Pilgrims at the Jordan River

Some results from a recent photography job at the baptism site of Jesus, at a narrow stretch of the Jordan river where orthodox Syrian, Coptic and Greek pilgrims came to celebrate their epiphany, with services carried out on both sides. I love how tartan and bagpipes have travelled all this way. Or perhaps they came from here originally?

Then I had a meeting with a man who'll be the subject of my next film project who has started up an icon painting school in Bethlehem. One of his best known works is an icon painted on the separation wall dividing Jerusalemites from West Bankers, called: 'Our Lady Who Brings Down Walls.'

An extract from the prayer goes:
'We beg you...to bring down this wall, the walls of our hearts, and all the walls that generate hatred, violence, fear and indifference between people and nations.'

The Lozenge's pearly whites

J and I are training for a 10km slice of the Bethlehem marathon which happens in April. I'd forgotten how good it is to run. Sleet is splattering Jerusalem's stone walls and feet-polished streets and I felt that familiar burn in my chest that I haven't had since primary school. The slight tingle and tang on the front of my legs from the cold air, hot-cold cheeks and burning ears. When the body runs the mind stills. I'd been sitting at the computer trying to work out my year and feeling daunted by things. My brain was sunny side down. So out I went into the grey - East Jerusalemites slumped under mackintoshes and mangled umbrellas; Haredim (ultra orthodox Jews) with rain drops on side locks and plastic bags over their precious hats. And my brain flipped to sunny side up almost immediately.

How could I have forgotten about all those free endorphins up for grabs?

Everything is out there for you to witness from a solitary world with a soundtrack of your choice. I started out to the smell of the dry cleaners on our street corner, mixed with the now familiar scent of deep frying falafel. I ran past the man selling the sesame seed ca'ek, shaped like a bread lasso - his black and white keffiyeh tied under his chin against the cold, as he reached for a paper twirl of za'atar and a boiled egg for a hungry passer by. 'Sabbagh al khayr' he raised a gnarled hand, the za'atar twirl still between his thumb and forefinger. On I went, past the body building gym with the picture of a man with racehorse veins and glistening muscles; then the barber shop - about four men inside, forefingers to smartphone screens, receiving the common racoon cut and a shave. They glanced up as I ran by.

Over the seam road dividing the East of the city from West, along the platform of the light rail train and up the hill beside the wall of the Old City towards the New Gate. I aimed for the white car and ran to it without stopping, allowing myself a walk at the top to look over a misty view towards Jaffa gate.

J left us Sunday morning for a work trip. He kissed the four of us as we lay in our bed, legs entangled. The Lozenge and Rashimi leaning against some big pillows with chocolate breath from their milk drink; next to me and the Pea - she leaning against me as her big pillow, and she with plain, not chocolate, milk breath. I was sad to see him go, and was glad of the three human forms clustered around me in the bed. We're going to have to get used to this when our routine changes a bit. And in the back of my mind I'm wondering how I will get used to J not being with us all the time. We treat each moment together as a bead of gold now. In that way it's probably a good exercise.

We remaining four tumbled out of the bed and headed to the kitchen for some breakfast. One of our friends gave the boys a big box of rice krispies which Rashimi calls 'The Kyle Krisp' in his honour. I showed them how to best listen to them crackling. It involves silence and a shaggy morning head to be dipped gently to one side over the bowl - like listening to the sound of the sea from a shell. 'Yes I can hear it,' whispered Rashimi. You can either feel outnumbered as a big person with three dwarfs, or you can become a dwarf yourself. As Rashimi pointed out the other day: 'You're a big person on the outside Mummy, but in yer heart you're still a girl.' And as the Lozenge explained to someone: 'What Mummy does isn't really work because her office is a nice place and she always looks happy when she's in there. And she has cool things in her top drawer.'

I really want him to keep believing that it's possible for work not to feel like work. We need to keep that ball in the air for as long as possible. May the dwarfs never have to wear suits and ties! Unless they work in fashion and they've designed it themselves.

