Thursday, March 31, 2005

No Pain

No Pain

He called to her from the porch. The same porch where I spent my summers. Hot, languid, Florida summers. The porch was screened in on three sides, so if there was a breeze at all, you would feel it on the porch. Except for a west wind, which wasn’t desirable anyway, as it would be hot. So he, my father, was sitting on the porch like we all did during most months of the year. And, unlike his usual habit, this time he called to her, my mother.

Minn-Lou, c’mere, he said.

She went immediately. He wouldn’t have called if he didn’t really need her.

What is it? she said as she crossed the doorway to the porch.

Look at this, he said, holding his work-weathered hand up toward her.

What?

I can’t feel it.

Can’t feel what?

I can’t feel my fingernail.

Your fingernails don’t have feelings.

Well they do if you cut it too short, which I just did. And I can’t feel a thing.

She looked closer at the hand. Sure enough, the index fingernail was cut into the quick. He must have been paring his nails with his pocketknife, and it slipped. A tiny bit of blood was oozing out from the edge of the nail.

You’ve hurt those hands a million times on nets and boats and fish teeth. Don’t you feel that?

I used to. But now I don’t.

Want to soak your hand in some Epsom salts?

OK.

She went away to get the Epsom salts and a pan of water, and he continued to look at his claw-like hands.

It didn’t seem to occur to either of them that this might warrant a consultation with a doctor, maybe a dermatologist, maybe a family doctor. They didn’t consult doctors if there was no pain. It was just an injury, a curious injury that didn’t hurt. Just part of the mysteries of life. If a tiny worry that this might portend something bigger, some medical problem, neither of them showed it in any way.

She came back with a plastic dishpan filled part way with warm water, and some clear crystals swirling near the bottom.

Here, try this.

Thank you sweetheart.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

UAE

UAE
United Arab Emirates
Unusual and Enigmatic
Upscale and Energetic
Uncommonly Able Emigrants


I had just barely even heard of the UAE before I went there a week or so ago. And I’d never heard of Sharjah, the city where the University of Sharjah Medical School is located. But by the end of one eventful week, I had visited Dubai, Sharjah, and Abu Dhabi, the three big cities of the United Arab Emirates, and had stayed awake longer (twice—going and coming) than I have in a long, long time. Here are a few observations and reflections on this relatively unknown, but very vibrant part of the world.

Twenty percent “nationals”, or “locals” or “Emerati.” Eighty percent ex-patriates or foreign workers. They tend to call the professionals such as professors, physicians, and business people “ex-pats” and the hotel and store and restaurant employees “foreign workers.” Everyone speaks English, or enough to get by. The foreign workers are from the Middle East and Asia mostly—India, Malaysia, Sri Lanka, Philippines, Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, Jordan, Morocco—you name a counrry, they are in the UAE. The professional ex-pats are more likely from the Gulf states and more “western” countries such as Canada, the UK and other European countries, and Australia. A real United Nations, although not many Americans. Although most of the professional ex-pats have 3 year contracts with the Ruler, several laughingly told me that “we don’t buy green bananas.” Apparently in an absolute monarchy, you can put someone on the plane tomorrow if that person has somehow offended the Royal Family. Luckily we went unnoticed and were apparently inoffensive. I found it hard to decide whether to be happy or sad for the service workers—housekeepers, drivers, waiters, and such. I was told that they don’t make a lot of money and aren’t treated all that well, but on the other hand, they have a job (which they wouldn’t have “at home”) and they can send money home to help out other family members. It challenges your sense of values.

Each Emirate (there are 7, I think) is about the size of a small county in the US. But the two big cities, Abu Dhabi and Dubai, are huge, each with a huge international airport, scads of skyscrapers, and unceasing building going on with cranes and gigantic earth movers. The most unusual looking skyscrapers in the world are in Dubai. Traffic is awful, and, on the highways between cities moves at incredible speeds, well in excess of 100 mph. Our driver, Habib, pointed to three cars that whizzed past us. I’m doing 170, (around 100 mph) he said, how fast can they be going? People asked me if I was nervous about safety in the Emirates, meaning worried about terrorism. The Emirates have had no problems to date with terrorism, but they kill a lot of people on the highways in auto accidents.

Women in the Emirates. What they wear depends--partly on whether they are Muslim (they seem very tolerant of non-Muslims, as they would have to be, as many of their workers are Hindu or Christian.) The Muslim women in the UAE (all of whom I saw outside their homes, mostly at the University, as faculty, staff, or students) wear clothing ranging from the traditional garb of long black gown and headdress that covers every single inch except for a narrow slit for the eyes--- (As an aside-- I saw two medical students in theselong black outfits sitting down with their shoes poking out, and they were wearing sling-back sandal heels!) --through long skirts, long sleeves, and a black or white head covering, to knee-length skirts with short sleeved blouses and no head covering. Another aside about the long black gown. On closer inspection, many are elaborately and beautifully embroidered (in black, so as not to be noticeable) at the ends of the sleeves and the hem. There don’t seem to be any clothing police in UAE. You (or your father) make the decision for yourself. This is also true of the young men, who wear either the traditional white long gown with headgear, or long pants and long-sleeved shirt and no headgear. I did not see anyshort pants or short skirts, although I heard a story about a girl who appeared on the beach in a traditional long black outfit, and after some surreptitious movements underneath, reappeared in a thong bathing suit. But perhaps that’s apocryphal. Professional men who don’t wear the traditional gown wear suits and ties. Drivers and waiters and other similar jobholders wear pants and long-sleeved white shirts and ties. Very diverse.

Islamic Rules about Women. Our accreditation team was given (at our request) a series of small books—sort of a “Islam for Dummies” written, I would guess by the Pat Robertson of Islam. My favorite passage has to do with court testimony where the testimony of two women counts the same as the testimony of one man, because women are more forgetful than men, in fact “empirical studies show that they forget four times more.” So that explains my problem. Funny that it only showed up as I got older.

An Audience with the Minister of Higher Education, Sheik Somebody. Although Arab/Islamic custom teaches that all men are brothers and so there is a great emphasis on not elevating one man above another, still the atmosphere in the “receiving palace” was very deferential to the Sheik, who speaks English very well, is clearly very knowledgeable about education, the US, and medical education. The walls of the simple but elegant room were lined with small couches placed side by side, the floor in the middle covered with a gigantic (and gorgeous) carpet, the ceiling very ornate. Through some mysterious and subtle (to me) signals, our group was made to understand that we were to follow HH (His Highness) into the room and take seats on the side. Then somehow we were summoned to sit next to him. As the lone female, I was awarded the seat to his right and thus, at first, got the first conversation with him. However, soon the Real Leader of our group was brought forward to give a summary report of our work, and then after the obligatory tiny cups of cardamon-flavored coffee and then tea, somehow we knew that we were dismissed, and we left the room so that the next dignitary could have his moment with the Sheik. Apparently this man was from the same tribe as the Sheik, as they greeted each other by touching noses (and I thought only Eskimos did that.). All the rest of us were treated to handshakes by everyone present, except for one older man who would not shake my hand (a strict Muslim would not touch a woman who was not his wife or daughter.)