"Walk before me": What I learned about gender while excavating at Tell Qarqur (Part One)

It was the summer of 1983. I was slated to do two things: go to Syria for six weeks as part of an archaeological équipe under the leadership of John Lundquist and James Flanagan, and go to Adelfia on the coast of Sicily thereafter, to hang on the beach and lead Bible studies for youth, in the middle of the storm that was brewing across Europe at the time. Missiles were going in left and right. West and East were in confrontation mode. The peace movement was about to peak.

My mother fretted about me going to Syria. “It’s dangerous there.” I knew in my heart that it would be more dangerous in Sicily later that summer.

I was right. One fine summer morning, while Paola and I blocked the construction of the Cruise missile base in Comiso, Sicily along with hundreds of other demonstrators, while we passed panini and shared water with the kids our own age on the other side of the barricades, Italian soldiers, the order was given to forcibly break up the demonstration. All hell broke loose, and many ended up in the hospital.

But that’s another story. In this post, I want to reflect on gender construction. Everything I know about gender I learned in Syria from the Syrian teenagers who became part of my life while carrying out excavations at Tell Qarqur. Well, not everything, but you get the idea.

John Lundquist put me in charge of excavations on the acropolis, the high point of the tell. It was a great privilege. I loved the view. It’s a breathtaking experience to survey a Levantine valley from atop an ancient tell: Some of my readers will know what I mean. Perhaps, as I do, they remember the view from the top of Megiddo, “Armageddon” of biblical fame. Or from atop Hazor.

A forewarning. I am going to describe everything from a specific, gendered point of view. It’s my own, as I remember it, only lightly censored.

Before I even headed off to Syria, I had had a conversation about gender with a high school friend I respected very much. The daughter of a famous math professor at the university, she was a gentle and caring person, soft-spoken and knowledgeable. There was an understated beauty about her that I found attractive. She was also a feminist. That intimidated me. “In the Muslim world,” I said, “things are really bad for women.” Or something to that effect: I was trying to gain her sympathy. “No, they’re not,” she said, looking me square in the eye. “They’re just different.”

Two teenage boys and three teenage girls worked with me on the acropolis of Tell Qarqur. My Arabic is pretty minimal, so I had to rely on an interpreter to hold a conversation with them. Whenever the interpreter paid us a visit, it was a party. So much to ask. So much to understand.

The older girls, all of sixteen, were polite and sociable, but they avoided direct eye contact with me or any other male.

There is something very special about having a conversation with someone who is listening very carefully, but doesn’t look you in the eye. You learn to read them by other means, by how they shift their hands, or move their shoulders, and how they look away from you. They enjoyed chatting, I could tell, but they wanted to set a good example for the youngest of the girls, who was all of 12 or 13.

Perhaps I should point out that Syria is not Saudi Arabia. The girls wore a kerchief on their heads, and were dressed modestly from head to toe, though not in a loose-fitting burka. They wore pajama-like clothing that pretty much adhered to their skin. It was a sight to watch the girls walk. As they carried gone-over excavated dirt from the acropolis in baskets on their heads, to the designated dump on the side of the tell, they walked with a strong and dignified gait, as if on air. Having flown into Syria from Italy, a relatively “loud” culture, I was struck by the understated grace of my new friends.

One way to listen to a culture is to watch people walk. The gait and dress of the Syrian village girls spoke to me of the moderate Islamic culture that serves as their natural habitat.

I’m going to switch horizons for a moment, and turn to the Bible. Isaiah was a people-watcher, too. A prophet, someone who speaks from God’s side, needs to be a careful observer of the human side. Isaiah watched the girls of Jerusalem of his day walk, and he did not like what he saw. This is the message from YHWH he received:

וַיֹּאמֶר יְהוָה

 

יַעַן כִּי־גָבְהוּ

בְּנוֹת צִיּוֹן

 

וַתֵּלַכְנָה נְטוּיוֹת גָּרוֹן

וּמְשַׂקְּרוֹת עֵינָיִם

 

הָלוֹךְ וְטָפֹף תֵּלַכְנָה

וּבְרַגְלֵיהֶם תְּעַכַּסְנָה

 

וְשִׂפַּח אֲדֹנָי קָדְקֹד

בְּנוֹת צִיּוֹן

וַיהוָה פָּתְהֵן יְעָרֶה

YHWH said:

     Because the maidens of Zion,

     high and mighty,

     with neck thrown back

     and roving eyes,

     mince along as they go,

     and jingle with their feet –

     My Lord will expose the pate

     of the maidens of Zion;

     YHWH, he will bare their butt.

                                              (Isaiah 3:16-17)

As a note in NJPSV indicates, “To bare a woman’s head in public was an intolerable humiliation. Cf. Mishnah Baba Kamma 8.6.”

 YHWH, when we walk, what does he see?

To be continued.

Comments

[Stephen (aka Q)]

What a fascinating series. Tales of another culture, coupled with biblical exegesis. Thanks for this, John.

[Jenelle]

Ahh...I see I was supposed to begin here. I started on Part 3, I think!

[JohnFH]

I hate that about blogs. When I first began blogging, I made sure that the first post to read was at the top, and that the others followed.

Peter Kirk was kind enough to point out to me that just isn't the way it's done. But there are tradeoffs.