The many faces of Lebanon:

The sign that only took 70 shots from the car to get. (This is Jordan)

Talal's New Hotel! The room that is an upgrade from the bombshelter.Our private bathroom. Please note the shower- toilet proximity.

Our mosque and a typical downtown street.

Bullet holes in the statues.

A view of Beirut by foot.

Other sides of Beirut - underconstruction, over the top and remenants of the war.

Victoria's home which offered us refuge from Talal's.

My roommate's family's pool, and the view of the city and the whole airport.

The ruins at Byblos.

Turtles...please note the tongue and neck vein on the dominant turtle. (My only picturie of Jeita Grotto since cameras were not allowed)

Byblos at sunset.

Soliders hanging around the street with their AK47s and tanks (obviously impossible to take a picture of them, but just so you see the reality of things)

A mosque on the way to Baalbeck

Ruins at Baalbeck- beautiful.

The symbology behind us- lions head for strength, the cord underneathe for friendship, the labyrinth symbolizing immortality (later becoming the swastika) the egg and the arrow for life and death and the interweaving for slavery.

A little boy playing with toy guns...everywhere...

Skybar (second longest in the world)

Streets of Beirut.

View of the mountains from la Corniche.

La Corniche.

Dani and co who made us amazing breakfasts every morning.

Contrasts. The salt water pool where we spent our last day.

The beach club/pool.

Ode to our mosque.

Day 17

As this is my last day of Ramadan in Jordan (given that tomorrow I will be spending the Eid, my break, in Lebanon) I thought I would give an overview of my day today, as it was pretty standard. The next time I post (in a week or so) I will be able to compare and contrast life before and after Ramadan. I’ll be sure to post pictures of Beirut upon return. We will see if there is a difference in ambience, attitude and moral standards.

At 7am, three of us who live in the complex caught a cab at the corner of the next block as we do every morning after catching up about our night. Waiting for a cab driver is like waiting for your first visit with the dentist. He could be shady, you could not trust him with his equipment, he could take the longest way to where you want to go and he could overcharge. This morning was a joke. The man who picked us up was fully donned in a keffiyeh and white robe down to his trendy socks and sandals combo. Since waiting for a cab can take a matter of minutes or hours where we live, we take what we can get. He pulled up to our residential neighborhood blasting what I could have sworn was an Arabic Malcolm X. He was shaking his fists and yelling with the man exiting the cab as we took his spot. After hearing my surely endearing American accent, he was quick to switch the station to what without much deliberating was Arabic Teletubbies station. He happily bopped along forgetting his route and ended up making several unnecessary turns while in this rather strange stage between militancy and infancy. Getting out was a relief.

Class today was an Arabic listening exercise which was a nice break from rote memorization and recitation. Deciding to be savvy travelers, my friends and I walked over to the printers after class to print out our confirmation numbers for our flight tomorrow, and were told simply that the “printer-lady” was not there, and that we could not print on our own until she came back, whenever she would be back. They gave us a time frame of around 30 minutes… so by now we know that means forget it and it’s time to get lunch.

Lunch for the most part is the highlight of my day. It is always the same and consistency in a place like this is hard to come by. I’m unsure whether or not I’ve made past references to our little haven but life without Subway would be a miserable experience here. Subway is the only consistently open food place in and around our campus that serves during Ramadan. Of course, we can’t EAT at Subway, we have to take it and leave. As a result, the three of us made our sandwiches and crawled down the fire escape around the corner from the garage to quickly scarf down heaven in a bun. Who knew I’d come to Jordan to go on the Subway diet.

