Sunday, 23 March 2014
Jewish heroines and a Purim penguin
Since the Lozenge is not at school, Rashimi, he and I are getting to know this city together. One of the best ways to find your way about is to jump into the car and let yourself get lost. In my case, I not only lose my way, but generally also my cool, as Rashimi has a habit of breaking out of his car seat and throwing himself about the car while the Lozenge makes me play Paul Simon's: 'Me and Julio down in the school yard' over and over again: his new favourite song ('Washimi - this is my thong, not yourth'). I'm waiting for the day we get a fine from the police who are harder hearted than the ones in Jordan - or should I say more professional. I had a bit of a shout the other day as Rashimi was swinging from the handles and cackling with raucous laughter as he saw I could do nothing about it as we hurtled down a freeway. 'Mummy, will you be happy tomorrow?' asked the Lozenge.
One of the dwarves' favourite places so far is Liberty Bell park founded in 1976 to mark the USA's bicentennial, and right next door to this is the old Jerusalem rail station which is tranformed into an outdoor/indoor hang out with cafes, shops and bikes for hire, and where we do music classes. While pranking around one morning in the park, we met a guy originally from Chicago who now lives in Jerusalem having completed 'Aliyah' literally "ascent" or the right to return to the state of Israel, which is one of the basic tenets of Zionist ideology. He was interested that we'd been in Jordan. 'I've heard mixed reports about that place,' he said, shaking his head, reflecting the music teacher's doubts about whether she'd be welcomed there.
We mustn't take for granted that as foreigners we can come and go from both places as we please - and come to love the best from each of these worlds, so closely linked culturally, yet so politically polarised.
During Purim, many Jewish people wander about the city in costume. While the dwarves and I were sitting in a cafe drinking carrot juice, a human-sized penguin wandered by our table causing Rashimi to emit a harmonic yelp, and to leap onto my lap smashing the glass of juice. 'Scaaaawy pinguuuuu! I not like pinguuuuu!' And he would not let me go.
Then we went to a music class where I met a lot of Jewish mothers, one of whom was called Hadassah, who has also moved here from Europe, to live in Jerusalem with her family - perhaps the Aliyah too? I've since discovered that Hadassah is another name for Esther, from the bible. She is in fact heroine of the Purim festival, having been responsible for saving the Jewish people from death at the hands of the Persian king, her husband, Ahasuerus. It occurred to me that around 2,500 years after they were in danger of their lives within the Persian empire, not much has changed when you look at relations between Iran and Israel.
I've just come to the end of the book about the founders of the American Colony in Jerusalem, which is like losing a friend, and a metaphorical tour guide, in one. The author, Bertha Spafford Vester, was in Jerusalem on the fateful occasion when Lord Balfour, of the eponymous declaration, written in 1917, visits the city.
She wrote: 'When Lord Balfour followed the road through Jerusalem to the Mount of Olives to be entertained by the High Commissioner at Government House, he did not notice the Arab residences and places of business draped in black with black flags flying and women giving the death cry. He would not have understood what it meant even if he had heard the shrill cry, for he was surrounded by Zionists who did not enlighten him. We heard it, and pondered what the future might hold for Palestine.'
One of the dwarves' favourite places so far is Liberty Bell park founded in 1976 to mark the USA's bicentennial, and right next door to this is the old Jerusalem rail station which is tranformed into an outdoor/indoor hang out with cafes, shops and bikes for hire, and where we do music classes. While pranking around one morning in the park, we met a guy originally from Chicago who now lives in Jerusalem having completed 'Aliyah' literally "ascent" or the right to return to the state of Israel, which is one of the basic tenets of Zionist ideology. He was interested that we'd been in Jordan. 'I've heard mixed reports about that place,' he said, shaking his head, reflecting the music teacher's doubts about whether she'd be welcomed there.
We mustn't take for granted that as foreigners we can come and go from both places as we please - and come to love the best from each of these worlds, so closely linked culturally, yet so politically polarised.
During Purim, many Jewish people wander about the city in costume. While the dwarves and I were sitting in a cafe drinking carrot juice, a human-sized penguin wandered by our table causing Rashimi to emit a harmonic yelp, and to leap onto my lap smashing the glass of juice. 'Scaaaawy pinguuuuu! I not like pinguuuuu!' And he would not let me go.
