Saturday, March 31, 2007
Note to Self
While snapping those amazing shots of Jordanian wildflowers, picnicking shenanigans, and all-around amazing adventures, it might be a good idea to remove the lens cap.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Old Hood Revisited
For those of you familiar with the layout of the city of Amman, you can skip this part.
Amman sits on 8 jabals, or hilltops. It is a unique city in that you can be in one neighborhood, atop a jabal, such as Jabal Amman (the oldest part of the city), and see the other hilltops around you. Each jabal has a main roundabout, or duwar. So, you can say, "I live near the 6th circle" and folks will know what you are talking about. You can drive in a nearly straight line from the 1st circle, which the oldest inhabited part of the city, to the 8th circle, which is on my end of town. I actually mapped out the entire city this way on Google Earth. Once you see a giant roundabout, you know that going either north or south of it will lead you to other circles. Simple.
Now of course, Amman has experienced a population BOOM over the past 17 years, with the first Gulf War and now, of course, the Iraqi occupation. Neighborhoods have, therefore, extended past their respective jabals and out into the Bedouin lands that twenty years ago were nothing more than fields for sheep herding. My neighborhood is one such area, where a tiny plot of land (known as a half-dunum, enough land to build a simple house) is selling these days for about $600,000. It's crazy expensive, man, crazy.
Even the older neighborhoods, like where I lived my first two years in Jordan, are changing and expanding more rapidly than I can keep track of. Yesterday I had to take two of my kids to their pediatrician whose office is in an area called Tababoor. (East Amman) It's a nice little hike from my home, and in Jordanian standards, it's a veritable rihlah, or journey.
I honestly did not recognize the souk, or market. I had a hard time finding the doctor's office for all of the buildings that had grown up around it. After our appointment, I drove my kids to our old apartment. We had lived in a decent place; the building was 14 years old and I had no cabinets in my kitchen, but it was clean and had a great view of the rolling hills and farmland behind us. We had good memories there--beautiful memories, actually, of kind neighbors and simple people honestly looking out for the ijnabiyyah, or foreigner, living alone with her kids.
It was no coincidence that I ended up in that building, but rather qadr Allah. When we came to Jordan, it was August 21, 2003. School started September 1. We had nine days to do all of our paperwork, enroll the children in a school, find a place to live, and buy some furniture or at least mattresses, and a spoon or two. We literally moved here with our clothes and some books and toys. We were in a mad, sleepless rush trying to get everything accomplished in a country whose motto is "If you hate red tape, wait in this line and we'll go get you some more red tape." It's the land of bukrah, bukrah, bukrah inshaAllah, and when bukrah (tomorrow) finally comes, whatever you were promised usually does not materialize.
So my husband and I were walking down this out-of-the-way street in Tababoor, and my husband and I saw some painters inside an apartment. "Painters mean there is a vacancy, let's check it out," he said.
It turned out the owner was inside, supervising the work being done. It was an airy 3-bedroom, one Western / one Arabic bath, two-balconied flat. The owner was an engineer who lived in Saudi. We liked it, we were in a hurry, so we offered to rent it. The rent was 140 JD / month ($200 US). I had to restrain myself from laughing at the ridiculously low rent. I later found out that it was highway robbery, and we could have gotten it for 120 JD. Live and learn.
So my husband checks out the balcony off of the kitchen--the one with the view of the sheep fields--and he looks down. Downstairs, to the left, was a man grilling kabobs outside for his family. "Honey!" he says. "I know this man! He was at the jumu'ah prayer last week in Birmingham!"
SubhanAllah. This family had Birmingham connections. Daughters, sons, cousins, and sisters-in-law, all living in my hometown. We were immediate friends, and they felt a responsibility to look after me. I welcomed it. That first year making hijrah to any place can be wrought with surprise, difficulty, depression, and several dozen cases of amoebic dysentery. We got sick, and understandably so. The flora and fauna of Jordan are not the same in the US. Whatever immunities we had built up to viruses and bacteria in the states were ever-so-slightly mutated forms in Jordan, and our defenses were down. Everyone I know who comes here spends the first year battling all sorts of ugly illnesses. But it does get better.
Umm Muhammad and Umm Nasser, my dear neighbors, always instinctively knew when we were under the weather. They would show up with pots and plates of the most delicious homemade stuff. I will never forget the first day of Ramadan--my first Ramadan in a Muslim country-- about 15 minutes before iftar time, my doorbell started ringing. There would be a child standing, smiling, with some plate of something tasty. By the time the adhan was called, we would have a sampler's feast of neighbors' food. It was beautiful. I started whipping up my own fare to distribute to the dear residents of my building. They loved hush puppies, cole slaw, lasagna, chocolate chip cookies, and of course my cream puffs.
My kids had decent, kind children to play with (not to mention teach them Arabic, free of charge); I, too, got a crash-course in Arabic on a daily basis. I had to communicate--it was sink or swim. I chose to swim, and as painstaking as it sometimes was, I talked and talked and talked. I cried on their shoulders. I shared and told stories and taught them how to make chili. Umm Nasser, who was working on her ijazah to teach Quran, would sit with my second-grader and help her memorize the pages of ayahs of Quran for school. When the Imam of the masjid on our street died of a sudden heart attack, I went with these ladies to console his grieving widow. There was unity among us, simplicity, and true neighborly love and concern.
So yesterday, as I drove around my old stomping grounds, I called my sister-in-law and told her I was coming for tea. "I'm not home, I'm at a gathering," she told me. "Come, join us."
