Doha Diaries, no. 11: Another Body in the Road

I haven't been here two years, yet I have already seen 3 dead or injured bodies in the middle of the road in Doha. First, there was last year's accident, at which I stopped to help. Last night may have been just as bad.


Everyone who lives here knows that the face of Qatar is a dark-skinned man--from Nepal, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, India, or one of several other South Asian countries--usually clad in a blue jumpsuit with a scarf around his fact to protect him from the sand and sun. This man has most likely left his family, any wife or children he may have, to come here and do the very hard manual labor that the citizens of this country are not willing to do. They work for barely nothing, are housed in labor camps, where they are sometimes abused and often live on nothing but rice and some fruit. God only knows how long they go without seeing their families, or if some of them ever get to. These men make up a good 50% of the population in Doha (nationals only make up approximately 30%). The rest of us, myself included, are the hired help.

As Hubby and I were driving to another compound where we were meeting friends for a double date, we went through one of the busier roundabouts close to our compound, and about half a mile down the road, I suddenly looked to my left and saw a man's body lying in the middle of the road. Three lanes of traffic were still driving past him. Nobody was standing next to him trying to help him or divert traffic. Nothing! Hubby pulled a u-turn at the stop light, and I called 999 (the equivalent of 911 here). They had already gotten the report and the ambulance was on its way. By the time we made it back to the scene, a group of workers in another vehicle had stopped to try and divert traffic, as did one young Qatari man. For all we know, it could have been the same man that hit him, but I doubt it.

As we passed the body, I looked at him, praying to see open eyes, no blood, some movement--any movement. There was nothing. A small pool of blood. One bare foot. Face down on the concrete. A white pool of foam near his mouth. No movement.

I felt like I needed to puke. I couldn't help but burst into tears and sob for this man, this loss of his precious human life. I wondered how long he'd been lying there? How many cars drove over him, not even realizing it was a human body? How many simply drove by, without a care, unwilling to stop and try to help him or prevent him from being run over again? Did he have a family? Kids? How long would it take before they would get the news? Would his body be returned to them? Would anyone be there at the hospital to identify him? Will there be an obituary for him? Who will remember his life and how? Who will mourn for him?

I can only remember his face in death, and I'm so tired of seeing it here. This isn't right, it isn't fair, it isn't normal....I want to scream at everyone on the road and ask them "WHY DON'T YOU FUCKING CARE?!" I don't understand it, and I probablly never will. I can't shake the image of his body lying there, and I'm pissed that nobody here seemed to give a shit that there was a dead fucking body in the road!! They won't have nightmares, they won't reflect on this loss, and they won't wonder what this says about their culture or they're way of life.

This is the part they don't tell you about on the recruitment visit.

Doha Diaries, no 8: Blood on My Hands

A welcome visitor came last week! My uncle, who is a technical writer for GE, will be working in Abu Dhabi for three weeks, and he hopped on a plane to Doha last Thursday for a short weekend visit. I hadn't seen him since last June, and that was during a family reunion and just after Amelia was born. Needless to say, we didn't get to chat much. We gave him the usual tour of Doha: a local grocery store, the family park, Education City and our University's building, Villagio Mall, and Souq Wakif. On our way home from the Moroccan restaurant in the Souk, barely a half mile from our house, on what I'd always thought of as a safe, straight-shot road, we were one of the first vehicles to arrive on the scene of a head-on collision between two cars.

What I saw immediately was a body lying on the ground next to the passenger-side door. The body seemed small, like I child, so I put the van in park and got out to see if I could help. I know CPR and first aid, and I couldn't see anyone helping this person. As I rushed to the body, the men standing around said something to the effect of "Help the ladies." It hit me in that moment that none of the people there--all men--could or would help the person lying at my feet because she was a Qatari girl. In addition to the hesitancy many people have about helping others for fear of causing more harm, there are restrictions on men touching women, especially if they are not family members. Added to this was the fact that none of the men on the scene were Qatari, but rather South Asians, most of whom would be considered workers or labouring-class. The only man in a thobe appeared to be the driver of the vehicle that the girl was lying next to.

