Since I can't write these days...

Although I don't always agree with what she says or how she does it, I have to admire the guts Saudi women's rights activist, Wajeha Al-Huwaider, has to be able to make this video protest for International Women's day showing her driving on the streets of Saudia. Now mind you, if it's technically not illegal for women to drive here, and she does have a driver’s licence, then why should she get in trouble for making this video which shows her driving? Unfortunately we all know it doesn't quite work that way here:




I also came across a video featuring the always eloquent Suzan Zawawi from the Saudi Gazette. The first and second videos tell non-Saudis more about the lives of Saudi women in a few minutes that what I could write in a few years. We miss you Suzy, your mom and your sisters here in Al-Hassa:-)



part2


I had a real problem pressing the mute button on this video, I soooo luv this song (AAYB DAISY!). It's an homage to the niqabis...I plan on being that sister at the end of the video on the motorcycle.

I Was Playing in the Street When...

This is the phrase I've heard several old women using when emphasizing how old they were when they were married off:

"I was playing out in the street when they came and brought me to see this strange man and..."


My MIL estimates that she was probably around 11 years old when she was married off to her husband, a man 20 some years her senior (we never did know exactly how old my FIL was, God rest his soul). She claims that she hadn't even started menstruating yet, as once a girl hits puberty she can no longer play "out" in the street. The woman he'd been married to passed away suddenly and at the wake, his uncle came to comfort his grieving nephew.

"Why don't you marry my daughter", he offered to him. The man felt in his heart of hearts that having a new wife would ease his nephew's suffering as well as provide his daughter with a husband he knew and trusted. And so, my MIL was married off to my FIL.


As was common in those days, a new bride did not become the managing force in her household but rather, she became a part of her new husband's family's home. His mother was the matron and called all the shots. She was expected to be an apprentice to her husband's mother, bear the children and eventually, after her MIL became old and infirm, she would take over the managing the household.


More than likely due to the strain on my MIL's yet undeveloped body, her first 3 children died immediately, within a day or so, after birth. Although in the days "before oil" the infant mortality rate was astounding, 3 in a row would be tough! She was probably not even in her mid-teens before her first living child was born, at home, as were all the children at that time. After having lost 3 children in a row, they didn't take ANY chances with this one. Believing that someone had given them an "eye" resulting in their babies deaths, they hid the newest baby for over a year and didn't announce the delivery to anyone outside of the family. As a result, my husband's oldest brother didn't get circumcised until he was around 8 or 9 years old as well as never discovering exactly what his age is.


Such was life, back in those days. Both my MIL and FIL were illiterate and had to work hard for everything they had. My FIL was a manual laborer and worked various unskilled jobs throughout his life, jobs that S.E. Asian workers now do for less pay. There were no other options for girls back then; they were destined to become wives and mothers. Education for men was only available to the elite and the clergy in the past and upon attaining puberty, a girl was ready for the next stage in her life: marriage. There wasn't any thing else.


These days it's unheard of for a man to marry an 11 year-old girl in Saudia and attitudes have changed towards young marriage. Although you will hear of the occasional 14 year-old getting married, it's a rarity and teenage pregnancy rates in the west are probably higher than the rate of Saudi girls the same age marrying. Even marrying in high school is becoming more infrequent with every successive year. Some become engaged in the last year or so of high school or immediately after graduation. Many young women now are trying to finish university and get a year or two in working before marrying.


Occasionally, especially during exam times, I hear comments from some of the older women. "I don't see why they're killing themselves with all this studying for university when they're just going to get married and stay at home with the kids."

Locusts and Al-Hassa

THE LOCUSTS ARE COMING...THE LOCUSTS ARE COMING!!!

My father-in-law used to tell us about how difficult life used to be before oil. Al-Hassa, being an agricultural city, could be dessimated by a locust invasion before modern and efficient trade with areas outside the city were established. When asked how they coped once all their crops and food were consumed by the locusts he said, "we'd eat the locusts".

YUM!

First Wife Bribed for Understanding

Sidelights: First Wife Bribed for UnderstandingArab News

YANBU, 26 February 2008 — Ah, the complexities of having multiple wives. Some may think this makes life easier, considering that multiple wives means multiple housecleaners and multiple food-preparers and if one gets on your nerves you can go hang out with the other one until the first one behaves properly. But in fact it’s not as easy as it sounds to have a number of women in your life: life ain’t easy for a player, as some might say. So it may come to no surprise that — according to the daily Al-Madinah yesterday — a man lavished his first wife with a grand fête filled with expensive gifts and jewelry when she did not dispute his desire to marry a second woman. Perhaps there is no better way to reward a woman for allowing you to marry another woman than to give her lots of shiny things.

