Bedouin Life Part 3: Hardworking Bedouins and Lazy Americans (Me)

Hey Everyone,

This post is for my third day in the Badia. It was a pretty low key day, but there is a lot of analysis of random things I've seen both in bedouin and Ammani cultures. There are also a massive number of pictures. Look at them. It took me a while to make it.

B

10/4 ----Day 3

This morning, I realized just how hard working Omi is. I slept in, but she made dough from scratch and baked a massive amount of Hobez Sharak (bread that is very thin and folded over itself a million times over). When I finally got up, she served me breakfast, cleaned up the entirety of the breakfast, and asked me to join her outside. She watered her olive trees with a hose that broke into a lot of pieces so she could adjust exactly what places were getting water; she fed the chickens and stray cats (all of the leftovers from the past few days went into an open little building outside). As much as I’d like to think that Bedouin life is just simple, I am realizing more and more that life in the Badia is poverty—but life is good.

She cooked the bread on an oven in the tent on the left. The little stone building is where she put the food. 

 

This woman is 65 years old, and yet, she is as active and limber as I’ve ever been. She looks so much older than 65 because of how hard she’s worked in her life, and yet all she wants from her strong, young guest is to sit on my ass, eat, and sleep. She is offended any time I try to help. My mom in Amman is similar. She has explicitly told me that the kitchen is off limits for me. If I want food, she will make it. She sets breakfast out for me every morning and insists that I leave my dishes so I can study. I’ve been living with her for a month and a half, and she still does not want me helping around the house. I feel like a mooch, but I know that she is fulfilled by being hospitable.   

I left Omi doing housework and did a bit of homework. Then I took another nap. I love being a lazy American. When I woke up, I went to Om Osama’s house. She has a western toilet, and yet, she is most proud of her sitting room with western style couches as opposed to mattresses.

I had my first political conversation of the Badia with Om Osama as she made me some tea in her beautiful kitchen. It exposed a viewpoint that almost made me vomit: She told me that Osama bin Laden and Sadam Hussein were great men and better leaders. They were good Muslims that would never have killed or even plotted to kill anyone because they are such good Muslims. There is no way that bin Laden could have planned 9/11. I smiled and nodded. She did say, though, that when people do bad things, they need to be punished, so maybe she does have an understanding that some blood has been spilled at the hands of these leaders. This opinion is one that I have yet to hear in Amman.

I also learned that unlike Ines, Om Osama loves living in the Badia. She’s from here, her family is here, and her life is here. She doesn’t want anything more, as her number one priority is her family. She said that Osama may or may not stay in the Badia, and whatever he eventually chooses is fine by her. This view differs from my Amman family that has one daughter in America and one in Saudi Arabia. Family is important, but social mobility is too. 

Lunch at Omi's was incredible. It was chicken mansaf, a traditional Jordanian dish. The meat is served with a milky/yogurt sauce over rice. We ate the freshly made bread, and everything was delicious.

At this meal, I met the famous Dr. Fozzy. He got his Ph.D. in archeology in the UK and has perfect English. We talked about Israel/Palestine, agreeing about the fact that much of the conflict is due to the lack of interaction between different groups. People need to interact with people and see the humanity in the other; people can be trusted, not politicians. He was also very clear to explain that he has no problem with Jews. He has problems with people that occupy and steal people’s land. It’s very reasonable. My host father who is himself a Palestinian refugee holds a similar opinion. It’s refreshing that people so affected by the conflict see the human element in it all. Fozzy also mentioned that groups like Al Qaeda have power because of US foreign policy—we created the monsters that we are trying to fight against now.

Later in the day, my friend Aubrey came over, and we took a walk around the village with her host sister and younger brother, plus Fozzy’s young daughter. It was very fun. We went to a school yard, played on the swings, took photos, etc. the highlight was playing a game of monkey in the middle with a water bottle on the roof of a house still under construction. Her host sister is 15, but she wants to eventually go to university to study either Islamic studies or English—and then come back to the Badia. I find it fascinating that she wants to get her degree and then not use it to its fullest potential.