Then we went to a music class where I met a lot of Jewish mothers, one of whom was called Hadassah, who has also moved here from Europe, to live in Jerusalem with her family - perhaps the Aliyah too? I've since discovered that Hadassah is another name for Esther, from the bible. She is in fact heroine of the Purim festival, having been responsible for saving the Jewish people from death at the hands of the Persian king, her husband, Ahasuerus. It occurred to me that around 2,500 years after they were in danger of their lives within the Persian empire, not much has changed when you look at relations between Iran and Israel.
I've just come to the end of the book about the founders of the American Colony in Jerusalem, which is like losing a friend, and a metaphorical tour guide, in one. The author, Bertha Spafford Vester, was in Jerusalem on the fateful occasion when Lord Balfour, of the eponymous declaration, written in 1917, visits the city.
She wrote: 'When Lord Balfour followed the road through Jerusalem to the Mount of Olives to be entertained by the High Commissioner at Government House, he did not notice the Arab residences and places of business draped in black with black flags flying and women giving the death cry. He would not have understood what it meant even if he had heard the shrill cry, for he was surrounded by Zionists who did not enlighten him. We heard it, and pondered what the future might hold for Palestine.'
Friday, 14 March 2014
Lunch in Ramallah
J and I drove through the driving rain to Ramallah on Wednesday - the brittle landscape dotted with olive groves looking uncharacteristically grey and draped in cloud. The Israeli soldiers at the checkpoints didn't even come out to check our papers - preferring to stay in the fug of the kiosk away from the cold.
We arrived at a restaurant situated on the side of a hill overlooking a slope of green trees and plantations - a rare sight in this age of urban development where each green patch seems to be engulfed as fast as the grass grows, with sand coloured buildings. After a few a minutes at our table, J's Palestinian friend Adela arrived, resplendent in a bright yellow jumper, making up for the lack of sunshine that day.
She has an important job in Palestinian political life and knows the socio-political landscape as well as her own heart. Her children are quite grown up now, and she is separated from her husband, but she shares her days between 3 different jobs, and in her few minutes of spare time, she told us proudly, she is learning to cook.
From the outside we were all in similar situations - professional, working parents trying to carve out a meaningful existence and raise children. But after talking to Adela for a couple of hours over hummus, fatuous and warm flat bread followed by tagine, the reality of an ordinary middle class working mother in Palestine became clearer.
She explained how her teenage daughter is in mourning for a university classmate of hers who was shot by the Israeli Defence Forces two days previously. Saji Darwish was out riding his horse near Ramallah when it happened. 'She has always lived with the struggle that we all live,' Adela explained with her barely accented, perfect English, 'but this is the first time she's had the raw truth of it pushed in her face. She's devastated and she wants to go and demonstrate against the occupation now. I can't persuade her not to.'
Adela's son had tried to get his sister to see things differently. 'You should go and demonstrate against our rubbish governments of Hamas and Fatah, not the occupation,' he explained. 'This is where the real problems lie.'
'I think I agree with my son', Adela sighed.
She went on to describe how at Bir Zeit University in Ramallah, which has a name for its open minded approach to education and is one of the best known in Palestine, is becoming more hard line. 'My daughter doesn't wear the hijab and none of us are really that religious although our family is Muslim,' Adela explained, 'And her tutor, who is very Islamic, gives her lower marks because of this, and she feels she doesn't have his respect.'
Adela has an incessant cough which she thinks is an allergy, though she can't work out the cause. I suggested maybe it was an allergy to Palestinian politics and gave her some of our medical contacts in Jerusalem. Unlike many Palestinians, she has Jerusalem identification papers which enable her to go to the city. Many Palestinians have not been able to visit Jerusalem since 1967, meaning that Ramallah has become a capital, albeit not official, Palestinian hub in its own right.
Also this week, a 38 year old Jordanian-Palestinian judge was shot dead by the IDF at the Allenby bridge crossing from Jordan to Israel (the crossing we use). There has been an outcry about all of these murders - including 3 Palestinian fighters who were killed by Israeli airstrikes this week. In a recent report, Amnesty International has accused Israel of being 'trigger happy' and using 'excessive violence'. But you wonder at politics, and why David Cameron in his visit to Israel and the Occupied Territories this week, couldn't echo these sentiments also.
Unsurprisingly, there is talk of a 3rd intifada on the Al Jazeera website. You can see why these people have no choice but to resort to violence. Who is listnening to them? Not the Israelis, not their own people and even the international community, formerly very focused on the Israel-Palestine dynamic, are distracted by the sceptre of Syria and the issue of the deepening fitna in the Arab world.
