The End Is Near

It's hard to believe that I've been away from home for nearly three months now, mostly because this experience has almost wholly been defined by a fickle sense of endlessness and brevity. And with only two weeks left, I'm thoroughly ready to go back home, yet all the while, I miss this place that I haven't even left.

My friends and I have (mis)spent countless hours blissfully thinking of the things we'll do upon our arrival back on U.S. soil. But I'm honestly at a loss. Of course, I will hug and kiss the family and friends I have missed with an intensity I couldn't have anticipated. For sure, I will irresponsibly gorge on foods loaded with processed sugar, high-fructose corn syrup, and pasteurized milk that my American taste buds have long since craved. But aside from those savory embraces and that loving gluttony, I'm not sure what else I'll do.

When I reflect on this uncertainty, I realize it's not a consequence of my youthful apathy or a nullifying zeal, but instead it comes from an appreciation for living that I've learned here. Of course, I've always appreciated life, growing up in a region of the country where most people are self-proclaimed "pro-life(rs)" and then going to school in a region of the country where most people are anti-war and anti-death penalty, it would have been impossible for some sense of that love of life not to rub off on me. Yet, the main difference between the U.S.'s reactionary pro-lifers and rabid peace-lovers and the Jordanians I've met can be summed up in the following scheme: process/means driven vs. results/end driven; appreciating living vs. appreciating life.

These various activists in the U.S., purportedly concerned with life, think of it as some sort of lofty ideal, an intellectual concept that must be safe-guarded against the treacherously debilitating forces of radical, baby-eating abortionists or unscrupulous, profit-driven war hawks. All the while they forget the fun in living. The joy in the ride.

Take for example a debateably insightful illustration of this Jordanian living vs. American life paradigm--road rules.

A few days ago, my friends and I went on a road trip from Jordan's most populated city, Amman, to Jordan's southern most tip, Aqaba. While I had accompanied many a taxi driver on the seemingly unregulated Jordanian roads, this was my first time driving on them, and experience was my only teacher. So we pack our luggage, food, and eager bodies into the car and shove off. My friend takes the wheel first, driving us to our first and most important destination--Kalha, House of All Things Deliciously Falafel. We get the essentials--hummus, fool (a bean-based dish), and 20 savory falafel balls, all to accompany the bread we bought the day before. Now, we are officially ready.

At some point, I start driving. And it was then that I came to a striking realization. Soon after I had assumed the wheel, my friend who was visiting from France, unused to Jordanian driving customs, anxiously chuckled, "Tony, are you gonna drive inside the lines."

Somewhat surprised, I reply, "No. We don't really do that here." And it's true. All manner of drivers--taxi, truck, bus, everyday average citizen, pay no attention to lines and make scarce use of car signals.



It seemed like a trivial cultural note at first but then, driving on the way back, I began to reflect. I noticed a car in front of me who was driving in the middle of two lanes, drifting left and right as it made its way down the road along with the rest of the busy parade. I tried to imagine myself, strolling down the lazy streets of Memphis with similarly unconcerned leisure, drifting left and right as the humidity floods into my open car windows, splashing against my sweaty face, and I soon realized that in such a scenario, I would almost immediately be pulled over by a lurking police car and subsequently forced to wait for a minimum of 30 minutes as the officer and the back-up he or she had defaultly called collect my information and check my record. And why? Because driving in the middle of the street is unsafe of course. Always stay inside the lines and push forward expeditiously. It's vital for our well-being. That is unless you live in Jordan apparently.

So in closing, I think the first thing I'll do when I get back to the states is talk to friends, read some books, and maybe, in the words of the flower-children who came decades before me, go discover America. But don't worry, I'll drive inside the lines.

The South Will Rise Again

This is the long overdue entry about my incredible trip to Southern Jordan. In some surprising and interesting ways it reminded me of the southern United States--there were beaches, people holding onto a history that has long since past, and just generally beautiful scenery. Each of the places we visited is hugely important to Jordanian history, culture, and livelihood. What follows is a condensed version of my take on each place and a brief description of what the preceding, cryptic intro actually means.



Petra-home to one of the oldest, greatest, and least known (at least insofar as I was concerned) civilizations in the history of the Ancient World. It seems that the tombs, monuments, and homes painstakingly carved out of the majestic boulders surrounding this area were once alive with the urban hustle and bustle of the millenia old Nabatean people. We commemorate their legacy of innovation and creativity by trampling on their ruins, littering on their streets, and growing trinket-shops in every fortified nook and cranny that can accommodate them--for real, these shops eek out of Petra's walls like some sort of pernicious weed who thrives not on sun and water but the starry-eyed ignorance of enthusiastic tourists.

However, don't think me a pure cynic. It was truly amazing to have had the opportunity to walk in the places that people walked in the early years before JC. In order to beat the crowds, we scraped ourselves out of bed before the sun had risen to ease our wake. We threw on some clothes, rolled ourselves down the stairs, and began the long trek through Petra. With the lukewarm, early morning sun on our backs we combed through the narrow stone paths and beaten walkways the Nabateans had so kindly prepared for us. At 6 o'clock, Petra wasn't teeming with its 21st century permutation of urban life. The only people to be seen, were my daring SIT compatriots and I, two other tourists, and the groggy trinket-shop owners who rose to greet their prospective customers. (*A note: the shop owners we saw were rising from sleeping bags sprawled out on their shop floors. Apparently, after the Nabatean people left Petra, they were replaced by nearby Bedouin communities. Athirst for places to live and spaces for their grazing livestock, they moved here. However, the Jordanian government, likely under the prodding of UNESCO and various tourist agencies, wanted the Bedouin out. So, they built them houses, all complete with the same standardized, indistinguishable, and purely functional government aesthetic that defines all public housing, just outside of Petra. Still, as we walked, smells of biological waste, assumedly both human and animal, and sights of the aforementioned sleeping bags made it quite clear that not everyone was taking (could take?) advantage of the King's generosity.) Being 'alone' amongst the natural and artistic beauty Petra had to offer was truly amazing. We walked; we climbed; we rested; we gazed; we soaked up; we breathed in; we sat; in silence.

On the way down, the number of tourists chasing after the vistas we had just enjoyed had multiplied exponentially. Given the narrow paths the Nabateans had forged for us, we were forced into awkward close encounters with our fellow sight-seekers. Growing up in a culture of obligatory courtesy, I felt painfully uncomfortable passing by strangers at only a distance of a few inches and not saying 'hello.' However, I was presented with a dilemma. Billions of tourists visit Petra every year from billions of different places. So for a while I decided I would just stick with the warm and hospitable Arabic "sabah al-khair." However, I soon realized that hardly anyone knew what I was saying. Stubbornly determined to be cordial with the fair-skinned passersby, I began to just rattle off every greeting I knew in an Indo-European language. "Hello; bonjour; buenos dias; guten tag"--they were all up for grabs really. Yet, alas, I elicited only laughs in response.

Soon we reached back to the main area and were greeted by an elaborate carnival of tired camels, smiling tourists sporting lavish kuffiehs, fully decked out Bedouins, Roman guards carrying severely plastic swords, and loudly eager salesman. It seemed like every group of people muddled together in this mass of commerce, exotification, and exploitation was in competition with the others to see who could produce the most ridiculously authentic parody of themselves. I think it's pretty indisputable that the Bedouins and the Roman guards won, everyone wanted a picture with them.




