Namat/Namoot: are you alive or dead?

Sometimes life in Doha is the Flyboard World Championship happening in the bay outside our window.

 

It's gymnastics with water and we've got ringside seats, no driving involved.  Ahhhhhh

 

But most of the time life in Doha is:  Fender kissing, headlight flashing Land Cruisers driven by men in white headdress (blinking lights is Qatari dialect for "please get out of my way."  The less polite version involves the possibility of burned rubber and smashed bumpers - but most expats just…move).

 

Everyday Doha is helicopters thrumming the air in search of the worst traffic tie-ups.  Motorcycles rumbling through haphazard spaces between vehicles.  Taxis hopping sidewalks.  Blocked intersections.  Construction.  It's also three hour wash cycles.  Bananas that shift from green to brown overnight.  Arabic pronunciation mistakes:

 

Rajool means man; rijil means leg:  "The leg said…"

 

Qalb means heart and kelb means dog:  "My husband works at the Dog of Doha project."

 

Namat means grown but namoot means die:  "My children are namat."

 

For me, everyday Doha means 3-5 hours in the car.  True, a portion of that time involves taking Bob to work and picking him up (in return for spousal access to Bob's company-provided vehicle).

 

at his desk 6 days/week

Bob worked 7 days in a row last week, adding up to 13 turns about the office by sleep-in day

 

This week I also work.  Plus, there is running the Corniche, walking the Pearl, Arabic class, homework, reading, writing and staying up late to watch Conan O'Brien (he makes me laugh).  There is church, missing our kids, email, skype, errands and lunch out.

 

Busy is our "Doha usual."  Some weeks, like this one, are busier.  Outtakes:

 

Childhood in Qatar

 

 

Fanar Family Majlis* presentation about childhood games in pre-oil Qatar, including an early Qatari activity for boys called, Bo Sbeit, are you alive or dead?:

 

Player #1 lays face down.  Other players shovel sand over the back of first player's head calling out, "Bo Sbeit, are you alive or dead?"  If there is a response, more sand is shoveled and the call repeated, until such time that player #1 no longer responds.  Other players stop ladling and wait for buried player #1 to emerge (which, en sha'allah he does).  Everyone gets a turn.  Boy buried longest (without, it is presumed, spoiling the game by going namoot, ie, dying) wins.

 

This game offered practice for pearling wherein divers descended to great depths with only a nose clip and lung capacity to keep them from drowning.  It was vital that young boys destined for a career at sea develop the ability to hold their breath for long periods.

 

According to the presenter, today's Qatari boys pretty much spend their extracurricular time playing computer games.

 

Basketball in a Skirt - Qatari high school PE class.

 

I join 14 sixteen and seventeen year old girls wearing ankle length shift style uniforms and dress shoes as they line up in a tile floored gym.  We do neck stretches and arm circles.  We place hands on hips and bend to the side.  We touch our toes (well - I touch mine).  We dribble (low air) balls in a small square.  We toss/kick/roll balls to the next girl in line.

 

Teacher is a young, energetic Egyptian.  She wears a purple sweat suit with pink running shoes, speaks very little English - and it is her very first day at the school.  She is Middle Eastern hospitable but curious about my participation in her class since my mission concerns language - Arabic for me, English for the students.  (The "why" is never made clear.)  Later, we chat in Arabic and share pictures from our phones - her beautiful 18 month old daughter, my babies and grandbabies.

 

Children's Books in Qatar

 

 

Fran Gillespie has lived in Qatar for nearly 30 years.  She's a former teacher, freelance writer and journalist who's published hundreds of articles about the country.  This week her first books for young children, published locally, are released.  This is a new endeavor for Qatar and a Very Big Deal!  Bob and I spend extra time lost in construction detours so that I might own sets of Fran's wonderful books in English and Arabic.  Click here to read more about Fran's books.

 

Park Bazaar/Flea Market

 

 

On the grounds of the Museum of Islamic Art, locals and others gather under tents to sell stuff.  There are garage-sale-like tables stacked with Michael Crichton novels; craft booths with quilted tee shirts and stained glass items; shop tents merchandising pashminas and jellabias (a pretty abaya-but-not-an-abaya-style gown worn for dress up occasions).  Children's clothes, games, toys - corn dogs and coca cola.

 

Museum of Islamic Art designed by architect I.M. Pei

It's nifty to watch the shadows play

 

I don't buy anything.  I do: wander the grounds and take pictures.

