Manual Maps of Time: An Introduction to Big History, With a New Preface

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Maps of Time: An Introduction to Big History Second Edition, With a New Preface Edition. by David Christian (Author), William H. McNeill (Foreword). out of.
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Maps of Time

Are you sure you would like to remove these items from your wishlist? Remove From Wishlist Cancel. Undeterred, Khulood rented a second office, only to have it looted. That January, while attending a human rights training seminar in Amman, the capital of neighboring Jordan, she received a warning: If she resumed her work in Kut, she would be killed. She remained in Jordan for three months, but in April — a year after the death of Fern Holland and with the fighting in Iraq now spiraling into sectarian war — Khulood finally slipped back to her hometown.

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She recognizes now that this decision bordered on the foolhardy. Shortly after returning to Kut, Khulood went to the local police station to file a report about her looted office, only to be treated dismissively. A more ominous note was struck when she met with one of her old Al-Batul colleagues. When I first met him that autumn, Ahmed was involved in perhaps the most controversial case of his career, defending a group of men accused of complicity in a hotel bombing in the Sinai Peninsula that left 31 dead.

And being a woman helped, too. In the past, Egyptian governments were able to gin up bipartisan support when needed by playing the anti-West, anti-Israel card, but Anwar Sadat traded that card away by making peace with Israel and going on the American payroll. The new strategy consisted of allowing an expanded level of political dissent among the small, urban educated class, while swiftly moving to crush any sign of growing influence by the far more numerous — and therefore, far more dangerous — Islamists.

And what was the government going to do about it? In short order, street protests became a constant feature of Egyptian life. In the eyes of many Egyptians, after 23 years of taking lucre from the Americans, the dictator was simply too much their puppet to make a show of independence now. That cynical view only hardened as the war in Iraq dragged on and the daily body count mounted.

From through early , some of the largest antiwar demonstrations in the Arab world were taking place in the streets of Cairo, and Laila Soueif was on the front lines in nearly every one of them. At the same time, the dictator did himself few favors with a series of domestic initiatives that further inflamed the opposition. Grooming his son Gamal as his successor, in February Mubarak engineered a rewriting of the Constitution that, while ostensibly allowing for direct presidential elections, actually rigged the system so as to make domination by his political party all but perpetual. In presidential elections that September, Mubarak won a fifth six-year term with nearly 89 percent of the vote, after having arrested the only notable candidate to stand against him, Ayman Nour.

Under mounting pressure at home and abroad, he reduced his interference in the November parliamentary elections, only to see the Muslim Brotherhood, an Islamist party still officially banned, take an unprecedented 20 percent of the seats. By late , when I spent six weeks traveling through Egypt, growing contempt for the government was evident everywhere.

It was during this time of ferment that the three children of Laila Soueif and Ahmed Seif, who previously had shown little interest in activism, began to have a change of heart about politics. The first to make the evolution was their son, Alaa, a pioneering Egyptian blogger, and it happened when he accompanied Laila to a protest march in May But the protest on May 25 was a very different affair.

Waiting in ambush were government-hired thugs, or baltageya, who immediately charged at the demonstrators to beat them with fists and wooden staffs. Perhaps recognizing the well-known protester in their midst, the goons soon fell on Laila. After we left, the baltageya began pulling the clothes off women and beating them in their underwear.

This was something they did a lot later on, to humiliate, but that was when it began and when Alaa joined the protests. That kind of thing is useless. It was around this time that Majdi el-Mangoush joined onlookers on a sidewalk in his hometown, Misurata, to witness an incredible sight. It was part of an attempt by the Libyan dictator to put a kinder, gentler face on his government. While ostensibly directed at the Libyan people, the campaign was really meant for Western consumption.

In the days leading up to the invasion of Iraq, there had been talk in President George W. Once the Iraq invasion began in March , the Libyan dictator hurried to make amends with the Americans. Even more quietly, Libyan intelligence agents shared dossiers with their American counterparts on suspected Al Qaeda operatives and other Islamic fundamentalists in the region.

Qaddafi soon thought better of the whole egalitarian makeover. Which also meant that Qaddafi could quietly abandon his reform drive.

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Majdi was still observing the spectacle when an elderly man emerged from a nearby alley. For a long moment, the old man stared slack-jawed in amazement at the sight before him. Khulood did not flee Iraq alone.

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She crossed back into Jordan with her next-eldest sister, Sahar, and they were joined in Amman a few months later by their father and oldest sister, Teamim. By summer , Khulood was especially worried about Wisam, her youngest brother. I called Wisam all the time. I told him there was no future for him in Iraq, that he had to come out, but he was very softhearted and said that he needed to stay to take care of our mother. One evening that September, as Wisam and a friend walked along a Kut street, someone with an assault rifle killed them both in a burst of gunfire.

He was the wrong person to cross. Shortly after, she was ordered to leave Jordan. Facing almost-certain death if forced to return to Iraq, Khulood turned to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees for emergency resettlement in a third country. Among the more unlikely possibilities for resettlement was the United States. In , American troops were still embroiled in an Iraqi civil war, and the Bush administration had strict caps in place albeit recently loosened on the number of Iraqis to be given refuge; to let in all those who had fled the country — and there were an estimated half-million displaced Iraqis in Jordan alone — would belie its talking point that the corner had finally been turned in the war.

In July , Khulood boarded a plane bound for San Francisco. For a woman to travel alone in Iraq — maybe it happened in Baghdad, but never in Kut, and so some days I would just take a bus or the metro for hours. It was something I had never really imagined before. Her career prospects were also much improved.

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In Iraq, Khulood studied English because it seemed to offer the greatest chance at future freedom for a young woman, but in the United States the opportunities were endless. I became very ambitious. The one continuing source of worry was for her divided family back in Iraq and Jordan. Three months later, Khulood received both good and bad news. Her two sisters were approved for resettlement.

The sisters remained in Jordan while the family appealed the decision, but Ali al-Zaidi was rejected again. It was then she made a fateful decision: She would return to Jordan and work on his case there. In Iraq, family is the most important thing, you can never turn away from it, so how could I and my sisters enjoy this nice life in America but leave our father behind?

We could never live with the shame of that. So I went back. Nothing worked. Worse, Khulood had walked herself into legal limbo. As she was warned before leaving San Francisco, under the stipulations of American immigration law, refugees awaiting the permanent status of a green card cannot leave the country for longer than six months. By returning — and staying — in Jordan, Khulood had lost her refugee classification. Now, along with the part of her family that she had brought out of Iraq, Khulood was stranded.

She could not go home or to a third country, hostage to the whim of a state — Jordan — that was anxious to shed her. The American invasion of Iraq was initially worrisome for Bashar al-Assad. But just as with Muammar el-Qaddafi in Libya, by the late s, Assad could be quite confident that he had nothing to fear from a flailing United States. Not that this confidence translated into greater political freedom for the Syrian people.

When it came to the state, the most anyone would criticize was maybe the corrupt traffic policeman at the corner. Because of his liberal upbringing, Majd experienced a shock when he left his Catholic school at the end of the ninth grade and transferred into a state high school. His modern and secular ways often estranged him from his more Islamist-minded classmates, and the instruction was abysmal. This was undoubtedly a better fit for Majd regardless. The handsome, outgoing young man had a natural charm that enabled him to develop a quick rapport with most anyone, joined to an intense curiosity about the larger world beyond Homs.

But there was another feature of his hometown that Majd had probably scarcely given thought to in his short life: In almost every way, Homs truly was the crossroads of Syria.