Cameras and canines

The ladies breakfast was more like an upper East side 'salon' with an average age of 75, brought down only a little by my presence. We sat in the shade of a huge mulberry tree and I heard all about their lives and their families. Most of the women were American, married to Jordanians or Palestinians. The only problem was the roar of the fountain behind, which we all had to shout over, and most of the table was hard of hearing. The maid was very efficient at filling up the coffee cups, and I realised when Widad and I left back to her house that it must have been that kind of coffee that tasted weak but had a high caffeine level - so my hands were shaking which is never good before a morning of taking photographs in 35 degrees.

Widad and I returned to her house and after a few portraits of her and the little terrier, Zizi, I set to work trying to capture the essence of her house. She called me to come downstairs to look in her drawers of silver, and I hurriedly picked up my camera bag with the shaking hand. One of my most precious lenses flew out of my sweaty palm and I watched in slow motion as it bounced, step by step down the marble staircase. Smash, bump, clunk, crunch, jingle, crack. I froze. A brace of Filippinas rushed to my aid with a dustpan and brush, but there was no time to deal with the panic, so I forged on with the lens that was already on my camera and went downstairs to talk to Widad.

I pushed the accident to the back of my head as I carried on working, occasionally wincing as I thought of my mangled lens and whether my insurance would deem it worthy of coverage. And I followed Widad as she opened drawers rattling with silver; pulled out multicoloured dresses from all over the Arab world and explained technical and cultural differences of each large and tiny article we looked at. Ali Baba's cave would have looked boring in comparison.

Then she left me to it in her basement, so I crept around taking photographs of everything I could see. I was in one of the darker rooms, crouching down to take a picture of some of her library of Arab art and heritage books when I smelt something funny. Actually, something very nasty that smelt suspiciously like....

Zizi had obviously been down there that morning and had left a large memento on the carpet in the library. It must have measured at least the size of her head. And I had stepped right in it, in my espadrille. I tried to pull the shoe off without touching it, and hobbled back up to see the Filippinae in the kitchen to explain, without Widad hearing. They thought it was hilarious and luckily I was only responsible for cleaning my own shoe - not the carpet.

Now barefoot, I carried on working and had finished by about 1.30pm, feeling shaky, very hot, and now rather hungry. Then two Palestinian men from one of the oldest camps in Amman arrived with bags and bags of Arab dresses, and Widad convinced me to try on 2 of the dresses from Ramallah which strangely were made to measure - even in length, so I parted with £20 and got a free belt. 2 hours later I eventually left - with a bag of Palestinian dresses, a smashed lens in my bag and remnants of doggy doo doo on my now brick-like espadrille, which hadn't enjoyed the hosing. The sun beat down but I decided to walk as we live not far from her house. Then I got snarled up in the crazy road system which can often lead you the wrong side of a wadi if you don't get it right. So one hour later I limped in the door, changed into my shorts and flopped on our sofa on the balcony. The saving grace of the day being that the material I have to work with is fascinating and extensive, and I also had an hour before the boys got back.

The Lozenge and Rashimi came scuttling in at 5 with the Glammy - sweaty and smelling strongly of sun cream and biscuit. The Lozenge gave me full details of their day, and then said: 'Tho tell me, Mummy. How wath yourth?'

Widad and Zizi

Widad's world

Widad Kawar is pushing 80 and still collecting. 'My kids think I have a problem and that I need to stop,' she said. 'I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it is insecurity. But either way, I don't think I'll ever stop now.'

We sat in her large home in central-west Amman, and whichever way I looked, I could see at least 20 objects I wanted to squat to see, squint to examine, or stretch to touch. Each and every piece had a certain beauty and some kind of meaning.

Since the age of 15, when her family were pushed out of their homes in Palestine by Zionist forces, and when their lives ceased to become something they really felt they owned, she has had the urge to gather remnants of her heritage. Lest we forget.

Widad's family is from Bethlehem, and she explained the catalyst was seeing the poorer Palestinian women struggle to keep a cultural foothold. She watched as the women came into her town from their neighbouring villages - most of them forced into refugee camps, or to other parts of the Arab world. She saw that their beautiful clothing, and their individual stitches, fabrics and weaves that they'd developed -- each one specific to an individual Palestinian region or hamlet -- could be on their way to extinction, and that something had to be done to preserve it.

She started then, and is now globally famous for her collection of Arab clothing, jewellery, fabrics and other artefacts.

