'Mummy, the thing ith. We are ready to meet the baby. But the baby ith just not ready to meet uth.' says Rashimi, looking puzzled.
The waiting game. 9 days late and Bunny Floppy Ears is evidently enjoying the complimentary womb service. I can even feel the impatience in all things dwarf-related. And St Grace is on tenterhooks. She keeps staring at me silently from doorways. So we keep ourselves busy. We wander down our local shopping street, Rashimi as spiderman, and both dwarfs riding scooters where we drop off a stopped clock and 2 dwarf watches for fixing. 'Besalameh' says the watchmaker, wishing us well for the birth of the baby and laughing that he of anyone knows about things being exactly on time, or late, in Palestine: clocks, watches, and also babies. And on we go to the fruit shop for some pineapples - also supposed to encourage labour. We come out with 4 pineapples which Mohammad warns us are gold plated in price these days; a handful of fresh ochre dates still on their branch, which he swears help babies arrive and gives us free, and a little bottle of oil with a mysterious name 'kaf marim.' I trust him that it's all I need to make the baby arrive and google it when I get back. 'Anastatica' or 'The rose of Jericho.' In for a penny...
According to the description I find online, the Virgin Mary blessed this plant during her flight from Nazareth. It represents new beginnings, hope and the resurrection. What more could I need?! And apparently also brings on labour, as a side note. I notice it's related to Castor oil plant and its roots look like a weird spider triffid. I quaff a few teaspoons of it, and hope for some effects soon. And maybe even a resurrection. It's 38 degrees and I'm starting to get some funny looks as I stagger on my long baby-inducing walks around this extraordinary city that you'd think had seen everything.
Somewhere between patience and hurry is a beautiful space called borrowed time. But it can grow in intensity and easily sway from beauty to anxiousness. It's getting later and later, and people are texting and asking more and more regularly, 'has it arrived yet?' 'Where is this elusive stork?' Well - we're the Arab world after all - that harried stork is probably busy delivering many, many, many other babies to other homes. 'Doeth the baby come out of your mouth?' muses Rashimi from the back of the car. 'Noooo, Washimi. It's attached to that string which is joined to Mummy's tummy button and it comes THWINGING out on that!' says the Lozenge.
Every day is an extra day of mooching about - dressing as pirates,
and staring at a ladybird so close the breath from their nostrils must cool her hot black spots.
The dwarves rag around the house interrupting me as I try and actually, maybe just this once, achieve something with this time, other than sitting tight allowing tiny internal hairs and toenails to grow, and more ounces to pad around a pair of tiny frog-like thighs. I don't feel that effort - so I belittle it. And I try and keep going with those other efforts that give you more satisfaction - for some reason. Because in school we weren't taught that having a baby was an achievement, and about the only one who ever says 'well done!' about things like that are your parents.
We traipse to the obstetrician to have a chat about induction. I get the feeling the medical bunch here love to throw drugs at a situation rather than waiting for nature. But I'm holding my nerve. Every time I call Dr Salameh he asks: 'Keyfik?' (How are you?). 'Hamel' (Pregnant) I reply. The joke has lasted for 3 weeks now. Lines of loaded August olive trees cast shadows against the grey slabs of cement wall separating the 'Wild West Bank' from Israel. A large sign explains to Israelis they are not allowed to enter. 'Do not cross to the other side of the wall' they threaten in white bold print. They might as well hang a sign saying: 'Danger of Death' like they do on a pylon. A hot and lazy looking IDF soldier lets us through the barrier and we pass a little green sign which says: 'To Bethlehem' and we weave around the wall which blocks the sun, with some nice graffiti plastered over with less thoughtful spray paint. The doc says he's cool with letting the baby take its time, and he won't fill me up with oxytocin provided the creature is still getting all it needs inside. I reckon it's getting so much - that's why it wants to stay there. Private party for one. Sharing is a total hassle. Maybe it knows that newborn baby-dom for me is about the scariest place there is - where I can never seem convince myself that I will go back to normal, and that I will manage to achieve a balance in life again. I wake at night and have to give a virtually physical push to dark clouds which loom head-wards as I feel around the wall in the darkness to offer milk to a wordless creature entirely dependent on me.
