There is plenty to love about my friend, but she hates her hair.

She says when she dies God is going to give her long, luscious locks. Smart, stunning and successful, I say He already gave her enough.

But despite her gifts, this woman wields war against her crown with weapons of coiffure. Like cowgirls on a dusty street, I once held out my new drying wand, yippee-ki-yaying that it was the best implement that ever straightened my curly hair, but she was quicker on the draw.

Whipping out the salon version of my London Drugs model, she said: “You can’t out hair me!”

We spent three years in the United Arab Emirates (UAE) together where she had the opportunity, literally, to cover up her woes. “You could always wear a shayla (headscarf),” I suggested.

But no matter what kind of a bad hair day she was having, she gave thanks for the freedom to show it.

Covering up in Muslim society is a complex issue. The roots of the tradition stem from religious soil so consensus of what scripture says and how that should be applied to contemporary societies will never happen.

Muslim scholars continue to debate precisely what the holy Qur’an prescribes but different forms of clothing seem to satisfy the demands of hijab, depending upon the culture of the country.

Our own travels in Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, and Turkey revealed a mixed approach to veiling. Some women wore full abayas and head scarves, others only covered their hair, while some opted not to cover at all.

Women in Saudi Arabia, Iran, and most parts of Afghanistan risk punishment by religious police if they fail to cover while in Pakistan and the UAE, the pressure to do so stems from social norms.

Ahmed Ghamidi, a scholar known for historical contextualization of the prophet Muhammad’s revelation, claims verse 33:59 of the Qur’an, directing women to cover, applied to a specific situation at the time and that special restrictions for the wives of Muhammad are likewise non-applicable to women at all times. The scholar sees head covering as a cherished part of Muslim custom but not a compulsory one.

Aminul Hoque, an Islamic expert with the BBC, agrees women are free to choose but that those who wear hijab feel more confident, independent, and free to express themselves without being seen as objects.

Consensus to this sentiment was common in the UAE and can be widely found on the internet. As one contributor to the BBC put it, “I would much rather be appreciated for who I am beneath the skin, and be valued for my intellectual prowess than the size of whatever body part happens to be coveted at that moment.”

Me too! But does this mean I have to choose between my Gold’s membership and my library card? Because an appointment with Miss Clairol every six weeks makes me feel good, am I shallow? Can’t we care about our looks but presume we will be valued for something more?

Not according to another young woman who had this to say: “For men, the eye is what increases sexual desire and that’s why it’s common [for men to look lustfully at western women who dress inappropriately by exposing their bodies] and therefore it is up to the women to cover up so they don’t look sexually inviting.”

Here I have a problem. If modesty is measured in dress, does this make a western woman in a tank top less worthy of respect? And is it really her responsibility to wrap up in order to ward off unwanted wiles of men?

This isn’t a new argument nor is it limited to the Muslim religion. Women all over the world continue to defend the notion they “asked for it” because they were wearing more skin than fabric. But when the women themselves believe it, despite my highlighted head, I have the brainpower to wonder.

I’m with Mr. Ghamidi. Distinct dress in the name of climate, custom, and culture is an integral part of a country’s honored traditions and identity.

But when women who have a choice cover up because men can’t control themselves, the only thing they have chosen to do is free men of responsibility and ironically to retain the very identity they attempt to avoid: subjugated beings of desire rather than capable ones respected for who they are.

I’d rather let my hair hang down—and so would the Sheikh’s wife. Stay tuned.

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I’ll admit it: I was the hold out on Jordan.

“Don’t you want to see the Dead Sea? What about Mount Nebo and Petra?” My husband was incredulous. But I was incredibly done—with the Middle East, that is.

We’d lived in the United Arab Emirates (UAE) for five years and after traveling in six Islamic countries, I was ready for, oh, I don’t know—a city of sin or something. Perhaps a little gambling in Vegas or maybe fashion-friendly Rome.

But of course, our trip to Jordan turned out to be one of the most reasonably priced and culturally enriching vacations we took. Like here, over in the UAE the grocery stores reward you for shopping by giving you points but instead of a free coffee maker, you can cash points in for airline tickets to various Middle Eastern countries. Between two free tickets, cheap hotels and bartered shopping, visiting Jordan was most affordable.

Possibly because the reigning monarchy is King Abdullah al-Hussein (whose mother was an American beauty queen) and his stunning wife, Queen Rania (a fan of free-flowing hair and high fashion), Jordan is an interesting mix of the modern and the very old, the traditional and the progressive.

Muslim, but for a small minority of the population that practices Christianity, Jordan is made up mostly of Arabs, along with some Circassians, Kurds, and Armenians. Close to half the population consists of people of Palestinian descent.

Most of the country’s citizens live basic, humble lives. Where the UAE is rich in oil, Jordan is wealthy in history.

