http://bit.ly/1jKJSZQ
A genius mashup of a recent Blair speech. The man has so much to be ashamed of.
A genius mashup of a recent Blair speech. The man has so much to be ashamed of.
Sunday 27 April 2014
Tuesday 8 April 2014
Banana Land and an unfortunate street name
To quell the empty spaces in our lives after Mum and Dad left, the dwarves, J and I went on a little mission to Jericho which lies not far from the Dead Sea at the same level, about 20 minutes' drive from Jerusalem.
Most foreigners who visit Jericho might go for more intellectual reasons, it being the oldest continuously inhabited city on the planet, with many remnants and historical signs to show for it. But life with dwarves can often be a little less cerebral, and I will admit that our final destination was in fact: Banana Land, which boasted swimming pool, slides etc. in the guide book.
Jericho, similar to other cities in the West Bank including Nablus, Ramallah, Bethlehem and a few others, is in what is known as Area A - in full civil and security control of the Palestinian Authority. Area B includes over 400 Palestinian villages and surrounding areas which are under Palestinian civil control and joint Israeli-Palestinian security control; and Area C is full Israel civil and security control.
When you reach the border of an Area A, you get a sign like this. As though you are about to enter a zone of brigands, thieves and bandits:
On arrival at Banana Land, it definitely had the makings of dwarf paradise from an ice cream truck to fairground rides and a little pool. It was like being back in Jordan again - entirely Arab, (as you can imagine, with a red sign like that on entry) and with no experience of a place like this, you might compare it to an Arab Blackpool. Though with an awful lot less flesh on display, as I discovered.
Jericho has a lovely laid back feel to it, and unlike many Arab towns, a lot of people travel around on bicycles, which adds to the relaxed vibe. Though admittedly I didn't see many women riding, as in some stricter muslim households, it is frowned upon. If you haven't already seen the film: Wajda, from Saudi Arabia, you should see it as it's a beautiful portrayal of life behind the scenes for a young girl and her mother with a bicycle as the centre-piece.
All women in Banana Land were covered from top to brightly pained toe, and not wishing to offend, I remained covered myself, though it's hot and uncomfortable work supervising two dwarves who cannot swim, in a pool brimming with writhing children's' bodies in 35 degrees, fully clothed. Thankfully they were happy with an hour in there, and after that we joined the shwarma queue.
While the boys tinkered about on go carts, I sat alone at a table. I've worked out a 'three smile rule in this country' where smiles come less easily than in Jordan. Generally, if you catch eyes with someone (I'd only ever try this with a female), and smile you may not get one back, a second time, sometimes; but almost always seem to get one back on the third attempt. And then conversation is usually possible. This trick worked and I got chatting to a table full of female teachers from Hebron who were keeping cool in their head to toe acrylic uniforms, under a large tree.
I remembered the words of our Palestinian friend. 'I don't like Banana Land, because people just go there to watch and be seen, and gossip about each other.' In a way you're exempt as a foreigner, especially as a female with small brood and husband in tow, and I made the most of this. But you could see this might not be so for a local.
We returned to the relative lofty heights of Jerusalem, entering the cool of our house with relief, accompanied by a little waft of Mozart's clarinet concerto floating across from the National Conservatory of Music opposite our house. It felt a far cry from Banana Land and its visitors.
I never underestimate the luxury of being able to duck and dive into different worlds as a foreigner here.
We arrived back to an ecstatic St Grace, who had been on a day trip to Bethlehem with a gaggle of Sri Lankans. She cackled with laughter when she explained that her little prayer she wrote down on a piece of paper in the box in the Church of the Nativity had been answered. And Sri Lanka had beaten India in the cricket that day.
Tomorrow we are headed back to the UK for an Easter bunny hop around the island that is our real home. But in the nick of time, yesterday I had the excitement of going to purchase an elegant Clavinova thanks to Mum's very generous donation from her insurance money after one of her pianos was leaked on…
Into the shop I went, and after paying, described to the lady at the counter, a Hebrew speaker, our home address for delivery. As I spelled out our street name which is an Arab one, I saw her face had turned pink and she started to giggle. After a minute or so another customer explained that our road name means: 'Rock in the pussy' in Hebrew. I let them sort out the rest in Google Maps and wondered why no one had warned me about that one before.
