Hiking our way out of a stagnant patch

Hiking with a baby and a bump

Firan monastery

Pass the baby

I remember the joys of hiking from when we lived in Afghanistan. In lands best known for conflict and political struggle, the magic of walking in remote places is rekindled. Armed with the wonderful walking guide book by Stefan Szepesi: '25 Journeys into the West Bank', J and I and a lovely Dutch couple and their baby, not to mention the still eminently portable B.F.Ears, set out early in the morning to explore the higher section of Wadi Qelt, a valley which leads from Jerusalem to Jericho, the world's oldest city. St Grace looked after four children for us all day. No words can explain that feeling of freedom. And we trekked for 6 hours through some of the most beautiful and varied scenery in the country - from the steep rocky heights over looking caves, ruins and leading us past what could be the first desert monastery established in the Holy Land around 330AD; to a valley floor, shielded by limestone cliffs, full of pools with fish and frogs, the surface dappled with butterflies and dragonflies. 

We'd had a stagnant week last week, but this outing has given us more energy and inspiration for living in this land, than ever. 

As the author of the guidebook writes: 'Simply put, there is another Palestine from the one filling our television screens'. The only risk being that walking in these under-used hills and wadis, can turn you into rather a spoilt tourist. We spotted the grand total of 5 other humans, all day.

I'm now smitten with discovering this country on foot. We need to plan some more walks before the temperatures soar and before B.F.Ears' arrival.

Big up for Armenia

The pomegranate is a symbol of many things from prosperity and ambition to fertility. And perhaps all these share the same root. But I've also learnt it's the symbol for the Armenian people who have scattered, like the seeds of the pomegranate, particularly since 1.5 million of them were killed by the Ottoman Empire a hundred years ago.

I remembered this as I read about the centenary of the Armenian Genocide of 1915, which has featured more in the news in this region, than other centenaries this year such as ANZAC day.

Since my childhood I've been intrigued by the notion of Armenia. I have a fuzzy memory of a book I read at primary school about two Armenian orphans escaping the aftermath of an earthquake in their country, and trying to reach the safety of Greece by boat. The mountains they think they see in the distance turn out to be clouds. And this is all I can remember.

Since arriving in this region we've not only made Armenian friends, but noticed how much they form the fabric of civilised, cultural and creative life. From Chris the Armenian hairdresser on our local high street where the Lozenge sweeps up the hair on our regular visits, to the Elias photography shop in the Old City, Balian ceramics, and the Armenian Patriarchate priests resplendent in their tall black hats and long grey beards.

As a result of the persecution of Armenians by Turkey during World War 1, the Armenian population of Jerusalem reached 25,000 that year, and most Armenians in the Old City still live in and around the Patriarchate at the St James Monastery. 

Turkey has yet to formally recognise the events of 1915 as a 'genocide' and President Obama has been criticised for not recognising it by avoiding mention of the 'g-word' since he's been President, in order to preserve good relations with Turkey as they collaborate with the US in fighting ISIS. 

A good friend of ours who's a Syrian-Armenian says he still feels extremely ill at ease in Turkey, and wouldn't travel there out of choice. 100 years is not long when it comes to the smouldering memories of genocide. One of his recent photographic projects involved portraits of Armenians whose families converted to Islam at the time, to avoid massacre.  Many of these descendants are  clandestine Christians at heart, while going through the motions of being Muslim.

It's notable how genocides, notably the Holocaust and the Armenian one, have involved populations renowned for their talents and strengths. Globally, the Armenians have been responsible for the invention of MRI scanners, the auto gearbox in cars, colour televisions and the ATM machine. Many maestros in the music and visual arts are Armenian, including Arshile Gorky, Aram Khatchatourian and the collector Larry Gagosian. Armenian surnames often end in -ian. Though it's interesting that Israel is another country in the long list who still don't recognise the Armenian genocide, and Archbishop Nourhan Manougian, the Armenian patriarch of Jerusalem, expressed his disappointment with Israeli policy towards the genocide in Haaretz newspaper this month, reminding people that Christian clergy are constantly subject to abuse and spitting attacks by extremist Jews in the streets of Jerusalem.

LA-based Kim Kardashian, reported to be the highest paid reality TV personality with estimated yearly earnings of $6million is probably the most famous Armenian today. A glimpse of her naked bottom on the Time Magazine website last year won the company 15.9 million views in one day, compared with 25,000 views on an average day.

