A Messenger of Hope Raises Hope from the Ashes

My internship at UNESCO brought me face to face with many colourful characters and people of many nationalities and backgrounds, some not unlike my own. But out of all the people I thought I’d meet during my stay, Forrest Whitaker was not one of them.

The US actor brought Africa to the screen as Idi Amin in The Last King of Scotland. This time, he brought Rwanda back to the limelight with an advanced screening of his documentary Rising from the Ashes.  As a UNESCO Goodwill Ambassador, Whitaker allowed UNESCO staff, interns and visitors the chance to see an advance screening of the film, which he narrated and produced, before it hits French cinemas.

Set in Rwanda and spanning three continents, the movie tells the story of the first Rwandan national cycling team and its rise to fame under the guidance of Jonathan “Jacques” Boyer, the first American to compete in the Tour de France. Composed of genocide survivors, the men form an indestructible companionship as they compete in Rwanda, South Africa, the United States and finally in London for the 2012 Olympic Games. Boyer himself appeared alongside Whitaker on stage to present the film to the audience.

The film takes you from tears to laughter and back again as the stories of Boyer and the cyclists are revealed. The losses and misfortunes of the main characters will bring tears to your eyes while their triumphs will brighten your mood just as quickly. Most strikingly, it is an example of how the love of sport and a spirit of sportsmanship can be powerful enough to break down all the self-imposed barriers that we build up based on prejudices, resentment, apathy and cynicism. It tells about how the scars left behind by violence and hatred need not bleed forever. As a UN agency specialised in fostering cultural and educational cooperation in the aim of sustaining peace, Rising from the Ashes gives a concrete example of how UNESCO’s mission may be possible.

For more information on the film, click here

It was notoriously hard to get a shot of him

Forrest Whitaker and Jonathan “Jacques” Boyer are introduced to the audience

Forrest Whitaker speaks to the audience

Forrest Whitaker accepts a gift from a Rwandan student at the film’s screening

Poster for the film, Rising from the Ashes

A Most Memorable 21st

Your 21st birthday can mean different things to different people. In the United States, it’s the day you can finally celebrate their guilt free sip of alcohol. in the rest of the world, you’d certainly be old enough to drive, vote, and work. In my case, it was a birthday to remember.

My parents and sisters both wished me a happy birthday. So did my brother and his family by phone. As I sat down to see what messages I received on my birthday, one particular email caught my eye:

Good morning, Skander.

Many thanks, once again, for submitting your short stories for consideration to the upcoming charity Horror Anthology, Fear. We have received a very high standard of submission over the last month, and I am delighted to offer you a contract for their publication in the Anthology, which I attach to this email. I would hope that the details are clear, but please don’t hesitate to email me if you have any questions related to it.

In brief, by signing the contract you provide us with the exclusive rights to publish your short stories in the Anthology for twelve months (from publication date). You agree that, after twelve months, we have indefinite non-exclusive rights to publish your short stories,  in that you are free to seek their publication with additional sources. As you will know, all net royalties, received by us from the distributors (Amazon, Smashwords, Createspace, and so on), will be paid to charity.

I blinked. It couldn’t be what I thought it was, could it?

I replied to the email, my words not even close to describing my disbelief.

Dear Laurence,

I’m not sure I understand correctly. Does this mean that you would like to publish one of my short stories in the magazine? Please let me know. Thank you very much.

This was his response:

Good evening, Skander.

 

Yes, that’s correct. We have attached two contracts to our previous email – one for each story.

 

Kind Regards,

Laurence

This wasn’t the first anthology I submitted my work to. Previously, one of my short stories was short-listed to appear in a similar book called Deviant Nightmares which was a horror anthology made up of stories and artwork by writers and artists of the online community deviantART. Even though the person responsible for compiling the stories personally liked my submission, there must have been others far more talented.

Two years later, a group I joined on deviantART called The Written Revolution advertised the opportunity to be published by Crooked Cat Publishing, an independent publisher based in the UK. It was calling for submissions from writers. Any opportunity was good enough for me at the time, so I submitted my stories “The Wild Huntsman” and “The Nightmare Queen”, both written around 2010 and having gone through very minimal editing at first.

I never once expected that anything would come of it.

The anthology, called FEAR, was published on October 3rd, 2012 and is still available on Amazon and Smashwords.

My 21st birthday was more than one more year in my life. It was a milestone. I had heard the same thing over and over again that persistence was the key for any aspiring author. And now, I know it’s true.

Two Famous Stiffs

I remember an old friend from High School telling me that he had seen a dead body while he was living in Yemen. He asked me at the time if I had ever seen a dead body before.

It happens that I have seen two in my life. Two dead bodies that belonged to two famous revolutionaries.

