In Time, Out of Place

by You Jin

  Aishoujin apologised. “Sorry about that.”

  He looked unhappy. After a while, he said, “Our country is very poor, and excessive arms-spending and the heavy national defence burden have directly affected the lives of the common people. But if we are poor, we are a race with self-respect. Begging from other people is not the Turkish character.”

  My heart went out to him. Someone who was concerned with the self-respect of his whole nation must also be a person of integrity.

  In the settling dusk, together with Aishoujin, we changed buses twice before we reached the distant northern districts. The simply named “Chinese Restaurant” operated by a Beijing restaurateur was located on the banks of the serene, beautiful Bosphorus Sea.

  The Chinese restaurant was decorated magnificently. They brought us a suede-bound hardcover menu. Aishoujin flipped through it, then put it down. He turned to me in embarrassment and apologised, “I’m sorry, really sorry. I have never been here for dinner. I didn’t know it was so expensive.”

  I looked more carefully at the prices. The cheapest item was one thousand eight hundred lira (about six Singapore dollars) and the most expensive four thousand five hundred lira (about fifteen Singapore dollars). From the perspective of Singaporean earnings, of course it was not considered much, but by Turkish standards, it was terribly expensive.

  Aishoujin flipped through the menu, muttering over and over, “Expensive, so expensive…”

  Risheng patted his hand and comforted him, saying, “In life, it’s not very often that we get to enjoy ourselves. Don’t worry. Let’s just order.”

  At first we planned to order Peking duck, but we found that it had to be ordered a day in advance. Aishoujin asked for fried dumplings and I added spicy chicken cubes, bean sauce fish, ginger beef, and fresh seasonal vegetables.

  When the rice and dishes had been served, I was afraid Aishoujin would not know how to use chopsticks, so I asked the waiter to bring a fork and knife for him. He protested, “Teach me! In many ways, I am a baby, but I want to learn. And I have confidence. I’m sure I can learn.”

  He copied the way we held our chopsticks, but when he picked up the food, it immediately dropped. Before the rice had made it to his mouth, the chopsticks got crossed. But he did not give up, nor did he get embarrassed. He just kept trying, kept clawing his way along. Eventually, the vegetables and rice reached his mouth. Even though his chopstick skills were still stiff and awkward, he had already reached his initial goal.

  Of course, this was just a small matter, but from this, I caught a glimpse of Aishoujin’s deep desire for learning.

  When the bill came, it was ten thousand eight hundred lira. After Risheng had settled it, he picked up a toothpick and was about to clean his teeth. Aishoujin suddenly took out six thousand lira and put it on the table, saying, “This is my share.”

  This surprised Risheng and me. Immediately, Risheng put the money back in his hand, saying, “No, please give us the opportunity to do a little some—”

  But before he could finish, Aishoujin pushed the money back and said stubbornly, “I definitely must return you the money. If you are my friends, please accept it.”

  I had never seen such a principled person. Though we did not want to, we were forced to accept the money.

  The next morning at nine sharp, we had to catch a bus to Ankara, in central Turkey. When we said goodbye, we knew it might be forever. I really wanted to give him some sort of souvenir, but I could not think of anything suitable. I felt really anxious. Later, it hit me. I thought of his hobby of collecting currency from other countries. Excusing myself and going to the ladies’ room, I flipped through my wallet. I found several Singapore notes, one five-dollar and two two-dollar notes. As if I had found treasure, I held them tightly in my hands. When I gave them to him, he wanted to decline, but I said seriously, “Aishoujin, this is a small thing. If you reject it, you aren’t treating us as friends.”

  He thanked us profusely and accepted the money.

  He sent us right to our hotel entrance, then shook our hands in farewell. That night, though I was exhausted, it was hard to get to sleep. I kept feeling we owed Aishoujin a kindness that was difficult to repay. We had toured many other countries, and because we didn’t know the place or anyone well, we often ended up stupidly getting cheated. But touring in Turkey, not only did we feel at home, but we also met up with a true gentleman like Aishoujin. We were very fortunate.

