the story of a miracle

Today I go to a big barmitzvah party.  Mission if I choose to accept it, is to link up with all sorts of people who can tell me more about my parents and what it was like growing up in Bulgaria during the second world war as Jews.

You see few people know that almost all of Bulgaria's 50,000 jews survived the war despite living in a country which was an ally of Hitler.  That was thanks to a few members of parliament, the orthodox priesthood, and the Bulgarian people.  So my aim is to question a few of the older generation and ask them a bit more.  The miracle is that I'm here really.    It might also be a bit of a miracle to get through the day without being asked why don't I get a husband, but that's another story.  here go the canapes and wine...

sleepless nights and poet's hats

wow. can't write long, it's 6.30am and I haven't been to sleep.
today we sat in my uncle's flat, in the not so cool, pretty down at heel part of Jaffa, reading his three poems recently published in a magazine, and admiring the new hats sent lovingly by my mother from England so he would have a poet's hat.  You see, I don't know if it's my uncle's quirk or not, but I understand that it's obligatory for any creative, including this poet Yakov Aladjem, to have a suitably bohemian hat when he walks past the stone coloured blocks of flats dressed with graffiti, past the bus stop facing the sea and travels to a little room in a cafe where other poets meet.  My uncle is 70 years old and for the past 20 years has really started to live his life as a living breathing human through this lark, so a hat, of course, is a must.

So we sat in a long narrow room, predominated by brown sofa covers, pictures of grandfathers and grandchildren, and of course books, each wearing new black hats, laughing for photos, and reading poetry that I don't quite understand in hebrew (with a smattering of ted hughes).

Classic. heartwarming.  it filled me with hope, loss for those are not here with us, and the beginnings of a link.

and all that topped off with the most incredible heart to heart catch up on life with my cousin.  Someone whom you thought you had little in common with because you have different mother tongues, and then, realise that blood really is thicker than water.  You realise that the same giggle, and of course the same love of swearing, may just be something to do with inherited genes (or is it to do with the chilli chocolate).

who knows. but I'm getting a poet hat of my own..

seven year itch

I'm finally here.  Seven years is a long time to stay away from your roots.  But it still keeps drawing you in.  Sitting here on the Terrass, listening to israeli music, thinking, another life.

I'm staying with my cousin, Talia, who is from what I understand, a pretty good writer.
I haven't seen much of the place yet, it's been enough to drink the coffee, watch the gangly ants ranging over the deck and let the memories creak open the door and float me back to israeli salad on the balcony with my grandparents, shakshouka and bottles of orange coloured soda.  But this isn't the same, it's quiet, it's relatively cool and I am not part of it.  Aside and watching but soon to dive in and let it cover me.

Last night we talked and I want to talk some more, but let it happen.  We talked about similarities of families, and underneath the cultural differences slipped to the side like it was water on a tray poured out leaving it all clear and free to take whatever it holds.

I wanted to record a few thoughts on the off.  I feel already as if I'm learning.  My cousin talked about coming here to the country to confront her fears.  there's a little of that here for me.

Nothing compares to you

Day 1 – a man’s belly is pressed against my ear, I know I am going to Israel again.   He is asking for money for an institute in Jerusalem and has targeted all the men wearing skullcaps on the plane and is walking amongst them offering to take credit cards.  He has long sidecurls, a long white beard and little shame.  Two Israelis look at videos of a pop concert and a few people clap as we land.  This clapping thing only ever happens on flights to Israel and instead of making me smile.  People really do care about this place they'll even clap the pilot for taking us there.  


As I enter the airport the shininess of it all hits me.  A great curved departure hall below that looks like any other European city lounge.  But this is Tel Aviv, and I soon realize it's different when the chaos of passport control means that foreign nationals are waiting over an hour to get through, and I am asked why I don’t have an Israeli passport even though I lived here only until I was four.

Outside my relatives have been waiting for an hour, and it all feels a shambles.

First impressions – there’s a confidence about the place that I don’t remember.  There’s also a friendliness I don’t remember.  People help me with directions when I don’t even ask ‘what do you need?’ they say.

