Yesterday evening I witnessed an eerily beautiful sight while walking home. Empty streets. Not a car, not a pedestrian, not a peep. For the first time in Amman I felt the just-before-sunset breeze and heard nothing except its rustle.
Most people in this situation would ask, "Where is everybody? Am I missing something?" And in a way, I was. They were all in their homes waiting for the sundown call to prayer, which signals time to break their fast. This week is currently the first week of the holy month of Ramadan. And if I ever want a clear reminder that I am living against the grain here, all I have to do this month is walk the streets at sunset. It is an enamoring idea to imagine an entire country - or entire countries - sitting down at their dinner tables, restaurants, curb sides, car seats, picnic knolls, and where have you to eat after a long day of fasting. Although the Muslims I have talked to have not listed this feeling of unity as one of the primary reasons they fast, it certainly seems very powerful to me.
To refresh the memory of any non-Muslim readers, during this month Muslims fast from sunup to sundown in recognition of the month in which the Qur'an was revealed. It is a time of family (especially during the large dinners that people have to break their fast at the end of the day), prayer, and charity. Offices generally close early (mine closes at 3). Life here in general slows down during the day, and at night there is generally celebration.
I struggled with some practicalities in my office at the beginning of Ramadan: how to eat lunch? My office mate and I usually spend the day munching on digestive biscuits and fruit - not to mention that we usually have a sandwich at some point, and there is always water on our desks. My office mate is also not fasting, and at first I thought that we should close our door so that fasters would not have to come down the hallway and be reminded of food. (During Ramadan in Jordan it is illegal to eat or drink - or even chew gum - on the street, so people are kind of serious about not seeing food during the day.) I felt guilty if I accidentally ate in front of a colleague.
On the other hand, neither I nor my office mate wanted to isolate ourselves from everyone else. "We would be shutting out Ramadan," he commented.
So then, what to do? How to create a culture of coexistence among different religious practices? In the end, there is a bit of compromise all around - no one minds if I go to the water cooler to get water during the day, and I still munch as I work, albeit more discreetly. This is mostly out of respect - people know that I'm eating. And if we're eating a sandwich or something for lunch, we briefly close the door.
I have to say, though, I was encouraged to be bold and assert my need to eat because of the large number of non-fasting people in the office. (Some are much more brazen about their lunches than I dare to be.) If I was the only person not fasting, I might have even felt enough social pressure to fast with everyone else. It is sometimes beautiful to be the only person out on the street, and sometimes lonely or frightening.
All of this makes me think of an Amin Maalouf book that I recently read, called Balthazar's Odyssey. The book is set in the Ottoman Empire in the 17th century, narrated by a Christian. Although he never has illusions of being part of the same broader community as the Muslims and Jews he knows, he has friends and acquaintances who are both. He expects them to be different from him, knows their customs almost as intimately as he knows his own, and accommodates accordingly when necessary. Perhaps because he knows them he does not fear or dislike them. And perhaps if I had lived as a religious minority in a Muslim country all my life, I would not worry about trying to sneak my sandwich during Ramadan.
In the broader scheme of the world, I think this demonstrates that people tend to fear less those they know. And if you live among a group of people all your life, you will know them. Yet in our globalized times, we are communicating with - and affected by - people that we do not live among and do not have a chance to know. So we must make an unnaturally strong effort to learn about those far away from us.
12 September 2008
11 September 2008
Short Films, a Gay Bar, and King Hussein Park
Two of my friends and I, standing on a path in King Hussein Park and surveying the scene, had to turn to each other and nod. "The city (government) is really doing a good job here," one of us said. We all nodded.
I took this to be a poke at a liberalizing elite who send their children abroad and then conflict with the different values being imported back to the country upon their return. Also perhaps an acknowledgement of the cultural confusion caused by such journeys, as well as the need to travel to a faraway land for opportunities that are not available at home. I know that there are some Muslims who become more religious when coming to the States. They often feel that they are externally defined by their Muslim identity, and therefore it becomes more important to them. (If you are an American Christian and travel to a country where you are discriminated against because you are Christian, you may feel more inclined to emphasize your religion in an effort to defend it and uphold values that you took for granted when you were part of the majority.)
