Beyond the Doors; more.

My kids adored the show as well. They couldn’t wait to come again. Fatimah and Rajaa wanted to take us to dinner, their treat. I know Fatimah doesn’t have a job, so I tried to refuse, but she insisted. Really it was her father who would be paying, and I felt bad taking money from them. In the end, we agreed, and I began imagining my first really great Middle Eastern restaurant experience here. You know, sitting on the ground with big pillows, low lighting, and delicious spices over exotic dishes. “Do you want Pizza Hut or Kentucky?” says Fatimah. “Kentucky! Kentucky!”, squeals Rajaa. I was taken off guard and confused. “What’s Kentucky?”, I ask. “It is chicken and sandwiches and french fries,” respond Fatimah in her perfect English. “Ooooh. You mean Kentucky Fried Chicken. Got it. Well, I don’t care. What do you boy’s want?” I reply, a little disappointed. Pizza! Again from Rajaa, “Kentucky! Kentucky!”. Since I really don’t care, neither are good in the states, and they are even worse here – I’m happy to give Rajaa what she wants. “Kentucky it is!”

On our way out of the shopping area gates, local men in their thobes and head dresses beckoned me to a tent. I just kept ignoring them, ‘look the other way and pretend I can’t hear them.’ Fatimah and Rajaa had gone off for a minute to get something for their nephews. The men kept opening their arms and wanting me to come with them. I ignored them the best that I could, but they wouldn’t leave me alone. It was dark and none of them spoke English, and I was getting nervous. Just before I bolted for it, Fatimah showed up to translate for us. They wanted me and the boys to write a get well letter to the king. He was in the United States recovering from surgery and we were to wish him well. I think having a note from an American seemed appropriate and this was why they wouldn’t let up. Sure, I didn’t mind. It’s his oil that pays my bills, after all, what could it hurt? “Dear King, get well soon. Hurry home.“ was the message I wrote. I still giggle at it. They are SO formal in this part of the world, I wasn’t trying to be insulting, but what else do you write in a get well note? I like to think my good wishes did in fact bring him home a few weeks later. It was such a day for celebration that the entire Kingdom got the day off of work. And, thanks to my many well wishes, or so I like to think, he was alive and well when the uprisings were happening and he decided to give everyone in the country an extra two months’ salary in thanks of not protesting. See how kind words can change the world?

Anyway, out to the waiting car and driver we went, and off to Kentucky for dinner. “Fatimah, your driver drives SO fast. He’s a crazy man.” “Not with me” she says, “I will tell him to drive safer with you.” We get in the dark green Land Cruiser and Shafiik speeds off. “See? He’s going way too fast, “ I say. She laughs at me, “No he’s not. This is fine.” I tell you, these people are crazy. They don’t understand the risks of high speed and no seat belts. The entire drive to Kentucky, their six year old nephew is standing up in the front passenger seat, playing with the drivers phone and teasing him while we are going at least 60 mph in what would be a 35 mph zone. I can hardly watch. I recently heard a ‘sick joke’, “What do you call a five year old girl in the middle east? An airbag.” It’s not funny, it’s sick, and it breaks my heart to see how casual they are with a life. But I also realize that they believe with all of their hearts that God will provide – seat belt or not. And if it is meant to be, then it is meant to be. Seat belt, or not.
We arrive at Kentucky just before the last prayer of the day ends and have to wait for about ten minutes in the car until the restaurant opens again. The kids crawl around and Fatimah, Rajaa and I talk. Fatimah tells me that Rajaa has been on a diet this week. “She eats only dates and milk for six days, then gets to eat whatever she wants on the seventh day.” I laugh, as it sounds like diets I have been on, only not milk and dates, but something of the sort. She was dying to eat at Kentucky for her day off, and I’m glad we did. I’ve been there my dear sister, oh, I’ve been there. Rajaa is tiny and slight just like Fatimah. But like the rest of the world, it seems that women are never happy with their own self-image. Before we enter the building, Fatimah asks me one more time how old Samuel is. “Ten.” “Really? He looks older, but you’re sure he’s ten?” Yes. I did give birth to him, I think to myself. I hadn’t been in this country long enough to really know what she was getting at. But I do now. She was double checking if we could all sit together in the family section, where she could take off her veil behind a curtained booth. If he was eleven, that was too close to puberty and he would have to eat in the men’s section.

