Daughter in the wilderness

By the time we reached the top of the second dune, two things were obvious: First, my mad kickboxing skills don’t transfer at all to desert trekking. One needs steady ankles and long-suffering quads (not a killer uppercut) to conquer acres of soft sand. As is our family tradition, Jon kept pace with the speedsters at the front and I chugged along as Official Caboose, prodding the stragglers. My little group was four giggly girls and one young man. The latter slowed down on purpose when he realized how often the girls fell down—at least three tumbled down the backside of every dune. We’d scoop them up and start again, trying to avoid the skeletal remains of dead bushes and keep sight of the rest of the tribe at the same time.

Jon and I with our awesome tribe.

It was fully dark when the buses left us in the nature preserve. Little light spilled from the sliver of moon, propped like a sharp-edged bowl in a corner of the sky. Many brought flashlights, but those actually made the night seem darker. With all the lights switched off, our eyes adjusted and the second point became clear: my depth perception doesn’t work in black-and-white night vision. The sea of blue-black shadows was disorienting. It actually helped when the girls tipped over because it reestablished where I should step.

I’ve spent most of my life as an indoor kind of girl, visiting the wild places attached to visitors’ centers. As such, youth conference was my first weekend in a tent for many years and my only church service outdoors. I loved the peace of the meeting (though some of that peace was because all of our children were home in Doha with friends.) We gathered to sing and pray beneath two al ghaf trees, treasures of the UAE known for their ability to endure in the harsh climate. Beneath us, their long roots reached deep, stretched out and searching. In that parched setting the bite of bread and sip of water were a feast, a powerful reminder of the miracle of Living Water.

Nephi says that through their faith and obedience, the women of Lehi’s family became strong like unto the men. Despite living on raw meat and bearing children as they waded through affliction, they were nourished and strengthened until they were able to endure without murmuring. Too often I have read those verses in 1 Nephi 17 quickly, shallowly. Now, those daughters in the wilderness are a bright, detailed image. I am grateful for the inspiration that’s shown me how much I can learn from these women, especially about the Lord. He magnifies our righteous efforts. One does not need to be a mother to learn from them. Sitting on a patch of Arabian sand, desperately thirsty even in the act of drinking isn’t required to have a testimony of the Book of Mormon. What an unexpected blessing for me to have experienced both and add new depth to my testimony of Christ and the Book of Mormon.

Just being in the desert was tremendously symbolic and instructive. The heat was significant; I struggled to see past it sometimes. My skin couldn’t process all of the energy, so other senses kicked in. More than bright, the light was loud and thick in the mouth. I totally understand now the afternoon hunkering that shuts down shops. To have the sun burned so deeply in your cultural experience, it makes complete sense that even now, with air-conditioning, the world stops in the afternoon and revives with the sunset. I, too, revived as the sun set. From a distance, the full-length sleeves and skirt of the abaya look stifling and restrictive, but they offered much-needed protection. It was also cooler with my head wrapped than exposed to the white sun. I thought about these things looking up at the sky, resting my head in the luxurious shadow of a car tire. I lay on the ground, thirsty, and thought about spiritually drying things: the mundane and tiresome things that are just part of mortal experience. I thought about the forces that exert pressure and heat and distraction. Connections stretched between this literal wilderness and the wild places within myself. The images settled into my memory and even now, months later, I am still pondering these things.

We knew what the conference would entail before we started: Sand. Heat. Fatigue. Close quarters with stinky people. But also camaraderie, hands-on experiences with the scriptures, spiritual nourishment, and FUN! I felt impressed that the weekend was not unlike another time when we were shown a plan and given the choice to participate or not. We face the same choices at home that we faced on the trek:

When the food is short or the water low, will you be kind?

Will you be faithful with blisters and shaky legs?

Will you go and do even when you’re hot or tired or thirsty?

Our reenactment of the last great battle between the Nephites and Lamanites begins. Notice my husband charging down the dune on the right. He “died” a glorious death a few moments later.

Another special thank you to Tony Murray, the Liahona Trek photographer who took all the photos in this post.

The Liahona Quest

They crossed the desert late at night, wading through deep and shifting sands to walk in the steps of Father Lehi. Faithful latter-day saints living as ex-patriots in the Middle East donned long native robes—thawbs, abaybas, and kanduras—and turned from the comforts of home to join a physically and spiritually challenging journey. The Liahona Quest was a trek through the Arabian Desert, the region where the Book of Mormon begins. It allowed young LDS brothers and sisters the chance to experience the conditions that open the Book of Mormon firsthand, helping them identify with Lehi and his family and relate more personally to those scriptural accounts.

Brother and Sister Farmer of the Doha 1st ward acted as Lehi and Sariah. Local camel herders brought their animals from nearby camps. Keith Woodhouse, Stake Young Men’s President:
“I enjoyed visiting the Bedouin camps in the area to negotiate their help and assistance with camels and other activities. As long as I sat around their campfire and drank camel’s milk with them (they drank tea), I found they would do anything we needed. Some of the kindest and most generous people I have ever met… In all my church experience over the years, it was by far the most challenging. I had many great experiences preparing for this trek. I would not trade it for anything.”

Members dressed as Lehi and Sariah welcomed the youth to the quest, reminding all of the command from the Lord that sent their family into the wilderness. Flanked by camels, Lehi invited the youth to manifest their willingness to be obedient, to have faith and begin the long walk. Seven “tribes” started down the desert path outside Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates.

But those first sandy steps were not the beginning. The trek began long before buckling into cars and boarding planes that morning. For 68 youth and 35 adult leaders from Kuwait, Oman, Qatar, and the UAE, a booklet created by Stake leaders invited them to begin their spiritual quest months earlier. Each month, attendees were offered scriptures, prophetic messages, and hymns to study and ponder. It contained encouragement to write in their journals, to read the Book of Mormon daily and finish it in the days before the Quest. The Stake presidency extended a promise that the quality of the youth conference experience would be proportionate to the price paid in physical and spiritual preparation.