Dana Nature Reserve: "Dont pick up rocks, dont pick flowers, the creatures below them serve us"--these were some of the first words we heard upon our arrival to Dana, a beautifully preserved stretch of Jordanian land. At first, the restrictions that guided our every move felt like unnecessary steel bars blocking our path to discovering the nature surrounding us. However, once I sat to enjoy this land and talked with the people who work tirelessly to conserve and preserve it, I realized how fragile it truly is. The picture you see here is just a clumsy digital reproduction of just one of the many breathtaking vistas that surrounded our camp site. In this one picture you can see more than four different geological formations, countless types of flora and fauna, and just one piece of the ecological system that encapsulates it all.

During the day, my friends and I walked around looking and not touching the nature that surrounded us. We followed the guided tour led by a few strategically placed rocks and sticks; however, we got off the 'gently disturbed' path a few times to sit on some rocks and chat about life. It was here, in these moments, that I found an unexpectedly profound sense of connection to my friends and the scenery that housed us. It was then that the once seemingly unnecessary impediments to our own self-lead discovery became critically important shields protecting and guiding both us and nature to a place of harmony and coexistence. Really, you need to check this place out. Perhaps then these words would seem less corny.





Aqaba-Basically Aqaba is the Jordanian equivalent of Destin, Florida. A burgeoning sea-town for tourists both Jordanian and foreign alike, as I walked through Aqaba I got the strangest feeling that I was in a different country. The palm trees, salty air, and vast stretches of beach transported me from the predominantly desert country I had been living in and took me to a place where I could get delicious fruit juice and cheap fish in the same place.

Almost immediately after our arrival we went for a watery adventure. It was here, snorkeling along the world-famous coral reefs of the Red Sea that I met the cast of Finding Nemo. When we first dove into the icy Red sea waters, off the side of our faithful Glass Boat (called such b/c of the glass square on the boat's underbelly that allowed passengers a goggle-like view of the sea floor beneath them), we couldn't see much. Swimming around in circles, never straying too far from the boat for fear of being sucked into the busy propeller of a rival boat, we floated around oogling the colorful sea floor too far to examine closely. However, soon, some of our Aqaban sea-mates offered to take us to where the coral really shines. Following closely behind the bubbles of our able and knowledgeable skippers we begin to see the reef inching closer and closer to the bare feet propelling us forward. Soon, we find our selves floating only feet above a mosaic of rocks, inanimate animals, dancing anemone, hesitant fish, and brave coral. We can see rough, jagged scars torn through the reef, permanent memories of where indiscriminate boat propellers pillaged an ecosystem.

If there's one thing that this trip confirmed for me it's that finding beauty both unblemished and natural is near impossible.



Wadi-Rum-was no exception to this pithy aphorism. But because the face of Wadi Rum is naturally both mutable with the forgiveness of sand and jagged with stature of rock, the history of human contact with this area is not written on its surface but in the minds of local community members who have seen the area transform in the wake of budding tourism. Here we stayed in a mock-Bedouin tent site. We were served meals prepared with special ingredients and purportedly centuries old tradition, cooked in a sort of Dutch oven-style. The pot containing the veritable banquet we were served that night was buried deep under the sand. Its unveiling was a spectacular event. I think, perhaps for a brief moment, the simultaneous barrage of our camera flashes created a premature dawn in the deep darkness of the Wadi night.

We slept in tents arranged in a neat little semi-circle concluding at a sort of apex with the majestic Bait Shar--a grand daddy tent, elaborately decorated with traditional Bedouin fabrics and furniture. It reminded me very much of the Badia. However, there were a few striking differences. For example! In door plumbing--even though we were living in tents and cooking our food in sand, the bathrooms in this joint rivaled some of Williams College's finest. I mean generally, this place lacked all of the significant downsides to Bedouin life that seemed to figure quite centrally in my experience. Then again, I can't imagine that tourist would want to pay 25 bucks a night to enjoy Bedouin living and the poverty all-too often associated with it...

All in all though, friends and family, Southern Jordan is amazing. Tomorrow I'm heading back there for 3 more days. I think I need another healthy dose of contrived authenticity and desert livin'. Yalla.

My First Passover Sedar

Today is the 8th day of the "festival of freedom," celebratory cousin to the "festival of lights." However, while the all-too-familiar Chanukah commemorates the miracle of oil, Passover celebrates the miracle of freedom.

About a week ago, I had the distinct pleasure of ushering in the 2009 rendition of this centuries old holiday with some of my SIT compatriots. Sitting at a table in the SIT library, warmed by the softly lit ambiance of the setting sun, we sang, we ate, we thanked, we remembered. Only three of the seven or eight of us huddled around that table were Jewish, but such technicalities made no difference to me. In these moments we were a community, perhaps not organized around a faith in some common conception of God, but, nevertheless our hearts and minds were bound together by something powerfully strong--our faith in freedom.

The lead up to the night's ceremonies was riddled with problems. As it happens, Passover seders, like most religious holidays built with an intricate cast of rituals, require a number of very specific foods and tools. As it happens, in their attempts to gather all of the necessary items for our celebration, the leaders of our festival of freedom found themselves in an Arab country that purportedly had absolutely no Jewish population and likewise none of the necessary goods for our Jewish celebration. However, our more than able and desperately creative hosts gathered a delicious panoply of substitutes, using potato chips for matza, barbecue mixed nuts for the required legumes, and smoked salmon for meat.

But, before we could sink our teeth into these delicious symbols, we take pause to discuss and remember the struggle of past peoples. Not just Jewish, but enslaved and oppressed peoples everywhere. However, quietly crowded around a library table in our school as the building's land-lord continually interrupted our celebration with impatient reminders of how little time we had and how little noise we were allowed to make, the symbolic meaning of Passover celebration took on a very potent inflection of reality.

One of the most important tenets of the festival of freedom is being open and welcoming. One is actually supposed to invite strangers into one's home to join the commemoration. A fellow gentile who was participating in the festivities with us was supposed to meet some of her Palestinian friends about half-way through, but instead of leaving with them, she followed tradition and invited them to join us. Despite the nauseous protest of some of our friends, she goes downstairs with a precarious smile. We wait. After a few minutes, she returns with a precarious smile, and a conclusive shake of the head. Recounting their refusal, she says, "No, ana filisteen!" ('No, I'm Palestinian!' Let me just take a brief moment to say that contrary to popular belief, not all Palestinians dislike Jews and vice versa. For example, my family more than welcomes my good friend here who is Jewish. They open their homes and their hearts to her, sharing laughs and deliciously home-cooked food. There are countless people who understand the difference between Jewish identity and Israeli support. Having said that, I'm still not entirely sure how many of my Palestinian friends would jump at the opportunity to participate in a Passover seder.)

Upon her return, we continue. Moving from song to song and explanation to explanation, we remember, celebrate, and learn.

Time presses on. We soon find ourselves joined in a multi-faith chorus of love and devotion, singing songs of Jewish freedom as the 'hour before sunset' call to prayer rings out in harmony with our voices of praise. Even before my experiential knowledge of Passover, I had known something about it (see the picture above), but here, in this moment, the festival of freedom's promises took on new meaning for me: resistance, transcendence, and power both historical and present.

