"What ever happened to the mangroves south of Wakrah?" And other tales from ancient Qatar

I remember the first time that I got out of Doha city on my own in search of something other than concrete and glass. I wanted to find something - anything - resembling nature. I had just got my first rental car, a tiny little blue Chevy Sonic. The car was literally brand new, and just too cute. I had decided to go and try to find the mangrove swamps south of Wakrah, as I had read it was a good place to go walking with your dog. My poor little chihuahua, Farrah, had been cooped up for months never getting out of the apartment (as had I)...

So I did the best that I could to find these swamps, though the best set of directions I could find didn't count for the fact that a massive, deep-sea port was in the process of being planned and executed just off the coast. That fact still depresses me, though to be honest I have to say the Qatari press has done a pretty good job hushing that story. I haven't heard any negative press about it recently. You can, however, find the last story Doha News published on the project. Ironically, you can also find information linking the mangroves south of Wakrah to the Qatar Foundation's "Mapping the Mangroves" initiative, a partnership with international mangroves monitoring authorities which espouse the protection and conservation of the world's mangrove sites. You can also find links to some very sexy videos from the New Port Project website that appear to show some swanky looking QU students (if I'm not mistaken) getting a pretty sweet overview of this super-awesome-fun-time new mega-port project that's going forward.

When I think back to my first visit there it's hard not to laugh. While my directions hadn't taken into account that a massive, massive construction site was just getting underway at the time, they were also from another era entirely. Ok, I happened to read Cities of Salt earlier this year, and it's hard for me not to think of Doha in terms of Harran sometimes. When I first visited the mangroves south of Wakrah, the site of the new mega-port project, I remember being totally over the moon about finally being somewhere where I felt like I could breathe again. My little chihuahua could walk around a bit (though she's always been totally terrified of large bodies of water), and I could walk for a few kilometers at least in what felt like honest-to-god nature. I came across Qataris camping, other Westerners like myself kicking back on the beach at sunset on a camping chair. I passed by a tiny coast guard station that must have been built in the last half of the 19th century, potentially one of the oldest relics of modern Qatar. This wasn't just an abandoned patch of lands where expats could walk their dogs, it was a place that had a history - however brief.

On my first trip to the mangroves, in my tiny little Sonic, I was too nervous to venture off of the roads established by what I now realize was the New Port planning authority, so I just chucked it on the side of one of the roads on which the big yellow dragons rumble around, and walked the last 300 yards to the distinctive Coast Guard station tree on foot, my chihuahua chomping at the bit. I laugh, because when I'd finally returned to my car I had an angry Palestinian supervisor waiting to breathe down my neck when I got back. Though he was clearly softened because I was a strange looking blue-eyed female wearing a Pakistani dubatta and walking a little brown chihuahua, he made it clear that I was a dumbass for parking my car where I had. Looking back I know it was a stupid move, and I was stupid to try and go there with such a tiny car.

I smile and tell myself I would never do something like that again. Partly because I feel like I've grown up and am a bit more realistic about those sorts of things, but also partly because maybe I've lost a little bit of the foolhardiness that even brought me here in the first place; though that's a door I don't really want to open.

But then I also realize that I can't do that again, and the places where something like that are even possible in Qatar are rapidly disappearing. I've been to Al Dhakira Mangroves too (the ones just north of Al Khor around Purple Island), and they rock. Yes, they are also covered in trash, and rubbish, and litter. It's disgusting. I encourage you all to check out I <3 Qatar's mangrove cleanup initiative on the 30th of this month if you can.

But I'm not just talking about mangroves here. Qatar's being eaten up. By multi-billion dollar development projects, by capitalism more generally. It's remarkable how fluid identity is here. What it means to be Qatari, and what Qatar stands for seem to change from year to year. It's amazing how cohesive the country remains as a national entity, and yet how dramatically flexible the definitions of "Qatar" and "Qatari" can be. I'm not trying to be critical in the slightest, I'm just commenting on observations, and to a certain extent I'm actually genuinely impressed at Qatari resilience. By all means, keep on keeping on.

But please, do try to rediscover your roots a bit. We can all benefit from some careful introspection and a reexamination of the things that are important to us. Don't let your priorities by dictated by anyone other than YOU, my friends, and remember to never take anything at face-value. Yes, the government here is popular, and yes, I'll take an al Thani over an al Khalifa or al Maktoum any day of the week, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't remember to hold your leaders accountable to the highest moral standards of conduct. This sort of balance between ruler and ruled that you've got goin' on here can work, but sometimes you've got to shake the branches a bit to make sure they're still sturdy.

Branches, mangroves,... HA. So here we meet again. I guess all I'm trying to say is that really, the Qatari government should take a larger stake in the preservation of what little natural environments, and natural history sites that it has. There really are some diamonds in the rough to be found on this sandy little peninsula, but sometimes I feel like I need to visit them all tomorrow, lest they become the unhappy targets of Qatar's next big economic development plan. So help us God.

We could all use just a little bit more nature in our lives.

