PROSE AND POETRY FROM AN AMERICAN BELLY DANCER
AND HER ALTER EGO
I am a belly dancer and student at New York University. In September 2001, I took a dynamic course called Major Twentieth Century writers under the tutelage of an inspiring, creative, "brainiac" instructor, Julia Keefer, a.k.a. Professor "Evergreen." The course focus was the exploration, literary analysis and enjoyment of global twentieth century literature. We were to read a book each week and write about the literature in the voice of a chosen historical alter ego. We were encouraged by Professor Evergreen to be creative and take our alter ego on a journey through the literature. Then September 11th happened and the course focus changed to include the impact of terrorism. I chose Parween al-Shah as my alter ego, a youngAfghani refugee woman in her twenties. She is my creation and so is this mix of prose and poetry inspired by literature and the events of 9/11.
This is Parween al-Shah's first reaction to the literature, Anchee Nin's "Red Azalea."
WHITE JASMINE and RED AZALEA
by Parween al-Shah
9/29/2001
My name is Parween al-Shah. I am from Afghanistan. I fled to the U.S. in 1998, after the death of my mother. The Taliban mullah killed her. They shot her legs off because her ankles became exposed under the burqa. She bled to death in the street. I was nineteen years old. My father had died two years before by stepping on a land mine. My relatives helped me escape through Pakistan and a few months later got me into the U.S. I live with my Aunt and Uncle in New York. I have worked very hard to improve my English and am very happy to be attending school here. My mother was a teacher. She insisted on a strong education for me. When the Taliban prevented us from going to school, my mother ran some underground classes. She exposed me to as much knowledge as she could. She was so wise and beautiful. She always smelled of sweet jasmine oil. But that was before the Taliban came into power. In Afghanistan today wearing any perfume, makeup or nail polish is a serious crime. They ripped off a woman’s entire thumbnail because it had some polish on it. It was brutal madness.In my American school I read the book Red Azalea by Anchee Min. I feel like a kindred soul to her. We both fled our homeland to come to the U.S. We both were taught to believe America was land of the evil, home of the cowards. How sad that our own countries distorted the truth and failed us in so many ways. But one comment I must make about China’s Communist regime. Communism was a good thing for the women in Afghanistan. When they took over in 1978, they passed decree’s which forbade forced marriages and set a minimum age for marriage. In 1984 they gave women the right to work so that by 1992, women represented half the work force. Still, I recognize the oppression, the fear to conform, that Anchee went through. She started out with such zeal and worked so hard but eventually had her private struggles with the regime. I felt a deep pain reading about her special teacher whom she betrayed. I could imagine this was my own mother, a teacher, exposed and condemned simply for being a good teacher and a loving person.
Both China and Afghanistan have some harsh, unyielding terrain. Anchee’s simple straightforward descriptions transport you to the land of the Red Farm, so you can feel the leech infested swamps, smell the pig shit and fungicide, taste the dryness in your mouth from work that drains the body of every precious drop of fluid. And the same gnawing hunger pangs that she felt, I have felt. No, it’s not so different. But how free for Anchee to be able to work without having to wear a burqa. I hated the burqa. It is hot and hard to see out of. Many women were killed in Afghanistan by cars and trucks because their peripheral vision was thwarted. It was our uniform. It was the uniform of a prisoner. It transformed us into non-beings, sub-humans. Anchee had different uniforms, but they made her equal to a man. This I applaud in Communism. Of course here in America the choices of dress are almost too much to bear. I feel free, yet at times, overexposed.
