“I’m Not Japanese Anymore”
she said, and we dissolved into gales of giggles. We struggled to regain control over ourselves. She was the Japanese ambassador’s wife, my dear friend, and we would hide out and have coffee together whenever our busy schedules would allow. We always sought out the quietest time of day, the most remote tables, so we could have complete and utter privacy as we shared our week, our worries about our kids, our lives.
Our topic was a recurring one in our conversations – that once you have left your native country and lived elsewhere, you aren’t the same anymore. Your eyes change, and you see things differently, your taste buds change and the unfamiliar becomes familiar. Unacceptable color combinations become acceptable, the cacaphonous and discordant become music to your ears. Once you have lived in a foreign country, you can never be truly the person you were before you left.
“I’m not so patient with ceremony any more,” she continued, and we dissolved into laugher again, because her life was full of endless ceremonial events. The great blessing in all this for both of us, is that we are both married to men who are at the same time traditional and ceremonial, and secret iconoclasts. Every now and then we could even get together, all four of us, and share an evening of relaxation and laughter, mostly laughing at ourselves and the difference between how others perceived us, and how we really are.
We treasure these friends. They are the kind that could call us late in the day and say “We are unexpectedly free tonight – can you meet us?” and if there was any way we could, we would. They were our playmates; when we were together we were free to be totally ourselves.
Sometimes in life we are handed roles to play, and if we are honorable people, we play them as best we can. The secret is to keep a very clear idea of where the role ends and we begin. We show respect where respect is due, we carry out the rituals that give richness and tradition to our lives, and heritage to our children.
But glory and honors are transient. Roles and job titles come and go. Good friends and those who keep your worst secrets – they are worth more than gold and diamonds.
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, and more
If you enjoyed the trip through Botswana and would like to read more about Botswana, if you think you might go there someday, or if you think you might never go there – you need to read a wonderful series of books by Alexander McCall Smith.
The first book is The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. You meet the main character, and heroine, Mma Precious Ramotswe, the founder and owner of the only women’s detective agency in Botswana, and her assistant, Mma Grace Makutsi (who can’t resist a handsome pair of shoes), and the love of her Mma Ramotswe’s life, Mr. J. L. B. Matekone. Mma Ramotswe describes herself as “a woman of traditional build” and drives a very old, small white truck. She has a way of looking at things differently – and she solves her mysteries in ways you or I wouldn’t think of.
The books are short, and deceptively simple. They are “feel good” books, giving you smiles and warming your heart as you read. At the same time, you find yourself thinking back to these books, some of the issues, some of the characters, some of the plots – long after you have finished the book. That’s a sign of a good read!
As different as the thinking and culture is, the books are so full of grace and good humor and tolerance and forgiveness that when the book finishes, you can hardly wait to start the next one. You feel like Precious is your sister, a very smart sister, not without her flaws, but a woman to be respected, a woman of good character and who can make tough decisions.
She also makes mistakes, and has to live with the consequences. You will find the books addictive. The entire series is:
The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency
Tears of the Giraffe
Morality for Beautiful Girls
The Kalahari Typing School for Men
The Full Cupboard of Life
In the Company of Cheerful Ladies
Blue Shoes and Happiness
Jeffrey Deaver’s mysteries, on the other hand, are intricate and woven through with arcane information, but you always learn something. He has a series about a quadriplegic, Lincoln Rymes, a criminologist, who solves cases in a very Sherlock Holmes kind of way, by thinking about the evidence and the patterns that it presents. He has a girlfriend, Amelia, who is a policewoman, and works with him on many of the cases. The books that have these two characters are:
The Bone Collector
The Coffin Dancer
The Empty Chair
The Stone Monkey
The Vanished Man
The Twelfth Card
Last – and least, for The Devil Wears Prada crowd is Linda Fairstein, who almost always has a book on the New York Times best seller list. Her heroine is Manhattan sex-crimes prosecutor (District Attorney) Alexandra Cooper, whose dad made a fortune on an artificial heart device, allowing her to work in the public service sector and still wear fabulous clothes, have weekly manicures and hair stylings at the best salons and eat at the coolest restaurants in town, and she tells you all about them.
They make great airplane reading for the trendy. The plots are formulaic – an astounding, mysterious crime is committed, Alexandra gets involved, along with her detective side-kicks, the criminal involved somehow focuses on Alexandra and she has to spend the night at her friends’ houses. You don’t read these mysteries for the astounding plots, you read them because they are funny and superficial and a quick read that doesn’t require much thinking.
Happy reading!
Watching Rome in Kuwait
My husband and I just finished watching the entire season, unexpurgated, of Rome, Season One. We had tried watching it on American Plus, but this being Kuwait, we weren’t always able to figure out just when it would be coming on – so we would catch an episode here and part of an episode there, and had enough glimpses to intrigue us, but not to satisfy us.
