Sheep were accumulating all around me and I was starting to get a little confused.
About a week ago a herd of sheep appeared in the middle of my neighborhood in Amman. There’s an empty plot of land in front of the small strip of shops here that looks like a square of wilderness/a sorry excuse for a park. Suddenly there were sheep and a shepherd. Interesting.
I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Sheep in our neighborhood? Weirder things have happened. But then, a few days later, I started noticing sheep in other neighborhoods too. All rounded up in makeshift pens, at the center of these urban areas.
It then dawned on me that there was no way the shepherding industry was relocating to Amman. While driving past another pen of sheep a couple days before Eid Al Adha, I realized that this Eid was the Eid of sacrifice and that in the Muslim world these sacrifices are up close and personal.
How close? Well, let’s just say everyone goes to sleep one night and wakes up the next thinking that they’re butchers.
(If you’re uncomfortable reading about gore, or barbaric things like animal sacrifices, please skip the following blog entry).
I had fallen asleep after 3 a.m. but, of course, at 6 a.m. on the morning of Eid Al Adha, the kids like to get to the mosque and start yelling the good old Eid takbeer as loud as they can (this is a special prayer/chant deal that goes down on Eid). I made some good attempts at sleeping through them, since prayer wasn’t until 7 a.m, eventually waking up at 6:45 (the mosque is a block away from my apartment).
Which reminds me, what, in the name of sleep, is Eid prayer doing at 7 a.m. in a Muslim country where the next three days are national holidays? Please, some one explain this. Not too many people are going to work and this prayer can be later on, can’t it? Of course not. Let’s all wake up at 6 a.m. on our day off. Great.
After the prayer I decided I’d head over to witness some of our neighborhood sacrifices first-hand.
For those of you in disagreement with the idea of an animal sacrifice, but who still decided to read this anyway (why you’d do that is beyond me) let me say that, even if you put aside the reason for the celebration of the sacrifice, this holiday feeds millions of poor people throughout the world as the meat generated from the sacrifices is given as charity and, being as Muslims are typically meat-eaters, feeding the poor is one of the great things about this celebration (as it is with the other main Muslim holiday, Eid al-Fitr).
On top of that, as Muslims are meat eaters, it’s often encouraged to witness the sacrifice, if for no other reason than to know what goes on in the process of getting the food that you eat. After all, if you’re going to decide to eat meat, you better damn well know that it comes from a living thing and that, involved in the process of eating meat is act of killing an animal to provide your food. As the line between animal and food has been thoroughly obscured in the United States, especially with the advent of supermarkets and packaged, boneless chicken breast meat, this is an important realization for all meat-eaters to have.
With that being said, I had never seen an animal get slaughtered, so I figured that I owed it to my food to witness the action. I walked from our mosque to the center of town and already, I could smell the blood in the air.
There were crowds of people out on the street, grouped in front of the butcher’s shop, around the sheep’s pen (which was across the street from the butcher’s shop) and in a small area on the other side of the pen, on the open dirt area, next to what appeared to be an old swing set.
Women and many children were present, including very young girls and boys. Not one of them even blinked an eye, perhaps a testament to how disconnected American are from this process and, conversely, how connected Arabs are. Many of the young children even assisted in the rituals themselves.
(Again, if you’re sensitive to gore, this is the time to stop reading).
As I approached the area, I noticed some recently killed sheep carcasses out on the street. I was confused as to why they were killing these animals on the street until I saw them arranged in proximity to a storm drain.
Dead animals were in the process of being skinned as they lay on the floor. Other carcasses were hung by hooks on poles (I think some were hanging from the aforementioned swing set, but I’m not sure if that’s what that green structure was) and were being cut apart and divided.
A neighborhood boy, who usually helps out in the town’s supermarket, was busy keeping track of who was buying which sheep and of how much they owed, jotting down notes in a notebook as he ushered out sheep after sheep, quite forcefully, often stopping to add more information to his book, keeping the sheep at hand under control by holding its neck between his legs.
Prior to coming down the hill to the center of town, some friends at the mosque had told me not to go. They had said that most of the local Arabs didn’t adhere to the strict Muslim code of respect and care involved in slaughtering animals. Typically, animals are supposed to be kept in a separate area from where they’re being slaughtered. They’re not supposed to be able to see what’s happening to the other animals. Also, they’re supposed to be killed in a dignified manner, with a quick slit of the throat to allow for blood to drain and for a quick, painless death. Animals are not supposed to be harmed or mistreated in the process.
What I saw in Kharabsheh was, well, I don’t want to say the opposite, but it wasn’t the way that it should have been.
Animals were being skinned and butchered all around the sheep’s pen. Each animal was being forcefully dragged to its doom, sometimes being held still by its owner with a leg pressing on its neck, pressing it against the ground.
After 20 minutes I watched carcasses being skinned and divided, with young boys, maybe as young as 7 years old, helping their relatives by spreading a carcass’s legs, or helping to cut off its skin. Young girls were killing time nearby, unfazed.
Eventually a crowd larger crowd developed near the storm drain. There were some new sheep-owners who wanted to have their animals killed next. Four men waited for the butcher, holding their sheep as carcasses were being skinned and butchered next to them.
The butcher was being nagged by the owners. They wanted him to get them started to that they could be on with their days. He argued back that he was busy, and continued to hang up other carcasses and help with skinning.
Suddenly, he turned away from a carcass that he had just hung and, in what appeared to be an angry and aggressive burst, quickly headed toward one owner with a determined, angry look on his face. I almost thought he was getting ready to yell or fight, but then he reached for the owner’s sheep, grabbing it roughly, then in forcefully picking it up and slamming it hard onto its back. He pulled his knife out and quickly slit its throat.
He did the same with the other animals, almost angrily slamming them onto the road on their backs before slaughtering them. The dead animals convulsed briefly, kicking their legs, to no one’s astonishment but mine.
It was bloody and disturbing, but I assumed that that was how it was done and I headed back up the hill.
Later I stopped at the Zawiyya (our local Sufi outpost) where another slaughtering was taking place. This Zawiyya is headed by an American sheikh and most of his followers are foreigners from Europe and the United States. Everyone had told me before that if I wanted to witness a slaughtering, that I should go there because they handled everything appropriately.
I walked around to the back of the building, and had to peer down into the floor below to see how they handled the sacrifice.
After one animal was done being cleaned in the area, another was brought out from behind a wall. I couldn’t see where the other sheep where, but I’m assuming that there was a good group of them behind that wall. My friend Ishaq led the sheep into the area. It didn’t resist at all, unlike the ones being killed at the center of town. Calmly, our designated slaughterer, Moussa, joined Ishaq and held the sheep together. They pushed the sheep onto its side, not calmly, per se, but definitely not harshly, aggressively or harmfully. Then Moussa reached over with the knife and slaughtered the animal. It all happened quickly and seemingly without struggle. The animal was killed almost as soon as it was brought out. Quite a contrast.
***
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
The old man and the vegetables
I was running late and had been struggling to catch a cab for much longer than usual, when suddenly I heard the voice of an old man behind me.
“Ta’aal,” he said, calling me to him. I had seen this same man only 30 seconds earlier. He was the man in the red kaffiyeh who had been attempting to cross the main road carrying what appeared to be two enormous and extremely heavy black plastic bags filled with vegetables.
Since then I had given up on waiting and had turned up a sided street, starting to walk and trying to catch cabs while on the move. He had seen me and decided to help me out.
He called me to him and asked me what direction I was going. He had a thin white beard that to clung the side of his his red/white head covering and he pointed with bulbous fingers as he talked, slouching slightly over his plump midsection. I told him where I was headed and he said he was going the same way. He then said that we should go together. I told him that the problem was that all the taxis were full and he kept walking next to me, leading me toward what I thought was a vehicle and telling me that it wasn’t a problem.
Once he got to the next corner, we stopped and then we proceeded to wait on the curb.
At this point I got a little confused.
“Do you have a car?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
Hmm… Interesting… I thought for a second and a few more occupied taxis zoomed by. I told him that it seemed like it might be hard to get a cab because they were all full. Maybe I should just walk home? I started to walk away, but he called me back and said something to me that I didn’t understand.
“I’m not from here,” I tried to explain.
“I know,” he said, telling me to wait and that things would be OK.
He saw a man leaving a shop and heading toward his car. The old man began to approach him, but then stopped, as the man seemed to be heading in the opposite direction.
“Oooohhh,” I said. “It’s because you’re old! And because of culture and respect.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling sympathetically. Clearly I was coming off as a pathetic foreign kid.
Another man was moving toward his nearby car and the old man approached this one and barely said anything before the guy was telling us both to get in the car.