Peace & love always <3

A punk in hijab: Cops, peace, and quarter-life crises

“A concept is a brick. It can be used to build a courthouse of reason. Or it can be thrown through the window.” 
― Gilles Deleuze

“It is our suffering that brings us together. It is not love. Love does not obey the mind, and turns to hate when forced. The bond that binds us is beyond choice. We are brothers. We are brothers in what we share. In pain, which each of us must suffer alone, in hunger, in poverty, in hope, we know our brotherhood. We know it, because we have had to learn it. We know that there is no help for us but from one another, that no hand will save us if we do not reach out our hand. And the hand that you reach out is empty, as mine is. You have nothing. You possess nothing. You own nothing. You are free. All you have is what you are, and what you give.” 
― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed

Another chapter of my life is coming to an end, or a turning point, or a new beginning for all I know. It's daunting to wrap my head around the fact that I'm about to finish all the coursework for my MA degree. I finally started to crank out what will soon become my thesis, and lo and behold - I'm presenting a paper at the University of Cambridge this summer. How the fuck did this happen??

I've reached a point in my life when I'm undergoing a transformation I've resisted tooth and nail up until now. I'm doing that settled thing. Dare I say it, I'm becoming normal. I'll never be totally normal, though who's to really say what that even means. If you've read my blogs up until this point you'll know that I feel as if I've been born with this big hole inside of me, this sick, strange sadness that claws at my very being and rips me apart from the inside out. It's not as big a hole as it used to be, but sometimes this bastard just flares up, burns a searing pain through my chest and renders me immobile.

I've haven't felt that I could ever find a way to soothe this sensation, this feeling of nervousness, of anxiety, and of tension. But I'm learning that I can. I'm learning that I'm strong enough to control this, if I want. I've always felt that life somehow isn't fair, that we have to fight for what we believe is right, because the system as we know it is bound to fail us in one way or another. Human beings aren't perfect. We all mess up. Just so long as you don't mess up early in the morning, going 95 on US I70 twenty miles past the border with Utah and go flying into a gully, you haven't messed up that badly. Some people, though... Some people do go flying into that gully. Most of them don't make it out alive. They die alone and afraid on the bank, staring at the sunrise-soaked autumn sky. Be glad you're alive, even if you're wasting your precious time reading this blog post. Be thankful.

It is because of struggle, of tragedy, and of pain that we grow stronger, that we become more capable of succeeding in this strange place we call Earth. How we measure that success is up to us, but it is only by working hard and putting in the effort that we can achieve any palpable sense of achievement and satisfaction. Though, to be fair, sometimes dedication and hard work bring only achievement, satisfaction is not inherently gained through achievement. I'm talking about real satisfaction, about a sense of calm and contentedness in life. Though we all "play the game", and go after money, fame, and fortune, all we really want is a sense that our life has meaning and value, that we've wisely used the time we've been given - because it is so short.

I thought for a long time that the best use of my time was to shake people up, to get them to see the colors and nuances that I was seeing; the intricacies of life that people blind themselves to. The kinds of things you see when you walk down the street instead of drive, the things you notice about people when you listen instead of talk. Though honestly sometimes I would yell rather than speak or keep quiet. Yell to make people see what was going on around them.

When I was 12 I started to go through this existential life crisis that's bogged me down for the past decade. Suddenly I could see that another world existed, an imperfect world where things weren't how I thought they should be. I dressed in all black, I started wearing heavy, smudgy, black eyeliner. I listened to rock and thought myself a "punk". I would color my hair with permanent marker and dreamed of getting something pierced other than my ears. I wanted to be different. I thought that maybe I could find myself if I transformed into something unrecognizable. I got more and more into this gothic appearance, and yes, I owned at least 5 pairs of those tacky, baggy black pants bedazzled with studs and chains and straps and things.

It was around this time I first had direct contact of any sort with a police officer. I don't remember the exact context, but I was in the 8th grade - the final year of middle school in America - and I was hanging around after school with some of the other "punks". It should be noted that across from my bilingual public school there was a private Catholic K-12 school, The Sacred Heart of Jesus (we would sometimes run up and down in front of the fences and scream "hail satan!!" to get a rise out of kids and teachers alike). This particular day we were hanging around by the school about 1-2 hours after classes had gotten out, up to no particular good but not as much trouble as one might guess by the look of us. With two or three pre-teens on skateboards, others with multi-colored hair, and all head to toe in black, I'm sure we looked much more intimidating than we intended to. I don't know if one of the neighbors called the cops, or if they did just happen to be passing by at that point in time. All I know is that I was crossing the street back over to the school and a cop car rolled up, parked, and two cops got out and approached us. They asked us what we were doing and we told them truthfully we were just waiting for our parents. Not two seconds later my mom pulled up to get me, so I started walking towards her car. The cop, apparently, wasn't done with his side of the conversation, and so he reached out and grabbed my left elbow - hard. It wasn't so violent, it wasn't like he was hitting me or anything, but the way that he did it so purposefully, it hurt more than just my little twelve-year-old elbow. At that point, with my mom seeing her hormonally raging pre-teen daughter in the hands of a cop, and with no context to understand that I hadn't, in fact, done anything wrong, she burst into tears and sobbed "oh MARIA!". I can still hear the sound.

I don't think it's necessary for me to relate every single negative experience I've had with authority since then, because that would take way more time than I have, and I bet most of you would stop reading. All I'm trying to say is that for a long time I've been sure that the best way to overturn this system that's failed us so is to rebel. Of that, I'm sure. But I've often found that this desire, this yearning for rebellion and for activism has come at a cost to me, myself. It's taxing to be a full-time rebel. You're often forced into situations that make you wildly uncomfortable, and you end up regretting a lot of "heat of the moment" passions.

