Saturday, May 31, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
London, in color
Sitting in my aunt’s London home and watching an Indian Premier League cricket match between the Bangalore Royal Challengers and Kings XI Punjab, I was a little overwhelmed. Not only had I just come from a world of near non-existence on the part of South Asians, but I had entered a society where brown people dominate as the minority.
Maybe it hit me the hardest when I went walking with a group of my aunts in a nearby park and garden, them in their dupatas and salwaar kameez and me in my jeans and t-shirt. I followed along as they examined the flowers and scenic views, hearing all of their urdu banter and smiling every time we passed by any white English people, who seemed completely unfazed by these aunties and their traditional garb and banter, something the passers-by had clearly grown accustomed to seeing in every aspect of their livelihood.
Perhaps I had become so used to a one-race society that my perception of diversity had been skewed. Or maybe it was just that I was used to being a part of a small minority in the US and not a near-majority, as things seem to be in Britain. But in everything, from the airport, to the grocery store, to the radio and even to the mainstream sports network, South Asians had left their mark.
Punjab had handily beaten Bangalore, the stadium and red/white Punjab jerseys plastered with ads and the white British commentators promising us more action tomorrow, between the Kolkata Knight Riders and the Delhi Daredevils (the day after there would be a match between the Mubai Indians and Chennai Super Kings).
Maybe it hit me the hardest when I went walking with a group of my aunts in a nearby park and garden, them in their dupatas and salwaar kameez and me in my jeans and t-shirt. I followed along as they examined the flowers and scenic views, hearing all of their urdu banter and smiling every time we passed by any white English people, who seemed completely unfazed by these aunties and their traditional garb and banter, something the passers-by had clearly grown accustomed to seeing in every aspect of their livelihood.
Perhaps I had become so used to a one-race society that my perception of diversity had been skewed. Or maybe it was just that I was used to being a part of a small minority in the US and not a near-majority, as things seem to be in Britain. But in everything, from the airport, to the grocery store, to the radio and even to the mainstream sports network, South Asians had left their mark.
Punjab had handily beaten Bangalore, the stadium and red/white Punjab jerseys plastered with ads and the white British commentators promising us more action tomorrow, between the Kolkata Knight Riders and the Delhi Daredevils (the day after there would be a match between the Mubai Indians and Chennai Super Kings).
Friday, May 09, 2008
Lost on the streets of Tunis
In two rental cars, we zigzagged through Tunis’s maze of one-way streets and irregular city blocks. The second car was relying, for navigation, on a visual connection with the first car. The first car was relying on a rather unreliable Lonely Planet guidebook map.
Suddenly the second car was out of sight. With no immediate means of electronic communication between us, I suddenly transformed into The Human Telephone as we turned the corner and pulled over.
“Wait here. I’ll go back and find them,” I said, knowing that if the first car chose not to “wait here,” that I’d pretty much be a lost foreigner, running through the streets of Tunis in flip flops and board shorts.
Running around the corner and backtracking a block, I realized that this may have been a bad idea. But somehow the car appeared, stopped at the exact intersection that I was running to.
They needed gas, Lindsey, the drvier, told me. They had stopped to ask someone about a gas station. There was one a block up and to the right. I hopped into the car with them as we drove to the next street and peered to the right. There was a gas station a few blocks up.
“OK, we’ll meet you there,” I said, getting out of their car and running back in the direction of my car. Somehow it all worked out and we both ended up at the station. Human Telephone, indeed.
I had to continue my role of inter-car communication, often leaning my head out of the window and yelling back at the other car, then subsequently getting pulled back into the car to avoid an oncoming bus.
***
We had been on our way to a secluded beach, but had to make numerous stops because we got separated, or confused, or lost, or because the other car decided it’d be fun to pull over and run around “frolicking” in the tall roadside grass.
We finally navigated ourselves to the area, driving up onto the soft white sand. The water was a clean light blue and there wasn’t another soul in sight. Somehow we had found what was basically our own private beach. I hopped out of the car and made a mad dash for the water. It was freezing, but it didn’t matter.
We spent the rest of the day goofing off and I ended up giving another bhangra lesson, this time on the sand.
***
Before we left from the beach, a caravan of about 10 cars and SUVs loaded with Tunisian teens rumbled into the area, music blaring from each vehicle and girls hanging out of the windows. They eventually arranged themselves into a row of parked cars, their music thumping as some of them sat on the car roofs, dancing, singing and oogling each other. Others were playing a soccer game on the sand, while still others were standing in between, chitchatting away.
It definitely seemed like a scene straight out of an American teen movie, a clan of trendy, partying youths commandeering a beach and going nuts with their music and scant clothing. Globalization, anyone?
***
We didn’t anticipate that we’d get just as confused driving back into Tunis as we had been driving out of the city. Another maze of one-way roads left us hitting dead end after dead end. Finally, we decided to give up and restart on the main road, but on our way back, we almost drove into a no-entry zone and a police officer came powerwalking toward our car.
As he approach, I yelled out to him, “Khalas,” which basically meant “it’s over,” and told our driver, Stephanie, my friend from the Air Force Academy, to drive and get us the hell out of there. Of course, being the respectful officer that she is, she didn’t budge, letting this guy approach our car and begin hassling us.
Knowing that most Arab officers tend to give up while hassling English-speakers, we all responded in English after he started asking us where we’re from (which we understood). We’re American, we said. We don’t speak Arabic.
“NO!” he says, looking directly at me. “You! You are Arabic!”
Oh god, I thought, not this. No, we all explained, we’re American, we don’t speak Arabic.
“NO!” he said, looking at me again and talking in Arabic now, “Where are you’re from? I know you’re Arab! You said ‘khalas’ You are Arabic! You…” he searched the car for someone else, “and YOU!” he said, pointing at Unaza, my Pakistani friend who wears a hijab.
“Um, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but we’re just trying to get to our hotel,” I said.
“NO! You’re Arab!” he said in English this time. “Show me your passport.”
“I don’t have mine, it’s at the hotel,” I said.
