If You Asked Me Today About That Yesterday, One Year Ago ...

I started writing this post at 1:00 a.m. today, just another Wednesday here in Doha.  

May 29, 2013.

I started writing it today because I couldn't bring myself to write it yesterday.

Even today, I had to put it aside.  

I couldn't 'not' write it ...  and yet I couldn't quite 'write' it.  

I felt I had no 'right' to write it.  Maybe because I didn't own the grief.  Yet I shared in the grief.  We all did.  All of us, this nation of expats.​

It's now 11:35 p.m.  And I had to write it.

But please know that I couldn't write it right.  Because the whole story is just too wrong.

If you asked me today what I felt just yesterday, I would answer you this ...​

"Grateful"

• Grateful that I was able to spend the morning shopping for party favors for my daughter's "fake" birthday (since her birthday is mid-July, when all expats and their kids are gone, no one is ever around for the actual 'day', so we're celebrating in May).
• Grateful that my daughter got to spend the afternoon at her "first friend's" birthday party, laughing and dancing, and swimming and eating cake, and just being a seven-year-old.
• Grateful that Smilin' Vic walked through that door after a day's work and that both Kiddo and me were here to hug him tight.
• Grateful that I was able to spend the evening talking and sharing with fellow expat friends.​
  

Grateful because I am one lucky parent and expat.  

But I didn't start writing this post because I was grateful.  

I started writing it because I was

sad, mad, insane, grief-struck, guilty, angry, confused, frustrated, powerless, indignant, fearful, crazy, distrustful, ashamed.

I started writing because I couldn't shake the urge to cry; I started writing because I didn't feel like I was the one with the right to cry.  I started writing because today there was ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ELSE I COULD DO.

Because on that yesterday, just a short year ago, ...

it seems like only yesterday ...

I was at work when I got the news that a fire had broken out at a nearby mall, where my daughter's "first friend's" birthday party was to be held.  The mall was evacuated, all activities were cancelled, but the public was assured that all was well.

Shortly after, the rumors began circulating that all was not well.  

But surely it was all rumor and conjecture ...

My best friend, the "first friend's" mom, was the first to inform me that all was most definitely NOT well.  Lives, not flames, had been extinguished in the fire on that fateful day, that yesterday, one year ago.  Nineteen in all.  Thirteen children among them.  Precious souls, each and every one.

It most certainly couldn't be true.  I hung up the phone on my friend that night.  Told her that we couldn't spread false rumors.  I simply couldn't conceive that what she was saying was true.  We'd been told IT WAS ALL OK!  

And then I checked online.  And misguidedly clicked on a YouTube link.​

And saw an image I will never be able to erase from my mind.  Not if I live to be one thousand years old.  ​

The image of a seven-year-old girl being carried out lifeless.  ​

She could well have been mine.  

If you were an expat parent in Doha prior to May 28, 2012, chances are you had left your child in the play area in that mall where this beautiful, beautiful child drew her last breath.  

You had left them there for a birthday party, or to enjoy a peaceful hour of kid-free shopping, or just because the kids so loved it there.  They loved the soft play area, they loved the staff, they loved the fun and the giggles.  They felt safe there...

That beautiful seven-year-old girl.  She, and all the 'mall' children, and those who stayed with them, and those who tried to save them, are forever engraved in my mind.

On that yesterday, one year ago, too many Doha expat families grieved.  On that yesterday, one year ago, an entire nation of expats grieved.  ​

And yesterday, the grieving continued.  Publicly for some, privately for others, but all of us, without a shadow of a doubt, at some point yesterday, remembered that day, one year ago.  And then, yesterday, we carried on.  

But that yesterday will forever be today.  For the parents, for the loved ones, and for this nation of expats ...  

May 28, 2012

is forever etched in our minds.

Children, spouses, parents, friends and the misguided illusion of safety were taken from us that day, that yesterday, one year ago.  

My heart goes out to all the families and loved ones today.  May you all find the strength today to survive that yesterday, one year ago.

I pray you know that because of that yesterday, one year ago, a nation of expats will forever feel guilty about feeling grateful today.

