THE MIDDLE EAST STOLE MY FRIENDS... AND MY HEART.

Ican only describe the feeling of total desolation that confronted me on that dank, overcast day in November as heart break. I had been blindsighted, clueless to the plans which were afoot and which the beaming faces seemed so happy to share with me. Just as any self- respecting 40 year old woman would I handled their disclosure with the utmost resilience and dignity; spending the next eight months sporadically bursting into tears, sometimes with my daughter and sometimes alone, usually ironing… It wasn’t the only thing letting off steam.

This is when my vendetta began. It was against the sinister spectre which was stealing my, our, best friends. I fantasised for hours about their misery at the hands of an authoritarian government and imposing culture which had no scope to bend for the sake of tolerance. The heat, the unbearable heat which would imprison them for months at a time, stripping the girls of their carefree outdoor lifestyles. They would be forced to ‘cover up’ stifling any sense of individuality or femininity and accept a temporary destiny which would label them as inferior due to their gender. The images they showed me of villas with pools and bustling communal areas taunted me and further fuelled my resentment. They wouldn’t be part of anything anymore, surely, it would be faceless and impersonal, this transient existence as an expatriate? No more cricket teas or impromptu get togethers. The girls would never be able to play freely in the street and run and giggle until they couldn’t any longer for lack of breath and excitement. Life would be sensible and stayed and dour. As for premium beverages and fry-up sandwiches slathered in tomato sauce … Well, I was quite frankly distraught at their loss.

We made it through the painful “Goodbyes” and I admired their courage to be able to maintain such a positive ‘front’ in the face of such adversity during our frequent Skype calls. It must be so difficult for them I mused, seeing us living our lives to the full whilst they ‘make do’ amidst repression and intolerance and the embarrassing ostentatiousness of their hosts. A ‘tiny’ voice beside me (which I later learned was the closest thing I had to a voice of reason at the time) would repeat “When we come to see you…” during every call and the inevitability of having to make the trek into the unknown became more and more apparent and imminent. Packing for trips is generally classed as a source of discontent and angst amongst most families and due to the ‘nature’ of the country we were visiting it made the task infinitely more thankless. My daughter is a tomboy and has not worn a dress since she was physically able to remove one. Would she be arrested? Stoned? I felt it was my duty as a mother to prepare her for the horrors that might await her . She may have to accept the need to wear, a skirt or at very least the colour pink - you can tell my ignorance wasn’t bliss but merely ignorant at the point. I had created two distinct wardrobes. The respectful, conservative ankle grazing, wrist length gowns which I would wear when we left their home. I packed full bathing suits and just one bikini to wear around the pool. Shorts and vest tops were kept to a minimum so as not to offend.

As our arrival in The Middle East approached friends started to comment upon how brave I was travelling ‘there’, ‘alone’ … and a ‘woman!’ The look of genuine admiration at my selflessness and courage was afforded by men and women alike. The months of yearning for their company, their warm laughter, hugs and voracious appetite for Maoam candy was over. My daughter and I departed from England on our journey. This was the first time my daughter had flown ‘non-budget airlines.’ The movies, video games and bottomless soft drinks delivered to her made her final hours of ‘civilisation’ as we knew it absolutely delightful. Our airline delivered us in the balmy early evening refreshed if somewhat apprehensive. This is where things took a surprising turn. We rounded a corner to find a Duty Free shop where new arrivals could ‘stock – up’ on gifts for friends or simply for themselves to enjoy whilst on holiday. ‘A trick……. A test which must be passed! ‘ I thought. When I learned that it was a courtesy for visitors the furrow of suspicion on my brow softened a little - this place doesn’t seem as draconian as I initially thought. How lovely. I bought my friends an industrial size pack of mini Daim bars on offer that would complement the haul of Maoams we had carted here very nicely.

As our luggage ambled its way towards us on the rubber conveyor belts a wave of panic overcame me. Public displays of affection… a married man and two children were greeting us. How would I prevent myself from being cautioned or worse arrested? Forewarned is forearmed I told myself and approached a tall, well groomed security guard. After listening intently to my predicament he smiled warmly and said that everything would be fine, “Give hugs and kisses, it has clearly been a long time.” How odd?

I hope that it is becoming increasingly clear that one-by-one every fear, myth, untruth and exaggeration was totally erased within the first few hours of our arrival. My friends had ice cold bottles of matured apple waiting for us - just as we would have back home. Following a very sound sleep and a lavish breakfast I left for the water park dressed exactly as I had done in Spain the previous year. No sinister looks or disapproval from locals. Everyone respected the choices made by others whether that was complete coverage or neon bikinis and I felt more comfortable than I ever had in any foreign country. And so it continued. Impeccable service and cleanliness. An array of cuisines which would rival any capital city in the West. A ‘rainbow’ of races and cultures from whom my daughter gleaned a wealth of phrases and information which will stay firmly in her heart and soul, moreover moulding her into adulthood and beyond. The beauty of the women in traditional dress which can not be quantified in western terms or by western standards. The intoxicating perfumes and vivid décor. This land that stripped me of my friends and shattered my heart was now stealing mine. I feel honoured to have experienced Islam at its purest and most intense. The fractious version so richly publicised by the media in the west bears no resemblance to the piety, humility and adoration of all living things I experienced here. The Mosque rendered me speechless for almost an hour … had we not been in this exquisitely divine building my friends may have feared the worst. I had never imagined seeing such unrivalled architectural beauty which was shared generously with everyone who wished to visit. As a teacher at the time I would have loved to take every one of my incredible students, with brains like sponges, to absorb this experience, this life changing experience. The place I felt scornful towards and loathed for its wrongly perceived repression, misogyny and barbaric heat had simply been a figment of my imagination. I had allowed hurt and propaganda to shape me. I’ll be forever thankful that our friends were ‘stolen’ so that I had to seek them out and unveil the truth about this incredible place.

Forever yours, Helen Houghton