The main section of the restaurant is the ‘single section’, or the men’s section. The ‘family section’ is through another small door, in a tiny cornered off area of the building. This is not just for women, but a married man can eat with his family there as well. Each booth, of which there are few, has a privacy curtain strung across the opening. The main section has tables and booths, set up openly all over the floor of that area. We ordered from a very nice man who spoke great English, getting your typical KFC fare. The man asked where I was from, as they always do, “United States,” I reply. “Oh. I want to see Texas very badly. I love John Wayne movies,” he tells me. What can you say about that, but smile? He made more conversation and I headed to our booths.

Sitting across from one another, the kids in one booth, the adults in the other, we waited on the red vinyl seats. Much to my surprise, and I think the surprise of Rajaa, Fatimah took off her veil. The curtains were not closed (again, why she doubled checked Sam’s age) and her face was uncovered in the open. I hadn’t seen anyone right after they took off their covering. Fatimah looked completely hot, her eyebrows were all askew, and she looked relieved. She was sitting with her back to the aisle, where someone bringing food would not be able to see her right away. Just then, a man came to the table with our food. I’ve never seen someone’s hands move so quickly. She grabbed her veil, which was laying on the table, and threw it up over her face immediately, almost in a panic. She held it there, firmly covering every ounce of skin and hair, while she and the briefly discussed the food. Then he was off, and it was on the table again.

Fatimah was able to eat more freely, being uncovered. Rajaa, on the other hand, did not unveil, and I saw for the first time, the art of how these women eat. A careful dance of keeping your hands perfectly clean, so you don’t get anything on the fabric while you lift, just slightly, your face covering. The food has to get directly into the small passageway you have allotted for yourself, any misses, and you have food all over your veil. Drinking with a straw is a must, because you can’t really tip your head back, while being covered, and not show any of your skin. I noticed that I would eat much less, if I were trying to eat with a veil on. It really is a lot of work, something I am glad I don’t have to do. Rajaa looked at Fatimah with a strange look, when she took off her veil to eat. I felt that perhaps Fatimah was being a bit rebellious in doing so, but of course, I think she should eat how she wants. It was none of my business.

We ate and made conversation until it was time to go. Rajaa was careful not to eat too much, as keeping with her diet. They were discussing it when Fatimah turned to me and said, “How much do you weigh, Teresa?” Choke. Cough, cough. “I’m sorry what?” Again, she says, “How much do you weigh?” Now remember, I am not small fry here, and I don’t discuss my weight with anybody, even other American big girls. “I’m not going to tell you Fatimah, that’s personal.” “Just tell us. Come on. Is it more than,…” this number or that, she replies. She continues to pressure, until she says a number in kilograms and I say “Yes. I weigh more than that.” Oh man. Big mistake, they laugh and giggle. I reprimand them by telling them not to be rude, and we laugh. Rajaa says, through translation, “You don’t look like you weigh that much.” Oh, yes I do. But it was nice of her to try to make me feel better.

Shafiik dropped the nephews off at their home, a few streets away from Fatimah’s home. Then he dropped the girls off at their house, then back to camp with the boys and myself. “How did you meet Fatimah?, he asked me. I told him and he said, “They are a very good family. Very nice people.” And he was right. They have been kind, and generous, and have helped introduce me to a side of this world I had not yet been able to break in to. Next time Fatimah and I would meet, it would be my turn to show her a part of the world she didn’t yet know.