Dancing with Distinction

Thursday was the last day of class for most of the students at the Language Center, and so at the end of the day there was a small party at the Center and then a volleyball game engineered by the Italian girls. A couple of the Korean students came, as did a Turkish student, and few of the Italians’ Arab friends (another “mini-UN” as one of the students remarked). We had a couple of extra players, and so took turns sitting out and watching the disorganized game as it took on aspects of soccer (one of the Palestinians had a better record heading the ball over the net than many of us had hitting it at all) and chaos (you mean there are positions in this game?!?).

The first time that I sat out, I ended up chatting with one of their friends named “Ash.” We talked about the game for a bit, and then I asked where he was from. He said Egypt, to the North, in the desert. I asked if it was a heavily populated area, as I’d heard that outside of the Nile Basin, Egypt has a fairly sparse population. He said, “Truthfully, I couldn’t tell you.” In fact, Ash has only visited Egypt once – he was born in Jordan to a Jordanian mother and Egyptian father, spent the first twenty years of his life in the UAE, and considers himself Egyptian.

It is not uncommon here that people report their nationality as something other than their place of birth and the location of their livelihood (sometimes it makes me feel as if I shouldn’t say that I’m American, but rather from Kiev, or that Daphna is German or Czech or Polish). Ash carries Egyptian citizenship (and only Egyptian citizenship), and yet the point underlines one of the many issues in the Middle East: it is incredibly difficult to find a home here. Many families have generations that live in Saudi Arabia, and, perhaps now, the UAE, without being considered a part of the countries. Even the smaller, less oil-rich countries are strict about new-comers, and people attach themselves heavily to places that they’ve never been, something which is highlighted by the Palestinians, a lesson we learned when Daphna first met with a friend of ours, Lana.

When Daph asked where Lana was from, Lana said that she was Palestinian, and Daph asked, “Oh, where from?” Lana answered, “Haifa.” Daphna said, “Oh, it’s such a beautiful city!” And Lana said, “I’ve never been there.” It is a startling contrast to America, where citizenship is granted by birth, and where “Where are you from” tends to be defined by the now (or, at the very least, by your generation – just as I can’t imagine saying that I’m Russian or Romanian, I can’t even imagine claiming that I’m a New Yorker, no matter where my dad was born). And, in a time when money and jobs move people all over the Middle East (for instance, only 5% of the residents in the UAE are citizens), it is understandable why countries would not want to accept so many newcomers, and yet it is also hard to feel that the complete lack of identification fluidity is a problem here. If you can live in my country, where your father also lived, and always be recognizably and identifiably an “other” (an other which, most likely, because you’ve grown up in my country you can not identify with), how can we ever be equal?

One of the many things that I love about America is the inability to walk its streets and point out non-Americans. They’re wearing different clothes? Doesn’t matter. They’re not speaking English? Still doesn’t mean anything. They can still be American, and the moment that they are American, they’re as American as anyone else is American. Here, it is not the case. Even the Palestinians that carry Jordanian passports are not “Jordanian-Jordanian” as we’ve heard some people call themselves (and this despite the fact that the West Bank was part of Jordan until 1967). This is the “Arab World” and at Yarmouk University there are over 2000 foreign students, but they will never confuse themselves for Jordanian (and it is unlikely that any Jordanian would, either).

It is an ironic psychological boundary for a part of the world so renowned for its hospitality (and it was just today, as we sat on the sidewalk in the shade, that a shop owner, without expecting anything in recompense, brought chairs out from his shop and offered us water while we rested), and it has been one of the saddest things for me on this trip. I could not ask these countries to change their ways, because that would be asking them to lose their identities, but when does humanity begin to trump culture?

Last night we joined the Italians for dessert behind their building with some of their same friends from the volleyball game. After partaking, their friends taught us the dubka, the traditional Arab dance that has slight variations in every country (it’s like the “Amia”, the variations that every country has of the Arabic language). We learned the Iraqi and the “Shemali” (northern Jordan and Palestine) versions. It is a simple dance, intended to be mastered by everyone, and built on as ability allows. But even though every country celebrates with the dubka, every country does it differently, and can recognize the nationality of everyone else by the way that they dance. Even in joy there is distinction.

And now, with some trepidation, and, dare I say, a great amount of joy, we are headed for Israel on Monday to celebrate Jackie Siegel’s wedding, to see Daphna’s family, and to pick up our friends. At Jackie’s wedding we will dance, I am sure, in single-sex circles, to traditional music, while moving predominantly clockwise, all just like the dubka, but, to anyone who knows, it will look very differently. We will be in a country where some people with roots in every corner of the world will call themselves Israeli (or even Israeli-Israeli) without trepidation, but also with others who live within its borders with no citizenship to any nation-state, whatsoever. And I am afraid that, despite all of the love that is sure to be there, I will be no less confused.

Your Arabic Phrases of the day:

Kurat at-tairah -- Volleyball (Literally airplane ball)
Meen Ayna Antee / Anta? -- Where are you from? (to a female / male)