Why I’m Done With Bill Maher

I hate writing this – hate it because I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably say it again, but here goes nothing.  So, I was watching Real Time with Bill Maher tonight, and the subject of Islam came up. It was a muddled introduction, but I believe Maher wanted to question whether interfering with foreign dictatorships was a good idea, on the basis that when given democracy, Middle Eastern countries seem to prefer Sharia Law or a theocratic state and isn’t that much worse?

I’ve written about Bill’s attitude and his mindset toward Muslims before, and since then it certainly hasn’t improved. It’s actually much worse, a kind of Islamophobia that even Fox News would be proud of, and it’s no longer something I can bear to watch. But I bring this up because one of Maher’s panelists, Glenn Greenwald, a political journalist and former civil rights lawyer, admirably took down Maher’s prejudiced views. To see the kind of spirited defence Mr. Greenwald provided was unbelievably heartening – it’s not often you see it in the mainstream media.

It is so noteworthy in fact, that I’ve transcribed the relevant section of the show here:

“…but we didn’t go into Egypt, and they voted in the Muslim brotherhood.”

Glenn: “But we did go into Egypt, we were supporting and propping up Mubarak for 30 years even as we were cheering for all the Tahrir Square demonstrators, that we were on their side, it was our government that kept Mubarak in power, just like we’ve done across the entire Muslim world.

And it’s amazing for you to say that, well look at all these Muslims – the minute that you give them a little bit of freedom, they go wild and start being all violent. How can you be a citizen of the United States, the country that has generated more violence and militarism in the world over the last 5 or 6 decades, and say, “look at those people over there, they are incredibly violent.” We play a significant role in what has been happening in the Middle East because we’ve been interfering and dominating that region in order to have access to their oil.”

Bill: “I wasn’t talking about violence, I was talking about theocracy. That doesn’t happen here.”

Glenn: “Okay, that doesn’t happen here but at the same time, Iran isn’t invading lots of other countries and occupying them for a decade, nor are fundamentalist Muslim countries the way the United States is, so these things are interlinked because we are continuously interfering in that part of the world and so to say – “

Bill: “Really? It’s all our fault?”

Glenn: “It’s not all our fault but when you send your military for six straight decades into other countries, to bomb them, kill their children, women and innocent men, prop up their dictators, yeah, you take responsibility for your actions and say, to the extent that region is -”

Bill: “That religion goes back a thousand years before our revolution, so I don’t think we can take all the blame.”

Glenn: “I don’t think we should, I think we should take a lot of it. And there’s lots of bodies piling up and corpses that have been piled up in the name of Christianity and Judaism as well.” (Applause.)

Bill: “Not recently.”

Glenn: “Have you heard of the Occupation of the West Bank in Gaza for the last 50 years? Motivated in part by extremist views of Judaism, or the wars in Europe, or the fact that there were Generals in the United States saying we have to go and invade and destroy Iraq, a country of 26 million people, because our God is bigger. Lots of religions, not just Islam, produce violence.”

Bill: “It’s a silly liberal view that all religions are alike because it makes you feel good.”

Glenn: “No, it makes you feel good to say our side is better, those people over there are primitive –”

Bill: “No, it makes you feel good to put a crown on your head and say, I’m a good person. How do I prove that? –”

Glenn: “You get to ignore the responsibility that your own government has for the violence and instability in the world by saying look, it’s that primitive religion over there that’s to blame.”

I think most of what was said speaks for itself but I wanted to single out Bill Maher’s line, “it’s a silly liberal view that all religions are alike”, because it’s one that he’s said before, going on to say that Islam separates itself from other religions because of its inherent violence or calls for violent acts. It’s ultimately the reason that I won’t be watching his show anymore – it simply doesn’t make sense and doesn’t hold up to even a moment’s critical thought. If Bill’s hypothesis is that Islam is inherently different to other religions, and is inherently to blame for violent acts perpetrated in its name, why aren’t we fighting the world’s 1.4 billion Muslims? Why is the violence so comparably small and localised?

