Saturday 28 December 2013
A dream Christmas
Fewer things could have eased my mind more, as I wandered between the empty supermarket shelves with the Lozenge after the snowfall, than a phone call from the Duke inviting us all to Christmas lunch at his farm nestled beneath the Golan heights, near Umm Qays in northern Jordan. This meant that my first turkey was instead a very manageable dinner of poussins for 6 on Christmas Eve. The pudding had travelled all the way from Tasmania with Uncle Frank and Auntie Odile, complete with the finest possible brandy for the butter, carried in a Lancome demaquillant bottle, and a photograph tube of mince pie cases made by Odile with the finest Tasmanian flour. Not one had cracked on the journey. The dinner was extremely merry since we'd arrived a little early for the evening carol service in the Anglican church off Rainbow Street, and filled the time in a bar overlooking Amman, drinking extremely strong cocktails.
The following morning, unusually, I was awake first, at 5.30am, as I suddenly remembered that we hadn't put the bottles of Prosecco in the fridge, which was part of our alcohol contribution to the Duke's lunch. So by 6am J and I were happily unwrapping our stockings, a whole hour before the dwarves. What else would a travelling dwarf have asked Father Christmas for, than a 'wolling thootcase'? And the Lozenge, reminiscent of a diminutive air steward, has been wheeling his new suitcase proudly around our marbled flat, filled with toys which he wants to take to 'the new houthe' in Jerusalem. We broached the subject of a new school the other day. And while waiting for the little orange bus, the Lozenge asked J, 'Will Washimi be coming to my new school with me?' J replied: 'Not this term, but maybe next year.' 'Good', said the Lozenge. 'Then I won't be afraid.' Perhaps there are merits to having a little brother in an itinerant lifestyle.
So on Christmas morning, we set off to the Duke's 'jinnah' (paradise), we were a 2 car convoy complete with 'Aunteeeee Fwank!' (as Rashimi calls him), Odile, Gran Gran and Grandfather, the dwarves, J and I. The sky was a cool, eternal blue and as we approached the city of Irbid, makeshift home to thousands of Syrian refugees, the light accentuated the small houses of pale purple, pink and yellow, buried in amongst the beige. It was one of many small reminders that day, of the turmoil that surrounded our happy bubble of family and friends, only a few kilometres over the border. We showed our passports at a couple of check points (the farm is almost on top of both the Israeli and Syrian borders) and drew up through a metal door painted royal blue, where the Duke was standing with his wife Basma, with lots of other guests milling about.
We wandered up the path, lined with palm trees, through a very low, fat door, made of volcanic stone with a cushion tied onto the top to save a scrape on the head, and before us steamed a huge rectangular pool of water from the natural hot spring that feeds the site. Surrounding the pool were a smattering of the Duke's installations, a couple of changing huts, a long table covered in a cloth for lunch and a round bar area slowly being charged with drink. People were already splashing about in the steamy water, swimming between a floating raft with olives and drinks on it, and a stone column with a champagne bottle perched on top. The Lozenge and J jumped into the pool almost immediately where they stayed for most of the morning, while Rashimi had a 2 hour sleep in a small stone house with a domed roof which serves as the Duke and his wife's living area when they stay here, which is most of the winter. In all we must have been about 30 people. As J's father put it: 'Only with the Duke could I be swimming in a thermal pool on the Syrian and Israeli border, on Christmas day, talking to a Chinese girl about her Grandparents' experiences during the Japanese invasion.' There was an expansive range of people including the Chinese girl, the German and Egyptian ambassadors, a historian, and archaeologist, an academic, a Jordanian architect and her husband, and many more besides. The Lozenge spent the day, (between a couple of Harrods alcohol-free mince pies that had been given to the Duke by one of the Jordanian princes, and handed on to our delighted dwarves), making 'thculptures in the jungle' in the surrounding vegetation which was as much of a child's paradise as an adult's.
The faded colours and the steaming pool only make the memory of the day more of a dream sequence in our minds. And sitting back in my den in our flat, now some of our family have left, and we await the arrival of more, I will have to look back in years to come at this entry and the photographs, to believe it really happened.
Friday 20 December 2013
Trojans and Syrians united
For young photographers and documentary makers, shooting a time lapse sequence is one of the most boring things you can do, (according to one of the above who I spoke to here). You decide where you want to point the camera, put it on a tripod, set the time frame up, focus, and then the camera does the rest for you by taking a photograph every however many seconds or minutes you want for as many hours as you want.
But for a mother of dwarves who also dabbles in a bit of camera business, the thought of having 3 uninterrupted hours in a high place above a city, watching the sunset, all alone, is one of the biggest luxuries conceivable.
