The Lion Man Cometh

 

As he wandered around the peaceful Himalayan coffee shop in Dharamsala, India, muttering to himself and to what must have been his invisible companions, laughing at seemingly random intervals, speaking barely decipherable French, and offering cigarettes to toddlers, I couldn't help but believe that this lone, filthy, mentally unstable drifter would be the craziest and most terrifying person I would encounter that day. It seemed obvious to even the least observant among us that this man suffered from some form of schizophrenia, the type that made you believe he should not be anywhere other than in a locked and padded room. He proceeded to occupy two separate tables, ordering nothing, occasionally feigning to momentarily read a newspaper that was neither local nor recent at one table and continuing his solitary conversation at the other. Seasoned travelers that we are, no more than a wary look and agreeable nods were needed as my cousin Nate and I armed ourselves with the mismatched cutlery, ceramic plates, and writing utensils that were at our immediate disposal while we waited for the point during our simple breakfast when one of us would accidentally look, eat, talk, or do something disagreeable to our unstable French associate that would set off his inevitable murder spree for the day. At that point we would have no choice other than to fend him off with butter knives and a space pen (the latter, sadly, being our most effective tool at the moment). To our great fortune, everyone at the coffee shop escaped unharmed that morning. Eventually, he wandered off, after neither eating nor drinking anything (but he did chain smoke the better part of a pack of cigarettes), and we counted ourselves fortunate that we had escaped his momentary reign of terror. Little did we know that our freedom would be short-lived, and soon enough, the omen of molestation that we glimpsed that morning would return that same evening, and in force.

During our many meanderings up and down the streets and hills of Dharamsala, Nate and I became familiar with many locals in this peaceful, compact village of not quite 20,000. We had tea regularly with a shop-owner from Amritsar.  We never passed on an opportunity to shoot the breeze with the many Kashmiri pashmina salesmen just starting on their Ramadan fasts, offering them a friendly "salaam alaikum" or "Ramadan kareem." Even the man who begged because he was cursed with malformed feet and the man with a similar affliction of the hands came to know us and stopped harassing us for food or money, which is a particularly satisfying feeling as we were then able to observe them pleading their cases with the new tourists in town while we, more often than not, escaped unscathed. There was also one local Tibetan man who wandered around each of the two winding streets in Dharamsala, but also could be regularly found at one of the busier intersections advertising a traditional Tibetan cultural demonstration at the primary school just down the hill. Always wearing his Tibetan flag t-shirt and a warm, welcoming demeanor, he politely invited every passerby to come and enjoy the show starring a local Tibetan celebrity (which, I do realize, is a rather niche category). 

After missing the first show, we counted ourselves fortunate that there was to be an encore performance that very evening of the day that we narrowly escaped the aforementioned "murder in self-defense" episode. We reasoned that If we again neglected our chance to enjoy a traditional cultural performance we would regret it. At the time, we did not realize how innocently juxtaposed that intention was. As it would turn out, there was very little culture to be missed, and we certainly regretted something, but a simple explanation does not do justice, please, allow me to elaborate.

We showed up five minutes early to the primary school and were led into what appeared to be the assembly/meeting area. There were four planks to sit on that were maybe three inches off of the floor and draped in empty rice sacks. Not wishing to appear over-eager for anything, we took seats in the second row. As more tourists filed in, we grew anxious to see this "Tibetan celebrity." Other than the tourists, the person in the room was the gentleman we had seen advertising the show on the corner earlier that day. It soon became apparent that he was the celebrity we had all been waiting for. The sandwich board man was the celebrity.