“I have mine right here!” said Unaza, smiling. I shot her a confounded stare.
Somehow, within this exchange, the officer had gained a sidekick, who was clearly not an officer, but who was extremely excited by our confrontation. He examined the passport along with the officer.
“Islamabad?” they said excitedly, thinking that the fact that Unaza was born in Pakistan somehow made them right.
“Yes, we’re from Pakistan,” Unaza said. “We’re not Arab.”
The officer handed the passport back, but didn’t give up.
“You are Arabic,” he said, looking at me and getting a little giddy as he spoke in Arabic. “You’re from Kuwait! I know it! I’m 40 years old and I swear on my mother’s head that you’re Arab.”
Shocked, I explained to him again that I was actually Pakistani. He finally dropped it. We asked how to get back to the main street and he told us, in English, to take two rights. As we were about to drive off, Stephanie said, in Arabic, “So, right and then right?”
“Yes,” the officer said, not noticing the blunder.
Suddenly the second car was out of sight. With no immediate means of electronic communication between us, I suddenly transformed into The Human Telephone as we turned the corner and pulled over.
“Wait here. I’ll go back and find them,” I said, knowing that if the first car chose not to “wait here,” that I’d pretty much be a lost foreigner, running through the streets of Tunis in flip flops and board shorts.
Running around the corner and backtracking a block, I realized that this may have been a bad idea. But somehow the car appeared, stopped at the exact intersection that I was running to.
They needed gas, Lindsey, the drvier, told me. They had stopped to ask someone about a gas station. There was one a block up and to the right. I hopped into the car with them as we drove to the next street and peered to the right. There was a gas station a few blocks up.
“OK, we’ll meet you there,” I said, getting out of their car and running back in the direction of my car. Somehow it all worked out and we both ended up at the station. Human Telephone, indeed.
I had to continue my role of inter-car communication, often leaning my head out of the window and yelling back at the other car, then subsequently getting pulled back into the car to avoid an oncoming bus.
***
We had been on our way to a secluded beach, but had to make numerous stops because we got separated, or confused, or lost, or because the other car decided it’d be fun to pull over and run around “frolicking” in the tall roadside grass.
We finally navigated ourselves to the area, driving up onto the soft white sand. The water was a clean light blue and there wasn’t another soul in sight. Somehow we had found what was basically our own private beach. I hopped out of the car and made a mad dash for the water. It was freezing, but it didn’t matter.
We spent the rest of the day goofing off and I ended up giving another bhangra lesson, this time on the sand.
***
Before we left from the beach, a caravan of about 10 cars and SUVs loaded with Tunisian teens rumbled into the area, music blaring from each vehicle and girls hanging out of the windows. They eventually arranged themselves into a row of parked cars, their music thumping as some of them sat on the car roofs, dancing, singing and oogling each other. Others were playing a soccer game on the sand, while still others were standing in between, chitchatting away.
It definitely seemed like a scene straight out of an American teen movie, a clan of trendy, partying youths commandeering a beach and going nuts with their music and scant clothing. Globalization, anyone?
***
We didn’t anticipate that we’d get just as confused driving back into Tunis as we had been driving out of the city. Another maze of one-way roads left us hitting dead end after dead end. Finally, we decided to give up and restart on the main road, but on our way back, we almost drove into a no-entry zone and a police officer came powerwalking toward our car.
As he approach, I yelled out to him, “Khalas,” which basically meant “it’s over,” and told our driver, Stephanie, my friend from the Air Force Academy, to drive and get us the hell out of there. Of course, being the respectful officer that she is, she didn’t budge, letting this guy approach our car and begin hassling us.
Knowing that most Arab officers tend to give up while hassling English-speakers, we all responded in English after he started asking us where we’re from (which we understood). We’re American, we said. We don’t speak Arabic.
“NO!” he says, looking directly at me. “You! You are Arabic!”
Oh god, I thought, not this. No, we all explained, we’re American, we don’t speak Arabic.
“NO!” he said, looking at me again and talking in Arabic now, “Where are you’re from? I know you’re Arab! You said ‘khalas’ You are Arabic! You…” he searched the car for someone else, “and YOU!” he said, pointing at Unaza, my Pakistani friend who wears a hijab.
“Um, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but we’re just trying to get to our hotel,” I said.
“NO! You’re Arab!” he said in English this time. “Show me your passport.”
“I don’t have mine, it’s at the hotel,” I said.
“I have mine right here!” said Unaza, smiling. I shot her a confounded stare.
Somehow, within this exchange, the officer had gained a sidekick, who was clearly not an officer, but who was extremely excited by our confrontation. He examined the passport along with the officer.
“Islamabad?” they said excitedly, thinking that the fact that Unaza was born in Pakistan somehow made them right.
“Yes, we’re from Pakistan,” Unaza said. “We’re not Arab.”
The officer handed the passport back, but didn’t give up.
“You are Arabic,” he said, looking at me and getting a little giddy as he spoke in Arabic. “You’re from Kuwait! I know it! I’m 40 years old and I swear on my mother’s head that you’re Arab.”
Shocked, I explained to him again that I was actually Pakistani. He finally dropped it. We asked how to get back to the main street and he told us, in English, to take two rights. As we were about to drive off, Stephanie said, in Arabic, “So, right and then right?”
“Yes,” the officer said, not noticing the blunder.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Tunis: the seminar gets emotional
At the start of this conference for Fulbrighters in the Middle East and North Africa (basically, the Arab world) many of us later agreed that we were greeted with a jarring realization: Israeli students were at the conference too?!?
Now, I know this sounds horrible, but let’s put this in perspective. All of the rest of us had been immersed in marjority-Muslim Arab countries for the last several months. We all, especially those of us surrounded by Palestinians, have become accustomed to hearing the narratives that these communities share with us. We have almost begun to feel their emotions during this process of cultural exchange and understanding. So while it may seem a little unjust, it’s understandable that upon hearing the introductions of these Fulbrighters who were researching in Israel, a wave of panic swept over our faces and the blood briefly stirred in our veins during our confusion over how we could possibly be sharing this forum with them. So disconnected are we from Israel, even being just an hour’s drive to its border, and so immersed in the opposing environment that our instinctual reactions spoke volumes.
