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

I made it

Hello everyone,

This is the first of what I hope will be many blog posts about all of my experiences here in Jordan. We've been here three days now, and it has been great! Everyone we've met has been really nice and welcoming. Most people speak English fairly well, but I've definitely learned quite a bit of Arabic and class hasn't even started yet!

I've been really surprised by a number of things I've seen here so far. As Westerners, our stereotypes of predominantly Muslim countries in the Middle East lead us to conjure fantasies of women wearing hijabs (headscarves) or burqas (the long black gowns that leave only the eyes exposed) amidst streets filled with bags of spices, camels, and dust. However, I was instead greeted by people wearing aeropostale, driving BMWs, and eating McDonalds. I actually have seen quite a few women wearing hijabs and we ran into two women wearing burqas but I also see countless women who don't.

It's been quite strange to see all of what I generally assumed to be products of Western consumerism displayed quite prominently against a backdrop of mosques and relatively traditional Muslim social relations. For example, it is quite unwholesome to see two people of opposite genders holding hands or kissing on the street. However, I have seen countless men walking hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm down major streets all over Amman. Of course, this is no display of intimacy or sexuality; its more about platonic comradery. Nevertheless, it's very interesting to think about how these sorts of public homosocial displays are totally appropriate, while homosexuality itself is still exceedingly taboo.

I've found myself confused a lot over the past few days really. As I look around at all of these purportedly Western cultural, capitalist imports, a great disappointment falls over me. Cultural imperialism knows no bounds. In talking with a few of the other people on my program, it's clear that other people share this sentiment. However, it isn't before long that this disappointed feeling is sharply checked by a critical voice that asks why? Why is it so bad that these Arab nations be exposed to McDonald's and Ford and Porsche and Pepsi; often times with these companies comes the promises of prosperity, wealth, and development. I think at the heart of our shared disappointment is a committment to a certain idea of the Middle East that is based on the imaginary conjurings I mentioned before. We've all seen Indiana Jones and Aladdin and Lawrence of Arabia. Why isn't this place like that? Then I think again and I realize that the critical voice that checks my disappointment is founded in the realization of my profoundly paternalistic and exoticising disposition. In truth, perhaps, part of me wants to see camels, swords, and more women in burqas.

One of the first things we did as a group after arriving at the SIT HQ was a sort of hopes and fears exercise. On one side of an index card we wrote down all of our expectations and on the other, our fears. Then one of the staff members collected them all and we discussed what we wrote down. When the academic director asked people to tell him what they expected, one of the first responses was "adventure." I guess McDonalds and Coca Cola aren't that adventurous to a product of a consumer-based society. Swords are though. I'll let you know if I find any.

Until next time!

Love,
Tony