By MARIAM ITANI
Translated by WIAM EL-TAMAMI
On Greetings
Hello, Amman. Greetings to you, your people, your streets, to all the surprises and endless stories you have hidden up your sleeves. I landed here ten years after marrying one of your sons, fulfilling the prophecy of my grandmother, who always said, “Wherever you go, life will take you to Amman.” Yet coming to Amman was actually the last thing my husband and I expected to do.
We arrived at the wrong time, in the blazing heat of August. My oldest son, Izzeddin, was very happy, because he’d had two birthdays: one in Beirut, another in Amman. As for my daughter, I’d left her behind in Beirut with my grandmother, buried in the same earth, keeping each other company. I visit her more there than I would if she were buried in the cemetery here, far away from the city, covered in layers of dust and mirage. Coming onto the airplane, I was told by the flight attendant that this would be the last time I would be allowed to board a plane, because it looked as though I was about to give birth. I told her that I had decided to give birth in Amman, and showed her the doctor’s reports that allowed me to travel. I took hold of Izzeddin’s hand, and we sat in the very first seats on the plane. It was my first time booking business class from Beirut to Amman, because that gave us extra baggage allowance—something we desperately needed.
We took warm clothes with us that we thought would be suitable for the Amman winters. We took clothes for the arriving baby, and a whole bag full of Legos, organized by color, each one in a plastic bag of its own. The airport security officer was taken aback by the image on his screen. When he asked to see the contents of the bag, I opened it very carefully. Izzeddin was obsessed with these small colored pieces, and we encouraged him, even though it came at quite an expense to us. In another bag, the officer found an iron, a hair dryer, electric cables, a lamp that can be controlled with an app, some books, towels from a Lebanese store called Domtex, high-quality cotton sheets, several pairs of shoes, electronics, a new German Fissler frying pan, and some perfumes and creams, as well as various kinds of paperwork: academic certificates, equivalence certificates, medical reports, and other administrative documents; our espresso machine, coffee beans, and the keys to our temporary home in Dibbiyeh, a village close to Beirut. We had ended our rental contract in Beirut and moved the entire contents of our Beirut home there in just three days. It was a huge challenge to empty our first home into suitcases. From that moment on, I decided to think of the Dibbiyeh house as our main and final home. Any place that came after that—including the apartment we were about to move to in Amman—would be temporary. This was almost the opposite of my mother-in-law’s decision. She is Lebanese, like me, and has always thought of her house in the Gardens neighborhood of Amman as her main home, despite having left it years ago.
It wasn’t easy, the decision to move to Amman—especially the decision for me to move, along with Izzeddin and Yahya (who had not yet been born). I was leaning toward staying in Beirut, where there was my family, and life, and the sea. I had also just enrolled in a postgraduate program in Arabic studies. But I had developed a new kind of chronic anxiety after the death of our daughter Bissan, that something might happen to one of the children in the absence of my husband, Hasan, who’d taken a job in Amman. So Izzeddin and I decided to reunite our small family, and to try life in Amman for at least a year, knowing that we could always return to our home in Dibbiyeh.
I think, for me, books are key to defining which place is our “main home.” Where will most of our books be—along with our photos, special possessions, and original documents? This is why our home in Amman was, until recently, devoid of any decorative touches—even magnets on the fridge. Anything we bought, any gifts we received, would be brought back to our “main home” in Dibbiyeh on one of our frequent visits there.
I think that, to this day, to this moment of writing, although I now have Jordanian citizenship, I am still dealing with Amman as a temporary place—as though I am an eternal tourist. Amman, in its turn, is still capable of impressing me with new details, confirming this deep-seated belief. The only difference is that, when we first arrived five years ago, I was still looking forward to going back to our “main home” someday. Now, I’m not sure that we will ever go back. Not because that is no longer a possibility, but because a whole swathe of days, memories, and states of being have now come between us and our Beirut life. We are no longer there and yet not quite here. We have become trapped in the minutiae of our days; every place we live in has become a kind of temporary accommodation, fulfilling a function.