I pray you know that a nation of expats are with you in spirit, supporting you, struggling to make sure that that yesterday, one year ago, never becomes someone else's tomorrow.​

I pray that you know that we all realize your child could have been our child.  Your children could have been our children.  And as we grieve for you and your loss, we feel horribly, horribly ashamed and guilty that we are grateful that our children were not there on that yesterday, one year ago.  We all know they could well have been.  

I pray that you let us carry the shame and the guilt.  Completely.  Let us at least carry that.  I pray that you relinquish the guilt forever, and leave yourself that space solely to grieve that yesterday, one year ago.​  

That yesterday, one year ago, has become today, tomorrow, and forever for all the families who lost their precious, precious loved ones in that fire at the mall where we all left our smiling, happy children.

I pray I have not hurt or offended with this post.  But I'm allowing myself to be grateful today, and I'm accepting that I feel ashamed about it.  I'm ​allowing myself to grieve today, for that yesterday, one year ago, and I'm accepting that I feel guilty about it.  Because I don't really have the right to grieve, do I?  Or do I?

The fact remains that if you ask me today about that yesterday, one year ago, all I can say is this ...

"I grieve..."

​N.B.  The words below are not mine, but I thought they conveyed really well the thoughts shared by many fellow expats yesterday.  We cannot forget, and every day we are reminded.  Please know that we remember.  The words were retrieved at http://www.memorieshonored.com/?page=non-denominationalprayers

We Remember You

At the rising of the sun, and its going down,
we remember you.
At the blowing of the wind, and in the chill of winter,
we remember you.
At the opening of the buds, and in the rebirth of spring,
we remember you.
At the blueness of the skies, and in the warmth of summer,
we remember you.
At the rustling of the leaves, and in the beauty of autumn,
we remember you.
At the beginning of the year, and when it ends,
we remember you.
As long as we live,  you shall live too will;

for you are now a part of us, as we remember you.

Grey smoke blowing to the song "I Grieve" from the 2002 album "Up".

ASD - Show of Compassion - May 31, 2011

(teachers and parents of the American School of Doha encircle students in a moment of silence for the lives lost and those who lost loved ones in the May 28, 2012 fire)

Those Times When Back Home is Just an Aching Void ...

I was on Facebook tonight and I saw a comment left on one of my friend's pages.​

I didn't know the someone who'd left the comment.  But their comment showed that the someone was a "friend of ****".  The friend they were a friend of was my ex-brother-in-law.  (Ex in the sense that I am no longer married to the brother of the sister to whom he is no longer married.)  ​

​Soooooo, I'm coming clean here.  I admit it.  I am a LURKER ... (eeeegaaadddss!).  I saw his name and I went to check out his FB page.  Because that's what lurkers do.  And I scrolled down.  Not much public information, but a link to a Flash Mob Christmas Carol at Mall (I'll include the video link below).

I clicked on the link ... not because I was feeling Christmasy in May but because I wanted to get a sense of what he was into these days.  ​

And I cried.  I forgot about my ex brother-in-law, I forgot about what had led me to this link.  I just cried.  I cried for Christmas in May.  Because the link was a link to home.  To the feel-good familiarity of people who don't know each other but 'get' what brings them together.​

Unless you've been an expat, I don't know if you can truly appreciate this feeling.  This aching for home.  This aching for what you miss.  This aching for what you think you truly know.

Most days I'm perfectly happy in the ME.  Of course I miss my family.  I'm sad that I can't attend family weddings and ​baptisms.  I regret that I can't spend more time with my mom and dad.  I miss my friends.  I feel bad about not calling home more often.  But beyond that, I'm mostly happy in the ME.

But EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE ... I get an ACHE.  An ache so big it ​cripples.  It is an ache for things familiar.  

It is an ache for the smell of spring (you know that smell, the one of fresh sheets laid out on the bed after blowing in the cool spring breeze all afternoon).  

It is an ache for sight (you know that sight, the one where you wake up in the morning and see sunlight reflecting a myriad of prisms off the dew that has settled onto a million blades of grass).  

It is an ache for sound (you know that sound, the one of crickets and of leaves rustling in the wind carried through your bedroom window on a warm autumn night).  

It is an ache for touch (you know that touch, the one of a snowflake landing on your cheek).

It is an ache for taste (you know that taste, the taste of fresh Atlantic lobster, the taste of salt air at the beach, the taste of farm fresh vegetables, the taste of campsite grub).​

​It is an ache for laughter (you know that laughter, the one that is shared with those very few who have known you forever).