But I think it’s safe to say that an initial reaction was all it really was. As the conference started and we began discussing our work in our different countries, the atmosphere became one of intellectual discourse and comparative understanding. We asked questions to others about their projects based on our time in our own countries. We put each of our experiences in context, pushing ourselves to understand more about these cultures that we were immersed in from different angles that we hadn’t previously thought about. Indeed, enrichment was what this conference had turned out to be.
During the second of five panel discussion sessions, I found myself sitting on the same panel as one of the Israeli scholars, a girl studying modern contemporary dance in Israel. To some people this topic might sound a little bogus. Whereas some people mock Israeli culture as what they see as something expropriated from other Middle Eastern traditions (there is no way that I’m going to take on that issue right now), what she presented left even those critics intrigued. She discussed the development of a very modern form of dance, something that borrowed from many non-traditional influences, but also something that became a form of abstract expression. She discussed some of the dance expressions that evoked feelings of tension and guardedness, senses that she saw as being influenced by modern attitudes in Israel today.
I had sat next to her on this panel and became fascinated by her work and her findings. Being someone who fancies himself a dancer, I was interested in how the dance might look. What kind of music was involved? What kinds of clothes? Where does this dance take place? As you can probably tell, my knowledge of modern dance isn’t really up to par, let alone my familiarity with modern Israeli dance.
After the panel we began talking and ended up hitting it off. In fact, I’m pretty sure that she’s the single person who I spoke to the most throughout the entire conference. We discussed dancing (at length), then cultural environments, job hunting, you name it. Eventually we even found out that we had similar dietary issues and started discussing health insurance woes.
Before I exhaust the topic, I’ll just say that this conference was so cool and involved so much intellectual exchange that I ended up connecting with basically all of the Fulbrighters studying in Israel, let alone from everywhere else. We even ended up discussing my initial instinctual reaction of shock to their presence at our conference and they shared their feelings of apprehension before they attended.
By the end of the seminar, all of us agreed that the students from Israel belonged with the Middle East and North Africa group, and that our discussions would not have been the same without their shared experiences. I sincerely felt that we all benefited from their participation and it made me feel warm inside to tell them that, even though it sucks that there was some discomfort about it in the beginning.
***
Then came the conflict that was way out in the open.
As our seminar, which consisted of five panel discussions and three lectures from Tunisian professors, came to a close, my friend Stephanie presented her research in Jordan.
She had initially planned to research women’s roles in the Jordanian military (I think) but, upon meeting huge obstacles, changed her topic to focus on ecotourism in Jordan. She talked about the efforts of some governmental organizations to keep certain nature preserves open and her work in studying the profits generated for local communities by ecotourism to these preserves.
But the conflict came before she even started talking. Stephanie is an active duty Air Force officer, on assignment to do her Fulbright research. It’s confusing, I know, but she got the Fulbright while studying at the Air Force Academy. She doesn’t get any money from Fulbright because she’s still being paid by the military, but she does get the opportunity to learn Arabic and gain some international experience before she pursues her military assignment, which I recall her telling me was in intelligence.
One of our fellow Fulbrighters from Syria listened to her talk, then let loose with his questioning. He talked about how the American military is seen as this horrible, deceitful, destructive, inhumane, manipulative force and asked how she dealt with the conflict of representing that, while also pretending to be a Fulbright researcher, who is supposed to be a cultural ambassador for understanding and educational exchange. If that doesn’t seem like that bad of a question, then I definitely did a better job of wording it than he did because he straight up attacked her. Everyone in the room felt like he was calling her a two-faced liar with hostile and despicable intentions.
The room was frozen in shock and Stephanie tried to answer the question in a diplomatic fashion, not really answering as much as trying not to be overcome by anger. I was listening and getting really upset about the exchange and how the guy could have framed the inquiry so poorly.
I don’t deny that he may have had an interesting point to raise. Indeed, many of us face difficulties in being associated with the American government as we try to conduct our research and get close to people who think that we are spies. How much would it hinder our abilities if one of these skeptics knew that there was an active US military officer in our group as well? What’s to stop such a person from thinking that we’re all spies or military of some sort and, worse yet, what’s to stop this kind of a rumor from spreading to anyone in contact with the rest of us and ruining our ability to research sensitive topics? Is the integrity of the Fulbright Scholarship possibly at stake by having a participant from the US Air Force involved?
As interesting as these points of discussion are, the way that the topic was introduced was uncalled for and turned many of us off from the topic. Worse yet, during our end-of-the-seminar discussion (which was 15 minutes later) the questioner brought it up again and an argument broke out that had to be interrupted by a State Department official, who said that the debate wasn’t productive and was taking time away from the focus of the seminar.
In the end, none of us got to hear from Stephanie about if she considered there to be a conflict and how she may attempt to reconcile the different goals of these organizations, if she even believes them to have different goals.
She did, however, make one good point before the argument was stopped in its tracks: if the military is going to be interested in the Middle East, wouldn’t it be a good thing to have officers like Stephanie who spend time with the people in the Middle East, learning the language and gaining some cultural understanding?
I agree with her, but whether the chance for her to have this experience is putting the integrity of the rest of us at risk is an interesting question as well.
Now, I know this sounds horrible, but let’s put this in perspective. All of the rest of us had been immersed in marjority-Muslim Arab countries for the last several months. We all, especially those of us surrounded by Palestinians, have become accustomed to hearing the narratives that these communities share with us. We have almost begun to feel their emotions during this process of cultural exchange and understanding. So while it may seem a little unjust, it’s understandable that upon hearing the introductions of these Fulbrighters who were researching in Israel, a wave of panic swept over our faces and the blood briefly stirred in our veins during our confusion over how we could possibly be sharing this forum with them. So disconnected are we from Israel, even being just an hour’s drive to its border, and so immersed in the opposing environment that our instinctual reactions spoke volumes.
