Paula speaks...

Spring has arrived in the desert and with it the second edition of Mosaic 2.0!

First of all, a big Thanks! to all of you who took the time to read our first edition and provide us with useful feedback. Your suggestions and encouragement were most welcomed.

In this edition, we attempt to respond to some of your inquiries about life in Qatar by including several photos and short prose pieces by members of the editorial team. We hope that these reflections convey something of the adjustment to our new lives in Qatar, where for many expatriates very little is familiar on arrival. In addition to these contributions, we selected other poetry and prose submissions from writers within Qatar and around the world. All of the writings reflect in some way, if only indirectly, this issue’s theme of “seasons.”

For some people, seasons conjure very definite memories which are marked by shifts in weather and activity. The changes from warmer to cooler temperatures, the differences in the number of hours of daylight, the work we do, the games we play, even the food we eat are all part of a cycle that brings routine and comfort to us. At the same time, as we reflect on our  past, the seasons often mark changes that occurred in our lives, our relationships, our career or material accomplishments, our heartbreaks, regrets and even the passing of loved ones. 

So, no matter what the season when you read this issue of Mosaic 2.0, we hope that the ideas and images shared here stimulate your senses and your thinking.
Happy reading!

Sincerely,
Paula Hayden

Coordinator, Advanced Writing Centre
College of the North Atlantic-Qatar

Contributers, Spring 2011

Paula Hayden

If Paula were a colour, she would be yellow – bright and sunshiny, warm and comforting, a light of inspiration to those around her. Currently surviving the heat and dust of life in the MIddle East, Paula enjoys her job as a writing centre coordinator and facilitator of writing workshops. When she’s not at work, you’ll find her planning her next trip.

Lilian Mercedes Howell

Lilian was born in Argentina, spent some of her childhood in the UK, and eventually returned to Argentina where she lives today. She is married and has two sons, two daughters and four grandchildren. She has been a teacher of English and Principal at Asociación Pampeana de Cultura Inglesa in Santa Rosa, La Pampa, where she makes her home. Every year she attends a literary workshop held at the Retired Teachers’ Centre in her hometown and also travels to Doha to visit her daughter and son-in-law. On her last visit, she attended writing workshops held by the Advanced Writing Centre at the College of the North Atlantic-Qatar and was inspired to write this piece.

Denise Kruizenga-Muro

Denise is a professor of English and the director of the Writing and Reading Center at Riverside City College in Riverside, California. She is the mother of a nine-year old daughter named Kayleigh, and the owner of eight crazy cats and two lazy dogs.

Adam Larson

Adam joined CNA-Q’s Communications Department in August, 2007. Before coming to Qatar, he worked as a teacher in Ontario, Canada. Adam holds a B.A. in English and Linguistics and an M.A. in International Studies from the University of Washington in Seattle. He first came to the Middle East to conducted research in Yemen as a Fulbright Fellow. He subsequently obtained a B.Ed from the University of Toronto, then returned to the Gulf to teach. He is currently researching the development of technical education in the GCC for his doctorate with King’s College London. Adam enjoys reading, traveling and spending time with his family.

Brigitte Lepine

Brigitte currently works at Reach Out To Asia (Qatar Foundation) as an Online Education Specialist.

Julio O’Rourke

Julie is a retired engineer living in Doha.

Matthew Stranach

Matt is from Fredericton, NB, Canada. He currently teaches English overseas. He is also Ethan's dad.

A Medieval Poem

by Lillian M. Howell

Dead at the foot of the castle wall

Lay the King’s youngest son.

Black crows circled above him
Where is his golden crown?
No crown enters the gates of heaven
Even if you are son of a king,
Bad omen for the kingdom

Whispered all the King’s men.

Covered in black, weeping her pain
The Queen, his mother kneels
in front of the silent King.
Why did you send him
To war My Lord being our youngest son?
Never again will I see his smile
or caress his golden hair.
Bad omen for the kingdom
Whispered all the King’s men.

The day of his birth
Luana the witch, warned you about his fate.
You had no right to send him to war
being our youngest son.
He was no soldier,

He was an artist.
No wish of glory moved him.
Oh! Powerful Lord!
Lord of these lands!
What have you done to me?

