'You have a lot of Jordanian stamps in your passport,' said a diminutive female Israeli security officer, thumbing through my passport at Tel Aviv airport before I checked in for a flight home. 'Why do you go to Jordan?' 'What do you do there?' 'Do you have Jordanian friends?' 'What kind of friends are they? Good friends, or just colleagues?' 'Would they have given you anything to take onto this flight for them?' ' We only ask you these questions for your safety.'
The cross inspection continued for about five minutes, before she went off to whisper to her supervisor, which took another five minutes. Then her supervisor came over and continued in the same vein. Just the thought of any of our lovely Jordanian friends giving us explosives to take on a flight was laughable. But how was this tiny uniformed creature to know, when all she is trained to think of, is the enemy? And presumably, she has never visited a single country in the Arab world, despite their proximity.
We soared out of Tel Aviv, cruising slowly over the beaches and tall, pale buildings lining the coast, towards London, where I was going to meet J for a weekend for a wedding. I sat next to an elderly Israeli couple, a literature professor and her husband, who were travelling to London for a weekend of Baroque music concerts. As the plane swooped down to land, we three, craning our necks towards the tiny window, drank and drank in the green. 'Aaaaah, ' the lady sighed beside me, 'We come for Baroque music, but also for this.'
J and my first stop was my niece Tilly in the hospital with a worrying and continuous temperature which they thought might be meningitis. Fortunately, it wasn't, but she was kept there with Rosie for a couple of days for monitoring. We were impressed as we entered the Chelsea and Westminster hospital - an angular white, light world with shops, cafes and art. As we approached her ward we inspected a wall of plates designed and painted by children: 'Exploring Cultures,' depicting Palestinian cultural scenes with Arabic translations beside them. Two young, experienced and friendly doctors visited Tilly while she was there. The Baroque music, the green….and also this.
It's through leaving the country and returning every so often that we can realise how much we have, and how much is possible. Admittedly NHS services and other examples of our taxes are a lottery in the UK, but this is a very good example of doing things well.
And then to a glorious weekend of quintessential Englishness - more green, and a church and marquee full of friends including the willowy and beautiful bride, simply bursting with happiness. I was speaking to her father just after the speeches. The bride had made her own speech, and intermittently she jumped elegantly on the spot like a ballerina, (though she's actually a lawyer). I love seeing people jump on the spot. The Lozenge does it, and Rashimi is learning to do it, though his is normally a kind of hop and a skip accompanied by: 'Weeee're off to the LELLLOOOOW citeeeeeee!' (His own amalgam of the yellow brick road and the emerald city). But you don't often see adults doing it, and I wish they did it more. 'Isn't it wonderful seeing a beautiful grown up girl in a white dress jumping on the spot,' I said to the proud father. 'Isn't it,' he replied. 'And you know, she's always done it.'
In amongst the excitable conversations with old friends, a more sobering one ensued with a lovely Iranian girl, a new friend, who works for the BBC. She and her English husband have just had their first baby and just as her parents were boarding their flight from Tehran, they were stopped, and had their passports taken from them. They are still passport free, and trapped in Iran, unable to visit their first grandchild. The regime is trying to put pressure on our friend to stop her working for the BBC. She won't do it, as this would mean a victory for the regime. So much for a more liberal leader in Iran - it seems he is a different cherry on the same old cake.
As she spoke, I didn't know what to say. To be separated from your own mother after the birth of your first child, in this way, must be agonising. I asked her how she felt about being a mother and having a daughter of her own, and she told me: 'I feel so happy I can give her a life of freedom where she doesn't have to be forced into wearing a headscarf and will be able to choose the course of her own life.' It was a reminder, that sunny weekend on a glad green glade of an English lawn, of how the tentacles of tyranny can reach into our own society if they want to.
J and I meandered about together for a couple of days surrounding the wedding, having picnics and sitting in cafes watching the world go by in the sunshine. It's 10 years this weekend since we met, and it was serendipitous to have a moment's pause in our lives to reflect, and to look forward.
After a couple of weeks apart we returned to Jerusalem together to be reunited with a duo of effervescent dwarves, beautifully cared for by St Grace for the weekend.