But I think it’s safe to say that an initial reaction was all it really was. As the conference started and we began discussing our work in our different countries, the atmosphere became one of intellectual discourse and comparative understanding. We asked questions to others about their projects based on our time in our own countries. We put each of our experiences in context, pushing ourselves to understand more about these cultures that we were immersed in from different angles that we hadn’t previously thought about. Indeed, enrichment was what this conference had turned out to be.
During the second of five panel discussion sessions, I found myself sitting on the same panel as one of the Israeli scholars, a girl studying modern contemporary dance in Israel. To some people this topic might sound a little bogus. Whereas some people mock Israeli culture as what they see as something expropriated from other Middle Eastern traditions (there is no way that I’m going to take on that issue right now), what she presented left even those critics intrigued. She discussed the development of a very modern form of dance, something that borrowed from many non-traditional influences, but also something that became a form of abstract expression. She discussed some of the dance expressions that evoked feelings of tension and guardedness, senses that she saw as being influenced by modern attitudes in Israel today.
I had sat next to her on this panel and became fascinated by her work and her findings. Being someone who fancies himself a dancer, I was interested in how the dance might look. What kind of music was involved? What kinds of clothes? Where does this dance take place? As you can probably tell, my knowledge of modern dance isn’t really up to par, let alone my familiarity with modern Israeli dance.
After the panel we began talking and ended up hitting it off. In fact, I’m pretty sure that she’s the single person who I spoke to the most throughout the entire conference. We discussed dancing (at length), then cultural environments, job hunting, you name it. Eventually we even found out that we had similar dietary issues and started discussing health insurance woes.
Before I exhaust the topic, I’ll just say that this conference was so cool and involved so much intellectual exchange that I ended up connecting with basically all of the Fulbrighters studying in Israel, let alone from everywhere else. We even ended up discussing my initial instinctual reaction of shock to their presence at our conference and they shared their feelings of apprehension before they attended.
By the end of the seminar, all of us agreed that the students from Israel belonged with the Middle East and North Africa group, and that our discussions would not have been the same without their shared experiences. I sincerely felt that we all benefited from their participation and it made me feel warm inside to tell them that, even though it sucks that there was some discomfort about it in the beginning.
***
Then came the conflict that was way out in the open.
As our seminar, which consisted of five panel discussions and three lectures from Tunisian professors, came to a close, my friend Stephanie presented her research in Jordan.
She had initially planned to research women’s roles in the Jordanian military (I think) but, upon meeting huge obstacles, changed her topic to focus on ecotourism in Jordan. She talked about the efforts of some governmental organizations to keep certain nature preserves open and her work in studying the profits generated for local communities by ecotourism to these preserves.
But the conflict came before she even started talking. Stephanie is an active duty Air Force officer, on assignment to do her Fulbright research. It’s confusing, I know, but she got the Fulbright while studying at the Air Force Academy. She doesn’t get any money from Fulbright because she’s still being paid by the military, but she does get the opportunity to learn Arabic and gain some international experience before she pursues her military assignment, which I recall her telling me was in intelligence.
One of our fellow Fulbrighters from Syria listened to her talk, then let loose with his questioning. He talked about how the American military is seen as this horrible, deceitful, destructive, inhumane, manipulative force and asked how she dealt with the conflict of representing that, while also pretending to be a Fulbright researcher, who is supposed to be a cultural ambassador for understanding and educational exchange. If that doesn’t seem like that bad of a question, then I definitely did a better job of wording it than he did because he straight up attacked her. Everyone in the room felt like he was calling her a two-faced liar with hostile and despicable intentions.
The room was frozen in shock and Stephanie tried to answer the question in a diplomatic fashion, not really answering as much as trying not to be overcome by anger. I was listening and getting really upset about the exchange and how the guy could have framed the inquiry so poorly.
I don’t deny that he may have had an interesting point to raise. Indeed, many of us face difficulties in being associated with the American government as we try to conduct our research and get close to people who think that we are spies. How much would it hinder our abilities if one of these skeptics knew that there was an active US military officer in our group as well? What’s to stop such a person from thinking that we’re all spies or military of some sort and, worse yet, what’s to stop this kind of a rumor from spreading to anyone in contact with the rest of us and ruining our ability to research sensitive topics? Is the integrity of the Fulbright Scholarship possibly at stake by having a participant from the US Air Force involved?
As interesting as these points of discussion are, the way that the topic was introduced was uncalled for and turned many of us off from the topic. Worse yet, during our end-of-the-seminar discussion (which was 15 minutes later) the questioner brought it up again and an argument broke out that had to be interrupted by a State Department official, who said that the debate wasn’t productive and was taking time away from the focus of the seminar.
In the end, none of us got to hear from Stephanie about if she considered there to be a conflict and how she may attempt to reconcile the different goals of these organizations, if she even believes them to have different goals.
She did, however, make one good point before the argument was stopped in its tracks: if the military is going to be interested in the Middle East, wouldn’t it be a good thing to have officers like Stephanie who spend time with the people in the Middle East, learning the language and gaining some cultural understanding?
I agree with her, but whether the chance for her to have this experience is putting the integrity of the rest of us at risk is an interesting question as well.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Tunis!
As I said earlier, I just returned from Tunisia. Basically, the Fulbright program, in all of its wisdom, decided that it’d be a great use of money to organize two enrichment seminars for Middle East/North Africa scholars. Since there are a lot of us, they planned one in Jordan and one in Tunisia and somehow decided that it’d be cool to send us (the Fulbrighters in Jordan) all to Tunisia and the scholars in Tunis, to Amman.
Now, I’m not complaining at all. In fact, I’ll just say up front that not only am I happy that I got to go on a paid vacation to Tunisia, but I also feel like it was something that all of us benefited from. It was, indeed, money well spent and I don’t think I could will have another opportunity to be in that kind of environment, surrounded by so many smart and driven people.
The conference was truly amazing and intellectually stimulating. We all challenged each other to think about our experiences in different ways and we found ourselves pushing each other further than we had expected.
