Tracie on the Go

I’m finally reading a book that’s been in my library for years. It’s called Bird by Bird (Anne Lamott) and it’s about writing. She says to write every day (I’m going to aim at three times/week, don’t tell her). Write about anything, she says, any part of life, memories, dreams, paint a picture for someone, take them there…just write.

Don’t worry…I’m not going to blog every time I write.

Yesterday was eventful here though. It was the kind of day that had lots of excitment and emotions. So if you don’t mind….I’m going to paint the picture for you.

Dreadful Day in Doha – 3D.

Yesterday, Honour was supposed to have 2 wisdom teeth out. She and I were on the way to the dentist, in the car, looking for food (she hadn’t eaten yet…like a teenager). She said something about the drugs she was going to get and I said ‘no, honey, you’ll be completely numb but you’ll be awake, no drugs’…apparently Dave told her she’d have drugs. He wasn’t even in the appointment so how would he know?! Nobody said anything to me about drugging her. I know they want her awake. Anyhow…she started to panic. Cry. Tremble. She got so scared. She just wasn’t prepared for this.

I was trying to talk her down. She won’t feel pain, it’ll be ok. She’s going to be alright. When….our car was hit from behind.

The kind of chain reaction you can so easily imagine happening often here in Doha. We were the last car in the chain so it wasn’t a big bump at all. Neither of us was hurt in the slightest but the already shaken up Honour didn’t need this.

I was just reassuring her that it was alright, we were ok, nothing serious, when a man came running up to our car, tapped on our window and said “call an ambulance there’s a man on a motorcyle under the truck two cars back!”  I jumped out of the car and ran back. I stopped just before I went around the last truck, aware that there was a possibility that there might be something there I’d never be able to “unsee”. I looked back at our car and mouthed to Honour “stay in the car”….someone had already called an ambulance and the police were there very quickly.  In the meantime someone jumped out of a car and started reefing on the motorbike…this seemed unwise to me, not knowing the extent of the injuries, but he pulled the man out and he hobbled over to the grassy median and sat under a palm tree. He’s a very lucky young man. I watched for a few minutes and made sure he was mostly alright. He was rubbing his hand and one leg but he was ok. It’s a dangerous job here. All the food delivery seems to be done on motorcycles that weave in and out of traffic. I’ve often said, “I wouldn’t do that job to save my life.”

I headed back to our car…to find Honour hyperventilating, having a full on panic attack. “Is he dead? Is someone dead?”  I didn’t realize that she hadn’t seen him walk away. Poor thing.

We had to sit there for quite sometime while reports were written, accounts were told by all parties and waivers were signed for the ambulance attendants – no, we didn’t need to go to the hospital. The time lapsing was a good thing. Honour was gaining a little stability and the need for them to let us go so we could find a bathroom and some food was eclipsing the trauma. As we sat we called the dentist who said ‘take your time.’ Breathe.

Finally we were allowed to leave and continue on our now urgent quest for a bathroom and food and to get to the dentist. I was still doing lots of calming talk for Honour but of course inside I was dealing with my own jitters. Every car that came near (and we were in high traffic time) I could feel my heart beat pick up. But I was ok. I was ok. I was ok.

Each food vendor we drove by was turned down…’do you want to eat that?’ ‘how does that look?’…she was starving but nothing looked like something she could eat. I knew how she felt.

In the sky a huge plume of dark smoke billowed over some buildings. Honour let out a yell…”Mom, what is that?!! This is a terrible day! It’s a sign! I shouldn’t have my teeth out today! I’ll probably die! What is that smoke?!”  I continued to reassure her. It probably looked worse than it was. (Turned out to be a bus on fire, at a construction site).

It seemed that every turn we took was wrong, we drove by turns we should have taken, making us have to double back. All in thick traffic. I put the car in reverse once when I was pulling out of a parking spot that I had to go forward in and almost hit the car behind me. It was exhausting.

