Confection

It was Saturday before I heard something had happened. Already for 72 hours dozens of baby faced teenage boys with bullets in their shoulders, and pregnant women with gunshot wounds to their knees had been bundled over the border by family members. Thousands more stood waiting in no man’s land by the time Al Jazeera reported on the shootings on Saturday morning. At the time I wasn’t surprised—after all, things like this happen in Kyrgyzstan regularly now. The point about ethnic conflict was not really being reported until Monday morning. Even at that point the media said the violence was due to some gang activity, they didn’t mention men in Kyrgyzstan military uniforms were the ones setting Uzbeks on fire and pulling out their eyes. By Monday, I was writing indignant emails to friends about how I had not one single message or phone call about the situation, and I work for the main aid organization in Uzbekistan! My boss sent an Uzbek colleague out to review the situation on Sunday and he returned Tuesday with sterile facts about the camps: 3,248 people in Jalalquduq, 4,200 people in Poktabod. My colleague didn’t mention anything about the rapes or the mutilations. He also didn’t mention anything about the toilets, shelters or meals at any of the 40-odd refugee camps being set up along the Kyrgyzstan border. My boss sent me out to investigate along with our health project manager, Adolat. By then, late on Tuesday afternoon, I had some idea of what was going on. I knew the basic facts—37 camps, 80,000 refugees, mostly women and children—but I also had heard some of the rumors that were being reported, about the decapitations, shootings, and beatings of Uzbeks. I and my colleague drove the 5 hours out to the Fergana Valley and settled into our hotel in Margilan about 10pm. We had no idea what exactly we were doing, with whom we were supposed to meet, or what the implications of this trip (I am talking on a personal level) might have. At 9:00 we reported to the Andijon airport where the main coordinating center had been set up. Adolat and I sat there for 3 hours waiting for someone to be identified by the government to accompany us to the camps. In the small “press center” where we were waiting, a DVD was being looped showing men and women being carried into the Andijon emergency hospital with gunshot wounds. The time stamp on the footage read June 10, 3:10am. Until this point, I thought the shooting had started on Friday rather than Thursday. Yes, the three press men sitting next to us confirmed, it started Thursday. The DVD lasted for an hour and showed at least 100 people dead and dying, and was accompanied by a small set of laminated, bound pages of pictures of corpses. These photos included men with gunshot wounds to the head, women severely beaten and the charred corpses of toddlers wrapped in blankets. Our first stop was the emergency hospital where the injured were brought. We donned the requisite white coats (Adolat's actually an MD) and visited the wounded. Everything was white, clean, quiet and bleached. Young men stared languidly at the ceiling while doctors explained their treatments and the surgeons produced before and after x-rays to show to the American what action was taken. Thankfully, we were spared visits with the rape victims but were allowed access only to the ICU where the worst injuries were still recuperating. 170 people were brought to this hospital with gunshot wounds.

Dear Friends and Acquiantances, I will never, ever join Facebook. Stop asking. Sincerely, Confection Marzipana MA, MPH

I am not really sure why I did it; I already had one from when I was 23 (and one is usually enough for most people). I was in-between jobs and desperate, so I took a drastic step: I got another Master’s degree. After three years of running off to take exams while my husband lounged by the pool in Kigali, lugging statistics texts to my office in Kabul, and declining friends’ Friday night invitations to Harlem Jazz so I could write reports, it’s all over. Now my business cards read: Confection Marzipana MA, MPH A tad anticlimactic, no? Three years of my life, countless hours and thousands of dollars for three little letters. And--get this--I am not even employed in the sector of my new degree (but rather in the discipline of my former Master's). Yeah, so now that it’s all over I am a little bit at loose ends. Without the demands of writing a thesis and taking courses I am not sure what to do. However, I have some ideas (in no particular order): -Get a pilot’s license (impossible for Americans in former Soviet Union) -Write a cookbook -Take up violin again -Learn to kick-box/cage fight -Improve my Russian grammar So heed my advice: if you have one Master's degree and are considering getting another, don't. It's really not worth it. Plus, you get yourself worked up into a frenzy of being active and studious on weekends that is really hard to undo.

