The Sand Cafe | Neil MacFarquhar | Talks at Google

Thanks for coming out this afternoon. We are proud to welcome Neal McFarquhar, who will be reading from and speaking about his book the Sand Cafe. Just a quick intro. Neil's exposure to the Middle east started early. He attended elementary school in Libya and continues education at Stanford, where his senior research project focused on the Arab oil embargo as an economic weapon. He has worked as a correspondent in the Arab world for more than 12 years, including five as the Cairo bureau chief for the New York Times from 2001 to 2006. He's fluent in Arabic and French, and his current assignment is for the New York Times covering Islam in America here in San Francisco or nearby in San Francisco. So authors at Google is proud to welcome Emil McBarquar.

Thanks a lot for coming. I really appreciate being here. And some people have asked me why the book took 10 years to come out and came out a while after the Gulf War. And I always say it's due to the advice of friends. I have a dear friend, Ethan Kanan, who writes fiction for a living. And when I first started writing the book, I said, how much should I write? He said, well, write what it's worth. And I said, I've had a lot of editors that tell me write what it's worth, and not all of it gets in the paper, so what should I really write? And he said, well, actually there have been studies about novels and it should be somewhere between 300 and 400 pages, because if you write more than 400 pages, people are going to look at it in a bookstore and think, no, I don't have time to read that. And if you write a lot less than 300 pages, they think that's not worth 25 bucks. So I sat down and I wrote every morning before work. And then about two years later, I finished the 300 pages and Ethan was in New York again. And I said, hey, I wrote the 300 pages. And he said, he turns to me and he said, double spaced. And so I had just written a 600 page novel and about three months later, I became the Middle east correspondent. And so there wasn't a lot of time to carve it up and get it into a reasonable size. So what I thought I'd do is I'd read a little bit, a couple passages from the book and then I would be happy to take questions you can ask about the Middle east, about the New York Times, about whatever you like. And this first thing, some of these, not all of this happened to me, but some of these events are based on Reality. And this is a women's driving demonstration in Saudi Arabia, which was a very famous event because women are not allowed to drive in Saudi Arabia. And during the Gulf War, a group of about 50 took advantage of the sort of fact that the Western press was around to try and get the right to do it by taking to the roads. And the two main characters are here. Angus, who's a young newspaper reporter in Thea, who's a TV correspondent, and abaya, some of you probably know, it's that long black garment that Saudi women drape themselves in. And the promotion. There's a unique brand of police in Saudi Arabia called the Organization for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. And they are the morals police. And they go around and make sure that everybody is obeying the Islamic rules and that stores close at prayer hours, et cetera, and that women are dressed properly. And their nickname among the expatriates, they just call them the promotion. And the demonstration is starting in a Safeway parking lot. And Safeway in Saudi Arabia looks kind of like Safeway here, except it says Safeway in Arabic. So here we go. As he got out of his car, Angus noticed a maroon Toyota Land Cruiser with CBN stickers plastered all over it. CBN is one of the networks. The driver wiping it down lovingly with a clean rag. Angus looked around for Thea, spotting her and her camera crew in the midst of the milling women. She looked radiant. Her scarf had slipped off her hair as usual, and she wore her abaya open. Angus laughed at himself. The rare sight of an open abaya made him react like a 14 year old pulling a Playboy from underneath his mattress late at night to stare at the centerfold. He stood and watched Thea, momentarily oblivious to the fact that he should be interviewing the demonstrators. It was the first time in weeks that he had felt truly happy. He waded into the crowd, eager to see her face, to look at her up close, to hear her laugh. Thea was so intent on the women that she did not sense him standing next to her. Are you sure we are safe standing in front of these cars? He whispered in her ear. I mean, we're not really sure any of these women actually know how to drive. Upon first hearing his voice, she swung around with an elated expression on her face and greeted him. Angus, how fantastic. Before she registered what he was telling her. They can't be any worse than the men, she said, glowering. The women could probably run over both of us and still have a better driving record than your average Saudi male. Angus smiled I missed you, Thea, he said as he opened his notebook. Remind me to tell you a story. Ah, you print guys are always full of stories, aren't you? She said, winking before she went back to asking questions. He knew this one would make her laugh. Middleton at the US Consulate had told Angus that the Saudi government recently commissioned an American company to figure out how to lower the rate of carnage on Saudi roads. Their report concluded that aside from poor driver education, the most significant reason for the accidents was the way the men flopped their headscarfs over their heads. It blocked their peripheral vision. The Saudi government suppressed the study as a Western cultural attack. Standing next to Thea, Angus wanted to wrap her in his arms, smell her, rub her back, and kiss her. But he couldn't so much as peck her on the cheek. It would make people think the worst of her. Maybe there would be time for that later. Back in the hotel. Trying to pursue a woman in Saudi Arabia was like being permanently assigned to high school study hall. Circa 1950, Angus thought. Or perhaps 1850. Glancing around for someone to interview, he saw a woman he had met in Jeddah named Leila Kabbani, sitting behind the wheel of a Lincoln Town Car, painted a sparkly metallic navy blue. It struck him that after nearly three months in the country, the sight of a woman behind the wheel now seemed odd. He went over to talk to her. When Leila tried to lower the electric window, she set the windshield wipers in motion and then unleashed some window cleaning spray. Angus held up his arms as if to shield himself. She was laughing when she finally got the window open. Isn't this exhilarating? She whooped, holding her hand up above her mouth and ululating, something Arab women did on joyful occasions. Many of the other women laughed and joined in. I mean, part of me knows that it is ridiculous to be so excited. I drove all the time when I was getting my doctorate in Austin, but I've never driven a car in Saudi. Ever. When you write your story, Angus, remember that the issue is not driving alone, not at all. The issue is that here in Saudi Arabia, I only exist as a person from my navel to my knees. Saudi women were always coming up with zinger quotes like that one. As Angus got to know more of them, he began wondering whether the men invented veiling because the women were so resilient, beautiful and smart, far more lively than the generally lumpish men. Or sometimes, he thought, maybe it was a Darwinian thing. After centuries of veiling, only the vivacious survived, compelled to project personality from inside a tent in Jeddah. Angus had been amazed to discover the secret side of veiling on the afternoon when he first encountered Layla, when a prominent Saudi historian had invited him to her villa for afternoon tea to meet some women activists. Angus had come early and while waiting for the women in a low window seat just inside the vestibule, was dazzled by the scene that unfolded with every arrival. Each guest entered completely covered, clad from ankle to neck in black cloak, her face often invisible beneath a flimsy black scarf. Before greeting the hostess, the woman swept aside her head covering and slowly started to spin. After two or three twirls, the black cloaks filled with air moving away from the body. A Filipino maid standing close by would grab a corner and yank, pulling the entire cloak away in a single fluid motion. One stunning, well dressed woman after another stepped forward to kiss the hostess numerous times on both cheeks. Angus gasped audibly when a striking athletic woman stepped from her cloak to reveal a creamy white silk teddy and tight shorts done in black lace, kind of high fashion bicycle shorts along with open toed sandals. Her cinnamon colored midriff legs and arms were bare and she had liquid brown eyes