Chapter 6

I seem to turn to this blog when I go somewhere new, as though a new place is the only thing worthy of my attention. Eventually "new" becomes "norm" and I stop. Journaling reminds me to stop and reflect on this life, a life that seems to pass with increasing speed. 1980 does not feel that far away, but I am reminded that it is when I meet adults who were born that year. For the record, this freaks me out.

They say that the body regenerates every seven years, which means that we become a new person. I'm coming up on my 6th batch of seven years, and as I think about the major changes I've undergone as of late, I am coming to realize that my regeneration is not only physical. These moments are those electric ones speckled with juxtapositions of pain and brilliance. I welcomed the recent rains, not only because the land needs it, but also because it makes me feel alive. As a dear friend recently said, it's like a baptism, one drop at a time.

My shell opens and in pours the light. I have gone back to the dance floor and my habit of dancing alone with my eyes closed. I go for me, to feel the bass in my heart and wander around the crowd like the butterfly I am. I have a new relationship with my writing: no longer shy, no longer scared. I have something to say. I am returning to me.

As this chapter comes to a close, I glean a glimpse of what is to come and I am beyond hopeful. I find a beautiful child with wisdom beyond her years and I open my heart to her. I know her.

the day i became palestani

Here I am, on the eve of my five month anniversary in Sharjah with a story to tell. I was in a taxi the other night with a Bangladeshi man who was very happy to have a "Palestani" in his car. He shared with me the story of when he saw Arafat give a speech in Dhaka. The man spoke about it with great happiness.

He told me that Bangladeshis love Palestanis, something I knew (and totally appreciate).

He started talking about religion, how they too were Sunnis. And then he asked me about Arafat's widow, Suha - was she really Christian? I said yes. And did she convert to Islam when she got married? I said no. He said that wasn't good, that she should have. My response was that God knows what's real, so it's best that we're truthful about our religious leanings.

He said, "I believe we all, Muslims, Christians, Hindus, pray to the same god." I totally agreed with him, but for different reasons. While I think that he believes that we are all Muslim, I believe that it doesn't matter what religion you are, or what you call your god (actually, maybe we're both saying the same thing?).

The night before, i was privy to an annoying debate about Arabness, and why one should or shouldn't call themselves "Arab." It was annoying only because it was going in circles. But it reminded me about the issue of one-ness, not a one-ness that erases difference, or a one-ness that is hegemonic. It's not the one-ness that I understood the taxi driver was talking about, but a one-ness that we should all believe in. It's a one-ness that inspires us all to rise up against tyranny.

And so today, I'm here to say that I"m proud to be Palestani.

sometimes it sucks

It really worked out that when I got here, I met a friend with whom I was having lots of fun – it made me feel like I could have a life here. Now that I’m back from California, I’m staring face to face with the reality that this place is not my own. Most of the people I know here I’ve known only since September, if that. I don’t know how to get around, I don’t know what’s available, I don’t even know how to figure out what’s available. Nothing can replace the feeling of “home.”

Walking the streets on a Friday night, people seem satisfied enough – they sip their lattes, go on dates to the movies, drive around checking each other out, go to the mall….I suppose I could join them, but one thing is missing – my people.

Therefore, I declare: moving to a foreign country where you don’t have people sucks. I miss home.

snippets

Just came back from the fruit market where a visiting artist on his way to Delhi wanted to pick up dates for his family as gifts. Mounds and mounds of dates from Oman, the Emirates and Saudi Arabia, in a vast array of colors, from the pale yellow of fresh dates still on the stem called balah, to the bright red balah and all the shades of glistening ruby browns, sat there promising us nutritious delight. I got to taste lots of samples…I’ll go back for the Saudi dates!

