Shall We Boycott Lowe’s?

America may be the land of the brave and free, but off late the braves had been cowered into submission in the name of terror, and the word free sounds more and more as joke—ask the veteran OWS protestor in Oakland who was taken to ICU after being hit by a police projectile. Therefore, when a US Senator called on the CEO of Lowe's to apologize to American Muslims for ‘bigoted, shameful’ actions, I say wow, where does this guy come from?

The maverick is State Sen. Ted W. Lieu, a Democrat from Torrance, California. He was commenting in the aftermath of the North Carolina based Lowes’ action to stop advertising on TLC's “All-American Muslim” after a conservative group, Florida Family Association (FMA) complained that the program was “propaganda that riskily hides the Islamic agenda's clear and present danger to American liberties and traditional values.”

Muslims as peoples are the punching bag of the USA, ask Representative Peter King (R-NY), chairman of the House and Senate Homeland Security committees, who told Sean Hannity in an interview, “no American Muslim leaders are cooperating in the war on terror,” and that "80-85 percent of mosques in this country are controlled by Islamic fundamentalists .... This is an enemy living amongst us.”

I was not surprised when the Florida group sent three emails to its members, asking them to petition Lowe’s to pull its advertising. The TLC show chronicles what it's like to be a Muslim in America, and it often portrays the discrimination the Muslims face in this country. FMA’s website was updated to reflect that the “supporters' emails to advertisers make a difference.” Accordingly, FMA just proved the point highlighted in the TV show.

Sen. Ted Lieu wrote, “I am writing regarding Lowe’s action of pulling its advertising from Discovery Channel/TLC’s show “All-American Muslim” because of complaints from the Florida Family Association that “All-American Muslim is propaganda that riskily hides the Islamic agenda’s clear and present danger to American liberties and traditional values.” Lowe’s action is bigoted, shameful, and un-American. I call on Lowe’s to rescind its action and apologize to Americans who are Muslim. If Lowe’s continues its religious bigotry, I will encourage boycotts of Lowe’s and look into legislative remedies.”

Lieu went on to scribe, “Lowe’s action is profoundly ignorant. Islam is a peaceful religion practiced by over 1.5 billion people, including Americans across our great nation and Lowe’s own employees. As President Bush declared, and President Obama reaffirmed, America is not at war with Islam.”

Lieu further clarified, “America is, however, at war with people who pose a clear and present danger, whether they are white separatists like Timothy McVeigh (who happened to be Catholic); mass shooters such as Seung-Hui Cho at Virginia Tech ; or members of the Revolutionary People’s Liberation Army (a Marxist-Leninist group that has targeted US interests with suicide bombings). Lowe’s bigoted action conflates peaceful religions with dangerous people who use peaceful religions (or political ideology) to advance their agenda."

Where does Lieu get this courage to defend a minority community in such force? I say, the strength comes from our constitution, and our culture of tolerance at the grassroots level. The America we are proud of is because of our people, and despite our leaders. American people’s keen sense of justice, desire for religious freedom, and willingness to help the weak is deeply ingrained in their blood. That is exactly the reason, I wrote: Please Do Not Destroy This Country.

First published on Technorati.

When The Dictators Fall

The year is 2011, well past the first decade of the 21st century. We have supposedly come a long way from the days of kings and princes, and transformed into the modern world of presidents and prime ministers, where people are to choose their leaders by an instrument called election. Yet, he was a prince, designated to be the successor of his father, who had deposed a king only to assume the role himself, although called himself the President of his country.

The young prince had his education in the London School of Economics, earning a PhD, and had earned the reputation of a modern day reformer by engaging himself in benevolent acts. But when the time came that would test his mettle, he turned a faithful obliging supporter of his dictator father taking part in crushing his own people.

He was a brave leader, who announced on national television that he would fight for his country till the last drop of blood drains his body. He was full in vim and vigor, resolute in his promise, yet, when his captors zeroed on him he meekly surrendered without firing a single bullet. Like an obedient servant he complied with the order of his captors, and let them take over several Kalashnikov rifles and a hand grenade—he was the prince charming Saif al-Islam Gaddafi, the most brazen son of Cornell Gaddafi.

“At the beginning he was very scared. He thought we would kill him,” said Ahmed Ammar, one of the 15 Libyan fighters who captured Saif al-Islam.

Afraid? This rubble rousing patriotic Lion-of-Libya afraid of a few young ragtag army of ordinary Libyans? Did he not say in his own words that he would fight to the last? Did he not promise to squash the freedom fighters like bugs?

Saif al-Islam was caught in the dark of night, fleeing his country in a Toyota Land Cruiser, with a few accomplishes, following in another vehicle. This is how the end came of a mighty man!

Saif al-Islam proved once again that people like him are just plain cowards, whose strength is derived from the support of their henchmen. Once they are isolated, they are paper tigers!

His father, Muammar was found taking shelter in a drainage pipe, when captured. Another Arab hero Saddam Hossain was pulled out of a rat hole—these are supposedly legendary Arab leaders, whose end was more cowardly than legend-like.

