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.

The customs office killed my childhood

The final Harry Potter movie premieres today and, for those of us who grew up alongside the leading trio, it's a BFD. Being in a time zone 7 hours ahead of most of my friends, I was originally celebrating the fact that I'd be finishing the movie before they even started it and was planning a correspondingly smug Facebook post. That won't happen because, for whatever reason, the Jordan custom's office is in some kind of standoff with foreign filmmakers. No new films are entering the country. That means no Harry Potter. There's more information about the situation here. I'm so so bummed.

ما شاء الله

Masha'Allah

Last year, an American student told me that Masha'Allah meant something like, "God guide you," along the same lines as Allah Kareem. I used the phrase with Arabs twice. The first time happened in Damascus with an elderly woman who was selling cloth decorated with Islamic sayings. 

The second was in Amman. I had a taxi driver who, upon realizing that I partially understood Arabic, went on a long vent about the situation in Palestine. He had 11 kids (or something like that) and they were living in really poor and difficult situations in the West Bank, and there was not enough clean water for the children, etc. etc. He wanted me to go back to Amrika and tell people about how hard their life was and try to change it.

When I got out of the taxi, I really thought I was being nice by saying Masha'Allah.

Well.

Yesterday, an Iraqi friend who is fluent in English explained to me that Masha'Allah is something said to remind yourself out loud not to be jealous of another person's good fortune, because Allah doesn't approve of jealousy (it's a nice sentiment).

In fact, the Wikipedia page says that it "expresses appreciation, joy, praise or thankfulness for an event or person that was just mentioned. Towards this, it is used as an expression of respect, while at the same time serving as a reminder that all accomplishments are so achieved by the will of God...It is said upon hearing good news...Another reason people use this phrase is to prevent the evil eye or jinxing, similar to the Western idiom "knock on wood."

So this Palestinian taxi driver was telling me about his family's desperate situation, while driving me to the wealthy Deir Ghbar neighborhood, and when we parted I basically said, Gee, I Guess It's Just God's Will For Your Family And People To Be In A Shit Situation And I'm So Thankful That It's Not Me And Knock On Wood That I Don't Wind Up With Your Luck.

Great, Lucy, great.

Her: 4 Me: 1

The food war is still going strong after the skirmish of the watermelon v. cupcakes. Yesterday morning she dropped off a hot plate of some kind of fried dough with cheese inside (so good). Then today it was half a batch of dolma (Stuffed zucchini. It is probably one of the 5 best dishes in the world).

I have a few ideas to make a comeback, although I'm getting awfully close to raising the white flag.

In other news, our playground equipment was delivered today for the new backyard/courtyard area. After dark, we ran out there with our neighbors to try it out. It was a riot. Five adults running around a dark playground, laughing uncontrollably on the seesaw and spinning on the merry-go-round until we shrieked that we would vomit.

Toy shopping

There are two new refugee families who recently arrived from Iraq with almost nothing in their hands. Some private donors sent money to provide a few toys for the kids and, after consulting with the parents, we got to go toy shopping!

Wust al-balad was, of course, the place to go. We spent almost 4 hours perusing the factory vomit, and enjoyed a few of our finds:

Dolls are hugely popular. Especially dolls that "will produce a sound with the light."

And dolls with highly unnatural hair color. It is extremely hard to find dolls with dark hair in Jordan. Light hair is really prized.

Kids are never too young to learn the value of hard work.

The box on this one says, "Let Our Children More Hardworking"

That was definitely made in China.

And finally, we have American Dream meets Jordanian Dream.

A blonde wife

A closet full of dresses

A flatscreen tv.

What more could you want?

Vomit from the Yangtze River

There must be a pipe that runs directly from China's factories right to Wust al-balad in Amman.

There are a million and one things for sale in downtown Amman that were MADE IN CHINA. Stores and the few feet of street outside their doors are crammed with cardboard boxes holding what, to me, looks like what would happen if China's manufacturing industry suddenly vomited all over the pavement.