Most foreigners who visit Jericho might go for more intellectual reasons, it being the oldest continuously inhabited city on the planet, with many remnants and historical signs to show for it. But life with dwarves can often be a little less cerebral, and I will admit that our final destination was in fact: Banana Land, which boasted swimming pool, slides etc. in the guide book.
Jericho, similar to other cities in the West Bank including Nablus, Ramallah, Bethlehem and a few others, is in what is known as Area A - in full civil and security control of the Palestinian Authority. Area B includes over 400 Palestinian villages and surrounding areas which are under Palestinian civil control and joint Israeli-Palestinian security control; and Area C is full Israel civil and security control.
When you reach the border of an Area A, you get a sign like this. As though you are about to enter a zone of brigands, thieves and bandits:
On arrival at Banana Land, it definitely had the makings of dwarf paradise from an ice cream truck to fairground rides and a little pool. It was like being back in Jordan again - entirely Arab, (as you can imagine, with a red sign like that on entry) and with no experience of a place like this, you might compare it to an Arab Blackpool. Though with an awful lot less flesh on display, as I discovered.
Jericho has a lovely laid back feel to it, and unlike many Arab towns, a lot of people travel around on bicycles, which adds to the relaxed vibe. Though admittedly I didn't see many women riding, as in some stricter muslim households, it is frowned upon. If you haven't already seen the film: Wajda, from Saudi Arabia, you should see it as it's a beautiful portrayal of life behind the scenes for a young girl and her mother with a bicycle as the centre-piece.
All women in Banana Land were covered from top to brightly pained toe, and not wishing to offend, I remained covered myself, though it's hot and uncomfortable work supervising two dwarves who cannot swim, in a pool brimming with writhing children's' bodies in 35 degrees, fully clothed. Thankfully they were happy with an hour in there, and after that we joined the shwarma queue.
While the boys tinkered about on go carts, I sat alone at a table. I've worked out a 'three smile rule in this country' where smiles come less easily than in Jordan. Generally, if you catch eyes with someone (I'd only ever try this with a female), and smile you may not get one back, a second time, sometimes; but almost always seem to get one back on the third attempt. And then conversation is usually possible. This trick worked and I got chatting to a table full of female teachers from Hebron who were keeping cool in their head to toe acrylic uniforms, under a large tree.
I remembered the words of our Palestinian friend. 'I don't like Banana Land, because people just go there to watch and be seen, and gossip about each other.' In a way you're exempt as a foreigner, especially as a female with small brood and husband in tow, and I made the most of this. But you could see this might not be so for a local.
We returned to the relative lofty heights of Jerusalem, entering the cool of our house with relief, accompanied by a little waft of Mozart's clarinet concerto floating across from the National Conservatory of Music opposite our house. It felt a far cry from Banana Land and its visitors.
I never underestimate the luxury of being able to duck and dive into different worlds as a foreigner here.
We arrived back to an ecstatic St Grace, who had been on a day trip to Bethlehem with a gaggle of Sri Lankans. She cackled with laughter when she explained that her little prayer she wrote down on a piece of paper in the box in the Church of the Nativity had been answered. And Sri Lanka had beaten India in the cricket that day.
Tomorrow we are headed back to the UK for an Easter bunny hop around the island that is our real home. But in the nick of time, yesterday I had the excitement of going to purchase an elegant Clavinova thanks to Mum's very generous donation from her insurance money after one of her pianos was leaked on…
Into the shop I went, and after paying, described to the lady at the counter, a Hebrew speaker, our home address for delivery. As I spelled out our street name which is an Arab one, I saw her face had turned pink and she started to giggle. After a minute or so another customer explained that our road name means: 'Rock in the pussy' in Hebrew. I let them sort out the rest in Google Maps and wondered why no one had warned me about that one before.
The olive tree as witness and flagrant opportunism
St Grace has over the past year or so been inadvertently been putting J's socks in my sock drawer. And without saying much, though knowing they are his, I've been happily wearing them myself. They are particularly useful since I don't seem to have many of my own.
