Saturday, September 27, 2008
Badia Bound
Just a note to apologize for being behind on blog entries. I’ve been sick and busy with school-work, but I hope to have more to offer when I return from three days in al-Badia (the northern desert where the formerly tent-dwelling, nomadic-pastoralist Bedu live). Starting today, I’ll be chilling (more like roasting) with some Bedouins for the next couple of days, and I’m sure I’ll have stories to share. After that comes Eid, the holiday celebrating the end of Ramadan (alhamdulillah), the return to Ammanand then Egypt for a week. Yalla!
"You look good in hijab."
25 September 2008
“You look good in hijab.”
“Allahu-akbar.” The imam’s voice crackled over the static-filled speakers posted in the two corner’s of the room. Like a wave rippling through the heavy silence, the ten rows of abayas swept outward and down in unison, creating a rush of cool air which met my upturned curious face framed in an awkward hijab. As they knelt, I wriggled my bare toes deeper in the thick, plush carpet of the mosque and studied Khulood, my Arabic teacher, as she prayed. A couple of younger girls in abayas wearing fluorescent yellow vests identifying them as volunteers patrolled the mosque with cups of water; one of them spotted us lingering in the back of the mosque. “Are you Muslims? No? Have these books.” The Veil is My Life and Myths about Islam.
“Shukran.” We three students accepted the pamphlets and nodded as the girls told us they would be happy to talk with us about Islam. As some of the women were finishing their prayers, they stole glances at the quiet conversation behind them. My hair was falling out of the veil; I could see their lips moving, saying “haram (forbidden)”, yet for some of the women it was endearing. Obviously I didn’t know how to wear hijab or behave in a mosque.
Khulood, refreshed and calm after her prayers and smiling as always, returned to us. “My dears,” she began in her usual way, “now I will explain the prayers to you in English.” As Khulood spoke, a stream of women passed by, some lingering with glances hostile or curious, some introducing themselves and patting our hands, some greeting Khulood; on the whole, I felt more welcomed in the mosque than I have in many a church in America. Several women inquired if we were married or might be interested in their sons. As Khulood explained the prayers, I stared at the speakers in the corners, wondering what was transpiring in the men’s section of the mosque while we women sat in a circle in the basement. I looked again to the doorway I had entered earlier. On the pavement outside were spread several prayer rugs and a few dozen women who for various reasons had chosen to stay outside or were forbidden to enter the mosque; several appeared to be domestic workers from Indonesia, the Philippines, and Sri Lanka. Yet despite my disappointment at the segregation within and without the mosque, I appreciated how the women controlled their sphere – how they interacted as boldly as men, negotiated space and time with one another (arranging visits, shopping excursions, discussing the latest developments in a Syrian soap opera), and seemed content with always being “behind the men” insofar as that refers only to physically praying behind the men; in all other domains they considered themselves equals, free in their own sphere to disregard any and all things male.
*****
“I feel like I’m being secluded in the harem,” I said, scraping the last of the rice off my plate. Julia, a fellow SIT student, laughed. Suddenly the door to my bedroom flew open; a boy stood, mouth agape, in the doorway. Another hand appeared from around the corner and quickly shut the door.
“Some water would be nice,” Julia said as she picked around the scraps of meat soaking in a hot yogurt sauce. Together we stared at the empty rice plate and the unappetizing chunk of meat in the sauce.
“So it looks like I ate the meat,” I said, grabbing some bones off Julia’s plate to put on my own.
“Hey, I earned those bones. You owe me a dessert next time I’m too full to eat it,” she retorted. We sat in silence for a minute, reflecting on the prospect of dessert tonight. “Well, that’s that,” Julia concluded, seeking closure for a most unsatisfactory meal. Suddenly the door flew open again, this time revealing a woman and several small children, with my host mother hovering behind them. Julia and I stood up hesitantly, expecting an introduction, but the strange woman lingered outside the doorway, staring at us as if we were intruders in this space.
“Uh, sor-ry,” Khatm said as she pushed past the kids and our makeshift dinner table; one boy clinging to his mother’s abaya was studying me with the mischevious, self-satisfied look of a bully. I frowned back of him, half-serious. Khatm reached her destination: the new curtains in the room. (Only today did I learn the fate of the previous curtains; the former “dumb Indonesian maid” as the kids explained to me, scorched them with a clothes iron.) The women and children also pushed past to examine them, leaving Julia and myself standing, alternately looking at the huddle by the curtains, the hunk of boney meat steeping in yogurt sauce, and each other. The family members left as quickly as they came, shutting the door firmly; the last I saw was the bully’s face. I stuck my tongue out at him as he disappeared behind the door. We were secluded in my room because of visiting male relatives who expressed abhorrence of strange females, especially foreign ones without hijab. I was having a field-day with fieldnotes, scribbling away about the situation half-amused, half-annoyed. Julia flipped a particularly offensive piece of meat over in the bowl. The twelve kids in the adjoining room screamed in unison; some glass shattered.
“Well, that’s that,” she mused as she opened Jimmy Carter’s Peace Not Apartheid.
*****
Hebb pulled the hijab snugly over my head. Umm Saed, her mother, turned my shoulders so she could see me, chattering approvingly. “My mother says you look good in hijab.” I stared at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing an oversized sock on my head…but I like it. “Aw, Elaine,” Hebb lamented. My fellow SIT student was lost somewhere in her oversized head-scarf.
“Don’t poke me with that pen,” Elaine warned. She held her hands up protectively, overly-concerned about the securing pin.
“Don’t you know, that’s why they call it hi-jab…jab…” I joked with her. She was unimpressed and undeterred in her concern. Elaine’s host mother secured the scarf and spun her to face the mirror.
An hour later as we leaned against the third-floor railing in the multi-level shopping mall, Elaine and I observed the hijabs passing us. “Look, that girl has matched her yellow and red tennis shoes to her hijab,” Elaine pointed out. Some were simple, solid two piece ones, rather sock-like, as I wore; most were scarves. In this modern shopping mall, the hijab was a fashion statement: brightly colored and textured fabrics, complexly knotted and twisted, secured with rhinestone pins – an accessory to the chic outfits most young women wore.
“I don’t feel like people stare at me any less, though,” I said to Elaine I adjusted the itchy hijab.
“I’m definitely being stared at,” said Elaine as she checked to see if anyone nearby was currently staring at her.
“Maybe because a Taiwanese girl in hijab in Jordan is pretty strange,” I suggested. Depending on the context, the hijab can mean many things: identity, a fashion statement, modesty, and in some cases oppression. Whereas I felt more oppressed without hijab and secluded in my room when male guests visit the family, I felt liberated walking around the mall in hijab. When we finally retired for bed around 2 am after a crazy night of Ramadan shopping (think of black Friday after Thanksgiving), I reached up to remove my glasses and my hand brushed against the fabric. I had forgotten I was wearing it, which I think, is how it should be.
“You look good in hijab.”
“Allahu-akbar.” The imam’s voice crackled over the static-filled speakers posted in the two corner’s of the room. Like a wave rippling through the heavy silence, the ten rows of abayas swept outward and down in unison, creating a rush of cool air which met my upturned curious face framed in an awkward hijab. As they knelt, I wriggled my bare toes deeper in the thick, plush carpet of the mosque and studied Khulood, my Arabic teacher, as she prayed. A couple of younger girls in abayas wearing fluorescent yellow vests identifying them as volunteers patrolled the mosque with cups of water; one of them spotted us lingering in the back of the mosque. “Are you Muslims? No? Have these books.” The Veil is My Life and Myths about Islam.
“Shukran.” We three students accepted the pamphlets and nodded as the girls told us they would be happy to talk with us about Islam. As some of the women were finishing their prayers, they stole glances at the quiet conversation behind them. My hair was falling out of the veil; I could see their lips moving, saying “haram (forbidden)”, yet for some of the women it was endearing. Obviously I didn’t know how to wear hijab or behave in a mosque.
