Sunday, August 31, 2008
Biddun internet
Just a short post to apologize for the delay in the last four posts. I have been without internet for a few days, but have been blogging (and will continue to blog, insha'alah) about my activities in the meanwhile. Sorry to overwhelm anyone with the sudden inundation of posts.
"You learn good."
30 August 2008
“You learn good.”
That construction noise outside my window must be from Spencer Hall…it’s always so hot in Courts. I open my eyes and stare at the billowing gold embroidered curtains and beyond them the mosque across the hill. I’m not in Sewanee. I’m in Jordan.
Aunt Muna walks in my bedroom while I’m engrossed in Bible study. I check my indignation, reminding myself that it’s not unusual for family members to do that here. She stares at the book and journal and my pen poised uncertainly above it. “What do you write?” I can hear the imam on the television in the living room preaching about Ramadan, what’s haram (forbidden) and what’s halal (permissible).
“Uh…notes….about…”
“About what…you do?”
“Shwee, shwee.”
Nothing like having an infidel in your house during the holiest month of the Muslim year. Muna returns to the living room, telling me to come eat.
There’s got to be some way I can show this family my willingness to learn and understand. Muna, Khatam, Mohammad and I sit awkwardly in the living room while the imam preaches; the volume is too loud. Khatm has several bowls on the table before her and begins rolling vine leaves with rice; I make my move. “Ana….(point to food, make a rolling motion with my hands)?” Khatm makes room for me on the couch and calls out for Muna to grab a plate for me while in the kitchen. She fills it with ingredients and shows me how to roll them. Muna tsks her tongue at me for my first attempt, a behemoth of waraq ‘aanab, saying “Kabhirr (too big)”. Before long, I’m a vine-leaf-rice assembly line, and Khatm laughs and pats me on the hand, saying “Oh, you learn good!” This isn’t so bad, despite the olive oil dripping all over my clothes. “You…do them.” Khatm returns to the kitchen. I must have made enough waraq ‘aanab for the Desert Army, but it was the breakthrough. Khatm called and told Dunia about it, returning periodically to inspect my progress and pat my hand. When Dunia’s family joined us for lunch, they all spoke approvingly of my work, soon devoured. So maybe not enough for the Desert Army, but enough to show them I want to learn and intend to contribute to the family. Mohammad began rifling through a drawer looking for scrap paper and a pen; turning toward me, he asked “Alpha-bet?”
“Na’am.” He sat next to me and began writing the letters, drilling me as we went. Since I’m self-taught from the typed Arabic in a textbook, my Arabic script looks like it came from a word-processor; I couldn’t read some of Mohammad’s messy letters. He then taught me two or three words for each letter, making me re-read them and interrupting at the slightest hesitation. He seemed a bit impatient with me for my inability to make the ‘ain (the I’m-about-to-vomit-gag sound) letter and the ‘ghain (something like the French ‘r’) letter; Dunia tells me he’s very anxious for me to learn Arabic. All the while three year old Yusuf was crawling over me and clipping clothes-pins in various places while Ismein, perched on a couch across the room, stared at me through binoculars. I definitely felt the “Other” in this situation. But I feel more like one of the family, especially since I’ve been granted access to the refrigerator.
“You learn good.”
That construction noise outside my window must be from Spencer Hall…it’s always so hot in Courts. I open my eyes and stare at the billowing gold embroidered curtains and beyond them the mosque across the hill. I’m not in Sewanee. I’m in Jordan.
Aunt Muna walks in my bedroom while I’m engrossed in Bible study. I check my indignation, reminding myself that it’s not unusual for family members to do that here. She stares at the book and journal and my pen poised uncertainly above it. “What do you write?” I can hear the imam on the television in the living room preaching about Ramadan, what’s haram (forbidden) and what’s halal (permissible).
“Uh…notes….about…”
“About what…you do?”
“Shwee, shwee.”
Nothing like having an infidel in your house during the holiest month of the Muslim year. Muna returns to the living room, telling me to come eat.
There’s got to be some way I can show this family my willingness to learn and understand. Muna, Khatam, Mohammad and I sit awkwardly in the living room while the imam preaches; the volume is too loud. Khatm has several bowls on the table before her and begins rolling vine leaves with rice; I make my move. “Ana….(point to food, make a rolling motion with my hands)?” Khatm makes room for me on the couch and calls out for Muna to grab a plate for me while in the kitchen. She fills it with ingredients and shows me how to roll them. Muna tsks her tongue at me for my first attempt, a behemoth of waraq ‘aanab, saying “Kabhirr (too big)”. Before long, I’m a vine-leaf-rice assembly line, and Khatm laughs and pats me on the hand, saying “Oh, you learn good!” This isn’t so bad, despite the olive oil dripping all over my clothes. “You…do them.” Khatm returns to the kitchen. I must have made enough waraq ‘aanab for the Desert Army, but it was the breakthrough. Khatm called and told Dunia about it, returning periodically to inspect my progress and pat my hand. When Dunia’s family joined us for lunch, they all spoke approvingly of my work, soon devoured. So maybe not enough for the Desert Army, but enough to show them I want to learn and intend to contribute to the family. Mohammad began rifling through a drawer looking for scrap paper and a pen; turning toward me, he asked “Alpha-bet?”
