Bahrain Polytechnic's Ad

Qualifications
• a recognized qualification in tertiary teaching;
• ENGLISH tutors must have a recognised qualification in teaching English for speakers of other languages;
• a relevant technical specialist qualification or a bachelors degree (minimum);
• a native speaker of English with excellent communication skills in English, both verbal and written;

I came across a very disturbing advertisement for tutoring posts in Bahrain Polytechnic. The Advertisement was for multiple tutoring vacancies in subjects ranging from Accounting to Electro Technology for degree-level students, and I found it really shocking that they would blatantly state that “Native speakers will be given preference” on the website, and reiterate that in the application document under “Qualifications”.

There are way too many things that are wrong with this I’m not sure where to start. First I’m unsure how being a native English speaker is a “Qualification” as such. Fluency and good command in English are things that can be thought of as qualifications, but a person’s mother tongue?

Second, I have absolutely no idea what being a native English speaker can possibly add to an Accounting, Mechanical Engineering, IT or Marketing tutors, and would really love to hear the insights from the Polytechnic about maybe revolutionary studies that they came across that shows that successful, renowned higher education institutions only hire“native English speakers”, in a country, I shall add, where English is commonly spoken yet remains a second language for most?

I tried to look at this from so many ways to make it look less disturbing or put a positive spin on it but I just couldn’t. They could have easily demanded good command of English, fluency, had proper criteria to measure or quantify that, and even if “native” was their shortcut into all of this I don’t think it’s acceptable. It is offensive, to my “non-native English speaking” Bahraini self and others.

I wrote to the Polytechnic, I don’t know if my email would mean anything, especially in terms of actual change of recruitment policy, but I sure hope they get the message that, despite English being my second language, I sure can manage to articulate how I feel about their advertisement.

I sometimes dread it when people ask where I come from.  Not more than 10% of people who hear “Bahrain” as answer have some sort of idea where that country might be, but that’s not my cause of annoyance.For those who know that Bahrain is indeed in the Persian Gulf, there is one thing that comes to mind- wealth.

Some people might ask, but it’s those who assume who annoy me the most. For the past two months I made a lot of friends, mainly Indians given the demographics of the student body in my program. Despite the fact that most of these are actually Indian elites, owners of chains of businesses and are wealthy themselves- they love to point out that I must be wealthy. When at some occasions I said just that, it appeared that some have the notion that we’re unnecessarily wealthy, that is, it’s undeserved wealth; while theirs is hard worked for. Oh, and they use Bahrain and Dubai interchangeably.

-    Public transport here is not very good, but getting a car is very expensive. I would’ve got one
-    Used or new?
-    Used, I’m only here for a short period of time.
-    Get a new one it’s better
-    It’ll be much more expensive
-    But you come from Bahrain, you can buy a car!

-    You mean you’re not rich?
-    Actually, no.
-    Everyone in Dubai was rich.
-    I don’t know about that, but not everyone in Bahrain is rich.
-    Only expats are poor.
-    That’s very misguided.

-    No one speaks Arabic there.
-    Expats tend to not learn it.
-    No, I stayed in Dubai for four years and no one speaks Arabic.

-    You live on your own?
-    Yes.
-    Doesn’t it work out to be expensive? But it’s ok for you, you’re from Bahrain.
-    I live 2 miles away from the university, you live across the street. Apartments where I live are much cheaper. Oh, and my scholarship actually pays for the rent not my dad.
-    But your dad would, if they didn’t.
-    He would if he could.
-    You mean he couldn’t?
-    No.
-    Come on.
-    I’m serious.

I was going through BBC’s Have Your Say discussing whether Turkey should ease its scarf ban at higher education institutions. I must admit I do not know a great deal about Turkish politics, but I found the thread interesting nonetheless. The mass majority of comments opposing lifting the ban stated in a way or another that it-the scarf- is a political statement at best or a sign of women’s oppression.

Living in 2008 Bahrain, a country with a high percentage of females wearing some sort of head cover, it is very hard to relate to headscarves as political statements. In Bahrain, there is no one scarf. There is no one cover. There is no one style. Females in the streets, malls, educational institutions, government bodies may have a form of head cover, but even their reasons for doing so are various. The reasoning behind it may have a correlation with its style, type or fashion.