I was pondering this opportunist requisition of J's socks on my part as I drove to Israeli customs in the Givat Shaul area of Jerusalem to start the registration of our car. Literally meaning, 'Saul's Hill', this area is now an industrial zone which forms part of West Jerusalem, and is situated on the site of the Palestinian village of Deir Yassin. It overlooks what remains of Lifta, once a tiny Arab village, no longer inhabited, which is perched on the side of the slope below Givat Shaul.
A local friend of ours took me there, and explained the little visible bits of history as we drove. As we parked by the customs building he pointed out a building site behind tall metal walls, covered in those images of the behemoth that is to be built behind. As the diggers rumbled away the other side of the wafer wall, our friend explained that they were demolishing the last Arab house in Givat Shaul. It doesn't take long, I thought, to wipe out the traces of a previous owner, scrunching my toes uncomfortably in J's socks. No one would know they once were his. Apart from him of course. Fortunately for me, there's not even a nametape.
Although the land in and around Deir Yassin was actually purchased for the most part, starting in around 1906, from Arab inhabitants, it has a more gruesome association due to the massacre, in April 1948 of 107 villagers, half of whom were women and children, at the hands of the Irgun paramilitary force headed by Menachim Begin. As the Deir Yassin webpage explains: "The massacre of Palestinians at Deir Yassin is one of the most significant events in 20th-century Palestinian and Israeli history. This is not because of its size or its brutality, but because it stands as the starkest early warning of a calculated depopulation of over 400 Arab villages and cities and the expulsion of over 700,000 Palestinian inhabitants to make room for survivors of the Holocaust and other Jews from the rest of the world."
And just this week, the final remnant of what was there before has been effaced, leaving only the remains of the tiny village of Lifta clinging to the slope below like a limpet whose flesh has long since left the shell, to remind us of what might have been.
Our conversation moved on to families, as they often do in these parts. And our friend explained he had lost his brother over 20 years ago in the Al Aqsa mosque when Israeli soldiers shot and killed 21 people there. His father died of a heart attack 6 months after his brother was killed. But our friend is a survivor, fluent Hebrew speaking, intelligent and unjudgemental. He just gets on with what he needs to care for his wife and four daughters and educate his children in peace.
A few days earlier as we'd stood in the Garden of Gethsemane with another local friend, and looked at the gnarled but stately olive tree, that people estimate would have witnessed the night that Jesus spent there, it struck me how these trees, centuries older than most of the buildings, are some of the only witnesses in this land.
I read a report by the Ma'an news agency last week that Israeli settlers cut down more than 50 olive trees in Huwwara village south of Nablus in the northern West Bank, and that more than 5,700 trees have been cut down by settlers in the West Bank since the beginning of this year, according to the same agency.
Other than their status as a valuable resource, they are a vital witness of human time, and looking at the ancient trunk, which has withstood earthquakes, wars, sieges, floods and drought, should really be a commodity we collectively fight to preserve, if only for their symbol. They are so much more than just a branch for peace.
Some sights
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| A passing Bar Mitzvah |
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| The Wailing Wall |
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| Dome of the Rock |
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| Dome of the Holy Sepulchre |
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| Hands of Fatima, Mohammad's daughter, for sale in the Old City |
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| The birthplace of Jesus, Bethlehem |
A near miss with the baby Jesus
No matter one's religious beliefs, a trip around the Old City in Jerusalem is as moving as can be. You have to prepare yourself for a bun fight - pilgrims, locals, tour buses and the rest, but there are always little moments of quiet when you can consider the multi-layered, tragic and heroic history of this city and the people who have lived within it. Having been destroyed twice, besieged 23 times, attacked 52 times, and captured and recaptured 44 times, it's a wonder there is anything left. And let's hope its sacred place in all three of the Mohammedan faiths, will preserve it for as long as the earth spins.
I'd never really thought about what the 'stations of the cross' meant before walking up the Via Dolorosa and realising that these were the points where Christ put down the cross, and something happened. 'Station four: Jesus meets his mother.' This one caused a lump to form in my throat. The image of a mother seeing her son on his way to be crucified is beyond what my imagination can produce.
Some of our favourite places were the expanses or nooks where humans have not been allowed to intervene so much: the wide esplanade surrounding the golden Dome of the Rock and Al Aqsa mosque - where local boys can come and kick a football, so long as it's not prayer time;
the tiny Armenian chapel inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre which none of the 6 Christian denominations who share it have been allowed to meddle with, or even clean in many years; and the Garden of Gethsamane where there stands, what they have calculated to be, a gnarled but flourishing olive tree from before the time of Jesus - over 2014 years old.