Kingdoms and Glory
Will come and go,
You will become weak and old.
No man can stop the pace of time
Not even you My Lord!
For the rest of your life
I swear by God,
On your hands will lie
The blood and the death
of the Prince,
Our youngest son.

Time Immemorial

by Denise Kruizenga-Muro

How many like us

Has this place witnessed?

How many have lain down

Full only of each other

In this place

Where the old winter grass

Is dying

And the new spring sweetness springs?

How many have the hawks spied

Lying below entwined unaware?

None have lain here but you and I.

None have ever felt so full

Nor screamed so primal

Nor needed as much

Under the eye of March’s moon,

Spring’s sweet chaparral,

The witness immemorial.

Dhows and towers. Photo by Matthew Stranach.

You are Here: A work of flash autobiography

by Matthew Stranach

It is a sunny day in Qatar.

How easy it is to say “a sunny day” when you are here.

In fact there is a wide variance of sunny days.

There are some days in the early months of the year when dust storms render the sun little more than a pale, dun-colored disc floating over the low dun-colored buildings which line the horizon in nearly every direction within Doha.

There are the days when the sun is akin to liquid metal boiling in the kiln of the sky.

You think of places in Qatar.

There is your office. It is gorgeous, comfortable, and ultra-modern. You may find yourself thinking you are doing the best, most professional work of your entire career. You may look outside and see the palm trees in the courtyard swaying in the breeze, which also riffles the water in one of the numerous fountains around campus.

Then there is your compound. In many ways this resembles an exotic neighborhood of your home country. You may go running numerous laps around it in the evenings. You will say hello to your coworkers, and their spouses, and their children.

You will be amazed at how tightly-knit this community feels.

There are numerous shopping malls. This is where you will go most every weekend. Your child will dash between stores. He will careen and tumble between aisles a hundred types of shoes, makeup, clothing, and electronics. He will learn to walk in the malls and in the villas and in the compounds. You will not take him outside during the late mornings and early afternoons in the spring and summer months.

Of course it is hot. After a very short amount of time, the word “hot” loses all descriptive meaning. In the winter, when it becomes as cold as ten degrees Celsius you will reach for your long-sleeved shirt and turn on the space heater in your villa. You will remark that the weather has finally turned. For two whole months you may find it is more comfortable to wear long pants around the compound as opposed to shorts.

Of course there is a vibrant cultural life outside the malls, the compound, and the worksite. When visitors come you will take them to Souq Waqif, and the Corniche, and to the beach resorts outside the city. You will camp in the desert and float on the salty waves of the Arabian Sea. These moments will color the rest of your time in Qatar.

Depending on where you live, you will grow accustomed to the sound of construction from early hours of the morning and throughout the day. This is a growing city, after all.

When you return to your home country to visit you will find yourself looking forward to returning. Friends and family will ask what it is like to live and work in Qatar.

You will say that there is nowhere else like it in the world.

Doha, April 2011

No Distance from Doha. Photo by Paula Hayden.

Tradition

by Paula Hayden

Alec sips his Starbucks coffee. It’s a “bold pick of the day,” but he doesn’t know the bean. Doesn’t care. He is happy to enjoy the comfort a coffee brings him as he sits in the mall reflecting on his decision to move here.  It was a no-brainer. Money talks. Still, this place is not quite what he thought it would be. He had had visions of mud-bricked buildings in dusty enclaves, small shops and bazaars, local grocers, and neighborhoods dotted with patches of green. He had had pictures in his head of old men—always old, always men—sitting contentedly out of the sun instreet cafes playing games and sharing stories. Pieces of that impression do exist, but the city is more, much more, than that. Alec lights a cigarette, despite the sign forbidding it. He is not sure he can reconcile the images he had of this Arab nation as a desolate desert with the reality he is living. He is sitting in a mall. He is drinking a coffee. At Starbucks.  He first hears, and then sees, five women approaching the coffee shop. They are each clothed head to toe in a black abaya, shayla, and niqab. Only their eyes show. The shopping bags they carry from Zara, Dolce and Gabbana, and Ralph Lauren, are testament to the fine shopping they have enjoyed. The Gucci, Coach, and Prada purses they carry also speak to their tastes and the money they have to spend. Will I ever get used to this? Alec wonders. The call to prayer echoes lowly through the mall loudspeakers. Alec takes another sip of coffee. I’ll try, he decides.