It was Thursday night, and there was barely a spot of grass or concrete untaken throughout the multiple tiers of the medium-sized sprawl of the park. Families and picnic blankets covered the lawns, and children raced along the sidewalks that snake up and down the hills. We had just come from a showing of Jordanian short films set up in the middle of the hill, undisturbed by the concert at the base or the other show in the stadium up top. (Yet the park is not as big is you think. It is relatively small, but with many nooks and paths divided by lines of trees. It is topped with a new mosque, built in honor of the late King Hussein. The mosque's eye-catching silhouette is a majestic treat when lit against the evening sky.)
All of this, along with children's activity booths and sports activities at the entrance, was part of the Amman municipality's summer festival. Apart from the DIY picnic food, activities were basically free. And it was clear that people were enjoying themselves - the crowd in front of the main concert looked practically buoyant!
The short films we saw were sponsored by the Royal Film Commission and showcased Jordanian filmmakers. The first was a well-known cartoon satirist who portrayed the contradictions of a young Jordanian coming home from America to see his family during the holy month of Ramadan. On one hand, the young man talks in slang and is dressed a bit like a 'gansta.' On the other hand, he brags to his father how devout he has become, praying often and making his wife wear the niqab, a headscarf which covers all her face except her eyes. "Sometimes I don't even recognize her, Dad!" he says in the hyperbolic fashion of the cartoon. The two finish off by dancing to an Usher song before going to get some mansaf (Jordan's national dish) together.
I took this to be a poke at a liberalizing elite who send their children abroad and then conflict with the different values being imported back to the country upon their return. Also perhaps an acknowledgement of the cultural confusion caused by such journeys, as well as the need to travel to a faraway land for opportunities that are not available at home. I know that there are some Muslims who become more religious when coming to the States. They often feel that they are externally defined by their Muslim identity, and therefore it becomes more important to them. (If you are an American Christian and travel to a country where you are discriminated against because you are Christian, you may feel more inclined to emphasize your religion in an effort to defend it and uphold values that you took for granted when you were part of the majority.)
A second film was something everyone in Amman can relate to - a day in the life of a taxi driver. This yet again was exaggerated and satirical, making equal fun of the driver and the passengers. There were Western foreign students (who looked very familiar to me!) answering the typical questions in the wrong order because they are so used to them:
"Where are you from?"
"Yes, I have work here."
"Are you studying Arabic here?"
"No, I"m not married," said with a distracted smile (almost condescending?) to the taxi driver.
There were also foreigners from the Gulf for whom the driver rolled his eyes before turning off his radio music (this is offensive to some very religious Muslims.)
The driver catcalled girls all day, almost turning it into an art. I have to admit that after seeing the film, I see taxi drivers differently, and I can't seem to get annoyed if they catcall me on the street. It's just what they do. Perhaps a misunderstood art.
A world away (and the night after) King Hussein Park, I went to my very first drag show in the Middle East. At a bar in Amman, the underground homesexual community here has carved out a nightlife niche for themselves. Once a week there is a drag show (combined with a karaoke contest for hilarious effect), and almost every night there is a decent crowd of young people dancing, drinking, and enjoying a dose of warm and tolerant atmosphere all around. I personally admire any gay person willing to live in a country where attitudes towards such a sexual preference range from denial to bloodlust, and it makes me happy to see that there is an accepting community where people can meet, party, date, etc.
Although the bar is similar to many gay spots around the world in that it is one of the best dance/party places in the area, it is different in that any opportunity in this region for a liberal atmosphere attracts all sorts of people - even foreign girls looking to have a good time without getting inappropriately hit on!
"Where are you from?"
"Yes, I have work here."
"Are you studying Arabic here?"
"No, I"m not married," said with a distracted smile (almost condescending?) to the taxi driver.
There were also foreigners from the Gulf for whom the driver rolled his eyes before turning off his radio music (this is offensive to some very religious Muslims.)