that seemed to cut through them from across the room. Angus was not sure to look to avoid staring. That was Layla. Now she was saying something to him from behind the wheel of her car. Angus? Angus, are you listening to me? She asked, her voice petulant. He started realizing he had missed a sentence or two. Of course, Layla, I hang on your every word, he said, smiling. You weren't writing, she said, lifting her index finger and wagging it at him playfully. I want to point out that Saudi Arabia is more or less at war now. So what if Iraq attacks? Are we expected to wait around for our chauffeurs if we want to flee with our children? She stopped talking as nearly 50 women in 15 cars tentatively revved their engines, turned on their blinkers and edged out of the parking lot. Angus looked up to find Thea, but she and her crew had departed to get shots of the convoy. He was going to follow when he noticed a bunch of displaced Asian drivers squatting off to one side, chattering with excitement. He went over to interview them. I was not believing my ears when Madame asked for the car keys and told me to get out and then drove away with the others, said one chauffeur, slapping his hand over his open mouth in amazement. I was not even aware that Madame knew driving. Angus smiled. Another good quote. It was turning into a fine day. As he was taking notes, he sensed Thea next to him and laughed at himself again for being so besotted that he couldn't concentrate. But he glanced up and there she was, asking a guy what he was paid to drive Madame around. What is this, a press conference? He said. You want the chauffeurs as an exclusive? She mocked gently. The women protesters asked us not to follow. They are sure to get arrested and thought having the television cameras around would further rile up the promotion. You mean you agitate everyone around you, not just me, Angus said, grinning. Could we get a little silence for our interviews, please? She said, making a school marmish face. They both went back to interviewing the drivers. When they finished. Oops, sorry, lost the page. When they finished, he slapped his notebook shut and asked, how about grabbing a little bite of dinner while we wait to see what happens? I'd love that. I'll meet you back in the hotel lobby, she said. I bet this will unroll pretty fast though, so it might have to wait until after we file. Thea stalked into the lobby and told Angus that she wanted to go to her room, dump her abaya, and make a few calls to find out what was happening with the demonstration. When the elevator door slid shut, Angus was so excited to be alone with her that he tried to kiss her, but she stiff armed him. Don't, she said, looking annoyed. I can't stand waiting anymore. It's been years, he said, trying a hug, but she squirmed in his embrace and he released her. I'm happy to see you too, darling, but we have to get this story finished. I don't think we even have time for dinner, she said. Angus latched onto that word darling for a minute, but recognized it was just one of the common endearments she offered sprinkled into her speech. The exchange put him in a bleak mood. Riding the rest of the way up in silence, he upbraided himself for expecting anything in the midst of a breaking story. He usually had a good sense of when or when not to pounce, but it was hard somehow with Thea, especially with her standing right there. After so many weeks, he wondered if she would stick around on this story long enough to really start something. The protest lasted about 20 minutes. The parade of cars that left the Safeway parking lot broke up into smaller clusters, and the women were subsequently pulled over at various major intersections. Saudi men driving past gawked in amazement, often looking back as if they had seen a phantom driver, but miraculously, there were no crashes. Several husbands followed each group, ensuring that there would be no nasty confrontations between the promotion and the women. When they were arrested, Angus reached Leila briefly on the telephone. She told him that she had been stopped by a portly, bearded member of the religious police who turned crimson with anger as she stepped out of her car. He was jumping up and down and screaming, I want to kill you. I want to open the ground right underneath your feet and bury you here. How dare you, a mere woman corrupt God's commandments. But evidently a senior prince had ordered the religious police not to touch the women involved. So they were taken to the regular stations and not to the promotion precincts where detained women were habitually lashed, slapped across the face with men's leather sandals, and generally treated like scum. Despite the calm conclusion, it was still a protest, and by Arab women no less. Angus could feel a level of excitement rising like a thermometer through the hotel as reporters discovered that their editors or senior network producers back in the States loved the story and wanted to play it big. No one could remember the last spontaneous protest in the Arab world. Usually demonstrations were rolled out by the government and participants. Participants had to return their long lived national unity signs at the end so they could be used for the next one. Sitting at his desk, Angus heard occasional exchanges in the hallway between giddy reporters high fiving each other and saying things like the fucking Saudi women. Unreal for once. The foreign desk told Angus to write long, so he braided all kinds of background into his copy. He compared it to earlier turning points, all stuff he had found out about over the preceding weeks, like the introduction of radio in the late 1940s, which was damned by the religious establishment as an instrument of the devil. But King Abdulaziz won them over in one fell swoop by ordering the initial broadcast to be verses from the Koran. And so it went with the telephone, public education for girls, and the launch of television. At least one person died when police firing on the Mob stoning the first Central Television station in 1965. Any change provoked violent religious opposition in Saudi Arabia. Angus used Leyla's remark about her navel as the last line in the story. He hoped the copy editors in New York would not find it too suggestive. They could be so squeamish. I think I'll stop that bit there and then the next piece. During the Gulf War was the first time that the satellite technology was available to broadcast news live. But it was kind of unwieldy and big, so it had to sit in one place, and the place it sat was in a hotel in Dahran, Saudi Arabia. Which is along the Gulf. And this is the scene from the first night of the war, when Iraq started lobbying rockets into Saudi Arabia and into Israel. Angus had been too caught up in his deadlines to venture outside much, so the hubbub out on the roof startled him. The roof of a one story rear hotel wing that housed administrative offices had been transformed into television shanty towns, densely packed with satellite transmission dishes, kleeg lights, generators, television monitors, computers, and nylon tents crammed with beeping electronic equipment. Thick braids of coiled wire ran everywhere, like the umbilical cord of an unseen giant. The various TV networks had raised wooden platforms with roughly the proportion of a king sized mattress to serve as al fresco studios. Plywood walls on two sides plus a roof provided a little shelter from the whipping sand or occasional light rain. Every platform sported a couple of comfy chairs for the correspondence and at least one palm tree in a brass pot. Angus couldn't tell if the plants were real or not, but he knew instantly why the hotel staff called the place Little Hollywood. It looked more like a series of cheery living rooms than a combat zone. With woven Bedouin rugs nailed to the walls and chairs invariably covered in a killeen pattern, the decor screamed Middle east in case any viewer was uncertain about the war's location. Sand surrounded two of the platforms. Angus figured the insta dunes had been lugged up onto the roof, so when the cameras pulled back, the correspondents seemed to be sitting out in the desert. It was hard to see across the platform because of a steady drizzle. Although each broadcast platform was bathed in light, they were strangely silent, not just because of the potential danger, but because the networks were venturing into the unknown. No one had ever done live war broadcasts before, and portable equipment was relatively new. Angus walked over to an area where the print organizations had set up their phones, well away from the narrow, heavily trafficked pathways between the broadcast booths. The print area was a forest of small satellite dishes, but he quickly located one bearing the round dark green WP logo. The best technology of 1990 had