I was here...

Protests and government upheaval in Lebanon... Peace is a relative term these days.

In a weird way, I wish I was here again to witness this...but only if I could be invisible.

Protesters pray in the street - Tripoli, Lebanon (BBC)

Lebanese troops were called out to reopen roads closed off by protesters - Beirut (BBC)

Demonstrators rally near the grave of Rafik Hariri - Beirut (BBC)

 Burning tires blocked the main road to Syria - the regional power broker which backs Hezbollah (BBC)

Re-entering the matrix: USA

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you,” Maya Angelou once wrote. Indeed, as a student returning from nearly eight months abroad, nothing could be closer to the truth. I departed in June 2010 for Harare, Zimbabwe to work as an intern with the U.S. Embassy. After my three months there, I headed north for Amman, Jordan and spent almost five months traveling and studying in the Middle East. When I left the United States, I floated in a cloud of tremendous excitement and optimism. All I knew was that that particular mentality was better than the petulant alternative. Despite having little idea of what to expect, I flew out of Seattle that sunny June day ready to embrace the new opportunities and adventures that waited literally half-a-world away.

However, now upon returning home I’ve floundered in truly expressing what I’ve witnessed to even my closest family and friends. The agony of untold beauty, hidden wild places, incredible people, diverse faiths, colorful languages, and joyful living due to or despite circumstance, is something that has changed me forever. To truly understand such things, one has to actually smell the spicy freshness of mint tea, hear the grumbling of Bedouin camels, walk by the bomb-blasted Lebanese buildings from recent civil war, banter nimbly with good-humored taxi drivers, and feel a smile flutter to ones lips at the mention of King Abdullah II’s name.

The hardest thing about returning “home” from living abroad is realizing that I have in my absence, fostered a sense of belonging in other “homes” throughout the world. Frankly, it almost feels like I don’t know where I belong anymore! When I left Jordan, I had finally reach the point where I homesick only for my own family and simple luxuries like clean laundry. Back in the states however, the novelty of returning to the US of A matrix has already worn off. Life seems predictable, boring, narrow-minded, and too easy. People around me are obsessed with body image, schedules, routines, and popular fads. The other day, when I overheard a woman complaining about how her bottled water tasted a little bit too chlorinated, I had to restrain myself from turning around and snapping, “Well ma’am, at least you HAVE clean water to drink!”

All these mixed emotions reflect how my views of the world have shifted. Its not that I was never aware or educated about how people across the globe live; it’s more like the attachment of faces and names to struggles I previously viewed through the lens of an objective scholar have transformed such issues into being my struggle too.

But the random person, the casual stranger on the street doesn’t know I’m judging them for their stereotypical behaviors. I can’t blame them for not asking about my experiences, and not releasing the “agony” of the stories I have yet to tell.

And I know that’s unfair of me to be upset about that. I know I can’t blame the people in the States for misunderstanding what they can’t relate to. But sometimes it’s just so frustrating, especially in the current national climate of “Islamophobia” where Arabs are the punch line, and Qur’an burning is deemed by some to be a fair and necessary technique for "revenge".

Such people haven’t met my Palestinian friend whose family’s village could soon be or is already threatened by Israeli settlements. It’s difficult to truly grasp how it feels to stand in front of armored vehicles on a street corner, or pass through a Hezbollah-controlled roadblock that causes you to sequester the churning knot in your stomach to the darkest corner of your mind. They haven’t stayed up all night singing and laughing along to pop-Arabic music, or danced the dabka. They haven’t witnessed the ability of the hijab to actually empower Muslim women.

The coming months are going to be a crucial time for processing my thoughts and channeling my conclusions into a positive narration that my friends and family can actually benefit from. I never want to come across as condescending or be so upset about having left behind the life I had in Zimbabwe and Jordan that it taints the next few months that I spend at home. I think any feelings of alienation will dissolve slightly as soon as I reconnect with my other friends who have also been abroad and are maybe going through similar issues. In developing an ability to express my stories, I instead wish to reveal my experiences with a candid alacrity that motivates others to travel and see for themselves the lifestyle I’ve lived for the last eight months. Also, while I fear that I will be pulled into “compartmentalizing” my experiences, I believe that returning to the private journal that I kept throughout my journey will help remind me of the greater complexities, and help me gradually reintegrate into American society with a healthy perspective. The incredible amount of personal growth I’ve experienced is overwhelmingly due to dealing with the stressors, challenges, and corresponding rewards from being abroad. Thus, telling the “untold story” openly is an important component in inspiring the next group of students to go abroad.

Eventually, I too will be the unknowing stranger...the one that can't fathom the true impact of someone else's experience. So, I will savor my own memories, and hope to be as patient as those who will deal with my cultural growing pains over the next few months.

