The land of Timgad…The home of the mud

In an article published in World Finance on urbanization 2.0, Dan Lewis, a Director of the Economic Research Council, states that Today’s municipal planners dream wistfully of Timgad, a perfectly symmetrical, self-contained grid-laid Roman town in Algeria built in 100 AD. Instead they have given us the likes of Milton Keynes in the UK.

The statement above shows his dissatisfaction with modern town planning which has given the world cities without a soul. However, if this author were to visit Algeria, he would lament the state of our town and cities (and thank god for Milton Keynes), he would realize that Timgad, which appears to be an inspiration for town planners around the world, has not enthused our architects to produce anything remotely as decent.

If he were to drive on the East-West highway, he would find himself alternating between beautiful dreams and nightmares. One moment he could imagine himself in the best of countries, beautiful landscape as far as the eye can see unraveling herself to the observer, inviting to be seen and enjoyed. Another moment eyesores erected by men, never thinking about creating harmony between nature and buildings, resulting in an esthetic unevenness that would detract him from looking out of the car’s window and push him to look away. He would also notice the inexistence of spaces and structures that lift the spirit. He would certainly question the shocking designs by our architects and their inability to know where a building is not suited.

If he were to take walks around our cities, he would see how some rare decent buildings metamorphosed into ugly ones thanks to the jealous man who thinks that by turning a balcony into a window or even a block of concrete, he would be protecting the honor of his family, by hiding his wife, sisters or daughters from the preying eyes of other men. And if he were to venture outside his hotel room on a rainy day, he would bring heaps of mud back.

If he were to read comments on Algerian newspapers and blogs, he would find people objecting to the creation of beautiful buildings, he would come across articles criticizing any attempts to build decent roads and bridges. He would find people asking for a freeze on projects until a democratic system is established. If he were to talk to people about cleanliness, he would find everyone espousing the idea that cleanliness of homes and streets should be a priority, but he would realize soon after that everyone brilliantly destroys it.

If he were to visit Timgad, he would find a ghost town, revived only for concerts to hypnotize the people.

Stop the bashing!

Today, I decided to pick up on a a posting by an Algerian blogger on Algerian women.

On Patriots on Fire, a post entitled “Algerian women serve no purpose” was recently published,  which amongst other things states that some interviewed Algerian men think that Algerian women serve no purpose and that their interest is centered  around marriage and Turkish soaps.  Shockingly, the comments to the post seem to endorse the statement in the title.

I cannot deny that marriage and men are a recurring theme in some very popular blogs run by single Algerian females. Searching for a husband seems to be a favourite preoccupation of young women in Algeria. There is the famous slogan that girls at Algerian universities use which is diplôme plus un homme, which makes finding a man a priority for a young woman just as much as getting the degree. Indeed, some girls just want to go to university to be able to find a partner as the milieu offers more choice than one would find in the small community from which one hails.

Nevertheless, the interviewees or the blogger seem to suggest that there is a norm and that Algerian women by focusing on finding a husband or a partner seem to be shifting from the norm. But the need to find a male partner or a mating partner to be more biologically precise does not only occupy the Algerian female’s mind. Bridget Jones’s Diary and Sex and the City are very good examples of the pressure put on women in Western societies to be hitched once they reach a certain age and also to produce descendants. So, it is a bit unfair and shortsighted to imply that this phenomenon is purely Algerian or even Arab by reaching conclusions based on this fact.

On a recent assignment in a town not far from London, in a company dominated by women, I was surprised to find out that babies and children were the preferred discussion topic during lunch breaks, and that everyone made sure to mention the achievements, the concerts, the pantomimes, the sports days that their children were attending. These women were not without a purpose, 80% of them had PhD’s from top universities in the UK and in Europe. The question: ”Do you have children?” was asked by everyone I met, and someone went even further as to ask me: “Do you not want to have children?”. I decided to make a joke about it.

So, it is really only natural to try and find a life partner to fulfill a biological need and to pass one’s genes on.  If people who are looking for a partner are thought to serve no purpose, then most of young people on this planet are useless.  

Memoirs of Little Aicha: Summer Camp in France

After experiencing the camp life in Algeria, the free-spirited little moi decided to cruise the Mediterranean, and witness at first-hand how the poor French kids spent their summers.