I set myself up on the 'Duke's panorama' which looks north west over Amman, towards the gallery I'm making the film about. The question was, what to do in these precious three hours other than admire the changing view and think my thoughts. I read a bit of book, sipped a bit of water, did a bit of walking about to keep warm. But the best bit, was being able to look from above as the light gradually changed and ebbed, onto a city that has been our home for nearly a year now. There were all the little landmarks we've come to know, from the newly built skyscrapers on the horizon that were our helpful guides when we first arrived, to the central fruit and vegetable market which throngs late into the night. From my viewpoint, I could see the trolleys laden with shining oranges, their colour almost matching the orb of the sun as it dipped below the skyline. And there were the people milling, and talking and squeezing and haggling. Physical distance from people allows you to wonder who they all are. What are their hopes, their fears, their politics? This country whose demographic has changed consistently each decade since its conception in the '20s as it has absorbed Palestinians, then Iraqis, now Syrians - all escaping their own conflicts and beginning again right here in this city. Slowly the headlights and houselights began to pierce the dusk and I thought at the very best, this country could become richer and prouder with this absorption of human potential. At the very worst…I didn't want to think in those terms, as I looked down on this place that has provided J, I and the dwarves with so many happy moments.
In 'A Life of Montaigne' the book I dipped into from the panorama, there are accounts of the brutal civil conflict between Protestants and Catholics that ran roughshod through much of his lifetime in the 1500's. Many of the descriptions are chillingly familiar, and could be superimposed into much of what we're reading about Syria today.
Harking back even further to 415 BC, there is also clear current relevance within Euripdes' work: 'The Trojan Women', based on the suffering of the women of Troy as their city fell, all their men dead, and they awaited their fate. This week, I went to see a startlingly bare production of this, re-enacted by Syrian refugees - their own stories woven with those of Hecuba, Cassandra and Andromache. It's directed by a Syrian and produced by two British - Charlotte and Willie, who originally came up with the concept. As one Syrian cast member explains: 'There is a speech by Hecuba, when she looks on Troy for the last time, that makes me cry. Because when I was crossing the border in Jordan, my husband said, 'Look back at Syria for one last time for you many never see it again.'
I'm sure this http://www.syriatrojanwomen.org will gather momentum. It's too important not to. Both for outsiders' understanding of the blistering dimensions of this conflict; and also for the therapy of self expression, (I'm sure in most cases for the first time on stage), it must give to the women who perform it.
Grayson Perry also reflects the crucial importance of this in his recent Reith Lectures, which I've finally listened to this weekend as the dwarves and I are alone for a few days. After an afternoon gingerbread bake off (we attempted a house but that required more adults, so opted for 'mans and 'snowmans')…
…I won the iPad battle with the Lozenge and listened to Grayson's last lecture as I carved royal icing off kitchen surfaces with a blunt knife and washed up. Most artists hold some form of sadness, he reckons, but art for him, and for many, has been the very key to finding out who they are and what they're made of. As I listened to him talk so candidly, I thought of those brave young Syrian ladies on stage, heads and bodies masked in black, daring to express themselves in public. (Can you imagine the two camps meeting?) And I was moved to imagine the results that might come of an initiative like this one, both on an individual and universal level.
I'm often a little overawed by this world of art, and the depths of some of the people within it, particularly as I make this documentary on the gallery and its influence both nationally and internationally, which is the reason why I was alone on the Duke's panorama in the dark in the first place. But experiencing all these many and diverse things this week, has only made me more certain that even in the most humble sense, I must k.b.o. because all things almost always start tiny.
But for a mother of dwarves who also dabbles in a bit of camera business, the thought of having 3 uninterrupted hours in a high place above a city, watching the sunset, all alone, is one of the biggest luxuries conceivable.
I set myself up on the 'Duke's panorama' which looks north west over Amman, towards the gallery I'm making the film about. The question was, what to do in these precious three hours other than admire the changing view and think my thoughts. I read a bit of book, sipped a bit of water, did a bit of walking about to keep warm. But the best bit, was being able to look from above as the light gradually changed and ebbed, onto a city that has been our home for nearly a year now. There were all the little landmarks we've come to know, from the newly built skyscrapers on the horizon that were our helpful guides when we first arrived, to the central fruit and vegetable market which throngs late into the night. From my viewpoint, I could see the trolleys laden with shining oranges, their colour almost matching the orb of the sun as it dipped below the skyline. And there were the people milling, and talking and squeezing and haggling. Physical distance from people allows you to wonder who they all are. What are their hopes, their fears, their politics? This country whose demographic has changed consistently each decade since its conception in the '20s as it has absorbed Palestinians, then Iraqis, now Syrians - all escaping their own conflicts and beginning again right here in this city. Slowly the headlights and houselights began to pierce the dusk and I thought at the very best, this country could become richer and prouder with this absorption of human potential. At the very worst…I didn't want to think in those terms, as I looked down on this place that has provided J, I and the dwarves with so many happy moments.
In 'A Life of Montaigne' the book I dipped into from the panorama, there are accounts of the brutal civil conflict between Protestants and Catholics that ran roughshod through much of his lifetime in the 1500's. Many of the descriptions are chillingly familiar, and could be superimposed into much of what we're reading about Syria today.
