When all the little things add up to one defining moment...pt 7

Hey folks, sorry for the loooong delay in part 7. Busy with college, life, ups and downs. Happened to be looking today at it for another reason and realized I needed to start on it again...so here we are. Pt. 7...enjoy. *and for some reason this post does NOT want to break up into paragraphs so sorry for the eye strain. My husband came home one day and asked if I would like to visit some Americans. An American man worked at the military base on a project and my husband had gotten to know him. He invited us over to meet his wife assuming I would love to meet other American women. Didn't have to ask me twice. I was so excited at the mere thought of meeting someone "like me"; with my cultural background, my language, my nationality etc. but had been so deeply thrown into my little world of isolation and culture shock that I also felt somewhat apprehensive to meet her. I looked forward to it and shied away from it at the same time. They lived on a compound with other American/European families. It was beautiful and so far removed from what I had been experiencing for the past couple of months. There were trees, gardens, swimming pools...it was clean, pretty and quiet. I sat staring out the window as if I had entered a world I had never seen before...it seemed so unfamiliar to me now. It was as if now I was the foreigner to that life I had once been familiar with. My husband laughed and "promised" that one day we would live in something similar. I clutched onto that promise that fell from his lips so easily and kept it tucked away in a corner of my heart to be taken out at those moments when I felt I couldn't live another day in his mother's house. At times that promise was my talisman, my prayer beads, my only hope that the place I called home now was not something I would have to endure forever. His name was Glen and hers was Diane. She was very tall and very pregnant with one little toddler running around already. Inside the house was even prettier than the outside. I know now that it could not have been all that different from any nicely decorated house I might find anywhere in the U.S. but it was like a mansion in my eyes that night. The rooms were very big with high ceilings and there was furniture; a couch and recliners, table and chairs, end tables with vases. I had just spent 2 months sitting on the floor surrounded by broken walls, bad lighting, thick dust, and rats running round...this was so far removed from that I felt like I was in a queen's palace. Diane could see my gawking and asked if I would like a tour and then took me around after a mere nod from me. My tongue was tied up tight and it seemed all I was capable of doing was making inarticulate noises over everything she showed me. Her house was full of the very same things MY childhood house had been full of for the most part but I was seeing these things now like someone who had only ever dreamed of experiencing life with such "luxuries"...which is how I now viewed these things that I had grown up with but were now something from another life. The one thing she did have that I absolutely felt jealous over was a very large bookshelf full to over flowing with books. She saw me looking at them like a thirsty man looking at cold water and she offered to lend me some. I probably would have spent the remainder of the evening just browsing her shelves if I thought it would have been acceptable guest behavior, but instead I just grabbed a few at hand and counted the minutes until I could get home to read them. I was so starved for the one joy I had always been able to engage at any time in my life..up until now. As nice as Diane was and even though I was enjoying my evening immensely, I very much wanted to get back to my room and just read. The remainder of the evening was lots of fun. We all talked and got to know each other. My tongue loosened up and I felt happy to be around "normal" people; my kind of people. Several times Diane or Glen would ask me questions about my husbands family, our home, what I did and how did I like Bahrain so far. Each time I tried to answer with honesty my husband would jump in, answer for me, then change the subject. I'm sure they got the message eventually as they almost stopped asking me anything at all before the night was over. For me it was the first time I realized my husband didn't want anyone to know how we lived, or rather how I lived. He didn't want me describing our house, or how his family treated me, or what I didn't do all day as I sat in my room counting ticks on the clock. Soon I would learn that this extended to my own family as well. Over those first few years on the rare occasion that I did speak to my mother on the phone, he sat right there listening to the whole conversation...if it seemed as if we were straying into "forbidden" territory, he would immediately claim time was up and I had to say good bye. Years later my mother told me she knew something was wrong but felt by straight out asking me she might be causing me trouble of some kind. The one phone we did have in the house (when it was on) was in his sister's bedroom so I could never use it without her knowing, and she also always sat with me during phone calls. Phone booths around our area were always broken or just not there anymore and so was rarely able to find a working one on the few occasions I purposely went looking for one. All this meant I had almost no contact with my family for the first few years I was in Bahrain. Occasional phone calls limited to a few minutes at best. By the time the evening came to a close I felt like I had found a new friend in Diane. Someone I could relate too, talk too; someone who would chase away the loneliness and make my long days a little more bearable. She invited me over again anytime I wanted and told me she would introduce me to some other ladies on the compound and that soon I would have lots of friends. I was thankful beyond words and felt as if I was grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of having friends. We said our goodbyes and headed for the car. The moment we slammed the doors my husband was lecturing me on how our lives and how we lived it was a private matter between him and I and I had no right trying to expose it to others as if we lived in a "fishbowl". One of his favorite sayings over the years. I told him that this was small talk, how people got to know each other...as if he didn't know that since he did the same with me when we met (though he left some bits out obviously), but he wouldn't have it. He told me he wouldn't bring me to her house again if I was just going to make him look bad in other people eyes, which I thought was a strange thing to say because I hadn't actually said anything at all; good or bad as he pre-empted my answer almost every time. I sat there quietly thinking that he must be well aware how others would view the life he had brought me too if he didn't want them knowing...and judging him by it. Eventually he ruined my lovely evening by reducing me to tears; something that happened a lot those first years in Bahrain. I couldn't argue back, fight back, or defend myself...I just fell pathetically into a puddle of tears feeling absolutely useless and helpless. Looking back I'm positive I cried enough tears in those early years to keep Noah's ark afloat for a good long while. Over the next 2 years I only got to visit with Diane a couple of times. My husband was always too busy to take me there...though I felt it was more because he didn't want me to develop a close friendship with her. After both of our children were born I was able to visit her a few more times but then news came that her and Glen were leaving Bahrain. I was devastated. They were the only Americans I knew and I felt as if they were abandoning me in some way...as if a lifeline I had to reality was being cut without warning. She invited me over for one last visit but my husband declined and I was so upset with his refusal to let me visit with her again. Later that day Glen stopped by and gave me some toddler clothes her son had outgrown and some books etc. When he arrived at our house he stood outside on the street and one of the nieces came to tell me there was a man waiting for me. She said it as if my lover had come calling openly and brazenly for all the world to see. I felt embarrassed and ashamed as if that fact were indeed true...but hurried down to see Glen, hoping Diane was with him. (all the while in the back of my head was the thought of inviting them in to the house and what they would think of it). Diane was not with him (I felt a sigh of relief actually) and he was obviously uncomfortable being there. He kept looking up and down the small street at all the men looking at him, no doubt wondering what he was doing there, who he was visiting in this house with Bahraini women etc. He was nervous and wanted to leave but spoke with me a few moments and passed along the gifts and some words from Diane. I asked him if he had an address or phone number that I could contact Diane with later on and he said he had already given it to my husband. He stood there a moment, not saying anything but acting as if he wanted too. I could see him glancing over my shoulder into the dim interior of the house, then looking up at the side of the house and then once again up and down the street. His desire to ask me if I was all right, if I wanted or needed help was palatable. I could almost hear him speaking the words even though his lips had not moved...and then he was backing away with regrets that he was very busy and needed to get going. They left Bahrain a few days later and never spoke or was in contact with Diane after that. My husband claimed Glen never gave him an address or phone number and so she was gone from my life. Tragically years later we would actually hear about Glen and Diane through another couple that knew them. Their son that was born when my daughter was born was killed in a freak accident with a lawn mover when he was around 8 years old. Even though I had not heard from her since they left I still felt so incredibly sad for her for her loss and remembered the days when our children played together. I still have one picture that shows my daughter and her son standing near each other outside in her yard. I would not meet another American family, or even American period, for several years after that. Over the 20 years of our marriage my husband purposely kept me from knowing Americans because he explained that they would lead me to "bad behavoir" or "thoughts"; that they were immoral and so would encourage me to be immoral too. Other than meeting one here and there by chance for a quick chat, I had almost no contact with fellow Americans at all in that time. Years later I would actually live near some Americans and Brits while living in Hamad Town but our friendships could not flourish simply because he wouldn't allow them too. Eventually they would get the message and break off contacat with me. I had very little to do with Americans during my marriage. The only english I spoke was broken stilted english I eventually became use to because that made it easier for nonenglish speakers to understand me. (something I was still doing when I finally returned to America in '09, so much so Americans thought I was a foreigner...lol) I was surrounded by Bahrainis and all that came with that day in and day out for most of my marriage...and yet for many of them...I was always the outsider, the foreigner, Americano englizay who they spoke of when I was sitting right there as if I couldn't possibly understand what they were saying...but then did the same when they knew I COULD understand what they were saying. I did meet some lovely Bahrainis during my life there and I know that many foreigners that have and do live in Bahrain find it a perfectly lovely place to live and can't speak highly enough about it. I envy them for that positive feeling they have of it but I was never allowed to enjoy Bahrain. To get to know it, explore it, meet the wide variety of people that live there and can't get enough of it. I was not allowed to work, socialize with anyone he didn't approve of (which meant I had very few people in my life..mostly just his extended family) and was, for the most part, surrounded by Bahrainis that didn't like me for whatever reason; or ignored me once the initial interest was over or flat out showed active disdain for me simply because I was an American. In other words, I was surrounded by negativity both inside my home, and on the odd occasions I was with other women. I made very few friends among Bahraini women despite my many attempts at forging friendships; at the end of the day they were just women I knew.