What is even stranger is that, in Amman, I have found so many other temporary residents. Like my Iraqi neighbor, who has, in the five years that I’ve known her, gone to Iraq more than five times to explore the options of moving back there. Every time, she has come back to Amman having decided, with her husband, to postpone the decision for a while longer. Like my coworker, who is waiting for an immigration visa to Canada. Like my husband’s college friend, who had been applying for the U.S. immigration lottery for ten whole years and, as soon as he finally got it, took his wife and children and left everything behind to start a new life. There are so many others, people whom I’ve only encountered through the advertisements for their empty apartments, now up for sale or rent because they’ve left the country. Then there are Izzeddin’s temporary friends: one arrives at the beginning of the year and leaves for Australia in the second semester; another arrives and leaves for Cyprus the following year. As though all planes departing from Amman leave packed to the gills. As though anyone arriving in or returning to Amman is already wondering when they will leave again.
My former boss in Lebanon was Jordanian. He loved As-Salt, his hometown, so much that he would call me over just to play me a song called “Strolling Along As-Salt Road” and to show me a map of the city. He would then tell me about Amman, and the schools that his children used to attend, and then, in the very next breath, declare that it would be almost impossible for him to ever live there again. My boss had moved, with his song and memories and love, between three continents, and he ended up retiring in Lebanon. His wife tried going back to Amman, but returned to Beirut. Even his daughter tried working in Jordan for a short period of time, then moved to Canada. As though everything here is ephemeral.
Is Amman a city where everything is transitory?
On Gratitude
When I think of Amman as a decision that we made willingly, I try to show this city some gratitude. I recall the long process of comparing options that my generation has experienced since graduating from college. Should we move to the Gulf, to Canada, to the United States, or to Europe? Should we stay in our country with our families? My parents don’t really like the idea of al-ghurba: the alienation of living in a country far away from one’s own. They came back to Lebanon at the height of the civil war, after my father finished his PhD in the United States. They had refused to apply for American citizenship, because they didn’t want to be “chased by taxes everywhere they went,” and because they wanted to bring up their daughters in a conservative environment where people spoke Arabic.
Maybe there is no such thing as a right or wrong decision: everything is relative; it’s all about priorities.
Our decision to come to Amman was also partly based on language. Izzeddin preferred to speak English and was not very good at Arabic, and my husband, Hasan, and I wanted him to learn Arabic. The Gulf was not an option, because of the stubborn nature of our characters, Hasan and me: we could not get used to the idea of having a kafeel, or sponsor, even though I had received a good job offer from Al-Jazeera in 2009, at the height of its fame and professionalism. My boss asked me then: “Is it your ambition to become a journalist?” I said no. “Do you need more money?” he asked. I shook my head. He added, “Aren’t you committed to doing a PhD and becoming a researcher?” When I said yes, he said, “Focus on your goals. Don’t let the temptations of money and fame lead you astray.” It was a short conversation, but it was enough. I recall it every time I feel trapped in certain circumstances or whenever I have to make a critical decision. I brought my dream with me to Amman as well, the dream that I have not yet fulfilled: pursuing a PhD.
When Yahya was still a baby, Amman offered me another chance. It was very cold, our first winter, and some nights we would put on four layers of clothes, crank up the diesel heater, and huddle under the blankets. That day, I dressed Yahya in a onesie that covered him from head to foot, wrapped him in a baby carrier around my torso like a koala, and headed to the University of Jordan. One of my professors at the American University of Beirut had arranged an appointment for me with the head of the Arabic language department. At the university gate, I was stopped by a security guard who was confused about what I was carrying. He said, “I’d like to search your bag, please.” I gave him my handbag and he said, “Not your handbag, that bag!” He pointed to Yahya, who was swallowed up by the carrier. I replied, “That’s not a bag; that’s my son!”
