DEDICATION
TO MY DAUGHTER, NADIA—YOU ARE A VERY HARD
ACT TO FOLLOW. MY UNBORN CHILDREN WILL HAVE
TO COME UP WITH UNTHINKABLE FEATS JUST TO
MATCH YOUR LEVEL OF AWESOMENESS.
TO MY WIFE—I KNOW YOU DIDN’T EXPECT THIS
KIND OF MARRIAGE OR LIFE, BUT HEY . . . NOT A
DULL MOMENT, BABE. WITHOUT YOUR PATIENCE,
RESILIENCE, AND SUPPORT I WOULDN’T HAVE
AMOUNTED TO ANYTHING.
TO MY OLDER BROTHER AND MY FRIEND, TAMER
YOUSSEF—YOU ARE ALL THAT IS LEFT AFTER OUR
PARENTS DEPARTED THIS WORLD. YOU ARE ALL
THAT REMAINS OF AN EGYPT I ONCE KNEW.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note (or Why Did I Buy This Book Again?)
PART ONE: A HEART SURGEON BREAKING BAD Exodus on Emirates Airlines
Close Encounters with a Revolution
Super-Digitize Me
The Sex Orgy Revolution
English as a Criminal Language
America: We Love to Hate You
The Day the Revolution Ended (Part 1)
The Day the Revolution Ended (Part 2, or Why We Should All Fucking Leave and Go to Canada)
Hi, Mom! I’m on TV!
Dressed for Success
Welcome to Kandahar
Islam Is Coming!
The Halal Parliament
Only God “Nose” (or How I Blew My Salafi Nose Off)
A League of Extraordinary Jerks
Give Us Your Money and Get the Hell Out
A Good Christian Doesn’t Revolt
Bra and the City
An Impossible Proposal
Enter the Stewart
Well . . . Islam Came After All
A Movie That Really “Bombed”
It Takes Eighty-Two to Tango
My Big Day (or How Great Shows Come with Greater Insults)
PART TWO: RISKY BUSINESS Condoms, Alcohol, and Rock and Roll
The Curious Case of Abu Ismail
Prostituting an Ancient Civilization
How to Interrogate a Joker
It’s All Downhill from Here
Jon Versus the Pyramids
Laughing Our Way to Disaster
A Coup with Popular Demand
Mommy Issues
PART THREE: THE CLOWN, THE TRAITOR, THE OUTCAST W.W.J.D.? (What Would Jon Do?)
A Long-Awaited Visit
Piss the Nation
The Morning After
Between Two Networks
Shitting My Pants with Bob Simon
The Puppet That Rocked the World
The Super-Candidate
We’ve Got AIDS!!!
I-Listen
Pulling the Plug
A Farewell to Arms
A Toxic Brand
To Flee or Not to Flee
Watching the Craziness from a Distance
My Own Little Curse
We Are Sorry, We Want You Back
America: A Different Kind of Crazy
Do Revolutions Really Work?
The Middle East Does Not Have Nine Lives
Acknowledgments
Photos
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
AUTHOR’S NOTE
(or Why Did I Buy This Book Again?)
You might expect me to narrate the epic events of the Arab Spring—to tell you the details of the geopolitical and sociological circumstances (whatever that means) that led to the various Arab revolutions throughout the Middle East, and the great hopes and aspirations that came with them. You might expect me to give you an in-depth analysis of how everything there now seems to be a total desperate mess. But do you really care about that? Be honest, don’t you just want to make it seem like you understand the Middle East by dropping knowledge bombs (at least these don’t hurt) on your friends, but you’d rather hear it from that Egyptian guy you saw a couple of times on The Daily Show? I mean, even people from my country stopped caring a long time ago about why we are a shitshow. For us in the Middle East, injustice, oppression, and the insanity of justifying them are now just an integral part of our government-sponsored daily news; nothing surprises us anymore. We have somehow embraced the failure, disappointment, and futility of what everything has become, the same way you guys embrace PBS: you don’t know why it’s still on the air, but somehow you’ve all accepted it.
