Baby, that's all we need

[ed note: I don't think I've written about my students enough lately, so here is one short snippet and some predictable shenanigans.]

After church yesterday evening, I went to the house of "Abu Miryam" and his wife, who are students in my class at the Chaldean Church.  Like most of my students, they're getting up there in years, but they both have great senses of humor.  While we waited for Umm Miryam to arrive, Abu MIryam told me more about his life in Iraq.  In the 1970s, he owned a hotel/restaurant complex in Baghdad.  In the 1980s, he sold it for what I figure to be about $500,000 and traveled to Sweden and Hungary to get away from the Iran-Iraq war.  He returned, only to see his fortune get reduced to practically nothing as the Iraqi dinar fell off a cliff during the First Gulf War.  He came to Jordan with his wife last year, leaving behind their house in Baghdad.  Their daughter, "Miryam," finished medical school in Baghdad in 2008, and is now in the U.S. studying for her boards.  They hope to join her soon.

In addition to English, Abu Miryam is also studying Chaldean Aramaic, which most Chaldeans know a bit of.  If you meet a Chaldean, he or she will almost certainly remind you that Chaldean Aramaic is "al-lugha Yesua," the language of Jesus.  Abu Miryam can speak it, but had never learned the writing, which is very different from Arabic.  He showed me his notebook, which was filled with an assortment almost-Hebrew letters and their Arabic equivalents.

As Umm Miryam prepared the food, Abu Miryam, with his dentures now removed, asks me, "Do you like Djani Wallllker?"  I answered in the affirmative, and while he got the glasses, I pondered whether my project should've had "Drinking with..." before the "Endangered Communities in the Middle East" in the title.  Soon, Umm Miryam emerged with a feast, including homemade spicy pickles and olives along with the usual Iraqi meats.  After another glass of "Djani Walllker," I told them I had to go.  Abu Miryam had a concerned look on his face.  "It's not safe out there at night.  You shouldn't travel alone."  This wasn't the usual Arab invitation to stay the night; he was really worried.  Umm Miryam quieted him down.  "This is Amman, not Baghdad."

I wandered down the hill to get a taxi.  When I got in, the young driver asked if I was a foreigner.  Yes, I replied.  Do you like foreign music?  Of course, I answered.

Then a familiar bass line kicked in, and I knew it had been a good night.  In the streets of Abdali, I sang along as the music played:

"Colt 45 and two zig-zags, Baby that's all we need..."