Today I had to pay some power bills. Some of them were overdue.
It is a long story but I have 'bill duty' for a neighbor. I pay this neighbor's bills. I have not had car access for some time so I got kind of behind on this duty. Said neighbor informed me the "I will now cut off your power" guy paid a visit the other day, and neighbor was able to plead for a few more days' time.
So today I finally made it to the Post Office, aka bill-paying kiosk. I told the mudeer who is always smiling and helpful that one set of bills was mine, and the other was not, and asked if he could scan them (yes, Jordanian post offices now have computers!) separately.
He said, "no problem." Then I watched as his jaw dropped; he saw the amount on the screen. It was a whoppingly ludicrous amount of money for an electricity bill in this city.
"This bill! This power bill! This is triple my monthly salary!" he exclaimed. "Why don't I just bring in my own bills and let this person pay them for me, if this person can afford to use so much electricity!"
I did not know what to say, although I agreed with him.
At the other counter there were two women grappling with a bill, trying to scrape together all of their change. It was around 11 JD. Then they'll have to scrape at the veggie stand to buy a few tomatoes to go with lunch.
The gap between the haves and have-nots is growing by the minute in this country. By the minute.
I'm going to go turn off some lights.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
A little advice
Dear ajmal_ihsaas22,
I do not know who you are.
I do not know of this forum you are on or why you would feel the need to copy my story, MY story, the story I wrote and published right here on my blog, and not give a link, paste my URL, and let all those who read it know exactly who wrote it.
You spurred on a long discussion with my little ol' story, didn't you? You never once gave me credit for writing what you copied and pasted. You said, "I can't remember where I got it." And then you said, "This is my friend's mother-in-law's story."
Linking is just common courtesy. It is part of this code of ethics out here in cyberspace, bloglandia, etc. Give credit where credit is due. We bloggers appreciate and demand it.
While you did not claim my story as your own, you never said it was mine, either. Linky love: it's the right thing to do.
I do not know you. I do not know who you are. I think, perhaps, you are not my friend.
Please make right what you did wrong. Rectify! You can do it!
Site Meter is a wondrous tool. I hardly ever check it but today I just so happened to do so. And right there someone had googled my story from that forum where you pasted my words. My words.
Thanks.
I do not know who you are.
I do not know of this forum you are on or why you would feel the need to copy my story, MY story, the story I wrote and published right here on my blog, and not give a link, paste my URL, and let all those who read it know exactly who wrote it.
You spurred on a long discussion with my little ol' story, didn't you? You never once gave me credit for writing what you copied and pasted. You said, "I can't remember where I got it." And then you said, "This is my friend's mother-in-law's story."
Linking is just common courtesy. It is part of this code of ethics out here in cyberspace, bloglandia, etc. Give credit where credit is due. We bloggers appreciate and demand it.
While you did not claim my story as your own, you never said it was mine, either. Linky love: it's the right thing to do.
I do not know you. I do not know who you are. I think, perhaps, you are not my friend.
Please make right what you did wrong. Rectify! You can do it!
Site Meter is a wondrous tool. I hardly ever check it but today I just so happened to do so. And right there someone had googled my story from that forum where you pasted my words. My words.
Thanks.
Trying my Hand
at a few Haiku
Springtime in Jordan,
Nose bleeding, lungs not working
I love the flowers.
Safeway, you must jest!
Tropicana or-ange juice
Twenty-one dinar.
Holiday weekend,
Need to get out of city,
The car has been sold.
Taxi ride not bad
To Damascus just three hours,
Axis of Evil.
Smell some fresh clean air,
Visit famous mosques and sites,
Eat pounded ice cream.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Sixteen
Sixteen years ago, today, I married this tall, handsome, heavy-accented, quirky and sweet, unyieldingly generous fellow from Palestine.
Today I love him more than I ever imagined possible.
I have grown up with this man. He married a bratty kid who (incredibly) evolved into a wife and mother and best friend.
He is a treasure.
I didn't have a mahr (dowry) or a wedding to speak of. In our house we had two papasan chairs, one that I bought with my waitressing money and one he brought from his college days. We had a TV sitting on a wooden trunk, and a stereo I inherited from the home I grew up in pre-divorce era, circa 1977.
There was no home ready to greet us with lavish furniture or a trousseau of new clothing for me to display announcing to everyone that I was the new bride; no gold for him to drape on my hands or on my fingers or around my neck. Three days after we married, I was back in the lecture hall taking notes, and he was back in the hundred-degree restaurant kitchen, working tirelessly so that I could have the opportunity to sit in the lecture hall and take notes.
He has never stopped working, never ceased in his goal to build a life for us. That, I feel, is the key to our successes; we did not enter this agreement with an attitude of give-and-take, but rather, give-and-give.
I see so many young girls here wanting to be the bride! the bride! the bride!, but never thinking about being the giver. My marriage is not a gilded grand entrance into a great hall with people cheering us on. My marriage has been about discovering and re-discovering the treasure, protecting it, and adding to its value.
Happy Anniversary, honey.
Today I love him more than I ever imagined possible.
I have grown up with this man. He married a bratty kid who (incredibly) evolved into a wife and mother and best friend.
He is a treasure.
I didn't have a mahr (dowry) or a wedding to speak of. In our house we had two papasan chairs, one that I bought with my waitressing money and one he brought from his college days. We had a TV sitting on a wooden trunk, and a stereo I inherited from the home I grew up in pre-divorce era, circa 1977.
There was no home ready to greet us with lavish furniture or a trousseau of new clothing for me to display announcing to everyone that I was the new bride; no gold for him to drape on my hands or on my fingers or around my neck. Three days after we married, I was back in the lecture hall taking notes, and he was back in the hundred-degree restaurant kitchen, working tirelessly so that I could have the opportunity to sit in the lecture hall and take notes.
He has never stopped working, never ceased in his goal to build a life for us. That, I feel, is the key to our successes; we did not enter this agreement with an attitude of give-and-take, but rather, give-and-give.
I see so many young girls here wanting to be the bride! the bride! the bride!, but never thinking about being the giver. My marriage is not a gilded grand entrance into a great hall with people cheering us on. My marriage has been about discovering and re-discovering the treasure, protecting it, and adding to its value.
Happy Anniversary, honey.