Two things struck me most: that she started with the rural culture, which is often the one to be noticed last; and that through her positive motion of preserving her heritage, she has not allowed room in her heart for hatred. When I asked her how she managed to avoid hate, she said it had struck her after reading Nelson Mandela's autobiography, that if she spent her life hating her agressor (in her case, the Zionist movement, and now Israeli government) she would end up poisoning herself. So she made a conscious decision to work in a positive way to preserve her own cultural heritage in the only way she knew.

The interview was a dream, for me at least, as I got to listen first hand to a woman who not only remembers 1948, when the first 'Nakbah' or 'Catastrophe' happened, but who could also give the most intricate details about the Palestinian village woman, and how it was she who has been responsible for the preservation of most Palestinian heritage that still exists. And so much of this is due to a strong will and work ethic, and embroidery.

It's an astonishing thought, and a great relief to someone such as me, that I never had to rely on my embroidery to preserve my heritage. But, I suppose you never know what's possible until you have no choice.

Life with Widad is never dull, and as a result I had to stop and start recording over a period of about 3 hours. Firstly, her characterful little terrier, Zizi, was present at Widad's heels during the interview, and she yapped whenever someone walked by the door. The phone rang constantly and the doorbell went at least 4 times with people coming to flog old Arab clothes and jewelery. A friend of hers popped in and stayed for an hour, which was fascinating. I sat there with the two octogenarians chatting as though we were the same age, and when the friend left, she invited me with Widad for her weekly ladies' breakfast the following day.

We agreed we'd go to her breakfast, and do the photographs afterwards, since the lengthy interview had left us no time for pictures and her house was so stuffed full with photographic potential, I knew I would need at least 3 hours.

A certain connection

It all started as a fairly ordinary morning. J had just left for Arabic classes. The Lozenge was in the sitting room - lying on his tummy in his pants, busy 'planting carrots' with the ice cream scoop and the tin opener; and Rashimi was strutting around - tummy out, nappy rustling, causing any trouble he could, which included ripping two spindly African wooden figures off the wall - nails and all. Carrot planting and vandalism then morphed into an impromptu disco and I found myself dancing around to Bare Necessities, still in my pyjamas, with the boys. It was still only 8am. After a relatively long hour with semi naked boys, the Glammy arrived and whisked them off to a day of swimming in her club.

I was just getting my kit together to go and interview an elderly Palestinian lady, Widad, who has spent most of her life collecting dresses and artefacts from Palestine and all over the Arab world. Then my phone rang, and I knew when I saw it was Mum, what this meant.

Robert, my cousin, had lost his battle with cancer. He was 32. Although we had been preparing, I suddenly didn't feel prepared at all. I sat for a while, alone, and came across this poem in a book by someone called Patricia Mitchell, which for me, sums up some of his spirit - though not all of it of course - as he was inimitable. (I've changed it to a 'he' from the original):

Horses he loved, laughter and the sun,
All beauty, wide spaces and the open air.
The trust of all dumb living things he won.
And never knew the luck too good to share.

And though he may not ride this way again,
His spirit rides onward yet,
Freed from all chance of weariness or pain,
Forbidding us to mourn or forget.

Then I went to meet the lady. But I felt very far from home as I walked down the hot pavement in this foreign place - so helpless to be of any use to any of my extensive family, who are going through this sadness all those miles away.

Then I walked under a lilac bush and the familiar smell of its heavy blooms reminded me of the connection to the world I knew, and to the Cotswolds where my aunt and uncle and many relatives would be gathering to support each other. We are all under the same sky, we walk the same earth and our joy and our pain unites us all as human beings. This was the connection I needed and I walked a little more gladly towards the Palestinian lady's house.

I rang the buzzer to her large house, with yet more lilac and honeysuckle around her doorway, and although I never mentioned my sadness to her, I was indeed in very safe hands. And if anyone can associate with loss, it's someone from Palestine.

Ancient rifts

In the wake of the tragic killing of Lee Rigby, the soldier in Woolwich, I've read there has been an anti-Muslim backlash in the UK.

I was talking about it with a Jordanian this morning, who told me with a stern expression, that the culprit must almost certainly be Shia. I was surprised, as I didn't think they'd be an obvious candidate for the sectarianism that is ripping this region from its ancient roots.

But I don't think I'd fully realised before we arrived here, how many men and women have a deep-seated mistrust, or worse, of the other. These problems aren't just coming from the top, they also have a firm hold at the bottom. And when you look at the Syria crisis, it's why Shi'ite Hezbollah in Lebanon is supporting the Alawite Government; and why Saudi, Kuwait and Qatar are supporting the Syrian opposition forces. In these stark terms, it makes you want to know more about what has come into it since the rift began.  And it also makes you wonder how much worse it can only get. The gloves are off, and everyone is running into this terrifying ring for their own reason.

