Why

Cal State San Bernardino, the school which is funding my trip to Jordan, asked the other students and I to write a brief page for their program's yearbook describing, among other things, why I had decided to study Arabic. The following is what I submitted to them:

"The decision to study Arabic was made haphazardly. When I enrolled in first semester Arabic two years ago I didn’t consider that I would be studying one of the most difficult languages for a native English speaker to learn, I didn’t consider the hours upon hours upon days upon weeks of constant study and memorization I would subject myself to, I didn’t consider that two years worth of study would be a drop in the bucket of language proficiency and that it would take perhaps decades before I could speak Arabic as well as English, if ever.

I had no knowledge of the depth of expression inherent in the vocabulary. I was ignorant of the unfathomable beauty and complexity of the verbal root system or the precision of the vowel case endings. I knew nothing about the ancient poetic tradition and the almost sacred reverence of the spoken and written word in the Arabic speaking world.

I knew nothing about the middle east, about Arabic, about people who spoke Arabic. When I made this decision, I was just a bewildered sophomore philosophy major with an open slot in his fall schedule. Arabic seemed as good a choice as any, and a good deal cooler than most. The box I checked next to “Arabic 101” didn’t warn me that I would begin the hardest task I had ever undertaken, or of the rewards that diligent study and perseverance would offer.

I was sitting against a sandstone cliff used as a makeshift wall and protection from the sun the morning prior to this writing, eating a breakfast of flatbread, hummus, date syrup and bitter yogurt when one of our Bedouin guides asked me, in heavy colloquial Arabic, this very question. Why did I study Arabic? A question I had been asked dozens of times before and never had a good answer for. Our camp was laid out before me around the dying embers of the morning fire, nestled in a fold of sandstone cliffs guarding us from the red sands of Wadi Rum. I sat cross legged on that carpet and chewed, looking up the expanse of wall and around the worn but happy faces and sore, burnt, sandy bodies of my friends and fellow students, and I still didn’t have an answer. As usual, I got caught up in the hundreds of seemingly meaningless or arbitrary or lucky choices and circumstances that had brought me under that tent into that conversation with that man.

I still don’t have a good answer. Or rather, I don’t have an answer in words beyond what could be said by that scene itself. Those Bedouin men, that moonlit desert, the Amman taxi drivers, the poorly translated English/Arabic advertisements that adorn the city, the kebab and falafel, the first meaningful Arabic conversation with a native Jordanian, the free and easy friendships, the call to prayer, the uninhibited hospitality of strangers. These things answer that question much better than I can. All I can say is that it is worth the work.

To those who would consider learning the language of Arabic and of coming to Jordan: consider these things. Consider the work and the cost. Examine your motives, your goals, your resources. The prize is great I assure you, but nothing good comes without cost. Surviving and thriving in Amman is easy if you have three things: flexibility, patience, and most importantly gratefulness. If you have these things, you can’t have a bad time in Jordan. Surviving the study of Arabic is harder. You have to be willing to bend your brain to work in a whole different way. The only advice I have is this: if you can fall in love with the language, it will be much easier. There are people who want to help you, who want you to learn Arabic. But if you don’t love it, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t fall in love with Arabic until I was weeks into the Jordan program and a few years into my general Arabic studies, perhaps this was impossible before coming here. But now that I have, everything is easier. Given the right circumstances, the small and subtle twists of fate that brought me here, you could be in my place, and you may be able to see and do these things few people in the world will ever have the blessing to enjoy. In Sha’ Allah."

There are many things that I've thought about and learned since I've been here, a lot of them Arabic. But perhaps the pervasive thought in my mind recently is about gratefulness. Some days it seems completely absurd that I should be here, or rather, that someone is paying me to be here. Everyday I think that most people will not get to experience the things I am experiencing here. And while I did work hard to get here, in many ways it's simply luck that brought me. I don't feel that I deserve to be here, and I feel that there are many more people who have probably worked harder than me and have received less. So rather, my question now becomes, Why out of all the people in the world, should I be so lucky as to be here and see these things? I don't know. But I am very happy here, and grateful to God, my family, and the rest who have sent me.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I received your postcard yesterday in the mail. I was so excited, I ran around the school and made my friends look at the picture of Chico on the front to show them where I was from. It really made me happy, thank you so much.

