Author: misschryss

Ejo #16 – Crime In The UAE & Little Moosa’s Tragic Story (Do You Believe In The Death Penalty?)

Emirati Info, Islam, Learning About Dubai, , View all 4 comments

After reading my ejos people sometimes ask me if Dubai is as wonderful as I make it out to be.  The simple answer is yes, as those who have come  to visit can attest.  But the simple answer is very rarely an accurate one.  The city is not all shopping malls, beaches, restaurants, five star hotels and indoor ski slopes.  In fact, if you scratch a little bit behind the surface, Dubai is not at all what it appears to be.  True it has a low crime rate compared to other major cities, but just like anywhere else in the world there is a dark underbelly hidden beneath the glossy exterior.

I still feel safer here than I did living in Australia.  It’s perfectly safe to leave your handbag, phone or wallet in the car in clear view.  Car theft is virtually non-existent.  And because the consumption of alcohol outside of the home is so regulated, you very rarely hear about drunken punch ups or public violence.  There are no wolf whistles emanating from construction sites, and it feels safe to walk the streets at night (even though just like other cities, some streets feel safer than others).  The city is mostly inhabited by law abiding citizens – simply because the penalties for breaking the law are so harsh.  Most of the time an infraction attracts a jail sentence followed by possible deportation.  This provides a very satisfactory deterrent. 

Nonetheless crime does exist.  Open the pages of any newspaper and you can read about a number of bizarre and unsavoury cases that have gone to trial.  Drug cases, burglary and theft, kidnapping, prostitution and even human trafficking.  And, of course, murder.  Recently I read about a Bangladeshi man who owed one of his friends a few thousand dirhams.  The guy was demanding payment and the Bangladeshi man decided it would be a good idea to kill his friend and keep the money.  He lured the man to his food delivery truck with the promise of payment.  Instead of money though, the man received a knock to the head and was pushed into the back of the truck.  The Bangladeshi man set the temperature to -4°C and left him there to die while he went home to bed for the night.  Early the next morning when he went to dispose of the body he found his friend completely frozen, yet miraculously, still alive – his eyelids blinking in terror.  The Bangladeshi man panicked, fetched a knife and proceeded to cut his friend’s throat from ear to ear.

This was a particularly strange case, however it’s representative of a great number of the types of crime that occur here.  That is, crimes of greed, passion or opportunity, usually involving a friend or compatriot, and committed in desperation.

The most horrific crime that I’ve heard of happened about a year after we moved to Dubai.  It occurred in November 2009, during Eid al-Adha, which is an Islamic feast celebrating Ibrahim’s faith and obedience to Allah in sacrificing his son, and also, Allah’s mercy – it translates literally to “Feast of the Sacrifice”.  It is a very important occasion, as it is a time to bond and connect with family and close friends.  People dress in their very best clothing and prepare great feasts to share with loved ones.  It is a particularly joyous time for kids (kind of like Xmas for the rest of us), as they receive gifts and are free to play and run around the neighbourhood. 

Pakistani father of three, Mukhtiar Ahmed Khudabaksh remembers his middle child, four year old Moosa, being particularly happy and excited that it was Eid.  He remembers that at around 11am that Friday morning, Moosa was sitting right beside him eating cheese crackers, before running out of the house to join the other children playing outside.  It was the last time he saw his son alive.

The next time he saw Moosa, it was to identify his body in the morgue of the local hospital.  The family received no immediate information about Moosa’s death and assumed that, since he’d been found in the bathroom of the mosque next door to their house, that he’d slipped and fatally struck his head on the floor.  Of course they were devastated.  But they had no idea of the horror yet to come.  The next day they got a call from Police saying that Moosa had been murdered by a 30 year old Emirati fishing boat captain.  They had the man in custody and he had confessed to the killing.  Can you even begin to imagine the shock and anger his family felt towards this man??  And those feelings would have amplified exponentially when they found out the details of how their young son died.

Little Moosa

 

According to a statement made by Rashid Al Rashidi, the man charged with the murder, he’d been drinking that morning and when he’d seen Moosa playing outside he’d lured him to the nearby mosque with promises of Eid gifts.  Moosa, excited at the prospect of more gifts, and having no reason to mistrust the man, followed him into the mosque where Al Rashidi led him into the bathroom.  While hundreds of other men were praying in the main room, and while an Imam intoned the holy prayer, Al Rashidi raped the little boy. 

