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.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
It's been a while since my last post. In my study abroad program, the month of November is for conducting an independent study project. Because of the politically and socially sensitive nature of my research topic, female migrant workers in Jordan, I have decided not to publish posts about it. Perhaps after the completion of the study I may be able to share more about the research. Thanks for your patience and understanding. I may still have posts about other topics during these last couple of weeks, provided I have time.
As much as I have enjoyed this experience in Jordan, I am beginning to anticipate returning home next month. I've missed you all!
As much as I have enjoyed this experience in Jordan, I am beginning to anticipate returning home next month. I've missed you all!
Friday, October 31, 2008
A note on blog comments
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”.
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”.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Of Koffiyas and Chick-fil-A
29 October 2008
Of Koffiyas and Chick-fil-A
I was somewhere in Nigeria, commiserating with anthropologist Laura Bohannan when I quite unexpectedly heard a familiar accent – familiar in the most literal sense of the word. I jerked my head up from Return to Laughter to study the group of laughing, chatttering Americans coming up the café steps toward me; the middle-aged man in front, presumably their leader as he thereafter presided over their informal meeting in the upper room of Bless café in Abdoun, spoke with a warm Southern twang which I hadn’t heard since I left Alabama; he sounded, in fact, just like my family. And he said “ya’ll”; I was thrilled beyond words.
For some time I sat with pg. 27 open before me, mechanically scanning the words without reading them, listening intently to the conversation of the 15 or so Americans. They used a churchy jargon with which I was familiar; if one were to seek out such a group in Jordan, Bless café would be the place to find them. They spoke of shared experiences in the field, but in a very different sort of field than the one in which the anthropologist works; they mentioned a name which I’d heard before, an American missionary imprisoned who shared her story with me in person, whose story had been a spark to the kindling of my interest in the region, though of a very different sort of interest. Now things had come full circle.
The leader stood up and moved past me; I could no longer resist. “Excuse me, sir,” I spun around to face him as he passed. “Would you mind telling me where ya’ll are from.”
His serious eyes brightened at my use of “ya’ll”. “We’re mostly from the States,” he began. “I live in Atlanta….” “I knew you were a Southerner!” I exclaimed. Then I checked my excitement. “I’m sorry, I was so curious when I heard the accent. It sounded so familiar.”
“But,” he continued, “I was born and raised in Birmingham.”
“I’m from Birmingham!” I nearly shouted. I never realized I’d ever claim that city, or the South much less, but I was so glad to hear their Southern speech, I couldn’t suppress my enthusiasm. The leader inquired about my study abroad, my University back home, and then he excused himself, only to return a moment later.
“Being from Birmingham, I guess you know Chick-fil-A…” he said dryly as he handed me a free chicken sandwich card. I stared at it, mouth agape. Chick-fil-A, that moral bastion of fast-food chains revered by my family and every other patriotic, religious Southerner. I remembered from early childhood all those Sundays when we passed the restaurant after church services, my father solemnly and approvingly pointing to it and commenting on it being closed “to respect the Sabbath”.
So Chick-fil-A, bastion of morally-inclined business, has come to Jordan – to lead a seminar about women in business, no less. I smiled half-heartedly at the group as they passed by my table, feeling somehow estranged from them as much as I identified with the accent. Again I stared at the card in my hand. I put it away and thoughtfully fingered the fringe on my koffiyah (the traditional Arab head-scarf for men, now donned by hipsters as a trendy scarf). The young people chattering and sipping coffee around me had draped koffiyahs about their necks and shoulders various ways and in some ways I felt closer to them than the Americans I had just encountered. Already I feel caught between the two cultures; already I’m apprehensive about re-entry and readjustment. But I think that free chicken sandwich might facilitate readjustment.
Of Koffiyas and Chick-fil-A
I was somewhere in Nigeria, commiserating with anthropologist Laura Bohannan when I quite unexpectedly heard a familiar accent – familiar in the most literal sense of the word. I jerked my head up from Return to Laughter to study the group of laughing, chatttering Americans coming up the café steps toward me; the middle-aged man in front, presumably their leader as he thereafter presided over their informal meeting in the upper room of Bless café in Abdoun, spoke with a warm Southern twang which I hadn’t heard since I left Alabama; he sounded, in fact, just like my family. And he said “ya’ll”; I was thrilled beyond words.
