Adonis Diaries

Archive for August 8th, 2015

Justice to baby Ali  Dawabsheh: Burned to death by Israeli settlers

18 month old Ali was burned to death after Israeli settlers fire-bombed his home.

Ali, an 18 month old baby was burned to death after Israeli settlers fire-bombed his home. Graffiti on the charred house reads “Revenge”. (Revenge for what?)

Settlers call this a “price tag” — the price Palestinian families must pay for confrontation or violence against settlers.

This time the price was tiny Ali.

He could have been a teacher or an inventor. Someone who loved music or hated math. But we’ll never know because he was merely a “price tag” to settlers.

(The father of Ali died today, a week later, and his mother suffered 80% third degree burns all over her body)

According to the UN, there have been 120 attacks on Palestinians by Israeli settlers this year, and an Israeli human rights group claims that 92% of Palestinian complaints to Israeli police go without charges.

A full and impartial investigation by the ICC — an unbiased judicial body  is desperately needed.

Every week we hear of a new incident in the West Bank.

Just days ago a video on Facebook showed a young man being beaten up by Israeli soldiers, even though he was clearly walking away from them.

The violence continues to mount, and this is our chance to support investigations to hold Israel to account.

Add your voice now to bring justice to baby Ali and the hundreds of others who’ve suffered at the hands of Israeli settlers and soldiers:

It’s sickening to imagine Ali’s suffering and the pain his family is feeling now, but this is our chance to say enough is enough. 

If we show the ICC that people everywhere support them to carry out these investigations without delay, we can empower them to work more effectively and help prevent tragedies like Ali’s from happening again.

To make this happen, we need to show prosecutors that we’re depending on them, in huge numbers, to serve the justice that Ali and thousands of Palestinian families deserve

Right now the ICC is investigating Israeli crimes in Palestine, and a massive show of support to carry out the investigations swiftly can help prevent more tragedies like Ali’s from happening again.

The USA must respond strongly to these infamies and facilitate the investigation and sanction Israel’s lax policies involving real terrorist acts on Palestinians

Sa’ad Dawabsheh, the father of Ali, died early on Saturday morning, his brother told Al Jazeera.

Ways to Learn to love the trash: Lebanon Trash crisis, among hundred other crisis

Lebanon is lingering through an extended garbage crisis with no resolution in sight.

Hate the sight of mountains of garbage?

Bothered by the smell of food rotting in the sweltering summer heat?

Well we’ve got your back with this handy guide on how to handle Lebanon’s latest garbage crisis.

1) Become a hermit:

Let’s face it, there is no reason for you to go outside; it sucks out there!

Stay in your house, and whether you need cigarettes or DVDs – everything can be delivered right to your doorstep because that’s the beauty of Lebanon and NabilNet. Hot heat and hotter garbage?

No thanks, I’ll be watching Masters of Sex in an air conditioned room.

2) Become human-garbage:

What better way to defeat something than to completely embody it?

If you hold off on showering for long enough, you can physically become trash!

It’s a fun little science experiment you can do with your body. The sooner you start smelling like a garbage can, the less the garbage on the streets will bug you.

3) Pretend you’re on a movie-set:

“Oh yeah Robert Downey Jr. totally stars in this,” you’ll say to yourself with a huge fake laugh.

“Oh, this is just a post-apocalyptic feature, it’s probably going to be directed by Mel Gibson or something.”

Beirut is starting to look like a hot post-apocalyptic mess, why not pretend that you’re just part of a movie?

In fact, go nuts and start screwing people right on the streets, pretend you’re partaking in niche experimental pornography, you’re welcome.

4) Learn to enjoy the smell of trash:

I’m not going to lie to you, this one will take some extra effort.

Essentially what you want to do is rewire your brain so that it finds garbage pleasurable, and soon enough you’ll be begging Armani to come up with an “Eau de Garbage” scent.

The trick to doing this is to take all of life’s pleasures and somehow add garbage into the mix.

Example: you have sex with a wonderful man or woman, they’re tender and proportionate, they don’t start texting as soon as you’re done – it’s a wonderful experience….immediately sniff some garbage.

Over time, your brain will associate good sex with the smell of rotting cabbage. It’s science, you guys.

5) Become completely dead inside:

Ultimately the easiest way to survive this massive trashcan of a life is to become completely dead inside.

Note: Lebanese are getting to the streets, closing highways and dump sites. The longer this crisis last, the better opportunity for the Lebanese to start sorting out their garbage, recycling and starting a real revolution against this inept political system

Jeanine Fakhoury, Patsy Z  shared this link

Learn to love the trash.

Hate the sight of mountains of garbage? Bothered by the smell of food rotting in the sweltering…

Summer in Iraq: Worst climate change experience?

Beneath the Heat and Abaya and a Flak Jacket Too

It was August 2004 in Najaf, in southern Iraq.

Off to the west past the edge of town, the desert shimmered like a sea. In the streets, mud brick and cinder block magnified the heat. I was too busy to check the temperature, but at midafternoon, it was likely heading toward 120 degrees Fahrenheit.

Like virtually all women in Najaf, a city of Islamic scholarship and a revered Shiite shrine, I was wearing an abaya.

The weighty, two-ply tent of black polyester balanced on the crown of my head and fell to my toes. I gripped it under my chin to keep it closed.

