Libraries and What nots...

I can tell that my main issue here in the Middle East is going to be books, and everything related to books… At least till I can get some insider information and find out where all the gold is.

So, Time Out magazine Bahrain very kindly lists a few libraries and other places to read books in its issues. Thinking that, as per universal norm, the Manama Public library was probably going to be the largest and most comprehensive among all the little reading nooks available in Bahrain, I made plans to go there. In other words, I called up the library and got directions from them a day before. I asked my husband to come home especially from his office at noon so he could take me to the library, because the library closed at two.

In retrospect, that closing time should have tipped me off.

The great day arrived, and I have to say I was excited. Call me childish, but I was. A trip to the public library! Books and books and more books… I must say I was probably having a serious withdrawal from earlier on or some such thing. So anyway, husband came home to take me to the library. I got into the car, quite happy to be going to the library for a couple of hours. And after another call to receive directions to the Manama public library, we finally made it there.

Was it disappointment that I felt when I first saw it? I don’t know. Many people (my husband included) would be put off by that average, white building with cracking paint, with corners full of dirt and trash, joined to yet more average white buildings with cracking white paint, such as the Manama Teacher Training Directorate or whatever. But you know… When I first saw it, I thought: this is Bahrain. What did I expect? A huge stone building with a magnificent, enormous stone staircase leading up to it, flanked by two roaring lions carved in stone? No. We’re in the Middle East. Maybe their library was built, you know, Middle East style. And, no pun intended but… We shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

Maybe this was one book I should have judged by its cover.

I have to say, even though I had no dreams of grandeur for the place, the entrance to it was less than welcoming. I felt compelled to ask my husband to accompany me over the cement pavement to the little doorway, and I believe he was thinking that he had better.

Well. When we entered, the first room that greeted us was filled with dusty office furniture, placed together in a cramped fashion. I’m thinking in retrospect that all that furniture might have been for people to come, sit and read, but the impression it gave me then was of furniture being jumbled together for storage. I think some of the chairs were even stacked on top of each other, or placed on the tables upside down, so maybe my first impression was right. You see, it was a singularly confusing experience.

Still not wanting to give up, I walked into a corridor to the left of the building. Ah, finally, books!

But books in four foot tall, dusty bookshelves. Books that seemed to be placed in no particular order. Books where the Arabic and the English were all thrown together. Books that were indeed placed in shelves as per subject (well, some of them anyway) but with only one labeled shelf to one subject at best.

Maybe this was the holding area. Maybe there were some more somewhere else. I spied a room to the left, and went in.

Hmmm. Definitely more bookshelves here, even if they were as dusty and disorganized as the ones in the corridors. But what seemed to me to be a more unusual sight for a library were two Indians/Bengalis in dirty green uniforms, seated with their feet up on little plastic chairs as in a particularly run-down khoka, staring at us. They were at a distance of about four feet from each other, and were regarding us with a curious gaze. What business could two civilians have at the public library?

I ventured to ask them a question – perhaps I would be able to get some direction, some clarity as to what the procedure was in this place.

“Ummm… Do you carry any annual journals?” I said, focusing my attention on the Bengali/Indian seated nearest to me.

He did not budge, but his expression seemed to become slightly questioning. I tried again.

“There is a Bahrain Center for Strategic Research. They come up with an annual report, every year. Do you have those?”

The Bengali/Indian looked at his equally silent friend seated to his left. They both looked at each other silently, then shook their heads.

“You… Go ask Secretary.”

“Secretary?”

He nodded. “Secretary. In the room at the start of the corridor. On right.”

I looked at the barely articulate Bengali/Indian. I looked at the bookshelves piled with jumbled, tattered, ragged old books. I looked at the supermarket shopping cart blocking the way down one of the only two visible aisles (the other one was being blocked by the two individuals I have previously mentioned). The shopping cart, piled high with books, was apparently their version of a book cart. The books looked melancholy sitting on their unaccustomed perch. They could only await a dire fate, when being carried away in so ignominious a vehicle.