We arrived at a restaurant situated on the side of a hill overlooking a slope of green trees and plantations - a rare sight in this age of urban development where each green patch seems to be engulfed as fast as the grass grows, with sand coloured buildings. After a few a minutes at our table, J's Palestinian friend Adela arrived, resplendent in a bright yellow jumper, making up for the lack of sunshine that day.
She has an important job in Palestinian political life and knows the socio-political landscape as well as her own heart. Her children are quite grown up now, and she is separated from her husband, but she shares her days between 3 different jobs, and in her few minutes of spare time, she told us proudly, she is learning to cook.
From the outside we were all in similar situations - professional, working parents trying to carve out a meaningful existence and raise children. But after talking to Adela for a couple of hours over hummus, fatuous and warm flat bread followed by tagine, the reality of an ordinary middle class working mother in Palestine became clearer.
She explained how her teenage daughter is in mourning for a university classmate of hers who was shot by the Israeli Defence Forces two days previously. Saji Darwish was out riding his horse near Ramallah when it happened. 'She has always lived with the struggle that we all live,' Adela explained with her barely accented, perfect English, 'but this is the first time she's had the raw truth of it pushed in her face. She's devastated and she wants to go and demonstrate against the occupation now. I can't persuade her not to.'
Adela's son had tried to get his sister to see things differently. 'You should go and demonstrate against our rubbish governments of Hamas and Fatah, not the occupation,' he explained. 'This is where the real problems lie.'
'I think I agree with my son', Adela sighed.
She went on to describe how at Bir Zeit University in Ramallah, which has a name for its open minded approach to education and is one of the best known in Palestine, is becoming more hard line. 'My daughter doesn't wear the hijab and none of us are really that religious although our family is Muslim,' Adela explained, 'And her tutor, who is very Islamic, gives her lower marks because of this, and she feels she doesn't have his respect.'
Adela has an incessant cough which she thinks is an allergy, though she can't work out the cause. I suggested maybe it was an allergy to Palestinian politics and gave her some of our medical contacts in Jerusalem. Unlike many Palestinians, she has Jerusalem identification papers which enable her to go to the city. Many Palestinians have not been able to visit Jerusalem since 1967, meaning that Ramallah has become a capital, albeit not official, Palestinian hub in its own right.
Also this week, a 38 year old Jordanian-Palestinian judge was shot dead by the IDF at the Allenby bridge crossing from Jordan to Israel (the crossing we use). There has been an outcry about all of these murders - including 3 Palestinian fighters who were killed by Israeli airstrikes this week. In a recent report, Amnesty International has accused Israel of being 'trigger happy' and using 'excessive violence'. But you wonder at politics, and why David Cameron in his visit to Israel and the Occupied Territories this week, couldn't echo these sentiments also.
Unsurprisingly, there is talk of a 3rd intifada on the Al Jazeera website. You can see why these people have no choice but to resort to violence. Who is listnening to them? Not the Israelis, not their own people and even the international community, formerly very focused on the Israel-Palestine dynamic, are distracted by the sceptre of Syria and the issue of the deepening fitna in the Arab world.
Raindrops
Cold, globular and incessant rain has been pelting this land for the past five days and you can hear the ground sighing with relief after what seemed like an interminable drought. There is so much of it that our house is surrounded by a chain of deep puddles - drainage systems long since blocked and forgotten. The leaves on the trees are shining after layers of dust have been battered away and crystal drops of water hang from the brittle branch of the pomegranate tree outside my den window. In a couple of days, I should set my camera up to film a time-lapse of the growth explosion that is sure to follow when the sun returns.
Since the Lozenge is not in school until September we've had some good mornings of puddle running, and riding as fast as possible on the scooter, through the puddles until the tidal waves of muddy water make us so wet we have to retreat indoors to dry out before beginning again. The radiators are covered with rows of diminutive, steaming footwear.
When not outside we've been baking, although my attempts at a sponge cake were thwarted, first by the Lozenge who wrinkled up his nose and asked if it was 'cake made from thponges' and by the fact I still haven't found icing sugar here. No icing. No go. In the pauses from the rain we've heard a woodpecker in our garden which unfortunately has given Rashimi nightmares: 'Scawy wood pepper.' He thinks it will come and peck him.
A couple of days after my return from the pilgrimage to meet my new niece, after a burst of London, I felt like my life was closing in on itself, like a mental claustrophobia, which is strange considering the layers of history and politics surrounding us, but perhaps that can make it worse, particularly if you don't know which door to open first. I decided I needed 2 things: to make some local friends like we had in Jordan and get out and begin running again, since this is a very jog-able city - unlike Amman. But my trainers and sports bra, without which I daren't set foot at even a slow jog from our gateway, are in the container making its way here and how do you go about making local friends at the click of a finger?
