Missing Jordan

I miss Jordan for very different reasons. I miss the people there, the teachers and friends I have come to know, a family that has adopted me as an uncle, and a friend that brought me there in the first place. Jordan was one of the few places I could be myself, really just act and react naturally everywhere I went. I loved walking in Amman, strolling in Aqabah, hiking in Wadis. I have been to more restaurants in Amman than I have been in any other city on earth. And I met the best group of teachers in my thirty years as an educator in refugee camps scattered around Amman. Jordan has been very good to me.
I don't know if and when I will get to go back - my hopes to make the Academy a yearly thing have been put on hold, and truthfully, the folks in the inaugural group could do a fine job on their own continuing it. I am very glad they are planning a graduation ceremony for the first 21 teachers to complete; they did a lot of work and are great examples for their peers. I can honestly say that I would have loved to have my two girls in any of their classrooms - honored as a matter of fact.
I have met so many wonderful professionals in Jordan, people who work hard for next to nothing, living and caring for others as good Muslims. Shorouq and her talented sisters, Muath the intrepid reporter (promoted from cub reporter recently), a street cleaner who remembers me each time I visit, teachers at several of the public and private schools I did trainings for, Samia who went off to Florida on a Fulbright Scholarship, Imani, Sara, and Yazan, three kids who let me act foolishly when I visit, and so many others.
I miss my friend who introduced me to all this, that friend has long since moved on to other adventures, other worlds. My friend drew me to Jordan and was the main reason I visited for a long time, but left me with the rest of it eventually, and I am forever grateful for that. I don't know if I will make it back to Jordan anytime soon, but in so many ways, my heart is still there. And since this is my blog, I will end this post with an acknowledgement to a great group of people: The first graduating cohort of the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning Academy sponsored by UNRWA and New River Community and Technical College. Twenty-one of the original thirty-four made it all the way through, and arduous feat. Here they are:

Graduates
Ahmed
Anwar
Enas
Ibrahim
Mohammad

Graduates (with distinction)
Abeer
Basem
Bassam
Hanandi
Sabreen
Salam
Tahani D.
Zeinab

Graduates (with honors)
Alaa
Amira
Fatima
Khadijeh
Khawla
Nihaya
Sara
Tahani M.

The Academy Leadership Team
Alaa
Ahmad
Bassam
Fatima
Salam
Sultan
Zeinab
Basem (honorary FB page leader)





 

Ramadan 1433 - Mubarek: Castle Master

I met Mubarek last year on a visit to some very cool castles just outside of Amman, Jordan. I was happy to get out of the city and visit these local landmarks, even more so understanding it might be the last time I would be able to travel and spend time with an old friend. We had a lovely time, and it was a nice trip to mark the end of many such journeys. Despite the fact that I was focused on the precious time I had left with my friend, I had the great pleasure to meet a new one - guide extraordinaire Mubarek.

My friend had organized the day trip and had recruited a colleague, another English teacher, along for the trip. The teacher introduced us to Mubarek, who was a student in his ESL class by night, a talented castle guide by day, and maybe, just maybe, Joe Pesci's long lost cousin. He was a whirlwind from the moment we met him, and he didn't go more than a minute or two without disparaging his own English, which I found charming in its own staccato, eccentric rhythm. By the end of the day we were fast friends, and I smile broadly each and every time I think of him.



Mubarek took us to four places; two castles, an ancient road house, and to lunch. Through it all, he was in charge. Gracious and polite, he barely contained his enthusiasm as he took us from place to place, and introduced to other guides and acquaintances. He regaled us with facts, details, and hokey jokes that I adored. His energy was boundless, and we followed him around waiting for his next surprise. He narrated the journey perfectly (despite his constant apologies), even took us to places that were cordoned off and marked "dangerous." We felt honored with the access, and he knew it. He chuckled, made more jokes, spelled our names in Arabic in the dirt, refused to let us pay for lunch, and even introduced us to a group of his colleagues having dinner. Short in stature only, he was the man everywhere he went.

