Polio drops

As if Syria needed any more demons in its midst, there has been a recent outbreak of polio, and over 500 children are suspected to be infected with it. Officials at Za'atari are worried the disease will come into the camp via the 300 new arrivals they receive each day from Syria, so UNICEF has just funded and implemented a mass vaccination scheme which they asked me to photograph for the New York office this week.

I left home at 7am. Having gone to bed late as always, I hoped the dwarves might wake a little later than normal but at 5.30am a small creature in blue pyjamas crept into my room whimpering: 'I want to go to Grandma and Gran Gran's houses. I want to go on the sleeper train and make blackcurrant jelly.' I think he'd had a dream about the brace of beloved Grandmothers. I explained there wasn't much I could do about it right now, but did he want to come and sit in my office while I got my camera kit together? His face lit up. My den has a metaphorical no entry sign around 1 metre up the door. The Lozenge sat on my swivel chair drawing with my coloured pens and said: 'Now I can be a weal offith worker.'

Then Rashimi awoke with a high temperature and understandably in a bad mood. I left St Grace with the duo, a thermometer and a large bottle of Calpol, hoping I'd chosen the right lenses. They stood in their usual position on the window ledge and waved me off until I rounded the corner.

We arrived at the camp where the warm wind picked up the dust and whipped it into our faces as we followed the health workers on their caravan to caravan polio vaccination trail.  Every child under 5 needed to have the drops put in their mouths, and as a caravan was vaccinated one of the team, in a dramatic black hijab, pale blue UN vest and bright red nails, set about spray painting 'OPV' in paint to match her nails on the exterior. This meant the tent or caravan had been vaccinated.

I was relieved to be behind a camera and not responsible for even one of the 500 wailing children, who were summoned, purposefully gripped and administered with a few of the drops on the tongue.

We met some lovely families as always, and a cameraman and I hung back and interviewed one family about their lives in the camp for a film he was making. Unfortunately, by hanging back, we were separated from the rest of the group and therefore from the translator, so I found myself in the position of translator which is laughable considering one Jordanian lady recently complimented me on my: 'really sweet broken Arabic'. But since the cameraman had only a few words up his sleeve, and I seemed to have at least one more sleeve-full, the rule of relativity applied. We got by and made some more friends, including a very together seeming family who had planted a vegetable garden in the dust in front of their caravan. The mother of the family was 16, pregnant with her second child, having married at 14.

The camp is so huge now, and the rows of caravans and tents so similar looking I could not have found my way back to see the family I made this film with a couple of weeks ago, but I wished I could have gone to see them as they are so nice and we developed quite a rapport in the time we spent together.  I spoke to the cameraman about the early marriage debate, since it's always the first story journalists from outside want to report. But it's really a non-story, since many girls back in Syria would have been marrying at this age anyway. The fact that girls like Manal (not her real name) in the film below, think that there are opportunities for education in a refugee camp, that they would not have had at home, is an interesting angle - but not one a news agency would want as might look like good news.

https://vimeo.com/77582844

I got back home in the late afternoon to find rather a hot and floppy Rashimi who said: 'Lie. Lap. Peppa.' And we did just that. I was rather relieved to lie down on a beanbag by that stage in the day myself. And although Peppa Pig wouldn't have been my first choice, I saw a muddy puddle for the first time in three months.

The Lozenge had his Arab dressing up day in lieu of Halloween at school, but nothing would have convinced him to put on the red and white headgear. 'I will be a doctor, and only a doctor.' So a doctor he was.

There is still a small lion teddy on the swivel chair in my office. A reminder of our early morning antics which seems like longer than a week ago.

J gets back for the weekend this evening, which cannot come quick enough. It also seems like years that he's been away.

'Ventures and getting away with it in the Chevvy

Rashimi has been expressing his feelings about J's absence in some interesting ways. The latest of which has been wearing J's pants over his head.

Then last week I found Rashimi in the bathroom lathering himself in 'keem' which turned out to be some fake tan from my cupboard. As if his nut brown legs needed any help. He put liberal quantities all over his body, and the floor, then stepped backwards and did a magnificent wipe out on the greasy floor. 'keeem!' he wailed, rubbing his leg and bottom.