If the religion is to blame and not a combination of massive socio-economic disparity, geo-political forces, and near-constant warfare fostering a renewed sense of tribalism, a desperate need to cling to anything and anyone promising a way out, promising revenge, then the problem would be far worse. It’s the same nonsense logic once applied (hopefully not anymore) to black or ethnic youths that form gangs in Western society – it’s not a question of race or violent tendencies, it’s a question of poor kids with limited access to education, growing up in a turbulent environment in which cycles of repeated violence and abuse are already entrenched.

I used to look past this issue as Bill’s singular, most glaring fault, but it’s simply gone too far and I cannot tolerate supporting, even nominally, someone so prejudiced as to willingly forego logic and recorded history in order to apply their narrow-minded view onto world events. Rather ironically, it’s exactly the sort of behaviour Bill Maher is famous for calling right wing Republicans on, as well as anti-science nuts.

Journal Fragments

So, for the short fiction course I’m completing, I decided to keep a journal of sorts. The main philosophy espoused by the teacher, Dr. Sue Woolfe, is one of unbridled creativity – of understanding and harnessing the impulses, the fits and starts of writing prompted by your unconscious self.

In writing up all those fragments tonight, transforming hasty scribbles to polished, mechanical, perfect text, I found this:

16.03.13

Together

 I am reminded of the two little boys I saw on the train the other night. I’d had a bad day; awful, really, and I felt about as low as one of the tarred, congealed lumps on the floor of the carriage, felt about as messy and unfettered as the graffiti that sprawled across the glass, a growing infection.

Unwanted.

I sat there as darkness rode by the train, a quiet companion, a thoughtful witness, only now and then pierced by idle lamps and lonely windows bright but distant, blank patches in suede. The doors inhaled and two little boys tumbled in, accompanied by a man. They were dressed in bright-coloured pyjama pants covered in little trucks; he was not. The boys carried a single big pillow each, both as ecstatically coloured as they were.

I was both charmed and repulsed by the unfolding tableau. What right had these wholesome, adorable creatures to come into my black thoughts, on this black day? The presence of any kind of innocence and joy – real, not imagined – too quickly revealed the nature of my disposition.

They all settled down on the bench opposite me. The eldest child – I’d put him at no more than six – said to the man, “Is that the phone with Transformers on it?” and he said yes, handing over the device. The little brother nestled close to the elder as the screen lit up their faces with an unholy, unnatural glow.

They curled around it the way children of old might have to a fire, primal and fierce in the night, a crackling, snapping god that kept them safe and warm. But this was a cold and plastic comfort – for all that, they seemed happy enough. The youngest had his chin cupped by his brother’s collarbone and they chattered and pointed and played. In this moment, they were whole.

They’re complete in the most natural way imaginable – brothers now, brothers always – unthinking in their closeness. I can’t help but wonder how long it will last. I can see all too easily the space forming between them as they become older, two branches on the same tree, growing ever more distant; the eldest no longer associating with the other, embarrassed that he ever did.

He has friends now, where before he had just the one, and his words are cruel-edged and hard – designed to hurt, to push the littler version of himself away. He rejects his past as it’s too close to him, too recent, and he knows it too well. He looks only ahead, to new friends and new schools and new things.

He looks ahead so he doesn’t have to see the misery on the child he leaves behind, doesn’t have to see the wreckage forming behind his eyes. And then it is too late, the damage is done and the second, forgotten child artfully arrays the destruction around him, an active minefield for any who try to get close.

He has no new things to discover, no new friends to make – his brother has seen these things, he has done them, and made them, and in their place lie only secondhand shadows. With a hand-me-down future, what surprise that he looks always to the past, to that moment on the train when in unthinking, unknowing grace, they nestled together without a single distinction between them; side by side, chin to shoulder, brothers now, brothers always.

The train came to a stop – it always does, no matter the times we want it to go on – and the man urged them off. The older boy looked up at him as they left and he said, “how far is it to your house?” and I watched as the night swallowed them whole.