Here are some pictures from the excursion: 

The inside of the unfinished house we went into. It will belong to one of Aubrey's host brothers. 

Safety regulations in the Badia are not a thing at all. Stairwells without railings are everywhere, construction zones are open, and yet, people aren’t dying left and right. We in America are way too paranoid. Here, kids can be kids and it feels much more free—kind of like the Wild West.

The stairwell leading up to Om Osama's house. There is no railing, and she has a 3 year old child. 

I also learned that the process for building in the Badia is very different from that in an urban location. First, you build a house on your land. Then, you ask for the permit. It’s a lot easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

The site of Dr Fozzy's future house. It's directly behind his mothers. The house in the background belongs to Om Osama. 

Dr. Fawzy’s daughters have been the best Arabic teachers thus far. For the first time, I felt like I was really able to articulate what I wanted or was thinking. When they helped me with my Arabic homework, they were patient sitting with me as I wrote words incredibly slowly, and they clapped for me every time I spelled a word correctly.

After a call to prayer, I saw Dr. Fozzy pray at home. I didn’t ask him about why he chose to pray there instead of at the mosque, but I did have a fantastic conversation with him about Islamic thought. He loves the amount of diversity in Islasmic opinions. He gave an example from the Koran in which the prophet Mohammad told people to pray during the journey and not after. Some people did not follow his word and prayed after they arrived in their destination. The prophet never reprimanded them. Dr. Fozzy took this to mean “mercy comes with disagreement.” Islam is such a beautiful religion, and I get to learn a lot more about it in the badia than in the very secular Amman.

I had another interesting experience with covering my hair today when I walked into a room with two men while uncovered. The wife told me that I was fine, but one of the men asked me to go cover up. I am still trying to figure out whether the men or the women are the enforcers of modesty. I am pretty sure it differs by family. 

At one point, I was sitting in a room with four young girls and Mohammad. After a few minutes, one of the girls literally kicked Mohammad out. I asked why, and she said that it was because he was a boy and we were all girls. This surprised me, because I assumed that gender separation is not as big of a deal with kids. Gender separation is such a big deal in Jordan in general, but to a higher degree in the badia. I’ve noticed in Amman that at the university, when groups of people are sitting outside for lunch at the university, 99% of the clusters are single gendered. With my host sister, the only time that I spent time with her and a boy, she swore me to secrecy. As I sit in a Café in Amman writing this post, and it’s about 11 PM. I’m the only woman in the establishment, surrounded by clusters of shabab (young men) smoking argila and playing cards or backgammon.

10/5 – Day 4--Packing up and Debriefing on the Badia

Tonight, by host brother Zaid is having his engagement party. I will be leaving the badia a day earlier than the rest of the SIT crew because the party is in Amman and it makes no sense to drive 4 hours up and 4 hours back only to do it again tomorrow morning. 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. 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.

At breakfast, I asked Dr. Fozzy about water usage culture, and what I learned was fascinating. He said that because water comes out of a hose and is very cheap (a cubic meter for less than a Dinar), people don’t treat water as a scares resource. He then told me that ancient cultures in this land had incredible methods of saving water, storing it in cisterns, and utilizing every single drop. This conversation morphed into a history lesson of the region based on archeological evidence. I should mention that the village was a 15-minute drive from Petra. In the last two thousand years. Over 20 different kings/empires/countries have ruled over this land while the indigenous people have never moved. Regardless of who is in power, the people care about their land.

I learned yesterday that Mohammad has some pretty severe learning issues, which helps to explain why he can neither read/write English nor Arabic. The closest specialist is in Ma’an, 45 minutes away, making it impossible for his family to get him the help he needs. Instead, they physically beat him for being unable to learn. Today, though, I sat with him for about a half hour practicing saying and writing the numbers 1-10 in both English and Arabic. He quizzed me, I quizzed him, and as he wrote, I was patient with him, helping and encouraging him when he made mistakes and enthusiastically rewarding his successes. He beamed with pride each time I told him that he did something correctly—it’s clearly a rare occurrence.