The night before last I went to a beach party on the furthest beach of the palms (the man-made islands in the shape of a palm). I went with a couple of friends from work and two artists who were visiting Sharjah in preparation for the Biennial. Me and the artists were super excited to see – what would a beach party in Dubai have in store for us? The music pounded, promising excitement, so we paid our overpriced fee to get in, bought our overpriced yet weak drinks, and settled in. The dance floor was on sand, which was probably my favorite part. Actually, I also loved that there were beds lined up on the beach for those shee-shee folks who reserved them. There were also big bean bags that you could drag around the beach and hang out on. Or if you wanted to buy bottles of alcohol and needed a flat surface, you could reserve a table with backless couches. The music was pumpin’, but it wasn’t quite jumpin. The first dj simply played songs all the way through. People liked him, though, cause he played all their favorites. The next dj was better, but not that much better. Thankfully I was tipsy by that point, and anyways, I love to dance, so I did. Not just your everyday kind of swaying back and forth dancing, but your jumping up and down cause you’re high on life and are happy to be dancing among others who are also happily grooving. The next day I was sore as hell, which always makes me happy.

I had a special moment walking down the street about a week ago – not sure what it was. Maybe the heat was tolerable? Maybe the air smelled sweet? Maybe people were giving off good vibes? I think it was all three. This surge of love bubbled up in my heart and I felt so very happy to be in Sharjah. I even thought to myself, “I love Sharjah!” I realized that though I’m not all that happy that nearly one month into my life here I’m still living in a hotel, I appreciate the fact that I live close enough to walk to work. I have my route – down Arabian Gulf Street towards the port, take a left to cross the street after the bakery, pass the bike shop and my shawerma spot (see my previous entry for my shawerma spot story), a right at the post office and then a left at the red sign that reads “Sharjah Art Foundation”. As I proceed along the length of the museum, I see two women who I see everyday when I walk to work – an Indian woman dressed in her long shalwar camis and another woman who is completely covered except for her eyes. I love how they love each other, which is apparent to me by the way they walk down the street together with ease, how they laugh, and how nothing around them seems to bother them.

Today on my way to work I saw a woman with her two children. The three of them were sitting on the ledge in front of the post office. With her knees crossed, she was talking to her son in a very authoritative yet loving tone. I could see that he loved learning things from his mom, and that she loved teaching him. I could see her personality, strong and able, a woman who gets things done. And the wondrous thing about it was that she too was covered from head to toe. Being here is teaching me a lot about people, culture, difference. Her individuality struck me, and despite being covered, she shined like a beacon.

Getting to know you! Getting to know all about you!

Stories of acculturation.

So I was chatting with my bff, debriefing and trying to get a handle on this place and my place in it, and we realized the humor in some of my stories…

Here’s my most embarrassing moment thus far: I was stressed the other day, trying to get some information from one of the artists exhibiting in the Biennial. I got pulled away by unfinished business I had with this young Emirati fellow with whom I work. Being the sweet man he is, he was taking his time, incorporating a bit of chatting, and I started to get stressed. “Please! Hurry!” He read my distress, asked me sign, and sent me off. In my haste, and I smiled widely – “thank you!” And followed it up by blowing a kiss.

Ummm....yeah. I blew a kiss to an Emirati in a country where some men, even boys (okay, the ones I’m talking about are super religious), won’t even get into the elevator with me. (I have mixed feelings about that: one the one hand, it’s annoying that even a prepubescent teen thinks he should stay away; on the other, I’m glad for the privacy. I can see the value in wearing a burka, for it allows you to exist anonymously in a place, to look, watch and listen without offering others the same privilege. Anyways…) I ran out the door, rather mortified. But being an understanding fellow, he didn’t take it seriously, and thought it was kinda funny. I went about my day, which consisted of filling up my already overflowing head with more information.

Along the lines of acculturation, here’s something sweet that happened today: I walked into a local spot to get a shawarma sandwich (I’m tired of paying $6 for hummus at the hotel). I’m guessing women don’t typically come into the spot, but they were gracious and wanted to make me as comfortable as possible. I had a seat and ordered a spicy chicken shawarma sandwich. The waiter, who is Indian, asked me if I wanted fresh juice. I shook my head no and smiled, which was a tricky thing to do. He looked at me, my brown skin and features that could pass for Indian, and figured I meant “yes” because in India, when you shake your head back and forth, it means “yes.” Thinking I wanted a fresh juice, he brought me a menu. After I had gone through the whole thing, I assuredly said “no thank you” (with a smile, minus the head shake).

And a bit about Eid (holidays): I don’t understand how I’m supposed to plan a trip during the holiday when the exact date of the Eid is determined by the moon’s visibility. Umm…for real? Being here will teach me a lot about letting go and going with the flow.