Monday, April 21, 2008
True Story
That morning, after fajr prayers, she felt a little uncomfortable. The heaviness of her belly had truly become burdensome; she no longer scrubbed the floors on her hands and knees, but rather would position herself in the middle of the floor, using the wet memsaha to wipe the circumference of floor around her, then would wait for the freshly mopped area to dry before sliding herself to an unwiped space. Their kitchen was small--this process only took a quarter of an hour.
She bathed all of the boys each morning, regardless of the weather outside. Her mother had always told her that clean babies are the ones who sleep contently all morning long, so that the women can busy themselves with cleaning the home. Some mornings she would rub all of their stomachs with olive oil after bathing them, and would line them up in the bed, instructing them to take a nice long rest. Most of the time they complied.
Their house was simple: one sitting area, one bedroom, and a small kitchen. The toilet was outdoors and was utilized only when the need arose. She had always prided herself on being able to hold her wu'du from after fajr until 'asr prayers. That morning, however, was different. She felt a pressure and growing uneasiness. Sharp pains radiated down her left side when she tried to move too quickly or when she tried to keep from going outside to the bathroom. She felt her breathing a little labored, and decided that they boys' bath ritual would be skipped this day.
Around eleven a.m., her husband came home. He was taking a break from his morning shift downtown, where he had been directing traffic. He wanted a nice cup of very dark tea and some ka'ak made with dates. She told him that this morning she was feeling quite uncomfortable. He told her that he would be home early for lunch, and he hoped she was cooking something delicious.
"Orange lentils and salad," she thought. The jar where she kept her weekly spending money contained one small shilling. Orange lentils and salad.
He spoiled the three boys. He loved them in the only way he knew how: spoil them, hush them, occasionally hit them. He wanted a daughter this time.
After he finished his tea, he rose from the floor and told her that he might be a little late--if the baby was coming soon, he wanted to buy some of those cigars to pass out to his friends, and perhaps some chocolate. She eyed the shilling in the jar on the counter by the sugar, and did not know how he would manage to buy anything at all. Secretly she knew that he had ways of making money that was not part of his police officer's salary. She never questioned him.
Several hours passed, and her pains began to sharpen, particularly in her left lower back. She finished her work, sewed three buttons on her husband's uniform, and fed the boys each a small bowl of muhallabia she had made the night before with fresh goat's milk her sister had brought her. The children played quietly in the room while she lay on her left side, this time fighting back tears from the increasing discomfort in her back. She listened to the adhan for the dhuhr prayer as its words resonated, bouncing from her mountain to the ones opposite her. The morning was over; midday was settling in, and she began to bleed.
She stood on her feet and walked slowly to the kitchen. She took an onion and chopped it briskly into her hand with the knife, then dropped the pieces into a large pot with oil. The lentils had already been washed; she added them to the pot and poured water over them, just covering the top. The pain began to heighten, and this time her stomach tightened so that she could hardly catch her breath. Wiping tears away with her left hand, she stirred the pot with her right, adding cumin and salt and black pepper to the mixture. "There will be no time for salad, he will have to make do with bread and radishes," she thought. This time a sharp pain hit her middle with a force so hard that she fell to her knees, and the tears began to flow freely. She pulled herself to the window in the door that connected her entrance way to that of her neighbor, Umm Yousef. In between the pains she found a voice, enough to be heard.
"Umm Yousef, Umm Yousef, get the midwife," she shouted dully.
Immediately she saw her neighbor's door open, and an older woman looked in her direction. "Umm Bakr, Umm Bakr, I will be right back, lie down ya Umm Bakr, lie down."
The water in the lentil pot had begun to boil. She needed to lower the fire under it but could not move an inch; the pains had increased and were coming every few minutes. She told the boys to stay in the other room and keep playing. After five or six more pains had come and gone, Umm Yousef opened the door, accompanied by the midwife. Without hesitation, the midwife placed a hand on her tightened belly and another hand under her dishdasha, checking for any sign of a crowning head. Umm Yousef gave the laboring mother a piece of cloth and told her to bite on it; it was nearly 'asr time and the husbands would all be coming home for their lunches. No one wanted to hear a woman screaming in agony. That was 'ayb.
She agreed. She lifted her head so that her neighbor could tie the cloth tightly around her head. She began to bite down, the cloth already soaked with the unceasing tears. "There is a head," said the midwife, "now push!"
She bore down with her teeth clenching. She felt as if her insides were being ripped apart, but she did not dare make a noise. Another push, fogginess and breathlessness, another push, no rest in between, and finally another. She gasped and gagged from the tightness of the cloth in her mouth, convinced she was suffocating. She felt the room go dark and the voices of Umm Yousef and the midwife became muddled, as if they were speaking under a faucet. The warm flow of liquid ran between her legs, onto her dishdasha , onto the wafer thin cushion on which she lay. "Ya UmmBakr, ya Umm Bakr," she heard them say. "Ya Umm Bakr, you have a girl, mashaAllah, tabarakAllah, you have a girl ya Umm Bakr."
She felt herself smile, opening her eyes to see the midwife lift a black-haired baby girl to her chest. She touched the baby's hair and listened to her cry out; Umm Yousef carried the infant to the kitchen to clean her from the filth of labor. The midwife mashed down on Umm Bakr's stomach, pushing roughly to make sure nothing had been left inside. She got two clean cloths and wiped up the area on the cushion as best as she could. She gave Umm Bakr a glass of water, and asked to be paid her three dinar fee for delivering the child. Umm Bakr looked at the shilling in the jar, on the counter by the sugar, in the kitchen where Umm Yousef stood, cleaning a screaming baby girl. She would pay her this evening, when Abu Bakr returned from his shift, she promised. The midwife agreed, said, "mabrook," and exited through the thin iron door.
Umm Yousef wrapped up the tiny girl who would be named Jameelah, and handed her to her mother, who took out her breast and tried to feed her. She tried to relax, tried to cradle and suckle the baby for several minutes. But then she remembered the soup.
Umm Bakr passed the baby gently to her neighbor, rose to her feet, walked slowly to the pot on the fire, and gave it one last stir.
Upon finishing his traffic duty and buying cigars, Abu Bakr returned home one hour later, and found waiting for him: hot orange lentil soup and a small plate of radishes.
And a daughter.
She bathed all of the boys each morning, regardless of the weather outside. Her mother had always told her that clean babies are the ones who sleep contently all morning long, so that the women can busy themselves with cleaning the home. Some mornings she would rub all of their stomachs with olive oil after bathing them, and would line them up in the bed, instructing them to take a nice long rest. Most of the time they complied.
