Preview of "Nuremberg Tour"

The blog will appear inactive for several months, as I am working on a more involved story.
In Canada of the future, the narrator is isolated from mainstream society; not by racism, but by the perception she prefers to socialize within her sub-culture.
Within the mainstream of this sub-culture, she is perceived as deficient, relegated to the sub-sub-culture.
Life is mostly uneventful until atrocious luck strikes. A star-crossed romance appears to lead to the death of her fiance, a famous author-professor.
The police soon establish she has no legal culpability.
The sub-culture and sub-sub-culture, while not questioning her legal responsibilty, raise her moral responsiblity. The level of press vilification assumes demonization.
Utterly wiped by all this nonsense, she is hardly in the mood for what follows, a draft notice on a lottery basis.
She's assigned to an Afghan NCO, commences a German tour of duty, east of Nuremberg, near the Czech border.

Table of Contents

Last complete Table of Contents was published in January. It is quite lengthy, including descriptions of each story, so won't be repeated just yet. It is found by scrolling down a bit, clicking on January 2006 at the right, then scrolling down to it.

Since then two items have been added:
Vydia - story of a schoolgirl coping with problems when Afghan refugees arrive - it is found is same January 2006 track.
Seema - struggling along trying to cope with forever being in the shadow of others - simply scroll down directly from here, in the February 2006 track.

Seema 4

Farzana and I go to the living room for a tea break, run into her brother. Too earnest smile, "I know that story of the duel is a lie."
I keep a straight face, "how is that?"
"No East Indian could beat an Afghan wrestling. So he cheated or it was just fake, so you could switch to him."
His deadly serious look clues me in, if I say the wrong thing a feud could well erupt.
Gently I smile, "very perceptive. There was no cheating, he staged the loss."
Brother's face relaxes, "so when's the Big Day?"
"Secret."
"Secret?"
"We don't have enough money for the honeymoon, too proud to take from parents."
"Yet his parents are rich, sounds like an honorable guy. Wish you the best."
"Thank you."
"Well, least he is the right religion, no problem there."
I nod.
"He is a bit wild still, take a few years to burn off."
I nod.
"But most young guys are, so nothing to worry about."
"Thank you."
"So you're writing a western?"
Farzan nods.
He smiles, "nothing like the old John Waynes. Seen some on the late late. Rent one, you'll get good ideas."
That's exactly what we do. I am surprised at the change that comes over Farzana. She has the look of battlefield intensity one would expect on a German para about to jump out of an Iron Annie into Crete. She's in the zone, will write ok.
I upload my novel onto our empty looking website, which now has one novel and promises of the delights to come in the other three.
I get a call from Homaira, "ah Seema, could I ask you something?"
I groan inwardly, three guesses, "ok."
"You helped Farzana, could you ah ..."
In for a penny, in for a pound, next Saturday.
"This isn't Survivor. So forget votes and people coming home in civilized fashion after losing. This is life or death. So forget those committee meetings on improving morale and think clans fighting each other over scarce resources. As it gets worse, you could hint at cannibalism."
She gasps.
"You actually think 300 pages of committee meetings is gonna be anything other than a snoozer?"
"OK, you're probably right. What do you suggest?"
"Want a good story chronicling the struggle for survival?"
"Yes."
"Read James Clavell's King Rat, from Classics."
She blanches, "I've heard that is gruesome."
"Either do it or switch story lines. Survival is rarely civilized."
"Hey I know, super-computer launches a coup, to take over the world and humans fight back."
"It's already been done, but so has every other conceivable sci fi story. Long as it's your own take, not copycat, it'll be ok."
"Last time it was done, computers were less advanced. So my take will be unique, original."
Zohra calls. This time I beg off, "I'm the last person on the planet anyone would ask for advice on romance."
"No experience?"
"None."
"Then that rumor of your engagement is false?"
"Yes."
"So why did you break it off?"
"I didn't break it off, it never was."
"Oh, so what do you suggest?"
"Neither Farzana nor Homaira has experience either. If you're out of ideas, read a Harlequin or two or three."
"That's plagiarism."
"No it isn't, all those stories are the same."
Sooner than expected, I get an excited call from Farzana, "it's on the web, read, tell what you think."
As I read, I'm in shock, I created the monster. Plot - there is none. Any true western fan would assert that before the shooting begins, you must establish a credible threat to the ranch. Her shooting starts Page One, Paragraph One and continues to the end.
They wipe out every Indian tribe, every Mexican bandit, every white male or female within a 200 mile radius. Only reason they don't run out of Afghan women, they keep sponsoring more through Immigration. When they aren't killing outsiders, they're killing each other over poker.
There is no characterization even - too busy killing to waste even a page or two on character development.
I feel a sense of shame and fraud. How can I honestly critique this? I created the mess. I told her to do this, just assumed she had a sense of balance and knew where to stop.
I put her off with the excuse I'm not done reading. As two weeks drag by, she's getting more insistent for my answer.
I notice a curious thing. The counter shows 3 people have been reading on my novel; but hers has ballooned to 15,000.
The phone rings, her caller ID and I shudder.
This time, she asks, "every heard of XYZ Publishing?"
Silly question, the flagship of the American fleet of publishers, "oh yes."
"They're offering a $25,000 advance on my novel."
I gasp, "you've just been hugetime flattered. That's an immense advance for a first time author."
"They'll send a contract. I'll have my cousin the lawyer look at it, just be sure it's on the up and up."
"So what did they say, other than monetary?"
"Said westerns had become stodgy, boring, were fading off into the sunset. They feel my book has the potential to quote wake up the whole sleepy genre."
"That's nice."
"You never did mention, finished your review yet?"
What else can I say, "loved it, makes Afghan women heroic, larger than life."
Next up is Homaira. She too wishes me to review her upload.
Again I am in shock. She has zero concept of what the average person has for computer vocabulary. It is unintelligible, pure geekspeak.
Again, I hold back. This time, it's the truth, I'm not done reading. Slow going when you need to use a dictionary so much.
Two weeks later, she too has earth shaking news. "Ever heard of On Spec, the Canadian sci fi mag?"
"Oh yes, they can't afford to pay much, but excellent publicity for new writers."
"I'll be in it, they're buying an excerpt."
"Which?"
"Where super-computer goes on the big killing binge."
I groan inwardly. That's two monsters I created. It was also the only passage I could understand without aid of dictionary.
The free weekly in this city loves to fill up pages with low budget stuff. The reviewer aims his poison pen at me, "work one would expect of a junior high girl. Chronicles the feud well and impartially; but zero concept of how to present clues or build suspense. This book is only slightly better than watching televised Parliament."
Ouch! So much for a crime writing career. Maybe another genre?
Zohra cashes in, the book will be serialized in a women's magazine.
I'm now odd woman out. My three co-writers dash off to pursue individual glory.
I get tired of paying for website hosting and take up residence in a blog.
So, when you see me in the coffee house, please don't just endlessly ask questions about my three now-famous friends. Please understand that I am a person in my own right, even if my parents have yet to admit that.
I thought Farzana was insufferable already. Yet when Hollywood announced filming of "Gulch of the Goons", she became even more so. Oy!

