Saturday afternoon. And Kersplosh! Only a few miles, but a universe away from the clean lines of the Hadassah hospital experience, J and I found ourselves at a big fat Palestinian wedding in Bethlehem.
Last year J spent 6 weeks living with a Palestinian family in Nablus, 50km north of Jerusalem, and this weekend the family invited us to their eldest daughter's wedding. There are 8 children: Basel, Ibrahim, Yacoub, Bader, Samira, Hitania, Ayoub and Beeni: ranging from 26 year old Basel, to 11 year old Beeni in her pale pink bridesmaid's dress and white ballet pumps.
They're a Christian family, and J and I arrived at St Nicholas Orthodox church in Beit Jala - a small village beside Bethlehem - having visited a few other churches, and the Intercontinental hotel for a quick glass of Taybeh (Palestine's only beer), on our way.
They greeted J like a relative, and were so friendly to me as they said to him Arabic: 'So this is Madame! Finally!'
The Orthodox church was decked with diaphanous white fabric and white roses - the small gathering of family equally as decked - with an onus on sequins, heavy makeup and some serious hair dos. It was hard to tell if the Orthodox choir were singing in Arabic or Latin or a mix. I occasionally caught something recognisable like Kyrie Eleison.
Then we scooped up auntie Nadia who lives with the family, of whom J became very fond during his time in their house, and drove to the reception in Bethlehem. I think the same diaphanous fabric and flowers had come from the church to the party, which seemed a very practical way to get the most out of the decorations. The long white tables in the hall were laid up for hundreds of people, and over the course of the evening, they all came trickling in to eat and to dance and to congratulate Samira and her new husband.
Suleiman, the father of the family chatted to us for much of the evening. 'Jeemie is a greeeeat man from Greeeat Breeetain!' he said to me. 'We want you to come and stay in our house with your children, please.'
The Christians are in a difficult situation in Palestine - with only 2 per cent in the occupied territories, and 8 per cent within Israel - Suleiman's daily fear, he told us, rather than the occupation, which they've grown used to over time, is the rise of extremism and the terror created by Islamic State and other groups. He explained there are only around 1,000 Christians living in Nablus now, and it's very difficult for them to get jobs and live how they would like.
As we watched the room fill up, J and I agreed that the wonderful thing about weddings and other rites of passage is you can never change how people choose to do things. Christian Arabs will still have their mega Christian Arab weddings, even under an occupation. The same goes for everybody. These are the threads that enable threatened cultures to stay alive.
And watching the very old to the very young, waving their arms and swaying their hips to the pulsating Arab tunes, you wouldn't believe there were chinks in this festive armour. It was wonderful to be there - and everyone made us feel like we were part of the family.
The weekend continued with a carefree vibe: Go carting, beaches, picnics, ice creams, friends and a couple of films. ('Tracks' about Roybn Davidson's 9 month journey across Australia on camels; and 'Which way is the Frontline from here' about the life and work of Tim Hetherington the photo journalist killed in Libya in 2011. Both wonderful films.)
The only sight which tinged my thoughts with sadness was the faded St Andrew flag, flapping alone above St Andrew's Scots Memorial Church near the Old City walls of Jerusalem.
With the independence debate raging back home, I realised as I looked at the flag, that I didn't feel as proud of it as once I used to. I've become accustomed to living in places over the last decade, where there are people fighting for land and identity and willing to hurt each other over differing ideals, in the knowledge that back home things are at least steady and united.
But this week of all weeks, it's harder to feel confident about that.
As Will Hutton wrote in this weekend's Observer:
Last year J spent 6 weeks living with a Palestinian family in Nablus, 50km north of Jerusalem, and this weekend the family invited us to their eldest daughter's wedding. There are 8 children: Basel, Ibrahim, Yacoub, Bader, Samira, Hitania, Ayoub and Beeni: ranging from 26 year old Basel, to 11 year old Beeni in her pale pink bridesmaid's dress and white ballet pumps.
They're a Christian family, and J and I arrived at St Nicholas Orthodox church in Beit Jala - a small village beside Bethlehem - having visited a few other churches, and the Intercontinental hotel for a quick glass of Taybeh (Palestine's only beer), on our way.
They greeted J like a relative, and were so friendly to me as they said to him Arabic: 'So this is Madame! Finally!'
The Orthodox church was decked with diaphanous white fabric and white roses - the small gathering of family equally as decked - with an onus on sequins, heavy makeup and some serious hair dos. It was hard to tell if the Orthodox choir were singing in Arabic or Latin or a mix. I occasionally caught something recognisable like Kyrie Eleison.
Then we scooped up auntie Nadia who lives with the family, of whom J became very fond during his time in their house, and drove to the reception in Bethlehem. I think the same diaphanous fabric and flowers had come from the church to the party, which seemed a very practical way to get the most out of the decorations. The long white tables in the hall were laid up for hundreds of people, and over the course of the evening, they all came trickling in to eat and to dance and to congratulate Samira and her new husband.
Suleiman, the father of the family chatted to us for much of the evening. 'Jeemie is a greeeeat man from Greeeat Breeetain!' he said to me. 'We want you to come and stay in our house with your children, please.'
The Christians are in a difficult situation in Palestine - with only 2 per cent in the occupied territories, and 8 per cent within Israel - Suleiman's daily fear, he told us, rather than the occupation, which they've grown used to over time, is the rise of extremism and the terror created by Islamic State and other groups. He explained there are only around 1,000 Christians living in Nablus now, and it's very difficult for them to get jobs and live how they would like.
As we watched the room fill up, J and I agreed that the wonderful thing about weddings and other rites of passage is you can never change how people choose to do things. Christian Arabs will still have their mega Christian Arab weddings, even under an occupation. The same goes for everybody. These are the threads that enable threatened cultures to stay alive.
And watching the very old to the very young, waving their arms and swaying their hips to the pulsating Arab tunes, you wouldn't believe there were chinks in this festive armour. It was wonderful to be there - and everyone made us feel like we were part of the family.
The weekend continued with a carefree vibe: Go carting, beaches, picnics, ice creams, friends and a couple of films. ('Tracks' about Roybn Davidson's 9 month journey across Australia on camels; and 'Which way is the Frontline from here' about the life and work of Tim Hetherington the photo journalist killed in Libya in 2011. Both wonderful films.)
The only sight which tinged my thoughts with sadness was the faded St Andrew flag, flapping alone above St Andrew's Scots Memorial Church near the Old City walls of Jerusalem.
With the independence debate raging back home, I realised as I looked at the flag, that I didn't feel as proud of it as once I used to. I've become accustomed to living in places over the last decade, where there are people fighting for land and identity and willing to hurt each other over differing ideals, in the knowledge that back home things are at least steady and united.
But this week of all weeks, it's harder to feel confident about that.
As Will Hutton wrote in this weekend's Observer:
'There are times in a country's affairs when it has to think big. The next 10 days are such a time. Without imaginative and creative statecraft, the polls now suggest Scotland could secede from a 300-year union, sundering genuine bonds of love, splitting families and wrenching all the interconnectedness forged from our shared history.
Absurdly, there will be two countries on the same small island that have so much in common. If Britain can't find a way of sticking together, it is the death of the liberal enlightenment before the atavistic forces of nationalism and ethnicity – a dark omen for the 21st century. Britain will cease as an idea. We will all be diminished.'
The flag looked more faded and flimsier than ever. It saddened me to admit it.
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