Berkley Center

I hop into the front seat of a yellow taxi cab, tell the balding, middle-aged driver that I want to go to “The Zamzam Hotel.” “Where is that?” he asks, testing me. “Khalda neighborhood,” I respond in simple Arabic. Cigarette in hand, he blows a cloud of smoke out the window and begins to drive. But there is a catch—I am not actually going to the Zamzam Hotel, and the both of us know this fact.

It was only in 2007 that Amman began the initiative to adopt its current system of street names. Since then, nobody has bothered to remember them, and in keeping with the local custom, I have not bothered to learn them. Rather, Jordanians navigate their nation’s capital by the landmarks which have been around for much longer than the titles of the streets themselves: hospitals, traffic circles, mosques, and so forth. On paper, my host family lives on Abu Rayhana Street, but nobody has the faintest idea where this is. The Zamzam Hotel is just two blocks away, however, and everybody knows where to find the Zamzam Hotel. From there, I tell the driver to take the second right, and we arrive shortly with no trouble.

In the United States, and in many corners of the world, it is difficult to imagine a society in which such essential navigational tools are simply unessential. Here, the name of the place itself is much more important than the name of its location in terms of a certain framework. It is difficult to explain, but people simply know where a destination is to be found. If one doesn’t happen to the know the particular location of, for instance, a coffee shop, there is no need for Google Maps or smartphones to save the day—simply asking a stranger will suffice. Indeed, the system of street signs—in which names are listed in both Arabic and Latin script—emanates a certain vibration of artificiality.

From my perspective, the unwillingness of local residents to learn the newly-established street names represents a rejection of this perceived artificiality. Furthermore, I believe that to a certain extent, this case serves as a microcosm for the controversial and vastly complicated issue of geopolitics in the Levant. From conservations with Jordanians—taxi drivers, students at the university, and even my host family—I have learned that there exist vastly different perceptions of personal identity within this country: some based on history and heritage dating back hundreds and hundreds of years, and others based upon nationalistic themes which were essentially imported from Europe in the past century.

Don’t get me wrong, the population is proud to be Jordanian. The stands were packed for the national soccer team’s World Cup Qualifier versus Australia, and portraits of the king and royal family are found in nearly every public space or private business establishment. But despite this, there is undoubtedly an entrenched sense of identity in many which extends beyond the borders manufactured by foreign powers. There is an idea that these lines are, dare I say, merely navigational tools which—like the street signs—lack meaning in the historical context and exude that the same artificiality.

For example, a very significant percentage of the Jordanian population consists of those of Palestinian decent—largely including those who emigrated from current state of Israel and the occupied territories in the latter half of the twentieth century. The exact numerical figure is unclear, but for the sake of my point, let us make a gross simplification and say that the country is split 50-50 between those of Palestinian decent, and those whose family is purely Jordanian. If I am to ask a random passerby for the ratio of native Jordanians to those of Palestinian decent, it would not be uncommon to receive the following answer: “We are all Palestinian.” Many will proceed to explain that there is no difference between the people in the land now called “Jordan” and those in the territories we know as “Palestine.”

The difference, according to those of this viewpoint, is that a matter of boundaries which were drawn onto maps thousands of years after people first began their livelihoods on the same land. There the term al-Shaam or bilaad al-shaam refers to the land along the Levant now known as Israel, Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, and the Palestinian territories. Irrespective of religious affiliation, there are many who continue to identify with the identity of the region, recognizing the places and their historical importance without recognizing the long-term legitimacy of the designated territories which are known as states on the international stage.

One morning, as I dipped my bread in oil and za'atar—a commonplace herb found naturally in this region—at a restaurant near the university I asked my server if this plant was typical in Jordan. “Habeeby [my dear],” he responded. “This is not just Jordan. This is Palestine, this is Syria, this is Lebanon. In all of these places za'atar is found, and in all of these places is found the same people as well. You merely know us by the designations which you created.”

Needless to say, it has been incredibly interesting and eye-opening to interact with those who hold a very different perspective from the one which I am accustomed to. From street signs to national borders, it is clear locals maintain strong opinions in terms of their reactions to these systems, and as the semester progresses I hope to continue discussing and engaging with those who bring these respective viewpoints to the table.