Thinking on Palestine

Objectivity gets buried in conflict. I come to you fresh from the University of Jordan Student Union (Deanship of Student Life) where I had the opportunity to listen to a presentation by the Palestinian community on the history and land of Palestine. The occasion exhibited many of the characteristics of daily life in Jordan: it began late, featured repeated offerings of tea and coffee, and had more recitation of dates and statistics than enlightened conversation and debate. Nevertheless, now is as good a time as any to address an issue that profoundly shapes life in Jordan, where over 60% of the inhabitants are of Palestinian descent, and throughout the region.

Firstly I should confess that while I will be as objective as possible in this post, I do not believe that both Palestinians and Israelis can claim equivalent moral high ground or justification for their anguish. I detest conspiracy theories, half-truths, selective histories presented by both sides. Listening to Palestinians talk about the conflict is disappointing and frustrating because of their willingness to move beyond what I feel are legitimate grievances into absurd positions.

I feel there are legitimate camps within both Israel and the Palestinian community, but listening to the average it is very hard to associate one's self with either the Palestinians or Israelis because of the lengths to which they distort reality to favor their position. A passionate advocate divorced from objectivity is often a terrible messenger to with which to confront the undecided.

We began with a history read in English from the 1895 origins of modern Zionism to the current condition of Palestine in 2010. Dates were accurate, but any mention of Israeli suffering was brief, unmentioned, or justified. I don't want to forgive this, I don't think such omissions are necessary to create a compelling Palestinian Case, but I do believe that in limited time advocates will rarely go into a comprehensive explanation.

The mostly Palestinian audience wants to hear the history they are reminded of every time the subject is broached for both sides, the admission of flaws is often rejected for the sake of ideological purity that is impossible in any conflict of this length and complexity. For Palestinians, the entirety of the conflict's history is often lost in this narrative of profound suffering at the hands of an implacable and mighty oppressor.

Following this rehashing of facts, which while true do not constitute truth any more than Confederate history month can mention the truths of state's rights while remaining profoundly inadequate without a discussion of slavery, we watched a short film on the "Wall of Hate" (see also security fence - Israel, apartheid wall - Palestinian, separation wall - relatively neutral). It was similar to the histories: it told truths yet presented them without distance. This distance may be an impossible hope for anyone so profoundly affected by any issue, but I hope I never fall victim to such temptation.

We listened to a CIEE student who had traveled and volunteered in Bethlehem over spring break. He was especially interesting to me because I'm planning to travel in the West Bank and Israel before I return to the States at the end of May. He talked about checkpoints, the organic farm where he volunteered, and the people of Palestine. We then listened to more impassioned and less impartial accounts of travel from an Australian and Colombian of Palestinian descent. They spoke of descrimination and the terrible pressure exerted by Israeli officials and soldiers on Arabs who attempt to communicate with the West Bank.

The Israeli Defense Force and Israel's general posture is to make life in all its facets as unpleasant, difficult, and humiliating as possible for all those of a non-Israeli bent. This can be seen in the settlements that dot and divide the occupied West Bank, the water policies denying agricultural or economic development to Palestinians, and the humiliating routines that stymie life and commerce on a daily basis for thousands of Palestinians at the over 500 checkpoints that dissect the territories.

I believe that is all true and summarizes a great deal of the substance presented at the meeting. The formal event concluded with a ten minute amateur video shot at various crossings from a sympathetic Israeli perspective. It featured some Israeli soldiers and many Palestinians. It was not narrated and appeared about as honest a record of the checkpoint experience as possible. It was disturbing on many levels and confounding until you confront the underlying reasoning that has spawned this status quo.

Israel does not want commerce or communication to occur within the Palestinan population under their control. They have objectives of preserving security for Israelis, but their presence and behavior can not be justified on these grounds. The following is my opinion of the current state of affairs.

"Israel's dissection and repression of the occupied territories cannot be seen as rational unless you believe they see a world without a Palestinian state or Palestinian presence as attainable. Within this context their activites can be seen as sustaining and extending Israel's domination of the West Bank until all other sides abandon their positions in despair. I do not believe this is justifiable, but without legitimate and significant pressure from within Israeli society, from the Palestinians under occupation, the Arab neighbors of Israel, or the West that such a goal is unfortunately at least within the realm of possiblility, though the profound suffering and inhumanity of such a development makes me loath to broach it."

A Jewish CIEE student and friend of mine spoke when questions where solicited. He spoke with great care, but broke the fundamental rule of inquiring if we could not all recognize that there have been injustices on all sides. This is the truth. I will no more associate or approve of suicide bombings and indescriminate rocket fire than the systematic oppression and eviction of a society. The Palestinians unfortunately were not willing to do so. It pains me that a cause I believe has

The CIEE student's words provoked instant and uniformly negative responses from our hosts and surrounding Palestinians. One began by saying that only when two sides have equal position and equal strength can you begin to discuss injustices on both sides. Another protested that the Palestinians are so weak, that they attack from fear, that the rockets are not capable of killing children. He literally said that the rockets may be capable of breaking an arm or a leg, but they are not strong enough to kill a child. Even suicide bombings were defended as killing Arabs as well as Israelis and then all is done from fear.

I want to travel to Palestine. I have no expectations that I will hear objectivity from within either community, but I hope to supplement the opions I hear and the facts I have read with photographs and memories untainted by the hands or minds of others. I think that seeing something so profound and complicated first hand will be an incredibly valuable and potentially life-altering experience. I hope it works out and that I am able to share it with those who will listen.

Just imagine, I could be interning this summer with Russ Feingold, a Jewish (this doesn't matter to me personally, but it could be relevant in this context) senior Democratic member of the Foreign Relations and Intelligence committees. I wonder if he would listen to what I might have to say?

