“Follow Me Everywhere and Watch Me Have Fun!”
Today, as AdventureMan and I were talking about the Qatteri Cat, AdventureMan said that the Qatteri Cat’s idea of fun is “follow me everywhere and watch me have fun!” Like “Dad, throw the Applebee apple, or the ping-pong balls”, or “Dad, chase me around the house!” I knew what AM was talking about – QC’s a cat. Cats are infinitely self-absorbed. I know he has some “feelings” for me, but they are pretty simple, like “I feel cold – hey! there’s the warm one!” “I feel hungry, and that one has a strong history of feeding me when I meow a certain way” or “You never know, that one might let me out if I meow long enough” (it never does). Mostly his feelings for me are need based.
But when AdventureMan said that about the Qatteri Cat, I just had to laugh. AdventureMan looked at me oddly, maybe it was something in the laugh. “I’m married to the Qatteri Cat!” I laughed. “What has our life been, but me following you around the world, watching you have fun?”
He laughed too.
Ramadan Mubarak 2009
(image from Islam101/Ramadan)
Greetings and best wishes from AdventureMan and me to all of our Muslim friends, fasting and purifying themselves during the Muslim month of Ramadan. May your fasting and your prayers bless you abundantly, and may the month build your spiritual wholeness in every good way.
Friday, during our church service, our priest asked the congregation if any of us had literature explaining why the Muslim God was not the same as the Christian God. We all looked at him in shock. Not one person raised his or her hands.
Then he smiled, a great big broad grin and said “Good! There is only one God, and our Moslem brothers and sisters worship the same one-God we do.”
His sermon was on one of the “hard teachings” of Jesus, teachings even those closest to him had trouble understanding. That there are not exceptions to the rules, that the rules apply across the board, to us all, to all creatures God created. When the Jews, the chosen ones, rejected Jesus, they had allowed a focus on the laws to take the place of the spirit of the law – that we love God, and that as a part of loving God, we serve him by loving and serving one another, regardless of divisions, of denominations or sects.
May all the blessings of the true spirit of Ramadan be yours, my brothers and sisters.
(Yes, Purg, you ARE my brother. 🙂 )
Ramadan For Non Muslims
This is becoming a tradition. I wrote the first Ramadan for Non Muslims post in 207, and repeated it last year. As Ramadan moves inexorably into the hottest months of the year, the sacrifice only increases. Ramadan is slated to start this year on August 22, but that will be determined by the moonsighting committee; those who watch for the very first glimmer of the thinnest crescent moon of the lunar month of Ramadan.
Already, stores are increasing their supplies of specialty foods, which includes, to my amusement, oatmeal, which I must eat, and I detest. There are also increased supplies of nuts and candied fruits, eggs and creams and fabulous desserts and exotic fruits. Little lambies are not long for this earth, and cows and grown sheep are not far behind. This is not the season for killing the fatted fig.
My first Ramadan ever, in Tunisia in 1979, I remember they had bananas – it was the only time all year we saw bananas, real Chiquita bananas, a boat brought them in. On the other hand, the night I had a dinner party, eggs totally disappeared, and cream, all bought up by what my friends call “the Ramadaners.”
Imagine, if you can, an entire month of Advent and Christmas. Observant Moslems fast every day, from dawn to sunset, and gather with family and friends to celebrate and feast every night. Some women have a new dress for every day of Ramadan. The tailors are crazy; this and the Eid al Kebir provide them with guaranteed income and their busiest time of the year.
Most Westerners don’t understand Ramadan. I wrote the original article to try to explain Ramadan to them, that the season is as holy to them as our Lent and Easter are to us. Ramadan was the month when The Qur’an was transmitted to Mohammed by the angel Gabriel. Most Moslems try to read through the entire Qur’an at least one time during each Ramadan, and then many go to Mekka on the Hajj at the end of Ramadan. I have given you references to both of the original articles, because as is my great joy on this blog, my readers filled in a lot of blanks, and gave us a lot of information that I didn’t have. The comments at the end of the two articles are better than the original article, thanks to my readers.
Please, if you have anything to add, ahlen wa sahlen, you are welcome. It is a joy to learn from you.
First Ramadan for Non Muslims + comments
Second Ramadan for Non Muslims + comments
Ramadan started last night; it means that the very thinnest of crescent moons was sighted by official astronomers, and the lunar month of Ramadan might begin. You might think it odd that people wait, with eager anticipation, for a month of daytime fasting, but the Muslims do – they wait for it eagerly.