Harking back even further to 415 BC, there is also clear current relevance within Euripdes' work: 'The Trojan Women', based on the suffering of the women of Troy as their city fell, all their men dead, and they awaited their fate. This week, I went to see a startlingly bare production of this, re-enacted by Syrian refugees - their own stories woven with those of Hecuba, Cassandra and Andromache. It's directed by a Syrian and produced by two British - Charlotte and Willie, who originally came up with the concept. As one Syrian cast member explains: 'There is a speech by Hecuba, when she looks on Troy for the last time, that makes me cry. Because when I was crossing the border in Jordan, my husband said, 'Look back at Syria for one last time for you many never see it again.'
I'm sure this http://www.syriatrojanwomen.org will gather momentum. It's too important not to. Both for outsiders' understanding of the blistering dimensions of this conflict; and also for the therapy of self expression, (I'm sure in most cases for the first time on stage), it must give to the women who perform it.
Grayson Perry also reflects the crucial importance of this in his recent Reith Lectures, which I've finally listened to this weekend as the dwarves and I are alone for a few days. After an afternoon gingerbread bake off (we attempted a house but that required more adults, so opted for 'mans and 'snowmans')…
…I won the iPad battle with the Lozenge and listened to Grayson's last lecture as I carved royal icing off kitchen surfaces with a blunt knife and washed up. Most artists hold some form of sadness, he reckons, but art for him, and for many, has been the very key to finding out who they are and what they're made of. As I listened to him talk so candidly, I thought of those brave young Syrian ladies on stage, heads and bodies masked in black, daring to express themselves in public. (Can you imagine the two camps meeting?) And I was moved to imagine the results that might come of an initiative like this one, both on an individual and universal level.
I'm often a little overawed by this world of art, and the depths of some of the people within it, particularly as I make this documentary on the gallery and its influence both nationally and internationally, which is the reason why I was alone on the Duke's panorama in the dark in the first place. But experiencing all these many and diverse things this week, has only made me more certain that even in the most humble sense, I must k.b.o. because all things almost always start tiny.
Naked aid
For a country made mostly of sand and salt, those in charge of roads in Amman have not covered themselves in glory this week. All roads into Amman have been blocked and the supermarket shelves are looking like they might have in the USSR circa 1985. The Lozenge and I made a trip this week and came back with some UHT milk, a few mouldy onions and a bag of cranberries. The aisles were filled with panic shoppers - trolleys loaded and frowns deeply etched as they shunted other humans of prey out of the way. Let's hope some lorries make it in before J's family arrive for Christmas.
I had a day's work taking photographs for the US fundraising wing of Unicef on Tuesday. Roads were covered in thick ice with waist-high snowdrifts either side. I decided to walk, or rather skate, to our meeting point at the Four Seasons hotel, since no taxis dared venture out, and J had to stay at home with the dwarves until St Grace arrived. I said goodbye to them decked out in my wellies, thick coat and hat. 'Are you going to see the Thyrianth again? I love you Mummy,' said the Lozenge, with a waft of Frosties breath, kissing me on the cheek.
It took me half an hour to walk under a kilometre. I met the team and we set off. After ten minutes we were watching a car ballet of other 4 x 4 vehicles doing slow 360 degree turns on thick ice down the hill. Trying to avoid a rusty truck piled high with chickens in plastic cages, our driver moved to the snowy side of the road and waited, his hands shaking on the wheel, as we watched the surprised looking chickens be taken for the same balletic spins.
It took us 3 hours to reach Za'atari camp, where fortunately, for the estimated 85,000 residents, it had not snowed at all. But the mud was quite bad in some places.
It was the first time I'd visited the camp in winter conditions, and although high temperatures can be just as uncomfortable, people in this region are more accustomed to heat than cold. Most children I saw had some form of footwear - but very few had socks, and most were in plastic sandals. But the children were not standing around complaining about the cold like the adults - they carried on regardless, running about, throwing stones, playing with friends and siblings and any toys they had.
One of our destinations was a child friendly space, managed by a fabulous Australian woman from the child protection unit. The caravan was decked with decorations which created a busy clash with the patterned carpet on which little groups of children were huddled - drawing and chatting. The atmosphere was calm, happy and very warm. The children looked well looked-after and attentive. It can take the extremes in politics and outside conditions to make you wonder at the little areas of safety and harmony which exist within it all.