Details of what happened to Moosa have not been released, and I am very grateful for that because I am haunted enough simply by the idea of what suffering that little boy had to endure.  Al Rashidi confessed that Moosa was shouting in pain during his ordeal, and when he heard someone else come into the bathroom he covered Moosa’s mouth with his hands to keep him quiet.  When that didn’t stop the little boy from screaming, he slammed his little head hard on the floor.  Twice.  He then fled the scene, leaving Moosa to die on the bathroom floor.  After he was caught, he admitted to intending to rape Moosa but said that he never planned to kill him.  He showed remorse during the hearings and pleaded for mercy from the victim’s family and the courts. 

The reason I am writing about this is mostly for myself.  It has weighed on my mind for a long time and I’ve needed to sort out in my head whether or not I believe he deserved the sentence he received – death!  At 8.35am, on 10th February 2011, Rashid Al Rashidi was executed by firing squad, in front of a few witnesses, including Moosa’s parents.  Did he deserve mercy when he showed none to a small, defenceless boy?  As the prosecution stated, “he raped and murdered an innocent angel in the house of God”.  Wasn’t Rashidi’s own death more humane and civilised than the one which he inflicted upon Moosa? 

Moosa’s family will never have him back, and they will forever live with the pain of what happened to their little boy, but following the execution his father said that he had “finally found some peace”.  And I understand that.  After the execution, he went and prayed in the very same mosque in which his son was killed.  This was not an act of forgiveness, though.  From the moment he found out about what Al Rashidi had done to his son, Mukhtiar Ahmed Khudabaksh had campaigned for the death penalty and said that he could never forgive the man who killed his son.  He said, “I don’t need anything in life except his death.”  And he got it.  Will Rashid Al Rashidi’s execution make him happy?  No, probably not.  But I believe that it will allow him to feel that justice has been served.  That the ultimate (and appropriate) price has been paid for the crime committed against his son.  Anything less would have been a miscarriage of justice.

I’m sure some of you are probably against capital punishment and, of course, everyone is entitled to their own opinion.  I don’t particularly condone it, but I do think that in this case it was justified.  I’d love to hear what anyone else thinks about it. 

Sorry to hit you with the hard and heavy stuff today.  Next month it’ll be some easy breezy reading with more adventures from Dangerous Doug.  See you then.

Ejo #15 – Doug’s Bee Story

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So, back by popular demand is my friend and colleague Doug.  The man whose entire life is one big adventure (or misadventure, depending on how you view the world).  When Doug was a young lad of 14 growing up in Zimbabwe he had a dream of owning his own beehive and cultivating honey to make some extra cash – at the time he was only receiving 50¢ a week in pocket money.  He was determined though, and after six months of saving every single cent, he had enough money to buy the equipment he would need – wood to make the hive, beeswax to attract the bees, and proper protective equipment (bee veil, wide-brimmed hat, goat skin gloves and overalls) to cover his entire body from head to toe.

He made the hive and waited for the bees to come.  He waited and he waited.  Some bee scouts came and looked around but unfortunately showed no real interest.  One day Doug’s 29 year old brother-in-law, Ginge, came over and asked about the hive.  When he heard that it wasn’t going so well, he felt bad for Doug and suggested that they go find a wild bee hive and ‘borrow’ some bees from it.

Doug got excited, as he knew of a wild bee hive under a large boulder about a ten minute drive from home.  Ginge, being considerably older and appearing very knowledgeable about bees, naturally took control of the operation.  He told Doug that they would need to cut off the piece of honeycomb that had the Queen Bee on it.  The other bees would naturally try to protect her, and when they had enough bees on the honeycomb they would gently place it in the bucket, put the lid on and transport the bees to Doug’s hive.  Simple.  They agreed to be partners and, though Doug wasn’t all that happy about it, he accepted a 49/51 split.  After all, Ginge owned a car, which was a necessary part of the plan.

The next day was very hot and sunny.  Doug excitedly put on his bee suit, donned the goat skin gloves to protect his hands and thick rubber boots to protect his feet.  Ginge took one look at him when he arrived and asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m putting on the bee suit,” replied Doug.

“No, I’m wearing the suit,” said Ginge. 

“But it’s my suit,” protested Doug.

“No it isn’t.  We’re partners, so it’s OUR suit,” declared Ginge, “and I have 51% share in the business, so I outvote you.  I’ll be wearing the suit.”

“Well, what am I going to wear?” asked Doug.

