Google and/or the leprechauns were at it again – on Thursday evening my spooky screen-saver evaporated and the sugary, default one replaced it; the WiFi connection failed and, again, my laptop told me that I was not authorised to use it and needed to consult the owner. Yet again, but in spades, it became rapidly more Kafka than Kafka – it was all Franz to the pump! Without the facility to type in capital letters at Google on a university computer I was stumped. Which transpired to be a very good thing; old IT numpty had done it again… Hilary became IT Hilary who, had she fallen about laughing would have been HilarITy. I really shouldn’t be allowed to have such difficult toys. But more of that later.
Having given the computer a night off I tried again on Friday morning, to no good avail. Apart from some research of possibilities for the final week and touristing, Ghada had written. I had thought it odd that post the unfortunate accident there had been no contact – Ameed and I had spoken earlier in the week when we happened across each other in the street but still no message from his parents ensued. Apparently their house has been burgled twice and all laptops, etc. stolen. She had written to invite me for a farewell meal and I did not want to appear rude in not replying. Sunday is the Prophet’s birthday (by strange co-incidence, just two weeks before his main rival’s) and it is a public holiday, so, even if I delayed my departure, I could not make any arrangements as the university will be shut. Just like Christmas, this is an annual event but it seems to catch the university unawares – the warning information was only broadcast on Wednesday.
What with dhobi to do, stymied for research options and a good book not quite finished I arrived at Hmmouz to see Tweedledee and Tweedledum waiting – as they had been since 1.30! Cheeky wee scunners, they ticked me off for being six minutes after the appointed time; a) it was within my non-watch wearing, Time Lord, being and b) in Palestine, only six minutes? They were having a laugh.
Their home is in Izmut, a village in the valley below Ashkar camp and close to where the advancing settlements are; they can only get one five-day pass annually, in the autumn to harvest their olives, to visit their appropriated lands. Oddly, being to the east of Nablus it was like driving through the meaner streets of east London – car breakers and (comparatively) large, drab industrial sites. The village is also remarkably similar to many others – breeze-block constructions besides narrow, not well-maintained lanes. Their house is quite resplendent all things considered and a very pleasant time was had by myself and their nieces, at least.
Sidartha Gautama came to my rescue – despite Buddhism not being halal. I had told Tweedledee and Tweedledum that I was pescatarian and they did as many do – and served up a meat dish with plenty of rice underneath. The path of least harm was to pretend that no meat juices had soaked through (from the taste there was not too much pretending to do, fortunately). A whole bevy of little nieces kept peeking round the corner at the funny-looking foreigner and running away midst floods of giggles when he looked at them, as we sipped tea in the garden. Their psychologist brother was unwell and so the meeting of the minds didn’t take place but another brother and the husband of a sister where there – as with many languages, there is no term for brother-in-law. After drinking tea we went to the sumptuous spread (there were women in purdah but I don’t know whether they were eating).
Having been shown to the khazi, in the posh and padlocked part of the house I went back to the less posh dining room to retrieve my camera. There was a rustle of skirts and a blur of colour as a young woman who had broken cover rushed from the room before she became forever tainted.
A postprandial potter along a road out of the village elicited that I could go to the top of the hills but they could not; I declined the offer. Settlers may not be able (or may not want) to tell the difference between a Palestinian man and an International. The level of intimidation is surprisingly (for those who are fed propaganda and haven’t seen for themselves) high. Despite my antipathy, a photo-call seemed a much better option.
From the front left there is Tweedledum, his sister’s husband, Tweedledee and their brother; in the back row are trees. Being of a non-fruiting variety there is no danger (and no permits required) being in their vicinity. My little chums are typical of many people, see a camera want their photograph taken; who am I to spoil their moment?
Having driven from the house to the path Tweedledee’s car was there for him to drive us back to near where we had started; the brother and husband of sister were dropped off and we continued. The cultural differences mildly amuse me – without a reason or explanation we drove back to Nablus and I was asked where I wanted dropping off; the day was done. Some Palestinian people seem to want to totally control visitors, others just dump them when they seem to get bored. Just like additional days off at the university, warnings may be given – but at most with one day’s notice and many just a minute or two.
The Andres had gone out early – there had been a Project Hope trip to a couple of villages near Jericho and a meeting with some EAPPI volunteers. Despite the proximity of initials they are not necessarily H-A-P-P-Y volunteers; they walk vulnerable people past flashpoints and help reduce violence by being witnesses to the excesses which regularly happen (but are not regularly reported in the various media anywhere) towards defenceless women and children of the minority in the Middle East’s Only Democracy. A house that they visited was where settlers petrol-bombed a family and then barricaded the outside to make sure that they murdered the occupants.
When we met, back at the flat again, they helped me to sort my errant laptop. The leprechauns were stood down – this time it was pure operator error – I had fiddled with the settings to my own detriment; all is now well (and I have learnt a salutary lesson). Add to that a loyal and eagle-eyed reader pointing out another mistake and I wonder – about everything including the price of green cheese. I have confused two books – John McCarthy wrote about the rewriting of history but in another book, the one I ascribed to him was written by a ‘new historian’. So-called democracy can also be the tyranny of the majority (as EU remain people are finding out in the UK). There are many parallels between Northern Ireland and the Palestine/Israel situation, one of which regards subjectivity and truth (and another is who shouts the loudest). Like Emmett Wolfe Tone and James Stewart Parnell, there are people on one side who fight for what they believe to be right for the other and that book is a fine example. It should, but never will, be compulsory reading in secondary schools across the wall.
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