I voiced my frustrations to J, who within a day, had made a date for us to have lunch with a Palestinian lady in Ramallah and returned with a very expensive black Nike sports top which will more than keep the two best friends at bay on my first foray around this hilly city.
We are far from home, but it doesn't always feel so as J understands me well after nearly a decade of life together. And even better, we have the same size feet so I can wear his trainers.
Since the Lozenge is not in school until September we've had some good mornings of puddle running, and riding as fast as possible on the scooter, through the puddles until the tidal waves of muddy water make us so wet we have to retreat indoors to dry out before beginning again. The radiators are covered with rows of diminutive, steaming footwear.
When not outside we've been baking, although my attempts at a sponge cake were thwarted, first by the Lozenge who wrinkled up his nose and asked if it was 'cake made from thponges' and by the fact I still haven't found icing sugar here. No icing. No go. In the pauses from the rain we've heard a woodpecker in our garden which unfortunately has given Rashimi nightmares: 'Scawy wood pepper.' He thinks it will come and peck him.
A couple of days after my return from the pilgrimage to meet my new niece, after a burst of London, I felt like my life was closing in on itself, like a mental claustrophobia, which is strange considering the layers of history and politics surrounding us, but perhaps that can make it worse, particularly if you don't know which door to open first. I decided I needed 2 things: to make some local friends like we had in Jordan and get out and begin running again, since this is a very jog-able city - unlike Amman. But my trainers and sports bra, without which I daren't set foot at even a slow jog from our gateway, are in the container making its way here and how do you go about making local friends at the click of a finger?
I voiced my frustrations to J, who within a day, had made a date for us to have lunch with a Palestinian lady in Ramallah and returned with a very expensive black Nike sports top which will more than keep the two best friends at bay on my first foray around this hilly city.
We are far from home, but it doesn't always feel so as J understands me well after nearly a decade of life together. And even better, we have the same size feet so I can wear his trainers.
Monday, 10 March 2014
St Bernards with a hoover tube
Coming back into Ben Gurion airport after a couple of days, I saw the tactics of more seasoned visitors as they swapped from one passport queue to another, as if in a ski resort, trying to avoid standing for un-necessary hours while Israeli officials thumbed through document after document.
I resigned myself to an hour's wait and chatted to an Italian man with a shaved head next to me in the queue. 'It's crayzy. But in fact we coulda really do withabitta thisa in Eeeetaly. In Eeetaly they let eeeeeveryone in and this is a beeeg problem too. Then the rest of Europe tell us to vafanculo because we are to blame with opening the doors to a mass of 'umanity from Afreeca.'
A New Yorker coming to visit her family suggested I should always choose a male inspector not a female one. 'They kinda get really finnicky the women sometimes.'
The taxi drove me back from Tel Aviv, entering Jerusalem through the West side, whose inhabitants were preparing for Shabbat, when activities such as driving a car or turning on a light are forbidden. In the more orthodox areas there were no cars at all apart from ours and the Russian taxi driver looked a little nervous as he negotiated between Haredim men in white tights, black hats and coats and side-locks dancing jauntily in time to their stride.
I arrived back at the house and not even a couple of St Bernards could have offered a welcome like it. The dwarves' hugs and kisses the metaphorical brandy, I was right back into my life again after a couple of seconds. And I've had the pleasure of watching them over the last few days, as they munch their way ecstatically through 4 packets of hot cross buns and as many sausages.
The calm in our house under the unflappable watch of St Grace was soon smashed within a day of my return - our new non-school schedule meaning that I have to cram as much work into half the time. In an unattended moment, the dwarves broke into the washroom and used all the products and double as much water on the floors and developed their own rink. Then I found them shouting into each other's ears down the detached hoover tube, Rashimi's face covered in lipstick, the Lozenge's nails and hands glistening with wet nail polish.
Yesterday the Lozenge came to join me in my den while I did a bit of work and during a Skype call managed to take off two of the handles to my desk drawers with my screw driver. Then he stood by my desk chatting and chatting and chatting…until…I said: 'Look, you can be in here if you like, and you can unscrew any door or bit of furniture, but just don't talk, okay?'
