Turning into a Kuwaiti
We were lingering over the last bites of dessert and coffee in our favorite French restaurant when one phone rang and after a brief conversation, my friend turned to the rest of us and said “We have to get home. That was Anwar saying another storm had rolled in.”
We had all known it was a possibility, but wanted to take the chance to get together anyway. It was one of those rare occasions when our husbands were out of town, we could eat at a restaurant WE liked that they didn’t, we could get together and not worry about when we were getting home. We flurried out, I quickly dropped off my friends and headed home.
The streets were relatively quiet and the traffic relatively slow. I found myself thinking about the evening and how far I have come, living in Kuwait. I’m driving at night, and I don’t even feel a surge of fear-filled adrenalin, I’m driving in a sandstorm going ho-hum, just need to get home, and I’ve just had a great evening with female friends.
And I thought “I’m turning into a Kuwaiti woman.”
The West is so couple oriented. I remember when I was living near my parents in Seattle, and my husband was overseas, I hated Sundays; Sundays seemed like couples’ day to me – couples/families go to church, go to breakfast, go out shopping. Mostly on Sunday I would go to church, go to breakfast with a bunch of church friends and then go home, spend the rest of the day reading the Sunday paper and working on projects. If I were out and about, I would only be reminded how lonely I was, how I was missing a piece, I was incomplete.
In the Gulf, most of the social life is segregated – women go to women’s things, men go to men’s things, families do family things. Things are changing, but there isn’t a lot of “married-people-having-dates-with-their-own-spouses going on. Women go to engagement parties, wedding parties, condolence calls, they go shopping, they meet up at restaurants, they get together in one another’s houses. Men meet up at the diwaniyya, a local shisha cafe, they visit their extended family, they hang out and play cards, they race along the streets. The great circle called men’s social life intersects with the great circle called women’s social life intersect only rarely.
And here I am, meeting up for dinner with my female friends, and driving home alone at night through a sandstorm. Yep. I am definitely turning into a Kuwaiti.
Moses Learns to Delegate
When I was young, I never would have thought that I would join a bible study on the life of Moses that took a whole year. When I was young, I was a believer, but never dreamed I would really STUDY the word. One day a person invited me in, and I found myself learning things I never would have dreamed.
I remember learning this segment, from Exodus, which is part of the readings for day. Moses listened to his father-in-law, and he had to learn to delegate, so he wouldn’t be worn out:
Exodus 18:13-27
13 The next day Moses sat as judge for the people, while the people stood around him from morning until evening. 14When Moses’ father-in-law saw all that he was doing for the people, he said, ‘What is this that you are doing for the people? Why do you sit alone, while all the people stand around you from morning until evening?’ 15Moses said to his father-in-law, ‘Because the people come to me to inquire of God. 16When they have a dispute, they come to me and I decide between one person and another, and I make known to them the statutes and instructions of God.’ 17Moses” father-in-law said to him, ‘What you are doing is not good. 18You will surely wear yourself out, both you and these people with you. For the task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone. 19Now listen to me. I will give you counsel, and God be with you! You should represent the people before God, and you should bring their cases before God; 20teach them the statutes and instructions and make known to them the way they are to go and the things they are to do. 21You should also look for able men among all the people, men who fear God, are trustworthy, and hate dishonest gain; set such men over them as officers over thousands, hundreds, fifties and tens. 22Let them sit as judges for the people at all times; let them bring every important case to you, but decide every minor case themselves. So it will be easier for you, and they will bear the burden with you. 23If you do this, and God so commands you, then you will be able to endure, and all these people will go to their home in peace.’
24 So Moses listened to his father-in-law and did all that he had said. 25Moses chose able men from all Israel and appointed them as heads over the people, as officers over thousands, hundreds, fifties, and tens. 26And they judged the people at all times; hard cases they brought to Moses, but any minor case they decided themselves. 27Then Moses let his father-in-law depart, and he went off to his own country.