So soon, the Kyle Krisps finished, and the flat bread and honey underway, I found myself turning into a ventriloquist pretending that the Pea herself was talking. The dwarfs found it very funny, particularly because the pea (via me) was talking about 'teef'. Because hers are as yet as scarce as a hen's. And the Lozenge has reached that important little pearly milestone in life, where his first bunch start leaving him, and the new jaggedy fangs break through the gum and cauthe a little more of a lithp.

She's a busy lady the tooth fairy, and only just remembered in time to leave a 20 shekel note (about £4) under the pillow in return for the two tiny pegs that hopped out of the Lozenge's mouth over the weekend.

We were just going about our Monday morning, and I was helping the Lozenge effectively brush the two new jaggedy ones, when I felt a sudden wave of responsibility. I realised that these new slabs of shining bone were going to be with him for life - inshallah - unlike those last little disposable gnashers. And inshallah again, they will probably outlive me. On looking at the baby tooth lying on the envelope addressed to the tooth fairy, I couldn't believe that the tiny thing, together with its row of comrades, could have been responsible for taking on a Granny Smith. It gives you courage really - when you look at something so small, and what it is capable of. A tiny tool without which six years of prandial experience and the odd bit of self defence and pulling apart stubborn pieces of Lego, would not have happened. I will keep the little pearl for ever tucked in with the first curl in a small silver box with a mother of pearl lid the size of my thumb nail. I now know what it feels to be that mother of the pearl.

And the bemused thinking got me over a niggling little wave of nostalgia about 6 years passed and that chapter of earliest childhood coming to an end, with the added responsibility over that too.

So Monday morning and the job of nudging the boys into their week. How happy I was to see Yakoub the bus driver, with his wooly hat pulled down over his ears, opening the electric door to the school bus thereby letting some air into the fug. That morning he was playing Fairuz - the Arab icon diva which reminds me where we are, so I pinch myself and feel lucky we're here. I hopped up the steps of the bus, fastened belts around the boys and he glided off - with both of them looking through the fringes of their fluffy parka hoods out of the steamy window.

The week had begun.

After my run I was a bit more effective at my desk, but I also remembered that getting out there is important even when not going for a run. The local and global news feed is so negative, that being a freelancer sat inside your house, you can start to believe that's all there is: Da'esh; local stabbers; and hatred. So I went back out into the rain to get my party heels fixed . They're bright red and suede. Bilal is the cobbler - his Dad died 25 years ago so he's ben working in the shop since he finished school. He's jolly and has a beard (not a funny one, just normal). He offered me a coffee and spoke only in Arabic, apologising for his English which isn't good because he left school early to take over his Dad's business after his death.

I sipped the cardamom coffee from a paper cup not much bigger than a thimble. He asked what I did. I told him I made videos and he switched his little TV to the Nat Geo channel and we watched a mongoose kill a snake with Arabic dubbing. I looked on my phone and said the name in Arabic for mongoose. From the look on Bilal's face as he waved his hand in front of his nose, this must also be the same word for skunk. 2 little boys came in to get the zip on their Mum's handbag fixed. Omar and Aboud they were called. 'Aboud, m'al abu lil ayoun soud' a little rhyme meaning: Aboud whose dad has black eyes. They were off school because of the weather these beautiful boys of 10 and 8, just a bit older than ours, with their black hair and coats fastened up to their chins.  Bilal charged them a quid for fixing the zip and the Mum came in with a big hair do and thick makeup, thanked Bilal, scooped up the boys and rushed off. Then a road cleaner came in with his all in one duvet ski suit kind of thing, and said he needed some clips for the suit as the trouser bottoms were soaking up all the rain water. He went outside to smoke a cigarette and I joked with Bilal that if the road cleaner wore my red heels instead, his trousers bottoms would no longer get wet. Now that, Bilal said with a giggle, is a little bit moskelgia: (naughty). You don't really make jokes about men wearing women's shoes round here. We compared pictures of our daughters: his is called Maria and she's two. She has eyes the same colour as yours, he said. So are you a Christian? No, a Muslim. Nefseshi. The same, he laughed.

