Drip drip...

I learned to swim when I was around 6. I have swam in pools, ponds, rivers, lakes and oceans. I have no problem with large bodies of water no matter what size. I didn't think it really mattered how much water there was, if you know how to swim, you swim. You wouldn't drown unless something tragic happened. You swim in an ocean just like you swim in a swimming pool. 

However,  I have learned in my life  that there is a certain body of water that is just the right amount that could put you in danger of drowning if you aren't careful. Funny thing is, it's not very much water at all. A tiny little amount in relative terms. About the size of a tear. Or two...or three. 

The only body of water I have ever feared drowning in is the one made up of all the tears I have shed in my life and not just any tears, not the ones caused by others but the ones I have caused myself. Those are the most toxic and most likely to fill my lungs and drag me under into its suffocating swirling black depths. 

You would think I would keep that in mind, that toxic body of water, that grows deeper with every new drop I feed it. 

I am a published writer...of sorts. Woohoo!!

http://weekender.bh/e_paper_pdf/17_04_2014/epaper.pdf

Hey, everyone. A local newspaper here, The Weekender, started a new thing in which writers' can send in stories and have them printed if the staff likes them. As soon as I heard about it I sent in one of mine (it's on this blog somewhere) and I quickly got a call from them about it. Apparently they really liked it and asked me about myself and why I wrote it etc.. At first the editor wanted me to change a few things, give the character a name and other things and then said he would print the story after the changes were made. I said OK even though I like it the way it is but it's not a big deal. He hung up but called back ten minutes later and said we decided we love the story just as it is, don't change anything. We will print it this week and we would like you to send in more stories if you have them. 

If I have them? I may have a few here and there. Ha ha. 

The cool thing (more coolness) is that they made my story into a competition by asking readers to come up with an ending for it. Actually, the story is complete as it is but he wanted to make it interactive. No matter, I am a published writer (an unpaid one but who cares). This could be a stepping stone for me, never know. 

Check it out. I'm famous for a min. 

Potentially Exciting News...

Since my return to Bahrain I have been looking for avenues in which to use my writing in ways that will both interest me and possibly pay me as well. I've been looking for jobs in that area but so far haven't been successful; however, last night a whole new potential direction was opened up to me. 

Bahrain has a writer's club of which I only recently discovered. It is actually called, Bahrain Writers' Circle, and we all met last night during the first meeting of this new year. They have been a club for a few years now and a speech by one of the leaders gave a run down of all that they have done and hope to do again this year. Among other things, they have an agreement with Bahrain's Ministry of Culture to present the works of local writers' during Bahrain's many cultural venues held through out the year. This particular man expertise is poetry and he explained how they do poetry readings at the national forts scattered around Bahrain. Apparently he teaches the readers to read with real emotion and flair in order to engage the listener. He detailed how all the poetry is gathered and published in a book and presented to the Ministry of Culture. He also said that he truly hopes that at least one person in that meeting will make something of their writing using all that this club has to offer in way of support and opportunity. Apparently several of the longer term members have done some amazing things they credit the club with and others are equally as hopeful in that endeavor. It sounds exciting to me even though I have never really been much into poetry. I might give it a try simply for the experience factor. 

I met a young lady that wrote and published her own book here in Bahrain and she started with just 500 copies and they flew off the shelves so she is on her second print already. The book is the first fiction novel written by an English writer and published in Bahrain while also being based in Bahrain. Arabs are not big on publishing English books so most would be writers must look outside the gulf to find someone to publish their book. She used a local publishing firm and basically they printed the manuscript out as is, meaning, no proof reading, or editing other than what she did herself. She wrote in on Microsoft Word so it printed out quite badly, yet nobody at the press bothered to inform her of that until all 500 copies were printed. Apparently that didn't stop the buyers though as she sold most of the copies the first day it was released.  She acknowledges that basing it in Bahrain let her write freely because it is what she knows and buyers can connect with that as they live here and recognize every place she writes about. Of course that speaks to my personal experience as well so will definitely keep that in mind. I am impressed with her that she just decided to write a book, wrote it, sat on it for a number of years, then decided to just print it and see what happens. Good things happen to those that get off their ass and do it obviously. 

