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September 24 From Jordan...In the Beginning It's been more than three weeks since I last turned on my computer. It feels a bit strange to use the keyboard and touchpad on my laptop again. I keep making typing errors and have to backspace and correct the words. Annoying. I'd better get used to it though because classes will be starting after tomorrow and I plan to use my laptop to take notes on inshallah. Plus, I really have resolved to write about things here in Jordan, however silly they may be. Since I don't have internet at home, there isn't much to do on my computer but write. I feel like I haven't written in a long time. Emails don't count. Sheddeh My uncles are playing cards, or sheddeh, in the living room. When they play cards, it is always a multiple-hours affair. They loudly call out for tea or coffee every fifteen minutes, and keep close track of their game scores in an old notebook. One particular uncle likes to argue heatedly about how everyone else is cheating whenever he loses. The others laugh and tease him, irritating him further, which makes him call out for more coffee and shuffle the cards again angrily. My youngest cousin tells me the uncles are like a gang when they play cards. He wonders which uncle could be deemed the gang-leader, and we decide there really isn't a leader. The gang is made up of three core members, all with the same amount of authority and experience, and various temporary members who get invited to join a game when they happen to visit during a card-playing session. The wives and children of these card-playing uncles gather in the other room and talk or watch television, cursing whoever invented cards, and waiting for the uncles to call out for the final cup of coffee and end their session for the night. Today's session lasted five hours, with breaks for prayer and food of course. Before I let myself get annoyed about these long card games, I wonder what other means of entertainment there are for the uncles anyway. I can't think of many besides going out to a park or to visit relatives. I hear my middle uncle start to yell. He must be losing. Again. Colder It's getting colder here. Fall is beginning, although for me, coming from Minnesota, it only feels like a cool summer. I'm very happy about the breezy weather. Last night I stood at the living room window (since we can't open the bedroom one for fear of cockroaches that might come in from the window well) and looked out at the sky. It was a dark purple color and there were hardly any stars. The neighborhood was very quiet, the quietest I've heard it since I've been here. In fact, it seemed too quiet for Amman. I could hear the leaves of the neighbor's trees rustling in the wind. The night air seemed to carry excitement; I felt as if something should happen on a night like this one. The neighborhood buildings were outlined sharply against the sky, and in a split second, the wind suddenly stopped blowing. At that moment, it felt like the world was perfect. Then someone in the building next door started to snore. I sighed and went to bed. July 13 Türkiye: Room 207 ( and 208 a Week Later)Ah, our room at the Sunlight Hotel on Piyerloti Caddesi resembled the little odd-shaped rooms not uncommon to apartment buildings in the poorer areas of Cairo. The awkward pillar near the left side bed and the slanted ceiling gave it a homely feel. I looked around: the TV worked, nice but unnecessary for a guest like me. Let's see..well the shower doesn't drain properly, but no matter, there are plenty of towels for sopping up the water that overflows...bed is comfortable, window is large, everything is clean, including the nice-sized mirror..The telephone works, the mini-bar is well-stocked, the price list is very easy to read, thank you very much, even with the couple of spelling mistakes. The room affords a clear view of the well-traveled street, of the men who come to pick through the garbage piles looking for cans and cardboard to recycle, of the restaurant next door with its overpriced food and love of alliteration (Find Fine Food Here, the sign outside advertised), and the strange, seemingly abandoned building across the street with the posters advocating some political figure all over the front. Nicest of the room's many positive attributes, however, was being able to sit at the window and watch the drunk German tourists stagger out of the restaurant next door, singing loudly and blocking traffic at 1am on a Saturday morning.  