A fierce wind has been roaring all night and we woke up this morning chewing the grit, our hair standing on end from the static. But at least the dust storm reflects the mood of this region more accurately than the eternal blue skies we've grown used to.
The dust-whipping wind takes me back to two years ago, when we'd just arrived in Jordan and were trying to find our way around, being buffeted by the elements, and rolling around in the back of yellow taxis. The static hair, the gritty mouth and the eternal question - what are we doing here?
J and I are planning a party for this weekend. It's a Valentine's Avoidance party to get us, and a good clutch of new friends, out of the Saturday-night-in-a-restaurant-surrounded-by-plastic-pink-hearts horror. I've been looking forward to it, I've hired speakers and lights from Yoav a charming sounding Israeli - though sadly he has no disco ball, and everyone's bringing food. Maybe it's the weather but just today I've been hit with a strange melancholia which is making me wish we could have all our home friends to the party. The new ones are totally great, but suddenly I miss home and wish we could arrange for an Easyjet fuselage full of all those familiar characters in our script before we cruised onto a different piste.
J and I had some work in Jordan over the weekend, so we took the dwarfs with us and they went to stay with the Glammy who's returned from her trip to the US, and now is engaged to a different man altogether. From a couple of disastrous Ahmads, she's moved to a Bader. We hope that Bader is the business, or at least a never-ending carriage in the love train. It was wonderful to see her as ever. More than being a nanny now, she's a friend to the dwarfs. And when you think about it, not much further in age from them, than we are from any of our new Arab and Israeli septua and octogenarian friends.
Jordan was still pulsating with grief and feelings of vengeance over the murder of Muath Kasasbeh, the Jordanian pilot and the latest victim of Da'esh (the Arab word for ISIS).
In some ways it was an inspiration to see a country coming together in this way. I've always wondered if Jordan's problems will come from the inside, by way of dissident groups. But this universal rallying behind King Abdullah is a change in mood, and perhaps for the better. But how much more vulnerable is Jordan making itself, by joining the fight against ISIS in such determined terms?
I dropped the boys in their Jordanian second home, with the Glammy and her Mum, and I drove to meet J who was arriving from Jerusalem that afternoon. I wondered who Jordanians really are, as I watched a shepherd and his young son dressed in shell-suits, holding staffs, herd their scraggy flock past a beauty salon: 'Jolie Femme' from where two botox-ed ladies emerged - their dark Arab tresses tinted a brassy blonde.
I went back to visit the young Syrian boy, Mohammed, with my Egyptian friend, to make another short film about his return to school. He and his family had moved house and he was obviously so excited about returning to school, having supported his parents and five sisters with a tiny salary from the sweet shop where he's worked since they fled to Jordan. His face lit up in a way we've never seen it do before. But then we discovered the local educational authorities in his area won't allow him to enrol.
In defiance, we visited the minister in Ramtha, Mohammed's adopted town. The snake-like man sat smoking at his desk, dressed in a pale brown leather jacket. He didn't stand up or say hello when we entered, and wouldn't allow his eyes to meet ours. 'Nothing I can do about it,' he shrugged. There's a lot of xenophobia and intentional non-assistance in relation to Syrians in Jordan. And yet, there has been no outbreak of violence within these enforced-mixed communities. And Mohammed's family's new apartment has been entirely decked in rugs and cushions courtesy of their Jordanian neighbours. The kindness of strangers still exists. But perhaps not within the ministries.
My Egyptian friend is a determined lady, and has begun the battle to try and shoehorn him in to a classroom soon, or Mohammed's disappointment will be too much to bear.
Everything I pick up to read, there's something about this dreaded Islamic State. In some ways I wish all news agencies could have a pact to stop reporting anything about them. The media attention is just what they crave. And as for anyone who actually watches those murderous videos...it's macabre and playing into their hands.
Are we still as ghoulish as ever, deep down?
I read today in the papers that the man who led Saddam Hussein to the gallows is selling the rope, and the current bid for it is $7 million. Israelis, Kuwaitis and Iranians are vying for the cord.
In some ways it was also the umbilical cord to all this madness and horror we're witnessing today.
The darkness is tangible in so many areas. Two contrasting articles I read recently struck another sort of chord - both in the Spectator. One by Paul Collier who claims that the young men turning to terror or 'war tourists' as he calls them, have nothing to do with religion. That there's a significant minority of young men around the world who are hormonally disposed to violence. And that what we are living now is a culture of violence, which is not necessarily related to religion.
