J has gone back to Al Najah University in Nablus on the West Bank, to continue his intense Arabic studies, so the boys and I are on our own once more, feeling the absence of the auntie and uncle somewhat, not to mention J.
Our merry morning routine has begun again, trying to get the dwarves to find a balance between a 5.30 and a 7.30am wake up. Too early and we're all half baked by the time the diminutive school bus arrives, too late and the little orange cube on wheels is beeping impatiently on the road outside, while I try and shoehorn the Lozenge's feet into shoes which he doesn't want to wear after 6 months in Crocs, and manually force reluctant arms and legs into school uniform. Meanwhile Rashimi normally makes an escape and we find him half way down the stairwell in nothing but a nappy, on his way to greet the bus himself. But the weather is cooler now, and disco dressing and all this caper is not so fever inducing as it was in 40 degrees.
I have mountains of work. All exciting stuff, but the mountains loom higher in the mornings when my mind becomes a flip chart, whisking between pages full of ideas, questions and things I need to just knuckle down to. When auntie R and uncle H were staying we were giggling about my den which is a positive pastiche of motivational slogans on coloured pieces of card. So necessary are they in my lone-woman freelance life, that I often find myself vocally spitting out new ones, which they of course picked up on while we ate a halloumi panini on their last day here. It's all about creating a life in which you can thrive not just survive. I'll never live that one down.
But the difference between thriving and surviving is never more apparent when talking to young girls in Za'atari camp as I've been doing over the last few weeks, and have just finished editing another photo film for UNICEF about a sixteen year old who refused to let her father make her marry, and to allow her to continue her education instead. She won her battle, and with it the same one for her younger sister. When they saw the film, apart from wanting their real names changed to other ones which took me another half a day of editing, they liked it so much, that they said they wanted to show it around the camp and beyond to encourage other families to make the same decision they had - and try to break this cycle of marrying girls off so early. Although when we spoke to the father, the full financial implication of fending for even a small family, makes you understand a little better why these fathers might do it. And in these parts, you receive money for a daughter, and there are marriage brokers a dozen in the camp, wheeling and dealing with young girls' lives for a fee.
But I was relieved they liked the film because it's always the most nerve-inducing part when you have to show the subjects how you've portrayed them.
The Lozenge is busy planning his future also. This morning he turned up at the breakfast table in nothing but a doctor's coat and navy blue face mask. Through the acrylic he said: 'I'm off the Awabic Medicine centre Mummy. Do I look like a nice doctor in my coat?' Over a first slurp of coffee I agreed that if he were a doctor, I'd want to be ill all of the time (sort of).
His school sent a note about Halloween next week. Since we're in an Arab country they explained, they don't want typical Halloween costumes, but: "We would be most obliged if all children could participate and come to school dressed in Arabic costume. All staff and teachers will join in."
Judging by their surprise at the Lozenge's alternating bright pink and red nails he had last week after a solo-session with my varnish collection, perhaps he could go as a belly dancer. But either way, it'll be an easier day to dress him, whether he's the Lozenge of Arabia or Salome's sidekick.
Our merry morning routine has begun again, trying to get the dwarves to find a balance between a 5.30 and a 7.30am wake up. Too early and we're all half baked by the time the diminutive school bus arrives, too late and the little orange cube on wheels is beeping impatiently on the road outside, while I try and shoehorn the Lozenge's feet into shoes which he doesn't want to wear after 6 months in Crocs, and manually force reluctant arms and legs into school uniform. Meanwhile Rashimi normally makes an escape and we find him half way down the stairwell in nothing but a nappy, on his way to greet the bus himself. But the weather is cooler now, and disco dressing and all this caper is not so fever inducing as it was in 40 degrees.
I have mountains of work. All exciting stuff, but the mountains loom higher in the mornings when my mind becomes a flip chart, whisking between pages full of ideas, questions and things I need to just knuckle down to. When auntie R and uncle H were staying we were giggling about my den which is a positive pastiche of motivational slogans on coloured pieces of card. So necessary are they in my lone-woman freelance life, that I often find myself vocally spitting out new ones, which they of course picked up on while we ate a halloumi panini on their last day here. It's all about creating a life in which you can thrive not just survive. I'll never live that one down.
But the difference between thriving and surviving is never more apparent when talking to young girls in Za'atari camp as I've been doing over the last few weeks, and have just finished editing another photo film for UNICEF about a sixteen year old who refused to let her father make her marry, and to allow her to continue her education instead. She won her battle, and with it the same one for her younger sister. When they saw the film, apart from wanting their real names changed to other ones which took me another half a day of editing, they liked it so much, that they said they wanted to show it around the camp and beyond to encourage other families to make the same decision they had - and try to break this cycle of marrying girls off so early. Although when we spoke to the father, the full financial implication of fending for even a small family, makes you understand a little better why these fathers might do it. And in these parts, you receive money for a daughter, and there are marriage brokers a dozen in the camp, wheeling and dealing with young girls' lives for a fee.
But I was relieved they liked the film because it's always the most nerve-inducing part when you have to show the subjects how you've portrayed them.
The Lozenge is busy planning his future also. This morning he turned up at the breakfast table in nothing but a doctor's coat and navy blue face mask. Through the acrylic he said: 'I'm off the Awabic Medicine centre Mummy. Do I look like a nice doctor in my coat?' Over a first slurp of coffee I agreed that if he were a doctor, I'd want to be ill all of the time (sort of).
His school sent a note about Halloween next week. Since we're in an Arab country they explained, they don't want typical Halloween costumes, but: "We would be most obliged if all children could participate and come to school dressed in Arabic costume. All staff and teachers will join in."
Judging by their surprise at the Lozenge's alternating bright pink and red nails he had last week after a solo-session with my varnish collection, perhaps he could go as a belly dancer. But either way, it'll be an easier day to dress him, whether he's the Lozenge of Arabia or Salome's sidekick.
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