Seema 3

I get a call from Farzana of uni days. She browbeats me into meeting several of them Saturday at a coffee house. No, not religious she asserts, literary.
I arrive first, then Farzana, then Homaira and Zohra. They plan to start a website. I groan inwardly thinking of all the fun things I could be doing with Saturday.
When my turn to speak, I lay it on with a frontend loader, how lacking my computer skills are. In fact, by accident I cross over the line of protesting too much.
Zohra smiles too sweetly, "we'll take that at face value. Quite frankly, I am far more computer proficient than you."
Inwardly I heave a huge sigh of relief.
She continues, now drily, "it isn't your computer knowledge we seek. Each of us will write a book."
"What on earth for?"
"Good public image for Afghan women. So, no competing with each other. We're each keeping a separate genre. I'll do romance, proper of course."
Homaira, "I actually stayed awake during those sci classes, gonna try sci fi."
Farzana smiles proudly, "western, instead of cowboys, Afghan women."
I retort, "that is ridiculous. Cowboys were swine, drinking, shooting, hookers, poker ..."
"I intend to keep behavior standards higher than that."
Farzana continues, "pick a genre that isn't taken."
"I'm lousy at writing."
"Pure BS," Zohra retorts, "you had three short stories published in the student paper."
I blush hotly. Truth is, I had forgotten, that was back in first year.
"So, which genre?"
"Horror, a psychotic werewolf goes on a thrill kill spree."
"No way," Zohra asserts, "we aim to keep it child suitable. You're in for a murder mystery."
Murder is suitable for children?
"Thank you so much for volunteering."
As they congratulate me, I rerun the conversation in my mind. At what point did I actually agree? It's a mystery to me.
We agree to meet in a month, everyone having plot and main characters ready.
Irritated I stare out my bedroom window Saturday evening. It just appears from nowhere. Murder victim will be a pawnshop owner. Red herring that it was done during a robbery.
But actually, it's vengenance for events of decades ago, thousands of miles away. Now there is something an Afghan could understand. Or a white. Perp and victim will be white.
I know exactly what I wish to look up in the university library, for history.
It opens 11:00 Sundays. By 2:30, I have sufficient background info.
Over coffee, I decide to make my fearless detective (Afghan of course) a bit slow, not spotting the connection til after the third murder.
We gather to compare notes. Zohra's romance sounds like dreck. But then I'm not impartial, all romances sound drecky to me.
Homaira's sci fi is cast away on another planet following a spaceship crash. It sounds too much like plagiarism to me, stealing ideas from Survivor and similar shows.
Farzana's western defies belief, no killing. A Soviet type collective sheep ranch, complete with way too many committee meetings. I can envision John Wayne rolling over in his grave.
The others jump all over me for making my detective so dozy. I bow to group pressure, agree to make him male instead.
They want the perp not to be caught. At this, I rebel, somewhere there is a law that all perps must be caught, in books.
They agree it would be ok, if he chooses to shoot himself as the cops close in. I agree, it does give a neat sanitary ending.
On the way home, I reflect, not really a lot to change. Perp and victims remain the same, white males with this murky past in Europe. Just change gender of detective and start writing.
Still, it is ironic, the whole stated group purpose is to glorify Afghan women, not Afghans in general. So, since there are none in my book, it seems the height of pointlessness.
But as I sit at my desk, I enter an altered state. When involved in the story, my life fades away.
We had not agreed on names of main character, merely their traits. I could change names at whim. I'll pull a trick on the readers.
The names of perp and victims are a tease, pointing to the ending. So, each of them will have chosen to legally Anglicize his name after arrival in Canada.
The detective himself will be in the dark until an old Immigration file slaps him on the face.
Monday, I overhear East Indian, "you seem tense."
Afghan, "no **** Sherlock, I'm in big trouble."
"How so?"
"Secret or not, the parents insist and I mean insist fiancee comes for dinner at least once."
"What you gonna do?"