The breathing by my ear got heavier and heavier as he concentrated on keeping silent, which made me shake with laughter at the volume of breath coming from and into his nostrils, that we agreed it was quieter when he talked. I shut my computer and we went to a music session with a lady on the west side. We were the only non-Jewish people there, and although we got a little lost with some of the music for Purim (next week's Jewish holiday which commemorates the deliverance of the Jewish people in the Ancient Persian Empire where a plot had been formed to destroy them), it was great to sing, and the tunes were catchy, and the dwarves got to bang a triangle and clack some castanets which thoroughly exhausted them, allowing me to put them to bed and catch up on all of this.
I might start to fashion some instrumentals with the hoovertube and the Lozenge's nostrils later this week. In the continued absence of all our stuff, our place has some great acoustics.
I resigned myself to an hour's wait and chatted to an Italian man with a shaved head next to me in the queue. 'It's crayzy. But in fact we coulda really do withabitta thisa in Eeeetaly. In Eeetaly they let eeeeeveryone in and this is a beeeg problem too. Then the rest of Europe tell us to vafanculo because we are to blame with opening the doors to a mass of 'umanity from Afreeca.'
A New Yorker coming to visit her family suggested I should always choose a male inspector not a female one. 'They kinda get really finnicky the women sometimes.'
The taxi drove me back from Tel Aviv, entering Jerusalem through the West side, whose inhabitants were preparing for Shabbat, when activities such as driving a car or turning on a light are forbidden. In the more orthodox areas there were no cars at all apart from ours and the Russian taxi driver looked a little nervous as he negotiated between Haredim men in white tights, black hats and coats and side-locks dancing jauntily in time to their stride.
I arrived back at the house and not even a couple of St Bernards could have offered a welcome like it. The dwarves' hugs and kisses the metaphorical brandy, I was right back into my life again after a couple of seconds. And I've had the pleasure of watching them over the last few days, as they munch their way ecstatically through 4 packets of hot cross buns and as many sausages.
The calm in our house under the unflappable watch of St Grace was soon smashed within a day of my return - our new non-school schedule meaning that I have to cram as much work into half the time. In an unattended moment, the dwarves broke into the washroom and used all the products and double as much water on the floors and developed their own rink. Then I found them shouting into each other's ears down the detached hoover tube, Rashimi's face covered in lipstick, the Lozenge's nails and hands glistening with wet nail polish.
Yesterday the Lozenge came to join me in my den while I did a bit of work and during a Skype call managed to take off two of the handles to my desk drawers with my screw driver. Then he stood by my desk chatting and chatting and chatting…until…I said: 'Look, you can be in here if you like, and you can unscrew any door or bit of furniture, but just don't talk, okay?'
The breathing by my ear got heavier and heavier as he concentrated on keeping silent, which made me shake with laughter at the volume of breath coming from and into his nostrils, that we agreed it was quieter when he talked. I shut my computer and we went to a music session with a lady on the west side. We were the only non-Jewish people there, and although we got a little lost with some of the music for Purim (next week's Jewish holiday which commemorates the deliverance of the Jewish people in the Ancient Persian Empire where a plot had been formed to destroy them), it was great to sing, and the tunes were catchy, and the dwarves got to bang a triangle and clack some castanets which thoroughly exhausted them, allowing me to put them to bed and catch up on all of this.
I might start to fashion some instrumentals with the hoovertube and the Lozenge's nostrils later this week. In the continued absence of all our stuff, our place has some great acoustics.
Pilgrimage
The dwarves and I have been practising how to say M-a-t-i-l-d-a which is the name of auntie Rosie and uncle Harry's new baby. 'Mataydoh' says Rashimi, like playdoh.
Last week I nipped home on a pilgrimage to pay respects to a valuable female addition to our clan.
A new mother's lips on silken downy head. For that precious time, nothing else matters.
As I packed my bag, and explained to the Lozenge I'd be bringing it back full of sausages and hot cross buns, he said: 'Can I have a cuddle, Mummy.' then skipped off to join St Grace and Rashimi who I left with a bundle of money for ludicrously expensive taxis to explore the city. It felt like a big step to be leaving them in this new place, and I found myself offering St Grace some tit bits about what to do in an earthquake, that J and I had been reminded of at a recent crisis meeting. This region is due another earthquake, people like to remind us, and I couldn't remember if Sri Lanka was on a fault line and whether making for the doorway not running from the house, was part of St Grace's huge arsenal of wisdom.