Underneath, I wore long pants, long sleeves, and hijab: a scarf wound snugly around my head and neck. That would have been plenty, but in between the respectable clothes and the abaya, I was also wearing a flak jacket.

My colleagues and I were in Najaf to cover a battle between American occupying troops and Shiite insurgents. For that, the dress code included the high-collared vest, made of thick nylon with heavy, bulletproof chest plates.

We scurried, panting, across open spaces, avoiding gunfire but risking heatstroke.

Already addled, we forgot to beckon passers-by into the shade before launching into interviews.

Beneath the abaya, my clothes were soaked through. My notes, written with the felt tip pen I had absent-mindedly brought instead of a ballpoint, blurred into purple smears.

It was my hardest experience reporting in Iraq’s heat, and it was a function of both climate and conflict. That combination has tortured Iraqis for decades during the long summers, bringing on what many describe as a kind of heat-induced temporary insanity.

A day out in peak Iraqi heat leaves you feeling as if the force of gravity has multiplied and thirsty with a panic akin to suffocation.

But the bigger problem – thanks to chronic power shortages wrought by a series of wars – comes when the home you return to is not much cooler.

That is when, after a few weeks, you start yelling for no apparent reason – at relatives, or animals, or politicians, or God.

I asked Sa’ad al-Izzi, who back in 2004 worked with me for The Boston Globe, and was with me that day in Najaf, to describe this feeling.

Born and raised in Baghdad, Saad gave an example from the rule of Saddam Hussein, before he was deposed by the American invasion in 2003.

“At night, there is always the roof of the house, which the people of Baghdad have retreated to for decades if not centuries – that is, presuming there is a breeze,” Mr. Izzi wrote in an email. “But when there was a still heat, then the Iraqis used to turn up to the sky and shout, ‘Now what — you became his brother?’”

“You” is God and “he” is Mr. Hussein, who started the rationing of power after his defeat in the 1991 Gulf war.

Similar curses have since been leveled at Paul Bremer III, the United States occupation chief, who failed to restore electrical capacity lost to looting as American troops stood by.

And today’s prime minister, Haider al-Abadi. And his predecessor, Nuri al-Maliki.

At recent demonstrations over the power shortages, protesters have made clear that all share a measure of blame for their sweaty misery.

Ask Iraqis to describe the heat, and you get a stock set of similes: Like fire. Like a hairdryer. Like hell.

For people here, it is the proverbial water they swim in; something not described but endured.

But Mr. Izzi waxes descriptive, from the distance of Maryland, where he now lives. He insists, only half joking, that he cannot tolerate the heat even there — because Iraq’s traumatized him.

In Iraq, the moment the power goes off, the house turns into a baking oven, explained Mr. Izzi, who appropriately enough was a refrigerator salesman until 2003, when the abrupt nationwide change of plans diverted him to journalism.

The heat “creeps to you and starts strangling you,” he said. And because the tap water is often scorching hot, a shower may be “out of the question.”

If you do get a shower, you will never get dry,” he continued. “The water on you will just turn to sweat. Some people wipe the tile floor with water to cool it down. But then the water would evaporate, turning the house into a sauna.”

I remember that heat, from the weeks I lived with little power after the American invasion – and that was only until May.

If you are a foreigner, you may also make the amateur mistake of leaving a window open, which only invites a hot wind, and if a sandstorm passes overnight, a coat of dust throughout the room.

But now, it has been more than a decade since foreign journalists established a beachhead here.

Publishers’ money has been spent on air-conditioners and, more crucially, generator subscriptions costly enough to power them even when the grid is down.

The ability to get cool on demand is a commodity – one I share only with the wealthiest or most powerful Iraqis.

(Even they can be listless by August. “The red-hot weather is prohibiting any sensible conversation,” typed Mouwaffak Rubaie, a member of Parliament, as we both kept putting off an interview about complex security matters. It was a text chat, but I could almost hear a sigh.)

I now wear the hijab or abaya only rarely.

Years ago, when foreigners were being hunted by kidnappers, I wore it to blend in (though I doubt anyone in Najaf that day mistook us — heading the wrong way, toward the battle — for normal Iraqis).

Now, with that threat greatly abated – knock on wood – I pin on a tight hijab only for religious settings, or places that are dangerous or uncharted.

But I keep my whole body loosely covered, and might drape a scarf over my head. As people in the region have always known, coverings trap cooling sweat, and slow dehydration, not to mention sunburn.

I am lucky enough to retreat to a high-ceilinged room in an old Baghdadi villa, shared by several news organizations. The patterned tile floors are cool to the touch. Two large air-conditioners roar ferociously, bringing to our office the global, age-old struggle in which men turn them up too high.

So actually, I love the Baghdad evening, like a cozy bath.

When I mentioned that I was heading to write on the terrace, even my A.C.-happy colleague Omar Al-Jawoshy advised, “Yes – it’s lovely.”

And it is. The whitish glare of the sky has softened to a hazy blue.

The birds that come at sunset are lazily swooping around the bougainvillea. The air itself has the pleasant feel of a stone that radiates heat after the sun has faded. It is 115 degrees.

Note: Last week, Iran experienced an effective heat of 70 Celsius, not 50 or 60.




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