I think that blind faith in anything be it God, Allah, a person, science, authority, a thing, or even yourself is a sure fire recipe for stupidity. You can never fully believe in something you don't question, you don't explore and reconsider. I'm lucky enough to call myself a Muslim, though since I also identify as a Sufi and a Shia, many in the "Islamic ummah" wouldn't dare include me amongst their ranks. I pray on a little pressed stone from Karbala. Sometimes I pray late at night when I'm just staring at the stars. Sometimes I can feel the very essence of the Divine coursing through my veins and into my palms. The problem with religions as establishments is that they try to limit religious experience. The very foundations of our great religions were based on the experiences of various beings, we can call them prophets, and yet today we deny ourselves any exploration or communion with those same ideas. Don't let religion limit you. Let it help you to expand.

One of the many things that we can learn from this religious tradition some call Islam, is that the Prophet Muhammad advocated "the middle path". I'm a big fan of looking into the Prophet of Islam's transcendental experiences, the most well known of which would have to be his "Night Journey", or the Isra wa Miraj . For those that aren't familiar, it's an event during which the Prophet Muhammad is said to have traveled from Mecca to Jerusalem on the back of a winged creature, al Buraq, and then on through the seven levels of heaven (coincidentally the picture that's the background for my blog, in case you've ever wondered). At one point the Prophet was offered a choice of drink (I don't remember who offered him if it was the angel Gabriel or God Himself, or somebody else). He could have either water, milk, or wine. He chose milk, to try to exemplify taking the middle path in life. Now, I myself would have preferred soy milk, but to be fair I don't think widespread agricultural mono cropping of soybeans had quite taken hold yet at the time of the Night Journey.

I think it's time I lay off the wine and go for the (soy)milk.

I'm trying to figure out how to do that. But it's hard, and I have no frame of reference or context to fit this in. All I can do is try to force myself to make conscious decisions, not to just follow the extreme ups and downs I've been accustomed to, but to really put some calculated effort into my life choices. I know that sounds dumb. "You're in Doha!" you might say. Or "you're getting your masters and moving up in the world!", but those aren't the sorts of things I'm talking about. When I die, it won't matter whatsoever if I have a high school education or a PhD or whatever. What will matter,... well... I don't exactly know what will matter. All I know is that I want to be at peace, I want to reach that deep and restful inner peace before I die. The kind of peace where your body and mind are quiet. It's the kind of peace you find at the top of a mountain when you're the only one around. The kind of peace you get when you go to sleep at night in the arms of someone who's proven time and again that they won't let go. The kind of peace you feel when you're laying on the grass in summertime, when there's a cool breeze, and the birds sing, and their song says "all is right with the world." Chirp, chirp.

I want to find that peace. We all do. It's what we're all scrambling for in our last few strokes of the clock, the kind of peace that drives one mad late in their years, when they realize they've never given it a thought before. I want everyone to find this peace. I want for my fellow man what I want for myself.

When you're too content you never know that you should be searching, looking for a way to make peace before you go. I guess I wanted to unsettle people so that they might wake up and start looking to restore their own inner peace. Disturbing the calm was the name of the game, tearing the wool - violently - from your eyes. But it came at a cost, and I have arrived at this point in time more bruised and broken than victoriously triumphant. That can happen when you play the game, too.

It's time for me to sit back, just a bit, and try to find the middle path in my own life. It's a hard trail to follow, but I'm sure the view from the top is pretty sweet.

Peace & love always <3

Highway 24

The West

They don’t call it Death Valley for nuthin’

                        And coyotes don’t make a good pet

            But livin’ out here with the griz and the deer

                                    you pretty much take what you get

And the Rockies have shoulders like granite

                        They’re big and they make their own rules

            So take what you need but you better pay heed

                                    ‘Cause the mountain don’t tolerate fools

And the wind is the moan of the prairie

                        That haunts and bedevils the plains

            The soul stealin’ kind that can fray a man’s mind

                                    Till only his whimper remains

You can stand in the canyon’s cathedral

                        Where water and sky never rest

            And you know in your bones that the meek, on their own

                                    Will never inherit the West

It’s wild and it’s wide and it’s lonesome

                        Where the dream of first blood still survives

            And it beckons to those who can bid adios

                                    To the comfort of 8 to 5 lives

So come all you brave caballeros

                        Cinch up and reach down inside

            Till you feel the heat, then take a deep seat

                                    ‘Cause the West, boys, she ain’t broke to ride

-Baxter Black 

I haven't really felt like writing lately. I just really haven't seen the point. I feel so bad for anybody who's chosen to stick with my blog and keep up til now. I can see from that little "stats"that not many people read this thing anymore, and even fewer read these long and dramatic type posts. But whatevs.  As if I care.

I started out so cheerful and optimistic; and I think my blog's taken a turn for disillusionment in the past two years, wouldn't you say??

I like Qatar, I do. I've had a heck of a two years here, and I can't really believe that if I somehow manage to stick it out for a little while longer I may just end up with the MA I set out for. Not that I have any idea what it'll do for me ultimately. The job market in Doha for academia doesn't favor those without a PhD (or those who aren't Qatari), and looking for a lower-ranking job in the height of summer when my salary is up is even less likely. Academia shuts down in the summer, for the most part, and it's safe to say that it's highly unlikely anybody will be hiring research assistants in Doha in July.

So I'm stuck. After planning and plotting for years to get me here, my two years time is about to elapse, and I'm no closer to satiating the restlessness that brought me here.

When before, sitting in my parent's basement or staring at the stars on a moonlit Colorado night, I would dream of bigger places - of making it out here in the desert. I couldn't believe that such a place really existed, and that I could ever get myself there. Whereas some people ended up in Doha on "luck alone", I had to work my ass off. Coming to Doha for my MA was never a given. I gambled on coming here, and my risks seem to have mostly paid off.

