Pink Yemen Taxi

Taxi in Yemen via Radio Netherlands Worldwide.

In recent years, women-only taxi services offering convenient and safe transit have sprung up in major cities all over the globe. These “pink taxis,” driven by women for women, offer a variety of benefits — not only giving women the option of avoiding harassment by male drivers, but also offer employment opportunities, business ownership, and in some cases, empowered transit in funky, candy pink rides decked out with lady magazines, beauty kits, and alarm buttons.

In Beirut, they’re styled as fierce competition to the standard transit system, brought about by one woman’s entrepreneurial vision, and follows similar models set up in Dubai, Cairo and Tehran. In Kuwait and London they’re “women-run businesses” offering “secure modes of transit” helping female customers feel less vulnerable when riding alone with a male driver. Moscow’s taxis are all about girl power, while Mexico City’s pink taxis are fantastically “girly” while helping address the problem of leering male drivers. But Yemen? Yemen doesn’t have a women-only taxi service and that’s because Yemen is too tribal and slow to change, to even consider allowing women to drive taxis.

Well, that’s according to a recent article by Radio Netherlands Worldwide. While initially promising (and Fugees inspiring), the title completely mislead me into thinking a new, pink revolution had already hit the streets of Sana’a: “Pink taxis for Yemen: ready or not.” Apparently, not.

It didn’t take long to realize the point of the article was not to celebrate a new social and entrepreneurial opportunity for women — but to use the absence of pink taxis as a social commentary, highlighting gender segregation and the restriction of women’s employment due to “tribal tradition.”

The article leads by over-emphasizing Yemen’s culture of gender segregation. “Men and women practically lead separate lives,” with segregated weddings, women-only Internet cafes, and asks, “if so many places have separate facilities for women, then why are there no women-only taxis?” It’s a fair enough question. Taking a taxi with a male driver is awkward for many women and while not every male driver is a predator, there are many documented cases of sexual harassment by taxi drivers in Yemen. So in a country that is so obviously divided upon gender lines, why hasn’t segregation entered into the transportation sector?

(more…)

 

booby-traps and breastfeeding in Guinea

My daughter Ivy devours bananas. She can finish off half a banana in minutes and screams if you take it away from her before she’s done. In fact, at five months old she has already tasted bagels, figs and chicken – stuffing anything within reach on my plate into her mouth. At birth, my other daughter Eryn absolutely refused to nurse, and I spent the first 48 hours of her life desperately feeding her a mixture of colostrum and water and eventually turned to formula when she lost too much weight. But we persevered and I successfully nursed her for three years.

For both babies, my intention was to follow the World Health Organization’srecommendation to exclusively breastfeed for the first six months of their lives. The girls, of course, had something else in mind – and I ended up joining the statistics of mothers who, for whatever reason, fail at following this important medical advice.

Despite the fact that health authorities around the world support the WHO’s recommendation, only 37% of mothers around the world exclusively breast feed for the recommended time. It’s 39% in the developing world, 25.9% in Canada, 14% in Australia, 8% in Brazil, and France doesn’t even register, with negligible breastfeeding statistics past two months post-partum.

Recently, IRIN released a report on the “shocking” decline of exclusive breastfeeding in the West African country of Guinea. Apparently, Muslim women and families are offering newborn infants water that’s been blessed by inscriptions of the Holy Qur’an, and will forgo initiating breastfeeding until this water treatment is administered:

“Countless babies in Guinea are not given their first breast milk for hours – however long it takes a designated family member to bring water that is used to rinse special Koranic verses inscribed on a wooden tablet. This symbolic liquid, the first thing many babies ingest, is just one example of a custom believed to protect children but that can instead jeopardize their health.”

 

letters to strangers

Dear no sense of personal space,

Sure. Go ahead and touch my swollen belly without asking for permission. The baby you’re fawning over is actually situated below my belly button.

Hope you enjoyed fondling my “maternal stores” and large intestine.

Love,
~me.

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Dear gushing prejudice,

What exactly do you mean by saying Eryn “takes after her father?”

