Week 4: Arab and Proud
The Uber turned onto the cobbled stones of Rainbow Street.
“Drop me anywhere, I am just going to walk around,” I told him.
It was my first time stepping out into the streets of the city beyond the usual route to and from the office. As I stepped out of the car I looked around and felt confused at the sight before me. I had made an itinerary the night before of things to do during my first weekend in Amman. Rainbow Street appeared on every website, blog, and travel spot as a hub of art and entertainment in Amman always filled with expatriates, tourists, and locals alike. But as I looked out onto the street before me, it was empty—deserted. I began to walk further along the cobbled-street and every store to the left and to the right—souvenir shops, clothing stores, restaurants and cafes alike—were all closed.
I had arrived in Amman four days into the Holy Month of Ramadan. I arrived thinking I knew what that meant—Ramadan, fasting, praying. But the past few weeks revealed quite the opposite, leaving me feeling like I was failing at being an Arab. With each passing day, I felt my identity was in question.
In Jordan there are laws or instructions in place during Ramadan regulating the behavior of all those within the Kingdom’s borders. They are meant to protect the sanctity of the holiday in both private and public spaces including streets and squares. The instructions require all restaurants and cafes to close during daylight hours and the closure of all liquor stores. Moreover, citizens, expatriates, and tourists living in Jordan are asked to “refrain from disrespecting the holy month, respect public decency and avoid offending those observing the fast.” But in Lebanon during Ramadan nothing closes and the fast is not as widespread. It is all business as usual. The only signs I have seen in Beirut that the Holy Month has arrived are some decorations in the street of crescent moons and stars and banners that say “Ramadan Kareem;” the start of Ramadan dramas that air every night of the month and have people all over the Middle East (including myself) glued to their television screens watching the ridiculous story unfold; and maybe just a slight increase in the number of people out at night as observers go out to celebrate breaking their fast.
So I thought I knew what Ramadan was. Yet there I stood in the middle of Rainbow Street, resembling a ghost town from one of the old Western movies my dad watches every Sunday morning, entirely surprised by the sight before my eyes.
I reached into my bag and pulled out Google Maps to see what else was nearby that could be open. The Roman Amphitheater and Citadel were tourist attractions and tourist attractions are exempt from Ramadan closing rules. I walked through the winding street that take you from Rainbow Street atop Jabal Amman down to Wasat Al-Balad, or Downtown, at the foot of the steep hill. Unlike Rainbow Street these streets were flooded with traffic and people coming in and out of stores and markets—getting all they needed to prepare that night’s iftar dinner.
I had walked quite a bit already and the sun was unforgiving that day. As I approached the amphitheater just past all the markets, I saw there was a juice cart open and situated just to the left of the entrance gate. I was relieved, handing the owner a single, crisp Jordanian dinar as he handed me a bright orange slushy. The chunks of orange flavored ice revived me as I entered the gate housing the Roman ruins.
***
I stood beneath the towering amphitheater architecture as a museum employee showed me around the stage and its echo points. I look a sip of the juice still in my hand and half full.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Lebanon,” I answered proudly.
“Ahla wa sahla,” he responded. “Muslim or Christian?”
“Druze,” I responded.
“Ah okay. Well you know it’s Ramadan now,” he began as his gaze lowered towards the drink in my hand. “People are fasting, and I do not want anyone on the street to look at you weird or get angry with you for drinking publicly, so be sure to finish it in here.”
I thanked him for the tour and the guidance and walked the few meters to the smaller amphitheater nearby. A guard standing at the door looked from the drink in my hand up to my face hidden behind my sunglasses.
“Salam alaykum,” he said, welcoming me inside and towards the stage. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Lebanon,” I answered again.
“Ah…Muslim or Christian?” he asked. It was deja va.
After having the identical conversation a second time, I slipped the drink into my bag and kept walking around the ruins. I thought to myself: Did I make a mistake? Did I do something wrong or disrespectful? Why were they so confused by my action?
But then the answer hit me. I am Lebanese and Druze. The perplexed look on both men’s faces had said it all: I should know how to act in public during Ramadan.
To be Arab is not to be Muslim—a frequent point of confusion in post-9/11 society. Arabs are a diverse conglomerate of people from all faiths: Maronite Christians, Coptic Christians, Druze, Sunni Muslim, Shi’a Muslim, Alawites—to name a few. But it is impossible to deny that Arab culture has not formed some bonds with Islamic culture, that they have influenced one another continuously throughout the centuries since Islam spread across the Arab world.
So I should have known, I should have known not to drink in public out of respect and solidarity. Knowing how to act during Ramadan should have been something I knew just as easily as I know how to say “habibi” or sing a Nancy Ajram song. And yet my ignorance during this Holy Month was a reality I grappled with each day. I should have known not to believe Google when it showed me a restaurant was open before iftar. I should have known not to try to walk in, as I would ultimately be greeted by the same confused look I got that first weekend. “We do not open until iftar” I would hear time and time again. I should have known. But I did not.
***
I am proud to be an Arab. I am proud to be Lebanese. During a meeting my team had during my first few weeks, the ministry official we were talking with turned to me at the end of it and remarked we had not been introduced before. Without a pause, I jumped out of my seat and extended my hand to shake his and stated, “Layla Abi-Falah, Lebanese.” This story has become Ghaida’s favorite to tell our friends and co-workers back at the CITIES office. We joke that by the time I leave, everyone will be speaking Lebanese dialect that they have picked up from me.
But not everyone is as accepting of my self-defined identity as an Arab. I entered an Uber one day headed for work where the driver kindly informed me that I was not Arab. Whether it was because of the Western-looking pencil skirt I had on, my slightly broken Arabic, or the hints of a foreign accent in the way I speak, he was unwilling to change his stance even when I insisted I was Lebanese.
I came into the office to share the story with my teammates and of course we all laughed, but this Uber driver had hit me where I was already hurt—another reminder that I was messing up every day.
But I am Arab, this experience should not be hard, I kept trying to convince myself. Ramadan is supposed to be a spiritual experience for all. So why was I struggling each day to feel like I was a part of this experience and of this culture—my culture?
***
Identity is a tough subject. Even writing this blog I found myself struggling to find the words to explain these sentiments. I am not even confident that these words have successfully conveyed the internal struggle I felt so frequently this month.
I came to Jordan during Ramadan expecting a spiritual experience. I felt left out and isolated from that experience at times—a feeling I am sure my Muslim friends and classmates back home feel on the daily in the current state of national affairs in the United States.
But then again, I reconsider. Maybe this month has taught me something: I am the creator of my own identity. An Uber driver, a blue passport with the gold seal of the United States on the cover that my parents worked so hard to provide me with, a perplexed expression from a museum worker or restaurant owner cannot define my identity for me. Only I can define my own identity.
Perhaps in the middle of the Jordanian Ministry of Political and Parliamentary Affairs following a meeting on decentralization was not the most appropriate place for me to declare my identity but as I stood up to shake the ministry official’s hand, it was an important moment.
I did not fast for thirty days. I did not always have an iftar or sahoor meal to attend. I did not pray five times a day. I did not do any of the sort of spiritual tasks that characterize Ramadan for so many Muslims in Jordan and across the world. But as I head out to celebrate Eid this weekend, I realize, maybe I did have a spiritual experience: solidifying my identity as an Arab woman to myself.
I may not speak Arabic perfectly or know old, traditional songs. I may not dance the dabke very well or know everything about Ramadan. But I am Arab. It is why I have chosen to devote my life to serving this area and its people. And just because I may still be learning new things about that identity does not change this fact.
I am Arab and proud.