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Seattle’s Arab Women
by Pat Tanumihardja

“You really can’t say there is a typical Arab woman,” says Huda Giddens.

Palestinian by birth, Giddens has called Seattle home since 1968. With her fair skin and blue-gray eyes framed by short, soft white hair, Giddens says, “People are always surprised that I am Arab. People ask me because of my accent, ‘Where are you from?’ I very happily and with a bit of a glint in my eye say I’m Palestinian.”

The 71-year-old educator is proud to be Arab American. “There’s not an ounce of other blood in me. Despite the fact that I don’t come across as an Arab, I like people to know that there are the likes of me in the Arab world.”

Giddens, like other women in Seattle’s Arab community, is proud of her heritage and proud to call the U.S. her home. Well-educated and grounded in a strong sense of family, local women with Arab roots are actively contributing to their communities while continuing to integrate old traditions with new.

identity

Retaining, rediscovering and reinventing their identities has been a major part of these women’s life journeys.

When civil war broke out in Lebanon in 1976, Maha Gebara fled to England where she spent most of her young life before coming to the U.S. to pursue her PhD in molecular biology at the University of Washington. She feels that her identity spans three countries. “Part of me is Lebanese, part of me is British, and part of me is American. I like different aspects of these societies.” Above all, she believes that we are global people. “That’s how I work. I raise my kids that way. We’re all part of the human race,” she says.

As an Arab woman in America, Gebara, now 43, is comfortable with an identity that embraces different worlds. “We (Arab Americans) are the link between here and the Arab world. I feel a responsibility to let people know who we are,” she says, proud of both her culture and her adopted homeland. “I love what this country is built on. The constitution I think is beautiful -- an attempt to give everybody equal voice, one man one vote,” she explains. “I believe in that, that’s why I became an American citizen. I decided that this is my ideal and I like it.”

She adds, “With that voice I want to show who we are and that we are a community with a tremendously beautiful culture, language, and history. And we are a giving community.”

In 1959, Huda Giddens came to the U.S. to pursue a master’s degree in early childhood education at Iowa State University. When she graduated, she had no desire to return to Egypt or Lebanon where she had lived after fleeing Palestine in 1948, and decided to settle in this country.

Later in life, she returned to the Middle East to teach, staying twelve years and rediscovering her identity in the process. While in Israel and Palestine, she learned more about Arab language and culture, and the significance behind many Arab traditions and sayings. “I was so intrigued by the language,” she says. “The language and the culture are very much intertwined and (learning) about (both) … makes more sense and makes it richer.”

When she returned to Seattle, Giddens wanted to share her polished language skills and newfound understanding of her culture. She now interprets for Iraqi women (many of whom are refugees), and teaches Arabic language and culture at Seattle University and at Fort Lewis.

Adila Abdussamed admits that she developed a deeper interest in Islam only after coming to the U.S. in 1979. “Even though I was raised in a Muslim country, because we were born as Muslims there, we didn’t think about it. Here, everybody looks at you and says you’re Arab, you’re Muslim. But when you’re back home nobody tells you that. So I want to find out what makes me this.” This process of finding out has enabled her to reaffirm her identity.

A Libyan in her forties, Abdussamed notes that more Muslim women have begun to delve deeper into their religion and, as a result, many have started to wear the hijab (veil). “I think a lot of women in this country start to wear the hijab … to show people ‘I am a Muslim woman, I am Arab, and this is my identity.’”

the hijab

Many Muslim Arab women wear the hijab, not because they are forced to, but because they choose to. For Nadia Taibah, 41, the hijab is part and parcel of following the Muslim faith. She has been wearing the hijab since she was 13, the age she started her menstrual period, and does not see it as an infringement upon her rights as a woman. “If you are following the right Islam, you have to cover your hair, and wearing hijab is something that is written in Qur’an for women.”

Although she is Muslim, Koloud “Kay” Tarapolsi chooses not to wear the hijab. “It depends on the individual and their upbringing,” she says. “Some people will read (Qur’an) and (say) yes, you need to be covered as part of your religion. And some people read it, no, this is modest (because) everything is covered pretty much,” she says.