It is an ache for everything that I walked away from willingly, by choice.  It is an ache for everything that made me who I am today.  It is an ache for friends and family.  It is an ache for what once was.

Every once in a while ... I get that ache.​  That aching, aching ache.  

And I wish I was home.​

​Driving home from the airport ... December 2011.

Viral vid I found floating around of a flash mob that breaks out the Christmas Spirit at a mall.

Who's Watching Me Now?

One thing Westerners, particularly North Americans*, just might have a hard time adapting to in the ME is the continuous tracking and CONTROL of movements and transactions that go on here during the course of an ordinary day.​

While this can be somewhat disconcerting, there are undoubtedly benefits to be had from a certain degree of vigilance.  

Entering and Exiting the Country

The initial and most traumatizing realization is probably the fact that upon entry as a resident into this part of the world, all subsequent entries to and exits from Qatar will not only be tracked, but will also be subject to approval/rejection by your sponsor (if he/she is your employer) and in all cases communicated real-time via SMS to your sponsor.  

If your sponsor is your employer, you will need an 'exit permit' to exit the country.  If you are one of the chosen few, you may be granted a 'multiple exit visa' of set duration (e.g. 1 year validity).  Let it be stated that I have yet to meet the recipient of such a prize, but it does exist.  

Your sponsor is normally your employer (if you're a man) or your spouse (if you're a woman).  While there can be exceptions to the sponsorship rule, these are rare (e.g. for women hired overseas and brought into the country on "single status").  

As such, every time my daughter or I leave or enter the country, whether with or without Smilin' Vic, he gets a magical 'Ping!' on his mobile phone.​  Whether or not I am gainfully employed in this country, my husband continues to be my sponsor, so he, and not any potential employer, will always be the receiver of the 'ping'.  His access and egress to the country are consequently monitored by 'his' sponsor (his employer).  In his case, his employer is the recipient of the ping. 

Driving

You will also be tracked as you drive.  Traffic/speed sensors have become more and more common and sophisticated in this country over the past decade.  Though road traffic stops are extremely rare (I have seen maybe 4 occasions where police had actually pulled someone over), I have yet to meet an expat who has not been the sad recipient of some type of infraction recorded by one of the above-mentioned sensors.  Whether for speeding, getting caught in the middle of an intersection at a red light, driving on the soft shoulder, even overloading a vehicle ... all manner of violation can be caught on tape.​

Once these are recorded, the recipient of the fine (person to whom the car is registered) cannot exit the country until the applicable fine (usually steep ... some running well into the four digit arena) has been paid.  ​I must say, the guy who thought this rule up was absolutely genius.

Spending

Your credit/debit purchases are also tracked and communicated real-time.  My husband and I have a joint account (when we initially requested this six years back the Qatari bank clerk stared intently at my husband from behind his ​aviator shades and, as if I were not even in the room, said:  "Are you SURE you want her to have full access to your account?")

Since the fateful day Smilin' Vic answered "Yes", every time I buy eyeliner at Shiseido or foundation at Estee Lauder he gets ... you guessed it ... a 'Ping!'  ​Since the 'Ping' is followed by details of purchase price and store name, it makes it hard to hide something like, "ahem ..., cough, cough", a Dior lipstick fetish or some equally benign interest.

You can actually ask the bank turn this feature off.  But while it might seem really irritating at first, we found it to be a blessing last year when someone started using my credit card info to make random purchases in Uzbekistan, Syria, Brazil and China.  The magical 'Ping' allowed us to immediately contact the credit card company and let them know that trouble was afoot.

Boozing

Your alcohol consumption is also monitored and tracked.​  If you are an expat non-Muslim and earn 4,000 QAR a month or more, you are eligible for an alcohol permit.  This must be supported by your employer via a letter to the distribution center, stating your title and salary.  Your monthly limit is a set percentage of your salary.  Approval on all counts gives you a little blue library-like swipe card with a REALLY bad picture that you must present to the guards outside the QDC, to the guards inside the QDC and finally to the QDC cashier who will swipe it and proceed to charge you 200% the actual import cost of your beverage of choice.  