Khulood, refreshed and calm after her prayers and smiling as always, returned to us. “My dears,” she began in her usual way, “now I will explain the prayers to you in English.” As Khulood spoke, a stream of women passed by, some lingering with glances hostile or curious, some introducing themselves and patting our hands, some greeting Khulood; on the whole, I felt more welcomed in the mosque than I have in many a church in America. Several women inquired if we were married or might be interested in their sons. As Khulood explained the prayers, I stared at the speakers in the corners, wondering what was transpiring in the men’s section of the mosque while we women sat in a circle in the basement. I looked again to the doorway I had entered earlier. On the pavement outside were spread several prayer rugs and a few dozen women who for various reasons had chosen to stay outside or were forbidden to enter the mosque; several appeared to be domestic workers from Indonesia, the Philippines, and Sri Lanka. Yet despite my disappointment at the segregation within and without the mosque, I appreciated how the women controlled their sphere – how they interacted as boldly as men, negotiated space and time with one another (arranging visits, shopping excursions, discussing the latest developments in a Syrian soap opera), and seemed content with always being “behind the men” insofar as that refers only to physically praying behind the men; in all other domains they considered themselves equals, free in their own sphere to disregard any and all things male.
*****
“I feel like I’m being secluded in the harem,” I said, scraping the last of the rice off my plate. Julia, a fellow SIT student, laughed. Suddenly the door to my bedroom flew open; a boy stood, mouth agape, in the doorway. Another hand appeared from around the corner and quickly shut the door.
“Some water would be nice,” Julia said as she picked around the scraps of meat soaking in a hot yogurt sauce. Together we stared at the empty rice plate and the unappetizing chunk of meat in the sauce.
“So it looks like I ate the meat,” I said, grabbing some bones off Julia’s plate to put on my own.
“Hey, I earned those bones. You owe me a dessert next time I’m too full to eat it,” she retorted. We sat in silence for a minute, reflecting on the prospect of dessert tonight. “Well, that’s that,” Julia concluded, seeking closure for a most unsatisfactory meal. Suddenly the door flew open again, this time revealing a woman and several small children, with my host mother hovering behind them. Julia and I stood up hesitantly, expecting an introduction, but the strange woman lingered outside the doorway, staring at us as if we were intruders in this space.
“Uh, sor-ry,” Khatm said as she pushed past the kids and our makeshift dinner table; one boy clinging to his mother’s abaya was studying me with the mischevious, self-satisfied look of a bully. I frowned back of him, half-serious. Khatm reached her destination: the new curtains in the room. (Only today did I learn the fate of the previous curtains; the former “dumb Indonesian maid” as the kids explained to me, scorched them with a clothes iron.) The women and children also pushed past to examine them, leaving Julia and myself standing, alternately looking at the huddle by the curtains, the hunk of boney meat steeping in yogurt sauce, and each other. The family members left as quickly as they came, shutting the door firmly; the last I saw was the bully’s face. I stuck my tongue out at him as he disappeared behind the door. We were secluded in my room because of visiting male relatives who expressed abhorrence of strange females, especially foreign ones without hijab. I was having a field-day with fieldnotes, scribbling away about the situation half-amused, half-annoyed. Julia flipped a particularly offensive piece of meat over in the bowl. The twelve kids in the adjoining room screamed in unison; some glass shattered.
“Well, that’s that,” she mused as she opened Jimmy Carter’s Peace Not Apartheid.
*****
Hebb pulled the hijab snugly over my head. Umm Saed, her mother, turned my shoulders so she could see me, chattering approvingly. “My mother says you look good in hijab.” I stared at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing an oversized sock on my head…but I like it. “Aw, Elaine,” Hebb lamented. My fellow SIT student was lost somewhere in her oversized head-scarf.
“Don’t poke me with that pen,” Elaine warned. She held her hands up protectively, overly-concerned about the securing pin.
“Don’t you know, that’s why they call it hi-jab…jab…” I joked with her. She was unimpressed and undeterred in her concern. Elaine’s host mother secured the scarf and spun her to face the mirror.
An hour later as we leaned against the third-floor railing in the multi-level shopping mall, Elaine and I observed the hijabs passing us. “Look, that girl has matched her yellow and red tennis shoes to her hijab,” Elaine pointed out. Some were simple, solid two piece ones, rather sock-like, as I wore; most were scarves. In this modern shopping mall, the hijab was a fashion statement: brightly colored and textured fabrics, complexly knotted and twisted, secured with rhinestone pins – an accessory to the chic outfits most young women wore.
“I don’t feel like people stare at me any less, though,” I said to Elaine I adjusted the itchy hijab.
“I’m definitely being stared at,” said Elaine as she checked to see if anyone nearby was currently staring at her.
“Maybe because a Taiwanese girl in hijab in Jordan is pretty strange,” I suggested. Depending on the context, the hijab can mean many things: identity, a fashion statement, modesty, and in some cases oppression. Whereas I felt more oppressed without hijab and secluded in my room when male guests visit the family, I felt liberated walking around the mall in hijab. When we finally retired for bed around 2 am after a crazy night of Ramadan shopping (think of black Friday after Thanksgiving), I reached up to remove my glasses and my hand brushed against the fabric. I had forgotten I was wearing it, which I think, is how it should be.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
"Give us this day our daily bread."
18 September 2008
“Give us this day our daily bread.”
The sun-bleached, utilitarian flats and businesses of Amman boil and bubble, sliding past like mercury on my taxi window. I’m oblivious to this urban mirage as the taxi speeds toward my home in Dahiat al-Rasheed, but the taxi isn’t getting there fast enough. All I can think of, the thought that has haunted me all day long while I’ve been plowing through Arabic classes and seminars, is that I have half a pita hidden in my clothes closet, and I can’t figure out how to dispose of it. The fate of that pita influenced my life so much in the past week that it’s tale merits the telling:
The pita originated in any of the dozens of bakeries around Amman and found its way into the family refrigerator where it became stale and slightly molded before being offered to me upon embarking for a last weekend’s trip to Madaba. I graciously accepted this offering, thinking then that I fully understood the importance of bread in Arab culture – i.e., not to be wasted within what I considered “reason”. While en route to Madba, the pita became increasingly inedible having become smashed and shattered in the bottom of my overstuffed backpack; needless to say, it was not consumed and returned home in shards in its plastic bag. Not wanting the family to think I had wasted it, but knowing that my trash is inspected as it is sorted through and disposed of, I couldn’t throw it in my garbage can; I couldn’t throw it out my window where it would land on the street directly below, incriminating me (were it still one piece, I could have tossed it, Frisbee-like, to the nearby field where the Bedu would bring their hungry goats in a day or two and eat the evidence. So I shoved it under one of my sweaters, until a couple of days later when I decided that finding some pretext to dispose of it in a public garbage bin would be too much trouble (disposing of it SIT’s building might have been o.k., but I didn’t think of that). Furtively opening my little garbage can, I buried it in a heap of facial tissues (I’ve had a cold this week) hoping it would make it to the dumpster outside undiscovered. How horrified my expression must have been when (after finding my trash can empty and assuming that my pita had found rest in its moldy grave) I casually opened the refrigerator the next day to find it shamelessly sitting on a plate. To my amazement, the family later seared the pita on the gas stove-top to clear away the mold and crumbled the cleansed bread as croutons in the fatoosh (salad).
In semitic cultures, bread or khobez is often synonymous with life (does “bread of life” sound familiar?); it represents the fundamental portion of space and food that the Creator gives each person. Wasting any of this portion of grace is a blatant disrespect for not only what one has been given, but also is considered stealing from one’s neighbor (by wasting resources that could have been used by another). No matter how mangled, the bread (or its remains) will either find its reconstituted way into some dish or will be fed to animals. Now I see that the thing to do would be to have returned the bread to the fridge. When I realized the family was no longer offering me bread, I began seeking ways to offer restitution for my cultural faux pas. Earlier this week, I had purchased some sketching supplies at the Jordan University bookstore, and I spent some time sketching one of Dunia’s (my host Mom’s daughter) four children. The family loved it, and thereafter I offered some basic drawing instruction to the two girls, followed by help with math homework. In exchange, they are giving me extra Arabic study at home by allowing me to complete the younger kids’ Arabic homework alongside them. As Yusuf played at my feet and the girls cozied up next to me on the sofa, I saw that the adults were talking quietly and watching the scene with nods of approval. Before returning to Dunia’s home, the kids begged for me to spend the night with them this weekend, and Khatm (my host mom) nodded and smiled, grasping my hands exuberantly. Although all worked together for my good, I don’t think I’ll ever waste a crumb of bread again.
“Give us this day our daily bread.”
