Ha'il ala3 Democratia (Barriers to Democracy)

In Amman, spring has truly sprung, and with it, the people's spirit. Street corners and circles that used to be deserted come sundown in the winter are now buzzing with activity into the evening hours, men and women alike crowd the aerobics classes at the gym (typically taught to music along the lines of "Suavemente", "Total Eclipse of the Heart", and other American classics put to a techno beat), and everyone seems to b e a bit more upbeat and friendlier, even in the heavy heat of the midday sun. For me, my spirits have lifted as well, as I have entered my Independent Study Period, and no longer have classes. This doesn't mean I'm not at school everyday--akeed (of course, sure)--I am, but I have the freedom to make my own schedule and am not burdened down with hours of Arabic homework every night. The ISP was one of the main components that drew me to SIT, as the though of being able to do independent field research on any topic of my choice in Jordan was exciting, not to mention valuable research experience that I've yet to have anywhere else.  Choosing the right topic, however, is easier said than done--from the start of the admissions process, when they ask you to submit a potential ISP topic, throughotu the course of the program, your ISP is always in the back of your mind, as it serves as the academic culmination of your semester. Coming from the US, where it seems like almost every subject has been researched--if I wanted to write a paper on the likelihood of Asian women in their mid to late 40s to drive  sedans instead of minivans, and the resulting sociological ramifications, I could probably find some studies if I looked hard enough. The initial subject choices seem unlimited, but the further you get into it, the more you realize how easy it is to apply irrelevant concepts to things happening in Jordan, or more commonly, things that are merely not feasible to study.

In a country where you can get a prison sentence for speaking out against the King, there are many things that people will simply be unwilling to discuss. As my 23 year-old host uncle puts it, "Everyone has their own Mukhabarrat (secret policeman) in their mind." For many, the Mukhabarrat is more than a mental construct--upon arriving at the offices of al-Ghad, the daily Arabic newspaper for a meeting with my ISP advisor, a political columnist at the paper, I was met by the site of a distraught-looking man dressed in typical Hajji attire--long white robes, long gray beard, red and white kaffiyeh covering his head--coming out of my advisor's office. Before we began discussing my project, my advisor explained to me that the secret police had arrested his son on charges that he was considering going to Iraq to join the insurgency against American forces, and he had no idea where he was or when he might come back, and was trying to use the influence of the press to seek information. Sometimes, the Mukhabarat just make people disappear.

Was I surprised to find the homely, gentle-looking father of what most of us would call a potential terrorist, a radical, irrational insurgent in my midst? No, not really. There is such a terribly low level of comprehension among the people here as to why the US went into Iraq--I guess it's inexcusable on our part as well, for though I can articulate the various arguments that were employed prior to the invasion, none can hold up in conversations with anyone here--the notion of "spreading democracy" is altogether ludicrous to them,  and most, like one taxi driver I had today, are convinced that Bush's sole motivation was oil, because for people of this region, it was common knowledge that there was no al-Qaeda presence in Iraq under Saddam's rule, nor any WMDs. For people who have never had political freedom, stability is the most highly-valued component of a government, and thus whatever abstract notions of spreading democracy Americans may have rallied behind hold no credence here. Leading up to his death, there was so much vilification of Saddam as an aspiring world dictator, an indignant power that must be crushed, and certainly, he was no democratic or kind sovereign, but none of the rulers of this region are, and thus, to Jordanians, Iraq was their strong ally to the East, who provided them with highly subsidized oil, and whose people shared the same culture and values as themselves. Now, America has destroyed all that, Jordan is again receiving the aftershocks of regional conflict, is unprotected from extremism on its Eastern front, and is reeling from inflation due to a combination of oil prices and continuing government privatization campaigns. Whatever erudite rhetoric may have been purveyed to the American people as justification for the Iraq War holds no value here, and the US presence can only be seen as a cruel and unjust occupation.

Whenever I have conversations of this nature, the most common phrase I hear from Jordanians is, "we love the American people...but we hate Bush!" For them, never having lived in a democratic society, there is never any culpability on the part of the American people for the decisions of their government--I once tried to suggest in a lecture with a Muslim Brotherhood member who was railing on our favoritism towards Israel in the peace process yet simultaneously lauding the hospitality of the people he met during his studies in Texas that, for better or for worse, to some extent, the American people are responsible for the decisions of their government, and to view the two as completely distinct entities wasn't necessarily productive. Sure, with Iraq in particular, much has been made of the propaganda and neo-conservative circles who pushed the Bush administration to use more executive power than typically occurs in our system of checks and balances--I certainly didn't support the Iraq war--but that doesn't mean that many American's didn't advocate for going to war, and that their opinion didn't push forward the ball into motion. Just as Jordanians may assume that the American people are completely separate and distinct from their government as they are from their rulers, I think many Americans, myself included, view the people of this region through our own political viewpoint, and subconsciously assume some continuity between the ideologies and behavior of the people and the government. That, as I have continued to learn, is completely wrong for the most part. It was impossible for me to see what democracy can do to a people until I came to a place without it.

Of all the surrounding Arab countries, Jordan is supposed to be relatively tolerant, allows limited political participation, and markets itself as a country in the process of democratic reform. The further I get into my research, however, the more I realize how much of a joke this is. On top of the Mukhabarat and the Hashemite cult of personality (pictures of the King seem more or less mandatory in every business, and dominate the streets; everyone speaks lovingly of the King until you reach an anonymous area like the blogosphere, and then the scathing criticisms begin to emerge...), the methods by which the Hashemite regime have constructed their alliances makes democracy functionally impossible to achieve, as it would diminish the privilege of the tribal elites who are the backbone of monarchical support. Of course, none of the elites see any reason to forgo their standing in favor of this political experiment that has more or less never worked in any part of the Middle East. How can democracy be created in a country where an established political elite holds the keys to political stability, and an upset of those privileges will be fiercely opposed in any circumstances?

It seems as though there was genuine love and respect for King Hussein, who ruled for multiple decades until his death in 1999, but since his son Abdullah has taken over, the ability to strike a balance between actions taken to advance Jordan internationally and things done for the people seems to have been lost in the balance somewhere. Abdullah's reign has been characterized by an increase in security presence and a tightening of political liberties--though justified by the regime by the larger instability in the region. My ISP has led me to study the behavior of the government in the recent November Parliamentary elections, in which the Islamic Action Front, the political arm of the Muslim Brotherhood and the sole legitimate opposition party, suffered a stunning defeat that reduced their representation in Parliament by something like 65%. 

The IAF's defeat was the talk of the town in academic circles both here and in America, and dozens of studies and papers have been published on the deterioration in relationship between the IAF and the state over the past two decades, and the internal divisions within the party that caused its loss. Heavily documented as well is the blatant interference of the government, which used tactics such as bussing soliders (all of Jordanian origin and pro-regime, while the bulk of the IAF is of Palestinian origin) to cast their votes in districts where government supported candidates might have had competition, ballet-box stuffing, and the like. In one piece I read, it is even considered fairly standard for an opposition candidate to receive a call from the Mukhabarat prior to the election suggesting that they withdraw...consequences being self-explanatory. If Jordan is trying to sell this to the West as "a country in the process of democratic transition", someone is being sorely duped, let me tell you.

My ISP is focusing on a different aspect of the elections, namely the perceived government tactic of supporting the rise of the new business elite, neither tribally-based nor Islamist, into the political arena as a means of countering Islamist power. Though the state and the Muslim Brotherhood coexisted in harmony and cooperation for many decades--the government facilitated and encouraged the spread of Islamist social infrastructure and influence throughout the country as a means of lessing the strength of pro-Palestinian, pan-Arab and leftist movements that threatened the regime throughout the 50's, 60's, and 70's, the relationship was irrevocably damaged once King Hussein made peace with Israel in 1994, as the Muslim Brotherhood is fundamentally opposed to the existence of any foreign occupation whatsoever on the land of Palestine. Following the Gulf War, King Hussein's decision to support Iraq, though deifying in the eyes of his people, thrust two knives into his stomach, firstly that the West withdrew all of its foreign aid that was propping up the Jordanian economy, and secondly that numerous Jordanian expatriates working in the Gulf Countries, Kuwait especially were kicked out, creating another wave of refugees to strain state systems that were no longer being funded by foreign aid money. Economic incentives aside though, I do believe that King Hussein was a truly visionary leader who genuinely wanted peace with Israel. Nonetheless, his choice created an irrevocable division between his government and the Islamists whose power he had helped create. 