It reminded me I hadn't been to see the family near our house who I made one of the films about, for a while. So the following day, I popped around with some photographs of them I'd printed. Hamouda and her family have nothing in their little room in the disused apart hotel, apart from some pieces of clothing and matresses on which they sleep. But they have never once asked me for anything, apart from copies of the photographs I took of them over the summer. Hamouda's breath iced as she spoke, in the cold room and the five children she's now responsible for piled in and kissed me at least 7 times each on the cheeks. I noticed Hamouda's hands were red raw and offered my cashmere gloves. She hesitated, then looked me in the eye and said: 'Anjad?' (Really?) and relucantly took them. Their lime green colour matched some of the stitching on her thin shirt. I stayed for an hour or so, managing the Arabic a little better than 4 months ago, then went home to try and find some more warm clothes we could hand over. In some respects those refugees living in the urban spaces around this country, outside of the camps, are more exposed. At least within a camp there is generally a heated health centre, play area or caravan - with gas provided by the Jordanian government.
The Lozenge has been off school this week, and with most roads too treacherous even for Reem with the wheels, the boys and their little sidekick, Lulu have been running wild in our flat which for the first time feels a little small…After a few bits of testing pre-Christmas behaviour from the Lozenge - mostly revolving around presents, J and I took him aside on separate occasions and tried to explain to him, in 4 year old terms, quite how much he had compared to other children nearby. I'm never sure at what moment it's sensible to bring up frank truths - but this seemed an opportune one.
During breakfast this week, the Lozenge disappeared and came back, stark naked but for a wooly hat on his head, backpack on, and a couple of bags in each hand filled with cans of tonic water, some dates, a smattering of plastic fruit from the toy box, and an umbrella. 'I'm off to see the Thyrian peopleth and I'll be back later,' he explained.
I had a day's work taking photographs for the US fundraising wing of Unicef on Tuesday. Roads were covered in thick ice with waist-high snowdrifts either side. I decided to walk, or rather skate, to our meeting point at the Four Seasons hotel, since no taxis dared venture out, and J had to stay at home with the dwarves until St Grace arrived. I said goodbye to them decked out in my wellies, thick coat and hat. 'Are you going to see the Thyrianth again? I love you Mummy,' said the Lozenge, with a waft of Frosties breath, kissing me on the cheek.
It took me half an hour to walk under a kilometre. I met the team and we set off. After ten minutes we were watching a car ballet of other 4 x 4 vehicles doing slow 360 degree turns on thick ice down the hill. Trying to avoid a rusty truck piled high with chickens in plastic cages, our driver moved to the snowy side of the road and waited, his hands shaking on the wheel, as we watched the surprised looking chickens be taken for the same balletic spins.
It took us 3 hours to reach Za'atari camp, where fortunately, for the estimated 85,000 residents, it had not snowed at all. But the mud was quite bad in some places.
It was the first time I'd visited the camp in winter conditions, and although high temperatures can be just as uncomfortable, people in this region are more accustomed to heat than cold. Most children I saw had some form of footwear - but very few had socks, and most were in plastic sandals. But the children were not standing around complaining about the cold like the adults - they carried on regardless, running about, throwing stones, playing with friends and siblings and any toys they had.
One of our destinations was a child friendly space, managed by a fabulous Australian woman from the child protection unit. The caravan was decked with decorations which created a busy clash with the patterned carpet on which little groups of children were huddled - drawing and chatting. The atmosphere was calm, happy and very warm. The children looked well looked-after and attentive. It can take the extremes in politics and outside conditions to make you wonder at the little areas of safety and harmony which exist within it all.
It reminded me I hadn't been to see the family near our house who I made one of the films about, for a while. So the following day, I popped around with some photographs of them I'd printed. Hamouda and her family have nothing in their little room in the disused apart hotel, apart from some pieces of clothing and matresses on which they sleep. But they have never once asked me for anything, apart from copies of the photographs I took of them over the summer. Hamouda's breath iced as she spoke, in the cold room and the five children she's now responsible for piled in and kissed me at least 7 times each on the cheeks. I noticed Hamouda's hands were red raw and offered my cashmere gloves. She hesitated, then looked me in the eye and said: 'Anjad?' (Really?) and relucantly took them. Their lime green colour matched some of the stitching on her thin shirt. I stayed for an hour or so, managing the Arabic a little better than 4 months ago, then went home to try and find some more warm clothes we could hand over. In some respects those refugees living in the urban spaces around this country, outside of the camps, are more exposed. At least within a camp there is generally a heated health centre, play area or caravan - with gas provided by the Jordanian government.
The Lozenge has been off school this week, and with most roads too treacherous even for Reem with the wheels, the boys and their little sidekick, Lulu have been running wild in our flat which for the first time feels a little small…After a few bits of testing pre-Christmas behaviour from the Lozenge - mostly revolving around presents, J and I took him aside on separate occasions and tried to explain to him, in 4 year old terms, quite how much he had compared to other children nearby. I'm never sure at what moment it's sensible to bring up frank truths - but this seemed an opportune one.
During breakfast this week, the Lozenge disappeared and came back, stark naked but for a wooly hat on his head, backpack on, and a couple of bags in each hand filled with cans of tonic water, some dates, a smattering of plastic fruit from the toy box, and an umbrella. 'I'm off to see the Thyrian peopleth and I'll be back later,' he explained.