 

Souk

 

 

This week's wandering includes spousal together time, language practice, pearl shopping with an energetic, continent hopping friend and coffee with a world travelling, couch surfing American who speaks three languages (not counting Arabic which she's studying).  She not only knows Qataris, but has attended weddings and other events - and once was flagged down on the highway by a leather mask wearing Qatari woman who needed a ride home.

 

Of course, a souk visit isn't complete without a plateful of Halloumi (FOR BERNIE, who asked):

 

THIS is Halloumi cheese, fried to a krispy, salty wondrousness.

Makes your mouth water, dunnit?

 

THIS is what you do with Halloumi, just before…

 

THIS.  Wrap 'er up and eat.

Yum.

 

Homemaker Trials

 

We live in a resort with weekly cleaning, laundry service, Chocolate Bar downstairs and terrace overlooking world class athletic events (see above).  But it's not all fun and games.  (Bob worked 13 days in a row recently, and…) it took hours of fume-filled scrubbing to transform our cushy resort shower from housekeeping's clean-enough:

 

into this:

 

When a toxic odor invades our building, maintenance says, "Something died in here."  Drains are inspected.  Ladders placed.  Trash receptacles emptied.  Toilets flushed and sinks filled.  Fans blow stench through open windows.  Holes are cut into ceilings.

 

 

After all the cutting, moving, drilling, hammering, we pour water into "p" traps - and the smell goes away.  Huh.

 

In The Things We Missed Category - Red Bull Flugtag

 

This curious competition sponsored by Red Bull involves teams of people and weeks of effort to manufacture "flying machines" - which are then flown off a short pier straight into the water.  Longest airborne creation wins.

 

It is presumed that pilots are namat, but I'm not completely sure about that.  Every machine definitely ends up - namoot.

 

namoot

 

*Majlis:  special meeting place where single gender groups chat, eat, drink, hang.  Fanar's "family majlis" is open to both men and women; programs are presented by men.

 

Children's Books about Qatar!

Children's literacy is an important topic in Qatar.  Efforts to increase kids' reading skills include mobile and school libraries, contests, clubs, children's television programs.  But - not a lot of local interest books.

 

According to a survey on reading habits in the Arab world conducted by Yahoo! Maktoob Research in 2011, almost 30% of people below 25 years in the Arab world never read. People aged between 46 and 50 were the most frequent readers, followed by those aged between 36 and 45, which makes up 25% of the population.  The youth read less than any other segment of society…

Gulf Times article

 

Limited quantities of popular American children's books are available for purchase in Qatar.  But children's books about Qatar for Qatar?  Rare.  Until now.  I'm thrilled to own both English and Arabic language sets of a wonderful new series of books by Frances Gillespie:

 

Qatar Nature Explorer

by Frances Gillespie

 

"There are about twelve species of dragonfly in Qatar.  They and their smaller relatives, the damselflies, are fierce hunters.  Both have bright colours and similarly shaped bodies, but you can easily tell them apart…" (ages 6+)

From Insects and Arachnids of Qatar, by Frances Gillespie

 

Sets in English and Arabic include six hardcover editions: Birds of Qatar, Insects and Arachnids of Qatar, Mammals of Qatar, Plants of Qatar, Reptiles and Amphibians of Qatar, Sea and Shore Life of Qatar.  Copies of Qatar Nature Explorer will soon be available for purchase in bookstores throughout the country and online.  To acquire your own copies now, contact Fran by email: frandavid@designcoqatar.com (email address provided with permission).

I'm also a happy owner of this gem written for the Middle School aged crowd:

 

Hidden in the Sands, Uncovering Qatar's Past

by Frances Gillespie and Faisal Abdulla al-Naimi

 

"The first book of its kind to be published for a general readership from youngsters upwards, Hidden in the Sands: Uncovering Qatar's Past is the fascinating, fun and educational story of Qatar's heritage and the exciting discoveries being made by archaeologists…" (ages 11+)

Read/Listen/Learn/Order your own copy: HiddenInTheSands.com

 

Frances Gillespie is a British writer and journalist and has lived in Qatar for nearly 30 years.  Before moving to Doha, she taught English in England and Nigeria.  She's a former Chairman of the Qatar Natural History Group and has travelled from one end of the country to the other.  Fran has written hundreds of articles for local and international publications in many countries, including Qatar, USA, UK, UAE, Lebanon.  Her best-selling books, Discovering Qatar and Common Birds of Qatar are well known in Qatar.
 

