Weekend in Paris

Parisian charm in the 10eme arrondissement

Le petit-dejeuner

Le Metro

Moi et ma belle cousine Charlie on Pont Notre Dame

Quasimodo's home - Notre Dame

Gargoyles framing the doors to Notre Dame

We lurve Paris in the autumn

I can't follow instructions, but I can entertain bystanders

Charlie & Rhiannon at the Louvre

Just chilling in the Tuileries

Champs Elysees

The only thing separating us and the guillotined heads of Louis & Marie-Antoinette? Time.

Autumnal beauty on the Champs Elysees

Place Charles de Gaulle, l'Arc du Triomphe

At Dad's behest, imagining the march of the Nazis up the Champs Elysees

Gleefully anticipating our champagne high tea at the Georges V.

The most sumptuous, decadent, lavish, perfect high tea ever. My Janeites, I wished you were there

My father cannot resist striking up conversations with his airborne warrior kin

The icon

Charlie's ascent

Champs de Mars et Ecole Militaire - viewed from the Eiffel Tower

Les Invalides - as seen from the Eiffel Tower

La belle Charlie

Glittering at dusk

Sunny Sunday on the Seine

My father first took me to Paris when I was nine months old. It was much more memorable this time around! Merci beaucoup to my excellent Papa for a delightful Parisian sojourn. Charlie & I loved it. x

It seems I had every reason to escape from Deheishe

Remember my ordeal in Deheishe?

Pursuant to the below article, I dare say my suspicions have been confirmed. I’m VERY glad I left when I did.

Thanks to David Cohen for bringing the article to my attention.

Women ‘Peace Activists’ Raped, Silenced by Leftists

By Gil Ronen, 23 September 2010

Two activists have exposed a disturbing phenomenon that they say is an open secret within the “peace camp”: female “peace” activists are routinely harassed and raped by the Arabs of Judea and Samaria with whom they have come to identify. They say the phenomenon has gotten worse lately and that many foreign women end up as wives of local Arabs against their will, but cannot escape their new homes.

Roni Aloni Sedovnik, a feminist activist, penned an article in News1 – an independent website run by respected investigative reporter Yoav Yitzchak – under the heading “The Left’s Betrayal of Female Peace Activists Who were Sexually Assaulted.”

“A nauseous atrocity has been going on for a long time behind the scenes at the leftists’ demonstration at Bil’in, Naalin and Sheikh Jarrah [Shimon HaTzaddik],” she writes. “A dark secret that threatens to smash the basic ideological values upon which the demand to end the occupation of the Territories rests.”

It turns out, she explains, that when female peace activists from Israel and abroad come out to Judea and Samaria and demonstrate against the Israeli “occupation,” they are assaulted sexually by the Arab men whom they have come to help. These are not isolated incidents, Aloni-Sedovnik stresses. Rather, this is an “ongoing and widespread” phenomenon that includes verbal and physical abuse. She accuses the ‘peace’ camp of purposely covering up the trend so as not to offend “the Palestinians and their heritage, which sees women as sexual objects.”

Read the rest of the article here.

London charm

I ‘moved’ to London on 26 August. Moved belongs between quotation marks because, even though it’s now almost a month since I arrived, it still doesn’t feel quite real; moreover, I don’t feel quite ready to be here. What with my Middle Eastern escapades, I have had a rather nomadic year to date, and I was keenly homesick whilst in the Arab world, so I pined for Sydney. My month back home, although fabulous, wasn’t enough to quell my longing for Sydney, and saying goodbye to my beautiful home and my loved ones for an indefinite period of time (albeit for the second time this year…) was excruciating.

But it’s not forever.

Although my heart belongs firmly to Sydney, London charms me with the following:

• History. After all, it’s an ancient city. See posts below if you need to be reminded of how I feel about said cities.
• Black taxis. The drivers know EVERY single address in London, and the quickest way to get there. Even when you tell them just the number and street name, they know the building name too – the result of years of “knowledge” training and rigorous exams. They’re veritable human GPSs and it’s a pleasure to be chauffeured by them.
• Manners. Men hold doors open for ladies, step aside to let them go first, and walk (on purpose) on the side of the footpath closest to the road. Indeed this happens elsewhere too, but in my experience it is standard in London, certainly among professional men. I like gentlemen very much.
• Names. ‘Crutched Friars,’ ‘Poultry,’ ‘Long Acre’ and ‘Eastcheap’ are street names. ‘Elephant & Castle,’ and ‘Angel’ are tube stations. There is a tailor in my ‘hood called ‘The Cad and the Dandy’. Such unusual and historical (and in the case of the tailor, apt) names delight me.
• Titles. When I purchased tickets online for Shakespeare’s Globe, I had to register my details. Never before have I seen so many title options in a drop-down menu: Mr, Mrs, Miss, Ms, Dr, Prof, Air Commodore, Baroness, Brigadier, Canon, Captain, Commodore, Colonel, Count, Countess, Judge, Lieutenant, Madam, Marquess, Prince, Princess, Reverend, Bishop, Duke, Viscount, Viscountess. I would have relished being able to legitimately select ‘Princess’. And I wonder why Baron, Duchess, Earl, Lord and Lady are missing?
• The Tower. My favourite landmark, which I run past when doing what I have dubbed ‘the Thames Run’ (details will follow). Again, see earlier posts if you need reminding of my love of old stone castles and fortresses.
• Proximity to Europe. Bring on the weekends away (starting with Paris next weekend).
• Architecture. Favourites are the Lloyd’s building, the Gherkin, the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral (because of Mary Poppins), and the Houses of Parliament. On the other hand, the Tate Modern is an industrial-esque monstrosity.
• Bridges. Some of the structures which span the Thames are ugly and boring, but Tower and Millennium Bridges are works of art.
• Quirks. Last weekend I observed a bald, bespectacled man in his fifties standing in a waterfront bar dressed in a crisp white shirt, a cream blazer, rainbow fluorescent tie-dye shiny lycra leggings and black army boots. What’s more, he was painting his nails black. In public. Granted this is something one could observe in likely any developed city in the world, but I can’t get over the leggings. Actually, I’m more bemused than charmed by this.
• Reiss and Hobbs. Never mind Zara. Reiss and Hobbs’ dresses are where it’s at.

London’s weather distinctly lacks charm, as does the smell of her drains. I guess there are some downsides to being located near Europe and to being so old.

Never mind. To quote Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I am confident “the air of London is the sweeter for my presence.”

Boycotting Love in London

‘Ahava’ is the Hebrew word for ‘love’.

It is also an Israeli cosmetics company that manufactures prestige skin care products from Dead Sea minerals.

There is a single Ahava store in London. Located on Monmouth Street in Covent Garden, it offers the full range of Ahava products for sale, as well as beauty treatments – facials, massages, hot stone treatments, manicures and pedicures.

Since March 2009, the tiny store has been subjected to a fortnightly demonstration led by Palestine Solidarity Campaign, which is supported by Jews for Boycotting Israeli Goods.

Every second Saturday, from 12pm to 2pm, members of these groups, often supplemented by members from other pro-Palestinian, virulently anti-Israel and related fringe groups, congregate outside the store under the guise of protesting “stolen goods from stolen Palestinian land”.

Part of the shores of the Dead Sea lie within the West Bank, and as the Ahava factory at the Dead Sea is located in the West Bank, the anti-Ahava campaigners and activists argue that Ahava’s products are produced in territory illegally occupied by Israel.