It was a congratulation party for one of the sisters who had become a grandmother. My sister-in-law had gone early to make the traditional karawwiyah and *moghli that is served when someone has a baby. (I love that stuff, call me weird) When I entered the room, I felt a warmth and light I have not seen since moving to the mod area of town. There was Umm Nasser, Umm Muhammad, the Imam's widow, and countless other sisters who had shown me friendship and endless hospitality during my two years living among them.
"Where have you been! Did you forget about us?!" they exclaimed. "Are these the little ones! Oh how they've grown!" they said. I went around the room giving my salams to each of them, embracing them, feeling that connection, that honesty, that truth that makes us sisters in Islam.
Most Americans who come here want to leave after the first year or two. It's the litmus test for tolerating life in Jordan. Alhamdulillah, thanks largely to the kindness I was shown in those crucial first months, I was able to call this place my home.
I am home.
*moghli is a pudding-like sweet made with ground rice, cinnamon, caraway and topped with pistachios and almonds. Most Americans detest it; I love it.
*karawwiyah is a sweet cinammon tea with almond pieces in it
Amman sits on 8 jabals, or hilltops. It is a unique city in that you can be in one neighborhood, atop a jabal, such as Jabal Amman (the oldest part of the city), and see the other hilltops around you. Each jabal has a main roundabout, or duwar. So, you can say, "I live near the 6th circle" and folks will know what you are talking about. You can drive in a nearly straight line from the 1st circle, which the oldest inhabited part of the city, to the 8th circle, which is on my end of town. I actually mapped out the entire city this way on Google Earth. Once you see a giant roundabout, you know that going either north or south of it will lead you to other circles. Simple.
Now of course, Amman has experienced a population BOOM over the past 17 years, with the first Gulf War and now, of course, the Iraqi occupation. Neighborhoods have, therefore, extended past their respective jabals and out into the Bedouin lands that twenty years ago were nothing more than fields for sheep herding. My neighborhood is one such area, where a tiny plot of land (known as a half-dunum, enough land to build a simple house) is selling these days for about $600,000. It's crazy expensive, man, crazy.
Even the older neighborhoods, like where I lived my first two years in Jordan, are changing and expanding more rapidly than I can keep track of. Yesterday I had to take two of my kids to their pediatrician whose office is in an area called Tababoor. (East Amman) It's a nice little hike from my home, and in Jordanian standards, it's a veritable rihlah, or journey.
I honestly did not recognize the souk, or market. I had a hard time finding the doctor's office for all of the buildings that had grown up around it. After our appointment, I drove my kids to our old apartment. We had lived in a decent place; the building was 14 years old and I had no cabinets in my kitchen, but it was clean and had a great view of the rolling hills and farmland behind us. We had good memories there--beautiful memories, actually, of kind neighbors and simple people honestly looking out for the ijnabiyyah, or foreigner, living alone with her kids.
It was no coincidence that I ended up in that building, but rather qadr Allah. When we came to Jordan, it was August 21, 2003. School started September 1. We had nine days to do all of our paperwork, enroll the children in a school, find a place to live, and buy some furniture or at least mattresses, and a spoon or two. We literally moved here with our clothes and some books and toys. We were in a mad, sleepless rush trying to get everything accomplished in a country whose motto is "If you hate red tape, wait in this line and we'll go get you some more red tape." It's the land of bukrah, bukrah, bukrah inshaAllah, and when bukrah (tomorrow) finally comes, whatever you were promised usually does not materialize.
So my husband and I were walking down this out-of-the-way street in Tababoor, and my husband and I saw some painters inside an apartment. "Painters mean there is a vacancy, let's check it out," he said.
It turned out the owner was inside, supervising the work being done. It was an airy 3-bedroom, one Western / one Arabic bath, two-balconied flat. The owner was an engineer who lived in Saudi. We liked it, we were in a hurry, so we offered to rent it. The rent was 140 JD / month ($200 US). I had to restrain myself from laughing at the ridiculously low rent. I later found out that it was highway robbery, and we could have gotten it for 120 JD. Live and learn.
So my husband checks out the balcony off of the kitchen--the one with the view of the sheep fields--and he looks down. Downstairs, to the left, was a man grilling kabobs outside for his family. "Honey!" he says. "I know this man! He was at the jumu'ah prayer last week in Birmingham!"
SubhanAllah. This family had Birmingham connections. Daughters, sons, cousins, and sisters-in-law, all living in my hometown. We were immediate friends, and they felt a responsibility to look after me. I welcomed it. That first year making hijrah to any place can be wrought with surprise, difficulty, depression, and several dozen cases of amoebic dysentery. We got sick, and understandably so. The flora and fauna of Jordan are not the same in the US. Whatever immunities we had built up to viruses and bacteria in the states were ever-so-slightly mutated forms in Jordan, and our defenses were down. Everyone I know who comes here spends the first year battling all sorts of ugly illnesses. But it does get better.
Umm Muhammad and Umm Nasser, my dear neighbors, always instinctively knew when we were under the weather. They would show up with pots and plates of the most delicious homemade stuff. I will never forget the first day of Ramadan--my first Ramadan in a Muslim country-- about 15 minutes before iftar time, my doorbell started ringing. There would be a child standing, smiling, with some plate of something tasty. By the time the adhan was called, we would have a sampler's feast of neighbors' food. It was beautiful. I started whipping up my own fare to distribute to the dear residents of my building. They loved hush puppies, cole slaw, lasagna, chocolate chip cookies, and of course my cream puffs.