Souq Waqif: Heart of Doha. Photo by Paula Hayden.

Returning to Qatar by way of the Arabian Desert

by Adam Larson

“Are we going home now?” my three-year-old son asks. “I don’t want to go to another hotel… I want to go to the place with the blue carpets.” It’s strange to think of Qatar as home, but it has become such – especially for the children. This little one was a newborn when we spirited him away from his Toronto delivery room to Doha’s northern suburbs. “Yes sweetheart,” I reply, “we’re going to the place with the blue carpets.”

Our return begins in Medina, the City of the Prophet, which lies nestled in a valley with mountains on three sides. Thousands of pilgrims walk, run, limp, and wheel towards the white-marbled courtyard of the Prophet’s Mosque. They come from all walks of life – sturdy Iranian village women, their chadors emblazoned with flowers, Indonesian youth wearing neon green sarongs and peaked black hats, groups of elderly Turkish men with cheap vinyl bags distributedby their tour operator slung over their shoulders. In the distance the mountains of Uhud, where the early Muslims struggled for their very existence, rise up from the valley. The latticed walls of Baqi’ enclose their small mounded graves marked by ancient, weathered volcanic stones.

The car slips onto the new expressway that cuts across the desert towards Riyadh. Gazing across the expanse, I recall a story I wrote as a child about a pilot who crash landed in the Arabian Desert. The pictures that illustrated this story were straight out of Lawrence of Arabia – seas of yellow undulating dunes and a blazing orange sun overhead. I’m struck by how different this desert is from the one I imagined as a child. It is indeed vast. It is also hot, especially in the summer. But this desert lives and breathes. It changes color and form as you move through it.

The rocky outcrops of the Arabian-Nubian Shield dominate the Hejaz. It was here that ancient miners dug the wealth of King Solomon from Mahd al-Dhahab, the “Cradle of Gold”. These mountains give way to fields of twisted, black, volcanic rock, testament to the extinct volcanoes which gave the land its shape. Waves of mountains are divided by wide valleys with grass and scrub to feed the white, red, and black camel herds that range the area.

The car overtakes a vintage Ford Crown Victoria up the escarpment to the high plateau of Nejd. Here the land becomes more verdant – water from the wheel lines irrigates green shoots of wheat pushing up through the sand. Al-Qassim is the breadbasket of Arabia and farms abound. The contrast of brown and green and the scattered farm equipment remind me more of Nevada or Colorado than Arabia. The road then turns southeast towards the sprawling metropolis of Riyadh. The desert takes on a deep red hue. Scattered dunes topped by tufts of grass gradually give way to concrete once we reach Riyadh. Spindly acacia trees grace the highway medians.

Outside Riyadh, the desert changes again. The Eastern Province is sandy and stark. Bulldozers push sand drifts off the road like the plows push snow drifts in the Canadian prairies. Blowing sand creates shimmering snakes above the roadway. Whirlwinds form dust towers above the land as the sun begins to set. It is dark when we turn off the main highway and head towards the oasis of Al-Ahsa. I pull over to the side of the road. There is no sound but the wind, no light but the galaxies of stars overhead. The desert is a dark place. The fluorescent tubes in the distance are the only sign of humanity.

We cross the border into Qatar. The road is different here. It is lit. There are speed cameras. It feels more modern, more sterile. The desert here is flat and rocky, and you can smell the ocean in the air. My son wakes up from sleep long enough to ask, “Are we home yet daddy?” Thoughtfully I answer, “Yes, we’re home… the place with the blue carpets.”  

Renew, Relax

by Julie O'Rourke

Maureen sat at the kitchen table sipping her tea.  She noticed the wind had died down, it was growing dark and the street lights were coming on.  Soon the men – in her street they were all men – would be returning home to their wives from work.  The lamp above the stove cast a cosy yellow glow over the table where she was sitting.  Earlier, she’d folded up the newspaper and piled it carefully on the corner.

