Tel Aviv, Israel.
She had an accent, but it wasn't a strong one. To my American ears her melodic vowels might have been nothing more than a foreign variation of our mutual native tongue. Yet as she continued to talk I noticed that there were gaps in her English, as adjectives and nouns were transposed, and a few verbs hovered in the air to wait indefinitely for an actor and a recipient.
There were gaps in her memory as well; she asked me where I was from several times, each time seeming surprised that she was holding a handrail--however feebly--next to a genuine Yankee. Yet each time she seemed happy.
But the gaps were excusable. Details about my own identity didn't really factor into our conversation anyway, as she focused instead on shards of old stories and glimpses of old memories from a world that had flourished and died decades before my birth. This world, she said, was somewhere in Eastern Europe, though the precise location wasn't clear.
"It's been part of every empire at some point or another, and what it is now doesn't really matter. I wouldn't recognize the place; I know that. That world is gone." I was still curious to ask where it was specifically, but asking the question again didn't feel appropriate. To her its new nation-state label was entirely arbitrary; all that mattered was that it had been her home several decades ago. And now that that home was gone, it was as though the place didn't really exist at all.
After she disclosed her vague origins, she paused for nearly an entire minute, as though she were recycling thousands of memories beyond her thick, impenetrable sunglasses. Though the wrinkles on her face where still, her body tightened as did her grip upon the rail. The skin around her knuckles grew whiter than the rest of her skin, which was already a pale, pasty color.
"Then we came to Yaffo after the war." She said this as though it were the conclusion of a long story she had just finished telling me. Then she added abruptly, "This is your stop." She shook my hand as I passed to the door.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
The Buds of Palestine
Adapted from an Amman taxi driver's lengthy monologue.
The trees are in bloom in Palestine, and they have been for thirty-two years.
When I left everything was lush, and though thirty years have gone by, there has been no bomb that has robbed Palestine of its splendor, that has imprinted anything but lushness upon its soil. The air in Palestine blows with the blessing of divinity, and thus will triumph over the petty smoke of men. Though the shadow of the sword is large upon the fields of Canaan, no arms can vanquish them. For God's shield meets them always.
And after thirty years the trees must still be in bloom.
Perhaps there are more trees now, after those buds became flowers and those flowers became fruit. They decayed and from their seeds were born new trees. Palestine is the same; it has died thousands of times over thousands of years, but it always emerges again. It is a sheet of earth connecting the river with the sea, cradled in the breast of divinity; it is God's to treasure and to dote upon. No exodus nor war has changed that.
The land is more powerful than its occupants, just as it always was; it alone could withstand the stain of war and the ravages of politics. Though its people perish, its soil still covers them like it covers the bones of the prophets. There is no tribe, no faith that can ever rule Palestine. Palestine is God's to rule.
But perhaps the trees have died.
Perhaps upon the land there is famine like in the old days, when Joseph took his family south for abundance and brought them into servitude. Perhaps there is nothing there but God's presence, flooding the land like He did the earth in its infancy, crushing its palms like pillars falling beneath temples. Perhaps therein is the riddle that explains why the land that radiates holiness is the stage upon which unholiness is waged.
It may be these things are true, because I have not been there for thirty-two years. And perhaps I never will again.
Perhaps nothing blooms in Palestine. Perhaps only the dust blows.
The trees are in bloom in Palestine, and they have been for thirty-two years.
When I left everything was lush, and though thirty years have gone by, there has been no bomb that has robbed Palestine of its splendor, that has imprinted anything but lushness upon its soil. The air in Palestine blows with the blessing of divinity, and thus will triumph over the petty smoke of men. Though the shadow of the sword is large upon the fields of Canaan, no arms can vanquish them. For God's shield meets them always.
And after thirty years the trees must still be in bloom.
Perhaps there are more trees now, after those buds became flowers and those flowers became fruit. They decayed and from their seeds were born new trees. Palestine is the same; it has died thousands of times over thousands of years, but it always emerges again. It is a sheet of earth connecting the river with the sea, cradled in the breast of divinity; it is God's to treasure and to dote upon. No exodus nor war has changed that.
The land is more powerful than its occupants, just as it always was; it alone could withstand the stain of war and the ravages of politics. Though its people perish, its soil still covers them like it covers the bones of the prophets. There is no tribe, no faith that can ever rule Palestine. Palestine is God's to rule.
But perhaps the trees have died.
Perhaps upon the land there is famine like in the old days, when Joseph took his family south for abundance and brought them into servitude. Perhaps there is nothing there but God's presence, flooding the land like He did the earth in its infancy, crushing its palms like pillars falling beneath temples. Perhaps therein is the riddle that explains why the land that radiates holiness is the stage upon which unholiness is waged.
It may be these things are true, because I have not been there for thirty-two years. And perhaps I never will again.
Perhaps nothing blooms in Palestine. Perhaps only the dust blows.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
American Television
Northern Desert, Jordan.
My phone was dead and there were no clocks on the walls, but I nevertheless knew that it was well past midnight. Apart from Amr and I, the only thing awake in the house was the television, that--at this late hour--had shifted to slightly controversial television. As a country that has invested only minimally in entertainment, Jordan borrows movies and television shows from other countries. Turkish soap-operas are dubbed in Arabic, and B-grade American movies (generally starring the Coppola-family black sheep, Nicholas Cage) run with subtitles.
For the most part, the loans from American television are quite tame, but that night--as I heard the first chords of the Six Feet Under theme song--I found myself watching the one show I thought would never air on Jordanian television. Amr--who was open-minded but nevertheless quite conservative--seemed surprisingly familiar with the show and didn't change the channel.
It was a classic Six Feet Under plot, involving a deranged daughter stealing a dead-man's foot from the family funeral home. It had all the regular plot lubricants like drugs, infidelity, and family-feuding. Although it was heavily edited by the networks--both in actual scenes and in subtitle translations--it was still the last thing I would ever expect to see in Jordan.
With the cultural differences and network modifications, I wondered how much of the show Amr was actually understanding. After watching a tension-filled conversation in the beds of one of the show's central couples--a gay couple--Amr commented, "I'm so glad they're really good friends. They do everything together." At that point I realized that Amr and I were watching entirely different shows. But whatever show Amr was watching, he seemed to be enjoying it.
The show ended with an awkward moment between the mother and her daughter-in-law-to-be. In a conversation loaded with cultural references, I wondered why someone had bothered to write subtitles at all. Afterward, I gingerly asked Amr what he had thought of it. He admitted that he had been a bit confused by some parts, he nevertheless had enjoyed it. "It's a good show," he said.
"Do feel like you're missing anything by not being an American?"
Amr then tried to explain that the reason he had watched it was because he wasn't American. Like myself, Amr was the product of a small town where everyone knew everyone's business. Watching a TV show about other people's drama was therefore totally interesting.
In fact, Amr continued, watching drama about a family that was nothing like his own was much more enjoyable. He said he was best able to enjoy drama by watching people collapse over problems he would never have to worry about--virtually anything in Six Feet Under. "It's always the other people that are the most interesting," he offered.
"You know, Amr," I said, "That show takes place about thirty minutes from where I live. But I don't really understand the problems either."
"Then that's why we both like it," he concluded.
My phone was dead and there were no clocks on the walls, but I nevertheless knew that it was well past midnight. Apart from Amr and I, the only thing awake in the house was the television, that--at this late hour--had shifted to slightly controversial television. As a country that has invested only minimally in entertainment, Jordan borrows movies and television shows from other countries. Turkish soap-operas are dubbed in Arabic, and B-grade American movies (generally starring the Coppola-family black sheep, Nicholas Cage) run with subtitles.
For the most part, the loans from American television are quite tame, but that night--as I heard the first chords of the Six Feet Under theme song--I found myself watching the one show I thought would never air on Jordanian television. Amr--who was open-minded but nevertheless quite conservative--seemed surprisingly familiar with the show and didn't change the channel.
It was a classic Six Feet Under plot, involving a deranged daughter stealing a dead-man's foot from the family funeral home. It had all the regular plot lubricants like drugs, infidelity, and family-feuding. Although it was heavily edited by the networks--both in actual scenes and in subtitle translations--it was still the last thing I would ever expect to see in Jordan.
With the cultural differences and network modifications, I wondered how much of the show Amr was actually understanding. After watching a tension-filled conversation in the beds of one of the show's central couples--a gay couple--Amr commented, "I'm so glad they're really good friends. They do everything together." At that point I realized that Amr and I were watching entirely different shows. But whatever show Amr was watching, he seemed to be enjoying it.
The show ended with an awkward moment between the mother and her daughter-in-law-to-be. In a conversation loaded with cultural references, I wondered why someone had bothered to write subtitles at all. Afterward, I gingerly asked Amr what he had thought of it. He admitted that he had been a bit confused by some parts, he nevertheless had enjoyed it. "It's a good show," he said.
"Do feel like you're missing anything by not being an American?"
Amr then tried to explain that the reason he had watched it was because he wasn't American. Like myself, Amr was the product of a small town where everyone knew everyone's business. Watching a TV show about other people's drama was therefore totally interesting.
In fact, Amr continued, watching drama about a family that was nothing like his own was much more enjoyable. He said he was best able to enjoy drama by watching people collapse over problems he would never have to worry about--virtually anything in Six Feet Under. "It's always the other people that are the most interesting," he offered.
"You know, Amr," I said, "That show takes place about thirty minutes from where I live. But I don't really understand the problems either."
"Then that's why we both like it," he concluded.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The Lonely Man in the Cafe
Amman, Jordan.
A man with a pipe needs no friends. He needs only a quiet night and an empty table. His smoke forms the men who would otherwise join him, but these ghosts of men do not restrain his thoughts as real men would. Rather they are the objects of his meditation, the substance of his reverie.
A man enters places that men never go.
He had a home once, now he has a house. His home is in another country—across a still river—but he has not been there in many years. In moments like these, when he sits alone and blows smoke-rings around his thoughts—weaving himself in a smokey matrix of memory—he can remember Palestine.
A son waits a few streets away. He does not know that his father is here, lost in memories he's never had, and walking through streets whose names he's never learned. Because to the son the memories of the father have become legend. And in this legend our hero is aging, fatigued, and lost. He is turning the key he's saved for generations into the door that was buried generations ago—beneath a hill beside his grandfather's grave.