I didn’t fall asleep in class today which was a miracle (I mean I dozed a little, but there was no drool involved and hardly any squigglies on my paper). After class, which is so long, monotonous and dull that you would believe you were being read a bed time story of insurance manuals, we hopped a cab home. We were excited because the seats were leather without holes and the cab driver seemed happy, no militancy. We drove towards our house at which point the driver veered off into a gas station leaving the meter on. It is customary for the cabbies to simply take you on their gas errands, or other errands, whether you care or not. We told him somewhere around six times to please turn the damn thing off… he said “ok, ok…” and did nothing. We agreed to simply detract it from the final total. After leaving the gas station, we notice that he is incessantly checking his rearview mirror. Finally, he pulls over and motions to a beautiful, rather trampy uncovered girl to get in the back with us, she agrees. We are pissed. He is a pig. I’m surrounded by men who are pigs here. There is something in the air that makes it okay to be a greedy scumbag man and I encounter it over and over.

As a white American woman, I am let into every building and entrance that the locals need ID to enter without question. I am put on a pedestal and the idea appears to be if I let you in, you will flirt with me. You don’t have your head covered and you walk with your hair down so you must be easy. When we arrived at the house, we gave him two dinar, which was two dinar more than he deserve, but twenty five cents less than what the meter said. We gave him the two and crawled over the tramp to get out. He then threw the two dinar at my face and told me “MORE!”. He was furious. We left the cab and said two dinar is all you get homeslice. We were talking about a quarter here, but me being furious at the pig that he was, and he being furious that I was not giving him enough let alone tipping him made us both too stubborn to give in. We exited the cab at which point he furiously honked and abruptly stopped his cab and got out to give us a piece of his mind. I had given him the two dinar he threw in my eyes as if I were the leader of the brothel pack and he threw it back at me a second time. We were terrified he was going to beat us with his flimsy window shade so we finally gave him the quarter.

I have not had very good experiences with the men here. The cat calls and honks do not bother me half as much as the quiet smirks and under-the-breath side comments of a group of men just watching me walk. Those are the most common. I do not like the stories I hear from girls in my program in homestays who find themselves eating in the kitchen (as opposed to the dining room) when the male friends come over and being treated like a piece of meat or contrarily given special privileges with an expectation attached. Luckily, on our program, the men with whom I associate are dignified. They are kind but quick to help us defend ourselves or ignore the nuisances of life here. The men I have met on other programs are boys. It is as though there is a precedent set for how you can behave and western men are quick to pick up on it. They do not have to be equal here; they can be the leaders of the pack. If you are one of those feminists who argue that normativity in US makes it a man’s world still, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

I am very uncomfortable around them, even some of the white ones from Suburbia, USA. Women are so quickly objectified. Some find it fascinating that there is a piece of hair peaking through the hijab and are quick to fantasize. Others enjoy the sight of a girl with a skirt a bit too high and a shirt a bit too low. I don’t know which is safer. I’m not sure if we actually have a long way to go still, or if I’m not being open minded. Regardless, this is my experience. When sexuality is so publically suppressed, it creates a tension that is beyond uncomfortable; I think it is almost dangerous. I’ve seen women making out with their boyfriends at the University literally sitting on the ground crouched between two cars in a parking lot. Homosexuality is entirely illegal. Some men seem to find the idea of being covered as alluring because of the mysticism underneath while others are simply lured by long hair and form fitting clothes. You just can’t win. Who knows who is protecting whom from what.

Day 16

My First Jordanian Love Affair

It’s official, I have fallen in love. I am completely enraptured, obsessed, smitten. Everywhere I go that is all I can think about. I feel it on the street corners; I am reminded on every building, sign and object that I see. It’s a puzzle, you keep learning new pieces to put together, it’s a game, everything is exciting. I realize that I am in the honeymoon phase. I realize that eventually people have only two choices, they enjoy a lifelong relationship with trials and tribulations expected, or they break up.

When you are in this phase, all you can possibly think about is how breaking up is never an option, about how no matter what you do, you must find room in your life for the rest of eternity, you must make room. People keep warning me that it will hit, eventually everything I found exciting will simply get on my nerves, all those interesting new puzzle pieces will just seem so insignificant and annoying that there is nothing I will want to do more than just call it quits.
People have told me. And I believe them. Ironically the people who have told me are still in long term relationships. They have made it work, not without some serious deliberations of course.