One happy summer day, quite some time agoooo, I was informed that I would have the fortune to be amongst some kids selected by the state to go and spend a few weeks at a summer camp in France. It is not exactly how they put it. We were just informed that we would be going to France on holiday, and who says France says shopping. The first picture that came to my little mind was the Eiffel tower, and then the Eiffel tower, and then lots and lots of shops.

My preparation for this trip was quite different from my Algerian summer camp days. I was going to France yew! I had to have nice clothes because no one would steal them, and then I had to give a good image of my country (beh mayadahkouch 3lia les Français). So, my three sisters who were at Uni then, chipped in using their summer grant money (bourse) to buy me clothes. We decided to go to Algiers. Shops in my hometown did not cater for young teenage girls who failed to grow up fast; you had to be either a child or a woman, you had to choose. If you went to a shop and tried something on and asked for a smaller size, the answer would always be a big NO!!!!! It was my fault after all, I was thin and should have defied my genes and grew fatter quicker. My mum always used to remind me: “I told you, you should have stayed in that volleyball team, you would have put on some muscle and grown taller!”. She was right of course, most of my friends who stayed in the team, undeterred by the psychopath coach that we had, were a few inches taller, and bigger than me.

My sister knew la Rue Disley very well and that’s where we headed for the shopping. My previous shopping trip that year was to Bab Ezzouar in Ramdhan to buy clothes for Eid. There was a big market there where they sold clothes that fit young teenage girls. It was my first time in that Rue Disley, and it was a real step up from souk Bab Ezzouar. After paying an arm and a leg for the clothes, I felt sad that I had used up my sisters’ grants for the clothes; and I promised myself that I would return the favour one day.

Departure day was in August, it was hot in Algiers. The port was full of  immigrés coming or going back, and over a hundred kids queuing up, all excited to be on this adventure of a life time! The ship was grand; it made me think of Titanic. It was the first time I had seen anything like it: a floating palace!

  

A day at sea, and lots and lots of laughs and happy moments later, the ship finally arrived in Marseilles.  After the formalities, the counting, lunching and a bit of sightseeing, we were divided into groups of 8, and each group was sent somewhere. That somewhere remained a mystery up until we reached the train station. We were overwhelmed by how different everything seemed, some of us had never been on a train before, so there was some excitement there. A train, then a bus journey later, we arrived at our destination, which was in the middle of nowhere...There was no Eiffel tower to be seen, no shops, and hardly any people walking around. It was raining and dark, and I could feel each one of us dreading what was to come.

Sleep came hard to me that night. I wanted to cry, but realized that it was silly of me to do that. I was in France, the land from where all that publicité de chocolat, de Chambourcy came from. It could not be that bad…

Things got better. After a few days, we realized that there were not many rules, no lines to walk in, no anthem to sing, no 3-4hr siesta. Well, there was a routine but we did not have to follow it religiously! The continuous sunshine of August, and the beautiful surrounding landscape made it easier for us to adapt. There were about 40 kids in the camp, 8 Algerians (4 boys and 4 girls), and a dozen adults (20 somethings) looking after them; One director, an avid photographer, who did not bring his family. I don’t think he had one; he had a red sports car!

The Camp had three buildings which looked like old chateaux, but were well-renovated inside, there were 4 of us in each room. The rooms were painted in a happy colour, I think it was pink for us girls. There was a nurse but no doctor. The gardens, full of fruit trees, were so big and as there was no fence, we could not tell where they ended. We also had huge sequoias, which were towering over us. Activities ranged from swimming and horse-riding, hiking and mountain biking to caving and kayaking. The siesta was less than an hour and it could be taken either indoors or outdoors. When it rained, there was a game room facility to use with table tennis and table football. Some afternoons were spent drawing wall frescoes. In the evenings, we had murder mystery games, board games, Pictionary, story nights, or quiz nights; there were two parties one to say hello and the other one to say goodbye.

Our sheets and clothes were washed regularly, and I was very surprised to find my clothes washed, ironed, and left on my bed, come sunshine or rain. I had to ask how they could do it when it rained. And it was then that I discovered the amazing mysterious sèche-linge.

During my time in the camp, I forgot about the Eiffel tower about the shops, and about the cities that I was expecting to visit. A couple of days before our departure, we were taken to the nearest city, ate McDonald, and did a bit of shopping. Time not permitting, I could hardly buy anything, and thought of all those requests I got before my departure and that handsome sum of Francs that was to be returned almost untouched.