I turned away and went to find the Secretary.

A large, open office filled with sunlight greeted me as I went in. It was about as big as the room that was meant to be the ‘library,’ only cleaner and more inviting. An Arab man sat at his rather large desk, talking on the phone. An Arab woman sat on a smaller desk which was joined to his desk. Perhaps she was Assistant to the Secretary. I went towards her, and she smiled politely.

“Ummm… There is a Bahrain Center for Strategic Research, and they come up with an annual journal. Do you have those?”

She continued to smile politely at me. There was something very simple and innocent in her face.

“Annual… Journals?”

Still the same polite smile, and then an outpouring of stilted, heavily accented English which I understood to mean that they had shifted all their books. I asked twice, but I could not quite get where they had sifted the books to.

And so we left. I was disappointed. My husband was disgusted.

Another book expedition bites the dust.

The King and the Mosque

I say he was the King.

My husband says he was just a Minister.

Either way, our story begins:

It was another scorching hot Friday at the Grand Mosque in Bahrain. I left the Women’s prayer hall, retrieved my shoes, and crossed out into the large veranda outside the Mosque’s side entrance. Waiting for my husband to emerge, I looked for a spot that would be less prone to an onslaught of men leaving the Mosque after Friday prayers.

Where to go? A river of men was about to come from up front, flowing straight ahead as well as to the right. And unusually enough, there were three police officers – two men, one woman – standing half-casually, half-warily to the left. Gingerly, I took a place near a corner pillar on the right, and commenced the waiting. The onslaught of men began.

An Arab passed by – with long white robes, grizzly beard, sunglasses, and a red checked head cloth caught between his teeth. Now, it has been my experience that some of these Arabs have learnt how to speak Urdu/Hindi, in an effort to better communicate with the large majority of labourers in the Middle East. Much to my detriment, I witnessed an example of this at that moment.

“Purdah lagao, purdah lagao.” (“Put a curtain up, put a curtain up”) The Arab gestured towards me in a disgusted sort of manner.

Heavily annoyed, yet mindful that I was at a Mosque and that it would be unseemly to create a scene, I gravitated towards the left and took standing room next to the female police officer. I didn’t want to be told off by another guy. And that, I thought, was that.

I was thinking of the particularly gross nature of the aforementioned offensive Arab, when there emerged another Arab from the Mosque entrance. This one was slightly older than the first. He had no beard, but a moustache instead. The sunglasses were most certainly there. There was also a white head cloth, along with the long white robes… But placed on top, made of some thin material, was an additional robe adorned with gold embroidery. I thought I had seen this man and the robes before. Of course…. The Malik, King of Bahrain.

Having recently received a ‘scolding’ from an Arab man for being visible, I wondered if it would be okay for me to give a polite Salaam to this much older man, or whether it would be seen as an indescribable offense. In my confusion, I mumbled something and looked downwards – and was immediately gratified to see a pair of plain, worn black shoes on the dignitary’s feet, his heels still jutting out from behind – like a little boy, or a man in a hurry. Yet he moved very slowly. No wonder he was lifting his robes as he went by, and shuffling his feet… His shoes weren’t on right!



I felt an almost motherly tenderness towards the simplicity of this man. Men are men, after all.

A single black BMW stood waiting by the veranda. The man - the King – went to it, and shook hands with a few elderly Arabs who were either with him or had gone forward to meet him. I did not look on longer – I had my own husband to watch out for – and eventually left with him without looking back. But it had been a refreshing thing to look upon while it lasted. Royalty that was polite, simple, and had a certain amount of humility.

When I described the scene to my husband, he argued that the golden robed Arab was probably just a minister and not the King himself. I could have been mistaken because of the sunglasses, and maybe other people wore the same gold robes. But King or Minister… Both belong to the Royal family of Bahrain (the democratic system here is what in other, more Western countries might be called hogwash) and the fact that a Minister or King could walk around so simply, and could enter and leave a mosque so inconspicuously, really appealed to me as a Pakistani.