Except that now, sitting on my little balcony by the sea, and burning some Omani frankincense - all I can think of is Colorado, and the wide open spaces of the US southwest. Irony at its best.

Maybe it's Chief Niwot's Curse, maybe its because I was born with a gypsy soul under the shadow of Mount Sanitas - but this sense of urgency, of the pressing need to travel and understand the world has never left me. I thought that coming to Doha and bettering myself academically would end up broadening my mind, and increasing my understanding of the world, of human nature, of this strange thing we call life. It has only complicated all of these things. I once had a college professor that told me "you know you'll understand when everything becomes more complicated". Couldn't be closer to the truth.

I've seen this side of the world, I've lived it, I've felt its pulse. I've seen the people that live here, and I've experienced the King's thumb. While Doha has brought me slightly closer to being anybody worth listening to (in terms of The Man's credentials), it has made me ever more confused in terms of everything else. My path forward is clear, I can go on for a PhD - so that I can end up with a transferrable skill that will (so the story goes) earn me some sort of living, exerting most forcefully the muscle of my brain, not my arm, nor my fist.

This sort of life is best for people who come from some sort of platform, who have known what it means to have solid footing in their lives. I've spent most of my conscious life clamoring through gravel pits and sand, always chasing after a dream that seemed to come easily to others. I'm not going to sit here and whine that  I haven't had it good, because we all know I have. I've never really gone hungry, and I've never been worried about having a roof over my head (except due to my own choosing). I've had two lovely parents that have loved each other for over 30 years, and who have loved me more than I can bare to say.

Though I've also had my fair share of strife, and I was unfortunate enough to be raised by ethical folk who taught me to have a global outlook on life, to always see more than myself - to always do what was right. My trouble started when I saw that the right thing wasn't always what everyone else had been trained to do. People, and that includes the law, often find it so much easier to skirt around what is "right", instead opting for what is easiest, what is the most profitable. For a while, this contradiction flung me into the world between right and wrong - some people call it "punk". Others call it "rebellious teenager-hood", and still others just call it "lunacy". Unable to cope with the world as I knew it should be, and the world as I saw it, I became somebody who forced the sheep (the everyday people) to look up from the grass, to come out of their coma and see the world in a different way for a change. I wanted them to feel the disconnect and the discontent that I did, by whatever means possible.

On some level I'll always stay a punk, but my "rebellious teenager-hood" had to end some time. Eventually, and with the help of a few well-meaning rehabilitation centers, I could focus this disquieted energy elsewhere, and it manifested in my intellect. I've always thought the best use for this was academics, since I'd mostly always excelled at school (my best subject was routinely English class; literature, writing, grammar, the works).

But it turns out that academia can't hold back this energy anymore, and truth be told I don't know what will.

If somebody told me tomorrow that I could go anywhere and do anything for the next year, without hesitation I would chose to be sitting behind the wheel of my Dad's Chevy Suburban, my chihuahua in the passenger's seat, and a sleeping bag in the bag - somewhere between Leadville and Buena Vista on highway 24. Oh, and enough gas money to last me about 3000 miles.

The rambler in me is getting uppity, and this country with its exit permits and kafala system is getting right up my nose.

So now I'm back to square one. No prospects for a job forthcoming, and no real desire to force myself into something that will leave me stranded for the next year to come. While tempting, the idea of going back to Colorado to earn pennies by my brow is something that I "know" I shouldn't do. "What about your career? The PhD?" I'll hear over and over. But then again, why would I ever need more than the sun overhead and the open road on the tip of my right toe?

Nothing to be done, nothing to be said. It's the sad reality of billions before me: to give up the passion inside of you, and to exchange it for worldly success.

I just don't know if I'm ready to box my passion up just yet.

Peace & love always <3

Bombs over Tehran

"I had learned that you should always shout louder than your aggressor." 

-Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis

I have a strong desire to just copy-paste the beginning of my friend Alex bint Eissa's latest blog post here to sum up my current state of blogging melancholy.

[Insert sentiments here concerning lack of emotion towards blogging, disillusionment with writing, general apathy for most two-legged creatures...]

I don't even know when the last time I blogged is, all I know is that nothing stays the same. I stopped writing because people were reading. A lot of people were apparently not liking what they were reading, which I guess is to be expected. In general, nobody agrees with others all the time, or even half of the time. Discussion, arguments, and critique are a natural part of the writing process, that's for sure. Doesn't my little bio even say that I want to spark controversy and discussion? I think I had to change controversy to discussion - too strong a word, you see.

All of the events of the past 4-6 months have lead me up to this moment. This one tiny moment where I'm about to make another very real and risky gamble in the Doha game. It isn't a decision I'm making lightly, but it's one that could have profound and very real consequences, even if I succeed. 

The little apartment I've occupied for the past 12 months in Doha is not an uncomfortable one. It's got these cheery, muted-lemon colored walls, and more than enough space for Farrah and me to make our own. Despite its generally pleasing appearance, it's a place that has become my veritable fortress of solitude. A cave I crawl into to take refuge from the never ending whirr of Doha that continues on outside unabated.

I'm finally taking a risky leap, and moving to a place that is conducive to both my mental and physical well-being. And I'm forking over a ton of money for it.

I was recently lucky enough to go back to my hometown in Colorado for about a month during the mid-semester break. It was heaven. I had forgotten who I was most recently in Doha. The tide of Gulfishness had swept me up, chewed me hard, and spit me back out a mangled mess. I couldn't recognize this acne-ridden, overweight face in my mirror. Who was this? Could this thing I was seeing really be a reflection of myself?