I immediately smelled gas in the air. I looked down at her face to find a bloody mouth, her eyes barely open, and a pool of blood underneath her long, curly black hair. She was in an abaaya, groaning in pain, and staring right at me. I asked her for permission to help her, and she agreed. Given the gas fumes, I knew we had to move her. I tried to carry her by myself, but I didn't have the strength. Nobody was helping me, so I shouted at them to lift her legs. She asked me to put her down, so I did my best to explain why she had to be moved. She screamed in pain as we moved to the other side of the road.

I think someone had already called for an ambulance because one of the men handed a phone to me, and the 999 operator was on the line. I gave them directions and an estimate of how many people were hurt. I asked the girl her name; it was Fatima. I told her mine, and I said that I would stay with her, everything would be okay, and that the ambulance was on its way. I checked her breathing, which was fine. I asked her about her neck (if it was in pain) and I had her move each of her limbs. Though she could move it, her right leg was either broken or fractured. I looked for bleeding, but her pants were black, making it hard to see in the dim light we had available. I remember some women from a nearby house bringing a pitcher of water, but I couldn't give it to Fatima. Her teeth had impacted her upper lip, and there was a chunk of bloody flesh dangling there. I could tell that Fatima was trying to gauge her condition by the look on my face. I tried not to let anything show. She kept touching her lip, looking at the blood on her hands, and asking, "Is it so much?" No matter how many times I told her it wasn't much, it would be fixed easily, she continued to ask.

I worried about a concussion, so I gently lifted her head to see if I could find the source of the blood. Her hair was so thick. It was wet with blood and sweat, and in the black tangled mass I couldn't see clearly. She had nothing to lay on but the sandy, gravel-covered road. I was wearing a camisole underneath my blouse, so I ripped it off with one hand, folded it, and placed it underneath her head. All I could do now was wait, pray, and keep her awake.

She kept trying to touch her lip, and she was shaking with cold and shock by the time the ambulance got there. The EMT asked me a few questions, then shoved a stabilizing board underneath her. I wanted to cry for her as she shrieked out in pain, not knowing when he would move her, strap her in, or put the brace around her neck. I held her hand and stroked her forehead. When they put her in the ambulance, he instructed me to sit with her. Then, I saw the other girl.

Shit! Fuck! I didn't even think to look for other victims! The other car had rolled off the road, into a drop-off area, and I hadn't thought to look at the other side of the car on the road to check for other girls. The other girl, also draped in an abaaya, was unconscious. The blood streamed out of her mouth. Later, Hubby would tell me that he saw her but didn't point her out to me because she seemed like she was "beyond help." As they loaded her into the ambulance, she was motionless, and I felt like shit for not realizing she'd been there the whole time, that she'd needed attention even more than the girl I'd helped.

The man in the thobe thanked me as they closed the ambulance doors. I took my bloodied shirt, draped it to cover my shoulders, and walked back to the minivan where Hubby, my uncle, and my daughters were waiting. I was shaking with adrenaline when Hubby asked, "Do you have blood on your hands?"

I looked down and saw that they were covered. It didn't bother me at all. The girls (the oldest two) were scared. They had seen her body on the ground and they had a thousand questions about what happened. I tried to answer them, but it was clear that they'd both been shaken by what they saw. Hannah was particularly sad, crying for both girls the rest of the way home. While I washed my hands, I looked in the mirror and saw the blood on my arms, my neck, my chest...I saw the water run pink. I held up my shirt, which was soaked with blood. Hubby suggested I throw it out, that it was ruined. Since the blood was fresh, I knew it would come out, so I treated it with stain remover and put it in the sink to soak in cold water.

It took me a long time to go to sleep that night. The image of Fatima's face, eyes wide open at times, full of terror, pain, and bewilderment, haunted my dreams. It was still there the next morning. I wondered if the other girl made it. I wondered how long it took for their families to be contacted and arrive at the hospital to comfort them. I was sorry I couldn't have done more. I was sorry that I didn't know Arabic so that I might have consoled them in their native tongue. I was sorry my girls had to witness the scene, and I was incredibly angry at the utter lack of bedside manners the EMT displayed, as well as the incompetence of the police who couldn't even keep traffic diverted. I realized that no road is safe and that if my family were in an accident, it is most likely that nobody would help myself or my daughters. I did what I would want anyone else to do for my family if we had been in that situation, but this sort of thinking doesn't seem to count for much amidst so many restrictions based on class, gender, and nationality.

