Then a string of spring visitors to remind us why we chose to live in these lands between river and sea - and to take our minds away from all the tragedy around.
Lucy the painter and I scrambled our way up a rocky mountain-side between Bethlehem and the Dead Sea. The Kidron valley was quiet but for the gurgling of the stream and the cheeps of 'catcoot' nested chicks in the crevice of rock above us. We turned and gazed:
A 5th century Christian Orthodox monastery setteld in the rock face - a clutter of domes, and bricks and windows and crucifixes. Our impromptu guides were two young Bedouin boys: Agab and Sagr - names in Arabic for birds of prey, who accompanied us up the hill pointing things out and explaining them to us in Arabic. Agab laughed, pointing out two beetles - one on top of the other, tumbling about in the dust. 'Bijowaz!' he laughed. 'They're getting married.' Then he asked me what the time was. 10 o'clock, I said, then he shouted to his brother the other side of the valley: 'Ashra!' 'Ten!' Bedouin timekeeping. 'Can't they tell from the sun?' asked Lucy. I looked at Agab's skinny stonewashed jeans and wondered about conflicting cultures.
Lucy painted while I photographed. We were calmed and soothed by this remote monastery, where men have lived solitarily in solidarity with the rock. As solid and unflinching in form as in their statement to the world. A message to us all: study the peace, let your mind run free towards greater more mysterious things. It spoke to us both, as much as the young boys who eagerly chatted and posed for photographs.
It was a welcome respite from the trouble around.
The problem with living here, or for that matter anywhere else in the world, is the news. As Caitlin Moran says in her fabulous new book, Moranifesto: We need a new news. All it shows is the black and if you don't watch out it shows you only the end of hope. 'It is screwing us up and crushing us', she says. You can end up believing hope is dead.
Last week a supermarket attendant in Tel Aviv was assaulted in broad daylight by plain clothed Israeli border police, just because he was Arab. As one of the Knesset members Dov Khenin pointed out: the ill spirit of racisism communicated by the ministers and members of the leadership is being translated into an intolerable reality of violence.
So the best bit about spring and with it, this year, a string of visitors, means you have an excuse to be a resident tourist, and whilst discussing the very evidently wrong things going on around us, get out and muse and wonder the magical things too. My aunt Ariane and John bravely joined a family of five's week long holiday from school.
There's not much hopeful news in relation to Islam right now. But living ten minutes walk from the third most holy place in this religion merits a proper look. J got permission from the Waqf, or custodians of the Muslim holy sites, for us to go inside Al Aqsa mosque, dating from 1133. The calm exterior space around the two buildings, archways framing the famous golden dome of the rock, a relief from the Old City's narrow streets.
The holy feeling was not encouraged by our twitchy, elderly guide, evidently bored of showing people like us around the structure: 'Welcom-hurry up!' he said, rushing us around. As if the 'welcom' somehow excused the hurrying. But we took our time, pacing the carpeted floor of Al Aqsa, the geometric carpet moving off into the distance as if all the way to Mecca itself. The archways inside reminiscent of a Church. The bullet hole, supposedly the one that killed King Abdullah 1 of Jordan but spared King Hussein. We meandered amongst the saturated colours, the geometric lines pointing East, enjoying the peace and the friendly looks from Muslims welcoming us into their holy place.
'Will we be having dinner at the hotelle?' asked the Lozenge with a faint lilt of an Arab accent. The dwarfs both have it - despite only knowing about ten words each in Arabic. The Lozenge has a special relationship with his tummy, and often relays conversations he's had with it.
'No, at a restaurant', I replied already looking forward to the Uri Buri visit that evening myself - a mouthwatering Israeli culinary experience overlooking Acre's crusader wall and beyond it the Mediterranean Sea. Our chosen destination for the trip before Ariane and John left.
'Ooh. One excitement with another excitement inside it,' the Lozenge squeaked, rubbing his tummy bouncing on the bed in the mezzanine floor which is like being on the set of being John Malcovkitch and the 9 and a half'th floor which means someone my height has to crawl.
Rashimi joined in, also slightly stooping: 'The only thing the hotelle doesn't have is a playroom.'
'But the whole worlde is a playroom - it is completely full of exciting things,' said the Lozenge.
'Yeah,' on reflection Rashimi agreed: 'becauthe God made it. and God...And God...Mummy, (making sure I was really listening more to him than to his brother) Is STRONGer than GOLIATH.'
Together they wolfed a plate of porcini gnocci, with calamari rings on the side. The Lozenge asked: 'what's for pudding?' a calamari ring still lodged in one cheek. And after it they slurped pistaccio ice cream and passion fruit sorbet. 'It lookth like tadpoles'. said Rashimi.
Acre is on Israel's Mediterranean coast and this restaurant is run by a well known Israeli chef and developer who is famed and also criticised for his smartening up of the centre of the crusader town. He came to talk to us as we ate, twiddling his long grey beard with a rugged hand explaining his motivation for joining up Arab and Israeli communities in his ventures.