My kids had decent, kind children to play with (not to mention teach them Arabic, free of charge); I, too, got a crash-course in Arabic on a daily basis. I had to communicate--it was sink or swim. I chose to swim, and as painstaking as it sometimes was, I talked and talked and talked. I cried on their shoulders. I shared and told stories and taught them how to make chili. Umm Nasser, who was working on her ijazah to teach Quran, would sit with my second-grader and help her memorize the pages of ayahs of Quran for school. When the Imam of the masjid on our street died of a sudden heart attack, I went with these ladies to console his grieving widow. There was unity among us, simplicity, and true neighborly love and concern.
So yesterday, as I drove around my old stomping grounds, I called my sister-in-law and told her I was coming for tea. "I'm not home, I'm at a gathering," she told me. "Come, join us."
It was a congratulation party for one of the sisters who had become a grandmother. My sister-in-law had gone early to make the traditional karawwiyah and *moghli that is served when someone has a baby. (I love that stuff, call me weird) When I entered the room, I felt a warmth and light I have not seen since moving to the mod area of town. There was Umm Nasser, Umm Muhammad, the Imam's widow, and countless other sisters who had shown me friendship and endless hospitality during my two years living among them.
"Where have you been! Did you forget about us?!" they exclaimed. "Are these the little ones! Oh how they've grown!" they said. I went around the room giving my salams to each of them, embracing them, feeling that connection, that honesty, that truth that makes us sisters in Islam.
Most Americans who come here want to leave after the first year or two. It's the litmus test for tolerating life in Jordan. Alhamdulillah, thanks largely to the kindness I was shown in those crucial first months, I was able to call this place my home.
I am home.
*moghli is a pudding-like sweet made with ground rice, cinnamon, caraway and topped with pistachios and almonds. Most Americans detest it; I love it.
*karawwiyah is a sweet cinammon tea with almond pieces in it
Monday, March 26, 2007
Java
I learn new lessons all the time.
Newest lesson learned: Just because the coffee house boasts "Brazilian" and "Colombian" coffee varieties, it does not mean the beans are good.
I have now spent 8 JD on bad, bad coffee.
Any of you living in Jordan: Don't buy your coffee beans from the new Brazilian roaster by Carrefour, unless you enjoy bitter swill.
Newest lesson learned: Just because the coffee house boasts "Brazilian" and "Colombian" coffee varieties, it does not mean the beans are good.
I have now spent 8 JD on bad, bad coffee.
Any of you living in Jordan: Don't buy your coffee beans from the new Brazilian roaster by Carrefour, unless you enjoy bitter swill.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Cat Vibes
Willie was a good kitty--well, for his first few months of life, that is. My husband found him in the masjid after asr prayer, covered in filth and cement. Apparently there was construction going on near the masjid and Willie was abandoned or lost. In any case, he was pitiful.Having a pet in Jordan is difficult. First of all, veterinarians are few and far between. If you do find one, he typically charges more for a visit, shots, etc., than what it costs for a human to see the doctor. And in contrast to what Islam teaches us about kindness to animals (do I need to mention the hadith about the woman going to hell for mistreating a cat?), the general population views cats as rodents. It is a rare occurrence to find an Abu Huraira-type local being benevolent to a cat. It's usually us, the foreign element, opening our doors.
Many old wives' tales among the Arabs revolve around cats. The one that sticks out most in my mind is that girls playing with or living with cats are bound to be infertile during their childbearing years. If a woman miscarries, there is surely a cat somewhere in her history to be blamed. Yes, cats can carry the parasite that causes toxoplasmosis, but people who live with cats become immune to this disease. It is true that pregnant women should not handle cat feces, because toxoplasmosis can affect the unborn child and cause all sorts of problems.
Anyhow, Willie was sweet when he was little, but as he grew he displayed an aggressiveness that I later found is common among orange and white male cats. He would tolerate a pet on the head for about 20 seconds, then he would turn around and bite the hell out of my hand, or he'd try to wrestle my entire arm. He was very strong, and he wanted to do his kitty thing and hunt and chase and wreak havoc on my window screens. He succeeded in all areas.
I wanted a fluffy lap cat.
Willie took ill suddenly, holding up one of his paws and refusing to eat. Within four days he passed away, at the tender age of 1 1/2 years old. In Jordan, the "cats have nine lives" myth does not apply.
We were saddened--especially the kids--but my husband and I decided that unless we have a huge plot of land, having a pet here does not make sense.
Last night a lovely tabby kitten showed up at my kitchen window. Our flat is sub-ground, so she had about an eight-foot jump to scale our wall and make it to the kitchen. She was looking at me with this expression that said, "I received your cat vibe signal and have come a-calling, so let me in." I did not, but I wanted to. She was clean and did not look like a dumpster cat. We fed her. She stayed outside our window all night, crying to come in. It was all I could do to resist.
I'm not ready for any more feline heartbreak. Not just yet.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Journal Addict, or Voyeur Wanna-Be?
A dear friend asked me this question:
Fifty years ago, would we bloggers have wanted to pass around our journals or diaries for others to read and make comments? Do we really want thousands of peeping Toms peering into our lives and souls, sometimes five and six times a day? And if we do, aren't we sick?
Is what we are saying really viable in the whole scheme of life?
Just what IS it about blogging that makes us blog? And why do we have to use such ludicrous verbage these days, such as blogging and googling?
Is this the true end of privacy as we know (knew) it?
Is this the newspeak George Orwell prophesied? If it is, it's so banal. Bleh.
I feel the ominous dawning of a new self-help group for addicts. Can you guess its name?
B.A. will no longer stand for bad ass or Bachelor of Arts.
Step 1:
Admit that you are powerless over the lure of the keyboard.