After all, anyone living in Pakistan currently would agree with me. With every other Minister, Member of Parliament, and certified Bandit going about with escorts; with road blocks placed for every other idiot who ever managed to manipulate a poor man’s vote; with each road-stopping escort comprising of 39 vehicles or more, including police vans, motor bikes, ambulances and BMWs; it’s a wonder we can move at all in that country. For God’s sake, people – or rather, I should say politicians, for a Pakistani politician and a normal, reasonable person are two very different things… Don’t make the local transportee’s life so difficult that he/she wishes that somebody actually would attack you and get things over with. Learn a little from the Arab counterparts whom you denounce so much, and yet mooch off of no end. Sure they have their faults, like anyone else. But at least they don’t evoke the curses of the whole city when they go to their local mosque for Friday prayers

Ramadan and the Housewife

A little over two weeks ago, I was looking forward to Ramadan – my first Ramadan in the Middle East. My excitement stemmed from the idea that Ramadan in the Middle East should be an especially holy and spiritually enlightening period. A far cry from the Ramadan we had in Los Angeles, a minority group keeping its faith alive by individual effort during the day, conglomerating for the warmth of the faithful at iftar in the evening. Also different from a Ramadan in Pakistan, where ‘being Muslim’ is so taken for granted, that it is almost forgotten by many. If the ritual is followed at all, then the ritual trumps the sentiment, and the sentiment barely enters the equation.

In the Middle East, I anticipated a different world – fervent prayers, daras, and what not… A whole population devout and obedient to Islam. This is what I looked forward to. This is what I meant to partake in. We are now approximately in the middle of the holy month of Ramadan here in Bahrain... And I have barely experienced any of the things I had wished. 

It’s strange to think – to look back over the past month of my new housewife-hood, and reflect. I have long believed in the idea that housework has meaning – the ability to make a home out of a house, the ability of put love into every little task and hence transform a mundane act of manual labor into an act of love, even one of worship – this belief caused me to settle down happily into the work I had to do.

My theory made the housework lighter, easier, and more joyous; hence it was no wonder that it was easy for me to start it with a glow of contentment. But, upon reflection, what was perhaps slightly unusual for me was that I seldom needed to revisit my theory in the time that ensued. Except for when I was writing about it or answering somebody’s questions regarding it, I seldom thought about my belief myself. It could partly be that I believe in it so staunchly that I hardly need to revisit the theory – but I think that it is largely due to the nature of the work itself that you hardly stop to think.

Housework is an ongoing process – in short, it never ends. Its demands are urgent, and need to be fulfilled on the spot. I no longer have to contend with a deadline for, say, the following Thursday. If the food isn’t cooked NOW, there will be nothing to serve for iftar. If the dishes aren’t washed NOW, there will be a visible mess through the rest of the day. The clothes must be washed NOW, they must be dried NOW, they must be put away NOW. The chicken must be thawed out NOW, the oil must be prepared NOW, the bed must be made NOW. NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW. The demands are constant, and pressingly urgent. There are no two ways about it. And as it happens, once you get into this routine, it is difficult to think of anything else.

And thus, yesterday, I found myself upon reflection… In the middle of my first Ramadan in the Middle East, with a series of household tasks completed, over and over again… But with little of the spiritual elevation I meant to experience. I had not even had a single opportunity to attend Tarawih so far. Thus, yesterday, I made my first venture to offer the Tarawih in the Grand Mosque of Bahrain.