I hugged each of my girls tighter than night. I prayed for the girls and the others injured in the wreck. I asked God to keep my family safe as we continue to travel these roads. I don't feel safe though, not when I'm driving here. I decided to get a first-aid kit to keep in the minivan, along with a few other supplies. I just hope they're never needed.

Doha Diaries, no. 7: A Post on Power

I've been aware for some time now that the majority of my posts since moving abroad have related to the more mundane and practical aspects that surround international relocation. Daily snippets, frustrations with a new culture, occasional interesting observances, rather than extended discussions of a specific topic. This is not because I haven't been thinking about specific topics as they relate to living in the Middle East, but rather because I have been doing my best to think about them for a while before I come to any conclusions (if conclusions can even be reached).

For example, before coming here, the first question almost everyone asked me was: "Will you have to wear the veil?" For some reason, I was always amazed by this question. Maybe it was result of some graduate courses I took, in which I learned that clothing for men and women in the Muslim world is governed largely by tradition rather than law. With only a few exceptions, it is not a legal obligation that women cover themselves with the abaya or veil or that men wear the thobe.


Instead, it is a tradition sanctioned by the Qu'ran that both men and women dress modestly. Since it is a tradition for Muslims, and I'm not a Muslim, I'm not expected to wear an abaya (though I am, as per my contract, expected to respect and be sensitive to the culture, religion, and legal system here).

The assumption long held by many Westerners and Americans (feminists in particular) has been that this aspect of Muslim tradition is just one of the many oppressive practices that Muslim women face. Admittedly, I felt this way for most of my adult life until I met two young Muslim girls in graduate school who became good friends of mine. They had a tough job convincing me that the covering of ones body could be an act of empowerment, one that ensured (among other things) that attention was paid not to outward appearances but to more important qualities like what one had to say. I gradually came to see their point of view, even if they didn't come to see mine.

This is the attitude I brought with me when moving to the Middle East. For reasons I'm not yet sure of, I think I was invested in believing that wearing the abaya (with or without the veil) was a form of power in a specific cultural context. I quickly discovered that the abaya was not only a religious marker, but also a marker of class and nation. Some women have abayas that are distinguished by ornate beading and sequins at the end of the sleeve, and these can be quite expensive. Other women have something more like 'home-spun' abayas, perhaps indicating an inability to afford anything more elaborate. And then there are non-Muslim women who wear the abaya because it is the tradition they must follow as workers for a Muslim family. The latter, however, are usually dressed in little better than a head-covering and what often looks like pajamas. The look they have on their faces will never be lost from my memory. The vast majority of the time, I am convinced it is nothing short of the look of a slave.


This brings me to the idea of power...After conversations with quite a number of people, other expats who have lived here or in the Gulf region for several years and who have developed very close friendships with some very well-off citizens of this country, I have changed my mind about the idea of the abaya as a form of power. That is to say that the idea is much more complicated. I have heard stories of families whose sons gang rape their housemaid as a matter of occasional fun. I have heard of the bodies of housemaids that are found dumped and decomposing in the desert. I have heard of the women--mother and her daughters--who beat their maid with hairbrushes and sticks for no offense at all. I hate to say it, but the first of these doesn't surprise me. It has happened since time began, and it continues to happen everywhere in the world. The last example is certainly not limited to this country, but I can see how and why it goes unnoticed. As my friend explained to me: "They beat their maid because she's the only damn person they have any power over."


As part of a conversation about white people who speak Arabic and how white women in the Middle East are perceived by the women who wear the abaya, we stumbled into a discussion of power. I listened as he described their rage, something he's been privy to because he speaks Arabic. He's heard local women, disgusted at the sight of a Western woman in jeans and a t-shirt, calling her a whore under their breath. It made me at once feel angry at the idea that I might evoke such a reaction from the people around me, but I also felt confusion and pity at the idea that I could be complicit in the sense of rage and frustration building up in women who don't enjoy the same power that I have. This added to what has been a growing feeling of sadness and empathy for the 70% of people here who constitute the imported work force. The housemaids, drivers, construction workers, car washers, etc. It has become clear that, in many cases, these people are not seen as human beings. They are objects, usually identified only by their nationality: "Who cares? It's just a Phillipino." It. Not he or she. And to provide her family in her home country with whatever meager wages she can earn, she serves someone else's family, cleans someone else's home, and raises someone else's children (often falling victim to abuse from them as well). Rather than have compassion for this woman and treat her like a fellow human being, some women see her as the only person over whom they can exert power. All the pent-up rage and frustration is exorcised through violence against another woman's body. The woman who is not protected by the abaya, the culture, or the law.