But I’m getting carried away. The point is that we got sent to Tunis. And because there is only one flight weekly to and from Tunis and Amman, we got to stay for a week. And because we had no way of getting back and since they were sending us there in the first place, we got to stay for free (e.g. lodgings and airfare were covered). I think you can tell that we were all extremely excited about it, even though we were giggling to ourselves in the beginning about how we had thought it was going to be nothing more than a free vacation.
***
I heard that the Tunisian language was different, but what I didn’t expect was that I’d understand exactly half of it. I mean, it’s supposed to be a mix between French and Arabic, so I assumed that the languages would have assimilated each other and evolved into some fluid Arabic/Tunisian metal alloy-type thing.
Yeah, that didn’t happen. Basically it was a word in Arabic followed by a word in French, followed by more Arabic and more French. As a tourist, trying to find your way around, it’s fine because you can kind of pick one language and insist on it and the locals will try to accommodate. But if I was trying to sit down and participate in a Tunisian conversation, I guess I would have had to have retained something from those high school French classes.
And some people even have trouble speaking Arabic. For example, I went to a restaurant with some friends and decided to inquire about a chicken dish. What was this, I asked in Arabic.
(insert fancy French response). In Arabic, please? He says the first word “chicken” in Arabic, and the rest of the description in French. I gathered that it was in a white sauce, so I asked what the white sauce was?
Confused, he hesitated: “eeehhhh…”
“Is it from milk?” I ask in Arabic.
“Non,” he responds. I look at him, waiting for him to explain. He searches for the word that he can’t think of in Arabic.
“Is it from cheese?” I ask in Arabic.
“Oui,” he says.
***
On our first full day in Tunis, I headed out with a group of Jordanian Fulbrighters and started exploring the old city. The old city was like one of those old snake-in-the-can prank thingies. Basically it was a plethora of old homes and buildings built almost on top of each other and crammed within this ancient wall. And, of course, I can’t forget about the series of extremely narrow, cobble-stoned lanes that zig zag through it in nothing resembling an organized set of roads. I was actually really beautiful. Many of the roads were dominated by souqs, with vendors selling ranges of local-looking items (how do you really know that they’re not really from China?) like these very colorful and intricately designed ceramic bowls, paintings of local landmarks, stuffed camels, daggers, leather bags, earrings, necklaces, blah blah blah. And then there were other roads that were overtaken by the regular souq, which was much more practical and was frequented by locals. It had normal clothes, appliances and house supplies. Basically it was like an outdoor mall/souq.
So we came to the touristy one first and wiggled our way through, me and Unaza (she’s Pakistani) being frequently greeted by the inquisitive words “India?” “Bakistan?” Jafer got hassled as well and then we were all obnoxious about our reactions for a brief time, asking them if they wanted "a point" for guessing where we’re from. Or saying “EXAAACTLY!!! Great job!” Yeah, it was pretty lame and mean, but I guess we got carried away after the constant barrage.
***
Then Unaza decided to break into a mosque. And I decided to follow her.
Bad idea.
We had arrived at this mosque (pretty much the big old mosque in Tunis that you’re supposed to visit) called the Zaitouna Mosque. Not being prayer time and not knowing what their visitation policy was (yes, I know it’s not a hospital) I slyly approached a man who was doing door-duty, without any of the girls nearby. Oh yeah, we were touring around with four non-Muslim girls, who all decided to wear hijabs and act like they were Muslim in order to gain easy mosque entry. I had no problem with this. Anyway, I walk up, quite separately from them and start asking the guy about how I can pray in the mosque. Of course they all followed up right behind me, like my 15 wives, but it didn’t seem to affect the conversation.
The mosque is only open for prayers, he says. You can view it from the outside.
I asked him when the noon prayer was. Four o’clock, he says. Perplexed, I asked what time the afternoon prayer was. 4:15, he says.
That doesn’t really make much sense to me, I said, but he explained that the shopkeepers can only leave their shops once, so they just take a big break that encompasses both prayer times, even though the noon prayer time was actually at about 1 p.m.
I told him that I just wanted to pray inside, but he said that it wasn’t possible and that I’d just have to look from outside. So we go to the courtyard area and snap some photos. Then Unaza decides to be a daredevil. There was a wooden barrier fence that had been awkwardly attached above some stairs and that offered enough room for a person to slide under.
She said that she was going to go in. That she wanted to pray. So she went.
Minutes later, I followed.
Halfway through my prayer, I hear some guy yelling at me. I finish and he asks me if I entered from under a railing. I look at the sheikh of the mosque, who was observing the situation, and told him that I just prayed. The guard guy asked me again if I entered from under. Acting like a dumb foreigner, I simply repeated myself, but eventually I admitted to it and the sheikh got a real kick out of it.
I got escorted out of the mosque and reunited with my friends. I guess some others had tried to follow us and gotten caught. While we were leaving the premises I got confronted by the doorman guy again, who started yelling at me with the tone of someone who had been betrayed. I told him that I was just praying and he was like, no, your prayer will not be valid since you broke in. And that’s when Unaza and I sunk into a guilty depression for the next hour.
On the plus side, the mosque was pretty on the inside and we had no other opportunity of seeing it, since we were supposed to move out of the city later in the day.
We also got yelled at later on after I acquiesced to teaching Jafer some bhangra in this deserted courtyard.
We got in trouble again later for checking out of our hotel and our late.
***
With that great start we headed to our new hotel, the Hotel Sidi Bou Saeed, in a world-famous area outside of the city called Sidi Bou Saeed. It’s known for it’s houses that all have uniform white walls and uniquely decorated blue doors. A beautiful place for… an enrichment seminar?
Well, at least we had beautiful ocean views from the conference room.
Now, I’m not complaining at all. In fact, I’ll just say up front that not only am I happy that I got to go on a paid vacation to Tunisia, but I also feel like it was something that all of us benefited from. It was, indeed, money well spent and I don’t think I could will have another opportunity to be in that kind of environment, surrounded by so many smart and driven people.
