I don't often meet women like Rebecca. Living East side as we do, our immediate environment is Arab focused and far from the sidewalk cafes and flapping white and blue Israeli flags which interlace the houses in the German Colony.
Rebecca is 56 years old and lives in a large and breezy architect-designed house in shades of terracotta: 'To remind me of Beverley Hills where I grew up,' she smiles, her glistening white teeth so blue-white, they must make my natural British grin look yellow. She and her husband, a well known judge, live with their 8 children in the German Colony on the Western side of the 'seam', the dividing road between Eastern and Western sides of this city. The final two children to join the brood, twin girls, arrived when Rebecca was 51 years old. 'We don't talk about it, but it was IVF' she admits. And this is the reason I'm with Rebecca.
A highly qualified therapist, she has re-focused on helping women who are going through IVF in Israel. By providing complimentary yoga, therapy and discussion groups alongside the IVF treatment women receive (funded entirely by the Israeli State), she aims to help women relax enough so the IVF has a chance of success. 'Having children in Israel is your calling card for society,' she explains. 'There is so much stigma attached to women who can't conceive, particularly amongst Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox, that often by the time people arrive at the IVF clinic, they're so stressed out, they won't be able to conceive in that state anyway.' Rebecca is one of those people who could convince a miner to spend his monthly salary on coal. Her constant gaze draws you in, and you're obliged to listen, whether it's about her passion for her current calling, or anecdotes of Jewish family life with 8 kids and a few pets. 'We're a democratic family so we all had a say about what the dog should be called. Unsurprisingly we all came up with a different name. You can't call a dog by 10 names, we discovered. He just got really confused. So now he's just....Doggy.'
I've been commissioned to make a promotional film about her work to help the hospital raise money for her programmes. So once I'd heard her story on her cool patio, the air fragranced with a waft of ripe peaches mixed with jasmine, I went to film with her in the more sterile surroundings of the IVF centre. The hospital is nearer our side of town, and a mix of Palestinian and Israeli women sat in a crescent of chairs waiting for their appointment. Rebecca moved calmly about in a white dress, laying out leaflets and plates of biscuits. I felt a little conspicuous with my camera, tripod and pregnant tummy standing in the middle of a gang of women waiting for IVF. I wondered if they thought I was there as an inspirational success story with the 'stunt baby'. The head of the clinic asked me in a thick American drawl: 'Oh Gaad, are you a natural? We don't do naturals round here!'
After I'd done some filming, Rebecca and I had a chance to chat some more and I dared to venture towards politics. 'I see you have a mix of Palestinian and Israeli women here,' I asked. 'So how does that work?'
'Well for each Palestinian I need to make 5 times the number of calls as I do to each Israeli,' she explained. 'I need to convince the husband it's okay for the wife to do yoga, and encourage them not to sit in the class with their wife, as it would put other women off. It's really difficult. And yoga is just not in their culture.'
It wasn't such a long stride onto politics from that point. When I asked how she'd adjusted to life in Israel from Beverley Hills, she was candid. 'Israel's a place where you're often afraid, because we have neighbours called Hamas and they want us all dead. I'm a right wing nationalist in my heart. But woman to woman, I don't have grudges. Like I kept paying my cleaner from Beit Jala (a Christian Arab village next to Bethlehem) for six months when she couldn't come to work in the second intifada. And I would really, really like more Palestinian women to come to my sessions. It's just so much work to get them here.'
The same fear was reflected when I attended the yoga class for more filming. The instructor opened the door to her perfect little cottage in the district next to the 'Shouq' as Israelis call the market. 'Oh my, you're beautiful,' she said. I thought the same of her. A 51 year old in 41 year old packaging. Probably the yoga. 'I moved here from New York 20 years ago. I did 'aliyah' (diaspora Jews taking Israeli citizenship and settling here) and yes there has been a lot of fear within this time.' Looking around the yoga studio at the women, all fellow aliyah arrivals, their legs in the air and abdomens sinking and rising as they followed the instructions, the roof terrace dripping with wisteria, I remembered other houses I've spent time in since we arrived here. From Gaza City to West Bank villages, listening to other stories of fear. And I wondered to what degree can we judge one another's fear? And how I could ever explain to these ladies in the languid confines of the yoga class, what the women and children had told me in Gaza and Hebron about what they're afraid of in the night, without upsetting this beautiful apple cart?