The smoke rolls through the air like the green hills once did when they rested upon the clouds of paradise. Paradise has fallen, but thrives in the dreamer's ken.
Oh David! My house for yours,
And my son for Absalom?
May he forsake me, may he take me,
But no home but mine for him!
A man with a pipe needs no friends. He needs only a quiet night and an empty table. His smoke forms the men who would otherwise join him, but these ghosts of men do not restrain his thoughts as real men would. Rather they are the objects of his meditation, the substance of his reverie.
A man enters places that men never go.
He had a home once, now he has a house. His home is in another country—across a still river—but he has not been there in many years. In moments like these, when he sits alone and blows smoke-rings around his thoughts—weaving himself in a smokey matrix of memory—he can remember Palestine.
A son waits a few streets away. He does not know that his father is here, lost in memories he's never had, and walking through streets whose names he's never learned. Because to the son the memories of the father have become legend. And in this legend our hero is aging, fatigued, and lost. He is turning the key he's saved for generations into the door that was buried generations ago—beneath a hill beside his grandfather's grave.
The smoke rolls through the air like the green hills once did when they rested upon the clouds of paradise. Paradise has fallen, but thrives in the dreamer's ken.
Oh David! My house for yours,
And my son for Absalom?
May he forsake me, may he take me,
But no home but mine for him!
Monday, May 4, 2009
Soccer and Tea
Amman, Jordan.
I have never been very good at soccer. For about twenty years, I had convinced myself that it was because I was American, and the sport simply wasn't very common in my country. Indeed-- I persuaded myself further--it was perfectly understandable why I wouldn't have even basic skills. Yet as I stumbled on a deflated soccer ball--only to lose it to a 12-year-old opponent--I realized that nationality probably had nothing to do with it. I was just bad.
"Andrew!" called another young boy on my team, "get it back!" Unfortunately the ball was long-gone. My more athletic opponent was dribbling the ball toward his goal, and after he shoved aside an ailing member of my team, his shot was open. From my angle, his attempt was a miss--too far to the left. Yet to everyone else it was close enough. The goal had been somewhat variable the whole night it seemed, but never to my advantage.
"Mabruk!" called boys of his team and mine, "Well done!" Someone threw the ball back onto the street and we were at it again. Surely the ball had been white once, but the sun had set long ago, and a few months of dirt on the ball disguised it further. And in this neighborhood--among the poorest in Amman--there were no streetlights. The boys, however, saw no reason to stop playing.
After a few awkward minutes of chasing after an invisible ball (apologizing frequently for stepping on my young team-members), Ahmad--someone's older brother--appeared in the street and declared the game over. He asked everyone to thank their American guests (my friend Wes and I) for their contribution to the game, and to run home before their mothers worried too much. I was quickly smothered by the thanks of twelve-year-olds. "Thanks, Andrew," said one boy sincerely. "You were great," said another, who gave me a high-five as he walked down the street. There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in the boy's voice, and I assumed that in the dark the boy had confused me with my more atheltic friend Wes.
Ahmad watched the boys disperse and called us in for tea. Although I understood tea-invitations were central to Arab culture, I partially wondered if he wasn't trying to help my ego by offering an activity that required no athleticism. Surely anyone could drink tea. Wes and I assented, and followed him though the gate and into the backyard of his home. It was still winter then, and the cool night breeze made us remember it. Thankfully, Ahmad's family had prepared a fire next to a small shed. Only fire and company, it seemed, could survive the cold nights.
We spoke few words that night, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Ahmad and his family were happy to learn where we were from and to enjoy silence with us. Once they asked if we liked Jordan. We sincerely replied that we did. We knew they were our friends and we were theirs, and with this in our hearts we were content to let the cool wind blow and seek fire from the same hearth.
I have never been very good at soccer. For about twenty years, I had convinced myself that it was because I was American, and the sport simply wasn't very common in my country. Indeed-- I persuaded myself further--it was perfectly understandable why I wouldn't have even basic skills. Yet as I stumbled on a deflated soccer ball--only to lose it to a 12-year-old opponent--I realized that nationality probably had nothing to do with it. I was just bad.
"Andrew!" called another young boy on my team, "get it back!" Unfortunately the ball was long-gone. My more athletic opponent was dribbling the ball toward his goal, and after he shoved aside an ailing member of my team, his shot was open. From my angle, his attempt was a miss--too far to the left. Yet to everyone else it was close enough. The goal had been somewhat variable the whole night it seemed, but never to my advantage.
"Mabruk!" called boys of his team and mine, "Well done!" Someone threw the ball back onto the street and we were at it again. Surely the ball had been white once, but the sun had set long ago, and a few months of dirt on the ball disguised it further. And in this neighborhood--among the poorest in Amman--there were no streetlights. The boys, however, saw no reason to stop playing.
After a few awkward minutes of chasing after an invisible ball (apologizing frequently for stepping on my young team-members), Ahmad--someone's older brother--appeared in the street and declared the game over. He asked everyone to thank their American guests (my friend Wes and I) for their contribution to the game, and to run home before their mothers worried too much. I was quickly smothered by the thanks of twelve-year-olds. "Thanks, Andrew," said one boy sincerely. "You were great," said another, who gave me a high-five as he walked down the street. There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in the boy's voice, and I assumed that in the dark the boy had confused me with my more atheltic friend Wes.
Ahmad watched the boys disperse and called us in for tea. Although I understood tea-invitations were central to Arab culture, I partially wondered if he wasn't trying to help my ego by offering an activity that required no athleticism. Surely anyone could drink tea. Wes and I assented, and followed him though the gate and into the backyard of his home. It was still winter then, and the cool night breeze made us remember it. Thankfully, Ahmad's family had prepared a fire next to a small shed. Only fire and company, it seemed, could survive the cold nights.
We spoke few words that night, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Ahmad and his family were happy to learn where we were from and to enjoy silence with us. Once they asked if we liked Jordan. We sincerely replied that we did. We knew they were our friends and we were theirs, and with this in our hearts we were content to let the cool wind blow and seek fire from the same hearth.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Koran Lessons
The situation was awkward, but not uncomfortable. Even after retracing the events in my head, I was unsure why I had willingly entered a cramped room in the basement of a residential building—miraculously boasting a desk, a television, and a bed. A large Egyptian flag took up the better part of the back wall--revealing that Tariq wasn't Jordanian. Every other inch of the wall bore framed chapters of the Koran, and on the floor lay a few prayer mats pointed south.
Tariq didn't own much, but everything he owned reinforced the one thing he had--Islam. He was the friend of a friend, and had invited me for tea and conversation. He had promised me, however, that his intent was not to talk but rather to discuss. And a discussion, he noted, is best with two people.
"I have a few questions for you, Andrew--seven in fact. I'm going to ask you all of them and then wait for your response. When you're done, I'll give my answers and you can reflect on what I've said and what you've said. Remember though, neither you nor I is perfectly right in our answers. The true answer, usually, is somewhere in between."
He coughed--not from sickness but from awkwardness--and began to read. "Do you care for something greater than yourself?" I assented, and elaborated on my own vague notions of the universe and my role in it. When I was done, I felt the echoes of bad Arabic grammar floating throughout the room, but also recalled memories of middle school summers spent staring at the stars, becoming conscious of the cosmos that would never become conscious of me.
Tariq continued quickly through five more questions, but paused before his last. He smiled innocently, and I could tell that this particular question was the one he was most proud of. "Imagine you're on a boat in the middle of the sea, and a storm erupts. Whom do you call for help?"
Similar scenarios appear frequently throughout the Koran, but I tried to answer the question in my own way. I saw myself clinging onto bits of tempest-tossed wood, paddling back to a distant mainland. But that didn't really answer Tariq's question.
Surely if I were inches from death, it would be an appropriate time to reflect upon life, and to try to finally discern what those decades of blundering about on the earth had actually amounted to. Perhaps that would mean that I would call on some sort of god, but the more I thought about it, it seemed a bit unfair. Who was I--who had given nothing but scholarly fascination to God and gods--to summon a deity in a time of need?
"I don't know," I answered. Tariq seemed vaguely disappointed, but then pulled himself together quickly. "Thank you for being honest," he said, and began to explain how he would call on his God to save him when a deep, but powerful voice interrupted him. "Allahu akbar," it cried. We had been called to prayer.
In the Middle East--like anywhere--people are slow, so there's a considerable gap between the call to prayer and when people actually go to the mosques. Tariq--who claimed never to have missed a prayer--was fully aware of the disconnect and payed minimal attention to the voice of the muezzin. Instead, he turned on his television.
A few verses of the Koran were flashing across the screen, a small dot moving across the words to guide the reader as they were recited by an imam. I leaned closer to discern the highly-stylized script and try to recognize the chapter.
"It's about Solomon," Tariq explained, "Welcoming the Queen of Sheva." We read the story together, about Solomon who would give up his faith for nothing and ultimately succeed in converting the Queen of Sheva. After it was over, I respectfully noted important divergences from the biblical story. I explained that in biblical tradition, Solomon had actually began to worship other gods later in life, and had fallen from favor with God himself. God, accordingly, recanted on his love for Solomon, and continued to guard his kingdom only out of respect for his father, David.
"That can't be right," Tariq continued. "Once a man finds God with certainty then he cannot leave him. And surely once God bestows his favor upon us he returns to us often."
"I'm not disagreeing with you," I said, "I just think it's interesting how the Bible tells a different story."
"That can't be right either," Tariq corrected. "The Bible tells the same story. Maybe some parts differ from the stories I know, but it was composed by people who knew God, and therefore the book is holy too." He then continued, "It's the same story really, about God and his people, and their reaching out for one another. Perhaps the Solomon of the Bible forgot about his God because he was king of Israel and lacked nothing. But if he had been grasping the mast of a sinking ship, he would have remembered him."
Tariq didn't own much, but everything he owned reinforced the one thing he had--Islam. He was the friend of a friend, and had invited me for tea and conversation. He had promised me, however, that his intent was not to talk but rather to discuss. And a discussion, he noted, is best with two people.
