Rainbow bridge eternal

'Here. Please. For the baby,' said a man, handing me a huge bunch of purple and yellow grapes, their skins as taught as my pregnant stomach. Recently washed and glistening with drops of water.

I didn't know the man, but I thanked him from my seated position by a shallow pool where the dwarves were playing with their friends. And as he walked off I thought to myself - I don't know whether he was Palestinian or Israeli, or an Arab Israeli. Because in this land the bridges between the cultures, soaring over the violence and the terror are the same. Passion and respect for family, the mother, for babies and children. For food. And loud, loud fun.

The same week that an 18 month old Palestinian baby is burned alive in his house by settlers; the same week that a crazed religious Israeli goes on a stabbing fest at the Gay Pride march, recently released from prison for the same crime ten years ago; both of these crimes accompanied by the murmurs of the likelihood of a new war only one year on from the last;

a stranger hands me a bunch of grapes for my baby.

J and I had dinner at a lively tapas bar near the market here in Jerusalem. The women dark and beautiful, the mood was heating up with the beat. Pulsing. Arab. 'Yalla!' sang the beautiful women, gyrating their hips on their small stools, waving their hands in the air above the little plates of tapas and cocktails. The same word they use, Arabs and Israelis. Yalla! Let's go!

Just another bridge.

Last night we watched: 'The train that divides Jerusalem' the Panorama programme about the only transport artery we use all the time. It highlighted once again the hatreds in this city. And then we watched the Channel 4 Dispatches: 'Escape from ISIS' - an escape from a place where the evil knows no bounds.

And yet.

As 34 men, women and children walked to safety across the plains of spring flowers, rescued by the cunning and courage of a group of men, risking their lives to spare even a handful of the estimated 4 million women imprisoned by Islamic State. After the tearful hugs and the desperate sobs of relief, the camera pans to a tiny figure, turning away, alone, across the plain. The insider responsible for saving these 34, walks back over the lines of ISIS. Risking his life once again.

These things, as Richard Le Gallienne wrote, are: 'The Rainbow bridge eternal that is Hope'.

'These things are real,' said one, and bade me gaze
On black and mighty shapes of iron and stone,
On murder, on madness, on lust, on towns ablaze,
And on a thing made all of rattling bone:
'What,' said he, 'will you bring to match with these?'
'Yea! War is real,' I said, 'and real is Death,
A little while--mortal realities;
But Love and Hope draw an immortal breath.'

Think you the storm that wrecks a summer day,
With funeral blackness and with leaping fire
And boiling roar of rain, more real than they
That, when the warring heavens begin to tire,
With tender fingers on the tumult paint;
Spanning the huddled wrack from base to cope
With soft effulgence, like some haloed saint,--
The rainbow bridge eternal that is Hope.

Deem her no phantom born of desperate dreams:
Ere man yet was, 'twas hope that wrought him man;
The blind earth, climbing skyward by her gleams,
Hoped--and the beauty of the world began.
Prophetic of all loveliness to be,
Though God Himself seem from His station hurled,
Still shall the blackest hell look up and see
Hope's rainbow on the summits of the world. 

Richard Le Gallienne

Travelling without moving

I woke up and looked through a lazy lid towards the window to see Rashimi and J aiming and firing at fat, soporific Ramadan flies with the fly gun. Dooft. Splat! 'Great shot, Daddeee!' One more of the low flying black objects, like a miniature Israeli army helicopter, felled with a simple spring, string and plastic device.

I feel like our family bubble is moving similarly to the flies - cruising slowly about with no particular purpose but getting from A to B. My walk has slowed to a wading pace in the soupy heat, like the slow, swaying movements I used to watch in the street in N'Djamena, Chad in 45 degrees. As people concentrated on moving: unflustered, cool. As cool as they could be.

