Anger.

The second little traveler wanted to wear a blue headband this morning. She had a pink one, a purple one, and a rainbow one in her hand - but she didn't want to wear them, she wanted to wear the blue one. We couldn't find it. I could see by the expression on her face that it was about to become an issue. The second little traveler is not known for her skills in anger management. If she's cross, it's just best you get out of the way. Fast.


The storm cloud above her head was growing as she moved from one room to the next. She pushed her brother off the couch so that she could once again search under the cushions. Stupidly I suggested she just wear the pink hairband. I won't be doing that again.


I gave her the look. The look that said if you lose your shit like that again you'll be spending the weekend in your room. She knew she'd taken it too far. She looked at the ground and said "sorry Fred" and took herself to her room to calm down. Five minutes later as we made our way to the car, I noticed she was wearing a blue headband. She'd found it. Once she'd calmed down, she was able to remember where she'd left it.


There was a moment yesterday where I made eye contact with a friend and saw something different in her face. Through clenched teeth, with tears in her eyes she said "I'm just so angry, so sick of it, just REALLY angry". She'd expressed herself on an online forum that day, she was talking about safety issues in nurseries and her disappointment about safety not being taken seriously. In a moment of pure anger and frustration she'd written something that she was now having to explain. 


In the five stages of grief, anger is number two, and although many of us remain in the fog of sadness and shock - many have now moved towards anger. Anger is all about retaliation and negativity. There is no good that can come from anger - it eats at us, it engulfs our thought process, it stops us from seeing clearly.


In an open letter published today in the Gulf Times, Martin and Jane Weekes spoke with incredible calm and wisdom over what steps needed to be taken next.


"We hope people will refrain from criticising the growth and ambition of this friendly country that we have called home for five years. This process should not be about blame regardless of the hurt we all may feel now.  This must be about learning so that no person need feel this pain again."


Anger is ugly. We all know it, we've all done it. In Doha, we've all been the ugly expat at some stage. I've stayed away from the online forums because I knew people would feel the need to vent, to attack. I understand why they need to, but I also know that it won't bring me any peace. There needs to be discussion - we don't need finger pointing. We can't judge by a sentence posted late at night, or a rushed 140 characters. Sometimes our languages don't translate how we wished them to.


At school this morning the little travelers and I arrived dressed in white. I watched them walk across the sports field and form a love heart with their teachers and friends. I stood side by side with other parents, and watched tears fall from faces as we observed a moments silence. There is nothing more soothing in a time of grief than community coming together as one. Just as there is nothing more destructive than a community tearing each other apart.


We've all talked this week about how we will make our own changes. The little travelers and I now know exactly what we would do in a fire. I now look at rooms differently, where would I get out, which exit would I take. I've learnt this week that even though Doha can look like many different and individual communities, if we have to, we can come together as one. 


There are things that need to be changed, we can do them together. It's easy to get angry and frustrated, but it won't help us find the solution. 






What have you learned this week? 

No Words

We wandered around as if we'd been sedated. Grocery shopping and school drop offs were done quietly, hugs at the school gate lasted longer. I stood in the vegetable section of the supermarket and watched people cry with strangers, they shook their heads and agreed that there were no words. A girlfriend of mine sat down next to me and said "I'm not talking". I immediately knew what she meant, I'd been thinking the same thing all day. Talking about it, made it somehow sound flippant. I walked behind two women as they recounted the absolute tragedy of the Spanish family "they lost three, they only have one now".

I thought about my four little travelers. About talking about them like dinnerware. "I used to have four of those plates, I only have one now". I tried to imagine one of them left, but you can't, you can't imagine.

A girlfriend sent a text "I'm sitting in the school car park crying", we arranged to meet. As we sat together outside of the coffee shop, our conversation somehow lost its timing. Intermittently one of us would stop mid sentence, unable to finish. There were conversations like ours happening all around us. Qatari men shook their heads, the staff behind the counter told me they were going to church that evening to pray for one of their congregation.