Then I walked back via the dry cleaners and the man who always calls: 'Umm Petra' to me, who lamented the fact he had five sons and no daughter. 'No family is complete without a girl,' he said. 'You're lucky!'

Everyday life needs to be like that mongoose: eating the bad news snake for breakfast.

'Leave evil, and it will leave you,' the Arabic proverb goes.

The great outdoors

The year has begun and with it, its resolutions. And a few tweaks to the way we normally do things. It was J that suggested instead of the frenetic school run, the boys take the bus - and an hour of quality time can be salvaged from the daily marathon of dwarfs, jobs, feeding patterns, homework and a Pea. And now we all eat dinner together at night saving food, time, and washing up. So the dwarfs have to sample new things. Things sampled (and liked so far): carrot soup; chicken drumsticks in sumac; beetroot soup; cauliflower; ratatouille; babaganoush. It's a great new order.

I had a slow start - just couldn't get down to things. Then I remembered about saying: 'YES' to things that come your way. Within reason of course. So I joined a walk on my own last week - with a Palestinian guide and an Italian man from the UN. 'No one is really walking' said the guide, 'Everyone's afraid.' Though hiking in this place is about one of the safest things you can do at the moment. A few hours later a scary-looking, slavering dog gave chase and I had to momentarily eat my hat. We carried on walking slowly and he lost interest and peeled off. But for a moment I looked down at my bare arms and short nails, and wondered, not one of us with even a stick.

I found some myrrh by the roadside as we flanked the aqueduct built by Herod all the way to Jericho. It's still used as the main artery of water for the city below. From the big road (the same one the Pea and I travelled towards Jordan) you wouldn't even know this wadi exists.

Our guide said: "Honestly I do this walk almost every week and return each time astonished by this spectacular piece of heaven so close to us"

Past St George of Coziba (a Coptic Christian from Egypt) monastery and down into Jericho - the world's longest inhabited city. It was an inspiring way to begin a new year.

Where streams of living water flow.

And this led to a further hike this weekend with the same guide. And with J and the dwarfs and Mrs Pea for company: around Nabi Saleh in the West Bank near Ramallah, through a forest, barely used by humans.

Out we set on Sunday morning. The Lozenge in khaki green from top to toe, binoculars, compass and backpack at the ready - 'for collecting thingth'. Rashimi in spritely form with an old Farrow and Ball bag slung over his shoulder and a frayed cap. For the three hour hike (we took our time, as there was so much to play with on the way) they collected acorns to plant at home, 'and grow oaks'. The pea slept and chatted intermittently. B.Y.O. milk in the rucksack.

We did 7km in all - with not as much whining as we had feared. And 2 bags of pick and mix sweets brought out at the final stretch pumped them up enough to finish. A natural wonderland. And not an Israeli settlement in sight.

As Rashimi fell into a deep sleep he said: 'Mummy, I want to go back to that place.'

Those lucky bees.

The Lozenge is star of the week at school. This is nothing to do with achievement, simply a process of giving each child in the class a turn at being the focus.

This is the Lozenge aged 6, in a nutshell. 

Festivity in sad places

Al Bahr al Mayat: The Dead Sea

You can take the Brit out of Britain, but you can't take Britain out of the...

Jordan: an unusual place for a booze cruise, some would say. But since we've struck a deal with a duty free place there, a few days before Christmas, we set off to the other side of the Dead Sea, the Pea and me.

Her first visit to Jordan: where her brothers began their Arabian adventure, and we decided there, that we'd quite like a Pea, though we didn't know then, it would be she. And our first girls shopping trip. Though not for shoes or clothes. Just booze and festive morsels we were unable to find here.