At face value, and in their own words, the activists take issue with the following:

Ahava’s creams and cosmetics…are produced by a firm complicit in the theft of Palestinian land and livelihoods*

and

Companies like Ahava profit from the [West Bank] settlements which are a major obstacle to a just and peaceful solution to the conflict.*

They aim to

draw public attention to Ahava’s involvement in war crimes and crimes against humanity in the Occupied Palestinian Territories.**

*Source: one of the fliers produced by PSC and JBIG and handed out to passers-by at the demonstration.

**Source: Boycott Israeli Goods website – http://www.bigcampaign.org

The Ahava store has not only been subjected to fortnightly protests. Last year the shop was taken over by activists, who erected a sign in the window which (rather bizarrely) read ‘funding Israeli war crimes in Gaza,’ chained themselves to the door, and disrupted business for the duration of their bold sit-in. And only a few days prior to the most recent demonstration, in the early hours of 26 August, the shop front was paint-bombed by vandals who donned balaclavas in order to be unidentifiable on the store’s CCTV footage.

The paint-bombed Ahava store; my Australian friends, note the model in the advertising campaign on the far wall inside the store - it's 'our' Jodi Gordon

But that’s not all. This relatively small, fortnightly protest and related threatening incidents are part of a bigger, indeed universal, movement: Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions.

This sinister movement comprises 180 pro-Palestinian organisations and unions which ceaselessly decry a host of illegal crimes allegedly perpetrated by what they call “Apartheid Israel”. They aim to cripple Israel economically through boycotts of its products, divestiture of Israeli companies, and economic and trade sanctions against the Jewish state, and thereby force it to relinquish its “occupation” of “Palestine” and its people.

A few months ago, a smaller contingent of counter-demonstrators started fronting up at Ahava too. Most, but not all, are Jewish. They’re not part of any movement or organisation, but they’re united by a common political conscience.

I attended the most recent Ahava demonstration (28 August) as an observer. There were approximately thirty protestors out in force – PSC and JBIG campaigners, as well as members of the Revolutionary Communist Group and Code Pink’s Stolen Beauty branch. There were 15-odd counter-demonstrators. I counted nine policemen and women, in addition to the security guard Ahava has employed since the aforementioned sit-in.

On the anti-Ahava side, there were keffiyehs swathed around necks, communist hammer-and-sickle flags toted alongside Palestinian flags, and signs declaring

End the siege on Gaza

Occupation isn’t pretty

Dead Sea mud, Palestinian blood

End Israeli apartheid!

Catchy chants were enthusiastically hollered: “Free free Palestine!” “Ahava should be banned, Stolen goods from stolen land,” and “Viva viva Palestina,” and fliers, urging the public to “Boycott Ahava,” were thrust upon bemused shoppers and bystanders.

I approached one woman from Code Pink, explained that I was writing a blog post about the demonstration, and politely enquired whether she would mind answering a few questions. She replied, “no, because you’re clearly from the other side.” Perhaps she had seen me interviewing a few of the counter-protestors a few minutes earlier. When I pressed her, suggesting that her answers would serve to balance those of the “other side,” she still refused.

Others were more forthcoming with their perspectives.

Another member of Code Pink, who declined to give her name, told me she was motivated to attend because as a woman, she is the target audience of Ahava’s cosmetics, “so it makes sense to be active against ‘Apartheid Israel’.” She likened Code Pink’s campaign to the decades-long struggle against South African apartheid. In other words, she explained, “It’s an ongoing issue.” Beyond de rigueur talk of “illegal occupation,” when pressed to elaborate she couldn’t explain exactly what made Israel an apartheid state.

Hannah, from the Revolutionary Communist Group (!!), was attending the demonstration for the first time. She explained that she was there “in solidarity with the Palestinian people, and in protest against British collaborators with Israel like [the quintessential British department store] Marks & Spencer.” She felt it was her “duty” to oppose the British government and its support of Israel. She was particularly keen to promote her organisation’s vendetta against M&S, telling me it “directly funds the brutal, racist occupation of Palestine.” I asked her to explain how M&S does so, but she only handed me a wordy flier, promising “the facts” were all there. She also presented me with a copy of the Group’s newspaper, and hesitatingly requested a donation. I just could not bring myself to donate to an organisation which still, in the twenty-first century and with the clarity of hindsight, champions and agitates for revolutionary communism.

Greg, a member of Palestine Solidarity Campaign, told me “how anyone can support Israel from the standpoint of international law is a mystery to me because according to the UN, it is illegal to profit from land under military occupation.” He has been to a number of the demonstrations, and explained he is compelled to attend in order to demonstrate “moral support for the Palestinian people”. He was softly spoken – indeed, he rather endearingly confessed “I’m not outgoing” – and said he supports a two-state solution on the 1967 borders.

The protestors may belong to groups which unite for the BDS campaign. But they are not like-minded. At least one regular protestor is an avowed supporter of Hamas.

On the other side, the counter-protestors waved Israeli flags, urged passersby “don’t support the Nazi boycott,” and chanted, “we want peace, you want murder” at the Hamas-supporter and his ilk.

Three non-Jewish supporters of Ahava and Israel, who had travelled all the way from Wales for the counter-demonstration, toted placards proclaiming

Get Israel wrong and you’ll get nothing right

Only Israeli Arabs are free from cruel and unusual punishment

and this rather witty ditty

Flotilla of love! Flotilla of hate.

Weapons at the ready, medicines out of date.

Yes, blame it on the Jews again, like the Church did in the past

The Palestinians won’t be free, ruled by Fatah and Hamas.

When I asked Welshman Philip what motivates him to counter-protest, he gestured at the placard which read, ‘Get Israel wrong and you’ll get nothing right’ and said, quite simply, “that motivates me.”  His cousin Pamela was emphatic in differentiating between the two causes: “this is about love; that is about hate.”

Ruth has been counter-demonstrating for around five months. She is motivated to participate “by a million things,” but most especially by a visit to Auschwitz and her knowledge that “the Nazis also started with boycotts of Jewish businesses,” which is “just like this bunch of idiots [the anti-Ahava activists] are doing.” She explained further, “I made a vow in Auschwitz to combat anti-Semitism whenever and wherever I see it.”

When I asked Ruth why she thinks the public should NOT boycott Ahava, she replied, “Jewish businesses have every right to trade”.

As an afterthought, she added, “also, my skin has been fabulous since using Ahava stuff.”

As I was standing taking photographs of the protestors, a group of four people about my age asked me what was going on. Just as I had finished explaining, two customers came out of the store. The protestors launched into the standard aggressive taunt they reserve for Ahava customers, shouting in unison, “Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you!”

One of the group astutely remarked, “shame on them for not knowing what they’re talking about”.

Naturally, I have my own opinions about the reasoning underpinning the boycotting of Ahava and the Jewish state. I appreciate that the West Bank settlements are an enormous bone of contention, yet I’m not convinced they are the only, or even the greatest, obstacle to peace between Israel and the Palestinians.

Take the Gaza Strip as a simple case in point. Israel unilaterally withdrew from Gaza in 2005 – it uprooted 21 Israeli settlements, a total of 8,100 Israelis (not to mention the bodies of Israelis buried there). Did Israel get peace in return?

It most certainly did not. Rocket attacks from Gaza increased dramatically after Israel withdrew.

In other words, the evacuation of Israeli settlements resulted in an escalation of Palestinian terrorism.

What, then, is Israel to expect if it unilaterally withdraws from the West Bank, ending “the occupation” so readily and seemingly thoughtlessly decried by those ‘useful idiots’ who boycott Ahava?