"I have a few questions for you, Andrew--seven in fact. I'm going to ask you all of them and then wait for your response. When you're done, I'll give my answers and you can reflect on what I've said and what you've said. Remember though, neither you nor I is perfectly right in our answers. The true answer, usually, is somewhere in between."
He coughed--not from sickness but from awkwardness--and began to read. "Do you care for something greater than yourself?" I assented, and elaborated on my own vague notions of the universe and my role in it. When I was done, I felt the echoes of bad Arabic grammar floating throughout the room, but also recalled memories of middle school summers spent staring at the stars, becoming conscious of the cosmos that would never become conscious of me.
Tariq continued quickly through five more questions, but paused before his last. He smiled innocently, and I could tell that this particular question was the one he was most proud of. "Imagine you're on a boat in the middle of the sea, and a storm erupts. Whom do you call for help?"
Similar scenarios appear frequently throughout the Koran, but I tried to answer the question in my own way. I saw myself clinging onto bits of tempest-tossed wood, paddling back to a distant mainland. But that didn't really answer Tariq's question.
Surely if I were inches from death, it would be an appropriate time to reflect upon life, and to try to finally discern what those decades of blundering about on the earth had actually amounted to. Perhaps that would mean that I would call on some sort of god, but the more I thought about it, it seemed a bit unfair. Who was I--who had given nothing but scholarly fascination to God and gods--to summon a deity in a time of need?
"I don't know," I answered. Tariq seemed vaguely disappointed, but then pulled himself together quickly. "Thank you for being honest," he said, and began to explain how he would call on his God to save him when a deep, but powerful voice interrupted him. "Allahu akbar," it cried. We had been called to prayer.
In the Middle East--like anywhere--people are slow, so there's a considerable gap between the call to prayer and when people actually go to the mosques. Tariq--who claimed never to have missed a prayer--was fully aware of the disconnect and payed minimal attention to the voice of the muezzin. Instead, he turned on his television.
A few verses of the Koran were flashing across the screen, a small dot moving across the words to guide the reader as they were recited by an imam. I leaned closer to discern the highly-stylized script and try to recognize the chapter.
"It's about Solomon," Tariq explained, "Welcoming the Queen of Sheva." We read the story together, about Solomon who would give up his faith for nothing and ultimately succeed in converting the Queen of Sheva. After it was over, I respectfully noted important divergences from the biblical story. I explained that in biblical tradition, Solomon had actually began to worship other gods later in life, and had fallen from favor with God himself. God, accordingly, recanted on his love for Solomon, and continued to guard his kingdom only out of respect for his father, David.
"That can't be right," Tariq continued. "Once a man finds God with certainty then he cannot leave him. And surely once God bestows his favor upon us he returns to us often."
"I'm not disagreeing with you," I said, "I just think it's interesting how the Bible tells a different story."
"That can't be right either," Tariq corrected. "The Bible tells the same story. Maybe some parts differ from the stories I know, but it was composed by people who knew God, and therefore the book is holy too." He then continued, "It's the same story really, about God and his people, and their reaching out for one another. Perhaps the Solomon of the Bible forgot about his God because he was king of Israel and lacked nothing. But if he had been grasping the mast of a sinking ship, he would have remembered him."
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Mansaf
Northern Desert, Jordan
Sallah--my adopted Bedouin father--had commented for the past few days that tonight's dinner would be special. "We're eating mansaf," he explained, "It will be prepared in your honor."
As we sat in his tent drinking tea, I realized I knew next to nothing about this mysterious dish, only that it was the national dish of Jordan and an indispensible part of Bedouin culture. Curious, I looked up the root in my dictionary, "n--s--f."
Surely I had the wrong root. "n--s--f" meant "to pulverize or to explode." Confused, I closed my dictionary and decided I would see for myself exactly what mansaf was.
-------
I had been watching the sunset outside, when Yassar--one of my host-brothers--told me that the mansaf was ready. Intrigued, I shone my flashflight on the ground to find the path back to the tent. This was the fourth day, and I had become familiar with the trail that a few days ago had been indiscernable--a series of boxes, bushes, and pits. I found the last tall box and knew that the tent was just off to the right. I turned my flashlight looking for the door.
Thankfully, I succeeded in turning my imminent scream into a gasp. "Shu?" asked Yasser. I realized immediately that I had to bring myself together, or I was going to offend my family. I took a deep breath, and tried to explain that I was simply suprised to see a bloody goat's head at the entrance of the tent.
"It's in your honor," Yasser continued. "Usually we put it in the center of the mansaf plate itself, but we thought that as an American you might find that strange. So we put it out here instead." I stared at the glazed rectangular eyes that had just a few minutes prior watched the same sunset I had just seen, entirely unaware it was its last. Staring at the brown markings on the head, it had a striking resemblance to Dawood--one of the goats had I had named during my shepherd duties the day before. But I had named a lot of goats, and as I stared at him more closely I doubted it was him.
"Shukraan," I murmed in thanks to Yasser, glad that the darkness hid my expression.
Inside, my other brothers and Sallah were circled around an inconceivably large plate of rice and meat. I recalled my confusion looking for the meaning of "mansaf" a few hours prior. Now I realized that an "explosion" described mansaf perfectly. "Yusuf, sit," called Sallah, addressing me by my Bedouin name.
The plate was the size of a trashcan lid--perhaps bigger--and was placed on a larger mat. I begin to sit on it when I was told to stand again. I stood. "No Yusuf," explained Sallah, "Get under it." All at once, my brothers stood up and tucked themselves under the mat. I realized with horror that it was a giant bib.
My father recited the bismallah ("In the name of God, Most Compassionate, Ever Merciful") and everyone began to eat at once. Taking large pieces of bread from under the plate, the men used it to pick up rice and meat and take it to their mouths. I shyly withdrew a spoon from my pocket (which I had kept just in case) and began to poke at a ball of rice near me. I realized that I had to eat it or I was going to offend my family who had prepared it "in my honor."
Realizing my peculiar habits, Sallah picked up a piece of goat--I don't know which part--broke it, and threw it across the plate towards me. "Yusuf," he proclaimed, "Akal." Eat.
As I picked up the piece of goat in my hands, I realized how distant my life in California seemed. My life there--built upon an obsession with cleanliness and a commitment to vegetarianism--felt like it had set with the last sunset Dawood would ever see. I moved the goat meat to my mouth.
Yet as I bit into the bone, I felt like I was tasting the sweet nectar of sin.
"Zakiiy iktiir," I offered in Jordanian colloquial. "It's very delicious." I tried not to think that "it" might be Dawood.
I ate a little more that night, but soon discovered that one smile was equivalent to three mouthfulls, so I plastered a smile on my face to let everyone know that I was well-satisfied with the meal prepared in my honor.
The plate, finally, was clean. Sallah reclined and proclaimed, "Praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds."
The meal was over.
Sallah--my adopted Bedouin father--had commented for the past few days that tonight's dinner would be special. "We're eating mansaf," he explained, "It will be prepared in your honor."
As we sat in his tent drinking tea, I realized I knew next to nothing about this mysterious dish, only that it was the national dish of Jordan and an indispensible part of Bedouin culture. Curious, I looked up the root in my dictionary, "n--s--f."
Surely I had the wrong root. "n--s--f" meant "to pulverize or to explode." Confused, I closed my dictionary and decided I would see for myself exactly what mansaf was.
-------
I had been watching the sunset outside, when Yassar--one of my host-brothers--told me that the mansaf was ready. Intrigued, I shone my flashflight on the ground to find the path back to the tent. This was the fourth day, and I had become familiar with the trail that a few days ago had been indiscernable--a series of boxes, bushes, and pits. I found the last tall box and knew that the tent was just off to the right. I turned my flashlight looking for the door.
Thankfully, I succeeded in turning my imminent scream into a gasp. "Shu?" asked Yasser. I realized immediately that I had to bring myself together, or I was going to offend my family. I took a deep breath, and tried to explain that I was simply suprised to see a bloody goat's head at the entrance of the tent.
"It's in your honor," Yasser continued. "Usually we put it in the center of the mansaf plate itself, but we thought that as an American you might find that strange. So we put it out here instead." I stared at the glazed rectangular eyes that had just a few minutes prior watched the same sunset I had just seen, entirely unaware it was its last. Staring at the brown markings on the head, it had a striking resemblance to Dawood--one of the goats had I had named during my shepherd duties the day before. But I had named a lot of goats, and as I stared at him more closely I doubted it was him.
"Shukraan," I murmed in thanks to Yasser, glad that the darkness hid my expression.
Inside, my other brothers and Sallah were circled around an inconceivably large plate of rice and meat. I recalled my confusion looking for the meaning of "mansaf" a few hours prior. Now I realized that an "explosion" described mansaf perfectly. "Yusuf, sit," called Sallah, addressing me by my Bedouin name.
The plate was the size of a trashcan lid--perhaps bigger--and was placed on a larger mat. I begin to sit on it when I was told to stand again. I stood. "No Yusuf," explained Sallah, "Get under it." All at once, my brothers stood up and tucked themselves under the mat. I realized with horror that it was a giant bib.
My father recited the bismallah ("In the name of God, Most Compassionate, Ever Merciful") and everyone began to eat at once. Taking large pieces of bread from under the plate, the men used it to pick up rice and meat and take it to their mouths. I shyly withdrew a spoon from my pocket (which I had kept just in case) and began to poke at a ball of rice near me. I realized that I had to eat it or I was going to offend my family who had prepared it "in my honor."
Realizing my peculiar habits, Sallah picked up a piece of goat--I don't know which part--broke it, and threw it across the plate towards me. "Yusuf," he proclaimed, "Akal." Eat.
As I picked up the piece of goat in my hands, I realized how distant my life in California seemed. My life there--built upon an obsession with cleanliness and a commitment to vegetarianism--felt like it had set with the last sunset Dawood would ever see. I moved the goat meat to my mouth.
Yet as I bit into the bone, I felt like I was tasting the sweet nectar of sin.
"Zakiiy iktiir," I offered in Jordanian colloquial. "It's very delicious." I tried not to think that "it" might be Dawood.
