Berkley Center

The godless poet takes a drag from his cigarette and winks at me. I politely smile——I am a guest in his home, after all—and I struggle to use what I know of customs of propriety in Jordan to shield my real opinion of him: that he is a total hypocrite.

He tells my friends and I that he writes poetry from the perspective of the socially oppressed and downtrodden Arab woman, but how can that be true, I wonder? I picture myself saying to him: “"How can you really exhibit the emotions of a broken and subjugated woman when here you are, flirting with me—a student who is visiting you just to learn from you. You smile and tease me not even because you’'re particularly interested, but just because I am female. Isn'’t your feeling of entitlement to objectify a woman the precise attitude you claim to protest in your poetry? Acting on that instinct to sexualize each woman, encouraged by the cultural norms of this country, slices away at her dignity with every cat call, with each prolonged stare, with each button on your polyester collared shirt you unfastened in the bathroom after you realized a female would be joining you for tea tonight. If you really want to save the 'Eastern woman,' you can'’t just stop at recognizing her plight. The abuse will stop once you start to respect her, and you treat her as you would any man.”"

The poet has another trait worthy of mention. He happens to be an openly atheist Jordanian. Even as a Jewish woman in Jordan, I would not trade my place for his. In Jordan, you have to express your faith in God in some way, or people will not want to associate with you. Moreover, there is no way to hide your religion. When you meet someone for the first time in the Middle East, the conversation always begins something like this: “"Where are you from? Oh, America? So, what are you? Christian?”" If you reject God, it means that you are morally deranged or, at the very least, odd. For example, my friend of East Asian descent is often mistaken for a Chinese immigrant and frequently offered prostitutes or drugs by taxi drivers and waiters. They assume he is Chinese and therefore atheist, so he must be without a moral compass and would of course indulge in such illicit behavior. However, the prevalence of faith in Jordanian and even Arab culture is most evident in the Arabic language. When native speakers remark on my fluency in Arabic, it’'s never because I've said something particularly intelligent, but it’'s because I've used a phrase or sentence structure in which I invoke the name of God. You can be a master of Arabic grammar, and you can pronounce each of the letters alien to English correctly, but you do not speak Arabic unless you understand how to respect God in conversation.

The poet lives the only life an atheist in Jordan can live: a solitary and apologetic one. He resides in several romantically lit apartments across the city, he has a daughter but is seemingly unwed and unattached, he writes his poetry alone in the middle of olive groves, and he excuses himself every time he says something that could be construed as blasphemous. Yet he is a poet, and therefore a master of Arabic language. Of course he says the word “Allah” as ardently as my Muslim professor sitting next to him and employs the image of God elegantly in his poetry, but I know he's a non-believer and I don't know what to make of it. I sat and listened to him talk about the importance of poetry in Jordan, though I didn't speak much because I was so fascinated by his diction and admittedly by the poetic cadence of his words (also I was afraid I would encourage him to flirt more). I wonder if he feels awkward like I do when he uses the word. Like this constant spoken reverence for God is as foreign an idea to him as it is to me. I believe that it's not. It's ordinary for him. Religion is part and parcel of public life in Jordan as evidenced by the Jordanian national identification cards and passports, which indicate each citizen'’s religion. He was raised respecting God in his every breath.

I can't help but feel badly for him: a success but still an outcast. I part with a smile and a laugh when I read that he autographed his poetry book to “Al Amreekia Al Jameela” (the beautiful American girl), giving him momentary satisfaction I hope will express my gratitude for his hospitality. On my way out the door I catch one last glimpse of him sitting alone in his chair, pen in hand, encapsulated by a cloud of smoke, while the embers of the ashes glow then fade in the dish before him.