The Prince of Siam's dog

I've gone blindly past this extraordinary monument on Mitcham's Corner (also known as Staples corner) probably 50 times: it's a forlorn patch of Cambridge, squashed up between 3 main roads with no obvious reason to visit (except Staples). But there is a hidden gem - a reason for anyone to visit. The Prince of Siam built a dog-trough there.

1934
In memory of Tony a dog who
gave him friendship and happiness
during his Cambridge years.
This trough is erected by his Royal
Highness Prince Chula of Siam

Wittgenstein's cat

Cambridge seems to be good at graveyards, but even so, this has to be one of the best: the Ascension Parish Burial Ground, up Huntingdon Road.


Not only does it have graves of famous people (James Frazer of the Golden Bough, a clutch of Darwins, and, of course, Wittgenstein), and inscriptions by Eric Gill...

...and a stone-masonry inside the (non-functioning) church:

It also has a beautiful Bengal cat...


...who's very fond of Wittgenstein:



And it's a perfect place for Wittgenstinian contemplation:

Palestine, Hampshire, UK

I've always wanted to go to Palestine, and then two come along at once. I'm on my way...

It's where Palestine and Zion meet, apparently:


An inspiration for coexistence, or has the conflict been playing itself out in this hood too? Now I'm looking for China Avenue intersecting Tibet Street, Devon, UK.

Back home

After a week of sleep and writing, I'm getting some distance, as they say, on the whole trip. I wish that I'd behaved differently in some ways; I wish I hadn't got so angry in Syria, as it coloured what I thought and said and wrote for the following ten days. I really wish that Detta hadn't taken things personally. Criticism sounds personal, simply because Follow the Women is Detta: it was her idea, and she runs the show - all speeches on behalf of Follow the Women are from Detta. So pointing out what went wrong is pointing out how she went wrong, which is an unfortunate situation when people just want the possibility of change.

It's horrible putting down people who mean well. The sentiment of Follow the Women is good, and it stems - I think, though others have disagreed - from genuine care for people Detta has met. But the naivety of the whole set-up leads to scenarios that I cannot possibly be positive about, and more - this is where insidious guilt asserts itself - I feel the need to be negative: the region means too much for me to allow such scenarios to go uncriticised.

Much of what there is to say about the trip itself can be easily incorporated into FtW. More communication before and during the ride; clearer aims from the beginning; workshops for everyone's questions and input - all this would instantly improve the atmosphere. People would be united, instead of feeling unrepresented. Of course, there are much deeper structural problems. Clarifying the aims sounds easy, given that the aims are there on the website, but there was so much disagreement, including fundamentally contradictory reasons for being there, that in practice this is difficult. For example, Detta stands firm with Sahar when the latter declares Israeli women are not welcome. But Detta has worked hard to bring Israelis on board; she is proud of this and in my opinion rightly so. Some people are there for the women, others say that this is irrelevant. And so on. It is not impossible to sort this out: Detta has to make some decisions and stick to them. But there are another level of problems for me.

No-one seems to know exactly what we are trying to do. Peace for Palestine, Detta said on the last night I was with FtW, in a workshop in Palestine; that's what it started with, that's what it's all about. Many people didn't know that, but even if that is stated as the only aim, there is still the problem that no-one can agree on what peace for Palestine would look like. And no-one seems to be thinking about what we are doing for this mysterious peace.

Taking the message home, is a common theme. What message? That Palestinians have tough lives and wait at checkpoints? This has been just a few days of the two weeks. What is the truth of life in the other three countries that we have seen? We have seen little of the real life of the countries - this is impossible with 250 women in tow, so where will the truth be found?

A view expressed by many was that it felt like a tour group; we were touring four countries in a novel way, cheaply. We were staying in nice hotels, doing tourist things, and on top of that cycling. Few people raised sponsorship so we were not taking money into Palestine.

"Everyone should pledge to do three things" said Detta. "Whether that's trying to get Israeli's on board, or writing an article, or writing letters to your MP, or giving a talk at your work, college, local club: if everyone did just a few things the aims of Follow the Women would be realised." But what would people say? Steph's point that no-one else takes any responsibility was born out by a completely silent response to Detta's request for help. But as I heard later, people didn't feel able to volunteer for something so undefined, something unknown. What I really don't understand is how people have worked so hard for results so unexamined. I want to know what we've achieved.

I have an inkling of some negative achievements, as I've already written about. We have given free publicity to politically dubious regimes and parties and also tourist boards. We have given support in word if not in deed to anyone we have passed along the way, often giving a false sense of what the rest of the world thinks: this takes cross-cultural understanding the wrong way.

Perhaps all of this is irrelevant compared to the feeling of support we give to the Palestinians; also, the message that the Palestinians have a hard life is certainly worth taking home: as Detta put it, "The Palestinians are the ones without a voice". But I wish I'd known that it was all about Palestine before I went, and I can't help thinking that if it was only about Palestine, we should have spent more time in Palestine and less enjoying the hospitality of the region.

5 Star Hotels

"The best thing about Follow the Women was the hotels."

Spoken by Mette, agreed with by many.

What are the ethics of staying in 5 star hotels when on a peace ride? I realise that some luxury abodes have been sponsorship in kind (and the problems with that is an entirely separate issue), so it's not as if we're depriving the needy - even if we slept on the street the Palestinians wouldn't get any more money. But sometimes they have been chosen by the organisers, despite being paid for out of the FtW pot. Some people think that putting money into the non-existent tourist industry in Jericho is a good thing (who does stay in that resort when we're not there, anyway?). This is an old economic argument, used to justify servants and other luxuries, but is it really true that the money gets to locals in Jericho? Does a Palestinian own the hotel? How much are the service staff paid? If we stayed in a hostel would the poor locals get more than the waiters at the hotel?

What's really strange are the juxtapositions. We go home from visiting refugee camps to hot baths and room service. A day spent in passing borders and checkpoints is finished with sheesha on a terrace overlooking the pool complete with palms and a multitude of waiters. Many are bridling with the money and time wasted on luxury, which doesn't add much to an understanding of the country.

