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Raziqueh Hussain |
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| Miss Adventure: Of maiden voyages in the Middle East |
From the oil fields of Basra to the blue tiles of Esfahan, from the stunning mountains of Salalah to Aladdin’s treasures in Damascus, our correspondent RAZIQUEH HUSSAIN travelled the Middle-East in 2009, looking for stories behind the headlines. She shares stories of its gracious people — namely her clan — women.
Iraq? Now, that’s a controversial topic.
I did a series of reports on my experiences of travelling in Iraq and most of the responses that those articles garnered were: what is it like there? How are the people? Will it be open to travel in my lifetime? I’m not an authority on that front but would like to share one experience that made me realise how close we are to each other and every Iraqi asks the same questions about many of us.
I was in Baghdad in the Kadhimiya district right outside the gates of the shrine of Imam Musa Kazim and Mohammed Taqi, the 7th and 9th Imams of the Shias, respectively. There was a promenade where crowds were milling and the fact that I had an opportunity to meet Iraqis face-to-face excited the journalist in me and I ventured out into the open, despite warnings of dire consequences of leaving the premises without my group. The lure of the bookshops around was irresistible.
The books were in Arabic and I cursed myself for not taking those Arabic classes seriously as a kid, though I pride myself for being a multi-lingual.
I saw a lady cloaked in an abaya approach me. Iraqi women are incredible; with most of their men folk either missing or dead it’s the women who bear the burdens of daily life.
Now, here she was, a foot away from me, staring straight into my eyes without fear or hesitation. She carried a book under her arm, and as she smiled and nodded her head and she pushed it towards me. I didn’t understand what was happening but as soon as I saw the cover, it became clear. It was an Arabic dictionary. I heard the loudspeaker calling out the name of my group and turned and as soon as I looked back she was gone.
It’s been a year now and every time I pick up that book, I wonder what we could have shared and said had we spoken to each other as two people, or two women for that matter, whose lives are so different from each other. But on that Wednesday afternoon, in the street of strife-torn Baghdad, in the middle of a war zone, we were exactly the same. |
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| Walking the streets of Damascus is like getting into the pages of the Arabian Nights. The souks in the old town are full of lovely wares. I bought sequined Damascene tablecloth, delicious dark chocolates and curly Aladdin slippers. Primarily in Syria to visit the shrine of Sayyeda Zainab in Damsacus, I also made my way to the interiors of this country which is a civilisation in itself.
There are nice little towns and hamlets surrounding the river Euphrates. Right in the middle of the desert is Deir-ez-Zor where there are remains of various civilisations. Using my barely functional Arabic to convince the taxi driver, he agreed, but on second thoughts it was too much money for him to refuse. He knew nothing about where we wanted to go and the fact that we were planning to come back late petrified him.
Qala’at ar-Rahb was the first place we went to and the driver wasn’t impressed with the smelly ruins. He thought we were crazy to have brought him this far and was genuinely worried about landing up in Baghdad.
Ruins of Mari were sitting there exactly where they have been for the last 5000 years. I went about exploring and tried to imagine the mud bricks being a Mesopotamian palace in all its grandeur. In the process, I got scared by a barking dog and scampered back.
Dura Europas is a large Roman town near the river. While exploring, a jovial Syrian woman stormed down the road to sell us tickets to enter. She didn’t have change so I got in for free. |
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One of the most powerful experiences of my trip to Iran in 2009 was a visit to the martyr’s cemetery. The tombs seem to go on forever and each one had a portrait of the dead man and the red and green Iranian flags flying high. A steady wind blew across adding to the serene scene, stirring emotions. The place was bustling with people all mourning for a loved one as if it just happened yesterday and not 20 years ago.
The cemetery had a quiet dignity and I felt awkward standing there staring at people as if interfering in their lives. I met two families sitting on the tomb sharing food. One of them insisted that I join them. The sons were buried side by side and that’s how they had met. A few meters away, as the long white tombs stretched endlessly, a single figure interrupted the rhythm. It was a lady in a chador sitting on her son’s tomb reciting the Quran — a symbol of maternal sorrow.
Further down there were marble slabs without tombs or flags or photos. These marked bodies of unidentified heroes. Mothers whose sons were never found came here to mourn — and they were the largest group present.
One of them crossed the tomb, looked me in the eye and told me, “We are proud. We are united and we are strong. When you go home, please tell the truth.” |
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| Driving through the desert dunes of an Omani beach, I saw nesting sea turtles. Surprise. These huge sea turtles swim away as far as India, southern Africa and Australia during the year, but come back to nest in the same beach they were born at in Oman. I saw about a dozen, and once they got to the beach, they would let you come up and watch them dig a big hole, lay their eggs, and then bury them.
The mountains in Salalah have a very spiritual atmosphere. This is enhanced by the tombs of prophets including, set almost on the peak, that of the Prophet Ayub — whose story in the Quran still reflects the cattle, goat and camel culture that is found in these mountains today.
The mountains are famous for the Frankincense tree that is associated with a lot of culture and tradition. As soon as I landed, I met a lady who welcomed me with smoke from the small pebble size pieces of bukhoor. The fragrance still lingers on my dress even after a couple of washes. I like frankincense so much that I was desperate for a pack. Not knowing much about the place, I asked the receptionist at the desk and I suppose, my friend who welcomed me overheard our conversation. The next morning, I found a small box full of Frankincense at my doorstep.
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| As the New Year dawns and we close the chapter of another year gone by, I can only say a small prayer for each of these women, whom I met once and possibly, will never do so again. I’m guessing that they may not even read this. It doesn’t matter. To me, it is right to give them the honour and express gratitude. Looking forward to my next miss adventure. Till then… Happy New Year. |
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| E-mail : raziqueh@khaleejtimes.com |
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