Finding Love in Jerusalem

This is a hard post to write.  I’ve been thinking about it ever since we visited Jerusalem, trying to think of ways of explaining my thoughts, my feelings.  So, if this is slightly incoherent, bear with me – just aim to get past the words and feel what I’m saying, intuit it rather than analyse it. 

I have a real big hefty problem with religion.  I hate to offend (yet know I will and I apologise here and now) but truly I believe that religion has blood smeared all over its body and soul.  It’s been said before, so many times, but a huge proportion of war and murder throughout history has been promulgated in the name of religion.  My god is better than your god.  My religion is right; yours is wrong.

I understand why people believe; I think I do.  It has been said that we have a genetic propulsion towards belief; that belief in a god or gods is effectively a survival mechanism; that without belief, we can easily fall into despond, believing that the universe is ungoverned, our lives purely animalistic, without deeper meaning. I get that.  And I don’t mind belief; I don’t mind faith, I don’t mind different religions, people worshipping in whatever way they wish. I just hate the religious dogma; the one-upmanship; the hard-lining – I’m in, you’re out; I’m right, you’re wrong.

Really.  Think about it.  Imagine, for a moment, there is a god.  A God. Let’s keep it simple and just deal with one for now, okay?  God is up there/in here/wherever – all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful.  Do you really, truly honestly think He/She/It is going to fret about the detail?  About which day we take for rest; about which foods we eat or don’t eat; about whether a festival is celebrated this way or that way?  About what kind of covering we wear or don’t wear on our heads?  Really?  Truly?  Honestly?  And, if He/She/It does, then - you know what – I’m not sure I’m terribly impressed by Someone/thing that is quite so petty. 

Individual religions and their rules erupt from social and geographical conditions and that’s fine.  I don’t have a problem with anyone celebrating spirituality in any way they wish.  Just accept that it is a choice and that other people can celebrate it in their own different (not better, not worse) way. It’s when religion starts or fuels conflict that my blood really boils.

I went to former Yugoslavia literally right before the bloodbath began. I remember sitting in a café in Sarajevo talking to a bunch of people over lunch.  They truly didn’t believe there would be war.  ‘We’re too well integrated,’ one of them said. ‘Look at us here, round this table  – I’m Muslim, he’s Catholic, she’s Greek Orthodox, he’s Jewish…and so on.’  Yet, the day I left the tanks rolled into Zagreb. The market I’d shopped in was bombed; the mountain we’d picnicked on became a front-line; to this day I wonder if those people round the table are still alive.

In Israel, nobody even pretends there is integration - because there isn’t.  Yet in Jerusalem, three religions (and many variations within those three) are squashed into one small city centre, eyeing each other up uneasily like children in a playground. 

‘Jerusalem is weird,’ my friend Jane told me before I went. ‘I hated it.’

I didn’t.  I loved the higgledy-piggeldy streets, the architectural play of curve and line – reminiscent of a child’s wooden building blocks.  I loved the brashness of the souks, the vendors cajoling; the clouds of incense; the twists and turns.  As Tel Aviv is all fresh and funky and outgoing; Jerusalem is ancient and deep and introspective. It broods, despite the sun.

We went to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre - as tourists.  A shop was selling crowns of thorns at the entrance.  Inside there were Islamic tiles and stained glass in the ante-rooms.  I wished people would see the similarities, rather than the differences.  There's a lesson in Kabbala - all religions find a place on the Tree of Life.

This is Golgotha, where Christ was crucified.  There was a queue to pray at the altar, to lay one’s hand on the Rock of Calvary.  And I don’t know why I queued but I did, chatting to Rosie, snapping pictures as we waited.  But then, as I knelt down and laid my hand on the rock, going through the motions, something happened.  It felt like something had stabbed me in the heart, deep, deep, deep. Tears sprang to my eyes and I fought hard to keep control.  What was it? 

Love. Total overwhelming Love. Unconditional love that sweeps away all prejudice, all difference, all wanting, all needing, all sense of I, of ego. 

I staggered to my feet and walked unsteadily away.  Someone touched me on the arm. Michal, who runs the educational programme at Kinetis. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, sure. It was just…’

‘Powerful?  Yes, it is. It hits me too. And I’m Jewish.’ She smiled.  ‘Maybe it’s the years of belief and prayer that imbue the atmosphere of Jerusalem. Faith sticks to the walls.’

Maybe it is.  Maybe it does.

We walked then to the Western Wall. Watched the same kind of pilgrimage, the same intent, the same need. This time prayers written on paper and pressed into crevices.

So many people.  So much humanity.  The same hearts and bodies dressed in different ways; the same anguishes and desires wrapped in different rituals.  It sounds trite, it sounds New Age and hippy dippy, but really – we are all just people. 

What was my prayer, for the wall?  It has to be obvious, surely?

To dissolve the need for enmity, to eliminate fear over that which is different; to replace hate and suspicion with that one true cleansing emotion. Love. 