Step 2:
Admit that you ignored your home, children, and tea kettle of boiling water on the stove until the water boiled away and pot turned black, on more than five occasions while trying to make that "last point" on your newest blog post.
Step 3:
Aw heck, everyone is going to have his own set of twelve steps. Must we get to the point that we actually have to write them down and publish them?
I'd like to thank brother Bin Gregory for not posting unless he has something new and original to say. Great blog, brother, and I hope your readership grows.
One day at a time.
Fifty years ago, would we bloggers have wanted to pass around our journals or diaries for others to read and make comments? Do we really want thousands of peeping Toms peering into our lives and souls, sometimes five and six times a day? And if we do, aren't we sick?
Is what we are saying really viable in the whole scheme of life?
Just what IS it about blogging that makes us blog? And why do we have to use such ludicrous verbage these days, such as blogging and googling?
Is this the true end of privacy as we know (knew) it?
Is this the newspeak George Orwell prophesied? If it is, it's so banal. Bleh.
I feel the ominous dawning of a new self-help group for addicts. Can you guess its name?
B.A. will no longer stand for bad ass or Bachelor of Arts.
Step 1:
Admit that you are powerless over the lure of the keyboard.
Step 2:
Admit that you ignored your home, children, and tea kettle of boiling water on the stove until the water boiled away and pot turned black, on more than five occasions while trying to make that "last point" on your newest blog post.
Step 3:
Aw heck, everyone is going to have his own set of twelve steps. Must we get to the point that we actually have to write them down and publish them?
I'd like to thank brother Bin Gregory for not posting unless he has something new and original to say. Great blog, brother, and I hope your readership grows.
One day at a time.
How?
Can anyone tell me in simpleton layperson's terms, not compu-techno whiz terms, how to get photographs or artwork up there into that masthead that reads "Southern Muslimah?"
It is one of those tasks I'm hoping is much easier than I think it is.
Or, better yet, out of the 35 hits from folks who aren't from Japan and accidentally googled "sushi" and got my blog...is any one of you a web designer? Want a pro bono job?
It is one of those tasks I'm hoping is much easier than I think it is.
Or, better yet, out of the 35 hits from folks who aren't from Japan and accidentally googled "sushi" and got my blog...is any one of you a web designer? Want a pro bono job?
Friday, March 23, 2007
Brotherly Love Knows no End
Today's khutbah at the Friday prayer turned into chaos.
My husband and son reported that the khatib and the imam of one of the masjids near our home got into it during the khutbah.
The khatib discussed the relevance of good bid'ah, or innovation, in the religion, such as praying taraweeh prayers in congregation during Ramadan. He went on to mention that recognizing the birth of our beloved Prophet Muhammad with a song or poem or a halaqah discussing the seerah of the Prophet, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, is not inherently unacceptable. He might as well have thrown a live grenade into the congregation.
The Imam did not like where the khatib was taking his khutbah. So when the khatib sat down during the 30 second break, the Imam stood up and began to speak, criticizing what the khatib had said, saying how dare he say that, etc. This of course got tempers up, with people trying to both calm the situation and others trying to throw in their two cents. They asked the Imam to please sit down and let the khatib conclude the khutbah, which he did.
The athan was called, and the khatib proceeded to prepare to lead the prayer, but the Imam said, "No!" and refused to let the khatib lead. The Imam won, lead the prayer, and then told the khatib, "I need five minutes with you."
After this, my husband did not understand anything said, because everyone was shouting. Of course sides were taken and feathers ruffled, and the almighty tempers o' the Arabs were flared.
I tell you, there's nothing like the togetherness and brotherly love and respect found in our masajid.
My husband and son reported that the khatib and the imam of one of the masjids near our home got into it during the khutbah.
The khatib discussed the relevance of good bid'ah, or innovation, in the religion, such as praying taraweeh prayers in congregation during Ramadan. He went on to mention that recognizing the birth of our beloved Prophet Muhammad with a song or poem or a halaqah discussing the seerah of the Prophet, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, is not inherently unacceptable. He might as well have thrown a live grenade into the congregation.
The Imam did not like where the khatib was taking his khutbah. So when the khatib sat down during the 30 second break, the Imam stood up and began to speak, criticizing what the khatib had said, saying how dare he say that, etc. This of course got tempers up, with people trying to both calm the situation and others trying to throw in their two cents. They asked the Imam to please sit down and let the khatib conclude the khutbah, which he did.
The athan was called, and the khatib proceeded to prepare to lead the prayer, but the Imam said, "No!" and refused to let the khatib lead. The Imam won, lead the prayer, and then told the khatib, "I need five minutes with you."
After this, my husband did not understand anything said, because everyone was shouting. Of course sides were taken and feathers ruffled, and the almighty tempers o' the Arabs were flared.
I tell you, there's nothing like the togetherness and brotherly love and respect found in our masajid.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Better Late than Never
I want to go to Morocco. I have wanted to see Morocco for as long as I can remember.
I had never heard of the film Hideous Kinky until recently, when I caught it on Dubai television. The story line bugged me, but the scenery was absolutely breathtaking.
What glorious sights (and sites) there are to see in this vast, amazing world.
Let us all be Ibn Battutas and go SEE IT!
I had never heard of the film Hideous Kinky until recently, when I caught it on Dubai television. The story line bugged me, but the scenery was absolutely breathtaking.
What glorious sights (and sites) there are to see in this vast, amazing world.
Let us all be Ibn Battutas and go SEE IT!