whittled the apparatus down to a fat 90 pound suitcase with the unlikely name of the ultralight. Once opened, its most visible component was the mesh satellite dish, which looked like a small beach umbrella blown out in a windstorm. The dish was attached to a three foot pole planted in the middle of the case. Angus picked up the thick dialing pad. The numbers glowed yellow. He opened his notebook and followed the directions. He hoped the call to WP radio would go through on the first try because the Drizzle made the inky instructions bleed. He was thankful for the warmth of his heavy charcoal chemical suit, but he found the thick rubber gloves too clumsy for dialing and removed them. The radio news desk in New York rang. Busy Fuck, he said. He hit redial, praying that Saddam would hold off the missiles until WP answered. The call failed a second time, and then a third, but Angus stayed in a crouch, punching redial and watching the manic broadcast activity. At ABC News, Spencer Carr was holding up a mirror, testing different looks. He turned the collar on his leather bomber jacket up and down and then up again, tousling his shoulder length curly blonde hair to make it sit differently. The producer kept telling him to put on a gas mask, but Carr argued it was make his hair look weird if he took it off on air later. I mean, I know it's an air raid and everything, but my hair is weird. Then everyone will focus on that, he whined. The ABC cameraman rolled his eyes and said, plus, if your hair was squashed, you might make a fairly ugly corpse. Carr scowled and went back to the mirror. Angus still had no luck envying the networks for their ability to talk via their satellite links. He hit redial again, and while a telephone emitted a series of beeps like erratic musical scales, he suddenly realized that Black might also be on the roof. WBC's broadcast booth sat closest to the glass door that led into the hotel stairs. Peering through the drizzle, Angus discovered Black was there barking orders. As he watched, a Marine in full battle regalia stepped through the doorway. The soldier urged Black to evacuate the roof and bring all the other network guys along. We're not going anywhere, black said, crossing his arms over his chest. A dazed growth of beard shadowed his face, and he was wearing a bright white shirt. From a distance, his head was darkened while his shirt glowed, which gave Angus the eerie feeling of watching a headless body speak. This could be extremely dangerous, the marine argued. None of y' all are wearing protection and there could be gas all over the place. Angus saw the cameraman, the soundman, and the correspondent exchange nervous glances behind Black. The cameraman crooked his head toward the door and raised an eyebrow as if to say, maybe they should go indoors. The salmon shrugged and nodded towards Black, who was saying to the Marine, look, I know you're concerned for our safety, but this is what we do. We broadcast. We always broadcast. Black must have sensed the edgy story behind him because he turned to his crew. You yellow? He asked the cameraman. The guy, cowed, said, no, and The Salmon also shook his head. Black asked the same thing of the correspondent, a pretty woman with long auburn hair named Larissa Tyler. She looked like she wanted to argue, but instead she shrugged and said, sure, I'll be a hero. The marine made one last attempt. I know I can't order you all around, but I'm saying There could be 20 bodies out here in about five. Twenty dead bodies out here in about five minutes, he said, his eyes surveying the other broadcast booth before he pivoted and disappeared into the hotel. The collar of Larissa's blue striped shirt was visibly torn. I got up to I have. Sorry, excuse me, I've got to change before we go live, she said. When the alarm sounded. I stood up too quickly and my shoulder caught on the corner of one of those damn plywood desks. Larissa was holding another shirt in her hands. She whipped the torn shirt over her head and was suddenly standing in the well lit WC platform wearing a satin lavender bra. Angus could see a reddish scratch and slight bruise on her lightly freckled shoulder. Ooh, does that hurt? Black asked, stepping up into the lighted platform and standing next to her. He ran his hand along the bruise and then slid his hand down toward her breast. Don't touch me, Black, you aging pervert, larissa said sharply, slapping his hand away. I'm not one of your news bimbos. Christ, there's a war on. Isn't it exciting? Black answered. Angus was riveted, finding the little drama revealing Black's mind was evidently not quite as focused on Thea as she wanted to believe. Before Angus could further mull over how he might exploit Black's peccadilloes, a vicious explosion split the night sky in half. The powerful detonation jangled the roots of his teeth and made the entire hotel quiver. Angus, who had no idea what was happening, turned his head rapidly from side to side, trying to locate the explosion. In the small scale guerrilla battles he had covered previously, it took practice before anyone could distinguish between the noise made by incoming versus outgoing artillery. Smaller ordnance was sometimes difficult to distinguish from a car door slamming, but this was stupendous. Immediately afterwards, a red line arced across the sky. Angus realized that the noise had come from a Patriot anti missile missile fired from the base next door. Everyone had been waiting for one of those to go off. The arc of the thing terminated with another eruption in the sky, a giant echoing boom caused by a Scud missile being demolished. The hotel rattled again, and in the distance air sirens shrieked to life all across the city of Dahran. Angus closed his eyes in supplication and hit redial. It didn't go through. He opened his eyes, watching controlled pal pandemonium unroll on the broadcast side of the roof. NBC had lost its line to New York. What the fuck happened? The producer yelled. We can still hear them, but they can't hear us. They just said on air that the line to Dahran went dead. Not a good sign. I hope my mother isn't watching. Everyone is going to think we're dead. The bang and whoosh sequence happened again. A second Patriot. Angus was glad to find that his nerves remained steady. The bangs made his adrenaline work overtime and his hands were shaking, yet he felt no desire to escape the roof. He poked the redial button furiously, but the call stubbornly refused to connect. Come on, come on, he said to himself. God damn it, I'm not going to die in a missile attack without even filing a story. Angus took solace from the fact that the networks weren't doing much better. He gathered that ABC Sports was reluctant to let the news division cut in because the Buffalo Bills were still trouncing the LA Raiders in the super bowl playoff. Spencer Carr was frantically waving his hands and a gas mask at the camera in case anyone in New York could see him screaming get us on air camera. This is not a drill New York. Get us up in audio. Hello New York, this is Saudi Arabia. This is not a drill. Let's go, let's go. We're firing Patriots. We got flares and we've got sirens. Let's go live. The percussion from another Patriot rent the sky and Carr's body jerked in involuntarily. That explosion was enough to convince New York, but they switched to Saudi Arabia so fast that Carr was standing with his back to the camera and twirling his gas mask waiting to see the Scud explode as an ABC producer yelled, you're on, you're on. Carr pirouetted quickly explaining that he was standing underneath the Scud attack and pointing toward the red glowing arc that the Patriot missile drew across the sky. Peter, we are balanced out here on the edge of a knife, he said. Angus groaned, hoping he could avoid tainting his remarks with self aggrandizing drama. Once he got through, the correspondent was pointing upward and saying that the mid air explosion they heard was the sound of a Scud missile being blown apart. We heard a loud boom, the report from a firing of a Patriot anti missile missile, then sirens. We perceived that we were under our first intense air raid tonight. There have been four different Patriot launchings and in all different directions. The last one seemed to hug the earth and intercept a rocket right behind us, very close to our position here. Others went off and seemed to get lost in the sky. We haven't heard any incoming. And of course the explosive power of those scuds carrying a 1000 or 2000 pound warhead is great. There is no evidence yet that any of these rockets can carry a chemical charge. Angus was sure riveters would be spellbound by the drama. Carr's head twitched from side to side and he interrupted himself every few sentences to point at a minuscule dot of light in the clouds that he thought might be