The Glammy is doing a bit of a hand over with St Grace, since her departure date is looming closer. She will stay for Rashimi's 2nd birthday in mid-November and will leave after that. I'm still in denial. But Grace is doing some great work so far. After the fake tan incident, she arrived and Rashimi yelled: 'Build house!' (he has no volume control), and within ten minutes he was nestling in a den designed by Grace made from the sofa, some cushions and a rush mat for a roof. Having built her own house in Colombo, Sri Lanka, she's a dab hand and Rashimi was delighted.

I left them to it and went to help a Syrian artist friend, by filming one of his latest projects for him. It was quite an emotional experience, and reiterated yet again, the importance of the role of artists in these troubled times, helping us to look at the events in another way, often simplifying them so we bystanders are able to see through the complexities.

The Lozenge and I had a luxurious escape to the Dead Sea with 2 beloved visitors from the UK, one small one grown up, and the four of us swam and chatted and laughed from dawn til dusk in the warmth - looking over the oily waters towards the lights of Jerusalem on the other shore. It felt bizarre knowing that J was there on the other side. I wished we could have sent up a little smoke signal.

We left Rashimi in Amman, which initially I felt a little guilty about, as we packed a small bag each and he scuttled around saying: 'dedd. seeee. dedd. seeeee. 'Venture! 'Venutre!' But it was not going to be a holiday for anyone with a kamikaze nearly 2 year old, complete with built in loud speaker, and as it turned out, his own adventures were probably more adventurous. A Sri Lankan party with St Grace where he made lots of friends and ate bowlfuls of chilli rice which he loved so much, he now has a personal month's supply in the fridge. Then he exchanged the chilli rice for falafels and hummus (another Rashimi favourite) and the Glammy whisked him off to Arab paradise in her flat with hundreds of female relations and young cousins. He was very pleased to see us when we got back, but I wished he had more vocabulary to tell us his version of his 2 nights with our amazing raven haired ladies who have become as staunch as family over the last 9 months.

I've been stopped twice by the police this week in the red Chevvy. I'm surprised it doesn't happen more often considering we're about the only thing on wheels this colour in the whole country. The first time, they'd spotted me with phone to ear. I was chatting to J and managed to explain my devotion for this country in Arabic and that I knew I'd been naughty. The policeman who whose head would have reached only my waist, even in heels (him), gave me a broad grin and waved me off with no fine.

Then the Lozenge and I were hauled off the road after dropping the beloved friends at the airport to return to gale force Britain. The Lozenge was in the front seat, which they told me was 'mamnou': forbidden. They asked me what I was doing here, and didn't appear to speak much English, so I did my best in Arabic, with plenty of extras. Then they tried to move the Lozenge into the back. The Lozenge revealed a bottom lip to rival most, and promptly burst into tears. Whereupon one of the officers opened the back door, took the Lozenge in his arms, gave him an enormous kiss on the cheek, popped him back onto the front seat and fastened his belt. 'You have a beautiful son,' they said. 'Look after him'. And waved us off, again with no fine.

Dr Lozenge

J has gone back to Al Najah University in Nablus on the West Bank, to continue his intense Arabic studies, so the boys and I are on our own once more, feeling the absence of the auntie and uncle somewhat, not to mention J.

Our merry morning routine has begun again, trying to get the dwarves to find a balance between a 5.30 and a 7.30am wake up. Too early and we're all half baked by the time the diminutive school bus arrives, too late and the little orange cube on wheels is beeping impatiently on the road outside, while I try and shoehorn the Lozenge's feet into shoes which he doesn't want to wear after 6 months in Crocs, and manually force reluctant arms and legs into school uniform. Meanwhile Rashimi normally makes an escape and we find him half way down the stairwell in nothing but a nappy, on his way to greet the bus himself. But the weather is cooler now, and disco dressing and all this caper is not so fever inducing as it was in 40 degrees.

I have mountains of work. All  exciting stuff, but the mountains loom higher in the mornings when my mind becomes a flip chart, whisking between pages full of ideas, questions and things I need to just knuckle down to. When auntie R and uncle H were staying we were giggling about my den which is a positive pastiche of motivational slogans on coloured pieces of card. So necessary are they in my lone-woman freelance life, that I often find myself vocally spitting out new ones, which they of course picked up on while we ate a halloumi panini on their last day here. It's all about creating a life in which you can thrive not just survive. I'll never live that one down.

