Josh was an American travel writer for MSN in Sydney, Australia, and had done all of the legwork and planning for this trip. He secured two nights (free of charge) at an über-deluxe seaside resort at Zighy Bay on the Musandam Peninsula of Oman. It was ridiculously posh, right on the Gulf of Oman with a staggering backdrop of mountains and a beautiful expanse of unspoiled ocean. We enjoyed a beachfront pool villa, complete with two resort bicycles and a personal butler. We didn’t actually use the butler for anything, but we rode the bikes around the sandy paths and up to the spa villa, where we had massages and spent time in the steam room.
Part of the deal of being granted opulent, luxurious free digs was having to schmooze with hotel management for at least one of the two nights.
The woman (we’ll call her Kersten) we had dinner with was Australian and had only been with the resort for a few months. She was in her forties, single, slightly paunchy, with long, stringy blond hair and a round moon-shaped face. She showed up twenty minutes late to meet us and then proceeded to dominate the conversation by one-upping anything Josh or I said.
She went on and on about her frequent trips into Dubai, where the men would “literally stop on the street” to talk to her. “I mean literally, stop their cars—the light would turn green, and they’d be there, stopped, to talk to me.” I didn’t doubt that the men stopped to talk to her, as she was blond and Western, and most Arab men thought all Western women were whores. It wasn’t necessarily a compliment if they stopped to talk to you. She also made a point of telling us that she knew “loads of sheikhs. I’m friends with heaps of them.”
Josh and I were both curious as to what a sheikh actually was. I mean, you hear the word, and can visualize what they look like, but are they royalty? What makes a sheikh? Kersten explained that it was sort of a combination between royalty and a political post. The sheikhs presided over various regions and had a lot of money and power. They sounded to me like the modern-day equivalent of dukes and lords from Middle Ages Europe. Anyway, Kersten was friends with heaps of them. She was also overly flirtatious with the married Muslim chef Ali. She crowed about getting private cooking lessons from him, and then mentioned the annoyance of having to meet his wife, upon the wife’s request. I said, “Oh, wow, you hadn’t met his wife? And you were getting private cooking lessons from him?” I was no fan of conservative Islam, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t exactly culturally sensitive of her. But what did I know? She knew loads of sheikhs.
Painful as the meal was, it was free. And tasty. Josh was thrilled to death with all the typical Middle Eastern mezze like hummus, tabouleh, and baba ghanoush. Ali could definitely cook. I really hoped that was all he was doing at the resort, but I didn’t want to be Moral Judge & Jury Judy on my vacation.
After paragliding off a cliff down to the beach at the resort on our last day, we had to pack up, wrap up my hair, and head back out on the road. We were going to Muscat, the capital of the sultanate! We enjoyed the passing scenery of many sandy outposts, a few farms (complete with Omani scarecrow dressed in a caftan and headscarf), and we passed through several small towns.
Josh had done his best with the arrangements; however, some of the details had been left to Mona, the Sydney-based representative for Oman’s Ministry of Tourism. Mona (a wildly coincidental anagram of Oman) had been somewhat remiss in her communications with Josh, or with the ministry, and when we arrived at our allegedly reserved hotel in Muscat, we were told that there was no reservation for us. This was after a very long day of driving across the sultanate (I just don’t even want to use the word “country” when “sultanate” is available), and we were exhausted and bordering on cranky. When I removed the pashmina from around my head and neck, an odd feeling of liberation washed over me. I hadn’t realized I was feeling so constricted, but the second I took off the scarf I felt more relaxed.
We were supposed to have a free room at the Intercontinental, and were also supposed to have a message from the tour company, which would supposedly be picking us up the following morning for our desert extravaganza and fort and palace visits. But we had no room and no message. Josh finagled and wrangled things with the manager of the Intercontinental and finally secured a room for us. The manager agreed to contact the Ministry of Tourism the next day for payment. This just left the matter of our tour. We decided to go to the room, get a good night’s sleep, and have a nice breakfast before trying to contact the tour company about our plans.
When we got down to the lobby in the morning, we found a stuffed sausage of a man, sporting a sharp goatee and Ray-Ban sunglasses. He was dressed in the traditional Omani garb of a long “dish-dash” (essentially a floor-length caftan), matching cap, and Prada sandals. I wasn’t sure if the Prada sandals were standard Omani issue. He made a point of dramatically looking at his watch before pushing himself up from the couch and introducing himself as Kamil. He was behaving as if we were late, although we explained to him that we hadn’t received a message that he would be coming at all. He seemed surprised by this.
We checked out of the Intercontinental and loaded our bags into the SUV of the tour company and proceeded with the requisite small talk. Kamil informed us that he had lived in the United States, specifically Jackson Heights (in New York) and Connecticut. He said, “United States not for me.” I asked if he had been anywhere other than New England, and he gave me a blank look. So I rephrased it to, “Have you been anywhere outside of Jackson Heights and Connecticut?” He said, “No,” but then continued to expound on why the United States was not for him, with its crowded cities and unfriendly people. I got the distinct impression it would be a waste of breath to discuss the vastness of the United States and the fact that there were so many different types of regions and cities, etc.