A friend explained to me that it is a time of purification, when your prayers and supplications are doubly powerful, and when God takes extra consideration of the good that you do and the intentions of your heart. It is also a time when the devil cannot be present, so if you are tempted, it is coming from your own heart, and you battle against the temptations of your own heart. Forgiveness flows in this month, and blessings, too.
We have similar beliefs – think about it. Our holy people fast when asking a particular boon of God. We try to keep ourselves particularly holy at certain times of the year.
In Muslim countries, the state supports Ramadan, so things are a little different. Schools start later. Offices are open fewer hours. The two most dangerous times of the day are the times when schools dismiss and parents are picking up kids, and just before sunset, as everyone rushes to be home for the breaking of the fast, which occurs as the sun goes down. In olden days, there was a cannon that everyone in the town could hear, that signalled the end of the fast. There may still be a cannon today – in Doha there was, and we could hear it, but if there is a cannon in Kuwait, we are too far away, and can’t hear it.
When the fast is broken, traditionally after the evening prayer, you take two or three dates, and water or special milk drink, a meal which helps restore normal blood sugar levels and takes the edge off the fast. Shortly, you will eat a larger meal, full of special dishes eaten only during Ramadan. Families visit one another, and you will see maids carrying covered dishes to sisters houses and friends houses – everyone makes a lot of food, and shares it with one another. When we lived in Tunisia, we would get a food delivery maybe once a week – it is a holy thing to share, especially with the poor and we always wondered if we were being shared with as neighbors, or shared with as poor people! I always tried to watch what they particularly liked when they would visit me, so I could sent plates to their houses during Ramadan.
Just before the sun comes up, there is another meal, Suhoor, and for that meal, people usually eat something that will stick to your ribs, and drink extra water, because you will not eat again until the sun goes down. People who can, usually go back to bed after the Suhoor meal and morning prayers. People who can, sleep a lot during the day, during Ramadan. Especially as Ramadan moves into the hotter months, the fasting, especially from water, becomes a heavier responsibility.
And because it is a Muslim state, and to avoid burdening our brothers and sisters who are fasting, even non-Muslims refrain from eating, drinking, touching someone of the opposite sex in public, even your own husband (not having sex in the daytime is also a part of fasting), smoking is forbidden, and if you are in a car accident and you might be at fault, the person might say “I am fasting, I am fasting” which means they cannot argue with you because they are trying to maintain a purity of soul. Even chewing gum is an offense. And these offenses are punishable by a heavy fine – nearly $400 – or a stay in the local jail.
Because I am not Muslim, there may be other things of which I am not aware, and my local readers are welcome to help fill in here. As for me, I find it not such a burden; I like that there is a whole month with a focus on God. You get used to NOT drinking or eating in public during the day, it’s not that difficult. The traffic just before (sunset) Ftoor can be deadly, but during Ftoor, traffic lightens dramatically (as all the Muslims are breaking their fast) and you can get places very quickly! Stores have special foods, restaurants have special offerings, and the feeling in the air is a lot like Christmas. People are joyful!
Hotel Suq al Waqif Ramadan Offering
Ramadan Kareem from Hotel Souq Waqif!
As the Muslim world celebrates the holy month of Ramadan, Almaharah Seafood Restaurant commemorate with the holy festivity.
Come and be our guest as Almaharah Seafood Restaurant offers a special and unique buffet meal that will surely make your visit memorable.
For inquiries you can call 441-5959 or see the attached for additional information.
Maggie O’Farrell and The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox
Maggie O’Farrel’s The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox is also a book club pick, but oh, what a pick! I remember somewhere reading a review; I might never have picked this book up if I hadn’t needed to read it for the club. And oh, what I might have missed!
It’s like the scariest book ever written, scary in a Margaret Atwood kind of way, a reminder that women have not had rights for very long, and that those rights are still very fragile. When economies go bottoms-up, when unemployment begins rising, women are often the first to suffer, and women’s rights the first to go. In hard times, men will be preferred hirings, because they have families to support, laws to “protect” women are passed, especially laws which “protect” her finances, meaning gives the power of the money management to some man to do for her, or “protect” her person by requiring that some man accompany her to keep her from dangers. Protection = control. It keeps some smart, thinking women submissive to men who are in every way their inferior.
