Amman was a town where children were safe to play in the streets at all times of the day, where people lived in tight-knit communities, and where life flowed quietly and slowly. Many of us longed for more to do, more to see and more space to be the different things we wanted to be. Some of us traveled and experienced urban life in other places, and wondered why Amman could not afford us those same opportunities to express ourselves and explore our individuality. We sometimes rebelled against the seeming homogeneity of our hometown. There were always people of different ethnicities, religions, places of origin and socioeconomic classes in the city, and conflicts, did of course, arise, but the main difference was that we used to live in communities, and ones that were, for the most part, diverse. Amman was never really homogeneous, but I would venture to say that many of us still felt that we were more or less the “same”.

Wave after wave of people have come to our city over the years. A new wave is arriving from Syria as we speak. We have always welcomed newcomers with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Wondering how we will share our meager resources, but eager also to see what new they will bring to town. People have come to Amman fleeing war, oppression, religious and ethnic persecution, and in search of opportunity, and many have chosen to stay, which is a testament to Amman’s ability to transform from a place of refuge to a home. This is what formed our city over the years and what has helped it to grow. It used to be that people would form part of the fabric of the community almost by osmosis, because difference was the non-threatening norm. Is it as easy for people to integrate now as it used to be? I am not sure, but I do know many of the Iraqis who came in 2003 still often feel isolated, which seems to reflect our city’s diminishing ability to seamlessly absorb newcomers.

We all know that it is easy to make people seem suspect if they are unknown, if they are not people we engage with or feel an affinity with. In the Amman of the past, your neighbors and your friends were pretty much everybody. We did not live in isolation of each other, and we therefore could not be easily be made to suspect of one another. It is a cliche and so I will not over emphasize it, but most of us who live in West Amman do not know our neighbors, nor do we bother to find out who they are. In East Amman and over time, populations have shifted and diversity is in decline. While communities are still intact, there are not many Armenians left in Ashrafieh, nor many Circassians in Jabal Al-Nathif. The people from Tafileh have their own enclave amongst the predominately Palestinian-Jordanian Jabal Al-Jofeh, and many Christians have moved out of older neighborhoods over time. There is also little movement across the city’s magnified socioeconomic divide.

There have also been countless policies at the city and country level that have deepened the divide between people and have torn communities apart. Decisions ranging from the destruction of whole neighborhoods for road works, to gentrification of others, urban planning and economic policies, as well as various laws that have forced people out of their homes and shops after decades. Some of these policies are now being reconsidered in light of the Arab awakening, but their impact has had a devastating effect on the notions of community, social justice and collective good. There is a lot of talk about our Jordanianness and how this can be defined only in the narrowest possible terms. We question each other’s loyalty to our country, and the “love it or leave it” line is being spattered across Facebook pages, in tweets and comment boxes with frightening ease. There are also those who try to whitewash the differences, to want everyone to subscribe to some uniform identity where our differences and our individuality, our histories and realities, must all meld into one colorless hue. This is not the answer either.

There are many attempts to pull us apart, and these seem to work extremely well. We so easily fall in the trap of suspecting others and holding them to task for how they think differently from us, and how this must mean they are not one of us. But it also takes very little to pull us together. A day of carefree fun in the snow, fondly remembering a figure who shunned societal norms and followed his own unique path. These things remind us of our once perceived “sameness”, built not on one whitewashed colorless identity, but a multitude of different identities coming together to form a collective interdependent whole. It would serve us well to focus on this as we move forward on this exciting, if often unpredictable path, to becoming full-time citizens working for needed change and forging our collective future.

When I was four or five, I was plagued by a question that Arab adults love to torment children with: “who do you love more, your mother or your father?” This is a question for which there is no right answer, and one which, it would seem, is only intended to make you squirm. I would opt for the safe and truthful answer, that I love them both the same. But that never really satisfied anyone. “No,” they would say, “you must love one more than the other, now which is it?” And so began a life filled with similar questions intended to force me to make impossible choices.

When I was in first grade, the teacher asked us to divide into two groups, Muslim and Christian, for Religious Education classes. I was one of several kids who was not quite sure, and so I went to the class with most of my friends in it, which happened to be the Islamic studies class.  With a surname like “Butros”, which to those of you who don’t know, translates into “Peter” in English, I was soon caught out and sent packing to the other group. I went home crestfallen; to tell my mother I had been pulled out of class. Having been a troublemaker from prior to my birth it seems, she immediately retorted with the usual “what have you done now?” To which I could, for once, respond with an innocent shrug.

We moved to London several years later, and when I would came back to Amman on holiday, I would be confronted with the inevitable question: “which do you like better, Amman or London?” This was an easy one. By the time I had finally arrived in Amman after several months away, I was full of longing for my city of birth and the place that was always home. “Amman, I would proudly say” only to be faced by looks of dismay and disbelief. “Who could possibly prefer Amman to London?” they would say. There is no doubt, though, that as much as I love Amman, I also loved London, and still do.

In London, I went to an Arab school, where I met and interacted with a wide mix of people from different Arab nationalities, and formed lifelong friendships. This contributed both to my love of diversity, and to my identity as an Arab, of which I have always been proud. When I meet other Arabs anywhere in the world, including a chance encounter with a group of Moroccans and Algerians in Kobe, Japan – of all places – I always feel an instant affinity as we launch into heated discussions, heaping praise and expressing our woes about our home countries and the Arab Nation as a whole.  Lately people have begun to ask me: “why do you care so much about Egypt or Yemen, or Tunisia or Syria or Libya?” You’re Jordanian, they say, and you have to choose!

When I lived in the States as an adult, people would ask me: “what’s it like being an Arab Christian?” I would say “it feels normal,” which it does. Another choice question would inevitably arise: “but which are you more, a Christian or an Arab?” Again, I felt no urge to choose, because in fact this is not a matter of choice. I am both, and I am more. I would tell people, partially to challenge their mindset, but also because it is true: “I’m Christian by religion, Muslim by culture, and secular by outlook.” Islam is a part of me. I have lived, breathed and experienced it in ways that are intrinsic to who I am. Brought up by wise parents as I was, they never believed in any form of segregation. Our lives were mainstream Jordanian middle class, which meant we lived in a neighborhood that was primarily Muslim, went to a school that had predominantly Muslim kids, and spent our free time at the Al-Hussein Sports City, a dream park for every Ammani child.

