Read Online Guests of the Sheik: An Ethnography of an Iraqi Village by Elizabeth Warnock Fernea - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Warnock Fernea
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fellahin were paid for their
grain by the merchant in El Nahra. “But don’t worry,” she
added quickly, noticing I was turning away. “Just save the
wool from five sheep, and we will make you a special rug in
beautiful colors.”
Hathaya pointed out that we had no sheep.
The old woman looked thoughtful for a moment. “Ask
Mohammed,” she said. “He will find you some wool to buy in
the autumn, after the sheep are shorn. And then bring it to me,
and we will draw a fine pattern and …”
She was interrupted by a shout from the court. Bob was
leaving and nodded to me to follow.
“You must come visit us every day,” said the old woman,
and went off into a final paroxysm of laughter. I said she must
come and visit me; the women looked at each other and
smiled. Would they come?
“God willing,” they replied, and I picked my way past the
yarns and the bright rug to the gate where Bob waited.
“Ahlan wusahlan,” said Hathaya. Her baby was wailing
again; she turned from us and helped it to find the breast. The
gate shut and we were again on the dusty path, which was
drab compared with the gaiety and color we had left behind.
4
Women of the Town
Across the canal from the tribal settlement of mud-brick
houses lay the village itself—more mud-brick houses, shops, a
small covered bazaar, and a mosque distinguished from all of
the other mud-brick buildings only by a small mosaic. “There
is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His Prophet” was
spelled out in faded blue tiles above the door. Date palms and
a few eucalyptus trees gave shade along the bank of the canal.
The urban side of El Nahra was reached by a new cement
bridge which had recently replaced the pontoon footbridge;
the old bridge had risen and lowered as the canal filled and
emptied, but the new one arched proudly over the canal,
oblivious of the water or lack of water underneath.
The American Point Four engineer who advised the Iraqi
Government on the construction of this new bridge had
suggested it be built of cement blocks; it had been. He had
neglected to allow for the fact that it is difficult to get onto a
high cement bridge from a dirt road without proper
approaches, which did not of course exist in El Nahra. Hence,
although the villagers were pleased with the new bridge, many
of them cursed it in the winter, for when the dirt roads turned
to mud, the horses and donkeys and even the cars would slip
and slide and skid, trying to gain enough purchase to get onto
the slick cement of the arch.
The engineer had also pointed out that the old bridge was
really very badly situated—down the canal from the main
street, where it joined the tribal settlement with the mosque.
What was needed, he said, was a central location.
Accordingly, the bridge was built to accommodate such
modern ideas; it was moved up the canal and now spanned the
hub of the village, joining a group of busy coffee shops on the
tribal side to the bazaar entrance and taxi stand on the other,
urban bank. What the engineer did not know, and of course no
one dreamed of telling him, was that the old bridge was
inefficiently situated for a very good reason: to allow the
women to pass over, unnoticed, to either side of the canal, to
visit friends or pray in the mosque without being exposed to
the stares of the strange men who always filled the coffee
shops or lounged at the entrance to the bazaar.
Now the new bridge facilitated social intercourse among the
men, it was true, and it was certainly a time saver for the taxi
drivers who had to deliver passengers to the tribal side, but it
considerably cut down the social life of the women. They
could no longer slip across the bridge to see a friend and slip
back without their absence being noted. They could no longer
wind through alleys to the back entrance of the bazaar, make a
small purchase and return home discreetly. With the coming
of the new bridge, each foray across the canal
grain by the merchant in El Nahra. “But don’t worry,” she
added quickly, noticing I was turning away. “Just save the
wool from five sheep, and we will make you a special rug in
beautiful colors.”
Hathaya pointed out that we had no sheep.
The old woman looked thoughtful for a moment. “Ask
Mohammed,” she said. “He will find you some wool to buy in
the autumn, after the sheep are shorn. And then bring it to me,
and we will draw a fine pattern and …”
She was interrupted by a shout from the court. Bob was
leaving and nodded to me to follow.
“You must come visit us every day,” said the old woman,
and went off into a final paroxysm of laughter. I said she must
come and visit me; the women looked at each other and
smiled. Would they come?
“God willing,” they replied, and I picked my way past the
yarns and the bright rug to the gate where Bob waited.
“Ahlan wusahlan,” said Hathaya. Her baby was wailing
again; she turned from us and helped it to find the breast. The
gate shut and we were again on the dusty path, which was
drab compared with the gaiety and color we had left behind.
4
Women of the Town
Across the canal from the tribal settlement of mud-brick
houses lay the village itself—more mud-brick houses, shops, a
small covered bazaar, and a mosque distinguished from all of
the other mud-brick buildings only by a small mosaic. “There
is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His Prophet” was
spelled out in faded blue tiles above the door. Date palms and
a few eucalyptus trees gave shade along the bank of the canal.
The urban side of El Nahra was reached by a new cement
bridge which had recently replaced the pontoon footbridge;
the old bridge had risen and lowered as the canal filled and
emptied, but the new one arched proudly over the canal,
oblivious of the water or lack of water underneath.
The American Point Four engineer who advised the Iraqi
Government on the construction of this new bridge had
suggested it be built of cement blocks; it had been. He had
neglected to allow for the fact that it is difficult to get onto a
high cement bridge from a dirt road without proper
approaches, which did not of course exist in El Nahra. Hence,
although the villagers were pleased with the new bridge, many
of them cursed it in the winter, for when the dirt roads turned
to mud, the horses and donkeys and even the cars would slip
and slide and skid, trying to gain enough purchase to get onto
the slick cement of the arch.
The engineer had also pointed out that the old bridge was
really very badly situated—down the canal from the main
street, where it joined the tribal settlement with the mosque.
What was needed, he said, was a central location.
Accordingly, the bridge was built to accommodate such
modern ideas; it was moved up the canal and now spanned the
hub of the village, joining a group of busy coffee shops on the
tribal side to the bazaar entrance and taxi stand on the other,
urban bank. What the engineer did not know, and of course no
one dreamed of telling him, was that the old bridge was
inefficiently situated for a very good reason: to allow the
women to pass over, unnoticed, to either side of the canal, to
visit friends or pray in the mosque without being exposed to
the stares of the strange men who always filled the coffee
shops or lounged at the entrance to the bazaar.
Now the new bridge facilitated social intercourse among the
men, it was true, and it was certainly a time saver for the taxi
drivers who had to deliver passengers to the tribal side, but it
considerably cut down the social life of the women. They
could no longer slip across the bridge to see a friend and slip
back without their absence being noted. They could no longer
wind through alleys to the back entrance of the bazaar, make a
small purchase and return home discreetly. With the coming
of the new bridge, each foray across the canal
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