Our first stop was Madaba, a quaint, pastoral city boasting the largest number of Christian sites and population in the country. After detouring through neighborhoods, driving slowly through streets packed with children and goats, we found Hotel Miriam. Lined up like little girls in Madeleine, the four of us slept side by side in cots, crammed into a tiny room.

We toured St. George’s, a 19th Century Greek Orthodox Church famous for its floor mosaic depicting biblical sites from Lebanon to Egypt.

Next it was onto Mount Nebo, where Moses is said to have seen the Promised Land and where he is reportedly buried. It was very moving, looking out upon the Dead Sea that separates Jordan from Israel, taking in the majesty of the mountains and the magnitude of the place.

We visited the ancient Moses Memorial Church. Built entirely of stone on Mount Nebo, we explained to our kids why Pope John Paul II’s picture was atop the altar and how significant it was to Jordanian Christians that he had visited. The following afternoon we learned that the Pope had died just hours after we left the holy site.

Madaba is also famous for its mosaics. The Jordanian government, with assistance from the Italian government, has established a school specializing in the ancient art of mosaic design—the only one of its kind in the Middle East. We visited a shop where women who trained at the school were creating spectacular pieces to be hung on walls or used as stone carpets on floors. We brought home a geometric design (amazingly the pieces are rolled and shipped in tubes), which we sunk into our floor in our front entrance.

Before departing Madaba, we met up with friends from Abu Dhabi, also traveling the fascinating city. Like us they had rented a vehicle but having three children and parents along, they opted for a minivan. I leave you with a silly news story based upon their personal experience with Jordanian road rage. Stay tuned for more on Jordan, next column.

Careening Car Crashes Carrots: Crushes Sales Quota

The quick reactions of a minivan driver helped him avoid a major car collision but it didn’t stop him from taking down some carrots.

American tourist, RW, had to suddenly swerve his rental vehicle when a truck pulled out in front of him forcing the mini van off the road, onto the soft shoulder, and straight into a vegetable stand.

The quick reactions of the vendor—who leapt out of RW’s path and into a ditch—saved him from injury, however the majority of carrots were lost when the van smashed into the two-meter tall, pyramid-shaped tower of the vegetables. Sources report RW offered to pay for damages, which the farmer, badly shaken and already anti American, angrily accepted, but not before shaking his fist and muttering, “It’s not enough for them to take Iraq, they want our vegetables, too.”

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Moviegoers recognize it as the site where Indiana Jones was filmed; history buffs know it as Petra. An entire city, complete with a theater, tombs, a monastery, dining halls, and the famous treasury, all cut into towering rocks, tourists visit Jordan just to lay awe-inspired eyes upon it.

Created by Arabs who dominated the trans-Jordan and controlled the frankincense trade in pre-Roman times, Petra is pure magic. From hiking through Al Siq, the kilometer long tunnel of rock that guards the entrance to Petra, to climbing over 800 ancient steps to stand beneath the majestic monastery and its columns of stone, to ascending rocky slopes to the Place of High Sacrifice and the Royal Tombs, days could be spent exploring Petra, but we only had two.

Friends told us to pack plenty of sunscreen. Barren and open, Petra sucks up the sun, providing little shelter from hot rays. But we arrived on a record-breaking day—when temperatures plummeted below normal.

We dumped our suitcases, layering the kids in every article of clothing we had. Tayanna was wearing a total of seven t-shirt, two jackets, and one hat, as well as socks on her hands and pajama bottoms beneath her jeans. Ditto for Nicolas. Paul (the eternal boy scout) had packed properly but I (the eternal optimist) had packed for the heat. If it weren’t for Abdullah (the bell man) lending me his massive blue cardigan, I might have suffered hypothermia.

Happily for us, the sun broke through the cold cloud cover in the afternoon, allowing us to remove some layers. Unhappily for Abdullah, his blue sweater was among them. Paul had tied it to his pack but as we lumbered down stone steps, I watched in horror as the burly sweater slipped sideways, its long arm dropping toward the ground at just the right angle, at just the right time, to strategically slice the top off a fresh pile of donkey doo.

The sweater got cleaned in much the same way I imagine many of the Bedouin still inhabiting the caves of Petra clean their clothing: by beating it against the rocks and pouring sand over the article time and again until it smells like the cleaner portions of the earth. Abdullah was handsomely tipped for the trouble.

Our second day was a little warmer but we were wearier. Giving into fatigue and our children’s pleas, we rode donkeys up to the base of the monastery mountain. I’m not sure if the locals, few of whom speak English, choose typically Western names for their donkeys to elicit amusement from or to mock the tourists, but the kids rode Michael and Suzie, which just happen to be the names of my brother and his wife. Indiana Jones turned out to be the name, not only of my donkey, but the stray dog, baby goat, mangy horse, and several camels we encountered.

