Babel

"What country are you from?" Shakib asked the boy behind the counter.

"Pakistan," came the reply.

"Do you speak Urdu?"

"Yes."

And that was the last word that Jon and I understood. As we waited in line at school for his ASB photo to be taken, we watched in awe as Shakib and Uzair, a student council officer, gabbed excitedly in Urdu, the national language of Pakistan.

Shakib has been in the US for 6 1/2 weeks now. When he arrived, we knew that he was multilingual, but we did not know the extent of his abilities.

It turns out that he is conversant in at least 8 languages. Besides Urdu, Shakib speaks the 2 official languages of Afghanistan - Dari and Pashto, the language of the Pashtun, his tribe; Hindi and Punjabi - Indian languages; Farsi - the Persian language spoken widely in Iran; Arabic - the language of the Qur'an; and English.

I have read enough to know that this is unusual for an Afghan - most of whom speak one, two, maybe three languages - so last night over dinner I asked Shakib how he had come to speak so many idioms. It turns out that, with the exception of English, which he studied formally, Arabic, which is read in the Mosque, and Dari, which is spoken in his home, he is pretty much self-taught.

He said that from a very young age - 3 or 4 - he was fascinated with the many languages that he heard around him - especially on the television and often tuned in to language-learning broadcasts on the education channel and followed along. As he grew older, he deliberately sought out people in his neighborhood who spoke other languages and attempted to converse with them. In Shakib they found an apt and enthusiastic pupil. In Kabul, where his satellite hookup receives 3500 stations, he watched movies and television shows in a variety of languages so as to improve his listening skills.

His aptitude is clearly enhanced and driven by his interest in people and his authentic desire to connect and communicate. During the month that he lived in Punjab, India, he was able to converse very well in Hindi and Punjabi and was often called upon by the other students to translate. He glows warmly when sharing about the relationships that he created with the local merchants and townspeople there.

Here in the US, when meeting friends of ours from Iran, he effortlessly switches to Farsi.

As for English, he studied in a private English language class for 3 years. In Central Asian languages, books are written from right to left and read from back to front so he had to reorient himself directionally in order to read and write. Mastering English also required learning a whole new script -- our alphabet, punctuation, numeric characters, and mathematical signs.

He told us that to sharpen his receptive language abilities in the months before he traveled to the US, he listened nightly to recordings of American dialogs.

So how good is his English? He gets along very well in conversation. Occasionally, he becomes frustrated because he does not know a word. However, in daily conversation most of the misunderstandings between us are due to pronunciation errors.

Of course, he has huge gaps in his vocabulary, but he is building it daily. Why just yesterday he asked me what the English word was for people who eat other people.

In his English immersion reading class he is zooming through the Accelerated Reading books he checks out from the library. He says that the other kids don't read during reading time but he does. He is competitive and enjoys being a star student. (Aha, he IS my long-lost Afghan son!)

Shakib is here to learn, and I expect him to improve rapidly. His first STAR Reading Exam score was 2.4 (2nd grade, 4th month). That means that Mom gets to work with him on his reading. 

Dual oral reading is recommended so that he gets practice and direct input as well as the opportunity to follow along with a good role model. A former bilingual educator, I am far more adept at teaching reading than algebra - which we are also working on - but that's another blog topic. Meanwhile, I can't wait to see how far he progresses by his next reading exam.

Want to experience just how different English is from his native Dari? Go to Dari: A dozen simple words for the linguistically challenged and see how you do.

As for Shakib, I don't think we have a comprehensive list of his linguistic accomplishments yet. 

I just discovered that for a few years he lived in a neighborhood with a lot of Turkic inhabitants. Turks reside in northern, central and western Asia, Mongolia, southern Siberia, northwestern China, and parts of eastern Europe. Those he knew came to Afghanistan from Uzbekistan. Shakib spent a lot of time with the Uzbeki Turks and picked up their language along the way.

I'll add that language to my list...

...as soon as I learn how to spell it.

Bacha Posh

Today the New York Times posted an eye-opening feature about the Afghan practice of disguising young girls as boys. In a society where boys are prized, these bacha posh ("dressed up as boy") girls allow families without male children to save face. They also give poor families another breadwinner.

