Guests of the Sheik: An Ethnography of an Iraqi Village (6 page)

led by Abdul Emir, Selma told me, reading aloud their names

from the caption and thus demonstrating her education, for—

although I did not realize it then—she was the only woman in

the room who could read fluently. Selma added that Abdul

Emir had died soon after the picture was taken, and Hamid

had succeeded to the sheikship. Four portraits of Hamid, taken

at various periods in his life, attested to his present eminence.

Selma now began to rummage in a wardrobe, the only other

large piece of furniture in the room. There were two chests

with padlocks and, against the far wall, mats, blankets, rugs

and long narrow pillows were piled nearly to the ceiling.

“For the mudhif,” said Kulthum, following my eye. “Many

tribesmen stay at the mudhif when they come to market, and

many strangers stop here too.”

Tradition decrees, Bob had said, that any guest may expect

food and a bed for three days without any questions asked.

Since these tribal guest houses are the only hotels on the bare

southern plain, two or three guests an evening was usual. But

from the pile of bedding it looked as though Sheik Hamid

could easily sleep thirty or forty people.

Selma, who had gone out, returned now with a tiny cup of

coffee which she presented to me on a green cut-glass plate. I

sipped it slowly and set it down on the plate. Selma took it

from me and handed it out the door to a waiting servant.

After the coffee, conversation lagged. A baby began to cry,

a thin baby with horrid-looking red sores on its face and neck,

and the mother pushed aside her
foota
, or chin scarf, pulled

out her breast and gave it to the child. The women regarded

me fixedly. I smiled. They smiled. A very small girl with

tousled hair and tiny gold earrings got up and touched my

skirt, then buried her head in her hands in confusion. The

women laughed. I laughed.

For some reason this set off a convulsion among the

children, who all along had been fidgeting but subsiding at

slaps from the nearest woman. But now they were stirred to

greater pummeling and quarreling—so much so that Selma

rose, took a stick and set about them in earnest.

“Out, out, out!” she cried, and several ran out with mock

screams and yelps of pain.

“They are so difficult, children,” said Selma, and sat down

near me again.

She offered me another cigarette and I declined. When was

lunch, I wondered? I had been in the room more than an hour

and simply could not think of another thing to say, even if I

had been able to remember any more Arabic. I crossed my

ankles; a dozen pair of eyes followed the movement. I

uncrossed my ankles; there was a short silence. My hostess

flung herself into the breach and asked me how much my

nylon stockings had cost, whether my skirt was ready-made

and if my earrings had come from my family or were a present

from my husband. I unscrewed them and handed them around;

one of the women scratched to see if the gold would come off.

All of these questions took time and had to be repeated again

and again so I could understand. When my faltering replies

came out in Arabic the women could not help laughing, but,

out of politeness, they did so behind their abayahs.

I asked Selma how much her ankle bracelets cost.

“Forty pounds,” she said proudly, “for one,” and pulled out

the pin so that it could be taken off and examined. It must

have weighed at least half a pound. “All gold,” she added.

The women began pointing out her individual necklaces

and bracelets, telling me the cost and the Arabic name of each.

Later I estimated that Selma wore on her person at least $1000

worth of gold. She said that the pieces of jewelry had been

presents from her father and from the sheik, and repeated,

“It’s mine, my own.”

This was literally true, I found. A woman’s jewelry is her

own insurance against disaster, and the community may take

action against men who attempt to seize their women’s gold.

At the door a great commotion was under way, as a

maidservant tried to break through the crowd, stepping over

women and children to bring me a copper basin and ewer,

soap and a towel. She indicated that no, I was not to put my

hands in the basin, she was to pour the water over my hands.

Slight giggles at my clumsiness were silenced by a look from

a tall girl with many gold teeth, who introduced herself as

Alwiyah, the sheik’s oldest daughter.

After I had finished washing, Selma rose with Alwiyah and

handed me my abayah.

“It is time for lunch,
ahlan wusahlan,”
she said.

In my abayah I followed Alwiyah and Selma across her

little private courtyard to another larger room where a table,

covered with a white cloth, was laden with plates of food.

Selma shut the door ostentatiously but the children and

women clustered around the windows to watch. One chair was

drawn up to the table. “Am I to eat alone?”

Selma and Alwiyah nodded and smiled.

“Oh, no,” I protested, “this is too much—you must eat with

me.”

Selma and Alwiyah exchanged startled glances, whispered

together and then Selma called for two more chairs. She sat

down opposite me and Alwiyah sat at the side. Selma shook

with inner laughter, and the crowd at the windows roared, for

what reason I could not fathom. When, afterward, I had sat on

a mat to eat and felt foolish myself, I realized why the women

had found Selma’s and Alwiyah’s first venture at table

amusing. Traditionally, to eat alone, served by one’s host, is

an honor, but Selma, sensing my discomfort, was doing things

my way. She nibbled a bit of meat, taking a spoonful of this

and that, enjoying herself and the audience reaction hugely.

Alwiyah did not; she smiled regularly and made polite

remarks, but was apparently too bound by custom to eat a

mouthful.

The table was covered with ten or twelve different dishes:

kebab and grilled kidneys; a salad of hard-boiled eggs,

potatoes and beets; half a chicken in tomato sauce; mashed

greens; two kinds of rice, one topped with a crisp crust, one

mixed with nuts and raisins, chopped carrots and bits of

chicken liver. There was a pitcher of watered yogurt to drink,

and for dessert I was offered a soup plate of heavy white

cornstarch pudding with an odd, but not unappetizing, flavor.

“It is rose water,” said Alwiyah.