At the center of the conference was the Book of Mormon, especially the faithful characters whose stories are told in its pages. Activities were designed to give the youth opportunities to do what the righteous did and feel what they felt: the burning testimony of our Savior that drove their actions and gave their lives direction. Repeatedly, participants interacted physically with the lessons being taught. They reenacted skits of memorable Book of Mormon stories. They awoke the first morning to find a small Liahona-like compass with directions to follow. Each tribe created a Title of Liberty reflecting what they were willing to fight and die for. On the last morning, they divided into Nephites and Lamanites and acted out the final great battle of the Book of Mormon, when the fair ones fell and the Nephite people were utterly destroyed.

A simple compass was placed within a rounded, metal container to represent the Liahona. Each tribe followed directions given with the compass to find items that reminded them of the difficulties Lehi’s family faced during their time in the wilderness.

We want “our youth to comprehend the importance of obedience, sacrifice, and faith in the Lord and to gain a stronger testimony of the Book of Mormon.…The stories and lessons told in the scriptures did happen, they were as real as the heat we felt on our backs [during the Quest],” explains Doris Perez, Stake Young Women’s president.

After hiking to camp the first night, the tribes were allowed only a brief rest before receiving instructions from Lehi to set off again. This time, they sought the brass plates and then made their way past a representation of the great and spacious building: a small crowd of jeering and raucous people. The crowning activity of the night challenged the youth to reach the Tree of Life, represented by an al ghaf tree, bright and glowing in a spotlight. Blindfolded, they pressed forward, clinging to a thick rope serving as the iron rod and resisting the verbal and physical attempts of others to pull them from the path. Upon obtaining the goal, each person partook of a small piece of fruit and had a few moments to reflect on the contrast between the vast, dark desert and the beauty and light near the tree.

Pressing towards the tree, holding fast to a rope representing the rod of iron.

“[We] learned that it might be pretty easy to fall into the pattern of murmuring, just as Laman and Lemuel did. I think we might have even had a few Laman and Lemuels on our trip. And we were only out there for a couple days. Can you imagine what 8 years would have been like?” asked Corinn Slater of the Abu Dhabi 2nd Ward.

The camp was in the Two Trees recreation area, which is also a natural preserve where Bedouin camel herders care for their animals. During the skits, a herd of camels came around a large dune. Babies, adults, and adolescent camels wandered where they chose in search of the small plants scattered in the sand. Their colors ran from pale tan to deep brown. The herders watched the youth. The youth watched them back. It was a mutually entertaining experience.

Three great spiritual opportunities took place on the first full day. That morning, a skit brought to life the story of the anti-Nephi-Lehis. The story paused to give each person the opportunity to ponder the thing that most interferes with his or her relationship with God. Each wrote on a sword the name of that personal weapon of rebellion, then buried the sword in the earth and bore witness of the desire to be reconciled to God.

Near mid-day, the tribes gathered in the patchy shade of two al ghaf trees to honor the Sabbath and partake of the sacrament. Surrounded by sand and pressed down by heat, the bread and water were especially meaningful: the wilderness emphasized the weakness that comes without constant physical and spiritual nourishment.

At sunset, the youth were led to a quiet place on the dunes for an individual experience. Soon, each was alone with their thoughts under a sliver of moon and the star strewn sky. The peace of the night increased the capacity for peace within heart and mind. Each received a letter written by his or her parents and a set of simple instructions: ponder what needs improvement within yourself, ponder what you desire to know from your Heavenly Father, and kneel down to communicate with Him.

Jessica Merkley of Doha, Qatar said, “I liked how we were told to think about what you want to know from Heavenly Father, then just do it—right now.” Later at the fireside testimony meeting, many expressed increased feelings of love for their parents and their Heavenly Father as a result of this experience.

Keith Woodhouse, Stake Young Mens president, expressed the desire felt by those who sacrificed to prepare and execute the Quest. “We hoped the Trek would become a personal Liahona for each of [the youth] to draw upon and remember as they continued to read the Book of Mormon and meet challenging trials ahead in their lives.”

All the tribes gathered at the oasis near camp.

Special thanks to Tony Murray, photographer extraordinaire, who took all the photos for the conference and let me use them here.

Cholesterol isn’t catching

I had already loaded the little girls and climbed into the scorching driver’s seat when a man approached the open passenger window. His accent was thick and muddled, but I’ve been petitioned enough to know what he was looking for. Being a fairly warm day, he looked hot and thirsty. I decided to go ahead and give him 20QR (about $5 USD), enough for a schwarma and a bottle of water.

I must have seemed soft. He became animated, produced a tattered photograph, and began a tale of woe. My feelings of compassion began to turn suspicious. After my years in Japan and many months here, I’m pretty good at pantomime and gathering some sense from broken English. The gist: The boy in the picture is terribly ill. He will die. This man is trying to save him. Just 100 QR! I can save him with another 100QR!

Whether it is just culturally discouraged or actually against the law to beg in Qatar, I can’t say. In any event, this is the first time I’d been approached in Doha and I’ve got the kind of face that just screams “ask me for my change.” Maybe the lack of fellow scroungers left him without role models for effective technique? The world will never know. My scrounger’s style was feeling more like a sales pitch than a panhandler’s request.

I shook my head and buckled my seat belt. “That’s enough.”

The photo disappeared and out comes an empty medicine box that looks as if it spent some time in the trash. It’s for Zoloft and he places it on the passenger seat. I’ve seen the pale, jellybean-like figure drawn on the front hop across the TV screen back in the States, but I can’t remember the little guy’s sales pitch…. My visitor misinterprets the pause. I was playing name-that-jellybean and he thought I was considering another cash donation:

Here is the medicine that can save the boy—“just 100!” He keeps repeating the number and gesturing at the box. Despite my insistence that I won’t be giving any more money, that it’s time for me to leave, he persists and switches tactics.

“Madam, contagious! Very contagious!” This went on for several sentences, the only words I could understand being “contagious”, “me,” and “same same.” He didn’t want to mention it before, but he is dying too!

And then I remember—Zoloft! I interrupt him.

“You are not contagious. You have high cholesterol.”

He blinks. “Contagious” and pats his chest with an open hand.

“No,” I say. “Cholesterol,” patting the box.