Times reporter Jenny Noroberg interviewed a number of girls and their families about this custom and unconcealed a reality that is nearly inconceivable for westerners.

I asked Shakib if he knew any girls like this. He said that there are many in Kabul. "They do this because they prefer to dress like boys and to please their parents who have no son. Then they can say, 'Here is my son.'"

Shakib grew up with a neighbor girl in this situation. Now 18, she dresses like a woman. Shakib says that this is commonplace and didn't seem to think much of it.

The practice has nothing to do with sexual orientation but is rather a pretense born of societal pressures.

In a land where most girls are covered up and kept out of sight until they reach a marriageable age and being a boy ensures freedom of movement, employment opportunities, and other privileges, most bacha posh girls seem to welcome the opportunity to gender switch even for a short time. Wouldn't you?

Read the full story here.

Buff 'N' Tough

“Bodybuilding,” said Shakib.

“Bodybuilding? Really?” I asked.

“Yes, lifting weights. It is very popular in my country, and it is my favorite sport.”

“Not cricket? Not buzkashi? Not soccer?”

“No, bodybuilding.”

Looking at Shakib’s slight frame, I had my doubts. But I was impressed with his determination so we agreed to locate an appropriate gym for his after school workouts. At least he knew better than to take up weightlifting during Ramadan.

Why bodybuilding? 

Is it because…

    a)  Shakib admires Arnold Schwarzenneger and Sylvester Stallone?  
    b)  He wants to appear strong and able to hold his own in the streets of Kabul? 

    c)  Some of the Afghan girls teased him about being skinny, and he wants to put on some weight before he sees them again?
    d)  All of the above?

It’s d...all of the above.

Shakib’s favorite American movies are Rambo I, II, III, and IV. And he has already inquired as to the likelihood of meeting Sly, or perhaps the Governator, while he is here.

He has also spoken candidly about the mean streets of Kabul where boys are kidnapped and sold every day. In his country, it is prudent to be buff and tough.

Deciding that the YMCA within walking distance of his school was a wholesome choice, we arranged for a partial scholarship for Shakib. In his eagerness to bulk up quickly, he overdid it on the first day. Too many reps with too much weight left his arms stiff and sore. Of course, it didn't help that he also carried around a 5-pound Algebra book in a loaded backpack all week.

When we asked Shakib how he had determined how much weight to lift, we discovered that he had consulted his friends. So much for Plan A. Shakib now has an appointment with a trainer to design a sensible plan for his workouts...and he gets to leave his algebra book at home.

Shakib has asked a lot of questions about what he should eat to build muscle. Given his zeal, we will be vigilant about shortcuts, i.e. steroids.

On his first day, a big culture shock awaited Shakib in the locker room. “The men were naked,” he told us. Afghani standards for male modesty are very different from US norms, and Shakib acknowledged that he had never seen an unclothed man.

“Well now you have.” I said.

“Oh, no,” he said. “I looked away.”

School Daze

Shakib was nervous. It was 7:00 a.m., and he was due at school in 30 minutes. 

"Sit down and eat your breakfast," I commanded, and he obeyed. I knew that he would need all of his strength for what lay ahead – the first day of school.

Heeding the advice of our neighbor Kathy, a teacher at Shakib’s high school who volunteered to drive him in the mornings, Jon and I took him to school on that first day. A mother herself, Kathy knew that we would worry otherwise. She also suggested that we might want to take pictures. Remembering the excruciating embarrassment that parental hovering can cause, I skipped the photos. Let's face it: The universal goal for all 17-year-olds is to blend.

Fortunately, I’d had the prescience to set up a school tour for Shakib on the Friday before and to request that a buddy be assigned to assist him on the first day.  Although he looked like a deer caught in a headlight as we approached the campus, I knew that Shakib would be all right. Sure enough, his escort was waiting out front. The second Shakib spotted him, I no longer existed. Fair enough. Who wants your mother to walk you to class?

It was a long day for me – wondering how he was doing. When at last he came through the door, Shakib was exhausted. I know how fond teens are of being grilled by their parents, but I couldn’t resist. I wanted to know everything and bombarded him with questions.

The bottom line is that he liked some classes and was a little skeptical of others. The first day of school being mostly about ground rules, syllabi and school supplies, I reminded him to stay open and taught him the old axiom: Don’t judge a book by its cover.  

