Friday, 28 February 2014
Monday, 24 February 2014
Tripping around holy places
Ever since I took part in a retreat in an Abbey prior to my confirmation, where we - a gaggle of 14 year old girls - spent time giggling in the cloisters and spending our pocket money on Virgin Mary key rings, I've noticed that holy places can take on an almost cartoon-like cariacature making it hard to take them seriously.
Jerusalem is not short of these places. You have to tear away the centuries of pilgrimage, man-made constructions and tatt shops surrounding a particular shrine, to imagine what it might have been like in its true simplistic glory.
Throw in a couple of dwarves, and you find yourself even further from the spiritual. The first instance was last Sunday when we ventured to a service within the walls of the old city and spent nearly two hours in a church with heating to rival an old folk's care home, and evangelical singing accompanied with guitar and piano. The 'sunday school' room stood starkly empty and the harmonies of 'give us peace in our hearts' were interlaced with Rashimi's decibels as rivals in the rafters. 'I WANT POMAPARROT JOOOS MUMMMYY!' The tastes of the orient are not lost on our boys and pomegranate juice has become a favourite subsitute for Ribena.
You'd like to imagine that a god loving congregation would welcome a 2 and a 4 year old in their ranks - but by the looks of the faces (all occidental and in Jerusalem for a Reason) which turned from beatific to begrudging on our entrance, it makes you wonder whether a lot of holiness isn't simply stuck on top of a wholelotofcracks. We left about 40 minutes into the sermon and gasped mouthfuls of cool air as we scuttled down the cobbles back to Jaffa gate.
Later in the week, I took the dwarves to the Mount of Olives, not far from our house which looks West over the city with one of the best views of the 'Haram as Sharif' and the golden Dome of the Rock. It is almost entirely covered with churches and graveyards dating back 3,000 years. It's a sought after burial site for all of the monotheistic faiths, and contains the remains of many well known figures including Robert Maxwell and Menachem Begin, who when head of the Irgun (the militant right-wing Zionist underground organisation), was responsible for the bombing of the King David Hotel in 1946, killing 96 people and injuring many more.
I'm not sure I'll put my name on the list to be buried up there.
We had a good run about Pater Noster with the Lozenge shouting: 'But Mummy, where are the oliveth?' having perhaps imagined we were about to slither up a black and glistening mount of his favourite food. The original church was built on the orders of St Helena during the 4th Century, but the building which stands there now is from 19th century and boasts tiled panels of the Lord's prayer in nearly 200 languages.
As we tumbled out of our car we became snarled up with a group of Japanese tourists disembarking from a coach who we found later reciting the Lord's prayer in Japanese in an underground recess when Rashimi kicked the football into the midst of them. And we interrupted an American TV crew broadcasting a holy programme from the neighbouring olive grove.
Leaving the more devout to their worship we tripped downhill, following a runaway scooter and football to the viewpoint, where the Lozenge decided he wanted to sit on a camel,
and Rashimi watched bemused as a group of teenage Israeli soldiers posed for a photograph with the Dome of the Rock in the background. As I saw his beady blue eyes gazing at the black metal of their guns, I realised there were fewer years dividing Rashimi and the soldiers, than between the soldiers and myself. In 15.5 years, Rashimi could be legally in the uniform himself, guarding a holy site - with an automatic weapon and point and shoot camera.
Jerusalem is not short of these places. You have to tear away the centuries of pilgrimage, man-made constructions and tatt shops surrounding a particular shrine, to imagine what it might have been like in its true simplistic glory.
Throw in a couple of dwarves, and you find yourself even further from the spiritual. The first instance was last Sunday when we ventured to a service within the walls of the old city and spent nearly two hours in a church with heating to rival an old folk's care home, and evangelical singing accompanied with guitar and piano. The 'sunday school' room stood starkly empty and the harmonies of 'give us peace in our hearts' were interlaced with Rashimi's decibels as rivals in the rafters. 'I WANT POMAPARROT JOOOS MUMMMYY!' The tastes of the orient are not lost on our boys and pomegranate juice has become a favourite subsitute for Ribena.
You'd like to imagine that a god loving congregation would welcome a 2 and a 4 year old in their ranks - but by the looks of the faces (all occidental and in Jerusalem for a Reason) which turned from beatific to begrudging on our entrance, it makes you wonder whether a lot of holiness isn't simply stuck on top of a wholelotofcracks. We left about 40 minutes into the sermon and gasped mouthfuls of cool air as we scuttled down the cobbles back to Jaffa gate.
Later in the week, I took the dwarves to the Mount of Olives, not far from our house which looks West over the city with one of the best views of the 'Haram as Sharif' and the golden Dome of the Rock. It is almost entirely covered with churches and graveyards dating back 3,000 years. It's a sought after burial site for all of the monotheistic faiths, and contains the remains of many well known figures including Robert Maxwell and Menachem Begin, who when head of the Irgun (the militant right-wing Zionist underground organisation), was responsible for the bombing of the King David Hotel in 1946, killing 96 people and injuring many more.
I'm not sure I'll put my name on the list to be buried up there.
We had a good run about Pater Noster with the Lozenge shouting: 'But Mummy, where are the oliveth?' having perhaps imagined we were about to slither up a black and glistening mount of his favourite food. The original church was built on the orders of St Helena during the 4th Century, but the building which stands there now is from 19th century and boasts tiled panels of the Lord's prayer in nearly 200 languages.
 |
| The dwarves bolting down a cloister in Pater Noster towards a panel of the Lord's prayer written in Czech |
Leaving the more devout to their worship we tripped downhill, following a runaway scooter and football to the viewpoint, where the Lozenge decided he wanted to sit on a camel,
and Rashimi watched bemused as a group of teenage Israeli soldiers posed for a photograph with the Dome of the Rock in the background. As I saw his beady blue eyes gazing at the black metal of their guns, I realised there were fewer years dividing Rashimi and the soldiers, than between the soldiers and myself. In 15.5 years, Rashimi could be legally in the uniform himself, guarding a holy site - with an automatic weapon and point and shoot camera.
Jaffa
The Lozenge seems to be fairly practical about the need to feel at home, and spent most of the morning rearranging the sofas in the sitting room so 'they are like in Jordan'. He's made the layout of sofa, coffee table and arm chairs an almost exact pattern of our last flat in Amman, and doesn't seem to mind that now we can't see the telly from the sofa, or get out the back door because of the chair.
Rashimi on the other hand is content as long as he has a beaker of 'pomaparrot joos' and either St Grace or myself, somewhere at hand.
We have been eating a lot of 'calamantina' oranges since now is the season, and we have a tree in the garden which bears dwarf sized ones which has been a great source of fascination and vitamin C since we arrived. The larger ones you find in the shop are emblazoned with a familiar sticker from childhood: 'JAFFA', which doesn't seem to have changed in size, colour or logo since I was a little girl.
We ventured to Jaffa this weekend. It's confusing as it now features on the same blob of the map as the modern southern mediterranean city of Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv was founded on this patch of coast line on the outskirts of Jaffa in 1909 by Jewish immigrants, but this modern urbanisation grew much quicker than Jaffa which had a majority Arab population at the time.
We spent the day with a wonderful and warm American couple and their children who moved to Jaffa from Jerusalem for a more care-free lifestyle overlooking the sea and have found exactly that. The city feels like another country from Jerusalem. The church spires, synagogues and minarets are dwarfed by the tower blocks of Tel Aviv, and we saw not one covered head. Dreds and bandanas take the place of capels and hijabs and the little port side was like a combination of a Cornish fishing village, Shoreditch in London and the Meatpacking district in New York. The wooden boarded sea front was filled with seemingly secular families eating ice creams and walking their dogs.
We took a small boat out to sea and looked back at the coast line. There were a group of Bedouin women on board from the Negev - the only headscarves we saw all day - who spent the ride dancing around to Arab pop and 'C'est la vie' all smiles of gold teeth and pungent perfume. Rashimi was entranced.
Tel Aviv is famed for its Bauhaus, but from our little boat bobbing just off the coast, looked more like Benidorm - the stone Ottoman and Arab buildings of Jaffa overshadowed by the white metropolis to the North. It seemed to me to be a visual picture of the general state of this country - with Israel overshadowing what was once known as Palestine - with its more advanced technology and stronger and highly honed politics, steadily pushing the poorer relation out of the frame.
Last week, Haaretz newspaper published an article by Amira Hass, 'Water Torture for the Palestinians' where she described the systematic discrimination in water allocations to the Palestinians, particularly in the West Bank where thousands of families: 'expend huge amounts of time, money and emotional and physical energy just to ensure basic things like showers, laundry and washing floors and dishes.' Below her article is a letter from a Palestinian farmer near Hebron who explains his living situation.
'Access to 70 per cent of our water wells is currently blocked. Demolition orders hang over our heads. To reach the wells, we need a special permit from the Israeli army….I would like to believe that you, too, understand that no one should live that way. No child should have to be afraid to drink a glass of water lest there be none tomorrow. These are my difficulties. These are my children's fears.'
As I looked at the looming physical presence sitting beside the ancient Arab port, I remembered his words.
We returned home to find St Grace who had been a bit bored without us and wondered which sea we'd been to as she hadn't heard of the Mediterranean. I showed her on the dwarves' world map in the playroom. I thought she would have needed a rest after all her work, but I suppose her reason for being here is us, and without us in the house, she must also wonder why she is here. Though she has already made a clutch of Sri Lankan friends and this weekend went to a service at the Holy Sepulchre in the old city. She explained with tears in her eyes: 'And we thought as we lit candles, that these are the stones that Jesus walked, and this is the rock that was by his grave. And we can't believe we are here and we can see it.'
Rashimi on the other hand is content as long as he has a beaker of 'pomaparrot joos' and either St Grace or myself, somewhere at hand.
We have been eating a lot of 'calamantina' oranges since now is the season, and we have a tree in the garden which bears dwarf sized ones which has been a great source of fascination and vitamin C since we arrived. The larger ones you find in the shop are emblazoned with a familiar sticker from childhood: 'JAFFA', which doesn't seem to have changed in size, colour or logo since I was a little girl.
We ventured to Jaffa this weekend. It's confusing as it now features on the same blob of the map as the modern southern mediterranean city of Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv was founded on this patch of coast line on the outskirts of Jaffa in 1909 by Jewish immigrants, but this modern urbanisation grew much quicker than Jaffa which had a majority Arab population at the time.
We spent the day with a wonderful and warm American couple and their children who moved to Jaffa from Jerusalem for a more care-free lifestyle overlooking the sea and have found exactly that. The city feels like another country from Jerusalem. The church spires, synagogues and minarets are dwarfed by the tower blocks of Tel Aviv, and we saw not one covered head. Dreds and bandanas take the place of capels and hijabs and the little port side was like a combination of a Cornish fishing village, Shoreditch in London and the Meatpacking district in New York. The wooden boarded sea front was filled with seemingly secular families eating ice creams and walking their dogs.