the exhaust of yet another Patriot. Angus was appalled by what happened next. Carr turned to the camera and said, that last one looked like it was about two miles downrange, two miles east of us. The Iraqis are probably aiming for the main air base next door, or maybe even this hotel. But the Scud has a notoriously crude guidance system. Great, Angus thought. It's bad enough to be sitting under attack without those TV morons calling in the missiles like sports announcers calling in plays. There was no need to act as forward spotters for the Iraqi military, nor give it ideas about smacking the hotel. All the correspondents were guilty of the same indiscretion to some extent, but most weren't as specific as Carr. The drawn look of fear and uncertainty etched on the correspondent's faces, combined with the noise of the explosions, was enough to convey what was happening in Dhahran without being so detailed. Angus hoped Baghdad wasn't adjusting his sights. I'm going to skip a little bit here, and then Angus files a report about what's going on, and then they're still on the roof of the hotel. Suddenly the night filled with another roar, longer and more sustained. Again, everyone on the roof tensed. They soon grasped that this was not the bang of outgoing but the long, continuous roar of jet fighters and bombers taking off from the adjacent Runway. Several squadrons of American F16s and British tornadoes zoomed into the night sky, headed north toward Iraq. The hotel sat in the flight path of the main military Runway, so the fighters streaked low overhead. As they lifted off, Angus was startled by Bo Riggs of cnn, sorry, of cbn, a short correspondent with brown hair and the chiseled good looks of a shirt model describing the scene. There go 14 British tornadoes headed toward Baghdad about an hour flying time from here, he said. Riggs seemed oblivious to the fact that any of Saddam's minions watching could organize A nasty welcoming party. Angus nostrils began to burn from the heavy cloud of jet exhaust settling over the hotel like a blanket and even the light rain did not disperse. The exhaust also left a bitter, slightly numbing taste on his tongue. He covered his nose and mouth with his jacket. Across the roof, Riggs panicked. Gas. Gas. Gas. He yelled, dropping completely off camera, his hands quivering as he struggled with the straps on his gas mask. Everyone on the roof froze. If a reporter was saying live on air that there was gas it had to be true. Most people wearing regular clothes in a gas attack they would perish in the time they needed to retrieve their chemical suits. It took everyone an excruciating 30 seconds to understand that Riggs had mistaken the jet fuel exhaust for chemical weapons. His CBN team struggled to limit the damage. The military reporter who had been standing next to Riggs talking about Scuds stared down at his colleague dumbfounded. Say something. Say something. CBN's producer hissed frantically, knowing that extended silence would convince millions of viewers that the reporters were keeling over dead. Reports of gas are unconfirmed at this point, the military correspondent said laconically, slowly putting on his helmet. Riggs popped up next to him with a gas mask on, saying breathlessly, I can still taste that bitter tang from the gas but my body seems to be functioning okay. I think I maybe I will live through this attack but I cannot be sure of the safety of those around me. Angus figured the CBN cut the live shot since the producer stepped up onto the broadcast platform and started yanking at Riggs mask. He fought her off shrieking are you crazy? Are you crazy? It's a gas attack. I can still taste it. It's gas. You're losing your senses. Save yourself Riggs, you schmuck. You fucking blue eyed nincompoop. The producer yelled back, whacking him on the head repeatedly with her clipboard. You are tasting either the jet fuel or the rubber tube for breathing. Look around you you jackass. All of us are still standing. Now if you don't take that mask off and go back on air to say you made a colossal mistake, I'm going to ram that rubber tube down your throat so you taste it for the rest of your miserable life. I hope the fuck that you didn't get anyone watching a coronary. Riggs did as he was told, looked around at everyone staring at him like a man emerging from a trance. Dazed, he stumbled off the platform just as the long wail of the all clear sounded. Angus figured there was no reason to stand out in the rain and try and communicate to New York when he could do it from indoors. So he headed for the main staircase, only to find it blocked by a fight. A guy Angus recognized as a retired army colonel who still looked the part but was now writing military analyses for the Chicago Tribune, had grabbed Riggs by the lapels and was shaking him like a rag doll. You will not scare the fuck out of my family again, he snarled tersely, describing how he phoned his family after the erroneous gas attack report to reassure them and found his wife in tears, convinced that after years of sleepless nights wondering how her husband was faring in Vietnam and elsewhere, he might be dying on a journalism assignment. I can't believe an incompetent fuck like you is even allowed near this place, much less on the air, he spat, grabbing the press credentials hanging by a chain around Riggs neck and yanking them off. Other reporters took advantage of his loosened grip to pull the guy back, and Riggs scuttled away. Angus bounded upstairs to the WP bureau as dawn broke. A few reporters were diligently typing while a bunch of others showed up for the large urn of coffee delivered to the suite first thing every morning. Hawkshurst walked in, drew a cup, and started telling Angus about what had gone down in the bomb shelter. He had spent the air raid sitting next to a stammering radio reporter filing from a phone booth down there. How come WP isn't using one of those phones? Angus complained. What the hell was I doing up on the roof dodging Scuds if there are enough phones to do live radio from the basement? No, you're not getting it, hawkshurst said. What I'm trying to tell you is that the guy was making up the images wholesale. I mean, we're all sitting down in the basement with no idea what the hell is happening over our heads, and the guy is speaking out all this you are there stuff, hoxhurst said. The radio reporter spoke in a loud whisper, as if making noise might bring the missiles down on his head. The air raid sirens are sounding all across Dahran, he told his listeners, shoving his microphone under the wailing hotel alarm to give them the full effect. Hawkshurst continued, there was this very low boom every few minutes that did not seem very far away and really gave the hair on the back of my neck an erection. The radio reporter then informed his listeners that six SCUDs were approaching Dhahran and that the muffled explosions heard inside the hotel indicated a major missile attack outdoors. When they announced the All Clear Armed Forces Radio said the Patriots successfully downed all the Scuds, said Hochst. The whole place erupted in applause. I mean, you'd think the Patriots were their team in the Super Bowl. Prowling around to grab quick quotes for a story, Hochshurst learned that hotel staffers who'd lack gas masks or chemical suits had taken refuge in the basement's meat locker since the air was filtered and a bomb could not penetrate its heavy metal door. But it was too cold in there to stay for long, so they were running in and out. Every time they went in either direction, they slammed the door and you want to guess what it sounds like? I'll tell you what it sounds like. It sounds like a dull, distant boom. You mean the boom the guy was describing as a Patriot missile firing was in reality a large refrigerator door slamming? Angus asked, incredulous. Yeah, don't that beat everything? Hoxer said, looking disgusted. The words barely escaped his mouth before the alarm sounded, the piercing screech again echoing through the hotel. The reporters in the WP suite reflexively grabbed their gas masks and headed out the door. But when they emerged into the main part of the hotel, something was amiss. The lights blazed and Ramsden was not downstairs barking orders into his bullhorn. The alarm stopped abruptly for several seconds and then and then started again. Angus suddenly understood what was happening. The television networks, their in house monitors on loud, were feeding tape of the last air raid to New York. The taped rerun of the earlier attack sounded like a new air raid. Christ, angus said, trudging back into the WP suite. We'll be lucky to finish this lore. We'll be lucky to finish this war with our sanity intact. Welcome to Club Scud. And here we are. And anybody has any questions, I'd be happy to take them.