Run to the Naked Beach

Henna for Eid

 

"You're so cute," says a student.  "Are you Muslim?"

 

I shake my head.  "I'm Christian."

 

"Oh," she says, nodding.  "Not Muslim - yet."

 

Four walls, windows, a smart board, white board, projector.  Student desks in five rows, four deep.  Dark eyed teenage girls in ankle length, shift style uniforms.  I sit on the teacher's table facing the class, legs dangling.

 

At the Madrasa al Thanawiya al Binaat (secondary school for girls) I'd already participated in a science lab (broadly speaking), audited science and English classes and sipped tea in the teachers' lounge.  I'd wandered the building with a special education instructor and chatted boardroom style with group after group of high school aged local girls.

 

Today I would be a substitute Homeroom and Physical Education teacher (apologies to actual US PE teacher, Bernie).  Sort of.

 

Some of my Arabic children's books

 

Qataris are a minority in Qatar and Arabic is not spoken on the streets or in the shops.  The majority of expats don't study the language because there's so little opportunity to use it.  I persist because I like the language and people (and perhaps also out of a compulsive need to finish-what-I-start, no matter how impossible seeming).  I supplement my studies by reading Arabic children's books, learning Arabic nursery rhymes, speaking with Arabs (when found) - and visiting Qatari government schools (where allowed).

 

The gym is closed in the (real) teacher's absence and there are no curriculum notes.

 

"Speak English with them," says the principal.  She smiles.  "Make them bi-lingual."

 

Oh, right.  Mafee mushkilla.  No problem.

 

My escort is a sunny and enthusiastic Egyptian English teacher wearing bright blue eye shadow.  "You girls," she says, in Arabic.  "You are all so sleepy."  She moves to the closed classroom door, pounds on it with both fists.  "You are like, 'let me out of here'!"

 

Laughter.  Students sit higher in seats.

 

"What sports do you play?" I ask.  L'boon ay riyada hini?

 

"Basketball, volleyball, football…"  Smiles.  "With the feet.  Not the American football with hands."

 

"Do you run?" I ask.

 

"Of course.  We wear long pants and tee shirts and run in the gym."

 

"People don't run on the street in Qatar," I say.

 

"No, but you can walk at the Mall or Aspire Park and you can run around the Pearl to the naked beach."

 

Naked beach?  MY beach?  I laugh.

 

The young Qatari shakes her head.  Not funny.  "We call it that because people wear very few clothes there."

 

Oh.

 

Conversation is a rapid-fire mix of standard and dialectical Arabic and colloquial English.

 

They want to know:

 

Do you live in a compound in America?  Do students wear uniforms to school?  Do you have pets?  How old are your children?  Are they boys or girls?  Tell me about your grandchildren?  Have you been to Boston?  Will you go shopping at Villagio with me?  Do you know Adele?  (Sings:)  "Someone Like You…"

 

I smile.  "Will you teach me a Qatari children's song?"

 

A student writes:

 

"mama jabat baby

baby helloo sagheer"

 

"It says, Mama comes with a baby; baby is small and cute.  We sing this when a new baby comes home."

 

"Do you have rhymes?  Silly fun songs?"

 

Of course!  "Twinkle, twinkle little star…Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall...Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear…"

 

"Our nursery rhymes are from America, Lebanon, Egypt and other countries," a student says.

 

"And television," says Teacher.

 

The students sing popular American and Arabic music in angelic soprano and rich alto voices, complete with Middle Eastern trills and runs.

 

I offer Baa Baa Black Sheep, Have You Any Wool…?

 

The bell rings and Teacher and I sing (although I only know the first part) a popular Egyptian children's song:

 Mama Zamanha Gaya

 

 

Mama zamanha gaya gaya baedeh shiwaya gayba al'ab wa hagat gayba maha shanta fiha wezza wa bata bi t'mel quack quack quack quack quack   arfel wad el esmo "Adel" gah doctor waamleh eh? eh? eh? laa regleh bao zayel fatal bas shewaya gowa eneh leh? Leh? rah nidiloh ho'na kbira aref edal el ho'na leh?   Leh? Leh? Ma bieshrabsh el laban el sobh we kol eshabo dehko alah ha ha ha! W hoa men yomha shereb w byekbar wetrabalo aadal fi ideh.