The case study I followed for the film was a lovely woman of 45 who had conceived and given birth to a daughter, and believes that through following Rebecca's relaxation sessions she was able to conceive first time through IVF. I spent a morning with her and her characterful 10 month old in her cramped apartment in a run-down side of town. Another 'aliyah' Israeli, she had much less fearful political views, and I had a small dream that perhaps with this film we could persuade more Palestinian women to go to the complimentary relaxation sessions. I know at least 2 Palestinians who are going through IVF at the moment. Reproduction is glorified and celebrated equally on both sides of the divide. So maybe it could be another bridge within the already existing bridge of medicine. I suggested it to Rebecca, and she's game.
The dwarfs had been at home sick for a couple of days - the Lozenge passing the bug to Rashimi. But the Lozenge had recovered by the time he was required to perform with his class in the school play: 'Myths and Mysteries'. Which in our household sounds more like: 'Myths and Mythterieth'. Rashimi was laid up on the sofa when the Lozenge left. He gave him a tender kiss on his feverish forehead and said: 'I'm sorry you're mithing it.'
The play was a great effort, and we had a big laugh afterwards with our Swedish friends who needed to Google Translate 'turnip' during the nursery class' rendition of the tale of the enormous turnip. We pointed out that a synonym for turnip is swede, so no wonder they were confused by what what they found.
Like a squash ball off a wall, our dwarfs bounce back from illness. And soon the household was back to 'healthy' routine. The Lozenge came padding into our bedroom from the kitchen at 5.30am where he'd been making his own sandwich for school (Gouda cheethe and butter. Nothing else.) 'Mummy, Mummy, there'th ants in the butter!' And I hobbled barefoot with half closed eyes to the kitchen with him to scrape them off the almost liquid yellow pat, to see a table fully laid for breakfast by the little man himself. 2 bowls of Cheerios swimming in milk for himself and Rashimi. Ants in paradise, everywhere...The ride to school was once again accompanied by animated chat and things to remark upon. Like a very large Palestinian man in a shell suit speed walking past our traffic jam in the pavement. 'His tummy is like yourth, Mummy. Oh and Mummy, when you've done this baby. You can do another one, and then another one,' the Lozenge suggested. 'And by the way, Mummy, what's yoga? Julian'th Mummy does yoga.' I explained it's a sport which you can do quite often sitting down or standing on your head. 'Do ogres do yoga?' Rashimi piped up from the back.
The same lovely Swedish friend with the turnip confusion would love to have another child to keep her only one company. On a girl's trip to Hebron lately she explained: 'Mornings would be fine if it was just my husband and me, but the great thing about having children around, is they're always coming in with their little surprises. And it just makes life that much more interesting and funny.'
J and I disappeared on a whistle stop admin trip to London. More flags, but in an acceptable context, for the trooping of the colour:
I left J in London working for a few extra days and got back to the very tight ship St Grace had been running with the dwarfs in great shape - both of them running stark naked to greet me as I drew up in the cab. Their tough bare feet slapping onto pavement prickles with not a complaint after a couple of months without shoes. The taxi driver laughed. Locals here don't do nudity in quite the same way as us Brits.
We listened to Florence and the Machine over their tea of Israeli fish fingers. Definitely not Birds Eye, but not bad. The only thing that put me off was the strap line in English on the packet: 'Experience Unrevealed Senses' and I wasn't sure about the intended goal, either during or after a fish finger. However, the dwarfs gobbled them up, and there were no unrevealed senses in the night. Rashimi interrupted my solitary dinner at 8pm by reminding me I'd forgotten to put a nappy on him and we hadn't said prayers. I inhaled the rest of my dinner and followed him back to bed, where he lay with his new polystyrene sword clasped across his chest, like a marble effigy of a knight. I went to town on the prayers, we prayed for e v e r y o n e, so he wouldn't disturb me again, and I kissed him goodnight. 'Mummy,' he whispered. 'You've got watermelon bref.'
