The kindly man at the supermarket checkout in our Eastern Jerusalem district is dressed in a black tie, black shirt and black trousers. As usual he greets me warmly as I hurriedly bundle my wares from trolley to desk as the Lozenge and Rashimi toss me paper bags of sugary morsels which, like magpies, they've collected. 'I'm sorry,' I say. 'Are you mourning someone?'
'La, la' meaning: 'No no' in Arabic. He shrugs. 'Just I'm wearing black today - no one die'.
'Not becuase of Shimon then?' I joke. For a couple of seconds he looks blank and I fear I've overstepped our line of mutual respect. Then suddenly he gurgles into a laugh as he gets what I mean. 'NO. Most certainly NOT because of Shimon!'
Shimon Peres' familiar face with slightly sad brown eyes, is emblazoned over local newspapers this week and though he is mourned by Israelis as being one of the longest living bastions of peace and progress; most Palestinians view him as pugnacious a rotter as any other Israeli leader past or present. After my supermarket joke, I do end up putting my foot in it with a Palestinian friend at a dinner this week. 'So what do you make of Shimon then?' I ask. And he unleashes a furious tirade about all Israeli leaders since Jabotinsky being the reason for the loss of his own homeland. 'They had a plan then, they have a plan now - which is to take the whole place for themselves based on nebulous writings from 3,000 years ago. I honestly can't believe you ask me this question,' he says.
Forgiveness seems an unattainable reach. But just look at what's happening in Colombia and their almost-peace agreement. So close. And this would not have been the case 20 years ago. There must always be hope.
Because of Shimon's funeral and the visit of world leaders to Jerusalem, the school is closed for the day, and my fabulous Italian friend and I have to postpone our fashion for a cause sale to raise money for Syrians. Ironic.
The dwarfs are delighted to have another day tagged to their Rosh Hashanah - Jewish new year - holiday. The Lozenge begins his Friday with an experiment: putting a raisin in a glass of water and leaving it there for a few days. 'I want to turn it back into a grape,' he explains. I wonder secretly to myself if this would work with humans. I've completed one more year of life this week, and after nearly two months of living without J and working and tending two dwarfs and a pea day in, day out - I am feeling like a raisin myself. It will be unfortunate if J returns from his Baghdad pod-life looking grape-like.
I have a good birthday despite the absence of J. I receive 2 naked card invaders at 6.15 who jump into my bed and cover me in kisses. The Pea joins us in our festivities that evening with friends at our local restaurant. She astonishes everyone with her pizza techniques, eating an entire slice without me having to cut it up; then grinning at us all with greasy chops and a black olive stuck to her chin.
We are happy and healthy but I'm ready for some man-power. The morning ritual of waking, feeding, dressing dwarves and a robust Pea, and skooshing dwarfs out of the door to get on the school bus can mean I sometimes rush things. Maybe I rush everything, in fact. 'Mummy this morning you must have put my PANTH on inside out,' says Rashimi. 'Because all day I had an inside bottom.' The Rashimi explanation for a wedgie.
But he and particularly the Lozenge have been reliable and generally unflappable this first stint of J's absence. 'We all rely on the Lozenge,' says J. J relies on him to support me. I rely on him to support me. Rashimi relies on him as an older brother, as does the Pea. He is seven this week. In Jesuit speak: 'Give me a boy before he is seven and I will make him a man.' He is also manning up with some good observational skills. As I pack up for a recent camping expedition, asking myself under my breath if I'm mad to be doing this, on my twenty fifth trip to the garage with tents and cold bags and duvets and swimming gear, I say: 'Guys can you just stop talking to me for a few minutes while I try and gather my thoughts.'
'What thoughts?' asks the Lozenge.
Well, exactly. I think I had a thought a few weeks ago. But it's gone again.
But after all the exertion of packing up the car, the smalls and I and our Swedish friends share a stunning sunset which we have to ourselves:
and to fall asleep under a bright, full moon with the sound of lapping waves a few metres from our tent, make me glad as glad to have tried it.
These happy little faces the next morning explain the glee of the adventure after their 11 hours of sleep while I have lain awake all night with my lapping-water surround-sound and moon glow lighting.
Selina the fairy-godmother arrives from Paris, direct to our beach to camp to hang out with us. She appears in the dead of night and the dwarves are ecstatic to see her in the tent beside me in the morning. She spends all day in the sea with one dwarf on her shoulders, and another dangling from her neck and appears to enjoy it. Gold is not more valuable than a visitor like this, when in my situation. We spend merry days with her, and then two more girlfriends breeze in for a long weekend. I may be a raisin but I have some good girls on my vine who have put the energy back and a bit extra for spares.
A new friend, Munther, from the West Bank drops off a tiny snake in a bottle for the boys to inspect. He then disappears. Is he really a friend? He asks if we want to keep it - St Grace is appalled. She's not afraid of much, St Grace - but snakes are her worst thing ever. I guess in Sri Lanka you get some scary ones. I explain to her this one will be 2 metres long when fully grown according to Munther. She hugs the Pea more tightly to her bosom in terror. So politely, I decline. 'You mean longer than you Mummy. Wow - that will be one big snake,' says Rashimi.
So the Pea's first pet will not be a Palestinian viper it turns out. Her new activity is singing along to the call to prayer, and her first word is: 'Cheers!' as she clinks plastic beaker with her brothers. A promising sign.
One of the obituaries of Shimon Peres says his character epitomises this quote by Nietszche. I read it and it makes me feel a bit better about being a raisin:
'One is fruitful only at the cost of being rich in contradictions; one remains young only on condition that the soul does not relax, does not long for peace.'