When all the little things add up to one defining moment...pt 6

Now...where was I? Oh yes...about a month after I arrived in Bahrain I woke up with an intense ear ache. I had spent a considerable amount of my childhood suffering from very serious ear aches and so this was nothing new but this was the first one in a very long time. My husband was at work so my SIL and her 13 year old daughter took me to the local clinic.

For anyone that has never been to a clinic in the middle east, let me describe it somewhat. (at least the one in the area we lived in at that time) It was a very long building with a maternity section to the immediate right of the entrance doors...and a long hall with doctors offices going down the left side. Right in front were the reception desks and chairs to wait your turn. For some reason the air conditioning is turned up to sub zero temperatures...so if your in the clinic for any length of time...you have to get up and go outside in the searing heat just to thaw out. (no lie, I did this many times over the years) There are, of course, the requisite crying babies, the multitude of flies hanging out, and the long wait for your turn.

All though eventually this particular clinic would get renovated and upgraded, back then it had a very third world feel about it. By this I mean it seemed sorely under equipped, not much offered in terms of medications (panadol was/is given for absolutely everything), and doctors never spent more than 5 min with you if given half the chance. Not to mention they never bothered to actually look up at you in a focused way so you felt they even took in the fact that you were male or female. Half the time he/she would start writing before I even answered a question posed to me. I always wondered if mind reading was one of the skills taught in Bahrain's medical college.

Anyhow, all that would eventually be par for the course, but during my very first visit I knew none of that. I had a horrible ear ache and wanted pain relief ASAP. When it was my turn to go in the doctor's office the niece came in with me (usually a family member does...or even the whole darn family) in order to translate if needed. We sat down and the doctor started speaking in Arabic first but then switched to English at my request. When I told him what was wrong he quickly set about looking in my ears and asking questions pertaining to my ear. All very professional and appropriate...right?...but then (you knew it was coming right) when he started to prescribe some anti-biotics and pain killers I quickly mentioned that I was pregnant because, while not knowing a whole lot about what medications can affect your pregnancy, I knew some could. I wanted him to know so he could adjust accordingly.

As soon as I mentioned my pregnancy his whole demeanor changed. Up until that point he had been rather staid and uninterested in me...just enough to deal with my problem and that was it. Suddenly he stood up and asked the niece to leave the room as he needed to examine me. She hesitated but he fairly hustled her out of the room and closed the door behind him. Up until that point in my life the only "intimate" sort of examination I had ever under gone by a doctor was during my entrance exam into the military. The doctors checked everything...and I mean EVERYTHING!! I had my first pap smear during that examination and I clearly remember the doctor calling for a nurse to come in, though there hadn't been one with us before then. I found out later that, to avoid malpractice or accusations of impropriety, a doctor will always have a nurse standing by during these sort of examinations...so everything is on the up and up. (no hanky panky) As a tangent I might mention that giving a teenage girl a pap smear without warning or explanation is almost an assault on her body as far as I'm concerned.

Anyhow, before I knew it I was stretched out on a table and he was lifting my shirt up. Now here was an ENT doctor, who I presume focused his training on body parts found from the neck up, lifting my shirt to examine me from the neck down. I didn't understand why he felt he needed to examine me at all. I was there for an earache and not pre natal care...and yet I was in a foreign country and maybe they do things different here. It's not like I had a whole lot of experience being pregnant to judge whether or not this was appropriate....but it sure as hell didn't FEEL appropriate. I very much wanted to question the purpose of this exam but my tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth and my heart was trying to get up there as well.

I assumed he wanted better access to my abdomen so when my shirt kept rising up and over my breasts I was shocked. What the hell was he checking for now? I reached up to pull my shirt back down as an automatic reaction but he tsked me and raised my shirt again. I bit my tongue and laid there apprehensively. This was a doctor after all and he knew better than me about medical procedures etc...not because I didn't understand the WHY of what he was doing didn't mean there wasn't a reason.

In no time at all he had exposed both of my breasts and was giving me a breast "exam"...which amounted to little more than a very thorough massage on his part. I have since learned how to do a breast exam of course and nothing he did that day even came close to resembling one. It was also the longest breast "exam" I have ever undergone since. I might point out that he never once touched my abdomen.

After I was declared "healthy" he pulled my shirt down and went back to his desk and finished writing up the prescription and saw me out the door. My husband's niece was standing right outside and had a nervous look about her. She seemed relieved to see me emerge and quickly looked back and forth between the doctor and I. Of course eventually I would learn that men and women just do NOT spend alone time together...even if one of them is a doctor. She knew me being alone in there with the doctor could cause a great deal of trouble for me but also, due to her age and gender, felt she couldn't refuse the doctor when he asked her to leave. So she stood outside the door counting the seconds until I came out. (she told me all of this much later when her English improved as did our relationship)

Hours later when my husband came home I told him about the doctor appointment and what had gone on. I also described the breast exam and almost before the story was out of my mouth my husband was firing questions at me. What did he do? Was my niece in there with you? and of course....Why did you let him? In the next instant he was out the door.

An hour later he came back thundering and slamming doors. According to him this is what happened. He went back to the clinic and stormed into the doctor's office ready to defend my honor...or so I'm told. Actually, in the Arab world, the man's honor is the only one that counts...and all the women that "belong" to him fall under that sense of honor and anything that happens to "his females" equals happening to him. My husband went down to there to confront the breast exam that "he" was forced to endure. Hard to explain but there it is.

Of course the doctor had no idea who he was and who his wife was until he said the magic words...American woman. How many American women do you think sat in his office that day much less let him feel them up? Obviously the doctor knew he had crossed the line with me and with his culture but apparently figured I wasn't a Bahraini...and I was American...so probably wouldn't mind or object. He forgot to consider how his fellow Arab/Bahraini brothers react when their women are dishonored. Once again, according to my husband, he went after the doctor who ran around the desk and out the door and down the hall with my husband in hot pursuit. After having a foot race down the hall past all the shocked onlookers I'm assuming...he caught the doctor down by the reception desk and preceded to give him an ass kicking. Security came running and tried to break it up but when they discovered what the good doctor had been up to they stood back and let the ass kicking commence (according to husband...who knows). End result? Doc was eventually asked to go practice somewhere else, husbands honor was vindicated and I was left to ponder this new incite into this possessive/jealous male oriented culture....with my two healthy breasts to keep me company.

Of course writing about this incident reminds me of another one that happened not too long afterwards. My husband took me to the local market in Manama, Bahrain's capital and main city. The traditional souk, of Bab al Bahrain, is mostly made up for walking shoppers as the streets are very narrow and the parking is impossible. People generally park away from the souk and just walk all around it with their bags etc then make their way back to their cars... hoping they can remember where they parked.