I've just started 'After the Prophet: The Epic Story of the Shia-Sunni Split.' Because without an understanding of the fission of the Arab world, which happened just shortly after Mohammed's death, you can't really begin to work out what's happening in the Middle East right now.

The author, Lesley Hazleton, is a journalist not a historian, which according to J, means the book will probably be a lot more readable than many historical tomes. And I have a lot to learn.

Planes and automobiles

On Thursdays the Glammy is off and the boys and I have the day together. After the DHL crisis, the Lozenge asked: 'Why were you thad, Mummy?' So I explained the bureaucratic nuts and bolts and he replied: 'But I will collect your camera, Mummy. But I'll jutht need to go on an aiwoplane.' Ironically, if I had taken the aiwoplane back to the UK to collect the camera, it would have cost a lot less than what Jordanian customs are asking from me.

The weather was so hot that after a quick trip to the 'Souqamarket' as L calls it, we visited the Children's Museum for about the 20th time since we arrived. It's so good, that I think it beats any place for children I've ever visited in the world. It's right next door to the stunning King Hussein Mosque, and his automobile museum which has his full collection of planes, motorbikes and cars. We spent three hours in the cool air, taking the wheels off a small imitation car, filling it with oil and learning about brake fluid and engine oil; we looked at a myriad of multicoloured fish in a huge tank, including a miniature shark and a Nemo lookalike; we winched foam bricks up on a mini-winch and built an arch with a keystone; walked through a huge replica digestive system and sat in a small version of a Boeing cockpit. Then we drove back through the chaotic Thursday afternoon traffic with the Chevy's faulty air conditioning blowing more hot air in our pink faces, listening to 'Aint no stoppin' us now, we're on the move.' The boys gazed up at the blue sky with sticky necks and sweaty hair, not thinking about the heat, just escaping with the beat, and for a change, happy with a tune that I'd chosen. A simple day was a tonic after the week of complexity. That's the automatic in-house escape you can get from living with children. (On a good day).

When we got back, I got a call from The Times asking if I could do a piece on Syrian refugees here, for lunchtime the following day. Gulp. A little while since I've had a deadline like that. But there's really, nothing, like a deadline, so after a cancelled date with J I'd finished the article by 11pm and J was proof reading it from bed. The poor Lozenge was sick all night. But the fuzzy eyed Friday was fairly calm and we had the excuse to lie about and not have a fight about the ipad, since ill health means an iday is okay, I reckon.

While the Lozenge stayed in the cool near a rotating fan, and J was at his Arabic books, Rashimi and I lay sprawled on the balcony playing around. It was Jordanian Independence day, so the air was full of tooting and cheering and blaring music from throngs of people and streams of cars on the roads. 

Then suddenly the enormous roar of a jet came many times overhead. Rashimi screamed and lunged his little body at me, hiding his head under my arm. I always marvel at his strong physique - which on a normal day seems so robust at a mere 1 and a half years of age. Yet after hearing Syrian women talking about their children's terrified reactions when they hear planes overhead in the refugee camp - from memories of the bombing and shelling they've escaped - I couldn't help but imagine what I would feel if I had nothing but my bare hands and arms to protect my child's silken body and downy head. 

Learning to be a mother

Here is the lady who is learning to be a mother. She's now responsible for her 5 orphaned nephews and nieces. Here she is, pictured with the youngest. "They are more precious to me than my eyes," she says.

The dark side

The Lozenge came skipping in yesterday asking all about the 'children with no thingth' that I'd been visiting, and looking with interest at some of the photographs. He'd won a bright pink and silver plastic bracelet in a mall with the Glammy, which he gave to me. 'Jutht don't loothe it, Mummy!' and whenever he sees me without it on my arm (it's quite scratchy) he asks: 'Where ith your brathelet?' I now have to sleep with it on, lest I offend.

It's only when I listen to, and try to edit the audio interviews I've recorded with some of the women in the house nearby, with the English translations, that the full impact of what they've been through, is absorbed. One woman I spoke to was trying to convince herself that her husband hadn't been inside a van that had been shelled by a Syrian government tank. But after two weeks of searching for him, there was nothing else to do but look through the ashes in the burnt out metal frame for a clue. And there she found his house key, half melted, which he always carried in his pocket. And then I look at the faces in my photographs - the same faces that I don't have time to truly study when I'm busy composing the picture, and the reality hits.

