Public Sector Employees are not Volunteers

I miss the days I could greedily absorb news site after news site but the great irony of being in j-school is that I read less news than  I did when I had a 9 to 5 desk job. Or maybe I read more sources and have less time to actually peruse websites.

I set up a Google Alert for fed-prov relations news and an opinion piece from the National Post showed up,  "A Wage Cut for Alberta's Future."

After living in Alberta for two years it has a special place in my heart that these types of headlines target.

The gist of the article is that public sector employees in Alberta - including public servants, teachers, nurses and doctors - get paid way too much as compared to counterparts across the country.

As a former public service employee, I was really troubled by the content of the piece as well as its conclusion that Alberta will have to make cuts and spend less on its public sector employees:

"If Alberta does not want a repeat of those tough times, it needs to control public workers' wages now."

Photo: Courtesy of Flickr user Natasha Moorfield

 Public spending means WAY more than simply public sector salaries. There is also the revenue side - who the province collects money from and how often. But that could be the subject of a whole series of posts.

I have a problem with problematizing well-paid public sector employees.

These quotes (among others), show the deep failure in logic:

"Senior provincial bureaucrats bring home salaries as good as or better than their federal counterparts, even though they are administering a jurisdiction only about one-tenth as large as the country as a whole."

A federal bureaucrat does not go to their job every day and take care of business across this whole nation - they have a specific role within the organization. Just because you work for a multi-national corporation doesn't mean you should get paid more than working for a local business because the assumption is you work simultanously in all those countries.

"For every new dollar Alberta has brought in - nearly $11-billion extra a year - 95¢ has gone into the pockets of civil servants and other public-sector workers."

What is the baseline number that is being worked with and where did that money go? If $11 billion is the new money, I bet there are way more dollar bills in the baseline.

Beyond this - public sector workers do the WORK. It shouldn't be surprising that a significant amount of the public sector budget goes to the people who run our hospitals, teach our children and work to enhance our quality of life.

"Most of the extremely generous public-sector wage and fee agreements that have led to this explosion in pay were signed by the current Tory government in the name of securing labour peace and at a time when the government was awash in resource revenue."

The piece repeatedly alludes to fat cats and agreements made during the province's heyday. It fails to mention the negotiation failure to put in a collective agreement with Alberta Union of Public Employees working within the Alberta government's program and services.

Negotiations failed in September 2010 and an agreement was not voted upon by it's membership until April 2011. This was after a health benefit was suspended and cost-of-living increases were frozen as a result of the stalled agreement.

The agreement in the end was fair but the delay was a frustration for many. It certainly wasn't negotiated with a government willing to write a blank cheque.

I am just sick of the unsophisticated attacks on public sector employees using basic numbers and comparisons. There are LOTS of stories journalists can go after within the public service - some of them may even be positive (gasp!).  A little bit of research, reading and FOIing may do journalists a great service.

One of the reasons I went into the field is to tell government stories and focus on policies and not politics. I hope I last in this field.

But back on topic, at the end of the day: Do you want a public sector worker that is happy and feels recognized and compensated for their work, or some one that is looking for a job in the private sector that will help them meet their financial needs?

Public sector workers should not have to be martyrs just because they choose to devote their lives to public service. 

Instead of advocating to punish them we should be advocating for Alberta's provincial and federal counterparts to up the ante and do the same for their public sector employees.

Something new

About a year and a half ago I started writing a novel. When I will finish writing a novel is a whole other question. Might be a good time to start a pool. 

I feel quite nervous putting something so deeply personal out here in cyberspace, but if I ever actually want to publish fiction I guess that means I have to let people read it. Thoughts and comments are more than welcome. 

So here is an excerpt from the very first chapter ... here it goes ... and I will muster up the courage to paste the contents of it ... now!

Karachi moved beneath me and moved me along with it. Its warmth grew everyday. It seemed to liquefy every object within its jurisdiction. It stuck to you, and sucked you into its orderly chaos. It was this sticky heat that seemed to have consumed all my thoughts. My thoughts fell out of my ears and once the chaos stopped for a few minutes, all I had was scribbles and giggles.

I confidently started to write “the” on a clean page hoping it would inspire a sentence to follow when my bedroom door swung open.[1]

“Chai[2] time?” 