The driver catcalled girls all day, almost turning it into an art. I have to admit that after seeing the film, I see taxi drivers differently, and I can't seem to get annoyed if they catcall me on the street. It's just what they do. Perhaps a misunderstood art.
A world away (and the night after) King Hussein Park, I went to my very first drag show in the Middle East. At a bar in Amman, the underground homesexual community here has carved out a nightlife niche for themselves. Once a week there is a drag show (combined with a karaoke contest for hilarious effect), and almost every night there is a decent crowd of young people dancing, drinking, and enjoying a dose of warm and tolerant atmosphere all around. I personally admire any gay person willing to live in a country where attitudes towards such a sexual preference range from denial to bloodlust, and it makes me happy to see that there is an accepting community where people can meet, party, date, etc.
Although the bar is similar to many gay spots around the world in that it is one of the best dance/party places in the area, it is different in that any opportunity in this region for a liberal atmosphere attracts all sorts of people - even foreign girls looking to have a good time without getting inappropriately hit on!
Soap operas in Gaza and American Conspiracies in Egypt
These NYTimes articles recently caught my eye. The first is one of the better mainstream articles I've seen about culture in the Middle East - showing a bit about what daily life means in Gaza for those literally walled in the territory day after day.
1) Watching 'Friends' in Gaza
The second is a great example of the need for more intercultural trust - or is it just that everyone hates the government? I'll let you decide...
2) 9/11 Rumors that Become Conventional Wisdom
1) Watching 'Friends' in Gaza
The second is a great example of the need for more intercultural trust - or is it just that everyone hates the government? I'll let you decide...
2) 9/11 Rumors that Become Conventional Wisdom
21 July 2008
Learning to Live in Luxury (?)
I never thought that I would come to Jordan and have to get used to living the life of a "rich girl," but then I guess I never knew what to expect anyway. I'll explain.
Many families in West Amman have servants. In part, this is because human labor is so cheap, and in part because there are many affluent people here. My landlord told us that we can employ a cleaning lady in our apartment once per week if we would like. She makes 2 JDs per hour.
The main reason I brought this up is that when I was in the shower room today at the gym, another girl walked in, starting to take a shower. "Glooooria," she yelled for the maid. (Each locker room has someone who is employed full time to simply wipe down the showers and the floors throughout the day. She just sits and waits for the rest of the time, when there is nothing to clean.)
"Someone else used the shower already. Can you wipe it down, please? It's so dirty in there, no?" the girl said to the attendant. This is also almost always in English.
I know that if I really thought a shower were dirty, I would wipe it out myself or perhaps go somewhere else. I can't imagine yelling for a maid or a servant. But this is just how things are here. People (of a certain socio-economic class of course) are accustomed to a service economy in this way.
Another Jordanian friend of mine casually remarked to me that the only time he did dishes in his life was when he was at his ex-pat friends' apartments. "I've always had a maid," he shrugged.
Who knew that I would come to a developing country to learn about living in luxury?
I've spent a decent amount of time talking to the maid in my gym's locker room - she is very friendly, willing to listen and to talk about her own life. She works from 8am until 9pm every day and has been working in the same place for 8 years. She came to Jordan 15 years ago from the Philippines, working for a family at first before they "let her go." She told me that her daughter and son both studied nursing, because it's a profession high in demand. "One more year here for experience," she said, "and then my daughter will apply to go to Canada for work. And I will go back to my country." She said it to me with an air of finality and victory, her mission accomplished. She certainly has worked hard for it.
Many families in West Amman have servants. In part, this is because human labor is so cheap, and in part because there are many affluent people here. My landlord told us that we can employ a cleaning lady in our apartment once per week if we would like. She makes 2 JDs per hour.
The main reason I brought this up is that when I was in the shower room today at the gym, another girl walked in, starting to take a shower. "Glooooria," she yelled for the maid. (Each locker room has someone who is employed full time to simply wipe down the showers and the floors throughout the day. She just sits and waits for the rest of the time, when there is nothing to clean.)
