My Firsthand Experience of Media Misinformation About the Middle East
The rich and powerful voices get heard first and by the time we listen to the poor and vulnerable it is often too late.
In early 1990 the Ontario government announced that it would be issuing personalized license plates for a $100 fee, now called vanity plates. I was a very spoiled Bellydancer. I made my living only from performing my beloved art form with so many performances; I was often double-booked. I had tried to open a Middle Eastern dance school in 1987 but it only sucked time, energy and money out of me.
Simply performing at nightclubs and weddings allotted me a beautiful large apartment, a full-length fur coat (it was the 80s and I was ignorant), a limited edition fully loaded sleek black Cutlass Sierra, my adorable purebred Maltese dog named “Senghe “and plenty of discretionary funds for extravagances. Naturally I felt I deserved a personalized plate with the name ‘Yasmina” on it. Alas, I was too late and someone else snatched it. I was frustrated and disgruntled.
A few months later, an offer came to perform in a brand new six star luxury hotel in Amman, Jordan called the Grand Forte. I had opened my school in an effort to put down some roots in my home town of Toronto and fix the loneliness problem of travelling for work. In 1990 I was burned out from almost three years of teaching. Afternoons lying by the pool with a 45 minute performance at night accompanied by wonderful Lebanese and Palestinian musicians in the warmth of an appreciative audience seemed the way to go.
I decided to address the personalized license plate issue when I got back in a few years. The plan was to stay for a few years this time racking up a bank account to retire on. Off I went with my fluffy “Senghe” (Tibetan for Snow Lion, he was named by a Tibetan Buddhist Lama).
The gig was great. The hotel, my room and the food were amazing; luxury at a whole other level. The only problem was my dog could not set foot on the hotel grounds. Most of the clientele were royalty from the Gulf and they were not favourable towards dogs. So Senghe stayed with an American woman across the street at the Marriott. The wife of the German owner of the hotel had a Maltese and they sympathized with me. They tried to arrange an apartment adjacent to the hotel but hotel security vetoed the idea because my room would be too difficult to surveil and thus I might entertain male guests. In order to maintain my virtues, Senghe lived across the street but I visited him and took him for a walk every day.
Often my walks were accompanied by the guitarist of the Russian band in the lobby lounge bar. He wanted to make a point that I was his girlfriend in order to get a Saudi princess off his tail. She had a crush on him and kept slipping him notes to meet her. He was petrified that he would get killed for even the suspicion that he was trying to encourage her. Apparently there were stories of other musicians in the same precarious situation. At the very least he would be fired. So when she was in the lobby we would meet so she would see him leave with me. All in all, the neighbourhood was gorgeous with plenty of trees and large houses. Amman was so quiet and peaceful at that time and our walks were an excuse to get a change of scenery and pace.
When I lay by the pool each day, the speakers played Arab and Western music on the radio. At the top of each hour a news report was announced usually declaring how many Israelis and Palestinians had been killed in the past hour. I remember noting that often no Israelis were killed and several Palenstinians had been killed including children. Even when Israelis were killed, the numbers were like 30 Palestinians and six Israeli soldiers. The discrepancy began to concern me. In 1983 working for the first time in Amman, I had learned that the population of Jordan consisted largely of displaced Palestinians. That was my fist small indication that the news we heard in Canada was very different to the news in other parts of the world. In Canada we only heard about the Israelis killed.
The singer and I went to the office of a businessman one day to talk about performing at an event he was hosting. This man was exceptionally good looking to the point I embarrassed myself for staring. After being served tea and pastries with the usual exchange of family history and ‘how do I like Jordan’ talk, the singer and this beautiful man began to speak in Arabic. Since he was no longer talking to me, I had no excuse to admire him further. I decided to check out the many photographs displayed on the walls of his office. Each photo included himself and another world leader, most of whom I recognized including a couple of recent American presidents. Each duet stood in front of an airplane.
With a lull in the conversation and with all the charm I could muster I asked if he was a pilot and an airplane enthusiast. “No. why do you ask?” he said. So I pointed to the photographs and replied “Because all of your photographs include you, a president or king with an airplane”. He chuckled and proudly exclaimed “Ah, I am the Smith & Wesson distributor for the all of the Middle East. Those planes are fighter jets.” Took me a minute to realize he sold to all sides of the various conflicts. What a jolt. He suddenly looked ugly.
