SOMETHING INSIDE OF ME died when I read about French President Nicolas Sarkozy’s proposal for a ban on burqas on the streets of France.

Beyond the usual platitudes about “respect for other cultures,” or “but what if the women choose them freely,” what upset me was the possibility that the women wearing whatever it is that Sarkozy deems objectionable—he wasn’t even specific about what he meant by the word “burqa”—might face harassment from law enforcement in addition to the stereotyping of mainstream society.

If a woman knows what it’s like to be harassed and stereotyped, if she has experienced the scorn of people who, based on just a few silly outside markers, have decided to debase her, how could she not worry about it happening to someone else?

I am the least likely person to support the total veiling of a woman’s face and body. Yet my experiences with sexual harassment in Amman have cemented my belief that there is something fundamentally violating about being bullied into trying to pass as someone you’re not.

In the early spring of 2009, I began wearing the hijab when leaving my house in Amman. I am a non-Muslim woman with a drawling American accent and Slavic heritage—and no, I don’t think “Russian Natasha” jokes are cute, just so we’re clear. I was trying to appear to be someone else. It started when I realized that the compromises I had originally expected to make when coming to Jordan—more conservative clothing, no alcohol on my breath, no smiling at strangers in public, and so on—were not enough to allow me to feel safe.

After a number of increasingly scary experiences in comparatively nice neighborhoods like Shmeisani and Abdoun, I was nearly run over by a man who was pursuing me in his car. He must have realized I was set on ignoring him as he shouted the standard lines: “Where are you going?” “Five JDs, baby!” Then he decided to impress me by turning sharply into my path at an intersection, screeching to a halt inches from my body. As it happened, all I could think was: “Am I really about to die or get maimed because of some guy trying to pick me up?”

I broke down in front of my Ukrainian hairdresser later that day, and was gently reminded that many people in Amman “think they know everything about you” if you happen to be young and conspicuously foreign. Out of desperation more than anything else, I decided to try getting around that.

I DIDN’T WANT TO appropriate anyone’s lifestyle, and definitely didn’t want to act like those non-Muslim women who put on Muslim garb to play at being the “exotic” princess they read about in the Arabian Nights.

So I got Fatemeh Fakhraie, the editor of Muslimah Media Watch, a website that critiques the portrayal of Muslim women in international media, to speak to me about the practice of being a “part-time hijabi.”

“I don’t like how the idea of hijab is fixed, as if once you take it on or off, there’s no going back,” she said, when I asked her about what it meant to put it on as a safety measure. “It doesn’t allow for the realities and differing circumstances of life.” We talked about how, beyond being a sign of religious expression, the hijab can function as a “do not approach” sign when one is surrounded by strangers.

I’m cool then, I decided. Sure, I’d known plenty of women who’d been coerced into wearing the hijab, and they all told me how unpleasant it was, but my situation was different, right? I’d be OK. Right?

Indeed, I felt the more aggressive episodes of harassment did become less frequent. But in my scarf I became even more miserable than before.

I could see the confusion in men’s eyes as they sized me up, and overheard hilarious debates as to the subject of my identity. I never ceased to look out of place, but I was no longer conforming to their expectations. I would have thought this would bring me some relief, but I began to feel lost and defeated, as if some fundamental part of me had come unmoored and was floating away.

Looking at my reflection in a shop window at one point, I asked aloud: “Who are you?”

The woman staring back was like a chimera. It was a small relief to find out that it wasn’t just me, when I spoke to foreign women who hadn’t had much success with wearing scarves either. One woman said she didn’t even see a difference in the level of sexual harassment. Another did, but said she felt there was something really wrong with having her inner person validated through dressing like someone else.

I quickly came to learn that when we try to disguise ourselves as someone else, the experience of being “found out” can be even more traumatic than whatever it is we were trying to escape in the first place.

Once, I found tears streaming down my face and destroying my over-priced mascara as I yelled at a construction worker who had whistled at me on the street as I passed by in my scarf.

“I’ll get my husband and he’ll beat you up!” I shouted. (OK, I’m not married, but I knew by then that jealous husbands are the scariest specter women can invoke on the streets of Amman). The construction worker looked genuinely shocked. Although I’m sure he eventually got over it, and maybe even learned a valuable lesson, I realized that my grief and pain had little to do with him.

IT’S EASY TO BELIEVE that one is fundamentally “safe” in a hijab. It’s a pleasant fiction propagated by those clerics who compare uncovered women to “uncovered meat” or candy, and by people who romanticize Muslim dress. Yet more often than not, the muhajabat I “came out” to in Amman when asked if I was also Muslim completely undermined this fantasy.

