Ferguson

I was planning on writing this next blog post about my weekend trip to the Dana Nature Reserve. I was hoping to show all of you images of the stunning valley and the vibrant sunset and the adorable puppies I encountered there. But at this moment in time I cannot possibly write about something so mundane as my hiking trip.

Yesterday the grand jury decided not to indict Darren Wilson. There will be no trial for a cop who shot an unarmed teenager in the street. He will walk free, and Mike Brown's family will not see justice for his death- not even the attempt to gain justice.

I feel tired. I feel disappointed. I am upset, and angry, and disheartened by this news. It is wrong, it is a mockery of justice and a slap in the face of what America supposedly believes in. And in these emotions, there is only incredible privilege. Because upon hearing the news, I am upset and disheartened- but I am not worried for my life. I am not terrified for a future of uncertainty. I have that privilege, simply based on the color of my skin.

How is America considered the pinnacle of democracy? Of freedom? Of human rights? How are we the best, the greatest, that the world has to offer? What a joke. What a complete and utter farce. We are all lying to ourselves, and it manifests itself in an ignorance that has cost so very many lives.

We are all lying to ourselves.

On Belonging

This morning, I woke up at my usual hour of 6:30 and lay in bed for my usual 10 minutes before rousing myself for my usual cup of coffee. Maybe I'll just stay in bed today, is my usual waking thought. A fierce battle of wills commences, ultimately resulting in me forcing myself to flip the light on and slip my bare feet out of bed onto the chilled tile floor (fun fact, my room is the only one in our apartment without a working heater. Yay!)

The inevitable result of living somewhere for over three months is that you slide into a daily routine (something I've had to give a presentation on MULTIPLE TIMES in Arabic.. I might not be able to say much but I do know how to describe in excruciating detail my morning routine!). When I think about life here, it's hard to conceptualize it within a framework of normalness, simply because I am so far removed from the society and culture I have been acclimated to. But I guess that's the thing, nothing is ever actually a dichotomy, no matter how desperate Western knowledge is to frame concepts as such. So while life back home, in America, is "normal", that does not mean that life here simply reflects the opposite of normal. It occupies a more liminal space, something somewhere in between that encapsulates components of normality and comfort and simultaneously bewilderment and alienation.

Take this morning, for instance- I have a usual morning routine. I wake up. I get ready. I walk to Mustashfa Shmeisani, music spilling out of my headphones, past the dukkan and the bird garden and the three girls who wait for their school bus on the corner with their pink backpacks. The music is a welcome distraction from the lingering stares from slowing car windows, reclaiming a space in which I refuse to allow them to infiltrate. This is a recurring moment of normal.

But then we pile into a taxi, and the driver begins speaking animatedly in Arabic, and it's 7:30 in the morning and even with coffee my mind is not quite up to the challenge of deciphering sentences, so I sit silently in the back and disengage. This is a recurring moment of isolation and alienation.

I experience a plurality of these moments every day- moments that expose me as an imposter and then, not ten minutes later, demonstrate my inclusion.

I'm done with fusHa and another battle of the wills commences- to gym, or not to gym? And of course, the gym wins out because sleep was forgone in order to pack a bag of gym clothes, so I trek down the hill. I was doing this walk this morning, the same walk I do several times a week, and was realized that this routine- ritual, even, had come to embody a sense of home for me. Of place. Belonging.

Moments of realization like that- that not only am I residing here, in Amman, in Jordan, in the Middle East, but actually living here- instill confidence in me that I am not wasting my time, that I have chosen the right path in life for myself. That this is a viable life for me. It is comforting to come to acknowledge that I belong in America, but I also belong in Jordan, and that these belongings are not exclusive. These belongings differ immensely due to the affectation of the subtleties of context, and yet all the same, nurture the same inspiring thought in me. I belong here.

Reflecting

My stay in Amman is almost over- a thought, once reflected upon, that produces an instinctive rejection. I've only just got here, or so it seems. I feel as if I know the city intimately, and at the same time, I am on the outskirts with no hope of coming anywhere close to belonging in the next five weeks.

I miss many things about America, but none of them are merely because they are American. I miss being able to cook whatever I want, I miss the late nights in Cafe on the Ave with my stacks of books and frantic typing, I miss my wardrobe of more than three pairs of pants . None of these are intrinsically American, and all of them comforts that I have just as easily lived without here. And I am reminded every day here that these comforts of home, the comforts that America provides, are not really comforts that America provides- they are comforts that my wealth, my class standing provide for me back at home. And perhaps it is good for me to live without them, to learn to grow without the comforts afforded to me by wealth. In these last few weeks I have found myself wishing fondly for home, daydreaming of what life will be like when I return, building up grand plans in my head of how I will spend my next months. But just as I have been daydreaming of the return, I have been dreading it.

Sometimes I think, what if I don't go back? I could just as readily live here- being a fluent English speaker is, fortunately, a hot commodity here. I could easily find a job and a comfortable apartment, and put down the roots here that I have been so desperately missing. Life in Amman has become everyday life for me- a city once foreign, once wildly exciting and desperately confusing has become normal. I feel comfortable enough to walk through the city without a vigilant eye canvassing the streets for shabab that I must avoid, I have a comfortable grasp on the geography of most of West Amman, and I can redirect a cab driver who is attempting to take me down a time consuming- and more expensive- route.

I think I have grown accustomed to life here in the Middle East- albeit I am living in a rather Westernized section of it- and I am relieved to be able to say that I could pursue a life here, as my studies and subsequent career choice will most likely require (sorry, Mom and Dad). This study abroad- if doing little for me in an academic sense- has at least allowed me to prove that to myself. And when I do return to the US, I think I will miss my life here, however fleeting and ungrounded it has been.