It should be noted that the security guards and cashiers NEVER miss this opportunity to ask to see your card, and make no effort to conceal their smirks, snide snickers, and the occasional shudder at the atrocity of the snapshot found thereon.

​No worries, this does NOT dissuade expats from indulging in spirits.  But as the cashier totaled up my purchases today, I started to wonder a little about the deal with my card details.  I'm always slightly paranoid that one month the cashier will ring up my last item and strobe lights will begin to flash, bells will ring, confetti will fall from the ceiling as they announce:  "Folks, we have a winner over here at Cash Number 8 - Gypsy is our Big Spender of the Month!  Ladies and Gentlemen, please join me in a round of applause for the biggest lush in Doha!!!!"

​The infamous 'black bag'.

Like maybe there's some guy in a room somewhere monitoring this stuff remotely, running a betting pool on who's gonna buy the most Budweiser this month?​

That's probably why I always feel the need to defend myself at the till as the chugables get loaded into black opaque bags (to be transported directly to your home and hidden from view on the journey there).  "You know, I was here last week, but I bought mostly pork ... not booze.  Oh, this case of Valpolicella?  It's not all for me, we're hosting a wine and cheese, and I use a lot of red wine in my bolognese sauce, and ... sigh ... I just like wine, ok?  Just give me the horrendously overpriced bill and consider that my contrition, ok?"​

More Boozing

Once you've exhausted your QDC budget, you can always go out for smart pops at  a local imbibery (prettied-up term for drinking hole).  ​​​And yes, you will be asked to buy a membership card there as well.  "Ahhhhhh, yes, Gypsy.  Your reputation precedes you.  So you've finally depleted your QDC budget, yes?  Just stand still and smile for the camera while we take another horrendous mug shot.  And remember, bring your card with you next time so we can all have a good laugh while scanning you through."

Having to show that hideous picture card is usually enough to ward you off visiting drinking establishments for the next few months at least.

Surfing

And finally, worn out by all the tracking, you'll end up back at home, alone, blogging about nothing really.  And you'll decide you need to find a synonym for ​"sexy" to help enrich that post you've been working on.  And as you Google "sexy", you'll get a pop-up screen that says "Ooops!  This site has been blocked!"  

Sigh....​

​************************

*My favorite "whatever!" source of info, Wikipedia,  "estimates that the number of cameras in the UK is 1.85 million. The number is based on extrapolating from a comprehensive survey of public and private cameras within the Cheshire Constabulary jurisdiction."... "This works out as an average of one camera for every 32 people in the UK, although the density of cameras varies greatly from place to place. The Cheshire report also claims that the average person on a typical day would be seen by 70 CCTV cameras."

Desert Expat Kids Set Seasonal Fashion Trends in the ME

As I stood sizzling and sweating in the glaring sun outside the school gate on Monday afternoon, a fellow expat mom posted the temperature reading from her car (pictured below).  In typical haughty seasoned Doha expat fashion, I thought to myself "Nice spring weather we're having, eh?"​

Talk to me again in July when it's 50C with 90% humidity ...

Like any typical Canadian child of the seventies, I stood there in my jeans and closed toed shoes, reminding myself that nothing, but nothing, would detract me from the seasonal clothing etiquette rules that ban white footwear, gauzy dresses and spaghetti straps before Memorial Day (as a Canadian, that translates to Victoria Day, or 'May Two Four Long Weekend').​

No matter that my thinking dates back 4 decades or that I am now sat square on the equator and not at a latitude several inches south of the North Pole.  For the sake of this post, let's not let ourselves get bogged down in such minutiae.​

I gained comfort in my resolve by reminding myself that I've seen the documented proof that many Doha expat children are like-minded to me and appreciate the value of simple traditions such as wearing winter apparel in winter, despite the fact that the thermometer here rarely, if ever, dips below 15C.  

​Yes, this younger expat generation seems to find nothing strange at all about donning a Canadian snowsuit manufactured to withstand -40C temperatures simply to protect oneself from a vicious clawing 1.5 kg cat in their living room.  Really, how many chances will you actually have to get good wear from it?  Take advantage of every opportunity, says I.

"Because it just makes sense."

Desert expat kids ... missing out on donning snowsuits and getting kicked outdoors to play in the snow 'til suppertime.

