Last week was all about Palestine - as weeks can invariably be in these parts. J and I went to the only art house cinema in Amman, the Rainbow Theatre, where they were showing a film called 'Lamma shuftek' (When I saw you), made by a Palestinian director, Anne Marie Jacir. It was a beautiful and simple story about a spirited, autistic ten-year-old and his mother. The film was funded by the Shoman Foundation, which was set up by Khalid Shoman and his wife, Suha. They used to own Arab Bank, and since Khalid's death in 2001, Suha has been the patronne extraordinaire of the arts in Jordan. She is also the passion and energy behind one of our favourite places in Jordan - the Darat al Funun gallery, built around a Byzantine church which she restored, which provides cultural santuary for anyone who crosses its threshold. The reason I was with the Duke last week, was to help him write a piece for the book about the gallery to be published this year - its 25th anniversary. And he has been a disciple since its conception.
One of J's Palestinian friends invited us to his niece's wedding at the Hyatt Hotel in Amman. It was a lavish affair - with film cameras on cranes panning around the crowds of guests; bubbles and fireworks spouting from behind the bride decked out in a twinkling dress; and table after table loaded with silver tureens of food. Women were dressed in everything from neck to toe sequined dresses and traditional Palestinian costumes to miniskirts with plunging necklines.
J and I were on a table with a beautiful Palestinian lady of about 60 something, who had lived most of her life in Boston since her family were pushed out of Jerusalem in the 50's. She explained the complexities of being an Arab American these days, in her Boston drawl, through plumes of Marlboro smoke and so much expression flashing from her heavily khol-ed, almond shaped eyes.
At Arab weddings, dancing normally comes first, and the welcome was effusive. J and I were encouraged onto the dancefloor where we stayed for the best part of an hour as the music got louder and louder. We learned the Palestinian line dance called, al dabke, which seems like a mixture of the conga and a Mid-West US line dance. Men hopped and whirled in suits with ties flapping, and the sequinned women shimmied. It was stunning. Then the music morphed to techno and the environment got more and more excited (this is on no alcohol, just pure human energy) until it was time for dinner.
Then everyone cruised around the buffet and ate two huge courses, topped off by knaffeh, the cooked cheese with honey and pistacchio topping, and at about midnight, almost as soon as people had put down their forks, a bit of an exodus began. There are no problems with scraping comatosed and vomiting teenagers off the dance floor at 4am in this culture.
And talking of culture...it's when you're allowed to see into the heart of one at a rite of passage, that you feel its strength, and you can believe that against all odds, it's a long way from petering out.
No comments:
Post a Comment