When we arrived in the afternoon and began our shopping, the streets were full of Bahraini's and non Bahraini's crowding the sidewalks and spilling into the streets forcing what few cars had braved the throng to inch along. I was enthralled by this new shopping experience....row upon row of shops...all selling pretty much the same thing as far as I could see...with a different shop thrown in just to keep you interested. There were spice shops with product displayed outside on the sidewalk. Towers of colored spice mounds were colorful and intricately designed. It's a wonder the slight breeze didn't blow it all away. Luggage and toys had to be stepped around...pots and pans, brooms and dustpans....and the ever present racks of clothing that had styles I had never seen before...and some of the worst English spelling on them I had ever seen. There were things I had never seen before so was in a constant dialogue with my husband wanting everything explained. We spent about two hours in the souk, just buying a few things, but it was very exciting to me just to take it all in. Such a different sort of shopping experience.

It was then I realized the sidewalks and streets were thinning out somewhat. We weren't quite bumping into people left and right and most of the "thobes" and "abayas" (Bahraini men and women) had gone. There were still a few stragglers but mostly what remained were groups of Hindi and Pakistani men and the like. Very few women remained at this point because Mahgrib adhan had gone so everyone was leaving for home or the mosque to pray. (I'm assuming) I would not be exaggerating at this point to say that in my immediate area I was not only the only female present, but one that stuck out like a sore thumb.

My husband said we needed to go so began making our way back to the entrance of the souk and to the car. Just before we reached the entrance I felt something that took a few more steps on my part to fully understand. Someone had just grabbed my butt and squeezed it. For a second I thought it had been my husband but quickly pushed that thought away as I knew he would never do such a thing in public....so I guessed it had to be someone else obviously. Still not believing what I felt had actually happened I looked back over my shoulder to scan the immediate area....and just a few yards down the street was a man looking back over his shoulder at ME....and smiling. Now up to that point I would have just brushed off the incident as my imagination or a mistaken "bump" (though I knew it was more than that)...but the smile on his face completely blew me away. It was one of the first incidents (along with the doctor) in which I would come to realize that men in the middle east cannot keep their hands to themselves. I don't give a shit what they say about the culture protecting women and treating them better than the Big Bad West etc...but believe me....I have never ever in my life had my body assaulted in so many ways as while walking through a souk, standing in line, passing a man for whatever reason...you come to expect it almost. A slight brush up, a probing finger, or a out right cop. I won't say you ever get use to it...but you do come to expect it.

His smile pissed me off...almost telling me...yeah I felt your butt...so what are you going to do about it? I'm also going to make the claim here that because I'm NOT an Arab woman...men there seem to think I'm quite open and willing to be felt up and won't care too much to make a big deal about it afterwards. I might point out that I have shown a great many of them that they are wrong in this belief. However, at that moment the only thing I could think of to do was tell my husband....

He stopped so quickly I nearly ran into the back of him as I had slowed down while looking over my shoulder. He quickly turned around and yelled at me to point the guy out to him. Well there was no need really as the guilty party might as well of had an arrow over his head pointing downwards....the guy had gone stock still staring at my husband with an ashen look on his face. Apparently it was then he realized I was with a Bahraini...and he knew as well as anyone what was coming next. This man was not a Bahraini btw...if I had to guess I would say a Hindi...but not sure. Anyhow, for about 2 seconds they were staring at each other...and in the next the guy had turned and bolted down the street with my husband close behind.

I was shocked not expecting such a quick turn of events...watching them weave through what remained of the pedestrians and hearing my husband bellowing at him to stop. I looked around and noticed now I definitely was the only female remaining...and the sun was quickly disappearing over the horizon. It was getting dark and I was alone in an unfamiliar place...no idea where the car was and afraid to move anyhow even if I did. All I could see were curious groups of men looking at me and hear the fading voice of my husband in the distance. The irony of the fact that he was leaving me alone among a crowd of men as the sun went down while he chased down another one hit home to me. I wanted to laugh but really didn't feel like it just then.

If I had to guess I would say I stood there in the middle of the street doing a pretty damn good impression of a woman turned to stone for at least 20 min before husband came back...with the terrified ass grabber being dragged along by his torn shirt. A small crowd of men were close behind. My husband was sweating and breathing hard...shouting at the man with every step...the man was begging and crying (I assume...didn't understand his verbal language but his body language was universal) and the crowd of men were shouting and raising their fists. Only later I would learn that they were actually pissed off at my husband...not the man he was dragging as I had assumed. Turns out they were from his country and were showing solidarity by coming to his defense...though I noticed none of them actually did more than shout and show anger.

My husband dragged him right up in front of me and began shouting at me...asking me what I wanted done with him. Did I want his ass kicked...did I want him arrested...did I want him killed? The man was trying to reach out and touch my feet and kept up his begging...I realized he was saying sorry over and over again...but it was coming out as "sowwy"...and he had tears and snot running down his face. I was still shocked, afraid at the violence I was seeing...and so scared after being left alone for so long...that I just wanted to get out of there. My husband screamed again asking me what did I want him to do with the man....

"Just let him goooooo!!!" I screamed back. My husband yelled at the man to apologize...which he did with even more earnest...and shook him by the shirt like he was a rag doll. My husband yelled at me if I accepted his apology or did I want more. I quickly said I accepted it and it was then my husband shoved the guy away who then sprawled in the street...and the group of men quickly surrounded him. I thought they were going to start beating him too but they picked him up and helped him leave...all the while shouting back at my husband as he continued shouting at the man.

He turned and stalked off for the car and I was left to quick step behind him to keep up. He barely said a word to me and I got the feeling I was guilty of something too. As we sat in silence in the car on the way home he fumed...his anger was palatable and I could feel the heat radiating off of him. I sat in silence believing a single word from me would cause an explosion of sorts. When we arrived home he stomped upstairs not even bothering to wait for me...I quietly followed behind not knowing what to expect.

It was the first time what I wore outside was put up to questioning. Apparently my jeans and tshirts were causing too much trouble...while I was not asked to wear the abaya at this time...it was the start of a campaign in which the ultimate goal was to get me in it. If only I knew then what I know now....giving in to keep the peace is tantamount to giving up...but more on that later.

When all the little things add up to One Defining Moment...pt 5

I grew up in a house in which my father didn't believe in sleeping in or idle time for the most part. If we weren't actually busy doing something when he came into the room...then we damn sure acted like we were. I spent my childhood outside chopping wood or hauling coal for the house stove. I helped my father in the yard making those 6 ft high fences he loved so much, digging post holes or nailing up slabs of wood, or hauling new timber from the truck. I shoveled snow, put up skirting on our trailer each time we moved, or climbed up on the roof of our homes or garages etc to help him fix holes or set down tar paper. I was physically fit at a kid...much more than most of the girls my age...and many of the boys as well.

When I entered the military I had no problem full filling the morning exercise stint. An hour of push ups, sit ups, jumping jacks etc....followed by a 5 mile run. No problem. I wasn't even winded by the time we rounded the final curve. I was in the best shape of my life...I just didn't know it at the time as I had always been in pretty good shape anyways.

I arrived in Bahrain almost 4 months pregnant, but I wasn't even sporting a little bump at this time. I was wearing a size 10/12 (I have always preferred loose clothing) and my entire wardrobe consisted of t-shirts, jeans and pajamas. No dresses, skirts or shorts because I loathed wearing such things and wasn't about to start now.

So, to come from this background of hard work and being physically fit and having the great outdoors at my disposal and then to be thrust into a single little room that didn't even have space to do a jumping jack was like a slap in the face. For the first time in my life I had absolutely nothing to do and no place to do it. Each morning I would wake up, get dressed in my jeans and t-shirt...then sit on my bed and....that was it. I had nothing more active to do then visit the bathroom or go out onto the roof and look out into the street. The only time I could get any form of physical activity is if my husband or his sister took me out somewhere....so of course I had to wait for one of them to decide to do that.

