The Stupid Polar Bear

One of the biggest revolutions of the information age has been the overthrow of traditional, state-controlled and private media outlets. This is not the way the owners and publishers of some of the biggest media houses wanted it.

When a country wants to kick-start the ‘war machine’, the media had always been the traditional outlet and means to convince and prepare local populations for some ambiguous government ploy to wage a conflict. The means employed have been the same, for nefarious designs that vary; control of oil, religious tension, ethnic conflict etc

The internet gave the power of information control straight into the hands of the public. Media outlets lost the element of control and the world became astute to government misdoings. It has changed traditional perceptions and created entire revolutions in countries.

Perhaps the most remarkable expose has been the criminal entity called the Russian parliament, the Duma, or what I refer to as ‘Oaf’. When I think of the Russian Duma, I imagine a very stupid polar bear wearing an army generals uniform, a closet communist drunk on cheap vodka.

The Oaf is oblivious to what the rest of the world knows about him and hardly seems to care. This does not surprise anyone, since capitalist democracy has done nothing to change the communist mind-set of the Russian government, who have conducted some of the worst terrorist atrocities and cover-ups that seem to come straight out of a spy novel.

But spy novels are eloquent.

The polar bear named Oaf is about as graceful and meticulous in government cover-ups as a donkey would be at ballet. When a series of apartment building explosions rocked the Russian capital in 2000, flattening entire apartment blocks while residents slept, hundreds of civilians died. A terrified public was told by the government that muslim Chechen rebels were behind the bombings.

The Oaf should have taken lessons from the Mossad in the art of clandestine operations. Basically, the polar bear named Oaf passed out at the crime scene after planting the bombs because he drank too much vodka. What made the entire episode even more dramatic was the Oaf’s complete denial in the face of mounting evidence that elements in the Russian government had conducted the attacks to renew public support for the operations in Chechnya, a war that ordinary Russians were opposed to.

A journalist, a former FSB employee and noted parliamentarians accused the government of orchestrating the bombings with evidence that would convince the toughest of skeptics. All three died in very mysterious circumstances. The entire cycle repeated itself after the Beslan hostage crisis, when hundreds of school children were killed. Again, mounting evidence of government complacency resulted in journalists and government employees who dared to think, disappear and turn up deader than door nails.

I wanted to share some prominent highlights of high-caliber individuals who put forward proof and then faced the ultimate consequence. Were it not for the power of the internet that allows dissemination of information, most of the world would never have known these facts.

Even now, there is not enough coverage of these facts to press for a deeper inquiry, but there has been enough exposition that the Russian government has been muffled and at a loss to offer any explanation. Cornered and hitchhiking at the cross-roads of utter contradiction, the government put a seal on all evidence and a ban on further investigation by anyone (national or foreign) into these events.

So the polar bear left his tracks in the snow, which led investigators to the Duma.

An independent investigation was called for members of the Duma, who cast doubts on the official government explanation of Chechen separatists. Leading members of the Duma, Sergei Yushenkov and Yuri Shchekochikhin led calls for an investigation. A government order was soon issued, that banned any investigation of the apartment building bombings.

Sergie and Yuri continued their own investigation and collected materials that would prove government involvement. Sergie was found murdered just hours before boarding a flight to the United States where he was to meet with FBI officials in 2003. His colleague Yuri was shot outside his home and the culprits never caught.

Other notable state Duma deputies Yury Felshtinsky, Alexander Litvinenko, David Satter, Boris Kagarlitsky, Vladimir Pribylovsky, Anna Politkovskaya, filmmaker Andrei Nekrasov, investigator Mikhail Trepashkin, as well as the secessionist Chechen authorities and former popular Russian politician Alexander Lebed, claimed that the 1999 bombings were a false flag attack coordinated by the FSB in order to win public support for a new full-scale war in Chechnya.

An independent public commission to investigate the bombings, which was chaired by Duma deputy Sergei Kovalev, was rendered ineffective because of government refusal to respond to its inquiries. The commission asked lawyer Mikhail Trepashkin to investigate the case. Mr. Trepashkin claimed to have found that in the weeks leading up to the bombings, the basement of one of the bombed buildings was rented by FSB officer Vladimir Romanovich and that the latter was witnessed by several people. Mr. Trepashkin was unable to bring the alleged evidence to the court because he was arrested in October 2003 for illegal arms possession, just a few days shortly before he was to make his findings public. Shortly upon his release, Mikhail Trepashkin was killed while abroad in Cyprus and once again, the killers remain at large.