Their house was simple: one sitting area, one bedroom, and a small kitchen. The toilet was outdoors and was utilized only when the need arose. She had always prided herself on being able to hold her wu'du from after fajr until 'asr prayers. That morning, however, was different. She felt a pressure and growing uneasiness. Sharp pains radiated down her left side when she tried to move too quickly or when she tried to keep from going outside to the bathroom. She felt her breathing a little labored, and decided that they boys' bath ritual would be skipped this day.
Around eleven a.m., her husband came home. He was taking a break from his morning shift downtown, where he had been directing traffic. He wanted a nice cup of very dark tea and some ka'ak made with dates. She told him that this morning she was feeling quite uncomfortable. He told her that he would be home early for lunch, and he hoped she was cooking something delicious.
"Orange lentils and salad," she thought. The jar where she kept her weekly spending money contained one small shilling. Orange lentils and salad.
He spoiled the three boys. He loved them in the only way he knew how: spoil them, hush them, occasionally hit them. He wanted a daughter this time.
After he finished his tea, he rose from the floor and told her that he might be a little late--if the baby was coming soon, he wanted to buy some of those cigars to pass out to his friends, and perhaps some chocolate. She eyed the shilling in the jar on the counter by the sugar, and did not know how he would manage to buy anything at all. Secretly she knew that he had ways of making money that was not part of his police officer's salary. She never questioned him.
Several hours passed, and her pains began to sharpen, particularly in her left lower back. She finished her work, sewed three buttons on her husband's uniform, and fed the boys each a small bowl of muhallabia she had made the night before with fresh goat's milk her sister had brought her. The children played quietly in the room while she lay on her left side, this time fighting back tears from the increasing discomfort in her back. She listened to the adhan for the dhuhr prayer as its words resonated, bouncing from her mountain to the ones opposite her. The morning was over; midday was settling in, and she began to bleed.
She stood on her feet and walked slowly to the kitchen. She took an onion and chopped it briskly into her hand with the knife, then dropped the pieces into a large pot with oil. The lentils had already been washed; she added them to the pot and poured water over them, just covering the top. The pain began to heighten, and this time her stomach tightened so that she could hardly catch her breath. Wiping tears away with her left hand, she stirred the pot with her right, adding cumin and salt and black pepper to the mixture. "There will be no time for salad, he will have to make do with bread and radishes," she thought. This time a sharp pain hit her middle with a force so hard that she fell to her knees, and the tears began to flow freely. She pulled herself to the window in the door that connected her entrance way to that of her neighbor, Umm Yousef. In between the pains she found a voice, enough to be heard.
"Umm Yousef, Umm Yousef, get the midwife," she shouted dully.
Immediately she saw her neighbor's door open, and an older woman looked in her direction. "Umm Bakr, Umm Bakr, I will be right back, lie down ya Umm Bakr, lie down."
The water in the lentil pot had begun to boil. She needed to lower the fire under it but could not move an inch; the pains had increased and were coming every few minutes. She told the boys to stay in the other room and keep playing. After five or six more pains had come and gone, Umm Yousef opened the door, accompanied by the midwife. Without hesitation, the midwife placed a hand on her tightened belly and another hand under her dishdasha, checking for any sign of a crowning head. Umm Yousef gave the laboring mother a piece of cloth and told her to bite on it; it was nearly 'asr time and the husbands would all be coming home for their lunches. No one wanted to hear a woman screaming in agony. That was 'ayb.
She agreed. She lifted her head so that her neighbor could tie the cloth tightly around her head. She began to bite down, the cloth already soaked with the unceasing tears. "There is a head," said the midwife, "now push!"
She bore down with her teeth clenching. She felt as if her insides were being ripped apart, but she did not dare make a noise. Another push, fogginess and breathlessness, another push, no rest in between, and finally another. She gasped and gagged from the tightness of the cloth in her mouth, convinced she was suffocating. She felt the room go dark and the voices of Umm Yousef and the midwife became muddled, as if they were speaking under a faucet. The warm flow of liquid ran between her legs, onto her dishdasha , onto the wafer thin cushion on which she lay. "Ya UmmBakr, ya Umm Bakr," she heard them say. "Ya Umm Bakr, you have a girl, mashaAllah, tabarakAllah, you have a girl ya Umm Bakr."
She felt herself smile, opening her eyes to see the midwife lift a black-haired baby girl to her chest. She touched the baby's hair and listened to her cry out; Umm Yousef carried the infant to the kitchen to clean her from the filth of labor. The midwife mashed down on Umm Bakr's stomach, pushing roughly to make sure nothing had been left inside. She got two clean cloths and wiped up the area on the cushion as best as she could. She gave Umm Bakr a glass of water, and asked to be paid her three dinar fee for delivering the child. Umm Bakr looked at the shilling in the jar, on the counter by the sugar, in the kitchen where Umm Yousef stood, cleaning a screaming baby girl. She would pay her this evening, when Abu Bakr returned from his shift, she promised. The midwife agreed, said, "mabrook," and exited through the thin iron door.
Umm Yousef wrapped up the tiny girl who would be named Jameelah, and handed her to her mother, who took out her breast and tried to feed her. She tried to relax, tried to cradle and suckle the baby for several minutes. But then she remembered the soup.
Umm Bakr passed the baby gently to her neighbor, rose to her feet, walked slowly to the pot on the fire, and gave it one last stir.
Upon finishing his traffic duty and buying cigars, Abu Bakr returned home one hour later, and found waiting for him: hot orange lentil soup and a small plate of radishes.
And a daughter.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Seal: the Deal
I'm sitting here watching Seal and his wife, Heidi Klum, in an interview with Oprah. He shared this tidbit of husbands' wisdom:
"Happy wife, happy life."
Then he said, "Wife first, family second, career third." By "family," he meant his children. Putting the wife before the kids--now there is a concept. Truly, if the wife is not functioning at her highest level, the kids will not either. I've played that gig.
He also said something, once, to the effect of "we're never gonna survive, unless we get a little crazy."
Wise man, that Seal.
"Happy wife, happy life."
Then he said, "Wife first, family second, career third." By "family," he meant his children. Putting the wife before the kids--now there is a concept. Truly, if the wife is not functioning at her highest level, the kids will not either. I've played that gig.
