Ummayads, dinner with the Duke and a monster

Al Jabal al-Qal'a

As you approach the Citadel, or 'Al Jabal al Qal'a' overlooking Amman there are three or four standing stones, inscribed with all the different dynasties and people who've inhabited this region since the Paleolithic age (18,000 years ago). The problem with graduating in modern languages, is that I have been left with huge holes in historical understanding. In my life so far, I think I've been more of a presentorian rather than a historian, which means I'm playing catch up now. And with the help of these useful stones, framing the Roman ruins at the top of the hill, I now feel more confident about how the early Islamic 'ad and 'id (Umayyad, Abbasid, Fatimid, Ayyubid…) dynasties fit in with the rest of world history, through helpful dates, and how they all lead up to the Ottoman period which lasted an astonishing length of time from 1516 to 1917 AD when their sickly and latterly brutal reign was squashed by the Arabs and allies during WW1.

There were school children all over the place, and we marvelled at the opportunity to be able to wander, on a school break, over the ruins, into the temples and through the museum to look at wild horse teeth and ancient skulls with evidence of frightening looking early skull-drilling surgery.

A McSheikh

From the Citadel, we could see across to the Duke's house, nestled above the amphitheatre where we were going that night for dinner. The dinner was a fascinating time warp of old-school Jordanians all full of fascinating and entertaining tales of their lives here. Through the smoke of Marlboro reds, and a tunes from a lone Iraqi violinist, as glasses were filled and refilled by Adam from Sudan, we listened to how the country has changed since their youth - their sadness at how the children of wealthier Arabs don't want to learn Arabic anymore; how the identity of the country is at risk; the education system no longer any good; the young no longer interested in their history or culture - searching out the veneer of glamour in malls, and searching for posh cars and gadgets rather than knowledge. It was nothing we hadn't noticed, or heard about, before, but because they were all such a cultured and intelligent bunch, perched on a hill in a 1920's house being squeezed and squeezed by the burgeoning city, it was yet another glimpse of reality, at least as they saw it.

I wonder if, when J and I are old, we will be less trusting and less hopeful, as they seem to be, despite still carrying on with their working efforts. Is it a prerequisite for being old? Or can you still be a realistic optimist in your 70's?

During dinner I sat next to an architect, whose parents are Palestinian. He studied at Cambridge, and when I told him about my project, he took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and said: 'I find it so incredible that we are sitting here having this conversation when 30 years ago, to talk about how we should go back and better understand the Palestine crisis would have been unheard of.' He told me about his very good friend from university who was Jewish. They had never talked about 'it' at all during their friendship - carefully steering away from the subject to avoid falling out. Yet his friend had met up with him a year ago in a London pub, put his head in his hands, and said: 'Only now am I realising what my people have done to yours. And I feel ashamed.' Their friendship has reached another level.

The evening was late and they were generous with the Harrods claret. We jiggled back home in the minibus getting to bed late. After an hour, at about 2am there was a shivering little person by our bed. The Lozenge had a problem. Monsters. 'There'th a monthter in my bed, Mummy, and he won't go away.' So he and I had rather an uncomfortable, wriggling 2 hours in his bed while I convinced him they really, truly didn't exist, then salvaged another hour or so of sleep until our alarm went at 6.30. When one phase ends another begins, it seems.