In this regard, the differences in available resources between Amman and the Badia (and obviously America) are the most stark. My Ammani brothers are not very academically inclined. One of them is brilliant but not hard working in school (he makes motorized cars with videos he learns on YouTube), and the other is your average energetic 10-year-old. The younger son goes to private school and consequently gets better attention. It costs 200 Dinar a month, which is nothing compared to America but a lot in Jordan. After he missed a week of school because of medical issues, my family was able to bring a tutor over to get him up to speed. In the Badia, both economic and logistical barriers prevent this type of help from happening. When I was younger, I too had a lot of learning issues, but my family had the resources to get me copious amounts of help from numerous institutions and specialists. I often wonder where I would be if not for the help my mother ensured I got. Mohammad will show me the answer.

Cleanup culture in the badia is hysterical. The men don’t do shit, and the women, including Dr. Fozzy’s very pregnant wife that is due to give birth in 10 days, do everything. The kids help and are expected to continue helping with sweeping, vacuuming and everything. The men sit on their asses. While I was talking to Dr. Fozzy after breakfast, Omi cleaned up everything without saying a word.

I am so glad that I brought my guitar to Jordan, and especially the Badia. I am pretty sure that my family in the badia (at least the kids) had never seen a guitar before. They all want to hold it and strum. They pluck each string, one by one, feeling how the strings vibrate, and their faces light up. it’s awesome. Sometimes I make the chords for them so they can hear the changes and feel like they are playing songs. When I first got to Amman, I didn’t speak any Arabic, and the portion of the family without good English didn’t really know how to deal with me. When I took out the guitar and started playing it though, we connected. Music is such a universal language, and I love being able to share it.

After reading this, if you have questions, please send me an email or comment. 

Bedouin Life Part 2: Welcome to School

Hey Everyone,

Yesterday I posted about my first day in the Badia. I just added an extra section on at the end, so if you haven't seen it, check it out. It's funny. Here is my post from the second day in the badia.

10/3

I understand why being a celebrity sucks after spending a day in a Bedouin school. Given how far away they are from urban life, I imagine they don’t see non Arabs, let alone Americans often. I sort of felt like a zoo animal in the beginning, but once I decided to have fun with my new status, It became really fun.

The day started with Om Fozzy sending a very conservatively cressed me off to school with my 4^th grade host niece/cousin whose name I still don’t remember. I got strange looks and smiles as I walked with her. 

The schoolyard was the funniest though, as my entrance caused a riot. Kids came up wanting pictures, to say, “hello, what’s your name,” and all. When I told them my name and asked for theirs, they looked at me completely perplexed. After taking some pictures and being totally overwhelmed by the hoard, I went into the teacher’s room and met a very nice English teacher named Ines. The entire staff of the school was female.  I stood with her during the morning assembly. I learned the school had 110 students and 30 teachers—an incredible ratio.  

In the open courtyard, each class lined up one behind the other with their packs next to them, facing the building. The youngest classes were co-ed, and at 4^th grade, and up, it was only girls. The youngest all girl classes only had a few girls with hijabs, but the older ones all wore hijabs. None of the boys had uniforms, but the girls clearly did—blue coats for the younger girls, green ones for the older ones, and only white hijabs (though they were wrapped differently). I wanted to take pictures, but I figured I was already distracting the kids enough. Sorory. They heard some announcements, Islamic things, and then they sang the national anthem at the top of their lungs. The English teacher assured me that their flag was being fixed and not to think they are any less loyal to the king or patriotic.

After the anthem, a woman wearing the least athletic clothes I’ve ever seen led them in some exercises that included moving their arms around and then leaning left and right and holding it for a while—the kids were being punished for something. I made faces at them. It looked more like flailing than PE, but I liked the idea that they do some physical movement to get themselves ready for the day before learning.

After they were all done, I went to the teachers room again, was force fed a biscuit thing, and went to the 4^th grade girls class. It had 7 girls including my relative. Two of them wore hijabs. One of them had the most beautiful and piercing blue eyes I’ ever seen. 