“My family didn’t believe me when I told them I was being harassed at my new place of work,” said Layla, who asked me not to use her real name. “My aunt finally said, ‘But you’re covered. You must be attracting attention by misbehaving.’ I didn’t talk about it anymore. I gave up.”

Only after Layla announced she was thinking of switching jobs did her boss threaten her harassers, and the behavior abated. Of course, it still took a male authority figure to demand dignity on her behalf.

So, seeing France’s anti-burqa rhetoric through the prism of my experiences in Amman, and the experiences of the women I have spoken to, I can’t help but return to the dreadful condescension behind the assumption that a woman does not have a right to construct her own identity and—horror of horrors—expect that identity to be respected by men in particular.

As for my own hijab, I took it off. In Jordan I have the freedom to do as much. Police officers don’t approach me and tell me to cover my hair. Aside from the usual harassment, I sometimes even get random compliments from passing women on my particular shade of straw-yellow hair (blame the bleaching effects of the Jordanian sun).

I can’t say that I’ve somehow learned to stop worrying and live with the assumptions made about me and women like me, but what I understand now is that you can’t challenge such assumptions when you’re compromising an integral part of your identity.

A fake muhajaba is merely participating in a charade, no matter what appearances may tell you. Perhaps, in time, President Sarkozy may also realize that appearances can be deceptive.

Rana Husseini, whom I first interviewed in 2007, is an investigative reporter and world-famous campaigner against the cruel phenomenon known as honour killing – both in Jordan and beyond. Her book, Murder in the Name of Honour, recently sold out upon its launch in Amman. Before the launch, I sat down with Rana to talk about everything from local politics to Orientalist imagery.

Natalia: So, this book was a real labour of love!

Rana: Yes. I wanted to get this one just right. I wasn’t about to let anyone sensationalize the subject matter. Thankfully, Oneworld Publications worked out really well for me and my agent, because they understood where we were coming from.

N: The cover looks great, by the way. It’s so different from the usual covers that are used on books about this region.

R: I told them right away, I wouldn’t have any seductive, veiled women on the cover! And no camels, and no sand and no menacing men in traditional clothing either! I wasn’t going to play into any of the stereotypes.

N: I meant to tell you, I have found some people to be strangely uncomfortable with the idea of an Arab woman speaking out about issues such as honour killing. It’s like they want all this phenomenon to be filtered exclusively through Western eyes.

R: Well, you can’t please everyone all the time. If we worried about what people said 24/7, we would get nothing done. There would be no progress.

When you speak about this mistrust, I can’t help but think of the Norma Khouri nonsense [Norma Khouri, real name Norma Bagain Teliopoulos, released a fraudulent "memoir" on honour killing in Jordan - a book that deal a blow to the local anti-honour killing cause]. There are a lot of people out there who still believe the lies that Norma Khouri spread about Jordan. And they don’t want those lies to be challenged.

You know, I’ve been attacked by many different people over the years. I’ve even been accused of being a government agent. This issue of honour killing has been politicized, which is why this happens. But you need to keep going, because there are women who need help.

N: Speaking of help, what are some of your goals for the book?

R: I want this book to save lives. Women in vulnerable situations will hopefully read it and see how they can protect themselves. There can be warning signs, and I illustrate many of them when talking about specific incidents. And we need to keep spreading awareness and pressuring global society to do more about this issue. God created us, and God takes us, and there is nothing defensible about honour crime when you think about it like that. More and more people must realize this.

N: Karim Kawar, Jordan’s former Ambassador to the United States, told some years ago that one of the central problems with honour killing is how certain parties view them as a case of “the family has suffered enough, so we should not be punishing them harshly.” Knowing what I know about life in Jordan, this certainly rang true. What do you think about it?

R: Based on how a lawyer presents the case, it could arouse sympathy for the killer and the family that encouraged the killer. In Jordan, we are making headway on this issue. The decision can be appealed, and I would stress that these attitudes are changing. People now discuss honour crime very openly. This wasn’t the case when I started out.

N: And what about the “it’s their culture” argument? I’ve had highly educated people say that to me when honour killing is brought up, as in “it’s their culture, you can’t change it, you’re a bigot for even thinking about it in these terms.”

R: First of all, I would say to you – violence against women is part of global culture. It’s not isolated to any religion, class or country. However, some societies develop quicker than others and have better mechanisms for coping with it and discouraging it, and people there can’t ignore the struggle going on around the corner.

We need to remember that we are all human beings, and honour crime goes against human dignity. Ending this violence means a better world for everyone.