This modesty is not a value exclusive to Islam. “It is a sign of respect,” says Gebara, who was brought up Christian. “You always cover up before going into a religious institution -- mosque, church or synagogue. It’s respect for God, the Holy Sepulchre, or whatever.”

A few years ago, Abdussamed started wearing the hijab when she attended social gatherings and when teaching at the Islamic School. “Basically, I wear the same clothes and I wear a scarf (to cover my hair).” Abdussamed contends that Islam requires women to be modest and “not to show their bodies.” But she, like many other Muslim women, recognizes that wearing the hijab is a personal choice. “Like now, I’m wearing this,” she says pointing to her long-sleeved denim blouse and long flowing skirt, “and I’m all covered. I don’t think there’s anything in Islam against the way I’m dressed right now.

“I think there are so many things in religion. It’s more than just (how you) look,” she says. “It’s a spiritual thing. It’s the relationship between you and Allah. It’s doing all the good things and then comes the last part, for me, which is (how you) look.”

People tend to treat her differently when she wears the hijab. “When I go to the mall without hijab then nobody notices me, but the moment I put it on …” she says, her voice trailing. “It’s (still) me, it’s just a piece of cloth. It’s ironic to see what that piece of cloth can do.” She compares the hijab to the men’s equivalent, the kufi or skull cap. “This is part of what we are.”

challenging stereotypes

One of the most common misperceptions is that all Arabs are Muslim. However, ‘Arab’ and ‘Muslim’ are not synonymous. A Muslim is a person who follows the teachings of Islam. An Arab refers to a person from the Arabian Peninsula.

While the Middle East remains the sacred home of Islam, only 18 percent of the world’s 1.2 billion Muslims live in the Arab world, compared to 27 percent in Africa and 30 percent in Pakistan, India and Bangladesh. Furthermore, large Christian populations live in Egypt, Syria, and Lebanon, among other countries in the region. For example, in 2001, 56.6 percent of Lebanon’s population was Muslim and 36 percent was Christian.

The general public has certain stereotypical expectations of what Arabs look like, their lifestyles, how they behave, and how they dress.

“There are some stereotypes and generalities you can say about a culture but with limitations, says Gebara. “You’ve got to get to know individuals first before you make a sweeping judgment.” The Arab people span multiple ethnicities of all colors and races, she says, noting that many Lebanese and Palestinians are fair-skinned like her.

Many people have told Abdussamed that she is very “Americanized.” “I tell them, no, I’m not. This is just how I live ... This is how my parents lived … We conduct our life just exactly how I and my husband grew up.”

Arab women are no different from American women, she insists. “We have the same concerns, same problems, same hopes for our kids and family. (We might) have our customs and things which are different (that) you don’t want to give up because this is what makes us a Libyan, an Arab or a Muslim from that country.”

She adds, “Everybody thinks that Arab women are … veiled women who don’t have any rights. They’re ignorant; they don’t have any education; they just follow what the husband says (and) every Muslim man is married to four women.”

In actuality, the Qur’an dictates that women are on an equal footing with men. Islam grants women the right to vote, the right to own property and the right to be educated, among other things. But sometimes traditions may be misinterpreted as religious impositions.

Although women in Saudi Arabia are not allowed to drive or to vote, these are restrictions imposed by the government, not Islam, says Taibah. “There is a difference between tradition and the Islam religion. Women have the right to vote in Islam but not in Saudi Arabia. They have the right to be president of a company … even Prophet Muhammad’s wife used to have her own business because Islam doesn’t forbid that,” she says. “Islam encourages women to do lots of things for themselves. That is their right.”

Tarapolsi, who has an M.A. from the University of Washington’s Jackson School of International Studies, says that both Arab men and women tend to be well educated. “That has been statistically proven. Many of them will get their master’s and their PhDs; education is a huge thing.” According to the Arab American Institute, 82 percent of Arab Americans have high school diplomas. Those with a bachelor’s degree or higher make up 36 percent, and 15 percent of the population have graduate degrees.

