Freedom

So, we escaped the hazy streets of Dubai one week before Ramadan was called.

This is the first year since our arrival that we have been away for the whole of this religious festival.

Because of the timing this is the first year when Daughter will return to school after Ramadan - no shortened school days or road chaos for me. Ha!

As we left at the beginning of August - so early it messed with our heads - it was 42 degrees C with 90% humidity; a continuation of one of the hottest Summers on record.

So we're in Cyprus; a mere three hour (-ish) hop from The Gulf but a world away in so many ways.

Daughter has, until recently, embraced every aspect of life in Dubai positively; a staunch advocate of the benefits whilst living with the downsides. But developing maturity and an expensive education has encouraged her to question some aspects and she is not buying into many of the answers. I'm interested to watch her develop if only because I see some return on investment...

Top of the list of things she was looking forward to prior to our departure was being able to wear without restriction the teenage clothes of the western world which are freely available in all the malls. The old adage 'You're not going out dressed like that' takes on a whole new meaning when we're at home.

However - pause for sharp intake of breath and an OMG - Daughter has been horrified at the sartorial mistakes which freedom of dress encourages. Acres of exposed flesh oozing out of lycra - and that's the more conservative approach - is unappealing in any culture, and that's just the men! Individual dignity and personal respect appear to have been thrown to the four winds in the stampede to discard clothing the more to reveal body art and piercings and third degree sunburn.

So we've had this discussion about freedom, both personal and societal; about responsibilities; about manners and mores.

The contrast between the culture we have come from and the one we have come to could not be more stark. The fight for women's rights in the western world should be remembered, applauded, admired and enjoyed. But the fight is not over and if we take it for granted as complete will not progress.

Meanwhile the fight for women's rights in the undeveloped world has hardly begun in terms of achievement. The raison d'etre for the majority of women is merely to produce male offspring. The men are encouraged to enjoy all western 'freedoms' both at home and abroad whilst prohibiting similar behaviour in their wives, sisters and cousins.

Whilst being able to dress as you want is a consequence of a freer society rather than freedom itself perhaps the careless way the west exhibits its freedom illustrates how little freedom is valued and the price paid to get it has been long forgotten.

How Wrong Can You Be?

As we approach the final breathless - and airless - days of this Summer Term, I am delighted that this academic year is drawing to a close.

I recall how breathless we were, daughter and I, last September, as we made a very sad journey back to the UK where she would stay to start boarding school life, full time, all girls, from Year 9 through to Upper Sixth. We would be apart for the first time since her birth - give or take a day or two.

I remember how convinced I was that this was the right thing for her for a multitude of reasons; I also knew that it was not what she wanted, that she would be homesick, that she was 'making a fist of it', 'putting on a brave face', 'putting her best foot forward' and any other physical action necessary to see this through.

It must be said, although I had her best interests in mind, this was a perverse decision on my part. Having spent the whole of her fourteen-year life trying to ensure her happiness and security, I had decided to entrust her to the care of strangers in an unfamiliar environment, to leave her in a country which she remembered only from her early childhood.

On the scale of wrong decisions this one was simply off the scale. How wrong is it necessary to be before skies fall and chaos reigns?

All the 'wrong' indicators were flashing, ringing, even screaming - I blindly, deafly and stupidly pursued this course of action.

The reality of the first three weeks was indescribable both for her and for me. I think she was crying for all of her waking hours - she cried uncontrollably through numerous, lengthy and expensive phone calls. She cried silently during lessons and sobbed relentlessly whilst attempting to eat the revolting food. When talking to me she would be crying while laughing - her grief overwhelming, all-embracing. She cried for home, for me, for the weather, from loneliness, from hunger. Desperate, desperate stuff.

I too cried, for my loss, my inability to comfort her, my helplessness. My grief was akin to bereavement. I missed her in every corner of the house and found myself unable to enter her bedroom without taking a deep breath first. Although never a noisy child, her absence was in the absolute silence - as if the house was holding its breath until her return.

I didn't want all the 'free' time - I didn't know what to do with it. Would I have known what to do with it were she happy? Who knows.

But the ending is happy. I pulled her out of boarding school at the end of the Easter Term. She is at school here now - not boarding, not all girls, not many things which I had in mind for her; but she is happy.

So the hot Summer months beckon. We are going to sweat, swim and enjoy.

The skies are back where they should be - high, wide, and oh, so very blue. To paraphrase my daughter, nothing that life can throw at us will ever be as bad as those weeks. Nothing.

This blog was written at the end of the Summer Term 2009.