The performance began with a heart-warming story about how at the age of 15, the Lion Man (as he had been nicknamed by a spectator of his "show" long ago) fled Lhasa to escape the oppressive situation in the Tibetan Autonomous Region (as it is now known, most importantly, to China). He showed us the one and only photo he owned of him in Lhasa. It showed him as a young boy seated on a small horse, and seated on another was his brother. They were posed in front of the Potala (for those of you unfamiliar with it, this was the building that served as the residence of the Dalai Lama, the seat of the Tibetan government, and the spiritual hub). Using broken English and speaking ever so hesitantly, innocently, and endearingly, the Lion Man detailed his harrowing journey from oppression in Tibet to eventual freedom in India. Even though it was a story I have heard many different times and from many different people, it was still a touching and humbling experience. He then went on to explain that while maybe he wasn't the best, most polished dancer, he had a dream to learn more and to share his knowledge of Tibetan cultural dances with young Tibetans in exile, a truly admirable aspiration.

We quickly realized that "not the best" and "unpolished" were descriptions that were applied generously in this case.  He wasn't great, or even good, but he danced with energy and heart, and those of us that stayed appreciated at least that much. Although, after about twenty minutes of watching him spin in circles, breaking the monotony only to change directions...once, we all began to question the sanity of our decisions to stay.

Once his first two dances were completed, the schoolchildren fled into the night and he introduced the second act in his theater of horrors. He mentioned something about helping people question their established ideas of space and helping them to stretch their thoughts and feelings. Nothing comfortable ever happens after an introduction like that. What happened once the music started wasn't so much of a "dance performance" as it was "one man doing his best to molest every member of his audience without anyone running out screaming and/or in tears." One by one, he went up and down the rows and invaded--no not invaded, that sounds too polite. One by one, he trounced upon, violated, and destroyed everyone's personal space. He began by slowly walking over to the first audience member and moving his face closer and closer until they basically touched noses. He then simply maintained that unsettling position for about 30 seconds. As he moved on to subsequent hesitant participants, he had to keep upping his game, so to speak. He moved closer and closer each time. If someone backed away, he only leaned forward more, this occasionally lead to a terrified tourist laying on his back on the ground while the Lion Man draped his limp body upon him or her (there was no gender bias in this social experiment) like a rag doll. Not willing to suffer the same fate as those unfortunate souls, I resolved to hold my ground. I put on my best intimidating game face and waited for my turn to feel dirty and used. For what seemed like 10 minutes, but was probably only 15 seconds, I stared into the eyes of the Lion Man as he continued to drip sweat and struggled to catch his breath from his 20 minute spinning session. He had the intensity and single-mindedness of a man capable of either expressing great emotions, thought, and art, or murdering someone and wearing their entrails.

Each audience member was granted more time than they were remotely comfortable with to do their best to gaze into the terrifying soul of the Lion Man. Once he finished, we all glanced around the room and breathed a momentary sigh of relief. We walked into that school as strangers, but through our shared experience we would leave friends, but we wouldn't leave quite yet. The Lion Man still had two performances for us...

The next number was designed to showcase the great strength of the Lion Man (at least, that's what I gathered since nothing else really happened). At first one-by-one, but progressing to pairs and to eventually groups of three, four, and five, we were all brought to the front of the room to be arranged into awkward poses and hoisted into the air by the Lion Man. Now to give him some credit, the Lion Man is not a big man, so this was sometimes impressive even while it was always uncomfortable. It was quite the feat when he lifted both Nate and I (who, combined, are sadly pushing close to 400 lbs), and spun us around like we were performing the most horrific version of Swan Lake you can imagine. All I managed to utter was, "We're two fat men! You shouldn't be doing this!". Through carefully planned arrangements of people that included too many heads in too many crotches, he managed to pick everyone up, except for the group of five, but I think that was more of a balance issue.