We're not travelling anywhere this summer. But it feels like we're moving in a different way. Travel: travail. The words are apparently linked in 14th Century French. When travel was work, and work, of course, is labour. And this is the same word they use for giving birth. 'Travail'. For each last month of each pregnancy I've felt like this - that nothingness feeling like when you're in a train, sitting there, being carried from one place to another. There are only a certain amount of things you can do; most plans cannot be begun during this paused period of time. So you have to sit, think, appreciate, plan. Eat, sleep, laugh, read, think some more. You know where you're headed. And something else is carrying you. The feeling has spread to J and the dwarves, who've caught the vibe, and are with me for the ride. Dr Salameh the Bethlehem obstetrician is with us too. 'Shall we weigh you?' (I groan.) 'Ha ha. Okay - no need to weigh you. Your blood pressure's fine. You look fine - I'm sure the baby is too.'

Because of my month of action-free time travel, most decisions and ideas come from a different hierarchy - the new world order where the little people rule. The Lozenge spotted a brown butler's trolley on top of a high cupboard. We need that, Daddy. Will you get it down? And so began the ritual of the outside breakfast, delivered and cleared by some diminutive butlers. All is well when the little people feel they have ownership of their day.

Breakfast now takes an hour, and we sit on our breezy outside terrace making plans, and J leaves later for work.

Our family bubble grew a little to fit in a few more:  Dunc, G, Fergus and Daisy. The dwarves turned into the mannies. The Lozenge was entranced by his 4.5 month old cousin and serenaded:

Rashimi, not long out of dummy dependency himself was the pacifier attendant. I saw him trying to unfurl Daisy's tiny clenched fingers. 'Be careful with Daisy's fingers, Rashimi.'
'But I'm twying to put her thumbth up'.


Eid ul Fitr marked the end of Ramadan. The night air was orchestral with fireworks, all-night chanting from the minarets, music from cars, revving engines, and no less than 8 thunderous explosions of the Ramadan canon - put to bed for another year until the next 40 day fast. Wa'el the dwarves' swimming coach has jumped back into the water, and an olive hue has returned to his cheeks.

'So Mummy, Wa'el ith a Muthlim?'

(We were having some basic conversations about religion after Rashimi said: 'There'th the tram sound Mummy!' when we heard a church bell one Sunday.)

'And Muthlim people do the fast when they don't eat?'

'Ith fasting something that you do weally weally quickly?'

'And Mohammad! Like the Mohammad who took uth snorkelling on the boat to see fish?'

'I'm going to draw Mohammad.'

hmm.

****

The Glammy has been to visit which opened up some very interesting avenues with regards to religion. Raised as a Muslim herself, now in her 31st year on the planet, she has started to see some serious issues with her received faith. When she wasn't hooning about with the dwarves, she was exploring the Old City including its Christian areas: the Holy Sepulchre, the Garden of Gethsemane, Mary's tomb. 'Do you believe in signs?' she giggled, holding up a small chip of marble stone in her French polish-tipped fingers.

'Well, when I was in the Holy Sepulchre I put my head on the stone where Jesus' body was laid, and this little chip embedded itslef on my forehead. Seriously - I think it's a sign.'

Aside from superstition, she's asking some fundamental questions about the validity of Islam. How could Mohammed have been perfect when he advocated men having multiple wives? How can a faith be so weighed in the direction of men - saying they will have 70 virgins when they get to heaven, and a woman will have the choice of her husband and maybe one other man? Who were the men who wrote these extra Hadith in the Koran, claiming they were the word of God? Some of these Hadith are total rubbish...And so on.

Her new husband and her family, are unfortunately not ready to hear too much of this.

But we were. We talked for much of one day about it as the dwarves ate sandwiches, splashed in the pool, and generally zoned out from our animated chat. The fundamental difference between Islam and Christianity, we reckoned is that Christianity doesn't expect you to be perfect. We're all imperfect, that's okay, and we can try to get better with every new day, even after mucking up yesterday. Whereas in Islam, you can and should try to achieve perfection - like Mohammad's example - which is what can make people pious and judgemental, or worse, towards others, when they feel they're nearing perfection themselves. Who decides when he has reached perfection? That's when trouble begins. Taliban. Al Qaeda. ISIS. Boko Haram. The list is endless.