An entire day could pass by and I had nothing more to show for it then a few steps one way or the other...and as my cautions were thrown aside and I ventured more often downstairs...then going up and down the stairs was about the most exercise I got.

It was during this first month or so in Bahrain that I learned something about myself. All my life I had pretty much eaten what I wanted without gaining too much weight. There was a period of time in my early teens that I put on some "pudge" but it didn't last long and I figure it was due to puberty...other than that I could eat and never worried too much about my waist line. I quickly learned that all the hard work my father had me doing was probably the reason I could eat and not gain weight...I was busy burning lots and lots of calories. Not to mention when I was young "junk food" was an exception in our house and not the norm as it seems to be today. We ate fairly healthy food growing up and junk food was still a treat that was greatly appreciated when it was given.

Changing cultures and countries means, for many of us, changing the food we eat on a regular basis. I would be willing to bet for all of my 18 years of life previously I had eaten rice a dozen times. Rice was just not something we ate a great deal of in my house (not sure about the rest of American homes). I learned right away that Arabs love rice, and they have about a 100 different ways to prepare it. Within that first month in Bahrain I would bet we ate rice about 5 or 6 times a week for lunch...along with either meat or chicken on top of it. Included in this meal were greens (aka salad) that were very unfamiliar to me but seriously looked like grass and weeds. They were very bitter to my taste buds and I would never be able to tolerate them.

As I mentioned before, each morning I would wake up and get dressed in my jeans etc but eventually found it very difficult to sit on the floor for any length of time while wearing jeans. It made eating nearly impossible for me as the waistband pressed against my stomach (which was expanding alarmingly by now) and chaffed other areas. I told my husband one day about this and that evening he came home with some jelobias (traditional house dresses Bahraini women wear). The first time I saw these dresses I thought they were nightgowns...just more elaborate...all though some are fairly plain and are worn only at home for daily wear...others are decorated and expensive and are worn for visiting or parties etc.

I was actually excited when he first brought them too me as the idea of just wearing a nightgown all day rather appealed to me and my little bump I was developing by now (let's ignore the fact that it was weight gain as well). I rushed to remove my jeans and put on one of these jelobias...and that would be the last time I wore jeans for many many years. My removal of my jeans that day and the donning of that jelobia was almost as significant as when I first was made to wear the hijab a few years later...it was as if once the jeans were removed I couldn't put them on again...or in the case of the hijab...once it was on I couldn't remove it.

My husband threw away all my jeans declaring that it would just be more comfortable for me to wear the jelobia from now on...not to mention that women in Bahrain didn't wear jeans. (they did of course...just not Bahraini women) Not only was this another defining moment in our marriage (wearing jeans is a very American cultural habit) in which he changed something about me that was a part of who I was...it also signified a turning point in my weight gain. As most of us know, wearing pants is a great indicator in warning us about weight gain. If our waist band gets a bit tight...we take it easy on our food choices until they loosen up again. However, wearing a jelobia takes away that waistband indicator and a few pounds of weight gain are hardly noticed...then a few more and a few more...until before you know it you've gained 20 pounds and don't know how it happened.

Also, because I had never worried about gaining weight before I had no clue about portion control and calories etc. I just ate until I was full and, without a waist band to tell me for the most part, quite often ate more than I needed of course. Mix that in with my husband bringing home sacks of junk food everyday and my extreme boredom...I suddenly found the only thing I could pass the day doing was eating...and I did. Mix that in with a developing pregnancy and by the time I went to have my first pre-natal checkup I had already gained 15 pounds...and I was only 4 months along...barely a month in Bahrain.

By the time I delivered my first born in late October, I had gained nearly 80 pounds...and would never be able to lose it all due to my inactive lifestyle. To this day I struggle with my weight...and it's a battle I am constantly losing. I ate from boredom, I ate from stress, I ate from loneliness, I ate because I had nothing else to do for the most part. Eating WAS my main activity for much of those first few years in Bahrain.

Obesity is a huge problem in the Arab world, among both men and women but mainly among women due to their enforced sedentary lifestyle. I happen to know that many Bahraini women rather liked not doing much all day everyday. They had housemaids to do everything they needed, from cooking and cleaning to practically raising their children...so much so I often had the ugly little thought that these same women would of gladly had their housemaids sleep with their husbands just to do away with that little bit of physical activity as well if they could have...since gossip told me they didn't much care for sex anyways.

As I mentioned before, by the time I had my first pre-natal check up I had already gained 15 pounds...and I had no idea then that my weight gain was actually just another means my husband had of controlling me.

Fat women are unappealing to other men...and thus less likely to cheat...or so he believed. More on that later.

When all the little things add up to One Defining Moment...pt 4

A week after the wedding/engagement party, in which I had my first taste of henna (aka black mess plopped into my hand), a week in which I basically sat upstairs in my room watching the hands on the clock move until he came home...he came home and told me we were going out. Yippee!!! I was like a child on an outing....excited and full of questions. He took me to a large pet store owned by a friend of his. He knew I liked animals and actually took me there just to look at them while he discussed some business with his friend. As soon as we pulled up into the large parking area and got out of the car, a little scrap of a puppy came strutting around the corner straight for us. He appeared to be about 8 to 10 weeks old and showed no fear as he stopped a few feet in front of me and gave me a once over. He was adorable with his brown scruffy coat and evil little twinkle in his eyes. I couldn't really tell what sort of dog he was but it seemed he was rather like a golden retriever mix.

I fell in love on the spot....and I wanted him.

I immediately begged my husband to buy him for me and was so happy at the thought of having a companion...something to liven up my day and make me laugh. The way he scampered back around the corner had me grinning from ear to ear already. I was determined not to leave without this little puppy that already had engraved himself on my heart.

Husband told me that Muslims are not real big on dogs..many of them considered dogs forbidden to own...so having one in the house might be a problem for him (all though he himself didn't mind dogs). Not to mention the fact that we didn't have a yard to speak of...just the roof. I heard all that but it went right in one ear and out the other...I wanted that puppy despite the cons.

We went inside and he found his friend and asked about the puppy. His friend told him that the puppy had been specially bred and ordered by another Bahraini and had arrived a few days ago but that the Bahraini had changed his mind and refused to come get him. In other words, the pet store owner was stuck with him because nobody wanted to pay the high price of having a specially bred dog. The puppy was a mix between a German Sheppard and golden retriever (I have no idea why that particular mix was required but I didn't care just then) and was left to run in and out of the store as he pleased as it was geared more for fish, birds, and other caged or tank animals.

It was during this exchange that I came to first learn about Arab generosity and largess. For anyone that doesn't know...Arabs are hands down the most generous people when it comes to giving up something they own to someone else. When I say give up I mean, give YOU simply because they wish you to have it...they want you to be happy with something you might have admired...and it's very hard to refuse something once an Arab offers it to you because they will basically pack it up and put in your hands, car...whatever. They don't take no for an answer...or you have to really refuse to take it and be insistent.

This gift giving isn't seen the same way as how I understand many Americans view it. For instance, one time I was with my husband admiring some full blooded Arabian horses that a friend of his owned...one of them was just exceptionally beautiful. Took my breath away how he flexed his neck and cantered around neighing and snorting. His mane was blowing in the breeze and he looked so damn proud of himself. Amazing!!! I whistled at the horse and he immediately came to the railing and gave me his head to pet. Without thinking I said out loud...more to myself really...that I would die to have a horse like this (we had horses when I was young so wasn't a novice around them and can ride) and almost before the sentence was out of my mouth his friend shouted at one of his employees to bring around the horse trailer and load up the horse for me. NO LIE PEOPLE!!! He was smiling from ear to ear and giving orders for this beautiful horse, obviously a prize of his, to be given to ME. My husband had to do some serious refusing to get his friend to change his mind. Not even telling him that we lived in a very tiny house with NO place to keep a horse stopped him..."I will keep him here and you come see him...but he's yours to do with as you please"...was his answer.