I ate a little more that night, but soon discovered that one smile was equivalent to three mouthfulls, so I plastered a smile on my face to let everyone know that I was well-satisfied with the meal prepared in my honor.
The plate, finally, was clean. Sallah reclined and proclaimed, "Praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds."
The meal was over.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Abu Hamad
I have a lot of trepidation about sharing this story; it was told to me as part of a series of interviews I conducted in English, but 'Abu Hamad' has assured me that this story can be released in this way. There are a number of things in it that concern me--namely cultural elements that require explanation, but I feel that presenting those explanations here damages the narrative itself. I intend to add them in a later post.
His name was Abu Hamad--the father of Hamad--but he hadn't seen his son in six years. Yet he insisted upon being addressed as "Abu Hamad"--as opposed to his given name that I've since forgotten.
Abu Hamad didn't drink, but he said that I could; in fact he said he'd pay for it. I declined, and he commented that it was rare for an American to refuse alcohol under any circumstances. I said maybe another time.
Until that day, I had met Abu Hamad only once in passing--he was the friend of a friend--and he had spoken to me then only briefly. He had told me that he wanted to meet with me over drinks sometime and talk to an American, and that he had a story I might like to hear. I had asked him then if he wouldn't like to tell the story then, but he declined. "Now isn't the time," he had said.
Presumably now--as he took a long sip of his lemon juice--was the time. He wiped his brow as though the coldness of the juice had made him sweat, and stared blankly at the glass.
I don't think either of us knew precisely what to say, so we took a long while trading small talk and comments about religion or politics. In the Middle East, these topics are small talk.
After a time, he seemed ready to talk about whatever it was that he had called me here to discuss, whatever it was he thought I'd need a drink to hear, and that he himself had needed two tall glasses of lemon juice to talk about.
"I'm going to tell you a story that hasn't been told many times," he said. "I'm telling you not because I have any real reason to trust you, but because you're an American and I think you'd be better able to hear it than most people I know here." He sipped his juice again. "It seems to be relevant to what my friend says you've been studying--Islam and modernization or whatever--so I think it'll help you out. I want someone to know--indeed I'd like everyone to know--but I can't tell anyone and so few know."
"I'd love to hear whatever story you care to tell me," I told Abu Hamad. "I can tell others if you want me to."
He paused a moment, and then said, "I'm trying to decide where to start. The story itself was about seven years ago, but to tell it right, I'd have to back up still further."
"Please do," I said.
"No," he responded emphatically after a moment of thought. "All you need to know started seven years ago." He ordered another juice--this time pineapple--before he continued, "I loved my wife, let that stand clear. We had our ups and downs just like any married couples, but that wasn't why I did what I did. I loved her, and the whole way through it I still loved her.
"But it wasn't perfect; perhaps no marriage is perfect. I discovered that the internet was the only place that I could go to try and make it right, so I went there. I don't know what I was looking for or what I was hoping to find, but something told me that it was there.
"I had a few girlfriends there for a while, but they never really went anywhere. It wasn't what I needed, and I realized very quickly that I could never hope for a better woman in my life. Somehow--I don't exactly remember the process--I started to realize that what I needed was companionship in general--not a replacement for my wife. So I started to develop friendships with people all throughout the world. My English got a lot better that way, and I made a few friends that I still have.
"In time though, I began to look a bit closer to home. I don't know how I got there, but I began to talk to some of the guys around Amman. I got to be friends with some of them--online only-- but there was one that was unique. His name was Mahmoud.
"To be honest I don't remember the first time I talked to Mahmoud. I started conversations with hundreds of people that never really went anywhere. I probably started talking to Mahmoud in the same way, but for whatever reason we just kept talking.
"He began to tell me all sorts of things, and I began to talk to him. We became close--very close--as close friends on the internet can be. And then we became closer."
Abu Hamad stopped talking for a moment and awkwardly sucked the lees of his pineapple juice through his straw. Clearly he was looking for my reaction to see if he should continue. I told him that he should. He told me then that they had begun to trade pictures so that they would at least know what each other looked like--but that was as far as Abu Hamad and Mahmoud ever wanted to take it.
"Then it changed again," Abu Hamad continued. "I realized I had broken a barrier that I had never known had been there. I realized everything all at once, and I built everything into one person--Mahmoud.
"We never wanted to see each other--let me make that clear. I suppose I was concerned about what people would think, but more than that I was concerned about what I would feel. If we remained friends over the internet then our friendship could go on forever. If we met then we would have to decide if we were going to risk the impossible." Abu Hamad paused and then added, "And I never wanted to risk that.
"We got closer and closer and then one day--I remember the day and the place--I saw him. It was strange because I saw him from behind, and I thought to myself 'That looks like Mahmoud might from behind,' but I had never seen a picture like that so I didn't really know what he would look like. But then he turned around--as though he knew he were being watched--and we sort of stared at each other." Mahmoud took a long sip of fresh pineapple juice.
"I don't know what the expression on my face looked like, but his was surprisingly cool. It was sad in a way, but it wasn't surprised. In fact for a minute I thought that perhaps it wasn't him. I thought to myself many times what I would say if I ever met him, but when that time came I didn't have the slightest idea. Perhaps because the staring was so awkward he began to walk toward me, and I toward him."
Mahmoud coughed and thoughtfully continued, "I know it sounds hokey, but you have to trust me on this. We walked towards each other, but I knew and he knew that we weren't going to acknowledge each other. We just walked by each other like two strangers might, glanced briefly and walked away. We couldn't say anything to each other, but were at least able to communicate that was what we wanted."
Abu Hamad had finished his pineapple juice and was playing with the straw. "I still care for him, I want you to know that. But I also want you to know that I've never talked to him since."
His name was Abu Hamad--the father of Hamad--but he hadn't seen his son in six years. Yet he insisted upon being addressed as "Abu Hamad"--as opposed to his given name that I've since forgotten.
Abu Hamad didn't drink, but he said that I could; in fact he said he'd pay for it. I declined, and he commented that it was rare for an American to refuse alcohol under any circumstances. I said maybe another time.
Until that day, I had met Abu Hamad only once in passing--he was the friend of a friend--and he had spoken to me then only briefly. He had told me that he wanted to meet with me over drinks sometime and talk to an American, and that he had a story I might like to hear. I had asked him then if he wouldn't like to tell the story then, but he declined. "Now isn't the time," he had said.
Presumably now--as he took a long sip of his lemon juice--was the time. He wiped his brow as though the coldness of the juice had made him sweat, and stared blankly at the glass.
I don't think either of us knew precisely what to say, so we took a long while trading small talk and comments about religion or politics. In the Middle East, these topics are small talk.
After a time, he seemed ready to talk about whatever it was that he had called me here to discuss, whatever it was he thought I'd need a drink to hear, and that he himself had needed two tall glasses of lemon juice to talk about.
"I'm going to tell you a story that hasn't been told many times," he said. "I'm telling you not because I have any real reason to trust you, but because you're an American and I think you'd be better able to hear it than most people I know here." He sipped his juice again. "It seems to be relevant to what my friend says you've been studying--Islam and modernization or whatever--so I think it'll help you out. I want someone to know--indeed I'd like everyone to know--but I can't tell anyone and so few know."
"I'd love to hear whatever story you care to tell me," I told Abu Hamad. "I can tell others if you want me to."
He paused a moment, and then said, "I'm trying to decide where to start. The story itself was about seven years ago, but to tell it right, I'd have to back up still further."
"Please do," I said.
"No," he responded emphatically after a moment of thought. "All you need to know started seven years ago." He ordered another juice--this time pineapple--before he continued, "I loved my wife, let that stand clear. We had our ups and downs just like any married couples, but that wasn't why I did what I did. I loved her, and the whole way through it I still loved her.
"But it wasn't perfect; perhaps no marriage is perfect. I discovered that the internet was the only place that I could go to try and make it right, so I went there. I don't know what I was looking for or what I was hoping to find, but something told me that it was there.
"I had a few girlfriends there for a while, but they never really went anywhere. It wasn't what I needed, and I realized very quickly that I could never hope for a better woman in my life. Somehow--I don't exactly remember the process--I started to realize that what I needed was companionship in general--not a replacement for my wife. So I started to develop friendships with people all throughout the world. My English got a lot better that way, and I made a few friends that I still have.
"In time though, I began to look a bit closer to home. I don't know how I got there, but I began to talk to some of the guys around Amman. I got to be friends with some of them--online only-- but there was one that was unique. His name was Mahmoud.
"To be honest I don't remember the first time I talked to Mahmoud. I started conversations with hundreds of people that never really went anywhere. I probably started talking to Mahmoud in the same way, but for whatever reason we just kept talking.
"He began to tell me all sorts of things, and I began to talk to him. We became close--very close--as close friends on the internet can be. And then we became closer."
Abu Hamad stopped talking for a moment and awkwardly sucked the lees of his pineapple juice through his straw. Clearly he was looking for my reaction to see if he should continue. I told him that he should. He told me then that they had begun to trade pictures so that they would at least know what each other looked like--but that was as far as Abu Hamad and Mahmoud ever wanted to take it.
"Then it changed again," Abu Hamad continued. "I realized I had broken a barrier that I had never known had been there. I realized everything all at once, and I built everything into one person--Mahmoud.
"We never wanted to see each other--let me make that clear. I suppose I was concerned about what people would think, but more than that I was concerned about what I would feel. If we remained friends over the internet then our friendship could go on forever. If we met then we would have to decide if we were going to risk the impossible." Abu Hamad paused and then added, "And I never wanted to risk that.
"We got closer and closer and then one day--I remember the day and the place--I saw him. It was strange because I saw him from behind, and I thought to myself 'That looks like Mahmoud might from behind,' but I had never seen a picture like that so I didn't really know what he would look like. But then he turned around--as though he knew he were being watched--and we sort of stared at each other." Mahmoud took a long sip of fresh pineapple juice.
"I don't know what the expression on my face looked like, but his was surprisingly cool. It was sad in a way, but it wasn't surprised. In fact for a minute I thought that perhaps it wasn't him. I thought to myself many times what I would say if I ever met him, but when that time came I didn't have the slightest idea. Perhaps because the staring was so awkward he began to walk toward me, and I toward him."
