We were trying to find a kite (long story), and we found Samira instead. She invited us in to meet her family and to drink coffee, settling with serving us juice when we declined the coffee.
Three sips into my orange juice, I watched Samira's neighbor walk in the front door, without knocking, and sit down in the living room with us. Obviously they were close friends. Susanna was so comfortable at Samira's house that she almost forgot to introduce herself.
As we talked, I noticed a cross around Susanna's neck and asked "Are you Christian?" She smiled and nodded. I turned to our hostess and asked if she was Muslim or Christian.
Smiling broadly and throwing her arms in the air, she exclaimed "Praise God, I'm Muslim!" Susanna nodded, acknowledging the difference in religion with a supressed grin on her face, as if she and her good friend had been the rounds over religion before.
The conversation drifted away from religion and all that I saw left in the room were two neighbors, sisters, who respected each other's religion and sincerely desired the best for each other.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Stairs, Counting, and OCD
Or CDO (in alphabetical order).
I seem to be the only BYU student here that's noticed that every flight of stairs in Jordan has a different number of stairs. From one flight to the next, the number of stairs ranges anywhere from 8 to 12. It drives me nuts!
That's one thing I can say for the Soviets--they knew how to keep their stair counts consistent (10, every flight)! Armenian buildings had unlit stairwells, which made it exciting to traverse stairs at night, but at least you could count the stairs and know when you were coming to the end of the flight. The Jordanian version really keeps you on your toes (or knocks you off you're feet).
I seem to be the only BYU student here that's noticed that every flight of stairs in Jordan has a different number of stairs. From one flight to the next, the number of stairs ranges anywhere from 8 to 12. It drives me nuts!
That's one thing I can say for the Soviets--they knew how to keep their stair counts consistent (10, every flight)! Armenian buildings had unlit stairwells, which made it exciting to traverse stairs at night, but at least you could count the stairs and know when you were coming to the end of the flight. The Jordanian version really keeps you on your toes (or knocks you off you're feet).
Sunday, May 24, 2009
"No. It's Smaller Than Me."
His mother sent him into the kitchen to get drinks, and 4-year-old Abdu Rahman ("Abadi" for short) came back into the living room carrying a 3-liter bottle of 7-Up. Watching him proudly carrying in that massive bottle, I said "It's bigger than you are!" With righteous indignation and a tone that brooked no misunderstanding as to his size relative to a 7-Up bottle, he declared "No. It's smaller than me."
Abadi is the most adorable 4-year-old Bedouin I've ever met. In fact, he's the only 4-year-old Bedouin I've ever met.
His parents, Daif Allah ("Guest of God") and Hamida ("Praised") are the parents of 4 sons and 3 daughters. They are from a Bedouin clan, and they live outside of a small town southeast of Amman. Their oldest son, Badr, is going to school at the University of Jordan (where we're studying). My fellow BYU student Joe Nielsen met their second son, Bander, when he came to the University to visit his older brother. Bander invited us to spend Jordan's Independence Day with his family, and his parents welcomed us with open arms.
Nobody in the family speaks English, which gave us a really good reason to step well beyond our comfort zone in Arabic. They were all really helpful and excited to teach us. As the boys showed us their chicken coops and garden, our agricultural vocabulary expanded from "chicken" to include roosters, hens, chicks, goats, snakes, figs, unripe, and onion.
Abadi, still a little shy and suspicious of these strangers, was excited to discover that he had an attentive audience while he showed us how he could write his name on cinder block with black rocks from the garden.
An hour after we got their, Hamida called everyone in for lunch. She had spread a mat on the living room floor, and we all sat down on the floor around it. We watched as she brought in round tray the size of a small table and set it down in the middle of our circle. She started scooping chicken and yellow rice onto our plates, along with carrots, peppers, peanuts and lemons, all steaming hot. Joe and I were about to start eating when we noticed that we were the only ones that had been given forks.
Joe turned to Daif Allah and said "We don't know how to eat Bedouin-style. Teach us!" Daif Allah grinned. "Get rid of the forks!"
So we looked at the enormous steaming platter and followed his lead, digging in with our hands. As if the food itself wasn't incredibly delicious enough, Hamida had also made bowls of sauces and salads to mix in with the chicken and rice. Yoghurt makes finger food messy. They offered us towels to drape over our knees while we were eating; I guess they could tell that we're not as practiced at keeping our knees out of the food.