“People cherished education,” agrees Abdussamed, who is a first-grade teacher. “I didn’t face any trouble going to school and I was encouraged by my parents to finish my education.”

Taibah came to Seattle in 2000 to complete her doctoral degree with her husband and son in tow. “It’s not unusual to have a master’s degree (although) many of the programs (in Saudi Arabia) don’t have doctoral degrees. That’s the reason for me to come here.”

community-building

As the founder of the Arab Children Dabke group, Gebara maintains close ties with her culture through her love of music and dance. Dabke, which means “to stamp your foot,” is a traditional folkloric dance that’s most common to Lebanon, Palestine, Jordan and Syria. “It’s just beautiful,” she enthuses. “I love this dance because it embodies community.”

In ancient times, people’s homes were made from mud and branches. When a roof in the neighborhood cracked and leaked (which happened often), neighbors would gather on the roof and walk around to adjust the mud. This is how dabke originated. It was later danced in celebration of the harvest and is now a staple at parties and weddings.

“It is about the celebration of the cooperation of the neighborhood. It embodies community spirit and I’m a community-builder,” Gebara says.

Tarapolsi is the board director of the Arab Center of Washington, a community organization committed to promoting Arab heritage and culture. “What I like best about the Arab Center is that it is a social gathering place. One of the reasons I got involved was because I wanted to make sure that my kids were around the cultural part of it, seeing other kids who looked like them, dressed in clothes my mother would bring them.”

An artist and arts administrator, Tarapolsi runs the nonprofit Arab Artists Resources and Training Web site (www.aart.ws), which includes a database for Arab artists worldwide. In addition to artist listings, the Web site also has a database for grants specifically available to Arab and ethnic artists. “I felt it was important for artists to connect with galleries and museums and other organizations, but also with each other,” explains Tarapolsi, who is also a Redmond Arts Commissioner and a Seattle Art Museum docent.

Giddens also took her commitment to the greater community one step further. She founded the Giddens School in the Central District, one of the most ethnically-, economically-, and socially-diverse independent schools in the Northwest. Originally called the Happy Medium School, it was renamed for her in 2005.

The school was created as an institution that serves “everybody,” says Giddens. “It really was not intended to be a school for Arab children. But the specific quality of that school is that it is attuned to the diversity that exists in this city. And there’s a very extensive scholarship program that allows children of all economic levels to participate in it.”

She is also a King County commissioner sitting on the Children and Families Commission, as well as the chair of the Palestinian Concern Group at St Mark’s Cathedral. She sits on the Palestine Task Force of the Church Council of Greater Seattle and has worked intimately with the Arab Festival since 1999.

life after september 11

Life changed for many of these women after 9/11. Instead of cowering from the negative publicity, however, they decided to speak out.

September 11 was a wake-up call for Gebara, especially when people started commenting to her, “Hah, you guys are out of the woodwork at last.”

“I had no idea that we were not visible,” she says. She realized that despite the fact that politicians and people were polarizing, the Arab community had to be the uniting force. “We are one global community and we have to pull together despite the politics ... We can’t afford to be divided.”

Then she had an epiphany. “It just came to me, the idea that we [needed] to do two things: we needed to work within first as a community, and get out of the idea of victimhood and be more positive,” she explains. The following March, Gebara organized the Arab Peace Tree Project with Beth Mahmoud-Howell and Jackie Bressadola. Members of the Arab community were invited to craft and hang clay olives and leaves inscribed with messages of peace on the “tree.”

The “tree” grew as they took it from one festival to another, including the Seattle Children’s International Festival at Seattle Center, where the world community could share in the project. “That’s our gift (to the community),” says Gebara. “The tree represents we’re all from the same roots, but our diversity is a beautiful thing.”

The project was a perfect example of “working from within and projecting it to the world, projecting who we are and what we want to happen, which is a peaceful world community,” continues Gebara.

