I don’t know about you, but I always love a good story about how the U.S. government screws over its constituents. Turkmeniscam by Ken Silverstein (journalist and fellow Jew) promises such a story and delivers with style. The subtitle, “How Washington Lobbyists Fought to Flack for a Stalinist Dictatorship,” says it all.

The amount of corruption that Silverstein uncovers in the United States government is alarming.  He starts with the background of the fallout against Jack Abramoff and other lobbyists in the fall of 2006, and goes on to explore the ultrashady relationship between, specifically, international lobbyists willing to shill dictatorships for large amounts of money.

He writes,

When one flips through the pages of the [U.S. government's annual survey of global human rights in March 2007], it becomes apparent that many of the countries most severly criticized for human rights abuses had fon from the Bush administration foreign aid, military assistance, adn expanded trade opportunities.  A number of leaders from these countries have also won coveted White House visits, and accompanying photo ops with Bush or other senior officials.

This reaches back much further than the Bush administration, however, and lobbyists and legislators have become inextricably intertwined in government, bonded together by billions of dollars and mutual owed favors.

Silverstein offers several things from his book:  1) An explanation of how lobbying firms work and how they curry favor with the government 2) A history of how such activities come to be and, most fascinating, 3)an expose.  He infiltrates two very prestigious Washington, D.C. international lobbying firms, pretending to be a shadowy proxy company, The Maldon Group, which has geopolitical interests in Turkmenistan, a government renowned for its brutality. His goal is to get the groups to lobby and create favor for positive trade relations between Turkmenistan and the United States, without having the groups ask too many questions.

Some of my favorite descriptions of Turkmenistan by Silverstein, who clearly has done meticulous research in planning this book, are those of its past psycho dictator, Sapurmarat Niyazov:

When he was crowned as President-for-Life, Niyazov was presented with a white robe and a palm staff, traditional symbols of the Prophet Mohammed.  Not long afterward, he declared himself a “national prophet…

To spread his own pearls of personal and spiritual wsdom, Niyazov penned the Ruhnama, which was described on its official website as being “on par with the Bible and the Koran.”  Ruhnama is the veil of the Turkmen people’s face and soul, wrote Niyazov in the first chapter…..September was renamed Ruhnama under the Turkmenbashi, and Saturday was renamed the Day of the Mind, and henceforth was devoted to reading his masterwork.

What’s worse is that, aside from these comic incidents, Niyazov pretty much killed a bunch of people and made his personality cult worse than anything Stalin could have concocted.

Silverstein goes on to say that he would be able to pay $10 million, which gets him not only enormous exposure to Congressmen, who, plied by lobbying firm favors, would be more willing to also promote Turkmenistan, but to think tanks and jorunalists who might promote Turkmenistan in favorable, clearly-biased articles, purchased by money that goes around and around in government.

I’ll ruin the end for you and say that two lobbying firms agreed to represent him in his mission to bring Turkmenistan into a positive light, but the process of going through to research firms and how they prop up rouge governments is what is most important in this book. It’s a book that, like Confessions of an Economic Hitman, really opened my eyes to the way international wheeling and dealing, and the fact that those who lobby for dictatorial regimes justify their actions by saying they are no worse than lawyers who represent clients that may be guilty.

For those of you who live on another planet (or possibly not in Jewlandia in which case you are hereby pardoned,) Ivri Lider is a very popular Israeli musician.  Not only has he had more hits than Micahel Tyson, he has also publicly come out as gay and still remained successful and popular, which  is a tremendous accomplishment in the fickle world of showbusiness.

Thanks to the kind generosity of 16th Street JCC in DC, I scored two tickets to go see Ivri Lider at 9:30 Club.   Tanya went as my date, because you can never have too many Russian girls at an Ivri Lider concert. Also, we were outnumbered by Israelis. How do you know there are Israelis at any given concert? When the flyers outside specifically state that the artists requests you don’t take any pictures or video and as soon as the lights go off, you hear the sound of 10 Sony D-120s turn on and snap away. It was comforting to be in the presence of so many people blatantly breaking laws and social boundaries and strangers talking loudly into my ear. I felt like my internship in Tel Aviv all over again.