So that's why this borrowed time is so beautiful for me. And J feels it too - and it's like we're in this bubble together. Although this time, it will be all of our baby: Rashimi's and the Lozenge's - not just J's and mine.
Sabr is the Arabic for patience, endurance. The sabra is the prickly pear cactus which the Palestinians use as a symbol for everything they endure both in this land, and as a diaspora. So using a play on words with the notion of patience, and with the cactus' ability to stay alive with little water, it's become a symbol of fortitude and resistance too.
I feel it keenly as we enter the cool cube of the Beit Jala pork butcher. The young butcher, Rafa, greets us with a huge smile, opening up his metal fridge to reveal strings of dangling, shining sausages next to the stacks of ribs and bags of fillets. His customer base is dwindling as Christians leave the Arab world in droves. But pork is half the price of lamb, a third of the price of beef, so it's a hard-to-find bargain in this extortionate land. His family live in Canada now, but he is employing the 'sabr' as he keeps the Beit Jala pork business going. He rears his own pigs. And how we appreciate his fare. The smell of pork in his shop is so familiar, it seems unfamiliar in this faraway land with few porkatarians. The taste of the pork is better for it being hard to find. The mysterious spice he uses in his sausage mix is appreciated even by dwarves, not normally swayed from the well-trodden chipolata route.
In the afternoon we have an offer to accompany a wonderful Israeli academic around some Christian areas in Jerusalem's old city. The Armenian Patriarchate - a vital establishment for this plagued and highly talented community. The Armenians were apparently the first community to introduce printing, ceramics, girls schools and photography to this city. They were so sure of the importance of educating girls, we joked there might be a Matriarchate soon. The monk shows us around - explaining how they still shelter the descendants of Armenian refugees who arrived during the genocide in 1915 - where the Ottomans killed 1.5 million of them. The library looks quasi Art Deco and has some of the only copies of Armenian newspapers and other texts from the time of the genocide.
Cloistered near the Armenian Patriarchate in Jerusalem's Old City, is the Syriac Orthodox church, San Marcos, where 'Abouna' 'our father' is praying in Aramaic for evening Vespers. We sit quietly in the pew while he chants peacefully. It is mesmerising - almost soporific after our hot walk, now sitting on the cool pew, my ankles lightly throbbing.
The tiny church has no statues - only icons. His words and his style of clothing unchanged for centuries, he is part of a tiny community here who are facing deep concerns about their fate. Not just here, where there aren't enough of them to keep procreating effectively; but also in Syria. A Syriac Orthodox bishop was kidnapped in 2013, and there are desperate stories coming out of Homs and Aleppo - two important bases for their community.
After he finishes his prayers he turns to talk to us. His long white beard another seeming relic from the past - our friend asked about Homs about Aleppo. 'I hear bad news.'
'Yes - we can just hope. We just...pray. We just know that our Lord is the saviour of all...We must trust in him'.
He raises hands and eyes heaven-wards.
He shakes his head, his eyes glisten. What must it be like to carry that around - in this enclave - with a dwindling population of Syriac Orthodox unable to help their communities within Syria? The terror. The loneliness.
Sabr. Patience. Sumud. Defiance. In his case I feel it is more defiance in the face of evil than anything else. And absolute trust and patience that one day good will prevail.
My week finishes with a discovery of an Israeli acupuncturist, trained in China, and based in Jerusalem's nature museum. I wander past rooms of stuffed birds, looking as turgid as my equally stuffed-looking pregnant ankles. I won't be missing these two trotters:
The nature museum is the kind of place where you might happen upon a dusty dinosaur egg. Natan Natan's practise occupies 2 small rooms within the building, and after he gently applies some needles to my legs, hands and forehead, I lie there in the dark for 45 minutes: celtic music drifting from some speakers on the plain wall. No noise from the dwarves safely at home dressed as pirates making a catapult from a springy lime tree. A good place to be. Even if it does nothing to bring this baby on. The borrowed time feels so peaceful and so wonderful, that when the baby finally arrives, bringing with it much more, we'll realise how much we had before anyway. Sabr. No hurry. No rush.