The Amman launch for Murder in the Name of Honour had the atmosphere of a county fair. There were laughing children, balloons, lemonade. Rana sat in the center of it all, and glowed with accomplishment. She has much to glow about. The fight isn’t over, and the troops aren’t going anywhere.

Some say that in order to stand in solidarity with Gaza civilians, we must stand in solidarity with Hamas. I have rather mixed feelings on the issue, as you can imagine. I think I can understand why Hamas have become such a popular force in Gaza, but I don’t have to like it either.

In fact, it looks like Hamas’ popularity is the best thing to happen to the Israeli far-right at this crucial juncture.”But what about the civilians being killed?” You will ask. “What about the families getting destroyed?”

“But what about the people that those families wanted into power?” – Will be the counter-question. And no amount of reasoning, no amount of shouting, even pleading, will do a single bit of good.

When I heard about the local Jordanian effort to bring food and clothes into Gaza, the first thing I had to ask was: “this aid is going to civilians, right?” (It is, of course – and the Jordanian government can presently deliver aid where it needs to be delivered, but I had to check)

Supporting Hamas, in any way, shape, or form, is off the table.

And yet, who else do the people of Gaza have, if not Hamas? The very physical realm of Gaza has become a terrible conundrum, a trap. The people protesting on the streets of Amman, yesterday, today, tomorrow, they all know this.

How do you defuse a situation in which civilians have no one left to trust but the very people who can easily, and, it seems, without many regrets – considering the reward that surely awaits the suffering in paradise – get them killed? How do you defuse a situation in which violent death no longer frightens, but hardens, hardens a spirit that has already become steeled with grief and hate?

I ask these questions on a sunny holiday in Amman, Jordan, as my neighbourhood prepares for yet another protest, as the streets lie quiet, despite everyone having a day off for the Islamic New Year. On a beautiful day like this, it’s hard to believe the level of violence that’s going on next door.

I spoke briefly to a few protesters down the street yesterday, and the one thing that stood out in our conversation was the sound of helplessness and frustration in their voices. “The world has to see,” they said. And I agreed. The world sees, and then goes flips the channel back to the ball-game. George W. Bush, in his last days in office, has waved his hand vaguely on the subject of civilian deaths. That’s all.

“Are you American?” They asked. I thought I had done a pretty good job of hiding my slight drawl.

“Ukrainian,” I said.

“A Ukrainian writer in Jordan,” they grinned. It seemed they understood these things after a quick glance. They looked like old hands to me. The protests themselves are part of a cycle these days – the never-ending, grinding cycle of death and outrage.

While living in Amman, I generally do not bring up my father’s cousin, the one who married an Israeli and moved to Israel. How do I explain the level of anti-Semitism at her old job in Ukraine to explain her decision to go? How do I humanize her? And how do I humanize the Palestinians, especially those living in Gaza, when talking to her about the legacy she has now inherited?

One of the jobs of the writer in these times is to be a conduit, but what if there is nothing left to pass on, except for visions of blood?

There are more questions than answers, today. One day, the cool eye of history will judge these events in an insightful, perhaps even impartial manner. But for the people living, and dying, within these moments, these hours, the only thing left is to ask the world to see.

The visiting celebrities were eager to talk about their experience at a workshop in Jordan’s SAE Institute, a media technology training institute, pointing out that the country has a lot of local talent just waiting to take off.

One SAE student later told me that he personally wasn’t impressed with the workshop at all, though I immediately wondered how much of the negativity stemmed from simple inertia: the lingering idea that nothing with artistic or entertainment value could possibly be created in Jordan, ever (the same student told me he despises the recent Jordanian film “Captain Abu Raed,” a ground-breaking movie I adored).

I have heard repeated statements that Jordan in particular is an “anti-intellectual” environment, as opposed to, say, Lebanon or Egypt. I asked Waleed Zuaiter, whose parents divide their time between Amman and Ramallah, what he thought about said claims of anti-intellectualism:

Waleed, who co-produces the New York Arab American Comedy Festival besides working as an actor, told me: “I don’t think there is anything “anti-intellectual” about Jordan at all. Amman doesn’t need to “import” culture, it is full of culture and history. When it comes to Comedy, which is an Art form as all the other Arts, I would recommend that Jordan not solely “import” comedy from the West, but to really focus on creating a home-grown practice and following where comedians and audiences can enjoy stand-up comedy in their own native language.”

Born in Sacramento, California, Waleed spent most of his childhood in Kuwait and, as a native Arabic speaker, highlights the importance of understanding a culture from within.