The incredible thing is that no matter how much at that point you will want to give up, you will have invested so much of yourself into the process that trying to separate yourself entirely from it will be impossible. It will always have you, it always keeps a part of you and you will always have a part of it. Your relationship is also unique to everyone else’s. Sure, we often have similar disputes and find solace in the knowledge that other people have struggled with the same points, that you are not the first and you will not be the last. But often, it does not feel like everyone in your physical context is going through this with you. It is just too personal. You are the one making it happen, or you are the one in over your head.

Right now, everything is beautiful about this love. It lingers in the air long after it’s gone, it is so pure you can feel that it comes from another world, you know that nothing about it can you hurt you, it guards you, it’s quiet and humble, it’s loud and animated, it has the most beautiful physical form. When it speaks it grabs you and lures you with the mysticism you are warned about as a westerner. It has roots yet is not stagnant; it is modest yet proud and witty. When you are finally able to make sense of what you are seeing, it comes together like a 1945 Mouton-Rothschild and nose.

Sorry Mom and Dad, it looks like there is going to be a wedding on the horizon. I don’t think I will ever let go of the affair with the Arabic language.

Day 15

Academia :

Unfortunately, the reality of my academic situation is nothing I can brag about. I love school, I love to learn, and I love the areas of study which I currently consider my concentrations. Ironically, being at the University of Jordan has not fulfilled any of those loves by my definition. School to me is Sarah Lawrence and nowhere else. Learning to me is sitting in my library with the books that are provided to us and filled with absolutely mind-blowing information on something that will be relevant for the rest of my life. Psychology to me is Kim Ferguson and the entire department of phenomenal Psychology professors my school hires. Middle Eastern studies are my professors Kristin Sands and Fawaz Gerges with discussion sections and intensive papers substantiated by easily accessible sources from our library staff. Nothing I know academically is like it is here. Everything I thought I knew it turns out is defined by my spoiled definition of knowledge. For me, knowledge comes from books. It is difficult to concentrate in class. I am not a Geography major, and I am using this semester to learn about tributaries, deltas, reverse osmosis and desalinization in the Middle East. I am learning about Arab revolutionaries and controversial leaders.

I have, without fail, fallen asleep in both non-Arabic speaking classes that I have here 6 times (i.e. every class…)

I recognize that the academics my school provides are without a doubt tailored for my particular learning style. I have never once been close to falling asleep in a class in New York. I put off extracurricular activities in order to read as much as I can cram into my brain. I am stimulated. The classes here count. They will count towards my GPA, and they will be seen on a transcript to graduate programs. I have made allies with students in my class and we watch one another’s back in the case of serious head bobbings. The reality is that I will not be satisfied with what I learn in these classes here and coming to grips with that is excruciating. I give the readings my full attention (when we are e-mailed or given the readings), I have re-read the syllabus in order to understand what an oral presentation on water entails…I have opted out on hanging out with friends to read 200 pages on Al-Afghani, but the reality is that I just cannot bring myself to care. As a result, I have come to a few conclusions.

Primarily, while I fully recognize that this is a study abroad program, it is also a study abroad program. I am so used to pouring myself into my researching during the academic year that it feels so entirely self-indulgent to be putting academia second. Secondly, while I understand that it is, in fact, self-indulgent, there is a lot I am learning about life, independence, self-discipline, culture and myself that would be impossible in the confinement of Yonkers. I know I am happier here than I would be there all year, without question. On the other hand, it is a tough dynamic to reconcile. I am doing something I’ve wanted to do since I started formulating opinions on things, I am learning a language that I’m ecstatic about, I am living a life that people cannot possibly imagine who have not ventured passed their front door. I am learning about a people so misrepresented that it makes me feel militant at times. I am seeing things that others in a lifetime may see on a postcard, may read about. And most of all, I am truly happy.

