Chapter II: The Theatre of Voices
Later, when I found myself standing next to the Theatre gate, it was even more overwhelming than it had looked from the hilltop.
Stepping through the entrance, the view opened wide and swallowed me.
The Theatre, carved from local white limestone, rose around me like a towering arena of silence and memory.
Perfectly symmetrical rows of stone benches climbed steeply upward, circling the orchestra floor with ancient grace.
Built during the reign of Emperor Antoninus Pius in the 2nd century AD, the Theatre was anchored into the northern side of Jabal Al-Joufah, one of Amman's original hills.
It could hold nearly 6,000 spectators, a grand arena designed in the classical Roman semi-circular architectural style — meant to echo voices to the heavens.
Back in its prime, it wasn't just emperors and elites who filled the seats.
The citizens here were a mix of Roman officials, local Ammonites, merchants, scholars, and regional traders who traveled through Amman's ancient crossroads — ordinary people gathering to witness plays, poetry, and public ceremonies that stitched life together.
Now, standing in the very heart of the Theatre, I found a new performance underway.
A group of young women stood in a proud formation, lined up neatly side by side.
They wore flowing black gowns, black sashes embroidered in gold draped across their shoulders, and light-colored headscarves glowing in the midday sun.
Their faces, framed by their scarves, were lit with smiles too wide to contain.
Several photographers — and one determined videographer — were arranging them carefully, trying to capture the perfect shot.
Tourists exploring the upper steps paused and moved aside respectfully as the videographer gestured for space.
The girls, laughing and adjusting their robes, stood proudly at the center — right where, thousands of years ago, actors once delivered monologues to emperors and crowds.
The Jordanian flag hung above the Theatre's highest arches, fluttering in the breeze.
I stood a little away, watching.
There was something profoundly moving about it — these young women marking a milestone of their own on the very stones that had once staged the milestones of empire.
Some of them, I thought, might have arrived at this day easily — expected, encouraged, supported.
But for others, I imagined, it had taken battles no one else had seen: family expectations, financial strains, private doubts fought and won silently along the way.
The celebration wasn’t just about a degree.
It was for every invisible fight they had won to stand there at the center of the Theatre.
And it made me nostalgic.
I thought back to my own university days — engineering first, then a master's degree later.
The long nights hunched over textbooks, and the endless cups of chai that fueled impossible deadlines.
And then, quietly, I wondered: By not attending my own graduations, had I missed something? Some small, sacred closing of a chapter?
I would never really know.
But standing there, watching these young girls in the sun-drenched Theatre, I thought that today was their moment — a moment when they could stop, look back at everything they have overcome, and simply say:
"I made it."
And though the thousands of limestone seats around them stood empty, I couldn’t shake the feeling that these girls weren't truly alone.
Somehow — impossibly, beautifully — I imagined their ancestors, their great-grandmothers and forgotten forefathers, filling the stone rows.
Watching invisibly.
Smiling with pride.