I’ve been surprised by what I’ve found in these pages but this, I think, struck me most of all. Family always does, always has, always will.

sing to me instead

It began with a furious harmonica and a strumming guitar -

I’d been having a rubbish day, a rubbish week, hell, the whole damn year has been awful. Up and down, good and bad, sure. Recurring problems and anxieties alongside whole new ones, but I was determined to not let that bother me. I was here for music, I was here for William Elliot Whitmore.

We sat up back, on an elevated platform, almost eye to eye with the performers, though the dance floor split us apart. The music was indifferent, and so were we, so were the crowd. We talked and drank and waited, conversation meandering to listless tunes.

It began with a furious harmonica and a strumming guitar. A man stood on stage, his stance aggressive, his stare challenging, and his fingers and his lips demanded attention. Demanded that you sit up and shut up. Silence fell over the crowd. The instrumental assault stopped and the quiet was total, absolute. I sat completely still, hands on my knees, back straight – I felt like a child, shocked in the presence of a teacher.

Then he sang.

I don’t often go to live music shows – it’s always too noisy, too bothersome, too messy. But shows like this are what I have always craved – intimacy. Though a distance spanned between us, though a hundred or more strangers stood in the way, there was an instant connection, a rapport. This is what music should be, what it’s designed to do.

His voice blared out into the dark, unsupported. It didn’t need to be. It’s a goddamn weapon and it kicked me in the throat, it punched me in the chest, and I felt the dumbest smile spread across my face. It was pure, unadulterated joy – I couldn’t help it. Everything about that song, about this man, was utterly fearless, totally confident. He walked into a room full of bored people, people who mostly weren’t there to see him, who didn’t care, and he shocked them into silence, he sang, and sang, and sang, and I wondered what the hell had been going on up till now and if I’d only ever heard people talking.

It’s difficult for me to express just how powerful that opening was, just how much it affected me. I couldn’t look away. I felt powerless, but empowered. Like I couldn’t move, but was moving, as though he had taken me, shoved me into a song and gave me meaning. Talk about being blown away, talk about being stunned.

His voice wasn’t just powerful, didn’t just have the rough burr of whisky blues. He moved as comfortably from raw, powerful notes to low, sweet tones. But I was struck by his accent – the round Australian vowels still prevailing through the music. It only made it better, only made it more compelling. From rollicking, foot-stamping songs to beautiful, emotional pieces. I sat there thinking, dear god, this is why people go to live shows, this is what it’s about – the whole time, I thought he was singing to me, thought he was singing about me, and every little thing crowding my mind up till then melted away.

It ended, as all good things do, and I felt exhausted. Drained. Like he’d reached into my chest and taken the whole ugly red mess and transformed it into something wonderful, something mesmerising. I stumbled off my perch and went to buy two of his CDs, one for myself, one for Jordan. I made my way to the bar – I needed a drink after that – and he came out moments later. I saw him talking to his friends, and I went over to him.

This is not a thing that I do. I hate people. I’m incredibly shy. But there was just no way I couldn’t go up to him, couldn’t express to him something of what had just transpired. I tapped him on the shoulder and I shook his hand – my god, I was trembling – and said, “Look, I just have to say that was amazing. You’re fantastic and I just bought your CD. Is there anything more, can I buy more online?”

And he said thank you, and was very nice, but a woman charged up and interrupted, clutching her own copy of his CD in hand. She made her thank yous as well, only in a great rush, and sped off to the bathroom. I resented every second she took away, but I turned back to him and I said, “I really mean this, you’re incredible, and please. Please don’t ever stop what you’re doing. You have to keep going.”

I have a few musician-friends, I have a few writer-friends, I know all too well how much of a struggle it can be and while I’m not aware of how well he’s doing right now - his name is Lincoln by the way - I was compelled to tell him to continue. The idea that he would stop, when so many other less deserving people out there are succeeding, was tragic. Ultimately, I’m glad I said it, glad I was able to share that moment. And the main event had yet to even begin.

