Between Jordan and America: Reflections on My Visit in 2011

Zarka, Jordan. Photo: Amina Mousa

by Amina Mousa

This summer we trekked to Jordan—my three small children, my husband Maher, and me. We traveled to Maher’s birth city, Zarka, just forty-five minutes from Amman by car, but a world away. I lived there in 2007 for a year and a half, long enough that I stopped holding my breath—waiting to get back to normal. I submerged.

The air is dry and hot, the land is sandy rock, in a word: monotone. Buildings nearly fade into the hillsides. Tan cement-block rectangles seem to be rolling into the same hue of smoggy sky. Zarka was built in the middle of a desert by a flood of Palestinian refugees and that mindset is reflected in the lack of architectural ornamentation inside and out. The place is totally foreign and completely familiar.

But the family that eagerly awaits us on the other side of airport security makes it a homecoming. The best part is seeing them. Well, being loved by them, rather. Because that is what is so different about life there—it’s their kind of love—this warm belonging, woven with expectations that make a fabric not made in America. In Zarka, life follows the old tribal rules. My husband’s brothers would die to protect me. The woman in the family, the wives and daughters, are like one body. The roles are clear and success is easily defined.

My husband is the only man in his family to leave the region. My niece, Wala, is the first girl in a family numbering over one hundred relatives from Maher’s father on down—who will leave the country. She married an Arab American and will move to New York in a year, insh’Allah. We had a good talk.

Abu Yusef is the eldest of Maher’s seven siblings, with the biggest laugh and longest beard. We have fun drinking coffee and talking religion and politics. His daughter, Aliya, is my favorite niece. She is mother of three and her love is like being hugged by home. You know you are cared for. You are safe.

Abu Yusef built three new stories onto his existing two-story house since we were there last. This is normal. Homeowners leave the rebar sticking out of the cement block around the rim of the roof, and then add an apartment for the growing family. Five of his seven children (including Aliya) live with him now, which means 12 grandchildren live in his apartment complex. The creaky porch-swing provides a happening kids’ area. A long rope swing has been added from the upper additions so now the grown-ups have a spot to fly high and laugh. A second building is growing too, and when he finishes it, he will have five more flats and all thirty-three of his children and their spouses and grandchildren will live with him. He rents one flat out to an older widow and her daughter. He has chickens and is nearly self-sufficient on his little plot of land.

In their way of life, you are always welcomed without calling first. There is always enough food for you to drop in for dinner unannounced. You would never die in an Old Folk’s home, or be alone on a holiday. You would never be left without a caretaker when sick. Your family members are your neighbors, your baby-sitters, your best friends; they are your cooking club, your seamstress, and your pickle makers. Your basic needs are met. The rules for gender and success are pretty much set in advance for all. And Allah sets the limits on your desires. Enjoy the pleasure of your husband, and cloak yourself from all other marryable men. Have money but don’t make that your god. The limits are fixed and the structure of life flows around the rules.

They rely on inter-connectedness, religion, and their history for a compass. Breaking rules leads to a kind of exile. People there don’t develop the level of autonomy and individuality that we do here in America. “Obeying” may sound bad to an American, but the simplicity of clear expectations in Jordanian society creates harmony and satisfaction in life and the little things.

Here, the impact of our country’s vast wealth and young history is larger than any of us understand. We live surrounded by an obscene amount of stuff, abundance my tribe could never imagine. We can believe whatever we want. This is the land of opportunity and yet we are so glutted, so full, that our challenge is to take that opportunity we were given and make it our own: a life of our own design. Re-experiencing their kind of surrender, love, and limitations roused a new level of appreciation for the unlimited opportunity that my life here in America offers. I find myself taking more actions toward what I really want, towards my own unique truth and am more balanced, grounded, and contained by their love.

Photo: Amina Mousa

Amina Meyer Mousa was born in Murshid Samuel Lewis’ room at the Mentorgarten in San Francisco, grew up with Ruhaniat Sufis, and has studied Moroccan Sufism in the Qadiria Buchissia under Sheikh Hamza. She is married to Maher Mousa and they live in Richmond, California, with their three children: Naim, Aiesha, and Adam.