Read Guests of the Sheik: An Ethnography of an Iraqi Village Online
Authors: Elizabeth Warnock Fernea
Tags: #Social Science, #Ethnic Studies, #General
suggested Sheddir.
“Because I like to do it in my house,” I said.
Then in a whispered conversation which followed, I
distinctly heard Sheddir say that she often came to our garden
to cut grass for their animals, and had never seen much
laundry hanging on my line. She allowed as how I must be
very lazy. I felt myself bristling, readying a tart reply to that
one, but Selma intervened.
“You say you cook,” she said. “What do you cook? I
thought Westerners ate all their meals from tin cans.”
I told them what we had for lunch, and added that I had
baked bread that morning.
“Bread like ours?” asked Sheddir.
“No,” I said, “Western bread.”
Selma explained to the group that this was a high loaf called
“toast.” Haji ate it all the time in Baghdad and had told her
about it.
“Let us see some,” they clamored.
I ran to the kitchen, proud that I was good for something,
and returned with several slices of fresh bread, cut into
quarters.
“You taste it, Sheddir,” Selma instructed.
Everyone stopped talking and watched as Sheddir, very
flustered indeed at being chosen the group guinea pig, picked
up one of the squares of bread between thumb and forefinger
and stuffed it in her mouth. She masticated a moment, then
made a terrible face and spat it out on the floor. The ladies
exploded and laughed till the tears ran down their cheeks. I
was close to tears myself, and not humorous ones, but I
realized that Selma was watching me.
“Sheddir is not accustomed to your bread—she finds it
strange,” she offered kindly, but she could not help shaking
with laughter at this huge joke. At the height of the mirth,
Sheddir thought of something else that was screamingly
funny, and launched into a long tale which I did not
understand, but which seemed to have something to do with
me, for she kept watching me out of the corner of her eye as
she talked.
“Do you know what she is saying?” Selma asked me. I
shook my head. “Sheddir says you do not know how to cook
rice, and because your rice is so bad, your husband comes to
eat at the mudhif.”
I admitted I did not know how to cook the rice in El Nahra
because it was different from the rice in America.
Even Fadhila laughed at this. “Rice? Rice is the same
everywhere,” she asserted and people nodded. I was obviously
slow-witted as well as lazy.
My face must have shown what I was feeling, for Selma
changed the subject.
“Do you and Mr. Bob both sleep in that little bed?” she
asked. I said yes.
“What fun they must have, I’m sure!” croaked Sheddir and
the ladies were off again. I knew this was a good-hearted joke,
but I had been tried too far that evening. Selma saw it too. She
stood up and pulled her abayah around her, announcing that
Haji Hamid would soon be back from the mudhif, and if he
found her gone–she made an unmistakable gesture.
“Oh, no, Selma,” protested Sheddir. “Haji would never beat
you. You are too beautiful.” Selma arched at this, but she did
not deny it. The attention had been diverted from the strange
American and the women’s attitude changed. They rose and
prepared to take their leave. I saw them to the gate, voicing
the traditional farewells, and got a few halfhearted ones in
reply. Then I shut the gate and burst into tears.
Six months before, I would not have believed that I could
be so upset at being accused of laziness and incompetence by
a group of illiterate tribal ladies. But there was no question but
that it was a real and very terrible snub now. Not only the
practical difficulties of continuing the visiting and maintaining
good relations bothered me. It had now become important to
me to be accepted by these people as a woman and as a human
being. And tonight, when I had thought success was near, the
evening had turned into a fiasco. I was indignant first, and told
myself they were nothing but a group of curiosity seekers.
Then I began to feel righteous. After all, they had insulted me
by refusing my tea, spitting out my food, and telling me I was
lazy and a bad cook. I felt hurt. They did not find me
sympathetic or interesting or even human, but only amusing as
a performing member of another species. I tried to feel tragic,
superior, ironic, above it all—but failed utterly and wept
again.
When Bob came home he told me to forget the whole
incident, to remember that we were in El Nahra to do some
specific work, not prove any romantic theories about humanity
being the same everywhere. But this did not satisfy me. Bob
said I should simply try to relax, and continue the visiting on a
businesslike basis. I said I would try, but I was not convinced.
Next morning, after Bob had gone off to the mudhif, I was
unreasonably depressed. Bob had suggested I should charge
out and visit immediately one of the women who had been at
our house the night before, apparently on the theory that if you
get thrown from a horse, you must get back on it right away or
you’ll lose your grip forever. But I could not force myself out.
I started lunch and then wandered into the garden, stopping to
inspect a large hole in our mud wall where dogs sneaked in at
night to raid the garbage pit. I bent down to look through the
hole, and drew back in alarm as my gaze met three pairs of
eyes, three black-framed faces looking in at me from the other
side of the wall.
One of the women smiled. “Good morning,” she said
through the hole.
“Good morning,” I replied.
“We hear you can’t cook rice,” she said.
I almost threw a rusty tin can at her, I was so annoyed.
But the third one said, “If you will open your gate, we will
come in and show you how to cook rice, so your husband will
be pleased with your food.”
For the second time in twenty-four hours I was close to
tears, but this was quite different. I opened the gate and let the
ladies in (one was Laila, the sheik’s niece; the other two I did
not know). They marched purposefully up the path and into
my kitchen, where they did indeed show me how to cook rice.
We picked over and washed the rice, covered it with cold
water, then sat down on the floor to drink tea while it soaked.
