Rock Star Parking
Ya’ll know that a lot of this blog is about cross-cultural experiences, but this one is cross-cultural in our own family.
You know, every family, every tribe of us, has its own rituals and ways of doing things, and even when you marry someone you think you know very very well, you are in for some surprises.
One of the surprises in our marriage was that my husband thought I was supposed to fill the gas tank. Hello? Fill the gas tank? That’s MENS stuff, don’t you know? We had some tense moments in our first couple months of marriage working that one out, especially when I would leave him with nearly empty gas tank. My husband was rightfully flummoxed by my ability to be both a feminist and a princess, thinking that filling the tank and fixing car problems was HIS work. I learned *huge sigh* to watch the level of gas, to fill the tank, and to take the car in for services. *another big sigh*
But one thing that drove my husband right up the wall was my thing about parking close to the door. Well, I will give him this, he did not grow up in Alaska or in Seattle, he doesn’t know about freezing cold winds and mounds of snow and driving rain and winds that turn umbrellas inside out. My husband didn’t know that husbands, like daddies, are supposed to find the perfect spot as close to the entry as possible, every single time, or to drop us off and meet us inside. No, given I was a feminist, he expected to just take any old spot and I would just walk with him to wherever we would go. We never got that one worked out.
Not until a couple years ago. I learned that my mistake was all in trying to explain the irrationality of family culture. I learned that it was all about marketing, about positioning, something that normally I am very sensitive to and very good at doing. I was hopelessly blind in my approach and hopelessly single tracked.
It all changed when we were taking a new employee on a sight seeing tour of Kuwait. When we got to the grocery store, suddenly a spot opened up right in front of the store.
“Wooooo Hoooooo!” hooted the new guy, “ROCK STAR PARKING!”
I could see my husband straighten up and preen a little as he thought of himself as a person who got “rock star parking.” The light went on. Once he started thinking of himself as a “rock star parking” kind of guy, I never had to walk a long distance to the entry again.
(Woooo HOOOOOOOOO!)
A Thousand Splendid Suns
Once I picked up Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns, I barely put it down again until I was finished. I found myself thoroughly involved in the lives of Mariam and Leila, unwilling even to stop to fix dinner! The author of Kiterunner has hit another home run.
There was a time when we would listen to older state department types talk – with enormous longing – about their tours of duty in Afghanistan, pre-Soviet invasion, pre-Taliban, pre-American occupation. Have you ever read James Michener’s Caravan? There are two countries I long to vist, but the countries they are now are not the countries I heard people talk about – Afghanistan and Ethiopia. Our friends loved their times in these two countries.
A Thousand Splendid Suns opens in a small village outside Herat, and then takes us to Kabul. Mariam is born harami, a bastard, of a village cleaning woman in the house of a very wealthy man. Her father builds a small hut for her mother and herself in a remote part of the small village, and visits Mariam every week. Life is simple, and difficult, but also full of kind people who visit and who are concerned with Mariam’s welfare.
After marrying, Mariam goes to Kabul and learns a new way of life with her husband, Rasheed. What fascinates me with Hosseini is that while Rashid is one of the villians of this novel, he is just a man, doing the best he can given his own upbringing and limitations. In a sense, he is “everyman”, the strutting, domineering, sometimes brutal and abusive husband we find in every culture. But Hosseini also gives him transient bouts of kindness which blow through a little less often than the transient bouts of cruelty.
He also gives us good men, in this book, in the person of Jalil, the father of Mariam, who steps up to the plate in acknowledging Mariam and supporting her and her mother, but fails to nurture in the very real way women need nurturing from their fathers in order to reach their full potential in life. Hosseini also gives us a very strong man in the book, Tariq, who, although he has only one leg, is more wholly a man than any other man in the book. I imagine that this is not unintentional. (How Kissingerian is that for a double negative?!)
Written almost entirely in the Afghan world of women, we see through the eyes of Mariam, and later Leila, the transitions in Afghanistan and their impacts on daily life. We experience happiness with them, and peaceful scenes in quiet moments, raising the children, stepping outside into the garden at night to share a cup of tea and a shared bowl of halwa.