“Contagious!” he insists, pushing the box closer to me across the seat. “This! This!” which I assume means a new box of this medicine will save two lives and stop the spread of contagious disease. But it won’t, because it’s a box of Zoloft.

“Nope. Cholesterol.” I nudged it back. “Finish.”

Finish is the catchall word for any kind of completion, refusal, lack of product, an all-purpose negative. We were definitely finished.

My refusal shocked and immobilized him. Mouth agape and both hands resting on the open window frame, he just stood there, making me feel uncomfortable. I started to roll up the window. His hands went with it! There was his face, frozen and framed by two palms pressed against the glass. The box was still on the seat, and I didn’t want it. I cracked the window, slipped it through the top, and he finally stepped back to retrieve it.

Now that car could reverse without risk of crushing his toes with the front tire, I made my escape. All the time as I executed my 13-point turn in the narrow parking lane he continued to just stand there, making me feel uncomfortable with his unblinking eyes and frozen posture. He watched me inch toward the crowded exit, pay for parking, and wait for the world’s longest light cycle. I was afraid I’d feel his gaze on my back all the way home, but the baby threw her juice box at me and broke the spell. Maybe we could have left sooner if she’d thrown it at him instead?

(Full disclosure: I know, Zoloft is not for high cholesterol. It’s for depression. But at that moment in the parking lot of the souq, I got it mixed up with Lipitor. I realized my mistake later when I was telling the story to a friend who still lives Stateside and knows more about pharmaceutical commercials than I do.)

Here in the parking lot of the souq is a neat summary of Doha: everywhere is sand, construction, mosques, and some camels for good measure. These creatures stood idly by mulling their cuds while I listened to the sales pitch.

When you fancy a pot large enough to contain a goat…or a troublesome child…

..head to the souq.

Doha has many souqs, and I guess “souq” just means a place to buy things. The traditional example is Souq Waqif and I love it there. This is one of the few places in Doha that feels like the Middle East. Products range from camels and falcons, to swords, gardening soil, art, and tacky knickknacks. Savvy shoppers bargain, though the keepers are much less generous with we Western expats than the locals. My bargaining skill are truly crap: I’m usually trying to keep my mob from breaking more items than I want to buy.

It didn’t take long on my first visit to notice there were very few women shopping as it opened. In fact, after three or four alleyways, I realized my daughters and I were the only women. This wan’t a problem, just a fact that made us the target of every sales pitch within hearing distance. One particularly bold fabric merchant followed me down the alley way, rather insistent: “You, Lady! Come in here! Come back here! You are like this! Hey! Hey!!” He even made a move to hold Tess’ hand, but her contrariness proved useful as she snatched it away and refused to be charmed. He was not dissuaded by my no-eye-contact technique, but eventually he fell behind and we moved on to the animal area.

The children and animal owners worked hard to make a sell, but I resisted with a flinty heart and a firm hand. It’s fun to look at the great variety of potential pets. However, I would never purchase a family pet from any store, and especially not the souq. Conditions are very crowded, dirty, and many of the animals look miserable and unhealthy. Some have clearly expired.

Many men spend their mornings like this man, drinking coffee and supervising the goings on of their favorite coffee spot. Unusually, he is alone. After watching me struggle to get my brood across the road and into some kind of order, he seemed mildly amused. Since we already had his attention, I gathered my courage to ask if I could take his picture. As a rule, men and women don’t interact in public, especially with strangers of the opposite sex. I kind of waved my camera at him and looked hopeful. He barely inclined his head. As I set up my shot, I noticed he sat a little taller, and turned his misbah over in his fingers, quickly settling into the classic posture here. I frequently pray for positive experiences with Arab men, and this brief interaction was a tender mercy from the Lord.

And then there are these young men. I really don’t know what the local school schedule is like, because at any time school-aged young people are at the mall, walking the Corniche, and traipsing about the souq. My mother-in-law came to visit, and these boys noticed her taking photos. There was no need to pantomime “are you okay with my photographing you.” They posed, we snapped, and then they took a photo of us with my little girls on their cell phones. (Perhaps you notice the ever-present white SUVs in the background.)

I have no idea what the story is with these riders. Sometimes they are at the souq, sometimes not. On this day, there were seven horses and riders walking leisurely up and down the main corridor. Back and forth, casually bored and blasé about the heat. After three or four passes, the riders on the white horses had noticed my almost two-year old. It’s hard to ignore the sqwaky, bouncing pink think running toward you and after you. Tess and Verity garner lots of attention wherever we go, but in the souq they are especially noticeable. Shopkeepers leave their counters to slip candies into little hands, offering coffee and water, and of course, kissing and pinching pink cheeks. Verity plays it up. Tess will not interact. In fact, she is often rather brisk and her contrary nature quickly shows itself in her downturned mouth and furrowed brow. We don’t have enough English in common to explain and I have yet to find the universal sign for “don’t take it personally, that girl of mine is a tough nut to crack.”

Throughout the twisting alleyways, these maroon vested porters wait to assist shoppers with their parcels. A Qatari woman will frequently enlist a small parade of these men to wind around the shops with her, following her and her maid. I may hire one the next time we go to help me get Tess to the car. The bowels of the souq are fairly cool, shaded from the sun and helped along by noisy air conditioning units. But the heat still pervades, rushing through the narrow spaces with the force and burning weight of a hair dryer. Never one to suffer lightly, Tess wilts. And sits. And makes finishing our errands decidedly unpleasant. I can’t blame her. I wish someone would wheel me back to the car, but I imagine myself climbing into the wheelbarrow and admit that wouldn’t be a good plan.

As the morning wears on, the women begin to arrive. You see them here, near the shops selling abaya and veils and jewelry, pillars of shadow with designer handbags. Like so many things about Qatar, Souq Waqif is an eclectic blend of tradition and technology. Modest looking nooks hide luxurious marble lined bathrooms with well-groomed attendants. The women on the left of the photograph are using an ATM. I should say, trying to use the ATM. I spent a good 20 minutes waiting my turn and watching them struggle with many options and buttons. Friends were called over to help, as were the two men at the watch cart just outside the frame.