Flattered as I was I knew I couldn't accept such a gift. We barely escaped with the friendship still intact he was so upset at my refusal to accept the horse. When it comes to Arabs...that is not the exception...that is the norm. For most of them, what they own is just a loan from God...it doesn't really belong to them and so giving it away isn't viewed the same way as, I'm sure, many Americans would view it...and it truly does upset them when you refuse the gift...not because you are refusing it really but because they feel they now "own" something that really should belong to someone else now (the one that admired it or whatever). It really is hard to explain unless you understand the Arab thought process on this sort of thing. (not all Arabs are like this but it really is a an amazing trait shared by many)

However, on this particular day I had no idea about Arab generosity and was wondering just how much this puppy was going to cost...that is if my husband agreed to buy him. The friend had ordered the puppy and agreed to sell him to the other Bahraini for BD550 (around $1200) as he had to pay to bring him into Bahrain, vet care, papers etc. My heart plummeted because I knew we didn't have that kind of money...least of all for a dog.

Just when I figured all was lost...I saw money changing hands (NOT BD55o either) and the puppy was collected and put into my arms. I was too happy for words and didn't quite understand how he came to be mine so quickly...but I wasn't sticking around for minds to be changed...I practically ran to the car and waited for my husband to come out.

When he did he told me his friend had given the puppy to me as he seen how much I wanted him (WOW) and the BD25 he gave his friend was for the paperwork he would need for vet care and the food he had bought.

I didn't really care about all that...all I cared about was the squirming body, wagging tail, and wet little tongue kissing my face. I actually felt happy for the first time in the 2 weeks I had been in this country. I had a puppy. It was a good day.

We got home and I entered the house remembering what he had said about Muslims and dogs...wondering what they would say. I was determined to keep him upstairs ALL the time if I had too...just taking him out with us when I could. I was pretty damn tense about it but it turns out they were pretty cool about the new member of the family. His mother took the longest to warm up to him...she would never really like him to come into the majlis or anywhere she prayed...so on the rare occasions that he did go downstairs...he just ran back and forth between the doors of the rooms...sticking his head in and grinning at everyone...tongue hanging out and tail wagging.

I named him King and little did I know just then that scrappy little puppy would grow up to be a beautiful copper colored, broad chested, just as regal as his name sounded, with a chest full of long blond hair and an actual mane of hair on his head and down most of his back. Hair that was longer than the rest of his body and which would actually stick up when he was tense or on alert...just like a lion's mane. He was awesome and I loved him a lot.

King did so much for me that first year in Bahrain. I laughed whenever I took him out and this little tiny puppy actually made grown men leap out of the way, falling over themselves to get away from him. His yippy little barks chasing them as they literally fled my little lion. I was amazed that people were so afraid of him...this little puppy that couldn't hurt them if he tried....but it was true what my husband had said about dogs...most Muslims hate them...won't have anything to do with them...and are just plain scared of them because of that.

Remember the story about me and the meat market...well try imagining that same scenario but with me coming in with a puppy in my arms. I went with his sister again and I figured that since cats were in abundance, not to mention the multitude of flies that didn't seem to phase anyone...that a puppy in my arms was no big deal.

I was wrong. It was if I had brought in a rat with the plague or something. Looks of horror were everywhere and people scattered like bowling pins...I seriously wanted to laugh at the complete insanity of it but figured it wasn't the best time for laughter...so retreated back to the car and waited. Never took him there again.

As he grew, his full beauty started to show itself and he was awesome to look at. A real show dog if I had been inclined...or if Bahrain had such things back then. (with the huge influx of foreigners like Brits etc...dogs are more popular in Bahrain now..and they do have shows etc for them) The family became more comfortable with him, the nieces came upstairs to play with him a lot (helping to break some barriers between us) and we took him out with us whenever we could. (he loved chasing the seagulls at the beach or pawing at the crabs).

If there was one drawback to King it was his inability to get along with Indians...or Hindis as Bahrainis called them. I have no idea why he found them intolerable...or even how he knew a Hindi from a Bahraini or any other nationality...but it never fails that if one came to the door and knocked...he turned from a docile loving dog into a ferocious lion...hair all up..mane at attention. He was a sight at times like this...and it took a lot to calm him down...and he never reacted that way to any other people. I never understood it. He also never acted that way outside the house...he was curious about people...and of course they would still flee in horror when he playfully approached them...but he was never vicious with anyone outside our home...only when they came to the house..and only Hindis.

I was very lonely that first year in Bahrain...no friends really..just people he introduced me too but nothing after that. I had little contact with my family then...and spent a great deal of time alone upstairs as already his mother and sister were set on making me as miserable as possible...so King really saved me in many ways. He gave me a reason to get up in the mornings when nothing else really seemed worth it. He made me laugh when laughing was the last thing I felt like doing. He sat beside me on the bed and just having him there was enough to push the loneliness away for awhile.

When my first baby was born...and grew...he allowed her all sorts of indignities with him. She pulled his hair..climbed over him etc and he never so much as raised an eyebrow to her. He was so patient with her and he was still pretty much a puppy at this point..barely a year old...he was a wonderful dog...a wonderful pet...and pretty much my only real companion back then...then one day he was gone.

His father was a rare presence in the house for all the years he was alive back then. He came from work...smoked his pipe and watched the news while eating his dinner...then went to the beach where he sat with friends or tinkered with his boat. I had very little to do with his father in general but he was never mean to me...and on a few occasions even reprimanded his wife and daughter to treat me better as I had left my whole family and country and this family was the only one I had now etc...and he tolerated King for the most part..though spent little time around him.

One night King was barking at something...he usually didn't bark that much and I had no idea why he was barking so much this night. He just wouldn't quit...then suddenly it was all quiet and I assumed he had given up and calmed down so I didn't bother going to check on him (he was outside on the roof) The next morning when I went to bring him in for breakfast he wasn't there. I looked downstairs and he wasn't there either. I asked the nieces where King was...did my husband take him out or something?

They didn't seem to want to answer me and it was awhile before the youngest told me that her grandfather (my FIL) had opened the door in the night and kicked him out because of his barking.

I was shocked. That was MY dog. He had no right to throw MY dog out of the house. I ran upstairs and threw on some clothes with the intention of going out to look for him. It would be the first time I ventured out alone and had no idea where I was going to look etc but I knew I was going...regardless of the consequences. When I stomped downstairs the neices tried to convince me to stay...they were horrified at the idea of me going out alone...but could see I was determined...so one of them came with me.

We walked all over the neighborhood for 2 hours looking for him...we asked boys if they had seen him and were given a mix of information which lead to nothing. It was very hot and I was burning from the sun...but kept searching. My heart was squeezing closed at the idea that I wouldn't be able to find him...that he was lost to me. I knew how the locals treated dogs...especially the boys. Throwing rocks at them or locking them inside make shift enclosures then setting it on fire. I had seen this with dogs and cats...and was horrified at the treatment animals received here...not to mention the police routinely shot dogs they found outside. Most of the time not even bothering to check if the dog was actually dead from the shot...so it wasn't unusual to see wounded dogs...or dogs lying in the street...shot but still alive. Nobody caring about them. I had to find him.

At some point my husband came screeching up in his car...jumped out and stormed over to me...he shouted at me for coming out in the street without him. I felt like a child caught by her parent...he embarrassed me so much in front of all the people looking on. His niece was nearly in tears and we were ordered back to the car. I pleaded with him to let me look for King but he was so mad at me leaving the house that he wouldn't listen to anything I said.

We arrived back at the house and with much door slamming and shouting I was told never to leave the house again without either him or his sister. I was made to feel like a prisoner that had tried to escape. I was mortified and hurried to my room so I wouldn't cry in front of them...and to cry over my lost dog. My companion and friend.

The thing that hurt almost as much as losing my much loved dog...was the fact that my husband said nothing at all to his father about his actions. King was my dog...losing him left a huge hole in my heart. While I wrote this post tears were streaming down my face at the remembered pain I felt then...and apparently still feel...over the loss I suffered. And this loss was only one of many that this family inflicted on me in so many ways. So many times things were taken from me...my identity...my name...my future...my family....my freedom...without so much as a single thought as to how it would make ME feel. I was the last one consulted when another piece of me was ripped off...I was the only one who felt the loss of me...of what belonged to me...of what meant anything to me.