We took a small boat out to sea and looked back at the coast line. There were a group of Bedouin women on board from the Negev - the only headscarves we saw all day - who spent the ride dancing around to Arab pop and 'C'est la vie' all smiles of gold teeth and pungent perfume. Rashimi was entranced.
Tel Aviv is famed for its Bauhaus, but from our little boat bobbing just off the coast, looked more like Benidorm - the stone Ottoman and Arab buildings of Jaffa overshadowed by the white metropolis to the North. It seemed to me to be a visual picture of the general state of this country - with Israel overshadowing what was once known as Palestine - with its more advanced technology and stronger and highly honed politics, steadily pushing the poorer relation out of the frame.
Last week, Haaretz newspaper published an article by Amira Hass, 'Water Torture for the Palestinians' where she described the systematic discrimination in water allocations to the Palestinians, particularly in the West Bank where thousands of families: 'expend huge amounts of time, money and emotional and physical energy just to ensure basic things like showers, laundry and washing floors and dishes.' Below her article is a letter from a Palestinian farmer near Hebron who explains his living situation.
'Access to 70 per cent of our water wells is currently blocked. Demolition orders hang over our heads. To reach the wells, we need a special permit from the Israeli army….I would like to believe that you, too, understand that no one should live that way. No child should have to be afraid to drink a glass of water lest there be none tomorrow. These are my difficulties. These are my children's fears.'
As I looked at the looming physical presence sitting beside the ancient Arab port, I remembered his words.
We returned home to find St Grace who had been a bit bored without us and wondered which sea we'd been to as she hadn't heard of the Mediterranean. I showed her on the dwarves' world map in the playroom. I thought she would have needed a rest after all her work, but I suppose her reason for being here is us, and without us in the house, she must also wonder why she is here. Though she has already made a clutch of Sri Lankan friends and this weekend went to a service at the Holy Sepulchre in the old city. She explained with tears in her eyes: 'And we thought as we lit candles, that these are the stones that Jesus walked, and this is the rock that was by his grave. And we can't believe we are here and we can see it.'
An Armenian fringe and a remote heart
Getting to know a city is all about the people you meet. But you don't always meet these people when you need them. One of the guides I'm finding most useful at the moment is an account of an American family in the Holy City between 1881 and 1949. My godmother Janie gave it to me, and through it I'm understanding the premise with which so many people have come to settle in Jerusalem over the centuries, creating little 'colonies' of culture, building and good works - which is one of the reasons the food, architecture and all other cultural imprints, are so rich and varied.
The author, Bertha Spafford Vester arrived in Jerusalem in 1881 after her parents had suffered setbacks and tragedies in their home city of Chicago - notably the fire there which destroyed most of the city in 1871, and having lost all four of their little daughters at sea in a ship wreck. Bertha's mother, Anne, was saved as her unconscious body was lifted to the surface by a floating plank. This freak miracle would make anyone wonder if they had been saved for a reason. And she, already a staunch Christian like most people of her time, decided she must have a greater purpose in life. She and her husband Horatio moved to Jerusalem and had two more daughters - one of whom is the author of the book. Through this enlightening and detailed account of their lives in this city nearly 150 years ago - I feel like I have a ghost of a guide, helping me look at buildings, quarters and people in a new way. It's hard to know at which point to enter this city historically - and I would say the 1880's is a fairly good point, the era when so many Russian jews were escaping the pogroms. Two million jews fled Russia between 1880 and 1920, and many of these began a new life in Palestine. And families like the Spaffords arrived and created the American Colony - now a beautiful hotel very close to our house; and the Spafford Children's Center which cares for some of the most disadvantaged children in East Jerusalem and the West Bank and is still running today.
The other way of discovering a city of course, is just by living in it, and finding things when needs arise - such as the Armenian hairdresser who did a good butchery job on Rashimi's fringe. Here he is just after next to a prize marrow in the market which was longer than him. He refused to lie down beside it for the perspective shot.
The Armenian hairdresser's grandfather was also a barber, and has a certificate from the British Consul General at the time (1948) explaining he was never disappointed by a haircut in the 3 years he spent in the city. His grandson is known to have cut Cherie Blair's barnet from time to time, when in the Holy City with Tony for his work with the Quartet, and her own projects besides.
Our area is full of gems like these, but as you walk down the street you wonder about the state of the place. Almost all women are entirely covered up, unlike in Jordan where you can veer between spray on jeans and highlighted locks, to a crown to floor hijab on the same pavement. But here Muslim ladies' fashion seems to favour the 'manteau' long dark coat with long sleeves and buttons with a tight headscarf, and when we smile - expressions are fixed and grim, even from fellow mothers with children. There is one tiny park within walking distance where I occasionally take the dwarves for a scamper. But I have to hold my breath as they climb the trees and swing from the peeling painted bars in the playground, as the ground is a swathe of broken glass, twinkling in the sunlight. As we ran home one day past a wall of graffiti - the dwarves' little heads bobbing up and down past Arabic scrawls of 'Hamas' and 'Fatah' I wondered what I would do if I were one of these women, trying to brave out family life in this quarter which is so much in need of some care. And who does care? Do the residents care that it looks like this? And why does the West side look so much smarter when it's supposedly the Israeli authorities who govern both East and West of the city? For all the graffiti of Hamas and Fatah - neither are in charge here as Hamas governs Gaza, and Fatah the West Bank. Where are the recycling bins on this side? And where are the big green parks?
On a trip to the supermarket the dwarves ran riot down the aisles and I lost them temporarily, to find them a minute later sitting on a low metal bar by the freezer section chomping on a twix which they'd ripped into. They are accomplices now, and I the outsider. One young man, just one check out assistant at the row of three machines, watched as I struggled to fill the bags of shopping and stop the dwarves from running onto the road of boy racers pumping past too fast. He reluctantly helped me to the car with the shopping.
To burn off steam back home we've been raking, bouncing and digging. And in my head I've been wondering what we can make of this little patch of outside space which looks like no one has given some love to for a while. A lot is the answer, and I'm hoping a green fingered gene might have found its way somehow into my pool. Everything grows here it seems and the Lozenge is ready to plant.
Though my body is here, my thoughts are also very much at home. I found a little scrabble piece under the sofa in the playroom. It was the letter 'R'. And it sits on my dressing table which is still bare while our belongings make their way on a ship from Aqaba and arrive near the end of March. But this little letter is all I need to keep auntie Rosie in mind as she prepares for the arrival of her first child. As I trip around the cobbles of the old city with the dwarves, or wonder whether I want to get involved in ex-pat Facebook facades, or sit in my office fiddling about making this documentary a little bit better, my eyes are drawn to the little olive tree in the garden with the sunshine peeping through it, and my heart feels quite far from here if the truth be known. Our roots are always where they started when it comes down to it, and I know that the olive tree understands that.
The author, Bertha Spafford Vester arrived in Jerusalem in 1881 after her parents had suffered setbacks and tragedies in their home city of Chicago - notably the fire there which destroyed most of the city in 1871, and having lost all four of their little daughters at sea in a ship wreck. Bertha's mother, Anne, was saved as her unconscious body was lifted to the surface by a floating plank. This freak miracle would make anyone wonder if they had been saved for a reason. And she, already a staunch Christian like most people of her time, decided she must have a greater purpose in life. She and her husband Horatio moved to Jerusalem and had two more daughters - one of whom is the author of the book. Through this enlightening and detailed account of their lives in this city nearly 150 years ago - I feel like I have a ghost of a guide, helping me look at buildings, quarters and people in a new way. It's hard to know at which point to enter this city historically - and I would say the 1880's is a fairly good point, the era when so many Russian jews were escaping the pogroms. Two million jews fled Russia between 1880 and 1920, and many of these began a new life in Palestine. And families like the Spaffords arrived and created the American Colony - now a beautiful hotel very close to our house; and the Spafford Children's Center which cares for some of the most disadvantaged children in East Jerusalem and the West Bank and is still running today.
The other way of discovering a city of course, is just by living in it, and finding things when needs arise - such as the Armenian hairdresser who did a good butchery job on Rashimi's fringe. Here he is just after next to a prize marrow in the market which was longer than him. He refused to lie down beside it for the perspective shot.
The Armenian hairdresser's grandfather was also a barber, and has a certificate from the British Consul General at the time (1948) explaining he was never disappointed by a haircut in the 3 years he spent in the city. His grandson is known to have cut Cherie Blair's barnet from time to time, when in the Holy City with Tony for his work with the Quartet, and her own projects besides.
Our area is full of gems like these, but as you walk down the street you wonder about the state of the place. Almost all women are entirely covered up, unlike in Jordan where you can veer between spray on jeans and highlighted locks, to a crown to floor hijab on the same pavement. But here Muslim ladies' fashion seems to favour the 'manteau' long dark coat with long sleeves and buttons with a tight headscarf, and when we smile - expressions are fixed and grim, even from fellow mothers with children. There is one tiny park within walking distance where I occasionally take the dwarves for a scamper. But I have to hold my breath as they climb the trees and swing from the peeling painted bars in the playground, as the ground is a swathe of broken glass, twinkling in the sunlight. As we ran home one day past a wall of graffiti - the dwarves' little heads bobbing up and down past Arabic scrawls of 'Hamas' and 'Fatah' I wondered what I would do if I were one of these women, trying to brave out family life in this quarter which is so much in need of some care. And who does care? Do the residents care that it looks like this? And why does the West side look so much smarter when it's supposedly the Israeli authorities who govern both East and West of the city? For all the graffiti of Hamas and Fatah - neither are in charge here as Hamas governs Gaza, and Fatah the West Bank. Where are the recycling bins on this side? And where are the big green parks?
On a trip to the supermarket the dwarves ran riot down the aisles and I lost them temporarily, to find them a minute later sitting on a low metal bar by the freezer section chomping on a twix which they'd ripped into. They are accomplices now, and I the outsider. One young man, just one check out assistant at the row of three machines, watched as I struggled to fill the bags of shopping and stop the dwarves from running onto the road of boy racers pumping past too fast. He reluctantly helped me to the car with the shopping.
To burn off steam back home we've been raking, bouncing and digging. And in my head I've been wondering what we can make of this little patch of outside space which looks like no one has given some love to for a while. A lot is the answer, and I'm hoping a green fingered gene might have found its way somehow into my pool. Everything grows here it seems and the Lozenge is ready to plant.
Though my body is here, my thoughts are also very much at home. I found a little scrabble piece under the sofa in the playroom. It was the letter 'R'. And it sits on my dressing table which is still bare while our belongings make their way on a ship from Aqaba and arrive near the end of March. But this little letter is all I need to keep auntie Rosie in mind as she prepares for the arrival of her first child. As I trip around the cobbles of the old city with the dwarves, or wonder whether I want to get involved in ex-pat Facebook facades, or sit in my office fiddling about making this documentary a little bit better, my eyes are drawn to the little olive tree in the garden with the sunshine peeping through it, and my heart feels quite far from here if the truth be known. Our roots are always where they started when it comes down to it, and I know that the olive tree understands that.