This club might be just what I've been looking for as far as getting my own dreams of publishing a book off the ground. I liked the people I met, the goals of the club as well as the many accomplishments they have already enjoyed considering they are just a small group of people that really like to write and present it to the public. I also liked the enthusiasm of the that one leader in particular, David Hollywood. He is from Ireland and so very gung ho about making every writer in that room famous somehow. Was hard not to be fired up by his energy levels alone. 

One very interesting thing was that I knew nobody in that room when I entered it but apparently my name preceded me (I joined the Facebook group a few weeks beforehand) as some of them knew who I was based on my writing to the paper etc.. That was quite something and made me feel rather proud. Always does when that happens. 

I do like the potential this group has to offer me in terms of getting some sort of foothold in the writing field and, of course, finding ways to entertain myself with a great group of people doesn't hurt either. I shall update as things progress. 

Bahrain: Humanity lost among sectarian divide.

On Facebook, a pic of a man on fire was displayed with the caption that he was a Shiia that caught himself alight while setting some tires on fire. The comments under it were a litany of disgusting and very telling opinions about how Sunnis and Shiia see each other during these days of blood shed. Most of the comments were along the lines of  he deserved what he got for being a protester/terrorist despite the fact that he was dying a most horrible death. My reply was this:

This man may have been "the enemy" or a Shiia before he set himself on fire and thus might possibly warrant every mean spirited comment left here, but the moment he set himself on fire is the moment all of that hatred should have been dropped and the humanity of this man allowed to shine through. At the end of the day Sunnis and Shiia must see each other as first human beings, then Arabs, then Bahrainis, and lastly (if you must) as Sunni and Shiia before any thought of peace can come to Bahrain. If a man on fire dying a horrible death cannot let you drop the hatred even for a moment and have a second of empathy for him then where is the future of Bahrain headed? Not towards peace that is for sure because each side sees the other as less than human...even during the last moments of an agonizing death. There is no peace to be had in that depth of hatred. 

The Big Golden Dog that spoke to Coolred in her dreams.

Anyone that has known me throughout my life is aware that I have a thing with dreams. My dreams often come true...in one way or another. This has happened my whole life and I have just come to expect certain dreams will "speak" to me in some way. Now I may have a dozen dreams a week...several dozen a month etc. with nothing extraordinary happening..but then one dream will come along that stands out. It's rather hard to explain why this dream is different except to say that while I'm having the dream, I'm fully aware that THIS dream has something to tell me...and it's usually more vivid and more "real" than other dreams. I wake up and immediately know that something will happen eventually to make this dream "come true".

Another clue that tells me a certain dream is more special than other ones is that I will have it more than once. Up until recently, twice or possibly three times was the max for having one particular dream (with variations but all on the same theme) until that dream played out is some fashion in real life. After that, I never dream that particular dream again.

Until several months ago that was the pattern for my Special Dreams. Now and then a certain dream would come to me...possibly twice or three times...and then become reality in some fashion. Not all the dreams were good, so to speak, so I can tell you that I have been damn scared by some of them...but generally speaking they have been pretty interesting the way they played out.

As I said, up until a few months ago...then something happened that changed the whole Special Dream scenario...I dreamt of a Big Golden Dog. When I say big...I mean larger than the size that this particular dog (it appeared to be a Golden Retriever type dog) generally grows. His head reached my chest and was the most beautiful dog I have ever had the pleasure to look at.

I knew from the moment this dream started that Big Golden Dog was special. I needed to pay attention to this dream. However, in the first dream he did nothing more than follow me around the dream as the dream itself played out. I wasn't surprised when about a month later he showed up in my dreams again. This time he walked by my side as I wandered through my dream. Again, nothing happened to explain his presence but I felt incredibly calm just having him in the there with me. I remember waking up and just laying there almost expecting that he followed me out of the dream...that's how real he seemed to me.

Over the course of several months Big Golden Dog made an appearance in my dreams 4 times (the first time a particular dream happened that often)...but something interesting started happening...he started looking directly at me and doing things with his muzzle (mouth) that made me feel as if he was trying to speak to me.  It got to the point where I absolutely hated waking up because I felt like just a few more seconds and I would understand what he was trying to tell me...and he was really struggling by the 4th dream. I knew, without a doubt, that if he showed up in my dreams again...he would speak to me...and I also knew he had something important to tell me. 4 dreams obviously meant something...but what?

You know where this is headed, right? Big Golden Dog did show up for a 5th time...and yes...he spoke to me...but wait...first let me give some back ground that will explain what he had to tell me and why it was so damn important that I get the message (as if I needed telling but who am I to dictate my dreams...or who shows up with a message in them).

