The Geography of Bliss

tense moment at a checkpoint. “Ayn mushkala,” no
problem, your driver will assure you. Translation: big
problem. Very big problem.
“Eric,” says Abdulaziz, after hanging up. “What do you do
when a problem weighs so heavily on you, so heavily you
don’t know if you can keep on living What do you do”
The question throws me, makes me squirm in my seat. I
am touched that Abdulaziz has confided in me, given that
I’m not exactly a member of the tribe, not his tribe anyway.
But my other tribal affiliation is interfering with my humanity.
The tribe known as journalist. Like all tribes, this one has
strict, though unspoken, rules. Rule number one: Take freely
from the people you interview, consume their stories and
their pain, but never, ever give anything in return. Don’t give
money (that makes sense) and don’t give friendship or
advice either. Yet that is exactly what Abdulaziz is asking of
me now.
So I wing it. I decide to tell Abdulaziz a story. (My tribe
approves of stories.) As stories go, it is rather lame, and
I’m not even sure it relates to Abdulaziz’s question. But it’s
a start.
I was home listening to NPR when I heard a familiar
voice, a colleague who also works as a reporter for the
network. She had woven a small masterpiece. A story that
was pitch-perfect. My old nemesis, professional envy,
kicked in. God, I thought, her life is perfect. So together.
Everything is going swimmingly for her, while I am drowning
in a sea of irrelevance. I sent my friend an e-mail, telling her
how much I liked her story and adding, breezily, without a