It’s a slow week at work and lots of ideas are circling in my head. I am so happy to have space to write, read and think!

*By the way, please feel free to comment and share your opinions. 

Let me tell you, I can’t walk anywhere in my neighborhood in Dammam without getting stopped by at least one or maybe several cars. Or a car will drive by me very slowly and peculiarly as I am walking. With very few women driving, its obvious that these drivers are men. Sadly, this is not new for me or any woman anywhere. I remember walking to a  nearby supermarket near to my college in the US, only to be honked at, whistled at, and asked if I “wanted a ride” by strange men on my way home. I never walked again there.

In a country, Saudi Arabia,  where men are chaperoning women everywhere they go for their own “protection,” any woman walking without an escort is fare game. Don’t these men realize the danger is not in women but their own savage thoughts and behavior?

I deal with these encounters daily. I even wore the infamous “niqab” (a black face covering showing only your eyes) to avoid the attention. And guess what? It only made the situation worse. Maybe because I happen to be one of the billions on earth with blue eyes, which seemed to be valued here, and really stand out amidst the layers of black.

The same men who control their sisters or daughters are the ones cruising the streets, harassing the poor women who are out alone. I think that the situation in this culture is being dealt with in the wrong way. Women are taught to cover from head to toe to protect themselves from the gaze of men. And they even go so far as to say that women covering protects men from getting aroused. Why don’t we just give men blindfolds? Its their problem, not ours. But honestly, maybe covering does work to some extent here because men won’t abduct a woman here. In the US, they would and they do every day.

If men can’t control themselves around a woman who wears a black cloak covering everything but her eyes, maybe we should make them be chaperoned to each of their daily activities. Maybe we should chaperone them on their trips abroad and weekend visits to Bahrain, where many men go to party and cheat on their wives. That way, a woman can correct them with each incorrect gaze, stop them when they want to harass a girl walking along the street, and teach them that women are more than just objects of lust.

Many women here value their clothing and it helps them in many spiritual ways. But others hate the whole concept and do everything to convince their families to let them at least show their faces. Trust me, it’s hard to breath in with the veil over your mouth! A woman’s clothing is her choice, bikini to burqa. And that has nothing to do with a man, even your father. If we begin to show them that they can’t control what’s on the outside, maybe we can begin to make more internal progress to change the system of dominance, control, one-sidedness and favoritism of men.

I have a big f**** you to the next person who stops me on the street. And I don’t recall ever using that phrase in my life…

As a final thought, you know why men try to change women rather than dealing with their own irresponsible behavior? Because men don’t like to change, especially in this area of the world. Admitting your guilt somehow compromises your authority, your pride, your power as men. It’s okay if that’s what it means to be a man. I have heard of men destroying their relationships and many things good in their lives just because they can’t admit they are wrong. But, down the road this will no longer happen at the destruction of women. And more and more men will see themselves alone playing PlayStation while women are out building successful careers and leading us into the future.

So the next time you find your husband eying a woman in a tight skirt at the supermarket, don’t shrug it off. “Oh, he is just being a man,” many women would say. Some would even blame the other woman for her choice in clothing, like its her fault! Rather, teach him that a woman is not an expensive watch or a plate of fried chicken. You can’t buy and sell her. You can’t even comprehend the complexity and beauty of her mind.

Much of my life vision includes travel. Meet any millennial and they would likely say the same thing. Each person with their own reasons. Travel for me is an indicator of success because it provides opportunities to grow and learn.  Growing up in an extremely white community and attending a 100% white school and a mostly white university was boring and uniform. Everyone, for the most part, was living the same life. Exploring a new culture gives me the chance to feel like an outsider, when before I always the insider.

Now, when I visit my tiny village in America, my new ideas about life, a new culture of my own, make me the outsider. I would rather live life on that side.

Two weeks ago, I traveled to Georgia (the country) with my friend and brother-in-law, Yousef. It felt like a double success to be traveling abroad while living abroad. It was Yousef’s first time outside of his own, very uniform culture. Watching him navigate and reflect upon the new environment was the greatest pleasure of the trip for me. The usual brown landscape of the Gulf was transformed to green, mosques to cathedrals,  palm trees to pine trees, and the temperature dropped from 41 C to 7 C.

