The Opposite of Honor

Noor al-Maleki

If Hosni Mubarak, as was discussed here not long ago, saw himself as the father of his nation, during his demise he came across more like the dotty old bastard who tried to raise the belt one last time but got his ass kicked by his teenager.

Muammar Ghaddafi, on the other hand, is obviously trying out for the role of the father who murders his kids rather than lose control of them.

This may be rare moment of paroxysm in Arab politics, but this same filicide happens, unfortunately, every day within families, not least in the Arab world. And sometimes, here in the United States.

I’ve got a longish and very self-involved story in this week’s Time magazine (in which I mention, without naming it, this blog and, with naming it, the very fine DadLabs and their forays into yoga). I can’t link to it, because, like all my other non-newsy pieces, it’s malingering behind a paywall. But there is an article you should read right now at Time.com by Nadya Labi: An American Honor Killing.

It’s the story of the death of an Iraqi-American teen named Noor al-Maleki, who was run over and killed outside of Phoenix by her father Faleh because she had become, in his eyes, too westernized. Faleh was recently convicted of murder in the case. It’s strong reporting about an awful story, but the final paragraphs provide the real punch in the gut. The Iraqi community, it would seem, learned all the wrong things from Noor’s death:

It is easy for the community to distance itself from Faleh now that he is a convicted murderer. But who spoke up for Noor when she was reportedly being brutalized at home and forced into an arranged marriage? Did any of Faleh’s contemporaries defend her right to dress herself how she wished? Why is Khalaf’s husband so quick to insist that Noor was a virgin and never involved with his son? Why do the teenage girls at al-Rasool mosque scold Noor for violating the precepts of their religion?

The attitudes that fueled Faleh’s rage are widespread in his community. It is no coincidence that Faleh believes that Iraqis in the U.S. and abroad will judge him more kindly if they think it’s an honor killing. “Connect it to honor,” Faleh advised Jamal from jail.

Asked whether the community has taken away any lessons from Noor’s murder, the owner of an Iraqi grocery store in Peoria nods, explaining, “They don’t want their daughters to become like Noor.”

Saher Alyasry, a mother in her mid-30s praying at al-Rasool mosque, speaks out firmly, in Arabic, while her teenage daughter, rocking a newborn, translates. “I think what he did was right. It’s his daughter, and our religion doesn’t allow us to do what she did,” she says. “A guy who cares about his reputation, he should do that because people will start talking about him if he doesn’t.” When asked if honor is more important than love, she responds, “Yes. What’s the point of loving her if she’s bad?”

The story had mentioned earlier that Faleh was a gambler, deep in debt, who didn’t even go to mosque. That he, and his apologists, are allowed to decide that wearing tight jeans is a sin punishable by death but gambling and blowing off services are fine, is appalling. I’m all for the salad bowl theory of immigration, whereby people get to keep their culture and language until they slowly begin to become part of this country. But this tribal crap needs to be checked in with immigration at the door. It is pure darkness–what on earth could compel a father to murder his daughter?–that has no place here.

I am not qualified to debates the merits of western feminism versus cultural sovereignty. I understand we can’t dictate our values to the rest of the world. But I know that having children has taught me–as a human, not as an American–that fatherhood is about caring for and, for a time, providing for and protecting a completely unique individual. Roberto Bolaño got it right: we are graced by the presence of our children and they owe us nothing. That’s just one American view, but it’s somewhere near the mainstream, I’ll bet. So you’ll forgive my cultural absolutism when I say that throttling your child into submission based on batshit duplicitous tribal rules that DO NOT EVEN APPLY IN THIS COUNTRY has nothing to do with honor and everything to do with being an honorless bastard.

Kudos to Labi (and to her editor, former Time Baghdad Bureau Chief Bobby Ghosh) for sticking with the story. Kudos to strong Iraqis like Amal Khalaf, the woman who took in Noor after her family shunned her and who was injured in the attack on Noor. She spoke up and spoke out and paid the price. All shame, however, on that part of the Iraqi-American community that persists in treating its women like goats on Eid, animals to be slaughtered up to God.

McSweeney’s: where were you when I was hiring the nanny?

How droll!

Admittedly, Tomoko and I already hired a fantastic caregiver, and neither one of us is Anglo-Saxon or protestant, but still, this little item I found at the McSweeney’s website, titled, “Important instructions for the babysitters of white anglo-saxon protestant children,” was amusing and informational (at least in the ways in which WASPs make fun of themselves):

Roderick’s prayer is only to be interrupted with Wimbledon updates.