I made it back to my seat just in time. William Elliot Whitmore was up on stage. He tinkered with his banjo for a moment, then eschewed the device and just sang. The power of the human voice is unrivaled - it’s the reason why the azan, the Muslim call to prayer, is naught but a voice calling out – it doesn’t need an instrument to go with it, though I certainly don’t mind when that’s the case. Again, there was silence, again we sat or stood enraptured, the whole lot of us.

His was a different voice, the kind of voice rough as barren earth and salted ground, the kind of voice you can only imagine coming from a throat ripped to shreds by rough-edged words climbing their way out of his gut, out of the fire, only to be lit again in the gloom, to be illumined by collective emotion. He sang of the law and old devils and drunkards and blue birds and sparrows and crows, his song taking wing, his wounds taking flight, and I wanted to say hell, don’t forget the finches and the nightingales and the parakeets, but all I could manage between songs was 

“He seems to have a thing for birds.”

and he sang of death and woe and hurt, and each new line revealed a new ache, a new bruise I wasn’t aware of, highlighting the old, emphasizing the new until by the end I felt heavy as broken rocks, a canvas Picasso would be proud of, mottled colours bleeding into one another, and I wanted to tell him to stop and I wanted to tell him to keep going because there was joy there too, joy in passionate storytelling, joy in feet-stamping, thigh-slapping bluegrass music. 

I don’t often have “experiences”, or “moments”, you know, the kind I create for characters in stories, the kind I read about or hear about. No striking revelations here, at least, not the kind I’d like. This was something else. And I couldn’t just say “this was an awesome show”, I had to say it in a different way. It was every bit as overwrought and every bit as absurd as this characterisation of it, this unnecessary poetry, but two men got up on stage last night and they made me bleed with words and that’s a damn important thing.

I wish I could sing to them instead, but this is all I have to offer, and as for anything I shared with them after their shows, well, it doesn’t matter. Not quite like this, not as much.

I don’t want them to talk to me, after all.

Tor Dot Com Rejection!

So, several months ago I sent a piece to Tor.com for publication. 

If you haven’t checked it out, you should. It’s an excellent geek-community, with fantastic fiction, and great writing. It took a while for them to get back to me, but they mentioned it would, so that’s okay. It was a rejection.

Also okay. At the end of the form-rejection though, there was this:

“Please send us more of your stories in the future. We’ve recently restructured, and we now have increasingly better response times!”

And I found myself fixated on that. Some magazines and sites specify that if they say ‘send us more’, they mean it. It’s an indication that they found the quality of writing suitable but for whatever reason, didn’t want that particular piece, whether because it didn’t quite fit the theme of their next issue or the subject matter had been covered by another selected submission – whatever. They’d genuinely like to see more.

I wasn’t sure if that was the case with Tor, but since it could actually mean something, I thought what the hell, why not ask? So I did. I got a response a day or so later, and I kind of loved it. Figured I’d share it.

Dear Mr. Sakr,

 We do say it often, though not always. But practice not the art of rejectomancy, my friend, for it’s a dark art! There’s just no telling whether we’ll need the story you send us by reading into what we say about other stories in the past. :)  
 
Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but I shouldn’t have needed to hear it in the first place, is the point made. I laughed. It was a pretty great response and I’m glad I got it. If anyone has any good rejection stories to share, feel free to do so. They’re not always terrible or hurtful, and I often find them informative. 

The Hobbit: A Review

Like many geeks out there, and plain old movie-buffs, I was incredibly excited to see The Hobbit.

Well, the wait is finally over, and I’m here to tell you all about it. The Hobbit is, in some respects, the precursor to J.R.R. Tolkien’s ‘Lord of the Rings’, but really is a standalone adventure told in a vastly different style. It concerns the story of one Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, and the journey he was caught up in, wherein he happened to acquire the One Ring. Now, I’m going to break this review down into two distinct sections, ‘Technical’, and ‘Story’, as the two really ought to be dealt with separately.

The Technical

Much has been made of director Peter Jackson’s decision to shoot the film in 45fps, a much higher speed than the usual that offers far greater image resolution and clarity. For around 20% of the film, it works beautifully, and the visuals are stunning. A lot of the action sequences, for instance, are spectacular. However, for the other 80%, it just doesn’t work. The incredible clarity makes a mockery of many aspects integral to the film – the prosthetics, costumes, and props in particular, which, in a fantasy adventure story, are predominant features. It undermines a lot of the high production value by making a lot of things look cheap, flat, or plastic.