Only this memory remains of that visit. Because, in order to enroll in a postgraduate program in Arabic, the University of Jordan stipulates that I have to have a bachelor’s degree in the same field, and does not recognize any other qualification. And so, Amman closed the doors of higher education in my face. But I still remain grateful to it, because it forced me to spend more time with Yahya at the beginning of his life.
This is Amman, then. Once again, I am looking for reasons to be grateful. I have found things to love here. I love its clear sky, the blazing heat of its sun, the dryness of the climate compared to the sticky humidity of Beirut. I love the taste of zaatar and olive oil and sumac, the quiet of inner passageways, the scattered trees. The relatively large airport, the continuous electricity without power cuts, the fast internet, the ability to be alone here. I love the fact that Amman is full of contradictions, difficult to understand. It’s a gray city, pregnant with questions and devoid of any answers.
On Suspicion
The most famous stereotype that we have in Lebanon about Jordan has to do with the Mukhabarat, the intelligence services. Because of the Mukhabarat, our dealings with Jordanians are always unconsciously laced with caution and unease. Lebanese people are prey to three intelligence services: Lebanese intelligence, which we call military intelligence; Syrian intelligence; and Jordanian intelligence, which, according to this stereotype, is the most professional and most capable of extracting information. Before getting married to Hasan, I even wondered sometimes whether he, too, might be in the Mukhabarat. I even told him that, only half-jokingly. My suspicions were completely erased when the intelligence services called me in for an assessment when I applied for citizenship.
That day, the civil servant at the Ministry of Interior said to me, “The application process is now complete, pending the approval of the Intelligence department.” It was the first time in my life that this had ever come up with a government official—this taboo topic that people only talk about in whispers.
“So what do I have to do?”
“You have to go to the Intelligence department for an assessment.”
“Okay. Is there a number I have to call for an appointment? Or how does it work?”
The civil servant was surprised. Perhaps it was the most naïve question he’d ever heard in his life. But I didn’t know anything about how to deal with the Mukhabarat. I assumed that it was like any other government department, that it has an office where appointments are scheduled, especially since everyone has to go through Mukhabarat assessment processes. But the civil servant looked at me with a mixture of disapproval and scorn: “Appointment? You have to go to the department, and you’ll be lucky if they let you do the assessment on the same day.”
I realized that day that I was in trouble. I went back home, since this kind of topic can’t be discussed on the phone. I figured out that I had to go to the Intelligence department in person before 11 a.m., and not to take anything with me. We would go through the main gate after being searched; then we would wait in groups for buses to take us to the main building, where the assessments would be conducted. There, we would undergo another search, and then we would be divided into groups again, depending on our “case.” We would be given numbers based on the type of “procedure” we required, according to which we would take a specific bus. This is how I ended up spending an entire day at the Intelligence department, at the end of which I received a promise from the officer that he would send his approval to the Ministry of Interior the following week.
This was perhaps the heaviest experience I’ve had in Amman: a new, vulnerable aspect of citizenship that I was not aware existed, and which added another layer of anxiety to my Amman days.
On Transport
In all the cities that I’ve visited, I’ve always made sure to stay in a central place where I can get around on foot or by public transport. I thought that would also be possible in Amman, until my husband told me to go out and try. This was before the days of ride-sharing apps. So, during one visit to Amman, I went out to Gardens Street and stood waiting, in the heat of the afternoon, for a taxi to appear. I waited for about forty minutes, then retraced my steps back home, declaring my disappointment and defeat.
Later, when we moved to Jordan, I started using the ride-sharing apps Uber and Careem. I became dependent on them for my daily errands. It was difficult to find a ride at peak times, and the fares were sometimes ridiculously high, but I still thought it was more efficient than buying a car. Then I found myself starting to cancel a lot of my errands in order to avoid dealing with these apps. It was then that I decided to convert my driver’s license to a Jordanian one and buy a car.