When the three weeks came to an end, we had to say our goodbyes. We were told that we Algerians had made life a lot more enjoyable for the kids. I enjoyed my time in the camp mostly because there were people from my country to make it fun, to make jokes about everything, and to make life a bit less serious in the Camp. It was great to be there but I don’t think I would have been happy without them.

Judging by the red eyes of some of the kids who stayed up until midnight to say goodbye, the red eyes of some of the people who were looking after us, I understood that friendships could be knit between different people of different cultures and languages, within a short time. 

Memoirs of Little Aicha: Summer Camp in Algeria

Going to children Summer Camp or Colonie de Vacances was a rite of passage for Algerian children, a way to taste freedom, and explore new places, away from the overprotective eyes of parents.

Like many children, I was unlucky enough to be posted to one of these. At the age of 7, my dad decided it was time for me to follow the family tradition and be let free to go to the amazing place that is camp. Of course, the previous years I had always envied my sisters who used to come back looking very dark, I mean very tanned, and who would tell endless stories about their time there and how great it was. 

So in preparation for the big day, my dad would take me to his company’s doctor who used to run tests to make sure it was safe enough for the camp to let me in! Four times, four different camps, one story…

The big day is here,  my sister and I would be up early enough to beat the sunrise, my mum would have prepared our luggage, which would consist of ancient bags containing our worst clothing, so that it would not get stolen. My mum always made sure however that a tooth brush was included, for in summer camp you had to have a toothbrush. My dad would accompany me and my sister who was two years my senior and was a feisty fighter, so no worries about getting bullied, I who had always looked younger because of my small stature, was an easy prey for kids at school and I expected it would be the same in summer camp which had at least 300 kids (i.e.my child mind estimation).

When it was my first time, I could not be happier; but, when my dad dropped us at the bus station and I saw all the other kids, I could feel my heart pounding off my chest, fear took  over the excitement disappeared. Kids I did not know; they did not look friendly, and they were all older and bigger than me was a sight that made me tremble, there was no going back though; dad had already paid the fees. When it was time to leave, dad would kiss us on the cheeks and wish us a happy holiday and then go to work.

The coach rented by my dad’s company was always old; it had a horrible smell like old motor vehicles did in those days. You would be lucky to find a new taxi or a bus in Algeria in the eighties. We used to be round 30 (always a child’s estimate), accompanied by a few adults whom we would later call moniteur for male and monitrice for female. The journey was never dull; as soon as the bus starts moving, singing would start and the moniteur who would have a derbouka would make the atmosphere very jovial. Two or three hours later, the bus stopped, we reached our destination (a coastal town in Algeria). This is the condition for any summer camp; it has to be in a coastal town, and a few hundred meters away from the beach.

My first day in the camp was full of confusion, all these people from different corners of the country, speaking dialects that sounded foreign to me, some of them looked very different to us, they were black, it was the first time I had met someone Algerian who looked so different to us, I later learnt that they were from Tougourt a town in the south East of the country. After having lunch, it was time to divide us into groups of 11 just like a football squad; sometimes it was 12, if there were left-overs.  The aim was to put people from different towns in one group, a way of getting people to know one other. Girls were put in separate groups to boys, which was great relief because as a child, I never liked  boys just like any female. By the end of the distribution! I realized that would be sharing a tent with another 21 girls, we were two groups per tent. The tents were big enough for 24 beds, including those of the monitrices. Being with twenty one girls whom I had never met in my life  was enough to bring tears pouring down ; I started to cry and demanded that my sister would be in the same tent as me. One moniteur could not stand it, and he decided to go hunting for my sister ,tent by tent,  in that rather big camp. The search had nearly ended when we headed back to my tent and we realized that there was a tent about 50 cm away from mine, my sister was there and they decided to put her in the same tent as me.

The beds were older than time itself, made of metal boards. The mattresses had stains everywhere, and smelled horrible, but the sheets were thankfully clean. The routine starts the second day and it was the day all the kids suddenly realize that mum and dad are not there and it is custom that we all decide to cry our eyes out and then be comforted by either seniors who enjoyed being there or moniteurs who did make life enjoyable and were all comedians.  

7 o’clock, we all wake up and make our beds, then we would walk in a line, one behind the other…Everyday, down we marched in a line like ants, to the restaurant, led by the shortest youngest girl in the group. Before entering the restaurant it was custom to salute the flag and sing, not just the national anthem but all sorts of nationalist songs and other meaningless songs. If there was one thing we learnt in camps it was singing, and sing we did. After the choiring, we finally head to the restaurant which was made of concrete flooring and sugar canes for walls and roofing, it was very nice, especially in comparison to the rest of the camp. Breakfast was always a bowl of milk with chocolate. It was supposed to be hot chocolate, but was rarely hot, occasionally warm, and mostly tepid; and piece of bread, which is quarter of a baguette cut in the middle and butter and jam for a filling.