If it works for her, who are we to say anything?

Domesticating Saudi Men Must Start Early 2

Now, if he could only teach his babba!

Domesticating Saudi Men Must Start Early 1

Name and Shame

I propose a website, called "Aayb Alayk" (Shame on You), which would name and shame the Kingdom's bad boys.

Ladies, next time you’re receiving unwanted attention, whip out those mobiles and start filming them in action. Extra points will be given if license plates are clearly displayed in the film or if the culprits give their names. We can then upload these incriminating videos to the Aayb Alayk page.Any type of bad behavior can be filmed as long as its done in the public sphere; stunt driving in traffic as well as flirting are just a few of the possibilities.

Why should we let them get away with chasing us at high speeds in their shiny sports cars, endangering our lives while trying to shout their numbers at us, even when we are accompanied by our men in some instances? Why must we feel compelled to avoid certain shopping centers and malls because it’s a well known flirting gallery?

In what must have been a busy day for the MIB-Men In Beards (aka Muttawwa), 57 men were nabbed in Meccan shopping malls for trying to harass and/or flirt with women.

And girls, I know not all of you are innocent victims of male aggression. You know who you are, Miss Pops-Open-To-See-My-Miniskirt-Skinny-Abaya with your toxic applications of perfume, come-hither eye-makeup and your crippling stilettos. And we know you don't have your period even though you spent Maghrib prayer while the shops were closed primping in the Mall's bathrooms instead of praying. I'm not addressing you, you irreligious hussy. I'm speaking to women who aren't soliciting this type of attention from men.

Arm yourselves sisters, with your cameras.

The Grass is Always…Fatter

The house was bursting at the seams with women who'd come to pay their respects in the days after my father-in-law passed away. Some stayed for only a matter of minutes, enough time to greet the other women present and drink a cup of coffee while expressing their condolences to the family, as is in good taste and is the Sunnah. Others, some close friends of the family but mostly unwanted lingerers, sat and chatted about all manners of goings-on as my grieving sister-in-laws turned into waitresses by refreshing bottomless cups of coffee and tea. The men had rented a farm to accommodate the onslaught of mourners but the womenfolk came to the small, old-style house since my mother-in-law is not able to exit her home during the mourning period for widows of four months and 10 days.

Since I actively avoid weddings, I don't often encounter large groups of women like what was present during the 3 days following my father-in-laws death. As women filed in and out of the house, all types of discussion were taking place; gossip, recent events, more gossip. Feeling a bit like Typhoid Daisy, I stood and greeted every woman that entered with the mandatory handshake and kisses on the cheek despite my 1o2°F fever then returned to shivering quietly, curled up under my abaya and layers of clothing while seated on a sofa in the corner of the room. Not up to participating in the topic-du-jour, I listened-in as the chatty women resumed whatever issue was being hashed out before disruption of greeting the latest batch of mourners.

"Are you still looking for a house?", one of the older women enquired of a younger woman who'd come with her mother, whose tight off-the-shoulder "bad-girl" abaya barely contained her girth and made her the topic of discussion after her departure.

"I found one next to so-and-so's house in such-and-such neighborhood", she responded as a group of old, toothless women across the room began paying attention to the information she was giving.

"For rent?", the older woman continued her inquiry. "Who owns it?"

"I can't remember the exact family name, my husband knows it, but he's got two wives and…", Miss Tight Abaya was cut-off before she could finish by one of the old toothless women.

"That's my son's house", she exclaimed, taking a proactive approach to the conversation before the women went too far into the "two wives" issue.

"When did he marry again?" another older woman asked with a surprised expression, obviously an old friend who'd lost touch with the polygamist's toothless mother.

"Last year" she answered her friend as more and more of the two dozen women in the room dropped whatever lines of meaningless discourse were taking place to substitute it with eavesdropping on this meatier topic , "I don't know why though, his wife is a good wife" the toothless mom added.

"So why'd he get married again?" a previously uninterested middle-aged woman interjected as the room began to go silent to listen in to the reason.

There are a number of supposed certains in a woman's life here regarding marriage. Some of which are as follows; if you do x,y,z for your husband, he won't get married again. If you are a good wife, you're husband won't have a reason to get married again on you. Being a "good wife" is of course a very subjective matter but some of the general qualities of a good wife are: your house is clean, you make plenty of babies, you cook well, you don't get fat, you don't look old, you take care of your appearance, you are not demanding, etc. If a man marries again, it is assumed for certain it's because his first wife was lacking in some way which forced him to go forth and seek greener pastures. When people hear a man has married a second wife, the question which immediately follows is: "why?" Everyone wants to know what was wrong with the first wife.

