The dwarves were up by 6am, and by the time the Lozenge had poured half a bottle of apple juice onto our bedroom carpet, and used all the nuts, most of the cereal and some poisonous looking berries from the garden to make a milky mixture he called a 'Manuato'; and Rashimi had smashed a couple of mugs, by 8am my grimace from the night before had become grimacier. The Lozenge asked: 'Are you 'appy, Mummy?' (Well...funny you should ask...).
But we had not come all the way to Jerusalem to sit around in a non-home not feeling 'appy, and the ancient walled city: a millefeuille of layers of pilgrimages and sieges, of miracles and murders, is within 10 minutes walk from our front door, even with 2 pairs of shorter legs in tow.
The Glammy was up for an adventure, even after her experiences the day before, and since our house is in East Jerusalem, which is still predominantly Arab, she was very well received. She divulged her tribe's name to anyone who asked (the hummus seller, the baker and the man on the pomegranate stall), and was welcomed into the fold ever more warmly. It was great to have her with us as an Arabic speaking cultural bridge, and as a friend who was up for fun.
We wound our way through tatty streets past hotels such as: 'Holy Land Hostel' that looked as holy as a highway motel, and entered the Old City through Herod's gate. The streets there are narrow and littered with broken glass and other trash - with graffiti in Arabic professing the greatness of God or calling for an end to the occupation. But there is a particular feeling, each corner you turn, which Rashimi must also have felt from his viewpoint of the back pack, as he exclaimed: 'Waaaaoooow! Waaaaaaaoooow!' in my ear, at regular intervals. We wandered past tiny flat bread stalls, hardware stalls, barber shops and stationers; and between the commercial sites, a wafting washing line slung between narrow walls, a tiny staircase, or balcony denoted a home. There are still people eeking out a life within these walls, but it must be a complicated and claustrophobic process - particularly with a large family with no overspill area, and no right to build on.
Then, as the boys scurried down the smoothly hewn stone steps and ramps, the Glammy and I caught sight of the Al Aqsa mosque, part of the Haram al-Qudsi al Sharif or 'noble sanctuary' for Muslims, and known as Temple Mount for Jews, since it's believed to be where the Holy Temple once stood. One version was destroyed by the Babylonians, and the next by the Romans. Only the outer walls still stand.
To go in, the Glammy and I needed to cover up, so we retraced our steps back to a friendly owner of a clothing stall and asked if we could borrow the necessary fabric. He sold us some instead, and we returned to the entrance. The Lozenge looked at me decked out in white robes and screeched: 'I want you to be Mummy again. I don't want you to be a witch.' We arrived back at the entrance next to the Israeli guards with hissing and pipping walkie talkies, only to discover, that even in my crisp white robes, I wasn't allowed in as a non-Muslim adult on a Friday. So instead I had the luxury of being a bystander in my own life, and watched the Glammy and the dwarves' retreating back views as they ventured into one of the holiest sites of the Muslim world outside of Mecca.
And even with the guards telling me sotto-vocce in Arabic: 'You're nice. You're tall.' And, 'This is Dome of the Rock. This not from Palestine, this from Isghael,' I was moved to watch our boys' first pilgrimage from a distance. A pilgrimage entirely of their own.
They re-emerged after about half an hour, the Lozenge full of tales about ladies with 'bagth of thweetth' and how they had to 'take off the crocth to go into the golden mothque.' He was very relieved when I took off my robes. 'It meanth you're a real Mummy again.'
The Glammy kept hers on til we got back home, as she didn't want to offend by stripping in the street. Here she is with Rashimi - and the Arabic on the wall says: 'Akbar' the end bit of 'Allahu Akbar'. God is Great.
That afternoon, J got back from the office and we ventured west to see the other side of the city. The Jewish communities were getting ready for the Sabbath so there were no cars on the road at all apart from our own - since in certain communities you are not even meant to switch on a light, let alone drive on the Sabbath. It was a bit like being on a set for a film in a different era - with most men, women and children dressed in black and white, and most with curled ringlets or wigs, and hats like hairy drums. The Glammy was delighted to have a tinted window in the back of our jeep, so she could stare as much as she liked. But she admitted to being fairly terrified by what she saw. I learned a lot by seeing the city through her eyes over the weekend. But I tried hard to keep my own eyes on, all the same.