"Someone else used the shower already. Can you wipe it down, please? It's so dirty in there, no?" the girl said to the attendant. This is also almost always in English.
I know that if I really thought a shower were dirty, I would wipe it out myself or perhaps go somewhere else. I can't imagine yelling for a maid or a servant. But this is just how things are here. People (of a certain socio-economic class of course) are accustomed to a service economy in this way.
Another Jordanian friend of mine casually remarked to me that the only time he did dishes in his life was when he was at his ex-pat friends' apartments. "I've always had a maid," he shrugged.
Who knew that I would come to a developing country to learn about living in luxury?
I've spent a decent amount of time talking to the maid in my gym's locker room - she is very friendly, willing to listen and to talk about her own life. She works from 8am until 9pm every day and has been working in the same place for 8 years. She came to Jordan 15 years ago from the Philippines, working for a family at first before they "let her go." She told me that her daughter and son both studied nursing, because it's a profession high in demand. "One more year here for experience," she said, "and then my daughter will apply to go to Canada for work. And I will go back to my country." She said it to me with an air of finality and victory, her mission accomplished. She certainly has worked hard for it.
14 July 2008
A Funny Thing Happened On the Way Home From the Gym
Sometimes, no matter how well I plan my clothing for the day, I end up with dilemmas like the following:
I was at my gym today, preparing to walk home after getting out of the shower. Suddenly, I realized that the overshirt I had been wearing that day was made of blue silk. On top of that, it happens to be a shirt that I'm particularly proud of because I bought it from a high-label store (which shall remain nameless) for an outstanding deal. I mean really outstanding. And as anyone who exercises his or her primitive hunting instinct while shopping will tell you, this shirt's value now goes way beyond its wearability. Plus, it is a gorgeous deep aquamarine blue. (For anyone who thought that I only pondered sociological and political dilemmas, you can now see that I am well-rounded.)
So, as I'm standing in the locker room getting ready to leave, a memory flashes into my head of my mother telling me that water (such as that from wet hair) will ruin silk. Although I'm usually the type of person that doesn't pay attention to such warnings and ends up with a spotted shirt, I am recently on a new kick of trying to learn from past mistakes. So I didn't want to kill the shirt.
The problem was, my shirt underneath was tight, black, and sleeveless. I was faced with a choice: (potentially) destroy my new, beloved shirt OR walk home showing my shoulders to the world. Luckily Shmeisani is a decently liberal area - probably one of the most in Amman - or I don't know if I would have considered option B at all.
I decided, what the hell, I would save the shirt and take the walk. I estimated that I only had about seven minutes on busy roads (where catcalls, etc are more likely), before I got back into more residential streets for another seven minutes of walking. How bad could it be? I asked myself. And maybe I was worrying too much anyway. Mine wouldn't be the first shoulders shown in this part of the city.
I told myself it was like an experiment, and I would keep count. Apart from the normal whispers or glances that I get when I walk - I don't think these counted, since they happen anyway - I only had two cars stop and honk during my seven minute walk. Although one of them did stop and roll beside me for a bit, the guys yelling something about "lahme," which means "meat."
I never really felt unsafe, though, and I was happy that I didn't ruin my shirt. I guess I learned a lesson about always keeping a little scarf/shawl in my purse, as one's carefully calculated wardrobe in Jordan can easily go awry...
I was at my gym today, preparing to walk home after getting out of the shower. Suddenly, I realized that the overshirt I had been wearing that day was made of blue silk. On top of that, it happens to be a shirt that I'm particularly proud of because I bought it from a high-label store (which shall remain nameless) for an outstanding deal. I mean really outstanding. And as anyone who exercises his or her primitive hunting instinct while shopping will tell you, this shirt's value now goes way beyond its wearability. Plus, it is a gorgeous deep aquamarine blue. (For anyone who thought that I only pondered sociological and political dilemmas, you can now see that I am well-rounded.)