Tiempo de Silencio
A typical chabola, in Spain or any placeAcclaimed Spanish novelist Luis Martín-Santos wrote a book called Tiempo de Silencio, published in 1962, during the reign of Franco, during the height of governmental censorship. I read it in 1994. It was a tough read back then, when my Spanish was at its top form, mainly because the author uses stream-of-consciousness and other psychological techniques which are hard to keep up with in any language.
This novel was my first exposure to the Spanish chabolas, or ghettos, inhabited by gitanos, or gypsies. I visited Spain in 1993 and I went to the Gypsy market to buy trinkets, and I listened to the Gipsy Kings, but I knew nothing about los gitanos or their plight in the world. Honestly, I did not know much about anything when I was 21 years old. SubhanAllah.
The other night I was fortunate to catch a documentary about the gitanos in Spain and their struggle to get out of the ghetto and into mainstream life. Some succeed, some do not. Many are able to escape through art and music, as the gitanos have traditionally been huge contributors to flamenco music and dance. Even the little boys are walking around the chabolas with their little guitars, crooning away.
Yesterday I drove past a gypsy, or Roma camp, near my home. The women and children are constantly begging in front of the bakery by my house. They bang on car windows, they chase you to your car, once a woman even grabbed my shoulder. They shove their unwashed, unkempt children into your face, they use ugly words and sometimes make du'a against you when you do not reach into your pockets. They have no place in Jordanian society; one will never see a gypsy child trying to attend school, nor do the people here care to help them escape from their prison of perpetual begging and loitering. What a contrast from the gitanos in Spain!
But are the ones here really destitute?
As I drove past the tents yesterday, I marvelled at how well the men were dressed in contrast to the women and children, and each tent boasted a satellite dish. If I'm brave enough to walk over there today (they have large guard dogs), I'll try to snap a photo or two. InshaAllah. Ojalá.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
At-Telluj
Spring has arrived! Or has it?
The daffodils I planted last spring were destroyed by our testosterone-fueled male cat (rest his kitty soul). Much to my surprise, they came back two weeks ago. Amazingly, beautiful things do grow in the rocky, acidic Jordanian soil.
Here are some pansies that Willie the Cat had also mutilated. They're back.
This is a common flower here in the Middle East. The "haris," or building super, planted this for us; it was a gesture of gratitude because we actually treated him like a thinking, feeling human being. I miss him. The one we have now does not treat us like thinking, feeling human beings. I don't like him.
Well, after we had pretty much decided that winter was over, with all of our foliage in full blossom, we woke up to a snow "storm" this morning, snow thunder and all. I went up on the roof to squeegie out the satellites that could not receive a signal due to the 10 pounds of snow accumulation.
This is satellite row. Those are my footprints.
I guess I've more or less learned that we can't safely put up the winter clothes in Amman till, say, mid May.
The daffodils I planted last spring were destroyed by our testosterone-fueled male cat (rest his kitty soul). Much to my surprise, they came back two weeks ago. Amazingly, beautiful things do grow in the rocky, acidic Jordanian soil.
Here are some pansies that Willie the Cat had also mutilated. They're back.
This is a common flower here in the Middle East. The "haris," or building super, planted this for us; it was a gesture of gratitude because we actually treated him like a thinking, feeling human being. I miss him. The one we have now does not treat us like thinking, feeling human beings. I don't like him.
Well, after we had pretty much decided that winter was over, with all of our foliage in full blossom, we woke up to a snow "storm" this morning, snow thunder and all. I went up on the roof to squeegie out the satellites that could not receive a signal due to the 10 pounds of snow accumulation.
This is satellite row. Those are my footprints.I guess I've more or less learned that we can't safely put up the winter clothes in Amman till, say, mid May.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Premature Foods
From left to right: Hamleh, Caraz Akhdar, and Azkadiniyyah (oh, and a watermelon, but you knew that!)I never liked prunes, but I sure do love plums. Grapes, yep! Raisins, sure! Those are just about the only kinds of foods I can think of with different phases of maturity or hydration that Americans consume, unless they are hiding out in the Appalachians, running from law enforcement and living on dried red beans.
Arabs, on the other hand, love to eat things in their premature forms. If it is in no way ripe enough to be harvested or eaten, you can bet you will find some of whatever it is being sold on the roadside for public consumption.
First of all, in the fall season you have your balah, also called routab, which are dates that have not reached maturity. They are light brown with a soft outer skin, and very, very sweet. I broke my fast in Mecca on many a balah being passed out by those seeking the blessings of feeding a fasting Muslim.
The first time I ever saw loz akhdar, or green almonds, I did not think the fuzzy buggers could taste good. Dipped in salt, however, they make a right tasty snack. I wonder who first picked the green almond from the tree and decided to partake thereof.
Last weekend my husband smilingly brought me home several kilos of foul akhdar, or green fava beans--picked, of course, before bona fide bean maturity. The pods are large and tough, with a soft furry interior. The beans look like, well, not-yet-ripened fava beans. Cleaning them can be a challenge, and for some reason they turn one's fingers black. Just yesterday my fingers stopped looking like they belong to a grease monkey. (ok, ok, I sometimes change the oil in the car when no one's looking)
In about a month, the curbside vendors will start selling what I used to think were funky bales of hay. The first time I saw one, my husband was not with me in Jordan, so I called my friend and said, "Hey, what's with the HAY for sale everywhere?" Lo and behold, it wasn't hay at all. It was actually huge bales of not-yet-ripened chick pea (hummus) pods, with a green little hummus ball inside each one. These are known as hamleh, which means "carrying something" or "with child." You clean them, pop them in the oven in a pan of salted water, shake shake shake, and you have yourself a super nutritious snack, premature and all.