As with everything from China, everything is produced in mass quantities, the prices are great, but the durability questionable.

Dust to dust

Jordan is dusty. Really dusty. It's a desert after all.

We sweep, dust, and mop every day.

This is our coffee table less than 24 hours after being wiped down:

The screen of my laptop:

Our clothes are pretty significantly affected by the dirt and dust floating around. It's not too noticeable, that is, until you do some laundry.

We have to fill the left side of our washer with a hose, then put in all of the soap and clothing, and then fish the clothing out of the used water and put it into the spinner on the right.

 

And this is what the water looked like after I did my first set of laundry. Yeah.

The Watermelon War

I've gotten myself into a food war with our upstairs neighbor. I'm not going to take time now to explain how food is a BFD in this part of the world and that there are all sorts of rules and customs surrounding offering and declining food from others (and I still screw this dance up a lot).

I went shopping with our neighbor recently and she and her husband provided me with tea and water at their home before the trip, and then purchased juice for me during (and appropriately refused my offer to pay). I made a mental note to make this up to them this summer.

This evening we hosted a meeting and only about 1/4th of the people who had RSVP'd actually showed up. We therefore were left with an entire half a watermelon, cut up and ready to eat, that no one had touched. The director mentioned that we could bring it to the upstairs neighbors. I jumped up saying, "I'll do it! They've given me food so I need them to see me bringing them food."

I carried the platter outside to where they were working on some plants, and then up to their flat after being invited in. I was proud of myself. A-ha, I thought, now we will all sit in their living room eating my watermelon and chatting politely.

And then she trumped me by plopping a tray of cupcakes on the coffee table next to the watermelon. And yes, everyone ate her cupcakes and drank her tea while we talked.

I left it there and I'm sure her family enjoyed it later, but now I need to think of my next move.

Ana Boheb Urdun

I love Jordan.

Last night was one of those nights where I found myself thinking several times, I love Jordan. Last night was the first time, since arriving June 2nd, that Amman felt like home, the way that I remember it from last year. I'm guessing this has everything to do with the fact that last year I lived in West Amman with a host family, and this year I am living in Hashmi. {Not that I dislike Hashmi, but if you've been to East and West Amman, you get where I'm coming from here}.

I reunited with a few relatives of my host family from last year at Ahli Club, way the heck out past Deir Ghbar, near the highway to the airport (over 3 dinars away from Hashmi by taxi). The relative is Circassian, so we met up with a bunch of her Circassian friends at what is apparently an all Circassian club.

{Circassians, referred to often as Cherkess, are a minority group in Jordan. They were driven out of the Caucusus by the Russians in the late 1800s. Yes, Jordan has become quite the catch-all for people who have lost their homes for one reason or another}.

I need to recalibrate myself to Arab time. We planned to meet at 6:00. I decided to arrive at 6:35 and thought I had done quite well with that judgment. Everyone else arrived at 7:00. Oh well.

Behind the high whitewashed walls was a lovely courtyard with waiters passing amongst a collection of tables. There weren't many people there as the work week here begins on Sunday so Saturday nights are usually quiet. Of those present, however, there were quite a few teen and young adult groups of mixed gender. It was explained to me several times that Circassians are open and okay with close friendships between men and women.

We did end up crashing an engagement party, and that was fun although a little odd. After watching a traditional dance practice session for teens inside the building, someone thought it would be fun to show us the real deal. We poked around to the second courtyard where a very elegant Circassian couple was clapping rhythmically, along with their guests, as attendees took turns dancing two at a time in the middle of a large circle. I was told that this was an important cultural dance for Circassians and that every Circassian knows it. Indeed, the guests frequently traded off dancing in the center (always one man and one woman), and everyone seemed to know exactly what to do.

