Shebab!

While they guys in my program are great (I love all five of you, really) I finally got what I crave in every country.  Bro-time.

Bro-time is very hard to find in Oman.  The sexes are, to varying degrees in different circumstances, separated.  Until this weekend I had met a few young men (shebab) my age, but hadn’t hung out with any of them.  That would be a breach of etiquette offensive to my host family, and suggestive to the men I would have been spending time with. 

Thankfully, this weekend was a different situation.  I’m still not exactly sure how or why, but there is a group of young men who have adopted SIT Oman as their special buddies, and this applies to both genders.  Us ladies were wary at first of talking to them –as is culturally appropriate, and for the best in most occasions- but by the end of our short trip we were joking with them, sitting next to them without hesitation, and having fun.  We definitely learned things, as they went out of their way to teach us about traditional dancing, food, and local history.  But they also went out of their way to get us a cake.  A cake with a picture of the whole group printed on the top, the same picture they printed out for each of us.  I don’t know if you’ve ever heard 13 exchange students and their responsible adult going “awwwwww!” in unison, but it is a heartwarming experience.

I know that this was not truly bro-time, as I am not a bro, and that if I were to return as an individual the implications of me spending time with so many men could be a little much for any of us to handle.  There was definitely safety in numbers.  But for a weekend, it was wonderful to spend time with some truly kind, interesting, curious, and funny young Omanis.  These guys were great.  Thanks a million (alf shukr), shebab.

Whither Wander Thou

While nearly absent in cosmopolitan Muscat, witchcraft plays a huge role in the southern regions of Oman.

Islam, literally interpreted, does have room for a kind of mysticism.  Jinn (the original inspiration for the orientalist idea of a “genie”) are very specifically defined in the Qur’an as early creations of God who, like humans, can be Muslim or Christian or Pagan or Scientologists, but who have neither “zaman” nor “makan.”  No time, nor place.  Crafted of fire, they are invisible to the eyes of humans, even if what they do in our presence isn’t.

However, it seems that modern Islam in Muscat doesn’t think much, or often, of Jinn and witchcraft.  The only time I’ve heard anyone mention it up here was when a young woman referred to her stepmother as “that Jinn”, much to the amusement of her sister.

This isn’t the case in Dhofar, the southern region.  While I was there I heard stories of witchcraft and curses cast in just the last few months, spoke to well-educated, well-traveled, successful adults who spoke of the presence of Jinn and witches in no uncertain terms, and to young men who flat-out refuse to be in certain areas of evil reputation past sunset.  In Dhofar, witchcraft isn’t just an abstraction.  It’s something that dries up wells after a blood sacrifice, makes or breaks fortunes, something that leaves bruises and tangible evidence and that can kill.  You don’t know of witchcraft in the south, you know the witches.

Many of my peers here have had trouble reconciling this with the air-conditioned, modern settings in which it was expressed.  However, I can’t feel the same way.  In Hawaii, I keep away from what is kapu.  There are sacred spaces.  If I were to find a Hawaiian burial site I’d call a priest before I called an archaeologist, and if I could whistle, I definitely wouldn’t do so at night.  My upbringing was on the haole end of local-haole, but even my mainland parents instilled in me a sense of self-preservation specific to this kind of belief.  There are some things you just don’t mess with.  I can’t say that I know any witches back home, but in both Hawaii and in Oman, if someone tells me that bad, unexplainable things happen to whomever stays here after dark, then I’ll be happy to head back to the hotel room, thank you.

Living on the Edge

For lack of a better phrase, I’ve been having a bit of an identity crisis.  Just a bit of one, though!  No need for concerned emails.  (Mom, I’m looking at you.)