The conference was truly amazing and intellectually stimulating. We all challenged each other to think about our experiences in different ways and we found ourselves pushing each other further than we had expected.
But I’m getting carried away. The point is that we got sent to Tunis. And because there is only one flight weekly to and from Tunis and Amman, we got to stay for a week. And because we had no way of getting back and since they were sending us there in the first place, we got to stay for free (e.g. lodgings and airfare were covered). I think you can tell that we were all extremely excited about it, even though we were giggling to ourselves in the beginning about how we had thought it was going to be nothing more than a free vacation.
***
I heard that the Tunisian language was different, but what I didn’t expect was that I’d understand exactly half of it. I mean, it’s supposed to be a mix between French and Arabic, so I assumed that the languages would have assimilated each other and evolved into some fluid Arabic/Tunisian metal alloy-type thing.
Yeah, that didn’t happen. Basically it was a word in Arabic followed by a word in French, followed by more Arabic and more French. As a tourist, trying to find your way around, it’s fine because you can kind of pick one language and insist on it and the locals will try to accommodate. But if I was trying to sit down and participate in a Tunisian conversation, I guess I would have had to have retained something from those high school French classes.
And some people even have trouble speaking Arabic. For example, I went to a restaurant with some friends and decided to inquire about a chicken dish. What was this, I asked in Arabic.
(insert fancy French response). In Arabic, please? He says the first word “chicken” in Arabic, and the rest of the description in French. I gathered that it was in a white sauce, so I asked what the white sauce was?
Confused, he hesitated: “eeehhhh…”
“Is it from milk?” I ask in Arabic.
“Non,” he responds. I look at him, waiting for him to explain. He searches for the word that he can’t think of in Arabic.
“Is it from cheese?” I ask in Arabic.
“Oui,” he says.
***
On our first full day in Tunis, I headed out with a group of Jordanian Fulbrighters and started exploring the old city. The old city was like one of those old snake-in-the-can prank thingies. Basically it was a plethora of old homes and buildings built almost on top of each other and crammed within this ancient wall. And, of course, I can’t forget about the series of extremely narrow, cobble-stoned lanes that zig zag through it in nothing resembling an organized set of roads. I was actually really beautiful. Many of the roads were dominated by souqs, with vendors selling ranges of local-looking items (how do you really know that they’re not really from China?) like these very colorful and intricately designed ceramic bowls, paintings of local landmarks, stuffed camels, daggers, leather bags, earrings, necklaces, blah blah blah. And then there were other roads that were overtaken by the regular souq, which was much more practical and was frequented by locals. It had normal clothes, appliances and house supplies. Basically it was like an outdoor mall/souq.
So we came to the touristy one first and wiggled our way through, me and Unaza (she’s Pakistani) being frequently greeted by the inquisitive words “India?” “Bakistan?” Jafer got hassled as well and then we were all obnoxious about our reactions for a brief time, asking them if they wanted "a point" for guessing where we’re from. Or saying “EXAAACTLY!!! Great job!” Yeah, it was pretty lame and mean, but I guess we got carried away after the constant barrage.
***
Then Unaza decided to break into a mosque. And I decided to follow her.
Bad idea.
We had arrived at this mosque (pretty much the big old mosque in Tunis that you’re supposed to visit) called the Zaitouna Mosque. Not being prayer time and not knowing what their visitation policy was (yes, I know it’s not a hospital) I slyly approached a man who was doing door-duty, without any of the girls nearby. Oh yeah, we were touring around with four non-Muslim girls, who all decided to wear hijabs and act like they were Muslim in order to gain easy mosque entry. I had no problem with this. Anyway, I walk up, quite separately from them and start asking the guy about how I can pray in the mosque. Of course they all followed up right behind me, like my 15 wives, but it didn’t seem to affect the conversation.
The mosque is only open for prayers, he says. You can view it from the outside.
I asked him when the noon prayer was. Four o’clock, he says. Perplexed, I asked what time the afternoon prayer was. 4:15, he says.
That doesn’t really make much sense to me, I said, but he explained that the shopkeepers can only leave their shops once, so they just take a big break that encompasses both prayer times, even though the noon prayer time was actually at about 1 p.m.
I told him that I just wanted to pray inside, but he said that it wasn’t possible and that I’d just have to look from outside. So we go to the courtyard area and snap some photos. Then Unaza decides to be a daredevil. There was a wooden barrier fence that had been awkwardly attached above some stairs and that offered enough room for a person to slide under.
She said that she was going to go in. That she wanted to pray. So she went.
Minutes later, I followed.
Halfway through my prayer, I hear some guy yelling at me. I finish and he asks me if I entered from under a railing. I look at the sheikh of the mosque, who was observing the situation, and told him that I just prayed. The guard guy asked me again if I entered from under. Acting like a dumb foreigner, I simply repeated myself, but eventually I admitted to it and the sheikh got a real kick out of it.
I got escorted out of the mosque and reunited with my friends. I guess some others had tried to follow us and gotten caught. While we were leaving the premises I got confronted by the doorman guy again, who started yelling at me with the tone of someone who had been betrayed. I told him that I was just praying and he was like, no, your prayer will not be valid since you broke in. And that’s when Unaza and I sunk into a guilty depression for the next hour.
On the plus side, the mosque was pretty on the inside and we had no other opportunity of seeing it, since we were supposed to move out of the city later in the day.
We also got yelled at later on after I acquiesced to teaching Jafer some bhangra in this deserted courtyard.
We got in trouble again later for checking out of our hotel and our late.
***
With that great start we headed to our new hotel, the Hotel Sidi Bou Saeed, in a world-famous area outside of the city called Sidi Bou Saeed. It’s known for it’s houses that all have uniform white walls and uniquely decorated blue doors. A beautiful place for… an enrichment seminar?
Well, at least we had beautiful ocean views from the conference room.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Stepping back into form
So I kind of went home for a month. It was a covert operation during which I had hoped to spend the majority of my time with family, so I tried not to make it very public, hence the month-long blog blackout (which ended up stretching to two months…oops).