As for the supporter of Hamas, I wonder what planet he’s from. I wonder: if he genuinely supports, admires and espouses the ideals of that rogue entity – if he considers using children as human shields, brutally torturing and lynching political opponents, inciting genocide, denying prisoner of war status to Gilad Shalit, butchering homosexuals, indoctrinating children with hate, inciting children to kill and suicide, and oppressing women as sound policies – why is he still living in the United Kingdom? Why doesn’t he move to Gaza, and live under the regime he defends?

For whatever Israel may be faulted, it cannot be charged with any the above. As I have written in an earlier post, given the choice between Deheishe and Jerusalem, or Gaza City and Tel Aviv, I know where I’d rather live.

Back to the Ahava boycott. One counter-protestor, David, delivered a rousing monologue laced with clever irony, and in so doing articulated a most compelling point. He thanked the anti-Ahava (anti-Israel) mob for coming down to Ahava, even though “we could all be outside the Iranian embassy instead”. For that matter, we could all have been outside the Burmese embassy, the North Korean embassy, the Zimbabwean embassy, the Congolese embassy, the Saudi Arabian embassy, or the Chinese embassy – protesting their varied and many abuses of human rights.

But no. Protesting the supposed ‘stealing of mud’, and boycotting a legitimate, successful business, are deemed far more important.

The ramifications of deigning to display my ankles

There is much ado in the Western world about the trappings of Islamic culture. Since that fateful day in September 2001, Islam has been the discourse du jour, engendering much intrigue, speculation and contention, polarising people, generating heated debate vis-à-vis the whole gamut of related socio-political issues.

Islam’s critics express vehement misgivings about terrorism and suicide bombers, shariah law, and attitudes towards women, while defenders lament that it is the grossly misunderstood religion of peace, and that those who are not intimately acquainted with its ins and outs should not be so quick to pass judgement.

Issues concerning women in the Islamic world are a particular bone of contention. Is the burqa a symbol of religious devotion, or one of misogynistic oppression? Is genital mutilation endorsed by the Qur’an, or merely a rare cultural practice? Why are women stoned to death for committing adultery, having sex outside of marriage, and being raped, yet male adulterers and rapists escape the same punishment? Why are pre-pubescent girls forced into marriage in Yemen, Somalia and Sudan?

Indeed there is very little consensus on these and related questions. But having lived alone in Damascus earlier this year, I have had a taste of the attitudes of Muslim men towards women, and, in my experience, the behaviour and social conduct of the average Syrian male towards a young, unmarried Western woman leaves a lot to be desired.

Upon my arrival in the world’s oldest continually inhabited city, locals were quick to assure me that Damascus is a very safe city, and that nothing untoward would happen to me. Indeed, I was not mugged, knifed, abducted, raped, or disfigured in an acid-throwing attack. But this does not make Damascus special, as I’ve also managed to avoid dreadful incidents such as these in Sydney, London, New York, Hong Kong and Tel Aviv, and anyway, Damascus is certainly not free of serious crime. According to the Overseas Security Advisory Council’s Syria 2010 Crime and Safety Report, there has been an increase in the past few years in reported crime against Western women in Damascus, whereby they have been harassed, followed, groped by taxi drivers, and the victims of sexual assault and of acid attacks.

Thankfully, I was not physically harmed, but I did have daily untoward experiences in the form of constant harassment on the part of men. Ordinarily I don’t frighten easily, nor do men usually perturb me, but every moment that I was out in public, walking alone on the streets of Damascus or going about my business, I felt intimidated and objectified. Being so decidedly surrounded by men who unabashedly leered at me, looked me up and down, slowed down their cars to let their gazes linger on me, said explicit things to me, hassled me, impeded me, groped me, and followed me home, was a flagrant violation of my personal space, not to mention awful to the point of victimisation.

Believe it or not, the staring was hardest to endure. I have been brought up to understand that staring is rude, that no matter how weird or wonderful a person’s appearance, it is preferable to err on the side of politeness and avert one’s eyes. Inevitably this maxim is not universally followed; staring is a human propensity fed by natural curiosity, interest and admiration, and by fascination or revulsion at the appearance and behaviour of the subject. It’s impolite, but more often than not, it’s harmless. But when staring takes the form of ogling, and when that ogling is relentless, it is no longer merely unmannerly; it is invasive, intolerable, and altogether objectionable.

I acknowledge that as an obviously Western foreigner, I was bound to stand out and pique the interest of locals. But the manner and intensity of my objectification could not be put down to simple curiosity. The odd surreptitious glance, whether admiring or disapproving, is one thing; being undressed by the lascivious eyes of a man is quite another.

In an effort to dispel male attentions and advances, I was careful to dress modestly – no bare legs, no bare décolletage, mainly loose clothing, and when I did don tight jeans, I would pair them with a long top which covered all the womanly bits. A friend suggested that maybe my colourful clothing was the culprit, but while I do wear splashes of pink, red, green and blue, my clothes are far less garish than the gaudy garments favoured by some Syrian women. And while the vast majority of women wear a hijab and long coat or a burqa, there are plenty of local women who do not cover their hair, and who dress in tight jeans and figure-hugging tops. I looked positively demure compared to some of them. In truth, short of donning a black burqa, it did not matter what I wore; the harassment continued unabated.

The reason? For Muslim men, female flesh is apparently so tantalising that they may be whipped into a frenzy at the mere sight of an ankle, collarbone, or forearm.

Under the tenets of Islam, a woman is a sexual object; from her hair to the soles of her feet, every inch of her body is designed to seduce men. As such, women are thought of as immoral temptresses, the possessors of the ‘weapon of seduction’, and unless they keep their hair and skin completely under wraps, they are susceptible to uncontrollable male lust and sexual urges. This is the very reasoning that underpinned Sheikh Taj ad-Din al-Hilali’s infamous ‘uncovered meat’ analogy. It is by this logic that in Muslim societies blame and punishment is meted out to a raped woman, rather than to her attacker.

Absolving men of all responsibility for their sexual lust is patently absurd, not to mention hugely problematic. It not only encourages the immature, inappropriate and abusive behaviour such as I experienced on the streets of Damascus, it also perpetuates offensive and detrimental notions of a woman’s role and worth. To consider women as nothing more than sexual objects dehumanises them, diminishes their many abilities and accomplishments, and strips them of independence and autonomy.

Not all Arab-Islamic men may be tarred with the same brush. I met and socialised with a few warm, friendly men who could behave normally around a young, unmarried woman who deigned to display her ankles. But the grace, kindness, hospitality, and chivalry of a few are just not enough to counterbalance the behaviour and social conduct of the many who do their culture’s reputation vis-à-vis women no favours.

Until a young woman can walk down Straight Street in Damascus’ Old City, or cross Yusuf Azmeh Square in downtown Damascus without being objectified and harassed to within an inch of her life, may the debates and questions about Islamic culture continue unabated.

The Promised Land, part three: the north

Rohan and I hired a car to continue onwards to the northern fringes of Israel, both coastal (Haifa) and decisively landlocked (the Golan and the upper Galilee), before concluding our journey in Tel Aviv.

I was terribly nervous at the prospect of driving in Jerusalem. Not only did it entail being behind the wheel on the ‘wrong’ side of the road for the first time, but I also had to contend with the (dare I say infamous) antics of Israeli drivers. Being a passenger was enough to put me on the edge of my seat, what with aggressive cutting-in, a preference for travelling at breakneck speeds, liberal and angry use of horns, a casual disregard for the concept of one-way streets, and a tendency to not use indicators to signal turning intentions or lane changes. So, I asked Rohan to drive us out of Jerusalem, while I put my (by this point, fairly intimate) knowledge of Jerusalem and navigating skills to good use. Contrary to popular lore, this woman can read maps.