Friday, 14 February 2014
A trip back to Jordan, and worms for the chicks
I set out for Jordan early on Wednesday morning. As I headed towards the border the mountains on the other side were a haze of different hues of blue, the Dead Sea a sliver of orange at their feet.
The welcome from the Jordan side was as ever a comfort. 'Always, you are welcome.' In some ways it was like going home, and within 2.5 hours I'd reached the Darat gallery and was sitting with its founder watching the documentary again. We spent the whole day working and deciding which changes to make and by 7pm I was at the Duke's house, bearing 2 mammoth cartons of Marlboro reds and a bottle of whisky, which he and his lovely wife pounced upon like the dwarves to a bag of sweets. It's getting harder to find affordable alcohol and cigarettes, they told me, so at least I hadn't bothered with soap and chocolates. The Duke went out on an official engagment, and I sat for the evening with his wife, having dinner which her cook had prepared. Stuffed zucchini in tomato sauce with grilled aubergine, followed by cheesecake.
The following morning I had a few minutes with the Duke who was off to the German University for a lecture at 9am. His schedule is quite something for a 75 year old. 'I get myself into these situations by opening doors all the time,' he said. 'I have myself to blame but what am I to do?' He went on to explain how worried he is about the ever increasing rift between rich and poor in the city, with food prices and unemployment rocketing. 'We live here in this poor area, and I read the graffiti the young people write, and I know what's in here,' he said, thumping his guts. 'The rich Jordanians construct these huge buildings which they can't even rent out, and they have no idea what is going on in the East side. And do they care?'
Part of his ploy is to get the younger wealthier Jordanians to come over the other side and understand what's happening.
He asked me how was Jerusalem and admitted to having goosebumps when I explained where we lived, as before 1967 he spent a lot of time in this city, particularly in our neighbourhood. Out of solidarity, he hasn't returned since.
'Nothing is ever good or bad but thinking makes it so,' he quoted from Shakespeare, grabbed his bag, and left.
His wife emerged in her dressing gown to have breakfast with me. We ate eggs from their farm, labaneh and olive oil, and preserved khoshkhaash (like a bitter orange) skin which tasted like marmalade. She's worried as they've still had no rain in Jordan, and their cows have nothing to eat. The opposite extreme from what the UK is experiencing right now. She packed a bag of grapefruits, olive oil and a little bottle of nail polish for me. I'd told her I liked the colour the evening before.
I met St Grace's husband in the city centre who wanted to give me a bag to take back for her. He'd carefully packed her favourite things including coffee mate and some dried fish. He's missing her so much, I could barely look him in the eye. But she seems happy and is perhaps more resilient than he.
Then I spent the day filling up the car with whisky, wine, 'yellow cheese' (gouda and cheddar being the Lozenge's favourites), and the equivalent in ham slices of a whole pig from the Christian supermarket. Having thought Jordan prices were high, they are half those of Jerusalem. The friendly man at the deli counter questioned my Arabic. '100 slices of ham, madam? Are you sure?' I drove past the crossroads to our old house, and the little memories of journeys through it with the dwarves pinged into my head like carbonated bubbles. The nostalgia already keen after only 10 days. Like making a new friend, you have to allow the chapters of time and experience stack up in a new place, which one day you hope may become of the same value as the old one.
I crossed the border in record time again, feeling uncomfortable about our car load of luxuries which no border official has the right to look through - while the Palestinians entering have their bags pulled open and inspected morsel by morsel and vest by pair of socks. I watched an unhappy looking man struggle to put the piles of items back into his case as neatly as they were before, and strain the zip shut again, before slowly moving towards the next kiosk for more questions, and re-inspection of documents. We are free to roam as we please, dancing around the protocol, thanks simply, to our place of birth and ethnicity.
I handed over the final essential ticket in the strategic process, and drove through the darkness towards the orange sequin dusting of lights on the hill which is Jerusalem, where J and the dwarves awaited.
Pyjama clad, Rashimi's nappy rustling busily, the dwarves screeched barefoot down the garden path to greet me when I arrived and tried to help by dragging the shopping bags towards the house and searching for sweets and chocolate. Remembering the guards inspecting the Palesintian suitcases I felt grateful for these bags, feeling a little like a bird coming back to a nest with a mouthful of worms. Though we are still assembling the twigs, the chicks inside make the feeling of home more immediate, and felt grateful also for that.
The welcome from the Jordan side was as ever a comfort. 'Always, you are welcome.' In some ways it was like going home, and within 2.5 hours I'd reached the Darat gallery and was sitting with its founder watching the documentary again. We spent the whole day working and deciding which changes to make and by 7pm I was at the Duke's house, bearing 2 mammoth cartons of Marlboro reds and a bottle of whisky, which he and his lovely wife pounced upon like the dwarves to a bag of sweets. It's getting harder to find affordable alcohol and cigarettes, they told me, so at least I hadn't bothered with soap and chocolates. The Duke went out on an official engagment, and I sat for the evening with his wife, having dinner which her cook had prepared. Stuffed zucchini in tomato sauce with grilled aubergine, followed by cheesecake.
The following morning I had a few minutes with the Duke who was off to the German University for a lecture at 9am. His schedule is quite something for a 75 year old. 'I get myself into these situations by opening doors all the time,' he said. 'I have myself to blame but what am I to do?' He went on to explain how worried he is about the ever increasing rift between rich and poor in the city, with food prices and unemployment rocketing. 'We live here in this poor area, and I read the graffiti the young people write, and I know what's in here,' he said, thumping his guts. 'The rich Jordanians construct these huge buildings which they can't even rent out, and they have no idea what is going on in the East side. And do they care?'
Part of his ploy is to get the younger wealthier Jordanians to come over the other side and understand what's happening.
He asked me how was Jerusalem and admitted to having goosebumps when I explained where we lived, as before 1967 he spent a lot of time in this city, particularly in our neighbourhood. Out of solidarity, he hasn't returned since.
'Nothing is ever good or bad but thinking makes it so,' he quoted from Shakespeare, grabbed his bag, and left.
His wife emerged in her dressing gown to have breakfast with me. We ate eggs from their farm, labaneh and olive oil, and preserved khoshkhaash (like a bitter orange) skin which tasted like marmalade. She's worried as they've still had no rain in Jordan, and their cows have nothing to eat. The opposite extreme from what the UK is experiencing right now. She packed a bag of grapefruits, olive oil and a little bottle of nail polish for me. I'd told her I liked the colour the evening before.
I met St Grace's husband in the city centre who wanted to give me a bag to take back for her. He'd carefully packed her favourite things including coffee mate and some dried fish. He's missing her so much, I could barely look him in the eye. But she seems happy and is perhaps more resilient than he.
Then I spent the day filling up the car with whisky, wine, 'yellow cheese' (gouda and cheddar being the Lozenge's favourites), and the equivalent in ham slices of a whole pig from the Christian supermarket. Having thought Jordan prices were high, they are half those of Jerusalem. The friendly man at the deli counter questioned my Arabic. '100 slices of ham, madam? Are you sure?' I drove past the crossroads to our old house, and the little memories of journeys through it with the dwarves pinged into my head like carbonated bubbles. The nostalgia already keen after only 10 days. Like making a new friend, you have to allow the chapters of time and experience stack up in a new place, which one day you hope may become of the same value as the old one.
I crossed the border in record time again, feeling uncomfortable about our car load of luxuries which no border official has the right to look through - while the Palestinians entering have their bags pulled open and inspected morsel by morsel and vest by pair of socks. I watched an unhappy looking man struggle to put the piles of items back into his case as neatly as they were before, and strain the zip shut again, before slowly moving towards the next kiosk for more questions, and re-inspection of documents. We are free to roam as we please, dancing around the protocol, thanks simply, to our place of birth and ethnicity.
I handed over the final essential ticket in the strategic process, and drove through the darkness towards the orange sequin dusting of lights on the hill which is Jerusalem, where J and the dwarves awaited.
Pyjama clad, Rashimi's nappy rustling busily, the dwarves screeched barefoot down the garden path to greet me when I arrived and tried to help by dragging the shopping bags towards the house and searching for sweets and chocolate. Remembering the guards inspecting the Palesintian suitcases I felt grateful for these bags, feeling a little like a bird coming back to a nest with a mouthful of worms. Though we are still assembling the twigs, the chicks inside make the feeling of home more immediate, and felt grateful also for that.
Tapestries of grey
J and I went for dinner with some Palestinian friends in Ramallah last weekend. The small city is only10 km from Jerusalem but takes half an hour to drive because of the check points. We left our house at dusk and wound our way upwards towards the hill town which has become the administrative capital of the State of Palestine. It was initially a Christian town, but now has a muslim majority.
As we approached the check point at the edge of the city, we passed a camp of fixed caravans, the white oblong shapes like a negative image against the darkness. An Israeli Defence Forces vehicle was parked alongside the caravans, like a reinforced steel guard dog. The camp houses a group of Israeli settlers. I read in the newspaper that over 25 per cent of illegal settler posts are guarded by IDF soldiers. Passing the caravans you wonder at the techniques of this land grab. Placing a caravan somewhere becomes more about bums on seats, reserving land as someone might plop their towel on a sunbed in a holiday resort. The caravan a temporary sign, like the towel, of someone's 'ownership' of this patch, until this might be questioned. Or with luck, until the ownership can become permanent. I heard that once the caravans are there, the Israeli government are required to install electricity and plumbing etc. until the 'ownership' becomes more permanent and harder to undo.
The soldier at the checkpoint peered through inch thick glass, partially shattered by a rock or a bullet. 'Oh, you're British. I support Liverpool. Stay safe in Ramallah. Sababa (take it easy)'. He said. We drove on through the darkness. The road on the Palestinian side of the check point was full of huge pot holes and there was no road lighting. As we entered Ramallah I had the impression we were driving back into Amman. The architecture and street signs in Arabic make the atmosphere entirely different from Jerusalem. You get the feeling there's a lot of money in the place - there are 5 star hotels, fancy restaurants and the streets are buzzing with Arab customers in Arab shops.
We arrived at our friends' house, who'd prepared a table full of food including the Jordanian speciality, 'Mansaf' which is definitely man's food - hunks of lamb resting on a pile of rice with a spiced yoghurt sauce. We chatted in Arabic and English and drank fizzy apple drinks. They are an impressive pair and he not only speaks fluent Hebrew but has completed a masters in Israeli studies. He explained that many Palestinians have left East Jerusalem to set up businesses in Ramallah as there you pay less tax and find more customers. The streets here have more of a buzz than those in East Jerusalem. And I was reminded of Palestinians' reactions in Jordan when we explained we were moving to Jerusalem. 'You'll find that you have much more fun in Ramallah,' they said.