The festivities soon came to a rushed close, the landlord following on our heels as we hurriedly tried to gather leftovers and clean plates. After saying our many thanks and exchanging warm embraces, we parted ways, back to our homes, likely unable to share our experiences with homestay families who may not know why we 'Christians' would celebrate such a holiday. But on my way back, talking with my Palestinian taxi driver, enveloped in Arabic songs of liberation, I began to reflect.

Is it strange in a way that we commemorated the emancipation of a minority people who presently oppress, exploit, and otherwise dehumanize a minority people? Of course, such a question presumes the problematic conflation of Jewish and Israeli I spoke about earlier. But, nonetheless, I find it curiously ironic that the songs we sang continually painted a picture of Israel not just as a land of blissful utopia, but as a state of freedom. However, all the while, now, a similarly idealized and powerfully vivid narrative envelops this same plot of land, but calls it by a different name and describes it in a different language. It makes me wonder if and when the Palestinians will have a Moses-like prophet to lead their diasporic exodus back to their homeland. It makes me wonder if and when the Palestinians will ever have their "festival of freedom."

A Moment with my Jordanian Family

A few days ago, some manner of cheer or hysteria, brought on by the consumption of copious amounts of hot chocolate I'm sure, inspired my home-stay mother to call me, by way of air phone, while we were in the same room. For those of you who have never had the honor, nay, the privilege of having a conversation via airphone, let me explain. Essentially what you do is get an equally fun-loving/slightly strange friend as you, hold your hands to your heads as if you were going to speak into a phone, and then, in fact, speak as if there were a phone in your hands. It's genius really.

So, my mother's lips ring me. I answer. We begin chatting about how we are, the weather, and other such trivia. Then Ehab, who is also in the room, starts Arabically talking to mama about I don't know what. With an air of puzzled concern in my voice, I ask whom that voice belongs to. "Oh, it's just Ehab."

"Oh! OK, I say. Tell him I said, 'hi'."

She relays the message. Ehab, while visibly confused, replies with an amused chuckle.

We then move onto a variety of subjects from our favorite foods to my concern about how fruits and vegetables seem to be relatively absent in Arab cuisine.

"Yeah, I know, but food here is not like America," my mother declares, twirling her wavy hair the way I've seen her do so many times before when speaking to her friends and family on the phone. "Arab food takes too much time. 4 or 5 hours. We cook all day! Not like America. Everything is in the microwave!"

Although, I feel an imminently overwhelming sense of culinary nationalism rush over me, almost to the point of defensiveness, I decide to agree. Why? Because she's mostly right.

Then, all of the sudden, my father wants my attention.

"No!" My mother slaps his hand. "Tony, you have a call waiting?"

"Ahh yes," I say with stuttered hesitation.

My father defiantly starts, "What? Why you want me to..." Admitting defeat in midsentence, he holds out his imaginary phone, taps the invisible call button and awaits my answer.

"Oops! Hold on mama, I have a call" I say with theatrical surprise. "Hello?"

Silence.

Then baba flustered and frustrated mutters, "Oh, shits, I forgot what I wanted to say!"

Laughter rips out and fills the room.

This whole conversation was in Arabic, and I think I might have learned more in those twenty glorious minutes than I could have in the span of an entire class.

I'm so very fortunate to have the family that I do.

Yesterday, my homestay sister was pitifully lamenting how hungry she was in the hopes that mama would make her something. I decided to humorously interject, suggesting that she should just go eat ice cream. My mother, thinking my suggestion was sincere, said "Ma fi booza (there is no ice cream)" her eyes welling with fear of my certain disappointment. "Mish mushkileh!! (no problem)" I declared hoping to reassure her of the comical intent of my suggestion. "Oh ok" she said.

Today, when she returned from her long and tiring day at work, she came bearing gifts. What, you might ask? Ice cream.

Again, I'm so very fortunate to be a part of the Hammad family. But as I understand it, such immensely heart-warming care is not unique by any means. Many an SIT student comes to school recounting moments of a sort of warmth and kindness that doesn't fit properly into the category of hospitality. The only category that can comfortably accommodate the kinds of moments we share with our families is that of love. It's kind of hard to believe that we've been here for a measly two months, just given the incredibly meaningful relationships we've managed to build in spite of so many different boundaries. Either way, their smiles, their comfort, and their affection make the reality of our missing friends and families awaiting our return back in the States just a little easier to cope with. Thank you, family.

Chocolatey Manifestations of a few "isms"

To invoke the words of many a Williams professor, "Let's unpack this, shall we?" The aluminum covered candy at the top of the picture depicts a once very popular cartoon character named 'Little Black Sambo.' The cartoon was inspired by a children's story of the same name that was essentially about a young, very dark boy, trying to escape the ravenous clutches of a large tiger. See the youtube video below for more info.



Now, it is debatable as to whether or not the content of this story is racist in and of itself, but what is indubitably problematic is the way in which the black characters are depicted. Their impossibly dark skin color, overtly large lips, and unusually broad noses culminate in a reproduction of racial stereotype that defines many of the ways black people are depicted even today.

But aside from these debates, one thing that is especially interesting/problematic/scary/definitely racist is that the name of this chocolately morsel in Arabic is "head of the slave..."

As for the second piece of candy. I mean, I think it speaks for itself. Although, a few of my friends of the female persuasion took a shot at eating one of those bars, and they managed to finish it suprisingly. Although it did take all five of them to do it.

Aside from the rather obviously discriminatory nature of these two candies' marketing schemes, the worst thing about them is the fact that they are oh so delicious. It seems that oppression's unscrupulous reach knows no bounds. Not even the sanctity of chocolate is safe.

I'm Brown

As each day passes and my hair gets increasingly curlier with growth and my complexion increasingly darker with sun, my appearance inspires such fun, yet possibly problematic comments as, "Wow, you really do blend in." Or "You're looking especially Arab today, Tony." Or "When you came up behind me I thought it was another(...?) creepy Arab man." Of course, the racial ambiguity that leads to these sorts of double takes is a reality that I must deal with. Indeed, it's a reality that I sometimes take advantage of. For example:

My Egyptian (mis)adventures were shaped by a number of interesting, amazing, fun, scary, and confusing experiences. Recall if you can the 'overwhelmingly large market' ingredient in the Egyptian recipe. A combination of common sense and first-hand knowledge led to my discovering that I was being ripped off in nearly every single transaction that took place during the hours I spent here. However, when comparing prices for nearly the same items with my friends, I learned that they spent a great deal more money on these items than I had.

In one instance, I bought a small, glass hookah, complete with tobacco, coals, rubber hose, and two bowls for about 11USD. My friend, however, got a similarly small, glass hooka, with tobacco, coals, a fabric/plastic hose, and one bowl for about 23USD. Of course, in the states either of these prices is insanely cheap, but in Egypt it's a different story. Why the difference in price, you ask? Well, I'm neither a mind-reader nor an economist, but that reliable combination of common sense and first-hand experience I mentioned earlier leads me to think that it's because my friend is white.

So what did I do in the midst of one of my few experiences with a preferential racial treatment that grouped me among the benefited and not the exploited? I milked it.