I tried to help the old man with his bags, which were REALLY heavy, but he picked them up swiftly, shooing me away to get in the other side of the car.
While we were in the car the old man told the driver the whole story, laughing and referring to me as “the poor thing.”
***
Before I ran into the old man, I was on my way to start cooking for a potluck dinner on that same night.
There was a small “Tacky Christmas Sweater” party that night and I had volunteered to contribute a dish to the dinner, since, over the last month I somehow have learned to cook. And I’m not talking about pasta, salad or brownies. I’m talking about Aloo Gobi and Bhuna Chicken, with the gharam masala, et al.
Yes, I’ve made gharam masala from scratch, roasting all the ingredients before using a mortar and pestle to grind them all into a distinct powder. I’ve hunted down specific spices and vegetables, going through entire souqs and bazaars and being disappointed until I discovered a tiny desi spice shack in the corner of a produce bazaar that was hidden in an alley off of the bustling downtown marketplace. I even hunted through all of Amman for small, potent chilies, anything that was smaller than the incredibly bland and hand-length chilies that are ubiquitous here, finally finding ones that the shopkeeper referred to as “fire” and which were half the length of my pinkie (oh yes, they do the job).
How did all of this start? To be honest, I have no idea. I’d like to think that it would have happened during my college years if I had had the time, but alas, sleep was even hard to come by between my bhangra, writing, skitting, blah, blah, blah. These days, I’m still fairly busy and my daily routine doesn’t leave me a lot of room for cooking (a reason why I usually only cook once or twice a week—on my off days—in the hopes that it’ll hold me over until my next opportunity). Also, there aren’t too many options if I want to try to continue being a healthy eater. I mean, they’re there, but I’m hoping not to blow my scholarship on healthy restaurants.
It began with a call to my mom. She excitedly gave me a recipe for Aloo Palak, not explaining how to do a lot of the simple things that a newbie cook would need to learn. I know that it seems simple, but I had never cooked, or even tried dicing a tomato or an onion for cooking, for example. There are smart ways to approach both of these tasks, but I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do with these vegetables. There was only one place I could think of turning to in my confusion: Youtube.
Yes, my mom and Youtube taught me how to cook (special shout-out to Youtube’s/ABC’s Chef Jean Pierre).
Since my mom has been using skype to coach me through her recipes, I’ve been able to master a variety of vegetable dishes, offering a Vegetable Pulao at our Fulbright Thanksgiving dinner a few weeks ago, before venturing into the meat world, first with a simple chicken soup, then with the aforementioned chicken salan.
This time I was putting together some Aloo Gobi, having prepared the necessary cauliflower beforehand and timing things out so that I could hop in the shower while it was all cooking.
When it was done, me and my friend Riaan (who ended up leaving that same night to head back to Cleveland) grabbed the food and headed to the party (It’d be wrong if I didn’t say that Riaan was one of my cooking inspirations as he had been cooking for some time and had impressed me with his skills and his food. He didn’t cook that night because of his flight, but two days prior he’d made some tandoori chicken for another potluck in our neighborhood… baller).
We found a taxi as soon as we walked out of my building and Riaan told the driver where we were headed. Halfway there, the driver pulled over and asked to see Riaan’s directions, which he had luckily written in Arabic. He looked at them for a couple minutes and I asked if he understood. He gave me and emphatic nod, then he opened the door and got out of the car.
We were on an empty side street and there was nothing but trees on either side of the road.
“Where is he going?” Riaan said, as we watched the driver walk across the street.
“Taking a leak?” I said.
The driver promptly reached the other side of the road, spaced his feet shoulder-distance apart and, well… you get the point.
***
I needed some cheap goods, including an Oxford English-Arabic dictionary, so I went to the balad (downtown).
On the day before I had been trying to write an essay for my Arabic class (on Graham Crackers) and, as I didn’t know a lot of the necessary words (wheat, healthy, cereal, -flavored, sweetened, etc.) I went to Safeway and tried to read them off of various food packages. It was fun, but my friend Albert suggested that an English-Arabic dictionary might be easier.
Another friend had told me that she had previously special ordered one from the University of Jordan bookstore, but seeing as we were able to find basically anything in the balad, including a copy of the film American Gangster during its opening week in the US, I figured I’d give the dictionary a try.
As I was walking down the street, I stopped at the first bookseller I could find: a guy sitting against a wall with a small book shack and a table. I asked if he had the Oxford Wordpower English-to-Arabic dictionary. He asked me to give him a minute, and then he walked away, presumably to his book dealer.
He came back with a perfect copy.
“How much?” I said.
“Four dinars,” he said.
I tried to look for something wrong with it, to leverage the price lower. I looked for the publishing date. A 1999 edition, printed in 2003. Damn, it wasn’t that old.
“It’s old,” I said.
“It’s not old,” he said.
“It’s old,” I said. “Three dinars.”
“It’s not old,” he said.
Since four dinars is $5.65 and three is $4.23, I really wasn’t arguing for much. Especially since I would probably have to pay at least $25 for this book in the U.S. But it was about the principal.
“It’s old,” I said again.
I ended up paying three and a half.
***
Here's a brief glimpse at a portion of the dowtown marketplace area:
“Ta’aal,” he said, calling me to him. I had seen this same man only 30 seconds earlier. He was the man in the red kaffiyeh who had been attempting to cross the main road carrying what appeared to be two enormous and extremely heavy black plastic bags filled with vegetables.
Since then I had given up on waiting and had turned up a sided street, starting to walk and trying to catch cabs while on the move. He had seen me and decided to help me out.
He called me to him and asked me what direction I was going. He had a thin white beard that to clung the side of his his red/white head covering and he pointed with bulbous fingers as he talked, slouching slightly over his plump midsection. I told him where I was headed and he said he was going the same way. He then said that we should go together. I told him that the problem was that all the taxis were full and he kept walking next to me, leading me toward what I thought was a vehicle and telling me that it wasn’t a problem.
Once he got to the next corner, we stopped and then we proceeded to wait on the curb.
At this point I got a little confused.
“Do you have a car?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
Hmm… Interesting… I thought for a second and a few more occupied taxis zoomed by. I told him that it seemed like it might be hard to get a cab because they were all full. Maybe I should just walk home? I started to walk away, but he called me back and said something to me that I didn’t understand.
“I’m not from here,” I tried to explain.
“I know,” he said, telling me to wait and that things would be OK.
He saw a man leaving a shop and heading toward his car. The old man began to approach him, but then stopped, as the man seemed to be heading in the opposite direction.
“Oooohhh,” I said. “It’s because you’re old! And because of culture and respect.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling sympathetically. Clearly I was coming off as a pathetic foreign kid.
Another man was moving toward his nearby car and the old man approached this one and barely said anything before the guy was telling us both to get in the car.
I tried to help the old man with his bags, which were REALLY heavy, but he picked them up swiftly, shooing me away to get in the other side of the car.
While we were in the car the old man told the driver the whole story, laughing and referring to me as “the poor thing.”
***
Before I ran into the old man, I was on my way to start cooking for a potluck dinner on that same night.
There was a small “Tacky Christmas Sweater” party that night and I had volunteered to contribute a dish to the dinner, since, over the last month I somehow have learned to cook. And I’m not talking about pasta, salad or brownies. I’m talking about Aloo Gobi and Bhuna Chicken, with the gharam masala, et al.
Yes, I’ve made gharam masala from scratch, roasting all the ingredients before using a mortar and pestle to grind them all into a distinct powder. I’ve hunted down specific spices and vegetables, going through entire souqs and bazaars and being disappointed until I discovered a tiny desi spice shack in the corner of a produce bazaar that was hidden in an alley off of the bustling downtown marketplace. I even hunted through all of Amman for small, potent chilies, anything that was smaller than the incredibly bland and hand-length chilies that are ubiquitous here, finally finding ones that the shopkeeper referred to as “fire” and which were half the length of my pinkie (oh yes, they do the job).
How did all of this start? To be honest, I have no idea. I’d like to think that it would have happened during my college years if I had had the time, but alas, sleep was even hard to come by between my bhangra, writing, skitting, blah, blah, blah. These days, I’m still fairly busy and my daily routine doesn’t leave me a lot of room for cooking (a reason why I usually only cook once or twice a week—on my off days—in the hopes that it’ll hold me over until my next opportunity). Also, there aren’t too many options if I want to try to continue being a healthy eater. I mean, they’re there, but I’m hoping not to blow my scholarship on healthy restaurants.
It began with a call to my mom. She excitedly gave me a recipe for Aloo Palak, not explaining how to do a lot of the simple things that a newbie cook would need to learn. I know that it seems simple, but I had never cooked, or even tried dicing a tomato or an onion for cooking, for example. There are smart ways to approach both of these tasks, but I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do with these vegetables. There was only one place I could think of turning to in my confusion: Youtube.
