In the 'Hood

Tonight my taxi driver told me I live in a really bad area. He couldn't explain why because of his broken English and my pitiful Arabic. I guess I will never know why. 

In Good Taste

The other day I went to buy spices in the market downtown. I may or may not have fallen a little in love with the spice seller. What can I say? He knows his spices. 

Bite Me

It has been so fun getting to live in an intercultural setting but sometimes hot climate culture boundaries can make cold climate culture people hot under the collar. Arabs have a much smaller personal bubble and life is truly lived in community. Men link arms or hold hands* walking down the street. Women have no qualms about cozying up to you and staying there.

The other day I had to just laugh at my predicament. It was either that or go ballistic. I was washing dishes at the sink, flanked by two Arab girls who were reaching between my arms to reach the various objects they wanted. Repeatedly. I felt like an awkward, grumpy octopus.

On another occasion I was sitting with a group of Arabs. In accordance to local culture I offered to share my snack with the group. By the time it made its way back to me, it was nothing but an empty container. Breathe. I guess I wasn't hungry anyway.

I have become (somewhat) accustomed to being manhandled and bitten affectionately. I did draw the line at fingers in my mouth though.

Maybe I'll take up biting others. There might be something to that.

*Hand holding is not accepted in all countries in this region but it is common in Jordan.

كرامة Dignity

He's just a smaller version of his father. They are walking, walking, walking, looking for someone they can sell their wares to. It isn't much, but it's all they have. The father carries a carafe of tea and a clutch of wilting mint. In his other hand he carries a traditional carafe of coffee, spiced with cardamon. They weigh down his meager frame.

The crowds are numerous and frivolous. Groups of shebab (young guys) cruise around, joking with each other and evaluating the female passerby. Men in western garb guide their wives and fiancees down the street, the folds of their carefully draped hijabs (head coverings) and niqabs (veils) rippling in the evening breeze.*

It must be heavy to carry those carafes all night, hoping someone hails them for a hot drink, but he has no choice. They need this money and they aren't about to go begging. The man is a humble man yet he has dignity. You can see it in the way his son stands. At seven years old, he's happy to be with his baba (papa). It's clear his papa loves him.

Suddenly, I have an intense thirst for tea. We approach, “Marhaba” (hello) and request some shai (tea). He's gracious and eager to pour the steaming water over the tea bag, pinches a sprig of mint and dunks it into the cup, then pours in sugar. I greet the little boy, “Keef Halak?” (How are you?) “Ismee Kadyn”. At this, his eyes melt at the corners and and his smile brightens, for he sees that someone wants to talk to him. He answers and shows his good manners, “Where are you from?” America. In turn, he puts his hand to his heart. “Syria. Aleppo.”

His big brown eyes and his sweet smile will haunt me forever. Not because they implore for pity, but because of their gentleness and mirth, their innocence in a time that is anything but innocent.

As they walk away, the boy looks at his father and smiles, a great big, ear to ear smile. In this black night, the joy he has of being with his father shines all the more brightly. His baba is using this money so his boy can go to school. Perhaps even to have a future.

I watched them for as long as possible as they disappeared into the crowd. I'm not much for tears, but this made me cry.

How can anyone say you don't matter?

How can anyone say you're not worth it?

How can anyone not care about what happens to you?

From time to time we cross paths and I stop and get a cup of shai. A friend embarrassed me the other day when we saw them, exclaiming, “Kadyn talks about you every day!”

I hope I always do.

*A man and women cannot be in public together unless they are married or engaged. Engagement is much closer to marriage than it is in the West. 

Yanni

This picture is defiling this blog. 

In Arabic the word “yanni” means something to the effect of “which means” or “like”, but is also a catch-all word that can be applied to a variety of situations. Whenever they say it, all I can think of is Yanni, the musician, with all of his long, flowing hair. Likewise, his tresses defy explanation and find themselves caught up in all sorts of situations it would behoove them to avoid.  

Sexy Elbows

I don' t know if you know this, but in this part of the world, elbows are sexy. Showing wrists and forearms are pushing it, but elbows are beyond the pale. Hence, despite the weather, I must wear longer sleeves, shirts up to the collar bone, and it is best to wear a longer tunic past the thighs. 

Good Clean Fun

Dental Floss 101. 

My Arab roommates are befuddled by the fact that I brush my teeth at least twice a day and floss at night. In fact, they mock me. “Whenever we wonder where Kadyn is, we know she has gone to brush her teeth.” Sometimes they bar my way to the bathroom, “No! No! Not again!”

They've never encountered flossing. The other night they wanted me to teach them. As I demonstrated they peered into my mouth with skeptical evaluation. “This is more complicated than the Palestinian situation” one observed. True, periodontal disease is a sticky predicament.  

What's in a Name?

In Arab culture, the mother of a family is not addressed by her first name nor is a father by his. Instead, the mother is called Em + the name of her firstborn son. Likewise, the father is called Abu + the name of his firstborn son. If they don't have this said firstborn son, they use the name they would've called him.

For instance, let's say the son's name is Khaled (or hypothetical son). The mother would be called EmKhaled. The father, AbuKhaled.

If you were a close friend, you might call the parents by their given names. Even then, they might opt for the AbuKhaled and EmKhaled versions. You see, it is an honor and delight to have a son to refer to.

No wonder our political relations with this region are fraught with misunderstanding. We don't even understand where each other are coming from in the most basic of concepts.

Hard Things

(March 25, 2014)

Jabal Nadif
(It means Clean Mountain. I'm still trying to figure out if they meant that ironically.)

The other day a boy hit me with a rock. It didn't feel so good. Granted, I was walking alone in Jabal Nadif, one of the more unsavory neighborhoods here in the city. But come on! It was broad daylight and there were plenty of people on the street to witness it. But no one said anything.

There were a couple of Arabic words I could've thrown back at him, but when it happened, I lacked the gumption. Instead, I turned, glared at the suspect, and kept walking. What could I do anyways?

I continued on, quite miffed.

Shortly after, I had to return in the same direction and dreaded facing my preteen assailant again. As I crossed the same area, I noticed a commotion behind me. Oh no. Had the shebab (male youth) rallied to give me a real stoning?

I swung around, steeling myself for their volley. But instead, I saw a teenage boy, right behind me, limping and holding back sobs. He was clutching his leg, and his big brown eyes glistened with tears. Instead of finding a foe, I found a scared boy. No one on the street acknowledged him.

As a foreign woman and considering his age, it didn't seem right for me to address him. I kept walking.

His whimpering continued.

Oh, who cares about societal rules. I turned around and asked him if he was ok. He was too consumed by pain to hear me. He continued by and crossed the street, looking for a place to hide.

And then it hit me. I felt so sorry for myself because someone had shown cruelty to me, yet this boy's life is so much harder. One person lobbed a rock at me. Boo hoo. But this boy? His life is cruel. It is a version of reality I shudder to consider. He lives in one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city. The chances of him achieving his dreams are next to nil.

It reminded me of why I am here. I am not here to be offended or become paranoid. This boy is the reason I am here. This boy is the reason you have embarked on this journey with me. He needs to know that life is not all about maintaining a brave face.

There is more to life than that.