Rachel Hajar's Blog: My Life in Doha - Posts Tagged "my-life-in-doha"
Book excerpt from My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality by Rachel Hajar
Chapter 15
Ramadan: A Special Month
There is one month in the Islamic calendar that I grew to cherish. That month is called Ramadan, the holy month of fasting. During the entire month of Ramadan, Muslims are religiously forbidden to eat, drink, and engage in marital intimacy from dawn until sunset. Ramadan is a month full of rituals. I found the practices and activities associated with it spiritually inspiring. I have come to value and treasure the month of Ramadan.
I knew nothing about the Islamic fast before coming to Qatar and my first Ramadan in Qatar was in the summer. I had been slightly disappointed that the name of the month—Ramadan—had nothing to do with the particular time of year that it occurred. I had romantically linked the month of Ramadan with the scorching heat of a desert summer. Ramadan moved, like Easter in the Christian calendar.
Since that first Ramadan in summer, I have spent all subsequent Ramadans in Qatar, the sequence of its arrival looping cyclically backwards, like a clock moving in counterclockwise direction because it came eleven days earlier each year in relation to the Gregorian calendar. The perceived effect, at least for me, was of time slowing down, as if one billion Muslims fasting reined in a world fast hurtling forwards.
Adhan al-maghreb, the call to prayer at dusk, announced iftar, which was broken by eating dates in imitation of the Prophet Muhammad. I too, found that eating dates was the best way to break fast—it delivered instant calories. Iftar could be one big meal or broken into a light meal [taken before prayer] and main meal [eaten after prayer].
Ramadan was a time of intense prayer. After iftar, people went to the mosque to pray, usually from 7:30 to 8:30 p.m., or longer, before setting off to socialize. Women prayed in a partitioned section of the mosque, separated from the men. Each night during Ramadan, special prayer services and Qur’an readings were held in some local mosques. Qur’an readings from the holy city of Mecca were televised. Once, my family was amazed to see me watching and listening to those televised readings. I loved listening to Qur’an readings. I found the rhythm and cadence soothing and touching. Even though I did not understand Arabic, I found that the classical Arabic of the Qur’an when read by a good reader with a good voice was beautiful, for the Qur’an has rhythmic and poetic sounds.
In late afternoons, usually about an hour before iftar, I usually found myself sitting in my study, musing and reading by the window while quietly enjoying my view of blue sky and admiring my plants and flowers in the veranda. In the late afternoon breeze, the slender branches of jasmine and hibiscus swayed gracefully while the azaleas and violets fluttered tremulously. Outside, the date-palm leaves rustled. The world was quiet. Those moments, those minutes before iftar at almost sunset time, with the light mellow, birds flying and twittering past, and shadows starting to form, were beautiful.
As any Muslim will tell you, fasting is hard. I know. Yet Muslims also regret the passing of the special month of Ramadan. Until you deny yourself water, food, and other worldly pleasures from dawn to dusk, for a whole month, you cannot appreciate the ordeal. Ramadan is a challenge that tests willpower and depletes energy but it also affirms the strength and character of the individual and his place in the community. There is a certain satisfaction in being able to deny yourself food and drink and an excitement in anticipating iftar.
Once the fast is broken, food tastes so good, and water so sweet.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
Ramadan: A Special Month
There is one month in the Islamic calendar that I grew to cherish. That month is called Ramadan, the holy month of fasting. During the entire month of Ramadan, Muslims are religiously forbidden to eat, drink, and engage in marital intimacy from dawn until sunset. Ramadan is a month full of rituals. I found the practices and activities associated with it spiritually inspiring. I have come to value and treasure the month of Ramadan.
I knew nothing about the Islamic fast before coming to Qatar and my first Ramadan in Qatar was in the summer. I had been slightly disappointed that the name of the month—Ramadan—had nothing to do with the particular time of year that it occurred. I had romantically linked the month of Ramadan with the scorching heat of a desert summer. Ramadan moved, like Easter in the Christian calendar.
Since that first Ramadan in summer, I have spent all subsequent Ramadans in Qatar, the sequence of its arrival looping cyclically backwards, like a clock moving in counterclockwise direction because it came eleven days earlier each year in relation to the Gregorian calendar. The perceived effect, at least for me, was of time slowing down, as if one billion Muslims fasting reined in a world fast hurtling forwards.
Adhan al-maghreb, the call to prayer at dusk, announced iftar, which was broken by eating dates in imitation of the Prophet Muhammad. I too, found that eating dates was the best way to break fast—it delivered instant calories. Iftar could be one big meal or broken into a light meal [taken before prayer] and main meal [eaten after prayer].
Ramadan was a time of intense prayer. After iftar, people went to the mosque to pray, usually from 7:30 to 8:30 p.m., or longer, before setting off to socialize. Women prayed in a partitioned section of the mosque, separated from the men. Each night during Ramadan, special prayer services and Qur’an readings were held in some local mosques. Qur’an readings from the holy city of Mecca were televised. Once, my family was amazed to see me watching and listening to those televised readings. I loved listening to Qur’an readings. I found the rhythm and cadence soothing and touching. Even though I did not understand Arabic, I found that the classical Arabic of the Qur’an when read by a good reader with a good voice was beautiful, for the Qur’an has rhythmic and poetic sounds.
In late afternoons, usually about an hour before iftar, I usually found myself sitting in my study, musing and reading by the window while quietly enjoying my view of blue sky and admiring my plants and flowers in the veranda. In the late afternoon breeze, the slender branches of jasmine and hibiscus swayed gracefully while the azaleas and violets fluttered tremulously. Outside, the date-palm leaves rustled. The world was quiet. Those moments, those minutes before iftar at almost sunset time, with the light mellow, birds flying and twittering past, and shadows starting to form, were beautiful.
As any Muslim will tell you, fasting is hard. I know. Yet Muslims also regret the passing of the special month of Ramadan. Until you deny yourself water, food, and other worldly pleasures from dawn to dusk, for a whole month, you cannot appreciate the ordeal. Ramadan is a challenge that tests willpower and depletes energy but it also affirms the strength and character of the individual and his place in the community. There is a certain satisfaction in being able to deny yourself food and drink and an excitement in anticipating iftar.
Once the fast is broken, food tastes so good, and water so sweet.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
Behind The Book Cover
On the second of December, last year, I received an email from my publisher cover designer introducing himself as my “assigned cover designer.” I had only vague ideas of what the cover design for my book, My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality, would be. Because my book is about my life experience inside another culture, I entertained the concept of a door within a door, a small door leading into a big world. It is quite common to find such doors in the Arabian Gulf; the small door is called a farkha, meaning “little girl”, a topic which I posted on November 17, 2010. I thought “door within a door” would be a good metaphor for the underlying theme in my book.
The cover designer liked my idea but then he emailed back that when he tried the door concept, he “didn’t think it had enough ‘drama’, and ‘drama’ is what helps to sell the books” and sent me some choices: a view of Doha from an airplane; the spiral mosque viewed through an arc; and the modern coastline of Doha along the Corniche. I also thought the photos lacked “drama.”
I was at a loss. I was aware of course that an inviting book cover attracts people to pick up a book. When I go to a bookstore, I pick up books from the shelf whose title and cover attract my
attention; then I flip over to the back to see what the book is about before scanning the introduction and skimming through the contents. I might even read the first paragraph . . .
There were alternatives of course, like engaging the services of professional book designers but they are generally expensive and would not know my book as much as I did. In almost all cases, the publisher has the final say on book cover designs but many presses welcome author’s input. Small and mid-size presses are more open to working with an author (like my publisher) than larger publishing houses.
One of my daughters who was a very good photographer volunteered to “go around Doha” to shoot some pictures. On the morning she planned to do this, it was foggy and cloudy. In the wintertime, we do wake up occasionally to such mornings. “Well, Mommy. We are not in luck today” my daughter texted me. In the evening, however, she came home smiling, saying she had the “perfect” cover for my book and showed me her photoshoot of the Pearl Oyster Fountain along Doha Corniche. “I was walking along the Corniche when I came upon the fountain. See, Mommy, the book is about your life in Qatar, so, you’re the pearl and Qatar is your oyster.”
And so it was.
I love my book cover. Thanks to Salma, my lovely daughter.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com
The cover designer liked my idea but then he emailed back that when he tried the door concept, he “didn’t think it had enough ‘drama’, and ‘drama’ is what helps to sell the books” and sent me some choices: a view of Doha from an airplane; the spiral mosque viewed through an arc; and the modern coastline of Doha along the Corniche. I also thought the photos lacked “drama.”
I was at a loss. I was aware of course that an inviting book cover attracts people to pick up a book. When I go to a bookstore, I pick up books from the shelf whose title and cover attract my
attention; then I flip over to the back to see what the book is about before scanning the introduction and skimming through the contents. I might even read the first paragraph . . .
There were alternatives of course, like engaging the services of professional book designers but they are generally expensive and would not know my book as much as I did. In almost all cases, the publisher has the final say on book cover designs but many presses welcome author’s input. Small and mid-size presses are more open to working with an author (like my publisher) than larger publishing houses.
One of my daughters who was a very good photographer volunteered to “go around Doha” to shoot some pictures. On the morning she planned to do this, it was foggy and cloudy. In the wintertime, we do wake up occasionally to such mornings. “Well, Mommy. We are not in luck today” my daughter texted me. In the evening, however, she came home smiling, saying she had the “perfect” cover for my book and showed me her photoshoot of the Pearl Oyster Fountain along Doha Corniche. “I was walking along the Corniche when I came upon the fountain. See, Mommy, the book is about your life in Qatar, so, you’re the pearl and Qatar is your oyster.”
And so it was.
I love my book cover. Thanks to Salma, my lovely daughter.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com
Love symbolism in Arab poetry
I am not an expert or authority on Arab literature and poetry but I enjoy listening to my husband’s quotes and translations of the poetry of the great Arab poets. I particularly like the ancient Arab poets.
“Did you know that the bird, especially the wild pigeon occupies a special status in Arab love poetry?” he asked me one day.
“Well, the dove with an olive branch in its beak is accepted worldwide as a symbol of peace”, I replied. “I never heard of it as a symbol of love.”
“In Arab love poetry”, my husband continued, “ancient Arab poets attributed great emotions to the wild pigeon. In their love poems, the pigeon figured prominently, such that they would complain to the pigeon how much they miss their loved one, asking the bird to carry love messages to the beloved. To the Arab poets the songs of the pigeon were sad songs, interpreting its singing as cries for its loved one.”