With rolling streams, freshwater springs, green mountains, and friendly people Georgia really did seem like heaven on Earth. Yousef also got a break from driving, which he does most of the day, and also from the many responsibilities he has as the oldest remaining brother in the house. For once, I feel like he really got to breath deeply and see himself as an individual rather than part of the group. Many times after I would go to sleep after a long, tiring day, Yousef would go out to wonder the streets alone. I wonder what he saw on his midnight rounds, I wonder how he felt to be totally disconnected for maybe the first time in his life.

I had a memorable experience of my own on the trip. On the bus ride between the capital city Tbilisi and the mountain region of Stepantsminda I sat by a couple, Laura and Mike. Laura was from Spain and Mike was from the USA. Oddly, his mother was from a town quite near to my own. I had actually seen them the day before on a walking- tour of the capital but we hadn’t had the chance to talk. They started by asking me where I was from. I told them I was from the US but currently living between KSA and Bahrain. I told them that my husband is Bahraini but is currently working in the US. This is always very interesting to people. But, Laura and Mike understood my situation because they both had experienced living in each other’s cultures. Mike was currently working in Barcelona and spoke Spanish fluently. We talked deeply about intercultural relationships and how they have changed us. The way we eat, speak and think about the world. And suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone. I felt like an interesting person with an incredible experience and world-view to share with others. The three- hour ride flew by. At the end we exchanged contact info and said farewell.

On the final evening of our trip, Yousef and I chatted on the balcony of our AirBnb about our perceptions and experiences of the country. Although we had seen awe-inspiring mountains and ancient historical sights, the greatest memories of a place are always of the people and culture. He told me that it was the first time he had seen women working in so many different positions. “Women are everywhere here!” he said. We also talked about the general difference in work-ethic that we saw. In Gulf countries, most low-income jobs are done by foreigners. While in Georgia, the Georgian people are the taxi-drivers, restaurant workers, and cashiers. The Georgian people don’t view themselves as too good for these positions because making a living is more important than pride.

When entering his village in Bahrain, he laughingly said “No freedom here, huh?”

I nodded in agreement.

Travel is a personal journey. It brings us in close contact with ourselves and makes us ask meaningful questions about the way we live our lives. It shows us that there is not only one way to live, and thank God for that.

I was in college — young, wild and free.  I met someone. The person that I ended up marrying.  Two weeks after we met, we walked through a park talking about our lives. I wore a bohemian dress and gold earrings. He wore a button-up shirt and slacks, simple colors as usual. He talked about his country, Bahrain, and his memories of growing up by the sea. I never believed that I would end up in his country, stepping into the picture he carefully painted for me.

We circled ponds and sycamore trees, crisscrossing through our lives. Then we found a bench to sit on, cast iron. “How about we take a trip to the beach?” I said.

“Really?” he replied with a smile. I expected him to say no.

“Yes.” I said.

He was up for it, so we went to his apartment, which he didn’t have the key to. So he took out the window screen and climbed through the window. He prepared his things. Our destination was still unknown.

We decided to take my car, which was far more dependable than his old Camry. We took off East, and the route we ended up choosing led us to Long Beach, New York. About an hour into our journey, Ali asked me if I was really serious about this. He told be that we could just take a detour to Chicago. I had exams coming up and he was finishing senior- year projects, we really had no business going. But I encouraged him to stick to the plan.

He drove us through the night. I remember a big, starry sky and those quiet hours when you feel you’re the only ones on the road. We were making a connection.

Along the way we stopped for gas, Red Bull and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. We wouldn’t dare consume that junk today.

It was sunrise when we arrived. Our eyes were tired and we were disoriented from lack of sleep. But there it was. The ocean in front of us. A big, golden sun and the New York City skyline.

Little did I know, this trip would cause me to gain something and lose something. I gained a life partner, who would go on to help me through the growing pains of womanhood and give me love like never before. But, I lost my childhood friend- who I named “Blankie,” a baby blanket that I had slept with every night for 21 years.

When my parents found out that I had gone to NYC with Ali, they took the car and threw out all of its contents, including Blankie. Why? I don’t understand to this day.