“Na’am.” He sat next to me and began writing the letters, drilling me as we went. Since I’m self-taught from the typed Arabic in a textbook, my Arabic script looks like it came from a word-processor; I couldn’t read some of Mohammad’s messy letters. He then taught me two or three words for each letter, making me re-read them and interrupting at the slightest hesitation. He seemed a bit impatient with me for my inability to make the ‘ain (the I’m-about-to-vomit-gag sound) letter and the ‘ghain (something like the French ‘r’) letter; Dunia tells me he’s very anxious for me to learn Arabic. All the while three year old Yusuf was crawling over me and clipping clothes-pins in various places while Ismein, perched on a couch across the room, stared at me through binoculars. I definitely felt the “Other” in this situation. But I feel more like one of the family, especially since I’ve been granted access to the refrigerator.
"All these songs are about the king."
29 August 2008 (evening)
“All these songs are about the king”
As Khatm swerved in and out of traffic on the way to Dunia’s house, pumping the brakes and lurching us passengers back and forth, I regretted every single fig I had eaten that afternoon. That awful wave of panic swept over me again as I realized she, Muna and Mohammad simultaneously were explaining to me how to get from their home to Abdoun and back – all in Arabic. No GPS, Google maps, Mapquest, what-have-you; Jordanians don’t use street names but vague names of districts, then landmarks (mostly buildings), and finally building numbers. If you ask about a location that’s far, they may point and say “Go right,” which you discover is only the first of many turns and streets.
Dunia’s home is a first floor flat, more luxurious than her mother’s. Of particular pride was the spacious living room; ushering me into the parlor, Aunt Muna looked at me for approval, saying “Ve-ry Amrican, no?” Surveying the “oriental” throws, pillows, couches and sheesha (Arab water pipe) in the corner as juxtaposed with the large plasma screen television and “antique” copies of Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Dicken’s Hard Times (?), I hesitated. “Uh, na’am….”. Muna nodded in agreement. The parallel cultures were a bit overwhelming.
I’ve never watched so much television in my life, as I had little choice but to sit with the family for several hours in front of the plasma; I thought we Americans exclusively had problems with excessive television use. For a few minutes we watched a music video of the Jordanian military training with an Arabic pop soundtrack; because of the mention of Palestine, for the first few minutes I was hoping we weren’t watching the Hamas or Fateh channel. It was like one of those “Army: be all you can be” recruiting commercials, only longer and more ridiculous. “All these songs are about the king,” Dunia’s husband complained as her changed the channel. Only after enduring parts of The Terminator 3, Ace Ventura, and NCIS with Arabic subtitles (were they really enjoying all this or expected me to?), was I able to escape outside to the back patio and garden. Seated on a cool stone bench, breathing in the cool, evening breeze, and munching on fresh figs and almonds from Dunia’s meager garden and a view of the city, I was back at Mercedes’ house in San Fernando, Spain (from three summers ago).
“All these songs are about the king”
As Khatm swerved in and out of traffic on the way to Dunia’s house, pumping the brakes and lurching us passengers back and forth, I regretted every single fig I had eaten that afternoon. That awful wave of panic swept over me again as I realized she, Muna and Mohammad simultaneously were explaining to me how to get from their home to Abdoun and back – all in Arabic. No GPS, Google maps, Mapquest, what-have-you; Jordanians don’t use street names but vague names of districts, then landmarks (mostly buildings), and finally building numbers. If you ask about a location that’s far, they may point and say “Go right,” which you discover is only the first of many turns and streets.
Dunia’s home is a first floor flat, more luxurious than her mother’s. Of particular pride was the spacious living room; ushering me into the parlor, Aunt Muna looked at me for approval, saying “Ve-ry Amrican, no?” Surveying the “oriental” throws, pillows, couches and sheesha (Arab water pipe) in the corner as juxtaposed with the large plasma screen television and “antique” copies of Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Dicken’s Hard Times (?), I hesitated. “Uh, na’am….”. Muna nodded in agreement. The parallel cultures were a bit overwhelming.
I’ve never watched so much television in my life, as I had little choice but to sit with the family for several hours in front of the plasma; I thought we Americans exclusively had problems with excessive television use. For a few minutes we watched a music video of the Jordanian military training with an Arabic pop soundtrack; because of the mention of Palestine, for the first few minutes I was hoping we weren’t watching the Hamas or Fateh channel. It was like one of those “Army: be all you can be” recruiting commercials, only longer and more ridiculous. “All these songs are about the king,” Dunia’s husband complained as her changed the channel. Only after enduring parts of The Terminator 3, Ace Ventura, and NCIS with Arabic subtitles (were they really enjoying all this or expected me to?), was I able to escape outside to the back patio and garden. Seated on a cool stone bench, breathing in the cool, evening breeze, and munching on fresh figs and almonds from Dunia’s meager garden and a view of the city, I was back at Mercedes’ house in San Fernando, Spain (from three summers ago).