Our day ended in more donkey excitement than we bargained for. Walking single file down a gravely path, we heard a voice call, “Beep, beep!”

Accustomed to young Arabs calling us from every which direction, whether to say hi or to practice interesting English words or more likely to sell us something, we ignored the voice but then suddenly—and I do mean pretty much two seconds later—I heard the sound of clacking hooves rushing toward us. We turned around to see a donkey rider whipping another donkey galloping in front of him, rushing the animal down the narrow mountain path, straight for us.

“Beep-beep” was an understatement. My daughter (same one who nearly fell in the Nile) was just far enough in front of me that I couldn’t reach her and as I leapt sideways, hollering to her to jump, she turned to see the approaching stead and screamed. It’s a sound that stops us in our tracks but not Indiana Jones. The donkey kept coming but luckily she jumped up, onto a rock, and out of its way. The animal rushed so closely past, the saddle brushed her arm, leaving a big bruise.

Next there was Bethany beyond the Jordan, floating in the Dead Sea, and watching Israeli soldiers patrol the other side, but those are stories for another time—though not another column.

It has been my privilege to share my overseas experiences with KTW readers for the past three years but like leaving the Middle East, its time to say Masalama to something I’ll never forget—writing this column.

See you once more—December 26th.

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I wasn’t very old when the civil war began in Beirut. Back in 1975 I was more interested in my swing set than news of war plaguing the city symbolic of the ongoing juggle between hope and despair that characterizes the Middle East.

I remember adults “tsk-tsking” their tongues at their television sets, wondering why “those Arabs” were so hell-bent on brutality to bring their religion to the forefront of the beleaguered Beirut. To many Westerners, it seemed a simple solution: Muslims and Christians should share the space.

But Beirut is not so easily shaped to fit such a simplistic solution. It’s a city delicately seasoned by a history richly steeped in the many cultures, languages, and religions its array of inhabitants have brought to its table.

Setting the stage for the religious conflict that often confuses Westerners but continues to haunt Middle Easterners, Arabs, took rule of Beirut in AD 635 until the Christian Crusaders usurped them in AD 1110 and the pattern of passing Beirut back and forth continued until the Ottoman army took over in 1516.

World War I ultimately ended Turkish rule and in 1920 the League of Nations granted the French mandate over the city.

Under allied occupation during WW II, Beirut grew to become one of the main commercial and banking centers of the Middle East.

The French pulled out in 1946 and just two years later the Arab-Israeli war brought massive numbers of Palestinian refugees—both Christian and Muslim—to the city, designing new socio-economic and religious dynamics.

Violence became commonplace as citizens struggled to survive the daily strife of political/religious tensions that pitted Israeli-backed Phalange Militia, allied with the Lebanese army, against Palestinians and the National Movement militia.

Phalanges brought the war to civilian streets when they attacked a bus in a city suburb, slaying 27 Palestinian passengers. The downward spiral of the city was dizzying as retaliatory attacks on Christians brought Beirut into darkness and death with Black Saturday, when Phalanges and Muslim militia took turns pulling over civilians in their cars and slitting their throats if they weren’t carrying the right religious identity cards.

Blood spilled from Palestinian refugee camps and Christian townships as innocent inhabitants from both sides of the religious war were slain. Eventually the city became divided along the Green Line, the famous division between Christian East and Muslim West Beirut.

The war lasted 17 years.

Two years ago we walked the Green Line. Still living in Abu Dhabi (United Arab Emirates), when my husband and I announced our plans for a romantic weekend in Beirut, the reaction of family and friends back home proved that distant memories of a war-torn city lingered.

“Beirut? But isn’t that dangerous?”

It is now.

Who doesn’t read with dark dismay the news that Beirut is once again being bombed?

But when you have strolled the streets of that breath-stealing city, when you have searched the shops of the “Paris of the Middle East”, when you have eaten homemade humus while sipping sweet wine in a bistro and breathed in the salty scent of the Mediterranean Sea kissing its Arab shores, you greet the news with such sadness.

Simply stunning, Beirut mixes European and Middle Eastern ambiance to create a city with a distinctively French flair. Beirut presents itself like an elusive woman—ever the contradiction as she seductively shows her many sides.

The streets are simmering with the fast and fashionable who strut to work in suits and heels alongside those who stroll in jeans and trainers. The latest sports cars swerve in and out of rusted wrecks equally as popular on the road.

Like a lovely face scarred by acne, Beirut bears the marks of war, where newly constructed buildings, shining in the heat, stand beside burned out buildings littered with pock-marked scars of earlier shootings.