I make references to being middle class. I do so because it is part of who I am, but it is also no longer solely who I am. Growing up middle class in Amman in the eighties and early nineties had a certain undeniable charm. Those of us who lived these times remember playing for hours in the city’s streets, and being welcomed into neighborhood homes for meals and drinks. We remember feeling completely unafraid. We had simple lives that were rich with community, discovery and a deep sense of freedom. Amman was not exciting then, and as we grew older we often complained that there was little to do, but I always say Amman became exciting just about the time that I found myself longing for the simplicity of its past.

This sense of nostalgia for community, and a deep desire to alter my somewhat myopic middle class view, has shaped my career. Spending many days, months and years in some of Amman’s oldest neighborhoods, for work and socially, has been nothing short of life altering. Having consciously chosen to burst my own little bubble and challenge all my assumptions, misconceptions, and habits, I gained not only a new perspective, but a whole set of friends and acquaintances that I would have otherwise never have had. I found the sense of community I was looking for, and much more, but I also discovered a new aspect of myself – a person who now chooses, as much as possible, to exist beyond class boundaries and imposed identities. Inevitably I have been asked: “which do you prefer West Amman or East Amman?” I tap into the wisdom of the younger me and say “I love all of Amman the same.”

At various points in my life, I have been asked another impossible question: “do you consider yourself Jordanian or Palestinian?” For me, this has never been a matter choice. I was always both, and felt privileged to be the proud possessor of two homelands, rather than just one. Granted one of these homelands was not really mine to live in or even see, but it was nonetheless one I had learnt to love through the stories of my parents and their parents which were woven through my memory as if they were my own. In fact, when I finally had the opportunity to visit Palestine, I sent a text message to my sister to say “it’s as if I never left,” and had to be reminded by her that I had never been. Jordan, on the other hand, is my home, it is part of who I am and in my mind our identities are inseparable. I love Jordan with a passion that it is purely my own, and will work for it with every ounce of my being. As a child, I adopted what what would become a sort of epithet of sorts, and became known as “Raghda the Jordastinian.” It was cute when I was ten, and people laughed, though still often insisting, that I really ought to make up my mind.

Several years ago, I met and fell in love with Baker, who is Muslim. We debated what our families would say or think, but were confident they would be fine with our decision to get married. We wondered what our extended families or society at large would think and say, and to our pleasant surprise, there was barely a rumble. In fact, when Ammon News announced our engagement (don’t ask me why), we received hundreds of messages of congratulations from people we did not know, and only a couple of unpleasant remarks – and we all know how outspoken Ammon News commentators can be! Now, almost three years later, we are often taken aback by how much of a total non-issue it has been. We share so much in common by virtue of our upbringing, that we are almost too similar at times. A choice questionhas still arisen though: “will you remain Christian or will you convert to Islam?” I’m safe with this one though, because regardless what my ID card has embossed on it, or whether anyone else agrees, I feel that I am both.

Baker comes from a big tribe in Salt, which has added yet another angle to my life. We visit often to spend time with the family. This is an aspect of life in Jordan which I missed out on growing up. We did not have family outside Amman and though we often took drives to see the rest of Jordan, I was always curious as to what my friends got up to when they spent weekends and holidays with their families in other parts of the Country. These visits truly are a window into another type of life, and I look forward to every visit to learn more, to laugh and to explore yet another dimension of what it means to be Jordanian. Thanks to my new family, I can now claim to no longer be a purely Ammani Jordanian person, which I had always previously felt I was.

There are others, like me, who have grown tired of all the choices they have had to make along the way – and choose instead to call themselves global citizens. I share their desire to cut through the tangled labyrinth of nationhood and ethnicity, and openly embrace all the world has to offer. I think, however, that even that definition is somehow too narrow. I quote Amin Maalouf “identity cannot be compartmentalized; it cannot be split in halves or thirds, nor have any clearly defined set of boundaries. I do not have several identities, I only have one, made of all the elements that have shaped its unique proportions.”

So here I am – An Arab Christian Muslim Secular Jordanian Palestinian citizen of the world and other galaxies.  I am this, and a multitude of other possibilities, and I will never be made to choose.

How long will we, the citizens of Amman, sit idly by as our most basic rights to public space are taken away, in some cases, right from under our very noses? Is it a wonder that people abuse public space, when they know for a fact that it truly does not belong to them, and will be taken away at the whim of a business lobby group or an inclusion-averse public official?

How can we teach people not to litter they say? How can we teach them to respect public space? The answer is, you can’t teach something you yourself have not learned. Until those in charge of our cities and towns put people first and interests second, the people of those towns and cities will put themselves first and public space second. It is a simple equation.

Rainbow Street was envisioned as a new approach to street life in Amman. A place where people of the city could meet and spend time, with the option to eat and drink, but the option also to walk, talk, sit, chat, enjoy the view and the weather, without having to spend a “shillen.” The same was true of Wakalat, our very first and so far only pedestrian street.

And in both cases, and for a change, it actually worked! People came from all over Amman. They didn’t always mingle, as one might hope, but they shared the same space and breathed the same air, and those who could shop and eat did, and those who couldn’t, walked and sat and enjoyed the atmosphere. It was a good beginning of an experiment in sharing public space that would bring us one step closer to negotiating some sort of a social code for our city.

But alas, it was not meant to be. Soon after Wakalat opened, the benches, which were the only free place to sit, were removed. This came after shop owners pressured the Greater Amman Municipality to curb the presence of non-consumers, who in their opinion, milled around and discouraged shoppers from spending money. And because the shop owners are influential, while the citizen is not, and because we as citizens always seem to remain on the fence or walk away, the benches were removed – never to be seen again. Then came the valet service, and after that came the security guards, and Wakalat became nothing more than an open-air mall.

