tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53226042359695929972024-03-12T19:02:07.543-07:00Samia Serageldin's BlogA Dual-Perspective View on Current Events, Politics, Religion, Literature, Life...Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.comBlogger155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-80252452150940523912023-11-28T19:02:00.000-08:002023-11-29T06:06:36.373-08:00Napoleon: the many wrongs and one right of the new biopic <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRh_ZRCJwHJCh1N-n0ZdA7ajhw4CQ4CQEM3JGZu_QcWB9vJMZ5iPDDBmXMR-kFZBP09mmQzLSKAvdKaq1vNJCa-svoR20XJBrZQEK28fdiak8lnJruTrW06CaMQIom76tmYXcmb2OYvo4oBPGaZrVc8f0doy3xhTfQ9P4luuO1HcMM5_jVmvPE94JY1QQ/s1213/6594FF3B-7519-4F22-AA06-B22E0B2B4B02.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1213" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRh_ZRCJwHJCh1N-n0ZdA7ajhw4CQ4CQEM3JGZu_QcWB9vJMZ5iPDDBmXMR-kFZBP09mmQzLSKAvdKaq1vNJCa-svoR20XJBrZQEK28fdiak8lnJruTrW06CaMQIom76tmYXcmb2OYvo4oBPGaZrVc8f0doy3xhTfQ9P4luuO1HcMM5_jVmvPE94JY1QQ/s320/6594FF3B-7519-4F22-AA06-B22E0B2B4B02.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> Ridley Scott’s Napoleon is baffling. From the get go, the miscasting of Joaquin Phoenix as the eponymous antihero is fatal. The actor looks every day of his fifty years, and yet he plays Napoleon from the age of 27, when he first made his mark on the bloody post-Revolution scene of a France in the throes of the Terror. Phoenix’s Napoleon mumbles unintelligibly throughout the film, and is as stripped of charisma as he is of energy, which flies in the face of the historical record of a dynamic leader who commanded the loyalty of his armies and the adulation of the masses of his countrymen. Scott’s Napoleon is a caricature, petulant, childish, boorish, besotted with Josephine and putty in her hands. <p></p><p>The historical Josephine was a few years older and more worldly than the young Bonaparte, whereas Vanessa Kirby, who plays her, is decades younger than Phoenix, which changes the whole dynamic of the onscreen relationship. Kirby does not seem to have a grip on her role, playing Josephine as mindlessly promiscuous, unfaithful, and alternately Napoleon’s muse and his victim. The sex scenes between them are so joyless and off putting that it is hard to believe in a grand passion. </p><p>I was particularly attentive to the brief scenes set during Bonaparte’s campaign in Egypt, having studied it extensively for my historical novel The Naqib’s Daughter. There is no record of Bonaparte firing a cannon at the top of the Cheops Pyramid. Moreover, it is hard to believe that he left his army stranded in Egypt and escaped back to France because he heard that Josephine had taken a lover, rather than because, supremely ambitious as he was, he realized that his mission in Egypt had failed and history would pass him by while the real action was taking place on European soil. </p><p>Rupert Everett’s cameo as Napoleon’s nemesis the Duke of Wellington is equally one-note, a permanent curled lip of aristocratic disdain and an apocryphal sense of English fair play, a portrayal that reminds the viewer that Ridley Scott is an Englishman. </p><p>So, to sum up, why should a prospective viewer watch this two and a half hour film, but only on the widest possible screen in a theatre ? Because of the gorgeously reproduced landscapes of the battle scenes, familiar paintings come to life, history unfolding, Austerlitz, the march on Moscow. That is Ridley Scott’s forte. That is where we get a glimpse of the military genius behind the historic victories and the ultimately arrogant overreach of the Corsican who came from nothing and conquered Europe before he lost everything. </p><p>The closing credits enumerate the hundreds of thousands who died in battle in the Napoleonic wars. But if Scott’s intention is to condemn wars of ambition, why then are the battle scenes rendered so glamorously? Baffling.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-11339914727626492362023-07-28T10:07:00.005-07:002023-07-28T12:00:15.011-07:00Playing Barbie in Nasser’s Egypt<p> <span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">Playing Barbie in Sixties Egypt</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_VWL_CrC9bIEUyW-HDoFdyU1zoLGbY7R8Osuu9nyDcyFFjKJhgTv2IliPx4nfW0nm-BuwV3ZrZQ6dGj7xbaEgFh3xo4HWPtbcc2bac76e4s6_mdf5JTO0MgeUAAB2wozCDdDNRaWst7vJtyYeevOlFfzjabP7WlAM9aQ82-TILBPh34naAEYXg9AxfU/s2001/A5730E13-EA6B-43ED-96BF-E05DCBEB27B3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2001" data-original-width="975" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_VWL_CrC9bIEUyW-HDoFdyU1zoLGbY7R8Osuu9nyDcyFFjKJhgTv2IliPx4nfW0nm-BuwV3ZrZQ6dGj7xbaEgFh3xo4HWPtbcc2bac76e4s6_mdf5JTO0MgeUAAB2wozCDdDNRaWst7vJtyYeevOlFfzjabP7WlAM9aQ82-TILBPh34naAEYXg9AxfU/s320/A5730E13-EA6B-43ED-96BF-E05DCBEB27B3.jpeg" width="156" /></a></div><br /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">In the early Sixties, in Nasser’s “socialist” Egypt, you could not come by anything imported, and I absolutely longed for a Barbie doll. When an uncle went to the States, he brought back one for me. The stereotypical Barbie, of course, there was no other at the time, and she came with just the swimsuit she stood up in. Ordering additional outfits or accessories was out of the question, but that was not a problem. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">I was on the older side to be playing with dolls, anyway, and the pleasure, for me, was designing, cutting and sewing dresses for my Barbie. There were always plenty of fabric scraps left over from the summer frocks and nightgowns the “little dressmaker” ran up for me on a freestanding, iron Singer sewing machine that occupied most of a small room in our house. My mother could not sew to save her life, but it was common in those days to have a dressmaker come to one’s house to do the sewing, and I can still conjure the sound of that foot pedal running “drrrrrrrrr” from the sewing room, off and on for hours at the beginning of every season. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">For proper dresses the dressmaker often copied patterns from Burda, a German magazine, painstakingly expanding them to scale and size on butcher paper, and then cutting the fabric along the lines. Then came the lengthy process of fittings, which I hated, having to stand on a stool while having the dress carefully slipped over my head, first with the fabric held together with prickly pins, then very loosely stitched at the seams, then finally sewn up properly on the Singer sewing machine, the hems and linings finished by hand.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">So I always had plenty of fabric scraps for my Barbie’s dresses: cotton lawn, silk chiffon, even upholstery velvet. I started with boat neck shifts, as they were the easiest style to cut, and stitched them up with a handheld sewing tool like a large stapler. It came in handy, since I was the despair of my governess, who had tried in vain to teach me the simplest of stem stitches. She herself truly had what she called in French “fairy hands,” but I was my mother’s daughter when faced with needle and thread.