Flash back—ancient Rome.
“Kill!! Kill!”
Gladiators, superb fighters trained with weapons of their choice, are fighting in the arena for the pleasure of men and women sitting in the stands loving the sheer spectacle of it all. Each stroke of the sword, each jab of the spear, whips the people into frenzied blood lust. The result for the spectators, side bets won or lost, and a little recreation; for the gladiators, a fight for survival.
Flash forward—USA.
“Get him! Knock his head off!”
MMA fighters pummeling each other—kicking, punching, wrestling, as they try to smash each other into oblivion. The time has changed; the people have changed; the ingrain brutal nature of man has remained the same—the love of violence.
Boxing has rules; wrestling is entertainment; Mixed Martial Arts or MMA is just savagery. Admittedly, MMA fighters are in the best of condition and well trained, but seriously have you ever watched a fight and thought about what was happening? In the United States, sports in general, caters more to blood and guts rather than finesse or just athleticism. We are breeding a culture of violence; we are breeding a ‘thuggish’ culture.
Imagine if you will a bar, a street, or any public place and someone picks a fight with you. Any physical confrontation, and the chances are, you can be arrested, and put in jail for assault and battery. However, if the purse is right, for your pleasure, a fight can be arranged and fighters paid to wreck mayhem on each other. Because people are paying money, and the fighters are playing by the ‘rules’, it is not deemed assault; it is not breaking the law. Such a staged fight is called entertainment. Forget that they are still inflicting bodily harm; forget that they still end brain damaged; the fact is that they have given us entertainment. This is justifiable battery.
How different is this from the Roman Arenas of yore? How different is this form of barbarism? How much have we advanced in our taste for entertainment? Is it any wonder that our children are affected by this ‘thuggish’ culture?
Am I crazy or are the values of our society wacky? Talk to me!
Riaz Sahibzada
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
What will people think?
“What will people think?”
This is a common refrain of most people when asked to do something out of the normal. We all want to be perceived in our own ideal image. We buy a car, not because it is convenient, but because we want it to reflect our image. I know of a person who bought a gigantic house, not because she needed it, but because it went with her image.
“You cannot blame Mr. X, because he was intoxicated at that time. This was not Mr. X’s real personality; it was the liquor that was talking.”
Excuse me, I beg to differ. Strong liquor or drugs tend to drop the barriers that we have acquired over the years. We adopt a veneer of culture and suavity, because we want our neighbors to look at us in a particular way. We live for what people think about us, even though they may not be giving us a second of their time; we just think they do. When the fear of people not recognizing us for what we are banishes, our true selves come out.
Remember when the lights went out in New York, a few years back? People of all walks of life: young, old, middle class, poor—all breaking into stores; all carrying away anything that they could. At that time and place, morality was on temporary suspension; religion on hold; and decency on the back burner. There was only the moment, and a time to get whatever you could lay your hands, because nobody was watching. Law was temporarily suspended, and under the cloak of darkness, people allowed the beast, ever lurking under the surface, come charging to the forefront.
In the United States, and indeed the word over, on a regular basis, people will go to their places of worship; they will read their prescribed book of worship, but do they really believe? Are we just feral creatures that need the strong hand of the law to keep us in check? Do we just keep up with appearances, or do we have an inbuilt sense of decency? Events all over the world would dispute this; when in a mob mode, like jackals, we will howl for blood, without reason, without a real sense of justice. What do you think?
Am I crazy, or is the world wacky? Talk to me!!
Riaz Sahibzada
This is a common refrain of most people when asked to do something out of the normal. We all want to be perceived in our own ideal image. We buy a car, not because it is convenient, but because we want it to reflect our image. I know of a person who bought a gigantic house, not because she needed it, but because it went with her image.
“You cannot blame Mr. X, because he was intoxicated at that time. This was not Mr. X’s real personality; it was the liquor that was talking.”