But we had not come all the way to Jerusalem to sit around in a non-home not feeling 'appy, and the ancient walled city: a millefeuille of layers of pilgrimages and sieges, of miracles and murders, is within 10 minutes walk from our front door, even with 2 pairs of shorter legs in tow.
The Glammy was up for an adventure, even after her experiences the day before, and since our house is in East Jerusalem, which is still predominantly Arab, she was very well received. She divulged her tribe's name to anyone who asked (the hummus seller, the baker and the man on the pomegranate stall), and was welcomed into the fold ever more warmly. It was great to have her with us as an Arabic speaking cultural bridge, and as a friend who was up for fun.
We wound our way through tatty streets past hotels such as: 'Holy Land Hostel' that looked as holy as a highway motel, and entered the Old City through Herod's gate. The streets there are narrow and littered with broken glass and other trash - with graffiti in Arabic professing the greatness of God or calling for an end to the occupation. But there is a particular feeling, each corner you turn, which Rashimi must also have felt from his viewpoint of the back pack, as he exclaimed: 'Waaaaoooow! Waaaaaaaoooow!' in my ear, at regular intervals. We wandered past tiny flat bread stalls, hardware stalls, barber shops and stationers; and between the commercial sites, a wafting washing line slung between narrow walls, a tiny staircase, or balcony denoted a home. There are still people eeking out a life within these walls, but it must be a complicated and claustrophobic process - particularly with a large family with no overspill area, and no right to build on.
Then, as the boys scurried down the smoothly hewn stone steps and ramps, the Glammy and I caught sight of the Al Aqsa mosque, part of the Haram al-Qudsi al Sharif or 'noble sanctuary' for Muslims, and known as Temple Mount for Jews, since it's believed to be where the Holy Temple once stood. One version was destroyed by the Babylonians, and the next by the Romans. Only the outer walls still stand.
To go in, the Glammy and I needed to cover up, so we retraced our steps back to a friendly owner of a clothing stall and asked if we could borrow the necessary fabric. He sold us some instead, and we returned to the entrance. The Lozenge looked at me decked out in white robes and screeched: 'I want you to be Mummy again. I don't want you to be a witch.' We arrived back at the entrance next to the Israeli guards with hissing and pipping walkie talkies, only to discover, that even in my crisp white robes, I wasn't allowed in as a non-Muslim adult on a Friday. So instead I had the luxury of being a bystander in my own life, and watched the Glammy and the dwarves' retreating back views as they ventured into one of the holiest sites of the Muslim world outside of Mecca.
And even with the guards telling me sotto-vocce in Arabic: 'You're nice. You're tall.' And, 'This is Dome of the Rock. This not from Palestine, this from Isghael,' I was moved to watch our boys' first pilgrimage from a distance. A pilgrimage entirely of their own.
They re-emerged after about half an hour, the Lozenge full of tales about ladies with 'bagth of thweetth' and how they had to 'take off the crocth to go into the golden mothque.' He was very relieved when I took off my robes. 'It meanth you're a real Mummy again.'
The Glammy kept hers on til we got back home, as she didn't want to offend by stripping in the street. Here she is with Rashimi - and the Arabic on the wall says: 'Akbar' the end bit of 'Allahu Akbar'. God is Great.
That afternoon, J got back from the office and we ventured west to see the other side of the city. The Jewish communities were getting ready for the Sabbath so there were no cars on the road at all apart from our own - since in certain communities you are not even meant to switch on a light, let alone drive on the Sabbath. It was a bit like being on a set for a film in a different era - with most men, women and children dressed in black and white, and most with curled ringlets or wigs, and hats like hairy drums. The Glammy was delighted to have a tinted window in the back of our jeep, so she could stare as much as she liked. But she admitted to being fairly terrified by what she saw. I learned a lot by seeing the city through her eyes over the weekend. But I tried hard to keep my own eyes on, all the same.
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