Between the moments of peacefulness, we also experience incoming morter rounds, explosions, marauding bands of warlords, and starvation. We go into a women’s hospital under Taliban control, where there are no medications, no running water, no instruments, and an Afghani female doctor does a C-section with no anaesthesia and is required to keep her burqa on. We watch a mother abandon her role and take to her bed when her two sons are killed fighting the Soviets, we experience betrayal and we experience helplessness, and we experience a Kabul women’s prison. A Thousand Splendid Suns is a rich feast of experiences, juxtaposing the everyday chores of women around the world – cooking, raising children, laundry – with events on the world stage.
(Available from Amazon for $14.27 plus shipping.)
“Something More Serious”
I remember clearly the first time I ever felt old.
I had discovered a Lancome product, Renergie, that I loved. I have always been good at trying to keep my face “moisturized,” and had graduated up to Lancome from good old Oil of Olay. We were living in Germany once more, our son was about eight years old, and I think they formulate Oil of Olay differently for different customer bases; the smell was different in Germany (and even more different in Qatar! I think it has a sort of cumin undertone!) but I had found this Renergie stuff that glided on and smelled good and wasn’t oily or sticky, so I liked it. It was expensive, but we had a little more money now and I felt it was a splurge.
My Renergie was running out; I needed a replacement. I happened to stop by the Lancome counter at a time when there was a Lancome representative there who asked what I needed. I told her I was looking for the Renergie that I loved.
Simple question, right?
The Lancome representive stops, and looks at me closely. There is this long, uncomfortable pause as she continues to look at me. I’m frankly annoyed.
“My dear,” she starts, “You need something more serious.”
Something more serious? I’m thirty-five years old! I have not yet got any wrinkles to speak of! My skin is in great shape!
All these thoughts rush into my head as the saleslady continues to look at me seriously, and to move toward some heavier creams, which I HATE. I’m still dealing with that one word – “serious.”
I need something “serious.”
It was so devastating to me that my reaction was almost physical revulsion. I think my legs went week and shakey. Looking back, I suspect that it is part of a sales pitch, a script devised to move the customer up the scale to more and more expensive products. I think I even sensed it then, but the truth is, when someone says something like that to you, it damages a vanity that you didn’t even know you had.
I don’t think I bought anything that day. I think I stumbled out of the store and went to pick up my son from his karate lesson and sneaked back at a time when there was no Lancome lady there and bought what I really wanted – the Renergie.
But the damage had been done. Now, when I put the cream on my face I was looking in the mirror for whatever the saleslady had seen that indicated I needed something more “serious.”
It wasn’t long before I humbled myself and went back and asked what the representative thought I really needed, and we agreed on the light form – the lotion – which also went on nicely and smelled good, because how it smells really matters to me. I don’t care how good it is; if it doesn’t smell good – to me – I can’t wear it.
She moved me up to Primordiale, which I wore for years until the next Lancome representative looked at me and said brightly “I bet you would love Absolue! It will get rid of those little crow’s feet in no time!”
We all have weak spots that we don’t even know we have. If you are a man and you have read this far, you will laugh in your superior way, thinking this is just a piece of fluff. To you I say wait until your son beats you in those family wrestling matches for the first time, beats you fairly. When our son would wrestle with his Dad, I would say “I hear the antlers clanging in the forest!” as they fought for who would be the king. To you I say that the sad day will come when you are no longer the biggest bull moose in the forest, and you, too, will have that sad, humbled feeling I got when I was told I needed something more “serious.”
The advertisers of this world know our weaknesses. I am willing to bet the Lancome ladies have a script they use, to press our buttons, to expose weaknesses we don’t even know we have. My husband brings home a Men’s Health occasionally – have you ever noticed, every one of them is the same? There are articles about making your abs flat, taking vitamins and reviving your sex life – in every issue! They know where we feel bad about ourselves before we even know it, and they are making a lot of money off of our inadequacies!
And no, my friends, I don’t have any answers. Even while I know that these things are the vain, inconsequential things of this world, even while I know that this is all passing vanity, even while I try to resist, I succumb. Sometimes the temptations is too great and my spirit is too weak to stand up to their insistence that I need something “more serious.” This blog entry is merely my meager attempt to fight back.