One of the big tourist attractions in Muscat was the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque. That would be our first stop of the day. Kamil surveyed my outfit, which I had thought was culture-appropriate: scarf covering my hair, long drawstring pants, flip-flops, and a top I had bought in Iraq that was empire-waisted and dropped below my hips. He pointed out that my wrists were showing. My wrists? It was a three-quarter-sleeve top, and I didn’t know that my wrists had to be covered, so I dug in my bag and pulled out a long-sleeved cardigan. You can’t cover up this sexy. Kamil looked surprised that I had been able to find something appropriate so quickly.
I had been appraising his ensemble as well and admired his cap. I had read that the Omani caps worn by the men were traditionally embroidered by a beloved family member. I asked him about this and he clarified, “Yes, they are made by a woman. A woman make for the man.” I asked, “Who made yours?” He replied, “Oh, I just bought this one…but from a woman!” Ah, traditions.
The Grand Mosque was indeed grand. We had to remove our shoes to enter the prayer rooms. Kamil led us to the women’s prayer room first, which looked lovely, with heavy wood-paneled walls and decorative chandeliers. Kamil informed us that the women’s prayer room had a capacity of 750. He then told us that “Western women” he had toured around before were angry when they found out that the men’s prayer room’s capacity was six thousand. He continued on to say that Westerners just didn’t understand that the Omani women didn’t need a large prayer room because they should be home with the children. “This make Western woman more angry!” he laughed.
He looked pointedly at me when giving this explanation, but I just shrugged and said, “I’m living in Iraq right now. I’m used to it.”
“Iraq?!” he blurted out, and then cocked his head as if looking at me in a new light. I seemed to be surprising Kamil right and left.
Kamil was proving to be a fairly boorish and obnoxious guide. He would bark orders in regards to which things he thought we should be photographing at the mosque, and then would huff in an exasperated manner when we would ignore his demands.
Upon exiting said Grand Mosque, we were handed several pamphlets on various facets of Islam in an apparent attempt to educate the Western infidels. My personal favorite
was titled “Woman in Islam.” If I wasn’t entirely sure before that marrying a Muslim Kurd and converting to Islam wasn’t such a bad idea, this cured me.
These were some excerpts from the “Twenty-Five Frequently Asked Questions”:
1. Do men and women have equal rights in Islam?
It is part of the mission of Islam to establish justice and harmony between the sexes with due consideration to the inherent natural differences. God has laid down certain rights and obligations for men and women, each in accordance with the nature determined by his/her gender, and complementary to each other. If either departs from his/her specific nature, an unnatural “equality” will be forced.
So the short answer here would be “No.”
5. Is a Muslim woman allowed to choose her husband herself?
Islam gives a woman the right to choose her own husband…It is, however, a wise custom among Muslims to involve the family in any important decision…
Translation: “No.”
7. Is a Muslim woman allowed to marry a non-Muslim?
Marriage and family are particularly protected in Islam because, as the basic social unit, they guarantee the continued existence of the community. In order to work out, a marriage requires two partners to have a common basis and attitude. Thus it is naturally preferable for a Muslim to find a Muslim mate…A non-Muslim husband could limit his wife’s religious practice. That is why a Muslim woman is not permitted to marry a man belonging to another religion.
Short answer: “No,” but please continue for the absurd double standard.
The Qur’an allows a Muslim man to marry a woman from one of the communities of the “People of the Book” (Jews and Christians). As societies tend to be patriarchal, a Muslim man married to a non-Muslim woman is considered to have the necessary social and family structure to protect him from being pried away from his faith.
I’m sorry…what?
8. How are we to understand the permission for polygamy in Islam?
Technically, Islam allows men to marry four women; however, there are certain conditions to be met. This is best understood from the following verse in the Qur’an: “…And if you have reason to fear that you might not act equitably towards orphans; then marry from among [other] women such as are lawful to you—[even] two, three or four; but if you have reason to fear that you might not be able to treat them with equal fairness, then [only] one—or [from among] those whom you rightfully possess.” (Qur’an, 4:3)
I supposed I should first understand the “rightfully possess” thing to understand the permission for polygamy in Islam.
9. Why is a Muslim woman not allowed to marry several men?
I must say that while this pamphlet was shooting itself in the foot in its attempt to enlighten the non-Muslims, it was definitely answering all my questions.
Islam is the religion reflecting human nature. Generally speaking, the marriage of one woman to several men is a rare occurrence throughout the world and hardly ever promoted. It can thus be assumed that it is not in accordance with the nature of a woman to be married to more than one man at a time. So it is not surprising that Islam is against it. One important factor is the fact that it is the man who is obliged to support his children. If there were more than one husband, the paternity of any particular child would be in doubt. This would lead to either quarrelling about the children or shying away from the responsibility. Clearly, it would not be practical for several men to be joint heads of the family. Alternatively, in the case of a matriarchal power structure, the experience in pre-Islamic time had resulted in a deterioration of discipline in society.
I would like to remind everyone at this juncture that the majority of my students no longer had fathers. Many of them had died in the wars and rebellions of the 1990s, and an entire generation was being reared by single mothers.
