Precerpt from In with the East Wind: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life - Bahrain: Manama
Manama
Manama is he modern pulse of Bahrain. The capital city (and,
really, the only city of any size), Manama is Bahrain’s cosmopolitan heart,
located on the northeastern coast. It is sleek and vertical—glass towers,
luxury hotels, and financial hubs dominate the skyline. The rest of Bahrain is
quieter and more horizontal—villages, date farms, and archaeological sites
stretch across low desert terrain.
This contrast can be seen in the coexistence of traditional
souqs and modern malls, offering everything from spices and pearls to designer
brands. The Bahrain National Museum, perched on an artificial peninsula, offers
sweeping views of the sea and showcases the island’s 6,000-year history. Nearby,
the National Theatre and waterfront cafés create a serene cultural corridor.
When I worked there in the early 2000s, I often drove
through the Pearl Roundabout. Iconic, it served as a national symbol (featured
on currency). Later, in 2011, it became a protest site during a pro-democracy
uprising, turning it into a politically charged space, which prompted its destruction
as a means of erasing its symbolic power. Today, where the roundabout has been
replaced by a standard traffic junction, but whenever I remember Manama, the
Pearl Roundabout will pop onto my screen.
My English Language workshops sponsored by the US Embassy
brought great pleasure. The students were involved with the subject matter, supported
each other, and enjoyed their learning. Through them, I learned some Arabic, bonded
with some of the women (how I know what they wear underneath their abayas and
why some of them appreciate being in a marriage with 2-3 other wives),
especially a woman about my age named Sumaya, with whom I am still in touch 20
years later, allowed myself to be dragged to a salon for henna (painting
drawings on my hands with henna) for some celebrations that was taking place
(interesting the reactions I got upon return to the States), and, important, found
out that my driver was not calling me a little elephant.
About that linguistic error…I knew no Arabic upon arrival in
Bahrain, and certainly not the Bahrain dialect, but my driver was about to
teach a piece of it. He spoke no English. I am pretty good at picking up languages
on the spot, but in this case I ran into a “false friend.”
“Sabah al-khayr,” he said. I knew from greetings in the
hotel that means good morning. I knew the common response.
“Sabah an-nur, (morning of light)” I replied.
Then he said, what I heard as slonik, which in
Russian means little elephant. Huh? I felt warm—I think I was red—and looked
to see if my dress really revealed too much poundage from my only slightly
overweight body. I had no response!
When I told the women in class, they laughed. He was saying shlonik,
they told me. Shlonik means literally what is your color? When used
as a greeting it means simply how are you?
When the driver picked me up after class and again asked
shlonik, I did not turn red or look at my dress. I properly answered, with a
smile, al-hamdu lillah (thanks be to the God). From that point on,
thanks to the women in my class, my knowledge of Arabic increased daily, as did
the length of my conversations with the driver.
That was my first—but far from last—group of students. The
other groups blend together, but I will never forget one young (early 20s) student,
Abdullah. Super shy, he sat in the back corner of the classroom and never responded
to any questions or opportunities to present results from assigned tasks. Then
one day, in describing personality types, I commented that one type could be exemplified
by son, to which Abdullah spoke for the first time, “I would like to be your
son.” From that point, mother-son became a “thing.” At graduation, I handed out
the diplomas. They were written in Arabic, and I was having difficulty reading
the name Abdullah. “Your son,” the entire class exclaimed! Ah, Abdullah! I
could make out the name then.
For some reason that I do not remember, the crown prince, H.H.
Shaikh Salman Bin Hamad Al Khalifa was present. He was very interested not only
in these courses but also in education in general, I found out this His
Highness had been educated at Cambridge, which explained his near-native
command of English. In the early 2000s, Bahrain was aggressively positioning
itself as a regional education hub; a modern, globally connected state; and a
close partner of the U.S. in cultural and academic exchange—and, amazingly, I to
participate in two of those three goals, at least peripherally.
Salman bin Hamad was the face of this agenda. He wasn’t just
the Crown Prince — he was the one pushing English proficiency, Western
partnerships, university expansion, scholarships, and international
accreditation.
For that reason, I ran into him and the Al Khalifa family many
times as acting dean of New York Institute of Technology in Manama. Yes, at the
same time I was dean in Jordan, I ended up filling in after the dean in Bahrain
left and became a very frequent flier on Gulf Air, spending Tuesday through
Thursday in Bahrain (where Friday and Saturday were the weekend) and Saturday through
Monday in Jordan (where Thursday and Friday were the weekend). Friday, the holy
day in both countries found me up in the air, literally, shuttling between the
two countries for all of Summer 2005.
A new institution, NYIT needed infrastructure and faculty. I
brought over the librarian from Jordan (Lucille) to establish the university
library and train the librarian-select, a local. I hired a lovely dean’s
assistant, a young British lawyer, named Emma. I asked some faculty to do the
Jordan-Bahrain dance, one of them an English literature professor (Dr. Geri). They,
with whom I am still in touch 20 years later, and a number of other faculty recruited
specially for Bahrain rapidly built up the university.
I also put my husband on the weekly Gulf Air flight. Carl
was supervising the language lab and teaching photography in Jordan and
re-enacted the same roles in Bahrain, but the realities of life in Bahrain flabbergasted
him. Thirteen Al-Khalifa young women signed up for the first photography course,
along with two men. On the first day of class, the two men dropped the course. That
tracks perfectly with Bahraini social etiquette in the mid‑2000s. Young men
were often hyper‑aware of the need to avoid impropriety, the risk of being
perceived as too familiar, and the unspoken rules around interacting with royal
women. So, the moment they saw the roster, they probably thought, “Nope. Not
navigating that minefield,” and quietly exited stage left. That left the
13 young ladies, to whom many referred as “Mr. Carl’s royal harem.” Carl was
surprised when they asked what camera to buy for the course. He had a Nikon D,
the most advanced and expensive camera of the day, but he steered them toward
more modest cameras that typically students would be able to afford and that
would adequately serve the needs of a beginning photography course. The next session,
all 13 showed up with Nikon D cameras, a dramatic contrast from Jordan where
some of the students were too poor to afford anything other than a homemade
camera from an oatmeal box. (Carl always claimed that the Jordanian students
learned much more about photography than students with fancy cameras that did
all the work for them.) Then, it was the turn for the Al-Khalifa students to be
startled. Carl suggested excursions into town to learn how to photograph
architecture. The photography lesson was not a big deal; 13 Al-Khalifa young
women in really nice abayas walking around town as group was. The palace agreed
to the excursions—but sent a guard. And that is how the appellation, Mr. Carl
and his royal harem, sprang up.
Carl passed away five years ago, but I still have the portfolios
turned in by those young women, some of them quite insightful, reflective, and/or
transformative. I suppose what we were doing at the time was quietly radical: creating
a space where young royal women could learn, experiment, and be treated like
students rather than symbols. That seemed to be the kind of environment Salman
bin Hamad was trying to cultivate—modern, international, academically serious. I
like to think that NYIT played a small role as part of the machinery of
cultural change.
by Dr. Betty Lou Leaver
For more posts about and from this book, click HERE.
For more posts by and about Betty Lou Leaver, click HERE.
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