At Mount Nebo, tourists peer through the haze over the rolling hills toward Israel. They strain their eyes, close them, squint--they try to see what Moses saw, what Jesus proclaimed--they remember this as the Holy Land. At this site, Moses was buried. From here you can see across the Dead Sea and the River Jordan, Jerusalem and the glaring deserts of Jordan. We begin our morning here, reflecting on this historic site, this place that shaped most of modern Judeo-Islamo-Christian civilization. Then, we descend through the hills, past Bedouins and camels, to the border that didn't exist for Moses. After 2 checkpoints, we arrive at the Amman Beach on the Dead Sea. Israel lies just a few miles across the water, and guards keep watch for any signs of illegal crossing.
The Dead Sea region is not nearly as hazy or as putrid or as calcified as all the guidebooks have led me to believe. At 400m below sea level, the Dead Sea shore is rocky and sandy, like any ocean shore. The sea, an eerily calm basin separating two barely amicable nations from one another, muffles sound, as if this were the quietest, most solitary place in the Middle East. But then the Arab families and the French tourists arrive, and happy children squeal at the strange sensation of floating on water. Breaking the sheet of serenity, Jordanian salesmen pedal mud products while women in hijab wade steadily into the sea. We walk into the water until our feet are swept up from under us, and we are turned horizontal by a silent, powerful, motionless force. Floating effortlessly, unable to right ourselves without conscious strategy and careful motion, we gaze at Jordan to one side and Israel to the other, alone in a lifeless, dying Dead Sea. Is this where Jesus walked on water? Where Moses dreamed? Where countless explorers reached a seemingly insurmountable barrier?
Stinging from the salinity, I pull myself toward the beach. It is a strange sensation, but not one that is particularly alarming or fresh. On the beach I dream of sharing tea with the Bedouins, being nomadic, shepherding. Are these things I could ever do? I cannot stop thinking about the boundaries that we can't surpass, those things that by defining us confine us: the color of skin, gender, language, to a much lesser extent now, nationality. In a borderless world there are some borders that will always remain. There will never be a day when I can sit with a group of Bedouins or Parisians or African-Americans and not be, even just a little bit, an outsider. This makes me strangely sad, this permanence of identity, so malleable but ever-present.
After visiting the Dead Sea, we drive back up the winding road through the hills to the Mariam Hotel. We decide to mail our carpets and embark on a Madaba adventure. The post office gives us mildly credible information, and we visit a small stationery shop in hopes of finding packing supplies. A friendly man plays charades with us as we try to obtain packing tape and a box. After many comical interactions with other shopkeepers, we return to the hotel victorious. We end the evening poolside, supposedly the "hot nightspot" in this town, after overfilling our bellies at a reasonable restaurant.
I am not overwhelmed by difference here, as I expected to be. I am not sure if this is a pleasant or disappointing surprise.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
On Palestinians and Jordan
We ended tonight in a sweets shop, ordering 3JD worth of sugary, sticky treats. This morning, falafel and fresh juice in Amman from friendly street vendors fueled an hour of taxi rides around town to purchase bus tickets for destinations beyond Jordan. After noon, we board a bus to Madaba with students, police officers, and tired men, and arrive in this small city in time for a poolside lunch at the adorable Miriam Hotel. In this largely Christian town, we discover mosaics in countless churches, play with wide-eyed children, share tea with a weaver-shopkeeper who sells us handmade carpets. I purchase two--a runner from Iraq and a unique piece by a Bedouin woman. The shopkeeper's brother gives us a ride back to our hotel, and we peer through the hazy windows of an ancient, wide-bodied Mercedes-Benz at tiny shops catered at the tour groups we have magically avoided. In the evening, we stroll down mildly populated streets in search of food and find full stomachs with a little room left for sweets.
I am glad we came here and saw the Greek Orthodox churches--a reminder that religious diversity exists in the Middle East beyond the Jewish-Muslim conflict that plagues this region. I am thinking more and more about Palestinians--what it means to be a displaced population so large and so much in the public eye. Canada and Jordan offer passports to these people--what does it mean to be a citizen of a nation to which you have no relationship beyond the acceptance of an act of generosity?
I am glad we came here and saw the Greek Orthodox churches--a reminder that religious diversity exists in the Middle East beyond the Jewish-Muslim conflict that plagues this region. I am thinking more and more about Palestinians--what it means to be a displaced population so large and so much in the public eye. Canada and Jordan offer passports to these people--what does it mean to be a citizen of a nation to which you have no relationship beyond the acceptance of an act of generosity?