In Amman, wearing a hijab is a choice and is almost never taken on by girls that have not yet gotten their periods. In the Badia, the hijab is not a choice—it’s a dress code. Even 10 year olds were wearing it. Half way through the class, though, one of them did take it off.

When we walked into the unsupervised room, the students all stood up:

“Good morning students”

“Good morning teacher.” 

"How are you students?"

"Fine, thank you teacher?"

The students sounded like Annie and the orphans proclaiming their love to Ms Hannigan. It was sort of creepy. 

The lesson was about a few things—the sound of the letters “th” as in this, there, and Thursday. She said each word and they repeated after her loudly, trying to hear how the “th” sound is different in those different words. At a few points, she had them do something in their workbooks. Instead of the teacher going around and checking, the students got up and brought the work either to her or to me. There was perpetual noise in the room, and she didn’t spend time trying to shush the class. Each time she asked a question, the girls would raise their hands and say, “teacher, teacher, teacher.” I don’t know about Amman, but I know in America, that’s considered super rude.

I led a section involving a poem about sports. The sports mentioned were volleyball, riding a bike, swimming, table tennis, and football. Ines asked me to teach the class for a bit so they could hear a native speaker. I said how are you, and they looked at me blankly. I said repeat after me and read the first line, and only when Ines explained what to do did they repeat it after me. At one point I stopped reading the poem and asked for their opinions. Once they figured out what I was asking, their eyes lit up, even though they were far less confident in their answers when they weren’t repeating after someone. In all of the English classes I saw that day, I never saw the kids asked what they thought.

In the book, there was a paragraph about a football stadium in Amman. It was a first person paragraph about a kid that liked watching football and going to the stadium with dad in addition to playing football. The last sentence was “Samira cannot play football” with no explanation. In the reading comprehension section, the question was “can Samira play football.” Gender norms are reinforced through this book—one that is used all across Jordan. As a girl that played soccer for my entire childhood, this was very hard to stomach.

After the class, we went back to the teachers lounge. I was given more cookies and some chocolate. I realized that the kids were unsupervised during this break. That would never fly in the states, and after seeing just how physical Bedouin children are with one another, I'm amazed. 

We went to the second grade class. The difference between the two classes was stark. There were 14 children, boys and girls, with one teacher. They were as unruly as they come, and Ines didn’t really care. They were apparently learning how to conjugate the verbs to do and to live with different pronouns, but it was more repeat after the teacher without knowing context. I live, he lives; I do, he does. They really didn’t get it, and Ines looked at me disappointed, saying that she didn’t understand why they didn’t get it. 

   

I wrote a little chart laying it out with the different pronouns thinking it may help them. She wrote it on the board and had them copy it down (and of course show it to her/me to make sure they had done it right). Mohammad, my host cousin, was described as very weak. He is sweet, but no one is encouraging him or being patient with him to learning. She just tells him (and all the other kids that make mistakes/can’t write at all good job and sends them back to their seats. He looked very confused for much of the class. 

 

At one point, she called a child over to her, grabbed his ear, slapped him, and sent him back to his seat. I don’t know why, and he didn’t seem to think it was a big deal, just as she didn’t. It was frustrating for me to watch, but there was nothing I could do. With my family in Amman, sometimes my youngest brother gets slapped lightly, and it bothers me also. It’s a more violent culture.

As we were walking back to the teachers lounge, she mentioned that she never lets her kids go to the bathroom because all they want to do is go play. When I told her that some American teachers let students go to the bathroom during class, she was shocked, saying that it’s very bad.