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Now that I look at my grandaughter’s generation, surrounded by multiple Barbies with closets full of ready-made Barbie clothes and accessories, their gigantic doll houses and Barbie cars and swimming pools, none of which seem to hold children’s attention for more than a couple of hours, it makes me wonder. I know I had endless hours of entertainment with the creative process of dressing up my mannequin doll. It makes me wonder. Was I really so deprived in comparison, with my one Barbie and her homemade clothes in Sixties Egypt? <o:p></o:p></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-26893383519515415172022-09-17T08:44:00.000-07:002022-09-17T08:44:39.501-07:00Excited about my new podcast interview and reading “Post 9/11 in the Cul-de-sac.”<p>The September 15, 2022 episode of the new podcast “27 Views of Chapel Hill” features an interview with me and readings from my short story, <i>Muslims in the Cul-de-sac</i>, which originally was published in the collection<i> Love is Like Water </i>and was republished in the anthology <i>27 Views of Chapel Hill. </i></p><p>On Apple Podcasts, Google, Spotify and here: http://www.enopublishers.org/27-views</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_zY2NWu5BimxvHDH3eLUsxPf3QvAeRWq8ZWa5a74s4Da6leNYPzLMMEltuJP0_gWlWzT-ZZQ9gtwHloNEaOLf31h0iIvTn1Yj29KEOEiVQQ4TBfbhrbsP9NwJF80TC7CoJXN7OVP_ddvymi7LNDuvdVOKFtlfWztof99V-72r6vtnd9TTAt5Ml4c/s640/09EA9FA5-8E48-4946-85AF-2C62537964CA.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="478" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_zY2NWu5BimxvHDH3eLUsxPf3QvAeRWq8ZWa5a74s4Da6leNYPzLMMEltuJP0_gWlWzT-ZZQ9gtwHloNEaOLf31h0iIvTn1Yj29KEOEiVQQ4TBfbhrbsP9NwJF80TC7CoJXN7OVP_ddvymi7LNDuvdVOKFtlfWztof99V-72r6vtnd9TTAt5Ml4c/s320/09EA9FA5-8E48-4946-85AF-2C62537964CA.jpeg" width="239" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-50800279581707772042022-08-28T10:11:00.000-07:002022-08-28T10:11:02.286-07:00Remembering Michael Malone<p> Remembering Michael Malone: in spite, or perhaps because, of his acclaimed success as a novelist and screenwriter, he was the easiest and least ego-invested of writers to edit, as I can testify as the editor for his essays in both Mothers and Strangers and the South Writ Large Anthology. As I quoted in the Acknowledgments to Mothers and Strangers, Michael called me a “horse whisperer for writers,” but that was just typical of his generosity; no one was less in need of a whisperer than Michael Malone. He shone equally as a reader. Here he is reading from his essay in the book, nearly a year ago, on September 20, 2021.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJlsBxZ3b2hrUqR0D-dtJXaJrBq3dC4VHyGUw9Jmgu0UDdVziynx1vrePeqWY8eXEJXPG4eXB3FyI3c9MJHsXilBvkp7vsQNQi9uVNOqQZlZtJx5C9oa-3w0x1_MPiKcZ_atuepKTsD2GgmJNeoHSGev40bw1XFMuZan-KLjHuEkZfbZX9C19a3k0O/s960/4D17686D-F4FC-4222-A661-222495495AD5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJlsBxZ3b2hrUqR0D-dtJXaJrBq3dC4VHyGUw9Jmgu0UDdVziynx1vrePeqWY8eXEJXPG4eXB3FyI3c9MJHsXilBvkp7vsQNQi9uVNOqQZlZtJx5C9oa-3w0x1_MPiKcZ_atuepKTsD2GgmJNeoHSGev40bw1XFMuZan-KLjHuEkZfbZX9C19a3k0O/s320/4D17686D-F4FC-4222-A661-222495495AD5.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-37486949644456258942022-08-07T12:43:00.005-07:002022-08-07T12:43:42.177-07:00Our new issue of South Writ Large Magazine with Jill McCorkle <p> I’m especially proud of our newest issue of South Writ Large Magazine, of which I am one of four editor/founders. It features, among other articles, one I curated: the synergy of an exceptional essay by Jill McCorkle and splendid photographs by Tom Rankin.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0O6GlgTLg4pmxmQVDPJ4xZHkCg4RFUmS-7Dl2EaxCVoGAi8kccExKqiJJObRbrhykNzEQEr8wohngM0t53KuBwojP6-97yQ81-mPJntyJYcFu7OZVBWa6S-zdyetFNsdcdaS5Cp1wFp0iCdXx0QD1-zh0AlNB6E5P80hRv87DFy3EQy7krgPCFgm/s300/AA3CA614-F5CA-4248-BEEE-75A7D88DC01E.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0O6GlgTLg4pmxmQVDPJ4xZHkCg4RFUmS-7Dl2EaxCVoGAi8kccExKqiJJObRbrhykNzEQEr8wohngM0t53KuBwojP6-97yQ81-mPJntyJYcFu7OZVBWa6S-zdyetFNsdcdaS5Cp1wFp0iCdXx0QD1-zh0AlNB6E5P80hRv87DFy3EQy7krgPCFgm/s1600/AA3CA614-F5CA-4248-BEEE-75A7D88DC01E.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-40359651233741186382022-08-02T13:59:00.003-07:002022-08-02T14:04:21.840-07:00The Russian Soul, Then and Now<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKKqO0MEX6lO0njrzFRq1z12hphMVOXs0TR4aiTuSq8Y31AWuTpKdzDuvqsko_zwpCLYBDPAqin0lsIDH0_QwafJsOqnW-tqRw0squRfx6_Yi0hxIcxnw_Y8BlEgNok5wGydGKJyhM0rZCXNLFyZ9RjjanKUupFdEIuEa1VB-ObYVCV5zEUCn-DDMJ/s1670/2268CD3B-63FD-4E0A-9DF7-A4799178459B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1670" data-original-width="1161" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKKqO0MEX6lO0njrzFRq1z12hphMVOXs0TR4aiTuSq8Y31AWuTpKdzDuvqsko_zwpCLYBDPAqin0lsIDH0_QwafJsOqnW-tqRw0squRfx6_Yi0hxIcxnw_Y8BlEgNok5wGydGKJyhM0rZCXNLFyZ9RjjanKUupFdEIuEa1VB-ObYVCV5zEUCn-DDMJ/s320/2268CD3B-63FD-4E0A-9DF7-A4799178459B.jpeg" width="222" /></a></div><br /> <span face="Calibri, sans-serif" lang="IT" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">With Russia and the Ukraine in the news, and renewed discussion around Russian identity, the </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">Russian soul,</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" lang="IT" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">and the history of the region, who better to turn to than Russian authors themselves from Turgenev to Makine? But first let me posit that my own relationship with Russian authors is a complex one. I was introduced to the classics by an uncle who gave me a few books form his library that he thought age appropriate—I must have been around ten. I remember especially a beautifully illustrated book of folklore called <i>The</i> <i>Malachite Maid,</i> and also Pushkin’s <i>The Captain’s Daughter</i>. My uncle may have found a connection with Pushkin, also a member of a landowning family in a period of turmoil. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span lang="IT">When I was reading these classics, however, was in the sixties, the decade of Nasser’s pro-Soviet years, and I disassociated the Russians in the books from the real live Russians who roamed the streets of Cairo, representating as they did the “Socialist” system in the name of which my family had been stripped of its estates and possessions. But my own bias apart, in general they were not liked by Egyptians of all classes. I remember one afternoon coming upon our maid standing behind the window watching a young Russian across the street sitting on his balcony under the broiling summer sun, stripped to the waist, his skin strawberry-red and peeling, sweating and fanning himself with a newspaper.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span lang="IT">“Doesn’t he have enough sense to get out of the sun at midday?” She shook her head. “Someone should warn him. He’s some mother’s son, after all, even if he’s Russian.” Then she sighed and drew the shutters closed. No one regretted the Russians when Sadat booted them unceremoniously out in the early seventies. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span lang="IT">Later I read Turgenev and Chekhov, but only dipped in and out of Tolstoy. I have yet to finish War and Peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGxetcx14r-L-Z7_OpLVvnPyZ6CvncTLGd7snntX8zU54nS2LGjYK9kOl9Dfi6gIT8J8mxhDtAdeISe2_ary7tmjdCg1JUOq_kCxYbiyGHTkHRS22YNQlgEt-HWuv1TNz4bJ_R0T3yxKe7umw8nB6wmw_-_vrLE-J11hU9mN7nwtT3app_HL-Ukrx/s1299/2F54F258-AE53-4DC0-990F-5860285D135C.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1299" data-original-width="903" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGxetcx14r-L-Z7_OpLVvnPyZ6CvncTLGd7snntX8zU54nS2LGjYK9kOl9Dfi6gIT8J8mxhDtAdeISe2_ary7tmjdCg1JUOq_kCxYbiyGHTkHRS22YNQlgEt-HWuv1TNz4bJ_R0T3yxKe7umw8nB6wmw_-_vrLE-J11hU9mN7nwtT3app_HL-Ukrx/s320/2F54F258-AE53-4DC0-990F-5860285D135C.jpeg" width="222" /></a></div><br /><span lang="IT"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span lang="IT">Now though, rereading Turgenev, I am struck by turns of expression that did not arrest my thought before. For instance, a landowner’s estate was not expressed in terms of acreage, but by the number of “souls” he owned, that is serfs. One book I found invaluable in putting Russian literature of the 19th century in context is Amanda Brickell Bellows’s <i>American Slavery and Russian Serfdom</i> <i>in the Post Emancipation Imagination</i>. She highlights the progressive landlords like Turgenev, but also the apologists for serfdom, as evidenced in the fictional and artistic representations of the period. As she pointed out to me—Amanda is a friend and fellow editor—when I mentioned the reference to “souls”, in the American context the word “souls” could not have been used for enslaved people as their possession of souls was controversial. Truly fascinating. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span lang="IT"> </span></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-86095265229750422512022-07-22T17:26:00.001-07:002022-07-22T17:26:24.294-07:00Variety is the Spice of Reading<p> Variety is the spice of reading: always keep several books going at once, depending on one’s mood. Two authored by friends: Maureen Quilligan’s history of Renaissance queens and Redge Hanes’s novel of human trafficking. Turgenev, because a classic is always worth revisiting. And a contemporary French novelist, Nelly Alard, because variety…</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFqby5gb40A9f_WLgKjSO6z1KCo3zED4PnRBOiV-PmUlxw1edSRkZ0PHhV9kYw7VNKyWdrz_paezWF4J3PxXKsd__2Xmc73eDSNuzBXgQRNdoB0EwstjUYap_tdjx7TjFmDfnOIkXX63eV4BBQpPnr4c7dRqAVNLSxvom8IKEd4uqhNOrdByt1kGG/s4032/1AC92276-1AAA-45BB-A065-02C7B40446C1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFqby5gb40A9f_WLgKjSO6z1KCo3zED4PnRBOiV-PmUlxw1edSRkZ0PHhV9kYw7VNKyWdrz_paezWF4J3PxXKsd__2Xmc73eDSNuzBXgQRNdoB0EwstjUYap_tdjx7TjFmDfnOIkXX63eV4BBQpPnr4c7dRqAVNLSxvom8IKEd4uqhNOrdByt1kGG/s320/1AC92276-1AAA-45BB-A065-02C7B40446C1.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-17267303212597938872022-07-11T18:28:00.000-07:002022-07-11T18:28:42.221-07:00Abe’s Assassin and the Potala Palace, Tibet<p> The alleged motive for Shinzo Abe’s assassination and the Potala Palace, the legendary winter palace of the Dalai Lamas in Lhasa, Tibet. What’s the connection? Bear with me. Ten years or so ago, I visited Tibet, and climbed to the top of the Potala Palace, taking two hours to climb the thousand steps to the top and twenty minutes to walk down—it’s that steep. Our guide throughout our stay in Tibet, a young native Tibetan, was, like all his ethnic countrymen, resentful of the Han Chinese who dominated the economy and looked down on the native population. But surprisingly, he did not attribute the backwardness of the region solely to the Chinese government’s promotion of the Han majority over the Tibetan minority. <span>He attributed it partly to the legendary spirituality of the Tibetan Buddhists, so admired and exoticized by the West, that led them to donate their earthly wealth to the temple rather than focus on the education and advancement of their people. His own mother, according to our young guide, gave whatever she was able to save to buy gold leaf to gild the statues of the temple, while he and his siblings went without.</span></p><p><span>Fast forward to three days ago, when a gunman shot down Shinzo Abe, the former Japanese Prime Minister, because, he alleged, Abe had ties to a particular sect, the Unification Church, to which the assassin’s mother had belonged and given donations and went bankrupt. This motive initially seemed far fetched to me but then I remembered our young Tibetan guide and his resentment of his mother’s devotion to her temple at the expense of the future of her children. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4UK2Zl1I3hgcX5YJjlTDFS5yXr7QMRnostIQtbGCwuN96kNxQQJka373_-JxgTiMtJp6fRts7Ik1gWuU5VJU_2-Jplmd70J8GXELJ-QIP8efQjVFeEaZEAIOeNAj_C0PbOdzqGgSZZ1PbCgt6c7ld0pkHXnY-gVWVyHs5T_yzeGV1LHHfmIruFB0/s850/32BD433E-7E27-413D-A87C-783414372145.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="583" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4UK2Zl1I3hgcX5YJjlTDFS5yXr7QMRnostIQtbGCwuN96kNxQQJka373_-JxgTiMtJp6fRts7Ik1gWuU5VJU_2-Jplmd70J8GXELJ-QIP8efQjVFeEaZEAIOeNAj_C0PbOdzqGgSZZ1PbCgt6c7ld0pkHXnY-gVWVyHs5T_yzeGV1LHHfmIruFB0/s320/32BD433E-7E27-413D-A87C-783414372145.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopVwsx5AFsJxJLBWjrB50-A_XOPxyTpjhmfTM8P0J7xgOq1IfnT1wkU6tua9Bk4Nv3ynzjYNiAia_CbI1yejEU0u-pOICnewe_POy22c2uYSzNmqP17N_032g3V3v-tmPpp8n2e5ncSAU_S23ltJto8503Ag_LcMCICYLWRpJspgHX3ZDCpvWfiOc/s1424/517621AC-F73A-48C0-8B7C-F7D0E5BEBC4B.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1424" data-original-width="1039" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopVwsx5AFsJxJLBWjrB50-A_XOPxyTpjhmfTM8P0J7xgOq1IfnT1wkU6tua9Bk4Nv3ynzjYNiAia_CbI1yejEU0u-pOICnewe_POy22c2uYSzNmqP17N_032g3V3v-tmPpp8n2e5ncSAU_S23ltJto8503Ag_LcMCICYLWRpJspgHX3ZDCpvWfiOc/s320/517621AC-F73A-48C0-8B7C-F7D0E5BEBC4B.jpeg" width="233" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCY9-vpJ5W4ICVzxsDG2VnWoj_gVgPxooBmbsZ9Vdb7s2u8AqL3NKOLoJ0wqNGqpkd7haHHv9JwpfSRP-yAgy5i6iMrUKzh8cwSIIuVZ84wW5ljGb02o1h5K8_cPhcp2-tRlsC9OVwohLZQtZxzPAk6OAbdJLePbN9AIyY5-irqZMv4b-TAQX0MAOb/s1538/F5238F4E-7C40-43D3-81FB-38EC30684BAE.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1185" data-original-width="1538" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCY9-vpJ5W4ICVzxsDG2VnWoj_gVgPxooBmbsZ9Vdb7s2u8AqL3NKOLoJ0wqNGqpkd7haHHv9JwpfSRP-yAgy5i6iMrUKzh8cwSIIuVZ84wW5ljGb02o1h5K8_cPhcp2-tRlsC9OVwohLZQtZxzPAk6OAbdJLePbN9AIyY5-irqZMv4b-TAQX0MAOb/s320/F5238F4E-7C40-43D3-81FB-38EC30684BAE.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span><p></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p> </p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-84369651699233317062022-05-16T20:09:00.001-07:002022-05-16T20:09:30.767-07:00South Writ Large Anthology Launch on Wednesday May 18th!