DIJ v.3

Optimism?

2011-02-16T22:46:00.000+02:00

I just sat across a desk from John Yoo. A strange experience in itself, he made me realize something over the course of our conversation.

I’d gone to see him because I have a legal question about a job. At Boalt he runs a veteran’s legal clinic, and my question fit the nature of both the issues addressed by the clinic. To my surprise, rather than direct my email to a law student, he asked to meet me in person. So there I was this morning explaining that the BLM failed to give me veteran’s preference and turned me down for a crap job. I sent them a snarky email and asked them why they lied about my status. Yoo said that it’s important I give government agencies every chance to correct their errors. But as he talked, I couldn’t help but perceive an underlying point in his argument. The obvious point is that, legally, I need to establish that they denied me my preference deliberately and maliciously, rather than just on accident. Additionally, though, I think his underlying assumption is that the government really does want to work for our benefit, and if given the opportunity, will correct its mistakes. It was so strange to hear someone talk like that. Even in the Army no one talked like that.

In a way it was refreshing. I haven’t been open to the possibility in a long time that the state may work to do anything other than lie, cheat and kill. Don’t mean to be too glass-half-empty here, but it honestly never occurred to me to simply address this with the BLM as though it was an honest mistake. And to be fair, I don’t think Yoo necessarily thinks it was an honest glitch either. Or maybe he does. I haven’t talked with anyone recently who would even consider such an optimistic possibility.

The key question, regarding the BLM, is if I would have been given the job had they granted me 5 additional points. When I received the rejection I of course wondered that, but never would have emailed to ask, because I assume they would not actually answer. I still believe that. But, Yoo instructed me to email them now and ask. Even their [assumed] failure to answer will be helpful to me at this point, but what a strange exercise for me. I will pretend the state wants to do the right thing by me. What a weird assumption for me to indulge in!

I am so entrenched in my distrust of the state, and it was an interesting awakening for me this morning. This is of course in addition to the fact that I had the strange experience of seeing John Yoo in person, shaking his hand, and receiving sincere and helpful advice from him. It’s probably the most striking example in my life of a person who does what I see as terrible, indefensible things, being just the nicest guy. It reminds me that people are complicated. Really, really complicated. Sorry if I harp on this, but I can hear Anderson reminding me that, “whatever you can imagine, people are doing that. Whatever you can’t imagine, people are doing that too.”

Marx and Engles argued that the “…state was the state of the most powerful (that is, economically dominant class ‘which, though the medium of the state, becomes also the politically dominant class, and thus acquires new means of holding down and exploiting the oppressed class.’” I believe that because I see abundant evidence of the truth of this. Last week I heard a poor woman in Oakland declare that, “Poor people don’t get jobs! They go to the people who need them much less.” For a variety of complicated reasons, some of which are her fault, she is correct. Generally, it seems to me, those with the least advantage see this with the most clarity, and those on top are permitted to pretend that these social structures do not exist.

I want to believe in meritocracy so much. So, with as much optimism as I can muster, I will contact the BLM and ask them the questions that Yoo recommended I ask. Care to guess which one of us is correct. I never thought I’d say this, but I hope John Yoo is right. Wow, that was weird even to type!

Egypt

2011-02-10T23:37:00.001+02:00

Dear “Intelligence” community,

I am no expert on Egypt. I’ve been there one time; I couldn’t wait to leave. I found the place hostile, and the people even worse. Not to mention that I never had any decent food in that Allah-forsaken country. BUT, I can’t help but watch my hair turn gray as you continue to look confused while the obvious happens.

A few reasons for your idiocy:

If I never hear another “Egyptian” with a Canadian passport go on BBC and say, “Well my friend, a professor at AUB told me this morning that…” Who cares? The fake Egyptians I’ve heard on all news sources, save very few, are as expert as I am at analyzing that country. In fact, they probably suck more at this than I do given that so far, I’ve been right about this whole thing, and they continue to wrongly predict everything.

Stop looking at this movement though the lens of Facebook and Twitter. I believe it’s a grave mistake to assume this is a revolution pushed by young people. The demographics of Egypt, indeed the Middle East, make young people the likely participants in anything! I see this as a movement of the impoverished who care more about basic living standards than the currently-lofty and obtuse goals of “democracy.” If I were hungry I’d be more keen to rectify that than to ensure my right to vote in a transparent election. Give poor people the credit they deserve. Keep in mind also that this movement is not necessarily united; people are out there for diverse (and just) reasons, and democracy is only one cause.

Mubarak has never really been vulnerable to public opinion, why should now be any different? Why would he suddenly care that people have always hated him?

Who in the world thinks that the Arab world runs on western time?!? That Mubarak was late to his own speech seemed to indicate that there was vigorous “debate.” Good god people! He’s on time there!

Who in the world thinks that rumors in the Arab world are legit and should be heeded? I don’t even know what to say to this one. Has anyone commenting on this actually been to the ME?

Now, because people haven’t just become bored and wandered home, it will be time for the army, or one of the various other security agencies, to move in and begin killing people. America has stood around saying things that make us look awful, and we’re going to continue to stand around and let this happen, as though we don’t know it’s pending. (Maybe we really don’t know, since we haven’t know anything else so far…) Good thing Marc Lynch is around to blog about how Obama is dealing well with all of this. Otherwise I might begin to think that we’re really screwing up here. It's also worth considering that these regimes didn't become this violently indifferent to its populations without some serious dedication to the direct cause of not giving a crap about people in order to profit financially and in terms of social capital. Obama coming out now and telling them to use restraint is therefore entirely, 100%, useless.

Me during Eid 2006 in Ta7rer Square:

Road Trip

2011-01-21T04:13:00.002+02:00

1 November: I woke up again lamenting my good faith attempt to become part of a ridiculous organization and do some good. Glad for the people I met, I nevertheless felt desperate to get the hell up out of that bitch. I had NO idea that would be the day I ETSed.

Here I am with my Post Clearing Checklist. Waiting, just minutes from signing my DD-214 and handing over my ID. KDC and I were together, and she and I were planning to head for Atlanta and have a much-deserved beer.

At the place where we signed out, we laughed at the "No Running" signs on the stairs. Seems we're all really, really ready to get out of there.

The next morning I dropped her off at the airport and cried like a baby. She is important to me. She kept me sane, and kept me from flinging myself off the roof. I miss her.

Above, KDC looking out of our prison.

So I waited for the next chapter to begin. Picked up my mom at the airport a few days later, and we began an epic road trip. We ate waffles in Corbin KY:

We continued on to see MI. It was fall when we left GA, and it felt like late fall when we arrived in MI. We stopped at the Creation Museum [sic] in KY, and felt righteous.

MT showed us an amazing time, and I really didn't want to leave. We went to the Rouge Ford plant, and I actually really enjoyed the tour. I had no idea how hand made cars are, and I liked being in a place where union membership isn't suspicious. Then we went to get really good Arab food.

On to Chicago:

We stayed with LL for a few days. I really liked Chicago. The people were really nice, and the city is beautiful. We were there for most of the pretty colors of fall.

Then on to Wisconsin, or some other place in the Midwest. It all started to look the same. Pretty, but flat.

We encountered our first snow in Minnesota. It was pretty predictable, I suppose. We went from Georgia, up north to Michigan and planed to head west along a northern route in November.

This is Albert Lea, MN. Or something like that. We were stuck there for a day after only making it about 30 miles from where we began.

The above is in South Dakota, the first time we saw sun for a while. SD also marked the point at which the landscape transitioned into something other than flat+barn. The rolling hills of the Bad Lands welcomed us.

From Rapid City, home of the largest Best Western in the world, or something like that, we discovered that we were quite close to Mount Rushmore. I had no idea. Rushmore and Deadwood are about 30 miles apart. Double score.

It began snowing at Rushmore, and by the time we ascended to Deadwood, it was pretty slushy. I was rather nerve wracked from the drive. Deadwood in November is soooo off-season the waitress asked us if we merited the locals discount for our lunch. We hunkered down for the night and hennaed (sp?) our hair.

Everything in Deadwood is for lease. It's a gambling town.

On to Montana, my favorite state, and the day of the most treacherous drive.

By the time we made it to Lame Deer, or Deer Tick as I like to call it, we'd made it through the worst.

Montana is just the coolest state. I had no idea, but I really liked it there. I think we agreed that Missoula is a really great town, freezing, sideways snow not withstanding.

Another mad dash through a pass. We drove from Missoula to Seattle in one day. Above is Snoqualmie pass, important only because it's where Twin Peaks was filled, or as we say in Jordan, Twin Beaks.

Seattle is a horrible city, and I curse that place. With the exception of P and K, who showed us a great time, I was ready to go. It was the low point of an otherwise great trip.

Then on to Portland, and another mad dash through snow.

Portland is a great city. M and J hosted us, and fed us well. Man, they make some good coffee there.

Did you say you wanted to read about another crazy race with the snow through an unsafe mountain pass? Well, wait no more, reader. We drove from Portland to Berkeley for our last day. We passed a sign on the highway nearing the CA border telling us we needed chains, and there would be a chain check ahead. I looked for a place to turn back, but not only was there no way to do so, but there was no chain check. So, on we headed up the grade that turned increasingly slushy. Onward little German car! That GTI is a beast. Here is the traffic headed up, as we head down:

Then finally to California!

Somehow, literally as we crossed the state line into California, the sun emerged for the first time in a few states. Above is Mount Shasta.

Back in San Diego:
K stocks up.

This is necessary in order to enjoy his stash from Shatilla in Deerborn. We think they put crack in the bird nests.

All in all, with the exception of Seattle, the trip was amazing, and I really enjoyed the chance to spend time with my mom. It was good for me to see the country. I'm too California-centric. Not that I feel too bad. It's 65 degrees here today on the coast. But, I am so glad we headed north and I saw something beyond the south west states.

Stone Mountain

2010-11-03T22:00:00.002+02:00

The day began at Ria's Bluebird in Atlanta. The waiters were wearing stickers with peaches on them that had sad faces, a reaction to the elections the waiter told me. Good food.

Then I went to Stone Mountain, about 10 miles from Atlanta. It's a beautiful monument to the south's strange relationship with its own history. The actual mountain of stone has the world's largest bas relief picturing Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee, and of course, Jefferson Davis. Should you require a gift, go knowing they accept money from the United States, even if Davis isn't on it. Above, you can make out the carving, and to the right is a big pile of snow.

The carving was funded by one of the United Daughters of the Confederacy and the KKK. It was so inspiring a place that the second coming of the KKK got off the ground there. According to Wikipedia, which is never wrong, a piece of granite from the mountain was sent to the people in charge of making a monument to Dr. Martin Luther King. Thankfully, that particular source of granite was declined.

It's fall, and the leaves were beautiful.

Now to the bridge. This was my favorite part of the park. I had this place to myself.

The park is beautiful, but it creeps me out to be in a place that openly celebrates such strange stuff. The cool waiter at RB told me that within the 85 in Atlanta, it's progressive, but anywhere else, I'm in The South. Strange.

Berkeley

2010-08-24T22:25:00.000+03:00

I'm back a little early, and not for reasons I thought I'd be back. Happy, nevertheless.

Berkeley is better than I remember it being.

Out of the Office

2010-03-28T20:49:00.001+03:00

(auto reply): I'll be away from this desk until September.

Jordan

2010-02-07T12:39:00.000+02:00

The snow is mostly gone, but it has left a crispness that’s really pleasant.

Last night M, A and I went to this café on Rainbow Street where we smoked and talked about the Economist, the law, 7adiths, and the crazy people that live in this building where we all stay. It was chill and very pleasant. Aside from the majnoon dude who is here right now, it’s nice to be reminded that generally the people who come through here are pretty cool. I’ve enjoyed meeting new folks, and I will miss them.

So, the crazy guy is pretty crazy, and not always in an entertaining way. Every day he has a new business deal, or a new lawsuit, or a new research project. He is a “business man,” a “lawyer,” and now a security expert. None of us can figure out how he does anything in Jordan when he does not have a mobile phone. He sleeps during the day, and sits up all night, and he rarely leaves the building. He’s also a talker, though this week we’ve noticed that he’s sitting at his own table during lunch and not speaking to us. It’s a down week, evidently.

I discovered this while I was looking around for information about the Jafra Café. It’s a great “tour” of the Balid. It features Hasham’s, the DVD place, and Jafra. What more would one need? Nothing, that’s the answer. I love the map, complete with commentary about the beverages at Wild Jordan. Perfect. S took me to Jafra the other day, and we sat there for hours having Nescafe and talking. I really enjoyed it.

I’m about to head out and go to Reem al-Bawadi with M. I’m reading his Master’s Thesis; he wanted a native English speaker to edit it before he turns it in. It’s about water sharing and the two state solution. Pretty heavy. I was telling S about it the other day over lunch, and she said what I think many of us have been thinking for a while now: the two state solution (no longer worthy of capitalization) is dead. It’s too late for it to work. She pointed out that as long as the TSS is still the “language of international politics and diplomacy,” America will continue to flog this dead dog. Truly a wretched plan at this point. So, I’m looking forward to good food, and talking politics with someone who grew up in Bethlehem.

Then, I have to pack. Then at 8, A will pick me up for lots of coffee, and then take me to the airport. I understand it’s good that I’m not flying into BWI, or anything around there because of the snow.

I have to sleep on all I’ve taken in here, and then I will be ready to write more about my time here. It was a great 3 weeks.

Thelj, 7adith, OCL

2010-02-05T12:47:00.001+02:00

Big clumpy wet gobs of snow are falling from the sky. There are more cars on the road than I predicted there would be.

Two nights ago my friends presented me with a book of 7adiths. 7adiths are points of fact that are based on things Mohammad said, but that are nevertheless outside of the Qur’an. 7adiths exist in various levels of “strength,” from True to Weak, and their rating is based on who recorded the 7adith in the first place. So, it’s a great honor to receive this book. I was asked to read from it, even though it’s in English. So I did. It was strange because people were arguing with me about the English translations of the Arabic Qur’anic sources. In this book, passages from the Qur’an are in both languages. I never imagined I’d find myself arguing with an Arabic speaker about what the word “Verily” means. Sheesh! I learned that it is 7aram, forbidden, to consume or to sell dates if they are under ripe. I think the one I liked the best dictated that a man must be paid for his labor “before his sweat is dry.”

These rules remind me of the things that one of the residents was telling me the other night over really delicious Yemeni food. (NB: near the north gate of JU, best Yemeni food ever.) A is a lawyer from NY with a particular interest in Islamic law. He shared a couple of examples of interesting things that happen within the confines of Islamic law. One example from Jordan involved a couple that wanted to marry. At the last minute someone came forward and claimed that as children, the two people in the couple had been nursed by the same woman. Under Islamic law, they are now blood relatives, and not eligible to marry, and they didn’t. The other example came from Egypt. In order to divorce in Islam, the man must say Talaq 3 times. So, one day this couple had a big fight, and he said Talaq one time. Several years later, another big fight, another Talaq. Several years later, again, another big fight, and the third Talaq. Their neighbor went to the police and reported an unmarried couple living together, and they were then obligated to live apart for one year before being permitted to remarry. Talk about nosy neighbors. A said that one additional problem is that there are different schools of thought about all of this. So, in the case of the Jordanian couple, it may have been possible for them to marry anyway because they had been nursed by the same woman for 5 days. One school of thought says that 3 days of this makes them related, another school of thought says 10 days are required. They consulted someone of the 3 day school. Bummer.

It has been interesting here. I have found my friends living lives even more wrapped up in Islam than ever before. Yet, I have found that they are finally willing to discuss politics. It really surprised me when they began to discuss Palestine, and refer to it as “my country,” or “our country.” When I asked why they were, as far as I could tell, suddenly interested in Palestine, most of them told me that last year’s Operation Cast Lead really drew their attention to how terrible things are in Palestine. Now, plenty of terrible things happened in Ghaza when I lived here, but they were then unwilling to discuss it with me. It seems the scale of killing and of suffering pushed them in ways I thought no longer possible to consider their national and political connection to the place.

I will quote at length from Amnesty International’s report on OCL:

“Some 1,400 Palestinians were killed in attacks by Israeli forces during Operation “Cast Lead” between 27 December 2008 and 18 January 2009. Some 5,000 were injured, many maimed for life. Hundreds of those killed were unarmed civilians, including some 300 children, more than 115 women and some 85 men over the age of 50. The figure is based on data collected by Amnesty International delegates in Gaza and on cases documented in detail by local NGOs and medical personnel in Gaza. According to Palestinian human rights NGOs two thirds of those killed were civilians. Amnesty International delegates who carried out research in Gaza in January-February 2009 did not have the time and resources to verify all the reported deaths, but investigated dozens of cases comprising more than 300 victims, more than half of them children and women, and gathered information from a wide range of sources. They concluded that an overall figure of some 1,400 fatalities is accurate and that, in addition to the children, women and men aged over 50, some 200 men aged less than 50 were unarmed civilians who took no part in the hostilities. In addition, some 240 police officers were killed in bombardment of police stations across the Gaza Strip in the first moments of Operation “Cast Lead” in the morning of 27 December 2008, including scores who were killed when the first Israeli air strikes targeted the police cadets’ graduation parade in the central police compound in Gaza City. Even though some of the policemen who were killed in these bombardments were also rank-and-file members of Hamas’ armed wing (in addition to being members of the police), many were not involved with armed groups and none were participating in hostilities when they were targeted and killed in the bombardments.”

For the record, I consider AI to be slightly pro-Israeli, so I read with particular interest how clearly they stated the magnitude of the crimes committed there. The Spring 2009 issue of the Journal of Palestine Studies has extensive coverage of OCL that is not only more detailed, but more complete than the AI report. Needless to say, the scale of killing is beyond my comprehension. Particularly distressing was the testimony from IDF snipers who were ordered to kill people who were obvious civilians under the pretense that all of Ghaza was a war zone, and hence all people outside are to be considered enemies. One IDF soldier detailed his experience with seeing an old woman outside. Having been given prior order to shoot everyone, he nevertheless called in to his CO and double checked, was told to shoot, did so, and is suffering the psychological effects of this sort of disproportionate warfare. All in all, OCL brought a level of violence not before seen in the Strip, an amazing fact given the level of misery that has been heaped on that place since the “disengagement” in 2005.

Now, while my friends here refer to OCL as “the thing” that has made them more amenable to talking politics, I’m not entirely convinced. I don’t think they are attempting to tell me a bold lie, by any means. But, I guess I wonder while all of this is going on just how ripe they already were for this transition into a more political view of their region. When I left in 2007 I felt certain that they were on the cusp of something, but I lamented that it was likely not political. I’m glad to see that I was wrong.

Still, their discussions of politics and nationalism seem tentative right now. They are finally willing to say that the occupation is abominable, and that they (even those who are citizens of Jordan) are entitled to legal/national rights as Palestinians. There is still a sense of gratitude that they live and raise their kids in Jordan; there is still a sense of sympathy for those who fight to live in Palestine as Arabs.

There is also a different tone to our discussions about Islam. For example, in discussing Palestine one night with a man, he began to tell me about a grammatical tense in Arabic that indicates which names are foreign (= non-Arab). He said that Mo7ammad is an Arab name, so when they read they pronounce it “Mo7ammadan,” with a tanween at the end. But, for names like Isma3l, or Ibraham, which are not Arab names, but “foreign” names, those do not take the tanween, according to him. I found it instructive that he answered my questions about politics with an example from his religion (that’s not new), and that this example made clear that Muslims have even a grammatical obligation to remember who is foreign and who is Arab. So, we’re still talking about Islam much of the time. But, we’re also talking about politics too, and now more often than not our discussions of Islam still highlight that they are Palestinians, Arabs, Muslims, and are thus entitled to live in Palestine.

Where will they go from here?

New Filling

2010-01-28T13:51:00.001+02:00

I got a new filling this afternoon. I noticed last month that an existing filling was discolored, and I began to overreact. I have no insurance in the States, but I knew I’d be in Jordan soon, so I decided I’d see if I could have it taken care of here.

So I called Dr. Bustani at 11 this morning. I met him in 2006 at a Friends of Archaeology trip to Salt. He personally got on the phone to make the appointment, and told me I could be there at noon. I figured I have to wait until next week, or worse, he’d never have time for an appointment, so I was so happy that I could show up an hour after calling. I walked into his office, and he introduced himself again, and asked me about trips with the FoA crowd, and we talked about archaeology in Jordan. Then he asked me what I needed, and I told him, and he looked at the filling, and agreed that it needed to be replaced. He gave me the shot to numb me, and then did the cleaning while we waited for that. He used this crazy thing that was loud and vibrated a lot, but the cleaning was done pretty quickly. Then, he drilled out the old filling, gave me a new white filling, and did a fluoride treatment. The whole thing took about 40 minutes, and the entire time he was talking with me, and making sure I was ok.

When it was done he gave me handouts in English that talked about all the procedures, and follow up care. Then, he asked me if I have insurance in the States, and I told him no. He asked, “Why do they do that to you?” Good question. The entire bill was 38 JD, or around 60 USD. The fluoride treatment was the most expensive thing at 16 JD.

This is my second time seeking medical treatment in Jordan, and I’m again really happy with my experience. I’m actually envious of the care available here. It’s the same standards as the care I can’t afford in the States, but here I can actually have a filling and cleaning done for about 40 USD. Dr. Bustani was nice, and helpful. I’m a big baby, and he was perfectly kind about all of it. I’m pleased with the work, and if my face wasn’t still half numb, I’d feel better. As with the first time I went to a doctor here, everything was done in English, so I didn’t have the additional nervousness of trying to get through all of it in Arabic.

It’s official: I’m a medical tourist.

East Amman: Now Further Away Than Ever

2010-01-25T16:08:00.000+02:00

I can’t decide if I’m still jet lagged, or if going and seeing one family in east 3mman last night (and returning home early this morning) is what caused me to wake up at the mid day prayer. My desire to quit coffee has officially failed. I had A LOT last night.

I’ve been here a few days, and until last night I’ve been around west 3mman. B, the director here, invited me to her lovely apartment for dinks a few nights ago. I showed up at 6:30 in my customary un-tucked t-shirt and wrinkled pants to find an apartment filled with 1) people much older than me; 2) much better dressed than me; and with 3) real jobs. B is as thoughtful as I am awkward, and that’s pretty thoughtful. She introduced me to several people and made sure I had a constantly filled glass of wine. I spoke with Jordanians and Europeans/Americans about my work, following the thoughtful prompting of B. Though these people have lived here for years, or for their entire lives, I get the impression I’ve seen much more of 3mman than they have. Every single person was shocked to hear that Urdustenees in the camps are very religious people. Many actually said, “What a shame,” a sentiment with which I’m inclined to agree, but only because I dislike religion, and not because I think that Palestinians “need to learn to do better.” In any event, it was a good reminder of how disconnected 3mman’s elites are from everyone else here.

Last night I was picked up at 8 to go have dinner with one family in one of the camps in east 3mman. First off, there are a lot of new babies to meet. So far everyone I’ve seen has at least one new kid, and one woman has had two in the last three years. My mother will be happy to know that I delivered her gift to A for his wife. He quit smoking just over a year ago, and went to 3mmrah last year (that’s going to Mecca when it’s not 7ajj time). They have a 5th child, a son. They are doing well, though I haven’t seen his family yet, just him. The family I went to visit last night, however, is not doing so well. There are more kids, and less to go around. The tone of our conversations seemed different to me. I’m not sure if it’s just that I’m not used to it anymore, or if we all really have changed.

Some things have stayed the same; they still dislike worldly stuff, and they still think I need to come to my senses. W, the lady of the house, asked me if I finished school, and I told her I did. She told me that I shouldn’t get too hung up on the accomplishment, because “these things are not what matters to God.” Then, not 10 minutes later when a neighbor came by to say Salaam, W went on and on about how a doktora is visiting them. So much for not important. I’ll just wait right over here for my graduation gift…

I found them to be even more religious than last we talked. I thought that wasn’t possible, but I stand corrected. They are focused more on Iran, and remain convinced that Iran has taken over Iraq. That’s not so far off the mark. I was surprised to learn that many of them have begun to interact more with the Iraqi Shia here, though. There seems to be a big push to convert them to Sunni Islam. According to my friends, this push is pretty successful, because, of course, Sunni Islam is the obvious truth, and it’s based on evidence. I guess I was surprised to hear them speak more openly about direct action, as opposed to talking about Islamic praxis and proof, which was the theme 3 years ago.

Also surprising, they were willing to talk about politics. This is big. This has never happened. Last night, though, they did it unprompted. That’s going to take some getting used to. Of course the Zionists are still responsible for everything terrible, but this time they were able to be much more specific instead of relying on the good old Middle East standard unit of information: The Rumor.

They like Obama, though I could not convince any of them that he is not Muslim. The good news for Obama is that despite his inaction, he has not yet pissed away the good will people here are extending to him.

I guess, in short, east 3mman has moved to the right, while west Amman has shut its eyes even tighter.

But, some good news. S took me to a cupcake place in 3bdoun. We went late, and they were out of everything. But, it’s wonderful to see such a great shop here. I hope I get to try one before I head back.

Some weird news. My phone number is only one number different from A’s. He told me that his oldest son asked about me, and 2 hours later I called him.

Hello, Jordan

2010-01-23T00:16:00.000+02:00

I just returned from a wonderful dinner with S, who graciously took me to Fakher al-Din. We shared about 700 appitezers, including the exploding chicken balls. Yum. It was really nice to talk about research and feel no sense of suspicion. Our work is different enough that she teaches me a lot, but it's similar enough that what she does really interests me, and I hope vice versa.

I've been away from here for almost 2 years, and I'm amazed at the changes to the landscape. First off, the amount of construction is incredible. There are a trillion new buildings, and the downtown redevelopment projects seem well underway, for better or worse. The only indication I see of the depressed economy are lots and lots of for sale signs in the windows of darkened apartments. I haven't talked in depth with any of my peeps from east 3mman, so stay tuned. I see that gasoline is very expensive, and I assume this hits taxi drivers pretty hard. Perhaps most weird, there are street signs everywhere! M.H. informed me that 3mman is being GISed, and thus the street signs are part of that undertaking. Still, it's striking to me.

Today I walked to the Suq as-Sultan, and was happy to see that my favorite bakery was open on a Friday. I purchased several of the z3tyr/jubna rolls that I love, and I've already consumed 3 of them. Tomorrow to the Balid, and then to begin seeing families here. I'm excited, and terrified. I know I won't sleep for the next 2 weeks, and right now while I'm jet lagged, I'm pretty protective of my rest. But, no more of that. There is no time.

