The Maid
Bahrain is a dry little wisp of a country, nestled between Saudi Arabia and Qatar. The waters surrounding this island nation look more like green algae, than blue water that is home to a variety of species, appears to be very shallow and is said to be shark infested. There is very little vegetation except for the date palm trees that line the highways, and large sculptures are thoughtfully positioned at roundabouts. Dirt lots separate the buildings, and are patrolled at night by homeless dogs. Cats are everywhere, fattened by the rats nesting in the dumpsters. Stray cats adopt apartment buildings. One such creature, an orange striped tom cat makes himself right at home in the French Towers Apartments building. A pakistani gentleman, staged by the door, opens the door for the cat - enabling him to come and go as he pleases.
While standing at the desk to retrieve my room key, three men entered the building behind me. Instead of waiting on me next, as it was my turn, the busy clerk waited on the men first - making me wait until all of them had finished conducting their business. By this time, I am very angry for having to wait so long for my key, and not being treated as a valuable, paying customer.
This treatment leads me to believe that women are treated as second class citizens. But I am a visitor here, and can do nothing about it. Which leads me to notice that I have never seen the face of the Bahraini women. Their faces are completely concealed by their abaya - a black outer garment covering them from head to foot. The only female faces I see are either children, or foreigners.
There is an Indian woman that comes each day to clean my room. She greets me each day pleasantly, and quickly goes about the business of cleaning my flat. She vacuums the carpet, dusts the furniture, washes the dishes, scrubs the floors, makes the beds, and even folds the clean laundry neatly, and places it on the end of my bed. All without complaining. Not even once. Not even when her mother died. She was still there, cleaning my flat, only taking the afternoon off to attend the funeral. Her hands are rough, and scarred; her face leathery from over exposure to the sun. All without complaint. It is not her way. I ask her about her family. She says her husband is sick with a bad heart - she must work to pay for his medicine, which is very expensive. We talk about my home in the United States; she tells me she would like to visit her family in New Jersey. I feel guilty that I am being paid to stand there and converse with her. I make her take the ten dollar bill from my hand.
I feel very fortunate to live in a society that allows me to come and go as I please, that treats me as a valuable person, and that sometimes cares about my opinion. I know that women in the Middle East are not so fortunate as we are in the US, and must bow down to the wishes of the men in their life. Doesn't anyone else see how hosed up that is??? Am I the only one who cares about these things?
While standing at the desk to retrieve my room key, three men entered the building behind me. Instead of waiting on me next, as it was my turn, the busy clerk waited on the men first - making me wait until all of them had finished conducting their business. By this time, I am very angry for having to wait so long for my key, and not being treated as a valuable, paying customer.
This treatment leads me to believe that women are treated as second class citizens. But I am a visitor here, and can do nothing about it. Which leads me to notice that I have never seen the face of the Bahraini women. Their faces are completely concealed by their abaya - a black outer garment covering them from head to foot. The only female faces I see are either children, or foreigners.
There is an Indian woman that comes each day to clean my room. She greets me each day pleasantly, and quickly goes about the business of cleaning my flat. She vacuums the carpet, dusts the furniture, washes the dishes, scrubs the floors, makes the beds, and even folds the clean laundry neatly, and places it on the end of my bed. All without complaining. Not even once. Not even when her mother died. She was still there, cleaning my flat, only taking the afternoon off to attend the funeral. Her hands are rough, and scarred; her face leathery from over exposure to the sun. All without complaint. It is not her way. I ask her about her family. She says her husband is sick with a bad heart - she must work to pay for his medicine, which is very expensive. We talk about my home in the United States; she tells me she would like to visit her family in New Jersey. I feel guilty that I am being paid to stand there and converse with her. I make her take the ten dollar bill from my hand.
I feel very fortunate to live in a society that allows me to come and go as I please, that treats me as a valuable person, and that sometimes cares about my opinion. I know that women in the Middle East are not so fortunate as we are in the US, and must bow down to the wishes of the men in their life. Doesn't anyone else see how hosed up that is??? Am I the only one who cares about these things?