A few years later when working in Damascus a Lebanese magazine wanted to interview me so my friend Simon acted as translator. Among the many questions, one was inquiring if I would ever like to perform in Israel. I replied “yes, of course, I would love to perform in all the Middle Eastern countries. When Simon and I left the interview, he confessed to me that he had lied when translating two of my answers. One was concerning my age; he shaved off several years. The second answer was about working in Israel. He explained that if he had translated that answer correctly, I would have never worked again in the Middle East. Simon was a Lebanese refugee living and working in Syria. He explained to me that day about some of the political complications in the Middle East of which he was also a victim.
The Gulf royalty never went to the pool so I often had it all to myself. One day I arrived to find the pool full of very large American men. They looked like football players so I assumed they were and I heard the American accent. They seemed to show up everywhere; in the lobby, the restaurant. Generally my hotel was full of Gulf women in black abaya and men in white galabeya. Now they were sprinkled with very tall and muscular black and white men from the USA.
Security always made sure I never got in an elevator with an Arab man. Usually I got in elevators with women who often lifted their abaya giggling as they witnessed my reaction to their latest insane fashion right off a Paris runway. Those women could not get into an elevator with any men but apparently it was okay for me to get in an elevator with the American football players.
One day I was in the elevator with three of these guys and was asked if I was the one whose larger than life-sized photo was in the lobby advertising for the nightclub. I nodded and then asked if they were in Amman for a football game. My knowledge of sports was nil but I did know that American football had very large muscular players as seen on television.
One of the guys laughed and said “no, we are Special Forces (some number sequence followed that I forgot) and we have been given a week’s vacation here before we start a very long assignment next week in a neighbouring country”. They left a few days later. A Nice enough bunch of guys but quite frankly I was glad they were gone. I preferred having the pool to myself.
The following week as I came down for my morning ritual of breakfast in the restaurant I noticed en route that my larger than life-size photo was gone. In fact the lobby was empty. The maitre’d welcomed me with some humour as he always did. Most of the hotel staff liked to joke with me. They were kind, keeping me entertained as they took pity on me all alone for months. I asked him where my photo had gone and '‘where was everyone?’ He told me quite nonchalantly that Iraq had invaded Kuwait so the nightclub show was cancelled and I needed to go home right away. I assumed he was joking and I would get a straight answer after breakfast.
The restaurant was quiet with only one or two people, all the noisy families were gone. Everyone looked dismal but my breakfast was top quality as usual. As I exited the restaurant, I could see through the windows overlooking a courtyard a large meeting room with about 20 army generals standing around an oval table. I thought that was interesting but still did not believe the maitre’d. I waved to him and went upstairs to my room.
As soon as I walked in, the phone rang. It was the Canadian Embassy. The lady on the other line explained that there was war in the region and it was not safe to stay in Amman. She told me to go home as soon as possible and if leaving the hotel, I was to be accompanied by an Arab. I was a little mystified that they knew who I was and where to find me.
I went down to the office only to be given my final payment and then offered to stay in the hotel for an extra two weeks past the contract abruptly ending. I needed to change my ticket return date with Royal Jordanian Airlines. I phoned up Yusef, my elderly Arabic language teacher who was now taking care of Senghe, to come over and pick me up to take me to the airline office downtown. We took a taxi from the hotel. It looked like a ghost town. The busy traffic was gone. Things were beginning to settle into my heart. I definitely knew things were different but kept wishing it was a bad dream and I would wake up soon to everything back to normal.
As all taxi drivers do, he asked “Inti Amrika?” and I answered ”La, ana Canadia”. The fact that I was not American and in fact Canadian always elicited a happy response. Today, there was just a grunt. I didn’t know yet but our Prime Minister at the time had sent warships to the Gulf. This was very unusual for Canada who was usually only involved in wars in a peace-keeping role. Damascus had something called the Maple Leaf Club where the Canadian UN Peacekeepers hung out after work. When my little four person dance troupe called the Canadian Band performed in Jordan and Syria we used to get invited to party with them at the Maple Leaf Club. They treated us like royalty.