It is said, the larger they are, the harder they fall. Most dictators finally meet violent end, at the end though they fall like chickens than lions.

If there are any true heroes in the Arab lands, they are on Arab streets, braving the assault of professional armed goons. They are the people who are demonstrating for their rights, for their freedom, walking on streets in their broken bodies. They carry the one's who are fallen by army bullets, to safety, and keep walking, braving all brutality. These Arab heroes are inspiration to the whole world. More and more people worldwide are following in their foot steps, in far off lands.

All people can be subjugated for sometime, some people can be subjugated for all time, but all people can not be subjugated for all times!

First published on Technorati

A Little Girl Spends Two Days With Her Dead Mother

Life often presents its own strange tales and some of them move us more than others. Imagine a 3-year-old girl living in a house alone for two days, with none except her dead mother. When hungry she ate cheese, some lasagna that was left over from her mother’s last meal, and milk. Beside her dead mother’s body what gave her company was her favorite toy, a teddy bear named "Possum."

It happened in New Zealand, where the toddler lived with her mother Lauren Silbery, who was only 28 at the time of death. Authorities found the little Shylah Silbery only when the girl's uncle, Pete Silbery, alerted them through a friend who lived nearby. Pete had not spoken with Lauren in two days and he was worried. He called a friend who lived near their Wellington home. The friend came to visit the house, but the house was locked. Only the little girl was visible from outside, but there was no sign of her mother. When Pete got that news he called police.

Police came in and talked Shylah into unlocking the main door. They asked her to drag a coffee table to the door and stand on it so that she could reach the lock and unlock it, saving them from breaking the door. "Mummy does not wake up," that's all she could tell them. Shylah was treated in a hospital for several days and she recovered well from the dehydration and diaper rash that she had suffered.

Shylah has no idea of what she has lost. When her mother’s coffin was being lowered into the grave, she pointed at it and said, “Mummy's in there.” Many years later, she would remember this day, and will feel sad about it. Perhaps she would cry over her loss then, for now she is okay though. They will tell her stories about her mother—that she has gone to bring her toys, or, milk, and will be home soon, and she will believe them.

Until that day, when she is big enough to realize that her mother had gone to heaven, she would not cry for her.

First published on Technorati.

Mirza Beg And The Two Women

On an idyllic summer evening Firoze was taking a gingerly stroll in the small garden in front of his apartment building. The sun was about to set, but the air was still warm and humid. Watching butterflies hovering over the rich bed of yellow-red marigolds, he was lost in his own thoughts when a female voice interrupted him.

Firoze looked back and saw two women walking towards him, one clad in burqa, covering head to toe; only her eyes were visible. The other attired in a simple green cotton sari.
From their dress they appeared to be from a working class family.
As they came closer, the burqa lady asked, “Can you please tell us where the hujur lives?”
“Hujur?” Firoze was surprised, he shot back, “Hujur who?”
The burqa lady tried to explain, “We are coming from the other side of the town, we heard that hujur lives here, somewhere close to this apartment building.”

People from Indian subcontinent often address religious leaders and scholars as huzur.
Firoze was still amazed, “Yes, but hujur who?” “What is his name?”
“The hujur of the mosque in that next block, the Imam.”
It dawned on Firoze that the two ladies were asking him about the man who leads prayer in that corner mosque.

The Big Apple is the melting pot of diverse cultures. This city still keeps its promise with destiny to feed the hungry, and clothe the naked. People who have no acquaintance in America still lands up here thinking that they have a better chance to find someone from his own community, who can help them.

A significant part of Queens has become a mini Bangladesh. Most stores here are operated by people of Bangladeshi origin. Even the local mosques are controlled by Bangladeshi expatriates. Sometime back, the local mosque had hired a man for conducting daily religious services, his name is Mirza Beg.

Mirza Beg came to this country with OP 1 visa. He could not find a job since he did not have any marketable assets. When he first came to the city he did not know anyone. He took shelter in a mosque. The Imam of the mosque was from Pakistan. He felt sorry for the poor man, and took him under his wing.

The Imam groomed Mirza as his assistant. He taught him how to read Arabic, especially as it pertains to Quran. He spent time with him teaching important verses of the holy book. He taught him how to conduct various religious functions, and he let Mirza lead prayers with small congregations.

When the new mosque opened up in this part of Queens, Mirza came to know about it. He approached the local mosque committee. The committee needed someone to perform the obligatory jamat (congregation) prayers as ordained in Islam. Mirza offered to accept the job with a nominal pay, and a place to stay, at one corner of the building. The committee gave him the job, considering that hiring him would save them some money.

Mirza Beg is street smart, adept at village politics. Within a few months he managed to get a large raise by befriending a few members of the mosque committee, and playing them against other members to do his bidding.

