21: Out of the Fire and into the Frying Pan
After my interview with GIZ’s regional director, Dr. Marvin introduced me to another of his contacts — a grandfatherly, genial man named Talal Abu-Ghazaleh. Abu-Ghazaleh’s organization was one of KAS’s most prestigious partners, and the man was a tour de force in the Arab world. When Dr. Marvin told him I was in the market for a job, Abu-Ghazaleh specifically asked for me to join the team of a new company he was about to launch. Dr. Marvin told me of the opportunity, and then introduced me to Abu-Ghazaleh at a KAS-sponsored dinner. When Abu-Ghazaleh shook my hand, he told me to come to his executive director’s office the following week.
I arrived promptly at 2:45 for my 3:00 interview a week later. As I walked into the office, the executive director’s professional assistant approached and introduced herself.
“Are you Warren?” she asked. Her hair was uncovered, she wore a bright pink lipstick and a tight fitting black suit. Nothing scandalous, but certainly not tied down. “I tried calling you earlier, but your phone was off,” she lied, the way liars say things that are untruthful.
It was a typical power play. In ten months I’d never had a phone call not go through. If there’s one truism about the Arabs that’s reliable, it’s their ability to be contacted or conversed with at anytime. Even the desert-faring, water-saving Bedouin have mobile phone service in the middle of their sandblasted enclaves.
I stared at her as I pulled my phone out of my suit pocket. “I don’t have any missed calls,” I said.
“I know, I think your phone was off,” she said.
“Ok,” I said, giving her a lingering stare. Just so we both know that we both know what’s happening here.
I walked over to a bank of couches in a corner of the office floor. I slunk into a chair, pulled my laptop from my backpack, and began pecking away on a report for KAS. An hour later, the pink-lipped woman returned. “The executive director is ready to see you.”
I lackadaisically closed the laptop, stuffed it into my backpack, and sauntered from the couch to the executive director’s office. Inside the room sat Mr. Mumtaz, executive director of TAG-Org.
Mr. Mumtaz gestured for a chair in across from his desk. Talal Abu-Ghazaleh had personally requested me for this job, I thought. This interview is just a formality. As I waited for the interview to begin, the door behind me swung open.
“Are we interrupting anything?” a booming voice said.
I looked up to see a grey haired man in a light grey suit, white shirt, red tie. He had a thick grey mustache to boot. Behind him trailed a pudgy, bald man in a black suit, white shirt, and blue tie. He hustled into the room, sitting down in a chair right behind mine. The grey man took an empty chair to my right.
“No, not at all.” Mr. Mumtaz said. “Join us — I was just about to interview, uh, Warren here.”
I snorted air through my nose at the transparency of this ambush. These were interview tactics out of a bad high-finance melodrama. I scooted my chair back so all three men were in my view and crossed my leg over my knee in a four-square. I made sure that the bottom of my shoe wasn’t facing anyone, but I was determined not to get taken for a ride again with this organization.
The trio of interviewers were Mr. Mumtaz — executive director of the organization; Mr. Hafez — executive director of international partnerships; and Ennis — executive director of “we still gotta go out for beers, my treat.” So much for formalities.
Mr. Hafez fired the first shots: What are your duties at KAS. How long are you going to be in Jordan. Why do you want to work here. What do you think you would bring to the team.
Mr. Mumtaz volleyed: I like Dr. Marvin, we go back a long time. This project is very important to Mr. Chairman. We need a commitment of at least a year. “You will be working very closely with Mr. Chairman. This is a very unique opportunity.” Reputations are at stake.
I answered their questions. I nodded affirmatively at the importance of the opportunity. I stared across the room at Ennis, the pale florescent light washed over his face, his five-o-clock shadow running a little late. As I fielded the others’ questions, Ennis bobbed his head while grinning at me. What a clown.
Mr. Mumtaz pulled a document out of his desk. “I was impressed with this,” he said, holding the printout from the website’s “About Us” page. In the lead up to this interview, I had given Mr. Mumtaz the same marked-up document I’d given to Ennis months before. “There’s a lot that needs to be fixed on the website. I think you have something to contribute to us.” Mr. Mumtaz said.