Journalist Anna Politkovskaya and former Russian security service member Alexander Litvinenko, who investigated the bombings, were both assassinated in 2006. Both personalities garnered international attention because of their vocal and public accusations against the FSB for orchestrating the 1999 Moscow apartment explosions.

The fact of the matter is that the base mentality of the polar bear from the north remains communist. Communism thinks like cold steel; example, if there isn’t enough food to go around, start killing your own population. This cold-war Leninist mentality still exists in the higher circles of government, who have become disillusioned with the advent of western democracy and free markets, which they blame for degrading and breaking up Russia. They still think like communists in a capitalist system that is less than 20 years old.

TAXI

It was mid-morning when I got into the small late-eighties Toyota taxi which I had flagged down outside of my parents house in Abu Dhabi, the capital city of the oil-rich sheikhdom called the United Arab Emirates. I had just accepted a role at a prominent software vendor back in Canada. With three weeks until my start date, I decided to take a last-minute vacation to visit my parents in the UAE.


Needless to say, I was on a mental high, enjoying the place where I had grown up and will always remain fond of. In the years since I had left, my father's job saw him transferred from Dubai to the capital, about an hours drive and much the same image of a prosperous city basking in year-round sunshine. The real-estate and building boom that had swept Dubai, mysteriously caused the living costs across the entire country to sky-rocket.

Just about the only expenditure which had not changed in price, was the Abu Dhabi taxi fare. Taxis in the capital are extremely inexpensive and can shuttle you just about anywhere within the confines of the city for a meagre fare, usually under 3 US dollars. This low overhead, coupled with all the free time in the world, allowed me to remain comfortably mobile.


It was under these circumstances, that I boarded what would turn into the taxi ride from hell.

One of my favourite past-times when I travel is to chat with local taxi drivers in the UAE. As the years go by, I remain nostalgic about the people and places of the UAE, reminiscing of times past when I grew up in Dubai. Most taxi drivers in the UAE are from my native Pakistan and Iran. My conversations would usually revolve around their background and how they find life living in the UAE, interesting cab rides they have had, politics etc

My first impressions of the driver at the helm of this particular taxi were of awe and inspiration. Not that I normally care to pay much attention to the physical looks of taxi drivers in the middle-east, but I admit I was quite taken by the bookish and very handsome features of the Pakistani driver.

"Iranian market chalo yaar", I said in no particular tone, asking to be driven to the local Iranian market, a teeming array of small shops which sold cheap merchandise from Iran.

He was clearly a pashtun from the northern tribal areas, where the Pakistani government is embroiled in a bitter geurilla war. Dressed in a traditional shalwaar kameez dress, he had dark, coral-green eyes and strikingly handsome features. He carried a well-groomed religious beard and a curly, dark mass of healthy hair locks. With a strong, well-built physique, he had a look on his face which was a blend of wise serenity and stern discipline.

Soft verses from the Quran wafted through the taxi on a tape deck, as we drove toward our destination.

"Aap Pakistan sai hein?"

"Gee, Pakistan sai", he replied.

I wasn't sure what to make of him. A religious man, an expatriate worker who had left his family in his village at home and now found himself in a foreign country where he neither spoke the local language, nor earned enough to afford anything more than a meagre lifestyle, though oblivious to the rich sorroundings because he had rejected materialism and chose to live in the Shadow of the Lord.

A true man with little wordly possessions, rich in moral character and uncompromosing on his right to live as a free man. Believe me, he didn't look like he could care less for what iPhone version all the kids were carrying.


I continue making small conversation with my new friend, until suddenly, a moment of inspiration overwhelmed me. I had to share his story with the world, I thought to myself. People had to see his very unique and different angle toward life. I would make a pictographic biography of him and post it on a blog or website.

"Turn the car around", I said to him in urdu. I needed to go back home to retrieve my camera.

I explained to him that I was a citizen journalist who captured interesting moments in life, and that I wanted to write a story about him, complete with photographs of him driving through the city, going about his daily business.

He laughed gently at my suggestion and said very little. Other than a glimmer of friendly curiosity in his eye, my gentle giant of a friend agreed to go along with my ploy, as if obediently taking orders.