Firoze thought the ladies must be asking about him.
He said, “Oh! Perhaps you are asking about Mirza Beg. He is however, neither huzur nor Imam, and he has a name—Mirza Beg. Are you looking for him?”
“Yes, yes,” the burqa-lady spoke with a relieved tone, “yes, we are looking for him.” “Can you tell us where he lives?”
Curiosity took the better of Firoze, and after a few moments of hesitation he asked, “May I know why you want to see him?”
The burqa lady went silent. She was thinking if she should tell a stranger why she wanted to see Mirza Beg.
Surprisingly, she spoke soon, in a slow voice, “I am having a problem pregnancy, I want to see the huzur for his doa (blessing).

Mirza did not finish high school in Bangladesh. Neither did he have any traditional education from a madrassa. His knowledge on religious discourse was limited. What Beg lacked in knowledge, he overcame with his demeanor. His beard is longer than the depth of his religious scholarship.
Some of his beards are turning white, he applies henna on them. This in turn increases his religious stature in the mind of some people. A man who follows the prophet’s sunna must be a pious man, they think. He dresses impeccably for his position—pajama that does not cover his heels, and long shirts, following the tradition of the Imams. His head is always covered in Kashmiri cap. It was not long before he started having a following.

The sweet talking Beg is now a popular man. The working class Bangladeshi men and women of the neighborhood treat him with the respect of a religious scholar. Beg is in high demand in the Bangladeshi community for performing various religious functions.

The new immigrants are mostly poor, and poor people need God more than the well-to-do. Without medical insurances, they mostly depend on pani-para (water over which Quranic verses have been recited), and tabiz (encapsulated written Quranic verses) for curing their diseases. These also come handy, they believe, to help them draw God’s mercy when bad time afflicts them.

Mirza is invited when a child is born, to bless the new child; and he is called when someone dies, to make his journey to the other world smooth. He is called, when one in the family is about to begin a new job, or, something auspicious of that nature. Mirza is a busy man.

People offer Mirza money for these services, and his fortune has changed. He now has rented an apartment, which he shares with two of his assistants, and bought a car. Although he lives only a few blocks away from the mosque he always drives his car from his home to the mosque. The social activities that let him earn extra money, take a toll on his working time too. Now-a-days he often comes late to the mosque for prayers. In a few occasions he even failed to come to the mosque at all to lead the prayers. One of the members from the mosque committee had to perform that job on those times. While Mirza is paid for his jobs, the committee members render the same service freely. Mirza’s friends in the mosque committee see to it that his job is not threatened.

Queens inhabits both working class and upwardly mobile middle-class Bangladeshi expatriates. The old apartment style buildings suit lifestyle of both families and bachelors. Young bachelors mostly share an apartment, two or three sharing a room sometime. This often leads shortage of water in the whole building complex. They also create other social problems. The families try to avoid those buildings where the bachelors stay. Only families live in Firoze’s apartment block. Mirza’s apartment is couple blocks away.

Firoze is an engineer with a bright academic career. His sense of religion is balanced, and as a performing Muslim he often finds himself at odds with other people of the community. Firoze does not have any overbearing respect for Mirza, since he finds him lacking in principle. Mirza’s insincerity in performing his job, his side earnings from community religious services—for which Firoze thinks he shall not charge people money, and his inadequacy in religious knowledge, did not earn much respect with Firoze. In fact he detests the man for his charlatan behavior. There are many stories in circulation claiming that Mirza has taken a lot of money from innocent people promising them to redress their troubles by invoking God’s mercy on them.

What seemed like an eternity, he dwelled in his mind how to respond to these two ladies! He looked at the sari-clad woman; she is probably in early twenties, accompanying the burqa lady, whatever her age may be. Beads of sweat on her face told Firoze they must have walked from a distance. The other woman’s face was hidden, only her eyes were visible. Nothing much to read there at this moment.
At the end the good Samaritan in him won. Firoze did not want a simple trusting person to suffer.
In a clear but concerned voice he said, “If you have any health problem you shall see a doctor. Mirza Beg cannot help you.”

The young girl giggled, making it obvious that she shared Firoze’s view. The burqa lady frowned under her veil. Her eyes expressed scorn. Her displeasure was conspicuous.

A mixed emotion took over Firoze, anger, disappointment, and pity. He did not know these two ladies, and he had no chance to influence them. Moreover, who is he to pass judgment on others?
With a sad voice he said, “Follow me. Let me show you where Mirza Beg lives.”

The two women followed him silently.

The Day My Mother Went To Live With The Stars

The sky had opened up and it poured like there is no tomorrow. It was easy on the grave diggers since the ground had swelled, grew soft, and the shovels went in easy! It was typical of my mother to leave the world in a way that was least troublesome for others, who were in her life. In life her need was bare minimum, and so it was in her death.

She was of a time that allowed people to be content easily, albeit, even for that time she was astonishing in simplicity. From a modest beginning, I reached a position in life where I am able to fulfill most of my reasonable demands without much sweat, and my mother knew it very well. Nonetheless, she never asked me for anything—anything at all, because she did not need anything. She lived the life of a hermit, within the bound of society.