Does that leave you wide wide open?  Yes.  Does it mean you can be hurt, used, manipulated, crucified even? Yes. Does that matter?  No. 

Falafel, figs and fatoush - I go foodie for a bite

If you read this blog regularly you'll know food doesn't really rule my world.  I am married to the biggest foodie of all time yet I tend to exist on muesli and grapefruit. Some days I barely even bother with those. However, has to be said, my week in Israel got me eating.  How could it not? 
We got taken to the most fabulous restaurants...to this place...Machneyuda (apparently the most popular restaurant in Israel) at the souk in Jerusalem...

and this...Noa Bistro in Jaffa (one of my favourites - sandwiched between two old buildings in the ancient port of Jaffa) - it's part restaurant, part informal art gallery...

And many many more.  I could go on and on (and maybe I will at a later date).. ;)   But how I miss fresh falafel.  How I miss pitta bread strewn with sesame seeds, served piping hot straight from the oven, served with a gazillion little pots of mezze (humus, aubergine dip, spicy beetroot etc). 

One of the many presents we were given (truly, we were spoiled rotten) was a lovely cookbook called Fresh Flavors from Israel, featuring recipes by leading Israeli chefs.  I barely had time to glance at it while I was away but now, back home with an empty fridge and a palette that has become accustomed to delicious fare, I am browsing through and feeling hungry. 

Check it out - it's a great book.  In the meantime, I'll give you a few recipes from the cookbook to give you a taste of how I ate in Israel... These are all vegetarian, cos that's how I eat, but the cookbook includes some great meat and fish dishes alongside to-die-for puddings. :)

Falafel (makes 10-12 generous servings) - yeah, that's a lot but, hey, it's picnic/party season right?

1kg (2lb 4oz) dry chickpeas soaked in water overnight
I large onion
2/3 garlic cloves, peeled
1/2 cup fresh coriander, coarsely chopped
1 teaspoon toasted coriander seeds
5-6 small hot green pickled peppers (Shipka) or 1 teaspoon dried hot red pepper
1 1/4 tablespoon ground cumin
pinch of ground cardamom
Salt to taste
1 level teaspoon baking power
2 tablespoons flour
1 level tablespoon baking soda
4-5 tablespoons water
Oil for frying. 

1. Drain the chickpeas and rinse thoroughly.  Grind them with the onion, garlic, parsley, coriander and peppers in a food processor but don't puree - keep a slightly coarse texture.  Season with the spices, salt and black pepper.  Add the baking powder and flour, mix well and bung in the fridge for an hour.
2. Dissolve the baking soda in the water, add to the mix and mix well. 
3. Moisten an ice-cream scoop and form patties - or simply roll out walnut-size balls with moist hands.
4. Heat the oil to medium heat - fry the ball in small batches on both sides until they turn golden-brown.  Remove and drain.
5. Serve promptly with pitta, spread with humus.  Add some salad and drip tahini on top.

Orange and Olive Salad (serves 4-6)

Salad is huge in Israel - you get several varieties served with every meal. Israelis delight in flavour clashes and this one is a fresh, sweet, hot and piquant mix.  It improves with keeping so you can make it the night before.

50g (2oz) black olives, halved and pitted
1 orange, peeled and diced
1 tablespoon harissa (see below)
1 tablespoon fresh coriander leaves, chopped
1/2  teaspoon cumin
1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
3 tablespoons olive oil
5 cloves garlic, chopped

Combine the ingredients and let stand for at least two hours, preferably overnight, in the fridge. Serve at room temperature.

Harissa
Yes, you can make your own.  This is piquant rather than fiery hot.  Use it to give a bit of blast to sandwiches or some oomph to salads.

1/2 kg (1lb) dried sweet red peppers
2-3 dried hot red peppers
10 cloves garlic
1/2 cup olive oil
Salt to taste
1 tablespoon ground cumin
juice of 2 lemons

1. Grind the peppers and the garlic with a mortar and pestle (rather than a food processor).
2. Stir in the olive oil, salt, cumin, lemon juice. Taste and adjust seasoning.

Cantaloupe and Carrot Salad (serves 3-4)

An unusual pairing that works brilliantly.

Half a cantaloupe melon
2 carrots
3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 tablespoon honey
1/2 cup mint leaves
4 tablespoons pine nuts

1. Slice the melon very thinly. Slice the carrots using a peeler.
2. Mix the honey and lemon juice and pour over the salad.  Toss with mint leaves.
3. Lightly toast the pine nuts and sprinkle on top. Serve at once.

Can you get sick from missing someone?

While we were in Israel, Eva’s daughter was unwell.  My heart went out to her in spades – what kind of torture is it for a mother to be separated from her sick child? Particularly when you’re a 5-hour flight away?  And Eva’s daughter is still so small.  Unlike my hulking lad. 

