Photos From Salalah

The picture of the women in abaya is a group of my classmates at the alleged tomb of Job. Job, the Old Testament (and Quranic), figure of patience and utter faith, is supposedly buried in the mountains northest of Salalah. The photo of the grave, about a hundred years old, (note, we are currently in the Hijri year 1428)--when I first saw the numerals on the grave I thought it was from 1317 AD--then I remembered the Hijri year. This grave is outside the tomb of another important figure, not a prophet like Job, but someone important, (couldn't get a satisfacotry answer on this). The photo of the door shows an example Oman's national symbol; this possibly will be involved in my research. Despite Oman's declared peaceful nature, the symbol is a "khanjar" dagger, (Sam, remember the dagger you got from Yaya and Tata? It is Omani, if I remember it correctly). Men carry these for any formal occasion. The symbol asoo shows crossed swords, and a ceremonial belt. The symbol is everywhere: on the seats of Oman's airline, on clothing, depicted in homes and schools, and of course the flag. The Sultan's picture is nearly equally ubiquitous. The next photo shows a Baobab tree--one of the only places they are found outside of Africa. The man walking in front is Ghalib, one of our guides, (he helped me book the flight I will take to Yemen after the program ends; I leave the morning of December 13th.) Photos to follow: the interior of an abandoned house; many of the old houses are made of limestone and disintegrate unless regualrly repaired. With current imports of concrete, the older houses are usually left to melt in the monsoon which makes Salalah green during the "Kharif" season, (although I named my blog "Kharif" because it means "autumn" in Oman this refers to the summer monsoon in Dhofar). The photo of the rock with the barely discernable writing is from Samaharam, an ancient sea port for the export of frankincense. Steve, Annelle, Katie, and Amir on the edge of a sea cliff, the sea cliff and town of Tarqah. (we watched dolphin in the water belw; Erick found the casing of a bullet that looked to be around 30 years old; the cliff, and many of the areas we visited, had been the site of major battles in the Dhofar War, though our tourguides would/could not talk to us about this, and physical evidence of the war had been actively destroyed by government decree.)
Much of the trip to Salalah felt fake. Well, packaged. We rode around on a bus and filed off and took pictures. And though we had enthusiastic guides, they could not answer most of the questions on the issues we really wanted to know, i.e. related to the war. I was wonderful to see green though, and camels are fun of course, (we saw herds of THOUSANDS). And bargaining for frankincense in the market was fun, though none of us have the Omani knack for it.
Great, the photos aren't uploading. I will try again later.

From An Email to a Professor

Dear Professor,

I hope that your semester has begun well and continues smoothly.
Oman is fascinating, although at times my perspective from within a home-stay family feels like trying to look at a mural with a magnifying glass. Although the family provides interesting cultural insights and anecdotes, I have felt frustrated at times with the lack of access to information regarding larger socio-political trends, as census data is only barely available, and even basic internet access has been at times difficult, particularly now during Ramadhan.
However, part of trickiness in trying to pin down “facts” about Oman as a political whole has been a product of the Sultan and his government: a theme that has been constantly reiterated by our lecturers and readings is “Oman is different”, meaning different from its more restive neighbors. And while it is far more stable politically than Yemen for example, and less conservative than Saudi Arabia, it is also quite strictly controlled. Another theme that has been reiterated, explicitly or not, is the self-censorship that the government has somehow managed to so effectively induce. A saying I have heard is “We are more worried than the government is" [about saying something that the government would not like]. I am unsure as to how this fear of criticizing the Sultan has been so widely invoked. Other than the clever practice of imprisoning dissonants briefly, then releasing them to their families with the accompanying social stigma which puts the responsibility on the families to watchfully control the activities of the "trouble maker", I have not evidence of extreme punitive violence nor overt pro-Sultan propaganda. Perhaps I have not yet learned to recognize it.
This governmental control seems to be a major factor contributing to Oman as "different". In the words of people here, "Oman has good relations with all the world." "We are under control, control is good for us." "Oman is safe." Part of the "national narrative" depicts Oman as "a seafaring nation", rendering it historically tolerant and open to other cultures, dependent upon interaction with outsiders. This naarative matches current Omani efforts to expand its tourism industry, and the recently passed free-trade agreement with the United States.
Yet I am still at a loss to understand why exactly Oman is "different". And it is; from what I can tell, it is politically stable, any whiffs of political jihad are quickly waved away. People ask worriedly about impressions of the Middle East in the United States. They are equally quick to point out that September 11th was not conducted by Muslims. Either they say that the terrorists had so corrupted the idea of Islam that is no longer qualified, or they say that other agents were responsible and Al-Qaeda is a red herring.
What all this means for my research is hard to say. Trying to ask "What could the US do to improve relations with the MIddle East" would have to be modified, because Omanis would probably not assume to speak for all the Middle East, and from an Omani perspective, the US is a friend. Although the same issues that unite the Middle East hold true here: the US needs to get out of Iraq and stop supporting Israel. These ideas are learnt by heart; some people do not even know where Israel is, (they know hwere Palestine is, but have not been taught that Israel controls what they think of as "Palestine"



