Irbid, Jordan is not for the faint of heart.

The buildings here are worn down, the traffic is loud and piles of garbage line the sidewalks. On every other block, there are butcher shops with whole carcasses hanging in the windows. Some have live animals living in the back, and you can smell the barnyard odor as you walk past the storefronts. The streets are broken, and pieces of concrete and pavement litter the roadside.

I’ve been told that we’re the only Americans in Irbid, and very likely the only Americans some of these people will ever see. It’s no wonder, then, that we’re treated like a tourist attraction when we go out, garnering points, glares and the unwanted attention of middle-aged men. People stare at us, no matter where we go.

To be perfectly honest, these past few days in Irbid have been trying. From toilets that don’t process toilet paper, to the jeers I get as I walk down the street, to the language pledge I took saying I wouldn’t speak anything but Arabic, I’ve encountered a lot of shocking road bumps in the short time I’ve been here.

If there’s anything I’ve realized thus far, it’s that we hardly appreciate what we have in the United States. When we see photos from other parts of the world of ancient monuments, vibrant markets and five-star hotels, we rarely think about what exists beyond these beauties. Even as a Middle Eastern studies major, I’ve realized I rarely took the time to look past the highlights of the region. Until now, I never truly understood the conditions in which many Arab people live.

Despite all of the hardships I’ve witnessed, Irbid has its gems. The loving professors at Yarmouk University are some of the most dedicated individuals I’ve ever met. Like the educators at Syracuse University, they bring life to this institution — even without the beautiful facilities we have in the United States. The few students I’ve met seem unbelievably enthusiastic and fully understanding of the great privilege of having a higher education.

Though I’ve been pushed, tried and tested by Irbid, I have not faced these problems alone. Loved ones back home who support me are at the tips of my fingers via computer and cellphone, willing to help me through any situation I encounter.

I live with the constant comfort that, if at any moment I decide this program or university isn’t right for me, I can leave. What we take for granted in the United States is our ever-present ability to change our own situation, should we feel threatened, upset or frustrated by where life takes us.

Students in the Middle East are not given those endless possibilities. They must work incredibly hard to get to college, and will undoubtedly work incredibly hard once they leave. Most of them live at home with their parents and commute to school. Most of them will never have the opportunity to leave Irbid.

What a privilege it is to go out and see the world, knowing that when I’m done, I get to return to America. Never again will I take for granted SU’s beautiful libraries and computer labs, the clean and safe dorms or my ability to walk safely through campus by myself. My language director, a Syrian woman named Manal, told us the following (in Arabic) during introductions:

“If I was American, especially if I was an American woman, I would not come to Irbid. You are very brave to come here. You are much braver than me.”

Those words scare the hell out of me. I’ve yet to see the beautiful side of Jordan I’ve been promised, and that’s hard. But if nothing else, I’ve learned how truly privileged I am to be American. We have countless choices in where we go to school, where we live and what we do. Does anyone comprehend just how powerful a privilege that is?

Give SU some well-deserved love from me.

Published on January 28, 2013 at 10:10 pm