After working on a Friday, Geethika and I sat down with one of our colleagues on the couch. As we sipped tea, she explained why she decided to have her kids abroad. Although she had decided to attend university in Jordan, she said that she wanted to give her kids an opportunity. Opportunity meant an avenue outside of Jordan. 

She was not the first person that we met that talked about wanting a pathway out of Jordan. The chess player I met wanted to leave to find an IT job outside of Jordan, another guy talked about how he was glad that he left for university in Hungary, and a news reporter talked about the limitations of the press while within the Jordan borders. Even the individuals that were the most committed to promoting employment within Jordan talked about how their dreams lay elsewhere. 

Through my work, I conceptualized why all of the people I talked to had travel dreams. I wrote briefs about how, despite Jordan being the number one host country to Palestinians, unemployment levels were startlingly high. Amongst the youth unemployment is around 50%. One in two young adults in Jordan do not have a job. Let that sit in. 

Our colleague’s comment about having her children abroad may just sound like a preference, but it represents the systemic issues of Jordan. It makes me wonder, if citizens do not feel as though they have a successful future within the country, how can refugees? Our work has expanded my knowledge of the initiatives within Jordan to provide refugees with employment and educational opportunities. But, to truly address the issues we must solve the systemic employment issue first.

As we neared the end of our work on Wathik, we decided to visit one of the software engineers who had helped us earlier this summer. In addition to giving us a great deal of technical support over the course of this project, he had also offered us a standing invitation to join him in his office for a workday. So we arranged a visit and went to his office, where he was eager to show us around and to see how much progress we’d made. 

We showed him our program, which I felt was well-received—he seemed very impressed by how far we had come (although he was, of course, able to make some [good-natured, obviously; and also very much deserved] jokes about our messy code’s lack of efficiency). We had been working for a little while when he said, “if you’re ready to take a break, let me know; I want to show you the roof.” 

We reached a stopping point, and the three of us followed him upstairs. He lit a cigarette as we took in the view of the city from the top of the Jabal Amman office building.

We started to make some small talk and ask him questions. He told us that, like many people in Amman, his family was originally Palestinian. He explained that he doesn’t really enjoy talking about politics—in so many political discussions, each side just ends up deciding that the other is evil.

We shifted towards asking about his career as a software engineer: he’d started working here as an intern in college, then briefly worked for a large corporation until the mind-numbing monotony of it motivated him to return to this smaller company. Eventually he plans to leave, but he doesn’t have a specific plan yet. He’d shown us a list that he keeps—a crumpled-up piece of paper with a list of ideas scrawled in pen, all potential future projects; “It’s good to keep a list like this; on those nights when you can’t sleep, you add to it; someday there might be time to work on them.” Then we chatted about music, and about electric and classical guitar, and about what we’d seen in Jordan and about the tech industry and about what it’s like to be a software developer working under a project manager. 

We asked if he’d seen Oppenheimer, and he had. I was interested in what he thought about it, as I felt that my perception of the movie had been heavily shaped by my Americanism. He said that the parts that focused on American politics were harder to follow, and we asked how much of it was familiar to him, and about how World War II education differs between Jordan and America; and we all expressed our amusement at the fact that not long after he’d explained his distaste for politics, we had accidentally stumbled into a conversation about politics. 

“It’s horrible what some people are doing,” he said, referring to the present day. “It’s insane what people do to each other. And for what? All people have to do is not kill each other.”

The three of us agreed: “Exactly; that’s literally only one thing; it shouldn’t be too hard. Every morning, when you’re making your checklist of things to do that day, you only have to write down one thing: don’t kill people. And folks still manage to mess it up.”

“Right. Wake up in the morning. First thing to do every morning: don’t kill anybody—” he reached into his pocket for his lighter, deftly brought his cigarette back to life, returned it to his mouth, and then said with a chuckle through a thick stream of smoke, “—Second thing: kill yourself.” 

A woman ushers me into her home, insisting that I have to take something to drink, fighting me until I relent. Many experiences in Jordan have felt new and different to me, but this perhaps felt the most like home; it felt like a sweet southern lady wanting to show as much hospitality as possible. As soon as we stepped into the house of one of our supervisors, his mother did not stop entertaining us with delicious food, coffee fortune telling, and dream interpretation. She was an eccentric character, one would have to be to name a kitten ‘Putin,’ and having guests to entertain lit up her face for our entire stay.

