In his op-ed, Sicha rightfully questions the value of placing Coke in a movie like The Road: “Who will prevent these man-eaters of commerce from persuading me that my personal escape from Thunderdome must not be Pepsi-fueled?” It’s true, this seemingly arbitrary product placement probably has little impact. But, on the other hand, the see-click-buy variety that companies like Delivery Agent are enabling appears to be the way of the future (and don’t forget the scary Tivo/ Amazon partnership). Yes, we may be immune to cola in the apocalypse, and cigarettes in space, but we all want to know where Joan Holloway bought her dress.

It was a year ago in the hospital, sometime during the week between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, when another nurse and I heard one of the more disturbing sounds we’d ever heard in the hospital coming from a patient’s room. It was like a strangled, low-pitched moaning, and we both went on instant and frightened alert.

On my floor all the rooms have glass windows set into the doors and we began cautiously peering into them as the haunted sound continued. The patient we saw through the first window was sitting comfortably in bed watching television. The second patient was clearly asleep and breathing normally. We moved to the third window in the row, expecting to see something unimaginably horrific and terrible—for what, short of a huge blood clot stuck in someone’s larynx, could cause such an inhuman sound?

We looked into the room together, and saw not a blue-faced patient struggling to breathe, but three men with big beards wearing white shirts, black hats and black suits. One of them was blowing on what looked like a ram’s horn. Quickly we realized that the ram’s horn was the source of the surprising sound.

To us, expecting to see an oxygen-starved patient possibly spitting blood (because that’s what my imagination conjured) and to see instead these three men, embracing the dress and customs of their century-old ancestors, was too much of a contrast. We both burst out laughing, and then hustled away as quickly as we could, hoping the Orthodox Jews who had come to share part of Rosh Hashanah with a hospitalized patient would not hear us.

There’s a large community of Orthodox Jews near where I live, and if you have cancer, we’re the hospital a lot of people come to. We’re close enough that Orthodox friends and family can walk to and from the hospital. It’s a long walk, but it means that Sabbath visits are possible for observant Jews who won’t drive on the day of rest.

Still, the ram’s horn that had caused the other nurse and I so much worry: what was that, I wondered. My husband is Jewish, but a self-described “Hebrew-school dropout;” he wouldn’t know from ram’s horns. So I asked another friend, one who’d served in the Israeli army.

“Oh, that’s a shofar,” he said, his tone implying “Everybody knows that.”

And it turns out the shofar isn’t that exotic, but in the context of the hospital, where anomalous sounds are always worrisome, the tones of this simple instrument, meant to herald the new year, were ominous.

The other nurse and I argued afterwards about what we thought the shofar had sounded like. She heard the moans of a sick cow, whereas I thought it sounded more like a cat stuck in the heating duct. It’s the nature of our work that odd sounds typically signal distress. When I told her later, “That ram’s horn is called a shofar,” she insisted that visitors should warn someone at the nurse’s station before playing such an unusual instrument.

This led to several jokes about hospitals needing to be shofar-free zones. However, knowing a little bit about Rosh Hashanah, what could be more appropriate than blowing a shofar on a cancer floor?

My understanding is that hearing the shofar wakes people up to the idea of judgment and to God’s sovereignty and power. According to tradition, Rosh Hashanah is the time when God decides which names will be written in the book of life for another year—who will live and who will die. Our patients are acutely aware that their fate is out of their hands, that they need all the help they can get to make it into that book. We offer them the most cutting-edge treatment available. But some patients will also find comfort in rams’ horns and their own time-worn traditions of religious community.

I think back on my surprise when I saw those three bearded black-hatted men trying to bring a little piece of their faith to our sterile hospital environment. I was so happy to see them, rather than a patient going through a physical ordeal horrible enough to make him produce such a sound.

Probably for the patient in the room, the shofar, an ancient instrument with years of accumulated cultural and spiritual meaning, sounded like hope. But there’s little space in the modern hospital for displays of faith. When one occurs so dramatically, and so audibly, the effect can be unnerving.