The sun-bleached, utilitarian flats and businesses of Amman boil and bubble, sliding past like mercury on my taxi window. I’m oblivious to this urban mirage as the taxi speeds toward my home in Dahiat al-Rasheed, but the taxi isn’t getting there fast enough. All I can think of, the thought that has haunted me all day long while I’ve been plowing through Arabic classes and seminars, is that I have half a pita hidden in my clothes closet, and I can’t figure out how to dispose of it. The fate of that pita influenced my life so much in the past week that it’s tale merits the telling:
The pita originated in any of the dozens of bakeries around Amman and found its way into the family refrigerator where it became stale and slightly molded before being offered to me upon embarking for a last weekend’s trip to Madaba. I graciously accepted this offering, thinking then that I fully understood the importance of bread in Arab culture – i.e., not to be wasted within what I considered “reason”. While en route to Madba, the pita became increasingly inedible having become smashed and shattered in the bottom of my overstuffed backpack; needless to say, it was not consumed and returned home in shards in its plastic bag. Not wanting the family to think I had wasted it, but knowing that my trash is inspected as it is sorted through and disposed of, I couldn’t throw it in my garbage can; I couldn’t throw it out my window where it would land on the street directly below, incriminating me (were it still one piece, I could have tossed it, Frisbee-like, to the nearby field where the Bedu would bring their hungry goats in a day or two and eat the evidence. So I shoved it under one of my sweaters, until a couple of days later when I decided that finding some pretext to dispose of it in a public garbage bin would be too much trouble (disposing of it SIT’s building might have been o.k., but I didn’t think of that). Furtively opening my little garbage can, I buried it in a heap of facial tissues (I’ve had a cold this week) hoping it would make it to the dumpster outside undiscovered. How horrified my expression must have been when (after finding my trash can empty and assuming that my pita had found rest in its moldy grave) I casually opened the refrigerator the next day to find it shamelessly sitting on a plate. To my amazement, the family later seared the pita on the gas stove-top to clear away the mold and crumbled the cleansed bread as croutons in the fatoosh (salad).
In semitic cultures, bread or khobez is often synonymous with life (does “bread of life” sound familiar?); it represents the fundamental portion of space and food that the Creator gives each person. Wasting any of this portion of grace is a blatant disrespect for not only what one has been given, but also is considered stealing from one’s neighbor (by wasting resources that could have been used by another). No matter how mangled, the bread (or its remains) will either find its reconstituted way into some dish or will be fed to animals. Now I see that the thing to do would be to have returned the bread to the fridge. When I realized the family was no longer offering me bread, I began seeking ways to offer restitution for my cultural faux pas. Earlier this week, I had purchased some sketching supplies at the Jordan University bookstore, and I spent some time sketching one of Dunia’s (my host Mom’s daughter) four children. The family loved it, and thereafter I offered some basic drawing instruction to the two girls, followed by help with math homework. In exchange, they are giving me extra Arabic study at home by allowing me to complete the younger kids’ Arabic homework alongside them. As Yusuf played at my feet and the girls cozied up next to me on the sofa, I saw that the adults were talking quietly and watching the scene with nods of approval. Before returning to Dunia’s home, the kids begged for me to spend the night with them this weekend, and Khatm (my host mom) nodded and smiled, grasping my hands exuberantly. Although all worked together for my good, I don’t think I’ll ever waste a crumb of bread again.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
"Go up this mountain."
13 September 2008
“Go up this mountain.”
There was a strange quiet on the summit of Mount Nebo, a stillness which settled across the beautifully desolate landscape and settled over me. As much as I tried to refrain from holy-land travelogue, I couldn’t help but think of all the biblical stories set in this barren expanse of rust-colored rubble and scrubby shrubs which meet the sky in a distant hazy horizon. Stillness. Toward Palestine, the Dead Sea, like a thin, silvery film, seemed applied to the landscape like a sticker, as if I could grasp it between my thumb and index finger and peel away this shrinking sea from a dry land. In this moment, all the biblical water-desert metaphors are realized for a girl who’s grown up in a lush, deciduous landscape.
*****
The Ma’in hot springs, an hour outside Madaba: Through the roar of thousands of gallons of water pouring over the cliff onto my head, I can still sense the stillness in the land. In this gorge with savage cliffs towering above me, I’m knee-deep in a steamy, mineral-rich hot springs, with natural saunas in the caves above streaked green, blue, yellow and white from the mineral deposits. A few friends and I have hired a van driver to take us along the winding highway along the cliffs of what was once called Moab to the deserted springs (deserted because of Ramadan and the heat – only four other tourists are there). The six of us are packed in the van’s only backseat, myself facing backwards and feeling increasingly dizzy from repeatedly watching bottomless ravines suddenly appear out my window and lurching every time the driver slows for a curve. Road signs read, “Reduce speed now.” The Dead Sea reappears on the horizon. Between my legs is my backpack still dusty from Mount Nebo. As I’m struggling now to even begin to describe to you the awesome beauty of this landscape, the best comparison I can come up with is the Western United States – seemingly desolate places like Death Valley and the Grand Canyon (you just have to look closely for the sparse wildlife). As the water pours over me, I imagine what discovering the springs after traveling for days across this wasteland would be like. No wonder the springs are ordinarily packed in this country with one of the worst water shortages in the world.
*****
Those high moments make the scene in front of me bearable: an almost bare mattress doused with sand and crowned with a boulder of a pillow; a broken fan (ironically labeled “high class fan” in English); a broken toilet, sink and pretty much everything else in this sketchy hostel. Of course it’s cheap, and the service isn’t that bad: a television in the lobby plays the best (and by best I mean worst) of American programming, and moldy cheese, dehydrated pita and a decent hardboiled egg on the house for breakfast. That and a complementary can of coke with straws fished out of the manager’s greasy shirt-pocket. A woman in a ragged nightshirt appears in the doorway bearing an old skeleton key. “ You like the room?” she chuckles deviously, exposing her dentist’s nightmare of a mouth. My immune system is definitely getting a workout this weekend.
About an hour southwest of Amman, Madaba is an early Christian community whose ancient churches boast mosaics – including the oldest and largest most comprehensive map of the Middle East - worth crashing in a sketchy hostel for a night. The town’s narrow streets brimming with stalls are pleasant to stroll through, and with Madaba as a base, one can visit Mount Nebo, Ma’in hot springs, and Bethany (home of the “baptism site”). We finished off our visit devouring the only meal of the day at the reputedly best local restaurant (why do I feel like I’m writing for a travel guide?). The air is thick and sweet with sheesha, the low rumbling of voices, warm, golden lights, and live music; we’re lounging on the floor pillows teaching Leith, our guide-friend-of-a-friend-of-an SIT student’s host brother, how to play Egyptian rat screw, which is, to his bewilderment, not an Egyptian card game. That I had an Arabic test the next morning, I successfully pushed to the back of my mind; Madaba deserved my full attention.
*****
“That very day the Lord spoke to Moses, ‘Go up this mountain of the Abarim, Mount Nebo, which is in the land of Moab, opposite Jericho, and view the land of Cannan, which I am giving to the people of Israel for a possession. And die on the mountain which you go up, and be gathered to your people, as Aaron your brother died on Mount Hor and was gathered to his people, because you broke faith with me in the midst of the people of Israel at the waters of Meribah-kadesh, in the wilderness of Zin, and because you did not treat me as holy in the midst of the people of Israel. For you shall see the land before you, but you shall not go there, into the land that I am giving to the people of Israel.’” - Deuteronomy 32: 48 – 52.
“Go up this mountain.”
There was a strange quiet on the summit of Mount Nebo, a stillness which settled across the beautifully desolate landscape and settled over me. As much as I tried to refrain from holy-land travelogue, I couldn’t help but think of all the biblical stories set in this barren expanse of rust-colored rubble and scrubby shrubs which meet the sky in a distant hazy horizon. Stillness. Toward Palestine, the Dead Sea, like a thin, silvery film, seemed applied to the landscape like a sticker, as if I could grasp it between my thumb and index finger and peel away this shrinking sea from a dry land. In this moment, all the biblical water-desert metaphors are realized for a girl who’s grown up in a lush, deciduous landscape.