Mama is coming She is almost here She is bringing toys and gifts She's also got a box Inside there's a duck That goes: Quack quack quack quack quack.   Do you know the kid named "Adel" And what the doctor did to him? What? What? He found him all tired And looked inside his eyes. Why? Why? He's going to give him a big shot. Do you know why he gave him a shot? Why Why? He doesn't drink milk in the morning And all his friends laugh. Ha Ha Ha! And since that day he drinks milk And grows up And has muscles in his arms.

 

Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon: Middle Eastern Answer Key**

 

The room is large, square, bright and full of little girls. Shoes squeak, children squeal, sound multiplies on the shiny tile. The ceiling is a pyramid of windows that allows the sun to shimmer in the artificially cool air. Alcoves at each corner of the square lead to hallways which lead to classrooms. The space smells of lemon cleaner.

 

I sit on a bench along the wall. One small person speed walks toward me. Two follow, then three and more until all around me are little girls, four, five, six deep: around, beside, above, at my feet.

 

Where are you from?

 

America

 

What is your mother's name? Your father's?

 

Ahhhh. They want to know my secrets.

 

In Arab culture a person's name is a storyboard chock full of information. It reveals lineage, history, life, death and a whole lotta stuff in between. Who, what, when, where…if you only knew how to read it.

 

Here's how it works:

• The eldest son is named after the paternal grandfather
• The eldest daughter is named after the paternal grandmother
• Subsequent children are given names that reflect a desirable trait or commemorate an important person in the tribe
• Following the name comes the word bin ("son of") or bint ("daughter of") and Dad's name
• Following Dad's name comes bin and Dad's Dad's name
• Then comes bin and Dad's Dad's Dad's name
• And so on and so forth, ending with the family's tribal name

Sometimes multiple tribal names are added that include sub-tribe or nicknames that tell more of the family's story.

 

For example, the name of a first son of first sons in the (fictional) Al Nazy tribe would look like this:

 

Ahmed bin

Mahmoud bin

Ahmed bin

Mahmoud bin

Ahmed

Al Nazy

 

Qataris can "read" another local's name and immediately transcribe relationships, rights to one another, familial boundaries and more: how are we related? are we friends or enemies? "marriageable" to one another?

 

It's the Middle Eastern answer key to Kevin Bacon's Six Degrees of Separation.

 

"Any one person (including me, Kevin Bacon) is connected to any other person through six or fewer relationships, because it's a small world."

-SixDegrees.org

 

To protect a person's name and to show extra respect, Qataris call one another by a nickname that describes an achievement (ie, "Hajj" for someone who's completed the Hajj) or use a person's kunya. The kunya refers to a person through their first male child, whether born or unborn.

 

For example, Ahmed Al Nazy (any of them, above) is Bu* Mahmoud (father of Mahmoud). Local men of all ages refer to one another using the kunya.

 

If you want to know an Arab national's kunya, ask, "Abu man?" or "Um man?"

 

Factoids:

• Qatari passports list 3-5 generations
• Women don't change their names when they marry; they are always associated with their fathers and their birth family
• It's traditional to give a gift to the child when a baby is named for you
• A child's kunya is Um/Bu (father's name)
• When a woman marries, her kunya changes from Um (her father's name) to Um (her husband's father's name)
• Women reserve use of the kunya for older women
• A man uses the kunya to address all women
• Qataris do not name children for themselves - as long as they're living
• If a son's name and his father's name are the same, it means the father died before the son was born
• Qataris also refer to one another as "sister" (ikhty) or "brother" (ukhooy) or in the case of older women, "aunt" (khalti) or older men, "uncle" ('ammi)
• A person converting to Islam is not required to change his/her name - unless the name conflicts with Islamic teachings/values

All of this seems pretty complicated when you're from a place where children are named for parents, movie stars or according to the latest trends: North West, Apple, River, Dakota.

 

"You mean it's just a pretty sound?" She shakes her head, takes me on a tour around the table: Noor means light. Ashwaq is a deep, enduring kind of love. Miriam comes from the Bible as well as the Koran. Jooahar is a precious jewel and Loolooah means pearl.

-How are Americans different from Qataris?

 

As for me and that troop of little girls:

 

"I am Lucinda bint Charles bin Charles Hedrick.

I am bint Beggy.

I am Um Chris.

I am Um Katie and Um Kimber.

I am Jedda Krissy and Jedda Killian.

I am ikht wo khaalah."

 

"But you can call me Cindi."