Rebecca is 56 years old and lives in a large and breezy architect-designed house in shades of terracotta: 'To remind me of Beverley Hills where I grew up,' she smiles, her glistening white teeth so blue-white, they must make my natural British grin look yellow. She and her husband, a well known judge, live with their 8 children in the German Colony on the Western side of the 'seam', the dividing road between Eastern and Western sides of this city. The final two children to join the brood, twin girls, arrived when Rebecca was 51 years old. 'We don't talk about it, but it was IVF' she admits. And this is the reason I'm with Rebecca.
A highly qualified therapist, she has re-focused on helping women who are going through IVF in Israel. By providing complimentary yoga, therapy and discussion groups alongside the IVF treatment women receive (funded entirely by the Israeli State), she aims to help women relax enough so the IVF has a chance of success. 'Having children in Israel is your calling card for society,' she explains. 'There is so much stigma attached to women who can't conceive, particularly amongst Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox, that often by the time people arrive at the IVF clinic, they're so stressed out, they won't be able to conceive in that state anyway.' Rebecca is one of those people who could convince a miner to spend his monthly salary on coal. Her constant gaze draws you in, and you're obliged to listen, whether it's about her passion for her current calling, or anecdotes of Jewish family life with 8 kids and a few pets. 'We're a democratic family so we all had a say about what the dog should be called. Unsurprisingly we all came up with a different name. You can't call a dog by 10 names, we discovered. He just got really confused. So now he's just....Doggy.'
I've been commissioned to make a promotional film about her work to help the hospital raise money for her programmes. So once I'd heard her story on her cool patio, the air fragranced with a waft of ripe peaches mixed with jasmine, I went to film with her in the more sterile surroundings of the IVF centre. The hospital is nearer our side of town, and a mix of Palestinian and Israeli women sat in a crescent of chairs waiting for their appointment. Rebecca moved calmly about in a white dress, laying out leaflets and plates of biscuits. I felt a little conspicuous with my camera, tripod and pregnant tummy standing in the middle of a gang of women waiting for IVF. I wondered if they thought I was there as an inspirational success story with the 'stunt baby'. The head of the clinic asked me in a thick American drawl: 'Oh Gaad, are you a natural? We don't do naturals round here!'
After I'd done some filming, Rebecca and I had a chance to chat some more and I dared to venture towards politics. 'I see you have a mix of Palestinian and Israeli women here,' I asked. 'So how does that work?'
'Well for each Palestinian I need to make 5 times the number of calls as I do to each Israeli,' she explained. 'I need to convince the husband it's okay for the wife to do yoga, and encourage them not to sit in the class with their wife, as it would put other women off. It's really difficult. And yoga is just not in their culture.'
It wasn't such a long stride onto politics from that point. When I asked how she'd adjusted to life in Israel from Beverley Hills, she was candid. 'Israel's a place where you're often afraid, because we have neighbours called Hamas and they want us all dead. I'm a right wing nationalist in my heart. But woman to woman, I don't have grudges. Like I kept paying my cleaner from Beit Jala (a Christian Arab village next to Bethlehem) for six months when she couldn't come to work in the second intifada. And I would really, really like more Palestinian women to come to my sessions. It's just so much work to get them here.'
The same fear was reflected when I attended the yoga class for more filming. The instructor opened the door to her perfect little cottage in the district next to the 'Shouq' as Israelis call the market. 'Oh my, you're beautiful,' she said. I thought the same of her. A 51 year old in 41 year old packaging. Probably the yoga. 'I moved here from New York 20 years ago. I did 'aliyah' (diaspora Jews taking Israeli citizenship and settling here) and yes there has been a lot of fear within this time.' Looking around the yoga studio at the women, all fellow aliyah arrivals, their legs in the air and abdomens sinking and rising as they followed the instructions, the roof terrace dripping with wisteria, I remembered other houses I've spent time in since we arrived here. From Gaza City to West Bank villages, listening to other stories of fear. And I wondered to what degree can we judge one another's fear? And how I could ever explain to these ladies in the languid confines of the yoga class, what the women and children had told me in Gaza and Hebron about what they're afraid of in the night, without upsetting this beautiful apple cart?