I had some reading time at Ben Gurion airport. The news: An Arab teacher strip-searched in Eilat airport, seemingly for no reason; demonstrations in Jerusalem, and a photograph of a sea of black Haredim hats, protesting about the fact they may yet have to complete military service, which they're normally exempt from; the threat of Israeli settlements on the contested swathe of land known as 'E1' in Jerusalem, which would further strangle the already breathless little Palestinian patches still remaining - separating them from each other and making them less easy to govern as a coherent whole; the impact of a strike by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, whose staff have not had a pay rise in a decade.
We are worried about St Grace, whose passport is locked at the ministry and without which she cannot go back and visit her husband in Jordan. But domestic staff, like many other sections of society, hold very little clout, and we're not sure how much we can do either. She works so hard with our boys, and never stops smiling. But this enforced separation from her family has got to be painful for her.
It occurred to me, looking around the clean lines of the airport: ubiquitous retail opportunities and passengers milling by, that I didn't see any Arab travellers at all. Like the space between the solid forms that the artist Cezanne used to talk about, you could live in this country and have a lovely time without fully realising what you're not seeing. And just to be here for a short time, and to realise a tiny amount of the space, is unsettling, as you wonder what power you have to contribute even a tiny thing, which feels tiring and guilt-inducing. And then you see how easy it could be to pretend it's not happening, and that you don't know, and just bury your head in the sandcastle on the beach with your children after a happy picnic and tell everyone what a great place for a holiday this is.
A couple of films and glasses of red wine later, we were soaring past the Thames around the Shard and many other constructions that have begun to mushroom in London since I was last there in July. I spent the two days, when I wasn't in admiration and awe at the precious new human in our lives, sitting on the tube in wonder at the translations of Greek poems on the train walls; the politeness of the London public which I always used to think was rude and the breadth of development that is possible in the metropolis. I reminded myself we must never underestimate this place that is our home. There is so much fulfillable potential, and it's no wonder people want to crowd in there.
I was a little lost for words, and lost at times - looking the wrong way when I crossed the road; finding myself stopped in front of a pick and mix sweet display and waiting for the haranguing of dwarf voices; and finding myself slipping a plastic pink star I found in the back of a taxi into my pocket like the dwarves and I do when we find 'treasure' around the place in sandpits and playgrounds like the Glammy taught us one hot afternoon in Amman. There are always little things to find and games to play. But for those couple of days, I could check out of all that, chat idly with my sister, and gaze at a dwarf-to-be, who can't yet talk. And it was magic.
Last week I nipped home on a pilgrimage to pay respects to a valuable female addition to our clan.
A new mother's lips on silken downy head. For that precious time, nothing else matters.
As I packed my bag, and explained to the Lozenge I'd be bringing it back full of sausages and hot cross buns, he said: 'Can I have a cuddle, Mummy.' then skipped off to join St Grace and Rashimi who I left with a bundle of money for ludicrously expensive taxis to explore the city. It felt like a big step to be leaving them in this new place, and I found myself offering St Grace some tit bits about what to do in an earthquake, that J and I had been reminded of at a recent crisis meeting. This region is due another earthquake, people like to remind us, and I couldn't remember if Sri Lanka was on a fault line and whether making for the doorway not running from the house, was part of St Grace's huge arsenal of wisdom.
I had some reading time at Ben Gurion airport. The news: An Arab teacher strip-searched in Eilat airport, seemingly for no reason; demonstrations in Jerusalem, and a photograph of a sea of black Haredim hats, protesting about the fact they may yet have to complete military service, which they're normally exempt from; the threat of Israeli settlements on the contested swathe of land known as 'E1' in Jerusalem, which would further strangle the already breathless little Palestinian patches still remaining - separating them from each other and making them less easy to govern as a coherent whole; the impact of a strike by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, whose staff have not had a pay rise in a decade.
We are worried about St Grace, whose passport is locked at the ministry and without which she cannot go back and visit her husband in Jordan. But domestic staff, like many other sections of society, hold very little clout, and we're not sure how much we can do either. She works so hard with our boys, and never stops smiling. But this enforced separation from her family has got to be painful for her.
It occurred to me, looking around the clean lines of the airport: ubiquitous retail opportunities and passengers milling by, that I didn't see any Arab travellers at all. Like the space between the solid forms that the artist Cezanne used to talk about, you could live in this country and have a lovely time without fully realising what you're not seeing. And just to be here for a short time, and to realise a tiny amount of the space, is unsettling, as you wonder what power you have to contribute even a tiny thing, which feels tiring and guilt-inducing. And then you see how easy it could be to pretend it's not happening, and that you don't know, and just bury your head in the sandcastle on the beach with your children after a happy picnic and tell everyone what a great place for a holiday this is.