Later in the afternoon, after learning I was a Muslim, Mubarek invited me to pray with him at the ancient road house in the middle of the desert. He was very patient with me as we made our preparations and then prayed. I was touched by his tenderness and concern, something I still struggle with being raised in this culture as a strong, distant male. I have so much yet to learn from men like Mubarek, men able to live their lives honestly and emotionally. Despite our short visit, I will remember him the rest of my life.

I am indebted to Mubarek for more than these lessons too. On what seemed destined to be a bitter-sweet day, more bitter than sweet, he gave me a very pleasant and kind memory to ameliorate the loss the day would eventually come to represent. And as the imbalance slowly shifts, the pain softens with each return to that adventure with my pal mugging in stunted doorways and forbidden vestibules.  He will never know any of this of course, but I do. I do.

My Heart

My heart must be a lonely place: I don't often let people in, and I seldom visit it myself. Now that I have been asked to do a presentation at a large ESL conference in Jordan, I am thinking a lot about my heart. I am thinking about my heart because I have realized that when I teach, I feel grace. When I teach, I am honest. When I teach, I give. And sometimes, when I teach, I let my students in. I let my students see who I really am, not afraid of the vulnerability or risk. I want to talk about this in January in Jordan, I want to share what I feel, I want to share what I do well.
If you asked me a few years ago about sharing my heart with my students, I would have had a good laugh. It has only recently dawned on me that I do reveal myself (appropriately of course) in the classroom. This realization has come, in part, through encounters with former students. I have taught thousands of students in the past 25 years, and many have made a point to touch base with me. When they do, they seldom talk about a specific thing I taught them (I will not be listed in luminous volumes of great quotations), they comment on how I helped them. I never thought I was helping them, I thought I was teaching them something specific at a specific moment. This has made me reconsider the teaching process, at least maybe the most import process - sharing myself.
There are other things that have made me consider the state of my heart recently. I have realized that there is actually a wonderful potential being an American Muslim. Being an "American" and not looking like an "Arab", I am often approached by other curious Americans. It is an opportunity to share something of my faith, and to violate some terrible stereotypes. But before I can share, I have to come to grips with the aspects of my faith that impact my heart. I suppose if I lived in a predominately Islamic country, I wouldn't have to express this to many folks, as there would be an implied consensus. That understanding doesn't exist here, and there are many very nice and genuine people who would like to gain a better depth to their knowledge and acceptance of my faith. It has caused me to open up in ways I have never done before.
I feel a peace when I pray, knowing that I have put my own needs and desires aside to pray to my God, Allah. I feel a sense of purpose when I read my Koran, understanding more and more of the lessons the Prophet Mohammed (PBUH)has laid out for me. Sometimes, I believe I was a Muslim before I converted. My actions and thoughts (particularly in the classroom)were often noble and true. I love the fact that I have to reflect on my faith and my subsequent actions; there has to be a concord. My task now is to take that presence from my classroom to the rest of my life, in the shadow of my faith. This will involve opening my heart to more people and experiences. This is my task.
So, in January, I want to share this with a group of other teachers. In this age of technology, science, and innovation, I want to return our focus for an hour or so to our hearts. To that aspect of teaching where we open up and give to our students. Where we help and by doing so are helped. A state of grace that surpasses the moment, and is indicative of a larger connection that touches us all. I have no idea how I will articulate this..............