But the difference between thriving and surviving is never more apparent when talking to young girls in Za'atari camp as I've been doing over the last few weeks, and have just finished editing another photo film for UNICEF about a sixteen year old who refused to let her father make her marry, and to allow her to continue her education instead. She won her battle, and with it the same one for her younger sister. When they saw the film, apart from wanting their real names changed to other ones which took me another half a day of editing, they liked it so much, that they said they wanted to show it around the camp and beyond to encourage other families to make the same decision they had - and try to break this cycle of marrying girls off so early. Although when we spoke to the father, the full financial implication of fending for even a small family, makes you understand a little better why these fathers might do it. And in these parts, you receive money for a daughter, and there are marriage brokers a dozen in the camp, wheeling and dealing with young girls' lives for a fee.

But I was relieved they liked the film because it's always the most nerve-inducing part when you have to show the subjects how you've portrayed them.

The Lozenge is busy planning his future also. This morning he turned up at the breakfast table in nothing but a doctor's coat and navy blue face mask. Through the acrylic he said: 'I'm off the Awabic Medicine centre Mummy. Do I look like a nice doctor in my coat?' Over a first slurp of coffee I agreed that if he were a doctor, I'd want to be ill all of the time (sort of).

His school sent a note about Halloween next week. Since we're in an Arab country they explained, they don't want typical Halloween costumes, but: "We would be most obliged if all children could participate and come to school dressed in Arabic costume. All staff and teachers will join in."

Judging by their surprise at the Lozenge's alternating bright pink and red nails he had last week after a solo-session with my varnish collection, perhaps he could go as a belly dancer. But either way, it'll be an easier day to dress him, whether he's the Lozenge of Arabia or Salome's sidekick.

Eid ul Adha and a visitation

The festival of Eid happened with better timing than we could have planned: in conjunction with a visit from auntie Rosie and uncle 'Aweeeeee!' as Rashimi shrieked all week to his new pin up, who for the first time wasn't female.

The first morning of the Lozenge's Eid holiday week off school got off to a tenuous start after not enough sleep. The whining had reached such a level by 8.30am that I threatened to the Lozenge, that if he didn't make a more pleasant noise, I would call the school bus and get it to come round. I agree - it was mean. But I never use empty threats, and boy did this one work. I could see J smirking, if a little shocked, back of set through the doorway.

Luckily the Glammy was working the first day of the week, and whisked the Lozenge off on a date to see: 'Cloudy, with a chance of meatballs' in the cinema while Rashimi slept, and I battled with another deadline before the arrival of the beloved auntie and uncle.

As I waited to collect them, a Jordanian woman in traditional robes ululated (like an Arab yodel really) loudly when her sons appeared in arrivals. It was such a wonderful desert sound, in stark contrast with the sparkling new airport. And I knew that in my stomach, the same sound was lurking somewhere as I waited happily for our family members to arrive. She made the joyful noise for all of us there.

And the week was as full of happiness.

Petra revisited.

Wadi Rum, and the remnants of T.E.Lawrence's presence, visited for the first time in all of our cases.

Some very friendly, and rather thirsty camels who drank mineral water out of our bottles.

And a night spent with a Bedu family, where we ate chicken cooked in the ground, drank velvety red wine (B.Y.O I hasten to add) from tiny glass tea cups under the full moon, and spoke to them about the concept of taking more than one wife. One man said: 'I think I will take a non-Arab wife next. I like the idea of having an apple after a tomato.' And about childhood spent in that awesome expanse of red desert. 'I wouldn't have changed it for the world,' said our host. 'I know every rock and every stone.'

His children are learning about the world the same way. 

Million Dollar Dress

A stylish young girl returning from school in Za'atari camp.

Miss Girl

A young Syrian refugee in Irbid, north of Amman. She followed me around until I took her picture. I can't believe I might not have.

Beauty in the eyes

In Arabic if you say something is beautiful, often someone might respond: 'Your eyes are beautiful', in the sense that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I met these three women in an infant and child feeding centre in Za'atari camp. They didn't want to show their faces for my camera but I don't think any tenderness is lost as a result.