The five stages of getting feedback on your paper

1) Receive reviews: "This is ridiculous. Have they ACTUALLY READ my paper?! Reviewer 2 doesn't go as far in their criticism, so WHAT'S WRONG with reviewer 1?"

2) Later that night: "They are right. The paper is rubbish. My research is rubbish. I am rubbish. I'll never get anything published. I am just not made for academia..."

3) Speak to a good friend who's published a lot: "This is nonsense. They can't ask me to rewrite the entire paper in just two weeks. That's just completely unprofessional."

4) Think about it again: "It's all good. I have choices. I can decide what I want to do: revise and resubmit, only make some of the suggested changes, just submit the whole thing somewhere else."

5) Speak to supervisor, then editor of journal: "Aaaah, so THAT's what they mean. I don't actually HAVE to make all the changes, but can explain why I made some and not others. Reviewers are just humans, too ... who would have thought?!"

Mama problems

That moment when you get caught making completely unreasonably demands:

"If you don't tidy up your stuff NOW, I am going without you."
"Ha ha, you want to leave me at home on my own?!"

Grrrrrrrr.

Hallo Welt

...lange nicht mehr gesehen. Lange nicht mehr geschrieben, zumindest hier nicht.

Grade ein paar alte Texte durchgesehen und mich daran erinnert, wie sehr ich das Schreiben hier mochte. Und wenn ich mir die alten Texte so ansehe - irgendwie fehlt es mir.

Ich habe verdammt viel zu tun, mit der Promotion, Familie und anderen Sachen, aber vielleicht schaffe ich es ja ab demnächst doch wieder, regelmäßiger zu schreiben. Und wenn's auch nur ganz kurze Texte sind. Zu sagen gebe es so viel.

LA is...

.

Californian diary, part 4 (part 1, part 2, part 3)

.

LA is the grandparents' house. House, garden, garage, four to five cars in the driveway. LA is four bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms. LA is eating out, gifts for Lieschen, flying in the granddaughter from England.

LA is a huge suburb. House, garden, garage. House, garden, garage. House, garden... LA is hills, palm trees, multi-lane highways, traffic jams, green valleys to your left, I wish we could stop and take a walk in the fields...

LA is spending hours in the car. LA is taking the car to go to uni, taking the car to go to work, taking the car to visit a friend, taking the car to see your son, taking the car to get the groceries, taking the car to go to the mall, taking the car to get an icecream from the cornershop.

LA is leaving an airconditioned house, getting into an airconditioned car, going to an airconditioned mall before arriving in an airconditioned office.

LA is a tiny city centre, square kilometres of suburbs, endless highways.

LA is the Grandparents' neighbourhood. Doctors, lawyers, teachers. LA is La Puente or Santa Ana. Where per capita income is a third of the one in the Grandparents' city. Where you realise that just because you haven't seen any of the fat Americans everyone talks about in Europe in the city the Grandparents live in, doesn't exist mean they don't exist. They do. Perhaps not in the Grandparents' part of town, but there where it's not four bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms, but a one-storey small house with a flat roof and loads of junk in the front yard and a fence that could really do with some mending.

LA is the mechanic who comes to your house to fix the car. Who is hardly older than you are, works seven hours in the burning afternoon sun and when you get him an icecold coke gives you a big smile revealing the huge gap in his front teeth. LA is the old woman with greyish-blonde hair, a face aged by the sun and rotten teeth who sells you an icecream in Disneyland. 

LA is the villa of a US South Asian family in one of the better parts of town you visit, six bedrooms, five bathrooms, three living rooms, where you sit in the midst of golden picture frames of the son who graduated with an-MBA-mashaallah, the parents years ago on their wedding day, the whole family posing and smiling to the camera, thick, fluffy carpets under your feet, where you are being served chilled apple juice, shami kebabs and green apple slices with red chilli sprinkled over them, while the daughter who is mentally handicapped and writes poetry makes chocolate-chip cookies for you.

LA is driving in the car with two young Desi Americans, who have only ever been to South Asia once or twice and discussing with them the differences between here and there, how we see them, how they see us, how others see us and them and everyone, talking about politics and culture and history and food.

LA is the Grandparents' house. Grandma, Grandpa and the uncles you love Lieschen and will miss her when she is going to leave again.

.

America is...

.

