The Little Prisoner and Child Abuse
Of all the books our book club read this year, The Little Prisoner by Jane Elliott (not her real name) was the most troublesome. The first one to finish said it was boring and repetitive. The second refused to read it at all, that the content would have images that would polute her mind. Both were right, and at the same time, if we refuse to look at what troubles us, we collude with the abuser.
I hate bullying. A man who beats and plays sexual games with a child is a bully and worse – he is a betrayer of trust. Children come into the world pure, clean slates. They can create their own mischief, their own evil, but to be corrupted by an adult – that is the absolute worst sin.
Today’s Gospel reading in The Lectionary is about this very behavior – that betrayal and/or corruption of a child is a huge sin against God:
Matthew 18:1-14
18 At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, ‘Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?’ 2 He called a child, whom he put among them, 3 and said, ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. 4 Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. 5 Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.
6 ‘If any of you put a stumbling-block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were fastened around your neck and you were drowned in the depth of the sea. 7 Woe to the world because of stumbling-blocks! Occasions for stumbling are bound to come, but woe to the one by whom the stumbling-block comes!
8 ‘If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away; it is better for you to enter life maimed or lame than to have two hands or two feet and to be thrown into the eternal fire. 9 And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and to be thrown into the hell* of fire.
10 ‘Take care that you do not despise one of these little ones; for, I tell you, in heaven their angels continually see the face of my Father in heaven.* 12 What do you think? If a shepherd has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray? 13 And if he finds it, truly I tell you, he rejoices over it more than over the ninety-nine that never went astray. 14 So it is not the will of your* Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost.
The book was, in one sense, an easy read. It only took about three hours to read it. It was, as the first reader said, repetitive, but then once a bully has found a victim, the behavior does tend to be repetitive, and, as in the book, it also escalates.
The victim’s father bullied her, and he abused her sexually from the time she was four until she was seventeen. He terrorized his wife and other children, and he terrorized the neighborhood with his violence and threats of violence. To this day, the author and her family live far away, and fears her step-father finding out where she is.
I found the writer unlikeable. I wanted to feel more compassion for her than I did. I think part of my problem was that she stayed in the situation even into her teens, even into early adulthood, without seeming to rebel, without taking any steps to get herself out of the situation. She tells us straight away that she has personality defects, troubles with trust and betrayal, and that she sometimes turns to drink. A part of me knows that people who have been systematically abused over a long time can lose that ability to resist, rebel, to ask for help, but another part of me can’t understand it at all. A part of me is impatient with her weakness, I want her to stand on her feet and make her life a testament to her survival, I want her success in overcoming her childhood to be the sweetest kind of revenge. Unfortunately, life is more complicated than that, and her murky ending is probably the more realistic. Abuse leaves lasting damage.
The Little Prisoner is not an easy read in terms of content. There were times I felt she exaggerated to sell the book; to make hers just a little more interesting than the other ones out there with which her book is competing. There is a part of me that would prefer not to see, not to have those images in my mind.
We know, from all the literature, that children who are abused can grow up to be abusers. I have had friends who were abused who refused to have children at all, afraid they would perpetuate the behavior, even though they had a horror of the violence, and were gentle and peaceful people. How do we intervene, how do we break the chain of abusers begetting abusers? How do we change the behaviors? Can abusers really change?
The Little Prisoner brings up a whole host of uncomfortable questions. We can read, we can discuss – but if we choose to look the other way, aren’t we in a small way colluding with the abusers, allowing them to continue while we look the other way?
Baking Cookies for Palestine
When I was just starting out my own life, I had an idea what kind of life I wanted, but I had no clue how to get it. When AdventureMan and I met, we had the same vision, it was so cool, so unbelievable. We married, and this amazing life has unfolded.
Not everyone is born to move. You have to be good at change. Change can be daunting. Some people are better at staying in one place, sinking deep roots, developing lifetime relationships. Some people – like AdventureMan and me – have a need for stimulation, and we get it by changing locations. We feel so blessed.