So no more Ethiopia, no more Africa. Bacca, bas, halas, vso, that's it. I am back in the Soviet Union, working for an organization I swore I'd never work for again. They made me an offer I could not refuse. Still, it's nice: with my white complexion, round face, lean build, tight skirts and high heels I fit right in. It is so pleasant to walk down the street and have no one scream "foreigner!" at me every few minutes like they did in Ethiopia--and the sour cream is amazing.

I came in this morning and had gotten a copy of the article referenced here about Muslim women having their hymens reconstructed. I shared it with my friend Hareg who informed me that infibulated women go to the doctor to have their infibulation "tightened up" for the husbands as a holiday gift. (If you don't know what infibulation is, it's when a woman has her clitoris, labia majora and minora cut out and then sewn together to ensure she remains a virgin until she marries. See my post on International Women's Day.) Y'all, what the fuck? At least Judith Warner knows what time it is. From today's New York Times. June 12, 2008, 11:37 pm Pure Tyranny Tags: chastity, patriarchy Righteous indignation is so easy, so pleasant, when you can sit back and fling it overseas. I had that edifying experience on the D.C. Metro Wednesday morning, reading in the Times about the Muslim women in France who are going to cosmetic surgeons for hymen replacement surgery so that they can bleed as seeming virgins on their wedding nights. It’s a practice that has, apparently, become relatively common in the immigrant communities of Europe. But, of course, it seems like hair-raising news in a country like ours, where a young woman’s right to do with her body as she sees fit has, for decades, been enshrined as perhaps the most essential part of her God-given human dignity. As my 11-year-old says, Yeah, right. Right after I finished reading the Times piece, I called the French Embassy to find out under what conditions French social security would pay for the hymen-restoration procedure. (It’s “mostly done in private clinics and in most cases not covered by tax-financed insurance plans,” said the Times article; “Oh la la!” said the receptionist to whom I relayed my query.) I then started rifling through my desk. And there, beneath a report showing paid family leave to be on the decline, beneath a Newsweek article on a new children’s book, “My Beautiful Mommy,” that tells the story of a mom who becomes even prettier after a nose job and a tummy tuck, I found the story that the hymen news had immediately brought to mind. It was also from The Times, from May 19, and featured 70-odd girls, of “early grade school to college” age, with their fathers, stepfathers and fathers-in-law-to-be, at the ninth annual, largely evangelical “Father-Daughter Purity Ball.” “The evening, which alternated between homemade Christian rituals and giddy dancing” – and which culminated, for at least one father and his daughters, with a dreamy walk in the night around a lake, “was a joyous public affirmation of the girls’ sexual abstinence until they wed,” said the Times article. “From this, it’s only a matter of degree to the man in Austria,” I’d scribbled across the first page. The “man in Austria,” of course, was 73-year-old Josef Fritzl, who was around that time also making headlines after it was discovered that he had kept his daughter, Elisabeth, 42, locked up in a cellar for 24 years, during which time he’d raped her regularly, and had her bear him seven children. (“It was a lovely idea for me, to have a proper family … down in the cellar, with a good wife and a couple of children,” he said in his confession.) Fritzl, a self-described “man of decency and good values,” had imprisoned his daughter after she began staying out all night and drinking. “I had to create a place where I could keep Elisabeth by force if necessary, away from the outside world,” he confessed. “Fathers, our daughters are waiting for us,” Randy Wilson, one of the ball’s organizers, said at the Colorado Springs “Purity” event. “They are desperately waiting for us in a culture that lures them into the murky waters of exploitation. They need to be rescued by you, their dad.” I don’t want to take this analogy too far. I don’t mean to imply that there’s any equivalency between Josef Fritzl’s acts and the Purity Ball. Fritzl’s actions were uniquely horrific, and I am not accusing the men who danced in Colorado Springs of any crimes. But there is nonetheless a kind of horror to their obsession with their daughters’ sexuality. There is a dangerous boundary violation contained in their vow “before God to cover my daughter as her authority and protection in the area of purity.” And there is even greater danger to the fact that this particular aspect of the nationwide “abstinence movement” has not been broadly denounced as the form of emotional violence against girls that it indisputably is. Judith Lewis Herman, a clinical professor of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School, whose work with and writings on incest victims in the 1980s revolutionized the understanding of the crime and its perpetrators, believes that incest, like rape generally, has to be viewed within a wider context of power relations. Incest, she says, is “an abuse of patriarchal power,” a criminal perversion of fatherly control and influence. It is perpetrated, in many cases, by men who present themselves as the guardians of the moral order. And it isn’t always physical; in her 1981 book (with Lisa Hirschman), “Father-Daughter Incest,” she writes that the violation can be emotional, too, as when a “seductive father” oversteps his boundaries and goes places he never should in his daughter’s head. “Something I need from dad is affirmation, being told I’m beautiful,” said 19-year-old Jordyn Wilson at the ball. “If we don’t get it from home, we will go out to the culture and get it.” Sexual abuse – judging by statistics mostly based upon reports of incest – has greatly decreased in our country in recent years. From 1992 to 2003, substantiated cases went down 40 percent, according to the Crimes Against Children Research Center at the University of New Hampshire. Lisa Jones, a research professor at the center, says she thinks the impressive decrease isn’t just due to changed reporting patterns or data collection methods. “We feel like it’s very suggestive of a likelihood that there’s a real decline,” she said. There are many possible reasons for this improvement. But one, I think, that has to be considered is that girls’ and women’s status has risen. Acceptance of sexual assault and insult has declined. In a world where girls and women are stronger, “abuses of patriarchal power” are less tolerable, acceptable, and possible. Or should be. In highly secular France, the reaction to the drama over young women’s virginity playing out in Muslim communities has been public and profound. Justice Minister Rachida Dati recently had to fight off calls for her resignation after she upheld a ruling by a regional court that had annulled the marriage of two French Muslims because the bride turned out not to be a virgin. Our condemnation of cultural practices and beliefs in our own country that violate girls’ and young women’s dignity and most intimate personal boundaries should be no less total. For, when it comes to female chastity, much of what passes for “protection” is nothing less than sick.