Every time I paused, Alwiyah would urge me to eat more,

but I finally laid down my spoon.

“You have eaten nothing,” scolded Alwiyah, and Selma put

another kidney on my plate. But I was determined, and in spite

of haranguing from the women (a matter of form, I discovered

later) I stood up and we returned to the bedroom where the

servant brought the washbasin and ewer again.

The crowd had already gathered for the second round, and

the air seemed more relaxed now as I successfully finished

washing. We were just beginning to nod and smile at each

other again when the sound of a man’s voice outside sent the

women and children scurrying away like a flock of frightened

chickens. I was left alone in the room with Selma, who

hurriedly donned her abayah and ran out the door, leaving me

alone in the room.

I had no idea what was going on, or what was expected of

me. Should I, too, don my abayah? Should I leave? Should I

get under the bed? Before I had time to rise, Selma was back,

rummaging in the cupboard for a heavy rifle and a full

cartridge belt, which she handed out the door. The man’s

voice said something else, and she returned to me.

“The sheik and your husband are going partridge hunting,”

she said. “Do you want to go home now or stay until they

come back? Do stay,” she added.

I wasn’t sure what arrangements were involved, but staying

seemed the easiest course of action. The man’s footsteps died

away and in a moment the women and children trooped back

in and Selma took off her abayah once more.

“Ahlan, ahlan wusahlan,”
they repeated.

The silence was broken by the arrival of the servant with a

tray of tea glasses. Selma served me herself, and then offered

tea to Kulthum and to Bahiga, the other wives of the sheik.

Both were much older than Selma: Bahiga light-skinned with

big wide-open gray eyes, her face beginning to show wrinkles,

Kulthum wrinkled and old enough to be Selma’s mother.

“Where is your mother?” Kulthum asked. I told her she was

in America far away, and when Selma repeated this in a better

accent, the women clucked in sympathy.

“Poor girl,” they said. “Poor child.”

To be alone without any of one’s womenfolk was clearly

the greatest disaster which could befall any girl. I rummaged

in my wallet … unfortunately no picture of my mother, but I

came on one of Bob and handed it to Kulthum. She seized on

it and passed it around to the other women, who examined the

picture from every angle and finally pronounced him
hilu

[handsome].

“But why didn’t he let your mother come with you?”

persisted Kulthum. I was at a loss to explain, but Selma

interrupted with another question.

“Do you have any children inside you—here?” she pointed

to her stomach.

“No.”

“No?”

I said I had only been married for six months.

“Enshallah
, you will have one soon,” said Kulthum, and

patted my hand. “Children are gifts of Allah. I have five sons

and two daughters, thanks be to God.”

“How many do you have?” I asked the other wife, Bahiga.

“Five living,” she said. “Two died.”

“Selma?”

“Two sons, three daughters,” she replied.

“When you have children, you will not feel so alone

without your mother,” prophesied Kulthum.

The room was small and getting progressively more stuffy

and smoke-filled by the moment, for the population, although

it changed regularly, never numbered under twenty. Women

were coming and going all the time. A few would get up and

leave, those remaining would shift position and more would

come in, greet me, and sit down. I had the feeling that runners

had been all around the settlement, and women were coming

from every house to look me over. I was suddenly overcome

with weariness and my face felt hot. Selma looked tired too,

but the women sat on, smoking, nodding, and murmuring,

“Nitwanness
[we are here to enjoy ourselves].” I looked at my

watch; it was after six but I knew I could not leave until the

men came home.

I cleared my throat and told Selma the browned rice at

lunch had been very good. How had she prepared it?

Selma looked pleased and began to explain.

“Eat more rice, Beeja,” advised Kulthum. “You are too

thin.”

“Yes, yes,” cackled an old woman, “does she have any

breasts at all?” grabbing her own dropped bosom and then

pointing at me. There was a loud burst of laughter.

“I certainly do have breasts,” I began indignantly, but

Selma, always the polite hostess, was ahead of me.

“It is pretty to be thin,” she said.

“No, no, Selma! It is better to be fat.”

“You are very pretty.”

Selma stood up unexpectedly, took in both hands the loose

roll of flesh around her waist and said, “You call this hilu

[attractive]? No. I eat too much rice.”

She looked to me for confirmation or denial. I was torn;

what should I say—no, Selma, you are pretty, ergo I am ugly

and thin and have no breasts, or yes, I agree you are too fat

and you should go on a diet immediately? Fortunately the

women intervened before I even had time to form my sentence

in Arabic.

“No, no, Selma, you are pretty,” they said, and one added,

“without all that rice you wouldn’t have such fine breasts and

such a good big behind,” illustrating her meaning quite

graphically. Selma tossed her head and laughed and sat down

again.

“That,” shouted another, “is why Haji Hamid loves you

more than Kulthum and Bahiga.”

I looked around quickly, but Kulthum and Bahiga had gone.

The conversation seemed about to take an interesting turn

when the servant girl banged on the screen, hissed something

to Selma I did not catch, grinned at me and wiped her face

with her dusty black veil, all at the same time.

Selma rose. I’m sure she too was relieved. “The men are

here and your husband wants you,” she said. “The servant will

go with you, because it is getting dark.”

I donned my abayah, trying to wrap it around me as the

women did, but not succeeding very well. Selma said kindly:

“Soon you will know how to wear the abayah.”

“Don’t they wear the abayah in America?” asked a woman

in surprise.

“No, no,” said Selma.

“Why not?” she said to me.

Again I could think of no reply but Selma was saying

something to the woman.

“Then why does she wear it here?” persisted the woman.

“Because she is polite,” said Selma, and nudged me gently