Albany Bulb

2009-11-19T06:42:00.000+02:00

Today K dragged me out of the house and we explored the Albany Bulb, this blob of land that sticks out into the Bay. Here is the Golden Gate Bridge on a sunny day from the Bulb. It was perfectly warm (thanks global warming!), and we walked around the trails and met lots of happy dogs. We've been sick this week. I think K gave us the Hamthrax, but he seems to think that I brought it home (even though he was sick first).

This is looking back toward where we live. We live behind that Target store there, next to the freeway. Despite the location, this is a nice part of the world.

Somewhere toward the right you can see the bell tower at Cal. They just took the scafolding off of it this week. So you can sort of tell where we live in relation to Cal. It's 2.6 miles.

This is looking at the Bay Bridge. You can see the new east span next to the existing bridge that will be torn down in the next 4 years. Or, it may just fall over before then, as it has been attempting to do since we moved here. If you squint and look at Treasure Island, you can see the new S-curve, where a temporary road joins the new and old spans. This was installed a few months back, and is the current source of accidents as sleepy drivers forget that they now have to swerve as they enter the tunnel toward the west span. Even though the old bridge is a death trap, I think it has much more charm than the new bridge. But, the new east span will have a seperate bike path.

Not Bay area related, but this is the best crossiant I've ever made. Looket the layering! I made this before K made us sick.

Some Free Advice

2009-09-16T00:39:00.004+03:00

As I was finishing my dissertation this past June, a book arrived in the mail at the last minute. Published in 1993, this collection of articles details various ways that increasingly religious states organize and remake themselves. One in particular about Afghanistan jumped out at me, because author Oliver Roy argues in the second paragraph that the 1989 Mujahidin victory over the Russians represented “…the first liberation war won by a movement which proclaims Islam, not nationalism or socialism, as its goal” (491). My dissertation is about Palestinians who have become increasingly religious in the last few years. In doing so they downplay the importance and legitimacy of the state while lifting up their own crappy status as refugees. Initially I saw this social project as anti-political, but quickly I realized that what actually happens on the ground is much more complicated. I argue in the dissertation that the religious being represents a threat (at least in Jordan) because his allegiance is unclear. Does he honor God or King? He may pursue a political path to a more rewarding religious life, or he may use religion to boost his social status for political ends. Religion can be a social means to a political end, and the indirect path to political action or aspiration makes each religious person less legible to the state. So when I read Roy’s article it really hit me that what we’re watching in the Middle East right now is substantially different that many post-1948 conflicts there in one substantial way: strife focuses less and less on political goals like repelling the Orientalist state, and more and more on constructing a religious identity.

I argue in my dissertation that, very broadly, there are two strands of Islamism. The first I call 1948-Islamism, and by this I mean a religious/political response to a political confrontation such as the Nakba, 1967, 1973, 1990, or 2006. These are conflicts in which the opponents are more or less easy to define, typically the West/Zionists versus Sunni Arabs, and the conflicts are pretty political. The second strand I call Afghanistan-Islamization, or 1989-Islamization, by which I refer to conflicts that accelerate the desire of fundamentalist Sunni groups to establish a religious state not just because religion can occasionally repel outsiders, but because theocracy is simply the end goal.

Roy points out that Afghanistan has a long history of jihad (I use this word in its true sense: Struggle. I don’t mean this as hysterical American’s use it), but this was always linked to the political aims of the state. Muslim resistance to the communist government, as we all know, prompted the Russians to send in troops in 1978. The rest is history. 1978 was not the first time that Muslims took over a country, but previously those resistance movements were linked with a political ideology (i.e. Algeria). Further, as Roy reminds us, “purely Muslim upheavals” always failed as forms of governance in the past. As much as the rank and file may be enamored with resistance movements in the throws of politics, it’s not too long before they become agitated because no one is around to pick up the garbage. Governments do have to carry out some small forms of governance, after all. Despite this history of failure, Afghans successfully thwarted the Russians in a pure religious resistance movement. I think we have seriously underestimated how much this fuelled the rise of a strand of conservative Islam that ultimately birthed the Taliban. I also think there is little coincidence of timing in the post-1978 changes in this part of Asia: The Islamic Revolution in Iran soon followed, Pakistan adopted more strict and religious laws, and on and on.

Of course nothing is totally divorced from politics. Between 1978 and 1989, both Saudi Arabia and Iran, Sunni and Shia’ states respectively, became increasingly interested in preventing competing versions of Islam from seeping into their states. Both Iran and Saudi wished to secure the interests of their particular religious worldview in order to erect a buffer against possible foreign penetration, and to further their aspirations for an Islamic state of their own. Both countries interfered in Afghanistan by funding Islamic organizations that held like values. Not until the defeat of the Russians seemed eminent did these organizations begin seriously to question what the final aims of the revolution needed to be. While the Saudis pushed not so much for revolution as for a renewal of their conservative religious values, the Iranians pushed directly for an Islamic revolution, an experiment they had not yet tried. The Afghanistan Sunni camp, increasingly disenchanted with Saudi interpretations of the religion, turned away. The Saudis lost their first ideological battle with Iran. More directly: The Sunnis lost their first war with the Shia’.

I know, I know, the Sunni and Shia’ have been at each other's throats since the Thabi’un (first generation of post-Mohammad Islamic folks) were in business. Yes, I know, Ali, Hussein, all that stuff. But this is different to me than the post-Mohammad struggles in Islam that resulted in the strand of those who follow Ali and the Umayyads. Those battles took place before globalization existed. Those battles occurred before George Bush called America’s efforts against “Islamic Terrorism” a “Crusade,” thus resulting in a bajillion young previously secular Arab men dedicating their lives to Salafi Islam. All of that happened before man perfected the ability to kill millions of people quite easily. Those battles revolved around how to be a Muslim. They did not focus on repelling or defeating a completely alien enemy from halfway around the world. Nevertheless, the ideological (not to mention actual) feuds between the Sunni and Shia’ still provide ample friction for the two strands, and that has survived quite well into today. Thus, we have tension and indirect conflict between Saudi and Iran in Afghanistan. Young Muslims in both countries may have felt like the weight of some serious-ass history was at work in that political struggle in the 70s and 80s, and they were right.

Now we have two Sunni fundamentalist groups competing to be the most crazy: The Taliban and al-Qaeda. Analysts often refer to these groups as “radical,” a label I reject. They are conservative. They wish to “restore” those around them to the glory days of the Shahaba (the companions who lived with the Prophet Mohammad). There is nothing radical, to me, about seeking a 7th century utopia. Here, for my money, is the big difference between the two groups. The Taliban emerged from a post-Soviet Afghanistan, perhaps in response to Mujahidin corruption. As I read their goals, they seek a pure Islamic state, and could care less about articulating their religious demands to earthly politics. Al-Qaeda, on the other hand, has an Islamic rhetoric, but remains an elitist and political organization. The Taliban seek Islam for the sake of Islam, while al-Qaeda uses Islam to seek their political objectives. In other words, the Taliban represent the next step in 1978-Islamization while al-Qaeda represents the same for 1948-Islamization. Here, in my opinion, is the So What to all of this: The Taliban’s religious objectives are not something that secular governments can do anything with; al-Qaeda has fairly secular objectives (albeit cloaked in a religious discourse), secular governments can actually understand their demands. The Taliban seeks to propagate a Shahaba-style world, how can one engage with this? Al-Qaeda wants to curb American imperialism. By transmitting this political message in religious terms they recruit followers who may not understand the political implications of a U.S. military presence in Arab countries as well as they understand “infidels” in “Muslim lands.” To be sure, neither OBL nor az-Zawahiri have any religious credentials. In contrast, Mohammed Omar, an Arabic-speaking Afghani, is the “Commander of the Faithful,” and allegedly has a background studying Islam and later teaching it at a madrasa in Quetta. Thus the name of his organization, “Taliban,” is named for the “Students” who first joined him to form the organization after the Soviets left town. Mohammed Omar and OBL have enough in common that the former apparently sheltered the latter, but they likely differ quite a bit about how to implement an extraordinarily narrow conception of the Sunnah (the teaching of the Prophet). In other words, it’s worth asking why these groups haven’t joined forces and become one big group. I think the answer is because they actually have very different goals, and the Taliban’s should alarm us more than al-Qaeda’s.

Al-Qaeda will not remain in the hands of OBL and Zawahiri forever, and we should ask what a new al-Q might look like. Given that the Salafists have done a smashingly good job of adopting technology such as Facebook and using these things to spread their message and recruit new folks, it’s a good guess that many of those just now coming into the fold are young. That’s also a good guess because thus far that seems the case, and because the population in the M.E. is really young anyway. These are kids born well after 1978, let alone 1948. Jarret Brachman just wrote a piece in Foreign Policy arguing that what’s to come may be much worse than what we’re currently witnessing. Like me, he believes that al-Q is an elitist organization, meaning that a great deal of information is guarded by a few rather than dispersed in order to empower the masses. However, a younger devotee named Abu Yahya (Yahya = John the Baptist, bil 3rabee) has positioned himself to become the likely inheritor of al-Q in the future. Contrary to OBL and Zawahiri, he aims to reach out to young folks and dazzle them with his apparently engaging personality. As Brachman writes, “…Abu Yahya offers the global al Qaeda movement everything that its old guard cannot.” So what? Glad you asked.

To return to my insightful, but crappily written dissertation, I argue that because the aims of al-Qaeda are political we have something to talk about. This, again, is in opposition to the Taliban whose views and aims are so ethereal as to be, well, irrelevant to this world. How can one reason with men who spend time arguing that ants are made of glass? So, when Brachman points out that in the not too distant future we may find ourselves clashing with an al-Qaeda that acts more like a crazy religious fundamentalist organization (i.e. the Taliban, or the American X-tain Right) than like al-Q, that’s the kind of shit that should keep you up at night.

In 2006 Brachman co-authored a report for the Combating Terrorism Center (CTC) in which the authors point out, “…there has been a shift in intellectual influence from laymen in Egypt (like Sayyid Qutb) to formally trained clerics from Palestine (often living in Jordan) and Saudi Arabia. While it is unclear if this correlates with new developments in Jihadi theory, it certainly indicates a trend toward shoring up that theory with religious credentials.” I'll skip ahead for you: Yes, it is a new development; Islamism of this form transitioned from a group to an international movement. They indict Palestinian-born Jordanian al-Maqdisi as the single most significant living “Jihadi.” Al-Q's interest in Sayyid Qutb (an Egyptian), al-Maqdisi (an Urdustenee), and now Abu Yahya (a Libyan) all indicate just how viral and transnational this movement has become. In 1964 Qutb, the grandfather of this line of thinking, wrote: “The establishing of the dominion of God on earth, the abolishing of the dominion of man, the taking away of sovereignty from the usurper to revert it to God, and the bringing about of the enforcement of the Divine Law (Shari’ah) and the abolition of man-made laws cannot be achieved only through preaching” (58). Well, then, down with the Jahiliyyah (those who live in ignorance of god’s wisdom). Point is, whatever OBL envisioned, it seems that the movement and message behind al-Q has transformed the organization into something that young, un/underemployed folks in the Muslim world can grasp. What oppressed Arab actually embraces despotic rule?

And here’s a difficult question for Americans: Why shouldn’t young unemployed, often educated men in the Muslim world find the message of resistance alluring? I don’t ask this to offer support to al-Q, but to ask, Holy crap, what else have they got? Over my fieldwork in Jordan I watched young men with literally nothing to loose become more and more and more and more religious. I couldn’t blame them, though they frequently irritated me with their neverending focus on the minutiae of religion. They were young, refugees, most educated, politically aware, multi-lingual, and unemployed. They had a choice: live as shat-upon refugees in Jordan, or become Salafists and watch their social status soar in a day. Surprisingly little knowledge of Islam and the Qur’an allowed them to henna their beards and patronize their too-secular parents, wives, and me. Given their status in Jordan, I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t engage in something that allowed them to rule over their lives even just a little. Men bragged in front of me about taking additional wives, and one even lied to his friends about a mosque supporting his family so he could study. (His parents paid his rent upon monthly threat of having their granddaughter turned out onto the street.) As much as they irritated me, I’ll admit that if I were any of them, I’d do the same thing. This particular path, the religious path, seemingly allows the trampled to be something much better: a moral man. That those I interviewed expressed admiration for al-Q (though a strong and universal dislike for their violence, I’ll add) this social movement does not indicate, I argue, anything more than the appreciation of an opportunity to be something other than a marginal person for most who follow. All of the people in my dissertation were as secular as I am before 2003. All of them.

While Brachman is right, I think, about the dangerous transition of al-Q into something more Taliban-like, I think we should stop a moment and ask Why people are enamored with this stuff. Sure, they really are god-fearing folks. But that actually has been corrupted by people like OBL in order to mobilize political action, including violence. When America continues to fight Islamic violence, we are often actually fighting the impoverished. Not always, of course. Plenty of ridiculous people exist, but I think even more reasonable people than that exist. Want to stem the violence? Give them jobs. (Same is true in America for Americans, I’d bet.) We have to act quickly before al-Qaeda reinvents itself as a movement unwilling to make political (earthy) demands.

Rose Garden, Cont.

2009-08-29T07:25:00.000+03:00

I took a few pictures today while it's sunny here:

And from Sonoma County:

"Libalism is a mental disorder"

Berkeley

2009-08-28T00:08:00.002+03:00

We've been here 3 weeks today. Wow.

Here is K at Boalt Hall, where he is currently chained to a desk. That's actually not an indirect John Yoo joke, it's just the policy for first-years. We biked over there last weekend (see bike in picture for proof) and K almost died.

Now on to Yoo. On the first day of school last week about 100 protesters came to Boalt to let the school know that Yoo should be fired. They actually went into the building and disrupted his classes. Several were arrested. The local NPR station had pretty good coverage of it; the Dean was on for several interviews. Subsequent to this, the sign below showed up in the window, and the Deal sent an email explaining that though he personally thinks Yoo sucks, Yoo cannot be fired unless first convicted of a crime.

Today I biked over to Cal for another protest. I missed getting a picture of a man in a black hood and black gown thing with "CAL" on his chest. I watched several people attempt to hand out leafeletts with information while students ignored them. It was like being in the 909, seriuosly. K defends the students. He says that there are so many people handing out so much shit that people just shut down while walking through there. Perhaps, but still, how can you miss these folks?

K doesn't know this, but there can be a life in Berkeley outside of Boalt. Please refrain from informing him of this, though. I've been biking, and found this place after quite a climb:

The Berkeley Rose Garden was some sort of WPA project or something. It opened in 1937 (give or take). We live across the street from the Bay, and this place is up in the hills, and boasts a view worthy of the bike ride up there.

Among the fog, and you'll have to trust me here, is a Bay. It's the glimmery thing there in the middle. They have fog here! I can't get over it. I saw that it's 108 in Rivercity today, and the usual smog is made more awful with the fire smoke funnelled in to the valley. Yeah, it's going to hit 79 up here today. I actually put the sun shade in my car window this morning. It's just awful. OK, but the rose garden:

Yesterday I picked up K and we drove across the bridge to pick up S who is visiting her sisters and working on her tenure letter. We went to the Monk's Kettle and had good local food with beer that make K happy. It was a great and too-short visit. S is headed to Jordan in October, and I wish her a safe and productive trip.

The Heat is on: An I.E. Retrospective

2009-08-23T06:51:00.002+03:00

Yes, we turned on the heater today. In August. It all started when we moved to Berkeley 2 weeks ago for K to attend more school. By noon it was 66 degrees in our small apartment in Family Student Housing, and we turned on the heater. It has been so weird trying to get used to living on the coast after years of living in the stinking desert.

So, let me now post pictures and thoughts about the Inland Empire, or as we remember it: The 909.

This is Highway 18 approaching the turn off to Crestline. You can see the smog that rolls in daily from L.A. We drove down into that 5 days a week to go to school to gets smarter and stuff. Some mornings K and I would look down at that from our mile elevation and he would note: "They could all be dead down there." Still, we drove on.

The San Bernardino valley:

Here is were K and I met in 1998:

This had to be both the best job I ever had, and the worst. It was great, because crazy people worked there. I've never worked with such a group of characters before or since. I was hesitant to leave San Diego and move to San Bernardino County for a job that I figured early on likely would not work out. But I found that Redlands was actually a nice town, and I really liked all those I worked with at the SBCM. Where else can one spend time with people like Jim and Star, or Steve, or Seth, or Julie, and of course Barbara ("Stupid man!")? I even learned some stuff. I found a bobbin lace group there on Wendesdays and learned about all sorts of hobbies I didn't know I needed. Even when the work stopped K and I ended up back in the IE so I could go to grad school. We spent 9 months in San Diego before moving back.

Here is Mr. J's Donuts:

Home of the frosting-filled donut [!], my husband mistook this for food for many, many years. Ahhh, youth.

The Blues:

K found this an acceptable place from where to procure jeans to wear to work. He alledges that one day before work, the ass blew out of a pair he was wearing. He likely finished his cheese fries, and then claimed to walk in there in his assless jeans and calmly buy another pair. He further alledges the staff was nonpulssed.

A pizza place with acceptable beer:

I like this picture because we spotted an SUV with a "NOTW" sticker on the back. What are the odds of that!?!

OK, now one that matters to me:

I first had Cuca's at the Museum. I was working in the lab, and it was a rainy day. Quintin offered to go and pick up food for everyone. When asked what I wanted I told them I didn't really care for Mexican food. True at the time, they gasped. Seriously. In unison. Barbara told me that I was eating their food, and I would like it. I protested, and finally Tina and Barbara simply paid for my food and ordered me a BRC (Bean, Rice and Cheese burrito). Green sauce on the side. "I don't like that either," I told Barbara. Again, she forced the issue. I capitualted, and my life was changed on that day. In all seriousness, and I type this with as much love for Cuca's as embaressment at my life choices, I chose the grad school I did in large part because it was close to Cuca's. Don't even tell me there are other considerations when choosing a Ph.D. program, cause' that's not true. I miss this place so much. Don't get me wrong. Berkeley has great food. In fact, today we went to a great place with a hard-to-remember name (behind the Peet's on 4th? Anyone?), but it was no Cucu's. It was healthy, and gourmet, and really good. But, Cuca's! Here's how it works. I go up to order my BRC and iced tea. I pay (in 1999) 1.83. They call my number, and I ask for green sauce. First, Maria with the barely-there eyebrows tells me that I should have ordered the green burito. I appoligize profussely, and ask for green sauce. She informs me they are out. I can see it on the shelf behind her. I ask her to fill some containers with the sauce right behind her. She rolls her eyes, and gives me green sauce and an iced tea with a fly in it. Oh fuck, I love this place! Even the worst Cuca's burrito and the occasionally horrid service still pale in comparison to the sweet ambrosia they roll into a tortilla. I fricken' went to Cuca's on my wedding day! I have for years now just called in my order as I'm on the way, and K kindly goes and pays and dishes out beat-down for the green. I had my last Cuca's burrito over 2 weeks ago now, and as I held the last bite in my hand I sighed. Finishing that food signaled that things were about the change.

Joe Greensleeves:

We had dinner there the night we were married. A bit less than a year ago K and I spent several evenings going through a big jar of change and rolled it. We had well over 100 bucks. We went to JG and had a great meal and paid for it with our decade of change. It was like eating for free.

Before I lived a small BART ride from Britex, this place supplied me with much of my fabric diet. One day I went there with Star to look at potential 1880s dress fabric. At one point, he was feeling a particular fabric, and told me, "I just love the cottons in this store." Again, I ask, when am I ever going to work with such crazy people???

A view from the Valley up to where we lived:

From Loma Linda looking right up to our hood.

Our favorite Indian food:

We had dinner there with Barbara for our last meal there. Where the waiters have beautiful eyebrows, and they have 2 televisions either playing Indian music videos, or When Animals Attack (seriously). I will miss them.

Lake Arrowhead:

The local and mostly acceptable Mexican place which K always called "Papa-gay-ooos." One waitress told K he looks like a priest in South America somewhere who was kicked out of the church for having multiple wives.

Here is the view from my house in the fall:

I will also miss the dogwoods.

A view toward the front of my house:

Early this summer a mama bear and her cub came to spread trash all over our parking deck. Seth and Julie were minutes away from arriving for dinner. The two bears found stuff to eat, and hurried up the hill right before S and J arrived.

What I will not miss:

Rivercyde on a pretty day:

Here's the thing about the 909, and the thing is: It's hard to live there. The place is hostile in myriad ways. Many of the residents are Jebus-loving asshats. Many of the SUV-driving war hawks that shared my commute on the 18 really, really, REALLY, didn't know how to drive on a curvey mountain road, and typically went 10-30 miles under the speed limit on the 18. Once on a residential street where the speed limit was 15, they went 30. What manly men. They are generally racist and hostile toward all the brown people, and often attempt to link the migrant workers (whom they hire) to terrorists. Seriously. It's smoggy. It's hot all the time. When K and I lived in Rivercyde I walked to school from the above parking lot on 23 December 2002. I called him and asked him to come an pick me up because it was so hot I didn't want to walk back without water. It was, I learned that day, 100 degrees. What kind of X-mas is that?!? Racist, hot, smoggy, and really conservative. And, that's why I'm glad I lived there. It was so awful that it made me a better person. Every day was such a challenge that I realized early on that I was either going to die, or deal. I think I died a little, but mostly I learned that I can live any where, and even learn to appreciate it. I actually miss it. I have no desire to live there again, but I will always have some place in my heart for the 909.

There is something about a place this hostile that somehow shapes people into interesting and even neat people, like those at the Museum. People like that can't live in Berkeley. It's easy to go on here without trying much. It was probably not even 70 degrees, and it's beautiful, and everything tastes good, and the people are nice. What kind of character building can come from this? But the 909, well. People used to shout at us, or try to ram us with their large American cars if we attempted to back out of a parking space after picking up our mail. Stop for a pedestrian? Only if you hate America, by god. Bike? Please. That's for sissies. The 909, where they picked up our trash on MLK Day even though it's a holiday. Where they stole my trashcan and BBQ. Either you give in and turn into to one of them, or you rise above it and become the kind of person everyone wants to spend time with. The 909 made me into a person who now realizes that friendship can form the better part of a coping strategy. I value that, and I valued my time there. Once culture is sucked out of a place, as it is there, individuals create it for themselves. My most creative years so far were spent there.

And there are good people there too. I realized in the winter of 07/08 when I went for a walk up my snow covered street that it's not as white there as it feels. I have brown neighbors. I have mixed-race lesbian neighbors! How cool is that? My hope for the 909 is that when the loonies start to argue that the migrants are smuggling dirty bombs, my neighbors speak up and say No, they are people just like all of us.

Your Call is Important to me

2009-07-06T04:40:00.005+03:00

I am done. After seven years my parking permit has expired, and I don’t need a new one. I’ve turned in my keys. I have no office. There are no more forms for them to sign. There are no more forms for me to sign. It has got me to thinking about the things I’ve learned here in the last seven years. Graduate school didn’t teach me much of what I thought it would. This process has taught me far more than I expected. In part my mistake was assuming that I’d learn a lot of facts. I knew going in that I’d have to learn a language, and read a lot of theory. But I never quite understood going in how much I would learn about how people think, and why we do what we do. I both value this knowledge and understand it’s the exact kind of knowledge that people easily disregard as fluffy or too subjective.

More recently I’ve been thinking about the paradox of this knowledge. There is something about this degree that makes people want to
1. Quiz me in hopes of catching me in a mistake; look, I just don’t know what year the Spanish American war ended. Deal.
2. Criticize my major choice and/or my university choice,
3. Accuse me of being self-indulgent to the point of embarrassing myself, and
4. Reassure me I’ll never find work, and I’d die in the poor house

The paradox is that people work diligently to undermine what I’ve done, and yet seem intimidated by what I’ve done. Which is it? I had no idea how isolating this would become. In part this is isolating because the further I delve into my topic the more I know and the less others still have interest or knowledge to talk with me. And in part this is isolating because people just don’t see me as the same person for some reason. Directly or indirectly, I have lost all but two of the friends I had when I began this. It has been pretty painful to learn who among those I care for is willing to discuss directly my perceived “lavish lifestyle,” and admonish me to “live in the adult world and get a job.” I must have missed the Lavish part of this. I taught for five years here for 1500 bucks a month. Teaching douche bags here has never seemed lavish nor well-paying, but I assure you it has often felt like tedious labor. What really irritates me is that if I told people I was having a baby, people would express happiness and well wishes, and likely never once point out what a self-indulgent thing that is, or caution me that raising a child will likely cost a million dollars or more. Lavish? Self-indulgent?

I expected I’d enjoy the same emotional support I received as an undergraduate, and the opposite has turned out to be the case. It has been very difficult to hear people I care about say really stupid things to me about what choices I am making. Few people have congratulated me. Almost all those I speak with have asked me if I’m going to actually get a job, or if I’m ready to live like an adult. Wow, I would never say such things to those who have said stupid things to me.

And yet, I wouldn’t change a thing. I love what I’m doing, and I expect this is the biggest reason people are willing to say crappy stuff to me. I no longer feel remorse over lost friends because I’ve met some wonderful and encouraging people along the way. I would do anything for those folks I could, as they already have for me. I have an amazing committee, and I’m astounded at what they have helped me to learn. They are generous, funny, and kind. When I finished my dissertation defense they had a meeting, and then came in and hugged me and congratulated me, and had a bottle of vodka for me. I really am hard pressed to imagine what more I could ask for. I wouldn’t change a thing.

I also really underestimated how much I would learn about myself throughout this. I remember at the end of my Masters talking with a student one year ahead of me. She’d done all I had in addition to teaching. I could not at the time fathom doing as much plus teaching three classes. She said, “You’ll be amazed at what you can do.” I’ll never forget that. And I am amazed. I don’t know a lot of facts, but I’m good at explaining why people do what they do, and I can put that on paper and go to two conferences, and write a zillion seminar papers, and teach three classes, and grade 75 crappy essays, and still have time to knit and watch DVDs with K.

