Yalla Ya Morocco

Hey Everyone,

I just got back from a weeklong trip in Morocco. Unlike the Badia, I'm not going to give you a play by play analysis of the trip. Instead, I'm just going to post a bunch of the pictures and ramble a bit about some of them. It is not going to be my best post by any means, but the pictures are pretty.

Sorry, but theres a lot of other stuff going on right now. This post will not be coherent.

In this trip, I learned about how much I hate being a tourist. Instead of being a visitor that could learn about the culture by immersing myself in it, I was a tourist that got to see sights, take pictures, and be a total outsider. We were treated like we didn't know anything about the Arab world, which was frustrating. Having said that, Morocco was pretty.

There were a lot of colors everywhere, there was ocean, there was french influence in everything (which was really confusing). People would speak to me in French and get really confused when I responded to them in Arabic.

I may add to this post later, but for now, I am writing a research proposal and can't get myself to do it. Sorry. Seriously, I'm sorry!

My itenerary

It's not really acceptable for men and women to be dating publicly, but on the beach, it was couples city. These guys were hidden under some rocks. 

Humanitarian Aid

Hey Everyone,

This post is about Syria. As you know, there is a war going on there, and that there are a huge number of refugees. In the last 2 years, roughly 1.5 million Syrians have come to Jordan, increasing the Jordanian population by 16%. Less than half of them are registered in refugee camps, with the largest camp having over 400,000 people, 10 babies born per day, and no police force.

In the media, we read about the need for humanitarian aid for the refugees, but we rarely think about what this aid actually looks like. Living with my family has helped me learn. Both of my host parents work for the IRD, a non-profit organization promoting international relief and development. My host dad spends his days organizing volunteers that help refugees register for services through the UNHCR and doing so himself. His desk is covered in papers that families filled out asking for housing, services, etc. My mom doesn't work at home so I don't know what she does as well, but I know that she helps deliver services to refugees.

Last night, humanitarian aid took over our living room. My dad came home with a full carload of bags and boxes, filled with goods to be distributed to refugees. I've seen the line of people standing outside the Syrian embassy a few times, and I've met many people that left Syria because of the war, but seeing these goods was what made me actually realize the kind of things that real people do not have because of the terrible war going on in my current neighbor.



Here are some pictures of the goods that came in. They were shipped from Saudi Arabia, but the funding didn't come from the UN. Funding came from rich donors to the IRD. The goods that came in were interesting. There was a lot of kids clothing--cute sweatsuits, socks, sweaters, knock off crocs, etc. There were a lot of essentials--underwear, bras, undershirts, socks. There were also the essentials that prove why it's important to have people that live within the culture that needs help involved in the process: SO MANY HIJABS. In the west, we would never think to buy hijabs, prayer hijabs (outfits you can throw over whatever you're normal clothes to pray modestly). Before I came to Jordan, had someone told me that humanitarian aid included hijabs, I would have laughed--now I just smile because people get what they need.

One bag was exclusively filled with crocs and hijabs.



The A lot of the clothing had English writing on it, but much of it was not real English. I had a mini-argument with my host sister in which I told her that the following picture is clearly a mistake, and her explaining that it just means that a person is expressing joy over having you--a person named El. The second picture says "Wunderbue Woned." I guess Saudis speak English differently.

I can now say that I've seen bras from Saudi Arabia, and interestingly, I first saw them next to a hijab. The most interesting thing about the hijab wrapper was the woman depicted on the package. Last I checked, Saudi women are generally not fair skinned with skinny eyebrows and blue eyes. In the Arab world, just like in the west, the standard of beauty is paleness.




The baby blanket pictured below killed me. 10 babies are born every day in the Za'atari refugee camp in Northern Jordan, and less than 1/3 of the refugees live there in total. This means that tons of babies are being born in this terrible situation. Seeing this blanket, plus the socks and the super cute sweaters made me think of my preschoolers from a few years ago.




There were super nice blankets that came in. They were soft and warm, made in either China or Korea.




As we went through the bags, my mom constantly reminded us that the goods were not for us. The one item she took, she insisted that she would pay for. My parents are such good people, doing such good work, being so honest about doing it right. I am lucky to live with such incredible people. If you have any questions about Syria, how it effects Jordan, or how you can help, let me know.

Becca

Eid Mubarak!

Hey Everyone,

This post is all about Eid. The last time I posted, I said that I wanted to tell you about the massive holiday happening in the Muslim world right now, but I was sick. This is the real deal. Get ready.


I'm going to preface this by saying that I will likely get a lot of things about the holiday wrong in this post. Sorry.

