6 December 2008
Strangers and Pilgrims
The low, twangy notes of the oud player reverberated through the cloud of argeelah, laughter and hand-clapping in Jafra cafe. A cool wind blew in from Wast al-Balad and I sank deeper into the sofa, embracing the warmth of the curling argeelah smoke around us. The little lights above flickered, suspended in their woven-shades and keeping time with the oud player and the clapping. People sang the familiar songs, the old songs everyone knows – Jordanian, Palestinian, Arab songs. We felt a certain solidarity with the crowd, and a sense of belonging, yet longing for somewhere else, someplace we call home. If I could reduce my experiences in Jordan to this moment in Jafra with a few good friends who I probably won’t see again for some time, I would. I would roll it up into a ball and carry it with me. And when I’m back home with my family and friends, and find that I can’t quite express what I want to, I would take it out and let it slowly unravel before you.
We are strangers and pilgrims, just passing through Jordan, and tomorrow I won’t call it home anymore; won’t settle into the back of a smoky taxi, the arab beats buoying me away to Dahiat al-Rasheed, to my little room with a window facing the bare, hazy desert sunrise, bringing Bedu and flocks of sheep whose clinking bells wake me at dawn; won’t duck in Al-Quds, the best falafel place in Amman, where the old man behind the counter winks at me behind his thick glasses and knows I want one sesame falafel, so cheap and so good; won’t enjoy rolling the L’s off the back of my teeth when I order it; won’t wander through certain streets and feel the cobblestones beneath, breathe the air dusky with cardamom and coffee, see the earthy, vibrant colors – the reds, browns, golds – in store windows; won’t see red, green and black flapping in the breeze.
Today is overcast, and I know I am romanticizing. I can’t help but feel nostalgic for Jordan. I love this place.
I packed my Jordanian clothes first: the dishdasha which I wore in al-Badia (the desert) when I lived with a Bedouin family for three days; the hijab I wore with a friend when we went shopping at the mall, and we felt more conspicuous with than without the veil; the ivory dishdasha with gold sequins my host mother, Um Dunia, gave me when we broke the fast after Ramadan. My red and white koffiya, the national cloth of Jordan, I set aside, then wrapped securely around my neck. I don’t intend to remove it for quite some time, at least figuratively.
After scouring the bedding for stray socks which seem to collect at the foot of my bed, I turned to look at the bare room and remembered the first time I sat my bags down, back in August.
At breakfast the zeit (olive oil) was clouded; the zatar (thyme) was dry; the pita stale; I didn’t care.
On the way to school this morning, the last “on the way to school”, I passed by both the Indonesian and Sri Lankan embassies, and I wondered about the women, runaway maids, I met in the shelters there. They taught me so much, and I am indebted to them. The feeble 50 page report I produced about women migrant workers in Jordan does not capture their humble and courageous spirit as I wish it could.
Somehow I feel my experiences are already being reduced to snapshots which capture and yet don’t capture my time in Jordan: exploits of camel riding, hiking through Petra or Wadi Rum, and floating in the Dead Sea, the ones which will remain with me in the form of photographs people want to see and stories they want to hear. What’s in my heart, so full from my time in Jordan, can’t be reduced to such snapshots. The real experience doesn’t fade like photographs, but becomes more complete, as it is lived and relieved in the recesses of my mind and heart. And in time, what remains of my time in Jordan is myself. Myself, more fulfilled in Christ as he has used this time to prepare me, in ways and for what I can scarcely imagine.
Goodbye, Jordan. Until next time.
Showing posts with label Jordanian people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jordanian people. Show all posts
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
"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.
“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.
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