A Street Named Desire

This is my favorite street on earth! It is Rainbow Street in Jebel Amman, Jordan. I have walked up and down this beautiful cobblestone street a few times are out, and the British Council classes let out. I loved it there the first time I strolled up the street three years ago.
The Jordanians have worked very hard on this street. They have replaced the brick roadway, built beautiful benches, and many new stores and cafes have opened up. Most of all, I love how you get to this place. If you come in to town from the airport, you drive down the major thoroughfare for several miles. If traffic is good, you can fly at 60 mph. You pass six very large roundabouts simply named 7th Circle, 6th Circle, etc. You pass through a variety of districts in the city and a million restaurants, half of them seemingly American franchises. Rainbow street begins as 1st Circle (the last) ends. You travel around a very small roundabout and head up a slight hill. At that point, everything changes. The road is narrow and often congested with traffic. You can walk up either side of the lane easily though.
At first sight, Rainbow Street isn't very special. There are what appear to be many small insignificant shops, and a few cafes. But as you walk up and down it a few times, you notice the people, and an environment that is unique in Jordan. It isn't fancy like other sections of the city, but it is charming. One of my favorite activities is to visit the several men's shops up and down the street. I discovered them on my second trip to the city. There was one I liked the most, probably because of the young man and his father who operated it. The old man spoke no English and chain smoked. He sat a small sewing machine all day. His son, who operated at least one other store on the block, was always very cheerful. His response to any of my concerns was "Yes, yes, yes." I imagine I bought at least six Turkish suits from them in the course of a few years.
stores, and a wonderful hardware and home supply place. I have walked past a little ice cream store,always determined that I will stop on the next trip. I never have, but I heard Brangelina did (Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie). There are new coffee shops and a would-be pizza place serving some ting called fatir. It is like a very thin pizza, almost a pastry. They stretch the dough in front of you and cover it with your favorite toppings. I loved going there for take-out, usually getting a chocolate fatir for desert. I have so many wonderful memories of that street.
I don't know if I will ever be on Rainbow Street again. I would give anything to be there now, to be strolling down the hill early in the evening. I would give anything.

