It’s stormy outside. The persistent clear skies of late autumn and heat of the small sun trap of my balcony have gone. It seems there will be no more lazy Friday mornings with feet up, sipping coffee while reading of the litany of war and horror across the region in Robert Fisk’s The Great War for Civilisation, as I gaze west to the far bank of the Jordan and the expanse of the desert beyond south Amman. In the relative comfort of the capital’s affluent west side it’s easy to forget the extreme suffering and brutality of the regimes which have dominated the area since the earliest of times. I don’t read Fisk to be morbid. Rather, I do so to keep myself grounded an in tune with the reality of this world - from the Iran-Iraq conflict of my childhood to the current Syrian Crisis - and my work which seeks to relieve some of the suffering which shows no sign of letting up here or anywhere for that matter. The only question is whether you can stomach the view, turn your eyes with honesty towards the condition which a majority of humankind experience. Will I continue to cast my eyes beyond the balmy balcony or seek out a comfortable self-preservation?
Yesterday I walked to work in a steady drizzle, under grey skies much like those I am familiar with from London. The smell of a fire built to warm the hearth or dampened doorway pervaded the air but was more likely a lot less romantic than my imaginings. The smell of coal smoke (despite its environmental impact and bad reputation) will forever prompt fond thoughts for me of the warm, homely setting in the north of England where I was born. A refuge from exile in the cold streets. The reality here is unlike my fantasy. In Amman the heating systems are fuelled by diesel, the fumes of which permeate the lower floors of buildings. The waft of fuel is often the odour that greets me upon entering my home.
My third floor flat it is like an icy mausoleum. There is no insulation, like an airy, tiled hammam in the dead of wintery night, with the heat off. Even when the central heating is on, its ability to radiate throughout my apartment, let alone make a meaningful difference to the room temperature is limited. Often I huddle next to the radiator in the kitchen appalled by the veneer of modernity. One might assume good design, comfort and functionality but the reality here as in other countries chasing the Western curve of development is vain, ill-conceived and superficial. Large concrete buildings are preferred even though the lack of insulation and general un-liveable-ness is tangible to all, especially in the middle of winter. But also in summer when the temperatures soar to the early forties on a regular basis. The cheap and ugly wall cabinets do nothing to cheer me and I spend time surrounded by them purely due to proximity to warm drinks and the fact that the kitchen actually warms up, eventually. This room must be the least aesthetically pleasing room I have had the misfortune to spend time. I’d take a cosy mud-brick home heated by a bukhari (Afghan-style pot-belly stove) with no electricity or running water over my current situation any day. It is a mystery why countries that effectively found ways to survive and even flourish in harsh climates for centuries have seemingly abandoned all reason and common sense when it comes to building materials, architecture and design for the sake of appearances and maybe Western approval. Yes, I take a dim view of the sorry legacy of imperialists - Russian, American, British and French mostly - in the places I have chosen to spend much of my time. At least there was good beer in Congo, but don’t get me started on the Belgians!
I walk away to the only place I feel at ease other than my bedroom. The sun is out! South-east facing, and sometimes even warm on a still day in the middle of winter, this corner of the massive flat I live in with its nook-shaped couch feels like a different world. I sit there reading, with coffee in hand, and the internal woe, architectural and otherwise, fades. Soon I am down to a T-shirt and bare feet when only moments ago, indoors, I was wearing heavy boots and a down jacket. How crazy is that? As a rule it is warmer outside than inside the buildings I inhabit. Out on a day trip to al-Salt, the chaps and I relax with strong and muddy Turkish coffee on a sunny cafe balcony and survey the scene (see photo). Despite the mess of power lines and construction sites, the minarets are elegant on the skyline and the brickwork of the old buildings seems to belong, as does the call to prayer.
