My First Story in Amman.
Protesters in Jordan call for a new government, reform
Story by Melissa Tabeek // Photos by Matt Kauffman
(When I was perusing my blog, I realized that I forgot to post this when it was published in May, before my life was swallowed by my reporting on Syrian refugees. So if you haven’t read it yet, here ya go!)
AMMAN, Jordan – Just after noon on the street in front of one of Amman’s most important mosques, more than 70 people mobbed together with raised fists and chanted their pleas for a government free of corruption.
“You thieves, where is our money?” they half-screamed, half-sang as about 150 riot control police lined up, some hand in hand, on either side of King Talal bin Abudullah Street.
Protestors gathered Friday in downtown Amman to ask for a new government, free of corruption.
It was a repeat of so many Fridays before it in the last year, a day chosen by revolutionaries to make their point because most Muslims in the Middle East stay home from work on Friday to worship and rest. And while the protest – borne from the hearts of men willing to risk their safety for a voice – was relatively peaceful, it was not the only one in this country of 6.5 million that day.
Dawn at the Gates.
Dawn on my last day in Jordan. A moment of zen after pulling an all-nighter to finish my video piece. The Gates of Jordan beckon. I wish I could stay.
The Gates of Jordan at dawn.
Wedding Night from a DJ Booth
Last night I experienced being a roadie at a wedding (probably more of a groupie, actually) with my roomie, Sam Laine, for my host brother Sultan. We chugged in Sultan’s beater to the posh Everest Hotel and got VIP status behind the normally male-only dj/entertainment area.
Here are some photographs from the night below:
DJ Sultan.
Merry Christmas? Bizarre.
The view from the dj booth.
Host brother.
Best of Jordan in Five Days – Part II
In my previous post, I wrote about the first two days of my five-day excursion here in Jordan. Although the entire trip was magnificent, the last two days — for different reasons — affected me most deeply.
DAY THREE – INSPIRATION AND BEAUTY
Al Rajef Society for Special Education in Ma’an — another city in southern Jordan — is a center that was created to treat young people up to their early 20s who have physical and mental disabilities. Particularly after the bad press Jordan’s mental health system has gotten recently, it was lucky that we had a chance to see the inside of a government-run special education facility.
Although I’m sure the center likely has its problems, it was nice to see photographs on the walls and on seats that give these children a place to belong.
A classroom seat for a child with Down’s Syndrome at Al Rajef Society for Special Education – Ma’an.
Weaving skills are taught to the children here.
A room for physical therapy.
A friendly neighbor of the society.
Best of Jordan in Five Days – Part I
It has been…
Five days of rocky outcrops, jagged horizons, dazzling sunsets, Hollywood movie set-like sights and nature hikes.
It has been…
Five days under the stars.
It has been…
the most incredible collection of days I have ever experienced.
Here are some stories.
DAY ONE – CRUSADERS + NATURE
The inside of Karak Castle.
I Am The Daughter of a Man
The main room in our SIT villa was filled with powerhouse women today. The first lecture came from Professor Rula Qawas, a self-proclaimed activist for Jordanian women’s liberation: “It is who I am. Damn it all to heck, I’m a feminist.” The charismatic speaker exploded into her talk almost immediately, building up to a point when the space felt more like a rally than a lesson.
The professor covered a lot of ground concerning women’s rights in the hour we had her for, but the part that captured my attention most was her explanation of the journey of a Middle Eastern woman’s life.
When the woman is born, she is the daughter of a man, Qawas said. She will marry, because she is expected to. If not, she would be considered a “spinster,” a responsibility to bear for her parents. The concern, aside from being a “hag,” would be the worry of where she would live if her parents died. She would have to live with her brother.
First Friday
My host family has spoken many times since I have been staying with them about how wonderful Fridays are in our house — the holy day in this part of the world, when most don’t work – essentially our Sunday Funday — and each time we have missed one for an excursion or work, they have told great tales of the merriment that has occurred in our lovely little abode.
Deadline was moved up a day for Matt and my story to today (gulp, gasp, help), so we skipped the group excursion to Jerash — no biggie, just some ancient Roman ruins, views of Palestine and stuff — and spent the morning working with the prof at her ultra-swag hotel.
After work, food; I came home to a lunch of mansaf. I have previously blogged about the national Jordanian dish, so I’ll spare you all another meat meditation – but my host mother insisted that I take photos of the finished product and I wouldn’t feel right about not displaying her tasty handiwork as part of my Friday fun.
Step One: Boil.
Step Two: Rice.
Step Three: Meat plus Nuts.
Step Four: Destroyed it.
How much does Sultan love Fridays? THIS much.
Deadline Madness
When double-bylining a story on deadline, things can get emotional. Matt and I, after spending the entire day trapped in the SIT villa, started to get a little delirious after too many hours in front of our computers.
The Evolution of a Story Part I.
Ilhamdulillah.
I have been doing some intense reporting this past week. I can’t post photographs or really go into detail about what I’m writing about (you’ll all be reading it soon), but suffice to say, it has been haunting. I listen to their stories of atrocities that I haven’t seen in even the most vile horror movies and I can’t help but think of my family and friends. I am so grateful that they are free and safe. These are things we assume to be our rights in America. I certainly always have.
But I’ve seen firsthand that in this part of the world for certain groups of people, it’s not a right. It’s a privilege reserved for few. Children grow up only knowing a brutal regime. They become used to seeing spent bullet shells in the streets.
I am free. I am safe. Ilhamdulillah, thanks to God, or whatever entity, if there is one, watching over all of us. And to the people I care about that are reading this, know that today I am thinking of you.
Reporting, Reporting, More Reporting.
The past two days have been reporting heavy: sweaty, stressful, schvitzing. I’ve spent more hours interviewing people than sleeping. I might have even spent more time in cabs in the past two days than I have logged in my bed. And I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never not be a sweaty mess when I show up places. I love this country, but the layers of clothing I wear plus the amount of time I spend in taxis, adding in the terrible traffic in Amman equals me being a perpetual frizzy, sticky mess. Also, instances such as when I was sliding down the sidewalk of the steepest hill I’ve ever been on in Amman on Monday on one of the hottest afternoons yet — after the cab driver dropped me on on the wrong side of the unicef office — don’t help the cause either.
The person in charge of the study abroad program that Northeastern University partnered with spoke to us about how all interviews should be kept under an hour, maximum. I realize that this is partly because of the nature of the story I’m working on — which requires talking to people long enough to get them comfortable with me — but our American-style, super-efficient and sometimes aggressive reporting, in my very limited experience in Jordan, doesn’t work here. I have spent much more than half an hour with all of my sources.
I am reporting in people’s homes. Two nights ago, I was invited to have dinner and speak to two people for my article. I was there for nearly four hours, interviewing, eating, drinking Arabic coffee, eating, drinking mint tea then eating some more. To refuse hospitality is an insult here and it has become a rite I have had to just factor into the time I am going to spend with people.
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