This Eid (celebration) is all about the Hajj to Mecca, a pilgrimage Muslims are required to do once in their lifetime. It's a big deal. Everyone watches it on TV, including my family. If I understand it correctly, the Hajj involves one day in which everyone doing the pilgrimage spends a day standing on a mountain about 10 kilometers from the Ka'aba in Mecca. Those that aren't in Mecca fast. I didn't because I was sick, and my mom didn't, because she didn't want to. Watching it on TV was really interesting. The soundtrack consisted of Allah Hu Akbar (God is great) over and over and over and over and over again, and I actually got into it. According to the english subtitles on the bottom of the screen, about 50,000 people tried to get into Mecca without the proper permits from the Saudi government, no massive health crisis had emerged yet (although free food, water, medical care was being provided--thanks oil money).

The morning after the fast, the holiday begins. In America, we think that massive national holidays mean parades and public celebration. You sleep in, relax, sit in the park, etc. In Jordan, it works a bit differently.

Mosque With Mama - This section will talk about my experience going to mosque with my host mother. Goys, you won't understand a lot of it. Sorry I'm not sorry. 

I woke up at 6:30 to go to mosque with my mother. As a person that has been raised knowing that Jews, Muslims, and Christians all believe in one God, this was a really cool opportunity to practice that. I put on my traditional thob and my mom put a hijab on my head. I looked in the mirror at a girl I had not seen before. In the badia I wore a hijab but it didn’t feel genuine. It felt like I was putting on a costume. This time, for some reason, I didn’t feel like I was wearing a costume.

Me and my host mom outside of the mosque

My mom and I walked into a room that had maybe 20 people in it. Allah hu akbar was blasting over the speaker. On repeat. While Jews daven for a good hour to warm up into the service, Muslims use this mantra to get them into the right mindset. I kind of liked it. I asked my mom if it would be OK if I didn’t participate, and she said that there would be no problems—or that I could do as she did. Mush Mushkilah. 

There were about 300 people in the room, organically organized in rows with about three or four feet between each one. Regarding dress, for prayer, I learned in the badia that women must cover everything except for their hands and faces. Women that were wearing a nikab before entering were showing their faces, but nothing else. At a few points, I noticed women adjusting the scarves of women in front of them to ensure that the skin on the back of their necks/upper backs weren’t showing. For the first time in Jordan, I actually felt that I looked as though I belonged. I was dressed as everyone else was and wasn’t getting weird looks for being an American. It was kind of nice.

At 7AM sharp (the only time anything has happened on time in Jordan), the voice on the speakers changed. Over the speaker, a man’s voice was singing what I assume was koranic verses. Like doing a sequence of yoga poses, the women in the room brought their hands to their heads seven times saying allah hu akbar, and then bent at the waist, continuing to say allah hu akbar. As I didn’t want to stand out, I decided to go through the motions with my host mom.

As I did so, I was thinking a lot about monotheism. If Jews and Muslims are praising the same god (Allah/elohim), is there a problem with me praising god in a different way? I don’t understand the majority of Hebrew language in prayers, so why does it matter if I don’t understand what they are saying in Arabic? Allah hu akbar—I agree—god is the best. Let’s praise god!

I bowed at the waist, knelt to the ground and put my head down, listening to the singing of the voice over the speaker. It was a really cool spiritual experience. It felt like a guided meditation, but my guides were simply the women around me. I did as they did, and I loved the kinesthetic experience of praying. I thought about the problems that the American Jewish community is facing with people not feeling any connection to ritual life and realized that Muslim prayer solves that problem. Not only is it a meditative exercise, but it was over in less than 15 minutes. I loved it. I felt very whole, very content spiritually, and as though I had had an awesome experience—and I didn’t say a word.

The only issue that I had with it is that the women responded to a male voice that rang out through a speaker, absent of a body. It was an uber mechitzah. This didn’t bother me until after the prayer was over and the sermon happened.

Without a person appearing in the room, a sheikh/imam/spiritual leader’s voice rang out over the speaker and spoke in Arabic. My problem was not so much that it was a man speaking to a room full of women—that’s called the world. Male leaders talk to women all the time. My problem was that the speech was from an omnipresent voice, without a body that we could see, the implication being that women should listen to a male voice, regardless of where it comes from.

Not surprisingly, I didn’t understand what the guy was saying. I was, however, able to pick out a few key phrases. Firstly, the word Salam (peace), was said a million times. He mentioned Mohammad, Ibrahim, Ishmael, etc. At one point, He said impassionately that he hoped that allah would bring peace to Syria, Palestine, Somalia, Kenya, and a lot of other Muslim countries. I was loving it. And then I got scared—I heard him say yehud a few times.

I asked my host mother later what he was talking about. Apparently, he mentioned that some Jews had entered the al aqsa compound and desecrated it by praying with their shoes on there. I know that the Jews didn’t enter the mosque, but I hate the idea of using prayer as a political statement. I also really dislike that the omnipotent voice said Jews and not Israelis, as I have noticed that in the Arab world there is often a lack of knowledge about the distinction between these too groups, but whatever.