In Vanishing, Maggie O’Farrel writes of such a woman, Esme Lennox, who is a fey spirit, born in India, with the eyes of an artist. While her “good” sister Kitty obeys the rules, walks the straight and narrow path, Esme is messier. As she grows to adolescence, her eccentricity and her rebellion against the constricts of the life in turn-of-the-century Scotland chafe, she yearns for more room to breathe, intellectually, socially, as her family, her community and her society continues to pressure her to conform.
One of the key events in the book is the death of Esme’s baby brother, of typhoid fever. Abandoned, Esme sits holding her dead brother’s body for three days until her family returns (the baby-keeper also died and the other employees deserted while Esme’s family was away). Esme is devastated, but the focus is on her mother, who is wrought with guilt and isolates herself, and Esme, only a little girl, is forbidden to even say her beloved baby brother’s name. Part of what plays a huge role in this book is society, expectations, and all that is hidden and unspoken – as Esme becomes, a family secret, locked away for sixty years.
Their grandmother swept into the room ‘Kitty,’ there was an unaccustomed smile on her face, ‘stir yourself. You have a visitor.’
Kitty put down her needle. ‘Who?’
Their mother appeared behind the grandmother. ‘Kitty,’ she said ‘quickly put that away. He’s here, he’s downstairs . . . ‘
. . . .
Esme watched from the window-seat as her mother started fiddling with Kitty’s hari, tucking it behind her ears, then releasing it. . . . . Ishbel turned and, catching sight of Esme at the window, said ‘You, too. Quickly now.’
Esme took the stairs slowly. She had no desire to meet one of Kitty’s suitors. They all seemed the same to her – nervous men with over-combed hair, scrubbed hands and pressed shirts. They came and drank tea, and she and Kitty were expected to talk to them while their mother sat like an umpire in a chair across the room. The whole thing made Esme want to burst into honesty, to say, let’s forget this charade, do you want to marry her or not?
She dawdled on the landing, looking at a grim, grey-skied watercolour of the Fife coast. But her grandmother appeared in the hall below. ‘Esme!’ she hissed, and Esme clattered down the stairs.
In the drawing room, she plumped down in a chair with high arms in the corner. She wound her ankles round its polished legs and eyed the suitor. The same as ever. Perhaps a little more good-looking than some of the others. Blond hair, an arrogant forehead, fastidious cuffs. He was asking Ishbel something about the roses in a bowl on the table. Esme had to repress the urge to roll her eyes. Kitty was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, pouring tea into a cup, a blush creeping up her neck.
Esme began playing the game she often played with herself at times like this, looking over the room and working out how she might get round it without touching the floor. She could climb from the sofa to the low table and, from there, to the fender stool. Along that, and then –
She realized her mother was loooking at her, saying something.
‘What was that?” Esme said.
‘James was addressing you.’ her mother said, and the slight flare of her nostrils meant, Esme knew, that she’d better behave or there would be trouble later.
As with many inconvenient women, Esme ends up committed at a loony-bin, and sixty years later, is released into the custody of a grand-niece who never even knew Esme existed.
The thoughts, trials and escapades of three women, Esme, her sister Kitty, and Iris, the grand-niece, intertwine through out the book, and the picture is cloudy at first, blurry, shifting, fragmented The pattern becomes more and more clear as the three threads of thought are woven – ever more tightly – together.
I could not put this book down. Finding out how the picture came together became more important than checking my messages, my blog, or fixing dinner. It was compelling, and resulted in a quick and unforgettable read.
Obama and Dreams From My Father
It took me 20 days, but I finished Barack Obama’s Dreams From My Father. I didn’t read it because he is President of the United States, although that would be a good reason, but I read it because our book club is reading it, and I know how busy the next few months are going to be, so I read ahead during the slower times of summer.
And the trick to finishing it was not allowing myself to read anything else until I had finished – I had a stack of really intriguing books to urge me on. “As soon as I finish, I can read . . . ” Even with all that incentive, Obama’s book is a slog.
He is a gifted orator. He is a plodding writer. There is also a problem I find with autobiographies by anyone – we all fool ourselves, we all position ourselves in a better light, and we have no idea how transparent we are when we do so. Fellow bloggers, do you ever read anything you have written a couple years ago and squirm with embarrassment, or even delete? To be an author is a very very brave thing, when you have a book published, there is no going back, your transgressions are all right out there, and the public can be cruelly critical.