High above the rough paved lanes are the classy, rooftop restaurants. Deep in the crannies near the souvenir shops are the schwarma cubbies whose “menus” are badly printed photographs fixed on the rickety tables. The smells of onion and lamb hang heavy from the walls, mingling with the water-pipe smoke and substantial odor of a man who eats a lot of onions and lamb, and probably lentils. A wiry young man wields a broom, trying in vain to scatter a handful of feral cats drawn to the scraps under the tables. They flow like water between the legs and over chairs.

The high contrast between old and new, between luxury and essentials intrigues me. I have a grand scheme to go fully veiled and incognito on a cool winter day without children to just watch and photograph. I don’t have a pale designer purse to complete my disguise, but I do have dark glasses. That ought to do it. The souq is full of exotic details and pieces of the beautifully ordinary. It’s like the anti-mall, and given my strong feelings about the wretchedness of mall shopping, that’s saying a lot. I still feel merely near the culture and not part of it, but at the souq I can interact with it. The vast neutral blah of the desert is replaced with manageable space: an interesting, colorful, muti-national space where the many corners of the world come together and enrich each other. Every shop is a new story, like turning a page. Given we barely have enough common language to identify what I want and how much it costs, I will never know the folding narratives. But I know they are there, bumping into me as I sift through spices. The stories bring me back to the souq, the possible discoveries. The souq inspires me see more, ask more, and hurry less.

In which I feel jealous of a camel…

“The fact is that camels are far more intelligent than dolphins. They are so much brighter that they soon realized that the most prudent thing any intelligent animal can do, if it would prefer its descendants not to spend a lot of time on a slab with electrodes clamped to their brains or sticking mines on the bottom of ships or being patronized rigid by zoologists, is to make bloody certain humans don’t find out about it. So they long ago plumped for a lifestyle that, in return for a certain amount of porterage and being prodded with sticks, allowed them adequate food and grooming and the chance to spit in a human’s eye and get away with it.”

Terry Pratchett, Pyramids

So, here I am with my five minions, braving a fairly intense sandstorm. No, it did not come thundering across the open expanse and send the locals scurrying for cover. It did cause me to long for some wrap-around goggles so I could pay homage to Ethan Hunt and Hollywood’s creative use of weather.

While the camels train year round, the racing season is not. Despite the bad weather this day, I decided we had put off the outing long enough and we were going to miss our chance if we kept delaying. As it turns out, this was the last Saturday race day of the season. Like almost every Doha event, times are flexible and specifics hard to come by. We just drove out there early in the morning and hoped for success. The last time we tried to see the camels, we came too late in the morning and the trainers had put the animals away for prayers, lunch, and the afternoon sleep. These camels are on the training track. Nearby is the active racing track, stables, and patches of dirt where they just stand or sit around chewing cuds and grunting at each other. Hundreds of camels are out, moving in tight packs of a dozen or so in coordinated coverings that look like the kind of old quilt you would take camping.

The seeming lack of structure is both thrilling and unnerving. A few minutes after arriving I realized we had inadvertently placed our car right at the starting line in the front of the owners’ pack. In the States, there is usually much separation between the event and the spectators. At the camel track, you can walk, stand, or drive wherever you have the guts and confidence to do so. With the stables on the far side of a decent sized road, the clusters of camels frequently cross the path of traffic. The cars don’t stop. Neither do the camels. It’s a clumsy, potentially disastrous dance surrounded by camel legs and dangling jockey feet.

This camel jockey in white was too far away to ask me for money. Most are willing to let you take a photo with them and their charges for a variable fee. One has to be watchful so that wandering hands and pelvises don’t cause trouble, however. We opted to watch from a distance and stay off the dung riddled track.

There are three ways to watch the races. One can stand near the starting line and watch through the crowd of SUVs between you and the track as the camels take off. More on those oddly placed SUVs in a minute. These men have decided to take it easy in the parking lot and watch a video stream of the race. A camera car keeps to the front of the pack and follows the race around the track. The third and most risky/exciting way is to join the camel owners as they speed along either side the racers providing motivation.

You’ve been introduced to Confident Driver before. Well, here he is focused on his camel, racing in a mad pack with several friends in the car and surrounded by nearly identical SUVs full of similarly focused camel owners. Anyone can join the pack. As exciting as that would be, we decided we ought not to take our five children into the fray and risk an accident or angering a Confident Camel Owner. The area is peppered with signs prohibiting horn blowing. This is only allowed during the race by the owners. As we know, loud and insistent noises are motivating and inspire others to do their best. This must apply to camels, too, because the entire race is underscored by the blaring of horns and revving engines. The racket surely made me want to run.

The track cuts long, wide curves around the desert. For most of the race the camels and SUVs are out of eyesight of the starting ling. In the lull of waiting, some pay attention to the screen, like the fellow above. Others mill about smoking or drinking coffee. Because the day was so grimy, most folks had chosen to stay indoors. This left us the ony non-locals at the race and me as the only woman. We took pictures of them. They took pictures of us. One Qatari father had a car full of children and they followed us slowly in their car as we walked along the training track, waiting for the racers to return. There are several pictures of us looking squinty and disheveled on cell phones across Doha.

Tait tried, unsuccessful, to keep the grit out of his eyes. By the time we climbed back into our car we were all weary from leaning into the wind. The stinging sand left my skin tender and grimy. It collected in the creases of eyelids, the curves of our ears, and left an even film on our clothes and skin. Until I sat down in the (relative) peace and cleanliness of my car, I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. Audrey told us about camels and their fantastic closable nostrils. How absurd that I was momentarily jealous of a camel! What a great feature for desert living. But with the shifting dirt, came a cold front that made standing exposed in the wilderness bearable, at least for a little while.

The air wasn’t thick enough, so my children spend a good amount of time shattering the flakes of hard dirt and adding their own clouds to the breathing space. The fragile, eggshell like crust of the earth is fascinating, possibly because it’s one of the few things one can see with any clarity.

Are you thirsty yet?