We pulled a present from London from our bag - a packet of Percy Pigs. And we watched, kneeling by our luggage by the garden gate as they ripped into the bag shouting: 'Little piggeeeeees! Thank you Mummeeee!' And then they both started jumping up and down on the spot.
The cross inspection continued for about five minutes, before she went off to whisper to her supervisor, which took another five minutes. Then her supervisor came over and continued in the same vein. Just the thought of any of our lovely Jordanian friends giving us explosives to take on a flight was laughable. But how was this tiny uniformed creature to know, when all she is trained to think of, is the enemy? And presumably, she has never visited a single country in the Arab world, despite their proximity.
We soared out of Tel Aviv, cruising slowly over the beaches and tall, pale buildings lining the coast, towards London, where I was going to meet J for a weekend for a wedding. I sat next to an elderly Israeli couple, a literature professor and her husband, who were travelling to London for a weekend of Baroque music concerts. As the plane swooped down to land, we three, craning our necks towards the tiny window, drank and drank in the green. 'Aaaaah, ' the lady sighed beside me, 'We come for Baroque music, but also for this.'
J and my first stop was my niece Tilly in the hospital with a worrying and continuous temperature which they thought might be meningitis. Fortunately, it wasn't, but she was kept there with Rosie for a couple of days for monitoring. We were impressed as we entered the Chelsea and Westminster hospital - an angular white, light world with shops, cafes and art. As we approached her ward we inspected a wall of plates designed and painted by children: 'Exploring Cultures,' depicting Palestinian cultural scenes with Arabic translations beside them. Two young, experienced and friendly doctors visited Tilly while she was there. The Baroque music, the green….and also this.
It's through leaving the country and returning every so often that we can realise how much we have, and how much is possible. Admittedly NHS services and other examples of our taxes are a lottery in the UK, but this is a very good example of doing things well.
And then to a glorious weekend of quintessential Englishness - more green, and a church and marquee full of friends including the willowy and beautiful bride, simply bursting with happiness. I was speaking to her father just after the speeches. The bride had made her own speech, and intermittently she jumped elegantly on the spot like a ballerina, (though she's actually a lawyer). I love seeing people jump on the spot. The Lozenge does it, and Rashimi is learning to do it, though his is normally a kind of hop and a skip accompanied by: 'Weeee're off to the LELLLOOOOW citeeeeeee!' (His own amalgam of the yellow brick road and the emerald city). But you don't often see adults doing it, and I wish they did it more. 'Isn't it wonderful seeing a beautiful grown up girl in a white dress jumping on the spot,' I said to the proud father. 'Isn't it,' he replied. 'And you know, she's always done it.'
In amongst the excitable conversations with old friends, a more sobering one ensued with a lovely Iranian girl, a new friend, who works for the BBC. She and her English husband have just had their first baby and just as her parents were boarding their flight from Tehran, they were stopped, and had their passports taken from them. They are still passport free, and trapped in Iran, unable to visit their first grandchild. The regime is trying to put pressure on our friend to stop her working for the BBC. She won't do it, as this would mean a victory for the regime. So much for a more liberal leader in Iran - it seems he is a different cherry on the same old cake.
As she spoke, I didn't know what to say. To be separated from your own mother after the birth of your first child, in this way, must be agonising. I asked her how she felt about being a mother and having a daughter of her own, and she told me: 'I feel so happy I can give her a life of freedom where she doesn't have to be forced into wearing a headscarf and will be able to choose the course of her own life.' It was a reminder, that sunny weekend on a glad green glade of an English lawn, of how the tentacles of tyranny can reach into our own society if they want to.
J and I meandered about together for a couple of days surrounding the wedding, having picnics and sitting in cafes watching the world go by in the sunshine. It's 10 years this weekend since we met, and it was serendipitous to have a moment's pause in our lives to reflect, and to look forward.
After a couple of weeks apart we returned to Jerusalem together to be reunited with a duo of effervescent dwarves, beautifully cared for by St Grace for the weekend.
We pulled a present from London from our bag - a packet of Percy Pigs. And we watched, kneeling by our luggage by the garden gate as they ripped into the bag shouting: 'Little piggeeeeees! Thank you Mummeeee!' And then they both started jumping up and down on the spot.
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