I have therefore considered looking at the identity of Oman as "different" (this implies differnt from states such as Yemen that produce jihadists). Part of the Omani national identity program has been a repression of the Cold War proxy war in in the 60's to the 80's, in which socialists and dis-satisfied peasants in the southen region of Dhofar tried to resist the consolidation program of the Sultan. The war itself is nearly erased from the physical environment and mainstream memory. This fascinates me, aespecially after experiencing places like Cyprus, Argentina, Bosnia, and Nicaragua, where past conflict and collective trauma both informs identiy and is manipulated for contemporary politics. It seems that the war would not gel with the mantra "Oman is different, Oman is peaceful, Oman is stable" and therefore it is rubbed out.

I am curous to study the extent to which this is only the wishful thinking of the Sultan's Adminstration, and to what extent people have internalized this as part of being "omani". I am unsure how I would go about this.

If you know of any other situation in which past conflict has been erased rather than exploited for the sake of a national narrative, I would be very interested to know.

(Fanon speaks of identity as always congealing around a collective trauma).

I am also trying to find evidence of Derrida's "other" in Omani identity; if it is truely the "violent" this seems almost unprecedented in my experience, and exciting from a perspective of conflict resolution. However, I doubt that it is actually so black and white.

I would love to hear your thoughts!
(That means everyone's thoughts--it is hard to do online research here, and libraries hardly exist, so I am counting on the knowledge I can gather from people!)

Best,
Annelle




These are photos from the trip to a village near "Ibri" in the interior, perhaps three hours southwest of Muscat. I went with Elizabeth and Heather, the only other "intermediate" Arabic student, to attend the "Aza" of our teacher's mother. The "aza" or funeral ceremony, is a three-day period of mourning and visits from hundreds of relatives, neighbors, friends. For us it consisted of sitting among women wearing the full face mask, with hennaed hands and feet, swatting flies in the heat while the bells of goats, cows, and camels tinkled from behind the compound. The daughters cried, (the men, of course, were in a sepearate area), mostly the guests sat in silence. When we arrived we took the right hand of each woman and murmured "Salaam Aleikum", and whenver someone new arrived they did the same. Also went around to everyone to say goodbye; Elizabeth had resist the repeated requests that we stay for iftar, and the night.

Weekend Musings

I feel that I haven't given much background on my surroundings and day-to-day life here: Muscat is a series of monteqa or neighborhoods strung out east to west along the coastline of the Persian Gulf. Driving back and forth from the area where I live with my family, Al-Ghubra, to the district of the SIT office, Al-Hail, takes about twenty minutes, though usually longer because of traffic or picking other people up and dropping them off. One orients oneself by traffic circles, dawar, in Muscat. We live by Al-Ghubra Dawar, near the Grand Mosque and the Sultan Qaboos sporting complex. And the ever important gargantuan shopping center. Muscat is a car city, but when driving back and forth the mountains are always visible. Sometimes dramatically backed with the burning blue sky, each wadi and ridge visible as a muscle, sometimes a hazy smudge, the mountains feel more present than the sea, although technically the sea is much closer. Unfortunately thus far I have yet to visit either; it does not seem to be something that my family does very often. We sit in the house during the day because it is too hot, though tonight for the first time my two oldest sisters and I walked around our neighborhood after the meal was put away. I cannot call it dinner, because technically it is “break-fast”, al-iftar, the meal after the evening call to prayer.