Even better was the picture I received today from another Doha friend of her daughter dressed for an afternoon of shopping in Doha. 

Because if I'm not going to where it in 47C weather, then "when", Mom, "when"?​

More interesting still was the accompanying text.  

​Not a single one of us commented on the 47C temperature.  Of course she would want to wear a tuque; it's not summer yet ...

Note that not a single expat mom responding to the original text found it even slightly odd that a 5-year-old would insist on wearing a tuque to the mall in 47C weather.  Of course not.  "Because it's not Memorial Day yet Mom, THAT's why!"​

As I reflect on it all, sitting here with a hot cup of tea, typing away with frozen fingers, I really wish I'd brought some mitts from Canada.  Oh well, at least my toes are toasty in my woolen socks.  They're forecasting a cool night, with temps dropping as low as 29C.  

And just in case anyone thinks I've gone completely stark raving mad, the pizza delivery boy just showed up on his moped and unravelled a wool scarf from under his helmet before handing me two steaming pepperoni pies.

How far I've come from -42C in January on the North Shore of New Brunswick.​

It's not quite summer yet, folks.​

This is Fashion Forward Gypsy, signing off 'mitt-less' in the ME.

The Irony of Ironing ...

As I sit here this morning, staring blankly at the computer screen while a load of laundry spins furiously 'round in a washer that insists on bouncing across the room at each cycle, I can't help but wonder what our maid, Tita L., is doing while on leave in the Philippines. ​

If she were here, she would likely be setting up the ironing board about now, preparing for her daily ironing session.  Have I mentioned she loves to iron?  Like, everything?  Like the rumpled but clean sheets I am about to throw on the bed?  She would make sure every last crease was nought but a memory before setting them down for us to toss in restlessly and crinkle shamelessly.​

I, on the other hand, am much more practical.  I will throw them over the mattress while they are still hot (old university trick ... you can avoid a lot of ironing by hanging clothes up while still steaming), figuring if we are going to rumple them ruthlessly within the space of 12 hours, why bother pressing?  The fact of the matter is, I hate ironing.  Hate it with a passion.  Hell for me would be to stick me in a room full of clothes that has been lying rumpled in a hamper for a week and arm me with nothing but a can of starch, an ironing board and a hot iron.​  You simply could not pay me enough.

Et voila!  Bed freshly made.  (I was going for that 'previously slept in' look.)​

Yet Tita L. happily spends hours ironing everything from underwear to hair ribbons every week.  For a salary that I have guiltily calculated works out to about 4% of Smilin' Vic's and my combined income.  I often gaze upon her in wonder and amazement, ​truly perplexed at how she can find such contentment in this tiresome activity, smiling to herself as the steam rises from a skillfully pressed shirt collar whilst humming Air Supply and Celine Dion tunes.

What is it about the paltry salary and tedious chores that contribute so to her happiness?​

I know it's not because this salary is going towards a month of luxuriating on a beach, getting pampered in a spa, or going on a safari expedition.  So what could possibly bring such a smile to her lips as I watch her enraptured by the 5 foot high pile of laundry that separates us?

Ahhh, yes.  I think I've got it.  Tita L. is gone home this month to whisk around town on the scooter she purchased last year for her family.  

She is flitting from store to store to choose the building supplies she needs for construction of her second house.  She is gone home to approve the floor plans, to oversee the pouring of the foundation, to supervise erection of the walls, and to make sure the wiring is being properly laid out.  

She wants to make sure the living room will accommodate the home entertainment system we gifted to her (save the applause, it was the annual gift from Smilin' Vic's work, and since we already had one it would have been silly to keep a second one even as back-up), and the flat-screen T.V. she won as a result of dutifully filling out the million raffle tickets I bring home each year from the grocery store (and am to lazy to fill out).

She is building this second abode on the plot of land she purchased three years ago in anticipation of setting up a ​small farm and house to sustain her through her old age.  

She is building it right next to her existing mortgage-less house, which she will gift to her children so they can remain close and not have to worry about a mortgage, at least not in the foreseeable future.

I make a few quick calculations and realize that Smilin' Vic and I only have to work here another 24 years at well-paying jobs to afford the equivalent back in Canada as Tita L. is securing in the Philippines.  ​

I think I'm starting to get the irony of ironing for a pittance.