The friends with us began to push us {me + another American student living with my host relative} forward. The other girl and I refused and clung to each other, until we realized that they were simply trying to get us to stand on the side of the circle with the women, and not with the men where we had been. Phew. They weren't trying to make us dance.

In order to leave, we had to cut across the circle right in front of the bride and groom, wearing jeans while she was wearing a sparkly gown. I made eye contact with her as I passed and I'm sure she was thinking, "Who the Hell..."

Despite being tired and having to work on Sunday, when we left Ahli we went to The Circassian Charity Association where we interrupted yet another event. Some man, whom we later learned is a very important general from somewhere, was speaking and taking questions from a lot of very concerned and intently interested people. I was later told that they were discussing, basically, how to get their land back from Russia and what the U.N. could do for them about it. Once again our new Circassian~Jordanian friends pushed us right through the middle of the room to open seats a bit close to the front.

That was over shortly after we arrived and, after shaking hands with this general whose name and citizenship I still do not know, we walked next door to Al Jeel club, another Circassian-only club. We did not stay very long, but saw a beautiful rooftop cafe with a giant screen showing music videos and quite a few young adults enjoying the place. There was also a vigorous game of soccer being played on the first level.

Around this time in the night, a whole bunch of memories from last year came flooding back. All of those late nights (even during the week) that we spent visiting relatives, house hopping until 11pm, me with my homework in tow. How it was fun to drive through the cool (temperature wise) yet vibrant streets, visiting relatives, eating food, drinking tea, and not totally understanding the conversation, but just floating on the sidelines. {Yet it also drove me crazy because it was usually on a school night when I had vocab to memorize}.

Agreeing that it was *almost* time to call it a night, we went to Sweifieh where I ate at KFC for the first time in my entire life. During this late night snack I remembered how, as much as it can seriously be a pain in the ass at times, I love the Arab shove-food-in-your-face aspect of hospitality. It's so attentive. Overwhelming at times, sure, but nice to pick up your last bite and have someone notice and shove a platter in your face for seconds. Last night I was so glad that I had chosen to live with a host family last year, because now I have an Arab (and part Circassian) family for life.

After the group finally split, I went home with my former host cousin because Hashmi is just so far away from life in West Amman {geographically and culturally}, and I wasn't going to take a taxi at midnight.

This morning, she and I caught up on all of the family gossip over Nescafe. يا الله.

Sugarcane and Sparklers

Today I went shopping down in the bellad with one of my favorite Iraqi families (Note: They're all my favorite). I popped by their flat and, after going through the ritual greetings and sharing cups of tea and water in the living room, we were off in a taxi. After getting what we were looking for, we stopped at a juice stand. There was a guy behind the counter blending fruit juices, but if you wanted some sugarcane juice, the guy out front fed stalks into this contraption, and the super fresh juice dripped out the bottom. It was delicious. Just the right amount of sweet.

I also attended a kids' birthday party today, complete with Arabic 'Happy Birthday,' cupcake decorating, and those awesomely intense candles/sparklers that would probably be illegal to market to children in the U.S.

 

Hip Hip Hooray

[Hip, Hip, and Hooray in a plastic bag, acclimating to their new tank.]

After several weeks of staring at our empty-but-for-the-algae-and-snails fish tank, we decided, while walking past a fish and bird (only?) shop in East Amman, that it was finally time to add a little bit of color to the thing.

The guy there clearly thought that we were dumb foreigners who didn't know what's what [alright, the dumb foreigner part might be true, but we know how much fish are supposed to cost], and tried to sell us a Betta for 5JD. Knowing they should only cost 1JD each, we moved on instead to these colorful little guys. They were 3 for 1JD and looked quite beautiful swimming around together in a school. We picked blue ~ أزرق, red ~ أحمر, and yellow ~ أصفر.

Once out of the baggie and into their new tank, the little guys (now called Hip, Hip, and Hooray) freaked out. They were trembling and darting up and down in the tank. It was a full on fish panic attack x3. I was expecting to see them go belly up any minute, but eventually, fortunately, they calmed down.