Bath-house Philosophy.

"Thoreau can keep Walden Pond," I thought smugly to myself. "I've got my Turkish baths."

There I was, pretty much naked, drinking cold hibiscus tea, in a hot steamy room full of other naked women. And it was awesome.

While being subjected to the vicious scrubbing, warm soapy water, and a "massage" that I constantly had to remind myself to relax for due to its body busting properties, I was able to lounge in a space in which to find solidarity with my fellow estrogen toting companions. Indeed, Sarah, Kryss, and I blew off the realities of other obligations to relax, exchange life stories, and bond that day... I mean how could we not? Being naked really helps you get over any potential awkwardness.

Four hours later, we emerged, as polished as humanly possible, rubbing rolls of dead skin off our bodies, and rinsing off for the final time in the showers.

I may not have created any philosophical pieces about utopian societies that afternoon, but the peace and relaxation with which I moved throughout the rest of my day could absolutely end wars and losen the knots from people's shoulders, tongue, and pride. If people recieved good massages and relaxation time in the baths every week, citizens would be too content to raise a finger against one another in conflict.

I may have just discovered the elixir for world peace.
Keep dreaming Thoreau.

God's Party on the Mountain: Invite Only

“These pants are coming off when we hit the mountain,” I declared stepping out of the beat-up Mercedes and into the crisp morning air.  The sun had beaten the three of us out of bed, but it would still be at least an hour before the golden rays pushed the remaining shadows out of the valley.  Bidding adieu to our driver, Daniel, Stephanie, and I scrambled over the fence and began walking towards the grove of giant cedars.  Some of these testaments of time have seen 1500+ years roll by, and are cited in the Bible. If Treebeard in the Lord of the Rings was real, I think he’d be the gnarliest one of them all :)

In any case, I did take off my sweatpants once we hit the trail, and my legs were publicly exposed for the first time in months…kind of a weird but exhilarating feeling and I made a conscious effort to walk off the giddiness.

Ten minutes into the cedar hike, the three of us realized that instead of going up a mountain, we were weaving ourselves around the valley. Thus, retracing our steps we spotted a chalet by the ski lifts, a landmark Lonely Planet noted for the trailhead of the hike, and so we stepped off the trail and picked our way across the scrubby countryside, around barbed wire and past an old rusted military vehicle. The remnants of war are everywhere in Lebanon, from blown-out buildings riddled with bullet holes, to roadblocks and bomb-blown scrap metal. It’s an eerie feeling; one in which despite the current relative calm, everyone can almost sense that war is an inevitable component of the near future. It could come today, tomorrow, in a month, a year… it shadows people’s minds, and invades their psyche. To my chagrin, I couldn’t even help but wonder if trekking across the sprawling valley could spark a dormant landmine, much like Lebanon itself.

With these thoughts swirling around in my head, we finally reached the road.  Stopping to take a break, only a few minutes passed before we hailed down a passing giant gravel-hauling truck, with a toothy grinning man named Adel behind the wheel.  We scrambled up the stairs, 8 feet into the cab of his truck, (first time I've hitchhiked EVER! ha!) and Adel began driving us up the road of the very mountain that we had originally planned on climbing…but we rolled with the new circumstance and couldn’t wait to see where the smiling, exuberant man would take us. Daniel, being male and thankfully the most fluent Arabic speaker among us, was subject to most of the conversation making, but Stephanie and I did our best to keep up, picking out words from the conversation that we knew. At the top of the ridge, Adel pulled over next to a roadside vender, and promptly introduced us to the two grizzly men running figs, nuts, cookies, and tea out of the back of their decrepit Volvo. We snapped some good-natured group photos together, and then shoving goodies into our hands, Adel pointed us in the right direction of the trail.

The view from the top of the ridge was absolutely magnificent. I have seen many beautiful vistas in my 20 years, and this was definitely one of the best in the world.  To the west, the Qadisha valley, a lush green refuge, cupped on three sides by mountains, and spilling out towards the distant Mediterranean. To the east, Bekaa valley, a rolling batch of brown hills and little towns sprinkled towards the horizon. It’s important to note that Bekaa valley is also the home of Hezbollah (aka, “Party of God”).  At the time, we felt safe looking down at it from above. As we would find out later, that was hardly the case.

Overlooking Qadisha Valley



Behind me, Bekaa Valley - home of Hezbollah.

