes to Information Technology and they will find a way to dominate this field, legally or otherwise. I am not against more H-1 visas permissions any more than I am against recruiting firms in general, but I don’t believe in corrupt systems that promote lying and unethical behavior. I also believe that U.S. educational institutions are partially to blame for these trends. Most universities and technical colleges in the United States do not have enough competitive edge to supply their students with the most up-to-date technology that is directly translatable to the workplace.

Fiction: The Last Strand

Ms. Anona — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 12:53:16 EDT

Dear Miss Andrews,

Thank you very much for meeting with us……it was a pleasure……we have decided to select another applicant at this time……”

Jane threw the letter in the garbage, disgusted. It was the second rejection this week, the same for many weeks. She wasn’t so surprised. She knew the reason, the lack of incongruity between jobs and the fact that she had been out of work for several years, but still she thought she had that one in the bag. The interview had gone so well. She felt like crying, but decided to wait until all the negative forces would run together and collide as surely they often did. The stoplight turned red and she crossed the street without really looking.

Screeeeaaach!!! The car stopped just in time to avoid hitting her.

“Get out of the street, you fat cow!” the driver yelled in her face as he swerved hastily around her. Nope, that still wasn’t enough to make the water flow, but she could feel the noose tightening around her neck. It started with her ponytail, the one her husband wouldn’t let her cut. Her children would tear and pull at it all day and try to ride on her shoulders while they used her hair like a horse’s reins. She hated it, but they were just kids.

She approached the wall, the one she would prop her back up against waiting for the bus. She envisioned her head smashing into it face first, her body limp, controlled by the dominating force clinging to her thin strands behind her. It would be spitting some hateful words, cursing her for her existence. She would submit. The people would watch and smile painfully, but would not stop to take much heed.

The bus came and she quickly boarded. She stopped to ask the driver a question, a young black man.

“Huh?!?” he replied, irritated. She had interrupted whatever he was listening to in his headphones and was angry he had to remove them. She was usually soft-spoken and became even more so faced with confrontation. He glared at her. She could feel his eyes penetrate right through her, like she was some kind of apparition. She decided not to rebuff. Looking around, she saw no friendly faces.

She stood by a rack of some sort, the kind used to place luggage. The bars seemed enticing. There was one close to the floor that she stared at for a long time. She thought she might be able to slip her head through if it forced her. She felt her body being held in that position with the bars encompassing her throat. The bus lurched forward and her face would go red from the pressure, but she wouldn’t feel anything.

The driver slammed on the brakes, but her body did not move. The invisible hand was still holding her ponytail from behind. It had its own mind and would slam her into any inordinate object when it damn pleased. The corner of the opened door seems like a good place and she would envision the hand, the webbing of its fingers interspersed completely throughout the head of her hair, more tightly wrapped than a piece of chewing gum. She repeatedly let it propel her until she caught glimpse of a passing billboard. On it was the face of a woman holding her head and crying. It mentioned something about battered women. She looked at it fleetingly and paid no more attention than as if she was being sold a common household item.

A memory that had been taking refuge inside her decided at that moment to reintroduce itself. She was reminded of a former lover who then reminded her of yet another, and another. They enjoyed holding her head and wrapping their hand throughout her hair, as she would perform fellatio on them. The men would feel like they were in total control this way, though she never felt that they were. She would in actuality have a sense of empowerment that would come over her and arouse her even when she was doing all the pleasing. She wasn't sure, but she thought this was probably the same delusional element that got most women like her through their day. How else could they be so content with pleasing one man, the husband, when he acted like another small child at their hip.

The hand took her hair again, this time very upset. It whispered something in her ear from behind and she could not immediately tell if it was arousing her with playful sweet talk or confessing its urge to kill her. It felt like the same thing. Her head went flying into the next available hard-edged object and she was told to stop disrespecting the good women out there by comparing herself to them, she was not like them at all. There were a handful of women on the bus with her, most of them of Southeast Asian decent. The hand was right. They would admonish her completely, even her own family would if they knew who she really was.

The hand had a gun now and it was making clicking sounds in her left ear. She closed her eyes and braced herself willingly. She could see the x-ray of her brain, an opaque rectangular-shaped item lodged somewhere in the middle with a trail of nothing behind it.