While we ate dessert--watermelon--I looked at Abadi and said "Do you like this mish-mish (apricot)?" He nodded. His mom looked at him and prompted reconsideration: "Is this apricot?" He thought for a minute, then lit up and said "No! It's watermelon!" I laughed and said "Mish mish-mish!" There it was. The punchline I had been baiting for. "Mish" means "It's not." "Mish-mish" means "apricot." "Mish mish-mish." AND THEY LAUGHED! I've successfully executed a joke in Arabic.
After dessert--watermelon--Zaid (the third son) brought in bowls of roasted watermelon seeds. I popped a couple in my mouth and started chewing. Hamida saw me chewing, stopped in the middle of her sentence, laughed, and said "Hold on! I've got to teach you how to eat these!" Apparently you eat them like sunflower seeds, not like nuts. When she had finished her demonstration, she laughed again and said "You eat them just like Abadi!"
After dinner, and after talking for a long time afterwards, they drove us to the bus stop in town so that we could catch the bus back to Amman. They left us with an invitation to come to their oldest daughter's engagement party on Friday, and with an open invitation to consider them as family.
This is the best Jordanian Independence Day I've ever celebrated. Here's to the wonderful people of Jordan.
Abadi is the most adorable 4-year-old Bedouin I've ever met. In fact, he's the only 4-year-old Bedouin I've ever met.
His parents, Daif Allah ("Guest of God") and Hamida ("Praised") are the parents of 4 sons and 3 daughters. They are from a Bedouin clan, and they live outside of a small town southeast of Amman. Their oldest son, Badr, is going to school at the University of Jordan (where we're studying). My fellow BYU student Joe Nielsen met their second son, Bander, when he came to the University to visit his older brother. Bander invited us to spend Jordan's Independence Day with his family, and his parents welcomed us with open arms.
Nobody in the family speaks English, which gave us a really good reason to step well beyond our comfort zone in Arabic. They were all really helpful and excited to teach us. As the boys showed us their chicken coops and garden, our agricultural vocabulary expanded from "chicken" to include roosters, hens, chicks, goats, snakes, figs, unripe, and onion.
Abadi, still a little shy and suspicious of these strangers, was excited to discover that he had an attentive audience while he showed us how he could write his name on cinder block with black rocks from the garden.
An hour after we got their, Hamida called everyone in for lunch. She had spread a mat on the living room floor, and we all sat down on the floor around it. We watched as she brought in round tray the size of a small table and set it down in the middle of our circle. She started scooping chicken and yellow rice onto our plates, along with carrots, peppers, peanuts and lemons, all steaming hot. Joe and I were about to start eating when we noticed that we were the only ones that had been given forks.
Joe turned to Daif Allah and said "We don't know how to eat Bedouin-style. Teach us!" Daif Allah grinned. "Get rid of the forks!"
So we looked at the enormous steaming platter and followed his lead, digging in with our hands. As if the food itself wasn't incredibly delicious enough, Hamida had also made bowls of sauces and salads to mix in with the chicken and rice. Yoghurt makes finger food messy. They offered us towels to drape over our knees while we were eating; I guess they could tell that we're not as practiced at keeping our knees out of the food.
While we ate dessert--watermelon--I looked at Abadi and said "Do you like this mish-mish (apricot)?" He nodded. His mom looked at him and prompted reconsideration: "Is this apricot?" He thought for a minute, then lit up and said "No! It's watermelon!" I laughed and said "Mish mish-mish!" There it was. The punchline I had been baiting for. "Mish" means "It's not." "Mish-mish" means "apricot." "Mish mish-mish." AND THEY LAUGHED! I've successfully executed a joke in Arabic.
After dessert--watermelon--Zaid (the third son) brought in bowls of roasted watermelon seeds. I popped a couple in my mouth and started chewing. Hamida saw me chewing, stopped in the middle of her sentence, laughed, and said "Hold on! I've got to teach you how to eat these!" Apparently you eat them like sunflower seeds, not like nuts. When she had finished her demonstration, she laughed again and said "You eat them just like Abadi!"