My earliest memory of her—it was a noon, on a very hot summer day, when my mother was about to eat her lunch. She used to eat after everyone else in the family did. In those days, we had no refrigerators, and cooked food would get spoiled easily. Therefore, every day, there would be three cooking sessions, so that food would be consumed fresh, and there would be no left over.

Outside our home there was a ground, where I would spend the whole summer vacation playing cricket with my friends. On that day, I had just come in the house to fetch some water for my thirsty friends. As I was collecting water from a tube well I saw a beggar come in and ask, “Is anyone at home? I am hungry; would you give me some food?” It was customary in our small town for the beggars to come in through the main door, which remained open throught out the whole day, and wait inside. It was a disheveled woman with all white hair, very sharp eyes and no teeth, who had just entered in.

My mother was about to begin eating, she saw the woman, and said, “Take a seat mother, let me bring something for you.” That day she shared her food with that old woman. This would happen many more times, and therefore, would leave a very strong impression on my mind that is as vibrant today. I can close my eyes, and watch that old woman sitting on the verandah and eating from a piece of banana leaf.

The most vivid memory I have of my mother was when she beat the hell out of me. I was about 12, therefore, old enough to remember it very well. On top of that it added sort of further embarrassment for a while, because the next day, our school maulavi narrated that story in our Arabic class. He said he was passing through the area, when he saw my mother beating me with a stick in front of our house. My mother was tiny, nevertheless very strong built. And even at that age she could make mincemeat of me.

As he narrated the story, my embarrassment slowly evaporated and a kind of pride took its place. He said that the whole class should be proud of my mother. He said, the son from a house that had a mother like mine, did not need any disciplining in school. He said that he had a new respect for my family, and after that day he never beat me.

Another memory I have of her, was of an evening in the middle of one winter. It was the night of shab-e-barat. She trusted, she was required to spent that night in prayer since on that night God writes fate for the next coming year. She had collected water from the tube well which was at one corner of our house, for taking a bath. That night was very cold, and the blowing wind made it worse. When I was huddled in a room in warm cloth, my mother took her bath open in the cold, with cold water, to make her ready for the prayer.

In my life, I do not face east or west in asking mercy of God, notwithstanding, I have a strong conviction, that I have had such a blessed life—it must only be because of my mother, her account with God is so rich that my lifetime of sins had not depleted it.

Inside Job

In under 2 hours this movie will turn you from a novice in high finance to a knowledgeable geek on how finance is managed at the state level. You will understand my contention that Bill Clinton was not a progressive, he was merely a corporate crony who promoted the cause of his super rich masters at the cost of ordinary Americans. You will also realize that since Ronald Reagan, the US has followed the same trickle down economic models, dismantled all regulations that hinder unbridled activities of the banksters, manipulated free market for the advantages of a few—and the same policies are being continued by Barack Obama today. The face in the White House changes, the policies remain the same, for the true power remains behind the throne, and is invisible.

Inside job - Subtítulos en español from dai dai spain on Vimeo.

Why Do These People Become Parents?

Johnathan James died of dehydration in his own Texas home. He was only 10.

No, Texas has not been afflicted with severe drought, nor the boy was trapped home alone in a locked room in a remote location. He was denied water for five days by his own parents.

Michael Ray James and Tina Alberson were upset that their young son could not stop wetting his bed. The punishment they meted to the child was banning water for him. Jonathan's twin brother, Joseph James, told The Dallas Morning News that his parents forced Jonathan in a room without air conditioning and asked him to stand by the window. Last month, summer temperatures in Dallas hit 100 or more every day but one. Johnathan collapsed on the 5th night, hit his head on the floor, and died.

Five days in that sweltering heat without any water? How can any parent be so cruel to his/her own child? How can they sleep themselves in cool rooms, when their own flesh is going through such agony? Do Michael and Tina have any remorse now? Or, do they think Johnathan deserved this, for he was a big boy and he could not control his bladder? My question is—why do these people become parents?

Johnathan is only one among many children that die every year because of parental rage. There is no dearth of stories where young children are so severely tortured that they succumb to their wounds.

I ask the authorities, can we extend the harshest mandatory punishment in child abuse cases, so that there would be not one more child who would meet Jonathan's fate? Only then could we say, Jonathan's life did not go in vain!

First published on Technorati.

Anna Hazare Rekindles Gandhi’s Fire To Purify India

A man, who once contemplated suicide and even scribbled a two-page note on why he wanted to end his life, is the new Gandhi of India. Indian government, led by foreign educated Prime Minister Manmohan Singh had jailed the aging Hazare when he threatened with fast-until-death protesting India’s corruption.

Kuldip Nayar, one of India’s most respected political analyst commented on the action of Indian government, “It is bungling, mishandling. They do not know at all how wide and how deep the resentment is.” And of course the mercurial Nayar was right. The jailing of Hazare sparked nationwide protests, and forced Singh's government on defensive. Singh criticized Hazare as out of touch, and dismissed his fast as "totally misconceived" and claimed that Hazare’s action was undermining the parliamentary democracy. At the end it was found Singh himself was out of touch and had no idea what Indians want today.