Book Review: Gang Leader For a Day - Sudhir Venkatesh

Ms. Anona — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 01:24:15 EDT

When Sudhir Venkatesh was a sociology student at the University of Chicago, he was sent to the Robert Taylor Homes, one of the housing projects where African- Americans lived, to administer surveys to the residents. On just his first visit, he was held against his will in the stairwell of the multi-story edifice and was given his first lesson on urban dwellings. Even amid seemingly unorganized surroundings, nothing can be learned if giving in to generalized stereotypes and simple solutions conjured up by educated kids from the other side of town.

It was in this stairwell where he met and befriended J.T., a member of the crack-selling gang, the Black Kings. For the next seven years, Sudhir was able to observe the everyday operations of the gang under the protection of J.T. and learned that in essence the projects was really a functioning ‘community’ with complex, but organized functions, the same as any other he had ever encountered.

In Gang Leader for a Day: A Rogue Sociologist Takes to the Streets, the reader is introduced to characters you may hope to never have the displeasure of meeting in a dark alley at night. You intimately get to know both the perpetrators and victims of casual drug use, prostitution, violence, and abuse. The lines between right and wrong become blurred, but Venkatesh neither glamorizes nor condemns the actions outright of any character and allows the reader to maintain their own ideas while stretching their spectrum. It is an ugly world where even the ambulances don’t want to show up, and, true to Chicago, politicians are in on the gain as well. The most stunning revelation is that these gangs are probably the most organized pyramid structures around, where the higher ups receive a hefty pay, but the lower tier, or newbies, receive next to minimum wage while risking being killed or thrown into jail. There are plenty of books out there about the ‘ghetto’ and this book is not more shocking than any other, but the shining light here is Sudhir himself.

Throughout Venkatesh’s book, you can sense his struggle to maintain a distinct identity while allowing it to take on a new shape. The ethics that he was brought up with growing up as an established immigrant’s son in California are tested. It gets especially interesting when Sudhir recognizes that he could be in legal contempt for the things he had witnessed and had not reported to police. He even admits to contributing a few kicks in the beating of a guy who had bloodily beat up one of the girls. The lines between casual observer and participant had become just as blurry as those between right and wrong. In a world where everyone either hustles or is hustled, Sudhir realizes that his attempt to obtain the story and write an unbiased report was not viewed by the community as anything more than another self-fulfilling act. In the end, Sudhir is viewed as just another ‘hustler’, but fortunately, not this or anything else dissuaded him, including the chagrin of many of his professors he was originally trying to impress by his boldness.

This is Venkatesh’s eighth book and Gang Leader for a Day is an overall easy read. It is a story about taking risks, not only in life, but in education as well. It is also a book about cultural awareness and the need to understand all facets of society to better understand yourself.

Fiction: The Immaculate Dinner

Ms. Anona — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 07:10:48 EDT

"Please, come inside. Let me give you the grand tour." said the wrinkled old biddy. Forcing a smile, she held the door open for us.

We stumbled inside, all thirty or so of us, and looked up. The first glimpse inside was immaculate and even more stunning than we had anticipated. The foyer was all decked out in a shiny crystal chandelier that cast a glorious presence and the dining room table at the top of the staircase was set up so nice you would have thought it fit for kings and queens. Most of us were simply surprised that these rich folks had a dinner table and a room to go with it that would fit all of us. There was even a small gift wrapped up on each plate, but none of us were brazen enough to reach out and open it.

"This way please." The lady of the house continued to say. As we turned towards the hallway, I caught the first glimpse of Professor Bernstein's children hovering in the corner of the room. They sat together on one chair whispering and giggling almost inaudibly. The girl, maybe twelve, sat with her knees scrunched towards her chest and chewed on her polished fingernails between parted lips. She avoided my gaze whole-heartedly.

I wasn't that much interested in their house or their blatant display of wealth. They were certified city slickers and I was used to altogether despising them. Growing up in the slums of Chicago, my neighborhood wasn't really too far-off from theirs. We could see the picket fences and well-kempt lawns from the other side of the railroad track. Hell, it wasn't too long ago, I can even remember from my youth, when our kind weren't even allowed to travel into Hyde Park. Now we could roam freely, but were not usually stupid enough to do so.

We had reached the back of the house. There was a room that led to the master bedroom. That was as far as we would go. It looked almost like a waiting area and I wondered what was the purpose of it. On the table sat an old jewelry box that was unpolished and made of wood. It did not seem to fit in with the rest of the décor. In an instant it was removed and sat comfortably between the inseam of my britches. No one seemed to notice as we headed back towards the dinner room.

