On the Arabian Gulf (not the Persian Gulf!)

It has been four months since I last wrote. I considered even giving up the blog for good. Not because I was uninspired, but because finding the time to write on it wasn't happening.

But. I am now in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates, and how can I not write!? Let's start with this. I bought two abaeyas yesterday (I don't know if I spelled that write, but it's pronounced a-BIY-ah). They are the long black dresses that women in the Gulf wear. "Gulf fashion," the stores like to advertise. I found two beautiful ones--one with embroidery on the sleeves, another one with beads running down the front and along the sleeves--made by a Pakistani tailor. I never thought I'd wear one of these, but I will. Not because I have to, but because they will make dressing for work easier. I won't cover my head (I don't have to), and I won't wear them every day, but strangely, I think I'll feel quite graceful when I do.

To fill in any gaps, I'm here on the Arabian Penninsula because I took a job with a Pakistani company (Beaconhouse Education Group Ltd) who was awarded one of the contracts issued by the Abu Dhabi Education Council for its school reform project. I am part of a team of about 20 people going into 4 schools grades 10-12, 2 being boys' schools, 2 being girls' schools. Our focus--per the royal prince--is to focus on the grade 12 students, and our main objective is to raise not only academic standards, as well as improve pedagogical approaches (of teachers) and leadership (of principals). My role has not been clearly defined yet (orientation officially started today), but my title is "English Language Development Trainer." Rather ambiguous, yes. I do know that I will be responsible for both girls' schools, and I do know that I will be working primarily with the two principals of those schools. My team is really incredible, with us having 200 years of experience collectively...in at least 20-plus countries all together!

So I arrived 6 days ago, to both pleasant and not-so-pleasant surprises. Yes, it's hot (100-115 degrees every day--day and night!). Yes, it's the desert, so there's not much greenery (though Abu Dhabi is one of the greenest cities for being in the desert!). Yes, it's "developing" rapidly--ie, construction everywhere! I also knew, despite having been told differently, that I would be living in a "satellite" city to Abu Dhabi, not in the city itself. The city is named Musaffah, and it is an industrial city with labor camps....though it is now becoming a residential city. I am in the "new" residential zone, which means that on every single side of me, there is not a single finished building. There are 12 cranes within the view from one window. There are at least 7 more in the distance. There are more cranes per square mile in Abu Dhabi and Dubai than in any other part of the world. And now it is Ramadan. This means that the construction workers do not work during the daylight while they are fasting. It's just too dangerous to be up on the scaffolding (which severely lacks in safety regulations!!) in this heat with no food or water for hours. So instead, they work from 8pm to 3am. Last night I hardly slept with the banging and shouting and drilling and sawing and metal clanking going on nonstop all night. I'm not sure what's worse, my clanking air conditioner or the clanking construction outside!? But on the upside, Musaffah is an older, smaller town, which means that there's nothing of the nightmare-ish traffic that defines Abu Dhabi. There are also no fast food joints, no chain stores; everything local, everything cheaper and easier to find and easier to get. I can walk outside my door (and past the construction barriers) and find myriad Indian restaurants, Lebanese bakeries, Sri Lankan spices, small grocery stores, enormous bags of rice, dry cleaners, barbers, tailors, bikes, rental car shops, rugs and tacky bedding, and EVERY single cell phone, cell phone accessory, charger, and SIM card you could possibly need for yourself and fifty other people!

I am ever so thankful that Junior is here. Without him I would have been completely lost. And not having nearly as much fun navigating all of this! (Granted, even with him here, I'm having the occassional break-down!) We have gone exploring, rented a car, shopped, cooked, cleaned, played games, haggled, drank, found the equestrian club, and then spent the most relaxing day yesterday splurging on a day at the Hilton's private pool and beach area. It is heaven. And there, you completely forget that it's 110 degrees outside, as you sit under water falls and relax in hammocks or under umbrellas. It was divine. Now it's back-to-work time for both of us.

There is loads more to say, but I'll save that for another post. There are no photos because I haven't taken any yet! Plus, this internet thing I have is pretty slow, so uploading will take forever. I hope to get all of that changed soon!

What you don't know about your cell phone

Your cell phone is made from a mineral called coltane (as is your iPod, your microprocessor, etc.). It's a mineral found in the Dem. Rep. of Congo (DRC). Because of the scramble for this mineral and the way it's being taken out of the country by Western and Chinese multinationals, 40 women are raped each day. (Of course the mineral exists elsewhere, but nowhere else can companies get it for cheaper!) It's now considered one of the deadliest wars...and yet not much is being done to address it.

I just went to a most amazing presentation and round table last night with Laetitia and her mom. I'm so glad they included me, because it not only was absolutely necessary to learn more about this situation, but it sparked what has been recently brewing in my mind: the need to be involved again. The discussion was lead by the French Sec. of State for Human Rights, France's youngest minister ever, being in her late 20s/early 30s, and Eve Ensler, the writer of The Vagina Monologues. I had no idea that the woman who wrote that play was such an activist. But she is, and her message is extremely powerful. Stop raping our women. Violence against women CANNOT be normalized....and if we remain quiet, if we let the women be humiliated by their violations (instead of the men who did the raping!), then we are sanctioning the violence. And it will continue. There were representatives from numerous other organizations, as well as a good audience ready to engage with the panelists. It was inspiring...and madenning.