The bunfight in Bethlehem was more extreme with crowds of people pushing and shoving their way into the cave in the Church of the Holy Nativity where Jesus was born.
Not wanting to get too involved in the melee, I reversed away from a crowd entering a tiny chapel where a service was being conducted in Ukrainian. I was nudged by a cushion at shoulder height and spun round to come face to face with a life-sized model of the baby Jesus on a cushion, which I had missed sending flying by an inch. Only afterwards did our guide explain that this figurine is the very baby Jesus that we see broadcast on televisions around the world from the Church of the Nativity on Christmas day. We had a big laugh about it, but can you imagine…?
We then proceeded to the Shepherds' fields where a Japanese tour group was reciting the Lord's Prayer in Japanese, and singing together afterwards. In some ways it was a relief to look towards the brown earth of the fields, away from the cacophony of human sound and jigsaws of human intervention, towards a view that (if you closed your eyes to a large red-roofed Israeli settlement) would have looked very similar 2000 years before our time.
I'd never really thought about what the 'stations of the cross' meant before walking up the Via Dolorosa and realising that these were the points where Christ put down the cross, and something happened. 'Station four: Jesus meets his mother.' This one caused a lump to form in my throat. The image of a mother seeing her son on his way to be crucified is beyond what my imagination can produce.
Some of our favourite places were the expanses or nooks where humans have not been allowed to intervene so much: the wide esplanade surrounding the golden Dome of the Rock and Al Aqsa mosque - where local boys can come and kick a football, so long as it's not prayer time;
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| Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem |
The bunfight in Bethlehem was more extreme with crowds of people pushing and shoving their way into the cave in the Church of the Holy Nativity where Jesus was born.
Not wanting to get too involved in the melee, I reversed away from a crowd entering a tiny chapel where a service was being conducted in Ukrainian. I was nudged by a cushion at shoulder height and spun round to come face to face with a life-sized model of the baby Jesus on a cushion, which I had missed sending flying by an inch. Only afterwards did our guide explain that this figurine is the very baby Jesus that we see broadcast on televisions around the world from the Church of the Nativity on Christmas day. We had a big laugh about it, but can you imagine…?
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| The Catholic Church of St Catherine, and the Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem |
Numeric dyslexia and a happy visit
In my excitement at doubling our adult:dwarf ratio with a visit from Mum and Dad, I succumbed to numeric dyslexia which often rears its head in relation to the 24 hour clock, and managed to arrive at the airport with the Lozenge 4 hours before their flight arrived.
Luckily, with a large open space, a few cafes and shops and a four year old in tow, there is plenty to do - even after you've eaten 2 genetically modified sized Danish pastries in lieu of dinner, and gone up and down the escalators a few times.
And from the moment they did eventually arrive, things in our lives seemed to go smoothly again. Our big room in which we do most of our living, was transformed from jumble sale to orderly in just over a day; I managed to do a bit of work without Rashimi standing right by my desk asking me: 'Are you not bizzy? Are you not important?' And even better, in this land - in some ways the cultural and religious centre of the earth - got to be a tourist for the first time in a couple of months. And I even had a moment to crank up my Arabic classes again, in a branch of Al Quds (Jerusalem) university which is within walking distance from our house.
Poor J has been suffering from the very small amount of Arabic spoken here, and it's easy for previous standards to slip - which is why he might be found reading: 'The ten measures of the trilateral Arabic verb' in bed before we go to sleep. So it's probably good for our marriage if I have an equivalent going on, even if I haven't reached the trilaterals quite yet.
We made very few plans for the 10 days Mum and Dad were here, but they couldn't have been more harmonious. However our new Palestinian friend Johnny at Holy Land Insurance, lived up to his name by also ensuring we had a more informed look into this extraordinary city, by very generously giving us some guided days around Jerusalem, Bethlehem and beyond with his friend.
So everyone was smiling - and we relished every minute of their company as you learn how to do, when you live far from home.
Luckily, with a large open space, a few cafes and shops and a four year old in tow, there is plenty to do - even after you've eaten 2 genetically modified sized Danish pastries in lieu of dinner, and gone up and down the escalators a few times.
