Tag: ex-pat life

One City, many versions

Elsewhere on this blog I’ve talked about race, social class, and the various nationalities in the country where I live – like any country – where people gravitate towards their own. There are always many versions of the cities we live in. If you visit Washington, D.C. and never go beyond the capital area or Georgetown, you’ve missed most of the city. Same of New York, or Doha.

This is perhaps best seen in Qatar during Ramadan. The Muslim community rejoices at this time of discipline because it isthe holiest month of their year (hence the tagline Holy month of Ramadan). They don’t eat or drink during they day but the evenings are full of socializing, visiting, and feasting. Many speak critically of the lavishness of the modern day meals post the breaking of fast iftar, or footor, as it’s know in the Gulf. After the dates and laban to ease the empty palate, there is a spread of food that seems far from the poverty and poor that Ramadan calls people to reflect upon.

In the non-Muslim community the reaction is usually an awareness of lack because all the restaurants, eateries, and entertainment outlets such as movies and bowling alleys are closed in solidarity with the community. No alcohol is served in the country, even at the hotels which normally function as evening waterholes. The line at the QDC, the national liquor vendor, snakes through the parking lot to the main road as drinkers prepare for a month of closure as though hibernating. Expats grumble about the traffic, about the lack of a secular culture which keeps conveniences closed to them

All of these sundry complaints I contemplated during my first Ramadan in a Muslim country (Ramadan, Alchol, and life in a Muslim country"): http://mohanalakshmi.livejournal.com/2097.html)

This year what strikes me are the different attitudes to the shortened workday – six hours as published by the state – are also telling. Many of the Western professionals do not take advantage of the fact their companies have to abide by the six hour work day.

"I have too much work to do," is usually the reason.

"Meetings would get scheduled at 4pm and then what?" is another.

The facts don’t faze people in these instances. Two less hours in a work day can not grind down the forward motion of civilization, can it? Isn’t this time we normally spend on Facebook or gasp, reading blogs, buying books on Amazon.com or eating lunch?

Those who are hardened by what I can only surmise as the Protestant work ethic are chained to their desks despite the fact this is only for a month, not a life style. Such trained contributors, they can’t pry themselves way.

More the pity them.

Because of me, those two hours are spent catching up with friends who are otherwise too busy in the course of the year to stop and chat, or writing, exercising, or any number of things I put off because I’m too busy.

This year during Ramadan as the entire country pauses in a matrix of cultural, social, and religious reflection, a friend and I challenged each other to write that one genre that we admittedly find beneath us but generates big bucks for other authors without such standards.

For me, I’m delving into romance. For her, chick lit.

You now know how I will be spending my extra two hours.

 

Sitting in judgement

My post workout elation this morning was ruined as the instructor began a familiar dire in these parts: what’s wrong with Doha, i.e. the country of Qatar. What was particularly disturbing to me was the tone of the conversation. As you know, I’m trained in postcolonial, or in other words, to be disturbed by feelings of cultural superiority from anyone one culture towards another.

 

“I have to remind myself this is a third world country.”

 

This statement took my breath slightly away more than the previous hour of high endurance spinning had done because, as you may know, Qatar is in fact not the third world. If by third world you mean limited drinking water, access to education, electricity, or stable government.

 

Which, apparently, the instructor did not intend the label to refer to any of these developmental markers (aside: developing country is today’s parlance, not first and third worlds, as though we don’t inhabit the same planet).

 

She was referring to the fact that all the exercise clubs at the various hotels had been told there would be no exercise classes during the week of a UN conference.

 

“As though those UN types want to exercise,” someone else in the room said.

 

I suppose it didn’t occur to anyone that security was the actual reason we were being banned from these hotels – avoiding a spate of car bombings via the hotel’s exercise club was more likely the reason we were being told to reallocate our schedules.

 

There were general grumblings about lack of culture, laziness among the local population, no drive to work, few ambitions, no beauty in the landscape.

 

The woman at the bike closest to me said nothing and kept glancing at me; I could have Qatari features by some people’s standards and I knew she was trying to figure out why I was being so silent in this rampage on all things wrong with Doha.

 

“Europe has so much culture,” the instructor continued.

 

And about 300 years more history in general I so badly wanted to retort.

 

“Considering people were living here in tents thirty years ago,” another class participant said, “it will take time. Like in Malaysia. It took three generations for change.”