For some time I sat with pg. 27 open before me, mechanically scanning the words without reading them, listening intently to the conversation of the 15 or so Americans. They used a churchy jargon with which I was familiar; if one were to seek out such a group in Jordan, Bless café would be the place to find them. They spoke of shared experiences in the field, but in a very different sort of field than the one in which the anthropologist works; they mentioned a name which I’d heard before, an American missionary imprisoned who shared her story with me in person, whose story had been a spark to the kindling of my interest in the region, though of a very different sort of interest. Now things had come full circle.
The leader stood up and moved past me; I could no longer resist. “Excuse me, sir,” I spun around to face him as he passed. “Would you mind telling me where ya’ll are from.”
His serious eyes brightened at my use of “ya’ll”. “We’re mostly from the States,” he began. “I live in Atlanta….” “I knew you were a Southerner!” I exclaimed. Then I checked my excitement. “I’m sorry, I was so curious when I heard the accent. It sounded so familiar.”
“But,” he continued, “I was born and raised in Birmingham.”
“I’m from Birmingham!” I nearly shouted. I never realized I’d ever claim that city, or the South much less, but I was so glad to hear their Southern speech, I couldn’t suppress my enthusiasm. The leader inquired about my study abroad, my University back home, and then he excused himself, only to return a moment later.
“Being from Birmingham, I guess you know Chick-fil-A…” he said dryly as he handed me a free chicken sandwich card. I stared at it, mouth agape. Chick-fil-A, that moral bastion of fast-food chains revered by my family and every other patriotic, religious Southerner. I remembered from early childhood all those Sundays when we passed the restaurant after church services, my father solemnly and approvingly pointing to it and commenting on it being closed “to respect the Sabbath”.
So Chick-fil-A, bastion of morally-inclined business, has come to Jordan – to lead a seminar about women in business, no less. I smiled half-heartedly at the group as they passed by my table, feeling somehow estranged from them as much as I identified with the accent. Again I stared at the card in my hand. I put it away and thoughtfully fingered the fringe on my koffiyah (the traditional Arab head-scarf for men, now donned by hipsters as a trendy scarf). The young people chattering and sipping coffee around me had draped koffiyahs about their necks and shoulders various ways and in some ways I felt closer to them than the Americans I had just encountered. Already I feel caught between the two cultures; already I’m apprehensive about re-entry and readjustment. But I think that free chicken sandwich might facilitate readjustment.
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 24, 2008
"View --> "
24 October 2008
And boy, was it a view.
You won’t find Petra in this photo. It’s far behind me, far below, somewhere back there with Indiana Jones. Here I looked not to a travel book or a tour guide, but to these barren, perilous cliffs and their ancient sacrificial high places - to the wilderness before me to read there about the history behind me. If you want the kind of history you can read about in a textbook, then look up Wikipedia’s entry (or some other encyclopedic source). History is not set in stone, not even in Petra: we can clamber over it, breathe it in, examine it – experience the environment from which it comes – for ourselves.
“View –>”
It’s hard to avoid being told when and where to look and what to photograph when you’re a tourist. Why I should photograph the Roman columns of Jerash soaring above me at the most extreme angle (achieved by lying on one’s back beneath them and pointing the camera upward) or why I should “walk like an Egyptian” in front of the Great Pyramid is beyond me. Why we all take those silly photos of each other holding up or smashing between our fingers various buildings or places of historical interest, or simply standing in front of them, possessing them proudly, donning our fanny packs and floppy sun hats like conquerors – I’ll never fully understand. Sure, there were plenty of those shots in Petra, the “rose-red city half as old as time” in Southern Jordan, and inevitably they are now living in my camera. I can search “Petra” on Google images and find every single one of them.
Perhaps the most superfluous of photographic suggestions came after trekking a couple hours through the city, up approximately 800 stone “steps” to the Monastery and beyond to the mountaintops above it was this one:
It’s hard to avoid being told when and where to look and what to photograph when you’re a tourist. Why I should photograph the Roman columns of Jerash soaring above me at the most extreme angle (achieved by lying on one’s back beneath them and pointing the camera upward) or why I should “walk like an Egyptian” in front of the Great Pyramid is beyond me. Why we all take those silly photos of each other holding up or smashing between our fingers various buildings or places of historical interest, or simply standing in front of them, possessing them proudly, donning our fanny packs and floppy sun hats like conquerors – I’ll never fully understand. Sure, there were plenty of those shots in Petra, the “rose-red city half as old as time” in Southern Jordan, and inevitably they are now living in my camera. I can search “Petra” on Google images and find every single one of them.
Perhaps the most superfluous of photographic suggestions came after trekking a couple hours through the city, up approximately 800 stone “steps” to the Monastery and beyond to the mountaintops above it was this one:
And boy, was it a view.