If you if you'd like to ask a question, please do so into the mic.

Nope. What made you write a fictionalized story rather than just straight reportage? There are several reasons all reporters love a novel by Evelyn Waugh that was written in 1938 called Scoop. And if you don't know the story, it's a sort of a Murdoch type paper is trying to send a correspondent to East Africa to cover a war and they have a new editor and the publisher says send Boot and and so the new managing editor goes out to a secretary and says who's Boot? And she says the gardening correspondent because they have the same last name and so they send the gardening correspondent cover of War. And we all love that book. And so while it was actually unrolling in the hotel. It seemed like to be a similarly absurd situation because we were kind of all stuck there, you know, waiting for this war, waiting endlessly for this war to break out and fighting mercilessly with each other. And the other thing was, is just, you know, there was such a. Such a wide country and such a. Sorry, I'm just going to finish the scoop idea. So everybody always tries to imitate that book, and no one has written about it since TV came along. And everyone thinks we're kind of monolithic. But print and TV reporters hate each other because they all feel like they get in each other's way. And print thinks TV makes too much money, and TV thinks print looks down on them, which we do. And so I kind of wanted to catch that. And also, I mean, it was just, as I said, Saudi Arabia was a very wide theater, so it was kind of hard for one person to be everywhere and describe what was going on. And also, as a foreign correspondent and, I mean, when I travel in general, I always try and read one novel about the country because I sort of feel like that gives you a different take on it. And I spent a lot of time in Saudi Arabia, and so I wanted to include a lot of stuff about Saudi in there. And so those three things kind of made me think that the novel would get more cross in it.