The second article is by a British Muslim, Qanta Ahmed, who claims that Islamism and all its horror, is absolutely everything to do with Islam, and it's up to moderate Muslims to stand up to it. Interestingly, he quotes Egypt's President, Abdel Fattah al-Sisi (who although stamping down on Islamism, is behind as much violence himself). But his speech at Cario's Al Azhar University called for the rescue of Islam from 'ideology', saying: 'You Imams, are responsible before Allah. The entire world, I say it again, the entire world is waiting for your next move because the Islamic world is being torn, it is being destroyed, it is being lost. And it is being lost by our own hands.'
And often it feels like it's no longer just specifically the Islamic world. It affects each one of us from the depths of Nigeria to the streets of Birmingham.
And not just Islam. A friend just sent me a recent bit of prose from Matthew Parris in the Times. We all need to take responsibility.
Unholy mess
It’s 46 years since I’ve been to Jerusalem but the Christian quarter of the old city has hardly changed. People find it moving but it moves me only to despair.
How I longed for the open hillside, the grass, the cave, the wind, the stones and the silence. Now everything feels interior and crushing: Christian churches bicker over the demarcation of property, and pilgrims queue to light candles in dingy corners, kiss inanimate objects and weep with emotions induced by silver, gilt, glass, paint and carved wood.
Why was I not surprised to learn that, though the population of the Armenian quarter is falling all the time as Armenians queue for their Canadian visas, and though the Armenian Catholic church is pitched against the Armenian Orthodox church, the latter is now itself riven by an internal schism?
Bring in the bulldozers and sweep it all away. Were I not an atheist I might experience an anger that was divine. Amid all this nonsense about relics and holy places, this twisted icon worship and delusion, and the Jews at their Wailing Wall, and the Muslims grovelling in prayer, I can almost see the Jesus I was brought up to believe in, see him gazing sadly at the grotesquerie, and hear him lament, with TS Eliot:
That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.'
Sorry for my mood. Let's hope it's the wild and dusty wind which will blow over by tomorrow.
The dwarfs remain unaffected, it seems.
Their latest creations are a Mummy and a Daddy Robot from cereal packets. Pleased to see that gender roles are alive and well in this household. Although, I may be wearing a pinny, at least Daddy isn't wielding a gun. There may be some hope...
The dust-whipping wind takes me back to two years ago, when we'd just arrived in Jordan and were trying to find our way around, being buffeted by the elements, and rolling around in the back of yellow taxis. The static hair, the gritty mouth and the eternal question - what are we doing here?
J and I are planning a party for this weekend. It's a Valentine's Avoidance party to get us, and a good clutch of new friends, out of the Saturday-night-in-a-restaurant-surrounded-by-plastic-pink-hearts horror. I've been looking forward to it, I've hired speakers and lights from Yoav a charming sounding Israeli - though sadly he has no disco ball, and everyone's bringing food. Maybe it's the weather but just today I've been hit with a strange melancholia which is making me wish we could have all our home friends to the party. The new ones are totally great, but suddenly I miss home and wish we could arrange for an Easyjet fuselage full of all those familiar characters in our script before we cruised onto a different piste.
J and I had some work in Jordan over the weekend, so we took the dwarfs with us and they went to stay with the Glammy who's returned from her trip to the US, and now is engaged to a different man altogether. From a couple of disastrous Ahmads, she's moved to a Bader. We hope that Bader is the business, or at least a never-ending carriage in the love train. It was wonderful to see her as ever. More than being a nanny now, she's a friend to the dwarfs. And when you think about it, not much further in age from them, than we are from any of our new Arab and Israeli septua and octogenarian friends.
Jordan was still pulsating with grief and feelings of vengeance over the murder of Muath Kasasbeh, the Jordanian pilot and the latest victim of Da'esh (the Arab word for ISIS).
In some ways it was an inspiration to see a country coming together in this way. I've always wondered if Jordan's problems will come from the inside, by way of dissident groups. But this universal rallying behind King Abdullah is a change in mood, and perhaps for the better. But how much more vulnerable is Jordan making itself, by joining the fight against ISIS in such determined terms?
I dropped the boys in their Jordanian second home, with the Glammy and her Mum, and I drove to meet J who was arriving from Jerusalem that afternoon. I wondered who Jordanians really are, as I watched a shepherd and his young son dressed in shell-suits, holding staffs, herd their scraggy flock past a beauty salon: 'Jolie Femme' from where two botox-ed ladies emerged - their dark Arab tresses tinted a brassy blonde.