However you might despise the notion of reality TV and social media, anyone who can make that amount of money from selfies and self-promotion and their naked bum cheeks has got to be admired.

Last week the dwarfs and I were having a trim with Chris the Armenian hairdresser who was delighted to announce that Ms Kardashian had just been in Jerusalem for the baptism of her daughter, North, at the Armenian Orthodox church. It must have given the Old City an audience less interested in the sacred, for that day, at least. And as far as I know she kept her billion dollar bottom covered for the visit.

Birth place conundrum in the Holy Land

The place of birth on your passport follows you about for a lifetime. I should know, as my place of birth was Swindon and J never misses an opportunity to give me a little dig about it - that delightful conurbation west of London. The hospital I was born in has since been flattened, but the place of birth lives on in my over-stamped travel document nearly 40 years on.

Since Bunny Floppy Ears, the name the dwarfs chose for our baby due in August, will hopefully make an appearance in the so-called Holy Land, we're being forced to think about where, exactly. B.F.Ears' future could be decided within an inch of a green line on the map. It's complicated and political. So what's new?

Having Jerusalem as a place of birth on any passport could mean it's impossible to get a visa to visit countries in the Arab region. Jerusalem is considered as occupied by Israel by most Arab states - even for its second most holy city status in Islam. Some friends whose baby had Jerusalem as a place of birth struggled to get to Lebanon recently. We could very well end up moving to another Arab country sometime and it would be a disaster if we couldn't get a visa for the smallest family member.

So we thought we'd decided on a hospital in Bethlehem, which is still inside the West Bank, despite being encroached by settlements and all the other delightful trimmings of occupation. Although there's a check point to enter Bethlehem, I've heard many positive birth stories from there. Not only the obvious one...

So last week we visited a Palestinian gynaecologist in Jerusalem who I'd presumed would give us encouragement about the Bethlehem idea, which isn't something we could discuss with our charming Israeli gynaecologist because she would probably not have much information about hospitals in the West Bank.

J and I turned up for our appointment at 6.30pm, both already feeling quite hungry after busy days. By 8.15pm we were shown into his room, after trying to correct my name on my paperwork, which had 'Andre' inserted between my first and last names, presumably because they always need a patriarchal mention on the Palestinian side, but on the Israeli side it's a matriarchal one. This means that proofs of birth are problematic both sides, because the baby is called after the mother's name in Israel, whereas the maternal grandfather gets a mention in Palestine. So even if B.F.Ears gets a passport with any place of birth on it between Tel Aviv, Gaza City and Ramallah, it will almost certainly have a weird name, possibly even weirder than the one it has already - and potentially a surname different from its siblings. Fabulous.

By this stage J and I were properly hungry and getting a little tetchy. Whereas our Israeli gynaecologist made me feel like a unique human being about to deliver one more being of unique status on the planet, I felt like another over sized piece of human matter with swollen ankles in this particular room. It didn't help that the gynae's tummy also touched the desk, straining from inside his green scrubs forcing the buttons to do that gaping thing. And as a result he seemed loath to heave himself from his seat. And also, that he spent the first half hour warning us that at my age a 2000 Dollar Downs Syndrome test was recommended on top of the normal blood test. And at 24-26 weeks it was the 'last window' that we could decide to get rid of the baby should there be a sign of Downs. At this point I received a sharp internal kick as if to remind me that someone else was listening to all this. Then he explained that Bethlehem was a good place to deliver if everything went smoothly, but you didn't have the same facilities there as in Jerusalem if something went wrong. And already I felt like there were Dollar signs involved in this strategy too, so I couldn't consider it impartial advice.

Then he talked us through the glucose challenge and I thought for one horrible moment we were going to have to do it there and then - having had no dinner and both at an even lower ebb. We were given a tour of the sparkling new ward, but for all the shiny white equipment and clean metal lines, all I could wish for was the comfortable contours of a birthing pool which is where the dwarfs began life on the planet. Oh NHS we miss you so, I thought to myself, as I watched the mouth of the very lovely Arab midwife opening and closing as she showed us around their facilities.

Back home, at 9.30pm over a hastily prepared dinner consisting of dwarf leftovers and a much needed glass of wine, J said: 'Let's book a birthing pool for hire now before they all get taken by other pregnant Israeli ladies'. There is one birthing pool supplier in Jerusalem on the Israeli side.