What were the most important pieces of reality that you wanted to include in this novel?

I think that there is a lot about Saudi Arabia in the country. I mean, I think that people see Saudi Arabia, you know, as sort of the traditional growing, you know, cliche about it is that it's, you know, oil and camels, and now maybe oil cameras, camels and terrorism. And I think I wanted to draw a little bit more nuanced portrait of the place. I mean, even growing up as a kid in the Middle East, I always thought that, you know, women must wear those black outfits because they were terribly ugly and were nuns underneath it and had layer after layer. And, you know, you get to Saudi Arabia and they are just incredibly addicted to fashion and, you know, or wearing nothing underneath it. It's just, like, convenient for them. And so. And I, you know, there's just. There's a lot of levels to that that country that I think are interesting that I try and describe. And also I think that a lot of people watch the news and they have no idea about how the process actually works. And I think that it's interesting for people that are reading papers or watching TV to see how that develops. And also Some of the flaws, I mean, particularly in this war, and we saw it again with the invasion of Iraq, the embedding process tends to distort news a little bit because whatever the embeds are seeing is what becomes news. And, you know, there were, you know, those Scuds were not going to change the course of the war one iota, but they were focused on every night because they were big and exciting and the television cameras were right underneath them. And everyone was stuck in the hotel because if you left the hotel, the feedback was that you would lose your slot in the pool. That would go in when combat started, and nobody quite knew when that was going to happen. So everybody stuck to the hotel. By that time, of course, the war had started, but still the Scuds were reported on much more than what was going on inside Iraq or what was going on in Saudi Arabia or anything. And so I just also kind of wanted to point out, you know, what I think are some of the flaws a little bit in the process.