He also said something, once, to the effect of "we're never gonna survive, unless we get a little crazy."
Wise man, that Seal.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Ich spreche kein Deutsch.
I really don't. But if I moved to Germany, I'd be enrolling myself in a language class faster than you can say "I'll have rot kraut on that wurst." (Halal wurst.) Could I please have a brötchen, too?
Anyhow, Spiegel Online discusses Muslims in Germany.
My take on all of this integration/assimilation has never wavered. It is crucial for all literate residents of a country to attempt to learn the language of the country in which they reside.
I immediately recall (when I think about assimilation vs. isolationism) my childhood classmate, Tam Le, who literally got off of a boat from Vietnam and landed in the fourth grade in Birmingham, Alabama. I think she learned English in two and a half weeks. Then she proceeded to whip us all in P.E., music, and art. Go Tam! (pronounced "Thumb.") Yeah, yeah, kids are sponges and resilient and adaptable, but so are adults, if they just put their minds to it.
The third generation Turks in Germany do not need to learn German? I cannot see how this will benefit them.
(ht: Seeker's Digest)
Anyhow, Spiegel Online discusses Muslims in Germany.
My take on all of this integration/assimilation has never wavered. It is crucial for all literate residents of a country to attempt to learn the language of the country in which they reside.
I immediately recall (when I think about assimilation vs. isolationism) my childhood classmate, Tam Le, who literally got off of a boat from Vietnam and landed in the fourth grade in Birmingham, Alabama. I think she learned English in two and a half weeks. Then she proceeded to whip us all in P.E., music, and art. Go Tam! (pronounced "Thumb.") Yeah, yeah, kids are sponges and resilient and adaptable, but so are adults, if they just put their minds to it.
The third generation Turks in Germany do not need to learn German? I cannot see how this will benefit them.
(ht: Seeker's Digest)
Hajj got rhythm
Here is a video that accompanies the song Labbayk, from Native Deen's newest album. Filmed entirely by group member Abdul-Malik Ahmad.
Zam Zam!
Zam Zam!
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Memory Lapse
I forgot, I really did. I was tagged to write a six word memoir by Alajnabiya, my buddy from across the way. I just remembered when I checked her blog today. Sorry!
This one is tougher than it seems.
That about sums it up.
I now tag:
Bama Bedouin
BinGregory (like he's going to do this--six kids and a job and all...)
MommaBean
Enjoy being concise.
This one is tougher than it seems.
Coffee spoon sticky,
cookie jar empty.
cookie jar empty.
That about sums it up.
I now tag:
Bama Bedouin
BinGregory (like he's going to do this--six kids and a job and all...)
MommaBean
Enjoy being concise.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Simbiosis and Bring on Da Friends!
This is from Umm Zaid's new post about ex-pats in Jordan--something I've been pondering for quite some time.
I think of our cozy community of 1100 and think, “That is more than enough space for friendships.” Because back home your community was “make do.” You might have one friend out of an entire local Muslim community. Or you might be the only one of your ethnic and language group, and so on. Here, you can meet people with similar academic interests, or spiritual interests, or life experiences (you’re married to a guy from Salt? me too!).
I love this post because I am ecstatic about how far our community in Amman has come. My first two years of living here were a crash course in the art of [forced] isolationism. After the end of the second year, I was ready to pack up my bags and flee. I lived in an area of town where I rarely saw a Westerner, was up to my elbows in dealing with life here, alone with the kids, while my husband was still able to frequent all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets or have a Chic-Fil-A chicken biscuit in the mornings on his way to work. I harbored resentment, and as much as I tried to be happy, I realized I was sorely missing something: a life.
I had to blaze my own trail and find connections. I had to move out of the neighborhood I nicknamed the ends of the earth, where taxis would refuse to go because they knew they could not get a return fare. (Hey Umm A.R., remember that time the taxi driver tried to charge you 7 JD for that ride to my house? And that was in 2002?!)
Happily, I started meeting wonderful people. Sometimes geography can really contribute to a change of heart and mind. I found my niche, my spot, my groove. And it didn't stop with the wonderful friends I met who live just blocks away from me, but continued on to the K-Town Klan, partially because of the innovative blogosphere. I started wanting to seek these people out, these ball of energy sorts who were moving over to this side of the pond. I knew we could all benefit from knowing one another. So, I showed up at Umm Zaid's door, bearing socks.
Since that time (nearly three years ago) I've continued to meet the loveliest of the lovelies. My posse is now so big I can hardly keep up with everyone. I have a kilometer-long list of people I need and want to visit. If we all tried to have a gathering, we would need to rent a stadium. (I can see that idea going over well at Sports City)
But my linking up with all of these great people does not stop with the Muslims, and this is an exciting reality, one that probably would not be realized back in the states. I have many non-Muslim friends in the US, some of whom I've been friends with since elementary school. I treasure those relationships. Meeting ladies like MommaBean, with whom I share a very similar upbringing, not to mention home state; and Kinzi, whose philosophies on so many subjects are carbon copies of mine, has been just wonderful. I'm blessed, blessed, blessed, and I need these interfaith connections.
So to prevent myself from breaking into a Barbara Streisand Funny Girl classic tune, I'll leave it at that.
I think of our cozy community of 1100 and think, “That is more than enough space for friendships.” Because back home your community was “make do.” You might have one friend out of an entire local Muslim community. Or you might be the only one of your ethnic and language group, and so on. Here, you can meet people with similar academic interests, or spiritual interests, or life experiences (you’re married to a guy from Salt? me too!).
I love this post because I am ecstatic about how far our community in Amman has come. My first two years of living here were a crash course in the art of [forced] isolationism. After the end of the second year, I was ready to pack up my bags and flee. I lived in an area of town where I rarely saw a Westerner, was up to my elbows in dealing with life here, alone with the kids, while my husband was still able to frequent all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets or have a Chic-Fil-A chicken biscuit in the mornings on his way to work. I harbored resentment, and as much as I tried to be happy, I realized I was sorely missing something: a life.
I had to blaze my own trail and find connections. I had to move out of the neighborhood I nicknamed the ends of the earth, where taxis would refuse to go because they knew they could not get a return fare. (Hey Umm A.R., remember that time the taxi driver tried to charge you 7 JD for that ride to my house? And that was in 2002?!)