(That was written earlier: since then I have been to the mountains, or "the interior" to attend the funeral ceremony of my Arabic teacher's mother, and I have gone swimming, when my family generously hosted some of the other SIT students for iftar on the beach, (see the photos posted earlier).
Perhaps I have given plenty of background, but because each day consists of school and sitting at home or visiting relatives, I feel that I have to describe in detail the aspects of my life that would otherwise fall by the wayside in favor of my constant search for the "new". This is not to say that living, sleeping, studying, eating (once a day), in Oman has become old hat. But I do appreciate the time to focus on the process of living. And women and children spend a lot of time in the house if they are not at work or school. I do not know whether men do as well, because Khaled, my father, works hard and constantly to be able to support his three families. It was strange yesterday to emerge on the front steps on the way to the car, (we were going to Hobo ("grandmother"'s) house for iftar; the sun was beginning to set and the mountains were more clearly etched than I had ever remembered seeing them. At home I would feel frantic at the "loss" of a day, the lack of exercise and "stimulation". But here I can relax into the social expectation that sitting at home and visiting in the evening represents the necessary spectrum of activity. Ramadhan has been the major cause of this, I think; people slow down. Normal bodily processes slow down: digestion, healing, even skin turnover I think. After the meal in the evening I feel like it will take the entire 21+ hours for my body to be ready to eat again. It will be a shock to come back to a regular routine. To answer Sam's question about why drinking juice hurts my stomach, whether it is the acidity: this is possible, but I think it has more to do with putting large volumes of liquid into a shrunken stomach.
About my neighborhood: I live in a fairly central area, theoretically within walking distance of shops and the “Hypermarket Lulu”, but we have only ever taken the car. During the day this makes sense. One of my first family outings was to spend three hours there with my mother, sisters Belquees, Tumathr and Rayan, and brother Lokhman and Amran. We bought everything from sweets to school supplies to shampoo. The place was mobbed in preparation for Ramadhan. My mother was dismayed to find that all the laban was gone. Laban is a salty yogurt drink we have at 4am during Ramadhan—to those who remember from Cyprus, it tastes like ayran, but sometimes they add chili powder.
Today is Friday, the Holy Day. Back to class tomorrow. It is easier to fast at school because I am distracted. I am used to home, in Oman, in Brooklyn, in Durham, representing physical and emotional comfort. Both of which are often found most readily in food, it seems. So sitting at home on the weekend and working, or studying, and then being unable to go outside, or eat something, or listen to music, (not allowed during daylight hours in Ramadhan), requires a shift in my entire attitude towards "home", "work, "reward". Sensation becomes heightened; taking a shower I focus on the water on my skin; this becomes the reward of the afternoon. Or taking a nap, (which we do a lot of during Ramadhan), I revel in the freedom to choose to be awake or asleep, (one of the few things I do control).
I hope that this does not come across as a strangled gasp for air; I am genuinely fascinated by the experience.
To all: thank you for your emails: but if you are willing, please post questions and responses on the blog. It feels strange to write sometimes, unsure of whom is reading, or if it is being read at all. I would rather blog my email responses anyway, rather than try to maintain both. (Internet access is not getting any easier).

Photos From Iftar on the Beach

It is interesting to read the post "The Good, Bad, Unexpected" because although I just posted it I had written it last week. And even in a week my perceptions change.
It feels sort of like going through puberty again, when my feelings about my surroundings, or relationships to others, or self-image could change completely from day to day.
This past week I have been thinking a lot about Ramadhan. I have fasted every day; usually my family wakes around 3:30am to drink or eat a bit before the dawn prayer. I usually drink water. Then we break fast with dates, laban, and an assortment of fried goodies, (sambusas: triangular pockets of meat or potatoes, fried sugary dough balls, an African sweet fried puffy bread).
It has made me aware of how often I use food during the day for motivation or reward. Waking up without being able to drink water has been the hardest. I also feel differently towards my body; I realize that it really doesn't "need" as much as I am used to thinking it does. Not eating also means that I don't have to think about eating; I realize all the time and thought that goes into carrying food and water around, or feeling hungry and waiting for food, or having coffee at break as a way to survive the lesson: without all of these things, I have found that life seems simpler. Though of course I miss them, it is also refreshing to feel free of the psychological tugs that often revolve around food and drink, (far more strongly than actual body signals). It would be interesting to do a similar exercise in communal fasting for people that are trying to lose weight...it all has to do with supporting each other. This has probably already been done, I am sure, but if not...
And I love the satisfaction of finally eating together in the evenings.

The Hard, the Easy, the Unexpected

Things I Thought Would Be Hard to Get Used To and Aren’t
Covering My Head— I wear a hat when I go outside in the sun at home anyway. And that becomes ten times more important here: the sun feels dangerous. Or it would be if one were to walk off into the brush without water or skin protection.

Toilet Customs—i.e. washing one’s own underwear each evening and using water instead of toilet paper. The first is less traumatizing than worrying about any “stories” as Elizabeth described them, that one’s underwear might reveal. The second involves using your left hand to wash yourself with the “dish sprayer” hose that sits to the right of every toilet in Oman. (Except the one in the American embassy). I actually like the whole idea of washing yourself, and wonder how disgusting the Omanis and anyone else accustomed to water must find the whole toilet paper business. Also, it helps with remembering the “Don’t use your left hand to greet anyone or eat anything” rule. Because if this were only arbitrarily imposed I wouldn’t remember.

The heat—I grew up in North Carolina. Living here we have the same mentality and behavior as in any North Carolina summer (stay inside, live in air-conditioning). The temperatures are just a bit higher here. I think it helps that it is in Celsius so I cannot tell as readily what the actual temperature is, just a rough guess.