Then, last night, the Lozenge wanted to start reading Beowulf, by Michael Morpurgo, before bed. I started to read: 'Hear, and listen well, my friends, and I will tell you a tale that has been told for a thousand years and more. It may be an old story, yet, as you will discover, it troubles and terrifies us now as much as ever it did our ancestors, for we still fear the evil that stalks out there in the darkness and beyond. We know that each of us in our time, in our own way, must confront our fears and grapple with this monster of the night who, given a chance, would invade our homes, and even our hearts, if he could.' 

It was a bit much for both of us, so we went back to the Very Lazy Ladybird.

But too late for me - and last night I dreamed for what seemed like the entire night long that J had died, and two close girlfriends had died, and woke up with a start every few hours with wet cheeks. The boys came bounding in as ever this morning - Rashimi sobbing because of four new teeth, and the Lozenge wanting to get into bed to be 'cothy and warm' though it's 35 degrees outside, so I'm not sure our duvet was completely necessary.

We had all slept in, so the usual morning chaos was a little more feverish, which only became heightened when I received a call from DHL who were supposed to be delivering my video camera (which I need for work as soon as possible) saying I owed customs 900 Jordanian Dinars (£900) to release my camera. Having spent all of Sunday in the income tax office seeing the rough side of Jordanian bureaucracy and having to find 10 signatures to get a permit tax ID, I now see what their plan had been.

Jordan has no resources, so their import tax racket is daylight robbery for their survival, just like the 'speeding fines,' 'parking fines' and all sorts of other tax they add just to provide the government with some kind of income. So I'm over a barrel.

This, after my night of nightmares, prompted more tears from me, followed by yet more wailing from the already snivelling Rashimi when he saw mine. Which left J and the Lozenge both standing in only their pants, in our room, looking sheepishly at each other and then at Rashimi and I and our bright pink tearful faces, perched on the side of the bed.

Every so often, as an expat, you get a glimpse of what it would be to be Jordanian. These financial rackets are why no one goes to court, why women beaten by their husbands can't afford to report it and why impunity reigns. It costs you at least £1000 just to get a consultation from a lawyer - so understandably, no one bothers.

The Glammy explained this morning, that it's only when she goes to the UK or the US, that she feels like she has rights. In Jordan, she said, she feels like she might as well be a rag on the floor. There is no one to help you, unless you have enough money and connections to pay yourself out of these situations.  It's an important thing to have experienced. 

An elderly lady's fears for the present and the future

One of the older women in Za'atari camp explained to us how hard it is to create your life over again at her age, and how much she fears for the future of her grandchildren. This is one of her grand daughters.

A succinct overview of the Syrian situation

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-22456875

Prayer beads

The hand of a Syrian woman in Za'atari camp, holding prayer beads

Punctuation points

If you imagine life is like walking a hill, in a slow corkscrew motion upwards, (allowing for the odd slip and tumble down here and there) there are moments when you'll get the very same view you had from a little further below.  It can be luxurious, and it can be unsettling. Sometimes both. But either way, they are punctuation points which help us to navigate our lives in the best way we can.

When we were driving along the road towards Za'atari refugee camp last week, I had one of those moments. We went right past the Hashemite University, which is where I stayed with 300 other women from around the world, exactly 9 years ago, in May 2004, when I filmed and cycled with the ladies from Beirut, through Syria, into Amman. I had a visual flashback, and the discomfort of remembering our meeting with a seemingly charming, pristine-white-headscarf-ed, Asma Al Asad as we peddalled into Damascus, on that infamous road.  How much has changed in that time. The welcoming people around the amphitheatre in Bosra may be dead, jostling for space in over-populated camps and buildings in Jordan or Lebanon, or struggling to survive in what remains of their country.

A couple of weeks after the bike ride, J and I met for the first time. And the nine years has brought us all the way back to where the bike ride finished. It was during that time, I realised I'd like to come back to this region, as it seemed to hold something very special and difficult to explain. Perhaps it's all the roots of things I first fell for about Spain. And then falling for J helped very much to come full circle...though I wasn't to know it that day in late May.

Some of the Syrian widows in our nearby house are from Bosra, and I was with them today. They were as warm and as pleased to see me and the lovely translator-ess, as ever. We chatted and laughed and asked each other questions, sitting in their empty rooms with nothing but thin foam matresses on the floor. How unwise of David Cameron not to spare time to meet any of the refugees in Za'atari camp when he came to visit. (We were informed by a source…) Just an hour with these people can clarify so much. One lady said the worst thing about being here was the lost and temporary feeling - that moments didn't matter as much as they should. One twelve year old orphan stroked my hair and said it was the same colour as her mother's. 'I love you,' she said, in English. And when I left, they pressed a bag of Lebanese coffee beans into my hand. 'These are the best beans. The richest and most delicious!' they cried. I looked back as I walked home, and they were waving and smiling from behind their  multicoloured washing lines on the balcony.