Yes, my mom and Youtube taught me how to cook (special shout-out to Youtube’s/ABC’s Chef Jean Pierre).
Since my mom has been using skype to coach me through her recipes, I’ve been able to master a variety of vegetable dishes, offering a Vegetable Pulao at our Fulbright Thanksgiving dinner a few weeks ago, before venturing into the meat world, first with a simple chicken soup, then with the aforementioned chicken salan.
This time I was putting together some Aloo Gobi, having prepared the necessary cauliflower beforehand and timing things out so that I could hop in the shower while it was all cooking.
When it was done, me and my friend Riaan (who ended up leaving that same night to head back to Cleveland) grabbed the food and headed to the party (It’d be wrong if I didn’t say that Riaan was one of my cooking inspirations as he had been cooking for some time and had impressed me with his skills and his food. He didn’t cook that night because of his flight, but two days prior he’d made some tandoori chicken for another potluck in our neighborhood… baller).
We found a taxi as soon as we walked out of my building and Riaan told the driver where we were headed. Halfway there, the driver pulled over and asked to see Riaan’s directions, which he had luckily written in Arabic. He looked at them for a couple minutes and I asked if he understood. He gave me and emphatic nod, then he opened the door and got out of the car.
We were on an empty side street and there was nothing but trees on either side of the road.
“Where is he going?” Riaan said, as we watched the driver walk across the street.
“Taking a leak?” I said.
The driver promptly reached the other side of the road, spaced his feet shoulder-distance apart and, well… you get the point.
***
I needed some cheap goods, including an Oxford English-Arabic dictionary, so I went to the balad (downtown).
On the day before I had been trying to write an essay for my Arabic class (on Graham Crackers) and, as I didn’t know a lot of the necessary words (wheat, healthy, cereal, -flavored, sweetened, etc.) I went to Safeway and tried to read them off of various food packages. It was fun, but my friend Albert suggested that an English-Arabic dictionary might be easier.
Another friend had told me that she had previously special ordered one from the University of Jordan bookstore, but seeing as we were able to find basically anything in the balad, including a copy of the film American Gangster during its opening week in the US, I figured I’d give the dictionary a try.
As I was walking down the street, I stopped at the first bookseller I could find: a guy sitting against a wall with a small book shack and a table. I asked if he had the Oxford Wordpower English-to-Arabic dictionary. He asked me to give him a minute, and then he walked away, presumably to his book dealer.
He came back with a perfect copy.
“How much?” I said.
“Four dinars,” he said.
I tried to look for something wrong with it, to leverage the price lower. I looked for the publishing date. A 1999 edition, printed in 2003. Damn, it wasn’t that old.
“It’s old,” I said.
“It’s not old,” he said.
“It’s old,” I said. “Three dinars.”
“It’s not old,” he said.
Since four dinars is $5.65 and three is $4.23, I really wasn’t arguing for much. Especially since I would probably have to pay at least $25 for this book in the U.S. But it was about the principal.
“It’s old,” I said again.
I ended up paying three and a half.
***
Here's a brief glimpse at a portion of the dowtown marketplace area:
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Zain wishes you a pleasant stay
People had started thanking me for text messages that I clearly had not sent.
“Thanks for the text, Zain!” Mohammed Pervais was telling me one day outside of the mosque.
I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. He explained that when he had arrived in Istanbul for his vacation and turned on his phone, he got a message from me saying “Zain wishes you a wonderful stay in Turkey.”
Other people had asked me about similar texts, thinking that I was such a wonderful guy for taking the effort and time out of my day to write something like this and send it to them. I explained that they had the wrong Zain, even though I was clearly the only Zain in their phonebooks.
Also relevant here is that I’ve started to turn my head whenever I hear the word “Fastlink,” reacting as if someone is calling my name.
This is all because people have been calling me Fastlink, pretty much since I arrived in Jordan.
Fastlink was the name of a cell phone company that, for whatever reason, decided to change its name to Zain. Somehow this change also occurred within days of my arrival in Jordan, accompanied by an enormous advertising campaign, with billboards and and posters basically all over the city.
This has also affected me in my classes, where my teachers will refer to me as Fastlink, Orange, Umniah, Express, or any other cell phone carrier name that they can think of.
Zain is also typically a feminine name in Jordan, so whenever people meet me, they’re kind of confused that I’m named Zain. Then, to break the awkward moment, they’ll say “like Fastlink! Hahaha!”
Hilarious.
The cool thing is that I see my name plastered all over town. Also, according to the Zain mobile website, www.zain.com, Zain-to-Zain calls are a special rate, which was amusing to me.
Unfortunately for all of this, I’m actually an Orange mobile customer. However, many Arabs do end up getting two SIM cards, one of each of the two main brands, in order to call all of their Zain friends on one phone and all of their Orange ones on the other, saving significantly in the long run. As much as I’m trying to convince myself that that’s the reason I want another phone, it’s really just so that I can see Zain on the screen.
“Thanks for the text, Zain!” Mohammed Pervais was telling me one day outside of the mosque.
I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. He explained that when he had arrived in Istanbul for his vacation and turned on his phone, he got a message from me saying “Zain wishes you a wonderful stay in Turkey.”
Other people had asked me about similar texts, thinking that I was such a wonderful guy for taking the effort and time out of my day to write something like this and send it to them. I explained that they had the wrong Zain, even though I was clearly the only Zain in their phonebooks.
Also relevant here is that I’ve started to turn my head whenever I hear the word “Fastlink,” reacting as if someone is calling my name.
This is all because people have been calling me Fastlink, pretty much since I arrived in Jordan.
Fastlink was the name of a cell phone company that, for whatever reason, decided to change its name to Zain. Somehow this change also occurred within days of my arrival in Jordan, accompanied by an enormous advertising campaign, with billboards and and posters basically all over the city.
This has also affected me in my classes, where my teachers will refer to me as Fastlink, Orange, Umniah, Express, or any other cell phone carrier name that they can think of.
Zain is also typically a feminine name in Jordan, so whenever people meet me, they’re kind of confused that I’m named Zain. Then, to break the awkward moment, they’ll say “like Fastlink! Hahaha!”
Hilarious.
The cool thing is that I see my name plastered all over town. Also, according to the Zain mobile website, www.zain.com, Zain-to-Zain calls are a special rate, which was amusing to me.
Unfortunately for all of this, I’m actually an Orange mobile customer. However, many Arabs do end up getting two SIM cards, one of each of the two main brands, in order to call all of their Zain friends on one phone and all of their Orange ones on the other, saving significantly in the long run. As much as I’m trying to convince myself that that’s the reason I want another phone, it’s really just so that I can see Zain on the screen.
Merci beaucoup!
Since I’ve been inconsistent, these and future blogs will be kind of scattered collections of past and present experiences.
It was 9 p.m. and I knew that it was going to take a while to battle everyone else for a cab. Noticing an empty one zooming by, I chased it down, catching up with it as it approached the circle.
I was half-jogging next to the car, tapping the passenger-side door to get the driver’s attention and signaling that I wanted a ride. He nodded and I hopped in.
“Bonjour!” he said. “Merci beaucoup.”
I smiled and greeted him back in Arabic. I had just left from my colloquial Arabic class at the French Cultural Center.
He made a couple more cute remarks about France, then he started asking me how I liked the French classes there. I told him that I wasn’t there for the French, but the ‘amiyya (colloquial Arabic) classes that they offered. Then he said that he had just gotten out of a language class himself. He was learning English.
I proposed that we both practice our languages, his English and my Arabic.
“Hi, what do you do?” I asked him in Arabic.
“I drive the taxi,” he said in English.
“What company do you work for?” I asked in Arabic.
“I work for the… ’ama?... shoo ism…”
“General?”
“Yes, I work for the general taxi company,” he said in English.
“How was your day?...”
And so the conversation went on, both of us happening to have recently learned similar conversational expressions and seemingly matching up perfectly for practicing, except that I was speaking in his language and he was speaking in mine.
We talked the whole way back to my apartment, with him eventually offering his brother’s services as a language tutor to help me develop my Arabic. I respectfully declined. Of course, he continued to insist for another minute or so, in true Arab fashion.
***
I couldn’t tell if it was really 90 degrees in that hotel room, or if I was just burning up with anger.
I had spent the last hour tossing and turning in bed, sweating, pulling at the sheets and trying to shut my eyes and relax. Nothing was doing. It was 2 a.m. and I was pissed off.
Two hours ago I was on lying on a Red Sea beach in Aqaba, watching shooting stars streaking across the midnight sky and enjoying the communal camping atmosphere of Arabs grilling, laughing, singing and chattering nearby. The Israeli beach town of Elat was directly across from us, maybe a mile away, sparkling with its infrastructure and development. We could have probably swam to it, if we really wanted to get shot.