Since much of the Muslim Brotherhood's support base  at the grassroots level is among Jordanians of Palestinian origin, there was no way the Islamists could forsake the cause that had defined them for so long, and focus solely on domestic issues. In fact, for decades, Hamas and the Jordanian Muslim Brotherhood were more or less the same organization, or very closely affiliated at the least, and only in 1999 did Abdullah expel the Hamas leadership from Jordan upon assuming the crown. It is clear that many ties--ideological and otherwise--still exist between the two groups, though the Jordanian Muslim Brotherhood claims to not espouse political violence on any level, within Jordan. That being said, as the priorities between the Islamists and the state have grown further and further divided, the IAF's platforms have tended more towards inflexible, radical foreign policy positions, while the state is focused on domestic issues such as economic reform.

One noticeable effect of the lack of democracy in this country is the missing sense of citizenship I certainly feel as an American--an interest in the political process, and a sense of responsibility for the government's actions. Perhaps I only feel this way because part of me thinks I can make some sort of difference at some point down the line. Given its unique demographics, Jordan has struggled with national unity and identity for its entire existence, with the majority of its population refusing to let go of their Palestinian heritage. In my first ISP interview, I spoke with a man named Oraib Rentawi, a well-established journalist, former PLO member, and director of the al-Quds Center for Political Studies here in Amman. Rentawi spent the first 20 years of his life in a Palestinian refugee camp in Amman before attending the University of Jordan, where he was kicked out halfway through his matriculation for political activism, which was completely banned at the time. He spent the next twenty years or so in exile, making it big in Beirut's journalism industry before returning to Amman. Throughout the course of the peace process between Palestine and Israel, it is c lear that if and when a Palestinian state is created, the right of return for all Palestinians in the Diaspora is simply not feasible--though many claim the "right" and recognition itself is all they want, there are many who still cling to their ownership papers and house keys passed down through their families, one day hoping to put them to use again. The issue of Palestinian identity being destructive to Jordanian unity came up in our conversation and Rentawi was quick to explain:

The Palestinians and Jordanians are like this, you see...there was a fire in my house, and there was only one window, so I had to jump out of it, and there was a Jordanian truck passing by on the street where I landed. It is nobody's fault--they  cannot blame us for coming, and we cannot blame them for our troubles here, but now we must live in the same house. It is true, that we have been treated fairer here than most in other countries, but that doesn't mean we can give up our Palestinian identity, you know why? Even if I was born in Amman, and live here until I die...the Israelis built their state upon the story of a land without a people for a people without a land, that is what they tell their children and grandchildren....and the moment I stop calling myself a Palestinian and become just a Jordanian, then they are right"

The Jordanian state has lived in fear of this unwavering Palestinian identity to some extent, and the country's electoral laws are shaped accordingly; essentially, votes from urban areas such as Amman (where most all Palestinians live) are severely underrepresented in relation to the tribal votes, and as a result, the vast majority of Palestinians, (and thus the majority of the population), is completely  uninterested in the political process. The few that are have traditionally been associated with the Islamists. Though the government financing and support of the new business elite may be viewed as sabotaging the democratic process, I'm interested in it because the vast majority of the private sector is controlled by Palestinians, and if involving these secular-minded businessmen in the Parliament is widening the spectrum of Palestinian political life, I am optimistic that it may spark more political participation across the board and allow the country's demographic majority to become more invested in Jordanian politics, in doing so becoming more invested in their country and strengthening Jordanian identity. Phew, that was a long impromptu history lesson! I must go schedule interviews to see if my hypothesis is correct....

Rihla ala Jenub (Trip to the South)

After a busy three weeks of finals combined with a whirlwind excursion to the south, I am quite happy to say that I've finished all my classes, and am now in the eve of starting my ISP. There is too much for me to catch up on, but to briefly describe my trip, I first went to Karak, the site of an old Crusader castle, one of a chain that stretched from Turkey all the way to Aqaba and could communicate by matter of light signals. The castle sat high upon a hill surrounded by deep, cavernous gullies--I imagine it must have been near impenetrable in its heyday. To hang our hats, we ventured to Wadi Dana, one of several nature reserves in Jordan that have been groomed for eco-tourism. Resplendent with majestic mountain ranges covered in greenery and humongous scarab beetles the size of  bottle camps, our group spent the night in pristine white tepees, which were quite comfortable, albeit a bit cold. I relished in the quiet of Dana--although Amman may not be a very large city, there is never a morning when the adhan, or call to prayer, does not blare out from the mosque down the street around 5 am. 

The next day, we embarked for Aqaba, a place that had been hyped up as the tourist destination in Jordan, an oasis of white sandy beaches and luxury hotels on the Red Sea, an intersection of borders where Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Israel, and Egypt all have coastlines. What I found in Aqaba, however, did not match the Tourism Bureau's description. Aside from a very pleasant yacht and snorkel ride we took, the town was not particularly developed, rather dirty (the problem of littering is rampant in this area--everyday, people will blatantly drop their trash in the street with no qualms whatsoever; it can also be hard to find trash receptacles in any given area), and didn't have the basic infrastructure I had expected. In fairness, the area is highly competitive--the Israeli resort town of Eilat glitters across the bay, and Egypt's Sharm el-Sheikh is fairly close down the coast. According to an economic specialist I met, the  development of a solid tourism industry in Aqaba has been very challenging due to the indigenous tribes of the area, who are deeply conservative, and even shun fellow Jordanians from Amman for leading impious lifestyles. Not surprisingly, a sudden influx of Western hotel chains and European women topless in thong bikinis has been out of the question, and there exists an entire office devoted to the ongoing process of convincing and involving the local community in the development of tourist opportunities in Aqaba. 

The last two days of the trip were undoubtedly the best, as we went to Petra and Wadi Rum, two of Jordan's most famous sites. Despite having been settled to some extent continuously dating back before the time of Christ, Amman, or Philadelphia as it was once called under the Romans, is a relatively new, developing capital, and was little more than a small town before the huge influx of Palestinian refugees in 1948. It cannot compare to its Arab brethren such as Cairo, Damascus, or Baghdad in terms of lore. Jordan's countryside, however, is filled with pockets of history, ranging from Nabatean sites, famed Biblical areas, relatively intact Roman ruins, such as those of Jerash, and sweeping desert plateaus like Wadi Rum, which is thought to have originally been the base of the Red Sea thousands of years ago. While you can find Nabatean inscriptions high up on some of the rock formations that date back to around 4000 BC, the former presence of water is evident in the smooth, elliptical shapes that characterize the massive boulders in the area that may as well be mountains. 

After spending the night in a Bedouin encampment, on the way out of Wadi Rum, our tour bus pulled off the road alongside a long stretch of barbed wire fence, enclosing an inexplicably green field. After our group had unloaded, our tour bus immediately pulled back onto the road, driving at full speed ahead into the distance, becoming smaller and smaller until it reached the horizon. Apparently, the government didn't like tourists stopping at what we were about to see, and if the large tour bus drew attention to our group, the police may  have come to kick us out of the area. My academic director began explaining that he had brought us to the edge of a private hunting reservation built by a wealthy businessman from Dubai who had married into the royal family. Though he was only known to frequent the reservation once a year, the establishment of such a facility was completely upsetting the natural ecosystem of Wadi Rum and overtaxing the precious water sources that lay in underground wells. Though it had onlyl been up and running for two years, the imbalance in the water supply has taken its toll on the local livestock and agricultural industries, with the majority of Bedouin tribes in the area switching to tourism as their major source of revenue, hosting Western groups, like ours, for a night of "authentic" Bedouin food, camping, and entertainment.