“I think you’ll be alright with your jeans and sneakers.  Just go and get some gardening gloves and wear a couple of thick jumpers and you should be fine.”

“Can I wear the rubber boots at least,” pleaded Doug.

“No there’s no need, bees can’t fly down.  They always fly up, so your feet will be safe.  I’ll wear the boots.”

So Doug put on his mother’s cotton gardening gloves and three thick jumpers as advised by his brother-in-law.  He looked at Ginge who had put on the proper bee outfit and asked if he could at least have the wide-brimmed bee hat with the sewn-in gauze veil.  Ginge shook his head no, but suggested they make their own hat and veil for Doug to wear.  They looked around, and found his Mum’s round, white, wedding hat which was decorated with a pretty lace veil.  Doug was concerned that the hat lacked a brim and that the lace was only 6 inches long – barely long enough to tuck into the neck of one of his sweaters.  Ginge reassured him, “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine”.

So they set off into the sweltering midday heat, Doug feeling a bit faint from wearing three woollen jumpers and a wedding veil.  They drove to the spot where the hive was, and as they walked towards the boulder they could hear the cacophony of a great number of African bees swarming under the rock.  When they got there Doug suggested that Ginge put his hand under the rock and break off a piece of the hive seeing as he was the one wearing the protective suit. 

Ginge took one look and said, “You do it, I’ll go get the car started,” before hightailing it back to the car.  Left alone, Doug didn’t want to waste an opportunity to build up his beehive so he knelt down in front of the rock crevice, put his hand into the hole, grabbed some honeycomb, shoved it into the bucket and within 10 seconds was completely covered in thousands of bees.  He had the presence of mind to put the lid on the bucket and walk carefully back to the car feeling himself being stung everywhere (but particularly around his ankles).

When he got back to the car, Ginge took one look at him covered with bees and quickly wound up the windows and locked the car doors.  Doug knocked on the window and begged for him to open the door.  Ginge shook his head, no. 

Doug started to panic and yelled, “OPEN THE DOOR!!!”

“No, the bees will get in the car,” shouted Ginge.  “Get onto the bonnet and I’ll drive you down the road and you can brush them off.”

So Doug dropped the bucket, climbed on top of the bonnet and they drove down the road at 50 kph, with him covered in bees and clinging on to the bonnet for dear life.  Eventually most of the bees fell off so Ginge stopped the car and allowed Doug to get in (though he freaked out about the dozen or so bees that still managed to get in the vehicle – and don’t forget he was still wearing the bee suit and was fully protected).

When they got back to Doug’s house Ginge asked him if he’d been stung and Doug showed him his ankles which had over a hundred stings between them.  “I thought you said bees don’t fly down,” accused Doug.

“Oh… well, I guess they do,” was Ginge’s response.  Poor Doug.  But then Ginge said, “I’ll tell you what, you can wear the rubber boots when we go back”.  Doug nearly fell over from shock but, when he realised Ginge was being serious, he flat out refused.  Those bees had been mad as hell.  He wasn’t going.

“Yes we are, I’m the controlling partner and I say we’re going back,” ordered Ginge.

Being the self-confessed ‘skinny little runt’ that he was, Doug backed down.  He took off his sneakers in agony and slipped on the rubber boots before his feet swelled too much.  They headed back down the road and on the way Doug begged Ginge to be allowed to wear the professional hat and veil.  But nope, Ginge wasn’t giving it up, “You didn’t need it the first time, so you won’t need it this time”.  For some reason Doug idolised his brother-in-law, so even though he really didn’t want to continue on this suicide mission he went along with it anyway.

When they got to the bees, this time Ginge didn’t even get out of the car.  He sent Doug off by himself.  And when he got to the boulder the bees were already riled up and attacked him before he could even put his hand in the crevice.  Running back to the car, he didn’t even bother trying to get in – he knew that the doors would be locked.  He jumped on the bonnet and again they sped down the street to get rid of the bees.  An African man riding a bicycle in the opposite direction was laughing so hard at the sight of a 14 year old boy on top of a speeding car, wearing a frilly, white wedding hat and veil completely covered in bees that he fell off his bike.

When they got home Ginge once again asked Doug if he’d been stung.  It would appear that he had – in all the mayhem, the veil had come loose and he’d been stung in the eyes, nose, ears, mouth and neck.  He had about 50 stings on his face, which started swelling to twice its normal size.  His feet were so swollen by now that the boots had to be cut off with shears.  He couldn’t walk and had to be carried around.  Ginge got scared and finally did something logical.  He took Doug to the hospital, where he spent the next three days recovering.

