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.
I don't know about Ben Gurion airport, but Arabs are very much part of the Israeli pubilc space. If you go to Jerusalem city center or Mamillah during week days, or other parts of west Jerusalem you see Arabs everywhere.
ReplyDeleteNot all Arab women and girls wear head scarves and so they, as well as many Arab men, look very much like Mizrahi Jews (Israeli Jews whose origins are from Arab countries).
Many of the shop vendors are Arabs as well (like in Mamilla and Malha malls), many waiters are Arabs (like in Aroma coffee shops) etc.
If you go to a hospital in west Jerusalem you will see that bedise the many Arab patients, many of the staff are Arab as well.
If you'll listen to people in the street or in the coffee shop or mall or park, you'll see that many speak Arabic. There are almost as many Arabs as Jews in the city center, malls etc.
I was in Eilat recently and I saw many Arabs there - in the malls, beach, in the hotel I stayed in. Again, since not all Arab women wear head scarves a non Israeli might find it hard to distinguish between them and Mizrahi Jews.
I was in an Aroman coffee shop in the the center of Tel Aviv last Saturday. Beside the fact that all the employees were Arabs, the 2 male customers who ordered before me were Arabs and chatted in Arabic with the Arab girl who took the orders. I have to admit this kind of surprised me because it was very early in the morning and you'd expect only people who live in the area to be in that coffee shop at that time, so I assume these Arab customers lived in the area (Dizengoff street) - right in the center of Tel Aviv.
The same goes for all parts of Israel.