A Muslim Woman with a Dagger

The cold wind howls all night. When I awake, dense fog envelops everything in an icy white blanket.

We leave Taybet Zaman hotel and drive to Petra. We were told it’s always very hot in Petra so we are quite unprepared for the frigid weather. Its a long trek to get to the Siq, the opening to the canyon. The group strolls slowly along as the guide gives commentary.

The cold is unbearable so Rena and I decide to jog ahead, to keep warm. We get some amused looks from the locals and many offers of horse and camel rides. At times we duck into one of the ancient limestone cave houses carved into the mountains, and wait for the group to catch up. Rena is great company, and we talk about taking other vacations together with NPR’s “Travel with Rick Steves” tours.

Petra is absolutely spectacular. Our able guide Salah, knows everything you’d ever care to know about Petra, and about the ancient people who built it, the Nabateans. By the end, we are feeling very assimilated, and Salah presides over the ceremony as Hal and Roberta are joined in holy matrimony by the grace of ‘Dusharrah’, Nabatean style!

Rena explains how when she was younger, Petra was the stuff legends were made of. Israelis could not visit Petra before the peace treaty with Jordan. Young men would dare each other to reach the “red rock”. A popular folk song called Ha Sela Ha-adom (the Red Rock) was written about the formidable quest to reach Petra. Once the Israel-Jordan peace treaty was signed, droves of Israeli tourists descended on Petra, to see this wonder of the world for themselves. That flow of Israeli tourists seems to have slowed now though, and we encounter few while we are there.

In Petra we are approached by the usual variety of hawkers, many of them children, selling all kinds of trinkets. I have been to many places but there is something different about these hawkers. They ask you once. They don’t pester you or follow you around. Maybe they are just good natured and respectful. Or maybe, the tourist police keeps them in check.

The tourist police is ever present. There is a police “minder” assigned to our group as soon as we enter Jordan. He is in uniform and accompanies us everywhere. His name is Khaled. He is in his twenties, tall and fair, with deeply dimpled cheeks. A very friendly young man with limited understanding of English, I am hard pressed to find him threatening and am not sure how much “minding” of us he can do, with the language barrier. He has decided I am Arab, and he is extra friendly with me.

We reach the Treasury. It is awe-inspiring. We take pictures. The little hawkers approach me. They are selling accordion packs of postcards for 1 dinaar each. I buy a pack from a little girl about nine or ten, named Rahaf, and pretty soon, other kids appear. I examine a necklace from Mohammad.

“How much?” I ask.

“Twenty dollars” he says.

I take my wallet out and look for a twenty. I don’t see the right bill in my wallet so I say, “I don’t have twenty dollars”.

“It’s there, you have it!”, he says very excitedly.

He is only four feet tall but he has sharp eyes, and he’s spotted the twenty dollar bill among the stack of notes stuffed in my wallet.

I smile. He has earned the sale.

I buy another pack of accordion postcards from Saad. Saad is only about six or seven. It’s very cold and his nose is running.

“Is he your brother?” I ask Mohammad.

“Friend” he replies smiling. The kids’ English is quite good. They have picked it all up in their interactions with the tourists.

Rahaf decides she likes me. She tears off a postcard from a brand new pack of cards and insists I accept it as a present.

“No, no!” I say, realizing that she ruined the whole pack.

“Take it, take it!” she cries. She won’t take no for an answer. She is little, and poor, but her heart is full of Bedouin hospitality and she wants to give a gift to me, the foreign visitor to her land.

After our tour, we gather in a tea shop carved out of a Nabatian cave house. We recline against pillows on the carpeted floor, in a circle, and sip steaming mint tea. The tea warms our icy hands. It feels heavenly to pretend to be Nabatean and escape the chill outside.

A lively conversation ensues among the guys, initiated by the Bedouin shop attendant, on the benefits of camel milk for male virility. He is dressed like a Jordanian Johnny Depp ala captain Jack Sparrow, from the Pirates of the Caribbean. His eyes are lined with kohl as black as his oiled curls and beard. A red bandana completes the look.

“Drink camel milk and you will satisfy four wives!”, he says.

“I think I’d like to take a gallon to go, for my husband”, laughs Lori.

I wander out after a while, and start surveying the wares in the adjacent gift shop. I see a gorgeous hand carved silver dagger. It’s similar to the collection of daggers we saw displayed on the coffee table in Princess Aliya’s living room. The handle is inlaid with bone and both the scabbard and the curved blade are finely carved. It’s nothing more than a work of art for me, since neither I nor my family have ever owned or used any weapons (kitchen knives excluded)

Rena follows me out.

Just for laughs, not thinking, I pull the dagger out of the scabbard and strike a pose.

I see Rena’s eyes widen in fear, reflexively. Her hand flies up and covers her open mouth.

It takes her a moment to regain her composure.

”A Muslim woman with a dagger; my worst nightmare!” she says.

Then she smiles.

I feel terrible. Not just for my silly prank and for having startled her so, akin to saying “bomb” at the security checkpoint….but at a deeper, visceral level, for the ability of my kind to elicit such fear in someone.

All my life, I have been raised with tales of the Other; been taught not to trust the Other, to be afraid of the Other.

In that split second, when I see Rena’s eyes widen in terror, I realize what it feels like to be,

The Other.