 

 

Beautiful Babies, named for family, in thanksgiving and to make a pretty sound.

They call me "Mom."

 

*In Classical Arabic the word for "Father" is Ab and "Mother" is Um. Gulf Arabs say Yubba ("Father") and Yumma ("Mother"). For the kunya, this is shortened to Bu and Um.
 

**The information in this post comes from personal experience, local interaction and a class I took at Fanar called "Swalif" (Conversation).

 

How are Americans different from Qataris?

Al Resala School: inside gate

 

I sit at a rectangular table in a secondary school classroom with ten 16- and 17- year old Qatari girls (Yemen, Libya, Syria also represented).  We're all surprised:  me, as I had no idea what to expect when I was invited to help the students and teachers with English in exchange for Arabic conversation; them because it's "ditch day," youm al masHoob, the last day before final exams.  Only 1/3 of the students is in attendance.  Students do not expect lesson plans or lectures, just a day to read, study, think.

 

The girls did not expect to work this day, and they especially don't expect to work with me.

 

American high schools have ditch day too, I say.

 

"Every Thursday is youm al masHoob here," says Bint al Jameela (the beautiful girl). "You're cute."

 

Each girl speaks local dialect and classical Arabic (fusHa).  All understand colloquial American English.

 

"Last year lessons were taught in English," says Bint al Jameela 2.  "This year everything is in Arabic."  She laughs.  "Plus, we watch Oprah, Dr. Phil, American Idol and listen to American music at home."

 

The building is a familiar structure - two stories of classrooms arranged around a large open common space, tucked behind a high stone wall, secured by thick steel gates.  Girls stand, sit, lean in hallways.  Teachers wear dresses/jackets/loose pants and abaya/sheyla - or not - and walk among students while carrying open laptops.

 

front gate

 

Inside the building students are casually dressed and (generally) do not cover.

 

"What does your name mean?" asks Bint al Jameela 3.

 

I shrug.

 

"You mean it's just a pretty sound?"  She shakes her head, takes me on a tour around the table:  Noor means light.  Ashwaq is a deep, enduring kind of love.  Miriam comes from the Bible as well as the Koran.  Jooahar is a precious jewel and Loolooah means pearl.

 

"Why do you want to speak Arabic?" "Where are you from?" "How old are you?" "What's your phone number?" "Will you go out with us?" "Come to my sister's wedding!"

 

Bint al Jameela 4 takes my picture on her ipad, plays music.  "This artist sings in fusHa," she says.  "It's good for you to listen."

 

We talk about where they'll travel when school is out.  They tell me about Ramadan, which begins (around) July 9, and Islam.  They tease one another, make jokes, laugh, correct my Arabic, and offer instruction:

 

• the little dots above and below Arabic letters are called nota (fusHa) or nikita (local dialect).

• the word for "architect" is a combination of the word for "engineer" and the word for "building": mohandis ma'maahree

• YathHak: to laugh
• saHr: magic
• sahr: easy
• SaHeeH: correct
• raaHah: break (ie, what the teacher is getting while her students are busy with me)

 

We talk about culture, geography, family, boys.  What will you do after you graduate? I ask. Do you drive?  Do you cover completely?

 

I share a photo of my babies.  They are entranced by Katie's dimples, Kimber's smile.  And (ahem), "how old is your son?"

 

my kids

 

The girls are intelligent, well-travelled, motivated, interesting, interested, curious, beautiful.  They are teenagers - and are like teenagers everywhere.  Ma sha allah (God be praised).

 

Bint al Jameela taps my shoulder.  "How are Americans and Qataris different?" she says.

 

I look around the room.  Dark hair, skin, eyes.  Laughter, conversation, agreement, disagreement, interest, intrigue, the quiet one, the outgoing one.

 

"People are people no matter where you live," I say.  "It's just the packaging that's different."

 

Ma sha allah.

Al Binaat wo Ana: In Primary School

How old are you?  I'm seven.

Your chest is red.

Your hair is yellow.

What's your name?

You're old.

Do you Salat?  (Palms down, praying motions.)

Why don't you Salat? (More praying motions.)
 

Little girls circle me, a sea of dark eyes, dark hair and gray, ankle length, vest-style uniforms and crisp white shirts.  Mona, Abeer, Sheikha, Loobya. They run away only to come rushing back, arms open, smiles wide.  "Salaam alaykum wo rahmahu allahi wo barakatu!"  