As this time comes to a close, I’ve been reflecting on what I’ve learned in the past seven years.
1. Who my real friends are
2. I can live well in a place I dislike
3. I’m pretty good at “learning on the way”
4. I can live on one cup of coffee a day
5. I can live on 20 cups of coffee a day
6. How to weave
7. I’m a good teacher
8. Though I’m still terrified of public speaking, most people don’t realize this when I’m speaking in public
9. I can teach a class even if I’ve done none of the assigned reading
10. Graduate students generally have only two ways of responding to questions in seminars: “I thought this part was interesting because…” or, “No, I didn’t like this article because I didn’t see how it fits with my project.”
11. Upper division, undergraduate classes are a million times more educational than a graduate seminar
12. I can shop at Whole Foods even on my salary
13. Graduate students have a lot of time, despite what they claim
14. The library is actually a phone booth
15. I can read a book a day and retain information that interests me
16. Intelligence is no requirement for finishing a Ph.D., but focus is
17. That ordinary people aren’t stupid at all (despite how they tried to convince me of this when I worked in retail in a past life)
18. People are inherently good
19. My decisions are now on trial
20. There is no greater threat to human rights than religion
21. People will believe what they want to
22. Anderson was right: “Whatever you can imagine, people do that; whatever you can’t begin to imagine, people do that too.”
23. Business majors cheat more than any other major. Then, they lie in their feeble attempts to extract themselves from their own homemade shit storm
24. Business majors resent learning more than any other major
25. The social sciences are much harder than the natural sciences because they require critical thought, not just memorization
26. I can reinvent myself in my 3rd year of graduate school and still finish on time (so there!)
27. People with Ph.D.s can still be nice and down to earth
28. Melville knew everything

I Can't Escape From Charlie Sheen

2009-03-29T07:41:00.003+03:00

Here we are in Santa Cruz, and we were sitting at a brewery having samples of beer when Two and a Half Men shows up on the TV!

Macaron (a day late)

2009-03-22T07:01:00.000+02:00

Happy Macaron Day

2009-03-21T04:36:00.000+02:00

Effin' Snow

2009-02-13T07:02:00.001+02:00

I gave K a snow shovel for Valentine's Day.Up to the window! Seriously, no one should have to move so much frozen stuff. I'm filled with fear as I look out the window. More on the way.

Shoot

2009-02-07T00:12:00.000+02:00

We missed it. We sat in traffic for 4.25 hours yesterday. Stoopid rain.

5 Weeks to go

2009-01-29T22:16:00.003+02:00

Until I have to turn the beast in.

So, here's what I've been doing:

First bread made in the basket-thingie. It turned out better than I figured it would.

Cheese and egg. Ummmm.

First laminated dough:

They uncurled and turned into weird triangles...

Second laminated dough. One chocolate, one roasted bell pepper, cheese, pesto and black sesame seeds.

Different shape, still second dough:

Drinking and dominoes:

Jasmine tea macaron. First made from my new favorite book "Macaron," by the big guy.

Lots of dishes too.

You will not be missed

2009-01-20T21:01:00.000+02:00

Tecate Beer

2008-12-27T07:22:00.004+02:00

Today Kareem and France's mom, and Frances went to Tecate, Mexico. It was awsome. I drove the mom-mobile there, and we went on the 3 o'clock Tecate Brewery tour. Amazing...

So, um, the 3 o'clock tour began around 3:10. First we were given tickets for "free beers" which we mostly consumed on the lunai while speculating about the "SouBeerNear' sign attached to the building housing the restrooms. Then at around 15:15 we went into a theater where we watched a movie about the good deeds the brewery does, and how "green" they are. As best as I understood the movie, which was in Spanish, they use the run-off water from watering their lawn to brew the beer, thus making the product "green," as it were. Then we watched a safety film which informed us that we should not wear rings on the tour (?). Then we lined up for headphones. Kareem was in front, and the young man behind the counter did not give him headphones, but instead gave him a hard hat and told him, "You'll need to wear this. Exit that way." We walked to the right, and lined up.

The tour began, and we walked up a million stairs. At the multi-lingual sign explaining how beer is made I heard a tour guide speaking American, and I hung back with mom and Kareem. The tour guide didn't mind us listening in, but he wanted to know why mom and I didn't have hard hats. Apparently only the round-eyes had to have them. None of the Spanish speakers with head phones had to wear them! How fucking cool is that? Only the Americans had to wear special helmets! Wow! New Tour Guide (NTG) called for someone to bring two hard hats for me and ma, and we proceeded.

NTG informed us that Tecate brewery used to sponsor a bike race, but they stopped because people were showing up to drink, and then would not race. We saw the first kettle (made of copper) built in 1947. We learned that all the grain (all two pounds!!!) is imported by train from Wisconsin. We learned that all the brewing equipment is from Germany. And we learned that they brew every day of the year because they brew so effing much that they can't shut down, or people might riot. Oh yeah, in the into video we also learned that 4 out of every 10 Cokes are consumed in Mexico, if I understood (which is unlikely). Sweet Jebus!

We were hustled through. I was reminded that Americans walk very slowly. It was much safer than the Laugnitas Tour in which they gave K about 18 pints of beer, and then sent us out onto the floor while the bottling line was up and running. Wow. At Tecate, everything was behind glass, and we were told to walk inside the lines! They only gave 2 beers, but then it was free and so much fun.

While watching the incomprehensible video my mom pointed out to me that David Foster Wallace would have loved the entire experience.

It was a fun day.

Carmela Soprano

2008-12-25T03:34:00.002+02:00

I've decided to shop here from now on.

Kanafa Life-Cycle

2008-12-09T06:55:00.000+02:00

Oh dang, I miss that stuff.

Election Day

2008-11-04T20:08:00.001+02:00

There comes a time when people get tired of being pushed out of the glittering sunlight of life's July and left standing in the piercing chill of an Alpine November.

-MLK

American Foreign Policy

2008-10-29T21:58:00.001+03:00

Student Papers

2008-10-18T23:08:00.001+03:00

"Freud hated birthdays because he was only getting older, and was going to die."

Disappointment

2008-09-21T07:27:00.001+03:00

Years ago, say when I was in my mid-twenties, a good long-time friend sat across from me at breakfast acting particularly melancholy. We were camping east of San Diego, lots of good friends were there, and I couldn’t make out his mood. I asked him what was wrong, and he asked me if I’d ever been disappointed by someone I look up to. Not just a little, but profoundly and suddenly made aware of just how human our hero’s are. “Not really,” I told him. He had come to realize that a man he looked up to, a man who in many good ways replaced his father, was kind of a dunce. I think he told me there are two general issues here. One is that our expectations for those we esteem may be unreasonable, and we have control over this. The other issue is that we’d like to think that because we admire someone, that person is actually worthy of our esteem. Bestowal of esteem signifies that we have good judgment, and that another person is worthy of our good opinion. So, when a person lets us down it’s doubly crushing because it reflects an error in our judgment. To say the least.

Depending on your perspective I was either sheltered enough, or lucky enough that I didn’t really understand why my friend pushed his breakfast around the plate instead of eating it that morning until I was 32 years old. And when that finally did happen it was shocking, for it was a person I least expected. I learned that a person I’ve liked and whose company I have always found enjoyable, and whose intellectual accomplishments and wit I’ve always looked up to deserved much less of my esteem for the latter capability when he sent me an idiotic and patronizing email filled with emotional pleas and befuddled reasoning that was quite directed at trying to take me down a notch or ten. I felt foolish as I read it the first of two times because I really did think it was a joke. When at the end of the email he invoked the recent death of a close family friend as proof that I’m an asshole I realized it was not in humor at all. I reread the screed and found myself aghast that I’d ever considered him intellectually formidable, and then I did feel like an asshole for thinking that. I never expected anything like that from him, and it really shook me up. I was living in Jordan then, and this person sent an article about Islam that I took issue with. I went through the arguments bit by bit and dismantled them quite in the style that he does with regularity. When he responded to my screed about political Islam by invoking a recently killed friend in Iraq, I felt myself drifting out into a space I’ve never been in before. Now more than a year later I still think back to his response and wonder, what the fuck was that all about? The obvious answer is that he was in no mood to read something from a smug graduate student about the war which I directly argued is without justification just days after learning of A’s death. But, then, I wonder, why invite speculation on the causes of Middle East conflict in the first place? Why ask a question you’re not prepared to have answered? My argument was based on facts, history, precedent, and fieldwork. His response was based on emotion, and it was a tantrum. We have not communicated directly since then, though we are family. When several of us got together a few weeks ago for a vacation, he said little to me, not even asking me how my fieldwork went, or how my dissertation is. That’s ok. I don’t need anyone to be my cheerleader. The only thing he said to my husband was: “Hi K, still full of shit?” And that’s it. How did I get to be the asshole here?

Having had plenty of time to analyze that incident, I was still unprepared for the next installment from his younger brother. Let me describe what happened. We watched Fox News (why?). I complained about having to be exposed to O’Rilley when my shots are not up to date, and he told me to get a grip because this is the conservative opinion, and when O’Rilley is over we will have the liberal side. In no way do I consider “Take a look at this video of an SUV crashing into a 7/11 in Denton Texas,” to be news. Then, Giuliani started his speech, and my relative was sitting near us. I expressed fatigue at the bullshit, and he accused K and I of being too partisan and indirectly accused us of being naïve because “They all do this.” Having listened to his pronouncements on politics for years, I figured all of us in this family yell at the TV, and that’s just how we roll. Then that idiot Giuliani began to justify the term “Islamic Terrorism,” and by this time my uncle had moved away from K and I. I said, “This is so offensive, it’s Ramadan!” at which point my uncle stood up and said, “Oh come on! Those people came over here and killed 3500 Americans, so fuck your politics and fuck you!” Within that sentence he stood up, pointed his finger at us, and slammed the door behind himself, leaving his wife to say hasty good-byes and run after her ride home.

Now is the moment where I believe I take a different bus than my female relatives. Now having had two conservative uncles direct completely inappropriate tantrums at me, my aunts quickly began to engage in all sorts of verbal calculus thus making the incident either “no big deal,” or, “something expected, after all we were all drinking.” Here is what his different aunts told me:
“Well, we’d all had too much to drink, and I wasn’t exactly proud of my behavior…”
“We do that… Politics and beer don’t mix, we just have to remember that.”
“No politics tonight! [said the next night]”
“We should call them tomorrow and make peace.”
“You can’t get mad at everyone for everything. Where would we be if we didn’t forgive people? We’d have no friends.”
I am really at a loss here. When this happened in 2006, I was too far from the others to be exposed to the ways in which the women accommodate this behavior. But this time I saw it, and I like that less than being told to fuck off. Again, at the moment he pointed his finger at us, I thought he was joking, and then “…Fuck You!” and a slamming door. The next night I sat at a different table for dinner, and did not say good-bye at the end of our time together.

I need to return to my friend from the beginning of this. I learned from him that our perceptions of others are in large part our own responsibility. Like it or not, if I look up to a jerk that’s not a good plan, and that is my fault. A different long-term friend, who no longer is, taught me a valuable lesson at a terrible time in my life. Living in Jordan, and in no need of grief from home, she served up a boatload of torment to me at a time when I least needed it. What I realized, and I do thank her for this lesson, is that being friends with a jack-ass is stupid. Let me be more subtle in my analysis. She often asked of me things she should not have. Not smart enough to be friends with people who would never ask for so much at such a difficult time, I paid a price for my own lack of judgment. The lesson? Payback for being friends with a person who is too needy, or too selfish, or who is reliably ungrateful, or snotty, or whatever is obvious! I got what I deserved because I failed to responsibly pick people to be around me. Learning this lesson at that time in my life turned out to be really good for me, because my time in Jordan also pushed me to be both firm in my beliefs, and to derive my value from myself. Like I said, I need no one to be my cheerleader. I came back from Jordan with a conviction in myself, and a conviction in my intellect. Now months away from my PhD, I actually do know a lot about the Middle East, and about politics, and about humans in general. I know my history, I’ve read the critical social theory, I read a dozen news sources in English and Arabic every single day, then I go and read the Jordanian blogs to find out what’s really happening, I lived there, I’m a published author; I am not merely a passive political speculator.

Now add my education and the concomitant hubris to my area of specialization (the Middle East!), and I have something to say about political Islam and about the War. And, my opinions are based on good research and experience. I can defend Salafi Islam until the end of time, and yet I’m an atheist and really, fundamentally don’t get the religious experience. I think this culminates in a person who is really knowledgeable and yet emotionally detached. I can go on and on, and I am right, and yet my ego isn’t anchored to this stuff. I love my dissertation, and I love what I do in school, but this is not all of who I am.

And so when I sit with dear family members who unknowingly (or directly) patronize me by trying to explain something about the M.E. to me, I sit and take it because I’m a nice person. But since my fieldwork experience, this is very hard, and perhaps well-meaning people don’t fully understand that I am doing them a favor by not bursting out and asking them if they are a fucking idiot or what. I am nice enough that when people ask me if I have a real job yet, or why I want to avoid life by hiding in school, or grossly underestimate (misunderestimate?) how much my fieldwork took out of me, I smile and give an answer that moves the conversation along instead of telling them what I want to. And this pushed me closer to that dilemma I understand so keenly about surrounding myself with people who deserve my company, and avoiding people who suck life out of me. I know very well that we must pick our fights, but I also know that we must pick well or be trampled, but I sometimes don’t know when is which. For example, regarding often-made statements about my fieldwork:
“[bold statement not even touched by knowledge]”
Me: “Oh yeah, just like 'summer camp,' everyone sits around making SMOREs.”
Most of the time, it’s not worth potentially embarrassing the person I’m speaking with to correct them. Do I speak up every time? Never? When I can’t take it anymore? Now I’m older, and more educated, and I’m in this weird social place in which I know, dare I say, a lot more than many people I look up to. The thing is, they seem to only know that I look up to them, and they didn’t get the memo about how I’m almost done with school and all that stuff. So when Giuliani makes inflammatory statements that I know are worthy of ridicule, I will say so when among family. But this turned out to be too much, and I ended up at the business end of an F-bomb.

That’s easy for me to process, having had practice with his brother a year earlier. There is no excuse for talking to me like that. Man-up and address me with facts and an actual argument, or STFU. Don’t act like a jerk, and then never bring it up again.

Here is the really sticky part for me: what the heck is going on with the women in this family? Their diligent work to provide a continual open space for the men to act like bullies is stunning to me. Who decided that we are not accountable for our behavior? I certainly know I am! Perhaps that’s another good thing about being in graduate school. I am responsible not only for every single thing I do, as a teacher, as a student, as a writer, but I am responsible for everything I think. I am surrounded by people who make a living asking me to justify what I think. They continually amaze me by pushing me further and further, well beyond what I’d imagined possible. So it seems odd to me when people are permitted to talk with out backing up anything they say. I currently don’t live in that world and have not for several years. I’d also like to think that I’m improving my skills at deconstructing arguments too. And that comes at a cost that I am willing to pay, I just should not be asked to pay it.

Dinosaur

2008-08-26T07:46:00.001+03:00

Why I don't hate poor people

2008-07-16T20:16:00.004+03:00

In coming to my understanding of poverty, that is How people descend into poverty, and What keeps them there, I inevitably move back and forth between different scales of inquiry: the collective and the individual. I think it’s important to point out that at various points in our arguments we tend to focus on one of those to the exclusion of the other because it supports our point. Thus, we make conclusions that can seem perfectly logical when applied to a group, but may be in error when applied to an individual and vice versa. I also point this out because I tend to focus on the individual, and of course those who oppose me will lament that my anecdotal evidence cannot be used to make conclusions about a group. I would reply: So what? For one thing, as a cultural anthropologist I understand that Logic is not often well-applied to human because we often act illogically either because we are innately illogical, or more likely because structural circumstances compel us to act against our own interested (i.e. poor people voting Republican). As an alternative, I’m interested in discussing what I call Cultural Logic, and this is a model that acknowledges that structure does exist, it is compelling, it often defies “logic,” humans are complex, and humans are more or less smart. Cultural Logic allows me to focus on both the individual experience (by way of understanding and beginning to explain collective beliefs and actions) and translate that to an understanding of a group. Is this imperfect? Of course, but to exclude individual experiences so we may with one gesture sum up a collective and declare something about all of them leads us not only to the same logic fallacies that anecdotal evidence can, but also excuses an awful lot of discrimination that should never be excused, let alone ignored and indulged.

Let me share with you some vignettes of people I’ve met recently. What I hope you gain from spending time with these people is that Poverty is a complex process that embodies issues of habitus, socialization, racism, sexism, and of course money.

Vignette 1:
S is almost 60 years old. She is raising her 3 granddaughters, and has been for just over a decade. Her daughter, the mother of the 3 children, lived with S until one day she announced that she was taking S’s car to go get some cigarettes. She never returned, and S over the next week began to realize that she was now the only caregiver for 3 minor children. In addition to the emotional impact of this (at the very least S had her car stolen, she had NO idea what happened to her daughter, she was not emotionally prepared for such a dramatic and abrupt transition), S is a widow; her husband was killed in the Viet Nam war. S had a reasonable job as a bureaucrat, and as a single woman lived an economically comfortable but not cushy life.

In the following weeks S began to realize there would be problems with her job. She had 3 kids under the age of 10 in her house, and no babysitter, and could not afford day care for 3. She began using her sick time and vacation pay so she could stay home with the kids. I’ll skip to the end here and tell you that in a matter of months S had used her savings, and all her vacation pay and was fired from her job because she had become “undependable” to her employer. Why “undependable”? Let’s be clear, it’s not because she had babies out of wedlock, not because she was on drugs and wanted to sit around high all day, not because she was lazy. She was fired because she had to make a choice between working and caring for kids, one of whom was a toddler at the time. Anyone of us would (or should, at least) choose family over work in a situation like this. This seems to me the only moral choice. S attempted to enroll for government services, but found that while she could get coverage, the 3 kids could not. They were not her legal children, and she did not have legal guardianship of them; they were still her daughter’s kids after all. So, using her check for 560 dollars a month, S and her 3 grandkids tried to live month to month while S tried to adjust to her new life as a mom. Over the last decade S’s health has become increasingly compromised. Now, she is legally blind, has arthritis that requires pain medication she cannot afford, and high blood pressure. She told me that when all of this began years ago the government did not understand the complexities of grandparents raising grandkids. Now she, simply because of passage of time, has legal guardianship of her grandkids, and now they receive just over 800 dollars a month (this is in 2008) from the government.

S told me that when her oldest granddaughter began ditching school the state began deducting money from her monthly check. She said, “They want to make the kids go to school, and some parents are so irresponsible that the only way to make sure they act like adults is to take their money, so when kids miss school, it costs a lot.” S called the school and explained what the situation was, and asked what could be done. She cannot afford to lose any money. But the school representatives explained that because S was not at that time the legal guardian, they could not talk to her. Yet, they have the authority to deduct money from S’s monthly check because the kids are registered at this particular address. What a great loophole! To review: S can’t legally be allowed to address the attendance of her granddaughter because she was not at that time the legal parent, but she is still financially responsible for her granddaughter’s attendance. Thinking on her feet, S demanded some form of redress, and was told that she could attend “parenting classes” a couple of nights a week at one of the district high schools. The classes begin at 8 at night. S, who was blind by this time, responded that she couldn’t do that because none of her neighbors were available to travel with her on the bus, something she needed because she was adjusting to her recent blindness, and because by this time they had moved to an unsafe neighborhood where she could afford the rent. She continued to have money deducted from her monthly check until her oldest granddaughter stopped ditching classes.

For over a decade S has lived in poverty. She was, by her own account, plunged into poverty by a situation that was not of her making. She is not in poverty because she failed to boot-strap herself into a more promising position; she is in poverty because she made a responsible choice when her daughter failed to. I know S because she is a student of mine. Through all of this, she is going to school, and her oldest granddaughter will start college this summer. S had to miss class one day because she had to submit her Section 8 paperwork by a certain date, and did not have the 3.20 in postage she needed. Her bus pass is paid for, so she took the only option she had which was to miss class and go to the office and turn in her paperwork. That is a choice I cannot imagine making, and this has little to do with S being lazy or me being hardworking.

Vignette 2:
C is in her 40s, and her health is failing. She is in a wheelchair, has diabetes, hypertension, carpel tunnel, and just about everything else too. Her husband of many decades is also suffering from failing health. Both are on disability, and have been for almost 20 years. C was a nurse before her health began to fail. C is a white woman who married a black man before that was socially permissible (if it even is). She and her husband lived in Watts after they were first married. She told me that they were often pulled over by the cops. They would pull her husband out of the car, search him, and ask her if she was ok. She would ask them what they were doing to her husband, and the often-surprised police officer would respond with confusion, telling C that he assumed she was being kidnapped or raped. C and “the brother,” as she calls him, have 3 kids. One is a lesbian. C, a devout Christian, told me that she has come to understand after years of facing racism that “Mixed families are mixed families are just mixed families, and that’s all! We all make relationships that are meaningful to us, and often most others won’t understand.” Though initially uncomfortable with her daughters declaration that she is gay, C told me that her daughter told C that she was not going to hear anything negative from her mom who had chosen a marriage that few approved of back then. C, wiser than most of us, realized her daughter was right, and they all eat Christmas dinner together now.

C and her husband, because of their terrible health (I can attest to this personally) have been receiving social security benefits for 2 decades now. C’s wheelchair, for example, was paid for by the state. A few years ago C’s oldest daughter got a job at Wal-Mart. Her daughter was a senior in high school, and she wanted to have some spending money and to pay for her prom expenses. The money was not going to come from C, as it is she and a neighbor are sharing diabetes medication because the two neighbors cannot afford the full and proper doses. C’s daughter made 8000 dollars in one year, and quit at the end of her last year of high school. Not long after this C got a letter from the government informing her that because 8000 dollars of income came into that home, she would need to repay the government, and they began to garnish her check. C and her husband gave up all of their medications; their health further declined. C told me recently that after years the government was finally taking the last bit of money out of her check. She said, “They are taking the last payment, and it’s normally 100 dollars, but there’s just 20 dollars left.” I said, “That’s great, just 20 bucks!” She looked at me like I’d said it in Arabic, and then I realized that she doesn’t have 20 bucks, she certainly didn’t have 100 bucks. She was lamenting the 20 dollars, not telling me she’s glad it’s only 20. I felt like such an ass. C told me that the government wants to be paid back for all they have given C and The Brother. If, for example, they wanted to buy a house, they would first need to pay back all the benefits. Same if they wanted to start a business. In other words, it’s actually impossible (in fact, it ends up being illegal) for them to crawl out of this.

Now, I don’t know the legal ins and outs of this. Perhaps all of this is perfectly avoidable for C, but neither she nor I is aware of how this could be avoidable. What I realize about people like C and S is that they are quite smart, and they are more than willing to work. But they are tired. They are too tired to explore the various legal ways they might avoid being penalized for being poor.

Said a different way, it is expensive to be poor. Because people have to share medication (!!!) they become increasingly sick, and can work less, and so on. Because people don’t know how to shelter their assets from liability they lose what little they have, and for some it’s not a big fall into the kinds of poverty from which they cannot extract themselves. The big point here is that some of us are closer to catastrophe than others, and whatever margin there may be is not always a direct correlation to how hard we’ve worked. In fact, I’d go as far as saying that most of the time that margin is more easily explained if we turn to the structural barriers that prevent class mobility for most, instead of turning to the degree to which we work or boot-strap ourselves.

More on structural barriers:
There are 2 books out now worth reading. For the record, they are both copyrighted for 2008. The first is called “A Crime So Monstrous: Face-to-Face with Modern-Day Slavery.”
Author E. Benjamin Skinner tracks slavery all over the world, including the land of the free: the U.S. Using data gathered from fieldwork, from the U.N. and the United States, Skinner gives us some shocking things to contemplate:
1. More slaves are imported into the United States each year than during all of the time combined that slavery was legal.
2. A child in Haiti can be purchased for 50 USD. During the time of legal slavery in the States, a slave cost between 40,000 and 60,000 (adjusted for inflation), thus indicating an appalling devaluation of human life in the last century.
Let us be clear about what slavery means in this context. “Slavery” refers to the practice of depriving a person of his/her rights to his/her sexuality, to earn a wage in exchange for selling labor, to determine one’s course in life (i.e. to attend school, get married, have kids, take vacations), and to remain free from violence. I suspect few of us would argue too much about this definition, but when we apply it to, say, a poor person in the U.S., people can become pissed-off, not to say self-conscious. Let’s look at S. She has been denied the ability to determine her financial future, as the State has stepped in to garnish her wages while still telling her that she has no rights, or limited rights, to contest this on legal grounds. She wrote in a paper that, “I haven’t been out to dinner in 15 years. And dating? Forget it! Who wants to date a woman in her 60s with 3 young kids?” Her sexuality is denied because raising kids must take precedence. Now, is she being legally denied these rights? No. Is anyone standing at her door and preventing single men from talking to her? Of course not! But, here we meet the important distinction between legality and social reality. While nothing is legally preventing S from dating, or working, it’s just not that simple. And while slavery is no longer legal, we see that it happens more than ever. In fact, I’d argue because something is not legal, that merely makes it harder to detect, yet no less prevalent.

Book 2:
Douglas Blackmon (who is a white mon) looks at what he calls Neo-slavery, that is, the ways in which African Americans have been compelled into servitude even after the Emancipation Proclamation. The Books is “Slavery by Another Name: The Re-Enslavement of Black People in America from the Civil War to World War II”

Why he stops at the second World War, I don’t know, as I see this as an on-going issue. Typically the ways this is carried out is by compelling blacks into the prison system. The prison industry, a complex of large corporations driven by profit, lobby successfully to target specific populations by making specific activities illegal and punishable by longer sentences than others. For example, targeting specific drugs (instead of all of them equally) that have higher use rates by non-whites for longer sentences. Interestingly, Blackmon argues (backing his argument up with actual data for all you positivists our there!) that prisons are not even good for the communities they operate in; they in fact do not contribute significantly to the tax base, or by providing jobs. In other words, crimes that target blacks and keep them in the prison system only benefit the corporate prisons, not even the poor whites that work in the prisons benefit in the long run.

Another person I met recently has been in and out of the prison system, and I see for him that serving his time (which he did) is not enough. He will be tied to this system and will be financially responsible for his own abuse. Yesterday he told me about the group home where he is required to live. He said, “They call themselves Christians, and then they send me out to work for them. I have to go up to the desert and dig ditches while some 16 year-old tells me I’m a nigger! What is that now?” Some day I have to post about his story. He has shown me that prison is most definitely for punishment and not rehabilitation.

My point here is that race and class become pretty tangled up, and giving an issue such as Poverty simple treatment certainly ignores the real constraints on people, and more importantly it enforces racism and sexism and all those other isms. I have been alive long enough to understand that ignoring something ends up being the same as condoning something.