Finally we arrived at The Mall. Yes, it’s literally called “The Mall”.  We wondered if it was called that because it was the first one in Doha? I dropped her off at the door so she could run to the bathroom. Cars behind began impatiently and persistently beeping their horns. I jumped and gasped at the sound. It was jarring, abrasive, and I was in no mood. I proceeded and parked. One of the rude, honking cars parked beside me. It was an if-looks-could-kill moment and they got the full force of my highly developed skills in this area.

At some point in the next few moments the dentist called and said ‘we’re about to close, why don’t you reschedule.’ I was relieved. Honour had mixed feelings about it as she was still bracing herself and trying to make herself ready to get it over with. We were both feeling quite weak so I think it was really for the best. Funny though, once I didn’t need to be the calming agent in this percolating situation, my legs became like rubber and my hands started to shake. This is how I knew we were safe. Aftershock. This is always my response to trouble. Keep everyone calm. When the worst is over….crumble.

But we weren’t home free yet…

So we went into The Mall. Sat down. Ate some dinner and tried to collect ourselves. Our dinner went down…kind of shaky. We walked around the mall. We tried to see a movie for distraction but nothing good was on. We tried to be interested in shopping but neither of us could really engage. But we walked and talked and moved around the mall waiting for the knots in our stomach to disappear, the almost-17-year-old occasionally holding my hand. When does that happen? We both knew, but weren’t saying, that we were just avoiding the long drive home through the Thursday afternoon traffic. We were about as far from home as you can get in Doha and I knew no other way than straight through the traffic.

At some point we knew. It wasn’t going to get any better. We were delaying the inevitable. When the exhaustion of wandering the mall and pretending it was a normal day got too hard to do, the drive home seemed a better option. Let’s get this over with.

There were a few spectacular examples of bad driving on the way home. We were cut off a couple of times. This is normal. To be expected. Today, it produced an overreaction every time. The incredible thing was…that while traffic was gridlocked everywhere, we were amazed at how our lanes had a lot of space in them. I don’t know if we were going the opposite way of the majority of people needed to go, or if there were a hoard of angels circling our car…I picture them pointing at the other cars, eyebrows raised saying “don’t even think about coming near here”.

Here’s what I love about days like this. (Oh yes…there’s almost always an upside).

When you’re shaken, little things don’t matter anymore. Life gets really bare-bones-no-frills-stripped-clean real. The important things take their rightful place once again. The things I was mad at Honour for in the morning were not important now. Our car getting bumped was not important. Holding hands was important. Telling each other that we were ok, taking care of each other’s emotional state, that was important.

My husband, who had been staying in close contact the whole time by phone, was waiting for us, well past dinnertime. “Should we stop and get you some supper?” ….”No, just get home.” Being together and safe, this is important.

Home, sweet home, is important. Breathing is important.

Doing something exciting to start the weekend…even watching a movie…NOT IMPORTANT!! Not even possible. Not yesterday. I was in bed and asleep by 9:15 letting sweet sleep wash over my body and administer recovery to every cell.

This morning…the sun is shining and it’s a new day.

Thank goodness!

New day…home sweet home.

As the older children have been looking at heroes, in kindergarten land, they were doing super heroes. The day I was in their room helping them with their work they were to draw a super hero and write why they were super heroes. “My super hero is a super hero because he breathes fire…” or “…because she flies in the sky.” That kind of thing.

One girl reads her story to me, “my super hero is a super hero because he sees good people.”  I thought I misunderstood so I asked her to repeat that. “My super hero is a super hero because he sees good people.”

As the beauty of that dawned on me I laughed.  Why not? It seems the more this world ticks along the more difficult this becomes for some people.  I love the thought of this skill being a super power. I want that one. I love when I seeing this super power at work in my friends. Dear God, help me to have the super power to see good people.

But also…I wouldn’t mind being able to fly. Just in case anyone is listening.

Grade 5 is also working on heroes.  Their teacher is a bit of a hero for me. Day after day caring about kids who are at the age and stage where education is a nuisance and an interruption to their soccer games/social lives etc.

The hero that she chose to highlight was Malala, the young girl/activist who was shot in the head while going to school, for going to school. I thought this was brave of her. Obviously this was brave of Malala, but I mean, brave for the teacher. Who knows what the views of these children would be about what the Taliban is doing?