Sheep Slaughter Time

The hajj is tied to the story of the binding of Ismael. As it says in the holy book(s), Abraham takes his son up a mountain and nearly sacrifices him--but instead, he sacrifices a sheep that god sends. Afterwards, Abraham essentially left his concubine Hagar and their son Ismael in the desert in the middle of nowhere. This place is said to have been in a spring in Mecca. I'm not sure on the details, but I'm gonna go with it, in addition to not disputing whether Abraham/Ibrahim almost sacrificed Ishmael or Isaac. 

Instead, I'm going to talk about the fact that Muslims commemorate this event by LEGITIMATELY SLAUGHTERING A SHEEP. 

There are roadside places where families can pay about 300 JD ($400) to have a person slaughter the sheep in a hallal way, sheer it for them, etc. 1/3 of the meat goes to the family, 1/3 to relatives, and 1/3 to the poor. Many people can only eat meat on Eid because of the third of the animals that goes to the poor. I asked my family if we were going to do this, and they said no for financial reasons, but when I said that I wanted to see it, they decided to take me after mosque. 

It was gruesome, but I actually really liked it. Here's why.

I think that the most ethical way to eat meat is to understand the process from which an animal goes from being a living being to a delicious thing on a plate. Watching the alive to dead process will make the eater appreciate the source quite a bit more. The second picture here shows a man that had just slaughtered the sheep holding it, making sure that it suffers as little time as possible. Seeing him emotionally respond to taking the life of the sheep was heartbreaking and heartwarming all at the same time. 

Furthermore, they use every part of the animal to ensure as little as possible goes to waste. 

Eid: Visiting Family/Sitting Around

After this, we went home, had breakfast, and then sat at home for the day as various members of the family stopped by. That's what the day is about--family visiting family. Whenever people showed up, parents gave cash to the kids and dished out copious amounts of chocolates, deserts, etc. It was kind of fun to see so many people throughout the course of the day. I thought it would be more exciting, but it's OK. The night god interesting, because Eid was also my host sister's 21st birthday. 

21st Birthday Party

Eid was my sister's 21st birthday. They don't drink booze (and the legal age is 18), so it's not really a big deal. When I asked her what she wanted for her birthday, she didn't say anything, so I asked my mom--who said buy some sweets or pastries or something. My brother Ahmed and I I decided to buy her a birthday cake. 

On the way to grandma's house, we stopped at the bakery, and purchased a cake. The baker put it in a box and into a plastic bag, and my brother picked it up--promptly turning this beautiful cake on its side. My mother and I laughed, gave it back to the baker, and he salvaged it as much as he could. When he was done, my brother picked it up, walked out the door, and promptly dropped it. 

It was possibly the funniest thing I've experienced in Jordan with my family, mostly becuase for the first time, I wasn't the butt of the joke. When we told the family the story, they laughed and laughed--AND IT WASN'T AT MY EXPENSE! It's cruel for me to say this, but it was really nice to be in on a joke with my family about someone else. 

The cake was delicious. 

That's all for Eid, except for the fact that for the last few days, I've eaten more meat than I ever thought possible--and loved every second of it. 

Now, I'm getting ready to go to Morocco for a week. I'll blog all about it later!

The best,

Becca

Here are some more pictures from the day/night, mostly of my adorable host family. 

My sister Fatoum and me

My amazing brother Rashed

Jordanian Health Care

Hey Everyone,

I wish that this post could be dedicated about the National holiday that Jordan is currently gearing up for. It has to do with the Hajj, the preparation to slaughter a hell of a lot of sheep to commemorate the binding of Ishmael (not Isaac), and give a lot of money to family members.

Because I'm sick, though, I will dedicate this post to telling you about my experience with the Jordanian health care system. It will also include some funny cultural things that I noticed throughout the ordeal. The moral of the story is that I love my host family, and that I love being in a country with a functioning health care system (and government...).

For the last week or so, people on my program have been dropping like flies. My host mom thinks it has to do with the badia. I think it has to do with the fact that the seasons are changing (an odd experience for a californian). In addition to a flu-like thing and a 24 hour stomach flu going around, there has also been a general sinus infection circulating. Lucky me, that's what I got. I've spent the last few days sleeping, and as the symptoms haven't gone away, I followed my mom advice and called my program to have them take me to the hospital (doctor). However, since it's a national holiday, no one picked up their phone. When they finally did, they somehow convinced my host family to take me.

After waiting five Jordanian minutes for my host dad to come home with the car (read an hour and a half), my mom pulls me into the car and we go. There is a bunch of traffic, but it's all good. The highlight of the drive is when the song Gangnam style comes on. Her first reaction: turn it up and ask why my youngest host brother isn't there to dance and sing it for us. God I love my mom. Within three minutes she asks me if I like her driving. I tell her so far so good, and the next thing I know, a loud noise comes from the engine. Oh god. She then asks me if I have a car in the states, and I tell her that I do, but that it's automatic. She does not like automatic cars, and she also doesn't like seatbelts--no one in Jordan does, and I still don't get why.