If you read my previous post (I hope), you will know that I have been struggling with a lot of personal issues for a long time. The past few years have been especially hard after the divorce (and the reasons for it) and just dealing with the anger that permeated me so deep I think my bones were soaked in fury. I sank quite low, to the point where friends were abandoning me and I was in danger of losing some very important relationships that meant the world to me. I was on a very destructive course that had me free falling into The Black.

It's about this time (at my lowest and darkest point) that Big Golden Dog first showed up. I didn't equate the two until much later...as you will see.

At around the beginning of this year I had a nasty wake up call. I realized that if I continued on this course of self destruction I was going to lose the one relationship that mattered more than any other (besides my children). I needed to figure out a way to rid myself of this over powering anger in order to save myself...and the relationship. By this time Big Golden Dog had shown up 3 times.

I started thinking (see previous post) about all my issues and what was at the root of all the anger. My ex obviously played a very big role in this. The life I had with him has scarred me in ways that I will never be rid of...but I was holding onto the anger long after the divorce was a done deal...so essentially I was keeping the man in my life as if we were still married. I needed to drop that mentality if I planned on getting rid of that anger. I spent two days off from work, around this point, doing nothing but laying in my bed and thinking...and just letting go of things that had bothered me to the point of causing issues for me...and for those closest to me. It was a weekend of mental purging and by the end of it I was completely exhausted. I barely had the energy to return to work...but before I did Big Golden Dog returned for a 4th time. This is when he really tried to talk to me but couldn't quite make it.

By this time I had told plenty of people about my dreams and the latest star appearance. Everyone had opinions about what a dog in a dream meant but I was no nearer to knowing at this point what his purpose was...but I knew he would come again and I was patient.

By March I had sorted through a lot of my mental anguish and had let so much crap go that I started feeling like a new person. It was mid March that I traveled to Bahrain to attend my daughter's birth of my first grandchild (another story there) and for the first time ever...I enjoyed my time spent in Bahrain (with a few bumps). So much of the anger and suffering that I equated with that country was simply gone. It was almost like visiting it for the first time...with no preconceived opinions about it. When it came time to leave and return to this life...I actually didn't want to go. Yes, I know. Quite surprising that Coolred was actually reluctant to leave the country where here demons came to life...but reluctant I was. I could almost feel my heels digging in even as I looked forward to seeing the children I had left behind for a month.

It was then that I truly realized I had successfully done what I never thought I would ever be able to do. I separated the fact of my abusive 20 year marriage to a worthless human being...from the country it took place in. Bahrain wasn't evil just because evilness occurred there. If that were true then America would be evil and unacceptable to me as well since my own father was every bit as abusive as my ex. I realized that I had been equating the place with my ex and my marriage...and for that I had been making those closest to me suffer with my anger and personal issues. I also realized that because some of my children still live there (and my new grandchild) that I would obviously be making more trips back there and so getting rid of the anger and bullshit that crowded my mind was paramount if I was going to be the Awesome Gramma that my own mother never was (another story...I have plenty of them...just wait).

I returned home with renewed determination to continue the healing process. I had plenty of incentive...a new me...a new life awaited...and happiness.

And so...for the 5th time Big Golden Dog showed up in my dreams (last week)...and he spoke to me just as I knew he would.

And this is what he said.

You have lived a life full of pain. It has made you who you are today, for better or worse. You cannot deny your past nor can you change it...all you can change is how you let it influence your future. Letting go was essential for healing to begin. Those who left you while you struggled were meant to leave...and those who have stayed were meant to stay. Do not spend precious moments grieving or feeling anger for those that are no longer in your life as their paths sent them in a different direction. Those that love you, need you, and want you in their lives have made it a point to remain in your life. You have learned that life is short. Time is precious. Prolonged anger is a wasted emotion and love is often the victim. You have traveled a rough road but it has led you to where you are today. Be proud for what you have accomplished. There is still work to be done but you are well on your way. Happiness is always a choice.

I woke up from this dream feeling absolutely amazing. Rested and at peace with the choices and actions I have made recently. I have no doubt that what I want for what remains of my life is the right choice or me...but it doesn't hurt to get a second opinion that supports that choice. Ha ha.

