Anyway. 

What???!! Saudi Arabia??!!

You may recall that my husband’s family lives here and that he grew up here.  We’ll be leaving for Mecca/Medina in a few days to complete Umrah (like Hajj, but not), too.

I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and I have lots to write.  But until I’m assured of the safety of my laptop being plugged into the outlets here, you’ll have to wait.  My hair dryer has already been martyred to the cause.

In the meantime, here are answers to some questions you may have:

1. Yes, it was a long flight.  The kids did fine.  Other kids, however, did not do fine.  Oh, but my daughter did throw up and my husband made a flight attendant cry because she didn’t help me to his satisfaction.

2. No, I am not allowed to drive.  Which is a plus because it means I don’t have to drive. 

3. Yes, I have to wear an abaya when I leave my home.  It’s the law.  But, what these people do not realize is that I look fantastic in black.  If they wanted people to not look at me, they should have picked lavender.  That’s never been a good color for me.

4.  No, it’s not hot with all that stuff on.  And you don’t know true liberation until you’ve left the house to go out to a dinner thrown by your mother in law’s friend without having washed your hair for three days.

5.  Yes, I’ve seen the movie Not Without My Daughter.

6.  Yes, I have access to my passport.  And my kid’s passports.

7.  Yes, that last question was kind of offensive seeing as how she went to Iran, I am in Saudi and my husband is not a crazy person.

So, I hope that answers at least some of your questions.  I have lots more to tell you. 

Riyadh, for example, is a stunning city.  It’s one of the most beautiful and aesthetically pleasing places I’ve ever seen.  Mostly because there’s either a palace or a fifty story shopping mall on every corner.

And, oh, there are lots of thoughts in my head that I’m sure will be of interest to you, too.

Anyway, I miss you Internet, and while I’d say “I wish you were here”, you sort of are, aren’t you? 

(I’m also sorry for not being a better commenter of late.)

(And for not using spell check or grammar check on this post).

In the past few months, a few (happless victims) new folks have been commenting on my blog, and it occurred to me the other day that I’ve never met some of them in person.  In fact, most of you have never met me, I think.  Unless my husband, Adam or Britt have subscribed over 240 times in a concerted effort to make me feel better about myself.  In which case, wow, guys, thanks.

Anyway, my name is Faiqa.

Yes, that is my real name.

It’s pronounced, “Fike-ah.”

Well, actually, no.  It’s pronounced “FaiQ-ah.”

The difference, and yes, there is one, is that a “k” in transliterated Arabic has a softer sound than “q.”

A lot of people don’t realize this, as evidenced by their spelling of, say, “Qu’ran/Quran.”  It’s not really “Koran,” you know.  Unless you’re a nineteenth century British lord who wants to pontificate on the superstitious beliefs of the natives in a long and boring narrative aimed at justifying the colonization of the subcontinent.  Speaking of boring.  Ahem.

(Okay, I also have to add that I’m not entirely sure if “Koran” could be considered technically incorrect.  I just know that it’s not pronounced that way.  Just like we’re not “Moslems,” either.)

Actually?  I don’t even pronounce my name correctly.  Because, I don’t feel like teaching non-Arabic speakers how to say the gutteral “k” sound every.single.time someone asks me my name.

I say it like this, “Fike-ah.”

Faiqa means “superior” or “excellent.”  Naturally.

I’ve been asked a few times if anyone has ever given me a hard time about my name.  Short answer?  Yes.  But, that’s okay.  This name?  I love it.  It defines me in so many ways.  Not just because of its meaning, but because it’s always set me apart from people… in a good way.

So, yeah, my name is Faiqa.

Nice to meet you.

So, Tariq and I started discussing how this might play into his teenage personality.  Because that’s who we are… big picture people.

I said flippantly, I hope this isn’t going to be a huge problem and he doesn’t try to be some cheesy gel covered Casanova when he’s sixteen.

My husband said, He better not.  He better be a decent human being that respects women, or I’ll <something that may or may not warrant a call from child services>.

I love that about my husband.  That his rules are the same.  A daughter is not required to exhibit any more modesty, decency or self respect than a son.  This is a big deal.  It’s a testament to the way a man should raise a son and a daughter.

