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I was watching a segment on television today about Bedouins in the Hijaz region in Saudi Arabia. Even though Bahrain - where I come from - does not have a Bedouin identity, there is this untouchable something about this identity that I can strongly identify with; shedding light on a collective (and possibly more noble) previous self of us as human beings.

Part of the segment showed an elderly Bedouin in his 70s entertaining his guests (the Japanese film crew) and would personally attend to them rather than allowing the younger men of the tribe to show them the hospitality for which Bedouins are renowned. Besides the hilarious jokes he kept cracking on camera, there were a few things about him that left an impact on me, as a viewer and as a Middle Easterner.

One of them was of him serving water and fresh camel laban (drinkable yoghurt) to the Japanese crew. When serving the water (and they shared the same container) he made sure all the crew drank first before he drank. When serving the laban, however, he drank before his guests. He went on to explain that the reason he did this is because of the nature of the drinks: since water has a low density, things like sand whatever flies around into their water, sinks to the bottom of the container. In the case of the laban, and since it’s such a dense drink, any sand or unwanted additives tend to stay on top. In both cases, the host would offer his guests the “best” of what he has. Interesting, huh?

Another scene showed the Japanese crew asking him what kept him healthy and strong into his 70s. He said - roughly - that despite the heat and the punishing sun of the desert, and despite not relying on (Japanese) air conditioners, he felt that the pursuit of a decent life, life and promises of rain keeps him going.

In 1996, 5 years after Saddam’s troops were forced to leave Kuwait, I went to Kuwait on a family vacation. I was 14 at the time and I remember this quite well; we were invited to the home of a Bedouin Kuwaiti family (who have recently given up the life of travelling around in search of water and grazing land for their mashiya (cattle). After being treated to a genuine walima (feast), we talked to the patriarch of the family (who still has vivid memories of life in the deserts of Arabia). I was a spoilt kid when it came to eating; I refused to eat with my hands - as traditionally done in the Middle East. That is, until that day. (In my grandmother’s Eid lunches, while everyone else ate with their hands, she would set aside a fork and spoon for this “Westernized” Bahrani). The patriarch of that Bedouin family told in Arabic, “Ya Waladi, lat koon badawi bil kaamil, wala Hadhari bil kamil.” (which translates to, “My son, don’t be a complete Bedouin and don’t be a complete urbanite). Years later, thinking back over that small meeting, I realize what the old man was trying to say; move on in life but never forget where you come from. Speaking of the feast we had, I was also surprised by how similar Bahraini villagers and Bedouins were when it came to eating; the men were always served first while the women were in a different room, waiting for the to finish eating first. The men would try to “control” themselves by not eating all the meat and rice so that the women would have food to eat as well. I was also taken by the patriarch’s tales of the “battles” they actually had with other tribes in his youth to secure water supplies and grazing lands for their survival. I guess the post-oil boom generation - me included - take life’s conveniences for granted.

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I’ve heard a lot about the Bedouins of Sinai being interesting people to visit from a wonderful family friend who spent time there recently. Who knows - maybe I’ll make a stop there to see what it’s like.