In class a few weeks ago I was playing devil’s advocate, and I argued that a crime is a crime, and no one is holding a gun to someone’s head and making him or her steal something. One student responded [rightly] that any one of us would steal if we needed to do so to feed our kids, she went on to point out that this is simply what it comes down to for too many families even in SoCal. Sure, a crime is a crime, but what is the harm in asking What compels people to behave as they do? In other words, is there a cultural logic that explains why the poor behave as they do? There is. And by ignoring it and making simple claims (or Hasty Generalizations for you fans of logic fallacies) that these people got themselves into this, and we should not feel compelled to address the bad decisions that others make is not just off the mark. It is cruel.

There are lazy people everywhere, and there are certainly assholes everywhere. My concern, turning to the collective from the individual, is that we seem to have lost (if we ever had) a sense of collective concern. In my archaeologist days I learned about Reciprocity. PJW once said in class “Reciprocity is the single most important reason we are all still here. It’s gotten us through millions of years together because people either all lived together or died together.” Now we have this bizarre hard-on for the rugged individual, and to heck with the others. Why would we abandon a strategy that is time-tested and that we know from literally millions of years of prehistory actually works? What is it we fear or loathe so much about occasionally helping someone else? I ask these as rhetorical questions, for I have answered them for myself. I direct these questions at those who actually manage to ask with a straight face: “Why should I help these suckers who got into mortgages they can’t afford? I’ve worked hard for my money!”

I’ve also worked hard for my degree. But, turning to structures that prop up instead of push down, I understand that in addition to my hard work I have benefited from White Privilege. “What a bunch of psycho-babble,” you charge? Well, Peggy McIntosh provides us with a check-list of everyday, taken for granted things we should ask ourselves before dismissing this. Here are a select few from a list that spans almost half a dozen pages:
1. If I should need to move, I can be pretty sure of renting or purchasing housing in an area which I can afford and in which I want to live.
2. When I am told about our national heritage or about “civilization,” I am shown that people of my color made it what it is.
3. I can be sure that my children will be given curricular materials that testify to the existence of their race.
4. Whether I use checks, credit cards or cash, I can count on my skin color not to work against the appearance of financial reliability.
5. I can be pretty sure that my children’s teachers and employers will tolerate them if they fit school and workplace norms; my chief worries about them do not concern other’s attitudes toward their race.
6. I can swear, or dress in second hand clothes, or not answer letters, without having people attribute these choices to the bad morals, the poverty or the illiteracy of my race.
7. I can speak in public to a powerful male group without putting my race on trial.
8. I can do well in a challenging situation without being called a credit to my race.
9. I can remain oblivious of the language and customs of persons of color who constitute the world’s majority without feeling in my culture any penalty for such oblivion.
10. I can criticize our government and talk about how much I fear its politics and behavior without being seen as a cultural outsider.
11. I can be pretty sure that if I ask to talk to the “person in charge”, I will be facing a person of my race.
12. If a traffic cop pulls me over or if the IRS audits my tax return, I can be sure I haven’t been singled out because of my race.
13. I can easily buy posters, post-cards, picture books, greeting cards, dolls, toys and children’s magazines featuring people of my race.
14. and on and on.

Of course it isn’t illegal to make most toys look white, and it isn’t illegal to pull someone over for speeding. At interest here to me are the ways in which we deviate from what we say we do as a society and what we actually do. Truly, only the oblivious walk around thinking that just because we all get to drink from the same fountain, and sit at the same lunch counter that prejudice is no longer a problem, and that the civil rights and women’s rights movement have equalized everyone, and so those who don’t succeed are losers.

Let me also be clear here that the examples I have given are not intended to prove my point, only to illustrate it. Suffice to say that it is clear to me that there are many barriers that work well at keeping large segments of this population in peril, and sometimes those barriers are subtle and social, and sometimes they are direct and legal.

The other day C reminded me that “You [middle-class folks] don’t have to see what it’s [poverty] like for us,” and she is right. I’m just now beginning to realize that all the talk of a weak economy is simply irrelevant to people like her. What has changed for her in the last 2 years? Not much. She takes the bus, so gas costs don’t hurt her. She has had marginal access to the medications she needs. It’s not like she’s fussing over smaller returns on her investments. I, on the other hand, am feeling the pinch. I can’t sell my house right now, my insurance company just informed me that they won’t renew my policy because we live in a “fire hazard area,” and the gas prices are killing us. It seems to me the economy is in a crisis to the extent that people like me are feeling more and more marginal. But what about people like C who have felt this for decades? Why is that not a crisis to us? There is no logic, to me, in defining something as a crisis when just a few of us at the top feel threatened.

Freedom

2008-06-03T04:54:00.000+03:00

Freedom isn't free, but it is discounted this weekend.

I’m from Seattle

2008-05-20T06:21:00.005+03:00

Years ago (or maybe it was just a few months ago…) I worked at Starbucks. Though I worked in SoCal it didn’t take long before we noticed this funny habit some customers had. Once in a while someone would come in and order the most ridiculous drink we’d ever heard of. Figuring that the customer just had no idea what s/he was ordering, we would suggest what we thought they might have meant. “Oh, did you want the whatever? That’s similar [but not nearly as nasty or stupid],” to which the customer would reply: “I’m from Seattle.” Initially I had no idea what the heck this had to do with ordering a stupid drink, but over time I came to understand it was a short hand intended to tell me that they knew good and well what they were ordering because they are from the birthplace of Starbucks, and therefore had a much more in-depth history with espresso drinks than my little brain could possibly understand. It became a joke among those of us who worked there. If a co-worker demanded an explanation for something, we could opt out completely by just saying, “I’m from Seattle!” In essence, history becomes authority and excuses the speaker from needing to explain anything.

Now, the version of this that dominates my life is “Look, I’m Palestinian.”

This year at school I’ve noticed a lot more muhajabees than we’ve ever had in this conservative part of California. Over the winter I went for coffee and stood in line with a woman who had the worst 7ijab I’ve ever seen. No stranger myself to wearing one, I giggled when I saw her (and mentally apologized to her). She had a too-small scarf placed around her head, and a big plastic comb (like a big plastic lobster claw) stuck to the top of her head barely keeping the thing on. She looked not only self-conscious, but like she just decided that day over her lunch hour to begin wearing the 7ijab and looked around her office and made due with what she had on hand. I know the look of a woman who is not used to wearing that, I’ve seen it in my own eyes.

Coincidently I’m sitting in on a class on the Qur’an. Not coincidently, many of these young women and their male counterparts are also in the class. I figured this would present an interesting opportunity for me to get an explanation about why there are so many more women wearing the 7ijab now. The professor, a Sunni Muslim from Indonesia (who speaks and writes Arabic really, really well), initially made a good go at keeping the class secular and focused. But as the weeks have passed, the class has also become a platform by which the Muslim students can have affirmed for themselves that, Yes, they do know the Truth, and do practice the True Religion. Each class is full of great ethnographic moments.

Let me share with you some vignettes:

Vignette 1, from guest speaker Dr. E:
“Islam is a religion of peace. In order to understand your religion you have to step back and suspend some of your own beliefs so that you can challenge yourself. If you can do this you will see, through study, that Islam is the Right Path. Those who challenge the existence of God are literalists, and we can’t talk to them, they have no ability to understand… Political ideologies are based on rejection; religious ideologies are based on peace.”

Notes I took:
“[N.B. some dumb white girl brought a dog to class! She brought a dog to class!] All the Muslims students are nodding emphatically. Dr. E seems to be arguing that facts are necessary, but only to a very limited point…”

Later I was looking over some of my field notes. This day in class was not the first time I was told that I needed to suspend some of my beliefs to understand the peaceful message of Islam. I was intrigued though out my fieldwork with the ways in which the message was homogenized. Here is an excerpt from an interview I conducted with a self-defined Salafi Palestinian in February 2007.
“Islam is not a religion of violence! It is a religion of peace. You know when we talk about Jesus, we know he is a prophet, and we have to say ‘Peace be upon him’! We respect the People of the Book [Muslims, Jews, Christians]… Islam is a challenge from God, and if we don’t study we will not understand what Allah wants us to live as. It takes knowledge, and we must study. We have to sit outside of ourselves and try to understand the message. We can’t do it if we don’t study and talk with each other! If, y3anee, if you don’t try and learn you will never hear the Truth.”

The key here is that Islam is not easy to understand, it takes work and skill. So, if we think we understand Islam, then we may congratulate ourselves for also being good students. Props come from working to understand the challenge of religious knowledge. Smart people are Muslims.

Vignette 2, from the lecture about sexuality in the Qur’an:
Notes I took from the lecture:
“The Q reformed, but did not replace the existent patriarchic Arab system.
Miriam is the only female mentioned in the Q.
(Q 4:11) Sons get twice as much inheritance as daughters.
7adiths are more specific about sexuality and family than the Q.
Nikah: marriage is done between a groom and a female’s guardian.
No more limitless marriages, the Q limits a man to 4 wives.
(Q 2:223) ‘…go into your fields whenever you want…’”
Prof A: “This is the verse in the Q that some interpret to mean that men can do what they want to their wives, but through 7adiths and convention [?] we know this does not condone violence or rape against women.”
Student: “Well, why is violence against women prevalent in Arab culture?”
A.H. [female, muhajabee, Palestinian]: “Can I say something? It isn’t, you know? There are governments that are corrupt, or what ever, but, like, that doesn’t happen that much. You know? I mean, it [domestic violence] happens here [in the States] too, you know?”
Student: “I’m not saying anything against your culture, but I feel like it happens more in Muslim culture, but I don’t know really.”
Prof A: “Ok, any other questions? Or can we move on?”
Student: “Do women get 4 husbands?”
Student 2 [Saudi-born Palestinian male]: “Oh, I’d like to answer that one. [giggles] No way, man. And, the reasons are many. First of all, it’s important to know who the father [of potential children] is, and, I mean, if she’s with different men there are no way to know. Also, it’s for her health.”
Me: “What?!?”
S2: “Yeah, you know.”
Me: “[yes, I do know you pervert] No, I don’t know. Explain it to me.”
S2: “You know, she can’t satisfy that many men, you know what I mean?”
This degenerated into a discussion about my vaginal health. I found this nothing but offensive. Said S2, quite exasperated with me: “Look, all I know is that it’s from God, and that’s all I need to know, ok?”
In the interest of disclosure, I find the obsessive focus on women’s sexuality quite offensive. In a subsequent discussion about rape and patriarchy several of the muhajabee students defended the Saudi legal decision a few months ago that punished a female victim of rape more harshly than her rapists. I will say in their defense that the female students had a fundamental misunderstanding of the facts of the case (making them good Americans), and had a version of it that implicated the Saudi woman more than she should have been. When I expressed horror at their ease at publicly defending rape, they deployed their best defense: I don’t understand the religion, and I’m probably racist any way. Plus I’ve never been to the Middle East [interesting what they assume about me], so how could I understand the culture?

Vignette 3, in which we watched the first 40 minutes of Paradise Now:
[We watched up until the two Palestinians make their martyr videos.]
A.H. (you remember her from above): “You guys, I just want to say that you all need to go there, because that totally looked like Filisteen [unaware that it was Nablus], and that’s totally what it’s like there [violence].”
Non-Arab Student: “How come, do you guys think, they go for the weak people like that? I mean, that sucks that they recruit people like that. I guess they have nothing to loose, it is an occupation, but it seems like a terrible thing that these men are left with that.”
S2 (from above): “You have to understand it IS an occupation, and this is what they have to fight with. I’m not saying it’s ok to go and do that, but those guys, what do they have? They were, like, mechanics, or whatever. You know?”
A.H.: “Ok, you guys, I just want to say that I’m Palestinian, and that’s just what it’s like for our people, you know?”
Another student: “No!”
Sunni-Iraqi male student: “It’s no different that how a certain country that will not be named works. You know, within that country they give cash and bonuses to people if they agree to join the army and go to war, and this is the same thing [alluding to the scene in which a man assures the two Palestinians that their family will be safe and compensated?].”
A.H.: “Wow, I never thought of it like that.”
S2: “I’m Palestinian too, and it’s true, you guys, you don’t know what it’s like there.”

They’re from Seattle:
I realized that the reason I think there are so many more students who wear 7ijab or are willing to grow beards is because they are done apologizing for Islam, and they are going to be Muslims, or Iraqis or Palestinians damn it! What I like about the reactions from the Muslim students is that they, simply by being Arab (all Palestinians save one Iraqi and one Egyptian) own the authority to speak about these issues. There is one Arab female in the class who is Coptic, and yet even she came to class a few weeks ago wearing a Muslim Student Union shirt. [Incidentally, the same students who wear the MSU shirts alternate days with their Students for Justice in Palestine shirts, and that’s why I’m using Muslim and Palestinian practically interchangeably.] And, on one hand I’m so glad about this. It’s about time Arabs/Muslims feel free to live here and that they don’t have to go around day after day giving the ajnabees the “Islam is a religion of peace… We wept on 9/11 too” speech. I like that, as we saw in the first vignette, they create what I call a Cognitive Community; they are a religious group of people who have to be smart enough to know that they have the best group in town. And, it’s about time they feel free to turn to me in class and call any of us out if they think we’re racist, or we don’t understand Islam. I think more changed while I was away last year than I realized at first, and for the most part it’s better.

On the other hand, it’s too easy to look at me and declare that “You don’t understand our religion, and I think you’re racist.” What am I supposed to say to that? No, I’m not? Instead of trying to understand what I’m arguing, I’m written off; I’m shut down because I’m not Palestinian. And just as I used to make fucked up drinks for Seattleites, I just nod and take furious ethnographic notes in this class. I worry that the boldness these students have today will quickly fade if it’s not refined into something more sophisticated than “you guys, I’m Palestinian, and it’s totally like that there.”

On May 15th, the 60th anniversary of the Nakba, people were supposed to blog about Palestinians. All I could think of that day was how pissed off I was at that 19 year old Palestinian dude in my class who thinks his penis is tougher than my vagina. I didn’t want to blog about that, though I did consider it at first. And while I am glad that more people feel daring enough to assert their Arab-ness, I’m also frustrated. A.H. is going to see American Idol this week, but I don’t understand her religion?

Spring

2008-05-14T23:28:00.002+03:00

Remember this from February?

Now it looks like this:

Dogwoods are neat.

I am "Asian"

2008-05-06T03:29:00.003+03:00

I just had the most surreal exchange with a student I've had all year. I think.

Echoing the dilemma of many of my students in this class, a particular student came to me before turning in his first written assignment. He told me that English is his second language, and he hoped, as this is not an English class, that I would not deduct too much from his grade for grammar errors and the like. I told him that I would correct those, but the grade, per the rubric provided to me, called for grading based on ability to read, synthesize and say something coherent about the material. As I did not know the name of the student I did not read his with any less fuss over quality than the others. About a week after posting grades on the class website, I received an email from M. He wrote,

I think you don't understand me. I told you already that I have problems with English, and you degrade me with this grade. I am "Asian."

I didn't respond to the email, as I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say. He didn't seem to request assurance, as these emails often do indirectly. I read this more as a rebuke.

Today after class, he waited around as he usually does. He had his corrected paper on his laptop, and he said, "Look at all of this? What is the point of all of this?" He said I lied to him because I "promised" him I would not lower his grade over ESL issues. Having graded this three weeks ago, I asked him to scroll to the end of the document so I could read my comments. I thought this might help me explain my grade. At the same time, I was unclear what the purpose of our discussion was at this point. Here are the comments I wrote at the end of his paper:

You need MUCH MORE specific information from MORE of the readings. When you discuss an idea from an author you must cite it. Your single example from lecture is given no context. You have discussed only one reading and given no citations at all.

He received an F on the essay. The assignment was to summarize three weeks worth of readings and tie those to at least one of the concepts presented in lecture. In addition to ESL errors, there was an utter failure to do what was assigned. Here is one paragraph from the essay:

MLK, philosopher Kant and Confucius have all mentioned about ethical ideas of “don't use other as a mean to an end”, “Treat others as you’d like other treat you.” under these statements, the leaders and advocates of rational system are unethical because they are promoting the idea of treating the bottom level workers as animals or machine parts to an end – profit maximization. Who’d like to be treated as an animal or a piece of number for other people’s profit? Last but not least, standardized bureaucracy and scientific management is a waste of resource.

He has a nugget of an idea here: bureaucracy, and the institutions that oppress us with this form of rule, are not humanistic. But, that's as far as he gets; the "becauses" are missing here. "...standardized bureaucracy and scientific management is a waste of resources[s]" BECAUSE, blah, blah, blah. Who needs to attend the U of C to find out that bureaucracy is oppressive and unresponsive? None of us. There is no meaningful So What here. Further, "MLK, Kant and Confucius" were not on the reading list. There are actual quotes from one reading for which he provided no citation. Because the essay was full of vague generalizations, and devoid of the required content, I gave it a 0. And while I did correct ESL issues, I didn't deduct anything from his grade for that, and this is reflected in my comments. I thought.

M was not having any of this. I explained what my comments meant, and told him again that while I corrected his errors, I did not grade down for them. "Well, why is my grade a 0?" Repeating for the third time to him what I've written above here, he responded to me, "I want to switch to a different teacher. I hear that A grades easier, and I want to go to her class if that's ok with you both. This is just degrading to me. I am not here to learn, I'm her for the degree, and I don't have time for all of this, and I don't like this."

This is the first time in 5 years of teaching that a student has directly rebuked me for insisting that he "think" instead of produce receipts. I asked him to explain his hostility to learning, and he said, "The American system of education is not about learning, it is about self-interest, and I am paying, and I just want the paper. In business [M's major] we don't need to write. I mean, if I write something, I don't need to put in who said it. I just need to be able to do business. I am not an English major, and I'm not a Sociology major, and I am just here pursuing my self-interest like you do in this country." He went on and gave an anecdotal example of one incompetent teacher here, and concluded that none of us are qualified to teach him, and even if we are he doesn't care. "I just want the paper."

I told him that if he doesn't give a shit about learning to communicate, I certainly don't either.

I am tempted to put his entire essay up here so you can see for yourself how one can produce three pages of text that say absolutely nothing. But, I suspect enough of you know what I'm talking about, and further examples will only make blood squirt from your eye sockets.

How did they come to ask for so little?

Shut-Up!

2008-04-17T07:32:00.002+03:00

Dear Library Patrons,
This isn't a fucking phone booth. Shut your cool Side Kick, and get back to Facebook. You have groups to join, and strangers to friend. See you in discussion, jack-asses.

Business Majors

2008-04-15T01:17:00.006+03:00

Can someone please tell me when the Baccaloriate Degree equaled the High School Diploma's uselessness? Perhaps the issues is really that we have several thousand business majors here who are perfectly content with very little, and they have actually devalued themselves. They are both perp and victim.

A few weeks ago K and I needed to rent a car for a few days while the trusty VW went in for service. K was picked up by a young woman from Enterprise Rent-a-Car who told him on the drive to the office that everyone at Enterprise has a college degree. Everyone. K returned home that evening with a Chevy Cobalt and horrifying news: one must have a degree to work at Enterprise. On one hand, I suppose that's why the people who work there have a brain. On the other hand: Holy fucking crap! So, when I met 75 (mostly) business majors in my class two weeks ago, I asked each group of 25 if they were aware of this horrible news. "Yes," each class told me, "In fact, that's a great job! Enterprise has outstanding management training classes, and for those who work hard, advancement and big pay follows."

This was not the response I was expecting. I thought any reasonable person would ask, "Gosh, is that what it has come to?" And if you want to accuse me of being elitist, for I acknowledge I am, go ahead. Is it really elisist to want more after 4 years of university education and student debt to want to fill my days with something more rewarding than great management training opportunities and money? I do imagine I'm elitist, but I also think those student are whores to the wrong thing: money.

But, why should I jump all over them? What guidance have they been given here in SoCal? Revealed early in my teaching stint, and reinforced by years of predictability, the business majors I encounter here are generally uninterested in learning, disdainful of indulging in empathy, and very interested in money. On the first day of class, I go around the room and ask each person a bit about him or herself. Quite expectedly, students will tell me something like, "I'm ready to graduate. I hate school. I just wanna get out and make money. I don't know what I want to do, finance or something. It's boring, but you can make bank." Elitism notwithstanding, they admit they are headed for boredom, and this is a reasonable price for a big pay check. Then I ask what interests them as people. Again, quite predictably, the answer is "Nothing." Once in a while I can egg them on and get them to admit that they like sports or smoking weed or something, but by in large they flatly insist they have no interests. I am constantly reminded of the Nihlists in the Big Lebowski who insist through the film, "We are nihlists; we believe in nothing."

It is a striking change from just 2 years ago. At that time I taught freshmen who are now juniors like the students I have. The freshmen at that time loved parental authority and Jesus. And the war too. They hated taxes and unions, and were all glittery-eyed at the prospect of having Bible study after class. They missed their room back home, and had an awkward relationship with their dorm-mate. Now, their colleagues reject parental authroity, claim no religious affiliation, still hate unions and taxes, and could not care less about the war. Is it possible to calculate the ways in which we have failed them? 21 years old, [almost] have a B.A. degree, and they care about nothing. Have no interests. No wonder people around me on the 215 are full of rage.

I wonder if it will get better soon? The weird little bubble they live in is bursting. One hummer-driving woman who lived near us and had several road-ragey encounters with us over the years has just disappeared from our neighborhood. Her house is empty, and the Hummer is gone. I assume that like many of my neighbors she may have been a victim of a variable interest rate mortgage, and moved back to Phelan or Trona or wherever she's from. Perhaps not. But, what if she was? Is she living with her parents now wondering what the hell is going on? I think that only a profound crisis can jar us out of this awful stupor in which we are excited, actually excited, about the prospects of working at Enterprise after graduation.

Or, is it just a matter of age? I'm around 18-21 year-olds so much now that I have no concept of if or when they grow out of this. Maybe one week after graduation they are at Enterprise, and they think back to that annyoing, hippy chick they had for a teacher, and realize I'd warned them.

Do I think I have the answer? Actually, yes. My religious friends think they have the asnwer, and I've heard few accuse them of being elitist or narcisistic. To my friends majoring in business, I beceech you: Stop disdaining learning; start acting like a fucking human being.

Sallow Tribe

2008-03-31T07:09:00.006+03:00

I feel like I ought to be brilliant for as much as I have written and thought and read since I came back last summer. But I'm not.

I often feel like the sub-sub librarian (a la Melville). I had all these great ideas about Palestinians, and then I began writing and talking with folks and found that others have come up with these very ideas. Not about Palestinians necessarily, but about others. OK, then, back up; I need to cite this idea and this idea and even this other one. I'm left with very little. But, damn. I thought of this on my own.

Let us meditate:
“[It will be seen that this mere painstaking burrower and grub-worm of a poor devil of a Sub-Sub appears to have gone through the long Vaticans and street-stalls of the earth, picking up whatever random allusions to whales he could anyways find in any book whatsoever, sacred or profane. Therefore you must not, in every case at least, take the higgledy-piggledy whale statements, however authentic, in these extracts, for veritable gospel cetology. Far from it. As touching the ancient authors generally, as well as the poets here appearing, these extracts are solely valuable or entertaining, at affording a glancing bird's eye view of what has been promiscuously said, thought, fancied, and sung of Leviathan, by many nations and generations, including our own.
So fare thee well, poor devil of a Sub-Sub, whose commentator I am. Thou belongest to that hopeless, sallow tribe which no wine of this world will ever warm; and for whom even Pale Sherry would be too rosy-strong; but with whom one sometimes loves to sit, and feel poor-devilish, too; and grow convivial upon tears; and say to them bluntly, with full eyes and empty glasses, and in not altogether unpleasant sadness - Give it up, Sub-Subs! For by how much the more pains ye take to please the world, by so much the more shall yet forever go thankless! Would that I could clear out Hampton Court and the Tuileries for ye! But gulp down your tears and hie aloft to the royal-mast with your hearts; for your friends who have gone before are clearing out the seven-storied heavens, and making refugees of long-pampered Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael, against your coming. Here ye strike but splintered hearts together - there, ye shall strike unsplinterable glasses!]”

As always Melville predicts my worldview. In his first chapter in MD Melville pokes fun at the un-named researcher, and nevertheless goes on to provide us with the important information. That's fine. The information is more important than my ego. I'm OK with that. But it means that I have to watch my contribution diminish.

JM asked me, after reading a chapter, who I want to tell this story to, or, who do I want to write to. I answered "Melville". She's so patient with me. She let me explain the "story" behind what this particular chapter should be. "What is the twist you want to give this?" she asked me. I have epiphanies that turn out not to be mine. Then I sit down and write reasonable but not compelling descriptions of how people do something, or think about something. Ugh. But I keep thinking about this dissertation in Melvillilan themes. I keep thinking about all of us, and Urdustenees in particular, as both Fast Fish and Loose Fish too. Meaning: our hearts and minds are somewhat fastened to the projects of the state, and somewhat autonomous. Perhaps, I will suggest, those who have been abandoned by the state are ahead of the curve here. Those with nothing to loose are, as Melville would say, Loose Fish much more than us Fast Fish who are burdened by authority and discipline. There is my twist.

That is, until I find that someone else has written an ethnography about Palestinians based on Melvillian post-modern theory.

FETUS MACCHIATO

2008-02-15T04:00:00.003+02:00

MY LATTE. MY CHOICE.

KEEP YOUR RELIGION OUT OF MY COFFEE!

Poor K

2008-02-10T04:15:00.000+02:00

Make it Stop!

2008-02-04T22:36:00.000+02:00

It has been snowing for two weeks now. The invalid is not able to shovel, and I can no longer keep up. Ughh.

I've shoveled this deck two times now, and still as of this morning the snow is up to the window! I figure soon the deck with cleave off the house, and then I won't need to worry about shoveling.

We are down-slope, and take the brunt of the plow debris. Last night the street was cleared at 9; I ran outside and began to shovel the wall of snow before it had the night to freeze.

But alas, it snowed all night and the street has not been cleared since. I got the car off the parking deck before we got stuck. I shoveled the car out, and we're back home today. It's still snowing on and off.
We have had about 10 feet of snow fall in the last 10 days. I think we're going to get our whole season of snow over with in a burst rather than have it spread out over several months.

Death March

2008-01-21T01:11:00.000+02:00

Yesterday K and I went with Tyree the Dog and G out to Barstow for a hike. We actually found the car at the end of the day despite having wandered quite far.

Like Jordan, but with plants:

It was really cold in the shade. The water on the ground was frozen! Tyree was slipping and sliding around, as was I. Fun and exhausting. For the record, G found a horse middle digit, and I found an astragulus. What did K find? Can't remember right now...

