On the Level - Postscript: Stones Cry Out/Heads Will Roll

From the glass-fronted cafeteria at Powell’s Books I look out upon springtime sunny streets and the parade of Portlanders strolling. Turning my gaze inward there is row upon row of books of every description. I am always intrigued by the variety and quantity of  material on display. So much time, talent and knowledge (perceived or otherwise) has been invested in the pages. How do they all get published and what makes these books worth writing? Is there a point beyond being printed and thereby read (potentially) by someone? What value is there in the unpublished word? How about the unread script? Why is the written word treasured? I guess I question the value, and perhaps arrogance, of my own words and the sporadic desire to transform my part-time and often half-arsed word-smithing into polished final pieces ready for publication. At this point my thinking becomes esoteric and mystical or even judgmental. At times the words of John the Baptist resonate and I feel I have something worth saying even if it feels like the voice of one crying in the wilderness. Of course, the price he paid for speaking out was the loss of his head as well as the fame or infamy of announcing the coming of Jesus of Nazareth. It’s probably vanity or blasphemy to compare myself in any way to John.

On my recent work contract in Jordan I had the privilege of visiting many sites of archeological, religious and historical significance. One of these was Machaerus where the very same John was imprisoned by the ruler Herod. It’s fascinating to walk the ground where stories you have read about since childhood actually happened. There is room for the debate on the importance of John in history and his significance in the human story but as historical fact, the basics of his life are as undisputed as most other well known characters from antiquity (Julius Caesar, etc). As I wandered the ruins on a high hilltop overlooking the Dead Sea, I pondered Bible stories of these cousins, John and Jesus. I reread aloud to my fellow visitors, words from Matthew chapter 3.

In those days John the Baptist came preaching in the wilderness of Judea, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” For this is he who was spoken of by the prophet Isaiah when he said, “The voice of one crying in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord; make his paths straight.’”

At Machaerus not much remains of Herod’s castle where a few walls and pillars show the proud position of the fortress and the many caves suggest where prisoners were held. It did however evoke visions in my mind’s eye of Salome dancing for the king on this very site two thousand years ago and, at the prompting of her mother, requesting the head of John on a platter as a reward. The view across the sea to Israel and occupied Palestine stands silent over the atrocities and abuses of power that endure in this region perhaps more than others. And in that silence, the words of Jesus from Luke chapter 19 still echo:

He answered, “I tell you, if these [his disciples] were silent, the very stones would cry out.”

Indeed. And with these words the Kingdom of Heaven was announced. A reign which declares an end to tyranny and injustice which remains aloof here, just as it has for the two millennia since Jesus died declaring it. We continue on to Madaba and the aptly named church of St John the Baptist. Having climbed the bell tower to view the panorama over the town and surrounding desert, we descend to the ruins of previous structures below and an ancient Moabite well named after Ruth (also of Bible fame) who is said to have married Boaz and lived out her days in this part of Jordan. Leaving via the crypt we pass by the ceramic head of John on a platter. A fitting way to end the day. In these days of ‘fake news’, my mind is full of questions about how we understand facts, archeological findings and the ways we present them to the world and its readership. It seems, however, that whenever people speak out in ways that challenge power, heads will roll. And you can be sure that it won’t belong to those (usually a man) in charge. Such has it been since the time of beheaded John and crucified Jesus. For all the words written so that we might learn from history in order not to repeat past ills, not many are taking much notice.

Surely the stones would cry out if they could.

Alas, silence.

On the Level - Part 2: From the Balcony

It’s stormy outside. The persistent clear skies of late autumn and heat of the small sun trap of my balcony have gone. It seems there will be no more lazy Friday mornings with feet up, sipping coffee while reading of the litany of war and horror across the region in Robert Fisk’s The Great War for Civilisation, as I gaze west to the far bank of the Jordan and the expanse of the desert beyond south Amman. In the relative comfort of the capital’s affluent west side it’s easy to forget the extreme suffering and brutality of the regimes which have dominated the area since the earliest of times. I don’t read Fisk to be morbid. Rather, I do so to keep myself grounded an in tune with the reality of this world - from the Iran-Iraq conflict of my childhood to the current Syrian Crisis - and my work which seeks to relieve some of the suffering which shows no sign of letting up here or anywhere for that matter. The only question is whether you can stomach the view, turn your eyes with honesty towards the condition which a majority of humankind experience. Will I continue to cast my eyes beyond the balmy balcony or seek out a comfortable self-preservation? 

Yesterday I walked to work in a steady drizzle, under grey skies much like those I am familiar with from London. The smell of a fire built to warm the hearth or dampened doorway pervaded the air but was more likely a lot less romantic than my imaginings. The smell of coal smoke (despite its environmental impact and bad reputation) will forever prompt fond thoughts for me of the warm, homely setting in the north of England where I was born. A refuge from exile in the cold streets. The reality here is unlike my fantasy. In Amman the heating systems are fuelled by diesel, the fumes of which permeate the lower floors of buildings. The waft of fuel is often the odour that greets me upon entering my home.

My third floor flat it is like an icy mausoleum. There is no insulation, like an airy, tiled hammam in the dead of wintery night, with the heat off. Even when the central heating is on, its ability to radiate throughout my apartment, let alone make a meaningful difference to the room temperature is limited. Often I huddle next to the radiator in the kitchen appalled by the veneer of modernity. One might assume good design, comfort and functionality but the reality here as in other countries chasing the Western curve of development is vain, ill-conceived and superficial. Large concrete buildings are preferred even though the lack of insulation and general un-liveable-ness is tangible to all, especially in the middle of winter. But also in summer when the temperatures soar to the early forties on a regular basis. The cheap and ugly wall cabinets do nothing to cheer me and I spend time surrounded by them purely due to proximity to warm drinks and the fact that the kitchen actually warms up, eventually. This room must be the least aesthetically pleasing room I have had the misfortune to spend time. I’d take a cosy mud-brick home heated by a bukhari (Afghan-style pot-belly stove) with no electricity or running water over my current situation any day. It is a mystery why countries that effectively found ways to survive and even flourish in harsh climates for centuries have seemingly abandoned all reason and common sense when it comes to building materials, architecture and design for the sake of appearances and maybe Western approval. Yes, I take a dim view of the sorry legacy of imperialists - Russian, American, British and French mostly - in the places I have chosen to spend much of my time. At least there was good beer in Congo, but don’t get me started on the Belgians!

I walk away to the only place I feel at ease other than my bedroom. The sun is out! South-east facing, and sometimes even warm on a still day in the middle of winter, this corner of the massive flat I live in with its nook-shaped couch feels like a different world. I sit there reading, with coffee in hand, and the internal woe, architectural and otherwise, fades. Soon I am down to a T-shirt and bare feet when only moments ago, indoors, I was wearing heavy boots and a down jacket. How crazy is that? As a rule it is warmer outside than inside the buildings I inhabit. Out on a day trip to al-Salt, the chaps and I relax with strong and muddy Turkish coffee on a sunny cafe balcony and survey the scene (see photo). Despite the mess of power lines and construction sites, the minarets are elegant on the skyline and the brickwork of the old buildings seems to belong, as does the call to prayer.