And from the moment they did eventually arrive, things in our lives seemed to go smoothly again. Our big room in which we do most of our living, was transformed from jumble sale to orderly in just over a day; I managed to do a bit of work without Rashimi standing right by my desk asking me: 'Are you not bizzy? Are you not important?' And even better, in this land - in some ways the cultural and religious centre of the earth - got to be a tourist for the first time in a couple of months. And I even had a moment to crank up my Arabic classes again, in a branch of Al Quds (Jerusalem) university which is within walking distance from our house.
Poor J has been suffering from the very small amount of Arabic spoken here, and it's easy for previous standards to slip - which is why he might be found reading: 'The ten measures of the trilateral Arabic verb' in bed before we go to sleep. So it's probably good for our marriage if I have an equivalent going on, even if I haven't reached the trilaterals quite yet.
We made very few plans for the 10 days Mum and Dad were here, but they couldn't have been more harmonious. However our new Palestinian friend Johnny at Holy Land Insurance, lived up to his name by also ensuring we had a more informed look into this extraordinary city, by very generously giving us some guided days around Jerusalem, Bethlehem and beyond with his friend.
So everyone was smiling - and we relished every minute of their company as you learn how to do, when you live far from home.
The diplomat's child has a poison tongue
After 5 intense days I went to join the dwarves who had been lodging with the Glammy in Amman during that time - no doubt on a diet of donuts and verboten multicoloured cereal. As I hugged them, my nostrils filled with the aroma of stale cigarette and perfume thanks to the Glammy's velour tracksuited but warm hearted Mum, who also lives in the apartment.
But what I most loved about their tales of the week was the Glammy's approach to puddles, even on a cold March morning. Why get your clothes wet when you can whip 'em off? The Glammy may have an LV handbag, but that's where the mall-mentality ends…She did me such a favour by providing a loving nest for our duo while I did my work in the very same city.
We cruised out of Amman towards the border, each of us getting used to being together again after a 5 day break. We sailed out of the Jordan side not managing (at all) to avoid the lure of the duty free and the rows and rows of Toblerone and Jelly Belly beans neatly placed at a dwarf eye-line. The Jordanian men at border control pummelled and kissed and squeezed the dwarves as we exited, all 'habeeeebeee' this and that, complete with cigarettes dangling from bottom lips, flicking little bits of ash into their hair and foraging for sweets in their khaki trousers to give the dwarves. But only a few hundred metres on, the other side of the Jordan valley, the warmth and charm dwindled to a stream as insignificant as the trickle that used to be known as the Jordan river: Israeli customs…
Every country seems to have an idiom to the tune of: 'The dentist's child has bad teeth.' In Afghanistan they say: 'The potter's child drinks from a cracked cup'. And I think there's an Arab one about the carpenter's child and a two legged stool.
As we approached the armed lady escort standing outside the Israeli terminal, I wondered to myself if there was an equivalent for the diplomat's child. As Rashimi, seeing red after a few too many rude and complicated border crossings, turned purple and started swiping the air in front of the uniformed lady's face with a tanned, chubby hand: 'I NOT like that lady! I NOT LIKE THAT LADY! Go, LADY! Away! NO lady!'
Looking rather surprised, she seemed to melt at his 2.5 year old bag of fury, and her over made up face split into an enormous grin which spread between each multi-pierced ear. 'I have three boys myself,' she admitted, and went off giggling to tell her uniformed friends about her diminutive enemy. Maybe this is the answer for diplomacy Israeli style? Rashimi has learned fast but he'd better not try it at home…
Back at our house, the clean lines of my working life I'd established for five days disintegrated into a shape not unlike Mr Messy. Unsettled after their change of routine, the dwarves were up most mornings at 5am - the Lozenge making 'potions' in the kitchen out of baking powder, flour, water, any fruit and veg he could reach on the bottom shelf of the fridge neatly chopped, and a sprinkling of hundreds and thousands. He stored the foul mixtures in a low cupboard which we were not to touch or move on pain of death.