It is always painful leaving the place we have been living, pulling up roots is just plain painful. The transplantation process takes time for the organism to adjust, for new roots to develop and take hold. Sometimes, the plant fails. In our case, we have had our failures to thrive, but for the most part, every move has helped us to learn and grow in new ways. We feel truly blessed; we have the lives we were born to lead.
Arriving back in Doha, I called my good friend. We have never lost touch, with e-mail and visits we have stayed in contact, and now I am calling her so she has my new number in Doha.
“You must come Tuesday morning!” she enthused, “We are baking cookies for Palestine!”
This wonderful woman was my teacher for reading and writing Arabic, and she did a great job. I read and write about as well as a five-year-old, but I can sound out words, and can write my name. Best of all, I adored this teacher, and when she called and asked me if there was something I could teach her daughters during the long hot Doha summer, I said “yes” and a new adventure began.
One of the things that happened is that I learned I never really knew what the day might bring. Getting to know her, her daughters, and her family better, I learned now ignorant I am of how totally differently others live their lives and see the world. I was learning all the time, and most of it was from the daughters. On one occasion, the daughters called me at 6 in the morning – they are never up at six! They asked if I would take them to the hospital to see their mother, and I sleepily said “Yes, of course,” and asked what time they wanted to go.
“Now!” they replied, joyfully, for this was a birth.
My sweet daughter-in-law was visiting, with our son, and so the two of us rushed over to pick up the girls, who came loaded with carafes loaded with coffee, boxes of finjan (tiny Arabic coffee cups) and sweets, loading up the car with goods and joyful laughter. When we got to the hospital, we had a quick visit with the Mom and then – the guests started arriving.
First – the room. Our friend was in a king sized bed, surrounded by lush curtains which could be pulled. She had a marble floor and a marble private bathroom with private shower, and a small dressing room. There was a visiting area with velvet covered seating for around 16 people, and mahogany paneling everywhere. This is the poshest maternity ward I have ever seen.
Many of the guests were stopping on their way to work. “When you visit someone in the hospital,” the girls informed me, “a thousand angels pray for you, for having made this visit.” These visits are de rigueur, an absolute must. We were there an hour, a constant stream of women came and went, staying around ten minutes, each receiving a small coffee. Then, the girls told us we could go, that they would stay to take care of serving the coffee and sweets.
The entire episode, we never had one clue as to what we were doing, or what was going to happen next. I learned just to go with whatever was happening, stay quiet, watch and learn. Sometimes, I ask questions, if there is a quiet moment.
So when my friend says come bake cookies, I go. I remember when she first baked her first cookie; she called me to come. She didn’t have a mother, growing up, and there were gaps – like how to bake cookies. We spent a morning learning how to make mamool, and it took me three days to get the smell of butter out of my hands. It was so much fun.
As I entered the workroom twenty pair of eyes looked up at me. Everyone was neatly dressed in aprons and headscarves, but my friend wasn’t there! I found my friend, we exchanged greetings, and she came to workroom to get me started. I had my own apron with me, and they provided me with a headscarf; we all looked a lot alike, little baker women. As a beginner, I got to put out the dough, later put the date paste on each piece of dough, later roll the dough around the date paste and put a hole in the top.
Most of the women, vastly more experienced than I, were using little tweezer tools to crimp the dough into the fabulous tiny ridges you can see in the photo. My friend explained that one of the women’s husbands had made the special tools for making the holes in the dough, and the table for them to use packing up the cookies and wrapping them, another had provided a portable oven for baking the cookies, another donated semolina (the flour) and another the dates.
Working once a week, making these beautiful cookies, (biscuits, if you are British trained) the women have built two wells in Palestine, and are currently building a bakery. They took their grief and outrage over Al Raza and turned it into the most amazing effort for good. They feed the hungry, give water to the thirsty, they clothe the poor, they take care of families whose men are imprisoned.
“You must come back!” one woman says as I am heading out the door. “You are a good worker!”
I wouldn’t miss it for the world. 🙂
36 and Counting
I’ll be your pool-buddy,” AdventureMan said, as we lounged against the side of the pool. It was the best, the very best anniversary present he has ever given me.