Again, I was excited. I imagined what the prayer would be like – perhaps like the fajar prayers in Medina. Silent, peaceful, yet tinted with a certain holy awe. I looked forward to my experience with a healthy anticipation. Hurrying through the parking lot as fast as possible without losing some semblance of dignity, I went through the entrance closest to the women’s praying section at the Grand Mosque. Many cubbyholes were still empty, awaiting a pair of shoes. I took mine off and quickly obliged. Two vast wooden doors with carved metal knobs stood before me. I opened one, and entered. Three rows of women were praying far ahead. In the rest of the room, women lounged, and played with their babies. The first association that flashed into my mind was that of a nursery.

I joined in the prayer as fast as I could. The sounds of children playing with their toys, running around chasing each other, and running towards their mothers surrounded me. A little girl stood staring up at me as I took my place in prayer beside her mother. Firmly, I tried to shut the noises out of my mind. It would not be fair to say that I was distinctly disappointed… My gratitude for the fact that I had finally made it to Tarawih trumped all other factors.

Yet, as the Tarawih ensued, and the sounds of the children whirled around me, I could not help but reflect... Interestingly enough, what my mind was revolving around was a movie that I had chanced upon just the other day – ‘Motherhood,’ featuring Uma Therman. In the movie, Therman is portrayed as a frazzled mother at the end of her tether. She used to be regarded as an up and comer in the literary world, but is now wholly and completely a mother and a housewife. She comes very close to breaking down completely, as she feels that she has lost the ability to be passionate about writing, about life, due to the ‘debilitating’ effect of the continuous and repetitive household activities she is called upon to do. But near the end, with the help of her husband, she has an epiphany… And learns to love her tasks for what they are, while rising above them when she needs to in order to experience the passion and exhilaration in writing which she craves.

In a traditional household, the work of a woman is very different from the work of a man. The demands of the woman’s work are not something that can be left behind in an office. They are continual responsibilities which, particularly in the case of motherhood, have to be carried about at all times – not just theoretically, but manually, practically. Yet, as the prayers went on, I thought to myself: all these women, these mothers, these housewives – myself included - we have all come to the Tarawih prayer. And in prayer, we strive to rise above anything and everything else in this world, and think only of the Divine Being… God, and God alone. Thus we strive to rise above our work and daily responsibilities, and to overcome the cares and struggles of our lives, just for the space of a prayer. With this thought in mind, I tried to overcome… Overcome the sound of children, the demands made on mothers, on housewives, on women, and to pray.

It is my opinion that it is never healthy to let one idea, one belief, one

ideology consume your whole being. One idea may work for a particular aspect of your life, and for a certain period of time. But there are other things out there. I believe in the importance, in the meaning behind my housework. But I must train myself to be other things, explore other parts of myself at other times. I want to celebrate Ramadan, for which I must be a worshipper. I want to read a hundred books, in each of which I have to be an audience, a critic, and an explorer. I want to write this blog, for which I have to be a writer. All these roles are held in my being, and thy must all be well executed on each level. I will train myself to not be consumed by one single factor in the years to come. I am a proud housewife, Mashallah. But I must learn to let myself be other things as well.

This may be a bit belated, but… Ramadan Mubarak to all.

Intro and... On Bookstores in the Middle East

So.

Paki girl, born and brought up in that country, so on and so forth…  fed on dreams of being a high-flying lawyer, academic, whatever-you-want-to-call-it. Went to the US, brimming with ambition. Did a BA in Political Science. Applied for a PhD. Directly after, got married, moved to the Middle East, and became a housewife. FYI for all the shocked feminists around the world: I like it. Big time.

         

I wash and dry clothes. I iron them. Fold them, hang them up. Wash dishes, dry them, put them away. Clean a bit. And I cook – chicken, rice, bread… All that home-comfort sort of stuff. And I enjoy that.

For those of you out there who thought this blog was going to be about a Pakistani girl, giving a fresh perspective on life in the Arab world, and are disappointed now because they find instead that it’s about a random housewife… You’re both right and wrong. I will talk about being in the Arab world, and life here (in Bahrain for the most part, mind you) bit by bit. But this blog is about MY life in Bahrain. Me, a Pakistani girl… In the Arab World. So you will get a bit of what my life is about as well. And currently, I’m a housewife. See?