Eventually Doug did attract bees to his hive, and his dream of producing honey became a reality.  Ginge was so impressed with the result he made Doug construct a hive for him too.  A year later, Doug was at Ginge’s house when they decided to go and collect some honey.  They waited until the sun went down and Ginge once again suited up in Doug’s protective gear (seriously).  This time though, he had a better plan for what Doug should wear.  Ginge and Doug’s sister had recently bought a new mattress and Ginge produced the thick, plastic mattress bag that it had been wrapped in.  He told Doug to put the mattress bag over his head and body, and as it was much larger than him, the bottom of it would drag along the ground – protecting him from bees flying up!  He was only wearing shorts and a t-shirt but he knew there was no way on earth the bees could get through that plastic so he felt pretty confident this time.

So in the darkness they walked to the hive, at the bottom of the garden and, as Doug was the bee expert, Ginge told him to take off the lid to the hive so they could see if there was any honey.  Of course it was slightly difficult to do this as they hadn’t cut out arm holes in the mattress bag (otherwise, of course, bees would be able to get in) so he had to do it through the thick plastic.  Another problem was that it was a warm evening, and the plastic bag had no ventilation so it was starting to fog up, meaning that he couldn’t really see very well out of it.  Nonetheless Doug did what he was told and took the lid off, causing the bees to become enraged and aggressive.  At the first sight of the bees swarming out Ginge shouted, “RUN!,” turned on his heel and started running back to the house.

Doug realised that he should probably get the hell out of there too.  Covered from head to toe in thick, fogged up plastic, he turned around and started running back to the house, trying not to trip over the bottom of the mattress bag.  Through the condensation he saw an odd thing – Ginge wasn’t running in a straight line but, rather, he was zig zagging across the garden.  A moment later, Doug found out why.  Ginge had neglected to tell him that his gardener had spent the day digging deep holes to plant trees.  Doug discovered this fact only after landing in one of the holes, head first with his exposed legs straight up in the air.  The bees knew what to do.  They attacked Doug up and down his flailing legs – and seeing as he was wearing such short shorts they took extra care to sting him most vigorously in the groin area.

After this incident, Doug finally saw the light and fired Ginge, taking back 100% ownership of this honey business.  In fact he made pretty good money from it, enough to buy his first car.  I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that Ginge never saw a single cent.

Ejo #14 (Part II) – Invited To An Emirati Wedding; An Inside Look At What Happens Behind The Curtains (Plus: A Very Dry Valentine’s Day)

Emirati Info, Learning About Dubai, Leave a comment

So, last time we spoke, I was describing how the white room had suddenly turned black as all the women threw their abayas and headscarves on.  This augered the imminent arrival of a MAN, and no man could be allowed to feast upon the glorious bounty of skin and curves on display in the room!  So a swift cover up took place.  And indeed, a moment later, the beaming bride and groom entered the room to wild applause.  He was dressed in the national dishdash and ghoutra.  She was glowing in what looked like a Vera Wang strapless gown.  Arm in arm they slowly marched down the red carpet, through the meringue tables, onto the catwalk and finally to the stage where they sat down beside each other on the chaise lounge.  All the while, a camera on a 30 foot hydraulic boom captured their every step and broadcast it onto a massive screen so that even us plebs up the back could get a good view.

Then the entertainment started.  A troupe of male and female dancers twirled up the red carpet and onto the catwalk where they spun around, accompanied by a drummer beating a tribal rhythm on a massive drum which was slung around his neck.  It was hypnotic and not dissimilar to what I imagine a whirling dervish is like, the drum beat pounding like a giant pulsating heart.  Wow – it didn’t last very long, perhaps five minutes, but it left a lasting impression.  And it was reluctantly that I snapped out of my trance-like state when it came to an end.  The dancers collected the groom and they all skipped out of the ballroom leaving us ladies to ourselves again.  Their departure heralded the prompt flinging off of the abayas, producing the effect of a sun, rising on the black dawn, to reveal flowers of every colour in bloom.