The following is Eve Ansler's organization: vday.com; and here is a link to a 60 Minutes story that was done in 2008 on the war and the raping of Congolese women: http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/01/11/60minutes/main3701249.shtml?source=search_story. And below is my own response/reflection after having experienced what I did last night.

How do I sit here and write about the ideas that I just heard articulated so eloquently last night in a context where they weren’t just formulated behind a desk in an office on a university campus, but were learned and felt from the vibrating rhythms of dancing and crying and shouting and sharing? How do I bring together all of these brilliant ideas, those which make my body feel nervous with surging energy, those that make me want to get out and act, to organize and give back and move forward…how do I bring them together in any meaningful way when I am limited to 2 dimensions? Limited to dialogue. Limited by language, which isn’t even necessary when the dancing, crying, shouting, and sharing convey more than words in any language ever could. When body language and a simple touch can say more than bungled French coming out of these American fingers? My fingers will always speak, my hand will always move across the paper. But my body can’t sit any longer. My conscience knows that I have stories to collect, experiences to recount. That my soul has been disengaged for too long, that I’m ready to pick it back up and see where it will take me.

What's not being said

The Pope was all over the French newspapers this morning. The reason: He's in Africa (Cameroon) for the first time, and the message he's spreading is one which condems condom usage as an effective way to combat the AIDS pandemic on the continent. He says, "You can't resolve it with the distribution of condoms"...."on the contrary, it increases the problem."
This is not a surprising stance, despite the fact that it's the first time he has directly discussed condom usage. Right. The Catholic position is clear: premarital sex is a sin; contraception is not to be used. The Church seems to not talk about the latter very often anymore, and most Catholics have (at least in the US) chosen contraception as a family planning method.
But condom usage (or lack thereof) in the fight against AIDS is a new stance. And one that, in my opinion, carries with it a lot of assumptions. Harmful sexist and racist assumtions.
The first assumption is this: that everyone getting AIDS is having sex outside of marriage. The second: that AIDS would not spread if people were, in his words, adapting a "responsible and moral attitude towards sex."
Let me say that IF everybody was having sex within and only within marraige, there would be a sharp decrease in the number of people infected with HIV. But isn't that the case in EVERY society!? But that's obvious. What I want to look at is what's between the lines, what's being said in the absence of words.
To address both of these assumptions, I'm going to draw upon my own experience in Zimbabwe. Just less than 10 years ago, Zimbabwean women didn't have the right to demand that their husbands wear a condom when HE was HIV-positive. So within the marraige--therefore sanctioned sex, according to the Catholic Church--women could not protect themselves against infection. How are the husbands contracting the virus? From an economic, exploitative situation brought on directly by imperialism. Men were first drawn into labor via the colonial government (often forced labor), which today has taken the form of multinational corporations. This means that men are working in mines, on oil fields, on farms, and extracting every possible natural resrouce from their country for the benefit of a multinational corporation which sends not only the raw goods, but also the profits abraod. They work for months on end away from their wives and families, coming home only for a weekend here and there. No doubt there are "sex workers" (as they've been called in Zimbabwe) who work the bunk-houses where the male workers are housed. Then the men carry whatever infection or virus they might have contracted back to their wives. (I don't want to indicate that all men are behaving this way, though certainly some are!) The problem here is two-fold: economic exploitation has disrupted the family unit; and, without condoms, nobody is protected. Would the absence of all sex solve the proble? Sure. But unless eradicating prostitution and keeping sex strictly within the confines of marriage is truly possible (and when, in ANY society, has that been achieved!??), then condoms are, quite frankly, the best way to keep people safe. And that includes people who have sex WITHIN their marraiges.
What also lies in the unspoken is the age-old stereotype that African people have lascivous sexual appetites. That their societies also lack the necessary structure for curbing such sexuality...which makes Christianity and Islam (besides capitalism) the strongest forces moving throughout the continent. What's not being discussed, however, is the history: the way in which those two religions in particular completely disrupted the social structures in which sexual relations WERE governed within African societies. Premarital sex was outlawed among some African peoples, while it was not among others. No matter what the case was, African societies quite effectively managed the sexual affairs within their groups, and sexual promiscuity, sexual devience, and sexual violence were highly punishable. Missionaries were colonialism's "cultural" arm, and their responsibility (their "burden") was to change societies (which in the case of Christianity, meant bringing them into compliance with Victorian values). I won't go further into THAT (though I could, as I wrote over 100 pages about it last year!), except to say that religious conversion imposed different family models and thereby put enormous strains or eradicated completely the communal living that characterized, organized, and managed all aspects of life--including sexual relations and expectations. And contrary to other misrepresentations which have been perpetuated, the vast majority of African societies--pre-colonial invasion--were quite balanced. Because they had to be for survival.
I want to conclude with a Yoruba saying: "O n pami, o lo n gbami" (You are killing me but you insist that you are saving me).