What I liked about the book is Obama-as-Third-Culture-Kid, a man of mixed identity. Most kids who have grown up moving or grown up in different countries from their own, or who have immigrated, can tell you, being an alien is no fun. Obama learns how to adapt, how to look for clues to fitting in, how to pass. It’s a common theme in Third-Culture-Kids.
My favorite part of the book was his return to Kenya, his openness to his African roots, the open-armed love with which his Kenyan half-brothers and sisters welcome him and his response. He had some truly extraordinary adventures, working out just who his father had been as a person. He was blessed to recognize the richness of his inheritance.
The book plods along, but it was worth the time. For all it’s flaws, I find I like that man, and I understand more about where he is coming from. (for grammarians, I understand more about from where the man is coming.) 🙂
Apartment Building Coming Down
Expats have their own shorthand, we understand one another when we talk about Doha, although the locals would not have a clue what we are talking about. So I will tell you that this apartment building was newly built at-the-end-of-Indian-Crafts-Street, you know, where the Christmas shop is – and those expats who have lived in Doha for a while will know exactly where that is.
They never even put the glass windows and balcony doors in – at some point, they must have gotten word that all this will come down for the new Dohaland, or Heart of Doha – a revival of the historical district of Qatar.
I won’t complain. I love what they did for the Suq al Waqif, which has been reinvigorated by the new life injected with the restauraunts and cafes. The same shops line the interiors, only now they have more and varied customers.
it just seems like there might be more co-ordination. This apartment building should not have even been started. I hate waste.
Temperatures Coming Down
I gasped when I saw the temperature this morning on Weather Underground:
Not even 90°F! A cool 86°F! Wooo HOOO, the temperatures are seriously coming down.
Here is the expected high in Doha today – you cannot imagine, this is a seriously LOW temperature after a blistering summer:
I’m not exactly breaking out the snowsuits, but lower temperatures will make the upcoming month of Ramadan more comfortable for those who are fasting.
Breakfast at the Beirut Restaurant, Suq al Waqif, Doha
“We want to take you for breakfast at the Beirut!” my friend said with enthusiasm, and I was shocked. She is totally covered. How could we eat at the Beirut? I remember her family loves the Beirut, and I remember lining up with all the other cars along Shar’aa al Karaba’a to buy felafel and foul and hummos, yes, oh yes, such good felafel. But it wasn’t really a place for ladies, especially covered ladies and their daughters.
As is usual with this friend, I never really have the complete picture. When my niece and I go to pick up my friend and her daughter, it is actually my friend and three daughters and we squeeze into my car and head – not to Karaba’a, but to the Suq al Waqif!
When I go to park in one of the new, tiny, narrow little parking spots, my friend laughs and says “You park like an American! I am going to show you how to park like us!” and she points to the one tree off in an unpaved area, and sure enough, there is one spot, not in the shade of the tree but in the shade of a large truck parked in the shade of the tree. “Now you are learning to park like we do!” she laughs, and I laugh too, I am always learning something from this friend.
We walk a short distance and she leads me into a restaurant which on the outside says Matam Beiroot, but it’s in Arabic. If you are walking from the upper parking lot, it is one of the very first buildings you come to, at the top of the street.
Inside, there are all kinds of tables and chairs, but my friend and her daughters lead us upstairs to the family section, where we sit off in the corner, so she and her daughters can sit with their backs to other customers while we eat. We are a strange group, two women covered head to toe, two younger girls in hijab, my blue-eyed-blonde niece and me, laughing and enjoying each other so much in the corner.
Since then, I have been back many times. The Beirut is a lot of fun for breakfast. They have wonderful felafel, and several different great hummos, and they have beans and the ubiquitous french fries, and tea. Grammy and I grabbed a quick bite there on our trip to the Suqs.
I really am so bad at remembering to take photos. This is where the felafel used to be, before we dipped them in the lemon juice and gobbled them all up:
here is what is left of the hummos:
And here is the traditional style ceiling with traditional style light fixtures:
Doha Ramadan Frenzy
As my friend Grammy and I wandered through the back streets of Suq al Wa’ef 😉 yesterday, we came across this frenzied scene, all the machines humming, and new dresses for Ramadan being made. I asked if I could take a photo – I think it puzzles them that I would want to, but I loved watching them stitch away:
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