Back in Jerusalem this week I had more opportunity to walk around as I found a computer specialist who fixed my hard drive problem. As I walked down King George Street I gazed through shop windows crammed with extraordinary fashions. Almost like going back in time the colours and cuts are as anachronistic as clothes from the 40s - yet people are walking around in them here, today. A dark pumpkin coloured low brim ladies hat with black flowers on it perched on a manequin, with a purple fitted jacket and brown boots. Many of the shops sold rolls of fabric, and I wondered at how hard it is to find material in the shops in the UK right now - home economics the casualty of our consumer culture. But here people must sew their own clothes a lot more.
On the tram I noticed many Jewish men wear a little hair clip to fix their capel to their head, and I wondered what Dad would do in this situation. No sooner had a mused about this than I spotted the wind whisk a capel from the head of a bald man, who fumbled around trying to catch it, then settled it back on his pate again. At the road crossing, an orthodox family waited alongside a muslim woman with a black head covering without any eye holes (our Syrian friend told me they call them 'kamikazes' in Damascus); a group of Arab shabaab (lads), hung about with droopy trousers, joking with Israeli soldiers their own age sporting the ubiquitous enormous machine gun and crew cut.
And as I looked at this pavement cocktail I remembered conversations this week with our muslim friend in Ramallah, who's trying to understand the Israeli psyche with his university studies; and with the editor who's secular yet wants to bring his children up in this highly religious place, so they have a chance to see many different ways of living from a young age. The Jewish family who funded a little park we went to with the dwarves, 'for all the people of Jerusalem with love and hope and humility.'
Before coming here, and from Jordan it was easy to polarise - to make decisions about black and about white. But on these very pavements, and in these homes and work places we're invited into, the multiple shades of grey in these societies begin to weave a complex tapestry which forces you to lay aside your preconceptions and challenge yourself with every sight and sound.
Although it's important to know what you believe in, and what you'd like to work towards, nothing is how you'd imagined before coming, and perhaps nothing on the outside will ever look the same again.
As we approached the check point at the edge of the city, we passed a camp of fixed caravans, the white oblong shapes like a negative image against the darkness. An Israeli Defence Forces vehicle was parked alongside the caravans, like a reinforced steel guard dog. The camp houses a group of Israeli settlers. I read in the newspaper that over 25 per cent of illegal settler posts are guarded by IDF soldiers. Passing the caravans you wonder at the techniques of this land grab. Placing a caravan somewhere becomes more about bums on seats, reserving land as someone might plop their towel on a sunbed in a holiday resort. The caravan a temporary sign, like the towel, of someone's 'ownership' of this patch, until this might be questioned. Or with luck, until the ownership can become permanent. I heard that once the caravans are there, the Israeli government are required to install electricity and plumbing etc. until the 'ownership' becomes more permanent and harder to undo.
The soldier at the checkpoint peered through inch thick glass, partially shattered by a rock or a bullet. 'Oh, you're British. I support Liverpool. Stay safe in Ramallah. Sababa (take it easy)'. He said. We drove on through the darkness. The road on the Palestinian side of the check point was full of huge pot holes and there was no road lighting. As we entered Ramallah I had the impression we were driving back into Amman. The architecture and street signs in Arabic make the atmosphere entirely different from Jerusalem. You get the feeling there's a lot of money in the place - there are 5 star hotels, fancy restaurants and the streets are buzzing with Arab customers in Arab shops.
We arrived at our friends' house, who'd prepared a table full of food including the Jordanian speciality, 'Mansaf' which is definitely man's food - hunks of lamb resting on a pile of rice with a spiced yoghurt sauce. We chatted in Arabic and English and drank fizzy apple drinks. They are an impressive pair and he not only speaks fluent Hebrew but has completed a masters in Israeli studies. He explained that many Palestinians have left East Jerusalem to set up businesses in Ramallah as there you pay less tax and find more customers. The streets here have more of a buzz than those in East Jerusalem. And I was reminded of Palestinians' reactions in Jordan when we explained we were moving to Jerusalem. 'You'll find that you have much more fun in Ramallah,' they said.
Back in Jerusalem this week I had more opportunity to walk around as I found a computer specialist who fixed my hard drive problem. As I walked down King George Street I gazed through shop windows crammed with extraordinary fashions. Almost like going back in time the colours and cuts are as anachronistic as clothes from the 40s - yet people are walking around in them here, today. A dark pumpkin coloured low brim ladies hat with black flowers on it perched on a manequin, with a purple fitted jacket and brown boots. Many of the shops sold rolls of fabric, and I wondered at how hard it is to find material in the shops in the UK right now - home economics the casualty of our consumer culture. But here people must sew their own clothes a lot more.
On the tram I noticed many Jewish men wear a little hair clip to fix their capel to their head, and I wondered what Dad would do in this situation. No sooner had a mused about this than I spotted the wind whisk a capel from the head of a bald man, who fumbled around trying to catch it, then settled it back on his pate again. At the road crossing, an orthodox family waited alongside a muslim woman with a black head covering without any eye holes (our Syrian friend told me they call them 'kamikazes' in Damascus); a group of Arab shabaab (lads), hung about with droopy trousers, joking with Israeli soldiers their own age sporting the ubiquitous enormous machine gun and crew cut.
And as I looked at this pavement cocktail I remembered conversations this week with our muslim friend in Ramallah, who's trying to understand the Israeli psyche with his university studies; and with the editor who's secular yet wants to bring his children up in this highly religious place, so they have a chance to see many different ways of living from a young age. The Jewish family who funded a little park we went to with the dwarves, 'for all the people of Jerusalem with love and hope and humility.'
Before coming here, and from Jordan it was easy to polarise - to make decisions about black and about white. But on these very pavements, and in these homes and work places we're invited into, the multiple shades of grey in these societies begin to weave a complex tapestry which forces you to lay aside your preconceptions and challenge yourself with every sight and sound.
Although it's important to know what you believe in, and what you'd like to work towards, nothing is how you'd imagined before coming, and perhaps nothing on the outside will ever look the same again.
Monday, 10 February 2014
Amateur Tram-atics
J and I are walking around with cricks in our necks after a weekend of discovering more of the city on foot. The dwarves don't get the 'on foot' bit and rode for most of the way on our shoulders. Rashimi had a permanent sticky finger pointed at Haredi after Muslim after Haredi man, shrieking: 'Oooh. Look, Mummy. Man got beeeeaaard!'
The weekend began with the Lozenge doodling in one of my cook books which I've fashioned from an old religious studies exercise book from school. Inside it are many details about the Abrahamic faiths, nestling next to recipes for cheese pastry and prawn curry. I haven't read them since I was 16, and it seems extraordinary to be in the bosom of the places we learned about back then. Flicking through it, stories from deep recesses in my head emerged: about Masada and Yad Vashem, the world centre for holocaust research, documentation and education. I couldn't have imagined I'd be doing the practical studies 20 years on.
J and I went to the German Colony area to watch '12 years a slave', which continued the daily cycle of history entwining itself with our present day. The district itself feels like Hampstead, and if it weren't for bunting of Israeli flags adorning gardens and windows, it could have been London in parts. The film is fantastic, though gruesome and brutal. It's impressive to see a visual artist such as Steve Macqueen turn his hand so successfully, three times in a row, to making films. Watching the slaves stand in a Southern cotton field singing about crossing the Jordan, and returning to the Holy Land, reaffirmed to us the extraordinary journeys these religions have made, and the hearts and minds they have claimed through the centuries. Capable of inspiring such deep love, and such extreme hatred. And here we have landed right in the middle of it all, where it all began and continues to be played out, no less problematically.
Having promised the Lozenge a trip on a tram, we set out on Saturday to find one. Looking down the empty platform, the penny dropped that of course there were no trams running on shabbat, and as I broke the news to the Lozenge, the peace was shattered by a purple faced wailing dwarf. 'You pwomised, Mummeeeeeeee!!!' Our tram stop runs alongside a row of Arab shops which, alhamdulillah, were open, and I paid 6 shekels for 2 kit kats. I chose the chunky ones to provide a good fit for a dwarf mouth, and the wailing came to a halt the minute they saw them. After the chocoloate fix, the Lozenge seemed content with riding his scooter up and down the empty tracks instead. The day looked up after that, and after a run around a park we found an incredibly delicious pizza made by Arab chefs trained in Italy, with a brace of pizza ovens in their restaurant. At home, we put the rabbit jelly mould to use, which I'd brought especially for in between days, which weekends tend to be before you get to know a place.
St Grace is a perfect companion for each of these moments. While I can match the dwarves' moods with my own, being pulled down with them at times - she sits there with the laughter coming from belly up - the shaking starting in her tummy before a noise emerges from her mouth - taking everything in her stride. She is an eternal voice of reason.
We often go and chat with the gardener who helps in our landlady's garden as he's the source of much information and peaceful vibes. He asked us if we preferred Jordan or here. St Grace explained that we didn't quite feel at home here yet, but she was sure we would one day.
'Nothing happens over night, does it?' he laughed, and went back to his digging and watering.
The weekend began with the Lozenge doodling in one of my cook books which I've fashioned from an old religious studies exercise book from school. Inside it are many details about the Abrahamic faiths, nestling next to recipes for cheese pastry and prawn curry. I haven't read them since I was 16, and it seems extraordinary to be in the bosom of the places we learned about back then. Flicking through it, stories from deep recesses in my head emerged: about Masada and Yad Vashem, the world centre for holocaust research, documentation and education. I couldn't have imagined I'd be doing the practical studies 20 years on.
J and I went to the German Colony area to watch '12 years a slave', which continued the daily cycle of history entwining itself with our present day. The district itself feels like Hampstead, and if it weren't for bunting of Israeli flags adorning gardens and windows, it could have been London in parts. The film is fantastic, though gruesome and brutal. It's impressive to see a visual artist such as Steve Macqueen turn his hand so successfully, three times in a row, to making films. Watching the slaves stand in a Southern cotton field singing about crossing the Jordan, and returning to the Holy Land, reaffirmed to us the extraordinary journeys these religions have made, and the hearts and minds they have claimed through the centuries. Capable of inspiring such deep love, and such extreme hatred. And here we have landed right in the middle of it all, where it all began and continues to be played out, no less problematically.