It was early August and Royal Jordanian Airlines let me know that the earliest flight back to Canada was in October, two months away. Eventually I settled for a flight to Cairo. I had Egyptian friends from Canada spending their Summer in Alexandria. One worked for Egypt Air and said she would try to get me on an Egypt Air flight back to Toronto while I stayed with them in Alexandria. As Yusef and I took the taxi back to the hotel we passed the Canadian Embassy looking quiet with the Canadian flag waving peacefully. A little further along was the university. There were about fifteen young students on the campus grounds with a couple of signs that I could not read.
As soon as I walked into my hotel room, there was a frantic call from my mother. She told me that the news said that 15,000 students were protesting in downtown Amman and they had burned the Canadian flag at the embassy. I assured her all was okay and that just twenty minutes earlier I was there; the flag was fine and there were ten, maybe 15 students standing around with some signs. She did not believe me because she saw video footage.
My boom box was able to get a signal from BBC radio in London. They were reporting 25,000 people were rioting in downtown Amman. Later, Afaf, my best friend from 1983, came to take me over to her apartment since I was no longer working. The streets were quieter than usual. No indication of riots. I asked Afaf about what my mother heard on the news. She laughed and rolled her eyes.
Afaf was Iraqi and was glued to Iraqi news translating for me. She was very proud of Sadam Hussein and a very proud Iraqi that day because her guy was standing up to the big powers. I was not sure who the big powers were. It did strike me that it wasn’t just Kuwait. I had never seen Afaf so jubilant. It warmed my heart because our history together was fraught with life beating her down (read “Afaf” chapter). She was exclaiming that Saddam was strong and thus, by association it seemed, so was she.
Because I wasn’t working for two weeks I had time and the freedom from security, or rather the moral police, to visit many homes. One night I was watching the news with an American woman whose son was living in Kuwait. She was in daily contact with him. She said that he lived on the main street in downtown Kuwait City and let her know that there was no violence anywhere and in fact, there were just a couple army tanks here and there. She was confused by the news she heard from the US which made her worry about him for no reason. He was on the phone with her as we watched the news together. He assured us that nothing of what they were saying was true. He was on his balcony and all peaceful and normal.
Eventually I got to Alexandria. My friend’s apartment that took up a whole floor was right on the beach. It was a lovely idea to be on the beach but the heat and humidity made it impossible to enjoy. The family loved Senghe so he was doing well with walks and food. My friends introduced me to Aida Nour’s manager. Aida was from Alexandria. In his office were many posters of her. I wanted to reunite with her as she was my teacher in 1982 in a Toronto hotel room for a week. Her show, sponsored by the Egyptian ministry of tourism, consisted of herself, Hosni, a male folklore dancer and musicians. They were part of the Reda Troupe representing Egypt in an attempt to attract tourists. Alas, in August 1990 Aida was in Cairo working.
My friends thought that since I was in Egypt with nothing to do I might as well get established as a dancer in Egypt. It was far more complicated than in Jordan, Lebanon or Syria. In Egypt I would need to have original music composed for me and then hire my own musicians to play that music and accompany me everywhere I performed. Once everything was organized and my show was set I would then go on a round of auditions. Aida’s manager assured me he would take care of everything and I would be set up in a nice apartment in the meantime. I was a bit wary about his intentions but my friends vouched for him and said I was completely safe. Besides, they would be looking out for me.
Once I announced my plans to my mother of staying in Egypt she freaked. The news she was hearing in Canada made her think a huge war was going to happen all over the Middle East. I assured her everything was fine. She was convinced that the news she got in Canada was absolutely correct. Ironically years before, she had quit her public relations job with a company called Hill & Knowlton because she felt they were doing unethical work that she could not get behind.
After the Gulf war the investigative television show called W5 (Canada’s equivalent to 20/20) revealed that Hill & Knowlton was paid $10 million for their work for Citizens for a Free Kuwait. Among their many false information campaigns, this company had paid an actress to play the part of a nurse who was distraught that Iraqi soldiers pulled the plugs on babies in incubators in a Kuwaiti hospital. The W5 episode never played on US television stations but Hollywood did make “Wag the Dog”.
I turned down the offer from Aida’s manager much to the disappointment of my Egyptian friends. They were convinced I was going to make it big. In fact their uncle in 1981 upon seeing my debut performance at Nefertiti Nightclub in Toronto told me that if I went to Egypt I would be very famous. I thought I will come back later when the threat of war is gone and let my mom sleep for now. Eventually my friend Monda got me on an Egypt Air flight back to Canada. You could fly anywhere to and from within the Middle East but you could not get a flight out of the Middle East, even to Europe, until November now. I finally witnessed a riot but it was in the Cairo airport. Apparently everyone wanted out…now. Not a good place for a girl, a dog and way too much luggage.