In a country that is so destitute of natural resources, it is a significant challenge to develop any industry that isn't dependent upon foreigners, in one way or another. As it became clear that Jordan's agricultural industry could never compete on the world market, the government has switched its strategy towards developing human capital, educating the population, and focusing on finance, healthcare, and IT industries, as well as tourism. What has ended up happening is that the vast majority of items used by Jordanians are things imported from the outside, while the vast majority of products and services created by Jordanians are catered to foreigners, either through export or tourism, inevitably tying the fate of the Jordanian economy to the continued interest and involvement of outside powers, the US being a major player. This situation has many ramifications, one of which being that the government, as a result, must always stay within the US' good graces for fear of an economic collapse. However, this also means that there will always be an ideological gap between the government and the people, the majority of whom disagree with the foreign policy decisions that the Hashemite regime must make to stay in America's favor. 

Given its unique location in a conflict zone, Jordan tends to receive the aftershocks of all the regional turmoil, which usually comes in the form of refugees, inflation, and the like. With a large percentage of the population hovering right above the poverty line, the government is always trying to find ways to economically empower the lower class and provide them with extra income in anticipation of future upheaval. These buffer funds will minimize dissent and instability during times of political volatility, and thus is in the best interests of the government to facilitate. Why then, is a member of the royal family allowed to build this gratuitous hunting reserve in one of Jordan's sacred spaces, not to mention a major tourist destination, upsetting the ecosystem and lives of the local community? Is there no EPA to put a stop to this type of thing?

The answer, sadly, is not really, and even if there was, they wouldn't be able to do anything about it, because their wasta is no match for a member of the royal family. Wasta, which is more or less social connections, is a concept that guides almost all interactions in this society, often at the expense of others as well as the community at large. Yes, Jordan is no meritocracy. Unlike simple networking that we all sometimes take advantage of in America, wasta is often discussed as a quantitative measure, as in, "Oh, well he got the job because he had bigger wasta than me"--perhaps not with the specific person who was offering the job, but as a general measure of their social position within society. Young Jordanians I have spoken with acknowledge the downsides of this system--that often, deserving people are shut out of opportunities, and vice-versa, and claim they initially try to obtain jobs through merit, but at the end of the day, will use wasta if they need to. Surely, everyone in America uses networking as well, but there are a multitude of programs and institutions set up to provide opportunities for the underprivileged or those from disadvantaged backgrounds; moreover, Jordan is a very small place, and the number of people vying for a dwindling number of good jobs are all fighting within the same network. America, conversely, is much larger, with many different cities, opportunities, and networks that individuals can prosper within. Your wasta is not the end-all and be-all.

Jordanians recognize this amazing opportunity for socioeconomic mobility in America that is so rarely found in other parts of the world, and it is this that drives their deep desire to come to the US, aside from any adoration or misgivings about our culture. There is a palpable desperation in some of the people here who know that no matter how hard they work, they will always be poor. I had a cab driver the other day who struck up a conversation with me on the way to school--I typically will never start conversations with taxi drivers, but will give brief responses if they begin to speak to me. Upon learning I was American, he immediately began talking about the wonderful job opportunities in my country and how desperately he wanted to go there, and could I help him get a visa. After explaining quite calmly that I had no power to give visas, and was merely a student (my school is right near the British Embassy so maybe this had given him some idea that I was part of the diplomatic community), he launched into asking me whether or not I was married, did I want an Arab husband, etc. etc. Regrettably, this type of thing is pretty common here, and I always go with the surefire answer that I'm engaged to a nameless American, end of story (I'm looking into buying a passable "engagement ring" for show.) Undeterred, he began suggesting that he speak with my father (the first step in any engagement around here), at which point I decided it was prudent for me to stop understanding what he was saying, feign ignorance, and end the conversation through the erection of a language barrier. Luckily, we pulled up to school a minute later, and I quickly exited the cab. So many men desperately want to come to the US, yet are completely ignorant about the social customs of our culture, and assume that all American women are frantically looking for a husband (as most Jordanian women are), and accordingly view marriage more as a logical arrangement than anything having to do with love.

I'm off to a farmer's market, but have much more to post later...

Kusuus Daghril (Hidden Stories)

It's easy to make generalizations about a people when you live beside them, as any foreigner in Jordan, but when you live among them, as we do with our home stay families, the huge variety of lifestyles, beliefs, and narratives becomes readily apparent. In one family I know, the 23-year old daughter comes home from the mall with excessively provocative clothing, camisoles with mere flaps of fabric covering the stomach, in which she parades around the house, spending hours talking to her clandestine boyfriend on the phone until the wee hours of the morning. Until a few weeks ago, she had never prayed in her life; in the middle of her first time, she started laughing, as she had no idea how to properly prostrate herself. In another family, the women are not allowed out of the hosue without the father's permission, and the window shades must be closed at all times so other men--perhapse those in the adjacent apartment building--will have no opportunity to see the women in their unveiled state.

While this variance in religious practice is fairly common, at dinner tonight with friends, I began to hear the personal histories of everyone's host families, a subject we are all only beginning to understand, since something of so sensitive a nature is a story that must be earned, and is not easily or often discussed in a society like this. Thoug hall these families function on what I would call a normal level today, almost all of them, in one way or another, previously went through what I can only identify as unmistakable tragedy, though perhaps to them, it is merely what was put on their plate.

One girl, who lives with three, elderly sisters, finally found the answer to the question she had been wondering about all semester, yet had been too polite to ask. We all live with Palestinian families, so of course we want to know, when? How? Why Jordan?

The stories, of course, vary quite a bit, and are often coupled with anger, reinterpretation, misinterpretation, and resentment. Palestinians who came after '67 are somewhat more straight forward, but for those who came in '48, their stories intrigue me to no end, as there is such a huge collection of literature on both the Israeli and Palestinian sides explaining, in mostly opposing views, what exactly happened at the moment when an Israeli state was created in the place of the Palestinian community. Were they expelled, or did they leave? Whose fault was it? How was it possible that in a mere period of days, weeks, an entirely new political entity could arise where another was, and had been, for centuries prior, in the same place?

The oldest sister, now in her eighties, was a teenager when it all happened; she remembers it as clear as a bell. There was no violence, not any that she saw, rather, the British troops in their community began spreading lies, telling them they had to leave for ten days, just temporarily, and that they would return to their homes shortly. Eager to comply, her family moved into a tent for two weeks an hour east of Jaffa, each member only taking a small backpack of clothes, leaving their houses, bank accounts, and family heirlooms behind. She remembers the tent being "like summer camp", an adventure, until two weeks passed by, and her family didn't return home--they kept moving east. Someone--she wasn't sure who--had come and told her parents that they could never return, and her parents had no choice but to resettle the family in the small town that, with the coming influx of Palestinians, would rise to become the capital of Jordan, Amman. Neighbors who hadn't heeded the warnings of the British and had stayed soon reported to her parents that a Jewish family had moved into the family's house in Jaffa the next day, taking over all their possessions, as if an entirely different family hadn't lived there for years just a few weeks ago.

Utterly incomprehensible. I cannot even begin to understand how either family--the uprooted Palestinians, or the Jewish family in their former home--could merely continue on as normal after that. The sister mentioned that now, great animosity exists between families like hers--who left at the heeding of the British, and were unable to return, those like her former neighbors, who stayed through the creation of Israel, and now resent those who left, saying they were too scared, too eager to do the bidding of the British, and if more had stayed, Palestine would not have been lost. My host father's family was from Jaffa as well, yet he is young enough to have been born in Jordan. Depsite not having any sort of painful uprooting like the one the elderly sister had, he is completely irrational about the conflict, constantly insisting that at some point in the near future, the Arabs will eliminate all the Jews, Israel will cease to exist, and that this is the obvious solution "that everyone knows will happen". He is so lost in this fantasy that it is not even worth discussing with him. The sister, however, who wasn't allowed to return to her home, whose family lost everything, doesn't blame the Jews--only the British. In her view, the British had grown tried or trying to placate the two sides, had promised the creation of a Jewish state, and therefore had to get rid of the Palestinians, by whatever means possible. I don't think the transition was as creepily smooth across the board by any means--as many historians have documented, violence did occur. In a way, it would make more sense to me if violence had occured; it is much more distrubing to me that so great a transition--the uprooting of a family, never again to return, the erasure of a community, and an identity, transplanted to a largely uninhabited area, could happen in a mere span of weeks. What a feeling of instability the must have felt, everything that meant home to them, minus their relatives, gone in the blink of an eye. What a great amount of things I take for granted, my fixed nationality and identity being one of them.

