Ma'rouf 10/11

In big corporate organizations that follow very strictly and politely globalization rules, employees at low levels come and go pretty frequently.

Now don’t get fooled by neither the title nor the introduction of this piece, as it will not touch on any globalization-related issue and it’s not even remotely related to terrorism.

And incase you are hastening to finish your 1-percent-worth school homework, preparing to do some serious ass kissing for you university prof. to give you that 0.005 mark that would change your grade from a C to a C+, or even getting ready to drive your manager’s cute little 25-year-old son to the airport, I would like to tell you this from now: this article is only about a tea boy.

Ma’rouf his name is. He’s the usual dark Indian “sadeeg” that you could see working in any gulf (GCC) country for as low as 600 Riyals a month (approx. US $160). Now I don’t usually like to write anything that sounds like Greek tragedies, firstly because I am not Greek and secondly because I don’t like tragedies very much. But I find the story of Ma’rouf to be particularly intriguing because it contains in its details what could evolve to be the foundations of a new Arabic theatrical school: Arab tragedy.

Ma’rouf was fired last week for no apparent reason, some say that it’s because he’s not very good at making coffee, some say he comes 2 minutes late for work, but most people over here seem to believe that he was caught steeling sugar cubes and coffee beans by hiding them in his pocket before he left the scene everyday using the back door. I, on the other hand, decided to do my own investigation into the issue to find out what the real reason behind firing Ma’rouf was. I felt like I owe this thing to this “sadeeg”, after all he used to make me a very delicious hot cup of Turkish coffee every morning, always on time, always exquisite.

As I wanted the truth and nothing but the truth, I decided to start my mission by visiting the human resource division at our company. One fact about human resource divisions in GCC companies: the sole purpose of this division, it seems, is to make the life of every single employee in the company as miserable as hell. As if enduring living in a desert-like, 40 C°, city where you’re constantly treated like a 10^th degree citizen, who doesn’t enjoy even the simplest forms of civil rights, wasn’t enough.

After visiting the HR department 7 times and being “warmly” greeted every time by the secretary who would inform me that the person responsible for Ma’rouf’s case isn’t in the office, and that no one knows where he is. I was ironically able to find that person in the prayer room. I was informed then that Ma’rouf’s residency paper (kinda like a work-permit) had expired and because the person from the HR department responsible for renewing the residency didn’t pay attention to the matter on time, Ma’rouf had to pay the price and on 10/11---2005 he had to be thrown back to where he came from.

This morning a local newspaper read that the government intends to reduce the country’s foreign manpower (in all professions) to 10% by 2010.

Soon, I might be visiting the HR department again. Or the prayer room.

Later on this day, a friend of Ma’rouf’s informed me that Ma’rouf is enjoying his time at Juhu beach in Mombay, India, where he’s sipping Pina Coladas while getting a bronzage tan.
(wallah 3meltha ya ma3rouf)

A message to all locals: Ma’rouf’s position is currently vacant. The company is looking for qualified candidates.

Auto Biography

It was a sunny Wednesday, on November the 11th, in the year of our Lord 1981 when I slid out of the womb holding an authentic Alhambra flamenco guitar in one hand and a still-wet painting brush in the other. During the 9 months preceding this event I was teased by the fascinating voices and rhythms, that generally characterized the 80’s, which came to me from the outside world that by the time I managed to push my way out I had already created in my exotic small world a little studio where I recorded my first bulerías flamenco compás and a small gallery where I exhibited some of my surrealistic paintings.

It was only 9 years after that day that I came to grips with the haunting reality of my identity: a helpless Palestinian living in Diaspora. It was only then, when I watched those horrifying scenes on television of young Palestinian boys getting their bones and joints shattered by Israeli soldiers during the first Intifada, that I realized I am never going to be the same person again, and that this “outside world” that I thought was filled with music and colors was nothing more than how Picasso depicted it in his masterpiece, Le Guernica: a small space filled with cruelty and despair. Greatly affected by that and following my basic instinct which was given to me by the only God, I found myself holding a pen and a paper and sketching my first surrealistic solidarity drawing. On that paper I drew a hand waving the victory sign while holding a stone; the hand was in between an olive branch and the map of Palestine. This drawing, which was saved from the brutality of this world by my father, has come to show me years later that we, Palestinians, are born with the cause embedded in our veins, with a country already living in us, and with a fanatical will to survive.

After that, with all the tenderness and innocence that a 9 year old child could have I asked for one thing and only one thing: to return back to my small cozy world where I once lived peacefully recording musical pieces and painting colorful paintings. But despite my continuous childish nagging coupled with my naïve threats of revealing the reality of this world to the people of this world by publicizing my work of art, my appeals to return were constantly rejected on the pretext that firstly I was too big to go back now, and that secondly I was surely going to pose a “demographic problem” if I am ever granted the right to return.

Throughout the time my instincts have changed, new ones have evolved and some got forgotten. I gradually adapted to the rituals of this world that’s characterized with lust for material and extremely fast technological advances, that by the time the year “Y2K” was approaching and all the horrifying stories about the crash of technology that will follow it were surfacing, and terrified by what could happen to me after that tragedy takes place, I decided that as soon as I survive this disaster I will immigrate somewhere else. It was the summer of 2000 when I set sail to discover newer horizons. My destination was Canada. In this very cold place I was introduced to a new language, a new institute of thinking, new expressions, new definitions. I got to know about civil rights, human rights, different kinds of freedoms (freedom of expression, freedom of worshiping, etc). However, I still couldn’t find answers to my basic questions, and I couldn’t find ways to practice those rights and freedoms to fulfill my dream of returning.

So, here I am now, more than two decades have passed since I came forth into this world and I still bear the same dream and a solid will to achieve it…

Yesterday I took a vow. I vowed that until the last drop in my last paint tube vanishes, that until the last string on my Andalusian guitar breaks, I will bear the same will..I will stand still 1……

Ali Abotteen.
Dec. 29 2004.


1 Please note that this wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. It was supposed to be a serious biography that’s full of dates and events and adventures and accomplishments. However, as I was writing it I discovered how naïve I was to try to write my biography when I am only 23…I simply still didn’t achieve even a small fraction of what I would like to brag to people about when I write my biography, so I’ll keep the real one for later on…stay tuned, it will only be in 20-30 years from now..