The following day she came back draped with crucifixes on colourfully beaded strings, her IPhone screen splashed with wax from lighting candle after candle, and she prayed with St Grace and the Dwarves at the Holy Sepulchre. 'I prayed for you and Bunny Floppy Ears,' said the Lozenge.

The Lozenge's view of me and BFE

J had taken the boys over the border to Jordan to stay with the Glammy for a couple of days. The border guard leaned in the window and asked the usual questions: 'You have a veapon?' 'No.' replied J. 'It was a good job we didn't bring those fly gunth, Daddy,' whispered the Lozenge.

I collected the dwarves and the Glammy to bring them back to Jerusalem. Some friends looked aghast when I told them. 'You drove to Jordan on your own? Didn't you know that going down to the Dead Sea level (429 metres below sea level) and back up again, is how people here bring on labour?'

Ignorance was bliss. And my concerns were not about that, I realised as we sat waiting for the Israeli border officials to release the Glammy's passport and let us get home to Jerusalem. Nothing changes. We'd had a jolly time on the Jordanian side as the border team pointed and whispered at the Glammy's passport. It turned out she was from their gang - the enormous and well-respected Jordanian Abadi tribe. And they chatted excitedly to her in Bedouin dialect which she didn't understand. Not so friendly the other side. 'How long do we have to wait?' I asked the Israeli woman who'd retained the Glammy's passport. 'We don't know. It could be 1 hour, it could be 3 hours, or 5 hours. Just. Wait.' She looked about 20 years old, and walked off in her typical IDF outfit of Australian Blundstone boots and skinny jeans - hair in a high ponytail and pearly lipstick.

The Glammy has been over the border to stay with us three times now - yet still they're rummaging around checking her files for 'something' dodgy. Because the Glammy is an Arab. They were rude and unfriendly. 'Well, we're not moving,' I said, when they encouraged me to leave the Glammy on her own there and take the boys back to Jerusalem. Just so they wouldn't have to feel guilty. 'You Israelis know about hospitality, don't you? Would you leave a guest of yours here?' I asked.

I went to stock up on tepid sugary drinks for the dwarves from the shop in the suppurating heat. The car thermometer read 42 degrees at the border - the same level as the Dead Sea. The Mars Bar drooped like a raw sausage when I picked it up. I chose some bright orange crisps instead. So after about 2 hours, one guard, who I'd noticed had a tiny chink of a friendly expression, walked past for the fifth time, and looked nervously at my enormous stomach and the wilting dwarves, and they finally let us through.

But it was good to be reminded of all this. We're still here in this apartheid state - but you can become inured, easily, to the injustice as Europeans here. You can forget that Israel's High Court of Justice just ruled to allow the army to demolish the entire Palestinian village of Susiya, near Hebron, and force the 340 men, women and children to move somewhere else within Area A of the occupied territories. (Susiya is in Area C, which covers 60 per cent of the West Bank - what officially remains of Palestine, along with Gaza. Just under half a million Israeli settlers have populated this area, which is illegal in the eyes of International law. Israel retains control of security and land management in Area C, while ignoring Palestinian needs; banning Palestinian construction and development; and issuing demolition orders like this one after pressure from very powerful settler organisations.)

Three Palestinian men have been shot by the Israeli Defence Forces this past week. Only a year ago 551 Gazan children were murdered by the very same guilt-free aggression. (Watch Lyse Doucet's film: The children of Gaza).

But I've felt guilty as I had to turn down an offer this week, to make a 3D film about a child in Gaza, living in the wreckage of a house as they still wait for the building materials in their Mediterranean prison. The filming day was on my due date so it was in some ways an easy decision. But in other ways our happy family bubble has only reminded me more of exactly where we are. We're cruising idly along like those lazy flies, but we must not forget where we are.