Saturday 14 December 2013
Dancing through snowdrifts
St Grace and the dwarves had had a 2 night long pyjama party and 2 days worth of bounding in Jordanian snowdrifts, while we were in Jerusalem.
The country had all but ground to a halt by the time J and I drew up into a drift outside our apartment. At this point, I was not missing our vermillion Chevy which would have been buried by now.
We pranced about with the dwarves all afternoon and then ventured out to 'danser la fin de l'annee' with a fabulous French couple who have five children. They are teenagers now, but at one point the couple had five children under six years old. No words can explain our respect for them. And they are still beautiful and laid back.
The dress code was The Artist, from the film. So J and I ventured out in the driving snow, J in a velvet jacket with stick on moustache, me in velvet jumpsuit and wellies. Every five metres there was a deserted car with a pile of snow on the roof, and most moving cars were driving the wrong way up the street with hazard lights on. We crept on, knowing it would be worth reaching our destination. We were the only non-French people at the party, and we danced until 2am until I noticed that J, at least 5 whiskies and a few shots of something unidentifiable down, was conversing in either Arabic or Farsi with most people, and I suggested that I drove home.
We made it, despite having to weave between fallen trees, and at one point having to unhook ourselves from a dangling telegraph cable which had wrapped itself around our wing mirrors.
Not much movement from J the following morning. By 4pm he'd recovered and after intermittent power cuts all day, we spent a happy half hour jumping in snow drifts with the dwarves until the wailing about the cold feet got too much and we retreated inside to watch the scene from a relatively warm apartment.
The country had all but ground to a halt by the time J and I drew up into a drift outside our apartment. At this point, I was not missing our vermillion Chevy which would have been buried by now.
We pranced about with the dwarves all afternoon and then ventured out to 'danser la fin de l'annee' with a fabulous French couple who have five children. They are teenagers now, but at one point the couple had five children under six years old. No words can explain our respect for them. And they are still beautiful and laid back.
The dress code was The Artist, from the film. So J and I ventured out in the driving snow, J in a velvet jacket with stick on moustache, me in velvet jumpsuit and wellies. Every five metres there was a deserted car with a pile of snow on the roof, and most moving cars were driving the wrong way up the street with hazard lights on. We crept on, knowing it would be worth reaching our destination. We were the only non-French people at the party, and we danced until 2am until I noticed that J, at least 5 whiskies and a few shots of something unidentifiable down, was conversing in either Arabic or Farsi with most people, and I suggested that I drove home.
We made it, despite having to weave between fallen trees, and at one point having to unhook ourselves from a dangling telegraph cable which had wrapped itself around our wing mirrors.
Not much movement from J the following morning. By 4pm he'd recovered and after intermittent power cuts all day, we spent a happy half hour jumping in snow drifts with the dwarves until the wailing about the cold feet got too much and we retreated inside to watch the scene from a relatively warm apartment.
I'm not crazy, I'm just not you.
'When you come to Jerusalem, you'll find you hate Israelis for the first year, you'll hate Palestinians for the second, and in the third, well, you'll probably just hate everybody,' an expatriate explained to me in a bar in East Jerusalem last week. 'Make sure you get out often. This place will drive you crazy after a while.'
Right oh.
In the book 'How to live' by Sarah Bakewell, based on the writings and philosphy of Montaigne, she explains how one of his life lessons was to question everything. And another, to guard your humanity. This is a well timed moment to heed his advice.
'I need a map,' I thought, 'and not just a physical one,' as J and I sat in a cafe sheltering from the torrential rain outside, squinting at a menu in Hebrew only half a mile from where we'll be living, where everything is in Arabic. I scrunched icy toes inside my wet socks, inside wet boots, and we watched Haredi men tentatively shuffling along the snowy pavement, with plastic bags fastened tightly over their black hats.
Here in Jordan, plastic bags are the ubiquitous ground covering wherever there's no real estate. But in West Jerusalem, they're put to good use it seems. Though East Jerusalem is still pitifully full of them. Sad versions of randomly coloured Arab flags.
Out of habit, I said: 'Shukran' (thank you in Arabic) to the waiter. I received a blank look, and no answer. We said good bye in English and left.
We visited two schools. Each was impressive in its own right, but with plenty of staff who had evidently moved here for a reason - the light of God shining brightly from their eyes. My mind harked back to a paragraph from Montaigne, and I summoned its powers.
'Among the small but endlessly abundant and therefore very effective things that science ought to heed more than the great, rare things, is goodwill. I mean those expressions of a friendly disposition in interacitons, that smile of the eye, those handclasps, the ease which usually envelops nearly all human actions…It is the continual manifestation of our humanity, its rays of light so to speak, in which everything grows….Good nature, friendliness, and courtesy of heart…have made much greater contributions to culture than those much more famous expressions of this drive, called pity, charity and self-sacrifice.'
