THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY
The toenail of the toe I crushed came off at the beginning of the week. Underneath is a thin, warped, lumpy, angry, red nail, bruised at the base; An apt metaphor for my experience learning to live in Kuwait. I feel like a tree whose bark is slowly stripped off. Last week I walked around raw, vulnerable, my circuits overloaded.
There is no way I can write about all the things that happen, I can hardly process them.
I have no context for much of what happens, so it’s labeled ‘bizarre’ until I can ask a trusted friend about it. My processing skills are slowed.
There is a conversational convention used here I call the False Choice. Here’s an example: I met this couple Minnie and Mick, Syrian Druze. That is, not Christian, not Jews, and definitely not Muslim. They are fun, intelligent, open and loving. I accepted an invitation to lunch and ended up staying most of the weekend. Minnie invited me to a spiritual meeting the next morning. I declined, preferring to stay at (her) home. Later Mike, the kids and I picked her up. Minnie asked me to come in and meet some folks. The host asked if I’d like to have a coffee. Mike explained that the car was running out front and if he turned it off we’d have to wait till it cooled off completely before he could start it again. Minnie turned to me and asked, “So, Roja, would you like to stay and have a coffee or shall we go?” There was only one right answer to this question, and yet, I was given a choice. If I chose the wrong answer I would be gently corrected. When I am with Arabs, most of my energy goes into figuring out how to respond to these questions. Sometimes I ask another question “Do we have time for coffee?” Other times I submit.
This is the last day of Ramadan, and for the past three days I’ve visited schools and talked to teachers but I haven’t observed classes because the parents have taken their children out of school because tomorrow begins the celebration of El Eid, the celebration at the end of Ramadan. The equivalent in the U.S. would be taking your children out of school three days before the Christmas break because the Christmas break is coming.
This is the last day of Ramadan, and for the past three days I’ve visited schools and talked to teachers but I haven’t observed classes because the parents have taken their children out of school because tomorrow begins the celebration of El Eid, the celebration at the end of Ramadan. The equivalent in the U.S. would be taking your children out of school three days before the Christmas break because the Christmas break is coming.
I was with S.S. on Tuesday when I finally cracked. I hadn’t been paid and something she said set me off. I had observed a class and we were walking to the place to meet the teachers. It was 12:30. S.S. suggested I call for a taxi. Usually don’t call for a taxi until just before I am ready to leave. But I called thinking I could give the time that I wanted the cab to arrive. S.S. took my cell phone and gave the dispatcher directions to the school in Arabic. When she hung up I asked her what time the taxi was coming. She said he would arrive now. I said we still have a half hour of talking to the teachers, saying goodbye to the principal etc. She said, “He can wait!” She waved her hand around dismissively. While I was talking to the teachers, the dispatcher called twice to tell me the taxi was out front, waiting. Of course I couldn’t leave, I was in the middle of a meeting. The third time the dispatcher called I was saying goodbye to the principal. This took a long time. She was telling me about the suffering of one her Indian teachers. The story was instructive. I’ll tell you it sometime. When I asked about meeting the next day S.S. said, “Have your driver wait for you at the first school, so he can take you to the second school.” I don’t have a driver. I hire a taxi and I have to pay for it, waiting and all. When I got in the taxi had had to pay an extra 2Kd because the driver waited half an hour for me. I was angry, but I couldn’t deny that he had waited; I had to pay.
My attempts to get an advance from Suad were frustrating. I asked for an advance twice. The first time she told me not to worry about it. I thought she would work on it, I know that my guy at the embassy was working on it from his end. The second time I asked Suad about it she said, ”My dear Roja, money is everywhere!” And here she waved her hand around. “Everywhere but my pocket.” I added. I refer to these women as Kuwaiti Ladies. These women have no idea what it means to pay the rent; they’ve probably never done it in their lives. I thought I was being a neurotic American so I decided to take Suad’s advice and not worry. When I ran out of money, I’d just stop going to work.