So when the other nurse and I laughed, we were expressing relief. We thought we’d look in the room and see a patient retching blood, but “Gottze dank, just three Mensches playing the Shofar,” transmitting a message we can all find meaningful. Here’s wishing all our patients another year in the Book of Life.

]]> http://theharperstudio.com/2009/09/maybe-we-should-ask-the-nurses/feed/ 0 http://theharperstudio.com/2009/08/seven-years-later-a-look-at-womens-aid-projects-in-afghanistan/ http://theharperstudio.com/2009/08/seven-years-later-a-look-at-womens-aid-projects-in-afghanistan/#comments Tue, 18 Aug 2009 13:55:57 +0000 Steffen http://theharperstudio.com/?p=4326 The numbers cited in Gayle Tzemach’s recent NYT piece on women’s aid projects in Afghanistan made my jaw drop. Her take on the need for more private sector involement is particularly internesting (Gayle is a former reporter for ABC News and a Harvard MBA). Read the piece here.

There are a ton of insta-books on Michael Jackson and other MJ books in the pipeline. How is Rolling Stone’s book different from the others?

This book will be the definitive look at Jackson’s life and music. We will tell the full story of his career, in a fascinating essay by Mikal Gilmore, who has been writing about Jackson since the early days, and we will delve deep into his music — examining in detail the early years at Motown, his move to become a solo artist in the 70s, and his key blockbuster solo albums: Off the Wall, Thriller and Bad. We will also draw on deep reporting into Jackson’s private life for a piece that looks at what went wrong in his later years, and we will provide sharp, authoritative critical guides to his songs, videos and other work. It will also contain intimate tributes from artists who knew and worked with Jackson. Unlike the insta-books flooding the market, this book is the ultimate guide to Michael Jackson, with beautiful photographs and elegant design, in classic Rolling Stone style.

The music industry has obviously changed dramatically since the eighties and the media in general is much more fragmented. Does the death of Michael Jackson represent the death of a certain kind of popular culture?

Not really — Michael Jackson was a one-of-a-kind icon, on par with Elvis and Sinatra. His music is alive in so many different styles of R&B, rap and hip-hop – from the Black Eyed Peas to Justin Timberlake to Ne-Yo and Usher.

 Someone who is not a Jackson fan said to me recently that Thriller has the sound of a TV commercial. What do you make of that? I instantly disagreed but have been thinking about how pivotal that Pepsi commercial was in his career.

 Jackson was such a huge artist that his music was everywhere – on the radio, MTV, in TV commercials - Thriller sold more albums than any other in history and for a time it became so big it was like the white noise of our pop culture, and globally too. My wife tells a story of going to Egypt on tour in the 90s, and people came up to her in small villages and asked if she knew Michael Jackson. He was that big. For some people, perhaps, the ubiquity diminished the value of the music. But go listen to Billie Jean or Beat It now and tell me it’s not amazing…

Where did Jackson learn to dance? (Did he get the pulled up pants from Fred Astaire?)

Complicated question: he learned from all over – breakdancing, old movies. I can go into this more later if you want.

Some people feel Jackson’s later albums are interesting musically. Do you agree?

Absolutely! Especially Bad and Dangerous, but Invincible and History have very interesting elements to them too that were often overlooked at the time. We will have a piece specifically addressing these later albums.

 We’ve been talking a lot about the cover of MICHAEL. Why aren’t there more quality portraits of Jackson?

Michael wasn’t photographed a lot in his later years – and he was rarely photographed casually. He was very concerned with how he looked and his image, so there aren’t a lot of photographers he was comfortable with. Also, Michael bought up many of the photos that do exist so they are not on the market.

What is your favorite Jackson song?

“Rock with you” and “Don’t stop ‘til you get enough” are probably my all-time favorites. There’s something about that album [Off The Wall] that’s just so exuberant, like he’s breaking loose for the first time, it’s impossible to resist.

The other morning I was invited to do an interview over breakfast at the home of a shopkeeper whom I had already interviewed several times at his work, a trendy, four-story Kabul department store selling elaborately beaded dresses from India ranging in price from $200 to well over $1000. Brides often come with their families to choose one of several outfits which will be worn during what are usually two days of wedding celebrations.