"And don't even get me started on the carbon footprint of 250 women in 5-star hotels" says American journalist in Jordan. An environmentally disastrous bike-ride...how very original...

Follow the Bush (Mrs)

Mette and I blag our way into the "Western Wall Tunnels" (488 metres of tunnel running alongside the buried Wailing Wall): apparently, you’re supposed to book a place by email two days in advance so be warned. It's an incredible museum; the result of over a hundred years of archaeological work containing many thousands of years of rich Holy Land history.

One of the miracles of the wall is a huge stone which has cracked to produce a perfect map of Israel. “Oh, including the occupied territories” said Mette when she saw. A giggle from a Brit, silence from the rest.

We watch a short film about how to excavate a site, and when we are leaving our Stepford wife of a tour guide points to a chair and said “that’s where Mrs Bush sat this morning”. We left one group obsessed by a first lady to follow another.

Safe bathing - with an armed guard

Mette, Jutta and I have lunch together in Nablus after a morning with the Women, and go into town by ourselves. It's lucky I didn't get my only tourist impression from Bethlehem...Nablus was aggressive, explicitly.

"Is your grandfather Jewish?" I was asked (in Arabic, nobody here spoke English), after asking the way to the Tomb of Joseph (in the Danish guidebook). Erm, no. Admitting to Danish nationality didn't go down at all well, and Mette and Jutta retired to play volleyball with the children (all boys) around. "I'm Hamas" said another man (no women to be seen; men appearing from nowhere). "What do you think about that?". I explain we're tourists. "Jewish?" Erm, no, again. "Why do you want to see Joseph?" We've just been to Jacob's Well, and the guidebook says we're near to the tomb.

Eventually they point the way, and the posse of boys accompanies us, jostling and generally harassing us. We try to go into the bombed out shell of a tomb, but shouts from police and soldiers stop us. We are met by the same suspicion though reined in: "Why do you want to go in?". They radio for permission ("Just say British" says the superior after hearing "British and Danish") and then lead the way. "Israel did all this damage" they tell us, fairly needlessly. I ask how old the tomb is. "Old, old, 200 years at least". I look very baffled indeed. "Surely not", I say, wondering how bad my Arabic is. "Thousands, right?" They look baffled. "The son of Jacob died min zaman [ages ago]." "But this isn't the son of Jacob".

Light dawns.
- There are two Josephs?
- Of course.
- This isn't the Prophet Joseph?
- No no no!
- Where's the Prophet Joseph?
- In Egypt.

We laugh.

They laugh a lot, and explain that this is a very famous Muslim Sheikh from the 18th century, targeted by the Israelis on account of his importance to the locals. No wonder they were suspicious.



Soon after we bump into an official from the tourist board who is horrified that we are by ourselves, and gives us an armed guard, who then waits for an hour while we bathe - in a lovely Turkish bath with all trimmings - steam, scrub, massage, soak, shower and lying/dozing on a huge heated marble table. A waste of Palestinian police time? Almost certainly, but almost certainly nicer for him too: sitting drinking tea waiting for bathing Western beauties to appear.

We return to the Women restored, though of course everyone is jealous again, and we are being majorly disapproved of - not without cause. Looking back, I should have left days ago.

Finally: It's all about Palestine

We're in the Best Eastern Hotel in Ramallah and have had an impromptu workshop, courtesy of Stine. A few hours on, I feel terrible that I suggested Stine for the role, given the grief she got - people reacted so badly when all she was asking for was feedback about the aims of FtW in order to start organising a conference in December.

Stine is so clear, she is so positive, she is so committed, but just asking for a discussion she had to field so much criticism from tired, emotional and in many cases angry women. It wasn't clear quite what the reason for all the aggression was. Later, Elaine told me that asking for Israeli involvement was an attack on the Palestinians, despite the fact that FtW have tried to get them onboard.

When the discussion was supposed to be opened up, someone stands up and says "What I want to know is where's Detta?". Poor Detta. In asking Stine to do this for her, she opened up the whole organisation and I was pleased about it. But she came forward, and told us how it is.

"For me, this is all about Palestine. That's how it started, and that's what it's about. And if the aims change" - she starts getting choked up - "then, well...then I won't be part of it anymore". There are cheers from some, while others look on disillusioned.

This is the truth of it: not the FtW website, not the media stories. It's not about the region, it's not about women, it's not about dialogue: it's about showing solidarity with Palestinians.

But what is this website I've run across? "Detta's Dream" c. 2004: A Youth Counselling Service. What DOES she want? What have we done towards her dream of this service? For that matter, what solidarity have we shown the Palestinians? I guess we have given many hope, and that really is fantastic. But where does it lead? What will have changed by next year's trip?

Oh Little Town...

Ea and I decide to go to Bethlehem, and before we know it we have a taxi full - Mette and Camilla are keen to come too. There are others; Marie in her principled way sticks to cycling to show support to the Palestinians who have prepared for us. Others just cannot fit in our taxi and it's too late to find their own. Later, people are eaten up with jealousy when they hear, and I start to feel even worse about nominally still being a part of the group.

But it was awesome.

We are dropped at the Church of the Nativity, but head straight to the Peace Centre on the other side of the square. It's huge and new, and very welcoming: Mette is directed to toilets and I stay to hear about activities in Bethlehem, which are many. We pick up a map and sundries: the programme for the Palestine Literary Festival (which has unfortunately just finished - organised by Ahdaf Soueif; other delights included Seamus Heaney, William Dalrymple, Esther Freud, Andrew O'Hagan...I'm researching into how many went straight onto the Israeli Literary Festival.)

(And "Palestine Now" - substantially bigger than Time Out Jerusalem (or was it Israel - I remember events for Tel Aviv; Mette or Jutta, will you let me know?).)