Happily, I started meeting wonderful people. Sometimes geography can really contribute to a change of heart and mind. I found my niche, my spot, my groove. And it didn't stop with the wonderful friends I met who live just blocks away from me, but continued on to the K-Town Klan, partially because of the innovative blogosphere. I started wanting to seek these people out, these ball of energy sorts who were moving over to this side of the pond. I knew we could all benefit from knowing one another. So, I showed up at Umm Zaid's door, bearing socks.
Since that time (nearly three years ago) I've continued to meet the loveliest of the lovelies. My posse is now so big I can hardly keep up with everyone. I have a kilometer-long list of people I need and want to visit. If we all tried to have a gathering, we would need to rent a stadium. (I can see that idea going over well at Sports City)
But my linking up with all of these great people does not stop with the Muslims, and this is an exciting reality, one that probably would not be realized back in the states. I have many non-Muslim friends in the US, some of whom I've been friends with since elementary school. I treasure those relationships. Meeting ladies like MommaBean, with whom I share a very similar upbringing, not to mention home state; and Kinzi, whose philosophies on so many subjects are carbon copies of mine, has been just wonderful. I'm blessed, blessed, blessed, and I need these interfaith connections.
So to prevent myself from breaking into a Barbara Streisand Funny Girl classic tune, I'll leave it at that.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Good Old Gross Stuff
So I had a guest last night who dropped by for a little conversation and some dinner. Her parents are out of town and she is not the most adept cook, so I obliged her. I love it when this friend comes over. She understands snippets of English here and there, but in no way can she comprehend the chipmunkish chatter of my little ones.
After dinner I offered her some Turkish coffee and a few of those little sweets you see street vendors selling here--the ones that are tan in color and very chewy, and either covered in pistachios or coconut or something. I am not a great fan of these things, but my son (100% Arab) loves them. I'll eat them in a pinch, and by 'pinch' I mean that desperation when there is absolutely nothing sweet in the house save a kilo of white sugar and possibly a half-eaten gum drop or something. Apparently my youngest daughter was willing to give this unnamed sweet a try, so she took one in her hand, bit off the top, and bellowed,
"Hey, this stuff is ear wax! It's ear wax!!!! But I'll eat it anyway." And down the hatch it went.
My oldest daughter and I roared with laughter, but my guest, who was in mid ear wax nibble, did not understand why we were laughing. She suddenly looked self-conscious. I calmed her fears and let my eldest translate, since my brain was not able to translate ear wax. It's just not a term I've run across as a learner of the Arabic.
My guest burst into laughter. If she can joke about gross bodily function type stuff while eating and visiting, she is definitely 'one of us.' Moreover, she can actually continue to munch on the object of our gross stuff fun-poking.
Ahla wa sahla, always.
And that stuff most definitely looks like ear wax.
After dinner I offered her some Turkish coffee and a few of those little sweets you see street vendors selling here--the ones that are tan in color and very chewy, and either covered in pistachios or coconut or something. I am not a great fan of these things, but my son (100% Arab) loves them. I'll eat them in a pinch, and by 'pinch' I mean that desperation when there is absolutely nothing sweet in the house save a kilo of white sugar and possibly a half-eaten gum drop or something. Apparently my youngest daughter was willing to give this unnamed sweet a try, so she took one in her hand, bit off the top, and bellowed,
"Hey, this stuff is ear wax! It's ear wax!!!! But I'll eat it anyway." And down the hatch it went.
My oldest daughter and I roared with laughter, but my guest, who was in mid ear wax nibble, did not understand why we were laughing. She suddenly looked self-conscious. I calmed her fears and let my eldest translate, since my brain was not able to translate ear wax. It's just not a term I've run across as a learner of the Arabic.
My guest burst into laughter. If she can joke about gross bodily function type stuff while eating and visiting, she is definitely 'one of us.' Moreover, she can actually continue to munch on the object of our gross stuff fun-poking.
Ahla wa sahla, always.
And that stuff most definitely looks like ear wax.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Saturday, and not the Elton John variety
I've come to loathe Saturdays in Jordan.
Saturdays have replaced the old Sundays from my childhood. You know, the day before the day you have to begin the week again. Sundays were filled with homework and projects, of laundry to wash and rooms to clean. For many years my mother and I did not live in a place with connections for a washer and dryer. I spent most Sundays from noon until about five or six at the laundrymat, or laundro-mat, or washeteria, or whatever they are known as these days. I think they are more or less non-existent in many cities, suffering the same fate as the pay phone. They've been phased out.
A load of clothing used to cost 50 cents to wash and 25 cents to dry. I remember when this amount went up to $1, and how scandalous (not to mention unaffordable) we thought that was.
I cannot imagine lugging all of our six-member household's laundry to one location each week and waiting my turn for the dryer, here in Jordan. A laundro-mat never would have worked here. First of all, no single location could provide that much water. Secondly, given the innate impatience of most folks, I think the washeteria scene in Jordan could quickly turn to one of mayhem and/or bloodshed. Neither civilization nor globalization have brought this country to the point of readiness for a community clothes-washing locale.
When Mom and I finally moved into a place that had 'connections,' I sighed a sigh of relief. I no longer had to spend my Sundays sitting on hard plastic chairs, trying to finish my Math homework between wash and spin cycles, where other unscrupulous, looking for women sorts used to also do their laundry. Those apartment complex single men gave me the creeps.
So back to Saturdays in Jordan. Saturday is the day when my water comes, so I have to do the bulk of my laundry. It is not enjoyable. Folding clothes does not make me feel peaceful. It took my family quite a while to get used to the first day of the week being Sunday here. I need just one more weekend day. Just one more.
Laundromats have apparently come a long way: check this out.
Saturdays have replaced the old Sundays from my childhood. You know, the day before the day you have to begin the week again. Sundays were filled with homework and projects, of laundry to wash and rooms to clean. For many years my mother and I did not live in a place with connections for a washer and dryer. I spent most Sundays from noon until about five or six at the laundrymat, or laundro-mat, or washeteria, or whatever they are known as these days. I think they are more or less non-existent in many cities, suffering the same fate as the pay phone. They've been phased out.
A load of clothing used to cost 50 cents to wash and 25 cents to dry. I remember when this amount went up to $1, and how scandalous (not to mention unaffordable) we thought that was.