We waited with great anticipation for the release of Rome: Season One in August, and now are able to watch the entire season without interruption – and my friends – What a way to go.
We were riveted. From the initial episode as Vorenus and Pullo are with Ceasar in Britain, to the very end with the betrayal of Ceasar, we couldn’t wait to watch the next episode. We stayed up late. We turned off our phones. We talked about it in the car, on the way shopping. Even after it ended, we debated fine points, options taken or not taken, strategic approaches. We feel like we spent a couple years in Ceasarean Rome.
WARNING: In the boxed set we got, there is a lot of nudity, including full frontal male nudity. There are frank sex scenes and sex scenes between same gender people. If you are a family-values kind of family, you won’t want to be watching this with your children, and you won’t want your younger children watching this at all – it is very very bloody in places, very violent, the stuff of nightmares. Your teenagers will find where you hid it and will steal it to watch with all their friends.
I was comfortable watching with my husband, but I don’t even want to watch with other grown ups, related to me or not. There is a lot of strong stuff, stuff we consider private.
When we had finished watching, we also watched all the extra background information. I’m glad we didn’t view it before we watched the entire series, because Vorenus’ Irish accent really threw me off in the background interviews. Watching the sets being built and the costumes was absolutely fabulous. Pullo turns out to be surprisingly articulate. Hey! These guys are actors.
We can hardly wait for Rome: Season Two which is set to begin airing on HBO in January 2007. Meanwhile, buying the set was worth every penny. We will happily watch it again and again.
Chicken Nuggets and Big Macs
Brava, Chicken Nuggets, you have taken what was apparently meant to be an insult, and turned it into a badge of honor. And well you should.
Kuwaiti has been a major trading crossroad for centuries. It would follow that there has been a lot of mixing, as traders pass through, people travel to foreign lands, historically, as well as now. As genetic testing becomes more acceptable, we are all bound to discover that we are much more mixed, and much more alike, than we ever knew. And, there are bound to be surprises, as men and women don’t always fertilize within acceptable societal boundaries.
When you walk around, you see Kuwaitis with the faces of India, Iran, Iraq, Africa, even possibly faces from the earliest adventures of Alexander the Greek. This is a good thing, the intermingling of cultures and bloodlines build strength, resilience and flexibility.
There is a wonderful book you will enjoy reading –
-
Third Culture Kids
by David C. Pollock and Ruth E. Van Reken. While the focus is on young people raised outside their own culture – diplomat kids, oil kids, missionary kids, international business kids – the findings apply to all those who learn to function in more than one culture. You learn that feeling alien and weird is NORMAL for TCK’s during adolescence, and well into their 20’s and even their 30’s.
At some point, however, you realize that every culture you understand, every additional language you master, every new experience brings a whole new tool chest to your life, new perspectives and additional ways of thinking through life problems.
You, dear ones, are the hope of tomorrow. You are international citizens, having a larger world view because of your mixed upbringing. You have MORE THAN double the advantages (culture 1 + culture 2) you have the additional advantage of the (C1xC2) blend. (Hearing strains of “We are Nuggets; hear us roar in numbers too big to ignore . . !”)
. . . . So. . . if you are (golden, delicious, juicy) little chicken nuggets, what are the men of mixed Kuwaiti and western heritage – Big Macs?? Burger Kings?? (cracking myself up)
AIDS in Kuwait
In yesterday’s Kuwait Times is a letter to the editor from a young medical student who had done training in the Kuwait infectious disease hospital. He writes that the hospital is not to tell ANYONE a patient has HIV, not even the spouse. The spouse is only told when the patient dies. The cause of death on the death certificate is never “AIDS”. When asked, the doctor in charge said “in a Muslim country having AIDS will damage the person’s reputation, and we just can’t have that,” adding that it was a sensitive issue, and the best way to deal with it was denial.
The writer goes on to say that it was not just this doctor’s policy, but the policy of the entire hospital. It goes on to say that legislation was proposed to ensure that before marriage, blood tests would be taken to insure they are clear of infectious diseases, but this legislation was shot down by more fundamentally religious members of Parliament.
My Saudi Arabian women friends once told me that a Muslim could never say a bad thing about another Muslim except in two cases – one case is if you are asked about a person’s suitability for marriage, and the second is about a person’s suitablility for a business partnership, and in these cases you must speak frankly. Isn’t having a family member with an infectious blood disease one of those cases? Or a proposed husband?
Wouldn’t you want to know if your proposed husband had a serious infectious disease? Or your current husband/wife? Aren’t there precautions that need to be taken as far as exposure to blood of HIV/AIDs infected persons? Aren’t family members, firefighters and traffic police running a risk with accident victims?
Driving in Kuwait: Buckle Up!
I heard two statistics recently. First, that the Fehaheel Expressway had the most number of fatal accidents per kilometer in the world. Second, that Kuwait has the highest incidence per capita of driving fatalities in the world. After sorting out pedestrian fatalities, I wonder which nationality has the highest percentage of fatalities? Which age group?
