Active hope is the antidote to cynicism says Maria Popova, utterer of much wisdom and author of the weekly Brain-pickings which a friend put me on to, leaving me asking myself how I did without it.
The Tree of Hope now stands in the centre of the Old City and here is the first cut of the film I made about Mark the talented sculptor, and the making of it.
https://vimeo.com/185045037
password: hope
And in this region where despair so often reigns - we find examples of hope nestling in the thorns in the most surprising places. At a recent event at a Jerusalem street which houses Arabs on one side; Israelis on the other; we find art on the inhabitants' walls. One such inhabitant hands me his card which reads: 'The head of the parents committee in Turi schools. A peaceful man.' And his neighbour, an Arab who works with Ultra Orthodox Jewish ambulance first aid teams so he can be at the scene of the accident more quickly than if he were driving his own vehicle because of stringent security restrictions on Palestinians. And the extremely moving visit I paid with a new friend, to Aida refugee camp near Bethlehem, just the other side of the separation wall, very close to the birthplace of the Pea, where I met Abdelfattah, the head of Alrowwad for culture and arts. A doctor of science, he turned his back on work as a biologist to throw himself into theatre, and toured the UK this summer with his troupe - all young people from the camp - including to the Edinburgh Festival.
Popovawrites: 'Critical thinking without hope is cynicism. Hope without critical thinking is naivety.'
But I think she's also right to include the word 'active' alongside. Everyone's looking for hope, and most people want things to be better. Just this week we held a fashion show to sell unwanted, quality clothes, and raised nearly $4,000. It came from nothing - unused clothes formerly dangling dejected in our closets - became a something. Everything can be a something.
St Grace explains. 'It's good, a sale like this madam, because when you buy, you feel good, you feel peace, right?' She was fully involved and donated lots of new or nearly new clothes for the cause, and shopped for many of her friends.
I notice that all our friends want to come, want to join. We internationals can also be negatively influenced by the Holy Land's complex political situation. And it makes us shy - more reluctant to creep out of our holes and fly a hopeful flag. And often we can stand around and wring our hands and feel guilty that things look like they're getting worse. And yet we're still living here - so does that make us complicit?
But the flag of hope is flying this week. And our new seven year old is in the mix with his heart and his soul. 'Give me a child before he is seven...' Well if this seven year old man child is anything to go by, 'Shop til you drop' is something for naughties-born males.
A good chunk of our money is due to the spending of the Lozenge himself: bangles for some of girlfriends in class; a wallet for his best girlfriend's Mum; an emerald green silky Ra-Ra skirt for the Pea; a pair of leggings for Tilly T his cousin; a couple of tops for Daisy his other cousin; some shorts for himself and a tie for Daddy.
He shops. Then he drops. Half way through their night time poem, called Benediction, by James Berry, I notice both dwarfs are fast asleep with their sticky heads deep into their pillows, while I stumble through our nightly ritual by torchlight.
'Thanks to the ear that someone may hear; Thanks to seeing that someone may see; Thanks to feeling that someone may feel; Thanks to touch that one may be touched; Thanks to flowering of white moon and spreading shawl of black night holding villages and cities together.'
The Lozenge loves the moon. It was his first word. So the birthday card I give him has a huge full moon on it with a small person looking up at it surrounded by the night.
He reads his own birthday card with the moon on it, and looks happy and interested.
He goes to school on the little white bus every morning driven by Yacoub the driver 'with the ball-y head'. Rashimi has made him a card with: I LVOE YUO LARUIE on it. For which the Lozenge must be grateful as he ensures a birthday cupcake is delivered to his brother's classroom. 'He won't be expecting it but he'll be really pleased.' When I tell this to J, who has a big brother who was not at all nice to him, J says this means more to him than anything in the world.
We go out for the Lozenge's birthday dinner with 9 small people and one other adult (not a recommended ratio). One little Palestinian friend disappears on the Lozenge's scooter over the brow of a hill out of sight on our way to the restaurant. 'Haaaaaadiiiiiii Cooooommmmme Baaaaaack!' I yell running as fast as I can after him. The other 8 small people look perturbed and run off in pursuit of Hadi. Now I've lost all of them. Bad plan. The other Mum intercepts Rashimi from a small train about to run him over. Then they scoff chicken nuggets and grilled cheese sandwiches. I feverishly grasp a bottle of beer.
Half way through my burger the Lozenge says he needs a number two and could I assist in the bottom wiping in a bit. Seven...hmm. I insist he's great at doing it by himself. But no. Another bite into my burger and the Lozenge says: 'Mummy, I've got something really cool to show you. Please come and look.' I'm reluctant. And I take a while. But finally, I get there.
'Look Mummy', he says pointing up to the dark sky. 'Look. The moon'.
J is back any minute, and my only concern is our little Pea who has no words really, yet she has reasons of the heart, that cannot be spoken. 'Dadda' she says, pointing a shining index finger at Palestinian local men in the supermarket. Dadda she says as she clambers onto other friends' Dads' laps. She cuddles Mikel the father of Rashimi's best friend; and Beni our friend from Kosovo - and doesn't let him go. She is perhaps feeling J's absence more than any of us, and shows this more clearly with no words at all.
But she's standing proud too. She can rise up from the floor, legs wide apart like Petya my Granny's Bulgarian weight lifter home-help used to do. And she can walk three steps, stiffly, as though she has wooden legs.
So both of the dwarfs have fallen asleep mid-poem after our clothes sale. And we've raised all these dollars for doctors in Aleppo which feels so near only 700 km away, yet so unutterably far. And I think of all the seven year olds and four year olds and one year olds learning to walk and talk, and trying to fall asleep with their Mums under this same moon, and I wonder how the world is ever going to get through this.