To our left and across the sea was Egypt and behind us was the Saudi border. It was a neat spot to wonder about, with four countries crowding each other for pieces of the same Red Sea real estate.
Earlier in the day, before we rented a car and took the four hour road trip (which ended up being closer to six hours) from Amman, the others, Saif, Riaan and Faheem, had all wanted to sleep on the beach. Saif had done it before and he said that it was a cool experience. I wasn’t so sure and had mentioned it to my Fulbright director during a routing checking-out conversation (I have to let him know whenever I’m leaving Amman). He told me that it was an unnecessary risk and that I shouldn’t make him worry. “Would you do it in the U.S?” he asked.
I agreed with him and thought that I would be putting myself in harms way unnecessarily. I thought of my family and what my family might feel if something happened to me because of a dumb decision. I resolved that I was against the sleeping on the beach idea.
Once in Aqaba, we spent some great time on the beach, then decided to eat dinner and find a cheap hotel. A few of them were almost too cheap to believe, before I noticed cockroaches scurrying across the floors of the rooms. Finally we got to a place that seemed clean. It was 30 dinars for the night (more than the 10 or 20 that we had heard before) but I figured it was worth it, since it was clean.
We went back to the beach and spent a few hours there, enjoying the warm weather and the festive atmosphere (it was the weekend after Eid). There was a small shack hut opened on the beach all night, with hookah and other treats. Saif and I walked over and bought some juice and the others ordered up some hookah.
The atmosphere was calm and relaxing, while being simultaneously abuzz and awake. The sound of the calm Red Sea water, gently washing up against the sand; the laughter and song; the fires and the smell of flavored tobacco.
After a while, Saif and I headed to the hotel (Faheem and Riaan were against the hotel and I guess Saif was just going along with me to keep me company).
Within minutes of being in the room I saw a cockroach in the bathroom and I was furious. Not only could I have stayed on a beach for free, but I had specifically chosen this hotel because it was clean.
But whatever, right? What’s a cockroach going to do? Why not just get in bed and sleep, who cares?
That’s what I thought, but an hour later, I was still fuming over how I had gotten ripped off. Plus it was insanely hot in that room.
Another hour later, Saif and I were back on the beach. I figured screw it, at least we can enjoy the experience of being out under the stars.
Between the shooting stars, the singing, the weird squeeling Arab kids who’d dive into the Red Sea at 3 in the morning and the extremely late-night picnickers (I don’t know who decides to show up at the beach at 3 a.m. with the whole family and baskets full of food) it was beautiful.
***
I haven’t been able to update recently because of schedule insanity and midterm exams, but things have fallen into place now, thankfully. More updates to come!
It was 9 p.m. and I knew that it was going to take a while to battle everyone else for a cab. Noticing an empty one zooming by, I chased it down, catching up with it as it approached the circle.
I was half-jogging next to the car, tapping the passenger-side door to get the driver’s attention and signaling that I wanted a ride. He nodded and I hopped in.
“Bonjour!” he said. “Merci beaucoup.”
I smiled and greeted him back in Arabic. I had just left from my colloquial Arabic class at the French Cultural Center.
He made a couple more cute remarks about France, then he started asking me how I liked the French classes there. I told him that I wasn’t there for the French, but the ‘amiyya (colloquial Arabic) classes that they offered. Then he said that he had just gotten out of a language class himself. He was learning English.
I proposed that we both practice our languages, his English and my Arabic.
“Hi, what do you do?” I asked him in Arabic.
“I drive the taxi,” he said in English.
“What company do you work for?” I asked in Arabic.
“I work for the… ’ama?... shoo ism…”
“General?”
“Yes, I work for the general taxi company,” he said in English.
“How was your day?...”
And so the conversation went on, both of us happening to have recently learned similar conversational expressions and seemingly matching up perfectly for practicing, except that I was speaking in his language and he was speaking in mine.
We talked the whole way back to my apartment, with him eventually offering his brother’s services as a language tutor to help me develop my Arabic. I respectfully declined. Of course, he continued to insist for another minute or so, in true Arab fashion.
***
I couldn’t tell if it was really 90 degrees in that hotel room, or if I was just burning up with anger.
I had spent the last hour tossing and turning in bed, sweating, pulling at the sheets and trying to shut my eyes and relax. Nothing was doing. It was 2 a.m. and I was pissed off.
Two hours ago I was on lying on a Red Sea beach in Aqaba, watching shooting stars streaking across the midnight sky and enjoying the communal camping atmosphere of Arabs grilling, laughing, singing and chattering nearby. The Israeli beach town of Elat was directly across from us, maybe a mile away, sparkling with its infrastructure and development. We could have probably swam to it, if we really wanted to get shot.
To our left and across the sea was Egypt and behind us was the Saudi border. It was a neat spot to wonder about, with four countries crowding each other for pieces of the same Red Sea real estate.
Earlier in the day, before we rented a car and took the four hour road trip (which ended up being closer to six hours) from Amman, the others, Saif, Riaan and Faheem, had all wanted to sleep on the beach. Saif had done it before and he said that it was a cool experience. I wasn’t so sure and had mentioned it to my Fulbright director during a routing checking-out conversation (I have to let him know whenever I’m leaving Amman). He told me that it was an unnecessary risk and that I shouldn’t make him worry. “Would you do it in the U.S?” he asked.
I agreed with him and thought that I would be putting myself in harms way unnecessarily. I thought of my family and what my family might feel if something happened to me because of a dumb decision. I resolved that I was against the sleeping on the beach idea.
Once in Aqaba, we spent some great time on the beach, then decided to eat dinner and find a cheap hotel. A few of them were almost too cheap to believe, before I noticed cockroaches scurrying across the floors of the rooms. Finally we got to a place that seemed clean. It was 30 dinars for the night (more than the 10 or 20 that we had heard before) but I figured it was worth it, since it was clean.
We went back to the beach and spent a few hours there, enjoying the warm weather and the festive atmosphere (it was the weekend after Eid). There was a small shack hut opened on the beach all night, with hookah and other treats. Saif and I walked over and bought some juice and the others ordered up some hookah.
The atmosphere was calm and relaxing, while being simultaneously abuzz and awake. The sound of the calm Red Sea water, gently washing up against the sand; the laughter and song; the fires and the smell of flavored tobacco.
After a while, Saif and I headed to the hotel (Faheem and Riaan were against the hotel and I guess Saif was just going along with me to keep me company).
Within minutes of being in the room I saw a cockroach in the bathroom and I was furious. Not only could I have stayed on a beach for free, but I had specifically chosen this hotel because it was clean.
But whatever, right? What’s a cockroach going to do? Why not just get in bed and sleep, who cares?
That’s what I thought, but an hour later, I was still fuming over how I had gotten ripped off. Plus it was insanely hot in that room.
Another hour later, Saif and I were back on the beach. I figured screw it, at least we can enjoy the experience of being out under the stars.
Between the shooting stars, the singing, the weird squeeling Arab kids who’d dive into the Red Sea at 3 in the morning and the extremely late-night picnickers (I don’t know who decides to show up at the beach at 3 a.m. with the whole family and baskets full of food) it was beautiful.
***
I haven’t been able to update recently because of schedule insanity and midterm exams, but things have fallen into place now, thankfully. More updates to come!
Monday, October 01, 2007
Spinning in circles
All he had to say was “whirling dervishes” and I was in.
The only thing stopping me was my work schedule (every night except Friday) but once we were able to plan a trip, we were on our way to a small Sufi mosque on the other side of Amman.
Abdul Latif, one of the guys in our neighborhood, said that he had heard of this tiny, obscure mosque before he left for Amman from his home in Florida. Apparently the sheikh at this mosque had 10 million followers and was pretty revered (not sure how true that is). I had never been exposed to any kind of Sufi Islam, so I had no idea what this meant.
When we got there, I noticed two things: first, it wasn’t that spectacular of a place, especially for someone with such a following; also, as the evening went on, we progressively made up a larger contingency in the mosque (meaning that eventually everyone left except for maybe four other people).
When we first got there, the mosque was full for the beginning of taraweeh prayers, which we had just missed the start of (for those of you who don’t know, during Ramadan there are special evening prayers that go by this name. Basically, you go to the mosque for the last prayer of the day and then can stay for a set of extended prayers. Throughout the course of these prayers, from the first night of Ramadan to the end, you’ll most likely experience the recitation of the entire Quran, unless you’re attending a mosque that prays eight parts each night, as opposed to 20, which can get quite long).