Suddenly, one of the lovelier blossoms, draped in a dusky rose, slinky sheath, was standing before us and introducing herself as Omran’s wife, Khulood.  She apologized profusely for not being able to come earlier as she’d been with the bride, getting ready.  I was amazed that she’d even come to talk to us at all, but if I’d learned anything from this experience it’s that Emirati hospitality is second to none.  Once you are welcomed into the fold, you are treated as a very special guest and taken very good care of.  Khulood was so warm and open and lovely, just like her husband.  I simply couldn’t stop smiling at her.  She quite possibly thought I was deranged.

Regardless of what she thought though, she didn’t show it, and in fact she asked us if we would like to go and chat with the bride who was still reclined on the white couch, graciously receiving visitors.  So we all made our way over to the catwalk.  I took a step onto it and realised it was somewhat shiny and slippery.  And so it was that my fate flashed before my eyes.  I would be strutting up the catwalk towards the bride, 550 pairs of eyes on the woman wearing overalls and 5 inch stilettos, and as I approached the blushing bride I would trip and fall onto her, knocking her (and the lounge) over, arms and legs akimbo, dress up over my head and my Spanx exposed for the whole world to see (Svetlana, I could already hear your hysterical laughter echoing through my head as I took my next step).

OK, so it didn’t happen, but that’s only because I very carefully, very gingerly and very self-consciously tottered the length of that catwalk to the stage.  I’m positive I looked like an idiot – but, oh well, you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do.  I joined my colleagues around the beautiful bride and we congratulated her, complimented her and posed for photos with her.  Again, I was bowled over by Arabic hospitality.  This woman had never laid eyes on us before and yet she treated us as she had been treating all her friends [all 550 of them], with warmth and generosity of spirit.  She truly was a beautiful bride, inside and out.

I tottered off the stage, and with the formalities over, it was time for dinner.  Yep, at 11.30pm.  Those Arabs sure know how to party.  In the ballroom’s anteroom, a full buffet had been laid out and there was plenty to choose from though unfortunately not much of it was local cuisine.  A sample: butter chicken, lemon chicken, chicken biryani, mutton biryani, fish biryani, fried rice, beef stroganoff, beef fillet, dahl, dim sum, fish & chips, jumbo grilled prawns, pasta and much more (including the token Arabic bread, dips and salads).  Then, there was the dessert table, groaning under the weight of mini versions of crème brûlée, chocolate fondant, panna cotta, summer pudding, caramel tarts, pecan pie, cookies, cheesecake, meringue, chocolate mud cake, sponge cake, jellies, fruit salad and about ten million other sweets that I dared not even look at for fear it might bring on a sudden and acute case of diabetes.

After the meal the lights were dimmed even further and a spotlight was focussed on the catwalk where a number of pretty young ladies holding the trains of their gowns had gathered to dance.  It was awesome to watch the pure abandon with which they moved their bodies in time to the music and I was struck with the contrast of seeing them here in a room without any guys in it, comfortable in their revealing dresses, comfortable showing off their gorgeous hair and even a good amount of cleavage, as opposed to when I see them in the outside world all wrapped up, demure and modest.  And I felt really lucky to be a witness to it.  I got a glimpse into a world that not many outside people ever get to see.  I know words are never going to be enough to describe it properly, but I’m hoping that by reading about it here, you too can transport yourself there and see it all in your mind’s eye.

OK, so before I go I’d like to say Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone for whom it actually means anything.  It’s never meant much to me but particularly since getting together with David it’s meant even less because his birthday falls on the 15th so if there’s to be any romantic dinners or gestures I usually save them for the next day!  Usually Valentine’s Day is quite a big deal in the UAE.  All the hotels and restaurants have romantic Valentine’s packages and of course they make a bucketload of money out of it because people are (for some reason) willing to pay premium price on this day.  Now, Dubai might make concessions to the expats for these kinds of occasions but they are first and utmost an Islamic state.  And this year, the Prophet Mohammed’s birthday (Peace Be Upon Him) happens to fall on the 14th February.  Oh, how nice, you might think, a double celebration!  Well, think again.  This is a very religious holiday and thus the entire day is decreed a ‘dry’ day – which means that no alcohol is allowed to be served on any public premises anywhere.  At all.  No matter what!  So, anyone wishing to celebrate Cupid’s Day witih a glass of something special will have to make do with that something special being orange juice.  Don’t worry about us though, I’ve put a bottle of something very special indeed in the fridge to chill and we’ll be having it tomorrow to celebrate my lovely husband’s birthday. 

Next time, more on Doug (by popular demand)!

Bye for now

Chryss

PS David says g’day.