Trying to make the most of the early mornings to do some editing, I would try and creep, laptop under arm, past Rashimi's room to grab a quick hour of peace to work. But he's a light sleeper like me, and I'd normally be dragged back from my mission with a piercing: 'MummmeeeeeY!' scuppering my work plans for that moment, and forcing me to join in a dawn den-making session with two wired and bed-headed dwarves. Or a premature breakfast in our high ceilinged kitchen where no ear-plug would be capable of muting the extreme harmonics.
Even before our shipment of things arrived from Jordan, our elegant 1930's house had morphed into more of a squat - with a makeshift dormitory in every room and potions suppurating in most of the cupboards.
And then along came the boxes, which I thought were full of things I'd missed, but when unpacked and put into jumbled heaps, resembled rather more, a room full of people I once knew but now had nothing in common with.
But the dwarves made up for my lack of excitement when they sniffed out the toy box.
I know that it's not just a phenomenon for a trailing spouse…but occasionally life can feel a little like you're walking on a conveyor belt which is heading backwards. As the Lozenge's version of the tune goes on the Eukele: 'Then we had to Beginnagain Beginnagain McFinnigan'.
But what I most loved about their tales of the week was the Glammy's approach to puddles, even on a cold March morning. Why get your clothes wet when you can whip 'em off? The Glammy may have an LV handbag, but that's where the mall-mentality ends…She did me such a favour by providing a loving nest for our duo while I did my work in the very same city.
We cruised out of Amman towards the border, each of us getting used to being together again after a 5 day break. We sailed out of the Jordan side not managing (at all) to avoid the lure of the duty free and the rows and rows of Toblerone and Jelly Belly beans neatly placed at a dwarf eye-line. The Jordanian men at border control pummelled and kissed and squeezed the dwarves as we exited, all 'habeeeebeee' this and that, complete with cigarettes dangling from bottom lips, flicking little bits of ash into their hair and foraging for sweets in their khaki trousers to give the dwarves. But only a few hundred metres on, the other side of the Jordan valley, the warmth and charm dwindled to a stream as insignificant as the trickle that used to be known as the Jordan river: Israeli customs…
Every country seems to have an idiom to the tune of: 'The dentist's child has bad teeth.' In Afghanistan they say: 'The potter's child drinks from a cracked cup'. And I think there's an Arab one about the carpenter's child and a two legged stool.
As we approached the armed lady escort standing outside the Israeli terminal, I wondered to myself if there was an equivalent for the diplomat's child. As Rashimi, seeing red after a few too many rude and complicated border crossings, turned purple and started swiping the air in front of the uniformed lady's face with a tanned, chubby hand: 'I NOT like that lady! I NOT LIKE THAT LADY! Go, LADY! Away! NO lady!'
Looking rather surprised, she seemed to melt at his 2.5 year old bag of fury, and her over made up face split into an enormous grin which spread between each multi-pierced ear. 'I have three boys myself,' she admitted, and went off giggling to tell her uniformed friends about her diminutive enemy. Maybe this is the answer for diplomacy Israeli style? Rashimi has learned fast but he'd better not try it at home…
Back at our house, the clean lines of my working life I'd established for five days disintegrated into a shape not unlike Mr Messy. Unsettled after their change of routine, the dwarves were up most mornings at 5am - the Lozenge making 'potions' in the kitchen out of baking powder, flour, water, any fruit and veg he could reach on the bottom shelf of the fridge neatly chopped, and a sprinkling of hundreds and thousands. He stored the foul mixtures in a low cupboard which we were not to touch or move on pain of death.
Trying to make the most of the early mornings to do some editing, I would try and creep, laptop under arm, past Rashimi's room to grab a quick hour of peace to work. But he's a light sleeper like me, and I'd normally be dragged back from my mission with a piercing: 'MummmeeeeeY!' scuppering my work plans for that moment, and forcing me to join in a dawn den-making session with two wired and bed-headed dwarves. Or a premature breakfast in our high ceilinged kitchen where no ear-plug would be capable of muting the extreme harmonics.
Even before our shipment of things arrived from Jordan, our elegant 1930's house had morphed into more of a squat - with a makeshift dormitory in every room and potions suppurating in most of the cupboards.
And then along came the boxes, which I thought were full of things I'd missed, but when unpacked and put into jumbled heaps, resembled rather more, a room full of people I once knew but now had nothing in common with.