Losing Blankie has since become a symbol of the end of innocence. When I want to hug Blankie at night, I remember that he is gone. I must find peace within myself.

I don’t know where Blankie is. Maybe he was burned, or he is sitting in some landfill. But I would like to thank him for everything that he did for me.

 

Here is the last photo of Blankie.

2015

 

I recently attended a gathering of foreign women in Bahrain. It is a sigh of relief to meet someone from your own background while living abroad. In America, I am not fond of hanging out with other Americans. But, it seems that you can connect with more like-minded people when living abroad. They see the world through a broader lens than those who live and stay back home.

It was such a pleasure to share tea, pastries, stories and dreams with women who were just as starry-eyed as me upon their arrival in the Middle East. Reality quickly set in, and they all experienced feelings of isolation in their new culture. Many of the women have been living in Bahrain for 25-30 years. They talked about the experience of arriving pre-internet, newly married, and trying to figure out the intricacies of the language, religion and social relationships. These women and I all share the fact that we married Bahrainis, converted to a new religion, and have adopted a bit of a new culture.

One women referred to the lives of women like us as “no man’s land.” In case you do not understand this reference, no man’s land is a phrase meaning ambiguity…neither here nor there. The woman continued to say, “In my home country, I do not feel quite Scottish enough and in Bahrain I don’t feel quite Bahraini or Arab enough. She told me that once she learned the local dialect, she was able to feel more included but not totally.

It is interesting to meet women who have spent the majority of their adult lives here, married Arab husbands, and raised their children here. Their children have benefited greatly by being multicultural and multilingual. But, naturally there were sacrifices for the mothers. Living away from parents and family in the U.S. or UK before the era of video calls caused feeling of resentment and abandonment that continue to this day. They also faced challenges with the group-oriented culture of the Middle East, where your business is everyone’s business.

Some advice they offered me:

“Learn the language.”

“Do not live with your in-laws if that can be avoided. Trust me, I have been living with my in-laws for 25 years and it can be very difficult. You have no privacy. ”

“Do not complain, argue, or say anything negative about your mother-in- law. Mom is always #1 for Arabs.”

Some women had a lot to say about in-laws, and I understand how their situation might have been difficult because a married couple would virtually never live with their in-laws in the UK or US. But in Bahrain and throughout the Arab world, it is a tradition that sons and their wives stay in the family home. Often, multiple families share the same house. But nowadays young couples who have the financial means to do so are opting to rent their own apartment for more privacy and better opportunities for their children.

Not all in-laws are bad. I can say that mine have been wonderful. One woman mentioned that her relationship with her mother-in-law was loving and warm. She said that she had basically been adopted. I believe mine will be the same.

Living in no man’s land is not easy. Women like “us” have faced challenges here and there. We don’t truly feel “American” or “Western” or “Bahraini” or “Arab”. One woman said “When a white British or American person looks at us they don’t really quite know what to do with us.” They think, “Hmm…what is she?” She continued, “We don’t fit into anyone’s little box of what they think we should be, giving us greater flexibility and a tremendous world- view.”

Saudi women are stereotyped a lot, even among Arabs in neighboring countries. Some say things like “they are spoiled” , or “they shop a lot”  while others pity them by saying things like “those poor women…they have no rights.” These women have been a focal point of conversation this past year when driving became legal for women in the country.

For many Saudi women, they don’t see themselves as a victim of any catastrophic, oppressive culture. However, many do hope for greater chances to embrace their individuality and achieve their dreams.

I have met young Saudi artists, intellectuals, and activists who would like to change some aspects of their country for the better while still holding on to their culture and core beliefs. After all, it is things like traditions and customs that give the world its beautiful variety.

In case anyone is wondering, some of the cultural stereotypes here are somewhat true. Yes, fathers, husbands, and brothers often have the final say in many affairs. Some girls get married at a very young age, already married with one or two children by the time they finish high school. Many women stay home with children rather than go to work. Men sometimes have multiple wives. When I first came,  I didn’t want to believe these things actually existed. I thought these were exaggerated ideas invented by Western media outlets to make Arab culture appear inferior to their own.