Californian diary, part 3 (part 1, part 2)

America is very big.

"Everyzing is verry big in zis countrry", said my father jokingly, mocking a typical German accent, after I told him about my first visit to the US two years ago. Yes, everything is very big in this country.

Big cities, vast landscapes, a country that covers half a continent. Six different timezones. Six-lane highways. In each direction. 

Icecream scoops big enough to feed two. When in doubt, always ask for the kids portion. Never order anything large. The American small is the European big-enough.

Two kilogram yoghurt pots, four litre milk bottles. Microwaves, ovens, dustbins three times the size of their European equivalents. A fridge as big as my bathroom.

A bag of chocolates weighing as much as five German chocolate bars for Lieschen.

Large, not to say fat, people. A huge American flag flapping in the wind. America is big.

.

Palestine in California

.

Californian diary, part 2 (part 1)

As soon as we enter the shop, it smells like Palestine. It must be some of the spices, zaatar perhaps? it's been some time, crazy how odours can take you back to a place thousands of miles away. It smells like zaatar, the butcher behind the meat corner in the back of the shop speaks with an Arab accent and in the background some young Arab woman sings a catchy pop tune on the radio. A little bit of Palestine in California. It's hot outside on the street, April in LA is like August in London, but cool inside the shop, thank God for ACs.

Fresh oranges (60 cent the kilogram ... this is California, baby!), bananas, apples, eggplants, tomatoes, cucumbers, bundles of cilandro, basil and dill are piled up to your right. Deep-frozen meat and sausages, all halal, in the huge freezers to your left. Colourful hijabs and abayahs in one corner; the exact same kind of biscuits my friend from Gaza would have for breakfast in Ramallah in another. Two oversized Easter bunnies look down on us customers from the top of one of the huge shelves. There is one aisle with South Asian spices and specialities and one with Turkish delicatessen, to cater to all those who are kind of from that same corner of the world.

Living in the Southwest of the US of A, in an air-conditioned beige house with a car and a garage in the front and the small garden in the back that no-one ever uses anyway. Living in the Southwest of the US of A, buying a little bit of home. Or what used to be home. Or what used to be my parents' home. Because I have only ever been to Palestine once and when I walked over al-Manara in my baggy jeans they called me al-Amreeki.

.

Regenbogenabendessen

Oder: wie man sein Kind dazu bringt, nach mehr Gemüse zu betteln: "Mama, das ist nicht gerecht, ich hab kein Rot oder Orange auf meinem Teller!!" ... 

.

Ha ha househounting

.

Househunting in England is a nightmare. I still cannot fathom what kind of places are actually offered for rent in this country. London was particularly bad but even where we live now I have not seen a single house yet that meets German standards. (Ok, one that comes closes to it. Which is, yes, where we live now.) So if you are currently househunting in England ... here is something to cheer you up. (I have not laughed that hard in quite some time.)

Lost in Translation

.

“Ooh, Arabic writing is so pretty, I want something deep and meaningful tattooed on me. I’m going to send an email asking for a translation, and then tattoo whatever comes back on my body. Should I check with an actual Arabic speaker before getting the tattoo? Nah, why bother.”

OMG.

Kids, don't try this at home.

(And be careful, too, when you're about to get ... a "Chinese" tattoo...).

Tales of a Confused First Year PhD Student ... Part 1

.

You are rushing through the labyrinth-like corridors of your department, trying to figure out where on earth that communal printer (you were told about during one of the numerous induction meetings organised by your department, the graduate school, the doctoral training centre, the university) is. Your class mates don't know. The staff members you run into on the corridors don't know. The friendly administrator in the Departmental Office doesn't know for sure - but believes to remember it was in room XYZ.

 

You somehow make it to room XYZ - after another 10, 15 minutes-it-must-have-been-at-least-half-an-hour looking for it (ban the architect who came up with the construction plans for this building from the profession and make him live in this mess of a building!!). No printer but two friendly PhD students who send you to the room next door.

No printer in the room next door either but yet another friendly PhD student who says there is no communal printer in the department anymore but suggests you just use the computer of his class mate who has not come to campus today. Of course, the computer does not let you log on and just when you're about to FORGET ABOUT THESE STUPID PRINTINGS, WHO NEEDS TO READ ABOUT SOCIAL SCIENCES PHILOSOPHY ANY WAY ... the friendly PhD student lets you use his computer.