Wooo Hooooo Doctor Diamond!
I am bursting with pride. And she’s not MY daughter, I have nothing to do with her success, she’s done this all on her own. My niece, Little Diamond is now DOCTOR DIAMOND!
I don’t imagine I will remember to think of her as Doctor Diamond all the time; I will probably still call her Little Diamond.
Little Diamond, Doctor Diamond, we are all so proud of you. We dance of joy at your accomplishment, and your determination, and how very very GOOD you are! Wooo Hooooooooo!
So here is something very cool. There is a Wikipedia article that tells you all about academic dress for different levels of educational attainment. In the olden days, and at a very few universities today, gowns (like robes, kind of like abyaa3t) are worn to classes. With each level you attain – Bachelor’s degree, Master’s degree, Doctorate – you get to wear different additions – capes, hoods, etc.
Most of the time you never get a chance to wear them again after graduation. Unless you are an academic, and then you wear them for every university graduation. It is particularly colorful when all the professors troop in, very medieval, wearing their university colors and their degree colors (yes, those are different.)
Woooo Hooooo, Doctor Diamond, c’mon over here and we will have a robe made of silk with sparkles on it! Adventure Man asks if we get a family discount for consultations?
Pastor “apologizes”
This story is from yesterday’s Arab Times. I am putting in the whole thing because of what is missing:
A US pastor accused of beating his televangelist wife Joanita Bynum has apologized to all Christians over a case that could see him imprisoned for up to 27 years.
In a statement issued through his lawyers Wednesday, Thomas W. Weeks III, 40, apologized to Christians, his church family and others “having to endure this ordeal.”
Weeks, known to his followers as Bishop Weeks, is accused of beating, stomping, choking and threatening to kill his gospel singer wife during an August 21 argument outside a hotel in Atlanta, Georgia. He has been indicted on felony and misdemeanor charges stemming from the alleged attack.
“Because of the method in which this was handled just hours following the situation, it has not only hurt me, but has damaged the reputation of Christians around the world,” Weeks said.
“It is for this reason that I continue to trust in God while the storm would try to engulf me. Finally, I’m asking every Christian to pray that God’s will be done.”
In his statement, Weeks, the pastor and co-founder of Global Destiny Ministries, also cautioned against rushing to judgement in the case, and said he would give his side of what happened at the appropriate time.
This article makes my blood boil.
He apologizes to everyone – EXCEPT to his wife, whom he beat, stomped, choked and threatened to kill.
This is typical of the cowardly kind of bully who beats up on those smaller than he is and tries to make them believe that it is THEIR FAULT, that they drive him to these vicious rages by . . . oh who knows . . . a tone of voice, a step too loud, one of the kids gets a bad grade. It is always everyone else’s fault, and he is quick to kick the nearest victim, usually his wife. And the saddest thing of all, is that the wife, and sometimes the kids, buy into this jerk’s reasoning. “You made me do it.”
“You made me blacken your eye. You made me break your arm. You made me push you down the stairs. You made me drink. You enraged me. It’s all YOUR fault.”
If you are one of those cowardly, contemptible bullies reading this, I have nothing but scorn for you.
I hope this guys wife leaves him and never looks back. Of course, the problem is, he is one of those self-absorbed imbeciles who might feel she is his property, and might decide to kill her for leaving him. Still, even a moment’s freedom from this abusive lout’s controlling rages is better than another minute in his presence.
In the last line, he says he will give his side in time – yeh, when he can figure out how to present it so that HE is the victim, and his beaten wife the bad guy. I am not going to hold my breath.
Rape in Kuwait (2)
There seem to be some misconceptions running around about rape in Kuwait. One misconception is that Kuwaitis commit a lot of rape. If you read the newspapers, however, you will discover that a lot of the rapes committed are nationality on nationality, for example, one senior Phillipina lady will befriend an unhappy domestic worker, will “help” her get away, and the domestic finds herself abducted, gang raped and in sexual slavery. That’s one common story.
