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.