On Sunday afternoon when I got home, I called Suad and told her I had no money for taxi fare and I would not be visiting any schools tomorrow. The schools I was scheduled to visit were in Doha, half an hour outside the city, a long way in Kuwaiti terms.
I explained that I had budgeted a certain amount of money for my first month in Kuwait and my money was finished. And I needed to pay my rent on Tuesday. Thursday and Friday are the weekend, and Eid is celebrated on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. I knew that the teachers had already been paid. What was the problem? Suad said I should “Take the day off” on Wednesday but I should call her. If she got the money I could come into the office and get it, or she would lend it to me. I asked for 400Kd, enough to pay my rent and keep me in toilet paper. On Wednesday I called her. It was as if we’d never spoken. I had to explain the situation all over again. This time she seemed to get it. She told me she would come by my place with the money, which she did. The price was high: I was forced to acknowledge that I was lucky to have her for a boss, a boss who could take care of me when the system failed, a boss who would take care of me, a boss cold lend me money, blah ditty, blah ditty, blah…I am not sure what I said but it was dulcet toned, modulated and melodic and it must have sounded sincere, because Suad got into her Mercedes and drove away, pleased.
I finished the week having worked with Super Supervisor. I’ll call her S.S. She is so heavy. S.S. browbeats teachers. She blames their problems with the curriculum on their bad teaching. She is a proud member of thee committee that chose this disaster of a curriculum. Arrogant, well-connected, and misinformed, S.S. is the queen of the False Choice: Do you want to see the language lab or shall we move on to another school? Would you like to stay and talk with the teachers or observe another class? Would you prefer to see the boy’s school first or the girl’s? Being with her was exhausting. S.S. is the kind of loveless person who sucks all the fun out of the atmosphere. She’s the Mac truck of women: Frilly, colorful clothes, high heeled, jeweled mules on desert feet, designer handbags and sunglasses, make up applied with a palate knife. Ultimately the work is all about her. Knowing that I had to meet her made it hard to get out of the bed in the morning. The best meetings I had this week were the ones she couldn’t attend.
I couldn’t believe my ears when she started criticizing the teachers. It was embarrassing, inappropriate and it made my job harder. Riding home in the cab today I felt such relief being away from her I wanted to cry. But I was unable to gather enough emotion around my misery, so I settled for enjoying my freedom. Next week I go back to the Ministry.
I was at a boy’s secondary school, meeting with the teachers. (I met my second male Kuwaiti EFL teacher. They are few and far between.) (Have I mentioned that most of the workers in this country are foreign? That they outnumber Kuwaitis? That Kuwaiti teachers are paid four times more than their foreign colleagues (i.e. a livable wage)? Have I mentioned that the foreign teachers have discipline problems in the classroom and are criticized by their students?) Anyway, I was in this meeting and S.S. had left me there alone to finish and get to the next school. The teachers and I were talking up a storm, exchanging ideas and challenging each other. The principal was in attendance. At some point slipped out and returned with a plastic bag. When the meeting ended he presented me with an electric alarm clock/radio! How had he known I needed one? I’d been using my cell phone. I was floored…
Two nights ago I had an Arabic lesson on a bench facing the bay, not far from my apartment. It was a gorgeous evening, warm with a light breeze. Nizar introduced some nouns: watch, shoes, finger, glasses, car, and had me use them with the construction ‘this is’. ‘This’ can be male or female depending on the noun. There is no verb ‘to be’ in Arabic in the present tense. Then he told me the names of some colors. I made simple descriptive sentences. As I worked I looked out at the bay. Small waves arrived at the shore only to disappear again. In the distance a yacht anchored. A maritime police boat went to meet it. Nizar showed me how to make male adjectives female. I practiced. Off to the right I noticed a large flock of birds bobbing in the water. I asked about them. “They are not birds.” He said. “Aren’t they?” I put my glasses on. Sure enough it was flotilla of garbage being carried out to sea. I felt the need to leave the country as soon as possible. Then came that raw sewage smell, my anguish was complete. Nizar asked if such things didn’t happen in the U.S. I said they did, but they are illegal. He said that it was illegal here too.