Shakib likes all of his teachers, and as the week progressed he found something to like about all of his subjects as well, all except algebra. He was very intimidated by a series of tests that he took in algebra class, but I have since learned that the purpose of these benchmark exams is to find a starting point for each student. No student moves on to the next skill until he succeeds. Shakib will be just fine.

His favorite class so far is the computer class, which turned out to be focused on Film Making and Video Production. Perfect. Like drama, a close second in Shakib's estimation, Film class will entail cooperative learning.

He is also making friends in English class where most of the students are native Spanish speakers. I had to explain that they were not from Spain.

It turned out that Shakib had no homework on that first day. Mom was not so lucky. There were papers to read, sign and return to his teachers, supplies to compile for each class, and the first request that I contact a faculty member.

Shakib's US history teacher had told him she didn’t think that her class was the right placement for him due to his English proficiency. I was concerned since the US State Department requires Shakib to take US history or government. But when I spoke to his teacher the next day, all became clear. He had been placed in a history class for English learners. She felt that his English was too good for the class and wanted to transfer him to mainstream history. Proud Momma syndrome instantly ensued.

We expected some culture shock with the onset of school. And we were right. His biggest surprise on the first day of school was the aggressiveness of the girls. 

“A girl laughed at me," he said. “She saw me in the hallway and said ‘You look lost.’ I wasn’t lost. And she walked right up to me and laughed.” He has a lot to learn about American mating rituals.

Once again, Shakib revealed his empathy and compassion as he contrasted the girls in his US high school with the female exchange students from Afghanistan whom he met at the program orientation in India. He described quiet girls who cover their heads, segregate themselves, and do not easily make eye contact. He said that he now understood why the Afghan girls were so homesick.

More opportunities for cultural understanding unfolded during the course of the week, including a misunderstanding with his drama teacher. He thought that she had used the term “Muslim terrorists” in an offensive manner and communicated this to Jon.

When I spoke with the teacher the next day, it became clear that she had actually been distinguishing stereotypes as part of a lesson on improvisation and had said, “We know that all Muslims are not terrorists. This is a stereotype, and stereotypes are not the truth about people.” A professional, enthusiastic and dedicated teacher, she was completely willing to straighten out the misunderstanding. She also recommended that I write a letter to the entire faculty informing them of Shakib’s presence in the school and his unique background.  

I ended up directly contacting 3 out of 5 teachers this week with issues to resolve so I paused to check in with myself. Was I being one of those dreaded helicopter parents that teachers complain about – the kind that hover close and swoop in to protect their children at a moment’s notice? Maybe. But Shakib is not used to standing up for himself with adults or talking something through with a teacher. Twelve years of schooling in Afghanistan have taught him that teachers are to be feared.

In Kabul, Shakib’s school day is shorter -- 7:00 am to 12:00 noon. The averages class size is 200. All 200 students sit together on the floor in one room for the entire five hours. No breaks are given for any reason. The teachers are strict. And they carry whips.

Shakib showed me scars where he had been injured by these whippings. I asked if he had been whipped because he did not know an answer. “No,” he said. “If a teacher hears a noise in the class, he will go around whipping all of the boys.”

Shakib demonstrated having his fingers forced back with a pencil woven between them. He also talked about his first year of school at age four. The teachers in that school whipped the boys on the bottoms of their feet. He says that this infuriated his mother, a teacher who does not whip her students, and that his feet have never been the same.

“This is why the Afghan students want to stay in America,” said Shakib. “I tell them that we must go back. I tell them also that it is possible to return to the US. I tell them that everything is possible.”

Cancer

"I never met anyone with cancer before," said Shakib. "Children in Afghanistan do not get cancer."

We were on our way home from a Leukemia and Lymphoma Society (LLS) potluck - following an 8.5 mile run. The event was an opportunity for our marathon team to meet our “honored teammates” - blood cancer patients in various stages of treatment - giving those without such ties a direct connection to the cause.

Jon and I have known far too many people with cancer. Some have won the battle. Some are still fighting. Others have lost their lives to cancer including Jon's sister Wendy. 