We head up the hill, looking for coffee, and revelling in the bustling life, pretty buildings, souqs stacked with fruit and veg...we stop and look at George making pancakes; they're a food for Ramadan, but he, as a Christian, cooks them all year round and is therefore very popular with Muslims. We want to buy some, but he explains that they're for taking home and stuffing with nuts and honey and baking. At our crestfallen faces he takes some fresh ones and sprinkles them with sugar for us, refusing to take money.

We continue up, eventually stopping for water and coffee. We then walk down the hill, stopping to take photos of churches (there seem to be hundreds and hundreds), buy raq chickpeas (which we eat like peas in the pod), browse in the souq...we then try and find a restaurant to meet my friend Ben in. This involves lots of walking (despite the endless "just 10 minutes from here") and getting lost, and so we see a lot of the city: streets which remind us of Italy, streets which remind me of a richer Damascus, churches with posters for Christian martyrs...and all the time we do not see a single other westerner. We are given free bread when we ask the way, and then a lift when it happens again: "We want you to know that this is a good place to visit" says the man taking us. We have a coke at the restaurant while waiting for Ben, but a text comes to say he's down the street: the waiter refuses to take money just for drinks. We have so far been given pancakes, bread, a lift, and drinks, for free.

We track Ben down and have lunch, and pick his brains about the region: finally we have a chance to ask anything we like, and we take it. (Sorry Ben. Come back to England soon and I'll buy you a pint.) So we finally understand about the different dates for the "celebrations" of the founding of Israel (different calendars, and the "birthday" happening in the evening whereas Nakba, the "catastrophe" starting the next day); we learn about Christianity in Palestine (a not as great a proportion as in Syria, but it's up to 30% in Bethlehem): we even learn to hope for the area. Ben's lived and worked in Palestine, and is still optimistic...it was so wonderful to see him...

But he is busy, so we wend our way back to the Church of the Nativity. We have a brief stop to commiserate with the poor dying tree of peace (I tried to give it the kiss of life), and then have our only negative impression of Bethlehem. A man shows us the way to the Milk Grotto telling us that "it shuts in 10 minutes, we must go now, now" - we had an hour or more, but he took us via shops of his friends. "Very good prices for you, you know our children are starving, we have to feed our children" he tells us manically, again and again, and it gets horrible claustrophobic. I know that their tourist industry has died down somewhat, but that hassling that happens all over the world never goes down well with me. I gave money in the church, but I'm afraid we didn't give him anything to help feed his children.

The Milk Grotto, where Mary stopped to feed Jesus to keep him quiet on their flight, was naff: the Church of the Nativity was glorious. We get an equally hyperactive guide, but he was entertaining and fun and nice. He whipped us around the three churches (Catholic, Armenian Orthodox and Greek Orthodox), and took us down into St Jerome's little cave (WHY did he work in the dark anyway?) and then to the sight of pilgrimage itself: the stable. Or rather, cave. We tried to fix our childhood nativity scenes into the place but it really was tough, and our guide objected to my notion of an inn: "It's a church!" It made me laugh too much to explain: the idea that Mary and Joseph and the donkey stopped at a church and asked to stay in their stable. But anyway...we couldn't see the real manger, we were told, as the crusaders stole it and took it back to Italy, but we did see the exact spot Jesus was born, marked by a star, and we felt the circle in the centre of the star and made our wishes known to Jesus...

The Catholic part was newer and plainer (and there was a big tour group singing Away in a Manger! Brilliant): the small Armenian and the large Greek parts were fantastically bling. We asked if there were ever fights "Oh yes" the answer came breezily, "sometimes a lot". He claimed his pitiful fee and a tip and ran off.

We got a public service back to Ramallah in time for the dinner on the schedule, but of course the group were behind, and were at Yasir Arafat's tomb. (I managed to say in front of Palestinians, "oh, I don't care about Yasir Arafat." Oops. One told Camilla "Your friend really should be careful." Oh dear.) We sat in the hotel lobby with tea and computers. Dorothy and Carolynne (Irish) joined us and listened with jealousy to our stories...

The Wall

On the way to Bethlehem we see the security wall, which wasn't so fun. It's a deeply disturbing, sinister presence in the landscape, despite some great graffiti. Our driver told us the story of his friend's uncle's house: the wall has gone straight through it, meaning it's a 1.5 km. walk from the bedroom to the bathroom.

Give us this day...

...our daily burger!


(Jericho, Palestine. N.B. The Lord Burger.)

Jericho

Another country, another 5-Star hotel. It's getting to me. I defect to the Danish team on arrival and this is the way it stays until the bitter end - to the relief of both sides I should think.

The programme is changed leaving us with an unexpected couple of hours. Tina (red-head not blond), Camilla and I jump on bikes and head into Jericho itself, realising too late that three women on bikes are not the same proposition as 170, and I suddenly feel vulnerable. But we push on until we find a tourist attraction, and impulsively (thank you Tina! Please send me photos!) hop on a cable car and get ourselves up the Mount of Temptation, where Jesus spent 40 days and nights, meeting and resisting the devil. We just stuck to mint tea and the amazing views of picture-book Holy Land and the Dead Sea until the sun went down. Magical.

Man Following Women

Jawad, French Palestinian, has persuaded the film-maker Michko Netchak to Follow the Women. Michko was sold (weren't we all) by the ideals of the project, which Jawad had seen close up last year. They arrived and Michko found a rather different attitude. "He's here for the women. Today he promised we could go to a refugee camp, but look at him, we arrive at a hotel and he goes straight to the pool with the ladies".

He's a sleaze, it's true, and after yelling at him in Arabic he melts away, from me anyway.

What controls are there on the men who like to follow women?

The Promised Land

Another country, another border crossing...

There was a similar eruption of group joy as at the Syrian-Jordanian border, but this time it is after a few hours lying in the sun with ice-cream and water and pastries (bought from the one little kiosk giving atrocious exchange rates for our dollars and euros). The Turkish team have been held up for not having visas, despite having letters instead from the Israeli ambassador in Ankara saying they would have been granted a visa but needed their passports to be Israel-free to get to Lebanon and Syria. Conspiracy theories are rife, but it does seem as if this could be a legitimate reason to hold people up. The border guards seem young, and could just be following the rules rather than keeping back a pro-Palestinian peace group....but who knows...apparently there's something every year which means hours at the border.