I felt like a member of this tight knit family as we all sat around as she shared stories of the prophets. To me these were the Bible stories I had heard my entire childhood, from similar sweet ladies teaching me Sunday school. She recounted the stories of Joseph and Jesus, and even took a detour at one point to share her thoughts on the Lord of the Rings trilogy. At this moment the idea of similarity really began to speak to me. I feel as though most people from my small town of 2000 at the very best see Muslims as a people far different from themselves, and at the worst embrace racist and xenophobic beliefs. This idea of incompatible difference completely crumbled to the ground as this woman shared the same religious history and convictions towards kindness and hospitality that had always been emphasized to me growing up. 

My whole life I was taught to believe that Muslims, especially those in the Middle East, are so vastly different from me, but nothing could prove these statements more wrong than the kindness and friendship of one sweet Jordanian woman. As humans we like to divide ourselves into groups, because it makes the world easier to understand, but the truth is that we are all complexly interconnected and its beauty is worth the complexity. Hopefully I’ll remember this interaction and realization next time I see a news headline about Putin, or on my next viewing of the Lord of the Rings.

In the past three weeks, there have been moments where I feel as though my privilege as a foreigner has been apparent to myself. From having people adapt and translate Arabic to make me more comfortable to being able to have a comfortable living situation in Amman, I have felt as though there is a lot of privilege in being here. One thing I have thought about a lot has been that these two months are a temporary experience and that there is privilege in being a temporary visitor. A lot of the information we have learned about on Jordanian identity, culture, refugee circumstances have been difficult conversations. And while I feel as though these topics weigh down on me while being physically in Jordan, I have the privilege of knowing that I’m removed from these circumstances.

The Digital Product team and I have discussed a lot about how our work of developing a web application to ease the process of reporting annual finances to the government and donors could have easily been done in the U.S. However, there are so many things that we have gained from being here in Jordan and have had the privilege of experiencing. I feel as though there have been many instances of my privilege as a foreigner showing through even having certain needs to complete our project.

Another concept I have been reflecting on is how can I make the resources that have been put into me being here in Jordan more valuable than its monetary or material value. I have been consciously trying to make an effort in my work that can allow the non-profits we are aiming to help to become self-sustaining. Our supervisors talk about this idea a lot; being able to sustain their organization long-term is a concern almost all small NGOs and CBOs have. I hope that my time in Jordan and my work to create this application will sustain many organizations long after the short two-months that I have been here.

Through an expat group, I met many young men and women that gather together every Tuesday to meet and bond over a fun two hour game of soccer. The games are organized by a young man that studied IT and works in cybersecurity. We bonded over how computer science can be used for something we love, like analyzing soccer. 

Usually, the price of renting the fields for the group is 4JD per person, but Faisal always allows newcomers to try out the first game without paying. This type of hospitality has been a large theme throughout my time in Jordan. From the soccer field to our supervisors inviting us to their family homes to try Mansaf and Zarb, the people I have met are eager to share their culture and customs with visitors.

Through these games I have gotten to learn about the daily experiences of young Jordanians in Amman. I met another young man that has been working in nonprofits for about 9 years despite only being 27. He grew up in Zarqa to a Palestinian family. He talks a lot about the culture of living in Zarqa and the difference in identities between “Jordanian-Palestinians” and “Jordanian-Jordanians” and how that has shaped his perceptions of Jordanian rule of law and the sentiments of people of different backgrounds. A few days prior to last Tuesday’s game, there was a big soccer match in Amman where Al-Wehdat and Al-Faisaly, two teams of the Jordan Football Association (JFA), faced-off. He explained that these two teams are notorious for having games that end in fights or protests. This is because the fans and players have ties to Al-Faisaly, a Jordanian club, and Al-Wehdat, a Jordanian-Palestinian club. He says he doesn’t enjoy these games because when they play it’s not about the quality of soccer or the competition but about politics, hatred, and racism.

I have enjoyed my time getting to create relationships and learn from people over a shared love for the game of Football.

Within just a couple minutes of talking, we had found so many shared interests. We were both seasoned concert go-ers and enjoyed the same films. He was wearing a Guns N’ Roses t-shirt, and we took turns alternating the music on aux for the full 45 minute car ride. He would put on rock music, and I would put on some rap/R&B music. When I disclosed I was from America, he excitedly told me he wished to go soon for a Metallica concert. A couple months ago, he traveled to Thailand to see Guns N’ Roses in concert. I expressed my fascination in all of the different places he has traveled to. He seemed to live such a fun, carefree lifestyle as a freelance videographer, traveling the world to attend rock music festivals.