That certainly was very interesting. I knew of course that people kept lovebirds as pets but the birds belong to the parrot family. I was not aware of pigeons being associated with love. Pigeons nest on rooftops and can be found aplenty in the old squares of Europe, flying about and alighting on tourists. In Qatar, there are many pigeons roosting on rooftops. In some Arab countries, particularly Egypt, pigeons are considered a delicacy!
My husband told me of Abu Faras Al-Hamadani, an ancient warrior-prince poet who lived in Syria in 932-976 AD. He was captured by the Romans and kept in prison for seven years in Constantinople for the purpose of prisoner exchange with a Roman prince who was a prisoner in Aleppo. Abu Faras wrote some of his best poems while in the Roman jail. One such poem was inspired by a pigeon singing near his cell. He wrote (my husband’s translation):
I said to a crying pigeon nearby
O’ my neighbor
Do you know the feelings of this guy?
But you have not experienced such separation
With its misery and frustration.
Days are not fair,
Come, let us share
This sadness we both bare.
My eye has more right to cry
Than your eye,
But my tears in this town,
Are too proud to come down.
According to my husband, the Arab poet considered his own heart like a pigeon hiding in his chest. There are verses describing how the poets’ heart rate increased when he thought of his loved one. The fast heart rate was usually described as “a pigeon flying and fluttering its wings” in his chest. Another poet, Arwah ibn Hozam (d.650AD) in his poem for his beloved Afra, said that due to his intense love, his racing heart felt like “a pigeon’s wings hung over his liver.” My husband explained that the poet meant that the bird’s wings were caught over his liver and the bird was trying to free its wings by flapping them very fast. The poet mentioned the liver not because he did not know his anatomy, but because the Arabs at that time considered both the heart and the liver as centers for love and emotions. The legendary Arab poet Al Majnoon (see my post Lovesick in the desert) wrote that the night his love Lila was taken away from his town: “My heart feels like a bird trying to fly while its wings are caught in a net.”
My husband explained that the Arab poets chose the pigeon as metaphor for love and its loss because the pigeon’s size is similar to the size of the heart, and so they thought it could be housed in the chest. The wild dove or pigeon’s song, unlike that of the domesticated pigeon, had a sad effect that inspired the poets. The pigeon is considered a peaceful bird from the dawn of history: the Arabs before Islam, the Muslims, Jews, and Christians. In the Biblical story of Noah’s Arc and the Flood Myth, Noah sent out a dove to bring him the good news – that the waters have subsided. The dove returned with a fresh olive twig in her beak, indicating that the flood was retreating. Therefore, the pigeon and the olive twig are considered symbols for peace until today.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life In Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com
Available in all bookstores
“Did you know that the bird, especially the wild pigeon occupies a special status in Arab love poetry?” he asked me one day.
“Well, the dove with an olive branch in its beak is accepted worldwide as a symbol of peace”, I replied. “I never heard of it as a symbol of love.”
“In Arab love poetry”, my husband continued, “ancient Arab poets attributed great emotions to the wild pigeon. In their love poems, the pigeon figured prominently, such that they would complain to the pigeon how much they miss their loved one, asking the bird to carry love messages to the beloved. To the Arab poets the songs of the pigeon were sad songs, interpreting its singing as cries for its loved one.”
That certainly was very interesting. I knew of course that people kept lovebirds as pets but the birds belong to the parrot family. I was not aware of pigeons being associated with love. Pigeons nest on rooftops and can be found aplenty in the old squares of Europe, flying about and alighting on tourists. In Qatar, there are many pigeons roosting on rooftops. In some Arab countries, particularly Egypt, pigeons are considered a delicacy!
My husband told me of Abu Faras Al-Hamadani, an ancient warrior-prince poet who lived in Syria in 932-976 AD. He was captured by the Romans and kept in prison for seven years in Constantinople for the purpose of prisoner exchange with a Roman prince who was a prisoner in Aleppo. Abu Faras wrote some of his best poems while in the Roman jail. One such poem was inspired by a pigeon singing near his cell. He wrote (my husband’s translation):
I said to a crying pigeon nearby
O’ my neighbor
Do you know the feelings of this guy?
But you have not experienced such separation
With its misery and frustration.
Days are not fair,
Come, let us share
This sadness we both bare.
My eye has more right to cry
Than your eye,
But my tears in this town,
Are too proud to come down.
According to my husband, the Arab poet considered his own heart like a pigeon hiding in his chest. There are verses describing how the poets’ heart rate increased when he thought of his loved one. The fast heart rate was usually described as “a pigeon flying and fluttering its wings” in his chest. Another poet, Arwah ibn Hozam (d.650AD) in his poem for his beloved Afra, said that due to his intense love, his racing heart felt like “a pigeon’s wings hung over his liver.” My husband explained that the poet meant that the bird’s wings were caught over his liver and the bird was trying to free its wings by flapping them very fast. The poet mentioned the liver not because he did not know his anatomy, but because the Arabs at that time considered both the heart and the liver as centers for love and emotions. The legendary Arab poet Al Majnoon (see my post Lovesick in the desert) wrote that the night his love Lila was taken away from his town: “My heart feels like a bird trying to fly while its wings are caught in a net.”
My husband explained that the Arab poets chose the pigeon as metaphor for love and its loss because the pigeon’s size is similar to the size of the heart, and so they thought it could be housed in the chest. The wild dove or pigeon’s song, unlike that of the domesticated pigeon, had a sad effect that inspired the poets. The pigeon is considered a peaceful bird from the dawn of history: the Arabs before Islam, the Muslims, Jews, and Christians. In the Biblical story of Noah’s Arc and the Flood Myth, Noah sent out a dove to bring him the good news – that the waters have subsided. The dove returned with a fresh olive twig in her beak, indicating that the flood was retreating. Therefore, the pigeon and the olive twig are considered symbols for peace until today.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life In Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com
Available in all bookstores
Lawful magic and a blind Arab poet
“Clouddust of battle over their heads was like the night
And glitter flashes from the motion of our swords
Lighted the darkness like falling stars.”
Bashar Ibn Burd (714-784 AD)
(Trans. By HH)
The verse above is extracted from a poem by Bashar Ibn Burd praising his tribe during a battle with an enemy. The visual comparisons used are remarkable and one would never suspect on reading the above verse that the poet was blind. Bashar Ibn Burd was born blind.
Some famous poets in Western literature were also blind: Homer, Milton, Helen Keller, Jose Luis Borges, James Thurber, James Joyce . . . to name a few.
I sometimes wonder how blind poets/writers are able to craft beautiful words to convey a visual image . . . how do they craft the visual similes and metaphors?
Bashar Ibn Burd lived in 8th century Baghdad during the rule of the Abbasids (rulers of the Arab Empire whose capital was Baghdad from 750 AD to 1258 AD). Then as now, poetry was central to Arab social life. I have observed first hand how Arabs are fascinated with poetry. Who can forget the image of Saddam Hussein reading a poem he supposedly composed on the eve of the US bombing of Iraq? That was certainly surreal.
Historians and social observers state that no people in the world are so moved by the word, spoken or written, as the Arabs. Sometimes, I read in the newspaper how modern audiences in Baghdad, Damascus, or Cairo are stirred to the highest degree when there is a recital of poems. The poems maybe only vaguely comprehended or partially understood. The rhythm, the rhyme, and the music, produces on them the effect of what they call “lawful magic.”
In their history, there was always the sha’ir or tribal poet filling the role of historian and propagandist. The poet praised his tribe, elevating it over other tribes and denigrating or putting down other tribes. Thus, the poet boosted the morale of the tribe especially in times of war.
But another function of the poet was to write poems in praise of a ruler, and so Arab courts competed to retain in their courts the best of the Arab poets of the day and were amply compensated. Remnants of this practice still exist today. In the Arabian Gulf states there are still people who write poetry excessively praising a ruler or someone in power expecting to be amply rewarded. It is a form of social hypocrisy that is accepted in the society.
In the case of Bashar, he was condemned to death by the king (Al-Mahdi, 745 – 785 AD) because he criticized the king in a poem. That was a crime in those days. These days, such extreme punishment no longer exists but you could lose your job.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com
And glitter flashes from the motion of our swords
Lighted the darkness like falling stars.”
Bashar Ibn Burd (714-784 AD)
(Trans. By HH)
The verse above is extracted from a poem by Bashar Ibn Burd praising his tribe during a battle with an enemy. The visual comparisons used are remarkable and one would never suspect on reading the above verse that the poet was blind. Bashar Ibn Burd was born blind.
Some famous poets in Western literature were also blind: Homer, Milton, Helen Keller, Jose Luis Borges, James Thurber, James Joyce . . . to name a few.
I sometimes wonder how blind poets/writers are able to craft beautiful words to convey a visual image . . . how do they craft the visual similes and metaphors?
Bashar Ibn Burd lived in 8th century Baghdad during the rule of the Abbasids (rulers of the Arab Empire whose capital was Baghdad from 750 AD to 1258 AD). Then as now, poetry was central to Arab social life. I have observed first hand how Arabs are fascinated with poetry. Who can forget the image of Saddam Hussein reading a poem he supposedly composed on the eve of the US bombing of Iraq? That was certainly surreal.
Historians and social observers state that no people in the world are so moved by the word, spoken or written, as the Arabs. Sometimes, I read in the newspaper how modern audiences in Baghdad, Damascus, or Cairo are stirred to the highest degree when there is a recital of poems. The poems maybe only vaguely comprehended or partially understood. The rhythm, the rhyme, and the music, produces on them the effect of what they call “lawful magic.”
In their history, there was always the sha’ir or tribal poet filling the role of historian and propagandist. The poet praised his tribe, elevating it over other tribes and denigrating or putting down other tribes. Thus, the poet boosted the morale of the tribe especially in times of war.
But another function of the poet was to write poems in praise of a ruler, and so Arab courts competed to retain in their courts the best of the Arab poets of the day and were amply compensated. Remnants of this practice still exist today. In the Arabian Gulf states there are still people who write poetry excessively praising a ruler or someone in power expecting to be amply rewarded. It is a form of social hypocrisy that is accepted in the society.