Malala

Although our school is coed, most schools for Qataris in this country are not. The younger classes are closer to equal in representation of boys and girls but as you get older (our school only goes to grade 8 so far) the families start to pull their girls out preferring that they go to an all girls’ school.

Here in Qatar educating girls is not in question. Sheikha Moza, the Emir’s wife, is a big advocate of education for all. She has even reached out to children in other countries who can’t afford an education. Qatar University, the only government run university, is made up of 70% women and Sheikha Moza herself is a graduate.

So when the teacher introduced the story of Malala a few things surprised me. One, was that they’d never heard of her. I thought everyone had. She quickly became the symbol of the plight of many girls around the world who have to fight their way through patriarchy, poverty, tradition and prejudice to be educated. She is one of many young women in the world who struggle to be recognized as worthy of schooling and equal in her abilities to contribute in a valuable way to her community I have no idea how they missed this story, so close to home. Maybe watching the news here isn’t done as obsessively as it is at home. Maybe it was so awful that the parents shielded them. Yes, let’s go with that.

I was also surprised they didn’t know who the Taliban was. “Who are they? Why don’t they want girls to go to school?”

What was not surprising at all…..?

Teacher: What do you think of that? What do you think about people stopping girls from going to school?

Student (boy): It’s not fair Miss.

Teacher: Why not?

Student: Why should they get to stay home and play if we have to go to school!

Ah yes, the short sightedness of youth is something that seems to be in all cultures.

Luckily there was a very bright girl in the class who said: Miss, if girls can’t go to school they won’t know things and they won’t get good jobs.

Whew! There always seems to be at least one that saves the day. On most days.

It seems like a good time to tell this story. In light of the bombings in Boston, the media’s choice of words, and social media lit up with speculation and prejudice, it can make a girl lose hope. Especially a girl who hopes that someday we can respect each other, hold our emotions, and our tongues, wait for the truth, display some wisdom and believe the best about the majority of our fellow humans. Yes, Boston was a tragedy not to be taken lightly but even on that day, there were more acts of love, more acts of selflessness, more acts of heroism and bravery than there were of violence and cowardice. Evil does not, will not, win.

Amid the anti-Muslim rhetoric that spewed almost immediately were a few touching moments in our classes. Children concerned that this was being blamed on Muslims before there was any proof but also another moment in a younger class (grade 4) where the tragedy on the other side of the world was not mentioned.

I have the privilege of sitting in the back of many classes doing work that allows me to listen in and sometimes participate in the class. I get a very rare front row seat to the frustrations, the funny moments and the poignant moments. Yesterday was one of best moments so far.

Maybe I put too much hope in what we’re doing here but here’s my hope…I hope that by mixing with these young Qatari children that they will know something of the west that they will not learn from the T.V. I hope that I can understand them and they can understand me. I hope that we can cultivate acceptance, and even respect for one another and bring information and understanding where there is fear and suspicion now. I hope that when someone in the west makes and distributes a disgusting movie about Islam or burns a Quran (etc) that these children will be able to say…”But remember Mr. so-and-so? He wasn’t like that. Remember Ms. So-and-so? I bet she would be angry that they did that. They’re not ALL like that.”

I know that I have grown in my understanding of them and their culture as I collect names and faces and stories of people I know who have hopes and dreams and gifts to give the world. There are some beautiful Syrian children at our school and the thought that they have cousins and siblings who are still in Syria breaks my heart and brings the whole situation to me in a technicolour that T.V. can’t match.

Anyhow – yesterday at school as I sat in the back of the 4^th grade class, my friend, a passionate, lively, devout Catholic woman was teaching a lesson. The class was asked to do a writing exercise on a hero of theirs. She began by giving them an example.

