Another World A Peace Corps Assignment In A Small Jordanian Town Sparks A Personal Awakening
I feel humbled.
So insignificant for the first time in my life, so small when contrasted against the entire scheme of the universe.
It took 8,000 miles for me to learn this lesson, this painful yet eye-opening exercise in patience and humility.
Like others, I joined the Peace Corps — abandoned my job, my home, my family and friends — because I thought I could save the world. Always the hungry traveler, I left because I wanted to learn about other cultures, other ways of life and make a difference in the lives of others. I came to Jordan a year ago with these goals, like an agenda I would bring to a business meeting. I was cocky and idealistic, yet sadly and truly naive.
It’s true you learn many things here: the Arabic language, Middle East politics, cultural differences. But the most important lessons are the ones that stem from deep inside: that you become whole when you recognize your fears, grow when you learn your limits, blossom when you are awakened by your deepest desires.
It’s a cliche, I realize, but it’s true: You lose yourself in this other world only to discover more truths about your identity.
And for this gift, I am grateful.
I serve as a Peace Corps volunteer in Al-Joufeh, a small, nearly forgotten village just north of the Dead Sea, a five-minute bus ride from the Israeli border.
I am writing this at dusk, in my back yard brimming with lemon trees, when the temperature has dropped from the daily average of about 105 degrees to 85 degrees. At this time of day, the sky reminds me of cold, summer Popsicles — refreshing swirls of banana and peach, an aura intensified by the waft of lush, white magnolias.
I tend to romanticize life here, the same way some disguise kitsch at a not-so-fancy auction. But inevitably, reality is often strange and grim and restless… .
No more morning jogs along the Spokane River. No organic food from Huckleberry’s. No car, no television, no telephone. For workouts, I now jump rope inside my house with the curtains completely drawn. During the colder months, I boil a pot of water for my bucket bath. I am still adjusting to the dirt and flies, to garbage strewn everywhere, to using Turkish toilets - a step up from an outdoor latrine.
During summer in the Jordan Valley, I spend the day completely drenched, feeling the sweat slowly trickle down the back of my legs and along the crook of my arms. The bugs abound. I no longer writhe in revulsion; I can pick the different creepers up as they crawl on my arm or leg or bedsheets, then squish them between my fingers.
But even more trying than the physical inconvenience is the mental and emotional stress. The freedoms I took for granted at home no longer exist for me here. Because of Jordan’s strict Muslim culture, I don’t speak to most men in the village, nor even look them in the eye. I wear long skirts and long-sleeved shirts, since naked elbows may be considered scandalous. I tell lies to maintain the image of “the good little virgin,” the one who’s never even held hands with a man or sipped a frothy beer.
While I lead a somewhat normal life when I go to Amman, the capital, I am a completely different person in Al-Joufeh. I can’t express my opinions clearly with my limited Arabic. Villagers think it’s a pity I’m not married at the old age of 26, strange that I don’t shave the hair on my arms, haram or shameful that a single woman like me can live alone in a country far, far away from her mother and father.
“Why am I here?” I often ask myself. “What good is my work as a schoolteacher? Why, oh God, did I ever leave home?”
I grew tired of my voice. I was annoyed with my own paralysis, my hesitation to finally take action. I was sick of talking about it, sick of thinking.
So I did it. I quit my job in Spokane last July. My dream job, the job that paid the bills, the job that made me feel good about myself.
Many, especially my parents, couldn’t understand why I made such a drastic life change. Sometimes, I, myself, didn’t know.
It only became clear when I came to Jordan. For the first time, I understood joy in simplicity - from the faces of mothers who spent the entire morning cooking their families a meal; from the smiles of little girls who were so excited to see me at school; from the serenity of the imam’s voice, his calm, distant chanting at sunset: “Allah O Akbar, Allah O Akbar ….” God is the greatest.
How different they are from me, from the hundreds of people I know and watch at home.
From the time we enter first grade, we are asked about our future: What will you be when you grow up? Where will you live? What will you do with your life? The cycle continues. A good GPA and high SAT scores means acceptance into a good university. Success at networking plus hard work in college equal a good job. So we’re programmed to look ahead at the five-year plan, maybe even life 10 years from now. You start working at a company all the while planning your next move to a bigger place in a bigger city with a bigger salary.
It’s so hard to live in the moment. I am learning how here.
About half of the population in Al-Joufeh are Bedouins, Arabs who have wandered the desert for thousands of years and have settled in houses only for the past two or three decades. The other half consists mainly of Palestinians, those displaced by the Israelis after two devastating wars. Regardless of their background, most are warm, simple and kind, ready to invite visitors to their homes for at least three cups of tea.
I work with their daughters - some as young as 11 and others as old as 18 - at the all-girls secondary school. While a few come from middle-class homes with air conditioners and satellite TV, most live in two- to three-room cement houses where they sleep in a small area with about a dozen brothers and sisters.
Some come to school with holes in their shoes or lice in their hair. Most don’t know their ABCs or even such basic English as “hello.”
Most have no dreams of college, let alone leaving the village. They live for the day when they get married: for the gaudy dresses in white and gold, for the segregated wedding party; for the first kiss of their lives given to them by a man picked carefully by their fathers and brothers, a man who could be their first cousin or a stranger they’ve seen only a few times before that day.
It’s heartbreaking to watch this and be a part of their lives. But it’s even more frustrating when you realize that change comes slowly, that sometimes you are helpless and there is nothing you can do. I can teach them their ABCs, the past tense forms of irregular verbs, Jack London’s “To Build A Fire” - things that seem so unimportant when you are faced with poverty and an alarming water crisis.
Yet despite the poverty, the chauvinism, the lack of hope for the future, many of these girls are happy. They smile when I walk in the classroom with as many as 40 girls. They laugh at silly jokes. A piece of candy can make their day.
I used to think they were happy only because of ignorance. How wrong of me to be so condescending, to assume that my life is better than theirs. Now, I wish I could be more like them.
I want to live in the moment - to be grateful to the universe for whatever it brings me, to find meaning in both joy and pain. I long to be as simple and strong as water, curving against the rock of a wadi, or water hole, slowly forming shapes that may last for centuries. I want to surrender to the unknown, to stop manipulating and wanting, to cease wrestling against the things I cannot control. I hope to love unconditionally, to do things out of love, even let go because I love.
I am learning to be patient, to curb the tendency to scream and climb walls. I am slowly accepting things that I alone cannot change - from the torrid weather and grim poverty to the restrictions of culture and Jordanian society.
I no longer expect miracles. I don’t see myself as a kind of savior. Slowly, I am trusting that the universe has a plan. It will reveal itself in time.
They have a saying here that affects not only your future but your plans for the weekend or even if the bus will get you to your destination: “Insha’allah.” God willing.
It’s become my motto.
So Insha’allah, I will find peace amid the silence of hot afternoons, the furious storms of my mind, the discomfort of my body. Insha’allah, my girls will study hard, pass their exams and perhaps aspire to make the most of their talents.
Insha’allah, I will learn to be strong.
Map of area.