Guests of the Sheik: An Ethnography of an Iraqi Village (13 page)

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