There are those who do it- voluntarily- out of religious beliefs, and those who do so out of the religious beliefs of their families, simply because they are asked to. A female in the latter category may happen to like the scarf, hence communicate that in the way she’s wearing it, or hate it, and again that can be communicated in its style. There is also those for which it is merely a cultural dress code, one that you would wear only within the constrains of this society, where women are expected to dress modestly with a certain de facto fashion and hence those are often rid themselves of it once in foreign country. There are those for whom the scarf is simply a cultural fashion, an extra piece of accessory which can be worn in funky ways. I can go on.

I know this is how current day Bahrain is. With head cover way too spread and way too diverse in the same time for anyone to draw connections with Islamism, secularism or otherwise. In Bahrain, you find secular political societies with female members with head covers. In Bahrain, daughters of supporters of Iranian revolution – covered or not- may know nothing more than the name of Ayatollah Khomeini about that political movement.

Has this always been the case? Those who lived their adulthood in the 80s tend to think otherwise. They say head cover at the time was linked to Islamism. My grandmother would not know what you are talking about if you imply linking women’s covering up with politics. That generation of women was simply raised to think women dress modestly, with no connection to politics or icons of any sort. My mother, on the other hand, would tell you about how you had to decide between being “communist” or “Muslim”- in those terms.  She would also tell you how religious icons were fought, and how people wanted to make a statement by clinging to what they believed was their right- freedom of belief. I assume she lived what is now referred to in Turkey as political Hijab/ non-Hijab. Not covering your head was as much of a political statement as was covering it. I do not envy them.

“Not excatly” was mum’s reply when I complained why we were to have an Eidless Ramadan this year. “We are having Eid, we are just not having Eid lunch”. “So what is it we are having for Eid then, mother?”

She herself seemed rather distressed but tried hard to appear otherwise. She composed herself; “some of your aunts are leaving for a short break during the holiday” she explained. Both my paternal and maternal side of the family decided that there were too few of them to hold a feast for Eid. “We can go out for lunch, with your brothers” she proposed. I was still sore and annoyed and did not hold from stating that the idea did not appeal to me, and that I felt that my Eid was sabotaged- by everybody.

My brother felt quite the same, “You mean no one is gathering at all?” he said with an incredulous look when I broke the news to him four days ahead of Eid. “Is that some collaborative work to ruin Eid?” he questioned. In fact, it seemed that way.

It is moments like those that I feel that my society is caught up between its collective past and a newly introduced individualistic trend.  While I do not mind either ways of life, I indeed mind having to do with no Eid plans- thinking there would be the usual collective one- only to find out four days ahead that there won’t be, since everyone is having their own little plan or vacation. I would have loved a short city break somewhere, but how could I have left the grand annual gathering that follows the holy month? If I had done that then all would have complained- I wasn’t even considerate enough to put an effort to attend something that only comes once a year.

Who is to blame, for my Eidless Ramadan? I wondered. The problem persists, since the lack of Eid feast this year does not necessarily mean abolishing it for the years to come. You cannot possibly guess or plan ahead, simply live on hope that your pick of holiday style would the correct one: choosing to travel the year everybody decides to leave or staying the year they stay.

My uncle lamented the absence of his mother- my paternal grandmother- and commented on how this would have never been the case if she, may she rest in peace, was around. “See, they need the dictator to impose some discipline on them, they cannot even shoulder the responsibility of their own Eid” he said.

It feels good though, that I managed to gather those of my family who were left on the island and still got my ever-so-great maternal grandmother to cook her delicious Eid Feast which she religiously refused to have ready from any catering.

The night before last was indeed one of a kind. The 14th of the Arabic lunar month Sha’baan, the month preceding the holly month of Ramadan, is a spectacular day to visit Bahrain. A grand festival is held throughout the island’s villages and towns; the largest of which is held in the capital, Manama, where I spent my night. It is believed that the 15th Sha’baan is the birth date of the last Shia Imam, who is thought to be still alive since his birth in the 12th century. Shia believe that the Imam, called Al Mahdi, is their saviour, whose location is concealed from everyone awaiting the day of his expected return, in Makka. Nonetheless, a stroll in Manama last night is enough to show that the event metamorphosed from a religious congregation into an enchanting social event.