"Gimme time, I'll think of another alibi."
It's all I can do not to burst out laughing.
"So, how's things with Lata?"
"With all the hoohaw and delay, she's now spoken for. A doctor no less. I suspect he's mostly interested in her free secretarial work for that walk in clinic of his."
Both laugh.
Ruefully, Afghan, "wish I had your luck, not mine."
"I know, how to wiggle out."
"How??"
"You and I are the old style of gentleman. The law does not permit lethal duels, so we conducted a non-lethal one. Wrestling, best of three falls."
Afghan roars with laugher, "of course I lose, you winning the hand of Her Ladyship. But of course, that too is a secret."
In due course, I overhear that Afghan's parents bought it. No more pressure to produce me at the dinner table, merely generalized pressure to get married.
Next literary meeting produces one more change. They finally catch up to the idea that the whole site purpose is to glorify Afghan women; insist I change the detective back. Fortunately, not hard to do. I had kept him all cop, showing almost zero of the personal side.
The day I pass probation at work is a non-event. A month before, I was given the glowing performance appraisal.
The anniversary date triggers a problem. I have three weeks vacation. What exactly does a prisoner do with vacation time?
It's not an immediate concern, I can keep it in the bank for a year.
I ponder, should I take some of it on the novel? I soon deepsix the idea. Two of the three are making heavy water on the voyage. If I finish too fast, it makes them jealous and produces pressure to help them. Better to plod along.
Leafing through the calendar of Uni Extension, I soon see how to solve 1/3 of the problem. Only time I actually feel alive is caught up in my book's characters. Rest of the time, I feel like a polite little robot, acting out the role of nice girl.
So, there is a one week writing workshop during summer school. I phone, confirm there are spots open.
After work, I register. As my debit card causes the registration form to be printed, a change comes over me.
Now, I couldn't care less what the others do or think or say, it's just me and my characters.
I ask myself why I should react so. Would not Afghan characters resonate with me better? Probably not, I'd be too hung up on all the cultural taboos to present them honestly.
As to these whites, no such inhibitions. Quite frankly, I view both sides of the feud as utterly nuts. Makes me the perfect referee, treat them equally.
Now that I am in the zone, the story flies off my fingers, fast as I can type, 55 words per minute. I decline to be so wimpy as to let the perp merely shoot himself. He goes out in a blaze of glory, taking a few cops with him.
At our next meeting, they are stunned by my progress. The predictable happens, Farzana wants help with the western.
I lay down the law. You either cut the committee meetings in half and throw in at least a little gunplay or forget my help.
I'm surprised to hear she agrees. It's ok John Wayne, I'm getting her on the right track.
I spend all of Sunday at Farzana's house, in an effort to get the western rolling.
She looks at me incredulously, "why write about enemies? I'm writing about the ranch."
"Because you'll bore the reader to death. So choose. Rattlesnakes, cougars, wolves, Mexican bandit gangs, wild Indian tribes, the next ranch over, rustlers, the evil land-grabbing railway company, prairie fire, buffalo stampeding through. Any or all of the above."
"You mean, just invent things?"
I throttle the urge to throttle her, "that's what fiction is."
"Oh."
"And this ranch forewoman Nilofar. Come on, she's supposed to be tough. It's ok if she doesn't drink, but at least make her smoke."
"You think so?"
"Yes! Poker games, hard feelings, shootings."
"You're making it too American."
"What else would it be? It happened in the USA. It must at least partly mirror the American reality of the time or it's a flop."
"We-ell I don't know."
I draw a deep breath, call up my reserves of patience, "American cowboys viewed themselves as the roughest toughest hombres to ever walk Planet Earth, right?"
"Oh yes."
"Does not the Afghan woman view herself as the roughest toughest women to ever do so?"
I see comprehension. "Of course, to be convincing we must resemble them at least some."
"Bingo, the rest is easy, details. So?"
"Leave out the drinking, don't want to offend Afghan readers. Everything else, go for it."