At this mosque, the sheikh led the 20 rakaat (or parts) of the taraweeh. Most times that I’ve been to taraweeh prayers for 20 rakaat, it’s taken maybe an hour and a half, just because it takes time to go through an entire part of the Quran every night (there are 30 parts in the Quran). This time, it took about 30 minutes.
Never had I heard a faster recitation in my life. It was like speed prayers. To be honest, I’m not quite sure how I felt about it because it was almost like we weren’t even appreciating the sanctity of the verses as much as this speedster sheikh was breezing through them. If Twista was a sheikh, he’d be this guy. We were praying behind Sheikh Twista.
The mosque was pretty small and had green carpet and white walls. There was a second level for women, which men can’t see into, of course, but it hangs over most of the men’s section like a balcony, making the ceiling lower in the back half of the mosque than it is in the front half. The front wall was the only non-white one. It was green and decorated with “Allah” tiles and triangular “Ramadan Kareem” flag streamer thingies (like the ones at carnivals or car dealerships, except green and with white Arabic script on them). So overall, not an overly impressive place by any means, just another simple mosque.
After half an hour, there we were, Faheem, Abdul Latif and me, sitting with about five other people (the sheikh included) listening to one man’s relaxed recitation.
Not quite what I had expected, but what can you do? Perhaps the rowdy crowd takes Friday nights off? Who knows. Anyway, I started to get nervous, thinking that we had made the trip all the way out here and all we got was Twista leading prayers. Then it happened. We all stood up and started arranging ourselves in a circle. We joined hands and the Sufi experience began.
Abdul Latif had tried to brace me for this, but I wasn’t sure that preparation was even possible. People started rocking back and forth, chanting “Allah, Allah, Allah” while a few others sang in Arabic (I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t Quran as much as it was just random prayers). Slowly more people showed up and joined the circle, which eventually got to as big as 12 or 13 people.
One man joined next to me and began chanting in varying deep tones. Others were deeply breathing, saying “Allah” on both the inhale and exhale, which began to sound similar to hyperventilation and I couldn’t help but think that there was some sort of high associated with the process. Some were rocking quite vigorously, bending in and out of the circle during the process. “Allah, Allah, Allah, Allah.” The sheikh, who, at 77, wasn’t the most nimble of folks, sat in a chair and joined the circle, swaying vigorously from side to side and occasionally prompting everyone to rock harder. “Allah, Allah, Allah, Allah.”
I participated, standing and joining hands with others in the circle, chanting and bending forward and backward. One of the people who was chanting on one of the microphones, was more just breathing rhythmically than chanting at all. It sounded more like beat-boxing and, since everyone was kind of rocking in their own way, I would close my eyes from time to time and just start moving to the beat, hip-hop style (yes, I’m aware that I’m incapable of hip hop and turn everything into bhangra). It did sound pretty neat, especially with some of the others singing and some of the others chanting at various tones. Maybe it could be compared to an “a capella” of sorts?
Occasionally, different people would go enter the middle of the circle and do their “dhikr,” or chanting, there. From what I could gather, the middle of the circle is the most powerful position to be in, so a lot of the spiritual energy/connection can be felt there, I think.
If it wasn’t the chants or the hyperventilation, then definitely the various men who would take to the middle of the circle, looking like they were having some sort of out-of-body experience, made me feel like I was in a dreamworld.
One man, who appeared to be captured by some kind of force, would tramp around the circle, pumping his arms and grunting with each breath/step. I don’t want my description to be read as a mockery of this man’s religious practice, so I will simply say that it was an unfamiliar sight.
Another man entered the center of the circle and would jump and twist while chanting. One man, with a very long and bushy black beard joined the circle late. He appeared to be a little aggressive and would interrupt his chanting and rough side-to-side twisting to yell in a really angry/loud tone at the guy next to him. I wasn’t sure if he was making a mockery of the others, or if he was just really into it, but I definitely got a different vibe from him. From time to time, he would face Abdul Latif and start yelling his chants really loud at him, prompting Abdul Latif to yell loudly back at him and they went on, chanting the energy out of each other.
Then he entered the center of the circle and, after some other random movements, began to turn in place. He started slowly, then picked up speed and I thought he was going to start going really fast until he stopped outright. I’m guessing the circle wasn’t large enough to safely accommodate his whirling, so that was pretty much all I was able to see. He made a couple other attempts throughout the evening, but nothing too insane.
After about 45 minutes of this chanting environment we all finally stopped and sat down. The almost-whirling-dervish sat down with a Quran and began to recite. It turned out that he wasn’t really that crazy or angry of a guy, just really emotional about his practice and it was apparent in his recitation.
His voice was more powerful than any that I had heard and more trained on the nuances of Quranic recitation technique, also known as tajweed. He put so much passion and energy into each verse that he had to take about five seconds to recover between them before he’d take a deep breath and begin again. I had never seen someone recite with so much energy and passion. I could see it on his face, as he strained to perfectly pronounce each letter, twisting his eyebrows and using an unnecessary amount of muscular force to release the appropriate sounds. It was so beautiful to listen to, but so draining to watch. In seeing him, I could tell that there was nothing else in this world that this man put this same amount of passion and energy and care into. No way. Not even his wife or his family. He was exerting his entire humanity over these verses and you could feel him almost killing himself in the process.
When he was done, the evening was pretty much over. The sheikh met us and told us we were good Sufis and that we should come back at 3 am for their pre-suhoor rituals. I told him the only thing that felt appropriate at the time: insha’Allah.
*
One day Faheem walked out of our apartment with a large, empty water bottle. When he came back it was full of sand.
"Where the heck did you get that?" I asked.
"Outside," he said.
*
We found a way to get European soccer games and NFL football games on our TV. This means that we now stay up until 3 am watching exciting matches between the likes of the Seattle Seahawks and the San Francisco 49ers (probably the worst possible game that could have been broadcast overseas). Whenever that happens, Faheem and Waseem both wonder why the hell we watch this "football" stuff.
Oh, we also learned that broadcasts and advertisements for Monday Night Football mean European Monday Night Football. So, yeah, no Ron Jaworski here, only crazy euro soccer commentators.
*
If anyone wants me to get them a niqaab, just let me know. I think they're readily available here.
The only thing stopping me was my work schedule (every night except Friday) but once we were able to plan a trip, we were on our way to a small Sufi mosque on the other side of Amman.
Abdul Latif, one of the guys in our neighborhood, said that he had heard of this tiny, obscure mosque before he left for Amman from his home in Florida. Apparently the sheikh at this mosque had 10 million followers and was pretty revered (not sure how true that is). I had never been exposed to any kind of Sufi Islam, so I had no idea what this meant.
When we got there, I noticed two things: first, it wasn’t that spectacular of a place, especially for someone with such a following; also, as the evening went on, we progressively made up a larger contingency in the mosque (meaning that eventually everyone left except for maybe four other people).
When we first got there, the mosque was full for the beginning of taraweeh prayers, which we had just missed the start of (for those of you who don’t know, during Ramadan there are special evening prayers that go by this name. Basically, you go to the mosque for the last prayer of the day and then can stay for a set of extended prayers. Throughout the course of these prayers, from the first night of Ramadan to the end, you’ll most likely experience the recitation of the entire Quran, unless you’re attending a mosque that prays eight parts each night, as opposed to 20, which can get quite long).
At this mosque, the sheikh led the 20 rakaat (or parts) of the taraweeh. Most times that I’ve been to taraweeh prayers for 20 rakaat, it’s taken maybe an hour and a half, just because it takes time to go through an entire part of the Quran every night (there are 30 parts in the Quran). This time, it took about 30 minutes.
Never had I heard a faster recitation in my life. It was like speed prayers. To be honest, I’m not quite sure how I felt about it because it was almost like we weren’t even appreciating the sanctity of the verses as much as this speedster sheikh was breezing through them. If Twista was a sheikh, he’d be this guy. We were praying behind Sheikh Twista.
The mosque was pretty small and had green carpet and white walls. There was a second level for women, which men can’t see into, of course, but it hangs over most of the men’s section like a balcony, making the ceiling lower in the back half of the mosque than it is in the front half. The front wall was the only non-white one. It was green and decorated with “Allah” tiles and triangular “Ramadan Kareem” flag streamer thingies (like the ones at carnivals or car dealerships, except green and with white Arabic script on them). So overall, not an overly impressive place by any means, just another simple mosque.
After half an hour, there we were, Faheem, Abdul Latif and me, sitting with about five other people (the sheikh included) listening to one man’s relaxed recitation.
Not quite what I had expected, but what can you do? Perhaps the rowdy crowd takes Friday nights off? Who knows. Anyway, I started to get nervous, thinking that we had made the trip all the way out here and all we got was Twista leading prayers. Then it happened. We all stood up and started arranging ourselves in a circle. We joined hands and the Sufi experience began.