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
At 2:00am in New York, I Am in Jordan
At Queen Alia airport, the sun sets over the desert, bleeding into the immigration chamber where we fight, passport to passport, for the JD10 entry visa. Shuttled through the diplomat line, I claim my luggage and greet two khakied, familiar, facial-haired grown-up boys. Nick, Andrew and I ride in a taxi past a small amusement park, countless fruit stands, the sun disappearing into more and more distant sand. At the Palace Hotel, a dingy room greets us with its one perk: a balcony which brings the sweet Amman evening air in to cool our tired bodies.
We venture up a hill, or many hills, to the Wild Jordan, where we order many bland courses and incredible smoothies. The green florescent lights within hundreds of minarets speckle the Amman panorama--neon awnings for a city's biggest trade: faith.
At first, coming in from the airport along a mid-sized populated road, I reminisced about India--the clusters of mis-matched shops, the free flow of traffic and pedestrians and goods, the busy-ness of the shopping streets even late at night. Further into my first night in this country, in this city, I am not so confident that India and Jordan can be compared. Walking along a deserted Jebel Amman street at 1:00am, with two friends alongside, I sensed a serenity, a comfort, that India may never know. Here in Jordan, this tiny, peaceful nation amongst warriors, the pace is purposeful but relaxed, the mission meaningful yet not urgent. What more will I discover on its worn and lively streets?
We venture up a hill, or many hills, to the Wild Jordan, where we order many bland courses and incredible smoothies. The green florescent lights within hundreds of minarets speckle the Amman panorama--neon awnings for a city's biggest trade: faith.
At first, coming in from the airport along a mid-sized populated road, I reminisced about India--the clusters of mis-matched shops, the free flow of traffic and pedestrians and goods, the busy-ness of the shopping streets even late at night. Further into my first night in this country, in this city, I am not so confident that India and Jordan can be compared. Walking along a deserted Jebel Amman street at 1:00am, with two friends alongside, I sensed a serenity, a comfort, that India may never know. Here in Jordan, this tiny, peaceful nation amongst warriors, the pace is purposeful but relaxed, the mission meaningful yet not urgent. What more will I discover on its worn and lively streets?
(You + Me =) We Are Here
When we landed in Paris, everybody applauded, banded together like witnesses of some feat or spectacle. It is 9:55am and it is Bastille Day. Will we de-board to a celebration? Or will we go our separate ways, as we did for all those moments prior to that in which we, as individuals, families, groups, lost souls, boarded this plan and formed "we"? I love the ephemeral quality of this particular pronoun.
It is 10:00am in Paris and we are here, arrived from New York JFK full of cognac and coffee and sleep.
It is 10:00am in Paris and we are here, arrived from New York JFK full of cognac and coffee and sleep.
Friday, July 4, 2008
July 4, 2008
"Here's where I am, here's where I stand," tearing down the walls of apartment 2G in 90 Morningside Drive, pushing papers into heavy cardboard boxes, as we say goodbye with sweeping brooms and ladders to reach the cabinets we haven't touched since day one. It feels like we have been moving always--13 years of trips to storage and spring cleaning initiatives blend together now. We have lived here the longest, we keep saying, both as an excuse and as a coping mechanism.
How do we reflect? When do we look back to C.'s 1st grade "presidents" birthday party and M.'s senior prom? When do we honor these hallowed hallways?
We can see where we are now. C. is a young woman--she eats at school now and doesn't count her handwashes. Mom is tired but still exuding creative energy. Dad is the same as always but more worried. I am too practical, less passionate, disoriented.
For years we have defined ourselves as a family that lives in New York. Do we define ourselves as a diaspora now? Dispersed for economic and educational reasons? In Chicago, Dad inhabits a world of academia that many see only in movies. In Alfred, Mom will re-learn (or discover for the first time?) rural life and a real opportunity for leadership. Back in New York, remaining in New York, C. and I will navigate the remains of our youth. Like ghosts, we will traverse the streets of Morningside Heights pursing new, revised dreams. We will cross independently at crosswalks that used to require a held hand; we will make decisions that used to be made for us; we will open doors we could not have yet imagined.
