As I write this article, my Jordanian chapter draws to a close, and with it the end of my year abroad in an official capacity. Over the last two weeks, between classes and the club, I’ve contemplated what I’ll miss most about living in the MENA region when I return to Europe. If you’ve read my articles before you’ll know that I had a rocky start to the year abroad – what with an air strike, parental pressure to move from Amman to Tunis and then moving to another continent within the space of a week and an experience in Tunis which whilst I’m glad to have had I’m content that I had the courage to tell my year abroad coordinator that things just weren’t working out.
But enough of the hyperfixating on what didn’t go to plan, because in the end, there were a lot of things that did. I think first and foremost, one thing I’ll miss is كلمات المحبة kalimat al mahabba or terms of endearment. In the romantic sense, there is a variety of expressions that make me feel all warm and fuzzy, like:
- يا عيني Ya einy – if I were to literally translate this into English, it would mean “my eye”, which draws parallels to ‘you’re the apple of my eye’ in English.
- يا روحي Ya rou7y – translates to “my soul”, but to Arabs it would be something closer to my soulmate.
- يا قمر/عمار Ya amar/qamar – one of my personal favourites, which translates to “my moon”. In my opinion, it’s one of the most romantic expressions in Arabic, as illustrated by the expression zaharat al qamar, which means “moonflower” as it only blooms at night’. Ya amar/qamar, depending on who you’re speaking to, can mean “my moon” or “my moonflower”, which I think is indescribably beautiful. It implies that even without the sun, one’s love can still blossom in the darkness.
Whilst there are endless terms of endearment in Arabic, even a simple ya habibi from a taxi driver or ammo (uncle – usually used to address older men as a sign of respect) just makes me melt because of its profoundness and its ability to brighten my day with. There is just so much warmth in being called my love.
Alongside the terms of endearment or كلمات المحبة kalimat muhabba, I know I’ll long for the smell of jasmine. As someone who travelled extensively throughout the Middle East as a child, I’ve always associated that smell with this part of the world. Regardless of whether I’m thinking of Amman or Tunis, I know that smell will transport me back to mornings walking to class with my headphones in and a coffee in hand. Those walks in question would often include the sound of Fairuz both in the coffee shops and fading away into the distance as I walked off.
Driving back to my apartment today after dinner in Jabal Amman and a quick visit to a close friend who couldn’t leave work early to make the farewell dinner (life of a chef, am I right?) I drove through parts of Al Abdali, and I couldn’t help but think I’m going to miss the blue-domed exterior of مسجد ملك عبد الله الاول Masjid Malik Abdallah I, which stands so proudly. If I’m honest, I’m going to miss sitting on the rooftops of various friends’ apartments and minaret spotting. There’s always a minaret illuminated by a green light in each corner of the city, whether you’re sitting in Abdoun, Abdali, Jabal Amman or Weibdeh, and somewhere inside me, I find a deep sense of comfort in that fact.
Circling back to linguistics, I’m going to miss hearing and using a variation of Jordanian/Palestinian madani. The madani dialects (لهجات مدنية) of Jordan and Palestine are urban varieties of Levantine Arabic spoken in major cities like Amman, Zarqa, Irbid, Jerusalem, Nablus, Ramallah, and Jaffa (historically). I’d say my favourite phrases to use in madani are ايش بدك؟ eysh biddak minny, which translates to “what do you want from me?” – I used it mostly to tease my teachers in Amman in class. Also, using اذا هيك iza hayk, which means “if so”or “ if it’s like that” sarcastically, can also be really satisfying.
Most of all, I’m going to miss the life I built for myself and the people I’m proud to call friends, but also family. My week in Amman was always a mix of juggling classes, studying in various coffee shops and bars in Amman (don’t knock it till you’re sat sipping gin basils and doing a listening in modern standard Arabic).
It’s safe to say I was eating my way through Amman’s best restaurants and longing for Thursday to come to head to my favourite queer owned club in Amman and dance the night away to Nancy, Haifa and Saint Levant or ushering the weekend in with a getaway to Aqaba or the Dead Sea. Amman ya jameela, it’s not goodbye but rather بشوفك bshūfak or “catch you later”.