The waiting game. 9 days late and Bunny Floppy Ears is evidently enjoying the complimentary womb service. I can even feel the impatience in all things dwarf-related. And St Grace is on tenterhooks. She keeps staring at me silently from doorways. So we keep ourselves busy. We wander down our local shopping street, Rashimi as spiderman, and both dwarfs riding scooters where we drop off a stopped clock and 2 dwarf watches for fixing. 'Besalameh' says the watchmaker, wishing us well for the birth of the baby and laughing that he of anyone knows about things being exactly on time, or late, in Palestine: clocks, watches, and also babies. And on we go to the fruit shop for some pineapples - also supposed to encourage labour. We come out with 4 pineapples which Mohammad warns us are gold plated in price these days; a handful of fresh ochre dates still on their branch, which he swears help babies arrive and gives us free, and a little bottle of oil with a mysterious name 'kaf marim.' I trust him that it's all I need to make the baby arrive and google it when I get back. 'Anastatica' or 'The rose of Jericho.' In for a penny...
According to the description I find online, the Virgin Mary blessed this plant during her flight from Nazareth. It represents new beginnings, hope and the resurrection. What more could I need?! And apparently also brings on labour, as a side note. I notice it's related to Castor oil plant and its roots look like a weird spider triffid. I quaff a few teaspoons of it, and hope for some effects soon. And maybe even a resurrection. It's 38 degrees and I'm starting to get some funny looks as I stagger on my long baby-inducing walks around this extraordinary city that you'd think had seen everything.
Somewhere between patience and hurry is a beautiful space called borrowed time. But it can grow in intensity and easily sway from beauty to anxiousness. It's getting later and later, and people are texting and asking more and more regularly, 'has it arrived yet?' 'Where is this elusive stork?' Well - we're the Arab world after all - that harried stork is probably busy delivering many, many, many other babies to other homes. 'Doeth the baby come out of your mouth?' muses Rashimi from the back of the car. 'Noooo, Washimi. It's attached to that string which is joined to Mummy's tummy button and it comes THWINGING out on that!' says the Lozenge.
Every day is an extra day of mooching about - dressing as pirates,
and staring at a ladybird so close the breath from their nostrils must cool her hot black spots.
The dwarves rag around the house interrupting me as I try and actually, maybe just this once, achieve something with this time, other than sitting tight allowing tiny internal hairs and toenails to grow, and more ounces to pad around a pair of tiny frog-like thighs. I don't feel that effort - so I belittle it. And I try and keep going with those other efforts that give you more satisfaction - for some reason. Because in school we weren't taught that having a baby was an achievement, and about the only one who ever says 'well done!' about things like that are your parents.
We traipse to the obstetrician to have a chat about induction. I get the feeling the medical bunch here love to throw drugs at a situation rather than waiting for nature. But I'm holding my nerve. Every time I call Dr Salameh he asks: 'Keyfik?' (How are you?). 'Hamel' (Pregnant) I reply. The joke has lasted for 3 weeks now. Lines of loaded August olive trees cast shadows against the grey slabs of cement wall separating the 'Wild West Bank' from Israel. A large sign explains to Israelis they are not allowed to enter. 'Do not cross to the other side of the wall' they threaten in white bold print. They might as well hang a sign saying: 'Danger of Death' like they do on a pylon. A hot and lazy looking IDF soldier lets us through the barrier and we pass a little green sign which says: 'To Bethlehem' and we weave around the wall which blocks the sun, with some nice graffiti plastered over with less thoughtful spray paint. The doc says he's cool with letting the baby take its time, and he won't fill me up with oxytocin provided the creature is still getting all it needs inside. I reckon it's getting so much - that's why it wants to stay there. Private party for one. Sharing is a total hassle. Maybe it knows that newborn baby-dom for me is about the scariest place there is - where I can never seem convince myself that I will go back to normal, and that I will manage to achieve a balance in life again. I wake at night and have to give a virtually physical push to dark clouds which loom head-wards as I feel around the wall in the darkness to offer milk to a wordless creature entirely dependent on me.
