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Archive for March, 2014

The interior ministry of Saudi Arabia recently released a list of 50 names that parents cannot give to their newborn babies.

Most of the banned names fall into three categories: names that are perceived as offensive to Islamic sensibilities, names affiliated with royalty and names of non-Islamic or non-Arabic origin. Some of the names are common in Saudi Arabia.

Has the ban created anger or amusement among those already bearing these names? Perhaps a little of both.

Names such as Malaak (angel), Rama (Hindu god)  and Amir (prince) fall into the first two categories. Some of the names are controversial because they can be interpreted in multiple ways. Alice and Linda make the list. Non-Arabic names, yes, but why those names and not Tiffany or Emily? Has there been a trend toward babies with Western names? I have yet to hear of a Saudi baby named Alice.

Benyamin, which is on the list, happens to be the name of the Israeli prime minister. Abdul Naser, another name on the list, is the name of the famous Arab nationalist ruler of Egypt, who was at odds with Saudi Arabia. Coincidence?

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Glamping (glamour-camping) is nothing new to Saudis and their desert-dwelling neighbors. Saudis love to camp. Some families go every weekend. Ancient Bedouins knew how to camp. Their traditions persist, as I recently discovered, with only a few minor adjustments.

Saudis, these days, drive out of the city in Suburbans and Yukons on 4-lane highways. Quad bikes have replaced camels. Electric spotlights have replaced oil lamps. Tents adorned with twinkle lights glow across the landscape for miles at a stretch. In the distance, high on the dunes, enormous tents on private land offer hints of luxury camping that I have yet to experience. Meanwhile, rental encampments for middle class families (and lowly teachers, like me) crowd the side of the road. Food trucks, illuminated by colored lights, lure single men to escape the family tent, if only  for a while.

Even the tents at the low-budget camps (where I went with my co-workers last weekend) are huge, with colorful patterns on their interior canvas. Dozens of carpets line the floor inside. Outside, more carpets are laid out around the fire pit. Tea kettles rest on the cement fire ring and the logs on the fire give off a rich, smoky aroma. Cushions on top of the carpets invite us to sit and enjoy the snacks set out in small bowls. Big, upholstered arm-rests make lounging more comfortable and we settle in to sample the dates, nuts, stuffed grape leaves, crackers and baklava. We wash it down with fruit juice, water and soft drinks.

But first, we must dance. The abayas and head scarves come off (this is a women-only trip). Shareen (dressed head to toe in leopard print) connects speakers to her ipod and cranks up the volume. The wailing Middle Eastern singing sounds just right in this setting. The women bust out their best dance moves. Someone has brought a red hip scarf, jangling with gold coins. They take turns wrapping it around their hips as they flaunt their dance skills – lots of seductive hip action and hypnotizing finger twirling. The Westerners try to imitate the Arabs, with limited success. A young cowgirl from Utah tries to teach everyone the Cotton-Eyed Joe. Now, who’s laughing?

Then it’s time to break out the Shisha. The women enjoy smoking the fruit-flavored tobacco from a hot pink pipe. They lounge next to the fire and blow smoke rings into the starry sky. Shisha finds it way into most Saudi celebrations – along with those other perennial favorites: dates and Arab coffee served in tiny cups.

Meanwhile, the male drivers are camping next door; a cloth fence separates their camp from ours. We have a large, sandy enclosure with a volleyball net, soccer balls and a port-a-potty. The drivers will cook our dinner while we play.

Two of the women have babies and we take turns passing them around while the very young moms, Rasha and Ruqaida, dance or ride the quad bikes around our little oasis. In a country where women are not allowed to drive, camping provides an opportunity for women who ‘feel the need for speed’ to get behind the wheel of something other than a baby stroller. One of the women in our group spends most of the evening riding the bike, faster and faster, until she finally flips it. No injuries, thankfully.

Speaking of reckless driving, one of the customs that is difficult to watch, during the long drive out of the city, is the habit of carrying babies in laps. Saudi Arabia has an extremely high traffic fatality rate, but car seats for infants and children are not common. In a country that is uber-protective of women, the lack of concern for child-safety on the roads is just one more contradiction in this culture that is full of contradictions.

By 10pm, the crescent moon has travelled far across the sky and the Westerners are hungry. True to this part of the world, dinner isn’t served until after 11. Thin plastic sheets are spread along the carpets, by the fire. Our drivers carry over plate after plate of food (which requires a rush to don abayas and headscarves for the five minutes the men are there). We feast on salad, tabouli and kebabs of lamb, chicken and beef. We smear great slabs of flat bread with hummus and discover a new favorite: thin, grilled meat patties seasoned with herbs, spices and bread crumbs. Yum!

Everything is delicious and definitely worth the wait. A giant cake decorated with the company’s logo reminds us of who is hosting our little trip. As an added surprise, our boss shows up after midnight. He has driven an hour out into the desert just to cut the cake and to wish us well.

The babies are tired and so am I. We head home, discussing plans for our next trip. We’ve bonded, as people do, over food, music, babies and laughter. The camping trip was a success! A nice break from the restrictions and claustrophobia I feel on a daily basis. Saudi Arabia is a tough place to live for a Western woman. The physical environment is harsh and so is the lifestyle. However, I have to admit, this place is growing on me. I may not love it, but I do love these people.IMG_0042IMG_0011

 

 

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IMG_0064 IMG_0025 IMG_0019 Saudi Arabia is not exactly a hot spot for tourists. The Janadriyah Cultural and Heritage Festival is one of the few ‘touristy’ activities here in the kingdom. Begun in 1985 as a vehicle to showcase regional traditions and reinforce cultural pride, it has become an annual celebration. Janadriyah is like a county fair, with camel races, traditional dance performances (men only, naturally) and booths selling food and handicrafts. It takes place during the relatively cooler month of February and lasts 2 weeks.

For an American, like me, many of the regional differences are too subtle for me to notice. One group of men in thobes, dancing with swords, isn’t very different from another group of men in thobes, dancing with swords. But the overall experience is exhilarating because of the authentic nature of the festival. This is a festival for Saudis.

People-watching is a favorite activity of mine and the chance to watch Saudi families, without them noticing, is a rare treat. An even rarer treat is to photograph Saudis, unawares. Taking photos of Saudi women is taboo in this culture. It just isn’t done. I took advantage of the crowds to pull out my camera. Parents were taking photos of their kids and others were taking photos of the performances and exhibits, so I felt comfortable (for the first time!) taking pictures in public.

Seeing the re-creation of rural villages, observing families dressed in robes, waiting in line to buy hot sambosas (deep-fried dough filled with meat and spices), visiting colorful souvenir booths, I thought of the county fair back home. But a county fair with a twist.

This fair is much closer to what Jesus would have experienced with his family than any fair I could take him to in my home town. This culture, which is so foreign and so restrictive for me, is similar to the culture in which Jesus lived. He dressed like these people. He ate like these people. His family and friends looked like these people. He was familiar with religious police who watch for any infraction and are quick to condemn those who don’t conform.

When I experience this culture, it is tempting to criticize. It is tempting to compare it with my culture and decide my culture is superior. However, I can’t help but wonder. In which culture would Jesus feel more at home?

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