A couple of films and glasses of red wine later, we were soaring past the Thames around the Shard and many other constructions that have begun to mushroom in London since I was last there in July. I spent the two days, when I wasn't in admiration and awe at the precious new human in our lives, sitting on the tube in wonder at the translations of Greek poems on the train walls; the politeness of the London public which I always used to think was rude and the breadth of development that is possible in the metropolis. I reminded myself we must never underestimate this place that is our home. There is so much fulfillable potential, and it's no wonder people want to crowd in there.
I was a little lost for words, and lost at times - looking the wrong way when I crossed the road; finding myself stopped in front of a pick and mix sweet display and waiting for the haranguing of dwarf voices; and finding myself slipping a plastic pink star I found in the back of a taxi into my pocket like the dwarves and I do when we find 'treasure' around the place in sandpits and playgrounds like the Glammy taught us one hot afternoon in Amman. There are always little things to find and games to play. But for those couple of days, I could check out of all that, chat idly with my sister, and gaze at a dwarf-to-be, who can't yet talk. And it was magic.
What is a soldier?
'What is a tholdier?' the Lozenge asked as we handed our passports to a khaki clad teenager with an M16 dangling from one shoulder, at the Israel/Jordan crossing last week. 'Well, it's someone who's paid to defend something, the way that you defend your toys from Rashimi sometimes.' I replied, taking care not to venture into the nature of defence and when it becomes attack - since both Israel and the Lozenge can quickly swap from one to another, more often than not, disproportionately. 'Hmm,' he said. 'But it is thad that Washimi isn't with us.'
We were en route to Jordan for me to do some more work on the documentary. The Glammy has returned to Amman after an unhappy time working for a family in Bahrain, so we booked her in to hang out with the Lozenge while I worked. We met her in Starbucks car park and the moment her golden Jeep rolled into sight, the Lozenge unpopped his seatbelt, hurled himself, parka jacket flapping and monkey backpack flying after him, into the folds of her large colourful cardigan. She dropped her LV handbag on the ground and swung him around shouting, 'I've missed you my rajooool (lad)'. And they sped off to rag around the city that used to be our home.
We met later that evening after I'd had a full day's work finalising the film, which is now being polished with the Jordanian editor friend, freeing me up to plan my next project…The Glammy had moved out of her room and given me her bed - complete with Ralph Lauren striped pyjamas and free access to her pot of Creme de la Mer; while she and the Lozenge slept in her sister's room. The flat was a fug of perfume and cigarette smoke contributed by the Glammy's Mum as she occupied the brown velour sofa watching World Heavyweight Championships. And the Lozenge snuggled into their room, a small blond head buried in purple pillow and duvet, in the purple walled room. Home from home it seemed to us, incongruously.
After more work for me, and more play for the Lozenge the following day, we wended our way back down the curling road in the darkness to the Dead Sea, our ears blocking and popping with the dip in pressure, and turned towards the King Hussein crossing and Allenby bridge. The Lozenge managed to hoodwink me into buying a plastic barbecue set complete with plastic tongs, sausages and little coals - (although he ripped it open on arrival in Jerusalem to discover with disappointment that someone had nicked the plastic chicken from the box). I was grateful for my four year old sidekick for having come on the working mission with me. His school has said he's too young to be in the class he's in, and there's no room in the one below. So he's having an extended holiday until September. He was good company and towed the line, so in a way the plastic barbecue was to assure him of that. And I am very much keeping in touch with my inner 4 year old at present due to more hours spent with him. Although I have had to significantly rearrange my working life I know I'll look back and feel grateful for all those extra hours together.
We needed to buy thank you presents for some of the lovely Palestinian staff at J's work who have helped us settle in, and as I put three bottles of Moet champagne onto the counter beside the placcy barbecue set, the Jordanian guard, complete with red and white Jordanian headgear, questioned how many of us there were travelling. 'Er…wahid wa nus' - (one and a half.) 'Then you can buy only one bottle.'
I explained, 'You must be able to understand that these are presents for Palestinians and I don't want to risk buying wine from an Israeli settlement the other side. 'Ta'eb.' Okay. He said, smiling, and waved me through with the 3 clanking bottles.