I cannot imagine lugging all of our six-member household's laundry to one location each week and waiting my turn for the dryer, here in Jordan. A laundro-mat never would have worked here. First of all, no single location could provide that much water. Secondly, given the innate impatience of most folks, I think the washeteria scene in Jordan could quickly turn to one of mayhem and/or bloodshed. Neither civilization nor globalization have brought this country to the point of readiness for a community clothes-washing locale.
When Mom and I finally moved into a place that had 'connections,' I sighed a sigh of relief. I no longer had to spend my Sundays sitting on hard plastic chairs, trying to finish my Math homework between wash and spin cycles, where other unscrupulous, looking for women sorts used to also do their laundry. Those apartment complex single men gave me the creeps.
So back to Saturdays in Jordan. Saturday is the day when my water comes, so I have to do the bulk of my laundry. It is not enjoyable. Folding clothes does not make me feel peaceful. It took my family quite a while to get used to the first day of the week being Sunday here. I need just one more weekend day. Just one more.
Laundromats have apparently come a long way: check this out.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Bello
This is my eldest nephew.I remember when he was born.
His Dad is Italian, his Mom is my sister. We gals went for the Mediterranean types, and with good reason. I love this guy, and although I have not seen him in years, and my own son barely remembers meeting him, I know that my boy and his cousin are very much alike.
Above all, they are kind individuals.
I am proud of my nephew and I wish him all of the blessings and happiness in the world.
What's up with my ZIES ?
I see that those posts I kind of pour my heart and soul into are the ones that receive fewer comments. The ones with topics like "camel meat at the Safeway rocks!" however, really get you all talking. That's something to ponder, no?
I took myself and my left tonsil to the doctor yesterday. Oh, wait, that's not a tonsil--it's a raw, holey, chewed up piece of something that cannot possibly be doing its relegated function of preventing illness. The following activities performed in Jordan seem to make me sick, bar none:
1. digging in the dirt/planting things
2. sweeping outside
3. dusting furniture/cleaning out from under beds
4. standing at Little League games watching my kid, as the field of dreams dust blows into my eyes and nostrils
So I see a correlation here; I know I have allergies and I know that whatever evil microscopic creatures may lurk in the dust/dirt here are far more menacing than any mite or dust ball I may have encountered in the U.S. But it's been six years! You'd think I'd have tried to build up some immunizies. That's right, immuniZIES.
Last night at the doctor's office, our exchange went a little like this. Perhaps there has been a wee bit of embellishment for comedic effect, perhaps not.
Dr.: How you feeling?
Me: Like I have rocks in my throat. It hurts.
Dr.: You having fever or general pain in your body?
Me: No, just my throat. I'm having my regular April allergies, too.
Dr.: Yes, you, I remember you, you have asthma. You had that fever of 40 last time.
Me: Right.
Dr.: Ok let me take a look at your OH MY LOOK AT THAT! (calls my husband over) Look at that throat! This is big, big infection. (my husband peers in; he is captivated)
Me: (after recovering from holding my mouth open with the tongue depressor for over a minute, gag, cough) The thing is, this is like the fifth throat infection I've had since December. Could you give me a strep throat test, please?
Dr.: Strep? What strep? This is not strep.
Me: How do you know?
Dr.: This is virus. I think virus. You have virus, I am sure. I think you been drinking too much cold drinks and eating the ice cream.
Me: (laughing) No! I have not been eating ice cream.
Dr.: You sure? I think you been drinking many cold drinks. (looks at husband, who shakes his head in disagreement)
Me: I promise, I have not.
Dr.: I will give you something, you feel better in two days.
Me: What will you give me?
Dr.: You need antibiotic.
Me: You just said I have a virus. Why would I need an antibiotic?
Dr.: Because you need. You need profilaxis. You see you need this because maybe from virus your body has low immunizies, you need make stronger immunizies, increase your antibodies, you know.
Me: OK. Do you think I should see an ENT?
Dr.: (waving arms madly, chuckling) Noooo, no, no, you don't need. You just need to drink hot, every thirty minutes, hot milk, hot tea, hot coffee, hot soup. Understand? Ok you feel better.
*end of exchange
I know what a throat infected with streptococcus looks like. I know that is what I have, because after just one dose of the antibiotic, the pain subsided, and today I am sitting upright. I am not sure why the Jordanian Medical Schools choose to disregard throat swabs and/or petri dishes as bona fide medical science. I want to know what keeps attacking my throat. I'm one of those "get to the bottom of the medical mystery" folks. I'm all about prevention. Here, it seems, doctors are more about the quick fix.
I am not a hypochondriac, either. I laugh at hypochondriacs and their Tomfoolery. (That word deserves a capital "T," so I can pay homage to my relative named Tom.) I am not one of those who could ever feel the need to feign an illness just so three days of food-encrusted dishes could pile up in the kitchen. I was so completely unable to move yesterday--unable to get up and walk across the room to fetch the remote, thus being forced to watch two hours on the life and times of Kathie Lee Gifford. Who in her right mind would inflict such punishment on herself?
I just finished stacking the last of the washed insanity we call cups and plates, creating a dish pyramid so perfect, so balanced, that the removal of so much as a spoon or saucer could send it all crashing back down into the sink. I know you know of what I speak.
Soup time.
I took myself and my left tonsil to the doctor yesterday. Oh, wait, that's not a tonsil--it's a raw, holey, chewed up piece of something that cannot possibly be doing its relegated function of preventing illness. The following activities performed in Jordan seem to make me sick, bar none:
1. digging in the dirt/planting things
2. sweeping outside
3. dusting furniture/cleaning out from under beds
4. standing at Little League games watching my kid, as the field of dreams dust blows into my eyes and nostrils
So I see a correlation here; I know I have allergies and I know that whatever evil microscopic creatures may lurk in the dust/dirt here are far more menacing than any mite or dust ball I may have encountered in the U.S. But it's been six years! You'd think I'd have tried to build up some immunizies. That's right, immuniZIES.
Last night at the doctor's office, our exchange went a little like this. Perhaps there has been a wee bit of embellishment for comedic effect, perhaps not.
Dr.: How you feeling?
Me: Like I have rocks in my throat. It hurts.
Dr.: You having fever or general pain in your body?
Me: No, just my throat. I'm having my regular April allergies, too.
Dr.: Yes, you, I remember you, you have asthma. You had that fever of 40 last time.
Me: Right.