By the time breakfast is finished, it is around 8:00; we head back to our tents, change into our swimwear and wear flip-flops and head to the beach, in a line but this time walking in twos. The beach was usually a few minutes’ walk away from the camp, we would pass by restaurants and see some tourists mostly French Algerians. Once at the beach, we also sing all sorts of songs, one of which mocks socialism; (Algeria was ruled by a socialist party, and was very influenced by Russian and Chinese thinkers-the country was on the brink of collapse but little did we know at the time). There was also a song about the agricultural revolution of Houari Boumediene. After all the singing we are finally left to go and swim. Security was very tight and we were never allowed  to go beyond a line which was a few meters into the sea. This meant that we never swam but just splashed water. We spent at least three to four hours, until lunch time. Come mid-day we would be led back to the camp where we are washed and then dressed and readied for lunch.

Outside the restaurant, we sing, and sing until lunch is finally served. The food varied but it was mostly soups and sea food. I had never eaten fish, except for sardines, before going to summer camp. I did not even know the names of the fish we were served there. Fish for most Algerians who do not live in coastal towns means sardines. It was the only fish that we saw or ate in my town which was a two-hour drive away from the sea, it is now one hour after the construction of the highway, but fish is still scarce.

When lunch finished, it was time for siesta, a very long punishment, from 2 pm to 4 or 5 pm. We were not allowed to chat, laugh or play, we had to sleep and if we did not, there was another form of punishment. Once we decided to defy the system and our punishment was the cleaning the whole camp. It was harsh. Add to that the naming and shaming by the director of the camp who would always bring his family to camp and put his kids in a separate tent.

Following the siesta, it would be time to go to the forest. Funnily enough, there was always some sort of woody area near the camp. The best was in Jijel. During our time there, it is singing again in preparation for the evening galas. I don’t know if it was part of national strategy in the eighties, but there was so much of it. By the amount of that tebrah we did in camps, I am quite surprised we do not have a Pavarotti, or a Charlotte church. Well, it is not like the singing we did was to train us to be proper singers; it was to fill the rather long hours of summer…

Two weeks, sometimes three was the length of our stay in the camp.  They seemed like a life time for me. I missed my parents, my hometown and my street; I missed the freedom of playing outside. During this time, we would get one or two visits by our parents. Only those who lived nearby had their parents come to visit them. Luckily I was one of them. I had a lot of pride when my dad used to come and visit me and my sister. My sister never cared much, I, on the other hand, felt that a visit from dad meant that I was important, by what logic? I don’t know. When my name would be called out, to go and see dad, I would stand up and take a long walk of pride, sometimes I would get applauded! My dad never missed an opportunity to show us that he loved us as kids. His visits meant a lot to me. I would talk about them for the few days that followed and would show off the stuffs he bought me which were chocolates or biscuits.

Two weeks later, a few shades darker, a bag of dirty clothes heavier and a ton of memories richer;  it is time to head back home. The mother would be waiting with a bar of soap ready to disinfect us at arrival.

It is so third world but I love it

I know the wedding season in Algeria is over or nearing a closure, but it is never late nor out of context to talk about weddings in Algeria.

In recent years, there has been a tendency to formalize Algerian weddings. This is most cases means having the celebration in a wedding hall, decorated tackily with Chinese plastic flowers and tinsel. For those who are real show offs, it is real flowers, but it is rare because there are never enough flowers in the shops to decorate one wedding hall let alone a few.  I remember as a kid, there used to be more florists selling real flowers, but their numbers have declined dramatically like everything beautiful in Algeria.

As I am an old-school at heart, I am all for wedding celebrations at home. I have recently watched a video of Mourad Djaafri playing at a wedding for men. The celebration took place in the open air, more precisely in the space between apartment blocks (the formal name of which I ignore). I am glad he did not feel that he needed a hall for his performance, for having men dance happily in the street at night, where no alcohol or blasting DJ music are needed, simply cheerful people sitting on plastic chairs is what a celebration should be about. It reminds me of a wedding about 20 years ago, before Algeria was plunged into years of darkness. Our neighbour held his wedding in the street; it was a quiet street where hardly any cars passed by, and everyone one was dancing and happy for him to be married, nothing formal, just happy people enjoying themselves.