The other side, a whippet thin little sodldierlette, in skin tight jeans and huge boots, like an ant in Doc Martens with walkie talkie and gun hanging from her which further accentuated her tiny frame, shouted in a bored drawl, 'laydeeee! laydeee!' 'Hurry up. Go there. Do this,' filling the hall with much more of her graceless presence than her size should merit. The man at the customs had one of those faces you'd imagine on a guard on death row, and shouted at me: 'Why don't you have this Arabic car document in English. I can't read Arabic. You can't come into the country with this.' He was so rude I could feel my hackles rising. I had never had an issue with the car document before. He was just picking on me, like some people imported from Russia, who sit in a little plastic box checking documents all day, feel they can. And I'm not even Palestinian. He continued to shout: 'How do you expect me to read this. I don't speak Arabic. You can't come through into Israel with this. You need to get it translated.'
After a couple of hours, we made it through after another non-welcome to Israel. You get the feeling they'd really rather we didn't come in. Perhaps because we'll see things they'd rather keep hidden. Or maybe because, when it comes to groups of bullies and victims, its easier and safer to join the bullies.
We were en route to Jordan for me to do some more work on the documentary. The Glammy has returned to Amman after an unhappy time working for a family in Bahrain, so we booked her in to hang out with the Lozenge while I worked. We met her in Starbucks car park and the moment her golden Jeep rolled into sight, the Lozenge unpopped his seatbelt, hurled himself, parka jacket flapping and monkey backpack flying after him, into the folds of her large colourful cardigan. She dropped her LV handbag on the ground and swung him around shouting, 'I've missed you my rajooool (lad)'. And they sped off to rag around the city that used to be our home.
We met later that evening after I'd had a full day's work finalising the film, which is now being polished with the Jordanian editor friend, freeing me up to plan my next project…The Glammy had moved out of her room and given me her bed - complete with Ralph Lauren striped pyjamas and free access to her pot of Creme de la Mer; while she and the Lozenge slept in her sister's room. The flat was a fug of perfume and cigarette smoke contributed by the Glammy's Mum as she occupied the brown velour sofa watching World Heavyweight Championships. And the Lozenge snuggled into their room, a small blond head buried in purple pillow and duvet, in the purple walled room. Home from home it seemed to us, incongruously.
After more work for me, and more play for the Lozenge the following day, we wended our way back down the curling road in the darkness to the Dead Sea, our ears blocking and popping with the dip in pressure, and turned towards the King Hussein crossing and Allenby bridge. The Lozenge managed to hoodwink me into buying a plastic barbecue set complete with plastic tongs, sausages and little coals - (although he ripped it open on arrival in Jerusalem to discover with disappointment that someone had nicked the plastic chicken from the box). I was grateful for my four year old sidekick for having come on the working mission with me. His school has said he's too young to be in the class he's in, and there's no room in the one below. So he's having an extended holiday until September. He was good company and towed the line, so in a way the plastic barbecue was to assure him of that. And I am very much keeping in touch with my inner 4 year old at present due to more hours spent with him. Although I have had to significantly rearrange my working life I know I'll look back and feel grateful for all those extra hours together.
We needed to buy thank you presents for some of the lovely Palestinian staff at J's work who have helped us settle in, and as I put three bottles of Moet champagne onto the counter beside the placcy barbecue set, the Jordanian guard, complete with red and white Jordanian headgear, questioned how many of us there were travelling. 'Er…wahid wa nus' - (one and a half.) 'Then you can buy only one bottle.'
I explained, 'You must be able to understand that these are presents for Palestinians and I don't want to risk buying wine from an Israeli settlement the other side. 'Ta'eb.' Okay. He said, smiling, and waved me through with the 3 clanking bottles.
The other side, a whippet thin little sodldierlette, in skin tight jeans and huge boots, like an ant in Doc Martens with walkie talkie and gun hanging from her which further accentuated her tiny frame, shouted in a bored drawl, 'laydeeee! laydeee!' 'Hurry up. Go there. Do this,' filling the hall with much more of her graceless presence than her size should merit. The man at the customs had one of those faces you'd imagine on a guard on death row, and shouted at me: 'Why don't you have this Arabic car document in English. I can't read Arabic. You can't come into the country with this.' He was so rude I could feel my hackles rising. I had never had an issue with the car document before. He was just picking on me, like some people imported from Russia, who sit in a little plastic box checking documents all day, feel they can. And I'm not even Palestinian. He continued to shout: 'How do you expect me to read this. I don't speak Arabic. You can't come through into Israel with this. You need to get it translated.'
After a couple of hours, we made it through after another non-welcome to Israel. You get the feeling they'd really rather we didn't come in. Perhaps because we'll see things they'd rather keep hidden. Or maybe because, when it comes to groups of bullies and victims, its easier and safer to join the bullies.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)