"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.”