As we approached the lunar landscape of the Israeli border for the second time in three months, the Lozenge piped up from the back seat over the iPad: 'We're not going to live on the border, are we Mummy?' And at many points during the journey, there were certainly questions in my mind about how long we would have to stay there. Although J, me and the dwarves now have diplomatic passports, the Glammy doesn't and since she's Arab, albeit with a US passport as well as her Jordanian one, she received a lengthy grilling at many different points during the opaque and confusing process that is entering Israel.
I could see how uncomfortable she felt, and I made a point of standing beside her if I could, whenever she was questioned. These are some of the questions she was asked:
Why are you coming Israel?
Do you have a weapon?
Where were you born?
Are you married?
Why not?
Do you want to get married?
Do you have Palestinian family members?
Do you have friends who are Palestinian?
Are you sure?
Surely you must have some Palestinian friends?
Are they here in Palestine?
Has this family you're with asked you to carry anything through for them?
Where were your parents born?
Are you sure?
Are you really sure?
How can you be sure and can you prove it?
By this stage it was 5.30pm, and having left Amman 4 hours previously, the dwarves were doing steep turns around the strip lights in the empty terminal. Together they uprooted about 5 plastic looking pot plants and flung handfuls of red gravel from the pots all around the marble floors. Then they ran in and out of disused plastic kiosks playing catch and knocking over furniture. Rashimi bulldozed over a chair on wheels and knocked a big box of nuts, bolts and screws onto the floor which rolled in all directions. They shrieked and laughed and squealed and spilt juice and threw biscuits around.
I sat outside the security office with the Glammy and did nothing to stop them. An official came out shouting and telling someone to clear up the mess, glaring at us as we sat there not moving. And I simply willed on the dwarf bombardment from my seated position.
We broke through in the end, perhaps with the help of the Lozenge and Rashimi's antics, and arrived at our house in the dark to find no bedding and a thick coat of dust on all surfaces. We tried to light the cooker but couldn't manage, and eventually found some help from a lovely Palestinian who works for the Consulate.
The Glammy and the dwarves went to bed and J and I sat up chatting. I'd packed ingredients to make mushroom risotto but at the last minute had flung rather too much salt into the previously tasteless mix. So we sat eating what tasted like the Dead Sea with mushrooms floating in it, under another strip light in what will one day be our kitchen. Even the bottle of white wine didn't help much to wash it all unhappily down. Having built a life - even if only a temporary one - here in Jordan, I don't feel quite ready to uproot yet. And the border process towards our next destination does nothing for its public image.
I'm not sure I was the most delightful dinner companion for J that night. But he was still there in the morning, on the other side of the diminutive double.
I could see how uncomfortable she felt, and I made a point of standing beside her if I could, whenever she was questioned. These are some of the questions she was asked:
Why are you coming Israel?
Do you have a weapon?
Where were you born?
Are you married?
Why not?
Do you want to get married?
Do you have Palestinian family members?
Do you have friends who are Palestinian?
Are you sure?
Surely you must have some Palestinian friends?
Are they here in Palestine?
Has this family you're with asked you to carry anything through for them?
Where were your parents born?
Are you sure?
Are you really sure?
How can you be sure and can you prove it?
By this stage it was 5.30pm, and having left Amman 4 hours previously, the dwarves were doing steep turns around the strip lights in the empty terminal. Together they uprooted about 5 plastic looking pot plants and flung handfuls of red gravel from the pots all around the marble floors. Then they ran in and out of disused plastic kiosks playing catch and knocking over furniture. Rashimi bulldozed over a chair on wheels and knocked a big box of nuts, bolts and screws onto the floor which rolled in all directions. They shrieked and laughed and squealed and spilt juice and threw biscuits around.
I sat outside the security office with the Glammy and did nothing to stop them. An official came out shouting and telling someone to clear up the mess, glaring at us as we sat there not moving. And I simply willed on the dwarf bombardment from my seated position.
We broke through in the end, perhaps with the help of the Lozenge and Rashimi's antics, and arrived at our house in the dark to find no bedding and a thick coat of dust on all surfaces. We tried to light the cooker but couldn't manage, and eventually found some help from a lovely Palestinian who works for the Consulate.
The Glammy and the dwarves went to bed and J and I sat up chatting. I'd packed ingredients to make mushroom risotto but at the last minute had flung rather too much salt into the previously tasteless mix. So we sat eating what tasted like the Dead Sea with mushrooms floating in it, under another strip light in what will one day be our kitchen. Even the bottle of white wine didn't help much to wash it all unhappily down. Having built a life - even if only a temporary one - here in Jordan, I don't feel quite ready to uproot yet. And the border process towards our next destination does nothing for its public image.
I'm not sure I was the most delightful dinner companion for J that night. But he was still there in the morning, on the other side of the diminutive double.
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