Ennis put a hand up in protest. “Mumtaz,” he said, “he will be at a disadvantage working here. He’s not fluent in reading or writing in Arabic.” What I thought was an earnest demonstration of value was, in actuality, a perceived affront to Ennis’s leadership and media department. As I would soon learn, that lesson would have to be taught first hand.
Mr. Hafez made a shooing motion with his hands toward Ennis before Mr. Mumtaz could respond. The three men and I moved onto less contentious topics of the job and the interview proceeded in a friendly enough manner. With the good-cop, bad-cop routine complete, I negotiated acceptable employment terms and dove-in head first.
***
Sunday, July 1, 2012 was my first day at Talal Abu-Ghazaleh Organization. I was assigned to a company called Talal Abu-Ghazaleh University, an online consortium of schools which partnered with accredited universities to promote degree programs in the Arab world. I showed up prompt. Black suit, white shirt, black tie - aptly funereal. The office was a 5-story building of glass and sandstone on Mecca Street in west Amman. I entered through the automatic glass sliding doors, and was led to the office of my new boss, Dr. Jamal. He was about 6’ tall, stout, with medium-length hair and delicate features. He spoke English fluently with a British-Arab accent. Wringing his hands as he led me through the maze of glass-walled offices, Dr. Jamal shared his vision for running the University. He was an academic professor and he believed in reaching as many students as possible to promote education.
As we walked through the florescent workplace, we stopped at a 10x10 glass cell — or as the plaque on the door would soon say “Office of the Editing and Media Outreach Director.” Hell of a title for that guy. It didn’t sound as grand as Chief Executive Intern, but the money was better — a sacrifice I was willing to make. Dr. Jamal bid me a good day and went back to the other side of the building to his office.
Day one was uneventful. I stared at my screen, clicking through corporate emails, organizing folders and thinking about what assignments would come my way. I left the office wondering if I had made the right decision to take the job. Days two and three left no doubt in my mind that I had. A the end of my second day, Shams, the webmaster who worked in a different Amman office, sent me a press release about a corporate triumph for me to edit. I promptly found 15-20 errors in the 468 word document, made the changes, and sent it back to him. After that, I left for home.
At 8:05 Tuesday morning, I received this email from Shams:
“Ive [sic] read through the press release you sent and it the same one that [Ennis] wrote and distributed. I assumed from your email that you made some changes. If so, please send through the amended version for review.” Five other directors were copied on the email. So it begins.
Not one to be bullied, I quickly assessed how to respond. Use your words, a little voice in my head said. Jimmini Cricket, I want to punch this guy in the fuckin’ ear. I opened the original file sent to side-by-side with my work and proceeded to use the yellow highlighter tool on both documents. Then I drafted my response:
“I have attached two versions of the press release for comparison: The first is the original, highlighted in the areas that I made changes. The second is the version I sent yesterday, also containing highlights of where I made adjustments.” Message delivered.
Because he was copied on the email chain, Dr. Jamal walked into my office shortly after I responded to Shams. “That was a pretty rude email Shams sent,” Dr. Jamal said.
“Oh yeah,” I said, “it’s no problem though. I highlighted everything so it was easy to see. You know, it’s all about having a discerning eye.” I said, being as folksy as I could. From rouge intern to defiant corporatist.
On my honor, an hour later, I got this response from Shams: “Welcome to TAG-Org.”
***
On several occasions throughout that week, other directors and a few executives walked passed my office, offering compliments and lamentations on how much nicer my office was than theirs. I thanked them for the kind words of congratulations as I watched the seeds of contempt being sown. The organization seemed to be fertile ground for petty disputes because it wasn’t long before the seeds began to sprout. On day five, Mr. Chairman called me into his office.