For his final performance, the Lion Man returned to a solo routine. That's not to say it was any less disconcerting, just less violating. Starting from the fetal position on a dirty concrete floor, the Lion Man's conclusion had energy, passion, anger, sadness, and elation among other many emotions, but what it didn't have was a semblance of sanity. He included something reminiscent of a strip tease, but with none of the sexiness. This led to him haphazardly tying his trademark Tibetan flag t-shirt around his head with a length of fabric. He also violently tried to put on a pair of sunglasses (don't worry if you can't picture that one, it is an...uncommon sight to say the least). This all culminated in the Lion Man dashing himself upon each of the four walls of the room. Once it was over, he quickly composed himself and returned to the soft-spoken, warm man that had originally enticed everyone to see his show in the first place. We then went outside for some groups photos (which would presumably receive the caption, "Never Forget!" from the survivors), and then we all scattered into the night in the vain pursuit of making any sense of what we had just experienced. 

 

I am more than tempted to take this opportunity to wander into some sort of social commentary about the degradation and evolution of culture and the effects on a small, rather homogenous population, but that would be a disservice to the Lion Man and the community he resides in. It would either over-simplify the Lion Man's "performance," or drastically over-complicate it. They say there is a thin line between madness and genius. I'm pretty sure we saw that line crossed back and forth dozens of times that evening. He was certainly aiming to use some corrupted form of modernist techniques to get some sort of idea across or to elicit a reaction (I think and hope). I can't say that I understood it, but I do know that much modern art aims to leave each viewer with a unique and lingering impression. I'd like to say the Lion Man is anything but an artist, that he was nothing more than a raving lunatic, however here I am, months later, writing about lingering feelings of...well...I'm not to sure. Regret, amazement, confusion, fascination, and fear barely begin to scratch the surface. To that, I can say nothing other than, "Good show Lion Man. Good show."

A Holiday from our Problems

Two weeks ago, we all scattered like any one of a number of metaphors. Leaves into an autumn wind. Gossip at the water cooler. Ashes into the currents of the sea. Whichever cliche is most apt for you, almost every teacher I know could not wait to hop on a plane in any direction in search of reprieve from the U.A.E. Some went back home. Some went somewhere geographically close, but mentally distant. Some went as far as humanly possible. I set my sights for the timeless city of Istanbul, Turkey. Also, I welcomed a familial visitor, in this case my mother,  and then set out for a nearby land, in this case, Jordan. For those of you not familiar with it, Jordan is (in at least a small way) the land of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (you know, the one with Sean Connery, the Holy Grail, and the whole face-melting debacle) and the aptly named Dead Sea.

Istanbul is a fantastic city in which I could envision myself living, renting a dingy studio apartment, and getting into many blog-inspiring situations. During my three day tenure there, I certainly got into one such situation, but valuing the PG-13-ness of this blog, I shall leave that for some time later. Feel free to ask me about it in person. It wasn't glamorous or pretty. I really need to emphasize that latter point. Needless to say, it was a surprising melting pot of a city with tons to experience, great food to eat, and a seemingly infinite number of narrow alleys to explore. Aside from just plain old having a great time (and the vaguely aforementioned incident), it wasn't too story worthy, so I shall move on.

Jordan has a surprisingly large amount to offer in a relatively small geographic area. I flew into Amman en route to our first destination of the Dead Sea, the lowest point on the earth. This was a destination long in the making as I believed myself to be at a symbolic low point many times in my life, so it only followed that I visit the actual low point of the world once in my life. It was not nearly as depressing as the metaphors. For anyone that struggles with swimming and buoyancy such as members of my family, this sea is a must visit. In a body of water comprised of almost one third salt, it is a struggle to not be buoyant. It has been explained to me that if one just relaxes, it is easy to float in any body of water. I do not share this perspective, but I challenge anyone to argue with me about how easy it is to float in the Dead Sea. It is truly a sinkers paradise.

Not 24 hours later, we were traveling to the Wadi Musa region which contains the ancient city of Petra. I have seen many hand-carved cave structures in my day, and none of them ceases to amaze me. Petra is much larger than I anticipated. After a winding series of gorges we first reached "The Treasury," which is the quintessential image from the aforementioned Indian Jones film. After that, there were many tombs, homes, and an amphitheater before the ground seemed to level out for some time. It took about two hours of trudging to reach this point, and I felt that surely we must be reaching then end of this ancient city.