Most of the drivers are doing fine, but the ones driving WAAAAYYYY over the speed limits, driving too fast for the road conditions, weaving in and out to get a couple inches of advantage, making unsafe lane changes, NOT SIGNALLING lane changes, exits, entries, etc., and/or who are incapacitated due to drugs and alcohol are causing a problem for the majority who are doing their best to be good neighbors.
I don’t know how to stop crazy drivers from driving like crazy drivers. Maybe enforce the laws? Like equally, across the board, no special privileges?
But I have a modest proposal which will give you some protection against the crazies, and initiate a new way of thinking in your children. It’s so simple – Buckle up.
No one likes being all strapped in. We hated the way it wrinkled our clothes, we hated the incovenience. . . until we saw how many innocent lives it saved. Now, we don’t even think about it, we buckle. It becomes a habit, just something you do, automatically, without thinking.
First step – Moms. You have so much power. Set the example. Buckle up, and make sure your infants are in infant seats, securely fastened. Second, insist that your children use their seat belts – no matter how they whine and complain, YOU be the grown up, and insist that the car doesn’t go until the buckles are fastened. They are your most precious cargo. Even just running to the co-op for vegetables, or taking the kids to soccer practice. . . Buckle up!
The ultimate weapon – tell your husband that you want your children to grow up with a father, and beg him to buckle up, too, for you. Do whatever it takes to convince him that it is not unmanly, it is a loving act to do for his family. 🙂
We can’t control the arrogance of others (and what else is bad driving?) but we can set the example and give the next generation a fair chance.
Stunned Silence
Five sets of eyes were looking at me with horrified fascination. The silence seems to last a millenium.
“No marriage contract?” gasped Latifa. “How can this be? We have met your parents! You are from a good family, a religious family! How could you have no marriage contract to protect you?”
It isn’t often that I am at a loss for words, even though we are all speaking in French, often times a comical method of communication, as I normally speak English and they normally speak a Berber Arabic. Words sometimes elude us, and now, words are very elusive.
Fortunately, they all started talking at once.
“Don’t you know, dear one, that a man’s heart is not always constant!”
“You must make him give you gold, and property, to protect yourself and your children!”
“You must be investing for hard times to come!”
One by one, they shared stories of how women had been left by fickle men, or widowed, and how only by the grace of material wealth gathered from dowry, from wedding gifts, from gifts on anniversaries, from gifts when babies were born were they able to maintain themselves, and to provide education for their children.
“But none of you are divorced!” I cried out. “You have faithful husbands.”
Warning glances, barely perceptible, were exchanged, and their voices turned soothing . . .”Yes, dear one, for now. But we all protect ourselves against a future that only Allah knows . . .”
I was barely thirty years old, with a very young child, and these kind women surrounded me in my villa in suburban Tunis. We had worked very hard to develop a relationship, all of us, in spite of early discouraging events.
This was my first time living in an Islamic culture. They would send dishes of food to my house, to make me welcome in the neighborhood, and I would wait until a decent hour – maybe 10 a.m. – to call on them to return the dishes, only to find that not even the servants were up when I rang the bell. They would call on me at 5:30, as I was in my bathrobe, drying my hair for some event at the embassy that night.
Thank God we didn’t give up on one another! Finally, one time they called on me, the mother, the grandmother, two college aged daughters and a small child, one afternoon when my husband was out of town and I didn’t have any engagements that evening. After all our meetings, with the sense of failure to communicate, this time they called when my maid had gone home and I knew I had to serve tea, and something to eat. But that would mean leaving them alone in the salon . . .what to do?
After visiting for ten or fifteen minutes, I confessed I wanted to make them tea, but also didn’t want to leave them. Would they like to come into my kitchen and keep me company?
Who knew that such a simple, desperate request would be the key to unlocking the friendship we had all been seeking? They came into my kitchen, but instead of sitting around the small table while I fixed tea, they began looking into all my cupboards, pulling things out, exclaiming, asking questions. We were suddenly all fluent enough, no longer so self-conscious.
Things were never the same after that. They enjoyed dragging me along, pretending to others I was some long lost cousin from southern France, covering me in their sefsari’s, taking me with them to weddings. My husband objected to the “maquillage” and I told them that because we were religious, I could not wear so much make-up, and they relented. At Eid, I was allowed to peel and crush the garlic, while they cleaned and prepared the slaughtered lambs. Their friendship turned an isolated and intimidating experience into a warm, laughter filled time in my life.
I know they influenced me, changed me in subtle ways, some of which I probably don’t even know. I think it’s like CSI, where they say the primary forensic law is that in every interaction, you leave something behind and take something with you. My husband and I started seriously investing, and if today we are comfortable, I smile and think of those sweet women, and their horror that I would be unprotected by having no marriage contract.
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