A cultural difference that I can't embrace

There are several cultural differences and quirks regarding life in Jordan that I just can't get behind. The serious ones being the daily harassment that my friends and I experience as well as the assaults and groping incidents that happen surprisingly frequently to Western women. {Seriously, get a bunch of Western women together who've lived in an Arab country for a few years and ask for assault and attempted kidnapping stories. You'd think you were at a victim support group meeting, not an Embassy party.}

One of the lighter ones is the practice of putting plastic bags in the microwave. I know. I nearly screamed when one of my Jordanian housemates wrapped up some bread in a plastic grocery bag, popped it into the microwave, and turned it on.

A European housemate said, "Yeah, that's how they do it here. I was really surprised the first time that I saw that," and the Jordanian promised me that the bag doesn't catch on fire, doesn't melt, and that you can't smell or taste the plastic on the bread.

Just....no. I will never be okay with eating plastic microwaved bread.

PTSD

I was explaining the school PTA system in the U.S. to an Iraqi father. I don't remember why I needed to describe it, but when I finished he said, "Oh, we don't have PTA in Iraq. We have PTSD."

Unsettled

There was a murder in Hashmi yesterday.

I know, sounds shocking, right? I've rarely heard of murders happening while I've been in Jordan (other than, say, the occasional honor killing that makes the news). Last year a student was stabbed to death during the school day at the University of Jordan. My program diligently sent text messages to all of us warning us away from class, saying, "Avoid the north gate. Tribal spat."

A similar even occurred yesterday at Plaza Mall, just up the street from where I live. Someone was shot to death for tribal reasons.

We're all feeling kind of icky, the way that you do when you hear about something bad happening so close to home. I suppose, however, that we can comfort ourselves by knowing that it was connected to a tribal fight, and neither my roommate nor I are involved with tribes in Jordan. I guess that's better than in the U.S., where shootings in malls are done at random and targeted at everyone, right?

In other neighborhood news, a Jordanian man from around these parts who had been harrassing Iraqis and behaving as a shitty person slipped, fell, and died yesterday on the pavement in front of his house. Karma, I guess.

After the fact

I'm now pretty removed from the thesis writing fog, but I still found these lolcats to be quite amusing.

Beyond 2nd Circle

I recently visited several Somali refugees. They live mostly in Jebel Amman, right off 2nd circle. The closest main street looks surprisingly nice and middle class, with an assortment of clothing shops and restaurants. Every few steps there's a gap between the buildings that leads down many flights of steps into a labrynth of hovels that cling to the side of the hill. This is where the refugees live.

While it looks fine during the day, I've been told that the area turns into a sketchy prostitue hangout at night.

From what I've heard, the majority of the Somalis are moms and children. I don't know of any Somali men here, although I've only interacted with a handful of Somalis period. They all have very difficult situations, of course, complicated by a lack of Arabic skills, although the children are attending public school and usually speak Arabic well enough to translate.

Whenever I visit refugee families in their homes (whether Somalis or Iraqis), I'm always surprised by how open the parents are in front of their children. They tell the whole gruesome family story in front of everyone and I can't help but wonder if maybe the little ones should be asked to step out. One of the Somali families was no different. The mother's whole pack of offspring clustered around her on the sofa and on the floor at her feet while she answered questions. In fact, the children needed to be there to help with translation. The mother got through the parts about the missing father, the murdered relatives, and began to talk about her missing children who might now be dead. Then she started crying and the eldest daughter (a teenager) finished the story.