Plus, if you really wanted to get an objective, in-depth study about what the hell is happening in the Middle East, you’d go get a book published by some wonky think tank in Washington. There are dozens of these books claiming they’ve got the “answer” for what the hell is happening there . . . yet the Middle East is still a big mess. So either no one is reading these books or even heavily funded policy institutions don’t know jack shit about us. So let me give you some advice. If you think you are ever going to truly understand what is happening in the Middle East . . . stop!
Instead of giving you some underwhelming history lesson, I’m going to tell you my story—what happened to me while the revolution occurred and my unexpected role within it. Yeah, sure, “my story” makes me sound important, but really it is just a ploy to keep you interested! Hell, you might think I’m an arrogant son of a bitch for thinking that people would buy a book just to hear “my story,” and you are right; who the fuck do I think I am? But then again, you’re the same country that published and bought biographies about Paris Hilton and Heidi Montag. Hell, even Fabio wrote a fucking book. So if you’re looking to read about fake boobs, sex tapes, or a man with long blond hair who half-nakedly rides a horse—then you’re right—you won’t care about my story.
But the problem is I have already received an advance from the publisher (which I’ve already spent), so either I come up with a book or hustle my way through paying back the advance. And since I can’t really escape the publisher by fleeing back to my country, from which I had to escape more than two years ago (more on that later!), I might as well write the goddamn book.
How my story is not already in development to be an awards-season darling is beyond me. Picture this: an Arab man (played by Javier Bardem with an accent because, you know, Hollywood’s diversity problem) grows up to save a few lives as a heart surgeon, but when a whole region experiences the biggest clusterfuck in its history, he saves the whole nation with his jokes. The writers may have to take some liberties in order to write a happy ending and appeal to an American audience, but enjoy your second Oscar, Javier.
However, the movie has yet to be made, so you’re just going to have to read this book. Through it you will see how ignorance, xenophobia, racism, and everything that Donald Trump stands for can transcend borders, cultures, and religions. You will find how easy it is to brainwash masses of people, however well informed they think they are, without the funding of Fox News, the pure hatred that is Ann Coulter, or the Bible. After the fame and the short-lived celebrity life I had in Egypt, my story is all I have left. So consider me your companion for the next seventy thousand words (yes, that’s the minimum the publisher asked for). If you’re lucky, reading this book may incite an interesting conversation (or fight!) at a bar. In certain parts of the country, I bet you’ll look and sound exotic (i.e., “un-American”) reading a short history of the Arab Spring through the eyes of the “Jon Stewart of Egypt.” If you are liberal, you will attract other liberals—you know, being interested in the matters of the world and shit. If you’re really lucky, you might even get laid tonight by some hot chick! (If you are a woman, that last sentence is totally sexist and was planted there by my ed
itor.) And if you are a Republican, well . . . I’m sorry! That must be really tough for you.
Most books about the Arab Spring start on January 25, 2011, when the Egyptian Revolution officially began. It’s the logical jumping-off point, and trust me, we will get there. But remember, this book is also about me, and I’m the one writing it . . . so let’s jump forward a couple of years and start with something to really grab you, like the time I was trying to flee from my own country, to become an ex–funny man, a fugitive on the run.
PART ONE
A HEART SURGEON BREAKING BAD
EXODUS ON EMIRATES AIRLINES
NOVEMBER 11, 2014
Cairo doesn’t have any traffic lights. Well, it really does, but the streets are regulated by the sheer volume of vehicles chugging through its lanes, all trying to get somewhere while getting nowhere. This is how you know you are in an Arab country: you are either stuck in a revolution or in traffic. Egypt has the distinction of having both.
On November 11, stalled in that same notorious traffic, I was dead silent. I kept refreshing my Twitter feed, noting that the news of the verdict against me had yet to break.
Abbas, my friend who was accompanying me, asked if I was doing okay. I mumbled that I was fine.