A women walked past in a dress that made me look twice, and in amongst the unspeakable I found myself thinking the ordinary. "I love her dress" I said it out loud without thinking. She disappeared down the escalators. I noticed her again, twice, she wandered by from one direction and then another. Was she lost? We made eye contact and I attempted to smile "I really like your dress". Her french accent wasn't surprising, she was the perfect stereotype, late forties, sophisticated yet casual and elegant. She told me she'd made the dress herself.

"Ive watched you walk past several times and each time I've admired it"

Her eyes flickered, she was about to cry. She shook her head.

"I cannot concentrate this morning, I keep forgetting what I'm meant to be doing. I cannot stop thinking about the children. This fire, it is too..." her voiced trailed off.

"We all feel the same" I said.

No words.

There it was again. No words.

As we made our way across the park this evening I couldn't help but look back at the people making their way to the vigil. Abayas and thobes, skirts, suits and headscarfs, we were a multitude of skin colours, accents and origins - all gathered for the same reason. We needed some way of showing support, we needed to share our grief. Many of us sat in silence, and then the words came in the form of prayer and a Haka. We held each other tight. The second little traveler looked over towards the parents of the angel triplets.

"Why is the Mummy holding the stuffies?"

"They belonged to her babies"

No words.

Numb with Grief

When the first little traveler was nearly two I decided to search for some child care options. My pregnancy with the second little traveler was proving to be a physical challenge that I wasn't winning. Each morning I would kneel in front of the toilet while the first traveler patted my back saying "You okay Mummy? I sing you song?" I'd lost about 8 kilos and my energy levels were at their lowest when I decided it was time to outsource, the first little traveler needed someone to play with who wasn't running to the toilet on a half hourly basis.

I found a fabulous child care centre at the local mall, it was up on the 3rd floor and even though the first little traveler wasn't keen on attendance, we persisted in fronting up everyday. Our morning routine was always exactly the same. After arriving in the car park, I would walk roughly ten steps towards the door, throw up in the bin, wave to the security guards, who would then smile and wave back, and then the first little traveler and I would continue towards the escalators. Every. Single. Day.

When I was choosing child care my criteria was pretty standard. I wanted it to be clean, I wanted good staff, great facilities, fun activities, and most of all I wanted the first little traveler to enjoy it.

These are the things I didn't check for.

I didn't ask to see the emergency evacuation procedure. I didn't ask if the staff were trained in the event of a fire, and I didn't ever once consider to check the exits or stairwells. I just assumed that of course they were trained, of course they knew what to do! I didn't once consider that I would find myself racing to that mall pleading to get inside to find my baby girl. For that is the unthinkable, the unimaginable.

Today may well be remembered as one of Doha's darkest. For those who have announced to friends and family that Doha is a wonderfully safe place to raise our children, today will perhaps be remembered as the day that innocence was lost. As a community, we are, as my friend Erika said this evening "numb with grief". Stories were stolen, history that had been formed in the shape of a grandparents dream, was erased. The unthinkable happened.

Thirteen children were trapped inside the nursery, it is believed their exit, a staircase, had collapsed from the heat of a fire. Where exactly the fire began is yet to be confirmed. The nursery was in the interior of the mall, meaning you walked through a virtual rabbit warren of corridors to get there. From what I understand, when the firefighters arrived at those corridors they were considered impenetrable and too dangerous to enter, it was decided the only other way to get there, was through the ceiling. By the time the hole was cut, it was too late, they were gone. Thirteen beautiful children, four teachers and two firefighters. Smoke inhalation meant that their little bodies were carried lifeless from the building.

As you can imagine there is heartbreaking story after heartbreaking story. Families who lost more than one child, children that weren't meant to be there today, a family has lost their beautiful angelic triplets. There were moments this afternoon when the community joined together trying to do anything they could while there was still hope. People sent prayers and wishes to mothers who were desperately waiting for answers. The unthinkable, the unimaginable.

