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.