I still think the abaya offers a sense of power...unfortunately, that's not always a good thing.

Doha Diaries, no. 6

I'm back. Unfortunately. I wasn't ready to get back on the plane when we left on New Year's Eve. Several times during the break, I had half-joked with Hubby that he could just come back and I'd stay in the U.S. with the girls :-) The airport drop-off went much better than it did when Hannah and I went back for Eid break. No meltdowns or long, drawn-out teary goodbyes. Hannah was sad, obviously, but things went quickly and smoothly. The trip back was good because we had the entire front row of business class to ourselves! However, getting the girls back on schedule has taken a full week, Amelia is already sick again (some sort of allergies), and Hubby and I begin the new semester today--blah.

My time back home over break solidified what I'd been feeling before we left: I'm not happy here. While I was home, I felt like someone had let me out of jail...I had the freedom to enjoy all the lazy, American conveniences that I used to take for granted. When I returned to Doha, I felt like someone had thrown me back in the clink. Being home reinforced how much I miss the most important thing about our lives in the States: more time with family (even though they get on my nerves sometimes), more time with Hubby, more time for myself. I talked to Hubby about how I was feeling, and he understands...for the most part. Just to make sure we even have the option to leave our contracts and to find out what the consequences are (especially the financial ones), I spoke with our HR Director. He, too, was sympathetic to my concerns and explained that we would get to keep our travel allowance, and the university would still provide us with business-class tickets back home, cover our repatriation, etc. I spoke with the accounting firm that handles the taxes for most of the university employees and found out that we could still qualify for the Foreign Earned Income Tax Exclusion benefit if we can stay in Doha until July 25th. With these questions answered, I have decided to go on the spring job market.

Hubby and I are applying to t-t and non-tenure track jobs, in the hopes that we can either a)find work at the same school or b)find work in the same town. We knew coming over here that, because of the difficulties of conducting academic job searches from overseas, we'd likely have to take non-tenure track positions when we finished our contracts. Really, nothing has changed, except the timeline. I've already notified my committee and started applying for jobs...knowing that the odds are against me, but hoping that Hubby might find something promising since he's finished his dissertation.

Today, another colleague commended me on the "bravery" of this decision because it involves walking away from so much money. I don't see this decision as brave. In fact, it feels quite the opposite. I feel like I'm limping away with my tail between my legs. Like I've let my immediate family down. Like I've failed my own personal test of sorts. If we don't get jobs back in the States, we'll survive here. I'll survive here. It's just that I want to do more than simply survive.

For now, I'm in the very stressful, anxiety-ridden stages of finishing revisions to my dissertation. Though I'm scheduled to defend Wednesday, April 7th, I remain terrified that I won't be able to make the deadline and that I'll have to re-schedule it, which will mortify me! I HATE, HATE, HATE to miss my own deadlines. My advisor seems to think that my timeline is reasonable, but I'm worried that something will happen (children getting sick, me getting sick, family emergency, who knows?). I am having an increasingly hard time sleeping, which is made even worse by the fact that Amelia is still waking up once or twice (or more) in the middle of the night. Hubby and I take turns each night, but I have to take a sleeping pill if I actually want to get any rest on the nights he's up with the baby. I'm sure some of this just comes with the territory of approaching the deadline, but I'm stuck in a country where anti-anxiety meds aren't to be found!

Almost everything about the next year of our lives is up in the air for now...and there's nothing I can do about it...except breathe.

And then down we go...

...with the exception of one of the best things to happen in a long while: Hubby successfully defended his dissertation a little over a week ago!! We even managed to sneak away for two hours and go to Champagne on 2, a champagne and caviar bar (we had neither) at the Ramada Tower. But, a couple martinis were certainly what the doctor ordered (no pun intended)!