I’ve always said that street smarts should be as valued as book smarts. The truth is that I have never believed it. Being able to navigate my way around the Middle East, to settle into a lifestyle, to converse with people who have never heard a word of English, to be kind and diplomatic, to thrive in discomfort, to be truly resourceful, entirely on my own and feel strong, these are skills for which I could never be thankful enough if , Insha’Allah, they fully materialized. These are also skills that will only develop when I challenge myself. That word –challenge- to me was before this trip associated with only two aspects of my life: academia and sports. Now, living here, has given the concept a whole new definition and so many more venues from which to fulfill it. My classes are slow, my life is fast.

Knowledge may not come entirely from books after all. I will be using this short opportunity to saturate my brain with life, not research, for probably the first and last time in my life. It took me a little while to realize it, but I think that in the grand scheme of life, that will be just fine.

Days 11-14

Ahlan wa salan ! Welcome (back)!

I have just returned from our three day excursion throughout the south of Jordan and I’ve never experienced such an abrupt change of scenery, weather, comfort zone and wildlife in such a short span of time. I hope you'll stay with me through my journey as I try to convey to you as abreviated a version possible of my personal experience.

Our trip began on Thursday morning as 80 of us boarded the two luxurious coach buses southward to Wadi Rum. Wadi means valley, and Rum is the name of the valley (this is what Lawrence of Arabia called the Seven Pillars of Wisdom in his book, where the gerbil is from and where Transformers 2 was filmed). The scenery on the five hour bus ride down the country was arid and flat with the occasional breathtaking mosque or camel to break the monotony. Arriving at Wadi Rum was awe inspiring with a tinge of unease as we knew we were to be spending the night in this vast array of nothingness. How would one traverse Wadi Rum without a program like CIEE? Quasi impossible. After a scrumptious lunch of pita and tomatoes (with, quite unfortunately, our first of six suspect hummus dishes…) we drove down as far as the buses could reach without getting their wheels stuck, at which point we were greeted by 80 camels.

The idea of riding a camel was yet another romantization on my part. I thought it was SUCH a brilliant idea our program had decided to let us ride these adorable primitive creatures from point A to point B- a legitimate form of transportation, as opposed to recreation. Oh, silly Alex. Little did I know that the FOUR hour camel ride through the desert in the mid-day heat with a pseudo-saddle would only leave me dirty and bruised. My legs will never be the same shape again. I named my camel Muhammad, but his real name was Batman. He was a grumpy sucker, but I would be too if my tribe chained my forearms to my shoulders as to not allow me to rise independently until I was to carry an adult and her bags for the afternoon.
PETA would have a field day watching the treatment of the camels and other creatures we would later encounter in Jordan.

For the entire duration of the trip, we did not see one cloud and the sky was the color of unwashed blue jeans. We stopped at a few Bedouin tents to see what they were selling on our way to our final destination. The surroundings at this point require words I do not have in my vocabulary and any description I try to give will not do it justice. The desert sands varied from four distinctive shades of golden to fire red and the desert was divided by rock formations ranging from pebbles to terra cotta jutting cliffs climbing 1840 meters high. They were cavernous and wide, acute and rigid and when the sun hit the cliff tips on its journey westward, it left a pink stained sky. Sometimes, we would see cut into the cliffs small tents where the Bedouins would set up camp for the “time being”. Seeing a small black and white tarp embedded in a magnificent rock complex was off-balancing. Every now and then a woman or child would appear in the horizon seemingly walking to nowhere from nowhere.

When we finally arrived at out camp, a Bedouin camp, we where humbled quickly by the realities of life in the desert. We knew that given the scenario, ours was a camp of luxury. We had beds and pillows made of some sick combination of Styrofoam and tarmac. We did have running water, tissues (to be used as toilet paper) and hubbly bubbly (hookah, if you will recall) for dinner. We were served our second round of foul hummus with, surprisingly, pita and tomatoes. I believe this time we were offered a kebab too. Our live musicians worked us into a camp fire ring of madness with half of the program holding hands and doing jigs in a round encircling a fire. We then did a limbo. It all seemed surreal then and seems surreal now.