Tomorrow we have midterms in my class. I'm kind of nervous because there is a lot of material. But I really feel like I have been learning a lot and it is paying off. I have been having good conversations with my English students in Arabic. This has been extremely rewarding and I am making many Jordanian friends. I feel as though I am making the most of my time here, and I am extremely grateful.

Dad, I've been trying to decide if you would like it here or not. The city is really busy and smoggy, and there isn't enough water around. This makes me think that you wouldn't. But I think you would fit in perfectly with the people here. Everyone is very laid back and extremely friendly, and in general everyone believes that people are more important than time, and they practice it. I know you would like the parts outside of town, the villages and stuff. Everything is done very spontaneously here, I think you would have a lot of fun.

Mom, I'm really sorry that I wasn't home on your birthday. I feel really bad about this. I think that when I get home, I'd like to make some Arabic food for you and Dad as a late celebration. Thank you so much for supporting my trip here, even though you were nervous. I have been eating very well and getting plenty of sleep. I am very happy and healthy, but I look forward to seeing you guys soon.

It's about halfway through my trip now, and I will be home soon. Please pet the dog for me, and say hello to all of the family and everyone else back home for me. I love and miss you both very much, and I'll be back before you know it.

With much love,
your son,

Greg

English

On Mondays and Tuesdays I wear dress shoes and a shirt and sometimes a tie to class. Because these are the days I teach. Afterward I catch a taxi to second circle, which is maybe a fifteen to twenty minute ride depending on traffic. During this time I talk with the taxi driver in a broken English/Arabic mix. Most of the conversations I have with taxi drivers go the same way. We greet each other, he asks where I am from, I tell him I'm an Arabic student, and we talk about Arabic and English and what makes them different. Most Jordanians have taken English in secondary school or university and speak it with varying degrees of efficiency. Most Jordanians are extremely friendly and love to talk with me. I've had a couple folks give me their phone number and offer to help me with anything I need upon first meeting them.

The taxi driver drops me off in second circle, a large and unruly roundabout packed with cars, and I walk to a nearby shawarma or kebab shop. Amman is built around seven "circles" or roundabouts, and their surrounding neighborhoods, arranged in a line running from east to west, with the rest of the city growing to the north and south of this line.

I sit and read at a table while I wait for my food and speak with the store owner a little. I get a few different reactions from the Jordanians I speak with in passing; the first response is terse brief responses in Arabic, the second is friendly engaging conversation in Arabic, and English is only introduced when my Arabic skills break down or the person I'm speaking with knows the word I'm searching for in English. The third and perhaps funniest response is the enthusiast English speaker.

Occasionally you'll meet someone who is excited about the opportunity to try out their English on a native speaker. Much like myself, they've probably studied English for awhile and have learned a number of memorized phrases that clearly were printed in a conversation book somewhere. Walking into a convenience store, a friend of mine was greeted with an enthusiastic, "Good day to you sir! Will that be all for you? With pleasure! And may I get anything for you sir?" I empathize with these guys the most. The Arabic I study is called FUS-hha, or Modern Standard Arabic. It's what newspapers are written in. However, each country will speak a wildly varying form of 3ameya, or common or street language (sometimes Arabic sounds that aren't in English are represented by numbers, like 3, 5 or 7.). This common language can often be so divorced from the standard as to be a separate language in itself. The closest analogy that I can think of is if someone walked up to you and started speaking in colonial English. Needless to say this can be incredibly frustrating and serve to make me look like a fool. The only saving grace of Modern Standard Arabic is that it can be understood almost anywhere in the middle east, where as the common speech will have idiosyncrasies particular to that region only.

Arriving at the center after I eat, I spend some time speaking with the students in Arabic and English. They are eager to practice their English and also to help me with my Arabic. I co-teach a conversation class for seven intermediate level English speaking students, all of which are adult men, although there are women students at the center. We mostly focus on smoothing out the wrinkles in conversation, this means correcting the use of certain words, working on the use of things like 'was' and 'is', and minor grammatical errors. I have one student in my class who is from Ecuador and speaks Spanish as his first language, but the rest are Jordanians. They are mostly successful career men; an accountant, an engineer, an art teacher, etc. And they are all extremely grateful that the teachers are there to help them learn English.