After crossing the wide open plains of Petra, I ran into my cousin Nate, who more than encouraged me to make my way to "The Monastery." Not fully appreciating my long-held fondness for holy places that are difficult to reach, he explained that it was such a long, long way to the peak the Monastery resided upon. This only quickened my resolve to drag a laughingly out of shape man to the apex of a mountain. Unfortunately, only about two hours of daylight remained in this desert sanctuary, and reaching the Monastery required at least one hour. The chase was on.

At a pace that resembled a jog, but ascending uncomfortably steep steps, I set off. After about three minutes, I realized the inherent futility of this method and slowed down to the point of sitting on a large stone and resting every 100 feet or so. I inquired of each friendly looking person I passed how far the Monastery was. Always, they hesitated, gazed far off into the setting sun, and then explained that there was yet some considerable distance to go. My crawl continued. Not surprisingly, it didn't take long for sweat to begin pouring off of me, my breath to become short, and my water supply to become extinguished.

Ever since my first climb to a monastery outside of Mumbai, I have realized the value in the journey and the benefit of pushing on. Then, it was pushing 36 degrees Celsius as a much younger and in shape version of me trudged up a sun-baked mountainside carrying a small child unable to reach the temple on her own.  My karmic reward was all but assured, and many people commended me for it. On my way to the Monastery in Petra, it was cooler, but I was still essentially carrying the equivalent of a small child, unfortunately this was due to many years of poor diet and inactivity since my first climb. Carrying a child seems much more impressive than carrying my out of shape ass. However, both are equally exhausting, but I digress.

I continued pressing onward, trying to maintain a consistent (if slow) pace, stopping at refreshment stands along the way (how did they get all of those beverages up there?) for Gatorade, and, sounding much like the quintessential annoying child on a family vacation, asking each passerby if I was, indeed, "there yet." At a turn in the seemingly endless stairway, I ran into what appeared to be an Indian family of two parents with their two children taking a leisurely walk back down to relative civilization. I stopped at the turn for a rest and was joined by the father. He looked at me quizzically for a moment, and then very calmly, slowly, and matter of factly stated, "You are very late." I regained my elusive breath and composedly responded, "I know. Is it very far?" He answered just as tranquilly and understandingly as he asked, "Yes, but you can do it." After that, we nodded knowingly at each other and parted, he down, and I up.

Maybe it was all in his delivery. Maybe I was just worn down enough to actually listen to someone for once. Maybe there was a shortage of oxygen to my brain due to my pathetic level of aerobic fitness. Maybe I am way to influenced by my fondness for Indian people and culture. But maybe, just maybe, this guy actually offered a rare moment of spontaneous true insight. What he said, bothered and encouraged me for the rest of my climb and then some. He seemed to sum up most of my life (and if you want to be honest, probably a few of yours) in a three line conversation. Yeah, I was definitely late heading up to the Monastery. I've been late doing a lot of things throughout my life too. It was a long way up the mountain, and it is going to be a much longer journey to what I want to accomplish in this world.

The final push to the Monastery

The wisdom of our brief conversation was laid plain in the final line. Yes, sometimes it is very far. Sometimes it is very exhausting. Sometimes we think we should just give up and pass out from fatigue on the side of a dirt path, but, at the end of the day, we can do it. I try not to be the optimistic rube, but there is a certain beauty there. Inevitably, I kept pushing on towards my goal (in this case, the elusive Monastery).

I ran into several more people and had several more conversations in the interest of catching my breath (sidenote: everyone has a relative in Chicago, even random bedu women), but I eventually made it to the Monastery. It was a good feeling. The sun was setting, and I had scarcely a few moments to enjoy the sights. I did have enough time to pass off my camera and snap a few shots.

Did I have enough time to savor my victory? Did reaching the goal offer any real payoff? Not really. It's always the journey that is the real reward. The destination was, and generally is, great, but it is never the character builder. In this case though, there was one final lesson for me. As satisfied with myself as I was for having made it under rather intense time restraints, I was humbled one final time.