Travel Nerds
We are a bunch of travel and geography nerds in my family. Nothing makes us happier than jumping in a airplane, reaching an exotic location and driving, getting our feet on new ground, seeing new things, learning new ways. We all have cameras glued to our hands and laptops stuffed in backpacks.
All my married life, people have looked at me with pity and tole me how they can’t believe I live with such uncertainty, never knowing where I will be in the next year – even the next few months. What I tell them is this – the truth is, we ALL never know. We ALL never know when something will happen that will change our lives dramatically, forever. We live day to day, not thinking about all the things that can happen. If we think too much about them, we might go crazy.
I consider myself blessed. I was created with a restless spirit, a spirit for new experiences and new ways of thinking. I was given a life where all those things became my daily bread.
What is fun for me is watching the next generation of young adults discovering their own lives, who they are meant to be.
My nephew, at Google Earth took his love of geography to new heights. He works in a place he loves, doing work he loves. He wrote to me yesterday, to tell me about a new game being played, a grown-up version of the old “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego.” (one of the earliest computer games for kids) He has published a really really hard one on the Google team LatLong blog (as he says, he has the home court advantage in this game!) and he refers us to another blog, Where on GoogleEarth? where there are a series of contests to see if you can identify landmarks, special places, from the sky.
Here, for example, is the photo from contest #22 – and people have to write in telling what it is. Can YOU tell what it is? 🙂
Feel Like Dancin’
Thanks for all your good thoughts as I – well, I didn’t prepare our taxes, I prepared the worksheet for our taxes. I used to do taxes, but taxes have gotten so complicated, now we have to pay someone else a bucket of money to do them for us. In the meantime, it takes a whole day just to fill out the sheets of preparation. It takes a year of saving receipts and records.
I discovered that in an increasingly paperless world, it is not so easy to document as it used to be. I used to dread filing, but I also knew where things were. A lot of my day yesterday was spent looking up accounts online, and printing off things. When we went more paperless, we also sacrificed easy access to good record keeping. AArrgh!
I remember my Dad always did the family taxes, and he would do them late in January, as soon as all the financial statements had arrived. We would give him hints about better ways of shielding his money from taxation, and he would say “I don’t mind paying taxes. I worked for the government, and the government put you kids through university by paying me a generous salary and health benefits and retirement.” We would shake our heads in wonderment – have you ever met someone who didn’t mind paying taxes? It must be generational.
We had a complicated year, financially, and in gathering all the records I noticed in my zeal to keep everything paid off and up to date, I actually OVERPAID our taxes. . . how often does that happen? AdventureMan and I have something to celebrate!
Those penguins are from a website called CafePress and they sell all kinds of adorable things, unique.
(At nine in the morning, it is still only 73°F / 23°C – wooo hoooooo! Gonna be a great Thursday!
No Whining!
The other day AdventureMan and I happened to be in the same room and the TV happened to be on and a woman on one of the morning shows (shown in the afternoon in Kuwait) was talking about how to make your kids stop whining.
“I don’t remember (our son) ever whining,” I said, “do you remember him whining?”
“When he was very little, sometimes he would get fussy,” AdventureMan replied.
“Yeh, but fussy is different, when you are little and overtired, or have an ear infection or are hungry – even we get fussy!” I laughed.
I do remember a few awful times when, after standing in a long line in the military commissary on a payday I finally got to the checkout stand just as my son was totally losing it, having to get a month’s worth of groceries paid for and packed while he was screaming bloody murder and the groceries are being packed and people are looking at me like I am a criminal because I can’t feed him there in front of everyone. As soon as I could get him to the car, I could nurse him, but meanwhile, I was hostage to his relentless desparate wailing. Is their any sound as compelling as a wailing baby?
But that is to be expected when you have a baby; babies sometimes have to wail.
But whining?