March 2006:

I’m with my tour group and the tour guide, David Eales in the centre of Ba Dinh Square. It was here that Ho Chi Minh, then leader of the Vietminh, read the Proclamation of Independence of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam on September 2, 1945 believing  it to be the opportunity for Vietnam to declare independence from France. This officially led to the creation of North Vietnam at the end of World War II.

The mausoleum of Ho Chi Minh atop Ba Dinh Square (c) Original image taken by Taylor Driver

The rules are strict. No digital cameras or camcorders are allowed in the mausoleum. Same with food and drink. Visitors have to form two straight lines and observe a dress code. No shorts or miniskirts are allowed and arms must be kept straight with hands out of one’s pockets.

The lines shamble along, doing with their eyes what cameras and video cameras would have done in an instant. A military honour guard stands watch over the glass case, dimly illuminated by white lights. From nine in the morning to midday, the embalmed body is available for viewing to the public. The rest of the time, the mausoleum is closed in order to maintain the preservation of the former leader’s body.

It’s a macabre sight at the best of times. What makes it worse is that Ho Chi Minh didn’t want it to happen. According to historians, he wanted to be cremated, his ashes spread across the north, south and centre of the country. A grand mausoleum was considered a waste of arable land to him.

The mausoleum is inspired by Lenin’s own resting place in Moscow’s Red Square. Unbeknownst to me, I will have the opportunity to see him as well in the near future.

My tour group at the Memorial. I am at the far right, second row.

March 2007:

The air of March is perfectly tolerable for the average Russian. For a group of students who just came from Cairo, it feels good to be bundled up. Our guide Michael takes us to Red Square where the tomb of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin  continues to draw tourists and remnants of the Communist Party in Russia.

Lenin’s Mausoleum is a sort of pilgrimage site for members of Russia’s Communist Party

Just like Ho Chi Minh’s tomb, it is forbidden to take photos or record the moment on video. Everyone marches in single file around the glass case where the revolutionary lies to this day. He lies on his back with his black suit still on him. Despite all the rumours that his corpse was replaced by a wax dummy, I still dread the moment where his eyes open. I’ve got one foot in a reverie and another on the floor of a darkened room where the same man who created the Soviet Union has been lying in state ever since he died, years before anyone in the room was born. But I can’t stay in my head for too long with the guards ushering us out of the building.

The daylight brings us back to the world of the living once more.

It’s been about five to six years since I last saw them. But one thing is for sure. I can say with certainty that I’ve seen a dead body in real life. And not just anyone’s body.

As far as bragging rights go, I’m not sure how to feel.

The US Embassy Riots in Tunis: A Drive Through

On the day that the US embassy was stormed by rioters, I was in Marsa with my parents having a look at some of the houses in the area. Soon afterwards, my sisters and I were taken to the local shopping centre where we were met by an acquaintance of my parents. When they left for Laos in the 1980’s, she came to buy some of their items. She is a French teacher at the American Cooperative School of Tunis, located on the other side of the highway where the US embassy could be found. After chatting with my parents and catching up, she explained that she had the day off in anticipation of riots breaking out after the deadly attack on the US embassy in Libya.

In the early afternoon, my father drove the car along the highway where the school and the embassy were located. The sight we saw before us remains imprinted in my mind to this day.

The overpasses above the motorway were packed with people, jostling each other for the chance to witness the protests for themselves. I peered to my left, past my father and saw bearded young men carrying the black Islamic banner that has become a common sight associated with the Salafi movement since the ruling coalition took power in Tunisia. One of the rioters propped a metal crowd control barrier against the wall of the compound so that its bars could serve as rungs for a makeshift ladder and several witnesses were capturing the action on their mobile phones and digital cameras.

The most absurd sight of the day was that of the riot police. A group of no more than 10 officers raced to the scene of the riots on foot, while two mopeds carrying two officers each followed them.

The back seat of the car was ablaze with discussion and my mother urged me to take a photo or keep some memory of the event. I sadly did not have a camera with me to record this day. All that you read before you are the highlights of what I witnessed on that day.

By the late afternoon, my sister Leila was on her iPad. She read aloud the latest updates from Al-Jazeera to my mother in the kitchen while my father raged at the government for its inability to prevent the attack on the embassy and the school nearby. The Associated Press put the body count of the protest at 2 dead and 40 injured on that day.

A journalist I met at the World Press Freedom Day Conference in Tunisia reported that President Moncef Marzouki personally dispatched his Presidential Guard to quell the riots, playing a “risky political card”. The American Cooperative School of Tunis had sections of its Elementary School burned down and computers and tablets were stolen. Up till now, it is still collecting donations of money and books for its Recovery Fund.

For my own part, I am thankful that my parents were able to get back to our house before the riots became truly violent. I am additionally thankful that despite the scaremongering generated by news outlets the problems that Tunisia faces are not as violent as in neighbouring Libya or in Syria.