 

Uff. Documents printed.

 

You leave clutching the documents to your chest and are so happy to have succeed you don't even (really) mind that the door you leave the building through leads to a backyard with the car park on the left and trees on the right but no exit to the street in sight...

Fasting is no fun

.

Or: Lieschen's first day (30 min) of fasting

.

(At home, during Ramadan)

Lieschen: "Mummy! Muuuuummy! I'm hungry!"

Lieselotte: "Erm ... why don't you go and grab some chocolate from the fridge? I'll buy you a bretzel when we're outside."

Lieschen: "Ok!" (runs towards fridge)

...

Lieschen: "Mummy, would you also like some chocolate?"

Lieselotte: "Aw, thanks, Lieschen, I'm fine."

Lieschen: "No, have some, Mummy!"

Lieselotte: "I'm fasting, baby, leave one in the fridge for me, I'll have it later."

Lieschen: "Why are you fasting, Mummy?"

Lieselotte: "It's Ramadan, baby"

Lieschen: "Oh. I want to fast, too, Mummy!"

Lieselotte: "No, baby, you're a child, children don't fast!"

Lieschen: "But I want to fast, too! I want to be like you, Mummy!"

Lieselotte: "You can fast later, when you're older"

Lieschen: "No, I want to fast, too!"

Lieselotte: "Hmmm... ok, you know what you can do, Lieschen?, you can children-fast"

Lieschen: "Children-fast?!"

Lieselotte: "Ja, you stop eating and drinking now - until iftar, in an hour. Ok?"

Lieschen: "Yes!! - (excitedly) I am faaaaasting!!"

...

(On the way to the park)

Lieselotte: "Lieschen, would you like your bretzel now?"

Lieschen: "Yes, please - erm, I MEAN NO!! - I am fasting, Mummy!!"

...

(In the park)

Lieschen: "Mummy, can I have something to drink?"

Lieselotte: "Sure ... but weren't you fasting?" :)

Lieschen: "SO YOU CANNOT DRINK EITHER?"

Lieselotte: "No..."

Lieschen: "Oh. Fasting is no fun"

...

And five minutes later, the fast was broken, when Lieschen's cousin arrived with a bag full of cookies...  :)

Der sechste Tag von Ramadan

. 

- 17. Ramadan -

19-stündige Fastentage, Sommerhitze, kurze Nächte

Den sechsten Tag von Ramadan gehe ich langsam an. Ich arbeite von zu Hause und kann mir einteilen, wann ich am Computer sitze. Oder die Texte, die ich bearbeite, gleich ausgedruckt mit in den Park nehmen. Den sechsten Tag von Ramadan gehe ich langsam an und schlafe aus. Was ein Luxus!, wenn ich daran denke, dass ein Großteil meiner muslimischen Freunde und Bekannten hier in Europa und den USA trotz bis zu 19-stündiger Fastentage, Sommerhitze und kurzer Nächte jeden Morgen wie gewöhnlich aufsteht und den ganzen Tag auf der Arbeit verbringt. Den sechsten Tag des Ramadan gehe ich langsam an und verbringe das erste Drittel des Tages zu Hause.

Cousin zu Besuch

Am frühen Nachmittag machen wir uns auf den Weg zu einem Restaurant in einem Vorort von [der Stadt, in der ich in Deutschland lebe]. Mein Cousin, der in den letzten Jahren in Japan, Schweden und [der Stadt in Deutschland, in der er studiert] unterwegs war, ist zu Besuch und will uns sehen. Als ich meinem Onkel am Abend davor am Telefon vorsichtig erkläre, dass wir sehr gerne kommen, ich aber (Ramadan!) nichts essen (nee, trinken auch nicht) werde, lacht er nur laut auf und meint: "Also, so lange ich was bekomme, ist es mir herzlich egal, ob du isst oder nicht." 

Familientreffen im Biergarten

Das Resto in dem wir uns treffen, ist eine traditionelle deutsche Gaststätte. Hirschbraten gibt es, Schnitzel und Lachs mit Soße. Wir sitzen im Biergarten unter alten Kastanien, der Schatten tut gut, und ich bin noch nicht mal die einzige, die nichts isst, da Brigitte, eine Freundin der Familie auch dabei ist, und nichts bestellt, weil sie vorher schon gegessen hat. Fast fällt mir das Fasten heute leichter, weil ich inmitten von politischen Diskussionen, Familiengeschichten und Fotos herzeigen gar nicht daran denke, dass ich nicht esse. Drei Stunden verbringen wir im Schatten der Kastanien, bis um acht, als ich schnell los muss, um zur nächsten Verabredung zu kommen.