The plan was to return to Jordan and restart with the blog by writing about my experiences watching people dance salsa. I was doing a story for the Jordan Times about salsa dancing in Amman and was hoping to write about that, but just ended up putting it off until after the story was pubished, then I got sent to Tunisia (more on that later). But now I’m back! Here’s the link to the story:
http://jordantimes.com/?news=7384
I have to say, when I first started reporting on this story and saw that guy Mohammad taking over the dancefloor, I was pretty blown away. I couldn’t take notes immediately, because I got yelled at at the door of the bar for being a reporter, so I tried to remember every detail and as soon as I left, I started putting everything on paper and it ended up getting pretty descriptive.
There was a sparkling ceiling and dancefloor that was regularly blasted by those multicolored DJ laser-light thingies. The girls were swirling, gasping, turning, but always in sync with the guys, who really knew how to lead. Especially Mohammad. The way he danced with his partner, it was so fluid, but so chaotic. So unpredictable, but so artistic. And somehow both of them were on the same page. They each knew exactly what to do, even though even Mohammad didn’t really know what he was going to do next. It was all coming from their connection. They would separate and dance on their own, hair swirling and sweaty skin glimmering under the flashing lights. Then they’d come right back together, stepping quickly. They would almost clash, but then they wouldn’t. The breathing, the contact, and the mental connection, it was all something else. Anyway, I think it's safe to say that I was blown away.
The plan was to return to Jordan and restart with the blog by writing about my experiences watching people dance salsa. I was doing a story for the Jordan Times about salsa dancing in Amman and was hoping to write about that, but just ended up putting it off until after the story was pubished, then I got sent to Tunisia (more on that later). But now I’m back! Here’s the link to the story:
http://jordantimes.com/?news=7384
I have to say, when I first started reporting on this story and saw that guy Mohammad taking over the dancefloor, I was pretty blown away. I couldn’t take notes immediately, because I got yelled at at the door of the bar for being a reporter, so I tried to remember every detail and as soon as I left, I started putting everything on paper and it ended up getting pretty descriptive.
There was a sparkling ceiling and dancefloor that was regularly blasted by those multicolored DJ laser-light thingies. The girls were swirling, gasping, turning, but always in sync with the guys, who really knew how to lead. Especially Mohammad. The way he danced with his partner, it was so fluid, but so chaotic. So unpredictable, but so artistic. And somehow both of them were on the same page. They each knew exactly what to do, even though even Mohammad didn’t really know what he was going to do next. It was all coming from their connection. They would separate and dance on their own, hair swirling and sweaty skin glimmering under the flashing lights. Then they’d come right back together, stepping quickly. They would almost clash, but then they wouldn’t. The breathing, the contact, and the mental connection, it was all something else. Anyway, I think it's safe to say that I was blown away.
Monday, February 18, 2008
A newfound understanding
Six months is hard to put into perspective, but when I recently thought about all of the time that I’ve spent here and the things that I’ve become accustomed to, it seems to all add up.
For instance: men praying in the gym locker room is not unusual or weird. Praying in groups in the locker room is also normal. Basically, praying anywhere: A-OK.
Still weird: annoying Americans who loudly sing along to Britney Spears’s “Hit me baby one more time” at the gym.
Speaking of the gym—if I can be afforded a quick side note before my serious point of the month—I honestly hadn’t thought too much about home or felt much home sickness at all until one day (at the gym) there was a break from the old school hip hop/80’s techno background music for some sentimental words from Akon and Snoop Dogg: “I see you windin, grindin, up on that pole... I know you see me lookin’ at you and you already know… I wanna… ” Indeed, Akon, the purportedly Senagalese Muslim rapper with multiple wives and words for the wise, brought some emotion to my heart. Yes, I was reminded of America by, quite possibly, the trashiest song of our time (I’m not really keeping up with it, so I don’t know if it’s gotten worse recently) and I longed to once again hear it being belted out by an obnoxious group of teenieboppers in a neighboring SUV on the 405.
Back to Jordan:
Probably the most profound development over the last six months has been my respect for conservative Muslim culture, specifically in terms of gender segregation, something that I honestly didn’t have before. I grew up in a very liberal environment and had often credited odd developments in the Middle East, such as male hypersexuality and sexual aggression (often in the form of male-on-male rapes) to the extreme segregation enforced by some conservative cultures. After living among some of this, I can no longer say that I would so easily attribute problems with sexual frustration to gender segregation.
Yes, I still do feel that there may be something there, but I have a much more genuine understanding for the cultural psyche behind such segregation and the nature of it. Coming from the West, such a philosophy and practice might seem overwhelmingly unnatural and forced, so much so as to seem doomed to cause problems. I now think that it is because of our cultural background that someone like me might automatically assume that “forced gender segregation” is a major source for many societal dysfunctions. The issues just aren’t that simple and, looking around, I could easily have devoted my research grant to this topic because it’s so deep that you really have to live amongst it to understand.
Sure, I could sit here and say that gender segregation isn’t a bad thing, and it might seem like an obvious observation and an easy one to agree with (or perhaps quite the opposite) but unless you really spend some time living among a conservative Middle Eastern society, I don’t know if someone from the West could really understand how this works. It definitely goes much deeper than religion.
Do I think that societies should be separated to the extreme by gender? No, I do not, but that’s my personal opinion. After living in such a community for six months, I’ve come to understand it in context. It’s not a black and white issue, and I no longer see it that way.
***
I opened a neglected zipper-pocket of my backpack the other day and saw some American dollars. The sight of the green bills made me jump back in shock. By far my scariest experience over the last few months. American money is so weird. It’s all the same size and color and it’s so small! I tucked it back into the pocket as fast as I could.
***
Recently I’ve tried to retrain myself to fasten my seatbelt upon entering a car. It took me only two weeks to lose this impulse and for some reason I can’t get it back. Probably a stupid development, I know.
***
Taxi drivers listening to Quran are normal. Taxi drivers complaining about the filth of America while simultaneously chain smoking are also normal. They also decide to complain about the intense burden of raising a family in Jordan with everything being so expensive (the average man probably blows half of his monthly salary by purchasing and smoking two packs each day).