*****
The Ma’in hot springs, an hour outside Madaba: Through the roar of thousands of gallons of water pouring over the cliff onto my head, I can still sense the stillness in the land. In this gorge with savage cliffs towering above me, I’m knee-deep in a steamy, mineral-rich hot springs, with natural saunas in the caves above streaked green, blue, yellow and white from the mineral deposits. A few friends and I have hired a van driver to take us along the winding highway along the cliffs of what was once called Moab to the deserted springs (deserted because of Ramadan and the heat – only four other tourists are there). The six of us are packed in the van’s only backseat, myself facing backwards and feeling increasingly dizzy from repeatedly watching bottomless ravines suddenly appear out my window and lurching every time the driver slows for a curve. Road signs read, “Reduce speed now.” The Dead Sea reappears on the horizon. Between my legs is my backpack still dusty from Mount Nebo. As I’m struggling now to even begin to describe to you the awesome beauty of this landscape, the best comparison I can come up with is the Western United States – seemingly desolate places like Death Valley and the Grand Canyon (you just have to look closely for the sparse wildlife). As the water pours over me, I imagine what discovering the springs after traveling for days across this wasteland would be like. No wonder the springs are ordinarily packed in this country with one of the worst water shortages in the world.
*****
Those high moments make the scene in front of me bearable: an almost bare mattress doused with sand and crowned with a boulder of a pillow; a broken fan (ironically labeled “high class fan” in English); a broken toilet, sink and pretty much everything else in this sketchy hostel. Of course it’s cheap, and the service isn’t that bad: a television in the lobby plays the best (and by best I mean worst) of American programming, and moldy cheese, dehydrated pita and a decent hardboiled egg on the house for breakfast. That and a complementary can of coke with straws fished out of the manager’s greasy shirt-pocket. A woman in a ragged nightshirt appears in the doorway bearing an old skeleton key. “ You like the room?” she chuckles deviously, exposing her dentist’s nightmare of a mouth. My immune system is definitely getting a workout this weekend.
About an hour southwest of Amman, Madaba is an early Christian community whose ancient churches boast mosaics – including the oldest and largest most comprehensive map of the Middle East - worth crashing in a sketchy hostel for a night. The town’s narrow streets brimming with stalls are pleasant to stroll through, and with Madaba as a base, one can visit Mount Nebo, Ma’in hot springs, and Bethany (home of the “baptism site”). We finished off our visit devouring the only meal of the day at the reputedly best local restaurant (why do I feel like I’m writing for a travel guide?). The air is thick and sweet with sheesha, the low rumbling of voices, warm, golden lights, and live music; we’re lounging on the floor pillows teaching Leith, our guide-friend-of-a-friend-of-an SIT student’s host brother, how to play Egyptian rat screw, which is, to his bewilderment, not an Egyptian card game. That I had an Arabic test the next morning, I successfully pushed to the back of my mind; Madaba deserved my full attention.
*****
“That very day the Lord spoke to Moses, ‘Go up this mountain of the Abarim, Mount Nebo, which is in the land of Moab, opposite Jericho, and view the land of Cannan, which I am giving to the people of Israel for a possession. And die on the mountain which you go up, and be gathered to your people, as Aaron your brother died on Mount Hor and was gathered to his people, because you broke faith with me in the midst of the people of Israel at the waters of Meribah-kadesh, in the wilderness of Zin, and because you did not treat me as holy in the midst of the people of Israel. For you shall see the land before you, but you shall not go there, into the land that I am giving to the people of Israel.’” - Deuteronomy 32: 48 – 52.
"Tomato, tomahto, potato, potahto"
12 September 2008
“Tomato, tomahto, potato, potahto”
“Chu-air.” Mohammad, my homestay father, has found my stack of flash cards and holds them up triumphantly. “Itfaddali (sit down).” I just woke up, are you kidding me? Can’t I eat in peace? I know he means well – is excited, really, to have learned all these new English words on my flash cards – and wants to help me learn Arabic. I’ve realized my homestay family, maybe Arabs in general, are fast auditory-learners, perhaps because of the oral tradition in their culture(s). My family only needs to hear the word once or twice and can recall it days later; I need days of hearing the word over and over to recall it, and preferably to write it myself. Mohammad thinks the flash cards are an auditory exercise and will not let me look at the Arabic script. “Chu-air,” he repeats, pointing to the corner-chair and holding the card away from me.
“Na’am, chair. Fi ‘arabi, kursi.”
“Qwayes, qwayes...” He turns to the next card in the deck, United Nations. His lips move slightly. “United States?”
“Le, United Nations.”
“Shu (what)?”
“Uh…moush baladi (not my country)…” Frowning, he discards it and moves on.
“Ah,” he exclaims as he points to the “tomato” card.
“Na’am, fi ‘arabi, bandorah.
“To-mah-to.”
“Le, fi engleezi, toe-may-toe,” I insist on this pronunciation. He reproaches me, tsking his tongue as if to chastise me for not knowing how to pronounce a word in my own language. “Le, to-mah-to,” he says.
“Le, fi britaniyah ‘to-mah-to’…fi amreeka, ‘toe-may-toe’,” I explain. He sighs and tsks his tongue at me again. I tease, saying “Toe-may-toe, to-mah-to, poe-tay-toe, po-tah-to”.
“Ah, moush po-tay-toe,” Mohammad shakes his finger. “Po-tah-to.”
*****
The 20JD bill in my extended hand flaps a bit in the stale breeze; the shop owner opposite looks askance at me with an unshaven, sun-baked face. “Uh…change?” I point to the register; I need to learn the word for “change”. He responds with a mostly toothless smirk. No one likes large bills, which is unfortunate since SIT gives us weekly stipends comprised of large bills like 20JDs and 50JDs (the largest). From my peripheral vision I watch the equally grizzled taxi driver who has been patiently waiting for his 1JD fare. “Uh…hamzeh, hamzeh…wahad.” The shop manager removes a greasy roll of bills from his pocket and fans them for me to see, smirking again.
Suddenly a harsh voice behind me asks, “Look here, what do you mean by ‘wahad’?” I whip my head toward the harsh voice. I hadn’t noticed this whittled-walking stick of an old woman leaning on the counter beside me, and I’m ashamed at the clarity of her English. What do you mean, ‘what do I mean by ‘wahad’’? It’s your language, not mine.
“I wanted bills in small amounts,” I say, not really looking at her, almost mumbling. She rapidly explains to the store owner, whom I suspect understood but was unwilling to relinquish the more coveted small bills in his hand. Like a few other store owners and customers I’ve encountered, she gives me a quick lesson in Jordanian currency. “Shukran,” I say quietly as I duck out of this hole-in-the-wall convenience store, shoving the fare and a generous tip into the hand of the taxi-driver without making eye contact.
*****
As I wait curbside for a taxi, a truck packed with young Jordanian men careens past, and one of them leans out the passenger window to shout, “No way een hell!” Excuse me, did I make a proposition? Is standing alone on this curb in my Western clothes so brazen, or do I have Hollywood to thank for this? I think I can forgive myself now for language blunders.
“Tomato, tomahto, potato, potahto”
“Chu-air.” Mohammad, my homestay father, has found my stack of flash cards and holds them up triumphantly. “Itfaddali (sit down).” I just woke up, are you kidding me? Can’t I eat in peace? I know he means well – is excited, really, to have learned all these new English words on my flash cards – and wants to help me learn Arabic. I’ve realized my homestay family, maybe Arabs in general, are fast auditory-learners, perhaps because of the oral tradition in their culture(s). My family only needs to hear the word once or twice and can recall it days later; I need days of hearing the word over and over to recall it, and preferably to write it myself. Mohammad thinks the flash cards are an auditory exercise and will not let me look at the Arabic script. “Chu-air,” he repeats, pointing to the corner-chair and holding the card away from me.
“Na’am, chair. Fi ‘arabi, kursi.”
“Qwayes, qwayes...” He turns to the next card in the deck, United Nations. His lips move slightly. “United States?”
“Le, United Nations.”
“Shu (what)?”
“Uh…moush baladi (not my country)…” Frowning, he discards it and moves on.
“Ah,” he exclaims as he points to the “tomato” card.
“Na’am, fi ‘arabi, bandorah.
“To-mah-to.”
“Le, fi engleezi, toe-may-toe,” I insist on this pronunciation. He reproaches me, tsking his tongue as if to chastise me for not knowing how to pronounce a word in my own language. “Le, to-mah-to,” he says.
“Le, fi britaniyah ‘to-mah-to’…fi amreeka, ‘toe-may-toe’,” I explain. He sighs and tsks his tongue at me again. I tease, saying “Toe-may-toe, to-mah-to, poe-tay-toe, po-tah-to”.
