An April 27 article referred incorrectly to Dubai as the capital of the United Arab Emirates. Earlier, the same article referred correctly to Abu Dhabi as the capital.
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In U.A.E., Tradition Yields to Times
Fatima Zaabi, wearing a traditional veil used by some women in Fujairah, one of the seven monarchies of the United Arab Emirates, enjoys comforts that have become commonplace, from a cellphone and dishwasher to servants.
(By Anthony Shadid -- The Washington Post)
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"I had more energy back then," she said, smiling and flashing her gold tooth.
Despite her complaints, Zaabi remains vibrant, swinging her arms as she walks forcefully, punctuating her talk with a quick wit. She takes stock of today and, every so often, gives thanks to God. Life is easier: There is education, money and work. They once ate fish -- at lunch and dinner -- caught by her father-in-law. Now every meal has "66 colors."
"But you know, back then, even though people might have been ignorant, there was always respect," she said.
"Somebody might study today, they might have money, they got educated in Britain, America and I don't know where else. And then you tell them, 'This is right, this is wrong,' and they tell me, 'What do you know?' They don't give respect."
"She's right about that," interjected Amna Zaabi, her 24-year-old niece, who is studying for a master's degree in information technology.
Respect is a word Zaabi uses often. In a way, it is a synonym for what she imagined once was: simplicity, morality and tradition, the building blocks of religious, traditional movements that have the most sway today elsewhere in the Middle East.
"Now, before a boy gets engaged to a girl, they ask, 'Does the girl work, where does she work, how much does she make?' They don't ask about her morals. Before, that's what they asked about," she said. "The people then were poor, true, but they were measured by their honor. Money has trumped that."
Zaabi married as a girl. She memorized the Koran, but was educated only to the fourth grade. In addition to her seven children, she helped raise the 12 children of her husband's three other wives. As she talked, she recalled an idealized space of another time: When eight families shared meals during the holy month of Ramadan, when she carried her twins, Mariam and Siham, to the family's farm with her husband, when extended families lived together in a few rooms. The old space is gone -- huts of stone and palm fronds replaced by stucco villas. With it went the relations and roles she knew.
"Now the maids do everything," she said. "You say, 'Hello, can you deliver the dinner for me?' "
With long strides, leaning forward, she entered the farm that she has worked for 30 years. She pointed out the date palms and almond, mango and pomegranate trees -- the homegrown fruit her family shared before the chemicals arrived and started producing apples she described as the size of soccer balls. The scent from a cluster of basil drifted along a breeze. Inside wire-mesh cages were 30 goats, a dozen chickens and a gaggle of rabbits. "There's no telling how many there are with them," she said with a laugh.
As she passed by them, her demeanor grew angry.
"No water," she said, shaking her head. "No food."