Truth be told, Amman with a car is totally different from Amman without one. A car gives you an incredible amount of freedom in this city. Freedom from apps, taxis, public transport. Freedom from waiting and from walking at peak times. From depending on delivery services and having other people choose your groceries for you, then having to return them. A car in Amman also gave me a newfound sense of safety and privacy.
On Directions
While writing about the car, I find myself thinking reflexively about my map of Amman: this city that I entered through the Jaber Crossing, and in which I am now, according to my ID card, both a resident and a citizen.
I realize now that I have several maps of Amman in my mind. The directions are not very clear for me in this city, which has expanded my sense of being, my existence in time and space, since I first encountered it.
Until 2017, we would visit the city once every two years, or on business trips. Jordan was quite a good place. I spent most of my time there in hotels or in my in-laws’ large house on Gardens Street.
When, in July 2018, my husband, Hasan, received a job offer in Jordan, the situation in Lebanon was unstable and ominous, so Hasan decided to accept. I was leaning toward staying in Lebanon with Izzeddin, but we went to Amman to check things out, and especially to look at options for schools. We liked a school that had an International Baccalaureate system, and so we decided to move. My map of Amman became completely different, now populated by the destinations of everyday life.
At the end of 2021, I converted my Lebanese driver’s license to a Jordanian one, and we bought a second car. The map of Amman can now be summed up to a single place: the car.
Note: my driving in Amman is always dependent on Google Maps.
Will my map of Amman keep changing over the years?
On Meaning
I think about everything that came before, and I ask myself: What am I doing here? Who am I, in all of these paths? That day I flew from Beirut to Amman, I realized something. That I would never reach my destination. I felt this clearly at the airports, especially in Beirut. I understood that Beirut was now behind me. But what do cities mean? How do they shape us and become a part of us? And will Amman and I reach some sort of stability in our relationship?
Meaning is stillness. And I, in Amman, am busy from the moment I wake up till the moment I put my head down to sleep. I distract myself from stillness and from meaning.
Meaning is emotion. And I, in Amman, run away from emotion.
But now I have to circle back to the first and last question: Do I love Amman?
On Conclusions
Do I love Amman?
At the moment, I don’t have any feelings toward this city. I don’t think I love it or hate it. This is a city that is undoubtedly loved by many, but I’m not one of them yet. I don’t dare to say that I don’t love Amman, but I don’t have any particular feelings toward it, except gratitude for this temporary period in my life. My parents and siblings and nephews and nieces, for example, love coming to Amman.
I’m worried about this lack of emotion that I feel toward this city. I don’t want it to be transferred to my children. I hope they will love Amman, that they will see it as their city, that they will feel a sense of safety and belonging here. As for me, I can’t say that I’m from Amman. The paradox is that I can and do provide information, arrange accommodation, put together itineraries, and guide people to all sorts of different places and events, like one of those talking AI programs. But how can someone live in a place for five years, and become so skilled at living in it, without being able to love it? Amman dressed me in its clothes, but it also planted a particular fear in my dealings with it. I am now a citizen of this city and I live its life, but I still can’t say that I’m of this place—because I know that such a statement elicits a thousand questions.
I’m not from Amman.
I’m not from Amman. I’m from Beirut.
I’m from Beirut, and I have an apartment in Amman.
I have an apartment in Amman, and a piece of my life’s music has been made here.
I’m from Beirut, and of all the music of my life, one piece has been created in Amman.
Mariam Itani is a Lebanese writer. She specializes in Middle Eastern studies and works in research and content development. She is the mother of three children: Izzeddin, Yahya, and Bissan (who passed away in 2016). She has been living in Amman since 2018.
Wiam El-Tamami is an Egyptian writer and translator. Her work has appeared in publications such as Granta, The Paris Review, Ploughshares, Freeman’s, and AGNI. She won the 2011 Harvill Secker Young Translators’ Prize, was a finalist for the 2023 DISQUIET International Prize, and was nominated for a 2024 Pushcart Prize.