Excuse me, I beg to differ. Strong liquor or drugs tend to drop the barriers that we have acquired over the years. We adopt a veneer of culture and suavity, because we want our neighbors to look at us in a particular way. We live for what people think about us, even though they may not be giving us a second of their time; we just think they do. When the fear of people not recognizing us for what we are banishes, our true selves come out.
Remember when the lights went out in New York, a few years back? People of all walks of life: young, old, middle class, poor—all breaking into stores; all carrying away anything that they could. At that time and place, morality was on temporary suspension; religion on hold; and decency on the back burner. There was only the moment, and a time to get whatever you could lay your hands, because nobody was watching. Law was temporarily suspended, and under the cloak of darkness, people allowed the beast, ever lurking under the surface, come charging to the forefront.
In the United States, and indeed the word over, on a regular basis, people will go to their places of worship; they will read their prescribed book of worship, but do they really believe? Are we just feral creatures that need the strong hand of the law to keep us in check? Do we just keep up with appearances, or do we have an inbuilt sense of decency? Events all over the world would dispute this; when in a mob mode, like jackals, we will howl for blood, without reason, without a real sense of justice. What do you think?
Am I crazy, or is the world wacky? Talk to me!!
Riaz Sahibzada
Friday, September 11, 2009
When the world stood still, and heroism showed its real self
Whoom!
The building shook; we looked at each other absolutely stunned.
“What the heck was that?”
September 11, 2001. It was a day that will always be in my mind; a day when the world, for most people who were at the Pentagon that day, came to a standstill. I was lucky; I was at the other end of my office, which was located in the E-Ring of the Pentagon, next to the Main Command Entrance. If I had been in my office, would I have been here to tell the story? I don’t know; life plays strange tricks on us. Call me a fatalist; it just was not my time, but for others the bells tolled vociferously.
As I recall, there was less panic and more a sense of urgency. Without thinking, most people ran towards the explosion, not away from it. People young and old, male and female, quite unthinking, went to help the handicapped, the hurt, and the distraught ones. It was a day, which highlighted the true character of the American people—people who braved the debris of broken masonry and bent steel; people who went not once, but over and over to drag an unfortunate colleague; people who had no equipment. Their only goal was to pull their comrades from the wreck of the hell caused by twisted minds.
Was it only eight years ago? In retrospect, all I can think is: why do we only show our best side when the chips are down? Why can’t we apply the same approach to everyday problems? Maybe I am a dreamer, but dreams come true. Maybe, this country will once more rise out of the ashes of polarity to the new beginnings of a unified nation. Maybe Democrats and Republicans will look at the problems as Americans and not party enthusiasts; maybe, we will pull together for the good of the people, not the good of certain sections of the people. Maybe, all of us can look forward to a better, cleaner, and more giving United States.
Maybe! Maybe! Maybe! I can dream, can’t I?
Riaz Sahibzada
The building shook; we looked at each other absolutely stunned.
“What the heck was that?”
September 11, 2001. It was a day that will always be in my mind; a day when the world, for most people who were at the Pentagon that day, came to a standstill. I was lucky; I was at the other end of my office, which was located in the E-Ring of the Pentagon, next to the Main Command Entrance. If I had been in my office, would I have been here to tell the story? I don’t know; life plays strange tricks on us. Call me a fatalist; it just was not my time, but for others the bells tolled vociferously.
As I recall, there was less panic and more a sense of urgency. Without thinking, most people ran towards the explosion, not away from it. People young and old, male and female, quite unthinking, went to help the handicapped, the hurt, and the distraught ones. It was a day, which highlighted the true character of the American people—people who braved the debris of broken masonry and bent steel; people who went not once, but over and over to drag an unfortunate colleague; people who had no equipment. Their only goal was to pull their comrades from the wreck of the hell caused by twisted minds.