Force-Feeding—I remember horror stories from the other SIT students in Cyprus of five hour dinners at which they would be bullied into eating until they literally threw up. Though I was lucky enough to be with a family that neither ate exorbitantly nor had large gatherings, it was stressful to have them watch every bite I took, eternally one less than would satisfy them. I feared that Oman would be ten times worse. However, I was lucky again with my family; thus far we only eat together when we have guests, i.e. Mama Naila watches what I eat and I feel bad to refuse her in front of guests. In general the kids don’t all eat together, as this would be too much of a struggle to try to coordinate everyone’s schedule and belly. So we eat when we feel like it. Though Mama Naila will probably never tell me that I have eaten enough, she also allows me some autonomy, alhamdu-lillah. Also I have been sick recently and can still maintain the argument that I have to be careful not to overdo it.

Favorite Things
Having my hair brushed—My sisters don’t know what to make of my hair. The first evening, to prepare for Elizabeth’s wedding, they brushed and smoothed and patted until I looked every bit the 4th grade class dork. They have decided that for Eid they will curl it; Tumathr wants me to go to a salon with them, (it’s possible she hopes that if I come Khaled will chip in, although he had siad that they were responsible for their own means to get their hair done for Eid). Belquees says that we can do it at home and pulled out the curlers to practice. But mostly they just like to brush it. The little boys think this is a great idea and they usually try to join in, generally Amran’s chocolate bar comes along for the ride. This is fine because we all shower at least once, sometimes twice a day. And there is no one for whom I need to look pretty or even kempt. Any chocolate remnants in my hair will be covered by the headscarf anyway.

Mama Naila’s Tea—She brews cinnamon, an unidentified spice, sometimes mint, and tea leaves, then adds lots of milk and sugar. And pepper if someone has a sore throat; try this, it works for congestion as well.

Mama Naila’s Juices—fresh orange, mango, lime, carrot, either in combination or alone, prepared in the blender. I could live on this stuff, and now during Ramadhan often have to be careful because after a day of fasting, suddenly drinking juice is really painful. But I usually do it anyway; the juice is that good.

Things I Didn’t Expect Would be Hard
Not having time to work—my brothers are in and out of rooms, activities, everyone’s stuff constantly, though they are less of a distraction than my sisters who ask for help on their english homework, or want to show me their books, or want to know what I am doing, or want me to watch them and, if possible take pictures.

Things I Expected to Miss and Haven’t
Internet—I miss email and easy blog access, but I don’t miss the daily news updates, or all the junky academic stuff that filters like dandruff from the various layers of NYU bureacracy, club life, or academic reminders. Though I feel fairly uninformed, I think the trade off of internet for Oman immersion is more than fair in terms of what I am getting out of it.

Alcohol—Or at least the freedom to choose to have it or not. But it is not at a part of life here, (except when we saw it at the airport, and I know it is available at some hotels), so we do not even think about it.

Things I am still not used to
Khaled and Mama Naila’s relationship as husband of three and first wife. More on this later.

Abaya—today Khadija brought some abayas for the girls, including me. I tried two that seemed to work, i.e. floor length and not too tight. However apparently the second one was too form-fitting for my family’s taste, so it had to go. Unfortunate, because I ned more abayas. And I liked the decoration, sort of jewelled. I have often had the sensation , “Oh, so this is what it’s like to be____” since coming here. Today it was, “Oh, so this is what it’s like to want to wear something and to be told that it is not appropriate.” Growing up I don’t think I was ever told this. I am glad that they told me it was too tight, and looking back I probably would have felt a bit uncomfortable in it. Both the heat and the possible attention.
This may be difficult to explain…how I can feel unresentful or annoyed by the stares that come from men, or the horns honking. The easy answer is that personally, I am used to it. From being a thirteen year old in Nicaragua and getting used to the usual harmless catcalls that give Hispanic men such a bad name in the U.S., to getting honks from cars in Durham in my southern hometown as a high schooler, to drawing a lot of stares and occasional honks in Northern Cyprus simply because blonde hair and pale skin are an uncommon sight there outside of the tourist traps. So being honked at or stared at here is fairly easy to ignore.
The harder thing is explaining why it is supposedly the woman’s job to cover herself so that men do not feel tempted by them. The argument I have heard repeated by friends and family in the USA is that men should take some responsibility for their own actions and exhibit restraint. I do not disagree, and still take issue with the idea that it is entirely up to the women. However, I explain it to myself on the level of women as being the target of abuse world-wide. Currently the "plight" of women in the Middle East takes a highly visible, (and highly publicized), form. However, my experience as a woman thus far in Oman has felt more constrained by the sun and heat than from any human restrictions. I feel more respected here, in many cases, though this would be different if I did not wear an abaya. Here it is also a marker of social status, as the "outsiders", (so-called "expatriates" or the workers from South Asia that outnumber Omanis with citizenship), do not wear abaya, or the male equivalent, the dishdasha.