 The glossy supplement was spread open to the page where, next to cinema showings, community information was displayed. The public was kept up to date with prayer times, the opening hours of the zoo, consumer advice contacts, a helpline for drug and alcohol abuse, hospital visiting hours and a range of other telephone numbers.  Maureen scanned the variety of services on offer which included the usual suspects – police, fire and ambulance – and less common ones: the number for the seaport, for one of the museums, for the ship-shore phone bureau and for the post office.  She pondered what an anthropologist might learn from the listings a hundred years hence, where the secrets of a nation’s obsessions were laid out.  There were separate lines for capital security – the place, she wondered, or the punishment – and criminal information, which she considered ringing up to ask for ideas and advice.  Below that were telephone numbers for the directorates of boundaries and coastlines, civil defence, and rescue.  Well, thought Maureen picking up the handset, any of these could help.

She imagined ringing the police.  In a parallel universe she would quietly give herself up, as law-abiding habits took over in a crisis. But that place was filled with scenes from old Western movies such as swinging doors sagging with torn fly-screen, and blowing sand half-burying fence posts; none of which were relevant.  It was the persistent image of a sheep’s fleece caught on barbed wire that finally arrested her hovering hand and brought her back to her kitchen.

She put the phone on its cradle and finished her cup of tea.  Instead of ringing the police, she dialled the number for flight inquiries, and listened to current aircraft arrivals from a recording.  No, she wanted flight information as in departures, not landing reports.  She looked up the number for the national airline.  Usually she booked on-line, harnessing frequent flyer points and saving five percent of the price.  Making a telephone reservation was a new experience.  She wanted a seat, any seat and any destination would do – but to sound so eager might attract the wrong kind of attention.  A busy airport was her ideal destination with multiple airlines and international connections:  a transport hub. 

Yes, there was a flight to Heathrow, leaving that evening at 9.20.  No economy seats were available but she wasn’t going to quibble and the later check-in time for business class would give her some valuable breathing space.  Satisfied, Maureen hung up.

She rinsed her tea cup, the red Parisian souvenir they had bought together in the rain, and left it upside down beside the sink to dry.  She rang Mutu and booked him to pick her up at 8 o’clock, glancing around the kitchen as she was speaking.  She frowned at the thin layer of greasy dust she spied above the extractor fan.  She never liked to go away unless the house was clean and tidy.  This time she felt her housekeeping really would be scrutinised.  She wanted to write a note, apologising for her lapse and inviting future visitors to make themselves a drink, and somehow explaining herself, all the while knowing the rules of the perfect hostess no longer applied.  She had passed outside the realm where manners and civilisation had any meaning. 

Upstairs she found a small suitcase in the box room.  She would need to retrieve enough clothes to manage for a few days as too much or too little luggage would invite questions; and she wanted to be comfortable.  The thought of wearing the same shirt or socks for two days made her wince.  She tip-toed into the bedroom, sidling past the bed with her back turned and flung the cupboard open.  It was as if she didn’t want to disturb Tim, stretched out on the bed, exactly as he’d been before her shower.  Maureen avoided looking at him and didn’t step any closer than she needed to.  She scooped up a few tops and a pair of woollen trousers and then scurried out of the room dangling coat hangers.  She pushed the clothes into the case, kicked the coat hangers across the hall, and went back for some underwear and her toothbrush.

Maureen dragged the trolley case down the steps to the front door.  She checked her watch and went to the bookcase to pull a couple of new novels down to read on the plane – anonymous ones that Tim had not yet marked with his ex libris stamp.  She tucked them under her arm and scanned her library.  Her hand fluttered over the shelves as if choosing a volume of poetry was indeed her final act as a free woman.   Should it be one of her favourites:  Seamus Heaney? the mad Plath? John Donne?  She fingered their spines, tapped a valedictory post and settled on her high school anthology, full of familiar phrases, famous and rare samples of her past.

She checked her watch again: ten minutes to pick-up time, and Mutu would be religiously prompt.  She squeezed the books into the outside pocket of her suitcase, forcing the zip across the pocket.  Then in a flurry of panic, she decided that bare feet, jeans and a blouse were not suitable attire for a woman travelling in November to London and beyond. 

Maureen pulled a dress and then a trouser suit from the wardrobe but shook her head and ditched them on the floor.