The Lozenge, meanwhile, has had three weeks off nursery, because of holiday, friends visiting, and a recent bug. I took him back this morning, and I know we both had that butterfly feeling that comes with going back to a little job you've left un-attended for a while. His classmates were sitting there on the floor when we walked in, looking a bit bovine as usual, but the row of brown doe eyes creased into smiles when he came in, and he received the warmest welcome. 'We MISSED you!' his teacher said. And I'm sure I saw a proud little upwards tweak of his mouth as he kissed me goodbye, as if to say, 'You see - I am capable of settling in this funny place where no one speaks my language or has ham in their sandwich. Did you ever doubt?'

It's all about bowls and balls

The mayor of Za'atari

Killian Kleinschmidt, the senior field co-ordinator for UNHCR (UN's refugee agency) is a natural raconteur. You could listen for days. He started his career as a roofer, then a brief spell as a stunt man, and looking at the task he's now responsible for: making a makeshift city for thousands of Syrian refugees pouring over the border into Jordan's desert landscape, it would seem to me that no Masters or Doctorate degree could equip him better. After spending a few hours with him, you soon realise his every day is about keeping the metaphorical roofs on, and stunts.

He admits the job is a bit like assembling a 100,000 piece jigsaw with an image of endless rocky sand to follow. (Though he's no stranger to sensitive and complicated jobs, having built camps in Pakistan, DRCongo, Somalia, Sudan and so on), but this one, he says is as complex as any of them. 

At the moment, their main challenge is the violence over the caravans and trying to make people live together in relative harmony. But he says the problem with the way the camp has been built, is that it's based on communal living, with shared bathrooms, toilets and kitchens, and people don't want that. It takes a level of development to have been reached within a collection of individuals, for them to consider themselves a society ready to share things, he says. Syrian society is a traditional one, and men fear their women and daughters having to walk outside to communal loos and bathrooms in the night.  

Anecdotes abound.  Za'atari residents are extraordinarily resilient and canny. He talks about the infamous 'kitchen 77' which was dismantled and stolen to the last brick, during the night, so there wasn't even time to take a picture of it for reporting purposes; the cooked chicken seller who has taken apart the camp fences to use as the skewers for his rotisserie from which he's making an estimated profit of 300 Jordanian Dinars (£300) per day; the crooks who are siphoning off electricity from the mains, for free (over half the camp is now with electricity), and selling it on to people to run their TVs, shops, and washing machines; the bathroom taps and loos which are stolen from communal bathrooms to be used for makeshift bathrooms at home - and people are hooking their private sewers up to the main drainage which is infuriating neighbouring farmers. And so on. It's almost like a game of cat and mouse at times, he says. And as an outsider, you can't help but marvel at the cunning on both sides. 

The main street of the camp, known as the 'Champs Elysees' is now a buzzing, vibrant market place, with shopkeepers selling everything from kebabs to wachine machines. The more wily in the camp are making more than a quick buck. And although the white sea of tents and caravans can seem gloomy and overwhelming from afar, when you look at it in more detail, the extraordinary human resilience and ability to start up again from the dust, is never more apparent than here.  And although conditions are difficult, and recent histories tragic, there's also an extraordinary level of care here - from the 35.5 litres of water which refugees receive per capita per week (in one of the water-poorest countries on earth) to the selection of hospitals run by Medicins Sans Frontieres, and individual nations such as Morocco and Saudi Arabia. As I walked around talking to people and hearing their tales, from the aid workers to the refugees themselves, there were many who admitted that these conditions are better than some had back home, and certainly those that many rural Jordanians are living in right now.

But the situation is becoming more complex with no sign of abating. Mafia style groups in the camp are becoming more demanding and violent, and no one knows yet how much infiltration there has been from Islamist factions. But at any rate, they're not far away - just a short hop over the border, and that is undoubtedly Jordan's worst fear. The other concern is just the dizzying numbers. One UNHCR staff member said they started by thinking this would go on for a matter of months, but as the numbers of refugees coming into Jordan increase (they project it will be 1 million in Jordan by the end of the year), the hope dwindles. Resources are scarce, despite the goodwill, and around 22 million Syrians are still within Syria, wishing they weren't. It's an overwhelming thought.