Reciting Koran at Gunpoint

I will tell you that reciting Koran for me is difficult in the best of circumstances, and that I still am working on it. I never dreamt that the first time I would be called upon to read Koran publicly would at the behest of a 22 year-old hostile Israeli, with an automatic weapon (not mine) squarely between us. It was an experience I can honestly say I had no preparation for.
I was visiting Jordan and Palestine for the first time, shortly after my conversion. I started my trip in Jordan, and had a fabulous time. I visited a good friend, and made several new acquaintances in the process. After a week, my friend and I made our way to Jerusalem overland for the upcoming Eid. I was very, very excited to visit the holy land on a holy day! When we got to the border, we had little problems on the Jordanian side. We waited two hours to make the ten minute bus ride between countries. I remember passing through "no man's land" truly feeling glad I was in the bus and not outside - it really did look desolate and dead. I found myself singing an obscure Loggins and Messina tune that I had not heard for thirty years "it's an hours flight, but it takes all night to get from Cairo to the promised land. And is it people's rights or just people's lights, and can the line be drawn that thin?"
I could not believe the scene at the Israeli border crossing. We got off the bus and walked up to a semi-circular barricade. Here we all pushed to pass our passports over to a very disinterested guard. There were maybe 75 of us trying to get his attention. He just gathered them up and we waited. About a half an hour later, he emerged and just handed all the passports to whoever was closest. I asserted myself and managed to get my passport and that of my friends. We were then allowed to proceed into the building. When we passed through the initial metal detector, they detained my friend (she was wearing a hijab). She told them she was with me, so they made me wait outside the room she disappeared into. After about 20 minutes, they let her out and called me in. The young woman, probably about 19, asked me several questions about our trip and our relationship. I could tell she was looking for inconsistencies, so I simply answered honestly. After about 10 minutes, she released me and we made our way to the next stage. We got in line at the visa desk, and I was horrified by what I witnessed. We were in the "good" line as we were British and American tourists. The rest of the folks were huddled in several long lines beside us. It was a large open room with good acoustics. I could barely tolerate the cacophony that engulfed me. At nearly each desk, at the front of each line, sat a young Israeli woman dressed in a military uniform. And at each desk, at the front of each line, the young woman was screaming at the meek Arabs. They were demeaning, insolent, and openly hostile. Imagine the cruelest clique of girls from your high school with weapons and the power to humiliate anyone they pleased. It was nightmarish.
The woman at the end of my line did not yell or insult me. Nor did she make eye contact or show any interest in my application. When my friend approached the counter, she cast her a terrible look, but restrained her obvious contempt. My friend requested that her passport not be stamped as she was planning a trip to Pakistan where she could not gain entry with an Israeli stamp in her passport. This request is a common one, and the Israelis grant hundreds each day, but she told my friend that she could wait to see. We waited two hours for her to walk twenty feet to get permission to stamp an alternative slip of paper then insert it into the passport. We smiled and thanked her, and I think it irritated her greatly. We walked into another hall, passed through several other gates without incident and emerged into the sunshine of Palestine.
We enjoyed the crowded bus ride to Jerusalem, and I was astonished that I was about to walk through Damascus Gate, into the famed old city. We made our way to our hotel (a former Austrian palace) and cleaned up. We met an hour later to walk about the old city. It truly was incredible. We walked through the crowded streets (many covered passageways) and made our way to the wailing wall. I was very cautious to be respectful as I realized the significance of the place. We did not go up to the wall as there were people praying there and we did not want to disturb them.
When we left the wall, we walked up to the higher part of the city. We came around a corner to see a group of young Israeli boys playing soccer in an open courtyard. I smiled at them. One of them saw my friend beside me, frowned, and kicked the ball as hard as he could at her. We were lucky that he wasn't very talented, and the ball smashed into a building above our heads. I rushed her past the scene into another street. We turned a corner and came upon another check point. Initially, the guard returned my smile until he saw my friend. The smile evaporated into a frown, and we spent ten minutes being hassled to pass that simple gate. We returned to the hotel and arranged to meet again to go to the mosque for Eid prayers. I was so excited! I would be praying at the Al Aqsa Mosque (the Dome of the Rock) in an hour's time. Well it took more than an hour to get there (despite the fact it was two minutes away), and I was lucky my friend suggested we leave early. "It's and hours flight, but it takes all night.........."
To get to the mosque, we had to turn from the main thoroughfare unto a small covered alley. At the end of the alley we could see the checkpoint replete with guards and guns. As we walked up, I was in a good mood, somewhat nervous. Not about the Israelis, but about praying in such an important place so early in my conversion. They waived my friend in but stopped me. I was informed that the mosque was closed to tourists and that I could not come in. I explained that I was a Muslim, and he just smirked. My friend stepped back closer to us and affirmed my statement. The young man looked at me and said "say something from the Koran." I started to recite the Al Fatiha, the first verse in the Koran. After about ten seconds, he looked at me and told me to stop. He told me in broken English that I couldn't go in. I got irritated, as he obviously didn't listen to or understand the verse. My friend stepped in and defended me. He told her that now she couldn't go in. We retreated, and she offered another plan - we go in through another gate.
We tried another time with the same result. We waited for thirty minutes and returned to the first gate where the was now a new guard. Twenty something with a permanent scowl. When we approached, he stopped me. He turned his gun around on its strap, inches away from my chest, and commanded that I recite Koran. I proceeded and as before, he stopped me, this time declaring loudly that I wasn't a Muslim. This really irritated me and I started to protest. My friend grabbed my arm and we retreated once again. Finally, with a few minutes before prayer time, we found a new gate. When we approached, another young man stopped us. When I explained I was a Muslim, he called a young Arab man over. The young man looked at me and smiled. He asked me to recite the Al-Fatiha. I was nervous, humiliated, and somewhat scared. As I began to stumble, he gently prodded me by inserting a few words. I made it through the prayer and he looked at his Israeli counterpart and nodded. They moved aside, and just like that, I was in the compound. I turned to thank them both, tears in my eyes. The young Arab man smiled back.
We rushed to the mosques, one for women, one for men. I made my way through the large crowd, took my shoes off, entered the second mosque with thousands of fellow Muslim men. As we began to pray, no one took notice of me. I was simply another Muslim friend, praying to my God on a holy day. I never felt so at peace, despite the machinations it took to get there. When I left the mosque to meet my friend, it was raining lightly, and thought I was in the most beautiful place on earth.
*Postscript
Several months later, I was at home wathing the IFC (the Independent Film Channel) when I noticed an upcoming movie called "Close to Home" about the Arab-Israeli conflict. I watched it a week later. It told the story of two young Israeli women serving their compulsory military service. The movie detailed their training, particularly the focus on degrading Arabs. I cried openly, not for the Arabs depicted in the movie, but for the fist time facing my humiliation months before, my impotence and helplessness.

