Another view on the Middle East

There is so much attention on the Middle East at the moment, with the now 3-week stand-off against Mubarak, with the Jordanian king releasing his entire government and appointing new people, with stirring protests in Yemen, and the Tunisians cheering that their chased-out leader is now being brought up on "crimes against Tunisia."

It is true, the amassed fortunes (in billions) of Mubarak and his family are despicable in a country where the vast majority of Egyptians live on less than $5 a day. It is also true that Ben Ali and his family in Tunisia siphoned massive amounts of their country's wealth into their own personal bank accounts. This is what I hear from my teachers who are Egyptian and Tunisian. This is confirmed in the news.

Here's what I also hear in my school (no sweeping generalizations here...just the women who work in my school!). Some Egyptian women are very afraid of swift change because the women and children are most vulnerable. While the men are all out in the streets being political, the women and children are at home with no protection. Looters have entered their homes knowing that they could easily take what's inside. A vacuum of power would be scary. The Muslim Brotherhood is not "equal" to Al Quaida, as it's been mentioned by some media. The Tunisians are thrilled that Ben Ali is gone. The Syrians are happy that there are no protests in Syria. They are happy with life there as it is right now. The Palestinians are used to all of this.

And the Emiraties. They remain eternally and deeply thankful and proud of their rulers. Last year when I was getting to know the women I work with, I did a "speaking assessment" in which I asked the question, "Describe somebody you admire." I had several women speak about Sheik Zayed. Their father, they call him. The father of their people. (Talking about him actually brought on tears for two women.) Not their nation, but their people. He gave, he shared, he had a revolutionary vision, he put his people first, he gave citizenship to orphans from other Muslim countries, he made sure people had homes if they chose to move out of the desert to the city. It's now his son who rules the UAE, after an older son tried but was decided to not be cut out for the job. The other sheiks of other Emirates are noteworthy and well-loved. The UAE has activated a policy of "Emiratization" in which more and more Emiraties are to be educated, trained, and appointed jobs within their own country. They've been going out to England or the USA for university education; they bring their ideas back to the UAE, where they are rewarded and cared for in appreciation for their contributions. Now there are universities beefing up their facilities here so that their own people can get a good education at home.

It's easier, I'm sure, for people to be happy with their sheiks here. It's a wealthy country with a lot to share. It's also a place where, yes, protests are illegal. You cannot protest against the government; you cannot choose to be a different religion if you were born here. You must abide by the laws of Islam if you are Muslim; if you are not, you are governed by a different set of rules--the rules that are dictated by your religion so long as you don't disturb others from practicing Islam. Yes, women can drive, and many do. Yes, they can go out unaccompanied, though many do not. Yes, they are deeply religious, deeply caring, extremely generous, very open-minded, and tolerant without needing to alter their own beliefs.

The other night I came home from yoga and stopped at a nearby bakery for bread. I ran in to get my bread, waited for some time due to the chaotic disorganization of the ladies working behind the counter, joked with an Emirati man who was waiting forever to get a cake for his sister's birthday, eventually got my bread, and went out to find that my car wouldn't start. After a few failed phone calls to colleagues (none of whom had jumper cables), I decided I'd just ask the next man who walked out of the bakery. Sure enough, the first man said he'd help me. He lifted the hood of my car, had a look, had me try to start the car one more time, and then went to his trunk and pulled out a battery. Completely new. Tried to start the car by touching his full battery against my dead one. But it sparked and gave him a little shock. So he went back to his car and got a wrench and proceeded to dislodge my battery from its casing. He put his battery in my car, asked me to start it, and sure enough, it worked. He then told me to just keep his battery. I protested and offered to give him some money at the very least, which he refused. He simply said he was happy he could help, and told me his name was Mohammed.

Yesterday I did an English lesson with the principal. After discussing verbs and expressions related to Heads of Departments, she started talking about Arabic grammar, which lead her into a discussion about Islam. She knows the Holy Quran very well. She didn't want to stop talking about all of the ways that the Quran helps Muslims live their lives. And then she asked if I've read books about Islam. I told her that I have, although I've probably read more about Islam from a political and social perspective, not a religious one. She said that it's such a beautiful, peaceful, loving, and generous religion, and that the people who use the name of Islam to carry out hateful and deadly acts are not really Muslim. They don't understand, she said.

This sentiment is something I hear over and over. The Muslims I know here are not ashamed but sad about the way that Islam is portrayed and understood in the West. And they are right to be sad. They would also be right to be extremely frustrated. In light of the upheaval and the renewed spotlight on the Middle East, there is also renewed criticism of Islam (in broad, sweeping generalizations, but nonetheless, it's being put out there). When I read about people who actually write/say things in response to this change--which is quite positive for the people!--like "Islam kills and it always has," or "Why is Islam allowed in the US?" or "We must fear Islam," I am outraged. Living in a Muslim country has been an eye-opening experience that has easily challenged any preconceived notion I may have come here with. This has been a deeply personal experience of getting to know Arab and African Muslim women who could not imagine their lives without Islam. They tell me that the notion of "converting" religions is unthinkable; being Muslim is a part of their everyday lives. And they are some of the warmest, most generous, curious, genuinely welcoming people I've ever met. I wish their perspectives and profiles would be included in the reports on "life in the Middle East" so that more people OUTSIDE this region could gain a wider picture of what it means to be Muslim, Arab and/or Middle Eastern.

Random stuff from the week

I remember now one of the reasons I stopped blogging. There are so many events here that can't be talked about. Not on an open forum, anyhow. Too many identities that should never be written about. Like how we have to take photos here in the school: the backs of heads or hands. No faces. And so the most interesting and intimate information about what I learn about from the various perspectives of the various Arabic women I work with are, for the most part, all off limits to the "public eye."