Oh my god, y'all, I finally set up a Flickr account and can post photos! Snegurochka with hairy husband arm

I just don't fucking learn, now do I? I got bitten by a monkey. It was the innocent looking one on the left. See, I had to do a rapid assessment of a high-risk corridor in Northern Ethiopia last week and the husband and I decided to take some time to see Lalibela and Gondar. (You all know Lalibela--it's home to the rock-hewn churches and has been part of the Amazing Race TV show [the season with the professional wrestlers when Joyce and Uchenna won].) At any rate, in Gondar there is a woman who runs a charity which includes: 1. Primary school for 27 children 2. Donkey rescue 3. Cat and dog rescue 4. Veterinary facilities 5. Income generation for people with disabilities 6. Sponsorship for poor children, young adults and the elderly; and 7. Primate rescue. It's the last one that was a problem. While the donkeys, cats and dogs were relatively docile, the monkeys are mean. I knew this and I went and tried to get my picture with one anyway. The bastard monkey ran up and bit me on the leg. My husband got it on film. Someday we will look back on this and laugh about the fact that I just don't understand that monkeys are not cute, they are not pets, and they are not friendly. In the meantime we will be calling the center and checking to make sure none of the monkeys exhibit signs of rabies. No wonder the people who used to own them got rid of them. Damn monkeys.

