Last week, it was "Muhammad Hassan", a brand new character in World Wrestling Entertainment, appearing at Madison Square Garden for the first time. World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) is the current form of WWF, that very American invention of waxy, muscle-bound men in tight leggings who pretend to fight each other in front of large, baying crowds.
Muhammad Hassan's shtick is that he is an Arab-American who has become embittered by the treatment of Arabs in the US and around the world since 9/11. He travels the country, performing in WWE "Raw" (one of the sport's two divisions) berating fans for their prejudice against his people and fighting "loyal American" wrestlers to show his anger.
Hassan, who in real life is Mark Copani, an Italian American from upstate New York, made his debut on January 9 with his manager Khosrow Daivari (real name Shawn Daivari). Since then he has been undefeated in singles matches and has dumped his original costume of business attire for a keffiyeh and a pair of black underpants and knee-guards adorned with gold, Arabic letters. According to WWE, he is only going to become "more and more pedantic" in pursuing his Arab identity as time goes on. As Gary Davis, vice president of corporate communications for WWE told me, Hassan has "really gone off the deep end".
Predictably, Hassan and Daivari (a wiry, Borat-like stereotype whose main gimmick is to grab the microphone and unleash a stream of Farsi at the booing, USA-chanting crowd) have attracted the concern of those troubled by real problems facing real Arab Americans.
"People get passionate during those matches. They get angry, they get emotional," said Siwar Bandar, a spokeswoman for the American Arab Anti Discrimination Committee, a Washington-based media watchdog that has launched a campaign to persuade WWE to modify Hassan's character. "And these emotions, even though they are based on a fictional story are not fictional themselves, they are very much a reality."
In a sense, Hassan is nothing new. WWE, in its various forms, has always had characters that represent the latest bogey-men in the slightly sub-adult American mind. Hassan's most famous parallel is the "Iron Sheik", an Iranian who, during the 1980's, teamed up with "Nikolia Volkoff," an all-purpose Communist, to outrage wrestling fans everywhere.
According to Shaun Carey-Long, a long-time British wrestling fan who gave me a crash e-mail correspondence course in WWE last week: "The Sheik would scream at the fans in his native language before proclaiming 'Iran number 1, Russia number 1, USA - Pah!' This would usually be followed by Volkoff's rendition of the Soviet national anthem, at which point the two wrestlers were often pelted with missiles from the crowd." (Here is Mr Carey-Long's view of Hassan).
Since then there has been Sergeant Slaughter (an Iraqi unveiled for Operation Desert Storm) and, most recently, La Résistance, a very peculiar Quebecois trio (now duo) who have soaked up American contempt for France over the last couple of years. And just to prove that WWE is generally on top of social issues too, other current innovations include Eugene, a mentally disabled wrestler who has trouble buttoning his jacket.
Warned by Mr Davis, of WWE, that Hassan has become "a very bitter character now," I went to watch him and Khosrow Daivari perform on Friday night.
The main auditorium was heavy with popcorn and candy smells - WWE, after all, has a big following of teenage and younger boys. I found myself sitting next to Warren and Patrick, two loyal fans in their thirties. Before the show started I asked them about Muhammad Hassan. Patrick was unsure who he was. "That guy from Iraq," said Warren, to remind him. Then Patrick, a heavy-set man who works in a post room, said, "We live in the United States, we're brought up to learn how to accept everybody, whoever they are."
Then the show started. There's no doubt that WWE is really weird. It is the glossy, pay-per-view descendant of old fashioned travelling shows and circuses. The fighting is impressively athletic but much of the intrigue comes in the form of pantomime "he's behind you" moments, with the wrestlers crawling under the stage or accidentally knocking out the referee.
Next to me, Warren kept himself busy, running a quiet, jargon-filled commentary: "Mm-hmm, reverse headlock…," he would say as one man gripped another, "Mm-hmm, double-axe handle… mm-hmm, vertical suplex…" One particular fight was so exciting that Patrick covered his face with his hands.
Muhammad Hassan, still working his way up the roster of superstars, appeared towards the end of the first half of the show.
Straightaway, his Arabic entrance music was drowned by boos and shouts of "U-S-A". Hassan, with the busy Daivari hustling around him, solemnly approached the ring and kneeled in the middle of it, stretched his arms wide in supplication and turned his face to the heavenly spotlights above him. Then he took the microphone. "This is not a hero's welcome…" said Hassan, to the din. "I am a hero, exposing the prejudices in each and every one of you!"
The boos only increased - broken by laughter when Daivari took the microphone for his customary tirade - and then gave way to cheering as "Rhyno", Hassan's opponent came running to the ring.
In the end, Hassan's fight was like all the rest. (There was, however, one moment when Hassan's tactics, which involved wrapping Rhyno around of the posts and then climbing outside the ring to attack him, drew particular scorn). And after a few minutes, he notched up his seventh straight win and left the stage to noisy dismay.
But this was the wrong crowd for real animosity. For Warren and Patrick, Muhammad Hassan was just another five minutes of passing entertainment, easily-digested and quickly dissipated. He had barely made it out of the ring when the anti-Arab boos were replaced by bigger, throaty cheers. Christine, the WWE diva was coming on, and she's in next month's Playboy.
Slices of New York