Too many times, I see people excuse sloppiness, bad manners, promiscuity or just plain hyperactive behavior citing that, well, he’s a boy, so it’s OK.

No, it’s not OK.

I understand and accept that gender and sex play important roles in child behavior, and I even accept that we must take into account that these factors exist when disciplining our kids.

Still, a value is a value, and if it’s important for your daughter, then it’s important for your son.  In fact, I would go so far as to say that if you cannot raise your son to follow the rules that you may intend to impose on your daughters, then said values are flawed.

He can be a boy and have self respect and respect others.

He can be a boy and put things back where he picked them up.

He can be a boy and make his bed and wash his hands.

He can be a boy and not hit or fight or curse.

He can be a boy and still think about how what he says or does makes other people feel.

He can be a boy and be kind to people and have good manners.

These are not gender specific.

Of course, the boy, per Tariq’s rules, is still not allowed to play with any of his sister’s dolls, but, at least Tariq expects his son to behave within an equal set of parameters as his sister as defined by our personal family values.

What a lucky boy.  What a lucky family.

This man and I, we have never looked into each other’s eyes and smiled at a secret joke that only close friends share.  We’ve never talked on the phone, or had dinner together with our families.  We’ve never stopped by each other’s places for a cup of coffee or offered to watch each other’s children.

Still, we are friends.  Not close in the way that most people define “close,” of course.

Every few days, we take the time to read about each other’s lives, offer support when needed and encouragement when appropriate.  This is what binds us.  And this, in my mind, is enough for a friendship to be real.

Jason’s life, in so many ways, is a lot like mine.

We have spouses.

We have children.

We have siblings.

We have responsibilities, obligations, joy, laughter and a strong sense of treating other people with kindness and compassion.

We are also different in many ways.  Most of those ways don’t matter to me, save that they might actually make me like Jason a little more.

There is one difference between the two of us, though, that does matter to me.

My mother is alive and Jason’s is not.

Jason lost his mother to breast cancer in 1996.

As a general rule, I try to put myself in other people’s shoes all the time.

How would I feel?  What would I do if I were this person?  How would I want another person to support me?

In this case, I am not comfortable doing this.

But, I will.

Because Jason is my friend, and that’s what friends do for one another.

If I had lost my mother to breast cancer over a decade ago, I would miss her every single day until the day I died.

I would push back tears every single time I had to mention her to someone.

I would wish with all my might that she were here to watch my kids graduate from high school, college, maybe even see them get married.

I would feel inadequate when I tried to describe who she was to my children who had never met her.

I would feel anger, guilt and unbearable sadness.

I would become a person who had to try to be happy because my mother’s absence would make something that should feel natural feel just that more forced.

I would wonder why this had to happen.

I would want to know how I could have stopped this.

I would look around for ways that I could stop this from happening to other women, to other families.

I would find an organization like Susan G. Komen, dedicated to educating communities about breast cancer prevention that worked not only on a local level, but on an international level, to raise awareness.

I would begin to understand that one of the best ways to stop this from happening again to someone else, maybe even to my own daughter, would be to support an organization like this.

I would commit myself to helping this organization.

I would volunteer to walk sixty miles over a three day period so someone else’s mom, maybe my friend’s mom, would have a chance against a disease that claimed over 40, 000 lives in 2009.

I would sleep on the ground in a tent even though I abhor the thought of sleeping outside.

I would want my friends to support me through that.

I’m not saying that’s how Jason feels.  I’m saying if I were Jason, that’s how I would feel.

I know that this is what I would want and also who I would want to be.

Jason is my friend, and I’m supporting him because that’s what I would want.

Please CLICK HERE to support my friend Jason if you feel so inclined.  No amount is too small.

Some plots are action oriented, some are internal.  I’ll let you decide which route I chose.  To see the various posts of other participants, scroll down to the end of the post and click on any of the links.  You’re also most welcome to participate.

***

I had seen you a thousand times before.

In the street.  In a restaurant.  In the hands of one or another adult acquaintances.  On a movie screen.  On television.

People I loved and respected, even the ones who were intimate with you, told me you were dangerous and that no good would ever come from a relationship with you.  But I had watched you with a sense of wonder for years, and, truthfully, you didn’t seem all that bad to me.