We pull up to the clinic where there is a man dressed in a traditional robe and hat sitting in the waiting room. He smiles at me and a man in scrubs waves my mom and me into a room. In Arabic, there is a sign on the desk that says "Dr Dani." Her first reaction: I wonder where he is from. Jordan is based on tribal culture, and everyone knows the big tribe names in this country. Whatever.

A guy in his late 20s/early 30s walked into the room wearing scrubs. He introduced himself as Dr. Mohammad. My host mom said hello, and within seconds, they were having the casual conversation of where the other is from. The location in Jordan doesn't matter. When you meet a new person, you find out where they are from and learn a bit about them. You don't deal with total strangers. My Arabic comprehension is actually pretty good, and from what I gathered, my host mom was disappointed in him. He knew his family was from Bethlehem (in Palestine), but he wasn't sure exactly which neighborhood. She told him that I was from America--San Francisco--and that I wasn't feeling well. He turned to me and asked how I was feeling. I explained my symptoms, and it became very clear that his English is not nearly good enough to communicate with me. I switched to Arabic, and he was really surprised. I enjoyed the shocked look on his face.

I told him about the things going around SIT, and after looking into my throat for a whopping 3 seconds, he laughed and confirmed that I was correct. He took my temperature (with a non-electric thermometer), and confirmed: sinus infection. It's OK. It could be worse.

He told me that he needed to give me a few injections (not IV, in the butt), and as he prepped the needle, my mother kvelled about me and my program. It was adorable. She told him about my lack of Arabic coming into the program and my status now, about how SIT loves having Jordanian natives help out with us to work on Arabic (and they learn English from us), etc.

He gave me the injection and told me that within a few hours, I should be feeling better.
As he was filling out a prescription and a chart, I found out that he wants to improve his English to become a better doctor and would love to meet with me to talk and help him learn. My mom urged me to take his number, and I gave him mine. This epitomizes Jordan: Come in for the medicine, leave with new friends. Welcome to Jordan!

I went to the pharmacy, picked up some meds for the next few days, and that was that.

The cost for everything was 30 JD, roughly $45. While for a student, this was not a cheap outing, the reality is that in the states, this could have costed a million times more. I am grateful to be in a place with good medical care. Even if my ass is still sore from the shots.

My next post will be about Eid, the upcoming holiday dedicated to preparing and doing the Hajj to Mecca, and on Friday, I'm off to Morocco. Get ready to read about some exciting adventures!

Best,
B

Bedouin Life Part 5: After the Engagement Party

Hey Everyone,

If you haven't read the rest of the bedouin series, please do. This is the last installment. It includes what happened after the wedding, some talk about Jordanian thoughts on US foreign policy, and some stories from my American friends in the Badia. 

After the Party

Aubrey and I left the party with our family and called Dr. Raed, assuming he would take us to Amman. Instead  he said that Dr. Fozzy would take care of us. Ok Raed…

At this point, it was about 8 PM.

We found Dr. Fozzy, and he offered to take us to Amman on the Bedouin Barty Bus. As we left to get our things, he called us back with a counteroffer. Becca, he said, this man speaks fluent Hebrew. He said hello to me in Hebrew, and I responded—in Arabic. My Arabic has officially made me incapable of speaking Hebrew. It was really funny, but I wanted to know more. Sure enough, he was the bride’s father (and Luqat, the girl we had been hanging out with’s) and he wanted to host Aubrey and me for the night. In America, if a man in his mid 50s that I had never met before invited me to stay with his family after a wedding had invited me to his house, I probably would have called the Police. Dr. Fozzy said it was his cousin, and that it was fine. I told Fozzy that if anything happened it was his fault. He laughed and said he would take his chances.

I called Dr. Raed to confirm that this was OK, and he said that we were fine staying with Dr. Fozzy’s uncle. Cousin? Uncle? Who cares? Family is family.

We got our stuff from the Bedouin barty bus, said goodbye and thank you to our Bedouin family (that has of course invited us to come back any time), and left. Dr. Fozzy gave us a firm handshake and assured us that we would see him soon. He will be speaking to SIT when we go to Petra in about a month, seeing he is an archeologist in the area. With that, Aubrey and I loaded our things into the car with Luqat and her family and took off. We spent the first 10 minutes of the car-ride trying to speak to this family and their kids in Arabic. Then it became really obvious that the oldest of the girls were almost fluent in English. It was really embarrassing. 