This morning I was a little ratty with the dwarves as they were fighting and careered into the breakfast table sending plates and bowls flying.

'Are you happy with us, Mummy?' asked Rashimi.

'Yes - don't worry, I'm still happy with you both', I said, giving them both an awkward hug - the watermelon stomach a bit of a cuddle hurdle at the moment.

'And...are you happy with yoursewf?'

2.9 children

2.9 children

My boys at the bar

But I have my own bar

Gratheland

The dwarf duo are in their swimming class with Wa'el their coach. Waeeeeeeeel!! they shout when they see him, their slightly flat feet slipping and sliding along the swimming pool tiles as they run towards him. He is grey with the strain of ramadan. Only one more week until Eid ul Fitr - when they can break their fast. Fitr - the same word as the one they use for breakfast. But you can feel people creaking their way to the end. The feast can't come quick enough.

Ten days ago we drove to the far south of Israel - through the Negev - Israel's Wild West. Remote service stations, military zones, and those familiar red rocks jutting from the desert. Just a few kilometres to the other side is Jordan - which occupies the opposite coastline to Israel - the other side of the Red Sea -and our destination for our first family holiday; the last one as a foursome.

We reached Eilat - a tacky resort with high rises reminding us of cheap resorts in Mallorca. And found our way to the border crossing. Though there were no signs. Had we known, we'd have followed the signs to the bird sanctuary, which flanks both sides of the border and is better signed than the crossing. Because no one crosses any more. No Israelis could or would. Not many Jordanians can either .With our distinguishable white plates with black letters - Diplomat - mean we can have our cake and eat it, run rough shod around this land to our hearts' content. A silent, empty border like this one does a lot to remind us of our luck.

The Jordanian border officials, also starving and a pale grey hue, on the border were obviously delighted we could speak some Arabic. The only others crossing were a rake thin couple of backpackers from Australia tracing the hippie trail - now all but defunct, between Egypt, Israel Jordan, onto Lebanon. The man was in a pink fury as the Israelis had stamped his passport. You don't want an Israeli stamp in your passport if you're back packing in the Arab world. Or at least, you won't get far. Though fortunately for us, his mistake allowed us not to make it ourselves. At this border you have to specifically ask them not to stamp.

The resort was on the beach on the East side of the Red Sea - overlooking the barren mountain ranges of Egypt. Al Mesr .70 Egyptian soldiers were murdered by ISIS that week. General SISI - an unfortunate anagram of the terrorist group, is in charge of squashing these human devils, but most agree he's just another Mubarak in a slightly different uniform. Though even the most liberal of Egyptians we meet admit there's no one else. And for all his faults at least he might maintain some order. But at what cost to their liberty?

Our family room was just as it sounds. With a precious 30 inches of 'sliding door' between the dwarf domain and ours. The hot desert wind was like a hairdryer outside, so we spent any time in our room under aggressive waves of air conditioning in cool white sheets. The soundtrack for the first few days was: 'Where'th my thword?' from Rashimi. Almost never without it. Until he mislaid it. Which was all the time. The Lozenge is getting better at looking for things - so I tasked him to find it, often.

The Lozenge also showed some incredible buffet skills. I lost count of the number of chocolate donuts on a stick he managed to put away every morning. He struck up daily conversations with his alter ego - his tummy. 'Mummy, my tummy tells me he needs a little something before we have lunch.'  Then swimming it all off in the daisy chain of swimming pools, and zooming time and time again down the slides.

We shared our holiday with a vibrant cross section of people in the hotel: Gangs of Christian Jordanians escaping the confines of Ramadan; Saudi Muslims escaping the heat and stern restrictions of their own land and living out their holiday at night, after breaking their fast at sunset, and eating for all the hours of darkness until the day broke again and they had to give their straining tummies a rest. There were Palestinian families now living in Europe, coming for a holiday as close to their homeland as they could manage. And Palestinians living in Palestine, having a break from Israeli restrictions and getting some coast line for once (Palestinians can't easily get to the sea in Israel, unless they're Gazan). And one Russian family.