But this was Shakib's first encounter with cancer patients. He got to meet 8-year-old Tyler Cordova who has been in treatment for Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma since 2007 and hear his mother speak of the many breakthroughs and set backs that the family has weathered. The mother of Alessandra Sanchez spoke of her teenage daughter's courage as she faces a relapse of Hodgkin's disease and prepares for an impending bone marrow transplant. 70-year-old Roger Klinkhart spoke of living with chronic CLL, a form of leukemia. Roger, who has been through a research study and 2 clinical trials, acknowledged that without the funds raised by people like us, these studies would not be possible.

A pair of physicians from City of Hope - Dr. Ravi Bhatia and his wife Dr. Smita Bhatia spoke of their research efforts. A pediatric oncologist, Smitra’s particular area of interest is long term cancer survivorship. Ravi conducts bone marrow transplants and stem cell and leukemia research. 

A representative was on hand to register people for the Bone Marrow Registry. This effort is critical to blood cancer treatments. While millions of people are registered to donate marrow, matches are not easily made. What a gift it would be to be able to extend someone’s life by donating blood stem cells or marrow! Recovery is quick and the discomfort is short-lived. 

And of course Shakib got to meet our dear friend and Mission Captain Virginia Garner, a chronic myelogenous leukemia patient who - thanks to a clinical trial funded by LLS - has been effectively treating her disease with a drug called Gleevec for 11 years. While CLL is not curable, hundreds of thousands of people now live with chronic CLL thanks to Gleevec. While Virginia has herself run dozens of marathons, half-marathons, and other races, personally raising hundreds of thousands of dollars for LLS, and mentors newly diagnosed leukemia patients on a regular basis, perhaps her greatest gift has been in championing thousands of marathoners in our community over the last 10 years. We all know that if Virginia can do it, we can do it.

So there we were on our way home from this inspiring afternoon, and Shakib told us what he knew about cancer. "I never met anyone with cancer before," said Shakib. "Children in Afghanistan do not get cancer." He also believes that only people with great sorrow in their lives develop the disease. He was especially insistent that Afghani children do not get cancer: “I have lived in Afghanistan. I would know.”

Shakib and I will have to have a conversation about his personal test for reality. Meanwhile, we did explain that this business of cancer being caused by sorrow is a superstition. But you have to be careful of taking away people’s superstitions. He thought he was protected from harm. Now he wanted to know how people got cancer. Our explanations further shook his confidence in his immunity, and his insistence that Afghani children do not get cancer grew stronger.

Ultimately, I know that the truth shall set you free. So I did a little research. 

Dr. Nadera Hayat Borhani was one of the few doctors able to treat women under the Taliban rule.  She is now the Afghan Deputy Minister of Public Health. Dr. Borhani says: 

“Nobody in Afghanistan has access to health facilities for cancer. It’s the same situation for the children, the men, the women, the elderly -- nobody has access. Thirty years ago we had a centre for radiotherapy and a centre for diagnosis. But unfortunately during the war everything was destroyed...the infrastructure, the equipment, everything....So nearly we are starting at zero again.

“When the doctor sees some sign or symptom that a patient has cancer – the option is to send the patient to Iran, or to go to Pakistan, or to India, as their economic situation allows. But Afghanistan has a low economic situation, and most of the people are very poor, so most of them don’t go….

“We need a cancer registry in Afghanistan to see the numbers and different types of cancers in the country. Sadly in Afghanistan we do not know this. We need this information to make our policy. We have some data from the pediatric hospital in Kabul. They now have about 75 children with leukemia. But the real number I think is much greater, because the doctors send cancer patients to the foreign countries for treatment, or home to die.”

This is a country of 26 million. Life expectancy at birth is 42-43 years. 26% of the nation’s children do not make it to age 5, giving Afghanistan the highest infant mortality rate in the world. Maternal health is a national crisis. As for cancer rates, nobody knows. (Source: World Health Organization) 

I explained all of this to Shakib and suggested that perhaps he might study to be a physician. When one is 17, seven years of college can be daunting, but who knows where his interests and kind heart will lead him?

The great thing about life with Shakib is not that he has all the answers about Afghanistan, but rather that he gives rise to great questions.

“I was born in June. I was born under cancer. Do you know what is this?” he asked. 