Maysoon Zayid, whose recent role in Adam Sandler’s “You Don’t Mess With the Zohan” has garnered much attention, is another native Arabic speaker, despite having grown up in New Jersey. It was refreshing to hear Maysoon speak about working with Adam Sandler at the press conference, because many of my earnest friends had quickly dismissed the film, which aims to poke fun at conflict in the Middle East, as racist clap-trap.

Maysoon, and others, argued that Adam Sandler was in fact very sensitive to the subject matter and wanted to make fun of both Jews and Arabs in a manner that was entertaining. Maysoon is a woman with agency, and then some, and she strikes you as a person you don’t want to piss off under any circumstances. The idea of her taking on a demeaning role seems ludicrous, all pious hand-wringing on the subject be damned.

When I asked Maysoon what’s next for her, she spoke of performing at the upcoming Democratic National Convention and working on another comedy project, “Little American Whore,” as well as translating said project into Arabic. Will the word “whore” be kept in the Arabic title? Of course it will.

And that’s the thing about Maysoon – she’s bawdy and fresh and brash. I’ve corresponded with her for an interview before, but seeing her in the flesh is a rare treat.

Interacting with Maysoon made me think of how many women in the entertainment industry are still expected to be not fully human, with sculpted hairdos and on-call stylists and the cool appeal of sirens. It is comedy, a genre generally overlooked by cultural gate-keepers in the world, which often allows more women to freely act out the livelier, messier sides of their actual lives.

Meanwhile, having remembered that Maysoon once spoke of being accused of anti-Semitism, I wondered if “Axis of Evil” Aron Kader, whom I last saw in Dubai, had ever encountered such accusations in his professional life. Aron said no, but he also mentioned that he knows where the sensitivity comes from.

In the U.S., it is very hard to have a rational debate about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. So hard, in fact, that it seems as though laughing about it may be the only way for all sides to start talking.

Meanwhile, Dean Obeidallah, “Axis of Evil” star and co-founder and co-producer of the New York Arab American Comedy Festival, noted that many people had told him that Jordanians do not laugh. He was pretty emphatic when he said that he didn’t believe this was the case. Jordanians laughed hysterically when Dean and Maysoon gave live comedy performances in Amman, for example.

I have to testify that one could hear said hysterical laughter from blocks away. The cats on the trash-bins perked up their ears, and the neighbourhood, lively by all standards, felt as though it was brimming with fizzy good energy.

It’s no wonder. Like Maysoon, Dean is incredibly funny, with precise timing and an impish smile. He also comes off as incredibly, disarmingly sincere. This was his second time in Amman and he spoke highly of its growth and development, even if the Ammanites’ practice of parking on the sidewalk left him bewildered (growth and development isn’t making those streets any wider).

When the inevitable question along the lines of “aren’t you afraid of becoming too mainstream?” sounded forth at the press conference, Dean grinned widely. On one hand, money for his projects is important, that much ought to be obvious to all, even the most radically anti-establishment among us. On the other hand, he spoke about the notion that there are plenty of generic comedians out there, and being an Arab-American comedian means that one cannot aspire to be generic, lest one loses one’s audience.

Waleed Zuaiter told my fellow journalist that the group’s talent “ does not end with being Arab.” The performances are not gimmicks that will simply lose their flavour once an even greater audience catches on.

Waleed struck me as the youngest of the group. I was shocked when he told me he was thirty-seven. He has an Arab Errol Flynn quality to him, something that Hollywood, in its infinite wisdom, has to take a closer look at.

We spoke about racism in the entertainment industry; I recalled the time that actor Kal Penn came to Duke while I was an undergrad, and sparked a pretty sobering discussion on what it means to be “too ethnic” in Hollywood. Waleed told me that he feels fortunate that he hasn’t experienced what Kal Penn spoke about directly. He said he just preferred to focus on the art – “art” is a word that gets bandied about with some ease, but coming from Waleed, you think its invocation to be genuine.

Interacting with this group makes you wonder what it would have been like to see George Carlin young, at the height of his potential. Wandering over to Aron Kader, I asked him to comment on Carlin’s recent passing, since I was aware of Aron being a fan.

“He was the greatest.”

Damn straight. And you may be too.

Hussein’s husband had previously boasted to the media that the local police had fully supported him. And while Basra law enforcement officials have told the press that Leila Hussein’s defiance had nothing to do with her murder, that this was a routine spat of sectarian violence targeting the women activists, their own role in this story makes their statements suspect.

It wouldn’t be surprising if Leila Hussein was being made an example of. This wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last time, in today’s brutalized Iraq. The activists who were trying to help Hussein escape are receiving threats as well. Any woman who does not submit to her role as a passive piece of human garbage is a potential target in a patriarchal society scarred by years of violence.

