Fear, Uncertainty and Doubt 9.11 (back story)

(Editor's note - this was originally written in late 2001 while in Andalucia and posted June 2005 in Travel Tales. Now recycled for Blog Slog. An expanded Eclectic Audio version, #4, is available. It also forms a seminal section in A Century Is Nothing, a novel, referencing 9/11.)

In the Sahara desert distanced from death, destruction, chaos, sirens, heavy equipment and funerals a day after 9.11, he suggested to Ahmed, a Tuareg Berber in Morocco, it was about poverty and economics.

Ahmed understood, being conditioned to survival, weekly markets, bartering, trade and getting the best possible price.

“A person cannot drink or eat more than they need,” he said. It was about hospitality.

He was talking about 90% of his population. People sitting around with nothing to do. Five million of them making less than $1.00 a day. Nine people worked to support 13. Only 8.9% of his population worked.

Tuareg nomads migrated from Mali, Southern Algeria and Mauritania. Prior to 1956 there were 6 million Tuareg on 9 million square kilometers of desert. Before borders when no government controlled their movement. Now there are 7-10,000 internally displaced Tuaregs in the Sahara Occidental.

“Your enemy is my friend,“ he said.

His people conquered and ruled Spain for centuries. It was nothing new then, this shifting dynamic, just a little different technology.

Ahmed had seen planes fly over the desert. He watched the odd television image which he considered fascinating yet boring compared to real human conversation. He considered television the most insane invention of all time, which covered a lot of inventions. It had nothing to do with reality.

After that desperate act of violence stories developed themselves, like cultures in petri dishes multiplying and creating their own destiny, their own language, art, music, design, architecture, historical futures. They took on new identities.

“Buy low and sell high,” whispered Ahmed. Sand shifted beneath our feet and the sky was blue.

“I see what you mean,” looking from sand to sky.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s not really now all that difficult. Never has been.” He was a man of few words.
We contemplated the vast silent emptiness.

“No language, no culture,” Ahmed sang as we sat on a dune watching shooting stars play celestial tag.

He imagined strange but true elements of fear, double-edged messages, disinformation, misinformation, bias, lies, half-truths, whispers, paranoia, and irrational transmissions were being issued by philistine government authorities in every language on a spinning rock in space. Human brains overflowed with data.

He was blessed by not taking possession of that unfortunate event. He meditated on the sand dune as therapy in various forms, in triplicate, were issued to the populace. Their remote control device was broken. Too many channels.

He took deep breaths seeing peaceful people chewing, swallowing and digesting daily distributed high concentrated dosage of wisdom, clarity, and insight. They maintained a healthy distance, balance, harmony and forgiveness with spirit.

He heard scholars educated at elitist universities and institutes of erudite study speaking Latin and telling stories about the rise and fall of civilizations. Old stories written well before their time with hieroglyphics and cave pain paintings. Caves were full of survivors. Candles sales were brisk. “A tisket a tasket we need a casket,” sang multi-lingual children.

He envisaged historians, political scientists, talk show experts, taxi drivers, fortune tellers, beauticians and morticians taking calls on their hotline. The number of callers increased exponentially. Suicide search and rescue teams were put on alert. Citizens packed hospital emergency rooms. Medical schools increased graduation classes to meet the growing manufactured need. Demand outstripped supply when it came down to fear and consumption.

“What happens when they run out of security control programs?” every child asked their mother. She was the mother of all answers.

“Don’t worry my sweet,” said the fraught and anxious neurotic mother living her worst nightmare, “they’ll invent something new and improved. The manufacturing sector will rebound when the shelves are empty. We’ll always have sugar and we can always go shopping.”

“How long will that take?” wondered the kid.

“Hard to say,” mom said. “Could be we won’t live to see it.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“There is only F.U.D.,” said her mother twisting her hair until it caught fire.

“What is F.U.D. mother?”

“Fear, uncertainty and doubt. Been with us a long time and now it’s back with a vengeance.”

“How long?”

“You ask too many questions child,” said her mother fanning her daughter’s flame. “A long time. A century is nothing.”

“It’s good to know some things,” said the girl.

“A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. I’ve already told you a lot.”

“Tell me the truth,” mother. “I want to know the truth.”

“The truth is,” she said, “it’s all an absurd lie. Our insecurities and authenticities are evolving. Life is a celebration. It is beautiful, harsh and short, a dream. It is infused with magic. There’s no rhyme or reason. It’s about peace in your heart and community. Inhale the suffering and exhale the healing.”

“May we go out and play now?” said her daughter. “May we take the day off dear mother and be creative?”

“Yes, let’s invent a game my sweet daughter,” sighed her mother and they went out. Into the world.