In article he wrote for alroyya.com, Yasser Elsheshtawy, Associate Professor of Architecture – United Arab Emirates University says “In the case of Wikalat street, it had been the exclusive realm of wealthy shoppers from west Amman, and shopkeepers were not interested in building a more egalitarian space. They wanted, according to New York Times’ reporter Michael Slackman “people with credit cards.” Those shop owners did not care to have a lot of young people of modest means hanging around as they presented a threat of sorts. So they complained, and the city promptly removed landscaping features that had encouraged lingering such as benches.”

In the meantime, Rainbow Street was beginning to work. We were finally seeing a semblance of urban life emerge in between the many cafes and restaurants that have lined the street, for better or worse. You would see young people with their guitars, humming along to a new and welcome tune. One year, @humeid organized a new year’s even party with a countdown screen and all. The year after, I organized Christmas caroling up and down the street, only to be pleasantly surprised when the year after someone else had carried on the tradition. Love it or hate, Rainbow was a real urban refuge, and again, it cut through class boundaries and brought together a variety of people from all over the city.

Michael Slackman who wrote a then much-praised and celebrated article on Amman in the New York Times earlier this year says “to talk to those behind the sidewalks and the benches is to see these ubiquitous objects as powerful tools of social planning, tearing down walls between rich and poor, helping a city bereft of an identity develop a sense of place and ownership.”

Then suddenly, and with no prior warning, the benches were removed from one of the look-out points, while on the other,  a hideous police kiosk was placed that takes up most of the space. The police’s job, it seems, is to stop young men and ask them where they’re form, and suggest they would be better off sticking closer to home. Repeated requests to the Municipality by me and others to know why the benches were removed have remain unanswered, including a letter written to the Municipality by Rami Daher, the architect who designed the Rainbow Street project.

In an article in the Jordan Times by Hani Hazaimeh in 2008, he quoted a Dutch tourist visiting Rainbow Street: “”It’s breathtaking,” she said while she was relaxing on a bench with a tourist guidebook in her hand, which she bought from a kiosk downtown.” In fact, as I was doing research for this article, I found countless blog posts, articles, opinion pieces and comments from Jordanians and visitors alike about how essential the benches were to the city’s development, and how they had breathed much-needed life into Amman’s urban atmosphere.

When I recently heard rumblings online about Occupying Rainbow, and amidst the abuse that was hurled at the organizers by those we love the street, I really hoped they would be protesting the demise of the benches. They were protesting consumerism instead, and the banking system, and other big name issues that were lost among the din of reform talk. What became apparent to me through the process was how much Rainbow Street had become part of the psyche of the city. People were coming to its defence, both as home to many local businesses, and as a place of refuge for the people of the city. What also became apparent was that we cannot succeed in protesting broad issues before we learn to stand up for those matters which may seem small, but which are at the very heart of our relationship, as citizens, with policy makers.

We need to stand up for the small things, because they are really big things disguised. Only with small wins, and failures, can we move on to bigger gains in claiming our rights as citizens and establishing our rightful place at the heart of our city and its future.

So yalla – let’s get off the fence and bring back the benches.

http://el-balcona.blogspot.com/search?q=amman

http://english.alrroya.com/content/urban-visions-2-amman-2025

http://www.jordantimes.com/?news=11646

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/24/world/middleeast/24amman.html

http://www.beamman.com/best-of-amman/activities-a-recreation/232-sunset-spots-in-amman

http://urdunmubdi3.ning.com/profiles/blog/show?id=2651659%3ABlogPost%3A19305&commentId=2651659%3AComment%3A19724&xg_source=activity

http://ranasweis.com/temp/all-published-works/jordans-rainbow-street-living/

http://ar.ammannet.net/?p=95823

The average Jordanian is 22 years old, consumes JD 250 per month and is 70% likely to be unemployed

Lining the streets of Amman on any given evening, are scores of hapless young men watching people, cars and life go by. They will sometimes attempt to go to the Mall, in order to watch people, particularly women, go by. In this case, even if their pockets permit, the security guard at the door (presumably once a young man himself) will not. If they can afford an evening out, to the movies or a coffee shop, a strange phenomenon comes into play. It is akin to Russian roulette, and no one knows who will come out alive. This also holds true for places, which should, by definition, be public and free.

If you are a young man in Amman, the unwritten guidelines that govern your access to places in our city seem to revolve around: Your overall “look”: hair product, brand of jeans; the amount of money you are estimated to carry; your presumed place of habitation; the likelihood your father is “important”; chances of you belonging to the same town as the guard.

Funnier still is the “couples” or “cubbles” policy, which requires young men to bring along young women in order to access restaurants and coffee shops, in a bid to protect women from harassment and uphold the “conservative” nature of our society. Need I point out the irony in that?

Left with such limited options, the young men of Amman choose quiet residential areas, or “happening” neighborhoods, or long stretches of road to spend their evenings. Their activities range from smoking, sitting, standing, carrying a laptop high in the air in the hopes of catching a signal, car-racing and drinking (when funds permit) and littering.

When there is a football match, between anyone and anyone really, and anyone wins, it is a free for all.  Traffic is blocked and the honking is deafening. Young men dangle out of street windows, driving at breakneck speeds, waving flags and showing us what they are really capable of.

I may be wrong of course, and these young men could be hatching plots for world domination, developing strategies to resolve Amman’s transportation problem, or thinking of ways to end world-hunger. Given our public “educational” system, however, which operates on the brilliant threefold strategy of rote-learning, physical and mental abuse, and automatic promotion, this is highly doubtful. In any case, we will probably never know what young men talk about, because they are not allowed into the places we go.

The hardworking among them do not fare much better. On their way home from their jobs after a day at university, and an evening waiting tables at a restaurant or café, they are stopped several times for their IDs and treated with pre-determined suspicion, particularly if they happen to head in the direction of Ras il-Ain.