Domestics of all nationalities are abducted off the streets, taken to apartments or villas, raped repeatedly by two or more men, and then dropped off on the street (or dropped off a balcony). People don’t seem to be very concerned about domestic servants being people here, having the right NOT to be raped, it sort of seems like business as usual, no matter who is raped or doing the raping. I have yet to read of one single case being prosecuted or sentenced in the Kuwait newspapers, but maybe I missed a day or two.
Another common story is Indian/Bangladeshi/Pakistani on Indian/Bangladeshi/Pakistani, and that can be men abducting/raping men, or men abducting/raping women. Some of these women are also recruited into prostitution, and are found when the police raid the dens of iniquity, catching the men and men or men and women in “uncompromising” positions, or, even better – RED HANDED!
There is a whole catagory of abductions – Kuwaiti, Bedoun or other Gulf or Arab nationality where a man or woman, or men or women, is/are abducted and taken to camps in the desert and raped multiple times. Sometimes they are left naked by the side of the road. Sometimes their dead bodies are found, and occasionally enough clues to guess at the identity of the abductors/rapists.
Then there are the men that rape children. It can be within a family. It can be within a building. It can be within a neighborhood. Many times the child knows the rapist, and is told that if they say anything, the rapist will kill or harm the child’s parents. There was an epidemic of child rape in Hawali, and although the man arrested cries “I didn’t do it!” the fact is that the epidemic of rape in Hawali has stopped. That doesn’t mean that children aren’t being raped, it just means that the Hawali Monster seems to be off the streets of Hawali.
Objectively, if there can be said to be a “good” thing about rape in Kuwait, it is that so few of them are fatal.
What can, accurately, be said about Kuwait is that there seems to be a lot of rape. If you think I exaggerate, I challenge you to read the Kuwait papers every day for a month.
When there is a lot of rape, it means there is a social, legal and political climate that tolerates rape. It means that rape cases are not handled with a lot of attention to gathering evidence. It means that men and women are not encouraged to persue rape charges. It means that the police are not very interested in investigating accusations of rape. It means that the legal system is not very interested in prosecuting rape. It means that the rape victims are not valued highly enough to deserve not to be raped.
Rape happens everywhere. Rape happens in wars, rape happens on the streets. In most places, we are taught, rape isn’t about sex as much as it is about power. Here, in Kuwait, I am inclined to think it may be a little bit of both.
I’ve worked with rape victims in several different locations. Working with the victims gives you so much admiration for women, what they endure, what they survive, and their deeply ingrained sense of priorities and self. You’d think the experience would be devastating, but the women who have experienced rape and overcome it have been anything but devastated – many of them become truly awesome individuals, literally, awe-inspiring. They refuse to be victims. They carry on with their lives. They accomplish. They let their anger fuel and energize them to become incredibly accomplished individuals. It isn’t surprising – wealth and accomplishment also give you additional protection against it ever happening again.
There is another tragedy in Kuwait – male rapes. When men rape another men, like in prison, it is very much a power thing. Me big – you little. Me do what I want with you. Most of the victims I have met, or heard about are young teens. Being raped by a bigger, older male really skews their lives. They begin to question what it was about themself that got them raped, they question whether maybe they are gay and don’t know it, they ask, over and over – Why ME? Young men who were good at school start getting bad grades, they can’t concentrate, they often turn to drugs.
Being forced to have sex, whether you are man, woman, or child, is wrong. And doing nothing to stop this epidemic is also wrong. To look the other way is wrong. To say it isn’t happening is wrong. To become so used to it that your heart becomes calloused is just plain wrong.
I know most of the time my blog is a nice place to visit, and these entries make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I myself am so uncomfortable that, as Martin Luther said (only he said it in German) “I cannot other. God help me.”
Levantine/Gulf/Persian Warrior Women?
I’m still reading Sarum, by Edward Rutherford, although I am nearing the end. I am still thinking back to a fictional character – I think she is fictional because when I Google’d her name, I got the name of an English queen, but not this particular Aelfgifu.
In Sarum, Aelfgifu is a warrior woman. As a young girl, she hangs out with all the guys, rides with them, hunts with them, and is accepted by them. When the Vikings raid, she fights them. The Vikings are astounded, and more than a little angry, to be fought – successfully – by a woman. Later, her father reluctantly allows her to ride with the men to counter another Viking raid – they need all the “men” they can get, and she is one of the best.
