من أجل تحقيق أقصى استفادة من عطلة وطنية (عيد الأضحى) دوت ، شريف، و انا نقود سيارتنا إلى “السديرة” (وهي قرية صغيرة بالقرب من إبرا) لزيارة صديق شريف، إسمه محمود. عندما وصلنا الى منزل عائلة محمود، انقسمنا مجموعتنا وفقا للفصل بين الجنسين: رافقت قريبات محمود دوت و انا إلى غرفة الجلوس لتناول الشاي، في حين أن خرج محمود و شريف للانضمام للرجال في “مجلس،” و هي الغرفة المخصصة تقليديا للتجمعات الذكور. لم أر أبدا داخل هذه الغرفة، لأنني أقضي معظم وقتي في غرفة النساء

Road trip to Sharqiyah region, on the eastern coast of Oman.

To make the most of the holiday weekend, Dot, Sharif and I took a drive up to Assudira (a small village near Ibra) to visit Sharif’s friend, Mahmoud.  When we arrived at Mahmoud’s house, our party of four self-segregated along gender lines: Dot and I were escorted into a sitting room for tea with the women, while Mahmoud and Sharif broke off to join the men in the “majlis,” a room traditionally reserved for male gatherings.  I’ve never seen the inside of a majlis, since I spend the majority of my time in the women’s room.

Dot and I discuss our research interests with Mahmoud’s female relatives, and answer questions like, “What do Americans think about Oman?”  I always try to answer these questions as diplomatically as possible, but the truth is that most Americans don’t think about Oman at all.  Unlike its volatile neighbor, Yemen, Oman lacks piracy and a Shi’a rebellion: two topics that are guaranteed to draw media attention.  Although Oman is one of America’s most reliable allies in the Gulf (we have military personnel stationed at bases in Seeb, Thumrait and Masirah Island), many Americans have never heard of the country, probably because it’s too stable and friendly to warrant mention on CNN.

نناقش دوت و انا مشاريعنا البحثية قريبات محمود، و نجيب على أسئلة مثل: ما هو الرأي العام لأمريكي بشأن عمان؟”  أحاولُ دائما أن أجيب على هذه الأسئلة بطريقة دبلوماسية، ولكن الحقيقة هي أن معظم الأميركيين لا نفكر في عمان على الإطلاق.  على عكس جارتها المتقلبة، اليمن ،عمان تفتقر القرصنة وتمرد الشيعة : موضوعين الذان تكفل للفت انتباه وسائل الإعلام. على الرغم من أن سلطنة عمان هي واحدة من حلفاء أمريكا الأكثر موثوقية في الخليج (لدينا الأفراد العسكريين المتمركزين في قواعد عسكرية في السيب وجزيرة مصيرة وثمريت)، لم يسمع العديد من الاميركيين عن هذا البلد أبدا، ربما بسبب فوات مستقرة وودية لتبرير يذكر على شبكة “سي ان ان.” و من الممكن أن عدم إهتمام في الشؤون العمانية يرجع ذلك إلى حقيقة أن هذا البلد هو مستقرة وودية جدا لتبرير ذكر إليه على شبكة سي ان ان

Speaking of friendliness, Omanis know how to make a stranger feel at home.  Within moments of sitting down in Mahmoud’s house, one of our hosts approached us with a tray full of perfume bottles.  Even though I don’t normally wear perfume, rejecting a display of hospitality is like social suicide in this country, so I extended my wrists cautiously.  Withdrawing a glass wand from one of the bottles, the woman slathered my arms with the fragrant fluid.  I must have smelled particularly offensive, because she didn’t stop there.  Soon there were oily blotches of perfume on my scarf and cheeks.  I smiled gratefully, knowing that this potent fragrance would protect me from any odors I might encounter at the camel farm, our next destination.

بالتحدث عن موضوع الود و اللطف، يعرف العمانيون كيف يرحبون غرباء. قريبا بعد جلوس في منزل محمود، واحدة من مضيفاتنا إقتربت بنا و كانت تحمل طبق زجاجات العطور. رغم انني لا استخدم عطرا عادة، من المعروف أن رفض عرض الضيافة يساوي إنتحارا إجتماعيا. لذلك، مددتُ معصمي بحذر.  إنسحبت الإمراة عصا الزجاج من واحدة من الزجاجات، و وسخت السائل عبق على ذراعي. لا بد أنتي اعطيتُ رائحة كريهة، لأن الإمرأة لم يقف عند هذا الحد.  بعد قليل، كانت بقع العطر موجودة على وشاحي و خديني.  ابتسمت بامتنان، لأني كنت أعرف أن تلك الرائحة القوية ستحمي لي من أي روائح التي قد أواجهها في مزرعة الجمال، وهي وجهتنا المقبلة.

Camels have enviable eyelashes.

After rejoining Sharif and Mahmoud, we drove to a nearby camel farm.  The proprietor explains that some of his camels participate in local races.  Unfortunately, we just missed the most recent competition.  On the day of our visit, the camels are clustered in the center of a spacious enclosure, wearing colorful muzzles.

بعد العودة للانضمام مع شريف و محمود، قدنا السيارة إلى مزرعة الجمال التي كانت قريب إلى منزل محمود.  يشرح صاحب المزرعة بأن بعض جماله تشارك في السباقات المحلية.  لسوء الحظ، فوتنا فرصة لرؤية السباقة التي حدثت في اليوم السابق.  علي يوم زيارتنا، الجمال مجتمعة في مراعي واسع و ترتدي كمامات ملونة.

The camels are not wearing conventional saddles, but the proprietor lets Dot and I ride them anyway.  Climbing onto a camel’s back is pretty easy, provided that the camel is seated.  However, staying seated while the camel springs to its feet is considerably more difficult.  This is where inner thigh muscles come in handy, if you have them.  If not, just compliment the camel on its long eyelashes and hope for the best.