After dinner, and after talking for a long time afterwards, they drove us to the bus stop in town so that we could catch the bus back to Amman. They left us with an invitation to come to their oldest daughter's engagement party on Friday, and with an open invitation to consider them as family.
This is the best Jordanian Independence Day I've ever celebrated. Here's to the wonderful people of Jordan.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The People of God
Walking home from school today, I happened upon a Palestinian man who was, as Arabs say, "in the autumn of his age." As we neared each other, he smiled and said, politely struggling to use English, "You...where from?" I responded that I was from America, and we began conversing in Arabic (I can only hope that if he tells anyone about me, he'll be generous regarding my Arabic).
He grew up in Jerusalem--Silwan--but he had to leave his home and flee to Jordan during the 1967 war. His eyes lit up when I told him that I had lived in Jerusalem for three months--on the Mount of Olives, I told him. By Augusta Victoria. "By the hospital?" he asked. Yes, by the hospital.
"Do you like Palestine or Jordan better?" With a sad smile, he answered his own question: "I like Palestine better."
Half of his family lives here in Jordan; the other half lives in the West Bank. He has 3 sons and 4 daughters (a family size that I'm vaguely familiar with). He spoke of Palestine and of his family there not with anger or hatred toward the powers keeping him away from them, but rather with an intense longing, a painful void, a yearning hope.
We parted, and I paused to look back at him as he walked away. "That man," I thought, "is of the people of God, too!"
He grew up in Jerusalem--Silwan--but he had to leave his home and flee to Jordan during the 1967 war. His eyes lit up when I told him that I had lived in Jerusalem for three months--on the Mount of Olives, I told him. By Augusta Victoria. "By the hospital?" he asked. Yes, by the hospital.
"Do you like Palestine or Jordan better?" With a sad smile, he answered his own question: "I like Palestine better."
Half of his family lives here in Jordan; the other half lives in the West Bank. He has 3 sons and 4 daughters (a family size that I'm vaguely familiar with). He spoke of Palestine and of his family there not with anger or hatred toward the powers keeping him away from them, but rather with an intense longing, a painful void, a yearning hope.
We parted, and I paused to look back at him as he walked away. "That man," I thought, "is of the people of God, too!"
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Everyone is the Same
I got to eat dinner with the Cummings family last night. They invited us (me, a member of the branch named Emil, another BYU student named Mike, and a UofU student named Miranda) over for steak and ice cream (and other stuff, but "steak and ice cream" just has a good ring to it).
After dinner, we sat for a long time talking. You know how nice it is to talk on a pleasant Saturday evening after a good meal--you can do it for hours. We did. As the sun went down, Todd called his neighbor, Fares, and invited him over for the brownies and ice cream. He showed up a while later and we enjoyed the rest of the evening with him.
At one point, Fares said "You know what? Everybody all over the world is the same--it's just the language that's different." Three things instantly jumped out of our evening together that give a lot of support to his point:
1-Catherine made dinner, except for the steaks. Guess who cooked the steaks? Todd. I don't know what it is, but I swear that in every culture I've ever interacted with, men do the grilling. Men grill the hamburgers, men grill the hot dogs, men grill the khorovats, men grill the steaks, men grill the kabobs. I think it's an inescapable fact of human nature that men like to grill things.
2-We got up to leave after a couple hours of talking. And instead of leaving, we stood there talking. Todd kept talking with Mike and Emil, I kept talking with Catherine, and Miranda kept talking with Clara. Fares got my attention and said, with a smile, "You see? It's the same for everybody. It takes an hour to actually leave!"
3-Fares offered us a ride home. As we went to get into his car, he apologized for the mess in the back, and moved several stacks of paper from the back seat into the trunk. "Sorry--this is my car and my office," he said. Who doesn't apologize for their messy car when they offer someone a ride?
Over the past week, I've seen in a dozen other ways that "everybody is the same--only the language is different!" You may be surprised, for example, to find out that Arabs have personalities, and not only personalities, but precisely the same personalities that Americans have. There are the really nice quiet people who will talk to you if you talk to them. There are people who are really loud, people who are really quiet, people who are really smart, people who are really obnoxious, people who like to help other people.