Big Golden Dog (who remained nameless throughout the dreams but strongly reminded my of my dog King) was a sort of spiritual adviser I'm thinking. Something I've never experienced but certainly was well worth the wait. I have no idea if I will see him again but I doubt it. He had a message and he delivered it.

"Drown" the Alligator

Summer has finally reached us here in Wyoming (though we still consider blizzards out of nowhere still possible) and so my kids are off for some swimming fun. While talking to them and reminding them about safety (they know how to swim of course) I was reminded of some of my own swimming memories as a kid. Some good...and some not so good.



I was born in California and spent a lot of time at the ocean side with family. I remember that my grandad had a houseboat. One of those flat bottom things that had a square structure on it that resembled a house of sorts. He took us on it a few times and one particular time really stands out in my memories.



Though I had learned to swim at a very early age I had done all that swimming within the safe confines of a swimming pool. Up to that point swimming in the ocean had never crossed my mind as an option...it was simply to big...too vast. No sides to grab onto when I tired or a diving board to kamikaze off of. I loved being on his boat because I was with him, for one, and we could watch fish etc swimming or jumping out of the water. The sun shines forever in CA and a day on the boat with grandad was a day not inside the house with the Monster.



Once while out on the boat, hindsight tells me grandad and my uncle may have been slightly drunk...not a rare thing there...I wondered out loud what it would be like to swim in the ocean as I gazed over the rails into the deep dark murky waters. No sooner had I uttered the words when suddenly I felt hands grab me, raise me up high...and sling me over the side. Where one moment I was safely on the boat looking in...now I was suddenly underwater looking up at the blurry structure of the boat and several equally blurry human shapes looking down at me.



My breath was gone, all my swimming skills deserted me...all I could think of at that moment was the vast bottomless ocean under my feet...along with whatever lurked down there. I was in a panic and felt powerless as I began to sink more.



More than likely only seconds passed but it felt like a lifetime when suddenly there was a form next to me in the water and I was grabbed and hauled back up to the surface where that first lungful of air never tasted so good. I rose out of the water to the sounds of hysterical laughter from all on board. Everyone apparently thought my little journey into the ocean was all sorts of entertaining...everyone but me. I grabbed a towel and went to sulk for hours...all the joy drained out of the day for me.



Of course I never told my mother for fear she wouldn't let me go out with grandad again (it wasn't the first time he endangered one of our lives through good natured fun) but I also never went with him on the houseboat again. To this day I'm not sure who actually threw me in the water but I wasn't taking any more chances.



Another incident in junior high comes to mind as well. During swimming class in the 8th grade we use to play this game called Alligator. While most of the students lay down on their bellies along the sides of the pool...4 or 5 students would get in the water at the shallow end and make their way down to the edge of the deep end. The point of the game was to not make any sounds what so ever...no splashes...nothing. As soon as someone made a sound...all the "alligators" came in the water to tag the swimmers...once tagged you were out. If you made it to the end without being tagged (even after alligators came in) you won.



Now of course there would be good swimmers...bad swimmers...and those that hated the whole thing and didn't really care if they made noise thus ending the game as soon as possible. During one of my turns with a couple other students...I had made it to the midpoint of the pool where the bottom drops off into the deep end. I could no longer touch the bottom with my feet...so did what everyone did at this point...I went under to swim the remaining distance underwater and thus make no noise at all. Of course this only works if nobody behind you makes noise as well prompting the alligators to enter the water.



Of course someone did make noise and in came the alligators...since I was already underwater I wasn't immediately aware that the gig was up and thus try to get to the end as quickly as possible. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by alligators that were not happy just to tag me...but seemed to find it necessary to push me further down in the water. As each knew hand tagged/pushed me...my time spent underwater was getting longer and longer. I felt a sense of panic settle in as I realized I couldn't hold my breath much longer...and simply rising to the surface to get some air appeared impossible with all the hands keeping me down.



Just as I felt my ears would burst along with my lungs...I dimly heard a whistle blow and suddenly all the hands were gone. I was free to get to the surface and suck in some much needed air. I was still in the middle of the deep end tho and really had to struggle with what strength I had left to make it to the side. I was utterly exhausted and took many minutes before I could drag my sorry butt out of the water. At this point our teacher finally noticed me and became concerned. As I gasped out what had happened...he helped me out and made sure I was OK...but we never played that game again that I recall. Good.