"Shwee, shwee"
29 August 2008
“Shwee, shwee”
At some point while blogging last night, the family went out, leaving me and Aunt Muna alone for several hours. Muna is the only one willing to speak English with me, so we got along pretty well. Without her brother in law around, she removed her hijab and we chatted as much as we could in some Arab-glish (like Spanglish) over tea. Completely exhausted from jet-lag and the usual insomnia, I went to bed around nine. Around eleven, I awakened and trudged down the hall to discover the family had returned; Muna had been unable to explain meal times or what times the family sleeps. Dazed, I sat down and started munching on the unsolicited, massive falafel sandwich handed me; we watched about an hour of Noor, a Turkish soap opera which makes American soap operas seem about as dramatic as The News Hour with Jim Leher on PBS. After an hour, I couldn’t take any more Arabic weeping and shouting over Noor’s husband dying in the hospital, so I excused myself and went back to sleep, only to be awakened an hour before dawn by the muezzin in the minaret across the hill. If only the call to prayer were syndicated and synchronized across the city; I could hear the calls all across the valley below echoing for quite a while. As all the windows in the house were open, the pressure changes kept making my creaky door open and close, occasionally slamming shut and scaring me to death; it didn’t help that the family silently walked past, covered, and proceeded to chant the pre-dawn prayer. Something like culture-shock tempted me to put the pillow over my head and drown out the noise with my ipod (which I brought because I have several hours of Arabic lessons on it); instead, I lay on my back just listening until the last allahu akbar drifted off. Unbeknownst to me, the family returned to bed after prayer, and when Muna found me in the living room at eight, she was astounded I was awake so early. She gestured toward the clock: “Fi amreeka…tis’ah (nine)?” “Le, sittah.” She gaped at me. “Sittah!!” (Six a.m.?!?). I didn’t know how to say any like “I’m an insomniac,” or “I don’t get up for pre-dawn prayers”, so I just shrugged, “Shwee, shwee” (akin to “more or less”).
All the reading I completed over the summer has certainly helped, but how ridiculous some of it now seems: advice on how to dress, hide my left-handedness, what to say, etc., has been irrelevant in most cases. Across the 22 countries in the Arab world and all the different regions therein, the culture varies so much that I’d discovered the folly of dependence on any kind of standardized advice and guidebooks. With such a language barrier, I have been able to communicate very little with my family about how much of the culture I understand. They have been excited several times, saying “Oh, you know Islam!” Shwee, shwee. They seem to think I have studied Arabic in school but, the idiot that I am, cannot speak it, and insist in speaking to me only in Arabic. Mohammad’s contribution thus far has been to confirm that I do not speak Arabic (despite his suspicions), to drill me in the numbers, alphabet, phrases and vocabulary of a four year old, and to shout at me when I supplement my very limited Arabic with English, frowning and waving his hand dismissively toward me, “Le, le, le engleezi! ‘Arabi!!” Considering that he studied for eight years in the United States and knows some English (how much is hard for me to discern since he is unwilling to use it), this has been a bit frustrating. When speaking with Julia (who is living with Khatm’s daughter) and occasionally with the family, I can follow what they are saying; if they sense it, they stop and ask me if I can understand. I guess this has happened enough times that they are convinced that speaking to me only in Arabic is the way to go. Maybe so, but my head is throbbing from all this straining to understand.
The point-and-ask method has worked pretty well. “Hadha?” (“That?”). I watched about four hours of Arab television with Muna and Khatr this morning – first (some of you will find this humorous) a desert epic about the life of “Omar al’Kitab”, the fourth caliph. When I asked about Omar, Muna explained to me the sequence of caliphs and made me recite them. Insha’allah, she won’t ask me to recite them again, as I’ve already forgotten them. Then we watched about two hours of fatafeta, the food channel of the Arab world and reviewed a hodge podge of food words I know. They vociferously commented on the Chinese foods one chef prepared, laughing, frowning and turning to me saying “Le, qwayes (not good)”. I wish I knew how to say, “I’ve eaten that in China!” All the while, they were filling me with tea, coffee, and figs. I really need to learn how to politely decline. As today is Friday, we finished off the television watching with an imam (in orange tinted sunglasses and goatee, much to my amusement) from Dubai preaching about Ramadan, which, according to the phases of the moon, may come tonight or tomorrow night. As we have established that I am a Christian, I don’t know how receptive they will be to me observing the fast.
This afternoon we will lunch with Dunia’s (Khatm’s daughter) family; thankfully Julia will be there to help me out. What was I thinking coming to Jordan with only a four-year old’s spattering of Arabic?
“Shwee, shwee”
At some point while blogging last night, the family went out, leaving me and Aunt Muna alone for several hours. Muna is the only one willing to speak English with me, so we got along pretty well. Without her brother in law around, she removed her hijab and we chatted as much as we could in some Arab-glish (like Spanglish) over tea. Completely exhausted from jet-lag and the usual insomnia, I went to bed around nine. Around eleven, I awakened and trudged down the hall to discover the family had returned; Muna had been unable to explain meal times or what times the family sleeps. Dazed, I sat down and started munching on the unsolicited, massive falafel sandwich handed me; we watched about an hour of Noor, a Turkish soap opera which makes American soap operas seem about as dramatic as The News Hour with Jim Leher on PBS. After an hour, I couldn’t take any more Arabic weeping and shouting over Noor’s husband dying in the hospital, so I excused myself and went back to sleep, only to be awakened an hour before dawn by the muezzin in the minaret across the hill. If only the call to prayer were syndicated and synchronized across the city; I could hear the calls all across the valley below echoing for quite a while. As all the windows in the house were open, the pressure changes kept making my creaky door open and close, occasionally slamming shut and scaring me to death; it didn’t help that the family silently walked past, covered, and proceeded to chant the pre-dawn prayer. Something like culture-shock tempted me to put the pillow over my head and drown out the noise with my ipod (which I brought because I have several hours of Arabic lessons on it); instead, I lay on my back just listening until the last allahu akbar drifted off. Unbeknownst to me, the family returned to bed after prayer, and when Muna found me in the living room at eight, she was astounded I was awake so early. She gestured toward the clock: “Fi amreeka…tis’ah (nine)?” “Le, sittah.” She gaped at me. “Sittah!!” (Six a.m.?!?). I didn’t know how to say any like “I’m an insomniac,” or “I don’t get up for pre-dawn prayers”, so I just shrugged, “Shwee, shwee” (akin to “more or less”).