As is still the case today you need to go through security and x-ray machines for all of your luggage before checking in at the Cairo airport. There was gridlock with way too many people than what the entrance could handle. I guess people felt that if they got their luggage in the building, then it would guarantee their place on their flight. So luggage started getting passed overhead past the x-ray machines. My Senghe was in his plastic cage container so he was safe but I was getting so squished, I could barely breathe. I lost track of my suitcases. Since a month ago upon being told I needed to leave Jordan because of war I had not felt any fear or anxiety…until now when a heavy suitcase falls on a child. I see blood and the child crying. And then I cry as I am helplessly being thrown around on what felt like a wave of human bodies, often losing touch with the floor.
Somehow, miraculously it was over. I was on the other side with my luggage beside me. Checking in took quite a while. Monda warned me about this but all I needed to do was ask for a certain manager. I never received a boarding pass but the manager checked my luggage and took me to the gate. When I finally boarded I was instructed to stand aside until everyone else was seated.
My seat was the flight attendant’s seat. No idea where she or he sat. The flight was full and people were still pretty anxious. So yes, indeed, there were no available seats until November; unless you are friends with someone working for Egypt Air. People make jokes about Egypt Air and their lack of logic and organization. But that is why I always love flying with Egypt Air. You never know how it will all evolve each time.
I take an airport limo from the Toronto airport. It is quiet in the car. The black leather upholstery is shiny and clean. As we smoothly cruise along the highway I look out the window and spot a personalized license plate. I start laughing at the absurdity and wonder who in their right mind would go to the trouble of getting a personalized license plate. Uh, me nine months ago. ‘Who was that person nine months ago? I do not recognize her. It could not possibly be me.’ I see the world outside the car very differently. I see my limo driver very differently. I see the skyline of Toronto very differently. ‘How can the world go on as usual when I have changed so much?’
My mom and friends are relieved to see me but no one believes my eye-witness story. They think I am lying and CNN is telling the truth. Everyone is convinced that if it is on the news it has to be true and the US government had no idea Saddam Hussien was going to invade Kuwait. I begin to wonder if I got things wrong. ‘Were the football players really special forces soldiers?’ ‘Were the news reports about downtown Kuwait being bombed true and did I never spend the evening with a woman and her son on the phone talking calmly from downtown Kuwait City?’ He assured us nothing was being bombed. ‘Was he lying and why?’ ‘Was the Canadian flag on the embassy in Amman burned and I saw another Canadian flag on another building?’ Were there 24,985 more students at the university that I could just not see?’
Gotta say when W5 came out with their expose of the Gulf war I felt vindicated. My mom saw the episode and was not surprised Hill & Knowlton was behind it all. Now my family is not so eager to believe everything they see on the news. My German friend says that the “killing babies” narrative is used throughout history in propaganda campaigns including by Hitler in order to instill hatred for the Jewish people. He knew he was listening to a propaganda campaign when a recent report announced that a terrorist organization was chopping off the heads of babies recently.
I had to leave my beloved Montreal and move to Toronto in 1969 because of the Separatist Terrorists, the FLQ. Yet I spend many a holiday season in Gatineau, Quebec with a devout Separatist family and they lovingly speak English with this Anglophone.
Honestly, I do not know what to believe and where to find my news. I usually go to Amanpour & Company or The Daily Show. One tempers the other. A buzz phrase is “Fake News”. The way I see it, there is fake news all around. I am not sure if there is truth anywhere. However, I am more apt to believe a young person with a cellphone than CNN. I believe Anderson Cooper is well-meaning and a compassionate person searching for truth but even he must know by now that the media releases he reads have a bent narrative.
What I do know is there are many wars happening simultaneously around the globe. Who is to say which wars and whose lives matter more than others? If it was my country and my family threatened and killed, then that is the most important war that I need to fight in. How does the saying go? “One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.” Anyone who has travelled extensively interacting intimately with people different from oneself knows this to be true.
The rich and powerful voices get heard first and by the time we listen to the poor and vulnerable it is often too late.