I must point out that not every day in Doha is brown, though many are. Given the camel-centric theme of this post, I include one camel photo taken on a clear sunny day that we thoroughly enjoyed:

Who would have thought I’d be led along the shore of the Persian Gulf on a camel by my own daughter? Naomi did pretty well and was rewarded for her labors with a stick of gum from the camel guy. I laughed within myself as she worked to get this grumpy, groaning creature to do perfectly reasonably things like kneel down or stop eating washed up sea weed. I thought, “welcome to my world, daughter.” I didn’t say it out loud, of course, as that would have prompted the emergence of my own grumpy, groaning creature and I wanted a pleasant beach day.

They are so dorky, with their lurching gait and knobbly joints! Something about them reminds me of teenagers: kind of smelly, gangly, totally unimpressed with all of us, and really too cool to be bothered. Given my preference for animals to be loved from a distance, my appreciation for camels is one of the great surprises of my life here in Doha. Whenever I see a camel, I can’t help but think:

Dude, you look like a doofus.

I like that about you.

Must love dust

The Doha skyline, washed out by a haze of dirt and heat.

The sky is dull today. Shamal winds from the north scrape the surface of the desert from the earth and fling it against us. It coats the gleaming buildings, blunting edges and hiding the movement of the sun. I get the feeling that the desert has had enough already and is off to see something else. But it’s a long journey to somewhere else, so instead it just comes to my place. And stays.

Once we chipped ice off the windows. Now we use the wipers to heave a spadeful of dust off to the sides of the car. The desert is fine and shifty, easily snaking under the doors and between the sliding windows of the house. I’m guessing the one-inch rims inside nearly every door in Doha are intended to block the flow of sand. All they really do is make the city very unfriendly to strollers, because you can hear the grains of sand laughing at you in hissing voices as they scratch their way across the threshold.

One of the little dunes that tries to form inside the front door during a sand storm. I vacuum. It returns. Such are the steps we dance together.

Yes, this is a dirty place. Obvious, I know, but there it is. Resistance is futile. Yet so many do try to resist. Dust the shelves–sweep the porch–tip the guy at the petrol station to crawl all over the vehicle and wipe the film from the windows. Full disclosure: I do frequently vacuum. I am also frequently scolded for living a maidless existence. To stem the tide of commentary, I have imported several boxes of Swiffer Dusters and try to keep the area seen from the front door minimally dusty, if not dust free. As a side note, I cannot understand why Swiffer does not have a great and powerful kingdom established here. It’s a very target rich environment, an environment that inspired the feelings behind this:

A Love Note to My Vacuum

Must love dust: it’s gritty ways

How the specks and particles catch the rays

Of every beam of desert light.

Smell the earthy sneezy heat, settled here just at my feet.

See how baby’s feet are black? Her soles leave tiny, inky tracks

Across…the acres…of the floor.

And now to you, my tanky friend, a task has come that has no end:

To wheeze and clear the corners dark,

To roll and roar in search of work.

So eat your fill of bits of fluff, sand and crumbs and other stuff.

The nooks are piled high for you,

And more will come before you’re through.

What a dreary thing to occupy so much of my mental space. Dirt. It’s everywhere. In the air and clinging to my clothes. It coats my mixing bowls and gives us constant sniffly noses. There’s no rhyme or pattern, but driving through town you see palaces, shopping centers, carefully landscaped roundabouts, and piles of rubble. Coarse rubble, fine rubble, sand and gravel and great heaps of broken pavement. Here’s a gaping hole. There’s a cloud of debris billowing from a construction site.

Of course, I have the luxury of seeing these things from the comfort of my air-conditioned/filtered car. The worker bees are out in all weather, wearing that universal clothing of protection: the cotton kerchief. It seems hordes of invisible men are working in Doha, completely covered with mismatched pieces of cloth and a pair of dark glasses.

Occasionally, skydivers use the large grassy area near our compound as a landing spot. I see them drifting, precisely staggered in the sky under parachute tributes to the Qatar flag. I wonder if they see the air as we do, stone-washed blue, thickening to brown. They may as well be settling themselves into a bowl of broth. Can they feel the air change? Do they fight the urge to hold their breath as they reach the upper, grimy edge of Doha’s atmosphere?

I hold my breath for them, without meaning to. This is pointless of course, as I know full well the air in my back yard looks as grim to the folks on the other side of Doha as their air looks to me. One must breathe, whatever the color of the air. How I long for cool, crisp air, the kind I can inhale deeply without feeling like it’s making me heavier. Take a breath for me, will you, the next time you are under a clear, smudge-free sky? And thumb your nose at the dust bunnies, rejoicing to know that they are unlikely to get big enough to creep out from under your bed on their own (as they are wont to do in our house.)

If your head is made of wax do not walk in the sun

Or, for us English-speaking folks, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.

Walking through the Virgin media store at the mall some time back, I was pleased to find a small section of books about Arab and Qatari culture. I bought a few, including this one about Arabic sayings and their English equivalents. Like most idioms, the sayings ring with humor and truth. Here is a small selection that I particularly enjoyed:

Unload your donkey

Three things are not lendable: the rifle, the horse and the woman.

A horse, a wife and a sword may be shown but not lent.

He who mixes himself with bran will be eaten by the chicken.

A man is judged by the company he keeps.

The shroud has no pockets.

You can’t take it with you!

He who has been scalded by soup, blows on yoghurt.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Every mustache has its scissors.

Horses for courses.

Unload your own donkey.

Mind your own business.

He who chews with his own teeth benefits himself.

God helps those who help themselves.

The prayer beads have come unstrung.

The fat is in the fire.

Whoever gets between the onion and its skin will only be rewarded by its stink.

Never get between a man and his wife.

He ate the camel and all it carried.

To eat someone out of house and home.

It is peculiar to learn more about my host culture from reading than I do by actually living here. Because so much of my daily interaction is with the shop clerks, builders, drivers and cleaners like those described in Constructing Qatar, I was very excited when I stumbled across it on Amazon. The snapshos of these lives have lingered with me many weeks after reading them.

Constructing Qatar

Corporate imports are governed by the same sponsorship system as the worker bees, but our situation is usually much better. I don’t pretend to understand all the nuances and details of the kafala, the sponsorship system, but basically, to be here in Qatar each person must be connected legally to a Qatari citizen or organization. At its best, this system includes responsibilities and benefits for both sides. At worst, it sets up conditions for terrible abuses.