On our last day in Rwanda, here I was, sitting by the pool at the Milles des Collines, or Hotel Rwanda. SMP had to have a Coke before she passed out and we sat at the bar and talked about the movie where people taking refuge from the genocide were taking water out of this same pool because the supply had been cut off. It seemed impossible that this could have happened a mere 14 years ago. Two days before, we had been taken to the genocide museum by our guide, Patrick. I am not sure why I have a penchant for sites of mass murder—Dachau, SI-21, gulags—but these in these places I am always overwhelmed with guilt and a sense of responsibility. By way of a little background—I am not sure if anyone really remembers how it all happened but I will try to provide a recap so that this whole entry is contextualized (forgive me for historical inaccuracies): Apparently Hutus and Tutsis have been ethnic groups in the area now known as Rwanda for a long time. In the 1930s, Belgian colonists issued identification cards marking the ethnicity of the two groups which had not been an issue before. (I am a little fuzzy on this point; the museum exhibit reported the demarcation of Hutu or Tutsi to be based on assets [Tutsis had more than 10 cattle and Hutus fewer]. The internets say that these ethnic divisions have been around for centuries, while others have said it was based on facial characteristics and skin tone.) For a long time prior to the issuance of these cards, Tutsis had been the ruling minority; with the Belgian control of the country, Tutsis again were given privilege over their Hutu country(wo)men. For the next few decades, Tutsis were given government jobs and allowed educational opportunities denied Hutus. As the colonists moved out, the problems started. In the 1960s and 1970s there were isolated “trial runs” for the genocide with Hutus murdering Tutsi villages and Tutsis seeking revenge. As time went on, animosity between the groups grew. In early 1994, a UN informant told the organization that weapons were being stockpiled for genocide and that groups were being trained “to kill 1,000 people every 20 minutes”. In fact, there was a militia of over 30,000 trained when the killing started. The French government had supplied the Hutus with $12 million worth of weapons “on loan”. No action was taken on the news provided by the informant. Long story short, the Rwandan President’s plane was shot down on April 6, also killing the Hutu president of Burundi. The Prime Minister was set to give a speech to the country the next day, but she and ten Belgian soldiers protecting her were murdered before she could speak (this is one of the reasons the UN failed to act—for fear that they would also be targeted). The genocide started almost immediately, fueled by radio broadcasts. One million people were killed in 100 days. At the museum I looked at a chain used to chain two people together and bury them alive. I saw the skulls and the clothes of the victims. I watched videos of churches where people had sought refuge and their pastors had betrayed them—literally hundreds of bodies in the church and the surrounding compound. I read about women raped by HIV positive men. I saw video of five-year-old children with gashes in their heads from machetes. I read about how people would have their Achilles tendons cut so they could not run while they were forced to watch their families bludgeoned to death while they waited their turn to die. I learned that live people were thrown down latrines—dozens of them—and buried alive. I watched the testimony of a woman who, venturing out after her family was killed, witnessed a baby breastfeeding on its dead mother. The two parts that were the most difficult for me were the sections on the children and the part about Hutus who risked their lives to save their Tutsi neighbors and friends. In the section on children, there were large photos of the victims—babies and small children—with information posted below like: Name: Jean Phillipe Age: 5 years Favorite food: rice with sauce Best Friend: Daddy How killed: Shot in the head Last words: Mommy, where do I run? In the part on the heroes of the genocide, the Hutus who helped the Tutsis, I read about an old woman who was suspected of being a sorceress who scared the militia away by threatening to curse them. I read about a man who hid several dozen Tutsis in a trench in his yard which he disguised by planting pumpkins on top of the thatched cover. I read about a woman whose house was filled to capacity with all of the Tutsis she could hide, but refused to turn away her neighbor. I think this section moved me the most because these were ordinary people risking their lives to save others. So many people either took part or failed to act but these people took a stand. It was heartening. After the museum we went outside to look at the mass graves. These victims had no families to claim their bodies and no one knows who these people are since whole families and neighborhoods were wiped out. This was not just one small patch of land; at least seven large concrete slabs (probably 20 feet long by 15 feet wide) containing hundreds of bodies. Each village has its own mass grave. On the way out of town we saw trucks with men in pink uniforms on the back. These were the men who committed the genocide being transported to another jail. Everyone wonders how shit like this can go down without anyone taking action. Guess what? THIS SHIT IS HAPPENING NOW. Genocide is happening right now in Darfur and no one is doing anything. When are we going to become the regular people who take a stand? When are we going to become informed about what is happening in the world and stop the rape and murder?

