On the outskirts of Amman lies a small, predominantly Christian community called Fuheis. One of the most interesting phenomena I have encountered while living overseas are how people of similar religions cluster together. It may not seem like something that should spark much wonder. But it is something I've never really experienced before living overseas. We first encountered it in India; I remember driving through Chennai with Mr. Sundar who didn't hesitate to note when we were driving through a "Muslim part of town" or a "Christian part of town". Being Hindu, there was an unmistakable hint of contempt in his tone each time.
In the United States, the ultimate mixing pot, a country which prides itself on its diversity, I had grown up thinking that it was something other than race or religion that defined communities. I know during the immigration "boom" between 1880 and 1930, many new arrivals to the United States clustered in ethnic enclaves in New York City, some staying, many venturing further afoot. It makes sense to gather with those who speak a similar language, have similar beliefs and value systems, eat the same food, smoke and drink the same things, have the same vices. In a new and foreign place, anything familiar is sought out, then clutched close. We find ourselves doing the same now living overseas.
But gradually, some of these ethnic enclaves dissolved and the boundaries between communities blurred, an osmosis of sorts, like drops of cream into a cup of coffee, it stay together for a while, creating a milky swirl, before turning the coffee from black to brown, one uniform color. I had grown up thinking it was something other than race or religion that defined communities, but I don't know what those common bonds may have been. (Certainly, in South Florida in the early and mid-80s, there were communities of blacks, mostly separate from where we lived. It wasn't until I moved to the city, to Baltimore for college, that I thought about that difference.) I couldn't tell you now what common denominators a community in South Florida possessed that a community in, say, Minnesota or Iowa did not.
We had heard there was a giant Christmas tree in Fuheis and so we went in search of it, on an exploration, of sorts, our second big holiday outing in as many days. For a family that is mostly content to stay home, warm and cozy though we don't have a fire or fireplace to gather around, this was a big deal. Especially for Peter who most days doesn't want to go anywhere.
After driving mostly aimlessly through the small town, Elise finally spotted the tree over a hill, a sparkling oasis.
In the United States, the ultimate mixing pot, a country which prides itself on its diversity, I had grown up thinking that it was something other than race or religion that defined communities. I know during the immigration "boom" between 1880 and 1930, many new arrivals to the United States clustered in ethnic enclaves in New York City, some staying, many venturing further afoot. It makes sense to gather with those who speak a similar language, have similar beliefs and value systems, eat the same food, smoke and drink the same things, have the same vices. In a new and foreign place, anything familiar is sought out, then clutched close. We find ourselves doing the same now living overseas.
But gradually, some of these ethnic enclaves dissolved and the boundaries between communities blurred, an osmosis of sorts, like drops of cream into a cup of coffee, it stay together for a while, creating a milky swirl, before turning the coffee from black to brown, one uniform color. I had grown up thinking it was something other than race or religion that defined communities, but I don't know what those common bonds may have been. (Certainly, in South Florida in the early and mid-80s, there were communities of blacks, mostly separate from where we lived. It wasn't until I moved to the city, to Baltimore for college, that I thought about that difference.) I couldn't tell you now what common denominators a community in South Florida possessed that a community in, say, Minnesota or Iowa did not.
We had heard there was a giant Christmas tree in Fuheis and so we went in search of it, on an exploration, of sorts, our second big holiday outing in as many days. For a family that is mostly content to stay home, warm and cozy though we don't have a fire or fireplace to gather around, this was a big deal. Especially for Peter who most days doesn't want to go anywhere.
After driving mostly aimlessly through the small town, Elise finally spotted the tree over a hill, a sparkling oasis.
If they look really cold, they were. We tried to convince them to grab their puffy winter coats, but like with most things we try to tell them, our advice went unheeded.
This vendor had -- inarguably -- the creepiest selection of Christmas-themed trinkets for sale I have ever seen.
It's difficult to make out in the photo above, but the red rod laying on its side is a battery-operated Spiderman "microphone" which shoots multicolored sparkling lights from the disco ball top and emits the most bizarre, music box like tune. Aside from the masquerade ball masks on the bottom shelf, the devil-eyed purple bunny (which reminded me of a B-movie horror film "Bunnicula" about a bunny vampire) was by far the scariest!
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