View from Room 207 July 05 Türkiye: On Wearing Jeans to Fancy RestaurantsThe "Blue Fish" or Mavi Balık, was our first dining experience in Istanbul, and not a very pleasant one as far as I was concerned. We had just arrived in Turkey a few hours earlier, gotten the keys to our hotel rooms, and taken a walk (or a 'steep climb' as some liked to refer to it) up the hill to Divan Yolu, the street with the tramway line. There we had found ATM machines and money exchange offices, experienced what it was like trying to cross a street used by both cars and a tram simultaneously, and gotten shouted at several times to come into some rather 'touristy'-looking restaurants. Needless to say, by the time we had returned to the hotel and gathered in the lobby to head to the Blue Fish, most of us were ravenous. The thought of a seafood dinner at an expensive restaurant right on the Bosphorous was appealing, except for the fact that I could hardly keep my eyes open from lack of sleep for the past 28 hours. The Blue Fish was impressive. The menu I saw priced their cheapest item at 40 YTL, the equivalent of about $30. We were seated by unsmiling waiters at a table with a beautiful view of the chilly waters of the Bosphorous. The restaurant and the handful of fancily clad customers eating there reminded me of the high-end restaurants featured in a (trying) Turkish soap opera, Bir Istanbul Masalı, that our Turkish 1002 class had grown accustomed to watching every Friday morning back in Minnesota. The coldness of the waiters, combined with the striking fake-blond mohawk (or was it spikes?) and bright blue eye makeup of a nearby wealthy fellow seafood eater, my headache, and my wrinkled jeans in an overtly 'fancy dress only' area served to make me a feel a little uncomfortable. The wonderful grilled sea bass helped ease some of the discomfort, as did the candied pumpkin and sweet clotted cream on the dessert plates, but I must admit that I left the Blue Fish with absolutely no desire to return. I did enjoy the fact that I had been adventurous enough to try some of the rather dubious-looking seafood appetizers we had been served, but I was most happy to climb back on the bus to the welcoming smiles of Murat Kaptan, who, given the salaries usually associated with his profession, probably did not make a habit of eating out at places such as the Blue Fish (another bit of common ground we shared), and who would probably go home to his three children and enjoy a hearty, under-40 YTL meal that did not include cold waiters or women with very startling haircuts. At that moment, full of seafood and completely exhausted from our trip and uncomfortable sit at the Blue Fish, I envied Murat Kaptan and the simplicity I associated with his lifestyle. I shouldn't make assumptions about people. June 28 Türkiye: I Will Blog. I Promise. Here's The First Part.I did write about my trip. But first, let me explain, in a very unclear way, about al 7eerah. بعد رجوعي من تركيا ، هذا البلد المذهل حقا ، أحسست بشيء
من الاكتئاب لأنني عرفت أنني سأقضي بقية أيام الصيف هنا في مينيسوتا ،
مكان ممل جدا بالنسبة لشخص مثلي، مقارنة بالمدينة المذهلة التي للتو
رجعت منها ، مدينة اسطنبول. المهم ، رجعت و بعد انتهاء مرحلة الاكتئاب
الأولى التي مررت بها ، وجدت نفسي أقلب فكرة بسيطة في ذهني ، هذه الفكرة
أن اكتب شيئا ما عن تجرباتي في اسطنبول (و تركيا بشكل عام) ثم أنشر
كتاباتي ليقرأها أصدقائي و غيرهم.
جلست أفكر قليلا عن ماذا سأكتب ، كيف سأبدأ ، و هكذا ، و وجدت نفسي في حيرة شديدة ، لا أدري من أين أبدأ الكتابة. يجب أن تفهموا شيئأ هنا - أحب أن اكتب عن الأشياء التي لها قيمة أو أهمية ، و ليس كلاما فارغا ينقص من قدري ككاتبة (بل بالأصح كفتاة تهوي الكتابة). بمعنى اخر عندما اكتب عن شخص ما او حدث ما فمعناه أنني أمنح لهذا الشخص أو هذا الحدث نوع من الأهمية ، و من هنا تأتي الحيرة ، فلا أدري كيف أحدد ما هي الأحداث "المهمة" التي حصلت معي هناك في تركيا و ما هي الأحداث "الغير مهمة"، فبنظري جميعها مهمة الى حد ما ، و اذا تراجعت عن ذكر أي شيء مما حدث مفمعناه أنني لا أروي لكم القصة كاملة..و هذا طبعا لا يجوز..هلا فهمتم الان وضعي المحير أيها القراء الأعزاء؟ و بعد أن شرحت لكم هذا كله أردت أن أوضح لكم أن ما قررت الكتابة عنه كله مهم و ما تراجعت عن ذكره مهم أيضا لكنني بالطبع لا أستطيع أن اكتب كل شيء ، كل تفصيل ممل، لكوني انسانة عادية بقدرات عادية جدا ، فسامحوني على هذا  I'm not really that confused. I just felt like writing that and after I had, I didn't want to delete it. Anyway, what I have chosen to write about is entirely random - things that I remember vividly, people who made me think, and so on. I derived some sort of benefit from everything/everyone that I'm going to write about, but I'm not always explicit about stating what that benefit was/is, mostly due to laziness, often because I want to focus on "the moment" of whatever it is I'm writing about without having to make the focus of the piece be on "benefit derived." A greater amount of pieces containing negative sentiments is not because I like to complain about life, but because negative stories are often simply more interesting to recount and read. ---------- Türkiye: On Porters and Conversation The bus driver from the airport to our hotel, Yılmaz Kaptan, had reacted positively to my hesitant attempts to speak his language, and empowered with the realization that I actually did know what I was doing, I told the porter "this bag is mine" in perfect Turkish. We had both been standing in the hotel lobby waiting for the elevator, and he had gestured to me asking which bag belonged to me. He nodded in understanding when I pointed mine out, then proceeded to stare at me for a