In the case of Bashar, he was condemned to death by the king (Al-Mahdi, 745 – 785 AD) because he criticized the king in a poem. That was a crime in those days. These days, such extreme punishment no longer exists but you could lose your job.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com
Pearls in the Arabian Gulf
The song, Diamonds are Forever, theme song of the Bond movie of the same title, was originally sung by Shirley Bassey and has become a classic. I love her version of the song. The lyrics hint at intrigue and betrayal. The pace, rhythm and beat are forever arresting, lively, and appealing and yet the lyrics are sad and cynical. I like the girl in the song, in particular her defiant spirit. Atta-girl! Give those filthy rich men-liars a run for their millions! But you could feel her heartache:
Diamonds are forever,/ They are all I need to please me . . . / They won't leave in the night,/ I've no fear that they might desert me./ Diamonds are forever . . ./ Nothing hides in the heart to hurt me. / I don't need love, / For what good will love do me? / Diamonds never lie to me, / For when love's gone, / They'll luster on . . . / Diamonds are forever, forever, forever . . . / Forever and ever.
Diamonds of course symbolize eternal love; hence men still give their intended bride a diamond engagement ring, even though one in two couples divorce these days. The word “diamond” comes from the Greek adamant-, adamas, which means iron or steel and is synonymous with hardest or indestructible or unconquerable. The ideal eternal love is indestructible – very romantic in virtual and hard reality, especially in the planet Venus where women dwell. What woman can resist a sparkly diamond gift? Men know this and exploit it: Wear down resistance with a diamond.
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, so they say. How about pearls?
Diamonds and pearls are two of the very finest gems in the world. Pearls are lovely and elegant. I have always been partial to pearls. Unlike diamonds which sparkle, pearls glow with a quiet luster. They always remind me of moonlight. They symbolize chastity, purity, and feminine charm. Place a diamond ring and a pearl ring side by side and you will sense the restlessness inherent in the diamond and the calmness, serenity, and composure emanating from the pearl. The pearl has also come to symbolize a happy marriage.
Over the last seven years, an International Jewelry and Watches Exhibition had been held in Doha annually, featuring a wide range of luxury watches and jewelry from the region and from some of the most famous designers in the world. The exhibition is spectacular. It is always fun to walk through the exhibit, looking at the magnificent and expensive creations. The most interesting for me were the pearl jewelry, especially pearls in the Arabian Gulf. Once I went to the exhibit intending to buy a Gulf pearl necklace and was shocked that the price was way beyond my budget! But ohh, Arabian Gulf pearls are so beautiful and have a lot of character. The Greek historian Pliny in his book, Historia Naturalis, wrote: "the most perfect and exquisite pearls of all others be they that are gotten about Arabia, within the Persian Gulf."
The Arabian Gulf pearls are real pearls, not cultured or fresh water pearls. Fishing and pearling shaped the economic and cultural identity of the Arabian Gulf states. At the old Qatar National Museum (closed at the moment for renovation), there were interesting videos showing how pearls were collected. The pearl divers led a harsh and difficult life. Diving from small wooden boats called dhows, the divers weighted themselves down with heavy stones, collecting as many oysters as possible before a rapid accent. The divers used underwater goggles made from polished tortoise shells, and wore a bone clip to close their nostrils, and ear stoppers made of beeswax. Divers made 50 to 60 dives per day.
As I write this, I remember a true story narrated to me by my husband many, many years ago when he was just starting to practice cardiology in Qatar. One morning he had admitted to the coronary care unit Ali, a blind 70-year-old male patient with a heart attack. After sunset of the same day, he admitted Rashid, another 70-year-old man with a heart attack in the same room. As my husband talked to Rashid, taking his medical history, Ali lay comfortably in his bed quietly listening to Rashid’s voice. Then suddenly, Ali had interrupted.
“Rashid Bin Yousif, is that you”? Ali had asked excitedly.
“Yes. Who are you?” Rashid had responded.
“I am Ali Bin Thani”, Ali had answered.
, “Allaah…we did not see each other for so many years and now we meet in Hajar’s room, surrounded with machines, needles in our arms, strained and tied with wires.” Rashid had said.
“It is Allah’s wish”, Ali had responded.
They then told my husband that they were old friends. They had not seen each other for 30 years! When they were young, they used to dive together for pearls. Pearl diving was the vital source of income among Arab Gulf citizens before the discovery of oil. My husband had sat in a chair between their beds, listening with fascination to the two friends reminisce about the old days. My husband had felt very sad that those two friends who had not met for so many years had to meet under such sad circumstances in a coronary care unit, which they referred to as “Hajar’s room.” Ali had told my husband that Rashid was very strong. Once, while diving underwater, Rashid had grabbed a shark coming to attack him. He had struggled against the shark with his bare hands and brought the shark to the surface. All the Qatari divers knew Rashid’s incident with the shark.
Rashid said, “It is true. I was never scared of anything on land or at sea. God is the only one I fear.”
Both patients survived their heart attack and did well during that hospitalization. My husband had followed them up in the clinic with great interest. Ali died six months later due to a massive heart attack and Rashid was readmitted for irregular heart rhythm several times. Rashid died six years later.
Along the Corniche in Qatar, there is a beautiful, large Pearl Oyster Fountain, a tribute to Qatar’s pearling past. Before the oil era, Qatar’s economy depended on fishing and pearling. The great depression of the 1930s decreased the European demand for Arabian pearls and the Japanese cultured pearls put an end to the pearl diving profession in Qatar and the entire Arabian Gulf. Luckily, the region has oil and gas.
But pearls continue to cast their spell.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com
Diamonds are forever,/ They are all I need to please me . . . / They won't leave in the night,/ I've no fear that they might desert me./ Diamonds are forever . . ./ Nothing hides in the heart to hurt me. / I don't need love, / For what good will love do me? / Diamonds never lie to me, / For when love's gone, / They'll luster on . . . / Diamonds are forever, forever, forever . . . / Forever and ever.
Diamonds of course symbolize eternal love; hence men still give their intended bride a diamond engagement ring, even though one in two couples divorce these days. The word “diamond” comes from the Greek adamant-, adamas, which means iron or steel and is synonymous with hardest or indestructible or unconquerable. The ideal eternal love is indestructible – very romantic in virtual and hard reality, especially in the planet Venus where women dwell. What woman can resist a sparkly diamond gift? Men know this and exploit it: Wear down resistance with a diamond.
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, so they say. How about pearls?
Diamonds and pearls are two of the very finest gems in the world. Pearls are lovely and elegant. I have always been partial to pearls. Unlike diamonds which sparkle, pearls glow with a quiet luster. They always remind me of moonlight. They symbolize chastity, purity, and feminine charm. Place a diamond ring and a pearl ring side by side and you will sense the restlessness inherent in the diamond and the calmness, serenity, and composure emanating from the pearl. The pearl has also come to symbolize a happy marriage.
Over the last seven years, an International Jewelry and Watches Exhibition had been held in Doha annually, featuring a wide range of luxury watches and jewelry from the region and from some of the most famous designers in the world. The exhibition is spectacular. It is always fun to walk through the exhibit, looking at the magnificent and expensive creations. The most interesting for me were the pearl jewelry, especially pearls in the Arabian Gulf. Once I went to the exhibit intending to buy a Gulf pearl necklace and was shocked that the price was way beyond my budget! But ohh, Arabian Gulf pearls are so beautiful and have a lot of character. The Greek historian Pliny in his book, Historia Naturalis, wrote: "the most perfect and exquisite pearls of all others be they that are gotten about Arabia, within the Persian Gulf."
The Arabian Gulf pearls are real pearls, not cultured or fresh water pearls. Fishing and pearling shaped the economic and cultural identity of the Arabian Gulf states. At the old Qatar National Museum (closed at the moment for renovation), there were interesting videos showing how pearls were collected. The pearl divers led a harsh and difficult life. Diving from small wooden boats called dhows, the divers weighted themselves down with heavy stones, collecting as many oysters as possible before a rapid accent. The divers used underwater goggles made from polished tortoise shells, and wore a bone clip to close their nostrils, and ear stoppers made of beeswax. Divers made 50 to 60 dives per day.
As I write this, I remember a true story narrated to me by my husband many, many years ago when he was just starting to practice cardiology in Qatar. One morning he had admitted to the coronary care unit Ali, a blind 70-year-old male patient with a heart attack. After sunset of the same day, he admitted Rashid, another 70-year-old man with a heart attack in the same room. As my husband talked to Rashid, taking his medical history, Ali lay comfortably in his bed quietly listening to Rashid’s voice. Then suddenly, Ali had interrupted.
“Rashid Bin Yousif, is that you”? Ali had asked excitedly.
“Yes. Who are you?” Rashid had responded.
“I am Ali Bin Thani”, Ali had answered.
, “Allaah…we did not see each other for so many years and now we meet in Hajar’s room, surrounded with machines, needles in our arms, strained and tied with wires.” Rashid had said.
“It is Allah’s wish”, Ali had responded.
They then told my husband that they were old friends. They had not seen each other for 30 years! When they were young, they used to dive together for pearls. Pearl diving was the vital source of income among Arab Gulf citizens before the discovery of oil. My husband had sat in a chair between their beds, listening with fascination to the two friends reminisce about the old days. My husband had felt very sad that those two friends who had not met for so many years had to meet under such sad circumstances in a coronary care unit, which they referred to as “Hajar’s room.” Ali had told my husband that Rashid was very strong. Once, while diving underwater, Rashid had grabbed a shark coming to attack him. He had struggled against the shark with his bare hands and brought the shark to the surface. All the Qatari divers knew Rashid’s incident with the shark.
Rashid said, “It is true. I was never scared of anything on land or at sea. God is the only one I fear.”
Both patients survived their heart attack and did well during that hospitalization. My husband had followed them up in the clinic with great interest. Ali died six months later due to a massive heart attack and Rashid was readmitted for irregular heart rhythm several times. Rashid died six years later.
Along the Corniche in Qatar, there is a beautiful, large Pearl Oyster Fountain, a tribute to Qatar’s pearling past. Before the oil era, Qatar’s economy depended on fishing and pearling. The great depression of the 1930s decreased the European demand for Arabian pearls and the Japanese cultured pearls put an end to the pearl diving profession in Qatar and the entire Arabian Gulf. Luckily, the region has oil and gas.
But pearls continue to cast their spell.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com
A Magic Time
Last night I put my grandchildren Aziz (almost five years) and Saud (2 ½ years) to sleep. Their mother was busy, so I was delighted to stand in for the bedtime task. Putting my grandchildren to sleep always gives me great pleasure.
When I arrived in their house at 5:30 PM, Saud had finished with his bath and was brushing his teeth; Aziz was still taking a bath. They smiled happily when they saw me appear in their bathroom doorway. They simultaneously called, “Grandma, grandma . . .” both competing for my attention. Both chorused, “I want ipad.” They love to play games on the ipad. Aziz in particular is very adept with the games and he gets so engrossed in them. “Oh, I don’t have the ipad. Tell you what, we’ll watch cartoons and then I’ll read you stories.” They seemed happy with the compromise. Their Mommy (my daughter) does not keep an ipad around in her house so that her children will do other activities besides playing ipad games.