I am intrigued. History shows that these exceptional women pop up now and then, and usually just at the right time. Joan of Arc for the French, the Amazons, Apache women warriors in Native American lore, Chinese Tang dynasty warrior women, Masai warrior women in Africa. We have women in the US Army, and I often hear their commanders say “some of my best men are women.”
It was hard to find a good warrior women illustration which had women with their clothes on. Most of the illustrator, I guess, being men, they protray women warriors in scanty attire, and most of them have exaggerated breasts and hips, and tiny little wasp waists, and legs about twice as long as a normal woman. Sort of Barbie-doll in warrior women attire. *she snorts in disgust* Leaves a fighter a little vulnerable, don’t you think, fighting in a metal bra and tiny little loincloth? That metal would get uncomfortable in no time, and man, how can you ride a horse for very long without chafing your legs? But then reality wouldn’t sell the drawing, would it?
OK, OK, back to the real question – Warrior women pop up in all cultures. I think that is true, but when I think of the Arabian Gulf, or Persia, or the Levant, no one comes to mind, other than Sheherezad, but she triumphed by her wits, not her brawn, not her fighting skills. I remember hearing that nomadic women could be fierce; are there not legends of Bedouin women?
Is there a woman / are there women who were legendary fighters in Middle East culture? Are there women in Persian culture who fought, or held a castle, or were otherwise brave in the face of danger? Speak now!
“I Miss Hamad. . . “
Talk was desultory as the book club broke up, several women had already left when Hannah hit us with this bombshell. It was a most puzzling statement. We had all passed Hamad in the hallway on our way to bookclub. He would greet us gruffly, but not really look at us as we buzzed into the women’s diwaniyya.
“What are you talking about?” popped up Lena, never at a loss for words. “How can you miss Hamad? He’s right here!”
Hannah exchanged glances with Diana, also married to a Kuwaiti. They grinned, ruefully.
“You’ve only been back a week,” Diana said.
“Yes, but I MISS that sweet, loving husband. When we are away, he turns back into the delightful, charming man I married! He holds my hand, he takes me out for dinner, it’s like when we first met! He’s a different man! Oh, how I miss him! And we’ve only been back a week.” She echoed Diana.
Diana sighed.
“And is he playing the ‘ayb’ card?” she asked? “‘Ayb’ how you walk around the house, ‘ayb’ how you smile too much, ‘ayb’ here, ‘ayb’ there, ‘ayb ayb’ everywhere?”
They started giggling. Others joined in, their giggles were so infectious. Soon, the seven women remaining from the book club meeting were gasping for air, they were laughing so hard.
“I’ve stopped changing!” Hannah hooted! “Every time I changed what he asked, he found something new!”
And the laughter started again – it’s an international group, and the critical husband thing is something that is easily understood by women of all nations.
“I want him back!” Hannah moaned, weak from laughter. “I want my Hamad back!”
Catching Up
I’m trying to catch up on all the magazines that arrived while I was gone. This was a cover on one of my New Yorker magazines, and it gave me a big grin. Hope it makes you grin, too.
Men’s Evolutionary Role
I love BBC Health News and find the most amazing stories there, things I don’t see anywhere else. Today’s has to do with women living longer, and studies on aging.
Women, not men, ensure the success of future generations, work suggests.
Grans surviving beyond the menopause appeared to increase the likelihood that their own children went on to have children, a Sheffield team found.
Yet grandfathers had very little influence on their offspring’s reproductive success, Proceedings of the Royal Society B reports.
But experts were quick to stress that both grandparents play a vital role in families and society.
The Sheffield University authors reason that women thrive following the menopause from caring for their own children and grandchildren.
In their study, grandmothers gained two extra grandchildren for every 10 years they survived beyond the menopause.
This link was not found with aged granddads, however.
Instead, the scientists say the “evolutionary” argument for a man’s survival to a ripe old age is to continue to churn out sperm and procreate.
You can read more about the study, conducted in Finland, HERE.
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