Photos of Siblings

Field Study Not Appropriate

I have moved the material that I had completed as part of our ongoing assignment for the Field Study Seminar: to keep a journal in the "DIE" format (description, interpretation, evaluation), as many of these observations involved private personal interactions. I will continue to record these observations but will not publish them.

My Family

I am not sure of the order of the photos currently and laboriously being uploaded (insha'allah), but they should consist of:
My two younger brothers, Lokhman (about to turn 8) and Amran (3).
My sisters Belquees (15), Tumathr (13); I think Tumathr's picture didn't come through, and Rayan (9).
My mother, Naila and father Khaled.
The picture of Khaled was taken at the Grand Mosque before I knew he would be my home-stay dad; he drives some of us to school every morning.
The photo of the three women with me on the couch was from the "malka" or small wedding gathering (as opposed to the huge wedding ceremony; that will come later).
Heather, another SIT student, and I were lucky enough to have families that were going to the "malka". Naila, my mother, is between me and Heather on the couch. My sisters had a big time dressing and making me up ahead of time. Elizabeth, our Academic director, married a Saudi man with whom she had been friends for years. It was a bit of a shock to us students though. Elizabeth explains it as more an "engagement" in American terms; now she and he can be alone together without causing a scandal. He is, like many here, involved with oil, so she has not been able to see him very often. They decided at the spur of the moment to have the wedding ceremony at the mosque, (at which Elizabeth didnot have to be present).
ELizabeth is Muslim but originally a Baptist from Kentucky.
It seems the photos are not working...will try again later.

Images from Mutrah (location of our hotel in Muscat)

Orientation Week

Orientation Week Catch Up

I apologize; this entry will try to catch up all the back-ground information and a bit about the first week. But I will be jumping all over the place. Bear with me and please post questions if something does not make sense. Even if it does make sense, post questions anyway.

I arrived in Muscat, Oman on the evening of September 1st. The rest of the group arrived two hours later. Our Academic Director, Dr. Elizabeth Langston, had arranged for drivers to take us to our hotel in Mutrah, an area near the old city of Muscat, on the far eastern edge of Muscat’s current borders.

For the few days of our Orientation Week we had a few drop-offs, visited the Grand Mosque, and Sultan Qaboos University. For the first drop-off we explored Mutrah Souk, a traditional souk or market of covered stalls to find, buy, and bring back articles we thought the rest of the SIT students would not recognize. I found teeth-cleaning sticks to be chewed on, and a flat round comb, (this has come in handy for my hair, which has a tendency to escape from under my headscarf, as it is too short to be pinned back). I think the best mystery item was a small bottle of liquid that featured a camel. We had all decided it was camel juice, or perhaps bottled camel spit, when we learned it was a cure-all; the camel was just the icon. Our second drop-off sent us to grocery stores to learn the Arabic words for foods and to compare prices at the various major supermarkets. Our reward upon returning (we had to figure out how to do this on our own, either by taxi or minibus) was halwa, a traditional Omani sweet. Sultan, the intermediate Arabic teacher, tried to explain what ingredients go into it: ghee (clarified butter, sugar, and flavoring) create a gelatinous greasy blob that comes in various shades of brown. Delicious despite the dubious description, but without parallel. Brown jello on steroids doesn’t really cut it.
The next morning we went to the Grand Mosque, constructed by “the Majesty”, as my sisters refer to him, Sultan Qaboos, to honor Oman. The photographs cannot do justice to the size, the colors, the sheer expense. We have been unable to locate a figure, but a few clues: the spouts for washing before prayer turn on automatically; the women’s section is equipped with a full TV system that allows them to see the imam leading the prayer in the men’s section; (this was the first time that the women’s room in a mosque did not disappoint me, though I had not yet seen the men’s room); the chandelier has something like 50,000 German crystals, the ceiling is made of Cabrera marble, the carpet was the largest in the world until they made a bigger one last summer for Abu Dhabi…I will stop trying to recreate the list that the mosque guide gave us. Suffice to say, it initially felt very fake. In terms of an “authentic” Omani construction, it seemed to be far more concerned with ostentatious imports and displays of wealth than faith. But then again, any grand construction, Notre Dame, the pyramids, the Taj Mahal, reflects a display of wealth and power, and only becomes a part of the “authentic” experience of a place or a faith after sufficient time has passed for the structure to become part of religious or national identity. We learned from Elizabeth that few people actually pray there; they have their local mesjid (small mosque); my siblings had been taken there on school trips, as is every visiting dignitary and tourist. Note: in June a historically unprecedented hurricane smashed into Oman, flooding Muscat, killing still un-recorded numbers, destroying hundreds of homes and roads. The Grand Mosque was flooded; although it was drained and cleaned within days in a display of the country’s ability to rebound, now three months later people are still living in temporary housing. However, it does seem that people bonded and helped each other; I do not know, but I think that this was one of the few national disasters that has befallen the country since its “Blessed Renaissance”, the term given to the thirty-eight year reign of Sultan Qaboos. Some people worried that the hurricane was a sign from God; I think it is the first of a series of storms induced by global warming. I hope I am wrong, as the construction and rebuilding has not tried to protect against future storms: roads still sit in wadis, houses are set up on their destroyed foundations. As a post-Katrina American I do not have the right to criticize any country’s hurricane policies, but I hope that Oman can learn to do a better job in preventing the circumstances for damage.
We also visited the Sultan Qaboos University, the first university in Oman founded 1986 and attended by the best and the brightest on full scholarship. Men and women take classes together, though they sit in separate sections in the library.
I want to avoid always ranking any situation or location on a “gender fairness scale”, but it is hard to avoid being aware of this. And it is often pointed out to us; for example, at the university the walkways between buildings had two stories: the top for women, the bottom for men. Today both are co-ed, and this fact was repeatedly pointed out to us by our guide, a P.R. man for the university. I found the lecture from the dean and the following tour tiringly upbeat; they seemed bent on convincing us of the quality of their media technologies and the gender fairness of their policies. The university itself was beautifully laid out and the facilities surpassed many American equivalents, but I got the same sense as in the Grand Mosque: we are only shown the shiniest newest places. These places seem to belong more to the spectators of Oman than the Omanis themselves. Though I cannot generalize about the entire country from only these two examples, it seemed that Oman is performing itself according to the lines dictated by the West, namely by foreign investors.

