“Where are you from?” the old man asked in Arabic as I walked by his metals workshop. “Amrikiya” I replied, “American.” He squinted his eyes and ran back into his shop.
“Fuck” I muttered to myself. I knew what that was all about. My sister, of course was oblivious.
“Could you at least pretend to give a damn about things and walk next to me?!” I asked. “Everyone is fucking staring.”
I was about 4 paces behind her, walking uphill on the outskirts of the small town that my father’s family hails from in Hezbollah controlled territory in southern Lebanon. We may as well have been nude.
As she was in the, “I am woman, hear me roar” mode, slowing down wasn’t an option and it wasn’t going to happen. “Stop being so paranoid, you’re always so paranoid, “she snapped. The Lebanese version of the Jewish American Princess.
I’d spent some time in the Middle East as a young man in the military and later as a private soldier and the last thing I wanted was to stick out like a sore thumb and have some militia type stop me, look at my passport and ask a million and one questions about my work in other Arab countries.
A Renault Kangoo occupied by two men drove slowly by us, stopped, and then backed up. It was an unmarked Hezbollah security patrol. The bearded driver stayed in the vehicle, while the clean-shaven passenger got out and asked us for our passports and inquired as to what we were doing and who we were staying with. I dropped a few names and pointed in the direction of my aunt’s house. Satisfied with my answers; he apologized for the inconvenience and let us go.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. It could have been Palestinians, in which case I would have been fucked.
I got on my sister’s case, but she wasn’t going to admit she was out of line. “You’re just paranoid…”
“If she had just done as all women here do and walked behind me, this wouldn’t have happened”, I thought. I blamed her, not the stupid culture that made a problem out of nothing in the first place.
After getting back to my aunt’s house I was famished and tried to make myself something to eat.
“La, la, la, la, la!!!!” (No, no, no, no, no!!!) My aunts were in hysterics. I had almost broken that unbreakable rule and intruded on their territory, thus negating their purpose in life. I had to sit in the living room and wait patiently while they made my snack and waited on me hand and foot. Laundry? Nope, I couldn’t do my own laundry, either. Pick up my dish after a meal at another relative’s home to take it to the sink? You’d have thought I pulled my pants off. As a guy I couldn’t shake hands with a woman that wasn’t a close blood relative. And Lebanese are fairly liberal when it comes to this kind of thing…
When I look back at my travels throughout the Middle East, I realize that as a man, I had my place defined for me just as much as the women had their place defined for them. It can be rightfully said that men there have it much better than women, but to my westernized sensibilities, this comes at too dear a price.
I can’t help but feel that as men in Muslim cultures have made cages for women, they’ve forged chains for themselves in the process.