Just walking around on campus, I see men and women on crutches, with splints on their hand, with a walking cast on their leg. Everything I've seen in the last week suggests, in fact, that the problems that Arabs face are precisely the same as the problems Americans face.
Fares is right--we really are all the same!
After dinner, we sat for a long time talking. You know how nice it is to talk on a pleasant Saturday evening after a good meal--you can do it for hours. We did. As the sun went down, Todd called his neighbor, Fares, and invited him over for the brownies and ice cream. He showed up a while later and we enjoyed the rest of the evening with him.
At one point, Fares said "You know what? Everybody all over the world is the same--it's just the language that's different." Three things instantly jumped out of our evening together that give a lot of support to his point:
1-Catherine made dinner, except for the steaks. Guess who cooked the steaks? Todd. I don't know what it is, but I swear that in every culture I've ever interacted with, men do the grilling. Men grill the hamburgers, men grill the hot dogs, men grill the khorovats, men grill the steaks, men grill the kabobs. I think it's an inescapable fact of human nature that men like to grill things.
2-We got up to leave after a couple hours of talking. And instead of leaving, we stood there talking. Todd kept talking with Mike and Emil, I kept talking with Catherine, and Miranda kept talking with Clara. Fares got my attention and said, with a smile, "You see? It's the same for everybody. It takes an hour to actually leave!"
3-Fares offered us a ride home. As we went to get into his car, he apologized for the mess in the back, and moved several stacks of paper from the back seat into the trunk. "Sorry--this is my car and my office," he said. Who doesn't apologize for their messy car when they offer someone a ride?
Over the past week, I've seen in a dozen other ways that "everybody is the same--only the language is different!" You may be surprised, for example, to find out that Arabs have personalities, and not only personalities, but precisely the same personalities that Americans have. There are the really nice quiet people who will talk to you if you talk to them. There are people who are really loud, people who are really quiet, people who are really smart, people who are really obnoxious, people who like to help other people.
Just walking around on campus, I see men and women on crutches, with splints on their hand, with a walking cast on their leg. Everything I've seen in the last week suggests, in fact, that the problems that Arabs face are precisely the same as the problems Americans face.
Fares is right--we really are all the same!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
E-Mail From Our Professor:
Dear Students,
The plumber came to the building today and fixed leaks and plug ups in a few apartments, and then we were given the good/bad news depending on your point of view. This building (and the huge majority ofbuildings in Jordan), and in fact the whole sewer system here, was simply not designed to handle toilet paper, and using it plugs up the building and the system. We now have two choices:
1. You can stick to your tree-destroying American ways and continue to use toilet paper, but you must not put it into the toilets. Rather,you should get a waste basket, line it with a plastic garbage bag, and deposit your toilet paper there. You can change the basket (and put the old stuff out of your door for [the garbage man] to take away) as often as you like.
2. You can adapt to local custom and learn to use the bidet or the bidet sprayer, depending on how your bathroom is equipped.
Either way, we need to make this adjustment in our culture so that we don't have to have the plumber in the building every other day.
Think of what a great opportunity this is in what it will allow you to tell the folks back home, and particularly what you will be abel to tell your grandkids. You guys are really lucky.
Thanks,
Dil
The plumber came to the building today and fixed leaks and plug ups in a few apartments, and then we were given the good/bad news depending on your point of view. This building (and the huge majority ofbuildings in Jordan), and in fact the whole sewer system here, was simply not designed to handle toilet paper, and using it plugs up the building and the system. We now have two choices:
1. You can stick to your tree-destroying American ways and continue to use toilet paper, but you must not put it into the toilets. Rather,you should get a waste basket, line it with a plastic garbage bag, and deposit your toilet paper there. You can change the basket (and put the old stuff out of your door for [the garbage man] to take away) as often as you like.
2. You can adapt to local custom and learn to use the bidet or the bidet sprayer, depending on how your bathroom is equipped.
Either way, we need to make this adjustment in our culture so that we don't have to have the plumber in the building every other day.
Think of what a great opportunity this is in what it will allow you to tell the folks back home, and particularly what you will be abel to tell your grandkids. You guys are really lucky.