<p>It’s exciting indeed to see our South Writ Large Anthology finally in print and on bookshelves wherever books are sold! Twenty-six splendid pieces selected to represent the hundreds of essays and art contributed by well over a hundred writers and artists featured over eleven years of quarterly publishing. Lavishly illustrated, it includes an Introduction by novelist Michael Malone. It has been seven years in the making, a labor of love on the part of all concerned, from contributors to editors, and all proceeds go to benefit the UNC Center for the Study of the American South. Our launch date is May 18th at Flyleaf Books in Chapel Hill. In addition to two of the anthology editors, Robin Muira and myself, several of the contributors will be reading excerpts from their pieces in the anthology, including NYT best-selling novelist Jill McCorkle and legendary Southern Cooking Chef and cookbook author Bill Smith. If you’re anywhere in the vicinity, as they say here in the South, y’all come on down!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVpg2AkLv9-LipJU722tvWI7MZCkKDvjCqGR57oWJP3jt0FDpRsI-oRVz_IbjPcptVMgjlraYKB4cZXzsNXhdfWyqhQ1l9zKCOUB1VwiWN69Z-alWXP_GEC_t7B0v-a6HyPw-R3GrVtsTf4lR43FGnywSPcDQEVSLTBUVD482hWbeZYzIljLvR9ok/s960/1B9131FD-A927-4CAB-9D91-DD5455BFA8DC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVpg2AkLv9-LipJU722tvWI7MZCkKDvjCqGR57oWJP3jt0FDpRsI-oRVz_IbjPcptVMgjlraYKB4cZXzsNXhdfWyqhQ1l9zKCOUB1VwiWN69Z-alWXP_GEC_t7B0v-a6HyPw-R3GrVtsTf4lR43FGnywSPcDQEVSLTBUVD482hWbeZYzIljLvR9ok/s320/1B9131FD-A927-4CAB-9D91-DD5455BFA8DC.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Y_N3Esb4_LxBVXgb5hAD4geClECXB9mwDJXwSlhkaQrMhHXwNDi7rI55FrgPYToEQ8BzWGhQEmo8ZPnM-Mrt1VmZCD8qsoOy0tjjzAgmHF07-VT_vGvfmYti3z4BxtaBrza8dIeMhBm2HYUS8ZCUhcqYiZkZ6RUwSOAbEE9FdIJjAjt8V80VAk3K/s960/78F4DEAF-5DCC-4F06-B734-5CB8ADD26AA7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Y_N3Esb4_LxBVXgb5hAD4geClECXB9mwDJXwSlhkaQrMhHXwNDi7rI55FrgPYToEQ8BzWGhQEmo8ZPnM-Mrt1VmZCD8qsoOy0tjjzAgmHF07-VT_vGvfmYti3z4BxtaBrza8dIeMhBm2HYUS8ZCUhcqYiZkZ6RUwSOAbEE9FdIJjAjt8V80VAk3K/s320/78F4DEAF-5DCC-4F06-B734-5CB8ADD26AA7.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-40183447095050057252022-05-16T19:39:00.001-07:002022-05-16T19:39:59.350-07:00Book Review: Divining Women by Druscilla French<p> Druscilla French’s Divining Women, the most recent in her Wheel of the Year series, takes place at a time of year when the harsh Colorado winter begins almost imperceptibly to turn the corner to Spring. The extended family at the heart of the novel, related by blood or friendship or need, struggle separately and together with their own demons and challenges, from matriarch grandmother Cate to implacable justice-seeking lawyer Mattie to gifted, brave but often ignored granddaughter Chrysaor. This youngest is the emotional locus of the story, heartbreaking in her valiant efforts to hold the family together and carry burdens far beyond her years. In keeping with the wheel of the year theme, the ending, without give away too much, closes on a note of plenty, a presage of the Spring that follows the barrenness of Winter. </p><p>The writing is elegant and evocative throughout, and a palimpsest of sorts reminds the reader of the earlier two novels in the series, although this third book very much stands alone. By the time the last page is turned, the reader is left looking forward to following the fortunes of the family in the next book in the series. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBBKlemtgGjONUxUu1fU2KW3_2zDCfWqsGtK4_fLMCg2cJBFQW3-B5QVmqlrb-nkuBuOAuY9-Yv9_0ekE5DXBDIn1wn_FF2n8gEfUoWD3w4gEtHiK3EC_WJGuYeS_sasIvOn1j43j9BbdsXqW3_Gw3dO2nAibAX5Rw42hFLS47NWFXqwCPxJ7I2Ec9/s2661/0227A92A-44A9-47CE-A7E5-1A7EF11D3020.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2661" data-original-width="1974" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBBKlemtgGjONUxUu1fU2KW3_2zDCfWqsGtK4_fLMCg2cJBFQW3-B5QVmqlrb-nkuBuOAuY9-Yv9_0ekE5DXBDIn1wn_FF2n8gEfUoWD3w4gEtHiK3EC_WJGuYeS_sasIvOn1j43j9BbdsXqW3_Gw3dO2nAibAX5Rw42hFLS47NWFXqwCPxJ7I2Ec9/s320/0227A92A-44A9-47CE-A7E5-1A7EF11D3020.jpeg" width="237" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-36162357827356338892022-03-27T11:28:00.003-07:002022-03-27T11:28:49.209-07:00Book review<p> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Review</span></p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">“In </span><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Marse: A Psychological Portrait of the Southern Slave Master,</i><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"> H.D. Kirkpatrick brings his near forty years of forensic psychology practice to bear on a highly disturbing but fascinating topic, the legacy of which, although reaching back to the 17thC, still plagues us today. Kirkpatrick dissects a mindset that could encompass referring to enslaved dependents as “family,” and yet sell members of that “family” for profit or punishment, cruelly separating them from their real family, their parents or spouses. Perhaps hardest for some of us to imagine today is that a slaveholder might make slaves of his own flesh and blood, the children he fathers on an enslaved woman. And yet, these acts, unimaginable, indefensible and inexcusable as they seem to us today, routinely took place, for centuries. How did “Marse” justify them to himself and to the planter class to which he belonged? For Kirkpatrick, who discovered as recently as 2014 that some of his own ancestors were slaveholders, the answers are essential. </span><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;">Marse</i><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"> is a necessary book, dense, meticulously researched, sourced, annotated and illustrated. It makes for compelling reading. Highly recommended.”</span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0MJKH8WV_tKw8QyYJbORWLvJAcwHTV5aTV8LAwtQj9aOzfgGOvFXBe5U4zO0TVj8nGCjSXoYWCBfFUGlStzkNrAWIOsI_0ntaqrtuF2rOouIuckgwcbo_5DxA4PLvnOK-EplRf_m4Y4hWU0XjpRLqm99krLcRAc5fGbeniTur79VlHsM_y1HcKqH/s3383/925D9457-DAFF-43D9-8458-969C50A09B57.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3383" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0MJKH8WV_tKw8QyYJbORWLvJAcwHTV5aTV8LAwtQj9aOzfgGOvFXBe5U4zO0TVj8nGCjSXoYWCBfFUGlStzkNrAWIOsI_0ntaqrtuF2rOouIuckgwcbo_5DxA4PLvnOK-EplRf_m4Y4hWU0XjpRLqm99krLcRAc5fGbeniTur79VlHsM_y1HcKqH/s320/925D9457-DAFF-43D9-8458-969C50A09B57.jpeg" width="215" /></a></div><br /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-53072947321327594722021-10-05T18:11:00.004-07:002021-10-13T10:02:24.082-07:00Death in a Rose Garden <p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">If a man drops dead in a rose garden, and nobody notices, does he make a sound? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">There is a wooden pavilion in a rose garden I cross through regularly on my way to the walking trail. Yesterday morning, as I hurried through the garden, I noticed a big, burly man supine on the bench in the rose pavilion, one foot still on the ground, the other on the bench, one arm across his forehead, the other on his chest. About forty. Wearing an immaculate white t-shirt, blue running shorts and new running shoes. Catching his breath, I guessed, after pushing himself too hard, out of shape and overweight as he clearly was. He seemed actually to have fallen asleep, not just resting. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">An hour and a half later, having completed my walk and looped back to my starting point at the park, I saw the flashing lights of an ambulance. Still, I didn’t make a connection with the man until, striding through the rose garden, I saw him lying on the bench in the exact same position, but now three police officers surrounded him, and a fourth spotted me and shouted: “Ma’am! Get back!” As I turned and scrambled away, I heard another policeman say, “We have a heart attack victim here.” Others were blocking off the path with the yellow “Do Not Cross” tape. Then it was that I realized the man was dead.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">They had just discovered him. He hadn’t moved a hair since I’d seen him an hour and a half earlier, so he must have lain there immobile for at least that long, in a public park with people passing constantly and children playing on the swings nearby, and no one had noticed or bothered to call for help until a few minutes ago. <i>I hadn’t </i>. What does that say about our society, even here, in a small, safe, southern college town? What does it say about me?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">If he had looked like a person in distress, if he had been old or frail or a woman, would I have approached him and asked: “Are you alright?” I believe I would have. But I should have known he was in trouble nevertheless. Only homeless people sleep on a park bench in the middle of the day, and he was clearly not that.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">This man looked like a family man, he had that look about him. He also looked like he’d once been athletic but had put on about fifty pounds over the years. Maybe his wife and kids finally talked him into taking care of his health and he decided to take up running, and pushed himself too hard. And now he would never come home.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">One question torments me. Was he still alive when I first saw him? If I had called 911, would there still have been time to save him? I don’t know. I’ll never know. And not knowing will haunt me. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNM0hiQNNwOSHauGfpxTwmEk-V2Ng5Jfr9kbbn-kvnwp6NbjHF3da-xiMeCi8Mrdm3E71ho10DUiHkQ2QCGqu5jvityYNlTGU4W8EdtwUpKNzoeRBnoipY7BtFfaGNyqUJig-qsDF3cC0/s2048/4A520607-6CD1-4223-A4AF-92B45ED1F5B8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNM0hiQNNwOSHauGfpxTwmEk-V2Ng5Jfr9kbbn-kvnwp6NbjHF3da-xiMeCi8Mrdm3E71ho10DUiHkQ2QCGqu5jvityYNlTGU4W8EdtwUpKNzoeRBnoipY7BtFfaGNyqUJig-qsDF3cC0/s320/4A520607-6CD1-4223-A4AF-92B45ED1F5B8.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-52792949439780119702021-09-11T08:59:00.001-07:002021-09-11T08:59:15.142-07:00How do you commemorate 9/11 twenty years later?<p>How do you remember an event that was a personal trauma as much as a global one? I was spared the loss of anyone close to me, thank God, although for the first few hours, I did not know that, until I received that reassuring phone call: “Mom, I’m alright.” Nothing can compare with that. </p><p>But I lost other things: my right to my heretofore perfectly integrated, happy life as an “ordinary American,” unqualified by hyphenation and its accompanying stigmatization. I lost one friend I truly cared for, but was blessed by the support from so many, many more. I lost my voice, as a writer, for what seemed like a long time, but I found it again and published two books since then, partly inspired by 9/11 <i>(Love is Like Water) </i>or wholly inspired by the Iraq invasion (<i>The Naqib’s Daughter</i>.) </p><p>So how do you commemorate 9/11? For me, reflection and solace in a morning walk in the woods today. Last night, watching the play Come from Away. Tomorrow, September 12th, giving a talk at Duke Divinity School about <b>9/11 Twenty Years Later: What has Changed?</b> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-po2Aoich4cJD8H3RApWvoo8gkz-KatcMcBravLuc2XFNV8aC-elZ5b3k_SCfcgnfQcClGc3a-1aSl0siO7gCwDpUagGoHAN_57jjNRCReVgAN0e0c6SkpETQh-Imuqjncx2XsJrnvcg/s2048/7C592FD0-0E79-4243-AD83-7717BC5B6516.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-po2Aoich4cJD8H3RApWvoo8gkz-KatcMcBravLuc2XFNV8aC-elZ5b3k_SCfcgnfQcClGc3a-1aSl0siO7gCwDpUagGoHAN_57jjNRCReVgAN0e0c6SkpETQh-Imuqjncx2XsJrnvcg/s320/7C592FD0-0E79-4243-AD83-7717BC5B6516.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-76434246007083657272021-09-06T12:01:00.000-07:002021-09-06T12:01:51.467-07:009/11 Twenty Years Later: What Has Changed? Talk at Duke Divinity School September 12, 2021, 9:45 am<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRosH3Lof-XspqQFML2v1FnERlygGE40MMxC66LCg18yi99cyY27rYSAzD58XwZRkWQlwT5PbA_4gX82dLN1Va4y1fY6x8U9Phn_vkI1H6C39jLAGMQn8vvChHALazZc5Ee9A8_C2l1j4/s1991/93C8A7D6-7CE9-40F7-A818-66027E8C4187.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="827" data-original-width="1991" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRosH3Lof-XspqQFML2v1FnERlygGE40MMxC66LCg18yi99cyY27rYSAzD58XwZRkWQlwT5PbA_4gX82dLN1Va4y1fY6x8U9Phn_vkI1H6C39jLAGMQn8vvChHALazZc5Ee9A8_C2l1j4/w615-h256/93C8A7D6-7CE9-40F7-A818-66027E8C4187.jpeg" width="615" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-6357723204481430172021-08-15T19:03:00.002-07:002021-08-15T19:10:48.279-07:00Afghanistan today, Egypt in 1801: History Repeats, Tragically.<div class="separator"><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></p></div><p> Today, it’s Afghan collaborators with the American forces of occupation who are abandoned by the evacuating Western troops and fear retribution at the hands of their countrymen. Over two hundred years ago, the same scenario played out in Egypt when Bonaparte’s army of the East scrambled to evacuate after three years of occupation, as I described in my book, The Naqib’s Daughter. Arguably, the French withdrew with less precipitation and more consideration for their collaborators: they embarked some with them, and tried to negotiate amnesty for those they left behind. Ultimately, though, many Egyptians paid a heavy price in retribution, especially the women who, willingly or against their will, consorted with the French in Egypt. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTNcDM1dMAwg1W9UclqSlBEgLthGAx6fzDlgVC7nkXXTEdu9wKFYLpiPCGuDquf2QLIdeWbIhuLA6cE_70LFCaUbnhayIr9KbY65wFQeX_gQ5iuJxS724c7__OWcRf-KjIoMHdqlDTue4/s1322/27EB1000-7B37-4D22-B39C-F0BAA7828535.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1084" data-original-width="1322" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTNcDM1dMAwg1W9UclqSlBEgLthGAx6fzDlgVC7nkXXTEdu9wKFYLpiPCGuDquf2QLIdeWbIhuLA6cE_70LFCaUbnhayIr9KbY65wFQeX_gQ5iuJxS724c7__OWcRf-KjIoMHdqlDTue4/s320/27EB1000-7B37-4D22-B39C-F0BAA7828535.