Now, I understand you “absolutely adore mixed children” — but I just wanted to take a moment to outline some pretty obvious things to those who really care about my family.

She has my hair and makes my facial expressions when feeling intelligent and self-assured. Those shrugging shoulders when she doesn’t know the answer? Yeah, that’s from me. And I’m pretty sure her shifty eyes when she’s up to something is from me too.

Her gorgeous cheek bones and eye shape look like they’ve come from her paternal grandmother. And her chin? That’s straight from her aunt. Her amazing eye colour is her own. It’s a bit too early to say whose feet, hands, legs or waist she’s growing into, so I’m not 100% sure what you mean by ‘takes after her father’…

Oh. Wait. You mean she has his skin colour.

Classy. So thrilled you see things in such stark, ignorant categories.

Love,
~me.

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Dear misdirected, Islamophobic mutterings,

I’m an only child and spent years preferring to walk behind my parents. It seemed like a wonderful space to be at peace with my thoughts and daydreams while knowing exactly where they were at all times. You see, I had an irrational fear of getting lost. The only other place I’d rather be when walking with my parents would be swinging between them.

But when I wanted solitude, I walked alone two feet behind them.

I did the same when walking with friends on sidewalks. I’d always triangulate behind so we could all walk together — but I could distance myself mentally from the conversation when I just wanted to window shop.

Suffice to say, I have a habit of walking behind people when I feel like it.

So when I’ve carried my child all.day.long. and my arms are burning and I’m suffering from round ligament pain with every step and I just want five bloody minutes to myself without blowing a snotty nose or singing my ABC’s YET AGAIN, yeah, I’m going to carry the bags so the Hubby can carry Eryn.

And YES, I’m going to walk two feet behind him BECAUSE I want a moment to breathe.

It is NOT because I’m a Muslim woman.

I am not THEM. I am ME.
We are from Toronto, not OVER THERE.
And my Hubby is NOT treating me like a pack horse. He’s FANTASTIC and I’m more than capable of carrying a diaper bag, some Christmas presents and opening doors my own bloody self.

kaythxbye,
~me

 

a muslim without question

This post originally appeared on Womanist Musings and was inspired by a lovely email discussion with the brilliant Renee over my extreme excitement at having pepperoni on my pizza for the first time in 15 years.

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“Yalla, yalla, what’s the holdup?” There’s a group of young Kuwaiti teens standing in the doorway to the movie theatre. Final Destination 5 has just started and I’m anxious to get to my seat and enjoy my caramel and salt popcorn. I can’t understand why they’re just standing there pointing to the screen and flashing their mobiles — and just before I start pushing my way through the group, my sister-in-law holds my arm and says, “they’re waiting for the usher.”

The usher?!

We ordered our tickets online this afternoon, thankfully rejecting The Smurfs and unfortunately also saying no to Captain America (I like my superheroes). Once we decided on the movie, we chose our seats — specifically opting for the mixed “family section” over splitting our group between the two gender segregated “male/female bachelor” sections. Then at the theatre, helpful ushers escorted everyone to their properly assigned seats without stepping on anyone’s toes.

As action packed, gore-fests go, it was a pretty entertaining movie. I was a little surprised when a couple of youths cat-called and whistled when the sexy groupie character showed up in hot pants and fishnets, but was more surprised when none of the sexual innuendo or swear words were cut out of the film. To keep a level of public decency, almost every screened film is censored for physical intimacy — including kissing, but excluding hand holding and “wink-wink-say-no-more” references. So I missed that one scene where the main couple kiss and perhaps even a sex scene or two, but I wouldn’t know and it certainly didn’t affect my enjoyment of the film. No one else seemed to care either.

Sex or no sex, we all cringed and yelled together with each horrific death scene.

As far as modern, first-world regions go, the constitutional monarchy of Kuwait is just like Canada… only Muslim. But flashier. With taller, more modern buildings. A massive disparity between the very rich and the extremely poor. Mosques and malls on every street corner. High-end fashion malls. Really expensive cars and ridiculously cheap gas. Overwhelmingly Arab and South East Asian. Really hot.