So, as I'm standing in the locker room getting ready to leave, a memory flashes into my head of my mother telling me that water (such as that from wet hair) will ruin silk. Although I'm usually the type of person that doesn't pay attention to such warnings and ends up with a spotted shirt, I am recently on a new kick of trying to learn from past mistakes. So I didn't want to kill the shirt.
The problem was, my shirt underneath was tight, black, and sleeveless. I was faced with a choice: (potentially) destroy my new, beloved shirt OR walk home showing my shoulders to the world. Luckily Shmeisani is a decently liberal area - probably one of the most in Amman - or I don't know if I would have considered option B at all.
I decided, what the hell, I would save the shirt and take the walk. I estimated that I only had about seven minutes on busy roads (where catcalls, etc are more likely), before I got back into more residential streets for another seven minutes of walking. How bad could it be? I asked myself. And maybe I was worrying too much anyway. Mine wouldn't be the first shoulders shown in this part of the city.
I told myself it was like an experiment, and I would keep count. Apart from the normal whispers or glances that I get when I walk - I don't think these counted, since they happen anyway - I only had two cars stop and honk during my seven minute walk. Although one of them did stop and roll beside me for a bit, the guys yelling something about "lahme," which means "meat."
I never really felt unsafe, though, and I was happy that I didn't ruin my shirt. I guess I learned a lesson about always keeping a little scarf/shawl in my purse, as one's carefully calculated wardrobe in Jordan can easily go awry...
29 June 2008
The New Neighborhood
After all of this philosophizing, I think I should add some stories about my new life here. I have a new apartment, a new neighborhood, a new job, etc.
I now live in Shmeisani, which was the "place to be" in Amman about 30 years ago. Everyone who got in on the game then still lives here, so the population is a bit more aged to my eye. I gather that development of this area started when the Arab Bank set up its headquarters here - this is one of the most important banks in the region, and it quickly attracted other businesses, banks, and affluent house owners.
My neighborhood is charming and residential, filled with 3- to 6-story apartment buildings and houses, all the requisite white limestone of Amman. As we sit on our balcony and enjoy the night breeze, my flatmate and I can see the bustle and life of the 20 or so families whose apartments face us on the opposite side of the street.
Last week there was a wedding celebration in the building across from us, and a bunch of men dressed in embroidered vests and hats serenaded the house with drums as different family members danced in the middle of the circle. All of us neighbors came out on the balcony to watch and clap along. The head drummer was ostensibly taking such pleasure in his drumming that his powerful "THWAP"s resounded all the way down the street - I could feel them in my bones.
It turns out, after a few weeks here, that I love living in Shmeisani. This is in part because I can walk not only to the office and to my gym, but also to cafes, the supermarket, and just about everywhere I need. It's also very central in terms of getting to other places in the city. Finally, a piece of pedestrian heaven in a car-filled Amman!
When I walk to work, I pass HRH Prince Hashem's Bird Garden, one of the stranger places I've seen in Amman. This an old-time menagerie about the size of one square city block, filled with cages of chickens, turkeys, and even squirrel-like rodents. There's also a playground and a picnic area - families really seem to like going there on the weekends. There's even a sign in Arabic on the door that says "Families Only," which I assume implies that young men cannot go in there by themselves to goof off or ogle the girls.
On my way to work I also cross Culture Street, which is in my opinion one of the funnier misnomers of Amman. Apart from a Burger King and a few other restaurants and banks, there's not really much to be found there. The most interesting part is perhaps the young tribe of skaters who use the sloped stairs in the wide center median of the street to do stunts and hang out. They remind me exactly of the "skaters" I used to know when I was in middle school and high school, and they discuss the "tricks" they hit in accent-less English.
The rest of my walk is pretty uneventful, unless you begin to count all the different obstacles that have been placed on the sidewalks to make them unusable. Everything from rubble, to chairs, to trees, to rows of cars - everything except pedestrians! I'm not really complaining though - my walks to and from work are among my favorite parts of the day. So far it is not hot enough in the early or late parts of the day to keep me from walking, though we will see if that lasts into August.
