Part 2: The Syrian Mechanics

Given the nonchalant advice from several mechanics that we could drive our car home despite the problems, we hopped back into our hobbling vehicle and headed the 5 remaining kilometers to the border post. We just wanted to get out of the UAE and into Oman because once “home” all our problems got easier. Nevertheless, after a few lights, it was even worse. Silly Iranian man who gave us the taunting promise that all our problems would be over after he changed the oil. Should have seen that one coming.

We pulled off to the side of the road and decided to sit and collect ourselves for a few minutes. It must have been around 6 at this point. Feeling rather dejected and unsure about what to do, already exhausted, a man drove by in a pick-up and asked about the problem. He was one of those rare angel characters in life that show up at just the right time and seem to have nothing better to do than to help you. He looked at the car, decided that the Al-Ain mechanics were donkeys, and called his Syrian boys to come on over. Note: it’s the West’s equivalent of Sunday evening at this point. This is not a time when you would expect seemingly the entire Syrian population of Al-Ain to take a sudden interest in you.

Soon two dudes show up, rocking out in their pimped Mercedes to Fifty-Cent and J Lo. They are punks, but look like mechanics should. Greasy, relaxed, smart. They were the first people to actually diagnose the problem instead of just fiddle around. Apparently, the seal to one of the pistons is messed up and the car is consequently leaking engine oil into the pressure chamber and pushing it out the exhaust pipe, where it is burning. He can’t fix it now, but there is some temporary miracle oil leak stopper fluid that he suggests. One Syrian suspiciously stays by our deserted car while George and I slide onto the other’s black leather seats. George tries hard to have a conversation with the guy, but he consistently gives bizarre responses, like that he doesn’t know how long he’s been in the UAE or where he is from. He also confirms for us that all Indian, Bengalis, and everyone else are donkeys. Good to know. He does give us a tour of his American rap collection though. And at every stop light, he hits the breaks in beat with the music. He was rocking out. Got to say though, his music collection was la crème of American tunes.

An hour later, we are back at the car (the first Syrian dude is still benignly leaning on it). We pay them for the oil, and off we go. There is indeed a lot less smoke…for about 1 kilometer. Ah, well. We hope that because it is dark out now, the customs officers will let us through without much hassle.

We drove for another hour just trying to find the border, somehow getting stuck in the construction zone traffic in the town center over and over again. The beeping from other cars was getting really obnoxious. “You have big problem!!” …Yes, we know, that’s why we are going 25 km per hour with our hazard lights on. Although very concerned about our car, the Emirates evidently don’t like visitors leaving Al-Ain. With no signs, the border we finally got to turned out to be for Gulf nationals only, so we puffed along to find the next one. I toughened up and consoled myself that the worst was over. Get through this next border and home free.

Part 3 coming soon.

4 star luxury vacation turned 5 star epic adventure

My husband's and my long awaited 4-star trip to Dubai--full of Belgian Beer, gourmet Thai, sushi, and shisha--turned in a 5+ star misadventure--full of mysterious white smoke, strange Syrians, torrential downpours and 17 hours on the road.

On our way back from Dubai to Oman (usually a 4.5 hour trip including border posts) our trusty 4x4 started pouring out white smoke. We stopped. It was Friday, the Muslim day of prayer and no work, and that meant that no mechanics would be open until 4 at the earliest, despite the fact that we were in a decently sized UAE town, Al-Ain. We tried driving a little farther, but it was clear that our car, not to mention of Emirati residents of Al-Ain, was not pleased with that.

Eventually we got to a mechanic, well...more like 7 mechanics. Everyone had a different idea of what was wrong. But not for sure. Despite the different, often indifferent, opinions we got, everyone agreed that we could drive it home. It wasn’t the engine. It was some piston related gas leak into the exhaust pipe. Or some problem with the turbo. Or something. I don’t quite understand, and if I did at one point, the ensuing 17 hours of hellish and bizarre experiences that would have made Kafka proud made me forget it.

Part 2 to come after I recuperate a little more.

A Reminder

 

In my current, thankfully temporary, situation of exam creation frenzy and Lawrence-esque chaos, I need a breath of fresh air. Unable to escape, I resorted to looking at pictures I took of Oman in freeer times. It reminded me of how stunning this country really is, despite albeit major glitches in organization and functionality. Hope you enjoy this picture of a stairway through the mountains. If you want to see more, please do check out my web albums (recently updated) at:

http://picasaweb.google.com/Clare.A.Feeney

Hiatus Chaos

Sorry to all my readers for the hiatus in posts. I've been swamped with work for the Ministry of High Education, creating final exams for all of the Colleges of Applied Science in Oman. It's quite a hassle, not to mention the refusal of our administration to lower our work hours despite the perhaps extra 15-20 hours a week that we've been putting in each of the past 2 weeks.