Everyone here has their hidden stories, and no one has been left unaffected by the upheavals that have plagued this area ever since the gradual release of the grip of colonialism. My host mother spent most of her childhood in Kuwait; sometimes she shows me pictures of her and her siblings playing dress up in a plush living room, gleefully running on beautiful white sandy beaches without a care in the world. Then Arafat supported Saddam Hussein in the Gulf War, and all the Palestinians were thrown out of Kuwait, again...everything was lost, and they had to start over from scratch in Amman. In the process, her father suffered three strokes and died when she was merely fourteen. Now, years later, her oldest brother, just one year older than her, tries to provide for the six-person family on his salary as an administrator at the local university. It is not easy to get a job in Jordan--the economy, though growing, is meager at best, and in so small a country where wasta--the social ties in between families--weighs heavily in the professional realm, your smarts or skills often have very little to do with the job you may or may not get.

Everyday, I think to myself....I am so, so lucky to have had the life that I have.

Qahira--Umm al-Dunia (Cairo, Mother of the Universe)

For years, I have been dreaming of coming to Cairo. When I first decided to study abroad in the Middle East, Egypt was my first inclination, but after comparing programs and negotiating with my parents, Jordan seemed to be a better location for my first trip to the Middle East. In a way, I've been so focused on Jordan and all the issues and culture surrounding it I had forgotten how much I had fallen in love with Egypt from afar--and so I was taken aback by the sheer euphoria I felt when I stepped off the hour-long plane ride from Amman yesterday afternoon.

From a tour bus window, Cairo unfurled itself before me, like an unkempt garden, everything growing and dying at its own uncontrolled pace, as if the full range of humanity was contained within this sprawling metropolis. Incredible beauty, incredible poverty, relics from every historical period, places of worship of every religion--you name it, Cairo has it. Driving away from the airport, I felt as though I could have been in San Diego; white apartment buildings with massive clusters of satellite dishes covering their roofs, with a wonderful profusion of green vines and trees with brightly colored flowers twisting around wrought-iron gates, proving a welcome contrast to the red-tinged sands of the African continent that leave no Cairene surface untouched. Within the first ten minutes, I saw a sign leading to the "Virgin Mary's Tree", a weathering Olympic village, whose pristine white buildings had faded to yellow, its entrance graced by a variety of different officers on horseback, shooting the shit in the midday sun, and an old woman clad in a bright, floral dress--no black abaya--skillfully balancing an iron pot on her head while walking down the street. Descending into the city from the high way, I rounded a corner to see men of all ages and dress literally spilling out of a mosque into its courtyard, all prostrating themselves on colorful prayer rugs facing east towards Mecca. There were even a few women praying as well, which is virtually unheard of in Amman--the mosque, for the most part, is a male domain (not quite sure how I feel about that, but it seems to be the overriding custom.) Everywhere I looked, opposites appeared next to one another--a dusty, deserted bus station sat next to a pristine, iron and steel office building; a small donkey outfitted in a festive purple saddle pulled a cart of reeds, upon which a young girl was reclining in the afternoon heat, in front of a French pottery store, whose signage was all in English.

There seemed to be a bit of uproar as our colossal bus grunted and heaved its way up a narrow, tree-lined street--at all times, people were running in and out of the street with no mind to the oncoming traffic, yet I soon came to realize that what may have looked like chaos to me, was in fact completely under control to them. While in Amman, traffic rules are certainly arbitrary, for the most part, in Cairo, the pedestrians are expected to behave just as daringly--moreover, there are probably about 15x as many of each of them. Walking in the path of oncoming cars not being  one of my past times, I was absolutely petrified the first time I ventured out into the streets once we had settled down into our hotel in Muhandiseen, a rapidly-developing neighborhood in Giza (on the west side of the Nile, as opposed to Cairo proper, which is on the east side). Staring out across a seemingly endless six lanes of traffic (to be fair, six is an approximate number--the amount of lanes in any given road is completely up to interpretation and fluctuates by the second), I realized that if I didn't overcome my aversion, I'd probably be stuck on this cement barrier, I watched a few of the pros do it, and stepped out into the boulevard. Once I saw that it was ok to stop in between lanes, and pause for a bit as cars whipped by either side of you, it really wasn't so bad. Cairo life-skill number one, accomplished!

My program gave us a mixture of academic lectures, free time, experiential assignments ,and site visits to give us a complex understanding of the driving forces and issues within Egyptian society, as well as the rich legacy of Egyptian history. I was able to see the Pyramids and the Sphinx, Muhammed Ali's Citadel, the Coptic Quarter, numerous stunning mosques, and countless other sites. An academic highlight for me was being able to go to the headquarters of the Arab League, the regional body that functions somewhat like the UN; there, we received a lecture from the Head Advisor to the Secretary-General on the region's struggled for democratization, approach towards peacemaking and diplomacy with non-Arab partners, and spearheading economic development within member states. I enjoyed this lecture particularly because our speaker, Hisam Yusef, was willing to be self-critical, a characteristic not often found among many Arab intellectuals addressing Western students. Yusef compared the Arab League to the EU, saying that the Arab League had been defining its membership in the wrong way, or rather, overestimating the value of Arab unity. The EU had achieved a single currency among people of different nationalities and different languages through economic cooperation, never using the rhetoric of unity, while the Arabs had rallied around unity from the start and achieved nothing. Just as the Europeans started with economic alliances over coal and steel, our speaker noted the recent linkage of gas power plants within the region as the Arab League's equivalents--instead of relying upon slogans, it was time to unite Middle Eastern countries over partnerships with tangible benefits. Yusef continued to address the issue of democratization, expressing frustration with America's adoption of democracy at the international pulpit, as its advocacy for something that is, and has been being fought for for many years merely allowed religious radicals within Middle Eastern states to invalidate the struggle for democracy on its basis of being un-Islamic, and a foreign concept. As to the disparity between democracy in the West and in the Middle East, he pointed to colonialism as the differentiating factor. The Arab League was created in 1963, and started with just 6 of its now 22 member states--because only 6 of them had independence, and thus political self-determination, at that time. To this day, there are still many forces fighting the democratization within the region, yet he reinforced his desire for democracy, as have many of the other Arabs with whom I have spoken, even the most anti-American ones.

In my time studying the cultural and religious phenomena of other civilizations, there always exists the struggle between upholding your own, inevitably subjective notion of universal human rights and maintaining a politically correct level of cultural sensitivity--the study of female genital mutilation comes to mind. Quite often, I find that students overcompensate on the side of cultural sensitivity so as to not appear ignorant or overbearing. However, my experiences here have made me quest that pattern of analysis, because more than anything, in coming and living with people of another culture, you realize the great similarities you have in common, certain cultural and political obstacles aside. Yusef and many other lecturers and people I've spoken to, are more than willing to make direct comparisons with American society, and are eager to convey the political and social movements within their homelands as just the same as those America and Europe may have gone through a few centuries ago. More than anything, I continue to realize the similar hopes and desires between the people I meet here, and those I know within my own society, and continue to take that into consideration when viewing the region's conflicts, instead of dismissing certain issues as untouchable in an effort to remain culturally sensitive. Sometimes, acknowledging common goals is more productive than refusing to try to understand. 