I never really thought about Rwanda before. I mean, I saw the movie and considered the genocide but I never really thought about the country, especially not as a place where I would vacation; but here I was, last Friday, on an Ethiopian flight with my husband and SMP to Kigali. I had no hand in planning this; my husband got obsessed with the idea of gorilla trekking after some guy from the US Embassy told him about it. I just half-assedly agreed to the trip and SMP decided to join us even though she had seen gorillas in Uganda before. After landing, clearing passport (no visa required for US citizens) and getting our bags, we were out in Kigali. The city is clean (plastic bags having been banned years ago) and spread out. We went to the genocide museum (more on that soon) and after a car breakdown we were on our way to Musazana to the extremely overpriced lodge from which the next day we would set off. After nearly dying from exhaust being piped into the vehicle and frozen from cold wind blowing in through the window, we arrived about 9pm. The lodge being the only site on the main power grid, I could not see a damn thing and had no idea what was around. After a terrible meal and a much-deserved hot shower we got into bed to be prepared for the next day. By 6:45am we had eaten our terrible, overpriced breakfast and arrived at the Volcanoes National Park office with the 70 other white folk who were going to see golden monkeys, gorillas and (strangely) Dian Fossey’s grave. Our lack of planning and forethought was clearly evident in how we were dressed: although the other tourists were decked out in GoreTex, gators and Patagonia, I was wearing jeans and a gabardine pea coat, my husband had his fleece and SMP had on her trademark plunge neckline and hoop earrings. As luck would have it, the husband, SMP and I were the only three of the 70 said white folk interested in gorilla trekking that day. We decided to go and see the largest group, which was also the farthest away. We loaded up with our guide for a 30-minute exhaust-filled ride to a small village near one of the volcanoes. We got out at the ranger base, got our armed guards and walking sticks and set off. Contrary to what you might think about a place like Rwanda, it is really a beautiful country. As we began our walk up the terraced hills where villagers were planting potatoes and chrysanthemum (as mosquito repellant), we started to see the green, rolling landscape and low clouds. After about two hours of climbing at a 75 degree slope and having children run out and scream “ferangu” at us, we reached a big pile of rocks. This, the ranger/guide told us, was the national forest. After this point there could be no eating, no smoking (which we weren’t), no loud talking, and no defecating without first digging a 30 centimeter hole. One of the soldiers hacked down the wall and we went in. Now, I ain’t never been in a rainforest before and the brush was thick; before I could even enter I was besieged with spiders and insects. The guides had to hack their way through the vines and bamboo to make a path for us while radioing the trackers who spend all day with the gorilla pods. We trudged on for about another hour, all the while getting smacked in the face with wet tree limbs, getting hung on vines, having rain trickle down on us, freezing in the cold. It seemed like we were walking in circles, but then we saw it: gorilla poo. Before long, we stopped and the guide told us to put down our bags and walking sticks. We were here and the gorillas were close. We did as we were told and I stepped around a tree and there they were. A member of the Susa Group It was like they were waiting for us, all 21 of them. I saw Poppy (a gorilla researched by Dian Fossey) and her baby first. The rest were stretched out in a clearing, relaxing. It was literally a scene out of the best-staged documentary: the mist rolled in, the younger members of the group played with each other and ran towards us. It was simply amazing. We were able to spend an hour with the gorillas, during which time they were mainly eating, yawning, sleeping, scratching themselves and farting. They are extremely sedate creatures (or at least this group was too familiar with humans after years of being researched). There were three silverbacks we could see and the one closest to us had a cold and spent the time we were there picking his nose and eating it. One of the 1-year-old twins ran towards us, turned around, peed in our direction, and then began to make kissing noises and shake her head back and forth with her mouth wide open. The younger gorillas climbed up the trees while the mothers nursed their babies. It’s hard to believe that I actually got to be that close to them—less than four feet from a booger eating silverback! One of the babies. We took tons of photos (which I swear I will post) and it was not long before we had to leave. We set off back through the forest and it was a full-on rain by the time we got back to the rock fence boundary. Walking back down, I fell once while SMP fell a record four times down the muddy sides of the hills. When we got back to the car and received our certificates, we were beat, covered in mud, cold and completely wet. Although it took a long hike through the rain and a few thousand dollars, it was worth it. This morning, while getting ready for work, I saw last night's Nightline program, concidentally about the same trip. You can read about it here.