In the end, she chose a short black skirt, tights and tall boots the colour of red wine.  Above the skirt she wore a soft grey jumper and a single heavy silver chain.  Her hair was scraped up into a knot on her neck and she’d painted her face, her mouth brilliant, almost matching the boots.  When Maureen glanced in the mirror she saw a stranger.  She nodded at the reflection in approval.

Mutu never rang the door bell.  To Maureen, he seemed to operate on the principle that if he was professional and meticulous, his customers would be too.  Maureen wondered if he discarded clients who did not fulfil his expectations.  In a few minutes she was ready.  The trolley case was beside the front door, her coat draped over the extended handle, her handbag nestling at its feet, and the taxi waiting.  Her hand was on the knob, ready to pull the door open and call to Mutu, when she stopped herself.  She hurried through the kitchen, the sharp heels of her boots stabbing like metal spikes across the tiles, into the pantry.  She yanked open the door to the air conditioner controls and lowered the temperature to 18 degrees, which was as cold as she could make it go.  She had a vague thought that it would be better for Tim – for his silent, stiffening body – if the house was as cool as possible.  Perhaps not for Tim, but for the person who eventually came for him.

The taxi driver helped her put the case in the boot.  ‘Mr Tim is not joining you ma’am?’  He tilted his head and nodded at the house.

‘Not this time Mutu, no.  He’s busy ... at work.’  Maybe she should have said he was away, but then Mutu would be puzzled because he always drove Tim to the airport, and he might be hurt by a supposed rejection.  No need to torture the man with doubts.  ‘No Mutu’ she swallowed and flicked her tongue over her lips ‘he’s at the camp.  Busy.  He won’t be home for a few days.’  She had no illusions that her excuse would confound anyone for long.

Mutu dropped her amongst a crowd of men encumbered with corded boxes and over-size canvas bags, all their treasures from years of labour, going home.  She checked in, by-passing the queues with her business class ticket. 

At passport control she rejoined the throng of departing workers.  Her line was the shortest, but motionless.  She stood behind a young man dressed in worn sandals and clothes too big for his slight frame, his shoulders shaking and his dark face streaming with tears.  Maureen touched his arm: ‘Are you alright?’  She was sure that he didn’t speak English, but he seemed to understand her tone.

‘Job gone.’  He shook his head and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Maureen opened her purse and took out four blue notes, folded them tightly and thrust them into his hand.  ‘I’m sorry’ she said.  ‘Please, take it.’

The queue moved forward and it was his turn at the passport desk.  Maureen gave him a nudge with her elbow to turn him, and then a gentle push.  He had no time to refuse the money or to thank her, as she planned.  She smiled and pointed at the vacant desk.  He was open mouthed, his head bobbing, as he took his place.

The official at the next desk waved her forward.  Maureen had her passport stamped, whispered ‘shukran’ and passed through the metal detectors and x-rays while the Nepalese worker was still detained with his paperwork.  The bored security guards waved her on.  She could feel a whoop of excitement bubble to her lips.  It escaped as a giggle before Maureen could suppress it.  Steady girl, not through the exit yet, she thought.

She pushed into the melee of duty free goods.  Maureen and her overnight bag struggled between the queues of shoppers with their baskets, and enormous tubs of orange drink-powder.  At the bottom of the escalators beyond the crowds, a car sparkled amongst the last minute designer must-haves.  Ignoring these material delights, Maureen glided upwards, glancing at her boarding pass and the time above the eager shoppers.  She had thirty minutes to dispense with and no desire for a souvenir, no thought of hostess gifts, only seeking to blend and disappear.

From the top of the escalator, she spotted the young Nepalese emerging amongst the cash desks.  She could see he wasn’t crying now; his face glistened with joy, perhaps, and she could see his teeth flashing.  Then the risk of being noticed and remembered thrust itself at her like a punch in the abdomen.  He mustn’t see and recognise her and confirm her face in his memory.  She hurried through the ranks of anchored seats, through the aimless drifts of travellers and strewn baggage towards the business class lounge, knowing he would not be admitted there, even by chance.