When we went back to that market I told every salesman who detected my not so-subtle accent, subsequently asking where I'm from, that I was Egyptian. Why can't I speak Arabic? I live in the United States; I'm visiting family.

Now this isn't to say that all buys following the revelation of my newly acquired identity were cheap and easy. I still had to put up a bit of a fight, but I'm sure it wasn't nearly as fierce as my white friends.

While I understand how the manipulation of racial privilege is problematic and unproductive in all of its nefarious forms, perhaps even when its benefiting the historically oppressed, I just couldn't help myself. And honestly, I don't feel that bad about it. Not simply because I got my variously important tourist trinkets for a reasonably cheaper price than my white counterparts, but because the history of colonialism, exploitation, and oppression that continues to define so many people's lives is alive and real. It's nice to feel what it's like to be in the 'majority,' to bask in the various privileges associated with that status, despite the fact that my inclusion is ultimately an illusion. Nevertheless, as I walk around various places in this region, I feel myself abstracted from the various partitions that would ostensibly separate me from my Arab hosts. The sometimes insurmountable barriers of culture, ethnicity, language, etc. seem to crumble in the face of our phenotypic commonalities.

This imagined solidarity is most powerful when I walk in groups with my white friends. As we stroll carelessly down bustling Jordanian streets, eliciting stares, glares, and gawks with our difference, I emerge unscathed by the smiles or smirks that comb through my group of friends. Of course, sometimes my clothing gets caught in the fray, but everything else is invisible.

I suppose this new found invisibility is so powerful to me because of where I've grown up and gone to school. Memphis is a city defined in black and white terms, the end. And as for we folk who lay somewhere in the fuzzy gray areas of race, we are forced to choose our alliances. In Williamstown, a thoroughly homogeneous town in a thoroughly homogeneous region of the country, I stick out like a soar thumb. Strangers in both places usually assume that English is my second language and that my political commitments lie beyond U.S. borders. Here, people make the same exact assumptions, but they do so with a familiar ease and not an exotified apprehension.

Perhaps in the end what I've come to realize is that the bonds of hair texture, skin color, and facial structure are far more profound than those of culture, language, or politics. For some people that is. I don't usually count myself among those who think so, but it's been nice to do so, just for a little while.

I leave you now with a picture:


That's me. I'm the brown one next to the car.

Recipe for my Egyptian Experience

Ingredients:

3 Parts ancient history




1 Part Whirling Dervishes



22 repressed and desperate Americans: Preparation of ingredient--Steep Americans in Amman, a very quiet city where one would be hard-pressed to find the sort of insane debauchery that defines some individuals' college experiences.

1 Part overwhelmingly large market



A handful of exploitative, money hungry taxi drivers: The Cairo taxi routine--get in taxi, exchange a few rounds of pleasantries, wait to arrive at your destination, get out of the taxi, hand the driver the amount you deem appropriate, walk away quickly with a medley of Arabic protestations and complaints playing behind you.

A socioeconomic structure that reproduces extremities in both wealth and poverty

1 criminal justice system whose balance can be dramatically tipped at the drop of a coin. (On one occasion, I was driving around with friends and we ran into a cone barrier blocking off a part of a busy intersection. Instead of driving around, all of my other Egyptian passengers started glibly declaring "Egyptian routine." My friend then drove up to the police officer, greeted him, slipped him 10 pounds, and then drove through the now unblocked intersection.)

1/3 cup economic development

2 handfuls of annoyingly loud, ignorant, and oblivious tourists.



1 falooka ride on the Nile



Cooking Instructions:

First get one large, 20 million-person city, add in 1/3 cup economic development, and heat to medium high heat, maybe about 80 degrees.

Next, haphazardly and wrecklessly dump everything else in. Cook for about seven days, stirring constantly and furiously, to the point of nausea preferably.

To finish sprinkle on some amazingly nice Egyptian people and flavor with smog, C02, dust, and a variety of other gaseous toxins, to taste.



SaHtain! (kind of like cheers)

Back and Black

So, after one short but beautiful flight over the Egyptian and Jordanian countrysides, countlessly irritating security checkpoints, three bag searches, a broken souvenir, and a sleepy bus ride, we made it back to Jordan.

I'm immensely happy that we had the opportunity to visit Cairo in all of its glory. The first thing I noticed when I returned to Jordan was how severely quiet Amman is. For example, right now, as I look out my window, surveying the pristine, white buildings rolling over each other, I hear only birds cheerily chirping their gleeful tunes. In Cairo, from my hotel room on the eighth floor of the building, there were no cheery birds to be found. Instead, my ears were audience to a uproariously dissonant orchestra of car engines, angry horns, abrasive hollers, and who knows what else.

I have oh so much to write to you about, but unfortunately I must now attend to my studies. Just know that Egypt was amazing, Amman is incredibly boring in comparison to the awe-inspiring grandness that is Cairo, and I'm back home safe :)

Stand by for more.

My Egypt Prep List

So, tomorrow I'm gonna be shoving off for a week-long 'academic excursion' to Egypt. We will be exploring how the issues of modernization and development in the Arab world differ in the North African context. However, from what I understand, Egypt is not the most suitable place for any variety of academic study, even if Egypt happens to be the topic of choice.

There seems to be a consensus among Jordanians as to what I should expect to find in Egypt. What they tell me is that Egypt is a land of a loud and wild people who, though incredibly industrious and useful in masonry, are dirty, unhygienic, and ultimately profoundly untrustworthy. So, with their helpful caveats in mind, I wrote down a list of items that I thought essential for my survival.

First off, anti-diarrhea medicine. The very first thing any Jordanian says when I tell him that I'm going to Egypt is "Be sure to take care about the food! All the time people get sick from the food." In a land that is unregulated by rationality, law, or respect for reasonable standards of living, food preparation is treated with the same regard for cleanliness as manure mixing. And apparently these two tasks are sometimes executed simultaneously.



Second thing, oxygen tank. It seems that Cairo is a grotesquely polluted city, it's air heavy with the weight of CO2 and carbon-monoxide molecules the cornucopia of taxis replenishes everyday. But luckily the Egyptians have managed to adapt; they, like plants, depend mostly on CO2 for respiration, however, unlike plants, their exhalation does not release oxygen into their atmosphere, to the great misfortune of visitors. Instead, loud, sometimes comical Arabic rants are what escape from these Egyptians' mouths, contributing to the noise pollution that also apparently defines the Cairo experience.



Third, magical charms and spray bottles. These are to ward off the gypsies. Enough said.



Fourth, pants with button-able pockets. The Egyptians are trained from birth in the dark arts of thievery and manipulation. Apparently, if the seasoned Egyptian wants your wallet, he doesn't have to stoop to the embarrassing and dishonorable level of stealing it from you. He can simply look at you with a piercing glance, whisper a few words with his dark, moustached lips and you'll hand it over with a smile. This is called being 'E-jipped,'and there are countless victims of this ancient practice all over Cairo it seems. The button-able pockets are for the younger ones. They're in training.

Apparently, everything else I need to prepare for are things I've seen in the states: shrewd drug-dealers, wily prostitutes, and abrasive cab drivers.

So, friends and family, know that I will be just fine during my week in Egypt. The Jordanians have prepared me well. Thanks to their broad generalizations and sweeping stereotypes, I will return from Egypt healthy, un-bewitched, and alive.

