Caledoniyya

In times of conflict and political discontent, it becomes all too easy to focus entirely on the negative.

While mulling over potential topics for today’s post, I realised that political issues and criticisms can be placed aside for twenty-four hours, thereby allowing a moment of gratitude, awe, and love for the kingdom to emerge.

I am grateful to Jordan in a number of ways: if it had not been for Jordan, I would not have attained my Ph.D., certainly.

Despite Jordan’s initial role as an academic muse, following my first visit in 2006 it became so, so much more.

I will be frank. Amman can be seriously painful on the eyes at times.

But I grew to love the dilapidated, smog-filled, grey-walled façades of al-Abdali, with the buses exploding their clouds of black smoke, and the vendors heckling their wares.

I adored losing myself in the balad - or downtown - on Friday afternoons and, once the weather picked up, sitting by the Roman theatre as families picnicked in the sunshine, throngs of squealing children chased each other around the columns, and coffee and tea vendors would supply refills of the most extraordinary sweetness into cracked white plastic cups.

On rainy days, I would ensconce myself at Books@Café, the French Cultural Institute, or the Librairie de Paris, chowing down on yummy food and cocktails while the rain beat havoc against the windows.

I loved the diversity of shops, the mouth-watering ice-cream, and the gargantuan melons. To think of those water melons makes my eyes spin to this day.

Most of all, I fell in love with Jordan because of the people. Cliché perhaps, but it is indubitably true.

Although my thesis focused on the Palestinian-Jordanian and ethnic-Jordanian identity, I found a united front when it came to hospitality and warmth.

Of course, I cannot wear rose-tinted glasses throughout this post, for there was plenty I despised about my time in Jordan.

The constant vomiting in the morning due to the warm, fetid fumes from the traffic; the heckling; the harassment; the queuing for visas at the police station in Jabal al-Hussein; the rules on not flushing toilet paper and the icky substitute box; the constant queries of: “Are you French? Palestinian? Romanian? Russian? Greek? German?” but never, ever British, American, or Italian.

Yet all of these things are pushed out of my mind when I recall the abject poverty of the Palestinian refugees I interviewed in the camps: they were so poor, but they were perhaps the kindest, most generous, warm, and politically aware individuals that I have ever met.

As one of my recent posts demonstrates, at times I get weary of academia.

The petty squabbling over offices, nepotism, and unjust censorship grinds me to the core and sometimes I am frequently tempted to throw in the towel and migrate to a Greek island to sell sea-shells and sponges from the side of a lame donkey.

When I remember who it is I am studying, and not what, I am re-inspired.

Jordan was my first time in the Middle East proper, and like your first love, it never really leaves you.

For many academics, the subject country of their Ph.D. soon becomes a distant memory, like a companion made on a train journey - enjoyable and special for the duration, but soon forgotten in the mists of time.

I remain certain, however, that my Urdunmania will endure and that like a bad penny, I shall continue to turn up in the kingdom at every opportunity.