لا ترتدي الجمال سروج عادية، لكن الصاحب يسمح لدوت و انا بركوب الجمال بأية حال. التسلق على ظهر الجمل شيء سهل نسبيا، طالما أن الجمل جالس. على الرغم من ذالك، البقاء في وضع الجلوس في حين أن يقفز الجمل إلى قدميها هو شيء أكثر صعب. هذا هو الوقت المناسب لاستخدام عضلات الفخذ الداخلية، وإذا لديك منهم. إدا ليس لديك، ينبغي أن تجامل الجمل على رموشه الطويلة و تتمنى الأفضل

After an exhilarating jaunt around the camel farm, we pause for some refreshments (dates, coffee, and the Omani dessert, halwa) in the proprietor’s tent.  The camel farmers live a modified bedouin lifestyle.  They spend much of their time in open-air tents, but supplement this traditional lifestyle with vehicles, cell phones and other essential technologies.

بعد رحلة مبهجة حول مزرعة الجمال، نتوقف لتناول بعض المرطبات (تمر، قهوة، و حلوى) في خيمة صاحب المزرعة. يعيش رعاة الجمال النهز الحياتي بدو و حديث في نفس الوقت.  يقضي الرعاة معظم وقتهم في خيام الهواء الطلق، لكن يستخدم يُلحق هذا النهج الحياتي التقليدي مع السيارات ، الهواتف الخلوية، و غيرها من التكنولوجيات الضرورية

Afterwards, Mahmoud insists that we purchase some fresh halwa from a local manufacturer, who happens to be a relative of the camel farmer.  Halwa is a mixture of eggs, sugar, water, ghee, saffron, cardamom, nuts and rose water.  These ingredients are amalgamated in a giant metal basin heated from below.  Here’s what the process looks like:

بعد ذلك، محمود تصر على ان نشتري بعض الحلوى جديدة من صانع محلي، الذي يصادف أن يكون قريب راعي الجمال. الحلوى هي مزيج من البيض والسكر والماء والسمن والزعفران والهيل والمكسرات وماء الورد. يتم دمج هذه المكونات في حوض هائل معدني الذي مسخن من أسفل. وهنا ما يشبه عملية

The final product. Yes, it's as sticky as it looks.

The proprietor was nice enough to offer us a complimentary batch of halwa. However, since this highly concentrated brick of glucose is guaranteed to induce a sugar coma, Dot and I subsequently pawned it off on our unsuspecting Arabic tutor.

تقدم الصاحب اللطيف خبزة مجانية لدوت و انا.  للأسف، هذا الطوب مركّزة من الجلوكوز هو مكفول لادخالنا في غيبوبة السكر، لذلك في وقت لاحق، أعطينا الطوب إلى  مُدرستنا اللغة العربية

Before driving back to Muscat, we made one last stop: Wadi Bani Khalid.  A “wadi” is a desiccated riverbed found in  mountain valleys.  Most wadis are dry during the hottest months, but after heavy rains, their banks may overflow with fresh water, generating deep pools and restoring parched vegetation.

It started to rain as we approached the wadi, so many of the visitors were on their way out.

قبل عودة إلى مسقط، اتخذنا المحطة الاخيرة: وادي بني خالد.  “الوادي” هو العثور على قاع النهر المجفف في الوديان الجبلية. ومعظم الأودية  تبقي جافة خلال الأشهر سخونة، ولكن بعد هطول الامطار الغزيرة، قد تفيض على ضفافها مع المياه العذبة. هطول الأمطار يسفر عن توليد برك عميقة واستعادة الحياة لنباتية جافة

Wadi Bani Khalid is unusual, in that it maintains a constant flow of water throughout the year.  Wadis attract a lot of domestic tourism within Oman, and families gravitate to these natural swimming holes on weekends and national holidays, like the recent Eid al-Adha.  The crowds are dense, so we walk several yards up the riverbank to find an unobstructed view.

وادي بني خالد هو وادي غير المعتاد، لأنه يحافظ على تدفق مستمر للمياه على مدار السنة. تجذب الأودية كثير من السياحة الداخلية في سلطنة عمان، و تنجذب الأسر لهذه الثقوب الطبيعية للسباحة في عطلات نهاية الأسبوع والأعياد الوطنية، مثل عيد الأضحى الأخيرة. الحشود كثيفة على يوم زيارتنا، لذلك نسير  مسافة طويلة على طول ضفة النهر لإيجاد منظر واضح.

Wadi Bani Khalid

Signs from the Ministry of Tourism warn us to refrain from littering and playing musical instruments.

Both rules are routinely violated.  Although I don’t mind the sound of drums, I do wish that visitors would be more conscientious about collecting their trash.

تخذرنا علامات من وزارة السياحة على الامتناع عن رمي النفايات والعزف على الآلات الموسيقية. تُنتهك كل هذه القواعد تُنتهك بصورة اعتيادية. على الرغم من أنني لا لا اعترض على قرع الطبول، أنا أتمنى أن الزوار سيكون أكثر وعيا حول جمع القمامة

On the way home, we pull over to watch the sunset.  There’s no good way to describe natural beauty like this, so I’ll just leave you with a picture:

في الطريق إلى البيتنا، نسحب السيارة لمشاهدة غروب الشمس. ليس هناك كلمات كافية لوصف مشهد الجمال الطبيعي مثل هذا، لذلك سأترككم مع الصورة :

The view from the highway, on the road back to Muscat.

First of all, I apologize for the lapse in blogging.  I just returned from my two-week break in the U.S. with a stockpile of Trader Joe’s products and a persistent flair for butchering the Arabic language.  In an effort to

Caution: bilingual blogging in progress

improve my language skills, I will make an attempt at bilingual blogging.  Of course, I am counting on the native speakers out there to be merciless critics.  Here we go …

The clock tower at SQU. Not sure how functional it is, but it certainly looks cool.

Since my arrival in Oman, I have been using Sultan Qaboos University (SQU) as the base camp for my research activities.  Oman doesn’t usually show up in international publications,  so I get pretty excited when my sponsoring institution makes the news. According to the press release, a research team at the College of Agricultural & Marine Sciences is investigating the output and quality of meat harvested from Omani camels raised under “intensive management conditions.”  I’m no expert on camel meat production, but I’m pretty sure that “intensive management” is a euphemism for force-feeding.

According to the principal investigator, the impetus for the study was the low productivity of the Sultanate’s camel meat industry.  Traditionally, camels have been raised for breeding or racing purposes in Oman.  Camel meat production is well below its potential, due to lack of expertise in camel husbandry techniques.  One of the study’s objectives is to test the viability of “intensive management” techniques, with the intent of kick-starting the camel meat industry.