Flesh and sex are everywhere in America and there was plenty of longing for flesh and sex in Red Azalea. It shocked me to the core to read such things, but it was the truth and where else could Anchee Min write this truth but in America? Women of Afghanistan are denied the sex that Americans and Chinese know. The Afghani woman is nothing more than a receptacle for man’s sex. We are denied passion and pleasure, no makeup, no jewelry, no plucking eyebrows, no high heels (because the clicking sound distracts man), we can not work, can not go to school, our testimony in court is worth half of a man’s, all our public recreation places are closed, no woman can sing in public, no talking loudly, no laughing, in fact the government doesn’t want women to go out at all. It forces women to stay in their homes with blackened windows. Anchee’s China was not as oppressive as Parween’s Afghanistan! In fact, had I not been exposed to American freedoms, I would have welcomed Communist China in comparison to the Taliban regime.Still, I would not have been able to worship my Islam in China, and for that alone I would not want to be there. Anchee’s government became a fierce religion with a human god, Mao Se Tung, as its holy prophet. The dogma consisted of constant songs, slogans, and sayings all memorized with a feverish, relentless energy. To follow a human god goes against all the pure beliefs of Islam. I believe in Allah. But let me make it clear, the Taliban does not believe in the same Allah that I do. Theirs is an unholy, unloving false allah. Anchee’s Communist China had no tolerance for Allah or other religions; only the state, only the revolution should have the focus. But at least they tried to take care of the poor and hungry.
I loved reading about Anchee’s experience on a movie set. I love movies, especially American movies. But reading is my first love and honestly I couldn’t put this book down. You are drawn so simply yet deeply into Anchee’s world. You feel her intense labors, emotional pains, disappointments, frustrations, unrequited loves and lost youth. It makes me think of my own stolen youth, my murdered parents and harsh life. Like Anchee, I looked for a mentor, a heroine to emulate and keep me strong. For her it was Yan, her true Red Azalea. For me it was my mother, my White Jasmine. They were strong, brave, true, the love of our lives and they will never be replaced. The Red Azaleas and White Jasmines inspire women to fight, to rise up, survive, excel, surpass and contribute to a world that is still mostly the harsh domain of men.
Inspired by "God Dies by the Nile" and other writings of Nawal el Saadawi.
HEY ARAB GIRL
by Jane Schreck
10/4/2001
Hey Arab girl, come walk with me,
I'm in sequined wonder of belly bejeweled glitter.
You are a mystery in veils of silken modesty.
Can you see through the mesh panel?
Shall I help you walk...lean on me if you stumble.
Hey arab girl, lets talk about sex.
No one can hear our secret whispers.
I'll tell you about multiple orgasms,
And you'll tell me how a razor tore out your sex.
Are you still in pain?
Will you ever really know how much was stolen from you?
He Arab girl, let's go to school.
I can learn anything I want, politics, religion, sex.
Learning is forbidden for you.
Your mind is open, but your world is closed.
Can you read? I'll teach you and free you.
Let's not get caught.
Hey Arab girl, how do you see me?
Am I an inspiration or an abomination?
Am I free or am I an infidel?
I am afraid FOR you and you are afraid OF me.
Don't be.
I am your sister.
An alter ego on Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart
Things Fall Apart, But Are Always Replaced
By Parween al-Shah
10/13/2001
I have no sympathy. No, not really. Onkonkwo, the protagonist of Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, doesn’t garner the same emotional, empathetic reaction I usually have for the plight of fictional protagonists. My feelings usually flow like a running tap, but the more I got to know Onkonkwo, the more I turned off my emotions. The passage from page thirteen illustrates why:
“Onkonkwo ruled his household with a heavy hand. His wives, especially the youngest lived in perpetual fear of his fiery temper, and so did his little children.”
Can I feel sorry for a man who terrorizes his women and children? This issue is too close and familiar to the domination, repression and fear I experienced in my former days living under the Taliban. Different degrees of severity, it could be argued, but severe nonetheless. I had a gleam of hope early on in the story when I learned that the Umuofia worshipped goddesses. Surely such a culture would hold women in high esteem. They don’t. It is only wrong to beat a woman during Peace Week; every other time it’s perfectly acceptable to beat women. The violent and explosive Onkonkwo regarded his three wives and women in general, as foolish creatures.I am starting to question religion, my religion. God, Allah, Moses, Jesus, Mohamed- what difference does it make? In all three of the major religions today woman is second- class. The Supreme Being is a male, man creates the dogma, man studies the texts, and all the major leaders are men. Male interpretation of male writings dictate to the female, telling her what her place is, which is always lower than the male’s. The inequality, the suppression, the pain that women experience are explained and justified by the story of Adam and Eve. Too bad ladies, Eve ruined it for you. Well I don’t accept this anymore, and now I will be labeled blasphemous.