We backtracked to my parents house and I asked him to wait while I retrieved my camera. I offered to deposit some money for assurity while he waited, but he waved me away.

It would be upon my return, that things were to take a dastardly different turn. You see, I couldn't find my camera and searched for it everywhere. I rummaged through my luggage and everywhere else in my room, aware of my friend waiting patiently outside, afraid he would drive away and leave me disappointed.

I was so determined to get my story done, that I decided to opt for a disposable camera which I could buy in almost any store.I grabbed a pen and writing pad and ran back outside to discover the taxi still waiting with the engine running.

As I climed into the back seat and explained my situation, that we must stop to buy a disposable camera because.......I paused for a moment as I noticed there was pin-drop silence.

I had kept my driver waiting a bit too long and he was furious.

"Kitna deyr lagaya!", he yelled, complaining he had waited 15 minutes.

I was a bit perplexed at his inability to realise that it was a metered taxi, thus all the more to his benefit. As I climbed into the back seat and explained the obvious logic, my mythical driver slammed on the accelerator with half my personal body on the outside and the door still open.

I fell yelling against the back-seat, wide-eyed and terrified because I knew what I had precipitated; the infamous, uncontrollable anger of a pathan tribesman.

"Your meter is still running isn't it?", I explained in the rush of excitement that gripped by-standers and other motorists.

My comment only served to infuriate him further. With a single motion of his arm, he slammed on the meter to erase the fare.

"I don't need your money!", he yelled in urdu.

I held on for dear life, not uttering a single word and pressed into the backseat of the taxi, terrified and unsure of what was happening.


I recalled the urban legends we heard of pathan taxi drivers, ever loyal to their tribal code and self-honor, which was beyond the comprehension of ordinary citizens such as me. Stories of passengers being beaten, rich or poor, at the slightest offense perceived by a pathan driver, were too numerous to count.


I listened intently as my driver hurled the filthiest insults at me, all the whilst driving erratically and at break-neck speed through the city streets. I was painfully aware that I had no mobile phone on person and that my only hope of getting out of this mad situation was to jump out of a moving vehicle.

'Pakistani Taxi Driver Kills Compatriot', the newspaper headlines would read.

The more I reasoned with this man, the angrier he seemed to get, as he changed lanes and switched gears. Dear God, why must such things always happpen to me, I thought.

Ten minutes passed of what can only be described as sitting on a roller-coaster without safety straps.

And then, just as quickly as it all started, it suddenly stopped.

"Iranian market", declared the voice behind the wheel.

I stared silently ahead, my mouth gaping and my mind numb from the receeding effects of adrenaline. With the slow speed of a zombie, I climbed out of the cab and reached into my pocket.

I heard the man behind the wheel mutter something to the effect of an apology and silently drive away. I didn't even realise he had dropped me off at a small shipyard, on the outskirts of the city (It all happened so fast).

A part of me watched in awe as the car drove away. I supppose I have always admired the uncompromising attitude toward self-freedom that pathan tribesman always carry with them. With all the trappings of modern life, the cost to us has always been exactly that; trappings.

To witness a soul, oblivious and free from the materialistic chains of life, has always left me with a profound sense of wonder toward the bigger picture called life.

I never got to take a picture of my long-lost friend or learn anything about him. My family and friends mocked my tolerance of what they simply perceived as bad attitude worthy of calling the police (ofcourse, in my version of the story, I had grabbed the driver by the collar, refused to pay and only let him go after he begged forgiveness)

I've always believed that things happen for a reason.

So to my friend in the Abu Dhabi taxi, whose number plates and driver badge number remain a fleeting glimpse, I came through on my promise that I would share your story with the world (albeit, in my own way and terms).

Long live the notorious Dubai-pathan-taxi-wala and cheap chewing tobacco. Drive safe!

The Original Rebel

The grit in an opponent's eye always rouses respect. By natural inclination, the human soul perceives acts of bravery with an admiration, even if it came from your own enemy. This is the impression that the Italian armed forces gave of Omar Mukhtar.

Omar Mukhtar, popularly known as the Lion of the Desert, was a Libyan resistance fighter who lead a geurilla war for more than twenty years against the Italian occupation of his country.

