Mum's words echoed in my head as we cruised through the checkpoint and the graffiti coated separation wall between Israel and the West Bank: 'Try and see how long it takes you to reach the hospital from home, darling.' And half an hour later we were drawing up in the small car park of the Holy Family Hospital in Bethlehem. Built in the 1880s as a general hospital and orphanage, with only a short intermission in service during the 2nd intifada in the 1980s, this peaceful place with stone flagged corridors and a shrine to the Virgin in the central courtyard, has seen the safe delivery of over 60,000 babies since 1990 when the maternity section was inaugurated. Vera, a Palestinian nurse at reception greeted us warmly in Arabic apologising she didn't speak much English, and after paying 75 Shekels (one tenth of the price of the Jerusalem doctor's practise - not that it's only about that) we were soon sitting in the business-like presence of the obstetrician. Although he reminded me faintly of Bashar al Asad with his neat Arab establishment moustache, J and I were both convinced in a matter of minutes that this was our place.
We celebrated our decision by popping to the butcher. From obstetrician to butcher seemed like a perfectly logical progression since we were in Bethlehem. 'Beit lehm' in Arabic, does mean 'house of meat' after all. The best butcher is located in Beit Jala, a predominantly Christian village 10km from Bethlehem, and we wanted to pick up some cutlets for a barbecue we were planning. We love that butcher's shop. You have to stay in there for a while as the butcher hacks up a sheep carcass and minces slabs of meat for you while you wait, packing it deftly in polythene, and chatting to other customers also waiting. So for 20 minutes we sat in the cool air conditioned shop with one eye on the Turkish soap opera dubbed into Arabic playing in one corner. The sound scape was soothing with the soap opera, the chopping noises from the butcher's big oblong knife, the ancient air conditioning unit clacking, the fan whirring overhead and an old man's throaty laugh - who was seemingly there for the visit - sipping Arabic coffee from a small ceramic cup. The cardamom wafts from the coffee mixed with the meaty air. An elderly lady with bandy legs gave me a broad grin, spotted my over sized tummy and clasped each side of it with her gnarled hands. 'Binit!' she cried. ('Girl!')
It feels good to have made a decision about where B.F.Ears might make an appearance. I remember reading a book by the Gaza doctor Izzeldin Abuelaish who explained that hospitals and medicine in general, are the one area where bridges for peace in this land can be exploited. I've been asked to make a film about some programmes going on in Hadassah hospitals, which are well respected in both Israeli and Palestinian communities. Ibrahim, a Palestinian friend of ours recently moved his daughter to Hadassah hospital near Jerusalem. She's suffering from a grave virus in her brain and although the specialists haven't yet ascertained what it is, our friend explained: 'She has no control of her bodily functions because of the virus and while at the last local hospital they left it up to us to care for her and clean her, the moment we moved her to Hadassah I felt like we were human beings.' The Israeli doctors took them under their wing, and for the first time in a dreadful and harrowing month, Ibrahim and his wife were able to have a break from looking after their teenage daughter in the same way they did when she was 18 months old. Palestinian and Israeli doctors work alongside each other, and there is no racial distinction between patients.
We got back to St Grace and the two dwarfs. St Grace looked delighted that Bethlehem would be the place. Her evangelism leads her in life and she follows the Christian ways to a fault. After a difficult few months she's finally got her groove back and after many prayer sessions at the Holy Sepulchre church, her husband now trusts her again and is treating her better. After a happy reunion with him recently, she returned resplendent in a white Indian top, with beatific face and her wide white smile, to tell us that everything was okay. Then she rushed back to the Holy Sepulchre late at night to give thanks that her prayers had been answered. As Dad always says about living with Mum, we feel lucky to have someone in the house 'with a hot line to God.'
We celebrated our decision by popping to the butcher. From obstetrician to butcher seemed like a perfectly logical progression since we were in Bethlehem. 'Beit lehm' in Arabic, does mean 'house of meat' after all. The best butcher is located in Beit Jala, a predominantly Christian village 10km from Bethlehem, and we wanted to pick up some cutlets for a barbecue we were planning. We love that butcher's shop. You have to stay in there for a while as the butcher hacks up a sheep carcass and minces slabs of meat for you while you wait, packing it deftly in polythene, and chatting to other customers also waiting. So for 20 minutes we sat in the cool air conditioned shop with one eye on the Turkish soap opera dubbed into Arabic playing in one corner. The sound scape was soothing with the soap opera, the chopping noises from the butcher's big oblong knife, the ancient air conditioning unit clacking, the fan whirring overhead and an old man's throaty laugh - who was seemingly there for the visit - sipping Arabic coffee from a small ceramic cup. The cardamom wafts from the coffee mixed with the meaty air. An elderly lady with bandy legs gave me a broad grin, spotted my over sized tummy and clasped each side of it with her gnarled hands. 'Binit!' she cried. ('Girl!')
It feels good to have made a decision about where B.F.Ears might make an appearance. I remember reading a book by the Gaza doctor Izzeldin Abuelaish who explained that hospitals and medicine in general, are the one area where bridges for peace in this land can be exploited. I've been asked to make a film about some programmes going on in Hadassah hospitals, which are well respected in both Israeli and Palestinian communities. Ibrahim, a Palestinian friend of ours recently moved his daughter to Hadassah hospital near Jerusalem. She's suffering from a grave virus in her brain and although the specialists haven't yet ascertained what it is, our friend explained: 'She has no control of her bodily functions because of the virus and while at the last local hospital they left it up to us to care for her and clean her, the moment we moved her to Hadassah I felt like we were human beings.' The Israeli doctors took them under their wing, and for the first time in a dreadful and harrowing month, Ibrahim and his wife were able to have a break from looking after their teenage daughter in the same way they did when she was 18 months old. Palestinian and Israeli doctors work alongside each other, and there is no racial distinction between patients.
We got back to St Grace and the two dwarfs. St Grace looked delighted that Bethlehem would be the place. Her evangelism leads her in life and she follows the Christian ways to a fault. After a difficult few months she's finally got her groove back and after many prayer sessions at the Holy Sepulchre church, her husband now trusts her again and is treating her better. After a happy reunion with him recently, she returned resplendent in a white Indian top, with beatific face and her wide white smile, to tell us that everything was okay. Then she rushed back to the Holy Sepulchre late at night to give thanks that her prayers had been answered. As Dad always says about living with Mum, we feel lucky to have someone in the house 'with a hot line to God.'
 |
| St Grace and Rashimi waiting for the Lozenge's school bus to arrive |
No comments:
Post a Comment