After my generous host wheeled out a delicious continental buffet of chai, naan bread, yoghurt, and cherry jam from Iran, we spoke of his family; he has four children, three of whom were toddlers during the fighting which took place in the country’s north during the Taliban years. He then asked me whether I was married, to which my mischievous colleague, who also serves as my guide and chaperone here, answered, “Yes, she is. Ask her how many people were at her wedding!”

My mild-mannered host looked at me with an expression that formed a question mark, compelling me to elaborate. Yes, I answered, I was married about a year ago. And we had 18 people at the wedding.

“18?” Disbelief and laughter followed. He shook his head and marveled that the number was only double-digit — and low double-digits at that. “Do you know that Afghan weddings are usually at least 1000 people? A small wedding here would be 500 or so guests.”

Now I was in awe. I had heard for years about big and marvelously fun Afghan weddings with music and food and an overflow of family and friends. But 1000 seemed an extraordinarily large number.

“Oh, yes,” said my host. “1000 at least; sometimes much more. And you have to feed all those people!” This means ordering sacks and sacks of sugar and rice and vegetables and meat weeks ahead of time; no big-box super stores here to turn to for last-minute supplies. Over-sized party sites large enough to fit thousands and featuring glamorous monickers such as “Kabul-Paris Wedding Hall” are serious — and lucrative — business here in the capital.

“But that must cost a fortune,”I asked. “How does anyone afford it? In the States weddings are quite expensive; that is part of why people try to limit the guest list. Five hundred people is an enormous wedding in America!”

Weddings are very expensive here, too, said my host. Too expensive. My colleague agreed. People save up for years to afford them. And sometimes the price of a wedding stops the marriage from happening at all. In Kabul, weddings can run upwards of $10,000 to $15,000. An unmanageably large sum for most.

Still, he said, 18 people was too small! If I wanted to have a more affordable wedding with everyone I wished to invite, I should come to Kabul. For the same cost as my small, State-sized nuptials, I could have 1500 people and lots of good food and music here in Afghanistan. Never mind that I am in my mid-30s, well beyond the usual age for marriage here.

“Next time!” I joked, knowing that most Afghans do not share the American belief in multiple attempts when it comes to marriage. “You know we Americans often try two or three times to get it right.” My host broke out into a rolling round of morning laughter. And so did I.

- Gayle Tzemach

Jeff Jarvis, author of What Would Google Do sums it up perfectly in Business Week this week:

Stop trying to control the message
“Institutional” speak is not a good way to have a relationship with your customer
Unleash the power of the people
Beta is a statement of humility and humanity (just ask Google)
Be free to fail
Perfection is a myth
People are generous and forgiving

And in case President Obama and Jeff Jarvis haven’t convinced you that transparency is “in,” check out Gary Vaynerchuk in his blog last week:

We must write where we stand; wherever we do stand, there is life; and an imitation of life we know however narrow, is our only ground. – John Updike (1932 – 2009)

We’re joining the rest of the world in mourning John Updike’s passing and we are honored to be publishing one of his pieces in our upcoming book Burn This Book. 

The short answer is sell books. But it ain’t that simple.

If you stop and think about it, give or take a few bells and whistles (the ubiquitous flash intro page, for example), most author websites are exactly the same: Descriptive copy, an excerpt, author bio, possibly a trailer or Q&A, reviews, events & readings, and a link to Amazon and other book retailers. In other words: an electronic business card. It comes as no surprise, then, that a recent Codex study quoted in Courtney Sullivan’s article “See the Web Site, Buy the Book” found that 8% of book buyers had visited author websites in a given week. 8%!

So what would engage the other 92% of the book buying market? What are the elements of a successful author/ book website? (On Friday Debbie is hosting a breakfast for our authors to discuss these very questions so more to come on this subject from the rest of the HS gang). For now, here are some of my unscientific observations. I would love to hear yours….

A good author website:

- Is interactive and speaks to a distinct community

- Is inherently entertaining

- Engages someone who has never heard of the book or author

- Gives the reader a reason to come back

- Can be found easily on Google

Here are 5 authors who are getting it right.