Outside of politics, Egypt is a country that seems to be going through somewhat of an identity crisis, or rather, has so many different identities, it is hard to know which one to adopt. Egyptians take great pride in their heritage, often going so far as to refuse to be called Arabs, saying they are descended from the Pharoahs, not the Bedouin people. I like this, because it makes religion a part of their identity, but not the sole defining factor, whereas most Arabs are taught that there was nothing before Islam--it was merely the Jahiliyya (Age of Ignorance). Moreover, stretching back into the ancient Pharoanic times, Egypt has a long history of foreign intervention, contributing to the immense, multi-faceted historical legacy and influence. As it stands, the economy is incredibly reliant on tourism as its driving industry, and as such, the government does whatever it can to maintain the droves of visitors that come to Cairo every year. Unlike in Amman, where there are considerably fewer tourists, in Cairo, I saw people of every color, speaking countless different languages on a daily basis; European, Russian American, Asian, Hispanic, Arab, African--they're all in Cairo. And unlike myself and those in my program, who have been counseled in the cultural rules of the area, at the Egyptian Museum was confronted with masses of middle-aged Russian women, stretch marks on their exposed breasts, butt cheeks hanging out of their cut-off shorts--how they were at all comfortable next to women in niqab, let alone the aggressive eyes of the local men--was beyond me. Though foreigners and locals alike are lowering their standards of modesty as the weather heats up, I have grown overly sensitive to displays of skin that I normally would not have batted an eye about before.

A huge percentage of the population is somehow connected to the tourism industry, and thus, there are many places in Cairo that pride themselves on having an exclusively Western scene. For example, at the Cairo Jazz Club, Westerners are allowed in free, while Arab men must pay a cover charge of 200 pounds; women in hijab aren't allowed in the front door. In contrast, driving back from a group dinner one night, out of the window of a taxi I saw an advertisement for a store entitled "Sxy", proclaiming, 'it's good to be feminine, it's good to be sexy, it's good to be veiled, it's good to be you'--all in English. Obviously, there seem to be competing forces at work.

I was lucky enough to be able to spend time with my friends from Brandeis, Meredith and Charlie, both of whom are studying abroad this semester at the American University of Cairo--they were both wonderful hosts and I'm so glad I had the opportunity to visit them (my door in Amman is always open!) Being the brave souls that they are, they made the decision to live in an apartment in the downtown area, instead of in Zamalek, the tranquil island in the middle of the Nile where most AUC students live, that is considerably calmer than the downtown area. After showing me around the campus, where the upper crust of Egyptian youth resides, private chauffeurs and Gucci sunglasses at the ready, Charlie and I went on an expedition into Khan al-Khalili, the centuries-old bazaar filled with tents of haggling merchants, who all thought I was Spanish for some reason. The market is near Islamic Cairo, and is filled with tons of wonderful, one of a king goods that unless you are quite savvy, you will most likely get ripped off for. My ability to speak Arabic helped quite a bit in getting the prices down, and I escaped with some handmade leather flats in different colors, lots of scarves, and some jewelry--much less than some others in my program, some of whom came away with upwards of 4 sheeshas. A friend of Charlie's had heard about a special tower deep within the heart of the marketplace that he had climbed and had incredible views of the city, so once our shopping was concluded, we plunged into the suq, going deeper and deeper until the throngs of tourists had given way to locals who were buying the same goods as the Westerners up front, at considerably deflated prices. A huge stone archway divided the edge of the marketplace from the beginning of a residential area, and at its base, sat a tiny corner store, its attendant smoking argileh in the fading afternoon heat, absent-mindedly counting the dusty glass soda bottles that had been left behind in order to be redeemed for a rebate. 

Checking the name, Charlie tentatively asked: "Fein Bab al-Zumayli? Hun?"

"Ah, Fowq"

Pointing upwards, the store keeper indicated we were standing right below the tower, and needed to climb up the stairs on the other side of the street. Though it was technically closed to tourists after 5, after haggling with the groundskeeper and explaining it was my last day in town, he relented (read: baqsheesh (a bribe) was involved). The first flight of stairs was nothing special, though at its base was a sign reading, "You are now outside of Cairo"--apparently, in centuries past, this had been the old wall of the city. The first flight of stairs brought us to an open, flat stone surface; two narrow minarets (towers) lay at its edge. Employing our handy built-in cell phone flashlights, we ascended the first tower, an incredibly cramped, unlit stone spiral staircase that wound around for what seemed like ages. Though not for the faint of heart, or fearful of heights, the view that greeted us at the top was definitely stunning, with the different quarters of the city melding into one, and the glimmering Nile slicing down their middle.

It would be impossible to speak about everything I saw and learned in Cairo, but let me mention a few brief notes before signing off:

a) The Coptic Museum--Though nowhere near as cool as seeing the gorgeous, intact mosques (the museum held tons of artifacts and relics from Christian sites elsewhere in Egypt, as opposed to one intact whole), I was fascinated to learn that the practice of asceticism within Christianity was first practiced by the Copts and later spread to Europe. Best pieces included ancient disintegrating robes worn by the first ascetics, and a complete copy of the Gospels written in Arabic.

b) Grave of Imam al-Shafi--desperately wanted to see this, but didn't have time--also on my meant to do but didn't get around to list--going to a Purim party at one of the local synagogues (with my fellow Brandeisians in tow, of course). Was sure it wouldn't top a Brandeis Purim, but I thought it would be an interesting cultural experience. In the end, we decided to play it safe and go for sangria in Zamalek. 

On our last afternoon, we went on a peaceful felucca ride on the Nile--think a slightly larger, Egyptian version of a gondola, complete with built-in picnic tables, another respite from the constant traffic, pollution and constant motion that characterizes life in Cairo. I think I would need many, many months to see all there is in Cairo, let alone Egypt, but insha'allah I will return very soon. I'm now back in Amman for yet another week of class, where I'll be finishing up my research project on the Performing Arts  in the Jordanian educational system, before taking off on one more organized trip around Jordan to see Petra, Aqaba, and Wadi Rum. Following that, we'll have a final week of classes, and then our ISP period begins--funny how time flies. After a week of Cairo, Amman is a complete breeze, I feel very comfortable here, though I continue to discover new things, like an amazing organic restaurant yesterday afternoon that is part of a foundation supporting nature preservation and ecotourism in Jordan. I will also be celebrating my 21st birthday soon!

Homework calls.....ma'salaama

al-Kheema al-Ahmar (The Red Tent)

Just a few days ago, I returned from a week-long rural home stay in the Badia region, in a quiet Bedouin village adjacent to the Syrian border known as Der al-Kha'if. While I have been in Jordan for the past month or so, the majority of the host families in my program, as well as the majority of the population of the capital, is all Palestinian, so this week was an opportunity for me to become acquainted with the minority Bedouin community that constitutes the native Jordanian population. In many ways, my program continues to surprise me with their high expecations for their students--we barely discussed the trip until the day before departure, during which each student was handed a slip of paper with three pieces of information: the name of their host family, the name of their village, and the name of the bus station in downtown Amman from where we were to depart from. While we were expected to travel in groups and check in with our director once safely arrived, I, as well as many others, were still feeling a bit flung into oblivion--while we have grown familiar with the streets, taxi routes, and general social customs and expectations of Amman, going into the Badia is a completely different ball park. Needless to say, while it wasn't absolutely mandatory, I had no reservations about donning the hijab our teachers suggested might be a cultural overture (post-trip, I couldn't stand wearing it, it was incredibly hot and annoying!). While sitting on the side of a small, rinkety bus, the 10 or so Bedouin men having squeezed themselves into the front section so as to make room for the inexplicable group of 6 American students in the back of the bus, I saw a sign reading "50 km to Iraq", and began to question exactly which life decisions had brought me to the edge of this godforsaken desert, and how exactly to function in my new surroundings. As a newcomer to tribal society, it was a bit hard for me to grasp that if I told the bus  driver the name of my host father, he would know exactly which house to take me to, but nevertheless, after a few hours, we pulled up to a small clustering of houses by the side of a sandy road, and a tiny, ancient Bedouin woman with faded green barbed wire tattoos emanating from the sides of her mouth appeared from behind a tin gate, and gestured for the three of us--myself and the two other girls in my village--to follow her. Once inside, we were ushered into a long, narrow sitting room with an iron stove in its center, and brightly colored cushions lining the floor--no furniture to speak of, and thus began the multiple founds of bitter shots of coffee contrasted with large glasses of disgustingly sweet tea. Wanting to ingratiate myself with my hosts, I accepted their suggestions and began downing the cups of hot liquid, only to  become nauseous after about half an hour due to the severe sugar crash combined with the heat of the radiating furnace--clearly I was going to have to learn to set some dietary boundaries while staying within the realm of politeness. Definitely easier said than done in the Badia.