There were many Kenyan workers in the hotel. The ladies we spoke to seemed sad. I don't think they have an easy time, despite earning more money than they would back home. 'We go out in Aqaba and the local men shout at us and insult us for being black - or ask us if we're prostitutes,' said Pascaline sadly, her beautiful face over decorated with bright red lips and purple eye lids, with a glossy black bun of dread locks as big as her head.

Her Kenyan friend called to Rashimi as he scuttled past with a lilo and a noodle, his goggles on. 'Hey baby! That's a great tan!' The nut brown Rashimi is so brown that he's being complimented on it by jet black Kenyans. Now that must be a tan.

The Lozenge spent time stone collecting, and practising his swimming strokes. He grabbed a life jacket, put on some flippers and leaped into the deep blue sea with a snorkel and mask - we'd gone almost exactly half the way across the Red Sea to Egypt in a boat with a great guy called Mohammad. The Lozenge was astonished by what he saw - and drew it all at dinner later.

The Lozenge and Mohammad

Rashimi got all dressed up, but perhaps sensibly decided not to go anywhere after all.

We sat looking each evening, at the red mountain range with blue sky in a gradient to pale, with the green foliage in the foreground. Hard to believe we were in the heart of the most troubled region of the world. May there always be escapes in this land. J and I watched an incredible film on iplayer: 'Song for Jenny' about 7/7. too much to bear. The pillow was wet after the hour long film. It's traumatic, but worth watching. How could we have seen what greater trouble the world would be in by now.

It was a wonderful holiday but also a joy to get back home. J has caught the nesting bug. While I had four days on a writing project, he and the boys did a feng shui on the whole house. They fashioned a new bedroom for the dwarfs out of the playroom. Bunny Floppy Ears now has his/her own abode. I got home on Saturday night after 8 hours work and J painted my toe nails in a beautiful scarab beetle blue. I can no longer reach them myself. I don't know why I've ever paid anyone else to paint them. He could be making a killing in expat circles in Jerusalem, I thought, as he meticulously coated each nail in varnish, my foot resting on a towel on his lap, while he also kept one eye on the Ashes on the laptop screen.

We've dug out the Bang and Olufsen stereo complete with LP player - as we discovered a well-stocked record shop in Jaffa recently, and wanted to listen to our dusty vinyl treasures. As we sat with a drink, and I looked outside at the warm night - the leaves in silhouette against the blue and orange sky, a rally of cars outside heading home fast for 'iftar': (same root as 'fitr' breaking the fast). I realised how vinyl makes you go slower. You read the record label, you slowly pull the black disc from its sleeve and watch as the needle swings slowly round, connects and the first note begins. It's slow. So you have to sit down and listen. Take your time. I think I even sipped my drink slower, and read a book from our coffee table I've barely looked at before. You do it properly, perhaps as we used to write better and more thoughtfully after filling a fountain pen with ink, and thinking before shaping the first word. You can't scribble or burble with a fountain pen, the way you can with a Biro, or even a keyboard. We need to preserve these considered actions, even alongside the ipods.

St Grace has given us a  tiny golden cross on a chain for Bunny Floppy Ears. It's smaller than the nail on my little finger and has an even tinier body of Christ upon it. Her eyes filled with tears. 'For the baby,' she said: 'I had it blessed in my church, so it's ready if the baby comes early.'

The boys and I listened to Paul Simon's Graceland on the way to swimming. 'Doeth Grathe come from Gratheland?' Rashimi asked from the back seat.

Almost certainly, she does, I thought to myself. 

Sometimes

This is for you, Mum. After our conversation last night about what can be done about the state of things...


Sometimes

Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives: the crops don't fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go 
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.

by Sheenagh Pugh

A crafty way to make other Jerusalem vehicles give way? 