Killian, or 'the Mayor of Za'atari' as he's affectionately known, seems like the man for the job and he has a hard working and experienced team by his side. And with his practical ideas towards effective town planning and civil engineering so the inhabitants of Za'atari can start to feel like they have ownership of the place they live in, he hopes, he says, 'to give the people dignity, not charity.' Let's hope that becomes a buzz word. 

No palace like home

'It'th nithe to be home', the Lozenge sighed as he reclined on a beanbag after we got back from our trip to Aqaba. It's the first time he's ever said that word in relation to where we're living now. Before, home has always been London, and here hasn't quite measured up to that, until now.

His comment is not the only thing that has made me think about the concept of home this week, after spending 3 days talking to the inhabitants and aid workers in Za'atari refugee camp on the border with Syria. The pregnant 20 year old pictured below admitted that her spartan caravan already feels like home, after living in it for 3 months. It's not the life she would have chosen, she said, but it could be worse, and at least they are safe from the terrifying drone of Syrian government planes overhead, and from the equally frightening behaviour of motley bands of opposition under the umbrella of the Free Syrian Army. She has a place where she, her three boys and husband, can live in relative security. And from a Za'atari resident's point of view, she is one of the lucky ones to live in a caravan, not a tent. They have a door to shut behind them, and something that could be described as a window.

Her comments echoed the words of Mafusi, a Lesothan refugee I interviewed in London before we came to Jordan. Mafusi said she often went round to a friend's house who had everything - fancy furniture, wide screen TV, the lot. But whenever she came back to her tiny little room in Hounslow where she lived with her three year old girl, which had about 2 square metres of floor space left over once the bed had been put in it, she felt such a sense of relief to be in her own place. 'I have nothing here but this room,' she said, 'but I can shut the door and be here with my girl, and I feel safe.'

Izzeldin Abuelaish, the Palestinian author of the book I'm reading mirrors these thoughts exactly when he describes Ariel Sharon's tanks thundering down the tiny street where they lived, demolishing row after row of makeshift houses in Jabalia camp in Gaza. 'This small house was our home, our palace,' he writes. ' Couldn't anyone understand how important this was to us? It protected us from the winter cold, the rain; it gave us a place to be together, to rest, to eat.'

It makes you wonder how close the words place and palace, really are. For a human being on the grim brink of survival, they may as well be one and the same.

One of the main issues the aid staff are experiencing in Za'atari right now, is the availability of caravans. They cost $3,000 each and roughly half the camp now lives in one thanks to donations from Korea, Saudi Arabia and many other countries. By the end of July, UNHCR hopes to have provided the other half of people with a caravan too, but there has been immense frustration within the communities about the inequality so far - which has been leading to violent uprisings, and frequent attacks on the overworked staff. One wonderful Jordanian woman who showed us around this week, had had her arm slammed again and again in a car door by a furious Syrian man; and many workers are walking around in constant fear as they try to get their work done as best they can.

A charming Irish girl from UNHCR and I discussed it as we left one of the caravans where we'd been interviewing women and children about the conditions there. It would definitely have been cooler to sit in a tent, I said, and she agreed. She said the tents are actually better for comfort and practicality in all conditions. But we both agreed that in a complicated and conflicted community of refugees, to have a door to close behind you for privacy and security, a window to look out of, and to be able to stand up straight in your home, probably outweighed the scientific proof.

And there she stood, this Irish girl, probably no older than 28 years old, squinting her piercing blue eyes against the baking sun, so far from her own home in Cork. She works all the hours she can with other dilligent and burned out teams from around the world, all feverishly trying to figure out what's best for people in the camp. It's remarkable the individuals you find working in situations like this. And I know that she, of anyone, is completely convinced of the importance of the concept of home and how important it is for people to create one here, even if they hope to return to Syria one day, whenever that may be.

Wind and Dust

A 20 year old Syrian lady in her caravan in Za'atari camp. She is pregnant with her fourth child who will be born there this month. She worries about all the wind and the dust for her newborn.

The Camp

I've spent the last 2 days in Za'atari refugee camp doing the photographs for a friend who's writing a feature about the women and children there. There are so many images that say so much, but for me this one is like the first paragraph of something I hope to continue tomorrow or the next day when I  come back to spend more than a few awake hours in the flat. These young men are pushing wheelbarrows which should normally be used for transporting rubbish, to take candy floss (which they've made in the camp) to sell to children. Za'atari was established last July, and has already turned into a fairly efficient town thanks to Syrian creativity and canniness. But in the background you can see the heavily armoured vehicle ready for big trouble, which camp workers have been expecting for weeks. I will explain all about the extraordinary people I've met inside - from the 'Mayor of Za'atari' who has been brought in by UNHCR from the camps in Somalia, to sort out this one, to courageous Jordanian women, some of whom have worked solidly for 90 days without a break, to resilient female refugees who talk openly about what it is to live in this newly established temporary town of over 10,000 people, spreading over a barren patch of land on the Jordan/Syria border.