And what of the country’s young women? They have marginally better schools, and are allowed into all public and private spaces, but only a minority has the freedom of mobility to access such spaces. They are subject to the harassment of young men, when they happen to catch a glimpse of them on the street. The “do no evil” approach to women also means they often “do no good.” They graduate university in higher numbers than men, and with better grades, and then magically disappear from the marketplace, almost without a trace. Greatly disadvantaged, no doubt, by a culture that still holds young women responsible for upholding a family’s honor, so that she is the culprit, even when she is the victim.

Young women who are abused by family members are forced to spend years incarcerated in state-run “homes” for their own protection, while their victimizers are free to live with their families and roam the streets. When a group of abused girls tried to break out of the institution they were held in last year, they were accused of “lawlessness and destruction of public property.” Their demand was a simple one: They wanted to be able to go home and see their families.

Which brings me swiftly to the supposed “solutions”, which in my opinion are really at the heart of “problem”. I cannot tell you the number of times, over the past 15 years working in development, that I have heard the statement “we have to do something about young men or else they might end up being terrorists” or “we need to find a solution for the problem of young people because they might turn to crime” or “If we’re not careful, we’ll have a lot of unwanted pregnancies on our hands”. We put ex-military people at the head of youth organizations and watch while they practice a policy of “containment” at best, and at worst churn out mini government bureaucrats with ugly suits and egos to match.

There is no shortage of examples in Jordan of the incredible things that young people are capable of. From citizen journalists, to inventors, to changemakers, to musicians, to artists, to entrepreneurs – young people are doing those things my generation could only dream about when we were their age. Around the Arab world, young people are changing their futures and taking their fate into their own hands.  In light of all that, we may want to consider a new approach to our very own “mama3eet” or upstarts as one of our “representatives” has called them. I believe we owe them some respect.

It is not always easy to defend our sometimes-wayward youth. Some of them annoy me too at times with their lewd remarks and lack of consideration for others, but we cannot build a society on the basis of exclusion and containment and we have to ask ourselves why they act this way to begin with. My defense of Jordan’s youth is also based on what I have witnessed in terms of accomplishments and transformations by young people who have had the opportunity to follow their passion, and whose efforts and ideas met with respect and support.

In a recent study by the University of Southern California, Stanford and the Kellogg School of Management, scientists discovered that individuals who have power without status have a tendency to engage in activities that demean others. Their study concluded that “the combination of some authority and little perceived status can be a toxic combination.” This explains the behavior of the government clerk who makes you run around unnecessarily to process your paperwork, or makes you come back the next day because he/she is on his break. It goes some way to explaining the behavior of the security apparatus, now that they feel respect for their status is diminishing. It also explains the way in which young men use their power to disturb the peace or control their sisters, knowing they can do it, and knowing they have nothing to lose, not even our respect.

@basemaggad think thats “if we don’t treat the herds of youth as copy paste sexually-deprived animals with a dignity deficit, then maybe just maybe they’ll act like civilized members of society, or at worse, they will act just like everyone else.”

While @robaassi believes that the answer lies in  ”Co-ed education. For one thing, women are likely to be better teachers because of society’s insistence on teaching not being a lofty career path for talented, intelligent men. And if boys grow up to think of women as classmates, as peers, as colleagues, as teachers, and as friends, the artificial, almost magically mysterious quality of women will be slowly weeded out.”

@Nadinetoukan agrees by saying “I believe we ought to abolish education segregation, kingdom-wide, overnight; females and males need to grow up together with trust and respect so that we quilt a new social safety net in our community.” She takes things further by suggesting that “We ought to cease all ‘no single males’ entrance policies, and penalize people who violate this openness, rather than the current policy of forbidden for all of them first because of a few bad men. And we need to figure out ways to shed the culture of burdening males with the unequal responsibility of having to be the provider and savior of family; something we practice inherently, which breaks males as they grow up, and consequently breaks an entire society. It’s time for women to lead in Jordan to create a healthier common ground for gender and society at large.”

A commentator who prefers to remain anonymous says “I believe this issue is symptomatic of a paternalistic society, giving youth much more free time than someone in their twenties probably should have.  Because of the nature of our family units, the individual does not become responsible for himself, or anyone else, until several years into his/her marriage. He/she remains the beneficiary of over-caring, over-powering parents and grandparents, that cater to most of that person’s essential needs in the mistaken belief that this is the best way to express their love.  To revolutionize society, you have to start with its most basic unit, the family.”

From her perspective, @sandrahiari believes that “One solution can be the reversal of the current behavioral trend of disintegration. By integrating the secluded population of young single men, and allowing them to mix and mingle in spaces that ought to uphold their status of being ‘public’, they get used to seeing what other people see and experience. After a while, a sense of familiarity with the other is assumed. At that point, both the stereotype that is created about them and the stereotype that they create about those who deny them access, is shattered.”

While @mobaidat suggests “malls and some cafes think that barring young men will prevent trouble, but they are actually making things worse. When young men discriminated against, it makes some of them want to create an unconformable atmosphere for others. We are creating a wider gap between the genders, and preventing the creation of needed mutual understanding between them. In the future, the same young men who were not allowed into these places will attend universities and work environments where genders mix. Can we expect men and women to understand and respect each other when they are both are discriminated against in their own ways?”

@Farahghuneim‘s opinion is that “as a society, if we have to resort to containment strategies in order to ‘exist’, then what we will encounter 5, 10 years from now will be much worse than dudes following girls at the mall and verbally harassing them. That said, I think inclusion should be regulated. The rules should be very clearly stated and disciplinary action for violating them should also be very clearly stated and implemented.  Containment does not yield a healthy society. It just yields more angry and outraged young people who are bound to explode, at some point.”

What do you think are possible solutions to one of the most pressing social issues of our times?

by Raghda Butros

If, like me, you like to look beyond the ordinary and explore outside your bubble, then please join me on a day off the beaten track in Amman.

Start your day with an early morning stroll alongside Khrifan St. To get there, take the Al-Bouhturi St. exit from First Circle, then head to Omar Bin Khattab St. At the intersection of Omar Bin Khattab and Al-Mugheerah bin Shu’ba St., take the small staircase next to the Afaneh Center building. Once at Khirfan St, keep the beautiful old row houses to your left and the gorgeous view of Ras El-Ain to your left. Make sure to chat to the kids, who are always happy to share a story or kick around a football with you.