while, which pushed me to say something lest the silence become awkward. After first thinking over my sentence carefully, I spoke up: "I only know a little Turkish. I'm originally Palestinian, but my great grandfather was Turkish, and now I'm learning the language at my university." I expected an encouraging response, such as the smile and "your Turkish is so good!" that he had given my classmate who had thanked him perfectly in Turkish just a few minutes earlier. However, all I received was a somewhat blank stare, followed by a nod as the elevator arrived. I was thoroughly crushed. Had I said something wrong? Was my verb not at the end of the sentence where it was supposed to be? Did I use an incorrect tense suffix? I thought over my sentence again, and realized that I had made only a minor mistake, saying "çok biraz" instead of "çok az" for "a little bit." A simple mistake like that, however, should not warrant blank stares and cold nods from strange porters. The only conclusion I could come to, then, for the very odd and not at all nice reaction of the short, dark haired porter was that he simply did not want to talk to me, for reasons I do not know. I looked him up and down, and reconciled myself with this thought (along with other thoughts that I will not elaborate on here - something along the lines of certain porters having issues). I never did understand why this porter did not want to speak to me; the odd pattern of silence and somewhat blank stares from him directed at me continued until we left Istanbul, but after my experience from that first evening, I paid him no attention. Two could play at this game. --------------- May 14 Hi.Salaam...inşallah yedi günden sonra Türkiye'ye gideceğim. I'll probably try to blog while I'm there, iza Allah araad. With pictures, possibly. Places to be visited per our itinerary (iA): İstanbul, Ankara, Kapadokya, Konya, Bursa. Time frame: May 21 - June 8, 2007 Ppppeace out fer now. (try 'peace out' in 3arabi: سلام خارج..haha, I laugh. Too funny.) April 27 Trees and More kunafah? Afternote: Jasmine...in AmmanUm.. Bienvenido ?! Vilkommen..? Bon jour.... but best of all, asalamulaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh! The other greetings were all that I remember from Continental Airlines welcome screens... Speaking of airlines, I'm making duaa that I will be able to inhale the cool, exhaust fume-polluted, kunafah-scented air of Amman. Better of course would be al Khalil, but that's a far-off dream for now. Khair inshallah. I feel like writing about Amman. More specifically, I feel like writing about the jasmine tree in the 7osh of my aunt's old house in Jabal itTaj. So I might just do so. After I recharge my computer inshallah. Think summer thoughts...oh wait: finals. Nevermind. Wasalamualaikum once again.. ----- Afternote: I decided I would write about it. Here goes: My aunt's house on Jabal itTaj was surrounded by a small, tiled courtyard and a low wall with two gates. We called the courtyard the "7osh." On one side of the low wall grew grape vines, from which we would pick the raw, sour green new grapes, called "7osrom." We would dip them in salt and eat them; our lips would shrivel up after a few minutes from the acidity of the fruit. The grapevines belonged to the nextdoor neighbors, but we always picked them anyway. They only complained once. On the other side of the 7osh was a mature and fragrant jasmine tree. It had a very twisted but slender trunk, and when it flowered, the leaves were delicate and abundant. This tree used to fascinate my eight year old self. I would use it to help myself climb up the wall of the 7osh, and sit on a small ledge that the tree grew over and shaded. Under the branches, on my little ledge, I would sit for a while and wonder at the smell of the flowers. Although I had always been taught not to pick flowers off living trees, the tiny white flowers were too irresistable to my eager hands. From the flowers came necklaces, bracelets, hair decorations, and even rings of small jasmine flowers strung together with a needle and a piece of thread. I delighted at the reactions of my aunts, their friends, and my older girl cousins, who took the flower jewellery from me with joy and donned them in front of me. I laughed at my aunt whose wrist was too large for the small bracelet to fit around, since I had measured it around my own wrist when making it. At night, the flower jewellery would shrivel up and become brown and dry, but I was never sad because I knew that the tree would have more flowers for me the next day. At night, the family would spend time on the open rooftop on mattresses and large cushions, sipping sweet tea and coffee, munching on seeds, and playing cards or just talking. It was then that the fragrance of the jasmine tree would come wafting up in the air, and would make my senses tingle. I always had an urge at those moments to crush some of the flowers and make a "juice" out of them that I could keep in a bottle to rub on my hands whenever I