Yesterday we went to Marka again, where we've been practicing English with Iraqi refugees. I realized, after hearing my friend Ahsal introduced, that her name wasn't Ahsal, it's Shahad, which means Ahsal, which means honey in English. After we sorted out that confusion we sat down together to talk some more. When her mother went to prayers, Shadad asked us to come into the kitchen, where she was starting dinner for the family. She made "finger potatoes," which are a lot like french fries, cooked in oil with cauliflower and eggs. We asked what kinds of things she liked to do on the weekend and she told us her favorite thing was swimming at the beach, while she lived in Libya. She says the beach by the Dead Sea in Jordan is too salty to swim in, and the Red Sea is too far away. She's not allowed to go out with her friends; only with members of her family, so she hasn't met many people in Jordan. She told my friend Miriam and I that we were like her clique ("shilla" in Arabic) of best friends, even though we've only met her twice. Her sister is still a little shy around us, but insisted on painting my nails a second time this week. I did manage to convince her though that a top coat of gold and silver glitter wasn't necessary. Hopefully we'll visit them again next week or sooner. Shahad wants us to spend a whole day with her on one of our free weekends. I hope we do.
Before we sat down to eat the finger potatoes, our director called and said we needed to walk back to the main house where we all met to take taxis home. We apologized to Shahad and her sister, explaining that we wanted to stay, but had to go home with our group. They invited us to spend the night, but, since we had class at 8 AM we told them it really wasn't a good idea. Despite our protests, Shahad wrapped up the majority of the finger potatoes on a paper plate, covered it in foil, and gave it to us for the ride home. We told her we really didn't need it, that we were full and would just have a taste, but she wouldn't listen, and you can only refuse food so many times before it becomes extremely rude. We felt horrible, walking away with the better portion of their dinner but there was no way to refuse it without being offensive. We decided next time we come we're going to bring a pizza for them to share with us. They love pizza and Western fast food in general. They asked us what our favorite foods were, and tried to guess. "You like hamburger? French fries? McDonalds?" That's all they think Americans eat. Sometime soon my friends and I might visit an Iraqi restaurant nearby to sample traditional Iraqi cuisine. Seafood (not my favorite thing) is very popular in Iraq, so we'll see how that goes. Below are pictures from our visits with Seeham, her family, and several other families CLS students have been meeting with.
A birthday party for Hussein (little boy on the right)and his younger sister (little girl in the middle). Hussein turned 6, she turned 2.
Hussein helps his mom cut the cake.
Michelle, Shahad, Me, Morgan, and Shahad's sister. (Left to right).
In Seeham's living room with her family. Morgan, Shahad, her sister, Me, Seeham, an Iraqi woman who works at the refugee center, Michelle, Miriam. (Left to right).
Lighting the candles.
The cakes!
Best candles ever.
First meeting in the English classroom.
Fireworks.
The birthday girl and her dad. He lost a leg and the use of his right hand to a car bomb, but he's still trying to learn English even though he can't write.
Singing happy birthday.
The birthday girl and her cake.
Shadad cooking us finger potatoes. Her sister is hiding outside the window.
Miriam and Shahad with her sister peeking in the background.
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