Ramadan Ramblings

Ramadan has come round again. It's hard to believe it was a year ago when last year's holy month of ramadan was blighted with Operation Protective Edge - the Israeli onslaught on poor, battered Gaza. A year on, we have our knees fully under the carpet. This is home and we love our lives here. Everyone is holding their breath for a peaceful ramadan one year on. Though the tragic massacre in Tunisia makes for chilling ramadan reading. A Palestinian told me some leaflets, claiming to be from ISIS, have been distributed around the Jerusalem neighbourhood of Beit Hanina, warning Christians and any Arab who works with international agencies, to leave town. 'As if we could ever divide ourselves like this,' he said. 'We Palestinians are have our roots entwined with each other - Christians, Muslims, all people who work anywhere - not just with internationals. We won't allow bullies like this to break our social fabric.'

Israeli police are extra vigilant at holy times for Muslims, and have been aggravating people by blocking roads to Jerusalem's Old City to prevent large crowds of people in one place at any one time. Helicopters circle overhead on Fridays - the the Muslim holiday - and the air is filled with the bossy honk of police-car horns.

I popped in to see another friend who owns the stationery shop on our local street and asked him how he was feeling about the impending month-long fast. 'I really don't like ramadan,' he admitted. 'I'm fine with the fasting. That's not the problem, and anyway it's good for me,' he grinned, patting a 50-something stomach which has begun to peep over his belt line. 'It's the atmosphere I don't like. Everything is slow and sombre, and the local people take on an air of pious holyness. Which is nothing but a show for others.'

His lanky teenage son, helping him stack shelves in the shop nodded in agreement. 'But the good thing about it is that every evening we get together and we eat with our family. Which is not something we do at other times of the year.'

With ramadan comes gridlocked traffic at certain times of day, parking crises for most of the shopping time in the afternoons, and a ghost town after 8pm, after the BOOM! of the ramadan canon has sounded, blasting us off our seats with 2 seconds of panic before we remember it's just the signal for Jerusalem's muslims to begin eating. The canon also blasts at 4am to signal the beginning of the fast. The supermarkets are pitiful places during ramadan on the East side of town where we live, with little but stale bread and gaping shelves, so the dwarfs and I have taken to hopping over to the West side for our weekly shop. Grumpy, hungry ramadanners make Israelis seem like they've just graduated from charm school. I wandered around the wonderful, if extortionate, Mehane Yehuda market and visited some usual haunts.

Each shopkeeper took one look at my stomach, the same size as the well proportioned watermelon I was carrying slung from my shoulder, and asked: 'What you want? Some water? You want to come and take a seat?' Plastic chairs were pulled from every corner. Pregnancy is considered a sacred state in this region, and I'm treated with Levantine kid gloves and kindly smiles wherever I waddle these days. Rashimi asked me the other morning while I got dressed, nonchanantly stroking my stomach  with a nut-brown hand, 'So when Bunny Floppy Ears hatches, will she actually be coming to live here?' He, like J, think we're going to have another female in our ranks by next month. I'm not so sure, and none of the locals here can believe we're keeping it as a surprise 'mofaje'a' from ourselves. It's all about pink or blue in the shops and society here.

School holidays have begun in synch with ramadan.  This summer is a bit different for us as we're staying put for all of it. So we've been seeing off our friends for their holidays to Sweden, Denmark, France, Spain, Russia. And saying goodbye to many others too. The downside of this lifestyle is when true friends move on. We spent an afternoon of fun interspersed with weeping at a swimming pool for a last burst of fun with some wonderful Dutch friends. I'm sure we'll keep in touch, but it's a sadness to lose good people from a few roads down. Luckily we have lots of local Palestinian friends too, who will be here forever and we'll be making the most of them - particularly once they've broken their fast for the day.