Free food and (soft) drinks is served to everyone. Short after sunset prayer (Maghrib), the narrow alleys of Manama were heaving with buffet tables that offered a wide range of dishes for the passers-by. Open barbecues, fried to order kebabs and dumplings, vine leaves, sandwiches, puddings and baklava are few amongst many one can pick while enjoying the background music of the Hussaini Studio Band meandering around the old town. Where the band was not present, was the Islamic DJ van, whose beat resonated through the neighbourhoods of Manama. Yes, all was for free. You are most likely to be receiving coins and treats (which used to be mostly chocolates and sweets but have now diversified to include miniature dolls and figures) from people around you.

Yet, there was more to be seen. Cork figures depicting various prophets are also seen. One that I can clearly recall was a cork figure of a big fish (whale) which has inside it a man praying, representing the story of prophet Jonah (Yunus in Arabic), which according to both the biblical and Qura’nic story was thrown overboard a ship and swallowed by a big fish. My hometown was resplendent in colours: paintings, figures and neon lights. Even the dusty walls of the old houses were draped in ornate hangings.

If it wasn’t for the humid August weather that makes our nights hotter than our days and the piles of litter along the sides of the streets I would say my night was perfect. Not any of the decoration or the festival modernization stopped people from littering the streets with empty plastic cups, plates and tissues.  Towards the end of the festival, you could see lines of white – everywhere. It was such a painful scene, given how much time and effort people put into making this event perfect, but not when it comes to rubbish.

I was, however, positively surprised by how naturally everything happened. No forced segregation lines between the ladies and the gentlemen or dictated code of conduct. People were simply themselves: conservative, yet not all the way, allowing themselves to simply enjoy the moment. The happy look on people’s faces, not distracted by beads of sweat on their foreheads really made my night.

He greeted me every morning as I opened the backdoor and entered the office. Some time back when I first joined I had asked for a cup of coffee, with cream and no sugar. Ever since, every day at the same time he would come with my morning coffee. He received my “Thank you” with a wide smile, “welcome madam” he would say back. At times when I was stressed and so were my colleagues he seemed to be the only smiling face in the office. Malcolm was different- he did everything cheerfully. More than once my co-worker had commented on how good our “office boy” was that maybe the company should consider opening a restaurant.

While asking him to move some boxes I clearly remember the probably only chat I have had with him. I asked why he was not considering working directly for the company, rather than for the agency that is contracting him to us. I offered to talk to the manager about it, as I had no doubts everyone in the office loved Malcolm. He said he could not. He signed a binding contract with the company who paid for his Visa and expenses, and he had to finish the four-year contract with them, or pay a big sum of money which he could not afford. His hometown is Mangalore, India. He spoke English well enough to communicate flawlessly with all of us, and I never knew or asked what his mother tongue was.

Two weeks ago I was surprised my coffee was black, but I did not even think twice about it. Later that week someone had asked for their water bottle to be filled, and I watched as Malcolm carried the bottle away, and then back, empty. He had just moved some boxes out of the store when he, for some obscure reason, moved them back in. It was evident that same afternoon that something was wrong with Malcolm. He stopped responding, sat on his chair staring at the empty space and saying nothing. He was repeatedly asked what was wrong with him with at no avail. Finally I asked a co-worker who spoke his mother tongue to ask him to go home and rest, but also to try to find out what was wrong with him.

He told her about his girlfriend, a famous Indian singer whose songs were frequently aired in the radio. He asked her to sing, and asked her if she herself was a singer. He said random things about how he could not leave the office because he should be serving water, coffee and lunch.

Some, like many of you might be, found it hard to believe that Malcolm was not mentally stable anymore, but he was. He was not acting because he has stolen something like some had suspected. When asked if he has taken anything from the office he enthusiastically said yes, and even named the very person who was interrogating him, along with Jesus, as the people who helped him to steal. He seemed rather happy saying it. On his last day in the office he was exercising and dancing to the rhythm of music that he was singing.

His agency was notified and his replacement was there next morning. The contact person in the agency did not even seem sceptical or surprised. He even offered to check Malcolm’s room to find out whether he is a kleptomaniac. They did, and all they found in his room was two pairs of shoes, and three pairs of his uniform. That was all Malcolm’s property that next day when he was leaving to Mangalore he was only carrying a plastic bag on him.

Never will I forget Malcolm or his smile. How little I knew about him the person. How I had previously been under the impression that Malcolm was amongst the luckier ones whose office had nice people who never shouted at him and always thanked him for what he did. When Malcolm was gone I was disgusted with myself for what I, shut in my own world, had previously thought.