I was lucky, I was able to be a stay-at-home mom when my son was little. We spent a lot of time together. I could usually distract him, I could usually put him down for a nap if he was tired, I could usually schedule myself to be around to feed him when he needed feeding. I remember ear-infection fussing, and teething fussing, but I don’t remember any whining.
AdventureMan said I wouldn’t put up with whining, not from him, not from our son.
Our son had a lot of expectations on him. AdventureMan was an officer, and we had obligations. (What? You thought only Kuwaitis had expectations and obligations?) Sometimes, when our son would rather be playing, he had to attend an event, or an official function, and he had to behave, because he was his father’s son, and his behavior would reflect on his father. When he would rather be wearing a sweatsuit and trainers, he had to wear dress pants and a dress shirt and tie, and dress shoes. If he complained, I would say “you don’t have to like it, you just have to do it. I don’t like it either!”
I had two tools.
First, as soon as he could talk, I taught him to say “can we negotiate?”
Most of the time, we can find a way to make a bad situation better. Often, he had great suggestions, like “can we go to La Gondola and have a pizza afterwards, and can I invite Michael to go with us?” Whatever gets you through what you don’t want to do, I would think to myself, and agree. Occasionally, but not often, there were non-negotiables, like moves, and then, you just have to grit your teeth and get through it.
Second, I used incentives. Some people might call them bribes, but here is how it worked.
I knew it was in his best interest to get good grades, and that it was my responsibility to help him learn how to get those grades. On the first day of school, I would take him to the toy store and he could pick out what he wanted to work for. We would set goals for each class; we would write down those goals and post them on the refrigerator. At the end of the semester, when those goals were met, he got his prize. The hardest hardest part for me was NOT giving him a prize when the goal was not met, but encouraging him that I know he will get the prize next time. I think it was harder on me NOT giving in than on him, not getting the reward.
My Mother thought I was spoiling him because we would negociate. “You are the mother,” she would say. “You are the boss.”
“Yes, Mom,” I would respond, “but I NEED for him to cooperate. I need for him to feel like he has some choice.” It was just a generational difference.
Now I am getting to see a new generation having their babies. My niece taught her baby basic sign language, and continues to teach him more as time goes on. Even pre-verbal, he has ways of telling her he is hungry, thirsty, wants to be picked up, etc. What an amazing and wonderful idea, what control it gives a baby to be able to express these basic desires, to communicate needs and wants. I am in awe of these young mothers and the care with which they are raising their babies.
Kuwait is blessed to have a blog written by young mothers for other young mothers, full of great ideas. Many of the ideas I THINK are great, but because some are written in Arabic, and my vocabulary and grammar are not that strong, i can’t really read them. That blog is Organic Kuwait; they even have books published for children explaining Ramadan and Hajj in age-appropriate language. Makes me wish I were a young mother again! 🙂
A Long Way Gone: Ishmael Beah
Back when I wrote an update on Dharfur, my blogging friend Chirp recommended a book, A Long Way Gone; Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah. I ordered it that very day, and read it this last week.
It is a truly heartbreaking autobiographical book about a young mischievous boy growing up in Sierra Leone, leading a relatively simple and carefree life in his village with his family. It is very African. He talks about the games he and his friends play, his fascination with rap music and the simple joys of the life he is leading.
Then the rebels come. The invade the villages, hopped up on dope, their dead eyes with no pity, raping, killing, chopping off limbs, stealing all the village food and burning the village behind them, often with people locked inside their huts.
Ishmael escapes once with friends, eventually returning to the village to find his entire family gone. Most of the book has to do with what he has to do to survive. Many villages are very afraid of groups of boys, even boys as young as these are – in their early adolescence – and will hurt them. At the very least, most of the villages hurry them along. At one point Ishmael is hiding out in the jungle forest on his own, hiding from lions, giant feral pigs, sleeping up in trees and looking for the rare fruit or grass that he can eat without getting sick.