The author does not portray the female characters as having a strong influence in life. We don’t hear from the female point of view. They exist in the story only as far as they relate to the men. They are worthy only to the degree of their obedience and beauty. There are no true heroines described. The only importance they had was if a male favored them over other women. Onkonkwo admired his daughter but never stopped bemoaning the fact that she wasn’t a son. I can’t read this story as objectively as my alter ego, Jane. She is an American. She hasn’t suffered like the Afghani woman has. She can be empathetic, supportive, but she can’t really know what it’s like. So much of her freedom is taken for granted. I am having trouble being an objective observer to this story. I am ignoring literary merit or cultural exposure. I simply can’t get beyond my life and myself. In my life, things already have fallen apart, and I am trying to put them back together.Towards the end on Achebe’s tale, things do fall apart. Onkonkwo falls apart. The white man, another man comes in and disregards and disrespects an entire culture. You know what I say? Big deal. One group of men takes over another. Testosterone vs. Testosterone. War upon War. Man vs. Man. Things fall apart but some other group of potently aggressive men will always replace it. Umuofia, America, Afghanistan: we women stand by and watch and wonder. How will their actions affect us? Will one form of suppression for women replace another? Umuofia beatings, Taliban murder, American sexual objectification, pick the abuse du jour. What difference can we possibly make if our voice isn’t heard, our nature always yielding, our focus on surviving, attempting to escape physical or emotional pain or death? The men will go on conquering in spite of what we say or do, with a primal need that overtakes all others. Well let them battle it out then. Let them fight, kill – and like Onkonkwo, let them all hang themselves.
Inspired by Aldous Huxley’s "Brave New World"
SUSIE ON THE MOON WITH AMETHYST
(Sung to the tune of the Beatles “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”)
By Jane Schreck
9/22/2001
Picture yourself in a strange helicopter
With Alpha’s and Beta’s
From embryo pies.
Somebody calls you with synthetic music,
A girl with pneumatic green eyes.
Sweet orgy-porgies and obstacle golf,
Feelies and hypnotic dreams.
Look for the girl with the moon in her eyes
And she’s yours.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst. Ohhh, ohhh.
Travelling down on a Bombay Green Rocket,
With brachycephalics
in Epsilon style.
One gramme or two grammes will keep you quite jolly,
And oh so incredibly high.
Singing and praising the almighty Ford.
Conditioning free will away.
Look for the girl with the moon in her eyes
And she’s yours.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst. Ohhh, ohhh.
Picture yourself in a world that’s so tidy,
Where happiness lives and truth has to hide.
Somebody calls you with changing aromas,
The girl with pneumatic green eyes.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst. Ohhh, ohhh.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst. Ohhh, ohhh.
Inspired by Don DeLilloís "White Noise."