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2012 In Film

We’re rapidly approaching the end of the year (or the world, if you, like many morons, give credence to the Mayan calendar) and we all know what that means:

End of Year lists!

Yes, it’s that wonderful time where every two-bit magazine hack and blogging tool (that’s me) decides to trot out their selections of the best film/book/song/etc. So, given I’m currently exhausted and sleep eludes me like the practiced tease that it is, I thought I’d give it a whirl.

At the beginning of the year, I actually remarked on a few films I’d seen, so this will bring it full circle, which I think is nifty. It’s worth noting that the films I mentioned as being on the list of things to see, I have failed to watch. I even forgot they were on the list. At least I’ve remembered  there was a list, okay? I’ll get on that soon.

To recap, the fantastic films I saw at the beginning of this year were The Adventures of Tintin, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Shame, and Hugo. Of those, I would retain TTSS and Hugo, though the other two were notable.

In no particular order, the other films I’ve seen this year that are remarkable:

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A Little Introspection

I feel restless.

I hate this feeling, this sense of urgency, of energy undirected that bubbles and bursts inside. I looked around my room today at a couple hundred books, some unread, and spurned them all. Nothing piqued my interest. Not the old, familiar books I know and love, or the new, the strange and unknown books I’ve bought.

This restlessness, this energy that plagues me is best dispersed by writing. I know this, and I’ve used it well before, but sometimes even that isn’t enough. And this day, I had nowhere to diffuse the growing creative bomb, no story to pour it into, no real motivation to even try. I decided to go to a secondhand bookstore, to rummage around old shelves, and even older books, to try and find those forgotten gems; books I’d read in high school, books I never quite got around to buying, or books I’d long heard about but never picked up.

I crawled around the floor, shuffling across the bottom shelves in squinty-eyed urgency. Forgetting to blink, straining past the burning sensation – and still, the energy refused to dissipate. Sometimes it’s more than just the need to write, or to read something that connects to a place deep inside, that salves the burn. If only for a few hours, or a day. It reflects a greater dissatisfaction I have with my life, my job, where I am, and where I need to be.

I often read it characterised as ‘itchy feet.’

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Open Letter to Bill Maher

Hey Bill,

I wanted to raise an issue about your discourse on the subject of Muslims. You said something on your last show, in response to one of your guests saying, ‘what does it say about a group of people who riot over a stupid film?’, you said, ‘Exactly. Why do we always have to be responsible because they’re fucking nuts?’

I’ve noticed this in the media at home (Sydney) and abroad, and in some friends too; there’s this complaint, this entitled, white middle-class whining that essentially boils down to ‘why can’t they be more like us? We laugh at religion!’ Which ignores the importance of Christianity in politics, in the Right, in informing the likes of Fox News; ignores the actions of groups like the KKK not 50 years ago, or the likes of Andrew Breivik who counted himself a Christian warrior and murdered 70-odd kids, yet somehow wasn’t branded by the media as a terrorist, just a lone white guy.

Yeah, all religions have their crazies but that’s not even the point that I want to make. It’s the ‘why can’t they be more like us’ line that underscores the conversation which irritates me – it’s a fine aspiration and I wish they were, in some respects but it irritates me because it ignores the plethora of reasons that they AREN’T like the West. Near constant warfare, bloodshed, violence and poverty are not conducive to education, to the expansion and diversification of culture or art.

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An open letter to Peter FitzSimons

Dear Mr. FitzSimons,

I read your open letter today and thought it warranted a response. Let me begin by saying I find any violence to be abhorrent, and I do not endorse it, or the actions of some of the protesters here and abroad. That said, I take issue with the media coverage of the issue and in particular, your own letter.

To start with, your blithe dismissal of the root issue helps no one. The role of the media should be to inform and educate, too often these days it works to inflame and sensationalise.