 

I appreciate her point and chose to ignore the reference to tent dwellers. What was anyone living in a thousand years ago? Before I could get comfortable however, the generational mark had struck a chord, and we were off for another round of remarks railing against spoiled young Qataris. 

 

 

“Well if someone gave me five million dollars, I wouldn’t be at McDonalds,” another classmate said. I could have hugged her with relief for stemming this tide that I felt swept under.

 

Everyone shared a chuckle, including me. I breathed again fully into my lungs, thanked the instructor for the class and made my way to the shower.

But why are ex-pats so critical of Qataris?

I’m still puzzling over why I was so offended.

 

Was it the self-righteousness? The dismissive admission that there were ‘some’ who weren’t like that but the majority of the nation wasn’t worth much?

 

Or perhaps what made the hairs on my neck stand up was the blatant disregard for the fact that a society in progress needs time as an essential element to aid its growth?

 

“There is no perfect society,” I had counseled a young Qatari woman over dinner the other evening. She was discontent with her family’s imposition of traditional expectations despite having allowed her to go abroad to be educated. When at home, do as the locals do. I sympathized with her, sharing stories of my own bifurcated experiences in the U.S. and returning to India to visit family.

 

Nothing is all black or white. Not people, not governments, not religion. To adopt a non-plural platform is to rid life of potential. If a Qatari went to any of the states represented in our class that morning: Malaysia, Germany (I think), some part of Scandinavia (another guess), India, or the U.S. wouldn’t there be things to complain about in spades?

 

How can people be so obtuse about this basic fact: we all live in glass houses.

 

“We’re not here for the culture,” the McDonalds commenter added, “We’re here for the money.”

This I think is the root of the issue. If the goal of modernizing a society with an eye towards empowering its young people is not made a part of the core of one’s mission here, then no amount of money will compensate for the things you feel you are missing elsewhere – whether conveniences or family members. The people who stay and thrive are those who on some level avail themselves of other opportunities – the travel, the work, or the adventure. Unfortunately there don’t seem to be enough people in this category.

 

I must confess I was on the verge of saying what the Qataris themselves often say:

 

“If you don’t like it here, then go home.”

 

“I have to remind myself this is a third world country.”

 

This statement took my breath slightly away more than the previous hour of high endurance spinning had done because, as you may know, Qatar is in fact not the third world. If by third world you mean limited drinking water, access to education, electricity, or stable government.

 

Which, apparently, the instructor did not intend the label to refer to any of these developmental markers (aside: developing country is today’s parlance, not first and third worlds, as though we don’t inhabit the same planet).

 

She was referring to the fact that all the exercise clubs at the various hotels had been told there would be no exercise classes during the week of a UN conference.

 

“As though those UN types want to exercise,” someone else in the room said.

 

I suppose it didn’t occur to anyone that security was the actual reason we were being banned from these hotels – avoiding a spate of car bombings via the hotel’s exercise club was more likely the reason we were being told to reallocate our schedules.

 

There were general grumblings about lack of culture, laziness among the local population, no drive to work, few ambitions, no beauty in the landscape.

 

The woman at the bike closest to me said nothing and kept glancing at me; I could have Qatari features by some people’s standards and I knew she was trying to figure out why I was being so silent in this rampage on all things wrong with Doha.

 

“Europe has so much culture,” the instructor continued.

 

And about 300 years more history in general I so badly wanted to retort.

 

“Considering people were living here in tents thirty years ago,” another class participant said, “it will take time. Like in Malaysia. It took three generations for change.”

 

I appreciate her point and chose to ignore the reference to tent dwellers. What was anyone living in a thousand years ago? Before I could get comfortable however, the generational mark had struck a chord, and we were off for another round of remarks railing against spoiled young Qataris. 

 

 

“Well if someone gave me five million dollars, I wouldn’t be at McDonalds,” another classmate said. I could have hugged her with relief for stemming this tide that I felt swept under.

 

Everyone shared a chuckle, including me. I breathed again fully into my lungs, thanked the instructor for the class and made my way to the shower.

But why are ex-pats so critical of Qataris?

I’m still puzzling over why I was so offended.

 

Was it the self-righteousness? The dismissive admission that there were ‘some’ who weren’t like that but the majority of the nation wasn’t worth much?

 

Or perhaps what made the hairs on my neck stand up was the blatant disregard for the fact that a society in progress needs time as an essential element to aid its growth?