The entire room of mainly middle-aged women eagerly awaited the toothless mom's answer. Every woman wants to avoid the pitfalls of other women who've inadvertently forced their men into the arms of a second wife and even if this isn't their main motivation for paying attention, having dirt on the first wife is reason enough to listen intently.

"She's a good wife", the toothless polygamist's mom said again. "She's a good cook, her house is clean, she has three kids, she's not ugly…", she went on extolling the virtues of her seemingly infallible daughter-in-law.

"So what's his problem with her then", another woman impatiently enquired of the toothless mom?

"He says she's too skinny and he wants to be married to a fat woman", the old woman announced to a silent room which was instantly transformed into a sea of confused faces. For a few moments, the women in the room pondered the grammar and word order of the sentence with which the evidently confused old woman perplexed them.

"You mean she's too fat and he wants to be married to a skinny one", one of the eavesdroppers corrected her after concluding that the senile woman had inadvertently switched adjectives. After all, this order makes sense to everyone as they nodded their heads in agreement with the semantic correction.

"No", the toothless mom asserted, "his wife is thin and he wants a fat wife!"

The initial confused silence continued for a few more moments, left over from the toothless mom's first statement and compounded by her second. Logic and reason were turned on their heads, the sun began to rise from the west as the earth reversed rotation on its axis for these women. All of the sudden, in a simultaneous explosion, every last woman in the room burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

Women doubled-over with convulsive laughter while clutching their jiggling belly rolls and crossing their thick thighs as they wiped away tears from their plump cheeks with their sausage-like fingers. Miss Skinny Abaya popped a button in all the commotion. My MIL covered her face with her abaya trying to mask the hilarity, which was completely unbecoming of a grieving widow at the wake. Not one of the women in there was less than 15 kilos overweight and no doubt, the majority had tried many dieting methods and failed. Earlier that same day, DD's female cousin passed out and was having bad stomach pain from taking diet pills on an empty stomach. This laughter continued unabated for several minutes until, after catching their breath, some of the women wanted to clarify the facts of this distinctive second marriage.

"So was the first wife like, chemotherapy skinny?"

The polygamist's toothless mom answered, "No, she has a nice figure, not scrawny or anything. Just thin."

"They're never happy are they", I added my 2 cents to the conversation. "If they have a tall wife they want a short one, if they have a fat wife they want a skinny one, etc."

The old women all nodded their heads in agreement. The grass is always greener on the other side, or is it fatter?

The Canadian F-Word Blog Awards

I was honored to be nominated in the Best International Feminist Blog category. Due to my absence, I didn't post about this soon enough and didn't make it to the final round however, there are many fantastic blogs to check out and its worth taking a look and perhaps, casting your vote for a more reliable blogger than myself. Thanks for the nomination

A Dust Documentery

written on the steps to my house in dust: "I would rather shovel snow"

-

I spent a fair amount of time in my youth raking leaves, mowing the lawn, and shoveling snow. Living in the Great Lakes region meant I was familiar with the term "Lake-Effect Snow" which basically means that you can be sitting in 60F sunny weather at noon, only to have a foot of snow dumped on your head that night. As backbreaking as shoveling wet snow can be, at least it doesn't infiltrate every nook and cranny INSIDE your home.

The dust in the above picture didn't stop at my doorway...nor is it stopped by cabinet doors and closed windows. When a dust storm hits, every surface of EVERYTHING in a house must undergo dust removal. Every shelf, every piece of furniture, every dish in your cupboard, and your kids stuffed animals all have a fine layer of reddish dust on them. Normal dusting in this country is a b***h even without the dust storms and daily dust removal is a must during the winter when it’s windy.

The worst experience with the dust in this country came when I was pregnant with EttaMae and went into labor. When I was certain I would be giving birth that day, I decided to clean up my home to keep my mind off of the pain and to make sure that my house was clean to return to after coming home from the hospital. I started cleaning at 9am and didn't stop until after 3pm when I finally had to go to the hospital. I cleaned every bathroom, every floor, every dish, and every bit of laundry. I only stayed in the hospital less than 24 hours and returned home the next day after noon. During the night, a dust storm had hit and coated everything in my apartment with a layer of dust. I returned, physically exhausted from the birthing process to this: all my clean dishes had to be rewashed, the clean clothes on the line were coated with dust as well as the clothes in my cabinet, my sparkling bathrooms turned into muddy messes, and the floors all had footprints through the dust...

...I cried

Wearing either black or white is also a pain when one leaves the house. Anyone who lives in an area where road-salt is used can sympathize with the smudges on your arm or butt as you ever-so-slightly brushed across the side of your car which unbeknownst to you, left your clothes branded for the rest of the day. I've been washing my abaya after each trip out, no matter how brief the excursion. The dust is dangerous for drivers too, as Emiratis are being warned.