All the reading I completed over the summer has certainly helped, but how ridiculous some of it now seems: advice on how to dress, hide my left-handedness, what to say, etc., has been irrelevant in most cases. Across the 22 countries in the Arab world and all the different regions therein, the culture varies so much that I’d discovered the folly of dependence on any kind of standardized advice and guidebooks. With such a language barrier, I have been able to communicate very little with my family about how much of the culture I understand. They have been excited several times, saying “Oh, you know Islam!” Shwee, shwee. They seem to think I have studied Arabic in school but, the idiot that I am, cannot speak it, and insist in speaking to me only in Arabic. Mohammad’s contribution thus far has been to confirm that I do not speak Arabic (despite his suspicions), to drill me in the numbers, alphabet, phrases and vocabulary of a four year old, and to shout at me when I supplement my very limited Arabic with English, frowning and waving his hand dismissively toward me, “Le, le, le engleezi! ‘Arabi!!” Considering that he studied for eight years in the United States and knows some English (how much is hard for me to discern since he is unwilling to use it), this has been a bit frustrating. When speaking with Julia (who is living with Khatm’s daughter) and occasionally with the family, I can follow what they are saying; if they sense it, they stop and ask me if I can understand. I guess this has happened enough times that they are convinced that speaking to me only in Arabic is the way to go. Maybe so, but my head is throbbing from all this straining to understand.
The point-and-ask method has worked pretty well. “Hadha?” (“That?”). I watched about four hours of Arab television with Muna and Khatr this morning – first (some of you will find this humorous) a desert epic about the life of “Omar al’Kitab”, the fourth caliph. When I asked about Omar, Muna explained to me the sequence of caliphs and made me recite them. Insha’allah, she won’t ask me to recite them again, as I’ve already forgotten them. Then we watched about two hours of fatafeta, the food channel of the Arab world and reviewed a hodge podge of food words I know. They vociferously commented on the Chinese foods one chef prepared, laughing, frowning and turning to me saying “Le, qwayes (not good)”. I wish I knew how to say, “I’ve eaten that in China!” All the while, they were filling me with tea, coffee, and figs. I really need to learn how to politely decline. As today is Friday, we finished off the television watching with an imam (in orange tinted sunglasses and goatee, much to my amusement) from Dubai preaching about Ramadan, which, according to the phases of the moon, may come tonight or tomorrow night. As we have established that I am a Christian, I don’t know how receptive they will be to me observing the fast.
This afternoon we will lunch with Dunia’s (Khatm’s daughter) family; thankfully Julia will be there to help me out. What was I thinking coming to Jordan with only a four-year old’s spattering of Arabic?
"If I have to eat one more fig..."
28 August 2008
“If I have to eat one more fig…”
I kept pacing the SIT classroom while waiting for my homestay family to take me home for the weekend (Friday and Saturday) and reciting the few Arabic phrases I know. A woman in a very Western outfit stepped inside, removed her sunglasses and glanced at me; I half-stood to meet her, convinced this was my homestay mother, but she had come for another student. Then a middle-aged man with a cherubic face entered, well-dressed and grasping his hands around his prominent belly; he found his student. A stream of families came and went, many “Westernized”, some conservative. I began glancing anxiously toward Dema, the homestay coordinator, who was sitting in the opposite corner, clutching a cellphone and staring through the open doorway facing the street. Most of the students had left when a silver Mercedes drove up; a woman dressed in elegant black hijab, intricately embroidered in silver thread and beading and sporting designer sunglasses and handbag emerged from the driver’s seat. By her appearance, she seemed the most conservative and wealthy of the families I had seen, and I watched her approach with a sinking feeling in my stomach – that feeling you get the one day you don’t finish the reading for a class and you just know the professor will call on you. I gulped hard, not because of her apparent wealth or , but because I felt unprepared for this. But I’m an Anthropology student. Khatm took my hand and kissed my cheek. I should be roughing it in a tent somewhere with the natives or refugees, not upper class Jordanians.” “Asalem alaykum,” I faltered. She turned to Dema with a questioning look. Oh I’ve said it wrong, probably with an atrocious accent. I need Arabic classes to start.
Khatm tried to take my 45lb. suitcase from me. “Le, le, I’ll carry it,” I said. We slung it into the trunk with Julia’s (another SIT student) luggage (she’s living in the same district, with my host mother’s daughter), and I seated myself inside the plush vehicle. The husband, Mohammad, greeted me, and I returned the greeting. He asked me my name; I answered. Julia joined me, and she introduced herself. Then he turned to me and starting speaking rapidly. I think I just stared out of shock. I thought Dema had told my host family I didn’t speak Arabic yet. “Ana atakallam engleezi.” He didn’t seemed satisfied with that, so he asked “Tatakallam ‘arabi?” “Le, engleezi faqat.” He then turned to my classmate and asked something like, “Doesn’t she speak Arabic?” “Le, engleezi...” He gave me one last questioning glance and then proceeded to converse with my classmate (who studied in Morocco this summer).