Mahmoud coughed and thoughtfully continued, "I know it sounds hokey, but you have to trust me on this. We walked towards each other, but I knew and he knew that we weren't going to acknowledge each other. We just walked by each other like two strangers might, glanced briefly and walked away. We couldn't say anything to each other, but were at least able to communicate that was what we wanted."
Abu Hamad had finished his pineapple juice and was playing with the straw. "I still care for him, I want you to know that. But I also want you to know that I've never talked to him since."
Kosher Wine
Forty miles away, just beyond the blue mountains outside Amman, people were busy preparing for the most important night of the Jewish year, the Passover seder. Stores everywhere were selling the essentials of the dinner--matzo bread and kosher wine. Amman boasted a few Easter bunnies, but Passover was entirely forgotten.
My job was to find kosher wine for the dinner--or a suitable alternative. We had entertained using a cheap grapejuice for a while, but the brand wasn't kosher and the liquid certainly wasn't wine. I thought we could do better. Carrying an empty backback into one of Amman's most modern market centers, I guiltily entered a wine store seeking to fill it.
"What do you want?" the wine-seller asked me in English.
Knowing every sentence I spoke in English would add a dinar to the price, I pretended not to understand. "You don't understand English," the clerk lamented in Arabic, fearing that transactions were going to be hopelessly awkward.
"I speak a little Arabic," I told him.
"Kweis," he said doubtfully, and continued in Arabic, "Where are you from?"
"I'm...Italian," I concluded.
"Italian? Then you must know something about wine."
Knowing nothing about wine, I fumbled for something intelligent to say. "Just Italian wines," I explained. Looking around, virtually every bottle proudly displayed some Italian name or other. I quickly and hopelessly scanned the racks for "Manischewitz."
"What are you looking for?" he pressed.
"Oh, just--you know--wine," I explained, as though that made it all clear. Then I guiltily added, "Cheap...wine."
"Try this." The wine-seller went to a corner of the store and proudly took a bottle off the bottom rack. "It's Jordanian." I leaned forward to read, "Mt. Nebo: Wine of the Holy Land."
"It's perfect," I exclaimed. From a religious sense, it was far from perfect. It certainly wasn't kosher, and it had appropriated Moses' death place as an marketing ploy. Something else about it though, truly was perfect.
Waiting for me to find money in my wallet, the clerk asked, "So where in Italy?"
It took me a minute to understand the question until I remembered I was Italian. "Oh," I stammered, "Verona."
"Verona. Like Romeo and Juliet." Impressed, I handed him my ten-dinar bill and waited for the change. "You know, you really should learn English," the cashier continued, "Then you could read Shakespeare."
I lifted my eyes from the table and up to his. He was smiling. "I'm teasing," he said in English, "An Italian would never buy wine that shitty." I laughed and thanked him.
He laughed back, and said, "And don't worry, this store doesn't give 'Italian' prices."
My job was to find kosher wine for the dinner--or a suitable alternative. We had entertained using a cheap grapejuice for a while, but the brand wasn't kosher and the liquid certainly wasn't wine. I thought we could do better. Carrying an empty backback into one of Amman's most modern market centers, I guiltily entered a wine store seeking to fill it.
"What do you want?" the wine-seller asked me in English.
Knowing every sentence I spoke in English would add a dinar to the price, I pretended not to understand. "You don't understand English," the clerk lamented in Arabic, fearing that transactions were going to be hopelessly awkward.
"I speak a little Arabic," I told him.
"Kweis," he said doubtfully, and continued in Arabic, "Where are you from?"
"I'm...Italian," I concluded.
"Italian? Then you must know something about wine."
Knowing nothing about wine, I fumbled for something intelligent to say. "Just Italian wines," I explained. Looking around, virtually every bottle proudly displayed some Italian name or other. I quickly and hopelessly scanned the racks for "Manischewitz."
"What are you looking for?" he pressed.
"Oh, just--you know--wine," I explained, as though that made it all clear. Then I guiltily added, "Cheap...wine."
"Try this." The wine-seller went to a corner of the store and proudly took a bottle off the bottom rack. "It's Jordanian." I leaned forward to read, "Mt. Nebo: Wine of the Holy Land."
"It's perfect," I exclaimed. From a religious sense, it was far from perfect. It certainly wasn't kosher, and it had appropriated Moses' death place as an marketing ploy. Something else about it though, truly was perfect.
Waiting for me to find money in my wallet, the clerk asked, "So where in Italy?"
It took me a minute to understand the question until I remembered I was Italian. "Oh," I stammered, "Verona."
"Verona. Like Romeo and Juliet." Impressed, I handed him my ten-dinar bill and waited for the change. "You know, you really should learn English," the cashier continued, "Then you could read Shakespeare."
I lifted my eyes from the table and up to his. He was smiling. "I'm teasing," he said in English, "An Italian would never buy wine that shitty." I laughed and thanked him.
He laughed back, and said, "And don't worry, this store doesn't give 'Italian' prices."
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Mount Hor
Near Petra, Jordan.
"It's six kilometers that way, maybe more."
Drenched in dust, blinded by the sun, and suffocated by the stench of my own sweat, these were the last words that I wanted to hear. "Where is it then?" I asked the man, who was hunched over his camel to better discern my broken Arabic.
"That way," he repeated, pointing off toward a range of mountains. "Do you want my camel?"
Of course I wanted his camel, but I couldn't accept it. He was going somewhere too, and taking his camel seemed a bit unfair. I muttered a polite "no thank you." I could walk instead.
"As you like," he said. We split paths--I toward the mountains and he toward a large tent I had passed a few minutes ago.
Ignorant of the new southern climate, I had dressed as I would for Amman's mild weather. As the path began to rise before the mountains, I wished that I could trade a layer of my clothes for the water I had left back at Petra, or that I could borrow just one of Amman's myriad clouds to guard me from the sun.
Petra was now entirely out of sight, shielded by the sun's rays and hidden in a mountain ravine far off in the distance. It was still early--not yet noon--but I knew that there were hundreds of tourists there now, speaking myriad languages and awing at merchandise fresh from China. When they came shortly after sunrise, I knew it was time for me to leave.
There was a path to follow, at least at first. What began as a dirt road was now just combed grass, and the signs--once in English and Arabic, then just in Arabic--had now entirely disappeared. About ten minutes later, I realized I couldn't discern the path at all.
On the hills before the mountains was a herd of goats, seemingly lost without shepherds. I moved toward them. It was doubtful they knew where the tomb of Aaron was, but at least they would offer some company.
As the minutes ran by and the sun rose higher, I met the herd of goats sauntering aimlessly through the green hills. They baaed a polite hello (or whatever goats do), and some stopped to stare at me through their rectangular pupils. One nibbled my shirt, but none seemed to have any idea where we were. As the goats began to chaotically disperse across the hills, I looked for a shepherd who might point me in the right direction.
When the last of the goats had crossed the hill, an aging dog ran up behind. At his heels was a very young boy, who seemed entirely overwhelmed by his renegade flock. The dog, by contrast, seemed too old to care.
"Salaam!" I called to the boy. He seemed relieved to see someone, and he descended the hill as I ran up it. "Do you know where the tomb of Aaron is?" I asked.
"The prophet Aaron?" the boy asked, reminding me that there were probably countless Aarons that had buried in the area throughout the years.
"Yes, the brother of Moses."
"Up there," he said, pointing toward a mountain that was creeping over the hill. "He's on top of it."
I thanked him, and asked him where the path was.
"Oh, I don't know the path," he said. "The goats know the path, and I follow them." I looked down from the hill at the goats, who were baaing and dispersing in all directions. He grimaced at the task ahead of him and then said, "Ride a donkey; that's the easiest way to climb Aaron's mountain."
I told him I didn't have a donkey. He looked thoughtful and said, "Oh. Well it's definitely best to find one then." I thanked him, and he reluctantly followed the dog down the hill, who offered a feeble bark to reestablish order among the rebellious goats.
Aaron's Mountain--the biblical Mount Hor--didn't seem daunting at first sight. Yet as I stared at the other mountains around it, Aaron's rose above them all. Tucked away--on the far corner--was a small white building that was said to house the remains of Aaron.
Without the path, I began to walk up the mountain, pulling myself up on jagged rocks and twisty trees. The mountain began rather flat, but its incline grew with elevation. Soon the soil disappeared, and the mountain was naked in bare rock.
As the mountain grew increasingly vertical, I tried to find my way up it by creeping into small crevices between boulders. On about three occasions I thought it was impossible to go any higher, but some creative maneuvering always opened new paths and new heights.
Yet eventually I saw no way higher. Just above my head I could see the end of the boulders, and surely just beyond them was the tomb itself. But there was no way to get there; every turn upon the boulder led nowhere but straight below. Defeated, I sat down on a particularly large rock and looked out.
I had completely lost sense of direction, but this had to be East. Yes, surely. It was the great plane of Hor, stretching from the slope of my mountain and into the Negev of Israel. It was the very beginning of David's kingdom. The plain was more beautiful than the romantic legends that surround it; it cradles a sea of green hills that fade into a hazy desert in the east, and that grow into mountains in the north and south.
Long ago, the rabbis say, the Israelites walked up this same mountain to bury their prophet and ensure him a view of the Promised Land. They chose the tallest mountain en route from the wilderness of Sinai to the Land of Israel itself. As I heard the song of a young bedouin shepherdess echo off my mountain and felt the sun surrender to the cool breeze, I knew there was no better resting-place for the first priest of Israel.
There are places in this world that bear an awesome power, that resist the changes of time and guard the collective memory of the ages. Mt Hor is one of those places. It is fitting that upon its summit lies Aaron--the voice of Moses--who alone might have been able to articulate what that power was. For me, I am without words.
"It's six kilometers that way, maybe more."
Drenched in dust, blinded by the sun, and suffocated by the stench of my own sweat, these were the last words that I wanted to hear. "Where is it then?" I asked the man, who was hunched over his camel to better discern my broken Arabic.
"That way," he repeated, pointing off toward a range of mountains. "Do you want my camel?"
Of course I wanted his camel, but I couldn't accept it. He was going somewhere too, and taking his camel seemed a bit unfair. I muttered a polite "no thank you." I could walk instead.
