Memories of Jordan

Zaid informed me with bright eyes that despite defeat in the match against Iraq, Jordan’s honour had been salvaged in the post match combat. Police protection was all that stood between a diminutive group of Iraqis and spilled blood. Gleefully, Zaid chanted songs sung by the Jordanian fans, lauding Sadaam Hussein and reminding of occupation, while reassuring me that the match was of only slight importance to Jordan, as their qualification to the next stage was already assured. His demeanour demonstrated conviction that I would understand. I am English after all.

When I announced that I was to take leave of Syria in order to reside in Jordan, I was endowed with numerous pieces of advice. Jordanians are boring, unable to maintain conversation. Life is hard there, expensive, and even if the infrastructure is superficially impressive, the money is dirty, earned through surrender. (un)Fortunately, upon arrival in Amman, balance was restored. Syrians are cheats. A story of a man who would only furnish tourists with directions upon receipt of a ‘donation’, border corruption, dirty hotels, and backwardness. The two nationalities were however united by more than just their ancestry: Their profound dislike of Egyptians, who were known to be ‘uncivilised’ and delighted to serve in order to earn. Upon picking up a sandwich wrapper thrown on the floor by a student at my school, I was reprimanded by a member of my English class. “I used to live in Germany sir, and when I first came I was like you. I didn’t like the Masri (Egyptian) doing anything for me. But you get used to it. Let him pick it up.”

In March 2008, a meeting of the Arab league was addressed by Muanmar Gadaffi. In one of his saner rants, he affirmed his belief that “nothing is joining us (the Arab League) together except this room.” In both Damascus and Amman, I have been subjected to grumbling clarifications that the admittedly extortionate cost of housing is actually due to an influx of Iraqi refugees. American aggression is often overlooked in favour of Iraqi affluence as the cause of anger. On Thursday evening (the beginning of the weekend in much of the Middle East), I often take my wife and daughter for dinner at a relatively new mega-mall complex imaginatively called ‘City Mall’. Aside from the traditional dress of the visitors from Saudi Arabia and the Emirates (and the higher concentration of headscarves), the characterless architecture and standardised wares means that we could be in any ‘modern’ city in the world. At the door, young single men with preposterously spiky hair are denied entry by gigantic security guards, whilst the blue lights crowning a police van momentarily turn night into day. The van is permanently stationed at the main entrance to the mall in order to maintain perhaps the most significant remaining distinction between the Middle Eastand the West: The overwhelming sense of personal safety. I have never felt in danger in Amman, nor Damascus, nor Cairo. I cannot say the same thing about London.

“London is way better than Jordan” Mus’ab said to me as we sought a reprieve from the pounding wind and rain. “Why would you even come here?” The question is certainly not uncommon. The Arab world is suffering a protracted, painful death from an already diagnosed terminal illness. As in Syria, entertainment (read distraction) is the prescribed painkiller (read bullet). DVD shops stock the latest illegally copied movies with Arabic subtitles, and are the cause of incredibly inappropriate words exiting the most innocent of mouths during English lessons. Educated twenty-somethings regular press me for information regarding life in the UK, and how they can get out of Jordan. My sixteen year old students cannot be separated from their headphones, which compound their blindness by subjecting them to ‘The Game’ and ‘Lil Wayne’. Malcolm said that Harlem was pacified by the introduction of drugs and alcohol. And whilst alcohol consumption is rife, the Arab youth are more concerned with MTV and Murdoch funded Rotana. I have even heard a young lady being summoned with a name more commonly associated with a female dog.

Religion does still resonate in society, and for the sake of accuracy, private schools cannot be considered representative of Jordanian life. It is a toss-up as to whether the taxi I take each morning will have selected sycophantic melodies in praise of the King or the Words of the Creator. Often I am honoured by drivers who, upon establishing that I am a Muslim from overseas, lavish kind words upon me and seem genuinely moved by my company. Yet we are certainly in agony. We seem paralysed by the trials of the modern world. Post-modernism, accompanied by it’s devious accomplice the monoculture, came to power in these lands decades ago in a unopposed coup. Khalil Gibran stated “pity the nation that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.” It’s grip in the cosmopolitan centres is unyielding, and is relentlessly draped over previously inviolate quarters. Like chocolate, it tempts and lures. Like chocolate, it’s consequences are very hard to overturn. Success is synonymous with wealth. Intelligence is synonymous with Western style degrees. Honour is earned through employing servants, not servitude. Religion must be shaped by the demands of daily life, rather than vice versa.