***
After months of speaking this language (and not being very good at it) I’ve noticed that there are probably at least 50 expressions with different Arabic meanings but which can only be conveyed in commonly used English as “God bless you.” This might have seemed obvious, but it’s pretty surprising when you notice just how much things like God, peace, blessings and health are interlaced into this culture. It’s not even really a religious thing as much as it’s an “I’m wishing you great health” kind of thing. Perhaps this is a reflection of a difference in cultural interests.
Another interesting note on such expressions: it takes about 2 minutes to begin any conversation with someone, just because of all of the greetings involved. Observe:
Person A: Hi!
Person B: Morning roses!
Person A: Morning jasmines!
Person B: Welcome!
Person A: God bless you!
Person B: And God bless you!
Person A: How are you?
Person B: God give you goodness
Person A: God give you health
Person B: How are you?
Person A: God give you peace, seriously
Person B: May god bless you
Person A: And may got bless you
Person B: What’s new?
Person A: Things are beautiful, seriously. How are you?
Person B: God give you freedom
You might think that’s an exaggeration (and I’m not sure on the accuracy of some of the translations) but I’d say that’s about average. Sometimes it goes longer and I just don’t understand a lot of the other stuff. Sometimes it’s shorter, but for the most part, it’s going to take you a while to start a conversation. Ask an Arab friend. Oh yeah, and all of those lines, for the most part, are all different.
For instance: men praying in the gym locker room is not unusual or weird. Praying in groups in the locker room is also normal. Basically, praying anywhere: A-OK.
Still weird: annoying Americans who loudly sing along to Britney Spears’s “Hit me baby one more time” at the gym.
Speaking of the gym—if I can be afforded a quick side note before my serious point of the month—I honestly hadn’t thought too much about home or felt much home sickness at all until one day (at the gym) there was a break from the old school hip hop/80’s techno background music for some sentimental words from Akon and Snoop Dogg: “I see you windin, grindin, up on that pole... I know you see me lookin’ at you and you already know… I wanna… ” Indeed, Akon, the purportedly Senagalese Muslim rapper with multiple wives and words for the wise, brought some emotion to my heart. Yes, I was reminded of America by, quite possibly, the trashiest song of our time (I’m not really keeping up with it, so I don’t know if it’s gotten worse recently) and I longed to once again hear it being belted out by an obnoxious group of teenieboppers in a neighboring SUV on the 405.
Back to Jordan:
Probably the most profound development over the last six months has been my respect for conservative Muslim culture, specifically in terms of gender segregation, something that I honestly didn’t have before. I grew up in a very liberal environment and had often credited odd developments in the Middle East, such as male hypersexuality and sexual aggression (often in the form of male-on-male rapes) to the extreme segregation enforced by some conservative cultures. After living among some of this, I can no longer say that I would so easily attribute problems with sexual frustration to gender segregation.
Yes, I still do feel that there may be something there, but I have a much more genuine understanding for the cultural psyche behind such segregation and the nature of it. Coming from the West, such a philosophy and practice might seem overwhelmingly unnatural and forced, so much so as to seem doomed to cause problems. I now think that it is because of our cultural background that someone like me might automatically assume that “forced gender segregation” is a major source for many societal dysfunctions. The issues just aren’t that simple and, looking around, I could easily have devoted my research grant to this topic because it’s so deep that you really have to live amongst it to understand.
Sure, I could sit here and say that gender segregation isn’t a bad thing, and it might seem like an obvious observation and an easy one to agree with (or perhaps quite the opposite) but unless you really spend some time living among a conservative Middle Eastern society, I don’t know if someone from the West could really understand how this works. It definitely goes much deeper than religion.
Do I think that societies should be separated to the extreme by gender? No, I do not, but that’s my personal opinion. After living in such a community for six months, I’ve come to understand it in context. It’s not a black and white issue, and I no longer see it that way.
***
I opened a neglected zipper-pocket of my backpack the other day and saw some American dollars. The sight of the green bills made me jump back in shock. By far my scariest experience over the last few months. American money is so weird. It’s all the same size and color and it’s so small! I tucked it back into the pocket as fast as I could.
***
Recently I’ve tried to retrain myself to fasten my seatbelt upon entering a car. It took me only two weeks to lose this impulse and for some reason I can’t get it back. Probably a stupid development, I know.
***
Taxi drivers listening to Quran are normal. Taxi drivers complaining about the filth of America while simultaneously chain smoking are also normal. They also decide to complain about the intense burden of raising a family in Jordan with everything being so expensive (the average man probably blows half of his monthly salary by purchasing and smoking two packs each day).
***
After months of speaking this language (and not being very good at it) I’ve noticed that there are probably at least 50 expressions with different Arabic meanings but which can only be conveyed in commonly used English as “God bless you.” This might have seemed obvious, but it’s pretty surprising when you notice just how much things like God, peace, blessings and health are interlaced into this culture. It’s not even really a religious thing as much as it’s an “I’m wishing you great health” kind of thing. Perhaps this is a reflection of a difference in cultural interests.
Another interesting note on such expressions: it takes about 2 minutes to begin any conversation with someone, just because of all of the greetings involved. Observe:
Person A: Hi!
Person B: Morning roses!
Person A: Morning jasmines!
Person B: Welcome!
Person A: God bless you!
Person B: And God bless you!
Person A: How are you?
Person B: God give you goodness
Person A: God give you health
Person B: How are you?
Person A: God give you peace, seriously
Person B: May god bless you
Person A: And may got bless you
Person B: What’s new?
Person A: Things are beautiful, seriously. How are you?
Person B: God give you freedom
You might think that’s an exaggeration (and I’m not sure on the accuracy of some of the translations) but I’d say that’s about average. Sometimes it goes longer and I just don’t understand a lot of the other stuff. Sometimes it’s shorter, but for the most part, it’s going to take you a while to start a conversation. Ask an Arab friend. Oh yeah, and all of those lines, for the most part, are all different.