Okay, Kuwait is nothing like Canada.

 

islamic children’s books

Annie @ PhD in Parenting asked me to write a guest post as a part of her March lineup of guest bloggers. I’ve previously spoken about what an amazing blogger, resource and activist she is, so it was quite the honour to be invited to write for her audience this week.

I’m cross-posting the article here, but I do encourage you all to check out the discussion (and other articles!) happening at her place.

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Eryn beat her chubby little arm against my back in excitement as we wandered through the bazaar. Row after row, vendors offered delights for the entire family: balloons; flashing baubles; raw honey; bright and pungent, exotic spice mountains; cheddar cheese stuffed dates; almond stuffed dates; golden and sugary baklava; Arabic language DVDs of The Message, possibly the most popular movie ever made about the story of Islam; red and black henna for dyeing hair and skin; face painting for the kids; black, impressive abayas with shimmering, sequinned designs; heady, musk-scented, oil-based perfumes, and adorable baby clothes decorated with familiar Islamic slogans, “May peas be with you,” and “100% Halaal.”

Men, women, groups of families moved fluidly among the vendors – traditional lines of gender segregation were ignored while people negotiated the crowd. Though, a large group of men stood around the meat shawarma vendor, and double the amount of women haggled at the hijab table, while the matrimonial table stood empty. Arabic, Farsi, Urdu and Turkish overpowered any notes of English that floated around my hijab. The organizers successfully created a slice of Islamic culture in the centre of suburbia.

While hemming and hawing over a red and gold, mirror-embossed throw pillow, the Hubby called me over to the book section. He was holding an Arabic alphabet mat puzzle in one hand, and a mosque building-block kit in the other. I went straight for the baby books.

The books, articles and advice blogs I devoured in early motherhood have made me the family expert on my pregnancy, labour and delivery, breastfeeding, and now for Eryn-specific child rearing. Very quickly I’ve learned to become a fiscally and morally informed consumer, since motherhood leads me to sections of clothing, food and toy stores I would have not have previously considered going to. My expert eye can gauge the amount of preservatives contained in processed foods at 20 paces and I can stealthily repurpose stereotypical gendered gifts without blinking. It’s the same with books.

For the majority of books currently sitting in Eryn’s book nook, I’ve run them past my personal criteria list, making sure they include most of the elements of: strong female characters, diversity, pro-breastfeeding, fat acceptance, social justice, avoiding gender binaries and positive character building. Seeing that she’s only 18 months old, our current rotation includes: The Paper Bag Princess, Olivia the Pig, I Like Myself!, Scaredy Squirrel, the Very Hungry Caterpillar and several multi-language board books on babies, children’s activities, world cultures and animals.

So far, our teaching of Islamic values has simply been organic. Eryn watches us when we pray and joins in when she wants. She knows I put on hijab before we leave the house, and she hands it to me when she wants to get going. She says, “Allah” whenever she passes the Qur’an or wants to listen to her Islamic-inspired music, and I say bismillah (in the name of God) before she eats or nurses. But that’s about it. We’ve never actually sat down with her and instructed her on pictures of mosques, people in prayer, the Ka’abah in Mecca, women in hijab, successfully told prophetic stories from the Qur’an or Bible or dwelt on any other concepts that she’d identify as “Islamic.”

So, it never dawned on me to look at Islamic books. And the first time I did, I have to admit that I was a little disappointed.

 

lost in translation

Eryn watches and dances to Aishwarya Rai singing "Kajra Re."

Cheerful clapping bounces off the walls in my tiny apartment. Hindi, Arabic and Swahili mix together while an old 1970s Bollywood film plays on the television. My relatives sing, shout, and cat call as my mother in law dances to the music.