March 8 was International Women’s Day, although few Americans knew it. All over the world, women were dressing up in their best clothes, receiving chocolates and flowers from men, and drinking themselves silly. In Ethiopia, the day passed with little fanfare—a rally in Meskel Square against gender-based violence, some isolated gatherings celebrating women as “mothers, sisters, daughters” and the usual claptrap which accompanies the day. The events only started to scratch the surface on the hardships women in Ethiopia face. The statistics are alarming and disheartening: 71% of Ethiopian women have, at some point in their lives, experienced sexual or physical violence at the hands of a family member or intimate partner. (Demographic and Health Survey, 2005) About 80% of Ethiopian women have had their genitals mutilated. Some of the girls are as young as seven days when they have their inner labia and clitoris cut off and sewn shut; some are as old as 15. As a result of this practice, girls experience psychological problems, difficulty giving birth (resulting in fistula), and increased susceptibility to HIV infection. (Demographic and Health Survey, 2000) Female Genital Mutilation is practiced throughout Africa, and in some parts of Asia and the Middle East. 69% of marriages in Ethiopia are the result of abduction. In parts of Ethiopia, 46% of girls are married under the age of 15; for the country as a whole the average stands at around 31%. (UNICEF/NCTPE 2004). Ethiopia’s fertility rate is the highest in the world at 5.9 children per woman. (World Bank, 2007) The maternal mortality rate is 871 for every 100,000 live births; more than one-fifth of all deaths of women aged 15-49 are pregnancy related. (Demographic and Health Survey, 2005) But aside from the statistics, I can’t tell you how horrible it is to be driving down the road and seeing a woman bent over under the weight of fuel wood; how devastating it is to see women begging while breastfeeding their children, sitting on the side of the road; and how awful I feel when I hear that just last week a four-year-old girl was raped by the guard at her expensive, international preschool. So although International Women’s Day has passed for another year, be thankful for the women who came before and made all of your freedoms (and my freedoms) possible. Understand there is still a need for feminism in this world, no matter what the media or the Republicans try to tell you. There is still need for action and advocacy and agitation. We have not arrived. “Enabling Communities Abandon Harmful Traditional Practices”. UNICEF/Ethiopia and the National Committee on Harmful Traditional Practices, 2004. World Bank, Ethiopia: Accelerating Equitable Growth Country Economic Memorandum, Washington DC, June 2007, pp. 5-6. Central Statistical Agency [Ethiopia] and ORC Macro, 2006 and Ethiopia Demographic and Health Survey, Addis Ababa, 2005

I love MSG. I think that people who decry its use are stupid and ill-informed. I worked in a Chinese restaurant throughout high school and college, and bloated customers would saunter in and order entrees with NO MSG and then order fried rice. "But the fried rice has MSG", I'd explain; they didn't care, "a little wouldn't hurt". To this day, all I can say in Mandarin is "bu no wei jin"--no MSG. At long last, I AM VINDICATED. Today's NYT has an article about MSG: March 5, 2008 Yes, MSG, the Secret Behind the Savor By JULIA MOSKIN IN 1968 a Chinese-American physician wrote a rather lighthearted letter to The New England Journal of Medicine. He had experienced numbness, palpitations and weakness after eating in Chinese restaurants in the United States, and wondered whether the monosodium glutamate used by cooks here (and then rarely used by cooks in China) might be to blame. The consequences for the restaurant business, the food industry and American consumers were immediate and enormous. MSG, a common flavor enhancer and preservative used since the 1950s, was tagged as a toxin, removed from commercial baby food and generally driven underground by a new movement toward natural, whole foods. Even now, after “Chinese restaurant syndrome” has been thoroughly debunked (virtually all studies since then confirm that monosodium glutamate in normal concentrations has no effect on the overwhelming majority of people), the ingredient has a stigma that will not go away. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go boot up for my daily dose of MSG.

