I remember this was a particularly tough day in Jordan. It was one of the first times that I realized that Amman is a foreign city. And sometimes in foreign cities you get lost, you have to adjust to different accommodations and different schedules. After an unintended mid-day adventure around a new part of town, I found myself early to the gym. Because of Ramadan, hours for most businesses change. Really, hours for life change. For the most part during the day, everything is closed. Those who fast sleep later, stay up later, and prefer to not work while the sun is up. Usually businesses started to open around 4 or 5 to prepare for iftaar (breaking the Muslim’s Ramadan fast) and then closed for the iftaar (between 7 and 9 PM) and then stayed open until the early hours of the morning. This made grocery shopping, working out, and many other things inconvenient.
So, after getting lost and going to the completely wrong side of the city, I dejectedly took a cab to my gym. Unfortunately, my gym didn’t open until 4. It was about 3:30. I sat down on the sidewalk near my gym and a few shops and I opened up my books to do some homework. It was uncomfortable because it was about 100o, the sun was shining on my back, and I was wearing jeans. After a few minutes of staring at my Arabic homework, an older man, maybe in his 60s, walked up to me and told me to come sit with him. I politely declined, but he insisted that I get out of the heat. I followed him, secretly grateful for the opportunity to get out of the blistering Amman sun.
He led me over to his shop and pulled up a seat with him and two other young men. He asked me my name, what I was studying, and chatted with me for a while. As I did my homework, he explained to me that he fled Syria and came to Jordan when the major conflicts started a few years ago. I listened to him tell his story, his pain, and his hopes while the two younger men, whom I found out were the older man’s sons, translated words that I did not know.
They asked me questions about my life, as well. They wanted to know what New York was like (they think that there is nothing outside of the city), they wanted to know why I was studying Arabic, and they picked my brain about politics of the Middle East. I barely knew this man. I never even caught his name. Yet, he touched me profoundly. I listened to his struggle to get his family out of danger, his struggle to feed six mouths while working menial jobs, and his hope to one day return safely to Syria. I felt his pain and was simultaneously in awe of his hope of a bright future in dismal times.
It’s those interactions that remind me why I chose to go there. I am a representative for America. I want to break the stereotype that is prevalent in the Middle East that perpetuates this notion of American ignorance. If I can change the mind of one person, so that he no longer sees Americans as conceited and oblivious, then I have served a purpose. I think about all of the people at home and at school who have opened up their mind to this culture and have worked hard to understand and empathize, and they deserve to be acknowledged. By the Middle East acknowledging that Americans are working to bridge this cultural gap, then maybe they too will work to forge the bridge. Being in Amman was eye opening in terms of the cultural differences. However, it also gave me hope that somewhere we will find a connection between these two incredibly different societies to encourage love, compassion and peace.

Watching the sunset from a sand dune in Wadi Rum, Jordan