  The next morning, we took our luggage downstairs and got ready to leave. Standing at the reception desk, we suddenly heard someone calling us. When we turned around, we were greeted by a huge smile on Aishoujin’s face.

  “I came to send you off.”

  Saying this, he took out a sweater and gave it to me, saying softly, “I finished knitting it last night. I chose to use high-quality wool so that it will keep you warm in winter and cool in summer. You’ll like it.”

  This sweater was a black and red blend. It had little shirt collar, with a skinny tie under the collar. The tie and sleeves were all black. It had a beautiful, sophisticated look.

  At that moment, words of gratitude were unnecessary. I held his hand tightly, as tears welled up in my eyes.

  When we boarded the bus bound for the capital city of Ankara, I couldn’t wait to take out the postcard I had just bought, writing each word very carefully:

  Aishoujin, thank you. Thank you for helping us understand the real distinctive character of the Turkish people during our short stay here. Risheng and I are very proud to call you our friend.

  Tale of a Hijab

  I HAD NOT expected to experience such a huge hassle in Tehran, all because of the hijab issue. I was excitedly striding out of the plane, but at the exit door, the flight attendant blocked my path and with a stern expression asked, “Your hijab?”

  Unconcerned, I answered honestly, “I don’t have a hijab.”

  I did not imagine that he would adopt an unrelenting attitude, as he sighed and shook his head. “Sorry, but if you don’t have a hijab, you won’t be able to leave the airport.”

  I thought he was just trying to scare me but, from beside me, an American woman who had hidden her hair under a hijab, said, “This is my third time to Iran. If you don’t cover your head, you can’t move a single inch in this country.”

  What should I do? I frowned at the flight attendant.

  He asked me to wait. After a few minutes, he handed me one of the airline blankets for passengers to use in flight and said, “You can use this blanket as a head covering.”

  As unbelievable as it sounds, when I disembarked that day, I was forced to use that thick, cumbersome blanket as a head covering. That’s how I entered this country that was shrouded in such an enigmatic cloud.

  Over the next few days, I visited cities all over Iran, and it was just as that American woman had said: in this country, if a woman didn’t cover her head, she couldn’t move an inch. Because of the issue of the hijab, I found myself “under fire” many times whilst I was in Iran, and also engaged in futile wars of words with many of the local learned people.

  It was June, and the sweltering summer heat transformed into an airtight web, covering the whole land completely. When I walked on the road, I felt like a walking fireball. I had always exposed my short hair, and now I was forced to keep my head strictly covered all the time. So my sweat poured like rain, but there was no relief.

  I often forgot to cover my head, and I was always reprimanded. Generally, the Iranian people are quite warm, hospitable and polite, making guests feel quite at home. It is only in relation to the head covering that they become extremely aggressive and insistent. No matter where I went, if I forgot to cover my head, the hotel personnel, restaurant staff, shopkeepers, and even passers-by would remind me. Those who were of milder temperament would smile and remind me to cover my head. Those more reserved would come very close to me and in a low voice, say, “Hey! Where is your hijab? You must cover your head!” Their tone of embarrassment almost made m
e feel as if I’d forgot to wear clothes.

  Those who were really bad-tempered would yell at me, even cursing. Once, I was squatting in a bookstore, looking at some postcards. I was sweating profusely, so I removed the hijab for a moment, but in less than half a minute, the shopkeeper rushed over to me, pointing at me and yelling fiercely, “Cover your head! Please respect our culture!”

  On another occasion, I was sitting bareheaded, appreciating a piece of art in the lobby of a hotel with a long history in Isfahan. The security guard sternly instructed me to put my hijab on. A childish temper suddenly arose in me, and I decided to do a little experiment to test his patience. After he left, I took the hijab off. He saw it and came rushing back over. With a look and tone as sharp as a knife, he said emphatically, “Put it on.”