During my 5-week Colorado foray I realized that the person I had become in Doha was not who I wanted to be. I couldn't be that person that sells their soul to the game, who plays whack-a-mole to the top, to reign down from the mountain lauding power over others. There's only one way to get to the top of that mountain, and I refused to take part in the madness any longer. 

As the state with the highest average elevation, it's safe to say that I've climbed my fair share of hills and gullies during my years growing up in the Colorado pine and juniper. Some hills are harder to climb than others, some are steeper, some are longer - but the only way to get to the top is to keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how slow you go, or how much it hurts. 

I think that a lot of people in Doha could benefit from climbing mountains. Yes, we're all miserable little fat blobs, but it would also teach us something about life as we know it.

With Gulfishness, you can get to the top of the most well-known mountain by riding on the backs of others, the veritable Sherpas of the professional world. It's easier, it's fun, it's exciting, and it's social. What this Gulfishness can blind you to, though, is the fact that there is a whole skyscape full of mountains, each just as beautifully snowcapped and decorated as the others. Some are small and scraggly, while others loom tall, and majestic. 

There is more to life than just this one mountain up ahead, but sometimes it's hard to look around and realize it.

Certainly now, as I've been thrown off that mountain with no desire to return, the path ahead looks very steep. So steep, that I'm tempted not to climb, but to lay down at the trailhead and sleep instead. Light my pipe and sit in the shade, watching the world go by.

I know this must all just sound so garbled, but sometimes the heart has to speak in messy spurts. Gross.

***

I've reached a point in my life where my ever enduring life mission (to "save the world") looks bleaker than ever. Sometimes it feels as if I'm standing at the bottom of a very large, concrete pit with steep unyielding walls. In my mind's imagination, to emancipate people, bring them freedom, and work towards true justice requires the total destruction and elimination of the steeply sloping walls of this concrete pit. Though I know I could never tear them down on my own, it is my hope that I could someday make a big enough dent that others would be inspired, drawn to arms against this tyranny.

That task looks ever harder from this side of the world. In a part of the world that needs it most, the Gulf could never be farther from the adoption of a humanistic view of its people and the world (that's right, I said it). In this, the global petroleum hub - a strategic shatterbelt of vital importance, the earth's oil reserves are exploited by greedy hands that silence dissenters.

So much can be said for America's continued support for accelerating this dilemma, despite my great nation's repeated (and repeatedly humorous) calls for "democracy", "equality", and "freedom". We claim to have achieved a democratic oasis in North America, though I would be the first to dispel this illusion to anybody proposing the point. Though it took me a while to see, I was forced to learn that the America I was born into was not the idealist paradise we were often made out to believe. This became even more apparent to me the more I travelled - to South Africa, Morocco, Nicaragua, Kuwait, Mexico, and Europe - East and West. 

After pursuing my studies and being drawn to this tiny little peninsula, my sentiments about the above have culminated. Not only this, but it has never been clearer to me that the current world system (in the Wallersteinian sense) is one of interconnected global exploitation at the expense of others, of the world, of our humanity.

I guess that's kind of heavy for a boulderhijabi blog post, but I had to dish it up. It's been cooking for the past four months.

I'm ready to renew myself for the long road ahead, and to prepare myself as best as I can for the battles I may be forced to fight in the near future.

If I do have to struggle, it's nice to know I'll have the world's feistiest 7 pound chihuahua by my side.

Peace and love always <3

American Bedouin: Traversing Northern Qatar

"So we live in our old van; travel all across this land.

We drive until the city lights; dissolve into a country sky."

-Free, Zac Brown Band

So, back in Colorado it's one of my favorite activities in the whole wide world to load up my dad's Chevy Suburban and drive off into the mountains of Colorado. I've traveled those highways and backroads since I was a tiny tot, so I'm comfortable blasting down the highway, and four-wheeling over jeep trails. I find that when one needs to feel that sense of freedom, of overwhelming joy and tranquility, that feeling that all is well with the world; the road is your best friend. 

I've had dozen of impromptu road trips that have saved me pieces of sanity, calmed my heart, and re-situated me within the universe. That all sounds like such hippie-dippie talk, goddamn. But I guess I'm an introvert at heart, and some of my happiest days are those that I've spent elevated, cruising down the highway with a twangy country song wafting through the speakers...

In search of something remotely similar to clear my head of the incestuous city of Doha for a day, I loaded up tons water and my chihuahua in my little Toyota Fortuner - and hooked up my iPod, loaded to the brim with the best country music in my collection. 

The problem with going anywhere outside of Doha is that this country seems to be fundamentally opposed to maps, and good directions are almost as hard to come by. I had been planning a trip out of Doha for a while, but owing to my odd sleep/work/class schedule, I could never really make it happen. So when I happened to wake up early-ish on this most lazy of Fridays, I took it as a sign that I should take the plunge. After gassing up the tank and grabbing an extra-large karak, Farrah and I took off heading North, up Al Shamal road.

Initially, I was apprehensive to go, as I knew most of the journey would be on that awful Qatari highway, five lanes with no uniform speed average... Cars going 80 are interspersed amongst Land Cruisers flying by at 200kph. It's not a relaxing journey, and every now and then there happens to be that one car that has to drive next to you for 2-3 kilometers, staring intently, just to make sure they really are seeing a white girl in a car with Saudi plates. Yeah, go ahead, take a picture...