The prevalence of English in Amman is really astounding. It is so integral to the country that street signs are printed in both English and Arabic. Most advertisements are bilingual, and any service involving a highly specialized or trained field, optometry for instance, can be expected to have a proficient English speaker. It's a very odd phenomenon. English is considered absolutely necessary to participate in the business world, both here in Jordan and all over the world. I know that teaching English here, in a small way, will improve the lives of the Jordanians I have met. But I can't help but wonder what it means that English is so dominant here. I have serious questions regarding globalism, even more so now that I've seen it in action. The dominance of the language is indicative of a whole way of doing things, a whole new system. Imagine what the United States would be like if every sign was printed in English and Spanish, and kids are taught from a young age both English and Spanish. In many ways it would be great, but in others it would completely change the dynamic of the country given enough time. The western life has really come to dominate in many ways out here, for better or worse.

Change

Throughout the course of each day I participate in a strategic exercise running constantly in the back of my mind. This is manifested in the question, "How am I going to acquire more pocket change and refrain from losing the change I have already acquired?". This puzzle is a constant struggle for me. Change is suspiciously difficult to acquire in this country, considering how integral it is to the function of daily life. We rely primarily on taxicabs for transportation here, the fares of which more often than not are payed for in Quirsh, (pronounced like KERsh) which are the minted currency of Jordan. Seemingly a simple problem, this is exacerbated by the fact that cab drivers, as most businesses in Amman, are reluctant to offer change in return. Therefore, having precise change is imperative to not getting ripped off. This creates a type of change vacuum for the average citizen in Amman, in which coinage is constantly flowing out of one's pocket with no steady income coming in. Such is the magnitude of this issue that the value of possession of coins actually outweighs the value of the money itself. God help you if you get in a cab with only a Fifty Jordanian Dinar Bill in your pocket; such a thing is next to worthless.

So this incredibly interesting puzzle manifests. How will I get change? It becomes almost as important a question as, "Where will my next meal come from?". Like some sort of carrion animal, I and the other students stalk the bake sale table at out school, or the bill paying session at the local coffee shop, or any other situation where change is in abundance, waiting for the opportunity to exchange our bills for precious metal. On more than one occasion I've walked to the market to buy a pack of gum or some other trivial thing for the sole purpose of breaking a five. And when the frustrated proprietor attempts to hand back the twenty dinar bill that I am trying to exchange for the thirty cent cup of coffee, I have to politely insist that it is the only money I have available. He reluctantly obliges and, having won this round, I get the change I so desperately need.

Friday

A particularly surreal part of Living in Jordan is simply the fact that it is a Muslim country. Every friday the Mosques broadcast their sermons over loudspeakers all across the city. I can't understand what the Imams are saying (An Imam is a spiritual leader of a mosque), but they preach very emphatically. They use a lot of repetition and the whole thing is very rhetorical I think. It reminds me of a southern gospel revival or something, but as the message is in arabic, it's much more intimidating. For example, I'll be sitting on the balcony and listening to the nearby mosque, and the sermon will roll and echo throughout the valley and buildings nearby. It produces an incredibly surreal effect, as though we were underwater, masking the sounds of traffic. These messages will go on for a long time, drifitng in and out of awareness, and at some points the Imam will recite Qur'an in a sort of chant. It's odd how the sound pervades the whole house to become background noise, like we were bathing in it.

Less odd but more frequent is the call to prayer, which happens five times everyday. I have not yet experienced a day where I actually notice it five times, but I usually notice it at least twice. One of the first nights I was here I woke up around four in the morning. I went to get some water and I was looking out the window. The city was coated in this burnt orange light pollution and I was looking at this little copse of trees outside my window when the call to prayer started. I'd never heard aything like it. The first prayer starts around 4:30 and last for about ten minutes or so. In a way it seems like the whole city is united under this practice, it's become so common as to become a part of life that you really only notice if you try.