Beyond the doors: Part 6

Two hours into our visit, I tell her I should probably get going. She asks if I would like to see the rest of the main level of their home. Of course I do! Since this experience happened, whenever I tell people a little about it, they always respond, “You got to go into her house? You’re so lucky.” Homes are very private here. As you know, these people are very private in general, so to be invited and see Fatimah’s house was very unique.

We first headed for the area of the house where the servant had come from. Not one doorway or passageway from one room to the next was shaped like something you’d see in the west. Every one was either curved or an ‘onion’ shape. Typical to their religious buildings. The walls were a very light shade of green, a yellow green.

We had, apparently, been in the men’s sitting room – larger than the women’s, which was two rooms away. The women’s had black and gold ornate couches, with it’s own entrance, but was much smaller. Fatimah told me that they really only used the women’s side when there were in fact both men and women being entertained at the house. In the center of the house, in between these two parlor type rooms, was a large family room. This room had bright purple velvet couches, low to the ground. Again, nothing on any of the walls in the house. There was though, an old Arabic numbered clock on the wall, made out of gold colored plastic, and a plug hanging down to an outlet behind the couch.

There was a big staircase that came down the center of the room, opposite of the entrance off the hallway where we came from, with muted tones of floral patterned carpet. You could walk around either side to get to the main front door of the home, the door the family used. The thing that most caught my eye in this room was right next to the front door. It was a kind of coat rack, covered in Middle Eastern wares. Traditional head dresses, the ropes that go on top of these, abayas, scarves, all hung at the entrance to the house. I thought of my own home, where jackets, hats, backpacks, and shoes all gather. I thought how different the items looked, but how the function was the same. Things to send our loved ones out of the door into the world. I am continually amazed at the similarities I have with people who are so different.

I occasionally see a veiled woman with a crying child in tow. The toddler is giving her fits. She’s trying to shop or something, and her little one is dragging their feet. Crying and pointing the other direction. She stops, bends to give directions, first I see the patience, then I see the loss of patience and frustration sets in. I hear her give firm orders in Arabic. And I laugh. I always laugh to myself, it’s the same no matter the language. Motherhood looks the same.

Off in the corner of the room sat a very nice, flat screen television. With cable. Lot’s and lot’s of cable. Fatimah turned the channel from a religious leader, flip, flip, flip, until she came to the show ‘Friends.’ She told me how much she liked this show, “Do you like Friends?” I replied, “Sure. But this isn’t how life is in the United States, you know? This is just T.V. For one thing, this show is a little dirty, and second – this is not reality.” I explained my comment a bit, like, you know, people actually have jobs, and don’t just hang out with their friends and look beautiful all the time. Well, at least not people I know. My husband lived in Russia during the early nineties, and he was regularly asked, in a thick Russian accent, “You know Santa Barbara?” (the T.V. show) I couldn’t help but think of this during our conversation about Friends.

In the family room sat Fatimah’s mother. Mother of 11 children, she appeared very old. Much older than I imagine she really is. Her teeth are in bad shape, and she is quite stooped and decrepit. She covers her head, all the time – both inside and out. I asked Fatimah about this, “She does this because it is tradition. The only time she uncovers her head is to sleep.” Her mother was holding, off and on, an old radio up to her ear. It was a black rectangular shape, with a long antenna, similar to the old tape players we used to have in classroom settings in the eighties. She was listening to a religious leader on the radio. Fatimah told me when I had arrived, that her mother would join us later, as she had to pray at that time.

I found that I really liked her mother. The first thing she asked me, through Fatimah, was “Why didn’t you bring your children?” She loves children, even after eleven of her own. I loved that she and her husband had been married, only to each other, for so long and had a big family. I loved that she covered her head all the time. It meant that she was covering before God – all the time. Her beliefs were not just to be seen on the streets. She was dressed in the typical modest clothes that many only wear outside. Drape-y fabrics, covering her whole body, but not an abaya, a skirt and top. I also loved that she went to pray. People tell me that prayer is for the men, which as a woman, I can’t begin to understand. Prayer is for us all. This is to say, that men HAVE to, but women can choose. But women would do it in their homes, not go to the mosques. Although, I understand that sometimes women do go to mosques on rare occasions, and have seen signs for ladies areas of a mosque now and then. I guess I loved that Fatimah’s mother was traditional and converted to her ways, yet she seems to have the sense to let her children be what they need to be in this up and coming society.