I went back to visit the young Syrian boy, Mohammed, with my Egyptian friend, to make another short film about his return to school. He and his family had moved house and he was obviously so excited about returning to school, having supported his parents and five sisters with a tiny salary from the sweet shop where he's worked since they fled to Jordan. His face lit up in a way we've never seen it do before. But then we discovered the local educational authorities in his area won't allow him to enrol.
In defiance, we visited the minister in Ramtha, Mohammed's adopted town. The snake-like man sat smoking at his desk, dressed in a pale brown leather jacket. He didn't stand up or say hello when we entered, and wouldn't allow his eyes to meet ours. 'Nothing I can do about it,' he shrugged. There's a lot of xenophobia and intentional non-assistance in relation to Syrians in Jordan. And yet, there has been no outbreak of violence within these enforced-mixed communities. And Mohammed's family's new apartment has been entirely decked in rugs and cushions courtesy of their Jordanian neighbours. The kindness of strangers still exists. But perhaps not within the ministries.
My Egyptian friend is a determined lady, and has begun the battle to try and shoehorn him in to a classroom soon, or Mohammed's disappointment will be too much to bear.
Everything I pick up to read, there's something about this dreaded Islamic State. In some ways I wish all news agencies could have a pact to stop reporting anything about them. The media attention is just what they crave. And as for anyone who actually watches those murderous videos...it's macabre and playing into their hands.
Are we still as ghoulish as ever, deep down?
I read today in the papers that the man who led Saddam Hussein to the gallows is selling the rope, and the current bid for it is $7 million. Israelis, Kuwaitis and Iranians are vying for the cord.
In some ways it was also the umbilical cord to all this madness and horror we're witnessing today.
The darkness is tangible in so many areas. Two contrasting articles I read recently struck another sort of chord - both in the Spectator. One by Paul Collier who claims that the young men turning to terror or 'war tourists' as he calls them, have nothing to do with religion. That there's a significant minority of young men around the world who are hormonally disposed to violence. And that what we are living now is a culture of violence, which is not necessarily related to religion.
The second article is by a British Muslim, Qanta Ahmed, who claims that Islamism and all its horror, is absolutely everything to do with Islam, and it's up to moderate Muslims to stand up to it. Interestingly, he quotes Egypt's President, Abdel Fattah al-Sisi (who although stamping down on Islamism, is behind as much violence himself). But his speech at Cario's Al Azhar University called for the rescue of Islam from 'ideology', saying: 'You Imams, are responsible before Allah. The entire world, I say it again, the entire world is waiting for your next move because the Islamic world is being torn, it is being destroyed, it is being lost. And it is being lost by our own hands.'
And often it feels like it's no longer just specifically the Islamic world. It affects each one of us from the depths of Nigeria to the streets of Birmingham.
And not just Islam. A friend just sent me a recent bit of prose from Matthew Parris in the Times. We all need to take responsibility.
Unholy mess
It’s 46 years since I’ve been to Jerusalem but the Christian quarter of the old city has hardly changed. People find it moving but it moves me only to despair.
How I longed for the open hillside, the grass, the cave, the wind, the stones and the silence. Now everything feels interior and crushing: Christian churches bicker over the demarcation of property, and pilgrims queue to light candles in dingy corners, kiss inanimate objects and weep with emotions induced by silver, gilt, glass, paint and carved wood.
Why was I not surprised to learn that, though the population of the Armenian quarter is falling all the time as Armenians queue for their Canadian visas, and though the Armenian Catholic church is pitched against the Armenian Orthodox church, the latter is now itself riven by an internal schism?
Bring in the bulldozers and sweep it all away. Were I not an atheist I might experience an anger that was divine. Amid all this nonsense about relics and holy places, this twisted icon worship and delusion, and the Jews at their Wailing Wall, and the Muslims grovelling in prayer, I can almost see the Jesus I was brought up to believe in, see him gazing sadly at the grotesquerie, and hear him lament, with TS Eliot:
That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.'
Sorry for my mood. Let's hope it's the wild and dusty wind which will blow over by tomorrow.
The dwarfs remain unaffected, it seems.
Their latest creations are a Mummy and a Daddy Robot from cereal packets. Pleased to see that gender roles are alive and well in this household. Although, I may be wearing a pinny, at least Daddy isn't wielding a gun. There may be some hope...
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