Fast forward to 1992. When another Druze woman, Enam Lahiany wanted to learn how to drive, she secretly boarded a bus for Haifa, the biggest nearby metropolis, for lessons. When she finally came home with her license, her parents were stunned. Although her father eventually bought her a car he still won't ride in it with her.

Today the women of Dalia (the village's nickname) are neither burning bras nor advocating free love. But the loosely defined trend towards women's advancement, which has only become noticeable in roughly the last 10 years, has made progress in their demand for basic social privileges. Women here have learned to maneuver within a conservative and sexist -- although in some ways also enlightened -- religious/cultural ideology. The dusty streets of this scenic village in the Carmel hills are populated with cars whose drivers are women in full-length robes, as well as a few women in pants, and on rare occasion, even shorts. However, there are almost no male passengers in the cars with female drivers.

Elections held last October for the local governing council were telling, symbolizing a community beginning to change in subtle ways. For the first time, a woman, Malaca Kara, who had a low slot on the list of candidates won a seat, although by default; for various reasons, all the men ahead of her dropped out -- the last one before her being her own husband. Kara held her seat, if only for a couple of months before resigning for reasons unknown. Other women began floating around the idea of establishing a woman's party. Although preliminary reactions have been mixed, Lahiany says she is considering undertaking this challenge for the next elections about five years off.

Meanwhile the newly elected council has promised to promote the status of women. But when the assistant to the new council head was asked point blank what the plans for women's advancement entailed, his response was vague. He began to explain that the council itself would post all of its openings for both men and women, and would try to encourage female applicants.

The most meaningful change for Druze women is the startling number in the workforce. Although no statistics exist that can give percentages, women an be found as teachers, social workers and even engineers and managers. Traditional Druze women who avoid leaving the house alone have learned the lucrative benefits of folk culture; selling home-cooked food or crafts out of their homes.

"When I started [my job], it was a total anomaly for women to work," said Atur, who has been an education professional for several decades. "Now, women who don't work are the exception."

The Druze are hardly a squeaky wheel in the Middle East, perhaps because they are largely apolitical and offer allegiance to any ruling body. They have lived in Dalia for centuries, in a town where houses are left unlocked and paved roads dissolve into dirt paths. They are a scarce minority in Israel, only 1.7 percent of the population in 1996 (nearly 98,000). Non-Muslim Arabs, their faith is derived from the Judeo-Christian and Islamic texts and beliefs; although they have few religious ordinances. The society is traditional and looks much like Muslim Arab life.

Like many traditional communities, tantalizing social developments around the world have been communicated by the information age. Yet this awareness fosters a deep-rooted fear of moral laxity and the total collapse of social values -- in both men and women alike.

Nowhere is the new Druze woman better exemplified than in three stylish young women who are among the roughly 180 women -- about 50 percent of total employees -- who work at the local council of Daliat el-Carmel. They are pioneers in the arena of politics and government administration. Although they share the same community and cultural background as the robe-clad mothers in head coverings who tend children and prepare food inside stone homes, these young women favor sleek, long skirts, bare heads and subtle but sophisticated makeup. They seem modest -- perhaps unaccustomed to outside visitors -- yet each becomes highly animated when given the chance to tell her story.

Aomima Halaby, 26, is an engineer in the council's engineering department. "This was a hard profession in the beginning," she smiles knowingly. "The men were pretty disturbed by the idea of a woman participating in engineering projects, and even more so by the reality that a woman was their boss! They tried to look at me as a secretary." But she seems to have won her status, and looks comfortably ensconced in a roomy office in the bright, airy council building.

Halaby is single, and although her family does not pressure her to marry, all three women acknowledge that at some point this becomes a deep disadvantage, damaging social respectability and status. She has no thoughts of living anywhere but at home with her parents, until she does get married. Halaby's family supported her career. It was always understood that she would get an education, and practically a given that she would work. If engineering was considered atypical, they respected her choices.

Enam Lahiany, 30, had a more difficult experience with her family. They were deeply opposed to her choice to build a career; her mother is very traditional and rarely leaves the house. "When I told them I wanted to work, it was like the end of the world," says this solidly built woman, grinning. As the oldest, "I had to forge a new path in my family." They fought her at nearly every stage, with each step sparking another problematic alienation.

However, both her mother and father have begun to reconcile themselves. "They have learned that this is who I am," says Lahiany, who also lives at home.

Today Lahiany wields an unusual level of power for a woman. She is Director of the Offices of the Council Head. Her advancement to this position was radical for the villagers and her colleagues: they would have to go through a woman every time they wanted access to the Council Head.

Lahiany began working at the local council as a secretary ten years ago, when there had been only three women before her. Immediately, she began trying to move up, and make changes; predictably, she suffered from a lack of authority, and her biggest challenge was to win this from her colleagues. At times she was treated so badly that she questioned whether her career was worth it, but in the end, "my personality wouldn't let me leave."

In contrast to Lahiany is Najat Hosisi, a secretary, who is genuinely torn between her desire for women's advancement, and her fear of losing the traditional Druze life. A slim, demure woman of 27, she is dressed in a skirt slightly longer than the others. Najat was married at 19 and has two children; she recently went from a full-time to a part-time schedule. For the first few years of her marriage, she refused to work outside the home.

"I was so young and I didn't really know what I wanted in life. My husband never told me I had to stay home, but I thought that a good woman shouldn't work. But I was so unhappy..." she muses. "I finally had to get a job."

Her sparse words and shy smile recall a painful personal struggle. "It is very important for women to work! We have such a long way to go. Look at women in the United States, they are journalists, lawyers, scientists, astronomers. We are still mostly clerks, teachers, and factory workers," she complains. "We need to do new things."

Why then, is she cutting her career ambitions to work part time?

"I wanted to spend more time with my children," she said. "It is not the husband's place to give up work in order to be with the children."

As the conversation turned to modernization of society at large, her trepidation became clear. "I don't want my daughter to walk around in shorts. I want women to advance through working and participating, but we have to preserve our culture and our values. If the end results are drugs and prostitution, I would rather she not wear shorts."

Despite Atur's insistence that Druze society changes slowly, the women are in a situation similar to others who have been struggling for 30 years. How did the women achieve such a rapid pace of change with such relative cal?

Part of the explanation lies in the Druze religion, which offers relative tolerance towards women's advancement. Druze religious texts emphasize the importance of educating girls, for example. In theory, women have equal rights to men regarding marriage and divorce, and even inheritance, which divide them sharply from Muslim Arab communities. In practice, the settlements may favor men, but the four women agree that "respect" for women is "built into our religion." A measure of equality in the basic tenets might be one reason why certain advancements in women's status, at a slow pace, are not cause for a major uproar.

Women are permitted to become religious leaders, but in reality this doesn't happen. "There is no real role for women in the religion," notes Atur. However, women are also allowed to -- and often do -- reach the status of "wise" ones, or enlightened religious thinkers, explains Salah Azzam, a young theater actor and director who lectures on Druze society to tourists.

Education is another area that focuses ample attention on women. When the assistant to the new council head was questioned about the goals for women's advancement, he quickly launched into a chatty, earnest conversation about raising and educating his own four daughters. "Education," he announced grandly, "is the foremost priority." While this sounds positive, it may not indicate great progress in policy -- considering that education was always a priority for women.

Azzam sums up the situation with an ironic, if symbolic comment: "Women can do what they want," he explains. "It is not for any man to forbid her to pursue anything she feels she wants to."

Would his wife be available for comment?

"Oh no," Azzam chuckles amiably, "not my wife."

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