There is no way I can write about all the things that happen, I can hardly process them.
I have no context for much of what happens, so it’s labeled ‘bizarre’ until I can ask a trusted friend about it. My processing skills are slowed.
There is a conversational convention used here I call the False Choice. Here’s an example: I met this couple Minnie and Mick, Syrian Druze. That is, not Christian, not Jews, and definitely not Muslim. They are fun, intelligent, open and loving. I accepted an invitation to lunch and ended up staying most of the weekend. Minnie invited me to a spiritual meeting the next morning. I declined, preferring to stay at (her) home. Later Mike, the kids and I picked her up. Minnie asked me to come in and meet some folks. The host asked if I’d like to have a coffee. Mike explained that the car was running out front and if he turned it off we’d have to wait till it cooled off completely before he could start it again. Minnie turned to me and asked, “So, Roja, would you like to stay and have a coffee or shall we go?” There was only one right answer to this question, and yet, I was given a choice. If I chose the wrong answer I would be gently corrected. When I am with Arabs, most of my energy goes into figuring out how to respond to these questions. Sometimes I ask another question “Do we have time for coffee?” Other times I submit.
This is the last day of Ramadan, and for the past three days I’ve visited schools and talked to teachers but I haven’t observed classes because the parents have taken their children out of school because tomorrow begins the celebration of El Eid, the celebration at the end of Ramadan. The equivalent in the U.S. would be taking your children out of school three days before the Christmas break because the Christmas break is coming.
This is the last day of Ramadan, and for the past three days I’ve visited schools and talked to teachers but I haven’t observed classes because the parents have taken their children out of school because tomorrow begins the celebration of El Eid, the celebration at the end of Ramadan. The equivalent in the U.S. would be taking your children out of school three days before the Christmas break because the Christmas break is coming.
I was with S.S. on Tuesday when I finally cracked. I hadn’t been paid and something she said set me off. I had observed a class and we were walking to the place to meet the teachers. It was 12:30. S.S. suggested I call for a taxi. Usually don’t call for a taxi until just before I am ready to leave. But I called thinking I could give the time that I wanted the cab to arrive. S.S. took my cell phone and gave the dispatcher directions to the school in Arabic. When she hung up I asked her what time the taxi was coming. She said he would arrive now. I said we still have a half hour of talking to the teachers, saying goodbye to the principal etc. She said, “He can wait!” She waved her hand around dismissively. While I was talking to the teachers, the dispatcher called twice to tell me the taxi was out front, waiting. Of course I couldn’t leave, I was in the middle of a meeting. The third time the dispatcher called I was saying goodbye to the principal. This took a long time. She was telling me about the suffering of one her Indian teachers. The story was instructive. I’ll tell you it sometime. When I asked about meeting the next day S.S. said, “Have your driver wait for you at the first school, so he can take you to the second school.” I don’t have a driver. I hire a taxi and I have to pay for it, waiting and all. When I got in the taxi had had to pay an extra 2Kd because the driver waited half an hour for me. I was angry, but I couldn’t deny that he had waited; I had to pay.
My attempts to get an advance from Suad were frustrating. I asked for an advance twice. The first time she told me not to worry about it. I thought she would work on it, I know that my guy at the embassy was working on it from his end. The second time I asked Suad about it she said, ”My dear Roja, money is everywhere!” And here she waved her hand around. “Everywhere but my pocket.” I added. I refer to these women as Kuwaiti Ladies. These women have no idea what it means to pay the rent; they’ve probably never done it in their lives. I thought I was being a neurotic American so I decided to take Suad’s advice and not worry. When I ran out of money, I’d just stop going to work.
On Sunday afternoon when I got home, I called Suad and told her I had no money for taxi fare and I would not be visiting any schools tomorrow. The schools I was scheduled to visit were in Doha, half an hour outside the city, a long way in Kuwaiti terms.