I suppose I’ve been living at the edge of one for years.  It started in high school, when I realized that no matter how much I might consider Hawaii to be my home, I will never look like I was born in Hilo.  In France I remained an outsider, first as the obvious American, then as the person who could pass as European but would always feel like she was, to a certain extent, observing rather than participating.  Returning to Hawaii didn’t change things much, since my life experiences had so drastically changed from those of most of my peers.  Going to college meant spending time with people of similar goals and education, but I’m never going to feel like I am completely integrated into the culture of Western Massachusetts.  (It’s the hugging thing.  To hell with WASPishness, I need physical contact!)

In Oman it’s not much of a surprise that I feel the same way.  No one will ever mistake me for an Omani-born citizen, no matter how well I can wrap a head-scarf or how good my Arabic could get.  At the same time, I don’t see myself as a garden-variety expat, or even like some other exchange students.  After living with an Omani family and making such a study of the culture, when I see westerners behaving in a way that completely ignores the conservative values I’m coming to respect it makes me cringe.  Seeing anyone’s knees at the mall, for example, has turned into something that my classmates and I point out and discuss in hushed tones.  Heaven forfend we see tourists drinking or being romantically affectionate in public.

Honestly, I like feeling a little out of place.  It gives me a chance to observe, to think about the bigger picture, and early-high-school-poetry aside, it isn’t actually lonely.  Everywhere I’ve lived I’ve made amazing friends, from any of the cultural borderlands.  So when I get back to the states I’m going to wear a sundress, fix myself a gin and tonic, and reminisce about all the great parts of Oman.  The view is better from the edge, anyway.

What’d I say?

Inzain! (Great!) I’ve reached the bit where I can occasionally speak Arabic!

Some of you might recall that I’ve been taking Arabic for almost three years, and could be thinking, “It’s about time you can occasionally speak Arabic, Sydney… for Christ’s sake.”  But here’s the thing –I wasn’t studying Arabic the way most people really speak it.  I was studying FusHa, the international lingua franca of the Middle East and North Africa.  Exceedingly formal, it’s essentially Qur’anic Arabic with concessions made to modern vocabulary needs.  It’s the language of internationally broadcasted news stations, business, diplomacy, and academia.  And because no one country can really claim it, there is no set accent.  The accent you use to speak FusHa largely depends on how thick your professor’s native accent was.

Cue utter confusion upon reaching a country with regional vocabulary, pronunciation, and verb usage.

Now, if anyone were writing me memos in Arabic, I could have communicated quite effectively.  But Omani colloquialisms have been leaving me dazed and confused (for so long it’s not true… I’ve been on a Led Zeppelin bender recently) for several weeks.  The word I’ve been using for “what” all this time, “ma”, means “no” or “not” in Omani.  Words like “yes”, “good”, and “why”, personal pronouns, and the pronunciation of normally-recognizable sounds are completely different here.

Cue my joy upon realizing that this week I’ve been talking to my host mom with very little trouble.

Our conversations are limited.  We aren’t discussing anything, rather asking the other about our days, chitchatting about the house, and keeping each other informed.  But when she tries to give me more rice (I learned “rooz”, here they say “aiysh”) I can say “no, I ate a big snack this afternoon at school, thanks.  No really!  Augh I think I was smaller before I arrived in Oman…” and when it turns out that I have to stay at school all evening, I can say “Tomorrow a group of students from Jordan is coming to school, so I’ll have to stay there for the evening.  The bus will bring me back home when we’re done, though.”  I can say those things in FusHa, but now I can use Omani words and sentence structure to express the same thought.

While I was doing homework in the living room today my host mom came to look at my reading and asked how much of it I understood.  “A word here, a word there… not all of it, but I have my dictionary.”  “Yes, this looks hard… it’s really too bad you’re only here for three months.  After a whole year your Arabic would become much better.”  I agree completely, but for having just a few weeks under my belt I don’t think that I’m doing too badly.

Coffee, tea, or me?

Something I will definitely miss about Oman is the afternoon qahua.