…the kafala…locks migrants to a particular job and a particular sponsor. Unlike most migrants in the United States and Europe, labor migrants in the Gulf are not free to seek other employment or better opportunities. Switching jobs requires a release from the original sponsor; to switch jobs without permission is illegal. In practice, the power of the sponsor over the migrant is a dominant force in migrants’ experiences in all of the Gulf States. (Kindle reader p. 116-117)

These rules apply to all foreign workers. The sponsor can, and often does, keep the worker’s passport and determine what kind of visa is allowed. Our family’s company granted us multiple entry visas, which means we can come and go multiple times without permission. Others have only a single entry visa and, therefore, less freedom. Sponsors have a great deal of power and control over the lives of those connected to them.

And even when the kafala has been kind to them, the lives of these workers are difficult. Many have come to earn money to send home. The very first person I met in this country was the driver who met us at the airport. He has been married for 20 years, has five children, and has lived and worked alone in Doha for the last 18 years. In his own words, he is working and sacrificing for children he loves but barely knows. This story is very common. Some married couples come to Doha together, but do not live together. The wife is usually a live-in maid or lives in ladies’ housing and the husband may live in a labor camp or other bachelor quarters.

After reading this book and getting a feel for the wider context of these workers’ experiences getting to Doha, I feel much more compassion and patience. When I am stared at by construction workers in a bus, it occurs to me that the only time they see women at all is in traffic or at their weekly grocery trip. I look for opportunities to tip, even the bagboy who stacked cans on the bread, knowing how scanty the wages are. Perhaps the irritable attendant in the bathroom was promised an office job or the parking lot car washerman is still trying to repay the fees required to get here in the first place.

Qatari Voices is another book I found by chance at Virgin, though it’s also on Amazon. I really enjoyed the opportunity to hear what some young Qataris think of their own country and the changes roaring through their culture. The editor refers to the young essay writers in this collection as the “hinge generation,” the generation living through the transition from tradition to modernity.

The writers grapple with many of the same questions I do about traditional Qatari culture: Why are girls such a burden? What makes boys better than girls? Why can’t they learn and socialize together or choose their own spouses? What has been lost in the process of modernization? I was most interested in stories by women about being women in Qatar. Many feel themselves to be pioneers and leaders; they feel women are powerful. But there are also stories about girls as young as nine being given in marriage to old men and fearing they will be kept from attending advanced education in a mixed gender setting. Maryam tells of learning that her grandmother and the other women of the family used to eat after the men, having what was left on the big plates when the men had eaten their fill. My shock was mirrored in her words:

Trying to understand what I had been told, I asked, “was it fine with you to eat leftovers?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “It was a long time ago. It was common.”

I couldn’t help but ask, “What if you were hungry and they finished all the food?”

My grandmother laughed and said, “If it’s finished, it’s finished!”

I was quiet for a while, looking at her, again trying to understand what she had told me. She didn’t seem mad about it; it seemed normal to her! That was the tradition. I immediately imagined myself in that situation. I would have probably had a nervous breakdown! (p. 11-12)

There have clearly been long-standing traditions of inequality between genders. Yet despite this, family is highly prized. The issues that strain Western families also strain Arab families. This next quote is from a young man, Mohammed, who saw his family’s move from a small seaside village to Doha. A previous Shaikh called for all the tribes of this village to come to Doha and help build the country. For a time, the men lived separately from the women and children until the Shaikh built a space in Doha–the Madinat Khalifa neighborhood–with schools and homes for the people to live in together.

The tribe members, including my father and grandfather, tried to adapt to the new situation. In Madinat Khalifa there was no sea for fishing, no birds singing, and no huge boats for diving to look for pearls. However, the thing that made the new situation easy to accept was that we were also together, home by home, side by side, and wall by wall, living again in one family without distances straining our close family bonds. (p. 17)

Reading this collection I got a sense of the pride many Qataris feel for the accomplishments of the collective. They have high expectations for their country and feel they are deserving of the best things–not so different from the people of my own country.

This final book was the first one I read specifically about Doha. It is well known among the lady expats. This author met her husband while studying medicine in the United States and later moved with their little family back to his home in Doha. I appreciated the view of this world through the eyes of a woman familiar with the traditions of both the West and the Middle East. It reads in a variety of ways, from personal memoir to research paper to medical pamphlet and poetry. It’s the most intimate portrait of Qatari life that I’ve read so far, leaving me with an odd feeling of nostalgic longing for the lost aspects of a culture I don’t know well as it is, let alone what it was. Here are few excerpts that I found interesting:

I deduced from conversational overtones that family honor was closely interwoven with the chastity of the women and governed male/female dynamics in the society. The stark reality that filtered through to me was that to a Gulf Arab, honor was everything, dearer than life itself. (iBooks p. 224)

I supposed [my husband] felt “incomplete” without his misbah. Whether he was alone or with company, he sat fiddling with it, grasping each bead with thumb and index finger and then pushing and releasing the bead, knocking its counterpart below with a barely perceived click. Sometimes, he twirled the string around his fingers and flicked it over his hand. There was infinite variation in the clicking rhythm; intervening pauses, twirls and flicks that I imagined the sounds expressed a vast range of meanings, like a secret sound language. I wondered what sounds expressed boredom, annoyance, approval, agreement, amusement or rumination. I thought that if I understood the “language of the misbah” I would be able to read my husband like a book. (iBooks p. 292)

And, perhaps most accurate of all:

Whatever romantic notions I had about patience in the desert were shattered in Doha. (p. 228)

Being in the company of other writers is one of my favorite things. I’ll never meet them or hear their voices, but together with the pages and words we share our experiences. It’s cathartic and enlarging, and most of all it gives me the courage to look at the details of my own life and thinking in fresh ways. Writing has always provided a sense of validation for me of my feelings and experiences. I’m so appreciative for you who read my writing and encourage me.