We finally arrived at the Souf Camp for the focus group discussion session. The hall was full of heightened emotions of frustration and anger, as each participant shared stories of the personal barriers they’ve faced, lamenting their jinsia (citizenship status/nationality) as Palestinians in Jordan–how institutions, policies, and society treat them as third-rate citizens. On the car ride back to Amman, we reflected on the different stories and the upsetting reality of displaced Palestinian communities. As he divulged more about himself and his plans for the future, the more my heart broke for him. He has traveled to so many parts of the world, but couldn’t go to the place he longed for the most. He is originally Palestinian, but cannot visit Palestine. He had a long term partner from Palestine, but the relationship had to end, even though the love persisted. His partner could visit him in Jordan, but he couldn’t cross the border into Palestine. Once again, I was overcome with resentment–resentment towards some arbitrary political demarcation that put lives on hold, severed relationships, and dispirited a people. I cannot even begin to fathom the feelings of the Palestinian diaspora.

“The government…it’s corrupt. Not like America. We should trade places.”

For those who are comfortable, this is a sentiment I’ve heard shared dozens of times. The lack of social freedom in Jordan is jarring to say the least. With arguably excessive levels of surveillance, Jordan does not allow for much social discourse or discussion.

On the way back from a supermarket trip, I spoke to my Uber driver about America and how life in Jordan has been. When he asked where I’d prefer to live, I said Jordan with no hesitation. It has been such an incredible feeling to not be a minority for 2 months. To be surrounded by people with similar values and morals.

He laughed a bit to himself and told me I probably wouldn’t feel that way if I lived in Jordan. He went on to tell me stories of resistance. Attempts to protest the government regarding excessive surveillance, allyship with Israel, and general corruption. He elaborated on how he feels privileged to be a member of a prominent tribe in Jordan, and how he has the privilege to protest to a greater extent than other members of society. Then he told me about his cousin, who is in prison as a result of his activities in public activism.

I sincerely appreciate his willingness to share his story with me, as it is a perspective that is not often heard. It is illegal to criticize the Jordanian government, therefore there are very few online sources on the topic from the perspectives of those living in Jordan themselves. I feel grateful that he felt comfortable sharing with me, as we had just known each other for a brief moment. It is as if he hoped that I would be able to share this with others, and that our conversation would go beyond the four doors of his Honda.

As we pulled up to our apartment on At Tarriyfah street, I wished the ride was longer. I wish I had the opportunity to ask him more about his personal experiences with the Jordanian government, and why he felt so strongly about this.

I have incredible privilege to live in a country that has as much freedom as the United States. I hope I was able to convey my gratitude for my privilege in the brief 10-minute ride we had. I also hope that somehow, the kind Uber driver who was so open and willing to share his story comes across this blog post, and is happy to see his story being released.

As I stepped out of the vehicle, I thanked the man, tipped him a bit extra, and continued on about my day; a 10-minute car ride that would forever impact my perspective on Jordan and what it means to be Jordanian.

Over these past three weeks, I’ve deliberated my role in Jordan and ILearn quite a bit. I’ve considered my role quantitatively and qualitatively, weighing the money and effort put in to have me working in Jordan against my own outputs in work. Especially, after learning about the concerns of ILearn’s longevity, I’ve had a burgeoning awareness of my own placement here in Jordan. Reconciling with my role and work has been something everpresent for me in this past week. Could the money and effort spent into having me in Jordan have been better spent directly to the organization? How can my work have a legacy that is worthwhile to the organization? Grappling with these questions, I’ve been increasingly motivated. I’ve learned I’ve grown very attached to the organization and its people within these past weeks. As a student from America, it is so easy to just complete my work and return home; however, it is our coworkers and the organization who must live with the impacts of our work, and I want to make sure my work can make the sustainability of ILearn a little more certain.

In the different conversations I’ve had, from Abu Faras to the women at the hostel, I’ve learned a lot about my privilege. It is one of uninvolvement. My American citizenship and student status gives me the privilege of being a detached, third party visitor to Jordan and its rich history. I benefit from the hospitality of strangers. I benefit from the ability to travel freely as a third country national–something many Palestinian-Jordanians have lamented to me. I am able to work everyday without regard to its permanence. I think immersing myself both physically and mentally in Jordan, interacting and working from a long-term perspective, where we can become involved and attached to our work and the people, is key to bridging the gaps our privilege creates.