The Long Road Traveled

March 27 From Amman, through Aqaba, to Wadi Rum

Early, so early, no wonder I forgot something. A shame it was my prized sunglasses. I have few material addictions. I am mostly hooked on a steady stream of information. My few concessions to material necessity are those I need for health and comfort, good shoes and something to keep the sun out of my eyes. I discovered my error a mere 200 meters from home, but with the doors locked behind me and no one to stir for at least half an hour I kept on, determined to solve my problem at some later stage of my travels. Hopefully before I arrived in the desert canyons of Wadi Rum.

Sunglasses, Who Mentioned Sunglasses?

A four hour bus ride brought me to the sunny seaside resort destination of Aqaba, Jordan's sole connection to the waters of the Red Sea. A rapidly evolving mix of the hyper resort and a massive port the city is tailoring itself to suit the sun and dive crowd of upper class Arabs and westerners that can afford it. I had little over an hour to collect some provisions and escape via public bus to the quiet of Wadi Rum.

I first tackled sunglasses at a covered market swamped with cheap clothes and salesmen loudly hawking them to the throngs of residents and tourists. I passed up repeated offers for blue jeans and a t-shirt before catching the eye of a vendor perched next to a rack of gaudy aviators and brand name knock-offs. I found a small collection of sporty shades and bargained down from 5 JD to 3 for the privilege of purchasing them.

At this point I realized the shrinking time between myself and my 1:00 departing bus. I had planned to go to Safeway far from the downtown to secure my vegetables, but decided against it as the distance seemed to span infinity while time slipped towards zero. I glanced around and found a small shop, on of thousands dotting Jordan that offer a relatively identical range of basic fruit and vegetables. I bagged up some cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, bananas, and a few apples before hurrying off to the bus depot, an open scrum of aging minibuses and long-range tourers all open to the first through the door.

I clambered into a bustling bus loaded with what could have been a single expansive Bedouin family plus a few local boys made good and returning to their home for a brief visit. The driver chain smoked the whole way out as half a dozen kids played for the attention and treats of a stoic, noble father. I felt awed by the man, so seemingly self-confident despite the immense burdens that must come from multiple wives and the thriving litter that came of them. He seemed to know himself and his world, even if he didn't know of the larger problems confronting the nervous citizens of modernity.

We blew past the visitors center and chugged into the village of Rum in the heart of a beautifully cloud shrouded cliffs and canyons. I had gazed, fixated for the past twenty minutes as we entered the world of pictures and legends that I had seen in Lawrence of Arabia and countless tourist brochures throughout Jordan. I was lucky to catch a cool clouded introduction to the desert fastnesses of Rum. I clambered around that afternoon, comfortable in long-sleeves without fearing for water or sunscreen.

I had plopped my lot in with the Rum Rest House, an old institution catering to the crowd of climbers and voyagers unwilling or undesirous of the 70 to 100 JD a night experience of guided remote luxurious Bedoin campgrounds accessible only by 4x4 or camel. For 6 JD I had myself a tent, mattress, and bedding for two nights without the breakfast and dinner that mad been quoted to me over the phone. As these had added over 10 JD to the price tag I was delighted for the freedom.

I tackled a small ridge right behind the Rest House and scrambled happily over the red granite and tumbled terrain as the day passed into evening. I was hailed by a Bedouin encampment as I began to hike back from the other end of my wanderings. I took the opportunity to scrape the surface of this simultaneously hospitable and secret society and passed a half an hour sipping "Bedouin Whiskey", a sweet hot tea, with a young man and his younger brother who were just beginning to join their father in the management of his tourist campground and tour operation. I spit out my repetoire of Arabic explaining my doings in Jordan and talking about my family in America. It was a wonderful experience, but sad to see the cigarettes and smoky fire that blighted the tent with their vapors.

I hiked along the desert floor between Jebel Rum and Jebel Um al Ashreen, two of the grandest edifices in Wadi Rum, their massive flanks scored by wind and rain with gashes and chasms for the days to come. I walked the streets of Rum as the sun's light disappeared, seeing the collection of cinder block houses that many of the Bedouin split their time between when not out ordering collections of tourists in the desert. The small school and army bararcks were the biggest buildings to the town though the skyline was dominated by a radio or cell tower and the small minaret of the local mosque. The light was gone from the sky as I turned for home beginning to ponder the source of dinner.

Nearby Nabetean Ruins

A mistake! I should have eaten in the light of day. I found the Rest House closed for the night and turned to the several small shops of Rum to get some heartier provisions. I came back with canned vegetables, hummus, baba ganoush, and white beans in tomato sauce. I then begged a can opener from my fellow campers and spent five minutes under the stars hacking into my prizes with a Swiss Army Knife. Escaping injury on the ragged edges I dug in, using a plastic hummus tub from lunch as a bowl and pieces of carrot and cucumber as spoons. My sole kitchen implement was a all-purpose knife left over from the Dead to Red team provisions. It was invaluable as I sliced into a cold but cheery repast ahead of a cold night made roasting by my layers of spandex ski wear.

Moving on Up to the West Side

March 26
Mecca Street, Amman

Military HQ Still Under Waranty

Two early days in a row. Friday, my first of the break, began at the crack of dawn as I ate a lonely breakfast and hurried out of the house on my way to Cycling Jordan's Amman office in the west of the city. I had scoped the route and surroundings on the computer, but my only experience in the area was through the windows of a car on the way to the Royal Automobile Museum.

Just Looking at Mouthwatering Baklava

West Amman and Mecca Street in particular are the site of Amman's great wealthy buildup over the course of the last quarter century. Chiq restaurants, office palaces, magnificent car showrooms, and two massive malls dominate the scene. But just removed from the central corridor one can find traces of poverty, small fires and feces the traces of the homeless. This is the home of many nouveau riche from Palestine and Iraq, but it also hosts the spillover of many construction sites, both laborers and their materials.

Have Faith, Will Travel

I struck out on foot and caught a cab. At 7:20 I was on Mecca Street, navigating from memory towards the landmarks I thought would find me the back street office. I turned on my mobile as I walked and discovered that my haste and expense had been in vain; weather had made biking an impossibility near Azraq. The trip was canceled, and my spring break lost its primer.