The pastel coloured website announced in curling letters, miraculously all in English because my Hebrew has a long way to go:

'Birthing pool for hire in Israel'

'may your births be sweet powerful'

'may you always know how vital
mamas are in this world'

And lists of all the hoses, pumps and other accessories that come with it. We booked one for a month over the time of the due date thinking to ourselves that at least we could have B.F.Ears at home.

But the next hurdle with this, is that if you arrange some Israeli midwives to come and help out, some of them might have an issue with coming to Arab East Jerusalem, particularly at the dead of night, which is when dwarfs normally make an appearance, in my experience. And as J was reading out his bank card details for me to book this enormous inflatable object, I had visions of him wrangling with the foot pump and trying to decipher the Hebrew instructions of the birthing pool while giving directions to our house to a confused and terrified Israeli midwife. There are not the same services on the Palestinian side, and it did cross my mind that this could be due to the scarcity and cost of water in the West Bank.

After this day I lay awake for most of the night, my mind swimming in thoughts-soup. I'm sure it's when you're lying down that your thoughts turn into a stagnant pond. Better to get up, pace around, mix them up. My worries meandered from Rashimi's little perma-tanned feet whose toenails look like they might be ingrowing, to where I could buy good quality childrens' sandals in this town or perhaps I should order on line, but then how would we measure them properly? To the Lozenge's school work which he says is boring, and his reluctance to continue piano lessons because all he wants to do is 'real play' not 'piano play'. And then back to birthing pools and whether we might be able to bring our own one to the hospital in Bethlehem. And then to my own work and how I was going to finish all that while simultaneously coaching the Lozenge through his letters as the teacher seems incapable of that without huge parental input. And by 3am I suddenly remembered I'd invited 6 lovely girlfriends for lunch the following day, so decided to get out of bed and flick through some recipe books, going back to bed by the time the call to prayer began at 4.30am and snuck in a quick hour or so before the school day starter gun at 6.

I should have realised then, that 6 ladies for lunch the following day was the recipe in itself. The sun shone and the minute they all walked in the door I felt like all was well. Although there was no Pinot Grigio involved at this particular lunch because we're all in various stages of the reproduction relay, the Ottolenghi aubergine cheese cake and salad was the ticket, and I felt so lucky to have met such a great clutch of women in this city. They all brought flowers and cakes, and smiling faces. Not a jabbering dwarf in sight since they were all at school, with the only small fry being the newborn variety who stayed extremely quiet for over two hours, meaning we could cover some serious conversational ground from Israeli midwives to Hamas. Who needs gin when you can have this kind of a tonic?

B.F.Ears' Place of birth remains undecided. But we're sure an answer will bubble up from some holy spring as the research continues.

Independence Day

The State of Israel is about the same age as my Dad, I realised last week, as Israel celebrated Yom Ha'atzmaut the 67th anniversary of its Independence. Israeli schools, including the dwarfs' school, were closed and Israel Airforce jets flew overhead during the afternoon, causing us to race outside and look. Fortunately they roared over a few times, as Rashimi kept missing them, but by the last surge, he managed to catch a glimpse of the grey arrows shooting across the gaps between the tall trees in our garden. The noise was deafening, and a harsh reminder of the extent of force employed to establish this state. And the extent to which this is still lauded amongst many of Netanyahu yes voters, in the name of security. An aerial display of power and national pride.

A timely visit from a friend of ours, also about the same age as the State of Israel, coincided with Independence Day. He's half British and half Palestinian, and gave a candid talk about British involvement in Palestine, culminating with another version of the Balfour Declaration of 1917. The bone of contention which Britain implanted in every Palestinian narrative that exists today. Since it will be the centenary in 2017, our friend has suggested an alternative to the original declaration to be written in two years time to mark the occasion.

The original Balfour Declaration:
'His Majesty's government view with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this object, it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine, or the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country.'

The suggested alternative:
'Her majesty's Government view with favour the establishment in Israel/Palestine of a national home for the Palestinian people, and will use their best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this object, it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Arab communities in Israel/Palestine or the rights and political status enjoyed by Palestinians in any other country.'

As if the country needed any more Israeli flags. It's been difficult to look in any direction without a flapping of blue and white interrupting the view. The dwarfs, J and I took a trip to the beach last weekend, and just when I was marvelling at a view out to sea, free from the ubiquitous blue star, I looked down and realised I was standing almost on top of, an enormous star of David scraped into the sandy beach.