John stood in the doorway, somehow looking fresh as ever in a white tee and jeans faded the perfect amount to be considered cool. I quickly glanced down at my own appearance: a baggy linen shirt and tights. My dark brown hair defied gravity, as if I was consciously trying to get my waves to reach out to the world when in reality I merely stopped fighting the humidity. Along with my hair straightener, make-up also ceased to be a friend. Most of my lipsticks created a beautiful earth tone at the bottom of my make-up bag once they melted.  I felt too gross to consider that I might actually look cool.[3]

“JOHN! How many times have I told you? Common space is fine to pester me in but knock before entering my private space.  Helloooo I’m a woman, living in a house with boys I never chose to live with is bad enough let alone you-“

He interrupted my rant, “You are setting women back with your ‘I-am a-woman-treat-me-like-a-flower’ talk while you are writing away about elevating the status of women in this society through following a path of sustainable economic development.”

I thought about this for a minute. I hated John for challenging every little thing I said and contorting my words into opinions that went against those beliefs that lived at my very core – otherwise known as my unwritten thesis.

“Let’s just have chai.  You can sort your curiously contradictory ways later.”

I followed John into the kitchen where he made chai. Somehow as an American living in Karachi for three years he learned how to make chai better than me, a self-proclaimed Pakistani that rarely tagged on the Canadian bit unless I needed a visa for some place controversial.

“How’s your work coming along?” John asked as we sat in the only common area in the house. It was a long room with stark white walls and a few colourful paintings done by street artists the four of us living in the house pitched in money to get framed.  John and I each took seats at the unnecessarily ornate dining table.

I put a finger to my lips and shook my head vigorously. John understood this type of day. Just last week he went on a rampage while reviewing the first two chapters of his work. His entire six foot being stomped around the house like a madman tearing up each page in exactly eight pieces.[4]

His green eyes moved about as though he was physically searching for something to talk about when finally they lit up. “Want to watch the test match? Starts in an hour.”

I let out a deep sigh. No matter how many times I tried to explain to John, he never quite digested that just because I was Pakistani didn’t mean I pledged allegiance to the one thing all Pakistanis could actually agree upon – their cricket team. In fact, I didn’t even understand cricket. I watched snippets of matches when I was younger with my father mostly when I thought there was a crush-worthy player on either team. I did not discriminate.

“Samar, you have to immerse yourself in your environment. I am aware you don’t enjoy cricket, but view it as part of your research. Be one with your own!”

His eyes were wide and had sparkle in them as though he was Martin Luther King delivering his “I have a dream” speech.

“I have been the culture since landing. I eat all the same food, I shop at all the same markets. I go to women’s shelters, hospitals, orphanages, government offices, aid agencies and transform clients into human voices. That is my work.” I snorted, “John, you think your lens becomes more genuine because you’re one with the people watching cricket? You don’t see the neo-colonial relationships you create, the way people follow your every step, never missing an opportunity to call you sahib.” I played the race card. It was cruel but needed to be done to shut him up.

“Listen miss-I-think-my-skin-colour-legitimizes-me-” Thankfully I was saved from his impending monologue by a banging on the gate door. John shot me a nervous look.

“Well, go on. I am just a simple, defenseless woman afterall.” I batted my eyelashes to annoy him even further.

I slipped up the stairs as I saw John lead a man into our academic haven that also happened to be our residence. I placed myself strategically in the hallway to be able to view the visitor without being seen. He was talking to John and dressed in a khaki-coloured shalwar kurta. Perhaps this visitor was one of John’s many local friends that he collected to prove he was truly keeping it real. For a moment, the visitor turned around as though he knew I was standing just up the stairs and I caught sight of his face.

Perfectly symmetrical.

---

[1] Had I not been interrupted, I am certain I would have come up with something or other to follow “the”, but John, as you will get to know him, is a master at impeding progress.

[2] Tea in Urdu. Although chai-tea-lattes are ubiquitous in North America, the way the word is used makes little sense. Chai is tea, so why say tea tea with a shot of espresso in steamed milk?  I am lost in this awful translation.

[3] I didn’t care to look fresh and cool for John in particular, but the way his perfectly groomed appearance was worn so nonchalantly irritated me.  It’s like he was always singing anything you can do I can do better ...

[4] He was strangely systematic even when enraged.

---

Kenney's Canada

Some more thoughts on Kenney's recent decision that have come out of thinking through the issue while writing an article for Schema (I am just about done, I promise):

Beyond all the marginalizing ramifications over the move to ban the niqab at citizenship ceremonies, what interests me most is Jason Kenney's logic. 