Abdul Latif had tried to brace me for this, but I wasn’t sure that preparation was even possible. People started rocking back and forth, chanting “Allah, Allah, Allah” while a few others sang in Arabic (I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t Quran as much as it was just random prayers). Slowly more people showed up and joined the circle, which eventually got to as big as 12 or 13 people.
One man joined next to me and began chanting in varying deep tones. Others were deeply breathing, saying “Allah” on both the inhale and exhale, which began to sound similar to hyperventilation and I couldn’t help but think that there was some sort of high associated with the process. Some were rocking quite vigorously, bending in and out of the circle during the process. “Allah, Allah, Allah, Allah.” The sheikh, who, at 77, wasn’t the most nimble of folks, sat in a chair and joined the circle, swaying vigorously from side to side and occasionally prompting everyone to rock harder. “Allah, Allah, Allah, Allah.”
I participated, standing and joining hands with others in the circle, chanting and bending forward and backward. One of the people who was chanting on one of the microphones, was more just breathing rhythmically than chanting at all. It sounded more like beat-boxing and, since everyone was kind of rocking in their own way, I would close my eyes from time to time and just start moving to the beat, hip-hop style (yes, I’m aware that I’m incapable of hip hop and turn everything into bhangra). It did sound pretty neat, especially with some of the others singing and some of the others chanting at various tones. Maybe it could be compared to an “a capella” of sorts?
Occasionally, different people would go enter the middle of the circle and do their “dhikr,” or chanting, there. From what I could gather, the middle of the circle is the most powerful position to be in, so a lot of the spiritual energy/connection can be felt there, I think.
If it wasn’t the chants or the hyperventilation, then definitely the various men who would take to the middle of the circle, looking like they were having some sort of out-of-body experience, made me feel like I was in a dreamworld.
One man, who appeared to be captured by some kind of force, would tramp around the circle, pumping his arms and grunting with each breath/step. I don’t want my description to be read as a mockery of this man’s religious practice, so I will simply say that it was an unfamiliar sight.
Another man entered the center of the circle and would jump and twist while chanting. One man, with a very long and bushy black beard joined the circle late. He appeared to be a little aggressive and would interrupt his chanting and rough side-to-side twisting to yell in a really angry/loud tone at the guy next to him. I wasn’t sure if he was making a mockery of the others, or if he was just really into it, but I definitely got a different vibe from him. From time to time, he would face Abdul Latif and start yelling his chants really loud at him, prompting Abdul Latif to yell loudly back at him and they went on, chanting the energy out of each other.
Then he entered the center of the circle and, after some other random movements, began to turn in place. He started slowly, then picked up speed and I thought he was going to start going really fast until he stopped outright. I’m guessing the circle wasn’t large enough to safely accommodate his whirling, so that was pretty much all I was able to see. He made a couple other attempts throughout the evening, but nothing too insane.
After about 45 minutes of this chanting environment we all finally stopped and sat down. The almost-whirling-dervish sat down with a Quran and began to recite. It turned out that he wasn’t really that crazy or angry of a guy, just really emotional about his practice and it was apparent in his recitation.
His voice was more powerful than any that I had heard and more trained on the nuances of Quranic recitation technique, also known as tajweed. He put so much passion and energy into each verse that he had to take about five seconds to recover between them before he’d take a deep breath and begin again. I had never seen someone recite with so much energy and passion. I could see it on his face, as he strained to perfectly pronounce each letter, twisting his eyebrows and using an unnecessary amount of muscular force to release the appropriate sounds. It was so beautiful to listen to, but so draining to watch. In seeing him, I could tell that there was nothing else in this world that this man put this same amount of passion and energy and care into. No way. Not even his wife or his family. He was exerting his entire humanity over these verses and you could feel him almost killing himself in the process.
When he was done, the evening was pretty much over. The sheikh met us and told us we were good Sufis and that we should come back at 3 am for their pre-suhoor rituals. I told him the only thing that felt appropriate at the time: insha’Allah.
*
One day Faheem walked out of our apartment with a large, empty water bottle. When he came back it was full of sand.
"Where the heck did you get that?" I asked.
"Outside," he said.
*
We found a way to get European soccer games and NFL football games on our TV. This means that we now stay up until 3 am watching exciting matches between the likes of the Seattle Seahawks and the San Francisco 49ers (probably the worst possible game that could have been broadcast overseas). Whenever that happens, Faheem and Waseem both wonder why the hell we watch this "football" stuff.
Oh, we also learned that broadcasts and advertisements for Monday Night Football mean European Monday Night Football. So, yeah, no Ron Jaworski here, only crazy euro soccer commentators.
*
If anyone wants me to get them a niqaab, just let me know. I think they're readily available here.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Where did they go?
I sometimes go for days without seeing a single woman. If I didn’t leave my neighborhood, or visit other, more westernized parts of Amman, I might even forget that women exist here.
It’s not that I don’t see any women at all in my neighborhood. I guess I might see a few here and there, but if there are any who happen to be outside of their homes they’ll be pretty much covered from head to toe and you wont even notice them as being anything feminine at all. Also, I’m always surrounded by men. I live with three other guys and our apartment is kind of the hangout of our student neighborhood in Kharabsheh, so there are always six to eight males at our apartment, just hanging out.
Almost all of my daily interactions are with men. I really only ask men questions or enter into discussion on the street with men. The weirdest thing is that I wont even realize that women have disappeared from my daily life.
It has almost gotten to the point that when I see a Jordanian woman, not even in extremely western/liberal clothing, but perhaps maybe dressed a little more effeminately, I am so taken aback by her existence that I’m almost disoriented and I feel like I’m in a different place altogether. It doesn’t feel like the Jordan that I’ve become accustomed to living in lately and I experience culture shock almost every time.
*
So it may almost seem fitting, given my lack of experiences with women, that when I started my Arabic classes at Qasid a few days ago I ended up being the only male in a class of seven people.
At the same time though, all of the women in my class are white Americans, so it doesn’t really take away from the shock of seeing that Arab women exist.
*
About five days ago I had called the Jordan Times to inquire about writing opportunities there. I had been trying to look around for a way to keep my journalism skills alive during this whole Arabic education mess, so the Jordan Times seemed like a good place to inquire. A friend of mine had already spoken with them and was planning on starting an internship there soon, so I figured that I had a shot.
When I called them, I asked to speak with the editor, as I had been advised to do by a couple of people here. I was received by a secretary who said that I had to send an email with my resume attached to his email address. When I asked again if I might be able to speak to him, she gave me a sassy “no.”
I sent the email, but it bounced back, so I called again asking for her to repeat the address. “Actually,” she said. “Send it to this address,” and she proceeded to give me the generic email address for the entire newspaper. I was a little discouraged, but I sent the email anyway, not expecting to hear back and resolving to try again at calling the office in a few days.
Two days later I got a call from the Jordan Times. It was the same lady and she nicely explaining that the editor wanted to meet with me the next day. I happily agreed and, to make a long story short, I’ll be starting at the Jordan Times on Saturday (tomorrow).
Unfortunately, this is an unpaid internship gig (Fulbrighters aren’t supposed to have paying jobs and this editor was quick to tell me that he was aware of the rule) but I figure it’s a good chance to mix regularly with some Jordanians and get my journalism on while doing my Arabic, et al.
*
Some of my friends have been asking me about how life has been like during Ramadan in a Muslim country. For those of you who don’t know, some majority-Muslim countries are famous for being really festive during Ramadan, most notably Pakistan and Egypt. Jordan has been really great during Ramadan as well. I’ve noticed a lot of cool perks for being in a majority-Muslim country, but by comparison to the others, Jordan is much more mellow and low-key. There aren’t crazy celebrations in the streets, or people running all over the place at sunset to hand out dates, or craziness all night long. The benefits here are subtle, but quite impressive when realized.
One of the biggest differences of being here during Ramadan is the holiday feeling. Islam is the dominant religion here, so everyone fasts and everything is geared toward Ramadan. While in the US the Christian and Jewish holiday seasons are what a lot of business is based on, here it’s Ramadan. Entire industries rely on Ramadan shopping and trends for success. The TV industry works all year round to create Ramadan specials that run every night on TV, broken up by loads of advertisements for foods, snacks, and other goods with special Ramadan offers or promotions.
While in the US businesses market their goods to be sold in high quantities during the December holidays, here it’s all about what businesses can package and market for the entire month of Ramadan. It’s why Saudi Arabia’s third most important export is dates and why plastic floor mats have been created and produced (used to cover the floors of mosques while visitors break their fasts over them before praying). It’s why new juices and deserts are launched and why telephone companies try to monopolize captive Ramadan audiences with emotional ads and special offers.