Our heads ache, our chests burn, and our eyes are crusty from the dust. But at least it’s not hot yet, right? We should count our blessings, no matter how dusty they are.

And later that day

I went to give EttaMae her bath at night and found this mess...
I wrote "The Bathroom" in the dust.

Keep in mind that this is after only one day.

Bless my well-wishers

A sincere and profound thank you to everyone who made dua'a and sent their condolences after the death of my dear father-in-law. It really warmed our hearts to read your messages.

Even more thanks for the emails and enquiries as to my state during my latest blogging absence. I wish I could say that all is well but unfortunately I've been chewed-on, swallowed and partially digested by the dark forces that be here in Stepford, Saudi Arabia.


My housekeeper, who'd been at my in-laws since my father-in-laws illness, never returned to my home but rather, had to travel back to Indonesia to tend to her own mother who'd fallen ill. The lack of any adult help in the house (DD doesn't count) coupled with Eid vacation from school immediately followed a few weeks later by the end of term vacation means its been endless child-rearing, cleaning, cooking, washing and dusting.

It's been months since I've visited a friend or one visited me. It's been months since I've gone out of my house more than twice in a week, once for groceries and once to see my MIL on Fridays. I haven't seen the inside of a salon in....can't remember. I have 3 outfits suitable for the cold weather but haven't managed to shop for more. I can't touch my dissertation.

This Daisy's withered on her stem and is barely recognizable as the glorious bloom she once was.


So, it's time to water this Daisy with flowing, intelligent dialogue and supplement her intellect with rich topics of interest. I've never been able to shake my blogging mindset since I started, even during my extended internet absences, and I find myself struck by possible topics almost daily. It's become a compulsion in me which deserves to be indulged.

Now, time to reacquaint myself with written English as I found myself struggling for over an hour to write this little post despite English being my mother tongue...

The Bell Tolls for the Alarm-Clock King.

"Athaan?", my nearly-deaf and almost blind father-in-law asks as he pops his head out of his bedroom at 1am to see if the call to the pre-dawn prayer has passed.

"Not yet Dad, it's still early", I'd assure him at the top of my lungs.

He brought me his alarm clock almost every night before going to bed to make sure the time was accurate and the alarm was set to go off about a half-hour before the athaan was called so he'd make sure to be up, washed, dressed and sitting in the first row by the time they got around to calling for prayer.

"Set it to a quarter-to-4" he'd instruct me then hold the clock at the end of his nose, straining to confirm my settings after handing it back to him.

Despite my assuring him of it's accuracy, he'd proceed to fiddle with it after returning to his bedroom, usually to set it a bit earlier just in case so he'd be sure not to miss prayer. This meant that his alarm was going off at all times during the night. Sometimes he'd pop out 3 times a night to ask if it was time to pray yet or not because he couldn't hear it himself nor see a clock well enough to check the time. Each time we send him back to his bed to await pleasing his Lord a few hours longer.

My father-in-law spent his last few weeks in this life asking every few minutes if it was time to pray. Much of the speech he was capable of in the days after his stroke in September was used to invoke the name of God and thank him for everything in his life that he could remember through his delirium. May Allah have mercy on him, forgive him of his sins and accept him into the highest levels of heaven. He passed away last night, Allah yarhamma.

His alarm went off at 3:30 this morning.

TP Or No TP- That Is The Question

TP or no TP- that is the question;

Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
By braving soggy undies, by far it is tougher.
But that dread of something with which I take issue
The undiscover’d truth- thou art without tissue

Islam requires the washing of your bottom
But alas, no tissues! If I’d only brought’em!
To grunt and sweat under forceful nature’s effluence
Then wash with one’s hand is Saudis toileting preference

I am sicklied o’er the thought of just using
My lovely left hand, it na’er requires musing
This despis’d custom turns my expression awry.
If only TP to wipe, perchance to dry.

To refuse using tissue, methinks you’re not pious
The reality is, you’ve revealed your true bias.
Your claim that its use imitates the kuffar
Is completely unlike driving your western-made car.

Or your wife, beautied with a plast’ring art
Her and her Sephora must be pried apart?
And your children’s addiction to video-gaming
Is not due to the toilet paper you’re blaming.

Muslims can wipe, wash, and then dry their toosh
And it helps to prevent the dred’d yeasty bush
So if only to avoid your guests throwing a fit
Go buy some TP so our hands don’t touch s**t.

Tagged-Thank God!

Thank you Mamma Mona for tagging me! I've been in a blogging funk for the past few weeks so this may be the kick in the pants I need to get my creative juices flowing.

