tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019662.post-861134252002-12-16T07:42:00.000-08:002002-12-16T07:58:06.000-08:00AMMAN, JORDAN - First the coffee. Syrian. Thick and black and sweet. It comes in a plastic cup with small tan morels floating on top. They’re ungrounded coffee beans, Nassim said. Special for you, he tells George, who treats Nassim like a son. They go back six years, every since George started traveling into Iraq with Voices in the Wilderness, the humanitarian group based in Chicago, Illinois. They call George, Mr. Cappaccino, although his actual name is Cappacio. I don’t have the heart to correct them, George said. <br /> <br />George is a storyteller and writer from Massachusetts. For this trip he brought chemo drugs for a breast cancer patient he met on his last trip, and two large duffel bags filled with aspirin, vitamins and stuffed animals. It is a modest effort to alleviate the Sisyphean suffering of the Iraqi people who have become family to the network of activists who make up Voices. This is his ninth trip into Baghdad. Coming to Amman and especially the Al-Mozen Hotel--where all the Voices in the wilderness members stay before heading into Baghdad by car--is like a homecoming for George. Everyone knows him, from Nassim, the half Indian, half Palestinian desk clerk (there is a large Palestinian population in Amman), to Jemeh, his assistant, to Mr. Mozen, owner and manager of this modest second floor hotel north of city center. The conservations turn quickly, from the health of friends, to the state of Jordanian politics to the impending war against Iraq. It is a race to catch up for lost time. A race everyone runs because no one know when the bombs will start falling and people won’t have time to talk. Mr. Mozen believes it will be soon, right after the New Year. Nassim agrees but thinks it will be thirty to forty days after the New Year. He doesn’t give a reason. Everyone has predictions, which I confuse with premonitions. <br /> <br />Then it was Hummus. Three kinds, swimming in oil, at a small white tiled restaurant. Jemeh takes us there after we settle in at the Al-Mozen. It’s in an area of town where the army of Palestine is stationed, Jemeh tells us. Falafel balls and hot sweet tea too. Jemeh is getting ready to marry a French girl, Constance, in two years. He’s practicing his French now, and teaching Constance Arabic through weekly letters. Hope is always on the other side of the border, Jemeh said. <br /> <br />We flew into Amman in the early evening. The bright lights and billboards cloak my sense of foreignness. They break the Jordanian skyline so many commas and use the same language one sees in New York City, or Chicago, or Dublin, or Vienna, or Taipei: cars and girls, insurance and girls, internet access and.... The airport cab driver informs us of all the monuments on our way into the city. I nod politely but imagine a time when speaking is replaced with animals on the side of the road who smile sympathetically at cars, and who, when asked, give directions. That would be a sight. It would certainly kill any conversation: Too busy looking for animals. I have nothing against speaking, but I have no confidence in it these days. <br /> <br />We are Quakers and journalists and filmmakers and artists and Micah is from Nepal. We all meet at midnight at the Al-Mozen, after everyone arrives. There are twelve of us in this delegation. We head into Baghdad tomorrow. Jeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11365690346376170574noreply@blogger.com