  I covered my head, but as soon as he turned away, I took the hijab off again. After he noticed this time, he nearly spit his teeth out as he shouted, “Cover!” When I took it off again, he ignored me, walking over to the hotel attendant and whispering something in his ear. Just as I was enjoying my imagined sense of victory, the sour-looking attendant walked over to me and said, “The manager would like to see you.”

  Now they were sending me to the boss to be reprimanded. When I went into his office, he smiled and offered me a seat. We chatted casually about the weather, then he asked what I’d seen during my travels. Finally getting to the topic in a roundabout way, he said, “Covering the head is a requirement in our country. If customers don’t cooperate, it will invite a lot of trouble for the hotel. In the past, some restaurants and hotels have been closed down for not enforcing the rules.”

  His gentle guidance made me see the light. From then onwards, in order not to implicate others, I constantly reminded myself to toe the line. Sometimes, though, I would still break the rule through negligence. For instance, once when I was in a shop in Kashan, a city teeming with roses, I bought a bottle of the famous rose syrup. As I walked, I read the explanation on the bottle. Engrossed in my reading, I did not notice when my hijab slipped down to my shoulders. A dignified-looking gentleman walked over to me and, smiling slightly, said, “Ma’am, this bottle of rose syrup can not only quench your thirst, you can also spray it on the hijab as a perfume.”

  I immediately caught his implication. I laughed and obediently covered my head.

  The most peculiar incident happened at a restaurant in Tehran. A seemingly well-educated gentleman very politely reminded me to cover my head, then boldly added, “This is my country’s germ. I’m really sorry for passing it to you.”

  Some people like to make unkind remarks, calling Iran a nation of crows because the women there are covered head to toe in black garments: black hijab over loose black robes. When they are in a crowd, there’s just a black mass. According to the statutes, if a local woman fails to wear a hijab, she risks imprisonment.

  At first, I assumed Iranian women were so used to this sort of clothing that it was basically like a second skin to them. I had not expected to come to a very different conclusion after talking to women in various parts of Iran. I was surprised to learn that many women actually didn’t like covering their heads and wearing black robes. The younger generation often wore revealing clothes under the robe, and as soon as they got home, they took the robe off, showing off their curvy figures. One young woman who was working in the university cut right to the heart of the matter, saying, “It’s not that we want to expose ourselves, but that the law is too strict and repressive. We feel stifled, so we resort to these undercover methods to channel those negative feelings, getting them out of our system.”

  There were also some people who told me, objectively and pertinently, that whether or not a woman covers her head is not really a big issue. What the local people don’t like is not being free to choose for themselves because of such strict laws.

  Some of the learned people who were concerned about national issues had some insightful comments. They said that after numerous years of being closed to the outside world during more than eight years of the Iran-Iraq War, the vitality of the nation had been sapped and the economy had collapsed. There were many things to be done and industries to be developed, so one of the feasible solutions is to attract lots of foreign investment and focus on developing tourism. But the law forcing foreigners to wear the hijab was an obstacle for the country’s development, and also a barrier for communication with other nations. If this barrier were not removed, the nation would be forever stagnant.

