Welcome

On the streets, in the taxis, even at a medical clinic. I have lost count of how many times Jordanians have told me, always with a smile, “You are welcome here.” 

And yet, my acute awareness of my own foreignness has fostered persistent fears. I am afraid of miscommunication. I am afraid of doing or saying something offensive. I am afraid of being taking advantage of. And the list goes on. 

These fears are paralyzing. They prevent me from fully engaging in my host culture and cause me to behave as if I was not welcome. 

One evening, two American friends and I went looking for a Jordanian restaurant that had been recommended to us. We knew that the restaurant was located on a particular street in central Amman, but after wandering up and down the crowded sidewalks for nearly half an hour, we were at a loss. As we began to cross a less-crowded street, I saw a group of four or five older men on the other side, standing behind a glass door, opening that door, motioning to us. 

We turned the other way. More specifically, I turned the other way, and my two friends followed. 

After another minute of wandering, we found ourselves in more or less the same spot from which I had anxiously departed. One of the men, dressed in a black business suit, was standing outside, holding the glass door open, still looking at us. 

We walked towards him. 

And before I could get a word out, he said, with a smile and a sophisticated Jordanian accent, “It seems that you have lost your way.” 

With a tinge of embarrassment, I returned the smile and then told him the name of the restaurant we were looking for. He gave us directions. I said “thank you” in Arabic and began to turn around, but he stopped me.

“Do not hesitate to ask for help here in Amman. The people are happy to help you. And welcome to Jordan.”

It is appropriate to be a bit fearful when entering an unfamiliar culture. But when members of that culture consistently behave in ways that alleviate those fears, it is also appropriate to start practicing trust.

I was nudged to this starting line on the following day. 

It’s Friday, and I have nothing planned. Previously, I’ve noticed a beautiful black-and-white mosque at the top of a nearby hill, so I decide to hike it and snap some photos. 

As I leave my apartment and head in the direction of the hill, I realize that I can’t see the mosque from where I am. “No matter,” I think. “Surely I’ll be able to see it once I start walking.”

So I walk. And walk. Take pictures along the way, which is lovely. But still can’t catch a glimpse of the mosque. 

An hour or so into my hike, I find myself wandering through a residential area. To my left are several large white apartment buildings. A large man walks out of one of the doors and says, with a smile and in broken English, “Where you go?”

I am caught off guard, but not frightened. I say “black and white mosque” in Arabic, and he nods in recognition. 

“I drive you!” 

Parked right outside of his front door is a taxi. After a second’s hesitation, I decide that I’m fine paying for a ride -- although I’m fairly certain that the mosque is nearby. 

He walks across the street to a small gray car, not the taxi. This is very different now. I am no longer paying for a legitimate means of public transportation, which I have already done twenty times; I am climbing into the personal vehicle of a stranger.

Another second’s hesitation. I smile at the awkwardness of the situation and recall the previous evening’s experience. I follow the stranger, slide into the front seat, and buckle up. We drive. 

And talk. I use a little Arabic, he uses a little English, and we cheerfully stumble through the basics: I am an American who is currently living off of Rainbow Street and working as a volunteer in Jordan for one year. His name is Sufian, and he is a Jordanian who has a family and owns a shoe shop down the hill. 

We arrive several minutes later. (As it turns out, I was not very close to the mosque.) I thank him profusely and then begin to get out of the car, but he stops me. 

He tells me that I shouldn’t go down the way I came up, that I can walk further down this street until I get to a large road that will take me straight down the hillside and cut my hike in half. 

I thank him again. He smiles and bids me farewell with “You are welcome here.”

And I am.