The brightly made-up receptionist looked at her boarding pass and assured Maureen that her flight would be called, showed her manicured teeth and instructed her to relax and renew.  Maureen forced down another giggle, smiled her sweetest and went off to find a corner seat, away from the traffic around the buffet.  She parked her trolley bag beside her, draped the winter coat over its outstretched handle and perched on the armchair.  Carrying the coat had made her hot and her feet were sweating in the tall boots.  Maureen pulled a tissue from her handbag and patted her face with a trembling hand.  Deep breaths, she said to herself, steady, you can do this.

Maureen forced herself to move back in the seat and stretched her feet out, holding them up so that her legs were horizontal, suspended in the air, her boots glowing dully like fresh blood.  She closed her eyes and deliberately loosened her grip on the arms of the chair.  She could feel her heart thudding in her rib cage and her palms slipping on the leatherette.  She took another deep slow breath, willing herself to relax.

Competing versions of the international news broadcast from half a dozen monitors added to the din of voices shouting into mobile phones and the rustle of newspapers.  There was a constant rattle of crockery and doors.  People were coming in and settling down, squealing the furniture across the floor tiles, while others stomped about responding to flight calls.  Maureen tried to focus on her breathing and block out the chaos around her.  She released the tension in her shoulders and unclenched her teeth.  Her lungs expanded and contracted, her diaphragm lifting and settling.  Gradually the roar in her head quietened.  She tried to isolate each sound outside her, fold it up and push it away.  A trolley wheel squeaked on the tiles and a phone sang You are so beautiful nearby.  She heard smart footsteps through the babble, tapping down the aisle, coming nearer and eventually stopping at her feet.  She knew then, without opening her eyes that they belonged to officials, uniforms, the police.

A cough.  ‘Mrs Armstrong?  Excuse me, ma’am, are you Maureen Ann Armstrong?

She looked first at the black shiny toes and then up at the dark blue trouser legs.  Two pairs.  She opened her mouth, making no sound. 

 One of the men was bending forward, smiling, ‘Mrs Armstrong?  I think this is yours.’  He had a passport open, comparing her face to the flattened picture on the page.  ‘You left it at the emigration desk ma’am.  You’ll need it to board.’  He clicked his boots and let his eyes linger on her knees and her thighs emerging from the short black skirt.  His lips parted into a broad smile.

Maureen struggled to sit upright.  She blinked and seemed to swallow half the desert outside.  ‘Than...’ was all that she could choke out.  She felt tears spill into her eyes.  She wanted to throw herself at their feet, beg for mercy, confess, plead, even bargain.

The officer with her passport dropped it into her lap.  ‘Have a good flight ma’am’ he said, bowing.

Maureen shook her head and tried again to speak to their backs.  She struggled to breathe, needed the toilet urgently, and then wanted to cartwheel across the tarmac.  She was immobilised.  Eventually she wrenched her fingers from the depths of the leatherette arms.  She clawed the passport open and thrust her boarding pass between its pages.

‘Last and final call for Heathrow.  All remaining passengers proceed to gate 12 for immediate boarding.’

Maureen stood up awkwardly, draping her coat over her arm and hitching the handbag onto her shoulder.  She clutched the handle of the trolley case.  She wriggled her toes in the wine-red boots and stepped forward.  Renew she told herself, relax.

Jack

by Brigitte Lepine

Jack slammed forward as the brakes screeched and the car ran into the curb. “What was that?” shrieked Janet.

It was an uneasy stop, a bumpy stop- brutal even. Janet looked at Jack. He was still holding the steering wheel and was lost in time in the dark night. The street was empty, not a soul around. The pavement was wet from the rain.

After some time, he glanced at her with horror in his eyes. His lips were blue, his hands trembling.

Who know how long they sat there before he opened the door unhurriedly, as he was scared of something. Slowly he got one leg out, then the other, and managed to pull himself outside the car. He barely made two steps toward the front of the car before she heard him scream and drop to the ground.

“What’s going on?” Janet got out of the car, walked to the front not knowing what to expect. She looked at the front of the car. It was not damaged! She carefully walked around the car toward her husband’s side. There, close to front of the car, a bit sideway, she saw broken bones and a rain jacket half burned and melted to the street that smelled revolting. Is it what they ran into? She looked around but could not see her husband...

Then, coming out from the empty night, Jack appeared with a bright smile. “Let’s go home darling!”

Download or print your own copy of Mosaic 2.0, Vol 2.1, Spring 2011

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