Welcome to Jordan

I continued on, determined to make a thorough examination of Amman's upper crust. I had all day to look for the office and check out City and Mecca Malls. It was lucky the trip had been called off, I wandered the vicinity for hours and never came across a sign of Cycling Jordan. Unruffled, I still enjoyed framing the luxury around me for the camera and making my way through such opulence while listening to Jon Krakuer's Into the Wild.

I wound up in City Mall and perused the deserted gleaming monument to western consumption. Friday starts slow and ends early in the Muslim world. I was surrounded for the first hour by the staff of the stores and the security personnel determined to prevent any indoor photography. I wandered into Amman's Carrefour, an outpost of the massive French international "hypermarket" chain.

Laying the Foundations for the Next Generation

I perused the cookbook section, examined laptops, and investigated every isle in the massive grocery store, lingering in the spices and produce section ruing the fact that memory would have to suffice as I took in the new vocabulary. I returned on foot and over the course of several hours and hilly miles. I got back for lunch and was thankful for the extra time as I wrapped up my application for Senator Kohl and prepped my back for another six o'clock departure to Jett's office on the morrow. It was late when I finally sank into bed and slipped off to sleep.

The Run up to Spring Break March 10-26

How does an environmentalist, non-spender, studious kid spend his spring break in far away Jordan? I missed the flotilla of groups going to Egypt or Turkey, the bunches of friends packing off to Syria and the Levant. I didn't get my act together until a few weeks before the best chance for travel I would encounter, the 10 day Easter break that splits my semester. The trouble is not merely my lack of attention to the preparations of my peers, but also my differing tastes in adventure.

I like absorbing a place, or at least that's how I describe it to myself. I've loved my time in Amman, even as it sometimes leaves me drained and overwhelmed. My trip to Ajlun was spiritual healing as much as a day's jaunt to the countryside. I love the outdoors, the spaces and views without the crowded doings of man intruding on my mind. Yet when I hike, bike, walk, or climb alone, I always do so to the accompaniment of an audiobook or podcast. I don't lose absorb myself so much in nature as I surround myself with nature while enjoying a relatively distraction-free time with a good book or clever lecture.

I finally awoke to the approaching break and my utter lack of thought given to any independent travel on the weekends and my inexperience with the workings of greater Jordan. While my peers had been to Syria, Jerash, Aqaba, and beyond in rushed weekend jaunts, I had been in Amman preparing applications, studying Arabic, and making excursions only to a few city sights. My sole times outside the city had been within the folds of CIEE's management.

I spent days pouring over my Lonely Planet and Rough Guide to the Kingdom. I had briefly considered a larger adventure, but frugality, and desire for a more sustained experience in either Istanbul, Damascus, or Cairo left me focused on the sights of Jordan. Wadi Rum was an obvious candidate, Dana Nature Reserve emerged as a central element, Wadi Mujib's canyons flitted in and out but were ultimately discarded because of price                                     and impracticality. A sudden message from Cycling Jordan added a Friday sortie to the eastern Wetlands of Azraq to the start of my vacation.

The cliffs of Rum at sunset

Plans came together, without a team of friends or peers to assist or accompany me. I would traveling alone, an oddity anywhere but especially in the tightly bound society of Jordan and the carefully scripted tour experience of the nation's tourism. I would take public transit, sleep in the cheapest rooms I could find, and spend my days in the wild's of Jordan on hikes and scrambles through two of its most renowned natural places.

12 km hike from Dana Village

I eschewed the typical guided 4x4 or camel trek to a lonely but luxurious, and ruinous, Bedoin desert camp. I don't want the emissions, the aches, or the expense. I called the Rum Rest House and was assured that tents would be available without a reservation. I couldn't get into my preferred Dana Hotel but was able to book two nights in a room and one in a tent with the Dana Tower Hotel. The two are played against each other in guide books with obvious preference stated for the collectively owned Dana Hotel against the "ugly" and privately owned Tower. I bought my one way ticket to Aqaba and managed to accomplish all my preparations as I scrambled to complete internship applications with my congressmen and a few D.C. think tanks.

The view from Karak

I went to bed on Thursday night excited for my first bike ride in Jordan and a trip to the otherwise remote and unlikely Azraq reserve. The place is a small tragedy within the larger story of water shortage in the Kingdom. 10% its former size and a shade of its former glory for migrating birds, Azraq is now kept on artificial life support with few hopes for improvement. My spring break had begun!

The Hills of Ajlun are Alive with Americans

    I didn't realize how oppressive city living had become until I had the chance to escape last weekend to the northern hills of Jordan and the beautiful village of Ajlun. To put you in context you must picture the hills and valleys of California wine country. A picturesque jumble of geology and climate that when nurtured in the right hands results in dozens of small farms, olive orchards, and flocks of goats grazing to either side of the sole highway. Ajlun is renowned for its castle which I did not see and for its peaceful countryside which I did.
    I traveled to Ajlun with a group of my CIEE peers to volunteer with the Abraham's Path Initiative which is working to bring sustainable eco-tourism to the area. They help locals renovate and improve their houses to make them accommodating as guest houses. The initiative is also developing hiking in the area to display the region at its best. We were joined for a morning hike by two experienced British hikers and climbers who had "discovered" Wadi Rum (setting of Lawrence in Arabia) in the 1980s.
    Our day began at the Ajlun Soap house and excited meetings and introductions with the project managers and the local head of the Soap House who gave us a well rehearsed tour in her blossoming English. We were shown the beautiful bath and hand soaps crafted from local olive oil and herbs that village women then cure and cook into highly priced but worthy pieces of value-added souvenirs.
    I did my rich American's duty and purchased several cakes of soap and a small jar of fig jam for the Mother's day that occurs in Jordan on March 21st. For my little bounty I parted with close to $11 dollars, a far cry from the pittance that such goods would cost a local "hypermarket", but well worth the price hike for the knowledge of what went into their elegant manufacture. The following Monday I was able to surprise all the women of the household with my unlooked for gifts that meant I didn't have to cling to Darcy's roses as my co-idea as a poor second. Mother's day in the Twal home was a truly international affair with Skype and phones ringing off the hook from all the corners of the world wishing the best to Munah, our sturdy matriarch.