Thinking that we didn’t know any Arabic, Luqat decided to start teaching us. The first lesson was how to pronounce her name. the q sound is a guttural sound that to say correctly requires you to nearly vomit. Arabs do it super naturally. I’m jealous. We eventually got it. She then taught us that every time we say anything about a future plan/event, even if it is just getting to their house, it should be followed by the word Inshallah. It is by far my favorite Arabic word. Literally it means “if Allah wills it,” but it also means hopefully. Given how last minute planning is here in every way, it makes sense that all plans will go through if God wills them to be.

We got to their home and settled in their large house. They had us put our thing’s down in a large room lined with firashes (the same mattresses we had sat on in the badia) and then brought us into their TV room. Within minutes, the floor in the middle was covered with food: Shwarma, bread, makluba, cheese, oil, zatar, and copious amounts of tea. This was definitely a Bedouin family that had moved to a CD.  and realized that this was a Bedouin family that had moved to the city. They brought us into the room with the TV and served us a massive dinner.

We met about seven kids (including 2 boys named Mohammad) and multiple couples. After everyone but the family left, we learned that this family has 4 girls and one adorable 4 year old named Mohammad that loves FC Barcelona and Messi. They HATE Ronaldo. We watched Arab’s got talent for a while, until the father switched the cable to the Israeli TV network that was filled with Hebrew TV shows. I was so confused. Why does this Bedouin Jordanian man know Hebrew? Why does he have Israeli TV? He said that he teaches Hebrew, but the why part never came into play.

Not to mention the more pressing question: how the hell are we going to get home tomorrow? The dad told us that the next morning, everyone has school and he has work, so that we would wake up with only the wife home and he would take us back to Amman at around 2. Works for us. As we were getting ready for bed, Dr. Fozzy called the family to make sure we were OK. If I didn’t trust the genuine nature of Arab hospitality before this moment, I certainly did now.

We woke up to a 12 year old girl coming into our room and telling us to eat breakfast. We walked into the TV room where the brother was already sitting watching some American crime show. Jordanians love crime shows. CSI, Bones, you name it—they watch them. As guests, we were plopped in front of the TV. In the Arab world, taking care of guests means keeping them safe, and if that means sitting, watching TV only, it’s no broblem.

The dad, Musleh, got home at about 3:30 in an army uniform. My goal was to figure out why he knew Hebrew. The uniform made the situation make more sense—the Jordanian army coordinates a lot of things with the Israeli army, and if the soldiers are to work together, they have to try to close the language gap.

We said goodbye to the family only after them making us bromise that we would come back. I have no doubts that I will. They were wonderful in so many ways. The ride back to Amman was about 45 minutes, and it was among the most interesting conversations I don’t recall many of the details, but there a lot of points that got us thinking. Here are some of the good ones I remember.

Zarqa, the city where they lived, is one of the largest in Amman. It was formed with virtually no urban planning as it was originally a Palestinian refugee camp from 1967. Over time, tents turned into homes, paths turned into paved streets, urban centers developed, stores popped up, and a society emerged. Now, Zarqa is roughly 50% Palestinian.

At one point in the conversation, Musleh looked at us and asked if we were recording the conversation. We assured him that we weren’t spies and then our conversation turned to foreign policy.

He mentioned that US foreign policy in the region is a large portion of the reason that groups like Al Qaeda have so much power. The United States has created the monsters it is trying to remove now. The US is so strong militarily, though, that no one, even Russia, can challenge it. Thus, the Jordanian army/government has decided just to work with it. This has very interesting implications for Israel. The population of Jordan is divided about their feelings otward the peace agreement between the two countries. East bankers are OK/apathetic with it, because they know it is good for Jordan economically. The Palestinian population in Jordan is less OK with it, but since there is nothing they can do with it, they don’t challenge it. Having said that, Palestinian-Jordanians in Amman that are more integrated into Jordanian society feel very differently than Palestinians (Palestinian-Jordanians?) from Zarka and other refugee camps, as they have been raised with a different mentality toward the prospect of returning.

He said that he could identify Jews and Israelis from the questions they ask when visiting Jordan, and yet, he was surprised when I told him I was Jewish. Apparently after I had already been dropped off, he asked Aubrey if I was actually Jewish. I guess his radar isn’t as good as he claimed.

After returning to my Ammani host family and taking a shower and a nap, I had my first chance to reflect on my experience in the Badia. This week was filled with so many crazy adventures, and I’m so happy that I had the chance to see this different place in the world. Most westerners never get to see it, so I hope that the posts that I’ve provided you with have given you an adequate glance into this different way of life, and the values of those that live in it.