10. Is a Muslim man allowed to beat his wife?
This is a subject burdened with a lot of prejudice.
Yes, how unfortunate that there is prejudice against wife-beating.
[This] verse from the Qur’an makes it clear that the husband is required to apply three steps in any case: Admonition, separation in bed, and only thirdly beating. This means that beating in the heat of the moment is specifically forbidden…Furthermore, some scholars mention that this measure, i.e., beating, is only for such societies where it is an acceptable means of reform and likely to get results.
Oh good, at least they’re clarifying. It is only acceptable to beat your wife after you’ve admonished her or placed her in a marriage bed time-out.
18. Why do women not pray side by side with men?
During an act of worship, participants should be able to concentrate fully. Were men and women to pray in an intermingled congregation, there would be distraction on both parts…women are normally allocated an area to pray either behind the men or in a separate section.
During one of my conversations with Awat, he was describing praying at the mosque during Ramadan. He said there were many people, all side by side, and I was picturing this very romantic, spiritual scene with the men all wearing long white smock things and white caps (precisely what the Omani men wore). I had excitedly asked, “What were you wearing?” and he had shrugged and said, “Jeans and a shirt.” Oh. He then explained that all the people who were side by side were men. “Women pray in different room.” Oh. “On second floor,” he said. So I perked up and mischievously said, “Aha! Closer to God!” and just smirked while his smile tightened, and it appeared as though his head might explode.
The “Woman in Islam” pamphlet concluded by saying:
From an Islamic point of view the modern “Western” world presents women with the burdensome and unnatural stresses of having to glamourize herself to a media-projected fashion standard, to live as a “super-mom” earning a second family income or supporting a one-parent household (or, alternatively to marry late in life or not at all), vying with men in a cut-throat competitive work-place, in a materialistic society of “have’s” and “have not’s,” where conscience and morals have lost their value.
This was irony at its most outrageous. I would think the ludicrous Islamic ideal of a woman’s purity might be somewhat burdensome and cause “unnatural stresses.” Also, that women are only permitted to show their faces (and hands) has led to a dramatic explosion of plastic surgery all across the Middle East. It’s so much easier to go to the hair salon to get a blowout than to go to the hospital to have a face-lift.
If a woman in the Middle East fails to bleed on her wedding night, she can face shame, abuse, and even death. That is unnaturally stressful.*
It was hilarious to me that this pamphlet was printed with the intention of presenting Islam as a female-friendly way of life, when, in fact, it had the exact opposite effect. It merely confirmed every previous stereotype, and even exacerbated several of the more controversial issues. What was truly tragic, however, was later doing a little research and discovering that there are similar ideas in the Bible and the Torah. It wasn’t just a Middle East thing.
Before getting back in the car after the mosque visit, Kamil had to have a cigarette, so Josh and I waited. We then headed farther inland toward some market that was a feature of the tour. Kamil spent the majority of the drive trying to engage us in political discussion, and would say things like, “George Bush, he did a mistake! The people of Oman, we hope Obama does not do another mistake!”
Josh had been living in Australia for several years, and I had been in Iraq for almost a year. Neither of us was particularly political, and we were very uninterested in carrying on that particular conversation. When we wouldn’t engage in discourse with him, Kamil would then expound on his own country’s politics (which was fine, and somewhat interesting). According to him, 1959 was the last time Oman was involved in a war, the war with Yemen. Kamil said the Yemeni were “troublemakers.” He said the border was where all the military were, and “Sultan controls the religious. You got the name, you got the oil, now shut you
r mouth.” We interpreted this as the sultan doing an effective job of controlling the religious fanatics in the country.
Kamil took advantage of his captive audience at lunchtime to explain to us why Oman was the most superior of the Gulf States. “When driving in Bahrain, if you lose your way and ask directions? The people you ask will not be local. They are Indian or other thing and just tell you the wrong way. In Saudi if you ask directions, they say, ‘How much will you give us?’” Josh and I hadn’t been to Saudi Arabia, and I had really only been in Bahrain’s airport, so we just had to take his word for everything.
Kamil spent part of the afternoon drive on his cell phone, yammering away in Arabic. He explained to us that he and his wife were trying to buy a house, and his wife’s friend had a house in which they were interested. While Josh and I found this to be fairly unprofessional, we were just glad that he had stopped talking about George W. and all the mistakes he “did.” There was some entertaining irony about how Kamil nagged on and on about “George Bush doing a mistake,” since he was almost thought of as a hero to the Kurdish people. Warren had told me that it wasn’t unheard of for random Kurdish restaurants to have a framed 8x10 glossy of W right alongside other framed photos of their political dignitaries. Although that was Warren talking.
On the most recent call, Kamil’s wife had said something about her friend changing her mind about wanting to sell the property, so he said, “I tell her! Go and eat her brain! Find out!” I corrected him, “Pick her brain.” I couldn’t help it, it was the English teacher in me. But he ignored me and said “eat her brain” several more times that day, making for a very gruesome visual.
I Have Iraq in My Shoe Page 23