You just had a great description of, I guess, hotel journalism. I just said I was wondering what your thoughts were. What's changed between either the pool system and now the embeds and I guess now whoever's left covering Iraq. What's changed over the last 15 years.

Or so, I think. I mean, you know, hats off to the people that are still going to Iraq, especially the ones that have been there since the beginning, because it is really, really a dangerous situation. I mean, there were some people in the first Gulf War that, you know, wandered off outside the post system and got grabbed by the Iraqis, but, you know, they were in jail for maybe 40 days at most, or, or some just a couple weeks, and then they were released. The problem with the imbids, like I just said, you know, is that it tends to distort news. But in the current situation in Iraq, it's just so dangerous to venture out that they really, you know, don't have any choice because it's kind of that or nothing. And, you know, people get around it with different ways. They send Iraqi staffers out or, you know, the women will dress like Iraqis because they can keep everything but one eye covered. And people do find their ways around it, but it's just, you know, it becomes a completely different formula when part of the assessment of what you're going to report on is, is it worth my life? You know what I mean? And that's what they have to take into account.

So one of the things, I'm sorry, if it's not really related to what's in your book. But I'm just curious in your perspective. One of the things that, you know, has been a lot more prominent in this latest conflict in Iraq is versus the first one was Al Jazeera and local sources of news. How do you see them as related to American or European news organizations? Do you think that eventually they'll become the American version of Al Jazeera will be watched or they'll start to be, you know, more important source of news for people outside of the Middle east than it's.