Please note that the authors of Jezebel can help you donate money to the Basra activists, if you contact them. We hope to have more on this story. Until then, may God rest the souls of the innocent. There is nothing more that I can personally can say in the face of such tragedy.

Each comedian profiled has their own angle on both the entertainment business and the experiences of Muslims in the United States. Maysoon Zayid talks about being a Palestinian-American Muslim woman who doesn’t cover her hair, a virgin, and a disabled person aspiring to become an actress.

Dean Obeidallah shares the story of how he initially stopped using his Arab last name when performing in the aftermath of 9/11, then had a change of heart and a change of direction.

Azhar Usman, who is shown praying in his dressing room at one point, discusses going through a conservative phase before realizing that his path in life ultimately lay elsewhere.

Many viewers will relate to Ahmed Ahmed’s anxiety in regards to air travel, except that in Ahmed Ahmed’s case there is the added “bonus” of traveling while Muslim and enduring extreme suspicion. And Tissa Hami’s account of enduring prejudice both from non-Muslims and Muslims (some of whom have told her that she is “going to hell”) is not exactly a laughing matter.

Yet, staying true to its subject matter, the special manages to be light-hearted as well. The featured jokes could probably make even David Horowitz laugh, or so I’d like to believe.

Prior to the premiere, I was given an opportunity to interview several of the comedians, and here is what we talked about:

Natalia: Can you tell me more about the PBS special?

Dean Obeidallah: The one-hour special is the brainchild of producer Glenn Baker who first approached us almost four years ago with the idea of shooting a documentary about Muslim and Arab-American comedians. The documentary begins with us performing before any of us had appeared on any major US TV networks. However, by the end of the documentary many of us had appeared on Comedy Central, ABC, CNN, NBC and on numerous other TV networks, so viewers get a chance to watch us move up the entertainment ladder.

Maysoon Zayid: I am so blessed to be involved in this project with such extraordinary talent, including my brother from another mother, Dean Obeidallah. Glen and Omar [Naim - the co-director] were invisible. They made it so easy for us. I’m amazed with the end product. Omar is truly genius. It’s funny. And no one gets shot. AND you get to see my Dad. That alone is worth TiVo-ing.

Natalia: What’s it like to be a Muslim American working in the entertainment industry in the year 2008?

Dean Obeidallah: The entertainment industry is very competitive and is a struggle for everyone, regardless of race or religion. [Being] an Arab-American comedian who talks about my heritage in my act, has set me apart from many other typical comedians because I have a point of view that has not been heard from too often in the past. In the last few years, the entertainment industry has increasingly been supportive of our comedy.

Maysoon Zayid: I don’t know. No, just kidding, I do. I find it very difficult not only being a Muslim but a disabled female Muslim who doesn’t fit the stereotype shown by mainstream media of what a Muslim woman should look and sound like. Nearly all of my experience comes from the entertainment side and I found that, once someone takes a chance on casting me, its been a great opportunity for people who know very little about my culture to learn. In those instances I’ve had a wonderful reception from the majority of my colleagues as well as the Muslim community itself. Oh and the Italian Christians love me too.

Natalia: What are your audiences like nowadays, do lots of Muslims come to see your shows? Are there Jews in the audience?

Dean Obeidallah: When I’m not traveling for shows, I’m in NYC performing nightly at the major comedy clubs so the audiences are a cross section of every race and religion. When we do the Middle Eastern themed shows then the audience is probably 60% Middle Eastern. I am fortunate to have supporters of all different backgrounds

Maysoon Zayid: I don’t make it a policy to check what religion my audience members are, so I cant answer that. Because its not really something I think about nor do I care. Religion is personal. It doesn’t matter to me what religion anyone in my audience is.

I do know for a fact however that I’ve had a Mormon in the audience because she happened to be my best friend.

Natalia: This is just a stab in the dark, but, as an American, I get the impression that there is this sense of discomfort between Muslim Americans and Jewish Americans, and I see comedy as something that has the long-term potential to repair this situation. Am I naive to think this way?

Maysoon Zayid: Please don’t use the word “stab” in the same sentence as “Muslim Americans” and “Jewish Americans.”

Dean Obeidallah: I truly believe that comedy can be used to foster understating between Jews, Muslims, Arabs, and [people of] all different backgrounds. In fact, I have toured colleges for four years in a show I co-created called “Stand up for Peace” with Jewish comedian Scott Blakeman. Our shows are generally co-sponsored by Arab, Jewish, and Muslim student groups.