wanted. Suprisingly, these days, I don't prefer the smell of heavy jasmine perfumes... The jasmine tree was always there when I would walk through the gate of my aunt's 7osh. I would press my hand against the trunk for a few seconds, pick off a flower from one of the drooping branches, stick it in my hair, then run up the stairs to show my aunt and uncle. The neighbors lived on the ground floor, and they had a son named Ahmad. Ahmad was an energetic blond child who used to fascinate the adults (he's blond! look at that! he looks ajnabi!) but only scared me with his constant playing, shoving, and wrestling. Nevertheless, I was younger than him, and looked up to him, always trying to do what he could do. Ahmad used to run down the length of the courtyard, take one flying leap and grab onto the jasmine tree's largest branch, hanging in front of the gate. He would then swing for a couple of minutes, drop to the ground, and look at me defiantly. My wish was to be able to copy him exactly and swing for a just a little longer than he ever did. Day after day, whenever Ahmad left the building, I would try and try to grab onto the branch and swing, never succeeding. I was simply too short to do it. Then one night Ahmad came home from playing down the street, and my family was coming home at the exact same time from a short trip, carrying fresh bread from the local bakery. Ahmad told me he would take one last jump and swing before the adults walked through the gate. I watched as he took a deep breath, ran, jumped and latched on to the branch. The moment he grabbed on, his long pantlegs caught under his shoe, and as he swung, the pants came down a little bit, just as the adults walked through the other gate. Needless to say, Ahmad was embarassed at the ordeal. His mother was furious at him for not being careful of himself in public. My aunts scolded him but burst out laughing as soon as we got in the house. I was satisfied. Now I didn't have to do what he could do, since what he could do only seemed to get him in trouble. I certainly did not want to suffer such an embarassment, and now I would not have to even risk it. I looked at him defiantly, this time, then walked away. On my last visit to Amman, I saw Ahmad again. I didn't recognize him until my cousin pointed him out; he now held a job, was taller than my father and less blond. He was also heavier than I remembered him being. I don't think Ahmad recognized me either, until someone must have pointed me out. I wondered if he remembered the pants incident, and decided that he probably did not, since we tend to try and forget uncomfortable circumstances. I smiled to myself... Amman was changing. So were her people. Inevitable. December 10 Daily Life in AmmanDaily Life in Amman, Jordan ~OS~
In Amman, people pay a dinar a month for what is commonly called the "flag tax". This tax is meant to pay for the giant flagpole recently constructed at Raghadan Palace that raises a 60 meter Jordanian flag 126.8 meters into the air. "They make us pay a dinar every month to pay for a flagpole that we didn't even want or ask for in the first place!" says my cousin Hamza. "It's crazy. But what do you expect?" "Look at that flag over at Raghadan ya 3ammi, see it?" my uncle says, pointing at it from his rooftop on Jabal il Taj. "What good does that flag do for us? Did it bring us better employment? Better political representation and exercise of rights? Freedom? No." But now the Jordanian government can proudly make claims to the title of the world's tallest flagpole, and the people of Jordan get to pay for it. A dinar a month, which amounts to about 70 US cents, may not seem like a big deal to most people who earn more than $10 a day, but for most middle class and lower income Jordanians, that extra dinar can make a huge difference. "It adds up," says Hamza. Coming up with that extra dinar every month is a struggle.
Another daily struggle in Amman has to do with the water problem in Jordan. "Rejoice, rejoice! Tomorrow is Saturday and National Take-a-Shower Day!" Hamza tells me. "National Take-a-Shower Day?" I ask, puzzled. This particular cousin of mine is known for his sometimes-overboard sense of humor. "Yes, tomorrow is Saturday, and the water comes on Saturday." He means that the government will turn on the neighborhood's main water supply. He means that when you turn on the tap, water will actually flow from it. Jordan faces a terrible shortage of water with its growing population; natural water resources there are scarce, and the ones that do exist are shared and exploited by Jordan's neighboring countries. One of the various ways that the Jordanian government is trying to deal with the water shortage problem is by reducing the population's water consumption. This is done, in part, by cutting off running water for 5 or 6 days a week, depending on the neighborhood, from main water supplies, and forcing people to fill up tanks and other containers with water on the two days that it is turned on, to use for the rest of the week.