As the chaos of the streets reeled around me, I looked outside the window and saw an old billboard with my face on it. Not many months ago this face was on almost every billboard in every main street in Cairo—the face of the most popular show in Egypt and the Arab world.
Tarek, my friend in Dubai, kept calling Abbas’s phone to get updates on our status.
“We haven’t arrived at the airport yet,” Abbas answered. “Yes, Emirates airlines’ flight is on time. Will tell you when we pass the customs check.”
Tarek had escaped Egypt a year before me. Never did I think I would be following in his footsteps and running from the same country that voted me the “most popular media personality” three years in a row. What’s a popularity contest worth if it doesn’t offer immunity from political exile?
“Do you think they’ll let me travel?” I asked Abbas in a low voice so the driver wouldn’t hear. “Or do you think they’ve already put me on a no-fly list?”
“Don’t worry, everything will be fine,” he said.
Both of us knew these were just empty words to comfort me. Many of the other journalists and activists in Egypt had already been banned from traveling. The question was, whose time was next?
We finally arrived at the airport, and I unloaded my two bags on the street. It was all I could hastily pack in ninety minutes. I looked at the airport building, then back to Cairo’s skyline. I wondered if this would be the last time I set eyes on it.
How did it come to this? Why did I have to flee, while tyrants and thieves got to stay? I didn’t steal, didn’t abuse my powers, and certainly didn’t hurt anyone. All I did was tell jokes.
I wheeled my bags through the terminal and then peeked at my boarding ticket.
Destination: Dubai.
Destiny: Unknown.
CLOSE ENCOUNTERS WITH A REVOLUTION
We live in an era of instant gratification in which we crave meaningless recognition: “shares” of our inflated achievements on Facebook, retweets of our 140 characters of fake wisdom on Twitter, and “likes” for the stupid photos of meals we are about to eat (and will inevitably shit out thirty-six hours later) on Instagram.
Instant gratification may be achieved from social media, but it really doesn’t work the same way for revolutions. Imagine a revolution succeeding just because of the sheer number of shares, likes, or retweets. Wouldn’t that be something?
On January 25, 2011, the Egyptian Revolution started. On February 11, 2011, Hosni Mubarak, the thirty-year dictator, stepped down.
Wait! Who the fuck is Hosni Mubarak? And isn’t Egypt in Africa? Why the hell did you need an Arab Spring in Africa?
I know I said I wasn’t going to give you a second-rate history lesson on the Middle East, but I’ve got to catch you up to speed at least a little bit. For many Americans, Egypt, Muslim, Arabs, Africa might not fit in the same sentence. The thing is, we are all that. (And much more, baby!)
Yeah, sure, our ancestors built the pyramids, and I know you’ve seen our pharaohs and gods make appearances in some of your blockbuster movies. Like when Australian actor Joel Edgerton was the obvious choice for Rameses II in that terrible movie Exodus: Gods and Kings. Or how about when Scottish actor Gerard Butler played Set (deity of chaos and war) in that piece of crap Gods of Egypt? The parade of moviemaking garbage goes on and on. Not to mention, we rarely even get credit for the amazing monuments our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-(you get the picture)-great-grandparents left behind. Typically, that glory goes either to the Jews or a bunch of aliens. But then when I see what decades of dictatorships have done to my country I say to myself, You know, maybe it wasn’t us! We are the African nation who thought it could do better but ended up doing nothing.
We don’t speak “Egyptian” just like you don’t speak “American.” We are an Islamic country that speaks Arabic. And although we are a Muslim country, we do have a small population of Christians—so you can just think of us as a reverse United States, religion-wise. Also worth noting: we don’t ride camels to work and our women aren’t all belly dancers. A disappointment, I know.
Politically, we’ve gone from pharaohs to khedives (whatever the hell that means) to presidents. By the time we reached 2011, Hosni Mubarak was a third-generation president, essentially meaning he was the third president of Egypt since Egypt started a love affair with military regimes. Calling it a love affair is being generous, though, as it is more of a domestic abuse situation in which the wife is battered, bruised, and brainwashed into thinking that her husband “really loves her.”