In my version's favour: the behaviour of the guards when the Turks finally come through. We've formed a triumphal arch, singing and chanting peace messages (loudly), and they are taking photos and laughing at us. Even better, one girl (with a huge gun) is clapping along as well as smiling, and was she even chanting? It looked like it to some...

And more on my side. "These people aren't monsters" said one Turkish girl. "They were just doing their job".

Linda

Another homage to Catalonia: during a relaxing evening in a resort by the Dead Sea the Catalans arrange a viewing of a Channel 4 documentary about Linda, one of the Palestinians on Follow the Women. We watch on someone's laptop, and later move away from the music to ask Linda questions.

The documentary showed Linda's life in Bethlehem as her husband went in and out of prison, sometimes for years at a stretch; it took us through ups and downs of being a single mother and fighting to even see her husband, let alone the endless appeals for trials and waiting for answers and repeated knock-backs.

But here she is with us, able to fill us in with more details and even laugh at times. Linda is one of the more extreme Palestinians, vowing never to speak to an Israeli woman until there is peace; vowing never to speak Hebrew. She is an inspirational figure, not only because of the strength shown in the documentary, but her choices since her husband died. A trained nurse, she goes into schools and teaches sex education, a difficult and sometimes disapproved of job.

Palestine seems full of these very strong women, and I don't know what to think about the future for peace: the ability to carry on living and helping and building as much of a life as humanly possibly has to be weighed against the complete inflexibility of the mindsets. Is peace possible when people will not consider speaking to the people who have humiliated them? Maybe it is, but it won't be achieved with a bike ride which is only for communication.

FtW gets some blog bashing

FtW has been picked up on Jewish blogging, as "Follow the useful idiots". They have put it perfectly:

Note that the group didn’t plan to show solidarity with the women of Israel. And also note that now that they are in Syria, things aren't so calm in Beirut anymore. And it’s their current host who’s fomenting the violence.

With this in mind I'm surprised they've been so charitable to call us "useful".

It turns out a variety of people have actually tried to get Israeli women on board, contacting Women in Black and Women at Checkpoints among others, but with no joy. Detta puts it down to not finding anyone to take on the work, but a Dane suggests the problem may be with the determinedly anti-Israeli sentiment to be found everywhere attached to FtW. Pro-Palestinian is one thing; aggression puts peace-makers off.

Teamwork

I first got to know about the workshop on the last day in Syria. "If Marta thinks that people want a meeting at 9.30 at night she’s got another thing coming" said Brit Stephanie. "I’m fed up with the same complaints and ideas coming every single year, and nobody doing it themselves. Elaine and Detta have full time jobs. People should do things themselves if they want something done".

This is a big problem of FtW. There are many new people every year, but of course the core group have seen the same "complaints and ideas" come up year on year, and perhaps do not want to revisit them. And Elaine and Detta certainly work supremely hard to get such a massive project up and running (cycling?). But complaints and ideas are supposed to help move FtW along, help it develop and be more effective - we are all here because at one point we believed in its aims, and we want those aims realised.

It's quite depressing when the workshop starts with a presentation on last year's suggestions, which include many of our own problems. Some of them don't need any extra work: for example, the programme is too full, and more sleep would make a massive difference to everyone, but it's actually less work to sort out fewer activities. Workshops I've already banged on about I know, but as last year's participants also realised they would have made the whole trip more comprehensible to everyone, and given a forum for ideas and learning, which many of us are here for.

And so on. When we finally get onto discussions in smaller groups it is past 11 and many leave for bed. On our table it quickly turns out that I am here for almost opposing reasons than others, when the issue of including Israeli women turns up. I feel attacked by some of the comments: apparently it is me who doesn't understand FtW and I should learn rather than suggest. Catalonian Gisela gently supports me "It is called Follow the Women" she reminds one rather militant Palestinian, who only wants support for Palestine in general: "Why don't men and children deserve peace too?".

So the workshop is actually making me feel worse. Perhaps it should be a benign dictatorship rather than take everyone's point of view: if there was clarity on the website there would be unity on the ground. Instead, we are all here for a woolly bundle of reasons and spend a lot of time arguing fruitlessly.

And if Israeli women are invited, I was told, all the Arab girls present will not come. Let them not come, says one Italian. Those that come in their place will be more able to think of peace.

Jordan

Mentally, I’m beginning to leave FtW, but I haven’t got quite enough integrity to leave physically, as Mary and Norma have. It’s the same for others: “I feel like I’m sacrificing my principles” says one Dane, but we all agree that it’s worth sticking it out for a variety of reasons; it’s an easy way into Palestine (“we’re just a tour group anyway” says Jutta), journalism (there are many journalists around, all wondering how to write about FtW), sticking things out, wanting to change FtW. Stine especially believes in the latter and wants to save the whole idea of FtW – she’s inspiring me to be more positive.

It’s a shame that I’m already tired and emotional in Jordan, as the co-ordinator here, German-Jordanian Marta, is wonderful. “At least I am a woman” she says, and has planned the best things that have happened in the trip so far. But I’m starting to drop out of the activities – I’m not cycling, and I’m feeling more and more alienated from the spirit of the enterprise.

So today I've been to the famous Books@Café, on Rainbow Street in west Amman, close to Kate’s and KK’s place (where I’m staying). I made my way to the Roman Amphitheatre (the only tourist site in Amman), guided by the sound of the peace chants. It was a lovely day, and actually great to see the girls...and in the evening comes the bit we’ve all been begging for: a workshop on Follow the Women. Woohoo for Marta.

Palestinians on a peace cycle: there will never be peace

Instead of just moaning, as I and lots of others are guilty of, the Catalonians are pro-actively organising mini-meetings and interviews. One bus journey has been spent with a small group of Palestinians.