“Ah, moush po-tay-toe,” Mohammad shakes his finger. “Po-tah-to.”
*****
The 20JD bill in my extended hand flaps a bit in the stale breeze; the shop owner opposite looks askance at me with an unshaven, sun-baked face. “Uh…change?” I point to the register; I need to learn the word for “change”. He responds with a mostly toothless smirk. No one likes large bills, which is unfortunate since SIT gives us weekly stipends comprised of large bills like 20JDs and 50JDs (the largest). From my peripheral vision I watch the equally grizzled taxi driver who has been patiently waiting for his 1JD fare. “Uh…hamzeh, hamzeh…wahad.” The shop manager removes a greasy roll of bills from his pocket and fans them for me to see, smirking again.
Suddenly a harsh voice behind me asks, “Look here, what do you mean by ‘wahad’?” I whip my head toward the harsh voice. I hadn’t noticed this whittled-walking stick of an old woman leaning on the counter beside me, and I’m ashamed at the clarity of her English. What do you mean, ‘what do I mean by ‘wahad’’? It’s your language, not mine.
“I wanted bills in small amounts,” I say, not really looking at her, almost mumbling. She rapidly explains to the store owner, whom I suspect understood but was unwilling to relinquish the more coveted small bills in his hand. Like a few other store owners and customers I’ve encountered, she gives me a quick lesson in Jordanian currency. “Shukran,” I say quietly as I duck out of this hole-in-the-wall convenience store, shoving the fare and a generous tip into the hand of the taxi-driver without making eye contact.
*****
As I wait curbside for a taxi, a truck packed with young Jordanian men careens past, and one of them leans out the passenger window to shout, “No way een hell!” Excuse me, did I make a proposition? Is standing alone on this curb in my Western clothes so brazen, or do I have Hollywood to thank for this? I think I can forgive myself now for language blunders.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
"We used to cook fish for them."
10 September 2008
“We used to cook fish for them.”
Thousands of yellow taxis fill Amman, swarming in and out of the “lanes” like the killer bees of traffic jams. Car models range from the latest compacts to the 1980s, first-world- reject-specials; their interiors range from plush leather to more plastic wrap on the seats than your first-grader’s lunch. The man at the wheel – only very rarely a woman – might wear a traditional thob and kuffiya and have a bird’s-nest of a beard or he might wear a polo and pants; whether he listens to the news, pop, songs about king and country, folk or religious music, he’s bound to initiate a conversation, especially if you’re a fellow male or a foreigner. “Min amreka? Welcome to Jordan.” Or “Min amreka? (makes spitting noise) I hate your Bush…your war…bad for the country.” In a Jordanian taxi you can expect twice the experience – twice the conversation, twice the price (savvy hagglers abound), and twice the speed, thrills and near-death experiences in traffic.
“You are American…you study here, no? I…I am Iraqi.” My left eyebrow shoots upward; I check my reaction, casually turning from the cityscape out the window toward the hesitant driver. “I’m here two years…I have three children, two boys and one girl.”
“Na’am.” I steal a glance at his face reflected in the rearview mirror; he focuses on the road. I wonder what he will say about my country or the war.
“I have a bro-ther…in Baghdad. He want to come, but he cannot get a visa.” I nod in the darkened backseat. We continue on for a minute or so in silence; anticipating the worst, I almost hope he has lost his nerve. I return to gazing out the window. “He used to cook fish for them.” What? It doesn’t matter whether I respond verbally or not; he continues. “My brother, he used to cook the fish for the soldiers when they come to see the house. They like my brother. They say he cook the best fish when they come to his house. And the coffee.” Rather than express the hatred I expected, perhaps rightfully so at the violation of his privacy and disruption of his life, he chooses to tell me about his brother’s hospitality to the soldiers. Food and coffee – the proper Arab way to treat any guests.
From the Northeast they pour in from war-torn Iraq; from the West Bank, come the Palestinians. They’re here in the hundreds of thousands – urban refugees, not confined by the walls of refugee camps but confined within their poverty and desperation: how to get a visa for their aunt in Mosul who needs that operation; how to pay for the food and water; how to convince the landlord to give them one more month. The Jordanian government grants the Palestinians legal citizenship status and allows Iraqis (only those who have at least 150,000 dollars in frozen assets) temporary residency, but Jordan, over-extended in resources and patience, cannot be a homeland for either. Iraqi refugees seemingly have few advocates here in Jordan; one lady from Voices for Creative Nonviolence dropped by SIT today to relate the situation: all that she shared with us might be summed up in the words of her Iraqi friend: “You [Americans] have taken Saddam’s cotton out of our mouths, and you have put it in your ears.”
*****
“And this one’s from my engagement party!” cries Dunia, waving the photo over Yusuf’s grasping, three-year old hands. My homestay extended family is gathered around the table after the iftar, sorting through a decade of photographs; the television drones in the background. I look up from my Arabic study to see that familiar image of a plane slicing through the World Trade Center and realize the date. Julia, another SIT student studying next to me, also looks up; we remember where we were on that morning. The family notices our talk and also watches the footage playing over and over; I don’t understand the Arabic reporting, but Khatm says it all when she tsks her tongue. Smoke and flames and people fleeing seem to be familiar news images for people in the Middle East. (At least, I’ve seen them almost every time I’ve watched Arab news; most often the family comments to me about Palestine.) Their attention for the reporting is brief. But I don’t want to turn away; I don’t want to accept it as a familiar image here or there. On this seventh anniversary of the attacks, what should I be thinking? Can the United States ever regain trust in this region?
As long as some still cook fish for us, I’ll eat at their table and drink their coffee and hope that benevolence without hegemony is possible.
“We used to cook fish for them.”
Thousands of yellow taxis fill Amman, swarming in and out of the “lanes” like the killer bees of traffic jams. Car models range from the latest compacts to the 1980s, first-world- reject-specials; their interiors range from plush leather to more plastic wrap on the seats than your first-grader’s lunch. The man at the wheel – only very rarely a woman – might wear a traditional thob and kuffiya and have a bird’s-nest of a beard or he might wear a polo and pants; whether he listens to the news, pop, songs about king and country, folk or religious music, he’s bound to initiate a conversation, especially if you’re a fellow male or a foreigner. “Min amreka? Welcome to Jordan.” Or “Min amreka? (makes spitting noise) I hate your Bush…your war…bad for the country.” In a Jordanian taxi you can expect twice the experience – twice the conversation, twice the price (savvy hagglers abound), and twice the speed, thrills and near-death experiences in traffic.
“You are American…you study here, no? I…I am Iraqi.” My left eyebrow shoots upward; I check my reaction, casually turning from the cityscape out the window toward the hesitant driver. “I’m here two years…I have three children, two boys and one girl.”
“Na’am.” I steal a glance at his face reflected in the rearview mirror; he focuses on the road. I wonder what he will say about my country or the war.
“I have a bro-ther…in Baghdad. He want to come, but he cannot get a visa.” I nod in the darkened backseat. We continue on for a minute or so in silence; anticipating the worst, I almost hope he has lost his nerve. I return to gazing out the window. “He used to cook fish for them.” What? It doesn’t matter whether I respond verbally or not; he continues. “My brother, he used to cook the fish for the soldiers when they come to see the house. They like my brother. They say he cook the best fish when they come to his house. And the coffee.” Rather than express the hatred I expected, perhaps rightfully so at the violation of his privacy and disruption of his life, he chooses to tell me about his brother’s hospitality to the soldiers. Food and coffee – the proper Arab way to treat any guests.
From the Northeast they pour in from war-torn Iraq; from the West Bank, come the Palestinians. They’re here in the hundreds of thousands – urban refugees, not confined by the walls of refugee camps but confined within their poverty and desperation: how to get a visa for their aunt in Mosul who needs that operation; how to pay for the food and water; how to convince the landlord to give them one more month. The Jordanian government grants the Palestinians legal citizenship status and allows Iraqis (only those who have at least 150,000 dollars in frozen assets) temporary residency, but Jordan, over-extended in resources and patience, cannot be a homeland for either. Iraqi refugees seemingly have few advocates here in Jordan; one lady from Voices for Creative Nonviolence dropped by SIT today to relate the situation: all that she shared with us might be summed up in the words of her Iraqi friend: “You [Americans] have taken Saddam’s cotton out of our mouths, and you have put it in your ears.”
