A Summer in Jordan: Second Tutoring Session with Iraqi Refugees

Last night a group of us went to Marka to attend and help out with the English class taught by the Fulbrighters and to go to a birthday party. Almost all of the men we met with last week are students in the English class. When we arrived the volunteer coordinator asked if there were any girls willing to meet with a family who lives next door to the school instead of going to the English class itself. My roommate Morgan, Michelle, Miriam and I all volunteered. We were welcomed inside the family home and were introduced to the family, Shahar, Ahsal (which means honey in Arabic), their brother Hassan and their mother. Hassan is the oldest, at 24. Shahar is 21 and her sister Ahsal is 13. After we were seated in the living room Ahsal brought in a tray with glasses of fruit juice for all of us. After she handed them out we took our time drinking them. A few minutes later her mother explained that, in Arab culture, you must quickly finish any drink you're offered when visiting a home or an office. It's considered very rude to refuse. Hearing this, we emptied our glasses right away.

After leaving Baghdad in 2003, the family moved to Libya where their mother taught English. As she explained it, she understands grammar very well but isn't yet conversationally fluent. She was really enthusiastic about practicing English with us. Even if she wasn't fluent, she was able to tell us about her life and past without any major problems in understanding. Four of her brothers and one of her sisters were killed in Iraq over the last five years. After her husband left the family in Libya, she had a lot of financial trouble. Six months ago they moved to Jordan when conditions got especially bad in Libya. I tried to ask the girls more about what they meant by this and Shahar mostly talked about how hot it was there and how lots of the men they knew there did heroin. It took about 10 minutes of Shahar miming sticking a needle in her arm and me watching, confused, before I figured out that this was what she was saying. At first I thought she was trying to tell me she worked as a nurse. She did attend one year of university in Libya, where she studied to be a laboratory technician (try saying that in Arabic. The word has about 20 syllables). She wants to go back to school but right now there's not enough money. Her mother told us in perfect English, "in the hearts of the Iraqis there is only sadness." She wants her daughters to learn English, but, even though their home literally shares a wall with the English classroom, they aren't allowed to attend because there are men present who aren't related to them.

As we sat in the living room I noticed some family pictures. I thought this might be a good conversation starter. I asked Ahsal if she was in the picture. She pointed to her mom's stomach and told me (I think) that her mom was pregnant with her when the photo was taken. She then showed me everyone else in the picture, telling me "this is my uncle, he died three years ago, this is my other uncle, he died at the same time, this is my aunt who died last year. etc." It seemed like more people in the photograph had been killed in the war than were still alive.

We talked with the girls for about an hour, then went to Ali's house for his daughter Howla's 3rd birthday party and his son Hussein's 6th. (They were born on the same day three years apart). Ali's been studying English for a while, but has been having a hard time since he lost the use of his right hand to a car bomb in Iraq. He also lost a leg in the Iran-Iraq war and so uses crutches. Ali told me that his family is moving to the United States two months from now, but he's not sure what state they'll be in yet. I told him I lived in Massachusetts, which is probably the hardest state in the U.S. for Arabs to pronounce. People always ask if I live in Texas; everyone knows Texas. If I say no, they ask if I'm from New York or Washington.

After the party I went back to Shahar and Ahsal's house to bring them cake. They weren't allowed to come to the party because there were men present. When I came in they brought me into the bedroom they share and offered to do my nails. I told thanks, but it's really okay, I don't need my nails done, but they didn't listen. They decided to paint my fingernails and toenails, giggling and laughing the whole time. I didn't really understand much of what they were saying but hopefully I'll get better at Iraqi dialect as I spend more time with them.

Morgan came by to let me know our group was getting ready to go, but as soon as she came in Ahsal and Shahar insisted on giving us some of their temporary tattoos, after painting my fingernails and toenails. They also insisted on giving us each a pair of their earrings. We wanted to refuse; we don't need any more earrings and they didn't have very many, but refusing a gift is one of the rudest things you can do in Arab culture. Then Ahsal ran to get her pack of gum and gave us each a piece before we left. As we were walking out the door, she ran up to us offering us each a popsicle for the road. We told her no thank you, we were really full, but she wouldn't listen. We mentioned to one of the coordinators how generous the girls had been to us, and she thought it was probably because they really wanted us to come back. They made us promise to come visit for a day so that we could all cook together. Morgan and I don't have long enough chunks of free time to visit them in Marka very often, but when we are free we're planning to return with something to give them for their hospitality. I'm thinking of giving Ahsal a jar of honey I brought from Massachusetts.

Below are some pictures I took this week.