She has a florescent pink and yellow tie-dyed shawl loosely draped on her head, framing her face — highlighting her sharp nose and soft forehead. The music is a love song, about a woman yearning for a man to come and sweep her off her feet. Eryn shakes her little bum in time to the music. I’m laughing at her, but my eyes are firmly on the dancer. My mother in law is expressive in her dancing — it’s mostly her face and hands that are moving. She floats from standing to sitting, holding her hands over her heart, pulsing them along with the beat. She is gorgeous.

Through the dance she’s explaining just how much the singer yearns for a lover. And oh, there goes her hand again, resting against her forehead, crunched into a loose fist, eyes downcast, fingers splayed on her cheek and then grasping the shawl to cover her face. It’s desperate. It’s embarrassed. Round cheeks become flushed. Hoy hoy.

My aunt shouts out, “hadha haqey thyab al-salah” and the entire room erupts in laughter. I look around, eyes searching for context, for an explanation. Eventually my sister in law calls over, “She said, and that’s the scarf she prays with!” But the moment is gone and I laugh politely, but not as heartily as the crowd.

Sure, I understand: she’s singing a risqué, profane song and dancing suggestively with her eyes, mouth, and hands while draped in a shawl reserved for the sacred. A florescent pink and yellow, tie-dyed prayer shawl (now that’s funny). But I’m laughing alone, always just one step behind.

 

nazar

Oh the evil eye!

My MIL spent the day with an old friend from Nairobi. When we went to pick her up, we naturally had to stay for tea and falooda — vanilla ice cream heavily loaded with rose water, tapioca, vermicelli, and nuts. Before leaving, I was pulled aside by the old friend, and in hushed Arabic told to put a black mark behind Eryn’s ear. Better yet, tie a black thread around her wrist. She is too precious and there are jealous people in the world.

When I told my MIL what was said, she replied, “Oh just recite Ayatul Kursi and blow on her before you go out.”

I find that now I have a baby, I keep coming across interesting practises, talismans and preventative rituals to protect the very young.

The one most often used for any type of praise, is to say, masha’Allah, or ‘God’s will be done.’ “Wow, that outfit looks killer on you, masha’Allah” “They are really happy together, masha’Allah.” She is too cute, masha’Allah.”

The idea behind this is that positive attributes have been granted by God, and you certainly wouldn’t want them to be taken away in some divine twist of fate.  But it’s said with such intensity sometimes, that forgetting to say it can cause people major stress. My mom doesn’t say it (why should she), and I can always see my Muslim family saying it beneath their breath, or looking at her intensely and pronouncing masha’Allah like a talisman with every praise she lavishes upon her granddaughter.

In the same way, Ayatul Kursi, a famous Qur’anic verses which extolls the divine attributes of God, is often recited for protection against evil, sickness, and before bed — presumably to take refuge in God’s protection in case you don’t wake up.

To ward off evil spirits, we were given a silk cloth with Ayatul Kursi written on it, along with a mini Qur’an to place in her bassinet.  It reminded me of a Chinese practice of placing a mirror on the windowsill of a baby’s room to scare off any evil spirits who may be lurking around. Though, I can’t remember where I heard of this, so I can’t vouch for its authenticity.

And when we first arrived in Kuwait and entered my in-laws’ house with Eryn, a family member took a baked egg shell and circled her several times with it while making supplication. I was treated next, and then I assume the egg shell was was disposed of.  Apparently a baked egg shell can take away any evil or ill-intent that was picked up from the outside. A friend told me that the shells are then ground up and buried, or simply flushed down the toilette.

But my favourite talisman is the blue eye — protecting people from Greece to Turkey to Ethiopia. It’s so pretty and makes a great souvenir.  A family from Kuwait gave us a baby safety pin with a mini replica soother and blue eye.  I gave everyone in my work unit a blue eye, which I picked up when we went to Greece, and a friend gave me one from Egypt.  They’re everywhere!

I’m really not a big believer in these practises, especially when you get into talismans and eggs (although, I do cover my bases by saying masha’Allah and I have been known to recite Qur’an and blow on Eryn from time to time.  You know. Just in case.)  It is wonderful seeing people genuinely concerned for the welfare of my child and passing on obscure and colourful cultural rituals to the next generation.

