According to polls in the Arab press, the most popular talk show on al-Jazeera—the world's most widely watched Arab TV station—is Al-Ittijah al-Mu'akis (The Opposite Direction). Broadcast live each week since December of 1996, when al-Jazeera first came on the air, the show is hosted by Faisal al-Kasim, a bespectacled forty-two-year-old Syrian. Al-Kasim moderates while two guests debate a topic of his choosing; viewers join in by telephone, fax, and e-mail. No other Arab television personality is as controversial, as despised, or as revered as al-Kasim.
Headquartered in Doha, the capital of the tiny, thumb-shaped Gulf state of Qatar, al-Jazeera draws an audience of some 45 million viewers around the world, including eight million in Europe, where subscriptions doubled after the invasion of Iraq in 2003. It operates apparently without editorial constraint from the liberal Emir of Qatar, Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa al-Thani, who founded the station to help reverse the authoritarian legacy of his father, whom he overthrew bloodlessly in 1995. The spirit of al-Jazeera's reportage often accords with the anti-Western sentiments pervading both the Arab street and the more educated milieus of the Islamic world, especially when it comes to Osama bin Laden and the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq. But al-Kasim keeps his guns trained on what he regards as the true banes of his people: corrupt Arab governments and pernicious myths among Arabs about themselves. He has a penchant for tackling taboo topics on his show, and the opinions that he and his guests express about them can seem wildly iconoclastic (often, that is to say, true) to viewers brought up on state-controlled media.
I first met al-Kasim late one muggy evening last May, at his villa in a gated Doha residential complex. He appears an unlikely renegade. On television he wears a suit and tie, but he greeted me at home in a baseball cap, a T-shirt, and blue jeans. He is fair-complexioned and diminutive, with trimmed brown hair combed over a balding pate, and he exudes a boyish enthusiasm.
We sat down to a silver tray of tea and sweets, and al-Kasim told me of the cosmopolitan life he has led. Born in a village near Damascus, he spent twelve years in England, where he earned a Ph.D. in English literature at Hull University. He holds Gore Vidal and Noam Chomsky in high regard, considering them to be the consciences of the United States; like Vidal especially, he is fascinated by conspiracy theories. He came to broadcasting by chance when, in 1988, he was introduced to the head of BBC Radio's Arabic Service at a party, and was invited to work for the BBC. In 1996, along with many of his Arab colleagues at the BBC, he moved to Qatar to begin work with al-Jazeera, eager to take part in the region's first experiment with free journalism. His goal? "To change the status quo, which is horrible politically, religiously, economically, in every way."
Al-Kasim's first show, he says, "dissected" the Gulf Cooperation Council (the league of oil-rich monarchies and emirates that are responsible for some of the most closed regimes in the Middle East) "like a corpse," and since then The Opposite Direction has addressed an array of previously unmentionable questions in the Arab world, in terms ranging from the contrarian to the outlandish. Is Arab unity an unattainable myth? When was life better, under colonial or Arab rule? ("Eighty-six percent of our viewers who called in said they'd rather be re-colonized," al-Kasim told me. "The Algerians would welcome Chirac, if he decided to return.") Was King Hassan II of Morocco an agent of the Mossad? Should polygamy have a place in the modern Arab world? On that last show two female guests, one liberal and one traditional, traded insults during a commercial break and then began shouting at each other once back on the air, until the traditionalist stomped off the set. "What do you do when someone has been holding his hand over your mouth for years and suddenly removes it?" al-Kasim asked me rhetorically when describing that episode. "You go wild!"
Going wild is hardly behavior that Arab governments tend to encourage. Five Arab countries have withdrawn their ambassadors from Qatar to protest al-Kasim's broadcasts, and the KGB-like domestic-security services of a number of countries have at times prevented guests from flying to Doha to appear on the show. In these instances al-Kasim has proceeded anyway, taking phoned-in questions and also directing his cameras to an empty chair to embarrass the governments that forbid his guests from traveling.
"Doing this show is dangerous for me," al-Kasim told me. "I'm blacklisted by many countries, and smear campaigns are launched against me." After he devoted an episode to the "Zionification" of Iraq under the U.S. occupation, al-Kasim alleges, the Iraqi National Congress issued death threats against him and spread rumors on the Internet that he had sold out to Saddam Hussein (who was, oddly enough, a fan of his). A show he did on King Abdul Aziz of Saudi Arabia, he says, left the Saudi government "seeing no difference between Satan and me." About all that seems to protect him is his dual Syrian-British citizenship, which dissuades regimes that are reluctant to tangle with the bearer of a Western passport.
The Arabic words for "rotten," "disgusting," "foul," and "corrupt" peppered al-Kasim's speech whenever Arab governments came up in our conversation. But what, I asked, about the Abu Ghraib scandal, for example? Didn't the Americans merit the same censure?