The goal is to bring together people of different backgrounds and religions (especially Arabs/Muslims and Jewish-Americans), to foster understanding through laughter as well as to attract support for a peaceful, negotiated resolution to the Middle East conflict. I can promise you that our show is much more fun than the events featuring speakers on the extreme right who appear on college campuses with the goal of dividing people through their hate-filled rhetoric.

Natalia: “Axis of Evil” was a success in the Middle East . Would you say that this success is indicative of the way that Muslim American comedians are perceived in Muslim majority nations overall?

Dean Obeidallah: I actually didn’t go with the Axis guys for that tour. However, I have performed in the Middle East before on my own and am returning for shows in late May/early June with Ahmed Ahmed and Maz Jobrani.

Comedy does not have geographic barriers. The Internet, TV shows and films have brought the world closer together. I can also tell you that I learned that we have one big thing in common: Jokes about President Bush get big laughs both in the US and in the Middle East!

Maysoon Zayid: Whether you’re part of the Muslim community or not, if you appreciate good comedy, you’re gonna love our shows. I’ve done shows in Beirut, and I’ve done shows in Tennessee, and I can honestly say the audiences I’ve encountered have been equally enthusiastic on both sides of the globe. Masha’allah.

Natalia: I recently interviewed a Muslim American author, Dilara Hafiz, and one of the most interesting things we talked about was her idea that Islam has a great future in the United States, because it can thrive more alongside democracy. Do you have any thoughts on that?

Maysoon Zayid: First of all, I want to give respect to Dilara Hafiz. I think what she did is such a cool idea and I love the fact that she collaborated on it with her own children. That being said, I heartily disagree.

Being Muslim in America, I feel put in jeopardy. Growing up in Cliffside Park, New Jersey I never felt as if I was an “other,” and I definitely was never attacked for my religious beliefs. But, during the George W. Bush Presidency, I, as well as my nieces and nephews, started to feel overwhelmed by the pushing of his distortion of Christianity on our daily lives. I started feeling a lot less comfortable in my own country, because of this.

If, by the grace of God and the Diebold machines, we get a Democrat in office, Islam may have a slim chance of thriving, but if we end up with that dude McCain, I got two words for my fellow Muslims: “Move to Canada”. OK, sorry, that’s three words.

Natalia: Would you like to share more thoughts on this year’s election?

Maysoon Zayid: I am super-proud to say that I am actually going to be ATTENDING the Democratic National Convention, as both a delegate from the great state of New Jersey and a performer with my arab-boy-comic-harem, aka “Axis of Evil” and Dean Obeidallah.

I am so excited for this election because it means no more Dick and Bush (forgive me for not being halal, but those are their names), and I’m thrilled at the prospect of having either Hilary or Barack Obama for president (as long as Hilary shuts it about obliterating Iran).

Ideally I’d like to see them on the same ticket. But more than anything else, I want Bill back! I know he’s itchin’ to get back in the Middle East peace process/ circus. The one other thing I will say, is Michele Obama is frickin’ awesome.

Dean Obeidallah: This election has both inspired and distressed me. I have been inspired by that fact both a woman and an African-American have a realistic chance of being the next President. I am personally supporting Senator Obama, but I am confident that Senator Clinton would still be a far better president that John McCain.

I have been distressed by some people’s use of Barack Obama’s middle name “Hussein” and the word Muslim as a slur in this campaign. I believe strongly that most Americans will reject these attacks – which I view as not anti-Muslim, but as anti-American, since our country was founded on the principles of religious tolerance. Let’s hope that these haters’ voices will be drowned out by the voices of mainstream America.

Natalia: I have to ask, what’s the most ridiculous thing that’s anybody ever said to you in regards to your brand of comedy?

Tissa Hami: “Are you only doing this to get a husband?”

Dean Obeidallah: I have been asked several times: “Are you really Arab?” As if I’m going to make up an ethnic background.

Maysoon Zayid: People call me anti-Semitic all the time which is completely ludicrous, because first and foremost I am a Semite and definitely not self-hating. Also, of you look at my catalog of work I defy anyone to find an anti-Jewish comment. They don’t exist.

A funnier misconception that always shocks me is when people accuse me of pretending to be disabled. All I can think is wow. I must be the best actor ever, because I have never broken character, EVER. I always get a kick out of that one.

Natalia: And what’s the best thing?

Maysoon Zayid: The best comment I’ve ever gotten was when a really well known actress came up to me at the end of my show, and said “I never knew Palestinians had children!”… In that moment, I had introduced humanity to a people who often see Palestinians as being very far from human. So that moment really validated me.

I also absolutely love it when [people with cerebral palsy] come up to me and are like, this is dope. I can totally do whatever it is they were dreaming of, that they didn’t think they could do. That gives me the warm fuzzies except for when I remember that 98% of them wont make it.