Having promised the Lozenge a trip on a tram, we set out on Saturday to find one. Looking down the empty platform, the penny dropped that of course there were no trams running on shabbat, and as I broke the news to the Lozenge, the peace was shattered by a purple faced wailing dwarf. 'You pwomised, Mummeeeeeeee!!!' Our tram stop runs alongside a row of Arab shops which, alhamdulillah, were open, and I paid 6 shekels for 2 kit kats. I chose the chunky ones to provide a good fit for a dwarf mouth, and the wailing came to a halt the minute they saw them. After the chocoloate fix, the Lozenge seemed content with riding his scooter up and down the empty tracks instead. The day looked up after that, and after a run around a park we found an incredibly delicious pizza made by Arab chefs trained in Italy, with a brace of pizza ovens in their restaurant. At home, we put the rabbit jelly mould to use, which I'd brought especially for in between days, which weekends tend to be before you get to know a place.
St Grace is a perfect companion for each of these moments. While I can match the dwarves' moods with my own, being pulled down with them at times - she sits there with the laughter coming from belly up - the shaking starting in her tummy before a noise emerges from her mouth - taking everything in her stride. She is an eternal voice of reason.
We often go and chat with the gardener who helps in our landlady's garden as he's the source of much information and peaceful vibes. He asked us if we preferred Jordan or here. St Grace explained that we didn't quite feel at home here yet, but she was sure we would one day.
'Nothing happens over night, does it?' he laughed, and went back to his digging and watering.
Friday, 7 February 2014
Technical help and tram tours
It's only when you have a problem that you get to know useful people. I've been making amendments to my documentary this week, so I can go back to Jordan next week and re-show it. One of my hard drives seems to be playing up, so I needed some technical help as I don't want to work without a backup. I called a contact at one of the TV news agencies here who introduced me to an uber cool editor whose family has been in Jerusalem for 7 generations. He has a gentle and thoughtful manner, and seems as at peace with this place as it's possible to be, whilst recognising its malfunctions. He and his wife are raising their three children here. He explained: 'We could have moved to Tel Aviv which would have been one way of life. But here our children will see many ways. And I hope this will keep their minds open as people.' He very kindly spent lots of his time helping me out. He doesn't speak much Arabic but we noticed that the word 'funun': arts in Arabic and part of the name of the gallery I've made the film about, is like 'fanan' in Hebrew which means 'take it easy.'
Having done all he could, he recommended another technician in the centre of town who I'll visit on Sunday when they're open again after shabbat. Another couple of numbers on my phone that are going to be invaluable over the next 3 years. I see some more human rocks forming in the landscape.
These visits to his studios meant I've zipped up and down the tram line a few times. Once you've fumbled with, and dropped, many times, the tiny 1 shekel pieces as you try and get them into the ticket machine, the system works well. As the tram slid forwards, Jaffa Street was revealed to me from my seat: City Hall, Jaffa Centre, Mahane Yehuda, Ha Turim - a mix of low level shopping areas, markets and large European looking buildings such as L'hopital Francais or Notre Dame. Inside the tram is a fascinating visual melting pot. I stared as a teenage Jewish boy in civilian clothes wandered by with a giant automatic gun hanging loosely from one shoulder. A Haredi man with a long white beard, hitched his long black coat to climb a railing, rather than walk 3 metres round to the tramway exit. A young Jewish couple, she in a floral headscarf and brown buckle shoes, he in a black suit - looked at a children's book they'd just bought.
Friday morning in the West side is busy with shoppers getting ready for shabbat. Restaurants are full, and bread shops are buzzing.There's something of New York here, or something of here in New York. I couldn't work out which. Friday in our side is closed and quiet.
Back at our local stop, an Arab man approached and stood very close to me trying to push a tram ticket for 5 shekels (a little cheaper than from the machine). I declined, he looked annoyed and walked off, flicking his ticket with a long yellow thumbnail.
On my walk home I found more bakeries, more fruit and vegetable stalls - the route already becoming a little more familiar, and the tree buds just starting to burst into flower as popcorn kernels in a pan.
I got home and the dwarves and I hung and vast yellow paper ball lamp shade from the ceiling light in their bedroom and the Lozenge said: 'Lookth like the sun is rithing.'
Having done all he could, he recommended another technician in the centre of town who I'll visit on Sunday when they're open again after shabbat. Another couple of numbers on my phone that are going to be invaluable over the next 3 years. I see some more human rocks forming in the landscape.
These visits to his studios meant I've zipped up and down the tram line a few times. Once you've fumbled with, and dropped, many times, the tiny 1 shekel pieces as you try and get them into the ticket machine, the system works well. As the tram slid forwards, Jaffa Street was revealed to me from my seat: City Hall, Jaffa Centre, Mahane Yehuda, Ha Turim - a mix of low level shopping areas, markets and large European looking buildings such as L'hopital Francais or Notre Dame. Inside the tram is a fascinating visual melting pot. I stared as a teenage Jewish boy in civilian clothes wandered by with a giant automatic gun hanging loosely from one shoulder. A Haredi man with a long white beard, hitched his long black coat to climb a railing, rather than walk 3 metres round to the tramway exit. A young Jewish couple, she in a floral headscarf and brown buckle shoes, he in a black suit - looked at a children's book they'd just bought.
Friday morning in the West side is busy with shoppers getting ready for shabbat. Restaurants are full, and bread shops are buzzing.There's something of New York here, or something of here in New York. I couldn't work out which. Friday in our side is closed and quiet.
Back at our local stop, an Arab man approached and stood very close to me trying to push a tram ticket for 5 shekels (a little cheaper than from the machine). I declined, he looked annoyed and walked off, flicking his ticket with a long yellow thumbnail.
On my walk home I found more bakeries, more fruit and vegetable stalls - the route already becoming a little more familiar, and the tree buds just starting to burst into flower as popcorn kernels in a pan.
I got home and the dwarves and I hung and vast yellow paper ball lamp shade from the ceiling light in their bedroom and the Lozenge said: 'Lookth like the sun is rithing.'
Village life within a city
There's always that nocturnal strangeness in a new place. At 5am I could hear a dog barking and a dischordant group of muezzin competing for the night air. We haven't quite worked out the heating system and our room was a fug by then. So I lay there listening, sleepy brain whirring. The is the time in the early hours when, 'the thoughts come blundering in like naughty children', as a someone once wrote in a poem. Then one dwarf joined us followed by another, Rashimi forming a handy filling for the chink between our two single beds that have been nailed together.
That day, Tuesday was the day of wobbles. The usual questions in my mind: what are we doing here? The Lozenge echoing these thoughts on the way to school: 'I want to go back to Lyme Tewith and live in London'. The internet was on the blink and I wasn't sure where to put myself. J understood all this and by the time he left for work, my spirits were feeling a little bit stoked by his un-judgemental ears and the fact that we're definitely making this journey together.
I stepped out the door in my new Nike trainers from auntie Rosie, past a local sight. Whenever Rashimi sees one of these bins he yells: 'BOAT!'
My first stop was the stationery shop where I met Imad, who also owns the coffee shop opposite. He stoked up my morning further, helping me with my clumsy Arabic, supplying a Haaretz newspaper which comes with the International Herald and Tribune, and a SIM card for my phone. We chatted a bit in Arabic, and he supplied me with a number for an Arabic teacher as having made it a little way, I don't want to let it go.
I read an interesting account about learning a new lanugage by Alice Kaplan, professor of French at Yale University the other day. (At her finishing school in Switzerland in 1971): 'I'd learn a new word by listening and hearing its context and then try new words out to see if a strange look came over the face of the person I was talking to. If it didn't I knew I was home free. I had a new word.'
Those home free moments make the majority of the opposite worth working for.
Then I entered two numbers into my new phone: 'J' and 'Home' - this being our home now, and read a column in Haaretz about how Palestinians would have much more land at their fingertips had they accepted the first UN suggested boundaries in 1947/8 and not started a fight. Tragically when you look back 60 years, this was indeed the best deal they were ever offered and their physical landscape has been shrinking ever since.
Then I ventured with a couple of British girls who scooped me up, to the most wonderful market called Mehane Yehuda where you can buy anything from a pile of pastries to a capel. The stalls stretch out under a permanent awning, and as you walk the paved stones, smoothed with feet over decades, the smells engulf you: bread then fish the cheese then a haze of spices so strong you actually feel you're inhaling the dusty powders; then raw meat then coffee from a cafe then fish again. I bought a handful of green peppers for St Grace and a toaster for J as we left ours in Jordan by mistake. The market vendors are smiling and characterful.
On the whole they were Hebrew speaking. So I learned more new names for vegetables and fruit. The occasional one matches Arabic: like pomegranate: Romaan/Riman. And carrot: jesr/gezr. But many don't. We should really learn them all in both languages if we are to sink our teeth into the richness of the roots, as well as the root vegetables, of this region. And I'll have to invest in a tartan shopper…
On the way home as we drove through an ultra Orthodox Jewish area, the girls explained a bit about one big issue in Israeli society: the weight of these Haredi societies on the state. The Haredi population in Israel is 700,000 out of 6 million Israeli Jews and their numbers are rising rapidly, with one of the highest concentrations in Jerusalem. On the whole they spend their time studying and are exempt military service which is compulsory for all other Israelis: 3 years for men, 18 months for women. While the Haredi are allowed to continue religious studies, ('yeshiva') during this time and receive payment for it, IDF military trainees receive between $80-$250 per month. I can see this would be a bug bear for non-ultra-Orthodox professionals here who are essentially supporting this growing mass of humankind who make no contribution to society. Though one of the Haredim's arguments are that a Yeshiva student is more important than a soldier in the IDF as they pray for the welfare of the country, and uphold the tenets of the Jewish faith and therefore state. St Grace heard from her Sri Lankan friend opposite that if these families have 13 children, then they receive a car from the Israeli Government.
The Western side of the city, where the market is, is very different from the Arab side. Though you can still glimpse facades of buildings, arched windows, and solid stone doorways that look Ottoman or 'Arab' as we might know it. Though every shop sign is in Hebrew, and most people out on the streets look Jewish not Muslim, unlike our neighbourhood. Many of our friends in Jordan used to have family homes here, many of which are now incorporated in the West side of the city. During the 1948 war, Israel took control of 12 of Jerusalem's 15 Arab residential quarters, and many of our friends' homes would have been incorporated in this. And after the 1967 war the whole of Jerusalem was taken into the Jerusalem Municipality, making even East Jerusalem, part of Israel.
Back in our small Arab enclave we have a new ritual in the mornings where the Lozenge is collected at 7.15am in a high top white minibus. J is better at getting dressed in time, so I get to watch them walk down the garden path hand in hand, the monkey back pack under J's arm. Even on the first day, the Lozenge hopped in with no hesitation and waved happily from the window. When the minibus draws back up at the house at 3pm, I normally embark to find the Lozenge fast asleep on the single seat at the front and have to manually heave him out and carry him most of the way up the path.
On Thursday I had a day wandering our neighbourhood staring with a visit to Johnny at Holy Land Insurance. His small office looks out across the old city, the gold Dome of the Rock visible from his window. He is sorting out St Grace's health and workplace insurance. I walked in and his assistant Carole brought me a cup of Arabic coffee as I chatted to Johnny. He is Christian and was educated at the Freres College in Jerusalem. We were talking about this region and the problems Christian communities are having in Egypt, Syria, Iraq and other places. ‘Fortunately, so far, we don’t seem to have so many problems here in Israel/Palestine. But our numbers are diminishing nevertheless', he explained.