So that's why this borrowed time is so beautiful for me. And J feels it too - and it's like we're in this bubble together. Although this time, it will be all of our baby: Rashimi's and the Lozenge's - not just J's and mine.
Sabr is the Arabic for patience, endurance. The sabra is the prickly pear cactus which the Palestinians use as a symbol for everything they endure both in this land, and as a diaspora. So using a play on words with the notion of patience, and with the cactus' ability to stay alive with little water, it's become a symbol of fortitude and resistance too.
I feel it keenly as we enter the cool cube of the Beit Jala pork butcher. The young butcher, Rafa, greets us with a huge smile, opening up his metal fridge to reveal strings of dangling, shining sausages next to the stacks of ribs and bags of fillets. His customer base is dwindling as Christians leave the Arab world in droves. But pork is half the price of lamb, a third of the price of beef, so it's a hard-to-find bargain in this extortionate land. His family live in Canada now, but he is employing the 'sabr' as he keeps the Beit Jala pork business going. He rears his own pigs. And how we appreciate his fare. The smell of pork in his shop is so familiar, it seems unfamiliar in this faraway land with few porkatarians. The taste of the pork is better for it being hard to find. The mysterious spice he uses in his sausage mix is appreciated even by dwarves, not normally swayed from the well-trodden chipolata route.
In the afternoon we have an offer to accompany a wonderful Israeli academic around some Christian areas in Jerusalem's old city. The Armenian Patriarchate - a vital establishment for this plagued and highly talented community. The Armenians were apparently the first community to introduce printing, ceramics, girls schools and photography to this city. They were so sure of the importance of educating girls, we joked there might be a Matriarchate soon. The monk shows us around - explaining how they still shelter the descendants of Armenian refugees who arrived during the genocide in 1915 - where the Ottomans killed 1.5 million of them. The library looks quasi Art Deco and has some of the only copies of Armenian newspapers and other texts from the time of the genocide.
Cloistered near the Armenian Patriarchate in Jerusalem's Old City, is the Syriac Orthodox church, San Marcos, where 'Abouna' 'our father' is praying in Aramaic for evening Vespers. We sit quietly in the pew while he chants peacefully. It is mesmerising - almost soporific after our hot walk, now sitting on the cool pew, my ankles lightly throbbing.
The tiny church has no statues - only icons. His words and his style of clothing unchanged for centuries, he is part of a tiny community here who are facing deep concerns about their fate. Not just here, where there aren't enough of them to keep procreating effectively; but also in Syria. A Syriac Orthodox bishop was kidnapped in 2013, and there are desperate stories coming out of Homs and Aleppo - two important bases for their community.
After he finishes his prayers he turns to talk to us. His long white beard another seeming relic from the past - our friend asked about Homs about Aleppo. 'I hear bad news.'
'Yes - we can just hope. We just...pray. We just know that our Lord is the saviour of all...We must trust in him'.
He raises hands and eyes heaven-wards.
He shakes his head, his eyes glisten. What must it be like to carry that around - in this enclave - with a dwindling population of Syriac Orthodox unable to help their communities within Syria? The terror. The loneliness.
Sabr. Patience. Sumud. Defiance. In his case I feel it is more defiance in the face of evil than anything else. And absolute trust and patience that one day good will prevail.
My week finishes with a discovery of an Israeli acupuncturist, trained in China, and based in Jerusalem's nature museum. I wander past rooms of stuffed birds, looking as turgid as my equally stuffed-looking pregnant ankles. I won't be missing these two trotters:
The nature museum is the kind of place where you might happen upon a dusty dinosaur egg. Natan Natan's practise occupies 2 small rooms within the building, and after he gently applies some needles to my legs, hands and forehead, I lie there in the dark for 45 minutes: celtic music drifting from some speakers on the plain wall. No noise from the dwarves safely at home dressed as pirates making a catapult from a springy lime tree. A good place to be. Even if it does nothing to bring this baby on. The borrowed time feels so peaceful and so wonderful, that when the baby finally arrives, bringing with it much more, we'll realise how much we had before anyway. Sabr. No hurry. No rush.
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