My telephone pinged. 'Aby Aestar!' from Nasser a friendly muslim local taxi driver. There is no 'P' in the Arabic language so Petra is pronounced Bitra, and therefore Happy: Aby. Back in Jerusalem orthodox christians, were celebrating the day before Easter with the 'Holy Fire: ' an annual miracle in which a blue light emanates from Jesus' tomb in the Holy Sepulchre, forming a column of fire from which candles are lit, and the fire spontaneously lights other lamps and candles around the church. Pilgrims and clergy claim the Holy Fire doesn't burn them. Though Nasser is Muslim he is always congratulating me on my Christian festivals, even though as a non-orthodox I had celebrated Easter a few weeks before.
As we delivered Ariane and John back to the airport after a fabulous week they waved as we cruised up the escalator. On the top floor of the airport I noticed all the helium balloons, stuck on the ceiling. I wondered to myself about this symbol of barricaded freedoms. Israel barricading itself in from its own freedom by securitisation: as the Palestinians are also trapped from the occupation and their own political failings. The little helium balloons stuck up there, ribbons dangling, separated from the freedom of the clear blue sky, by a thick metal slab.
Tectonic plates are shifting in our life: J will be spending a lot of time away next year. But we think we can stay in our house. Our landlady waved to us from the balcony as we came in: nearly 90 years old and often sitting up there in her housecoat sucking on a fag and pinging it onto tour stone patio below. The geraniums have a grey tinge to their furry leaves. She's fiercely independent - having accepted no offers of help the 2.5 years we've been here. She seems happy for us to remain below.
Iona my 21 year old cousin arrived. A photography student and subsequently my right hand woman. She got stuck in right away, coming with me film Ian the icon painter - another road leading back to Bethlehem - carrying my kit and helping me by photographing the wall while I filmed.
All her questions were spot on:
-So is that a gated community then? Looking at an Israeli settlement across from Bethlehem on part of the West Bank
- So is Palestine a state or what is it? How does that all work?
- So what stance does Britain take with all this?
- And if a Palestinian wants to get to the Mediterranean coast, how do they do that?
We took a break at Mahne Yeuda market. 'Judaica' fluttered in a stall behind her: Hamzeh hands, multicoloured kappa hats, little menorah seven pronged candlesticks twinkling in the sunlight. We chatted and I studied here as we sat there, lovely pale skin, pale blue eyes and blonde hair, talking about her German Grandmother who was one of the dancing girls for Hitler, who shook his hand as she danced past. 'And she still has things she says that are quite anti semitic which she blames on all the indoctrination she got at school,' said Iona.
Not all that long ago. We were startled at the thought of how close it was, even to us - two generations on.
Lucy the painter and I scrambled our way up a rocky mountain-side between Bethlehem and the Dead Sea. The Kidron valley was quiet but for the gurgling of the stream and the cheeps of 'catcoot' nested chicks in the crevice of rock above us. We turned and gazed:
A 5th century Christian Orthodox monastery setteld in the rock face - a clutter of domes, and bricks and windows and crucifixes. Our impromptu guides were two young Bedouin boys: Agab and Sagr - names in Arabic for birds of prey, who accompanied us up the hill pointing things out and explaining them to us in Arabic. Agab laughed, pointing out two beetles - one on top of the other, tumbling about in the dust. 'Bijowaz!' he laughed. 'They're getting married.' Then he asked me what the time was. 10 o'clock, I said, then he shouted to his brother the other side of the valley: 'Ashra!' 'Ten!' Bedouin timekeeping. 'Can't they tell from the sun?' asked Lucy. I looked at Agab's skinny stonewashed jeans and wondered about conflicting cultures.
Lucy painted while I photographed. We were calmed and soothed by this remote monastery, where men have lived solitarily in solidarity with the rock. As solid and unflinching in form as in their statement to the world. A message to us all: study the peace, let your mind run free towards greater more mysterious things. It spoke to us both, as much as the young boys who eagerly chatted and posed for photographs.
It was a welcome respite from the trouble around.
The problem with living here, or for that matter anywhere else in the world, is the news. As Caitlin Moran says in her fabulous new book, Moranifesto: We need a new news. All it shows is the black and if you don't watch out it shows you only the end of hope. 'It is screwing us up and crushing us', she says. You can end up believing hope is dead.
Last week a supermarket attendant in Tel Aviv was assaulted in broad daylight by plain clothed Israeli border police, just because he was Arab. As one of the Knesset members Dov Khenin pointed out: the ill spirit of racisism communicated by the ministers and members of the leadership is being translated into an intolerable reality of violence.
So the best bit about spring and with it, this year, a string of visitors, means you have an excuse to be a resident tourist, and whilst discussing the very evidently wrong things going on around us, get out and muse and wonder the magical things too. My aunt Ariane and John bravely joined a family of five's week long holiday from school.