Snow

2008-01-10T21:06:00.000+02:00

We had a big storm last week. We ended up with about 10 inches of snow. The trees, weighed down with ice, didn't do so well. We lost a pine tree out back, and a branch from another ended up on our car. There was so much snow that the branch did no damage.

Cross-section:

December

2007-12-16T00:07:00.000+02:00

K gave a great paper at the AAAs. So did others, but I didn't take pictures.

We had wonderful meals with Yo and Mo, and some of my family, and friends from school who now live far away.

Last day of English class.

Jordanians

2007-11-20T18:41:00.000+02:00

Who are all these well-dressed people? The annual ASOR meeting was in San Diego last week. Kareem and I went to catch up with our peeps from Jordan, and hear the latest on all the big Biblical archaeology projects. It was much fun, though too brief a visit. It was also strange to see people in nice clothes.

Home Again

2007-11-01T00:11:00.001+02:00

trees
Originally uploaded by frances.goodman

We have a house. We are home. It is fall. Finally.

1 Week in San Diego and We're Going to Build-a-Bear

2007-10-28T03:50:00.000+02:00

We have not been to our house in almost one week. Today I went to the mall and got K some socks and pants. Then, my mother spotted the B-a-B store, and we went in. It was adolescent hell. Here is a picture for Yo, who will someday open the first B-a-B store in Amman.

This is really a picture of Air Force 1. It is the blurry white thing behind the second car in the picture. We drove by and K spotted it. Our cameras are in the house that we can't go to, or may not actually have any longer, so here is a bad phone-photo. Really, it's there. I'm now more than pissed off that San Diego seems to have fetched the attention (and $$$?) while those of use from the mountains are still out of our homes and have almost no information.

San Diego

2007-10-25T08:47:00.000+03:00

One house is ok.

We're waiting to see about the house up north. A mandatory evacuation was called yesterday, much to my relief. There were several reported incidents of people up there setting fires (!!!!). Until now it seemed that only the looters and arsonists were still up there free to work.

The news coverage in San Diego, where we are currently living, is great. It makes me realize, however, that communication sucks for our area. I'd sure like to go home this week. There is minimal containment of the two fires in our area, though at the moment both are not headed for our house.

This sucks.

Fire Sucks

2007-10-23T07:21:00.000+03:00

Our house is surrounded. We were not permitted to go home and get anything. Not a thing. We drove all the way to Highway 18 and 40th street where the useless pig would say nothing to us but, "Move!" These are two pictures I took with my phone from east of Big Bear.

Do we really have to do this every 4 years?

Lies and Simplification and Betrayal

2007-10-18T22:15:00.001+03:00

As I read over my field notes from my time in Jordan I am struck with how often people used simplification and near- or non-truths when telling me about themselves.

I recently read “Life and Words: Violence and the Descent into the Ordinary,” Veena Das’ new book. In it, she makes an argument that I just can’t get out of my head as I read over my notes. Writing about the violence in post-partition India, she, of course, finds that many people are silent. They are not interested in living and performing the horrific violence that has fragmented their lives. Based on this, she says several things. A Fragment marks the impossibility of Imagination. From this, a space is created within an individual narrative that must be filled with something. She calls this process Agency saying, “…our theoretical impulse is often to think of agency in terms of escaping the ordinary rather than a descent into it.” Life is recovered through descent into the ordinary. So instead of wanting to go on and on about sexual assault, one woman she interviewed preferred to talk about perfectly mundane things with Das. In essence, this woman was performing normality, and eventually her life began to seem normal. Mostly. What an ingenuous way of coping with the horrific.

Of course, it involves not speaking about some things, and obfuscating (or directly lying) about others. Das calls this Re-narration. I’m currently reading a book titled “The Things They Carried,” which is a collection of Viet Nam memoirs from a soldier who was drafted as soon as he finished his education. The subtitle of the book is “A Work of Fiction,” and the author occasionally reminds us that telling stories is a process, not merely a factual record of an event. He writes, “In any war story, but especially a true one, it’s difficult to separate what happened from what seemed to happen. What seems to happen becomes its own happening and has to be told that way… In many cases a true war story cannot be believed.”

So, as I pore over my notes two things really jump out at me. One is ways in which everyone effortlessly re-narrated their lives in a way that promoted dignity. Who wouldn’t want that? The second thing I notice is how everyone over-simplifies very complex issues. All through my notes I have poor, religious people telling me the rich are not going to Paradise because they are tainted by money, and the rich respond by telling me, “Only the poor cover their women,” or the poor are too uneducated to understand their own religion. Putting aside the nasty class warfare too many Jordanians are waging, it seems so obvious to me that everyone deploys simplification and re-narration to make their case. Only one person I spent time with in Jordan lied to me all the time. Only one. Certainly re-narration is not unique to Jordanians. I saw a sticker on a monster-truck last weekend that read: Some gave all, All gave some. If that isn’t simplification and re-narration, then it doesn’t exist.

But it seems like we all have too much at stake to admit that we do this. For my poor friends in Jordan, their entire worth is riding on re-narration. For most of them, it is literally all they have. When I would question the oversimplification they used to write off all rich people, or all the Shia’, or what ever, I was always shut down. One Sheikh actually stood up while I was talking one evening and began waving his hands furiously and saying Khlass really loudly. Ok, he actually started yelling. But, for me our discussion was simply an intellectual transaction, yet for him it was much more personal, and therefore much more costly should I have made my points.

As an example, take this blog post. Here is an incredibly complex issue: rape. The entry provides better coverage of the incident than the Jordan Times did, but look at the responses. Most express the mandatory outrage, and often finish by adding that this never happens in Jordan. Then along comes a commenter who argues otherwise. He or she rightly points out that rape is probably underreported in Jordan, and then complicates what rape means, arguing (correctly) that rape can occur, for example, within a marriage. The responses to him are simplistic: where are your statistics? What!?! Rape within a marriage? It can’t be! Revealing the complexity of this one issue in Jordan put this commenter on the Foe list. But s/he was right. People found their positive narratives (i.e. violent crime does not happen in Jordan!) put in peril, and they naturally contested this.

And this is where writing my dissertation becomes a betrayal. At times when I write about people and I reveal the complexity that really does weigh heavily on the poor in Jordan, I can hear them standing behind my saying, “That’s not right. We are Muslims because it is the Truth, y3anee, bas.” Some days I find myself talking over them, and I strip that text from the document. But other days I must talk over them because I am the only one who will admit how complicated poverty and religion is among those I spent time with.

The Ways We Spend Our Time

2007-09-25T20:23:00.000+03:00

Yesterday the academic quarter began. Uck.

I sat in meetings from 9 until 5 with only 1 half hour break and listened to people talk to a room full of mostly-first time teachers who seemed bright eyed and ready to be disappointed by a disinterested and ultra-cool student body. By 3:30 I had completely lost my mind as none of what I heard yesterday in the 1-5 meeting was news to me. I sat in that uncomfortable chair wondering why the fates hate me so much as to send me on an 84-mile journey to be told that I need to put my email address on my syllabus. I also felt angry because the bill of sale for this gig is somewhat dishonest. New teachers asked things like, “What if we have a really disruptive student, or even worse a student who threatens us, what can we do?” The faculty assured us that we could contact Student Judicial Affairs, and it would be taken care of. Having watched a colleague go through this a few years ago, I know this to be a lie. She had a student who had threatened her and others, and who wrote all kinds of violent stuff on his Facebook page, and the University insisted they could not compel him to leave until after something had happened. “What about cheating?” Well, we here at Like Your Money University are very serious about this. Again, having been through this myself I know this university does very little about plagiarism. I’ve had documented evidence, I’ve filled out forms, I’ve emailed the office in charge, and have had only a warning placed on only one persons record. A Warning! Oooohh. Scary. No, in the end I was really angry for having my time wasted with well-meaning, but empty promises. I am here to write a dissertation, and that is where my energy will go. Damn, I forgot how much time bandits irk me.

In other news. I have been intrigued with a young man in my Arabic class. He is 19, I think. He wants to join the military, and he is learning Arabic because he wants to go to Iraq and work with an elite group there. I no longer feel even the slightest obligation to pretend that this is anything but hysterical. I’m pretty sure that if he learns Arabic he will be sent to the Philippines, or something, before he’s sent to the Middle East. When I brought this up with him, he told me that like other large bureaucracies these things can happen. In fact, every time I question the wisdom of the military, he has a simple and ready answer. He has seemed increasingly irritated that those of us in the class question what is going on in the War. He is not the only one. The other day I saw a large truck with a sign on the back of it that said: “If you can’t get behind the troops, get in front of them ASSHOLE!” Seriously. Clearly, people in this camp have a view of the war that is pretty dogmatic. What I’m trying to comprehend is why these people seem to think that I also need to share their dogmatic and simple views of things. So, this fellow in my class was being quizzed on his intention and his feelings about killing people, and he became so upset he clenched up his fist, and had to walk away from us, not speaking to us again for the duration of the class. My views on this war are also dogmatic, but I certainly don’t expect truck-driving dudes to share my feelings, nor would I ever call them assholes via car sign when they don’t (though, maybe I should). I think M needs to be more prepared to answer tough questions about killing and suffering rather than just assume that we all obligated to adore the troops enough not to question anything about them. Before he quit speaking to us he informed us that he got the contract he wanted, and would not be back for the next Arabic class since he was going into the military.

K just finished reading a book to me about the Madison administration. The similarities between the war of 1812 and the Iraq War are eerie. The Americans were unprepared for many eventualities. Early on when Americans went into Canada, something military leaders assured Madison would be easy, they consistently faced ass-whoopings. Also assured that Washington City was not on the radar of the British, there was no plan to protect or defend that city, and eventually the British came in and burned down the White House. Opps. Madison’s popularity plummeted as a badly managed war seemingly with no strategy dragged on and on for no apparent reason. Our original gripe with the British that led to the war was over trade embargos. Years later, both exhausted by the conflict, the British signed a treaty with the U.S. that still didn’t lift the trade barriers over which we went to war. We declared victory anyway, and arguably for the first time an American identity was formed over a hollow war victory. It’s a good thing we don’t teach kids much history in the public high schools here, or else we’d be forced to reflect on our mistakes. This would of course take time from putting signs on our trucks that call out pacifists as “assholes.”

Random Phone Pictures

2007-09-03T02:55:00.000+03:00

Kareem on his 3rd beer:

1 August in SoCal. It has been so hot that the leaves are burned on the edges.

Hummus for 12 USD!

Come to think of it, the dog had seemed a bit down.

The spoon doesn't bend, yooou dooo.

For the Sanitary Citizen:

Sideways books.

War lover:
(Multi-bumper stickered car praising The War, and Jeebus. Ok, maybe not Jeebus, but you get the idea.)

Useless Activism: The Geography of Non-action.

2007-08-18T05:15:00.000+03:00

I haven’t been back in the States very long and already I am exhausted by the milquetoast-ey response Americans have to the Iraq War. I have wondered for years what it would take to prompt Americans to act on behalf of a cause. When I taught at the University I would ask every class what it would take to get them to go and lay siege to the White House, and overwhelmingly they told me that if the government took all of their money that would get them on a Greyhound to D.C. Money. We will consent to have our civil liberties suspended, we will consent to sell our labor and allow others to profit from our work, and some of us will even consent to being shipped to another country where we may face death. But my students will not consent to bankruptcy at the hands of the government. Wow. We would sooner allow ourselves to be killed than we would allow ourselves to live without money. I guess this explains why the government is moving to stabilize the financial market, destabilized by bad mortgages, but they don’t seem to be moving as quickly to resolve the War. I know, false analogy.

Last week K and I went to a brewery near San Diego and I saw a Prius there that was covered in political stickers that preached things like Stop This War! and Peace is Patriotic. (Yeah! Car activism!) This caught my attention because these ever-present anti-war displays reinforce in me a sense of helplessness for those who are socially alarmed (this is one step above socially aware, right?). More and more Americans seem ready to publicly declare that they are against the Iraq War. But, I think public declaration is all much of this group is prepared to do. Why? Certainly there are too many people who are only alarmed enough to put a sticker on their hybrid and leave it at that. But what about those who are alarmed, will declare this, and don’t know what more to do? How did it happen that ostensibly good people don’t take more meaningful action? Arjun Appadurai (who’s name is really fun to say out loud), channeling Benedict Anderson, writes that over time Imagination becomes a collective social fact. In other words, if enough of us put anti-war (or pro-war) stickers on our SUVs than we are assured that there is a vocal community who sides with our views. How nice.

This brings me to space. The most obvious reason, we can suppose, Mr. or Mrs. Prius Owner isn’t in Jordan, or wherever, is because it is bloody far away. Not even a Prius can get to Ma’an on one tank of gas. And this, I will assert, largely frees us from further consideration from undertaking activism of some sort. Oh Gosh, these problems, big though they are, are so far from my suburban home, or cool IKEA-furnished apartment that I can’t do anything. Instead we call our congress people, slap stickers on our hybrids and buy political tee-shirts. Heck, I don’t even have a hybrid! But I’m going to argue that this is still bullshit. We have appropriate concern, but we seemingly have no means to make change.

I understand why we are so reticent to actually do something. We are socialized to obey, and education is an important part of this socialized docility. I like what Gramsci wrote about this. He argued that we are socialized to see education as merely memorization when we should approach it as an endeavor in which we are taught the process of apprehending knowledge. In other words, we are not taught how to learn, we are only socialized to become encyclopedias. Gramsci wrote, “Taking one’s audience through the series of attempts, efforts and successes through which men [sic] had to pass in order to attain the present state of knowledge has far more educational value than a schematic exposition of the knowledge itself… Teaching done in this way becomes an act of liberation.” I’ve had few teachers teach me how to think. The result of this is that perfectly well educated people are left feeling impotent to make social change. We only know how to acquire knowledge that people are suffering, but we don’t know what more to do. This pleases the state just fine since it is the state carries out more human rights abuses than I have time to catalogue, and would therefore prefer to remain unmolested. When people understand there are problems, and our social skill set instructs us to buy a shirt (as I have done and will continue to do), we feel we have exercised our right to dissent, and the state remains unaccountable. A further consequence of this is that educated people who very quickly come to feel helpless also decide that their education is worthless. This, I think, is a big reason that degrees in the social sciences are seen as less valuable than a degree in the hard sciences. Getting people to convince themselves of their own worthlessness is an important step in getting people to consent to their own murder.

How fucking lame.

The reason I will argue failure to engage in activism is bullshit is because it is based on a false, or at least simplistic, conception of geography. It is too simplistic to say that a person in Los Angeles cannot help a Palestinian in Amman because he is 7579 miles away. This places social problems and activism in a sphere that is entirely defined by proximity. What if we define activism in another way? (Hint: this requires defining social problems in more nuanced ways too.)

Let us begin with acknowledging that human rights violations are globalized problems. This is something we deny when we decided that Palestinians are too far from Los Angeles and we can do nothing to help them (assuming we even want to). When we fail to see that the Palestinian problem is a global, de-territorialized, trans-national issue (have I stressed this enough?), it puts pressure on us to consider that perhaps solutions to this problem, with all its nasty facets, are also globalized. Uh oh, now we may be obligated to concoct more complicated excuses for our non-action. How do we respond, assuming we want to do something here? Another problem, and I am speaking as an anarchist, is that much of what I would consider activism is illegal in Jesusland. We are socialized to believe that if we take action to prevent our own government from spying on us, or to teach students that the war is wrong, we are at the least anti-patriotic, and at the most a violent person who can potentially plunge this country into chaos. Idiotic obedience to the state seems also to be a globalized phenomenon. I believe that an additional danger that accompanies denying the globalization of human rights violations is that we ignore that which is carried out against us. Instead, we imagine that human rights are things that only people like Palestinians need to worry about. Giorgio Agamben, one of my favorite anarchists, makes a radical argument that most people in the world are now refugees. He defines Refugee as a person who represents The State of Exception within a nation state. The State of Exception represents time and space defined by the State in which laws and rights are suspended (oh, say habeas corpus rights during a time of War). Agamben goes on to argue, “The refugee should be considered for what it is, namely, nothing less than a limit-concept that at once brings a radical crisis to the principles of the nation-state and clears the way for a renewal of categories that can no longer by delayed.” This is a radical argument, and I agree with it personally. But even if you think this is over the top, consider what Agamben is nevertheless pointing out to us: The State is in a crisis, and that most of the world’s leaders are by many conservative standards still criminals. In other words, Palestinians are not the only people who need to worry about human rights. They are simply ahead of the curve here.

Sticking to the Palestinian issue, Sari Hanafi, who has never written anything I disliked, argued on Bitter Lemons that Palestinians have become a transnational population who need identity documents that allow them to make a living as such. Click here to download his great article (and many others) for free. He writes that the Right of Return is now in many ways an irrelevant issue, and what these folks really need is the freedom to travel to the States or Europe where they can make a living and support their families. My research backs this up. As I asked Palestinians about the Right of Return, all demanded this. When I further asked people if they would actually move from Jordan to Palestine the response was a unanimous No, my life is here in Jordan. Many people want the opportunity to work abroad while their families remain in the Middle East. And, of course, others do want to move out of the Middle East. Why should we let Palestinians move? Because as this lady’s great dissertation beautifully documents, the problems in the Middle East can be placed squarely at the feet of us Westerners, and not just 100 years ago but within even my lifetime. (N.B. colonialism does have consequences for the colonizers too.)

Getting back to geography. Before I left Jordan I gave a talk about my research. In the audience was a Palestinian woman who grew up in Kuwait, and like so many Palestinians came to Jordan during the first Gulf War. She was visibly upset when I talked about a family I spent time with who takes turns eating because there is not enough food. Several times before I left Jordan she spoke with me and politely contested what I had said, suggesting that perhaps something is wrong with the head of the family, or perhaps I had stumbled upon a unique phenomenon. At one point she shyly admitted that she had never been to any of the Camps in Jordan, and was pretty disconnected with the poorest of the poor in Jordan. It was as if she had to contest what I had said because she as a good person could not bear to know such things went on in her town. We do the same thing in the States though, don’t we? As long as suffering is hidden, we can process it. But when we are confronted with it, we are overwhelmed and left unequipped to help. Bumper stickers do not replace food.

Again, I’m struck with the role of geography with this. When I went to Jordan last September I purchased an Amman Tourist Map so I could learn my way around. Funny thing is that the map only included West Amman. This is the space where tourists are supposed to go, and the grittiest part of Amman they will see is the Balid. We are socialized when we are funneled away from some places to others. We internalize something when we are sent to Abdoun, and Marka is never mentioned. I contend it is easier to contest this kind of quotidian socialization than it is to contest what I saw over this last year. I suppose it is also easier to put a “Coexist” sticker on my car than it is to volunteer, or spend time figuring out which NGOs in the Middle East are real and which are fake. It is certainly easier than spending a year away from ones family with people at the center of this. But, referring back to Gramsci, activism and the liberation that comes with that, can be done wherever we are. Imagine how amazing that would be for individuals, and then imagine how threatening this is to the power of a state.

Heading away from geography, I am also struck with the looming cloud of controversy that hangs over discussions of the War or Palestinians. The Winter 2007 issue of the Journal of Palestinian Studies has a great piece by Sara Roy on this. Often accused of being a self-hating Jew, Roy writes, “The disinterested pursuit of knowledge – that is, objectivity – in writing about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict aims, among other things, to create balance or equity where none in fact exists.” She goes on to write, “Thus, if authority’s role is to obfuscate, then the intellectual’s role is to reveal.” I don’t mean to sound overly hippy, but when the child of parents who survived Auschwitz beautifully argues that even the language we use is a form of activism, I see profundity where I used to see tension and argument. What makes Roy’s scholarship so moving to me how it is underwritten by a passionate commitment to human rights. Rights for everyone, even people with whom it may seem we share no commonalities. But Roy’s work also serves to enforce the idea that the way we use language and the way we talk about things like this can also be activism. My fundamentalist Christian friends/family are very good at making every thing they talk about a pro-Christian, persuasive conversation. Is this not activism?

Finally, I have been thinking a lot about all the Americans I met this year in Jordan who came to try and do something *right*. So many of them failed to do anything because they spent their time in Jordan overwhelmed with the complexity of the problems in the Middle East. AMP has a great vintage post about this. I had not seen this post until this morning. It is a more articulate version of my rant about the goofiness of foreigners in Jordan. We have many of the same complaints even though we were both in very different social spheres in Jordan. This is conclusive scientific proof that too many of us go to the Middle East waste our time. If different cultures were actually easy to understand I wouldn’t be working so effin’ hard for this degree.

Road Trip

2007-08-07T07:52:00.000+03:00

K and I went to San Francisco last week.
I was cold there. Can you imagine? It was the end of July/beginning of August and it was freakin’ cold. I loved it. I love the cold. I know this feeds my obsession with Hammerfest, Norway. But where it is cold I can wear my knitted stuff.

We drove up the 5 and we were in The City for dinner, much to my surprise. We did have to stop at Cuca’s, the best taco stand in the world, before we left. I missed Cuca’s. Their cheap food, their hostile employees. Dang, that was a good way to begin our trip.

This sign is in Healdsburg where we drank bitter beer and had some good food. We spent 2 days around Sonoma County where K and I visited many breweries. I was the designated driver, and K was the designated tee-shirt purchaser. Before we ate dinner in Healdsburg one evening we walked around and saw this store. It amused me to see an Arabic word used to designate a store that sells embroidered wallets from Guatemala and carved walking sticks, or whatever, from Ghana. Far out.

Of course the highlight of my trip was going to Artfibers in San Francisco where I purchased some much needed yarn.

After we left Artfibers we went for coffee and crossed Jordan Street. It reminded me that I feel “homesick” for that place (the country, not the street). In Santa Barbara we had lunch at a brewery across from Garden Street, which about sent me over the edge. It is interesting how reminders of amazing places and people show up in the most unexpected places.

Reverse Culture Shock

2007-07-27T03:36:00.000+03:00

Today was my first day as an adult back in the real world. I’ve been sleeping and weaving and knitting and eating for two weeks. I have been wearing tee shirts and drinking beer. I have been saying bad words (ok, I guess that’s not so different). I have been reacting inappropriately in social situations. It has been strange, and parts have been good.

The other day K and I were beer shopping and K struck up a conversation with some random dude who at one point introduced himself and reached his hand out to shake mine. I think I successfully suppressed my shock and I shook his hand. It was one of my many “Oh, yeah” moments so far. Today I went for a job interview and I wore a short-sleeved shirt. It felt so odd (though appropriate since I swear it was 1000 degrees Kelvin here today), and I took a scarf and put it around my neck. As if for safety or something. Weird.

In my first few days back in Jesusland I wove a scarf.
I purchased this yarn in March and I’ve been waiting to weave something out of it. I’m really happy with it. It was nice and cool in the mountains, and I took just 3 days from start to finish. A good way to work back into this society.

Some days I feel like things are going well. I do like the less-deadly smog of SoCal compared to Amman. I missed driving my car. I love the restaurants here. But then, I see weird reminders of American hysteria. (i.e. ) I am even more perplexed with the perception Californians have of the War and of all the stoopid things we have done in the Middle East. I’ve had a few conversations so far in which well-meaning people ask me what I did this last year, and when I tell them I’m met with wide-eyed silence. “Oh,” they say, “That must have been very interesting.” They are people, you know. “And you felt safe?” More so than here, I tell them. I’ve never been comfortable with my role as Jordanian ambassador to the frightened.

Today I went back to school for the first time since last September. I saw PJW (who has been to Jordan many times) and we had a nice conversation. I registered for the next quarter. K and I went to Trader Joes. A typical day, I guess. Filled with people speaking English and driving in the lines. I feel so out of sorts here. The other day K and I went to Burger Continental in Pasadena and I heard two Arab men talking over the salad bar. One man was complaining about the Salmon, and used the word Yanee as he searched for the proper complaint adjectives. I almost started crying. The hummus was good, but the pita was completely unacceptable.

I guess I’m back.

Last Week

2007-07-09T08:32:00.000+03:00

I hate the good-bye ritual. I hated it last year, and I still hate it as much this year. This last week has been crammed with great food and last-minute conversations. I’ve been filled with this urge to document and archive every moment of my last week here. Maybe this is not so strange. Many of the obnoxious academics I’ve met this year have spent their careers documenting and reenacting their own sentimental history. I’m just asking for one week.

Almost one week ago we took Yo to Reem al-Bawadi for his good-bye dinner. He’ll be back in Jordan at the end of the summer, but still. I won’t see him again until November in San Diego. Reem al-Bawadi was great. We sat under the tent and pigged-out. We smoked and had coffee and fresh juices, and still for 6 of us the bill was only 50 JD. Not bad. It was a fun evening filled with immature conversation and bad words. My kind of evening.

A few days later Emir, Miss A and I went to Hasham. We sat in the corner and at one point I realized everyone in the restaurant was wide-eyed and looking over my right shoulder. I turned around and saw a roach the size of my Volkswagen. Our waiter came over and squished it. The roach fell to the ground near Miss A’s feet, and the waiter left it there and walked away. About 5 minutes later Miss A yelped as she realized the thing was only half-squished and it was dragging its body toward her foot. I yelped. Then another customer summoned a worker who came and gave it a final, crunchy squish. I made eye contact with the customer and nodded. The worker told us that it probably came from the clothing store next to them. What ever you say. Classic.

A few days after that Emir and I went downtown to go suit shopping for him. We began in the Balid, and then took a serveece up to Jebel Hussein and looked at more suits there. He tried on a few, but didn’t commit fully to any. A picked us up and we went for coffee. A told me that my new blind engineer friend wanted to have dinner with me before I left. A made plans with Abu Khalad, the blind engineer, and dropped me and Emir off at home.