The skies were blue, the sandy ground a pale ochre. We wound our way down the road from Jerusalem to the lowest place on earth, passing the lonely camel waiting for a much-needed trickle of tourists and a photo opportunity. Down and down we curled, my silent passenger sensibly sucking on her dummy which seemed to prevent a tiny ear bubble. 'Ahlan Wasahlan. Mabrook! Wein al awlaad? Binit! Shu ismha? (Welcome! Congratulations! Where are the boys? A girl! What's her name?') exclaimed our border guard friends as I entered Jordan the first time in a while un-pregnant. The Pea is quite a weight in her car seat so I left her on the ground near the passport queue I stood in. Soon she was gurgling up at 6 uniformed Jordanians of all ages, who were cooing and clucking at her in Arabic - happy and surprised with her regional-sounding name. 'Bitra, Bitra!' they smiled. There's no P in the Arabic alphabet so they use a B.  Bitra beamed back. She had received just the same attention on the Israeli side making our first girls' trip a jolly affair.

We spent the day revisiting old haunts. The supermarket resplendent with Christmas tree and piles of Lindt chocolate Santa Clauses. I chatted at the checkout with the first guy who ever corrected my faltering Arabic, and never allowed me to talk to him in English. My shopping partner was cheery and enthralled from her safe cocoon of the baby sling: mesmerised by the lights and the technicolour supermarket experiences. A baby and children in this land are keys to many fleeting friendships. And though I missed the dwarfs who were still in school, I didn't miss finding the surprise technicolour items in the trolley at the checkout. We met an Egyptian friend for lunch at her house and clanked our way back down the other side of the Jordan valley, back to Israel: with our diplomatic number plates and papers that allow us to travel where the wind may take us. I never take it for granted. The Pea was issued a small visa for the privilege of her trip.

A few more preparations before 2 sets of Grandparents arrived to celebrate with us. Dwarf zone had been leaning in the jingle bells direction for six months, so the house was soon enthusiastically festooned; the tree lights on slow fade and flash: setting number 6. A Christian Palestinian chef, Issa (Arabic for Jesus) ordered our turkey for us. I picked it up - what a familiar weight. As I popped it on the scales the needle danced: 8.2kilos, the same as our pet Pea. A beauty! And it needed to be.

'Are you crazy?' a few friends had giggled when we explained we had all four grandparents incoming. But I can highly recommend this approach. Not least becuase the adult:smallperson ratio in our house soared from 2:3 to 3:1.

A day before they arrived J and I snuck out alone in daytime to Jerusalem's Old City. We always do this the day before things get going. It was so quiet and there were no teams of shoppers pacing the smooth cobbles. It felt wrong somehow. We picked up presents for family and friends and I found a beautiful embroidered Palestinian coat. Walid dropped his price to match mine so fast I almost felt guilty. No one is visiting. No one is shopping. 'Everyone's afraid of coming here' he said. 'It's really hard to survive at the moment.'

Here I am next to my Dad in the coat. Everyone tells us how similar we look. I think I have a big chunk of Dad in my gene pool. Thanks Pop!

So if you think the Pea looks like I did at her age, then maybe she will also end up looking like you.

The fabulous four stayed for a week. We sang carols, we visited friends, friends visited us. We day tripped to an Ummayad palace in Jericho. The gang went to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve and I had a beautiful evening of carols, wine and wrapping presents on my own before it all began, sneaking out with Mum at midnight to sing at the neighbouring cathedral. Back there the following day, the service was double the length - in both English and Arabic. Things got a bit hazy around lunchtime...'I'm not sure I've been that lashed on Christmas day ever before' said Dad. The magnum of champagne the Pea and I picked up in duty free was soon knocked on the head and another popped open. Then my memories are a mosaic of small, clear pictures: Dad on all fours, his specs at the end of his nose, completing the dinosaur puzzle for the Lozenge; J's Dad feeding the Pea, thinking someone had put a hat on his head...;

the Lozenge, accompanied by my Mum singing Once in Royal David's City after a hastily eaten mince pie. I think you can still hear one of the raisins quavering in his throat;

the Pea in her new grey hand knit cardigan made by J's Mum. The Lego creations, the games, the conversations and the laughter. J and I realised our Mums and Dads are the umbrellas between us and the world outside. Standing in an Ummayad palace and thinking of all that history can give the impression that there is so much time. But we are each a crystal grain of Dead Sea salt in time; tiny wisps in history.