Anyways, eventually I reached the turn off for Al Ghuairiyat (otherwise spelled Leghriyat on the road signs), and was oh so pleased to discover that just past the (under construction) overpass the highway slimmed down into some familiar looking two-lane country. I even saw a sign that said "Highway 59", and my heart leapt a little in excitement. Finally, I really was away from Doha for just a moment. As I burned up that highway 59 tarmac, Farrah asleep in the passenger seat, I kept stressing that I would miss the turn-off for Al Zubarah fort, a monstrous landmark restored in 1937 by Sheikh Abdullah Bin Jassim, and I could not have been more wrong. The Zubarah Fort loomed in the distance a good while before it was even clear where one should be turning. I pulled in to the well-paved parking lot, and leapt out (Farrah in my arms, since there were 2 Filipino security guards milling around the parking lot). With a dozen other tourists, all of us speaking English, I read the signs that were posted, and took a handful of shots of the fort itself. I was not too impressed; only glad that I had made it to one of those gentle, introductory "historical" sites in Qatar. I heard some heavily accented English, and asked a Portuguese man to take a picture of me and Farrah over by the fort.  His companion, a pinky, round, Scottish man with teeth missing, asked me where I was from ("I figured you were from the States, but where?"). He went on to tell me that this was the first time he had left Doha in 6 months. Whether this was the total amount of time he'd since been in Qatar I didn't ask. After a quick pit stop (they have great bathroom facilities here!), Farrah and I loaded back up and went in search of the tiny abandoned fishing village of Al Jumail.

Having heard that it was visible from the road, and seeing tons of pictures before I went, I sort of knew what to look for. Just a little ways before Abu Dhalouf and the adjoining Al Ruwais, I spotted the rounded shape of the abandoned minaret in the center of Al Jumail. Pulling onto the rough, but in no-ways impossible, track to the village, the town came closer into view. I found a shady spot to park in amongst some of the buildings, and Farrah and I again got out to explore. Al Jumail is a really great spot to see in Qatar. Ruined houses and clearly defined streets (which you know aren't so old but feel ancient) lead to a (dirty) beach.

Having read a blog which talked about how the old minaret was still accessible and climbable, I left Farrah in the car and trudged over to the old masjid, keeping away from the various Qataris hovering around in their Cruisers. I entered the old mosque ground, right foot first, and traversed what must have been the old prayer grounds, spotting the qibla on my right. I entered the small doorway of the minaret, and climbed a small, dingy staircase to come to the top of the old mud tower. Four windows speckled the dome, and the view from each was equally splendid, though the Westernmost window was unparalleled in the serenity it exuded. From it one could look out across the town, down towards the beach, with its wet patches and visible sand, due to the low tide. Beyond that the Gulf stretched out in mellow tranquility, soft and open.

Minaret at Al Jumail Masjid

Horsemen across the beach

I sat for a long while in the top of the minaret, trying hopelessly to catch the feeling of the moment with my little iPhone camera. Through the Southern window, I suddenly saw three horsemen appear along the waterline, dressed in dazzling white, each with a red-checkered ghutra. They had a fourth horse with them, not tied to any saddle or bound by any rope, the fourth horse trotted playfully alongside the horsemen, clearly familiar with them and their respective mounts. I lost site of the men as they rounded the Al Jumail beach, but just as quickly as they had appeared, I suddenly saw them loping leisurely along the beach through the western window, northwards up the coast, heading towards Al Ruwais. It was a moment lost in time, a moment non-repeatable, one unable to be captured by lenses or technology. 

Eventually I tired of the dome at the top of that tiny minaret, or it tired of me, and I made my way back to the car. I continued northwards just a bit, until I reached the signs for Abu Dhalouf Park & beach. When I pulled up at the far west edge of the cornish area (I hadn't wanted to go to the main paved area since Farrah isn't always received well), and was immediately uncomfortable. Two or three teenage boys would not stop whistling (at Farrah, but still), and almost sooner than I'd showed up I was gone, back on the road to Al Jumail. It seemed better to return by the two-lane country track than by the big, noisy, Al Shamal Road for the whole journey. 

The sun was setting, the country music was blaring, and the numbness was setting in. I kept pulling over periodically to take snapshots of the glorious sunset, typically Qatari in its magnificent splendor and extravagance. You could not have bought a more brilliant dusk. Meandering down the way, I caught sight of a cloud of dust and a strange, black moving mass on the horizon. As I rounded the corner, I came upon a scene straight out of the 1970s. An old, weather-worn man trudged along at the head of a large heard of floppy-eared goats. The man matched the animals, skinny yet tough, with a long-sleeved shirt a size too big, hanging about his torso like fur that needed a trim. In one hand he held a long wooden stick. I screeched to a halt on the side of the road and rolled down the window. Farrah quickly rushed to the window to stare at this odd pack of "dogs", and a cross cultural exchange of the next level transpired. The man saw what I was doing, and held out his arms to bring the flock to a stand-still. Once the goats stopped walking, and began looking around in confusion, the man put his arm up and waved. Hastily, I snapped as many shots as I could... It was one of those "National Geographic moments" as my Dad said.

I shouted "SHUKRAN" to the man, rolled up the window and continued on my journey. As I picked up speed, I realized that the whole situation had probably been equally bizarre to each of us. As one of those few rare glimpses into the traditional life of this tiny peninsula, I was overjoyed and floored to have ran into this man and his goats, just as the sun was setting. It was unforgettable. Though I thought, more-so for him. He had simply been running his sheep along, (he was experienced to boot, judging from the way he'd stopped the flock on a dime), when an SUV with Saudi Arabian plates had slammed to a halt, only for a little white girl with her chihuahua to emerge through the driver's window to snap a few shots with her sparkly iPhone. What a place, what a fantastic country.