If they're good (and if they survive), we'll get them some playmates.

Ammanford

I have no idea where that is, but each time I put "Amman" into Weather.com's search bar, it asks if I'm looking for Ammanford, U.K.

Wherever they are, the residents of Ammanford don't seem to ever be having good weather when I check on them, poor  blokes.

As for us, in the "other" Amman, we're having a perfect day.

Speed

Today I was asked {in English} if I wanted my coffee with or without speed. Hmmm, I thought, isn't that a bit excessive?

It turns out he meant 'sugar'. But interesting idea.

Post Mortem

That's a good title for this post. I certainly felt rather close to death during a few moments earlier this week.

On Monday, I ran 26.2 miles and it was pretty darn awful.

I was quite surprised by just how terrible I felt from mile 15 onward. My 20 mile training run went rather well, so I wasn't prepared for just how horrible 26.2 could feel.

My guesses for what contributed to a not-so-great experience:

-Weather. 50 degrees is good running weather, but when you've been training in the frigid Massachusetts winter, 50 degrees feels hot. So hot, in fact, that while I was running I was continuously surprised to see people wearing sweatshirts and coats. I kept wondering why the spectators were so bundled up.

-Hunger.  I ate a ton during all of the waiting that occurs between getting ready at 6am and actually running at 11, but it still wasn't enough. I was really looking forward to the bagels at the athlete's village, but they ran out fast. I missed that bagel the whole way from Hopkinton to Copley Square. I didn't use the gels because I'd never used them during training and I didn't want to do something new in the middle of a marathon. (But note to self for future long runs). I didn't feel hungry during the last half of the race, but apparently I got super pale and my coach told me to eat something ASAP when he saw me at the finish line.

-Exhaustion. This was perhaps not the greatest time in my life to run my first marathon. I won't go through all of the activities going on during spring semester of my Senior year, but taking six classes and preparing for a thesis defense followed by moving to Jordan after graduation and finding a job was all a bit much to take on and I didn't fit in as many early morning training runs as I should have. Furthermore, 8 days before the marathon, my father sustained a traumatic brain injury in a bike accident. The week prior to the marathon was chaotic. I had classes, problem sets, thesis meetings, thesis edits, a flight home, a medically induced coma, a Code C, ICU, a flight back to Boston on Sunday, and running on Monday. Oy. We were instructed to relax the weekend before in order to be well rested on Marathon Monday. I was the opposite of that.

I guess it's not worth being disappointed about my time. Given the circumstances, I think I'll settle for being happy that I finished, happy that I had no medical problems, and happy that my father is now out of ICU.

Overall, I am glad that I did it. It's been fun to peek into the clique that is marathon running. Just as others told me would happen, I went from moments of thinking, I am never doing this again, to planning my next marathon shortly after completing the first. Despite my shorts that are bloodstained from chaffing, my shoes that are bloodstained, my toenail that has fallen off and the other that is soon to follow, and my ache-filled limp, I do want to run a marathon again. Mostly to have a better experience than the first. You know, Dubai hosts one in January...

College {Coffee} Drinking

I've let a collection of coffee mugs begin to grow in my room. Most of my fellow students prefer to collect empty containers intended for a very different kind of beverage. My collection is of the caffeinated kind, not because I take pride in showing how many medium roasts I've pounded during the last week, but because I trudge home after working on thesis chapters, set my cup down on the nearest solid surface and collapse onto the nearest soft surface. I now have just 2 weeks left before I'd really like to have a complete draft.

It has been a stressful week here in the suite. Each of us is writing a thesis. The MCAT is looming for Roommate 1, and Roommate 2, being Japanese, is balancing her thesis edits with checking on her family's post-earthquake status.

Just a few more days until spring break.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

Spotted this evening in the campus library: 2 college students toting SAT prep books.