Media Relations Department of Hizbollah Wishes You a Happy Birthday

First off, this book isn't what I expected - based on the title. Based on the title, I expected it to be significantly lighter and more comical. I mean, who gets a birthday card from Hizbollah?

However, this book is in fact better than a bit of comedy fluff about the Middle East. It is a detailed, in depth look at the culture, the people and the religion of a huge array of countries - Libya, Egypt, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Jordan, Yemen, Bahrain & Morocco. It is also part biography - covering the authors years in Libya, and then comparisons with his return there as a journalist.

The author grew up in an American oil compound in Libya, and returned later to spend thirteen years as a foreign correspondent for the Associated Press and the New York Times. Thirteen years is a lot for a region as volatile as the Middle East, in countries where digging deep into stories, and poking around in politics and religion can be dangerous.

A cast of many characters in this book, no doubt protected by changed names, tell stories of their lives. This isn't a book that sets out to demonise, or even over analyse Islam, but that is an inevitable outcome when explaining the problems of the Middle East.

The chapters are arranged around themes, and the location and timeframe jump around to sit within the theme. This works well for staying on topic, but means the reader needs to pay attention so as not to miss a location change or a jump back or forwards in time.

There were some amusing parts - the ludicrous Qadhafi, and his bizarre rulings, the Hizbollah birthday card, and some other well crafted anecdotes, such as: (P85)
The difference between formal Arabic and the spoken variety is often compared to the vast difference between Shakespearean English and the various dialects now used in English speaking nations around the world. When I first arrived in Cairo in 1982, fresh from studying Arabic for a couple of years at Stanford and UC Berkeley, I stepped into a cab in the controlled bedlam outside the arrivals hall at Cairo International Airport and tried to use my formal Arabic to give the driver directions. “Ureedu an ath-habu ila al-funduki,” I said. That was more of less the equivalent of grabbing a taxi at JFK and saying “Prithee good man, wouldst thou covey me to yonder hostelry.” Naturally the cab driver turned around with a blank look on his face and said in Egyptian accent that I would later come to learn, “What are you speaking my brother?”

And P239:
... Even in a demonstration about reform the traditional pecking order held. First came the men, followed by a couple of hundred women, mostly invisible behind their black sacking. Behind them, a knot of Asian labours in bright yellow uniforms brought up the rear, collecting the empty water bottles and other trash dropped by the marchers. That scene captured the dilemma of the rich Gulf nations in a microcosm. The demonstrators were protecting unemployment, but not one would be willing to take the menial jobs filled by South Asians. Women were always stuck in limbo.

Unfortunately, these moments of light relief were too few and far between. I found this book pretty tough going, needing to pick it up for a chapter of two, then read something else for a while. It was heavy and in depth. The writing was accurate, and described the problems, the events, the people and the culture well, but it was very level writing. As another reviewer pointed out, it has no cadence, no ups and downs in pace. It needed to build to and outcome more to maintain interest.

So for me it was between three and four stars. Rounded up to four.