I wandered home and looked closely at every building and alleyway - little chinks of visible history competeing with the present. I wandered around our immediate area and realised that for the first time in my life, it will be possible to shop for most things we need here, without visiting a supermarket. It’s like a village, and the owners of every tiny store: Abu Mansour’s vegetable and fruit stall; Osama Khoury’s grocery store; Abu Hassan’s well known hummus and falafel shack; Marwaan Sahhar's Christian grocer which sells wine and beer and was recommended by Johnny from Holy Land insurance - knows our elderly landlady and sent their regards to her.
Village life in Jerusalem begins.
That day, Tuesday was the day of wobbles. The usual questions in my mind: what are we doing here? The Lozenge echoing these thoughts on the way to school: 'I want to go back to Lyme Tewith and live in London'. The internet was on the blink and I wasn't sure where to put myself. J understood all this and by the time he left for work, my spirits were feeling a little bit stoked by his un-judgemental ears and the fact that we're definitely making this journey together.
I stepped out the door in my new Nike trainers from auntie Rosie, past a local sight. Whenever Rashimi sees one of these bins he yells: 'BOAT!'
My first stop was the stationery shop where I met Imad, who also owns the coffee shop opposite. He stoked up my morning further, helping me with my clumsy Arabic, supplying a Haaretz newspaper which comes with the International Herald and Tribune, and a SIM card for my phone. We chatted a bit in Arabic, and he supplied me with a number for an Arabic teacher as having made it a little way, I don't want to let it go.
I read an interesting account about learning a new lanugage by Alice Kaplan, professor of French at Yale University the other day. (At her finishing school in Switzerland in 1971): 'I'd learn a new word by listening and hearing its context and then try new words out to see if a strange look came over the face of the person I was talking to. If it didn't I knew I was home free. I had a new word.'
Those home free moments make the majority of the opposite worth working for.
Then I entered two numbers into my new phone: 'J' and 'Home' - this being our home now, and read a column in Haaretz about how Palestinians would have much more land at their fingertips had they accepted the first UN suggested boundaries in 1947/8 and not started a fight. Tragically when you look back 60 years, this was indeed the best deal they were ever offered and their physical landscape has been shrinking ever since.
Then I ventured with a couple of British girls who scooped me up, to the most wonderful market called Mehane Yehuda where you can buy anything from a pile of pastries to a capel. The stalls stretch out under a permanent awning, and as you walk the paved stones, smoothed with feet over decades, the smells engulf you: bread then fish the cheese then a haze of spices so strong you actually feel you're inhaling the dusty powders; then raw meat then coffee from a cafe then fish again. I bought a handful of green peppers for St Grace and a toaster for J as we left ours in Jordan by mistake. The market vendors are smiling and characterful.
On the whole they were Hebrew speaking. So I learned more new names for vegetables and fruit. The occasional one matches Arabic: like pomegranate: Romaan/Riman. And carrot: jesr/gezr. But many don't. We should really learn them all in both languages if we are to sink our teeth into the richness of the roots, as well as the root vegetables, of this region. And I'll have to invest in a tartan shopper…
On the way home as we drove through an ultra Orthodox Jewish area, the girls explained a bit about one big issue in Israeli society: the weight of these Haredi societies on the state. The Haredi population in Israel is 700,000 out of 6 million Israeli Jews and their numbers are rising rapidly, with one of the highest concentrations in Jerusalem. On the whole they spend their time studying and are exempt military service which is compulsory for all other Israelis: 3 years for men, 18 months for women. While the Haredi are allowed to continue religious studies, ('yeshiva') during this time and receive payment for it, IDF military trainees receive between $80-$250 per month. I can see this would be a bug bear for non-ultra-Orthodox professionals here who are essentially supporting this growing mass of humankind who make no contribution to society. Though one of the Haredim's arguments are that a Yeshiva student is more important than a soldier in the IDF as they pray for the welfare of the country, and uphold the tenets of the Jewish faith and therefore state. St Grace heard from her Sri Lankan friend opposite that if these families have 13 children, then they receive a car from the Israeli Government.
The Western side of the city, where the market is, is very different from the Arab side. Though you can still glimpse facades of buildings, arched windows, and solid stone doorways that look Ottoman or 'Arab' as we might know it. Though every shop sign is in Hebrew, and most people out on the streets look Jewish not Muslim, unlike our neighbourhood. Many of our friends in Jordan used to have family homes here, many of which are now incorporated in the West side of the city. During the 1948 war, Israel took control of 12 of Jerusalem's 15 Arab residential quarters, and many of our friends' homes would have been incorporated in this. And after the 1967 war the whole of Jerusalem was taken into the Jerusalem Municipality, making even East Jerusalem, part of Israel.
Back in our small Arab enclave we have a new ritual in the mornings where the Lozenge is collected at 7.15am in a high top white minibus. J is better at getting dressed in time, so I get to watch them walk down the garden path hand in hand, the monkey back pack under J's arm. Even on the first day, the Lozenge hopped in with no hesitation and waved happily from the window. When the minibus draws back up at the house at 3pm, I normally embark to find the Lozenge fast asleep on the single seat at the front and have to manually heave him out and carry him most of the way up the path.
On Thursday I had a day wandering our neighbourhood staring with a visit to Johnny at Holy Land Insurance. His small office looks out across the old city, the gold Dome of the Rock visible from his window. He is sorting out St Grace's health and workplace insurance. I walked in and his assistant Carole brought me a cup of Arabic coffee as I chatted to Johnny. He is Christian and was educated at the Freres College in Jerusalem. We were talking about this region and the problems Christian communities are having in Egypt, Syria, Iraq and other places. ‘Fortunately, so far, we don’t seem to have so many problems here in Israel/Palestine. But our numbers are diminishing nevertheless', he explained.
I wandered home and looked closely at every building and alleyway - little chinks of visible history competeing with the present. I wandered around our immediate area and realised that for the first time in my life, it will be possible to shop for most things we need here, without visiting a supermarket. It’s like a village, and the owners of every tiny store: Abu Mansour’s vegetable and fruit stall; Osama Khoury’s grocery store; Abu Hassan’s well known hummus and falafel shack; Marwaan Sahhar's Christian grocer which sells wine and beer and was recommended by Johnny from Holy Land insurance - knows our elderly landlady and sent their regards to her.
Village life in Jerusalem begins.
Monday, 3 February 2014
A murmur of nuns and a tram outing
The house already feels like a safe little bubble, albeit with only some of our stuff as most of it's en route from Jordan, but I have a combination of desire to break out and discover what's around, together with an inclination to keep the security of the house wrapped around us. I always have this strange clash when we arrive in a new place.
After our marbled floor existence in Amman, Rashimi is not used to carpets and spends most of the day on his face having tripped over on the shagpile in the playroom. He has carpet burn on his nose. The Lozenge has been muttering that he wants to go back to Jordan to see the Duke, the Glammy and back to the life we had there.
We were all awake at 6am, and the Lozenge, J and I in the car by 7.15 to take him for his first day at school. The pavements around our house were full of Arab children heading to school - girls in white headscarves and fathers with sons on shoulders. A car stopped in the road, a long queue of other cars behind, while the driver said good morning and chatted to a friend. Then we crossed into a more Jewish area and people looked completely different in black hats, black coats and ringlets. A murmur (prey, flap or superfluity also apparently work here as collective terms) of nuns strutted by in pristine pale grey habits, followed by a gang of people in anoraks. I admit to having had a few butterflies at the school gate, where a man from Ukraine welcomed us and showed us to the Lozenge's classroom. But the Lozenge looked anything but a jelly. He walked in, said hello to his new teacher, and said: 'Thith is just like my last nurthery, Mummy!' heading straight for the sandpit. And my butterflies fluttered away.
J and I went by his office, where we were greeted by his local colleagues who all seem charming and I got to speak some Arabic. Then I walked back to our house through what once would have been a small valley full of walnut trees, but now feels more like a big ditch with makeshift housing stacked with satellite dishes and solar contraptions. A large Israeli flag fluttered above the cluttered houses, though we are still in an Arab area. The flag was the only colour aside from washing lines, lemon tress and some early blossom. I wondered who would build here, given the choice. It doesn't look a comfortable place. As I walked up the slope the other side, there was some Arabic graffiti which had been almost entirely painted out with a Star of David sprayed over the top. How many layers of each lay beneath?
Then I picked up St Grace and Rashimi and we walked around 1 km to the tram stop. St Grace doesn't drive and the Jerusalem Light rail is nearly 9 miles long with 23 stops which I figured must include some good locations for she and Rashimi when I'm working. It cuts a stark, high tech contrast with its sleek lines, to the chaotic pavements and mini bus services in our neighbourhood. I didn't have the right money for a ticket, and a man who spoke no English, just Arabic bought our tickets for us. 'Ahlan Wasahlan' (you are welcome), he said. I spoke some more Arabic in a vegetable shop and bought six Sharon fruit (persimmon in English and cakia in Arabic - as if they'd ever be able to call it the former…)which are Rashimi's favourite. CAKIAAAAAA!! He shouted when he saw me. We wandered about, Rashimi eating his cakia, and St Grace exclaiming: 'This is just like I imagine Europe to be!' We zipped a couple of stops on the tram to City Hall, a huge modern building not too far from the Old City wall, which had coloured bicycles on frames outside, with flower pots and fans attached to the top. I couldn't work out whether they were exercise bikes or an installation but Rashimi was enthralled - and jumped astride one with the same old Sharon fruit in his sticky hand.
I had time for a bit of writing when we returned while Rashimi slept, and then went back to the Lozenge's school to collect him. I met the driver of the school bus who says he has space for the Lozenge both ways, and will pick up and drop from/to our house each day for the princely sum of £150 per month. Even an oyster card would be cheaper. But as J says, at this point in our lives, an extra hour at home together in the mornings is worth even more than that. And the driver, also Arab and very keen for me to keep practising mine, seems lovely with a great sense of humour.
I could see the Lozenge's eyes under his fringe peeping over the top of another child's head as he looked out for me. He ran up and told me he loved his new school. 'And I even got two luncheth!' We have to pack a small snack and a lunch every morning whereas it was just a pack lunch at the last school. The way to every man's heart…
By 4pm, he was exhausted and so were we all, and found ourselves watching Paddington Bear on our new telly. I missed J today as getting out there on your own is a little more of a strain with no one to chew over decisions with. But referring again to Salma Hayek's phrase, as I did a year ago when we'd just arrived in Jordan, when asked if she was a fish out of water in her new town, she said she was more intent on making her own water. And this is what it's all about.