We talked for about an hour, during which time we covered: life in Palestine; the electoral system; the present political situation (and their own views); and finally the peace process. I was also trying to talk them out of their naivety about the West, and what we, as representatives of the West can do for them, and trying to move the conversations on, away from the victim stories and onto some sort of plan for the future.

They do not want a two-state solution – that is impossible; it is their land, all of it. (In fairness, these are among the more extreme Palestinians on FtW, and they are not all like this.) A one-state solution is impossible because Israel is so strong and America backs Israel. They don’t want dialogue because they have tried that and they no longer trust Israel. So what’s the solution? Shrugging: “We don’t know. We have no idea.” So what next; what can we do now? “We don’t know.” Do can we have peace? “We hope so; we always hope so.”

Right. I start again: no one-state solution, no two-state, no dialogue: no peace. Right? They look crestfallen. Right. No peace? No. Never? Never. Khalas? Khalas. Abadan? Abadan.

I don’t know what we’re doing here.

A border with a difference

Jordan seems bent on proving to us that crossing a border can be a joy. We are met with not one, but two bands, and the whole area of customs and passport control is shut down for a party for us. I’m not sure what happens – perhaps because of general exhaustion, or relief after hours on buses – but we all erupt into dancing and singing and laughing, for hours. Sometimes the bands compete with each other and so one has to go outside, taking many women with them, but then we come together again for dibke, the widespread traditional Arabic communal dancing, performed in a endless chain.

The food comes out after an hour or so, and we settle down outside to eat, and talk to our new Jordanian supporters (again, mostly men, although at least here the co-ordinaters are women and definitely working within the spirit of FtW that I would like to see more of).

Again, not entirely reality, but more joyful than anything so far. Welcome to Jordan…

Safety First

“If you don’t have a helmet, you don’t ride” shouts the exasperated Jawwad from Beirut by Bike who is looking after the team. This is never enforced, in fact people seem oblivious, despite the four accidents on the first day in Syria, including one who would have smashed her skull without a helmet, instead of breaking her nose. (There was also a journalist lying in the road for a good photo: he hadn’t recovered consciousness by the evening.)

People are complaining about the Arab girls’ ways of cycling, especially Palestinians and Syrians. They are not too stable, and stop and turn (and wobble) without warning. Jawad helps to explain: “It is not allowed to cycle in this country especially in Damascus, so they have no experience. We sent them to the gym 3 times a week for a month before the ride but it is not enough, and not enough to get any street sense.” Steph, the attendant first-aider and Elaine’s staunchly supportive sister chips in: “They cycle around holding their food and their water and bags in their hands, and wonder why they can’t keep control of their bikes”.

We are supposed to be empowering women by encouraging them to ride; many say that it is a breakthrough for them just to be allowed to be on a bike, which is great. But what price? We are probably lucky that nothing worse than a broken nose happened.

Leaving Syria

“F*** that country” says Jordanian KK “and come chill with us”. He’s not understood that I need to get out of the group rather than out of the country but now he comes to mention it I am feeling much as I did when I left Syria after a year in 2006: pretty revolted. It’s the gap between what we’ve seen and what’s going on: mazut, the fuel, went up from 7 to 25 SP (Syrian pounds) per litre - that’s a rise of over three times in one hike while we were there. There were mass protests: life is already hard in Syria, so what will happen when winter kicks in I dread to think. I spent the winter of 2005-6 in layers of jumpers, even inside the apartment, because mazut was too much for us. (It actually turned out that Yusuf the doorman was stealing most of it so we probably could have afforded it, but still, it was too expensive then, even without theft, for others.) So people are worried and scared about the future, and we are having dinners and parties. Of course, we have to eat, and of course we are cycling so there isn’t a lot of time for exploring the society, and with so many women it is difficult to do so, but we have been overprotected from reality. The roads are closed and lined with MTN and FtW publicity and pictures of the president only. This is the image of Syria we have to take away with us – and apparently to tell the people back home.

I don’t know if I can carry on with FtW after this: we have been used to promote the Syrian regime which I have hated for years.

Syrian hospitality

We have been greeted at every pitstop with flowers and smiles and food and water; with people lining the roads calling and waving and chanting; often there are shows of traditional dances and music, much as in Lebanon. There have been so many dances that I’m having trouble which costumes come from which part of the region/country/area, but it is clear that they have all been specially prepared for us. Who is feeding us, I wonder; many people in Syria, especially outside the cities, are poor, and rely on charity themselves. Are the sponsors trying to give a good impression of the country, with the famed Arab hospitality? [Even the bogeymen Israelis know about this: later, a representative from the Israeli ministry of tourism asks us about it – “yes, I’ve heard it’s wonderful round there”.] The welcomes are not spontaneous, that much is clear, but they seem genuine and enthusiastic. It is difficult to talk in depth, even in Arabic, as there is little time, and they are shy and mostly ask the questions: “do you like our country? Do you like our food? Is it different to your country?”. Mette pushes it on this one: “Well, yes, it’s different; we live in a democracy, you know?”. The doctor who wants to make it to Canada looks just a little uncomfortable. “Yes, I know. It’s just like this.” Why does he want to go to Canada? “Well, you know.” We do know.

The children are also very prepared, often giving their own performances (sometimes military complete with uniforms), and often with placards prepared at school: [photos]

We are not acknowledging their nationalism. A common chant has been: “Allah, Syria, Bashar, only” repeated over and over – not particularly welcoming to a large group of foreigners. Would we welcome foreigners with such explicit displays of our country's good? Norma tells me about Northern Ireland during the Troubles. "People needed strangers to tell them that they were kind, hospitable, welcoming, sociable, and they needed to tell themselves it too. They were always worried about what the world thought of them, and they needed that reassurance."

Yes, Syria is hospitable, but no-one is questioning the why and the how and the wherefore.

The Golan Heights

[Back home, Petros asks me: “What was the worst bit?”. It was as follows.]

