An afternoon of sunshine is punished by desert winds. The gales freeze our eardrums and throw sand in our faces and we are forced to be homesick for Oklahoma. Another freeze, another blanket of rain has pushed it's way in to our city. It's almost spring, we are told, and I almost believe its true when I see that our neighborhood Goat Man has a half dozen new kids. Goat kids, to be clear.
I imagine a line of refugees at the border crossing just a brief jog from my house, reaching in to Syria, curling around like a damp fuse.
Our lives are blessedly unaffected so far. Work continues, laundry piles up and then is washed by hand and strung up on lines for the world to judge, trips to Amman, breakfasts of eggs and yogurt. We are invited to people's homes for coffee, we are invited for tea, we are invited for dinner and we accept.
Jordanians, and more largely Arabs, are the best hosts. We accept an invitation for lunch, and enormous platters over flowing with lamb, chicken, almonds and yogurt are set before us. We are fed fresh onion tops and home-pickled vegetables. We drink coffee, we drink tea, we eat apples, we eat sweets. An Arab will freeze through the night to make sure his guests have enough blankets. There are stories of great kings at war with other nations, who by political circumstance must host their enemies in their own palaces. The enemy of an Arab should feel no fear as the guest of his adversary, as he is just as likely to die from being overfed than some clandestine poisoning.
Jordan is host to the world's betrayed. We pass a refugee camp, built as a temporary reprieve 40 years ago, host now to generations of a diaspora. Almost 2 million Palestinians and 1 million Iraqis have sought out the peace of Jordan. The country is preparing for another wave of guests. The national tea pot is bubbling on the stove as camps, aid centers and, in our small city, field hospitals are erected to tend to the injured and to warm those who ache for a life lost, for a future to come.
I imagine a line of refugees at the border crossing just a brief jog from my house, reaching in to Syria, curling around like a damp fuse.
Our lives are blessedly unaffected so far. Work continues, laundry piles up and then is washed by hand and strung up on lines for the world to judge, trips to Amman, breakfasts of eggs and yogurt. We are invited to people's homes for coffee, we are invited for tea, we are invited for dinner and we accept.
Jordanians, and more largely Arabs, are the best hosts. We accept an invitation for lunch, and enormous platters over flowing with lamb, chicken, almonds and yogurt are set before us. We are fed fresh onion tops and home-pickled vegetables. We drink coffee, we drink tea, we eat apples, we eat sweets. An Arab will freeze through the night to make sure his guests have enough blankets. There are stories of great kings at war with other nations, who by political circumstance must host their enemies in their own palaces. The enemy of an Arab should feel no fear as the guest of his adversary, as he is just as likely to die from being overfed than some clandestine poisoning.
Jordan is host to the world's betrayed. We pass a refugee camp, built as a temporary reprieve 40 years ago, host now to generations of a diaspora. Almost 2 million Palestinians and 1 million Iraqis have sought out the peace of Jordan. The country is preparing for another wave of guests. The national tea pot is bubbling on the stove as camps, aid centers and, in our small city, field hospitals are erected to tend to the injured and to warm those who ache for a life lost, for a future to come.
I love reading your blog; you write beautifully and you give me a glimpse of a totally unfamiliar world.
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