Though I had the opportunity to visit the few points of interest of the village--the boys and girls schools, the Roman ruins, etc., most of my time was spent in the company of the women of my family, whose lives revolve, more or less, around raising their children and serving their husbands. While a devoted parent is certainly better than a negligent one, the prominence of children as the sole purpose of their lives often manifested itself in negative ways, as their eagerness to fulfill their child's wants and needs came at the expense of discipline. In America, even most stay-at-home mothers have other priorities or responsibilities, and so they may be a situation in which the child's desires cannot always take precedence over everything else--not so in the Badia. Aside from the responsibilities of cooking, which was almost always a group activity, the mothers would often sit idly in the house, waiting for the next child to start crying so they could begin accommodating their needs. On top of the noxious tea, multiple forms of candy and junk food was served throughout the day--whenever a child started causing trouble, the reaction was usually either a showering of chocolate or a slap on the face. Not surprisingly, the kids had tons of cavities--my first reaction was that this was just irresponsible parenting, but upon discussing this with my host family in Amman, I acknowledged that they may not have been exposed to the same level of education as I had had, especially by way of nutrition (though to be fair, this may apply to the entire country as far as I'm concerned.) I tend not to be too big of a fan of my Amman host father, Ra'ed, but he occasionally has spurts of wisdom, the latest of which was: 

"Alysha, you can't blame them if they don't know; that is lesson number two. You know what lesson number one is? They don't want to know. Now you see what the real Jordan is really like"

Despite the apparent infrastructure for the assimilation of new ideas into their lifestyles--schooling until the age of marriage, television, cell phones with internet access, etc., Ra'ed's last comment resonated with me because it did seem, in many ways, as though this small community was resisting many forms of change, and many of its residents seemed to be from another time altogether. The elderly patriarch of the doctor's family, husband to the grandmother  who had greeted me the first day, was known throughout the village as the Hajji, due to his multiple trips to the Ka'aba. During one day, the women had all congregated in a hut adjacent to the main house, where they were all drinking tea and chopping vegetables in preparation for the midday meal. While all the women were very insistent about modesty--I was once chastised for revealing a few inches of leg while I put on my tennis shoes under my long skirt (ankle socks appear not to be done there)--they were also always asking me to take off my hijab among the women so they could see my hair. This occurred at the very same moment that the Hajji opened the door of the hut, and upon seeing my locks of hair, immediately got a scandalized look on his face and quickly shut the door. A mere bit of hair, something that would raise no attention in most places, takes on an entirely different connotation. 

While the older generations were aesthetically different, many of the younger generation looked like they could easily be walking the streets of any Western city, yet their attitudes remained similar to those of their elders. Given his access to a vehicle and retired army status, an uncle of the family, Zeid, was recruited to escort us on all our out-of-the-house excursions. Though I think he meant well, the immense favoritism that is given to male children throughout their upbringing was clear  in his misogynistic comments and behavior--he treated all the women in his family like servants, snapping and yelling at them to do his bidding, including his 8 year old daughter, who was at the beck and call of not only her father, but three year old brother, the apple of Zeid's eye, who also accompanied us on all our outings. At one point, the three of us were in his car, and Zeid stepped out to pick up something from the post office, leaving the son behind. With a snide grin, he turned around while getting out of the car, saying, "ok, he's in charge." Alhamdulillah, we were ever so glad to have this brave strong three year old looking after us helpless women!

Zeid developed a routine for introducing the three Americans in his tow, which he used when he brought us to his father's home, which went something along the lines of: "This is Kristen, she grew up in Saudi Arabia, this is Alysha, she's Armenian, this is Becca--she's all white and speaks horrible Arabic" (poor Becca, who was staying in his house, become very discouraged very quickly). After many of the women commenting that I had an "Arab nose", Zeid has asked me about my ethnic background, but only after verifying that it was my father and not my mother who was Armenian, did he go on to include that tid bit of information in his introductions--in Jordan, women are not allowed to pass on their citizenship to their children, so if a Jordanian woman has a child with a man of another nationality, she cannot pass on her citizenship to him or her child, often forcing her to leave the country, or worse, to stay in an abusive relationship abroad for fear of  being unable to b ring her child from that union into Jordan. I suspect if I had said my mother was Armenian, he would have continued to just introduce me as American. There does exist somewhat of a double standard regarding how foreign, especially American, women are treated--after three days of watching Zeid treat all his female family members like servants, he confided in me that he thinks Hillary is far better than Obama, and he hopes that she wins. On the other hand, I'm unsure if his favoring of Hillary had anything to do with the latent racism (to be fair, the Badia is not exactly the height of education/cultural sensitivity) towards those of a darker skin color--in another student's house, the movie "US Marshals" was playing one night, and apparently the entire family was screaming "Get the black face! Get the black face!" I suppose the concept of civil rights and race equality has never been fully embraced in such an ethnically homogenous country, Palestinian and Bedouin differences aside. Regardless, Zeid's father was another man who seemed to be stranded in the wrong century--dressed in simple gray robes, the bright red and white checks of his kafiyeh contrasting deeply with his dark, leathery skin the color of tree sap, the patriarch sat in a raised chair in a parlor room surrounded by other men all in lower chairs around the perimeter of the room--he seemed to be holding court. After Zeid made his usual round of introductions, I was gestured to sit next to the old Bedouin, who after ponder the information Zeid had presented, turned towards me, and in a stern tone, asked:

"Anti muslimeen?" (Are you a Muslim?)

"La, Ana Massreehiyah" (No, I'm Christian)

"Taslahee?" (Do you pray?)

While not wanting to create a fictional representation of myself, I realized at that moment that to explain my wayward observance of Christianity (Christmas Eve services, once a year, sometimes) and my enthusiasm for religion as an academic subject rather than a spiritual practice, would perhaps not go over so well. I quickly answered that yes, I did pray, sometimes--an answer that appeared to not be good enough for him. After discovering that my two other fellow students were also not Muslim, he more or less dismissed us, and that was that.

One thing I found particularly troubling within the household dynamics was the complete acceptability and self-perpetuating cycle of  violence in the family--within my first few hours of being in the village, the youngest girl, Sajida, was viciously sticking her mother in the back with a hair pin, merely because she had ceased to become the center of attention. Despite the pain she was clearly feeling, the mother did nothing to discipline the girl, just looking at me with a resigned smile in between winces. Her eldest brother, however, saddled over to her, grabbed the pin, and proceeded to slap her in the face, 5 times, hard. When her screams became deafening, the mother finally pulled the brother off. Similarly, on the last day, Sajida was engaging me in hand slap game, completely harmlessly albeit relentlessly, as company was over to meet me before I left the next morning. While I couldn't get her to stop altogether, it was easy to hold her off, but her father looked over and told me to just hit her to get her to stop altogether, it was easy to hold her off, but her father looked over and told me to just hit her to get her to stop--I told him absolutely not, because if I hit her, that would send the message that hitting was an appropriate way for her to try to get others' to change their behavior. It seemed that rationale wasn't registering with him, or anyone else in the family. Not only was everyone hitting each other all the time, but they had all become so desensitized to that kind of behavior that it held no real significance anymore.

On our last day, Zeid decided to take us out into the desert to see a great uncle's sheep farm. However misplaced I may have felt in the village, the farther our Jeep crept off-road over the cracked brown earth riddled with rocks, the more I felt as though I was going back in time. For anyone who has read "The Red Tent", the scene that  greeted me twenty minutes later seemed as though it could have come straight from that book. Truly in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but empty space on every horizon line, no electricity or running water, sat two huge tents about a quarter mile apart, each surrounded by multiple sheep corrals. The animals were hastily tied together at the neck in long lines and were being milked, one by one, by the daughters and wives of the family while the men continued to shepherd the new animals into the service line. We entered one of the tents to find an ancient blind woman, her eyes sealed shut, who talked in a law,raspy voice, and seemed as though she must be over 100. Naturally, we were invited in both campus to sit down for tea and coffee, and while sitting on a ragged, dirt stained carpet, it struck how small these peoples' world was--their entire existence was geographically confined to the walls of this tent and the herds of animals outside of it. I tried to fathom the tiny amount of people they have been, and will ever be, exposed to, especially the women, as the men typically drive the thirty minutes into the village for whatever supplies they may need. It was truly humbling to see the simplicity of their lives contrasted with the complexity of my own--traveling places, interacting with so many people, seeking and digesting so much information and knowledge on a daily basis--I forget that for many people in the world, their way of life has not changed so much over the past hundred years.