We awoke early the following morning in order to consume (you guessed it) pita and tomatoes (with yogurt, alhamdulillah) and to mount our Jeep 4x4s for a couple hours heading to Aqaba. Now the drivers in Amman have a reputation. They are just nuts. Absolutely out of their minds, and it’s simply accepted. But when you think of a Bedouin man, I’ll be willing to bet that you do not necessarily conjure up the image of a suicidal driver. Oh but my friend were you wrong! These men know the rocks and crevices on the ground like no camel or ant but choose to maneuver the desert like chickens with their heads cut off just to bask in the reward of the screams from the girls in the back. Some of us believe the 4x4s made us more sore than the camels. Well worth it, though, you should try it sometime. It’s like Wadi bumper cars.

Once we arrived in Aqaba, we ate pita and tomatoes to change it up a little bit and headed to the Red Sea for a boat ride and a little snorkeling. Arriving in Aqaba from Wadi Rum is confusing for the senses since the dry, yellow nothing becomes blue, lush everything. The roads are beautifully paved and lined with palm trees, the drivers are (more) relaxed, there is seafood (apparently), and from any given point you can very clearly see one land mass that is the defined border between Israel and Jordan. If you were staying at a hotel in Aqaba, you could run to Israel (and be deported). Riding the boat is an awesome experience as from the base of the Red Sea you are able to see Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Israel and Jordan all at once. The Red Sea is as clear and blue as the sky in Wadi Rum. I’ve never seen such water. Snorkeling was a joy, especially the part where my boat driver decided to lure me down to the floor of the ocean (with a snorkeling mask) and poke at something that remarkably resembled a blow fish. When he poked it and it in fact blew into a fish, he gave me a crinkly eyed smile and laughed as I scrambled to the nearest shoreline. Americans…so silly, afraid of blowfish… We stayed on the water for another four hours (CIEE’s favorite number) and were able to bond over ridiculous stories of crazy men who were suppose to keep us safe in the water.

At this point, we returned to the bus on the way to Petra. Now I would just like to mention how I have not by this point mentioned any form of bathing to you. The series of events include a camel ride, through the desert, in the heat of the day, followed by a Jeep ride, followed by a beach, and swimming in the water, and basking in the sun. I smelled at this point not unlike the bed I would sleep on that very night. Our drive to Petra was as stark a contrast from Aqaba as possible. The streets turned dark (and not because it was night), there were shoeless children with flies in their eyes riding and smacking donkeys with sticks and water bottles through the streets (what did I say, PETA). The houses were dilapidated and the streets littered. We were told that these were a “primitive” people, a tribe of Bedouins who were recently forced to give up their nomadic style due to their prime tourist location (the Petra you know) and the King and some rich fellows built up this land in order for hotels to flourish and the people to be civilized. I wasn’t sure what to think at this point, but that is a struggle I don’t yet want to touch upon. We kept driving into the oblivion which turned into absolute darkness and a couple of us agreed that camp Marriott sounded quite preferable at that moment.

Instead, we pulled into a dark hole surrounded by large mountainous shadows with wailing dogs chewing the legs of some ex-creature. There was a massive gulp at this point and we felt like puppies being dragged by the collar into a bath as we left the bus. Once we exited our comfort zone, we walked not 300meters to find a beautiful Bedouin camp hidden away from all the frightening scenes. This was an Ammarin camp, a tribe of Bedouins who graciously offered us pita and tomatoes for dinner. Just kidding, I mean, we did have pita and tomatoes, but they were ineffably kind for housing 80 smelly students.