But the experience of one woman or a few women isn’t true for all. I truly do feel that many women here are struggling, they simply can’t live their own lives or make their own decisions. Especially when it comes to the pivotal topic of marriage.

I would like you to read some stories from Saudi women. It is best to learn about them from their lens anyway, not mine. Here are some writing prompts I gave in class and student responses.

What will your life be like in 10 years?

In 10 years, I will be a better person. I will be in my own house and have a life of my own. I will be happy. I will have two cats, a canary bird, and a goldfish. I will have a library of my own, and it will contain all the books I have read in my life. I will improve my English in speaking, writing, and also reading. I will open a bookstore with a classic style. I will fight to be a girl with her own personality.

This is a very difficult question, because in 10 years I don’t know if I will be alive or dead[…] I wish to hold a high position in a company and have a high salary. I want to have a beautiful home with my family. Then, I wouldn’t need anybody and could depend on myself. Finally, I hope to be in good health. 

What would you do if you were queen of a small country?

If I were queen of a small country, I would rule it perfectly. First, I’d let my people be free with their religions and thoughts, everyone would be able to practice their own religion freely. 

I have been away for a long while. Partly because I have been extremely busy,  the weeks pass unknowingly, and also partly because I have “gotten used to” my new life in the Gulf. This has become the new “normal” and I hardly remember my old life, my old self, that I left 9 months ago in the United States. In other words, I’m not as cool as I used to be.

What have I been up to?

Well, I have been teaching a lot, sometimes 8 hours a day. I have still been commuting to Bahrain on the weekends, and thankfully there hasn’t been any more trouble with the unshakable passport control officers.

How can I sum up my experience so far? Amazing. I haven’t had the chance to tour around as much as I had wanted to, but I am exposed to a world of new ideas and information from my students. I feel that I have an amazing job and I am excited to share the stories I’ve heard with friends and colleagues back in the US.

I am part of a new culture, it’s values still challenge me at times, but I appreciate it.

It’s November now. The weather is nice enough to leave the windows open during the day. Last night, for a brief moment, I thought I felt cold. In the shopping malls, the stores are stocked with winter coats, scarves, and gloves. Keep in mind, it’s still 70 degrees. I have a hard time imagining the weather in Saudi Arabia will get cold enough to wear winter clothes.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in the United States.  It’s the first Thanksgiving I have ever spent away from my family, and I am sure they are taking it hard. I enjoy Thanksgiving. I will miss the warmth of this time.  I love waking up to the smell of pumpkin pie spice. I will miss sleepily watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade while caressing a warm mug of coffee.

As a cultural lesson, and in part to fill my Thanksgiving void, I planned to have Thanksgiving in my English class. Many of my students were aware of the American holiday because Snapchat featured a video of Mr. Trump fondling a Turkey. But I wanted my students to know more. We were going to learn about the history and traditions of the holiday, along with sharing food and playing games. I perceived that my class was very enthusiastic about the change in routine. The students are usually excited to learn about new cultures. We were all planning what kind of food to bring when someone from the back of the class said, “Can we change the day?” I was puzzled. “Okay, but why?” I said. The class erupted into a sea of arguments. The only thing I could understand was “Two Eids.” I knew immediately what the students were arguing about.

In Saudi Arabia, some people are very strict about only celebrating the two Islamic holidays, Eid Al Fitr and Eid Al-Adha. Well…let’s say three holidays. They of course celebrate their own National Day. All three of the holidays fall within the scorching hot summer months. No one enjoys being here at that time, so people travel if they have the means to do so. For some people, anything that resembles a holiday, aside from the two Islamic ones, is haram, or forbidden. This includes New Years, Valentines Day, and Halloween. Many people do not celebrate their own birthdays. I would say that most people are very curious and open, but others are afraid of change and always make things difficult.

Needless to say, I canceled Thanksgiving to avoid any trouble.

Being away from your home during a holiday is one of the most difficult things to deal with while living abroad. Especially in a place which hardly allows you to express your traditions to others. Instead of eating Turkey for Thanksgiving, I am thinking of visiting the Turkish restaurant nearby. I never really liked Turkey, but I do miss my family.

