Stories from Amman Read online



  Storylabs: Stories from Amman

  Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commerical NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

  Content from storylabs.me

  Contents

  Prologue

  English Stories

  Artwork

  Arabic Stories

  About Projectpen Storylabs

  Credits

  Storylabs: ‘Stories from Amman’ was made possible by the generous support and encouragement of Nadine Toukan.

  Thank you Nadine

  لقد نجح معمل القصص “قصص من عمّان” بالتشجيع والدعم السخي من نادين طوقان، شكراً نادين

  Prologue

  The idea behind project pen was to find out if people were still telling stories, particularly in Arabic.

  Two months into the project we found that a lot of people were writing stories – but not everyone had time to read them.

  The problem was that writers were still writing for books. Meanwhile readers had turned into ‘users’ – people who micro-published on twitter, shared on facebook, or watched movies on youtube. Based on the interaction we were seeing though project pen, it was clear that the way people told stories needed to change.

  Storytelling needed to become more social, more collaborative, and it needed to be built from the bottom up – with the internet in mind.

  Pretty soon we realized that these kinds of stories weren’t going to just appear. We had to go out and create them.

  Thats when Storylabs was born – clusters of writers, artists and creatives working together, over the course of a day, to create ‘new stories, from a new generation of writers, for a new kind of readership’.

  The first edition of storylabs was entitled ‘Stories from Amman’. It took place on 30th June at the Ras Al Ain Hangar. Over 50 artists, writers and performers took part. Most had never met each other before.

  The results are humble, but beautiful.

  Keep Writing,

  Project Pen Team

  “****”

  English Stories

  Aysha El-Shamayleh Here to Go

  Home is a minefield of youth in transit.

  I have friended swimming hobos,

  who lose their minds to the cargo rooms of the next ship to western paradise;

  because even explosives believe in saviors.

  Youngsters believe in bikes streaming the streets of a third world democracy,

  along with open faced gutters and pictures of king, king, king sweeping by.

  Can't draw the line between contradictions and mockery of a people.

  They gell their hair into a confused interpretation of White America, roll dollar bills to sniff the gravel off their knees from tripping over broken speedbumps

  and a life that crashes into despair often.

  Popping cheap pills on the outskirts of inner-city refugee camps, looking for colored imaginations, only to seek serenity in hysteria.

  Contemplating suicide on the ledges of the Ministry of Interior affairs.

  then getting sentenced to prison for contemplating suicide.

  Killing the lights,

  huddled in underground artist laboratories,

  sinking in puddles of violet haze.

  and it echoes...

  “Can't afford electricity bills.” “Graffiti anarchist lines on police station walls.”

  Then it goes…

  “Can’t change election laws.” “Browse one way tickets to Cuba.”

  I say grow the balls it takes to own your country,

  I am done being given up on in divorces with passports.

  in our miles and miles of depression,

  in your alcohol addictions and detox prisons,

  and all the ways you try to numb it out.

  Meanwhile I am left standing,

  standing,

  waiting

  to go

  down.

  Constantly finding myself on the ledges of the Ministry of Interior Affairs,

  rediscovering my appreciation for rock bottoms.

  And I see it coming

  the nudity of pocket, the engine groan of 6 million empty stomachs,

  the damned fury for change that sets border control on fire,

  and all morality collapses.

  Right then,we wont hate;

  because I ain’t having sons that carry guns to the playground.

  I have made honest attempts at disarmament.

  Make honest attempts at disarmament,

  and repossess the gravity of sunsets.