I spent the rest of the drive collecting my thoughts and ruminating on everything I had seen.

Doha is incredible; an amazing place with the most fitting name that means: "The Big Tree". I love this name, because it's so accurate. Everybody within the city is from a neighboring branch of humanity, although often from a branch so far away you've only ever heard of it by name. Despite this romaticized image, the city can get incestuous and overwhelming. It's easy to lose yourself in the bad driving, unending traffic, city lights, late nights, and smoky mornings.

In Colorado I would just drive myself to sanity, going as far as I was able and comfortable - to get away from people and everything about society that depresses me. That's not possible to do all the time in Doha, but if you make a point of it and plan the journey well, it's something you can squeeze in over the weekend between deadlines. 

There should always be time to take a back-road and watch the sun erupt over the sea into broad, sweeping flame.

"Yield"

Don't forget that we live in a natural world.

Peace & love always <3

The struggles of being a single female in Doha

Being a woman is tough. In and of itself. I don't think this needs much explanation, and to anybody confused by this statement: why are you even reading my blog? Seriously...

Being a woman in Doha is even more difficult. In a country where the sex ratio is 2.00 males/females (and 2.47 males/females in the 15-64 age range), you can actually feel your own presence as a woman wherever you go. What do I mean by this? I mean that in a strictly numeric sense, women stick out in this country. Seeing a woman is not as common as seeing a man, and therefore it's often a noticeable event. In a country where the vast majority of foreign workers are males (think: construction industry, drivers, manual labor, etc.) who have left behind their families and often their wives so that they can make a living, it's sometimes painfully annoying to be a woman.

For example, when I leave the house, I know I'm going to be stared at. Let me also clarify, that it doesn't matter what I'm wearing. I could be dressed like a stereotypical American, a vanilla hijabi, or be wearing a big black abaya and I will be stared at no matter what. I repeat, it does not matter what clothing I choose to wear, the staring is constant. I'm not just talking about being stared at by the hordes of male students who gather to smoke at the door right by office, I'm talking about standing in the grocery store trying to decide which pasta sauce to buy, only to look over and realize some guy on the other end of the aisle is undressing you with his eyes. I'm talking about going to a fully professional foreign policy event at a notable think tank and getting eye-f****d by the guy across the hall. I'm not trying to channel "damsel in distress" here, I've seen and heard this happen to every single one of my female friends as well, Qatari and non-Qatari.

When I first came to Doha I thought it odd how many of the Qatari women were closeted, and not that enthusiastic about going out in public or public events. While I initially thought it was exemplary of what so many in the west choose to call the "subjugation of women" in the region (ie suppressing their presence in public life) I now totally get it. I've been here only a little over a year, and already I'm starting to get fed up and frustrated with the way that women are devoured and coveted by the male population here. I'd so much rather stay home so much of the time.

To be clear, and also to dispel the myth of the sex-crazed Qatari male chasing after western women, I have personally been stared at, harassed, hit on, followed, tailgated and flirted/hollered at by every nationality under the sun. From Indians to Qataris, Egyptians, Khaleejis, Africans and even other westerners. The only commonality amongst these guys is simply that: they are all men.

I've been able to handle and deal with this as most women here are forced to do, but there are always those certain events that really put things into perspective. This past week the biggest story in the Doha scene is that of Lauren Patterson: a 24-year-old British primary school teacher living in Doha who was murdered (allegedly by two Qatari males, though this remains unconfirmed), and whose body was burned beyond recognition out in the desert. This is unprecedented in Doha, though the event does come about a year after another European female teacher was murdered by a (Kenyan) security guard. Of course, these things don't happen often in Qatar. These events are so rare here, and really we are lucky to live in a country that is, for the most part, incredibly safe.

This said, it really shakes me a bit to hear the story of Lauren. I can guarantee that every single female expat in Doha (and even the married ones when away from their husbands) has felt what I have talked about previously. I myself have had a handful of times where I've actually felt genuinely nervous or scared because of the approaches, actions, or words of a male (whether a friend, acquaintance, or some random guy in the grocery store). What I'm trying to say is that while the case of Lauren Patterson is obviously an extreme act committed by some seriously MESSED up guys, but it is also symptomatic of the gender dynamic in Qatar. We females are always on guard, and hearing stories like this just makes us even more nervous, and raise our guard just a little bit more.

I honestly can't think of a proper solution for this problem off the top of my head. My only recommendation would be for the government to possibly make it easier for expatriates to bring their families and/or wives (but of course, then here you run into the problem that the government doesn't actually WANT to encourage family life/settlement here). Really, the gender ratio should be more equal, and the half-assed segregation of so many places should really stop. I see this all the time at Qatar University: half-assed gender segregation gone wrong. It's one thing to have an area be strictly male, or for it to be fully integrated. But having a male area that is open to females should they want/need to go there makes the presence of any female in said area a noteworthy (hint: stare-worthy) event.

How do you males think this makes us feel? Yes, in your mind you can't miss the opportunity to hit on this female creature that has just crossed your path; while in our minds, you're just the 15th guy to whistle, "tss tss", or holler at us on our way to work. Seriously. Just stop. STOP.