The summer season brings us the ever-popular caraz akhdar, or green cherries. They are hard and tart, and I have seen my kids polish off bowlfuls of them in one sitting. We also can buy tiny green apples, picked long before they are ready to fall from the tree.
I consider myself a true 'local' for knowing these little tidbits. And the thing is, I enjoy this stuff too.
When in Jordan...
Arabs, on the other hand, love to eat things in their premature forms. If it is in no way ripe enough to be harvested or eaten, you can bet you will find some of whatever it is being sold on the roadside for public consumption.
First of all, in the fall season you have your balah, also called routab, which are dates that have not reached maturity. They are light brown with a soft outer skin, and very, very sweet. I broke my fast in Mecca on many a balah being passed out by those seeking the blessings of feeding a fasting Muslim.
The first time I ever saw loz akhdar, or green almonds, I did not think the fuzzy buggers could taste good. Dipped in salt, however, they make a right tasty snack. I wonder who first picked the green almond from the tree and decided to partake thereof.
Last weekend my husband smilingly brought me home several kilos of foul akhdar, or green fava beans--picked, of course, before bona fide bean maturity. The pods are large and tough, with a soft furry interior. The beans look like, well, not-yet-ripened fava beans. Cleaning them can be a challenge, and for some reason they turn one's fingers black. Just yesterday my fingers stopped looking like they belong to a grease monkey. (ok, ok, I sometimes change the oil in the car when no one's looking)
In about a month, the curbside vendors will start selling what I used to think were funky bales of hay. The first time I saw one, my husband was not with me in Jordan, so I called my friend and said, "Hey, what's with the HAY for sale everywhere?" Lo and behold, it wasn't hay at all. It was actually huge bales of not-yet-ripened chick pea (hummus) pods, with a green little hummus ball inside each one. These are known as hamleh, which means "carrying something" or "with child." You clean them, pop them in the oven in a pan of salted water, shake shake shake, and you have yourself a super nutritious snack, premature and all.
The summer season brings us the ever-popular caraz akhdar, or green cherries. They are hard and tart, and I have seen my kids polish off bowlfuls of them in one sitting. We also can buy tiny green apples, picked long before they are ready to fall from the tree.
I consider myself a true 'local' for knowing these little tidbits. And the thing is, I enjoy this stuff too.
When in Jordan...
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
The Making of a Van Gogh (Ears in Tact)
by Daughter, age 11
by Son, age 9I told Izzy Mo a while back that I would post pictures of the artwork my children did during the long winter break we had here in Amman.
I am a parent who loathes the television's ability to suck all of the creative juices out of my children's heads. Years ago my husband informed me we were going to get rid of the TV and replace it with an aquarium. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. The TV stayed.
Amman + Winter --> AmmanWinterDreariness +/- Bored Kids = Adult Lunacy
I'm sure that somewhere in the science texts, this is a proven equation.
I went down to one of the local art supply stores owned by an Arab-American lady I met at the mall several years ago. She had been raised in New York City and knew that moving to Amman with her children meant that they would have little or no access to Elmer's Glue. This, she said, was unacceptable. She and her husband opened an art supply store and I am one happy parent because of it.
They sell the good stuff--oil paints, easels, model train and car sets, little furry trees you can stick on a project for school, etc. They sell small canvases for 1.25 JD and good acrylic paints for around 7 JD. For less than $15, your children can spend time creating.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Invisible Alma, or Alma Invisible
Weary from being the quintessential doormat,
Alma wept.
Her tears flowed from a river of insecurities, hope lost, of aspirations
buried, and from the innate need to be whole,
but not knowing how.
How Alma had let them chip away at her!
Piece by piece, they had dug too deeply, forcing
her self-worth to be cast off like an over worn garment.
It was cold where Alma lived.
She often recalled a time--but convinced herself
it was a dream--when she had felt
empowered.
But that must have been, she thought, before
the abduction of her
self.
Had she been a child?
She was not from them,
she could never be...
and who would want to?
They possessed a wretchedness, a backwardness that
Alma did not, could not,
recognize.
Where is the tranquility?
Where is the truth?
Alma asked herself these questions
but knew the real tragedy of her circumstance was that
she was just one of a multitude--nameless
But salvation could not be closer.
Alma dammed her river
And damned the river
and opened her eyes.
The pity and despair lightened when she turned
the pages of the dust-worn texts.
Asiyah, Mariam,
Mothers and warriors!
They did not let men make them
incomplete.
"Alma," she said, "use this."
Khadijah, Fatima,
Wives and believers!
Worn hands and tired bodies
Yet men did not make them incomplete.
Alma stepped onto the new and unfamiliar terrain
and proclaimed her faith.
The tears flowed, familiar, yet from a different source--
that of purification and comfort
Alma, unchoked at last,
prostrated.
Alma wept.
Her tears flowed from a river of insecurities, hope lost, of aspirations
buried, and from the innate need to be whole,
but not knowing how.
How Alma had let them chip away at her!
Piece by piece, they had dug too deeply, forcing
her self-worth to be cast off like an over worn garment.
It was cold where Alma lived.
She often recalled a time--but convinced herself
it was a dream--when she had felt
empowered.
But that must have been, she thought, before
the abduction of her
self.
Had she been a child?
She was not from them,
she could never be...
and who would want to?
They possessed a wretchedness, a backwardness that
Alma did not, could not,
recognize.
Where is the tranquility?
Where is the truth?
Alma asked herself these questions
but knew the real tragedy of her circumstance was that
she was just one of a multitude--nameless
But salvation could not be closer.
Alma dammed her river
And damned the river
and opened her eyes.