Here's the rules:
1. Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
3. Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
4. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

7 Weird and Random Facts About Daisy

1. I am one of the most noise sensitive people you might ever come across. This increases during pregnancy when ALL tv commercials must be muted so I don't go insane by their noise.

2. Speaking of pregnancy, I haven't been able to eat chicken since my 2nd pregnancy 8 years ago when my MIL cooked it everyday while I was having months of severe morning sickness.




3. Although I had no problem fibbing in my youth, I feel a pang in my chest if I even consider telling a lie now.

4. I inherited an extra tendon in my wrists from my mother and my daughter inherited double-jointed thumbs from me.

5. I am a borderline germaphobe. Sloshing my hands around in hot soapy water is almost a fetish.




6. I'm a closet-Trekkie. No conventions or action figures for me but I dream of owning ALL the Star Trek series starting from the original '60's series through to Enterprise.7. I can't watch movies a second time until enough time has gone by that I've forgotten most or all of it.

hmmmm...I tag you-
DesertFlower Camel Crusher Hema Carol Suburban Lalla Mona teacherlady

Domesticating Saudi Men Must Start Early

Someday, my future daughter-in-law will thank me for this.

Update: apparantly not everyone is able to view the pic of my sweet little 1 year old boy "cooking" in his sisters toy kitchen. Gotta love the internet here!

computer issues

So sorry folks, I swear I'm not ignoring you. I'm having some internet connection problems so that's why I'm not posting or responding to comments. I'm "borrowing" my neighbors wireless connection to post this quickly so I gotta go before I disrupt their internet usage:P See you soon, inshallah.

Saudis and Sickle Cell: Breaking Under "Takesser"

“Y’uma (mommy)”, the little boy in the bed across from us kept moaning, “my hand hurts”.

His young mother would stroke his head and whisper to him, trying to comfort him in the dark as she lay with him in the same hospital bed as the 3 year old cradled his aching hand and ceaselessly moaned the same complaint the entire night. To the right of the whimpering boy was a frail-looking little girl hooked up to an IV bag of a vile-looking reddish-brown liquid who remained silent and motionless our entire two week stay except for occasional, labored walks to the bathroom which sapped the little strength she had. In the bed to the left of the moaning boy and his mother, was a pair of sisters. The oldest girl, a very sober 13 year-old, was looking after her younger sister during her stay in the hospital. Their mother had to stay home to care for her other children. In the morning, after that first sleepless night in the hospital with a sick 6 month-old EttaMae, I asked that young mother about her son.

“What’s wrong with his hand?” I hadn’t noticed any cast or bandages to indicate that the little boy had been injured in any way.

“Nothing’s wrong with his hand, thank God”, she replied to my surprise.

“Oh, I was just wondering since I heard him complaining (the entire night) that his hand hurt him.”

“It’s not in his hand, it’s Takesser (Sickle-Cell)”, the young mother admitted in a hushed tone.

The frail looking little girl to the right was in for complications from Takesser too. A Nigerian doctor would ask her several simple medical questions in his remedial, broken Arabic phrases only to converse with his coworker using contrastingly complicated English words like “transfusion” and “organ failure”. The younger of the two sisters to the left was hospitalized for Takesser as well. Out of the 6 children in that particular family, only the oldest one, the 13 year old, did not have the disease and both the mother and the father had it as well. In fact, out of the 6 patients in that room, 3 were there for sickle-cell. And they weren’t alone.

In the United States people are often surprised when they learn that a person who is not African American has sickle cell disease. The disease originated in at least 4 places in Africa and in the Indian/Saudi Arabian subcontinent. It exists in all countries of Africa and in areas where Africans have migrated. The transatlantic slave trade was largely responsible for introducing the sickle cell gene into the Americas and the Caribbean. However, sickle cell disease had already spread from Africa to Southern Europe by the time of the slave trade, so it is present in Portuguese, Spaniards, French Corsicans, Sardinians, Sicilians, mainland Italians, Greeks, Turks and Cypriots. Sickle cell disease appears in most of the Near and Middle East countries including Lebanon, Israel, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Yemen. Sickle-cell in the western part of Saudia is similar to the type that shows up in Africa however, the type of sickle-cell in Eastern Province in Saudi Arabia is called the “Indian” sickle-cell mutation and is thought to have been introduced from/to the sub-continent via ancient maritime trade routes hundreds of years ago.

Ironically, another study claims the reason sickle-cell has spread across so many diverse populations has everything to do with MALARIA. They propose that because people with sickle-cell are protected from malaria, they lived longer than their sickle-cell-free brethren in areas with high incidences of malaria enabling them to reproduce more thus, passing on their malaria-free though, sickle-cell tainted blood to their children. Judging by pictures like this of old Al-Hassa and how my house is filled with mosquitoes every winter during the “wet” season, I can go along with this theory as I imagine malaria used to be a big problem here.