John Hodgman: http://www.areasofmyexpertise.com/

Tim Ferris: http://www.fourhourworkweek.com/blog/

Chris Anderson http://www.thelongtail.com/

Sloane Crosley http://sloanecrosley.com/

Cory Doctorow http://craphound.com/

(note the savvy publicist Sloane Crosley is the only author here who has used her name rather than the book title)

- Julia

“Despite their anxieties, a growing number of women view negotiation with more moderate Taliban elements as the only way to bring the country some measure of peace." [CSM]

Gayle has been in Kabul the past several months researching her book The Dressmaker of Khair Khana.

I also say, when a trend reaches me, it’s hit critical mass.

This week I felt the earth move twice from Twitter:

The first was the news out of Mumbai. I was watching it on Twitter and thinking to myself, this is like CNN during the first war in Iraq. Something major had changed. Sure enough, there’s an article in today’s New York Times about Twitter and the news.

There’s also a story in the New York Times Week In Review Section about famous people using Twitter.

The second Twitter moment came when I found poetry being written on Twitter by Jeremy Toback. He makes magic with 140 characters and I feel like I’ve been given a little present every time I log on and find a new one.

What could be better……get your news, celebrity updates, and poetry —  all in one Opt In place on the web.

Debbie

Today as we battled our way back from Kabul University in inch-by-inch traffic, I heard a police siren. Turning around to see what was happening, I watched a jacked-up grey pick-up truck pass us on the left. Turns out you can buy horns which sound like sirens. My fixer told me they are very popular.

A motor hierarchy governs the roads. Big white SUVs toting foreign VIPs, government officials, and all of the UN officials are the bullies, regularly cutting off with bravado anyone smaller.  We play chicken daily with an assortment of battered mini vans and station wagons, but when it comes to trucks and buses, my driver lets them have their way. Creative maneuvering is his specialty: The other day we drove our car in reverse for two full blocks when we overshot the pale guarded gate of the foreigner’s restaurant where I was meeting a friend for lunch.  Those who loved “A Bronx Tale” would be proud.

Safety standards are different here than in the developed world…. 

I have never worn a seat belt nor seen a car seat.  A few mornings back I spotted a snug and smiling family of seven sitting securely on a somewhat aged motorcycle. I counted twice to make certain I was seeing right: Two little ones wrapped arms at the front, embraced tightly by their father, followed by two more little ones in the secure grasp of their mother, who was held by the oldest child captaining the bike’s rear.
 
We spent a colorful day interviewing a gracious man in his two-story home in northwest Kabul at the end of one of the most mangled roads I have ever traveled.  Through the windows stretching from the cement living room floor covered with crimson carpet and crushed velvet pillows, I watched the Hindu Kush mountains.  Houses now cling to nearly every habitable corner of the grey peaks overlooking Kabul; the city is so crowded that no inch of space is unused.
 
I saw no women during my four hour visit.  Two handsome sons who spoke charming text book English came in and said hello, as did a brother whom I had had the pleasure of interviewing several times already.  Both the wife and the daughter of the house remained in the kitchen and in their own rooms since two strange men, my driver and my fixer, were part of our party.  Foreign women are treated as men here, so the laws of separation do not apply to us.
 
At lunchtime, we adjourned to the room next door where a generous spread of rice, meatballs, lamb, eggplant with cheese, salad, peppers, and naan bread awaited us on a yellow table cloth covering the floor. Vegetarianism (let alone veganism) is very difficult to explain in countries where meat is a luxury, and eating only a little is an insult.  I explained to my host as politely as I could in unintelligible Dari that I was allergic to meat. I added that my Iraqi-born father, who grew up without meat, finds it hard to believe anyone would actually choose to eat only vegetables. Every time the white of my plate surfaced, my host looked at me, awaiting my next serving and pointing energetically at all the meat-free dishes.
 
A plastic box of metal spoons sat on the tablecloth as a gesture to the foreign visitor. All three men ate with their hands, efficiently swooping up rice and meat in manageable clumps they popped effortlessly into their mouths. I tried awkwardly to mimic their graceful movements only to have half of my rice and a tomato plop onto the carpet in front of me as my head scarf came undone. Eventually I abandoned the effort, which my host graciously tried not to notice, returning with relief to the comforting crutch of cutlery.