Kenney wants to ensure people are committed to Canada, which apparently seeing people mouth the oath itself will prove.  Is he also going to recommend lie detector tests as folks leave the room to see if they really meant it?

A friend recently confessed to me he did not repeat the oath at the ceremony. “I didn’t want to promise to be the Queen’s bitch,” he joked.

 
For Kenney, seeing people perform the oath is vital because it creates two classes of ceremonies and citizens: “If Canada is to be true to our history and to our highest ideals, we cannot tolerate two classes of citizens." 

Canada's history is littered with examples of scales of citizenship.  I am not too interested in preserving the Canadian history of quotas on immigration from particular countries, head taxes and of course, stealing all the land we all live on.   

Many Canadian-born people feel the same way. So maybe Canada shouldn't be defined as a country trying to preserve its history, but one that is able to honour the outcome of it by ensuring its culture is as dynamic as its people. 

Covering Jason Kenney

A few quick tips for journalists covering Kenney's problem with covering:

1) Niqabs and burqas are not the same thing. You can wear a burqa without covering your face. Hijab is a related concept, but stop using hijabi women in photographs when speaking about niqabis.

2) Assuming these women do not have agency is oppressive:

 a) Oppression has many layers. A niqab may represent a form of oppression but let’s not forget it can also represent choice. 

b) Please, please, please speak with women who wear a niqab before forming an opinion. It is only fair. Speaking with "moderates" and academic Muslims creates a nice supporting cast but you are missing the star of the show.

3) Do not become entangled in Islamic debates about the "obligation to veil" and to what degree. People will still wear the niqab as an expression of religiousity whether or not you can prove what the Quran truly means by "modest."

4) Finally, let's address the elephant in the room: How will alienating these women teach them about the equality Kenney is trying to preach?

  

Working on a longer piece with the voices I'd like to hear in it .... stay tuned.

I thought you were my friends!

 "I can't stand him. He's a liar."

"You're tired of him? What about me?  I have to work with him everyday."

The now famous Sarkozy-Obama exchange about their friend Netanyahu is quite amusing for many, me included. 

Who hasn't complained about a friend or colleague before? The sensitivity that we have upon hearing that someone has been talking about is amazing given how much we shit-talk ourselves. Not that I am crying for Netanyahu.

When we hear things about ourselves in that way, it is because we have stumbled into a private conversation we were not meant to hear. Which is exactly what Sarkozy and Obama thought they were having. A few issues I want to note:

1) As public figures can they expect privacy?

They are human and even though they are politicians, they are entitled to privacy. But thinking you can have privacy in a room full of journalists moments before they are supposed to be listening in on your conversation is maybe kind of ... stupid.

2) As a journalist, do you report this or not?

The journalists in the room had class and decided it was an off the record conversation - in part as a way to keep those that organized the event out of trouble. Isn't that sweet? But then someone broke the story anyway.

Dan Israel, an Arret Sur Images writer that broke the story eventually forcing other journalists to confirm what was heard.

3) Obama deals with Netanyahu everyday?

Isn't your economy tanking? Why are you spending so much time thwarting the Palestinian cause again? Just get caller ID Barack - it's life changing.  

4) How hilarious is this?

Very. And on so many levels (please do comment and expand on why and how it's funny for for you).

I currently have an article to write, so  I must be torn away from this subject that could provide me with endless hours of entertainment.

I am suffering Eid withdrawal

Today is my first Eid-ul-Adha in Vancouver. It is my fourth year missing Muslim holidays with my family. When I realized this earlier today, I was quite saddened as I also realized that I am really not quite sure when my next Eid with them will be. So, I thought I would take some time to reflect and remember the experience of Eid that my family consciously created for me.

Growing up, I always thought of Eid-ul-Adha as the "second" Eid, both chronologically and in importance. It is in fact the more religiously significant Eid, but I figured since I didn't get any Eidee (cash/money/bling) it couldn't possibly be that important.

In retrospect, and with a deep ache in my heart today, I realize beyond the cash value of the day, the ritual of family togetherness is what made it beautiful.

Eid can be equated to a pretty sweet open house. My paternal grandmother lived with us for many years and as a result our house was the epicentre of Eid for my father's family. The house needed to be scrubbed clean by me and my sister (she told me she missed my "slavery" earlier today), mom would magically create sweet and savoury delights, while dad would simply put on his new sherwani and topi (a fez if he was getting really fancy) and stay out of our way.

