Jerusalem Center People

The BYU Jerusalem Center organized a field trip to Jordan for their students. They arrived in Amman three days ago, and today is there last day.

I suppose it had something to do with honoring their long journey, or recognizing that they too are part of the Mormon minority in the Middle East - honestly, there didn't seem to be much purpose for the Al Husn Branch youth to make an activity out of going down to meet them.

Two weeks ago, I was counting down the days until I could see the 44 Americans. I ended up laughing, talking, and enjoying myself more with the Jordanians.

The best part of the trip (by far) was the ride to and from. President Dew had hired Omran again - he had driven us to Amman a week before on the Seminary Opening-Activity trip to the Royal Car Museum. Omran is 23, skinny, and somewhat shy. He's not the worst driver in Jordan, but both times I've gotten into his bus, I've thought about how I haven't written my will yet.

His "bus" isn't really a bus, but a van with ten seats. Because the engine is weak, and with ten people crammed inside the van is nearly twice as heavy, we would average around 10 mph uphill, and 90 mph downhill.

Omran got pulled over by the Public Police three times total, which involves a guy dressed in bright reflective gear waving a big stop sign-looking thing at your car from the side of the road.

He had gotten a ticket on the Seminary Opening Activity trip, but because he had connections w/ the police, he didn't end up paying.

This time, they wanted his license, and the licenses of two other people in the car. They asked us where we were going, where we were from. I don't think they stopped us because we were going too fast, in fact, I never figured out if there was a reason at all.

The final time he was stopped, the policeman asked him if the girls in the car were "passengers" or "family."
"Family."
"The right answer tonight was 'passengers' - get going!"
We all laughed, and turned the Amr Diab back up to its rock-concert volume.

I talked to Tamr and Majdee most of the ride. It was the second or third conversation I've had in Arabic where I haven't thought about "language." He told me some stories about a loch-ness type monster in a lake in Russia. I told him about the witch grave at Camp Moses, and made up a scary story that involved me and Cindy walking there at midnight under the full moon.

The topic of conversation changed to witches, magic, and "gin". The English word for "gin" has a weak connotation - "genie" makes me think of Robin Williams, "How 'bout LADI, do you smoke, mind if I do?"

"Gin" here is a powerful word. Everyone in the bus listened to people tell stories. Chilling, exciting - magic is real here.

Jordanians are expressive when they talk. They thrive on wit, word plays, and making people laugh. Jordanian culture is about language.

The Americans were boring. Will it be like that when I get home?

Last night, instead of falling asleep listening to American music, I listened to Arabic music.

Markaz I-Shorta

Today was a great day. For the first time since I’ve been here, I felt some semblance of “home”. I know that it will never be the lie-in-the-front-yard drinking lemonade after washing my car feeling, but it was still closer than paranoia and negative comparisons.

Baba Hammouri took me to the Shorta, the Police Station, to take care of the business of my Visa. It’s so insane to think about me paying the equivalent of $10.50 after stepping off the airport in Amman for my Visa for the next six months, where Jordanians stand in line for days and days at the American Embassy, in a huge line, waiting to get a Visa that will last them a few months and cost thousands of JDs. I wonder how I happened to gain the great privilege of being born an American Citizen. I try not to think too much about that; it’s kind of a depressing thought. I value my citizenship like I value my virginity, like I value my soul.

So we went to the Police Station. It was great. I felt so…COOL. That’s definitely the best word to describe the feeling. There I was, in my black coat (in France, I bought a raincoat at my favorite store. It turns out to have been the absolute most intelligent purchase of my trip so far. It’s long, which is perfect for here – Muslims wear long coats and shirts for modesty. It’s not heavy, it repels rain, and I look fabulous in it), with a million Arab police around. I didn’t feel any hint of fear, mostly because Baba Hammouri was there. Also, I felt…power? I don’t know how to describe it.

We had to go to a second police station. I don’t really understand why. Actually, the whole business of Visas in Jordan is quite confusing.

The State Department says that you buy your Visa in the airport, and then go to the local police before the end of the first month you are there to extend it for a maximum of two months.

This worried me, because the duration of my stay here is longer than three months. I called the Jordanian Embassy in Washington D.C. to ask them what to do. They said that there would be, “No broblem!” when I go to the police here.

Last time I was in Jordan, we went to the police station in Al-Husn a month after being there. I had no idea what happened. Nedal and his dad took our passports and a copy of them, waved their hands around, we waited for about an hour, and the result was a bunch of additional squiggles added to our passport that meant we could stay for the next while. I don’t know how long.

This time, the police in the first police station took my passport, wrote some stuff in it, and apparently said that I needed to see the bigger city police, because that’s where Baba Hammouri and I went.

They gave me a form to fill out, expressed wonder at the fact that I came two weeks early (“You should come after a month, not two weeks!”), and apparently instructed Baba Hammouri that I need to get a physical by an Arabic doctor to ensure that I’m not bringing dangerous American microbes into the Middle East.

Tonight on Al Jazeera I learned that Tony Blair is pulling out 1,600 troops from Iraq. I also had the joy and privilege of watching Al-Zahra2, that crazy anti-American station. Baba Hammouri called me from the kitchen. The program tonight was in English. I saw the dead bloody bodies of American soldiers while someone expressed anger and hatred towards George Bush in broken English. It wasn’t as emotional this time. Mostly I just felt like it was the most stupid propaganda I’ve heard. Then there was the usual American tanks exploding – infijarat. Baba Hammouri tried to make me feel better about the whole thing by saying, “Don’t worry, when they captured the actual soldiers inside the American tanks, they found out they were actually Israeli Jews dressed like Americans.” As if that was some sort of consolation.

Some other extremely ridiculous things I have heard in the past few weeks:

“The CIA has hundreds of files and documents in their basement, plans on how they are going to help Israel extend its borders to the westernmost side of Iraq.”

“Jews are the cause of all the problems in the Middle East.”

“Shi’ites are all bad people.”

“Saddam Hussein was a good ruler and an honest man.”

“You can’t have Democracy in Muslim countries.”

Trevor made an excellent point the other day, though. No matter how stupid someone’s opinion is, it has value because it is their opinion. It would be just as likely for me to convince someone that Liberal Democracy and Inalienable Rights and a Free Market Economy are the “right” way as for them to convince me that Saddam Hussein was respectable leader, Israel doesn’t have the right to exist, and Democracy in the Arab World is impossible. Basically, Trevor’s main point was the only thing I can do is listen, without the spirit of wanting to argue my points. I can reason with them, and try to get them to understand me, but they will only listen if I really want to understand their point of view. It’s really hard to sit back and listen to some things, though.