The confident driver

Navigating Doha roads takes courage, nerve, and aggression. Few drivers possess first-class audacity. But here, for your inspiration, is a portrait of the confident driver:

The confident driver never tips his hand. He is so far ahead of others mentally, that by the time one sees his blinker, the maneuver will be complete. Therefore, the confident driver needn’t bother.

The confident driver always has the right of way.

"Welcome, confident driver. Go right ahead."

“Welcome, confident driver.
We’ve been expecting you.”

He is expressive and communicative.

He is vocal. Bulging veins and flying spittle are masterfully expressive.
Unburdened by signaling, the confident driver has a free hand for the horn. Frequent use of the horn increases confidence. It’s a proven fact that sudden, irritating noises increase motivation and responsiveness. Etiquette demands horn beeping when encountering timidity of any kind.
When approaching the taillights of a sluggish fellow traveler, a few quick flashes of the high beams speak eloquently:

What are you doing on my road?!

Get thee to another lane!

Make way for the confident driver! Now!

Narrow gaps make this communication more effective. For best results, the confident driver is close enough that only the dashboard of his car can be seen in the rear view mirror.

Speed. If you need this explained, you will never have what it takes to be truly confident. I’m sorry.

The confident driver revels in mystery. Which lane will he take? Every lane! Left! Right! Blaze up the shoulder before cutting a jagged path to the far lane occupied in the first place! Unpredictability is the hallmark of an experienced confident driver.

Queues do not apply to the confident driver. Drive around the impeding cars—scatter oncoming traffic if need be—and wedge in at the front. The resulting jam will sort itself out.

The confident driver can sense the flow of traffic from all sides of his head, not just his eyes. Thus, he is free to maintain eye contact with passengers. This also facilitates communication when yelling at cars in passing and through the back window once overtaking is complete.

Most drivers greatly overestimate the time and distance required for stopping. The confident driver wastes no time, wastes no speed, leaves no wasted space between bumpers.

He is a generous teacher who knows instruction should begin early. If the child can sit upright, it is ready for time behind the wheel. Children learn better when they can see in all directions. Poking out of the sunroof is the best way to achieve this. In the absence of a sunroof, free roaming about the car will do.

Civil engineering projects are of little consequence to the confident driver. Curbs, medians, speed humps, stop signs, etc., are crutches for the weak. Ignore them.

The confident driver does not fear death.

While he gestures and waves, emphasizing my utter vehicular ineptitute, I calmly wait for the light to change. Not because of any deeply rooted serenity on my part. No. One of the first rules of driving in Doha is KEEP YOUR HANDS ON THE WHEEL. Any gesture of disrepect can push the confident driver too far. I don’t shrug or point or throw my hands in the air. Nary a grimmace darkens my face. One cannot believe every tale passed along in expat lore, but some stories have so many incarnations, that added with personal experience one can’t help but believe the basic facts:

Humdrum driver has the temerity to accept the speed suggestion on the expressway. This annoys our confident driver very much; cue flashing, beeping, and expressive gestures. Humdrum throws his hands up and thinks the incident over. Later that day, he is contacted by police who take him down to the station. Humdrum is scolded and told on no uncertain terms that he is never to insult Confident Driver with such disrespect again.

Confident tattled! He has also been known to claim to be a police officer and soundly scold Humdrum on the side of the road.

Oh, confident driver, keeping monotony at bay.

Gracing us with your presence.

Testing our brakes.

Thank you.

Define safe…

Upon hearing I live in Qatar, eyebrows raise and a pause stretches between us.

I’m asked: “Why?” “Where is that?” and “How do you say that?” (That “Q” is a breathy sound in the back of your throat. I pronounce it very badly indeed. Some say “cutter,” others “cat tar,” my husband and I say “cuh tar.”)

Saudi style salt and pepper shakers. Accurate details include the misbaha in the gent's hand, the batulah on the lady's face, and designer handbag.

Saudi style salt and pepper shakers. Accurate details include the misbaha in the gent’s hand and the lady’s batulah and designer handbag.

Having that sorted and pinpointing our location between the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and Iran, they want to know if I feel safe being in the Middle East at all.

By “do you feel safe” I believe most people are really asking “aren’t you afraid you’re going to be blown up by terrorists?” There are two issues to address here. Am I afraid angry men will storm the compound? No, I’m not. Do I feel safe…that depends on context. I am not concerned about bullets or bombs or uprisings. That said, there are certainly risks here that I don’t face in the States.

In response to the fast paced aggression of my fellow drivers, I have acquired a very upright-white knuckled-shoulder hunched driving posture. When children whistle while they work, lane discipline will be a reliable and comforting part of travel in Doha. That being said, the road markings do provide some structure. I crossed a busy intersection one day to find that road crews had repaved the entire next block—but they hadn’t repainted the lane dividers. Talk about upending the ant farm! Three pushy lanes instantly became a five-car wide scrum. I wasn’t sure we’d make it off the block. Then, suddenly, lines reappeared and begrudging rows reformed. Except for the guy in the gleaming white SUV with metallic trim; he raced up the road on the shoulder/sidewalk and hung a quick left from the right hand shoulder. The most egregious driving is often by local guys in white SUVs with metallic trim.

Once you’ve arrived, you never know when something might catch on fire or malfunction or just flat out fail. Of course, accidents can—and do—happen everywhere. What I took so much for granted back home were The Plans: The evacuation plan. The fire drills. Functioning safety equipment and systems and procedures. Employees with more training than how to collect cash and press start.

Last year electrical problems caused a fire at The Villagio Mall. This fact alone is dreadful. What’s more troubling is that no one did anything for several minutes. My friend was shopping at the time and became concerned by the black smoke filling the mall. There were no alarms. Shoppers were still coming into the mall and continuing their business instead of leaving. I saw cell phone photos of people considering watches and electronics at the kiosks in a corridor filling with smoke. People lost their lives in this fire. Reports began surfacing of safety violations in many Doha shopping and childcare centers.

After the Villagio fire, we expats were all on edge. I’ve been shopping and heard alarms sound that are generally ignored. One old man at the souq roused himself to cover his ears—sitting under a siren on his wheelbarrow must have uncomfortable. I gathered my little brood and left, shown pashminas and incense burners by every shopkeeper along the way.