"On Saturdays, when the water comes, everyone in the house takes a shower. Then we fill up all the containers we have with water to hopefully last us all week. Every Saturday is National-Take-a-Shower Day." He is joking of course; water 'comes' on different days depending on the neighborhood, but behind his joke I sense something more than humor. I sense bitter tiredness of the situation. Hamza advises me to go speak to my Aunt about when I could take my shower. "I'm usually the last one in line," he says. "That's because I can stand cold tap water; I don't need to have a kettle of water heated for me." Most landlords in Amman don't have any incentives to install properly functioning water-heaters in the appartments they rent out, so people have to heat water on the stove for washing and taking showers. My Aunt tells me that tomorrow my youngest cousin will take his shower first. "Then you can decide whether you want to be next, or wait for your brother," she says. I realize that tomorrow is going to be a long day, and I silently curse myself for all the water I have wasted in the course of my lifetime.
The first half of the next day is spent heating large pots of water on the stove for the showers. We then mix one part boiling water with two parts cold in plastic buckets, and use this water in the tub. Those of us who can stand freezing cold water straight from the tap in January, like Hamza, don't have to go through this ordeal. The rest of the day is spent hastily trying to fill up any available containers with water before the supply is cut. I attempt to help, but just end up getting in the way. My older cousin Islam is proud of the large 3 by 4 foot plastic drum he has constructed to store extra water. "With this, hopefully we won't run out by midweek, and we'll have enough water to at least wash the dishes." He realizes the plastic drum does cause a problem though: "The only problem is that now the neighbors will think we have plenty of extra water to spare, and will come to ask for water from us when they run out. I hate turning our own neighbors away, but we're all suffering. Our household is large, we need every bit of water we can get." I feel guilty for being there and being one extra person to deal with; my clothes need to be washed, I need to take showers, brush my teeth, eat, drink, use dishes, etc. My cousin senses my feelings of guilt and tells me to stop being stupid, and that they wish we could be here with them always, water or no water. I am grateful for this.
One day at breakfast my Uncle Abed is in a good mood. He tells jokes and drinks tea while the rest of us eat. Though breakfast in Amman almost always consists of the same foods, I never get bored of eating them day after day. The main dish is usually falafel paired with either fule, hummus, or fatteh. In addition to this, we eat from plates of mixed olives, fresh cream, homemade jams, zaatar (wild thyme) and olive oil, eggs, pickled and fresh vegetables, honey, and various cheeses. We eat this all with warm bread, and drink several cups of sweet mint tea. The phone rings, and Uncle Abed, seeing that it is his sister calling, answers the phone. "Helloo my sister!" he says jokingly in his bad English. "How are you? You fine!? I your brother!" He winks at me and my siblings, who "come from America" and are laughing at his terrible grammar. "Do you- AMANIT ALLAH (By God!)" he shouts suddenly. "Are you serious? Who did you hear this from?" he presses his sister for more information. "Shoo fee? Shoo fee ya Abed? (What is it? What is it Abed?)" his wife, my Aunt, asks him worriedly. He waves his hand at her impatiently and listents intently to what his sister is saying. With further requests from us, he takes the phone off his ear and tells us excitedly: "Great news! The Parliament is considering a law that would allow non-Jordanian men to gain Jordanian citizenship from their Jordanian wives! We have to tell Usama!" This is indeed great news; if passed, the law would enable my uncle Usama and his daughters, who only have Palestinian travel documents (watheeqah) and no official citizenship, to gain Jordanian citizenship from his wife. He has lived in the UAE for close to thirty years, working,benefitting the country, making an honest living, and establishing a family, but the Emaratis don't grant UAE citizenship to non-Emaratis. Except when interests come into play, of course. But that's another story.
An expensive long-distance phone call is made to the UAE to tell Uncle Usama the potentially good news. We also spread the news to other watheeqah-owning relatives who are married to Jordanian women. Everyone is excited, except for Uncle Usama himself; he only expresses a grim calm. He is doubtful, hesitant to believe that he might actually be given Jordanian citizenship, hesitant to believe that he might actually be given the chance to belong to an "official country".
A few months go by and the Parliament passes the law. My uncle Usama still has a watheeqah. He and his daughters do not have Jordanian citizenship. The law was passed, and applies to everyone. Everyone except Palestinians, that is. See Palestinians aren't regular people. It's okay to exclude them from legal rights and privilages; it's like reading the fine print under the "Sign Here" line on a credit card: does not apply to customers with credit scores lower than 320 - "law does not apply to Palestinians." We are all grim; Uncle Usama was right to be doubtful. What else do you expect from the government, though? Welcome to Jordan..welcome to reality.
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