This isn't to say that I feel unsafe in Doha at all. Far from it. Doha is one of the safest places I've ever been in, for sure. But if left unchecked, this sex ratio imbalance and the annoyance it breeds amongst resident and local females will continue to rise and threaten the general livelihood of women in Qatar. To be sure, it is the state of society and NOT a government policy of "repressing women"that is to blame here.

The best solution is with you, men! Simply: STOP STARING! Walk on by! Don't harass us at every traffic light! Don't follow us home! Don't stalk us in the grocery store! Don't softly whistle or "tss tss" us as we walk by! For serious, people! Just leave us be on our daily business. We are exactly like you, save some of our anatomy.

Ok, that's all for now. Apologies if it was super "rant-ish" but I just had to get it out of my system...

Peace & love always <3

Doha: As seen from above

"Sí, soy joven, no soy bruta

Con veintiuno, tú no me asustas

Vivo en un mundo donde se juzga

Por la malicia y no se te educas

Pero está bien, está bien

Estás diciendo lo que no es

Hablando y no tienes ni cien

Ya no creo lo que dicen" 

- Kat Dahlia

Doha can and will sweep you up. Doha will swallow you; chew you up and digest you.

This is a city of luxury, of five star hotels built on the backs of slaves; run and maintained by the world's hopeful. Doha is a playground for the wealthy, and a feast for the aspirant and hopeful. And this city, Doha, has been good to me. In some ways I showed up here more like the low-income workers coming to Doha for the first time on planes flying West, not coming from it. I didn't know a soul, save a few hand-me-down contacts. I don't want to rehash my journey and my story, since many of you who've stayed with this strange blog throughout my random disappearances will know plenty about my first few months in the Gulf.

To say the least, my first year in Doha was a rags to finer rags journey (I wouldn't say riches, this place gives you a whole new appreciation for the meaning of that word). I went from a wide-eyed, naive, and expectant convert into the wide world and managed to make my way. I fought to stay on, I took chances (some I shouldn't have), and emerged all the better for it.

It's a strange thing to watch others go through an experience that you too have undertaken. This year, as is the norm at institutions around the world, we witnessed a surge in new students at Qatar University, and a huge increase in the number of students entering the Gulf Studies program in their first year. I'm watching all of these people, some of them Americans like myself, and often times I can't help but compare their experiences to mine. Sometimes there are some seriously green feelings of jealousy, but mostly it's just fascination, curiosity, and often empathy.

Not only am I getting to know these new recruits, I've met a whole cohort of new people outside of my professional contacts that are new to me, some new to this strange place as well. People real and raw, qualities so hard to come by in this place. People who see the holes, and blow smoke through them.

Sometimes it gets hard for me to watch people get swept up in the craziness that is Doha City. I watch people throw away dollars on the pettiest material products; people that six months ago were complaining about debt, the unfairness of the system, and seeing eye-to-eye with their common man. So much changes when these tax-free salaries start flowing in. I see people get swept up in the flashy lifestyle of it all, finding equilibrium in the diversions and entertainment so promoted by this crazy Gulfish capitalism. Sometimes it's hard, but I see it all.

I have to remember that I too was once swept up in this ride. A look back at my older blog posts are some serious evidence. I was swept up in the Doha tide, for sure. How, then, can I manage to look at this now from such a reserved station, you may ask? The answer is in the fact that up until a few weeks ago when she took a new job (way to go MOM!!), I was making equal sums with my mom at my job in Doha - which also stopped paying me for 3 months during the summer. The answer is with my grandma, that moved half way around the world from South Africa to come and live with my mom, dad, and brother in Colorado - the only part of her family willing to take her in and love her fully and without reserve, no matter the cost this would add to the one income (my father's, off "slaying dragons" as he puts it) supporting 5 people (2 college students, and 3 dogs).

I don't want to turn this into a pity party. That isn't what my point is about. I'm only trying to paint a big picture to tell you that when I went back to Colorado over the summer, I had to leave the Doha lifestyle behind. I went from talking about the Syria crisis with diplomats and academics, to trying to explain to middle aged housewives that Syria didn't share a border with Iran. It was a tough adjustment to make.

I traveled (tons) this summer, as always seems to be the case with me. I ran all around Colorado, spending night after night in the back of a Chevy Suburban, camping in a different spot every night. I flew to the UK for a fancy-pants conference, and then found some of the dopest crew in London to kick-it with afterwards. I came back to Colorado and was often forced to things people in the Gulf would balk at so that I could scrape up enough cash to buy some pre-departure provisions (not to mention the headache of trying to find enough cash in one place to buy plane tickets). Don't think I'm full of just complaints, I cherish my time in Colorado often more than anything I do here in Qatar. All I'm trying to say, is that over the summer I lived an incredibly different life than my Doha existence, for better or for worse.

This split with my Doha reality has caused me to see things here in a whole new light. I'm still as embedded in the Doha-life as I ever was (more so the case when I'll finally have wheels next week), and yet I feel myself divorcing and removing myself from those things that cause me grief, things I may never have minded (or things I aspired to) last year. I am changed, I cannot avoid it.

I embrace this change, and I know that I am a stronger, and a better person for what I have seen, experienced, conquered, and been submitted to. I am harder, true, but it's a crazy world out there, and we all need a hard shell for protection. More so than this, my outlook has changed. The lens through which I see the world is clearer than ever, and all too often it feels as if I see things about people that they themselves do not yet see. Either that, or I've gone bat-shit crazy.

I'm excited to see what this new time ahead of me will bring. I just hope that I can manage to keep a cool head, and to travel a little bit more.

Peace and love always <3