M

I have a friend in Jordan, who never ceases to amaze me. He is a young man who wants to be (and actually already is) a journalist. He is nuts about someone named Paulo Coelho (yes, I am the only one on the planet who doesn't know this sage of sages), and somehow he is the most rabid fan of German football south of the Balkans.
M is an amazing optimist who is afraid of donkeys. He eats something called Mansif, yet is wary of exotic food. I bring him western newspapers when I visit Jordan, and I send him jokes on a regular basis. He reads the papers, and laughs at all of my jokes. A true friend.
M has a passion for his country, and writes genuine articles about local stories of interest for the national paper. His internal optimism bleeds through to the ink of his stories, even about abandoned wells. He once gave me a beautiful silver key chain with a verse of the Koran etched in it - I carry it every day. He loves his country, his family, and his friends.
I think I mentioned that M does not like donkeys. I learned this first hand as we visited Petra once with a mutual friend. We all decided to climb the summit of the south side of the valley to see the spectacular Monastery (featured prominently in Transformers 2 btw). Our friend and I opted for donkeys and horses as it was quite a climb and it was very hot. M got on a donkey for about ten seconds, jumped off, looked at us, shook his finger and said in his very nearly perfect English, "I will not do this." Fair enough though, he trudged along side us and kept up, never complaining. Two years later, we still get to rib him about his "asinusphobia", and he goodnaturedly accepts it.
If M loves his country, then he worships his home province of Ma'an in south central Jordan. He can find a kinsman anywhere in the country - at a one room museum in Mufrock, a hitch hiker in the middle of nowhere, or the maitre d' of an large upscale restaurant and grill. M engages strangers everywhere, something admirable especially in a twenty-five year old. He will earnestly debate anything, honestly arguing his point without offending or pressing too hard. The world truly is a place of wonder for him, and friends and strangers are treasures to him. I envy his enthusiasm, his naivete, and his passion for his culture. It will be a pleasure watching his career unfold, albeit from halfway across the world.
http://www.jordantimes.com/?news=27788

Then Back to Amman

I had a fantastic trip to Jerusalem! I stayed (as I always do) in the Old City at a converted Austrian palace, right amongst the Stations of the Cross. It is nestled in the narrow streets and tunnels that crisscross the ancient city. I love just wandering off, looking at the shops and markets, inevitably getting lost. It's hard to describe the power of the place. After a peaceful night's sleep, I left the Damascus Gate and headed to the West Bank. I worked with UNRWA (The United Nations Relief Works Agency) to find two schools. They were fantastic and we settled on schools in the Shou'fat Refugee Camp inside Jerusalem. It was heartbreaking to see the conditions in the camp, but the people there were fantastic - I admired their spirit and professionalism. Everything went well, and I was off to Amman.

I made my way north to the border crossing, and once again, had to wait almost an hour for the bus that made the four mile trip to the Jordanian side. An old Loggins and Messina song comes back to me, "It's an hours flight, but it takes all night to get from Cairo to the Promised Land." I chatted in a mixture of Arabic and English to several men who were also waiting for the bus. I did notice a lone young man standing outside reading an English novel. Once again, I couldn't tell if he was an Arab or a Jew. Eventually, we all made it over to Jordan, through immigration and customs, emerging to try to find taxis back to Amman. As I approached a taxi, I heard a voice behind me asking me if I would like to share a taxi, it was the young man I had seen earlier.