Students, lawyers, teachers, business executives, IT workers and civil servants, people from all walks of life took to the streets in New Delhi, and other major cities, and also remote villages stretching from north to south and east to west—the breadth of India. Outside the jail that once held Hazare, a 21 year-old Sweta Dua said , “We are India's youth. We are with Anna. I've already seen corruption at this age. In my college people got admitted despite being unable to clear the required cut-off scores, simply by paying money.”

Sujeet, a young software engineer from the IT city of Gurgaon said, “We don't have faith in our government. We are living in a democracy but only in letter, not in spirit.” The editor of the weekly Outlook magazine, Vinod Mehta said, “The movement has meant politicians realize that they cannot fudge these issues or ignore public opinion any longer. It has succeeded in concentrating the minds of politicians across the political spectrum on one issue for the first time”

The crowds on the streets are mix of young and old, rich and poor, educated and uneducated. Some youths had rucksacks on their backs, painted face, olders were decked in outfits as worn by the Hazare himself, complete with white cap and kurta.

Who is this Anna Hazare?

Born Kisan Baburao Hazare, June 15, 1937, however, popularly known as Anna Hazare, he is an Indian social activist who is especially recognized for movement against corruption, and his contribution to the development and structuring of a model village in Parner Taluka of Ahmednagar district, Maharashtra. For this action, he was awarded the Padma Bhushan—the third-highest civilian award—by the government of India in 1992.

A diminutive man in his seventies, dressed in white cotton, he once served in the Indian army that had temporarily relaxed the requirement for height and weight, because of dire need of new recruits at the time of Indo-China war. Once out of the army, he was frustrated with life and did not want to live anymore, since he did not see any purpose of his life. The storyline is: One day at the New Delhi Railway Station, in that dejected frame of mind, Anna came upon a book on Swami Vivekananda. He read the book and found the answer to his quest—the motive of his life is service to his fellow humans.

Today, Anna Hazare, in his pure white adornment, is the face of India's fight against corruption. He has given voice to the millions of voiceless Indians and taken the people’s fight to the corridors of power, and shaken the bastion of government at the highest level. Common populace, and well-known personalities alike are joining enmasse supporting Hazare, crowds swelling to the thousands.

Anna Hazare is a few of the remnant Indian politicians who had modeled their lives on Mahatma Gandhi, and embraced his weapon of “fasting” to unite people against falsehood. The word “mahatma” connotes great soul, and there has not been a greater soul to walk on the surface of earth than Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, the bapu (father)—anyone who disputes this is ignorant of bapu.

Many Indians such as Manmohon Singh believes, Gandhi’s time came and went—in today’s environment he would not be successful! Anna Hazare demonstrates that Gandhi is as relevant today as he had been in his time.

Republished from Technorati.

S&P—The New Villain Of Obama Administration

Senate is upset with Standard & Poor (S&P) and they want to investigate them for downgrading US’s rating one notch from the coveted AAA grade. Senate Banking Committee Chairman Tim Johnson lashed out, “As the financial markets stumble, investors continue to regard Treasury debt as a safe haven in times of economic uncertainty. This irresponsible move by S&P may, however, have spillover effects that tax the American people by increasing interest rates on home loans, credit cards, and car loans, and by increasing the cost of finance for some state and local governments. I am deeply disappointed in S&P’s decision to enter into the game of political punditry.”

Not to be undermined by this, the Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner shot out, “They've shown a stunning lack of knowledge about basic U.S. fiscal budget math. And I think they drew exactly the wrong conclusion from this budget agreement.”

Those are strong words.

S&P is the new villain in the financial world for downgrading the credit rating of USA. It is the same rating agency that had consistently given the failed Lehman Brothers and other financial institutions top rating when they did not deserve that. Was S&P bad then, or, are they bad now?

What is a triple-A rating by the way and what does it mean?
In the rating business there are two major houses, S&P and Moody’s, who are market mover and both have been caught napping during the past major financial turmoil. This time however, S&P appears to be wising up and inclined to mend their reputation. On April 18, 2011,S&P had warned that a debt ceiling increase without meaningful budget reforms would still merit a downgrade. The long term US fiscal imbalance is nothing new and it had been in the making for at least two decades now. S&P had correctly pointed out that if the politicians do not wake up now and refrain from silly game playing, a future default becomes a significant.

Moody’s is still playing the catch up game. On July 13, they placed the US credit rating on watch for possible downgrade and also declared that if US government did not take significant deficit reduction measures with a debt ceiling increase they would assign a negative outlook. On June 8, 2011, a third rating agency Fitch threatened to place the US on negative watch if the ceiling was not raised by August 2nd.