Sensory memories

Completely random....here are some of the sensory memories that have made me more alive:

• the smell of horses sweating and the feel of their deep inhales and exhales after a good ride
• swinging in Sturzl's hamock
• listening to roosters crowing at 5am in Harare
• mom playing the piano at night while Josh, Jon and I fell asleep
• the distinct ambulence siren sound that reminds me I'm in Europe
• the smell of dad's shirt when I'd hug him after a work day at Sargento
• the sharp smell of the conductor's sweat while leaning over me in the ET (afternoon rides were more memorable)
• the feel of my blanky on my neck or cheek
• the taste of grandma Suemnicht's chocolate chip cookies....and of taking Andies candies out of their fridge
• my first sips of Tanganda tea
• listening to Cyndie Lauper in Madison with Leah while driving out to the marsh
• the smell of books from the library
• the clicking of my new/old typewriter
• the smell of my African mudcloth, which I use as a bedspread....it still smells the same as when I brought it home
• sound of Jon or Josh bursting into the house shouting that the other one had a bloody nose
• the first Saturday that I woke up to the ND marching band playing the fight song
• singing Garth Brooks to and from horse shows
• the smell of breaking open a new bag of shavings in a freshly-stripped stall
• the sound of the Mullet River behind our Riverview Rd. house...and the small stream that ran off to the side of it
• sitting inside the wooden teepee at Shelly's house, the sun shining between the logs

It's still swinging

I'm listening to a sappy Neil Diamond song. Totally random, my mix, that is, of all 3678 songs in my iTunes. But Neil Diamond is singing, "you are the best part of me...the part that allows me to open my heart and let love inside." But I'm not skipping forward, because something resonates. How difficult this is. Truly. There's something very interesting about being 30 and single...something very wonderful, very liberating...a chance to explore and experience and learn and grow deeper into who I am before bringing somebody else into the equation. Something my Mom never got to do. Something most of the women of my mother's generation didn't get to do. We have choices, we have fewer social expectations, fewer constraints. We have the world open before us. Hmmm. And with this lack of constraints and finger-wagging, we also have tougher decisions to make. Nobody's going to make them for us....or tell us what to do. And then there's the "independent woman" defense. There's the comfort of having created and settled into a certain life, a life that can easily feel under seige by somebody who comes along and wants to be a part of it. And perhaps make some renovations. So it is increasingly difficult to open the heart and let love inside. As I've come to realize. Until somebody comes along and gently pries the door open, takes his time walking through, but won't allow you to slam it in his face either. Even when you try. And thank goodness for this.

The pendulum swings

A girlfriend told me that when you move back to the States after living in France, everything is even-keel. Everything is more simple, more efficient, everyone is more accomodating. Life is much easier. The lows aren't as low; but the highs aren't as high either. You don't get that thrill from having argued your way into a residence permit extension, you don't walk five miles and talk to seventeen different people trying to do just three errands in one day, you don't touch the untouchable (it's already been done and put on the shelves of your local WalMart), don't marvel at yourself after having participated in a debate in a language that you didn't grow up with. But your packages aren't lost at the post office, your doctor offers you all the options before making the decisions for you, you can finish a list of to-dos in one afternoon, and calling your cell phone company to inquire about charges doesn't cost you 34 cents a minute. The gyms are beautiful and clean, with smoothie bars and Clif bars, but walking into a North African bar requires you to get in your car and go to a specific (and probably discouraged) part of town. You will never be charged 280 euros for owning a television (audiovisual royalty....is it really that much of a luxury these days!?), nor will someobdy called a "hussier de justice" in your neighborhood hunt you down and threaten to confiscate items in your apartment. But you will pay health insurance and medical costs through the nose. You don't come out of the metro with tears only to run into the ex who said he hoped you understood why he could never see you again. You don't meet your next lover in the library, but you also don't stay up talking until 3am, because you have to be at work at 8am the next day. You can find health food on every corner, but you can't get a decent baguette. You no longer know where your beef came from before it was wrapped in celophane, but you can get Neuskee's thick-cut bacon. You only have to make a phone call to resolve problems, as opposed to writing formal letters with all the proper etiquette phrases. Bottom line. The post office in the USA no longer uses hand-written ledgers to track packages. This is the "old world." And in general, I find it quite charming and agreeable. But not today.

This, too, is Paris

EuroNews does a segment called "No Comment' where they just show video without commentary or explanation. It's really powerful. Occassionally uneventful (when you strip away all that we inject to create drama...).

This is my No Comment. Only to mention that it's a photo taken in my arrondissement at a sit-in against homelessness...where homeless people literally constructed a contained shantytown of tents, blankets and boxes. And they stayed there for months.

Photo taken by Jimmy Louchart of the blog Paris Environs

Jimmy Louchart / CC BY 2.0