I wondered about the difference between the divine rays I'd seen, and Mongaigne's rays of humanity.
J had a meeting and I waited for him in a small reading room. I finished an old copy of Haaretz newspaper which was full of news of more settlements mushrooming, and illegal demolition of houses in East Jerusalem. My eyes scanned the books on the shelf. 'Perfect phrases for dealing with difficult people'; 'I'm not crazy, I'm just not you.' 'Modern weapons and warfare.' 'Casting with a fragile thread.'
We went back to what will soon be our house, and lay on the bed made of 2 singles tacked together, and we gazed upside down at the snow falling on the garden outside and listened to the muezzin calling people to Thursday afternoon prayer.
In the house, there must be at least 40 pieces of solid, brown furniture, not one piece of which fits in the place it should. J and I spent much of the time, when not wading through snowdrifts, dusting off and wrenching the wardrobes, tables, chests of drawers and bed frames to other positions around the house.
We drove back to Jordan after a couple of days. We handed our papers at the first booth in the complicated border process, to an 18 year old Israeli soldier, with an M16 and acne. He stroked the window lovingly and asked me in french: 'C'est anti-balles, le vitre? Oooooh, qu'est ce que c'est beau!' As we drove off, he stood with another soldier (pre-pubescent?), whose gun was noticeably longer than his arm, complaining about the cold.
Right oh.
In the book 'How to live' by Sarah Bakewell, based on the writings and philosphy of Montaigne, she explains how one of his life lessons was to question everything. And another, to guard your humanity. This is a well timed moment to heed his advice.
'I need a map,' I thought, 'and not just a physical one,' as J and I sat in a cafe sheltering from the torrential rain outside, squinting at a menu in Hebrew only half a mile from where we'll be living, where everything is in Arabic. I scrunched icy toes inside my wet socks, inside wet boots, and we watched Haredi men tentatively shuffling along the snowy pavement, with plastic bags fastened tightly over their black hats.
Here in Jordan, plastic bags are the ubiquitous ground covering wherever there's no real estate. But in West Jerusalem, they're put to good use it seems. Though East Jerusalem is still pitifully full of them. Sad versions of randomly coloured Arab flags.
Out of habit, I said: 'Shukran' (thank you in Arabic) to the waiter. I received a blank look, and no answer. We said good bye in English and left.
We visited two schools. Each was impressive in its own right, but with plenty of staff who had evidently moved here for a reason - the light of God shining brightly from their eyes. My mind harked back to a paragraph from Montaigne, and I summoned its powers.
'Among the small but endlessly abundant and therefore very effective things that science ought to heed more than the great, rare things, is goodwill. I mean those expressions of a friendly disposition in interacitons, that smile of the eye, those handclasps, the ease which usually envelops nearly all human actions…It is the continual manifestation of our humanity, its rays of light so to speak, in which everything grows….Good nature, friendliness, and courtesy of heart…have made much greater contributions to culture than those much more famous expressions of this drive, called pity, charity and self-sacrifice.'
I wondered about the difference between the divine rays I'd seen, and Mongaigne's rays of humanity.
J had a meeting and I waited for him in a small reading room. I finished an old copy of Haaretz newspaper which was full of news of more settlements mushrooming, and illegal demolition of houses in East Jerusalem. My eyes scanned the books on the shelf. 'Perfect phrases for dealing with difficult people'; 'I'm not crazy, I'm just not you.' 'Modern weapons and warfare.' 'Casting with a fragile thread.'
We went back to what will soon be our house, and lay on the bed made of 2 singles tacked together, and we gazed upside down at the snow falling on the garden outside and listened to the muezzin calling people to Thursday afternoon prayer.
In the house, there must be at least 40 pieces of solid, brown furniture, not one piece of which fits in the place it should. J and I spent much of the time, when not wading through snowdrifts, dusting off and wrenching the wardrobes, tables, chests of drawers and bed frames to other positions around the house.
We drove back to Jordan after a couple of days. We handed our papers at the first booth in the complicated border process, to an 18 year old Israeli soldier, with an M16 and acne. He stroked the window lovingly and asked me in french: 'C'est anti-balles, le vitre? Oooooh, qu'est ce que c'est beau!' As we drove off, he stood with another soldier (pre-pubescent?), whose gun was noticeably longer than his arm, complaining about the cold.
Joseph and his wives
I sat with the Lozenge and looked at our small, tin nativity scene I bought in Mexico, and introduced some of the characters in it. 'There's the baby Jesus. These are the kings and the shepherds. This is his father, Joseph…'
'…and those are Jotheph's wiveth,' said the Lozenge, pointing to Mary and the angels.
Although Jordan has a significant Christian population, and our supermarket is stacked with piles of Panetone and chocolate Santa Clauses, it takes a little more than this to conjure up a Christmas spirit.