Dean Obeidallah: By far the best comment I have heard is from people – and it’s usually from Middle Eastern-Americans and Muslim-Americans – who after a show, or in an email, say: “Thank you for doing the type of comedy that you do.” I like this so much because it means they appreciate that my comedy is not just intended to make people laugh, but also intended to challenge the way we are often defined in mainstream media and present us in a positive, likable, and accurate light. The support of our community has inspired all of us to continue talking about these issues.

Tissa Hami: When a young boy came up to me after a show and said, “You were the best comedian on the show, by far.” He didn’t tell me that I was the best female comedian on the show, or the best ethnic comedian, or the best female ethnic comedian, if you see what I mean. He just saw me as a comedian.

On a related note, check out my interview with “The Axis of Evil” comedians in Dubai. For more, please read the interview with Maysoon Zayid and Tissa Hami at Muslimah Media Watch.

Just today, we are getting news of a fourteen-year-old child losing her life after a typically heavy-handed Israeli raid erupted in violence. Israel is showing the Gazans who’s boss. Vote for Hamas? Pay the price.

And yet, who was it exactly that the Gazans were supposed to vote for? Previous attempts at establishing a measure of good government have failed spectacularly. If you feel that your very existence is under siege, who do you turn to? That’s right, the guys with the guns.

I have no love lost for Islamic hard-liners. However, when I look at Israel’s policies toward this region, it seems to me that at this point, it’s as if no one is even searching for an actual solution. Gaza is troublesome and unstable, and who wants to deal with that? Why not just bleed it dry? Demoralize it to the point of it fading away?

The horrors of European anti-Semitism have paved the way for a series of new horrors elsewhere.

For example, I don’t blame Jews for wanting to leave the beloved, albeit struggling, country of my birth, Ukraine. A Ukrainian gentile is privileged in a way that a Ukrainian Jew is simply not. Swastikas spray-painted on the walls of residential buildings say it all. This side of the issue must be considered if a solution to the conflict can one day be reached.

It’s easy to talk “peace” when you don’t have to worry about grenades flying through your window at any given moment, but I would like to try.

There have been atrocities on both sides of this ongoing debacle, and the ensuing bitterness has solidified into rock-hard contempt. Fundamentalist nihilism has blossomed alongside collective punishment and impotent diplomacy.

Things cannot go on like this indefinitely. A perpetually embattled Israel, surrounded by disgruntled neighbours, is not sustainable. Who wants to live like that? No one wants to live like that.

My question is, how many Muslim, Jewish, and Christian deaths will it take before there is a collective shift in thinking?

Now, I am well aware of the fact that prostitution is frowned upon in all major religions, but the wording of this story, and many of the comments following it, struck me as cheap and exploitative. Let’s weep crocodile tears for Sufiah Yousof while enjoying the furtive thrill of seeing a good girl from a Muslim family go bad! What could possibly be wrong with that?

It’s easy to reduce Ms. Yousof to a two-dimensional caricature, but I suspect that her story is as complicated as any story of lived experience. Of course, a nuanced portrayal most likely means that you do not get to make a buck and/or a self-righteous fuss over the matter at hand.

Allowing people to make choices means that, every once in a while, they will do things that go against one’s ideology, perhaps even against one’s spirit. This is why people everywhere (not just in the Muslim world) are so fond of making examples out of women who stray from the fold. Women have long been regarded as property in many societies, and, in many cases, have been taught to regard themselves, their daughters, and sisters as property as well. And who wants “damaged goods”? Right?

In many ways, Sufiah’s story reminds me of the story of Britney Spears, another “good girl” gone “bad.” I am old enough to remember the days when Britney’s much-publicized virginity was the stuff of hotly-traded soundbytes and teasing magazine spreads. We just love to watch those good girls come tumbling off their public pedestals, do we not?

Let me state this loud and clear: a woman’s sexuality is not public property. What she chooses to do with it is between herself and God, if she believes in God, that is.

Using another person’s private life as a chance to score a cheap point about “the loose morals of today” or what have you is, at the very best, cruel.

I do not wish to speculate too much on Sufiah’s upbringing and the reason for her lifestyle choices. She was a prodigy, and such gifts come with all sorts of string attached. Her father was recently arrested on charges of sexual assault, and one has to wonder if assault is something Sufiah has had to endure as well, but ultimately, this is a matter that only she can testify to.

Perhaps she is happy doing what she does. Perhaps she is not. Either way, it is up to her to decide where to go from here.