As Mark Twain said:

'There isn't time, so brief is life, for bickerings, apologies, heart burnings, callings to account. There is only time for loving, and but an instant, so to speak, for that.'


Then suddenly they'd all gone and we wondered if had really happened.

'Now can we have the rrreeeel Christmas?' enquired Rashimi, who'd been expecting at least a small sprinkling of snow.

****

New Year's Eve began at midday with some new friends whose Mum and Dad live here in Jerusalem. I had to ring Mum for the recipe for 'favourite macaroni' which we always ate when we were young in winter time. It went down well with the Chablis the Pea and I had picked up along with all the other bottles. They left and it was tea time. The dwarfs wanted a boiled egg and I opened the fridge to realise I'd used up all of them in the orange cakes to take to our new year's eve party. So I ran through the rain to Marwan's shop: an Aladdin's cave of a grocery store. The friendly Marwan has to flick a cereal packet down from 8 feet up with a long hooked stick. You have to duck as the Honey Nut Cheerios take a dive - and he deftly catches them. We used to laugh when I went in there with Pea on the way, as it's not the kind of shop you can move around in easily with a big tummy. As Marwan would contest. It was the second time I'd been in that day. 'Ihna mazuzeen' (We're lucky!) he chuckled. 'No I'm the lucky one', I replied, asking if the porcelain white eggs with the little red stamp were 'baladi?' local. 'Laaa'. No, he shook his head. An old man at the counter muttered: 'The Israelis took all of our eggs.'

Marwan shook his head: 'Things have never been so bad. Everyone's afraid to go out'. Another Palestinian in the shop said: 'I worry that if I trip on the street and mistakenly bash into an Israeli with my body - they'll think I'm trying to hurt them, and shoot me.' Israelis are also afraid - the Tel Aviv shooting last week unearthing yet more dread. Young people are being shot dead all over the place after attempted stabbings. Most days you hear wails of sirens, you read tirades of insults. We feel none of it directly, but we feel for locals

?

As the eggs were cooking I painted my nails a golden colour for the party. There was a power cut - a small squeak from the Pea in her new pink bouncy seat from Ibrahim, a Palestinian friend; and a smudged nail. The dwarfs both reached for their torches and the power pinged on again.

Then J and I strode out into the wild night - the wind and rain lashing our faces, to a party at the house of some Swedish friends. A warm and generous beginning to the year, complete with oversized sparklers. On the way home, J and I ran through ankle-deep puddles under a flapping umbrella. A lone taxi ground to a halt near us in a deep river of dirty water. We hopped in and he drove us home. He was from Tel Aviv but had come to Jerusalem on a job. But he had no problem with driving into East Jerusalem as some Israeli taxis do. He spoke no English but was laid back and pleased with the weather it seemed. A lot of clients. As J ran in to fetch St Grace and her husband for them to go home, the driver asked me: 'Your husband?' 'Yes', I said. 'He a good man. You see in his face.'

My good man and I woke up the next morning and the dwarf morning ritual of coming to join us in our bed happened fortunately a couple of hours later than normal. We leaned against our pillows - the dwarfs sipping warm milk from half chewed beakers - another little ritual that is still alive though they are long out of beaker stage. The Pea lay on her back and kicked excitedly between us.

'So what are your new year's resolutions then?' asked J.

'Crafty things, and sleeping,' said the Lozenge.'What are yours Daddy?'

'Mine are to hold Mummy's hand more often, and to speak more Arabic.'

'Mine are to exercise more and to dig deeper into my creative projects,' I said.

A small silence.

'Cupcakes. And ice cream. Are my oneth,' said Rashimi who'd been running around the house in his spider man balaclava. He returned to the bed breathless, ripped off the headgear and slumped his body on top of the Pea, covering her with kisses.