A note on comments:
First of all, thanks for all the comments from readers. Most comments I’ve published, and I try to answer them as often and as best I can. So keep up the good work, faithful readers!
Here is one comment on my last post which I wanted to address for everyone:
“It's funny, sometimes reading this I almost forget your host family is Muslim. And then I read this discussion and remember that England/America/Christendom is one side and they are on the other. And again, I'm impressed at your being in a place so foreign and coping with it.”
I find it revealing that the quote links countries (England and America) often associated predominately with terms like "the West" and with "Christendom". Certainly, American religion has become so entangled with American culture (for further reading I recommend Alan Wolfe’s The Transformation of American Religion) with concepts of Christendom in the earthly sense, that we often, at least in our thinking, use America and Christendom interchangeably and pit this category against "the East", "Arabs" or "Muslims". We had better be careful about forming "us versus them" mentalities. I'm seeing more and more that when we Americans create this sort of dichotomy, even quite innocently, Muslims take the cue and assume that the two categories (America and Christendom) are inherently linked, not just as historically constructed, linked categories, but connected at the deepest level, and hence adopt the same sort "clash of civilizations" thinking of which we are guilty and which fuels Islamic fundamentalism. While many ideas and practices in American culture may be very different from those in Muslim societies, it has been and continues to be American foreign policy which contributes most to the perceived "clash". Let's not confuse cultural values with more tangible political policies in our understanding of "us and them".
The last thing I want to do in my blog entries is to "other" my host family, that is to make them seem inherently different from myself and my readers. I’m glad to hear that some readers “forget” that my host family is Muslim while reading about them, at least in the sense that I’m not creating “an other”. But I never forget that they are Muslim – I’m confronted with it everyday; the only way “to cope” is to seek to understand. That doesn’t mean that I’ll embrace everything about my host culture and “go native”, but that I’ll observe, analyze, and interpret what I encounter as best as I can as a novice anthropologist. And as I conduct my field work over the next five weeks, as a Christian (and not just a cultural Christian), I’ll always be aware of the moral dimension in my work.
Please feel free to continue to comment and question – this sort of interaction is really helpful to us all. I’d like to think that my blog, at times more thoughtful than others, is one small way of not just sharing my experiences with general readers, but of helping to improve intercultural dialogue between “East and West”.
Showing posts with label homestay family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label homestay family. Show all posts
Friday, October 31, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Of Olives and Dates (the historical variety)
28 October 2008
Of Olives and Dates (the historical variety)
On the table were two, large plastic tubs brimming with dirty green and purplish-green olives and beside them, a cold, orange plate of spaghetti; as hungry as I was, I was much more interested in what was happening to the olives. “Hadol zaytun min Filistine (These are olives from Palestine),” said Umm Dunia (Khatm, my host mother), as she pounded the olives individually with some sort of mallet. Realizing I was fairly gawking at her – one for having some sort of dinner available for me and secondly, for the strange olive processing - I carried my backpack to my room and returned. Umm Dunia looked up at the clock pointedly, as if to quietly rebuke me for just missing dinner, the most inconsistent of mealtimes in our family.
The metal chair scraped noisily as I pulled it away from the table to sit and stare at the process. After mechanically eating half the plate of spaghetti, I clanked my fork (I couldn’t remember the last time I had used a fork in place of the all-purpose spoon) on the plate and pushed it aside. “Mumkin (Can I)…?” I asked shoving my hand into the cool, grainy tub of olives, rolling them about in my fingers. Umm Dunia left the room, returning with a rock; she demonstrated how I should beat the olive to make the flesh split open to facilitate the soaking/seasoning process. Abu Dunia (Mohammed, my host father) joined us. Khatm gave him her mallet and procured a large-handled knife with which to beat the olives.
It had been a while since I had been included in any sort of family activity; my parents have been busy preparing another apartment (which they rent out) and helping their daughter’s family move into a new condominium; I was overjoyed to be included.
“Ah…min Filistine, sah?”
Khatm continued pounding and didn’t look up to answer, “Sah.” She thought I meant the olives.
“Aihwa, bas entoum (gesturing to her and Mohammed)…min Filistine, sah?” They looked at each other in askance.
“La,” Mohammed shook his finger at me. “Min Salt.” Salt. A city just outside Amman, maybe half an hour away. But surely they were from Palestine, as often as they commented on it in my presence: about the news we sometimes watched, about the origins of fruits and vegetables, etc. All this time I had assumed they were from Palestine, for they identified with it so often.
“Oh,” I said. “Bas, abuho (But your father)…?” I pressed on.
“La, min Salt.”
“Oh. And your grandfather?”
“Min Salt.”
At this point Khatm interjected. “Kul ei3leh min Salt (The whole family is from Salt). Jordanian. All Jordanian.”
“Oh.” We three pounded our olives in silence. I felt slightly embarrassed for having assumed they were Palestinian for so long. I don’t suppose they were insulted; they merely stressed their Jordanian heritage and then were silent.
“Bas,” Mohammed began, placing his mallet down purposefully, “Filistine balad ‘arab (Palestine is an Arab country)…” I nodded.
“Ou Israeli khod min homeh...,” he began as he launched into a rapid lecture about the conflict.
“Aihwa,” I interjected, “fi 1948.” This pleased them.
“Ta3raf ean hadha (You know about this?).
“Na’am, fi jame3ahti badros tareekh (Yes, in my university I study History)…”.