Oman has yet to tap the clown fish market.

Earlier today, I was speculating about lucrative natural resources that the Omani government might try to exploit, after the inevitable exhaustion of oil reserves.  Chrome?  Frankincense?  Clown fish?  What if camel meat is the economic panacea that Oman has been waiting for?

The researchers are tracking the growth rates of twelve camel subjects to determine whether “intensive management” techniques will yield meatier camels.  According to the press release, the camels are given three different levels of nutrition according to their body weight … The project also includes studying the carcass composition and meat quality attributes of camel meat.”

And the outcome?  Preliminary results indicate that the camels earmarked for “high feed intake” are gaining 500 to 600 grams of weight per day.  After six months of feeding, the camels will be sent to Central Slaughterhouse in Bausher, for a final evaluation of their meat quality.  An increase in domestic food production would probably help support Oman’s booming population, but I still maintain that camels are too cute for human consumption.

باحثون من جامعة السلطان قابوس يهدف لانتاج جمال أكثر لحمية

أولا، اعذرني لأوقف مؤقتًا عن المدونات.  رجعت في الحال من عطلة في إمريكا مع مخزون المنتجات من “تاجر جو” و مع عادة استمرة من شوِّه اللغة العربية. في محاولة لتحسين مهاراتي اللغوية، سأحاول أن أكتب مدونتي بلغتين: لإنجليزية والعربية.  بالطبع،  سأعتمد على الناطقين باللغة العربية لتصحيح كتابتي بلا رحمة

Harsh terrain makes for scrawny camels. Omani researchers are trying to rectify the situation with "intensive management" techniques, i.e., force-feeding.

…

منذ وصولي في سلطنة عمان، كنت أستخدم جامعة السلطان قابوس كقاعدة انطلاق لأنشطتي البحثية.  من النادر أن نجد عمان في تقارير إخبارية دولي، لذلك انا انا ابتهج عندما أرى مؤسستي المضيفة في الأخبار.  وفقا لبيان صحفى، يحقق فريق من الباحثين في كلية العلوم الزراعية والبحرية في انتاج و جودة اللحم

محصود من الجمال العمانية التي تربيها في ظروف “الإدارة الشديدة.” لست خبيرة في إنتاج لحم الجمال، لكن انا متأكدة أن المسطلح “الإدارة الشديدة” يعني “تغذية القوة”.  وفقا للمحقق الرئيسي، الدفعة وراء هذه الدراسة البحثيك كانت انخفاض الإنتاجية لصناعة لحم الجمال في عمان.  تقليديا، تربي الجمال لأغراض

التناسل أو سباقات.  إنتاج لحم الجمال هو أقل من إمكاناته، بسبب انعدام الخبرة في تقنيات لتربية الجمال.  واحد من أهداف الدراسة هو تجريب جدوى تقنيات “الأدارة الشديدة،” بقصد تعزيز صناعة لحم الجمال.  فى وقت سابق اليوم، كنت أفكر عن الموارد الطبيعية المربحة التي ستسعى الحكومة إلى استغلالها، بعد إستنزاف محتوم احتياطي النفط. الكروم؟ اللبان؟ سمكة مهرج؟  من الممكن أن لمح الجمال يكن الدواء الإقتصادي الذي تنتظر عمان عنه؟

يتتبع الباحثون معدلات النمو من اثني عشر الجمال من أجل تحديد إذا ستنتج تقنيات “الإدارة الشديدة” جمال أكثر لحمية.  وفقا لبيان صحفي، تُعطي الجمال ثلاثة مستويات مختلفة من التغذية، وفقا لوزن الجسمها … ويشمل المشروع أيضا دراسة تركيب الذبيحة و جودة لحم الجمال.  و ماذا عن النتيجة؟ تشير النتائج الأولية  إلى أن الجمال المخصصة لِ “إستهلاك الغذائية بكميات كبيرة” تكتسب بين 500 و 600 غراما من الوزن يوميا. بعد ستة أشهر من التغذية، سترسل الجمال إلى المسلخ المركزي في بوشر، حيث سيتم تقييم جودة لحمها.  من المحتمل أن إزدياد الإنتاج الغذائي المحلي سيساعد في دعم السكان المتزايد في عمان، لكني لا أزال أصر أن الجمال كتكوتة جدا من أن أكلها

Dubai has skyscrapers like New York has pretzels.

Oman’s tranquility is either its best or its worst quality, depending on who you ask. I happen to like living in a relatively quiet neighborhood, but most residents of the Muscat crave an occasional change of scenery.  That’s what bus trips to Dubai are for.  In case you aren’t familiar with this oasis of debauchery, Dubai is the region’s go-to destination for all sorts of hedonistic activities that aren’t legally or socially permissible in more conservative Gulf societies.

Dubai has compensated for its shallow oil reserves by building a thriving tourism industry around the principle that people will pay to see the world’s only (fill in the black). That’s why Dubai is a veritable playground of overpriced, overexposed, but nonetheless one of a kind destinations including:

- The world’s tallest building (still under construction)

- The only indoor black diamond ski run

- The only manmade archipelago (it’s visible from space, by the way)

- The only refrigerated beach

- The first cloned camel (No really, I’m serious.)

Reading The Time Machine in Dubai

These end products sure look cool, but development is one noisy, dusty process. Don’t be fooled by the luxury department stores and air-conditioned bus stops: Dubai feels suspiciously like a construction zone. Everything seems to be in motion, even the skyline — where cranes manipulate cages of scaffolding like skeletal chess pieces. Projects of this scope require a massive labor force, and it‘s impossible to ignore the throngs of foreign workers — brought in by the busload — who make this city tick. With only a small population of native-born Emiratis, Dubai has relied on a steady influx of foreign workers to sustain its steroidal growth rate. Since foreigners don’t have labor unions or legal standing, it’s easy to get taken advantage of. Throughout the very brief trip, I couldn’t get labor issues off of my mind — probably because I was reading an Arabic translation of H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine. Most of the Arabic texts I read these days are research-related and a decent number are migraine-inducing, so I’ve been trying to reintroduce “fun reading” into my rotation of ethnographies, feminist diatribes, and literary criticism. A few pages into the book, I remembered that “fun reading” isn’t always a cakewalk. This retro sci-fi gem (originally published in 1895), tells the story of a wildly ambitious experiment gone awry. An English scientist, identified only as the Time Traveler, builds a machine capable of traversing the “fourth dimension” of time. Naturally, the trigger-happy fellow ends up catapulting himself into the year A.D. 802,701, where he finds that the human race has evolved into an androgynous, frugivorous species known as the Eloi. Scientific progress has long since eliminated resource scarcity and other threats to civilization, so the Eloi have lost the physical and mental capacity to innovate. Basically, the fragile Eloi enjoy endless leisure time while a subterranean underclass — The Morlocks — does the industrial dirty work needed to sustain the above-ground utopia. Wells describes a bifurcated society, in which a laboring class and a parasitic elite inhabit adjacent but wildly disparate environments.