Was it only eight years ago? In retrospect, all I can think is: why do we only show our best side when the chips are down? Why can’t we apply the same approach to everyday problems? Maybe I am a dreamer, but dreams come true. Maybe, this country will once more rise out of the ashes of polarity to the new beginnings of a unified nation. Maybe Democrats and Republicans will look at the problems as Americans and not party enthusiasts; maybe, we will pull together for the good of the people, not the good of certain sections of the people. Maybe, all of us can look forward to a better, cleaner, and more giving United States.
Maybe! Maybe! Maybe! I can dream, can’t I?
Riaz Sahibzada
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Establishing an Afghan Desk: qualified personnel only, please!
The year, 2001; the place, Pentagon.
“Professor, can you please go to the Afghan Desk, and talk to the newly appointed Afghan Head.”
“Sure,” I said to the Deputy Chief of OCPA (Civil), a political appointee, and a good friend.
“What am I supposed to be talking about?”
My friend asked me to just feel the Head out. I agreed, and went out to do his bidding. At the Afghan Desk, I introduced myself and was taken to the person in charge. I was expecting a grizzled veteran of Afghanistan; I got a young man of about 30 years, very pleasant, and very nice to talk to. Wow! He must be a real hot shot to be sitting in such a chair; probably graduated top of his class in Political Science. Boy! Was I wrong?
He was an Afghan, so I addressed him in Pashto. It turned out that he did not know a word of Pashto, and said so. I switched to Dari. His answer was more astonishing, “I am trying to learn that language, but I barely know a few sentences, so could we speak in English?”
I looked across at a white gentleman with rather grey hair, who was with him in the office. He shrugged his shoulders and in fluent Pashto said, “Don’t look at me? I just work here.” It turned out that this person had spent some time with State in Afghanistan.
“Have you ever gone to Afghanistan?” I asked the Head.
He said that he had never been; besides, he was American and didn’t like to be associated with Afghans.
I could see that the conversation was going nowhere, so I took my leave from both of them and went back to my friend in OCPA. Then I related everything to him. He looked at me in absolute amazement.
“Are you serious?”
Yes, I was; the government, I don’t know?
Am I crazy, or is the world wacky? Talk to me!!
Riaz Sahibzada
“Professor, can you please go to the Afghan Desk, and talk to the newly appointed Afghan Head.”
“Sure,” I said to the Deputy Chief of OCPA (Civil), a political appointee, and a good friend.
“What am I supposed to be talking about?”
My friend asked me to just feel the Head out. I agreed, and went out to do his bidding. At the Afghan Desk, I introduced myself and was taken to the person in charge. I was expecting a grizzled veteran of Afghanistan; I got a young man of about 30 years, very pleasant, and very nice to talk to. Wow! He must be a real hot shot to be sitting in such a chair; probably graduated top of his class in Political Science. Boy! Was I wrong?
He was an Afghan, so I addressed him in Pashto. It turned out that he did not know a word of Pashto, and said so. I switched to Dari. His answer was more astonishing, “I am trying to learn that language, but I barely know a few sentences, so could we speak in English?”
I looked across at a white gentleman with rather grey hair, who was with him in the office. He shrugged his shoulders and in fluent Pashto said, “Don’t look at me? I just work here.” It turned out that this person had spent some time with State in Afghanistan.
“Have you ever gone to Afghanistan?” I asked the Head.
He said that he had never been; besides, he was American and didn’t like to be associated with Afghans.
I could see that the conversation was going nowhere, so I took my leave from both of them and went back to my friend in OCPA. Then I related everything to him. He looked at me in absolute amazement.
“Are you serious?”
Yes, I was; the government, I don’t know?
Am I crazy, or is the world wacky? Talk to me!!
Riaz Sahibzada
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Selling emotions is good business
“This, sir is an ideal box for a beloved relative. Feel this material; it is genuine satin. There is heavy padding underneath it; the padding, let me remind you, is made of special foam; your relative will be lying on a cloud. And the wood is polished with built in veneer. This, sir, is the best that money can buy; it is the ultimate in respect for a departed loved one.”