“Qweyes, Qweyes (Good, good),” Mohammed nodded vigorously, picking the mallet up again, only to shake it at me in the next sentence. “Bas, Britainiyya khod al balad min Filistine…(But Britian took the country from the Palestinians, followed by a lot of words I couldn’t quite understand)…Ball-foor…”
“Shu yaeni Ball-foor?” What kind of new Arabic word was this? I had no idea.
“Ball-foor ism (is a name)” Mohammed insisted as if I should know this. A long pause. Then I realized:
“Oh! Balfour, the Balfour Declaration!” They both nodded then clicked their tongues, saying “Ya haram (how shameful, what a shame). And I was really glad in that moment that I was not British and thus “to blame” for the mess next-door – not that being American is much better (reputation-wise). After that followed our limited discussion of the conflict – I cited historical dates as I knew them – and a brief discussion about the American political situation.
“King Obama,” Umm Dunia said. I had to suppress a laugh, because she was quite serious.
“Uh, fi amreeka, eindna ‘president’ moush malik (In America, we have a president, not a king)…” I began.
“Aihwa, bas (the Congress picks him).”
“Aihwa, bas…,” I began again. How do I explain the presidential election, especially that strange animal, the Electoral College?
“King Abdullah, Congress, fi Urdun (picks him).” Mohammed interjected. O.k. a referendum to affirm a monarch is not a democracy.
“King Clinton, qweyes, qweyes…King Bush, moush qweyes (not good),” Khatm clicked her tongue disapprovingly.
‘Bithebbi Obama (Do you like Obama)?” I asked carefully.
“Ma baeraf,” Khatm said, shaking her head and shrugging. “Mumkin Obama, mumkin McCain.” I remember one of our lecturers a few weeks ago commented on how popular Bush had been when he was elected, but the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and his silence on other Middle East issues, namely the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, were major disappointments for Jordanians. “We never know,” Khatm concluded.
Yeah, we don’t. And I felt sad for my country.
Of Olives and Dates (the historical variety)
On the table were two, large plastic tubs brimming with dirty green and purplish-green olives and beside them, a cold, orange plate of spaghetti; as hungry as I was, I was much more interested in what was happening to the olives. “Hadol zaytun min Filistine (These are olives from Palestine),” said Umm Dunia (Khatm, my host mother), as she pounded the olives individually with some sort of mallet. Realizing I was fairly gawking at her – one for having some sort of dinner available for me and secondly, for the strange olive processing - I carried my backpack to my room and returned. Umm Dunia looked up at the clock pointedly, as if to quietly rebuke me for just missing dinner, the most inconsistent of mealtimes in our family.
The metal chair scraped noisily as I pulled it away from the table to sit and stare at the process. After mechanically eating half the plate of spaghetti, I clanked my fork (I couldn’t remember the last time I had used a fork in place of the all-purpose spoon) on the plate and pushed it aside. “Mumkin (Can I)…?” I asked shoving my hand into the cool, grainy tub of olives, rolling them about in my fingers. Umm Dunia left the room, returning with a rock; she demonstrated how I should beat the olive to make the flesh split open to facilitate the soaking/seasoning process. Abu Dunia (Mohammed, my host father) joined us. Khatm gave him her mallet and procured a large-handled knife with which to beat the olives.
It had been a while since I had been included in any sort of family activity; my parents have been busy preparing another apartment (which they rent out) and helping their daughter’s family move into a new condominium; I was overjoyed to be included.
“Ah…min Filistine, sah?”
Khatm continued pounding and didn’t look up to answer, “Sah.” She thought I meant the olives.
“Aihwa, bas entoum (gesturing to her and Mohammed)…min Filistine, sah?” They looked at each other in askance.
“La,” Mohammed shook his finger at me. “Min Salt.” Salt. A city just outside Amman, maybe half an hour away. But surely they were from Palestine, as often as they commented on it in my presence: about the news we sometimes watched, about the origins of fruits and vegetables, etc. All this time I had assumed they were from Palestine, for they identified with it so often.
“Oh,” I said. “Bas, abuho (But your father)…?” I pressed on.
“La, min Salt.”
“Oh. And your grandfather?”
“Min Salt.”
At this point Khatm interjected. “Kul ei3leh min Salt (The whole family is from Salt). Jordanian. All Jordanian.”
“Oh.” We three pounded our olives in silence. I felt slightly embarrassed for having assumed they were Palestinian for so long. I don’t suppose they were insulted; they merely stressed their Jordanian heritage and then were silent.
“Bas,” Mohammed began, placing his mallet down purposefully, “Filistine balad ‘arab (Palestine is an Arab country)…” I nodded.
“Ou Israeli khod min homeh...,” he began as he launched into a rapid lecture about the conflict.
“Aihwa,” I interjected, “fi 1948.” This pleased them.
“Ta3raf ean hadha (You know about this?).
“Na’am, fi jame3ahti badros tareekh (Yes, in my university I study History)…”.
“Qweyes, Qweyes (Good, good),” Mohammed nodded vigorously, picking the mallet up again, only to shake it at me in the next sentence. “Bas, Britainiyya khod al balad min Filistine…(But Britian took the country from the Palestinians, followed by a lot of words I couldn’t quite understand)…Ball-foor…”
“Shu yaeni Ball-foor?” What kind of new Arabic word was this? I had no idea.