Yet some doors, like that of 2G in 90 Morningside Drive and like 5J in 400 W. 119th Street before, will close to us, vaulting previous phases of our lives so that they are accessible only in the memories that visit us when certain smells or notes or conversations invite them. Now remembering seven odd years earlier than this moment, writing a poem that begins: "there comes a time when memories are all we've got. A shoebox of photos, an attic of pasts, decorating the modern memorabilia." We are so vulnerable to our memories--this has never occurred to me before. Nostalgia is the most powerful feeling that has no immediate rooting in the present moment. It is the past intruding on where we have arrived--it is a reminder that we may or may not need.
How long have we used this apartment, this home, as our base? From here we learned New York. Speeding down Broadway on the 1 train, we learned the restaurants of the Upper West Side, the Stardust Diner, the need to avoid Times Square, Younghee in Tribeca, Canal Street, the World Trade Center. Privately, we made our own discoveries, building secret New Yorks that no one else will share. We found patterns that suited us, routes we found preferable, places that meant comfort and safety and hope. We began to define ourselves through these individualized ties, these constructed days and weeks that we could allude to across the dinner table but never fully recount.
When did our relationship with this city change? Was it when M. left for college? When D. left for Israel? When the plan became to leave this city, to go our separate ways? Or was it only when we packed the last straws, the wrapping paper boxes, the Ganeshas over the doors?
How do we reflect? When do we look back to C.'s 1st grade "presidents" birthday party and M.'s senior prom? When do we honor these hallowed hallways?
We can see where we are now. C. is a young woman--she eats at school now and doesn't count her handwashes. Mom is tired but still exuding creative energy. Dad is the same as always but more worried. I am too practical, less passionate, disoriented.
For years we have defined ourselves as a family that lives in New York. Do we define ourselves as a diaspora now? Dispersed for economic and educational reasons? In Chicago, Dad inhabits a world of academia that many see only in movies. In Alfred, Mom will re-learn (or discover for the first time?) rural life and a real opportunity for leadership. Back in New York, remaining in New York, C. and I will navigate the remains of our youth. Like ghosts, we will traverse the streets of Morningside Heights pursing new, revised dreams. We will cross independently at crosswalks that used to require a held hand; we will make decisions that used to be made for us; we will open doors we could not have yet imagined.
Yet some doors, like that of 2G in 90 Morningside Drive and like 5J in 400 W. 119th Street before, will close to us, vaulting previous phases of our lives so that they are accessible only in the memories that visit us when certain smells or notes or conversations invite them. Now remembering seven odd years earlier than this moment, writing a poem that begins: "there comes a time when memories are all we've got. A shoebox of photos, an attic of pasts, decorating the modern memorabilia." We are so vulnerable to our memories--this has never occurred to me before. Nostalgia is the most powerful feeling that has no immediate rooting in the present moment. It is the past intruding on where we have arrived--it is a reminder that we may or may not need.
How long have we used this apartment, this home, as our base? From here we learned New York. Speeding down Broadway on the 1 train, we learned the restaurants of the Upper West Side, the Stardust Diner, the need to avoid Times Square, Younghee in Tribeca, Canal Street, the World Trade Center. Privately, we made our own discoveries, building secret New Yorks that no one else will share. We found patterns that suited us, routes we found preferable, places that meant comfort and safety and hope. We began to define ourselves through these individualized ties, these constructed days and weeks that we could allude to across the dinner table but never fully recount.
When did our relationship with this city change? Was it when M. left for college? When D. left for Israel? When the plan became to leave this city, to go our separate ways? Or was it only when we packed the last straws, the wrapping paper boxes, the Ganeshas over the doors?
Friday, August 4, 2006
When Returning is Harder than Saying Goodbye
As has been said one thousand times before, we live in a world of terror. As I sit on a flight to London, a new friend sits beside me, trying not to think that she may never be able to go home because her country is no longer safe. Meanwhile, another new friend goes from gate to gate in the Amsterdam airport after hearing word that the roads from Damascus to Beirut have been bombed. Unsure of where he will be able to go, he tries to find a flight to London or Orlando, where he will watch the news and wait, for better or for worse.
The Lebanese are not the only people scared for their homes—they join the ranks of countless others living in a world of uncertainty and anger, a world in which conflict too often results in displacement, disillusionment, loss of life, loss of home. The events in Lebanon and Israel during the past four weeks only emphasize how important our studies are. As we’ve said, we live in a new world order. This does not just refer to global cities but to the ways in which the world’s parts relate and interact. We live in a world in which the old answers are not enough. We live in a world in which trust is obsolete and security is never guaranteed. To relate it to this past week in Holland, what do we know now? What have we learned on these visits that we can use to smooth the transition of this new world order, how can we look at what we have to find out what we need? To me, these questions are powerful, and we can only begin to consider them.