But the dwarves made up for my lack of excitement when they sniffed out the toy box.
I know that it's not just a phenomenon for a trailing spouse…but occasionally life can feel a little like you're walking on a conveyor belt which is heading backwards. As the Lozenge's version of the tune goes on the Eukele: 'Then we had to Beginnagain Beginnagain McFinnigan'.
Sunday 6 April 2014
5 Syrian children in Jordan
This 13 year old from Dera'a in Syria now lives in the outskirts of Amman with his mother and three brothers. His leg was badly injured when they were shelled in Syria. When they arrived in Jordan last year his leg had such bad gangrene they were about to amputate. But just as they placed the saw one of the anaesthetists noticed there was a pulse in his leg and they could save it. He spends every morning in school and every afternoon in the hospital. "Sometimes I think children my age should be playing," he said. "But god willing I will one day be able to play football like the other boys."
This sixteen year old fled Syria with his family 2 years ago. His father was injured and cannot work so as the eldest boy, he is the only breadwinner. He hasn't been in school for 2 years. Through his job on a building site, he earns just enough to pay the house rent each month, which he points out is hardly a house, just a warehouse divided into tiny squats each of which houses one family. He has recently lost his job, since the Jordanian government doesn't allow Syrian people to have work permits. He sits watching television all day. "Nothing goes through my mind," he said. "There's nothing in Syria now. No schools, no mosques, no houses, no nothing. If you think about it too hard, your head would explode."
This 11 year old has not been in school for 2 years. He works 12 hours a day in a sweet and pastry shop and earns just enough to cover the rent where he lives with his parents and four sisters. His father was injured so cannot work. He thought they might be given an allowance which would mean he could go to school. Hearing this, he went out to buy his books. When he discovered there was no allowance, he burned all the books. "I contain all the anger in my heart," he said. "I don't talk to anyone."
This 15 year old is responsible for paying his family's rent, but manages to divide his time between 3 days at school and 3 days at work. "The teachers have been understanding," he said, "but I have no time to myself as all my time is taken up with work and school. This is my entertainment. But work means nothing in the end. Education gives you something for the future."
This 13 year old from Homs in Syria is the top of her class, and when we visited her school was just being awarded a prize by a Saudi visitor for her 98% result. The Saudi government is responsible for much of the funding for sunni refugees both inside and outside of Syria. She is able to be at school because her older brother works and provides for the family. "I don't know any of the Jordanian girls as we have divided shifts at school, and I prefer to stick with the Syrians," she said. "We are all repressed, so I don't talk about my repression here. School distracts me from this. I want to be an engineer and a lawyer so I can build, and defend the rights of people."
Remote mentors
Even if you don't have a real life mentor to meet once in a while, I always find there are vignettes you can glean and examples you can follow from people whose work you admire, despite not knowing them personally.
Two people I highly repect have offered me valuable insights recently. In lone freelance life, you need these more than ever. The first was Maureen Lipman in a recent article for the New Statesman taken from a BBC Radio 2 programme called: "What Makes Us Human?"
In her own deft and amusing way she boils being human down to two prime qualities: those of empathy and creativity. Empathy: a gift which falls a long way beyond basic human kindness, which enables you to imagine yourself as someone else, and perhaps want to act on this feeling as a result. Creativity: from the simple art of crafting a letter to writing a symphony and everything else in between, is following up on the human need to make one's mark, or as the dictionary put it: 'to bring into being or or form out of nothing. To bring into being by force of imagination.'
As often happens when you muse on something, another person or event comes out of the woodwork in perfect synchronicity to your thinking. A few hours after I'd read Maureen Lipman's article, J and I discovered a documentary about the photojournalist Don McCullin, his life and his work; and the following morning, an interview with him on Saturday live on Radio 4 - a mainstay for us in the odd moment of silence between soliloquies from either of the dwarves in our high ceilinged kitchen.
Don McCullin echoes Maureen Lipman's thoughts - first requirement is empathy, and then you need something to be creative with - in his case a camera. And with it he travelled to some of the most terrifying and well known wars including Vietnam, Biafra and the Congo, most of which would not have occupied such a startling place in global imaginations without his arresting images. He's often asking himself the question about what right he has to be witnessing human suffering, and what his role is within it. At what point does the empathy become sensational - and his role become irresponsible? Of any war correspondent I've read about, he seems to get it right time and time again, and I try and keep people like him in mind when I'm working myself- albeit on a much, much tinier and much less dramatic scale. But my work still involves the portrayal of human suffering and I'm constantly feeling uncomfortable about this issue, and asking myself these questions. What exactly am I doing here and am I really being useful?