We've been fending off offers of pets from all sides. After last year's experience with the neighbour's cat who hid from me every time I went to feed it, making me worry it had died in a hot, dusty corner of their apartment, I'm keen to stay pet-free this summer. Though the school rabbit, Queen Esther, may make a guest appearance for a month. Why people think we need a real bunny alongside the arrival of Bunny Floppy Ears, is a mystery...The dwarfs, of course, are magnanimously inviting anything furry in cages to come and join our happy throng. J and I are fortunately united in our pet-o-phobia. I keep warning people about my track record with plants and mentioning that animals are no different.

The dwarfs, after under a fortnight of roaming free outside of the classroom are looking well-adventured. Their shins are bruised, their knees are scuffed, the soles of their feet tough and dirty. Their hair stands upright with chlorine from swimming pool tours - the Lozenge is sporting pink freckled shoulders, Rashimi has turned nut brown all over, but for his still slightly dimpled bottom. We meander through each other's existences, dancing an affectionate jig between me fitting in some bits of work here and there, trading off with adventures with remaining friends and discoveries of every outdoor pool in the vicinity. The house has become a crafts zone with masking tape through the middle of doorways forcing J and I either to limbo, step over, or risk a fight by peeling it off. There are dens of cushions and rugs in most rooms; sleeping bags in the porch; half mixed cake endeavours in the kitchen and mud baths around the paddling pool outside. But nothing matters. Our timetables have melded and we no longer have the 7.15am race to school dragging exhausted dwarfs clutching a piece of toast into the car. We go to bed late. After a day on the beach with our now departed Dutch friends, we drove home in the half light, listening to the dwarfs new best tune: 'The walk of life'. Near home, we passed a young Palestinian man hurtling down the hill while standing on the seat of his bike, headphones on, and singing to Arab pop with his arms outstretched. 'Wow' said the Lozenge. 'It's good to stay up late and see what happenth when it getth dark.'

It was J's birthday last week which turned out to be a marthon, albeit an extremely happy one. I had a morning doing photographs in a minefield near Hebron with a mineclearing charity, followed by the finishing touches filming with the Beverley Hills Israeli IVF woman, followed by getting ready for 5 families for dinner for the birthday bonanza, greatly hyped by two excitable dwarfs. The day began at 5.15am with a little visit from the Lozenge. 'Can we thtart blowing up the balloonth?' he asked in a stage whisper next to my ear. I heaved myself and bunny floppy ears out of bed, and suggested we began with baking the cake. That at least would leave one less thing to do after the minefield and filming. 'Do you want to make Daddy's birthday cake now, then?' The Lozenge looked at me as though I was mad. We never make cakes before breakfast but today was his lucky day and by 6am he was licking the cake mixture from the bowl before even ingesting a Cheerio, while the egg whites did their bit and the cake rose like a dream.

By 8.30am I was wandering about the minefield with some de-miners, eight from Georgia, and a couple of internationals. The mines in Israel were laid in the 1950's and 60's by the Jordanians, and now it's Palestinian farmers, villagers and their families who are bearing the brunt of the partially cleared minefields. As if they need another blight in a lifestyle with barriers every way they look. Dressed up in a large helmet with visor and heavy flack jacket, I felt a bit like an 80 year old while trying to stand up again after squatting to take a picture of one of the Georgian de-miners scraping in the dust. I had to push myself up using a nearby rock. But other than that, me and B.F.Ears were well looked after and had an informative day. By midday I was back behind the flapping Israeli flags of Jerusalem's German Colony interviewing the Beverley Hills therapist who runs the IVF relaxation therapy. Her Mum, based permanently in B. Hills, had watched the first cut of my film and asked her daughter: 'So honey, do you want me to pay for you to get those littl'wrinkles around yer eyes fixed for ya?' At the age of 56 with 8 kids, you'd think one's own mother might be offering more useful forms of support and guidance.