An excerpt from the Lonely Planet 2004 guide to Syria and Lebanon (from which historical facts have been gleaned) says it all:

“In other countries the former Green Line would be a solemn reminder of those who lost their lives in the war. Beirutis turned a section of it into the hottest clubbing street in the Middle East. True to their long-standing reputation, Beirutis are doing their utmost to put the recent past behind them by eating well, partying hard and generally enjoying life, giving the place a buzz that is absent from almost every other city in the region.”

And now that Beirut is abuzz in a very different way, its citizens are again paying the price of radicals raging for power in another not-so-holy war.

To understand issues soldiered by Hamas and Hezbollah, to get a grip on Israel’s reaction to the kidnapping of one of its soldiers within the borders it only recently withdrew to in concession to the flailing peace plan, read MacLean’s and Time Canada or check out the Globe and Mail’s extensive coverage. But to know the tragedy in Beirut, travel.

I only caught a glimpse of the city, but it was enough for me to cling to my romantic vision of the place. Souvenirs of our trip hang in our basement bath. Four hand made hooks, shapely silver designs decorated with colorful glass blown knobs, decorate the wall.

Many friends have commented that they are too beautiful to hide downstairs. But like the city they were crafted in, their distinctive design shines, even in the darkest of places.

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Ah, ostentatious October!

How I love this show-off month when the earth delights in decorating herself in jewel toned accessories like a mother of fashion, embracing her new fall line.Graciously remaining emerald green, the lawn glows while all around golden leaves glimmer like dangling earrings swaying from the lobes of the trees and the Virginia Creeper sheds its summer suit for ruby scarves wrapped around our retaining wall.

The air is crisp and clean and clear, the sunlight adding shimmer to the scene and it is this season of transformation that I missed most while living in the Middle East.Abu Dhabi heralds in its fall with hot and humid weather—and Ramadan, too.For the five years we lived in the United Arab Emirates (UAE), that holy holiday fell between September and October. For Muslims, Ramadan is a month of reflection and abstinence from earthly pleasures. Eating, drinking, smoking, and other sins are not permitted between sunrise and sunset. Prayer becomes more important, as does charitable work, hospitality and home, and meditation upon the Islamic faith. Even if you’re not Muslim, you’re required to respect this time when you live in the Middle East.

Now looking at my very Canadian calendar—which announces the arrival of Rosh Hashanah and Ramadan—I can’t help but ponder my seasons of submission in the UAE versus our Thanksgiving of plenty in Canada. Not only would you never find mention of a Jewish (or for that matter a Christian) holiday on an Emirati calendar, you’d be lucky if you could determine an Islamic one. That’s because Islamic nations follow a solar calendar for business, but adhere to a lunar one for religious holidays. Which means dates upon which special events fall is at the mercy of—well, the moon.

While advances in Astronomy have been most helpful in determining cycles of the moon, only an approximate start for Ramadan can be given. Like all due dates, predicting the arrival of a new moon is the easy part. When the blessed birth will actually occur is a more elusive matter. Ramadan takes place during the ninth month of the Islamic Calendar, but because that calendar is based upon lunar cycles, lasting 29 to 30 days, within the solar calendar where months consist of 30 to 31 days, Ramadan starts on a different day annually. It begins 11-12 days earlier each year until after 35 years an entire cycle has moved through the seasons, and you’re back to moon one.

But the real challenge is that Ramadan doesn’t get rolling until the new moon has been sighted “to the satisfaction of each community or country.” Highly regarded heroes (official “moon spotters”) were employed like holy detectives on the look out for the sliver of a new moon nightly, so they could officially reign in Ramadan.
Depending upon the weather and maybe a spotter’s eyesight, the Holy Month could begin on a different day in a different country—heck, in a different city within the same country.I recall our fourth Ramadan in Abu Dhabi. Out for dinner with friends, we arrived at a hotel without reservations and after much cajoling, managed to secure a corner table with an ocean view, promising to depart in less than two hours, when the organized folks who had taken the time to reserve the spot were due for dinner.

It was late October, the time when the promise of perfect weather is delivered to your table on a salty sea breeze and so with a fine wine we toasted the oncoming season as well as our last dinner out for a while because absolutely no alcohol would be served during the holy month. About an hour into our meal, our waiter rushed over, yanking the bottle of wine from its frosty blanket of ice, quickly filling our glasses. “You must hurry!” he said. “Finish these drinks quickly, my friends. Ramadan begins in five minutes!”We did as we were told, guzzling while gazing skyward. We couldn’t see the moon, but obviously someone far more important than us had.

We felt just a little badly for the foursome waiting in the reception area, eagerly anticipating a fine meal at the table they’d reserved, without the wine we’d wrangled. And now, as I write, I am preparing for the arrival of family for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m secretly giving thanks for the bounty of the bird that’s baking and the sweetness of the wine that’s chilling—and for the sheer delight of celebrating every sip and bite, under the bright light of the moon.

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