The next day at 5 A picked me up and we went to Reem al-Bawadi with Abu Khalad. It was interesting for several reasons. This was the first time A has been in a group with me and he has been the one made to feel uncomfortable. Usually, I’m the minority and I feel odd. I must admit I rather enjoyed watching him look a bit uncomfortable. Abu Khalad has been married 4 times, but divorced only twice. His second wife is younger than all of his children. The man is hilarious. We talked about politics, which I enjoyed thoroughly. Then we talked about marriage. He told me his oldest son is going to get married this year. I asked him if he gave his son any advice, and he told me that he did. He said that a man should marry a woman with some education so she isn’t capable of only talking about her shoes, or Nancy Ajrum. He said that a wife should be pretty, but not wear make up or be too focused on her looks. At this point A sat up and joined the conversation and said that this was all weird, and that all a man needed was a “religious girl.” Abu Khalad turned to A and said, “Oh, yes, of course sheikh,” and then turned back to me and continued to talk about beautiful women. After dinner we had coffee, and I know this is when A wants to have a cigarette, but because he is a sheikh, he won’t smoke in public. Abu Khalad ordered a nargilleh for himself and one for me. He told me I am a beautiful and dangerous woman because I like to smoke the shamam-flavored tobacco. He and I sat and smoked in front of A who must have about died of a nic-fit. I enjoyed talking with Abu K, and I hate to admit it, but I enjoyed being the much less-repressed me in front of A. After dinner A and I went for more coffee. He told me that in this year he has learned a lot from me. He said that he has watched me interact with people and this has taught him the value of patients. He said that Muslims are supposed to be chartable, kind and patient, and he told me that I displayed all of these [even though I’m not Muslim]. I think the essence of this was that he learned that kindness can be motivated by many things, not just Islam. It was nice to hear, and I sat there stunned into silence for several seconds. The funny thing is that I’ve learned a lot about how to interact with people from him! In any event, it made my year to be told such kind things.

Sometime later I went to Jebel Hisban for the 40th anniversary party they had there. I must admit, I didn’t go to see the archaeology, I went because our Moudera told us that we’d eat at Haret Djudna after the whats-a-whose-it. I did have one more opportunity to see David Hale (and his 5 bodyguards) come and give a content-free speech, so I guess it was worthwhile going to Hisban. Good times. Then we went to H.D. in Madaba and sat under the fig trees and ate while BAP got Abu Ahmed to talk about his 45 years of working for ACOR. Interesting stuff.

The next day BAP, C and me went to see and Iron Age site near Wadi Mujib (actually, it is quite close to Diban). I went because C said that if we had time we could go to the Bani Hamida weaving center (in the middle of NO WHERE) and look at rovings and yarn. They also have finished rugs for sale, but went to see the fiber and yarn. A lovely woman came and opened up on a Friday for us. BAP and C purchased lots and lots of stuff. Somewhere south west of Madaba, we could see the Dead Sea. We found a narrow road that looked like it headed west into the Ghour. We had a wonderful and relaxing road trip. We saw more archaeology, and then headed back up to Amman.

Now that I’m preparing to depart, a few academics have asked me for some time to talk about my work [at their convenience]. Funny, I’ve been here for 10 months, overlapping with several of them for more than 6, and yet a few have just now decided to speak with me. Oh, the hubris. I would be offended if I thought for a moment that it has crossed their minds how rude that is. But instead I’m just reminded how important it is to make sure that a PhD doesn’t turn me into an utter ass.

Ok, off the soapbox. Two nights ago A and I went around Amman so I could take pictures. We spent a lot of time in Whedat, where there are great falafel shops and great views of the city. I finally saw the Abu Darwish Mosque up close. I have had a week of good-bye dinners with my friends and families. They have been intense and exhausting. When I return to California, I think I will sleep for two weeks. Last night I had my last good-bye dinner with the people who have made my work possible. It was the dinner I least looked forward to because they are the family with whom I am the closest, and the thought of saying bye to the kids and women and brothers made me feel sad and exhausted before they even picked me up.

Tonight I’m going with my American peeps to a place in Fuheis that I hear is great (and the name of which I cannot remember right now). I’m also going to attempt that RJ early check in thing I’ve heard about. Rumor is that I can take my bags to their 5th (or 7th?) circle office, check them in, get my boarding pass, and be permitted 50 extra kilos of stuff to bring. What I imagine will actually happen is that A and I will go there and find the office shut without explanation during working hours. A and I will go for 3 cups of coffee, talk about religion, return at 2 and find workers smoking who will tell us they are closed. A will argue with them, and then they will tell me that this 50 kilo thing is untrue, and I can’t actually get a boarding pass, but I can leave my bags and Inshallah they will arrive in Chicago. This is not to diss RJ at all. I actually have nothing but good things to say about them. The food is good, the legroom is merciful. I’m just looking forward to one more attempt to do business in Amman before I go. I’ve finally convinced myself this is all very reasonable. If it goes easily, I may actually be disappointed.

What I will miss about Jordan (in no particular order):
1. Ramadan lights
2. Great food
3. Eating dinner at 10 at night
4. Nationalism
5. Driving
6. Pine trees and basalt deserts within a 40 minute drive
7. DVDs
8. Stair cases potentially measured in kilometers
9. Archaeology
10. Conspiracy theories
11. Aramex
12. Flags
13. Fireworks
14. Smoking
15. Most people
16. The ‘Inshallah Lifestyle’
17. Jebel Amman (particularly the Turkish Bath)
18. Fine
19. Mobile Com
20. The word “y3nee”

What I will not miss about Jordan (in no particular order):
1. Mansef
2. Phone calls at 6 in the morning
3. Diesel pollution
4. Abdoun
5. Lack of privacy
6. Qursh
7. The shabab-factor
8. Racist expatriates
9. Smoking
10. Dry eyes

And the last list I need to make before I go? The rules for the AMP Drinking Challenge! If AMP says:
1. That’s fucking disgusting,
2. It makes me want to puke
3. (Takes the Lord’s name in vane)
Then we must drink. This is not for the faint at heart.

Good bye Jordan.

Palestine

2007-07-02T15:22:00.001+03:00

I finally went to Palestine. At the urging of my friends here in Jordan I crossed last Friday and spent the weekend in East Jerusalem. I packed a few things in my bag and J2 and I met a group of archaeologists and shared a chartered bus with them. I figured with 4 Syrian visas, one Lebanon and one Iran, I would be back in Amman by dinner time, but I some how made it. After I was granted a visa one woman from the group told me that she thought there was no way they would let me in. I have come to realize that my one life skill is crossing borders. So I’ll begin by telling you how oddly easy it was.

We left Amman at 7 in the morning and took a bus with American Christian evangelicals to the King Hussein Bridge. People were stamped out of Jordan. The Jordanians put the exit stamp on the back of the 5 JD exit fee paper instead of in passports. They didn’t even ask, they just assumed. Interesting. Then, we took the same bus across the bridge. Typically, people arrive at the Jordanian exit point, take separate transportation across the bridge, and take a third ride into the West Bank. We jumped the que of busses and headed across the Jordan River. Once across, an Israeli woman boarded the bus and asked us if we had any weapons. From there we were herded into a building adjacent to the building where I saw them herding the Palestinians waiting to cross. We lined up for our visas. J2 looked nervously at me. I approached the woman behind the glass and slipped my passport through the slit. She looked at my passport and told me to wait. They processed all the others save me and one other man. He had traveled to Syria in 2000, he told me. The women behind the counter helped us to fill out paperwork, and told us to sit down. We did. At one point a woman asked me when I went to Iran (I guess they couldn’t read the date since the numbers are Iranian and not Arabic???). Then she asked me what my father’s name is. About an hour later the group decided to go. The bus was waiting for them, and me, J2 and this man said we would take a taxi to Jerusalem. So, we said good-bye to the group and told them we’d see them soon. They prepared to depart. Just as the bus started to pull away, the woman with our passports emerged from her glass box and told us we were free to go. I think they were just trying to delay us. The man waiting with us booked it outside and actually caught the bus. We were in Jerusalem by 10 in the morning. I’m told this will NEVER happen again. They did not search my bags or ask me any other questions.

Jerusalem was beautiful and, more importantly, cooler than Amman. The heat wave here last week made Amman just miserable, and the cool breeze was such a welcome change. I shared a room with a very fundamentalist Christian woman from Michigan. I quickly threw my stuff in our room and headed out with J2 and A, the lovely woman who invited us to tag along. A is amazing. She’s almost 80, comes to Jordan every summer to excavate, has more energy than most 20 year-olds I know, and has to be the kindest person on the planet. It was truly a privilege to get to know her. Both A and J2 have been to Jerusalem a million times, but both were also kind enough to show me all the tourist stuff since it was my first time. It was Friday afternoon, and we walked down to the Damascus Gate, which led us into the Arab Quarter of the city. We headed for a shop owned by a Palestinian family A has known for several decades. When the men in the shop saw her they jumped up and began kissing and hugging her and calling her Mama. It was such a sight! We had tea, and they caught up. She hadn’t seen them for a year. A told me a bit about the family. They are from Ram Allah. Originally they are from near Tel Aviv, and in 1948 ended up in Jerusalem. The man we spent the most time with, H, told me that his mom was almost left behind. His grandparents carried all the kids they could, and she made it only because her older brother was able to carry her. H and his siblings were all born in Jerusalem, and so they have the blue Jerusalem ID cards. Their vehicles also have the yellow license plates that allow them to move between Ram Allah and Jerusalem. This drive would take 20 minutes without the wall, but now can take about 3 hours. Palestinians who have vehicles with white and green plates, and green ID cards cannot enter Jerusalem. Blue ID Palestinians with yellow plates cannot go to Nablus or Jenin. It sucks. So, H’s father started with nothing back in the day, and now his sons have antique shops all around the Old City. They are by no means poor, but they are also not immune from the suffering heaped on Palestinians in the West Bank. H was shot at one of the check points years ago while he was trying to go home. He told me that he saw a Palestinian shot, and this man was bleeding and needed help. H jumped out of his car to help, evidently freaking out the Israeli soldiers, and he too was shot. After that he moved to Jerusalem, refusing to do the commute. He told me he doesn’t even have a car now. Can’t say I blame him.

Invited for lunch the next day, we said our Salaams and continued on seeing the city. We walked along the Via Dolorosa, the path that Jesus walked to his crucifixion, and saw the Jafr Gate and later the Church of the Holy Sepulture.
I saw the stone where Jesus’ body was washed after he died, I saw Golgotha, I saw the place where I was told he is buried. It was amazing watching people come and worship. Men and women from all over the world entered the church and began weeping. Others seemed stunned and were silent and still. The Church itself it huge, and we spent a bit of time there. From there we headed to the Western Wall. It was approaching sunset, and A and J2 told me this would be the best time to see the Dome of the Rock. We stopped for a falafel sandwich and then walked through security into the plaza where the Western Wall is. It was sunset on Friday, and the place was packed. I don’t like crowds, but J2 told me I had to go touch the wall. I’m glad she did. Both A and J2 went with me. A told me that we needed to back away from the wall when we were ready to go. I’m so glad she told me that! We threw scarves on and walked up to the small section of the wall left for women to visit. As I walked up I saw young women backing away with tears in their eyes. We made our way in, and I saw the little notes that people write and stick into the wall. Women were rocking back and forth and reading the Torah. It was quite a frenzy, but I touched the wall! As you can imagine, the stones are nicely polished at this point from so many people coming to touch them. I awkwardly walked backwards away from the wall.

After that we went to the American Colony and had tea. We were all exhausted. I went back to my hotel and tried to write notes while my roommate continued to talk to me.

The next morning I ate my egg and drank my Nescafe and left the hotel to meet up with J2 and A, who seemed happy to have had ham for breakfast. My roommate followed me to the hotel because she said she needed to talk to A about how to take a taxi. I assured her that she just needed to walk outside and take a taxi! At the AC I handed her off the A who promptly sent her off in a taxi. We walked down to the old city, and it was even cooler on Saturday than Friday. As we walked down one street several Arab kids blocked our way and told us, “this way is closed.” We stood there for several seconds, and then they laughed and let us pass. Lest you think that random road blocks and all the other quotidian BS that taints the lives of these people is not ingrained in kids, be assured it is.

We did some shopping. I bought a beautiful jacket. Or, I should say that K bought me a beautiful jacket. After being unburdened of our money we met with A’s family for lunch. H was late meeting us because a friend of the family had drowned the day before, and he was buried that morning. 25 years old, and set to be married the next week, his fiancé was somehow rescued from the water where he died. H arrived at his shop and apologized for being late. He walked us up the Via Dolorosa and we turned a corner and continued to his house. What a house! More on that later. We went upstairs and met a room full of women who hugged and kissed us. H’s mama grabbed A and cried and kissed her. H’s mom doesn’t speak English, and A knows no Arabic, but I assure you these women were communicating just fine. We sat down to a table of hummus, shrimp, fish filets, chicken with peppers, soup, salads of all kinds, and warm bread. My usual panic set in regarding being fed by Palestinians. There was no way we were going to be able to eat enough to satisfy mama. Then, 5 minutes after we began eating H’s hilarious sister got up and emptied a bathtub-sized pot of grape leaves and chicken onto a place and put that in the middle of the crowded table! The chicken and grape leaves were so fragrant and delicious. The grape leaves had a bit of meat in them, and they were by far the best I have ever had. I particularly enjoyed the chicken with sweet peppers. Mama and daughter were amazing hostesses and continued to shovel food onto our plates despite our insistence that we’d had enough. Luckily I fasted that day to prepare, but still, I was told that I didn’t eat enough. What a wonderful ritual! Kateer zacky!

From there we went up several flights of stairs to the top of the house. The view of the old city cannot be better from any other place. There is a little crow’s nest on the top of the house. We shimmied up a ladder so we could look all around. Once we were done enjoying the view-porn we crawled back down and mama was waiting with tea and sweets. We sat with the family and H talked more about his experiences as a Palestinian in the West Bank. I will tell you that at the end of his narrative he told us, Every year we say ‘next year has to be better,’ and then it isn’t. People can’t go on like this. We Palestinians live to suffer. I will tell you that that wall will come down because we will tear it down with our hands. People are not naturally like this, they won’t live like this, and I don’t believe that most people want this kind of oppression for others. Even in Bethlehem, the city of Jesus, they are caged in like animals. The city of Jesus is surrounded by one of those walls! We are like Jesus. We are Muslims, but we now live to suffer in the land of Jesus. We know we will be rewarded for our suffering just like he was. But now, that is all we have to live for.

After lunch we went with Abu Yosef, a friend of H, to Ram Allah. AY has a Jerusalem ID. We drove along a road headed for Ram Allah and AY told me who is living where, “…This side Jewish, this side Palestinian…” At one point we came upon a row of honking cars. The bride and groom were at the front of the pack. We were all heading for the check point. Even on her wedding day, she sat in check point traffic. We drove along side of the Wall and eventually emerged in Qalandia. We passed from the developed world into the Neolithic. On the Jerusalem side, the streets are maintained and everything is clean. Immediately on the other side, the road was nearly impassable. There were massive pot holes (another reason H told me he won’t commute), and rubble strewn all over the place. There are massive guard towers abutting the break in the Wall where the check point is.
The tower I saw up close is pock marked. AY told me that people throw stones at it. Self-consciously engaging in Misery Tourism, I listened as AY told me things like, “many, many Martyrs from here… Many, many Palestinians killed here, and here, and over there…” We drove into one of the refugee camps in Qalandia. Houses were built upon each other, there is just no room for the amount of people there. AY said, “See them all just sitting around? There is no work! There is nothing for them!” Every house I saw had “Fatah” spray painted on it. One had “Fatah Hamas.” We headed north to Ram Allah. Ram Allah is strange to me. There is a lot of money there in some places. AY told me that Palestinians from the States or Canada are returning and bringing cash with them. They are building enormous houses that over look the camps there. Strange. In Amman everything seems so segregated to me, but it wasn’t there. Ram Allah has a new mega mall, and a nice Turkish Bath. The middle of the town was packed with people and really nice looking shops. There were Palestinian police all over the place. We headed to the Tomb of Arafat, which is on the property where his house is. You know, the house where he spent the end of his life under siege. I went there. We walked in and AY prayed at the tomb for a moment and then had a smoke.
I stood there slowly turning around only able to say, “Wow… wow… Oh my God.” We drove on and as we watched people regularly run lights, AY told me that there is no law in Ram Allah, “like in Jordan, you know?” In fact, in Jerusalem he had to remind me to put on my seat belt. (Haven’t done that since March.) Once we crossed into Qalandia, he reached over and pushed my seat belt button and said, “ok, you’re out of Jerusalem, you don’t need this anymore.” We drove on the road that skirts the wall, and I saw numerous settlements. AY said, “The Israelis build these, but no one lives in them! Maybe one or two families.” We passed an Arab community where cars cannot go because the road leading in there, which passes under the road we were on, was filled with rubble ostensibly for security. Now, people have to park somewhere and hike into their community. We headed toward Jericho (?) and turned right to what AY called an Israeli Check Point. The Arabic sign at the check point said Ahlan wa Shalan. AY told me that we would pass without problems because he has yellow plates and he said, “They think I am Russian or something.” He is pale and has beautiful blue eyes. He also had a car with 3 Western women. A soldier looked in the car after AY said Shalom to him, and we were waved though. AY told me that if I were muhajabee, or looked Arab, we would have been there all night.

AY drove us up to the Mount of Olives and we looked down on Jerusalem on one side, and Jordan on the other. He took me to my hotel. I thanked him and said good night to J2 and A. Again, I tried to write while my roommate continued talking to me.

Sunday I was up early to avoid further conversation and get to the Dome of the Rock before we had to head back to Amman at noon. A and J2 met me at my hotel and we walked over. After going through a few security checks we emerged on the platform and I saw the Al-Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock. At this point I did get choked up a bit. Not because I was over come with religious emotion, but because I thought of my friends in Jordan who were excited about me visiting since they cannot. One friend here told me, “I wish I could go with you and see Jerusalem,” another asked me to bring a rock or something so he could have a little piece of the city. The profound religious experience is lost on me, but it would not be on my Palestinian friends here, and the profound sadness of this is not lost on me. Even with many troubling visas, I was allowed to go just because I was born in Washington D.C. What is wrong with this world? I took a billion pictures and a few rocks. The entrance into the Dome of the Rock was opened. I looked in. What an amazing place, and I feel lucky that I was able to see it. Tonight I will tell one friend about it, and give him some gifts I got his family in Jerusalem.

At noon the group came back together and we boarded our A/Ced bus and headed back to Jordan. This gave us one more opportunity for us to see that horrible Wall. My roommate knew nothing about the wall. She didn’t even know it existed. What an ideal state citizen!

We headed down below sea level to get stamps and forms. My passport was not stamped, though I told them they could. I have no evidence in my passport of my visit. Just as well, I guess. The others in the group asked to make sure their passports were not stamped as well. The Israeli security ladies asked each person “Why?” The answer each gave was that they might want to visit Syria some day. Oh, sure, that will happen. The same women who had NO IDEA that there are nasty things happening in the West Bank, who told me she is “miffed” when she wants to buy something from a Jordanian and he doesn’t speak English, she is going to keep the Syria option open. Excuse me if I’m skeptical.

It was hot in the Ghour! We headed out of the valley up into a much cooler Amman. J2 and I (after much argument with the bus driver) jumped out at the Air Port Road and took a taxi home.

Now it is nice and cool in Amman. I’m so glad. It was awful last week.

As I look over my pictures I have such mixed reactions to each one. I thought I would never go over there. I didn’t want to go and support what I consider to be a military occupation. But, my Palestinians friends here have in this year encouraged me to go and see for myself how people live there. It was as bad as I expected. When we entered Qalandia I could hear J2 and A sitting in the back of the car expressing horror at what they saw. I just sat there undaunted. I’ve spent 10 months documenting misery now. When I see mobs of people sitting outside of their small houses I think things like, I bet that guy over there is a wicked-good backgammon player. My perspective on this is not fresh enough to know if the people who live in the misery we came to see can also see it. I’m sure they can’t always ignore it. Those kinds of living situations produce a collective misery. Once misery is transformed from an individual experience to a community experience, I think observers loose the individual in that sea.

Jerusalem is a beautiful city. It struck me that Arabs and Israelis live together because they kind of have to at this point. I didn’t enter a single Palestinian-owned shop that wasn’t stocked with Jewish and Israeli souvenirs (i.e. caps that said “Israeli Army”, or Star of David jewelry). They need each other. And, they make it work. As individuals, people can come to an understanding. I saw Jewish Israelis conduct business with, and share genuine friendship with Palestinians. I come away from my very limited time there believing that the governments are the culprits there. I guess I’m not entirely surprised. A few evil people with the power to govern folks like my oblivious roommate is all that seems to be necessary for violence and oppression to continue.

So Far...

2007-06-28T15:41:00.000+03:00

September:

October:

November:

December:

January:

February:

March:

April:

May:

June:

and This

July is pending.

Before & After

2007-06-21T00:19:00.000+03:00

19 June 2007:

20 June 2007:

Notice anything different? Our power went out tonight. It came back within 5 minutes, but not so for the people to the right of the University.

I took this on the 19th as well:

Friday

2007-06-15T22:35:00.000+03:00

One Lap Around Jordan

2007-06-14T09:23:00.000+03:00

This week I went on a driving tour of Jordan. Not that we quite meant to, but…

J was heading to Wadi Musa to take supplies to M and her crew there who are excavating a Nabatian cemetery. S and F asked if they could tag along, as I had also done and J graciously obliged. As J and I were waiting to take off we overheard C, an American who just arrived in Jordan a few days ago, asking about directions to the town of Mu’ta. C has had a sucky couple of days. She arrived in Jordan, but her luggage is still in Detroit. Then, the person who was supposed to pick her up never did. Having thoroughly explored the airport, she found her way to Amman. The woman who failed to send someone to fetch her at the airport then told her to take a bus to Mu’ta, somewhere in the middle of Jordan. Mu’ta is south of Amman, so it’s sorta on the way to Wadi Rum. We offered her a ride, and picked up the boys at the Safeway.

Off and running we wound our way through Wadi Mujib and up to the Karak plateau. We stopped in Karak for lunch where C called the dig director. This woman had her phone switched off! By luck C reached a person who was working at the excavation where C was headed and this person informed the director that C would need to be picked up. Now, we were in Karak still, and had a while before reaching Mu’ta.

Mu’ta is a very small town in Jordan. It didn’t take us long to explore Mu’ta, which was a shame since we waited there for about 90 minutes for the dig director to show up. This didn’t just suck because Mu’ta is a drag. It sucked because I’ve never been to Wadi Rum, and I reckoned this would be my only time and I wanted to see the sun set. By the time the director showed up it was about 4:30, and we were still quite far from Wadi Rum. We delivered C to the director, and wished her luck. Mu’ta was not so bad, though. Many Mu’tanians (?) came to visit with us while we sat on the steps of a sweet shop. I take it they don’t see too many tourists there. I purchased 3 liters of water, and two ice creams for half a dinar! It was nice to be somewhere that didn’t drain my money.

Moving on to Wadi Rum. We arrived with enough time to see the sun set there. However, we were smote again. Wadi Rum is set up such that tourists cannot drive into the park. There is a gate with dudes who tell people this. We had a truck full of archaeological equipment and a letter from the Department of Antiquities stating that we had the right to pass and drop off our stuff. In other words, they were instructed in this letter to allow us to 1) drive in, 2) without paying for a ticket. Ha! J was driving and when the 7 men working there saw us they asked us where we’re from. She told them and then they said they needed one of us to come in and fill out paperwork and one of us would buy a ticket. She said No way! They jerked us around for a good 30 minutes. We called M, the lady waiting for her truck of supplies. She lives in the Village there, and we got her out of the shower to drive up to the gate. The entire time the men were telling J that she needed to go inside and fill out paperwork and the whole time she refused. Gosh, boredom is bad for men. Once they saw an angry-looking M emerge from her truck they changed their tune and told her that J was causing problems and they didn’t know why since there was no problem. I missed Wadi Rum at sunset! M graciously bought us dinner from the local restaurant while S, F and I sat and drank their Pepsi’s. While they were away some of the neighbors came over and told us that they needed some sort of paperwork from M indicating how many people would be staying in the house and for how long. Not that they need to know, it’s not their house. I pretended not to understand them. I told them in English that they needed to speak English because I didn’t understand. Very effective.

Exhausted by the Rum-treatment, we ate dinner and departed, stopping at the gate to let the men there know that we were not staying and didn’t not enjoy anything there. By this time the truck was as tired as us, and all the dash lights kept coming on. The 4 of us decided this was all for nothing and drove down to Aqaba, about 40 minutes away. It was HOT my friends. We got a hotel room at about midnight with a sub-par A/C. At 03:30 J called downstairs and asked them to send up a magician who could make it work. It never did, but we slept anyway because we were so ‘effin tired. We had a lovely breakfast the next morning and then picked up the boys at the McDonalds. We wanted to leave Aqaba before it was too late in the day because of the heat. Our truck was sans A/C.

We drove up the Desert Highway to Ma’an. I have wanted to see the train station there for sometime. There is an Ottoman train station that is part of the Hijaz railway, and I’ve heard that the Kingdom is going to restore the station. It is adjacent to a small university surrounded by olive trees. It was really quite beautiful. The station was closed off, so I only got to see it through a fence. It took us quite a while to find the place. It’s at the eastern-most edge of the town and we stopped 2 times (or once?) to ask for directions. We decided to send S to ask figuring that he was the most expendable of the group. Ma’an has a bit of a turbulent history, you see, and I was a tad nervous. But it turns out they like Canadians there! People were quite friendly. Two men walking around the train station stopped us and chatted very briefly. People seemed curious about our presence, but everything was great.

So, on to Shawbak! Another place I’ve never been. Finding it was a bit tricky because there are signs indicating that we should go straight toward Wadi Musa, and then the signs stop. Turns out someone forgot to put up the very important Turn-Right-Here sign. Again we stopped and asked for directions. Shawbak is beautiful, and free to visit! We wandered around for quite a while. S and F went pretty far down into one of the stair cases that leads underground to the water supply. It’s absolutely dark down there, so I chickened out quite early.

We headed north back to Amman and dropped the boys off near 7th circle. From there we were on the road to Abdoun and J and I continued on to Java U for good coffee, sandwiches, and a nice, shaded patio. We returned exhausted. It was really fun, though! (Even though I didn’t get to see Wadi Rum in the daylight.)

The Performance of Foreign Identity

2007-06-07T12:43:00.000+03:00

I have been thinking a lot this week about an artist that Miss Carousel wrote about recently named Marina Abramovic. Miss C explained that Abramovic set 72 objects out and told the audience they could use them as they wished on her. Items included paint, glue, and a loaded gun. Miss C wrote, “… it revealed the power dynamics around bodies that are often covered or unspoken, yet delimit women's lives. The power dynamic between the artist as a willing passive object for the audience began as subtle, playful exchange and became aggressive behavior that eventually ‘required’ intervention from other audience members who ‘got’ what was going on.” What makes me happy about this is that Abramovic is still alive. This is because although people will quite often put the gun to her head, total strangers in the audience are willing to stand up to a person with a weapon and speak out against violence. What intrigues me about this is that Abramovic reveals the extent to which we broker our own power every day with every person with whom we come into contact. Once we allow ourselves to become “willing passive object[s]” we give others the power to kill us, or to let us die. By putting an event like this in a performance venue, Abramovic forces people to confront their complicity both in ignoring suffering and contributing to happiness. But when these events are not part of a public performance somehow our role becomes invisible. And that is what has stuck with me. The objects in her performance are not from another world; they are common and surround us constantly. Thus, we all occupy the somewhat terrifying role she does in her performance. In other words, we are all featured in this very performance all the time. Is she ultimately arguing that people who are willing, passive objects are more likely to incur pain?