Much of my pain that stems from living in Bahrain comes from the fact that for nearly 20 years...my happiness...my contentment...my hopes and dreams...my very existence...was held in the hands of 3 people (husband, mother in law and sister in law) who cared little if nothing about me, the person. I was a possession to my husband...and an object for abuse from those two women..for what reason I don't know. Losing my dog was not seen as a big deal to anyone but me...because what mattered to me...what hurt me...was inconsequential to them....and that never changed.

I never saw King again...but I've never forgotten him....and my relationship with his father....and with my husband...was never the same after that.

When all the little things add up to One Defining Moment...pt 3.

I sat on my bed and cried for the first of many many times during my life in Bahrain. I felt alone and unable to make sense of where I was and how I had arrived in that place. I wondered why my new mother in law hadn't asked anything about me (asked niece to ask me that is...with her hesitant and simple English). In fact, nobody had showed the slightest interest in me while we all sat waiting for lunch. Isn't that the whole game of getting to know someone...asking about them, their family, how you met their son? Anything???

I really wanted to call my mother right then but there wasn't a phone in the house. Because of the $2000 bill he had made calling me before, the house phone had been turned off. No mobile phones back then and, I would come to learn, that public phone booths that were in working order were hard to find. Destruction of public property in Bahrain was a common occurrence. Also, calling America from Bahrain back in the 80's cost a hell of a lot more then than it does now. Phone calls home would be rare and at one point I would actually go a whole year without hearing from my family.

I waited for him to come home so I could have someone to talk to. When he finally arrived he wasn't very happy. It seems his mother had given him an earful about me...already? It seems that me wearing shoes into her majlis wasn't acceptable...AND eating with my left hand even less so. My husband asked me if I were left handed. After all this time he didn't know what hand I primarily used? Reminded me once again how little we knew of each other. I'm right handed but I do use both hands to eat with when called upon...why? Well, turns out Muslims don't eat with their left hands, something about eating with devil...that hand being dirty...using it to wash up with in the bathroom etc. Ok. I get that...but what has that got to do with me? I'm not a Muslim, and I generally wash my hands after going to the bathroom as well...so? He told me it was considered bad manners to eat with the left hand in front of Muslims......

Hmmm? So not greeting me when I newly arrived from the airport is ok...but eating with my left hand is considered rude? I didn't like where this was going. I asked him why his mother got so mad at me...how was I supposed to know all that as nobody had told me. He said something I would hear a hell of a lot over the years..until I wanted to scream.

She is an old woman, just let her have her way. It's easier.

First of all, she couldn't have been more than early 50's then...and does "old" age give one the right to be rude? And secondly, I had to "correct" my behavior to please them?...but it sounded like they didn't have to do the same to please me? Not good.

Then I asked him how come they were calling me Layla? Who was Layla? Didn't they know my name was Lee Ann? He said that he told them my name was Layla because saying Lee Ann would have been difficult for them. But I don't want to be called Layla...that's not my name. I wouldn't even realize someone was talking to me if they called out Layla. 18 years of my life I've been Lee Ann...like it or not...that's me. Not to mention, Layla and Lee Ann didn't sound all that different...one couldn't be anymore difficult to say or remember than the other. Right?

Unlike me, who now had to learn and say a whole houseful of strange on the tongue sounding names...were they going to change their names to make it easier for me? hmmm?

It did no good to argue my case. From that very first day I was Layla, and Layla I would remain...and little did I realize just then that it was only the first step in erasing the American born and bred me...and turning me into his idea of what a good little Muslim/Arab wife should be.

The destruction of my identity had begun with my name and would continue until I met a lady 20 years later who asked my daughter what my name was and my daughter said, Layla, and she said...is that her American name, and my daughter said "no, that's just what everyone calls her." This lady, soon to be my very best friend, said....I want to know what her REAL name is. She was the first person that had even bothered to ask me what my real name was in all that time. It felt so strange to hear my name coming from her mouth after hearing Layla for so long. Eventually her whole family called me Lee Ann...and somehow it helped the transformation from the enforced Layla back into my much missed Lee Ann to take place.

But I digress. More on that later.

My husband showered and laid down to take a nap. Something he would do pretty much everyday after he came from work. Bahrainis were big siesta takers..the heat of the day making it nearly impossible to enjoy yourself outside for any length of time. It also meant the rest of the house also went to sleep. I was not a nap taker...and so quite often prowled restlessly around...waiting for someone to wake up so I could have some company. This was pre-computer and Internet days, pre-bookshops with books I could read days....pre having anything to do but watch t.v. channels that had nothing but football or news on them...in Arabic....days.

Those early years in Bahrain gave new meaning to the word "bored". Some days I would quite literally go to bed at night having done nothing more energetic or intellectual then reading the labels on medicine bottles or food containers. It WAS that bad at times. I lived in a very small little house in a small little room. I had no books, no t.v., no phone...and nobody to talk to for the most part. They didn't speak English very well (all though in time I would learn that his sister actually spoke very passable English...just chose not to with me) and, of course, I didn't speak Arabic. For days on end the only time I would speak was when he was home...and awake.

Bored.

The next morning he told me his sister was going to take me out with her so I could see more of Bahrain. I was excited to be able to see more of my new surroundings in the light of day...having only seen it in the dark coming from the airport. We sat in the car not saying a word and she stopped at the local meat and vegetable market. For those unfamiliar with this set up...it's a very large open area with many vendors selling pretty much the same thing...and screaming to get your business. It's loud, messy, smelly, and with about a million flies and as many cats wandering around trying to get a meal.

It's chaotic and your eyes get tired trying to take it all in.

Did I mention it's generally about 95% males?

Did I mention that of the 5% females that might be there...4.99% of those were wearing the black abaya and hijab and (even more often the niqab)...one of them wasn't...me.

Friends, I wish I could adequately describe the scene that unfolded next as we walked in out of the bright sunshine into this loud smelly building. The noise level is deafening...the voices all shouting to be heard over each other..the various push carts and slamming doors...the few kids running and screaming...and the occasional small pickup that inched its way in to off load some more produce.

Noisy.

And then it wasn't. Simply put....all noise stopped. Almost as if the conductor of a symphony had tapped his wand for attention...and all band members had stopped practicing, tuning, or otherwise engaging with their instruments to give him their full attention.

It turns out I was the band leader...the meat market vendors and customers were my symphony...I had their full attention....a 1000 pair of eyes on me waiting for my cue. Talk about nerve wracking.

The quiet was shattered when an orange came out of nowhere...rolling along the floor to stop quietly at my feet. I have no idea if it was rolled deliberately at me or just happened...whatever it was it signalled for the "music" to start...and the quiet was destroyed at the market returned to its business.

All eyes were still on me..as they would be wherever I went for a good long while (me, the invisible middle child, suddenly found more attention than I ever dreamed possible...irony?)

On the way out of the market I saw a little tiny bookstore. I asked his sister if we could check it out. I had no idea of her level of English then so spent quite a bit of time speaking dysfunctional English with her assuming she couldn't understand me...before realizing that she could. At any rate, we went inside and it was a small dusty little shop that had about 3 things in English. Just little kids books for learning English. Nothing else. However, there was one book that had English and Arabic phrases...English on one side and Arabic transliterated on the other. I took that book assuming it would help me learn some Arabic. Turns out it was Egyptian Arabic...and Bahrainis would laugh whenever I attempted to twist my tongue around a phrase I had painstakingly learned.

Bahraini and Egyptian Arabic sound nothing alike and each makes fun of the other for the most part. However, Egyptian Arabic is considered the fall back Arabic dialect...if you can speak that just about anyone who speaks Arabic can understand you...though you might not be able to understand their dialect as there are many Arabic dialects....and Arabic itself is just a hard language to conquer...speaking personally.

