History Lesson

Our first day in Amman we slept for the majority of the day as our bodies still believed we were in California. We woke later that night, ready to head out and start the first of many meetings. Scotty had already set up a dinner conference with Mohamed, who would help bring us up to speed, as well as give us a run down of the area.

We met at a small café in downtown Amman. As we entered I noted that there were about five men sitting around a table in the corner playing poker. I will later find out that they are exiled Iraqis, Chaldeans and Jordanians. They are seated by the balcony, as it is a clear, beautiful night. A pot of hot tea with mint sits in the center of the table, half empty. They are smoking, which strikes me as weird, but then I am from California where no one can smoke inside, unless it is their home. But these men smoke without restraint from a long freestanding pipe called a nargile.

Scotty, Brandon, Mickel and I follow Jay inside and through the small restaurant; we head toward the balcony where we sit and quickly order some hot tea and cold Pepsi. Jay tells us that we have to make a distinction between hot and cold, otherwise we will almost always get a warm drink. He also warns us against water, saying we should make sure all water comes from a closed bottle, and it is better to just buy water at a store, that way we know what we are getting.

Cars move quickly along the busy streets below us. The men sitting near us continue to smoke. And every now and then a man from the café comes out of the kitchen with a shallow bucket and tongs and offers burning chunks of tobacco. If someone accepts, he will set it gently on the screen which sits atop the pipe. I notice that one of the men closest to me has just accepted a fresh chunk of tobacco. I watch as he inhales and then looks out over the street, the city, seemingly a nothing. But the look in his eye says differently.

A television hangs from a corner in the room. The news is on. Of course it is, this city, this area, is in a war and it must be better to experience it over the TV then see it upfront and personal. Images of George Bush and other high US officials flash across the screen. Some of the men playing poker stop to look up for a second, but their attention is returned to the cards in their hands within a moment. This is nothing like I expected it to be. I thought there would be bombs going off all the time and dead bodies piled up on the roadsides. Maybe even a good shooting or two. But no, none of that existed tonight.

Deciding that now is better than never, I get up and head over to the men, intent on asking them if I can photograph them. Only a few of them acknowledge me when they agree to my request. The others either ignore me or wave me off, dismissing me from their presence. The ones who did agree are impatient with me and become angry when it takes me too long to switch out my lens.

“Finished?” One of the men asks in broken English. I have only gotten one or two pictures at this point and already my nerves are wrecked. He snickers and his mates laugh as well while holding their cards close to their faces. The man whom asked has his hair slicked back and a few errant strands of silver have escaped the gelatin cap. His face is white, almost as white as me. I shrink away at his harsh words, suddenly unsure of myself. I only snap a few more pictures; I leave myself no time to get over my own thoughts and feelings and instead focus on nothing other than the men playing cards.

The thing is, it is not the men whom I am interested in, nor the shot. It is the connection that I see to one another; there is a depth in their dark eyes. Unfortunately there is no time for me delve any deeper. I quickly thank them and return to my friends with only a soft-focused photograph of a man holding his cards while looking at me through the lens with some callous feeling (maybe resentment).

By now it is early evening. The sun is slowly dipping lower and lower. They sky is saturated with deep hues of blue, all darkening with each passing moment. A cool breeze swishes past as we continue to sit on the balcony.

Beside us, a large Jordanian leans on the rail, hovering, eaves-dropping. His name is Shak and he asks me whom I work for. He looks tired, but alert, perhaps too much tobacco. Perhaps something else.

"You here to cover the things happening in Iraq?" he asks. I come to find out that Shak studied in Egypt for a while. He spits as he talks. I ask him what Jordanians think of the death of Saddam's sons and the entrapment of their old leader.

"You mean Uday and Qusay? I cannot speak for all Jordanians," he says, bringing his fat hand to his big chest. "I can only speak for myself. It is a good thing, yes. They committed many crimes. They were bad people. They are no good for Iraq."

Shak asks me my name.

"A Russian name. Are you Russian?" he asks. I nod, waiting on pins and needles for the coming words that will likely be thrown at me. But Shak surprises me. Instead of cruel or mean words, he asks me my religion. I lie and tell him I'm Buddhist (not a complete lie, but not the truth). Oh, he says, but looks confused.

"Bush," he says, when the news on the television switches to something about Al Jeezera again. That is all he says about that.

He asks me if I go to the movies, if I like football (soccer).

"I like Sylvester Stallone," he says. "Do you like Indian movies?" he asks. "Do you get Indian movies in America?"

He is full of questions.

"How come Americans don't like football? Every body in the world likes football, except the Americans."

When we leave the diner, we take a taxi up the hill to a theatre staging a popular play called Us, Shock and Saddam. The play is a well-known lampoon about the relationship of the Arab world--the politicians and the common people--to Saddam, to the US attack on Iraq and the reactions among their political leaders. The play was set in cafes around various Middle Eastern countries. The men on one side of the room represented the people who easily digest the propaganda being transmitted to them, the other side represented a more critical view.

One actor appears in a box--the television prop--in the back of the stage, the commentator for Al Jeezera bringing the latest news. The main actor for the play is a boisterous turtle-faced man who plays retired U.S. General Jay Garner, Yassar Arafat, Hosni Mabarek and Saddam Hussein perfectly. No government or interest was spared criticism in this play. One scene that brought much laughter, but was difficult to watch, depicted an ignorant Iraqi interrogator with three captured American soldiers who didn't understand his English. The Iraqi carried a fake gun. He hit the American soldiers on the back of the head and the players acted terrified.

"I don't know, I don't understand," one said.

"Next time, before they send you back here, your army should train you to speak English," the Iraqi interrogator said. The audience roared at the punch line.

Our first day here was more full than I could've imagined, despite feeling tired and jet-lagged. We talked to a number of Iraqi exiles about the latest news. We found out what their hopes and dreams were for their country. In just a day, from the poker cafe to the theater to an Iraqi restaurant in a smoky alleyway at midnight, I've heard many different viewpoints, many opinions, many stories about who people are, and how they've been affected watching their country be destroyed, by Saddam, by all the war.

Some want to forget and start over, some don't have a place to return to and want to immigrate to America where there's opportunity. But so many Iraqis--like the Babylonian who spoke so passionately with his friends hanging off his shoulders supporting him outside the Iraqi restaurant where we ate a plate full of charred chicken and grilled vegetables close to midnight as kittens meowed around our feet--just want to return home.

Tomorrow we head for Aqaba on the coast.