Laura’s abroad in Amman, Jordan, until Dec. 19.

Since the maid and I are the only non-Muslims in the house, we eat breakfast together every morning during Ramadan before I go to school. In a mix of Arabic and English we usually try to chat about our families back home and our new lives here. She arrived in Jordan just a few weeks before I did, so we’re both getting used to the family and their way of life.

On Thursday morning, however, as I walked into the kitchen she said, “Bomb in America!” and gestured toward the television. I felt a rush of panic — how could I not know about a bombing in the U.S.? What happened? Was it a terrorist attack? I lurched towards the living room, and then I suddenly remembered that it was Sept. 11 and that the maid probably just saw the replayed footage on the morning news. I felt a little better, but I still raced to school to get online and check the news as soon as I could.

In the evening after Iftar, my family was all gathered around the television flipping though the channels. We stopped at the local news station and saw a two-minute piece about the anniversary of Sept. 11. There was extended footage of the towers, a clip of a bloodied survivor crying in front of the camera, and of course, a quote from George W. Bush talking about how we will punish those responsible.

I could tell my family was chatting about it, but I couldn’t understand much of what they were saying. They looked at me pointedly, but I wasn’t sure what to say. After all, isn’t that the reason I was here, sitting in their living room with them, sipping mint tea and butchering their language? I would probably be studying abroad somewhere in Europe right now if my curiosity about the Middle East hadn’t been sparked by Sept. 11 and the ensuing rhetoric about the Axis of Evil and how the region is a hotbed of terrorism and extremism.

I was only in eighth grade when the attack happened, but I remember thinking that I knew very little about this region that was suddenly considered to be such a threat to my safety. My knowledge at that point of the Middle East was mainly based on Disney’s Aladdin and a set of Egyptian hieroglyphic stamps I’d received for my birthday as a kid. I remember thinking that the two depictions of the Middle East –- its hazy exoticism and also its dangerous extremism — were contradictory and blatantly stereotypical. From that point on, my curiosity about the Middle East only grew. I didn’t end up saying anything to them at all about it, which is something I regret, but I’m sure they realized how much that event changed their lives and mine.

Later that evening, my host brother took me out to a coffee house in the chichi neighborhood in Amman to see the show of Hani Mitwassi. My host brother had been talking for weeks about the singer and described him as the “Ricky Martin” of Jordan. A few days before the show, he woke me from a nap to watch his interview on one of the local afternoon TV shows. With a charming smile and smooth voice, Hani Mitwassi made it clear why all the callers to the show were breathless with adoration. At the coffee house, we met up with a bunch of my host brother’s friends and smoked hookah and listened to the music. Soon the lights dimmed and the music got faster. People clapped and sang along, dancing in their seats and waving tissues in the air.

My host brother convinced me to get up and dance with him, which was slightly awkward considering we were the only ones dancing at that point. He and his friends rightfully made fun of me, saying, “You dance like such an American!” This, of course, was a completely unsurprising and unavoidable accusation. I sat down blushing because I clearly don’t have the grace or subtlety of movement of Arab women, but I hope to learn. Later on in the evening, we danced again, but thankfully this time we weren’t the only ones out of our seats. For the rest of the evening, he pointed out the girls who were good dancers, and those who were not so that I could try to imitate them. They all seemed to dance beautifully, in my opinion, but apparently I still have a lot to learn. My host brother said that by the end of my stay with him, he will make sure that I have vastly improved my dance moves. He promised that once Ramadan ends, the real fun begins. It seems I have a lot to look forward to – but I better practice my moves before I bust them out again at a club where I’m the only foreigner.

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