Also, I think I need to learn a South Asian language because the population is overwhelmingly from the sub-continent. Wouldn’t that be cool? I move to the Gulf and learn Hindi!

week one, sorta

Week one, sorta.

Work is great! I love the people I work with. They are sweet men and women (mostly women) who keep their cool, don’t take their stress out on other people, and are supportive of newbies like me. I’m quite happy with my job. In a couple of days, the curators are coming so we’re preparing for a bunch of meetings. That’s why it’s week one, sorta. Cause I have to work some over the weekend. Gotta work whatchyo mama gave you, right? I’m aiming to make waves up in here.

So this evening, I was invited by a friend to hang out with her friends at a fancy bar in Dubai. Now I’ve been reading about these fancy bars, and from what I learned, shit is expensive. Like $15 a drink kind of expensive. So we did a little pre-partying at home and headed out. It was fun! Women in general were pretty nice to each other. Men new when to take the hint. Music was pretty fun (YAY majorlazer!!) and the drinks were also tasty! And I lucked out…both bartenders hooked me up super fat with free tasters and shots and etc. It was a great time.

Here’s what life is like thus far: I live in a hotel. The breakfast buffet is free, so I eat like a piglet in the morning. The waiters and waitresses are primarily Filipino, but the main guy is Sri Lankan, I think. I’m just learning about the race/class hierarchy in this town. In general people are pretty nice. I try to be as gracious and generous with my tipping as possible without seeming like I have a problem.

Walking down the street isn’t the most pleasant experience, but as a woman, it has NOTHING on Cairo, where you had to be more defensive walking down the street. Here it just stinks a little, and the humidity rocks the house down. Only once was I kind of offended by a passerby. And today I dealt with a jerk ass in a market while trying to buy a couple of apples. Otherwise it’s just fine.

Things are generally expensive, but you know, if you want the more affordable options, they are there. For example, we ordered lunch at work the other day and it cost the equivalent of 10buckeroonis. Yesterday I went to dinner with a friend to a shaabi (local) place, and it cost less than that for 2 dinners! So I’m excited to find all these treasures…

And speaking of! It’s really exciting to be in a place where diversity has been a reality for hundreds of years. If you look at a map of the United Arab Emirates, you’ll see that we’re surrounded by a number of places – South Asia, Iran, Central Asia, the Arabian/Persian Gulf, and East Africa. Are you kidding? There’s been so much mixing here, with the ports and all, it’s no wonder that the UAE is as open to other cultures as it is. Now I realize I just got here, but so far…I’m enamored.

Stay tuned!!

up on the roof!

I have this feeling like I've written before about the roof top. Yes, I think I have. But it's a special place. There's a photograph of my grandfather on the roof when the house was being built. The roof is the last part of the structure that gets put on....he was standing there, looking toward where the restaurant now stands. And there was a couple of guys working on it. I guess he was managing the progress. I don't know.

I never met my paternal grandfather, and like so many other people, I sit and wonder what he was like. What is it about my family history that got me to where I am now? Made me the person I am today? I escape to this spot, far from chatter, far from prying eyes (though I'm sure someone sees me, those sneaky bastards). I come here, and I imagine that he stood in this exact spot. That's about as close as I can get to his body, his realness. I ask people about him. What was he like? Oh, he was a great man. Everybody loved him. That's a generic answer, always. So I pry a bit more. Was he quiet, or did he crack jokes all the time? He was a jokester, and that makes a lot of sense to me.

Oh family history. What have you done? Are you sorry for the ills you've caused? Proud of the happiness? Are you even aware of the consequences of your actions? Probably not. Your members now sit in their homes, their small lives, not realizing that that ripples can become waves that wash away possibility, wash away innocence, wash away responsibility.

I'm sad, but nothing can be done to right the wrongs. Nothing but to take what I'm learning
and try to turn the tide.

These water metaphors, though cheesy, are apt in a place where every drop is precious.

Everything gets stolen - land, water, my friend's sleeping bag, my other friend's bracelet that her grandmother gave her. You can take things, occupiers, but you can't take my love, and you can't break our will.