Al-Hassa has been hit particularly hard by Takesser and I’ve heard that we have more cases of Takesser here that in the entire rest of the kingdom combined. One study indicated that approximately 20-30% of Saudi newborns in the EP are carriers of the sickle cell trait. Can you imagine 30% of your population carrying a trait which could afflict their children with pain and misery most of the days of their shortened lives!

Although I’d been around Arabs a significant part of my life, I’d never been aware of how prevalent the disease was. No one wanted to talk about it or admit to having it in their family until recently. A government awareness campaign was launched a few years ago as well as mandatory pre-marital blood testing which put the topic of the disease on the table. Although I’d asked about the takesser-status of several individuals in the family before, up until 3 years ago no one knew nor would admit to who had sickle-cell or who was a carrier in the family. This all changed when a young man, known to have sickle cell because of the painful attacks he’d had in front of my husband’s brother, came to propose to one of the young women in the family.

“Has she been tested to see if she’s a carrier or not?” I asked my husband.

“I don’t know”, he replied with a type of indifference.

This was before the wide-spread governmental education program about the disease and the blood tests were not yet mandatory. Even if someone knew they were a carrier, many parents might not want to admit to their daughter being a carrier of the trait let alone having the disease because this may reduce her marriage prospects.

I continued to talk in his ear for several days, “you have to talk her into getting tested. You have to be the one as the most educated one in the family. This is very important. You wouldn’t wish for her to watch her children writhing in pain, constantly hospitalized during pain attacks. Since you know, you have to insist so at least they can make informed decisions regarding whether or not they’d want to go through with the marriage if it would may in all their children being born with this horrible affliction.”

My husband succeeded in convincing the perspective bride to go and get herself tested. However, after the results came back and the wedding plans began to roll forward, she was a bit odd whenever I’d bring up the topic of the blood tests.

“So, you aren’t a carrier then”, I asked the bride a few days after she’d had the blood tests done then immediately accepted the young man’s proposal.

“Al-Humdulilah (thank God)”, she replied and quickly shuffled away to engage in another wedding planning activity.

Hmmmm…that was ambiguous! I didn’t want to be pushy; as long as she knew what the consequences of her decision would be and she was well informed it wasn’t my place to impose my opinions on delicate matters of the heart. And it was apparent, she already had her heart set on marrying this frail, pain-racked young man and nothing was going to deter her.

After the wedding contract was signed and sealed, the ladies of the family all lounged around at the “engagement” party (khortuba) amongst the palm trees at one of Al-Hassa’s many farms and chatted about the bride’s decision to marry the sickly young man.

“You do realize the blood tests confirmed she is a carrier, don’t you? She was just afraid to tell you and your husband for fear you may do something to try and stop the wedding”, one of her cousin’s intimated to me.

I smiled, “I figured as much, but we wouldn’t have done anything like that. We just wanted her to know so she was fully aware what she was getting herself into. It broke my heart watching those kids in the hospital and I’d never wish that on anyone.”

“I know, I’ve seen so-and-so with their kids as well as so-and-so…” and this cousin began naming off individuals in my husbands family who are all afflicted with sickle-cell as well as their kids. I was gob smacked! I didn’t have any idea. I made this cousin spill the beans and tell me EVERYONE who has the disease in his family.

As it turns out, none of my husbands siblings have the disease although a few of them do carry the trait. However, there are many, MANY members of his extended family who have the disease and who are in and out of the hospital with their ailing children. I was around these relatives all the time, but any problems they had from takesser were explained off by other causes such as “achiness” caused by changes in the weather or “bad periods” for young women.

Time rolled on and the young bride became a mother. I held my breathe during her pregnancy until we received the happy news that her beautiful boy with shining eyes and gorgeous dimples was takesser-free and would never suffer the pain his father endures.

All I can say is, Al-Humdulillah (thank God).

The Street of DOOOOOOOOOM!

(Mission Impossible theme music playing)

My mission: Cross the "Street of Doom" with 2 kids, a baby, and the maid without getting plowed over by a lunatic.
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Last year I was delighted to learn that the new American friend I just met lived in my neighborhood. If I stand in the street outside my house, I can see hers. I thought it would be great, we could walk back and forth to each others houses and this whole messy issue of finding a ride wouldn't interfere in our plans. There's only one problem, there is a major street that runs between us that may as well be the Berlin Wall running through Al-Hassa for how it keeps our two families apart.

