Douse yourself in eyeliner! Now, for a Gulf Wedding.

It is a result of both the great fear of Shannon Heit and her preoccupation with my life as well as my current state of exhaustion that I send forth this blog. It's been around for awhile. It just needed some proofreading, a task which seemed like it might trump fewer brain cells than finishing this scholarship application.

For those of you who might wonder how and why I went to Qatar, it is a semi-complicated story involving the Ritz Carlton, grammar lessons, and a reckless streak of spontaneity, but suffice it to say that my dear friend Sharon bought me a ticket to Doha one fine Saturday morning in Boston.

While I was still teaching there, we had taken on a very friendly and charming student from Qatar named Hamad. He became sort of a dual pal/father figure to us. On breaks from discussing why he really should use modal verbs in everyday situations, our talks went a little something like this:

Hilary: So Hamad, it's better to say 'I would like a Caprese salad' rather than 'Bring me Caprese salad' because..."
Hamad: And Hilary! Why aren't you married?
Hilary: Well....
Hamad: Marriage is joy!
Hilary: Well...There's a lot of things I want to do. I'm young. Yeah...stuff.
Hamad: What young? You. Are not. Young! Time for children! Time for husband!

And so on. I know he only looks out for my best interests. Anyway, he talked about Doha so often and so lovingly that one day he told us "just come, and you will see what I say." And that is what we did.

Probably one of the most intense cultural experience that Sharon and I had was attending a Qatari wedding. Hamad's wife, Sara, took us one night, as Hamad was leaving for a few days in Morocco. When we told one of Hamad's sisters that we were going to a wedding, she got very excited, saying that we would see things we didn't know were here on earth. When I asked her what to wear for such an other-worldly affair she replied, "Oh, you know, maybe some glitter, and something...nice."

Now by glitter, I thought of the fairy dust that college girls rub into their cheekbones before heading out to a frat party; shimmery, but not on par with "disco ball." Sharon and I decided to go to a mall to find something "nice" to wear, since neither of us had packed anything besides loose, modest trousers and long-sleeved shirts. Apparently, we had been told, Gulf weddings are actually two separate parties usually held at luxury hotels: one for the groom, one for the bride. And because the parties were also gender exclusive, the women were permitted to remove the ubiquitous abaya (a long, black, flowing robe that Muslim women of the Gulf region wear over street clothes whenever they are in public or in the presence of a man who isn't immediate family or their husband) during the festivities. I thought I'd choose something dark and not too short, something that wouldn't attract a lot of attention and that I could wear again. Practical. "Nice."

Hamad and Sara picked us up around 9, and Sharon and I trotted out to meet him, covering ourselves in abaya so as not to attract any unwanted attention. When we got in, Sara lifted up her veil so we could see the heavy make-up that she had artistically applied earlier. While many young women in the Gulf have begun to wear a lot of make-up in public (eyeliner is important, I guess, if the eyes are the only part of your body that you show), Sara usually heeds to the traditional Qatari-Islamic values of modesty and covers her whole face when she goes out. But not tonight. Tonight her eyes were meticulously encircled in black eyeliner and highlighted by about four shades of shadow, her hair (which was streaked in subtle shades of red) was sleekly swept up on the crown of her head.

Hamad drove us to the hall, and when we got out I noticed that Sara had TICKETS to the wedding. Outside the hotel, there was a small and fluctuating sea of women in their abayas, chatting on mobiles, trying to make arrangements for their friends to come, no doubt.

The first thing I saw when I walked into the entryway of the hall was a voluptuous girl staring intensely into a mirror, attempting to adjust her bountiful cleavage within the confines of her heavily sequined, too-tight evening gown. Her abaya was nowhere in sight. It was a rather awkward thing to see, as up to that point we had only seen women in their abaya, unless we were guests in a woman's private home, and had been given several spiels about the importance of modesty in Qatari culture.

Sara handed an official-looking woman our tickets, and we relinquished our bags up for inspection. Our phones and cameras, and anything that remotely looked like it could be used to photograph the scantily-clad women accumulating behind us were confiscated for the evening.

The moment we got past security, I immediately felt as though someone had wired my brain to a virtual video game. The hall was enormous, maybe about half the size of a football field. Silvery curtains adorned the walls, and an ornate runway ran the length of the entire room, leading up to what could be deemed the "high throne;" a large platform created a T at the end of the runway, marked by two golden chairs and a good deal of lavish drapings and decor.