I have been here before, with the Peace Cycle, in 2006. The point is to go to the Shouting Hill and yell messages through a loudspeaker; there are loudspeakers on the other side of the UN-patrolled valley, and this has been the method of communication between families divided by Israel’s occupation for 40 years. (I don’t know about mobiles. Perhaps they carry on like this just to annoy the Israelis living there – I’m intrigued to know what the settlers think about random foreigners yelling at them from time to time about peace.)

This visit is very different from 2006. There are many more people on the trip, and the sponsors are much more powerful: everyone was given a Syrian flag, and the observation platform is covered with women enthusiastically supporting an oppressive dictatorship.

It makes me angry. And then the speeches start, and it makes me cry. The last time was with dear Syrian friends, and we laughed about the Israeli houses being so much nicer than those on the Syrian side – we suggested (in whispers) that the Syrians over there just shut up and take Israeli citizenship, with the jobs, the money, the education and generally higher quality of life that that entails.

Of course the land, in international law, belongs to Syria, and so some element of justice is on their side, but there is still no need for the nationalism. I ask Detta about it. “I hate all flags” she says, “but there was nothing I could do about it this time”. She’s in a difficult position, I can see, given the sponsors are part-owned (at least) by the president's family.

LANDMINES

This is so terrible that I can’t believe no-one’s screaming at Detta about it.

When I got off the bike at the Golan Heights, I started talking to local women, and so lost the group for a bit. They were wandering round the bombed out villages (left by Israel in 1967: never rebuilt as “a statement” the locals tell me), taking photos, and – because the organisers in Syria were men and there weren’t enough toilets – crouching in bushes. Someone from the organising team saw them and yelled: “Come back! Come back! There are LANDMINES in there!”.

Recap: WE WERE NOT TOLD THERE WERE LANDMINES IN A VILLAGE WE WERE VISITING.

Perhaps Esma al-Assad should follow Diana’s example more closely.

Is this Palestine?

The second day in Syria: I cycled! I was standing with the Danes, and as people were cycling off Jutta’s bike was left – “she’s on the tandem” said doctor Mette, “just get on!”. I slapped on the suncream and followed the women.

We’re heading for the Golan Heights, and I realise what I’ve been missing. It’s a wonderful way to travel through a country, especially alongside so many women.

At one point, a sweet Polish girl cycles alongside. “I’m sorry to be so ignorant” she said, “but can I ask you some questions?”. I feel so sorry that people who came to learn feel ashamed to ask questions. “Is this Palestine?” No, I say, feeling alarmed that others don’t have any comprehension of where we are and what we’re doing either. I explain that we’re in Syria, and Israel is occupying the Golan Heights, and I point to the Israeli settlements, and the UN patrols.

So she asks: “What’s it got to do with Palestine?”

Good question. Detta only speaks of Palestine: she has said explicitly this is the only reason we’re here, despite the multiple aims on the FtW website including supporting women's rights, which is why I'm here. So what has it got to do with Palestine? It’s the same old rhetoric: Israel bad: therefore anyone fighting Israel is to be supported. Further information and discussion is not required.

I carry on talking to the Pole. She tells me the reason for the land being so hummocky, based on her own knowledge. “It is like the land at the end of my garden, in our orchard. Our land was the frontline in the second world war: once when my father was digging in the orchard, when he was a child, he actually found a body. The bombs and grenades left their mark on the land, just as you can see here: it is all, what do you say, wavy?”

Others have contributions from their own different backgrounds, most notably the Irish. But these conversations are haphazard; taking place on buses or bikes or while eating - all interesting and stimulating but we are all begging for group workshops to share and develop the ideas.

But nothing doing.

Disneyland Disaster

As with all Follow the Women days, we get more and more behind schedule as the day progresses. We leave the presidential palace two hours late, and make our way to one of the most expensive restaurants in Damascus, Elf Layla wa Layla, or A Thousand and One Nights, on the airport road. It is open air: it is freezing: it is windy. We are handed light cotton coats by the Arabian-dressed "servants", complete with curly-toed shoes and turbans, and led to tables covered with mezze - humous, moutable, fatoush, tabbouleh, labneh etc - all the normal elements of an Arabic dinner, but in uber-luxury-style.

Ola (an old Syrian friend, previous Syrian co-ordinator but not participating this year as a protest against the sponsors control) appears, cold and annoyed, and whisks me off to her table. Soon after, the show begins, and the Disneyland theme emerges. It is the 1001 Nights story, shown in dance and speech - speech in Arabic which few understand - complete with a flying carpet and fireworks. Sumptuous food is served throughout.

It's another obscenely expensive part of the Syrian trip: we are staying in a 5-star hotel; eating at the most expensive restaurants, and most horrific of all: we do not know that Palestinian and Iraqi women are there as our guests. They have prepared presentations and presents for us; they have been waiting in the cold, and we ignored them, because we did not know that the restaurant had been booked out and everyone there was our guest. We thought it was public, and people were out there as a normal, albeit expensive, evening outing.

One woman turned to Mary: "Do you believe in that there can be peace?". "I have to" Mary said, "that's why we're here. Do you?" "I used to. But then I see people who say they're here to help, coming to the most expensive restaurants, and you don't even want to talk to us. If you don't care, who does?" [Mary, I didn't record this conversation, it's from memory - am I right? Email me if not! I'm sure that's the crux of it, anyway.]

Mary, and of course everyone else who gets to know about this, is horrified. What exactly are we doing here? Is it a tourist trip? What are we supposed to say when we get home: "Syria has lovely hotels and restaurants"? I suppose it does, if you have the money to enjoy it. Yay for Syria, unless you mind about the political prisoners held without trial and subject to torture, or the lack of freedom of speech, or the biased education system which does not lead to any sort of cross-cultural understanding.