Do not allow Portia access to her iPad until she’s consumed her miso soup.

Quincy mustn’t dally with the stallions prior to jousting.

Maxwell is partial to the double Windsor.

Tipper requires an aperitif prior to snack time. She will show you where the muddler is kept. Be creative (but not ostentatious) with your amuse-bouche.

Everett is grounded. ABSOLUTELY NO FALCONRY!!!

As she has not yet been potty trained, see that Sage is fitted with disposable jodhpurs.

Ophelia is best admired from afar.

Only when his homework is completed is Forrest to be given keys to the laboratory.

Constance takes her milk with a dash of bitters.

Hortence sleeps soundest after a few chapters of Leverett Saltonstall’s autobiography.

I’d never heard of the author, Coleman Larkin, before, but, in keeping with McSweeney’s internet tendencies (!), he’s rather droll.

Be Careful: Triumph of the Annoying Parent-Voice

Last month, when I was in Las Vegas on assignment, I went for a hike in Red Rock Canyon with one of my editors, Jim, who just happened to be in town. It was a lovely day, clear and on that fine line between warm and cool that is perfect for desert hiking. The terrain itself wasn’t too challenging, but at one point Jim slipped a little and I called out, “Be careful!’

It was, I instantly realized, the exact tone of voice I use all the time with Sasha. And, I know, this wasn’t the first time I’d spoken to an adult the way I speak to my daughter. Throughout the winter, whenever I’ve traversed the schmutzy streets of New York with a friend, that “Be careful!” has come out of my mouth, as if it really will remind them to watch their step.

And this will likely go on for a while, even though I can’t stand it. I hate breaking into that sing-song voice so many adults use with their kids, but there’s almost no way to avoid it. It certainly doesn’t help that my voice is already annoyingly nasal, and that raising it a register and saying stupid things everyone already knows, in a reduced grammar, just makes people more nuts than usual.

Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe, like most of my parenting anxieties, this is all in my head, and that everyone around me just shrugs off the dad-voice. That wouldn’t surprise me.

Anyway, the pain-in-the-ass dad-voice does come in handy with Sasha, particularly when she’s misbehaving. Because that’s when I can drop it down an octave and say forcefully, with no cheery room for doubt, “Sasha, hold my hand!” or “Sasha, stop!” But please, my friends, let me know if I start speaking that way with you. Then I’ll just shoot myself.

Scorcese Didn’t Need A Book!

From time to time, the DadWagon role as cultural rainmaker, social judge, and commercial stalwarts means that PR people send stuff to review and consider. Among us, Matt seems to take the service aspect of service journalism most seriously. He tends to handle these things, but since he’s dropped off the face of the earth this week, it’s fallen to me.

So, in that light, may I present you with: THE “KIDS GUIDE TO MOVIE MAKING,” A MUST READ FOR FUTURE SCORSESES AND SPIELBERGS.

Which is apparently a book. Which the fine folks at some PR firm whose name I can’t find in their email thinks that DadWagon should read–and you too! Here’s why:

“Directed toward today’s creative and technically-savvy preteens and middle schoolers, this DIY guide provides the tools required to set them on the journey of making their own feature film, complete with strong characters and stories audiences will enjoy.”

There. That’s enough for me to know that I hate this book, I hate these kids, and I hate tools, characters, stories, and enjoyment.

Am I cranky today? You bet! Is it because JP is out of school all week and Tomoko has been on a conference call for the past two hours? YEP!

And also, since I was an actor in one of the best known fanfilm productions of all time, in which, Theodore Ross, author of the forthcoming nonfiction book, plays “Major Toht,” the evil Nazi character in Raiders of the Lost Ark: The Adaptation.

We had no book, you scurvy little whippersnappers! We made the whole movie with rubber bands, carpenter’s glue, and plenty of chutzpah! And a Betamax camera donated by the rich father of the lead actor, but hey, let’s not get into the details too much, shall we.

Really, though, there is something unnerving about such a book. I think it might not be the worst way to encourage a child interested in the arts. The question is: why would you want to do that? Creative types, like your stalwart DadWagoneers, are MISERABLE. The pay is bad, society looks down and you, the chances of success are minimal at best.

A better book might be something like: “The Kid’s Guide to Hedge Fund Trading.” Or the “Kids Guide to Powerful Lobbying Jobs.”

Now that’s being practical.