Jordanisch-tunesisch-iranisch-deutsches christlich-muslimisches Fastenbrechen

Am Abend bin ich zum Fastenbrechen verabredet, mit Malika und Rouba. Nur Rouba hat auch gefastet, sie ist halb Jordanierin, halb Tunesierin, und deutsche Muslimin. Malika ist Christin aus dem Iran. Eigentlich sollte auch Ada noch kommen, die jüdisch ist, dann wäre unsere interreligiöse Iftar-Gruppe perfekt gewesen. In einem türkischen Restaurant haben wir uns verabredet, als ich komme, sind die anderen beiden noch nicht da. Auf einigen der Tischen stehen auf kleinen weißen Porzellantellern Datteln zum Fastenbrechen bereit und neben Gästen, die fröhlich Adana-Spieß und vegetarische Dürüm verputzen, sitzen auch einige Gäste noch wartend vor ihren Tellern. 

Rote Linsensuppe, gegrilltes Fladenbrot, gefüllte Weinblätter

Bis zum Fastenbrechen ist es nicht mehr lange und als einer der extrem höflichen türkischen Kellner an meinen Tisch kommt, bestelle ich doch schon einmal. Getränke und türkische Linsensuppe. "Zum Fastenbrechen?" - "Ja, bitte". Darüber, dass er mich zunächst auf Türkisch angesprochen hatte, lache ich später mit den Mädels. Kaum etwas später sind die beiden nämlich schon da, Malika hat für das Lieschen halal Gummibärchen mitgebracht, von Haribo, ist sie beim Türken um die Ecke drauf gestoßen. Und dann ist es auch schon Zeit zum Fastenbrechen (ja? bei dir auch? sicher?) und es gibt rote Linsensuppe, gegrilltes Fladenbrot, Adana-Spieß, Pommes Frites und gefüllte Weinblätter in Yoghurt.

Laue Sommer-Ramadan-Nacht

Am Tisch nebenan hauen drei türkische Teenies ordentlich rein, und auf der anderen Seite sitzt eine amerikanische Touri-Familie. Ich muss lächeln, als ich daran denke, dass es für sie eine ganz normale Sommernacht ist, und nicht wie für uns eine, die siebte, Nacht von Ramadan. Nach dem Essen bringe ich noch die Mädels zur Bahn, sie müssen wieder früh raus morgen, und laufe durch die laue Nacht zurück. Bald schon bin ich zu Hause, wo das Lieschen schon schläft.

.

Perceptions

.

- 12. Ramadan -

Or: the awkward moment when you're watching your daughter and niece on the playground ... your niece (who is as blonde as 90% of your family members were as children) falls and hurts her knee ... a group of worried mothers gather around her and help her look for mummy ... you come walking towards them ... and they look through you as if you were not there until you stand right in front of the little one and them: "Oh, does she belong to YOU?!" ... because yeah, there is no way, a blonde little girl and a woman wearing hijab are related in any way...

Ramadankalender

.

Bastelanleitung in 6 Schritten
How to make a Ramadan calendar in 6 steps

Schritt 1 || Step 1

- - - Schneide 15 Briefumschläge in der Mitte durch (oder nimm gleich 30 Miniumschläge).

- - - Mache in jeden der 30 Umschläge zwei Löcher.

- - - Zeichne Zahlen von 1 bis 30 (und was dir sonst noch in den Sinn kommt) auf die Umschläge.

- - - Lass dein Kind die Umschläge anmalen.

- - - Schreibe "Ramadan" (oder was dir sonst gefällt) auf ein Blatt Papier.

- - - Lass dein Kind das Papier anmalen.

- - - Cut 15 envelopes into halves (or use 30 mini envelopes).

- - - Punch two holes into each one of 30 envelopes.

- - - Draw numbers from 1 - 30 (and whatever else you like) onto envelopes.

- - - Let your child colour the envelopes.

- - - Write "Ramadan" (or whatever else you like) on a piece of paper.