But here is a little bit about what happened this week. Girls (students) have been coming to my room to look through the newspaper and magazine library that I have. They're collecting information about healthy lifestyles for their English/ICT project. I've had several conversations with many of them. Three in particular are interested in what an "American perspective" on Arab people is "really" like. They asked if I thought everybody was a terrorist. I said, "absolutely not." Then they asked if I knew any Arab people in the States. Well, no, I didn't. How was that possible? I'm not sure.

I get bottled water delivered to the house. Every Tuesday the water truck comes, and if I have bottles to exchange, I put them outside with the coupons attached. This week I needed another coupon book. So I put my 3 bottles outside and attached an envelope to it, which contained 100 dirhams and a request for another booklet. It sat outside on the stoop for 10 hours, and when I got home later that night, I found full bottles, but no coupon book. I thought it was strange, and I decided to let it be for a day or two. If I had no word, I'd call the company and tell them that the delivery people had taken my money but not given me the coupons. But the very next day when I got home from work, sure enough, there was the water guy waiting for me. He apologized profusely about forgetting my coupons. I knew he hadn't taken the money. People here are drive by such a respect for honesty when it comes to stealing. They just don't take what doesn't belong to them.

I went to my horseback riding lesson on Monday. Junior came with me since he was home. It's the most peaceful, beautiful environment, in my opinion, to be outside after the sun has set, in a place filled with horses and people who love them. The past few weeks I've been on a crazy horse. Literally, she's crazy. A former racehorse that has thrown everybody off. When I got there, our instructor wanted to see what the guy in my class could do with her. I had no problem with it, even though I felt like I was making some progress with her. I got a "calmer" horse. And on my second time asking for a canter, I got bucked off. Yep, had to do an emergency dismount when I found myself on her neck ahead of the saddle! She even broke the fence (top rail!) in her kick that threw me off. Of course I got back on. And then learned that the guy on my horse from last week also got thrown off before I got to the arena. By the end of it, I decided against jumping and just took it easy. I said I was too old (the guy and girl I ride with are both 17/18). Really, I was just fed up. But I'll get that same horse again next week, and I'll hope it's better! And the next night I enjoyed a civilized and less physical game of mahjong.

I saw a movie with my friend Sonya last Saturday. "The Furious Force of Rhymes" It's a documentary about the global hip-hop movement and the way different people have used it to find their voice and express their concerns (racism, classism, neo-colonialism, the fall of communism, terrorism/being seen as terrorists). It was fabulous. It played on the last day of the Abu Dhabi Film Festival.

And the Ferari Theme Park opened 3 days ago. It has, of course, the world's fastest roller coaster. The Formula 1 race is next weekend, so the city is full of activity. There are nightly movies outside on the beach, 2 concerts every night (also on the beach), art exhibits,...and of course, all the stuff going on at Yas Island, the island with the theme park and race track.

And last but not least, Junior and I went in search of a pumpkin yesterday. It looked more like a butternut squash, but we found some at the Fruit and Vegetable market. We spent 3 dollars on it, and Junior did all of the carving. Per usual, I toasted the seeds. And per usual, I was the only one who ate them!

For a moment

The strangest things touch us sometimes in the most unexpected ways. And then we find ourselves doing something with passion or excitement or sadness or reflection--and it was never even on the radar when we woke up and thought about our day.

I woke up this morning with the intention to research what it will take to get my teaching certification for French. I pulled out all my transcripts last night and found myself paging through the binder that has contained my life's most important documents since I've lived outside of the USA. For five and a half years now, that blue binder (American size, which the A4 documents from every other part of the world stick out of the top of, but I never bothered to buy a larger binder) has contained my passport, my birth certificate (yes, original), my diplomas (yes, originals), my university transcripts (now from 6 different schools), my carte de séjours, my residence permits, my work visas, my health insurance documents, my letters of recommendation, my French language exam certificates, copies of all credit cards, drivers' licenses, library cards, student IDs, apartment lease agreements, utility bills (needed for every transaction in France), police background checks, and even my fingerprints and contact lense perscriptions. It's all there. I felt emotional and strange paging through those documents last night, and so I left them to this morning. Because, as I prepare for another step forward, I have to reorganize all of the above, so that I can fit them into a nice picture that sums up my "experience" abroad, over the past (nearly) 6 years.

But then I read an op-ed piece in the New York Times. A woman who wrote about being 50-something and having long hair. And how she's tired of people finding myriad reasons to criticize her for her decision NOT to cut her hair, as most middle-aged American women do. And she said that in Europe the same wouldn't be true. And she said that maybe she should move to Paris. Which, of course, got me thinking of Paris. Middle-aged women with long hair and Paris got me thinking about Joni Mitchell. And her song, "California." About leaving Paris, where it's "old and gray and settled in its ways" and going home to California. And when I got to the end of the opinion piece, I saw that this woman writer has a blog, called SlowLoveLife.com (yes, check it out), which I went to. Instead of removing herself from life's chaos through meditation or going to an ashram, she has opened herself to moving through life more slowly, taking in all that is beautiful and interesting and worth appreciating. And violà. I was inspired to return to my blog. And when I did, I found that I was 14 months past my last post.

I like my last post (Aug. 29th? 2009). My first impressions of life in the Gulf. How far my impressions have come since then. I feel a little sad that I haven't written about the between-time. But that's okay. I was living life and keeping up and enjoying myself. But I do sense that something is missing...and that's the creative side of me that loves to write, reflect, write. So this morning, I decided to write instead of research. My binder and all its contents are still spread out all over the couch and coffee table in front of me. A reminder of what's next. But I'm happy to have stopped for a moment and did something that I truly appreciate.

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