mere haath mein
It's been a crowded couple of days which is why I've holed up this weekend.
On Wednesday night, as you might have guessed, I went to see Forbidden Lie$. Had no idea what it was, the Filmmaker Friend had won tickets and invited me and it was just around the corner at the Palace Norton plus I needed to reimburse her for Laurie so I agreed and made note to tape House.
Holy Mother of God, I had absolutely no idea what I had let myself in for. She said it was a documentary but didn't know any more. When we were waiting around to be let inside, I picked up a little leaflet. By the time I finished reading, I knew there was no way in fucking hell I was going to enjoy it.
Because firstly I fucking loathe books like Forbidden Love, the subject of the documentary. The Aunt went through a phase of reading all those sort of books, what I unofficially term the Not Without My Daughter genre. They make me highly suspicious because invariably they're written by people educated in the West, now living in the West, edited by Western people and put out by Western publishing houses. There's a whole reek of exploitation about them that annoys me no end. *eye twitch*
I'm prolly oversensitive because the Aunt herself has lived for nearly ten years in Kuwait and my own godmother aunt lives there still, married to an Iranian, with her own daughter all present and correct and accounted for. Sure, we worry about my cousin and her prospects but we know a lot more about her reality and their choices than is presented in these books.
I really don't know why my Aunt reads these books. I should ask. I suspect it's to check the veracity of their accounts against her own knowledge and experience, a sort of challenge of both. I should ask her tomorrow.
But the whole notion of writer ethics had me walking into the cinema, bracing myself. In any case, the FF and I were deep in discussion of personal matters so there was no way I was going to run away.
Jesus, it was intense. It was bloody mindboggling. I went from not knowing anything about this book or woman but vaguely recognising the cover to knowing way way too much. Uncomfortably so. In that sort of 'man, I really wish you hadn't told me that' Tree of Knowledge way. And really the most telling thing was my own physical responses. Ever since high school when I was ridiculed for reacting to everything when viewing a play, I make extra sure to remain very still and controlled when in a cinema or theatre. Unless of course Matthew McConaughey is straddling a cannon. You can't expect me to not react then. With this, it got to the point where I was jerking around in my seat, turning away from the screen, the sort of involuntary physical response when you can't verbally respond. It made me deeply deeply uncomfortable.
Because it was confusing in terms of the facts, in terms of character, and god it was so frustrating to everyone including the director of the film itself. Took as many twists and turns as a Hindi movie, really. The whole ethics of being a writer, a woman and a human being got me on every level and was yes, confusing, troubling and ultimately just fucking awesome to elicit such complex evolving responses.
What do I think? I think she did more harm to her cause than good by masking so many details and lying so much about herself. As a writer, she shot herself in the foot. As a woman, she crippled herself and the plight of womaen in Jordan. As a human being, her idea of integrity was seriously frightening. This was the third instance in a week that made me realise just how much of a moral creature I am.
Whether it actually happened or not, the way she wrote it and damaged her own credibility totally defeated the purpose of the book. If she wanted to bring the issue of honour crimes to the fore, she could have done it with the truth or a novel. Who's to say that wouldn't be just as effective?
Don't lie ...
I was still thinking about it and her the next day. In fact as I was getting out of the shower, I had a total shock when I remembered that the time she wrote the book totally didn't match the time the killing was supposed to have taken place, it almost predated the killing. I forget now the exact dates, July and August of 2001, and which came first, book or killing. But Jesus fucking Christ!
There was a Q&A session with the director, Anna Broinowski, and the Sydney Morning Herald journalist, Malcolm Knox, who exposed the fraud. I'm really glad we stayed around for it cos there was enough said that really unpacked the doco for me, which I want to document before they slip from my memory.
The fact that the sexual abuse thing had been used as a weapon of intimacy with so many people, making them think they were privy to a secret. The fact that the security guard was actually 'some guy she was bonking from the country club'. That still makes me boggle cos I did wonder. Talk about audible gasps around the audience. The fact that she went to Jordan one whole week before the director and then stayed twenty-eight days more behind. That she eluded the director to go interview the grandmother and cousins on her own. The utterly bizarre halftruths about the other family that she told, the actual attempt to say the whole thing was mistaken identity. The agendas of the mother and brother in exposing her to Malcolm Knox just so they could get her kids back from their father who was utterly terrifying in his own right. *shudders*
And most fascinating/confusing of all, that she actually sent the director the footage of her talking and laughing about duping them all. *moans*
Man, she did my head in. To the point of which, yes, I don't want to mention her name. It was frankly appalling and I don't know whether I'm playing into her wishes by talking about this or not. That scares me the most.
If anything, it's made me determined to read Rana Husseini's forthcoming book about the reality of honour killings. What does that mean?
mere haath mein = in my hands, sumjo na = understand (me/please). sort of.