“My hero,” she told them, “is a woman named Mother Teresa. She was a tiny little woman with a huge heart. She was very brave.” My friend captivated the class with the story of a young woman who left her home and family and travelled to far-away India where there were people dying of many diseases. These people were homeless and left to die alone. You could have heard a pin drop. This little woman decided to dedicate her life to serving the poorest of the poor, to comfort those who were dying. Many people heard about the work she was doing. Many went to help her. She was very strict about some things…you knelt down to the dying persons level, you looked them in the eye, you touched them (NO gloves!) while you were talking to them and you made them feel loved. If you couldn’t do that, she didn’t want you there.

Throughout her life she became very famous for this work and she had the opportunity to meet with very important people. She met with Kings and Presidents and asked them for financial help for the poorest of the poor. She didn’t want anything for herself. The class followed the teacher as she moved around the room talking. They were all listening, all fascinated.

The teacher went on to tell them that not everyone was happy with what Mother Teresa was doing in the beginning. This woman was a Christian and she was helping people of a different religion and creating quite a stir. Many people did not like a woman of a different religion coming to help them. The religions were not mixing well and many people didn’t like it.

One of the boys suddenly sat up straight “But Miss! Allah liked it!” The teacher beamed…”yes” she said, “I believe that as well. I believe that Allah liked it.”

We have that in common. All of the major religions believe in kindness, charity to those who are in need, and love.

May the teachers of the world, (be they in the classroom, in the courtroom, at the kitchen table, behind the guitars or with shovels or medical charts in their hands) be encouraged, there is hope.

Keep speaking the peace friends. Don’t be discouraged.

(Happy Birthday to a great teacher. You are a gift to your students.)

We’ve just finished another week of holidays and we’re back to work today. I woke up this morning and said, “five weeks to the next holiday…and officially counting.” It’s a good life there’s no mistaking it.

Dave and I had a little getaway in Dubai last week, which was a lot of fun. It reminded me of NYC in its ability to take an idea and put it on steroids. People were more accepting of differences, less ruffled by hem lines or hair colours. And it was expensive…just like NYC.

We had a lot of fun in three days. The weather wasn’t the best (I feel a collective Canadian slap upside the head when I say that…but it’s relative…it was windy and dusty and I’m just saying…for this side of the globe…oh never mind).

Here are the pics.

In case you didn’t know, Dubai has the biggest, freestanding structure in the world, by far. We didn’t go up it, we didn’t go in it…but we point to it several times as it loomed on the horizon. And we ate lunch at the foot of it.  Oh, and took some pictures.

Through the umbrellas at our lunch spot.

The city skyline gives you the idea of just how much taller it is than everything else. I have to say though, Doha’s skyline is much prettier. In my humble opinion.

This gentleman right here might be the best salesman I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a few (you know who you are).  He took Dave’s hand and put it in the glove, even though Dave knew exactly what he was up to there was really no saying no. He put the bird up on his should and reached inside Dave’s bag and pulled the camera out and handed it to me. Smooth. Nervy. Brazen…and a few dollars richer. He was hanging out where the Land Cruiser’s that are heading out to the desert stop and let the air out of their tires. Tourists galore. This is a smart man. I bet he drives a fancy car.

And one wasn’t enough…he got a twofer.

Then off to the desert we headed for what’s called ‘dune bashing’.

I tried to take some pictures…do you see me in the mirror? But the car moves in such unexpected ways. So much fun, if you’re okay with a little adrenalin rush.

The desert in Dubai is prettier than the desert in Qatar. The sand is a beautiful red colour. Note to my sisters who will be visiting in about a month…we’ll be dune bashing as well (one sister just let out a woohoo! and the other just sucked some air in). The desert is different in Qatar. The dunes are MUCH higher. It’s so much fun. You’re gonna love it. Well, at least one of you is.

A tour goes by behind us. It was a busy day in the desert!

The sun went down as we arrived at a camp out in the desert. They served a traditional dinner and had entertainment.

This guy spun, and acted (while continuing to spin), and morphed into other things and lit up and…for about 15 minutes. Crazy.

And this girl could shake her booty like nobody’s business. There’s rhythm in that body!

And then it was over. A very nice desert safari indeed.

More random sights.

Morning commute.

Have you ever heard of a 7 star hotel? This is one. And that’s our lunch. All we can do is eat lunch and look at it. That was expensive enough!