“The exclusive tendency of richer people … is already leading to the closing, in their interest, of considerable portions of the surface of the land. About London, for instance, perhaps half the prettier country is shut in against intrusion. And this same widening gulf … will make that exchange between class and class, that promotion by intermarriage which at present retards the splitting of our species along lines of social stratification, less and less frequent. So, in the end, above ground you must have the Haves, pursuing pleasure and comfort and beauty, and below ground the Have-nots, the Workers getting continually adapted to the conditions of their labour (The Time Machine, Chapter 5)”

The skyline at night.

So the Eloi frolic around under fruit trees, while the Morlocks toil in putrid tunnels. It’s comforting to know that thousands of years into the future, life will continue to be unfair.  The  Time Traveler’s story, with its frequent allusions to the exploitation and isolation of a laboring underclass, betrays the author’s well-known socialist bent. After spending a six-hour bus ride immersed in this book, everything started to look like class conflict. it was impossible to ignore the parallels between Wells’ futuristic utopia — built on the backs of a literal underclass — and the extravagant skyscrapers of Dubai, brought to life by foreign workers who will never get past the periphery of the paradise they have built. At the UAE border, men in orange jumpsuits smeared concrete over cinder blocks with a plastic spoon, while their Emirati supervisors reclined in padded chairs under a nearby canopy. Is it possible to build towers and subways and skating rinks without degrading the dignity of human labor? If this is the price we have to pay for development, then maybe Dubai isn’t worth it.

For fear of giving you all the impression that I spend my days frolicking around date orchards, I thought I would post a brief update on my research activities here in Oman.  My project consists of collecting and translating poems that address social, economic and political changes in Oman since the 1970s (when Sultan Qaboos replaced his father and implemented a massive development program known here as the Nahda or Renaissance).

There are many ways to study development — some more quantitative than others — and I have chosen the unconventional (or perhaps unscientific) method of evaluating societal change through the lens of poetry.  As a political scientist by training, I really have no business conducting a content analysis of poems, especially poems that aren’t even written in my native language.  And to be honest, there are days when the dizzying intricacy of Arabic grammar makes me want to incinerate my Hans Wehr dictionary, which weighs at least ten Cairo Street Cats (my preferred unit of measurement in this region) and has cost me hundreds of dollars in excess baggage fees.

Nonetheless, I carry on, perhaps because I have a high threshold for humiliation, but probably because I do believe that poetry — just like any other form of free expression — reveals things about a society that don’t make it into the pages of the local newspapers or the CIA World

Million's Poet, a televised poetry competition broadcast from the UAE, is a pop sensation in the Middle East.

Factbook.  To many Americans, poetry is just that mushy stuff we were forced to memorize in middle school.  But in the Arab world, poetry is an extraordinarily influential and respected medium of expression and serves as a vehicle for social commentary — both positive and negative.  We have American Idol, and Arabs have Million’s Poet, a televised poetry contest where amateur wordsmiths have a shot at stardom.  It’s hard to take poetry seriously as a sociopolitical phenomenon when it’s being recited under purple strobe lights, but don’t be fooled — Words are serious business around here.  Major social transformations in the Middle East have always inspired the production of poetry.  Since I’m interested in the social changes of the past 40 years and those currently underway in Oman, I’m on the lookout for poems that reflect those changes.  Naturally, every poet brings a different viewpoint to the table, so I have found poems in favor of economic development and those vehemently against it.  I’ve found poems praising the construction of highways and poems condemning imported alcohol.

Contrary to popular belief, Barack Obama didn’t invent the concept of change — The Sultan did it first.  Change came to Oman so suddenly that people are still coming to terms with it.  A few days ago I sat down with the well-known Omani poet, Dr. Saida Khatir Bint Farsi, to discuss some of those changes and their impact on Omani society.  Dr. Saida grew up in the Omani port of Sur, but moved to Kuwait when the restrictive

Dr. Saida Khatir Bint Farsi, Omani poet and academic, speaks her mind on women's issues.

policies of the current Sultan’s father made it impossible for her to get an education or even support herself economically.  After Sultan Qaboos came to power in 1970, he urged the thousands of Omanis living in exile to return to the country and help rebuild the nation.  Saida answered the call, and returned home to help educate a generation of illiterate youth.  Later, she earned her PhD at Cairo University, where she wrote her doctoral dissertation on the psychological alienation of women in the Gulf countries.  Drawing on Marx and other Western philosophers, Saida argues that the sudden influx of oil wealth combined with rising religious conservatism in the 1990s left women with few opportunities beyond the household.  Women were looking for self-fulfillment, but they lacked an outlet — other than the ever-proliferating malls — for their creative potential.  Conspicuous consumption can only stave off boredom temporarily, and many women began to feel an acute sense of isolation, or as Saida defines it, “alienation.”  The only upside to this alienation was that it motivated women to articulate their frustration in writing.  Saida’s dissertation is based on an analysis of the poetry and fiction produced by these “alienated” women.

Like me, Saida uses literature as a window into society and the forces — economic, political and religious — that transform it, so I was anxious to speak with her about her experience as a writer and academic in Oman.  I conducted the interview in Arabic and transcribed it later.  Here’s my possibly mangled attempt at a translation of the transcript (Arabic-speakers, by all means speak up if you see errors!):

Mara:  How has the process of modernization in Oman affected the lives of women?