As for other protective rituals, I’ve heard of El Colacho, Spanish baby jumping, where men dressed as the devil leap over babies lying on mattresses, to remove evil and sin.  And the “baby tossing” ritual in Western India practised by both Hindus and Muslims, where babies are dropped from a 50-foot tower and caught on a sheet for good luck.

Any others out there?

 

in-vasion

Hubby and I have been busy cleaning up the condo this past month, and today was the last final push to get things done. The stove was cleaned, old baby toys and clothes put into storage, linens washed, dust bunny colonies exterminated, junk thrown out, closets rearranged and mattresses fluffed. On Wednesday the in-laws are coming.

I love my in-laws. They’re funny and cute. My father in law is political, a runner like me, loves All-Bran cereal, speaks with the hint of a British accent after having gone through that school system across the Pond and in Nairobi, speaks Arabic as well as I do, makes the most life-like chicken noises and loves to talk and will talk to everyone. My mother in law cooks like a chef, has a sarcastic wit (which is sometimes hard to read — but that’s only because I don’t get sarcasm, but oh, can I dish it), loves her South Asian TV serials, has the biggest heart imaginable, recalls ancient Yemeni rhymes with Arabic so complex she can barely translate them and is happiest when she’s surrounded by her family.

And while I love my family dearly, I always feel like I have to be “on.” There’s this unspoken pressure (from within?) and expectations for me to be the perfect wife and daughter in law. Slight differences in culture, generational differences, even the fact that I’m an only child of a small family, while they’re and army of 50+ — they all play a part in how we interact and sometimes miscommunicate. So after a few days I find myself exhausted. I’m constantly checking with my sister in law (who is a younger, smarter, stronger and more daring version of me. I dance better though ;)) to see if I’ve inadvertently upset my mother in law. But I do tend to step back a lot and try to enjoy every second when they’re here, because we really only see them twice a year.

Regardless, it can be stressful as much as it can be fun.

MIL, FIL, SIL, Aunt-IL, Hubby, Eryn and myself all living in a 2 bedroom, 800 square foot apartment. For two months. It’s….cozy. For them, it’s normal and comfortable. Jaws drop and eyes widen in horror when I mention our living arrangements to others.

Fried bread for breakfast with condensed milk and honey, briyani and curries for lunch, briyani and curries for dinner. The “Canadian” way of eating only a sandwich for lunch isn’t lunch. That’s a snack.

7 degrees Celsius and below is too cold to take the baby to the park. But it’s Canada! It’s what we do and what layers are for.

But outside of the minute family issues that are found everywhere, they really are a lot of fun — and I am blessed to have such wonderful and caring in-laws. It’s going to be great having them around caring for Eryn and getting to know her better. I know she’ll have an absolute blast. I also get to brush up on my Arabic and just might have some more free time to myself! Score!

 

the man skirt

This is my husband.

This is his man skirt. It’s not to be confused with a man purse or mandles. It is literally a skirt for men.

Unlike a kilt or sarong, it is rarely (if ever) worn by women.

It’s called a futa and is part of the male essential wardrobe in Yemen.

He claims it’s comfortable, roomy, and one size fits all — so it can grow with him. They apparently get better with age.

I am a huge fan of the futa. Not only can we joke about who wears the pants in the family (that would be me in the futa case), but it’s dead sexy.

 

Muslimfest

Yes, it’s an actual festival for Muslims over at my place this weekend. Hijabs, niqaabs, beards, halaal hot dogs, bouncy castles, street performers, spoken word artists, rappers, graffiti artists, face painters, drum circles, vendors, pony rides, firemen (oooh!!), plays, social activism, Media workshops, writing workshops, kids’ movies, and homemade lemonade.

Eryn didn’t quite know what to do at the drum circle. She loves banging empty cardboard boxes though — and my laptop.

Desi Doll. Recites verses from the Qur’an and sings cute little songs. I almost bought it. but at $45 and only one working model, I decided against it.

And how cute are these onesies??