The intro note was just for you to know the basics. Additionally, I told you quite frankly that I like being a homemaker for now, to fend off all the shocked statements from people who CLEARLY expected ‘more’ from me. So there.

But anyhoo… I’m sure you’ll hear about my unique feminist viewpoint if you keep coming back to this blog over a period of time. Lucky you, right? But in the meantime…

In this past month, I traveled to Dubai in the UAE, and then moved to Bahrain. Reading being a passion of sorts for me, in both these countries, I went to bookstores. One in Dubai – Borders for that matter, an international chain that has bookstores around the world. In Bahrain – Virgin. A renowned American brand, I believe. One similarity in both these bookstores struck me… Neither bookstore seems to have a staff that can really read and write English.

I meet the staff. I do a double take. I take a quick look at the shelves around me, just to make sure once more… Yes, it seems that the books stocked here are, for the most part, in the colonial language that overcame half the world. Then why have salespeople who have no command over it? The irony of it all is more than I can immediately grasp.

Conversation 1 (Borders, Dubai):

Me: Excuse me, do you have the book “the elegance of the hedgehog”?

(Pause. The Indian salesperson (SP) looks at his computer screen. I have time to admire his red tikka, and the myriads of gold (or gold-plated) jewelry dripping from his neck and his wrists in chain and coils.)

SP: (brazen, no apology or embarrassment in tone) How do you spell ‘Elegance’?

Me: (dumbfounded, then recollecting myself) Uhh… E – L – E – G – A – N – C – E.

SP: (still unmoved) G – E?

Me: G – A… N – C – E

(Pause again. SP typing something, then staring at the screen)

SP: How do you spell Hedgehog?

Here we go again…

Conversation 2 (Virgin, Bahrain):

Me: Excuse me, do you have the book “the elegance of the hedgehog”?

SP: How do you spell ‘Elegance’?

This old song again. I’m used to it by now. I suck it up and say it.

Me: E-L-E-G-A-N-C-E

SP: Is Hedgehog together or separate?

I take his statement to mean that he wants to know whether ‘Hedgehog’ is one word or two. He’s nearly as linguistically disabled in the English department as the guy in Dubai, but I have to give him credit… At least he’s faster.

Me: It’s together. One word.

Of course, you will not be surprised to know that neither bookstore stocked the book. I’m ordering it off the Internet now.

But really, folks… What’s the deal with these salespersons? If they’re so interested in working for a bookstore (which I highly doubt, by the way) then why not work for one where they actually have a chance at deciphering one of the book covers? A hindi bookstore perhaps… Marathi. Gujrati. Malayalam. Even Urdu or Arabic, please… But a bookstore where these people will be of use. NOT ENGLISH.

When I was in the US, the local Barnes & Nobles had a ‘staff picks’ section – a section of books that were handpicked by individual staff members as their favorites. A book would be displayed, and underneath it, it would have the name of the staff member who picked it out, followed by his or her comment: “this book is great – it talks about such-and-such thing in a really charming, quirky way. I wish there were more of it!” And so on… At least I got a sense that people in this bookstore know the language, and know the books. But in these bookstores here in the Middle East… So far… No Cigar.

Ironically enough, I noted that the Borders bookstore had a stall ‘Borders recommends’. Initially, I wondered if these were staff picks as well, or picks sent ‘from up above,’ as there was no personal note as in the case of the Barnes & Nobles in the US. But one meeting with the staff, and I know the answer… It’s a wonder that they were able to put the books picked out under the correct signs. Well, that’s a bit harsh… After all, I believe they can follow it out by matching letter to letter. So yeah…

From now on, I do my book shopping here silently, without question. I dread asking for another book. In the meantime… Let’s hope for salespeople more suited to their jobs in bookstores in the Middle East. Please.