Seema 2

The weekend news has all the sizzling details. A dozen naked men (including the Afghan but not East Indian) are arrested following a bathhouse brawl, pending charges. The police investigation shows it was fighting by consent, as opposed to assault and no serious injuries, so they lob the ball into the bathhouse's court. The men could be charged with disturbing the peace.
No property damage done, and not wishing to alienate paying customers, the bathhouse management offers the lads a way out: sign an apology and accept a two week suspension.
Not surprisingly, they agree. For the whites, just a big joke. For the Afghan, could be serious trouble.
What do I overhear Monday?
East Indian asks, "so how'd your parents take it?"
"Wiggled out neatly."
Loud gasp, "how???"
"Said I wasn't gay, just horny. Fiancee is a nice girl and won't put out, couldn't find any bad girls."
"They bought that?"
"Hook line and sinker."
East Indian gasps, "good looker like you could walk into a bar, line up a white chick inside five minutes. Your parents are totally out of it, no understanding at all."
"And thank the heavens for that."
"So who did you say this mystery fiancee was?"
"Seema. Reason we're keeping it secret is she's still on probation at work. That plus we need to save enough for the honeymoon. We're too proud to take that as a gift."
"They bought that? Agreed to keep it secret?"
"Yes."
"Why'd you pick her?"
"Who is less likely to announce a wedding and spoil my alibi? Better than naming a better looking Afghan girl."
"So what will you say when you do have enough saved?"
Laugh, "we just decided to save more, go somewhere more expensive."
Both laugh wickedly.
At this point, I would happily strangle both. However, reason prevails. I have not been publicly defamed, this is a secret between him and his parents.
Several days later, I run into his sister. She confidentially tells me he's gay (as if the whole city did not know) and suggests a book to read on the topic, The Other Side of the Closet.
I thank her for confiding, promise to do so.
I wait on tenterhooks. To my huge relief, no one in the Afghan community looks askance at me.
My brother has now been through four babysitters, all of whom eat everything in the fridge and invite boyfriend over. Suddenly the issue of what I might say to the children is irrelevant and I am asked to return. Truth is, I'm glad to go, an escape from the house.

Seema 1

(living in the shadows of others)