At the end of  Khirfan St., take the staircase (Qabartai St. Staircase 3) down to King Talal Street and turn right towards to Saqf Iss-Sail (officially known as Quraish St., but the popular name invokes Amman’s buried stream). In Saqf Iss-Sail, you can hunt for dusty old records and knicknacks at The Public Showroom. If Abu Ali, the shop owner, offers to take you down to the basement, don’t freak out, that’s where the best treasures are hidden. Pay a visit to the Jorah – literally a an open-air basement with a lot of second-hand furniture on offer. Most of it isn’t very exciting, but you will sometimes come across a great find. Haggle for a good price – a few words of friendly conversation will get you the price you’re looking for.

Stroll back to King Talal St. and quench your thirst with sugar-cane juice at Big Ben (formally known as Big Bin – now that’s a photo I wish I had taken!). Natural, delicious and with a myriad of health benefits listed outside the shop. Everything from better skin to an enhanced immunity – all for JD 0.50 a glass.

Carry on walking to Raghadan Plaza and take a service up to Jabal Ashrafieh, where you can visit the Abu Darwish Mosque and the shops around it. This is a great spot to enjoy a gorgeous view of the city, take photos and meet people. Ask around for Jawharet Armenia and stop buy for some delicious Armenian Sfeeha and other pastries. Walk down to the Roman Catholic church with the shimmering silver roof and check out the incredible view of the other side of the city. There is an elderly woman who lives in the building opposite the church who would be happy to give you a cup of tea and let you enjoy the 350 degree view of Amman from her balcony.

On the way back down from Ashrafieh to the Balad, pass by Bait il-Shi’er (The Jordanian House of Poetry) in Jabal Jofeh, a beautiful old two storey house with large terraces, which was once a  family home, then became a well-known girls’ school and is now home to poetry recitals, cultural activities and a database of Jordanian poets and poetry.  From Bait Il-Shi’er, you have the opportunity to see the Roman Theater from a whole new vantage point and take photos of the Balad and surrounding hills.

Jabal Jofeh is also home to of Amman’s top start-ups, Jamalon.com. Find Hayy Umm Teeneh, ask for the Sallal clan and pay this family-run business a visit. Don’t be surprised if the eleven year-old girl who opens the door introduces herself as the Communications Manager.

Walk down to the Roman Theater and pay a visit to the Daggers Workshop, the last hand-made dagger shop in the city.  From the Theater, head to the Amman Municipality Library right next door – a great old building which houses a large number of Arabic books and a very popular magazine and newspaper reading area. The building is under threat of being converted to a hotel in the near future – so pay a visit and add your voice to those calling for its preservation.

Take the staircase across from the Roman Theater and head up to Jabal Qalaa and enjoy the incredible view of the Roman Theater and Jabal Jofeh from the lookout point. While there, look around for the kids who are usually hanging out and playing in the area. Ask them to teach you how to make a kite (you may need to go and buy the materials together if they don’t have any on hand). Walk up to the Citadel with them and fly the kite while enjoying a cool breeze and another great view of the Amman. Please note that the new management of the Citadel doesn’t always allow the kids in to fly, so you need to use your powers of persuasion with the powers that be.

Walk or catch a ride from Qalaa to Jabal Hussein and head to Ghazi, a favorite childhood shop where you can enjoy delicious soft serve ice cream in chocolate and vanilla or lemon and strawberry (I personally prefer the latter). Walk around Jabal Hussein and check out the shops. Lots of options and good prices on clothes, shoes and random items.

Head to Jabal Luweibdeh and enjoy the village-like feel of the neighborhood where there is a lot to choose from in terms of things to do. Visit a gallery, of which there are many, spend time at the park (El-Muntazah), or walk around and enjoy the architecture. If you’re on Shari’a St., try and drop by Turath, where Dr. Rami Daher can give you a lesson in Amman’s urban heritage (ok, he might not appreciate people just dropping by at all hours, but you can try your luck!).

Finally, if it’s a Thursday night, which I am hoping it is, walk down to Abdali and visit the Abdali Friday Souq, where you can find a huge array of things to browse and buy – from used clothes, to designer bags, to vegetables, toys and a weird and wonderful collection of shoes.

End your day in Abdali with ka’ek and baked eggs at Salaheddin Ba kery, and a glass of mint tea and a game of backgammon at Ammon Cafe on Salt St. If you get lost along the way, ask the friendly people of Amman and they’ll be happy to help. Enjoy the adventure and let us know how it went.

]]> http://hamzetwasel.com/archives/812/feed 0 http://hamzetwasel.com/archives/768 http://hamzetwasel.com/archives/768#comments Mon, 22 Aug 2011 17:14:51 +0000 admin http://hamzetwasel.com/?p=768

by Raghda Butros

As Amman continues to experiment with new public places around the city, challenges of public space design and management are bound to arise, but it’s essential to learn from each experiment and create models of success if we are to come to a happy medium which strikes a balance between preservation and participation.

As far as I can ascertain, the management of public space in Amman follows one of the following scenarios:

- Develop a space and open it up to public use with minimal and eventually no enforcement of rules of use and conduct. This leads to the deterioration of the site and a dwindling of the number and quality of visitors and ultimately to a semi-dead space or the need for a complete overhaul or rethinking process and a potential repeat of the cycle.  Case in point is “Muntazah Amman”.

- Create a space and let it grow organically and become vibrant and attractive to the majority of city dwellers, and then introduce a development project which in turn manages to kill the space and turn into a place for undesirables and criminals thus necessitating another large and costly development project to undo the mistakes of the first one. A good example of this is the “Hashemite Plaza” which is now undergoing another large development.

- Plan a green space that is meant for the public and quickly realize that its commercial value is too difficult to resist and slowly allow it to turn into a concrete commercial jungle, which bears no resemblance to the original plan. I don’t even think I need to tell you all which example fits this scenario: Our famous “King Abdullah “Gardens””.