Yes!

Living It Up in the Dead Sea

After spending five days teetering on the edge of one side of the Jordanian socioeconomic spectrum, the SIT wranglers decided to balance things by driving us to the other end of it. For about seven hours, my compatriots and I basked in a sea of privilege, wealth, and salt. We climbed the relative latter of social status so quickly that it took me about the entire seven hours to shake off the vertigo. Nonetheless, I soaked up the sun.

We spent our time at this exceedingly posh hotel/spa/resort where we were treated to an architectural splendor that complemented the natural beauty surrounding it. There were two pristinely azure pools, a few bubbling hot tubs, argeeleh, and wealthy Westerners to boot. In truth, there were so many foreigners about that there were moments that I had to remind myself that I was in an Arab country. Of course, the dark-complected, Arabic-speaking wait staff helped shake me from my Euro-American dream world, but even they could have fit right in given the right resort.

The very first thing we did upon our arrival to Euro-land was discuss our experiences in the Badia. There really could not have been a more appropriate place, I think, to highlight the vast differences between these two places, only a few hours separating them, but truly worlds apart. All I could think about during this hour long debrief was how Abu Ali, Brahim, and everyone else in the Badia were still there, tending to the tasks of their everyday routine while I was here, sitting in the comfort of my white, wicker chair.

Soon after we came together again for lunch. We colonized a corner near the back of the restaurant, sitting, eating, and enjoying each others company. Again I was struck by the number of Westerners who too had claimed various areas of the restaurant, gobbling down hummus, pita, and a variety of other 'oriental,' culinary delights. And they were indeed delightful.

After rushing through the meal, the anticipation of the Dead Sea-floating-experience building inside of us, we packed up our corner and ran down to the beach. Here again we were met by a parade of Westerners, zealously rubbing their chubby bodies with the dark mud of the sea in front of them. Never before I had I seen people buy mud (mind you, mud that had been collected with a bucket right in front of them and then sold at $4.20 a pop), rub themselves down with it, and then almost immediately wash it off, but then again, posh resorts are new to me.



Aside from the eager Westerners, the beach's sand was full of rocks. I set out to the sea and found myself in a rather precarious position, trying hard to dodge the unintelligible mosaic of sharp rocks and hot sand beneath my feet. A hop, trip, and a jump, and I was there. I paused for a moment. Facing the sea, I absorbed the immeasurably beautiful panorama before me. I smiled as I watched the sun's reflection dance atop the gentle waves of the Dead Sea. The next land mass over was the West Bank, but for these moments, the all-too-powerful reality of ensuing violence and conflict melted away into the salty waters licking my feet. But, of course, I was standing on the other side of the violence, flanked by groups of fellow privileged Westerners.

I walked ahead. Now instead of small rocks and sand there were big rocks and sharply-edged salt deposits. They were pretty to look at, but quite honestly painful to walk over. However, my passion to float stood behind me, pushing me along with a forceful determination. I made it. I laughed and smiled as I tried to adjust to this awkward sensation. I knew I was in water but it felt more like I was in jello--Pushing my way through gelatin rather than swimming my way through liquid. Finally I adjusted but not before of course some of this sea's millenia old water made its way into my mouth. Let me tell you, history tastes bad.



Nevertheless, this was an experience that I won't soon forget and definitely want to relive.

Afterward, I decided I would do a bit of independent exploration, looking around at the rocks and the contours of the sea as the decadent sun loomed closer and closer to the horizon. At some point I realized that I had not seen one Arab who wasn't employed by the resort since my arrival. This point was when I looked across the fence that sliced the beach in two, and I saw a montage of Arab families--barbecuing, playing football, chilling. I was amazed. A rush of questions flooded my mind as I wondered what the root of this segregation was exactly. What adjectival qualifier should I ascribe this reality? Self-segregation? Institutional? Commercial? However, before I had enough time to reach the bold point of asking someone 'why' in my critical perplexity, it was time to leave.

So, I said good bye to the Dead Sea and my chubby Western friends, yet, my wonder still lingered. In fact, it was only intensified when, as we were leaving, an entire bus, I'm talking like a Greyhound, arrived at the resort's entrance. Within minutes there emerged a single-file platoon of seemingly ecstatic German senior citizens. Armed with cameras, sun block, and fanny packs, they were ready to revive the Dead Sea with a brand of sober humor that was distinctly German. Il-humdililah.

Hello, my name is Ahmad

It's hard to sum up my five amazing days in the Badia. And, honestly, I wouldn't want to. I think any clusmy attempt to do so would ultimately offend my memories--betrayed by language that can neither convey nor comprehend their affection and depth. However, I promised my Bedouin family and friends that I would try my best to share a chapter of their story with you.

I was sincerely taken aback by the number of people who wanted their pictures taken, their stories heard, their lives understood. I serendipitously crossed paths with some researchers during my stay with Abu Ali's family. They were examining the way macroeconomic changes in the Jordanian economy had affected gender relations in the Badia. They seemed as though they had good intentions, but I quite honestly was put off by the way they approached Abu and Uma Ali. If there were one word I would use to describe the air and manner with which they spoke, condescension would be it. However, I learned a great deal from their visit--about the Bedouin sheep economy, gender roles in the Badia, and Abu Ali's past experience with development researchers. I think what has stayed with me most is a realization I came to once these two women had left. I truly began to understand the extent to which the Bedouin are teetering on the edge of oblivion. Forgive my seemingly hyperbolic use of words, but its amazing how misunderstood they seem to be. They are being pushed out, pushed aside, and pushed around by their government, profit hungry developers, and to some extent the people trying to help them. These two researchers weren't looking to understand the Bedouin people's reality per se. They were more interested in the mechanisms and dare I say tools that have manipulated the Bedouin way of life, ushering them toward a carbon copied reality reminiscent of 'the ideal.' In these fleeting moments I caught a glimpse of these people in a light I had not before. The loudly boisterous and joyously outgoing people I had come to know and love were in fact mute. They're voice is lost in a fray of technical terms, reproduced stereotype, and market interests.

By no means is this singular blog post meant to give them the voice they so desperately seek and rightly deserve. However, I will keep my promise. Still, instead of my clumsy account of what I did and saw, what you see below are the images that I wanted to keep and share. Peppered in among them is sparse commentary meant to fill the gaps in this non-chronological, visual narrative:


Olive trees


Sorry, sheep. No grass here, anymore.


A snippet of my Bedouin family.




Salheia, a small Bedouin town, sliced in half by the highway to Baghdad.


Abu Ali, an egg, and some khobs (a special kind of bread that serves a variety of culinary purposes: utensil, dish base, side dish). I was really struck by how white Abu Ali's teeth were. Believe it or not, he's never touched a tube of crest or an oral b toothbrush. His pearly whites were maintained solely by the hygienic genius of a single stick. Yes that's right a stick; it's like a very thin branch really whose end has been torn in such a way as to expose the fibrous wooden flesh. These fibers act like bristles to catch any lingering food particles. I saw these instruments everywhere and in fact got one as a present. These sticks are used not because people have limited access to plastic toothbrushes, but because this brand of wooden hygiene is the very same that the Prophet Muhammad used. In other words, what seems like a 'pre-modern' methodology for dental maintenance, is in fact a profoundly religious and historically meaningful cultural practice that preserves both tradition and teeth.