I like the idea of not allowing oneself or ones life to become too peaceful, in order to stay young. So I'll take this vignette onto my vine with me this year, and hope that by being a raisin, life can be fruitful.
'La, la' meaning: 'No no' in Arabic. He shrugs. 'Just I'm wearing black today - no one die'.
'Not becuase of Shimon then?' I joke. For a couple of seconds he looks blank and I fear I've overstepped our line of mutual respect. Then suddenly he gurgles into a laugh as he gets what I mean. 'NO. Most certainly NOT because of Shimon!'
Shimon Peres' familiar face with slightly sad brown eyes, is emblazoned over local newspapers this week and though he is mourned by Israelis as being one of the longest living bastions of peace and progress; most Palestinians view him as pugnacious a rotter as any other Israeli leader past or present. After my supermarket joke, I do end up putting my foot in it with a Palestinian friend at a dinner this week. 'So what do you make of Shimon then?' I ask. And he unleashes a furious tirade about all Israeli leaders since Jabotinsky being the reason for the loss of his own homeland. 'They had a plan then, they have a plan now - which is to take the whole place for themselves based on nebulous writings from 3,000 years ago. I honestly can't believe you ask me this question,' he says.
Forgiveness seems an unattainable reach. But just look at what's happening in Colombia and their almost-peace agreement. So close. And this would not have been the case 20 years ago. There must always be hope.
Because of Shimon's funeral and the visit of world leaders to Jerusalem, the school is closed for the day, and my fabulous Italian friend and I have to postpone our fashion for a cause sale to raise money for Syrians. Ironic.
The dwarfs are delighted to have another day tagged to their Rosh Hashanah - Jewish new year - holiday. The Lozenge begins his Friday with an experiment: putting a raisin in a glass of water and leaving it there for a few days. 'I want to turn it back into a grape,' he explains. I wonder secretly to myself if this would work with humans. I've completed one more year of life this week, and after nearly two months of living without J and working and tending two dwarfs and a pea day in, day out - I am feeling like a raisin myself. It will be unfortunate if J returns from his Baghdad pod-life looking grape-like.
I have a good birthday despite the absence of J. I receive 2 naked card invaders at 6.15 who jump into my bed and cover me in kisses. The Pea joins us in our festivities that evening with friends at our local restaurant. She astonishes everyone with her pizza techniques, eating an entire slice without me having to cut it up; then grinning at us all with greasy chops and a black olive stuck to her chin.
We are happy and healthy but I'm ready for some man-power. The morning ritual of waking, feeding, dressing dwarves and a robust Pea, and skooshing dwarfs out of the door to get on the school bus can mean I sometimes rush things. Maybe I rush everything, in fact. 'Mummy this morning you must have put my PANTH on inside out,' says Rashimi. 'Because all day I had an inside bottom.' The Rashimi explanation for a wedgie.
But he and particularly the Lozenge have been reliable and generally unflappable this first stint of J's absence. 'We all rely on the Lozenge,' says J. J relies on him to support me. I rely on him to support me. Rashimi relies on him as an older brother, as does the Pea. He is seven this week. In Jesuit speak: 'Give me a boy before he is seven and I will make him a man.' He is also manning up with some good observational skills. As I pack up for a recent camping expedition, asking myself under my breath if I'm mad to be doing this, on my twenty fifth trip to the garage with tents and cold bags and duvets and swimming gear, I say: 'Guys can you just stop talking to me for a few minutes while I try and gather my thoughts.'
'What thoughts?' asks the Lozenge.
Well, exactly. I think I had a thought a few weeks ago. But it's gone again.
But after all the exertion of packing up the car, the smalls and I and our Swedish friends share a stunning sunset which we have to ourselves:
These happy little faces the next morning explain the glee of the adventure after their 11 hours of sleep while I have lain awake all night with my lapping-water surround-sound and moon glow lighting.
A dunk in the water at 6.30am...
Selina the fairy-godmother arrives from Paris, direct to our beach to camp to hang out with us. She appears in the dead of night and the dwarves are ecstatic to see her in the tent beside me in the morning. She spends all day in the sea with one dwarf on her shoulders, and another dangling from her neck and appears to enjoy it. Gold is not more valuable than a visitor like this, when in my situation. We spend merry days with her, and then two more girlfriends breeze in for a long weekend. I may be a raisin but I have some good girls on my vine who have put the energy back and a bit extra for spares.
A new friend, Munther, from the West Bank drops off a tiny snake in a bottle for the boys to inspect. He then disappears. Is he really a friend? He asks if we want to keep it - St Grace is appalled. She's not afraid of much, St Grace - but snakes are her worst thing ever. I guess in Sri Lanka you get some scary ones. I explain to her this one will be 2 metres long when fully grown according to Munther. She hugs the Pea more tightly to her bosom in terror. So politely, I decline. 'You mean longer than you Mummy. Wow - that will be one big snake,' says Rashimi.
So the Pea's first pet will not be a Palestinian viper it turns out. Her new activity is singing along to the call to prayer, and her first word is: 'Cheers!' as she clinks plastic beaker with her brothers. A promising sign.
One of the obituaries of Shimon Peres says his character epitomises this quote by Nietszche. I read it and it makes me feel a bit better about being a raisin:
'One is fruitful only at the cost of being rich in contradictions; one remains young only on condition that the soul does not relax, does not long for peace.'
I like the idea of not allowing oneself or ones life to become too peaceful, in order to stay young. So I'll take this vignette onto my vine with me this year, and hope that by being a raisin, life can be fruitful.
No comments:
Post a Comment