Over the past few months, there have been frequent reminders of the privilege that comes with being an American student in another country. The most obvious example of this is the amount of help we are receiving from Duke in the forms of mentorship, logistical support, and financial support, and the impacts that this has on our experience here—there are many standard difficulties and considerations of everyday life that we don’t really have to worry about because they have already been sorted out for us. We are here in Jordan in the first place because we come from a place of privilege that has given us access to this opportunity; and now that we are here, we are incredibly privileged to be taken care of and provided with resources that allow us to live incredibly comfortably.
But outside of the obvious privilege of coming here with all the resources provided for a Duke-curated program, there have also been other moments in which our privilege became evident in ways that I hadn’t necessarily anticipated prior to arriving in Jordan.
The first time we left Amman, we were stopped multiple times by police. On both occasions after our driver shared his papers, the police realized that there were foreigners in the car, and instead of asking us for our papers they let us move along.
Before coming to Jordan, I had thought a bit about how the fact that I am white would impact my experience: I figured that it would have a different impact on my life than it does in America—Jordan is not a nation run by white people, and I knew that I’d stick out a bit more than I’m used to. What I had failed to consider was the fact that because I am visibly foreign, I am often presumed American; and in many countries, carrying an American passport is a significant source of privilege.
We chose to ride the bus home from that trip out of Amman. The bus route began near a major border crossing between Jordan and the West Bank and ended in the heart of Amman, so I expected for us to be stopped by police again along the way for security reasons. Sure enough, as soon as I started to fall asleep I felt the bus slow down and pull over to the side of the highway. A police officer boarded the bus and began asking to see people’s papers. The driver and a few Jordanian passengers showed theirs. Then it was one of my friends’ turns. He presented his American passport, and even though most of the bus had not been checked yet, the police officer got off the bus and let us go on our way.
I knew before coming here that American documents are a powerful thing, but I was surprised to see that have an impact on my everyday life. And as a white American, I know that I will always experience this country in a way that is shaped by my foreignness, and by the status that being American brings.

A few weeks ago, our cohort spent a day traveling around different refugee camps in the Amman area, visiting a number of community based organizations that work with ILearn, the organization for which we are working this summer. Our first stop was the Jerash Women’s Association in Jerash camp. When we stepped off of the bus, among my fellow cohort members, our leaders, and the staff at ILearn, there was one face that I did not recognize accompanying us. I didn’t think much of it at the moment, and we continued into the office of the CEO of the organization. As we began to sit down, the CEO, Heba, began to speak to us in Arabic, and a slight panic filled me as I thought I may not be able to be involved in this conversation. However, as soon as Heba finished speaking, the man I didn’t recognize from the bus began to speak in English to us, sharing the history of the organization obviously relayed by Heba. 

Throughout our stay in Jordan, Rajj has served as a translator for our group multiple times, often floating around the ILearn office where his friend Omar is our supervisor. Our interactions with Rajj are only a few examples of how as an American who cannot speak Arabic, I have constantly found myself being the one accommodated by others with language. The stereotype that Americans do not know any other language, and that they expect everyone they meet in the world to speak English has felt somewhat accurate to me on this trip. The examples of my language needs being the ones accommodated range from discussions about our work on trips to Jerash all the way to ordering a simple sandwich on our first day in Amman. 

As the person on the trip with likely the least amount of Arabic practice compared to my fellow cohort members, I am constantly aware of my language limitations and the fact that I am extremely frequently having them met by Jordanians. Duke Engage is a program where Duke students are meant to go into a community and practice and learn skills of service, working to provide support to local communities while knowing our place as servants. This view of the program has some tension when someone like me comes into Jordan not knowing the language of the people I am working with, expecting myself to be accommodated. Shouldn’t someone going into an international community be the one making strides to meet that community on their plane with language, and not vice versa?

I have thought about this question a lot while here in Jordan, and I would like to be able to arrive at a place where my language barriers do not have to be addressed as much by others, but I realize that I will not magically learn Arabic in the last couple weeks of our program. For now, I have to settle for being grateful to the Rajj’s of Jordan, making it possible for communication to exist between the leader of an organization in Jerash and a nerdy computer science student from North Carolina, working together to create a website to sell dresses made by refugee women.