After our marbled floor existence in Amman, Rashimi is not used to carpets and spends most of the day on his face having tripped over on the shagpile in the playroom. He has carpet burn on his nose. The Lozenge has been muttering that he wants to go back to Jordan to see the Duke, the Glammy and back to the life we had there.
We were all awake at 6am, and the Lozenge, J and I in the car by 7.15 to take him for his first day at school. The pavements around our house were full of Arab children heading to school - girls in white headscarves and fathers with sons on shoulders. A car stopped in the road, a long queue of other cars behind, while the driver said good morning and chatted to a friend. Then we crossed into a more Jewish area and people looked completely different in black hats, black coats and ringlets. A murmur (prey, flap or superfluity also apparently work here as collective terms) of nuns strutted by in pristine pale grey habits, followed by a gang of people in anoraks. I admit to having had a few butterflies at the school gate, where a man from Ukraine welcomed us and showed us to the Lozenge's classroom. But the Lozenge looked anything but a jelly. He walked in, said hello to his new teacher, and said: 'Thith is just like my last nurthery, Mummy!' heading straight for the sandpit. And my butterflies fluttered away.
J and I went by his office, where we were greeted by his local colleagues who all seem charming and I got to speak some Arabic. Then I walked back to our house through what once would have been a small valley full of walnut trees, but now feels more like a big ditch with makeshift housing stacked with satellite dishes and solar contraptions. A large Israeli flag fluttered above the cluttered houses, though we are still in an Arab area. The flag was the only colour aside from washing lines, lemon tress and some early blossom. I wondered who would build here, given the choice. It doesn't look a comfortable place. As I walked up the slope the other side, there was some Arabic graffiti which had been almost entirely painted out with a Star of David sprayed over the top. How many layers of each lay beneath?
Then I picked up St Grace and Rashimi and we walked around 1 km to the tram stop. St Grace doesn't drive and the Jerusalem Light rail is nearly 9 miles long with 23 stops which I figured must include some good locations for she and Rashimi when I'm working. It cuts a stark, high tech contrast with its sleek lines, to the chaotic pavements and mini bus services in our neighbourhood. I didn't have the right money for a ticket, and a man who spoke no English, just Arabic bought our tickets for us. 'Ahlan Wasahlan' (you are welcome), he said. I spoke some more Arabic in a vegetable shop and bought six Sharon fruit (persimmon in English and cakia in Arabic - as if they'd ever be able to call it the former…)which are Rashimi's favourite. CAKIAAAAAA!! He shouted when he saw me. We wandered about, Rashimi eating his cakia, and St Grace exclaiming: 'This is just like I imagine Europe to be!' We zipped a couple of stops on the tram to City Hall, a huge modern building not too far from the Old City wall, which had coloured bicycles on frames outside, with flower pots and fans attached to the top. I couldn't work out whether they were exercise bikes or an installation but Rashimi was enthralled - and jumped astride one with the same old Sharon fruit in his sticky hand.
I had time for a bit of writing when we returned while Rashimi slept, and then went back to the Lozenge's school to collect him. I met the driver of the school bus who says he has space for the Lozenge both ways, and will pick up and drop from/to our house each day for the princely sum of £150 per month. Even an oyster card would be cheaper. But as J says, at this point in our lives, an extra hour at home together in the mornings is worth even more than that. And the driver, also Arab and very keen for me to keep practising mine, seems lovely with a great sense of humour.
I could see the Lozenge's eyes under his fringe peeping over the top of another child's head as he looked out for me. He ran up and told me he loved his new school. 'And I even got two luncheth!' We have to pack a small snack and a lunch every morning whereas it was just a pack lunch at the last school. The way to every man's heart…
By 4pm, he was exhausted and so were we all, and found ourselves watching Paddington Bear on our new telly. I missed J today as getting out there on your own is a little more of a strain with no one to chew over decisions with. But referring again to Salma Hayek's phrase, as I did a year ago when we'd just arrived in Jordan, when asked if she was a fish out of water in her new town, she said she was more intent on making her own water. And this is what it's all about.
Sunday, 2 February 2014
Sri Lankan spotting
Now I'm sitting in my new den (this one has a window!) looking at the Haitian painting the Duke gave to us, which I hung on the only hook currently in the wall. We're only 50 miles away from Amman but it feels like a different universe.
We arrived in the afternoon after the usual chaotic border process, and the dwarves headed straight for the sandpit where they stayed for an hour, in a shard of sunlight, happily filling buckets and digging.
The house itself is somewhere the likes of which I never imagined I would have the chance to live. It has elegant, rectangular proportions, with high ceilings, scruffy paintwork, and windows which look French. There is a big open hall which we use as a sitting room and dining room, from which the other rooms lead off. The yard surrounding the house has olive, pomegranate and clementine trees and but for the perusing cats, is an entirely private bubble only a few metres away from a busy street.
J and I spent the evening drinking wine we'd brought with us, and beginning the nesting process, which we're getting fairly good at now. This is the 7th time J and I have settled in a new place, in our 7 year marriage - and we know now that doing it together with some good tunes, and a few drinks is the way to enjoy it most fully. We were up until about 1am sorting, rearranging and unpacking. The main thing we are both lamenting, is the fact that we live in this amazing place, yet none of our wonderful new Jordanian friends can easily come to visit us here. It feels even further away as a result.
The following morning I nipped out for some milk feeling relieved I hadn't set out with a dwarf in a buggy as the pavements are craggy and un-negotiable on anything but the feet. The streets were busier than the day before, since our area is predominantly Muslim, the quiet day is Friday. It's almost impossible to get a feeling for what the place is exactly. In some respects it feels like normal Arab life with teenagers wandering to school; headscarved ladies in their long 'manteau' coats shopping or wandering to university; a man on the corner with a little cart shouting: 'CaaaaaEk!'(rounds of sesame bread) like the one outside our flat in Amman; shops selling shimmering gowns or diamante trainers; hummus, felafel and kebab shops and newsagents. In other respects, it makes you wonder where you really are. The huge metal wheelie bins overloaded and spilling out their foul insides, sitting in a sea of rubbish that either never made it to the bin, or has been picked through and thrown out of it; the graffiti saying: 'Free Gaza', Allahuakbar, Stop the settlements; the plots of unkempt land which are cordoned off, covered in Hebrew signs or sporting a flag of the Star of David. In one of the main shopping streets a dilapidated Ottoman building with broken windows stands completely empty. Opposite it is an immaculate structure which houses a conservatory of music. You wonder how each could face the other without wondering why the other is there. I wonder if 3 years will be long enough to answer all these questions. Having just unravelled a bit of Jordan, through having wonderful and knowledgeable friends there - I wonder who in this city will be the ones to help us unravel this place.
I made it to a shop which sold milk. At least it looked like milk, though the only thing I could read on the label was 4.5%, and I had no idea what this referred to. The yoghurt also had a Hebrew label, but the man in the shop was busy explaining in Arabic to a lady at the till, which packet of Spanish biscuits was the best for diets. One said 'sin azucar' and the other 'sin gluten'. He didn't know what gluten free meant or whether this would be good for weight loss, and my Arabic didn't stretch far enough to explain. I spent 50 Israeli Sheckels (about £10) on 2 big bottles of milk and and a selection of a few different yoghurts hoping the dwarves might at least like one of them.
They didn't, but J and St Grace did, and after breakfast we went out altogether to wander our immediate area. The dwarves whined for the full hour walk. No one walks in Amman, and they've subsequently forgotten how, but I am so happy to be back in a city where you can stride out from the front door. We bought some felafel, hummus and flatbread from the baker, and a couple of ice creams from a sticky little freezer around the back which the Lozenge inevitably sniffed out.
As we walked, or should I say, staggered, dragging two unwilling pilgrims. I wondered how St Grace would carve a life out for herself here as it feels so far from Jordan where she had already made her home. Plus she discovered on Friday that the only Sri Lankan she knows here lives in Tel Aviv not Jerusalem. I needn't have worried. With the kind of serendipity that only happens to St Grace, we were just about to get in the car to find a park when along walked an elderly Sri Lankan lady. We all practically pounced on her, and St Grace happily chatted in Sinhalese with her for a few minutes. She told us there was another Sri Lankan girl who lives opposite, who looks after two elderly ladies. For the rest of the afternoon Rashimi and St Grace played spot the Sri Lankan from the car. We saw about 5 and both St Grace and Rashimi can spot them from a distance of 500 metres it seems.
We found a park with a high tech playground, full of Jewish families as it was the sabbath. It was as far from our unkempt little district as another country. There were an amazing array of different nationalities: Tibet, Russia, Ukraine, Central Asia, the USA, all in the same kind of dress - black tights, black skirts for the women and some kind of a cap for the men and boys - of differing colours and shapes depending on the origin of the wearer.
The dwarves screeched with excitement when they saw a huge hill covered in grass, with a small stream at the bottom and we ran and ran and ran all afternoon. While we sat watching them play on a post-modern looking see-saw, a lady asked us if we spoke Hebrew and invited us and some others to join her shabbat party for children. We walked by on our way out and they were all sitting in a semi circle reciting lines from the Torah.
The dwarves are sharing a bedroom and aren't getting their full quota of sleep, so we put them into bed a bit earlier, and J and I found a bar in a little side street where we let our hair down, rather too much, (again) before coming back home cooking mushrooms and halloumi which were the only things left in the fridge.
Today is St Grace's day off, and the Sri Lankan lady we met yesterday wasn't answering her phone. We told Grace to go and buzz the house opposite to see if the other lady was about. She looked a bit nervous and said: 'But what if they speak blablublablu.. to me.' We laughed and reminded her she could use her fluent Arabic since we are in the Arab part of Jerusalem. Back she went, and Mariana the Sri Lankan was just leaving the house for her day off. In record time, St Grace was in her clothes and off for her first day out, without us in tow. I bet she was a little bit relieved. And I was too, not only because I want her to feel at home here. But also because I know how what a vital source of good sense and knowledge she will be once she starts to find her way around.
Meanwhile we found a supermarket where we were as blind as I had been in the little shop yesterday morning, with all the Hebrew writing. I can't believe we've spent so long learning Arabic. And the prices were as bad as Chad…With two dwarves and two trolleys we were the only people in the supermarket. The Lozenge's wailing echoed around the aisles after I said we didn't need more Cheerios, and Rashimi ran around shrieking like a harridan with four packets of jam filled croissants squished under each arm. Perhaps there was a reason why the aisles were empty. I managed to fob them off with a chocolate Santa each which I found in the reduced section. J and I came round a corner with our individual trolleys and bumped straight into one another. 'Let's get the hell out', he laughed. I couldn't have made it faster to the check out myself. And home we came with £150 worth of nothing much other than chick peas, yet more ice creams (Hello Kitty this time), the remains of the packet of the chocolate Santas, some ant spray and the biggest roll of knock down budget price kitchen roll I have ever seen, let alone bought. It's the size of the ones you get in the garage to wipe your hands on.
