When I got out of bed at 4.45am this morning, I did so with a spring in my step.

As I shaved, bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed, I couldn’t suppress a grin (which added to the challenge somewhat…)

I didn’t just jump in the car, I leapt.

Even an hour and half of traffic, roadworks and contraflows couldn’t dampen my spirits.

After I parked the car, the crispness of the early morning air bit through my shirt, but my shivers were more from excitement.

I quickly downed a coffee to keep me awake for the drive back.

And then, when I saw them, I was whole again.

J, Ollie and Ella appeared round the corner and passed through the doors into the arrivals hall.  I bounded like a demented spaniel up the walkway and enveloped J in a hug that seemed about a week too short. She turned to her friend T who she’d been staying with and who’d accompanied her on the flight back from Cape Town to assist with the twins and gave one of those looks that women are trained to deliver: the one that says ’sorry about him – I’m going to have to have him fixed one day…’

In front of the double buggy, I squatted and cooed and grinned like a loon. Ollie, who had apparently only just awoken (after sleeping right through the landing, the disembarkation, passport control and the luggage retrieval) appeared to be considering either crying or feigning death to escape.  Ella meanwhile, in the true spirit of the moment, smiled her six-toothed smile and filled my heart with 10000 watts of tungsten light.

By the time we’d walked back to the short stay car park at Heathrow Terminal 1, I’d already lifted Ollie out of the buggy and was leaping about with him.  I was determined that even if he’d forgotten me in the two weeks that we’d been separated, that he would quickly love this strange man who kept cooing ‘dadadadadada’ in his face. Thankfully, it appeared to be working.

Even as they all slept in the car on the way home, a warmth spread through me and my smile got so broad it’s a wonder my whole head didn’t shear off at the jaw. They were all home. My family – and my heart – was complete again.

A truly great day.

Whamy ! There goes another Kanye West banger ! Kanye Omari I-interrupt-Taylor-Swift West is one of the most successful Hip Hop and RnB artists in those times – point.

He is the most important representer of Chipmunk Soul, which is signed by high pitched soul samples.

He says about his music: “everything I do is authentic. It comes from my soul.” And one can definitely hear that !

Instead of bore you with details about his career which you already know and how much success he has, I want to remind you on the most important singles and features of his career:

2003: Slow Jamz (Featuring Twista and Jamie Foxx)
2003: Through the Wire
2004: This Way (Featuring Dilated Peoples)
2004: All Falls Down (Featuring Syleena Johnson)
2004: Talk About Our Love (Featuring Brandy)
2004: Jesus Walks
2004: The New Workout Plan
2004: Down & Out (Featuring Cam’ron and Syleena Johnson)
2004: Selfish (Featuring Slum Village and John Legend)
2004: I Changed My Mind (Featuring Keyshia Cole)
2004: The Corner (Featuring Common and The Last Poets)
2005: Number One (Featuring John Legend)
2005: Diamonds From Sierra Leone
2005: Hey Mama
2005: Gold Digger (Featuring Jamie Foxx)
2006: Heard ’Em Say (Featuring Adam Levine)
2006: Touch the Sky (Featuring Lupe Fiasco)
2006: Drive Slow (Featuring Paul Wall and GLC)
2006: Number One (Featuing Pharrell Williams)
2006: Extravaganza (Featuring Jamie Foxx)
2007: Wouldn’t Get Far (Featuring The Game)
2007: I Still Love H.E.R. (Featuring Teriyaki Boyz)
2007: Classic (Better Than I’ve Ever Been) (Featuring Nas, KRS-One and Rakim)
2007: The Good, The Bad, The Ugly (Featuring Consequence)
2007: Can’t Tell Me Nothing
2007: Stronger (Featuring Daft Punk)
2007: Pro Nails (Featuring Kid Sister)
2007: The Good Life (Featuring T-Pain)
2008: Flashing Lights (Featuring Dwele)
2008: Homecoming (Featuring Chris Martin)
2008: American Boy (Featuring Estelle)
2008: Put On (Featuring Young Jeezy)
2008: Swagga Like Us (Featuring T.I., Jay-Z and Lil Wayne)
2008: Go Hard (Featuring DJ Khaled and T-Pain)
2008: Love Lockdown
2008: Heartless
2009: Amazing (Featuring Young Jeezy)
2009: Knock You Down (Featuring Keri Hilson and Ne-Yo)
2009: Paranoid (Featuring Mr Hudson)
2009: Kinda Like a Big Deal (Featuring Clipse)
2009: Whatever You Want (Featuring Consequence and John Legend)
2009: Supernova (Featuring Mr Hudson)
2009: Make Her Say (Featuring Kid Cudi and Common)
2009: Run This Town (Featuring Jay-Z and Rihanna)
2009: Forever (Featuring Drake, Lil Wayne and Eminem)
And here is the track you have been waiting for:

Kanye West – Im so Appalled

Tourism agency ‘Visit Scotland’ is making more job cuts in the start of 2010 in addition to the reduction of 10,000 staff hours throughout 2009.
Philip Riddle, chief executive of Visit Scotland, said, while the 2010/2011 budget was being scrutinised in Hollyrood,  that more cuts were going to be made to battle the three million budget cut in 2010.
The main department and area in Visit Scotland which is to experience savings and cut backs is quality assurance, which currently runs at a deficit of six million pounds – and an extra one million on questions and answers.
Other areas where savings are to be made are Tourism Scotland – which will have 11.7% less budget in 2010, and support services, which is to be cut enough to make one million pounds in savings.
The budget is to be cut due to the current economic hardship experienced by every sector in the country, and the extra income provided by Homecoming Scotland, which is estimated to be £44 million.
Philip Riddle said: “following these budget cuts, we are going to have to do more for less”. As in the plan provided to the Economy, Energy and Tourism committee visit Scotland hope to reduce their spending by just under six million pounds. “Although we will lose some funding, we wont lose the lesson we learnt”
In contrast with budget cuts and job losses, Philip Riddle said: “In the context of the general economic environment the season so far has been on the whole positive.” – “From the German and French markets alone, last year’s European touring campaign generated £50 million in economic additionality for the Scottish economy.”
Too attempt to battle the current economic hardship: “VisitScotland has been working hard with trade partners in China, Hong Kong, Japan, India, Singapore, Dubai and Russia. Highlights of this activity include: Sales missions to Japan, China and Russia, partnership activity with Emirates across their Asian network, partnership with IruBru in Russia on a Homecoming Scotland 2009 Campaign and a campaign with VisitBritain in our Asian markets based on value for money.”