Travels in the Iceberg

After the drought, a feast of friendship.  We've just had a week of laughter, chaos and travels with 4 adults and 4 under 4's in a square silver minibus, now nicknamed The Iceberg. It's less unwieldy than it looks and trustily carried us safely to Aqaba, on the banks of the Red Sea, where we sat looking at Israel and Egypt with the gentle lapping of the waves on our toes, and back again to Amman. These photographs describe the feeling of the week. Sometimes it takes people to come and visit to remind you that life can be as carefree as you make it. Thank you Lettice, Leo, Jemima and Fis, for travelling the distance to see us.

The house of widows

There's something about the four storey building on Ubayda Ben al Samit Street opposite the ice cream parlour.  In this fairly affluent neighbourhood of wide streets dotted with well-watered trees, a four storey building with peach coloured curtains dangling squint and dirty, with lines of vibrant coloured washing hanging proud on the balconies, stands out from the tidy beige backdrop.

This disused apart-hotel has become the new home for about 24 Syrian families who we've been casually saying hello to since they moved in just after we arrived. But it's only since I've been asked to make some short film portraits of refugees here, that I've felt the excuse to go in and talk to them properly with a translator.

Among the 24 families, there is only one adult male, a young man of 21 with the face of a a 40 year old. The rest are women and children.

All the women are widows.

Um Islam, whose husband, a professor at Homs university was one of the first protestors to be assassinated by Al Asad's regime, is a volunteer helping the women survive in this town with ever fewer places and resources for the Syrian arrivals. She was our point of contact, but when we arrived she was deftly and confidently dealing with two policemen who had recieved complaints from neighbours about noise levels coming from the house.  Then she turned to us, laughed, and shrugged off the incident saying she'd been through worse. Then we laughed as she questioned my surname (the word for lion in Arabic is 'asad' and I assured her I was no relation). Then she introduced us to some of the women who were as warm, dignified and together as she. Someone brought in a tray of strong Arabic coffee in clean, white cups. We stayed for a couple of hours.

One 45 year old lady, Siham, with no children of her own, is now the guardian of her 5 nephews and nieces, who survived a rocket strike on the van they were travelling in, near Dera'a. Their parents and two year old brother, were killed. The chidren were taken to hospital by the Free Syrian Army and after their treatment, she fled to Jordan with them. What haunts her, she said, is she doesn't know whether her brother, his wife, and the little boy, died instantly, or whether they burned to death as the van became a fire ball. Her brother was 32 and her sister-in-law, 27. Her brother used to joke with Siham and her husband, who never managed to have their own children: 'Have my children. Have mine!' They used to laugh about it. She wasn't prepared for what was to come. She gazed down at the five children, aged between 13 and 5, then looked at me, her face brimming with too many emotions to describe. 'They're more important to me than my eyes,' she said.

Then, I came back to our new home, in which we've lived almost the same amount of time as the widows have lived in theirs, to be greeted by my own boys - the Lozenge full of tales of his day and asking why his Rolling Stones t-shirt didn't have 'thtoneth on it'; Rashimi squeaking with excitement, a bar of soap with teeth marks in it in one hand, an un-ravelled loo roll in the other.

And I wondered, what more can we ask from life, than this?

The dawn chorus and our first mall excursion

J's remark helped. 'All you've got to do, Luce, is realise that it's just an indoor souq on many floors, and then it doesn't seem quite so bad.' My mall phobia has been slightly eased by our first family visit to one after 3 months in this over-mall-ified city. It's been a three day weekend, and we're on day three. It's at least 35 degrees today and the boys have stopped sleeping because of the heat. So where could we buy, in under 2 hours, 2 stand up fans for the boys' bedrooms; some thin trousers for J (men don't wear shorts here); some shorts for the Lozenge, and a non-Nescafe coffee, without cardamom floating in it, for me. Answer: Taj Mall. And I have to say the experience was less painful than I'd imagined. We beat the crowds, the whole trip took 2 hours, and the Lozenge could scoot around the smooth marble floors at 30mph without being hit by a car. We'll leave it another 3 months til we go back, but I've dismounted from my high horse.