We then settled down to watch some cartoons in the TV room but after a few minutes Saud became bored and started to wander around. He found a ball and was soon happily playing with it when his Daddy arrived and his ball became a conversation piece. Aziz ran to them, fast as lightning, and snatched the ball from his brother. Saud started to cry wanting the ball back. Their father tried to persuade Aziz to give the ball back to Saud but Aziz refused. The two little boys ran around chasing each other, Saud whining, “Want ball, want ball.” I looked at my watch - almost 6:30 PM, Saud’s bedtime! I was a bit dismayed. It wasn’t good to get him upset or excited just before his bedtime. I tried also to get Aziz to give up the ball to no avail. Saud started to cry. Finally, his Dad ordered Aziz to give the ball back to Saud but Aziz said, “Never, never, neveerrrr!”
Uh, the situation was getting out of hand and I quickly scooped Saud in my arms, trying to calm him down by distracting him. Fortunately, it’s his habit to drink milk from a baby bottle before he sleeps and I calmed him down a bit with the milk bottle but there were tears in his eyes. At that moment, his Dad miraculously got the ball from Aziz and gave it to Saud who clutched it tightly in his hand and closed his eyes as though he was asleep. I carried him to his bedroom, picking up Winnie the Pooh, his favorite sleep companion. Still with closed eyes, he groped for his milk bottle, putting it to his mouth to suck. I turned the lights off, cradling his head, rocking him gently and humming a little tune. He squiggled, still clutching the ball and then put it inside his shirt over his chest, settled down, and fell asleep. But my cell phone rang! It was his mother asking if Saud was asleep! Saud woke up, sat up on my lap, sleepily muttering, “Aziz . . . want play with Aziz.” He twisted his little body from side to side in an effort to climb down from my lap, all the time whispering, “Want Aziz.” He settled down only when I started to narrate a story: “Once upon a time, there were two little brothers. Their names were Aziz and Saud. One day Saud was playing with a ball . . .” He loves to listen to stories where he is a participant. He quieted down. I rocked him gently, humming a tune softly and soon he was in dreamland . . .
In the dark, I kissed him, continuing to rock him, and softly humming a tune. I loved cuddling him. Soon, I laid him down in his bed . . . It was a rich, peaceful, and quiet time.
Aziz was watching cartoons in the TV room and I sat down with him, reading one of my books. Occasionally, Aziz would chuckle or get excited and narrate to me what was happening to a cartoon character. He was watching a Madagascar cartoon, which I also found humorous.
Aziz’ bedtime is 8:00 PM and I prepared him mentally by announcing that in “10 minutes, it will be bedtime” and he nodded and when the hour came, he gladly surrendered to the bedtime ritual. We went to his bed and by his pillow were his favorite bedtime stories. He kind of likes The Shapeys, an educational series for children. He likes to have a book all by himself and “read” it aloud. He can’t read yet but he narrates the story by looking at the pictures. He usually likes me to have another book to read. So, he “reads” aloud and I read from my book simultaneously with him so that we sounded as though we were doing a medley. After reading, we turned the bedside lamp off. The room was not dark because of a night light. Aziz does not want the room dark when he goes to sleep, unlike Saud. And then it was time to stop reading and just be quiet; no talking. After a while Aziz was also asleep . . . and the room became very, very quiet but filled with love.
Children’s bedtime can be either stressful or pleasurable, depending on the adult. This time – the hour of going to sleep – is a very special time. I cherish always the time I spend with my grandchildren. When I put them to sleep, I am happy and sad and I would remember countless bedtime moments when I used to put my children to sleep, when they were small.
Whether you live in Qatar, America, or Africa, it is important for children to feel that they could trust the world and bedtime provides such an opportunity.
Bedtime is truly a magical hour for parents and children – and for me.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.(Wednesday, January 12, 2011)
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com.
When I arrived in their house at 5:30 PM, Saud had finished with his bath and was brushing his teeth; Aziz was still taking a bath. They smiled happily when they saw me appear in their bathroom doorway. They simultaneously called, “Grandma, grandma . . .” both competing for my attention. Both chorused, “I want ipad.” They love to play games on the ipad. Aziz in particular is very adept with the games and he gets so engrossed in them. “Oh, I don’t have the ipad. Tell you what, we’ll watch cartoons and then I’ll read you stories.” They seemed happy with the compromise. Their Mommy (my daughter) does not keep an ipad around in her house so that her children will do other activities besides playing ipad games.
We then settled down to watch some cartoons in the TV room but after a few minutes Saud became bored and started to wander around. He found a ball and was soon happily playing with it when his Daddy arrived and his ball became a conversation piece. Aziz ran to them, fast as lightning, and snatched the ball from his brother. Saud started to cry wanting the ball back. Their father tried to persuade Aziz to give the ball back to Saud but Aziz refused. The two little boys ran around chasing each other, Saud whining, “Want ball, want ball.” I looked at my watch - almost 6:30 PM, Saud’s bedtime! I was a bit dismayed. It wasn’t good to get him upset or excited just before his bedtime. I tried also to get Aziz to give up the ball to no avail. Saud started to cry. Finally, his Dad ordered Aziz to give the ball back to Saud but Aziz said, “Never, never, neveerrrr!”
Uh, the situation was getting out of hand and I quickly scooped Saud in my arms, trying to calm him down by distracting him. Fortunately, it’s his habit to drink milk from a baby bottle before he sleeps and I calmed him down a bit with the milk bottle but there were tears in his eyes. At that moment, his Dad miraculously got the ball from Aziz and gave it to Saud who clutched it tightly in his hand and closed his eyes as though he was asleep. I carried him to his bedroom, picking up Winnie the Pooh, his favorite sleep companion. Still with closed eyes, he groped for his milk bottle, putting it to his mouth to suck. I turned the lights off, cradling his head, rocking him gently and humming a little tune. He squiggled, still clutching the ball and then put it inside his shirt over his chest, settled down, and fell asleep. But my cell phone rang! It was his mother asking if Saud was asleep! Saud woke up, sat up on my lap, sleepily muttering, “Aziz . . . want play with Aziz.” He twisted his little body from side to side in an effort to climb down from my lap, all the time whispering, “Want Aziz.” He settled down only when I started to narrate a story: “Once upon a time, there were two little brothers. Their names were Aziz and Saud. One day Saud was playing with a ball . . .” He loves to listen to stories where he is a participant. He quieted down. I rocked him gently, humming a tune softly and soon he was in dreamland . . .
In the dark, I kissed him, continuing to rock him, and softly humming a tune. I loved cuddling him. Soon, I laid him down in his bed . . . It was a rich, peaceful, and quiet time.
Aziz was watching cartoons in the TV room and I sat down with him, reading one of my books. Occasionally, Aziz would chuckle or get excited and narrate to me what was happening to a cartoon character. He was watching a Madagascar cartoon, which I also found humorous.
Aziz’ bedtime is 8:00 PM and I prepared him mentally by announcing that in “10 minutes, it will be bedtime” and he nodded and when the hour came, he gladly surrendered to the bedtime ritual. We went to his bed and by his pillow were his favorite bedtime stories. He kind of likes The Shapeys, an educational series for children. He likes to have a book all by himself and “read” it aloud. He can’t read yet but he narrates the story by looking at the pictures. He usually likes me to have another book to read. So, he “reads” aloud and I read from my book simultaneously with him so that we sounded as though we were doing a medley. After reading, we turned the bedside lamp off. The room was not dark because of a night light. Aziz does not want the room dark when he goes to sleep, unlike Saud. And then it was time to stop reading and just be quiet; no talking. After a while Aziz was also asleep . . . and the room became very, very quiet but filled with love.
Children’s bedtime can be either stressful or pleasurable, depending on the adult. This time – the hour of going to sleep – is a very special time. I cherish always the time I spend with my grandchildren. When I put them to sleep, I am happy and sad and I would remember countless bedtime moments when I used to put my children to sleep, when they were small.
Whether you live in Qatar, America, or Africa, it is important for children to feel that they could trust the world and bedtime provides such an opportunity.
Bedtime is truly a magical hour for parents and children – and for me.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.(Wednesday, January 12, 2011)
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com.
MOTHER’S DAY
March 21 was Mother’s Day in Qatar. On that day, I forgot the event but my children reminded me with a bouquet of flowers on my bed, which I discovered when I came home from work. There was a card with it that read: Happy Mother’s Day . . . We love you everyday not just on Mother’s Day. . . Love ♥
Then, in the evening my husband called me down to the TV room to watch the news and when I went down, there was a cake and gifts for me! My daughter Haifa had baked a cake for me because she thought I would appreciate it more than a store-bought cake. Haifa is a terrific cook and her desserts are very delicious. For Mother’s Day, she made her delicious cheesecake topped with her special blueberry sauce. Next to the cake were gifts - my favorite perfume and creams – from Salma, Asma, and Haifa, my lovely daughters. My son could not attend the celebration because of a previous engagement and Alia, the mother of my two grandsons (Aziz and Saoud) was away in Germany. Both sent me text messages of greeting. Their thoughtful gestures made me tingle all over with pleasure and happiness. Receiving expressions of love from one’s children is more than enough for a mother to float with happiness. I was light as air the whole day and night.
As I put the lovely flowers in a vase – two vases because the bunch they gave me was rather fat –I reflected how my children usually astonish me by observing the event with flowers or gift or card or cake, usually a heart-shaped cake. The cards usually bear their handwritten inscription: Happy Mother’s Day and below it Best Mom in the world, standard captions for Mother’s day cards but receiving them was always heartwarming. It’s a lovely feeling when one’s children mark the event. Marking Mother’s Day is not an Arab or Islamic custom. It is a foreign tradition that has been adopted in the Arabian Gulf states. I am not aware when the custom became fashionable in Qatar, but for the last 15 years, my children have been remembering mother’s day.