As newspaper reports were filed this evening, journalist have felt it necessary to break us down into nationalities. Three children from New Zealand, three children from Spain, Northern Arab expats and Korean expats were all listed. And why not, as expats, we do it ourselves. We are constantly reminded of our homeland, we ask each other regularly "where's home for you?" "Are you heading home for the Summer?"

What is often forgotten though, is the fact that we have two communities. We work together, form committees, work at school fairs, play golf, go swimming, camp in the desert and share birthdays, Ramadan and Christmas. We form friendships and bonds that last for lifetimes. We are our own community, no matter where we are from. We become one.

Today I watched what can only be described as an explosion of grief. We hugged in the school yard, we cried in car parks, we made calls from the office with our heads in our hands. We put ourselves in the shoes of those that will never be the same again. We are all horrified. We are shell shocked, but before we lay blame, before we get angry, we must all come together to support the families affected today.

There are many questions tonight. Questions about fire alarms, sprinklers, emergency staff and evacuation procedures. All are valid and all need to be answered. The most important question though is "What can we do?"

We can show our support. We need to front up. We need to be there.

In a time of grief and great tragedy we need to do what expats do best. Get on with the job. Join together as a truly international community and show that it doesn't matter where you're from, or which God you pray to, we are all in this together. We all have the same wish. To come home to our families at the end of each day. To be safe.



*Tomorrow at 5pm in Aspire Park there will be a gathering to support families who have lost loved ones in the Villagio Fire.

Would You Like Forks With That?

In the olden days, when I was a girl growing up in a small country town in South Australia, Friday night was the night the town came alive. In a world before weekend trading and online banking, farmers and fruit growers would make a special trip in to town to do the banking and shopping. The highlight for me was not the quick stop we made at the supermarket, but more the possibility of take-away food. 

For my mother, Friday's were the end of a long working week, which meant there was a chance she'd say yes to the suggestion of take-away dinner as a treat. I loved it, I'm a creature of habit (one of those annoying people who scans the menu for fifteen minutes, only to end up ordering the same old same old every time). At 'charcoal chickens' (do you think they spent hours brainstorming the name?)  it was always the same, a 'hot pack'. A quarter of chicken, chips and gravy, and maybe a stray carrot or pea here and there.

There was no McDonalds or KFC, actually there was no franchise fast food of any description. In our little country town take-away food meant lining up and and waiting for your hamburger to be cooked from scratch. If it was fish and chips you unrolled the paper at the table, sprinkled the salt and added some vinegar. If it was chicken and chips you ate it out of the container it came in. The whole purpose of take-away food in our house was that there were no dishes and definitely no preparation. A night off.

Everybody feels that way right?

Everyone except G.

My husband somehow manages to turn takeaway food, leftovers, or a quick and easy boiled egg into an occasion. If it's KFC he feels the need to make a salad, if it's fish and chips he's likely to whip up an asian cabbage slaw while throwing in a few extra bits and pieces to cook when he gets home "just hang on while I gently dust these scallops in flour - do we have kosher salt?"

I realized earlier in our relationship while visiting G's parents, that I had no hope of changing him, his condition was hereditary. After arriving back from KFC I was confused to see the tablecloth out and dinnerware fenced in by cutlery. There was a selection of condiments in the middle of the table. G's mother was tossing a salad in the kitchen. I didn't understand, if we have to cut, dice, prepare and then wash the dishes what was the purpase of take-away? The world wasn't making any sense.

It was only the beginning.

Over twelve years of marriage, I've discovered that bacon and eggs are never just bacon and eggs, there is always a trip to the store for freshly squeeze juice, "good" coffee must be sourced, and bread that will ideally still be warm will also make an appearance. Pancakes will often be offered in a couple of different formats. A simple sandwich is never simple. An "easy" roast chicken has to be stuffed with at least seven ingredients, and leaves will be gently plucked from homegrown herbs. Why make something simple when you can consult the gourmet traveler? Why go to the supermarket once a week when you can go every day?