Let me back up. Talal Abu-Ghazaleh required everyone in the company to address him as “Mr. Chairman.” The hallways of all four office buildings in the city were adorned with photographs and commissioned oil paintings of Mr. Chairman, posing like an benevolent ruler, presiding over his subjects. Mr. Chairman called my boss and told him, to tell me, to come to his office. Dr. Jamal walked into my office: “Have you been to Mr. Chairman’s office yet?” he said irritably, as though I had foreknowledge of his request.
“Nope,” I said cheerfully.
“Well, he wants to meet with you right now. I’ll show you how to get there,” he said, wringing his soft fingers around meaty palms.
“I can’t right now, I’m playing Scrabble online and I just dropped ‘unemployed’ for 30 points.” Ok, that didn’t happen. Instead, I stood up and followed Dr. Jamal like a prancing idiot. Dr. Jamal escorted me to the elevator. Yep, this is how I’ll get to a higher floor in the building, I thought.
I stepped into the faux-gold-plated elevator and rode it to the 5th floor. Mr. Chairman’s office was accessible only via the elevator. Very Lex Luthor. The gold, mirrored elevator doors opened to an office floor unlike anything I’d previously seen in Jordan.
Oak. The foyer, floor to ceiling, was covered in dark, varnished oak wood paneling. It felt like I had entered the lair of a nefarious comic book villain. The labyrinth of rooms and halls leading up to Mr. Chairman’s personal office were festooned with photographs of Mr. Chairman posing with a who’s who of world leaders, dictators, terrorists, business pioneers, visionaries, and famous dead people — I mean, they’re dead now — not that he’s posed for photos with dead bodies. That would literally be insane.
I reached the end of a corridor where I was greeted by a slight man, who slid from his desk and into my personal space. The man was narrow, almost serpent like. He introduced himself as Tafif, Mr. Chariman’s office manager. Tafif slipped through a door, then opened a second door, like the adjoining room doors of a hotel. He then closed the first door behind him before fully opening the second, so that I couldn’t peer into Mr. Chairman’s office. Seconds later, Tafif glided through the doors again. “Warren, Mr. Chairman is ready to see you.”
Tafif led me through the first door, I pushed lightly on the second and it swung open. I expected Mr. Chairman to be sitting in an oversized leather chair, facing the wall, only to quickly spin around with clasped fingers to say “I’ve been expecting you.” Regrettably, his fingers weren’t clasped, and he was already facing a lone chair in center of the dimly lit office. I scanned the room: a fresh, partially peeled pomegranate sat on the desk in a bowl of ice. Mr. Chairman’s desk was ornate. Walnut, hand etched and grooved, enormous.
Across from his desk sat a solitary chair, almost in the center of the enormous office. The chair meant for me was no less than eight feet from the edge of his desk. I was probably twelve feet from Mr. Chairman as I took my seat. I hunched in my chair, knees together.
“Ah,” Talal Abu Ghazaleh spoke. “Thank you for coming.” His voice was distant, as though he hadn’t recalled who I was or what I was doing here. He paused. “You know, Warren, I am many things. I am business.” He paused. “And information technology. I am also education and other sectors of great importance.” I sat in awe, processing the words coming from the titan across the room. I nodded with ascent and grave understanding. Then, Mr. Chairman got down to business.
The reason for our meeting was because he needed a 250 word biography for the World Innovation Summit for Education (WISE) that would take place the following November. WISE is an annual forum which takes place in Dubai, and Mr. Chairman was going to be one of the keynote speakers. At this event, he would promote Talal Abu-Ghazaleh University.
As he explained what he needed, Mr. Chairman picked up the phone on his desk. Somehow he was instantly connected with his intended counterpart. In what I could gather as he spoke in Arabic, the person who was supposed to write the biography no longer would be doing so. “Warren will write it.” I heard him say. “And you will review it before submission.” I’m pretty sure Ennis was on the other side of that conversation. Mr. Chairman thanked me for undertaking this important assignment. Exit left, through the double doors. Curtains.
On Friday, the Islamic holy day of prayer, Mr. Chairman held a Founding Committee Meeting for Talal Abu-Ghazaleh University, where I, at 25 years old, was the only person in attendance under 40. And that is the story of how the only American at TAG-Org won a bullseye on his back on week one.