This street, which has now been dubbed "The Street of Doom" by my friends, is four lanes wide in each direction, brand spankin new pavement and a long clear stretch of road which is conducive to speeds not seen outside of the Indy500. It's not really a highway; the patch that runs by my house has a roundabout at one end, a traffic light at the other and is only a fraction of a mile in actual distance. For the most part this street isn't very busy. It's easily navigable in the sparse traffic of the scorching hot broad daylight however, it becomes increasingly dangerous as twilight descends and the heedless youth of the country rouse from their daytime slumber to inflict nocturnal vehicular chaos.

Although my friend and I both acknowledge the danger this street could possibly pose, we were perplexed, amused, then touched by how similar our husbands reactions were to the thought of us crossing this street on foot with our children. My friend and I are both mature, both drivers, and are of sufficient intelligence to cross streets unscathed. However, both of our husbands prefer driving us across the street rather than letting us walk.

Yes, you read it correctly, they both want to drive us across the street!

At first I was a bit dismayed. Initially my reaction was, "You don't think I'm intelligent enough to manage crossing a street for God's sake?!"

"No, it has nothing to do with YOU, it's everyone else that's stupid!", DD tried to explain to me.

After a while, my friend and I started to look at it as a chivalrous gesture and thought it rather cute that our husbands would fret about us so. And besides, I'd rather DD drive me anyway if the truth be told. It's damn hot out there during daylight hours and there's no way I'm crossing that street at night wearing an ALL BLACK abaya which assures my invisibility to already deficient drivers. I might as well sew a bulls eye to my butt first.

Daisy the House Drudge

Out of my 11+ years of marriage and keeping house, I've only had a maid for 1 1/2 years of that time. Boy how that 1 1/2 years made a big difference in my sanity!

We sent my housekeeper to my in-laws house to work. My father-in-law has become quite ill and it's becoming increasingly difficult for my mother-in-law to keep up the house. I'm grateful I had my maid to help me out with my last heavy months of pregnancy and the first year of Buddy's life. Although it was nice having the dishes washed and toilets scrubbed for me, I found I miss having another adult around the house more than anything since DD's not here most of the time.

In the two days since she's left I have the following problems:

-only 4 combined hours of sleep due to balancing Buddy and EttaMae's waking during the night.

-had to take the world's fastest shower as Buddy stood screaming outside the bathroom.

-had to "hold it" until Buddy passes out for a nap

- carry Buddy in the laundry basket with the dirty clothes since he can't be left on his own

-speedcleaning at night after the kids are asleep because Buddy won't let me do anything else as long as he's awake.

-haven't yet taken the garbage out to the street because I can't carry Buddy and the garbage and I'd have to do it in my abaya.

- I can't just run out for a moment without packing up all my kids.

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These are all things my maid would help out with when she was here. She'd play with Buddy for a moment if I needed to answer the "call of nature" or manage EttaMae if she woke up at night while I managed Buddy instead of the two locked in a cycle of waking each other up with their whining. And if I didn't get any sleep the night before, she'd watch Buddy for me as I took a cat nap. She'd also make sure EttaMae didn't kill her brother with love while I was reading for my dissertation.

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Inshallah, I'll work out a system soon. I always say that as long as you schedule things right, you can fit in an amazing amount of stuff into a day.

Apparantly, I wasn't invited either

I left the computer alone for a few days and my own blog denies me access claiming I'm not invited! Don't ask me what happened, but I think I got it worked out. So, my apologies to any readers who felt slighted by my blog going "private" and please let me know if you are aware of others being denied access to my lunacy:-)

I am chattel

Slavery is a social-economic system under which certain persons — known as slaves — are deprived of personal freedom and compelled to perform labor or services. The term also refers to the status or condition of those persons who are treated as the property of another person or household. This is referred to as "chattel slavery".

The 1926 Slavery Convention described slavery as "...the status and/or condition of a person over whom any or all of the powers attaching to the right of ownership are exercised..." Slaves cannot leave an owner, an employer or a territory without explicit permission, and they will be returned if they escape. Therefore a system of slavery — as opposed to the isolated instances found in any society — requires official, legal recognition of ownership, or widespread tacit arrangements with local authorities, by masters who have some influence because of their social and/or economic status.

How could the above definition possibly apply to my life?:

1. I cannot leave my house without my husband’s permission. If I did and my husband wanted to exercise his “power”, he can have the police bring me back or even imprison me where Muslim women in other countries would only have to contemplate incurring divine punishment in the afterlife.

2. As a Saudi woman, I am not allowed to travel without my husbands documented permission. Even if escorted by my father, brother, uncle, son or other Islamic mahram, once married my husband’s permission is still requisite and I would be prevented from exiting the country without it.

3. If I had a less than understanding husband, I may feel compelled to provide marital “services” to him a legally recognized minimum of several times a month, or he could be granted a divorce from me where Muslim women in other countries would only have to consider “divine” punishment for refusing her husband without a good reason.