I explained that I had budgeted a certain amount of money for my first month in Kuwait and my money was finished. And I needed to pay my rent on Tuesday. Thursday and Friday are the weekend, and Eid is celebrated on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. I knew that the teachers had already been paid. What was the problem? Suad said I should “Take the day off” on Wednesday but I should call her. If she got the money I could come into the office and get it, or she would lend it to me. I asked for 400Kd, enough to pay my rent and keep me in toilet paper. On Wednesday I called her. It was as if we’d never spoken. I had to explain the situation all over again. This time she seemed to get it. She told me she would come by my place with the money, which she did. The price was high: I was forced to acknowledge that I was lucky to have her for a boss, a boss who could take care of me when the system failed, a boss who would take care of me, a boss cold lend me money, blah ditty, blah ditty, blah…I am not sure what I said but it was dulcet toned, modulated and melodic and it must have sounded sincere, because Suad got into her Mercedes and drove away, pleased.
I finished the week having worked with Super Supervisor. I’ll call her S.S. She is so heavy. S.S. browbeats teachers. She blames their problems with the curriculum on their bad teaching. She is a proud member of thee committee that chose this disaster of a curriculum. Arrogant, well-connected, and misinformed, S.S. is the queen of the False Choice: Do you want to see the language lab or shall we move on to another school? Would you like to stay and talk with the teachers or observe another class? Would you prefer to see the boy’s school first or the girl’s? Being with her was exhausting. S.S. is the kind of loveless person who sucks all the fun out of the atmosphere. She’s the Mac truck of women: Frilly, colorful clothes, high heeled, jeweled mules on desert feet, designer handbags and sunglasses, make up applied with a palate knife. Ultimately the work is all about her. Knowing that I had to meet her made it hard to get out of the bed in the morning. The best meetings I had this week were the ones she couldn’t attend.
I couldn’t believe my ears when she started criticizing the teachers. It was embarrassing, inappropriate and it made my job harder. Riding home in the cab today I felt such relief being away from her I wanted to cry. But I was unable to gather enough emotion around my misery, so I settled for enjoying my freedom. Next week I go back to the Ministry.
I was at a boy’s secondary school, meeting with the teachers. (I met my second male Kuwaiti EFL teacher. They are few and far between.) (Have I mentioned that most of the workers in this country are foreign? That they outnumber Kuwaitis? That Kuwaiti teachers are paid four times more than their foreign colleagues (i.e. a livable wage)? Have I mentioned that the foreign teachers have discipline problems in the classroom and are criticized by their students?) Anyway, I was in this meeting and S.S. had left me there alone to finish and get to the next school. The teachers and I were talking up a storm, exchanging ideas and challenging each other. The principal was in attendance. At some point slipped out and returned with a plastic bag. When the meeting ended he presented me with an electric alarm clock/radio! How had he known I needed one? I’d been using my cell phone. I was floored…
Two nights ago I had an Arabic lesson on a bench facing the bay, not far from my apartment. It was a gorgeous evening, warm with a light breeze. Nizar introduced some nouns: watch, shoes, finger, glasses, car, and had me use them with the construction ‘this is’. ‘This’ can be male or female depending on the noun. There is no verb ‘to be’ in Arabic in the present tense. Then he told me the names of some colors. I made simple descriptive sentences. As I worked I looked out at the bay. Small waves arrived at the shore only to disappear again. In the distance a yacht anchored. A maritime police boat went to meet it. Nizar showed me how to make male adjectives female. I practiced. Off to the right I noticed a large flock of birds bobbing in the water. I asked about them. “They are not birds.” He said. “Aren’t they?” I put my glasses on. Sure enough it was flotilla of garbage being carried out to sea. I felt the need to leave the country as soon as possible. Then came that raw sewage smell, my anguish was complete. Nizar asked if such things didn’t happen in the U.S. I said they did, but they are illegal. He said that it was illegal here too.
posted by Roja at 7:42 PM
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