This will be a growing tribute list to Arab women who still dare to hope in the presence a world-wide epidemic--social inequality. You all touch my life, even those whom I have never met face-to-face.
Naomi Shihab Nye: Palestinian-American poet
Her Majesty Queen Rania of Jordan: social advocate for Jordan, the Middle East, and the world, breaking stereotypes and breaking new ground humankind.
Mary: Gracious Palestinian woman who has been all over the world, learning, growing, and celebrating faith and culture.
All the women and girls who will remain anonymous: whose stories, no matter how grand or small, have weight and worth.
. . .
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Food
Ironic, isn't it, that the United States hosts the cultural phenomenon of wanting to whittle the waist and tighten thighs, but it also suffers from a very high obesity rate. To balance another oddity on this tower, consider how food is consumed and valued in the U.S. versus in other countries.
In the U.S. food is big. Big Mac. Supersize. Big Gulp. Not only grande, but venti. We eat on the run, eat at our desks, I've seen people practically inhale food. Resturaunts serve enough food for an average person to have three meals, but often times leftover don't make it home. Thanksgiving is called "turkey day." Coffee shops fill our cups with sugar and flavors and lots of milk.
In France I saw very few overweight people (especially in Paris), but food was all over the place. Patisseries were at least two to a block, and you could always find a brassarie with its street-facing tables and chairs. To my great pleasure, the French understand some key foods very well: coffee (served strong, and if you order cafe au lait or cafe creme, it's still strong with rich milk), yaourt (yogurt- the best I've had in the world came from French supermarkets), pastries (try pain au chocolat or pain au amandes avec chocolat), and bread and soft cheeses. I hear that food is so important to French social life that many people would rather go all day without eating than eat alone. It's worth it to wait.
In Italy food and wine go together (in France wine is important as well, but I did not experience that first-hand). Even at our hostel they served (cheap) wine with dinner every night. Again, food was everywhere, in resturaunts, open markets, fruit stands, and grocery markets. We weren't in Italy long enough to pick up on their food traditions, but I have a feeling they are similar to those in France. I suppose the only way to find out for sure is to return for another visit.
And this brings me to Jordan. Food in the Middle East is diverse, but there are a few staples in every kitchen: couscous, bread, lamb, coffee, coriander, and mint, as well as seasonal fruits and veggies. Meals are a family affair, and if you happen to be in the house (regardless of whether you live in this particular house), you're family, and you will eat.
In the household where I am spending the summer, dinner time is quite the production and it takes at least most if not all the family to prepare and serve the meal. When we host guests, the kitchen is a lively place of simmering pots, hands chopping vegetables, slicing fruit, and scooping melon into neat little balls. Then we take food out in Palestinian serving dishes of blue and white pottery.
Today I ate "fast food" like no other fast food I have ever eaten (I must note, however, the posh atmosphere of McDonald's in Italy-- very nice, with free toilets). I went to Lebnani Snack, a Lebanese fast food chain. They have fresh fruit cocktails and fresh squeezed juices. The food is also fresh, made after it has been ordered. And oh so yummy. If they did fast food in the States like the do Lebnani Snack here, I would eat fast food.
In the U.S. food is big. Big Mac. Supersize. Big Gulp. Not only grande, but venti. We eat on the run, eat at our desks, I've seen people practically inhale food. Resturaunts serve enough food for an average person to have three meals, but often times leftover don't make it home. Thanksgiving is called "turkey day." Coffee shops fill our cups with sugar and flavors and lots of milk.
In France I saw very few overweight people (especially in Paris), but food was all over the place. Patisseries were at least two to a block, and you could always find a brassarie with its street-facing tables and chairs. To my great pleasure, the French understand some key foods very well: coffee (served strong, and if you order cafe au lait or cafe creme, it's still strong with rich milk), yaourt (yogurt- the best I've had in the world came from French supermarkets), pastries (try pain au chocolat or pain au amandes avec chocolat), and bread and soft cheeses. I hear that food is so important to French social life that many people would rather go all day without eating than eat alone. It's worth it to wait.
In Italy food and wine go together (in France wine is important as well, but I did not experience that first-hand). Even at our hostel they served (cheap) wine with dinner every night. Again, food was everywhere, in resturaunts, open markets, fruit stands, and grocery markets. We weren't in Italy long enough to pick up on their food traditions, but I have a feeling they are similar to those in France. I suppose the only way to find out for sure is to return for another visit.
And this brings me to Jordan. Food in the Middle East is diverse, but there are a few staples in every kitchen: couscous, bread, lamb, coffee, coriander, and mint, as well as seasonal fruits and veggies. Meals are a family affair, and if you happen to be in the house (regardless of whether you live in this particular house), you're family, and you will eat.
