9-21-2007

Salaam Aleikum everyone!

Well, today marks exactly 1 month since I arrived here: I survived my first month! Yay! Unfortunately, this week has been full of misadventures, to put it lightly. I'll go in chronological order. First, I learned the hard way that I cannot smile, look a man in the eye, or even respond to him if he asks me a somewhat innocent question without sending the signal that I'm ready and willing to have sex with him. I learned this from the Pakistani manager of a grocery store where I was shopping-a man who was clearly older than my father. He asked me where I was from, and I told him America, and we talked for a couple minutes-and he touched my breast and said "Nice to meet you, maybe something more." What?! NO! NO something more! Who knew "Where are you from? I'm from Pakistan" was a pickup line?! I was very upset by the whole thing, but most of the women here have had similar experiences, have been groped at least once. "You can't smile at them. You can't look them in the eye. That's all it takes-looking them in the eye-and they think you're propositioning them. And if a man tries to talk to you, pretend you're deaf. Don't turn towards him, and do NOT respond!" This is what they told me. I find it incredibly difficult to follow these strict instructions, though. I found out one of my colleagues who is also very friendly and from America made a similar mistake of answering a seemingly innocent question, only to have the man expose himself to here, right there on the street, in the DQ, where we live.

Since that occurrence, I've been concentrating hard on the tiled floors of the stores I visit. I have to constantly remind myself "Don't look up. Don't look up. Don't look up" when I go out. I've given a lot of thought to covering my face, like most Saudi women do, instead of just my hair. Haven't done it yet because I have to buy a niqab-the scarflike thing that covers your face-because I only have the hejab, the scarflike thing that covers your hair. I've heard it's quite hard to breathe though, since the scarf covers your mouth and nose. And if you wear the full niqab, so your eyes are covered too, it's quite difficult to see. So I don't know.

Misadventure #2: Paul, one of the teachers here who has taught in Saudi for years, suggested we go to the restaurant just outside the DQ that night to eat. Mind you, it is a long-standing tradition for the men and women teachers to go to this restaurant, although they have to eat outside because there is no section for women in the restaurant. But there are tables outside-this is the restaurant I mentioned going to in a previous email. I have been there a few times now, actually. Anyway, Lori and her husband (my neighbors) didn't want to go, but I did, and I asked them if they thought it would be ok if Paul and I went, since in the past I've gone with a group. Lori and Paul both said it would be no problem, just keep my hair covered, which I always do anyway. So anyway, Paul and I walked there and they had served my hummus but hadn't gotten our stuff that required baking yet, when a mutawa (Arabic word for "religious police") with a policeman came to a screeching halt in front of the restaurant and jumped out of the car. The mutawa addressed Paul (they avoid addressing women), asking him if he was Muslim. Paul said no. Then the mutawa asked Paul where he was from, and Paul said America.

The mutawa said "mashallah" which literally means "God wills it," but is said after any compliment to show no envy or ill will, so a better interpretation would be "May God keep you this way." So that seemed like a good sign. I concentrated on staring down while they talked. The mutawa asked Paul if I was his wife, and Paul, not skipping a beat, said yes. I felt my face burn as it does when I lie, even though I hadn't said a word. Also, it felt so strange to me because Paul is 55. But here it's perfectly normal for a 55-year-old man to have a wife my age. Anyway, so then the mutawa said that this area was "for men only" and "don't bring your wife back here." He was pretty polite to us, and even said we could finish eating. Then he turned to the restaurant workers and yelled and threatened them in Arabic. I don't know exactly what he said, but as soon as he left they were quickly bringing our food in to-go bags and motioned that we needed to hurry up and leave. Paul had ordered a pizza, and had been eating a slice when they motioned for us to hurry and leave, so Paul tried to close the pizza box, but apparently he has never worked in a pizza place before and couldn't figure out how to close it properly. A worker ran over and closed the box for him, but we couldn't help but notice his hands were shaking and he, too, fumbled with the box-but not for lack of experience, he was just so terrified he couldn't get his hands to work right.

In our haste to leave, I forgot that I was sitting on one of those plastic lawn chairs that doesn't really push backwards, so when I leaned and pushed backwards, instead of the chair sliding back across the cement, it tipped, and I fell over backwards. Oddly, the only thing going through my head as I fell was "Don't let your abaaya slip and show your ankles..." and before I even hit the ground my hands were on my abaaya, holding it down, and the moment I landed I was quickly feeling around my ankles to make sure my abaaya hadn't slid up to show-God forbid!-an inch or two of skin. Of course, no one moved to help me up. After securing my abaaya, I climbed up and grabbed all the stuff that had fallen out of my purse all over the floor.

Normally after such a tumble, I would have felt really embarrassed about falling, but I had already reached my peak of humiliation with being forced to leave because I was a woman and eating. The fall could not increase my humiliation, nor could it serve as a further blow to my pride. So Paul and I walked hastily back to the DQ, and I couldn't stop talking aloud about how it didn't make any sense-men and women have been eating outside there for years! Why now? What happened?

