Stories from Amman

of the family.

  She was treated like a princess. Everyone attended to her first, watching for her approval at each new bite. Smiling, standing, sitting with her hands folded in her lap, standing, shaking hands, kissing in the air on each side of the women’s cheeks so as to leave no trace of lipstick.

  She wasn’t accustomed to such attention nor did she ever seek it. Twice she broke into tears as the attention (or should I say tension) got too much. Then her world slowed down as she adjusted to this new life. People still looked, smiled, talked about her and attended to her as they would until the next one came. But things became not so strange to her and she became more familiar to them. She was now part of the family.

  “****”

  Ameer Masoud - Salam Amman

  Taken by the image of the city; the one I have printed in my head for almost twenty years now. A picture of faces and places; an inseparable relation that puts the two into one frame. An urban emotional reservoir that holds within my profound memories of Amman.

  I am lost, perplexed. I have never thought in my entire life that I will stop breathing the air of Amman. I have never thought about waking up to one morning where I’ll be unknown, a total stranger in a place where I have to start learning a new form of ABC, in order to for me to live.

  I sigh, I try my best to kick out those depressing thoughts and think about my future, and the dreams of a better life that I have always sought. But, again, my sheer love for Amman persists on bringing forward a pool of memories, that once brought in, I’m left in tears.

  As I pack up my suitcase, tears in my eyes start running down my face, as the memory of people that I care about came in. I remember the nights I spent with my friends in Rainbow Street, the times in which we laughed and cried, the times at The Tea Bar, oh, those I can vividly recall. Turtle Green Tea Bar was our hangout; it never felt boring at all, no matter how much we went there.

  I pause, and I stop packing up my suitcase. I put on a light jacket, and head upstairs. I take up the stairs to the top of the building, the spot on the roof is my favourite; it gives me a full view of Old Amman and the long flagpole, up there I can feel the cool breeze, and I can feast my eyes on a beautiful scenery of a golden setting sun on a canvas of a clouded orange-purple-coloured sky.

  I light up a cigarette, and in wonder I wander in my head, thinking if I’ll ever have the same view I’m looking at in Stockholm! I know that I will find a splendid view in Stockholm, but I’m certainly certain that it is not the same as the one in Amman. I wonder if I’ll find the same food we have in here – silly, but it means so much to me. Enjoyable food has a huge remark in my own experience in Amman that is related to happiness. Will I be able to have a safe night stroll between two hills; going down one, like Jabal Amman, and climbing the stairs to another, like Lweibdeh’s?

  I am tremendously dreaded about my future; I wish I don’t have to think about it. Leaving my family gives my heart an ache that I cannot speak of, but living with them is a hardship that will make my life in Amman an unbearable experience. Both choices are never easy, but in the pursuit of the dreams I long have, I am aware of the truth that I have got to sacrifice a lot; I have to sadly sacrifice Amman.

  “****”

  'Rainbow Stories' - Salam Abandah, Shams Tantawi, Hind Tantawi, AbdulRahman Tantawi, and Khalida Qattash

  Khalida's Rainbow

  Although I was not born in Amman, I always believe I was. A window delivered me into this world that appeals to the senses, spirit, and the mind. I came to Amman seeking university acceptance, not really knowing what to study or why. It seems a window of chance also opened to me there and then and continued to pour opportunities into my life for a long while. So, in a way Amman is a city of coincidences.

  I remember riding to all bus locations of buses that parked at the bus station in front of Jordan University, reaching the last destination, then coming back to the starting point. In less than a week I had visited Salt, Irbid, Zerqa, Jerash, and, of course, downtown. Once, I met a student who told me she had lived in Amman all her life but had never seen downtown. I thought this ironic at first, until I realized how Amman's open window did not necessarily mean it didn't have closed doors.

  I also remember walking from Jordan University to downtown Amman with a group of friends to have Kinafeh at Jabri, or walk into some of the local restaurants around Souk Bisharat to have Kifta for iftar during Ramadan. Moreover, one of our major on-foot stations was Shouman at Shmeisani, where poets, politicians, writers, artists, and public figures were hosted. But the best part was slipping afterward into Farouqi coffee shop, that was too fancy and expensive for us as students, to discuss whatever we attended with a random group of people.