------
Author's note, posted three days after original post:
It has been pointed out to me by someone who has lived in Shmeisani for a very long time that a couple of my above comments are incorrect. First of all, Shmeisani's development was not stimulated specifically by the Arab Bank's establishment in the area, but rather it was simply the next area in a succession of new development in the city, starting with the first and second circle areas and moving outwards. It also helped that the area was zoned "A," which means that lots are larger (more room for people who are looking to build large villas), and also an expectation of keeping your house in better repair.
Secondly, Culture Street was recently named during the year that Amman was the Arab cultural capital for a year (this is a rotating honor). Contrary to my impression, which was of a street named in an attempt to generate culture, it seems that this street was chosen because of its already-existing culture, mostly created through a wide pedestrian median where people can gather on benches to talk. And it is true - there are quite a few people out there, particularly during breezy summer nights.
So, I am very appreciative of being corrected, and I'm glad this post helped me to learn something. As always, I love for this blog to be more dialogue and less just me talking, so your comments are very welcome.
I now live in Shmeisani, which was the "place to be" in Amman about 30 years ago. Everyone who got in on the game then still lives here, so the population is a bit more aged to my eye. I gather that development of this area started when the Arab Bank set up its headquarters here - this is one of the most important banks in the region, and it quickly attracted other businesses, banks, and affluent house owners.
My neighborhood is charming and residential, filled with 3- to 6-story apartment buildings and houses, all the requisite white limestone of Amman. As we sit on our balcony and enjoy the night breeze, my flatmate and I can see the bustle and life of the 20 or so families whose apartments face us on the opposite side of the street.
Last week there was a wedding celebration in the building across from us, and a bunch of men dressed in embroidered vests and hats serenaded the house with drums as different family members danced in the middle of the circle. All of us neighbors came out on the balcony to watch and clap along. The head drummer was ostensibly taking such pleasure in his drumming that his powerful "THWAP"s resounded all the way down the street - I could feel them in my bones.
It turns out, after a few weeks here, that I love living in Shmeisani. This is in part because I can walk not only to the office and to my gym, but also to cafes, the supermarket, and just about everywhere I need. It's also very central in terms of getting to other places in the city. Finally, a piece of pedestrian heaven in a car-filled Amman!
When I walk to work, I pass HRH Prince Hashem's Bird Garden, one of the stranger places I've seen in Amman. This an old-time menagerie about the size of one square city block, filled with cages of chickens, turkeys, and even squirrel-like rodents. There's also a playground and a picnic area - families really seem to like going there on the weekends. There's even a sign in Arabic on the door that says "Families Only," which I assume implies that young men cannot go in there by themselves to goof off or ogle the girls.
On my way to work I also cross Culture Street, which is in my opinion one of the funnier misnomers of Amman. Apart from a Burger King and a few other restaurants and banks, there's not really much to be found there. The most interesting part is perhaps the young tribe of skaters who use the sloped stairs in the wide center median of the street to do stunts and hang out. They remind me exactly of the "skaters" I used to know when I was in middle school and high school, and they discuss the "tricks" they hit in accent-less English.
The rest of my walk is pretty uneventful, unless you begin to count all the different obstacles that have been placed on the sidewalks to make them unusable. Everything from rubble, to chairs, to trees, to rows of cars - everything except pedestrians! I'm not really complaining though - my walks to and from work are among my favorite parts of the day. So far it is not hot enough in the early or late parts of the day to keep me from walking, though we will see if that lasts into August.
------
Author's note, posted three days after original post:
It has been pointed out to me by someone who has lived in Shmeisani for a very long time that a couple of my above comments are incorrect. First of all, Shmeisani's development was not stimulated specifically by the Arab Bank's establishment in the area, but rather it was simply the next area in a succession of new development in the city, starting with the first and second circle areas and moving outwards. It also helped that the area was zoned "A," which means that lots are larger (more room for people who are looking to build large villas), and also an expectation of keeping your house in better repair.