 I am glad this tradition has not completely died out in favour of a wedding hall where people sit around tables, staring at each other, and the host is so bitter about spending a fortune to rent the hall that the food ends up being a few biscuits and you are meant to fast for a day just for the pleasure to be in a wedding hall.

Chadli est mort

For those of you familiar with Fellag’s comedy, he said in one of his stand-up acts that in Algeria, we would have to interpret documentaries to find out about what is happening in the political scene. He gave the imaginary example of when Boumediene died; they showed a wild-life documentary on TV in which an elephant was left to die by the rest of the herd. And as Algerians are clever, they figured out that it was a message telling them that their then president Boumediene “est mort”.

Lucky for us, it is not as bad as that with previous presidents*, we learnt about the death of one Algeria’s presidents Chadli Bendjedid in the numerous newspapers that have been in circulation since the reforms he introduced following the uprising of October 1988. Prior to these reforms, Algeria was under one party rule where all newspapers and media outlets were the echo of the voice of that party.

As I read about the news of his passing away, I felt sad.  I am sad that one of our rulers died and we did not get to learn much from him. I know that he wrote his memoirs, but I believe that he exercised auto-censorship in writing them. They will be published soon, but the truth about our pouvoir* will still remain a mystery to most of us.

Bendjedid is the only president whom I stood for hours waiting to see, when I was 4 or 5. He visited my small town, and luckily for us, his procession was only meters away from my childhood home. I was excited all day, made sure I got a flag, and waited in a line to get a glimpse of him, for hours. He was whisked away in a black convertible, and kids were running trying to follow his car. He is also the only president in Algeria’s history to have so many jokes made about him, about the fact he was not the cleverest of presidents, especially in comparison to the likes of Mitterrand or Regan.

As Muslims, we are meant to recount the deceased’s good deeds and good character. He has his mistakes like all humans, and more so because he was a military man, then a politician. What will he be remembered by? Each one of us will remember him by something, but he will be mostly associated with the 1988 uprising and the reforms that followed.

I believe that he was a tolerant president, having allowed so many exiled politicians to return to Algeria, and particularly the two heroes of the Algerian revolution: the late Ben Bella, and Ait Ahmed. Chadli came to power before I was born, and during his rule, I enjoyed the happiest days of my life as a child. I guess that is what I will remember his era by. I will try to forget anything post 1990, for now.  

*Algeria has one of the most opaque governance systems in the world. Communications with the people or the rest of the world about Algerian matters is very obscure.  

*Le pouvoir is the ruling clan in Algeria

The Final Countdown

A few months ago, The FT published a series of articles on a new source of energy which will take the Western world by storm. It is shale gas: an unconventional source of energy, a gas that is extracted using sophisticated technology called fracking. The US has made immense progress and is set for the first time to become a gas exporter rather than an importer. Energy independence has been a title of American strategy on energy; Barack Obama spoke on several occasions about weaning the US off Middle Eastern oil, and it looks like he has kept up his promise.

Given that the price of this gas is cheaper than natural gas, the success made by the US drew the attention of several other countries. The Chinese are keeping a close eye on the matter and they have funded some of the projects and are hoping to get the US technology to start projects at home. The Poles are following suit with their own attempts at extracting this gas; and the Brits are investing in several projects in the US.

Articles like these should set alarm bells ringing in oil producing countries and especially Algeria. Algeria is in a double whammy because it depends on oil and gas for its existence, and the US is our number one trading partner. We export the equivalent of 24billion USD of crude oil and gas to the US. What adds salt to the wound is that even if our rulers know anything about this, which I doubt they do, they do not have any tricks up their sleeves to come up with strategies to deal with the consequences of losing a significant customer like the US. They made us believe that we did not have to worry about this problem for another 50 years or so. It looks like they were wrong, and the time to do something about it was yesterday not tomorrow.

Many Algerians believe that our rulers have planned well for their escape to Europe, by stashing Swiss bank accounts with stolen money in preparation of the dreaded day, when oil and gas run out. Let’s hope they will do that sooner, when they realize that the US and the West do not need their oil anymore.

P.S: some environmentalists are against the extraction of shale gas in the US due to the dangers of polluting drinking water. Maybe they will slow the process down and give our rulers some time to re- build a few roads…