During the early years of the European war against the Ottoman Caliphate(inaccurately known as the Italo-Turkish war), Italy invaded the shores of Libya in 1911.

What followed was a particularly brutal campaign of ethnic and cultural cleansing against the Libyan population. Concentration and slave camps that imprisoned an entire generation of Libyans, mark an era of shame for Italy, for which Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi apologised in an official ceremony in August 2008 for the damage inflicted during that period.

It is easy to get side-tracked into the political and historical nature of the war, which requires a different post.

Omar was wounded in battle and consequently captured by the Italians after waging a 20 year struggle that utterly frustrated Rome. His own jailers remarked on his steadfastness, piety and bravery in the face of interrogation.

General Rudolfo Graziani poignantly described Omar Mukhtar with these words:

"Omar was endowed with a quick and lively intelligence; was knowledgeable in religious matters, and revealed an energetic and impetuous character, unselfish and uncompromising; ultimately, he remained very religious and poor, even though he had been one of the most important figures of the resistance."

One cannot help but admire the man in photopgraphs taken after his capture. The sheer bravery and firm stance against authority is mesmorising. At 73, he stood proud and a free man.



On September 16, 1931 Omar Mukhtar was hanged in public, in front of a crowd of thousands. The public hanging was meant to act as a moral blow to the Libyan resistance with the hope it would deter other freedom fighters. It only served to galvanise the fight against occupation.

Asked if he had any last words, Omar replied: "To Allah we belong, and to Allah we return"

Disllusionment in Dubai

If you've ever suffered an identity crisis, take solace in the fact that you will never beat my score. I've globe trotted a bit in my early childhood, from my native Pakistan to my current humble dwelling in Canada and I proudly declare to all that I've lived in five different countries. A very conservative Pakistani upbringing in an arab country where most of my classmates were expatriate kids of various nationalities, is a recipe for what my wife refers to as an 'ABCD'; Alien Born Confused Desi (desi is the annointed term for anyone from the Indian subcontinent, confused as in not knowing where one's root belong).
"May Allah always Preserve you...may Allah always Preserve you...", I whispered, as I crossed the Dubai creek on an abra, a traditional water taxi that generations of arabs and expat workers use daily for a meagre fare of 50 fils, which is equivalent to about 15 cents. I was praying for the well-being of Dubai, the city of gold.
A young Moroccon sat next to me, chatting with his Iranian counterpart in english. The ride lasts ten minutes and I embark on the other side of the Dubai creek called Bur Dubai, the downtown core of the city.

I had a twelve hour transit stop on my return to Toronto after having completed a short family visit to Pakistan, which I spent walking around the city. Dubai bustles at sunset, draped in neon lights and a carnival atmosphere of screeching Mercedes tires, illegal road-side vendors and magnificent super malls. A sea of nationalities converge on the pedestrian sidewalks each evening as the scorching heat subsides, each face a testimony to some hard and much sought-after dream. The Dubai creek glitters at night in the lights of arabian dhows that gently move across the water, mostly traditional merchant vessels from the sub-continent. They are charming to look at against the backdrop of modernity, a nostalgic reminder of her humble beginnings.



Starting 1950 and onward, Dubai grew from a small community of local arab tribes into a humble port city that offered small merchant vessels from Asia a place to dock and refresh. With the discovery of oil in the seventies came an uprecedented economic boom that transformed a sleepy coastal town of pearl-divers and fishermen, into a modern infrastructure of 1 million inhabitants. Approximately 85% of these residents are expat workers, as they're popularly referred to, from diverse ethnic backgrounds and nationalities. I knew this city where I grew up, like the backseat of my car.


I disembarked the abra, almost loosing my balance in an effort to look graceful whilst hopping off the small, turbulent dinghy (I'm sure I heard the Indian boat operator snicker).

It was thirty minutes after sunset and Dubai had come to life. I walked past a long line of docked merchant vessels, whose crew were either off-loading their small cargo or preparing for their next journey. The cargo was typically food-stuff or consumer electronics. Illegal workers and poor labourers from the Indian sub-continent often earn a few extra dirhams in the evenings from whatever chore they can find on this spot.