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-59311467583151855242021-01-18T06:50:00.001-08:002021-01-18T06:50:26.763-08:00The Cataclysmic First Year of the Decade<p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">What is it about the cataclysmic first year of every decade of this third millennium? Events that permanently shake and shape the world stage. September 2001 needs no reminder. January 2011, the Arab Spring in Tahrir Square, Cairo. January 2021, the sacking of the Capitol in Washington DC. As I watched the inconceivable spectacle of a mob charging the very seat of American democracy, the sense of déjà-vu was acute and yet overpowered by the far more alarming implications. When a million Egyptians gathered in the streets to demand, first the reform, then the ouster, of the thirty-year autocracy of Hosni Mubarak, the uprising fell into the category of the familiar, the rational, and even the expected, along the pattern of similar popular revolutions in Eastern Europe and elsewhere around the world. But the mob assault of a few thousand </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFFIlzXlqmrH0ZjvqUF1za9NF9d71KOfdVEqZchUxLuZ0nI5z7traFnSeIoD_FTrjyQvL8oQlrhyphenhyphen5XP0_ckR_PvKCvGDI6aJM1IMiNkgNnegrPFL-4LN_QpGDRDM3esMFPBI8S8evkfU/s1291/DD5FE187-F153-4045-B3A6-F0E0065CE6A0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="831" data-original-width="1291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFFIlzXlqmrH0ZjvqUF1za9NF9d71KOfdVEqZchUxLuZ0nI5z7traFnSeIoD_FTrjyQvL8oQlrhyphenhyphen5XP0_ckR_PvKCvGDI6aJM1IMiNkgNnegrPFL-4LN_QpGDRDM3esMFPBI8S8evkfU/s320/DD5FE187-F153-4045-B3A6-F0E0065CE6A0.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7l3UQLXU9l7dhsm8PT47OqIHcZMYdN7iOVzJgAz-rTaqWcySqmUDV2VB8e47pdcSH5Jw3h6WujxZXVIEFRjD8Q8_TmwYlwJ9Ehgmukq2tx90dHh7-qzLGgGZKUfQlBbbA83duW2MmWHY/s731/4A5EDDF8-3AB8-46DA-AE4A-AD1212A6DFFB.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="731" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7l3UQLXU9l7dhsm8PT47OqIHcZMYdN7iOVzJgAz-rTaqWcySqmUDV2VB8e47pdcSH5Jw3h6WujxZXVIEFRjD8Q8_TmwYlwJ9Ehgmukq2tx90dHh7-qzLGgGZKUfQlBbbA83duW2MmWHY/s320/4A5EDDF8-3AB8-46DA-AE4A-AD1212A6DFFB.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />on the hallowed electoral process in the iconic Capitol building on January 6<sup style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">, 2021, was truly unprecedented, an earthquake opening a chasm under our feet. Above all, irrational: a response to an alternative, conspiracy-fueled version of facts. And consequently, the chasm opening under our feet is dividing the nation into two camps with irreconcilable world views. Egypt’s 2011 Revolution presented no such challenge to reality, only irreconcilable positions on whether, or how, to bring about change. In America today, there is no consensus on reality.</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">The contrast is particularly salient to me right now, as I am in the process of writing a novel set in Egypt during the Arab Spring.<o:p></o:p></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-88295784846966315522020-09-08T05:35:00.000-07:002020-09-08T05:35:26.405-07:00A Silent Fall<p> </p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Come September, you wake up one morning to a bracing chill in the air, you look at the time and realize the sun is sleeping later and later every day; you thrill to the promise that our muggy, buggy Southern Summer is gathering its mosquito foot soldiers and its hurricane storm troops and preparing to migrate to the far hemisphere. Fall, the glorious season, with its coat of many colors, the payoff for surviving the dog days of August, whispers “soon, soon,” with every breeze. But the sounds of September are silent this year. The morning grinding of school buses up and down the streets is eerily missing. Missing too, the bustle and commotion of thousands of college students flocking back to summer-sleepy campuses, standing in line with overflowing carts at checkouts in supermarkets and home goods stores, and cramming every restaurant table or bar stool up and down the downtown strip. Fall, the real season of renewal, when our town is jolted back to life. It is eerily silent this year.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-7810462393331963352020-08-31T18:19:00.000-07:002020-08-31T18:19:14.304-07:00Remembering Randall Kenan.<p> </p><p>For two years, whenever I ran into Randall Kenan and he gave me an especially big hug in greeting, I worried. It meant he was feeling guilty for not having turned in his essay for Mothers and Strangers, in spite of my regular emails hounding him, as editors are wont to do. But Randall had a mischievous sense of humor, and I appealed to that by comparing him to Michelangelo, who replied to the pope who had commissioned the Sistine Chapel ceiling fresco, that “he would be done when he was done.” In return Randall compared me to “that mean old pope who nagged Michelangelo, but much nicer.” Our UNC Press editor, Lucas Church, even went ahead with the peer review and the board approval, without an essay from Randall; we had faith in him to come through after the eleventh hour. And so he did, with a delightfully breezy essay about food and family and the village it took to raise him. “The mean old pope” quote made it into the Acknowledgments at the back of the book when it was published. The great talent and sweet spirit that was Randall Kenan passed away on August 26th. Today I cherish that permanent record of our playful exchanges.</p>Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-67261189519828790012020-06-30T18:48:00.001-07:002020-06-30T18:48:40.451-07:00Take the Police Off the Streets? Been there.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Take the Police off the Streets? Been there.<br />
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What’s it really like, not just to defund the police, but to actually take them off the streets? I know firsthand. I was in Cairo on January 25th, 2011, when the country was convulsed with mass protests and teetered on the brink of anarchy. Much of the protests were directed against police brutality, and centered around one particularly egregious case. “We are all Khaled Sa’eed” the banners proclaimed, referring to a young Alexandrian who was arrested in an Internet café and died in police custody, reportedly beaten to death.<br />
In response to the protests, the police were withdrawn from the streets, and it was widely disseminated that the jails and prisons had been left with the doors wide open, potentially releasing all manner of criminals. So what happened next? Civilians took their security into their own hands. The residents of each house, each building, each street, each neighborhood, organized their own vigilance and self-protection.<br />
At the time, I was staying in an apartment in a large building on an island in the middle of the Nile in Cairo. The residents took shifts standing guard in the lobby of the building along with the four doorkeepers. Some residents carried golf clubs as makeshift weapons; the doorkeepers had Nubian billy clubs. The odd duck rifle or hand pistol were rare. And that is the crucial difference with the United States. Egypt is not an armed society. Very few civilians have guns of any kind, let alone the automatic rifles and heavy firearms that are common in America. So the residents might not have been armed, but then again chances were that neither were the criminals.<br />