I've now finished making the film. I was speaking to a man from the UN recently, a vehement supporter of the Palestinian cause. He asked me what my latest work had been, and I explained about Ms B. Hills and her IVF programme. He looked a bit surprised and said: 'Well, I guess you've done your bit for Zionism then.' I wondered what he meant by that, presuming I was aiding and abetting multiple Israeli procreation, and then realised he'd thought I'd made a film about the IDF. (The Israeli Defence Force). Luckily we cleared up the confusion before the end of the party and had a good laugh about it.

Happily back home again, if a little dusty, the dwarfs and I embarked on a second cookathon: chopping fruit and mint for Pimms, whisking cream, toasting halloumi and marinading meat. They both have a habit of standing between my tummy and the worktop which makes cooking with dwarfs a back breaking affair. But that way they don't chop off their sticky digits as I'm hovering near. By 8pm the light was fading, our new solar powered lanterns were coming to life (thanks to my latest nesting impulse), there were 9 naked nymphs having a mud fight and some faintly sozzled adults no longer aware where their children were, and far from caring. A blast in our garden and even J - who generally much prefers others' birthdays - admitted it was one of the best.

J is away with work for a few days, and the dwarfs and I brightened up what might have been a slightly flat Sunday 'bidun al Baba' - without Daddy - by going to Jericho with a lovely Skandi family who haven't quite departed on holiday yet. We went to what used to be the Intercontinental Hotel, but it's since lost its Intercon label and has become 'Hotel Oasis' complete with palm tree standing in for the capital 'i'. Our Skandi friends explained to me that the Oasis Hotel also houses a clandestine Casino. It's illegal for Palestinians to gamble in the West Bank - as decreed by the Palestinian authority. So it's the Israelis who come and gamble there - away from the prying eyes of their own state where it's also forbidden. Albeit in an 'Area A' where it's also illegal for Israelis even to set foot.

It was the place to be this Sunday - notably for Palestinian Christians escaping ramadan for beers, pumping beats and barbecues. The pool was a writhing mass of bikini-ed bodies in all shapes and sizes, raucous children and tattoo-ed men. Once I'd got over the worry about whether they'd put some extra chlorine in the water for the weekend, we got amongst it. Who needs an infinity pool looking out to sea when you can have all this...er...company. I bumped into a friend from Bethlehem who's done some translation work for me in the past. 'We're all here,' she said. 'What's left of us Christians in the region anyhow. And I think I know everyone in this pool.' She said even my gynaecologist was also here from Bethlehem. I didn't spot him, but it was perhaps easier for him to spot me.

After a couple of spins down the quite steep waterside with a dwarf on each knee, I embarked on a B.F. Ears preservation mission and refused to go down with them any more. In the end I managed to encourage them to go it alone, and waited at the bottom. I watched the Lozenge grip Rashimi's hand as tightly as he could, leading him carefully up the slippery steps. After twenty or so Palestinian children had been spat out of the bottom, I heard a shriek I recognised, and down they came, in a bubble of watery chuckling, a tangle of arm bands and bruised limbs. 'Lauwie was weeally looking after me,' spluttered Rashimi, 'So I weeeally wathn't thcared.'

A Palestinian boy from a village near Hebron. The minefield is next to his house where he plays every day.

The next day I had my final day of manual work pre-B.F. Ears arrival, with camera kit at another few minefields in the north near Jenin. We interviewed Palestinian tobacco farmers whose land is riddled with uncleared mines, hampering their trade, and endangering their kin. They were charming and talkative and sent us away afterwards with bundles of 'meramiyya' sage and bunches of slightly unripe, dusty grapes from their vines.

They told us a heartbreaking story about a young boy who had run out into one of their fields, trodden on an anti personnel mine which exploded and blew out both of his eyes.

'Hundreds of villagers gathered at the side of the field,' they explained to us, 'watching this poor boy in his agony. But no one wanted to go and fetch him as they knew the land was mined.'

'Then his brother came running, saw his sibling lying down with a pool of blood around his head and ran straight to him, across the land where no other villager had dared set foot. He carried him out to safety, without even a second's thought about the danger for himself. This is the love of a brother,' they sighed.