*****
“And this one’s from my engagement party!” cries Dunia, waving the photo over Yusuf’s grasping, three-year old hands. My homestay extended family is gathered around the table after the iftar, sorting through a decade of photographs; the television drones in the background. I look up from my Arabic study to see that familiar image of a plane slicing through the World Trade Center and realize the date. Julia, another SIT student studying next to me, also looks up; we remember where we were on that morning. The family notices our talk and also watches the footage playing over and over; I don’t understand the Arabic reporting, but Khatm says it all when she tsks her tongue. Smoke and flames and people fleeing seem to be familiar news images for people in the Middle East. (At least, I’ve seen them almost every time I’ve watched Arab news; most often the family comments to me about Palestine.) Their attention for the reporting is brief. But I don’t want to turn away; I don’t want to accept it as a familiar image here or there. On this seventh anniversary of the attacks, what should I be thinking? Can the United States ever regain trust in this region?
As long as some still cook fish for us, I’ll eat at their table and drink their coffee and hope that benevolence without hegemony is possible.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
"All the Americans say that."
9 September 2008
“All the Americans say that.”
“What sort of culture shock have you had?” Noor’s eyes sparkle mischeviously like the flickering lanterns dimly illuminating the back garden of the SIT building. Every sound is quick, sharp and clean in the first cool breeze I’ve felt since I’ve been in Jordan (a sign of better weather to come, insh’allah): the rattling of cups and plates from the iftar we’re enjoying with Jordanian students; the trilled chirps of the parrots in the cage outside the villa next door; the laughter and chatter of students and instructors. I let my head roll back to glance up at the stars in an unusually smog-less sky and breathe in the fresh air (as fresh as it gets despite all the pollution and nearby cigarette smoke. We’ve just broken the fast so several of the SIT students are bumming cigarettes off the Jordanian students). The evening call to prayer seems soft and distant, a gentle ripple through the sea of stars above.
“Culture shock…I don’t know. We’re in Abdoun, Amman…that’s not really Jordan. It could be in any American city.” Noor tilts her head upward and concedes this might be true; I clutch the coffee mug tighter.
“Come on, every SIT student I talk to has culture shock of some kind,” Noor continues. Culture shock…where do I begin? I don’t want to admit to it in the first place. I’m an anthropology student. It’d be like a hypochondriac doctor. Noor waits patiently for my response as I swirl the remaining coffee in my mug. Though my equal in age – a junior at Yarmuk University in Irbid – Noor seems wiser than her years. She’s had more traveling experience than most Jordanian students and an obvious knack and enthusiasm for learning languages – her English is astoundingly close to that of a native speaker though she has lived in Jordan most of her life. I’ve met her through one of my Arabic instructors, Halud, who founded an intercultural and interfaith dialogue group (for exchange between local University students and study abroad students) called Yallah Talk – in English, something like “Let’s go (go with God or Godspeed) talk”.
“Well, the call to prayer before dawn woke me up everyday the first week…there’s this mosque right next to…”
“Oh,” Noor rolls her eyes and smirks. “Every American student I talk to says that. What? How do you all live next to mosques?” Every American. Every Westerner. Funny how I keep encountering this reverse Orientalism…could we call it Occidentalism, that is, the West as everything that the Islamic East is not? Granted, I really do live close to a mosque, and every morning about 4:30, the loudspeaker bursts forth across the empty valley between my house and the mosque in static and sounds of the microphone being adjusted before the prayer begins. But I know where she’s going with this protestation.
“O.k., maybe I don’t live adjoining a mosque. Maybe we all feel that the prayer is so prevalent, that we’re surrounded by it.” Noor smiles knowingly.
“When I was in Dallas two summers ago, I felt so disconnected without the call to prayer. I couldn’t live somewhere without it,” she says.
“Now that I’ve lived with it, I wonder how I will feel about hearing bells back in Sewanee. I enjoy the raw, powerful beauty of the prayer, and the continuity through the day through hearing the call to prayer five times. I treat it as a call to prayer for myself, as a Christian, I mean. I wish more people back home could have this experience, talking with you, being abroad....”. I gesture vaguely upward, not knowing how to express what I’m feeling.
As we discuss the spiritual dimension of Ramadan, attitudes toward religion among Jordanian university students, the education system in Jordan, and cross-cultural experiences in general, I find myself staring at Noor’s hijab. But my gaze is somehow different now; I slowly realize that my attention has been subconsciously directed to it for its aesthetic qualities, not some mystique or discomfort on my part. She’s not hiding anything from me, whether by choice or by force; we’ve uncovered our hearts and minds in conversation. After two weeks in Jordan, I discover that I can be around hijab without that strange sense of otherness (niqab –showing only the eyes - I still find a bit jarring, perhaps because I can’t follow speech as well without seeing some lip-reading). Conversing with Noor has been as refreshing as the early evening air filled with the scent of nectar of fresh fruits and moonlight. Truly, her name could not be better suited; it is Arabic for “light”.
“All the Americans say that.”
“What sort of culture shock have you had?” Noor’s eyes sparkle mischeviously like the flickering lanterns dimly illuminating the back garden of the SIT building. Every sound is quick, sharp and clean in the first cool breeze I’ve felt since I’ve been in Jordan (a sign of better weather to come, insh’allah): the rattling of cups and plates from the iftar we’re enjoying with Jordanian students; the trilled chirps of the parrots in the cage outside the villa next door; the laughter and chatter of students and instructors. I let my head roll back to glance up at the stars in an unusually smog-less sky and breathe in the fresh air (as fresh as it gets despite all the pollution and nearby cigarette smoke. We’ve just broken the fast so several of the SIT students are bumming cigarettes off the Jordanian students). The evening call to prayer seems soft and distant, a gentle ripple through the sea of stars above.
“Culture shock…I don’t know. We’re in Abdoun, Amman…that’s not really Jordan. It could be in any American city.” Noor tilts her head upward and concedes this might be true; I clutch the coffee mug tighter.
“Come on, every SIT student I talk to has culture shock of some kind,” Noor continues. Culture shock…where do I begin? I don’t want to admit to it in the first place. I’m an anthropology student. It’d be like a hypochondriac doctor. Noor waits patiently for my response as I swirl the remaining coffee in my mug. Though my equal in age – a junior at Yarmuk University in Irbid – Noor seems wiser than her years. She’s had more traveling experience than most Jordanian students and an obvious knack and enthusiasm for learning languages – her English is astoundingly close to that of a native speaker though she has lived in Jordan most of her life. I’ve met her through one of my Arabic instructors, Halud, who founded an intercultural and interfaith dialogue group (for exchange between local University students and study abroad students) called Yallah Talk – in English, something like “Let’s go (go with God or Godspeed) talk”.
“Well, the call to prayer before dawn woke me up everyday the first week…there’s this mosque right next to…”
“Oh,” Noor rolls her eyes and smirks. “Every American student I talk to says that. What? How do you all live next to mosques?” Every American. Every Westerner. Funny how I keep encountering this reverse Orientalism…could we call it Occidentalism, that is, the West as everything that the Islamic East is not? Granted, I really do live close to a mosque, and every morning about 4:30, the loudspeaker bursts forth across the empty valley between my house and the mosque in static and sounds of the microphone being adjusted before the prayer begins. But I know where she’s going with this protestation.
“O.k., maybe I don’t live adjoining a mosque. Maybe we all feel that the prayer is so prevalent, that we’re surrounded by it.” Noor smiles knowingly.
“When I was in Dallas two summers ago, I felt so disconnected without the call to prayer. I couldn’t live somewhere without it,” she says.
“Now that I’ve lived with it, I wonder how I will feel about hearing bells back in Sewanee. I enjoy the raw, powerful beauty of the prayer, and the continuity through the day through hearing the call to prayer five times. I treat it as a call to prayer for myself, as a Christian, I mean. I wish more people back home could have this experience, talking with you, being abroad....”. I gesture vaguely upward, not knowing how to express what I’m feeling.
As we discuss the spiritual dimension of Ramadan, attitudes toward religion among Jordanian university students, the education system in Jordan, and cross-cultural experiences in general, I find myself staring at Noor’s hijab. But my gaze is somehow different now; I slowly realize that my attention has been subconsciously directed to it for its aesthetic qualities, not some mystique or discomfort on my part. She’s not hiding anything from me, whether by choice or by force; we’ve uncovered our hearts and minds in conversation. After two weeks in Jordan, I discover that I can be around hijab without that strange sense of otherness (niqab –showing only the eyes - I still find a bit jarring, perhaps because I can’t follow speech as well without seeing some lip-reading). Conversing with Noor has been as refreshing as the early evening air filled with the scent of nectar of fresh fruits and moonlight. Truly, her name could not be better suited; it is Arabic for “light”.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
One day is honey, one day is onion."