Curfew was in force, usually from dusk to dawn. Zamalek, where I was staying, is an island, so once curfew was in effect, the several bridges were blocked by the residents, and volunteers manned these roadblocks. The river banks also needed to be patrolled: thugs occasionally tried to cross over in small boats, claiming to be fishermen.<br />
Standing around with the neighbors in the lobby, I noted that the general ambiance was almost convivial, and people made acquaintance with neighbors they had never exchanged a word with. That is one thing revolutions and pandemics have in common: when you are confined or under curfew, your neighbors become your most accessible social circle.<br />
But in spite of the spirit of bonhomie, the danger of thugs and looters was real and there were moments of tension. One night a scowling man in black leather rode by our building on a motorcycle, shouting: “See how you like it when there are no police.” It was assumed he was a disaffected policeman out of uniform. There were also moments of levity. One time, a long black car was stopped by our building’s neighborhood watch when it tried to pass the road block on our street after curfew. Then a delivery boy on a motorcycle came by and vouched for him. “Let him through, I know him, that’s the Chinese ambassador.” Delivery boys in Cairo go everywhere and know everyone.<br />
During the few hours of the day when curfew was lifted, people went out for urgent business, but there were no policemen directing traffic, or any functioning traffic lights. Cairo traffic is chaotic at the best of times, and Egyptians are notorious for ignoring traffic regulations, so it is easy to imagine the nightmare entanglements and traffic jams that ensued. But again, people took matters in their own hands. A frustrated driver or just any passerby would stand at the juncture of a cross street and beckon cars forward from one direction and then the other.<br />
Purse-snatchers on motorcycles or motor scooters wove between cars in stalled traffic, zipping up on sidewalks and snatching a purse off a woman’s arm when they saw an opportunity, then making an unimpeded getaway. Cairene women replaced their jewelry with cheap baubles and carried only small crossbody bags; they exchanged recipes for homemade pepper spray. <br />
But at least in the city, there was no descent into complete lawlessness, widespread violence or out-of-control looting, although outside of Cairo the incidents were more common.<br />
The stand-off between the police and the public lasted for months. Gradually, there was more police presence on the street.<br />
Today, nearly ten years later, the power of the police is as ubiquitous and unquestioned as it ever was during the Mubarak years. Is there a lesson to be drawn from that period of the eclipse of the police? Egyptian society is divided, predictably, on whether or not the experiment should ever be repeated. As for history, it has not yet had the last word.<br />
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Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-11668210134154092352020-04-29T14:21:00.001-07:002020-04-29T14:21:38.881-07:00What do these four great leaders have to do with Coronavirus? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What do George Washington, Louis XIV, Bismarck and Pharaoh Mena have in common and relevant to our current coronavirus crisis?<br />
Each of these men were leaders in the unification of their country, but along markedly different forms of government. Washington presided over the birth of the United States as a federal republic with largely autonomous states. Otto von Bismarck united the German Bundeslander as a federal republic in 1871. Louis XIV concentrated power in the central government of France; he notoriously said: “L’état, c’est moi.” Egypt, of course, preceded them all: Mena was the first Pharaoh to preside over Upper and Lower Egypt five thousand years ago.<br />
Today, the responses to coronavirus in each of these countries reflects the modes of centralization or decentralization of government established by these early leaders. In the United States, the extreme case of decentralization, the governor of each state, indeed the mayor of each city, can decide what measures to take to fight a pandemic, and when to impose or lift a lockdown. To a lesser extent, the German Bundeslander have considerable autonomy, even though most trust their chancellor enough to follow directives. In France, however, the idea that a municipality or a département might decide not to follow the directives of the Elysée is heresy, and violation of confinement rules anywhere in the country is not tolerated. In Egypt, the central government is traditionally so all powerful that the very notion of autonomous regions is unthinkable.<br />
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Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-47200064450405350472020-04-27T05:31:00.002-07:002020-04-29T14:49:02.302-07:00Covid-19: what would Bonaparte have done? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When General Bonaparte prepared to invade Egypt in the summer of 1798, he was warned that he would face three enemies: the English, the Ottomans, and Islam. What no one could have predicted was a fourth: the plague. How the French dealt with it is as much an indication of the ethics and science of their time as how we deal with our current pandemic crisis is revelatory of ours.<br />
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The pestilence could not have broken out at a worse time. Nelson’s navy had sunk the French fleet in the Bay of Aboukir off the coast of Alexandria, leaving Bonaparte’s “Army of the Orient” stranded in Egypt and hemmed in by a British and Ottoman blockade. Cairo had erupted in bloody revolt against the occupation, and the even bloodier repression that followed left the French bunkered behind a ring of garrisons.<br />
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It was against this backdrop that the plague reared its head in Egypt in the winter of 1799. The chief French physician accompanying Bonaparte’s army, Docteur Desgenettes, recognized the bubonic plague —no stranger to Europe—but avoided the dread word “plague,” referring to it as “the epidemic,” much as the world took its time to acknowledge that Covid-19 was indeed a pandemic. The French took draconian measures to lock down the city of Cairo, and anyone caught scaling the city walls was shot. To contain the spread of the pestilence among the troops, “social distancing” from prostitutes was strictly enforced: thirty Egyptian prostitutes who were caught consorting were drowned.<br />
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Medicine, physicians and beds were in short supply in the three hospitals the French set up, so then, as now, hard questions arose: are all lives equal, or do we choose who deserves saving? In each era, a society’s ethics are reflected in the decisions made in such crises. In today’s pandemic, prioritizing who gets the last available ventilator in extremis is framed in terms of age and survival chances. In Bonaparte’s Egypt, ethnicity and religion were prioritized. Apart from the French themselves, only civilians from the European and Syrian Christian communities were admitted to the French hospitals, and Claude Royer, the chief pharmacist, had orders to dispense medications only to members of these two communities.<br />