THE OHM OF MCWORLD
By Jane Schreck
11/9/2001
WHITE NOISE, LOUD TOYS, BEASTIE BOYS, RUMBLING TRAINS, THUNDERING PLANES, BOOMING CRANES, SCREECHING CARS, CROWDED BARS, ROCKET TO MARS, TICK TOCKS, DIGITAL CLOCKS, BLASTING ROCKS, ELECTRIC HUMS, PHONE YOUR CHUMS, VACUUMN UMMS, SUBWAY ROARS, SLAMMING DOORS, SCREAMING WARS, TALKING HEADS, CREAKING BEDS, HE SAID-SHE SAIDS, SCREAMING ADS, NOISY FADS, AUTO CADS, THIN WALLS, SHOPPING MALLS, CELL PHONE CALLS, DVDS, MY MTV, SOUPED UP PCS, HARD DRIVE BUZZ, STATIC FUZZ, SURROUND SOUNDÖ HISS, SWISH, ZIP, FIZZ, POP, BLEEP, CLANG, THUD, CRASH, SNAP, BUZZ, HUM, PING, CRACKLE, RING, BLAST, RAT-A-TAT-TAT, GONG, CLICK, DIN, MURMER, SCREECH, ROAR, FRACAS, SHRILL, WHOOP, RATTLE, PEAL, TOLL, THUNDER, BOIL, BUBBLE, SCREAM, BANG, RUB-A-DUB-DUB, CHORTLE, WHISTLE, BLUSTER, RACKET, SHOUT, SHRILL, ECHO, BEEP, HONK, BAWL, GUFFAW, CHURN, CHUG-A-LUG, SCHRIEK, BONG, POOF, GUST, CLAMOR, RAP, KNOCK, HUBBUB, CLAP, CLATTER, ZING, ROAR, TAP RUMBLE, BLABBER, DING, TWEET, BELLOW, CRUNCH, SWIZZLE, PANDEMONIUMÖ A DEAFENING, CLAMOROUS, EARTH SHAKING VOCIFERENCEÖA LOUDMOUTHED UPRORIOUS CACOPHONY CULMINATING IN THE PERFECT OHM OF MCWORLD.
An alter egoís reaction to Joyce Carol Oates' "Black Water."
BLACK WATER, BLACK DREAM
By Parween al-Shah
11/2/2001
Others will see Joyce Carol Oates novella, "Black Water," as a fictional version of a real life American political drama. For me, it is a metaphor for my life. The story reads like a dream and dreams are subject to interpretation, prejudiced and tinted by perceptions and life experiences. I felt rather than read my way through this dark and deadly dream sequence. We all identify in some way with art or literature. Black Water was my own bad dream. So I will analyze this book as if it were mine alone to decipher.
In dream semiotics a car symbolizes your life and it is very important to note who is driving. I was the girl in the car. I wasnít driving. I wasnít in control. As a Muslim woman I have never been in control of my life. The men control our lives, so it doesnít surprise me that in my black water dream, a man is driving the car, the symbol for my life. As an Afghani woman I was plunged into the darkness of the veil and to the status of subhuman just as I plunged into the dark black water. Water represents many things but mostly emotions. And what is the emotional state of the water in this dream of mine? Fear, sorrow, despair and rage mixed with the acid rain of Taliban oppression; an evil mixture of the murky ideals of a male dominated religion, the slimy, dark deeds of man, fetid rotting hatreds and thick prejudices. It is this black water that suffocates and fills up the wrecked car, my wrecked life as I struggle to breathe, as I struggle to stay alive.
The man driving is an embodiment of all men, my father, my uncles, the mullah, the Taliban and the American men. It is fitting that in this dream he appears as an American because I live in the U.S. now. The American driving the car is all friendly and nice at first, very attractive, very political but he knows how to get himself free from the sinking car/deathtrap. He steps on me when it is in his best interest. And then he abandons me. The American abandoned the Afghani woman when the Taliban first took over my country. It wasnít in his best interest to worry about a mere bunch of women, especially Muslim women. And now that ignorance has cost the lives of many innocent Americans who for the first time are experiencing the terror of having bombs dropping on their homeland. Welcome to my world America. Now it is in Americaís best interest to stop the murderers of my beloved mother.
The marshes represent those things that hold a person down, things that literally ìbogî you down. The bridge before the dangerous curve can represent two Freudian ideas, one is that of the male sex organ or something that brings one to death. Both are appropriate for the story and for my own dream. The Arab man cuts out womanís sex, denies her pleasure, covers her up and tries to suppress sexuality. The American man exploits womenís sexuality with the bombardment of overtly explicit visual imagery and over preoccupation with sex. They are two sides of the same coin. The image of the bridge is this sexual representation in my dream and something that leads to my death. Do the extremes of sexual suppression or exploitation ultimately lead to the death of the female psyche? I have only known these two extremes having lived in Afghanistan and in America. Where will I find balance and peace? Not in my black dream of death.