I was chatting to my mother on Skype over the weekend when G walked in to let me know he was heading to the shop for milk. "Do we need anything else?"

There was a quick discussion about dinner and the decision was leftovers. We had chicken curry and lasagna in the refrigerator that needed to be eaten. It was going to be a simple matter of reheating. After getting to bed at 3.30 that morning we were looking forward to a lazy night in front of the telly. Lazy.

Forty five minutes later I found G in the kitchen making guacamole. He was dicing the red onions when I asked what was going on.

"I saw we had olives"

 I think that was meant to explain the reason he was now making guacamole from scratch.

"And the haloumi cheese?" I was struggling to make the connection.

"I figured I'd fry it in olive oil, it'll be perfect with the lebanese olives and the baba ganoush.

"The left over curry?"

"We can still do that, I thought I'd just throw a few things together first"

Those little things above the olives are figlets (delicious with gooey cheese)

I've missed a few things from the picture but you get the general idea.

The children miss their father very much when he travels.



How about you? Do you serve a salad with take-away pizza?

Will Chopped Liver be There?

It was week one of Kindergarten, parents had been invited in to the school for an information evening with their respective teachers. We entered the classroom, all dressed in our daily attire, a mixture of business suits, exercise wear and uniforms. Many of us were new to full day school and you could tell; we were the ones taking notes while asking detailed questions about exactly which type of drink bottle was required.

Our dignity disappeared the minute we sat down. With our knees up around our chin and our bottoms precariously perched on the edge of the miniature chairs, it was hard to take anyone seriously. Except the teacher, she had her own chair, the chair of power. She ran through a few house rules. Bags go here, shoes here, coats are hung here, the red folder goes home on Wednesday, the blue on Thursday, Art is on Friday. There were rules for snacks, rules for lunch, and suggestions were made about healthy alternatives. We were told if sugar was listed in the first five ingredients of a product, it would be sent straight home. I began to break out in a sweat thinking of anything in our pantry that may have deemed me an unworthy mother. "You should be considering hummus, carrots and cucumbers rather than anything in a wrapper". No-one disagreed, in fact, no-one said a word - we were all suddenly back at school and doing as we were told.

Having just left Libya where I had been living under a dictatorship, it occurred to me that there seemed to be a lot more rules in Kindergarten than Tripoli. Gadaffi could have learnt a few things in this room.

"We will have a number of events throughout the year - it's always nice if parents can come along". I nodded along, I had plans of getting involved with the school, it was a great way for someone new in town to make a few friends. A women's voice came from behind me "Umm, will we have much notice when it comes to events, what sort of lead up can you give us?"

The teachers eyes darted in the direction behind me, did we have a dissident amongst us "usually we give a few weeks notice - why?" I immediately felt uncomfortable for the mother, it was obvious by the teacher's tone that she was going to need a very good reason for her question.

"I'm an obstetrician, getting away from the hospital can sometimes be challenging"

"Oh - I see, well maybe you'd like to come along one day and speak to the children about your career, we love to have the parents come and discuss what they do".

And in that moment, that mother was excused from every field trip, class party and bring a plate of veggies event throughout the year. The rest of us though, we were still fair game. It appeared that if we weren't removing babies from people's vaginas, we were still required to front up with a fruit platter and six pack of juice.

It's been a busy week at school. Poetry readings, art displays and kindergarten concerts have meant that G has joined me and hundreds of others at the school, with cameras at the ready. This morning as G flicked through his calendar he realized he'd doubled up, he had a meeting he didn't think he could move and was going to miss the choir concert.

I broke the news that he may not be there to the second little traveler thinking she'd be understanding - not so much. There were tears, blame, and when I reminded her that I would be there, she said "but you're always there!"

Please feel free to address me as Chopped Liver.

I can't remember my father being at school, not once, and not because he didn't come, but because he wasn't asked to. With two working parents it was always understood that we said goodbye in the morning and hello again in the afternoon. If my mother arrived at school to help coach netball, or deliver chocolate crackles for the fete, it was usually after 3.30. Amazingly, we managed to get through the day without them.