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But other measures were taken to contain the plague among the native population, some of which will have a familiar ring to us today. Festivals and celebrations were banned, to limit congregation, and pilgrimage to Mecca was cancelled, just as it is this year of 2020. So was the slaughter of sheep for the annual Feast of the Sacrifice. Bedding was to be aired daily, and all raw food to be macerated in vinegar. A sick person was to be isolated from his family for forty days, and the entire household was to be strictly quarantined. A family that failed to report a sick member or neighbor to the police or who violated the isolation imposed on their household risked severe punishment. French soldiers did daily rounds of the city, inspecting house by house. As the locals would have balked at allowing a man to inspect the women’s harems, a local woman from each neighborhood was assigned to accompany the French soldiers. Then, as now with “aggressive contact tracing,” such extreme surveillance measures aroused suspicion as a sinister assault on privacy and liberties.<br />
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Hardest of all for the Egyptians to accept was the ban on holding funerals for their dead. How do you mourn when you cannot hold a funeral? How does your responsibility to society weigh against your deepest commitments to family and faith? Even today, we struggle with such questions.<br />
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But it is instructive to learn from a contemporary Egyptian account of the French occupation, the daily journal kept by the prolific historian Abdel Rahman al-Jabarti, that the harsh measures enforced by the French against the plague, resented as as they were at the time by Egyptians, were grudgingly conceded to have been partially effective in limiting its devastation. In every era, confronted with an existential threat, respect for science and scientists prevails over superstition or its modern equivalents.<br />
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But it was not only in Egypt that the French were beset by the plague. Bonaparte, who had launched a campaign against Ottoman-controlled Syria, found it waiting for him and his army in Jaffa. The French advance was initially victorious, but after the fall of Jaffa the plague began to seriously ravage the French army. Bonaparte set up a camp hospital there to administer to the diseased and pressed on with his campaign. The French were defeated before the impregnable walls of Acre and prepared to retreat from Syria back to Egypt. An appalling predicament arose: what to do with the plague-stricken French soldiers in the camp hospitals in Jaffa? Evacuating them was impractical if not unfeasible. Bonaparte ordered the chief physician, Docteur Desgenettes, to administer opium to the sick, arguing that it would put them out of their misery and lessen the chances of infecting other troops. Desgenettes, who had been selfless in fighting the epidemic, even going to the extent of inoculating himself publicly with pus from the bubonic sores, refused. In the event it was Royer, the pharmacist, who administered the fatal doses of opium.<br />
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In 1804, three years after the French evacuated from Egypt, Napoleon commissioned the painter Antoine-Jean Gros to immortalize him in the heroic “Bonaparte visiting the Plague-stricken of Jaffa.” History, however, recorded a far less glorious reality. Even today, it is debatable whether Bonaparte’s decision was humane or indefensible.<br />
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Two centuries later, when mankind shoots not just for the moon but for Mars, it is hard to believe that the world can still be caught short and ground to a standstill by disease. Harder still, that we grapple with the same ethical choices. We should prepare now for the next time we are tested, because we will be. When this is over, how will history judge us? Judge us it will.<br />
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Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-82888316543249712772020-04-11T08:21:00.001-07:002020-04-11T08:21:22.926-07:00Epidemics and The Naqib’s Daughter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Doing research for this novel, I learned a great deal about how Bonaparte’s French occupation dealt with the plague in Egypt and with their own troops in the Syrian campaign. They faced some of the same hard choices : how to ration limited medicine—Europeans and Christian Syrians were given priority over native Egyptians. How to contain the plague by locking down the city of Cairo. Forcing social distancing by drowning prostitutes who violated it. Trying out a new vaccine. Administering opium to the afflicted troops the French had to leave behind in Syria.<br />
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Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-79023174570132715012020-03-15T14:41:00.001-07:002020-03-15T14:41:30.673-07:00Strange Days<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The closest experience I’ve had to the present Covoid-19 crisis is during the days of the 2011 Egyptian Revolution: the panic stocking up; not knowing what to expect, waiting for the other shoe to drop; the imposed isolation of curfew; the conflicting news stories. This, of course, is much worse. There is no safe haven anywhere in the world, and no potential upside. Worst of all, the unwitting fifth columnist in this war could be the stranger you never meet who touched the pharmacy checkout counter ahead of you, or your closest friend. At least, since I am writing a novel with Egypt 2011 as a setting, self isolation puts me in the right frame of mind!</div>
Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-56117973851665988612020-03-07T19:02:00.001-08:002020-03-07T19:03:19.781-08:00Great day in Southern Pines.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lee Smith and I were invited to speak about Mothers and Strangers at the Southern Pines Rotary Club luncheon, following which we took a stroll around the quaint downtown to read at the charming Country Bookshop, where we were greeted by enthusiastic fans and bookshop staff. A very pleasant day!<br />
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Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322604235969592997.post-60829873136266864032020-03-04T18:03:00.003-08:002020-03-04T18:03:43.666-08:00Reading in Southern Pines March 6, 2020 <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Lee Smith and I will be reading from Mothers and Strangers at The Country Bookstore in Southern Pines at 2 pm on March 6th.</div>
Samia Serageldinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04737839817835006457noreply@blogger.com0