She does not need to explain herself to the gawkers who have, with predictable relish, piled onto this story. She does not need to explain herself to me or you. No one is entitled to hear her version of events, lest she chooses to disclose them.

Move along now. There’s nothing more to see here.

In the cold, Amman is a quieter place. Sound carries. Sunlight is milky and diluted. The nights are more energetic, now that new bars and restaurants are welcoming residents and travelers into their cavernous, smoky insides. For myself, I have now discovered Loki, the place that everyone started talking about a long time ago. As an infrequent traveler, I hope I can be forgiven for my lateness and general un-hipness.

The joke goes that Jordan is stuck “between Iraq and a hard place.” And yet for a nation literally bordered by conflicts, Jordan has done fairly well for itself, all things considered. It remains a favourite with tourists who are particularly keen on history and nature (although international brand-name luxury certainly has its presence in Amman, the Dead Sea, and beyond). The economy has been growing, and the currency is pretty strong.

The Islamic Action Front, a conservative political party, has suffered losses in Jordan’s most recent parliamentary elections. This may have something to do that the economy appears to be a top priority to the electorate, but personally, I’m not sure either way. Jordanian society as a whole is still pretty conservative, but Amman in particular has mellowed out some. I used to feel my foreignness keenly in Amman. Perhaps I’ve mellowed out as well.

In many public places, hotels especially, metal detectors are a reminder of the bombings of November 2005.

The metal detectors have a dual effect: they both inspire a feeling of safety, and remind one that there is no such thing as safety. Although, where in the world is really safe to begin with? I suppose I could bundle up and stick it out in my old ancestral lands in the Ukrainian countryside, or else in the North Carolina mountains, but then there would be people-smugglers and fundamentalists to fear, respectively.

Today, the threat of terrorism in Amman is a whispered threat. Upon a casual observation, it doesn’t quite seem real. You want to relegate it to the ghost-world, to the realm of the Chupacabra and the Abominable Snowman. Desire doesn’t always correspond with reality, however, and in the Levant this is especially so.

But you don’t want to think about these things in the waning days of winter, when women in niqab look badass in leather trenchcoats and shawerma places stand with their doors propped open, exhaling hunger and heat. It’s perilous to try to guess the future, but hope reverberates here, like adhan in those hours when a lazy bum like me has to stop for a second and marvel at how people manage to get up while all I am capable of doing is burrowing further under the blanket and away from the lingering cold.

The olive trees creak on the wind and sleepy cab-drivers honk irritably as a new day presses upon Amman. It’s gorgeous and unfussy, like the women stomping their cold feet at the bus-stops, like the gentle curves of the hills. After I finally come awake and face the music, a Ukrainian woman who dyes my hair tells me, while laughing, a story of her husband beating up her old boss when the latter tried to solicit sex from her. Throughout the day, different people relate the same grim suspicions about the famous Abdoun suspension bridge, a marvel of modernity, that’s “probably built with crap-materials.” Why? Who knows? And anyway, the bridge is so, so pretty that the doomsday talk surrounding it reminds me of a Morrissey lyric: “to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.”

I wish I could stay for weeks, eat mansaf until I’m fat and happy, listen to tales of terror surrounding gas prices, talk about the apparent plans for the prettification of Queen Alia International Airport (hey! I like it just the way it is! Oh wait, no one’s asked me…). I wish I came here more often. That’s the thing about Amman. It may not be obvious, it may not be in-your-face, but it is subtly, dangerously charming, even as it changes and morphs and breaks apart and comes together, like a craggy kaleidoscope before your eyes.

In her bio, Ms. Mahdi lists her mother as her source of support in pursuing her goals. She also lists her background in graphic design and advertising. She has done freelance work for a variety of Egyptian publications, so, if you’re in Egypt, she might already be familiar.

Mahdi looks like she is no friend of the George W. Bush administration, though she takes on other subjects just as freely (Osama Bin Laden, Brad Pitt, and Tony Blair among them – personally, I’m a big fan of the Brad Pitt caricature; considering the fact that this man’s perfectly chiseled face has been staring at me from every newsstand).

Mahdi is working in a male-dominated field, in a country where bloggers and other outspoken individuals can wind up in jail. For this alone, she ought to be admired, methinks.

Her commentary on the Shia-Sunni rift and the political exploitation thereof caught my eye, and will stay with me for a long time. By contrast, the depictions of George W. Bush as Satan/monster lack bite (notwithstanding such depictions’ popularity in Egypt, and beyond).

I think if Mahdi were to focus more on specific aspects of current U.S. foreign policy, her work would become more pointed – and accessible not only to the Arab world, but to those beyond it.

I think as Mahdi continues to hone her craft, more good stuff will happen.