- - - Let your child colour it.

 

  

 

Schritt 2 || Step 2

- - - Bereite 30 kleine Papiere vor, auf die du jeweils einen islamischen Ausdruck schreibst (so wie zum Beispiel Moschee, Gebetsteppich, Islam, Liebe, Mitgefühl, helfen usw.).

- - - Die Idee dahinter ist, dass in jeden der kleinen Umschläge eines der Papiere kommt, so dass man dann im Ramadan jeden Tag über einen anderen Aspekt des Islams sprechen kann (wähle die Wörter entsprechend dem Alter / Wissensstand deines Kindes aus - ich wollte erst "iman" auf einen der Zettel schreiben ... bis mir klar wurde, dass ich keinen blassen Schimmer hatte, wie ich das meiner x Jahre alten Tochter erklären sollte).

- - - Prepare 30 little pieces of paper, each one with an Islamic term on it (such as mosque, prayer rug, Islam, love, compassion, helping others etc.).

- - - The idea is to put one of these into each little envelopes so that every day, you can talk about some other aspect of Islam (chose words according to your child's level of knowledge and age - I was going to put "iman" on one of them ... until I realised I had no idea to explain its meaning to my x year old).

Schritt 3 || Step 3

- - - Fädel etwas Geschenkbank durch die Löcher in den Umschlägen.

- - - Run some ribbon through the holes you punched into the envelopes before.

Schritt 4 || Step 4

- - - Häng die erste Reihe von Umschlägen an die Wand / eine Tür (ich hab das Geschenkband einfach mit Tesa festgeklebt).

- - - Start putting the first line on the wall / a door (I just fixed it with scotch tape).

Schritt 5 || Step 5

- - - Häng die anderen Reihen und das Ramadan-Papier dazu.

- - - Put the others, too, and the Ramadan header.

 Schritt 6 || Step 6

- - - In jeden Umschlag kommt ein kleines Papier mit einem der islamischen Begriffe.

- - - Ich habe mit "Ramadan" begonnen und dann darauf geachtet, zwischen Wörtern, die meine Tochter schon kennt und solchen, die ihr noch unbekannt sind, zu wechseln (um ihre Frustration möglichst gering zu halten... :P ).

- - - Wenn du willst, kannst du außerdem in die Umschläge ein kleines Stück Schokolade oder andere Süßigkeiten, Nüsse, Rosinen, Haarklammern, Buntstifte, Spielzeugautos, einen Hadith oder eine Ayah usw... packen.

- - - Put the little pieces of paper with Islam-related terms into the envelopes.

- - - I started with "Ramadan" and made sure to alternate between words my daughter knows and those she doesn't know yet (to keep her frustration to a minimum... :P ).

- - - If you want, you can also put into the envelopes little pieces of chocolates or other sweets, nuts, raisins, hair clips, crayons, toy cars, a hadith or ayah etc...

One more week

.

With Ramadhan fast approaching, London's shopkeepers, too, have started their preparations:

"Ramadan Mubarak. While stocks last."

"Quit tobacco before Ramadan." (They even have separate hotlines to call for men and women... That's what I call cultural sensitivity! :P)

As seen in Stratford and Whitechapel, June 2013.
.

Skandal in London!

 

Blonder Kinderschokolade-Junge ersetzt durch Multikulti-Bande!!

So weit ist es schon gekommen in Europa...

 Ostlondon, Frühjahr 2013

Mode aus Mittelost

.

Wie?, die machen auch Mode? In Pakistan? Ich dachte, die können nur Terrorismus!? Bilder von der Karachi Fashion Week.

Machtwort im Sitzplatzstreit

.

Na also, geht doch. Gott, bin ich euch dankbar, ihr Karlsruher. Das ist mein Staat.

Und der Ton des Artikels wie die Kommentare auf Spiegel Online stimmen auch optimistisch. Es haben noch nicht alle jedes Feingefühl und politisches Gespür verloren. Der eine oder andere kann tatsächlich noch klar denken, selbst wenn böse Türken unbequeme Forderungen stellen. Puuh!

Ostern in Ostlondon

.

"This is Holy Week. He is risen."

 

Vorgartenosterglocken

Martenitza

 

Abenddämmerung

Marvin Gaye

Marvin Gaye: I Heard It Through the Grapevine