The college town I come from calls itself the City of Trees and PhD’s. Well here are my top ten observations from another school that has its own generous supply of trees and PhD’s, the one and only University of Jordan.
10. Walking under UJ’s trees feels like a stroll through the set of a Turkish-dubbed-Arabic TV drama. The bottommost yard on these evergreens is painted white. I dismissed it as a traffic precaution (reflecting headlights) or as a quirky aesthetic touch. Wrong, and more wrong. It’s insect repellent.
9. The women far outnumber the men. Of forty-some students in my Sharia class, only two are men. (And that’s double the number of men in one of my upper division Arabic literature courses.) My empirical evidence is incomplete, however, until I step into the engineering lair, where I suspect all the men are hiding.
University statistics confirm that women outnumber men, 6 to 4, among the student population, while 7 out of every 10 professors is male. Maybe the graduation of more young women today will translate into more female professors tomorrow. Maybe not. But that still leaves us wondering: where are the young men at? I’m inclined to think that more young men than women have to drop out of school to support their families. But I could be wrong. They could just be decorating the hallways, smoking cigarettes and petting their heavily gelled hair.
8. In the College of Letters, there’s a handwritten sign on the bulletin board, offering condolences to a student whose father recently passed away. Also, outside, there’s a big banner commemorating the Jordanian military’s martyrs who passed while serving in Haiti. I didn’t even know Jordan was sending troops to Haiti.
Also, in morbid news, class was tearfully interrupted today when a niqab-wearing student requested that another leave the class with her. Their mutual friend had been in a week-long coma after a car accident and had just recently died.
To my surprise, the professor turned it into a teachable moment. She reminded us: Innassabra ‘indassadmatil ‘oola. Patience is at the first strike of calamity — a prophetic saying. She coupled that with a personal story — her brother withheld news of their father’s death a few hours, until after she turned in her Master’s dissertation. That, she said, required patience and restraint.
In a passionate speech, she suggested that we not look to society for our values and expect society to change. We are society. We should consciously choose our values and act upon them. A refreshing variation on the you-are-our-tomorrow speech.
7. When you’re a 5-times-a-day praying Muslim in America, you’re bound to have prayer stories. Like the time you prayed on the concrete in a gas station. Or on the side of the freeway. Or in the middle of the quad in high school. Here, of course, there are a thousand places to pray. They’re not all pretty or pristine. In fact, some are pretty discouraging. But they are everywhere.
Using another human compass — a Jordanian friend M — I also discovered a sisters-only lounge at the University. This has a lunch area, two disjointed prayer halls and a row of lockers smothered in safe political slogans and rainbow-colored stickers. A more austere black-and-white bumper sticker on one of the glass panes reads, “We love you for the sake of Allah.” I love you too, oh windows.
6. A spray-painted Israeli flag lies in lieu of a doormat outside some room in one of the Shariah buildings (there are two). The administration called it vandalism, the students freedom of expression.
Also, as you near the Sharia buildings, you notice that the number of boy-clusters around music-booming portable radios dwindle, while the jilbab- and niqab-clad girls multiply. Politics aside, there’s a sort of serenity about the place.
5. Here’s the breakdown on transportation to UJ from my home:
15 min. taxi JD 1
1 hour 3 buses + walking JD 0.75
1 hour walking Free
I’ve tried all three modes and, provided that the weather isn’t out to get me, I’ll probably take the road less traveled by (i.e. the sidewalk.)
4. If you’re into people-watching, be forewarned. There are a lot of people to watch, and a heck of a lot of people watching you. I don’t know if they’re lazing between classes or through classes, but there’s never a short supply of people on the benches lining the intra-college roads. After doing my fair share of walking, here’s a rule I’ve invented: When you see a couple glowing — impeccably dressed, walking together, but really wanting everyone to notice them — well, they’re probably engaged. When they’re crouching on the sidewalk between parked cars, however, they’re probably not.
3. Even though some students do mix and mingle at the U of J, the overwhelming majority do separate like oil and water. This blend of mixing and separating feels like a hybrid of my mosque and school environs in the U.S. While my transition to Jordan was arguably to a more conservative environment, a new friend E — a Palestinian living in Saudi Arabia — said her experience was the reverse. As we walked side-by-side through the campus, I couldn’t help but think that, for opposite reasons, we were each slightly awed by this new land, this middle ground.
