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.
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