Instead of going home she took me to a clothing store and I had never before seen such a chaotic shopping atmosphere before. Women with children in tow were blazing trails through the store...literally picking up and then throwing back clothing as they "shopped"? It was NOISY and children ran EVERYWHERE. Eating sweets and touching all the garments...throwing their refuse all over. Employees (I assumed) were running behind them picking up the garbage or removing soiled clothing...but not saying a single word to the women....such as ...mind your children?

I stood there in complete silence...amazed at this level of rude behavior. I know for a fact that in America you would be summarily shown the door if this sort of behavior occurred...yet the employees were completely silent...other than the raised eyebrows and clenched teeth that were quickly seen then gone.

His sister told me that we were going to a wedding so I should choose something to wear. A wedding? Whose? I had never been to a wedding before...much less a Bahraini wedding...but I was pretty sure these sorts of dresses weren't worn to weddings. Hmmm? These were just ordinary wear anywhere sorts of clothes....but what did I know. I ended up choosing a shirt and long skirt...making sure it didn't have food stains on it.

Later that night we all prepared to go to a wedding. It would be my first experience at Arab "timing". Arabs view time rather differently then Americans...or anyone else as far as I know. They are pretty laid back about time and never consider a meeting, date, appointment, or even a wedding, to have a "fixed time". It's pretty much whenever they show up. For us time conscious Americans it can be something incredibly hard to get use to...but eventually you do..you have no choice. Arab time in the middle east is what everything runs by....except the banks..that's something else.

We show up at his aunts house...one of his cousins is getting married...this is, in fact, her engagement party. Not the actual wedding, all though it is seen as being legally valid...when its over, they are considered married but probably won't live together just now. Rather hard to explain.

If anyone has ever been to a an Arab wedding/engagement party then you know how absolutely ear shattering the music is. It was impossible to hear my own thoughts the music was so loud. Ironic in a country in which so many consider music forbidden (something else I would learn eventually). Women stopped chatting (how could they hear each other I wondered) and turned to look at me. While the music didn't stop, a sudden silence did occur...as most of the ladies turned to take in this new face. A few women were introduced to me...but their greetings and names were lost to the music....I was introduced as Layla. *sigh* The nieces ran off to be with cousins and his sister went and sat with some women. I was left standing there alone, and had no clue what to do with myself.

An elderly lady came and took my hand. She had one of the softest hands I had ever felt. She had a kind face and was speaking to me a mile a minute...in Arabic mind you. It seemed to not occur to her that I had no idea what she was saying to me...even if I could hear her properly. She indicated for me to sit and then sat beside me....still chattering away. She took my hand, spread the palm open, then plopped a huge disgusting black mess into it....then closed my hand around it. All the while smiling and chattering. I wanted to snatch my hand away and get that "gunk" off..whatever it was it smelled horrible. Sort of like gasoline and lemons....but she held it firmly...smiling and chattering. Eventually her attention was taken by another lady and she left me (I would later learn she was one of his aunts..one of the few people in his family that would be nice to me...though in the few years she was alive...my Arabic would never be good enough then to really converse with her. She was known as Solt-Arab..or Radio Arab...because of her non-stop talking).

Once she left me I was completely alone...surrounded by what must have been 200 people. Ladies in fancy dresses, wild make-up, crazy hair styles (for me anyhow)...children running everywhere...music so loud my ear drums were thumping in my head...and I felt alone. We were inside the house but in a courtyard type setting so I could look up and see the moon. It was full and white...and had a strange glow about it. I felt tears sliding down my face and I couldn't stop them. The overwhelming sense of loneliness was ridiculous considering all the people I was among...but other than the curious glances and hesitant smiles now and then...nobody approached me.

It was a situation I would learn (sort of) to get use to.

When all the little things add up to One Defining Moment...pt 2

The first week I spent in Bahrain was an eye opener in many ways...and an early indication of what I could expect in the days, weeks and months (wasn't even thinking years at this point) to come.

I'm going to mention a very personal aspect of my marriage here simply because it played such a huge part in my life there. My every day existence boiled down to this ONE thing...or so it seemed to me on my very worst days.

S.E.X.

From that very first night, after an exhausting 22 hour flight (all combined), in which I barely had time to take a shower and situate myself...he called me to bed...and for the most part expected me to "be prepared" whenever and wherever he chose for the next 20 years....but more on that later.

I fell asleep with my mind whirling with the "what ifs" of the unknown....only to be awaken by the sounds of a VERY loud cow...or so I thought. I jerked awake completely terrified, and shaking him awake too, trying to understand what that SOUND was. It filled the air and echoed off the walls. I heard myself practically shouting at him...WHAT is that...what is it????

Turns out it was my first experience listening to the fajr (morning) call to prayer, or the adhan. The nearest mosque was barely a stones throw from his house...so it seemed as if the loud speaker was right IN my bedroom. It scared the hell out of me with that first rude awakening...but in time I would come to love hearing it...and miss it when I didn't. Also, with time...it would awaken me naturally...better than any alarm clock ever could.

He woke me up around 7 am wanting more sex and then showered and went off to work...which was the BDF, or Bahrain Defense Force. The Emir of Bahrain's attempt to have a military that did little more than dress up and "play" soldier as far as I could determine (over the years mind you). Before he left he told me to go downstairs at any time...they would be waiting for me.

I showered and dressed...even put my shoes on (had no idea about the "no shoes in the house" thing at this point and old habits die hard) then sat down on the bed and wondered what to do. I considered putting my things away but I didn't really see anywhere to put them and he hadn't indicated a place before leaving. I turned on the little t.v. and flipped through the channels...all 7 of them. 6 were in Arabic (I assumed)....1 was in English but it wasn't broadcasting yet. It was just an audio recording of a man reciting something...eventually I would learn this was the Quran, of which I knew nothing about at this point. I turned off the t.v. and looked for something to read. There was nothing at all. Another thing I eventually learned is that my husband was not a reader. His only dealings with books were auto books that showed him how to fix engines etc. Looking back I can only recall a time or two that I witnessed him reading the Quran. Even during Ramadan he almost never opened one. This discrepancy in our reading habits would also eventually fan the flames of our ever increasing heated relationship.

I opened the door of our bedroom and was greeted with a sun that must have been no more than 7 feet over my head. Bright and hot...sending a burst of light right into my retina. I was blinded momentarily and jumped back into the safety of the room until my eyes adjusted to the glare. I hesitantly stepped out again and got my first good look around in the "light" of day. I could feel the heat tingling my arms and instantly little beads of sweat popped out on my forehead. It was like instant heat..no time to get use to it. One moment I was inside the room...relatively cool and comfortable...the next I was panting for a breath and feeling like a potato baking in an oven...and this was ONLY April. Little did I know that this was still Spring by Bahrain standards.

Around me I could see other roofs of houses. Those that were higher than ours that is. T.V. antennas and washing lines...not to mention the occasional rooster standing on a wall crowing the morning away. I could hear some birds chirping and the ever present sound of traffic. Traffic sounds were something that never ended on that little street. Morning noon and night the sounds of horns, brakes, bad engines and back fires were a constant background noise to whatever else may be going on. It never ever seemed to be totally quiet there. Even at 3 a.m. cars and peoples voices were the norm. Because the streets were so narrow...those sounds always seemed to be right in our bedroom. After having spent years with my father, who tried his best to build a proverbial moat around his family to maintain his idea of proper distance and privacy, this sudden closeness and feelings of having no privacy were overwhelming.

Right outside my door to the right was a small waist high wall. When I looked over it I could see down into the house. All the rooms were are built in a square...one on each wall of the house (3 rooms on 3 walls) and the outside door on the 4th wall...with an open "court yard" type thing in the middle of all this. Though it was barely longer than a large type car and not much wider. This house was SMALL. It was all quiet downstairs even though it was around 10 am by this time. Another thing I would learn...this family never really got started until around noon on any given day.

