the globalization of conflict

I sat this morning drying my hair in the living room, watching the BBC, reading the headlines as they scrolled by.

"Annika, they're talking about Seattle"

"what?"

I turn the hairdryer off and sure enough, the camera pans over the space needle and then to the chief of police and a courtroom scene.

"...women shot, one dead and others injured..."

pan to body on a stretcher.

"muslim man...jewish federation..."

Later in the day I hear from a friend who works across the street from the shooting. "They kept us inside for an hour. We didn't really know what was going on. Thought there was a shooting at the shelter next door. "

I read about it in the New York Times. A man angry with the US and Israel and the mistreatment of his people randomly targets the Jewish Federation of Greater Seattle as an outlet for his rage. He doesn't care if he dies.

I post this not to discuss the politics of the conflict between Israel, Lebanon, and Hezbollah--something I do not feel the least bit qualified to do-- but more to express how the globalized this conflict has become -- you never really know where you will be safe and where you will be vulnerable. When I left Seattle many people were concerned with my choice of Jordan, a country bordering some of the most conflict-ridden zones of the region. And yet, not two weeks after I leave, the violence touches my hometown which is taken for granted as safe and Jordan has remained unscathed by such an incident.

Ma'shallah. A kind of arabic "Knock on wood," in simplistic terms.

I post this to begin to breakdown some of the assumptions about where I am and what it means to be in the Middle East as well as to make the point that you can be affected by violence and conflict Anywhere in the world, even in the sleepy neighborhoods of Seattle. The conflict is personal -- it is far more than two nations or two armies fighting each other for land -- it impacts individual identity and cannot be herded and kept in a defined space, even a defined region.

So I send you all my thoughts and ma'shallahs and will accept yours -- I hope that this will in some convuluted way ease your worries about me here.

Because it could happen anywhere.

Roman ruins at the top of Jebel Qa'la. It was closed by the time we got there, but we convinced the guy working there to let us in to see the spectacular view of Downtown Amman.
My teammates and I on a big hill.
The Roman theater, a place to people watch, be followed around by random guys and drink delicious mint tea.
An enormous flag. Not the world record holder, but the largest on a flagpole.

a penchant for fire

During a time when war rages on barely 100 miles away from me, the least comforting sound in the world is that of fire, explosions and gunfire. The first few nights we heard fireworks and gunshots outside of our hotel room...and then cheers.

Turns out Jordanian's enjoy the pyrotechnics--think fireworks and firecrackers that are illegal except on Native American reservations--and they enjoy them All year round. It's like the 4th of July every night.

This reached its zenith this weekend. At the end of high school, students take an exam that determines not only what caliber of university they can attend, but also their major. If you get above 95, you can do medicine; 91, engineering; 87 physics, math, biology, computer science; if you get in the lower eschelons you can do liberal arts, with languages ranking higher than say, sociology. So when people say, "how did you choose your major?" and they answer "by chance", it's a lie. There is also a certain look that I've started to give to people who attended private Universities, where you can essentially pay to take classes in a field higher than your test scores. "Oh...private university. reallly. "

Anyhow, the test scores that essentially determine the life path of University bound Jordanians came out on Friday night and was celebrated with equal vigor. And I thought the gunshots and fireworks from the regularly occurring weddings were bad. Explosions going off every 2 minutes or so, enough to shake my apartment building.

"So how's the arabic coming along?"

"Just (EXPLOSION) fine"

"Hmmm...that's really interesting. What new (KA-BLOW!) words have you learned?"

"oh you know. Right--Ymeen, Left--Schmal (BOOM!) "


And so progressed the evening. It's funny how you can lull yourself into a state of assurance -- oh that's just the fireworks, don't mind that, even as the sounds are so loud they make the windows shake. thank goodness our friends had informed us beforehand of the event or we may have been crouched under our beds for hours.

a Flock of pigeons

Walking in Amman at night is a magical thing. The heat of the day has cooled a bit and the calls to prayer come at more frequent intervals.

This weekend Oksana and I went on a walk to the Roman amphitheater, a kind of ancient playground in the middle of downtown. Children kicking soccer balls at the columns, tourist taking photos on top of the columns. Speaking of tourists, prior to Amman, the word conjured up images of Germans with white knee socks and bad t-shirts--now, tourist often means people from the Gulf, and consequently women who are completely covered except for their eyes. The city is receiving a huge influx of tourists this summer because everyone who would have been vacationing in Lebanon has come to Jordan, in addition to all the people fleeing Lebanon and Iraq.

Oh the perils of being the "stable one"-- you get all your neighbors drama without any of the fun. Well, I guess you can't actually classify war as fun...so much for personification of countries.

Back to the amphitheater. We sip deliciously cheap mint tea in a plastic cup that burns your hands when you try to drink it, sold to us by a man sprouting mint from his clothing. We shield our cups from the onslaught of soccer balls as the call to prayer starts and pigeons are released from coups in the hills around downtown. As I quiz Oksana on arabic letters, we stop a moment and just listen to the mosque and watch the pigeons, circling for the length of the call before returning the their roost for the night. It's a moment of peace in the bustle of it all, where we can take a deep breath before returning to the chaos.