 

 

 

“What about the Shia?” I asked.

“Beware of the Shia.” The woman replied. “They hit and cut themselves, and they worship their imams.” She showed a gruesome video to prove her point. Then she said, “they are not real Muslims. Even though they say they are, they are not.”

Wait a minute, I thought to myself. This is Islam…

I heard that Muslims are not allowed to curse other Muslims…

The Quran says:

“Do not consider any of the Muslims as being insignificant, since in the eyes of Allah (that person whom you consider as being insignificant) actually has a high rank. Chapter 49 – Surah al-Hujurat – Part 7

This passage of the Quran calls Muslims to uphold the idea that “God is the only judge” , and they should respect each other and other religions too.

Sadly, people are mean, even though most religions are supposed to be very tolerant. I remember the preacher at my Baptist Church voicing his concern about the growing number of mosques. He put together a presentation of various locations he had traveled to show that mosques outnumbered churches. I also remember a time when a church in my community gave a series of sermons to their congregation about Islam. Naturally, I told my Muslim friend to go and speak. Sure enough, the church declined to hear her point of view. They wanted to learn about Islam from their own skewed perspective, rather than speaking to a real Muslim about Islam.

Naturally, when I heard this woman’s comment I did an about-face. I stopped hanging out with these close-minded people, and I made an effort to meet more Muslims of different sects. I had “mainstream” Sunni and Shia friends, an Ibadi classmate, and a Sufi coworker. Each individual was very vocal about their unique “sect” but promoted unity between the groups. Most of them told me, if I were to convert to Islam, to not follow a sect.

One day, I visited an Iraqi family in Indianapolis, and it was during the first week of Muharram. As I walked towards the home, I smelled the strong smell of onions cooking. When I entered the garage, I saw the father, or “Sayyed” as he was called, frying onions in a very, very large pot. He was making a rice dish to bring to the Matem (Shia community center) later in the evening.

Inside, I met his wife and daughter. They invited my curiosity and shared with me the importance of mourning in the month of Muharram, primarily the ten days leading up to Ashura.  Ashura is the tenth day of the Islamic month and it’s when family members of the Prophet Muhammed were tragically slaughtered in Karbala, Iraq. I left their house equipped with a special stone for praying, called a Turbah, which is made out of mud from Karbala.

I attended three gatherings that week at the community center. First, I attended a lecture in English and then another in Arabic.  When I went downstairs for the lecture in Arabic, there were no lights. The small space was very crowded with women and men in black. The men and women were separated by a partition. A man’s voice was amplified and he began to solemnly sing a melody which filled the room. Many women hid their faces and began to weep. They cried as if they had just lost someone very close to them.

There was a procession that followed where the women around me gathered in a circle to perform Azaa, which is a ritual of hitting the chests in remembrance of the Martyrs who died in Karbala. The room was full of variety, some were hitting their chests quite dramatically, others were lightly tapping, and others were sitting quietly.

Wow, I thought to myself. This is amazing. This happens right here in America. Some people think that America is uniform and has one religion and one kind of people, but you can find everything. 

We are now in the month of Muharram and I am in Bahrain (where about 60 percent of the population is Shia).

I decided to go with a friend of mine to see what was happening in Manama, the Capital. He led me through dark and narrow streets towards the center. As we continued walking, I noticed green and black banners suspended over the streets. I felt the sound of drums beating in my chest.  I didn’t know what I was walking into. In some small way, I felt that I was going to a secret event. I felt like Harry Potter entering Diagon Alley*, except it wasn’t meant to be happy.

*Diagon Alley is a secret world for Wizards and it is accessible only through entering a brick wall behind a Pub Called the Leaky Cauldron in London, England:

 

During the ten days of Muharram, the Capital city of Manama transforms.  I saw art galleries with paintings by local artists that tell the story of Karbala, shops with merchandise like flags and jewelry that commemorate the Martyrs, and you can also see men performing Azaa, the expression of grief through hitting the chest or hitting the back with chains. That night, I saw many groups with their own form of expression, some more intense than others.

It was hot, sweat was poring out of me, and I felt a little disoriented. I knew that I was the only Western face in the crowd. One woman approached me and asked,

“Where are you from?”