Dr.: Ok let me take a look at your OH MY LOOK AT THAT! (calls my husband over) Look at that throat! This is big, big infection. (my husband peers in; he is captivated)
Me: (after recovering from holding my mouth open with the tongue depressor for over a minute, gag, cough) The thing is, this is like the fifth throat infection I've had since December. Could you give me a strep throat test, please?
Dr.: Strep? What strep? This is not strep.
Me: How do you know?
Dr.: This is virus. I think virus. You have virus, I am sure. I think you been drinking too much cold drinks and eating the ice cream.
Me: (laughing) No! I have not been eating ice cream.
Dr.: You sure? I think you been drinking many cold drinks. (looks at husband, who shakes his head in disagreement)
Me: I promise, I have not.
Dr.: I will give you something, you feel better in two days.
Me: What will you give me?
Dr.: You need antibiotic.
Me: You just said I have a virus. Why would I need an antibiotic?
Dr.: Because you need. You need profilaxis. You see you need this because maybe from virus your body has low immunizies, you need make stronger immunizies, increase your antibodies, you know.
Me: OK. Do you think I should see an ENT?
Dr.: (waving arms madly, chuckling) Noooo, no, no, you don't need. You just need to drink hot, every thirty minutes, hot milk, hot tea, hot coffee, hot soup. Understand? Ok you feel better.
*end of exchange
I know what a throat infected with streptococcus looks like. I know that is what I have, because after just one dose of the antibiotic, the pain subsided, and today I am sitting upright. I am not sure why the Jordanian Medical Schools choose to disregard throat swabs and/or petri dishes as bona fide medical science. I want to know what keeps attacking my throat. I'm one of those "get to the bottom of the medical mystery" folks. I'm all about prevention. Here, it seems, doctors are more about the quick fix.
I am not a hypochondriac, either. I laugh at hypochondriacs and their Tomfoolery. (That word deserves a capital "T," so I can pay homage to my relative named Tom.) I am not one of those who could ever feel the need to feign an illness just so three days of food-encrusted dishes could pile up in the kitchen. I was so completely unable to move yesterday--unable to get up and walk across the room to fetch the remote, thus being forced to watch two hours on the life and times of Kathie Lee Gifford. Who in her right mind would inflict such punishment on herself?
I just finished stacking the last of the washed insanity we call cups and plates, creating a dish pyramid so perfect, so balanced, that the removal of so much as a spoon or saucer could send it all crashing back down into the sink. I know you know of what I speak.
Soup time.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
On Ownership
I told my sister yesterday that I am in one of those funks where I feel as if my life is not my own.
"Well, it isn't," she replied, frankly. I knew from her tone that she knew exactly what I meant, and I also knew that she was right.
There may be some religious chat coming up, so if you shy away from that, go do a crossword puzzle or something.
My life is not my own: the premise. Let's dissect.
1. As a rational human being who also believes in God, I know my life is not mine in the religious sense, because I know that one day this bodily form of mine will die, and my soul will reside neither in, nor on, nor around this earth. I am a visitor in this world and I belong to my Creator. He can take me when and how He sees fit. What I choose to do with this temporary life is the test, so in that regard, I need to try to be at the top of my game. I will (and do) surely falter. Often.
2. As a rational human being who also happens to be a wife and mother, my life is not my own when we speak in terms of time. I give most of my time not to myself but rather to others who need me. I am in a perpetual state of caregiving. I choose to participate in the raising of my kids and their well-being; I've known plenty of folks who, let's say, are completely 'hands off' when it comes to being a parent. However, this perpetual state has, on occasion, worn me down to the point where I ask myself, "Who am I, anyway?" This, I believe, is a danger sign, and is one of many. (others might be: mental breakdown, rage, repeated crying spells, snappiness, withdrawal from social events--I'm only speculating here, ladies)
3. As a rational human being who also thinks she is somewhat bright and has something to offer the world, these danger signs are 'wake-up' calls to let her know that she needs to reevaluate her life and try to assume some semblance of ownership. Six-day work weeks and absolutely no time for relaxation or self-indulgence, or just 'down time' where she does not feel inclined to be the best mother or wife or housekeeper, or the ability to tell herself that it is ok to be at the bottom of her game--these are the moments she must allow herself to have in order to regain the slightest bit of autonomy.
I have more on this but have decided to take a time-out for thirty minutes, until they all start pouring in the door, hungry.
Now, several hours later, I have returned to the helm.
4. As a rational human being, believer in God, mother and wife, and semi-with-it-smart person, I acknowledge that I strive to maintain a deep and growing respect for my spouse. I do, however, believe that women, not men, are the glue holding most families together. As an esteemed teacher, Umm al-Khayr, once said, "Men need a steady supply of admiration and attention." I admire my husband on various levels, but most of all I admire his commitment to us, and in keeping his commitment, he must go out and face the ugly challenges of working. He is stressed, most of his days. He needs me to give him more than he is able to give me.
Sometimes I resent this. There are those oddball sort of men who say things like, "Hey honey, let me take all four of our kids and your best friend's five kids off of your hands for a few hours, so you and your best friend can go and relax--you know, get a cup of coffee, and unwind." (This really happened the other day at Little League; the brother who said this is not a phantom husband, he's real.) And when those situations crop up, I sometimes feel resentful.
5. Back to the glue part! I digress(ed).
As a rational human being, believer in God, mother and wife, semi-smart person, and gatekeeper of spousal respect, I do not feel inclined to play the martyr. I do not want anyone, especially my children, to feel sorry for me or bend over backwards to point out how much I do, so I can say something smarmy like, "Oh, it's nothing." It is something; all that I do for everyone around me IS something, whether tangible (like a hot meal) or intangible (like listening to my pre-teen talk about her day). I do, however, need to emphasize from time to time that we women are the glue. THE GLUE. We are not typically the ones running off to start new relationships after divorce or death of a spouse. We seem needy because society has historically labeled us thus. But we women should know that our strengths far outweigh any neediness.
6. As a rational human being, believer in God, smart and respectful and glue-ish wife and mom, non-martyr, I must find those spaces to fit in that only belong to me. I must be stingy with my self-worth. I will not hop up on the auction block so that others may bid on my strengths. I must find my voice at the appropriate time and use it at the appropriate time. I must give of myself healthfully, not disparagingly, so that at the end of the day or year or decade, I do not see a shell. I must grow. And if the affirmation I seek does not come from others, I must find the means to affirm from within.