Dr. Saida: Omani women have benefited from many changes in the cultural climate as well as the educational system.  Before the era of the Sultan, there was very little in the way of public education.  There was only one school for girls, and it was located in Muscat.  Girls were only taught the most basic reading skills, for the purpose of memorizing the Holy Koran.  No one cared if girls finished their studies; they were much more concerned about the education of boys than of girls.

After the accession of Sultan Qaboos, the government started to emphasize the importance of expanding the educational system.  As the Sultan put it, “We will educate our children, even if we have to do it under the shade of trees.” And the first classes really were conducted under trees, until the schools were built. During this period, schools became gender-integrated, with girls and boys together in the same classroom. The problem at that time was a deficit of teachers. Before there was a university in Oman, women had to leave the country to pursue higher education.  But in the late 70s, [those who had been educated abroad] returned to Oman.  At that time I graduated from the University of Kuwait.  We returned and we began to work very hard because there were so few teachers.  All of us were doing at least ten jobs with one hand.  But by the grace of God, we made it through this period and our female students learned to read and write …

In 1996, we founded the Family of Female Omani Writers and I was at the head of this organization.  The organization was concerned with girls and women who were writing poetry, novels,  short stories or newspaper articles, etc.  One of our objectives was to see women become writers and to go to them in the rural areas where they lived.  We weren’t only interested in the women writing in Muscat.  We went to the different regions and we met girls with talent.  Although they were young, in time they matured and began to have an influence on Omani culture. Now, we have a great number of women writing short stories and a smaller number of poetesses.  We have novelists and playwrights and theater critics and many writers in the local newspapers.  Truly, the status of women in Oman’s cultural scene has developed dramatically between the 70s and the present day.  Women have recorded these changes in literature and in short stories and poems.

Mara:  Do women still face obstacles in Oman today?

Dr. Saida: First of all, Oman is different from the rest of the Gulf countries. Before the time of Sultan Qaboos, women were working side by side with men. Women worked in agriculture and they herded sheep and goats.  They worked in trade and industry, especially before the Nahda, when men were leaving the country in great numbers to work abroad.   At that time, men had to leave because Oman had no jobs, no economy, and no education.  When the men left, the women took their places and filled the jobs they left behind.  The woman had to be the mother and the father of the household.  This period continued for a long time, and from it women developed very strong characters.  A woman had to be strong because there was no men to stand beside her and help care for the children and the household.

Now, the government supports women.  But at the same time there have been some recent changes, and these changes did not come from within our own society — they came from outside.  These changes are bad, and not in the interest of Omani women.  Why is this so?  Because of a false understanding of religion.   The result of this misunderstanding is that men have a purely biological perspective on women.  Her job is biological, and she is seen as a wife and a mother only.  Her sole purpose is to raise children and sit in the house of her husband.  This male viewpoint rejects the participation of women in society.  Furthermore, there have been changes in the clothing and appearance of women.  The abaya appeared.  Until recently, no one wore the abaya.  Omani women used to wear the most brilliant colors.  They were like butterflies.  We were famous for wearing bright fabrics, which originated in India.  Because of our geographical proximity to India, you can see the influence of Indian culture on traditional Omani fashions.  Our grandfathers  went to India for trading  and they brought back clothing and brightly colored silks for the women of Oman.

But the abaya is not from Oman.  It was exported to Oman.  Now, you see even little girls wearing it.  When I returned from Kuwait in the 1970s, there wasn’t a single woman wearing the abaya.  This recent change has had a negative effect on women, because women are now less free.  Women participate less in the national development project, and they don’t contribute to society like they used to.  In the 1970s, all of us — the Omani women — worked as volunteers.  I had ten jobs in the schools and they were all volunteer jobs.  There were no paid jobs.  Everyone was volunteering to serve the new society …

Although there have been some negative changes recently, there has been one very positive development: government support for the empowerment of women.  The state wants women to play a more important role in development and in our governing institutions, so that her presence may be felt in the centers of power …

Now, women have been given everything they need to participate more fully in society, and to serve their country.  We have people monitoring women’s rights issues, but in reality, the problems aren’t coming from the government or from the state.  The problem is with the women themselves.  It isn’t a matter of restrictions; it’s a matter of laziness.  Women today are lazy.  They love to sleep and shop and buy cards and go out with their friends.  They don’t value work in and of itself; they only see it as a means of earning money.  They don’t feel any obligation to make a meaningful contribution to society.

Mara:  Are you optimistic about the future of women in Oman?

Dr. Saida:  Yes, I am very optimistic about the future because the government is beginning to recognize that women are being threatened by the changes brought to Oman by foreign influences.  The government is starting to give women more space in which to participate and express their concerns.  In the beginning, there were not women in the Majlis al Shura or Majlis al Dawla, nor were there any female ministers or deputies.  Now there are maybe a dozen women in the Majlis al Dawla (State Council).  Women need to seize these opportunities.  The doors are open now, and women are legally permitted to participated in elections and to campaign for office.  Nothing is stopping women from making progress except themselves.  It’s up  to them to participate.

مارا:  كيف أثرت عملية التحديث في سلطنة عمان  في حياة المرأة؟

د. سعيدة:  مرأة عمانية إستفادت بتغيرات كثيرة في سياسات الحكومة و في نظام التعليم. كان التعليم قليل جدا قبل عهد سلطان قابوس. لم يكن هناك سوى مدرسة واحدة للإناث, و وقعت في مسقط. لم يكن هناك تعليم للمرأة إلا تعليم القراء على مستوى بسيط الكتابة, فقط أن تحفظ القران كريم. و لم يكن أي شحص يهتم في أن تكمل البنات دراستهن. كانوا يهتموا بولد و بتعليم الولد الصبي الذكر أكثر من تعليم الأنثى. بعد نجح سلطان في 1970, أكدت الحكومة أهمية نشر التعليم في عمان و قال السلطان, “سنعلم أبنائنا, ولو تحت ظل الشجرة.” بالفاعل, بدأت تعليم تحت فروع الأشجار ألا أن بُنيت المدارس. في هذه الفترة, أصبحت المدارس مع مختلطة بنات و بنين مع بعد. المشكلة في ذالك الوقت كانت عجز المعلمين.  قبل بناء جامعة, عادي في كثير من النساء تعلمن في الخارج. عودنا في نهاية السبعينات. في ذالك الوقت تخرجت من جامعة الكوايت.بدأنا العمل مع بعد بجهود كبير لأن عدد المتعلمين قليل و كلنا عملنا أكثر من عشر مهن في يد واحد.  الحمد الله مدت هذه الفترة و أصبحت طالباتنا قادرة على القراءة و الكتابة.