Before reading about Abramovic I was struggling to understand my experiences as a foreigner. Once I realized that it is a performance just as Abramovic’s, I began to wrestle with my own agency in an effort to avoid feeling like a passive object. Initially, being a foreigner made me into a person who empathized with furniture. I know very well what it is like to be installed in a room so people can come and look at me, criticize my appearance, and pronounce judgment on me all while I am mute. But this was largely my fault. If I am to be that passive, it is a matter of time before someone puts a gun to my head. And this is where my performance finally deviates from Abramovic’s; I learned far too late into this that I am in a performance, and that I have a role that is actually distinguishable from the role of an armchair.

This is important because I realized back in January that I needed to contest the way I was being hyper-sexualized. Ironically, the most sex-less year in my adult life has been steeped in near-constant discussion of sex. In fact, I now believe that as an American associated with the circle of people that I am, my sexuality is a gloss for my national identity. It is not a role I am interested in performing for the very conservative people I know here, and yet it is a role they seem to insist I occupy. It isn’t vicious on their part. They are doing the best they can to understand me based on the limited knowledge they have about American women, but I find it exhausting.

In the past few months I have adopted a strategy that I’ve found to be very effective at shutting these uncomfortable discussions down. I simply turn their words or actions back on them. For example, one very religious man I know here seems to be obsessed with the fact that I live in Jordan and my husband lives in California. He never misses an opportunity to tell me that I am responsible for ruining my family. About 2 months ago he told me one evening that my husband is certainly having sex with a lot of women because I am not with him. I told him it only seemed fair to me since I was also having sex with a lot of women here in Jordan. He got absolutely saucer-eyed, and backed out of the room. He did not speak to me for a month. When he finally did we had a wonderful discussion about cars, and sex has not been brought up since. Simply telling him that I didn’t want to discuss my sex life was not sufficient. It was only when I equated my desire for sex with his assumptions about my husbands desire for sex that he understood my willingness to embarrass him by acknowledging that I’m a sexual being. By making the performance as uncomfortable for him as it had been for me, the whole thing concluded and now we have “normal” conversations about food or politics or soccer. Another example: women here will constantly adjust my clothing to cover my arms or neck more thoroughly. One time a woman started to push my bangs out of my face. As she did so she told me that this was better because with hair in my face I looked like a prostitute. I asked her to stop touching my hair, but she continued. I reached around her and began to pull her hijab off. She shrieked and let go of me to plant her hands on her head. I told her she’d be more comfortable if she just took off her hijab, and that she looked like a child with it on. She stared very intensely at me for a long time, and then said simply, “ok, I understand now.” Consensus reached!

For a while I thought it was just me, but it is not. I had an interesting discussion with B, a Canadian who is here for several weeks as a volunteer teacher. She was invited by a friend/co-worker to East Amman for the weekend. B’s co-worker said something along the lines of, “I want my friends and family to meet you because you’re a Canadian who is actually moral!” Again, here is the performance of nationality, and it collides uncomfortably with sexuality. I wonder if B’s friend could imagine B saying to her, “I want you to come to B.C. and meet my friends and family because I want them to meet a Muslim who doesn’t want to kill westerners, ahey?” B is amazing and seems to have held her own. A few days with a Jordanian family means lots of great food, lots of laughter and coffee, and no sleep. She was grilled by friends and family about her personal life, and perhaps in that time she showed them that it is no more reasonable to assume that all westerners are “immoral” than it is to assume that all Muslims are suicide bombers. We have so much to learn about each other.

But the common thread here is sexuality. This is the one currency in which we all deal, albeit quite differently.

I’ve been having an argument with a friend here about a minimum age for marriage. He argues that it is ok to marry “a girl” as long as she has had her period, even if she is 9 years old, for example. I strongly disagree. What I realize from this discussion is that to my friend, a Woman is defined by her ability to give birth. To me, a woman is a female person who has either a certain level of education or sufficient tacit cultural knowledge such that she can make intelligent decisions about her own destiny. There is no way a 9 year old would qualify as a Woman in my world. But, of course that would be my definition, I have no children. By my friend’s definition, I’m not really a woman. No wonder everyone here needs to discuss my sex life. I am a foreign woman who harbors the threat of a foreigner’s sexuality, and yet I’m not quite a woman. Sometimes I know that men here just want to talk about sex with me. But sometimes I think that, at least among my conservative friends, the constant discussion about my sexuality is their way of contesting my perceived asexuality, something that may be more threatening than foreign sexuality.

Additionally, for the women I know here, discussions about sexuality provide them the means to demonstrate to me that they are not children. Further, if we just discuss “sexuality” they are avoiding discussing The Act directly, thus preserving their modesty while simultaneously demonstrating their maturity. I understand that often when we discuss Sexuality we are really discussing Sex, but I think it’s not important to harbor on this with them. The ways in which women here broker their sexuality/gender identity is really ingenuous even though it has often been directed at insulting me. But among my friends consensus is important, and it is achieved by argument. When I fail to engage in the argument I am often demoted to Child Status, thus further throwing into conflict my Identity. The insults are intended, most of the time, to provoke me to behave as an adult. This is why I stand behind my policy of mimicking their actions and words as I already described.

Ironically, if I’ve earned any Respect here, it has not been from wearing hijab as advertised. It has stemmed from arguing and saying provocative things. Perhaps even more ironic, in the end I’ve had to talk about sex a lot to get people to stop talking about sex. In doing this, I figure I’m feeding the stereotypes many people here have about sex-obsessed westerners. And this is the part I don’t like. My friends are right to adamantly contest the association of Violence with Islam, yet I do not understand how I can contest the conflation of Sex with American Female and retain Adult Status. My best guess at this time is that I should just keep showing up for dinner and demonstrate that I can be here and not have sex with men (or women!), and that I don’t think people here want to kidnap and kill me.

And maybe this is what effective activism looks like.

Qasr Burqu' (قصر برقع)

2007-06-03T15:47:00.000+03:00

Yesterday Miss A, Yo and I went to Qasr Burqu’. This castle is waaaaay out in the eastern desert by way of the Amman to Iraq death-highway. So we (by “we” I mean “Yo”) drove and drove and had nothing but sketchy directions and an apparent willingness to die of thirst or lack of caffeine. We passed by a zillion military guys standing on the side of the road and wondered what was going on until we were buzzed by military jets flying low and doing cool acrobatics. Later we saw stuff blow up in an apparent exercise for important spectators. Cool.

We passed through Azraq and headed toward the Iraqi border.

Eventually we passed though a town affectionately named “Pump Station H5” on our map and continued further east to Ruweished. From there we were to take a dirt road north-ish. There was actually a sign posted which indicated the precise dirt road we should take! With that, Miss A jumped into the back of the truck and we headed north on a dirt road passing several Bedouin tents and a cemetery. About 30 minutes later Yo spotted a basalt nubbin protruding from the landscape. I must admit that at this point I was a bit alarmed that we had found it, and that it would suck. Once we actually drove up to the castle we could see how nifty it really it. It wasn’t even ungodly hot yet. It was quiet and beautiful out there. The castle is in bad shape, and there is plenty of graffiti, but it’s still a cool site. We walked around for a while and climbed all over the rubble. Before we sat down for some hummus we took a group picture:
And then a Weewah-style picture:

After lunch we drove into Ruweished, currently home to displaced Iraqis.
Ruweished, as far as we could tell, has no inhabitants over 10 years old. We drove up to a gas station for some Solar and saw the que of trucks obviously heading for Iraq. We cut ahead of them, and several kids gathered around to talk with us and fuel up the truck. They wanted to know if we are tourists and if we’re going to the border. All that sort of stuff. Having fueled up, and feeling thankful that none of the truck drivers we cut off tried to kill us, we headed back to Pump Station H5.

We were trying to find the site of Jawa, but instead we traveled on a dirt road until we about reached Syria, and then turned back. On the way back to the highway we came across three men standing looking at a car with it’s hood up. We offered them a ride to the town, but they said they were ok. It was a long walk, I hope they got their car running. So instead of finding Jawa we marveled at the amount of cairns out in the desert. There is so much human modification to the desert, and all of it indicates boredom, I think. It’s really beautiful out there. We headed back to Azraq and had coffee and sheesha at our now-preferred truck stop/coffee shop. After much sitting and smoking we decided to eat at Huston’s in Shemansani (sp?). We were all jonesing for Mexican food. I don’t drink any more, but Yo and Miss A seemed to enjoy the margaritas there as well. What an amazing day!

We left at 06:30 and returned at 21:30. I slept very well last night.

Next Saturday to Ma’an?

Independence Weekend

2007-05-27T10:07:00.000+03:00

What a weekend!

On Friday I went with C and B to the Turkish Bath here in Amman. This was my first time visiting the hamam, and it was a wonderful experience. We went to Jebel Amman and walked through the Friday Jara Souk before walking to the Bath. It’s right around the corner from the souk. Women may go in the morning/afternoon, and men in the afternoon/evening. We arrived at 1. We got into bathing suits and were installed in the steam room. It was intensely hot in there, but after about 5 minutes a woman arrived with three glasses of slushy-frozen karkade. It was so good! From the steam room we showered and then waited in a Jacuzzi until a woman was available to scrub us. The woman who called me from the spa was standing next to a marble table that I jumped up on. As I did she said, “You’re from America?” I told her Yes, to which she replied, “Take off your top!” It was not as much of a non sequitur as it sounds, but in retrospect it seems hysterical. She got a luffa and scrubbed almost everything. I was worried it would hurt a bit, but it didn’t. Back to the showers and then for a massage. It was so relaxing. After that we sat in the steam room some more and had another wonderful karkade tea before heading to the showers to get all the oil out of our hair. After we were all cleaned and dressed again we sat in a little lounge. Here they served us delicious coffee and water. This is also where the women working hung out and smoked while waiting to scrub or massage someone. Typical to the Jordanian division of labor, many of the women working there were South East Asian. The women who scrub are Arab, and the women who massage are Asian. What was nice was watching the women sit with each other and smoke and gossip. The Asian women spoke Arabic, and the freely mingled and laughed together. It was also strange for me to watch the Arab women who worked there come into the lounge dressed in abayas and hijab; in the hamam we were in bathing suits, but just to go out into the public part of the building where there was a male receptionist, the women would cover. I didn’t recognize two of them until they came back moments later and stripped back down to their bathing suits. The lounge also served as a necessary space in which to prepare to go back out into the world. We spent hours there, and it helped to sit in a nice room with laughing women before we departed. I’ve never felt so clean in all my life. At 20 JD, it’s a bargain! So, that was how I spent Independence Day in Jordan.

Yesterday I went with Yo and W to the Eastern Desert. We drove the ultra-safe Amman to Azraq highway. We arrived in Azraq fairly early after stopping in Amman for coffee. In search of Bronze Age stuff, we walked around a basalt flow where there were cairns of some sort. There were tons of possibly Epi-Paleolithic lithics around, but no gold. We continued on toward Saudi from Azraq.
We encountered many, many camels along the way. Yesterday I saw the most camels here I’ve ever seen in Jordan. I know this is shameless Orientalist iconography, but camels are so cute to me.

Our off-roading added some decorative pin stripes to the truck. Here is Yo admiring his work. We also saw a Roman Fort in the middle of no where. Evidently dozer drivers all over the world are idiots. Someone drove a dozer up this hill and seriously undermined the hill on which this fort sits. So much archaeology here is plundered in search of “dahab” but this is a new level of destruction. There were other holes all around this site. Nope, no gold, just massive damage to the archaeology. I’ll see if I can find this place on Google Earth. I’m sure some of the pits will show up.

We went off road in search of Qasr Tuba, an Umayyad castle that was never completed. It was pretty cool. It was one heck of a time finding the place. It’s a good 5 kilometers on a dirt road marked by a sign the size of a CD jewel case. Somehow, though, we found it. We had wonderful hummus there which we graciously shared with the flies. Later a Bedouin guy arrived. Before we left the area he'd found a cool place to hang out.

Here is my favorite picture of Yo and W. W seems to present many opportunities to photograph his back side.

It was a fun weekend!

Assadapoluzza

2007-05-23T16:29:00.000+03:00

So a few of us were casually having beverages on the lanai the other evening when a resident here mentioned that she had a Syrian visa, but had not been and thought she might not be able to go before returning to the States. Under the spell of St. Frances, I suggested we depart the next morning.

Her and I took a taxi to Damascus. It took me 2.25 hours to get a visa (a new record!) and we were in Damascus in time for site seeing and dinner. We spent three days in the Old City. My companion, a professor at a university in the States, graciously paid for almost everything fully aware of my status as a grad student. She was a perfect traveling companion for me. I need coffee often, and I like to walk a lot, and then sit in a café a lot, and then look at lots of stuff, but not have a ridged schedule. I enjoyed every moment.

Syria is about to have another election soon, and Damascus was plastered with Assad pictures and posters. The radio had patriotic songs in both English and Arabic about how much Syrians love Bashar. Posters said things in Arabic such as, “We are with you Assad,” or “With our love.” There were posters on top of posters behind banners surrounded with portraits. Just in case you missed anything, a truck drove around the streets of Damascus with illuminated posters of Assad. Stunning. One interesting series of billboards features a picture of a western-dressed woman with an English caption: I Believe in Freedom.

So now I’ve seen the Old City in the Fall and in the Spring.

I purchased shoes sure to make K’s eyes roll. The man who sold me the shoes was watching TV when we walked into his store. On the TV was Jordanian nationalism. A woman dressed like a fire fighter was singing about Abdullah while the images shifted between her singing and Abdullah riding tanks, or watching military parades. I was prepared to pay big for these shoes. The man charged me 4 USD for them. I should have bought 10 pairs! He was very kind.

We made it back yesterday around 4 in the afternoon. It was really fun and only a little hot. I reckon this will be my last trip there for a long time, and I’m glad it was so nice. Once again the people and the food and the shopping were outstanding. Wonder how the election will turn out…

Worth

2007-05-16T22:28:00.000+03:00

What is a human worth? Yesterday, the 15th of May, is the day that Palestinians remember as the Nakba. It is the day in 1948 that they suffered an injustice for which there has been little comfort. It was also my birthday. It was a day I spent in Amman with a Palestinian friend who was born in Kuwait, came to Jordan during the first Gulf War, and has never been permitted to visit Nablus. It was also a day he and I drove around West Amman and saw cars filled with young folks waving graduation caps in the air. It was raining, but young men and women were nevertheless squished out of windows and sunroofs screaming and smiling. It was a day that I could not stop thinking about the Emirates flight from Dubai to Amman on which I watched a man head for first class while he sent his wife and children to economy class. It was a day during which I wrote an uninspired account of my time in Iran. It was uninspired because there was so much more I should have told you. I should have told you that the women were as kind as feisty, and yet they live in a country where the cash-value placed on their lives is 50% of the value for a man. I should have told you that Iran didn’t seem exotic at all to me, and that I didn’t look at the U.S. State Department [of irrational fear] Travel Warnings for the Islamic Republic of Iran until today. And when I did look, I laughed out loud. Yesterday was a day that a friend and I jumped out of a moving Ammani taxi because the driver kept yelling “Bedoun falouse!” at us, and we told him “I7na aydon! Hella, khlass!” But he didn’t khlass, and I don’t feel obliged to be a bank, or sit in economy while my husband sits in first class, or to scream from inside of my car just because it’s raining, or to pretend that my life may only be worth 20,000 USD if my husband’s is worth 40,000 USD. It was a day that J and I stood in the street between Abdali and the Balid laughing at her ability to attract the most insane taxi drivers in this country. It was dusk, we needed to find another ride, we had no macaroons, and we would not have wanted it to be any other way.

The suffering I have seen here has taught me that my life is worth what I say it is, ‘cause Allah knows no one else should be expected to value me. One Jordanian woman who went to Iran with me is a widow who acted like an obnoxious child for much of the trip. I was intrigued with her immediately, and I spent two weeks trying to understand what motivated her. Here is what I think: In addition to the fact that suffering seems to be feminized in Jordan (it seems to be both required and encouraged in women), it is also for many women the only (or the most affordable?) form of female agency. Complaining is the one thing a woman can control, and it is an effective negotiation strategy. As a widow, this woman has no husband to listen and try and accommodate her desire for a different hotel room, or a different meal, or more A/C. And in a world where we can be sent to economy class, and where we are worth literally half that of a man, she needs to be loud to be heard at all. Did she get on her own nerves? I doubt it. Did she get everything out of the trip that she wanted? I reckon she did. Mabrook ya Okhtee.

I grew up in a society where people get recognition even when they do not merit this. Where all the kids on a baseball team get a trophy, even if the team totally sucks. I guess it is a place where our self worth comes from external sources. Only one Jordanian has ever praised me, and only once. She told me I pronounce the ‘ain well for a foreigner. I almost began to weep. Until that moment I had only been told bad things about me. I think that power comes from this quotient; it is derived from this weird space where what we want to be valued for butts up against what others value us for. We have to negotiate this. How do we do this? Why do we do this? I’m bent out of shape because people won’t drop it with the not-having-kids thing. Yet, I didn’t have to leave my nice apartment with 3 well-tuned air conditioners one morning in Kuwait and come to Jordan and begin a life as a very poor and unwelcome taxi driver. Sometimes I mistake Luck for Worth.

Then I think about Justice. I had to wear the Hijab in Iran. I wore modest clothing. I thought that men would not say things to me they should not, as frequently happens in Jordan. Jordanians have lined up to tell me that if I wore a scarf I “would get respect, and feel more comfortable.” So, I wore the scarf, and a few men still said stupid things that horney men sometimes say to women. So, I complained to the Jordanians on this trip, and they revised their argument and told me that I will never get much respect because I’m an American, and “look at Shakira.” Who? Now that’s power. Shakira has the ability to determine my level of respect in Tehran and Amman. (She’s still only worth 20K, just like me.) But, is this really a lack of Justice? Or is it only if I let it become that? When dealing with inappropriate men in Jordan I take Foucault’s advice and opt-out. I ignore them.

But some things cannot be ignored. Just as I laughed last night, and enjoyed falafel, and coffee, and lightening, and being surrounded by happy people who had at least one evening to feel like their future is bright, I have seen a lot of sadness for which there are neither appropriate words nor excuses. I saw a woman endure a difficult birth in her own bed because her husband refused to take her to a hospital even though he had money. I am watching a woman be disowned by her family because her husband will take a second wife against her family’s wishes (and, frankly, against hers as well). I sat with a 20 year-old who wept when her parents told her that she would marry “a good man.” When her and I were alone she begged me to take her to the States because she said that she will be in the Naqab after marriage, and she said this is not her desire. I watched a taxi driver get into an accident that was obviously not his fault, but the rich person who hit him insulted him and insisted he would never give the taxi driver a single Dinar. I cannot even count how many men and women I have met with M.A. degrees who live in the Camps here.

And yet, most Jordanians have taught me the importance of loving the little things, and deriving my value on my own. Now, my worth is self-contained, if self-generated. I have also learned to see dignity and beauty where it is least likely to blossom. I sat with a family in one of the Camps here recently, and we had tea (that was all they had for dinner), and watched kids play soccer and beat the crap out of each other. An upcoming wedding was planned (for which there really is very little funding). One girl practiced her English with me, and later called me to tell me that she passed an important exam (though her mother told me that because she is Palestinian they can’t afford University tuition). Act as if you have dignity, and perhaps you do even when all the Earthly world seems to be acting against you. Derive pleasure from watching kids play soccer, or having an awesome falafel sandwich from a shop on Marka Street, and perhaps your day will seem just fine.

Worth isn’t a thing. It’s a coping skill. And it is one that people here have mastered.

Iran: Axis of Ish?

2007-05-15T10:07:00.000+03:00

Good Allah, where did these last two weeks go? I think just about 7 minutes ago I was headed to Tehran via Dubai. And now I’m back. I returned yesterday morning at 10:30 after spending a sleepless night at the Dubai International Airport. I arrived there at midnight the night before, and it was 35 degrees Celsius at that time!

When I learned of a possible opportunity to visit Iran a few months ago I decided to worm my way in and see if it really could happen. Somehow, the day before we left for Iran, the Iranian-Jordanian woman who “invited” me got me a visa from the embassy in Amman. So off I went with two other Americans, an Irish woman, an Australian and about 25 Jordanians. Our flight left Amman quite behind schedule, and we didn’t arrive in Tehran until the sun was coming up on the 2nd of May. The airport there is like Amman’s: it’s a bit out of the city. On the way into Tehran we drove past Imam Khomeini’s shrine and the large mosque complex being built around it. P told us that her mother is buried at the cemetery adjacent to the mosque.

The Jordanians who had not visited Iran before said they were nervous about kidnapping and terrorism. It struck us Westerners as ironic that Jordanians were having the same conversation about Iran that we’d had about Jordan at some point in our lives. In a way, I think we were more prepared than they were. The 5 of us have been in Jordan between 8 months and 2 years now. We are used to living in a country where we suck with the language, where things are foreign and thus unpredictable, and where we stand out because of how we appear or how we speak. In addition, most of the women on the trip (in their 50s, 60s and 70s) had never worn the hijab! Required by law in Iran for all women over age 9, I think we all found it a burden, especially in the hot southern cities. Certainly we all felt our foreignness.

I must admit that the Lonely Planet I picked up made me less excited about the trip with each page. The LP made Iran sound like a bleak place where people occupy their time oppressing one another, inventing scams to defraud tourists, and drive as though they have no reason to live or let live. Before I read the LP, I figured as much. I assumed that Iran would be bleak and stark because of its isolation. Now, I did have to go with a tour, and they did not take us to unhappy places of course. Still, the beauty and sheer creative spirit of Iranians was a welcome if shocking surprise. What I mean is that instead of living a stripped down, Cold War kind of life as a result of sanctions, Iranians have simply made what they need in-house. The result is a unique and vibrant country. Tehran seemed to me a combination of the vibrancy of Beirut with the safety of Amman. Iran is not in need for cash or water (I am guessing), and the abundant and immaculate public green spaces continually reinforced this. Iranians in all the cities we visited took advantage of the beautiful weather and blooming plants to picnic. In fact, I don’t think it’s a controversial statement to say that Iran is a country of professional-grade picnickers. I tossed the LP in my suitcase after only 2 days and didn’t consult it again. Still, even on our contained and highly-produced tour I could sense that there was an undercurrent of oppression. But, we neither felt nor saw too much of it. So rather than try to analyze the culture and politics of Iran I’ll tell you what I saw and what we did, and I’ll add that every single person I met was extremely kind to me. I told all but one who asked where I’m from, and the response of the Iranians was to welcome me, and to thank me for coming to see their country. (The only person I fibbed to was the security woman at the Khomeini shrine in Tehran. I felt a sudden desire to obscure my origins when I was standing in a crucifixion position being patted down by this un-smiling woman.)

We spent our first few days in Tehran touring gardens and palaces and rug shops and eating great food. We went to the Shaw’s house, we drove around neighborhoods that reminded me of Alta Dena, we ate saffron ice cream, we listened to the carpet-sellers speeches over and over. 141 knots per square centimeter, that’s the maximum a carpet can have. I will take this knowledge to my grave! Some Jordanians bargained and bargained, but then said Khlass, and walked away. Others spent 10,000 USD on 1 or 2 pieces. We split off into our cliques, but still mingled at meal times or as we walked through gardens. A few of the Jordanians took an interest in my Arabic studies. One never again spoke English to me once he learned that I’m trying to learn, one indulged all of my lame questions, and one who spent time helping me increase my vocabulary cracked me up because he would only ask one question at each site we went to: “Do they have a unisex (fill in noun here)?” A unisex loo, a unisex garden, a unisex rug shop. For some reason, it made me laugh every time this nice, 70 year-old Jordanian man would ask such an absurd question! B is the kind of man who wears formal shirts and slacks every day of the year, even when we went to Persepolis and it was ungodly hot. So, he caught me off guard the first time he told me to come and sit next to him. He said, “Come sit here! I’m a 70 year-old man, nothing is going to pop out of my pants. Now let’s speak in Arabic…” Very funny and great man to have on trips like this.

This is Golistan Palace in Tehran. It was our first of many garden visits. I must admit, I never tired of the gardens in Iran. The only thing that could improve them is if they had kids running around with thermoses of coffee like we have in Jordan. Forget the whale liver, this would be my paradise. We cruised all around Tehran with our amazing bus drivers, Yosef and Rasoul. We went to a carpet museum and marveled at all the young women who must have gone blind making amazing silk rugs. We went to a museum where they rooms filled with glittering furniture topped with pictures of important historical figures (?!).We drove on and I saw my first anti-American iconography. I was reticent to snap a picture, but the image was of an American flag on the side of a tall building. On top of the flag was a rainstorm of missiles, which became skulls as they neared the bottom of the building. Below that it said “Down with America and Israel.” It actually made me laugh. Not because I don’t believe there are people who sincerely subscribe to this, but because this to me is no different from Bush and his mantra of “We have to fight them there so they don’t follow us home,” or what ever he says. Our first hotel was close to the American Den of Espionage. It was exciting to be in a place where so much intense history had occurred in my lifetime.