- Identify a space which is vibrant and enjoyed by people but where no rules are in place or are enforced, and where little or no care is taken to maintain and preserve the place. To remedy the situation, turn it into a beautiful and well-cared for space but one which forbids the very activities that people once practiced and enjoyed. “Muntazah Luweibdeh” is a great example of this where the park is now lovely and well preserved but where no eating, drinking, balls, rollerblades, dogs etc are allowed.

- Take a space, which was neglected and turn into a park or a garden but pay little attention to the needs of the surrounding community and the users of the space and make no effort to introduce the space or its intended function to them. This is usually followed by a process of disappointment and anger at the abuse of the community for the gift that was bestowed on them and often leads either to the re-neglect of the space or the introduction of security measures which reinforce the lack of ownership that initially lead people to not care for the space to begin with. This is also sometimes accompanied by a sentiment that people don’t really deserve such spaces because they are not able to care for or appreciate them. A recent example of this is the HSBC/GAM playground behind First Circle.

- Implement a new vision for a public area that can be emulated in other parts of the city and which will bring the diverse people of the city together in one shared space, then bow down to pressure from influential people such as business owners or others and allow it to become exclusive and elitist. “Wakalat Street” is a great example of this, where a few months after its official opening all the benches were removed because shop owners didn’t want non-paying customers to sit in front of their shops.

- Develop a new plan or function for an existing space to create added-value and then exclude entire segments of society who do not fit into your vision for the space or who may disturb those who are your primary audience.  This is evident at “Souq JARA” where boys and young men, primarily those from within the community, are not allowed to access the event, despite the fact that it is on a public street and one where their school is located.

- Now for a positive example: Envision and create a space and make it open to the public and take the time to create a solid management plan, which ensures that the use of the space is understood and that the rules are both reasonable and clear. Enforce and reinforce these rules and gradually educate people as to how these rules serve them and their needs, thus creating a space, a positive space that brings people together and is sustainable. I believe an example of this is “King Hussein Gardens”.

Right now, Amman is struggling with a new space and the jury is still out as to whether it will in fact remain public or become exclusive. I am referring to the large grassy open area up at the Citadel, which is very appealing to Ammanis both young and old for lack of any other similar space in the city. At the time of the project’s development, GAM, the Ministry of Tourism and the Department of Antiquities publically promised that the area would remain open and accessible to all, and particularly the residents of Jabal Qalaa.

The management of the space is in the hands of the Department of Antiquities and while they say they are willing to find a balance that would ensure the space remains both accessible and preserved, this is proving more difficult than imagined. The area is available for rent to anyone who wants to hold a party, a concert or an event and who may use it to eat, drink, sing, dance etc. till midnight or beyond. However, the residents of the Qalaa and other non-paying Ammanis wishing to use the site will have access to it only till 4:30 pm and under very specific rules. These rules have not been published yet, but as I understood from the site manager they may include: no eating, no drinking, no ball playing, no bicycles, no music, etc.

Furthermore, anybody wishing to bring a group of people to use the space, even if within the rules mentioned above, needs to send an official letter to the Department of Antiquities requesting permission, and needs to wait for an official response before they can do so. This applies even if they activity is with the local children or residents of the area and even if it is within official working hours and even if there is no request to exclude other people from using the space at the same time. At other times, the management lets people in to picnic or hang out. Management at the whim of those in charge, however, is hardly the ideal way to go.

At the moment, the Citadel Nights event is taking place at that site. A stone’s throw away from the homes of the children and families of Jabal Qala’a. The JD 5 entry fee makes their participation impossible, so they sit at home or stand on the sideline watching people from elsewhere in the city enjoy the magnificent which they have been deprived of and the Ramdani treats and cultural events on offer.  Last year’s Jordan Festival, with tickets upwards of JD 30, posed the same obstacle. Access to public spaces is a right and should not be treated as a privilege.  Entrance fees for Citadel Nights and bouncers at places like Souq JARA are a means of exclusion and discrimination targeting the people in society who are deemed “less than” or “incompatible with” the intended target audience.

Surely, there has got to be a way for us, as officials and citizens, to negotiate the management of public space in a way which does not lead us repeatedly into one of the first seven scenarios, or to an additional scenario where people are excluded when the process of transformation takes a space from public to private in their own backyards.

The first thoughts I had about spending my summer in the Middle
East occurred to me almost half a world away in some spare moment between dank
classrooms and stacks of books at the University of Montana. I don’t remember
exactly when I first considered interning in the region a viable possibility,
but I’m almost positive the idea solidified itself in my mind around the same
time I also realized the Arabic language was something I would not be content
having “studied in college”-I wanted to master it.

After months of web exploration, redundant applications, denials due to the “Arab spring”, the
pieces of what would become my amazing summer spent in Jordan finally fell into
place. As spring semester drew to a close, I left campus after my final exams
with travel books, my Arabic dictionary, and a plane ticket to Amman.

I’ve had to privilege of interning with Hamzet Wasel, an Amman-based social venture

