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.
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