“Yes. The word cancer has more than one meaning. In this case, Cancer refers to a giant crab. Do you know what a crab is?” Jon and I make claws with our hands. No pass. “Well, Cancer is the name of a constellation of stars that look like a giant crab.” Still no pass. 

[Note to self: Take Shakib to the Griffith Park Observatory and the Long Beach Aquarium.]

“Is there an immunization against cancer?” Shakib wanted to know. 

“No, not yet, but they are working on it. That is why we run marathons and raise money for research.”

Inshallah – God willing – we will have one soon.

Eid, Rosh Hashanah, and Ordinary Time

September 10, 2010, is the first day of Eid and the last day of Rosh Hashanah. In our home, both will be honored.

In a recent Washington Post article, "The Spiritual Convergence of Rosh Hashanah, Eid al-Fitr and 9/11," co-authors Rabbi Marc Schneier and Imam Shamsi Ali compare the two holy days and find much common ground: Ramadan and Rosh Hashanah are both based on timeless principles of the unity and brotherhood of all human beings. Rosh Hashanah commemorates the creation of humankind itself and reminds us that all people, regardless of ethnic or religious background, are created in God's image. As President Obama noted in a recent message to the American Muslim community, Ramadan is a time when Muslims "reflect on the responsibility human beings have to each other and to God."

They continue: Both of our faiths teach us that every person, whatever his or her station in life, has the power to make a positive difference in the world. The shofar (ram's horn) which is sounded during the Rosh Hashana service, is meant as a goad to conscience; to awaken each of us to our moral obligation to raise our voices on behalf of justice. During Eid-al-Fitr, Muslims are urged to reach out to people with whom they have become estranged and to do good deeds on behalf of the poor and unfortunate.

Indeed, in our own interfaith household we find common ground every day. A Muslim, a Jew, and a Roman Catholic by birth, we have all experienced religious intolerance.

At dinner last night, we discussed anti-Muslim sentiment in America and the tiny group in Florida who are inciting others to burn the Qur'an on 9/11. Shakib noted that, unlike him, many people in Afghanistan believe that the Qu'ran burning is widespread. They do not understand that the pastor inciting these actions has a flock of only 50 people. Such news gets to them in broad strokes and their anger is fueled by Taliban insurgents.

Shakib has been looking forward to Eid which is the happiest day in the Islamic calendar and typically celebrated with feasting and gift giving over a 3-day period. 

When we asked the local mosque about their plans, they said that they will have Eid prayers and a breakfast on Friday morning but nothing more. So I went online to search for possible Eid celebrations in the area. I found nothing. 

Digging a little deeper, I began to understand what was happening. Most US Mosques and Islamic Centers are not celebrating Eid over the 3-day weekend because of the 9/11 anniversary. They are both fearful of being misunderstood - a fear grounded in recent experience - and committed to respecting the national mood. They are also Americans in mourning. Innocent Muslim-Americans died in the 9/11 conflagration too.

Over dinner, Shakib shared with us some of the rumors that he had heard in Afghanistan -- that Osama bin Laden had already been killed by Americans and that some Americans had directly participated in the 9/11 plot. He also wanted to know if we had heard of Guantanamo. 

We did our best to answer his questions. He was thoughtful and interested. And I could sense the despair beneath the surface as he spoke of his people, the violence he has seen and his sense that things have only worsened in his short lifetime. 

"People who get out don't want to go back," he said. "Why would they when it is better everywhere else? But I will go back and help. I do not fear death. I only worry about what will happen to my mother if I die."

For now, Shakib is safe. Tonight he will break his Ramadan fast. And Jon will finally sleep past 3:40 am. 

Shakib will go to the mosque on Friday morning for the local Eid celebration. On Friday night, we will take him to the circus. 

For Jon, who does not attend services, it is nonetheless Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. He will exchange greetings with family and friends and reflect on his responsibility to raise his voice on behalf of justice.

Not wanting to be left out, I consulted the Catholic Liturgical Calendar. September 10th is Friday of the Twenty-third Week in Ordinary Time.

Everybody else gets a holy day and I get Ordinary Time? I was disappointed. Then I found the Gospel reading for Friday. It was perfect. 