Rohan and I reached the Golan quite late, and so scrambled to find a campsite. That’s right, a campsite. I don’t come from a camping family – my father was in the army, and so got his fill during his years of service, and my mother would sooner die than camp – so I am not accustomed to a) erecting my abode and having to dismantle it in the morning, b) traipsing to use questionable public showers or worse, foregoing basic amenities or c) sleeping constricted on rocky and uneven surfaces. Suffice to say, camping is far from my idea of fun. Princessy, but true.

As such, I still can’t believe I let Rohan convince me to camp. I don’t think Rohan can believe he convinced me to camp. I had to endure a lot of merciless teasing about my ignorance of all things camping (how was I supposed to know what to do with the flexible poles?) and I think Rohan was bracing himself for a night of shrill whining, but I mostly bit my tongue, even though it was the worst, most uncomfortable sleep of my life, I impaled my foot on a very big stick, and I had to shiver in an unpleasant communal shower in the morning. Nevertheless, I do like trying new things, and camping in the Golan was rather special and memorable. While I’ll never forget the stiffness and aches in my neck and back the morning after, I’ll also never forget emerging from my tent into a misty, whimsical, mountain-top morning – the romance and magic of that moment surpassed any bodily pain.

My childhood was infused with Disney princesses, Hans Christian Andersen’s fables, and Enid Blyton’s magical make-believe tales, and I credit this visual and literary diet with, amongst other things, my love of ancient castles, citadels and fortresses – representative as they are of the bygone days of regal splendour alluded to in my cherished childhood stories. Naturally, then, I insisted that Rohan and I visit the Golan’s Nimrod Fortress, one of the largest and most impressive fortresses to have survived in the Middle East since the Middle Ages.

Qal'at (Fortress) Nimrod.

And again, from an alternative angle. Pretty, no?

Delighted to be visiting an epic fortress.

Located on the steep slopes of Mount Hermon, the Arab-built fortress controlled one of the region’s main roads, which began in the Mediterranean port town of Tyre (Sur in current-day Lebanon) and ran through the upper Hula Valley and Banias to Damascus.

The region and the fortress’ history are very interesting for Crusades’ enthusiasts. The Banias area, which fell to the Muslim Ayyubi army under Salah ad-Din in 1187 after the Crusaders lost their hold on most of the Holy Land, was placed under the governorship of Salah ad-Din’s nephew al-‘Aziz ‘Authman. It was intrigues between Sultan al-Kamal of Egypt and his brother al-Moatis, governor of Damascus that led to the construction of the fortress. Accordingly, in 1227 the army of the German Kaiser Frederick II arrived in the Holy Land, and Sultan al-Kamal provoked the Kaiser to engage his brother in battle. Al-Moatis, who feared that the Crusaders were on the verge of attacking Damascus and conquering it, initiated construction of the fortress with the help of his younger brother al-‘Aziz ‘Authman in order to defend the road leading to Damascus. When the danger had passed, the Ayyubids decided to reinforce the fortress and to expand it. Construction continued and was completed in 1230.

In 1253, the Crusaders tried to return and conquer the fortress, but to no avail. The Mongol invasion of Syria and the Holy Land seven years later brought about its destruction. But the Mameluke army managed to stop the Mongols at the Battle of ‘Ein Jalud – considered to be one of the most important battles in history – and one of the outstanding Mameluke commanders of that battle, Baybars, named himself Sultan of the Mamelukes and gave the fortress to his second-in-command, Bilik, who began reconstructing and improving it. Bilik memorialised his work and glorified the name of his sultan in impressive inscriptions from 1275, which are preserved in situ.

Arabic inscription praising the greatness of Baybars.

With the surrender of the Crusaders and their banishment from the Holy Land at the end of the thirteenth century, the prestige of the fortress diminished. In the fifteenth century it served as a prison for rebels, but later was abandoned.

Today, Nimrod Fortress is in excellent condition, in spite of partial ruination during a small earthquake in the eighteenth century. It has a secret passage, multi-storey towers containing steep stone spiral staircases which link the levels, an impressive (if stagnant and putrid) reservoir, monumental inscriptions in flowing Arabic script, and a requisite moat. Moreover, its location affords sweeping views of the beautiful, lush green mountains and fertile valleys that comprise the Golan:

The rolling hills of the Golan...

...and the fertile valleys...

...and Rohan in amongst it all.

From Nimrod Fortress, Rohan and I navigated our way back around the sharp bends of the narrow roads towards Har (Mount) Bental, an inactive volcano which affords panoramic views of Syria, Lebanon, the Hula Valley, Har Hermon, Har Avital (allegedly a spy mountain with a high-tech underground nerve centre) and Quneitra. The last-mentioned was of particular interest to me – it was captured by the Israel Defence Forces from Syria on the last day of the 1967 Six Day War, and then briefly recaptured by Syria during the 1973 Yom Kippur War (paradoxically known in the Arab world as the October Liberation War). The IDF regained control of Quneitra in its counteroffensive, and promptly destroyed it prior to its 1974 withdrawal. Today, it exists as a ghost town in the demilitarised UN Disengagement Observer Force Zone between Syria and Israel, and it can be visited from Damascus. I had planned to travel there during my stay in Damascus, but I was turned off by the need for a pre-arranged permit and the bureaucratic nightmare that would entail, plus I wanted to go with my battlefield tour-enthusiast father. Unfortunately, my leaving Damascus a little earlier than originally planned scuppered his third visit to see me and therefore our chance to tour Quneitra. Never mind – I have at least seen it from Israel:

Quneitra, in the background - beyond the cultivated fields, before the lake.

The Golani battlefields from the 1967 and 1973 wars

The remains of a Syrian bunker atop Har Bental.

I vetoed camping for a second night in a row, so after checking out the Sea of Galilee and lunching at Capernaum we headed for Haifa so Rohan could see the Baha’i gardens and so I could sleep in a hotel.

At Capernaum.

The port at Haifa

Beautiful Baha'i landscaping.

Our final 24 hours in Israel were a whirlwind. We drove from Haifa to Jerusalem to Tel Aviv, encountering the thousands strong march for Gilad Shalit – led by his parents from their home in the north to the Prime Minister’s residence in Jerusalem – along the way. With only a few hours in Tel Aviv before our respective departures, we only managed brief snatches of the vibrant, cosmopolitan city – the sandy, sun-scorched beaches, the shimmering aqua- and turquoise-hued Mediterranean, the boardwalk and old port, and Max Brenner waffles and hot chocolates (my Australian friends, are you aware that our beloved MB is Israeli?!).

The beach, the Med.

The boardwalk.

Rohan’s flight to Barcelona left at the ungodly hour of 5 am, which meant getting up and to the airport at the even more heinous hour of 2 am. I had offered to drive him to Ben Gurion International, before heading back to our hotel to sleep and then return at midday for my flight to London. Never mind escaping Deheishe – driving in Tel Aviv is perhaps the most nerve-wracking experience I’ve had to date. The roads, most of which are extremely narrow and one-way, are far from well signposted, and I was tremendously anxious about having to navigate them solo once I had dropped off Rohan. Returning to the centre of Tel Aviv wasn’t too bad – I got spectacularly lost, but thankfully the roads were virtually deserted at 3 am, so I could stop in the middle of the road, flick on the hazard lights, study the map and work out where I’d gone wrong. However, leaving the centre at midday was a nightmare. I had spent ages studying the map and had written myself detailed instructions on a separate piece of paper, but I still managed to get lost because of the ridiculously small street signage, and ended up going round and round in circles for over half an hour, hampered by one-way streets and my impatient fellow motorists. I threw the map aside in disgust, and drove in the vague direction of the exit I had been searching for in vain. Lo and behold, I ended up on it within minutes!