After lunch, nap time, and some dilly-dallying about (no one can accuse the Omanis of being rushed or hasty) a typical weekend activity for women is driving to someones house to sit and chat with family.  Female family, of course -whether they be blood relatives or in-laws.  The location, occasion, and motivation can vary, but inevitably, we are served Omani espresso (qahua) and dates. 

Sitting on the floor, chatting and relaxing, holding babies; the women sip their coffee, snack on dates, fruit, and other sweets, and take advantage of their free time.  It's not unusual to visit a few houses in one afternoon and have the same spread at each, or to sit down at one, only to have another group of women walk in the door.

Conversation (as far as my limited Arabic permits me to tell) runs from family life to travel to politics to story-telling.  Other times there is no conversation, we just sit and relax and enjoy someones hospitality.

Thankfully, as both an honorary family member and an obvious westerner, I've had the chance to sit down for qahua with men a few times, too.  Just in the past week, two of my peers (a man and a woman) and I were invited to qahua twice while doing a field assignment -the first time in an old man's shop, the second time in his home with his nephew.  Both times the men were served first, (as was the case when I had coffee with a group of mixed family members) and I was even given an explanation as to why.  You serve big people, then smaller people, apparently.

Qahua can get a little awkward, as when a group of women realized that I can understand snippets of the conversation and abruptly stopped talking about the recent protests, or when the shop owner told me that it is good that I am dressing like an Omani woman, because then an Omani man might see me and decide that he wants me as his wife.  But I love Omani hospitality, and the ability to drop in, unannounced, on a friend with the knowledge that they'll have hot coffee waiting for you.  If I show up at your place sometime wearing a head-covering and bearing dates and oranges, now you know why.

Muslim Garb

A week ago I finally purchased an abayya.  Not to be confused with a burqa or hijab, an abayya is a long-sleeved, floor-length, loose black robe.  In most countries on the Arabian Peninsula, the abayya is worn with any variety or hair or face covering and is the standard for modest dress for women in public.  It’s one of those things that comes under criticism from people who see it as a sign of oppression –“Muslim garb,” to borrow Juan Williams’ term, that women should be able to cast off as shackles of an outdated system.

I won’t lie, I find the abayya very uncomfortable.  I’m always stepping on the front (making the buttons snap open in an Omani style peep-show) and re-adjusting my scarf, which manages to make the already-oppressive heat here seem worse.  However, men here face similar problems.  They are required, by custom and (in certain contexts) law, to wear the disdasha -a long-sleeved, ankle-length tunic that buttons tightly at the neck.  It’s always accompanied with a head-covering, too.  In the Emirates and Saudi Arabia men wear large scarves as turbans or fastened tightly around the crown with more cloth, and in Oman men wear tall embroidered caps, called kumma, often with a cashmere scarf wrapped tightly around the top.  Disdashas are generally white, it’s true, but did you see the bit where the scarf was cashmere?  Cashmere.  In the Arabian Peninsula.  Men here have to dress almost as uncomfortably and impractically as women. 

Additionally, abayyas are actually not a bad vehicle for self-expression.  The patterns vary wildly, as to the fabric choices, embellishments, and scarves.  My scarf, with bright-blue zebra print and super-imposed pink, yellow, and orange flowers, actually makes me look more Omani than not, and is downright subtle compared to some of the rhinestone-encrusted scarves I’ve seen.  Some abayyas are trimmed in patterned fabric, others have long, billowing sleeves, and quite a few are decorated with, again, the ever-present rhinestones.

I don’t envy the women here who would rather not wear one.  There is a lot of societal pressure for Muslim, Omani women to wear the abayya, and even cover their entire face in more conservative areas.  But the men who would rather not wear their “Muslim garb” are shit-outta-luck, too, and in the four weeks I’ve been here I’ve only heard one woman say anything about how upset her father would be if she wasn’t covered properly.  Most of the time, it’s women who compliment my new conservative look, who get excited to see a westerner dressing like them, and who say “throw on your abayya, we’re going out.”