“Ball-foor ism (is a name)” Mohammed insisted as if I should know this. A long pause. Then I realized:
“Oh! Balfour, the Balfour Declaration!” They both nodded then clicked their tongues, saying “Ya haram (how shameful, what a shame). And I was really glad in that moment that I was not British and thus “to blame” for the mess next-door – not that being American is much better (reputation-wise). After that followed our limited discussion of the conflict – I cited historical dates as I knew them – and a brief discussion about the American political situation.
“King Obama,” Umm Dunia said. I had to suppress a laugh, because she was quite serious.
“Uh, fi amreeka, eindna ‘president’ moush malik (In America, we have a president, not a king)…” I began.
“Aihwa, bas (the Congress picks him).”
“Aihwa, bas…,” I began again. How do I explain the presidential election, especially that strange animal, the Electoral College?
“King Abdullah, Congress, fi Urdun (picks him).” Mohammed interjected. O.k. a referendum to affirm a monarch is not a democracy.
“King Clinton, qweyes, qweyes…King Bush, moush qweyes (not good),” Khatm clicked her tongue disapprovingly.
‘Bithebbi Obama (Do you like Obama)?” I asked carefully.
“Ma baeraf,” Khatm said, shaking her head and shrugging. “Mumkin Obama, mumkin McCain.” I remember one of our lecturers a few weeks ago commented on how popular Bush had been when he was elected, but the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and his silence on other Middle East issues, namely the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, were major disappointments for Jordanians. “We never know,” Khatm concluded.
Yeah, we don’t. And I felt sad for my country.
Friday, October 17, 2008
"Now we're talking."
I just had a fifteen minute conversation with my host mother – in Arabic. Funny how when you stop struggling with the language and just let it happen, you find yourself saying words without thinking about what they mean in your native tongue. Something clicked today when conducting bilingual interviews, and when I returned home exhausted and anticipating an all-nighter for my case study, I found myself chatting and laughing over a late dinner with Khatm. I'm still far far far from fluent, of course, but I am feeling more hopeful about communication with my family. She seemed pleased, and I was truly glad. We cleared up some misunderstandings, I think, and I’m looking forward to the next several weeks. I feel like I’ve been restored to them and to the culture, somewhat, a refreshing development after the complaints in the previous entry about “coconuts”.
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, August 31, 2008
"You learn good."
30 August 2008
“You learn good.”
That construction noise outside my window must be from Spencer Hall…it’s always so hot in Courts. I open my eyes and stare at the billowing gold embroidered curtains and beyond them the mosque across the hill. I’m not in Sewanee. I’m in Jordan.
Aunt Muna walks in my bedroom while I’m engrossed in Bible study. I check my indignation, reminding myself that it’s not unusual for family members to do that here. She stares at the book and journal and my pen poised uncertainly above it. “What do you write?” I can hear the imam on the television in the living room preaching about Ramadan, what’s haram (forbidden) and what’s halal (permissible).
“Uh…notes….about…”
“About what…you do?”
“Shwee, shwee.”
Nothing like having an infidel in your house during the holiest month of the Muslim year. Muna returns to the living room, telling me to come eat.
There’s got to be some way I can show this family my willingness to learn and understand. Muna, Khatam, Mohammad and I sit awkwardly in the living room while the imam preaches; the volume is too loud. Khatm has several bowls on the table before her and begins rolling vine leaves with rice; I make my move. “Ana….(point to food, make a rolling motion with my hands)?” Khatm makes room for me on the couch and calls out for Muna to grab a plate for me while in the kitchen. She fills it with ingredients and shows me how to roll them. Muna tsks her tongue at me for my first attempt, a behemoth of waraq ‘aanab, saying “Kabhirr (too big)”. Before long, I’m a vine-leaf-rice assembly line, and Khatm laughs and pats me on the hand, saying “Oh, you learn good!” This isn’t so bad, despite the olive oil dripping all over my clothes. “You…do them.” Khatm returns to the kitchen. I must have made enough waraq ‘aanab for the Desert Army, but it was the breakthrough. Khatm called and told Dunia about it, returning periodically to inspect my progress and pat my hand. When Dunia’s family joined us for lunch, they all spoke approvingly of my work, soon devoured. So maybe not enough for the Desert Army, but enough to show them I want to learn and intend to contribute to the family. Mohammad began rifling through a drawer looking for scrap paper and a pen; turning toward me, he asked “Alpha-bet?”
“Na’am.” He sat next to me and began writing the letters, drilling me as we went. Since I’m self-taught from the typed Arabic in a textbook, my Arabic script looks like it came from a word-processor; I couldn’t read some of Mohammad’s messy letters. He then taught me two or three words for each letter, making me re-read them and interrupting at the slightest hesitation. He seemed a bit impatient with me for my inability to make the ‘ain (the I’m-about-to-vomit-gag sound) letter and the ‘ghain (something like the French ‘r’) letter; Dunia tells me he’s very anxious for me to learn Arabic. All the while three year old Yusuf was crawling over me and clipping clothes-pins in various places while Ismein, perched on a couch across the room, stared at me through binoculars. I definitely felt the “Other” in this situation. But I feel more like one of the family, especially since I’ve been granted access to the refrigerator.
“You learn good.”
That construction noise outside my window must be from Spencer Hall…it’s always so hot in Courts. I open my eyes and stare at the billowing gold embroidered curtains and beyond them the mosque across the hill. I’m not in Sewanee. I’m in Jordan.