We got back home and the Lozenge said: 'I want to go back to Jordan'.
And Rashimi said: 'I want ham.'
J and I opened another beer.
We arrived in the afternoon after the usual chaotic border process, and the dwarves headed straight for the sandpit where they stayed for an hour, in a shard of sunlight, happily filling buckets and digging.
The house itself is somewhere the likes of which I never imagined I would have the chance to live. It has elegant, rectangular proportions, with high ceilings, scruffy paintwork, and windows which look French. There is a big open hall which we use as a sitting room and dining room, from which the other rooms lead off. The yard surrounding the house has olive, pomegranate and clementine trees and but for the perusing cats, is an entirely private bubble only a few metres away from a busy street.
J and I spent the evening drinking wine we'd brought with us, and beginning the nesting process, which we're getting fairly good at now. This is the 7th time J and I have settled in a new place, in our 7 year marriage - and we know now that doing it together with some good tunes, and a few drinks is the way to enjoy it most fully. We were up until about 1am sorting, rearranging and unpacking. The main thing we are both lamenting, is the fact that we live in this amazing place, yet none of our wonderful new Jordanian friends can easily come to visit us here. It feels even further away as a result.
The following morning I nipped out for some milk feeling relieved I hadn't set out with a dwarf in a buggy as the pavements are craggy and un-negotiable on anything but the feet. The streets were busier than the day before, since our area is predominantly Muslim, the quiet day is Friday. It's almost impossible to get a feeling for what the place is exactly. In some respects it feels like normal Arab life with teenagers wandering to school; headscarved ladies in their long 'manteau' coats shopping or wandering to university; a man on the corner with a little cart shouting: 'CaaaaaEk!'(rounds of sesame bread) like the one outside our flat in Amman; shops selling shimmering gowns or diamante trainers; hummus, felafel and kebab shops and newsagents. In other respects, it makes you wonder where you really are. The huge metal wheelie bins overloaded and spilling out their foul insides, sitting in a sea of rubbish that either never made it to the bin, or has been picked through and thrown out of it; the graffiti saying: 'Free Gaza', Allahuakbar, Stop the settlements; the plots of unkempt land which are cordoned off, covered in Hebrew signs or sporting a flag of the Star of David. In one of the main shopping streets a dilapidated Ottoman building with broken windows stands completely empty. Opposite it is an immaculate structure which houses a conservatory of music. You wonder how each could face the other without wondering why the other is there. I wonder if 3 years will be long enough to answer all these questions. Having just unravelled a bit of Jordan, through having wonderful and knowledgeable friends there - I wonder who in this city will be the ones to help us unravel this place.
I made it to a shop which sold milk. At least it looked like milk, though the only thing I could read on the label was 4.5%, and I had no idea what this referred to. The yoghurt also had a Hebrew label, but the man in the shop was busy explaining in Arabic to a lady at the till, which packet of Spanish biscuits was the best for diets. One said 'sin azucar' and the other 'sin gluten'. He didn't know what gluten free meant or whether this would be good for weight loss, and my Arabic didn't stretch far enough to explain. I spent 50 Israeli Sheckels (about £10) on 2 big bottles of milk and and a selection of a few different yoghurts hoping the dwarves might at least like one of them.
They didn't, but J and St Grace did, and after breakfast we went out altogether to wander our immediate area. The dwarves whined for the full hour walk. No one walks in Amman, and they've subsequently forgotten how, but I am so happy to be back in a city where you can stride out from the front door. We bought some felafel, hummus and flatbread from the baker, and a couple of ice creams from a sticky little freezer around the back which the Lozenge inevitably sniffed out.
As we walked, or should I say, staggered, dragging two unwilling pilgrims. I wondered how St Grace would carve a life out for herself here as it feels so far from Jordan where she had already made her home. Plus she discovered on Friday that the only Sri Lankan she knows here lives in Tel Aviv not Jerusalem. I needn't have worried. With the kind of serendipity that only happens to St Grace, we were just about to get in the car to find a park when along walked an elderly Sri Lankan lady. We all practically pounced on her, and St Grace happily chatted in Sinhalese with her for a few minutes. She told us there was another Sri Lankan girl who lives opposite, who looks after two elderly ladies. For the rest of the afternoon Rashimi and St Grace played spot the Sri Lankan from the car. We saw about 5 and both St Grace and Rashimi can spot them from a distance of 500 metres it seems.
We found a park with a high tech playground, full of Jewish families as it was the sabbath. It was as far from our unkempt little district as another country. There were an amazing array of different nationalities: Tibet, Russia, Ukraine, Central Asia, the USA, all in the same kind of dress - black tights, black skirts for the women and some kind of a cap for the men and boys - of differing colours and shapes depending on the origin of the wearer.
The dwarves screeched with excitement when they saw a huge hill covered in grass, with a small stream at the bottom and we ran and ran and ran all afternoon. While we sat watching them play on a post-modern looking see-saw, a lady asked us if we spoke Hebrew and invited us and some others to join her shabbat party for children. We walked by on our way out and they were all sitting in a semi circle reciting lines from the Torah.
The dwarves are sharing a bedroom and aren't getting their full quota of sleep, so we put them into bed a bit earlier, and J and I found a bar in a little side street where we let our hair down, rather too much, (again) before coming back home cooking mushrooms and halloumi which were the only things left in the fridge.
Today is St Grace's day off, and the Sri Lankan lady we met yesterday wasn't answering her phone. We told Grace to go and buzz the house opposite to see if the other lady was about. She looked a bit nervous and said: 'But what if they speak blablublablu.. to me.' We laughed and reminded her she could use her fluent Arabic since we are in the Arab part of Jerusalem. Back she went, and Mariana the Sri Lankan was just leaving the house for her day off. In record time, St Grace was in her clothes and off for her first day out, without us in tow. I bet she was a little bit relieved. And I was too, not only because I want her to feel at home here. But also because I know how what a vital source of good sense and knowledge she will be once she starts to find her way around.
Meanwhile we found a supermarket where we were as blind as I had been in the little shop yesterday morning, with all the Hebrew writing. I can't believe we've spent so long learning Arabic. And the prices were as bad as Chad…With two dwarves and two trolleys we were the only people in the supermarket. The Lozenge's wailing echoed around the aisles after I said we didn't need more Cheerios, and Rashimi ran around shrieking like a harridan with four packets of jam filled croissants squished under each arm. Perhaps there was a reason why the aisles were empty. I managed to fob them off with a chocolate Santa each which I found in the reduced section. J and I came round a corner with our individual trolleys and bumped straight into one another. 'Let's get the hell out', he laughed. I couldn't have made it faster to the check out myself. And home we came with £150 worth of nothing much other than chick peas, yet more ice creams (Hello Kitty this time), the remains of the packet of the chocolate Santas, some ant spray and the biggest roll of knock down budget price kitchen roll I have ever seen, let alone bought. It's the size of the ones you get in the garage to wipe your hands on.
We got back home and the Lozenge said: 'I want to go back to Jordan'.
And Rashimi said: 'I want ham.'
J and I opened another beer.
The courage of St Grace
We awoke in our empty apartment and finished off the cereal. Rashimi wouldn't let me out of his sight and made sure a pair of sticky hands were firmly clamped around my mid thigh for most of the morning as I attempted to pack the last few bits and pieces and move towards the car.
St Grace arrived wearing a pair of yellow jeans and a huge smile, carrying a small bag of clothes and three photographs of her husband, Suranjaya and son, Jonathan. No road is too long in the right company, I thought to myself.
We said goodbye to Sayyad and although the dwarves didn't really understand the enormity of our departure, fortunately they both responded with a huge hug and kiss for him. He shook my hand and said: 'Anti ukhti' (You are my sister). We left in a convoy of 4 cars, J in front, the dwarves and I second, St Grace and Suranjaya in their car, and a car load of Sri Lankan friends of Suranjaya's in the car behind, to escort him back from the border after bidding farewell to his wonderful wife. I could tell they were both quite nervous, and I reminded myself of how courageous she is to be making this move with us. She's been in Jordan for the last 15 years and although she'll come back once a month, it's a big step. 'I like to always be changing things in my life, so nothing stays the same,' she confided to me the other day.
At the border Suranjaya hugged St Grace and wiped away the tears from behind his mirrored sunglasses. He's a bear of a man, and I wondered at one point if he would really let her go. I waited in our car with the dwarves and just before she got into the passenger's seat she looked back, gave Suranjaya that huge smile of hers, wobbled her head gently from side to side in his direction, and joined us in the car with the tears streaming down her face. If I hadn't felt confident that we were offering her an enormous opportunity, I would have felt guilty. But Rashimi by this stage was yelling, 'Gace! Gace! Borda! Borda! Lap!! Lap!! Lap!!' and trying to clamber over the seats to sit with her. This made her laugh and we cruised out onto the road waving goodbye to her gang of Sri Lankan escorts.
The lunar landscape and metal fences around the border look angry and bleak. Grace shuddered saying it looks like a prison. I wondered what she was expecting to see the other side.
St Grace arrived wearing a pair of yellow jeans and a huge smile, carrying a small bag of clothes and three photographs of her husband, Suranjaya and son, Jonathan. No road is too long in the right company, I thought to myself.
We said goodbye to Sayyad and although the dwarves didn't really understand the enormity of our departure, fortunately they both responded with a huge hug and kiss for him. He shook my hand and said: 'Anti ukhti' (You are my sister). We left in a convoy of 4 cars, J in front, the dwarves and I second, St Grace and Suranjaya in their car, and a car load of Sri Lankan friends of Suranjaya's in the car behind, to escort him back from the border after bidding farewell to his wonderful wife. I could tell they were both quite nervous, and I reminded myself of how courageous she is to be making this move with us. She's been in Jordan for the last 15 years and although she'll come back once a month, it's a big step. 'I like to always be changing things in my life, so nothing stays the same,' she confided to me the other day.
At the border Suranjaya hugged St Grace and wiped away the tears from behind his mirrored sunglasses. He's a bear of a man, and I wondered at one point if he would really let her go. I waited in our car with the dwarves and just before she got into the passenger's seat she looked back, gave Suranjaya that huge smile of hers, wobbled her head gently from side to side in his direction, and joined us in the car with the tears streaming down her face. If I hadn't felt confident that we were offering her an enormous opportunity, I would have felt guilty. But Rashimi by this stage was yelling, 'Gace! Gace! Borda! Borda! Lap!! Lap!! Lap!!' and trying to clamber over the seats to sit with her. This made her laugh and we cruised out onto the road waving goodbye to her gang of Sri Lankan escorts.
The lunar landscape and metal fences around the border look angry and bleak. Grace shuddered saying it looks like a prison. I wondered what she was expecting to see the other side.
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