James is a strapping 12-year old, rapidly approaching 13 – with the body of a jock.  He is fearless in rugby; a natural daredevil on the surf or up a mountain. His favourite pastime with his mates appears to be wrestling. But, oh, oh, that boy has the soul of an artist.  He feels.  He hurts.  So so deeply.  His hide might be tough but his skin is paper-thin.

We went through babysitters like water when he was small.  One night we actually got to go out without being called back after half an hour.  We returned to our isolated farm, punching the air. ‘We’ve cracked it at last,’ said Adrian.  Except. Hmm. There were four cars in the driveway.
‘She’s had a flipping party,’ said Adrian.

‘She didn’t look the type,’ I said, worry creeping in. 

Sure enough, the poor girl was frantic.  James had cried non-stop – for five hours.  She hadn’t wanted to disturb us so had called her mother…..who’d tried, failed, and called her mother….who’d tried, failed and called her mate, the baby whisperer….who couldn’t believe any baby could be so dogged, so determined. 

I took him in my arms and felt his little body, rigid with tension and exhaustion, relax. The crying stopped. The party broke up.  And so it went on.  Year after year.  But not now, surely?

The trip was so full-on, I barely had time to think or sleep, let alone keep in touch – two hours’ time difference didn’t help either – it was always too early or too late.  So we didn’t talk much.  James sent me links to YouTube of songs he thought I’d like (and I did - my boy is getting good taste).  I mailed back.  We Skyped a bit but it was kinda unsatisfactory – crap sound, time-lapse images and – is it just me or does everyone look like the Living Dead of Manchester Morgue on Skype?  Tell me people don’t seriously have Skype sex?  It’s just plain wrong - for aesthetic reasons alone.

Sorry, slight digression there.  Anyway.  I got back and Adrian came to pick me up from the station – with James.  On a school day?  What?  He was home sick? On the last week of term, missing the swimming gala, missing Sports Day? 

‘His stomach hurts,’ said Adrian with a shrug.

Ah. Those mysterious stomach ailments.  His appetite was fine – put it this way, he made serious inroads into the small mountain of snacks and sweets I had brought back.  Was it psychological?  Stomachs often hint at other problems – but he swears blind there is nothing bothering him, nothing worrying him at school.  And I’m loathe to dismiss it because last time we accused him of malingering, it turned out to be Lyme Disease.

But then, this morning, he just held onto me like he never wanted to let me go; like I was a glass of water in a desert. 

‘Oh Mum. I missed you so so so much.’

Can you be sick with missing, I wonder?  Was the cure a day or two of full-on hugs and kisses?  I dunno.  I’ll take him to the doctor to check it out but, you know, I think my boy is just plain exhausted. 

I figure he just needs some time and rest and a big big dose of love. 

 This is one of the songs he sent me...  :) 

Deserts, dreams and angels

Oh, what is it with me and deserts?  I don’t know, I just don’t know but they pull me, they pull me, inexorably.  They soothe my heart and they scour my soul.  I had been promised desert on this trip and so it was to be.  But I wondered, I wondered.  We were a large group.  Deserts are solitary places.  I needed time.  I needed to be.  I needed to meditate and get back in touch.  Was it possible?

We drove to the Dead Sea, past Jerusalem (I still can’t quite get my head round glancing out the window and seeing a road sign to The Mount of Olives) and, strangely, we weren’t talking on the bus.  There was an easy silence so I put on my iPod and let it go on shuffle and – hmm – it landed on my shamanic drumming track and I figured, well why not, it’s as good a place as any to journey for guidance… and it was a strange journey for sure.

When I opened my eyes the dust had began.  Past Bedouin settlements, dust-coloured shacks blended into dust. Past dust-coloured camels, gazing with total disinterest from dust.  The Judean Desert.  Midbar Yehuda.  

And then the rock began…striated sculptures, Lego of the gods.  And then, oh, and then, a haze, a shimmer of blue. Sky? Sea. The Dead Sea.  The lowest point on the Earth.  Jordan on the other side.  I love these water boundaries – it reminded me of a very different one on Lake Ohrid in Macedonia – with the Albanian border snaking through the waves.

But this was Ein Gedi.   And we met Giora and Barak who loaded us into LandRovers and we bounced our way up and into the desert…

Scrambling down the banks of a wadi; walking along the arid bed of a sleeping river until we came to a sheer cliff face, a natural auditorium with clear acoustics…sat on rocks and then – magic.  This guy who’d appeared pretty well out of nowhere, hitching a lift on our bus, took out a guitar and started to strum and sing.  Beautifully. 

He sang this…

And then he sang Faith...

And then A Horse with No Name (of course)...

And Barak carved open a water melon and it was the sweetest flesh I had ever tasted.  And, truly, I could have sat there and dreamed for ever…

The guy’s name?  Raphael.  Hmm…

PS

He didn't play this one but it's a damn good desert song, no?