When I reached the structure, I noticed a couple of local bedus shouting at someone. After some labored squinting and scanning, I noticed an arguably crazy bedu at the very apex of the Monastery. Apparently he had stretched out for a few minutes and then began scaling the face of the structure. I certainly did not know the man and never got the chance to talk with him, but he certainly showed me up as he sat calmly upon the peak of the highest point.

Look at that crazy bedu!

It was a good reminder that along all of our journeys, we might struggle for a long time, arrive late (but satisfied) at the goal, and there still might be a guy who totally mops up on our asses by an illiterate, cave-dwelling, desert man. For most of us, the journey is the only chance we have to do anything that vaguely resembles great. Let's make the most of it. I can't try for all of you.

The Death Cycle

As our second term draws to a close, many teachers (including myself) have begun looking past our upcoming final few months of this school year and into the next. Jobs are being applied for elsewhere. Final trips to other parts of the Arabian Peninsula are being booked for those not returning (few people would fly halfway across the world to visit Beirut, but two hours is another matter). Files are being organized for quick reference in the off chance that our curriculum doesn't change...again. And most importantly, many of us are taking a few moments for a little bit of desperately needed introspection. Some reflect on what they have or have not accomplished so far this year in school. Some reflect on what needs to be focused upon and developed within themselves, mentally, emotionally, and physically. Some reflect upon relationships, both personal and professional, and how far they have or have not come and why.

As far as my introspection is concerned, I decided to focus on the type of person I want to become for the rest of this school year and certainly into the next. My task is made easier by the fact that I already have a concrete example (thanks to Hollywood) of the type of person I would like to be. Perhaps you are thinking somewhere along the lines of Michelle Pfeiffer in the film Dangerous Minds. Or maybe you think Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society is more up my alley. At the very least, you must be hoping that I am aspiring for a poor man's Jim Belushi from The Principal. Unfortunately, you would be searching in the wrong genre for my current role model. I am aiming to become more like the archetypal grizzled Vietnam War veteran a la, Tom Berenger in Platoon, Christopher Walken in The Deer Hunter, or Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now.  Hopefully, I don't miss my mark terribly and become more of a Colonel Kurtz character, which is definitely a possibility.

Fortunately for me, I was provided with an opportunity to test this new persona out this past week as our lovely bureaucratic governing body sent a new teacher out to the trenches on the front lines to do some shadowing at my school. Efforts by my colleagues to keep me away from this new recruit were valiant, but in vain. It is a foregone conclusion that the highlight of any day for me would be to shock and appall a new teacher fresh off the proverbial boat. After showing him exactly what kind of insanity a typical 6th period class exhibits, I sat him down to impart the little bit of knowledge and wisdom I have gained through my first year so far. He explained how he had some international experience and he was keeping his expectations tempered by the harsh reality. What worried me though (because at the end of the day, apart from amusing myself, I really try to avoid needless suffering at the hands of others), was that he kept going back to the idea that his passion for teaching and students would get him through the days.

Now in any civilized society, I would certainly not disagree (if you haven't gathered this by now, this place is a rather exceptional case). In Abu Dhabi, things are a bit different. I felt it was my duty to impart on his hopeful newcomer the wisdom of the "Death Cycle" (while channeling my inner Martin Sheen, hopefully not from Wall Street). This system is loosely based on the 5 stages of grief that people must go through when experiencing loss. I refrain from using the word "grief" because, how it applies here, it is all about death. What is being mourned through this process is each individual's belief in the idea that education and advancement is possible for all people, everywhere. We all must pass through it, and it is never pretty. Please, allow me to elaborate.