Internet Frustrations

I have been unable to post in a oong time, and I planed this time to post a nice long explanation and reflection the past two weeks in Oman.
They say the way to make God laugh is have a plan.
And though I may not be religious normally, God has been a definite presence lately, particularly when I and my family have been fasting all day and it is almost 6:30 when the call to prayer will come.

So this must be a post for class actually, describing three instances we chose to describe, interpret, and evaluate. Sorry for the many for whom this will be a crash course in life in Oman--I promise to post pictures, names, explanations soon!
*******************

Field Study Journal
Posted September 14, 2007

Recorded: 11.09.07

Context, Background Information
Time: Around 18:30, before sala’a al-magreb, Tuesday, September 11
Location: Muscat, Al-Ghubra, Mama Naila’s house, Girls’ Bedroom, on/around beds (3).
Individuals Present, Ages, Relationship: Annelle (21), Host Sister; Tumathr (13) Second Oldest Sister; Rayan (9) Youngest Sister; Lemia (around 10) Cousin.

Description
I was doing homework on my bed. Rayan, Tumathr and Lemia came into the room. They closed the door. I asked Lemia why she had a British accent. Lemia said that she liked speaking with one. I asked if she had learned in England. She said no. A few minutes later, Lemia said that she spoke English better than Tumathr and Rayan and Belquees (Oldest sister, 15). Tumathr began to repeat what Lemia was saying with an exaggerated accent. They started singing American hip-hop music and dancing; although Tumathr and Rayan sang some of the words, Lemia knew more of the words, though not all. Tumathr and Rayan danced and sang a few words, Lemia sat on the bed next to mine and sang. At one point Rayan asked me to sing American songs. I sang the first that I could remember, “You Drive Me Crazy” by Britney Spears. Tumathr and Rayan said that it was too slow to dance to, and Lemia continued. The songs I recognized were “Umbrella” by Rihana, “Candy Shop”, “Shut Up”, and “Riding Dirty”. There was another song in English that I did not recognize: Rayan and Tumathr knew a dance to go with it. They asked Lemia to sing it while they danced; about five times they told her to stop and go back to the beginning, at which time they would begin the dance again. Tumathr told Lemia to sing Arabic songs, and Rayan and Tumathr danced an Omani dance. I asked the girls if they could help with my Arabic homework: “Find as many names for clothes in Oman as possible”. They told me dishdasha, jalibi, and were helping me to spell these words when the Salat Al-Magreb sounded. Immediately Tumathr stopped speaking, and then Rayan. I did not speak either, although Lemia whispered instructions to me regarding spelling. Tumathr began to say the accompanying prayer. When the Adan was over, we continued naming and spelling clothes.