Once at the airport, I was subjected to the infamous security checks (as described in an earlier post) I had thankfully bypassed at Heathrow. A team of five spent two hours questioning me, unpacking my entire suitcase, combing every article of clothing, every book, every gadget with their x-ray prods, and taking things away to be x-rayed over and over again. I will repeat: I acknowledge and respect the necessity of Israel’s vigilance vis-à-vis its security. I understand there is a very real possibility that some lunatic will attempt to detonate a bomb at Ben Gurion International, or to smuggle explosives onto a flight. Nonetheless, I confess I was mortified that my dirty laundry was literally being aired in public. So mortified that I had to fight back tears. To their credit, the security personnel were very pleasant, polite and even apologetic. However, I vowed that next time I travel to Israel I shall enter and exit with a man, preferably an Israeli, in an attempt to bypass all of the above!

And so concluded my jaunt in the Promised Land. For all it is shrouded in controversy and maligned by the UN and the mainstream media, Israel is a country well worth exploring, with a people well worth getting to know. It is beautiful, diverse, and historic; it is ancient and modern, Western and Eastern; it is democratic, libertarian and, contrary to populist reportage, tolerant. It must be seen, experienced and engaged with to be understood and appreciated. I can’t wait to go back.

The Promised Land, part two: Jerusalem and surrounds

From the south, Rohan and I made our way northwards to Israel’s capital and my favourite international city – Jerusalem.

As the bus neared Jerusalem, the landscape began to change: the craggy, barren, reddish-brown mountains of the Judean desert gave way to hills of thick green pine forests and almond and olive trees interspersed with white shale, rising out of deep valleys. The buildings, all of which are faced with Jerusalem stone (a pale limestone) in line with an enduring British Mandate decree, glistened a bright white under the heat of the hot summer sun, lending the city an attractive and distinctive architectural continuity. Public gardens and flower boxes stuffed with poppies, anemones, geraniums and roses provided pockets of vibrant colour against the shimmery white of the buildings. The Israeli flag – the blue Star of David between two blue horizontal stripes on a white background – hung from every second apartment balcony, serving as a simple but powerful symbol of patriotism. Sizeable groups of black-clad Orthodox Jews indicated at face value the religious importance of the city, as did the glimpse of the iconic gold encasement of the Dome of the Rock, emerging from the sprawl of the Old City.

Having visited Jerusalem three times previously, none of these images were new to me, yet they once again made an indelible impression on me. Jerusalem is a beautiful, enigmatic city, and although it holds no religious significance for me (I am a Gentile/lapsed Christian/infidel), I am enchanted by it.

Rohan was mesmerised not by the landmarks, but by the hair of the Orthodox women. I’d explained to him that religious women cover their hair with hats, snoods and scarves, or even with wigs. With a boyish fascination he began studying the head of every woman he saw, trying to work out whether or not her hair was her own. To me, wigs are obvious – not because they look unnatural, but because they’re extremely neat, and because the ‘skin’ beneath the perfect parting looks waxy. Rohan was sceptical, and kept me amused with his exclamations: “Is that a wig? It can’t be. It just looks like really shiny hair.”

We disembarked at the Central Bus Station, and headed up the bustling Jaffa Road, Jerusalem’s main street, to meet Stav. Rohan met her in Lyon where they were both on exchange; they hit it off, and she invited him (and by extension, me) to stay with her and her husband Oded in Jerusalem.

Contrary to the populist stereotyping of Israelis (as miserly, brusque, abrupt, hardened, arrogant, cold, and so on) in my experience they are delightful, and have a natural tendency to welcoming and generous hospitality. I have been welcomed with open arms into the homes and circles of friends of strangers, people who have been only too pleased to include me in their family dinners, to chauffeur me around, to take me sightseeing, to look after me and to generally ensure wonderful travel experiences. Stav and Oded were no exception to this rule, proving to be warm, fun and hospitable. They live in a charming, central part of Jerusalem – Nachala’ot, which is adjacent to the renowned Machane Yehuda market and the artists’ colony.

Stav and Oded's street. Very cute.

After a lunch of hummus (Jerusalem’s finest, according to our hosts; indeed it was delectable) we headed for the aforementioned market to collect ingredients for dinner. The atmospheric 100-year-old (mainly) covered market boasts Jerusalem’s finest and freshest produce – everything from fruit, vegetables, eggs, bread and dairy to meat, fish, nuts, olives, coffee, sweets and flowers. It was late afternoon on Friday, and the pace was frenetic – heaving with people to the point where it was difficult to move, and humming with conversations and the shouts of merchants advertising their wares:

The manic Machane Yehuda market.

For me, the highlight of the market was Basher Fromagerie. It’s been run by the Basher family for three generations; the owner Eli regularly travels to France to source the best cheeses, and also stocks a large collection of choice Israeli wine, jars of complementary condiments, and perfect crusty baguettes. Trying before buying was encouraged; or more to the point, multiple taste-testers were handed out with a flourish and without prompting. Between us we purchased five cheeses, including a thoroughly minging Roquefort at my behest. My father, who matures his cheeses for weeks until they’re rancid, has managed to influence my tastes. The others were dubious, but I maintain it was delicious. (And for what it’s worth, Dad gave a little writhe of ecstasy at the mere description of its appearance and pungent flavour).

The next day Rohan and I traipsed all over the Old City, starting with the ramparts walk, which affords panoramic views of West Jerusalem, East Jerusalem, the Mount of Olives, and, naturally, the sprawling ancient city contained within. We then entered the Old City via the Lions’ Gate, the very same entrance used by Israeli paratroopers in the Six Day War to storm the Old City, reclaim it, and so reunite Jerusalem after the 19-year Jordanian occupation. We had hummus at Abu Shukri, which my Palestinian friend Suheir claims is Jerusalem’s best (it was good, but Israelis do it better) and kanafeh at Jafar & Sons (Rohan was disappointed after I’d allegedly “talked it up for two years”), we walked along the Via Dolorosa, following the route Jesus walked with the cross, and checked out the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Western Wall. We couldn’t enter the Temple Mount because it was Saturday and so for Muslims only, but we could still see the shiny Dome from the Jewish Quarter.

Giving Rohan a guided tour of the ramparts.

The Mount of Olives. If you have perfect vision you can just make out the epic gold onion domes of the Russian Orthodox Church of Mary Magdalene nestled in amongst the trees.

Lions' Gate. I wish there had been some para eye-candy on duty.

Jafar & Sons, Lonely Planet and kanafeh yonder.

Excitable pilgrims in the Holy Sepulchre.

Rohan and the Dome of the Rock.

That night Stav and Oded took us to a well-kept secret – natural hot springs at a random location down by the Dead Sea. There was one other small group there when we arrived, but they soon left, so we had the site all to ourselves. The stench of sulfur was predictably vile, but the shallow pools were piping hot, and we alternated between luxuriating in them and floating in the nearby Sea, all under the seemingly endless, star-spangled sky. It was something I hadn’t done previously in Israel, and I absolutely loved it.

Rohan and I went out for breakfast the next morning. Stav had recommended the pavement café Nadi and its signature dish – shakshuka, a mouth-watering medley of baked eggs, spinach, tomatoes, feta cheese, lashings of olive oil and fresh herbs, served in a skillet with a side of fresh, grainy sourdough, pesto and tapenade. Best. Breakfast. Ever. Needless to say, we went back the next day.