    From the Soap House we set out into the valleys of Ajlun for a brief hike before lunch and a welcome round of litter pick-up, seeking to combat the rampant culture of throw it where you stand that is practiced by almost all Jordanians. We arrived in the village and were shown to the village meeting room and an old church that Abraham's Path is hoping to renovate. From there we repaired to the home of Eissah, our local guide for a feast.

    Lunch was fabulous, a full spread on the floor affair with all the students perched around the edges of the room on low cushions. A welcome change from the western chairs and tables that dominate the capital. The combination of cuisine and quarters were a revelation. The centerpiece consisted of twin towering platters of Maqlouba or "Upside Down" which is a mass of rice, nuts, vegetables, and of course meat which is baked in a pan and then flipped onto the serving tray.

    After that fantastic repast we rumbled off in our bus to the local school which was our official objective for the day. We were set the task of painting classrooms and hallways on two floors with a mess of watery whitewash and assorted rollers and brushes. We were greeted by the principal, several students, and a thoroughly coated worker that was more white than I am for his fresh latex hide.
    We went to with a will and enjoyed ourselves as the grime and graffiti disappeared beneath our repeated assaults. After two hours we had covered the halls, staircases, and rooms with a respectable showing of enthusiasm and whitewash. The work was praised all around and as we returned by bus to Amman the day rang true as one of my best in a long time.

    The expedition was providential as well for the opportunity it may afford me this summer. As the morning and afternoon wore on an exciting three party conversation was underway with Abraham's Path on one side, the American students on the other, and our CIEE coordinator fielding questions from both sides about a return to stay for part of the summer. Living without pay at a local household, building a new economy for the people of Ajlun, and receiving the 24 hour Arabic immersion that is impossible in Amman were all enticing details that emerged in the course of the day. For now the respective parties have retreated to their camps to work out details and discuss possibilities, but for me at least the air is ripe with potential and a truly incredible summer experience.

Run Ragged

My left knee hurts. My calves hurt. My hips hurt. The sun is hot on my face. Sunscreen is mixing with my sweat and pooling on my lips. I am twinging as I run. This will all be over soon. 100 yards ahead, half a world away the chase car pulls to the side and the next runner steps out. I'm not happy or relieved, I don't want to think that hard at this point. My headphones dangle uselessly from my iPod. All thought of music forgotten. I had off the hot, sweaty glow stick to my replacement and cram myself into the back of the Subaru. One more stint, and it will be over. Just a finish line to cross and then I won't have to run again.

I don't like running. I view it as a good if unsatisfying way to get exercise. I've never been driven to run long distance, I never storm the finish line ahead of all the other sprinters in a practice. I run to work out and then only when I have no other options. I am a biker, a hiker, an eliptical and stairmaster enthusiast. I work out regularly, at least three times a week when I can get it. I've ridden over 50 miles under the blazing sun and called it fun, but I've rarely had that sensation on a run.

I learned of the Dead to Red Ultra-Marathon on the first day of orientation at the Dead Sea. I raised my hands along with many of my fellows when our coordinator mentioned that CIEE would be running at least two teams. I had no idea of what to expect, a condition that would persist until the very week of the race. The terms of the race were always in doubt until our final briefing two days before the start. Teams were pulled together haphazardly and I found myself sitting on the sidelines without any leads.

I debated with myself as teams formed up and the remaining slots seemed to be disappearing. I told myself that I wouldn't be able to study, a genuine drawback for me. I countered that this would be a once in a lifetime experience. Despite the fact that I didn't love running, this would probably be the only time in my life that I could experience a twenty four hour slog from the Dead Sea over 242 desert and deserted kilometers to the Red Sea and Aqaba, Jordan's resort town.

I reached out. I put my name in front of the chaotic group that was forming into teams and miraculously, out of all the unclaimed runners that wanted a shot, I was given the go. I was lumped with a team of strangers, a team without a name. I was responsible for the official name that graced the team roster, Drenched and Burned, yet our vans would be aptly adorned with Team Last. We met for the first time a week and a half before the race. At this point my lack of training and dearth of information on the challenge had already led me into a panic and back out. I had seen others who would be running and reasoned that if they felt up to the task then I should have no problems or excuses.

After that first meeting, a lot remain unsettled. The details, such as date, distance, and provisions, emerged only at the final CIEE teams briefing. There would be food, beds, and a beach awaiting us in Aqaba; a van and chase car for each team; and CIEE would be buying running food for each team. This last detail, a relief at the time, would prove to be as much a joke as a service.

ِMy team was eclectic. Our team captain was a short, fit kid who looked up to the task. The only other guy was a tall, ROTC grunt that lit up as soon as we crossed the finish line. Seven girls ranging from a running camp alumni to a girl fresh out of knee surgery. Some had trained, all worked out regularly, none seemed to regret coming out for such a crazy endeavor. As we loaded our vans in the basement parking lot of CIEE's office tower we traded jokes and stories before our hour trip to the start.

I read an Arabic reference grammar en route. If that doesn't convey my strangeness of character while my teammates were laughing and chatting in the back seat, I'm not sure what will. We arrived at the Dead Sea and lathered up with sunscreen, broke into the CIEE provisions, and snapped way too many meaningless photos for my taste. At about 3:40 we left our starting runner and moved out for the first transition some six kilometers away.

At all times there would be one runner, two team members in a chase car some ten feet behind, and the rest of the team loaded in a van a few kilos off waiting to switch out the car and put fresh shoes on the road. We had plenty of water and food; time to stretch, if not to sleep, and plenty of support in the case of emergency.