From my book, My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality there is a chapter titled, Looking for Mother Pearls. In that chapter I narrated and discussed my mothering experiences. The following passages are extracts from that chapter:
“The cards they gave me over the years underscored the evolution in their development as individuals. Recently they had given me a big card. The face of the card read: For a special Mum and depicted a garden with a funny-looking woman wearing a big sun hat frayed at the edges, watering flowers, like in a cartoon. They chose that probably because they knew I enjoyed watering my plants. Their intention was humorous and made me smile and I liked very much the picture metaphor of watering plants. Love needs tender care – it has to be watered, just like flowers, otherwise it dies. Inside the card they had written: Mommy, With love and thanks for all you do./ It means so much to have a mum like you! / Have a wonderful Mother’s Day. / Love
Life is not problem-free and being a mother is hard but my children always surprised me with their little gestures of love. Sometimes when family life became turbulent, my steadfastness shaky, and my heart heavy with trials, they would invariably surprise me with little acts of tenderness, which touched me. I shall always remember how when they were small, each one of them would sometimes present me with a bunch of flowers from the garden. I always treated the flowers they gave me with the utmost care by putting them in a special vase and placing the vase in a favored place in my room. I shall never forget their radiant smiles and pride on their faces as I bustled about looking for the nicest appropriate vase, displaying them prominently, smelling them, closing my eyes, and murmuring how lovely and fragrant they were. The flowers were usually cut short and uneven but to me they were the most expensive flowers in the world—and they were. They were expressions of love.
Then they grew up and life became more complex and complicated, but still they continue to surprise me with endearing little acts when I least expect them. When they were particularly difficult, I would close my eyes in solitude and remember them offering me flowers they had picked.
Mothering requires patience, fortitude, endurance, and sacrifice. The trials, hardships, hurts and pain that a mother goes through over the years refine and polish her heart. She becomes a fountain of wisdom. And it is said that a mother’s heart is the child’s schoolroom. My mothering experience has taught me many priceless lessons, exquisite like shining pearls.”
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com.
Then, in the evening my husband called me down to the TV room to watch the news and when I went down, there was a cake and gifts for me! My daughter Haifa had baked a cake for me because she thought I would appreciate it more than a store-bought cake. Haifa is a terrific cook and her desserts are very delicious. For Mother’s Day, she made her delicious cheesecake topped with her special blueberry sauce. Next to the cake were gifts - my favorite perfume and creams – from Salma, Asma, and Haifa, my lovely daughters. My son could not attend the celebration because of a previous engagement and Alia, the mother of my two grandsons (Aziz and Saoud) was away in Germany. Both sent me text messages of greeting. Their thoughtful gestures made me tingle all over with pleasure and happiness. Receiving expressions of love from one’s children is more than enough for a mother to float with happiness. I was light as air the whole day and night.
As I put the lovely flowers in a vase – two vases because the bunch they gave me was rather fat –I reflected how my children usually astonish me by observing the event with flowers or gift or card or cake, usually a heart-shaped cake. The cards usually bear their handwritten inscription: Happy Mother’s Day and below it Best Mom in the world, standard captions for Mother’s day cards but receiving them was always heartwarming. It’s a lovely feeling when one’s children mark the event. Marking Mother’s Day is not an Arab or Islamic custom. It is a foreign tradition that has been adopted in the Arabian Gulf states. I am not aware when the custom became fashionable in Qatar, but for the last 15 years, my children have been remembering mother’s day.
From my book, My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality there is a chapter titled, Looking for Mother Pearls. In that chapter I narrated and discussed my mothering experiences. The following passages are extracts from that chapter:
“The cards they gave me over the years underscored the evolution in their development as individuals. Recently they had given me a big card. The face of the card read: For a special Mum and depicted a garden with a funny-looking woman wearing a big sun hat frayed at the edges, watering flowers, like in a cartoon. They chose that probably because they knew I enjoyed watering my plants. Their intention was humorous and made me smile and I liked very much the picture metaphor of watering plants. Love needs tender care – it has to be watered, just like flowers, otherwise it dies. Inside the card they had written: Mommy, With love and thanks for all you do./ It means so much to have a mum like you! / Have a wonderful Mother’s Day. / Love
Life is not problem-free and being a mother is hard but my children always surprised me with their little gestures of love. Sometimes when family life became turbulent, my steadfastness shaky, and my heart heavy with trials, they would invariably surprise me with little acts of tenderness, which touched me. I shall always remember how when they were small, each one of them would sometimes present me with a bunch of flowers from the garden. I always treated the flowers they gave me with the utmost care by putting them in a special vase and placing the vase in a favored place in my room. I shall never forget their radiant smiles and pride on their faces as I bustled about looking for the nicest appropriate vase, displaying them prominently, smelling them, closing my eyes, and murmuring how lovely and fragrant they were. The flowers were usually cut short and uneven but to me they were the most expensive flowers in the world—and they were. They were expressions of love.
Then they grew up and life became more complex and complicated, but still they continue to surprise me with endearing little acts when I least expect them. When they were particularly difficult, I would close my eyes in solitude and remember them offering me flowers they had picked.
Mothering requires patience, fortitude, endurance, and sacrifice. The trials, hardships, hurts and pain that a mother goes through over the years refine and polish her heart. She becomes a fountain of wisdom. And it is said that a mother’s heart is the child’s schoolroom. My mothering experience has taught me many priceless lessons, exquisite like shining pearls.”
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com.
A LOVE OF ORCHIDS
Five potted orchids sit on the window sill in my study. They are beautiful. They are cream, lavender, and white. They have been blooming all year. I see the flowers wither and fall and I wonder a lot if they will slowly fade and die but when I check them I see a lot of new buds and with bated breath I watch them slowly unfold – and bloom.
I love orchids. I had wanted to grow orchids in Doha for a long time but I didn’t know if they would thrive. I didn’t even know if orchids were available in the nurseries here. One day, after a family summer holiday in Switzerland, my husband had visited a nursery and saw “a plant with delicate white flowers” and he had wanted to get one for me but “it won’t survive outside.” He had wondered if I could fit it in my library. He was told they were orchids. He thought he’d wait for the weather to improve. He had wondered if I knew about orchids. I told him we had orchids in our garden when I was a child. My father used to graft them on trees. And my mother used to tend in our garden some white orchids. It was her favorite flower. When she passed away and during her funeral service, we distributed sprigs of white orchids to the guests, which were strewn on her coffin as it was lowered down in the ground. I’m sure the gesture would have pleased her enormously.
Someone once said that “You can get off alcohol, drugs, women, food and car, but once you’re hooked on orchids you’re finished. You never get off orchids. . . never.” I can understand that.
Did anyone ever hear of orchid ice cream? I read about it once –– a Turkish dessert made from wild orchid tubers, milk, and sugar. The Turkish word for ice cream is dondurma. The frozen mixture was beaten with metal rods, eaten with a knife and fork, and so elastic that it could be made into a jump rope! Rather weird! But the essential ingredient of orchid ice cream is salep, a whitish flour milled from the dried tubers of certain wild, terrestrial orchids, which come from the wild Anatolian plateau. Apparently, salep is derived from the Arabic sahlab, which means (brace yourself for some shocking info!) “testicles of the fox” because the dried tubers bear a striking resemblance to that anatomical part. So, salepi dondurma is literally translated as “Fox testicle ice cream!” Rather amusing! The writer said it was flavored with the usual flavorings, describing a somewhat indescribable exotic aftertaste of a “sweet nutty flavor with a hint of mushrooms, yak butter and the smell of a goat on a rainy day with an earthy lanolin fragrance. . .”
Interestingly though, the Greek physician Dioscorides (who compiled De Materia Medica in the 1st century AD – the first pharmacopeia in the West, translated into Arabic and preserved in Arabic) recommended the use of orchid tubers as an aphrodisiac and Linnaeus too, the taxonomist, in 1751, mentioned the use of salep as an aphrodisiac. Orchis in Greek means testicle and it would seem that the European interest in orchids stemmed from the erotic after effects of eating the tubers rather than appreciation of its beautiful flowers. There is also a hot drink called salep made from dried orchid tuber flour, sugar, milk, and cinnamon and for hundreds of years it has been served during the cold winter months in Greece, Turkey, Syria, and even England, where it was called “saloop.”
Fascinating stuff.
I haven’t tasted orchid ice cream but the orchid flower has a delicate beauty. The orchid flower for me is exotic, charming, mysterious, alluring, and captivating. There are about 25000 varieties existing naturally. The Phalaenopsis, Cymbidium, and Dendrobium are the most popular. The ones sold in Qatar are Phalaenopis.
My first orchid was a Phalaenopsis with purple-colored flowers. It was beautiful. I sat it by the French window in my library during the day and put it outside in the terrasse at night before I went to bed. One night while working in my study, I smelled a flowery fragrance. There was no other flower in my study except the orchid and so I concluded that my orchid was emitting a lovely scent. Do orchids release fragrance at night? I emailed some friends who are orchid aficionados but none was aware of the night fragrance phenomenon as I came to call it.
Since my first orchid didn’t die on me, my husband was encouraged to get me more. One day, while I was working on my computer in my library, baby Saoud, my grandson, on my lap, my husband strode in bearing two potted orchids. He had barked “Open the window” (the French window to my study terrasse). I gasped. The orchids were beautiful! One had white flowers; the other pink blooms. He had gone to the nursery and he was told they had a new shipment of orchids, so he got two for me. I was delighted. Bombay was the sign on the pink and the white, Queen of Heart. I found that Bombay is a dendrobium but I had difficulty finding out the taxonomy of the white Queen of Heart.
My orchids have been good, blooming continuously by the window. I followed the advice of my orchid aficionado friends: No direct sunlight; water with distilled water (not chlorinated water; Orchids do not like any salt or dissolved solids); drain the pot thoroughly (if it isn’t drained the roots will rot); fertilize weakly, every 10 days or so. “Follow these and your orchids will thrive” and yes, they did.
I chattered about orchids all the time, so much so that my husband became tired of my orchid chatter. One of our friends, a famous cardiac surgeon who has an orchid collection and who lives in London brought me an orchid from London increasing the number of my potted orchids to five, a very modest number and hardly qualifying me to be an “aficionado.” He also gave me an orchid fertilizer but I was cautioned to use fertilizer sparingly. This friend clones his orchids! He says it is the easiest thing in the world and he’ll teach me how to clone mine.
When holidaying in Montreux, Switzerland, I would sometimes buy orchids for our flat and when we leave, I would give away the orchids to friends interested in orchids. One day, our friend the famous cardiac surgeon visited us there and admired the three phalaenopsis orchids that I had bought from the supermarket in Vevey. My husband laughingly told our friend that I keep the fan on in the living room for the orchids when we go out, commenting on how “crazy” I was. “I just think that the orchids need moving air”, I said lamely, wondering who had told me to keep a fan on for the orchids. But our friend had sided with me. “I’m afraid I have to agree with Rachel. Orchids develop a kind of fungal infection without moving air.”