Moments like these ripped away the veiled daze my family's hospitality had cast over my eyes, revealing a fragile and powerful poverty that lingered behind the curtain. All too often we are told to pay no attention to this reality. It helps too that these rural communities are usually blanketed with a variegated montage of stereotypes and misperceptions that romantically massages any critical impulse into apathy. Yet, there were no camels or sword fights to be found in Salheia, just a tired and nearly forgotten people.


The mosque in this picture is where I became 'Ahmad.' It was a fairly brief conversion process really. I was invited to 3PM prayer, accepted, washed various parts of my body three times, stepped through the door way with my right foot, bowed, prayed, and chatted--then the next thing I knew, I had an Arabic name and was chowing down on a delicious Bedouin dessert at the Imam's crib.

Badia Bound

"Watch out, Bedouins, a mass of curious and outgoing Americans is heading your way!"

In preparation for my travels to the Badia, I, along with several others in my SIT cohort, thought it fit to buy an assortment of traditional wear so that we could compound our obvious otherness with an awkward attempt to fit in aesthetically. Of course, I say we, but what I really mean is them: in one of my Arabic classes, Miss Khulood, who by the way is one of God's most noble, compassionate, and sweet creations, brought in a whole mess of Jordanian accessories, everything from hijabs to kufias, and volunteered me to be one of her models. She called me up, sat me down, and commenced to demonstrating the ins and outs of kufia wearing with the aid of my eager crown.

She pulls out the kufia, a beautifully woven product of hours of labor, the colors red and white intricately walzing in sharp angles and clever lines, a symbol of Jordanian nationalism. She flaps it out, folds it, and lets it fall onto my head. Instantly, I see the faces of the class sitting in front me change, as I changed. While seconds before I had been an idle brown boy sitting before them, Miss Khulood's kufia had turned me into a young sheikh, reclining in a throne of majesty and mystique. Of course, they all said, "Oh em gee! You look so Arab!" I checked the mirror. They were right I guess. Although, I still could've just as easily been a Mexican in a kufia. Either way, I thought reproducing this contrived authenticity would be fun, and I would have leftover souvenirs, so on a kufia run I went.

There are two types of kufia one sees most commonly in Jordan. The most common is the Jordanian kufia, the red and white masterpiece Miss Khulood let me wear. The second looks slightly similar in design, but is vastly different in color, politics, and meaning. It is the Palestinian kufia: it is black and white and it represents solidarity and struggle. You might remember seeing it:



Of course, the lovely Rachel Ray isn't actually sporting a kufia. It's just a black and white scarf that evoked images of Yasser Arafat (so much so that Dunkin Donuts decided to pull the ad). Anyhow, I went out and got two. One is black and white and the other is Jordanian. As I've worn them and seen them being worn, I've come to the conclusion that there isn't a more versatile or practical article of clothing around (aside from, of course, the button-bum pajama). It's both warm and breezy, pretty and meaningful. It can protect your mouth and nose from breathing in unwanted dusty air while it simultaneously conceals your identity. Needless to say I love it.

I'm going to be heading out into the Badia tomorrow. 5 days and 4 nights of roughing it with people who define the meaning of the word rough. Catching a brief insight into what the Arab brand of the simple life is. Or of course, my preconceived notions could be jarringly ripped from me when I walk into a house that has satellite tv, hot water, and a playstation. But that remains to be seen.

My new homestay father has a flock of sheep. I can't wait. Herd or be herded, these are the options of life.

Salt and Peppa

The picture you see here is one snapshot of many I collected during time in the beautiful Jordanian city known as salt. It was the first capital of this country, and it definitely has an atmosphere of diversity and importance associated with centers of government and commerce. The city is centuries old and as we walked down the narrow streets, we saw the stories of war, preservative progress, and traditionalism unfold before our very eyes. Its street weren't exactly designed to accommodate the busy traffic of cars, buses, and trucks, but rather than tear down, redesign, and rebuild, this city has evolved from within. Its body has been faithfully preserved while its soul has rapidly changed with the advent of capitalism and industrialization. Its buildings are now simple holding vessels for the modernizing people and businesses they house. Many people on my program have been in desperate search of "cultural authenticity" and when we arrived in Salt, they were sure they had found it. Here we did indeed find the impossibly cramped streets, flanked on either side by the stereotypically Arab vivacity we see in movies. There were old women in hijabs tirelessly peeling vegetables, men bellowing out prices, store fronts blocked with burlap forts of spices and herbs, and of course, the wide-eyed Americans who wander with frenzied confusion. However, while these images are indeed representative of some of what Salt's streets had to offer, there were also some relatively unexpected items featured quite prominently in store front walkways:



Yes indeed. This is a bra that says "I love you." Almost surely a seasonal item displayed around mid-February. Perhaps, like my friends, the items that stuck out in my mind did so because I was looking for them. Nevertheless, finding brightly colored women's undergarments sprawled out on a city street in a country where the children's book version of the Little Mermaid depicts the floundering sea woman with a long sleeved pink shirt (perhaps her shell bra is underneath?), is slightly remarkable.

When I got back home after this long but all-too-short day, I looked back over my pictures and discovered that I had taken almost 200. Not too surprising given the fact that I went through two sets of batteries, but as I looked through these images, I started deleting. Not only because I had taken bad ones or multiple shots of the same thing, but more so because I realized what I voyeur I was, indeed what voyeurs several of us were. I took several of those over 100 photos of people, either because they looked different, were doing interesting things, or both. Yet at the end of the day I realized, they were just living their lives. I had no more right or privilege to capture a snapshot of their everyday experiences than anyone else had to take pictures of me as I type this post. So, I deleted every picture of a person that I took without permission or consent, every moment of someone's day that I stole, every difference I egregiously fetishized.

Of course, there were some shots that I wish I could have kept, or had asked for consent before hand, but then I think that asking for such consent would have tainted the "authenticity" of the image. Those oh so fragile and virginal moments may have been drastically transformed into wholly different moments: moments of subtle, questionable exploitation instead of "pure" joy or despair. It's ok though. I still kept pictures like this:



warning: what follows includes harsh but relatively humorous use of profanity that I thought best to reproduce faithfully.

This glorious day finished with another amazing moment that I unfortunately couldn't capture visually. As I was reviewing the pics, sitting blankly and thinking hard about the implications of uploading these images to facebook, in comes baabaa. Clearly pained by something intense, I ask "Are you ok?"

Grimacing, he says, "Ahh I have headache!"

"Oh no! I'm sorry," I sympathetically reply.

"Mother fuckers headaches!...." he scoffs! Then, unsure he looks to me, "Mother fuckers or fucker mothers?"

"Mother fucker...," I hesitantly reply, fiercely trying not to reveal my simultaneous shock and nearly uncontrollable laughter.

"Ah yes, I thought so. Mother fucker!.....Well, good night."



Yes, a good night indeed.