The man was dressed in a dark suit. The place was quiet and very somber, as befitting a funeral parlor—an expensive one at that. Solicitous, grave, and very respectful, he talked to my friend John like a butler of bye gone days. I had accompanied John after many protests, for funeral parlors give me the creeps, but I came with him for moral support. Before setting forth to the parlor, John had looked me in the eye and said, “By no means are you going to say anything that might be construed as humorous, clear.”
I was very clear. I had no intentions of being witty or sarcastic; this, after all, was not the place for humor, and I could relate to the time and place, but this bag-of-wind was just getting to me. The final straw was when he told John that the casket had pneumatic holes in the casket.
“What are they for,” I asked.
“So that enough air can circulate through the casket,” he said rather sententiously.
“But the man is dead. Isn’t he?”
Both gave me dirty stares as if to say, “Spare him Lord, for he is a heretic.”
Why must we go to all the expense of taking a dead body; dressing it up in the finest of clothes—clothes that the person might never have worn in their lives—not even in their dreams? Are we honoring the departed or expatiating our own sins? Maybe, I am crazy, but the last time I checked, all revealed religions having father Abraham as an ancestor emphasize the temporal nature of the flesh. The soul is immortal and goes on into the afterlife. “Ashes to ashes; dust to dust……” So what is with all this over-hype in dressing the body up as if it is on the way to a big old party in the sky? How is this any different from the pagan rites of placing a sword in a warrior’s hand; slaughtering his war steed, and placing him by his side; and putting all his jewelry on him to help in the other world?”
When did we get away from the simple pine box and the solemnity of real grief? When was this replaced by the sheer hypocrisy of what passes on for grief?
I was relating the above anecdote to my friend Ike recently, and he shook his head, “Man, you are naïve. We had to change the entire cloth of a casket because the shade of the cloth was off by.001 percent.” “What”, he went on, “will the dead person open his eyes; look at the cloth, and say the dye is off color?”
I mean, am I crazy or is the world wacky? Talk to me!!
Riaz Sahibzada
The man was dressed in a dark suit. The place was quiet and very somber, as befitting a funeral parlor—an expensive one at that. Solicitous, grave, and very respectful, he talked to my friend John like a butler of bye gone days. I had accompanied John after many protests, for funeral parlors give me the creeps, but I came with him for moral support. Before setting forth to the parlor, John had looked me in the eye and said, “By no means are you going to say anything that might be construed as humorous, clear.”
I was very clear. I had no intentions of being witty or sarcastic; this, after all, was not the place for humor, and I could relate to the time and place, but this bag-of-wind was just getting to me. The final straw was when he told John that the casket had pneumatic holes in the casket.
“What are they for,” I asked.
“So that enough air can circulate through the casket,” he said rather sententiously.
“But the man is dead. Isn’t he?”
Both gave me dirty stares as if to say, “Spare him Lord, for he is a heretic.”
Why must we go to all the expense of taking a dead body; dressing it up in the finest of clothes—clothes that the person might never have worn in their lives—not even in their dreams? Are we honoring the departed or expatiating our own sins? Maybe, I am crazy, but the last time I checked, all revealed religions having father Abraham as an ancestor emphasize the temporal nature of the flesh. The soul is immortal and goes on into the afterlife. “Ashes to ashes; dust to dust……” So what is with all this over-hype in dressing the body up as if it is on the way to a big old party in the sky? How is this any different from the pagan rites of placing a sword in a warrior’s hand; slaughtering his war steed, and placing him by his side; and putting all his jewelry on him to help in the other world?”
When did we get away from the simple pine box and the solemnity of real grief? When was this replaced by the sheer hypocrisy of what passes on for grief?
I was relating the above anecdote to my friend Ike recently, and he shook his head, “Man, you are naïve. We had to change the entire cloth of a casket because the shade of the cloth was off by.001 percent.” “What”, he went on, “will the dead person open his eyes; look at the cloth, and say the dye is off color?”
I mean, am I crazy or is the world wacky? Talk to me!!
Riaz Sahibzada
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