In wartime, the shortage of men compared to women is easy to explain. In peacetime, a little more difficult. After all, we start out equal at birth rates, so why? Many factors.
Consider driving, yes there are crazy women and sane men. Yet in any given year, more men will die gambling on the accelerator rather than brakes.
Or barroom stabbings.
Alcoholism, yes women are catching up, but men have a large lead.
Prison population.
Deaths in high-risk, high-wage industries.
Or social acceptance of adventure. Should a young man choose to hitchhike from Morocco to India, taking a year, smoking dope all the way, it is viewed as simply part of growing up. Not so for a woman. A certain fraction of these men will die enroute or become so enamored of the life that they simply never get around to coming back.
Gaydom - some commentators claim there are more gays than lesbians. Yet others assert numbers are about equal, but gaydom is hardwired into a man's brain, whereas lesbianism involves a number of complex issues.
I decline to further bore you with sociology. You do get the picture and that is for mainstream (ie white) people.
Should you happen to be a western Afghan raised in a traditional manner, the variables become a little more stark.
Son is off and running as he pleases, with little scrutiny and a large mathematical chance he will end up with a white girl.
Daughter is so over-protected she is viewed as more hassle than she is worth.
If you are more attractive than average, you may well defy the law of gravity.
If you're as unattractive as myself, well good luck.
Imagine a parental regime where you are only permitted out of the house after supper on weekdays when accompanying parents or going to the house of your older brother and his family. Same rules on weekends, so daytime Saturday and Sunday is your only chance to wander alone.
Oh yes, you think, she now speaks of Junior High years, of being grounded for some sin.
No, I'm a uni grad, fulltime employed, living with parents. It's routine life, not a punishment.
At first it was easy to tell myself that my job with the federal government involved a year of probation. Soon, that excuse wore thin. I started to get good feedback at work. As well, I saw considerably less energetic people routinely pass probation.
So, what is the main issue? Do I wish to rent an apartment and pick up guys? No, simply a Declaration of Independence, recognition that I really am an adult. I can and do vote, am a junior officer of the government. Surely I deserve a little more leeway.
However, I am western, view myself as an individual, the concept having been around the western world since the Renaissance. Parents view themselves as members of a clan. Scope for compromise is rather limited with views that far apart.
Any probing for more independence, gets me a deaf ear. They will not make the parental regime more user friendly. Yet at the same time, they would be hugely offended (and feel they had lost face) if I simply left and rented an apartment.
Don't count on promotion solving the problem, think five years of wait and then most likely the promotion in the same city.
Why not a lateral to another city? Easy to arrange if I pay moving costs. Too transparent, they would be just as angry. Only way they would buy that, if it involves a lateral to a function with more opportunity for development. But then, don't hold your breath, more qualified people would be getting those.
As I ponder these issues, brother raises the temperature. He's married to a white, has two children, forty pounds overweight, drinks, plays endless computer games and demands she do all the work.
Why does she put up with this? Maybe he's good in bed or maybe just the overall shortage of men.
I had been doing babysitting and for free. It comes as a rude shock when he informs me I talk "too Afghan" to the children. Henceforth, I will use only mainstream cultural references.
I tell him to stick it in his ear. Each of himself and his wife have lots higher salaries than myself. Should he wish a white babysitter, he can easily afford to hire one.
It felt nice saying that, but my world closed in further. After, only reason I went to his house was when parents went and took me.
It all hit the fan at the dinner celebrating his fifth anniversary. Parents had not really been scrutinizing him, more watching their jobs, portfolios and me. It came as a huge eye-opener to them seeing how western he was, and how little culture he was transmitting to the children.
Whether they challenged him later or not, I would not know. But now the microscope was more firmly focused upon me. I would be married, soon, to someone proper and I would not be like him.
Yet seeing him, would I wish to marry such? No.
The workplace lunchroom has several six foot high dividers, separating the easy chair area from the tables and chairs. I settle in with a copy of Chatelaine from the reading rack.
On the other side, two young men arrive, one Afghan, one East Indian. I don't see them, but recognize their distinctive voices. Both are part of the swinging gay bathhouse set.
Afghan asks, "so how'd the big showdown go with the parents?"
East Indian laughs, "they haven't a clue where all my time goes, think I'm out howling with women."
Both laugh wickedly.
East Indian continues, "you've met that silly Lata the parents are pushing?"
"Yeah."
"It is time, I must must must get married. And they're pushing her."
Afghan replies, "hold out for someone better looking."
"I'm actually thinking of marrying her."
Afghan gives a loud gasp.
"See anyone that ugly has no rights. No ability to leave, find another. **** her once in a while so she doesn't go totally berserk, but never when she would get pregnant. Resta the time, we-ell ..."
Both laugh wickedly.
East Indian continues, "if it works, I'll tell you how it's done. You get that silly Seema, she's up for grabs."
Afghan groans loudly, "the cure is worse than the disease, rather just have parental pressure. That thing is so ugly, I'd rather **** a camel."
Cheekily, "male or female?"
"Either, both, whatever it takes. But not something that ugly."
My coffee break over, I exit through the far door, so they can't see me.
I realize self-esteem is view of oneself. Good self-esteem can still be had even when the world says otherwise. But it is harder, lots harder and usually the world has been less rude than that.