The Politics of Blood, Faith and Revolution

Day 21: September 13th, 2008

“Peace will come suddenly, we won’t understand when it does – see, man?” ~ Jack Kerouac

September 11th was a blur of slowgoing Arabic classes, smoke and mirror politics, giggles and doodles and magic eyes. Someone identified September 11th as the end of our childhood…and perhaps the beginning of a new age of adult-sized children.

In the U.S., Obama and McCain called off the campaigning for a 24-hour moment of select silence. In Jordan, taxis honked their horns and hurled insults as viciously as before, the streets howled with business and pleasure just as it did the year before. Politics and terrorism remained just as taboo and distant as the hidden horizon.

Later, I had a conversation with a friend about Catholic doctrine and the overlooked musical superiority of metal bands while watching an Arab shepherd herd his flock of goats and sheep away from their grazing patch by the newly built, million-dollar Orthodox church. I feel this trip is not so much about my development as a “grown up” as it is an ongoing collection of textured thoughts.

Wondered why Jesus commanded we choose him as idealistic and doe eyed children rather than almost conscious, discerning adults. Wouldn’t the return of the latter feel far more rewarding?

Saw the end scenes of the movie, “Messages.” It’s a fantastic film documenting the spread of Islam. Mohammad [peace be upon him] is never seen or heard but the camera acts as his eyes. The ending scene is the successful takeover of Mecca and closes with a call to prayer. A deep, throaty voice recites the first verse in the Qur’an and the camera pans across the tearful crowd. The people react to the Message with smiles, tears, laughter, shivers and heaving bodies.

Seems that God is a many faced, many named, many armed creature that has captivated our imagination and eluded our full understanding for many millennia. Will we/have we seen the end of prophets that carry this Mystery God’s message? Will prophets of the future hurdle rocks into civilization’s playground or wipe clean our feet and faces?

In peace.

Days Written by and for Nina Simone

Day 18: September 10, 2008

“The kiss of his memory made pictures of love and light against the wall. Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fishnet. Pulled it from around the waist of the world, and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see.” ~ Zora Neal Hurston in Their Eyes were Watching God

It’s not so hard to romanticize a place that has so successfully edited out physical affection. Magic, or the sparks of light that sprinkle our favorite memories, dart in and out of their hiding places in moments that I would otherwise consider commonplace. Magic appears in the preparation of Iftar, when the knee buckling aroma of mansef mixes with pining tummies and tongues. It’s in the constant wafts of coffee and cologne that visit foreign nostrils even without a clear source. It’s hiding away in abandoned classrooms to sneak sips of water and chunks of heaven sent falafel. Sparks fly in the forbidden looks of tenderhearted lovers and their equally restless counterparts. Love may be forced out of sight in this part of the world but she is most certainly alive and thriving in the shadows of the everyday. People here tend to shuffle all things political and sexual under the rug below the coffee table. While I appreciate this newfound silence, I also question its efficacy and sustainability.

As my host mother quips, “Americans are very straight [she means direct]. Here, not so.”

Throughout all this business, I find that I may never “arrive” here. My heart too readily explores and embraces the “routine” as something altogether different and blessedly polymelodic.

Peace.

The Sand in my Shoes

Day 13: September 5th

Hey lovelies. I touched down in Jordan about two weeks ago so I guess it’s only appropriate that I try to document the new but oddly familiar textures and tastes that crowd my days. Amman is a city caught between traditional symbols and symptoms of globalization. She swirls in an overabundance of stiff smells, stifling heat, guttural psalms and little sparks of magic. Cab drivers hurl past one another in their sparkling Toyota Corollas, conservative women in black burqas flit between Safeway and Forever 21 and the towering minarets are lined in bright green neon lights comparable to old Las Vegas.

Admittedly, it’s been a messy transition both physically and culturally speaking (my bowels have yet to agree with the diet of lamb and soupy cheese. Surprise!). Within my first few hours in Amman, I’d already learned a valuable lesson in cultural assimilation: some men consider a smile an open invitation to grope your ankle. Have since practiced and nearly perfected my “fuck off” scowl. Still haven’t decided whether or not or how I should hide my skin (story of my life).

The next few days were a jumble of Byzantine churches, Ummayad palaces and fallen citadels situated at the heart of a restless economy. As we stood amidst the hilltop rubble we learned of the legacy of heroes and gods that walked the same ground centuries before us. Some of the Americans wandered off in thought while others stood on pillars and mimicked the forgotten deities.

We also toured the gigantic King Hussein mosque erected in the image and memory of the late (and widely beloved) king. We women donned full black robes and covered our hair before entering the mosque. Standing among these newly concealed American women was quite the sobering experience. It felt strangely comforting to be faceless, nameless and generally unrecognizable except unto the all seeing eyes of God.

On the first night of Ramadan, a group of us gathered to break the fast and while the evening call to prayer rang out from the nearest minarets, one of our Jewish companions ceremoniously broke bread and we exhaled guilty little giggles. A short while later, I moved into my host family’s three story mansion in a “quiet” neighborhood that’s reminiscent of Albuquerque’s Northeast Heights. My host mother immediately grabbed my hand and excitedly ran me up and down the house. Mom, she cooks, looks and even makes honey and lemon concoctions just like you. It’s uncanny and frankly, a bit unfair J. I gather you arranged that one with God. My host father is a bit skinny and shifty and we have yet to make eye contact. The young brothers are twelve and fourteen and refuse to act any older. Occasionally they try out the “protectorate” role especially on night walks around the neighborhood. One night, a car full of rowdy young twirps attempted to run me and two other girls off the road (TWICE!). Zaid, the youngest, puffed up his chest and accompanied us down the street until the car showed up a third time. Without a second thought, Zaid booked it back to the house leaving us to the mercy of a smelly mess of testosterone, big cars and fire crackers. I learned later that this is a fairly common practice for young men seeking the company of young ladies. Dating in the Middle East is beyond me.

So, I’ve heard from some but not all of the people I miss most. Please keep me updated on all of your latest schemes and dreams. I’ll try to put this blasted blog to good use. Know that I’ve thought and prayed and giggled about your goofy faces every damn day.

Peace.