CIEE made its inexperience with running blatantly obvious with the nature of our provisions. While the fruit, nuts, and candy bars could all be defended. I was less sure about the 1 kg pack of graham crackers or the bag of lemons. The three pints of milk, ranging from skim to whole fat, were absurd as were the individual packs of sugary cereal they were meant to be paired with. We had all the medical supplies we could ask for, although extra ice packs in place of the maxi pads may have been a good idea.

Two CIEE staffers accompanied the teams throughout, driving and parking through the night, weaving between the teams as the pack separated. Allison, our program director was there to see us off and showed up near Aqaba with unwelcome ice cream treats as we confronted the final 40 km. They provided sympathy, laughs, and an unexpected challenge when one of them, Stuart, stuck his car in the roadside desert in the middle of the night with only a team of college runners and their drivers to assist him.

The running. It all came to resemble itself. There were highs and lows, hills and villages, aches and pains. I was nervous up to the point I first hit the road and put in a brief stint amidst the confusion of early rotations and distances. As the race wore on, stints shrunk from 2k to two 1k to four .5k. The original rotation disintegrated as night wore on, one girl's knee wore out, and sleep became an overriding consideration. At around 1 am it was settled that four runners would do a 20k rotation and give the other six a chance to nap. I settled into my seat to try for some desperately needed repose.

I was jerked awake without any advanced warning. The last runner was standing outside the driver's window, I had no time to waste. Not so much groggy as sleepy I wrenched myself from the car, cold and unready, and set out into the night. I was running through a tiny village in the middle of the desert. The chase car was blessedly still tied up at the van and I had a few minutes of the night to myself. Cocks crowed on either side and the small sounds of humanity passed behind me. As I got my stride, the call to prayer broke my still surroundings. I had my experience, the reason I had signed up for this ordeal. I had a memory.

Things started hurting in earnest as Friday unwound. Heat for the first time became an issue and water went fast in the car and in the van. We knew by now that we were miles behind all the other teams. The deadline for completion was 4:00, 24 hours from the start. We were well within the limit, and better by far than the teams CIEE had fielded the year before, but living up to a team name and having so many team members cheerfully remind you of the fact doesn't make it anymore pleasant. I had signed up to do my best, to put in my miles, to challenge myself. I accomplished all that and more, but I'd rather not have had to focus on the state of my team in the scheme of things.

Running into Aqaba brought new complications into the mix. Traffic became a constant competitor for space and right of way. I ran through a crowd of worshipers leaving Friday services, a stroke of luck for our team because scantily clad western women would not have been a welcome sight for such a gathering. My knee only began to hurt in new and interesting ways over my last 1.5k on the road. For the first time it hurt to run for reasons other than my aching muscles. I desperately stretched and paced as I waited for my next turn.

The final kilometers were an agony of expectation, exhaustion, and uncertainty. Our goal was the Radison hotel some 15 kilometers outside of Aqaba. Each turn in the road brought us closer, but never gave us any sign of our progress. We were staggering alongside a highway crowded with beach goers and holiday makers eager to hit the sand to our right. When we finally sighted the finish banner it was an immense relief and a time to all come together in one great scramble for the end of it all.

We were greeted by CIEE when we arrived dead on the spot. I didn't care about the illusory offered free massage. I am still not comfortable with the idea of a stranger devoting themselves to my comfort in such a way, despite the pain I was in at the time. I cared about real food, and after settling in at our nearby lodgings in the Adventure Village dive resort for a weary and exasperating hour we were presented with bags of pita and falafel sandwiches that were better than I could have hoped for.

I napped before the awards banquet and arose, having changed and showered ready, more than ready, for a feast. The next hour of waiting out an interminable awards ceremony was brought to a blessed end by the audacious move of my ROTC teammate to go up to the buffet and begin dinner. He was shortly joined by all the other participants despite the pleas and protests of our hosts and servers. I stuff myself at buffets both because they are all you can eat and free, but the primary reason is that this is one time that a meal doesn't center around the bread. As a diabetic it’s a blessing to be able to stuff yourself with a mountain of eggplant and taboulleh without having to worry nearly so much about carbohydrates as you do about the structural integrity of your stomach.

I stuffed myself and fell back to the hotel for a brief meander around the pool reading the Economist and my food digested and my legs unlocked before falling into bed at around 9:00. Mosquitoes awoke me at around 10:30. I had left the door open to allow a desperately needed breeze and had signed my own death warrant. For five minutes I stalked my prey leaving greasy red smears on walls, furniture, and ceiling as I purged my quarters for the night. Both my roommates had lived up to their plans and departed for the clubs of Aqaba, but I had no desire to join them.

At 2:30 in the morning they returned, drunk and stupid, to the resort. About half the CIEE runners had gone out and all were in a similar state of alcohol induced idiocy. Some had locked themselves into their room with the key and couldn't get it open for one of their roommates. I went to sleep with the sonorous snores of an unexpected female roommate pouring from the third mattress on the floor.

I awoke at around 7:45 was able to chat with some of the other early birds. We got to eat at last at 8:50 and devoured the simple repast of pita, tomato, cucumber, and hummus. After that we set out for the beach. It was miraculous as I worked my way into the cool waters of the Red Sea. I could move my legs as I swam without a twinge or a twang. Aside from the occasional sharp stone my body felt at piece and without pain for the first time in 36 hours. After that blessed break we all packed at the hotel and left around 1:00 for home.

Within ten minutes we came off the rails as some asked to stop for lunch. In the usual confusion of multi-cultural and bi-lingual coordination we wound up in the middle of Amman with three quarters of us being led by our well-meaning drivers to a hour and a half's sit down lunch while the rest, my broke self among them stewed outside. I resented the delay having made sure to have food for the trip back taken care of and was happy to be belatedly back when we finally returned to Amman.