The Princess Diana Touch

We were invited to the Presidential Palace – renamed for the occasion the People’s Palace – causing quite a stir of excitement. The First Lady, Asma al-Assad is a keen cyclist and normally cycles with FtW, but this year she hosts us at the palace instead. We pile onto buses with maximum security country by country, counted and herded like sheep (a feature of our time in Syria) and drive up the hill to the obscenity that is the PP ($90 million paid for by Rafik Hariri according to Syrian Shadi; he says “why would we kill him if he gives us presents like that?”). It’s not only obscenely big, it’s also obscenely ugly. “Typical communist feel” says a Dane, “trying to impress with scale”. I can’t prove the similarity as we’re not allowed to take a single thing in with us – not a bag, mobile, notebook or camera.

We are met with juice and sweets and music (two girls playing oud and qanun), and stand talking for 40 minutes before the First Lady graces us with her presence, though Detta tells me she wasn’t late, we were early. She’s cut her hair and looks pretty and glamorous, but she’s incredibly thin in a celebrity-anorexia way. (Background: Asma was born in London and lived there until she was 25 except for boarding school, also in England. She worked in investment banking in London, marrying an ophthalmologist and having children. Her husband then became President of Syria without much warning.) She speaks beautifully for 10 or 15 minutes; she’s welcoming and personable and talks of the issues we are supposed to be here for: women all over the world want the same things for their children, women can communicate with each other on a different level than politics, women are crucial to forming any society. But she also talked about Syria which was interesting; there are almost 2 million refugees here (mostly Iraqi and Palestinian; a huge proportion in a country of 17 million), and we are doing good work to improve their lot. I wonder what she really thinks of the aims and achievements of FtW.

And then the People’s Princess act begins. Oh she’s so charming! says everyone who’s ever met her. A lovely, down to earth, friendly first lady! She spoke to every single woman there showing gracious interest, with Detta trotting along beside her: she’s seduced by it all without any understanding of the country (I can say that because she says it herself). The Syrian girls were putting me through my paces in an attempt to make me speak Arabic to “Madame”, rehearsing sentences and making me nervous. They then managed to stand behind the first lady while I was talking, and although I did it, she wasn’t really interested.

British David, a signed-up future supporter, summed it up. “It’s the Princess Diana touch”. The hair, dress, figure, manner of speech to her public, not to mention her charity work and general care of the populace seems similar to the point of imitation.

And then she goes home to her husband, Bashar al-Assad. More on this when I'm safely home.

Welcome to Syria from MTN

It has very quickly become apparent that the theme and even the message of Follow the Women changes with the country. The sponsors are not just giving us money, they are dictating the project, meaning that Follow the Women is a vehicle for their publicity. The lack of control renders the project at best ineffective, at worst immoral, as in this particular case we are whole-heartedly supporting a dictatorship with a bad human rights record.

Detta doesn’t have a problem with this lack of control. “I don’t know what’s going on” she says, “MTN [the mobile phone company sponsor, owned by the cousin of the President] are sorting everything out for us”. This is not said in a frustrated way, but rather contentedly. Later she has to deal with it, when MTN cancels the trip to the refugee camp in Damascus and there is widespread mutiny. They say there is no time but eventually back down; it turns out they are right when there is no time to fit in the rest of the programme. We visit the first lady (see above) and get to the restaurant two hours late – a true disaster (also see above).

There is also no control over the media. "That's the first thing you have to think about in a conflict situation" says Mary, experienced in the Northern Irish peace process. "You have to tightly control the press releases, the press presence, the message getting through. You have to check and correct and control." The ethos of FtW is that all publicity is good publicity, and any and all participants are allowed to be interviewed. This means that quotes in national newspapers included "I am taking part...to show the world that the Middle East is a place of peace". Erm, I thought we were raising awareness of conflict. "Women for Peace" turned into "Peace for Women" in Syria Times; JO magazine in Jordan said: "The Bike-Ride for Peace promotes the beauty, accessibility and general safety of the area as a destination for foreign visitors". What are we supporting - the ministry of tourism? A couple of Danish girls think so: "This is just a tour group...it's a cheap and easy way of seeing the region".

I was interviewed in Arabic and have no idea about potential double meanings or how my sentences could be cut. I was just excited and flattered that journalists thought my Arabic was good enough, but really rather stupid to do it: I began to say no, on Mary's advice.

[That first day in Syria has been the first indication of my eventual disgust at the whole project of Follow the Women. There were two comments from Detta that really got to me on the bus that evening – the first chance I’d had to talk to her about my concerns. One was about the government in this country. “I can’t believe” she said “that Esma [the first lady] would marry anyone bad. She’s so lovely, she would never marry someone who would do these things.” I mention the political prisoners and widespread torture. She looks thoughtful. “Well, you know more about the area than I do.” She’s not prepared to learn from me though, nor anyone else who disagrees with her line. The second point helped demolish my belief in the project of FtW: “In the beginning, the women was a gimmick, actually” Detta tells me. A gimmick. “To spread awareness of women’s lives in the region” was a gimmick – for what? “The media were going to give us more attention if we were all women.” I tell her that’s why I’m here, to support the women in the region. She hastens to reassure me, “of course, it’s become important to me. It’s just that I’m not a feminist, actually”. It’s hard for me to talk to someone so naïve, when I’m so impressed by what she’s achieved yet so dismayed by her attitudes and speeches and actions. As a journalist on the team, I’m struggling to know what exactly to write about. It can’t be as positive as I was hoping for.]

From under the Lebanese sky

I am in an odd get-up. I am sitting in an open pick-up truck – which is serving as the media truck - surrounded by photographers and film-crews, with a Lebanese flag draped over my head and computer, held in place by the kind Italian cameraman’s cap (photo coming up).

It might seem a waste to be completely covered, given that I’m driving slowly through the Beqaa valley, surely on of the most beautiful anywhere, luscious, fertile and green, surrounded by snow-capped mountains under the sun, but this leg of the journey has been going on for a while and we’re going really rather slowly (accompanying the cyclists), so I feel that I’ve seen quite a lot of it already. It’s an opportunity to write…at first I did think that the scenery would be an idyllic inspiration for writing, but it proved impossible to see the screen…well done the Italian for fixing it for me.