New Developments in the Home Life

These two pictures are snapshots of the view from my family's apartment balcony. It was not until very recently that buildings began to be constructed with glass and steal. Up until this point the stone that was used as the support structure could not accommodate more than four to five stories. One of my very first days in the Hammad family, my baabaa took me out to see this urban vista. He told me a bit about the various buildings and developments around and then stopped to give me a brief comparative analysis of the urban architecture of the West and East. He said, "If there was a bomb here, the building will shake, a little. But in America, everything falls down! I say, 'Why you build things with wood and glass?' Here, we use stones. They last forever." He then proceeded to make an interesting sort of Neo-Marxist claim that this choice was really about making sure the construction sector would have a steady, recycling market.

My homestay family has taught me a lot about their culture and its many different dimensions: religious, social, and linguistic. My maamaa was immensely excited to learn that we started memorizing the Arabic numbers in class. Before I could even finish describing what the experience was like, she immediately interrupts,

"Go! Tell me! Cero..." waiting for me to take the lead, she stared with a jovial intensity that inspired me to try my damnest to remember those ten digits.

Dubious, I respond, "Wahhad... ...tneen...t.t"

She helps as I desperately limp along..."tlatta."

"Tlatta!" I mimic enthusiastically. We continue on like this until we reach the end, taking what felt like hours. Finally, as patient and attentive as she was when we first embarked on this tireless journey we reach our end, "a.." she utters.

I fumblingly respond "A...ash..ashra!?"

Then she lets out an exuberant celebration of synchronized clapping and clamoring, "ashra! ashra! ashra!" Then baabaa and Ehab too join in the festivities, smiling smiles of pride and support that truly warmed my heart. There are few times in my life when I was congratulated with such cheerful vigor for successfully counting to ten, and I will definitely remember this one.

Sometimes there are moments when I feel a rather shameful embarrassment almost overwhelm me as I watch my family struggle to translate their thoughts and emotions into a language they once learned but barely use, all because I arrogantly decided to show up as a guest in their house and country without really knowing a word of their language. I thought one way to perhaps show my immense appreciation for boundless support and patience was to share something with them that I love: cooking. So, I told my mother that one Friday I would relieve her of the usual responsibility of preparing dinner, and after revealing that I had spent a few years of my life making pizzas in an Italian restaurant, she knew exactly what she wanted me to make. In fact, after we had planned out the meal, we were all sitting down watching TV, flipping back and forth between a popular musal sal (soap opera) and the news, and all of the sudden on comes a pizza hut commercial to which my mother vivaciously responds, "Tony! Tony! Make that Tony!"

"I'll try!" I say with confident reservation.

However, il-humdulillah (thanks be to God) the pizza party came off without a hitch. Frida (my homestay sister) and her husband came over and we had ourselves a regular intercultural feast with Nadia making a very delicious traditional meal, the name of which I have of course forgotten, and me making the 'American' classic we all know and love. On this sunny Friday afternoon, two culinary traditions collided, nay melded into one deliciously diverse harmony of savory and sweet. Moments like these encourage me to take pause and hope. It's true that this was only one meal. But in many ways, in my gloriously deluded and optimistic mind at least, on this day a gap was bridged, and I'm sure many others can be as well.

cultural ramblings

Tom and Jerry are huge here. I mean big. If there was one cultural "import" that I would readily identify as ubiquitous and pervasive, it is this cartoon. I think perhaps its brilliant execution of physical comedy taps into a humor that is both culturally nuanced and universally funny. As I've watched this show with my homestay family and their friends, I find us laughing at all the same parts and understanding all the same meanings. On a commercial break, my homestay baba privileged me with a profound yet simple philosophy that he derived from this show. I'll try to reproduce it here:

So, Tom, although he is bigger, stronger, and faster than Jerry, he can never win. Why? Because Jerry is smarter. He doesn't require strength or speed, he can rely on his intelligence, the most powerful weapon of all.

Although all of this was so clearly true, I had never just stopped to think of Tom and Jerry in such an elaborate and insightful way. Maybe it's because I was too distracted by the hilarious display of violence. Either way I wonder now if he reads as much into Jordanian cultural artifacts as I. For example, the satellite service my family has, and most Jordanian families have I think, provides them with access to channels all over the Arab world. There is a Kuwaiti station, a Lebanese station, a gulf station, a Saudi station, etc. It seems that this region is connected, at least televisually, in ways that I'm not sure the West or even the English speaking world is. However, despite this ostensible solidarity forged around ethnic and usually religious identity are looming perceptions of difference that define certain peoples. For example, according to my homestay brother, Lebanese people speak Arabic very effeminately. He in fact laughed at the idea of Lebanese soldiers uttering death threats or intimidating commands. Also, according to the academic director of my program, Jordanians are viewed as very severe and cold. Not necessarily unfriendly, but definitely not gregarious or funny. If you're looking for the boisterous, ostentatious, or otherwise ridiculous, you must travel to Egypt (according to Ehab anyway). He tells me, "Whenever you see something on Arab television, and it is crazy, it is Egyptian." Soap operas, movies, songs, all cultural productions really of the Egyptian variety are almost certainly loud and comical, so says my maamaa (Nadia).

I also learned, due in large part to the inspiring majesty of "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition," that in addition to providing Jordanians with a great wealth of entertainment, they also supply a steady and reliable workforce. As we watch the teams of architects, construction workers, painters, and designers work tirelessly to finish their project, Ehab turns to me and asks, "Do American's build their homes in America?" I was honestly a bit taken aback and confused by the nature of this question, for I thought to myself, "surely, who else would build them?" Hestitantly, I answered, "yes..." He replies, "Oh! Impressive! Here, all Egyptians. This house, built by Egyptians. The architect, Jordanian, but Egyptians build." Then, I stopped for a moment. How should I navigate this issue? Of course, I knew all along that there is a not-so-silent, racialized workforce in my country that is exploited and used for manual ends, but should I endeavor to communicate this reality with neither of us comfortable enough in each others' language to understand the simultaneous nuance and gravity of the issue? I thought why not, and began to point out how most of the people who were painting and building this brand new, beautifully designed home were brown, and how everyone else running the show and talking about "their work" was white. An obviously problematic and simply deconstruction, but I thought it would be better than nothing.

As I surf the Arabic wavelengths, these perceptions, dare I say stereotypes, I have heard repeatedly articulated, crop up everywhere. In almost every Egyptian soap opera, the women have lots of bracelets, big dark hair, lots of makeup and long, flow-y clothing; the men are usually sweaty, large, hairy, and aggressive. People in general are, indeed, loud. But to what extent are these shows "authentic representations" of the culture they are purportedly a product of. Are they, in fact, mere re-presentations of neighboring Arab countries stereotypes? This is how they are seen, so this is how they will be? But again I wonder if my homestay family is faced with a similar confluence of critical inquiry when they sit back to enjoy their favorite Egyptian soap opera. Do they wonder about the socio-economic and political implications of imported, manual workforces? Perhaps they get about as much politics of immigration out of their shows as I did philosophy from Tom and Jerry. Either way, it is clear that physical comedy isn't the only transregional dimension of our societies.

Ice Water Fell From the Sky

Or at least that's what my host brother, Ehab, says. It in fact rained and hailed and rained some more all the while an angry wind blew through Jordan like nothing I had ever seen before. It might even snow tomorrow.