He Who shall not be named

As a foreign woman in Amman, I have honorary man status when it comes to coffee houses that are generally male in clientele--perhaps this is aided by my mustached passport picture as well.

On wednesday night a few male friends took us to the Ecotourism cafe, one of the oldest coffee shops in Amman, a city which has a bit of the same view of "history" as the US does to the rest of the world. While other cities in the Middle East like Damascus, Cairo and Beirut have histories stretching back thousands of years, Amman was only a small village until the 20th century
, tripling in size in a year after the creation of Israel in 1948.

As we walk in, my teammates and I look around--we're the only women there. Just men with the long snakes of the hookah in their mouth and a cloud of scented smoke.

When I asked why it was called the Ecotourism Cafe -- nary a Save the Pandas poster was to be found anywhere in sight--I was told that it was because it was old. Mmmhmmm. Somehow I think that perhaps the name is new, but the Sheesha smoking, coffee drinking establishment has been around a lot longer.

Flags of the world adorn the walls, with the US and Jordanian flags taking up more space than all the other flags. One place where being American doesn't elicit a hesitant response. As I glanced at the flags I spotted a pirate flag--How excellent! They are all about representing all groups of people here, even those of us that ride the high seas.

Not so much.

The skull in cross and bones represents Israel, a sort of Harry Potter esque, He Who Shall Not be Named. Voices hush a bit when discussing Israel and the current conflict, chairs scoot forward and heads lean in. As one woman said today, "we Arabs are good people at heart, we're just not so good at Public Relations. Not as good as the Israeli's at least".

Tomorrow is a day of rallies for ending the conflict and demonstrating support for Lebanon all over Amman.

Cultural mecca of Jordan

I believe I have hit the gold mine of cultural experiences and I have only been in Amman 4 short days. Is it the Roman Amphitheater you ask? The majestic rose city of Petra?

Not even close.

It is Mecca. No, not the one that the entire Muslim community directs their prayer 5 times a day.

The Mecca Mall.

Where women from the Gulf in full covering shop for Gucci purses. Where expats sit in the Blue Fig cafe, drink cappucino's, listen to world music and take part in cultural events such as African trance night, held weekly. Where there is wireless internet, with no one in the whole mall selling cards to connect to it.

Little did you know, but it's the cool place to hang out at ten o'clock at night on saturday, which is the equivalent of Sunday. Yes, Sunday is the new Monday, since the weekend is friday, Saturday. So while most of you are still at the beginning of your week, I am halfway through.

Lucky me.

----

Work is going well--we seemed to have skipped over stages one through five in getting to important contacts and have gone straight to the top. We are already supported by the King's Fund for Development as well as a few other organizations. Quite amazing. The hours are long--we've been keeping strange work hours, napping through the middle of the day and working until 2 or 3 in the morning to prepare for our presentations. Hopefully we'll begin normal people hours soon, as much fun as it is to arrive at a meeting on 4 hours of sleep.

More on Amman soon--haven't had much chance to explore since I've been running between meetings. Thus far, I have made the following observations:

There is traffic
The city is made of all the same color stones
There are hills.

That is all.

How to Enter a foreign country

When entering a country where you do not speak the language, there are a couple steps you should follow to ensure that your arrival is noted by the local people.

1.) While in the airplane, place your water bottle next to your passport. Make sure to leave the lid slightly ajar so that water will trickle out onto the passport, rendering most parts illegable. If possible, smear areas with key information, such as the photo and your name.

2.) After exchanging the only 20 dollars that you have for a visa because you thought someone was meeting you take care of your visa, drop your passport and don't realize until you are in the front of the visa line frantically searching through your purse. Speak to all staff persons who do not understand english for maximum efficacy.

3.) Run after official who you see carrying a wet passport and insist that it is your passport. Do not be surprised when he says "no this can't be you. this is a man. they have a mustache." Insist that no, in fact that is just black ink that has sullied your usually hairless face. Point out the other blue ink marks on the same page. Show him your driver's license. Allow him to call over several other guards to laugh at the picture and then finally give it back.

4.) Get visa. Watch the stamp spread all over the wet page.

5.) Exit customs through different officer who also notes that you have a mustache. Laugh. Make sure you are the last person in the terminal.

6.) Check all the luggage area for your bags. Find that they are indeed not there. Laugh. Approach the luggage desk and describe your distinctive black luggage and think about whether it's on a nice tropical vacation elsewhere. Be approached by a timid man holding a sign with your name on it. For effect, have exclaim loudly about having finally found you 2.5 hours after your plane was supposed to land and then have him call everyone he knows the say that no, you are not dead.

7.) Arrive in your new city and listen to the sights and sounds of your new home.


Welcome to Amman.