And he told them a parable, "Can a blind person guide a blind person? Will not both fall into a pit?...How can you say to your brother, 'Brother, let me remove that splinter in your eye,' when you do not even notice the wooden beam in your own eye? You hypocrite! Remove the wooden beam from your eye first; then you will see clearly to remove the splinter in your brother's eye. (Luke 6:39-42)

Eid Mubarak! Happy Eid! 

L'Shana Tova! Happy New Year!

Peace be with you. And may your eyes be open to all expressions of love and faith in this Ordinary Time.

An Old Wives Tale

"I saw a strange thing tonight," said Shakib. "Two womans are married to each other."

We were on our way home from a party where Shakib met our friends, Diane and Vicki, who are, albeit unsanctioned by the State of California, married. Diane and Vicki made history in the mid '90s as the first GLBT couple to legally co-adopt children in Los Angeles County. We explained to Shakib that same sex unions are common here and that, yes, Tony and Ethan have two Moms. Diane told Shakib that while not all people are accepting of their lifestyle, Jon and I have been great friends to them.

The subject of marriage has been a topic of much discussion in our household since Shakib's arrival, and this week it was compounded by both his introduction to a lesbian couple and his attendance at the wedding of our good friends Timothy and Terra, which he greatly enjoyed.

Shakib was astounded to learn that Jon had divorced his first wife, Ellen. I explained, that indeed, this is the same Ellen who asked if she could be his honorary "Aunt Ellen" on my Facebook page and that he will certainly meet both Ellen and Allen, her husband of 33 years, since we are all great friends. Such amicable, mutual partings are simply unheard of in his country.

In Afghanistan, only a minuscule number of marriages end in divorce. Although a man may divorce his wife simply by proclaiming talaq ("I divorce you") three times in front of witnesses for a divorce to become effective, very few men divorce their wives because of the social stigma and economic burden attached. The term zantalaq ("one who divorced his wife") is considered an insult.

In addition to public humiliation, divorced men must pay the mahr - an amount agreed upon in the marriage contract. For example, Shakib's brother would have to pay his wife's family $90,000 should he choose to divorce her -- a huge sum in Afghanistan where the average annual income for an Afghan worker is $426.

When men do divorce their wives, they tend to blame the woman for any irreconcilable differences -- often citing an illicit love affair, illegitimate pregnancy, or abuse by the woman. In truth, women are usually the victims in these situations. However, they receive harsh punishments, even when sexual behavior has been forced upon them.

A woman may seek a divorce herself on the grounds that her husband is absent for extended periods, cannot adequately provide for the family (either financially or because he is physically incapable), is impotent, or abuses her to the point where her life is at risk. However, it is exceedingly rare for Afghan women - 87% of whom are illiterate - to seek divorce. 

A woman is required to produce at least two male witnesses to testify on her behalf in a court of law. If like most Afghan women she does not possess an identity card, she also needs two male witnesses to testify as to her identity. Since family members almost always object to divorce and most Afghan women do not associate with men who are not their relatives, this is nearly impossible.

In addition, a divorced woman usually has nowhere to go. With a 40% unemployment rate, a job is nearly impossible for a single woman to come by in Afghanistan. Her family is unlikely to welcome her back. And remarriage is rarely an option. 

She must also agree to be separated from her children. Following a divorce, fathers get custody of the older children while infants remain with their mothers. When they no longer require a mother's sole care, they too join their fathers. Once children are in the father's custody, the mother is prohibited from visiting them.

The final blow? Even if she manages all of the above, her husband must still file a formal divorce application in court. Otherwise, in the eyes of the law, she is still considered his spouse. 

While, in Kabul, Afghan women are gaining ground, outside of the capital they remain a commodity to be bartered, sold and fought over. Although it is illegal, some parents still force daughters as young as 8 years old into marriages in order to settle debts or family feuds. According to UK-based NGO Womankind, 60-80% of marriages are forced, 57% of brides are under the age of 16, and 87% complain of domestic violence. "There are no reliable stats on rape, as most women will never report it. This is because women can be convicted of zina, extramarital sex, if knowledge of the rape becomes public."

Victims of early and forced marriages, rape, and domestic violence generally opt for suicide or self-immolation rather than seek a divorce, and 2300 Afghan women and girls commit suicide each year. However, a growing number of women are fighting back. 