And of course there is the incident in Bahrain in which two of my children and myself nearly drowned as I attempted to rescue them from a trench dug into the beach a few feet into the water....that one is hands down my scariest water moment...probably because my children were involved as well.



http://coolred38.blogspot.com/2009/04/surrounded-by-waterbut-still-cant-swim.html


Of course there are a few more humorous moments, though at the time I might not have thought so. During one trip to the pool when my kids were young in which we visited the recreational center....the pool area had three pools. One for older more experienced swimmers...a smaller more shallow pool for waders etc ...and then a hot pool of sorts...just to sit in and relax. The hot pool had steps leading down into it and I happened to be standing next to those steps at the time. I wasn't swimming ...just watching my kids have fun. Next to me was my son Zack, who was around 4 at the time.

At one point I looked down at Zack to check on him and he was nowhere to be seen. I quickly scanned the area but didn't see him. Just when I was about to really panic I happened to glance down at the stairs leading into the hot pool...and there was Zack...at the bottom of the steps, underwater, with his hands spread out straight...just standing there underwater. I quickly stepped in and grabbed him and hauled him up. As I checked him over and made sure he was OK...asking him what he was doing down there..he was laughing (the stinker was laughing while my heart was pounding)...he wasn't in there long enough to realize the danger...and so was enjoying just standing underwater watching people's legs etc. Ahhh kids. They do make us old.

My oldest daughter, Sara, use to love going to the beach when very young. Her grandad would take her and her brother, Adam, down to his boat every weekend and they would spend hours there...baking in the sun...turning nut brown...while he tinkered on his boat. When I took them to the beach she never hesitated to just run into the water and have fun...until...during one trip to the beach the tide quickly went out leaving the beach itself exposed while they were still out quite a distance. (sometimes you would have to go out quite aways to find water deep enough to actually do more than wade in) This meant they had to walk back through extremely sticky foot sucking mud.

Now this wasn't the problem because we all know that most kids have no problem with a little mud...the problem was that now the crabs...that are inside their holes when the tide is in...are now free to come out. Sara loved eating crabs...up until that point...crabs are a main staple of Bahraini food...but to have her "lunch" suddenly surrounding her...looking ominous and threatening...was too much for her. She was absolutely petrified...frozen solid unable to move. I was shouting at her to just ignore them and come on in...I couldn't go to her because I had my youngest with me laying on a blanket. Her siblings tried to encourage her as well but she wasn't having it. She screamed every time one of them so much as glanced her way. Of course the longer she stood in one place...the deeper she sank in the mud...requiring her to keep shuffling to keep herself from sinking too deep. (no real fear here as there is firmer ground under the mud after a certain point...but she wasn't aware of that)

Eventually, as the sun went down...as her siblings grew tired of trying to help her...as my threats to leave her there lost all meaning to her...she eventually dug deep for courage and made her way back to the beach...one screaming step at a time. I tried not to laugh (it's hard to be a parent sometimes...seriously) as she made her way back. Of course I would have been in there like a shot if I thought she was in any real danger...but I have always tried to allow my kids to over come fears...rather than rescue them every time from them...if possible. So I let her work it out herself...and she did...eventually.

To this day she has never eaten another crab...no longer finds as much joy at the beach as she once did. She will still go but scans the whole area before taking tentative steps towards the water...and hauls ass out as soon as the tide turns and makes its way out again. Poor baby.

Windows

During my years in Bahrain I lived in 4 different places...thus 4 different houses/apartments. While standing at my kitchen sink today washing dishes I kept glancing out my window that is right behind the sink and watched birds, squirrels, traffic...felt the breeze coming through and smelled the grass, flowers. I watched the tops of the tree branches sway and couldn't help but just feel calm at this vista.

Then it made me think about my years in Bahrain and the fact that from all the places I lived in...I did not have any windows in two of those places to look out of, one of them had windows that looked at a wall and the last had windows that just looked out on desert and nothing more. Varying shades of tan with nothing to break up the sameness of it all. I'm sure this contributed to the prison like feeling I always had. I hated my life inside my houses...but there was nothing to look out on either to make me momentarily forget where I was...and more importantly who I was.

I realize that my one kitchen window in this apartment in the US affords me a view that has everything I yearned for over there; color, foilage, wildlife, sound, a cool breeze...a soothing calmness that if nothing else...makes the chore of doing dishes a lot more pleasant.

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.