Not only is the orchid beautiful, mysterious, and fascinating. Charles Darwin remarked that the various contrivances employed by orchids [in the process of pollination] “vastly transcend those which the man with the most fertile imagination in the world could dream up.” Indeed, Darwin was not exaggerating, for the numerous subterfuge devised by orchids to get fertilized bears similarities to human courtship. The story of the Mexican bucket orchid (Coryanthes speciosa) and the bee illustrates this point. It is a tale of seduction, betrayal, adventure, and love.
The Mexican bucket orchid grows in the wet tropical forests of Mexico and South America. Bucket orchids need the male euglossine bee for pollination. The orchid secretes a powerful intoxicating perfume that the bee finds irresistible. At the same time, a specialized gland secretes a clear, colorless liquid that drips into the bottom of the bucket, forming a small reservoir. Within minutes of the flower’s blooming, male bees in a state of great agitation swarm around the flower, near the bottom where the fluid-containing reservoir is located. They hover, seeking a foothold on the slippery tubular part that connects the bucket to the rest of the flower. Grasping the slippery tubule with their legs, the excited bees “bathe” themselves in the waxy perfume. The bee will use the special perfume to attract females. Having bathed in the perfume, the male bee then flies off in search of a mate.
Because the flowers bloom for only a few days, there is a mad rush among the bees to get at the limited amount of special scent. They shove and jostle at each other. Occasionally, a bee loses his footing on the slippery surface or gets knocked into the bucket when his wings collide with a droplet from the dripping gland. Once inside the bucket, the unfortunate bee’s ordeal begins. There is only one exit – a narrow dark tunnel that leads through the front wall of the flower to daylight and freedom. There is no room to turn around, so the bee must wiggle and squeeze his way forward, stopping to rest many times. Just before he reaches daylight, he passes beneath two paired masses of pollen attached to the roof of the tunnel. At that precise moment, the pollen disengages and attaches itself on the back of the bee between his wings like a small backpack. This nightmarish experience may take as long as 40 minutes.
Once the pollen has been collected, the flower has served its purpose. The scent vanishes and the flower quickly wilts. Wet and disoriented, the bee pauses to dry himself. It maybe a day or more before perfume from a second bucket orchid will arouse the bee’s interest. On the bee’s visit through a second bucket orchid, a catch mechanism on the roof of the escape tunnel seizes the pollen backpack. In this way, the bucket orchid is pollinated, and with luck a seedpod will form.
Freed of his backpack and remembering his own procreation duties, the bee flies off to a display site where he conducts an exotic courtship dance. He performs fancy footsteps as a heady scent of perfume wafts from his hind legs. With such captivating artistic display and alluring scent, what female bee could resist the temptation to land and get better acquainted?
Indeed, orchids are fascinating flowers!
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com.
I love orchids. I had wanted to grow orchids in Doha for a long time but I didn’t know if they would thrive. I didn’t even know if orchids were available in the nurseries here. One day, after a family summer holiday in Switzerland, my husband had visited a nursery and saw “a plant with delicate white flowers” and he had wanted to get one for me but “it won’t survive outside.” He had wondered if I could fit it in my library. He was told they were orchids. He thought he’d wait for the weather to improve. He had wondered if I knew about orchids. I told him we had orchids in our garden when I was a child. My father used to graft them on trees. And my mother used to tend in our garden some white orchids. It was her favorite flower. When she passed away and during her funeral service, we distributed sprigs of white orchids to the guests, which were strewn on her coffin as it was lowered down in the ground. I’m sure the gesture would have pleased her enormously.
Someone once said that “You can get off alcohol, drugs, women, food and car, but once you’re hooked on orchids you’re finished. You never get off orchids. . . never.” I can understand that.
Did anyone ever hear of orchid ice cream? I read about it once –– a Turkish dessert made from wild orchid tubers, milk, and sugar. The Turkish word for ice cream is dondurma. The frozen mixture was beaten with metal rods, eaten with a knife and fork, and so elastic that it could be made into a jump rope! Rather weird! But the essential ingredient of orchid ice cream is salep, a whitish flour milled from the dried tubers of certain wild, terrestrial orchids, which come from the wild Anatolian plateau. Apparently, salep is derived from the Arabic sahlab, which means (brace yourself for some shocking info!) “testicles of the fox” because the dried tubers bear a striking resemblance to that anatomical part. So, salepi dondurma is literally translated as “Fox testicle ice cream!” Rather amusing! The writer said it was flavored with the usual flavorings, describing a somewhat indescribable exotic aftertaste of a “sweet nutty flavor with a hint of mushrooms, yak butter and the smell of a goat on a rainy day with an earthy lanolin fragrance. . .”
Interestingly though, the Greek physician Dioscorides (who compiled De Materia Medica in the 1st century AD – the first pharmacopeia in the West, translated into Arabic and preserved in Arabic) recommended the use of orchid tubers as an aphrodisiac and Linnaeus too, the taxonomist, in 1751, mentioned the use of salep as an aphrodisiac. Orchis in Greek means testicle and it would seem that the European interest in orchids stemmed from the erotic after effects of eating the tubers rather than appreciation of its beautiful flowers. There is also a hot drink called salep made from dried orchid tuber flour, sugar, milk, and cinnamon and for hundreds of years it has been served during the cold winter months in Greece, Turkey, Syria, and even England, where it was called “saloop.”
Fascinating stuff.
I haven’t tasted orchid ice cream but the orchid flower has a delicate beauty. The orchid flower for me is exotic, charming, mysterious, alluring, and captivating. There are about 25000 varieties existing naturally. The Phalaenopsis, Cymbidium, and Dendrobium are the most popular. The ones sold in Qatar are Phalaenopis.
My first orchid was a Phalaenopsis with purple-colored flowers. It was beautiful. I sat it by the French window in my library during the day and put it outside in the terrasse at night before I went to bed. One night while working in my study, I smelled a flowery fragrance. There was no other flower in my study except the orchid and so I concluded that my orchid was emitting a lovely scent. Do orchids release fragrance at night? I emailed some friends who are orchid aficionados but none was aware of the night fragrance phenomenon as I came to call it.
Since my first orchid didn’t die on me, my husband was encouraged to get me more. One day, while I was working on my computer in my library, baby Saoud, my grandson, on my lap, my husband strode in bearing two potted orchids. He had barked “Open the window” (the French window to my study terrasse). I gasped. The orchids were beautiful! One had white flowers; the other pink blooms. He had gone to the nursery and he was told they had a new shipment of orchids, so he got two for me. I was delighted. Bombay was the sign on the pink and the white, Queen of Heart. I found that Bombay is a dendrobium but I had difficulty finding out the taxonomy of the white Queen of Heart.
My orchids have been good, blooming continuously by the window. I followed the advice of my orchid aficionado friends: No direct sunlight; water with distilled water (not chlorinated water; Orchids do not like any salt or dissolved solids); drain the pot thoroughly (if it isn’t drained the roots will rot); fertilize weakly, every 10 days or so. “Follow these and your orchids will thrive” and yes, they did.
I chattered about orchids all the time, so much so that my husband became tired of my orchid chatter. One of our friends, a famous cardiac surgeon who has an orchid collection and who lives in London brought me an orchid from London increasing the number of my potted orchids to five, a very modest number and hardly qualifying me to be an “aficionado.” He also gave me an orchid fertilizer but I was cautioned to use fertilizer sparingly. This friend clones his orchids! He says it is the easiest thing in the world and he’ll teach me how to clone mine.
When holidaying in Montreux, Switzerland, I would sometimes buy orchids for our flat and when we leave, I would give away the orchids to friends interested in orchids. One day, our friend the famous cardiac surgeon visited us there and admired the three phalaenopsis orchids that I had bought from the supermarket in Vevey. My husband laughingly told our friend that I keep the fan on in the living room for the orchids when we go out, commenting on how “crazy” I was. “I just think that the orchids need moving air”, I said lamely, wondering who had told me to keep a fan on for the orchids. But our friend had sided with me. “I’m afraid I have to agree with Rachel. Orchids develop a kind of fungal infection without moving air.”
Not only is the orchid beautiful, mysterious, and fascinating. Charles Darwin remarked that the various contrivances employed by orchids [in the process of pollination] “vastly transcend those which the man with the most fertile imagination in the world could dream up.” Indeed, Darwin was not exaggerating, for the numerous subterfuge devised by orchids to get fertilized bears similarities to human courtship. The story of the Mexican bucket orchid (Coryanthes speciosa) and the bee illustrates this point. It is a tale of seduction, betrayal, adventure, and love.
The Mexican bucket orchid grows in the wet tropical forests of Mexico and South America. Bucket orchids need the male euglossine bee for pollination. The orchid secretes a powerful intoxicating perfume that the bee finds irresistible. At the same time, a specialized gland secretes a clear, colorless liquid that drips into the bottom of the bucket, forming a small reservoir. Within minutes of the flower’s blooming, male bees in a state of great agitation swarm around the flower, near the bottom where the fluid-containing reservoir is located. They hover, seeking a foothold on the slippery tubular part that connects the bucket to the rest of the flower. Grasping the slippery tubule with their legs, the excited bees “bathe” themselves in the waxy perfume. The bee will use the special perfume to attract females. Having bathed in the perfume, the male bee then flies off in search of a mate.
Because the flowers bloom for only a few days, there is a mad rush among the bees to get at the limited amount of special scent. They shove and jostle at each other. Occasionally, a bee loses his footing on the slippery surface or gets knocked into the bucket when his wings collide with a droplet from the dripping gland. Once inside the bucket, the unfortunate bee’s ordeal begins. There is only one exit – a narrow dark tunnel that leads through the front wall of the flower to daylight and freedom. There is no room to turn around, so the bee must wiggle and squeeze his way forward, stopping to rest many times. Just before he reaches daylight, he passes beneath two paired masses of pollen attached to the roof of the tunnel. At that precise moment, the pollen disengages and attaches itself on the back of the bee between his wings like a small backpack. This nightmarish experience may take as long as 40 minutes.
Once the pollen has been collected, the flower has served its purpose. The scent vanishes and the flower quickly wilts. Wet and disoriented, the bee pauses to dry himself. It maybe a day or more before perfume from a second bucket orchid will arouse the bee’s interest. On the bee’s visit through a second bucket orchid, a catch mechanism on the roof of the escape tunnel seizes the pollen backpack. In this way, the bucket orchid is pollinated, and with luck a seedpod will form.