2. I plan to perform hajj one day iA. As if it were aware of my intentions, UJ gave me a free preview. I had to jog laps between al-Safa (the College of Letters) and al-Marwa (the College of Foreign Languages) in hot pursuit of an elusive class. (Had I done it a few more times, perhaps Jordan’s water problem would be a thing of the past.) As it turns out, the class had been moved to yet a third building. That third building, of course, is casually referred to as the Old Technology Building, but all official maps deny its existence, as did several young ladies I asked. (Of course, the first young man we asked — one quietly studying from a dictionary-sized book on a staircase — he gave precise directions about not only the building, but also the exact room in question.)
Apparently, the long-sought-after building is known as the Political Science Department. A perfect place for a Contemporary Jordanian and Palestinian Literature class, right? Oh, whatever, I got there eventually, and that’s all that matters. Or is it? When I apologetically walked 20 minutes late into this 45-minute class, I found one of the only male students in the room standing at the podium. He paused in the middle of his report on a Jordanian poet named ‘Arar, and the professor turned to me, sarcastic.
- Are you in this class?
- Yes.
- And where, pray, have you been?
- I was lost.
- For a month? [Class laughs; I redden. Of course, the professor asks this because classes have been in session for a month, but I've been waiting long and hard for the necessary approval. So there.]
- I’m auditing.
- Oh! Then come on in!
That time, she mocked me before the class. Today, she mocked the class before me (and embarrassed me again in the process.) This is how she introduced me to her students, inserting pauses after every question for emphasis: “She’s an Arab American coming here to improve her Arabic. She doesn’t get grades. She doesn’t take tests. She doesn’t have to be here. Did you hear that? She studies because she wants to. Where are you from that? Where?” Hah. I’m sure my popularity skyrocketed after that speech.
1. The first time I entered his class, I almost immediately vetoed it. Gave it a double strike-through. But this was an unprecedented case of professor-redeems-himself-as-class-session-progresses. You can see the trajectory of my thoughts from my notes, which move from annoyed observations to (slightly) more content-based stuff:
“nasal voice, bald, white wreath of hair, charcoal eyebrows, thin gold-frame glasses, sitting and reading from his book, stopped in the middle of class for athan, boys in the front row, girls in next two rows, four rows empty, dust settles on everything not wiped by an arm, back or rear, floor pattern like Legos, went to Oxford (?), afandi was a person in Tripoli, Lebanon, Amina al-Saidiya + husband = democratic conversation.”
I called my mom last night, mentioned to her this class, this professor. She asks, “Does he have a longish nose? A sense of humor? Dr. So and So, yes that’s the one, I think. No, he wasn’t bald — but that was 25 years ago. He might be bald now.” Oh my God, I was hysterical. I knew this professor before I knew him. But then he was an idea, not flesh-and-blood. Can he really be the one who asked after Mama when she missed his class, 25 years ago? All the girls were abuzz about it, then. “You’re a favorite. That professor? Shoot, he doesn’t ask about anybody!”
I think every history makes its case, vies for legitimacy. The jury are always the living, and the evidence is usually extracted from the lifeless — fossils, monuments, manuscripts — things that survive the wear and tear of years better than the human body. But in this case, the human body had survived. To me, the professor was a living monument. A link in a chain that connects two college students — mother and daughter. He is now witness to my life and Mama’s.
I stayed after class today to ask him. He had shut down the student before me so curtly that I did a double-take. Was this the right time to ask? I didn’t want to wait two more days. Before my courage expired, I blurted: “Assalamu alaikum, doctor. Thanks for letting me audit your class! I have a question, if you have a moment?” No reply, so I went right to it. “My mom. She thinks she took a class with you. Years and years ago. Arabic Literature Appreciation?” I told him her full name. He looked like he was searching, searching, searching through yellowed mental files. I could tell he was trying in earnest. “I know, you probably don’t remember.” He asked about the year. A pause. He didn’t remember her, I could tell, but he smiled. “I may well have taught her.” He said it as if it were an important declaration. I beamed. “Thanks.” That was evidence enough for me.