6 September 2008
“One day is honey, one day is onion.”
I’ll forgo the awful details; it was the fast fast. While determining to join my family in fasting for the month of Ramadan endeared me to them, and while it was a meaningful experience for me, it was, alas, short-lived. Better the fast short-lived than myself. The Qur’an mandates that the sick (or those who become sick during the fast) cannot continue the fast, and when my family discovered me sprawled on my bed after a miserable night of sickness, they decided I was dehydrated (considering the general indifference regarding food preparation/storage/expiration combined with the arid 115 degrees of the other day, this was no surprise; we SIT students often comment on how much we sweat in this un-air-conditioned place: just sitting in class, lying in bed – even in the shower. The temperature in my room has hovered around 90 the last few days). Each family member rebuked me in turn for feeling sick and trying to fast, Khatm last of all, patting my hand tenderly and saying “Ya, habibi (oh my dear)”.
The Arabs have a proverb which says “one day is honey, one day is onion”. Having gotten past the onion, I spent some of the weekend recovering – doing some much needed laundry and spending time with my family, the highlight of which was teaching my host mother’s four grandchildren how to play checkers. Watching them learn and in turn teach each other was fascinating, as they are bilingual in Arabic and English and frequently code-switch (they’re unaware sometimes of which language they are speaking to me and seemingly to each other). The day was hot, the sunlight seeping in through the heavily curtained window of my bedroom warm and golden, slow and thick like honey. Ismein had spread her homework papers on my rug and was absorbed in them. Aiman, her younger brother and taekwondo fiend, marched in donning his usual camouflage pants, and demanded to know what Ismein’s younger sister and I were doing. Ismein, intrigued and now merely pretending to be studying, kept stealing glances at the checkers game as three year old Yusuf flung himself on my bed to watch. Soon all four kids were entranced by this new game; they played it for three hours until iftar (the evening fatoor when we break the fast). “I like this game,” Ismein said to me. “I forgot how hungry I was.”
*****
The Temple of Artemis, the Roman ruins, Jerash, Jordan (north of Amman): Craning my neck, I’m squinting, staggering into a fathomless blue and a sun so intensely bright I can’t locate its position in the sky. It’s somewhere behind one of the columns soaring fifteen meters above me and bowing outward like my wobbly legs. As I teeter on the top of the temple steps in the 100+ degree heat, I don’t feel hot or thirsty so much as fragile and trembling like a dry leaf. From this high place I survey the ruins of an Roman city, circa first century. In its heyday, this marvelously unearthed complex of temples and residences housed 15,000 people – until 749 when an earthquake leveled the pagan Decapolis. “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”
“One day is honey, one day is onion.”
I’ll forgo the awful details; it was the fast fast. While determining to join my family in fasting for the month of Ramadan endeared me to them, and while it was a meaningful experience for me, it was, alas, short-lived. Better the fast short-lived than myself. The Qur’an mandates that the sick (or those who become sick during the fast) cannot continue the fast, and when my family discovered me sprawled on my bed after a miserable night of sickness, they decided I was dehydrated (considering the general indifference regarding food preparation/storage/expiration combined with the arid 115 degrees of the other day, this was no surprise; we SIT students often comment on how much we sweat in this un-air-conditioned place: just sitting in class, lying in bed – even in the shower. The temperature in my room has hovered around 90 the last few days). Each family member rebuked me in turn for feeling sick and trying to fast, Khatm last of all, patting my hand tenderly and saying “Ya, habibi (oh my dear)”.
The Arabs have a proverb which says “one day is honey, one day is onion”. Having gotten past the onion, I spent some of the weekend recovering – doing some much needed laundry and spending time with my family, the highlight of which was teaching my host mother’s four grandchildren how to play checkers. Watching them learn and in turn teach each other was fascinating, as they are bilingual in Arabic and English and frequently code-switch (they’re unaware sometimes of which language they are speaking to me and seemingly to each other). The day was hot, the sunlight seeping in through the heavily curtained window of my bedroom warm and golden, slow and thick like honey. Ismein had spread her homework papers on my rug and was absorbed in them. Aiman, her younger brother and taekwondo fiend, marched in donning his usual camouflage pants, and demanded to know what Ismein’s younger sister and I were doing. Ismein, intrigued and now merely pretending to be studying, kept stealing glances at the checkers game as three year old Yusuf flung himself on my bed to watch. Soon all four kids were entranced by this new game; they played it for three hours until iftar (the evening fatoor when we break the fast). “I like this game,” Ismein said to me. “I forgot how hungry I was.”
*****
The Temple of Artemis, the Roman ruins, Jerash, Jordan (north of Amman): Craning my neck, I’m squinting, staggering into a fathomless blue and a sun so intensely bright I can’t locate its position in the sky. It’s somewhere behind one of the columns soaring fifteen meters above me and bowing outward like my wobbly legs. As I teeter on the top of the temple steps in the 100+ degree heat, I don’t feel hot or thirsty so much as fragile and trembling like a dry leaf. From this high place I survey the ruins of an Roman city, circa first century. In its heyday, this marvelously unearthed complex of temples and residences housed 15,000 people – until 749 when an earthquake leveled the pagan Decapolis. “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
"Now your school is the field."
2 September 2008
“Then your school was the University. Now your school is the field.”
A slight rap on my door and I sit up immediately, grab my travel alarm clock, and squint at it in the dark. 3:40A.M.? A veiled figure stands hesitantly outside my door. “Sabah el kheir, Muna”. I stumble into the living room, trying not to look at miserable as I feel. The four of us – Khatm, Mohammad, Muna and myself – slump on the couch with the plastic patio table in front of us stacked with food. I feel hopelessly full from fatoor (earlier that evening, around 7PM) to enjoy sahoor. But it’s a long time between sunrise and sunset to go without food, so I do my best to be full of food unto sickness, only trudging back to bed after convincing Khatm I’ve eaten enough by pointing to a withered apple core and empty dishes. Before collapsing on the bed, I look out my window to enjoy the lights around the city, much like Christmas lights back home. Ramadan kareem (Happy Ramadan).
***
“This year is Ismein’s first year to fast,” says Dunia, looking at me for approval for her oldest of four children; I almost feel it is a challenge. Ismein smiles up at me from her artwork on the floor; with her thick, silken black hair in a long, roped ponytail, her wide, sparkling eyes, and her toothy smile, she is a picture of innocence. We’re seated around the plastic patio table brought in the living room, the night before the first sahoor. The family sets the table and anxiously awaits the exact moment of sunset to break the fast on the first day of Ramadan. On the television, live from Mekkah, Muslims are already enjoying the spoils of the first fatoor, and the family watches restlessly; then we switch over to the local channel where an Imam leads the prayers. I wonder if the family is as tortured by the smells wafting from the kitchen as I am. Ismein, in her innocent way, comments on her own hunger. “See how the poor people feel?” Dunia asks, nodding solemnly. Ismein stills her impatience, and our eyes meet as I smile at her. She flashes back one of her winning smiles. If Ismein can do this, I can do this. 7:06 P.M. So it begins. I once mistakenly assumed that people can grow accustomed to hunger; now I am learning that one never gets used to hunger – hence Dunia’s instruction to Ismein, (yet the poor aren’t indulging in a fatoor feast like we are).
Ramadan is the holiest month of the year for Muslims – a time of fasting between sunrise and sunset, a time to suppress physical concerns and reflect on spiritual ones. Based on the lunar cycles, Ramadan occurs eleven days earlier every year; the summer months are the most difficult, as abstaining from liquids can be especially draining. Right now (9:20 P.M. local time) I’m chugging a water bottle, trying to keep from becoming dehydrated.
“You…want…do this….with Khatm, Mohammad, and me?” Muna eyes me, almost suspiciously. “You…Christian. You don’t fast.” I open my mouth to speak, but Muna turns to Khatm to confer about this. Muna turns back to me. “Maybe you fast….no chicken…no meat…Esster?”
“Easter? Lent?”
“Na’am. Christians fast…eester?”