I have watched many parents squirm while they've explained their impending absence to teachers and fellow parents. Pilots and nurses rearrange schedules, and anyone paid on an hourly rate will go to extreme measures to not miss the forty five minute music concert, in which their child will play a recorder for approximately two of those minutes. No-one wants their child to be the one without a parent. So why do we make it so hard? As a working parent you cannot go to everything, and if you can, please feel free to share your secret now, because I definitely couldn't when I was working full time.

An hour ago, G rang to confirm the time of the concert "have to be quick as I've got someone with me, I think I can make it - can't talk, see you there".

I can't wait to see her face when she see's him.

I just hope she remembers this, and when he can't make it to the next event, she understands that he just can't come to everything. What do you think?

Is there someone out there who has made it to every field trip, poetry reading, winter festival or science exhibition?

Keeping Up With Your Job Description

The little travelers play a game when they're stuck in the car. They call it submarine. They pretend that the car has the capacity to turn itself into an underwater vessel that if necessary, can easily "hide" itself in the ocean. Immediately after someone decides to start a game of submarine all four travelers become animated, everyone begins to get excited, rules are made, changed and argued as they go along. The sight of another car is an octopus, a bus is a killer whale, people are puffer fish and motorbikes are sharks.

"Oh my gosh! I don't like what I see. Look over there. There's a huge killer whale coming our way!" All four will immediately duck and squeal, someone will attempt to steer the submarine in a different direction, someone else will suggest a better route while dodging a school of jellyfish and a coral reef.

I could listen to them play Submarine for hours. Not only are they hysterically funny but it's the insight I gain from their imaginations. The fourth traveler likes to fill his underwater world with mermaids, they often have names of people in his life with matching personalities. I can tell exactly who's in the good books and who's hogging the play equipment at recess within five minutes of being submerged. The first likes to be in charge - she's always the captain of the vessel. The second traveler injects humor while remaining a fan of the underdog, the shark is misunderstood, the killer whale is actually a really nice guy. The third will aim for chaos and feel the need to either harpoon or run something down.

Each time they play I gain a glimpse of their internal thoughts, thoughts that I may have never heard. And like most mothers, I enjoy that brief moment where everyone is happy, where they giggle together and form one solitary unit against the world. I bask in my happy family moment, where everyone appears to feel loved and lucky. I quietly congratulate myself on my wonderfully happy little family. Look what I've done. How clever am I.

Which is maybe why I struggled when I found the poetry on my iPad.

It was titled "Lizzie's poem about sadness". As I began to read the words I felt the familiar proud parental chest puff. At age eleven my poetry consisted solely of roses being red and violets being blue (which is dumb because they're obviously violet) whereas she had written a real poem, with real emotion. My proud moment felt tarnished though by the pre teen angst. Within the words I felt a sting. Was she really that sad. Did she really feel alone? How could I not know this?

As I lie in my bed,
life goes on and on.
I watch it go by,
people come and go.
I rest my sadness on my elbow and look out of the window.
I'm all alone in my own little world,
happy as can be in there,
until someone taps my shoulder and I look out the window.
I'm watching, not living.
I live in my own world.

I approached her with caution. I told her how wonderful her poem was, how clever I thought she was, how I could have never written anything of that quality at age eleven. And then as gently as I could, I asked "are you really feeling that sad?" She looked confused for a moment, and then she put it all together, my worried face, the poem, the concern. There was an eye roll. "The poem is about sadness, what it feels like to be sad, I wrote what I feel like when I am sad".

"Do you feel sad very often?"

"It wouldn't be normal if I didn't feel sad Mum. It's not like the movies. If I was happy all the time then it would be fake. No-one can be happy all the time. You have to have the sad moments to be truly happy"

She had quoted me. I roll out that last sentence on a bi-weekly basis, usually in the middle of someones personal drama, whether it be not making the basketball team or chosen for the talent show. My nearly twelve year old had just shared a piece of my own advice with me.