Freed of his backpack and remembering his own procreation duties, the bee flies off to a display site where he conducts an exotic courtship dance. He performs fancy footsteps as a heady scent of perfume wafts from his hind legs. With such captivating artistic display and alluring scent, what female bee could resist the temptation to land and get better acquainted?
Indeed, orchids are fascinating flowers!
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com.
Book Art: “A thing of beauty is a joy forever”
Illuminated manuscripts are beautiful. It gives me a lot of pleasure to look at pages of books embellished with illustrations, decorated initials, and ornament in the margins. I sigh and marvel at the beauty and art involved in creating them. Such manuscripts are the domain of collectors and are prized possessions of libraries and museums. The invention of the printing press by Gutenberg in the 15th century not only made possible knowledge more accessible through the mass production of books but was instrumental in changing the nature of reading within society. It also eliminated the creation of beautiful books. However, the illuminated book tradition survives in the printing of Holy Scriptures such as the Holy Bible, Qur’an, and Gospel, available as limited editions.
In 2000, I obtained the Illuminated Family Edition of the Holy Bible, King James Version, and First edition, published by Thunder Bay Press; printed and bound in China! It is a work of great beauty: decorative borders, column dividers, and illuminated and historiated initial capitals. The preface informs me that the design for this edition is based on the Urbino Bible, one of masterpieces of 15th century art and bookmaking. It took the scribe (Ugo Comminelli of Mezieres) four years to complete the text by hand. The numerous illustrations and decorative elements were handpainted by such masters as Domenico and Davide Ghirlandaio. For the 2000 edition, all the illustrations in the original were electronically scanned and then removed digitally from their original backgrounds. Whenever I have time on my hands, it is always a joy to leaf through my edition and read some chapters. The beauty of the decorative elements intensifies the pleasure I feel when I read through my edition.
In 2008, I received, through mail from the Folio Society, an announcement of an illuminated English Edition of the Holy Qur’an. The illuminated Qur’ans that I’ve seen were all Arabic editions – very beautiful: borders embellished with geometric and vegetal patterns as secondary motifs separating the verses; calligraphic letterings, some in gold, with embellished margins; and elaborate full-page frontispieces. Lavishly ornamented pages belonged to museums and glitter like jewels in spotlighted glass cases but even copies owned by ordinary Muslims were/are illuminated, varying in degree from simple to lavish. Unlike illuminated Bibles, the Qur’ans do not illustrate scenes from the texts; instead they feature attractive script, flowers and touches of gold and lapis lazuli.
For so long I had wanted an illuminated English version of the Qur’an. The Arabic words mus’haf and Qur’an are synonymous but differ in connotation, according to my husband. Mus’haf refers to the physical book whereas Qur’an refers to the content in the book. So, what I wanted was an English Mus’haf. With much excitement, I ordered one copy and awaited its arrival with bated breath. It arrived months later. The hardcover is white. The frontispiece is ornamented with a central geometric pattern in gold and blue and bordered with fine interlocking lotus and vine-leaf design in gold accented with a touch of blue, like lapis lazuli. There was no adornment inside. I was of course very disappointed. I had fantasized reading the whole Qur’an during the 30 or so days of Ramadan, every Ramadan, as some Muslims do. I had been hoping that the decorated pages would enhance the pleasure of reading Holy texts. But then, how many Muslims read the Holy Qur’an in English? Muslims believe the Qur’an is the exact record of the words God spoke to the prophet Muhammad and for this reason, the Qur’an can only be written in Arabic. The English editions are only interpretations. I am aware that non-Arabic speaking Muslims read the Qur’an in Arabic. Also, they say that the Arabic language of the Qur’an is “perfect”; so then, truly, an illuminated Qur’an is a thing of beauty, as befits a mus’haf that contains the “words” of God.
Illuminated Qur’ans are among the loveliest. As demonstrated through the various illuminated Qur’ans in the possession of various museums and libraries, spanning centuries, the art of Islam achieved its richest artistic expression in book illustration – the art of the book – particularly in the production of the Holy Qur’an. The latest in the illustrious line of beautiful Qur’an editions is the Qatari-print of the Holy Qur’an (Mus’haf Qatar), released to the public last March 2010. My husband was given complimentary copies, of different sizes. The biggest measures 17.5 x 12.5 inches and came in a big wooden box. This big Qur’an sits on a Qur’an stand in our majilis. Mus’haf Qatar is also a work of art: set in exquisite calligraphy, with margins embellished with arabesques in gold and lapis lazuli. Two calligraphers were chosen in an international competition of renowned calligraphers (122) to prepare the new manuscripts in 24 months. The works of these two calligraphers were compared by an expert panel for final selection and the work of Obeida Mohammed Al Banki from Syria was chosen. The project took 10 years to realize and cost QR30m (around US8.5m).
There is a certain thrill in leafing and skimming through the pages of an illuminated book. The embellishment visually enchants. Two years ago, my husband informed me that a package had arrived for me, from the Folio Society. He had wondered what it could be and I had replied “A book most likely, since it’s from the Folio Society.” He had forgotten it in his car and at night he brought me the package – a big package. “It has to be books”, I said. “It says ‘Fragile’, he replied, making me think of glass. As I was already in bed, I asked him to just put it on the floor by the foot of the bed. We both wondered at the ‘Fragile’ sign. “Why don’t you open it now?” my husband asked. “I’m sort of lazy now. I’ll open it tomorrow when I come home from work. I’ll look forward to opening it all morning at work” I replied but curiosity got the better of me and finally I got up, took a pair of scissors, and opened the box. It was a book, a big book, a beautiful book. THE FOUR GOSPELS Engravings by ERIC GILL, the title read in golden calligraphic letters on black leather. It explained the fragile sign, I thought. Around the title were golden illustrations of a winged lion, an eagle, an angel, and a winged sheep, reminding me of Assyrian and Babylonian stone reliefs. I had ordered a copy of a Folio Society Limited Edition with the special engravings months back. As I leafed through, I was delighted at the beauty and elegance of the illuminated engravings. They seemed alive; they were quite breathtaking. The engravings were superb and the finest I had ever seen. On quiet moments, I would leaf through the book and read some of the gospels. Every time I open this book, a thrill goes through me. It is not an exaggeration to say that I’m ecstatic every time I feast my eyes on the engravings.
Before the invention of mechanical printing, books were handmade objects, treasured works of art, and symbols of enduring knowledge. In the Middle Ages, the book became an attribute of God. Every stage in the creation of a medieval book required intensive labor, sometimes involving the collaboration of entire workshops. Parchment for the pages had to be made from the dried hides of animals, cut to size and sewn; inks had to be mixed, pens prepared, and the pages ruled for lettering. A scribe copied the text from an established edition, and artists might then embellish it with illustrations, decorated initials, and ornament in the margins. The most lavish medieval books were bound in covers set with enamels, jewels, and ivory carvings.
An ebook can never give as much pleasure and enchantment as an illuminated book. Truly, an illuminated book is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com.
In 2000, I obtained the Illuminated Family Edition of the Holy Bible, King James Version, and First edition, published by Thunder Bay Press; printed and bound in China! It is a work of great beauty: decorative borders, column dividers, and illuminated and historiated initial capitals. The preface informs me that the design for this edition is based on the Urbino Bible, one of masterpieces of 15th century art and bookmaking. It took the scribe (Ugo Comminelli of Mezieres) four years to complete the text by hand. The numerous illustrations and decorative elements were handpainted by such masters as Domenico and Davide Ghirlandaio. For the 2000 edition, all the illustrations in the original were electronically scanned and then removed digitally from their original backgrounds. Whenever I have time on my hands, it is always a joy to leaf through my edition and read some chapters. The beauty of the decorative elements intensifies the pleasure I feel when I read through my edition.
In 2008, I received, through mail from the Folio Society, an announcement of an illuminated English Edition of the Holy Qur’an. The illuminated Qur’ans that I’ve seen were all Arabic editions – very beautiful: borders embellished with geometric and vegetal patterns as secondary motifs separating the verses; calligraphic letterings, some in gold, with embellished margins; and elaborate full-page frontispieces. Lavishly ornamented pages belonged to museums and glitter like jewels in spotlighted glass cases but even copies owned by ordinary Muslims were/are illuminated, varying in degree from simple to lavish. Unlike illuminated Bibles, the Qur’ans do not illustrate scenes from the texts; instead they feature attractive script, flowers and touches of gold and lapis lazuli.
For so long I had wanted an illuminated English version of the Qur’an. The Arabic words mus’haf and Qur’an are synonymous but differ in connotation, according to my husband. Mus’haf refers to the physical book whereas Qur’an refers to the content in the book. So, what I wanted was an English Mus’haf. With much excitement, I ordered one copy and awaited its arrival with bated breath. It arrived months later. The hardcover is white. The frontispiece is ornamented with a central geometric pattern in gold and blue and bordered with fine interlocking lotus and vine-leaf design in gold accented with a touch of blue, like lapis lazuli. There was no adornment inside. I was of course very disappointed. I had fantasized reading the whole Qur’an during the 30 or so days of Ramadan, every Ramadan, as some Muslims do. I had been hoping that the decorated pages would enhance the pleasure of reading Holy texts. But then, how many Muslims read the Holy Qur’an in English? Muslims believe the Qur’an is the exact record of the words God spoke to the prophet Muhammad and for this reason, the Qur’an can only be written in Arabic. The English editions are only interpretations. I am aware that non-Arabic speaking Muslims read the Qur’an in Arabic. Also, they say that the Arabic language of the Qur’an is “perfect”; so then, truly, an illuminated Qur’an is a thing of beauty, as befits a mus’haf that contains the “words” of God.
Illuminated Qur’ans are among the loveliest. As demonstrated through the various illuminated Qur’ans in the possession of various museums and libraries, spanning centuries, the art of Islam achieved its richest artistic expression in book illustration – the art of the book – particularly in the production of the Holy Qur’an. The latest in the illustrious line of beautiful Qur’an editions is the Qatari-print of the Holy Qur’an (Mus’haf Qatar), released to the public last March 2010. My husband was given complimentary copies, of different sizes. The biggest measures 17.5 x 12.5 inches and came in a big wooden box. This big Qur’an sits on a Qur’an stand in our majilis. Mus’haf Qatar is also a work of art: set in exquisite calligraphy, with margins embellished with arabesques in gold and lapis lazuli. Two calligraphers were chosen in an international competition of renowned calligraphers (122) to prepare the new manuscripts in 24 months. The works of these two calligraphers were compared by an expert panel for final selection and the work of Obeida Mohammed Al Banki from Syria was chosen. The project took 10 years to realize and cost QR30m (around US8.5m).