I also learned that Ines is from Be’er Abu Danneh, but she doesn’t like it and its simple ways. She’d rather be in a city like Aqaba or Ma’an, but because her family is all in the town, it is very hard to leave. Family is important to my Amman family also, but not to the point where they feel trapped. One of my host sisters lives in Saudi Arabia and another is in Atlanta. Moving just a half hour away is inconceivable to this Bedouin woman. At this point, it seems appropriate to give some pictures of Be'er Abu Danneh, taken from both the school and Omi's house. I can't blame Ines for not wanting to stay there. There truly isn't much "there there":

In the teachers lounge, we had a longer break. The kids were unsupervised for its entirety, and it was no problem. I met another English teacher who seemed much more bitter in general. She asked if I wanted to meet her son in the kindergarden, so we went and took a walk. Once there, the bitterness disappeared. The kindergarden, there were 27 kids and 3 teachers in an adorable classroom. There was a kitchen section, a library section, and pictures of the king and the prince plastered all over the place. I got there during snack time. The government subsidizes nutritional food for kids up until third grade. Nutritious food means chips and juice boxes (called happy, transliterated into Arabic). I whipped out a camera and took some pictures of them, and they were thrilled. 

We left the kindergarden and saw the K only playground and the US sponsored greenhouse. Of course there are international projects trying to aid development in the Badia—there is tons of international (particularly US) aid in Amman too. The kids tried to chase us out of the room, so I scared them back to the room with a picture.

 

As we walked back to the main building, I was swarmed by throngs of kids shouting greetings in English: “hello, what’s your name? How are you?” When I responded and looked any one of them in the eye, they got giddy. Honestly, I felt kind of like a circus freak, but in a good way. They seldom see blue eyes, strangers, or any sort of outsiders, let alone Americans. Plus, personal space is not a thing. 

 

Back in the teachers lounge, I was offered more food/drink. Someone asked if I was married, and I said no. When I didn’t have a good reason for why not, they asked if I wanted to marry a man with two other wives. I passed. In Amman, when I tell people I’m not married, many people say it’s a good thing that I’m waiting until I’m done with university—because I’m totally going for my mrs while in school.

My friend Aubrey showed up (another SITer in my village), and she was offered an unmarried man who apparently is very beautiful. I said mumkin (maybe) for her, but she wasn’t having it. I decided that if I got another proposal, I was going to say yes just to see what would happen.

I went with the other English teacher to a 9^th grade class, and it was awesome. There were 15 of them, all wearing hijabs and reading and speaking pretty well. They were super enthusiastic, learning about relative pronouns (spelled rilative on the board). I snuck a picture of them while they were working in pairs. 

The reading they did was contextualized through charity organizations. The themes in the book were fascinating: traditional clothing, honesty in friendships, hard work/hospitality, will computers run the world (how else will they learn the future tense?). The books are culturally appropriate in a fantastic way. They use Arab names and talk about places in Jordan and the middle east.

The highlight of that class came when they asked if I knew Arabic. Very quickly I proved to be incompetent, and they had fun laughing at me. Then the teacher got mad because I had distracted them. She then said that they “dominate” me because they can learn my language while I can’t learn there’s. She has a valid point, but they still won’t be able to get a visa to visit America. Therefore, I win.

Snarky comment aside, there is something very disturbing about how difficult it is for Arabs to get visas to visit the UNited States. As an American in Jordan (especially in the Badia), I am treated like royalty. Everyone on the street, taxi drivers, etc. constantly say welcome to Jordan. They constantly invite me into their homes for coffee, tea, etc without expecting anything in return. I get this amazing opportunity to learn about another culture and overcome much of the inherent Arab-aphobia and Muslimaphobia that growing up in post 9/11 America imparts into you subconsciously. In a region where the US Military is ever present in very negative ways, it is a shame that the normal citizens don't get to come visit the states to see how normal citizens live.

Anyways. 

These girls are so eager about learning to read and speak English, as they know that they need English to get jobs. Having said that, the majority of these girls will probably choose to live in Bedouin towns even after they go to university, so they probably won’t use it that much anyways.

After that class, I went back to the teachers lounge, and Ines invited me to join a group of 7 teachers to go on a little field trip. A woman’s husband had recently died, and apparently, the way to help is to bombard her with unannounced guests including a strange American with no Arabic. While the school day was still going on, the principal and a bunch of teachers just left. We were served coffee and sweets. As the hostess poured us coffee, she remained standing while her two year old twins ran around the room. Her job was to be a hostess, constantly keeping our little cups full, and nothing more. At first I thought that this was just a cruel way of helping a woman grieve, but then I saw a significantly older woman and felt better. 