The weekend was over. I would have two pages of vocabulary to memorize the following day and a week of mid-terms ahead of me. I had torn my legs apart for some two and half hours of running stretched out over 22 for our team. It was thoroughly worth it.

Living With the Twal Family

A Family Affair

I live with one branch of the Twal Family in Abdali in an upper class neighborhood in the heart of Amman. Another CIEE student shares this house with me; Darci Dweyer from Boston, Massachusetts lives on the 3rd floor while I live on the 1st floor. The second floor is divided into two apartments, one of which I should move into around the 17th of March. The current lessee has become something of an awkward point as he was originally slated to depart for Saudi Arabia in early February.

Like most residences in Amman, it is a multi-story affair with little space for cars or a yard when compared to the Midwest or Southern California that I know, but it has a pleasant outdoor garden with citrus trees, a patio, and room for several cars around the front. I regret not living more in an American city as a point of comparison, but it is roughly similar to the Queens row house of Ray and Tina Verta where I stayed for a week.

I live with Muna, the matron of the household; her sister-in-law Samira; and one of her four sons, Raja'i. Raja'i smokes, but only outside. Muna subsists on a diet of American coffee with condensed milk in the morning, red meat at lunch, and very little else. Muna and Samira sit with me most mornings talking, listening to the radio, or reading a national Arabic-language newspaper.

The 3rd floor is home to another of Muna's sons, Marwan, and his family of five. Nooha and Marwan are happily married with their eldest daughter Dinah, 16; their sole son, Odeh, 13; and their youngest daughter Leen, 10. All three attend private Christian schools and the entire Twal family is to some degree a practicing Catholic.

Leen the Youngest

The Twal family is of Jordanian 
origin - a key part of any identity is the origin of one's family - though Nooha is of Palestinian descent. The family congregates around the television after work and school for international soccer, regional soaps, and the latest American movies and television programs brought in by one of the ubiquitous satellite dishes perched on rooftops across Amman.

Dinner is a strange and sometimes confusing mix of communal and individual. Family members eat full meals as they come in from school or work then congregate for an evening meal at which Darci and myself are the primary diners. Most social activity takes place on the first floor, but I'm welcome on the third floor to study, cook, and play with Marwan and Nooha's children.

What Shall We Make of This?

This is admittedly a bit late in coming, but this project like all others should and must evolve over time. I've settled in thoroughly in Amman at this point. As we go forward I think you'd like to know some basics about my daily life, then I can build on that with stories about interesting encounters, travel, or thought provoking ideas. In addition to this kind of narrative I will frequently write brief papers examining some facet of economics, development, or international relations (anything that takes my fancy really). I may link to these on the blog or post them directly.

Above all, I would like to hear from you what questions you may have. Please post comments on the blog, email me, or get in contact through Facebook. Share this blog with anyone you want to. Tell me what you want to hear and let me know if I've lost my way. This project's value comes from both sides, the writer and the readers. We'll all get more out of it if there is dialog rather than a droning monologue.

Until now, I've mostly written narratives of events and weekends. I can imagine this gets rather old, you may glean some details of daily life, but its wrapped up in how I liked the food or what the rocks at Petra looked like. I've recently started reading Live from Jordan, a fascinating example of what correspondence from Amman can be. Written by a grad student around the start of the Iraq war, Benjamin Orbach does a great job of tying daily tales into larger issues. I'd love to imitate him to some extent, but I'd also like to share a more scholarly look at the topics here I find so fascinating. For now, I'll paint an outline of my days and weeks, so we're all on relatively the same page.

I live on roughly 2 Jordanian Dinars a day. The Dinar is pegged to the US Dollar at .7 JD to 1 USD. I'll write more about this in the future, but for now I'm just spelling out how things feel on the ground. I eat breakfast with Muna and Samira most mornings at around 7:00. I'm usually out the door by 8:00. I've figured out the bus and will tell you all about it, suffice to say that I now spend JD.50 per day rather than up to JD4 for taxis both ways.

I eat lunch at the university cafeteria. A still daily struggle to articulate my veganism typically results in a bowl of hummus, a small salad, and a large bowl of some vegetable soup for under JD1. I bring a whole wheat pita and a banana or apple from home. I have three to four hours of class a day and return home by 7:30 at the latest. Dinner follows a particularly popular Turkish soap at around 8:00. Then its study, surf, or read until bedtime between 9:30 and 11:00.

I'm really glad to be able not only to record my thoughts and feelings during this exciting time but to get to share them with all of you as well. I hope this blog, my work with RTW and inner-city students, and private journals will help me capture, digest, and relate the impact of things that happen to me, the city I now call home, and the region as a whole. Thank you very much for joining me in this conversation.

I Find Myself on a British Isle

Books don't work the same way in Jordan. Intellectual property rights have been a moving issue for me over the past few years. I've evolved from a juvenile profligate user of bit-torrents, to a model of minimal long-term possession, and now a profound respect for the need to protect and reward creators of ideas. This transformation took place as I matured from a very narrowly focused consumer of content to a voracious reader with a much broader sense of the media and cultural environment.

I imagine most of you have heard of piracy in China where DVDs and CDs go for the price of a disc plus fifty cents. I knew these stories and others. I followed controversy and combat between producers, publishers, and media magnates over combating the scourge of piracy. I still believe that the media environment must evolve dramatically in a world where knowledge is essentially anywhere, anytime, anyhow, but I have been stunned by the lack of respect for all types of intellectual production that I find in Jordan.

Piracy in America is a private and illicit activity taking place before the screens of a hundred million savvy technophiles. Here it is brazen, universal, and tragic. Everywhere are stores, vans, and stalls offering the latest films (Avatar, It's Complicated, etc.), software, and music. Beyond this, the bookstores surrounding the university function largely as copy centers, selling cheaply bound packets replacing actual textbooks.

The option to buy my international relations textbook fro JD10 was distasteful to me on a number of levels. I resolved to obtain my academic literature by other means. This necessarily drove me on a frustrating quest to understand the public lending library of Amman. Websites throughout the region are largely incomplete, in Arabic only, and laced with dead links and broken promises. 