If you’ve read my Jewlicious post on Ivri, you’ll see the first two paragraphs regurgitated. Because I’m lazy.   What I really wanted to talk about here is the feeling I got when I went to concert.

Every day, I work, live, and play in America.  It’s hectic here, people are sometimes unfriendly, and the barista is under enormous pressure to get your order out in three seconds or be scolded.  America is a great place for opportunities, but cold, and at times, leaves you burnt out.   When you are at work,  your mind is constantly on deadlines, on brisk English, and on power lunches.

When you come to a concert for an Israeli artist,  something changes.  The mood softens, time slows down, and you see lots and lots of Israelis. And suddenly, you don’t feel like you’re in the United States anymore.  You feel like you’re on the Frishman beach, on a July night, and it’s sunset.  The music is far away, coming from a bar on the beach, and you are sitting in the sand with a hookah in one hand and a slice of watermelon in the other while techno pipes in from far away over the melting sun.  The tension fades away. People start talking in Hebrew and checking their cell phones, but it’s not a check for work email. A check to see that it’s 11:00 and it’s a summer night and their friends are just coming down to get the party started.

You are far away, floating on the Mediterranean, smelling the flowers, the salt by the tayelet, the hot, salty foods of the street vendors.  You are standing next to people who are a million miles away and a thousand times more relaxed, and you suddenly feel shy to practice the Hebrew you’ve been dying to use since three summers ago.

You forget for a moment all the issues you had in Israel, and you just viscerally feel the connection that you established to Israel the first time you went.  It’s like the connection you have with your husband.  You can’t really define it.  It’s just always there, enveloping you, a source of strength.

Then, the concert ends, and you are back to reality.   You feel a distinct sense of homesickness that you always feel when you think of Israel even though you’ve never lived there longer than two months, and, at the same time, the pain of guilt.  You’re not Israeli, you didn’t serve in the Army.  How can you love and visit Israel but, for long periods of time, support it from afar? You’re a hypocrite, an armchair Zionist. You struggle with these thoughts every day.  How can you be proud of the fact that you don’t do anything physical for Israel? You are always embarrassed to talk to Israelis who ask you how you know Hebrew.  “Oh, I interned in Israel for two months,” seems equivalent to “Oh, I gave food to hungry Africans by clicking on a website button.” You remain undecided, just like you do every day.

But then Ivri starts singing Kos HaKhula, and, for a moment, you forget about your monumental struggle  and you are back in the music.

Apologies for the sentimental musing.  I ran fresh out of sarcasm.  Come tomorrow for some more, please.

The Washington Post recently had a great article on reverse immigration, where immigrants to the United States go back to their home countries because of the hectic pace of life.  I wouldn’t call Africa the promise land, mostly because I am kind of scared of the HIV.  Also, I just like saying the HIV.  Even though, obviously, not everywhere in Africa has the HIV.  Only the populated parts have (the HIV).

The article states,

He wanted a healthier lifestyle for his family, less anxiety, fewer 14-hour days. So he recently traded his deluxe apartment, the pickup truck, the dishwasher and $4.99 McDonald’s combos for life in a place he considers relatively better: sub-Saharan Africa.

“Right now I’m no stress, no anxiety,” said Odhiambo, 34, relaxing in his family home in this western Kenyan city along the shores of Lake Victoria. “Think of it this way: When I was in the U.S., I was close to 300 pounds. Now, I’m like 200. The biggest thing for me was quality of life.”

It’s not certain whether Odhiambo weighs less because the quality of food in Africa is better than in the United States (a topic I lightly grazed in my recent post on Nutella,) or  because there is no food in Africa.   Either way, it seems like reverse immigration was a positive experience for this family.

Keeping up with experts in reverse immigration (and by experts, I just mean, Neo Indian, who writes about living again in India and eating mangoes at the rate of 5 per day,) I surmise that this process is close to impossible for most.