…

ثم أساسنا اُسرة الكاتبات العمانيات سنة 1996.  كنت أترأس هذه أسرة وأهتمت هذه الأسرة بالبنات و السعيدات الواتي يكتبن شعرو قصص و مقالات في صحف, و كان من أهدافنا رؤية المرأة كاتبة و الذهابة عليها في مناطقها, ليس لنا إهتمام فقط بكاتبات في مسقط.  ذهبنا إلى مناطق و ألتقينا بالفتيات مواهبة سغريرة لكنها في ما بعد نضجت و أصبحت لديها وضع ممتاز في ثقافة و تأثير في ثقافة العمانية.

ألان, لدينا كاتبات القصة عدد ممتاز وشعارات عدد لا بأس به أقل.  لدينا روائيات و هناك من يهتمن بالمصرح و ناقد المصرح و كاتبات كثيرة في الصحف المحلية.  الحقيقة,الوضع ثقافي بالنسبة الأنثى تطور كثير من السبعينات إلى الأن. المتغيرات سجلتها المرأة في الأدب عن طريق القصة و سجلتها هذه المتغيرات في شعر.

مارا: ما زال هناك عوائق أمام تقدم النساء في عمان؟

د. سعيدة خاطر: أولا, عمان بذات مختلفة عن الدول الخليج كلها.  عمان من زمان قبل سلطان قابوس, المرأة تعمل جانب على جانب الرجل.  المرأة عاملة في المجال زراعة و رعي الماعز والخراف.  كانت تعمل بتجارة و في صناعة و خاصة لفترة ما قبل السلطان عندما خرج رجل للخارج لكي يعمل لأن عمان لم يكن فيها أعمال و لم يكن فيها إقتصاد و لم يكن فيها تعليم.  فلما خرج رجل المرة سدٌت مكان الرجل و قامت بأعمال كثيرة, كل الأعمال التي تركها الرجل.  و أصبحت هي أب الأسرة و أم الأسرة في نفس الوقت.  و هذه فترة طويلة إستمرت.  و من هنا, كان شخصية المرأة العمانية قوية جدا.  يجب أن تكون قوية لأنها بدون رجل يقف معها لراعية الأولاد و المنزل.

حاليا الدولة تدعم المرأة. لكن في الحقيقة, حدثت متغيرات في المجتمع و هذه المتغيرات هي لم تعطي من مجتمعنا لكن جاءت من الخارج.  هي لعلها متغيرات سيئة, ليس لصالح المرأة.  لماذا؟  لأن أصبح هناك  فهم خطئ لدين.  يُترجم هذا الفهم بأن نظرة الرجل للمرأة نظرة بيولوجية على أساس, وظيفاتها بيولوجية.  فأنها زوجة و أم فقط.  أن تربي أطفال و أن تجلس في البيت لزوجها.  فهذه النظرة ترفض مشاركة المرأة في مجتمع.  ثم, جاء التغير كذلك في زين.  جاءت العباية. لم تكن ملبس العباية قبل ذالك.  كانت الوان المرأة العمانية مفرحة.  كانت كالفراشة.  نحن مشهورون بالألوان المبهجة في عمان.  يمكن نتيجة للقرب من الهند أثارات الألوان المبهجة من الهنود في الوان العمانيين.  بسبب قرب جيغرافي إلى هند, أجدادنا يذهبون هناك لتجارة و حضرون بملابس و الوان جميلة و حرير لترتديه المرأة العمانية.

لكن العباية ليست من عمان.  هي وافدة على عمان.  حاليا تجدين حتى فتيايات صغيرات يلبسنها.  في السبعينات, عندما رجعت (من كوايت) لم تكن مرأة واحيدة تلبس العباية.  فهذه المتغيرات جديدة و إن كانت سلبية على المرأة, لأن المرأة أصبحت أقل حرية.  أصبحت أقل مشاركة في تنمية, أقل مشاركة في خدمة مجتمعها.  في السبعينات كلنا عملنا كمتطويات. كان عندي عشر أعمال في مدارس كانت كلها عمل تطوعية.  لم تكن أعمل بأجرالفلوس.  كانت كلها تطوعية لصالح المجتمع الجديد. حاليا, للأسف,في تغيرات. التغير ممتاز حاليا بأن هناك دعم من الدولة للمرأة لتمكين المرأة.  لتمكين المرأة ليصبح دورها فاعل أكثرفي تنمية و تُشارك في المؤسسات البرلمانية يعني المجلس.  أن تصبح في مراكز السلطة

المرأة لديها كل الإمكانات لكي تُشارك بفاعلية في خدمة مجتمعتها.  لدينا من يهتم بحقوق المرأة, و في الحقيقة ليس لدينا مشكلة من الحكومة أو من الدولة.  المشكلة من المرأة ذاتها.  لا أعتقد أن هناك مسألة القيود, لكن يوجد تقليد الكسل .   هي كسلانات تحب أن تنام و أن تتسوق إشتري سيارة و تذهب مع صديقاتها.  يعملن فقط من أجل المعيشة مثلا عمل حتى أحصل على أجر لأعتمد به في الحياة. ليس لديها وعي أو إدراك بأن خدمة المجتمع أمر واجب و يجب أن يتم.