I mean, as a reporter, I love them. I mean, I have, I think they do a fantastic job. They got a lot of money, first of all, and TV takes money. And so, I mean, on a global scale, I mean, they cover elections in Peru, they cover what's going on in Africa. So you get a much wider version, variety of news on there than you do in most other networks. And it's, you know, created this incredible opening in the Arab world because basically all channels and all newspapers were state run. So the government decided what everyone would see and they can't anymore with Al Jazeera. And it's really opened up. You know, I have people's friend of mine's mothers who are, you know, in their 60s or so and they're, you know, they watch and they say like, you know, I was watching the election returns from Indonesia or someplace and how come we don't have elections? So it really kind of gets the dialogue going. And as a reporter working in the Middle East, I mean, I just had it on in my house or in my hotel room 247 because they were really fast with breaking news and they always had interesting people. You know, they'd find opposition people in Libya or Gaddafi would want to say something and he'd call them up and, you know, it's just this incredible dialogue going on in the Arab world. Now, I know that they're often faulted by the American administration for being kind of, you know, Al Qaeda all the time. And there was, especially when competing channels broke away, there was a sort of core of people at Jazeera was kind of Islamist sympathies who definitely would color their reporting, particularly on the talk shows. But I think the fault with the US government is they didn't try and use it as a tool. You know, they kind of lashed out as it, rather than trying to get their point of view across. Because when you watch it, I mean, they do a better job than C span. I mean, every time the US Secretary of State The US President, which is sometimes rare, and the vice president, which is certainly even rare. Secretary of Defense. Excuse me. Anytime there's a press conference, they are on it and they just, you know, gavel the gavel and you see the whole thing. And, you know, a lot of times you're watching the press conference and I think, well, this is ridiculous. I should watch it in English rather than trying to follow the Arabic. And so I'd switch over to BBC or CNN and, you know, they'd follow it for maybe 5, 10 minutes and decide it was boring and go away, but Jazeera would stick to it. So, you know, I think their commitment to news as news is really good. And I haven't watched enough of their English language to know whether it carries the same ethos. But, you know, I think for people who love news, it's a good station. And the other thing on that, sorry, is that, you know, it's kind of funny just watching how the Americans try. It's like all the Chinese ambassadors in the Middle east, all the Russian ambassadors in the Middle east, and most of the British, or at least a sampling, speak Arabic well enough, you know, classical Arabic that they can go on and the Americans just can't. And, you know, it's a huge barrier.

Was there anything that was challenging for you in writing a novel that you didn't expect or that was a switch from being a journalist writing fiction?

I didn't hear the very first part of the question. I'm sorry.

Is there anything that was challenging for you in writing fiction?

It's kind of. It makes it. They both kind of feed off each other. I think they help each other because, you know, all writing is writing and, you know, rewriting is what makes you better at it. And, you know, especially being a wire service reporter, you, you know, you're just kind of trying to get the main points and get out of there and get it filed. And. And when you start writing fiction, you know, you kind of have to look what the room looks like, what it smells like, what's going, you know, what the weather's like. And you should notice those things as a reporter, too. But they kind of reinforce. They make your observations much sharper. And then you try and integrate that when you're writing a novel into it. And, you know, it makes the writing much more vivid. It's also at a much leisurely pace. And that's not so good because you really kind of. You kind of got to bang it out when you're working in print journalism. But, I mean, I Think that the bottom line is that what I said initially, that kind of all writing helps, and you just got to keep doing it to improve it. You talked about how kind of journalism was shaped by where people were in the basement and stuff, where the reporters were. It's also shaped by where the editors are. What was your biggest frustration and things that you wanted to report on but didn't seem to be interesting to the editors back home in general or when I was a correspondent there, you mean? Yeah, yeah, I think. I mean, part of the frustration is that I had sort of felt. Felt just because I was comfortable wandering around in countries and that I sort of felt like the Arab world is under reported. I think that the news media tends to focus on the conflict. And I think that, like, the Arab Israeli dispute gets much more attention than it deserves to an extent, in that people focus so much on that that it gives both sides, it makes both sides inflexible because they both think they're important because there's so much attention focused on them. And I think if there's a little less, it might. Might make negotiation easier. And I also think that there's a lot going on in the Arab world that doesn't get covered. So I was very eager to spend my time not covering violence and doing other things. And of course, when September 11th rolled around, and clearly when the invasion of Iraq happened, that was no longer an option. So my frustration was always like, the bomb would go off next to an oil tanker in Yemen and there was only one person killed. And I'd say, well, that's not a big enough incident. Can I just go do this feature off in the countryside? And they'd say, no, you gotta go do the tanker. So I think that just the fact that that prism of violence is what shapes so much of the coverage, I think is regrettable because it distorts the image of the area as being violent and as, you know, sort of being overrun with fundamentalists. And they are certainly a problem. I'm not trying to downplay it, but, you know, there's a lot more in the region than that. Hi, I'm just wondering about your current role here. I can't hear you. Sorry about your current role here in the U.S. can you. You said you. I think you were introduced as doing some Islamic related. I read about Islam in North America. Yes. Okay. Can you explain a little bit about what that is? As in what is it that you're trying to do? What I'm doing now, it's just that I think that there's been a lot of curiosity in the United States about the Islamic faith and the Muslims that live here. I mean, unfortunately, stemming from a violent incident, but healthy all the same. And it's been covered in the past a little bit as a religious beat, like, you know, the religion of Islam, but not as a, you know, entire community. And I think it's. It's an assimilation story. So we're trying to write about people, how they. How they are assimilating in the United States as a community, like what's working and what's not. And I think that. Sorry. I think, you know, there's all aspects of it. There's social aspects of it. There's economic aspects of it. You know, you can write about movies. There's novelists, you know, American Muslim novelists who are writing. And I think it's. I think people are interested and so. And it's not trying to get. It's trying to get away from some of the, gee whiz. Aspect of it about, you know, there's this community of others, which I, you know, I think people have misperceptions about it. And so the more you can write about it, the more, you know, the kind of civil rights issues and things like that might dissipate.

If there are no other questions, then please join me in thanking Neil for coming today. And he's graciously offered to sign books after.