Finally, after meeting up with some other boys and continuing to try to find his family, a village takes him in, a village run by the state soldiers. As they are attacked by rebels, the boys are forced to make a choice – go out on their own again (where the rebels will also try to recruit them, and if they refuse, will kill them) or agree to be soldiers. These are kids 12, 13, 14 carrying AK 47’s. As part of their training they are given drugs on a regular basis which keep them hopped up, full of energy, and not sleeping for days. The young boys learn to kill without pity. He becomes the very people he was fleeing.
This is a book about redemption. At the center where the boy soldiers are taken, they are constantly told “none of this was your fault.” It is a very African approach, a very human and loving approach to redemption of lives that might have been totally lost to the horrors they have witnessed and inflicted. The author is now nearly 30, and sounds – unlikely as it might be – happy.
Thank you, Chirp, for recommending this wonderful book.
St. Patrick and the Wearing of the Green
Growing up in the USA, everyone knows, as a kid, that on St. Patrick’s Day you wear green. It doesn’t mean you are Catholic, or Christian, it means you don’t want to get a pinch, because that is what happens to kids who don’t wear green. (You know how mean kids can be!)
Later on, maybe in high school, a few people will wear orange and explain that they are Irish protestants. Most of us, as kids, don’t really know a whole lot about St. Patrick other than that he went to Ireland to convert the heathens to believe in the church, and that he cast the snakes out of Ireland.
When you get older, St. Patrick’s Day is often a rollicking night in local taverns with Irish names, where they serve stew, and soda bread, and potatoes, and lots of green beer and live music singing old Irish songs.
There are references below to the short version of St. Patrick’s life, and a longer version. The longer version is the Catholic version and, while less documented, is longer and more interesting.
This is from Wikipedia, and is a short summary of the life of St. Patrick:
Saint Patrick (Latin: Patricius[2], Irish: Naomh Pádraig) was a Christian missionary and is the patron saint of Ireland along with Brigid of Kildare and Columba. Patrick was born in Roman Britain. When he was about sixteen he was captured by Irish raiders and taken as a slave to Ireland, where he lived for six years before escaping and returning to his family. He entered the church, as his father and grandfather had before him, becoming a deacon and a bishop. He later returned to Ireland as a missionary, working in the north and west of the island, but little is known about the places where he actually worked and no link can be made with Patrick and any church. By the eighth century he had become the patron saint of Ireland. The Irish monastery system evolved after the time of Patrick and the Irish church did not develop the diocesan model that Patrick and the other early missionaries had tried to establish.
(From Who Was St. Patrick?)
The available body of evidence does not allow the dates of Patrick’s life to be fixed with certainty, but it appears that he was active as a missionary in Ireland during the second half of the fifth century. Two letters from him survive, along with later hagiographies from the seventh century onwards. Many of these works cannot be taken as authentic traditions. Uncritical acceptance of the Annals of Ulster (see below) would imply that he lived from 378 to 493, and ministered in modern day northern Ireland from 433 onwards.
Corruption at the Morgue
Where is the Kuwaiti detective novel? I follow Guido Brunetti in Donna Leon’s series on Venice, Dave Robicheaux, the James Lee Burke detective in a small town just outside New Orleans, and now, Investigator Chen, who is a chief investigator in China, but where, oh where is the Kuwait detective / mystery? It is just waiting to be written.
In yesterday’s Kuwait Times is an article I would love to link you to, but it isn’t there, not even when I search “female coroner” from the headline on page 3. Did you know Kuwait had a female coroner, a la Kathy Reich’s Temperance Brennan and Patricia Cornwell’s Kay Scarpatta? As you read the article, it makes sense, as the bodies are kept semi-segregated in the morgue, and women work on women (some of the time) and men on men.
I’m impressed. Any time a woman takes on a traditionally men’s job, it takes a whole lot of courage. I imagine the requirements to be a coroner here are similar to other countries – you have to have a medical degree (be a doctor) and then have advanced training in forensics. So when Nawal Boshehri speaks out, I listen. She’s got my attention.