The triple-A rating signifies that the government is stable and bonds it issues are considered safe, thereby, the nation can borrow funds at the lowest possible cost. By downgrading the US from AAA to AA+, S&P is not saying that the US govt. is likely to default, it is saying that likelihood of a default or a loss of principal/interest has increased. There are 18 different grades and a transition from the highest rating to the second highest rating does not signify a massive risk change. The downgrade for the US implies that the credit risk of the US has gone from minimum to very low.

If S&P had kept the US rating unchanged and the country would default that would totally discredit the agency, and now they know, that with Europe declaring to come up with their own rating agencies it would be a disaster for them if they fail to do their watchdog duty one more time. The CIA World Fact book mentioned that in 2010, the debt to GDP ratio for the US was 59% in comparison with 34% in Canada and 22% in Australia. Obviously, it does not seem we are in the same league as either of them.

First published on Technorati

The Cat Is Out Of The Bag—Tighten Your Belt

As I read in the news, Standard & Poor's has cut the U.S. long-term credit rating from top-tier AAA to AA-plus on Friday; I recalled a conversation with a friend of mine who is a Professor of Finance in a prestigious school. We were discussing America’s future and I expressed my opinion that the dollars dog days are about to begin, as countries will move away parking their money in US Treasury. My friend shot back, “Where else are they going to put their money?”

This morning, just one day after the downgrade of the U.S. long-term credit rating, China's official Xinhua news agency said in a commentary, "The U.S. government has to come to terms with the painful fact that the good old days when it could just borrow its way out of messes of its own making are finally gone."

The last week had seen wiping off $2.5 trillion from the global markets, which happened after the investors' concern grew of an impending recession in the United States, and over the growing euro zone crisis. Finance ministers and central bankers of the Group of Seven major industrialized nations are to confer via telephone to discuss the impact of this earth shattering news on the financial market since this singular act has heaped gas over the global fire, aided by the mess of euro zone debt issue.

The Xinhua commentary proclaimed, “China, the largest creditor of the world's sole superpower, has every right now to demand the United States address its structural debt problems and ensure the safety of China's dollar assets.” They stressed that the United States need to cut military and social welfare expenditure world economic recovery.

Hello, wake up sheeple, your Master is speaking!

President Obama appealed to lawmakers this morning to “set aside partisan politics and work to put the United States' fiscal house in order and refocus on stimulating its stagnant economy.” Thank goodness my President, you now understand that our economy is in shamble notwithstanding your endless euphoria over market recovery and the bright days ahead.

If you realize our economy is stagnant, my President, why did you sign the debt deal into law, last week, which is only going to worsen it? You say, you had to compromise, why? Just the other day, Bill Clinton, a two-term President suggested that you invoke 14th amendment and tell the Tea Party terrorists who took the nation’s economy hostage—take a hike, No Deal, there will be no discussion on debt limit?

What were you smoking my President to believe that spending cut will create jobs? Econ 101 says that to create job you need to spend money. The only solution to our problem is to roll back the Reagan Tax, and you did not even give a hint of understanding this when you said this morning, “Congress to back measures to give tax relief to the middle class, extend jobless benefits and pass long-delayed international trade pacts.”

Pass the long-delayed international trade pacts? The trade pacts are the reason why we are here today. Stop drinking cool aide, read Tomm Hartmann’s Rebooting American Dream, understand the basics of economic growth. I Of course, I know the reason why you say what you say—you take your lead from Tim Geithner, the prodigy groomed by the infamous trio, Robert Ruben-Larry Summer-Alan Greenspan. Just watch how the Maestro talks about the fallacy of the philosophy he preached , Alan Greenspan, the supreme economist of the capitalist world speaks like a broken man and admits that his belief in lifelong philosophy that unbridled capitalism is the bane of the market is wrong, his faith in market controlling itself was wrong .

In an interesting twist , the Republican Presidential candidate Michele Bachmann called for Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner's resignation, and the House Speaker John Boehner said Democrats “who run Washington remain unwilling to make the tough choices required to put America on solid ground.” This is called the ultimate spin, first create the crisis and then blame it on others, and it can only happen in America, since people have turned sheeple—busy in watching “I Love Lucy,” and totally oblivious of finding out what is happening around them.

Bachmann said, “President Obama has destroyed the credit rating of the United States through his failed economic policies and his inability to control government spending by raising the debt ceiling.” How many people can see through this sham logic? Timothy Geithner is practicing what Bachmann preaches. He is implementing conservative policies, just as his gurus the trio Robert Ruben-Larry Summer-Alan Greenspan practiced. The last Democratic President was John Kennedy, after that all Presidents followed the dictate of Corporate America, Jimmy Carter included.

The political quibbling will only get worse from here, blame game has only started, the cat is out of the bag though, the future of this country has been written, and I do not see the word prosperity written anywhere except on the faces of a few handful billionaires.

Forgive me my dear Americans for being the harbinger of the tough time, feel free to shoot the messenger though, if that brings solace to you.


First published on Technorati

Where Did All The Money Go?

You wonder where did all the money go? How did this richest nation became so poor, overnight?