After a maze of streets winding upward through Amman, I noticed we had entered a different sort of district than Abdoun. Affluent, still, but less “Western”. Almost all the women we passed were wearing hijab or niqab (showing only the eyes). Khatm’s home is a flat on a hillside on the outskirts of the district, overlooking some new development in Amman; we pulled into a parking area and entered their third floor flat. Its deep crimsons and metallic accents lent a warmth to the room, like the smell of cardamom. All the rooms are furnished elegantly, and I was quite embarrassed at my unsuppressed gasp upon entering. That little gasp was followed by the breaking of glass a few feet, a harsh whisper, and I noticed a domestic servant, perhaps a Filippino girl around my age wearing hijab and blue jeans, sweeping it up with downcast eyes. On SIT’s homestay information sheet, I’m advised to neither “overwork the maid” nor to “enter-fair” (interfere). Recently the Jordan Times carried an article discussing the thousands of Filippino and Indonesian workers essentially imported to be domestic servants in wealthy homes. While I don’t intend to “enter-fair”, I would be interested in pursuing this issue.
Julia and I were quickly directed to a dining room where a table was set with food and freshly squeezed orange juice. The flat was overflowing with family members, who, we soon learned, were there to celebrate my host mother’s birthday. Curiously enough she had spent the day preparing all the food for her own celebration and soon retreated into her room for the rest of the afternoon while Julia and I had more food pushed on us (out of a spirit of hospitality) than we cared to eat. Eat slowly, eat slowly. Dunia is putting more food on my plate.
The only reference to help my host family understand, geographically, where I’m from was on the television – The Biggest Loser program had a map of the states. Alabama as the home of morbidly obese Americans didn’t convey quite the idea I had in mind. Their daughter, Dunia, speaks English quite well from the eight years the family lived in the U.S., and she was pleased to find out that I’m open to eating anything they wish to prepare. Beginning with our common experience as two only daughters, we conversed much more than I expected during their visit (unlike her parents and aunt, Dunia and her family use English frequently as their four young children learn it in school). But after her family left with Julia in tow, I realized that I am alone in a gated flat in a maze of quickly darkening streets in Amman with three still-strangers who insist on speaking to me in 90% Arabic, 10% broken English. So I’m alternatively looking up phrases in my Arabic dictionary, staring out the window at the desolate countryside, reading Abu –Lughod’s ethnograpy (Veiled Sentiments) about Egyptian Bedouin, and wondering how not to appear like a recluse over the next two days until I can start learning some much needed Arabic. I’ve already picked up some of it by listening, which was part of Mohammad’s confusion earlier; in the car I was obviously following his discussion with Julia about Morocco and he again asked if I had studied Arabic at school. I’m in this weird position of having taught myself to write it, make the sounds, and a few phrases and some vocabulary, but I can’t say I’ve studied it formally, which adds to the confusion. Mohammad just appeared in my doorway, glanced at my computer, and then gesturing toward a small entertainment center in my bedroom, asked if I “like television”; I don’t know whether he finds it odd that as an American, I’m not watching the television, or as a Jordanian, it’s what he expects of everyone. Another relative just asked me about the whereabouts of my host mother. I’m a bit confused about what’s expected of me socially. Perhaps I should rejoin them for more Turkish soap operas on the huge plasma screen television in the living room.
The next two days should be very interesting.
“If I have to eat one more fig…”
I kept pacing the SIT classroom while waiting for my homestay family to take me home for the weekend (Friday and Saturday) and reciting the few Arabic phrases I know. A woman in a very Western outfit stepped inside, removed her sunglasses and glanced at me; I half-stood to meet her, convinced this was my homestay mother, but she had come for another student. Then a middle-aged man with a cherubic face entered, well-dressed and grasping his hands around his prominent belly; he found his student. A stream of families came and went, many “Westernized”, some conservative. I began glancing anxiously toward Dema, the homestay coordinator, who was sitting in the opposite corner, clutching a cellphone and staring through the open doorway facing the street. Most of the students had left when a silver Mercedes drove up; a woman dressed in elegant black hijab, intricately embroidered in silver thread and beading and sporting designer sunglasses and handbag emerged from the driver’s seat. By her appearance, she seemed the most conservative and wealthy of the families I had seen, and I watched her approach with a sinking feeling in my stomach – that feeling you get the one day you don’t finish the reading for a class and you just know the professor will call on you. I gulped hard, not because of her apparent wealth or , but because I felt unprepared for this. But I’m an Anthropology student. Khatm took my hand and kissed my cheek. I should be roughing it in a tent somewhere with the natives or refugees, not upper class Jordanians.” “Asalem alaykum,” I faltered. She turned to Dema with a questioning look. Oh I’ve said it wrong, probably with an atrocious accent. I need Arabic classes to start.
Khatm tried to take my 45lb. suitcase from me. “Le, le, I’ll carry it,” I said. We slung it into the trunk with Julia’s (another SIT student) luggage (she’s living in the same district, with my host mother’s daughter), and I seated myself inside the plush vehicle. The husband, Mohammad, greeted me, and I returned the greeting. He asked me my name; I answered. Julia joined me, and she introduced herself. Then he turned to me and starting speaking rapidly. I think I just stared out of shock. I thought Dema had told my host family I didn’t speak Arabic yet. “Ana atakallam engleezi.” He didn’t seemed satisfied with that, so he asked “Tatakallam ‘arabi?” “Le, engleezi faqat.” He then turned to my classmate and asked something like, “Doesn’t she speak Arabic?” “Le, engleezi...” He gave me one last questioning glance and then proceeded to converse with my classmate (who studied in Morocco this summer).