COMING HOME.

Returning to Windhoek, after time away, is always a bit un-nerving.

As the Air Namibia flight begins its descent and the familiar dry veldt browns fill the views from the windows questions come.

1. Is my house OK?
2. Is my house still there?
3. Are the things in my house still there?
4. And if not (having failed to take dated photographs of all my possessions for insurance purposes) how am I going to prove (for insurance purposes) that they were ever there before they weren’t?
5. Are my friends still alive? Or have they died in a hideous car smash?
6. While borrowing MY car?

Once these questions start to come they don’t just stop. They bring other questions along for the final approach.

1. The garden. Did anybody remember to water it?
2. Or did they water it a) too much b) too little or c) just before a frost?
3. Did the goldfish make it?
4. Or will we find a new goldfish hastily purchased by our goldfish warden after  a) overfeeding the original b)underfeeding it or c)inadvertently spilling a bottle of toilet bleach/klipdrift brandy into its pond?
5. If there is a new goldfish will it closely resemble its predecessor?
6. And if it doesn’t, how am I to explain its metamorphosis to my hideously observant and relentlessly inquisitive daughter?

I could go on and on (and I often do, according to my wife) but in this case I won’t.

The executive summary of the questions that all landed with me as the wheels hit Hosea Kutako International Airport tarmac after a month away was this:

Was Namibia still the same place? The land I love, the land that annoys the hell out of me, the land that after visiting nearly ninety two other countries finally grabbed me and said “Hey Hugh, go for permanent residency.” Which I did.

A week may be a long time in politics. A day may even be longer (particularly if you’re one of the poor schmucks listening to Robert Mugabe or Sam Nujoma make a speech) but a month in the life of a nation can do things that might make one catch another plane ASAP and check out .

After touch down and deplaning, Namibia started nicely. Or if not nicely; familiarly. A short queue for customs/immigration/a form to be filled in/nothing revolutionary.

Status Quo seemed to be alive and well. I began to relax. Then my first shock.

“What’s the matter? You’re sweating,” observed my wife.

“The luggage!” I explained.

“What about it?”

“ It’s all there! On the carousel! It’s arrived quickly! And safely! Nobody’s misdirected it to Saudi Arabia or employed a blow torch in Joburg to dispense with the Chubb suitcase locks!”

“Direct flight,” my wife reminded me. “Gatwick, London. Ten hours plus minus.”

“But this isn’t right! Our luggage always arrives late! Or blow torched! Or…”

“That’s because we normally fly via Joburg. We could always ask Air Namibia to send it there next time we go to London. Would that make you feel happier?”

No, I accepted, it wouldn’t. But nonetheless the concerns and questions were back.

The arrivals lobby looked about right. Tourists being met by guides and bus drivers with placards; not a lot of people really and not a lot to do. All a welcome reassurance that the Namibia I’d known four weeks ago was the same…

Then no! I saw it! Somebody had improved the arrivals hall!

“I don’t like the feel of this,” I muttered. “Change is in the air…”

“You are overwrought. Go and have a cup of tea,” suggested my wife. “I’ll find a taxi.”

The airport canteen’s tea was all it should have been. Slow to arrive, lukewarm, overpriced and delivered eventually by a smiling lady who was smiling because she was having an amusing conversation on her cell phone. Excellent, thought I. Just as it’s always been. I gave her a tip.

The taxi driver was also good. He tried to overcharge. And we had an argument. I vowed to over tip him on arrival for maintaining Namibian standards.

En route to our house I asked him what was new.

He told us about some Jack The Ripper Wannabe who was using freezers and generously distributing body parts…

The news was suitably appalling.

He informed me that there was a huge drinking problem in Namibia.

Appalling, too, of course, but like the dismemberment not entirely unexpected. Last time I took a taxi from airport to city my driver had brought me up to speed on an ongoing police search for some unfortunate lady’s head. And his car had been full of empty beer bottles..

So while this news was new…in a way it wasn’t. Neither was the subsequent bombshell that petrol/water/electricity/milk/maize/oxygen/gravity prices were going up

The house when we got there was intact. So were the contents. So was the goldfish. Lazarus, my flame tree had died but it does that a lot. A couple of months of looking like a stalk, it then rises once more to fail to flower once more. I began to breathe easily.

“I think we’re going to be alright,” I said as I flipped through a sheaf of papers compiled by my house sitter letting me know that the gate motor had malfunctioned, an Egyptian was staying in our guest room, the shower had backed up and that nothing had happened to worry about.

A quick glance at The Namibian newspaper – BEE business collapses, trial postponements, Ndeshi and Jakes cartoon as incomprehensible as ever, – yup, the voice of the Land of the Brave was unchanged.

“Check this municipality bill! Water! They’re billing us $28,336.67 for June! For water! We haven’t even opened a tap! We’ve been overseas! We don’t have an Olympic swimming pool! There aren’t any leaks!”