I sat down and inspected the gold-plated china. The plates all around me let off a luminous glow set off by the lighting above. The white linen looked like it had never been touched and I pinched it between my forefinger and thumb. The color contrast between it and my hand shocked me and made it feel more course than it was.

We ate cautiously, all of us looking around nervously as if we were making some kind of faux pas while at the same time sniffing our food suspiciously. One of the girls asked and was told it was soufflé. I would have preferred collard greens any day.

By the end of the dinner, I was anxious to leave, but the professor was busy chatting away about the importance of education or something. It was getting late and we all looked at each other knowing that we shared the same thought, that we had better head back soon. It was October and the twilight hours were getting shorter and shorter. Finally, Jimmy excused himself and the rest of us started to follow.

We were in the foyer with our coats on ready to go when the little wench ran out from the hallway with an accusatory look on her face. "Daddy, someone stole that old box, the one we got from Grandma. I told you, Daddy!" she screamed. Her cheeks and eyes filled in red with rage a way I had never seen before. She burst into tears and slammed a door as she ran to the back of the house. Her mother gasped and got up to follow her. The professor looked shaken and near speechlessness for the first time.

"Alright, who's been plunderin around?" Reginald hollered. ""Looky hyeer, give them nice fokes beck their things before I throw a conniption!"

Reginald had become the non-official godfather of us all. He was the biggest and scariest and wouldn't take no messing around when those sociology students had come around to ask questions and analyze us.

We emptied out the contents of our pockets and showed them for inspection.

"What is that air thang you got in yore han', Darryl?"

The lady of the house emerged again, exasperated. "She's right. It's gone. That box didn't look like much, but it was a family heirloom reaching back to Israel, and it's gone." Her voice heightened at the end along with her arms in frustration.

"Don't worry , ma'am. I'm a gonna find it. Alright, everyone put your arms up." Reginald bellowed as he started to pat down the first one. He didn't get far before the girls in the group objected. A quarrel was beginning and a ruckus was about to ensue.

Jimmy spoke up above everyone and stared up with a look of innocence in his eyes. "I don't mean any disrespect, but I'm fittin' to go. They don't mess around in this neighborhood." he said, with his hand on the doorknob.

Everyone looked at Jimmy suspiciously and overreacted. "Yeh, and he was the first to leave the table. Why's he in such a hurry?" one of the girls called out.

"Jimmy, you got lots of smarts but not much edgy-cation. I'm gwine whup you, boy!" Reginald said as he started down the staircase towards him.

"Everyone stop!" the professor yelled out before it got out of hand. "This is mad. There is no proof that anyone here even took it. I am sure if one of you did that you will return it right now. If not, then you are free to go."

We all looked around at each other and filed out the door quietly. Reginald was the last to leave. "You gonna have dat heirloom bek in the mawnin, I promise. Thank you for the meal." he said, the latter statement directed towards the lady.
Right before I bolted, I looked back to see the professor shaking his head disappointingly while his wife glared from behind him with her arms crossed.
By the time Reginald had closed the door, we had all scattered like flies, but he wasn't far behind. Jimmy was the first to get frisked, but it was only a matter of time before Reginald would realize that he was not the one and would come looking for the rest of us.

"All right, who really dunnit?" one of the girls asked, laughing.

"I dunno, wasn't me." said Darryl. "What would I want with some stupid old box?"

We were nearly running now, but I was able to reach inside and bring it out while maintaining my normal strut. I opened it, not sure what I would find.
"Dang!" I said. "Nothin inside."

"Jamal, are you plumb crazy? That's plane ignert whut you jes did." Darryl squalled and smacked the back of my head.

"I don't give a dam bout these high-falutin smaht folks round here. Did ya know he's writin' a book?" I said as I spat out the side of my mouth. "Writin' a book about what he done learnt from us! 'N all we gonna get is some dang meal."

"Yeh, dem fokes sure er diffrnt. Forget 'em."

"Let's get out of here, Reginald's gonna catch up. I got an idear." Darryl said.

"Let's go that way and sneak through that-air bob war fence!"

We all picked up the pace and followed Darryl. As we passed over the railroad tracks into our familiar territory, I gave the box one last look over.

"Nothin' purdy about it." I muttered under my breath and threw it into the ravine.