Stage 1: Denial
When anyone first comes to the UAE to teach, they have at least some belief that on some level, in some way, they can educate, guide, and inspire their students. For the first couple of months here, they struggle with this idea as they encounter roadblock after roadblock. Certainly there must be something they can change in their lesson plans, seating assignments, or classroom management that will alleviate their issues. Unfortunately and inevitably, this never happens and the frustrated teacher must move on to stage two.

Stage 2: Anger
This is by far the most entertaining stage to view from the vantage point of someone who has already passed through it. In this stage, the teacher is frustrated basically every day he/she teaches a class. This frustration builds over the course of time eventually blowing up at inappropriate moments. I am certainly no stranger to these incidents. Common signs of someone in this stage are: cursing and yelling the moment they close the English office door; angry, silent, focused trudging to their class; mysteriously broken furniture in their classroom; an increase in the number of movies shown in class from one day per week up to five; and many other individualized expressions.

Stage 3: Bargaining
In this stage, the teacher holds on to the last vestiges of hope. Anything that could possibly be used to motivate a human being is attempted. All traditional values associated with teaching are abandoned in the hope that some way, no matter how compromising, these students can learn at least a little bit. A very typical sign of this stage includes offering students marks in exchange for better behavior (which never works).

Stage 4: Depression
This stage often involves the teacher drinking heavily, often on school nights, and giving up on any semblance of lesson planning. They may spend an entire period just sitting at their desk while the class has free time to talk, argue, fight, spit, scream, or whatever else they feel like. This is also the stage where many teachers may just disappear in the middle of the night, only to resurface in a different country sending only a belated email to inform their employer and coworkers of their new career direction. Teachers are usually very quiet during this stage as they wrestle with realities that they never believed they would face. However, if they can make it through to the next stage, everything will be alright.

Stage 5: Acceptance
The wisdom of experience really makes itself known here. In stage 5, the teacher understands that nothing will work with his/her students. They realize the futility of fighting a culture and momentum that they are hopeless against. They refocus their efforts on themselves and begin relegating their teaching life to the deepest recess of their waking mind. Teachers in this stage can continue "teaching their lesson" without anger despite the fact that not a single student in their class is listening. They can sit expressionless while administration describes what a terrible human being they are for not signing a piece of paper that they never realized they had to sign or understood because it was in Arabic. They also have no emotional or intellectual investment in the fact that students' marks are conjured out of seemingly thin air and changed on the slightest of whims.

This is what the successful teacher in the UAE aspires for.

I know that our new recruit believed me to be a jaded, ineffective educator. This is completely normal. I only asked that he keep in mind these stages as time progresses and his ideals are inevitably crushed. Realizing that there is a method (no matter how disheartening) to this madness, can be comforting. If you are a teacher and know anyone in the earlier stages, please pass this along to them. There's plenty of room for everyone in stage five, where indifference is king.

Peace Pigeon or Doomed Dove?

In all of the hustle and bustle, excitement, and cluster loving that brought 2011 to a close, a few events slipped through the cracks that I would be amiss to neglect shedding some light upon. The most important of these (at least according to most locals that I unscientifically and fictitiously polled) was the 40th Annual UAE National Day. Amid all of the negativity and sarcasm that I normally spout, I can still take a moment to recognize that just 40 short years ago the majority of Emiratis were still traveling around in nomadic tribes, herding camels, collecting dates, and just trying to provide a basic existence for their families. This is easy to forget in the face of such rapid development and gaudy excess.

Baba Zayed looking like he's seen better mornings

 

About a month before the actual National Day (December 2nd, for those of you keeping track), people everywhere began the celebration ramp-up. Cars were covered in either the red, white, black, and green of the UAE flag or the likeness of Sheikh Zayed sporting sunglasses and a sneer. Buildings were illuminated with multicolored spotlights that occasionally proclaimed this year's slogan, "Spirit of the Union." Organizers were flown in from around the world to plan festivities at Sheikh Zayed Stadium, right down the road from me. Not to be outdone, schools around Abu Dhabi incorporated some manner of celebration into their daily morning assemblies.