I ultimately settled on a set of international scholarly institutions near the university: The American Center of Oriental Research (ACOR) and the Council for British Research in the Levant (CBRL). Both are primarily focused on archeology, supported by foundations and partnerships, host students and fellows in hostels, and have free reference libraries with wireless Internet. With my sights set on The Middle East in International Relations by Fred Halliday I headed u the hill to CBRL where the library was open just that crucial bit later.

Several hundred feet higher I found myself outside a walled compound with military police protection nestled amongst upscale condos and apartments along streets with the occasional Porsche and Jaguar leaving an otherwise peaceful atmosphere rare in Amman. I buzzed my way in and was greeted by the blatantly obvious and yet still surprising, a charming and rather worn British woman who gave me a brief tour of the library and office before imploring me to return the following morning when they were open.

This morning I made CBRL my first stop off the bus. After a brief hike up I had been issued with a library card and was nestled in a corner of the otherwise empty library reading about the different theories of international relations and their specific failings when confronting the complexities of the Middle East. An experience I look forward eagerly to repeating.

Family Life and a Trip to the Top

     Jordanians watch television. CIEE talked about it in the home stay orientations, but I was not prepared for the devotion of my host family, and the entire country to the consumption of programs, movies, sports, and soaps from the Middle East, but when available, the United States. My family owns more that 200 movies. They have seen almost everything. Avatar, Up, It's Complicated, they've seen them all. Now as their guest I had the opportunity to join them. Luckily, my studies will allow me to escape, but in the first days with them I saw more American TV than in the last six months.

    My host family, like all the others that I have heard about is utterly devoted to ensuring that I want for nothing. The first night was a swift meeting and reconciliation of the expectations. I share a house, though not a family with another CIEE student, Darci Dwyer. She's a level below me in Arabic, but our experience complements well and we are able to help each other out. Tim Bettis, my roommate from the Manara Hotel is a few blocks away; we plan to share taxis on the way to the University.

    I live primarily with three elderly people: Munah, Rajai, and Samira. The apartment upstairs is currently being rented by a Lebanese family, but I will move into it on the 15th and vacate Rajai's room where I currently sleep on a small, saggy, but warm bed. The third floor is home to Munah's son Marwan and his family. They have three children: a teenage daughter, Dianh 16; a 13 year old son Odeh, and a 10 year old spark of a daughter named Leen.

    The entire family speaks some English. The kids have a remarkable grasp of it, though Odeh is a little hesitant. Most of the adults have either studied in or visited the States. The ability to communicate is a blessing, but I hope and expect that as I get better with Arabic, both sides will speak less English.

    Darci and I are both vegans. We had been told that the families Twal (loosely translates to tall) were aware of and were willing and able to accommodate this dietary rarity. Our first dinner, a pleasant fare with the now familiar pita, hummus, and vegetables in abundance, was the first time the Twals learned exactly what vegan is. Margaret, an earlier student in residence had apparently been a vegetarian, but the people around the table began to murmur anxiously as we explained that we don't eat meat, fish, or chicken; eggs, milk, yogurt, or cheese; and that I don't eat sweets and don't drink coffee, tea, or soft drinks.

    Over the next few days we reconciled as they became accustomed to empty our plates of foul (fava bean paste), hummus, and salad that we were not starving. Darci and I, in turn, figured out what to take from the briefings and what to learn from observation. Warnings about flushing toilet paper were not warranted, people touched food with their left "dirty" hands. Everyone wore slippers or socks, but didn't seem too concerned when a heel pointed in their direction.

    Friday, our first full day together was spent at home, or getting tours of the neighborhood with the family. We live close to the massive King Abdullah Mosque, the National Fine Arts Gallery, and two Christian churches whose bells compete with the call to prayer to puncture sleep and gather the faithful. We visited the Friday Souk (marketplace), a ragtag mash of clothing, electronics, trinkets, and produce all crushed into a square a two minutes walk from our home.

    Saturday, Darci got a text recruiting fellow CIEE students to meet up at the Ministry of Culture, some five miles away. We wanted to get some exercise and set out, despite the apparent concern of our families, to get a sense of the city. Amman is not pedestrian friendly. Like most aspects of life here, traffic works within a set of loosely defined and laxly obeyed defined rules and a more important set of social expectations and norms. Pedestrians, are near the bottom of the totem pole, bikes are non-existant, mopeds are a suprising rarity, and personal cars are simultaneously a luxury and a prolific presense in all corners of the city.

    Two hours later we reached the ministry only to receive a text alerting us that the rendevous point had shifted six or seven miles in the opposite direction, past our starting point, and well out of reach by foot. Hungry, we searched for my first restaurant meal but came up empty and caught a taxi through the congested maze towards the ancient citidel and historic downtown of Amman.

    We ate outside the Citadel at a place with roasting chickens outside and a sandwich bar inside. We clumsily worked our way upstairs to the dining area and fumbled our way through a menu before being presented with falafels, hummus, pita, and a plate of hot peppers. A filling, and much appreciated meal that came to about JD2 for the both of us.

    The sky was Grey and hazy as we climbed the stairs to the Citadel, a wind had come up, but there was only a little chill in the polluted air that swept past. We walked through streets of poor children, a first prolonged encounter with the millions of impoverished residents of Amman. The gates of the Citadel were open and we strode through the limestone ruins looking out on the city, small scenes and wide vistas showing the breadth and vivid scale of life in Amman.

    Darci called Scott, the guy that had prompted this expedition and we met outside a grand mausoleum before walking towards the exit. At this point we were accosted by the first of a trail of children that wanted their picture taken, and some money for their troubles if they could manage it. I spent the next half an our repeatedly bending down to snap and then show the shots to my eager audience. Their enthusiasm was both inspiring and at times disconcerting. By the end of it I was hoping only to escape without provoking a fight amongst the children or a harsh reproach from an adult.