Paul explained that "There are no rules here. It's whatever suits the mutawa. They're like hunters: if a hunter goes out to kill a deer but doesn't find a deer, he'll kill a rabbit instead. The mutawa was looking to bust somebody, and you made the mistake of being a woman, that's all." I apologized to Paul over and over, and he kept saying, "Don't worry. I'm fine. My only regret is for those poor restaurant workers. I hope they don't shut the place down because of this." Me too. Of course, I haven't dared to walk outside the DQ since then, so I really don't know what happened to the restaurant; all I know is the mutawa must've said some really terrible things to have the workers so visibly shaken and terrified. I don't understand; unlike many of the female teachers, who are adamant about NOT covering their hair when they go out, I always cover, I always try not to stir up trouble or resist the strange laws here out of "the principal of the matter." And yet it seems as if I'm a magnet for trouble!

My final misadventure: Jill and I took a taxi home from the grocery store, despite my suggestion that we call Tayeb, a driver whom I really trust but requires that you give him at least half an hour notice. Jill didn't want to wait, and since there are always taxis outside this supermarket, we just stepped outside and got a taxi. The man spoke no English, but Jill speaks some Arabic, so she told him where to go and haggled with him over the price. He dropped her off first because it's closer to the DQ entrance than my house. She gave him directions of how to leave her house and take me home, and on top of that I know how to say "Left, right, and straight" in Arabic.

The taxi driver, who had not spoken a word to us other than to ask about directions, two blocks after dropping Jill off, told me, "I love you." I figured he didn't know what he was saying, and I laughed nervously. Mistake #1. Mistake #2 was not telling him to STOP right there, although it was almost a mile to my apartment and I had a ton of groceries, including 3 gallons of water. I didn't make eye contact, nor did I speak other than to give directions. I wore sunglasses so he never even saw my eyes, and of course my hair was covered. When we got to my apartment, he took my groceries and insisted on carrying them. Every few steps, I would turn around and try to take them from him, but he kept holding them, saying "No no no, no problem, no problem." After bringing in my groceries, he puckered his lips and pointed to them, then started making kissing sounds. I said "No! No! La! La!" (La=no in Arabic). But he persisted, saying again, "I love you," then more kissing sounds, then giving me this pleading look and pointing to his heart to let me know that I would break his heart if I didn't kiss him. I was getting very close to breaking something else! I raised my voice, continuing to point for him to leave and yelling, "No! No! La! La!" until he finally left.

Since then I've started using the deadbolt along with the other lock on my front door even when I'm at home. It really shook me up, although if worse came to worse, the guy was maybe five feet tall, so I could've broken him in two if it came down to it. I was hesitant to touch him, even to hit him, in case he could go to the police and somehow get me arrested for that. I just don't know. In general here, a man's word is worth much more than a woman's, but then I don't know how that changes depending on nationality. The man, I'm sure, wasn't Saudi because Saudis see jobs such as taxi driving as beneath them. Part of the reason why the unemployment rate here is 30%. So since I'm an American, as Paul pointed out after the mutawa incident, I'm much less likely to get arrested or killed or whatever because of politics and economics. The driver, I'm guessing, was from a Central Asian country (probably Pakistan-there are lots of immigrants from Pakistan here). But in any case, I didn't want to take the risk of kicking him or something and then having him and a handful of police come back later pounding at my door.

But now for some good news! Mary, another woman I teach with, gave me two adorable little kittens on Tuesday evening. They're about 4 weeks old, which is younger than you would normally get kittens, but I read that when the mother is feral they recommend you take the kittens at 4 weeks or it's very difficult to tame them. There were only 2 in the litter, and it didn't seem right to split them up, so I have both. I named them Arabic names: Azeeza, which is a female name meaning "cherished, beloved," and Samir, a male name meaning "entertaining companion." Of course, I'm just guessing on the sexes at this point, but Samir is bigger and more active than Azeeza. I bought the cat nursing kit and I feed them a mixture of this special formula with kitten food that I crushed up and mixed in. They are quite precocious: within 24 hours they were using the litterbox! They eat well, and they run after me wherever I am, and they love to lay on me and cuddle and purr. They make me feel so loved!

Well, I could write another page on the chaos at work, but I think this email has gone on long enough! Also, an update on Diane: she emailed me, so she arrived safely in Iraq, and she thanked me for the letter I gave her before she left. She said she's never received so much written affirmation in her life, which is really quite sad. So just a reminder to everyone: we tend to hold back on telling people the positive things we think about them, and then if they die we say them at the funeral, which seems very silly to me. So remember that everyone needs to hear or read some affirmation, no matter how confident they may seem! Don't wait until you're talking to someone else, or, God forbid, at the person's funeral, to say what a wonderful person someone was.

Love to All,

Lizz

P.S. I've attached 3 pictures: 1 shows the view from the hotel where I stayed my first night, but the buildings and greenery look pretty much the same where I live. Just to give you an idea of how things look here. And there's a picture of the outdoor cats that I feed, and then a picture of my two kitties, Samir and Azeeza, on a throw pillow in my living room.