He worked in our office from 9 to 5. He then worked at a hotel from 6 to 1. The weekend was shared between the two premises. He lived in a room where there was nothing but his uniform, and as per his earlier conversations with some staff members, he had no friends. He only spoke to those in our office, on the random occasions when my likes thought about chatting with the “office boy”. He was alone. In a foreign country among people who spoke a different language, most of which are better-off than he was. He had no right to quit or change jobs, and he did not have the money to arrange for his emancipation. He was a legal slave, with little attention from everyone.

He left, to his hometown; his legacy from Bahrain was only a plastic bag.

I can see it through the glass walls of my office. There it lies, still blue, nonetheless. Every other day, I also track any visible changes to some of Bahrain’s biggest forthcoming projects: Bahrain Financial Harbour through the left wall, Bahrain Bay through the right.

Admiring eyes surround the Financial Harbour, anticipating businessmen, clients who envy us the privileged view. Once and again I looked at the massive structure by the shore, fixing my gaze I tried so hard to admire it. I never could.

What now looks like a lake to the side of the Harbour is full of nice boats, boats that remind me of nothing but of the Islands of Pearls. Bab Al-Bahrain is also there, now a door to an elapsed era.

Maybe I could have had some passion towards our new skyscrapers; maybe I could have seen them as national symbols, if only they did not despoil the sea, if only they did not exterminate precious fish species.

The view evokes vivid images in mind, created by verses of Al-Gosaibi’s poetry in “The Island of Pearls”. Fighting tears in my eyes I hear the concerned voice of a colleague: “Why do you look, if it bothers you so much?”.

I do not know. Maybe look because I care. I look because for years when I was away I dreamed of when the moment comes and I can once again see those very shores and inhale the sea breeze. I look because like a lover, passion drives me to visit, once again, the beloved.

We have the fake Lulu Islands (Pearl Islands), we have the fake Amwaj (Waves), we have the fake Durrah (Large Pearl), we will soon have the fake Asdaf (Seashells).But like many, I yearn for the real seashells, the real pearls, and the real waves.

I feel alien in my hometown. I feel away, in my own country.

غازي القصيبي – جزيرة اللؤلؤ

لا هــذه أرضـــي..  ولا
أهلـي لـدي.. ولا الحبـيـب

 [...]

أرضي هناك مع  الشواطـئ..
والـمـزارع.. والـسـهـول

في موطن الأصداف.. والشمس
المضـيـئـة..  والنـخـيـل

أمي هنـاك.. أبـي.. رفاقـي
نـشـوة العـيـش  الظلـيـل

حيـث الحيـاة تمـر  صافيـة
مـعـطــرّة الــذيـــول

حـلـم شـهـي  الـطـيـف
تقنـع منـه عينـي  بالذهـول

أرضي هناك .. مع الشواطـئ
والـبـحــار الأربــعــة

والأفق.. والشفـق المخضّـب
حـيـن يـنـثـر  أدمـعــه

فتـظـل ترمـقـه الـمـيـاه
كـأنـهـا تـبـكــي معــه

حـيـث المـسـاء  يـطــل
في صمت ويخطر فـي دعـه

ويعانـق الآفــاق..  يمـنـح
كــل قـلــبٍ  أذرعـــه

الضوء لاح.. فديـت ضـوءك
فـي السواحـل يـا  منـامـه

فـوق الخليـج أراكِ زاهـيـة
الـمـلامـح ك  ابتـسـامـة

المرفـأ الغـافـي وهمسـتـه
يـهـنــئ بـالـسـلامــة

ونــداء مئـذنـة  مـضـوأة
تـرفــرف كالحـــمـامـة

يـا موطـنـي ذا  زورقــي
أوفـى عليـك فخـذ  زمامـه

“I just bought a 70-kilogram cooler of prawns yesterday. The prawns were so small, such a pity” he said. I casually asked when the fishing season for prawns started, since I did not know it did. “It did not” was the answer I got.

Photo Courtesy of Marco Verigna, Flickr

That should have probably been the end of the conversation, but I could not let it be. Why did he buy 70 kilograms of illegally fished prawns when he certainly did not have to? Not for business, I know that much for sure.