"Well, it isn't," she replied, frankly. I knew from her tone that she knew exactly what I meant, and I also knew that she was right.
There may be some religious chat coming up, so if you shy away from that, go do a crossword puzzle or something.
My life is not my own: the premise. Let's dissect.
1. As a rational human being who also believes in God, I know my life is not mine in the religious sense, because I know that one day this bodily form of mine will die, and my soul will reside neither in, nor on, nor around this earth. I am a visitor in this world and I belong to my Creator. He can take me when and how He sees fit. What I choose to do with this temporary life is the test, so in that regard, I need to try to be at the top of my game. I will (and do) surely falter. Often.
2. As a rational human being who also happens to be a wife and mother, my life is not my own when we speak in terms of time. I give most of my time not to myself but rather to others who need me. I am in a perpetual state of caregiving. I choose to participate in the raising of my kids and their well-being; I've known plenty of folks who, let's say, are completely 'hands off' when it comes to being a parent. However, this perpetual state has, on occasion, worn me down to the point where I ask myself, "Who am I, anyway?" This, I believe, is a danger sign, and is one of many. (others might be: mental breakdown, rage, repeated crying spells, snappiness, withdrawal from social events--I'm only speculating here, ladies)
3. As a rational human being who also thinks she is somewhat bright and has something to offer the world, these danger signs are 'wake-up' calls to let her know that she needs to reevaluate her life and try to assume some semblance of ownership. Six-day work weeks and absolutely no time for relaxation or self-indulgence, or just 'down time' where she does not feel inclined to be the best mother or wife or housekeeper, or the ability to tell herself that it is ok to be at the bottom of her game--these are the moments she must allow herself to have in order to regain the slightest bit of autonomy.
I have more on this but have decided to take a time-out for thirty minutes, until they all start pouring in the door, hungry.
Now, several hours later, I have returned to the helm.
4. As a rational human being, believer in God, mother and wife, and semi-with-it-smart person, I acknowledge that I strive to maintain a deep and growing respect for my spouse. I do, however, believe that women, not men, are the glue holding most families together. As an esteemed teacher, Umm al-Khayr, once said, "Men need a steady supply of admiration and attention." I admire my husband on various levels, but most of all I admire his commitment to us, and in keeping his commitment, he must go out and face the ugly challenges of working. He is stressed, most of his days. He needs me to give him more than he is able to give me.
Sometimes I resent this. There are those oddball sort of men who say things like, "Hey honey, let me take all four of our kids and your best friend's five kids off of your hands for a few hours, so you and your best friend can go and relax--you know, get a cup of coffee, and unwind." (This really happened the other day at Little League; the brother who said this is not a phantom husband, he's real.) And when those situations crop up, I sometimes feel resentful.
5. Back to the glue part! I digress(ed).
As a rational human being, believer in God, mother and wife, semi-smart person, and gatekeeper of spousal respect, I do not feel inclined to play the martyr. I do not want anyone, especially my children, to feel sorry for me or bend over backwards to point out how much I do, so I can say something smarmy like, "Oh, it's nothing." It is something; all that I do for everyone around me IS something, whether tangible (like a hot meal) or intangible (like listening to my pre-teen talk about her day). I do, however, need to emphasize from time to time that we women are the glue. THE GLUE. We are not typically the ones running off to start new relationships after divorce or death of a spouse. We seem needy because society has historically labeled us thus. But we women should know that our strengths far outweigh any neediness.
6. As a rational human being, believer in God, smart and respectful and glue-ish wife and mom, non-martyr, I must find those spaces to fit in that only belong to me. I must be stingy with my self-worth. I will not hop up on the auction block so that others may bid on my strengths. I must find my voice at the appropriate time and use it at the appropriate time. I must give of myself healthfully, not disparagingly, so that at the end of the day or year or decade, I do not see a shell. I must grow. And if the affirmation I seek does not come from others, I must find the means to affirm from within.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
The Cuke Wars, etc.
The little neighborhood grocery store by my house has an "offer" on cucumbers today. I did not know about this super reduced price sale before my daughter and I arrived at the store front; I only went to the store to buy some ground beef. I saw commotion up ahead in the produce section, where people were shoving cucumbers in plastic bags to be weighed. One lady hit my arm with her elbow as she tried to pick the best of the cukes. She straddled the cucumber bin and made it nearly impossible for anyone to squeeze even a small hand through to grab one.
I couldn't imagine this sort of behavior at the Piggly Wiggly or Cub Foods or Kroger.
These little green, crispy, delicious staples of life are a hot commodity.
I know I gripe about the prices here but I do so with good reason. Salads are becoming luxuries, much like in the U.S. I got some stuff at a salad bar in the states this summer in one of those stores that prices your salad by weight. My salad ended up costing around $11.50 or something crazy like that. Get your veg, pay a price. Jordan is quickly following suit.
Last night we watched Egyptian women on the news fighting one another in the bread lines. We also watched as they fought one another in the water lines, pushing and shoving one another so much that the water they were trying to put into their containers mostly just spilled out onto the ground. It made that expression haste makes waste take on a whole other meaning. I will not stereotype nor will I slander an entire country's population of women, but this was not the first time I saw Egyptian women strong-arming their will to be done at the cost of another's personal safety. (Need I mention being trampled in Medina or being sat on during prayer in Mecca?)
As I've said before, manners are still around. Someplace.
I couldn't imagine this sort of behavior at the Piggly Wiggly or Cub Foods or Kroger.
These little green, crispy, delicious staples of life are a hot commodity.
I know I gripe about the prices here but I do so with good reason. Salads are becoming luxuries, much like in the U.S. I got some stuff at a salad bar in the states this summer in one of those stores that prices your salad by weight. My salad ended up costing around $11.50 or something crazy like that. Get your veg, pay a price. Jordan is quickly following suit.
Last night we watched Egyptian women on the news fighting one another in the bread lines. We also watched as they fought one another in the water lines, pushing and shoving one another so much that the water they were trying to put into their containers mostly just spilled out onto the ground. It made that expression haste makes waste take on a whole other meaning. I will not stereotype nor will I slander an entire country's population of women, but this was not the first time I saw Egyptian women strong-arming their will to be done at the cost of another's personal safety. (Need I mention being trampled in Medina or being sat on during prayer in Mecca?)
As I've said before, manners are still around. Someplace.
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