The case study I followed for the film was a lovely woman of 45 who had conceived and given birth to a daughter, and believes that through following Rebecca's relaxation sessions she was able to conceive first time through IVF. I spent a morning with her and her characterful 10 month old in her cramped apartment in a run-down side of town. Another 'aliyah' Israeli, she had much less fearful political views, and I had a small dream that perhaps with this film we could persuade more Palestinian women to go to the complimentary relaxation sessions. I know at least 2 Palestinians who are going through IVF at the moment. Reproduction is glorified and celebrated equally on both sides of the divide. So maybe it could be another bridge within the already existing bridge of medicine. I suggested it to Rebecca, and she's game.
The dwarfs had been at home sick for a couple of days - the Lozenge passing the bug to Rashimi. But the Lozenge had recovered by the time he was required to perform with his class in the school play: 'Myths and Mysteries'. Which in our household sounds more like: 'Myths and Mythterieth'. Rashimi was laid up on the sofa when the Lozenge left. He gave him a tender kiss on his feverish forehead and said: 'I'm sorry you're mithing it.'
The play was a great effort, and we had a big laugh afterwards with our Swedish friends who needed to Google Translate 'turnip' during the nursery class' rendition of the tale of the enormous turnip. We pointed out that a synonym for turnip is swede, so no wonder they were confused by what what they found.
Like a squash ball off a wall, our dwarfs bounce back from illness. And soon the household was back to 'healthy' routine. The Lozenge came padding into our bedroom from the kitchen at 5.30am where he'd been making his own sandwich for school (Gouda cheethe and butter. Nothing else.) 'Mummy, Mummy, there'th ants in the butter!' And I hobbled barefoot with half closed eyes to the kitchen with him to scrape them off the almost liquid yellow pat, to see a table fully laid for breakfast by the little man himself. 2 bowls of Cheerios swimming in milk for himself and Rashimi. Ants in paradise, everywhere...The ride to school was once again accompanied by animated chat and things to remark upon. Like a very large Palestinian man in a shell suit speed walking past our traffic jam in the pavement. 'His tummy is like yourth, Mummy. Oh and Mummy, when you've done this baby. You can do another one, and then another one,' the Lozenge suggested. 'And by the way, Mummy, what's yoga? Julian'th Mummy does yoga.' I explained it's a sport which you can do quite often sitting down or standing on your head. 'Do ogres do yoga?' Rashimi piped up from the back.
The same lovely Swedish friend with the turnip confusion would love to have another child to keep her only one company. On a girl's trip to Hebron lately she explained: 'Mornings would be fine if it was just my husband and me, but the great thing about having children around, is they're always coming in with their little surprises. And it just makes life that much more interesting and funny.'
J and I disappeared on a whistle stop admin trip to London. More flags, but in an acceptable context, for the trooping of the colour:
I left J in London working for a few extra days and got back to the very tight ship St Grace had been running with the dwarfs in great shape - both of them running stark naked to greet me as I drew up in the cab. Their tough bare feet slapping onto pavement prickles with not a complaint after a couple of months without shoes. The taxi driver laughed. Locals here don't do nudity in quite the same way as us Brits.
We listened to Florence and the Machine over their tea of Israeli fish fingers. Definitely not Birds Eye, but not bad. The only thing that put me off was the strap line in English on the packet: 'Experience Unrevealed Senses' and I wasn't sure about the intended goal, either during or after a fish finger. However, the dwarfs gobbled them up, and there were no unrevealed senses in the night. Rashimi interrupted my solitary dinner at 8pm by reminding me I'd forgotten to put a nappy on him and we hadn't said prayers. I inhaled the rest of my dinner and followed him back to bed, where he lay with his new polystyrene sword clasped across his chest, like a marble effigy of a knight. I went to town on the prayers, we prayed for e v e r y o n e, so he wouldn't disturb me again, and I kissed him goodnight. 'Mummy,' he whispered. 'You've got watermelon bref.'
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