“Because on the other side of the Pacific, somewhere in California, some loser has thrown together some kind of amateur internet video insulting your particular god…”

First of all, the Prophet Muhammed is not a god. It’s all in the title, he’s a Prophet of Islam and he is revered within the religion. Secondly, that the video insults Islam is not the cause of the outrage across the Muslim world. It’s that it depicts the Prophet, something which is strictly forbidden within Islam. Whether the depiction is favourable or unfavourable actually doesn’t matter, you’re likely to get the same level of outrage. I don’t understand why this point is so often ignored, with journalists and media types instead saying that Muslims are reacting to people questioning their beliefs, which simply isn’t the same thing.

Does this excuse the frankly unbelievable response? No. Should you, no matter the issue, always seek to be factually correct and to craft a balanced response that doesn’t just denigrate the people involved? Yes. Always. At least try and inform your readers of the real reason these people were upset.

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An Ode To Travel

Just applied to Pedestrian to be a part-time travel writer and in writing up a cover letter (I seem to be on a roll with these) I nearly drowned in nostalgia. I thought I’d share that here, and expand it a bit too.

**

Dear James,

My name is Omar Sakr, I’m 22 years old and I hold a Bachelor of Arts in Communication (Writing & Cultural Studies) from the University of Technology, Sydney, wherein I studied various forms of writing from short stories to novels to feature films, plays, creative non-fiction, essays, and poetry.

I want to talk to you about travelling and the irrepressible joy of discovery that comes with losing yourself in new cities, strange countries and unique cultures. I want to tell you about the days I spent in gorgeous Greece, a place steeped in history and gods, old and new – you can’t walk around these sun-drenched islands filled to the brim with slim, toned, bronzed beings without realising us mere mortals are not alone. I’d like to tell you about the stunning vistas from the sky, the view from the plane as it descended into Athens, this earthen city that sparkled in the sun, a thousand reflective solar panels scattered on rooftops everywhere.

I’d like to describe the view from the rooftop bar of the hostel I stayed at, with the setting sun above the Parthenon, and cool, refreshing drinks in hand. The same view also afforded me an unreal shot of the riots in Syntagma Square just down the road, tear gas, smoke and pepper spray leaving a bitter taste on the breeze. I can’t talk to you about Greece without mentioning the adjective-defying island of Santorini, with its old world charm, winding streets, white cliffs and incredible beaches. I want to regale you with the story of riding a donkey down the face of a cliff, the reek of dirty animals and manure wafting through one of the most unbelievable viewpoints afforded by the natural world, and the insane old Greek man that fought, yelled and talked to the donkeys like old friends.

I want to tell you about Crete, about the gorges and beaches there, about the fantasy-city of Prague and its architecture built from dreams and more; the gothic beauty of Krakow riddled with pocket-sized underground clubs; the intense sex-strip in Hamburg’s famous red light district; the inspiring skyline in New York, and the film of dirt that covers the most famous billboards in Times Square; the 14th century beauty of Norwich in England with its 365 pubs (one for every day of the year) and 52 churches (one for every week of the year); the awe-inspiring Colosseum, bowed and broken with age; the lovely Ha-Penny Bridge in Dublin spanning the still, black waters of the River Liffey.

I want to describe a hundred different places and the multitude of restaurants and spectacles I’ve seen but I don’t have the time, not here, not now, especially because descriptions of places are all very well and good but they’re not what makes travelling so special. It’s the people you meet, the random encounters and instant friends you make, never to be forgotten. It’s the two American girls I surprised in Crete by asking if they’d be celebrating Independence Day tomorrow (they hadn’t realised that it was tomorrow) and the following day we spent on a tiny, forgotten beach; it’s the French bar girl I met on a rooftop in Athens who told me about French music and brought me a selection of French cheeses to try; it’s the New Yorker on the subway who overheard a bunch of tired, sullen, argumentative tourists trying to find their way and interrupted to show us the way; it’s the gregarious Australian guy who, through the sheer power of his personality, convinced a disparate group of tourists to sit and introduce one another and talk about our day.

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