Unknown. Unknowable.

Stares. I could physically feel them on me as I walked by. It’s never been this bad. Skirt down to the floor, scarf strategically draped just so as to cover everything but my forearms, dark sunglasses covering nearly half of my face. Have you no shame? What the hell are you looking at? I will certainly attempt to maintain my sensitivity to cultural relativism and do justice to my anthropological background, but excuse me if I slip for just a moment – I’m feeling frustrated. Sitting at the calmest café I have found yet, Caffe Strada just off Rainbow, I have time to reflect on the world around me while Radiohead and Bon Iver attempt to soothe me. I sit at a corner table next to a wall of windows watching men, cars, men in cars, and the occasional woman pass by. Sipping on an iced latte and waiting for my salad to arrive, I begin to ruminate on what exactly happened on the walk from my apartment to the café. I can’t help reflecting on an article I read in an old issue of JO magazine. The article initially caught my attention for its feature photo: a Barbie-esque doll stands in a cage, being poked and prodded by sticks held by male hands. As a foreign woman in Amman I can relate. Walking down the street I draw attention. My blonde hair alone is probably enough to turn heads – but there seems to be something else in those unrelenting stares. I feel like a strange bird behind a chain-link fence at a zoo, on display yet untouchable, unknowable. Men are also aware of my inherent unknowable-ness. In general, women are unknowable to men post-puberty and pre-marriage. This is the period of time when segregation of the sexes is heightened, and is not resolved until marriage. There is no flirting in public and dates are creatively disguised as group gatherings of friends. There is really no forum for men to learn about women from women. So they stare at us, perhaps attempting to extract knowledge about these mysterious creatures with their eyes. In my case, as a foreign woman, however, the potential for a Jordanian man to ever know me does not ever really exist. Here’s how it generally goes: He will stare. I will keep my head down to avoid eye contact. He will say something to his brood of friends, or leer out the window of his car, maybe even grab a photo with his cell phone camera. He might say something dirty, might call me something dirty, but I can’t understand and will continue walking, only to return home and gripe about it to my roommate. I am unknowable to this man. We will not speak. We will not get to know each other. We will not sleep together. We will not even know each other’s names. I am unknown. I am unknowable. Since arriving I’ve had many thoughts about appropriate behavior and gendered expectations. I've noted that in public women are held accountable for their physical appearance but men don’t seem to be held accountable for much of anything. As a non-Muslim foreigner I certainly do my best to dress modestly in public but there is absolutely no reason for me to cover. I can't help thinking that it could make walking down the street a bit more bearable some days.