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.
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.
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