There's not much hopeful news in relation to Islam right now. But living ten minutes walk from the third most holy place in this religion merits a proper look. J got permission from the Waqf, or custodians of the Muslim holy sites, for us to go inside Al Aqsa mosque, dating from 1133. The calm exterior space around the two buildings, archways framing the famous golden dome of the rock, a relief from the Old City's narrow streets.
The holy feeling was not encouraged by our twitchy, elderly guide, evidently bored of showing people like us around the structure: 'Welcom-hurry up!' he said, rushing us around. As if the 'welcom' somehow excused the hurrying. But we took our time, pacing the carpeted floor of Al Aqsa, the geometric carpet moving off into the distance as if all the way to Mecca itself. The archways inside reminiscent of a Church. The bullet hole, supposedly the one that killed King Abdullah 1 of Jordan but spared King Hussein. We meandered amongst the saturated colours, the geometric lines pointing East, enjoying the peace and the friendly looks from Muslims welcoming us into their holy place.
 |
| Prayer times |
'No, at a restaurant', I replied already looking forward to the Uri Buri visit that evening myself - a mouthwatering Israeli culinary experience overlooking Acre's crusader wall and beyond it the Mediterranean Sea. Our chosen destination for the trip before Ariane and John left.
'Ooh. One excitement with another excitement inside it,' the Lozenge squeaked, rubbing his tummy bouncing on the bed in the mezzanine floor which is like being on the set of being John Malcovkitch and the 9 and a half'th floor which means someone my height has to crawl.
Rashimi joined in, also slightly stooping: 'The only thing the hotelle doesn't have is a playroom.'
'But the whole worlde is a playroom - it is completely full of exciting things,' said the Lozenge.
'Yeah,' on reflection Rashimi agreed: 'becauthe God made it. and God...And God...Mummy, (making sure I was really listening more to him than to his brother) Is STRONGer than GOLIATH.'
Together they wolfed a plate of porcini gnocci, with calamari rings on the side. The Lozenge asked: 'what's for pudding?' a calamari ring still lodged in one cheek. And after it they slurped pistaccio ice cream and passion fruit sorbet. 'It lookth like tadpoles'. said Rashimi.
Acre is on Israel's Mediterranean coast and this restaurant is run by a well known Israeli chef and developer who is famed and also criticised for his smartening up of the centre of the crusader town. He came to talk to us as we ate, twiddling his long grey beard with a rugged hand explaining his motivation for joining up Arab and Israeli communities in his ventures.
My telephone pinged. 'Aby Aestar!' from Nasser a friendly muslim local taxi driver. There is no 'P' in the Arabic language so Petra is pronounced Bitra, and therefore Happy: Aby. Back in Jerusalem orthodox christians, were celebrating the day before Easter with the 'Holy Fire: ' an annual miracle in which a blue light emanates from Jesus' tomb in the Holy Sepulchre, forming a column of fire from which candles are lit, and the fire spontaneously lights other lamps and candles around the church. Pilgrims and clergy claim the Holy Fire doesn't burn them. Though Nasser is Muslim he is always congratulating me on my Christian festivals, even though as a non-orthodox I had celebrated Easter a few weeks before.
As we delivered Ariane and John back to the airport after a fabulous week they waved as we cruised up the escalator. On the top floor of the airport I noticed all the helium balloons, stuck on the ceiling. I wondered to myself about this symbol of barricaded freedoms. Israel barricading itself in from its own freedom by securitisation: as the Palestinians are also trapped from the occupation and their own political failings. The little helium balloons stuck up there, ribbons dangling, separated from the freedom of the clear blue sky, by a thick metal slab.
Tectonic plates are shifting in our life: J will be spending a lot of time away next year. But we think we can stay in our house. Our landlady waved to us from the balcony as we came in: nearly 90 years old and often sitting up there in her housecoat sucking on a fag and pinging it onto tour stone patio below. The geraniums have a grey tinge to their furry leaves. She's fiercely independent - having accepted no offers of help the 2.5 years we've been here. She seems happy for us to remain below.
Iona my 21 year old cousin arrived. A photography student and subsequently my right hand woman. She got stuck in right away, coming with me film Ian the icon painter - another road leading back to Bethlehem - carrying my kit and helping me by photographing the wall while I filmed.
All her questions were spot on:
-So is that a gated community then? Looking at an Israeli settlement across from Bethlehem on part of the West Bank
- So is Palestine a state or what is it? How does that all work?
- So what stance does Britain take with all this?
- And if a Palestinian wants to get to the Mediterranean coast, how do they do that?
We took a break at Mahne Yeuda market. 'Judaica' fluttered in a stall behind her: Hamzeh hands, multicoloured kappa hats, little menorah seven pronged candlesticks twinkling in the sunlight. We chatted and I studied here as we sat there, lovely pale skin, pale blue eyes and blonde hair, talking about her German Grandmother who was one of the dancing girls for Hitler, who shook his hand as she danced past. 'And she still has things she says that are quite anti semitic which she blames on all the indoctrination she got at school,' said Iona.
Not all that long ago. We were startled at the thought of how close it was, even to us - two generations on.
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