On Wednesday night, as you might have guessed, I went to see Forbidden Lie$. Had no idea what it was, the Filmmaker Friend had won tickets and invited me and it was just around the corner at the Palace Norton plus I needed to reimburse her for Laurie so I agreed and made note to tape House.
Holy Mother of God, I had absolutely no idea what I had let myself in for. She said it was a documentary but didn't know any more. When we were waiting around to be let inside, I picked up a little leaflet. By the time I finished reading, I knew there was no way in fucking hell I was going to enjoy it.
Because firstly I fucking loathe books like Forbidden Love, the subject of the documentary. The Aunt went through a phase of reading all those sort of books, what I unofficially term the Not Without My Daughter genre. They make me highly suspicious because invariably they're written by people educated in the West, now living in the West, edited by Western people and put out by Western publishing houses. There's a whole reek of exploitation about them that annoys me no end. *eye twitch*
I'm prolly oversensitive because the Aunt herself has lived for nearly ten years in Kuwait and my own godmother aunt lives there still, married to an Iranian, with her own daughter all present and correct and accounted for. Sure, we worry about my cousin and her prospects but we know a lot more about her reality and their choices than is presented in these books.
I really don't know why my Aunt reads these books. I should ask. I suspect it's to check the veracity of their accounts against her own knowledge and experience, a sort of challenge of both. I should ask her tomorrow.
But the whole notion of writer ethics had me walking into the cinema, bracing myself. In any case, the FF and I were deep in discussion of personal matters so there was no way I was going to run away.
Jesus, it was intense. It was bloody mindboggling. I went from not knowing anything about this book or woman but vaguely recognising the cover to knowing way way too much. Uncomfortably so. In that sort of 'man, I really wish you hadn't told me that' Tree of Knowledge way. And really the most telling thing was my own physical responses. Ever since high school when I was ridiculed for reacting to everything when viewing a play, I make extra sure to remain very still and controlled when in a cinema or theatre. Unless of course Matthew McConaughey is straddling a cannon. You can't expect me to not react then. With this, it got to the point where I was jerking around in my seat, turning away from the screen, the sort of involuntary physical response when you can't verbally respond. It made me deeply deeply uncomfortable.
Because it was confusing in terms of the facts, in terms of character, and god it was so frustrating to everyone including the director of the film itself. Took as many twists and turns as a Hindi movie, really. The whole ethics of being a writer, a woman and a human being got me on every level and was yes, confusing, troubling and ultimately just fucking awesome to elicit such complex evolving responses.
What do I think? I think she did more harm to her cause than good by masking so many details and lying so much about herself. As a writer, she shot herself in the foot. As a woman, she crippled herself and the plight of womaen in Jordan. As a human being, her idea of integrity was seriously frightening. This was the third instance in a week that made me realise just how much of a moral creature I am.
Whether it actually happened or not, the way she wrote it and damaged her own credibility totally defeated the purpose of the book. If she wanted to bring the issue of honour crimes to the fore, she could have done it with the truth or a novel. Who's to say that wouldn't be just as effective?
Don't lie ...
I was still thinking about it and her the next day. In fact as I was getting out of the shower, I had a total shock when I remembered that the time she wrote the book totally didn't match the time the killing was supposed to have taken place, it almost predated the killing. I forget now the exact dates, July and August of 2001, and which came first, book or killing. But Jesus fucking Christ!
There was a Q&A session with the director, Anna Broinowski, and the Sydney Morning Herald journalist, Malcolm Knox, who exposed the fraud. I'm really glad we stayed around for it cos there was enough said that really unpacked the doco for me, which I want to document before they slip from my memory.
The fact that the sexual abuse thing had been used as a weapon of intimacy with so many people, making them think they were privy to a secret. The fact that the security guard was actually 'some guy she was bonking from the country club'. That still makes me boggle cos I did wonder. Talk about audible gasps around the audience. The fact that she went to Jordan one whole week before the director and then stayed twenty-eight days more behind. That she eluded the director to go interview the grandmother and cousins on her own. The utterly bizarre halftruths about the other family that she told, the actual attempt to say the whole thing was mistaken identity. The agendas of the mother and brother in exposing her to Malcolm Knox just so they could get her kids back from their father who was utterly terrifying in his own right. *shudders*
And most fascinating/confusing of all, that she actually sent the director the footage of her talking and laughing about duping them all. *moans*
Man, she did my head in. To the point of which, yes, I don't want to mention her name. It was frankly appalling and I don't know whether I'm playing into her wishes by talking about this or not. That scares me the most.
If anything, it's made me determined to read Rana Husseini's forthcoming book about the reality of honour killings. What does that mean?
mere haath mein = in my hands, sumjo na = understand (me/please). sort of.