Thanks,
Dil
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Women in Jordan: Observations
In an effort to contradict some of the negative stereotypes of Islam that I've heard perpetuated across my sphere of acquaintences, some of my posts will be dedicated to observations about life in an Islamic country. Jordan is, admittedly, one of the most moderate among the Islamic nations of the world; I don't dismiss the reality of serious problems with human rights, religious freedom, etc. that exist in the Islamic world. However, I hope that by sharing some simple observations about life here in Jordan, I can show that real people live here: real people, people with real friends, problems, personalities, and genuine dedication to their religion and their God. Just as not every Christian in the world is defined by the actions of the KKK, and just as Latter-day Saints hope that others will not think of them synonymously with Dan Lafferty, it is important to see Muslims as people and as Muslims; as the generous and god-fearing people that they are.
Veiling and Modesty:
Veiling is a common practice in Islam, considered a sign of modesty. In Jordan, women's dress can be divided into four main groups:
1-Completely covered from head to toe, leaving only the eyes and the hands uncovered
2-Head covered with hijab (veil), wearing a long, flowing dress, leaving the hands uncovered
3-Head covered with hijab wearing Western-style clothing (with long pants, and long or short sleeves)
4.Head uncovered, wearing Western-style clothing
I have taken a (very unscientific) survey over the past few days, counting the number of women that fall in each category.
On my trip from my apartment to the bus stop, about a 20-minute walk, I saw 93 women:
Completely covered: 5 (one even had her eyes covered with an extra piece of fabric)
Hijab, with traditional clothing: 34
Hijab, with Western-style clothing: 40
Western-style clothing: 14
Sitting on the campus of the University of Jordan, I saw 174 women in the 15 minutes that I was counting:
Completely covered: 3
Hijab, with traditional clothin: 43
Hijab, with Western-style clothing: 76
Western-style clothing: 52
You can see that veiling is not something that women are forced to do here, because a very substantial minority of women choose not to veil.
I once asked an Egyptian friend why she didn't veil. She said "The veil isn't something that you're forced to wear; it's between you and God whether you will wear it or not." I'm beginning to see the veil as a way that women choose to express their faith, a choice that they make to show their dedication to God. It shouldn't be hard for us to accept their modesty and their dedication to their religion, expressed by an outward sign such as a hijab.
Veiling and Modesty:
Veiling is a common practice in Islam, considered a sign of modesty. In Jordan, women's dress can be divided into four main groups:
1-Completely covered from head to toe, leaving only the eyes and the hands uncovered
2-Head covered with hijab (veil), wearing a long, flowing dress, leaving the hands uncovered
3-Head covered with hijab wearing Western-style clothing (with long pants, and long or short sleeves)
4.Head uncovered, wearing Western-style clothing
I have taken a (very unscientific) survey over the past few days, counting the number of women that fall in each category.
On my trip from my apartment to the bus stop, about a 20-minute walk, I saw 93 women:
Completely covered: 5 (one even had her eyes covered with an extra piece of fabric)
Hijab, with traditional clothing: 34
Hijab, with Western-style clothing: 40
Western-style clothing: 14
Sitting on the campus of the University of Jordan, I saw 174 women in the 15 minutes that I was counting:
Completely covered: 3
Hijab, with traditional clothin: 43
Hijab, with Western-style clothing: 76
Western-style clothing: 52
You can see that veiling is not something that women are forced to do here, because a very substantial minority of women choose not to veil.
I once asked an Egyptian friend why she didn't veil. She said "The veil isn't something that you're forced to wear; it's between you and God whether you will wear it or not." I'm beginning to see the veil as a way that women choose to express their faith, a choice that they make to show their dedication to God. It shouldn't be hard for us to accept their modesty and their dedication to their religion, expressed by an outward sign such as a hijab.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Apartment Fun
Broken Items (the list will probably grow):
Toilet (in the west bathroom): doesn't fill up.
Toilet (in the east bathroom): floods the floor every time we flush it (we learned that lesson pretty quick!
Toilet (in the west bathroom): got repaired. Now fills up. Doesn't flush.
Bidet (in the east bathroom): exists.
Sink (in the kitchen): has no hot water. Actually, it's backward. The hot water is on the right.
Refrigerator: freezes.
Light switches (in all rooms): are upside down. When the switch is down, the light is on.
Washer: doesn't agitate (which is pretty agitating). Solution: Cyrus left his clothes sitting in motionless water for 45 minutes. David plugged it in. Greg laughed.