I have seen a lot in the past week. I now know that states can work together and that they are held accountable for their actions. I know (from OPCW) that the world is interested in a more peaceful dynamic and will take steps to see this change. I know that if we don’t have faith in this, there is not much hope. So where do we pick up from what we have and continue on? How can we start to think and work proactively instead of retroactively? If I had all the answers to these questions, I would be sitting beside Kofi Annan and Tony Blair, implementing something better. But these questions need consideration and I will not give up.
The Lebanese are not the only people scared for their homes—they join the ranks of countless others living in a world of uncertainty and anger, a world in which conflict too often results in displacement, disillusionment, loss of life, loss of home. The events in Lebanon and Israel during the past four weeks only emphasize how important our studies are. As we’ve said, we live in a new world order. This does not just refer to global cities but to the ways in which the world’s parts relate and interact. We live in a world in which the old answers are not enough. We live in a world in which trust is obsolete and security is never guaranteed. To relate it to this past week in Holland, what do we know now? What have we learned on these visits that we can use to smooth the transition of this new world order, how can we look at what we have to find out what we need? To me, these questions are powerful, and we can only begin to consider them.
I have seen a lot in the past week. I now know that states can work together and that they are held accountable for their actions. I know (from OPCW) that the world is interested in a more peaceful dynamic and will take steps to see this change. I know that if we don’t have faith in this, there is not much hope. So where do we pick up from what we have and continue on? How can we start to think and work proactively instead of retroactively? If I had all the answers to these questions, I would be sitting beside Kofi Annan and Tony Blair, implementing something better. But these questions need consideration and I will not give up.
Wednesday, August 2, 2006
Amsterdam
After a week here, Amsterdam has grown on me. When I am old, I wouldn’t mind spending my hours bicycling around the canals and reading the International Herald Tribune in a café. My great aunt, who in her younger days was a fashion model in Paris, has paid countless trips to Amsterdam precisely for the serenity that comes with a city shaped by water. In her memories, Amsterdam is the great escape, the place where the fabulous people of the 40s and 50s went to retreat. Amsterdam seems to have changed somewhat since then—instead of escaping the rambunctious British men populating London’s pubs, I have encountered them in hoards in the red-light district, where they stumble as at home, cursing and laughing through the streets of Amsterdam. Did Amsterdam have a more glorious day? Is it still an escape? I see two Amsterdams—the tourist’s Amsterdam and the resident’s Amsterdam, the latter of which has been pretty successfully hidden from view.
What I have enjoyed most about Amsterdam is its history and its beauty. Amsterdam is a city that is historically a maritime center, a leader in shipping and oceanic exploration. It is a city of liberal minds and opinionated voices, a city where free will is valued and right answers are important. But to me, most of all, it is a beautiful place to explore—the city’s preservation of facades and height-limits make it feel as though you are walking a path that has been tread a thousand times yet you are discovering it for the first time. Amsterdam also has a strong Jewish history and is home to Anne Frank’s hideaway (now a museum) and a number of stunning synagogues. What’s more, Amsterdam is a city of art—the Van Gogh Museum is here, as well as a museum of Dutch art that includes works by Rembrandt.
While these cultural facets are wonderful, I'm not certain that I could live here. I am realizing more and more that I love the buzz factor of cities like London and New York. The frantic, constant movement of a city is important to me— I need to be somewhere where things are happening, where even when I am not involved (and I’m usually not) there are interesting and important and enlightening things going on. Amsterdam is too quiet of a city in every way; while it is a place of fine art and beautiful architecture, and a place steeped in history, it is not hugely involved in today’s world. I get the feeling in Amsterdam that there are people sitting in the cafes, talking and talking about important things, while the people in New York, London, and Tokyo actually do them.
The Hague is in these respects both similar to and different from Amsterdam. Amsterdam is a city that goes in and out of the global market, whereas The Hague has been consistently developing as an important city. At the same time, The Hague, in its small, niche-specific network, seems to be largely a place for conversation about things that are going on elsewhere. That said, The Hague is the titan of its industry. Beyond that it is a city of wealth, where diplomats dot the brick sidewalks and intellectuals fill quiet restaurants with controversial conversation. I like the way this city feels more than Amsterdam—it isn’t trying to be anything more or other than it is. It markets itself as the international center of peace and justice, and that’s just what it is. It knows its global reach and caters to that, yet it pushes to be a bit more. There is a kind of buzz in The Hague, of a global elite looking to make a change, to create a new world order. But it doesn’t try to be any other kind of buzz, because this is enough. I like this.