  “****”

  Rula Zein-Iddin - 'Precious Philadelphia

  An incongruous mix of old and new

  Streets with names of folks we knew

  A villa here, a tower there

  Civic planning of which I despair

  Our traffic rules are clear for all

  Those that follow them so rare; if at all

  Within this seemingly chaotic city

  Are those that struggle and fill you with pity

  The dustmen who clean our streets every day

  The begging children who do not play

  A growing abyss between rich and poor

  The daily struggle to lead a life that is secure

  A city full of contradicting trends

  Be they conservative or fashion that offends

  And yet in harmony we all do live

  Our heart and souls to this land we give

  For where else can you find such peace of mind

  The love of a home-land so hard to define

  A trip downtown holds a magic air

  A simplicity rarely found elsewhere

  I love the hustle & bustle of the market place

  I long to capture each & every face

  For each one has a story to tell

  Of how their fortunes rose and fell

  The colours, sights and smells delight

  Though crossing traffic fills most with fright

  To understand where we are and how far we can reach

  We need to see where we came from and thus I beseech

  For us to maintain our heritage in this city of old

  A valued treasure worth far more than gold.

  “****”

  Aaida Abu Jaber - Old Stairs

  I got a chance to visit the place,

  I seldom go to on routine days.

  The old Amman we rarely see,

  The ancient quarters that used to be.

  Old alleys that told many a tale,

  Narrow lanes that concealed a trail.

  I passed an alley and when I gazed,

  I saw infinite stairs that had me dazed.

  Old stairs of Amman so well-renowned,

  Connecting people in separate towns.

  I strolled here with grandma long ago,

  Holding her hand and wearing a bow.

  Skipping alongside without any cares,

  I used to cross these very stairs.

  Sweet nostalgia ran deep within me,

  I longed for days that could no longer be.

  “****”

  J.B. LAWRENCE - First Impressions of Amman

  These are actual journal entries made on my first trip here as an American girl married to a Jordanian boy, back when we were in our twenties. My husband and I actually moved here without my having visited. I started the journal with a brief introduction to who I am (or was at that point in my life as a 24 year old newlywed and working girl). I am submitting this excerpt which is lengthy and starts out with a pretty good story and evolves into detailing all my new sights and experiences. I am also submitting a short writing of my Amman experience of meeting the in-laws for the first time which is written in the thi
rd person. It was written at some point in December of 1993. None of these writings have been edited and it shows.

  Tuesday, Nov. 30, 1993

  Well, so far so good. I am sitting here in the airport in Amsterdam waiting for our connecting flight to Amman. How I got this far is a miracle.

  We spent the last week with friends while Yusuf studied and went to school. It also happened to be Thanksgiving week so Karen and I made turkey dinner with the works. We spent Thanksgiving as I’m sure many foriegners to California do – with friends. Our dinner party consisted of Karen (a vegetarian who cooks a mean turkey) and I, our husbands (two Jordanians who have not been fully initiated to the Thanksgiving traditions – they don’t even like pumpkin pie), Karen’s brother Bill and his Australian roommate. We had a pleasant holiday although Yusuf studied most of the day away anyway.

  Friday Karen and I went to the MOCA for the Rolywholyover exhibit which was simply wonderful. This day made me realize how much I would miss it here and I will surely curse myself for not having taken more advantage of it.

  Saturday I spent relaxing as stress was taking its toll on me. Everyone else had separate plans and I purposely didn’t include myself in them. I was able to do some laundry while listening to my favorite radio program one last time.

  Sunday Yusuf’s test was at 8:00 am. I think I was almost as nervous as he. From the moment he left to the moment he returned six hours later I was silently praying as my stomach churned. Luckily he returned with a grin that told me that everything now would fall into place. We had reservations for Tuesday afternoon which meant we could leisurely do some shopping and finish the last of our errands. We when shopping that afternoon but were unable to find everything that we wanted which was okay.

  We still had time. Monday morning we got an early start and Yusuf called the travel agent to arrange for the payment of the tickets. It was a good thing he did this for we found out that the flight was not Tuesday, but Monday, that very day at 4:15 pm. It was 10:00 in the morning and we had so many things left to do. The first thing scratched off the list was shopping. Oh well, my clothes were fine. I was just anxious for a fun shopping spree. We still had to pick up our tickets, go out to Malibu to pick up some things a friend had stored for