Welcome to Jordan!
Toilet (in the west bathroom): doesn't fill up.
Toilet (in the east bathroom): floods the floor every time we flush it (we learned that lesson pretty quick!
Toilet (in the west bathroom): got repaired. Now fills up. Doesn't flush.
Bidet (in the east bathroom): exists.
Sink (in the kitchen): has no hot water. Actually, it's backward. The hot water is on the right.
Refrigerator: freezes.
Light switches (in all rooms): are upside down. When the switch is down, the light is on.
Washer: doesn't agitate (which is pretty agitating). Solution: Cyrus left his clothes sitting in motionless water for 45 minutes. David plugged it in. Greg laughed.
Welcome to Jordan!
Thursday, May 7, 2009
From Salt Lake to Amman
I'm really glad that it's not Passover this week, and that I was headed to Amman instead of Jerusalem. Because my can of baking powder exploded all over my bag on the way. Even getting into Amman I wondered if they were going to arrest me at customs for suspicious white powder I was trying to smuggle into the country. Fortunatey, they didn't seem to care. Unfortunately, it still takes a long time to clean half a can of baking powder out of a suitcase full of clothes and books.
I'm discovering--again--that when you ask a question, people tend to answer whether you're prepared to understand their question or not. But if I pretend (hypothetically, of course) that I understand the man's instructions as he's telling me which sign to turn left after to get to the meat shop, then he's none the wiser and I can go find the meat shop on my own. And then (hypothetically, of course) there's one more Arab who thinks I might have some clue what I'm talking about.
As I got to Amman, I had to take a taxi from the airport to the opposite side of the city, where our group of students are living in an apartment complex. In my 30-minute ride with Mahmoud, I discovered a lot of things about my Arabic. The first is that I didn't know the word for Pope. Now I do. The Pope is coming to Jordan and Israel this week, so we talked about his visit. "The head of the church in Rome" worked well enough for him to figure out what I was saying and teach me the Arabic word for it. Between his bit of English and my bit of Arabic, we managed to have a fairly decent conversation. I guess learning has to start somewhere, and Mahmoud's taxi is just as good a place as any.
On my way to the internet cafe tonight, I heard the prayer call--the first time I've heard it in many, many months. After living in an Islamic country, going without the prayer call causes some withdrawals. Five times every day, a reminder to pray--a call to set aside the world for a moment and worship God. It isn't quite as loud and dramatic here as it was in Jerusalem (where we had three minarets broadcasting the call within half a mile of us), but it's there and it's beautiful and it's inspiring.
So here I am in Jordan, jet-lagged, disoriented (ha--what an ironic pun!), and ready to jump into a summer of Arabic.
I'm discovering--again--that when you ask a question, people tend to answer whether you're prepared to understand their question or not. But if I pretend (hypothetically, of course) that I understand the man's instructions as he's telling me which sign to turn left after to get to the meat shop, then he's none the wiser and I can go find the meat shop on my own. And then (hypothetically, of course) there's one more Arab who thinks I might have some clue what I'm talking about.
As I got to Amman, I had to take a taxi from the airport to the opposite side of the city, where our group of students are living in an apartment complex. In my 30-minute ride with Mahmoud, I discovered a lot of things about my Arabic. The first is that I didn't know the word for Pope. Now I do. The Pope is coming to Jordan and Israel this week, so we talked about his visit. "The head of the church in Rome" worked well enough for him to figure out what I was saying and teach me the Arabic word for it. Between his bit of English and my bit of Arabic, we managed to have a fairly decent conversation. I guess learning has to start somewhere, and Mahmoud's taxi is just as good a place as any.
On my way to the internet cafe tonight, I heard the prayer call--the first time I've heard it in many, many months. After living in an Islamic country, going without the prayer call causes some withdrawals. Five times every day, a reminder to pray--a call to set aside the world for a moment and worship God. It isn't quite as loud and dramatic here as it was in Jerusalem (where we had three minarets broadcasting the call within half a mile of us), but it's there and it's beautiful and it's inspiring.
So here I am in Jordan, jet-lagged, disoriented (ha--what an ironic pun!), and ready to jump into a summer of Arabic.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