A fountain of divers in one of the amazing malls.

Feeding the birds

Atlantis

The ceiling

December 18^th here in Qatar is National Day and boy, do they go all out! People have their cars wrapped in pictures of the Emir and his son (the Heir Apparent) and the flag. Weeks in advance, flags start popping up all over the place. Huge flags draping over buildings, lining streets, sprouting out the top of homes and businesses, signaling the coming celebrations. Palm tree-lined streets light up like Christmas and the whole country is infected with excitement.

On the actual day there’s a very military-heavy parade, which takes place on the corniche (the road running along the sea). As you’re watching the parade in front of you, all of a sudden behind you (in the sea) are huge, fast boats displaying military prowess as well. And if that wasn’t enough to awe everyone, people start jumping from airplanes above, a helicopter lifts 3 men out of the water who are all carrying a piece of a huge flag which emerges from the sea like a majestic rising phoenix. It’s quite the display.

In the evening there are fireworks along the corniche that are 15 minutes of, what are pretty much, the grand finale of any other fireworks I’ve ever seen. It’s madness. It took almost two hours to get home from the fireworks (usually about a 10 minute drive). I didn’t resent the traffic though because the exuberant Qataris kept us amused, and intermittently alarmed. They honked their horns and sang songs and stood poking out of the sunroofs of their SUV’s waving flags and cheering…for hours.

Before our school let out for the winter break the students enjoyed a day devoted to National Day. Preparations went on for weeks in advance. The children dressed up in traditional Qatari clothing, painted their faces, had their hair specially done and of course many had their arms and hands decked out in elabourate henna designs. The parents came, the bouncy castles went up, the food was prepared and each class presented a song, a folk tale or traditional game in an assembly.

“Please leave your swords at the Principal’s office for the day!” This kind of announcement jerks me into my present reality when I’m slipping into the same-old-same-old school-is-school-wherever-you-are mode. I regret not getting a picture of the stack of swords outside her door before they were all collected again for the assembly.

The teachers also got in on the action. Some of the male teachers wore traditional thobes and some of the women gave the abaya a test drive. Here’s a nice looking Qatari couple. Modern, yet traditional.

I forced Honour to school with us that day. It was the first day of her holidays and you can imagine the excitement she displayed at my “request” that she come and have a cultural experience with us. “Yes honey, your alarm will need to be set at 5:00 a.m.” I was persona nongrata but she’s my third teenager so I’ve weathered that storm a few times before. Ho hum. Then I secured an abaya for her to wear for the day. That was met by a little groan but really not much push-back. The interchange (in my mind) was pretty reflective of the culture. I wouldn’t have made her wear one, but I strongly suggested she do so and I provided her with a lovely abaya and many reasons why this would be a good exercise. Also, most of our friends were participating. The women here are not forced to cover but encouraged to, their families do and their friends do. You’d have to have some pretty strong feelings about it to swim against that current.

Another reason why Honour didn’t fight about this one, and why I suspect most girls don’t, is that she has seen the value of wearing an abaya and has mentioned a few times that she’d like to get one to wear to the mall. This desire is sparked by a couple of things. One is, she’s a head turner. Her long blonde hair and blue eyes are like a magnet. She gets followed and stared at, one person taps another and they watch her pass, older ladies *tch their tongues at her no matter how conservatively she’s dressed, and other such unwelcomed attention. She has developed the skill of ignoring this (mostly) but when I’m with her I’m not as good at it. I tend to give young men a long, fierce, what-do-you-think-you’re-looking-at? Mama bear stare. Dave and I would be thrilled with the idea of her being completely covered when out in public, but we’ll likely continue to do what this Canadian family does, cloak ourselves in willful oblivion and modest clothing.