A week or so after I was there, I called to ask Fatima about a piece of furniture I was hoping to buy. The price, the store, quality, etc. She said, “Let me call you back. I will ask my mother.” I thought at the time, why would you ask her? I didn’t think an elderly little lady like that would know much about this situation. And I was surprised that a 25 year old girl wouldn’t know the answers to my question. Here was the reply I received, “My mother said that the store sells mediocre items, mainly made in China. Not great quality, but if it is American wood, it will be better. Look on the underside to see where the wood is from. The price they are asking is too high, and there are other stores we can take you to that you will find better quality at a lower price.” I was totally surprised at this savvy answer from this cute little old woman.

All in all, my interaction with Fatimah’s mother was short, but I was impressed and really enjoyed meeting her.

The main floor also had a small bathroom, a very large pantry for food and dishes, large like a separate room. The kitchen was tiled floor to ceiling and was quite industrial. There was a large, round pedestal work table in the middle of the room, marble perhaps. They also had a big dining room – but of course, no table or chairs. Just a huge rug and traditional Arab pillows. What a treat to see a little of the small details of life here.

As I told her I needed to call for a taxi, she graciously offered her driver to me. He works only for her family, available whenever they need him. He is a 40-ish Indian man living here as a driver. Like most drivers here, his family lives away. He is clean cut, speaks great Arabic and okay English, and drives their family car – a Toyota Land Cruiser. A VERY common vehicle here. She called him and sent him on his way to her house for me, but not before she brought out some gifts from her mother to me.

The gifts were in an Italian shopping bag, in their boxes, but unwrapped. I didn’t open them in front of Fatimah, as I wasn’t sure what is the custom. But I was very grateful and said over and over, “She doesn’t need to give me a gift.” “This is what we do here. It would be rude not to take it. Please, enjoy them. They are very expensive gifts,” said Fatimah. They turned out to be a very nice bottle of ‘perfume’ and a fancy incense burner. (see photos below) The perfume is in an amazing crystal bottle with a glass stopper. The scent is indescribable for me as a Westerner. Somewhere between sandalwood, dates, and grass? I’m not sure. But it is VERY potent, and very Middle Eastern. It is really fun just to open and smell, and have others do the same. There is usually a lot of coughing involved in reaction to the smell.

The driver arrived and called on the phone, saying that he was outside of the house on the street. Fatimah walked me out of the same door that I came into the house. Through the cement courtyard and opened the large ornate door. As I was thanking her and talking about getting together again, I realized that I was just chatting away in the open door, and she was very cautiously hiding behind it. She was not covered, not even her hair and body (she was dressed, just not in an abaya), let alone her face. She seemed very worried and uncomfortable. I don’t even realize what it must be like to live in fear of having another person see me. It must be very stifling and troublesome. She shook my hand,’ as American’s do’, although I offered her a hug which she shrugged at, and I was off into the car with her driver.

The story would seem to end here, for this evening of adventure. But alas, no. The streets of the small town outside of my gate is very small. 10,000 people or so. The speed limit is no more than 40 mph (about 60 kmp) anywhere. The streets have many intersections, ally’s, and random curves and buildings here and there. The traffic infrastructure here is less than safe. Drivers go at full speed at all times, green or red lights. If you want to turn left, but by chance you are in the far right lane three rows over – no trouble, you just turn left; in front of or through all the other cars, still going as fast as they can. At any rate, this ride home is one of the first times here I actually feared for my life. He was going 120 kph in a 50 kph zone. This is with people all over the place, at night, cars backing here or there, people turning in front of us and so on. They truly have no concept of the speed limit. No driver’s ed. here. I was afraid to ask him to slow down, thinking that perhaps Fatimah had told him to hurry, and not wanting to get him into trouble. I truly was very afraid, and will not be so timid again.

We had to stop at a couple of check points and gates to finally arrive at my house. I was greeted with cheers and joy from my children, “Mommy! You’re home! Where have you been!? And what do you smell like?” with a wave of their hands in front of their noses. “What’s in the bag?!” they asked. My reply? “Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it…”