Although we have the said navity scene out, a tree, and an abundance of paper chains and tinsel thanks to the Lozenge who wanted to decorate every room including the bathroom, we are having to work harder at a festive atmosphere than we would do at home.
I listened to some carols from Kings College in the kitchen while cooking one evening, wincing a little over the mingling of the angelic trebles with the muezzin's vocals from the neighbouring mosque.
And St Grace has come into her own. Since she's Christian herself, she is very au fait with the traditions we are used to, and put her own touch to it with great excitement from the dwarves, using whatever she could find in the fridge and cupboard.
'…and those are Jotheph's wiveth,' said the Lozenge, pointing to Mary and the angels.
Although Jordan has a significant Christian population, and our supermarket is stacked with piles of Panetone and chocolate Santa Clauses, it takes a little more than this to conjure up a Christmas spirit.
Although we have the said navity scene out, a tree, and an abundance of paper chains and tinsel thanks to the Lozenge who wanted to decorate every room including the bathroom, we are having to work harder at a festive atmosphere than we would do at home.
I listened to some carols from Kings College in the kitchen while cooking one evening, wincing a little over the mingling of the angelic trebles with the muezzin's vocals from the neighbouring mosque.
And St Grace has come into her own. Since she's Christian herself, she is very au fait with the traditions we are used to, and put her own touch to it with great excitement from the dwarves, using whatever she could find in the fridge and cupboard.
Wash ground
'Wash gwound,' mused Rashimi as he gazed at the raindrops splodging onto the street below. How few of them he has seen in his short life to date. Winter has arrived. It is quite cold and there is so much rainwater on the hard earth now, that the roads have turned to rivers, and Jordanian drivers either stay at home or find themselves in even more calamitous situations than usual. Which is very calamitous indeed.
The day upon day of rain coincided with a visit from beloved auntie Rosie, with her baby-to-be, who arrived for a week's holiday. But nothing could have marred the moments we spent together and the dwarves were ecstatic to have her with us. My daily struggle was stopping Rashimi from breaking into her room and waking her up each morning at 7am. 'Wake up auntie Woseeeee!'
J and I had our first parent teacher meeting at the Lozenge's school. We sat on tiny childrens' chairs chatting to the generously proportioned teacher in the colourful classroom with snowmen dangling by our faces. The Lozenge is happy there and has made lots of friends. I am inevitably sad about uprooting him to start all over again up the road in Jerusalem.
St Grace's new sidekick 'Weem' (with the wheels) has become a valued member of the team, and is now looking after a 3 and half year old American girl, Luciana, who comes to hang out with the dwarves in the afternoons. She has wavy dark hair down to her diminutive bottom, and takes no prisoners. The boys love her and there is much talk of 'Loothiannaaaaa!' and what they've all been up to.
We escaped with auntie Rosie to the Dead Sea for a few more degrees of warmth in the belly of the earth, and a gloopy salted mud session…
As I watched her elegant backview disappearing from view at the airport departures I was relieved the Lozenge was with me to stop the lump in my throat turning into tears. Next time I see her she will be a mother and the following chapter of her life will come to be written.
The day upon day of rain coincided with a visit from beloved auntie Rosie, with her baby-to-be, who arrived for a week's holiday. But nothing could have marred the moments we spent together and the dwarves were ecstatic to have her with us. My daily struggle was stopping Rashimi from breaking into her room and waking her up each morning at 7am. 'Wake up auntie Woseeeee!'
J and I had our first parent teacher meeting at the Lozenge's school. We sat on tiny childrens' chairs chatting to the generously proportioned teacher in the colourful classroom with snowmen dangling by our faces. The Lozenge is happy there and has made lots of friends. I am inevitably sad about uprooting him to start all over again up the road in Jerusalem.
St Grace's new sidekick 'Weem' (with the wheels) has become a valued member of the team, and is now looking after a 3 and half year old American girl, Luciana, who comes to hang out with the dwarves in the afternoons. She has wavy dark hair down to her diminutive bottom, and takes no prisoners. The boys love her and there is much talk of 'Loothiannaaaaa!' and what they've all been up to.
We escaped with auntie Rosie to the Dead Sea for a few more degrees of warmth in the belly of the earth, and a gloopy salted mud session…
As I watched her elegant backview disappearing from view at the airport departures I was relieved the Lozenge was with me to stop the lump in my throat turning into tears. Next time I see her she will be a mother and the following chapter of her life will come to be written.
Sunday 1 December 2013
St Grace's natural ataraxia
The weather is becoming cooler and the Lozenge and I try to grab a few minutes to run about and do stretches in the little garden below our flat before he boards the school bus at 7.40am. The Lozenge is often at his most philosophical at this hour, sitting on the step, sniffing a jasmine flower with a faint remnant of a milk moustache. These are precious minutes which I have learned to treasure before the day begins in earnest.
