by Owen Jones

Hero. Batal. Elbow. Kooa’. Salt. Malih.

Dozens of words joined the black flies buzzing around my dimly lit room. The blackout shutters – designed to protect Amman’s residents from the oppressive heat and the occasional dust storm and– caged me in, shutting me out from the lively city. My fingers flitted across the keyboard as I advanced through the list of plain, digital flashcards. Each term I recognized was a triumph, each failed attempt a sharp sting. Or maybe that was the flies.

I had been at it for three hours. My classwork had been taken care of long before, but that was beside the point. These words were my key to the language. Learn enough words, I thought, and I can say anything I want. That would be fluency. I pressed my head closer to the screen, my hands clacked harder on the keyboard.

Hero. Batal. Elbow. Kooa’. Salt. Malih.Maluh? Malah?

I bounced my hand hard against my hip to help me remember, a competitive tick of mine. Thump, thump, thump. My frustration wafted over my mind like a storm cloud over plains, ready to break into chaos any minute. After all, I was on the clock: my host mother, Najwa, mandated that after hearing the sunset call to prayer, I was to take a hiatus to let my mind rest and get some fresh air, much to my dismay. My fingers continued flitting. Flip, write, advance, Flip, write, advance. Flip…

Allah-u Akbar, Allah-u Akbarrrrrr!

I threw down my pencil like a petulant student whose time was up on an exam. A deal was a deal. I groaned, my feet finding purchase in the toe boxes of my tattered sneakers and shuffling my unwilling body to the door. I moseyed across the living room, glancing across to the veranda where Najwa and her husband sat. They waved, and I mumbled that I would be back before it got too dark. “Bye, bye, ‘oun,” came the response from my hosts, choosing to address me by my arabized name. I didn’t linger, for there was no need for chatting: after a quick walk, I would be back to my flashcards, back to my grind. I stumbled on.

Despite my host’s best efforts to give me a break from my studies, my mind continued to race as I journeyed out of the flat. Entryway. Madkhal. House key. Maftooh. Elevator. Ascensiour. The metal door slammed shut behind me as I punched the button for the ground floor. I emerged into a long corridor, at the end of which lay the door to the street. Before I reached the door, it swung open to reveal a man carrying his groceries. I recognized him as a resident of the building’s first floor, one of those that I would see regularly chatting up the shopkeeper across the street or the neighborhood bank. I passed without giving him a second glance, my mind drowning in its storm cloud’s downpour.

I winced as my linen button-up and khakis were blasted by the city heat. Even in the late afternoon, it was too much to take. I tossed my headphones in and hooked a left down the street. Realizing I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I settled on tracking down the tastiest snack one could find in Jordan: Kunnafeh. The cheesy dessert was a favorite within the region renowned for its sweet tooth, and I knew just the right spot. The Lebanese vocalist’s crescendo in my headphones matched my growing enthusiasm, and I began to catch a bounce in my step. My mind continued to flit to every object I could think to translate. Barber. Halaaq. Butterfly. Farasheh. Pomegranate. Pomegranate?

Damn. Thump, thump, thump. An army of the red spheres was stacked atop a large basket with a hanging sign indicating the price, a personal affront to my memory retrieval skills. I had to remember the name. I supposed braving a quick question withthe merchant couldn’t hurt, if it meant I could get this damn name. I approached the squatting figure and greeted him with a tepid smirk. Let’s make this quick, I thought.

“How do you call these fruits,” I sputtered.

His gaze lifted, pausing at my ivory-colored collar. He smiled, clocking immediately that I was a student of the language. “Romani,” he said warmly. My pocket journal had emerged before the last vowel sound had left his mouth, and I scribbled right to left across the page.

“Would you like to try some, my friend,” the merchant added.

I peered back up over the top of my small book to find him already picking out the finest specimens of his collection. “Of course,” I responded, having deduced that what I thought was a simple vocuabulary exercise had in fact been mistaken for a real transaction. I sheepishly fished out a bill from my wallet as the man fired another barrage of questions.

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from America, from California.”

“Ahhhh California” he responded, eyes widening.

“And you, where are you from?”

“From Syria,” he said, placing his hand over his heart. “From Aleppo.”

Now it was my eyes that began to sparkle. Throughout my first month in Jordan, I had only met a handful of Syrians, and never anyone from Aleppo. My mind advanced through the slideshow of images of the modern city that I had seen in my classes. The chemical attacks. The Kurdish sieges. Entire neighborhoods reduced to rubble. Despite his age, my new friend had, without a doubt, witnessed horrors beyond my wildest imaginations. He beamed with pride for his homeland as my uncomprehending figure stood stone-faced, as if I had seen a ghost. I thought I had.

“What do you remember best about the city?”