The pity and despair lightened when she turned
the pages of the dust-worn texts.
Asiyah, Mariam,
Mothers and warriors!
They did not let men make them
incomplete.
"Alma," she said, "use this."
Khadijah, Fatima,
Wives and believers!
Worn hands and tired bodies
Yet men did not make them incomplete.
Alma stepped onto the new and unfamiliar terrain
and proclaimed her faith.
The tears flowed, familiar, yet from a different source--
that of purification and comfort
Alma, unchoked at last,
prostrated.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Fahrvergnügen
Irmgard Klingler displays her famous Black Forest CakeOk, I know that Fahrvergnügen means 'driving enjoyment,' and this post is not about how much I like to crank up the car. It is, instead, a post about the joys of eating. Fahrvergnügen is just one of the few catchy German phrases I know. Ja Wol! Ok, two catchy phrases.
How does one say "eating enjoyment" in German?
We received a sales ad this weekend from Carrefour, who was offering 20 mini chocolate croissants for 1.25 JD. Now, who in his right mind could pass that up, seeing how one pastry from a reputable baker costs at least .30 quirsh? The rationale was a no-brainer. We bought the goods, man, we bought the goods.
So as I warmed up two of the little beauties in the microwave this morning (please, no comments about the diet I'm supposed to be on), my mind was flooded with memories of days of yore, when I worked here. I do not know many Americans who worked their way through college without experiencing some type of food service job. This, by far, was my favorite place to 'sling hash.'
Klingler's was like a little piece of Bavarian heaven. Mrs. Irmgard Klingler, or "M," as everyone called her, had been baking breads and pastries out of her home for years. She and her husband, a retired Birmingham police officer, opened up a little cheescake shop in Alabaster, Alabama. It was such a huge hit with the locals that they quickly outgrew their location and moved to a bigger shop near my home. I walked in one day, seeing a "Help Wanted" sign in the window, and the next day I was wearing an apron and learning how to properly slice a cheesecake.
"M" was from the town of Worms. Her husband had been stationed in Germany in the 1960s in another town whose name escapes me. Richard was 100% southern, with a distinct drawl and an ability to make the most succulent biscuits I have ever tasted. EVER. Together, they were a mis-matched couple who picked on one another but who obviously loved what they were doing: serving incredible food to people who appreciated it.
I loved "M" and she loved me. She wanted me to quit studying and pursue a career in serving cheese pretzels. I wondered if all Germans were like this with their employees--expecting complete and total dedication, foresaking all other aspirations or goals. In a way, I felt sorry for her, but I admired her tireless efforts to please customers. The patrons loved her, too, and would often try to practice their rusty Deutche with her as they sampled the latest muffin or danish.
I took the early bird shift. It was my job to set up the pastry cases and prepare the bakery for opening each morning. I used to drive to work in the total darkness, meandering my way down sleeping streets. My first day on the 6 a.m shift I met the night baker, Hilda. Hilda was a large German woman who wore Birkenstocks and could crush me with her bare hands, much in the same way she could knead 12 pounds of pastry dough. But oooooh, could she bake. Her cheese brötchen were the best I had ever eaten. I found myself all tongue-tied in her presence, both because I was intimidated by her stature and I was completely out of my element.
"Nein, nein, nein," she said, shaking her head with disdain when she saw the first pastry case I put together. "Dis is not attractive. Must change. I show you how."
And she did. There was a fine art to layering cheese danishes and chocolate-hazelnut croissants, placing them in just the right spot and positioning them in their shiny German display case. I was determined to win Hilda and the Klinglers' approval, and I succeeded. The first few months on the 6 a.m. shift, it took me an entire hour to unload all of the pastries off of the cooling racks and place them on their proper decorative trays, labeled and ready for customers to see. After a few months, I had it down to a science, and could finish the pastry case within 20 minutes, leaving me time to make the many pots of coffee and roll silverware for the day. Was I proud of this accomplishment? You bet your Bratwurst. Hilda was proud of me, too, and would slap me on the back with her floured hands, recalling my days as a bumbling pastry novice. "You good vurker now, you very good."
One of my favorite things about taking the goodies off of their parchment paper was that they left behind, well, goo--goo that filled the pastries and overflowed onto the paper. There was blueberry goo, chocolate goo, cream cheese goo, and my favorite, apple streudel goo. By the time "M" and her husband arrived each morning at 7, I was all gooed up and ready for the day.
Strangely, while working at the bakery I was at my lightest weight, ever. There's something magical in that German food, I tell you. Or maybe I stayed thin from the constant spring in my step as I served platefuls of German potato salad while skipping along to that polka tape that played over, and over, and over.
Anyhow, the Carrefour croissants were, I'd say, half as good as the ones I used to eat at Klingler's. And that is saying a lot.
Thanks, Mrs. Klingler. And do folks still come in asking for donuts? (the evil six-letter word!)
We received a sales ad this weekend from Carrefour, who was offering 20 mini chocolate croissants for 1.25 JD. Now, who in his right mind could pass that up, seeing how one pastry from a reputable baker costs at least .30 quirsh? The rationale was a no-brainer. We bought the goods, man, we bought the goods.
So as I warmed up two of the little beauties in the microwave this morning (please, no comments about the diet I'm supposed to be on), my mind was flooded with memories of days of yore, when I worked here. I do not know many Americans who worked their way through college without experiencing some type of food service job. This, by far, was my favorite place to 'sling hash.'
