Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [120]
Once the ban on images fell, all the other bans on expression would fall away as well. That was my hope.
The Princess
Obviously, all of these ventures I had dreamed up would cost money. Or, as Ziad put it, “No shit, Sherlock.”
The princess in my three-pronged approach would be the solution to that concern.
I had been following the immense amounts of money going in and out of the Arab countries. Financiers bloated upon oil wealth were buying real estate in Europe and America, including landmarks like the Chrysler Building in New York. They wanted to buy sports teams, purchase Grand Prix auto races, acquire huge numbers of the most expensive racehorses, and sponsor international tennis tournaments. They had purchased large stakes in the world’s major banks, such as Citigroup; major oil companies, such as British Petroleum; major retailers, such as Barneys and Bloomingdale’s. They had gotten involved in the American casino business: nine percent of the largest casino corporation in Las Vegas was owned by an Arab company. The largest condominium project in the world, a Las Vegas project called City Center, was also financed by Arab lenders. Arab banks had been able to muscle into the international banking scene by creating a subsector called Islamic finance, and it was the fastest-growing field of the securities industry.
“This means there’s a lot of money here,” I commented to Ziad.
“That doesn’t mean wealthy Arabs are going to give any of their money to you,” he pointed out reasonably. “They’re obviously into business.”
“I know,” I said, stepping onto my soapbox. “But you have to figure that where you’ve got rich old guys in business, you’ve got rich younger wives into charity. In the Enlightenment all the great advances in arts and humanities were paid for by wealthy wives. Rousseau was patronized by a nobleman’s wife. Voltaire had a queen. I bet the same thing will happen with Arabs and Islam: noblewomen will back universities; they’ll finance theaters; they’ll donate to museums and even fashion magazines. The super-wealthy equate culture with luxury, while activists like me equate culture with freedom. It’s a win-win for both.”
“How the hell are you going to get a princess to give you money?” Ziad asked.
“In Las Vegas the casinos are always looking for what they call ‘whales.’ These are well-known big spenders to whom the casinos make a presentation about their establishment, hoping to lure the spenders in. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to meet the shaykh and the sculptor and come work with them to establish our think tank. Then we’re just going to have to go from princess to princess until one agrees to fund us on a trial basis. If we can manage to perform well for a year, we’ll have set up the world’s first Islamic reformist institute. In the heart of the Arab world no less!”
“Interesting proposition,” Ziad said, nodding. “But if you call a princess a whale, you’ll get executed for sure.”
5
When I wasn’t with Ziad or plotting my schemes during those first few days in the Middle East, I was on the Internet.
Rogues and rebels; murderers and miscreants; polemicists and pundits; victims and women; whores and virgins. They had all flocked to it. The Internet was the place where the jihadists recruited and the counter-jihadists monitored. On the Internet patriarchs promoted ideas about the lesser station of women, and women militated for equality. Blogs and e-mail lists; forums and chat rooms; Facebook and instant messages; YouTube and MySpace. These were to Islam what the printing press had once been to Christianity. They blew the whole thing open. The Internet made it apparent that no one was in charge of Islam. It created a free-for-all. A Wild West of words and vitriol. Each Web site was its own OK Corral. Each pamphlet and video and