APPENDIX: Some of my friends’ stories

•  Three boys lived in a village in which every single person was a member of the same family. All of them had the same last name.
• One boy lived with a sheikh and got to watch a tribal court meeting in which a group of sheikhs was trying to figure out how to handle a situation in which a member of one tribe stabbed a member of another tribe (that didn’t die, thank god). They resolved the conflict in a way that did not at all involve the formal government. The ability to solve conflicts without the government is one that he thought of as incredible.
• One girl was there when her host sister’s family received an official proposal for marriage. The man came by and sat in a room with the men while the woman sat in the adjacent room trying to shush the kids so they could hear what was going on. She was eventually kicked out of the room with all the kids—and this friend hates children.
• Two girls lived with a family in which the parents were very chill and the older sisters were “satan’s best friends.” They were forced to wear Hijabs and not allowed out of the house at all for the first three days.
• A bunch of people went to a festival in which Dr. Raed (who is originally from the badia), was given an award. At this festival, the event was set up with a stage and three tents around it with a massive courtyard in the middle. One of the side tents was for women and the other two were men. The Americans got weird looks when they crossed the gauntlet to mix, although some of them had no problems.
• A few friends went hiking in a beautiful wadi with their Bedouin host brothers. The brothers brought along meat to cook and a full on feast. In this beautiful natural habitat, though, the Bedouins had no problems leaving all of their blastic trash everywhere.  This saddened me, but then I realized that littering in Amman is the only thing people do anyways—finish a bag of chips, drop it on the ground. I realized I was blending in when I did it too. And then I realized what I did and ran to pick it up—something my host sister thought was hysterical.

That's all for now. As always, let me know if you have any questions or comments.

B

A Bedouin Engagement Party (Part 4 of the Bedouin Series)

Hey Everybody,

This post could contain the most ridiculous stories from my time in Jordan. I had the opportunity to go with a bedouin family to a wedding. This post includes the journey there and the party itself. If you haven't read the last posts in the bedouin series, please do. They'll make this post a lot funnier.

The only problem with this post is that I don't have any pictures from the event. Sorry,

Prologue

Tonight, by host brother Zaid is having his engagement party. The house is abuzz with preparations. The women all disappeared for a few hours, and I learned that they had gone to a salon in Ma’an to get their hair done. When they got back, they all showed off their gorgeous dresses and hairdos. The mothers planned to wear conservative ones in bright colors, but the young girls had very immodest dresses. The engagement party is separated by gender, and because women don’t have to cover around other women, they pull out all the stops. The most adorable moment of the morning was when all of the young grandchildren decided to give Omi a makeover. They were brushing her hair and doing her makeup. She was being such a good sport.

The women and kids cleaned the house while the men sat on their butts by the door. At about 2 PM, the extended family started showing up, and at 2:30, a bus pulled in and we piled on.

The Bedouin Barty Bus (October 5) 

Arabic doesn’t have the letter “p,” so Arabs often replace it with a “b.” This means that I’ve spent a month and a half being offered bebsi, hearing about lots of beoble, and blaying games. Consequently, when 25 bedouins (and their two American guests) get on a bus to drive 3 hours to go to a wedding and bring drums with them, by definition, it is a barty bus. And a barty it was. It was actually insane. Before you keep reading, I have to admit something: I AM NOT MAKING ANY OF THIS UP

I wish I had pictures. I just have one of the barty bus. 

There were maybe 5 men on the bus, all of whom were sitting in the front. All of the women were in the back. I don’t know if it was deliberate or not, but I do know that the cool kids sit in the back of the bus. Whatever.

Aubrey and I sat near a 27-year-old woman named Bushra. She was a cousin (of both the bride and the groom) and was fluent in English. She had learned it mostly from school, in addition to movies and music. She wore a hijab, and yet she swore like a trucker.  She had studied International Relations, yet, she graduated without being sure if the Holocaust had happened or not. Now she knows it did, because the professor that said it didn’t couldn’t give an adequate explanation of why all Jews hate Hitler so much if the Holocaust wasn’t real. She is still unemployed, looking for a job. She was super fun and funny, but there were some things about her that were distinctly different from the majority of the Bedouin community. Firstly, she was an only child. Secondly, she was 27 and unmarried. She has been dating a Palestinian-Jordanian man for 12 years now, but they still haven’t gotten married. This has to do with the high cost of throwing the wedding party, buying the bride the right jewels, etc. We talked a lot about politics, culture, urban vs. rural life, etc. She was also the one truly leading the barty.

She whipped out the drums and led the whole women’s contingent in singing songs in Arabic. I didn’t know any of them, but I understood some words. Yay for progress. The kids were dancing in the isles, banging on the drums, etc.

After about an hour and a half on the road, we stopped the bus so that we could have teatime. Omi had already walked up and down the bus a few times with a big box of cookies, but apparently, that wasn’t enough. Now, she had four thermoses of tea and a stack of filjan (mini cubs for Arabian coffee). Bushra couldn’t figure out why Aubrey and I were so surprised/amused by it. 