After a maze of streets winding upward through Amman, I noticed we had entered a different sort of district than Abdoun. Affluent, still, but less “Western”. Almost all the women we passed were wearing hijab or niqab (showing only the eyes). Khatm’s home is a flat on a hillside on the outskirts of the district, overlooking some new development in Amman; we pulled into a parking area and entered their third floor flat. Its deep crimsons and metallic accents lent a warmth to the room, like the smell of cardamom. All the rooms are furnished elegantly, and I was quite embarrassed at my unsuppressed gasp upon entering. That little gasp was followed by the breaking of glass a few feet, a harsh whisper, and I noticed a domestic servant, perhaps a Filippino girl around my age wearing hijab and blue jeans, sweeping it up with downcast eyes. On SIT’s homestay information sheet, I’m advised to neither “overwork the maid” nor to “enter-fair” (interfere). Recently the Jordan Times carried an article discussing the thousands of Filippino and Indonesian workers essentially imported to be domestic servants in wealthy homes. While I don’t intend to “enter-fair”, I would be interested in pursuing this issue.
Julia and I were quickly directed to a dining room where a table was set with food and freshly squeezed orange juice. The flat was overflowing with family members, who, we soon learned, were there to celebrate my host mother’s birthday. Curiously enough she had spent the day preparing all the food for her own celebration and soon retreated into her room for the rest of the afternoon while Julia and I had more food pushed on us (out of a spirit of hospitality) than we cared to eat. Eat slowly, eat slowly. Dunia is putting more food on my plate.
The only reference to help my host family understand, geographically, where I’m from was on the television – The Biggest Loser program had a map of the states. Alabama as the home of morbidly obese Americans didn’t convey quite the idea I had in mind. Their daughter, Dunia, speaks English quite well from the eight years the family lived in the U.S., and she was pleased to find out that I’m open to eating anything they wish to prepare. Beginning with our common experience as two only daughters, we conversed much more than I expected during their visit (unlike her parents and aunt, Dunia and her family use English frequently as their four young children learn it in school). But after her family left with Julia in tow, I realized that I am alone in a gated flat in a maze of quickly darkening streets in Amman with three still-strangers who insist on speaking to me in 90% Arabic, 10% broken English. So I’m alternatively looking up phrases in my Arabic dictionary, staring out the window at the desolate countryside, reading Abu –Lughod’s ethnograpy (Veiled Sentiments) about Egyptian Bedouin, and wondering how not to appear like a recluse over the next two days until I can start learning some much needed Arabic. I’ve already picked up some of it by listening, which was part of Mohammad’s confusion earlier; in the car I was obviously following his discussion with Julia about Morocco and he again asked if I had studied Arabic at school. I’m in this weird position of having taught myself to write it, make the sounds, and a few phrases and some vocabulary, but I can’t say I’ve studied it formally, which adds to the confusion. Mohammad just appeared in my doorway, glanced at my computer, and then gesturing toward a small entertainment center in my bedroom, asked if I “like television”; I don’t know whether he finds it odd that as an American, I’m not watching the television, or as a Jordanian, it’s what he expects of everyone. Another relative just asked me about the whereabouts of my host mother. I’m a bit confused about what’s expected of me socially. Perhaps I should rejoin them for more Turkish soap operas on the huge plasma screen television in the living room.
The next two days should be very interesting.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
"That's no ice cream truck."
First of all, thanks for the comments and encouragement on the previous post and for your patience in waiting for this next post.
First, the highlights:
1) Abdoun, Amman = swanky, “Westernized” residential district
2) Lost luggage…might arrive today, insha’allah
3) Jet-lagggggg
4) Gallons of hummus
5) Learning how to make Arab/Turkish coffee
6) Being dropped off today to explore Amman with other SIT students
After a couple near-misses with some connecting flights spanning about 30 hours of traveling, lost luggage, and about four hours of sleep for the past three days, I’m finally settled in Amman. The SIT building is located in a villa in Abdoun, a residential district in West Amman dotted with embassies, villas and bordered by commercial districts. Starting Sunday, I’ll be in class from 9 to 12 studying Arabic, with a generous lunch break, followed by afternoon thematic seminar classes. Thursday I move in with my homestay family, which from what I learned from Dema, the homestay coordinator, is a well-to-do Muslim, Palestinian couple whose only daughter is married and living elsewhere with her husband and grandchildren; no children, animals or cigarettes, alhamdulilah.
And now for the lengthy part which you may not care to read:
The pair of minaret windows like two unblinking, luminescent green eyes cast an ethereal glow over the mosque dome a few blocks away. All day long, the call to prayer all across the city has captivated me, drawn me into this dialogue between Islam and myself. I’m completely engrossed in its mystique (a statement which unashamedly reeks of Orientalism). But the sense of sorrow in the call to prayer, that prolonged wail which echoes across the city, draws me deeper and deeper into thought with each call. Upon hearing the start of the prayer, I resumed my perch on the hotel balcony air-conditioning unit and gazed at the apartment complex south across the empty lot between us. Through the dark, I could see four of its five floors illuminated through windows: on the ground floor, nothing stirred at the call, but on the first floor, guests in dress hijab and suits milled about on a patio evening party. One figure in flowing, cream hijab passed between the kitchen window and the party serving the guests, uninterrupted by the call to prayer. Directly above the hostess was the equally luminescent green paint of living room walls bedecked with a large plasma screen television which added to the eerie glow emanating from the window. Slowly a dark figure in a chadri-like veil rose with the television providing a dramatic backlight. As she alternately rose and knelt, the living room was transformed from the chic minimalist living space dominated by the rapid-fire of the television to a mystical prayer chamber. Upon conclusion of her ritual, the figure jerked away the veil, placing it on the back of a sofa, revealing a cropped, tossled hair-style and short sleeve, form-fitting shirt. As a man, presumably her husband, rejoined her from another room, the couple casually seated themselves in front of the television, a gesture more modern than the audacious dinner party below. How to reconcile all these conflicting images? How fluid-like they collectively slip in and out of these identities, as past and present existed in one moment showcased for me in the illuminated windows of an Amman apartment complex.