Reverse immigration is hard, mostly because of the reverse culture shock you experience that validates the saying, “You can never go home again.”  My main citations for this experience is A) My parents’ recollections of their visits to Russia versus the nostalgia they always describe about the country and B) My own experiences going back to Russia, where, in an effort to nostalgically return to the apartment building we used to live in,  I was almost bitten by wild/stray dogs.

In the spirit of thinking about going back to mother countries, here is a list of things my parents regularly announce that they would not be able to live with if they had to go back to Russia.  They play this hypothetical game quite often, as if NKVD agents are already at their door and telling them to pack their suitcases.  They are usually very gleeful and smug when they play this game.

• The constant red tape and the bribery
• The cover that all businesses have to pay to the Mafia to keep going
• The fact that I would not be able to have as many opportunities for education
• The public bathrooms
• The use of the sides of public buildings as public bathrooms

and, for my mom, the bonus round:

• the anti-Semitism

Returning is always different, but unfortunately for this economist, it’s not something that can be quantified.  It’s the different feel of a courtyard, the way the walls look smaller, and the way the food doesn’t taste as sharp.  I’ve been thinking about reverse immigration in the context of this article, and the best  way to describe, at least in terms of returning to Russia,  it is via Est/Ouest, one of my favorite movies, where a Russian emigre from Paris heeds Stalin’s call for Russians to repatriate and rebuild the mother country.  As can be expected, everyone is screwed over, and there is death.  Death is a favorite theme for Russians.   Unfortunately, this Russian death/screwing over takes place only in French in the Youtube because I couldn’t find one with English subtitles.  Apologies in advance.

One of the comments on the You Tube video is also accurate,

welcome to the motherland….Biaaach! *bang!*

This week, I had lunch at the World Bank. It was AWESOME.

Since I love international politics, international economics, and pretty much international anything (international Nutella), me going to lunch at the World Bank is like a hypochondriac being invited to tour the Centers for Disease Control.

From the moment I set foot in the door, I instantly forgot about the concern and criticism surrounding the effectiveness of the Bank’s programs (found here, here, and here.)  I was in awe.  There was artwork from around the world.  You could go to different lectures, about Iraq or water security, or any other international development topic you could think of.  People walked around in both suits and kimonos.  (Well, ok, not kimonos, but they were dressed pretty awesome-ly.)

Near the courtyard in the middle is a fountain (but no Oompa Loompas)

Not only was the building gorgeous, but the thrill of being surrounded by so many people doing so many different things in the realm of international economics was very exciting, not only on a personal, but also on a professional level.  Even though D.C. is the best place to build your career if you are trying to be an international economic expert, I should admit I haven’t tried my hardest to network and join the community, the biggest reason being that it might be possible for me to move to Philadelphia in the (near?) future, reducing that opportunity and severing ties significantly.  A dilemma I always have is whether I should work on building my network here and now given that I might not be here to leverage it in the future.

Beautiful hallway with paintings along it

Although I couldn’t help thinking that the building and all of the artwork was paid for partly with American tax dollars, it was a real  treat. The sushi was delicious, too.

Blurry pictures don't do it justice

I’m going to have to come back to further investigate.  The sushi situation.

This sushi massacre clearly deserves the implementation of economic sanctions.

Nutella is my crack.  I like to run laps just so I can eat Nutella.  I’m a slave to the hazelnut.  So, when I was eating Nutella out of the jar with a butter knife, shamelessly  the other day, I noticed something.  Take a look.  Do you see it?

No, it’s not the fact that I hoard Nutella jars like a crackhead.

One of the jars, I bought in an American grocery store, made for the American market and one of the jars I bought in a Russian grocery store, made for the Polish market but for some reason being sold in Northeast Philadelphia.  Do you see the difference? Can you guess which is which?

Yup, the European one is much smaller.   Figures.  But why?  Everyone knows French women don’t get fat. Why can’t we have the same serving sizes in the United States?  Is it a combination of culture plus some sort of economic benefits of economies of scale of producing larger jars of Nutella?   Is it because Europe itself is smaller, lending to smaller houses and smaller portion sizes?

Leave your thoughts in the comments.