Heaven in a skillet.

That afternoon, Stav took us to Wadi Kelt, an oasis near the West Bank town of Jericho. On the winding drive down, I realised I’d been there before – my dear friend Asi took me when we were enroute to Eilat and Petra last year. It is such a picturesque spot that I was pleased to go back. Unfortunately, a very boisterous group of young Arab men had taken over the pool, so tranquil oasis it was not. Moreover, I felt distinctly self-conscious stripping down to my bikini under their leering gazes, and as Stav and I were the only females, I also felt decidedly uncomfortable. It was nothing like the social dynamics on Manly beach, for example. Although there were some enormous jelly paunches and man boobs on display, incessant dive-bombing and raucous laughter (they were such fine specimens of men) we did our best to ignore them, cooled off with a dip in the icy water, and then moved to a shady spot by the stream.

The beautiful Stav. She's not actually a giant, it's just an optical illusion involving a step.

That's better. And brownie points to Rohan for snapping pictures of the pool minus the ferals.

Rohan was at Wadi Kelt too.

More culinary delights awaited us in the evening, this time at Machne Yuda, a trendy, eclectic restaurant in the market area. The three friends who own it and double as the chefs buy all their ingredients from the market, and change the menu daily according to what it has to offer. The dishes are prepared before the diners in an open kitchen, wooden crates brimming with fresh, colourful market produce line the walls alongside battered sideboards and shelves bearing jars of olive oil, wine, Italian tomato tins, herbs and spices, and every piece of furniture, crockery and cutlery is delightfully mismatched. The dishes were inventive and fantastically delish, and the bill was delivered inside a vintage clutch purse. If you go to Jerusalem, EAT THERE.

Thanks to http://www.inisrael.com for this picture of Machne Yuda.

Rohan and I spent our final morning in Jerusalem at Yad VaShem’s Holocaust History Museum. It was my third visit, and was just as harrowing, moving and profound as my first and second. The exhibits are tremendous, presenting the story of the Holocaust chronologically and exhaustively through original artifacts, survivor testimonies and personal possessions. The grim realities of man’s inhumanity to man are laid bare, and I was once again horrified, shocked, appalled; subdued, deflated, overcome by a deep, raw sadness. However, the Museum is not all doom and gloom. As harrowing as it is, it is also a fitting tribute to those who suffered at the hands of the Nazis; a poignant memorial which serves to perpetuate the memory and lessons of the Holocaust for future generations.

I ♥ Jerusalem!

To be continued…

The Promised Land, part one: the south

My nearest and dearest are well aware of my (admittedly rather random) thing for Israel, so it should come as no surprise to read that after three weeks in the Sinai I spent a glorious week travelling around the tiny state again. I was delighted to be accompanied by Rohan, who was intrigued by my love of the Jewish state, and wanted to visit a new Israeli friend in Jerusalem.

Tight security procedures at the Taba border crossing coupled with my suspicious suitcase – it was singled out and subjected to extra special checks and multiple x-rays – meant Rohan and I missed the last bus to Masada, so we stayed the night in Eilat. For those of you who haven’t visited, you’re not missing out on much. Australian readers, picture Gold Coast tackiness circa 1980s and you’re halfway there. Even better is Lonely Planet’s description, which captures the essence of Eilat beautifully and in typically jocular fashion:

[Eilat is] a razzmatazz of flashy hotels, suntan and sleaze parked on the coast of the Red Sea, an underwater paradise that makes up for the carbuncle on the shore… the town is heaving all year, but come summer the temperature rises and so does the sounds of shrieking 14 year olds in bikinis, soldiers on R & R and elderly Russian women who brook no age limit in the wearing of short shorts.

Rohan and I took a morning bus to Masada, but our journey was not without a touch of drama. Our bus was following another which was also doing the Eilat-Jerusalem route, and so it pulled into the Masada bus stop first. A male passenger got off to relieve himself (in full view of everyone; some people have no shame. It was also the longest urination I’ve ever witnessed. He was going for a good two minutes) and as our driver didn’t open the doors, I presumed that our bus would pull into the bus stop and stop for disembarking passengers once the first had moved on. But instead, it drove straight through the bus stop, circled the roundabout, and made its way back to the freeway. Rohan approached the driver to ask him why he hadn’t stopped, and to explain that we needed to get off. It turned out that we were to blame – we hadn’t pressed the buzzer to signal our desire to alight, and besides, argued the driver, he had stopped at Masada. He refused to turn the bus around (even though it would have taken a whole two minutes), and instead dropped us about 10 minutes up the road at Ein Gedi, suggesting we hitchhike back. I was livid. I could see his point, but then again the buzzers weren’t clearly designated, and I therefore expected him to stop the bus properly and open the doors at all stops along the route (there are only about five during the five-hour journey, so it wasn’t an unreasonable presumption).

Rohan left me – seething and silently vowing to never again make assumptions on public transport in a foreign country – by the roadside while he ran down to the Ein Gedi Spa car park to find someone willing to drive us back to Masada. Within minutes he’d scored us a ride, and so I hitchhiked for the first and probably last time in my life. Hitchhiking is actually very common in Israel; unlike in Australia, it is an activity untainted by gruesome backpacker murders, so it’s a very acceptable and popular mode of transport. Nonetheless I am not convinced, and rest assured dear parents: I only complied through necessity and because I was accompanied by a big strong man.

Rohan and I went back to the Ein Gedi Spa later that day in order to access its beach and ultimately, to experience weightlessness. The extreme saltiness of the Sea causes bodies to float, completely without effort, on its surface. It is an amazing sensation. I will never forget the look on Rohan’s face – sheer disbelief mixed with delight – as he floated effortlessly for the first time.

Entering the Sea

The first moment of weightlessness

The novelty didn't wear off quickly

The landscape surrounding the Dead Sea... and me

The next day, Rohan and I undertook another pre-dawn hike (he was my energetic companion at Mount Sinai), this time scaling Masada in order to see the sunrise over the Dead Sea. The hiking conditions were much better this time around. We weren’t sleep deprived – we stayed in the hostel at the foot of Masada which enabled us to sleep until 4 am – and the terrain was far less arduous and the distance much shorter, so we powered up the snake path, reaching the top within 25 minutes.

Even though I’ve climbed Masada before, I was no less awestruck by it the second time around. Masada comprises the ruins of ancient palaces and fortifications atop an isolated 400m-high rock plateau at the Western end of the Judean desert. King Herod (ruled 37-4 BC) built it as a personal refuge, but at the beginning of the Jewish Revolt against the Romans in 66 AD, a group of Jewish rebels took Masada. After the fall of Jerusalem and the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 AD, the rebels were joined by zealots and their families who had fled Jerusalem. Using Masada as their base, they attacked and harassed the Romans until the Roman governor Flavius Silva led a campaign against Masada in 73, laying siege to it with around 8000 troops.

The epic fortress-mountain

The colonnaded remains of the lower level of Herod's residential palace

The Roman effort was mighty – they established eight camps at the base of Masada, constructed a rampart of thousands of tons of stones and beaten earth, moved a battering ram up the ramp and breached the walls of the fortress. But it is the defenders’ response that really makes the Masada story compelling. Rather than be taken alive, the 960 men, women and children led by Eleazar Ben Ya’ir took their own lives in a carefully orchestrated group suicide. The historian Joseph Flavius described the extraordinary affair:

And so met (the Romans) with the multitude of the slain, but could take no pleasure in the fact, though it were done to their enemies. Nor could they do other than wonder at the courage of their resolution, and at the immovable contempt of death which so great a number of them had shown, when they went through with such an action as that was.