There has been independence in the air in other parts of our life. The Glammy, back in Jordan, has married for a second time, on this occasion, to a man of her own choosing called Bader, who's a few years her junior and seems wonderful. Her cantankerous uncle who was responsible for pushing her last, disastrous marriage forward with his gun neatly placed on his lap as he delivered the instructions, has since died (of natural causes) so she has been able to live a life of her choosing for the first time in 30 years. She has posted a multitude of wedding and honeymoon photos from Amman and Limassol. She is a slip of a thing these days - and looks as happy as I've ever seen her. I told the boys her news. 'Will she still be the thame when she's mawwied?' wondered Rashimi.

St Grace is having difficulties with her husband back in Jordan, who's becoming increasingly unhappy about her being away from him, albeit that she earns twice as much as he does, and gives all her earnings to him at the end of each month. He's driving her away with this treatment and verbal abuse. She talks to me a lot about it, and how happy she is here. Whether she's gliding around the house with a mop, or dwarf wrangling with those dark shining eyes, she takes huge pride in her work and is grateful for this personal adventure in the holy land. A committed Christian, I don't think I've ever met anyone who follows those rules with such a full heart, which is why her adopted name suits her so. Since Sri Lanka has yet to go through a bra-burning social change, it's women like St Grace who need to weather the storm of men having the upper hand before they can take more control of their own lives. Ironically it was always St Grace who rolled her eyes about the Glammy's faltering romances, but now the tables have turned.

Sensibly planning for the future, on her Easter trip to Sri Lanka to visit her son, she bought herself a trishaw in Colombo which she is already hiring out: the beginning of her dream of owning a small business one day. And she's told her husband that if he continues to bully her, she will finish her work here in Jerusalem when we leave, and go straight back to Sri Lanka without him.

Could this be the first, faint whiff of smouldering of latex?

Dinner with my brother, the witch

Possum on a tin roof and the soil thieves

There were a few surprised looks when we explained we were going to Tasmania for the Easter holidays. A long way to go, but a necessary pilgrimage to visit J's beloved uncle Frank and auntie Odile.

The day before we left  I went to meet the Lozenge at his Easter service at the Garden Tomb, where L explained, 'Was where the rock was moved away'. It's a rock-cut tomb which was unearthed in 1867 and is considered by some Christians to be the site of the burial and resurrection of Jesus, with the rocky escarpment nearby proposed by some scholars to be Golgotha.

I entered the site to the sound of singing chidden, about half an hour late and saw the Lozenge fast asleep in a ray of sunshine, his head lolling against his teacher's shoulder on the front row. 'He's gone!' his teacher mouthed to me.

At the end of the service L realised he'd lost his monkey back pack which he takes to school every day, so we went in search of the bus and driver, Yacoub, apparently somewhere in the vicinity. I asked L which driver it had been: 'the one with the brown face and the ball-y head. You know, his head look-liketh a ball.'

We spotted the familiar high top minibus approaching a roundabout by the tomb. Yacoub saw us, waved, stopped the minibus in the middle of the roundabout, got up from the drivers seat to forage in the back and came back into view, waving the back pack at us. We scurried up to him, a line of traffic forming behind his bus, and grabbed the rucksack with many thank yous. The automatic door slid closed, and Yacoub cruised off blowing kisses in L's direction and waving goodbye. A head like a ball, maybe, but a very warm heart, and another vital cog in the wheel of our lives here in Jerusalem.

We went home to begin packing, via a shop where L wanted to buy 'a plain book so I can draw all the animals in Australia. Like flies, and stuff.'

We began the two day journey, driving over the border to Jordan to catch a flight to Dubai. We had a day to kill in Dubai. And kill it we did. As we wandered around a mall with a brace of whining dwarves, it felt like I had a rock on a rope in each hand, with a whining noise emitting from both sides around hip level. Perhaps my hatred of the mall travelled down my arms and into the boys making them behave this way. It being a Friday, the place was rammed and artificially warm - that warmth that creeps in below the cool cushion of air conditioning and takes over when there are too many bodies in a space.

The boys kept getting Burberry-ed and Louis Vuitton-ed as they were smacked in the head by designer handbag toting women. After an expensive and unsatisfactory lunch at TGI Fridays we found a cinema showing Cinderella, which was actually quite wonderful, though now the dwarves are paranoid that I'll die and they'll have to live with a stepmother. I reassured them I was planning to live for as long as possible, and not all stepmothers were evil, anyway.