Secondly, Culture Street was recently named during the year that Amman was the Arab cultural capital for a year (this is a rotating honor). Contrary to my impression, which was of a street named in an attempt to generate culture, it seems that this street was chosen because of its already-existing culture, mostly created through a wide pedestrian median where people can gather on benches to talk. And it is true - there are quite a few people out there, particularly during breezy summer nights.
So, I am very appreciative of being corrected, and I'm glad this post helped me to learn something. As always, I love for this blog to be more dialogue and less just me talking, so your comments are very welcome.
Written shortly after my arrival in Amman, during 'soul delay'
For the first time in my life I am not a student.
Well, here I am again. In Amman. Beginning another year here. Am I crazy? An adventurer? Opportunistic? Full of wanderlust? In love with Jordan? Trying to find myself? Who knows.
This start, while a far cry from my last arrival here - I think I was in a state somewhere between awestruck and bewildered for a full month last year - has hit me with some hard truths right away.
First of all, I had some ideas that I would come back to Amman and continue my "cultural immersion" into this second year. I would improve my Arabic, learn more about Jordan and the Middle East, get some more work experience, etc. That was my plan.
What I conveniently forgot is that working in an international organization all day and then hanging out with friends during free time does not leave much time for "cultural" exploration. I am also surprised to find myself perceiving this exploration very differently than last year. Last time I was here - even just a few weeks ago - everything in Jordan was exciting simply for existing in Jordan. Everything was an experience. I didn't care what type of food was at the grocery store, I just wanted to live the experience of shopping there. I didn't care what type of trash littered the sidewalks; I wanted to catalog it in my mind to see what people threw away here.
Now I find myself falling into the dangerous trap of just wanting to live life. I want some food that I like, I want to walk on a sidewalk without bumping into olive trees that take up the whole space. I don't think this is a good attitude to have here.
Secondly, I am constantly feeling bad that I know only one small part of Jordan, one small part of Amman, which is often worlds apart from the rest of the country. I wanted to leave knowing Jordan, and I realize that I will only leave knowing West Amman for the most part, with perhaps little snippets of the rest of the country.
However, I am trying to come to terms with this as best I can. After all, this is still the Amman that I love! There are many people, as I have already written, who say that West Amman is not the "real" Jordan. But I think this is a shortsighted statement. When I lived in Paris, many people told me I was not experiencing the "real" France, either. But France would not be France without Paris, and Jordan would not be Jordan without West Amman. And perhaps I need to see this year as a chance to understand the microcosm that is West Amman without constantly bemoaning the fact that that is all that I know. After all, it is a fascinating place, with warm and wonderful people. Should I deny it a deep look simply because I am able to live here? I think that would be silly.
On the Arabic front, I am also struggling. The fact of the matter is that any Jordanian here who has a similar educational and/or socio-economic level to me almost certainly speaks better English than my Arabic. And so I am looking, sadly, at a year where my Arabic may fall into disuse - in an Arabic-speaking country! I want to fight this, and I am trying with language partner meetings several times per week, etc. but the truth is that this won't be enough. I need to be living in Arabic - as I mostly was at this point in my journey in France - and it doesn't seem as though this can happen if I want to maintain the lifestyle that I have now. So I am going to have to make some hard choices in the near future, I think.
I think the most important part of this for me, though, is to be sure that I am living in Jordan for a good reason. Not that I would rather be living somewhere else, but that maybe Jordanians would rather have me living somewhere else! What I mean to say is, am I becoming part of the humanitarian-worker community which superimposes itself on a country without really interacting with the citizens of that country? Will I continue to develop a parallel life of mostly ex-pat friends (and the few Jordanians who can stand us!) essentially living along with the rich elite while most Jordanians are struggling to pay for rapidly rising gas bills and outrageously priced tomatoes? I am afraid of this.
A colleague at work told me a story today in which she had to go to a hospital in East Amman (it was the only one with a certain type of anti-venom for snake bites, go figure) and that the scene was a stark contrast from what she is used to in West Amman. People groaning, blood on the floors, crowds of families, etc. She told me that it reminded her how isolated our existence here in our first world bubble really is. I feel guilty for participating in this bubble, but I have to admit that I don't want to give my life up. More hard choices on the horizon, I think.