Once we got moving again, I was asked to take out my guitar and play and sing for everyone. Like every other Jordanian girl, the first song Bushra asked for was Hero by Enrique Iglesias. Then I made up a song with lyrics that made no sense because bushra and Aubrey were the only ones in earshot that understood anything. People were laughing and singing, drumming and dancing more. It was actually insane. The kids never got tired. 

Once we got close to the hotel, the barty bus turned into a salon. Suddenly all of the young girls and mothers started doing their makeub—ON THE MOVING BUS. It was hysterical to watch Bushra and the moms hold the girls’ heads down to the seat so that they didn’t move too much while applying copious amounts of eye shadow. The amount of makeub urban Jordanian women wear in day to life is massive (because with a hijab and no makeup, women just look pasty and bland). Bushra asked if she could do my makeup, and I told her she could, so long as she didn’t make me look like a Russian hooker—and she understood me. She laughed hysterically, and then told me she was shocked I said that. She swore she wouldn’t translate it for the bus. I wonder what would have happened if she had. As soon as she started doing my makeup, the bus got to the point where we were clearly close to the destination with a driver that didn’t know exactly where we were going. The bus ride got even more jerky, and my fear of looking like a Russian hooker got even greater. I shut my eyes and let Bushra put eye shadow on, and suddenly, I felt the makeup go onto my eyebrows—so much for subtle. I decided that since I don’t know anyone at the wedding, it literally did not matter. Also, because women are uncovered, taking pictures is super haram, so it was no broblem.  

As we continued driving around in circles, Bushra told us that she’d been to this area a million times with her boyfriend and consequently knew how to get to our destination. She didn’t want to help the driver, though, because she didn’t want to tell her family where to go. She didn’t want them to know why she knew the area so well. This directly relates to my Ammani sister’s secret boyfriend(s?) and how she shared that with her family—not at all.

We pulled into the hotel parking lot and Aubrey and I quickly pulled on our Thobs in the back of the bus. Here goes nothing.

The Tackiest Genre of Parties Ever: Jordanian Engagements

The barty bus docked, and the women said goodbye to the men. They would be having a separate party. Aubrey and I had taken our staff's advice about attire for Bedouin weddings. We wore traditional Arab dresses. I wore this (minus the hijab because they told me not to):

We entered the hall and followed Bushra to the bathroom because she wanted to finish getting ready. Within 10 minutes, she had transformed from a conservatively dressed Muslim with everything covered to a western looking woman that was literally letting it all hang out. So much cleavage, tube top dress, bra streps showing, etc. 75% of the women underwent similar (though more classy looking) transformations. 

The problem, though, was that we were no longer in the badia—we were in Zarqa, a major city, and here, younger women wear western style dresses. Aubrey and I already stuck out as Americans, but with what we were wearing it was that much worse. Literally Cady Heron at the mean girls Halloween party. I wanted to do what I’ve always been taught to do at wedding parties—start drinking—but alas, this is a Muslim event, so no booze. We decided to roll with it and have a good time instead. 

Jordanian engagement parties are ridiculous on every level. They are kind of a mix between a bar mitzvah party and a prom with the same cheesy dance music, colored lights, awkward dance music, and parents glaring at young people dancing in ways they deem too risqué. Times a million. At first, all of the women are in the hall, minus the bride. Music is playing, people are dancing, schmoozing, sometimes eating, etc. Then, the (always female) photographer and camerawoman tell everyone to cover their hair again because the groom is coming in. The rule with wearing a hijab is that women must cover their hair around any men that they can technically marry. Both polygamy and cousin marriage are OK in Islam (although polygamy isn’t really a thing in Jordan alhamdullah), so pretty much everyone has to throw their hijab back on. Bushra didn’t, and I didn’t ask.

Then the bride and groom enter. For this party, they had all of the girls stand on either side of a red carpet lined with white pillars and lace (that fell over a million times before the entrance happened) leading up to the door. The couple enters, and super awkwardly dances/walks/struts their way down the isle. Zaid, the groom/my host brother, looked so uncomfortable. 

The bride was having the time of her life. Again, this is why these types of parties need alcohol. The two of them make their way own the isle and up to the stage. At this point, the lights turn off.

Spotlights go onto the couple, and they dance their first dance. At both of the parties I’ve been to, the lights have been accompanied by both a fog AND bubble machine. Yes. This is real life. There are fucking bubbles and fog machines setting the mood for this couple to have their first dance while EVERYONE stares at them. At this wedding, imagine this same lighting/fog/bubble madness in a warehouse. 

At both weddings, I was surprised because they used an English song as their first dance. The lyrics were about as cheesy as they come, and I almost died of laughter both times. The Jordanian women think it is just the most romantic thing in the whole world. Then I remember that very religious Muslims don’t make physical contact with the opposite gender until they get engaged/married and their reactions make more sense.

He then presents her with a lot of fancy jewelry—gold necklaces, rings, bracelets, etc. This is why getting married is so expensive. She won’t marry him unless she gets the goods. It’s the modern day dowry, and apparently, it makes sense.