I wouldn’t call any of my experiences thus far culture shock, as much as I am told by SIT that’s what I’m feeling. As much as one can group all the mixed reactions to interacting with any culture as a shocking sense of otherness, I’m feeling a greater sense of dislocation among some of my classmates. I didn’t become upset about the waiter with greasy fingers man-handling my pita bread in the restaurant this evening (some of you know how much this and other forms of human contact might bother me), the lack of toilet paper in public restrooms, or even my lost luggage en route to Beirut, apparently. While wearing the same clothes for three or four consecutive days is discomforting in this weather, the situation did not upset me as much as some statements made by other program participants, like “once you’ve been in Jordan a few weeks it gets old…you know, you’ve seen everything by then (followed by a list of tourist attractions)” and inquiries and plotting about how to go clubbing despite potentially strict homestay situations. These attitudes from other students are more of a shock to me than being surrounded by a language and people I have yet to understand. Please understand, I write this not in a spirit of meanness to criticize my generally friendly, talented and well-traveled peers, but to reaffirm my desire to learn on a much deeper level than this seemingly superficial sight-seeing and language acquisition as a trophies on my world travels shelf. I’m quite happy to learn about Jordanians on their terms: I won’t ruffle my feathers at garrulous, flirting taxi drivers or road-side whistlers and the consequent need for conservative dress; refraining from eating or drinking in public during Ramadan; the invasion of my privacy by incessantly questioning, ever curious Bedouin; or strict homestay situations and less independence than many would prefer. (On a lighter note, there’s this local bird which wolf-whistles like some of the taxi drivers. I need to find a bird guide to Jordanian birds.)
Already I’ve encountered the discourse of tribalism (around which I’m planning my Independent Study Project, subject to change), though only in the positive light cast by State-sponsored tourism and instructors proud of their heritage and the benefits genealogical nationalism supposedly provides. Most restaurants display some hodge-podge of “traditional” signs of hospitality, like antiquated coffee pots and swords, and a portrait of King Abdullah II, sometimes in Desert Army garb. Bedouin tourist kitsch is everywhere. But with so many opportunities for study, who knows what my focus will be.
To end on a light note, what we thought were ice cream trucks traveling about the city playing entertainer-like tunes are actually petroleum trucks selling gasoline road-side. Not tasty.
First, the highlights:
1) Abdoun, Amman = swanky, “Westernized” residential district
2) Lost luggage…might arrive today, insha’allah
3) Jet-lagggggg
4) Gallons of hummus
5) Learning how to make Arab/Turkish coffee
6) Being dropped off today to explore Amman with other SIT students
After a couple near-misses with some connecting flights spanning about 30 hours of traveling, lost luggage, and about four hours of sleep for the past three days, I’m finally settled in Amman. The SIT building is located in a villa in Abdoun, a residential district in West Amman dotted with embassies, villas and bordered by commercial districts. Starting Sunday, I’ll be in class from 9 to 12 studying Arabic, with a generous lunch break, followed by afternoon thematic seminar classes. Thursday I move in with my homestay family, which from what I learned from Dema, the homestay coordinator, is a well-to-do Muslim, Palestinian couple whose only daughter is married and living elsewhere with her husband and grandchildren; no children, animals or cigarettes, alhamdulilah.
And now for the lengthy part which you may not care to read:
The pair of minaret windows like two unblinking, luminescent green eyes cast an ethereal glow over the mosque dome a few blocks away. All day long, the call to prayer all across the city has captivated me, drawn me into this dialogue between Islam and myself. I’m completely engrossed in its mystique (a statement which unashamedly reeks of Orientalism). But the sense of sorrow in the call to prayer, that prolonged wail which echoes across the city, draws me deeper and deeper into thought with each call. Upon hearing the start of the prayer, I resumed my perch on the hotel balcony air-conditioning unit and gazed at the apartment complex south across the empty lot between us. Through the dark, I could see four of its five floors illuminated through windows: on the ground floor, nothing stirred at the call, but on the first floor, guests in dress hijab and suits milled about on a patio evening party. One figure in flowing, cream hijab passed between the kitchen window and the party serving the guests, uninterrupted by the call to prayer. Directly above the hostess was the equally luminescent green paint of living room walls bedecked with a large plasma screen television which added to the eerie glow emanating from the window. Slowly a dark figure in a chadri-like veil rose with the television providing a dramatic backlight. As she alternately rose and knelt, the living room was transformed from the chic minimalist living space dominated by the rapid-fire of the television to a mystical prayer chamber. Upon conclusion of her ritual, the figure jerked away the veil, placing it on the back of a sofa, revealing a cropped, tossled hair-style and short sleeve, form-fitting shirt. As a man, presumably her husband, rejoined her from another room, the couple casually seated themselves in front of the television, a gesture more modern than the audacious dinner party below. How to reconcile all these conflicting images? How fluid-like they collectively slip in and out of these identities, as past and present existed in one moment showcased for me in the illuminated windows of an Amman apartment complex.