“Al-Souq! Al-Souq Al-Hammadiah!” He practically shouted the words as if I had asked him the most obvious question in the world, reveling in the ancient splendor of his hometown. Al-Souq Al-Hammadiah. The Hammadiah Market. The oldest covered market in the world, home to hundreds of merchants trading in textiles and metals – as well as the most robust collection of aromatic spices and Arab produce – I had heard of only by repute. As an American, Aleppo was about as accessible to me as Mars. But the pomegranate merchant described it to me as if it were merely his secret, unknown attraction, practically beckoning me to join him for a walk beneath the vaulted, Ummayid ceilings. I could only stand in front of his small stall in awe.

He went on to regale me with his stories of the market’s splendor and his experiences as a boy selling in his Uncle’s shop in the Hammadiah Market. He bashfully admitted that on Fridays during the evening prayer, his uncle would entrust him with the running of the stall, only to return from the mosque to find his nephew with a mouthful of cherries and figs. I laughed at the image, seeing his childlikeness still made manifest through his toothy grin.

“What was your favorite thing to snack on,” I posed.

“Al-Fustuq al-Halabi. I would shuck and eat them all day long.”

Al-Fustuq al-Halabi. Al-Fustuq al-Halabi? The words immediately filled my mind, but their meaning remained obscured. Al-Fustuq. Peanut. Al-Halabi. Someone of something from Aleppo. Al-Fustuq al-Halabi. Peanuts of Aleppo? He spoke of them as if they had been encrusted with precious gems.

“What was so special about your city’s peanuts,” I enquired.

His puzzled expression informed me that my comment was woefully uninformed, or perhaps grammatically unintelligible. “No no, my friend, they are not peanuts. They are peanuts of Aleppo!” I still did not understand, but my mind remained clear. I was determined to get to the bottom of these mystery legumes. As if sensing my resolve, he continued to describe this:

“Green. Grown on sturdy, shady trees.” No diamond-encrusting involved, I deduced. “Eaten only after removing a tough shell…”

PISTACHIOS, I declared in English. I raced to my phone to find a picture of Pistachio trees from my home state to confirm my magnificent discovery. “Eh-wa!” Correct! My heart skipped a beat as I began to tell him about Central California’s pistachio groves, his head bobbing along as he managed to piece together my ideas through broken language and a thick western accent. Something that linked us together from across the world.

“Maybe we should begin calling them Al-Fustuq Al-Californi,” I joshed. His smile vanished instantly: this had been a step too far. I rested my hand on his shoulder in reassurance: “Only a joke.” His grin reemerged.

We shook hands, and he handed me the heaping bag of fruit whose relevance had been lost to our heated discussion. What were they called again? Before I could recall, he asked my name. ‘oun, I replied my pronunciation confident eloquent. He playfully guffawed: “an Arabic name for a white boy!” I explained it was only the one I used while here. “And you, what is your name?” I asked. “‘Alaa.” ‘Alaa from Aleppo, I thought.

I thanked him again for his hospitality and strolled along, my headphones returning to my ears. The city bustled after dark: children playing soccer in dusty, derelict alleyways, women with heaping bags of meat and vegetables for supper, young men blasting music from Mercedes sedans older than their parents. I turned back onto my street to find a wedding reception in full swing across the street from my homestay. A bride and groom dressed in full garb, performing their national dance to a cacophony of drums, trumpets, and even bagpipes. I paused in the street, taking in the smiles, the cheer and the joy before me.

The elevator door swung open on the third floor, and I hung my head as I entered the flat: I was dreadfully late. Najwa scolded me gently, and I assured her that I was safe and sound and that I would join the family for dinner after finishing up the last of my work. But what work was really left? Enough for today. After entering my room, I shut my laptop with a thud and drew open the blinds to reveal the spectacle of the Jordanian capital at night. The sounds of singing and bagpipes filled my room as I watched the Arab newlyweds as they deftfully navigated the outdoor dancefloor. A knock at my door whirled me around. My compulsory pre-dinner snack. Najwa entered with a trayful of delight and left me to my window. Why don’t we eat on the veranda, I proposed, realizing her company was the key to my last bit of learning for today. Her demenor shifted: it was unlike me to interact with the family before dinner. But her initial surprise was quickly replaced by excitement and a loving smile. Yalla, she beckoned.

I set my pocket notebook on the table, and walked to the door untethered. Outside, we spoke of the news, of the king, of her son working in Qatar. What was it he did? Ahh, Idarat al-I’amal. “How do you say it in English,” she asked? I didn’t care. I got the gist. The fact was the words didn’t matter to me anymore. It was the interactions that they unlocked, the beauty of true human connection that I could find after cracking the shell of my linguistic anxieties. The night ran on as the wedding unfolded below us, as we sat laughing and snacking on Najwa’s delicious falafel, a plate of dates, and a cupful of shelled, Syrian treasure.

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