  On the other hand, there was a small group of optimistic people who thought that with the changing times and transfer of power, restrictive laws would probably be removed before long. Since 1979, Iran had carried out religious reform and, after a long twenty-two year process, the strict laws were gradually starting to loosen. For example, in the past women were all forced to wear the black burkha, but now, many women were wearing a variety of colours and designs. In other words, they had gone from being “crows” to being “butterflies”. And where a man’s tie was once seen as a symbol of degenerate Western culture, now, the authorities would no longer interfere. An even greater change was that after Ayatollah Khomeini had seized power, the government had banned all cultural performances, but more recently, a famous old restaurant in Tehran, called Ali Ghapoo, had begun holding musical performances, engaging several male artists to sing. The response had been very good, and the place was full every night. I really liked this sort of lively yet harmonious atmosphere, so every night that we were in Tehran, I went there for dinner and the show. One university professor pointed out to me that, in the past, watching artists perform in public was forbidden. But now, immersed in the lively, vibrant music in the restaurant, he felt like he had stepped into a dream. He went on to point out that there was even a female Iranian singer, Googoosh, who had not been allowed to perform for twenty years. In the previous six months, she had gone to the US, and had held a concert in Los Angeles in May that year, attracting crowds of over twenty thousand Iranian immigrants to the US. As she sang onstage, her audience hummed along. She was so moved at one point that tears started to flow like rain whilst she sang, and the people in the audience likewise started to weep. It was very moving. When the concert ended, she vowed one day to hold a huge concert in Iran. When will this dream become a reality? No one can give a definite answer. We can only wait and see.

  On the day we left Iran, at the Tehran Airport, one of the customs officers pointed at me and yelled, “Your hijab! Cover your head!”

  I obeyed. But thinking of how, in just a few hours, I would no longer be scolded for failing to cover my head, I was extremely happy. I was really ready to be home.

  Inan

  I WAS AT a luxurious wedding in Jeddah, in Western Saudi Arabia near the coast of the Red Sea, when I met Inan. This was during the period of my life when we had relocated there, for Risheng’s job. That night, I followed the time indicated on the invitation and arrived at the brightly lit private residence where the wedding was to be held. Only about two or three hundred guests were seated amongst the two thousand seats prepared. I selected a seat at random, then sat and looked around me curiously. That was when Inan came in. Her arrival was like the descent of a star, her clothes so shimmery that the lights around her dimmed by comparison. It was the sort of glitz that hurt the eye of everyone at the banquet.

  She was very tall, and her slim figure was clad in a pink translucent chiffon evening gown, light and graceful. From her shoulders to her chest, long, fine strings of silver sequins adorned her gown. From afar, it was like she had a few glittering octopi clinging to her. Her thick, luscious hair was dark brown, flowing onto her shoulders carelessly. Her eyes were not only big and bright, but also very deep set, making her whole face exude a kind of unique beauty. Some people’s beauty is like a rainbow, enchanting others as soon as it appears, whilst for others, beauty flows subtly like a stream, noticed only in quiet moments and through careful observation. It was obvious that Inan was not a stream. She was a very dazzling rai
nbow.

  With her was a smiling middle-aged woman. They sat a few rows in front of me. Just then, Geling, the friend who had come to the wedding with me, whispered and asked if I’d like to have a look around. I looked at my watch and found there was still quite some time before the start of the wedding ceremony, so I agreed readily. We put our handbags on our seats and went for a walk. There were two thousand five hundred women invited for this evening’s wedding, so there were more than ten attendants hired just for preparing beverages. A rug was laid in a large open area. A furnace was burning, and there was a gigantic round-belly pot on it, from which floated the aroma of Arabian coffee. There were more than ten similarly designed villas inside the walled compound. Each was well-illuminated, and radiant with gaiety. It was as if we had stepped into a fairy tale. We looked around wide-eyed and, after more than an hour, we went back to the reception area and found that the chairs, all two thousand plus, were full. When we had made our way back to our seats with some difficulty, Geling and I were startled to find that our purses had been “relocated” to the floor, and two older women, draped with jewels, were occupying our seats.

  “Ma’am, these are our seats,” I told them politely, pointing at our bags.

  They looked at us coldly, then looked away, indicating that they couldn’t be bothered. So Geling and I picked up our bags and quickly went to look for another seat. I was pleased to spot an empty seat next to Inan. I patted Geling’s shoulder and said, “I’ll sit there. If you can’t find another seat, come squeeze in with me.”

  And that’s how I met Inan.

  Unlike the cold, conservative way most Saudi Arabian women tended to respond to outsiders, Inan almost immediately accepted my friendship. She even introduced me to the middle-aged woman beside her.