Active hope needs to go live.
.
The Tree of Hope now stands in the centre of the Old City and here is the first cut of the film I made about Mark the talented sculptor, and the making of it.
https://vimeo.com/185045037
password: hope
And in this region where despair so often reigns - we find examples of hope nestling in the thorns in the most surprising places. At a recent event at a Jerusalem street which houses Arabs on one side; Israelis on the other; we find art on the inhabitants' walls. One such inhabitant hands me his card which reads: 'The head of the parents committee in Turi schools. A peaceful man.' And his neighbour, an Arab who works with Ultra Orthodox Jewish ambulance first aid teams so he can be at the scene of the accident more quickly than if he were driving his own vehicle because of stringent security restrictions on Palestinians. And the extremely moving visit I paid with a new friend, to Aida refugee camp near Bethlehem, just the other side of the separation wall, very close to the birthplace of the Pea, where I met Abdelfattah, the head of Alrowwad for culture and arts. A doctor of science, he turned his back on work as a biologist to throw himself into theatre, and toured the UK this summer with his troupe - all young people from the camp - including to the Edinburgh Festival.
Popovawrites: 'Critical thinking without hope is cynicism. Hope without critical thinking is naivety.'
But I think she's also right to include the word 'active' alongside. Everyone's looking for hope, and most people want things to be better. Just this week we held a fashion show to sell unwanted, quality clothes, and raised nearly $4,000. It came from nothing - unused clothes formerly dangling dejected in our closets - became a something. Everything can be a something.
St Grace explains. 'It's good, a sale like this madam, because when you buy, you feel good, you feel peace, right?' She was fully involved and donated lots of new or nearly new clothes for the cause, and shopped for many of her friends.
But the flag of hope is flying this week. And our new seven year old is in the mix with his heart and his soul. 'Give me a child before he is seven...' Well if this seven year old man child is anything to go by, 'Shop til you drop' is something for naughties-born males.
A good chunk of our money is due to the spending of the Lozenge himself: bangles for some of girlfriends in class; a wallet for his best girlfriend's Mum; an emerald green silky Ra-Ra skirt for the Pea; a pair of leggings for Tilly T his cousin; a couple of tops for Daisy his other cousin; some shorts for himself and a tie for Daddy.
He shops. Then he drops. Half way through their night time poem, called Benediction, by James Berry, I notice both dwarfs are fast asleep with their sticky heads deep into their pillows, while I stumble through our nightly ritual by torchlight.
'Thanks to the ear that someone may hear; Thanks to seeing that someone may see; Thanks to feeling that someone may feel; Thanks to touch that one may be touched; Thanks to flowering of white moon and spreading shawl of black night holding villages and cities together.'
The Lozenge loves the moon. It was his first word. So the birthday card I give him has a huge full moon on it with a small person looking up at it surrounded by the night.
He reads his own birthday card with the moon on it, and looks happy and interested.
What else about this seven year old? He skips often. Almost as often as he sings. He still runs naked unabashed. He makes me my lunch: a gouda cheese sandwich, firmly pressed down with a shadow of fingerprints on top. He carries his 13kg-worth of sister and belly laughs at her first attempts
at words.
He goes to school on the little white bus every morning driven by Yacoub the driver 'with the ball-y head'. Rashimi has made him a card with: I LVOE YUO LARUIE on it. For which the Lozenge must be grateful as he ensures a birthday cupcake is delivered to his brother's classroom. 'He won't be expecting it but he'll be really pleased.' When I tell this to J, who has a big brother who was not at all nice to him, J says this means more to him than anything in the world.
We go out for the Lozenge's birthday dinner with 9 small people and one other adult (not a recommended ratio). One little Palestinian friend disappears on the Lozenge's scooter over the brow of a hill out of sight on our way to the restaurant. 'Haaaaaadiiiiiii Cooooommmmme Baaaaaack!' I yell running as fast as I can after him. The other 8 small people look perturbed and run off in pursuit of Hadi. Now I've lost all of them. Bad plan. The other Mum intercepts Rashimi from a small train about to run him over. Then they scoff chicken nuggets and grilled cheese sandwiches. I feverishly grasp a bottle of beer.
Half way through my burger the Lozenge says he needs a number two and could I assist in the bottom wiping in a bit. Seven...hmm. I insist he's great at doing it by himself. But no. Another bite into my burger and the Lozenge says: 'Mummy, I've got something really cool to show you. Please come and look.' I'm reluctant. And I take a while. But finally, I get there.
'Look Mummy', he says pointing up to the dark sky. 'Look. The moon'.
J is back any minute, and my only concern is our little Pea who has no words really, yet she has reasons of the heart, that cannot be spoken. 'Dadda' she says, pointing a shining index finger at Palestinian local men in the supermarket. Dadda she says as she clambers onto other friends' Dads' laps. She cuddles Mikel the father of Rashimi's best friend; and Beni our friend from Kosovo - and doesn't let him go. She is perhaps feeling J's absence more than any of us, and shows this more clearly with no words at all.
But she's standing proud too. She can rise up from the floor, legs wide apart like Petya my Granny's Bulgarian weight lifter home-help used to do. And she can walk three steps, stiffly, as though she has wooden legs.
So both of the dwarfs have fallen asleep mid-poem after our clothes sale. And we've raised all these dollars for doctors in Aleppo which feels so near only 700 km away, yet so unutterably far. And I think of all the seven year olds and four year olds and one year olds learning to walk and talk, and trying to fall asleep with their Mums under this same moon, and I wonder how the world is ever going to get through this.
Active hope needs to go live.
.
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