“Uh…nous, nous (so-so).” Muna relates to Khatm what I’ve said (or not said). Khatm chatters excitably; Muna turns back to me, running prayer beads through her hands as she talks.
“Mumkin (maybe), you get hungry at school.”
“Mumkin.” Muna looks at Khatm knowingly. Mumkin? Definitely. They seem to give up on understanding me, at least temporarily. It is a subject they will return to often.
Later that day, much later, drenched with sweat from the hike from the taxi to our dead-end house, I offer a breathless as-salem alaykum upon entering. Khatm comes up to me concerned. Wa alaykum salem. She studies me a moment, and feeling uncomfortable under her gaze, I head to my room. She and Muna confront me in the doorway. “You eat...school?”
“Le.” Muna looks at Khatm who seems hopeful.
“You…fast with us?”
“Na’am. The whole month.” Exasperated, Muna wrings her hands and Khatm smiles, saying “Insha’allah (God-willing).”
“Why…why you do this? Hmm?”
What do I say? “I want to see how you see….you know?” Muna nods uncertainly. “How you live…how Muslims see things. I want to do what the family does.” Muna translates for Khatm.
“Alhamdulillah!” Khatm shouts and claps her hands. Muna stills seems unconvinced, but relieved to see her sister pleased. I’m relieved to see their enthusiasm. I hope they’ll understand that my observation of the fast is a Christian one, yet with the intention of understanding and experiencing Ramadan with them. Maybe all their receptiveness and instruction is an attempt to convert me to Islam; I can’t say I haven’t had ulterior motives either. After fatoor tonight, I shared photos from my trip to China, and Muna unexpectedly turned to me and asked directly, “Why you come here? Why Jordan?” She appeals to the photos from Spain and China, inquiring if I know these languages also.
“Muna, maybe you don’t know this word fii ‘arabi…Anthropology? Social science?”
“Ah ha, social science,” Khatm says knowingly in one of the few instances in which I’ve heard her use any of her limited English. (It turns out Dunia, Khatm’s daughter, is the only one – beside Muna – who functionally knows any English. Dunia is almost fluent, but she doesn't live with us. I had thought Khatm and Mohammad knew more than they were willing to use.)
“What’s this…Anthro…?” Muna asks.
“I learn about how other people live.” Muna seems unconvinced. “I love Arab culture…” She nods, conceding that might be true. I try again. “When I was saghir (little) I see the movie (why am I using bad grammar like they are?) Lawrence of Arabia…”
“Ah! I know this movie!” Muna seems satisfied. “Uh…hist-ry of Jordan.”
“Na’am, I like history…and culture.”
“Qweyes! (Good!)” Mohammad mumbles, shifting his position on his corner couch. “Qweyes, qweyes…”
I think back to something one of our instructors, Mokhtar, said in field study seminar yesterday: “Then your school was the University. Now your school is the field.”
“Then your school was the University. Now your school is the field.”
A slight rap on my door and I sit up immediately, grab my travel alarm clock, and squint at it in the dark. 3:40A.M.? A veiled figure stands hesitantly outside my door. “Sabah el kheir, Muna”. I stumble into the living room, trying not to look at miserable as I feel. The four of us – Khatm, Mohammad, Muna and myself – slump on the couch with the plastic patio table in front of us stacked with food. I feel hopelessly full from fatoor (earlier that evening, around 7PM) to enjoy sahoor. But it’s a long time between sunrise and sunset to go without food, so I do my best to be full of food unto sickness, only trudging back to bed after convincing Khatm I’ve eaten enough by pointing to a withered apple core and empty dishes. Before collapsing on the bed, I look out my window to enjoy the lights around the city, much like Christmas lights back home. Ramadan kareem (Happy Ramadan).
***
“This year is Ismein’s first year to fast,” says Dunia, looking at me for approval for her oldest of four children; I almost feel it is a challenge. Ismein smiles up at me from her artwork on the floor; with her thick, silken black hair in a long, roped ponytail, her wide, sparkling eyes, and her toothy smile, she is a picture of innocence. We’re seated around the plastic patio table brought in the living room, the night before the first sahoor. The family sets the table and anxiously awaits the exact moment of sunset to break the fast on the first day of Ramadan. On the television, live from Mekkah, Muslims are already enjoying the spoils of the first fatoor, and the family watches restlessly; then we switch over to the local channel where an Imam leads the prayers. I wonder if the family is as tortured by the smells wafting from the kitchen as I am. Ismein, in her innocent way, comments on her own hunger. “See how the poor people feel?” Dunia asks, nodding solemnly. Ismein stills her impatience, and our eyes meet as I smile at her. She flashes back one of her winning smiles. If Ismein can do this, I can do this. 7:06 P.M. So it begins. I once mistakenly assumed that people can grow accustomed to hunger; now I am learning that one never gets used to hunger – hence Dunia’s instruction to Ismein, (yet the poor aren’t indulging in a fatoor feast like we are).
Ramadan is the holiest month of the year for Muslims – a time of fasting between sunrise and sunset, a time to suppress physical concerns and reflect on spiritual ones. Based on the lunar cycles, Ramadan occurs eleven days earlier every year; the summer months are the most difficult, as abstaining from liquids can be especially draining. Right now (9:20 P.M. local time) I’m chugging a water bottle, trying to keep from becoming dehydrated.
“You…want…do this….with Khatm, Mohammad, and me?” Muna eyes me, almost suspiciously. “You…Christian. You don’t fast.” I open my mouth to speak, but Muna turns to Khatm to confer about this. Muna turns back to me. “Maybe you fast….no chicken…no meat…Esster?”
“Easter? Lent?”
“Na’am. Christians fast…eester?”
“Uh…nous, nous (so-so).” Muna relates to Khatm what I’ve said (or not said). Khatm chatters excitably; Muna turns back to me, running prayer beads through her hands as she talks.
“Mumkin (maybe), you get hungry at school.”
“Mumkin.” Muna looks at Khatm knowingly. Mumkin? Definitely. They seem to give up on understanding me, at least temporarily. It is a subject they will return to often.
Later that day, much later, drenched with sweat from the hike from the taxi to our dead-end house, I offer a breathless as-salem alaykum upon entering. Khatm comes up to me concerned. Wa alaykum salem. She studies me a moment, and feeling uncomfortable under her gaze, I head to my room. She and Muna confront me in the doorway. “You eat...school?”
“Le.” Muna looks at Khatm who seems hopeful.
“You…fast with us?”
“Na’am. The whole month.” Exasperated, Muna wrings her hands and Khatm smiles, saying “Insha’allah (God-willing).”
“Why…why you do this? Hmm?”
What do I say? “I want to see how you see….you know?” Muna nods uncertainly. “How you live…how Muslims see things. I want to do what the family does.” Muna translates for Khatm.
“Alhamdulillah!” Khatm shouts and claps her hands. Muna stills seems unconvinced, but relieved to see her sister pleased. I’m relieved to see their enthusiasm. I hope they’ll understand that my observation of the fast is a Christian one, yet with the intention of understanding and experiencing Ramadan with them. Maybe all their receptiveness and instruction is an attempt to convert me to Islam; I can’t say I haven’t had ulterior motives either. After fatoor tonight, I shared photos from my trip to China, and Muna unexpectedly turned to me and asked directly, “Why you come here? Why Jordan?” She appeals to the photos from Spain and China, inquiring if I know these languages also.
“Muna, maybe you don’t know this word fii ‘arabi…Anthropology? Social science?”
“Ah ha, social science,” Khatm says knowingly in one of the few instances in which I’ve heard her use any of her limited English. (It turns out Dunia, Khatm’s daughter, is the only one – beside Muna – who functionally knows any English. Dunia is almost fluent, but she doesn't live with us. I had thought Khatm and Mohammad knew more than they were willing to use.)
“What’s this…Anthro…?” Muna asks.
“I learn about how other people live.” Muna seems unconvinced. “I love Arab culture…” She nods, conceding that might be true. I try again. “When I was saghir (little) I see the movie (why am I using bad grammar like they are?) Lawrence of Arabia…”
“Ah! I know this movie!” Muna seems satisfied. “Uh…hist-ry of Jordan.”
“Na’am, I like history…and culture.”
“Qweyes! (Good!)” Mohammad mumbles, shifting his position on his corner couch. “Qweyes, qweyes…”
I think back to something one of our instructors, Mokhtar, said in field study seminar yesterday: “Then your school was the University. Now your school is the field.”
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