Article January 14, 2002 Issue

Journal notes from the Middle East

By Wendy Winegar

MY HUSBAND , Richard, and I have lived in and out of the Middle East for the past several years. Initially, living in company-provided housing on a residential compound designed to approximate a small California desert community mitigated the sharp cultural change from life in the United States. It comfortably housed up to 10,000 predominantly Western expatriate workers and their families. We had a grocery store, two Americansystem schools, a golf course, a hobby center, a post office, riding stables, tennis courts, and several Olympic-sized pools. We lived in a stucco townhouse, landscaped with fragrant plumeria trees, birds of paradise, hibiscus, a large palm tree, and a small lawn. With double security checkpoints and guards to check the cars and occupants driving in and out, we called our compound a "minimum-security country club."

At first, the adjustment to cultural differences was amusing. I was required to dress conservatively, loosely covered from the neck, past elbows to ankles—with no bright colors. And this also applied to walking in and out of my own front door, as I learned during our first furniture delivery, when I wore what any normal person (from my part of the world) would wear on a 125ºF day with 90 percent humidity—a tank top and shorts. I couldn't understand why the seven men—all third-country nationals (Indian, Bangaladeshi, Pakistani, etc.)—were overtly grinning and wide-eyed every time they saw me. A day or so later, on an orientation tour, I was handed a dress-code flyer.

I was allowed to drive within the confines of the compound. But if I were caught going over the speed limit, my husband would be docked three days' pay. He was responsible for me. His name was plastered across my passport. I couldn't leave the country without his written permission, and our employer held our passports, so neither one of us could leave without our employer's permission. If I took pictures of forbidden subjects—of women in their abayas, of mosques, of oil refineries—or was caught dressed incorrectly at the wrong time and place, my husband could lose his job, and we'd be sent home. My husband was even counseled by his Arab co-workers not to sign a form allowing me to handle furniture matters, because, according to the law, everything belonged to him. As a wife, I didn't own anything and shouldn't be allowed to take charge of it.

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