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

Never in my life have I felt as out of place as I did for the past three days in the Badia, which is the desert region in northeast Jordan. For three days I wore a hijab and a dishdash, lived in a one bedroom house with eight people and baked so many cookies I think I have carpal tunnel syndrome. It was definitely an experience.

It started on the bus ride from Mafraq to my village, Um Al-Qatain, which is just two kilometers or so from the Syrian border. I could just feel the four men in the seat behind me staring intently at me. I self-consciously put a scarf over my hair and tried to concentrate on the view, which was mostly just flat, rocky ground dotted by sheep, shacks and power lines. The desert looked like it could just go on forever in all directions. Dust blew in clouds over the red earth and burned my eyes. But soon enough I saw the sign for my village. The bus driver made a few phone calls and then dropped me off at the house. The white-washed little house stood behind a wall, surrounded by a little garden with flowers and vegetables. Munira, a mother of six, welcomed me inside. The first thing she said was (in Arabic), “You are my daughter now, call me Mama.” She swiftly drew a few pins out of her dress and pinned my scarf tighter around my face, making sure all my hair was tucked inside.

She introduced her children, although it took me a few days to get the names right. The eldest was Wijdan, a 15-year-old girl, followed by Hannan, Hanneen, Hassan, Riwan and Wizan, who was just a year and a half old. At first the little kids wouldn’t go near me, instead hiding behind the door frames and giggling every time I smiled at them. We all sat down on the floor and started rolling rice into cabbage leaves for dinner, while watching a soap opera from Saudi Arabia. Their living room did not have any furniture, save for the television stand. It did, however, have plenty of mats and pillows on the floor. None of them spoke a word of English to me, although I know from looking at the eldest daughter’s textbook that she knows more English than I know Arabic.

Munira explained the virtues of fasting during Ramadan and told me I should do it too. I hadn’t planned on fasting during my stay there, but it seemed uncomfortable not to, especially since even the nine-year-old girl was fasting. So, for three days I fasted with the family. It was incredibly difficult to spend all day in the kitchen cooking and smelling the food when we couldn’t eat anything. The thirst, though, was much more difficult than foregoing food. I’ve never looked forward to sunset so much before in my life.

Soon the father drove up in a truck, the back overflowing with tomato plants. After re-pinning my scarf, Munira sent me outside with the other kids to help pull the tomato plants from the truck. One kid opened the gate for all the goats and sheep to come out and nibble away at the tomatoes. I was a bit disappointed that my family didn’t have any camels. I brought out my camera to take photos of the animals and the kids soon swarmed around me. I gave them my camera to play with, but they mainly photographed their own shoes.

Then it was back to the kitchen for more cooking, which is what Munira and I did for the majority of my time in the Badia. It seemed Munira’s daily life was consumed by three tasks: breast-feeding the baby, cooking and braiding her five daughters’ hair. While I was there, she only left the house when her husband drove her somewhere. I tried to imagine what it would be like if my own life was contained by just four walls.

When my family took me to relatives’ houses for visits, several women showed me their wedding photo albums. I was shocked to see that these women in front of me, covered head-to-toe in blacks and beiges, had albums filled with glamor shots. Wearing billowing, bejeweled gowns, the women were photographed with thick make-up and elaborate hair-dos. Their bare shoulders were studded with rhinestones and glitter. They posed seductively, their faces surrounded by hearts and Edwardian script reading “A beautiful bride.” They seemed so proud of their photos, probably a once-in-a-lifetime chance to dress up so provocatively.

On my second day in the Badia, I was going crazy from staying in the tiny house for so long. I wanted to explore the town and just get away from the kitchen and the screaming kids. When I asked to take a walk around the neighborhood, Munira looked shocked and said, “No, not unless your father takes you.” I almost cried with frustration. Finally she agreed to let her son take me down about 50 feet to the corner of the dirt road and then back to the house. Needless to say, it wasn’t exactly the most liberating walk.

I was surrounded by people in this tiny four-room house, yet I still felt so isolated from the rest of the world. For those three days I didn’t go online, watch the news on TV or read a newspaper. Everything was just about food, family and feeding the goats. It was quiet and simple, but still a bit stifling for me, especially since most of the time I couldn’t follow the family’s rapid-fire conversation. It was peaceful at night though, when everyone took their mats and blankets off a huge stack and spread them out on the floor of the TV room. All nine of us curled up on the mats and fell asleep. Every night we woke up around 4:30 a.m. to eat a small breakfast before dawn. I honestly couldn’t eat at that time of the morning, but I still got up with the sleepy-eyed children who mechanically dipped their bread in oil and slowly swallowed it.

On my last day in the Badia, my eldest host sister took me to her school. It felt great to actually take a walk beyond the confines of the house. First we lined up outside the school and did half-hearted calisthenics as the principal shouted into the megaphone. Then we chanted “Jordan first!”, sang the national anthem and raised the flag. Since it was the day before the Eid holiday to celebrate the end of Ramadan, most of the girls were at home cooking or were taken to the larger city of Mafraq to shop. Consequently, the teachers didn’t even attempt to have class. I was paraded from room to room, where I was surrounded by girls bombarding me with questions. One group of twelve girls barricaded the door with desks to keep their teachers and the other students out and preceded to ask me about Hollywood movie stars. At their request, I sang “My Heart Will Go On” from “Titanic“, and tried not to cringe. They also showed me their best dances moves and begged me to shake like Shakira. And I did. Probably not my finest moment, but it sent them into a fit of giggles and they tried to imitate. Then they told me all about their plans to study at universities and become doctors or teachers. Despite their graffiti-covered school and isolation in the Badia, they had big dreams. I hope these earnest, ambitious girls are able to achieve everything they want.

Monday night we anxiously waited for the Eid announcement on television. When the news broke that the Eid would start on Tuesday, the kids ran through the house shouting “Eid bukra!” Since no public transportation runs during the holiday, the other students and I were picked up by a bus and taken back to Amman so we could be with our real homestay families during the holiday. I was honestly sad to leave my Badia family. As I was packing, Munira tried giving me her own dishdashes and hijabs to wear. She even pulled hair clips out of her daughters’ hair to give me as gifts. I was overwhelmed by her generosity and left with a box of cookies, a few hair clips, a hijab and a bolt of cloth to make my own dishdash. I hope to return some day, inshallah!

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