The next morning was a lovely 6am wake up call for our four hour hike (what did I tell you) to the monastery and treasury of Petra. Since there were 80 of us, we assumed the hike would be one that would accommodate all levels of athleticism and pre-hiking experience. As a reasonably athletic person, one who enjoys mountains, outdoors, running, etc, I am astounded that 100% of my peers made it out alive. They “ joked” at breakfast (of pita and tomatoes) that there is a 90% survival rate on this hike. HA! The hike into Petra was most certainly not for the faint hearted. And with my backpack holding my life for three days, walking on a cliff edge not half the size of my sneaker and up inclines of 50% that may as well have been extreme skiing ledges, I wondered about the legality of this in the US.

A few Ammarin children saw us huffing and puffing through their backyard and ran up to us, held our hands and lead us as far as they could without their caretaker running after them. Remarkably, this was most of our journey and the only thing that ran after them was a goat. This goat was not your ordinary European goat, oh no. This one chased the children and in straight up Lassie fashion, herded them to their camp. Remarkable.

A couple of us were debating about the children we had seen. Some had stated they felt sorry for them, or that they should be sent somewhere since they were under 5 and developing dreadlocks, were dusty with dirt and sand and didn’t even try to wipe the flies off their mouths. They most likely wore those clothes every day. They seemed like the happiest children I had ever met. They had chants, they made up stories, they explored, they were fed. Should we feel sorry? At what point do you send them to the US? They looked like a UNICEF ad. They were probably happier than any child I had worked with. The Bedouins don’t appear to get sick, but if they did, and they died, that is the circle of life there. Is that wrong?

In all our emotional and physical pain and suffering, our breathlessness leading us into a hazy dehydration, the peaks appearing steeper and steeper, and the views seeming more and more impossibly like the Grand Canyon, we turned a corner and were completely taken aback by the sight that appeared like a mirage in front of us. The monastery of Petra appears out of nowhere and because I have no words, I have attached a picture below. It was a stunning sight and everything you have seen and wanted to see in the pictures. At this point, we were all so dehydrated, dirty and scorched from the 38 degree sun that walking yet another 30 minutes to what is truly known as the village of Petra seemed impossible. We dragged our feet to the village and were told that we were to sit for lunch. After a table of 8 consumed its number times 10 of water bottles, we were lead to a buffet of pita and tomatoes. But wait. There was more. Oh my gosh. There was rice. There was falafel from heaven. And there were potatoes. MEAT. AND….FRUIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I consumed three plums and an orange. My stomach did not digest three plums and an orange, but I was too busy worrying about the risk of scurvy to care.

After our bellies were full, mostly from water, we continued our trek of Petra. We left the restaurant and saw from afar what all believed to be the treasury (the building that is the Wonder, the one in the postcards) we were slightly disappointed since it was not all we had expected. About five of us climbed to the top of this monument to take a picture to say we were there. Our lackluster experience, or (bratiness from exhaustion) made us queasy and anxious to get home. We were told that we then had another walk through the gorges. Ready to cut off our own feet and buy a camel, we hauled our bodies through the blistering sun and listened to the guide lecture us once again on the miracles of the Nabataens and their god-forsaken 100BC rose red city. Finally, we turned a corner where the shade lifted away a thousand pounds of anxiety and there she was. We had not yet reached the Treasury and the sight of her was enough to make us all forget that we had spent over four hours being beaten down by the oppressive heat. It was magnificent and we spent a solid amount of dumbstruck.

We were then told there was a half hour walk to the buses from there, at which point we realized that what they had done to us was take us the backwards 4 hour non –touristy hike instead of the flat, shady 30 minute walk from the parking lot. I felt as if I were in an M. Night Shyamalan movie. We walked the thirty minutes, which in our state felt like thirty hours, and was certainly still not for any incapacitated being. We walked like lost prophets through an uncanny time warp of Greek-style horse drawn carriages, the random camel and Arabic script on the walls. Seeing the bus was a watershed moment for us in this trip.

We realized how much we missed home, and how funny that was seeing that by home, we were envisioning Amman. This was a general consensus. All we could think about was walking into our apartments and getting the smell of 100BC off our feet. Amman was home and we were heading there. The drive back was full of exhilarated, exhausted and exceptionally stinky students; we were so grateful to be home again.

