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SEEKING ROOTS BEYOND THE NATION THEY HELPED ESTABLISH
By Michael Slackman
New York Times, NY
Aug. 9, 2006
AMMAN, Jordan - The search for personal identity can be a trap for
people like Yinal T'haghapsau, who lives in the no man's land between
the only home he knows and the land of his ancestors.
Like many children of immigrants, he has found that he does not fit
perfectly in either place. His great-great-grandfather fled the czar's
armies in the northern Caucasus in the 1860's and settled in a small
desert region that became the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.
Now, four generations later, he has one desire: to return to the land
of his ancestors.
"For me, my dream is to go back there," he said, in accented English.
"It is something that lives in me, whether I like it or not."
Mr. T'haghapsau is Circassian, a member of a diaspora created when
hundreds of thousands were forced from their mountainous lands in
what is now southern Russia, just north of Azerbaijan and Georgia.
Theirs is a quiet diaspora, one that has not roused passions or
militias but has quietly assimilated in places like Jordan, Turkey,
Syria and the United States.
The Circassian experience in Jordan is in many ways typical of the
immigrant experience for many around the world. It is about holding
on and letting go. Blending in and standing out. But in Jordan, a
nation that has struggled since its inception to define what it is
to be Jordanian, the challenge of fourth-generation Circassians has
special resonance.
Jordanians who are not Circassian bristle at the very notion that some
of their neighbors feel like they do not fully connect. To suggest
that is perceived as an affront to a nation that tells the world it
has, at last, defined what it means to be Jordanian.
"There is no issue, no issue at all," shot back Raouf Abu Jaber, a
Jordanian businessman and historian, when told that some Circassians
said they were eager to return to the land of their ancestors. "I am
personally surprised."
Of course, not all of the Circassians in Jordan, estimated to number as
many as 100,000, want to go. In all likelihood, only a minority would,
judging from interviews with more than a dozen people of different
ages. But that does not minimize the struggle of identity for a group
that has tried to meld with the Arab landscape while holding onto a
very different culture. It can be as simple as men and women dancing
together (which they still do) or as complicated as passing on a
language (most young people say that neither they nor their friends
speak the Circassian language).
"Most of the young people here do not know anything about their
history," said Mr. T'haghapsau, who moved to the Caucasus for a year
but returned to Jordan after seeing how hard it would be to build a
new life there. "They don't speak the language. But tell them they
are not Circassian, and they will kill you."
Jordan is a small, dry patch of land carved out of the Middle East
by the British in the 1920's when it was called the Arab Emirate of
Transjordan. When the first Hashemite king, Abdullah I, took power, the
Circassians were already longtime residents. They had been successful
farmers and wealthy landowners and worked closely with the new king
to forge their new nation. In 1946, Jordan got its independence,
and soon after took its current name.
But from the beginning Jordan was more a creation of history than
a place that passed through history. From its very inception, the
concept of being Jordanian was an abstraction. It was and remains an
amalgam of people, a Middle Eastern mosaic of nationalities, sects and
religions: Palestinians, Armenians, Syrians, Chechens, people from the
Arabian Peninsula called Hejazi, Druse and Christians. And Circassians.
Outsiders told Jordanian leaders that its very existence simply did not
make sense. And from the beginning, the Circassian minority, the people
thrown off their own land, helped try to prove those outsiders wrong.
King Abdullah was so grateful to the Circassians and so taken by
their loyalty and colorful traditions that he made them the private
protocol guard of the Royal Court. To this day, visitors to the king's
offices are greeted by steely looking men in uniforms that resemble
old Cossack costumes.
Over the years, Circassians have held the highest positions in the
government, including prime minister and important posts in the
security services. But today many Circassians say they are feeling
edged out, all but excluded from important government positions. And
they resent all of the attention heaped on another important ethnic
group, the Palestinians, and their quest for an independent state.
Jordan had annexed the West Bank in 1950 but lost it in the
Arab-Israeli war of 1967.
Ahmed Wumar, 26, a recent university graduate, said that the historical
slight against the Circassians was far worse.
Palestinians, he said, at least get to live in their own geographical
neighborhood, surrounded by people who share their language and
customs.
"Our problem is hundreds of years old," he said. "We are here 143 years
already in Jordan. Everybody knows the Palestinians. No one knows us."
Mr. Wumar also tried to move back to his ancestral home, which is now
in Russia, and stuck it out for two years before returning to Jordan.
"I wanted to get a Russian passport, but they would not give it to me,"
he said.
The Circassian cultural center is a nondescript building on a small
street in a middle-class neighborhood of Amman. Inside on a recent
evening, young men and women were finishing up dance practice. Unlike
their Arab neighbors, Circassian men and women dance together in an
almost martial choreography, with a lot of spinning and fist pumping
for the men and chest-thrust-forward preening for the women.
"I am Circassian, but my nationality is Jordanian," said Shamil
Shroukh, 16, who does not speak the Circassian language, but has been
dancing for 10 years.
Tamer Qunash, 21, said: "All of us consider ourselves Jordanian. This
is our home."
Their instructor is a hard-driving man with a clean-shaven head named
Yinal Hatyk. He is 32 years old and is the chief of staff to Prince
Ali bin al-Hussein, the brother of the current king, Abdullah II. He
pressed the dancers to get it right, to spin and preen with confidence
and perfection.
"We are truly Circassian and truly Jordanian," he said, after giving
the dancers a break. But, he said, "a lot of Circassians want to
go back."