Aunt Muna walks in my bedroom while I’m engrossed in Bible study. I check my indignation, reminding myself that it’s not unusual for family members to do that here. She stares at the book and journal and my pen poised uncertainly above it. “What do you write?” I can hear the imam on the television in the living room preaching about Ramadan, what’s haram (forbidden) and what’s halal (permissible).
“Uh…notes….about…”
“About what…you do?”
“Shwee, shwee.”
Nothing like having an infidel in your house during the holiest month of the Muslim year. Muna returns to the living room, telling me to come eat.
There’s got to be some way I can show this family my willingness to learn and understand. Muna, Khatam, Mohammad and I sit awkwardly in the living room while the imam preaches; the volume is too loud. Khatm has several bowls on the table before her and begins rolling vine leaves with rice; I make my move. “Ana….(point to food, make a rolling motion with my hands)?” Khatm makes room for me on the couch and calls out for Muna to grab a plate for me while in the kitchen. She fills it with ingredients and shows me how to roll them. Muna tsks her tongue at me for my first attempt, a behemoth of waraq ‘aanab, saying “Kabhirr (too big)”. Before long, I’m a vine-leaf-rice assembly line, and Khatm laughs and pats me on the hand, saying “Oh, you learn good!” This isn’t so bad, despite the olive oil dripping all over my clothes. “You…do them.” Khatm returns to the kitchen. I must have made enough waraq ‘aanab for the Desert Army, but it was the breakthrough. Khatm called and told Dunia about it, returning periodically to inspect my progress and pat my hand. When Dunia’s family joined us for lunch, they all spoke approvingly of my work, soon devoured. So maybe not enough for the Desert Army, but enough to show them I want to learn and intend to contribute to the family. Mohammad began rifling through a drawer looking for scrap paper and a pen; turning toward me, he asked “Alpha-bet?”
“Na’am.” He sat next to me and began writing the letters, drilling me as we went. Since I’m self-taught from the typed Arabic in a textbook, my Arabic script looks like it came from a word-processor; I couldn’t read some of Mohammad’s messy letters. He then taught me two or three words for each letter, making me re-read them and interrupting at the slightest hesitation. He seemed a bit impatient with me for my inability to make the ‘ain (the I’m-about-to-vomit-gag sound) letter and the ‘ghain (something like the French ‘r’) letter; Dunia tells me he’s very anxious for me to learn Arabic. All the while three year old Yusuf was crawling over me and clipping clothes-pins in various places while Ismein, perched on a couch across the room, stared at me through binoculars. I definitely felt the “Other” in this situation. But I feel more like one of the family, especially since I’ve been granted access to the refrigerator.
"All these songs are about the king."
29 August 2008 (evening)
“All these songs are about the king”
As Khatm swerved in and out of traffic on the way to Dunia’s house, pumping the brakes and lurching us passengers back and forth, I regretted every single fig I had eaten that afternoon. That awful wave of panic swept over me again as I realized she, Muna and Mohammad simultaneously were explaining to me how to get from their home to Abdoun and back – all in Arabic. No GPS, Google maps, Mapquest, what-have-you; Jordanians don’t use street names but vague names of districts, then landmarks (mostly buildings), and finally building numbers. If you ask about a location that’s far, they may point and say “Go right,” which you discover is only the first of many turns and streets.
Dunia’s home is a first floor flat, more luxurious than her mother’s. Of particular pride was the spacious living room; ushering me into the parlor, Aunt Muna looked at me for approval, saying “Ve-ry Amrican, no?” Surveying the “oriental” throws, pillows, couches and sheesha (Arab water pipe) in the corner as juxtaposed with the large plasma screen television and “antique” copies of Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Dicken’s Hard Times (?), I hesitated. “Uh, na’am….”. Muna nodded in agreement. The parallel cultures were a bit overwhelming.
I’ve never watched so much television in my life, as I had little choice but to sit with the family for several hours in front of the plasma; I thought we Americans exclusively had problems with excessive television use. For a few minutes we watched a music video of the Jordanian military training with an Arabic pop soundtrack; because of the mention of Palestine, for the first few minutes I was hoping we weren’t watching the Hamas or Fateh channel. It was like one of those “Army: be all you can be” recruiting commercials, only longer and more ridiculous. “All these songs are about the king,” Dunia’s husband complained as her changed the channel. Only after enduring parts of The Terminator 3, Ace Ventura, and NCIS with Arabic subtitles (were they really enjoying all this or expected me to?), was I able to escape outside to the back patio and garden. Seated on a cool stone bench, breathing in the cool, evening breeze, and munching on fresh figs and almonds from Dunia’s meager garden and a view of the city, I was back at Mercedes’ house in San Fernando, Spain (from three summers ago).
“All these songs are about the king”
As Khatm swerved in and out of traffic on the way to Dunia’s house, pumping the brakes and lurching us passengers back and forth, I regretted every single fig I had eaten that afternoon. That awful wave of panic swept over me again as I realized she, Muna and Mohammad simultaneously were explaining to me how to get from their home to Abdoun and back – all in Arabic. No GPS, Google maps, Mapquest, what-have-you; Jordanians don’t use street names but vague names of districts, then landmarks (mostly buildings), and finally building numbers. If you ask about a location that’s far, they may point and say “Go right,” which you discover is only the first of many turns and streets.