- Gayle Tzemach

1960: Hawaii, James A. Michener

Ourselves To Know, John O’Hara

1961: To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee

Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller

1962: Sex and the Single Girl, Helen Gurley Brown

1963: Profiles in Courage: Inaugural Edition, John F.
Kennedy

Happiness Is a Warm Puppy, Charles M. Schulz

1964: In His Own Write, John Lennon
A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway

1965: Herzog, Saul Bellow

1966: In Cold Blood, Truman Capote

Games People Play, Eric Berne, M.D.

1967: Rosemary’s Baby, Ira Levin

1968: Couples, John Updike

1969: Portnoy’s Complaint, Philip Roth

The Godfather, Mario Puzo

The Andromeda Strain, Michael Crichton

Are the 60s’s coming back in full force? Barneys seems to think so! Check out their holiday catalogue

Gayle Tzemach  is a journalist currently living in Kabul working on her book The Dressmaker of Khair Khana  

The American election captured Kabul’s attention this week. At an airy bar in Kabul shuttered behind two metal doors and four armed guards, a hive of excited Democrats celebrated Election Night, watching CNN and drinking blue cocktails. The collection of aid workers and rights advocates cheered Obama’s win, donning “Yes We Can” tees and signing the Obama ’08 banner hanging from the wall. No sign of McCain/Palin paraphernalia anywhere.

The Europeans in Kabul were almost as excited as the Americans. In international offices across the capital, Wednesday brunches celebrated the end of the Bush era and the Democrats’ return to power. BBC has played nothing but Obama video since Tuesday.

Afghans, too, were captivated by the vote 6,000 miles away. Nearly everyone I interviewed asked me about it. What did I think about Obama? What is his policy toward Afghanistan? Do I think he is serious about focusing on Afghanistan now that the US realizes the war in Iraq was a grave mistake?

Pulling up to one of the short and dingy apartment blocks near the airport, the kind of neighborhood where flies swarm unmolested and the arrival of strangers raises eyebrows, I walked up three flights of stairs to the headquarters of a women’s NGO. Inside I met a woman who organized schools and sewing classes for women during the Taliban years. As we wrapped up our interview, she congratulated me on Obama’s win. “I hope he will help to make things better here,” she said. “I believe that if the US really wanted to bring peace and security to Afghanistan, it would.”

She is not alone in thinking that if the international community really wanted to secure Afghanistan, it could.

 One afternoon this week I interviewed a house full of women of all ages. The exotic foreign visitor, I was like the panda at the National Zoo. Sitting on plush pillows and drinking tea, everyone stared and laughed and asked questions by candlelight since the power was out. Am I married? Do I have children? How old am I? And do I live with my family? These are always the first questions I am asked. The idea of living alone astounds most people in a country where most families board together for generations and sharing a home is common practice. As we left the house one morning, a woman with a red scarf driving a dark four-wheel drive made a left turn onto the road in front of us. Though women are rarely behind the wheel here, the SUV-driver had the air of a prize-winning jockey, confidently handling her bouncing truck on Kabul’s maimed streets. My driver and fixer and I all spotted her at the same time, and my driver was clearly tickled. “Do you know how to drive?” he asked in Dari. I explained to him and to my fixer that I do indeed and that I even have my own car at home. Nodding in silence, they digested my answer.

American pop culture assumes strange guises in the world’s farthest reaches. As we ate Italian food served by Russian waitresses surrounded by heavily armed Afghan guards, old school light favorites from El De Barge, Debbie Gibson and Karen Carpenter serenaded my Scottish lunch mate and me. “Lady in Red” played as we arrived. A few days earlier my fixer asked the meaning of the words sprayed in lipstick red across the rear window of a beige Corolla speeding past us down one of the city’s few well-paved roads. “Don’t Cry Ladies, I Will Be Back” is rather tricky to translate, but I tried.

-Gayle Tzemach