As for the men…Want to keep your unsatisfactory wife and upgrade to a new model? No problem as long as you can afford the upkeep. Afghan men may marry multiple wives as long as they can support them financially, and polygamy is widely practiced among the wealthy. 

The law requires a husband to treat his wives equally and provide evidence of his ability to adequately support them. However, in practice, wives are often subjected to grossly disparate treatment and frequently receive insufficient financial support.

While four wives is the legal maximum, Shakib has informed us that government ministers have up to 10 wives.

Shakib says that he intends to marry only one woman. He believes that the practice of polygamy is cruel and unjust. 

He learned this from his mother, the first of his father's three wives.

Madrid 1981

It was January 1981. Ronald Reagan had just succeeded Jimmy Carter as the 40th President of the United States. After 444 days in captivity, the US hostages in Iran were set free. In Ireland, the first DeLorean automobile rolled off the assembly line. The Western World was abuzz with the news that Prince Charles was taking a bride. And I was going to Spain.

Since Shakib's arrival, I have been flooded with memories of my own study abroad program during my junior year at Marquette University. What I remember most about the weeks immediately preceding and following my departure for Spain is how unreal it all felt. Surely I would wake up and find it had all been a dream.

I knew of no one from Nipomo, CA, population 3000, where I'd grown up, who had ever studied at a university abroad. One of 5 children, 3 of whom were in college, I was completely dependent on academic scholarships, loans and a small work-study check to pay my tuition and living expenses. As I made my preparations to leave for Madrid over the Christmas holiday, I was sure that The Fates would soon intervene and set me straight: Madrid was a fantasy, too expensive, too far away, impossible for the likes of me.

Even as I winged my way over the Atlantic on that eastbound DC-10, I could not fully grok what was about to happen. I was going to live and study in Madrid. It was early 1981, a mere 5 years post-Franco, and I was on my way to another world.

The Spanish people were just waking up to the freedom and responsibility that comes with being a democratic monarchy. In Madrid, I experienced a myriad of cultural, political and societal differences including very different standards for female dress and behavior. I witnessed an attempted military coup. I got a new perspective on my own country and its place among nations. And I learned to honor, appreciate and embrace the societal expectations, the foods, the siestas, the fiestas, and many other facets of Spanish life so much that, once back in the US, I longed to return to Spain.

And I learned the language. Although I had been studying Spanish since the 5th grade, I do not easily pick up languages. But after 10 years of Spanish classes (I was now a Spanish major), my reading and writing were good enough that I could recognize many authors by their style.

My expressive and receptive language skills were another matter. They sucked. Fear of looking bad had always kept me from speaking up in class, and I now found myself at the Universidad Complutense with professors who arrived 10 minutes late for a 60 minute class, rushed through their lectures, and spoke not one word of English.

It was do or die. So I did.

I learned to take notes without translating, letting the words flow through me onto the page. I learned to jump into rowdy political discussions at the family dinner table or over tapas and beer in neighborhood bars. And I learned to negotiate with my señora (landlady) about such touchy subjects as the toilet paper supply and the length of my showers.

All of us American students were starved for contact with family and friends. This was pre-Internet and the cost of international calls far exceeded my meager budget. Therefore, every letter from home was like manna from heaven. ("Letters, we've got letters...")

I was 4 years older than Shakib is now. I had lived 2000 miles from my family home for over 2 years -- attending school in Milwaukee -- which was almost as much of a culture shock for a girl from the central California coast as Madrid would prove to be.

The many adventures and lessons learned were worth the anxiety and intermittent homesickness. Still I remember the fear: Would I like the foods? Would I get lost? Would I say the wrong thing and be misunderstood? Would I make friends? Would I offend someone? Would I fail my classes? Would I make the most of this amazing opportunity?

Contemplating my own experiences at age 21 magnifies my appreciation for 17-year-old Shakib who had never spent a single night away from home before leaving for India 6 weeks ago; Shakib whose English reading and writing scores - like mine - are much higher than his scores for speaking and listening; Shakib who is not - as I was - participating in a program run by and for his countrymen but must fully integrate into a US high school; Shakib who greets each day with a smile on his face and courage in his heart.