The mall pharmacist rolled his eyes at me when I asked if we oughtn’t to leave, given the bells going off. “You Americans are always worried about something. It is nothing, going off all the time. It is stupid to always be leaving.” We left anyway.

Yet another mall has tired of the swarming hoards of shoppers and is trying to sink back into the desert.

What I’ve come to realize living here is that for much of my life I have relied too much on the planning and preparation of others to keep me safe. That’s just not good enough. I still make assumptions, but they are a whole new kind of assumption, such as:

The driver of that car will do the daft, dangerous thing.

The exits will not be clearly marked. And possibly locked.

I do not have the right of way. Ever.

So, do I feel safe here? In the grandest sense of the word, yes, especially at home on the compound. I also feel more keenly my responsibility to pay attention to details and be proactively protective. On one hand I feel buffeted by illogical practices that make no sense. On the other, I feel empowered to create the safety I desire. Qatar has thrown itself headlong into progression and growth and everything modern. Some dimensions of these changes are more developed than others. While reality tries to catch up with the ideal, we laugh at the absurd and steer clear of unnecessary risks.

A jumble of juggled spheres

Sunset at the Singing Sand Dunes

A year ago we moved to this place, this desert known only through CNN and impressions from my Old Testament studies. After this, our first year, I am still green and new. I am full of wonder and questions and struggling to make peace in the nooks and crannies of our life.

We are LDS Americans living in our company’s corner of the expatriate culture in an Arab country. Trotting in our orbit involves several spheres, some interconnect and some just clink against each other. Never before have the boundaries of my separate spheres felt so distinct: my Americanness, my homemakerness, my devout Christianity, to name a few.

Even now there’s no way to describe what it’s like to live within the Qatari culture because I simply don’t know. It’s…over there…somewhere…behind a wall and a pair of designer sunglasses. The places I am most likely to interact with the locals are the mall, the hospital and traffic.

Let’s be honest–being behind the wheel seldom brings out the best in folks. For now, I’m putting a pin in the conversation about driving. Being such an overarching aspect of life here, a post on that topic is forthcoming.

Rules about interaction between men and women are very rigid and restrictive. Mixed groups are not allowed. If a man and a woman are together, he is her guardian: spouse, older brother, that kind of thing. At the mall, groups of white thobed men hold court outside coffee shops, fingering their misbaha and looking off into the middle distance through very reflective sunglasses. Sunglasses indoors are de rigueur for many in the younger set of both sexes, thus adding mystery and sparing one the tedium of removing them. The food court is like a checkerboard: tables of chattering girls giggling amongst themselves in black and the boys keeping to their own very manly sets of white.

Though other countries in the area enforce this much more stridently than Qatar, even foreigners can get into serious trouble for being out alone with a man/woman who is not their spouse. This does not stop all bad behavior, of course. Uncovered women are frequenlty followed or propositioned for “friendships.” I have received several such requests on Facebook and parking lots tend to encourage this attempt to hook-up.

I have enjoyed, however, the kindness of Arab men and women toward my children. They tickle Verity’s toes and smile at Tess. There is much tenderness their eyes and voices. My arabic skills are nonexistent, but I can understand “mashallah,” which is loosely translated “as Allah wills it.” This has a connotation of warding off the evil eye. For anything wonderful Allah has created–a thing, a fortunate event, a person and their attributes–the phrase is intended to keep Allah’s good will upon it, so it won’t be ruined.

Unlike in the States–where people suggest I watch more TV/get a hobby/visit my doctor for a refresher on the birds and the bees to stop the tide of babies washing up in our home–here I am asked when I will be blessed with another. This may be my favorite part of living in this Arab community; my children are cherished. Naomi and Audrey aren’t thrilled to be patted on the head while waiting for me to have the veggies weighed, but all the kids get their share of attention. Naomi tends to walk in the middle of our pack and keeps that head of hers on a swivel so she can sidestep the pat. Tait doesn’t hold still long enough to be greeted or patted.

Often, the Qataris are reigning in state. I’ve seen family processions through the mall: father, mother, and a string of children with their nannies. Once I saw a family pile out of a large SUV in the parking garage, open the hatch back and out crawled a maid. At the doctor’s office, we sit in plush purple velvet chairs with embroidery and golden woodwork. It’s very grand. I can’t help but smile to myself as the veiled and thobed parents sit serenely waiting while the maids and I chase about after the toddlers and try to dodge the strolling cart of complimentary coffee.

Patriotism is shown by Qatari’s of all ages on Qatar National Day

The culture of our community is really the expat culture. I didn’t think to read about that before we moved here. There are lots of lunches, brunches, and coffees. Having help is the norm. Deciding to stay outside this norm has meant that I don’t participate in many expat activities. I think most people have gotten used to the idea of this family with five kids and no maid/nanny. But when we first arrived and I was also homeschooling the lot, just knowing about us caused no end of anxiety for many of our well-meaning neighbors.

Despite being cherished, there is a good amount of shock about our children off the compound as well:

“Why didn’t you bring your help?”

“You brought them all with you? Why?”

“Do I look like your nanny? Do you have a nice Filipino nanny?” She ignored the blank look Tess gave her after these questions.

“They yours? But you are not so fat! Some sexy, sexy!” Still not sure exactly what that last one means.

And the truth is that while most of the people I interact with are other Western foreigners, the rest of the people I meet in town are the worker bee expats brought in as cheap labor to run the businesses owned by locals. English is the least common denominator, language wise. Urdu, Arabic, Farsi, Tagalog, Hindi, Nepali, and others are all spoken here. Much of the English is broken. Pantomime is hit or miss. Shopping is complicated, too. Nearly everything here is imported: pudding from Germany, pasta from Italy, Dutch cheese, cereal from Spain, and French flour. No matter the language of the original packaging, there is a label in Arabic slapped over the top, obscuring any info I might be able to glean with the straggling bits of Spanish and French left in my brain.

I tried to order a pizza on the phone–once. All I understood after “hello” was “madame” and “yes” and eventually a deep, tired, sigh.

We had pancakes that night instead.