My pool buddies are gone. One is coming back, one is not. The pool is big and beautiful, but being alone at the pool isn’t a lot of fun. Although AdventureMan doesn’t like pools as much as I do, he is willing to make the sacrifice – make the time – to make me happy.
We’ve been married 36 years. We didn’t go out last night, instead we had artichokes and tacos, and burned the wedding candle my parents gave us 36 years ago in Heidelberg. Artichokes, because at the first family dinner AdventureMan attended, my mom served artichokes as a first course, and AM thought it was some kind of a test. Tacos because in our 36 years together, it has always been one of our favorite meals, and because I found all kinds of Mexican food supplies in Qatar.
Then we walked over to the pool, swam, bounced around, talked, and when we got out – even though the temperatures were still high – there was a breeze, and we even felt just a tiny bit chilly! Chilly in the blazing heat of the Gulf summer is GOOD!
Just for our 36th anniversary, there was also a full moon. We walked home, cool and breezy, under the light of a great big romantic full moon. 36 years, and it just keeps getting better and better. 🙂
Busted
Today, as I was getting ready to leave the church services, one of my very special friends hugged me and said farewell, and then said “But of course, I can keep up with you on your blog.”
It was as if time stopped for a second, then started up again.
“My blog? You read my blog? You know?” I stammered, not loudly because there were other people around.
She laughed.
“I figured it out when you described this guy,” she said, punching AdventureMan lightly on the shoulder. “I KNEW it was you.”
When we got into the car, AdventureMan had a big smug grin on his face.
“I almost told her I read your blog quickly first, to see if I’m in it,” he said, “but then I was embarrassed that I am so vain.”
LLLOOOLLLL!
I’ve gotten less careful. It’s becoming less and less relevant as I get closer to leaving.
Selling My Car
I have a darling little car, I bought it in Doha six years ago. Aye, there’s the rub. While the company agreed to ship the car for us, Qatar won’t accept a car older than 5 years old. My sweet car has less than 40K km on it, has been lovingly maintained, and I totally love it – I was outraged at Qatar. But being outraged at a bureaucracy is a loser’s game, it isn’t going to change, the rules aren’t going to be excepted for me. So I had to sell the car.
I looked up the blue book price, and I knew my car was better than that, but these are hard times for selling a used car. I just put it out word-of-mouth, and within a week, I had my buyer.
She came. She sat in the car. She said “I will take it.”
I said “but you haven’t even driven it!”
She said “I can look at you, and look at this car, and I know it is a good car.”
We talked about a price. We agreed to a price a little higher than the blue book price, a little lower than I wanted. We were both happy.
She paid me in cash.
When we went to transfer title – this is Kuwait – the administrative section was closed! It wasn’t supposed to be closed! The area was full of Kuwaitis, Jordanians, people like us, wanting to transfer title. Fortunately, the woman knew another administration place nearby, so we went there, and after the normal finagling, the title transferred and all was completed.
We really wanted this woman to have the car. It has so many good years left on it, and this is a good woman.
AdventureMan laughs at how quietly all the decisions were made, all the negotiations done. The day after we sold the car, we got an SMS from the buyer saying how happy she was, and asking God to bless us richly. We feel already blessed, having sold the car to a fine woman.
Shutting Down
Yes, I’ve been busy. Yes, it involves movers, and bureaucracy, and parties, and the normal getting-ready-for-summer activities.
But the reason I’m not blogging a lot is that I’ve been shutting down, emotionally.
Here is a truth about me. I handle bad situations by shutting down. If I feel too much, I just get overwhelmed and don’t function. When I was packing boxes – and sighing – I could only pack a couple boxes and I would have to go lie down. It wasn’t physical so much as emotionally draining, packing up a life. I can’t really even begin to think about starting up a new one; I just need to get through finishing up this one.
So I just pack away all my grief with my household goods. Honestly, it works for me. I probably appear cold and unfeeling. The unfeeling part is true – I can make myself not feel, or at least postpone the feeling part. It gets me through the tough parts. I think it helps me survive. You go on automatic pilot. You go through the motions. You are only half there.