In the household where I am spending the summer, dinner time is quite the production and it takes at least most if not all the family to prepare and serve the meal. When we host guests, the kitchen is a lively place of simmering pots, hands chopping vegetables, slicing fruit, and scooping melon into neat little balls. Then we take food out in Palestinian serving dishes of blue and white pottery.
Today I ate "fast food" like no other fast food I have ever eaten (I must note, however, the posh atmosphere of McDonald's in Italy-- very nice, with free toilets). I went to Lebnani Snack, a Lebanese fast food chain. They have fresh fruit cocktails and fresh squeezed juices. The food is also fresh, made after it has been ordered. And oh so yummy. If they did fast food in the States like the do Lebnani Snack here, I would eat fast food.
Much reality, too many words, not enough words-- a la vez
In the time frame of a month, I have been in 5 different countries (counting my layover in Frankfurt), which have their own distinct cultures, and their own distinct languages. Since I have never traveled overseas before this summer, I was gearing up my psyche for serious culture shock. And while there has been much cultural richness to process along the way (details to follow shortly), I have actually experienced language shock. Funny, considering I have never studied or spoken French, Italian, German, or Arabic.
Regardless of my linguistic background, I found (and find) myself struggling to acclimate to each new language. In France, I listened carefully for commonly used phrases and mimicked them, while making reasonable connections between French and my knowledge of Spanish, un otro idioma romantico. This, of course, led to some moments of complete confusion, and I would break down and ask French locals if they spoke Spanish. Haha.
Italy was not as difficult a switch, since I was used to hearing French and I missed English and Spanish (Italian is a close relative of French and Spanish-- it's rather amusing how it seems to be a mix of the two-- and Portuguese. Sometimes I could fake Italian by slurring Spanish really fast. :D
But the shift into hearing Arabic has been, predictably, the toughest. I hear no Latin roots, and when I do hear things that sound similar, I cannot be safe in assuming that they mean what they would in a Romantic language. I'm finding it hard to write here in Jordan. Yes, I believe the reality of our humanity far surpasses the limitations of languages and symbols; that is why I'm here. But it is foolish to think that I can fully understand another's story when I know so little of her language, of the way she interacts with reality.
There are so many words, so many, and yet so few. How do we share our stories in the first place? Through more than words, I suspect. Dangerous words for a poet to write (could be out of a job, but it's not like poetry has ever been written for its grand monetary income). We share our stories through silence, what's not said along with what is; an embrace; in sobs and laughter; in the books we pass to others with exclamations scribbled in the margins, saying, "You must read this. It changed my life" (always read books that have changed friends lives); in our poetry; our music; the way we fidget with serviettes at the table or pamphlets at a recital. How do we share our stories? I don't know how exactly, how they transfer from one person to another (maybe we don't own them as individuals in the first place). How do we share our stories? By the grace of God? Perhaps. Perhaps.
Regardless of my linguistic background, I found (and find) myself struggling to acclimate to each new language. In France, I listened carefully for commonly used phrases and mimicked them, while making reasonable connections between French and my knowledge of Spanish, un otro idioma romantico. This, of course, led to some moments of complete confusion, and I would break down and ask French locals if they spoke Spanish. Haha.
Italy was not as difficult a switch, since I was used to hearing French and I missed English and Spanish (Italian is a close relative of French and Spanish-- it's rather amusing how it seems to be a mix of the two-- and Portuguese. Sometimes I could fake Italian by slurring Spanish really fast. :D
But the shift into hearing Arabic has been, predictably, the toughest. I hear no Latin roots, and when I do hear things that sound similar, I cannot be safe in assuming that they mean what they would in a Romantic language. I'm finding it hard to write here in Jordan. Yes, I believe the reality of our humanity far surpasses the limitations of languages and symbols; that is why I'm here. But it is foolish to think that I can fully understand another's story when I know so little of her language, of the way she interacts with reality.
There are so many words, so many, and yet so few. How do we share our stories in the first place? Through more than words, I suspect. Dangerous words for a poet to write (could be out of a job, but it's not like poetry has ever been written for its grand monetary income). We share our stories through silence, what's not said along with what is; an embrace; in sobs and laughter; in the books we pass to others with exclamations scribbled in the margins, saying, "You must read this. It changed my life" (always read books that have changed friends lives); in our poetry; our music; the way we fidget with serviettes at the table or pamphlets at a recital. How do we share our stories? I don't know how exactly, how they transfer from one person to another (maybe we don't own them as individuals in the first place). How do we share our stories? By the grace of God? Perhaps. Perhaps.
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