designed to promote community and understanding between different groups of
people within Amman, across Jordan, and beyond (amongst other things of
course). This mission is pursued through a variety of innovative and
interesting projects, ranging from partnerships with similar progressive
organizations, to “Heritage Hunts”, competitive adventures with teams comprised
of foreign and domestic students exploring the city by following clues and
completing challenges in different locations of significance. The effects of
Hamzet Wasel’s activities and extent of its reach and influence has continually
surprised me, and I can only speculate as to the positive advantages of more
like-minded organizations emerging in Jordan and the greater Middle East. My
personal experience in Amman cannot simply be summed up in my hours working at
Hamzet Wasel, though my internship experience provided me with plenty of new
friends, skills and exposure which has changed my life. It should be noted that
time spent with Hamzet Wasel showed me the extent to which Amman has embraced
innovative thinking and problem-solving methods, a departure from attitudinal
issues that many consider to be reasons for social change in the Middle East
being difficult. The other major component of my everyday Jordan experience,
however, existed in my life with a traditionalist Muslim host family. It was in
this same environment I became well-versed in the intricacies of Arab culture,
traditional thinking, and Islamic value systems. In traversing the divide
between the traditional and progressive on a daily basis, however, I became
acutely aware of the rift between the two lines of thought, and the delicate balance
that Amman has thus far achieved between the two. This newfound knowledge greatly
altered my perception of the Middle East, as it raised many important questions
in my mind pertaining to the current governmental changes occurring throughout
the region, the “Islam vs. modernity” arguments one so often reads about, and
future of the region so long considered volatile. Progressive organizations,
such as the socially-oriented Hamzet Wasel, or the environmentally-friendly
Future Green, represent a departure from the traditional Arab attitude in
regards to appropriate avenues for directing one’s career attention. For
example, the Arab system of higher education focuses greatly on emphasizing
math and sciences (not liberal arts), this being based on the notion that in
studying computers, medicine or the like one will be guaranteed a “good salary”
in the future. The missing concept here, which I feel to be of great
significance, is that there is an absence of critical thinking or “thinking
outside the box” and a genuine lack of desire to solve larger, communal
problems. Sometimes, bettering society as a whole by way of heading a
non-profit which specifically addresses Jordanian social issues won’t yield a
“good salary” or allow one to be “rich.” A very self and family-centered
attitude is at play amongst traditional parents and many of those entering the
work world from Arab universities. While it is important for students to think
in practical terms to a degree anywhere in the world, the real leaders, innovators
and entrepreneurs are those who “think outside the box”, and perhaps pursue
unpopular goals and personal dreams, knowing full well there exists a risk of
failing. While I understand that for Arab men in particular, making a “good
salary” and being able to provide for a family is of utmost importance, this line
of thinking comes at the expense of societal problems being effectively
addressed from within. What I would like to convey to the reader, however, is that
blossoming organizations like Hamzet Wasel are so very positive for all
communities in multiple ways. The influx of these types of projects should be
nurtured and valued by all Jordanians, modern and traditional alike-after all,
no matter a person’s value system, promoting community and understanding
between groups of people in Amman and beyond is undoubtedly beneficial. I was
extremely privileged to be a part of Hamzet Wasel, if only for a summer, and
organization which I consider to be instigating real, tangible and positive
change in a country with its fair share of societal obstacles. More
importantly, however, I want to try and illustrate just how special I consider
Jordan to be. Of course, the most striking thing to me initially was Jordan’s
warmth and readiness to embrace an American student coming to experience the
Middle East. After traveling solo into Israel and the West Bank I couldn’t help
but notice how distinctly excited I was to cross the border once more into
Jordan. I miss the mountains, the pine trees, the scenic highways stretching
for hundreds of miles without interruption by staunch border guards. But in
Jordan, I’ve cultivated a whole new list of things to miss; hot tea with mint,
the beautiful Ath’an sounding proudly from the cities minarets, the evening sky
dotted with the kites of children too poor to afford skateboards and video
games. I cannot count the times I’ve been offered tea by random neighbors on my
walk from Gardens Street to my home, or the willingness of new friends to
include me in get-togethers and activities. Two and a half months has been
marked by happy discoveries and enriching experiences, as well as cultural
challenges and emotionally-trying realizations. I can only hope the amount of
lives I’ve touched in Jordan is equivalent in significance to the imprint Amman
will leave on me upon my departure. As my last week in Amman draws to a close I
only wish I could sit and drink tea at least once with everyone who has ever
invited me into their home, for fear I will never experience this kind of
hospitality again. On the opposite side of the world from “Big Sky country”, I
have found my second home. When I’m once again uncomfortably perched in a
wooden lecture hall desk this winter in Montana, I can think about the simply
happiness of Jabal Qala’a children in building those wooden kites, and smile
quietly to myself.

Kites and call to prayer-summer reflections

Currently Hamzet Wasel is running a series of gender workshops
for both men and women designed to bring about dialogue and understanding about
gender issues in Jordan. I think it is fair to say that one of those issues,
perhaps one of the more pressing issues, is that of harrassment. Since being in
Amman, I have experienced my fair share, though after hearing stories about
peers’ travels to the Middle East I was expecting this to a degree. Still, I
admit I was suprised at how often I’ve had to face it, and I most always take
good care to not dress or act invitingly.

In terms of being a foreigner, I understand that there are stereotypes about
American women that are easy to formulate by immersing oneself in American
movies, magazines and TV programming (which many many people here have access
to). But harrassment isn’t limited to foreigners….I’ve seen covered Muslim
girls sporting the slightest bit of attractive make-up getting eyed, whistled
at, and talked to inappropriately too. The purpose of Hamzet Wasel’s gender
workshops is to promote meaningful dialogue about all gender issues, including
this one. In an ongoing poll on Hamzet Wasel’s FB page, members can vote on
what they think might be an effective way to address the issue of harrassment.
So far, the majority of voters have indicated that sponsoring more activities
that increase cooperation and interaction between the genders is the best way
to combat this issue.

Though I’m not sure the issue of harrassment in Jordan, or the Middle East, can
be combatted by just one approach, I completely agree with the
“voters” on FB that this is a great start. I am acutely aware of all
stereotypes that exist in the West about Islam and the Middle East, and I’ve
fought tooth and nail to dispel those that are false and overblown by the
terrible black hole that often is American TV “news”. There is no
denying, however, that Arab and Islamic culture tends to emphasize the difference
and separation between genders in terms defined roles and expectations, far
more so than Western culture today. Talk to any traditionalist here and they
will tell you that there are certain roles meant to be filled by men, and
certain roles for women (all of which, when discussed, tend to curve back
towards religious values). But as globalization, social networking and media
sharing continues to reach corners of the globe previously untouched, Arab
youth are cross-culturally exposed to Western media….which is, needless to
say, less conservative (I should mention also however that Arab entertainment
has embraced many western styles too, so even celebrities in the ME reflect
non-traditional values). What young men often see portrayed is a Western culture
that is permissive of sex and partying, which to most appears much more fun and
exciting than a culture of rules, expectations, and responsibilities. When
these same young men have never had meaningful, innocent, working friendships
with women throughout their upbringing, then understood contact with women
comes in one of two forms only: 1) Marriage and family 2) Fun and
sex…………………….with no in between and no cross-over.