Dunia’s home is a first floor flat, more luxurious than her mother’s. Of particular pride was the spacious living room; ushering me into the parlor, Aunt Muna looked at me for approval, saying “Ve-ry Amrican, no?” Surveying the “oriental” throws, pillows, couches and sheesha (Arab water pipe) in the corner as juxtaposed with the large plasma screen television and “antique” copies of Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Dicken’s Hard Times (?), I hesitated. “Uh, na’am….”. Muna nodded in agreement. The parallel cultures were a bit overwhelming.
I’ve never watched so much television in my life, as I had little choice but to sit with the family for several hours in front of the plasma; I thought we Americans exclusively had problems with excessive television use. For a few minutes we watched a music video of the Jordanian military training with an Arabic pop soundtrack; because of the mention of Palestine, for the first few minutes I was hoping we weren’t watching the Hamas or Fateh channel. It was like one of those “Army: be all you can be” recruiting commercials, only longer and more ridiculous. “All these songs are about the king,” Dunia’s husband complained as her changed the channel. Only after enduring parts of The Terminator 3, Ace Ventura, and NCIS with Arabic subtitles (were they really enjoying all this or expected me to?), was I able to escape outside to the back patio and garden. Seated on a cool stone bench, breathing in the cool, evening breeze, and munching on fresh figs and almonds from Dunia’s meager garden and a view of the city, I was back at Mercedes’ house in San Fernando, Spain (from three summers ago).
"Shwee, shwee"
29 August 2008
“Shwee, shwee”
At some point while blogging last night, the family went out, leaving me and Aunt Muna alone for several hours. Muna is the only one willing to speak English with me, so we got along pretty well. Without her brother in law around, she removed her hijab and we chatted as much as we could in some Arab-glish (like Spanglish) over tea. Completely exhausted from jet-lag and the usual insomnia, I went to bed around nine. Around eleven, I awakened and trudged down the hall to discover the family had returned; Muna had been unable to explain meal times or what times the family sleeps. Dazed, I sat down and started munching on the unsolicited, massive falafel sandwich handed me; we watched about an hour of Noor, a Turkish soap opera which makes American soap operas seem about as dramatic as The News Hour with Jim Leher on PBS. After an hour, I couldn’t take any more Arabic weeping and shouting over Noor’s husband dying in the hospital, so I excused myself and went back to sleep, only to be awakened an hour before dawn by the muezzin in the minaret across the hill. If only the call to prayer were syndicated and synchronized across the city; I could hear the calls all across the valley below echoing for quite a while. As all the windows in the house were open, the pressure changes kept making my creaky door open and close, occasionally slamming shut and scaring me to death; it didn’t help that the family silently walked past, covered, and proceeded to chant the pre-dawn prayer. Something like culture-shock tempted me to put the pillow over my head and drown out the noise with my ipod (which I brought because I have several hours of Arabic lessons on it); instead, I lay on my back just listening until the last allahu akbar drifted off. Unbeknownst to me, the family returned to bed after prayer, and when Muna found me in the living room at eight, she was astounded I was awake so early. She gestured toward the clock: “Fi amreeka…tis’ah (nine)?” “Le, sittah.” She gaped at me. “Sittah!!” (Six a.m.?!?). I didn’t know how to say any like “I’m an insomniac,” or “I don’t get up for pre-dawn prayers”, so I just shrugged, “Shwee, shwee” (akin to “more or less”).
All the reading I completed over the summer has certainly helped, but how ridiculous some of it now seems: advice on how to dress, hide my left-handedness, what to say, etc., has been irrelevant in most cases. Across the 22 countries in the Arab world and all the different regions therein, the culture varies so much that I’d discovered the folly of dependence on any kind of standardized advice and guidebooks. With such a language barrier, I have been able to communicate very little with my family about how much of the culture I understand. They have been excited several times, saying “Oh, you know Islam!” Shwee, shwee. They seem to think I have studied Arabic in school but, the idiot that I am, cannot speak it, and insist in speaking to me only in Arabic. Mohammad’s contribution thus far has been to confirm that I do not speak Arabic (despite his suspicions), to drill me in the numbers, alphabet, phrases and vocabulary of a four year old, and to shout at me when I supplement my very limited Arabic with English, frowning and waving his hand dismissively toward me, “Le, le, le engleezi! ‘Arabi!!” Considering that he studied for eight years in the United States and knows some English (how much is hard for me to discern since he is unwilling to use it), this has been a bit frustrating. When speaking with Julia (who is living with Khatm’s daughter) and occasionally with the family, I can follow what they are saying; if they sense it, they stop and ask me if I can understand. I guess this has happened enough times that they are convinced that speaking to me only in Arabic is the way to go. Maybe so, but my head is throbbing from all this straining to understand.
The point-and-ask method has worked pretty well. “Hadha?” (“That?”). I watched about four hours of Arab television with Muna and Khatr this morning – first (some of you will find this humorous) a desert epic about the life of “Omar al’Kitab”, the fourth caliph. When I asked about Omar, Muna explained to me the sequence of caliphs and made me recite them. Insha’allah, she won’t ask me to recite them again, as I’ve already forgotten them. Then we watched about two hours of fatafeta, the food channel of the Arab world and reviewed a hodge podge of food words I know. They vociferously commented on the Chinese foods one chef prepared, laughing, frowning and turning to me saying “Le, qwayes (not good)”. I wish I knew how to say, “I’ve eaten that in China!” All the while, they were filling me with tea, coffee, and figs. I really need to learn how to politely decline. As today is Friday, we finished off the television watching with an imam (in orange tinted sunglasses and goatee, much to my amusement) from Dubai preaching about Ramadan, which, according to the phases of the moon, may come tonight or tomorrow night. As we have established that I am a Christian, I don’t know how receptive they will be to me observing the fast.