مارا: هل أنت متفائل بشأن المستقبل؟

د. سعيدة:  نعم, انا متافاءلة جدا بالنسبة المستقبل.  لإن بدأت الحكومة تدرك بأن المرأة تمر بما إذا خطر نتيجة لمتعيرات الوافدة على عمان. فأتحق له مجال أكبر لمناقشة قضياها و لمشاركة أفضل.  مثلا, في بدياة لم يكن مرأة في مجلس الشورى أو مجلس الدولة أو وزيرة أو وكيلة. حاليا لدينا عدد من الوزيرات و الوكيلات, و في مجلس الدولة ممكن 12 أمراة.  على المرأة أن تستقل هذه الفرصة.  نحن فتحنا الأبواب و عيرنا في القوانين و التشريعات و أصبح من حقيقي حاليا أن تُشارك في الإنتخابات و في ترشوح.  لا شيء يوعق المرأة من أن تتقدم إلى الأمام.  لا شيء سواء ذاتها. عليها أن تُشارك

On the Saturday before Eid, Dot and I arrive at Samira’s apartment in our ramshackle rental car.  We will be driving from Muscat to Ibra, a small town in the Sharqiyah region, to celebrate the end of Ramadan with Samira’s family.  As usual, our half-baked travel “itinerary” is 90% Improv and 10% Plan.  Normally, I like to travel with a plan or at least the skeleton of one, but since moving to Oman, I’ve learned that there’s no such things as a premeditated adventure.  Adventure is the thing that hits you over the head when you reach for The Lonely Planet guide to look up the town you just passed, but it’s not in the index because you literally drove off the map.  Getting into the car, I knew there is no way for me to micromanage any part of this trip — and that feeling is as scary as it is exhilarating.

The mountains around Ibra, in Sharqiyah region.

When we arrive at Samira’s house on the Saturday before Eid, her mother greets us exuberantly and informs Dot and I that she will be our Omani mother from that point on.  Very quickly, we take to calling her “Ummi” (my mother), and by the end of the trip, we really mean it.

That evening, everyone is huddled around the television waiting to find out if the Eid starts tomorrow, or the following day.  The start of the holiday is dictated by lunar cycles, and Oman’s religious leaders have to spot the first sliver of the new moon before declaring the start of Eid.  The news anchor is fielding calls from regional leaders across Oman.  Apparently, every wilayat has to report a naked-eye sighting of the new moon before the leaders can declare the end of Ramadan, which my Muslim companions have all grown weary of by this point.  Unfortunately, it’s a cloudy night — and the elusive new moon is hidden from view.  Ramadan will continue for another day.

Samira’s family is as disappointed about the delay as Dot and I.  Unlike our last trip, we didn’t pack an emergency stash of water and pumpkin seeds.  Even if eating were an option, we decide to fast out of respect for Samira and her family.  The day goes by quickly, since we sleep through most of it.  Accustomed to a constant and copious supply of water, I’m more than parched by the time we break the fast.  Together, Dot and I consume a tray of Omani bread and several liters of water.  We feel sleepy and sated, but the night is far from over.

Pretty soon, “Ummi” is mixing up a bowl of henna, made from scratch.  Samira tells us that you

Henna paste, made from ground leaves, is used to decorate hands and feet during Eid. Dot and I display our henna-ized soles, here.

can’t “feel the Eid” without henna, although she isn’t a big fan of the strong-smelling body art herself.  Ummi loves to cover her daughters’ feet with henna, but they’ve grown less enthusiastic about the process in recent years.  Samira warns us that it’s difficult to go to sleep with the wet henna caked on the soles of our feet, and the color might stay for weeks.  But Ummi practically corners us, and we realize that there’s no graceful way to decline the henna.  Samira’s younger sisters gleefully spread newspapers on the bed and tap the perimeters of our feet, to ensure a clear line at the edge of the henna smear.

Dot and I lie side by side on the bed and listen as Ummi slathers the green sludge on our feet and tells us about the Oman her daughters never saw: an Oman without roads, hospitals or schools.  Like most older Omanis I have encountered, she lavishes praise on Sultan Qaboos and his massive development projects.

The daughter of a family friend wears traditional Omani dress on the second day of Eid.

I wake up the next morning in a pile of crusty henna remnants and scrape the remaining matter off of my feet in the shower.  Everyone will wear Omani national dress today, including Dot and I.  Samira’s family makes new outfits every year for this occasion.  The jewel-toned tunics and pants are stitched entirely by hand, as are the intricately embroidered bands around the ankles and wrists.  The pants billow comfortably above the knees, but are close-fitting above the bottom hem.  The fabric hugs my ankles so tightly, that it takes me a few minutes to shimmy the band over my American-sized foot.

Only after I’m fully clothed in ceremonial regalia do I realize that I forgot to use the bathroom before dressing.  Now, the two liters of water I just chugged are catching up to me, and I can’t bring myself to ask whether or not it’s permissible to pee in Omani national dress.  We’re leaving the house in a few minutes for an undisclosed destination, were we will be spending an unspecified amount of time.  It’s time to make a judgment call.  I slide on the communal flipflops that Samira’s family keeps in the bathroom for hygiene purposes and gingerly position myself over the squat toilet.  I barely know how to use this utility when I’m wearing Western clothing, and I’m terrified of defiling the beautiful garment.

Afterwards, I congratulate myself for leaving the ceremonial dress unblemished and stumble out of the bathroom and back into the girls’ room.  That’s when I realize that I’m still wearing the communal flip flops that are strictly for bathroom-use only.  I freeze and look down at my feet.  There’s no way to pretend that these are ordinary shoes.  Everyone knows what they are, and where I just came from.  Samira’s youngest sister bursts out laughing and can’t stop.  My cheeks turn red with shame.  Fortunately, we’re in too much of a hurry to let the gaffe slow us down, and Samira ushers her sisters out of the room.

We pay a brief visit to a relative’s home and cruise around Ibra for a couple of hours, as Samira points out various sites.  We return home to receive a string of visitors.  Each time, we sit around a tray of popcorn, dates and pastries and exchange niceties with the guests.  Someone is always offering me food, and it’s unthinkably rude to turn it down.  By evening time, we’ve had half a dozen rounds of refreshments and my cultural sensitivity is starting to fray around the edges.  Any moment, I’m going to fall into a sugar-induced coma.  Fortunately, Samira senses my fatigue and offers to take Dot and I to the outermost dunes of Wahiba Sands, a vast swath of desert that covers much of the Sharqiyah region.  It’s just a short drive from Ibra, and we jump at the opportunity.

Women don’t usually travel without a male escort in this area, so Samira needs to get her mother’s permission before we leave for the desert.  Naturally, Ummi tells us that this plan is deeply flawed.  She explains that the bedou and other young men are “majnoon” (crazy) and will make “mushakil” (problems) if they see us.  “Why are they dangerous?” I ask.  Much to my surprise, Ummi has devised an elaborate theory to explain the moral degeneracy of certain young Omani males.  Some mothers stop breast feeding the boys when they reach the age of two, at which point they switch to formula milk.  The artificial formula leads to cognitive abnormalities, Ummi explains without batting an eyelash.  This is why the “shabab” (young men) are so incredibly majnoon. She insists on accompanying us, because the bedou won’t approach an older woman like herself.  We gladly oblige, and Ummi climbs into the car wearing full Omani dress.  I can’t imagine a more fearsome travel companion, and it’s easy to see how Samira became the strong woman that she is.