“America” I said.

“Are you Muslim?” she asked.

I went around her question, and simply answered “I am here to learn about the story of Karbala.”

She responded, “Regardless if you’re Christian or Muslim, this story is for everyone.” She continued, “Imam Hussein sacrificed himself for all mankind.”

---

I will let you see for yourself the difference between the first woman I wrote about and the last.

Sadly,  Shias are stigmatized because others do not agree with their rituals, although some are supportive. They are denied jobs (employers can often tell if a person is Shia by their name),  and they sometimes have to hide religious symbols in public (like the sword necklace of Imam Hussein) because it can be dangerous. One of my colleagues at school  told me that her Shia students were “Actually, really smart.” She felt the need to explain that they were smart, as if we did not know before.

It’s true. A very small group of men cut their heads open with swords on the morning of the 10th day of Muharram. It is really, really bloody. And yes, some also cut the heads of children and infants. No, it doesn’t only happen in the rural villages of Pakistan, it happens in big cities, in developed countries. It is very difficult for an outsider to understand, and there have been discussions about eliminating this practice all together. If we look only at this event, called Haider in Arabic, without thinking of the the positive things that are happening during Ashura, we have failed. During Ashura people attend nightly lectures on topics such as manners and community, they cook generous amounts of food that is shared with the community, there are several plays and performances and poetry readings that share the message of Karbala, and some people even choose to donate blood or feed the poor.

I left Manama, feeling as if I just had entered a new world. “Well, this doesn’t happen in America,” I thought to myself.

But yes, it does! Maybe not to the same degree as in Bahrain, but there are groups in Chicago, Illinois and Dearborn, Michigan, and Indianapolis, Indiana doing the same thing!

Many white, Trump supporters in rural America, as well as other close-minded groups in other countries, often think that everyone does as they do. It is not true.

I left Manama with an Imam Ali sword necklace. When I wear it, I hope it reminds me to always to fight against any injustice I see. And most importantly, I hope it reminds me to always be aware of my own biases and fears.

 

 

 

I think I jinxed myself with the last post about patience and understanding.

The passport office on the Saudi Side of the King Fahd Causeway was full of immigration officers in their early twenties. The place smelled like a thousand ashtrays, and it reflected the total chaos of the country’s administrative units. I walked across traffic to speak with the officers after being denied re-entry to Saudi Arabia from Bahrain for the second time.

Why was I denied re-entry? My visa said that I can only enter Saudi Arabia by air. However, I had entered the country already 5 times by car from Bahrain without any trouble. Immigration’s response was “We changed the rules.”

That’s the thing about rules here. They are always changing. There is a lack of clarity.

My driver turned the car around and followed the sign that said, “Back to Bahrain.” I took a deep breath. I relaxed. Bahrain is like the rational, more organized older sibling to KSA. Overall, the population is far more educated and tolerant.

We visited the Saudi embassy in Manama to “fix” the visa “problem.” It was early in the morning, and we arrived before they opened at 9am. A heavily armed Pakistani was waiting at the gate. At 9am in the morning, the sun was harsh and bright. One could easily get a sunburn, and the temperature was boiling. It was 9:05 and I stood in a queue of hot, impatient people who were facing problems too.

After a show of his authority, the guard let us enter the embassy. There was only one worker standing in a dull, stuffy room. It did not match my image of how an embassy should look. We were given directions to request a new invitation letter from my employer and apply for a new visa. When I asked him why I was denied, he said “This is happening to a lot of people. We don’t know why immigration is doing it.”

I thought, “Really? Shouldn’t the embassy know about these kinds of things.”

I contacted my employer first thing. The letter could have taken 5 minutes, but instead it took two days to write.

I stayed in Bahrain overnight, which was not devastating for me.  But I missed my first two days of teaching. I imagined classes full of women waiting to learn, but I was not there to teach them…

Yesterday, I arrived in KSA around Maghrib (sunset). There was a big golden sun sinking into the horizon. I questioned the purpose of my time here. Is it really worth the trouble?Two days, two trips to the embassy, three trips to immigration on the bridge and 12 hours of waiting in offices.

I have not even had a chance to teach….