This afternoon we will lunch with Dunia’s (Khatm’s daughter) family; thankfully Julia will be there to help me out. What was I thinking coming to Jordan with only a four-year old’s spattering of Arabic?
“Shwee, shwee”
At some point while blogging last night, the family went out, leaving me and Aunt Muna alone for several hours. Muna is the only one willing to speak English with me, so we got along pretty well. Without her brother in law around, she removed her hijab and we chatted as much as we could in some Arab-glish (like Spanglish) over tea. Completely exhausted from jet-lag and the usual insomnia, I went to bed around nine. Around eleven, I awakened and trudged down the hall to discover the family had returned; Muna had been unable to explain meal times or what times the family sleeps. Dazed, I sat down and started munching on the unsolicited, massive falafel sandwich handed me; we watched about an hour of Noor, a Turkish soap opera which makes American soap operas seem about as dramatic as The News Hour with Jim Leher on PBS. After an hour, I couldn’t take any more Arabic weeping and shouting over Noor’s husband dying in the hospital, so I excused myself and went back to sleep, only to be awakened an hour before dawn by the muezzin in the minaret across the hill. If only the call to prayer were syndicated and synchronized across the city; I could hear the calls all across the valley below echoing for quite a while. As all the windows in the house were open, the pressure changes kept making my creaky door open and close, occasionally slamming shut and scaring me to death; it didn’t help that the family silently walked past, covered, and proceeded to chant the pre-dawn prayer. Something like culture-shock tempted me to put the pillow over my head and drown out the noise with my ipod (which I brought because I have several hours of Arabic lessons on it); instead, I lay on my back just listening until the last allahu akbar drifted off. Unbeknownst to me, the family returned to bed after prayer, and when Muna found me in the living room at eight, she was astounded I was awake so early. She gestured toward the clock: “Fi amreeka…tis’ah (nine)?” “Le, sittah.” She gaped at me. “Sittah!!” (Six a.m.?!?). I didn’t know how to say any like “I’m an insomniac,” or “I don’t get up for pre-dawn prayers”, so I just shrugged, “Shwee, shwee” (akin to “more or less”).
All the reading I completed over the summer has certainly helped, but how ridiculous some of it now seems: advice on how to dress, hide my left-handedness, what to say, etc., has been irrelevant in most cases. Across the 22 countries in the Arab world and all the different regions therein, the culture varies so much that I’d discovered the folly of dependence on any kind of standardized advice and guidebooks. With such a language barrier, I have been able to communicate very little with my family about how much of the culture I understand. They have been excited several times, saying “Oh, you know Islam!” Shwee, shwee. They seem to think I have studied Arabic in school but, the idiot that I am, cannot speak it, and insist in speaking to me only in Arabic. Mohammad’s contribution thus far has been to confirm that I do not speak Arabic (despite his suspicions), to drill me in the numbers, alphabet, phrases and vocabulary of a four year old, and to shout at me when I supplement my very limited Arabic with English, frowning and waving his hand dismissively toward me, “Le, le, le engleezi! ‘Arabi!!” Considering that he studied for eight years in the United States and knows some English (how much is hard for me to discern since he is unwilling to use it), this has been a bit frustrating. When speaking with Julia (who is living with Khatm’s daughter) and occasionally with the family, I can follow what they are saying; if they sense it, they stop and ask me if I can understand. I guess this has happened enough times that they are convinced that speaking to me only in Arabic is the way to go. Maybe so, but my head is throbbing from all this straining to understand.
The point-and-ask method has worked pretty well. “Hadha?” (“That?”). I watched about four hours of Arab television with Muna and Khatr this morning – first (some of you will find this humorous) a desert epic about the life of “Omar al’Kitab”, the fourth caliph. When I asked about Omar, Muna explained to me the sequence of caliphs and made me recite them. Insha’allah, she won’t ask me to recite them again, as I’ve already forgotten them. Then we watched about two hours of fatafeta, the food channel of the Arab world and reviewed a hodge podge of food words I know. They vociferously commented on the Chinese foods one chef prepared, laughing, frowning and turning to me saying “Le, qwayes (not good)”. I wish I knew how to say, “I’ve eaten that in China!” All the while, they were filling me with tea, coffee, and figs. I really need to learn how to politely decline. As today is Friday, we finished off the television watching with an imam (in orange tinted sunglasses and goatee, much to my amusement) from Dubai preaching about Ramadan, which, according to the phases of the moon, may come tonight or tomorrow night. As we have established that I am a Christian, I don’t know how receptive they will be to me observing the fast.
This afternoon we will lunch with Dunia’s (Khatm’s daughter) family; thankfully Julia will be there to help me out. What was I thinking coming to Jordan with only a four-year old’s spattering of Arabic?
"If I have to eat one more fig..."