For me, the hardest part is being around people. Keeping all the feelings shut away is hard work! It’s exhausting! Or maybe it’s the scorching heat, but I come home and cannot stay awake, I have to take a nap. I wake up feeling better. I read late into the night – late for me. It’s OK, when I count up the nap sleeping with my night sleeping, I am getting enough sleep.
I have a very few good friends who know exactly where I am emotionally, and they shield me. We talk as if life were not going to change drastically, and for us, it won’t, there will still be the e-mails and visits. When I make a good friend, she/he is a friend for life. They don’t ask too much of me right now, but they are there to protect me when I need it. They are getting me through the tough times, and these are tough times.
When I get to Doha, I will start feeling again. I will allow the grief to seep in slowly, I will cry a little when no one is around to see, and slowly, slowly, as I grieve, I will also be engaging in a new life – slowly, slowly.
The Qatteri Cat is going through the same thing. He has built himself a little hidey-hole back in my old project room / Little Diamond’s room. He crawls into a pile of pillows and comforter until he is invisible, safe, warm, and sleeps. When he is awake, it is too depressing for him – his territory has changed so dramatically, none of the old reliable places are there.
So we comfort one another.
Family Suitcase Culture
Yesterday was one of those “deja-vu all over again” kinds of days as AdventureMan and I hit a store and bought suitcases. We will take extra baggage with us to Doha, to carry us over until our shipment arrives, and had been tizzying a little over just how best to do it. I remembered down in the souks they have cheap rolling suitcases, that, even if you just use one time before they break, are worth the price.
Then our good friend mentioned – just in time – that Carrefour was having a sale on luggage, and it was a truly incredible price, like three pieces for KD5.500. We went, we checked, we found the bags – marked at $80. with K-Mart tags. We each bought one set.
As we were pulling them out, I started laughing – we didn’t get such a hot deal. The tag said 6 pieces for $80. so that would mean the 3 pieces we got were worth – full price – about $40. We paid about $20 – so it was as if we bought suitcases at K-Mart for half price.
Suitcases – buying suitcases – are a part of our family culture. I can’t count the number of times my sisters and I have been someplace and we’ve made a run to TJMaxx to pick up another suitcase to carry unexpected purchases. We’ve always had loads of bags, when a friend visits and needs an extra bag going home, they are welcome to take one of ours. We had some friends, long ago, visiting from Moscow, and they took a bag with them to fill with fresh vegetables, something they had been craving in February in Soviet era Moscow. The bag came back the next year, filled with a beautiful Russian samovar they brought as a guest gift, and then the bag returned with them, once again, filled with fresh vegetables.
Some of my favorite suitcases have been great buys – but where are they now? I know a couple are in our storage locker, with collected linens and finds from faraway places. One of my husband’s best bags is in a closet in Pensacola, where we left it in case we needed it some time in the future. Slowly but surely, our collection of baggage has diminished.
Thus, the trip to Carrefour. AdventureMan groaned, hitting Carrefour around 4:30, as the teeming hoards arrived. To our amazement, a car left just where we needed parking. We were in Carrefour, found the bags prominently displayed, quickly decided they would do just fine since we only need them for one trip, and out again in under 30 minutes – how amazing is that? As it turned out, they were instantly useful as AdventureMan cleared some things from his office; the empty suitcase was soon filled.
It’s amazing what comfort 4 – 6 extra cubic feet of packing space can bring. 🙂
(I found the wonderful suitcase photo on Sister’s Choice, a delightful blog.
Alexander McCall Smith: Tea Time for the Traditionally Built
This brand new book in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series could not have come at a better time for me. Sorting through, giving away, selling my car – it all takes a toll. It’s a little like dying, this moving. I know I will be “resurrected” in another life, but in the meanwhile, I have so much grief, and I just stuff it away and keep going. These books are my carrots; they are my reward at the end of the day.
I have a stack of books and I am going through them like a locomotive – just chugging along.
Mma Precious Ramotswe and her totally different world in Botswana sweep me away totally. I love the sweetness of the way she thinks, her love for her country, and her tolerance. In Tea Time for the Traditionally Built, several things are going on at once, not the least of which is that she, also, must part with her dearly loved little white van, which has gone as far as it can go, and can go no further. The engine cannot be revived, not even one more time, by her dear husband, mechanic J.L.B. Matekoni.