This morning I awoke in my bed, grateful for my bed, my pillow, my luxurious living room and most importantly, my shampoo. Breakfast involved no form of white bread or tomato and when I looked out of my balcony to reflect on the weekend that seemed so surreal, I wondered if I had only dreamt it.

A couple pictures from the weekend!- Not sure why these didn't pop up!

Petra!

The monastery at Petra.

Alison and me on the 4 hour hike to Petra.

Ammarin children.

The bedounin camp.





Our room when we camped with the bedounins!

Aqaba from the boat

view of Israel from Aqaba A view of Aqaba

The water at Aqaba... never seen anything like it.

Our 4x4 rides through Wadi Rum... insanittyy

SESAME STREET CHARACTERS! Hikayat Simsim... aww

A shot of Wadi Rum ( I have 138 of these)





My camel!

One of the four different sand colors in Wadi Rum.

Us with our camels in the desert.

MuMu and the clan

A couple of us in Wadi Rum on our camels.

Wadi Rum and the actual color of the sky...

Day 10

Well tomorrow I am off to Wadi Rum, Aqaba and Petra for the weekend so the blogging for the next couple of days will be delayed. I’m excited to come back with stories and pictures for you all to hear and see.

Otherwise, there are a couple of points I’d like to make about opinions and misconceptions regarding the place in which I currently reside. Living here, in the Middle East, as a woman can be a very uncomfortable experience, especially with very low levels of Arabic. I am often surrounded by Americans in my program, in my apartment space and in class and there are statements made that are easily justifiable, statements from people back home which, without firsthand knowledge, seem perfectly rational. The truth is that until you have lost yourself in one of these countries with some of these people, listened to them speak about themselves and others, until you have tasted the food they cook and felt their warmth and genuity, the statements you make are simply unfounded. I am by no means the connaisseur of Arab culture, as if there were one to define. I am certainly not the authority nor trying to make generalized statements about the population to prove any point. But I have lived here now for a little bit and am starting to sense a pattern with regards to my own personal experiences. I talked earlier about the idea of marginality. That is the name of my blog.

While many of these experiences apply to many of the women on the program, I will speak only for myself. There are stark contrasts here that are hard to miss, especially during Ramadan. As a white woman without a hajib, I am constantly honked at, cat called, verbally harassed, whistled at, etc. everywhere I go. When I get in the cab, the cab driver asks me if I am married, he asks me where I am from and depending on my answer will take numerous unnecessary back roads to get where I need to go, he will “forget” to put on the meter or tell me it is broken so as to set his own price. Wherever I walk, I feel as though there are eyes on me all the time. I cannot eat or drink in public and while I joked about having to eat in a bathroom when I was home, I am often confined to toilet stalls and emergency stair exits in order to not faint. I am in the desert and surrounded by men and women who are dressed in heavy coverings from head to toe who are not hydrating. We cannot buy our books in a bookstore and often share one textbook for the whole class. The food and water can make you sick if you aren’t careful and the weather in the middle of the day can be oppressive.

Why would I come here? Why wouldn’t I go to a place to which my school offers abroad programs? And why dear God, wouldn’t I go to a place that is reputed for its political stability, beaches and parties?

I came here for very selfish reasons. I came because when I go home, I want to be able to break down everything you thought was true and show you why it is or why it isn’t. I want to learn about a culture that is represented in one very particular way in our media and I want to break down these ideas of normativity. I can’t understand without the language. I am learning the language. A kid in my Arabic class today said, “So when we read numbers, we read it the right way, but spell it the wrong way?” Normativity. It’s been said that fasting, or wearing the clothes during Ramadan is just stupid. It’s hot. I’ve heard that the pace used here does not accommodate many students, and that the manner in which business is conducted is corrupt.