28 August 2008
“If I have to eat one more fig…”
I kept pacing the SIT classroom while waiting for my homestay family to take me home for the weekend (Friday and Saturday) and reciting the few Arabic phrases I know. A woman in a very Western outfit stepped inside, removed her sunglasses and glanced at me; I half-stood to meet her, convinced this was my homestay mother, but she had come for another student. Then a middle-aged man with a cherubic face entered, well-dressed and grasping his hands around his prominent belly; he found his student. A stream of families came and went, many “Westernized”, some conservative. I began glancing anxiously toward Dema, the homestay coordinator, who was sitting in the opposite corner, clutching a cellphone and staring through the open doorway facing the street. Most of the students had left when a silver Mercedes drove up; a woman dressed in elegant black hijab, intricately embroidered in silver thread and beading and sporting designer sunglasses and handbag emerged from the driver’s seat. By her appearance, she seemed the most conservative and wealthy of the families I had seen, and I watched her approach with a sinking feeling in my stomach – that feeling you get the one day you don’t finish the reading for a class and you just know the professor will call on you. I gulped hard, not because of her apparent wealth or , but because I felt unprepared for this. But I’m an Anthropology student. Khatm took my hand and kissed my cheek. I should be roughing it in a tent somewhere with the natives or refugees, not upper class Jordanians.” “Asalem alaykum,” I faltered. She turned to Dema with a questioning look. Oh I’ve said it wrong, probably with an atrocious accent. I need Arabic classes to start.
Khatm tried to take my 45lb. suitcase from me. “Le, le, I’ll carry it,” I said. We slung it into the trunk with Julia’s (another SIT student) luggage (she’s living in the same district, with my host mother’s daughter), and I seated myself inside the plush vehicle. The husband, Mohammad, greeted me, and I returned the greeting. He asked me my name; I answered. Julia joined me, and she introduced herself. Then he turned to me and starting speaking rapidly. I think I just stared out of shock. I thought Dema had told my host family I didn’t speak Arabic yet. “Ana atakallam engleezi.” He didn’t seemed satisfied with that, so he asked “Tatakallam ‘arabi?” “Le, engleezi faqat.” He then turned to my classmate and asked something like, “Doesn’t she speak Arabic?” “Le, engleezi...” He gave me one last questioning glance and then proceeded to converse with my classmate (who studied in Morocco this summer).
After a maze of streets winding upward through Amman, I noticed we had entered a different sort of district than Abdoun. Affluent, still, but less “Western”. Almost all the women we passed were wearing hijab or niqab (showing only the eyes). Khatm’s home is a flat on a hillside on the outskirts of the district, overlooking some new development in Amman; we pulled into a parking area and entered their third floor flat. Its deep crimsons and metallic accents lent a warmth to the room, like the smell of cardamom. All the rooms are furnished elegantly, and I was quite embarrassed at my unsuppressed gasp upon entering. That little gasp was followed by the breaking of glass a few feet, a harsh whisper, and I noticed a domestic servant, perhaps a Filippino girl around my age wearing hijab and blue jeans, sweeping it up with downcast eyes. On SIT’s homestay information sheet, I’m advised to neither “overwork the maid” nor to “enter-fair” (interfere). Recently the Jordan Times carried an article discussing the thousands of Filippino and Indonesian workers essentially imported to be domestic servants in wealthy homes. While I don’t intend to “enter-fair”, I would be interested in pursuing this issue.
Julia and I were quickly directed to a dining room where a table was set with food and freshly squeezed orange juice. The flat was overflowing with family members, who, we soon learned, were there to celebrate my host mother’s birthday. Curiously enough she had spent the day preparing all the food for her own celebration and soon retreated into her room for the rest of the afternoon while Julia and I had more food pushed on us (out of a spirit of hospitality) than we cared to eat. Eat slowly, eat slowly. Dunia is putting more food on my plate.
The only reference to help my host family understand, geographically, where I’m from was on the television – The Biggest Loser program had a map of the states. Alabama as the home of morbidly obese Americans didn’t convey quite the idea I had in mind. Their daughter, Dunia, speaks English quite well from the eight years the family lived in the U.S., and she was pleased to find out that I’m open to eating anything they wish to prepare. Beginning with our common experience as two only daughters, we conversed much more than I expected during their visit (unlike her parents and aunt, Dunia and her family use English frequently as their four young children learn it in school). But after her family left with Julia in tow, I realized that I am alone in a gated flat in a maze of quickly darkening streets in Amman with three still-strangers who insist on speaking to me in 90% Arabic, 10% broken English. So I’m alternatively looking up phrases in my Arabic dictionary, staring out the window at the desolate countryside, reading Abu –Lughod’s ethnograpy (Veiled Sentiments) about Egyptian Bedouin, and wondering how not to appear like a recluse over the next two days until I can start learning some much needed Arabic. I’ve already picked up some of it by listening, which was part of Mohammad’s confusion earlier; in the car I was obviously following his discussion with Julia about Morocco and he again asked if I had studied Arabic at school. I’m in this weird position of having taught myself to write it, make the sounds, and a few phrases and some vocabulary, but I can’t say I’ve studied it formally, which adds to the confusion. Mohammad just appeared in my doorway, glanced at my computer, and then gesturing toward a small entertainment center in my bedroom, asked if I “like television”; I don’t know whether he finds it odd that as an American, I’m not watching the television, or as a Jordanian, it’s what he expects of everyone. Another relative just asked me about the whereabouts of my host mother. I’m a bit confused about what’s expected of me socially. Perhaps I should rejoin them for more Turkish soap operas on the huge plasma screen television in the living room.
The next two days should be very interesting.