After enjoying our lunch on the ridge, the three of us decided to head back down, and maybe catch Adel bringing his next shipment of rocks back to the Qadisha valley. To our surprise, ¾ of the way down we spotted Adel, urgently scrambling toward us, huffing and puffing due to his tobacco filled lungs, and gesturing frantically.  When he reached us, he began spilling Arabic, of which I caught the words “mountain” (jebel), “Hezbollah,” and “machine gun” (rashash). He then bent down and picked up AK-47 bullet shells that we hadn’t noticed down at our feet. It was made clear that he thought we were lucky to be unharmed.  After he had calmed down, we more slowly went through his story, with Daniel translating the more difficult parts for Stephanie and I. Apparently, after Adel had dropped us off at the pass he hadn’t realized our plan to hike the ridge. The same guys who had sold us figs, nuts, and tea also doubled as lookouts for Hezbollah, and Adel wasn’t sure if they had notified Hezbollah of our activities on the ridge.  If we had descended down the backside of the ridge towards Bekaa valley, Adel informed us sternly, we might not have been nearly as lucky. Hezbollah’s militia has been known to shoot to kill, take hostages, and “defend” their territory. They've also been known to send out "patrols" along the very ridge we had been hiking.

A cold chill ran down my spine. 

More than anything, realizing my sheer level of helplessness if things had taken a nasty turn, I failed to comprehend the extent of Hezbollah’s violent methodology, radicalism and overall political reach until after passing through the eyes of a very small needle.  It was completely humbling, harrowing...and nauseating. The weight of the cold, metallic, bullet shells that Adel placed in my hand proved a point more effectively than any parental concern, State Department warning, or CIEE policies could EVER hope to achieve. It was the cold weight of ideals tempered by the yoke of reality, where sometimes politics not just a game. Sometimes people die because they are perceived to represent certain groups or because public examples are the most effective form of PR. Death here doesn’t have to be justified. This is a country used to the unfairness of war! 

Someday I could not get so lucky and actually be at the mercy of a party who isn't interested in negotiation. What a moment of realization that was! No longer room for romanticism, of somehow talking my way cleverly out of bondage in a language of which I barely know the basic structure.  When it comes down to it, despite all that I had researched and the precautions I had taken before venturing out that day, nothing would have adequately prepared me for the worst-case scenario. I was shaken to the core. I couldn’t stop thinking about the possible alternative endings our story could have had. 

To put it lightly, I at a very large slice of humble pie.

Adel bustled us back into the cab of his huge truck, and adeptly lightened the mood by taking us to lunch at one of the little cafes at the base of the mountain. There we feasted on olives, lebnah, cucumbers, and khobz. While Stephanie and I sipped on some beer, the guys went for some hardcore Arak, and soon we all couldn't resist laughing along with Adel's cheerful good-natured humor. Then in typical Lebanese hospitality, he brought us back to his home to meet his pretty wife, and two little boys. We ended up spending the whole afternoon there, lounging, talking, smoking hookah, drinking tea, wrestling with the boys, exchanging life stories...all in Arabic I might add. So, while the depth of conversation was limited, the family's warmth couldn't be doubted.  And for that I was grateful.

One man, one vote? Think again.

"Frankly, no one deserves my vote," Majd shrugged, stirring her tea vigorously with her spoon. The sugar had long since dissolved into the hot minty water, and pungent steam rose lazily over our conversation. I glanced down at the half-eaten falafel on my plate.

How could someone not hold conviction over something as fundamental to democracy and social expression as voting? I grew up believing voting was a duty and a sacred right, not to be carelessly discarded. It was a way to make one small change in the world...or if all else fails, at least justify your ability to complain about everything wrong about it (ha!). In anycase, I didn't know how to respond right away. So I did what I always do... I listened.

Here's what I heard:

First off, the candidates all make promises they can't keep, and believe the voters fickle enough to make it worth the effort. For example, this year one guy is even promising to make electricity free for  the entirety of Amman. Meanwhile, the King himself is undergoing difficult negotiations with the energy corporation to try and keep their cost hikes as minimal as possible in a time when everything is rapidly getting more expensive. Obviously, free electricity is far from any up-and-coming reality.  Does he really think people will fall for that? Apparently so.

Secondly, every election reflects a form of modern tribalism. Every vote turns into a family battle. Its always the biggest families, with the most name recognition that get voted into parliament...NOT because their policies are sound but because they have the sheer number of people voting for them. And Jordanians "would NEVER consider voting against family. Family has forever been the core value and unit of security here."

Thirdly, parliament doesn't do much anyways. They don't make many decisions unless they are personally invested in the issues at hand, and even then they are moderated by the King. Additionally, parliament is so fraught with corruption (ie. accepting bribes, paying voters) that King Abdullah disbanded the session last year, kicking out all those holding office. However, funnily enough, "those same people are running again without any trouble. What's the point?"

The sad thing is that a 25-year old was shot and killed in riots south of Amman after the release of the results, and another parliamentarian candidate was almost driven over by the brother of the opposing candidate. Worse even is that already, even at the early stages, claims of over $300 JD (~$400) per vote were reported by election fraud officials.