    As we returned to street level, I made the first of my navigational errors and set us off walking, what should have been the reasonable distance to home but turned out to be the distant outskirts of the city. In our hours long trek, we passed the royal court and got thoroughly worn out. When we discovered our mistake it was a good fifteen minute cab ride to home, a journey not aided by the fact that I misremembered the name of our mosque and took us by King Hussein Mosque before finally setting foot near home. Exhausted, we thoroughly enjoyed dinner and got to bed early for the first day of classes on Sunday.

Dead Tired at the Salty Sea

    6:50 AM, breakfast, fill my plate with olives, hummus, pita, and a bowl of my first foul, a rich and satisfying mix of crushed fava beans, tomato, oil, and garlic. As startled peers poured warm milk over corn flakes and haltingly picked at eggs and sausage I went back for seconds, fearing the hours long wait before lunch. The typical meal schedule of Jordan is an early breakfast, lunch between 1:00 and 2:00, with dinner rarely arriving before 7:00.

    Our first day was to be a remarkable one. To the surprise of everyone, we were told the night before to be ready for our departure to the Dead Sea by 7:30. After a busy breakfast and an interminable wait on the bus, we were off by 8:00. I sat with Tim and across from Ashley, a new friend from Georgetown who had studied Arabic through her junior year and dreamed of a career chasing loose nukes with the FBI.

    Jordan is a muddled city, the product of continual innovation, little sustained planning, three million people, and maybe a million more temporary Palestinian and Iraqi refugees that are longer so temporary. It is both concentrated and sprawling. Formed in the bowl of seven great hills but now draping the sides of twenty. On the first of the coming days’ tour busses we wound our way south towards an outlook above the lowest point on Earth.

    The beige buildings of Amman gave way gradually to parched, scrubby hills, and then the green valleys of Jordan’s small Eden. This country of some six million inhabitants, more than half nestled in Amman alone, is blessed with only a tiny spread of arable land, a mere twenty percent of its arid expanses. The valley of the River Jordan is an emerald, overflowing with produce of all kinds: cucumbers, bananas, strawberries.

    Our ears popped as the road sunk below sea level and the scene opened on the waters of the Dead Sea. Our first day in Jordan, and our visit to one of its great beach resorts would paradoxically come on one of the coldest days of the year, a day of clouds and cool breezes, with temperatures in the 50s. The Dead Sea is warmer than Amman, but our initial destination, peering out on the gray scene at the distant Israeli (or Palestinian) shore was chilly.

    We began our first orientation lecture in the conference hall of a five star resort, an energizing mix of engagement and passion presented by the leader of CIEE Jordan, Alison Hodgkins. We broke for a tea, coffee, and fruit break, and got the chance to explore the resort’s museum and the overlook before returning to a rousing reminder that we are now here, and are no longer in America, with all that entails.

    Hungry, and dragging from the jet lag, we returned to the busses for a brief ride to the Dead Sea Spas Resort and a feast. Lunch completed by 3:00 we were invited to try the water before our return to Amman. While I and some remained on shore, a few bold souls frolicked in the buoyant body and draped themselves in its legendary mud. I struck up a conversation with a collection of Egyptian laborers and helped them as they cleared the beach and swept away the flotsam of tourism and construction.

    A return, a dinner, and a night, this time wrapped in my long underwear and socks brought my first day to a close. Snuggled within the hospitality of an entire country and the remarkable staff of CIEE, the long journey had begun and the first steps drew to a close.

A Landing and A Night

I awoke as we passed over the Bosporus. Disoriented after a day of airports and planes, I vaguely realized that it was now the 25^th, the day for my arrival in Jordan. Unable and not wanting to sleep anymore, I watched what I thought would be my last American movie for four months; I hoped that Up would fit into the final hour and a half before landing, a final touch of American culture before plunging into Amman, Arabic, and the world of Islam.

I landed to discover that my plane had born a clutch of CIEE students, all anxious as we stared around the arrival area to see no sign of the promised CIEE greeter. We clustered before customs and passport control. Within minutes I emerged into the terminal of Queen Rania Airport to find Ahmed, one of CIEE’s program coordinators with a smile and a cell phone ready to call home.

We poured into the waiting vans; our luggage stuffed into the trunk and took off towards our hotel. Lights and homes, billboards in English and Arabic, and cars from every corner of the world flashed past as we talked of pasts and hopes, our colleges and the longing of some for the comfort of Starbucks. Exhausted, not knowing what to expect, I chatted about my classes and listened to my seatmate brag of her connections to NGOs while the girl in front plotted escapades in Syria and Lebanon.

The Manara Hotel, surrounded by famous restaurants, major banks, and towering hotels waited with open doors. A hasty greeting from the CIEE staff before a brief dinner in the hotel restaurant, then a cell phone, a room, and a climb upstairs to room 230 and Tim Bettis, my new roommate. Limestone, the foundation, walls, and color of Amman is wonderful with heat, it absorbs everything, releasing it in the cool of the night. But with nothing to heat it, it merely drains the life from you as you collapse in bed and bury yourself under the short blankets that fail to cover both feet and shoulders.

I’ve heard that the mind is unable to find peaceful sleep amid strange surroundings. As I tossed and turned, awoke and dozed, I found myself, panicked, practicing and rehearsing my now pitiful-seeming Arabic in my mind.

Tomorrow I Fly

I've had a fabulous and lengthy winter break. I drove back to Beloit, WI from the University of Redlands in California with my brother, Jake and my father, Dan. We arrived in time for my 21st birthday. Since then I've read and listened to dozens of books, seen some great movies, shoveled the driveway, and played quite a few games of Monopoly. I didn't practice my Arabic as much as I would have liked to, but I have kept it in my head. I'll have plenty of time to practice in the coming weeks. I've almost completed my packing and will depart from Chicago through London to Amman tomorrow evening. My time in Jordan begins on the evening of the 25th.