When she was a baby consoling her was as simple as a feed, or a cuddle. As a toddler it was an offer of a bandaid or a promise of a trip to the zoo. As a tween it's getting complicated. Sure, there are still the quick fix options of a download on iTunes or popcorn at the movies, but emotionally she's beginning to work through things on her own. Before running to me it's possible there will be journal entries, poetry, music played on high rotation, and conversations with good friends.

I'm not always the first option. It's no longer an automatic reaction to run to Mum.

I always knew my job description was going to change, I knew there would be new skills required. I'm learning that it's not just about being there at the right time. It's about knowing when I don't need to be there. Stepping back and letting her grow.

She tells me about future apartments in Paris, about University and travel. I am in awe of how beautiful she is but I've learnt to stop telling her on a half hourly basis. And even though I can see her braces, her ponytail and a hint of lipgloss, her face is exactly as I remember it at three years of age. I have to stop my mind from wandering back to a different a time, a time where she made me promise that we would be together forever. "I want to live with you and Daddy forever, you have to promise, pinky swear" and I did, because I knew it wouldn't be me that would have to break it.

We have to have the sad moments to be truly happy.

Who Does She Think She Is?

At thirteen she filled in her first personality test. Who do you think you are? Tick a, b or c. She was sure the crumpled teen magazine would expose the truth. Her pen hovered over the options. What would the person I'd like to be say? If you were to scratch the surface of her skin, you could almost see her nerve endings twitching with anxiety. Too many freckles. Her knees were knobbly. She was never the best, she desperately wanted to be the best, just once. She was sure she was nearly good enough - nearly. She pretended not to care, it was only when you looked her in the eye and asked a direct question that her voice would shake, her eyes searching desperately for an exit strategy.

By twenty, she'd become an expert at pushing the self doubt from her head to the bottom of her stomach for just enough time to be deceiving. Jobs were gained at the first interview and offered on the spot. Six months later she'd move on and repeat the process in a messy concoction of self sabotage and apathy. She knew she wasn't meant to be there. She just wasn't sure exactly where she was meant to be.

At twenty three, she realized that time was her luxury, life appeared to stretch on for endless miles. Days went forever. Weekends were lived by the minute, which made them last for weeks. Conversations with new and old friends continued throughout the night. Confidence grew with debate and conversation. She was okay, which was better than nearly good enough. She began again and once, maybe twice, she was convinced that she was on the right path. The other times, the darker times, she concluded that she was underserving. Who did she think she was?

By twenty five it was becoming clearer, she was still making mistakes but she could see them coming. She watched them happen. Why do I always do that? I chose that. I don't want to be that.

By twenty eight she had the answer. The right job, good friends, there was peace. She loved breakfast with girlfriends dissecting first dates over coffee, dinner in groups and weekends at the markets. "If this is how it stays forever - I'm okay with this. This is good" she said to a friend. "I'm okay with this".

There is no forever. There is always change. And sometimes it will come with a force and speed that has you running towards a noise that you don't recognize or understand, you just know you have to be there. Change can be both exhilarating and wonderful, but it can also leave you lost and unsure until you find your way toward the comfort of familiarity.

She was briefly lost. She stumbled.

At thirty five, as a mother of small children she looked in the mirror and was almost surprised to see her reflection. She was sure she was invisible. Wasn't she meant to be doing more? How did you do more? She needed to sleep. She needed to laugh, a raucous thigh slapping, I have no oxygen left and there is no noise coming out of my mouth laugh. When was the last time she did that?

She asked herself is it possible I've spent half of my life trying to work out who I am, only to spend the next half trying to reclaim who I was?

And then finally, she realized, it was irrelevant. She was better than okay. More than she ever thought she could be. She would continue to change and evolve. There would be more mistakes.

There was no category. No a, b or c. She would remove the labels. Wife, Mother, Home, Office. She was the same woman no matter the role.

At forty she felt that maybe she could finally claim the title.

She had become a woman.