There is a certain thrill in leafing and skimming through the pages of an illuminated book. The embellishment visually enchants. Two years ago, my husband informed me that a package had arrived for me, from the Folio Society. He had wondered what it could be and I had replied “A book most likely, since it’s from the Folio Society.” He had forgotten it in his car and at night he brought me the package – a big package. “It has to be books”, I said. “It says ‘Fragile’, he replied, making me think of glass. As I was already in bed, I asked him to just put it on the floor by the foot of the bed. We both wondered at the ‘Fragile’ sign. “Why don’t you open it now?” my husband asked. “I’m sort of lazy now. I’ll open it tomorrow when I come home from work. I’ll look forward to opening it all morning at work” I replied but curiosity got the better of me and finally I got up, took a pair of scissors, and opened the box. It was a book, a big book, a beautiful book. THE FOUR GOSPELS Engravings by ERIC GILL, the title read in golden calligraphic letters on black leather. It explained the fragile sign, I thought. Around the title were golden illustrations of a winged lion, an eagle, an angel, and a winged sheep, reminding me of Assyrian and Babylonian stone reliefs. I had ordered a copy of a Folio Society Limited Edition with the special engravings months back. As I leafed through, I was delighted at the beauty and elegance of the illuminated engravings. They seemed alive; they were quite breathtaking. The engravings were superb and the finest I had ever seen. On quiet moments, I would leaf through the book and read some of the gospels. Every time I open this book, a thrill goes through me. It is not an exaggeration to say that I’m ecstatic every time I feast my eyes on the engravings.
Before the invention of mechanical printing, books were handmade objects, treasured works of art, and symbols of enduring knowledge. In the Middle Ages, the book became an attribute of God. Every stage in the creation of a medieval book required intensive labor, sometimes involving the collaboration of entire workshops. Parchment for the pages had to be made from the dried hides of animals, cut to size and sewn; inks had to be mixed, pens prepared, and the pages ruled for lettering. A scribe copied the text from an established edition, and artists might then embellish it with illustrations, decorated initials, and ornament in the margins. The most lavish medieval books were bound in covers set with enamels, jewels, and ivory carvings.
An ebook can never give as much pleasure and enchantment as an illuminated book. Truly, an illuminated book is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.c...
www.amazon.com
www.barnesandnoble.com.
WARRIOR POETS
December 18 is the National Day of Qatar and was celebrated with a colorful military parade on the Corniche. Military parades of course are pompous affairs but they are a lot of fun! In addition to the usual National Day celebrations such as a spectacular fireworks display, a Sword Dance (Al Arda) is usually held along the Corniche. Al Arda is a martial arts dance involving upraised swords. I watched the dancing on TV. The tradition is ancient and can be found in Greece, the Middle East, Pakistan, India, China, Korea, England, Scotland and Japan. I was mesmerized as I watched hundreds of men dressed in winter dishdashas and flowing headdresses sway and brandish long scimitar swords in the air, accompanied by drums and chanting. Al Arda made me think of the warrior poets.
Ah, the Warrior Poet . . . he is a romantic figure. Various cultures have their legendary warriors, usually those who demonstrated strength, agility, and courage – and poetic skill. In feudal Japan, a samurai was expected to master not only the martial arts but also calligraphy and poetry. In the Age of Chivalry in Europe, knights sought to develop prowess in war and skill on horseback and also admired the gift of eloquence and the art of poetry and this custom was inspired by Arab tradition, so they say.
The Arabs have many warrior poets – men of action and eloquence who extolled the tribal virtues of honor, courage, generosity, fidelity, and revenge. The poet satirized the tribe’s enemies, defended the honor of the tribe, and perpetuated their glorious deeds, and thus establishing their fame forever. The most important poems that the Arabs consider masterpieces are the Seven Odes, known as the Mu’allaqat and hung on the Ka’aba. The poems are pre-Islamic and they are embroidered on silk in gold and silver and hung for all to see on the Ka’aba. Before Islam, the cloth on which the poems were inscribed was hung for all to see at a great fair which was held annually at 'Ukaz, a fabled Arabian market town in Saudi Arabia. These poems are regarded up to the present as supreme models of poetic excellence and sophistication, and have been imitated by countless Arab poets.
The pre-Islamic poet, Imru al-Qais is the most famous of the Arab warrior poets. He lived in the 6th century AD. He is of the Banu Kinda tribe and a descendant from the kings of Yemen. When his father was put to death after a revolt in the tribe, Imru' al-Qais went to Constantinople seeking aid from the Byzantine emperor to avenge his father’s death. The Emperor Justinian agreed to help him. However, al-Qais had an affair with the emperor’s daughter and it is said that the emperor gave him a poisoned robe and hence, he died on his return journey.
Imru’ al-Qais’ poems vividly describes desert life and earthly love scenes. His poem is one of the Mu’allaqat poems. In his Mu’allaqat, he boasts:
“Many a fair lady's tent has opened its treasure
For me to enjoy slowly at my own leisure,
Slipping past men and guards who with speed
Would have slain me for my daring deed.”
He wrote in the opening stanzas of his Muallaqat poem:
“Stop, oh my friends, let us pause to weep over the remembrance of my beloved.
Here was her abode on the edge of the sandy desert between Dakhool and Howmal.
The traces of her encampment are not wholly obliterated even now.
For when the South wind blows the sand over them the North wind sweeps it away.
The courtyards and enclosures of the old home have become desolate;
The dung of the wild deer lies there thick as the seeds of pepper.
On the morning of our separation it was as if I stood in the gardens of our tribe,
Amid the acacia-shrubs where my eyes were blinded
With tears by the smart from the bursting pods of colocynth”.
Imru al-Qais’ verses had at times words of wisdom such as these: “If a man cannot value the words of his tongue, how can he treasure anything under the sun?”
Another distinguished and renowned poet was Antara ibn Shaddad, an Arab warrior poet of the 6th century AD. He is the hero in the Arab epic The Romance of Antar. His father was an Arab prince and his mother was an Abyssinian slave. His legendary exploits in battle as well as his love for his cousin Abla are celebrated throughout the Arab world. He is one of the poets in the Mu’allaqat. He is renowned for his honor and courage and his poetry is full of his exploits of valor and his love for Abla.
Antar said:
“Give me not the drink of life in servitude,
But in pride give me a drink of bitterness.
The water of life is hell in servitude,
and Hades in pride is a land of bliss.”
Choose for yourself a place of dignity,
Or die with honour on a dusty battlefield.
Though I am as a slave, my ambition
Is above the Pleiades and the starry field.”
Indeed, there is truth in the Arab saying, “The Beauty of Men Lies in the Eloquence of his Tongue.”
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
Author of My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
Available at:
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.com
http://www.amazon.com
http://www.barnesandnoble.com
Ah, the Warrior Poet . . . he is a romantic figure. Various cultures have their legendary warriors, usually those who demonstrated strength, agility, and courage – and poetic skill. In feudal Japan, a samurai was expected to master not only the martial arts but also calligraphy and poetry. In the Age of Chivalry in Europe, knights sought to develop prowess in war and skill on horseback and also admired the gift of eloquence and the art of poetry and this custom was inspired by Arab tradition, so they say.
The Arabs have many warrior poets – men of action and eloquence who extolled the tribal virtues of honor, courage, generosity, fidelity, and revenge. The poet satirized the tribe’s enemies, defended the honor of the tribe, and perpetuated their glorious deeds, and thus establishing their fame forever. The most important poems that the Arabs consider masterpieces are the Seven Odes, known as the Mu’allaqat and hung on the Ka’aba. The poems are pre-Islamic and they are embroidered on silk in gold and silver and hung for all to see on the Ka’aba. Before Islam, the cloth on which the poems were inscribed was hung for all to see at a great fair which was held annually at 'Ukaz, a fabled Arabian market town in Saudi Arabia. These poems are regarded up to the present as supreme models of poetic excellence and sophistication, and have been imitated by countless Arab poets.
The pre-Islamic poet, Imru al-Qais is the most famous of the Arab warrior poets. He lived in the 6th century AD. He is of the Banu Kinda tribe and a descendant from the kings of Yemen. When his father was put to death after a revolt in the tribe, Imru' al-Qais went to Constantinople seeking aid from the Byzantine emperor to avenge his father’s death. The Emperor Justinian agreed to help him. However, al-Qais had an affair with the emperor’s daughter and it is said that the emperor gave him a poisoned robe and hence, he died on his return journey.
Imru’ al-Qais’ poems vividly describes desert life and earthly love scenes. His poem is one of the Mu’allaqat poems. In his Mu’allaqat, he boasts:
“Many a fair lady's tent has opened its treasure
For me to enjoy slowly at my own leisure,
Slipping past men and guards who with speed
Would have slain me for my daring deed.”
He wrote in the opening stanzas of his Muallaqat poem:
“Stop, oh my friends, let us pause to weep over the remembrance of my beloved.
Here was her abode on the edge of the sandy desert between Dakhool and Howmal.
The traces of her encampment are not wholly obliterated even now.
For when the South wind blows the sand over them the North wind sweeps it away.
The courtyards and enclosures of the old home have become desolate;
The dung of the wild deer lies there thick as the seeds of pepper.
On the morning of our separation it was as if I stood in the gardens of our tribe,
Amid the acacia-shrubs where my eyes were blinded
With tears by the smart from the bursting pods of colocynth”.
Imru al-Qais’ verses had at times words of wisdom such as these: “If a man cannot value the words of his tongue, how can he treasure anything under the sun?”
Another distinguished and renowned poet was Antara ibn Shaddad, an Arab warrior poet of the 6th century AD. He is the hero in the Arab epic The Romance of Antar. His father was an Arab prince and his mother was an Abyssinian slave. His legendary exploits in battle as well as his love for his cousin Abla are celebrated throughout the Arab world. He is one of the poets in the Mu’allaqat. He is renowned for his honor and courage and his poetry is full of his exploits of valor and his love for Abla.
Antar said:
“Give me not the drink of life in servitude,
But in pride give me a drink of bitterness.
The water of life is hell in servitude,
and Hades in pride is a land of bliss.”
Choose for yourself a place of dignity,
Or die with honour on a dusty battlefield.
Though I am as a slave, my ambition
Is above the Pleiades and the starry field.”
Indeed, there is truth in the Arab saying, “The Beauty of Men Lies in the Eloquence of his Tongue.”
Rachel Hajar, M.D.
Author of My Life in Doha: Between Dream and Reality
Available at:
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.com
http://www.amazon.com
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