After 3 days in Tehran we headed north to the Caspian Sea. I liked this part of the trip a lot, but I was evidently in the minority. We winded through mountains covered in newly green trees and wild flowers. There were rivers running along side of us. They were muddy, and I assume this is because there was a lot of rain a few days before and there were catastrophic problems with flooding. In fact, as we drove into the areas of rice cultivation I could see edges of once-square rice fields had been torn away by the water. By this point one of the Jordanians with an insatiable need for attention had discovered that she could “sing”/scream into the microphone without restriction. As we drove through the most amazing forests I’ve ever seen she was standing at the front of the bus yelling into an amplification device. Our time in the north was filled with complaints from most of the Jordanians that “we are seeing nothing!” An interesting cultural difference, I guess. Undisturbed nature = nothing. Development = something.
There were little villages here and there. We stopped and had coffee in one. There was a woman who crocheted beautiful shawls and sold them in her little grocery store. In Ramsar where we stayed, there were hot springs and lots of parks filled with curious school children. It was in Ramsar that an Iranian first asked me where I’m from. I told her I’m American and she got wide-eyed and asked, “Really?!?” Yes. She stood frozen for a moment and then reached out and touched my face as if to check that I’m real. She put her hand out to shake mine and said, “Welcome to Iran, we are honored that you are here.” She was the only one who spoke any English, so it was up to her to tell the others who had since gathered that I’m American. One by one they touched my face and then asked to have a picture taken with me. This happened everywhere we went, in fact. I quickly developed a routine. When asked by a woman, I would take her hand, smile really big and say, “I’m from America.” In return she would smile really big and ask me my opinion on Iran and the Iranian people. Every person I spoke to in the last 2 weeks wanted to know what I think about Iranian people. These are the exchanges that give me hope and the ability to sleep at night. Simple human contact can do so much to undo the “we have to fight them there…” and the “down with the USA” stuff. Human kindness makes borders irrelevant.

Our too-brief visit to the village of Masuleh was one of the highlights of the trip for me. They have a nice museum with a cute boy working there. They had a post card from San Francisco inexplicably displayed at the entrance. The village is precariously built into the steep mountains that surround them, and a river runs through the middle of the town. I can’t imagine how much it must snow there! On the drive from Masouleh to Rasht we were surrounded by rice fields and families picnicking. Everyone was enjoying the watermelons that were abundantly available. All the families that saw our bus pass by waved to us and smiled. I found the north to be restful and serene. In Rasht we had dinner and a walk. One Jordanian and several of us ex-pats walked along a street that looked like Portland Oregon. A couple stopped to talk with us. The man wanted to practice English, but upon learning my nationality wanted to know all about my perceptions of Iran. We talked and talked. He eventually helped H negotiate her purchase of some gold earrings. We said good night to them, and walked on. I was sad to leave Rasht. The city is beautiful, and the cookies are great too. They sell these wonderful biscuits filled with warm nut-meal mixed with honey. I bought 7 of these sweet (and filling) cookies for about 1 USD. I lived on those for the next few days.

We drove back to Tehran to the “old” airport and flew to Shiraz. Shiraz was overall my favorite place in Iran. Our tour guide told us that they still produce Shiraz in Shiraz, but it is all exported. Can you imagine? Shiraz is where the poet Hafez is buried. Quite close to the Gulf, it was hot there, but not as bad as I thought it would be. By this time it was 35 in Amman, and the airport was closed due to dust storms, so I reckon it was a good time to be in Shiraz! From Shiraz it is about 2 hours to Persepolis. It was quite hot by the time we went, and the Jordanians were not pleased. They spent 20 minutes of our limited time walking up the steps to the city entrance. I split off and walked around by myself because I wanted to see as much as possible. We only had about 2 hours there! I was also able to beat them to the beautiful inscriptions and remaining structures and get lots of pictures with out people in them. I never made it up to the Petra-like structures, but at least I got to see them in person. We drove further north (?) and saw more structures that look like Petra. I should be able to tell you if they are similar in age, and even what they are called, but I can’t. We had very limited time there, and by this point most of the people stayed on the bus to try and recover from their hike around Persepolis.

We flew from Shiraz to Esfhan, or Isfahan. Our tour guide told us not to spend our souvenir money in Shiraz because there was better shopping in Esfhan. I purchased two silk scarves in Shiraz, and I’m glad I did because I found the shopping in Shiraz to be much better. Esfhan, however, is famous for miniatures. Here is the big plaza in Esfhan, and in the bottom right corner is the grand mosque which is oriented to Mecca. We walked around the plaza each day we where there. There is a bazaar at the periphery of the plaza, but as far as I saw they sold tourist kitsch. Esfhan reminded me of Wadi Musa. There were plenty of English-speaking merchants who put forth faux hospitality in order to sell a rug or key chain. What I liked about Esfhan was the river and bridges. On our last night there we had ice cream and walked around one of the bridges. As the sun set I heard a group of men sitting along the water and singing. They were really great! I spent K’s birthday in Esfhan. On that day we went to shops that sell miniatures painted on camel bone. I purchased two for him. Some of the miniatures I saw were dreadful, and some were amazing works of art that were well out of my price range. I was no longer a millionaire by the time we arrived in Esfhan. (It cost me 5 USD to use the internet for 15 minutes at the hotel.) We flew from Esfhan to Tehran, and had a few more days in Tehran before coming back to Jordan. I will say here that Iranian airport security is hit or miss. When I put my bags on the x-ray machine and walked through the metal detector, it beeped. The security woman was plucking her eyebrows, and she turned around to me and asked, “Do you swear to Allah that you have nothing you should not in your bags?” I told her that as far as I knew I had nothing that is disallowed. I took my bags and went though. Later I discovered that I had a box of matches and my pocket knife in my purse!

Back in Tehran again, we saw more tourist sites. Our tour guide told us that the apartment buildings on the left of this picture used to be shaped such that from the air one could read something good about the Shaw. Since the revolution, though, additional building was undertaken to destroy the message. Many people wanted to go to the Jewel Museum. It was quite a process to get in. In a large vault in the basement of a bank, I rushed through the crowded windowless room and sat outside. Too many people in a closed space for me! The jewels are lovely, though. They have miniature paintings on little enameled boxes just like all the things K and I have seen at the V and A. I tried to find a book about the boxes for him, but they only have books about the Peacock Throne and their other big ticket items. Alas. Me and thee others split from the group and headed to the bazaar in Tehran while the others went back to the hotel to check out. The bazaar reminded me of the big souk in Damascus. There were endless isles filled with shoppers and eye candy. We tried to part ourselves with our money. As we were walking through a young man asked me where I’m from. Seeing no other tourists, and quite unsure where I was I was hesitant, but I told him I’m from Los Angeles. He smiled and welcomed me. He told me he was glad that I came to see Iran for myself and he wanted to know what I thought of the country. I told him that everyone had been nothing other than kind and friendly, and that what I saw was exquisitely beautiful. He said he was glad to hear this, and wished me a safe trip back home. Done shopping, and finally having emerged onto the street again, we took a taxi to the Jewel Museum and met the others. From there we headed to the airport.

What I didn’t have was any opportunity to speak with people who are poor and don’t benefit from Iran’s oil money. I didn’t feel a large sense of repression except for the last few hot days when I wanted to rip the hijab off my head and demand that the men around me in t-shirts put on a long-sleeved shirt or get out of my site. At one point some Jordanians were playing cards in a public café and they were told they could not because cards are forbidden. And that’s it. What I will remember fondly about Iran is that the universities are free. They have cheap petrol, but they restrict access. People are given cards which allow them only so many liters per month. So, though it is cheap to drive, people drive small cars that pollute less. I like that a lot. Every day the government announces the prices of produce on TV, and the prices are fixed. A banana costs the same in Shiraz as it does in Rasht (so I’m told). This also means that many things cost the same for tourists as locals, and there was much less hassle for us. Of course even though many things had price tags I still asked to pay less and was always obliged. Iran is very affordable for tourists. In Shiraz I purchased 2 meters of green organza that has beading and embroidery along the edges. It’s beautiful, and it cost me 16 USD! In Esfhan we met a New Zealander who speculated that the reason we saw so few tourists around Iran is because it’s definitely not a party destination. I’m sure the lack of beer is a deterrent for many Westerners. Still, I saw young Iranians in co-ed groups out smoking and eating ice cream. I saw people making out in parks. Many people held hands. Men and women cannot sit together on the bus, but they can work together in a café, and walk alone along the rivers and bridges. I will spend a lot of time trying to understand what I saw. I’m still giddy and honored that I was able to visit. When the man stamped my passport as we prepared to depart I told him “Thank you for letting me visit,” and he said, “Any time!” Not likely. In trying to come to her own understanding about Iran, one Jordanian remarked at her surprise about how nice Iran was. “Iran,” she said to me, “you call it the ‘Axis of ish’?”

ايش؟

2007-04-27T17:41:00.000+03:00

The second decision I made about blogging, after deciding to start one, was to blog using a pseudonym. Conversations like the one I just had remind me why that was such a good decision. I figured there would be times when I wanted to talk about experiences I had with people and not reveal my identity when I immortalize their words on this widely read (not) blog. Said another way, I want to be able to rat people out without ratting myself out. Life is unfair. As one song goes, “sometimes even ponies get sad.”

So let me first remind you that I’ve been to Syria three times on my Jesusland passport. Each time I had no visa. Each time I waited for hours. Each time I was eventually granted a visa. Since then, I’ve been asked by several Americans to explain this process. The latest group was on Wednesday. Two Texan women asked me. I began my speech, and they cut me off pretty quickly. In about two minutes I realized that they are the kind of folks who ask questions, and have no intention of listening to answers. So, I sat there mute for the next 45 minutes while they talked about dating mishaps, nursing, and Republicans. I really thought they would not try to go to Syria, as I took their behavior to indicate lack of interest rather than inability to listen for more than one minute.

Let me pause here and tell you that these two women are with a group from Texans who oppose the war in Iraq. These ladies self-funded to come to Jordan and talk with Iraqis about how much the war sucks. They disclosed to me that their neighbors said awful/stoopid things to them about this trip including: “Those people [Muslims] are heathens, and they need to know the lord, and this war is necessary to civilize them,” and they rightly told their neighbors to go pound sand. They mean well. But, as a graduate student once reminded me, so does cancer. So, here they are in Amman, and they speak no Arabic, and have not a shred of cultural competency, and good intentions won’t fix the latter issue.

This brings me to my general observation about foreigners, mainly Westerners, in Jordan. Generally, there are just a few types of Americans and Europeans that come to Jordan. I watched one subset at Books@Café this morning. They are mostly European, wear jewelry made from large wood beads, smoke, and want the experience of living in a developing country, but without actually engaging directly with any serious and icky issues. Then there are academics who come here because they really care about the serious and difficult problems in the region, and they want to do something about it, but they are in over their heads cultural/linguistic-competency-wise. I read one's blog regularly, and frankly I’m often embarrassed for her at the way she uses dramatic language to politicize a cause that needs no more of that. I’ve met my share of these folks. They like to sit with their Western friends and talk about how many times they’ve been to Jordan, and how they know how to take taxis here, and how once they even went on that tour of some of the camps in Amman, and Gosh, it’s so sad how people live here… What I will call Misery Tourism is both an important component of Western street-cred here, as well as a standard Westerner-in-Jordan right-of-passage that makes no difference to the people who are on display for us to gawk at. And, there are people like my Australian friend who came here to live abroad for a year and try to learn some Arabic. She is low key, grateful and gracious about her time here, but realistic about the problems with this place. I’m no bead-wearing European, but I reckon I’m a combination of the rest.

The Texas ladies are your standard Misery Tourists. They are here for two weeks, and in that time are supposed to glean information about this region and the political problems. For reasons I don’t understand they hired a taxi driver who speaks no English to take them around to tourist sites here. The day after they talked to me, I was having breakfast and one of the Texas ladies, we’ll call her Texan Lady 1 (TL1), came to me accompanied by the taxi driver and asked me to tell him that the following day they wanted to go to Um Qeis and then to the Jaber border crossing into Syria. He was to drop them off there, and how much would that all cost? The follow up question from TL1 was if he understood that this was to be “tomorrow.” Bukra! Mashee! Now let me have my coffee! The following evening my comrades here and I discussed how late they would return to Amman once they failed getting visas.

Well, today I was in the kitchen heating up Maglooba when Texas Lady 2 came in at around 17:30 and said, “I want to talk to you!” You see, they should be at the Jaber border hella. TL2 told me that something weird happened. Before I tell you what she said, I’m going to pause again to mouth-off. This is always the moment that makes me cringe. It is the moment when normal-seeming, nice people suddenly realize that even though there are KFCs and Burger Kings in Jordan, we’re not actually in the States. Misery Tourists, who come here prepared for quality misery, are initially disappointed when they decide that Jordan is pretty “advanced.” Later, and usually as quick as whip-lash, they realize that they were wrong in their initial assessment, and they panic and instantly become professional Orientalists ready to diagnose Jordan’s problems. I feel uncomfortable about these conversations because they are racist, and banal simultaneously. Why, yes, I do know that people eat with their hands here; Oh, yes they don’t usually shut off the engine while getting gas; Well, You go pick up the trash if it pisses you off so much. So, I’m holding my bowl of Maglooba, and TL2 tells me that the driver obviously didn’t understand something. This driver has a Syrian passport, and was going to go see his family, she said. But, they went to a restaurant (in the Ghour?) where people came to stare at them, and everyone ate with his hands! Even the waiter put more veggies on the table with his hands! I assured her that hand-washing was not new to Jordanians. But, then they went to Um Qeis, and met a Palestinian man who told them that they were looking at the Golan Heights, and that this is land illegally occupied by the Israelis. And, now, here is the punch line for me: she told me that she has very different opinions from this man, and that in her opinion the Israelis won that 1967 War fair-and-square, and the Palestinians need to just shut up. Now listening to her through my bleeding eardrums, she went on to tell me that she didn’t tell the Palestinian this directly. Suddenly, the two Texas Ladies sensed tension between them and their driver and the Palestinian. They asked to leave, and the driver began to head to the border. He passed a turn-off to Amman, and then they realized that while hand-washing may be a recent colonial gift to Jordanians, or whatever, ESP has not penetrated the Middle East. They kept screaming “No! Amman!” at the confused driver, who eventually did bring them back to “Amman!”

Now, I am not chronicling this simply to make fun of them. Like I said, and like I mean, they really do mean well. I guess I’ve been at the receiving end of these conversations for too many months now not to vent about it. Cultural misunderstandings are remarkably uniform in their tragic paths:
1) Foreigner sees McDonalds; foreigner feels s/he is in (place American city here).
2) Foreigner goes to Books@, Blue Fig, Wild Jordan, has epiphany that Jordanians are actually a little “developed.”
3) Foreigner takes taxi to the Balid for an authentic Jordanian experience. Taxi driver: a) doesn’t use meter, or b) goes to the Balid via Ma’an. Foreigner feels bad and stupid for being swindled.
4) Foreigner focuses on: a) trash, b) women in hijab, decides that Jordan is backwards and wants to go home ASAP.
Thinking they have learned about Arabs, they fail to see that the real lesson is about us foreigners and our own world-view. Culture has this amazing ability to make us think that everything we do is natural and timeless. While it makes us feel comfortable at home, it makes us have freak-out moments abroad. Perversely, the initial focus on our similarities actually makes the pill harder to swallow. I think that’s because we are not focusing on similarities as much as we’re actually focusing on our shared shallowness.

My Culture Shock experience was only painful to me because all of the Jordanians I know failed to dramatically change their cultural standards and live as I do. That is true. But, it’s also true that expecting such a thing is idiotic. Working though culture shock, for me, was having this obvious lesson reinforced. Why are we foreigners, including myself, still spending time and money on this? How can we make the time and money we spend here have some purchase? I have been pondering this for some months. Is there any way to cut out all these intermediate steps I’ve just detailed and get right to cultural competency and effective activism?

Archaeology, Cappuccino, Mandrin Mirage

2007-04-25T16:56:00.000+03:00

Once again Miss A has done the heavy lifting, blog-wise. In any event, yesterday Yo, Miss A, W and me went to the Dead Sea to look at archaeology stuff.
It’s already wicked hot down in the Jordan Valley. This, coupled with the mobbing gangs of flies makes the whole experience a good exercise in Amman-appreciation.

We departed Amman at 06:30, and did stop for coffee. That’s good, or I would have gone on strike immediately. We went to Yo’s site to look at ground stone.

We found, photographed, and mapped what we came across. The site is on a plateau with a great view of the Dead Sea and the approaching Bedouin.

We had lunch on the side of the road. Yo kindly fed us really good hummus, though the sardines were really icky looking. After lunch, we went to look at Bab ad-Dhra’, an early Bronze Age site that has been looted beyond repair. This was my 3rd visit to the site, and it never fails to bum me out when I see looter’s pits stretching out to the horizon. Here is a nice picture of the site. Erosion will do this place in soon. It’s been cut away by a wadi adjacent to this picture. Here is a photo of human bones. Looters dug up graves in search of burial offerings. Totally uninterested in the people, their remains are scattered all over the site.

After Bab ad-Dhra’ we drove up the Karak road to the Neolithic site of Dhra’. This site always amazes me, though I think it bored most of my companions. This is a PPNA site, one of only 6 in that we know of.

From Dhra’ we headed up to the new Dead Sea Panorama museum/restaurant. It was a wonderful way to end the excursion. The view is amazing, the weather is much better, the flies are at a minimum, and the cappuccino is highly recommended. The waiter wanted to make sure Yo and I appreciated his coffee. The foam was perfect, and the coffee was Illy. I did not leave disappointed.

After showers, we went to Nai for half-price drinks. Thank God for the Absolut Mandarin Mirage!

Au Revior, Mo

2007-04-20T10:53:00.000+03:00

Keep Fingers Crossed

2007-04-19T22:59:00.000+03:00

For Alan. What an 'effin mess this world is.

Wadi Mujib

2007-04-15T11:04:00.000+03:00

Yesterday Yo and Mo, me, B and A went for a Saturday drive in honor of A’s birthday. We went to Madaba and continued on to Wadi Mujib. It was both beautiful and fun. A has a wonderful post about the day including many great pictures which I’ve already stolen. Early on we encounter danger, but having ridden in taxis for the last half year, none of us feel fear.

We picked up B at her place near Abdali, and then tried to convince Yo, the driver, to go to the Starbucks in Abdoun, but he wouldn’t. We headed south to Madaba while we deconstructed a talk we’d endured this week. I’ll leave it at this, as you kinda needed to be there: many jokes were made yesterday about trash and bananas. We didn’t stay too long in Madaba. B went and saw the mosaics at the church while Yo and Mo went to look for antiquities. We went and made a reservation at the best restaurant in Madaba. Then we sat in a wind tunnel and had falafel sandwiches. That done, we got into the car and tried to decide what to do. Should we go see the Panorama, or south through Diban? We chose the latter. We meandered through green valleys that reminded me of San Elijo Canyon near San Diego. There are old oak trees that are actually healthy, unlike those in SoCal, and the wild flowers are still out. We continued south and went through Diban, and then rather suddenly the road dropped out of sight and a huge canyon was in front of us.

This was the first time I’d seen the Wadi Mujib Dam that took out a lot of archaeological sites. Coming from the South West US, and having read Cadillac Desert at a young and impressionable age, I’m opposed to Dams and other stupid water projects such as this.

We stopped at a touristy view point, and I made a new friend. This dog had a hurt paw, but he was very friendly and he kept biting my skirt and purse. He was funny. We continued down into the valley to go and see the dam close up. Yep, that’s a big dam. I think A said it was completed in 2002. We actually got to drive over it. This seems like a big deal to me since most dams in the States that were roads are not any more. We continued up the other side of the canyon and stopped to get a better look at the new lake. It was difficult to get a good picture of the dam from far away because the light was ever shifting. It’s difficult to get a sense from my pictures of how big this canyon is. Trust me, it’s big.

We headed back the way we came and returned to Madaba for a wonderful dinner. We were all really tired. We’d gone too long without coffee, and it showed. After dinner we headed back into Amman, and this time we convinced Yo to take us through the Starbucks drive through in Abdoun. It was pretty disgusting. Though, I will say the coffee was good. They have real espresso machines here still, unlike most of the US stores. From there we took the long way to B’s favorite ice cream shop on Abdoun Circle.

Then home, and to bed. It was a really enjoyable day.

Dead Sea Marathon

2007-04-13T14:51:00.000+03:00

This morning W, Mo and I drove down to the Dead Sea to watch A and Yo run. Despite the fact that I was driving, and despite the fact that the roads were seemingly all shut down, we made it in time to see the band play as A, and soon after Yo, made it to the finish line.

The band is playing just for A and Yo.

I really did turn this picture before I uploaded it, but New Blogger sucks. Steal it, and turn it yourself.

Yo emerges from the parking lot and pretends to have run 10 K.

Ouch!

2007-04-12T15:15:00.000+03:00

Warning: This post contains gore.

This morning I went to the Palestine Hospital in Amman. Two days ago my ear began to swell up around my earring, and by lunch one of the earrings had been completely enveloped in my earlobe. The two earrings I had were post earrings, not hoops, and they didn’t just stick together, the jewel on the front screwed into the post, so once the jewel disappeared into my ear, there was no way to undo the earring. I let this go for two days because I’m a big baby, and because I thought I might be able to deal with it myself. And while the former statement still stands, the latter statement turned out to be untrue.

W very kindly went with me to the Hospital. We arrived at 10:30 in the morning. He sat down with his book and I went into a room where there were men in white coats. One man asked me what I needed and I told him I needed him to extract my earring. I sat down next to him and he looked at my ear. He said, “Ok, wait 10 minutes.” 10 minutes later a room was available, and we and the nurse went in. I sat on a table. Let me pause here in the story to point out that I’d been at the hospital for about 15 minutes at this point, that an actual M.D. was going to help me, and that everyone was speaking English with me. Dr. Yousef (I only had an opportunity to read his first name on his name tag) said my ear looked painful. He asked me if I really needed an analgesic before he could remove the earring. As I told him that I’m a big baby and would appreciate that, he was turning the back of the earring very carefully and explaining that the shot(s) would probably be worse than if he just removed it. He said he could probably just remove it, and as he said that he pulled it out the back of my ear. I’ll give you a moment to wince. I have to say, I’m sooooo glad he just did that, and it actually didn’t hurt nearly as much as I thought it would. He dealt with me so well, and I wanted to hug him because it was done quickly. He told me the second earring needed to come out since it might promote infection otherwise. He took that one out as well. It actually took longer to unscrew the earring and take it out than it did for him to pull the problem one from the back! The nurse cleaned up all the gore, and Dr. Yousef told me not to pierce my ears ever again. He wrote a script for anti-biotics, and told me he hoped I’d had a nice Easter.

I went to the pharmacy window and handed the young woman my script. She went to a shelf and gave me a box of pills. I went back down the hall, said bye again to Dr. Yousef, and paid 10 Dinars and some change for the entire day. W and I left the Hospital at 11:30.

I’m still in shock at the whole thing. Let me put this in perspective for you: My round-trip taxi fare cost 3.500 JD (including tip), my visit to the Emergency Room and prescription cost 10.400 JD. When my ear made it clear to me two days ago that I was in for some problems I initially lamented that I’m in Jordan because I’m not sure how to say in Arabic all of the things I said to the doctor this morning. But then I realized that I have no insurance, and if I’d needed to do this in the States it would have taken easily 10 hours, and likely cost me 1,500 dollars. Though I speak the language, a doctor in the States would never have had the time to listen to me that way Dr. Yousef did. Somehow I went to an ER and had something pretty icky done, and it wasn’t that bad. What really made it bearable was that I didn’t have to sit in a waiting room all day and worry about how much it would hurt; it was done before I had time to get worked up.

Thank you Dr. Yousef!

No Black Iris

2007-04-08T18:43:00.000+03:00

Well then. The week started off ominously as I couldn’t sleep and the Khamseen dust storms came back to pay Jordan another visit. The dust storms here are more amazing than I imagined as they envelop the city in what seems to me like a matter of minutes. I just wish that Amman had an air siren they could use to warn me to take my contact lenses out before they adhere to my eyeball. I hate that sucking sound I can hear sometimes when I take them out and my eyes are really dry. Ick.

But that’s not what this Easter’s post is about. Today I spent Easter with The Man and Crazy Neal walking around Ajiloun. CN has an eerie similarity to Dr. PJW; I mean they both wear all-denim outfits and seemingly subsist only on beer. Anyway, I mentioned earlier this week that I wanted to see the Black Iris if still possible. CN said he’d just been in Ajiloun that day and the flowers were great. He was headed back in a few days, and I was invited. I volunteered The Man to go as well. We took the bus up to Ajiloun and then a taxi up to the castle. CN needed to meet someone who turned out to be in Petra, so we did actually go into the castle for a bit. The Man had never been, I guess. I really love that castle anyway, so I didn’t mind. Ok, really, I should just admit that I wanted to go inside because I remember that there was a man who sold coffee outside the gate. Thank God he was here this morning. CN and I had coffee, and then we went inside. I didn’t take many pictures since I’ve been a few times now. CN promised “Byzantine shit” so I wanted to wait and take pictures of the shiz.

We headed south-west from the castle on a dirt road. There were zillions of flowers all over the place. I’ll save you the suspense: there was not a single Black Iris to be seen. There were a lot of cultivated purple Irises, does that count? Still, I was not disappointed. The flowers and the weather were perfect. I saw lots of ruins. I tried to listen to The Man and CN talk about this, but since it doesn’t involve Naviform core technology, it’s obviously not that interesting, so I’ll spare you the details. So, this stuff is old, got it? And it’s close to the castle, and they are clearly living structures and accompanying water systems. I don’t know what the difference between a well and a cistern is, but there were big-ass holes in the ground that were plastered on the inside. Those were there. We saw one mysterious cave structure, and one quarry. You can see all of this on the slide show. We walked a zillion miles, and then finally headed to lunch at a hotel. Us three and another two were it for Easter lunch. After a lengthy lunch we caught the bus back to Amman. It was really restful, and CN is actually really cool and hilarious in a PJW-way.

A restful day was needed for many reasons. Among those reasons was the excitement here on Friday night. I invited myself to the cook out up at CBRL. A graciously made me a St. Frances (we’re going with the feminine spelling, ok?!?) and I was sitting out on the patio with a bunch of white people when we heard shots fired. We figured it was getting to be wedding season. Well, it turns out that the guard here shot himself. It was pretty nasty. I heard that the kid was sad because he wanted to marry a girl and his dad said No. Ten shots were fired. When we returned there was broken glass, blood, and tree bark all over the driveway. I hear he got himself in the leg and bled a lot. He’s ok. This is Jordan, so when a man is bleeding to death there are not a lot of options. Our neighbor evidently came up and finally thought to grab the guys radio and use that to alert his boss. The guard spoke no English, but was apparently asking that no one be called. Yikes. Miss A, always a wittier writer than I, wrote about this on her blog. Check it out. What a night! But, other than the bark, blood, and leg, the cook out was great!!! This followed uneventful, but delicious Indian food co-cooked with The Man on Thursday. It was fricken good. We got all the spices freshly ground down at the Souk, and the dinner was great.

Lets hope for a week that’s just as delicious, but less bloody.