The main Roman army camp

The ancient road north to Jerusalem

The desert landscape around Masada

It is one thing to envisage the tension and trauma of the Masada siege as you read these words, but it is quite another to stand atop Masada, surrounded by an imposing and inhospitable landscape of rugged desert mountains, marvelling at the feats of engineering and the immense labour required to construct it, understanding the impressive strength of the Roman legions and the honourable resolve of the zealots in the face of true adversity. It is no wonder Masada stands as a symbol of the ancient kingdom of Israel, of its violent destruction at the hands of the Roman Empire, and of the last stand of Jewish patriots, determined to be free in their own land – a sentiment which resonates with Israelis well into the twenty-first century.

By the way – the sunrise was sensational:

Breaking dawn

Indeed

The first glimpse

A very worthwhile reason for getting up at 4 am

Rohan and I were both sweating profusely after our rapid ascent, and when he stripped off his t-shirt, I followed suit. Ordinarily my modesty would prevent me from prancing about in public in my bra, but I was on the verge of overheating, and there were hardly any other people about, so I bared my skin to the cool air. When Rohan announced he was going to ask a lone ultra-Orthodox gentleman to photograph us against the rose-pink of the breaking dawn, I had to explain to him how inappropriate that would be, particularly given my semi-clad state. Rohan was typically dubious, but I managed to convince him to ask a American tourist instead:

To be continued…

Life in slow motion: Dahab

After the Deheishe debacle, I was delighted to spend a week in Jerusalem, revelling in the generous hospitality and normality of my dear friend Asi and his flat-mate Ofer, while I worked out what to do until 8 July – the date of my return flight to London.

A few days, countless Google searches, and a barrage of emails later, it was settled. Destination: Dahab. I had found a hotel-resort on the Red Sea coast of the Sinai which boasted an Arabic language school alongside its more traditional facilities (pool, beach, dive centre etc), and I was rather taken with the idea of spending a few weeks studying in the morning before lazily sun baking and snorkelling in the afternoon.

I made my way from Jerusalem to Eilat, Israel’s southernmost town, in order to cross the border into Egypt. Walking into a new country is quite peculiar. I had done so once before – crossing from Israel into Jordan – and although on both occasions there were hardly any immediate visual differences between the two countries (save for the border control staff; more about them below), taking a few steps and finding myself in a completely different country was a curious sensation. I think growing up on an island has imbued me with a bit of wonderment at the concept of shared borders!

There were a total of four discernible border control staff on the Israeli side – a sensible number, really, considering that in the two hours I spent at the border crossing, waiting for the hotel car to collect me, only four other travellers crossed from Israel into Egypt.

I counted thirty on the Egyptian side. Thirty. Most were slumped about the place, chain-smoking, paunches straining at the belts of their unattractive white naval-esqe uniforms, not doing anything even remotely useful. I wasn’t surprised; it was virtually a mirror image of the International Airport, General Establishment of Posts and the Immigration & Passport Department in Damascus. Superfluous governmental employees appear to be symptomatic of highly centralised Middle Eastern countries. No prizes for guessing why…

I was highly amused when, upon handing over my Australian passport for a fourth random inspection (inspection + stamping at the actual passport control booth are apparently and inexplicably insufficient) I was asked, in English, “you Italian?” Relishing the man’s ineptitude and incompetence, I beamed at him and answered “yes!” This wasn’t the first time I’d been asked a patently cretinous question by someone from border control in an Arab country. It also happened at Damascus Airport – an inspection of my British passport was demanded by a superfluous random, who idly leafed through it and said, “French?” Ludicrous much?!

The creation and provision of excess bureaucratic jobs was not limited to the Taba border crossing. On the drive south toward Dahab I passed through about six ‘checkpoints’ – manually operated boom gates which were only hoisted once a piece of paper listing my name, nationality and passport number had been presented. I’ve had an easier time travelling through West Bank checkpoints. There were ten plus smoking and backgammon-playing men dotted about at each checkpoint. A maximum of two men would have been sufficient to man each checkpoint, especially as they are configured to only allow one car through at a time, but then that would be too efficient.

Dahab (Arabic for gold) used to be a Bedouin fishing village. In its present state it’s little more than a shabby haven for backpackers and divers. I’m neither (and I’m not such a fan of shabby) but I rather like Dahab’s laid-back vibe, and I have been relishing the chance to worship the sun. Subsequently, I have a seriously impressive tan, and I feel so deliciously serene and relaxed.

On a more academic note, my Arabic lessons are going really well. I have two lovely Arabic teachers – Su’ad, a worldly Lebanese woman who regales me with her progressive views on politics and women’s rights in the Arab world, and Abdu, a quiet and kindly Egyptian man who is the most fastidious grammarian I have ever met (Dad, you would love him). He is also a tad bizarre – for instance, in one of my first lessons he thought it appropriate to teach me the verb “to f**k”. Not “to have intercourse,” not “to make love,” but “to f**k”. Given his gentlemanly deportment and pedantry, I almost fell off my chair in shock.

Dahab may be a sleepy little town, but World Cup mania is rife. Restaurants and bars line the promenade, each one boasting large plasma screen TVs which broadcast round-the-clock coverage and blare that bloody vuvezela. There are loads of Europeans in Dahab – not just tourists; there are many who live and work here, often because they have married Egyptians (as an aside, they have the most beautiful children). Germans and Dutch are particularly well represented, and they’re all very vocal, ardent supporters of their national teams. I tried to get in the spirit of things by watching the Australia-Germany match in the hotel bar, but I was bored stiff.

While lounging in the bar, sipping gin and tonics, feigning interest in the game and cringing at the antics and expletives of the ockers a few seats away, I was approached by an art director and asked whether I’d like to do some modelling for a hotel website she was designing. I didn’t need to be asked twice, even though it involved getting up at 4:30 am (hideous, but then I did get to see the sunrise over Saudi) in order to shoot in the best light. I was required to look all serene and tranquil while holding yoga poses and being massaged on the beach. It was bliss. Although self-indulgent, I must confess to a love of being professionally photographed! I am yet to see the official prints, but my friend snapped these action shots:

Ever the enthusiastic tourist, I decided to make a pilgrimage (non-religious) to the 2285 metre Mount Sinai and to hike to its summit. Given the scorching summer desert heat and my desire to watch the sunrise from the top, I opted to hike through the early hours of the morning. This meant departing Dahab in a minibus at 11:30pm and arriving at the St Catherine Area (so called because of St Catherine’s monastery which sits at the foot of Mount Sinai) at about 1:30am in order to start the ascent in time for the sunrise. The terrain was rocky, uneven and steep, and navigating it was complicated by my inability to see a single thing – the stars, although shining brightly hardly lit up the path – and my sleep deprivation. Stumbling blindly up a mountain at 2am without having slept, I wondered why I had thought it would be a good idea.

My tour group was progressing at a snail’s pace, so my energetic companion and I decided to move on ahead without them. It was hard going – I stumbled quite a few times, fell over heavily, and as we neared the top I was nearly blown over by the strong winds – but we nonetheless made excellent progress, overtaking all the other plodding groups. After about two hours of climbing, we reached the summit, which comprised an Orthodox chapel, Bedouin toting stinking mattresses and blankets for rent, and a breathtaking view, which was just coming into focus in the dusky dawn. We took our prime viewing positions, and settled down to wait for the sun’s emergence over the mountain range. Biblical scholars debate whether it is the very mountain upon which Moses received the Ten Commandments, and the general consensus is no, it is not, but that didn’t prevent me from closing my eyes and trying to imagine the momentous moment (trying being the operative word…).