Now, back in Amman, I am relishing in my newfound appreciation for indoor plumbing, and am preparing for another week of classes before our trip to Egypt. We celebrated our return from the Badia with a wonderful afternoon at the Dead Sea, but were greeted with rising political tensions when we returned to the capital that evening. As I assume/hope that are reporting in America as well, IDF operations in Gaza over the past week took the lives of around 130 civilians, which is causing significant resentment and anger among Amman's Palestinian population, to the point that our program directors forbid us from attending any political demonstrations that were to happen yesterday after the Juma'a prayers, and recommended we lay low in general. If the demonstrations occurred without the consent of the King, I would not put it past the police to use excessive force to quell the protests. Of course, the news of the Jerusalem seminary shooting came late Thursday night--I felt as though I was living through one of Shai's lectures about violence derailing the peace process (shout out to the CPME crowd). Nonetheless, I am hoping things smooth out over the next week, and I continue to go about my business as usual, albeit cautiously.

"Mata Rajil Hardaan, Lazim Ahn Sayukun Saakin"--When A Man Is Angry, You Must be Quiet"

Throughout my study of other cultures and religions, I have always been weary of condemning others' practices too quickly, instead trying to keep in mind differing societal values and expectations. Living with a home stay family, you are no longer merely observing these practices from a distance, rather, you are thrust right into the middle of them, and are often forced to interact and deal with those possessing values in stark contrast to your own. Nonetheless, as I continue to grow more familiar with my family, I have become somewhat disillusioned, if not a bit saddened, by the sense of male entitlement and gender roles that dictate the relationship between my host parents. At one point this past weekend, World War III, family-politics style, erupted between my host father and host maternal grandmother, who, unbeknownst to me, have a long-standing feud over numerous issues. Triggering the recent outburst was a small, irrelevant decision related to where myself and another SIT student in the grandmother's home would eat dinner--the grandmother made the decision unilaterally, and the father's pride was irreversibly bruised--he felt as though since he is responsible and liable for my well-being while in Jordan, all decisions regarding me, no matter how large or small, must pass through him. Certainly, I am appreciate of his sense of responsibility for my welfare, however, seeing the way he handled the conflict with his female relatives was very unappetizing--though our academic director warned us that Arabs are "always shouting, and this doesn't always mean they're angry", he takes this to an extreme, is very easily agitated,and conducts probably 70-80% of his interactions with my host mother in a loud, abrasive, confrontational tone.

While recovering from his bruised ego (I of course had no idea I had done anything to cause the conflict, as the relatives will often yell at each other in rapid-fire colloquial, making it hard for me to understand anything. I also didn't find it appropriate to thwart the suggestion of my host grandmother. Had he merely explained to me what the issue was at the time, it could have been avoided altogether...) the entire family was walking on eggshells; at one point, my mother turned to me and and said "When a man is angry, you must  be quiet...and then go and beg for his forgiveness. Eventually, he will come back to you and apologize as well." My host mother is a wonderful, vivacious, warm person, yet seeing her in this marriage is frankly depressing! She is becoming more open about it, but seems more or less resigned--the other day she urged me not to get married anytime soon (no worries there!) and to make a proper contract (literal or figurative) before tying the knot.

"All day, all night...I'm doing housework, and it's hard work!"

"What, he doesn't help you at all?"

"The only way he helps is by making the house messy!"

Whenever my host father comes home, regardless of the time of day, he expects her to drop everything to cook a meal for him. When they wake up in the morning, the first thing she must do is iron whatever shirt he chooses to wear. As he is the breadwinner, everything is his, and all her needs must  be accommodated around his schedule, which so far as I can tell  involves not a whole lot of work, but a fair amount of time smoking shisha with his friends. He comes and goes at any time of the day without consulting her, often stranding her at home with no car. It is, in no sense I can see, an equitable relationship. While I don't think there's anything wrong with a woman who wants to stay home and be a homemaker and care for her husband, the constant condescension and unpleasantness with which he treats her only serves to reinforce what I see as a fundamentally unequal relationship.

She has become more and more open with me, and has said everyone in her family can't stand him and tells her to divorce him and come live in the family home again, but she feels it is important for her son to have his father around, and puts up with her husband because of it. Divorce is not entirely uncommon here, my father's parents are in fact divorced and remarried, but though my mother complains about him (rightfully) to no end, when I asked her if she would consider divorcing him when her son was older, she said she wouldn't.

Nevertheless, she acknowledges longstanding problems between them, most of which he refuses to discuss, and expresses boredom with her life--all day, everyday, in the house, cleaning and cooking and doing laundry, only to repeat the same the next day. I must say, it would drive me absolutely insane. Let me emphasize that I'm not attributing the dynamics of their relationship to anything related to Islam--I think it has a bit to do with Arab culture, but more to do with the huge age gap between them (15 years), the age at which she married him (19), and the fundamental (perceived) power relations that come with those facts. Marriage and motherhood are widely upheld here as the most important achievements in a woman's life, yet the pursuit of those very goals has placed so many restrictions on her life, at such a young age. In a sense, her entire future was spelled out before she started her third decade. 

Our lectures this week have turned away from the political system and more towards women's issues in Jordan--a subject about which I am trying to maintain an open mind, given all I've been observing at home. While our teacher is a beautiful, highly-educated, unmarried and uncovered woman who works for the UN here, she is definitely the exception as opposed to the rule, from everything I have seen here. I am curious, though somewhat skeptical, that my coming week in the rural areas will push my views in the other direction, though one of our teachers insists that in the Badia, women in fact play the dominant role within the household. What is most frustrating is hearing that it is not that the laws of society mandate or advocate gender norms like the ones described above, but rather that women, from a young age, are taught not to want more than to be a good mother and wife, which functionally drives self-discrimination for women attempting to reach high positions within the public sphere. Beginning to feel powerful feelings of adoration for the United States....

al-Fowda. al-Sebbab? al-Jow (Chaos. The reason? the weather!)

I'm writing having just returned from a massive expedition to numerous corner stores, supermarkets, nut shops, fruit stands, and bakeries. At any minute now, it may begin snowing--as a result, the public is in a state of chaos, and everyone is scrambling to stock up on as much food as humanly possible before the entire city shuts down during the unusual weather. Unlike Boston, where snow plows eagerly anticipate every weather.com update, Amman has no contingency plan for true winter weather whatsoever, and I'm crossing my thumbs (individually) while we're all pleading with Allah (collectively) for a solid day of thelj (snow) and an automatic aowtla (vacation). Right now the wind is howling, and it was raining and hailing earlier, so we'll see what's happened by the morning. While out with Maha, there was absolute chaos in the streets, flooding, and a general disregard for lanes, parking spots, and the poor, bedraggled traffic cops, who I think may hold one of the worst jobs in Jordan. We weren't innocent ourselves either--in the middle of a main, commercial road, we double-parked our car for a good ten minutes while running into the jam-packed bakery to stock up on pita for the next few days. While in America the police would immediately ticket and probably tow the car, Maha left her vehicle in plain sight of a traffic cop, who simply stood in front of the vehicle in our absence, gesturing traffic around it while we were in the shop. Even in the pouring rain on a freezing night filled with car accidents and traffic james, people are still willing to do a favor for one another. Mumtaz.