These celebrations took varying forms. There was anything from the classical favorite of potato sack races, to the classical favorite (at least in this area) of a man angrily and unintelligibly shouting a poem in Arabic for 10 minutes and everything in between. As with any other morning assembly, I always did my best to feign understanding and politely listen, in order to set a good example for the kids, cause it's all for the kids. Ever the gracious hosts and proud countrymen, my Emirati colleagues did not allow me to remain on the sidelines for long.

One morning as I stood with my class of 30 drowsy 10th graders doing my best to keep them in something that vaguely resembles two straight lines, amidst all of the Arabic that was usually spouted from our tinny and distorting set of ailing speakers, I heard something that I actually understood, "Arabic, Arabic, Arabic, Mr. Richard, Arabic, Arabic, Arabic." I had no idea what it was referring to or if I was supposed to do something. Luckily, my students had heard enough to understand and began shouting at me to join a handful of other teachers and administrators gathered under a 40 foot long UAE flag at the front of our courtyard. Thoroughly confused, I made my way and asked what I should do. Someone motioned for me to stand at the end of a line of about eight similarly confused individuals.

As I stood there appreciating my new vantage point about two feet higher than usual and much more at the center of attention, I noticed someone reaching under a folding table covered with a table cloth to mess around with what looked like a few milk crates. Suddenly, I saw him reach into one and pull something out...something alive. It wasn't very big. At first I thought it was some sort of rodent, but I quickly realized that it was a bird, a pigeon or a dove maybe. If it was a dove, then it was a dirty one. He then took this pigeon/dove and thrust it into the hands of the first person in my line. Crap, what was going on here? As quickly as he delivered that first pigeon/dove, the Steve Irwin of rural Abu Dhabi reached right in, grabbed another one, and expertly gave it to the next person in line. I still didn't know what was going on, but it dawned on me that everyone in line was going to be manhandling a possibly wild and diseased bird. I crossed my fingers that just like everything else in the UAE, this was a poorly planned activity, and they would run out of birds before my number came up. Just in case my hopes were to be once again dashed into the sand, I took a moment to observe the techniques that the other teachers were using to control these birds. They all seemed calm enough, the teachers and the birds. One hand around the neck seemed to exert the bulk of the control, with maybe the other hand around the body, just in case.

I held my breath as each bird was in turn taken from its cage and delivered to its captor. Certainly there couldn't be eight birds in there, I hoped. As luck would have it, this was the one time that someone actually planned correctly, and there were more than enough birds for everyone. Everyone else looked as calm as could be. As I tensed up when my pigeon/dove delivery came, I felt like they were all looking at me judgmentally, thinking, "What, don't you strangle birds in front of a thousand people all the time?" I felt sorry for my bird as avian husbandry clearly did not come as easily for me as it did my Arabic counterparts. My poor pigeon/dove kept struggling and straining to fly away as I simply gripped tighter and tighter.

Up to this point, I still had no idea what we were actually doing with these birds besides potentially asphyxiating them in at least one case. Suddenly, someone gave us the universal sign for "let those birdies fly," and let them fly we did. I couldn't let mine go fast enough. It was later recounted to me that I appeared to let my pigeon/dove go in rather dramatic fashion. I can't disagree with this assessment. That bird received every bit of encouragement it could from me to get up in the air. Let's just say that there was a lot of follow through with that release as I pushed it up into the air as high as I could reach.

Perhaps our pigeon/dove release was meant to symbolize peace and unity or something along those lines. I still don't know, as it has never been explained to me. What I do know, is that my bird was happy to be released, and I was happy to release it. As it left my hands, it quickly flew up towards our partial roof before turning back to head for the big, blue, desert sky. It never quite made it there as it flew straight into one of the numerous windows that line our courtyard. Don't worry, it was okay, just a bit dazed. It hung out for the rest of the day with our regular resident pigeons. You know, the ones that spend their time shitting on everyone, and I am pretty sure there is some solid symbolism in that.