After their first dance, generally, the lights turn back on so that everyone starts dancing again. Because all I want at an awkward (and sober) dance party is the ability to see all of the grandmas laughing at my dance moves. In this case, though, I didn’t know anyone, so I decided to dance like an idiot and have a lot of fun. I danced with Bushra and Aubrey, the young Bedouin girls, the bride’s siblings (one named Liqat who will become important in the next post), and every other random woman there. 

For the first time since I had arrived in Bedouinville, I was actually hungry because they didn’t serve dinner. When I saw trays come out with desserts, I was stoked to go and eat some, but I was having fun dancing. Sure enough, I looked over at the waitress and saw none other than my Omi speaking very forcefully at her and pointing at me. Yes. The groom’s mother’s big concern during her son’s engagement party was that the random American she had known for less than a week was well fed. She then left the waitress and came over to me and told me to go straight to the table so that I could eat. After about two bites, Omi came over asking if I wanted another one. I thought Jewish mothers were relentless, but Bedouin grandmas are so much worse.

While we all ate, I asked Bushra what the men do in their party. She said the men’s party is lame. They sit around, drink coffee and tea, and talk. Women get to have fun and dance. I didn’t know this at the time, but one of my male friends from SIT told a very different story. At the party he went to, the men sat around drinking coffee and tea while smoking copious amounts of Hookah for the first part of the party only. When they get their fill, the shabob (single twenty somethings) get up and dance to live music, firing round after round of bullets into the air with their military grade automatic weapons. When he asked his host brother if he could try one of the weapons, the Bedouin guy just shook his head no and fired another round into the sky. 

After eating, I went and danced some more. I noticed that the bride’s sister was mirroring my dance moves, and I was really weirded out. I am a very awkward dancer, and I couldn’t tell if I was being mocked or not. Arab dancing style looks like belly dancing, and what she was doing just looked weird. As I said, I’m a terrible dancer. After the party ended, she told me that she loved my American dancing style. I almost died of laughter. I wish I could say it was the funniest part of the night.

The Aftermath

After the party ended, Aubrey and I sat own and were instantly swarmed by a large group of Jordanian teenagers, plus one mom. They asked us who we were, why we were there, what we were doing in Jordan, etc—all in Arabic. I was so proud of myself because I could actually hold a real conversation. They told me I had good Arabic, and when I told them I had only been studying for 5 weeks, they were amazed. While I was having a conversation with one girl, Aubrey tapped me on the shoulder and told me that she had gotten another marriage proposal. Sure enough, a mother was trying to set Aubrey up with her son. She is very shy, and her spoken Arabic is not that strong. I decided to have some fun. “maybe,” I said. “when she’s done with university. She has to see him first and see if he’s good looking enough for her.” Aubrey was mortified, but I didn’t care. I was super amused. The mom kept assuring me that her son was handsome, smart, kind, etc. And then she told me that my daughter was very beautiful.

In that moment I almost died. I don’t think I have ever laughed so hard in my life. I later learned that the woman had already said something about Aubrey’s mom (me), meaning when I butted into the conversation and started trying to set up the wedding, this woman’s assumption about the relationship between me and Aubrey was solidified. When we told her our ages, she didn’t believe us.

Yes, you are reading correctly. This woman assumed that Aubrey, was young enough to be my kid. 

I am 21, but people generally think I’m in my late 20s; Aubrey is 20, but people generally think she is between 12-15. The two of us couldn’t decide for whom the mother-daughter comment was more mortifying/humiliating. I am still pretty sure the answer is me.

 

Having said that, I think me and benti (my daughter) are pretty adorable.

After saying goodbye to the throng of girls and the mortified mother, Aubrey and I learned that pretty much the whole party (minus the Bedouins) assumed we were an adorable mother daughter duo. 

I think I have effectively proved my point that Jordanian engagement parties are the most awkward event in the entire world. If you have any questions or want more funny stories, please let me know. There are so many more...

Epilogue: Where Are We Sleeping Tonight?

Even after the party had ended, We weren’t sure about the logistics of the night. I knew that Dr. Raed, our academic director was at the men’s party, but I had no idea where that party was. We had gotten no information about where we were sleeping that night. We assumed we’d be staying with our families in Amman, but we didn’t know how we were going to get there or if our families knew. When I texted him to say that we wanted to meet up with him, he told me to shake the bride’s hand and wish her mabrook, congrats. This type of planning is standard practice here. Coming from the Badia, it makes even more sense, as it is impossible to predict exactly when people will arrive anywhere, if plans will change, when a random family member will swoop you up and take you on adventures, etc. Why would you plan ahead so far when plans change so quickly?

As Aubrey and I left the hall, we didn't know where we were going next or how we were getting there. Again, it's all part of the adventure.