Next, Gebara spearheaded the Middle East Peace Camp (middleeastpeacecamp.org) with Susan Davis of the Jewish community. This grassroots Arab and Jewish coalition has become an annual summer camp that promotes friendship and understanding among Arab and Jewish youth, as well as children from various other ethnic groups.

For Taibah, wearing the hijab after 9/11 made her feel very conspicuous. “Being covered was a little hard,” she says. Although she was unharmed in the Seattle area, she was aware of other covered women being attacked across the nation. “I was afraid of that, I didn’t go out for the first two weeks after (9/11),” she recalls. “When I had to go out that first time, people were really staring at me. I had my son with me (and) he said, ‘Let’s get back home.’ He was scared.”

Her husband was in Saudi Arabia during the attacks. When he came back, he insisted she wear a hat instead of the hijab for her own protection. “He wanted to get the attention away from me,” she explains. “I did it only once and then I couldn’t do it again … whatever happens, that’s fine.”

Taibah got over her fears quickly and became active in the community, educating people about Arab culture and Islam. One of her most memorable experiences was a session she had with a group of high school students. “You could see that they were very interested … and they don’t have many resources and all the resources they have were either the media or their family. They were asking many questions,” she says.

As she expected, the teenagers had many misperceptions about Arab women. They thought Arab women were subservient and behind the times; that they didn’t have the right to go out, were not free to do as they chose, and that all they did was cook and clean. “So when they saw me that was a surprise. I talked to them and explained to them what I did in my life. (And I said) I am not the only one in Saudi Arabia, there are lots of women like me,” says Taibah. “(I also told them) I am really tired of defending my religion and culture. This is who I am and this is my culture and I am really happy with it. I don’t have any complaints about it.”

She knew she had hit home when one of the girls said, “I totally understand because I am in your shoes. I always have to defend myself in front of my parent whatever I do.”

As an Arab who is also North African, Tarapolsi “came out of the closet as an Arab” after 9/11. “Being Arab was something very natural to me. I never felt I had to say that I was Arab but I always felt like I had to say I was African because I don’t look African, I don’t look black. I always felt like I had to defend that part of me.”

I became a lot more outspoken as an Arab. (I’d) tell people sooner than I would have pre-9/11 that I was Arab in case the topic came up and they felt they needed to vent,” she explains. “I’m literally tired of getting offended, so I would say it right off the bat so people would know.”
Tarapolsi became more determined to use the Arab Center of Washington as a tool to educate the Seattle public. One of the most prominent events the center organizes is the biannual Arab Festival at Seattle Center. Through her grant-writing efforts, Tarapolsi managed to raise a significant amount of funding for the three-day festival in 2005. “We got a lot more money so that we could go out and really do more and showcase more (and) we had more country booths participate than ever before.”

In addition, Arab Heritage Month, held annually since August 2004, features an entire month of events from film screenings to plays, and showcases myriad performers and artists from the Arab world. “(After 9/11), our focus was to get more visual. There are 22 Arab countries and people really need to realize that that we’re all individuals.”

The events of 9/11 had a profound effect on Abdussamed. “I want people to know that whatever happened, (9/11) doesn’t represent us. Everything (the terrorists) are doing is against what Islam is saying. We’re angry when we hear about those things. We’re also angry because it affects us. We don’t want to be labeled as those kinds of people.”

She realized that by talking to people and being more outgoing she could allay people’s fears. “You walk into a place and people give you that kind of look. Once you start talking to them, I think it goes away. Some people walk away (and) even though it’s hard to deal with it and you feel it’s not fair, I think people have to go through certain kinds of emotions. And we need to educate them and let them know who we are.”

Abdussamed continues by saying that there is no better summation of the peace-loving nature of the Arab culture and the Muslim faith than this greeting: “Salam alaikum” [Peace be upon you].

Pat Tanumihardja is a frequent contributor to Seattle Woman.

©2006 Caliope Publishing Company