Nawal Boshehri says conditions in the morgue are awful. From a personal point of view, she has been sexually molested by her superior and frozen in her position over false accusations that she has not been going to work or signing in or out. She has asked the minister of interior to look into her complaints.
As an institution, she reports serious issues – labs that lack necessary equipment, to do tests, such as those that measure drugs and alcohol in the bloodstream, outdated machinery, rusty machinery, lack of ventilation (in a morgue! horrors!) and she states they are constantly in fear of getting infections.
She claims that reports have sometimes been manipulated and twisted to give prosecutors the wrong technical information that would sometimes end up setting a guilty person free, and that one time they certified a murder had been insane without him ever having been examined by any mental health professionals. She was once asked to provide a report that made one citizen swap places with the assaulted expatriate, so that the assaulted expatriate would appear to be the guilty party.
She adds that she fears for her life. She says “a senior coroner at the department falsified reports, namely those related to detainees, who underwent police brutality during interrogations. He usually did this as favors to his colleagues to help them get promoted instead of being punished for their brutality.” She added that because she has reported these things, she fears for her own life.
Every nation has corruption. Corruption is chaotic, and when you get serious about rule of law, you still have corruption, but you do your best to root it out. You report it when it happens. I think that Nawal Boshehri has enough confidence in Kuwait’s institutions to go public with her allegations. While it may appear dirty laundry, that she CAN go public is a very positive sign. I can imagine she fears for her life, and yet, she seems to be fighting to retain her job. That’s very brave.
That the Kuwait Times will publish the article on page three, in three columns, that is also very brave, and speaks well of the increasing confidence in a free press.
Wouldn’t this make a great detective novel?
Aidan Hartley’s Zanzibar Chest
I started Zanzibar Chest in December, and could not get into it. It was interesting, but at first the tone was . . . I don’t know, maybe pompous? Something in the tone put me off, and yet I didn’t put it back on the bookshelves, nor did I give it away. It sat on my bed table while I attacked lesser works, more enjoyable fare. Then, one day, I just knew it was time to try it again, and this time, I could hardly put it down.
Born in Kenya, just before the rebellion, Aidan Hartley spent his life mostly in Africa. He skillfully interweaves three main story lines – the life of his mother and father, the life of his father’s best friend and his own life as a news correspondent.
This is not a joyful book. It is not inspirational. It is a tough, hard look at the people who cover the news, and the toll it takes on their lives. It is a story of drugs and alcohol to numb the pain of what they are observing, the comraderie of gallows humor and surviving the intensity of living through life-threatening moments together.
He covers some truly awful events. He covers the wars in Somalia, and in Rwanda. He covers Kosovo and Serbia. He is sent into some of the most dangerous and awful of places. He pays the price.
In his Zanzibar Chest, he takes us with him.
I will share a couple quotes with you, and if you are sensitive, please stop reading now. This book is not for you. It is almost not for me, except that sometimes I think we need to come face to face with just how awful reality can be to put our own lives right, to set appropriate priorities.
“I can’t put my finger on exactly how death smells. The stench of human putrefecation is different from that of all other animals. It moves us as instinctively as the cry of a newly born baby. It lies at one extreme end of the olfactory register. Blood from the injured and the dying smells coppery. After a cadaver’s a day old, you smell it before you see it. From the odor alone, I could tell how long a body had been dead and even, depending on whether brains or bowels had been opened up, where it had been hacked or shot. A body would quickly balloon up in the tropical heat, eyes and tongue swelling, flesh straining against clothes until the skin bursts and fluids spill from lesions. Flies would get in there and within three days the corpse might stink. It became a yellow mass of pupae cascading out of all orifices and the flesh literally undulated beneath the clothes. The tough bits of skin on the palms of their hands and the soles of their feet were the parts of the body that always rotted away last. As living people, these had been peasants who had walked without shoes and worked hard in the fields. A man who had been dead seven days reeks of boiling beans, guava fruit, glue, blown handkerchiefs, cloves and vinegar. After that he starts to dry out into a skeleton until he’s almost inoffensive . . .
