I’ve now been abroad for a couple weeks, and I’ve found that there’s nothing more helpful for language acquisition than chatting with my taxi drivers. I’ve always been someone who loves to talk (there would be very little content for this column otherwise), but holding meaningful conversations in a new language is incredibly difficult.
Not impossible though.
I came to the Middle East with the assumption that I would be treated with even a fraction of the animosity Americans treat foreigners with back home. As someone whose face basically screams “American,” I was entirely prepared to have to prove to the people of Amman, Jordan that I didn’t fit whatever stereotype they might have expected. To make matters worse, I was completely unable to formulate anything even remotely intellectual in Arabic, and even when words came out, they were very often misunderstood.
In the loud bustle of city markets amid Roman ruins, I was having a hard time hearing, let alone understanding, the people around me — until I stepped into a taxi.
On my very first solo ride, I got into a white Toyota Camry and greeted the driver with a nervous “ahlan” (“hello,” in Arabic) before sitting down. Immediately he asked where I was from.
I remember talking about Chicago and how cold it is in the winters. I converted our freezing temperatures to Celsius after he warned me it gets cold in Jordan in late fall.
“Not like Chicago,” I mused.
I used vocab from my travel unit and explained I was visiting for the semester to study Arabic and had not been around the city much past the small neighborhood I live in.
I asked if he was from the city, partially because I wanted to know where to explore, and partially because I could see the keffiyeh draped over his car’s backseat.
He said no.
Jordan is a nation of refugees — according to the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestinian Refugees in the Near East, there are more than two million Palestinian refugees in the country. Syrian refugees make up another 654,000, and other nationalities add 730,000. More often than not, with over half of the people in Amman claiming some Palestinian heritage, they say, “Palestine.”
Not only does this answer open up an incredibly difficult conversation, but it also directly challenges my answer to the same question. At that moment, we are both acutely aware of the possibility that my tax dollars contributed to the killing of a member of their family. Maybe several.
Having conversations with friends is one thing, but having conversations with a man who has full control of the car you are in is another. The first time I heard this, I wasn’t sure how to proceed — especially not in a new language. I was unfamiliar with the culture in Jordan and how freely people could speak about their opinions, beliefs, religions and histories.
But let me tell you, Jordan would love this column. Through hours and hours of sitting in the backs of taxis, I have heard about people’s family members in the war, their faiths and opinions on God. I have also seen pictures of their children, got invited to a wedding — one step up, been asked to marry their sons — and have had Rihanna play at full blast because “This is what Americans listen to, right?”
The Jordanian taxi drivers would fit right into the “Nerdwestern” culture in the way that they unapologetically ask and answer questions most people shy away from.
After talking about our homes, I have spoken to drivers about the war. I have heard their stories of relocation. I have seen pictures of their kids and their houses in Ramallah or Gaza and have heard their opinions on not just the war, but what life was like in Gaza and the West Bank years ago.
Then, as suddenly as they ask me about American politics or my opinion on Israel, they will change the conversation to the best place to get falafel in Sweifieh and ask me what sort of things I’m writing about.
I gave one of them the link to this column actually. So, if you’re reading this, “Marhaba!”
I have learned so much from talking to people and even more from the fact that I can really only listen.
Even as I forget the word for “nice to meet you” or need to ask them to repeat their last point five times, I have learned so much more than just language on the roads of Amman. Perhaps the countless drivers don’t count as friends, but I have seen pictures of their sons and they’ve invited me in for tea — so I think we’re at least close enough for them to get a feature.
Gabriela Hamburger Medailleu is a Medill junior and author of “Off the Record.” She can be contacted at [email protected]. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.