Klingler's was like a little piece of Bavarian heaven. Mrs. Irmgard Klingler, or "M," as everyone called her, had been baking breads and pastries out of her home for years. She and her husband, a retired Birmingham police officer, opened up a little cheescake shop in Alabaster, Alabama. It was such a huge hit with the locals that they quickly outgrew their location and moved to a bigger shop near my home. I walked in one day, seeing a "Help Wanted" sign in the window, and the next day I was wearing an apron and learning how to properly slice a cheesecake.
"M" was from the town of Worms. Her husband had been stationed in Germany in the 1960s in another town whose name escapes me. Richard was 100% southern, with a distinct drawl and an ability to make the most succulent biscuits I have ever tasted. EVER. Together, they were a mis-matched couple who picked on one another but who obviously loved what they were doing: serving incredible food to people who appreciated it.
I loved "M" and she loved me. She wanted me to quit studying and pursue a career in serving cheese pretzels. I wondered if all Germans were like this with their employees--expecting complete and total dedication, foresaking all other aspirations or goals. In a way, I felt sorry for her, but I admired her tireless efforts to please customers. The patrons loved her, too, and would often try to practice their rusty Deutche with her as they sampled the latest muffin or danish.
I took the early bird shift. It was my job to set up the pastry cases and prepare the bakery for opening each morning. I used to drive to work in the total darkness, meandering my way down sleeping streets. My first day on the 6 a.m shift I met the night baker, Hilda. Hilda was a large German woman who wore Birkenstocks and could crush me with her bare hands, much in the same way she could knead 12 pounds of pastry dough. But oooooh, could she bake. Her cheese brötchen were the best I had ever eaten. I found myself all tongue-tied in her presence, both because I was intimidated by her stature and I was completely out of my element.
"Nein, nein, nein," she said, shaking her head with disdain when she saw the first pastry case I put together. "Dis is not attractive. Must change. I show you how."
And she did. There was a fine art to layering cheese danishes and chocolate-hazelnut croissants, placing them in just the right spot and positioning them in their shiny German display case. I was determined to win Hilda and the Klinglers' approval, and I succeeded. The first few months on the 6 a.m. shift, it took me an entire hour to unload all of the pastries off of the cooling racks and place them on their proper decorative trays, labeled and ready for customers to see. After a few months, I had it down to a science, and could finish the pastry case within 20 minutes, leaving me time to make the many pots of coffee and roll silverware for the day. Was I proud of this accomplishment? You bet your Bratwurst. Hilda was proud of me, too, and would slap me on the back with her floured hands, recalling my days as a bumbling pastry novice. "You good vurker now, you very good."
One of my favorite things about taking the goodies off of their parchment paper was that they left behind, well, goo--goo that filled the pastries and overflowed onto the paper. There was blueberry goo, chocolate goo, cream cheese goo, and my favorite, apple streudel goo. By the time "M" and her husband arrived each morning at 7, I was all gooed up and ready for the day.
Strangely, while working at the bakery I was at my lightest weight, ever. There's something magical in that German food, I tell you. Or maybe I stayed thin from the constant spring in my step as I served platefuls of German potato salad while skipping along to that polka tape that played over, and over, and over.
Anyhow, the Carrefour croissants were, I'd say, half as good as the ones I used to eat at Klingler's. And that is saying a lot.
Thanks, Mrs. Klingler. And do folks still come in asking for donuts? (the evil six-letter word!)
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Could I Borrow that Megaphone?
I never really understood sibling rivalry, being the youngest of four children. The closest sibling in age to me is nine years older, then another ten years older, and the oldest is twelve years older than I am. They did not pick on me. They did not fight with me. I was not jealous of my brother or sisters, ever. If anything, they spoiled me and doted on me. I think I might have been rotten at some point in my childhood.
Now as a mother, I have a house full of kids who can fight. And I mean the tackle-one-another-to-the-ground type of hand to hand combat. They are extremely jealous of one another sometimes, and I cannot understand it. I, like my mother, have three girls and one boy. Why the boy is jealous of a five year-old who practically has no toys of her own (everything is a hand-me-down) and who is the most quiet and unassuming of children, is beyond my comprehension. I also wonder if adding two or three more kids to the mix will help balance things out. (waiting for comments re: having more kids)
When the kids are all getting along, it's blissful. But it's also noisy. We are quite the loud family. When my husband is on the phone shouting in what is really the normal decibel for Arabic conversations, I'm usually raising my voice to speak above his, while the kids are all putting their two cents in...so even in times of relative calm, we're a rowdy bunch.
I am afraid to go and visit my mom in the U.S. and disrupt her quiet environment. It has been many years since trampling elephants lived in her home. I don't know if she will be able to recover.
I wouldn't, however, trade my expressive, raucous group for all the quiet in the world.
Now as a mother, I have a house full of kids who can fight. And I mean the tackle-one-another-to-the-ground type of hand to hand combat. They are extremely jealous of one another sometimes, and I cannot understand it. I, like my mother, have three girls and one boy. Why the boy is jealous of a five year-old who practically has no toys of her own (everything is a hand-me-down) and who is the most quiet and unassuming of children, is beyond my comprehension. I also wonder if adding two or three more kids to the mix will help balance things out. (waiting for comments re: having more kids)
When the kids are all getting along, it's blissful. But it's also noisy. We are quite the loud family. When my husband is on the phone shouting in what is really the normal decibel for Arabic conversations, I'm usually raising my voice to speak above his, while the kids are all putting their two cents in...so even in times of relative calm, we're a rowdy bunch.
I am afraid to go and visit my mom in the U.S. and disrupt her quiet environment. It has been many years since trampling elephants lived in her home. I don't know if she will be able to recover.
I wouldn't, however, trade my expressive, raucous group for all the quiet in the world.
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