A large pot of salted water was put on the stove to boil, and
the rice was cooked in the boiling water until the grains were
separate and tasted right. When the rice was drained, clarified
butter was put in the dry pot over the fire until it sizzled. Then
the rice was poured back into the pot and stirred quickly until
each grain was coated with the boiling butter. Then we
covered the pot, turned down the heat, and let the buttered rice
steam slowly. We drank another cup of tea, and I thanked the
ladies profusely.
“We don’t want your husband to beat you,” said one. “After
all, you are here alone without your mother.”
“Come to see us soon,” said Laila, as the gate closed behind
her.
Lunch was quite a gay meal that day. Even Bob remarked
on the rice, and when Mohammed came, he tasted it and
pronounced it all right—the final seal of approval, I knew, for
though Mohammed did not eat much, he was very particular
about his food.
That afternoon I marched up the path to the
sheik’s
house
almost triumphantly. The rice-cooking lesson had reassured
me, and I felt I could take on the whole harem. Mohammed
had been sent to tell them I was coming, but apparently he had
forgotten, for no one was at the door, and I crossed the
courtyard to Selma’s house without seeing a soul. At the door
Amina met me.
“Oh,” she said, obviously startled,
“ahlan wusahlan,”
and
quickly led me into the sheik’s bedroom, where the rugs were
rolled up and the bed stripped. General house-cleaning seemed
to be under way. In yesterday’s mood I would have gathered
my abayah around me and departed, but not today. Amina
hurried out to find someone, leaving me alone in the bedroom
for the first time. The biggest chest was open, spilling out
sheets and pillowcases, tablecloths, antimacassars and towels.
Also I saw, to my amusement, that despite the splendor of the
gilt bedstead and the satin spread, Sheik Hamid, like every
other person in the village who could afford a bed at all, slept
on bare boards covered with a cotton mattress. I was just
screwing up courage to take a closer look at the contents of
the open chest when Selma hurried in, in an old house dress.
“Ahlan wusahlan!”
she said. She was flustered and
preoccupied and I apologized for arriving unannounced,
explaining that I thought Mohammed had told her of my
coming.
“Never mind,” she said, “stay and have tea. But you must
excuse me, because I have to make Haji’s bed before he
conies back from the mudhif.”
I said I didn’t mind at all, and she shouted for Amina, who
came in and grinned at me as she helped Selma beat the
mattress and lay it back carefully on the boards. By this time
word of my arrival had spread and a few women and children
straggled in. They joked with Selma as she puffed over the
mattress, and nodded at me. Selma dug into the chest for
sheets and pillowcases, heavy white cotton elaborately
embroidered in bright colors. The bottom sheet was tucked in
all around, but the top sheet had a wide border of embroidery
which was draped down over the bedside. The pillowcases
were skinned tightly over the long, narrow pillows, and tied in
fancy bows at each end so the colored pillow covering (pink to
match the bedspread) showed to good advantage. Mottoes
were embroidered over the pillowcases—for good luck, said
Selma, translating them for me. The most popular motto was
“Sleep here and good health.”
“Can you do embroidery like that?” asked Samira, the
daughter of Kulthum, pointing to the complicated pattern
which followed the border of the sheet.
“Not as beautiful as that, but I can embroider,” I replied,
remembering the few doll clothes I had painfully cross-
stitched long ago under the watchful eye of my aunt.
“Why don’t you embroider some nice pillowcases for your
and Mr. Bob’s bed?” continued Samira.
I was up to anything that day. “Oh, I’m already planning
to,” I lied airily. “Mr. Bob is bringing me some cloth and
embroidery thread from Diwaniya.”
“You can buy the cloth here,” said Samira.
“Yes, I know,” I answered, knowing absolutely nothing
about it, “but the cotton is cheaper in Diwaniya and the
selection is much better.”
Another woman interrupted to say that cloth was cheaper in
El Nahra, and there was no need to go all the way to Diwaniya
for it.
“It may be cheaper,” admitted Selma, turning from the bed,
where she was applying a final pat to the satin spread, “but it
is not as good quality as the cotton in Diwaniya. I know,
because that was my home before I married, you remember.”
That silenced them.
“What kind of pattern will you embroider?” asked Leila, the
sheik’s niece who had come to my house the evening of the
bread episode.
“I haven’t decided,” I answered, quite truthfully this time.
“I think I would like to do one like that”—and I pointed to the
flowers and leaves and the good luck mottoes on Haji’s clean
pillowcase—“but I don’t have any patterns.”
“Oh,” said Laila. “I have many, many patterns, because my
sisters and I embroider all the time. Come to visit us when you
get your cloth and you can choose one of ours.”
I was suddenly unreasonably elated at the invitation. “I
will,” I promised. “I will get the cloth tomorrow, so I’ll come
day after tomorrow.”
Selma had finished and locked the chest again. She sat
down to rest, untying her
asha
and rearranging her hair under
it. “Amina,” she called, “bring us tea.” Amina brought a tray
of three glasses, one for me, one for Selma and one for the
oldest woman in the room. I had been sitting on the floor the
whole time, but no one had commented on it. Selma was too
occupied with other things to think much about me and the
proprieties of entertaining a guest. We all drank our tea
together.
It was late and I felt that I should go, but we sat on. When I
rose, Selma said, completely unexpectedly, “The sheik would
like to meet you.”
I looked blank.
“Would you like to see him here or at your house?”
The suddenness of it caught me off guard. I thought fast. I
had been in purdah ever since I arrived and had neither spoken
nor sat with any tribal men other than Mohammed, who didn’t
count as he was considered “my family” now. Yet Sheik
Hamid was our host. What was the best thing to do?
“I must ask my husband,” I said, and Selma nodded. It was
apparently the answer they expected.
When I got home I was in good spirits, and related to Bob
all the details of the cleaning and weekly bed changing, the