Neither Here Nor There

For all my rosy-eyed glimpses of the Middle East, for all my wonderfully unique experiences—I realise they are sanitised. I view these countries through four & five star hotel picture windows. I’m driven by private chauffeur to exotic malls, to exotic places, to view this or that wonder, usually ‘done up’ for tourists Euros.

I try to get below the surface. I've ‘palled about' with an Abayah clad woman and her children; shopped the local market for spices, fruits and pulses, donned a Hijab so as not to offend. But most of the time, I am me, clad as I am in the Netherlands, presenting myself to the world as I am: Take it or Leave it. Two strange things often happen.

I am not considered ‘white enough’—unless strolling about with my genetically Swedish husband and his blonde-haired, blue-eyed aura. So, the ‘Expat Class’ views me, treats me, as the Other. And the Other doesn’t know what I am. I am not them, this is clear. And so, I am again eyed with, treated with, suspicion.

This “in-betweeness” is the story of my life. I love this neither here nor there, neither this nor that status. It allows me to float between cultural lines dug deeply into shifting sands. But often, it is troubling. There is no one inner place to call home. No outer place either. No one passport really fits me, though I have had four in this lifetime.

I love this very condition, sometimes. I do not feel bonded—beholden—to one particular country, one particular place. I wish there were a ‘World Passport’ which mandated multiple cultural experiences and stays. The label ‘third culture’ isn’t sufficient these days, though it’s a good try. Maybe ‘pluri-cultural’ is a better term as my doctoral advisor once suggested.

If you want to read my dissertation research on this topic, have a look at Dissertation Abstracts International (ISSN 0419-4209), Humanities & Social Sciences, Vol 57 (9-A), Mar, 1997, pp. 3811. I am told there is a ‘persistent link’ to this record at http://search.epnet.com/direct.asp?an=1997-95005-095&db=psyh

Good hunting! LankaBlue²

The Stuff of Love

If you are from Sri Lanka or South India, perhaps you recognise the food stuff to the left: Poppadom or Papad, Cucumber Sambol, Spring Onion Mallung, and meat curry. This is the staff of life! From freezer to oven to table, in two hours, amidst exam marking! Now, that's the stuff of love! We are celebrating our anniversary.

My North American husband loves our food. (I claim Rice & Curry though a Dutch Burgher!) He's visited my wonderful Island home, but sadly during seasons of war. My family had a fit at the thought of his helicoptering to Sigiriya for the sake of those lovely maidens. The Maidens are 'to die for' but the family wanted no RPG explosion on their conscious. Understandable. He opted for a trip to the Dehiwela Zoo--not really comparable, but a compromise. Lanka's changed since my last visit. After visiting almost yearly in the 80s/90s, it's been hard to stay away so long. May peace come to our Emerald Isle someday soon.

Maybe we were all better off when we were 'Ceylonese'. At least we shared our island home, or so it seemed. Maybe that's easy for me to say as my family and I were the last of a dying, colonial class. We did have it good for awhile--a long while. But I pine for Lanka, still. A Lanka I left as a wee one, but came to know again in my adolescence and adulthood. She is the same warm, loving place, full of light, sunshine and beauty, with wonderful people, if only we could find the way back to one another. I am at heart an idealist.

LankaBlue²

"Salaam Aleikhum"

“Salaam Aleikhum”. “Aleikhum Salaam”, I reply.

He gestures, palms upward, to a multi-coloured tent. All that’s missing is beige-white desert sand. A brilliant orange, green and white-frond overhang beckons. Cardamom coffee, pale as ale, percolates in a copper pot plucked from Aladdin’s cave. The pot sits on a coffee table-stove made of inlaid hardwood resting atop four brass-camel legs. Next to the coffee pot, a round wooden box of palm dates.

I sit in a comfortable niche, next to a bronze camel and brass lamp. In one swift motion, my host pours coffee into a small, porcelain cup which looks like a tiny inverted tulip, painted white with a red-gold rim.

I prop the pillows behind me. He smiles and places before me a plain white serviette. The box of plump, juicy-brown dates with yellow stem-ends follows, then a crystal ash tray for the date pits. The Persian carpet of pale pink and dark blue wool contrasts the simple geometric-patterned fabric of red, white and black which grace the walls and couch. The smell of the cardamom coffee fills the space. "The tent faces south but is left open East as a sign of welcome", he says. The desert comes to me.

I know this is Bedouin culture, sanitised. The chap serving me may well be Pakistani not Bedouin Qatari. But no matter. In this Oasis calm, amidst the bustle of Doha City life, the hospitality & heart of Bedouin tradition descends. There is an aura about my host—he is the genial Gastgaber who greets us, one and all, from New York, Nieuwegein or Nagasaki.

My Dutch Students

This was the last day of our Psychology of Religion class. These are my faithful Dutch students. We've had a really interesting time discussing what psychology has to say to religion; what religion has to say to psychology. Our last session was on Religious Coping and Mental Health. There's an amazing amount of data--studies and the like--linking religious coping mechanisms to positive physical and mental health outcomes. These second and third year students are busy conducting surveys, gathering data, and explaining results. May sound dry, but they were engaged, curious and questioning, not willing to take things at face value. And they are sometimes amazed at the results, particularly when they differ from their expectations. Here are some fine budding social scientists. Watch out for them!