“If I have to eat one more fig…”
I kept pacing the SIT classroom while waiting for my homestay family to take me home for the weekend (Friday and Saturday) and reciting the few Arabic phrases I know. A woman in a very Western outfit stepped inside, removed her sunglasses and glanced at me; I half-stood to meet her, convinced this was my homestay mother, but she had come for another student. Then a middle-aged man with a cherubic face entered, well-dressed and grasping his hands around his prominent belly; he found his student. A stream of families came and went, many “Westernized”, some conservative. I began glancing anxiously toward Dema, the homestay coordinator, who was sitting in the opposite corner, clutching a cellphone and staring through the open doorway facing the street. Most of the students had left when a silver Mercedes drove up; a woman dressed in elegant black hijab, intricately embroidered in silver thread and beading and sporting designer sunglasses and handbag emerged from the driver’s seat. By her appearance, she seemed the most conservative and wealthy of the families I had seen, and I watched her approach with a sinking feeling in my stomach – that feeling you get the one day you don’t finish the reading for a class and you just know the professor will call on you. I gulped hard, not because of her apparent wealth or , but because I felt unprepared for this. But I’m an Anthropology student. Khatm took my hand and kissed my cheek. I should be roughing it in a tent somewhere with the natives or refugees, not upper class Jordanians.” “Asalem alaykum,” I faltered. She turned to Dema with a questioning look. Oh I’ve said it wrong, probably with an atrocious accent. I need Arabic classes to start.
Khatm tried to take my 45lb. suitcase from me. “Le, le, I’ll carry it,” I said. We slung it into the trunk with Julia’s (another SIT student) luggage (she’s living in the same district, with my host mother’s daughter), and I seated myself inside the plush vehicle. The husband, Mohammad, greeted me, and I returned the greeting. He asked me my name; I answered. Julia joined me, and she introduced herself. Then he turned to me and starting speaking rapidly. I think I just stared out of shock. I thought Dema had told my host family I didn’t speak Arabic yet. “Ana atakallam engleezi.” He didn’t seemed satisfied with that, so he asked “Tatakallam ‘arabi?” “Le, engleezi faqat.” He then turned to my classmate and asked something like, “Doesn’t she speak Arabic?” “Le, engleezi...” He gave me one last questioning glance and then proceeded to converse with my classmate (who studied in Morocco this summer).
After a maze of streets winding upward through Amman, I noticed we had entered a different sort of district than Abdoun. Affluent, still, but less “Western”. Almost all the women we passed were wearing hijab or niqab (showing only the eyes). Khatm’s home is a flat on a hillside on the outskirts of the district, overlooking some new development in Amman; we pulled into a parking area and entered their third floor flat. Its deep crimsons and metallic accents lent a warmth to the room, like the smell of cardamom. All the rooms are furnished elegantly, and I was quite embarrassed at my unsuppressed gasp upon entering. That little gasp was followed by the breaking of glass a few feet, a harsh whisper, and I noticed a domestic servant, perhaps a Filippino girl around my age wearing hijab and blue jeans, sweeping it up with downcast eyes. On SIT’s homestay information sheet, I’m advised to neither “overwork the maid” nor to “enter-fair” (interfere). Recently the Jordan Times carried an article discussing the thousands of Filippino and Indonesian workers essentially imported to be domestic servants in wealthy homes. While I don’t intend to “enter-fair”, I would be interested in pursuing this issue.
Julia and I were quickly directed to a dining room where a table was set with food and freshly squeezed orange juice. The flat was overflowing with family members, who, we soon learned, were there to celebrate my host mother’s birthday. Curiously enough she had spent the day preparing all the food for her own celebration and soon retreated into her room for the rest of the afternoon while Julia and I had more food pushed on us (out of a spirit of hospitality) than we cared to eat. Eat slowly, eat slowly. Dunia is putting more food on my plate.
The only reference to help my host family understand, geographically, where I’m from was on the television – The Biggest Loser program had a map of the states. Alabama as the home of morbidly obese Americans didn’t convey quite the idea I had in mind. Their daughter, Dunia, speaks English quite well from the eight years the family lived in the U.S., and she was pleased to find out that I’m open to eating anything they wish to prepare. Beginning with our common experience as two only daughters, we conversed much more than I expected during their visit (unlike her parents and aunt, Dunia and her family use English frequently as their four young children learn it in school). But after her family left with Julia in tow, I realized that I am alone in a gated flat in a maze of quickly darkening streets in Amman with three still-strangers who insist on speaking to me in 90% Arabic, 10% broken English. So I’m alternatively looking up phrases in my Arabic dictionary, staring out the window at the desolate countryside, reading Abu –Lughod’s ethnograpy (Veiled Sentiments) about Egyptian Bedouin, and wondering how not to appear like a recluse over the next two days until I can start learning some much needed Arabic. I’ve already picked up some of it by listening, which was part of Mohammad’s confusion earlier; in the car I was obviously following his discussion with Julia about Morocco and he again asked if I had studied Arabic at school. I’m in this weird position of having taught myself to write it, make the sounds, and a few phrases and some vocabulary, but I can’t say I’ve studied it formally, which adds to the confusion. Mohammad just appeared in my doorway, glanced at my computer, and then gesturing toward a small entertainment center in my bedroom, asked if I “like television”; I don’t know whether he finds it odd that as an American, I’m not watching the television, or as a Jordanian, it’s what he expects of everyone. Another relative just asked me about the whereabouts of my host mother. I’m a bit confused about what’s expected of me socially. Perhaps I should rejoin them for more Turkish soap operas on the huge plasma screen television in the living room.
The next two days should be very interesting.
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