Here's a way to provide educational opportunities to girls in Africa. (I am not affiliated with this organization. The founder is a former student of a colleague of mine.) Malawi is the "Warm Heart of Africa." Won't you warm someone's heart this Valentine's Day? The Advancement of Girls' Education Scholarship Fund (AGE) is offering a different way to show your love to someone this February 14th. Purchase a small gift box for $20 or more and support a girl's education in Malawi. A beautiful gift box will be sent to the recipient of your choice with information about AGE, a photo of an AGE Scholar, and a small, sweet surprise inside. Give a gift with meaning...empower a girl through education. All orders and payments must be received by 5:00PM EST on February 8, 2008 to ensure delivery within the US by February 14th. Please complete the attached order form and e-mail it to Katrina Sison at Katrina.Sison@tufts.edu. All payments must be completed on the AGE website (http://www.ageafrica.org/contact) through PayPal. Because of the short turn around, we are unable to accept checks for this Valentine's Day campaign. 1 box: Minimum donation of $20 2 boxes: Minimum donation of $35 3 boxes: Minimum donation of $50 (All pricing includes shipping and handling for deliveries within the US.) PURCHASED BY: Name: Email: Address Phone: Total Number Gift Boxes Ordered Total Contributions Submitted via Paypal $ Date of PayPal Transaction (PROVIDE SHIPPING INFORMATION ON PAGE 2) SHIPPING INFORMATION Box #1 Recipient Name: Email: Address: Phone: Personal Message: Box #2 Recipient Name: Email: Address: Phone: Personal Message: Box #3 Recipient Name: Email: Address: Phone: Personal Message: Zikomo! (Thank you!)

This is a big deal. Like the UN getting blown up in Baghdad, this incident portends much worse for Afghanistan. Thank Allah (most merciful) I am not living there anymore. The only question remaining is: how can someone who works for Save the Children afford gym membership at a 5-star hotel?

It always starts innocently enough. Last Sunday my husband, cat and I were enjoying a sunny day in the yard. I was slightly hungover from the five gin and tonics I had consumed during the course of our Thanksgiving dinner and subsequent Thanksgiving trip to the Platinum nightclub the night before and thought that lying around in the hammock would be a good way to recover. We had only been outside for about ten minutes when my husband yelled, “sweetie, look!” and I turned around to see this on the wall behind me: Alright, it was actually more like this: Who knows how long the evil primate had been surveilling us. It had something furry and long-dead in its hand, which it threw down on the ground and came after us, its teeth bared. We sprung up and ran towards the porch and the front door. (A girl I went to high school with died from monkey poo--I shit you not and no pun intended.) Thinking quickly, my husband grabbed Snega (our cat) and threw it at the rabid monkey, but it was not deterred. It came closer and my husband picked one a metal chair over his head ready to knock the living monkey shit out of it. It scampered up one of the porch columns to a monkey friend waiting on the roof (a coordinated attack). After the narrow escape we went over to examine the dead furry thing. It was a baby monkey. Abush, our guard, picked the carcass up with a stick and flung it at the monkey who then jumped over the neighbors’ fence. So, what was learned from this experience? 1. Monkeys will rip your face off without notice or provocation; 2. Monkeys are sneaky little bastards and surprisingly quiet; 3. Chucking white cats at monkeys will not save you (however, cats of other colors have not been field tested and may prove effective); 4. If you are hungover from drinking too much gin the night before you are better off staying in bed. Ah, the excitement of living in Africa…

In addition to writing proposals, reviewing proposals, developing assessments, creating presentations, drinking coffee and reading Perez Hilton, one of the most tedious, but relatively amusing tasks that I have is reviewing job applications. Now, the first vetting isn't something I do regularly, and would only usually do it if I were filling my own position; however, serving as Project Manager for the project I totally made up I feel like I need to have greater control on how this whole thing kicks off. So, ladies and gentlemen, without further adieu, I give you excerpts from applications: Makes what swell? “I have done my second research paper had a title of ‘Hot romance movie and its impact on the swell of HIV/AIDS’” &*#@! I hate ampersands. “I have a Bachelor degree in STATISTICS as MAJOR and COMPUTER SCIENCE as a MINOR from ADDIS ABABA UNIVERSITY. Therefore, I have very interested and best hood in working in the vacant position, which I am applying for being competitive & successful in the position. Attached here with, I enclosed all my documents that witness about me.” Alright—at least three applicants talked about “exerting [their] efforts” (not in my office you don't): “I would be glad and most powerful if you give me a chance of employment so as to exert my effort with dedication & honesty.” “…to exert my effort with dedication and honest.” At least it is better than being a “steamed” organization: “I am writing this letter of application to request for an open position in your estimated organization…” Fill in the blank, we aren’t picky: “I am interested to work as (in pen) Monitoring Officer in your school/college /organization…” Finally, the respect I deserve: “Dear: Sir/Madam I have the honour to inform your Excellency that I am very interested to employ in the position of Monitoring Officer…”