Back at the aiport for the next leg of the journey to Singapore, the dwarves inhaled more junk food. J had bought a packet of chilli flavour crisps which they wanted to try. 'They're chilli ones, so watch out,' I said. The Lozenge wailed: 'I don't want to try a cold crithp.' But Rashimi reassured him: ' Don't wowwy. I jutht touched one, and it wathn't cold.' They ate the whole packet between them.

Singapore was well worth the stop, seeing our wonderful friends and their four children, and visiting the grave of J's grandfather, who was killed by the Japanese there during in 1944, at the age of only 29. It was moving to see his great grandchildren scurrying about the serene cemetery which is similar in style and meticulous upkeep to the war cemetery here in Jerusalem.

We reached Tasmania two days later. 'Listen' said J as we were falling asleep on the first night. 'Listen to that silence.' We felt the furthest we could have been from East Jerusalem. The following morning we awoke to the sound of a possum scuttling about on the tin roof overhead and unfamiliar birdsong. The boys slept long each night, after running about in the wide open spaces all day long. We sat in the garden of the homestead looking at the landscape stretching out before us. 'Bliss', said J. 'Not a settlement in sight.' With only half a million people on an island not much bigger than Ireland -  human traces are as minimal as they could be for a developed country. Driving along the road, you get a fright if you see another car approaching.

With no wifi, no phonecalls and no security alerts, we were totally disconnected from where we live, and totally connected to each other as a result. The effect was almost tangible, I thought, as I lay on my back beside the Lozenge, who'd borrowed my leopard print shades so he could 'have a really big look at the clouds in the sky and find animal shapes.'

We did the journey back almost in one. The dwarves making the most of the in-flight entertainments and the multiple videos I'd crammed onto the ipads. Rashimi the Decibel, whose voice has got no less loud even after the growth of his vocabulary, has been into one series called: 'The Dragon's Lair': a cartoon based in medieval times with a knight called, Dirk. He announced to me, from a reclining position in his seat: 'Mummy, I want to be a town cwier! And you even get a bell.' I would say that he's already perfectly qualified for the job.

We reached the border between Jordan and Israel to find we were sandwiched with enormous tour buses, and slowed down by crowds and crowds of Palestinians with trolleys overbalancing with plastic tanks of water and bedding rolls. The queues for Arabs entering Israel are always lengthy, but this was out of the ordinary. It turned out that they were Palestinians returning from the Hajj to Mecca. As we returned from our respective pilgrimage, I felt inspired by the sight. The resilience of the Palestinians, who although leaving and re-entering the state of Israel and the West Bank must take years in the planning, they still go ahead and do it anyway. No wonder they all looked so elated.

Since we walked back into our home, I've been here with the boys on my own, as J is in Jordan for work and St Grace still on holiday in Sri Lanka. The dwarves have been visiting me at 2.30am asking if it's 'morning time'. By 6.45am we're already raring to go and it feels like lunch time.

This morning I had to coax the boys into their clothes with some disco dressing. They chose the music to the Conga, which we danced out around the table in the hall. I took the lead. 'Bunny Floppy Ears' (what the dwarves call the baby-to-be) is at the front!' shrieked the Lozenge, as they jiggled behind me, both stark naked, kicking their legs out to each side.

Our post-holiday resolutions are to: Keep up to speed with our Arabic. The boys have a play-class every Monday afternoon, but it's hard to know how much is sinking in.  And to get more adventurous on the food. The Lozenge only ever wants a 'gouda cheethe flatbread sandwich' every day for his lunch. It's got to get more exciting than that.

Back to life in Israel and the Occupied Territories. I read today via Ma'an new agency that: 'Israeli settlers have stolen large amounts of nutrient-rich soil belonging to Palestinians in the Salfit-district village of Kafr ad Dik, on Sunday. Witnesses said that Israeli bulldozers moved huge piles of the fertile soil from Kafr ad Dik into the illegal Israeli settlement of Lishim. According to researcher Khaled Maali, the red soil was of an extremely high quality.'

Can you go any lower than stealing the very ground from under someones feet?

It is such a tragic yet stunning analogy for what Palestinians are up against. The rug was pulled from under their feet decades ago, and now the settlers are on their way out with the soil.