And so, even as Jordan arguably remains to possess the closest thing to democracy in the Middle East, it's easy to be reminded of its monarchic history, cultural traditions, and their continued impact upon modern politics.

Brain drain.

It's that time again...MIDTERMS!! As usual they've snuck up on me when I was too busy having a life to notice their eminence. However, I think with a little patience, and a lot of study time, I can make my first real Arabic exams a positive trend to follow in the future. :)

So, please appreciate my explanation below.

This is my brain (almost):

This is what my brain will be like after my two Arabic midterms:

 

Need I say more? 

Blowing bubbles.

The concept of space is an interesting one: Empty. Breathless. Perhaps an inverse of color. Or maybe electrified, crackling energy. Space is a magical thing because it all depends how you decide to fill it.

The adherence to space and the invisible boundaries that we construct is apparent in the development of social norms and cultural customs. How we establish personal space and who we share it with thus reflects not only upon our society, but more discreetly, the way we express our individuality. And in Jordan, individuality is somewhat (surprisingly) an incredibly subtle yet important part of identity.

Generally speaking, the American idea of space is a fairly intimate one. Both men and women engage in a dance of platonic relations that are incredibly physical. We hug! We punch! We wrestle! We cuddle! And it doesn't mean that young people are always sleeping with each other...well, most of the time. We definitely don't have to be married to hold friendship with a member of the opposite sex. We're allowed to hang out without being monitored in most cases. And public opinion can mostly curb the most socially awkward displays of PDA. In regards to establishing our own personal space, we are taught in primary school to respect The Bubble. This bubble cannot and should not be invaded without permission. This Bubble defines our mode of operation over the course of our lives. The Bubble defines personal autonomy. The Bubble means that you can wear whatever you want, act however you like, and people can't feel automatically entitled to a relationship with you if you don't let them in. Even if you like something, you can't necessarily have it. Thus, the dance continues.

In Jordan, the development of space parameters is incredibly different. I was walking to class this morning. Something I saw triggered this whole thought process tonight.

I was watching this woman, dressed in the colorful long trenchcoat-like garments that many women wear in public. The things are pretty shapeless, but less so than the black abayas other women wear on campus. A perfectly matching, colorful hijab was wrapped expertly around her hair in an act of coordination that I doubt I could ever muster.

And, above all else, she was wearing a belt, tightly fitted around her small waist.

Why is this important? Bear with me.

First off, its amazing to me how hyper-aware I've become of wardrobe, what part of me is showing, and analyzing the probability of getting clucked or stared at my random men during my walk across campus. Scarfs are my new safety net. Comparatively, v-neck t-shirts my new foe, pretty much eliminating much of my wardrobe. I have found myself also beginning to judge other people, sometimes complete strangers, for the "scandelous" or questionable nature of their attire, despite the fact that I can find the same things in my own closet.

In addition to this shift of perspective, I've also found myself hyper-sensitive to any physical contact, no matter how insignificant, from anyone. Women in Jordan walk around holding hands or link arms. Men enthusiastically kiss each other on the cheeks, whisper in each other's ears, and lace their fingers together when they walk. And its always same gender-to-gender interactions. Why? It's "haram" (forbidden!) to embrace or touch someone of the opposite gender. Sometimes even casual male-female friendships are only tolerated if there is a serious intent in marriage. Observing this while realizing my own deprivation of physical touch, helps me then understand why the female and male dynamics are so isolated. They're virtually separate spaces within Arab societies.

Defining my own private space has evolved to better fit the customs of the region, although they are by no means up to the standard. But, I realize that I have unintentionally changed my own concept of space to integrate into my surrounding society. This is mind-boggling to me.

I now always take notice of the distance between me and the nearest guy. If anyone moves towards me, it immediately takes my attention. I've noticed the friends I've made here are primarily female, even among the American students. My interactions with guys are relaxed but I have to catch myself from throwing my arms around someone for a hug. A brush of the fingertips into a guys palm when passing the sugar can raise my heart-rate a few beats. I've begun to crave physical contact more than ever before. You know, just rubbing shoulders with someone or getting a good, firm hug.

And that brings me back to the woman with the belt.

Jordanian bubbles are calibrated differently here. People are raised without having any context for physical contact with a member of the opposite gender. The Muslim faith emphasizes modesty in dress so as to not draw undue attention. And yet here was this woman, who with a single accessory, showed off her beautiful hourglass figure, expressing her individuality, and yet remaining distant to the casual observer.

It was a perfect balance.

And so, my bubble continues to shift as I continue to observe everyone around me, and have experiences that are defined incredibly by my gender. I have the feeling its going to keep me guessing for a long time.