Connections get you ahead. Sometimes I am tempted to wear strapless tops, to wear shorter skirts, no scarf on a low cut neckline. You can, surely and some people do. No one cuts off your hands or sends you to jail. But with a majority of the population trying to be modest, and reflective, your distractions for personal flaunting rights, or comfort (although wearing little clothing will not make you comfortable) are just unnecessary. I like to respect humanity and when I understand what they are doing it for, I respect their beliefs. You are very welcome here when you go with, as opposed to criticize. You do not have to be mindless. You are not expected to concede and become a lowly sheep. The women are tough, free thinkers, critical analyzers, witty, and certainly not pushovers.

Logic and reason versus personal connections and bonds, legality versus emotionality, detachment versus substantial psychological investment. These are prime differences. It does not simply come down to the differences in war versus peace, monarchy versus democracy, in women’s clothing, in levels of comfort. I already outlined these differences for you, I told you that these are different and can be uncomfortable. Understanding culture does not mean being stagnant or rigid. Understanding the psychology of a person does not mean listening to someone else talk about them. Becoming an intelligent human being does not mean judging without experiencing, without listening.

Things are different in the states. When you buy an internet router, no one cares who your uncle is. When you go to a market, no one expects you to haggle and discuss who is coming to Iftar at the same time, no. Things move more slowly here; business is taken care of by the time it needs to be taken care of. People take the time to get to know one another; people are genuinely kind and hospitable. They have nothing to gain by asking you your life story, and trying to use their broken English in your attempt to use Arabic. People are devout, but this does not mean there are no atheists, there are no Christians, there are no Muslims who care to incorporate elements of modern science and ijtihad (independent reasoning) into their daily lives. The fact that the alphabet goes another way does not make it “wrong” and the fact that men cat call you because you are not covered is not unprovoked. You are defying the customs, pushing the envelope and do not think for a second that because you can wear shorts and flaunt your body in one country that your customs are superior to the concept of modesty. People are not backwards, they are not behind the times. This is also not oppression. I have no husband, no one to whom I am expected to answer, but I do not like to reveal my body because that is not the mark of beauty here, that is just provocative.

There are differences that need to be allowed and respected, not tolerated, but accepted in order to grow with people, as opposed to away from them. There is a holy book here that lifts spirits higher than any intellectual kafir I’ve met back home.

The standards for life, for what is important, and what constitutes success are entirely different. People care about their families. Men rush home to be with their wives and children for dinner and nothing can get in the way. A divorce rate of 1 in 2 or 1 in 3 is unthinkable. Abuse is not rampant. The average lifespan is 78.7, just like the US. Money is important to live, but the standards for a good life do not involve Nissan Xterras and half million dollar houses. They don’t even involve dryers. Of course there are Jordanians who love to live in the lap of luxury. Just like everywhere. It is true that your neighbors come over to your apartment unannounced to bring you mensaf or khobz because you probably don’t know anyone and they would like you to chat and to come over for tea. Often they come without calling because they don’t have a phone. Most times they walk because they don’t have a car. Is this inferior? Do your neighbors care? Do they come over 2-3 times a week and want to know how your mother is? Does she miss you? If you tell the cab driver you are married and have no children, he will ask “WHY!”. Families are big, people love children, respect the elderly and care deeply for their friends. While it is not customary to show your knees here, it is not customary to walk shirtless in the states. So there are differences. It isn’t customary for people in the US to walk you to your destination, no matter how close or far; it is here. There are differences. There is no toilet paper, you bring your own. You get over it. Just because you are used to one way of living, does not mean the other extreme is inferior. It does not mean that it is corrupt. It also does not mean there is no corrpution, just like any country. Just like the US.

Getting comfortable in a routine happens here, just like it does in the states. Before you decide that you live in the richest country in the world, just question what “rich” entails. I hope you are living richly. I hope if you aren’t that you find the will to seek out what could make the difference, how you could change to first make yourself better, happier, fuller, and with that knowledge influence others. And then learn to respect the happiness of others. You don’t know what you are missing until you try.