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.
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