An hour later, we reach Munturab, a town built on the barely habitable outskirts of the sprawling Wahiba Sands.  Appropriately, the Arabic name Muntarab means “Dusty Place.”  It certainly lives up to its name.  Driving through a plot of parched date palms owned by a family friend, we stop

Dot runs up a dune on the outskirts of the Wahiba Sands desert.

the car when the road ends, just a few yards from a sweeping, honey-colored dune.  Feeling a little stir-crazy after a day of obligatory social visits, Dot, Samira and I sprinted up the first dune to get a view of the vast desert beyond.  “Ummi” — still wearing the vibrant Omani dress — stays behind, arms-crossed while her ever-vigilant eyes track our progress up the embankment.  Of course, when we reach the top — all we can see is another slightly higher dune.  When I turn around, I can’t see our car or the small goat pens at the edge of the desert.  All day, my hair has been feeling matted and sweaty under my clumsily wound scarf.  With the fabric against my scalp, our non-air-conditioned car feels like a pressure cooker, and I’ve been waiting all day to remove the shila.   Behind the dunes, we’re invisible to the gaggle of Muntarab residents who are slowly coalescing in the gravel lot where our car is parked.  I gladly unwind the scarf and let the perspiration evaporate in the dry, twilight air.  This is the first time my hair has been exposed outdoors since we donned our unfashionably plain abayas in Muscat, and my head feels almost obscene without the requisite shila.

The sun is setting and “Ummi” reins us in.  We climb back into the car and backtrack through windy streets and onto the main road that leads to Ibra.  When we return to Samira’s house, we drink heavy zatar tea, which seems to be the default activity around here.  Samira’s tea is suspiciously rich, and when she lets us watch her make it, I learn that the secret ingredient is baby formula.  In between sips of the creamy brew, I glance at the television, which has been on since we arrived in Ibra.  Samira’s energetic cousins straddle the sofas like horses.  One of them brandishes a toy automatic rifle and throws a pillow at me.  No one is really watching the television, but it is perpetually tuned into Omani talk shows, cartoons, or American sitcoms.  Every so often, a public health bulletin appears, urging Omanis to avoid large gatherings and wash their hands at every opportunity.

Oman launched a massive public health campaign to discourage physical contact and large gatherings over the Eid holiday. Here's an add from the local newspaper:

Anxiety over the recent surge in swine flu cases has put a palpable chill on this year’s festivities.  Social visits are less frequent than in previous years, and guests greet their hosts with air kisses, always maintaining a safe distance.

Outside in the unlighted yard, Ummi is baking Omani bread on an outdoor stove.  She squashes the wet dough onto a fiery hot slab, leaving a think film that quickly hardens into a circular wafer.  Peeling the paper-thin bread off of the griddle, Ummi lays it in a bin on top of dozens of identical sheets.  She repeats process for over an hour, until the bin is stacked to the brim with the delicate bread.  Dot and I can’t quite stomach the assortment of roasted meats paraded before us, so we eat as much of the Omani bread as we can.  Quickly, we discover that our hosts can’t give us more food if our hands are still full, so I cling to the bread for as long as possible.

Ummi bakes a batch of Omani bread on the outdoor stove.

In between social visits — by relatives, neighbors, and friends — Samira, Dot and I retreat to the girls’ room, where we try on an assortment of traditional Omani dresses, and some of the less traditional frocks favored by Samira.  At this point, we’ve already relinquished control over our bodies — now adorned with several square feet of henna — so we passively sit back and watch Samira select two dresses from a closet bulging with abayas and glittering evening wear.  Dot is a good five inches taller than the average Omani, so Samira gives her the longest dress in the closet — a sleek, black and white-printed sheath with a matching khaki blazer.  I admire the sophistication of the design and hope for a similar outfit.  But apparently, Samira wanted me to channel my inner sorceress:

Playing dress-up in Samira's room.

Between the dress and the steady consumption of sucrose-slathered pastries, I’m feeling pretty animated by the third night of Eid.  I had run out of clean pants and desperately wanted something to change into after spending the day in my Technicolor mumu. Grabbing the wazir (men’s wrap skirt) that I use as a bedspread, I tie it on over some soccer shorts.  Immediately, Samira’s younger sisters collapse into convulsions of hysterical laughter.  I’m accustomed to ridicule by now, and decide to embrace it.  Figuring that I’ve already maxed out on cultural faux-pas’s, I start mimicking the dance traditionally performed by Omani men, who wield their walking sticks to the rhythm of a drum beat.  Kawthar’s younger sister, Reema, is rolling on the floor now, and it feels good to make someone laugh.  This is the first time I’ve seen any of the girls let loose since we arrived on Saturday.  I start imitating a sartan (crab), then a nim’r (tiger), a booma (owl), and so forth, until I’ve exhausted my surprisingly well-stocked arsenal of Arabic animal vocabulary.  Suddenly, Reema runs out of the room, and for a second I’m worried that my gender-bending performance has gone too far.  When she returns a minute later, Reema announces that she just threw up from laughing so hard.  Apparently, my dance moves induce vomiting.

Everyone is up and dancing now, including Samira’s middle sister — who hasn’t cracked a smile all week.  They are performing a traditional Dhofari dance, which Dot and I try to imitate, awkwardly.  We fall asleep exhausted and wake up the next day to Ummi’s shrill inquiry: “It’s dawn!  Have you prayed yet?”  Samira and her sisters answer with a groggy affirmative.  A couple of hours later, we all wake up to drink zatar tea and pack our bags for the drive home.  Ummi — always eager to make sure that we are eating five times more food than we can metabolically process — hands us a huge plastic bag full of popcorn, dates, and roasted meat.  Thanking her profusely, we stow the food in the trunk, where it will simmer for the duration of the two-hour drive to Muscat.  When we arrive at our apartment, the trunk and everything in it still smells like Eid.