The next coolest perk is the atmosphere of unity. I mentioned that everyone fasts and because of that, everyone’s going through the same experiences. Grocery stores are packed in the late afternoon as everyone’s rushing to grab their last items for iftar. As you walk into the mosque during the sunset call to prayer, young boys are rushing to hand everyone dates and juice, milk or water. And when you go to the mosque for taraweeh at night, it’s always full to capacity.
The Quranic recitation here in the Middle East is also especially powerful and when you’re going through these extra nightly Ramadan prayers with everyone else in your community, it makes the experience even more powerful and special.
In the US it was different. People didn’t even know what fasting was or why I was fasting. Sometimes in the US you could easily forget that it was Ramadan if you weren’t surrounded by a strong Muslim community. Here, Ramadan is special for everyone and it’s quite a difference indeed.
*
It’s a little weird that when we turn on the TV and there’s news out of Lebanon or Iraq, that the places and the people look just like they do here. That might seem obvious, but it’s still kind of crazy that I am in basically the same place. For example, some of the guys watched Three Kings and Syriana recently and when I would see the TV and see how things were being portrayed in these movies I realized how authentic they were and how similar the characters, situations, clothes and settings were to what I see every day.
It’s not that I don’t see any women at all in my neighborhood. I guess I might see a few here and there, but if there are any who happen to be outside of their homes they’ll be pretty much covered from head to toe and you wont even notice them as being anything feminine at all. Also, I’m always surrounded by men. I live with three other guys and our apartment is kind of the hangout of our student neighborhood in Kharabsheh, so there are always six to eight males at our apartment, just hanging out.
Almost all of my daily interactions are with men. I really only ask men questions or enter into discussion on the street with men. The weirdest thing is that I wont even realize that women have disappeared from my daily life.
It has almost gotten to the point that when I see a Jordanian woman, not even in extremely western/liberal clothing, but perhaps maybe dressed a little more effeminately, I am so taken aback by her existence that I’m almost disoriented and I feel like I’m in a different place altogether. It doesn’t feel like the Jordan that I’ve become accustomed to living in lately and I experience culture shock almost every time.
*
So it may almost seem fitting, given my lack of experiences with women, that when I started my Arabic classes at Qasid a few days ago I ended up being the only male in a class of seven people.
At the same time though, all of the women in my class are white Americans, so it doesn’t really take away from the shock of seeing that Arab women exist.
*
About five days ago I had called the Jordan Times to inquire about writing opportunities there. I had been trying to look around for a way to keep my journalism skills alive during this whole Arabic education mess, so the Jordan Times seemed like a good place to inquire. A friend of mine had already spoken with them and was planning on starting an internship there soon, so I figured that I had a shot.
When I called them, I asked to speak with the editor, as I had been advised to do by a couple of people here. I was received by a secretary who said that I had to send an email with my resume attached to his email address. When I asked again if I might be able to speak to him, she gave me a sassy “no.”
I sent the email, but it bounced back, so I called again asking for her to repeat the address. “Actually,” she said. “Send it to this address,” and she proceeded to give me the generic email address for the entire newspaper. I was a little discouraged, but I sent the email anyway, not expecting to hear back and resolving to try again at calling the office in a few days.
Two days later I got a call from the Jordan Times. It was the same lady and she nicely explaining that the editor wanted to meet with me the next day. I happily agreed and, to make a long story short, I’ll be starting at the Jordan Times on Saturday (tomorrow).
Unfortunately, this is an unpaid internship gig (Fulbrighters aren’t supposed to have paying jobs and this editor was quick to tell me that he was aware of the rule) but I figure it’s a good chance to mix regularly with some Jordanians and get my journalism on while doing my Arabic, et al.
*
Some of my friends have been asking me about how life has been like during Ramadan in a Muslim country. For those of you who don’t know, some majority-Muslim countries are famous for being really festive during Ramadan, most notably Pakistan and Egypt. Jordan has been really great during Ramadan as well. I’ve noticed a lot of cool perks for being in a majority-Muslim country, but by comparison to the others, Jordan is much more mellow and low-key. There aren’t crazy celebrations in the streets, or people running all over the place at sunset to hand out dates, or craziness all night long. The benefits here are subtle, but quite impressive when realized.
One of the biggest differences of being here during Ramadan is the holiday feeling. Islam is the dominant religion here, so everyone fasts and everything is geared toward Ramadan. While in the US the Christian and Jewish holiday seasons are what a lot of business is based on, here it’s Ramadan. Entire industries rely on Ramadan shopping and trends for success. The TV industry works all year round to create Ramadan specials that run every night on TV, broken up by loads of advertisements for foods, snacks, and other goods with special Ramadan offers or promotions.
While in the US businesses market their goods to be sold in high quantities during the December holidays, here it’s all about what businesses can package and market for the entire month of Ramadan. It’s why Saudi Arabia’s third most important export is dates and why plastic floor mats have been created and produced (used to cover the floors of mosques while visitors break their fasts over them before praying). It’s why new juices and deserts are launched and why telephone companies try to monopolize captive Ramadan audiences with emotional ads and special offers.
The next coolest perk is the atmosphere of unity. I mentioned that everyone fasts and because of that, everyone’s going through the same experiences. Grocery stores are packed in the late afternoon as everyone’s rushing to grab their last items for iftar. As you walk into the mosque during the sunset call to prayer, young boys are rushing to hand everyone dates and juice, milk or water. And when you go to the mosque for taraweeh at night, it’s always full to capacity.
The Quranic recitation here in the Middle East is also especially powerful and when you’re going through these extra nightly Ramadan prayers with everyone else in your community, it makes the experience even more powerful and special.
In the US it was different. People didn’t even know what fasting was or why I was fasting. Sometimes in the US you could easily forget that it was Ramadan if you weren’t surrounded by a strong Muslim community. Here, Ramadan is special for everyone and it’s quite a difference indeed.
*
It’s a little weird that when we turn on the TV and there’s news out of Lebanon or Iraq, that the places and the people look just like they do here. That might seem obvious, but it’s still kind of crazy that I am in basically the same place. For example, some of the guys watched Three Kings and Syriana recently and when I would see the TV and see how things were being portrayed in these movies I realized how authentic they were and how similar the characters, situations, clothes and settings were to what I see every day.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Ramadan Mubarak!
So being in a majority-Muslim country during Ramadan, I hadn’t thought that something as basic as finding a good place for iftar would be as difficult as it has been so far.
On our first night of Ramadan in Jordan, we put together a master plan: we coordinated with some of the other Fulbrighters and decided that we’d leave after maghrib (the sunset prayer) to head to this Indian restaurant for dinner. We thought that we’d break fast with a date and some water, head to the mosque to pray, then grab a cab and meet up at the restaurant. The only problem that we didn’t quite evaluate correctly: how to catch a cab after iftar.
We really thought that we had accounted for this in the master plan. Multiple people were consulted and we decided that it would be harder to catch a cab while people were rushing home to eat with their families (really, everyone is driving like a maniac before iftar) then to catch a cab after the initial iftar and prayer period had occurred. Clearly, we were wrong.
In my two weeks here, I hadn't seen the streets of Jordan so empty. Walking through our usually boisterous neighborhood after maghrib, there wasn’t a sound to be heard or a soul to be seen. I'd only felt this kind of a contrast in noise and activity once and that was when I left Manhattan to visit friends in Oregon (yes, it was quite a dramatic difference).
All of the teenage hoodlums who are usually out on the streets smoking cigarettes and mocking passers-by were nowhere in sight. None of the shops in Kharabsheh were open. We couldn’t even hear a car, person, animal or even television. Everyone seemed to be in their homes, with their families, silently stuffing themselfs with food. Meanwhile, here we were, a Malaysian, a Korean, a Pakistani and an Indian, wandering through the streets in search of a cab.
We walked out of Kharabsheh, over and down a hill, through another neighborhood and finally to the main road and even then, there were almost no cars driving by. The few taxis that we did see were occupied or zooming by with no intent of stopping before making it home for their own meals.
Finally a cab stopped and I told him where we wanted to go. He looked at me, said “Sorry habibi,” made a kissing sound and drove away. Apparently we weren’t on his way home. Thankfully, there was a vacant cab on the road and we were able to grab it and get on our way.
The cool thing about being in a majority-Muslim country during Ramadan is that everyone else is fasting too, which is quite a different experience from the US. People are rushing through grocery stores in the afternoon, grabbing last-minute items for their evening dinners and everyone seems to head to the mosque at sunset before returning home to eat with their families. The problem with all this is that immediately after sunse, the entire city becomes eerily empty.