My first real meeting with you occurred on a still, sandy night, beside the choppy Atlantic about seventeen years ago.  I sat awkwardly playful in that stillness, wedged in between two friends on a creaky red lifeguard stand, giggling about something innocent all the while pretending that our problems were real ones, in the unique way that teenagers are known to do.

You sat in one of those friend’s pocket, quietly waiting for an introduction.

I met you at a time when I wanted with all my might to stand apart from anyone who told me they knew what was best for me.  You were rebellion, independence, privacy, danger and solace all wrapped up into one tiny yet very well marketed package.  That night, with sand in my shoes and a strange sort of light headed aching, I let you into my life.

I think there was a time I would actually have described the way I felt about you as love.

It wasn’t love, of course.  It was fascination.  Then, it was need.  Then, came addiction.  And, now, there is shame.  And, oh, God, regret.  Love was never really a part of the equation between us because love doesn’t exact the price that you do.

Love does not destroy the people who worship at its altar the way you do.

In the early years, you and I were inseparable.  I needed you all the time, at least once an hour, maybe more.  You made me feel cool, alert and strong.  You created distance between just the right people and me.  You were my wall.

Then, I began to love other people in a way that I never had before.  For the first time, I met somebody who loved me so much that I was forced to love myself completely.  My heart opened to the goodness in life.  I realized that you kept me from fully experiencing that so, though it was hard at first, I willingly let you go.  We separated.  There was a powerful finality to it, too.

Until.

Life got messy and complicated.  I started to believe that it was all too much.  I was feeling too much and not feeling like I was enough, getting frustrated, and my biggest fear loomed before me:  I was showing too much of myself to the world.

You promised to take the edge off.  You promised to help me hide all that emotion, all that weakness.  You promised that you could do this for me even if I just met with you every once in a while.  Maybe at a party.  Maybe at a lunch.  Maybe in the late hours of the night, when the baby was fed, and everyone was sound asleep.  Just every once in a while.  Nobody needed to know, and it might make all the difference, you seemed to whisper.

It’s a beautiful story, but a lie nonetheless.  I know now that you actually make me more nervous.  See, when the toxins you put in my body began to fade, my skin crawls.  I feel like screaming.  I feel mean.  I can’t sleep.  My head hurts.  I want to do anything and everything to just make the pain of not having you stop.

You don’t calm me.  You make me worse and to add insult to injury you make me believe that the opposite is true.

Truly, I have never been more gullible and stupid than when I am consorting with you.

Yesterday, I stood in front of a woman who took x-rays of my lungs.  As I stood there, coughing, wheezing and gasping for air, I thought about all of the lies I told myself about you.  I thought that just a sporadic association with you would save me from this.  Other people cohort with you hourly, daily… I only see you every once in a while.

Apparently, everyone is different.  My brother, the doctor, told me that some people can commune with you ten times as much as I do and never have a problem like this.  But, he quickly added, you’re just not one of those people.

I’m not one of those people.  I don’t want to be one of those people, either.  Any relationship with you carries a price, whether it’s a relationship that is daily or as sporadic as once every few months.  The price must be paid.  I don’t want to pay it.  I don’t.  I can’t.  I won’t.

I think about my family and how they deserve a mother, wife, daughter, aunt and sister that smells like beautiful, clean and fresh air all the time, a woman that can run and play and keep up with them, and that is … alive.

I think about how I deserve to be proud of everything I am, how I am too old for secrets, hypocrisy, inconsistency and shame.  I think about how I am so much better than you and how low I feel when I let you get the best of me.

Over seventeen years ago, I made a ridiculous choice while sitting in a lifeguard stand on a chilly November night.  Last week that choice turned into a head cold, that turned into a deep chesty cough, that turned into an x-ray, that has turned into a desperate prayer… and a firm resolve.

You and I?  We will no longer be even the sometimes friends that we’ve been of late.

The falseness of your promises roughly washed over me yesterday as I desperately hoped that the X-ray tech would break protocol yesterday and say, Oh, you’re fine, it looks perfect, I don’t even know why you’re here.

But she didn’t say that, so, now, I wait.

Notably? 

Without you.