But for one day we ‘tried it on’. We got the feeling of having our clothes and our hair covered up. All and all, I didn’t like it much. I thought I might actually. I’m often envious of the female teachers who don’t have to worry about their hair and who, I KNOW, have blue jeans on underneath their elegant, flowing gown. But the reality is, it’s quite cumbersome. The sleeves were constantly getting in the way, I tripped a couple of times, I felt the headscarf was choking me and I did NOT like the way it made me look. I resolved to keep the whole thing on for a certain amount of time (the morning, including the assembly after which I loosened the headscarf but the abaya stayed on for two days) and I gave myself that time to consider what it would be like to feel the need to wear this if it was part of my culture, or worse, my religion. I say ‘worse’ because bucking the culture is what we do, especially during our teen years, but if I had an actual religious conviction that compelled me to do it, that’s harder to get out of. Not acting on a religious conviction but bending to your ego (which is what it would be for me) is really the ultimate in shallowness and vanity isn’t it? I have increased respect for them. I don’t think anyone looks better without hair…women that is. Men are a WHOLE other story.

Here are some pictures from our experience of Qatari pride on National Day and our attempt to participate.

A parade of a variety of Military…stuff.

Every parade should have camels.

Little tri-lite type planes about to fly over the crowd and surprise them. Every parade has an air show incorporated right?

That’s about to open up to a huge Qatari flag.

This was my view…short people have trouble at parades. No wonder I’ve never been a fan.

The unofficial after-fireworks-parade.

revelers

National Day Celebrated at the school. Unfortunately I’m not allowed to show any children, so all photos are careful to have back views or blurry faces. It’s too bad…they have such sweet faces and my pictures are lovely.

All dressed up.

Winter style

Whew knew this strategy? Give rambunctious boys REAL swords and they calm down and pay attention. I think they should bring them everyday!

Dancing with swords.

teaching us a traditional Qatari game…that looked a lot like duck, duck, goose.

This is NOT hiding the pretty.

Ya, this is not helping.

There we go! Much better. And yes, some women do prefer to wear it like this.

One of the most beautiful souls I’ve met here. She is Love personified.

That’s right, I had to have a little hair poking out. Vain.

Mr. Dave…um…dressed like a traditional Qatari businessman…ya, that’s it.

They really do make me laugh sometimes.

Cumbersome apparel for the inexperienced abaya wearer.

Well, it’s back to school tomorrow. Holiday is over. It’s been peaceful and quiet and restful. We’ve treated our home like a holiday place. We went out for dinner lots, slept in here and there, watched movies, enjoyed National Day, did a lot of reading and writing and took a leisurely evening drive to watch the camels train. That kind of (yawn) exciting stuff. Pretty much exactly as we’d imagined and hoped for. What we didn’t do was clean and organize the kitchen cupboards, closets and bedroom. It’s a small apartment, it would have taken a day. We didn’t know which lazy one to give up though, so it remains undone. We also managed to avoid the jetlag that many of our colleagues will arrive at work sporting tomorrow. Mind you, they’ll have adventures to tell. That’s the trade off. But for what we needed and wanted, it’s been a really nice 19 days off.

One unexpected pleasure has been watching the plants we planted a few months ago start to bloom. There’s always that little in between time when you transplant things. They feel the shock, wilt a little, look like they’re going to croak and then….well, and then you wait with bated breath because it could really go either way.

For the most part we’ve had amazing success. The cherry tomatoes are ripening on the balcony. I’m never really sure why we plant veggies, by the time ours are ready so are the veggies in the markets and they’re practically giving them away at that point. Next year I’m going to put more time and energy into drying, freezing and maybe even canning.

But the biggest charge I’m getting is how incredible the bougainvillea and gardenia are looking. Even since I took the pictures the other day the buds are coming out even more and my balcony is a riot of fuchsia pink and smells like heaven. I do love the smell of those pure white gardenia flowers. I’ll admit I’m getting a bit dizzy inhaling them so rapidly. Woohoo!

A fresh new year is upon us. I think I’ll take a lesson from my flowers and do what I can to settle my roots in, drink lots of water, turn my face to the sun and bloom happily where I’m planted. Right here in the desert.

I keep trying to get a picture of how big the sun can look here. It’s amazing. I’m not sure this does it exactly but it’s getting there. On our way to the camel track.

Camels in the twilight. My favourite time of day.