Last week it rained for almost a week here in Qatar. Drivers, confused, got into accidents (”Why is water falling from the sky? How strange. I shall drive faster than usual!”), the endless Doha construction didn’t help either (”I am a pothole and covered in water, therefore I am invisible to man and their cars, cars will fall into me and I will block traffic for hours!”), while some people like me stayed indoors and relished at the sight of rain after almost a year of sun (”Wow, it’s raining!”).

And then my blog got spammed, causing my webhost to shut this blog down. I got off with 72 hours of shutdown and a second warning, and I am angry at spam, I am, I am.

The temperature then dropped, sometimes down to 7°C at night, resulting in cough and colds and panic sweater-shopping. We were given one measly heater, which doesn’t heat much unless you stand 2mm next to it. I have been cornered to the room by the cold, where I work covered with two comforters, a cup of tea beside me, music from my iPod, several books to read, and the useless electric heater pitifully trying to prove its worth.

So to summarize, winter has arrived in Qatar. Except for the spam thing.

I promised that I would write more often, so I probably will.

Probably.

Currently listening to:
Pinback
Summer in Abaddon

After a weekend (or rather, weeknight- since Friday’s the only free day) of Indian food, dancing, drinking, playing pool and being in the company of wonderful people, I was brought harshly back to reality this morning in City Center’s Carrefour.

I was doing my groceries with the enthusiasm of one walking through the valley in the shadow of death, looking forlornly at the equally forlorn-looking tomatoes when a high-pitched scream pierced the air. At first I thought it was a child who had slipped while playing, but then a huge voice in Arabic joined in. Everyone at the vegetable section craned their necks toward the commotion. Several meters away, standing by the cashiers, was a father and son. I stood on tiptoe just in time to see the huge man, dressed in the traditional dishdasha (a long white robe), raise his hand and bring it down against the side of the little boy’s head. The boy screamed and tried to run away, but the man grabbed his hair and literally shook him, all the while screaming and smacking the boy’s face.

There was a collective gasp among us. Most of the grocery shoppers had reverted to their mother tongues, shouting at the man to stop, but we were all too far for him to hear; the child’s wailing was so loud, a horrible sound. A French woman, holding an iceberg lettuce, let out an anguished cry. The little boy’s white headdress had fallen to the floor, giving the father a better grip on his hair.

I have never seen anyone beat up his child in public. I’m not talking firm slapping, I’m talking beating. And if I told you what happened next, you would never believe it as well. Nothing happened. Our protests fell on deaf ears. The security guards, standing by the cashier, were looking at most uncomfortable, but did not dare to approach or tell the man off. The boy’s own mother never even moved away from her shopping cart to aid him, not saying a word. The cashier had her head bowed, intently ringing up purchase after purchase.

The father finally stopped, looking disgusted, and the boy stood sniffling next to him, holding his face, rubbing his eyes.

“If that happened in Europe,” someone angrily said, “that man would be in jail by now.”

“Ca fait mal au coeur, mais vraiment. Vraiment. C’est une honte! Barbare!” the French woman, visibly upset, pitched in.

A Filipina muttered to her husband: “What could we have done? If we had so much as touched the man’s arm, we’d be the ones in jail. Remember, this is not our country.”

***

A couple of months ago, a Nepali student, in transit at the Bahrain airport, was held by the police for protesting against the inhumane way Gulf Air staff were treating a group of deported Nepali workers waiting for their flight back to Nepal. They took his passport, detained him, then loaded him into a van and took him to a hospital for a drug and alcohol test. He was finally released after agreeing to pay a fine.

The incident at Carrefour is something that can happen anywhere in the world, unfortunately. Although here in the Gulf, the painful reality is that a foreigner does not have the complete confidence to speak up or take action against these atrocities. The people who want to speak up dare not to: they fear losing their jobs, being sent to jail, being deported. And the people who have the power to help just don’t. The worst thing is that your rights depend on your nationality, on the colour of your skin, on your accent. Your education and upbringing does not matter. It sounds very backward for a country on the rise, but that’s how it is.

Remember, Qatar is a country that requires an exit permit from employers or sponsors before one is allowed to leave the country.

Outside my window, there are endless rows of buildings being constructed. They hold the promise of more jobs, of a bigger economy, of a powerful future. It reeks of wealth, money, progress. Yet when it comes to decency and humanity, there is still a lot left to be desired.

Currently listening to:
The Burning Paris
Half-Truths & Indiscretions – The Anthology