You point to wars, economic cycles, and whatever one of your impressive peers has sold to you.

Do you really want to know how all this happened?

The answer is in two words: Tax Cut

Life Is For Living

Jean- Pierre Dutilleux waits anxiously on one side of the stream while the tribal men walk on a log that serves as a bridge from the other side. That bridge is between two civilizations—one the most advanced, the other, where time is frozen at the dawn of our evolution. The primitive people approach slowly, clutching their primitive weapons firmly, arrows drawn, and make-shift axes raised. They take a few steps forward and then sharply backward, and then forward again with extreme caution—their curiosity taking better of them. As they approach nigh, their movements are tentative. They have been taught by their ancestors that white men are ghosts. The first man touches Dutilleux’s hand, and he is startled, steps back quickly. He has an incredible expression on his face. It takes him a few moments to gather himself. Then another one approaches. He too is shocked to touch a ghost, and feel so real. It is several hesitant touches before the first firm hand shake takes place between a man from the twenty-first century and a man from the lost horizon.

In a series of uncut footage, the Belgian photographer Jean- Pierre Dutilleux captures the fascinating moments when the last known ancient tribe, living in New Guinea, north of Australia, meet white men for the very first time. The tribe Toulambi lives in one of the last frontiers of primordial civilization, they have not seen a matchbox, and are shocked to see how fire can be started just by striking a stick smartly on the side of a tiny box. They are afraid to touch a knife when they see how sharp it is in contrast to their own cutting tools. One man takes a mirror in his hand and is baffled seeing his own image in it, and he immediately covers it with a leaf. Then he takes a quick glimpse, uncovering it briefly, and covers it back fast.

In five episodes, Dutilleux uploads uncut video of his recordings on YouTube. He captures how the stone-age people react as they taste rice for the first time. Initially, they do not like the taste of raw boiled rice, however, when salt is added to it, they love it. With childlike simplicity they touch, see and experience modern toys and appliances. They see how voice recorders work, how pictures and voices can be captured and replayed on a video recorder. For the tribal people it is like travelling through wormhole and arriving at a different galaxy to meet a far advanced civilization.

Shall the Toulambis be happy that we found them?

As a first generation American it often makes me pensive to think that we are still carrying Christopher Columbus’s curse. We call ourselves the most civilized, and act as savages. We go around the world blasting homes of hapless people, killing their children and women indiscriminately, and in the process spend money that we do not have—the money that could have been better spent in our inner cities, on our schools, roads, and crumbling bridges.

I am not so sure if it is good fortune for theToulambis that we have discovered them. Granted, they do not have modern medicines, knives, or even match boxes for that matter. The question is, have those amenities made us any better? Have our philosophies, religions, and their end-less treatises made us any wiser? Are we any happier than them?

Watching the video, it appeared to me those stone-age people show more compassion to one another than we show to the less fortunate members of our own society. More and more, our selfish nature is taking over our finer elements; it is just me, me, and me.

We want to destroy all social programs that help the least amongst us—is this what our savior, Jesus taught us?

I had pondered long and hard, contemplating, and searching meaning for life, nonetheless, watching lives of the primitive Toulambi tribe, it dawned on me, life is just for living, and it has no other significance—the richest life nevertheless is, the life spent in the service of others, as taught by the Christ, and the Buddha five hundred years before him!

First published on Technorati

Most US Politicians Are Dishonest?

WOW!

97% of you responded with yes to this question, only one person in fact thought otherwise. So what is this person experiencing that rest of us are not?

I, like the overwhelming majority, opine that most US politicians are dishonest, but not all.

We are fortunate to have politicians such as Bernie Sanders, Dennis Kucinich, Alan Grayson, Russ Feingold—who are exceptions to the rule. Nevertheless, they are—exceptions to the rules!

I am sure there are many more that I am not aware of, who are in politics in this country, and are honest. The truth is they are few and far between.

Why are we at this stage?

Are we in our time any different than the past?

We romanticize the bygone days and exaggerate our pleasant memories. This is only human nature. Politicians do not live in islands, they are from us. They reflect and represent our own selves. We elect our politicians. They mirror us.

A Gift Of Life, In Vain?

Heaven and hell, if they are God's way of dispensing justice—where would Mumpy Sarkar be now? When one throws crumbs in the rich man's world, the world heaps accolades—when one gives her life in love how are we to react?

Questions such as above and endless others, flashes through my mind as I write this saga with tearful eyes. This story is from Jhorpara village, West Bengal, India where a poor family finds them utterly helpless in the face of nature's adversity. A young son is diagnosed with failing kidneys, and the treatment is beyond the means of the family. And if it were not enough, the family's travail is multiplied when the father is diagnosed to lose eyesight, if not operated upon quickly.

12-year-old Mumpy listens as her parents discuss how the dual strike is going to impact their lives, and how a kidney transplant could make her brother whole again, and how an eye surgery could restore her father's vision. Alas! Only if they had money!