I wouldn’t call any of my experiences thus far culture shock, as much as I am told by SIT that’s what I’m feeling. As much as one can group all the mixed reactions to interacting with any culture as a shocking sense of otherness, I’m feeling a greater sense of dislocation among some of my classmates. I didn’t become upset about the waiter with greasy fingers man-handling my pita bread in the restaurant this evening (some of you know how much this and other forms of human contact might bother me), the lack of toilet paper in public restrooms, or even my lost luggage en route to Beirut, apparently. While wearing the same clothes for three or four consecutive days is discomforting in this weather, the situation did not upset me as much as some statements made by other program participants, like “once you’ve been in Jordan a few weeks it gets old…you know, you’ve seen everything by then (followed by a list of tourist attractions)” and inquiries and plotting about how to go clubbing despite potentially strict homestay situations. These attitudes from other students are more of a shock to me than being surrounded by a language and people I have yet to understand. Please understand, I write this not in a spirit of meanness to criticize my generally friendly, talented and well-traveled peers, but to reaffirm my desire to learn on a much deeper level than this seemingly superficial sight-seeing and language acquisition as a trophies on my world travels shelf. I’m quite happy to learn about Jordanians on their terms: I won’t ruffle my feathers at garrulous, flirting taxi drivers or road-side whistlers and the consequent need for conservative dress; refraining from eating or drinking in public during Ramadan; the invasion of my privacy by incessantly questioning, ever curious Bedouin; or strict homestay situations and less independence than many would prefer. (On a lighter note, there’s this local bird which wolf-whistles like some of the taxi drivers. I need to find a bird guide to Jordanian birds.)
Already I’ve encountered the discourse of tribalism (around which I’m planning my Independent Study Project, subject to change), though only in the positive light cast by State-sponsored tourism and instructors proud of their heritage and the benefits genealogical nationalism supposedly provides. Most restaurants display some hodge-podge of “traditional” signs of hospitality, like antiquated coffee pots and swords, and a portrait of King Abdullah II, sometimes in Desert Army garb. Bedouin tourist kitsch is everywhere. But with so many opportunities for study, who knows what my focus will be.
To end on a light note, what we thought were ice cream trucks traveling about the city playing entertainer-like tunes are actually petroleum trucks selling gasoline road-side. Not tasty.
Friday, August 22, 2008
"Will you ride a camel?"
On Sunday August 24th, 2008, I will leave the U.S. behind for three and half months and arrive the following day - or the sixteenth century by Islamic calendar reckoning - in Amman, capital city of Jordan. But as Amr Diab (think of an Arab Ricky Martin) croons in my headphones and I browse the internet for pictures of the residential district where I'll be living, I can say with surety that Amman is decidedly 21st Century - despite the backward Middle East we Americans too often imagine (perhaps from too many desert bedsheet epics and news media barrage of Orientalist tropes like mysterious veiled Muslim women, tent dwellers, camel-herders, and terrorists).
I thought I'd tackle the top five frequently asked questions (FAQ) in this first post, mainly as a way to distract myself from a bad case of pre-departure nerves:
1. Where is Jordan? "That's a river...right?" Funny how people said the same thing about my somewhat obscure college, Sewanee - "That's a river, right?" For those of you still wondering but too ashamed to ask, please see the Jordan article in the CIA World Factbook linked to the right of this post.
2. Will you have to wear a burqa/veil/headdress/scarf/sheet...thing? The burqa is akin to the Afghani chadri, though it has been adopted in other Islamic traditions, and is not definitive Arab garb as has been popularized in the media. It is only one response to hijab, the command for men and women to dress modestly. For non-Muslims such as myself, donning a head scarf is necessary for visiting holy sites and mosques. Should I feel that it would serve as a sign of respect for my host family and culture, in addition to the intended demonstration of commitment to modesty, I will be glad to cover all but my face and hands. Besides, as I learned in China, my blonde hair is a novelty, and people will stare. A lot.
3 Can you speak Arabic? Not really....o.k., no. I can write it (advantageously, as a left-hander, as Arabic reads from right-to-left) and say enough phrases to be laughed at. This should make things interesting.
4. What will you study? Obviously, Arabic, in addition to history, culture, and field methods for my Independent Study Project, tenatively to live with bedouin (ISP -more to come later).
5. Will you ride a camel? Oh yes.
Feel free to explore the links and comment from time to time.
I thought I'd tackle the top five frequently asked questions (FAQ) in this first post, mainly as a way to distract myself from a bad case of pre-departure nerves:
1. Where is Jordan? "That's a river...right?" Funny how people said the same thing about my somewhat obscure college, Sewanee - "That's a river, right?" For those of you still wondering but too ashamed to ask, please see the Jordan article in the CIA World Factbook linked to the right of this post.
2. Will you have to wear a burqa/veil/headdress/scarf/sheet...thing? The burqa is akin to the Afghani chadri, though it has been adopted in other Islamic traditions, and is not definitive Arab garb as has been popularized in the media. It is only one response to hijab, the command for men and women to dress modestly. For non-Muslims such as myself, donning a head scarf is necessary for visiting holy sites and mosques. Should I feel that it would serve as a sign of respect for my host family and culture, in addition to the intended demonstration of commitment to modesty, I will be glad to cover all but my face and hands. Besides, as I learned in China, my blonde hair is a novelty, and people will stare. A lot.
3 Can you speak Arabic? Not really....o.k., no. I can write it (advantageously, as a left-hander, as Arabic reads from right-to-left) and say enough phrases to be laughed at. This should make things interesting.
4. What will you study? Obviously, Arabic, in addition to history, culture, and field methods for my Independent Study Project, tenatively to live with bedouin (ISP -more to come later).
5. Will you ride a camel? Oh yes.
Feel free to explore the links and comment from time to time.
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