And it only took eighteen days to kick to the curb the dictator who ruled us for thirty years. Thirty years—also known in the Middle East as a “short first term”—was the life expectancy of our leaders in the Middle East.
You might find it strange or unusual but isn’t that better than what we see in a backward Western democracy like the United States? You guys spent over $5 billion this past election just to get a president for four years? That’s like throwing a massive new wedding for your spoiled-brat daughter every four years because she keeps marrying and divorcing rat-schmucks like Ted Cruz and Chris Christie. You really need to revisit how democracy should work, guys. I mean, after all this money-spending you wound up with Donald Trump.
In the Middle East assholes come for free.
You see, in the Arab world we need to make long-term plans, and we can’t just change them every four years because of the uncertainty of something trivial like elections! We have to plan ahead for our vacations, commitments, and jail time. Your democracy won’t really cut it for us. Plus, you got Trump as president, so you’re really not in a postion to mock our “democracy” or our “choices” (even if we don’t have any) of horrible leaders.
So back to us: we had an eighteen-day revolution and believed it worked. But no revolution really happens in eighteen days. Revolutions are like bloody, agony-inducing roller coasters that often end in fiery crashes of epic failure. So it seems we had the luxury of a short-term glory, but would spend the following five years paying our debt.
I often get pissed when I see some American talk shows discuss how “disappointed” they are that our revolution of eighteen days didn’t work. This breed of Americans thinks that your Revolutionary War took the same time it took to shoot the movie The Patriot.
Prior to our revolution, I wasn’t an activist or remotely involved in any kind of politics. I was a heart surgeon. Let that sink in: I used to cut open people’s chests for a living.
By 2010, I had finished all my American medical-license exams and was desperately looking for a way out to work in the U.S. Honestly, I never really liked being a doctor. It was just a great line to open a conversation with a hot chick. The conversation usually di
dn’t go anywhere because I sucked at talking to women, but as a doctor you get the added benefit of talking to women without them answering back while they are under anesthesia. Sick, I know!
I had my fantasies of becoming a worldwide star, maybe an actor. By some miracle I would win an Oscar and marry Jennifer Aniston in the process. But since there was no clear path on how to get there, I did the next best thing and became a nerd.
You see, I come from a typical middle-class family. My father was a judge, my mom was a university professor, and my older brother was an engineer. Having a son as a doctor or an engineer is a coveted social status. Since I hated numbers and biology made more sense to me, I went to medical school to complete the family portrait. Now my mother could brag about “my son the doctor and my other son the engineer.” I know! We almost sounded like a Jewish family!
Even though I didn’t like medicine, I tried to make the best of it. But working as a doctor in Egypt, in its ever-failing, underfunded, good-for-nothing health-care system, puts a lot of pressure on you. I thought if I could work as a doctor in a different country I would at least feel better about what I did. So I put my nerd power into overdrive and passed every single possible exam to get the hell out of there. I finally found an opening in Cleveland. I was excited that this might be my way out. Nothing can tell you how desperate I was to get out of the country like my getting pumped about going to Cleveland. Basically, the way I felt about Egypt was the same way LeBron James felt about Cleveland when he moved to Miami. One man’s Cleveland is another man’s Miami.
Before 2011, I was politically apathetic. This is a normal feeling after having lived with the same president for thirty years. We were even waiting for Mubarak, the ailing dictator, to push his son into his place. It was something like the Bush and Clinton dynasties but without elections, transparency, competition, accountability, or . . . anything. If an Arab president decides his son is the next president, you can object, but it won’t change anything. As a matter of fact, the dictator can be dead already and the powers that be will bring his son from London, change the constitution since the son is younger than the required age, and usher him into the presidency. That exact sequence happened in Syria with Bashar al-Assad, so why not with us?
Revolution for Dummies Page 1