4. Even if I were to pursue my Islamic right to request a divorce from an unhappy marriage, I would have to get past the following hurdles as a woman, alone without male family members inside the country:
· I’d have to make contact with a male lawyer who is not a male relative of mine and therefore, I’m limited with the kind of contact I may have with him. At this point female lawyers are prevented from arguing in court.
· I cannot drive myself to meet with my lawyer or even to the court in order to pursue obtaining a divorce from my husband.
· If I did manage to get there, I’d have to deal with entire legions of men who are unaccustomed to dealing with a woman as most send their brethren to represent their interests.
· I’d have to pray that the judge appointed to my case truly tried to follow the Sunna and not a misogynistic, cultural version of Islam. Even if I were never wronged by my husband but simply didn’t like him leading to my being discontent, I should be granted a divorce if requested.
· I do not have access to official documents, which are obtained my husband, including those vital to everyday transactions such as the “family card”. Although legally, to my understanding, a law was recently passed allowing women to procure them, most women would send a male family member to do it (which is not an option for me).

5. I cannot even report the birth of my child and register his/her name.

6. Legally, the house I live in is not mine and I have no rights whatsoever to it. Even if I contributed money to it, unless my husband was kind and loving enough to add my name as partial owner on his own accord, it’s entirely his house. Upon divorce or death, I could be homeless if his relatives or children wanted to claim their portions (much larger than mine) as their rightful inheritance. This potential eviction would be delayed fortunately, until my youngest child reached legal adult age.

7. Although I’m a citizen, because I am foreign-born and don’t have anyone (male) in the country from my family to be my “guardian”, upon divorce those few rights I have as a Saudi woman to remain in the country near my children could be revoked with my citizenship and I’d be sent packing, childless, back to America where my father lives. (See Carol’s blog for more on this)

8. If I ever did need to dig up male family members to represent me, these are my options:
· I wait for 15 more years for my son to grow up and represent me.
· I make a couple more sons as backup in case the first one isn’t willing.
· I find my estranged scam-artist half-brother from my father’s second marriage who lives in America, who I can’t tolerate and who’d attempt to milk me dry for every riyal I have.
· I contact my other half-brother from my father’s first marriage on another continent who despite being a kind man who would no doubt help me out in desperate times, I can no longer communicate directly with because I’ve forgotten his language for the most part.
· I put my ailing, elderly father on a boat from America. He can’t fly because the pressure may cause him to have another stroke.


At this point I’d like to reassure my readers that these are NOT the circumstances of my life at present or anyone I know. Also, most Saudi women will live their entire lives without any/most of these list items every affecting them. Not every Saudi man is out to flex his muscles and exercise his legal “power” over his wife. I could cite several examples of women with similar circumstances to my own within my social circles who’s houses are in their names or who are bequeathed their “husband’s” house despite their being housewives and not contributing to it’s purchase (my MIL), as well as women who rule the roost. What pains me is that if the Devil took over my husband, these could be some of the potential results.

Many commenter’s may be keen to point out several items which are part of Islam and to which I’m subject to being a Muslim woman such as, not leaving the home without my husband’s permission. When living outside of the country, and being a believing woman, I “police” myself. Since my husband respect’s my judgement as a mature and intelligent woman, I have my husband’s understood and implied permission to do the errands I need to do during the day (FYI to non-Muslims: this doesn’t mean I have to go to him every time I step one toe out the door). As is customary between married couples around the world I say, “I’m running to the store before I pick up the girls, see ya”. He returns the same courtesy and doesn’t just wander out the door without giving me an idea of where he’s going and/or saying bye. If there were a conflict of interests, this would be dealt with between ourselves without the possibility of legal intervention.

Although I usually try to keep things a bit upbeat on my blog, there are times I feel the need to throw my own little pity-party. For all the good things in my life I say Al-Humdulillah (thank God) and pray for God to keep me safe and protect me from the above listed items. For any men who are reading this list and nodding their heads in agreement thinking, “yeah, this is the way it should be”, I’ll leave you with these messages:

From the Prophet’s (PBUH) last sermon:

O People, it is true that you have certain right with regard to your women, but they also have rights over you. If they abide by your right then to them belongs the right to be fed and clothed in kindness. Do treat your women well and be kind to them for they are your partners and committed helpers.

From the Quran:

Lodge them (the divorced women) where you dwell, according to your means, and do not treat them in such a harmful way that they be obliged to leave. (Surat
Al-Talaq 65:6)

From Hadith:

Narrated Abu Huraira, God's messenger said: "The believers who show the
most perfect faith are those who have the best disposition and the
best of you are those who are best to their wives." [Tirmidhi]