You won’t find Petra in this photo. It’s far behind me, far below, somewhere back there with Indiana Jones. Here I looked not to a travel book or a tour guide, but to these barren, perilous cliffs and their ancient sacrificial high places - to the wilderness before me to read there about the history behind me. If you want the kind of history you can read about in a textbook, then look up Wikipedia’s entry (or some other encyclopedic source). History is not set in stone, not even in Petra: we can clamber over it, breathe it in, examine it – experience the environment from which it comes – for ourselves.
"He has set a tent for the sun."
24 October 2008
“He has set a tent for the sun.”
It’s 5:25 A.M. Why am I awake? A high pitched, tingling buzz tickles my ear. I swat madly in the dark and then jerk the sheet over my head. Namous (mosquitoes)…curse them! In the next room, Mohammad’s crackling prayer breaks the pre-dawn silence, as per usual. Moan and roll over, roll over, roll over. My hair smells of last night at the Blue Fig – cigarette smoke and spirits. Smells like Abdoun, that wealthy Western district of Amman, home to my study abroad school and to embassies; Abdoun - territory of expats and the most “unlocal of locals”. It smells like defeat – that feeling of shock when I returned yesterday from the one of the most refreshing times of peace and growth in my life to Amman, to a household of inquisitive kids, disgruntled family members, maltreated domestic helpers, cigarette smoke, greasy foods, traffic jams. Defeat – that an hour later as the sun begins to invade the gap in the curtains and my puffy eyelids, I curse the sun. How can the sunrise be so beautiful in the desert and so dull, a nuisance even, back in Amman? A vacuum cleaner rolls and bumps down the hardwood floor hallway, choking as it is turned on. I groan and jerk the blanket over the sheets. I can’t escape my impending research study, even in my own “home” – there are thousands of maids all over Amman. Now one of them is outside my bedroom door scrubbing the rug; undoubtedly she’ll work until late this evening. I punch my pillow and get up, giving up. Standing uncertainly in my pajamas, I stare blankly out the window and to the horizon where the northern outskirts of Amman meet the desert. Somehow I have to reconcile this. Nowhere to go but back to sleep/ But I am reconciled – I’m gonna be up for a while…
*****
“I haven’t had this much (American) coffee in…a long time,” I say as I swirl the cup in my oversized (maybe 20 ounces) mug. “I feel…normal. Alive, actually.”
“I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” Katia says, looking up from her laptop and frowning. Well, things have reached a new low - Books@Cafe: the yuppiest of cafes in Rainbow Street - a welcome retreat from another episode of being secluded in my room, once again excluded deliberately from a host-family gathering. But this time instead of meekly agreeing, I excuse myself abruptly and catch a taxi to this haunt of study abroad students, expats, and tourists – and the “unlocal locals”. And I feel guilty about it.
“I just don’t get it,” I begin. “Just this morning I watched an hour of home-videos with them and asked questions in my limited Arabic…don’t they see I want to be integrated into the family?”
“I think you’re being treated like a source of income,” says Elaine, smugly, as this “confirms” her suspicions. Maybe we’ve all been a bit touchy since The Jordan Times (the English daily) ran an article about “Jordanian families graciously opening up their homes to foreign students.” In it we discovered how much our families are paid (out of the money we students/parents paid our study abroad program), and that some families complain we students are “unhygienic”. Granted, I can understand that the concept of toilet paper is pretty disgusting as opposed to rinsing; I can understand showering less to conserve water in a water-poor country; I have yet to appreciate the moldy pita episode and many other culturally acceptable practices (see earlier entry “Give us this day our daily bread.”)
“I don’t know, they’ve been so nice in general,” I begin in my host-family’s defense, as the waitress places an incredibly thick burger on the table in front of me. If I didn’t feel guilty before, I certainly do now. It’s a familiar, delicious smell I haven’t smelled (or tasted) since I’ve been in Jordan, two months to the day. But it also smells like defeat.
But the home videos were lovely…a wedding for one of my home-stay cousins. The bride’s face reflected the radiant joy beaming from her groom’s face…
*****
The sun is setting, the clouds streaked pink across the golden sky, as I take a taxi back home, leaving yuppy Books@Cafe behind, alhamdulillah. It’s beautiful again, this sunset. Somewhere many miles south in the Dana Nature Reserve is a boulder on a hilltop where I sat two sunsets previous, listening to the raw power of a call to prayer echoing through the jagged mountains and in the valley as far as I can see; it resonates in my soul.