In the meantime it was absolutely freezing, and I shivered uncontrollably, chiding myself for my lunacy in thinking that pre-dawn hiking would be a fun expedition. And no way was I renting a blanket – I did not want to smell like camel. However, the sunrise was magnificent, and absolutely worth the pain:

Having ascended via the ‘camel trail,’ I opted for the ‘3750 Steps of Repentance’ route on the way down. I didn’t count the steps to confirm whether there were indeed 3750, but my jelly legs told me there were MANY, and I fell heavily a few more times (I have such grace as a hiker). Nevertheless, the spectacular landscape once again made up for the pain:

I was dying to go to the toilet the whole way down, and once at the bottom I rushed to find a toilet at the monastery complex. I was horrified to discover that Arabic toilets were the only type on offer. These toilets were in a seriously unsanitary state. I mean seriously bad. I actually retched upon entering, and I wasn’t even breathing through my nose. To add insult to injury, I had to pay to use one, and I had to use a wad of toilet paper that had been handled by the male toilet attendant’s long, dirty fingernails. In addition to the filth, it’s such an inefficient way to relieve oneself, what with balancing precariously and trying to aim without splashing one’s feet and working out what to do with one’s knickers. If only I could have made it out of the Middle East without having to use one…

1460 days… and counting

N.B. Dear friends and readers, this post deviates from my usual narration of my Arabian adventures. Please humour me, and rest assured that my next post, which will detail my Sinai sojourn, will soon follow.

What with the (pseudo) peace flotillas bobbing about in the Mediterranean of late, allegedly attempting to “break-the-blockade,” Gaza and Israel have received more than the normal (that is, huge) volume of media attention over the past few weeks.

The scrutiny under which Israel is placed and the sky-high standard to which it is held by the international community never cease to amaze me.

My disbelief aside, the cries of indignation over Israel’s conduct (in this instance, aboard the Mavi Mavara), and over its “illegal” and “inhumane” treatment of the Palestinians (in this instance, through its blockade of Gaza) are all par for the course by now.

But while the plight of the “beleaguered Palestinians” is lamented and “Israeli military brutality” is unreservedly singled out and condemned by the self-righteous the world over, another Gaza-Israel issue is going largely unnoticed this week.

Tomorrow marks four years since Hamas and its cronies have held 23-year-old Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit hostage, incommunicado in the Gaza Strip.

Gilad, who was 19 at the time, was taken hostage during an unprovoked attack inside Israel on June 25, 2006. He was wounded and two other Israeli soldiers were killed in the attack.

Pause for a moment to consider the enormity of Gilad’s ordeal: he has been holed up in the bowels of Gaza, without any contact with his family or with any humanitarian group, for 1460 days. His precise location is unknown. He probably hasn’t seen the light of day for the duration of his captivity. He is a prisoner of war.

Until Hamas released a video of Gilad in October 2009, it offered little evidence as to whether he was even alive. I cannot conceive of the anguish of Gilad’s parents, Noam and Aviva. What agony they must have been through for over three years, not knowing whether their young son was dead or alive. And what indescribable distress they must continue to experience, not knowing whether he will ever be returned to them.

There must also be grave concerns about Gilad’s treatment at the hands of his captors, the conditions in which he is being held, and subsequently, his emotional and mental well-being. One may only speculate about the nature of his detention, but if Hamas’ treatment of their fellow Palestinians is anything to go by, I’d hazard a guess that Gilad is less than comfortable.

Indeed, for the duration of his captivity Hamas has denied Gilad his basic rights and protections as a prisoner of war. The Third Geneva Convention lays out these rights unequivocally: the right to humane treatment (article 13); the right to have knowledge of a POW’s location (article 23); the right to send and receive letters and cards on a monthly basis (article 71); the right to unfettered access to the Red Cross (article 126), amongst others.

Hamas is flagrantly violating the Geneva Convention. Yet there is little, if any, indignation on the part of the humanitarian groups and peace activists who are usually quick to condemn even a hint of a human rights violation. For instance, Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch have made only infrequent references to Gilad, and always in the context of condemning Israel for “war crimes,” “wanton destruction,” and “collective punishment.” And tellingly, when Noam asked the participants in the May 31 “humanitarian” flotilla to carry a letter and a small package for his son, they refused to do so. So much for their lofty values; their humanitarianism and commitment to justice are merely purported and ostensible.

If it were Israel holding a Palestinian POW under the same conditions, I’d bet good money that it would be a very different story.

Israel has proposed an easing of the Gaza blockade in return for the release of Gilad, but to no avail. Hamas has not even responded to an Israeli proposal to free Gilad in return for the release of 450 Palestinian prisoners, including some particularly nasty individuals who are responsible for the deaths of Israeli civilians.

If you think Hamas’ truculent defiance concerning Gilad’s return is just a manifestation of its disgruntlement at Israel’s blockade, think again.

Hamas, the Iran-backed terrorist organisation which has ruled Gaza with an iron fist since it ousted Fatah in a bloody coup in June 2007, is a self-declared enemy of “the Zionist entity,” and is committed to its destruction.

If you think this is a tad over-exaggerated, consider the Hamas charter, which doesn’t mince words vis-à-vis its aim: “Israel will…continue to exist until Islam will obliterate it” (my emphasis).

If you think Hamas is all bark and no bite, consider the more than 6,500 rockets and mortars fired indiscriminately at Israeli civilian territory since Israel’s unilateral withdrawal from Gaza in 2005.

If you think Israel “occupies” the Gaza Strip, and that Hamas and co’s terrorist tactics are merely an expression of dissatisfaction with Israeli control of their land, consider that international law poses three conditions for occupation: the capacity of the occupier to enter the territory at will and completely unopposed; the capacity of the occupier to move inside the territory unopposed; and a physical presence in the territory. In reality, Israelis cannot and do not enter and move inside Gaza at will and unopposed, and as for having a physical presence in Gaza, the fact is that the only Israeli in Gaza is Gilad Shalit.

If you think Israel is blockading Gaza for the hell of it, that the blockade is in place because Israel enjoys subjugating the Palestinian people and / or wishes to exert its military eminence by showing the Gazans who’s boss, consider that Israel actually has a perfectly rational and legal reason for blockading Gaza: it is attempting to prevent a hostile state from acquiring lethal weaponry. Israel’s blockade is therefore a mechanism of self-defence; it is in place to prevent ruthless, lunatic Islamist groups from arming themselves in line with their menacingly genocidal aim.

In short, Hamas doesn’t want an end to the blockade, or the release of 450 of its fellow countrymen from Israeli jails, or any other semblance of a peace process. It only wants the destruction of the Jewish state.

It is a travesty that Hamas’ intransigence (its refusal to recognise Israel’s right to exist), its rock solid belligerency (its refusal to renounce violence), and its illegal treatment of Gilad (its refusal to accord him his rights as a POW) barely warrant a mention in the media. Even more outrageous is the reality of humanitarian groups – supposedly committed to peace and justice, but actually aligned with exclusive and select causes.

I’m not into spreading awareness of causes or engaging in feel-good posturing for the sake of it. But my respect for a fellow human being and of the principles of humanity, equality and justice, and my sense that Gilad Shalit deserves to be remembered, leads me to urge you to take a moment to think of him tomorrow, to wear yellow for him, to say a prayer for him. If you feel so compelled, you may even attempt to send him a message (click here).

Suffice to say: Gilad, you are in my thoughts.