When it comes down to it, I would not want to be here if my presence were not a net good at the end of the day. And I think right now, I'm not sure about that. I guess I have a year to figure it out.
Well, here I am again. In Amman. Beginning another year here. Am I crazy? An adventurer? Opportunistic? Full of wanderlust? In love with Jordan? Trying to find myself? Who knows.
This start, while a far cry from my last arrival here - I think I was in a state somewhere between awestruck and bewildered for a full month last year - has hit me with some hard truths right away.
First of all, I had some ideas that I would come back to Amman and continue my "cultural immersion" into this second year. I would improve my Arabic, learn more about Jordan and the Middle East, get some more work experience, etc. That was my plan.
What I conveniently forgot is that working in an international organization all day and then hanging out with friends during free time does not leave much time for "cultural" exploration. I am also surprised to find myself perceiving this exploration very differently than last year. Last time I was here - even just a few weeks ago - everything in Jordan was exciting simply for existing in Jordan. Everything was an experience. I didn't care what type of food was at the grocery store, I just wanted to live the experience of shopping there. I didn't care what type of trash littered the sidewalks; I wanted to catalog it in my mind to see what people threw away here.
Now I find myself falling into the dangerous trap of just wanting to live life. I want some food that I like, I want to walk on a sidewalk without bumping into olive trees that take up the whole space. I don't think this is a good attitude to have here.
Secondly, I am constantly feeling bad that I know only one small part of Jordan, one small part of Amman, which is often worlds apart from the rest of the country. I wanted to leave knowing Jordan, and I realize that I will only leave knowing West Amman for the most part, with perhaps little snippets of the rest of the country.
However, I am trying to come to terms with this as best I can. After all, this is still the Amman that I love! There are many people, as I have already written, who say that West Amman is not the "real" Jordan. But I think this is a shortsighted statement. When I lived in Paris, many people told me I was not experiencing the "real" France, either. But France would not be France without Paris, and Jordan would not be Jordan without West Amman. And perhaps I need to see this year as a chance to understand the microcosm that is West Amman without constantly bemoaning the fact that that is all that I know. After all, it is a fascinating place, with warm and wonderful people. Should I deny it a deep look simply because I am able to live here? I think that would be silly.
On the Arabic front, I am also struggling. The fact of the matter is that any Jordanian here who has a similar educational and/or socio-economic level to me almost certainly speaks better English than my Arabic. And so I am looking, sadly, at a year where my Arabic may fall into disuse - in an Arabic-speaking country! I want to fight this, and I am trying with language partner meetings several times per week, etc. but the truth is that this won't be enough. I need to be living in Arabic - as I mostly was at this point in my journey in France - and it doesn't seem as though this can happen if I want to maintain the lifestyle that I have now. So I am going to have to make some hard choices in the near future, I think.
I think the most important part of this for me, though, is to be sure that I am living in Jordan for a good reason. Not that I would rather be living somewhere else, but that maybe Jordanians would rather have me living somewhere else! What I mean to say is, am I becoming part of the humanitarian-worker community which superimposes itself on a country without really interacting with the citizens of that country? Will I continue to develop a parallel life of mostly ex-pat friends (and the few Jordanians who can stand us!) essentially living along with the rich elite while most Jordanians are struggling to pay for rapidly rising gas bills and outrageously priced tomatoes? I am afraid of this.
A colleague at work told me a story today in which she had to go to a hospital in East Amman (it was the only one with a certain type of anti-venom for snake bites, go figure) and that the scene was a stark contrast from what she is used to in West Amman. People groaning, blood on the floors, crowds of families, etc. She told me that it reminded her how isolated our existence here in our first world bubble really is. I feel guilty for participating in this bubble, but I have to admit that I don't want to give my life up. More hard choices on the horizon, I think.
When it comes down to it, I would not want to be here if my presence were not a net good at the end of the day. And I think right now, I'm not sure about that. I guess I have a year to figure it out.
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