The story makes Mumpy sad, but she comes out with a plan—she would kill herself and donate her own organs to her family. She drinks poison, a common pesticide the farmer's use, and despite her family's desperate effort to save her life she succumbs.

Following Hindu tradition, Mumpy's body is cremated. The next day her father finds a note, that Mumpy had left, and only then he comes to know of her plan, only too late!

Or, is it really too late?

Is Mumpy's sacrifice really in vain?

If her story stops even one person for a moment to reflect on her ultimate gift to her family, if it gives even one person, a moment of glimpse of divine glory—God's unfathomable design, and if even for a tiny moment it opens a window in one's heart through which celestial light can shine—on just one person's life—is that not enough to say Mumpy's life was not in vain?

First published on Technorati

Escaping Sparring Mullahs!

The sun is about to set. This is the time every Friday evening the small tea stall of Fakira, near the entrance of the Shamsher Nagar Hut (market place) livens up with livid discussion, loud hindi music, and smoke of biri (deshi cigarettes). This Friday is no exception.

For the large number of unemployed youth this is a favorite gathering place, where they mingle with each other and exchange ideas. Most days’ discussion essentially peters down to the curves of the village girls and real or imaginary exploits of the village Casanovas. Today however, it is different. There are couple alems (religious scholars) visiting from another village who have chosen the tea stall for their fact finding venue for the next week’s urush (Muslim religious convention). Hence the discussion this afternoon is essentially metaphysical.

The huzurs’ (preferred address for the Muslim priests) presence has drawn larger crowd to Fakira’s stall, and even the elders are gathering around. There is less sell of biri today, but Fakira is not unhappy, since he is doing a brisk business of tea, biscuits, and other condiments.

The discussion is profound. Even the young studs are trying to throw a few Arabic words in the mix with their vernacular, to boast of, or, gain respect of the others, and especially the huzurs. The alems are having a field day. They are imbued in the matters, literally, of life and death, and what makes the difference between one’s journey to hell or heaven in the afterlife. After all they are the people of knowledge when the affairs of heaven are concerned, and even college educated people defer to them on matters such as that.

At this time the huzurs are delving in subject profound, such as how much water must be used for ablution so that Allah would not consider it a wastage, or, why whoever wears long pajama touching their ankles, is committing kabira gona (carnal sin); and other vital matters likewise!

Soon the discussion turns to salah (prayer), as the ablution naturally progresses to prayer, and the discussion focuses on the importance of reciting the suras (Quranic verses) correctly.

It should not be difficult to comprehend that the native tongues of Indian Subcontinent are not really suitable for pronouncing Arabic words, the way the Arabs do. Regardless; there is no dearth of people who would insist that theirs’ are the most perfect intonation, some even superior to the wayward Arabs themselves.

In the course of the discussion one alem comments that he finds it annoying that most people these days do not know how to recite sura Fatiha which is the obligatory verse for any ordained prayer. They recite the word wallodowalin as wallojoallin, and sure this is a great offence in the eyes of Allah, distorting His Own word.

Although the two alems were in excellent harmony up to that time in condemning every Hindu, Christian, Jewish, or Buddhist people for their kufri (blasphemy), at that particular time, the laldari alem (red-bearded scholar) found himself a little uncomfortable. He addressed the sadadari alem (white-bearded scholar) and said, “astagferullah bhai saheb, what are you saying, the word indeed must be pronounced as wallodowalin. I have heard this myself from a huzur who just returned from hajj last week?”

Both alems nevertheless, had unshakable belief on how the word must be pronounced, and it did not take long for the discussion to get impassioned.

Soon two groups formed; one supporting the laldari alem, the other supporting the sadadari alem. The elders mostly took the side of the sadadari alem; since they deemed, by applying henna (color) to his dari (beard) the laldari alem was showing imperfection in his religious practice.

As the voice of the alems rose, so did the temper of the young men, and even old men followed with enthusiasm. They embarked on breaking things in Fakira’s stall. The poor man fell at the feet of the alems to save his small stall, nonetheless, by that time it was even beyond them to stop the skirmish.

The two opposing groups took stand by the entrance to the market led by their individual alems, and began quizzing everyone leaving the market how they pronounced the revered word in sura Fatiha. If the answer was wallodowalin the laldari group said, “masallah” (praise be to God), and let the person pass unharmed, however, the sadadari group got hold of him and beat him up.

If the answer was wallojoallin the sadadari group said, “mobruq” (congratulation) and let the person pass unharmed; notwithstanding, the laldari group got hold of him and beat him up anyway.

A small rickety man was standing outside the market, watching the on going saga with fear in his eyes, and was debating with himself whether he should bolt from the area to escape the beating. He was nonetheless, not so sure, if he could run away faster than the young boys in the two conflicting groups.

The man was astounded when he saw a smartly dressed person coming out unbeaten—both the sadadari and the laldari group had let him go unharmed.

As the person came close to him, the small man asked, “Brother, how did you escape beating? What was your answer?”

The man smiled and said, “I told both groups that I do not pray.”