My host-mother initiated the baking of a cake today. I say initiated because it really was a concerted effort on the part of the whole family to make this cake. Not because it was a particularly complex or labor-intensive recipe; it was just because people were there and cake baking was happening. Ehab prepared the eggs, to the point of fatigue from what it looked like; Samir added the flour and defrosted the orange juice; Nadia did most everything else. The result was a deliciously moist and delicately orange confection: an ingenious balance of sweetness.

After the cake was all finished Nadia asked Ehab and me if we wanted some. Ehab replied with "Shwie" (a little bit) and I with "nam" (yes). A few minutes later in comes Nadia with a modest-sized plate for Ehab with a piece of cake that no one would dare call small and then she presents me with a hungry-man sized plate with a slab of this citrusy delight that was easily 5 inches long and 2 inches tall. All I could say was "thanks" with a nervous smile. Of course, I could have refused about half the cake and returned it to my pan, but naturally, the fat kid who loves cake inside of me, convinced me to indulge. And I'm glad I did.

Today's class was led by a retired University of Jordan history professor who has written several books about Jordan's past, present, and future. The lecture he had prepared for us was seemingly only 20 mins long while the rest of the two hours he occupied was peppered with tangential commentaries on Israel, the West, and Palestine. I didn't find anything he said particularly disagreeable, but I think it would be difficult to describe his lecture as anything but biased.

But then again, how can one recount the history of Palestine, Israel, and the West with any semblance of "objectivity." Putting me usual skepticism of academic unbias aside, the history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is one that is best summed up in the word "injustice." It is a multilayered story of exclusion and prejudice, precipitated by an anti-semitism against both Jew and Arab alike. Here I go on a tangent myself. I suppose its easy to be distracted by such a contentious issue. Probably more so if you have a familial, ethnic, or historical investment in it.

My homestay father constructed an interesting hierarchy of priorities in his life when recounting his gloss on the Palestinian question:

1. Home
2. Son
3. Daughter
4. Wife

Euro-centric cultural judgments aside, this taxonomy of priority illustrates the gravity of this situation for countless people. The Palestinian cause/question/dilemma/problem/etc. permeates all aspects of Jordanian life. It is infused into politics, economics, culture, and even every-day soap operatic life. Yes, it's true. In addition to the cornucopia of Turkish, Syrian, and Egyptian soap operas that defines night time television, there is a musal sal (soap opera) that is set in Palestine in 1948: an historical fiction that brings the Israeli occupation and Palestinian exodus to life in very new ways. My host family is enthralled and emphatically insisted that it is not fiction, but history. The characters may be fake, but the history it documents, is all-too real.

Sure kicks the crap out of General Hospital anyway. Sorry, mom.

P.S. The pic at the top is of an ancient Roman ruin. The sky looks dreary and ominous. The prequel to the torrential downpour that showered Amman the next day.

Day Five

Merhaba!

I think I've found my favorite place in Amman, already. It's called Shara Al-Rainbow or Rainbow street, and it's the oldest area in Amman. Located near Jabel Amman, the first families moved to this place in about 1926. The late King Hussein was born, raised, and educated in this part of the city, and two different governments were formed there. The picture you see here was taken on a patio roof of a little place called JARA Cafe. JARA stands for the Jabel Amman Residents Association. This group of citizens formed out of a shared concern for the preservation of this historic part of Amman. They are both a lobbying group and a historical society who tries to protect old Jordanian buildings on Shara Al-Rainbow from being swallowed up in the torrent of incoming development.

My second favorite place in Jordan as of right now is definitely my new home. It's in a relatively nice area in Amman called Arabiya (I think?) right next to the Chinese and Israeli embassies. My Jordanian family is pretty small in comparison to some of my other SIT compatriots. There are four of us living in the house in toto right now. My father, Samir, lived in the U.S. for seven years, working for the apparently world famous gas company Shell. When I first heard this I thought perhaps he worked as some sort of petroleum mogul, especially since his wife, Nadia, her cousin helps run the company. But listening to him talk about the sort of work he did, stocking soda, selling cigarettes, I've come to realize that he was more like a convenient store clerk/owner in the Shell headquarters in Cleveland, Ohio. Quite a different picture than the one I had painted in my mind.

When I walked into the house for the first time, I was welcomed by a warm and friendly voice that was frantically shouting my name: "Tony! Tony! Tony! Where is Tony!" I heard. In comes this modest-looking older, Arab man with a smile that his face was struggling to accommodate. He immediately grabbed my hand saying "Ahlan wasahlan! (Welcome)" Then he became quite stern and looking me directly in the eye he firmly said, "You are my new son." Then smiling again: "Now, let's eat. Come to the kitchen; I want to show you."

What I saw upon entering the kitchen was a relatively spacious room with granite counters and cold tile floors. He walked me over to the table on which sat something that looked like a rice cooker. But when he took off the lid there was clearly much more than rice inside. This dish his wife had so apparently slaved over was called 'upside down' in English. I can't remember the name in Arabic. And it was called this because it was a classic one-pot dish that one flipped over to release the delicious panoply of tomatoes, onions, chicken, and so much more it had inside. After briefly explaining the ingredients and the cooking process, the show began!

He hurriedly ran over to grab a very large plate. Then he took out the bowl-like container in the rice cooker, placed the plate on top of it, and in one fluid motion flipped everything over. Then, with a few taps on the side of the rice-cooker bowl, he lifted it to reveal an effusive, delicious-smelling mass of food that cascaded down over itself to fill the plate.

Now it was time to eat.

After the usual polite exchanges inquiring about my trip and first impressions of Jordan, the more intimate questions began. As expected, we eventually moved to the topic of my background and ethnicity. Their guesses: Asian, not Indian, maybe Fillipino. Also, you should know that this issue was quickly resolved by my SIT compatriots with a not-so-unfamiliar series of questions over an enjoyable argeeleh (hookah in Turkish) session:

Where are you from?

I say: Memphis

No where is your family from?

I say: Memphis and D.C., all over really.

No, where are your roots?

I say: Do you mean, why am I brown?

With a chuckle: Yes.

This wasn't exactly the series of questions that my homestay family asked, but you get the general idea. However, unlike my fellow SITers, my homestay father, was particularly fond of Black people. (He had spent a great deal of time with a number of them in the states.) Upon hearing that one of my parents is Black, he excitedly stuck his fist out, zealously declaring "Pound!" I imagine it had been years since he could do that and have someone respond appropriately.

Issues of race have always intrigued me, but they seem to be skirted over or completely ignored in very serious ways here. I've seen several people who appear to be phenotypically Black, but the only attention paid to racial/ethnic difference in this country so far has consisted of a very clear line of demarcation drawn between individuals who are ethnically Palestinian and those who are ethnically Jordanian or there is the even clearer line of racial demarcation drawn between middle to upper class Jordanians and their South Asian house servants. It's amazingly interesting how this subversive or perhaps blatant color-blidness runs as deep but perhaps deeper here than in the states and how a defining sign of affluence here is having a foreign work-force perform your household chores, again quite reminiscent of home.

As time passes, these categories of difference: religion, nationality, culture--all but fade away and I begin to realize that the Jordan I have seen is not all-too much different from the U.S. I know and love.

Anyhow, now I must go watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre with my homestay brother Ehab. He's about 22, an aspiring accountant, and a lover of romance, drama, and horror movies. He doesn't like action very much. It's the guns.

To be continued.

Ma'salaama