At one point, the women asked if they could see my hair. I took off the hijab, they said my hair was pretty, and I didn’t know if I should put it back on or not—I was in a room of all women. They told me to cover back up and we went back to the school.

This is what the courtyard looked like when we got back:

After saying goodbye to Ines, Om Mohammad took me back to her house. It was super nice, with nicer frashes (mattresses) than Omi’s house. She parked me in front of the TV and brought me coffee, and cookies. I said thank you, and she left me there—only to return with bread, labneh, zatar, olive oil, tea, and water. I promptly conked out and took a nap.

When I awoke, her whole family was in the room staring at me. Her husband asked me what religion I was, and I said I was Jewish, just as I did with Om Osama yesterday. His first reaction: I don’t like Jews. I clarified that I’m Jewish, not Israeli, and that I like allah. Again, he said he didn’t like Jews, and his daughter that loved me rushed to my defense. I like allah, therefor I should be good. It was really cool to see her stick up for me tolerantly. I later learned that he was totally kidding.

There house was really nice. Here is a picture of one of her sitting rooms, followed by Omi's. Note the difference. 

I left the house with the Mohammad and his sister, and they showed me the olive trees and the olives they had recently picked. Here are some pictures we took on the excursion: 

Then she dropped my camera, bending the lens and breaking it. I said it wasn’t a problem, but she kept asking me to take pictures. In Arabic, I told her my camera was sick and she understood. Shway (sort of).

Dinner at Omi’s house was amazing. Pretty much all Omi said to me during the meal was eat and drink. She continually told me to keep eating and drinking. I would put down my cup and she would tell me to eat more. When breathing, she would continue asking me to eat more and more and more. In Amman, I am also served massive portions, but I am not commanded to eat quite as intensely. Hospitality in the Badia is directly linked to food. If the guest eats a lot, they like being there, and the host is doing a good job

I met her son Zaid (but I thought that was Dr. Fozzy). Even though Omi lives alone, she is surrounded by her family every night. The three houses directly adjacent to hers belong to three of her kids, and her grandkids are always over. She is so happy with them there. Family is so important in Jordan, but to a different degree in the Badia than in Amman.

When I whipped out my homework, the kids tried to do it for me, just as my Amman family did in the beginning. Now my Amman family fights over helping me with it because they think it’s fun.

I learned that during the day Dr. Raed had come. He was happy I had gone to school, but as I was upset about my camera, I was disappointed that I didn’t get to see him and the amazing female staff from SIT.

I was on the deck with the kids and Osama pissed himself. The mom sprayed the deck with a massive amount of water, and I was shocked when the three year old was handed the squeegee thing to wipe the water off the deck. 

I noticed in the Badia that the kids help with housework, regardless of their age. In Amman, I haven’t noticed this as much, but my youngest sibling is also 10.5 years old. 

Water use here is really interesting. The Badia is very dry, and Jordan at large has basically no water. Regardless, they use massive amounts of water to do things that I view as fairly superfluous. In Amman, people wash their cars all the time, wash their balconies all the time, and other things that seem to be a total waste.

The funniest moment of the Badia thus far happened as I was falling asleep. The light was off, I was lying down half asleep, I was suddenly shaken awake by Omi. “Did you eat? Drink tea?” Jesus Christ woman! I’m trying to sleep. Food hospitality here is a bit excessive. My mom in Amman feeds me a lot (and even brings food to my room when I’m working on my bed), but even she isn’t this aggressive with me. Granted, at one point, I did see her take a spoon of pomegranate seeds and try to force it into my younger brother’s mouth while he squirmed and tried to avoid it.

If you read this whole post, I hope you haven't peed yourself laughing. I will tell you, though, that this is by no means the funniest post about the Badia that's coming. Get excited.

B