We got into the taxi, and he introduced himself. He was an English professor at a small college north of Jerusalem. He was Palestinian, and on one of his many regular trips to visit his wife in Amman - she could not join him in Palestine. We talked, once again, about border hassles and other annoyances. Soon though, the conversation turned towards the Arab-Israeli conflict in Palestine. He was very critical of the PLO and Hamas, as well as of the Israelis. He just didn't understand the tensions and the war raging around him. He did admit that he hardly ever got to talk to an Israeli, and he lamented that the two groups didn't seem to want to learn each other's languages - how does one communicate to another, if one doesn't know the language, asked this English teacher.

The conversation was eerily similar to that which I shared with the young Israeli on the ride over. Both of these guys were intelligent, decent human beings, and they had no idea whatsoever how to reach out to each other, metaphorically or otherwise. The afternoon was even that more odd as we drove through a snow storm as we climbed up out of the Dead Sea area. We parted ways on the outskirts of Amman, and honestly, I no longer knew what to think. Here was an entire generation, much without the inherent animosity, with no tools to change the issues and conditions they despised.

To Jerusalem

I was on my way from Amman, Jordan to Jerusalem in order to find two schools that would adopt a supplemental curriculum provided at no cost by an American philanthropist. I travelled by taxi to the border, only to find that I had to reroute north to another border crossing. I was a bit annoyed but I jumped into a taxi and made the hour trip. When I got to the border crossing, I had to wait for about an hour to catch the bus that travelled one mile across the Jordan river to the Israeli crossing. While waiting, I noticed a young, thin man sitting on a bench patiently waiting as well. He appeared to be very polite and modest, and I was wondering if he was an Arab or a Jew. When the bus finally came, we sat across the aisle from each other for the four-minute ride. We didn't talk, but he smiled a lot and I suspected he was a nice guy.

After passing though immigration and customs, I found that I faced an expense taxi ride to Jerusalem. I located a driver that would take me to a nearby town where I could catch a much cheaper bus for the 55 mile trip. As the van began to pull away, the man I had seen on the bus flagged us down and joined us. I said hello and introduced myself. He was very pleasant. I asked him if he knew which bus to catch once we got to town, and he told me he would help me, as he was going to Jerusalem as well. We got to town, transferred to the bus and settled in for the long ride.

Once again, we sat across the aisle from each other in a bus. I asked him why he had been in Jordan, and he smiled and told me that he really hadn't been. By this time, he had put his yamaka back on. He told me that he had been on his way to Amman to visit a factory his firm was working with. He was an engineer specializing in solar energy technology. When he got to the Jordanian immigration, they refused him entry into the country telling him he looked too Jewish, and that he might be in danger. He was wearing a suit and tie, but I didn't see the obvious tell-tale signs, at least until he donned the yamaka. I was taken by the fact that he hadn't been upset by the ordeal, he just took it in stride.

We talked about border politics in general, how hostile the Israelis could be, and how pedantic the Jordanians had been denying him entry for his own safety. But the most fascinating part of the conversation came when he began to talk about life in general in Palestine. He found that Israeli policy was often brutal and unethical, and he didn't understand the underlying animosity. He went on to say that he lamented the fact that no one wanted to talk about the issues. He knew others felt the same way, but the only dissent he ever heard was from outside the country. He told me he knew there must be Palestinians who were also critical of their own government, but he never had the chance to talk to any of them either. It was just the way things were, and it made me sad to think that an intelligent and sensitive human being like this had no peer group to share these thoughts with, no way to create a meaningful dialogue that could be the impetus of change. I have always heard people talk cynically about the hopelessness of the conflict, but this was the first time I felt it. And I felt sorry for him.

He got off a stop early to help me find a taxi to the old city, and we only had a few seconds to say goodbye, as there was a taxi waiting. We shook hands and I marvelled at his kind smile, regaining a bit of the hope I had lost in the last hour and a half.