An attractive European lady in her thirties walked uneasily past a group of Somali sailors, obviously lost in the labriynth of crates and pallets stacked with goods alongside the concrete off-loading area. A ship captain from one of the local sightseeing dhows that take you on a dinner-cruise along the Dubai creek beckoned me to consider, to which I refused in the typical arrogant manner of Dubai expats, by not acknowledging his mere existence and continued to walk silently.


If you ever embark on a personal walk through downtown Dubai at night, then every few minutes you will come across something charming, something exquisite and exotic that couldn't offer the same appeal anywhere else in the world.

I observed a group of four or five Pakistani men, squatting in a circle on the hard concrete, obviously illegal workers who had over-stayed their visas. There is an abundance of such workers that no one will admit to. It's an overhead expense a lot of businesses, especially the construction sector, would prefer that itremain cheap and plentiful. It is a sad reality that the likes of Amnesty International will never understand, because it is not deliberatly planned to be that way. It is what it is.

My walk up the creek ended with a detour I made through the City Center Mall, reminiscing days gone by as I watched a new generation of angry, playful high school seniors take my place.

Within the hour, I had arrived at the airport mosque and sat in its veranda, enjoying the cool night, massaging my swollen feet as I thought of how desperately I would miss this moment. I used to pray at the same mosque, years ago, when I wasn't married, when I was younger and able to fall in love at the drop of a hat, when life didn't hold much responsibilty.


An Indian laborer lay in the same veranda of the mosque, fast asleep, with what appeared to be his personal belongings that he used for a pillow. Years ago, I would have thought nothing of it, just an Indian laborer who was meant to be that way; someone who revolved around the center of the universe that was my life. Someone who didn't feel the pinch of poverty and desperation, because he was meant to be poor. But a few years of living away from home had changed my perspective on things. I sensed his plight and reflected on so many similar paradoxes in the city of gold.

As I rose to head toward the airport, I remembered moments in time that I had spent in the courtyard of that very mosque. I am not a religious man per say, but I do have some fundamental religious beliefs. Indeed, what goes around comes around.
"May Allah always Preserve you....may Allah always Preserve you", I whispered as I glanced at the poor soul who lay asleep in the veranda.

I was praying for Dubai.

Angry Seepoy

I've always held an admirable disdain toward the English. A small excerpt I read in William Dalrymple's , 'The Last Mughal' is worth its weight in hard currency. An impartial and well written book that takes you back to a romanticised impression of Delhi during the 1857 seepoy mutiny; an uprising against the British occupation and subsequent final blow which decapitated the mughal dynasty.
An emperor only in name, Bahadar Shah Zafar had no political or military authority, other than within the confines of the Red Fort in Delhi. A once mighty empire, the Mughal dynasty had dwindled over the last three centuries into small fiefdoms and princely states. India actually belonged to the British throne.
Nothing summarised the state of the muslim empire better than the only known photograph of the last mughal king. His eyes say it all; the hasish, harems and haraam(forbidden) indulgences of generations have finally caught up to the once mighty Islamic age of India.

Dalrymple observes a shameful and regrettable fact that is testament to an age-old concept in wisdom. Not only were the denizens of India incompatible with the western occupiers in their base ideology toward life, but they even differed in their perceptions toward time.
It is said that the British, both civilian and military alike, began their day at 3:30 in the morning. The rich mughal courts on the other hand, were retiring to bed around that same time, intoxicated from yet another night of wine, women and musical prose. By the time the British had prayed, exercised and planned their daily routine whilst sitting down for breakfast, the Indians were fast asleep.
Bahadar Shah Zafar stoked a brewing rebellion by the Indians against the British occupiers. Shortly thereafter, he found himself hurried out of Delhi, holding on for dear life in the back of a donkey cart and a subsequent death in exile. Delhi fell to pillage, rape and a quashed rebellion.
In a jail cell just before his show-trial, Bahadar Shah Zafar lamented his loss in a verse he inscribed on the wall. It is a painful testament to anyone who has contemplated a fall from grace, in any capacity.

"No matter how smart and witty one may be, he is not a man

Who in good times forgot God, and who in anger did not fear Him"

Hello World! application

The reality finally sank in last night, when I realised the domain name I had registered with the intent of developing a website www.camelworldorder.com was not getting much direction. 'Society, Religion, Politics' would be my theme. But I need to garnish an audience since the amount of work required would mean coffee-induced nights of insomnia and an unhappy wife. How many souls will synch with me....I wonder...