"As you like," he said. We split paths--I toward the mountains and he toward a large tent I had passed a few minutes ago.
Ignorant of the new southern climate, I had dressed as I would for Amman's mild weather. As the path began to rise before the mountains, I wished that I could trade a layer of my clothes for the water I had left back at Petra, or that I could borrow just one of Amman's myriad clouds to guard me from the sun.
Petra was now entirely out of sight, shielded by the sun's rays and hidden in a mountain ravine far off in the distance. It was still early--not yet noon--but I knew that there were hundreds of tourists there now, speaking myriad languages and awing at merchandise fresh from China. When they came shortly after sunrise, I knew it was time for me to leave.
There was a path to follow, at least at first. What began as a dirt road was now just combed grass, and the signs--once in English and Arabic, then just in Arabic--had now entirely disappeared. About ten minutes later, I realized I couldn't discern the path at all.
On the hills before the mountains was a herd of goats, seemingly lost without shepherds. I moved toward them. It was doubtful they knew where the tomb of Aaron was, but at least they would offer some company.
As the minutes ran by and the sun rose higher, I met the herd of goats sauntering aimlessly through the green hills. They baaed a polite hello (or whatever goats do), and some stopped to stare at me through their rectangular pupils. One nibbled my shirt, but none seemed to have any idea where we were. As the goats began to chaotically disperse across the hills, I looked for a shepherd who might point me in the right direction.
When the last of the goats had crossed the hill, an aging dog ran up behind. At his heels was a very young boy, who seemed entirely overwhelmed by his renegade flock. The dog, by contrast, seemed too old to care.
"Salaam!" I called to the boy. He seemed relieved to see someone, and he descended the hill as I ran up it. "Do you know where the tomb of Aaron is?" I asked.
"The prophet Aaron?" the boy asked, reminding me that there were probably countless Aarons that had buried in the area throughout the years.
"Yes, the brother of Moses."
"Up there," he said, pointing toward a mountain that was creeping over the hill. "He's on top of it."
I thanked him, and asked him where the path was.
"Oh, I don't know the path," he said. "The goats know the path, and I follow them." I looked down from the hill at the goats, who were baaing and dispersing in all directions. He grimaced at the task ahead of him and then said, "Ride a donkey; that's the easiest way to climb Aaron's mountain."
I told him I didn't have a donkey. He looked thoughtful and said, "Oh. Well it's definitely best to find one then." I thanked him, and he reluctantly followed the dog down the hill, who offered a feeble bark to reestablish order among the rebellious goats.
Aaron's Mountain--the biblical Mount Hor--didn't seem daunting at first sight. Yet as I stared at the other mountains around it, Aaron's rose above them all. Tucked away--on the far corner--was a small white building that was said to house the remains of Aaron.
Without the path, I began to walk up the mountain, pulling myself up on jagged rocks and twisty trees. The mountain began rather flat, but its incline grew with elevation. Soon the soil disappeared, and the mountain was naked in bare rock.
As the mountain grew increasingly vertical, I tried to find my way up it by creeping into small crevices between boulders. On about three occasions I thought it was impossible to go any higher, but some creative maneuvering always opened new paths and new heights.
Yet eventually I saw no way higher. Just above my head I could see the end of the boulders, and surely just beyond them was the tomb itself. But there was no way to get there; every turn upon the boulder led nowhere but straight below. Defeated, I sat down on a particularly large rock and looked out.
I had completely lost sense of direction, but this had to be East. Yes, surely. It was the great plane of Hor, stretching from the slope of my mountain and into the Negev of Israel. It was the very beginning of David's kingdom. The plain was more beautiful than the romantic legends that surround it; it cradles a sea of green hills that fade into a hazy desert in the east, and that grow into mountains in the north and south.
Long ago, the rabbis say, the Israelites walked up this same mountain to bury their prophet and ensure him a view of the Promised Land. They chose the tallest mountain en route from the wilderness of Sinai to the Land of Israel itself. As I heard the song of a young bedouin shepherdess echo off my mountain and felt the sun surrender to the cool breeze, I knew there was no better resting-place for the first priest of Israel.
There are places in this world that bear an awesome power, that resist the changes of time and guard the collective memory of the ages. Mt Hor is one of those places. It is fitting that upon its summit lies Aaron--the voice of Moses--who alone might have been able to articulate what that power was. For me, I am without words.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Flag and Cigarette (continued from prior post)
After my friend's cigarette attempted its ill-fated flight across the Jordan River, I knew I was going to have a lot to think about. Something about it--or perhaps a lot about it--was deeply bothersome on both banks.
It wasn't that I thought the cigarette could inflict any real damage on the Israeli flag, and certainly it wasn't news that the West Bank is under Israeli occupation.
The problem for my friend, I think, was that he was completely unprepared to see the Israeli flag--there. After a day of hype about seeing Palestine, it took everyone by surprise to see a gigantic Star of David stare back at us. Israel was, after all, several miles south. It was rather like seeing your grandparents on the night of your twenty-first birthday. You might like them very much--just not there.
Everyone--those who love to travel, those who fade into biblical reveries, those who know something about politics or economics--know that Israel has a lot to offer. Therefore I cannot support my friend in disrespecting the Israeli flag--be it in Israel, Palestine, or anywhere. To do so is a disrespect to the nation and its people throughout the world.
But what was frustrating was that place--the Baptism Site and the beautiful valley surrounding it--simply wasn't Israel. It was Palestinian territory, and without a mental map few would have known otherwise.
And as the tourists murmured and said to one another, "That's Israel!" the realization sunk in that virtually no one understood it was the West Bank, and that we were in fact standing miles beyond the "Green Line".
To them, and indeed to most, "Palestine" has a heavy ring to the ear. Palestine--the parallel history of the Holy Land--has become a mere political question, not a historical or cultural entity. It is a small land, but it has no paucity of locations of cultural importance. These places now seem locked between policy debates and barbed wire, between broken treaties and political parlance. And even when my friends and I tried to see for ourselves what lies beyond CNN, we saw a marble compound and an Israel flag--no Palestine.
My friend's argument was with that particular flag across the bank--not with the actual nation that stood several miles further west. But the anger of seeing it there may influence his perceptions of the country itself. Therein is the danger of continued occupation of the West Bank. If Israel stands strong as a cultural, academic, and economic center, it will win the hearts and support of the world. And yet if it continues to occupy Palestine--continues to fly its flag over places that are Palestine's cultural Meccas--then many will lose sight of the Jewish nation itself and concentrate only on its horrific policies in the Palestinian territories.
Of the Jordanians I know, very few have meant Israelis, and none have been to Israel or speak Hebrew. All they know is what they see, and when they go to their border--to their brother nation of Palestine--they see an Israeli flag. This is their only contact with Madinat Yisrael--as an occupying power. Israel's concern has ever been its own protection, but its best protection is its own image. As the images of Gaza are everywhere in the Jordanian media, it does them little good to remind the world who is occupying Palestine.
Israel can--and should--celebrate its incredible history and culture, and leave the Palestinians what is theirs.
I cannot condone that my friend threw a cigarette at the flag of Israel. Nor can I condone that the flag of Israel was flying there.
It wasn't that I thought the cigarette could inflict any real damage on the Israeli flag, and certainly it wasn't news that the West Bank is under Israeli occupation.
The problem for my friend, I think, was that he was completely unprepared to see the Israeli flag--there. After a day of hype about seeing Palestine, it took everyone by surprise to see a gigantic Star of David stare back at us. Israel was, after all, several miles south. It was rather like seeing your grandparents on the night of your twenty-first birthday. You might like them very much--just not there.
Everyone--those who love to travel, those who fade into biblical reveries, those who know something about politics or economics--know that Israel has a lot to offer. Therefore I cannot support my friend in disrespecting the Israeli flag--be it in Israel, Palestine, or anywhere. To do so is a disrespect to the nation and its people throughout the world.
But what was frustrating was that place--the Baptism Site and the beautiful valley surrounding it--simply wasn't Israel. It was Palestinian territory, and without a mental map few would have known otherwise.
And as the tourists murmured and said to one another, "That's Israel!" the realization sunk in that virtually no one understood it was the West Bank, and that we were in fact standing miles beyond the "Green Line".
To them, and indeed to most, "Palestine" has a heavy ring to the ear. Palestine--the parallel history of the Holy Land--has become a mere political question, not a historical or cultural entity. It is a small land, but it has no paucity of locations of cultural importance. These places now seem locked between policy debates and barbed wire, between broken treaties and political parlance. And even when my friends and I tried to see for ourselves what lies beyond CNN, we saw a marble compound and an Israel flag--no Palestine.
My friend's argument was with that particular flag across the bank--not with the actual nation that stood several miles further west. But the anger of seeing it there may influence his perceptions of the country itself. Therein is the danger of continued occupation of the West Bank. If Israel stands strong as a cultural, academic, and economic center, it will win the hearts and support of the world. And yet if it continues to occupy Palestine--continues to fly its flag over places that are Palestine's cultural Meccas--then many will lose sight of the Jewish nation itself and concentrate only on its horrific policies in the Palestinian territories.
Of the Jordanians I know, very few have meant Israelis, and none have been to Israel or speak Hebrew. All they know is what they see, and when they go to their border--to their brother nation of Palestine--they see an Israeli flag. This is their only contact with Madinat Yisrael--as an occupying power. Israel's concern has ever been its own protection, but its best protection is its own image. As the images of Gaza are everywhere in the Jordanian media, it does them little good to remind the world who is occupying Palestine.
Israel can--and should--celebrate its incredible history and culture, and leave the Palestinians what is theirs.
I cannot condone that my friend threw a cigarette at the flag of Israel. Nor can I condone that the flag of Israel was flying there.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
The Jordan River
After spending countless years wondering in the deserts of Sinai and the Transjordan, the time had come for Joshua--prophet and general of the Israelites--to make an assault on the Promised Land. There was one critical problem: a large, flowing river blocked Joshua's army from the "land flowing with milk and honey" on the other side. Thinking, perhaps, of his ever-resourceful successor Moses, Joshua ordered the priests to carry the Ark of the Covenant across the river. When their shoes touched the River Jordan, the river stopped its flow, and the Israelites crossed it on dry land.