“But it is prawns reproduction season. You are practically not letting the prawns reproduce”. “We cook prawns Machboos every year on the commemoration of Imam Ali’s death. Whenever I have that quantity of prawns available I have to snatch it and stock it”.

Now his reasoning not only made me feel worse, but rather appalled. That occasion is supposed to be a spiritual one, a religious philosophy celebrating sacrifice, fighting for the cause and devotion. How that can mandate fishing prawns when it is endangering our ecological system is beyond me. Now I did not only feel bad for the poor prawns, but also for the poor occasion.

Could not your Machboos be lamb or chicken? Could you not wait at least, with the occasion being four months away (21st Ramadan)? How about dried prawns – popular for Machboos in Bahraini cuisine?

I said I felt it is haram to fish for prawns now. Yes, haram with a small H, since I meant haram with its Arabic linguistic meaning – unfair. It was communicated as Haram – not allowable in Islam – and I went with the flow. I was accused of devising Fatwas that are not part of Sharia books. Indeed, no Sharia book talked about fishing at the wrong season, and no Hadiths were found to support my Fatwa.

Only I felt my Fatwa, although not at first intended as one, was right and well-justified. I wondered what Prophet Mohammed or Imam Ali would have said about destroying our marine life. I also wondered if those occasions are losing their original aim, or have they, already?

With such a mentality about marine life, are we really expecting the government to respect and preserve our environment, and not destroy our Fashts or reclaim our sea?

It has been a week of environmental shock and pain.

In 1980 Abulhussain Abdulredha, playing the character of a lousy businessman - Hussainoo – in the comedy TV show “Drab Al-Zalag” or “The Slippery Road”, gets swindled when trying to buy the Pyramids in Egypt. Not realizing such a deal is impossible, newly-rich Hussainoo strikes a deal to buy Giza Pyramids and import them into Kuwait.

How could it escape Hussainoo that certain things are simply not for sale, not the Egyptian Pyramids, not Eiffel Tower or the Colosseum in Rome?

In 2003 Egyptian actor Hani Ramzi in “Ayez Ha’ai” or “I Want My Right” plays a taxi driver who gets his hands on the Egyptian Constitution, and reads that every Egyptian citizen has a share in all public properties. Better yet, citizens have the right of selling their share in Egyptian public properties, if 51% of the population would agree to sell.

In a public auction Egypt is bid on, with the winning bid belonging to a group of foreign investors, willing to pay each Egyptian citizen 1 Million dollar for his share in Egypt- his country. He backtracks and refuses to sell. If the foreign investors would pay this much for it, it sure is worth much more. The comedy movie ends without selling Egypt.

In Bahrain, such humour has grown to be out of place; indeed, everything can be sold and bought. News of the sale deal of Fasht Al-Jarem is neither a 1980 Kuwaiti TV show or a 2003 Egyptian comedy movie. Foreign investors are buying Fasht Al-Jarem, for 785 Million dollars, without the approval of 51% of the population or the public auction.

We sure are all waiting for the IPO; we all want a share of Bahraini W.L.L. (courtesy of Mahmood). The sale is not for the new mall, not the new bank, not the new tower, but Bahrain’s largest coral reef group. The sale of the Tree of Life should be next.

A week after the official Prophet Mohammed’s Birthday holiday, a close friend of mine invited me to attend a family celebration for the prophet’s birthday at her grandparents’ house. The official public holiday is on the 12th of Rabi Al-Awal, the third month of the Islamic Hijri lunar calendar, and therefore the holiday- like most other Islamic holidays – moves throughout the Gregorian calendar used for everyday life in Bahrain.

On Thursday night (5th April 2006  – 16th Rabia Al-Awal), Bahrain’s Shia Muslims celebrated the Prophet’s Birthday, which according to their belief is on the 17th Rabia Al-Awal, thus the celebration took place the eve of the holiday – as is the custom with most other holidays.

The celebration did not scale up to the size of Girgaoun (Mid Ramadan Celebration) and Nasfa (Mid Sha’aban Celebration), but there was definitely more than I expected to see. Just outside their house they offered Bahraini Halwa, candy, cinnamon rolls, Baklava and juice for the passers-by.

The celebration started by the reading of prayer (Du’aa) that was asking god for forgiveness through the Prophet, during which my mind drifted away to so many thoughts. The prayer was rather sad, which was odd for the occasion, I thought.Too negative and depressing for a supposedly happy occasion. There majority of the audience were kids, most of which failed to comprehend the meaning of the prayer, and were also bemused at the tears on the cheeks of some of the adults.