Rashimi, less philosophical, has started to express his annoyance at me having a job besides motherhood. 'Naughty Mummy work,' he said to me last week. He must have noticed that my working life is becoming a pressure cooker as the end of January approaches, when we will pack up our things almost a year on from arriving here, and move up the road to Jerusalem. I have to finish the documentary about the gallery by then. And I also want to have gathered as much material for the series on Palestinians of 1948 before we leave, so I will be able to edit these while I look for work the other side of the border. We have plenty of Jordanian Christmas festivities planned in this time too, with lots of visitors. And Rashimi must have noticed a certain determination in my stride.
The Glammy whisked the dwarves off to her flat for one last frolic before she set sail for her new job in Bahrain. Rashimi's favourite song is 'Call me, maybe' (Callleee maybeeeee) and now I can't listen to it as it makes me cry with memories of the Glammy's remarkable presence in our lives. I was worried about her for the last week as she explained she couldn't move from her bed or stop sleeping, and I wondered if she was depressed. But yesterday we had our final goodbye with a lunch at her house - and we met Ahmad, her new husband, who has the kindest, twinkliest eyes and a gentle demeanour. 'It's taken me nearly 3 years to get to her,' he said. And J and I could both see that he is the very best outcome of an extraordinary situation. This is all that matters.
Meanwhile, we joked, that St Grace was going home to lie with cucumber slices on her eyes all weekend, after her second week with us. I noticed she looked a bit pale. And I know how she feels after dwarf wrangling for five days on the trot. However, she has the most unflustered countenance, and J and I agreed, almost a spiritual peace about her.
In the book about Montaigne by Sarah Bakewell, there's an explanation of the little tricks he used for the art of living. I doubt Grace is aware of it, but I'm sure she's near this way of being in the most natural way.
The author explains that Montaigne strived to: 'achieve a way of living known in the original Greek as eudaimonia, which can be translated as 'happiness', 'joy', or 'human flourishing'. This meant living well in every sense: thriving, relisihng life, being a good person. The best path to eudaimonia was ataraxia, which might be rendered as 'imperturbability' or 'freedom from anxiety'. Ataraxia means equilibrium: the art of maintaining an even keel, so that you neither exult when things go well nor plunge into despair when they go awry. To attain it is to have control over your emotions, so that you are not battered and dragged about by them like a bone fought over by a pack of dogs.'
I hope she passes on her natural ataraxia to our dwarves (though I do love their exultations). And I'm hoping through human osmosis, a little ataraxia might rub off on me along the way.
Rashimi, less philosophical, has started to express his annoyance at me having a job besides motherhood. 'Naughty Mummy work,' he said to me last week. He must have noticed that my working life is becoming a pressure cooker as the end of January approaches, when we will pack up our things almost a year on from arriving here, and move up the road to Jerusalem. I have to finish the documentary about the gallery by then. And I also want to have gathered as much material for the series on Palestinians of 1948 before we leave, so I will be able to edit these while I look for work the other side of the border. We have plenty of Jordanian Christmas festivities planned in this time too, with lots of visitors. And Rashimi must have noticed a certain determination in my stride.
The Glammy whisked the dwarves off to her flat for one last frolic before she set sail for her new job in Bahrain. Rashimi's favourite song is 'Call me, maybe' (Callleee maybeeeee) and now I can't listen to it as it makes me cry with memories of the Glammy's remarkable presence in our lives. I was worried about her for the last week as she explained she couldn't move from her bed or stop sleeping, and I wondered if she was depressed. But yesterday we had our final goodbye with a lunch at her house - and we met Ahmad, her new husband, who has the kindest, twinkliest eyes and a gentle demeanour. 'It's taken me nearly 3 years to get to her,' he said. And J and I could both see that he is the very best outcome of an extraordinary situation. This is all that matters.
Meanwhile, we joked, that St Grace was going home to lie with cucumber slices on her eyes all weekend, after her second week with us. I noticed she looked a bit pale. And I know how she feels after dwarf wrangling for five days on the trot. However, she has the most unflustered countenance, and J and I agreed, almost a spiritual peace about her.
In the book about Montaigne by Sarah Bakewell, there's an explanation of the little tricks he used for the art of living. I doubt Grace is aware of it, but I'm sure she's near this way of being in the most natural way.
The author explains that Montaigne strived to: 'achieve a way of living known in the original Greek as eudaimonia, which can be translated as 'happiness', 'joy', or 'human flourishing'. This meant living well in every sense: thriving, relisihng life, being a good person. The best path to eudaimonia was ataraxia, which might be rendered as 'imperturbability' or 'freedom from anxiety'. Ataraxia means equilibrium: the art of maintaining an even keel, so that you neither exult when things go well nor plunge into despair when they go awry. To attain it is to have control over your emotions, so that you are not battered and dragged about by them like a bone fought over by a pack of dogs.'
I hope she passes on her natural ataraxia to our dwarves (though I do love their exultations). And I'm hoping through human osmosis, a little ataraxia might rub off on me along the way.
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