• Car loans: evidently, they are impossible to get in this country. We've been here almost four months, actively trying to get a car loan since September, and we get a new story, policy, rule, or caveat every time we go to the bank. I'm seriously at my wit's end with this one. I find it completely ironic that, during the brief time in our life when our combined salary is a six-figure number, we can't get a car loan for damn car (worth approx. $40K)!
• Every time I have to spend 4 hours to simply make it to two stores to do shopping, I get in a shitty mood. I wish this weren't the case, but it happens every time.
• The direct flight back to the US on Dec. 11th is full in business class. We've already purchased non-refundable domestic tickets back to Home State for Dec. 11th. We could: a) fly coach with three children for 16 hours in order to make our domestic flight OR b) fly business class on Dec. 12th and pay $600 to change our domestic tickets. I'm not a fan of either option, and I'm really sick of people acting shocked that we want to fly business class on an international flight. This is why we get our travel allowance, right?
• Oh yeah, then there was the lovely bomb threat to our building. The first one evidently. We laughed it off at first, thinking it was surely a student trying to get out of an exam or something. Then we found out that they traced the call to Kazakhstan, and the threat was considered serious enough to "make it to the upper levels of the US and the local government." Fabulous.
• I want out. Not now. Not this academic year. But I'm done. Hubby is officially on the market, and we've agreed that if he lands a T-T job, then we'll break contract and go home after just this academic year. As much as they pay me, it's not enough. For others, it's plenty. For me, I'm just not cut out for this. I hope things get better. I pray for this daily...but until they do, I feel like I'm on the edge of breaking down every day.
• I'm working my ass off with dissertation revisions. My defense is tentatively scheduled for April...God I hope I can get it all wrapped up by then.
• It is quite likely that we'll need to increase Hannah's dosage for her ADHD medicine. I shudder to think of what the process will be like in a country where they consider ADHD a "mental problem." Worst case scenario is that she can see someone when we go back home for Christmas.

Doha Diaries, no. 1

What I've learned so far on the occasion of living in Doha for one month:

• I can do this...the time will pass quicker than I think, and we will all be better for it
• Ramadan, in some ways, is like Christmas without the capitalism. You have the feasting before sunrise and after sunset, but the idea of being more charitable, doing good deeds, and getting closer to God --- without the giant exchange of store-bought gifts --- is quite nice. I'm not so much into fasting, but we've found ourselves easily respecting and going along with all other things Ramadan.
• I can now get to all major shopping malls, grocery stores, and the schools my children attend without using a map (or getting lost)!
• I know, in general, which stores to go to for various items (i.e. we can only find meat that doesn't taste funny at Family Food Center, which is right near our compound).
• I have a fantastic boss! Seriously folks, because Hubby and I overlap for one hour in our teaching schedule, my boss offered to watch the baby in his office...She stayed with him for the hour yesterday, and everything went fine. This is just temporary, until the montessori opens the baby program back up on Sept. 6th.
• Driving around roundabouts can be tricky, but I might like them better than stoplights...maybe.
• How much I appreciate air-conditioned school buses that also have seat belts!
• How much I miss all things familiar: my favorite mascara, street names I know by heart, BBQ pork of any kind, my friends and family, anything that doesn't get weighed/measured using the metric system, and water I can drink right out of the tap.
• That there will be me before Doha, and then there will be a different me after Doha. It's only been a month, and I have such a different perspective on so many things. For example, Hubby and I were watching _A Mighty Heart_ the other night, a film about the life and kidnapping of Daniel Pearl (Angelina Jolie was, I think, nominated for an Oscar for her role as his wife). One of the opening scenes begins with a shot of a mosque and the call to prayer. Hubby and I just looked at each other and knew we were thinking the same thing: "We know that sound now...it's part of our daily lives." We recognized that, prior to moving here, we had no idea what the call to prayer sounded like, when it happened, where it happened, what the effects of it were, etc. But now, I know the time of day based on the call, without even needing to look at a clock. I can tell by the stream of men in white thobes walking in the same direction.

I know there are lots of other things I haven't covered, but these are the things that come to mind immediately. Things have settled down now that we're done with our immigration processing, our shipment from the US arrived, and we've finished unpacking. It still doesn't feel like home, and I'm not sure if our house ever will...but it's "home for now". The kids are doing well, and the financial peace of mind is actually taking some getting used to. We're still in the broke graduate student/utilitarian state of mind, and I still look at the price of everything before buying. The bottom line is that we are very fortunate to have these jobs and this opportunity, and I couldn't be more thankful.