I’m reminded of the words of the song ‘it’s been seven hours and fifteen years since you took your love away’.  Instead I think seven years.  It's been seven years since I've been here.  But for better or worse, nothing really does compare to this place. 

Rites of passage

Roll up, roll up, roll up!  Welcome to the spectaculous!  the fantasgamorical! the excessiveolo! London barmitzvah.

My nephew is getting married having his barmitzvah!  I was very proud seeing him read out his little prepared speech about being a worthy soul (very intentionally funny actually),  and photos in the synagogue.  But I just cannot believe how many different elements there are to this.  The kid is 13 - he's not doing this is your life after 90 years.
so this is what I'm on about where attendance has been required -
1.  video session for relatives at dress rehearsal the week before .
2. Friday night service the night before
3.  saturday morning in synagogue
4.  party in evening at a london restaurant
5.  visit to western wall in Jerusalem
6.  party with relatives in Israel

A very British jamboree - the cuts march today.

I didn't mean to be part of this, really I didn't.  I'm not the union type.  I just wanted to go for a walk before coming here to the south bank, but I couldn't help joining in when I saw it.  A snake of coloured flags down Whitehall.  Mum's with pink hats with children holding mini placards.  Women wearing hot pants and black tights, with orange hair and shouting 'the women are here!'.  Old men with beards and kagools smiling like they'd seen it all before.  And of course all the whistles, the drums, rock music, a few mini eggs offered to me in the shade of the socialist workers party marquee.  All washed down with a few beers and a cheese roll.

This was the huge anti cuts march in town today.  Organised by the TUC.  In fact,  as I sit here in the royal festival hall, I can see a couple of Unison placards on the ballroom floor, and a few families with prams, and a pensioner in a wheelchair wearing a unison hat being taken for a stroll along the promenade. Was it like this in Bahrain? Egypt? France last year?
Perhaps it was, but I just can't believe it.  We Brits have this way of making the revolutionary seem, well, really quite Nice.  It seemed so good natured.  It was a lovely atmosphere, but it felt more like we were all at a great big folksy rock festival, with a lot of vegetarians.  Perhaps that's what rallies bring out in people.  In fact the only people that were really angry were the group of Libyans sitting astride the statue of King Charles 1.  Yes, that's King Charles the despot who refused to allow a democratic parliament.  They were waving green flags that said keep your hands off Libya.  A bunch of women on the ground arrived soon after holding the same green placards, screaming into loudspeakers. The supporters of the Bahraini revolution stood in the background, at the bottom of Nelson's column a few yards away, their large red and white flags billowing against a frieze of the battle of Cape Vincent.  The same battle where 1000 poor Spanish buggers were killed as compared to 73 British.  But still, they were jolly enough, although you could see their voices had a hint more anger in them than the teachers from Birmingham or the Woodcraft Folk from Barnet.

Still, I loved it.  I was energised and impressed.  There is something I will always respect in people coming out for what they believe in.  Sticking their heads above the parapet when the rest of us would rather be watching the xfactor.  Where on earth would we be without the people who fought the battle of Cable Street, or those women who chained themselves to railings or who those who just stood on a square holding their lighters up saying 'I believe in you. I'm with you'.

It doesn't matter if I agree with everything they're marching for.  But my god do I respect them for doing it.   Jamboree and sandwiches or not.

time, time, time

this is dedicated to all those who, like me, get home after a long day (or even an evening at an argentinian restaurant celebrating my nephew's birthday) and want to have more time to... read books, write poems, bake biscuits or even, dare I say it, write a blog.

But my eyes are falling over themselves trying to sleep.  Here is a truncated version of what I would have written:
went for half hour walk in Bowes Park.  Bowes Park at 11pm on a Monday is strangely peaceful.  Nothing but the red sea supermarket down the road shutting up and the abnormally big moon winking over the new river through the railings in Whittington Road.
I gave my nephew a ukelele, which looks awfully small and insignificant, but he really liked it.  Apparently Ukeleles are popular with teenage boys who like guitars, banksy and being cool.
Argentinians really do like to eat meat don't they?
that's all folks.