Next there was narrating the birth story. The amount of the details in the story really reminded me of that in biblical stories. The story is rather extensive, from the marriage of Amna, the prophet’s mother, and Abdulla, his father. Too long for the short celebration, only the giving birth part of the story was read- but three times. A lady carrying a Mabkhara passed through suffusing the audience with a musky aroma of Bukhoor and a thick cloud of smoke. I managed to make a copy of it for myself, and below the script in Arabic together with my English translation.

أنه لما كانت ليلة السابع عشر من شهر ربيع الأول وقيل عام الفيل سنة 950 أن السماء كانت مشرقة ومنورة وكان القمر بدرا كاملا وكان عبد المطلب جد رسول الله صل الله عليه وآله يقول : إن في الكون اختلاف وإنه لفي الأرض هنا لحدث كبير وقيل بأن الله قد أمر الملائكة أن تكون في تهليل وتكبير وتسبيح وتقديس وأن تخمد في هذا اليوم وفتحت أبواب وجبريل ومكائيل بين السماء والأرض إيذانا بمولود سيد الكونين وشفيع الأمة المختار من عند الله نبيا ووصينا وأمينا وتقيا أفضل الانبياء والرسل وأفضل الخلق وقيل أن آمنة بنت وهب كانت حاملا ولم في نساء مكة ولا المدينة في ذلك اليوم غير آمنة بنت وهب أم رسول الله صلى الله عليه وآله وسلم كانت تسمع الجنين في بطنها وهو يحدثها وتحدثه ويسبح ويقدس ويكبر بينما هي كذلك وإذا بالنور قد خرج وأضاء مكة فخرج الناس في ذهول وتكسرت الأصنام وأسوار الفرس وقياصرة الروم وإذا بالناس في ذهول وسؤال ما الذي حدث وإذا بالجواب قد أتى ولد أحمد محمد صل الله عليه وآله وسلم ..

When it was the night of the 17th of Rabia Al-Awal, it was said in the Year of Elephant (year 950 ), that the sky was bright and enlightened and the moon was a full moon, Abdu’l-Muttalib the grandfather of the Messenger of Allah (pbuh)  was saying: There is something different about the universe, and there is on earth here a big occasion. It was said that Allah commanded the angels to be in state of applauding, Takbir , praising and blessing, and to subside today. The doors were opened and Gabriel and Michael were between the sky and the earth, alarming the birth of the lord of the two universes, and the savior of the nation, the chosen by God as a prophet, a guardian, a keeper, and god-fearing, the best of all prophets and messengers and the best of all creatures. It said that Amna Bint Wahab was pregnant, and there was no other woman in Makka or Madina except for Amna Bint Wahab the mother of the messenger (pbuh) and she used to hear the fetus in her womb talking to her and she talked to him and he was praising God, declaring God holy and great. Meanwhile, the radiance was out and it illuminated Makka, thus people got out in astonishment and the idols, and the fences of the Persians and the Roman Caesars were broken. Then people were in a state of amazement and questioning, what had happened, and then the answer came- Ahmed Mohammed (pbuh) was born.
 

Next came the most interesting part- the chanting. If you think people cannot party without music, you might want to reconsider- for I have, after Thursday night. The absence of music from the religious celebration did not stop people from singing- or as they call it- chanting. Adults and kids, they repeated the chorus and clapped their hands in a one rhythm and pace; it was difficult to notice the absence of the music. The lyrics were mostly praising Mohammed, his family and his descendents (Ahl al-Bayt). Some verses were solemn, while the others were humorous and the little ones did not hide their laughs.

When the singing was over, the usual concluding phrase of sermons was said: “May god bless him he who recites Al-Fatiha (The Opening), before which praises Muhammed (pbuh)”, after which the audience would parise Muhammed and then recite Al-Fatiha (The Opening), a short 7-verse Surah.

The sound of a teenager from the back was loud “May god bless him he who recites Al-Baqara (The Cow), before which praises Muhammed (pbuh)”, Al-Baqara (The Cow) being the longest Surah in Qura’an and therefore making it impossible for anyone to actually recite it then and there. Everyone had their laughs, and then food was served.