The cross-college meetings held to discuss our progress are bizarrely "Lawrence of Arabia" -esque. If you happen to remember the end of the film, it holds an uncanny resemblance to the unbridled chaos wrought by the Arab leaders in Damascus. A room full of stubborn people who think they have more authority than they actually do, better ideas than they actually do, and are utterly unwilling to compromise.

After catching my breath, I will be back in full force with overdue updates on everything from to the Dubai economic crash to a very interesting Ayurvedic massage.

Come Have Lunch With My Family!

Neighborly interactions are different everywhere. For that matter, they change through time as well. In twenty-first century America (in the majority of neighborhoods in the country), the idea of neighborly relations encapsulated in the image of borrowing a cup of sugar and 2 eggs, or of Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith having a cocktail after work while the Mrs.'s chat about the newest furniture fabric cleaner--is undeniably passee.

You go home to your house. I go home to my house. That's the way we have it now, and that's the way we like it. By no means does that go to say that we never interact. But unless neighbors have a compelling reason to mingle, suburban America isn't down with neighbors-as-extended-family motif. In all fairness, we don't even see our extended families very often.

Here in Oman, as in most of the Arab world and many other areas, the story is different. To be polite, the daily visit is de rigeur. Turning down an invitation (even if they come every day) for lunch or coffee is rude. Moreover, it is not understood. This is the other side of Arab hospitality--the side that can cause neighborly tensions and down-right hard feelings.

This is thankfully one culture clash that I actually understand. There are a few causes for my current standing as a poor neighbor:

1. Hospitality. They are simply generous people.

2. The reciprocal cultural norm of accepting hospitality. You have to give it, and just as much you have to take it up.

3. I am a bleep on the Omani suburb radar screen. I should be doing more to become one with the Omani women. I have already been told that I would be much more beautiful if I covered my hair, and that if God is good (which, of course, he is) I will join them in Islam.

4. Lastly, there is little to no concept in rural Oman of personal space. This is not at all unique to Oman, but rather to all poor and closely-knit societies. Fifteen people to the same house. You're lucky if you get to share a room with only two siblings. Swarms of little kids. Even the recently married cousins of the family spent their wedding night in the decked-out bedroom which opens onto the women's sitting room and borders on the kitchen! Not my idea of personal space. This, however, is perfectly normal, and even desired here.

Let me give you a simple anecdote to illustrate this last point. One of the smartest students at the college lives in this house next to ours. Often we drive him to school because we are going the same way and he doesn't have a car. Everyday his mother franticly waves us into the house. (In fact she does this whenever we pass by her.) As usual, yesterday he said to us in his nearly perfect English as we were dropping him off, "Please come, we have not seen you for such a long time. My mother always asks why you don't come. Please, come have lunch."

It was 2:30, the day at work had been harrowing. In fact, the whole week had been hellish. Both George and I were overcome with the feeling you get after a long day a work (especially a long day of battling through cultural--not language--communication blockages to accomplish simple tasks). That feeling that desperately wants to get out of the business clothes, grab an unhealthy snack, and go cross-eyed in front of the TV. In short, to have personal space in a safe place.

This concept is unknown to my very intelligent student. He just doesn't get it, and his family even less-so. He has never had personal space. Besides, why would you ever want to cut out your family? This is no slight to him, it is merely a consequence of their perfectly satisfactory way of life.

We said to him, "Not today, it's been a long, and we really need some space."
He says, "No problem, come relax, we will give you lunch."
We say, "No thanks, we really just need to have our own quiet space."
He says, "Ok, we will just sit."
We say, "No, some other time, we need our personal space now."
He acquiesces. "Ok, my mother will be disappointed." She becons to us warmly, but a bit too feverishly, through the car window. "Inshallah, God willing, tomorrow."

They are a lovely family. We like them. But to them, 2 hours of coffee, mandatory dates and force-fed, pre-peeled fruit sounds like a comforting and relaxing afternoon after a hard day at work. To me, well, I want my bathrobe, a cup of hot chocolate and nobody talking to me. That's what I'm used to. To them, that is both boring and bizarre.

So, while I appreciate the nuanced cultural complications of living in this neighborhood, to those of you in average American neighborhood, do this for me: Relish in being able to stroll by your neighbors as you take the dog for a walk or check your mail box and just give a simple wave and a "how-dy do-dy"--and have that be just fine.

Stop picking on (only) Islamic extremism

Let me burden you with a small personal preface: Having been raised Catholic and educated for 18 years in Catholic schools, I remember the lessons from the Bible that were repeated year after year in my education. Despite no longer calling myself religious, I still hold high Christian values. And when I say Christian values, I mean the original lessons and parables we get from the man himself in the Gospel (although those as well were likely changed and amended in the nearly 2,000 years before they got to me in the 1980s.)