If youth are growing up in a society where contact between members of the
opposite sex is limited, it puts those same youths at a disadvantage in more
than one way. While I’m aware of the arguments regarding “protecting
integrity” and “tradition”, I also know that globally,
“gender roles” are becoming less and less popular overall. When
talking with young Jordanian women my age, this is evident. When it comes to
harrassment, the issue is that young men are growing up with little to no
meaningful contact with females outside of the family. Of course, this is not
true of all Arab men by any means, however I have noticed a simple trend in
that many Arab men here do not understand how to appropriately interact with
women who are not their wives, sisters, mothers, etc. If the interaction is not
shyness, unfortunately, it tends to be sexual and flirtatious. So why is this
cultural issue of gender separation, and hence harrassment, a problem then?
There are many reasons. Here is just one big one. Those same men who go on to
get degrees and desire to work outside of Jordan are going to be forced to
interact with female professionals, clients, and
superiors…………globalization has created more opportunities for women in
the workplace, and this is something that even traditionalist cultures will
have to acclimate to if they hope to survive and be successful in a changing
world. On a global scale, relations between the sexes is NOT for marriage
alone…the opposite line of thinking will prove more and more difficult to
maintain in the future.

Harrassment in Jordan, and perhaps in the greater Middle East, is a byproduct
of extensive media and communication capabilities coupled strangely with a
culture that somewhat limits contact between the sexes (outside of the family)
due to cultural and religious values. Regardless of what the reasons are,
harrassment like I and many girls/women have experienced in the Middle East is
highly inappropriate and not excuseable, despite cultural norms and standards.
A wise start to addressing this problem is promoting activities which provide
positive and healthy opportunities for both sexes to work together to learn,
discuss, and solve problems….perhaps not the entire solution, but a start
nonetheless.

Today was the second day in which I taught an English language
workshop for women in Jabal Qala’a. Despite being constantly challenged with my
Arabic abilities and designing effective lesson plans, I would say with utmost
certainty that these workshops are shaping up to be extremely successful. The
goals of these women primarily revolve around everyday English conversation
skills, and with the conversation exercises, drills and games I have been
trying, it seems as though all participants are happy with their progress!
There are definitely still a few obstacles to work through it terms of teaching
technique, class participation, etc., I feel as though I am truly contributing
to something positive and greater than myself. I have the opportunity to
positively impact the lives of several others in a sustainable way, and Jabal
Qala’a workshops take place only one day a week…this doesn’t even include all
other Hamzet Wasel programs and one-on-one English tutoring I help with.

After today’s workshop I had quite the adventure returning to the office. One
woman’s husband kindly drove me down the mountain from Jabal Qala’a to
“Balad” or downtown Amman. Upon reaching Balad and stopping for a
quick cup of Arabic coffee, I observed that the traffic was terrible and it
would be much easier for me to walk from Balad back up another mountain to
Jabal Amman (where my office is located). Despite the heat and having no water
on hand, I figured the walk would be somewhat quick so long as I kept using the
old stairways that traverse the mountainsides in Amman. After reaching the
bottom of the second set of stairs I planned to climb, I noticed a couple of
disheveled-looking men stumbling down the steep stairs towards me, whiskey
bottles in hand (a fairly rare sight in Jordan). Upon seeing me, one of the men
began yelling angrily in Arabic that made little to no sense. As I attempted to
sidestep the situation, he proceeded to hurl his whiskey bottle onto the ground
at my feet, spraying shattered glass onto my skirt and legs. In this instant as
my situational awareness level and sense of alarm skyrocketed, I also realized
I was almost completely alone on the street. As the man continued to yell and
other drunkenly observed as if expected a reaction, I used those thankfully
workout-toned legs of mine to power myself up the steep stairwell, shaking
broken glass off my legs as I climbed. I could barely make out the still-angry
voice of the guy below me, but frankly was much more interested in putting
distance between myself and the drunkards.

My story today, however, isn’t about drunk people. I’ve dealt with plenty of
those, though I must admit that it in this particular situation, I was quite
shaken (people don’t often drink for recreation in the Middle East, so when you
find people intoxicated midday in public, its rare and doesn’t usually bode
well for their overall character or state of mind). Upon reaching the top of
the long stairwell and breathing heavily, I scanned my surroundings. It took me
less than 2 seconds to register that I had no idea where I was. A little shaken
and feeling the heat and lack of water starting to affect my rationality, I
scanned the empty street for any signs of life to ask for directions. I walked
towards the entryway of a small business. Peering inside the door I could see a
man sitting watching the TV. Before I could even issue my standard
“Assalamu Alaykum” or “Afwan ya Saaed” he had stood up and
approached the door with a concerned look on his face. I realized peering at my
reflection in his store window that I appeared much sweatier and more shaken than
I realized. We exchanged the usual first greetings in Arabic, after which he
proceeded to immediately invite me inside for water. I agreed, as this is
standard hospitality in Jordan, and sat with him as his 17-year-old son
promptly brought me a cup of ice cold water. Still breathing a little raggedly,
I explained in Arabic what had happened only minutes before at the bottom of
the stairs. He immediately inquired about whether or not I was okay, if either
of the men had laid a hand on me, and proceeded to tell me to be wary of the
stairs near his business, for drunks tended to frequent them. This was genuine
and intense concern for my well-being from a complete stranger, something I
have experienced only in Jordan to this degree. As I was able to cool off and
Ahmed’s son, Mohammed, continued to refill my water glass, we made small talk
in the quiet of his small shop.

I excused myself after a while, Ahmed showed me the most direct route back to
Rainbow St. (close to my office), and told me more than once that if I needed
anything, ANYTHING at all, I could always come back to his business and ask
him. This hospitality and genuine concern for my, a random American’s, welfare
touched me. I wish I could impart on all Americans that THIS is the Middle East
I am experiencing, very different from the one most people hear about, and
THESE are the kinds of people I interact with on an almost daily basis. This is
the Jordan I’ve come to love.

]]> http://hamzetwasel.com/archives/723/feed 0