Addendum
In two days I will say goodbye to another phase, another set of people and places. This has been a completely new experience. We, the seven-plus of us, have developed a new way of thinking. We have adopted a new lens which each of us will use in the contexts through which we experience life. We as a group are composed of very different individuals with very different backgrounds, yet we have come together in global cities to consider them and how they impact our contexts, our colleagues’ contexts, the world we share that is, on many levels, continually getting smaller and larger. We have become, together, citizens of the world, not just in our travels but in our dialogues, in the conversations, even casually, that a Beirut-ian and a Bangkok-ian and a New Yorker have together. How do they frame the world differently? How do they understand their role? How do they reformulate, reconsider, reinvent in and after these conversations? When they go back to Beirut and Bangkok and New York where do they fit? What is their perception? I believe that every experience remolds you and causes you to recalculate, perhaps unconsciously, your position. How will we redefine ourselves? We are our own community of fate. Will we contribute to the organization of a new political space? I will be interested to see where my fellow world citizens end up.
What I have enjoyed most about Amsterdam is its history and its beauty. Amsterdam is a city that is historically a maritime center, a leader in shipping and oceanic exploration. It is a city of liberal minds and opinionated voices, a city where free will is valued and right answers are important. But to me, most of all, it is a beautiful place to explore—the city’s preservation of facades and height-limits make it feel as though you are walking a path that has been tread a thousand times yet you are discovering it for the first time. Amsterdam also has a strong Jewish history and is home to Anne Frank’s hideaway (now a museum) and a number of stunning synagogues. What’s more, Amsterdam is a city of art—the Van Gogh Museum is here, as well as a museum of Dutch art that includes works by Rembrandt.
While these cultural facets are wonderful, I'm not certain that I could live here. I am realizing more and more that I love the buzz factor of cities like London and New York. The frantic, constant movement of a city is important to me— I need to be somewhere where things are happening, where even when I am not involved (and I’m usually not) there are interesting and important and enlightening things going on. Amsterdam is too quiet of a city in every way; while it is a place of fine art and beautiful architecture, and a place steeped in history, it is not hugely involved in today’s world. I get the feeling in Amsterdam that there are people sitting in the cafes, talking and talking about important things, while the people in New York, London, and Tokyo actually do them.
The Hague is in these respects both similar to and different from Amsterdam. Amsterdam is a city that goes in and out of the global market, whereas The Hague has been consistently developing as an important city. At the same time, The Hague, in its small, niche-specific network, seems to be largely a place for conversation about things that are going on elsewhere. That said, The Hague is the titan of its industry. Beyond that it is a city of wealth, where diplomats dot the brick sidewalks and intellectuals fill quiet restaurants with controversial conversation. I like the way this city feels more than Amsterdam—it isn’t trying to be anything more or other than it is. It markets itself as the international center of peace and justice, and that’s just what it is. It knows its global reach and caters to that, yet it pushes to be a bit more. There is a kind of buzz in The Hague, of a global elite looking to make a change, to create a new world order. But it doesn’t try to be any other kind of buzz, because this is enough. I like this.
Addendum
In two days I will say goodbye to another phase, another set of people and places. This has been a completely new experience. We, the seven-plus of us, have developed a new way of thinking. We have adopted a new lens which each of us will use in the contexts through which we experience life. We as a group are composed of very different individuals with very different backgrounds, yet we have come together in global cities to consider them and how they impact our contexts, our colleagues’ contexts, the world we share that is, on many levels, continually getting smaller and larger. We have become, together, citizens of the world, not just in our travels but in our dialogues, in the conversations, even casually, that a Beirut-ian and a Bangkok-ian and a New Yorker have together. How do they frame the world differently? How do they understand their role? How do they reformulate, reconsider, reinvent in and after these conversations? When they go back to Beirut and Bangkok and New York where do they fit? What is their perception? I believe that every experience remolds you and causes you to recalculate, perhaps unconsciously, your position. How will we redefine ourselves? We are our own community of fate. Will we contribute to the organization of a new political space? I will be interested to see where my fellow world citizens end up.
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