“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words, whose voice is not heard. Their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them he has set a tent for the sun, which comes out like a bridegroom leaving his chamber, and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy. Its rising is from the end of the heavens, and its circuit to the end of them, and there is nothing hidden from its heat.” Psalm 19: 1 – 6.
“He has set a tent for the sun.”
It’s 5:25 A.M. Why am I awake? A high pitched, tingling buzz tickles my ear. I swat madly in the dark and then jerk the sheet over my head. Namous (mosquitoes)…curse them! In the next room, Mohammad’s crackling prayer breaks the pre-dawn silence, as per usual. Moan and roll over, roll over, roll over. My hair smells of last night at the Blue Fig – cigarette smoke and spirits. Smells like Abdoun, that wealthy Western district of Amman, home to my study abroad school and to embassies; Abdoun - territory of expats and the most “unlocal of locals”. It smells like defeat – that feeling of shock when I returned yesterday from the one of the most refreshing times of peace and growth in my life to Amman, to a household of inquisitive kids, disgruntled family members, maltreated domestic helpers, cigarette smoke, greasy foods, traffic jams. Defeat – that an hour later as the sun begins to invade the gap in the curtains and my puffy eyelids, I curse the sun. How can the sunrise be so beautiful in the desert and so dull, a nuisance even, back in Amman? A vacuum cleaner rolls and bumps down the hardwood floor hallway, choking as it is turned on. I groan and jerk the blanket over the sheets. I can’t escape my impending research study, even in my own “home” – there are thousands of maids all over Amman. Now one of them is outside my bedroom door scrubbing the rug; undoubtedly she’ll work until late this evening. I punch my pillow and get up, giving up. Standing uncertainly in my pajamas, I stare blankly out the window and to the horizon where the northern outskirts of Amman meet the desert. Somehow I have to reconcile this. Nowhere to go but back to sleep/ But I am reconciled – I’m gonna be up for a while…
*****
“I haven’t had this much (American) coffee in…a long time,” I say as I swirl the cup in my oversized (maybe 20 ounces) mug. “I feel…normal. Alive, actually.”
“I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” Katia says, looking up from her laptop and frowning. Well, things have reached a new low - Books@Cafe: the yuppiest of cafes in Rainbow Street - a welcome retreat from another episode of being secluded in my room, once again excluded deliberately from a host-family gathering. But this time instead of meekly agreeing, I excuse myself abruptly and catch a taxi to this haunt of study abroad students, expats, and tourists – and the “unlocal locals”. And I feel guilty about it.
“I just don’t get it,” I begin. “Just this morning I watched an hour of home-videos with them and asked questions in my limited Arabic…don’t they see I want to be integrated into the family?”
“I think you’re being treated like a source of income,” says Elaine, smugly, as this “confirms” her suspicions. Maybe we’ve all been a bit touchy since The Jordan Times (the English daily) ran an article about “Jordanian families graciously opening up their homes to foreign students.” In it we discovered how much our families are paid (out of the money we students/parents paid our study abroad program), and that some families complain we students are “unhygienic”. Granted, I can understand that the concept of toilet paper is pretty disgusting as opposed to rinsing; I can understand showering less to conserve water in a water-poor country; I have yet to appreciate the moldy pita episode and many other culturally acceptable practices (see earlier entry “Give us this day our daily bread.”)
“I don’t know, they’ve been so nice in general,” I begin in my host-family’s defense, as the waitress places an incredibly thick burger on the table in front of me. If I didn’t feel guilty before, I certainly do now. It’s a familiar, delicious smell I haven’t smelled (or tasted) since I’ve been in Jordan, two months to the day. But it also smells like defeat.
But the home videos were lovely…a wedding for one of my home-stay cousins. The bride’s face reflected the radiant joy beaming from her groom’s face…
*****
The sun is setting, the clouds streaked pink across the golden sky, as I take a taxi back home, leaving yuppy Books@Cafe behind, alhamdulillah. It’s beautiful again, this sunset. Somewhere many miles south in the Dana Nature Reserve is a boulder on a hilltop where I sat two sunsets previous, listening to the raw power of a call to prayer echoing through the jagged mountains and in the valley as far as I can see; it resonates in my soul.
“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words, whose voice is not heard. Their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them he has set a tent for the sun, which comes out like a bridegroom leaving his chamber, and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy. Its rising is from the end of the heavens, and its circuit to the end of them, and there is nothing hidden from its heat.” Psalm 19: 1 – 6.
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