Before I could explain that I would follow up this familiar (and in a way soothing) piece of Namibian insanity my wife put down the phone and informed me that she had to get to the office ASAP. Why? Because 20 brand new state of the art computers had been stolen from her office a mere two days after their delivery.

I popped a beer.

Namibia hadn’t changed. I was home.

And now, just as you thought it was safe to escape the Blog, I give you one from the archives…

FRIDGES FROM HELL!!!!

Hi! Hugh here. Settle down. Grab a stiff drink. And let me tell you a (horror) story.

Once upon a time it was January in Namibia, 2007. It was a hot day. Very hot. My garden was an airless cauldron, my herbs looked as if they had fainted and if I left my milk out for more than thirty seconds I was rewarded with yoghurt.

Friends were staying and the fridge in the guest flat was not behaving with consistency.

While guests said, “No don’t worry about it,” and their food evaporated I decided that my reputation as host was at stake, and that it was time I bought a new fridge.

Being a philanthropic soul I sold my old flat’s fridge for almost nothing at all and went to Fridges R Us*. There I bought a brand new fridge.

Paid cash. Was assured that it would be delivered on Monday. I was impressed. Fridges R Us weren’t just going to take my money. They were going to have my “Defy” fridge humming and refrigerating away in my flat by Monday! The very next day! That’s service, thought I.

“You hear stories about crass inefficiency, total incompetence, mind-numbing stupidity, telephonic bureaucratic ineptitude, endless “Just Hold” followed by tinkling Fur Elise music while phoning, and just plain crap service,” I told my panting heat-struck guests.

“Yes,” they agreed. “You certainly do. And the old fridge wasn’t 100%. But we’d like it back.”

“It isn’t true,” I continued (ignoring them). “All this African incompetence stuff is pure sputum! This is undiluted racist, Imperialist, neo-Colonialist, gay conspiracy, Blairite, Apartheid era, Roman empire, CIA, neo-Nazi, Martian  negativity of the sort Robert Mugabe so eloquently reminds us of! Listen up guys! I just bought a new fridge. And guess what? It’ll be here tomorrow! Just like that! Fridges R Us HAVE GUARANTEED IT!!! Who says this Continent can’t work?”

Monday arrived. My fridge didn’t. Tuesday dawned. The sun rose. And so did the mercury in the thermometers. Polite phone calls ensued. Guess what? Fridges R Us had Fur Elise on their switchboard ‘holding pattern.’

Before coming to Namibia I’d always been rather fond of Fur Elise. It’s about the only tune I can play on the piano.

When Fur Elise stopped I tended to find myself speaking to the same person who had just put me on hold and subjected me to torture by Fur Elise**. And although I’d just been talking to her just minutes before she behaved as if this was our first telephonic communication.

“Hello! Fridges R Us! How may I help you?”

“It’s me. I’m still waiting.”

“May I take your name, sir?”

“You just took it! Hugh Paxton!”

“Could you repeat that?”

“I have! Twice!”

“What is the nature of your problem?”

“The nature of my problem? What’s your problem? You’ve put me on hold twice? My fridge…”

“Just hold for me, sir.”

“No! No! Please don’t put me on…”

Hold!

Tinkle tinkle Fur Elise. Argh!

Tuesday, I was eventually informed, was difficult. But Wednesday was to be the day. It was a day. They’d got that right. But it wasn’t “The Day of the Fridge Delivery”. And neither was Thursday. Friday passed uneventfully on the “Fridges R Us How may I help you? Let me play you Fur Elise for twenty minutes” refrigeration-related telephonic communication front. Saturday was a scorcher. My humble pond was approaching boiling point. A goldfish went belly up.

After more epic bouts of Fur Elise I was ruefully informed that it wasn’t possible to bring the fridge because it was the weekend.

The fridge arrived. Eventually. And here’s the thing. It didn’t work.

Personally, and perhaps I’m a trifle naïve, I expect a washing machine to wash, a cooker to cook,  moon rockets to land on the moon, and that sort of  thing. The point of a fridge is to behave like a b****y fridge!

This ‘Defy’ one didn’t. It had ambition. It wanted to be a deep freezer. Alter the thermostat, fiddle, defrost it, nothing doing. The eggs still froze, the veggies went into Ice Age mode, frosty crusts enveloped soft drinks bottles and guests started approaching me with sentences that began with “I don’t want to be a nuisance but the fridge is still…”

A week (and lots of Fur Elise) later – my Goodness! – some technicians turned up. They had a good long look at the fridge. They said they’d come back the next day. Sure enough they did. They fiddled with knobs, gave thumbs up and all was right with the world. Tips all round. Happy smiles. An hour or so passed. The Fridge resumed its wickedness.

Eight days later, a loan fridge turned up. I was so relieved that I tipped everybody involved again. Cash. The option of offering cool drinks was clearly out of the question.

The loan fridge did its duty and then the original fridge was fixed. The faithful loan fridge was removed. And hey ho! Here we go! Our original Defy was back and defying all attempts to stop it freezing its contents.

Finally as bitter winter enveloped Windhoek making a fridge all but redundant the Fridges R Us guys fixed it. I’m now waiting for my newly purchased Electric Heaters R Us heater to overheat and burn my house down. I just pray their switchboard doesn’t play Fur Elise.

• If you are thinking, “Hang on, there is no such establishment as Fridges R Us”.  give yourself a pat on the back. You’re an astute and observant person and are correct. I have deliberately altered the name of the fridge emporium. ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ refers to the perverse bond of affection that can develop between hostages and hostage takers/torturers. In this case after roughly 150 phone calls I became rather fond of the manager. He tried so hard and had so many dunderheads under his supervision. Not much of a life, huh?
• Top Tip. If you’ve got Fur Elise on your switchboard why not bin the hideous jingle. Place informative advertisements for your products while the customer waits.

alifornia School for the Deaf, Riverside was all aflutter with activity.  The football field was blindingly lit.  Clumps of parents stood around in awful flourescent yellow vests proclaiming “Event Staff” in black letters.  A long line of cars waited patiently to pull into the parking lot.  I parked by a tree and made my way to the football field in time to see the kickoff, winding my way through a busy avenue of red easy-ups selling food, Riverside t-shirts, and phone services.  Kids ran here and there throughout the vast crowd, a sea of sporadic red.  Some of them had paws or “go cubs” drawn on their faces in red lipstick as they ran.  I took my place awkwardly at the back of the crowd, trying to find a spot where I wouldn’t be in the way, but could still see the football game.  As I watched the crowd around me, the cheerleaders trying to excite the crowd and the game happeining on the field, it struck me just how similar and different this event was from the events I had been to at my mainstream high school.

A festival atmosphere surrounded the crowd.  It was impossible not to notice how excited everyone was to be there.  As I joined them, I couldn’t help but notice how quiet the crowd was in comparison to a hearing crowd of the same size.  There was very little talking going on, with everyone signing excitedly to their neighbor.  Hearing children would run by me, chattering to their friends as they went, and students stood talking quietly in little groups.  People were constantly walking by me on their way for another drink or a funnel cake, and they would inevitably be stopped by someone who was thrilled to see them.  It seemed to me as if the whole crowd knew each other.

There was a cheer squad standing on the sidelines in red outfits.  They stood in lines, high school aged girls in red and white cheer uniforms and little elementary aged girls in white t-shirts with red pleated skirts.  They did several routines clumped together on the sidelines, staying together as well as if there were invisible music playing.  At half time when they spread apart onto the field, they weren’t as united as when they had been clumped together, but they were still very good.  As the night wore on, the littler girls joined the crowd and the cheerleaders started throwing things into the audience.  Suddenly, people were waving their arms and cheering at the girls, just to get a little football thrown their way.  It was the first time all night that the crowd seemed interested in what was happeining on the field.  The cheerleaders were great, but somehow they didn’t seem to hold my interest like they normally do at a game.

On my way back from the snack booth at half time, I ran into Red from my Deaf Culture class and I realized that she was standing with a whole group of people who I also knew.  I joined them, chatted a lot, and tried to keep one eye on the game.  For some reason, I had such a hard time paying attention to anything going on out there.  Every once in a while I would look up and realize that the score was different, but there had been no fanfare to tell me that things had changed, no collective cheer or groan from the audience about another touchdown being scored.

Overall my experience was great, if a little unusual.  It took me a long time to find people I knew in the crowd, and I spent most of my time feeling outside of things.  At the same time, people tapping my shoulder to ask me to move or signing “excuse me”, and being otherwise treated politely like a true member of Deaf Culture, made me feel like I belonged.  While things were remarkably similar to the Homecoming activities I remembered from my own days in high schoo, the lack of noise and the lack of attention payed to the game really marked this event as different.  I think that if I knew more people there I would have loved going to Homecoming.  As it was I had a very good time and would certainly go again.

Aretha Franklin is another favourite of Soulussion

Aretha Louise Franklin (born March 25, 1942) is an American singer, songwriter and pianist commonly referred to as “The Queen of Soul”. Although renowned for her soul recordings, Franklin is also adept at jazz, rock, blues, pop, R&B and Gospel music. In 2008, the American music magazine Rolling Stone ranked Franklin #1 on its list of The Greatest Singers of All Time.

Franklin is one of the most honored artists by the Grammy Awards, with 18 Grammys to date, which include the Living Legend Grammy and the Lifetime Achievement Grammy. She has scored a total of 20 #1 singles on the Billboard R&B Singles Chart, one of which also became her first #1 hit on the Billboard Hot 100: “Respect” (1967). “I Knew You Were Waiting (For Me)” (1987), a duet with George Michael, became her second #1 on the latter chart. Since 1961, Franklin has scored a total of 45 “Top 40″ hits on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.

In 1987, Franklin became the first female artist to be entered into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Franklin was the only featured singer at the 2009 Presidential inauguration ceremony for Barack Obama.

Soulussion is a band based in Edinburgh. We are very proud of our city and encourage visitors to sample the great Scottish welcome here. What better time to visit Edinburgh than Hogmanay? The official website for Edinburgh’s Hogmanay is here

The opening event of Edinburgh’s Hogmanay 2010 is the spectacular Torchlight Procession. Join thousands of torch carriers as they create a river of fire from the historic Royal Mile to the Son et Lumiére and fireworks finale on Calton Hill.

Proceeds from the sale of torches go to both Radio Forth Cash for Kids and Barnardo’s Scotland.

There are currently 1.8 million children who have at least one parent in the military and currently over 230,000 children who have at least one parent who is deployed. Unlike previous wars, US military have faced multiple deployments, leading to stresses that are different than those found in past conflicts. While many military personnel deal well with these challenges, others have catastrophic problems that impact their lives as a result. Approximately 20 percent of military sent to Iraq and Afghanistan come home with posttraumatic stress disorder [PTSD], traumatic brain injury, or depression; others find it impossible to adjust to life away from the war front, finding that relationships, mood, and cognition are impaired or disrupted. When a parent with one or more problems returns to a family on the home front, there is a ripple effect on the partner, extended family, and children. For some, the first deployment is the most stressful; for others the cumulative affect of returning to battle and then to home increases the chance of trauma reactions, marital problems, and even family violence and child abuse at home.

As trauma specialists, we really haven’t had to deal with anything like this before and many of us are finding ourselves in new territory when we attempt to intervene with children and families of today’s military. Multiple homecomings, re-integrations, and deployments are difficult for children to understand and may cause changes in behavior, social interactions, and even cognitive functioning. For example, children and teens who have endured multiple deployments of a parent may have problems with sleep, attention deficits in the classroom, and even higher blood pressure and increased heart rates. School-age children may have behavioral problems in school and lose interest in their favorite activities; adolescent development is disrupted by the deployment of a parent. Young children [up to 5 years old] may regress to earlier behaviors or cling to parents, displaying otherwise unexpressed fear and worry. Do these reactions sound familiar? Of course they do; they are similar to the responses we see in children who have experienced extended or chronic trauma.

Presently there are some programs such as Zero to Three, the Military Child Education Coalition, and the Boys and Girls Clubs of America that address the stress of multiple deployments on children. However, we really know relatively very little about how the unique aspects of the recent wars have impacted military families, particularly children.  In order to address the lack of research on intervention for children of military families, the National Institute for Trauma and Loss in Children is currently working on developing programs to address the needs of children adjusting to parents with multiple deployments, including those children who are attending schools not associated with a military base.

TLC would like to know if you are working with children of military or if have you worked with military families. If so, TLC would like your contact and employer information so that you can be involved in this initiative as the project develops. Please send an email to bsteele@tlcinst.org or phone the TLC office at 877-306-5256. It is important that TLC hear from you as soon as possible so that we will have a comprehensive list of those trauma specialists encountering children of military in their work.

Look for more information on the TLC website, the official TLC Fan Page on Facebook, and TLC’s Twitter very soon. It’s exciting to envision how we all can more effectively provide intervention to children and military families to help these children cope, thrive, and become more resilient– and we look forward to hearing your experiences on how we can all make this happen.

Be well,

Cathy Malchiodi, PhD, LPAT, LPCC

Resource

Sesame Street provides free DVDs to help younger children cope with the cycle of deployment, homecoming, and reintegration. Visit “Talk Listen Connect” at  http://www.sesameworkshop.org/initiatives/emotion/tlc to find out more and to obtain these materials.

Follow TLC’s Twitter at http://twitter.com/TLCchildtrauma

Become a Fan of the National Institute for Trauma and Loss in Children– join our Facebook Fan Page today!

One of the most significant developments in south Hebron, which happened few weeks ago, is the rehabilitation of Bir al-’Id – once the biggest cave dwellers community in the area, and in recent years, an abandoned place (forcibly evacuated exactly 10 years ago under the Barak government), completely deserted under the pressures of the occupation forces and (especially) the nearby settlers post.

The battle for the rehabilitation of Bir al-’Id has moved
now from the court back to the ground. It is an everyday battle, consuming tremendous efforts from the local Palestinian returnees and the Israeli and International volunteers who try to help them. Below is the story of Bir al-’Id which was told by one of the returnees – Mahdi – and recorded by Ta’ayush activist and world-renowned scholar David Shulman.

—————–

November 21, 2009 Bi’r al-’Id

“It’s because of the truth that we go there,” Amiel says to me before we get into the waiting “transit” van. He’s been thinking about it since last week’s lectures in celebration of Nita’s book on making peace. I’d been trying to explain in my talk why I keep going down to the South Hebron hills when, after all, our impact on the situation there is so minimal, so pointillist, the task so Sisyphean, the sense of futility so overwhelming. I claimed that despite all this, there is something good about being there, in those landscapes and with those people, and that it had something to do with the difference between truth and falsehood. There are, it seems, situations when the distinction is truly palpable. I listen to my prime minister, Mr. Netanyahu, say that he hopes the Palestinians “will get their act together, so that negotiations can begin.”

You hear the lie at once, and you can’t help noticing how thin and superficial it is, how lacking in any human depth; also, of course, how astonishingly twisted and corrupt. We live in the midst of swirling clouds of lies. “That’s the thing about South Hebron,” Amiel says. “It exposes the lie and reveals the truth in all its clarity. That is why we go there.” “Truth” sounds, at first, like a hard and heavy word, and to say “the truth,” as if there were only one and not many, only adds to the heaviness, but I can tell you that there are moments when truth is light and luminous and singular and rather simple and when it lightens the heart to see and taste it.

Like today. We start off southward in the van, but within ten minutes the police appear from nowhere and pull us over. It’s clear they know where we’re going, and why, and they must have received an order from someone higher up to harass us as best they can, so they pick on the most vulnerable among us, our Palestinian driver, Zaidan, from Beit Hanina in the north of the city. They pull him from the van into the police car, and they have rather a lot of questions to ask him about his driver’s license, his insurance, how many people he is allowed to drive in the van, whether he is being paid for this or not, and so on. They hunt through the booklet of rules and laws and, sure enough, they eventually hit on some regulation that allows them to book a charge and slap a fine of 500 shekels on Zaidan—it seems he had 12 passengers in the van but his license allows him to drive only 10. There are endless forms to fill out while we wait helplessly in the mid-morning sun and one of the two policemen swaggers back and forth scowling at us and barking threats. After an hour or so they issue a temporary license which allows Zaidan to drive for the next twenty-four hours, long enough, as it happens, to get us down to south Hebron.

We’re on our way to Bi’r al-’Id, but first we stop at Mufaqara—a smattering of black tents on grey rock– to escort the shepherds for a while, since already this morning settlers from the “illegal outpost” of Avigail have tried to drive them off their grazing grounds, as happens regularly. It’s a brilliant winter day, the air cool as fine crystal; from this point high in the hills, you can see almost to the end of the earth, each tiny trace of stone or thorn or goat-dung limned in the burning light, the hills rising and falling and eddying, awash in brown and blue and gold. The goats are happily chewing fresh winter thorns, and for the moment, at least, the settlers have retired into their ugly caravans. The moment doesn’t last very long; no sooner do we take our leave, most of us, than a mad settler dashes into the Palestinian encampment shouting curses, and Michael, who has stayed behind for just such an emergency, confronts him, and there’s a scuffle and Michael is hurt a little before the soldiers arrive.

By then we have made our way on foot through the glowing desert, over the hills, to the tiny set of stone terraces and fences and goat-pens and caves that is called Bi’r al-’Id. It seems to grow organically out of the hillside, a slight extension of the escarpment and utterly at home in it, unlike the khaki-and-grey pre-fab houses of the Israeli settlement, another “illegal outpost,” of Mitzpeh Yair that peers down at Bi’r al-’Id from the top of the hill. There’s not much left of the caves; the army destroyed them, filling them with sand and rocks, in 1999. Originally some 400 people lived here. Two Palestinian families have now returned after a long struggle in the courts. Mahdi, whom I remember from a visit long ago, tells me the story in the thick, succulent Arabic of these shepherds, his wind-wrinkled face and black eyes alive with insult and rage.

“First they drove us all away. It was November, 1999. Not just from Bi’r al-’Id but from all the villages here—Jinba, al-Halawi, Markaz, al-Taban, al-Faqit, Swaia foqa and Swaia tihta, al-Majaz, Murgh al-’Abid, Sa’aba, and Tuba. In March 2000 we came back for a little while, but the settlers attacked us over and over and then they drove us out again and we couldn’t return. They told the courts they wanted to use this area as a firing range for the army, and the courts let them do it. All these years we waited to come back, and we fought in the court, and two weeks ago the court said we could go home. The Rabbis for Human Rights were here, Rabbi Asherman came and helped us rebuild. The settlers attack us regularly, every day, they throw rocks at us and drive away the herds; last week they killed a baby lamb. Now the court says we can live here, but the army has closed the road and they tell us we cannot use it, so there is nowhere we can go, and we cannot bring what we need to build. There is a woman here who is seven months pregnant; how will she get to the hospital? My family had two thousand dunams of land, all the way down to Jinba; the settlers and the soldiers have stolen everything but fifty dunams; that is all that is left.”

(pictures taken from a November 15th photo-essay about the return, by Francesca+MC on Indybay.org)

Mahdi points, despairing, toward the tents of Jinba, far below us in the desert. It is high noon. Settlers to our left, at Mitzpeh Yair; settlers to our right in yet another “illegal outpost,” this one appropriately called Lucifer’s Farm. An immense, oddly orderly line of sheep, following the shepherds from Jinba, is spread along the whole length of the next mountain ridge, white on golden brown. You can easily see across the border into Jordan and the purple hills of Moab. I think to myself: this must be the most beautiful spot in the Middle East. A place to come home to: I am moved, seeing the terraces re-emerging from the hill. And in the strangely delicious silence of these open spaces, I am listening, wholly attentive, to the unmistakable resonance of truth.

And to the equally unmistakable echo of the lie: the army, compelled by the Supreme Court, has grudgingly allowed these people to come home, but it has cut off their only road to the outside world, no doubt “for security reasons.” They can be here, for now, but they can’t move in any direction. I don’t think we have to imagine the real reasons. Neither do we intend to accept the army’s writ. There is a tractor on its way to Bi’r al-’Id with canvas for tents and sacks of cement. We’re going to see that it arrives.

So we head back to the main road, past the gate of Mitzpeh Yair. Army jeeps pass us from time to time without stopping. I’m feeling light—the truth effect, perhaps—and almost drunk on air and color and friendship. We laugh as we walk. Someone says he’s heard that a group of gay religious Israeli men want to establish a settlement around here. Seems appropriate, I say, everything is so wild here anyway, I only wonder which side they’ll choose to be on—that of the orthodox Jewish settlers or the Palestinians? It’s far from clear, like most things. We speak of the Goldstone report on Gaza and of Abu Mazen’s call, this week, for a third, popular Intifada, a non-violent one, like at Bil’in and Na’alin. For years we’ve been saying that a Palestinian campaign of Gandhian-style civil disobedience is the one thing that could bring the occupation to an end. Israel has no answer to hundreds of thousands of Palestinians marching in non-violent resistance in the territories; if this happens, and the Palestinians declare their state, as I hope and believe they will, the Israeli peace groups—what’s left of them—will be marching beside them. Perhaps the Israeli peace camp will rise from the ashes. Happy early-afternoon thoughts: the tender, scary tang of hope.

And then, suddenly, in the distance, we see the tractor. We race down the road. Ismail ‘Aradeh is driving it, with an attached wagon full of heavy sacks of cement and grout, various poles and rolls of canvas and, crushed against the wire at the far end, one large goat and a small kid. By the time we reach him, Ismail has, of course, been stopped by the soldiers: some seven or eight of them in two jeeps have blocked the road. We protest. They phone their headquarters, or some such authority; they are, they say, “checking” to see whether the tractor can or cannot pass.

We let them know what we think about their blockade; they can see we’re not about to leave. Meanwhile, Ismail is worried about his goats. He summons me to help him; we push and shove at the closest layer of cement sacks, clearing a little space; then he opens the back of the wagon and, before I know it, a rather heavy, furry, bleating goat is in my arms. It seems to approve of its new situation; air is more plentiful now, I guess, enveloped as I am by strong goat odors. We stare curiously at one another, Goat and I, perhaps both of us wondering what the future holds in store. Ezra, however, turns up just in time to extract the scrawny white kid from the wagon, and soon both Goat and the baby are ensconced in Ezra’s car and on their way over the hills to Bi’r al-’Id. I turn back to the soldiers; Assaf signals to me, thumbs up: they’ve been ordered to open the road. The tractor starts chugging slowly uphill. It would never have happened if we hadn’t been here today.

An hour later there’s another tractor, and the soldiers are there to stop it but it’s too late now, and soon our vehicles are going back and forth to Bi’r al-’Id carrying more volunteers and materials. Will they close the road again as soon as we’re gone? Maybe. The settlers will certainly pressure the army to do so. If they close it again, we’ll come back and re-open it. But it may be harder for them now that we’ve established the principle. “That’s how it works,” Yehuda explains to one of the international volunteers. “Our task is to push the limits. Always a little further. We push and we prod and we test and the system tries to holds us down, but often we manage to shake them up and extend the range of what is possible. Maybe only a little, but each time we win, it makes a difference.” Even Sisyphus has his hopeful moments.

Look how simple things can be. It’s as if all the violent mendacity of the settlers and the soldiers and the border police who protect them and the prime minister and the minister of defense and their dark allies has evaporated in the intense limpid radiance of this winter afternoon. To keep the families of Bi’r al-’Id from their simple homes is to cleave to all that is false in the human world—to embrace the lie. Either you help them to bring their lambs and goats back to the stone pens waiting for them on this hill, or you stand in their way and hurt them. It’s your choice. Standing on the sidelines and watching passively is a lot like blocking the road. Either you help them unload the bags of cement and start rebuilding the broken terraces, or you take your stand with the system that drove them out in the first place and now continues to threaten them every day, as Mahdi says. From out of the lunacy and inherent murkiness of the world we live in, you get a sudden shaft of light: a tractor, a shepherd, a goat, a cave that is home again, a truth.

I just got home from the game.  Congratulations, Hornets, on a great season.  Thank you to all those people who filled up the Mini-Dome, the dancers, cheerleaders, and band, and especially our boys and their coaches.  You gave us something to believe in and look forward to throughout this entire record-breaking season.  I am so very, very proud of you. 

Declo Football has always been like an older brother to me; the team has definitely been chosen over me in the past, and after this unforgettable season, that is okay with me.  It makes me very happy to know that I have been a part of this legacy.  Hold your heads up, boys, this little sister thinks you are pretty fantastic.   The final score tonight doesn’t really matter–what really matters is beating Aberdeen on their home field for the first time in three years, scoring 42 points in the first quarter against Kimberly, and winning a Homecoming game for the first time in at least three years.  You should be proud for taking the Canyon Conference championship and playing a perfect game against Gooding.  Remember playing a double overtime against Malad and coming out on top.  You made it to the State Championship two years in a row.  I think and I am sure most of Declo thinks that you are something special, something amazing. 

Seniors, thanks for the ride over the past thirteen years, I could not be prouder to be a member of the class of 2010, but our ride is not over.  We have six more months to finish out an amazing year.  No one will ever forget us.  Our class motto this year is “When your life flashes before your eyes, make sure you have plenty to watch.”  When my life flashes before my eyes, which I hope is in a really long time, I will watch the 2009 Hornet Football run.  I will remember following fifty young men all over Idaho, watching them win eleven games in a row.  I will watch the “Valley Band” which with six people is still better than Parma’s marching band, and I will see a crowd three times the size of Parma’s stand behind our boys.  I will see the backs of fans reaching from end zone to end zone as they stood in front of me in New Plymouth.  I will watch a crowd of 800 people climb onto our plane for a state championship game.

We have been doing the Haka all year now, and the elementary school joined us today at the Pep Rally.  We do the Haka to call upon the souls of those who have come before us and the strength of those who are yet to come. Hornets, we  need to remember those who came before us.  Think of last year’s team who also took us to a state championship game.  Think of the parents that stood in our Pep Rally today.  Think of the hundreds of former Hornets that cheered with us tonight.  This community was called on to support our boys over the past four months, and I think they pulled through.  To all of you future Hornets and the underclassmen, remember this team.  We listened as the captains told us about their adversity they had faced before they became this amazing team.  Remember their trials, their strengths, and their weaknesses.  Call upon them when you need it. 

Thanksgiving is next week, and I know what I am most thankful for.    I am thankful to be a part of something this unforgettable, this amazing.  I am thankful for friends, neighbors, and family who follow us through thick and thin, win or loss.  I am thankful for a group of boys that defied the odds and took us to a second state championship game. I am thankful to be a Hornet.

Planning your next reunion and looking for the perfect location for your special group…where better to stay then just outside our Nation’s Capital?

Prince George’s County, Maryland is the ideal location for any reunion, regardless of group size, price point or interests. From quality hotels, to historic museums, and fun attractions, there is something for everyone to enjoy in Gorgeous Prince George’s!

Looking for a high quality hotel for your group to stay? The Marriott Greenbelt hotel has won “Marriott Hotel of the Year” and is minutes from exciting attractions such as the NASA/Goddard Space Flight Center, Six Flags America, downtown Washington, D.C., and within an hour from Baltimore and Annapolis.

Planning a reunion for a large group? Check out the National Harbor, Maryland’s newest dream gateway! It’s an incredible 300-acre waterfront destination just minutes from downtown Washington D.C., along the Potomac River. The cornerstone of National Harbor is the 2000-room Gaylord National Resort and Convention Center, the largest hotel in the Washington DC metro. The National Harbor features world-class dining, nightclubs, shopping and an amazing market, as well as special seasonal features and attractions for the whole family to enjoy!

There are a magnitude of unique and interesting historical sites, museums and cultural events to enjoy in Prince George’s. Go back in time and visit the Surratt House, home of Mary Surratt, the first woman to be executed by the United States government after being found guilty of conspiring with John Wilkes Booth to assassinate Abraham Lincoln. The museum presents a variety of programs and events, recapturing the history of mid-19th century life and focusing on the fascinating web of the Lincoln conspiracy.

Check out a performance at the incredible Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center, take in a professional sports game, or spend a day exploring Fort Washington and it’s 341-acre park offering an assortment of recreational opportunities, including hiking and biking trails and a playground.

There are plenty of great places to experience on your reunion in Prince George’s, making it the ideal reunion destination! Check out Reunion Capital USA for reunion planning advice, ideas and more!

Follow ReunionsUSA on twitter for daily updates!

Enter the Cyberhunt Sweepstakes and you could WIN a reunion package worth over $20,000 in Prince George’s! It’s only open until December 31st so enter your group today and you could be the next big winner!

Deer on the road dead

a man leaps from burning Jeep

Four cops with guns drawn

Papa Johns will be on USF main campus both Thursday and Friday Night for the USF Homecoming festivities. More than 3,000 slice’s of pizza will be handed out these 2 days.
 
USF Students should text “USFBULLS” to 47272 for great monthly offers from Papa John’s!

Ingredients:

• 1 Bag of Wing drumettes thawed
• 1 bottle of Teriyaki Sauce
• 1/4 c Honey

Preparation:

1. Mix teriyaki sauce and honey together. Put wings in a bowl with a lid so you can shake it.
2. Pour in the sauce mixture. Refrigerate overnight.
3. Pre-Heat oven to 400 degrees
4. Put wings in a deep dish pan and pour sauce over it.
5. Bake for 1 hour.

Ingredients:

• 1  (9-oz.) pkg. frozen chopped spinach
• 1  (8-oz.) pkg. cream cheese, softened
• 2  cans green chiles, minced
• 4  (8-inch) flour tortillas
• Roasted red bell pepper (from a jar), cut into 4 (8-inch) strips

Preparation:

1. Cook spinach as directed on package. Place in colander or strainer; rinse with cold water to cool. Squeeze spinach to remove as much moisture as possible.
2. In food processor bowl with metal blade, combine cream cheese and chiles; process until smooth. Add spinach; process just until blended.
3. Place 1 tortilla on work surface. Spread 1/4 of spinach mixture over tortilla, leaving 1/2-inch border on one side.
4. Place strips of roasted pepper, piecing together if necessary, across middle of tortilla.
5. Roll tortilla toward border, making sure beginning is tightly rolled, but easing pressure as rolling continues to avoid forcing out filling. Wrap in plastic wrap; repeat with remaining tortillas, spinach mixture and roasted peppers.
6. Refrigerate at least 1 hour before serving.
7. Remove plastic wrap from tortilla rolls. Cut each roll diagonally into 8 slices, trimming ends

Ingredients:

• 1 1/3 cups white sugar
• 1/2 cup flour (sifted)
• 1 cup (1/2 pint) whipped heavy whipping cream
• 3/4 cup whole milk
• 1 tablespoon vanilla
• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter

Preparation:

1. Sprinkle nutmeg
2. Combine first 5 ingredients mix well
3. Pour into deep dish 9″ crust
4. Drop small pieces of butter on top w/nutmeg
5. Bake at 450 degrees for 10 minutes
6. Reduce to 350 degrees and bake for an additional 30 minutes

Ingredients:

• 2 lbs chicken, cooked and shredded/sliced into smaller pieces
• ½ cup of sour cream
• ½ cup of green salsa – mild, medium, or hot
• 2 tablespoons of water
• 10 – 8-10 inch tortillas
• 2 cups mozzarella

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Cook chicken and set aside.  Mix sour cream, salsa, and water, and pour on a large plate.  Coat the tortillas in the sauce mix.  Add chicken and small portion of cheese to the tortilla.  Roll and place in pan.  Repeat 10 times.  Put remaining cheese on top of the enchiladas.  Cook at 400 for 15 minutes or until cheese is melted and edges are brown.  Add chopped jalapeno for additional heat.

Ingredients:

• 2 lbs ground beef – brown and finely chopped
• 32 oz spicy chili beans
• 32 oz kidney beans
• 12 oz can of tomato soup
• 64 oz tomato juice
• Cayenne pepper to taste
• Chili powder to taste

Preparation: 

Combine all ingredients in a crock or a large pot.  Cook 4+ hours or until desired thickness is achieved.  Season with cayenne pepper and chili powder to taste.  Chopped onions can be added for additional flavor.

Ingredients:

• 2 lbs potatoes (Use one bag of Ore Ida diced hash browns)
• 1 cup sour cream
• 1 can cream of chicken soup
• 2 cup shredded cheese
• 1 tsp salt
• 1/2 tsp pepper
• 1/4 cup butter

Preparation:

Stir together all ingredients and pour into 9×13 inch baking dish.  Bake at 350 for 1 hour, or until edges are crispy.

One of our authors, The Army Wife, is having a wonderful day today. After 12 months apart when he was downrange in the Sand, after innumerable phone calls, emails, letters, long distance grumbles and long distance making up, and after days of “the plane broke – it’ll be hours/days/dunno when”… He’s Home.

And I’m smiling, because after the last few weeks of sorrow and tears, THIS is the good part of being a milspouse. This is what we wait for, work for, and hope for. She’s been running around like we all do, cleaning, making a sign, shopping for the BEST outfit (hey, it WAS sweater weather after all, wasn’t it!) and I’ll bet, dollars to doughnuts, he didn’t care about any of it.. he just wanted to be there, with her. We all know that’s how they feel, but we do it anyway. It’s our “nesting” thing, I guess.

It’s A Happy Day. Just thinking about them is making me smile. Welcome home, M. B, talk to you in a few days!

LAW