I now live in an environment even more steeped in religiosity than anything I have experienced before. Conservative Islam permeates every aspect of society here, perhaps most noticeably in women's clothing. In recent posts I have discussed the rather confusing issue of the abaya'. I have pondered and questioned—why do people follow what they can't defend? Perhaps many of the women cannot explain why they wear the abaya', or tell me where it comes from, but is that so unusual? Is that so reprehensible compared to what goes on under the guise of Catholic morality? If you look around you, Catholicism is getting harder and harder to defend itself.

Just this week, the Catholic Church excommunicated a 9 year old Brazilian girl and her family. The girl had been raped by her step-father, and was pregnant with twins. Her family made the decision to have an abortion. The Vatican responded by banning this family and the doctor who performed the abortion from the Catholic community forever. Is that a Christian response? What would Jesus do? Cliché—no doubt. But perhaps a little dose of 8th grade religious simplicity would do the Vatican a bit of good.

I remember the passage: “How will you say to your brother, Brother, let me take the grain of dust out of your eye, when you yourself do not see the bit of wood in your eye? You hypocrite! First take the wood out of your eye and then you will see clearly to take the dust out of your brother's eye.” –Luke 6:42
In addition, let’s remember the well-known passage of Jesus telling the crowd which is about to stone the adulterous woman that the one among them who has done no wrong should throw the first stone. Everyone leaves, of course.

In short: we are not to be judgmental. We cannot decide for others, for we are so blinded by our own inadequacies and are so deeply imperfect.

This astory would strike anyone; however, it affected me not only because it is a heart-wrenching and dismaying story, but also because it sheds new light onto all the international hullabaloo over Islamic extremism.

So often, we hear the rhetoric that Islam practices extreme moral policing and robs people of their freedom. We hear about Saudi Arabia punishing and imprisoning a woman for being raped. It makes international news, framing Saudi Arabia’s religious policy as antithetical to human rights and justice. Compare that to the story of this victimized child in Brazil. A Brazilian Archbishop claimed that: "Abortion is much more serious than killing an adult. An adult may or may not be an innocent, but an unborn child is most definitely innocent. Taking that life cannot be ignored." (See article.) Wasn’t this little girl completely innocent as well? The Catholic Church as well brandishes the sword (and not for the first time) of extreme religious policing with fervor. How can an institution that treats its own with such a blatant lack of compassion and understanding possibly claim to be all about inter-religious dialogue?

The Church needs to take the plank out of its own eye and do some serious spring cleaning in the Vatican. Certainly if it plans on taking a leading role in any sort of religious dialogue, particularly with Islam, which is so often internationally demonized, it needs to brush up on the Bible, and start writing public apologies to all the people and families which have been victimized by both its unacceptable actions of the past years and its all too facile stamp of moral condemnation.

Women in Black

After a week of wondering in vain why Gulf women wear the black abaya’ over their already loose and colorful clothing, I decided to do a little investigating. (See previous post). The only difference between the abaya’ and their home attire is color. I was sure that color could not possibly be the deciding factor as to why women wear the abaya’ in public as opposed to their more traditional dresses and scarves. And I was correct. It’s not color, but it’s also not modesty. In response to the question, “Why do you wear the abaya’ every day?”—every woman in my small sample of six women said, in different words, “just because.”

My issue was with 1) the color black, and 2) the double covering with no increase in modesty (I made it clear that I understand using the abaya’ cloak to cover other clothes, such as jeans, tee-shirts or anything tight or revealing. I just did not, however, understand the redundancy). Some said it was required by Islam (not true). Some said that it was in the Hadith (not true). Some said the Mohammed said to wear black (not true). Some girls even asked me where it came from. Eventually it came down to other people. Other people will look at them if they don’t wear it. Not necessarily looking at them because they were showing anything more…a sexy bit of collar bone or some womanly curves; rather because they would simply stand out. The power of a homogenized culture boggles the liberal mind. After just years, not even a generation, a trend can become enforced—a cultural, even more than a religious, uniform. Most women here know that the abaya’ is not traditional Omani clothing, but they have no idea where it did come from, so much so that they turned to their resident western fashion guru—me—to find out where the abaya’ came from, and when.

I’m all about people making their own decisions….so long as they are informed decisions. I am done pondering why Gulf women wear this black robe over their already modest, loose dresses. The deeper and much more important issue (although it may not seem to be more important in this heat) is why these young women don’t know the history that they put on every morning. They are fulfilling unknown fatwas; following nameless rulers; abiding by the edicts of a stringent form of Islam that they cannot name. Why are these women so ignorant of the forces that control them?

Perhaps the examples are clearer here in the Arab Gulf—the quiet oppression and confident cooperation stand out like a sore thumb to an aware outsider. But it is crucial to rise above one’s immediate surroundings and look around at the rest of the world. Can the lessons being learned here in my little Omani town be applied all over the globe? People are passively, or at least unknowingly, cooperating with their silent oppressors everywhere. It just happens to be blisteringly obvious here.