 

“There is no perfect society,” I had counseled a young Qatari woman over dinner the other evening. She was discontent with her family’s imposition of traditional expectations despite having allowed her to go abroad to be educated. When at home, do as the locals do. I sympathized with her, sharing stories of my own bifurcated experiences in the U.S. and returning to India to visit family.

 

Nothing is all black or white. Not people, not governments, not religion. To adopt a non-plural platform is to rid life of potential. If a Qatari went to any of the states represented in our class that morning: Malaysia, Germany (I think), some part of Scandinavia (another guess), India, or the U.S. wouldn’t there be things to complain about in spades?

 

How can people be so obtuse about this basic fact: we all live in glass houses.

 

“We’re not here for the culture,” the McDonalds commenter added, “We’re here for the money.”

This I think is the root of the issue. If the goal of modernizing a society with an eye towards empowering its young people is not made a part of the core of one’s mission here, then no amount of money will compensate for the things you feel you are missing elsewhere – whether conveniences or family members. The people who stay and thrive are those who on some level avail themselves of other opportunities – the travel, the work, or the adventure. Unfortunately there don’t seem to be enough people in this category.

 

I must confess I was on the verge of saying what the Qataris themselves often say:

 

“If you don’t like it here, then go home.”

 

Being Among Transients

 

            I’m not sure if its hormones, heritage, or environment, but I’m angry! 
            I’m angry at the all the rude, arrogant, indifferent people who have no manners. What has happened to manners anyway? I’m not talking about pinky up, monogrammed stationary, and white glove manners. Nor hospital corners while making a bed, or standing up if a woman leaves the table, or walks into a room.
            I’m talking about calling (instead of emailing or texting) that you can’t make it.
            I’m talking about coming when you say you are going to be somewhere.
            I’m talking about following through on commitments.
            Perhaps it’s not lack of manners that causes my otherwise enjoyable friends to behave this way. Maybe it’s lack of commitment.
            As I careen through the city with a guest, driving on our errands, my mobile is constantly buzzing: change of plans, someone is sick. Update: someone got done early and will dropping in. Question: how do I get to such and such?
            “Things really change quickly around here,” my guest says, eyeing the string of incomplete buildings along the corniche.
In a transient community like Qatar, there is no real context for commitment;
so maybe it isn’t surprising when people don’t show up, even after they led you to
expect them.
After all, people sign job contracts they never finish, drive leased cars, and live
in houses they can’t buy. The entire nature of life ex-pat life is predicated on a tenuous proposition: you are part here but at the same time, part on the way to somewhere. You can’t put down roots because you already pulled them up somewhere else.
So much time is spent thinking about what you left, or what is up ahead, that there is nothing left for what is now. Perhaps because I’ve lived in several other cities of questionable nighttime entertainment, I recognize these signs of internal turmoil.
            “There’s nothing to do here.”
            Or, “this isn’t a real city.”
            Those saying this draw comfort from the fact they have had more worldly and pleasurable experiences elsewhere, ignoring the adage that could give some perspective: life is what you make it, no matter where you are.
As Heath Ledger as recently evinced, there are lonely people everywhere, even in one of the world’s most fabled places: New York City.
People come here to make money.
This is a holding cell while they garner financial resources for their future dreams.
And while they are here – they survive. Not thrive. Survive, as in subsist, make do, endure.
There are two cities in this country – like Dickens said – two sets of stories. Those who are here and those who are stopping in on their way somewhere.
It’s hard to discover any place in between; nearly impossible to construct a meaningful life within this truncated environment where two populations circulate around each other but never come together. Both talk about the other with suspicious envy.
“They don’t know how to work,” one group believes.
“They make us strangers in our own country,” the other group retorts.
More disturbing still there is a third circle, on the perimeter of these two experiences, isolated by class and labor issues, made into a modernized class of indentured servants. They are everywhere in their coveralls, riding on school buses, sitting on the sidewalk, sleeping in any patch of shade: always watching, watching, watching the rest of us as we struggle to make meaning while they scrimp to send money home to their families.
Making meaning for me has always meant people. My father says this has been my life’s weakness: my need for friends makes me emotionally needy.
“Friends, and friends, and friends, and friends,” he would say to me as a teenager, begging to be allowed to stay out for a football game, or movie, or sleep over.
“What benefit do you get from these people?”
Perhaps he is right.  And maybe this is finally the city where I will be forced to learn how to make do without and turn inward to my own resources. The prospect of this leaves me feeling as desolate as the desert landscape which surrounds me.