Unfortunately, this was causing problems for our friends too. When we all finally caught cabs, Albert didn’t know how to direct everyone else to the restaurant, other than by telling the others that it was near a Popeye’s (yes, there’s Popeye’s in the middle east and it is HUGE). When we called one of our friends to tell her to redirect the cab driver to the Indian restaurant, the driver refused, as it was likely not on his way home, and she had to get out of the cab and wait. Luckily some of the other girls had gotten dropped off at the Popeye’s too, so I walked over and met up with them before heading back to the restaurant.
The food was surprisingly good. I didn’t think that I’d be able to find good desi food in the Arab world, but alas, I felt like I was at home. Everything was good, except for the butter chicken, which was identical to the chicken tikka masala, except with a dash of butter on top.
After dinner Kristine, Unaza, Jafer and I decided to head to an ice cream shop that Kristine knew of in a hip area called ‘abdoun. When we got there, I had forgotten how westernized Jordan can sometimes be. I had been living in the old school area of Kharabsheh and for some reason was extremely shocked to see upscale cafes with Wi-Fi hotspots and TVs displaying MTV music videos.
I was also shocked to see more westernized young Arabs who seemed to be grabbing ice cream with friends while eye-flirting with other customers. As soon as Jafer and I noticed, we were stunned. I guess we both forget that this country can be so western and so traditional at the same time, depending on where you are. I can’t say though, that it wasn’t a pleasant shock, even if there were hijabis involved.
*
On the second night of Ramadan we thought we’d leave early and make sure we got to our destination on time. Albert, Faheem and I decided to leave and head for one of the biggest mosques in Amman, the Malik-Al-Hussein mosque, which is located on the top of a hill, in the middle of what seems to be a fortress. Well, it’s not really a fortress, it’s just a hillside full of parks and fields (of FieldTurf) all of which no one seemed to be using.
We arrived at the mosque on the top of the hill exactly on time for the maghrib call to prayer. The mosque was beautiful and grand, with an enormous exterior courtyard and four giant minarets. But for as grand and as attractive as the mosque was, it was incredibly empty. We walked through the vacant courtyard toward two of the many mosque doors. We put our shoes in the empty shoe racks and walked through the doors to find what seemed to be the Royal Mosque staff offering dates and water to each of the maybe 20 guests in this cavernous mosque (I don’t really know who they were, but they had pretty official and Disneyland-esque costumes, which varied depending on which task each staff member was doing).
The call to prayer was very impressive, as was the recitation during the prayer, but all of the magic of this special selection of staffers seemed a little weird as the mosque was so empty. We attributed the attendance problems for the maghrib prayer to the mosques isolated location on the top of a hill and in the middle of this campus of parks and gardens.
After the prayer, we decided to make our way to one of the nearby malls to eat, but somehow we forgot that it was going to be hard to get a cab after maghrib and that we were in an extremely isolated location. We ended up trekking for about 40 minutes down the hill and through the fortress of walls, walkways, trees and fields, then across a highway and through a valley before going up another hill to get to Meca Mall for our dinner.
*
When I got home that night I was watching Arabic serials on TV when I noticed a powerful commercial. It was by a telephone company in Iraq and it showed a famous singer walking through Iraq with a child as the country was being reconstructed in the background. I found it to be really powerful and even tracked it down online to share! Watch it if you can!! I thought it was really cool.
On our first night of Ramadan in Jordan, we put together a master plan: we coordinated with some of the other Fulbrighters and decided that we’d leave after maghrib (the sunset prayer) to head to this Indian restaurant for dinner. We thought that we’d break fast with a date and some water, head to the mosque to pray, then grab a cab and meet up at the restaurant. The only problem that we didn’t quite evaluate correctly: how to catch a cab after iftar.
We really thought that we had accounted for this in the master plan. Multiple people were consulted and we decided that it would be harder to catch a cab while people were rushing home to eat with their families (really, everyone is driving like a maniac before iftar) then to catch a cab after the initial iftar and prayer period had occurred. Clearly, we were wrong.
In my two weeks here, I hadn't seen the streets of Jordan so empty. Walking through our usually boisterous neighborhood after maghrib, there wasn’t a sound to be heard or a soul to be seen. I'd only felt this kind of a contrast in noise and activity once and that was when I left Manhattan to visit friends in Oregon (yes, it was quite a dramatic difference).
All of the teenage hoodlums who are usually out on the streets smoking cigarettes and mocking passers-by were nowhere in sight. None of the shops in Kharabsheh were open. We couldn’t even hear a car, person, animal or even television. Everyone seemed to be in their homes, with their families, silently stuffing themselfs with food. Meanwhile, here we were, a Malaysian, a Korean, a Pakistani and an Indian, wandering through the streets in search of a cab.
We walked out of Kharabsheh, over and down a hill, through another neighborhood and finally to the main road and even then, there were almost no cars driving by. The few taxis that we did see were occupied or zooming by with no intent of stopping before making it home for their own meals.
Finally a cab stopped and I told him where we wanted to go. He looked at me, said “Sorry habibi,” made a kissing sound and drove away. Apparently we weren’t on his way home. Thankfully, there was a vacant cab on the road and we were able to grab it and get on our way.
The cool thing about being in a majority-Muslim country during Ramadan is that everyone else is fasting too, which is quite a different experience from the US. People are rushing through grocery stores in the afternoon, grabbing last-minute items for their evening dinners and everyone seems to head to the mosque at sunset before returning home to eat with their families. The problem with all this is that immediately after sunse, the entire city becomes eerily empty.
Unfortunately, this was causing problems for our friends too. When we all finally caught cabs, Albert didn’t know how to direct everyone else to the restaurant, other than by telling the others that it was near a Popeye’s (yes, there’s Popeye’s in the middle east and it is HUGE). When we called one of our friends to tell her to redirect the cab driver to the Indian restaurant, the driver refused, as it was likely not on his way home, and she had to get out of the cab and wait. Luckily some of the other girls had gotten dropped off at the Popeye’s too, so I walked over and met up with them before heading back to the restaurant.
The food was surprisingly good. I didn’t think that I’d be able to find good desi food in the Arab world, but alas, I felt like I was at home. Everything was good, except for the butter chicken, which was identical to the chicken tikka masala, except with a dash of butter on top.
After dinner Kristine, Unaza, Jafer and I decided to head to an ice cream shop that Kristine knew of in a hip area called ‘abdoun. When we got there, I had forgotten how westernized Jordan can sometimes be. I had been living in the old school area of Kharabsheh and for some reason was extremely shocked to see upscale cafes with Wi-Fi hotspots and TVs displaying MTV music videos.
I was also shocked to see more westernized young Arabs who seemed to be grabbing ice cream with friends while eye-flirting with other customers. As soon as Jafer and I noticed, we were stunned. I guess we both forget that this country can be so western and so traditional at the same time, depending on where you are. I can’t say though, that it wasn’t a pleasant shock, even if there were hijabis involved.
*
On the second night of Ramadan we thought we’d leave early and make sure we got to our destination on time. Albert, Faheem and I decided to leave and head for one of the biggest mosques in Amman, the Malik-Al-Hussein mosque, which is located on the top of a hill, in the middle of what seems to be a fortress. Well, it’s not really a fortress, it’s just a hillside full of parks and fields (of FieldTurf) all of which no one seemed to be using.
We arrived at the mosque on the top of the hill exactly on time for the maghrib call to prayer. The mosque was beautiful and grand, with an enormous exterior courtyard and four giant minarets. But for as grand and as attractive as the mosque was, it was incredibly empty. We walked through the vacant courtyard toward two of the many mosque doors. We put our shoes in the empty shoe racks and walked through the doors to find what seemed to be the Royal Mosque staff offering dates and water to each of the maybe 20 guests in this cavernous mosque (I don’t really know who they were, but they had pretty official and Disneyland-esque costumes, which varied depending on which task each staff member was doing).
The call to prayer was very impressive, as was the recitation during the prayer, but all of the magic of this special selection of staffers seemed a little weird as the mosque was so empty. We attributed the attendance problems for the maghrib prayer to the mosques isolated location on the top of a hill and in the middle of this campus of parks and gardens.
After the prayer, we decided to make our way to one of the nearby malls to eat, but somehow we forgot that it was going to be hard to get a cab after maghrib and that we were in an extremely isolated location. We ended up trekking for about 40 minutes down the hill and through the fortress of walls, walkways, trees and fields, then across a highway and through a valley before going up another hill to get to Meca Mall for our dinner.
*
When I got home that night I was watching Arabic serials on TV when I noticed a powerful commercial. It was by a telephone company in Iraq and it showed a famous singer walking through Iraq with a child as the country was being reconstructed in the background. I found it to be really powerful and even tracked it down online to share! Watch it if you can!! I thought it was really cool.