part 1 – https://mariellerisse.com/2025/03/15/ethnography-navigating-shaking-hands-on-the-arabian-peninsula/
When I lived in Oman and came to the States in the summer, I always used Arabic expressions in every-day interactions, like saying shukran, (thank you) to grocery-store clerks. When I moved back permanently, I wondered if that would continue. I used Arabic a few times, but quickly stopped; language use was the easiest part of moving back.
I slowly got used to Americans moving around in self-contained bubbles, usually looking at the cell phone, using earbuds to have a conversation or wearing large headphones. The American dislike of interacting with anyone in public is really pronounced in the winter. Boston often has icy sidewalks with one narrow part that’s clear. It makes sense to me that someone wanting to walk by me would just say, “passing on your left.” Then I would shift/ lean to the right, so they could easily get by me. Instead, people suddenly and silently show up at my left elbow. Sometimes they do this awkward maneuver of walking with their right foot on the snow bank and left foot on the clear part of the sidewalk as they stomp by.
And I am still trying to get conversations right. When I came to USA in the summers, I spent almost all of my time talking to family and friends or I was in conversations in which I knew my part, e.g., talking to clerks, buying something, navigating an airport etc.
But now I have all sorts of short conversations with colleagues and acquaintances so things often go pear-shaped. Someone complimented me a few days ago and I still can’t tell is that was really a compliment or an insult. In Dhofar, compliments are often used to point out a fault, so I am wary of positive statements. And for this statement I can’t read the intention of the person who made the comment and I can’t figure out a way to ask, “What did you mean?” Either I would look like I was fishing for more compliments or the person would have to spell out the insult.
I sometimes revert to Omani understandings at the worst possible times and strand myself in embarrassment. A male colleague introduced me to his wife and I cheerfully said, “THE WOMAN!” We chatted for a few moments and, as I walked away, I realized that saying “THE WOMAN!” was NOT the way Americans greet each other.
I stood still and debated what to do. I could walk back to them, apologize and try to do a 5-minute cultural lecture, or keep walking and hope they didn’t notice or would forget and forgive. I kept walking. Sometimes I try to explain but this seemed like one of those times in which the explanation would just make the situation worse.
In Dhofar it’s rude to put someone’s name in public, especially if it is a female family member so all the research guys referred to their wife as “the woman” or “my family.” For example, if a man said, “I will take my family to Muscat,” he meant “my wife and children.” Men know their close friends’ and relatives’ wife’s name, but there is no reason to say it. I would ask some of guys about their wife and kids if we were waiting for other guys to come but not in front of the group.
Only one of the research guys, who was adorably in love, ever said that name of his wife in front of the other men. When I finally met his wife, I said (in Arabic), “THE WOMAN!” and we smiled, laughed and went through the long process of exchanging greetings. By saying “the woman,” I was showing that I did not know her name (although I did) so that she could introduce herself to me. This is not what an Omani would do, but it was my work-around as her husband had told her about me and she had never met a Christian/ North American before (and might have been wondering why I was hanging out with her husband and his friends). I wanted to appear as non-threatening as possible and signal that he had been respectful of his wife by not saying her name.
When I met my American colleague’s wife, I somehow reverted to that situation and repeated the phrase instead of the expected, “how nice to meet you.”
Another hurdle is getting rid of things. In Oman there was always someone who wanted whatever I did not. If I bought cookies, tried one and didn’t like them, I would put them in a bag for the man who cleaned my office or the man who ran messages to different departments. I washed, folded and set out sheets, towels, clothes, shoes and purses for the woman who cleaned my house; the man who watered the plants got blankets and pillows. I recycled cans and cardboard and had a compost heap.
Living in a studio apartment, I do more recycling (yeah Cambridge!) but what to do with Christmas lights that are the wrong color, a pillow that’s too hard, a paint set I won’t use, freebies sent along with a mail-order? I finally started to leave things stealthily on a shelf in the laundry room of my building or in the kitchen at work, like a multi-purpose Easter bunny.
But the worst cultural hurdle for me is handshakes. I spent 19 years avoiding touching a man [ https://mariellerisse.com/2025/03/15/ethnography-navigating-shaking-hands-on-the-arabian-peninsula/ ] and I haven’t been able to get back into the habit.
The first time it happened, I was doing a simple task (like picking up an insurance card) and the man at the desk put his hand out. At the same moment I thought, “I do not want to shake his hand” and “I have to do this.” My primary reaction was unreasonable anger: “Why is this man forcing me to do something I did not want?” yet I also understood he was behaving normally. I was the one who was at odds with the prevailing culture. I managed to get my hand out and shake, but was relieved when I had to move to another clerk. But then when I left, I had to stop by that man’s desk again and, again, he wanted to shake. “What is your problem?” I thought to myself, forcing myself to be polite.
I had many years of verbal greetings and now 2 handshakes within 1/2 an hour! I was miserable and sprayed my hand with sanitizer after I left the building.
Before that day, the last time I had shook hands with a man was the day I left Oman. The Muslim man who drove me to the airport had been a friend for 19 years. As I turned to say goodbye, he put his hand out; we had never shaken hands so I was not expecting him to. I started crying so hard I could not speak; it was such a kind action, to do something against his culture and religion to signal my leaving. What was a simple every-day action by the American clerk at his desk, was a huge, important gesture at the Salalah airport.
A few weeks after my first American hand-shake, I was in trouble again. A pleasant colleague held his hand out for a fist bump and I froze. Again, I was stuck thinking “I do not want to do this” and “I have to do this and I have to do this quickly or he is going to wonder what is wrong with me.” So, with kind of the same feeling as sticking my hand into a tiger’s cage, I managed the fist bump.
After a few more fist bumps and a few more weeks of working together, I had a short conversation with him about my reluctance as, if he had noticed my hesitation/ discomfort, I wanted him to know it was not personal. My unease had nothing to do with him; it was caused by almost two decades of carefully avoiding that exact situation.
For the future, I don’t know what I will do. I might get back in the groove and glad hand people like a politician. Or I might retreat back to putting my right hand on my heart. I have told people for years that re-entry can be as difficult as moving abroad. And I was right about that.
Leaving Oman: Grief, Grandeur, Museums and Bringley’s ‘All the Beauty in The World’
Come From Away 
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