What mean domestic?

In one of my classes today I gave a conversation activity. The students were supposed to ask eachother questions using a certain grammar topic. During conversation, one question that came up was, 'What pets did you used to have when you were a child?' And the conversation continued as follows:

Mahmoud: 'Teacher, what mean "pets"?'
Me: 'It's an animal you keep--'
Mahmoud: 'Ah, camel!'
Me: 'Heh, well--'
Omar: 'Teacher, what is a pet?'
Mahmoud: 'Like animal in your house, cat, dog, camel...'
Me: 'Do you keep a camel in your house?'
Saleh: 'Teacher, can I say falcon is a pet?'
Me: 'Yes, Saleh, you can say a falcon is a pet.'
Saleh: 'Ok. I have a falcon.'
Me: silently laughing to myself...

Demolition

Today Ray and I decided to go biking and rollerblading--he bikes, I rollerblade. As we were leaving the house, he realized that his tires were a bit low on air, so we decided to go to the nearest ADNOC station to fill up. It's very close to our house. Since it was rush hour the gas station was completely packed. Ray and I maneuvered through the crowded parking lot to the air pump. While Ray was filling up, I glanced across the street.

Now this is the street we live on. It is also the street where Ray and his family lived for about 14 years. The building where Ray and his family lived is in the process of being demolished. We pass this building regularly and every time the demolition makes further progress, but for some reason I really noticed it today. While Ray was pumping air, I was looking at his old home being destroyed.

Buildings here are demolished all the time. I just taught the word 'demolish' to a group of students the other day because in this city it's such a common word. demolish transitive verb: 1a:tear down, raze b: to break to pieces : smash 2a: to do away with : destroy b: to strip of any pretense of merit or credence.

 

Once Ray finished getting air we stood together staring up at his former home, counting the floors, trying to figure out which pulverised rooms used to hold our memories. I spent a lot of time with him in that house. Now it looks like a life-sized dollhouse, half open for the world to see inside.

"I think that was your front door."
"No, that's the door to the kitchen."
"Your sister's bedroom is gone."
"I can still see a bit of my parents' room."

How strange it is to stand across the street and peer into a place that used to contain your life. People used to sleep there, eat there, make love there, laugh, cry, dream, grow, live. Soon it will no longer exist. The house that I see in the playback of my mind will be an empty lot.
I wonder where all the neighbors went.
I wonder what they'll build on the empty space.

Response

In response to my last post, Conversations, Part I , I received this comment from a good friend in the States: "The families of the victims of 9-11 are asking the same question, and the dead victims would ask if they could: 'I didn't do anything wrong. Why am I being punished for something I didn't do?' Maybe your friends can relate?"

I'm not really sure how to respond to this. I know by what I've heard from some students that when 9-11 is mentioned here, the response usually involves numbers of civilian deaths being compared. A good deal of Bush bashing is also often included. I would rather not discuss these topics as I don't find it helpful. I'm much more concerned with forgiveness and healing.

Concerning this question, "Why am I being punished for something I didn't do?" I don't know the answer. But I can see from the perspective of the victims on either side. I remember how it felt to be terrified, watching the twin towers fall and being worried that my family in the military might not come home. I also remember the group of little Iraqi kids, who lived in the same building as me, and who couldn't hear because their ear drums were so damaged by explosions.  

I once heard (though I can't remember where) a tradition of forgiveness practiced in some part of Africa. If someone is murdered, once the murderer is caught he is bound up and thrown into the middle of a lake. The victims family is then given a choice: take revenge by allowing the murderer to drown, or save his life and be free of grief. 

Whose life can I save? If freedom comes by giving life, how can I give more? How can I live forgiveness? Maybe these are the better questions to ask.

Conversations, Part I

Right now, I'm sitting on my sofa, listening to Ray compose some music. Some birds are singing outside my window. I'm relaxing after cleaning my house, browsing facebook, and having a conversation on chat. A normal Saturday afternoon...kind of.

The person I'm chatting with is a Middle Eastern man. I've asked him the same question that I've been starting to ask a few of my friends here: "What do you think America needs to know about the Middle East and Muslims?"

The answer is always pretty much the same, and this particular man (I'll call him Amir) put it quite succinctly:

"Islam does not promote, sponsor, condone or encourage terrorism or murder."

I asked another person (I'll call him Ahmed) this same question, and though he gave a similar answer, it took a while for him to give it. He said answering that question was useless, that there was no point in trying to make the West believe anything good of the East. I hassled him just a little, in a nice way. In addition to what Amir said, Ahmed answered, "We are not terrorists...we f---ing hate the muslim terrorists." Following this was a long release of frustration about how his part of the world, his religion, his culture, and himself were discriminated against. World events are taken personally, though he himself never personally offended anyone from the other side of the world.

From the answers to my question, I've been picking up on the same root. When I look a little deeper, I see that my friends, students, neighbors seem to echo the same response: "I didn't do anything wrong. Why am I being punished for something I didn't do?" 

I don't know what it was exactly that made me begin asking my question, and I don't exactly know what to do with the answers except to just listen. I hope that by asking and listening some understanding or compassion might steal its way into places it didn't exist before.  

Approved!

A few years ago, before we were married, Ray tried three times to get a visit visa to the States. Each time he was rejected (rudely) with no real explanation as to why. We decided a few months ago that we would try to apply again. There are still a lot of my relatives whom he's never met, and I didn't like the idea of going on a month-long vacation without him. Also, I've always felt like he won't be able to know and understand everything about me unless he sees my country.

His previous attempts at applying were terrible experiences--having to collect bank statements and other ridiculous documents, rude interviewers, long waiting times in the sun, and, after all that, rejection. This time was completely different. We waited for a couple minutes, everyone was friendly, and he wasn't even asked for half of the documents he brought with him.

Approved.

He got it! I've said before that the US Embassy in Abu Dhabi is probably the most unfriendly place on earth. Today, I did a little happy dance in the most unfriendly place on earth. And it didn't seem so unfriendly anymore. I've been waiting for about four years now to take Ray to my other home, the place I grew up and lived most of my life. Now he'll be able to know all of me.

Today is a great day.