A couple of weeks ago I went back to Jordan for some work, crossing the border with St Grace and the dwarves who were going to have a week's holiday - St Grace with her husband, the dwarves with the Glammy, while I worked.
My task was to collect the material for 5 short films on Syrian children in Jordan for Unicef - highlighting the issues of child refugees, 3 years on from when the conflict began in their country. This time I was blessed with a kick-ass Egyptian translator and fixer, who not only has the Arabic lingo and is female, but throws herself at anything that's looks like a to do list and is happy to work a 20 hour day for something she cares about. She also has a brilliant sense of humour and between us we did in 4 days what would normally take me 8.
I was nervous because most of our interviewees were teenage boys, who are not my usual subjects. But in a way I found their stories even more moving than some of the girls I've spoken to, as they are often bearing the yoke of family finances and entire loss of education in many cases. And it's these young boys who, having supported their family since they were 9 or 10, reach the age of 20 with no education and no skills to speak of let alone show, and are then expected to start their own family.
Here are the 4 boys and 1 girl we met.
Two people I highly repect have offered me valuable insights recently. In lone freelance life, you need these more than ever. The first was Maureen Lipman in a recent article for the New Statesman taken from a BBC Radio 2 programme called: "What Makes Us Human?"
In her own deft and amusing way she boils being human down to two prime qualities: those of empathy and creativity. Empathy: a gift which falls a long way beyond basic human kindness, which enables you to imagine yourself as someone else, and perhaps want to act on this feeling as a result. Creativity: from the simple art of crafting a letter to writing a symphony and everything else in between, is following up on the human need to make one's mark, or as the dictionary put it: 'to bring into being or or form out of nothing. To bring into being by force of imagination.'
As often happens when you muse on something, another person or event comes out of the woodwork in perfect synchronicity to your thinking. A few hours after I'd read Maureen Lipman's article, J and I discovered a documentary about the photojournalist Don McCullin, his life and his work; and the following morning, an interview with him on Saturday live on Radio 4 - a mainstay for us in the odd moment of silence between soliloquies from either of the dwarves in our high ceilinged kitchen.
Don McCullin echoes Maureen Lipman's thoughts - first requirement is empathy, and then you need something to be creative with - in his case a camera. And with it he travelled to some of the most terrifying and well known wars including Vietnam, Biafra and the Congo, most of which would not have occupied such a startling place in global imaginations without his arresting images. He's often asking himself the question about what right he has to be witnessing human suffering, and what his role is within it. At what point does the empathy become sensational - and his role become irresponsible? Of any war correspondent I've read about, he seems to get it right time and time again, and I try and keep people like him in mind when I'm working myself- albeit on a much, much tinier and much less dramatic scale. But my work still involves the portrayal of human suffering and I'm constantly feeling uncomfortable about this issue, and asking myself these questions. What exactly am I doing here and am I really being useful?
A couple of weeks ago I went back to Jordan for some work, crossing the border with St Grace and the dwarves who were going to have a week's holiday - St Grace with her husband, the dwarves with the Glammy, while I worked.
My task was to collect the material for 5 short films on Syrian children in Jordan for Unicef - highlighting the issues of child refugees, 3 years on from when the conflict began in their country. This time I was blessed with a kick-ass Egyptian translator and fixer, who not only has the Arabic lingo and is female, but throws herself at anything that's looks like a to do list and is happy to work a 20 hour day for something she cares about. She also has a brilliant sense of humour and between us we did in 4 days what would normally take me 8.
I was nervous because most of our interviewees were teenage boys, who are not my usual subjects. But in a way I found their stories even more moving than some of the girls I've spoken to, as they are often bearing the yoke of family finances and entire loss of education in many cases. And it's these young boys who, having supported their family since they were 9 or 10, reach the age of 20 with no education and no skills to speak of let alone show, and are then expected to start their own family.
Here are the 4 boys and 1 girl we met.
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