  Upon finishing university, and after random attempts at trying to find an occupation I am passionate about, a window of opportunity took me to the heart of Amman: Rainbow Street. Stepping into one of the oldest building in Amman, CMS gave me goose bumps like the ones you get when you are crossing the bridge to Palestine. Then I discovered from the pictures of graduates on its walls that all my friends were graduates of this monumental educational institute. Not only has it become my home, but the home of my daughters and son; not just CMS but Rainbow and Amman. It all began with a window embracing me.

  Salam's Rainbow

  Everyone has a home, a shelter or a safe zone. I have lived everywhere, I've moved and lived in every inch of Amman but my heart lays between the first circle and Mango street. Where am I from? I'm from Jabal Amman, Rainbow Street.

  It is where I go to school every day, or used to go since I graduated and still in denial of it. It is where I loiter with my friends, where I first fell in love, where people and shops are stories and history, where the past meets future and where beauty is the main component of buildings streets and the air you breathe that fills your being.

  Now that I don't have an obligatory reason to come back to this street I find myself dragged to it by a strange force. It took me a while to figure out what that force was; it wasn't the people nor friends because they're all leaving and starting their lives somewhere else, and I still go there. It wasn't the coffee shops nor the restaurants because some close and new ones open and I still go there. It's more; it’s the sigh of relief, the comfort, that feeling you get when you finally realize: I love it because its home.

  Shams' Rainbow

  تبدأ المغامرة التقليدية للشلة من عند باب المدرسة الأهلية للبنات، ولطالما كانت الوجهة مجهولة. كان هذا الموضوع ومازال يزعج أمي فيبدأ الحوار بقولي، "ماما، بكرة بدنا نطلع" تجيب، "وين رايحين؟" فيعتريني شعور بالحيرة. "رايحين ... رايحين نتمشى بالرينبو". أقول هذه الجملة وهي يطير عقلها وأشعر بمقذوفات من لهب تخرج من أذنيها. وإذا كنتم تعرفون أمي فستعرفون أنها تتحدث بهدوء. "يعني وين بشارع الرينبو؟ لازم أعرف" وتبدأ الاسطوانة باعادة ذاتها. "أنا بحتاج أعرف وين رايحة: انت مش شمسية لقيتها ولا بتطلعوا عالشجر وبلقطكم. لمتى هالاهمال؟ ألا أنها هنا تتذك مغامراتها بالجامعة وتبتسم وبعد هذه المحاضرة تقول: "على الساعة سبعة راح آجي آخدكم" وتبتعد عن ذكر المكان لأنها تعرف: تي بار، أو الأخضر السلحفائي.

  ما يدفعني الى الذهاب هناك بكثرة هو أنني أحب الحكايات. أحب حكايات الناس وكل من يذهب الى هناك يحب الحكي. وبسبب كون المكان مكنن وصغير، أستطيع سماع الحكايا فحكايتي والحكايا تعود الى زمن بعيد. عندما كنت صغيرة وقعت في غرام "سعد يقص شعره" وبدأت أعيش حياتي بناء على "مغامرات قندس" فزرعت الفاصوليا بدل العدس في صحن القطن. كما بدأت أف?
?ر في تعاسة الخمسة قروش متنقلة من يد الى يد. فتحت لي هذه القصص آفاقا عديدة. في تي بار، كانت القصص من نوع مختلف. تلك التي تشاجرت مع صديقتها المقربة، وآخر يتناقش مع زميله حول أي لغة برمجة أحسن، ولا تنس الابتسامة الساحرة لأحد موظفي المحل. فهي حكاية بذاتها. تتميز هذه الحكايا بلاحة حقيقية: نعم أرض الحكايات في رينبو.

   

  Hind's Rainbow

  What I like most about Amman are the long long staircases connecting the ends of the mountains to the bottom of its centre all at one point; down town Amman. Every Wednesday, after we finish school, my friends and I go walk around Jabal Amman, sit at some rainbow place for a while, then choose one staircase to go down, and we always manage to end up at the same place; having breakfast at Hashim and then buying dvds we end up just never watching.

  On one of those Wednesdays, we were going down the stairs (next to the soap house) when we saw an old 3ammo in a white kiffiyeh and a shirwal, typical Palestinian clothing. We were exploring and looking into abandoned houses and such when he stopped us. He said: