Robben Island-conquered at last

I finally did it! On a beautifully clear, sunny, virtually cloudless, and relatively warm July day I completed the Robben Island to Blouberg, Cape Town crossing in 2 hours 44 minutes. The water was between 13 and 15 degrees, blissfully clear, seals and penguins were flapping around, and for a little less than 3 hours, the rest of the world was far away. I couldn’t have had a more seasoned professional than Derrick Frazer at the boat helm (especially as he was the wise one that hauled my hypothermic body out last time), an excellent photographer and seconder Darren (see pics below) and my fellow swimmer and great friend, Phil Dempster who swam me into the shore for the last 100 metres.

About halfway in, the thought jumped into my head that I might not make it. But I forced myself to shake it off. And at points where I started to feel chilly, I blocked my mind from allowing the “cold” to seep in, reminding myself that I had by now swum in far worse conditions and in colder water, so I could bloody well stand this.

Because this challenge is of course mostly about mental bloody will. Of course it helps to be fit, spend lots of time in the cold water, have the right equipment and a well-fitting cossie (my right boob kept making a break for freedom which was somewhat of a nuisance, especially with three “oakes” in my boat), but in the end all the training, energade and bananas are all consumed to convince yourself you can make it. Because if you don’t believe it possible when you jump in that water, you may as well wave your white flag straight away. It took me 8 months to try again; 8 months of consistent pool training, sea swims, online research, chatting to other swimmers, working on my stroke and patiently waiting for the right day. But really it took me 8 months to convince myself that I absolutely could do it, that I could stick it out to the sandy end.

And now no one can take it away from me. Whatever hits in future, knowing I achieved my goal means I am better equipped to deal with the next challenge. At the same time, it is important to remember that success is never achieved alone. There is no way I would have got the umpf to do this without the stellar support and faith of my fellow swimmers, swim squad coaches, friends, KMF scholars, staff, parents, Lulutho team in the Eastern Cape, and of course my own family. We all need faith, children and adults alike. I was lucky, I had lots of people behind me. But for every crazy idea or ambition, all you need is one person to say, “I know you can do it.”

Not because I subscribe to the American tendency of telling kids they can achieve “ANYTHING” they want, if they try hard enough. Because there are certain things we are not wired to do. It depends on your individual capabilities, interests and make-up. But for many in South Africa, as indeed in other marginalised communities, where you have been pushed down for so long and socio/economic decay is the status quo, people need faith and encouragement to overcome the bad and find the motivation to set out on a new path.

So I have learnt a thing or two about perseverance. I set myself a challenge and I knew I wouldn’t be happy until I got there. It taught me, once again, that you may fall at the first hurdle, that you will make mistakes along the way, but if you have the humility to accept that screw-ups make you stronger, that success comes from experience, you WILL get there. Any by golly, does it feel great when you do.

To the brilliant KMF scholars who inspired me to take on this challenge, I thank you for your support and your example. Whatever it is you want to achieve, forge ahead with enthusiasm and perseverance. It won’t be easy, but it’s not supposed to be. For a real sense of accomplishment you have to sweat and strive. And the reward is sugar sweet.

Thank you to the generous individuals who supported me and the scholars of the Kay Mason Foundation through this swim. Your support has helped develop future South African leaders. If you still want to donate to give young people opportunities through education, click HERE.

If you want to find out how your money makes a difference, click HERE.

My first attempt at a Robben Island crossing

I would love to be able to say that I finished my Robben Island crossing. Nothing would give me more pleasure.

But the reality is I got hauled out 500m before the end. We started at Robben island and it was 13 degrees. It then dropped to 10 about halfway, but I was still ok at 2 hours in, though cold. Then my body started to freeze up, legs, hands and feet. But I didn’t stop. I reached 7km, 500m before the shoreline, and the head lifeguard came out to check on me because I was moving slowly and had been in the water for 3 and a half hours. He took one look at me and said I was too hypothermic to carry on. I was swallowing a lot of sea water, choking slightly and finding it very difficult to breathe at this point, so I was swimming doggy paddle to keep my head above water.

I was also getting pushed very near the rocks by the current. In my slightly delirious state, I said no as my goal was to reach that shore. But because I was blue, shaking and otherwise non-responsive, they made a call to pull me out. Beyond that point, I don’t remember anything until I woke up in the heated room, wrapped in blankets and in my aunt’s naked bosom!

I slept for three hours and threw up a lot of sea water. Apparently my body temperature had dropped six degrees. I immediately felt angry and disappointed, especially as I was so close to the shore. But when they say you learn a lot attempting a challenge like this, they are not kidding. What I have learnt is firstly no matter how much you train and prepare, if the elements are against you, there is very little you can do against their strength. That is very humbling. Secondly I am not a first-time super achiever. But I never have been. What I do have is utter determination to succeed. Especially shown by how much I clenched my teeth and grunted in the water! And I know that if at first you don’t succeed, you must pick yourself up and try again, and that is what I fully intend to do. I will conquer that crossing. Give me a couple of degrees warmer and I know I can make it.

That is my message to the KMF scholars. Sometimes external events in life will throw you, which you cannot control. But what you can do is not to get down-heartened when faced with a disappointment. Dust yourself off, try again and believe that you can succeed. Nothing comes for free. Its about hard work, effort, commitment and most importantly, enjoyment.

And one final thing. In a very “black” week for South Africa with the passing of the Secrecy Bill, the swim reaffirmed my faith in the power of friendship and willingness of people to give or fight for something they believe in. Firstly to those who have donated to the Kay Mason Foundation through this, you are helping young South Africans get a better education, and therefore a better chance in life. Secondly and no less importantly, the support I received from my skipper, my seconders in the boat who put their absolute all into helping me succeed , all the colleagues, friends and KMF scholars that came to Big Bay to see me in, as well as all the messages I received was absolutely phenomenal. No way could I have got this far without all of that. So thank you to you all. I am  one lucky fish.

If you would like to support my swim and play a role in ensuring underprivileged young South Africans access quality education, click HERE

Thank you!

To see a KMF scholar thank you and show you how your support makes a difference in their lives, click HERE

Let’s hear it from them.

The recent riots in the UK seemed to shake most of the world. Gone was the perception of the UK as a relatively harmonious and stable society, despite its fiscal problems, and was instead replaced with protest, flames, violence and crude vandalism. And the perpetrators? Mostly teenagers.

After the initial shock, horror and endless footage had circulated every corner of the online world, most concurred about a common thread of negative and “nothing-to-lose” attitudes coming from the British youth, created by a society of inequality and lack of opportunity.

In the post-riot debate, I, like many others, was frustrated by the apparent unwillingness of the government and privileged classes to listen to young people from the communities that were affected, and instead saw politicians, editors, journalists, and celebs clamouring forth to condemn the criminals, with little attempt to understand why.  Destroying people’s livelihoods is inexcusable. But we cannot ignore the reasons that drove the youth to commit such violent acts.

For many of us, British youth had the most important and apt views, despite not having a title with which to label their opinions.  Some interesting statistics did emerge through the media storm, however. For example, Unicef placed Britain at the bottom of 21 industrialised countries in the manner that it treated its children, singling out child poverty, factory-like education and training systems, poor relationships with family and friends, a low sense of well-being and risks of everyday life on the streets of England.

In the last few weeks, we have seen similar action across South Africa over a lack of opportunities and jobs, and in protest over possible sanctions against outspoken ANC Youth League leader, Julius Malema. Juju has gathered a loyal youth following, stirred up by his controversial rhetoric and tactics against his own party, and demands for nationalisation. A crowd of young people hurtled abuse, physical and emotional, at police, with almost the same vigour as that carried out in London. Like Mark Duggan, Malema’s disciplinary hearing seemed to be the trigger for an overwhelming surge of anger, frustration, disillusionment and violent action.

I currently work for the Kay Mason Foundation (KMF), a non-profit organization based in Cape Town that offers children from disadvantaged communities the chance of a great high school education. Over 12 years, the KMF has developed a multi-faceted support structure to ensure scholars have all they need to tap their potential. I asked the KMF scholars their views on the reasons behind the riots, based on challenges facing their own communities in South Africa:

• Peer pressure
• Young people showing society what they are capable of
• No respect for adults
• Anger, hopelessness, feeling of “nothing to lose”
• Irresponsible and absent parents, especially fathers
• Youth feel badly treated by society and therefore justified in destroying others’ property
• Difficult domestic conditions
• Wanting money for drugs and material possessions
• Feeling rejected and demotivated to look for opportunities
• Lack of opportunities
• Poverty, neglect
• Lack of knowledge about consequences
• Lack of self-respect
• Lack of discipline
• Loneliness and frustration

The KMF kids also offered some advice to their UK peers and the UK government:

• You must not let your friends influence on you, go for what YOU think is right, and think ahead about consequences
• More job scouts, workshops, and youth programmes needed
• Youth need people to listen to them, but also need structured discipline and guidance
• Young people cannot blame their disadvantaged backgrounds or their problems. We must be motivated to look for opportunities wherever we can and make the most of them.

I recently watched Amandla: A Revolution in Four- part Harmony, from director Lee Hirsch. Through interviews, footage and music, it showed the power of song during the struggle against apartheid in South Africa. It showed a united people, yes repressed and ostracized, but united in a common struggle. Today’s challenge, in the UK and South Africa, is that the different groups of young people are not unified. Some youngsters have all the opportunities open to them. It just depends on which social strata you were born into. No longer is it about race, but class. The better off have become better at hoarding opportunities, securing places at the best schools, and finding internships now so crucial for job offers through their networks. Luck of birth determines life chances. Which is where the KMF comes in. Our aim is to ensure that motivated youth from disadvantaged backgrounds are able to access the same opportunities as their privileged peers. Our scholars are judged on merit, not class, race or domestic situation.

The British government’s resistance to an independent inquiry that might expose some of these issues is deeply frustrating. According to them, apart from a few unruly teenagers, the rest of Britain is fine. So the youth movements and worldwide protests that are erupting across the globe are just a coincidence then. They also seem to think the answer is just to lock teenagers up in prison and give them a harsh slap on the backside. I implore them to take a look at the example set by Dean of University of the Free State, Jonathan Jansen in his handling of the Reitz Four situation. Instead of expelling the perpetrators from the traditionally Afrikaaner institution, he brought them back into the fold, helped them to realise why their actions were wrong, and made sure they finished their education, helping them to become better- informed, moral, humble and conscientious citizens.

I hope that the youth of today will employ different tactics in future in their calls for change. Instead of violence, I hope they too will turn to music and peaceful protest to get their message across. There is one certainty however. We must do all we can to empower and support underprivileged young people to access a good education and better opportunities. Then it’s up to them. If we don’t, they will expend their energy on wreaking more havoc and destruction in our communities.

It Took a Riot: http://timwilliams.regen.net/2011/08/14/it-took-a-riot/

Not a white Christmas

On arriving in Cape Town in November, I was lucky enough to attend a philanthropy conference hosted by Inyathelo, the South African Institute for Advancement, with my colleagues from the Kay Mason Foundation.

The five-day affair provided a great overview of the shifts in non-profit and philanthropy activity in South Africa over the last 20 years. It also included a prestigious philanthropy awards ceremony, honouring individual and NGO achievements across South Africa. The awardees included my boss Richard Mason, recognised for his 11-year commitment to providing disadvantaged South African children with a quality education, as well as offering learning and employment opportunities in the poverty-stricken Eastern Cape.

The conference kickstarted a lot of interesting work I have undertaken as the KMF’s and Project Lulutho’s new Head of Development. However what I want to describe here is my time in the Eastern Cape over Christmas, with the wonderful family of my Xhosa boss, the KMF’s Director Nelly Tom.

The family house overlooks numerous overlapping green hills near the town of Nqamakwe (q=click), in the southern part of the Eastern Cape. 70kms south is East London, a port town on the Wild Coast. In 1865 a number of Mfengu (one of the many Xhosa clans) were resettled in the area around Nqamakwe. As refugees from the Mfacane wars further north, they had relatively few links to their former rural tribal economy and, at an early stage, came under the guidance of European missionaries. Realising the need for an education in their new colonial economy, they raised funds to establish schools. As I have come to learn, education is one of the pillars of Xhosa culture.

View from Nelly's house, nr. Nqamakwe, Eastern Cape

Xhosas do not distinguish between parents and aunts and uncles, or siblings and cousins, and often all live together under one roof. So there were a lot of folk milling about the house when we arrived.  After the introductions, some of the kids took me on a tour of the surroundings, where we stumbled across various indigenous insects and plants. All of them knew the names of each, including what medicinal properties the plants held. Very impressive thought I and rare to find amongst kids these days

My first night there was Christmas Eve and we ate African salad or “Umvubo”, which consists of mealie (corn) and milk. Not much taste, although cinammon is often added for flavour. Texture was a bit like wool.  We went to bed and I felt excited and a little apprehensive about the days ahead. Nelly had left again that day to spend Christmas and Boxing Day with her husband’s family, and I hoped I would manage to fit in.

Christmas, as it turns out, is not a huge event in Xhosa culture. There is a lot of food, and new clothes given to the babies and younger children, but otherwise it is pretty much business as usual. Parties start in the afternoon, however and go on late into the night, accompanied by a mix of R’n’B, hiphop, electro, mushy ballads and a fair amount of booze. Not that different from young the world over then. These few days were a great opportunity for observation, but to keep busy I got involved in the chores. In contrast to Western culture, children are deemed ready to cook, wash, clean and tidy from around the age of 10, and the older the adults get, the less they do. No molly coddling.

Wherever we went, to the shop or to visit neighbours and friends, the girls acted as my translators and on occasion, protectors from more “forthcoming” passers-by. I had learnt a few Xhosa phrases before arriving, but it was clear very quickly I had a long way to go. The clicks are very difficult to get your tongue around, literally, but I was determined.

Being amongst people speaking a totally foreign language, is a great lesson for relying on your senses. I concentrated on body language, tone of voice, facial expressions and in so doing picked up the command words pretty quickly. The little ones were adorable, and had none of the apprehension of some of the older lot with me, so I had plenty of fun with them. Yolakazi, the 12-year-old ringleader of the neighbourhood’s younger crew, is confident in English and taught me many Xhosa words. She also tried to teach me some African dance moves, although as an umlungu (white person), there was only so much I could do. I certainly provided a lot of amusement for the onlookers, and was in total awe of the way these kids could move their hips before they had hit puberty, or double figures even. There are several versions of the literal translation of umlungu, but one I was told is the white foam (or scum) that is brought in off the waves. Therefore either white man was coined as scum or it represents the Dutch East India Company’s arrival by boat in 1652. I was assured however that nowadays “umlungu” is mostly used affectionately.

The real flurry began during preparations for the “Umgidi “ or end of initiation, a ritual every Xhosa male must go through before he is deemed a “man” and allowed to marry, own property and the like. The ritual is focused around boys circumcision (carried out by a chosen male from the family or tribe called ingcibi), and them living in the “bush”; a hut near the family house. This lasts for three weeks, and their bodies are painted with white ochre to keep them clean, and covered by blankets bearing colours of the Xhosa tribe to which they belong. This usually happens in December or June, the holiday months. They are allowed to leave the hut only to visit other “abakhweta”(initiation boys), or go wash in the river, but cannot go near the house.

Abakhweta

I visited the hut several times in the days coming up to their release, delivering food and drink and chatting with the four boys about how they felt about this tribal ritual (painful but accepted as a part of growing up) as well as nightlife hotspots in the UK, of all things! The only members of the family not allowed to visit are their parents, as during this time they must learn how to take care of themselves without parental help.  There is a common perception I had picked up in Cape Town that the circumcision procedure was dangerous because it was carried out illegally and without proper care. So I got investigating and found out that although there have been some deaths in the past, the “ingcibi” now has to be certified by a doctor and after the procedure checks on the boys’ progress every two days. There is also an “ikankatha” (carer), chosen by the family, who stays with the boys all the time, to make sure they are healthy and taking their traditional herbal meds.

On the day of the release, we all gathered a small way above the hut. There was excited murmuring as the boys came out to have their heads shaved. At this point, only men were allowed near. In fact the sexes are still very separate in Xhosa culture. One spends most of the time with one’s own sex, unless they are family members or married but even so, there are “male” and “female” activities, much in the traditional sense. And if a girl is seen speaking to a man, it is thought she is trying to nab him. Which made it quite difficult for me to get a lot of male perspectives, although I took my chances where I could. It was also tricky as the boys were generally more talkative than the girls. I think this had something to do with shyness in spoken English but was also because the girls are almost always busy with some chore or errand and there is little time for idle conversation. This also applied to the abakhweta, and girls that visited them were often teased for flirting.

The razing completed, the boys re-entered their hut for the last time and a couple of men started hacking at it. The shacks are always demolished, as a symbol of the end of boyhood. The four boys emerged before the metal toppled down on them and, accompanied by a group of around 20 men, started walking toward the river to wash, wrapped in their blankets. They walked about 100 yards before there was a sudden shout and the blankets fell. It was a pretty funny sight to see four boys running stark naked, still covered in white paint. It is a race and the men follow behind, urging them on. The kids then collected the fallen blankets and we made our way to the river to wash them, though we are not allowed near to the new men to give them privacy.

The atmosphere was very jolly as the kids washed the blankets by stomping on them in big, metal buckets. When the boys started to make their way back, we followed behind. Although we were quicker than them, we had to wait until they entered the house chosen for the festivities (Nelly’s uncle’s) before we could follow. They slowly walked to the kraal, a stone-walled enclosure for men only (although I was allowed in eventually, on account of taking photos) and the new men were sat in the far corner and presented with huge, silver buckets of Umqombothi, African beer. The pale coloured concoction is made from maize, maize malt, sorghum malt, yeast and water (which I had helped sieve the night before.) It is rich in Vitamin B and has a distinctly sour taste and aroma. It only contains about 3% alcohol, and has a thick, creamy consistency. Tasted a bit like sour milk.

Umqombothi, African beer

As the amakwrala (as they are called once they have come out of the bush) sit there and sip away, several elder men, who have assembled around the kraal by now, come forward. They proceed to offer heavyweight sermons on how the family is now looking to them to set an example, and be providers for the family. If any man wanted to take a sip of the amakwrala’s Umqombothi, he has to offer a coin for his pleasure. After this first round of commandments (this would be repeated several times throughout the next two days), the boys are led to a hut and allowed to lie down in their blankets, where they receive their guests like princes. Still no mothers allowed.

While this was going on, 14 quivering sheep were tied together in a pen next to the kraal. Quicker than a Jimmy Anderson delivery, the men hoisted them into the kraal, slitting their throats and slicing them up. A pretty gory sight for my delicate eyes, but as a meat eater, there was no shying away. The worst bit was the cracking of the bones. The next day I would watch 3 goats subjected to the same fate. But I’m still not a veggie.

Once they have been skinned, bled and yanked apart, the meaty carcasses are slapped onto the walls of the kraal, almost like decoration, and all the insides are put into a huge tin bucket. Now it gets really disgusting. Girls of all ages get stuck into dividing up the insides, essentially getting rid of all the shit, and preserving the edible bits of intestine and so forth. I was quite relieved not to take part in this particular task, but was fascinated to see that girls as young as 12 were just as capable of sorting sheep insides as their elders.

I started reading Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom during this time, and given that the first few chapters describe his upbringing in a town very close to where we were, it helped me to understand much better Xhosa rituals and traditions. One of the things he explained is that it is not usual for children to ask questions when growing up. They are expected to learn by watching and doing. And they view the Western practice of parents always answering their children’s questions, and applauding them for being inquisitive as bizarre. So I tried to keep my mouth shut as much as possible. No easy feat!

That afternoon we visited another Umgidi happening up the road, where a plate piled high with meat was immediately thrust into my hand. During my stay, I was always the first to be offered food much to my embarrassment, and in fact, anyone who enters the house is automatically given a plate without asking. No one goes hungry. Food is not savoured (although meat is a treat), it is eaten because it has to be, and there is of course no luxury of choosing what to have. With no electricity the options are limited so meals are bulked up with lots of carbs.  Not so good for the heart or the waistlines, but Xhosas don’t place much importance on staying trim. In fact in the rural areas, rounder still equals wealthier and healthier.

Amakwrala drinking Umqombothi

The following day we girls were up early to continue preparing all the food. Meanwhile the men continued slaughtering, giving speeches and mostly just drinking. The guests begun to turn up around midday, with about 20 people arriving at one time from far away villages, laden with presents for the new men. On arrival Nelly’s father, Papa Wawe, presented each family with a bottle of liquor, coke and homemade bread and delivered a welcoming speech.

Then everyone burst into song and walked to one of the outhouses for the present giving or “izipho”. All gifts were placed in the middle of the room (clothes, bedding, booze, bread, all practical things) and someone went patiently round the circle with a shot glass, dishing out the brandy and whisky.

Feeding everyone was quite the operation, given that we were providing for over 200. A team of ten dished up at the iron stoves. The plates were then passed down a long line of youngsters till they reached all the guests. As soon as plates were empty, they were quickly scooped up to be washed and plated up with food again for more hungry guests.

Just in case we were not satiated (although it is bad form to decline), more meat was handed around in buckets, which everyone gladly tore into (quite chewy but very tasty.) The guests then performed dances and songs from their different towns. More drinking and general merriment ensued till the following day. Even the young crew managed to get their hands on booze, so by late afternoon, everyone was walking a little funny. Especially the mentally handicapped neighbour, who stomped around singing loudly, mostly ignored but plied with lots of beer. This might be frowned upon back home, but he seemed perfectly happy. And it is not in Xhosa culture to be too sympathetic. There are more practical things to see to. It certainly makes one strong.

I of course had my camera permanently slung round my shoulder, to the delight of everyone. Whenever I walked into a room, I was greeted with shouts of “Natash, shoot me, shoot me!”(the direct translation in Xhosa). I did try to correct them on occasion, but mostly just got on with the “shooting”.

Xhosa ladies cooking the meat

It is only on the 3^rd day of Umgidi that the amakwrala are allowed to wear their own clothes again, and move around freely. Sadly that marked the end of my stay, but I am extremely grateful to have been part of such a fascinating tradition and learn about the Xhosa culture with my own eyes. And thank you to my new friends for making me feel like part of the family. I look forward to going back and seeing them very soon! “Kude kubengelinye ixesha!” (Till next time!)

For photos please go to my facebook profile,

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/album.php?aid=2348563&id=193100624

Is (it) real?

Recently I went to see a film called Miral. It is based on a book written by a young Palestinian woman, Rula Jebreal who grew up in Jerusalem after the foundation of Israel in 1948. She was educated in Hind Husseini’s non-political school for Palestinian girls, a centre she founded to house the Palestinian child survivors of parents killed by Israelis in the struggle that led to the state’s foundation. It is a remarkable story, told by director Julian Schnabel, incidentally a New York Jew. I recommend all and sundry to see it. Watching the film with my mother took us back to our trip to Israel earlier this year, about which I had wanted to write but hadn’t quite found the time or words. This film inspired me to try and describe my first-hand experience for those interested in going or who might identify with some of my observations.

Mother had wanted to take me to Israel for many years but every time we looked at tickets, a bomb was thrown over the border. We finally decided we must go as there would always be a risk. As it turns out, we felt perfectly safe for the whole of our stay being just two of the hordes of tourists visiting Israel from across the globe, not those embroiled in trying to improve the aggravated Israel-Palestine situation.  But more of waddling Americans later.

We did however see the wall separating the West bank from Jerusalem, a grey monstrosity complete with barbed wire and provocative graffiti. We had to drive round it to get to Bethlehem, which despite lying next to Jerusalem has been shut off from the holy city. This is because it was given to the Palestinians as a consolation prize after the founding of Israel and the subsequent chopping up of territory. As a result, many people will tell you not to go there due to its “dangerous” environment but our experience was anything but, a beautiful multi-religious church with Greek Orthodox, Armenian and Christian altars all in the same building, and cheery, kind and informative guides- although they will try and make you buy up the contents of their shops.

Tel Aviv was our starting point of our 7 day tour. I can describe it no other way than “cool.” Jaffa should be your first stop, the port city perching on a cliff-top and thought to be one of the world’s oldest. A limestone-walled citadel, it contains the temples of Jews, Muslims and Christians as well as a jumbled vintage market and arty cafes, not unlike those you can find in London and Paris. It was in one of these, Puah, that we tasted our first Israeli breakfast; sweet fried bread with sultanas, an enormous pastry filled with spinach and pine nuts and absolutely delicious coffee, the latter of which never failed to disappoint throughout our trip. It was lovely respite from Prague’s watery offerings.

Aside from Jaffa, Tel Aviv consists of outdoor gyms on the clean beaches, charming restaurants spilling out onto the streets (we found a great place serving only and every type of carpaccio you could imagine and a sparky waitress dishing out free shots of Ouzo), narrow winding streets boasting beautiful flowers, museums and more trendy eateries. For a cosmopolitan atmosphere, you could do a lot worse.

A quick day trip to Akko, a citadel with underground Templar city and a very amusing Immam bath tour, complete with reenacted video of prophets discussing bathing rituals with exclamations of “ Oh Isaiah!” and we arrived in Jerusalem by Sheroot, local yellow taxi buses identical to Sherootki in Moscow, where you hop on, grab a seat and pass your money through passengers’ hands to the front and then shout loudly when you want to get off. The driver then willingly grinds to a halt, whether on motorway or side street.

We had already met several jolly and chatty Israelis but our interaction with locals was almost completely confined to Palestinians in the holy city, which held an impressive mish-mash of all religions; Indian Catholics, Korean Protestants, Greek, Russian and Ukrainian Orthodox, not to mention all the different types of Jews.  Many Jerusalem-born Arabs work as guides, taxi drivers, stall sellers, and restaurant owners and those we came into contact with told us they were amongst the 300,000 who held Israeli citizenship but not nationality, had family in the West bank who they could not visit, and who were not allowed to enter Jerusalem (3/4 million) and that there were public areas of Jerusalem, such as parks that they were forbidden from entering. They also said they paid higher taxes than Jewish Israelis.

Now of course one expects that the Palestinians would speak ill of the Israeli state’s treatment of them, but none of this was said to us in an antagonistic manner, more a resigned shrug, and it was only because we asked. I was inclined to believe them. Moreover they were cheerful, well-informed and certainly looked after us very well- yes we may have been paying them for a service, but that does not guarantee helpfulness or even a smile in many parts of the world as I think everyone would agree.

In terms of where to stay in Jerusalem, well it depends who you are. If you are a wealthy Republican Jew, then it has to be the King David, the Jewish hotel where we had one drink before hot footing it out in case our noses started to point upwards as well. If you are an educated, neutral tourist or business professional, the American Colony hotel is for you. Established in 1902 by the Spaffords, a couple from Chicago who came to Jerusalem in 1881 after tragically losing all four of their daughters in a shipwreck, and who became known as “the Americans” who offered aid to families in distress, it is a beautiful stone-walled residence with a stunning garden full of blossoming flowers, shady trees and a goldfish fountain. Incidentally it is where his Hon Tony Blair stays when he is carrying out his Middle East Envoy duties (whatever those might be). But for those on a budget, there are of course many cheaper options, including the Scottish Guesthouse, a charming, simple tower structure overlooking the walled citadel.

It will take you a little time to get your head round the set-up of Jerusalem. Although technically divided into quarters: Jewish, Muslim, Christian and Armenian, there seems to be a crossover of people wherever you look. Jews and Muslims just ignore each other as they go about their daily business, much like the rest of the world. However it is clear that there is tension about territory, not helped by the state, who plonked a synagogue right in the heart of the Muslim quarter, just to make a point. And in amongst them are the tourist groups, adorned with baseball caps and puma sneakers, crawling all over the Mount of Olives, Garden of Gethsemane, Mount Zion holding King David’s tomb and of course the Dome of the Rock, the stunning gold mosque that stands out as the symbol of Jerusalem.

Whilst wandering the markets we met and chatted to several Palestinians who often offered us coffee and a seat for a chat. Trained to be sceptical we rigorously declined until we met Toli, with whom we sat down and chatted to for almost an hour. He told us that he used to live in Germany, but had come back because his market business and family were here. His old and sick mother lived in the West bank however and they could only see each other when she came to visit on prayer day, as if he left he would have to get a special permit and even if he did, feared they would seize his shop and throw him out. Of course due to her lack of mobility, she didn’t come very often. The government won’t grant him Israeli I.D. as although he has the correct papers they don’t trust him because he went abroad. So he is in a sticky predicament; trapped in a place where he is treated as a second-class citizen.

The wailing wall is important to visit, but strange. Barely adult Jewish wives with faces buried in bibles sway back and forth devoutly chanting their verses, while others stuff scrunched up paper messages into the cracks or sit down for a chinwag. To exit one has to back away while still facing the wall as a sign of respect, and can only turn your back after a good distance. The men’s praying area is about 3 times the size, but separated from the women’s naturally.

We were in Jerusalem for the sombre Memorial Day, when the city shuts down and no restaurants are open but we managed to find a delicious hummous, baba ganoush, pitta and tabbouleh platter for only 8 dollars. The day after however is Independence Day. This meant that leading up to the festivities, apart from everyone gearing up for the huge party, the town was filled with young Israeli soldiers, nonchalantly wandering about in their army kit and AK47s slung on their shoulders, posing for photos, reading and smoking, happy to have some time off duty. We were invited to a party by a gay, Jordanian, Hassidic Jew who said the Rabbi would just LOVE to meet us. Devastatingly for us, it didn’t work out. I imagine it would have been quite an experience. My mother did get propositioned by a kindly Israeli chap during the celebrations however who was quite taken with her. She was so touched that she gave him her phone number, before I firmly steered her away.

Floating about in the Dead Sea was more fun than expected, in spite of the unbelievably loud Americans we had to share it with. It is astonishing that they cannot hear themselves, or don’t care about it, but then I am very sensitive to noise. We also “furniculared” it up to the top of the rock of Masada where the view was well worth it, although we were bathed in scorching heat.  After the fall of Jerusalem in 70 C.E. Masada remained the only point of Jewish resistance. In 72 C.E. the Roman governor Flavius Silva resolved to suppress this outpost of resistance. He marched against Masada at the head of the Tenth Legion, its auxiliary troops, and thousands of Jewish war prisoners, a total of 10 to 15,000 people. The troops established eight camps at the base of the Masada rock and surrounded it with a high wall, leaving no escape for rebels. At night Eleazar gathered all the defenders and persuaded them to kill themselves rather than fall into the hands of Romans. The people set fire to their personal belongings, and ten people chosen by a lot killed everyone else and committed suicide. In the morning Romans entered a silent fortress and found only dead bodies, apart from two women and five children who survived by hiding in a cave.

Next stop was Jericho, believed to be the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, a green oasis with white-domed temples visible, perched on mountainous rock, as well as several UN trucks on the roads; it is situated next to the Jordan River in the West Bank of the Palestinian territories.

Galilee was our next port of call, where Jesus reportedly lived for around 30 years of his life and cured a blind man. We made friends with our hotel concierge from Nazareth, Auny Lulu, who gave us a personal tour on his day off. He had been married to an American and lived in California for over ten years. Although he was happy to be back with his family, he said they didn’t quite understand his time away and had a different mentality to the friends he made in the US. He wasn’t sure how long he would stay. Nazareth is a charming little town, the main feature being a vast modern Christian church with stained glass windows designed by around 25 different countries. A stab at representing United Nations then.

Our conclusion was that Israel is a beautiful country, brimming with an unrivaled mix of cultures, people (apart from perhaps London), with magnificent sights to see. However the situation is complicated. The majority on both sides seem to want peace, such as was promised in the Oslo agreement of 1994, but has yet to be put in place. But while the Israeli government refuses to budge and Jews from around the world continue to spill over into Palestinian territory to build settlements, it is still out of reach. When there, we read an article by a journalist writing for the English-language Jerusalem Post newspaper, imploring Netanyahu to make a peace deal before it is too late and full-blown war ensues. I join him in this and beg that both governments can look beyond the petty argument of history dictating which land belongs to whom and accept that there is, and should be, a diverse mix of people and religions with equal rights, able to live on the same land and get on with their lives. As a character says in Miral, “One-state, two-state I don’t care, I just want to live.”

POWland

My grandmother was against the trip from the start. She rallied round her friends in Prague, who all got straight on the telephone- “Don’t go..” they pleaded. “The train will get stuck in the snow for days and you’ll freeze to death. And you’ll probably slip, fall and break both your legs.” Well our train was a few hours delayed and my companion and I did pick up some nasty bug bites from somewhere but it was well worth it. Krakow is the unofficial cultural capital of Poland, with a stunning market square, St. Mary’s Basilica, the Zygmunt Bell at the Wawel cathedral and the rest of it. But I shan’t list the cultural sites because you can look them up on wikipedia for yourselves.  All I shall say is that the city is anything but an eyesore.

On our first day we made a trip to the renowned Wieliczka salt mine, one of the world’s oldest, only beaten by another 20 kilometres away. It produced salt from the 13th century up until 2007,  and is just under 350 metres deep and 300 kilometres long. That’s quite something. Although the facts were interesting, the place was a bit like a badly- modelled Natural History museum; figures carved out of salt with American voiceover booming out of loudspeakers and lights jumping around to illuminate statues as the story was told.  A tour made for tourists.

The real point of our weekend visit however, was to see Auschwitz. Having caught the headlines a couple of weeks before due to the most famous symbol of the Holocaust, the “Arbeit macht frei” sign being stolen by some foolhardy thieves, I would have thought we’d be queuing for hours to get in (no pun intended.) In actual fact we were a mere 20 people for this solemn visit, added to by the fact that it was snowing heavily,  meaning the brick red housing blocks, grey concrete, barbed wire and stark gas chambers were all the more bleak. What’s more, seeing the premises under a blanket of snow meant that one could more keenly imagine the horrific conditions that inmates had to endure- clothed only in rags and sometimes made to humiliate themselves further by running about in the snow naked, it certainly sent a chill down my spine.

The personalised and mass exhibits were equally upsetting; the individual, name-tagged suitcases, shoes and personal belongings, and the preserved gas chambers and furnaces where between 1941-1944 approximately 1.3 million people; Jews, gypsies, poles, homosexuals, byelorussians etc were marched into, told to undress for the purpose of showering and then crammed, 3000 at a time, into concrete rooms before the guards let the gas seep in.  It normally took 20 minutes for everyone to die. After walking silently through the blocks in Auschwitz, apart from a narrative from our excellent guide, we were taken to the abominably primitive living quarters and gas chambers at the Birkenau camp, just a couple of kilometres away, which was perhaps more horrifying, as here there were no blocks of housing, with dormitories and bathrooms (as basic as they were) as in Auschwitz, just big empty concrete barns where people sheltered like animals.

After reading recently that without help from European governments such as the the UK’s, the buildings will wither away, I would strongly urge them to hand over the cash. The camps are not just a collection of buildings that stand as a reminder but thousands of rooms, cubby holes, ragged clothes, pictures, furnaces, personal items and names that remind the common man that not so long ago people were treated as sub-human animals and exterminated simply due to their genes. Auschwitz must stay. Otherwise future generations will become ignorant of the appalling suffering of so many, and of the inhumane behaviour that such a fierce dictatorship can impose.

Continuing my education of the plight of the Jews, I explored the infamous Jewish quarter in Prague with a visiting friend a couple of weeks ago. There are six synagogues in total, scattered around the old town of Prague, but the most moving is undoubtedly the Pinkas synagogue, dedicated to the victims of the Holocaust in what was then Czechoslovakia. The names, birth and death dates of 77, 297 Jews are carefully etched onto the walls, leaving not an inch of blank space. Most victims were initially sent to the prison camp set up by the Nazis in the old military garrison in Theresienstadt, now called Terezin, and then transported to the death camp at Auschwitz. Upstairs are heart-rending drawings by young children imprisoned in Terezin, an activity encouraged by adults as a means through which the children could channel their pain and fear.

Prague’s Jewish cemetery is an image that will long stay embedded in your mind. Tucked in between one synagogue and another, the plot is as crowded as Oceana on a Friday night, as Jews were not allowed to bury their dead outside of the ghetto so had to improvise and build them on top of one another. There are, therefore, 12 layers of graves, and more than 100,000 people buried in them. Furthermore the tombstones are not like the grand, architectural (and often very creative) designs in Prague’s most famous cemetery, Vysehrad, but jagged, crooked and almost bare apart from faint outlines of the names of those they cover. The awkward and cramped layout made me immediately think of those crammed into the gas chambers back in Auschwitz.

I apologise for the tone of doom and gloom, but I am not adept to better explain the effect of these visits. Although we were taught the basic facts of the Holocaust at school, I would say that to attempt to understand as much as possible (for a generation who have never suffered anything so painful) of this terrible period in recent history, visit these memorials you must. I am unhappy with my use of adjectives in this passage; but no words seem to adequately convey the emotions these sites evoke. Perspective is too mild a word, horror and pathos don’t quite cover it, so you must go yourself to find your own adjectives.

20 years on…

I have been geographically very fortunate this year. The weekend before last, in the days preceding the 20^th anniversary of the fall of the wall, I jumped at the chance to join the slap-dash 5 hour car ride to Berlin for the weekend. As this was my first trip to the capital it was a treat in itself, but to be able to see it in preparation for the celebration of 20 years of freedom, well that was pretty wonderful. I walked along the line of the individually-painted symbolic dominoes (there was even one by Nelson Mandela in there), watched the media trucks setting up, all inching as close as they could to Brandenburg Tor, devoured a delicious bratwurst from one of the endless stands set up to cater the mass crowds, and through it all felt a veritable buzz in the air- though this will have definitely been exaggerated by my idealistic excitement at being in a place where so much of historical significance had taken place before.

However on talking to a few Berliners, I sensed some felt as though the event had been hijacked by the international crowd, who all seemingly wanted a piece of the action. Apart from the crowds that flew in, Nicolas, Gordon, Hillary and Barack all had messages to convey and interestingly my German flatmate told me that not only were the German public not allowed within a mile of Brandenburg on the actual evening of the 9^th but that when Obama’s video speech was played, no more than a few sardonic eyebrows were raised, in contrast to the roaring applause that came off the television. Not to mention the serious blunder at the U2 concert the week before; in order to keep out non-paying audience members, the authorities constructed a makeshift “wall” around the concert stage. Talk about irony slapping you in the face.

And now to Prague. Yesterday the Czechs celebrated the 20^th anniversary of the Velvet Revolution, the initially peaceful student protest that brought about the fall of communism in what was then Czechoslavakia. On the 17^th of November 1989 hundreds of thousands of Czechs took to the streets of their capital to protest against the government, culminating in the moment when Vaclav Havel stood side by side with Alexander Dubcek on the balcony of the Civic Forum offices in Wenceslas Square and addressed a crowd of one million Czechs to tell them that the communist government had fallen. I was too small to remember this historic occasion but for my Czech grandparents watching on their TV screen in London, seeing the reason they had left their country in 1948 deteriorating before their eyes, the significance of those moments can hardly be expressed. Czechoslovakia, to which Neville Chamberlain had so famously referred to as a country about which we know so little, was suddenly being beamed into everyone’s front room. And Havel, a playwright elevated by momentous events to the role of political leader and subsequently president. He is still the number one hero here and no other politician, despite Vaclav Klaus’ best efforts, has even come close to obtaining the same status. I met an independent politician recently, Jaromir Stetina, who my Czech friends tell me has tirelessly fought to push pressing issues to the forefront of the political agenda throughout his career. He confirmed for me that inside parliament and out Klaus was trying his level best to win the respect, admiration and even fear of his people but that it was like watching someone walk up an escalator the wrong way.

Despite this mass protest, it is worth remembering that many of the older Czechs having been sacrificed for the seeming well-being of Europe and so badly disappointed by the failed Prague spring of 1968, stayed at home on the 17^th and the days following, rather than risk trouble by joining the crowds in the centre of Prague where the “intellectuals” were causing a fuss. It took armed soldiers forcing back a peaceful student demonstration and word that one boy had been killed to ultimately light the torch of revolution, spurred on by what had already happened in Berlin. The protest was unstoppable, the domino effect had begun. Only when it became clear that there would be no redress, that this was for real, did the doubters start to come out into the streets, blinking in disbelief at the news that the curtain had finally been torn down.

In the early 1990s, Prague became a hot destination for people of all persuasions, politicians, writers, royalty, you name it. But within months of the new- found freedom, Wenceslas Square, the half mile long boulevard, flanked on both sides by the city’s then best hotels, jewellery, shoe and book shops and dominated at its northern end by the  equestrian statue of the country’s patron saint, Vaclav, where 19 year old student Jan Palach set himself alight in January 1969 in the ultimate act of protest against the Russian invasion, had become overrun by pimps, prostitutes and drug dealers.

Prague’s cobbled streets became a mecca for rowdy British stag groups and countless uninvited migrants from eastern Europe. The shops were suddenly full of luxury goods that few could afford, and today Wenceslas Square and the historic street that lies at the bottom of it, Na Prikope, resembles a generic European high street, boasting H&M, Ben and Jerry’s, Mango. Having been cut off from the rest of Europe for 40 years, the new freedom brought with it another kind of invasion.

For the young, eager to be part of the rest of the world, the pros far outweighed the cons. Freedom meant being able to travel and find work opportunities abroad, capitalism and western goods, the capacity for individual expression and entrepreneurship, but for many of the older citizens, the rapid changes were overwhelming and just served to complicate their previously straightforward lives. Under the regime, if you kept your head down, you received a stable wage, decent state pension, healthcare, the works, and life was cheap. There was also no competition; communism meant everyone had been equal, and received the same benefits, no private ownership, no recognition for individual excellence, in fact people shied away from being singled out as this meant they could be perceived as a threat. With the new freedom, people were given the opportunity to become entrepreneurs, trade internationally and the competition became fierce. Although most of us relish the fact that we have so many choices with regards to how we want to live our lives, for the older generation, choices just meant confusion, instability and a constant feeling of being behind the pack.

What´s more many of the old certainties disappeared overnight; the centre of Prague was no longer safe to walk in; and thieving and burglaries shot up. Several families had their own chata, a hut or a cottage out in the country or somewhere in the woods, often very primitive, without running water, but importantly an escape from city life. In 1989, there were no superstores, shopping trolleys or even plastic bags. A housewife would go to the corner grocery store once a day with her string bag to pick up what was needed or whatever had just come in. Barely two years after 1989, the foreign supermarket giants had moved in and obesity levels started to rise.

And all of a sudden a new rich class started to emerge, the nouveau riche crowd that most of us now associate with the gaudy Russians, the whizz kids who were able to take advantage of the new opportunities. In the early 90’s they drove their shiny new BMWs at unbelievable speeds on those largely empty roads, past their countrymen still grumpily clattering along in their beaten up old Skodas. And then there were the new old rich; Czechs who had emigrated after the war, and were now invited back to claim back their properties, reinstating their titles and their superiority. What is astonishing is that my generation of Czechs, happily sipping their Starbucks frappucinos and wolfing down McDonalds hamburgers seem to have very little knowledge or interest in the events that changed their country so dramatically 20 years ago. I have tried talking to some of them about it but have not been able to extract much more than a shrug of the shoulders. But then it may just be they don´t want to voice their opinion. Undoubtedly a heritage from their parents, so maybe communism has had an effect on them after all.

Biba Brodska, an 87- year old teacher of ballet history tells me that many of her generation feel there are too many dangers in society, that the current negatives outweigh the positives, and that life only caters for the young. However if faced with the real possibility of returning to the communist period, she doubts anyone would actually volunteer to bring back the reds. Time can often create memories with rose-tinted spectacles. And while the landscape of the Czech Republic has changed dramatically in 20 years, the Czech psyche has not. It is extremely difficult to relinquish feelings created out of so many years of oppression (economic degradation, suppression of the individual, punitive political policy) quickly (and 20 years is not as long as it seems), hence the reputation Czechs have for being sceptical, closed and negative.

However times are- a- changing, there is a new generation of Czechs, looking at the global shift in attitudes towards leadership, climate change, and corporate and individual responsibility who are eager and enthusiastic to move their country forward. They may be in a minority right now but I have a feeling they will dominate in the end.

Czechoslavakia was created in 1918 with  the demise of the Austro- Hungarian empire, enjoyed a lowly 20 heady years of  self- determination before once again being swallowed up by Germany in 1938 and then a soviet led government from 1948.  Now 20 years after the velvet revolution, the Czech Republic has shed its former partner Slovakia, embraced capitalism more than any of the former Warsaw pact countries and become an eager new member of the expanding EU. Now that Klaus has just finally succumbed to signing the Lisbon treaty, coming into line with the 26 other member states of the new European Big Brother House, there seems to be a returning sentiment amongst Czechs that someone is trying to control them again. Hence some people’s liking for their president; he appears to be defending the sovereignty of his country, although one suspects it is all for his own personal promotion, especially with regards to his position on climate change, how many American talk shows has he appeared on now?

Many Czechs do feel however that they have him to thank for the peaceful dissolution of Czechoslovakia in 1993, a move which Havel objected to and subsequently resigned over. Biba Brodska agreed with this but her final words on the subject were, “Dekujeme, ale ted’ dete pric!” (Thank you, but now its time for you to go!”) I don’t think she is the only one.

Five years ago, on the 15^th anniversary of the velvet revolution I came to Prague with my mother and grandmother to take part in the celebrations. We gathered in a small passage just off one of Prague’s main streets where the student demonstrators had been cornered and assaulted by state troops, joined by a mere 30 people. A car drove up, unnoticed by shoppers and passers-by, and out climbed a diminutive figure with sandy- coloured hair and a small moustache, accompanied only by his wife and one bodyguard, and made his way towards the commemorative plaque. He lit a candle  and stood there for a moment of silent remembrance.  As he raised his head, we applauded him.  Then with a smile and a wave he got back into his car and was gone.  It was the great Vaclav Havel himself.

Yesterday the celebration was on a wildly different scale. Crowds of people of all ages convened at Albertov, the site where the peaceful student demonstration had started 20 years ago, with banners, costumes, stiltmen and women, flag throwers in red, white and blue overalls, banners, and mulled or “velvet” wine to be drunk. There were a few welcome speeches, comic acts and of course several anti-Klaus posters, with cries to “Bring back Havel, Klaus is dragging us into chaos”, but as one girl remarked, the people were not there to talk about today’s politics but to celebrate 20 years of freedom and to remember the people that fought so hard to achieve it, especially those that died trying. And suddenly we were off!

Carrying a gigantic Czech flag (I was next to a very jolly nun), we merrily marched up to Vysehrad, and then into the main streets, alongside the Vltava, all to the sound of the rhythmic beats of a drum group, with one very talented boy who can’t have been more than sixteen, banging six drums all at once for his fellow revellers. When we finally turned into Narodni, the street where 15,000 protestors were rounded on by the police the same day in 1989, the endless cheers and songs were stopped for a moment as we listened to audio footage of the day in question. It was a sombre moment but suddenly the crowd erupted in outrage and everyone rattled their keys in the air, a symbol of the unlocking of the iron curtain. This was accompanied by a banner of lights that burst unannounced into fireworks in the middle of the street. The unboundless enthusiasm and communal spirit in the air was palpable. A concert then proceeded, featuring several Czech musicians whose work was banned under the communists and an appearance from Havel, delighting his exuberant crowd.

The anniversary certainly raises several poignant questions about the Czech Republic’s current politics and state of society. But yesterday all I saw was joy and celebration. Not a smidgeon of scepticism or negativity to be seen.