"Jordanians are like coconuts."

16 October 2008

“Jordanians are like coconuts.”

“I call Jordanians coconuts. They look very rough on the outside, but they are very pleasant on the inside,” said the Jordanian lecturer. We all laughed, delighted at this metaphor and this lucid, engaging talk by a middle-aged economist with a great affinity for all things American, especially American film. “And when I was in prison (for being in Palestine illegally), I asked the guard what the difference was between me and him…like Burt Lancaster in The Birdman of Alcatraz.” And a few minutes later I was musing over what practical wisdom Jordanians like this lecturer (and previous speakers) could find in American movies. “Or like in The Godfather…,” he was saying as I was scanning the faces of my classmates; they were pleased. Not only was his English strong, his personality cheerful, his intelligence and wit sharp, and his love for American culture endearing, but hearing your country and people discussed so aptly by an outsider is such an eye-opening experience, perhaps one of the most valuable parts of studying abroad. You begin to see how the rest of the world sees your country and appreciate that perspective, even when you don’t agree with it.
“...Because we believe the United States to still be the most influential country,” the lecturer was saying, “we choose American hegemony.” I couldn’t recall anyone ever using that phrase, “choose hegemony”. Isn’t the concept of hegemony that an individual would believe in a certain set of cultural values and practice them accordingly, part of that belief and practice being a certainty (belief) that this system was the natural and best system? “…And I watch three to fours hours of American, you know, domestic, programming everyday…CNN, NBC, CBS, and I read the NY Times, etc.” Our eyes widened; I fiddled with my pen and paper, feeling shamed that I couldn’t even manage to read the Jordan Times everyday, much less keep up with international or U.S. news. He proceeded to give us his impressions of the candidates and issues, obviously more informed about the American political system than many Americans. And when asked what he felt were the greatest challenges facing Jordan right now, he suggested that foremost was the lack of resources, especially water (Jordan is the fourth water poorest county), and secondly, the upcoming U.S. elections. Perhaps Jordan should have some votes in the electoral college…

*****

“Yaeraf suaq al-salaam?” I’m trying to explain the location of a quickly approaching interview to this taxi driver; I suspect he wants me to get into the taxi without being certain of the destination (he’ll still get a fare). After we exhaust my Arabic, we think we know where we’re going, and I settle into the darkened backseat after a long day of research and transcription of field notes for a case study due two days from now. My mobile phone begins its annoying Nokia ringtone, saving me from the Arabic questions of the friendly (curious) taxi driver. “My dad needs to cancel the interview.”
“I’m already in a taxi on the way there…”
“I’m really sorry but he has to leave. He can do it tomorrow at noon.” I don’t say anything for a moment. Yeah, tomorrow will be interesting with two interviews when I should be writing up the final report, not conducting more interviews. Does no one respect times or appointments here?
“Yeah, no problem. Tell him I’ll come at noon.” The taxi driver looks askance at me. “Yaeraf saken omeima?”
“Taeraf saken omeima?” Of course I know saken omeima. It’s my neighborhood here in Amman. “Baiti fi saken omeima. Yalla.”

*****
Huffing and muttering, I’m fumbling with the key in the door when my host father appears behind me in the darkened stairwell, greeting me saying, “Assalemu alaykum.”
“Wa alaykum salem.” Good thing I didn’t say that nasty comment on the tip of my tongue about no one being home and having to fish my key out of my overpacked backpack. But I’m brightened by this thought: there’s a wedding tonight for my home-stay cousin, and she has invited me personally. As my father follows me inside, I wonder why Mohammad was lingering in the stairwell, looking ridiculous in his suit; I’m accustomed to his pajama-thob. Khatm is rushing around the house in her fancy dress and heels; she greets me uncertainly, perhaps not expecting me home so early. Does she know I have a personal invitation from the bride, her niece, to attend? She pauses in my doorway, disappears, and appears a few minutes later with the phone, handing it to me. It’s her daughter, who offers a vague explanation about some car being broken down, and there’s no room for me. “Ma fi moushkileh (no problem),” I say, my heart sinking. And I had been practicing that crazy tongue-trill that Arabs do in celebrations. No dubqa dancing tonight.
“Sor-ry,” Khatm said, taking back the phone.
“Ma fi moushkileh…,” I say, admiring her dress.
“Biddik akl?” (Do you want food?), she asks.
“Oh, la, ma biddi ishi. (No, I don’t want anything).” Especially not coconuts. I think I’ve had my fill of those today.
I retreat to my bedroom, this paper looming large over me. Sitting at my desk, I stare at my newly arrived absentee ballot. Hmm, case study paper or ballot? Either way it’s about as tricky as a coconut.