By Michael Slackman
New York Times, NY
Aug. 9, 2006
AMMAN, Jordan - The search for personal identity can be a trap for
people like Yinal T'haghapsau, who lives in the no man's land between
the only home he knows and the land of his ancestors.
Like many children of immigrants, he has found that he does not fit
perfectly in either place. His great-great-grandfather fled the czar's
armies in the northern Caucasus in the 1860's and settled in a small
desert region that became the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.
Now, four generations later, he has one desire: to return to the land
of his ancestors.
"For me, my dream is to go back there," he said, in accented English.
"It is something that lives in me, whether I like it or not."
Mr. T'haghapsau is Circassian, a member of a diaspora created when
hundreds of thousands were forced from their mountainous lands in
what is now southern Russia, just north of Azerbaijan and Georgia.
Theirs is a quiet diaspora, one that has not roused passions or
militias but has quietly assimilated in places like Jordan, Turkey,
Syria and the United States.
The Circassian experience in Jordan is in many ways typical of the
immigrant experience for many around the world. It is about holding
on and letting go. Blending in and standing out. But in Jordan, a
nation that has struggled since its inception to define what it is
to be Jordanian, the challenge of fourth-generation Circassians has
special resonance.
Jordanians who are not Circassian bristle at the very notion that some
of their neighbors feel like they do not fully connect. To suggest
that is perceived as an affront to a nation that tells the world it
has, at last, defined what it means to be Jordanian.
"There is no issue, no issue at all," shot back Raouf Abu Jaber, a
Jordanian businessman and historian, when told that some Circassians
said they were eager to return to the land of their ancestors. "I am
personally surprised."
Of course, not all of the Circassians in Jordan, estimated to number as
many as 100,000, want to go. In all likelihood, only a minority would,
judging from interviews with more than a dozen people of different
ages. But that does not minimize the struggle of identity for a group
that has tried to meld with the Arab landscape while holding onto a
very different culture. It can be as simple as men and women dancing
together (which they still do) or as complicated as passing on a
language (most young people say that neither they nor their friends
speak the Circassian language).
"Most of the young people here do not know anything about their
history," said Mr. T'haghapsau, who moved to the Caucasus for a year
but returned to Jordan after seeing how hard it would be to build a
new life there. "They don't speak the language. But tell them they
are not Circassian, and they will kill you."
Jordan is a small, dry patch of land carved out of the Middle East
by the British in the 1920's when it was called the Arab Emirate of
Transjordan. When the first Hashemite king, Abdullah I, took power, the
Circassians were already longtime residents. They had been successful
farmers and wealthy landowners and worked closely with the new king
to forge their new nation. In 1946, Jordan got its independence,
and soon after took its current name.
But from the beginning Jordan was more a creation of history than
a place that passed through history. From its very inception, the
concept of being Jordanian was an abstraction. It was and remains an
amalgam of people, a Middle Eastern mosaic of nationalities, sects and
religions: Palestinians, Armenians, Syrians, Chechens, people from the
Arabian Peninsula called Hejazi, Druse and Christians. And Circassians.
Outsiders told Jordanian leaders that its very existence simply did not
make sense. And from the beginning, the Circassian minority, the people
thrown off their own land, helped try to prove those outsiders wrong.
King Abdullah was so grateful to the Circassians and so taken by
their loyalty and colorful traditions that he made them the private
protocol guard of the Royal Court. To this day, visitors to the king's
offices are greeted by steely looking men in uniforms that resemble
old Cossack costumes.
Over the years, Circassians have held the highest positions in the
government, including prime minister and important posts in the
security services. But today many Circassians say they are feeling
edged out, all but excluded from important government positions. And
they resent all of the attention heaped on another important ethnic
group, the Palestinians, and their quest for an independent state.
Jordan had annexed the West Bank in 1950 but lost it in the
Arab-Israeli war of 1967.
Ahmed Wumar, 26, a recent university graduate, said that the historical
slight against the Circassians was far worse.
Palestinians, he said, at least get to live in their own geographical
neighborhood, surrounded by people who share their language and
customs.
"Our problem is hundreds of years old," he said. "We are here 143 years
already in Jordan. Everybody knows the Palestinians. No one knows us."
Mr. Wumar also tried to move back to his ancestral home, which is now
in Russia, and stuck it out for two years before returning to Jordan.
"I wanted to get a Russian passport, but they would not give it to me,"
he said.
The Circassian cultural center is a nondescript building on a small
street in a middle-class neighborhood of Amman. Inside on a recent
evening, young men and women were finishing up dance practice. Unlike
their Arab neighbors, Circassian men and women dance together in an
almost martial choreography, with a lot of spinning and fist pumping
for the men and chest-thrust-forward preening for the women.
"I am Circassian, but my nationality is Jordanian," said Shamil
Shroukh, 16, who does not speak the Circassian language, but has been
dancing for 10 years.
Tamer Qunash, 21, said: "All of us consider ourselves Jordanian. This
is our home."
Their instructor is a hard-driving man with a clean-shaven head named
Yinal Hatyk. He is 32 years old and is the chief of staff to Prince
Ali bin al-Hussein, the brother of the current king, Abdullah II. He
pressed the dancers to get it right, to spin and preen with confidence
and perfection.
"We are truly Circassian and truly Jordanian," he said, after giving
the dancers a break. But, he said, "a lot of Circassians want to
go back."