Guests of the Sheik: An Ethnography of an Iraqi Village by Elizabeth Warnock Fernea Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Warnock Fernea
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destitute.
Most of the members of her husband’s family had died, and
those who were alive did not want another mouth to feed. No
one wanted her. What was she to do? At this point Sheik
Hamid heard of her plight. He had then been married to Selma
for three years; she had two sons and needed a servant. Hamid
bought Amina from her father for twenty pounds, and gave
her to Selma.
“And never have I had such a good life as since I came
here,” she averred. “Why, I can have as much bread as I want,
every day, and rice, and sometimes meat. Selma even gives
me cigarettes. And Haji-” here she raised her hands and her
eyes to heaven and launched into a flowery eulogy of the
generosity, the greatness, the goodness which were peculiar to
Hamid’s character.
“Do you ever see your family, Amina?” I asked, knowing
that even through woe and poverty and separation, family ties
are not soon severed in this society. The question was a
mistake. Amina began to cry again, and between sobs she said
she had not seen her family for seven years.
“But oh, Haji, he is a good man. There is no sheik in the
Euphrates Valley as good as Haji.” She went on and on like
this until she finally ran down. She was worn out and so was I.
The recital had taken at least an hour. I suggested we might
sleep, and she agreed. But when I turned out the light, the
sound of muffled sniffling came to me through the darkness.
“What is the matter, Amina?”
“Nothing,” she replied, but the sniffling continued.
“If your husband is really kind to you,” she said
inexplicably, “get a lot of gold jewelry from him while you
are still young. You never know what will happen.”
And before I could reply she was snoring loudly, fast
asleep.
Bob came back at 6:30 the next evening. I had no time to
recount the tale of Amina, for several members of the clan had
returned with the men, and were eating in the mudhif. Bob
was expected to make an appearance, and he changed his
clothes and left. Not more than five minutes after he had gone
there was a loud pounding at the gate. I thought he had
forgotten something and ran to open it. Not Bob, but seven or
eight black-veiled figures greeted me—the women! They had
come at last. They marched up the path, giggling and
whispering to each other like a bunch of schoolgirls on a field
trip to the zoo. Not until they were all inside the house and
had removed their face veils did I know who had come:
Selma—yes, Selma, the social leader of my little settlement—
and Sheddir, wife of Ali; Laila, one of the sheik’s nieces;
Fadhila, sister-in-law of Mohammed; two women I did not
know; and Amina, my roommate of the night before. Aha, I
thought, the business with Amina was not a waste of time,
perhaps she has told them I am not such an ogre after all. I
smiled at her in gratitude, but she was talking to Selma and
did not respond.
No one paid any attention to me. They gazed around them,
at our wardrobe with its full-length mirror, at the postcards
and the calendar I had pinned up, at Bob’s brick-and-board
bookcase, at our narrow bed against the wall. I decided to let
them look, and went to make tea, returning with seven glasses
on a tray. Everyone refused. I offered it again. Again I was
refused. Suddenly I was angry. This was a great insult, not to
accept tea in a house where one was visiting, and they knew it
and I knew it and they knew I knew it. I said, as sweetly as I
could, “How is it that you receive me into your houses and
insist that I drink your tea, but when you come to see me, you
only want to look, and not accept my hospitality?” There was
a shocked silence.
Selma rose to the occasion. “The women are shy,” she said.
“They know your ways are different from ours, and think they
should refuse the tea, since it is their first visit to your house.”
She knew I knew she was making up every word she said,
but I once more appreciated her tact
Most of the members of her husband’s family had died, and
those who were alive did not want another mouth to feed. No
one wanted her. What was she to do? At this point Sheik
Hamid heard of her plight. He had then been married to Selma
for three years; she had two sons and needed a servant. Hamid
bought Amina from her father for twenty pounds, and gave
her to Selma.
“And never have I had such a good life as since I came
here,” she averred. “Why, I can have as much bread as I want,
every day, and rice, and sometimes meat. Selma even gives
me cigarettes. And Haji-” here she raised her hands and her
eyes to heaven and launched into a flowery eulogy of the
generosity, the greatness, the goodness which were peculiar to
Hamid’s character.
“Do you ever see your family, Amina?” I asked, knowing
that even through woe and poverty and separation, family ties
are not soon severed in this society. The question was a
mistake. Amina began to cry again, and between sobs she said
she had not seen her family for seven years.
“But oh, Haji, he is a good man. There is no sheik in the
Euphrates Valley as good as Haji.” She went on and on like
this until she finally ran down. She was worn out and so was I.
The recital had taken at least an hour. I suggested we might
sleep, and she agreed. But when I turned out the light, the
sound of muffled sniffling came to me through the darkness.
“What is the matter, Amina?”
“Nothing,” she replied, but the sniffling continued.
“If your husband is really kind to you,” she said
inexplicably, “get a lot of gold jewelry from him while you
are still young. You never know what will happen.”
And before I could reply she was snoring loudly, fast
asleep.
Bob came back at 6:30 the next evening. I had no time to
recount the tale of Amina, for several members of the clan had
returned with the men, and were eating in the mudhif. Bob
was expected to make an appearance, and he changed his
clothes and left. Not more than five minutes after he had gone
there was a loud pounding at the gate. I thought he had
forgotten something and ran to open it. Not Bob, but seven or
eight black-veiled figures greeted me—the women! They had
come at last. They marched up the path, giggling and
whispering to each other like a bunch of schoolgirls on a field
trip to the zoo. Not until they were all inside the house and
had removed their face veils did I know who had come:
Selma—yes, Selma, the social leader of my little settlement—
and Sheddir, wife of Ali; Laila, one of the sheik’s nieces;
Fadhila, sister-in-law of Mohammed; two women I did not
know; and Amina, my roommate of the night before. Aha, I
thought, the business with Amina was not a waste of time,
perhaps she has told them I am not such an ogre after all. I
smiled at her in gratitude, but she was talking to Selma and
did not respond.
No one paid any attention to me. They gazed around them,
at our wardrobe with its full-length mirror, at the postcards
and the calendar I had pinned up, at Bob’s brick-and-board
bookcase, at our narrow bed against the wall. I decided to let
them look, and went to make tea, returning with seven glasses
on a tray. Everyone refused. I offered it again. Again I was
refused. Suddenly I was angry. This was a great insult, not to
accept tea in a house where one was visiting, and they knew it
and I knew it and they knew I knew it. I said, as sweetly as I
could, “How is it that you receive me into your houses and
insist that I drink your tea, but when you come to see me, you
only want to look, and not accept my hospitality?” There was
a shocked silence.
Selma rose to the occasion. “The women are shy,” she said.
“They know your ways are different from ours, and think they
should refuse the tea, since it is their first visit to your house.”
She knew I knew she was making up every word she said,
but I once more appreciated her tact
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