Just in time, just when they need a new customer, comes Mr. Molofololo, the owner and manager of the Kalahari Swoopers, who hires Mma Ramotswe to find the traitor who is causing the Swoopers to lose their games.
Last, but not least, Mma Makutsi’s fiancee (she is the Assistant Detective now, remember?) Phuti Radiphuti, is being assaulted by Makutsi’s old rival from the secretarial school, Violet Sephotho, who is looking for a rich husband, and would love to steal Grace’s fiancee away, for all the worst reasons. How can plain Grace, with her big glasses and her unfortunate complexion, compete with the glamorous and seductive Violet? Can Phuti resist her wiles?
When I reached the last ten pages of the book, none of these crises had been resolved, and I thought “Oh no! How can the book end with all these loose ends out there?” but in a deft drawing together, McCall vanquishes the devils, finds simple solutions, and leaves us with Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi having tea together at the President Hotel.
This book is a great way to end the day with a smile on your face. 🙂 I bought this book for $21 in a bookstore, but Amazon has it for $14.37 plus shipping. I don’t buy a lot of hardcover books, but this one was worth every penny.
Strasbourg Magic
It is perfect May weather in Strasbourg right now – warm and sunny, even hot, one minute, crashing thunder, lightning and pouring rain the next. One minute you are catching the last rays of the sun on the Strasbourg Cathedral, and the next, you are ducking into the nearest restaurant to get out of the rain, have a little wine and flammekeuchen, give the weather a chance to change once again and you are on your way.
Besides the fact that we always have a lot of fun in Strasbourg – it is a great town for walking – remember that shoe store that was closed for the holiday on Friday? I have French feet; German shoes are too wide, American shoes are too serious . . .but French shoes are always just right. We go again, first thing Saturday morning, and they have all the newest shoes in the yummiest colors and they have them all in my size!
Just look at these colors! Grape! Orange sherbet! Fuscia/raspberryt! I am not really so much a shoe person, but oh! When the right shoe comes along! I know it! AdventureMan waits patiently, smiling indulgently, as I try on almost everything in my size.
Looking at me seriously, he says “Buy what you want! Who knows when you will be back in Strasbourg? I insist, you must buy at least four pair!” (Now THAT is true love.)
Truly a magical day in Strasbourg. 🙂
Wives, be subject to your husbands
This part of today’s reading, among my set and the things we discuss, is one of the most controversial. We can debate this for hours.
What does being subject mean? If we, as wives, are subject to our husband, just as our husbands are subject to God, does it mean we can’t argue? We can’t disagree?
I saw a husband say to a wife the other day “I forbid you.” I think this is more common in Gulf culture than in our culture. I am sorry, but the thought of a husband daring to say this to a wife in the west is unthinkable. What I have also noticed is that when a husband says “I forbid you” here, it is not the end, but the opening skirmish. 🙂
There is a lot of food for thought in this reading, and I publish it to give you insight into what we read, and because I suspect you have similar readings.
Colossians 3:18-4:18
18 Wives, be subject to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord. 19Husbands, love your wives and never treat them harshly.
20 Children, obey your parents in everything, for this is your acceptable duty in the Lord. 21Fathers, do not provoke your children, or they may lose heart. 22Slaves, obey your earthly masters* in everything, not only while being watched and in order to please them, but wholeheartedly, fearing the Lord.* 23Whatever your task, put yourselves into it, as done for the Lord and not for your masters,* 24since you know that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward; you serve* the Lord Christ. 25For the wrongdoer will be paid back for whatever wrong has been done, and there is no partiality. 41Masters, treat your slaves justly and fairly, for you know that you also have a Master in heaven.
2 Devote yourselves to prayer, keeping alert in it with thanksgiving. 3At the same time pray for us as well that God will open to us a door for the word, that we may declare the mystery of Christ, for which I am in prison, 4so that I may reveal it clearly, as I should.
5 Conduct yourselves wisely towards outsiders, making the most of the time.* 6Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer everyone.
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