Over the years I would use this little vantage point as a way to get the vibes from downstairs...if I could hear my name mentioned frequently (though as my understanding of Arabic improved I realized my name wasn't always what they referred to me by) I would know they were upset about something...and could safely stay upstairs and out of firing range. At the moment the only thing that stirred down there was a cat. Not a cat that belonged to the house but a street cat. These cats were quite bold and would enter houses to steal what they could before bolting up the stairs and jumping on our wall and over to another and be gone. They were usually followed by a thrown shoe or other weapon of choice. Bahrain's unofficial mascot seemed to be the street cat...as there appeared to be thousands of them. In later years my children and I would play the game of Count the Cats we would see during an outing...we counted 52 one time before giving up...and that just while leaving our neighborhood.

I walked around the corner of the roof...it was shaped like an L...to the far wall. The wall was about 6.5 feet tall so I couldn't see over it...but there was a small ledge I could put my toes on and by grabbing the wall I could pull myself up and look out into the street. I looked down at my first morning in Bahrain and saw children running and playing...men on bikes (eventually I learned most of these were Pakistanis or Indians) and the occasional car speeding by...which was amazing considering the street was barely car width wide...and the doors of houses opened directly onto the street...plus the children and men on bikes in that space...but that appeared to be the normal speed of travel in Bahrain...full steam ahead regardless of the dangers.

I stayed perched on that ledge until the heat of the sun made the wall too hot to handle...but not before I noticed others noticing me. At some point some children saw me and stopped dead in their tracks, open mouthed and silent...watching me watching them. I could imagine the sight I made...a head barely visible over the wall...with red hair and fair skin. As yet I had not seen another soul that had anything but varying shades of brown....hair or skin. The interest of the children caught the attention of some passer byes and they too looked up to see what was so interesting....and stood equally silent and opened mouth. I pictured myself throwing peanuts down into their open mouths as my sisters and I use to do...and that made me giggle. My first humorous thought since I had arrived...things were looking up.

Being stared at by the children didn't bother me at all but watching the half dozen men gathered standing there so openly staring at me was rather disconcerting. They didn't seem to comprehend what they were looking at. A complete look of amazement covered their faces. Hadn't they seen a woman before? Well of course they had...hadn't they seen a foreign woman before? Who knows...maybe not.

Eventually I would learn (as always) that they were probably struck more by the nerve I had to be looking down into the street at all. Women didn't DO that. Then again...I had very short hair then...they might have mistook me for a boy...just an odd colored boy compared to everyone else. I was 18 then but I could pass for 14 and I was very boyish looking according to some...then and now actually. I've never been a very girly girl.

Eventually I grew tired and hopped down but I would eventually spend many many hours balanced up on that tiny ledge...holding on so I didn't fall and just look down into the street..it wasn't much of a view but it was the only one I would have...for many days at a time it was the only view of the "outside world" that I would get. Until his father "caught" me one time..and sealed it off so I couldn't do even that.

It was very hot and my skin was already glowing red...a sure sign of impending sunburn..something I had been forced to deal with all my life. I burned at the slightest bit of sunlight..and now here I was in a country that seemingly did nothing but radiate UV rays All day Every day. ugh! Talk about irony. Again...you bitch!!

I looked downstairs again and heard some voices but was too shy to go down there. I retreated to the room and shut the door...and wondered what I was supposed to do with myself now that I was here. I went and opened a suitcase and pulled out some books..and went and laid down on the bed to read.

Suddenly the door burst open and my husband strode in. I was happy to see him simply because I was bored to death...and rather scared to be alone so soon after arriving. He kissed me in greeting them told me he was in a hurry...he had made up an excuse to leave work (aka military) and had come home with one purpose....to have sex with me. And he did. When he finished he zipped his pants and advised me to go downstairs again before hurrying out the door with a slam. This particular scenario would be played out many many MANY times over the course of the years. He would pop in out of nowhere...quickly have sex with me...then be gone. Many times I had to do little more than bend over for him until he was through...then a light kiss and he was out the door again. Might I remind you of my earlier statement pertaining to what I though was my actual "purpose" of being there. This was one of the many reasons why I felt like that. It seemed he viewed me as little more than a receptacle for his sexual urges...that could strike at anytime of the day...or night. It seemed he also believed those urges should be met WHEN they occurred and not a moment later...hence his coming home from work at all hours..or waking me in the night...nearly EVERY night of our marriage. He never seemed to get enough sex....more on that later.

About 10 minutes after he left there was a knock at the bedroom door. His sister was at door holding a tray with some food and milk on it. She greeted me with "good morning, Layla"...Layla? Who was that? set the tray down and left. On the tray were eggs and kobuz...or fat torteas when I described them to my mother at some point....and a glass of warm milk. Warm? ugh! Who drank warm milk? For the next week she would bring me that same breakfast...and I would eat the eggs and kobuz...but would pour the milk down the sink. I would note later that not another person in that house drank warm milk...not to mention, I told my husband to tell her I didn't like warm milk...so don't bother to give it to me...so I have no idea to this day why she kept bringing me warm milk. Did she think Americans liked warm milk? I have no idea.

A few hours later the youngest niece, around 11, came and timidly knocked on the door. She knew just a few words of English..."good morning, Layla"...yet again. Why were they calling me Layla? I told her my name was Lee Ann but she just smiled at me and told me to "come"...then went downstairs and looked to see if I was following. Swallowing a huge lump in my throat I went down.

She led me into the majlis...I stepped inside and was immediately shouted at...I had no idea why..not understanding Arabic...but I know when I'm being shouted at. Turns out I had my shoes on still...and was making his mother upset that I hadn't removed them. I stepped back and slipped them off...then came inside...burning with humiliation. The niece indicated I should sit down on the only piece of "furniture" in the room...other than the bed and cupboard. It's called a doshag...and is little more than a long thin cushion...with pillows leaning against the wall. There are more elaborate ones...with thicker cushioning etc...but ordinary ones are pretty basic. In America we generally are not comfortable sitting on floors. Yes, kids will sprawl on the floor during slumber parties...and home work sessions...but for adults to sit on the floor during a time of socializing...doesn't happen too often...so getting used to sitting on the floor was a habit I never really acquired...just hurt my bottom and back too much. Not to mention when I was pregnant, made standing up nearly impossible....but I sat.

The mother and 4 nieces were there...the sister was in the kitchen preparing lunch. Nobody said a word. I was busy trying to not notice the smell and dirty look of the place...wondering silently what my mother would think to know I now lived in such a place. Ironic considering the number of times my father had pulled me from sleep to clean yet again an already pristine bathroom or kitchen. His house had to be military clean...so now I was wondering what my FATHER would think of this much less my mother. Irony seemed to be my constant companion now.

The nieces ranged in age from the oldest, around 16..to the youngest...11. I noticed one of the nieces sat in the corner...her hair a wild mess...her toenails and fingernails were inches long...her eyes rather crossed. She stared at me, and would continue to stare at me whenever I was around...for years and years. I learned she was mentally disabled...but would also learn that they treated her as if she were completely incapable of even the smallest task...and she wasn't.On a scale of 1 to 10...10 being completely dependent on others...I would say she was a 5 or 6. She could learn...if anyone took the time to teach her things. Through the years I would take that time...taking a risk in the process. For she would also be the cause of several of my "dramas" in the house...she didn't like me then (though her dislike would often disappear at times)...or ever.

We sat in complete silence for about 10 min until the sister brought the lunch. A plate of sandwiches...as well as the usual Arab food...rice with some form of meat or chicken etc. After it was all set out on the floor (another thing I had to get used to...its not really easy for me to sit on the floor and eat from plates on the floor...again..especially while pregnant)...I reached out and took a sandwich..again his mother seemed hostile about something. The youngest niece quickly took the sandwich from my LEFT hand and placed it in my right. I looked at her puzzled...and she just smiled at me. His mother continued to complain (so it seemed)..and I found I wasn't quite able to continue eating with them after that. It all seemed so tense and unsettling. I knew I had made a mistake of some kind..but no idea what. I did little more than nibble on my food before I excused myself and fled back to my room.


continued in next post


© Lee Ann Fleetwood, 2010