What is it with boys and wide screens?

The days seem to be beginning at 5.30am again - probably because of the heat. The Lozenge is normally the first to emerge saying: 'Mummy, ith it morning-time?' which is a hard one to answer, because unfortunately 5.30am would fit into the morning-time bracket, though I wish it didn't have to. So by 6am this morning I had already been cajoled into catching some little fish with a magnetic rod in the Lozenge's bed, which always seems to have most of the bird garden sand in it. The boys' voices competed with the cacophony of birds, as the Lozenge screamed: 'I've caught a littEL one Mummy and I'm putting him on the tabEL.' He now has a hint of an Arabic accent when he speaks English. And Rashimi was squawking: 'Mummeee! Mummeee! Ana, ana!' (me!me!) from next door. A little like diving into a cold British river in June, the initial wake-up shock is horrible, but soon I was in the groove, entangled with sticky, hot, mallowy flesh, in a sandy bed, hearing the rustle of nappy and the slap of little feet on the marble floor, reminding myself that in 10 years they won't want to be cavorting about with me at this hour and maybe I'll be the one who's awake first.

Magnetic fishing merged into Cheerios and Martin Sheen's Desert Island Discs podcast, where he described his brilliant sounding wife, Janet, coming into his hospital room after he'd just suffered a heart attack. She whispered in his ear: 'Don't worry honey, it's only a movie.' His take on life made me feel a little more pleased to be awake while J was sleeping off another Arabic hangover. The language is an interminable daily beast which knocks even the most determined off kilter. Although I'm not doing such intense learning, I also feel like I need some human RAM at times, while I figure out new editing software, more depths to my cameras, toddlers and a bit of Arabic on the side. I've been asked to do a couple of short film portraits of some Syrian female refugees here which will be my project until our summer holiday begins and I'm feeling un-nerved, because my Arabic isn't good enough for me to go it alone, and working with a translator is like walking with a crutch. My first meetings with them are on Sunday, with the same female translator I used for the gypsies feature, and I so hope they want to talk to us. I always find the first contact nerve-wracking as I'm so terrified of making them feel terrified, and not want to talk. No matter how much I do it, I still get that same shy and nervous feeling. Maybe that's the adrenalin I need, but it's very uncomfortable, particularly on my own, in a foreign language, with multiple bits of technology, which so often decides to play up in hot weather. But without that direct contact, how will we know what it is to be them? And they're right next door. Only 20% of the Syrian refugees here are in the camps, and all the rest are dotted around in Amman and its surrounding towns and villages.

The Glammy continues to be a constant source of good sense and fun. The Lozenge and Rashimi totally adore her. They communicate mostly in Arabic. She has taught the Lozenge how to know when his shoes are on the right feet by making sure the 'toeth are kithing'. And when she leaves at 5pm the Lozenge calls: 'Thee you later alligator' and she responds: 'not so soon, big baboon!' and off she cruises in her beige Mercedes to do I'm not sure what in the evenings, at her Mum's house. She keeps us all on track and is a vibrant, intelligent presence. I wonder if there is a man good enough and broad minded enough in this country for her. Her main worry is she will never find a guy who understands that she hates cooking and cleaning. It is easy to underestimate the ease of relationships in an enlightened society.

Last week I had a screening of This is my Destiny, the film I made in Afghanistan, in a friend's cafe here. It was strange watching it 5 years on after making it, living in another country, having had two children since that time. As I watched, I remembered everything that went into making it, and how crucial it seemed at the time. And now, with all those memories a little faded, the piece seemed almost anachronistic. Yet with opium production booming again in Afghanistan, and the 444th British soldier blown to bits this week on that dusty ground, the issues are still the same. But technology having progressed so much in this time, the actual look of the film, is the thing that tricks you into thinking it was a different time. And in this sense, we can never measure progress through technological advance.

Last night J and I watched a brilliant film called: 'Incendies.' by a Canadian director Denis Villeneuve (sis - you've got to see it!). It's a fictional story set in the 70's during the Lebanese civil war. The plot is brilliant but harrowing, and even more so knowing that we're only a short drive away from the very same brutality being played out in neighbouring Syria, with Iraq still smouldering, and sparks ready to ignite in many other places. Yet, the book I'm reading: 'I shall not hate' by Izzeldin Abuelaish, a doctor who lost half of his children during an Israeli strike on Gaza, is an example of the all-powerful and infectious forgiveness possible in a human being, and is a constant reminder that within the ashes there will always be jewels which refuse to be damaged by what's going on around - shining all the more brightly as a result.