 

 

My Arabic is not quick enough to respond (or request clarification) before they've moved on to the next subject.  They forgive me wholly, chattering on as though I were participating in the conversation.  I absorb the sweet, embracing, curiosity-filled, wonder-love, adorable little girl-ness - and their Arabic. 

 

There's a game involving hoops, stickers and lines of happy little girls in the bright interior play space.  Windows high above filter dazzling Middle Eastern light into the area.  Laughter echoes against tile floors.  There are English and Arabic words painted on walls in cheerful primary colors.  Pictures of the Emir and HH - and Dora the Explorer - surround us.

 

bright, cheerful, fun play/meeting/walk-across space

 

It's lunchtime for "Al Awwal C" (Grade 1C) at this Independent Primary Girls School in Doha, Qatar.

 

Doha's "Independent" schools are government funded, free for locals and approved others (GCC-nationality government employees, for example).  The language of instruction is Arabic and boys and girls are taught at separate locations.  Men teach boys, women teach girls.  According to local news, women are no longer employed in any capacity at boys' independent schools.  Men are not allowed inside girls' schools.

 

For months I've walked into schools like this one, hoping for a chance to "atakellam wo istama'" (speak and listen).  I've met with principals, vice principals, administrators.  Provided a copy of my passport and a letter of introduction from Fanar (where I'm a student).  Called for appointments, waited in the lobby, gone away, returned, waited, waited and waited some more.

 

Schools (and homes) are hidden behind high concrete and stone walls for privacy reasons.  On this day I drive through the 12-foot high exterior gate.  A second barrier shields the school itself from the parking lot.  A traditionally garbed father paces outside the interior gate while his traditionally dressed pre-pubescent son retrieves the man's young daughter. I step through the door in the inside wall, walk across the empty, flower lined courtyard to the paper covered entrance.  A male security guard averts his eyes as he leaves a tray of tea beside the door.

 

Inside, I expect to be given another phone number.  To wait, leave, come back, wait some more.  Instead, I'm ushered through clear glass doors, beyond the backpack and cubby lined hallway.  I'm introduced to lunch ladies, teachers, a social worker, administrators and helpers.  I shake hands, give - and receive - traditional greetings, hug little girls, speak, listen and learn...in Arabic.

 

Inside this protected area adult women may choose to cover, uncover, wear abayas as jackets, loosen hijabs.  Professional Middle Eastern women wear modest suits, skirts, pants, blazers, sweaters, saris, scarves, flats, heels, with or without makeup, hair clipped or unclipped.  It is impolite to take photos of people here.

 

In a classroom I sit in a child sized chair amidst the most darling 7 year old girls ever.

 

Arabic numeral hopscotch

 

As in any-primary-school-anywhere, little girls fidget, play with their hair, raise hands, talk-too-much, listen perfectly, scowl-frown, laugh-giggle.  They are curious, enthusiastic, fun, funny, silly, serious, happy, sad, playful, sleepy, energetic, tearful, joyful.  Hands up, hands down, stand up, sit down.

 

Teacher holds up a sign, says, "Shoof al biTaqah!" (Look at the card.)

 

The card says - in English: "Sit down."

 

Little girls read.  Little girls sit.

 

First lesson is Arabic - in Doha, Khaleeji dialect speaking children learn Classical Arabic…just like me.  I copy the dictation and a student reads to the class from my notebook.

 

Next is Math - today, students study subtraction using a fluent mix of Arabic and English.  Fun cross curriculum activities involve beads, Dora the Explorer paper, markers and leggos.

 

Then English - there is music and a happy counting song.  A smart board lights up and girls take a virtual trip to the "Beach-Beach-Beach" where they play with a balloon and a bat.  There is laughter, singing, jumping, waving, walking, running.  I am asked to lead the group in "Row-Row-Row-Your-Boat."

 

Later, 7 year old Mona presses her palms together, thumbs up, fingers forward and says to me:

 

iftah issundooq (open the box)

 

                I press her palms open.

 

akl ittoofah (eat the apple)

 

                I take the invisible fruit from her palm and pretend-eat it.

 

ghasl ishahr (wash your hair)

 

                I rub apple-y hands over my hair.

 

(words I don't understand result in exuberant, belly-gripping, glee-filled hilarity)

 

En sha allah, I'll be allowed to return to this joyful place for more speaking, listening and learning.  I need to know the punch line to Mona's story!

 

 

 Read about a Qatari student's educational program: Haya Baya!