Middle East Inc. And The Arab Spring

"This Arab Spring is really knocking us for a loop, fellows," Hussein said. "What else have we got lined up for the season?"

The office was stuffy. But it was scorching outside. Since the air conditioning conked out, there was little they could do. Najib had found a dusty old fan that gave off an annoying death rattle and very little breeze.

An unusual number of employees had called in sick, Assad noted with a stern frown. He jotted down the names of each one. They'd all pay for their disloyalty. The boss was already reading them the riot act in his head.

"So, boss?" Hussein spurred on, trying through sheer force of will not to sweat through his old suit. "Do we have a plan?"

"I don't think we should change a thing," Assad said. "Our customers are fine with what we give them. Corruption, torture, terror... we have to stick to our main business offerings. That's what we're known for."

Najib shook his head. "Look, boss. I've only been with the company a little while, but it seems to me the marketplace is changing. They're not going for the old product line. Word on the street is the customers want freedom. Democracy."

"You think you know the market?" Assad hissed. "You think those foreign imports are a threat? My family's been running this business for 40 years. I know our customers just fine. They'll damn well buy what we give them. And we're not changing anything. Just give me the damn numbers."

Najib shrugged. "We're in the red everywhere. I've run these figures eight different ways and if we keep doing business like this... well, I just don't know where the bottom is. We're bleeding in all sectors."

"I just looked at the numbers last week and they looked fine to me," Assad said. "Kids with their fingernails pulled out, up six hundred percent. We've got 1,300 dead protesters and more on the way. We're making a killing! You know what the problem really is?"

"You tell us, boss," Hussein said, resigned to his employer's old ways.

"Branding," Assad said. "It's all a perception problem. We're not getting our message out. Hussein, you were supposed to be handling our social media marketing campaign. What happened with that?"

Hussein looked sheepish. "Zuckerberg is Jewish."

"Who the hell is Zuckerberg?" Assad said.

"You haven't seen The Social Network?" Najib said. "He's the Facebook guy. Mahmoud looked into it. It's totally legit. If we set up a Fan Page for the company, we'll have the Mossad snooping on our servers in five minutes."

"Damn," Assad said. "Well, at least our brand is still getting some play overseas."

"Sure, we've got plenty of fans in the college campus crowd at University College London or UC Irvine," Najib said. "But that can't make up for losing the domestic market." 

"We need new ideas," Hussein said. "Have any of you guys read any business books, lately?"

"All the best business minds seem to be in the hated USA," Najib lamented. "And you know, my cousin Zakar reminded me last week we only translate twelve books a year into Arabic. I think six of them were commentaries on the Protocols of the Elders of Zion and two were debunking the Holocaust hoax. No business books. And I hate reading in the language of the Infidel."

"I know what you mean," Hussein said. "But we must have someone with new ideas. Hey, what about Zakar? He was doing business consulting."

"Zakar is no longer available," Assad said. "I found out he was buying our competitor's products."

"Oh, I see," Najib said. "Well, I had no idea."

"Really?" Assad said. "Zakar never said anything to you? Or to your wife? Your children?"

Najib's face went pale. The fat bald man was sweating so badly his shirt had enormous wet spots in big circles around his armpits. 

"You know Zakar studied in America," Assad said.

"You studied in London!" Najib shot back. He instantly clammed up, his eyes drilling through the floor at his feet.

Assad just smiled. Hussein could tell the boss' lizard brain was shifting gears. "You fellows need to calm down. The company is doing just fine. We're going through a rough patch, but we'll get through it. We give our customers the old product line. No, we shove it down their throats harder. Because when it comes down to it, we know what they really want. And even if they wanted something different, they don't have the option. They're locked into their contracts."

The boss had made his decision and that was that. He got up and went out for a smoke. Hussein was left alone with Najib.

"What do you think?" Najib asked. "Should I start clearing out my desk?

"Don't worry about it," Hussein said, though he was pretty sure that Najib was on the fast track to career suicide. "Don't be so hasty. He's just in a weird mood. This Arab Spring season has him under a lot of pressure."

"I feel sick," Najib said. "Maybe I should go home early today."

Hussein frowned. "I wouldn't advise it. Look, Najib. I've been working here a long, long time. And one thing I know: once you start working for Middle East Inc., you don't leave."

"I need some fresh air," Najib pleaded. It wasn't even noon yet and the office was so steaming, reeking of body odor and stale cigarettes. Najib's face had turned a shade of green.

Hussein ignored his plight. If Najib was going to survive in this company, he had to understand the rules. "I know you're new, but you're not right off the boat, right? We all know where the skeletons are hidden. And so do our customers. You're part of the system, now. You can't go anywhere else. You have no friends out there. You're corporate Kryptonite, got it? You try to look for a job somewhere else, maybe some foreign shop... it's not going to end well. It's better to be in here than out there."

Najib just looked defeated. He stank. It wasn't just ordinary sweat. It was fear sweat.

"I want you go back and run those numbers again," Hussein said. "Run them as many times as it takes until you come up with something that's going to make the boss happy. Got it?"

Najib nodded silently.

"You're going to be alright, kid," he said, almost certain that Najib would be chained to a wall in some underground cockroach nest before the week was out. But you never knew. That was Assad's leadership style. It kept everyone on their toes. Even an old hat like Hussein had to watch his back.

Maybe it wouldn't be like this forever; this Arab Spring had been a tough slog and it wasn't over yet. But for a little while longer, it was better to be in here than out there.

Jonathon Narvey is the Editor of The Propagandist and the author of A History of the Middle Eastside