A Tribute to Syria

Perching high on the mountain overlooking Lebanon, rifles propped at the men’s side, the nervous glances, the radio playing to drown out the harrowing account of one man’s torture (lest anyone could hear the whispered criticism of a regime) of how his nails had been pulled from his fingers, fearful of our voices being carried on the wind to ears that would report us, the memory lingers as vividly as that evening breeze.

Fear is not a recent sentiment for Syrians. They have built up a tremendous resilience to it like so many citizens of dictatorships. They have grown up learning to trust few; the children taught with severity that their careless tongues could destroy their father’s lives, their family, their future. I felt the unease in the air, I watched the seemingly endless convoys of soldiers on the roads, the gargantuan military presence keeping the tyrant in power, his portrait staring down from every billboard to remind us who was in charge and to be fearful. It was not Bashar al-Assad. His father, Hafez al-Assad ruled too with an iron fist. I discovered the sentiment.

It was 1990 when I arrived in a country that was so jam-packed with history, it look my breath away. From the biblical stories to the crusaders and the Romans; everywhere you looked, their legacy was to be found – the village that spoke the Aramaic language of Jesus, John the Baptist’s skull, King Richard the Lion Heart’s crusader castle, the Byzantine church and the magnificent Roman ruins to name but a few: The poignant reminders of the passing of time and empires long gone.

Whatever has been destroyed since then, cannot be brought back, but the resilience of the Syrian people cannot be smashed so easily. They are warm, generous people who accepted me and welcomed me into their homes with open arms. They took for granted the numerous daily power cuts, water restrictions and food shortages which we would never have tolerated. Yet, all those sacrifices would seem like paradise to them now.

Fortunately, the value of safety, freedom and democracy are lost on us, and we should be eternally grateful because I fear few of us would find the Syrians’ inner strength to keep going when all seems lost. So, the next time the battery dies on your phone, don’t curse the inconvenience but appreciate the fact you will always have the power to charge it, and if you still happened to curse, be thankful that no one is going to torture you for it. And finally, while you wait for your phone to charge, reflect a little on how good your life actually is.

Saudi Arabian men

Let me begin by professing I’m not an expert on the subject of Saudi Arabian men, but I have tobogganed with one, so to my mind, that gives me the right to air my views on them. It’s quite rare to have such experiences with a Saudi since there’s no snow in Saudi Arabia. It’s astonishing how it bonds you to people, and I picked up some fascinating insights into the Saudi Arabian male mind while chatting in the snow.

Firstly, women are blessed when they marry a Saudi. They aren’t just treated like princesses but as queens to be prized, worshipped and adored. I heard this straight from the horse’s mouth. I was terribly impressed. So, what did this really mean I asked? It emerged that in Saudi Arabia the wives don’t have to lift a finger, they are driven wherever they want to go while the men wait patiently and presumably do everything for them because they are so very special.https://wordpress.com/post/wendyrichardsonsite.wordpress.com/336

Naturally, like driving, work doesn’t come into the equation either. Women don’t need to work because the husbands provide everything. It was beginning to sound very appealing. I was practically booking my ticket. However, it dawned on me there must be a snag. What was it I wondered? I was told these highly  revered women were expected to remain glamorous at all times in order to keep their men interested. Well, with no job to go to and all those shops to be driven to, how difficult could that be? Was there anything else one should know? Their other role apart from keeping their husbands busy was to raise a beautiful family. Isn’t that most women’s dream? And we could even cook if we felt the urge although there was always the hired cook if we were too occupied with painting our nails or styling our hair. Honestly, what more could we ask for? A housemaid would do all the housework, he added in case I had any further doubts. I was ready to pack my suitcase, even though I wouldn’t need to take much because I’d be shopping for clothes every day.

It really did seem too good to be true. There still remained a niggling little doubt. I asked what happened if you fell out of love with a Saudi man? ‘Oh, it’s perfectly simple’, he said. ‘We get another wife. We can have four, but I think two are enough these days. We have to move with the times. But obviously, to remain faithful, it’s better to have a second one. We don’t believe in affairs or divorce.’ I was a little disappointed because marriage to a Saudi Arabian no longer seemed quite as perfect as it once had.

 

 

 

 

All roads lead to Yemen

I am not entirely to blame for accidentally arriving in Yemen.  At the time, satnavs were a novelty for the super rich, and to be honest, how many roads are going to take you right into Yemen? It was certainly not a decision I had specifically made on waking up that morning.

I had arranged to visit a Primary and Secondary school in a small seaside town called Dhalkut in Oman because it was part of my job description to see how the English curriculum was being implemented. As was also the case, I tended to travel alone. I couldn’t travel with any local female staff from the Ministry because they were not given permission to travel with me. It wasn’t that word had spread that I was unfit to drive, although clearly I was that day, but it wouldn’t be respectable for the women to be out alone with me in a car.  I beg to differ, but you can’t argue with the menfolk there. Clearly, in their eyes I was wild and bound to lead their girls astray which on this occasion, they might actually have been right about. I wasn’t allowed to travel with the male staff unless there were two of them. The one time that I did, they drove straight at an overtaking juggernaut at 140mph on a hairpin bend bordered by rockfaces with narrow ditches on either side which was where we ended up. It put me right off.