My family on what must be Eid since
me and my sister have matching outfits

After Eid prayers in the morning, family would slowly start filling the house. First the Markham peeps, then a sprinkle of Scarborough, followed by some from Stouffville, and finally after crossing the sea of Toronto traffic the Mississauga crew would arrive. You never really knew who would show up when and there were always pleasant surprises of family friends and neighbours that would drop by.

Everyone would gush about each other's outfits ("the embroidery is truly amazing on that suit") and of course something about the inevitable fashion faux pas or two ("did she not realize only wide-leg shalwars are in this season?"). I never really understood what was in fashion or not in Karachi since I could barely keep up with the Toronto fashion scene. This frustrated my mother deeply as I always told her "it's fine, I'll wear whatever" until I saw my sister's carefully selected sparkling outfit. I would then proceed to have a mini-fit over my kameez not fitting properly or not having the perfect matching jewelry. Luckily, with the help of my mother and sister, it all came together in the end.

The conversation between extended family members was always too polite or too personal depending on who you were talking to. Some aunties inquired about my weight, which I never really knew how to feel about. I was always tempted to shoot the question back but thought my mother would kill me, since that would reflect badly on her rather than me (the associative nature of South Asian insults is tiring - can't I just be associated with myself if I am being rude rather than tarnishing my family's reputation?). Others discussed school with me, some with a razor-sharp memory of what I was studying and others simply lamenting it was a waste since I was clearly intelligent and should have done something useful like medical school (I wonder what they say about me now that I am in journalism school!).

Me and my dad, Eid-ul-Adha 2007

The food we ate was filled with love as my mother would try to make out favourite dishes, while also pleasing the crowd with things she was known for. The chai served was always taken appreciatively. No matter how basic (or offensive) the conversation with family, it was rooted in an attempt to connect. By the end of the afternoon, we were all exhausted. Folks would leave and we would have some down time before heading out to the party being hosted by another family member that evening.

The first Eid after my grandmother died was tough. There was a distinct void felt, but everyone still came over that year attempting to fill it for one another. That was the first time I began to realize the value of this particular day and the subtle ways family ensured this was a special day.

As a 1.5 generation Pakistani-Canadian, my family created a distinct experience for Eid. It couldn't have been easy. There are no "eid lights" or greeting cards sold. Sure, schools and workplaces accommodated for us to have the day off but life didn't stop for anyone else. There were always a few people missing writing an exam or meeting with a client. I would love to be in a Muslim country for Eid to truly experience what the holiday felt like for my parents growing up.

I have all my mostly sweet, sometimes sour Eid memories but I feel like I never tried to capture them because I never imagined a day I would be without the excitement of Eid.

My two-year old niece will get to experience all the excitement of Eid as she attaches her own meaning to it, renewing what it means to all of us. I hope I can be there next year to eat well, laugh along and take some photos to remember it all.

Eid Mubarak!

Why are terrorists so stupid?

Terrorism is defined as political violence. Wreckless and shameless, it's all rooted in some all-important political message that supposedly justifies the means.

(Insert apologetic statement about being Muslim here, followed by a sombre pronouncement that this is not a sarcastic post.)

Reading about the twin suicide attacks on the British embassy in Kabul today (early Friday in Kabul) made me scratch my head.

I. Just. Don't. Get. It.

What I don't understand is the message. What exactly are these terrorists trying to communicate?

The attack comes on Afghanistan's independence day - independent from Britain since 1919. Is the rationale that since the Brits are in Afghanistan again, they need to be reminded independence has already been won? To me, it just further defines the power relationship; x terrorist group views "their people" as perpetual victims.

I am just so sick of this narrative of saving the people from the colonizers. This so-called political violence only enables further control. Is there no realization that the actions of a few make calls for collective punishment seem "rational"?

Instead, why not draw strength from the concept of independence to work towards rebuilding once more? Why not draw strength from the spirit of Ramadan? Or why not simply take a minute - think about it?

After studying the subject, pouring over academic papers, listening to political commentators, and generally losing my mind over it, I have come to one conclusion:

Your grievance doesn't count as soon as you become a reason someone else is grieving. It's that simple.

Too bad no terrorists read my blog.