Yesterday, that legend became entirely unimpressive.
Chronic hydrophobics might need a small tree to ford the Jordan, but everyone else could simply wade across. They would be wet a whole of three seconds. Nor need they fear a raging flow; if I hadn't known I was facing West, it would have taken a minute to discern which way the water was flowing.
I did, however, reserve an iota of sympathy for Joshua on account of the water itself. It was actually more mud then water, moving in small swirls like brown oil paint. I glimpsed a fish jump from the muddy water a few yards off--covered in mud like all his surroundings--before he fell back to the river, spraying brown droplets of water in all directions.
In short, there was nothing romantic about it.
A long-jump's distance away was the West Bank--or was it?
On the other side, in front of a marble observatory and stone church, stood a tall pole. A gust of wind blew across it, unraveling a white and blue flag. I had almost forgotten--it was occupied territory.
Surrounded by tourists googling over the Israeli flag, I couldn't help but notice that the other side of the river was entirely vacant. No wonder it's third-world living conditions over there, I thought. It's the site of Jesus' baptism and no tourist is brave enough to snap his camera there. I thought of the images of "Palestine" that run through the Western media--usually barbed wire, armed guards, heat, and poverty. Places like Bethlehem, Qumran, Hebron, East Jerusalem, and Jericho seem locked away in another world. No wonder no one ever goes to Palestine.
My friend was standing down by the water smoking a cigarette and staring at the flag. When the cigarette was reduced to a short stub, he shook its ashes on the earth and threw the butt at the Israeli flag on the other side.
Thankfully, the wind caught it and it fell en route, sank into a swirl of muddy water, and disappeared beneath the muck.
Yesterday, that legend became entirely unimpressive.
Chronic hydrophobics might need a small tree to ford the Jordan, but everyone else could simply wade across. They would be wet a whole of three seconds. Nor need they fear a raging flow; if I hadn't known I was facing West, it would have taken a minute to discern which way the water was flowing.
I did, however, reserve an iota of sympathy for Joshua on account of the water itself. It was actually more mud then water, moving in small swirls like brown oil paint. I glimpsed a fish jump from the muddy water a few yards off--covered in mud like all his surroundings--before he fell back to the river, spraying brown droplets of water in all directions.
In short, there was nothing romantic about it.
A long-jump's distance away was the West Bank--or was it?
On the other side, in front of a marble observatory and stone church, stood a tall pole. A gust of wind blew across it, unraveling a white and blue flag. I had almost forgotten--it was occupied territory.
Surrounded by tourists googling over the Israeli flag, I couldn't help but notice that the other side of the river was entirely vacant. No wonder it's third-world living conditions over there, I thought. It's the site of Jesus' baptism and no tourist is brave enough to snap his camera there. I thought of the images of "Palestine" that run through the Western media--usually barbed wire, armed guards, heat, and poverty. Places like Bethlehem, Qumran, Hebron, East Jerusalem, and Jericho seem locked away in another world. No wonder no one ever goes to Palestine.
My friend was standing down by the water smoking a cigarette and staring at the flag. When the cigarette was reduced to a short stub, he shook its ashes on the earth and threw the butt at the Israeli flag on the other side.
Thankfully, the wind caught it and it fell en route, sank into a swirl of muddy water, and disappeared beneath the muck.
The Scarf
Somewhere--God knows precisely where--my friend and I got on a bus. With the northern desert disappearing behind us, I looked forward into the rear-view mirror and the driver's curious eyes. He asked us where we were going.
"Amman," I said. He looked thoughtful, and then asked, "Where are you from?"
"We're American," I replied.
"American?" He laughed and motioned to his neck.
I couldn't help but think he meant something sinister; then I looked to my own neck and realized what he was talking about. My black and white scarf--the Palestianian pattern--was poorly tied around it.
"I thought you were Palestinian," he laughed. "I thought I had Yasser Arafat on this bus." We laughed together, and I tied my scarf more tightly around my neck as we drove on.
--
About three weeks later, I hailed a bus that was rocketing down a dusty road. I got on it, and looked for an empty seat by a window. "Yasser Arafat!" a voice called to me. I turned toward the driver's seat and discried a smiling face in the rear-view window. "Take a seat by me!"
"Amman," I said. He looked thoughtful, and then asked, "Where are you from?"
"We're American," I replied.
"American?" He laughed and motioned to his neck.
I couldn't help but think he meant something sinister; then I looked to my own neck and realized what he was talking about. My black and white scarf--the Palestianian pattern--was poorly tied around it.
"I thought you were Palestinian," he laughed. "I thought I had Yasser Arafat on this bus." We laughed together, and I tied my scarf more tightly around my neck as we drove on.
--
About three weeks later, I hailed a bus that was rocketing down a dusty road. I got on it, and looked for an empty seat by a window. "Yasser Arafat!" a voice called to me. I turned toward the driver's seat and discried a smiling face in the rear-view window. "Take a seat by me!"
Holy Water
While a few friends and I were searching for a religious site in the wilderness of the Jordan valley, we had--entirely by accident--stumbled across a tour group.
About thirty feet to the left was a stone block where local legend holds that Jesus was baptized, but no one was looking at it. Of more interest to these fifteen plump Americans--armed against the sun with safari hats, zip-off jeans, and visible smears of sunblock--were the garrulous mutterings of a pretentious guide. As he attempted to reduce a religious event into the none-too-epic history of a stone block, I watched tourists occasionally look at the site--but only through their camera lens. No one, it seemed, really wanted to look and wonder at the spot where the Holy Spirit was said to have descended from heaven.
"Now, we will see the Jordan river!" The guide proclaimed to a murmur of assent. "Would you believe that, Kathy? The Jordan River!" said a woman whose sunglasses and gargantuan hat protected her from the overcast sky. The group began to walk away.
Glad to finally be able to enjoy a religious site without someone dictating what I was supposed to be feeling or experiencing, I walked down a small hill to get a better view of the place.
Jesus was baptized in the Jordan River, but there was no river in sight. Over the past two thousand years the river had shrunk--in size if not in importance. That's why tourists had the added bonus of seeing both the Baptism Site AND the river that had once been adjoined to it.
All that was left of Jesus' Baptism site was a pool of dirty water, framed by the holy block and the ruins of an ancient church. If a small sign hadn't suggested otherwise, it would seem the last place on earth that had once heard the voice of God. I walked down still further and stopped at the top of a small creek that fed the small pool with water. The other side of the creek was a lot lower, and making the jump seemed both difficult and verboten.
I heard a crack to my left as my friend Jason took a leap off our clod of earth and landed--somewhat awkwardly--on the other side.
"What are you doing?" called the distant guide, "That's an archeological site!" Although I didn't much care for the guide's style, I did feel somewhat bad for him. Apparently Jason did too, as he began pacing on the lower side of the creek trying to find a way back. There wasn't one.
"Come with us!" The guide yelled. "We're not in your group!" called a frustrated Jason, who was frantically trying to a find a way back. "Yes you are!" lied the possessive guide. After an awkward minute though, Jason had called the guide's bluff. Faced between waiting for Jason to find his way back or face the rage of photo-hungry tourists, the guide had no option. They began to walk to the ruins of the church adjacent to the pool.
As I watched at a comfortable distance from both the disheveled tour-group and my wandering friend, I learned that Jason had no intention of coming back. Quite out of the blue, a pair of local Bedouins had appeared on the site and were guiding Jason to the holy pool itself. I watched as they offered him a bottle to collect holy water.
Feeling rather jealous, I tried to concentrate on the site while ignoring my friend's religious experience and the droning words of the guide ("Now John was Jesus' cousin by his mother Mary..."). I thought about how this was supposed to be the most historically certain event in the New Testament, and wondered why John--who "was not worthy to tie the latches on his [Jesus'] feet"--had gotten to baptize him. I was interrupted from my reveries when one of the Bedouins waved at me. He pointed to the guide, motioned to wait, and then moved his hand forward. The message was clear: When the guide leaves, come down to the pool.
Giving Jason a dirty look, the guide led his flock down a path and out of site. "Ruh," one of the Bedouins said to me. Come.
I gingerly stepped over the small fence and went down into the pool. Not knowing exactly what to do, I sat at the side of the pool for a moment, awkwardly looking at the Bedouin for advice. He began to put his hands in the water and motioned for me to do the same. The water was refreshingly cool, and I watched as the Bedouin performed what were unmistakably Muslim cleansing rituals in Christian holy water. It didn't bother me. I followed his lead and after a time the Bedouin asked me if I had a bottle. I drew an empty Aquafina bottle from my pocket (which I had prepared just in case) and dipped it into the pool.
Jason was now standing some way off from the pool, closing his bottle and walking down the path and out of sight.
The other Bedouin walked up behind me and pointed to the stone block. "Isa kaana huun," he said. Jesus was here. Then he added, "May be peace be upon our prophet."
He lent me his hand, and helped me up from the pool.
About thirty feet to the left was a stone block where local legend holds that Jesus was baptized, but no one was looking at it. Of more interest to these fifteen plump Americans--armed against the sun with safari hats, zip-off jeans, and visible smears of sunblock--were the garrulous mutterings of a pretentious guide. As he attempted to reduce a religious event into the none-too-epic history of a stone block, I watched tourists occasionally look at the site--but only through their camera lens. No one, it seemed, really wanted to look and wonder at the spot where the Holy Spirit was said to have descended from heaven.
"Now, we will see the Jordan river!" The guide proclaimed to a murmur of assent. "Would you believe that, Kathy? The Jordan River!" said a woman whose sunglasses and gargantuan hat protected her from the overcast sky. The group began to walk away.
Glad to finally be able to enjoy a religious site without someone dictating what I was supposed to be feeling or experiencing, I walked down a small hill to get a better view of the place.
Jesus was baptized in the Jordan River, but there was no river in sight. Over the past two thousand years the river had shrunk--in size if not in importance. That's why tourists had the added bonus of seeing both the Baptism Site AND the river that had once been adjoined to it.