As a result, being alone with two men in the car didn’t actually feel any safer than with one or none at all. However, two men kept my respectability in tact whereas one didn’t, which was of high importance to everyone in the Ministry, although frankly, I wasn’t that bothered. And naturally, I wasn’t to drive with men present, so I chose none.  Women had only recently started driving in the south, and it was assumed by most men that the world was a much better place before we were granted that right.

Thus, I set out alone in my 4×4 jeep heading down the coast in the direction of Yemen, then wound my way over the spectacular engineering feat of the mountain pass and back down to the coast.  It was a breath-taking journey in many ways; not only for the stunning ranges of peaks with their clay-coloured  hues glimmering in the sunlight, the valleys which the monsoon had tinted with shades of green, and the wild flowers springing up among the cacti along the jagged edges of the slopes but also for the tranquillity. There isn’t a lot of traffic in that direction it has to be said, so it’s very pleasant having the road to yourself except for the occasional police checks along the way.

Police checks are part and parcel of life in the more remote parts of the Arabian Gulf. They are no less alarming to me than men wandering around the supermarkets glasping a riffle or a dagger tucked into their belt, or boys driving their father’s cars as soon as they can reach the pedals. The police didn’t know any English, so we greeted each other in Arabic while they looked bemusedly at me, and I grinned back at them proudly waving my driver’s licence. They tried to look as if it were perfectly natural for a woman not only to be driving but also alone far from the safety of her home. I didn’t look like a smuggler, I had my documents, so they had no choice but to let me continue.

I knew I was getting close to the seaside town when I saw the sea again; the two tend to go together. I came to a fork in the road and a sign in Arabic. It’s a good idea to know the basics of the Arabic alphabet if you don’t want to get lost. It said Dhalkut. It was pointing to the ground, perhaps to an ant urbanisation because I didn’t really think I had found it quite yet. I had two choices; go left or right. I chose right possibly because I’m right-handed and my head tilts that way. It was unfortunate my head doesn’t tilt left because Dhalkut was left. There were no other signs because it was the end of Oman on the map, but I didn’t know that. Nowadays, a Satnav would be telling you to turn around as soon as possible.

Oblivious to my mistake, I wave at some soldiers sitting in their military vehicle. The one standing on the back behind a large machine grins and waves back. The others were looking less friendly. I think they were disappointed I had found them; they were a little way back from the road in a ditch on a bend. I’m guessing they were only hidden if you were coming from Yemen, or else they were horrendously bad at hiding. Perhaps that was why they looked cross. They should have played more hide and seek as children.

Shortly afterwards, I turn up at the next check point. I smile sweetly and explain in my basic Arabic I’m going to the school. The police scrutinise my documents and ask for my passport. They open the boot, check  under the back seats, presumably looking for my husband because they asked me where he was. I said I didn’t have one. I knew the word well because I was often asked. The policemen looked surprised, so I shrugged my shoulders and gave my sad face. They obviously pitied me; one asked for my phone number. I thought it sensible to tell him in case I needed a husband in the future.

I was let through. It was at this point that I should have read the sign ahead, but it was in Arabic, and it’s much easier to ignore a sign when you are required to decipher the squiggles. I was met by two more policemen. Then, I noticed a few more coming out of their control post. It had just dawned on me at this stage that they were in a different uniform, and I had just pitched up in a new country.

Panic set in because I didn’t really want to go to Yemen. Did I reverse the car back through no man’s land to Oman? Or did I see if I could actually get into Yemen as I was there anyway? There were now six men around my car. I was trying to explain in Arabic that I didn’t really want to go to Yemen. They seemed a bit upset. I suppose it’s a bit offensive saying you don’t actually want to visit a person’s country. One of them indicated for me to get out the car by opening the car door. I decided it was time to call my potential future husband to come and rescue me as I was marched into the portacabin.

As I sat watching them struggling to read my passport, I heard them ask that familiar question, ‘Wayn zogik?’ (Where’s your husband). Fortunately, at this point he arrived at the portakabin, shook their hands and gave an explanation with a lot of hand waving in which I imagine he was saying that I was an idiotic female who had got lost, and he was there to take me back to Oman. That would have been a fairly accurate description of me in all honesty. They nodded, and I was accompanied to the passenger seat of my car so that my makeshift husband could safely drive me back into Oman.

He stopped over the border to let me back into my driving seat. I thought it only polite to ask him for his name and thank him. Ali smiled, and I set off once again to find the fork in the road. It was easier because of my right-headed tilt to approach it from Yemen. I waved again at the soldiers. They were slightly more concealed from the Yemenis. It was fortunate for them I wasn’t one. My machine gun friend waved back. No doubt he was also relieved. He had little protection up there from being shot at.

Finally, I drove down to the coast past a surprising number of stray cows and found my destination. My phone pinged. I had a message; ‘I live you’. Vowels are always problematic for Arabic speakers. Unless I was mistaken, my police friend was announcing his love for me. Who would have thought I’d find love on the road to Yemen? I giggled and switched off my phone. I had a job to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Welcome to my Blog

My Lessons Learnt in Life

There is nothing so incomprehensible to me as trying to be like everyone else and conform, so I have spent my whole life avoiding being normal.  Consequently, I have had an abundance of ridiculous and quirky life experiences and reflections which I will share with anyone who dares to read my future blogs, and I hope on this blogging pathway, I will meet other enthusiasts of nonconformity to the drab and dreary expectations of how our lives should manifest themselves.  I look forward to meeting you, Wendy