While the periphery movements of my new life have begun to become familiar and routine, I am still finding myself very challenged linguistically. On one of our first days, our program discussed the notion of "comfort vs. crisis"--namely, that all of us would be pushing ourselves, or being pushed, for that matter, far out of our comfort zones by virtue of our new surroundings, and it was up to us to make sure we were pushed out of our comfort zones, but into our "crisis zones" (easier said than done, sometimes). The sheer amount of energy it takes to be constantly engaged in trying to translate all the colloquial Arabic that is going on at all times is draining, and sometimes, I find myself tuning out when I shouldn't be. Maha and I do pretty well when it's just the two of us, and we can take our time figuring out what the other means, but in group situations, when words I've never heard before are being thrown around at a rapid-fire pace, I've found myself giving up more than I should be, especially when another English speaker is nearby. Although I imagine the vast majority of the other SIT students to be doing just the same, if not worse, because of their significantly smaller background in the language, I still chide myself for not pushing myself a little more towards the crisis zone. Though Maha is delighted to have a free English and French tutor, I am realizing I need to put myself out there more, and be willing to make more mistakes, so as to continue to push myself to achieve the language goals I've set for myself. Don't get me wrong, I am learning tons and tons of Arabic, but there are still times when I take refuge in English, when I shouldn't. It all continues as a challenge.

In my classes, we are beginning to develop and redefine our topics for our two major assignments, outside of Arabic classes, for the semester. The culmination of my academic work will be the Independent Study Project (ISP), while before that, we will complete a "mega-assignment"--another project designed  to strengthen our research skills before embarking on the ISP. We have had two lecturers come thus far, one the former president of nearby Yarmouk University, to discuss the Modern History and Political System in Jordan, and another, a political analyst from the Center for Strategic Studies at the University of Jordan, to discuss Political Islam within the region. The tow men could not have been more different: the first, an older man of Bedouin origin with less than perfect English skills, completely defied everything I have come to expect in an academic--namely, a certain level of objectivity, and a willingness to address multiple sides of an issue. Perhaps I was naive in this assumption. The man gave a decently informative lecture on Jordanian history, which naturally covered all the Arab-Israeli wars, but as soon as the discussion was opened up to student questions, he became, to put it frankly, a bit of a raving lunatic, completely ignoring the substance of students' questions, and instead embarking on a heated anti-American, and arguably anti-Semetic, tirade. Not only did he refuse to answer any question regarding the interests of the Jordanian government, but he also refused to admit, or even discuss the possibility of any Arab wrong-doing or miscalculation in any scenario, past or present. I asked him, at one point, in a very neutral tone, if he would discuss the first Abdullah's communications and relations with the Jewish community in Palestine pre-1948, a subject which has been widely acknowledged and written about. Instead of acknowledging Abdullah's aspirations for a greater Transjordanian  state, with the involvement of the Jews as a potential partner, arguably at the expense of the Palestinians in terms of political self-determination, he essentially refused to acknowledge any sort of partnership between the two entities, instead insisting that Abdullah foresaw the creation of the Jewish state and was merely trying to lure them into containment in order to ensure Palestinian sovereignty in the area (a rather tame answer, relative to some others that he gave). As the lecture went on, he became increasingly loud and erratic, and basically lost all academic credibility. Contrasted with the other man, who instead of preaching to us, delivered a fairly tame, data-based lecture on public opinion regarding Islamist political parties within the region, stopping at every opportunity to reiterate that he did not agree with Hamas' policies and had many Jewish friends, it seems that the two were polar opposites within the Jordanian academic spectrum, some of whom perceive the opportunity to lecture to a group of American students as an opportunity to push their personal beliefs on a group of uninformed students, while others are overly-eager to emphasize the similarities between Americans and Jordanians, and the good rapport between them. At either end of the spectrum, it is sometimes difficult to get the full picture on any given issue. I will say though, that even the first guy, in between his diatribes about the "greedy, sneaky Zionists" and the "American imperialists" (yes, this was a well-published Sorbonne-educated, influential academic), still insisted that in truth, Jordanians did want democracy, and no matter what the King may try to emphasize to the Americans in terms of democratic reform in the country, it was just a front to get foreign aid, and he had no real plans to let go of his power. Though for the most part, you hear only good things about the King from the locals, it is usually Jordanians of Palestinian origin who will speak against him, hardly ever Jordanians of bedouin origin, so that was a bit surprising to hear. Nonetheless, there are a lot of kids who haven't had many classes specifically dealing with the history and politics that have affected Jordan, and some seemed to be soaking up everything the first was saying---one even said something along the lines of "well, I mean, this guy has been researching this stuff for years, maybe he's right, maybe all the problems in the Middle East are our fault"....it's a dangerous thing, to have only one perspective....

Regardless, I sought out the second lecturer after his talk to discuss my ISP topic ideas, and in addition to having done a lot of work with some of my Brandeis professors (not surprisingly, Shikaki and Abdul Monem), he said my ideas were good, I should refine them more, and when I was ready to make an appointment with him to discuss potential interviews. SIT brings in lecturers on a wide variety of subjects concerning our program theme ("modernization and social change"), and then students are asked to pick from among them (or seek outside sources) for an academic advisor for their topic. I'm sticking with what I came to Jordan with: Evolving Sectarian Relations in the Public and Private Sphere of Jordan since the Iraq War. There are a number of directions I can take with this, identifying indicators of civil instability, contrasting government refugee policy for the Iraqis with the Palestinian precedent, of course interviewing people on either side of the divide...but from what I can tell, the cultural gap between the two sects seems pretty wide here, probably because there has never been any sort of sizeable Shiite population here, until the influx of Iraqi refugees, about 40% of which are Shiite, according to the lecturer. My academic director at SIT, a Sunni of Bedouin origin, remarked that until meeting his first Shi'a a few years ago, he had thought his entire life that they were kafirs (unbelievers), and that they held all these far-fetched religious notions, none of which were true. Anyway, it is nice to have a topic, and an encouraging advisor, so soon in the semester. I am a bit clueless for what I want to do for the other project, but am considering studying the developing dance scene in Jordan as an extension of the inclusion of performing arts curriculum and creating learning in Jordanian schools. In order to reengage with the arts (it's been too long!) my friend Tanya and I are going to our first belly-dancing class tomorrow evening (yesss) and I'm also going to a big Islamic music festival this weekend, both of which I'm excited for. Through various contacts I've been put in touch with the head of the dance department at a local prep school, and he is keeping me informed on the numerous international choreography and dance workshops that are happening in Amman, some of which I hope to participate in soon.

A few quick notes before I sign off:

Best new discovery: Chocolate Halawa, or in my mind, Arab Nutella. Sweet Tahini, mixed with chocolate, spread on warm pita=heavenly

Quickly approaching: 5-day rural homestay in the Badia region, where I'll be wearing hijab the whole time. Some of the other students in my group ventured out to the countryside this past weekend to see some Roman ruins and befriended some local Bedouins, who escorted them out to their sheep farm and cooked them dinner, shared their stories, and were apparently incredibly hospitable. I suppose I've known I'll be wearing the headscarf there for awhile now, but as it approaches, I'm becoming more and more curious as to what the veiled experience will be like. Another girl on my program who studied in Yemen and has worn niqab before (full face/eyes/body everything) assured me I wouldn't even notice it, which will probably be the case after a few hours, but it will be interesting nonetheless. 

Lastly: SIT has a wonderful coordinator for the Arabic program, Khulud, who is also a close friend of my family, and incredibly well-connected. As part of our colloquial training, she invited in ten young Arabs for us to interview and test out our new lingo. Afterwards, the different levels merged and the guests told us about Yella Talk (Yella in arabic means "lets go", among other things), an interfaith  and intercultural dialogue group that they're all members of that facilitates communication across religious, sectarian, ethnic and national lines. Khulud is of Palestinian origin and told us she had never encountered any Jewish person other than IDF soldiers who hassled her  every time she tried to go to the West Bank from Jordan, until she met a young American in one of her many teaching locations in Amman. She developed a genuine friendship with him long before she knew he was Jewish (he subsequently went on to publish a book about his experiences in Amman called "Live from Jordan", which has become quite popular), and when she did find out about his faith, she said it changed her life, forever. She went on to form Yella Talk, which has been in operation in Amman for the past few years, and they are trying to spread the group throughout the region. After encountering a lot of close-minded people, it is heart-warming to know that there is a younger generation that feels differently from its predecessors. 

Now, hamam-time in case the thelj doesn't come through and there's madrassa tomorrow...Goodbye for now.