All that was left of Jesus' Baptism site was a pool of dirty water, framed by the holy block and the ruins of an ancient church. If a small sign hadn't suggested otherwise, it would seem the last place on earth that had once heard the voice of God. I walked down still further and stopped at the top of a small creek that fed the small pool with water. The other side of the creek was a lot lower, and making the jump seemed both difficult and verboten.
I heard a crack to my left as my friend Jason took a leap off our clod of earth and landed--somewhat awkwardly--on the other side.
"What are you doing?" called the distant guide, "That's an archeological site!" Although I didn't much care for the guide's style, I did feel somewhat bad for him. Apparently Jason did too, as he began pacing on the lower side of the creek trying to find a way back. There wasn't one.
"Come with us!" The guide yelled. "We're not in your group!" called a frustrated Jason, who was frantically trying to a find a way back. "Yes you are!" lied the possessive guide. After an awkward minute though, Jason had called the guide's bluff. Faced between waiting for Jason to find his way back or face the rage of photo-hungry tourists, the guide had no option. They began to walk to the ruins of the church adjacent to the pool.
As I watched at a comfortable distance from both the disheveled tour-group and my wandering friend, I learned that Jason had no intention of coming back. Quite out of the blue, a pair of local Bedouins had appeared on the site and were guiding Jason to the holy pool itself. I watched as they offered him a bottle to collect holy water.
Feeling rather jealous, I tried to concentrate on the site while ignoring my friend's religious experience and the droning words of the guide ("Now John was Jesus' cousin by his mother Mary..."). I thought about how this was supposed to be the most historically certain event in the New Testament, and wondered why John--who "was not worthy to tie the latches on his [Jesus'] feet"--had gotten to baptize him. I was interrupted from my reveries when one of the Bedouins waved at me. He pointed to the guide, motioned to wait, and then moved his hand forward. The message was clear: When the guide leaves, come down to the pool.
Giving Jason a dirty look, the guide led his flock down a path and out of site. "Ruh," one of the Bedouins said to me. Come.
I gingerly stepped over the small fence and went down into the pool. Not knowing exactly what to do, I sat at the side of the pool for a moment, awkwardly looking at the Bedouin for advice. He began to put his hands in the water and motioned for me to do the same. The water was refreshingly cool, and I watched as the Bedouin performed what were unmistakably Muslim cleansing rituals in Christian holy water. It didn't bother me. I followed his lead and after a time the Bedouin asked me if I had a bottle. I drew an empty Aquafina bottle from my pocket (which I had prepared just in case) and dipped it into the pool.
Jason was now standing some way off from the pool, closing his bottle and walking down the path and out of sight.
The other Bedouin walked up behind me and pointed to the stone block. "Isa kaana huun," he said. Jesus was here. Then he added, "May be peace be upon our prophet."
He lent me his hand, and helped me up from the pool.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Tales from the Taxi
The climax of taxi conversations is when I reveal that I study religion. The driver taxi is usually quick to give me his own view of the subject, usually assuming I'm Christian and weaving the conservation accordingly. Considering the potential misunderstandings were I to reveal that I wasn't Christian--or the disrespect if I pretended to be Muslim--I usually let the assumption stand.
One night I decided to be honest. "Are you Christian?" the taxi driver asked, as he accelerated into a particularly large road-bump.
"No," I responded. As I tried to mentally formulate where I was going with this conversation, I was suprised when the taxi driver asked, "Why not?"
This was a simple question, but it was not easy. Knowing the limitations of my Arabic, I offered simply, "I don't believe that Jesus was God." I assumed that the taxi driver and I might agree on this point.
He offered no immediate approval, and was instead silent as he accelerated on an empty road. I ran the sentence through my head again to ensure that I had said it correctly. I saw no error. Slowly, quietly, the taxi driver said, "Of course Jesus was God."
I couldn't believe my mistake. Five percent of Jordanians are Orthodox Christian, and it was naive of me to assume I was speaking with a Muslim. Recalling his confusion about my religious identity, my fears where cemented. I began to mutter nonsense apologies.
He interrupted me. "But so was Muhammad."
This was new. Islamic theology has always been incredibly careful to avoid deifying its central prophet. I had nothing to say on the heels of a such a comment that seemed to contradict everything that Islam stood for. Instead all I could say was an inarticulate "Laish?" Why?
"But Abraham was God too. So am I, and so are you." He pointed to a girl walking outside, "And so is she." He honked his horn. "And so is the steering-wheel." Sensing my confusion he quoted the Qur'an, "To Allah is the East and the West, and wherever you turn, there is the face of God." (2.115)
He stopped abruptly in front of my house. "Welcome to God," he said as I slung my broken backback over my shoulder. Then he drove away into the night.
One night I decided to be honest. "Are you Christian?" the taxi driver asked, as he accelerated into a particularly large road-bump.
"No," I responded. As I tried to mentally formulate where I was going with this conversation, I was suprised when the taxi driver asked, "Why not?"
This was a simple question, but it was not easy. Knowing the limitations of my Arabic, I offered simply, "I don't believe that Jesus was God." I assumed that the taxi driver and I might agree on this point.
He offered no immediate approval, and was instead silent as he accelerated on an empty road. I ran the sentence through my head again to ensure that I had said it correctly. I saw no error. Slowly, quietly, the taxi driver said, "Of course Jesus was God."
I couldn't believe my mistake. Five percent of Jordanians are Orthodox Christian, and it was naive of me to assume I was speaking with a Muslim. Recalling his confusion about my religious identity, my fears where cemented. I began to mutter nonsense apologies.
He interrupted me. "But so was Muhammad."
This was new. Islamic theology has always been incredibly careful to avoid deifying its central prophet. I had nothing to say on the heels of a such a comment that seemed to contradict everything that Islam stood for. Instead all I could say was an inarticulate "Laish?" Why?
"But Abraham was God too. So am I, and so are you." He pointed to a girl walking outside, "And so is she." He honked his horn. "And so is the steering-wheel." Sensing my confusion he quoted the Qur'an, "To Allah is the East and the West, and wherever you turn, there is the face of God." (2.115)
He stopped abruptly in front of my house. "Welcome to God," he said as I slung my broken backback over my shoulder. Then he drove away into the night.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
"Volunteer Day"
The village was tucked away in the north of Jordan, in the sort of place that tourists would never go to. Not that they wouldn't like it. The village was beautiful in every way, but most who ventured to the region would see the Crusader castle and then turn around, not bothering with the adjacent valley--housing a community largely ignored by both the Jordanian government and the outside world. In my brief conversations with the locals, they too regretted that few tourists had ventured there. "Tell your friends about this place," they said on numerous occasions. "Take pictures, show the world."
The village centers around a river. The river flows from a high mountain, passing by a few homes and then ducking under the only road before it continues to the rest of the town. There are waterfalls along the way, and if it's followed far enough there's a particular rock that allows a view of green hills and valleys below.
The river is polluted though, as is the town. Wrappers and bags--the instruments of modernization--cling to plants like viruses to cells. Black bags hide beneath the dirt so that to passersby they look like soil. Other American students and I cleaned for the day, but I realized that the reason for us going there probably had little to do with garbage.
"Let's talk about interfaith dialog," said Ahmad--a local resident of some power and importance. Although Jordanians are usually quite happy to talk about their religion (and its continuities and discontinuties from others), it was rare to bring it up out of the blue.
"Lets," I said.
Or conversation didn't go very far. We were interrupted on various occasions by food, the comments of an estranged American peace corps volunteer who lived near by, and photographers from the media who had--much to my dismay--come to cover our "volunteer day" cleaning. We both agreed, however, that dialog was important. "Give me your email," Ahmad said, "I'll send you my thoughts."
On the way south to Amman, someone pointed out the window, "That's Palestine." It's impossible to travel through Jordan without bumping up against Palestine from time to time, but the mystique of the country hasn't faded. Towering blue hills hide the secrets of a land divided and ravished. From this particular vantage point, we could see a thin silver line that seemed entirely unaware of its political importance.
The village centers around a river. The river flows from a high mountain, passing by a few homes and then ducking under the only road before it continues to the rest of the town. There are waterfalls along the way, and if it's followed far enough there's a particular rock that allows a view of green hills and valleys below.
The river is polluted though, as is the town. Wrappers and bags--the instruments of modernization--cling to plants like viruses to cells. Black bags hide beneath the dirt so that to passersby they look like soil. Other American students and I cleaned for the day, but I realized that the reason for us going there probably had little to do with garbage.
"Let's talk about interfaith dialog," said Ahmad--a local resident of some power and importance. Although Jordanians are usually quite happy to talk about their religion (and its continuities and discontinuties from others), it was rare to bring it up out of the blue.
"Lets," I said.
Or conversation didn't go very far. We were interrupted on various occasions by food, the comments of an estranged American peace corps volunteer who lived near by, and photographers from the media who had--much to my dismay--come to cover our "volunteer day" cleaning. We both agreed, however, that dialog was important. "Give me your email," Ahmad said, "I'll send you my thoughts."
On the way south to Amman, someone pointed out the window, "That's Palestine." It's impossible to travel through Jordan without bumping up against Palestine from time to time, but the mystique of the country hasn't faded. Towering blue hills hide the secrets of a land divided and ravished. From this particular vantage point, we could see a thin silver line that seemed entirely unaware of its political importance.
Friday, April 10, 2009
"First" Post
In the past, I've vowed to keep a journal when I travel. But apart from a few anticipatory airplanes reflections and perfunctory blog posts, my written records have been few. Having spent two months in Jordan and written next to nothing, I realize that I've fallen into the same trap. Now, anticipating nearly four more months abroad, I realize I have to return with more than just photographs. Although I promise photos here too, I diverge from a popular metaphor and assert that language rivals the lens. My writings will principally concern the Middle East, beginning with Jordan and will (in sha' Allah) progress to other countries.
As my blog title suggests, I aim to convey reflections--not an iternary. If nothing happens worth typing, it is certainly not worth reading. So apart from my mother, I doubt anyone will show concern if I opt not to write for a while.
As my blog title suggests, I aim to convey reflections--not an iternary. If nothing happens worth typing, it is certainly not worth reading. So apart from my mother, I doubt anyone will show concern if I opt not to write for a while.
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