The dead accompanied me long after Rwanda. It was months before I could order a plate of red meat served up in a restaurant. I smelled putrefaction in my mouth, or in my dirty socks, or as sweat on my body. I imagined what people I met would look like when dead. . . “
These guys all suffer from Post traumatic stress syndrome, they deaden themselves with drug and alcohol, and they are totally addicted to the adrenalin rush their job gives them. Living on adrenalin takes a huge toll – on their health, on their mental health, on their relationships, on their belief in goodness. They are the witnesses to the enormity of man’s inhumanity against one another.
In another quote, the author tells us:
“It was impossible for latecomers to comprehend the evil committed here but the British military top brass were still so scared of what their soldiers might see and what it would do to their minds that they sent a psychiatrist to accompany the forces to Rwanda. Bald Sam and I were amazed at that. We laughed about it. A shrink! It seemed extravagant. But the truth is that we stuck close to that man for days. We said it was all for a story, but really it was about us. The psychiatrist, whose name was Ian, told us his special area of interest was the minds of war correspondents. I could see Bald Sam squirming with happiness at all the attention, and I felt quite flattered myself. . . .
. . . for years I did endure some sort of payback. I have to try every day to prevent the poison that sits in my mind to spread outward and hurt the people I love. Sometimes I can’t stop it and I wonder if in some way the corruption will be passed on from me to my children.”
Toward the end of the book, the author tells us how hard it is to give up this adrenalin-news-junky life:
“Whenever I see a news headline to this day I half feel I should board the next flight into the heart of it. I’d love to get all charged up again and I could write the story with my eyes closed. I’m sure the sense that I’m missing out while others get in on a great story will never completely pass. . . The sight of people committing acts of unspeakable brutality against others fills a hole in some of us. The activity is made respectable by being paid a salary to do it, but there is a cost.”
This is not a book I really wanted to read, but it is a book I will never forget. Hartley doesn’t spare himself in the telling of this tale. He takes us with us and shows us all of it, and all of his own warts along with the tale. Would I recommend this book? Not for the sensitive, not for those who don’t want to look at the dark side. Between idyllic sequences on the beaches near Mombasa, in the hills of Kenya and Tanzania, in the dusty deserts of Yemen, there are some very intense and bloody moments. This is non-fiction, it is a documentary, it is a slice of the real life one man has seen, and that to which he has been witness. Read the book, and like him, you pay a price. You carry images in your head that you can’t forget, and a sorrow for our inability to solve our differences peaceably.
(Available in paperback from Amazon.com for $10.88. Disclosure: Yes, I own stock in Amazon.com.)
Naughty or Nice?
Blogger N. at One or the Other asks readers and visitors to vote on whether they are naughty or Nice? Blogger Fourme, rightly comments that we don’t have any definition of naughty or nice by which to define ourselves and that she will refrain from voting.
Most of the voters are naughty, by the way.
It gave me a big grin.
Isn’t “naughty” or “nice” greatly in the mind of the beholder?
Once, when I was the young wife of a young army officer, I got up my courage and wrote a letter to the editor. It turned out to be a controversial letter; I got one very sarcastic response from the authority I questioned, and then, a week later, all hell broke loose as readers from all over Europe bombed the one who replied. I felt scared, but a little proud to have raised the issue.
I was working in the library. THE COLONEL’S WIFE (that is how we thought of her) walked in and said to me “we don’t get our names in newspapers. It isn’t done.” And then she walked out.
Then I really felt scared. And I really felt naughty. And at the same time, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Sometimes, don’t you have to say something? When you see something that is not right? And is that really naughty?
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