But what was most shocking were the women themselves. Most of the women, at least those in their mid-40s and younger, were wearing long, tight-fitting, chest-hoisting evening gowns. Forget the Red Carpet; Los Angeles has never seen such a decadent array of elaborate trains, embroidery, and beehive hair-dos. It seemed like at least half the party was trying to mimic a cross between Dolly Parton and Amy Winehouse (except our Sara, of course, who was the picture of class in a white, asymetrical evening gown). As I followed Sara and her friends through the tables, I realized that "nice" had probably meant a $15,000 evening gown imported from either Italy or Lebanon paired with five-inch heels, and that "glitter" had meant, well, disco ball. As I followed Sara through the sequin-strewn tables and scrutinizing, coal-lined gazes, I felt the plainness of my knee-length maroon cotton, the girlishness of my simple ballet flats. When I sat down, I covered myself in the abaya hoping that these high-so ladies would think I was a modest and considerate foreigner demonstrating respect for the local culture rather than just a bad dresser.

Just as shocking for me was how many of the women were behaving. In the public eye, Qatari women seem quite contained; they don't use much body motion when speaking, and certainly never speak loudly, and never, ever remove their abaya or hijab (the veil that covers their hair). However, tonight all pretenses of demureness and modesty seemed to have been cast to the side along with the abaya. Women were talking animatedly among themselves, analyzing other women's clothes, and eating like it was the Last Supper. There was live music--a traditional and very popular Qatari singer and her band, and let me tell you, the guests danced for hours up on that runway. Women in rhinestone-studded spikes were swiveling to and fro, some of them swinging their waist-length hair in circles (somewhat reminiscent of the head-banging I engaged in at middle school dances, albeit a more graceful and seductive version). Sometimes groups of older women would take control of the situation, displaying more methodical dances that looked like they had they their origins in the village rather than the clubs. These women seemed to protest the pageantry of the youth, keeping their abaya on and wearing Bedouin-style masks called batoolas . http://my-islamic-way.blogspot.com/2009/08/batoola.html

Finally: The Entrance of The Bride. After about two hours of dancing, the lights dimmed, and a spotlight shown on the black curtains hanging over the end of the runway (opposite from the throne). At the culmination of a bombastic drum roll, the bride emerged at last, clad in all the fantastic make-up, skirts, veils and various other gilded trappings reminiscent of the Barbie Dream Bride of my youth.

It took her about 10 minutes to walk the runway, and she was bawling the whole time ("From emotion," Sara clarified).

Towards the end of her grand and solemn promenade, her close friends and family members hiked up their skirts, climbed up on the catwalk, and began throwing money at her. Sharon looked at me, made aghast by the Western connotations of throwing money at a beautiful woman. Yet again, Sara clarified that this tradition represents wishes for good luck and a prosperous future, leaving me semi-wishing that I, too, would some day stand around in a gorgeous designer dress, adrift in an ever-thickening cloud of cold, hard cash.

After about another half an hour of dancing and money-throwing, the bride was seated on one of the thrones for a prolonged round of photo opps. There were TVs located all over the hall and a video camera strategically positioned onstage so that everyone could watch her smile for the cameras. Suddenly, the song changed , and Sara started to cover up in her abaya.

"This song means 'Man, you may come and take your bride now,'" she explained. "Now the husband and his family come."

The groom, accompanied by his brothers, father, and new brother-in-law emerged from the curtains and faced a room of at least 200 women who had only moments before been pulling moves that would put Beyonce to shame. Now these women were seated, mostly, and shrouded in their abayas. The bride's family had covered her in veils and were standing around her, now a shapeless heap of white tulle. The mother uncovered the daughter after exchanging blessings with her new son-in-law, and thus commenced their life as a married couple. And another bout of photos and dancing.

The dramatic revelation of the bride is quite interesting; a clear statement that this is her day to be the focal point, as she is the only one who can be physically seen by the groom in a room (read: world) of so many other women. After they leave together, down the runway, the guests can once again resume merriment in whatever garb they choose.

After I had eaten a theoretical physics textbook's weight in babaganoush and sampled five flavors of mousse, Sara decided that the party was losing its steam and suggested we take off. Sharon and I adjusted our abaya and made our way past the energetic young fashion moguls, the Phillipino waitstaff, and the old ladies who had relinquished daintiness to the bygone winds of youth and begun feasting directly from the buffet serving bowls.

Suddenly I was unplugged from the virtual world of decadence and lost inhibitions. It was 1 a.m., the air was cool, thin and still, the infant skyline of Doha signaling us across the sprawling highways and developing plots of desert. We were once again silently arranging our hijabs, scurrying like dark birds back to our flock.

Gulf Greetings

I haven't had much time to blog since we arrived in Doha last week on the 26th. Our former student, Hamad, and his family have kept us unbelievable occupied. We've been to the new Islamic Museum of Art in Doha, the desert dunes, the beach, the Qtel headquarters where Hamad arranged a meeting with his boss (who is also apparently a sheikh?) for us, and a wedding. And of course, tons of the high-end shopping malls that are popping up all over around here.

Now we're in Abu Dhabi with another student, leaving for Dubai for 3 nights tomorrow. Hopefully I'll have a moment for a more in-depth blog soon.