Interpretation
I chose to highlight this moment, in particular what occurred during the Salat Al-Magreb, because it had never occurred before. In the past few days I had observed my sisters’ behavior during the Adan as being the same as at other times. (I remembered that in Cyprus, although the Turkish Cypriot family I lived with was secular, they would uncross their legs when they heard the Adan. I asked my sister Tumathr whether people would do anything during the Adan, she told me that if people are religious they stop what they are doing or saying to pray.) At the time I interpreted Tumathr and Rayan’s choice to be silent during the call to prayer as a spur-of-the-moment decision having to do with Lemia’s presence. In my understanding, choosing to embrace a more religious behavior at that moment lessened Lemia’s power or importance, which had seemed greater during the singing because she knew the words and spoke better English. I came to this conclusion because Tumathr and Rayan had appeared to be displeased with Lemia’s behavior: they had mocked her British accent when I commented on it. Tumathr had told Lemia to swith to Arabic songs that all the girls knew equally well. When the Adan came, it was an opportunity for Tumathr and Rayan to be “in the know”. This choice, to my understanding, would strengthen their status from a religious standpoint, and therefore in the community, and it is possible that this is why they chose to keep silent during the Adan. However, I think that their decision was motivated by a desire to disempower Lemia as an outsider who did not know that their normal behavior would have been to continue as normal during the Adan. In my interpretation, I began to link this decision to the global trend I have heard decribed in academic studies of Islam, the so-called “crisis” of identity in which some Muslims choose to embrace Islam with more passion as an alternative to adopting the products, dress or mentality diseeminated under American hegemony. However, I thought that this was over generalizing a situation that seemed to have more to do with power dynamics among young girls than about any “identity crisis”.

Evaluation
I felt included in the secret a bit. Lemia had been getting on my nerves for behaving as if she were superior to Rayan and Tumathr for her British accent and knowledge of American songs. I also worried a little that Mama Naila, our mother, would not be so happy with the songs that Lemia was singing, and I hoped that she would not think that I had encouraged the girls to sing them. I had felt a little bit uncomfortable during the song “Candy Shop” for the lyrics “I’ll let you lick the lollipop”; although I did not know if the girls knew exactly what it meant, they knew it was supposed to be sexy, perhaps from the tone of the singer, or from other kids saying so. I did not react at all to any of the songs, only smiled in the same way at everything, in hopes that I would not add or detract any understanding the girls had already acquired regarding them. In all, with the door closed and the girls dancing suggestively, I felt as if they felt comfortable being more free around me, particularly with American culture, than they would around their older sister or mother. I did not want Tumathr or Rayan to do anything that might get them or me in trouble, nor to make them feel too dis-satisfied with life in Oman, or glamorize the United States any more than they possibly already had. Therefore, when the Adan came, I felt relieved because Tumathr and Rayan reaffirmed the power of the part of their identity that comes from religion, and/or tradition, and/or the Omani community instead of choosing to give more power to Lemia by allowing her to continue to outshine them in singing American hip-hop and speaking English.

After
After reconsidering the situation I felt surprised at my feeling of relief. I think that before coming to Oman I would have considered the girls’ choice to sing American songs in this “sub rosa” context as expressing themselves in a situation where they felt free to rebel slightly against taboos and I would have encouraged them to do so as a way of having fun and not being afraid to pus their boundaries a bit. However, after ten days in Oman and five days with my family, (has it only been five days? I already feel like these girls are nearly my real sisters), I worry that if the girls begin to feel too dis-satisfied with the constraints of an Omani woman, they might behave in a way that could get them in trouble. Although I would encourage them to work for women’s rights as adults, I would not want them to replace the abaya with booty shorts and the Arabic love-songs (which may be sappy, but at least are sweet), with “I’ll let you lick the lollipop”.


Recorded: 13.09.07

Context, Background Information
Time: Around 18:15, before dinner, Sunday, September 09
Location: Muscat, Al-Ghubra, Mama Naila’s house, Kitchen, by the sink.
Individuals Present, Ages, Relationship: Annelle (21), Host Mother Naila, Host Sister Tumathr (13)

Description
I had come back from class around 18:00, gone to my room to remove my abaya and come into the kitchen to help prepare dinner, as I had done for the previous meals. Naila about me about my day, I asked about hers. I asked Tumathr about school, she replied it was fine. I was asking Naila what I could do to help when Tumathr hit my upper arm. I looked at her, she hit me again. I ignored her, she hit me again. I smiled and started to talk to her about something we had discussed the day before. We picked up a conversation and she did not hit me again. In the time since she has not hit me.

Interpretation
I had noticed before this occurrence that my siblings regularly hit each other in play or anger, though this would rarely result in anyone being actually hurt. The hitting would stop after a minute; if the hit resulted in tears, they usually seemed to be used as a strategy to stop the attack rather than an indicator of actual pain. I had wondered if I would be included, and if I was not, whether this would be due to my status as only a semi-sibling, or whether I was too old to be an acceptable target. I interpreted Tumathr’s behavior as having to do with establishing my relationship within the house. I think she wanted to test my reaction, because the way in which she hit me and then watched me seemed distinct from the playful or angry tussling I had seen among her and the other kids. It is possible that she was feeling frustrated with having yet another student in her house, or with my over-zealousness in trying to ingratiate myself by helping with housework, and hit me initially out of this frustration. When she continued to hit me I think she may have simply wanted to see what I would do. I interpreted her stopping to mean that she felt either bored or satisfied with my reaction. Over-all, I felt I was being tested somehow. Naila ignored the event.

Evaluation
Initially, I felt that Tumathr’s hitting me meant that I was enough a part of the family to not be immune from regular sister behavior. However I felt confused as to how I should respond. I thought it possible that she wanted me to hit her back, which I did feel comfortable doing. After first surprise and then acceptance, I felt a moment of panic when the hitting continued because I thought that she was genuinely angry with me and I did not know why. I realized that ignoring her was not working and might make her more angry. I felt bewildered, as the hitting was forceful if not overly painful. I also felt betrayed, as I thought that of all my siblings, Tumathr and I had established the closest bond through talking to each other and sleeping in the same room. I did not think that I still needed to pass tests from her. However, when I managed to engage her in a discussion we had had the day before, drawing on our past established relationship, this seemed to work. It is possible that she decided to stop on her own and that my actions did not have any effect. I have not felt comfortable enough to bring it up again and ask her because I thought that do so might make her feel that the event had bothered me.

After
In writing up my memory of the situation I realized that I had allowed too much time to pass between the event and my recording of it. Although I had planned to analyze it and so had thought through what my description, interpretation and evaluation would be, in trying to remember the specifics I found that I was not confident in my recollections. Next time I will choose a more recent event or be more careful to write my reactions immediately following.


Recorded 14.09.07

Context, Background Information
Time: Around 22:30, before bedtime, Wednesday, September 12
Location: Muscat, Al-Ghubra, road between the local dukan and Mama Naila’s house.
Individuals Present, Ages, Relationship: Annelle (21), Host Sister Belquees (15), Host Sister Tumathr (13), Host Brother Lokhman (7), Host Brother Amran (3).

Description
My siblings wanted to buy laban so that they could have it with rice and yoghurt for the following morning, the first day of Ramadhan. They had told me that they always have this breakfast prior to a day of fasting. We had walked to the dukan (store) and were returning. There were a few men sitting here and there or walking; although there was minimal light from streetlights they had no independent sources of light. We heard voices shouting ahead of us and saw two men drag a third out of the front door of a house on the left side of the street ahead of us. A fourth man followed with a wooden stick. The two men brought the third in front of a car, the fourth hit him with the stick. The men being beaten cried “Yedi! Yedi!”; the other men were also shouting. Because of the darkness it was difficult to discern everything that took place, but after a minute they put the man in the car. My siblings and I had passed by this and glanced back occaisonally, but for the most part we continued on our way. When we returned home Tumathr said that she felt frightened, Belquees seemed unconcerned, the boys had tried to see what was going on but did not ask questions.

Interpretation
I did not know how to interpret the situation that we witnessed; I asked my siblings and they did not have any answers for why the men were beating up the third. My first thought at seeing the men was that they were drunk; it soon became clear that this was not the case. I was not sure initially if the men were Omani or from another background. I did not at first understand the word “Yedi” which means “My hand.” I could not understand the rest of the words spoken, although my siblings told me that they were in Arabic.

Evaluation
I was feeling slightly anxious because I had not yet been outside after dark. My sisters seemed to be perfectly at-ease, though I wondered if part of the reason we brought my little brothers was so we would not be only girls; though we generally bring them everywhere, so perhaps not. Regarding the men’s behavior, I felt confused and indignant. I also felt helpless as to ever being able to understand what I saw, as my siblings were unable to explain it for me. In most instances in Oman, I feel that my confusion is based on cultural differences; I am not used to being in a situation that no one seems able to explain. Living in Oman with the perspective of a “social scientist”, analysis and explanations are a large part of the way in which I experience every-day occurences. Not being able to explain this event, and the accompanying ethical questions—did we see something that someone should have put a stop to? Did we see a kidnapping or a crime? Where is that man now and is he alright?—leave me feeling angry at my lack of knowledge. Usually when I do not know something about Oman, the lack of information does not hurt anyone. In this case it might be different, but I do not know!