I can’t believe I spent yesterday travelling on the bus when I could have been on the media truck, open air, travelling slowly right among the cyclists. Silly Hussam from PYO – “you’ll be much more comfortable on the Pullman” yeah right.

We started in Qublas this morning, arriving to yet another spectacular welcome, with traditional musicians and dancers guiding us to the speech area. After interminable speeches not translated from Arabic (except for sweet and moving ones from school-children who spoke in Arabic, English and French), there was general mingling and attempts at communication. The whole village was there for us: school was out, men were giving out roses, women flags, and during the speeches saj manqoosh (flat bread stuffed with zatar or yoghurt) and water was handed around.

And then the cycling started. I didn’t appreciate this wonder at all yesterday. Crawling along the road winding through the valley, I can see cyclists strung out from as far as the eye can see, back and front. They’re in good spirits for the most part, although it is hot. Not much in the way of uphill…maybe I’ll go for it soon. But I’m kind of enjoying my role as observer rather than participant, and I like having time to speak: to the other journalists, to the banished men, to the girls who get off the bikes.

The first pit-stop was at the Kefraya vineyard, and yes, hospitality did include wine-tasting, and it was lovely dry white. I shouldn’t have had it though, as it probably contributed to a horrible headache I developed with the help of the sun; I spent the rest of the cycling day in the cab of the huge bike truck, asleep.

And then: onto Damascus.

Mother of all Martyrs

The first time I have specifically heard the issue of women discussed is from a Palestinian speaker (I've lost track of names and occasions, they seem to have blurred already).

"Women are important in the peace process" he tells us, and we all prick up our womanly ears, "they are the mothers and sisters and wives of martyrs".

Ah. That's it. We're here to encourage suicide bombers, maybe even have a few ourselves.

Byblos

We are bussed from Beirut to Byblos at rush hour, which takes hours - no-one knows quite how long because most have fallen asleep after the first day’s cycling. I bond with a Syrian girl who teaches me Egyptian, and so I end up sitting at a table of Syrians and Meoh, the only Japanese girl on FtW (she is small and sweet with a honking laugh which makes everyone else laugh, but under this is the mechanic who organisers Japanese cycling tours in Africa). We are in Edde Sands – a luxury health resort – and there is an luxury buffet to match. But first we have welcomes from the sponsor: Hizb as-Salaam (the Peace Party) of Lebanon.

The leader gives a rather different account of the situation we are supposed to be reporting back home. He begins with the usuals: Lebanese love life, and peace, and the middle east is a place of beauty and hospitality. He moves onto women: the very first time that anyone has touched on this subject, and talks about how, as women, we have something different to offer the peace process. There's a bit of confusion (for me, anyway) with his, "Masculine spouses are as good as feminine spouses".

But he soon warms up, and moves on to more controversial topics. “There are many powers preventing peace in the Middle East. But the most important is…” what did I expect? Israel, probably. His answer “Syria”. The girls on the table respond with humour and heckling; there is nothing that they haven’t heard before. “If Syria is not prepared to be in the 21st century, Syria will suffer but Lebanon will suffer too”.

The Syrians are getting het up. He moves onto Iran, predicting a war by November. The Iranian girls are getting upset. There is unease all around, but Mette and Jutta are cheering him on. “It’s so great to hear some criticism of something that isn’t Israel” says Mette. “And it’s true, Syria is supporting unrest in Lebanon”.

Hussam from the PYO comes to see the Syrians to apologise. "You know, we didn't know what he was going to say. He is hosting the dinner, you know? We cannot tell him what to say." What are we doing, just supporting anyone who will buy us food or pay for our hotel?

There are complaints about the speech, and after the sumptuous dinner (with wine) Detta stands up to smooth feathers. “We may have different opinions, but we are all entitled to them” she says. This would have been one of a myriad of issues that would have been great to discuss at workshops, thereby increasing understanding and not feeding misinformation and rumour.

From a cafe in Beirut 2: Beside the Sea

Beirut’s so beautiful…the sun’s going down, the light’s warm but the heat’s not so bad…though unfortunately the smell of arghileh isn’t quite enough to cover bad whiffs coming off the sea. It’s a relief to be alone actually; and a real relief to be with my computer, scrambling to remember all the conversations.

Tea with mint has just arrived, and life feels so good…

At the end of the second official day, and the first day of cycling, I’m exhausted without even having biked at all – I’m beginning to be scared of the prospect of cycling, even though the wonderful Danish room-mate-doctors have said I’ll be able to after a couple of days. I’m scared that I can’t manage it, and anyway I’m having a lovely time just talking. We got to one village a good half an hour before the women (it seems our bus driver for one isn’t very good at following women – there’s a long way to go for our cause, if that is our cause, of which more later) and talked to so many people – it was tough because the colloquial language was a pain but really rewarding. (At one point I had another Lebanese translating from their dialect into Beiruti Arabic for me.)

Locals in these villages that we're passing through are unbelievably welcoming: the whole village seems to turn out and provide a display of traditional dancing from men and children (never women); speeches, food, drink, flowers...how much is encouraged by the PYO organisers and how much is spontaneous is difficult to tell - the welcomes are unfailingly warm (especially shy and giggling girls who cluster around when they find I speak Arabic) but it is very carefully planned. The speeches are beginning to get a bit samey already and we're not even into Syria.

Some girls have been hopping on the bus for stages so I've talked a lot about what Follow the Women is for everyone; how they heard of it, what made them come, what they think it's about, what it will achieve, what it's what they expected...there's a surprising range of answers, which includes dissension in the ranks: the loose definition of Follow the Women works for a catch-all feel-good factor but it's difficult to work out what we're achieving.

But we’re off to dinner in Byblos now, so I must save my interviews for another time. I don’t know how I’ll keep up…the ratio of talking to writing time is not promising. Perhaps the ankle was a blessing in disguise…

Follow the Women?

When I first spoke to Detta Regan, the initiator and organiser, I got the impression that Follow the Women took a whole load of women to the Middle East in order to gain insight into women’s lives in the region, especially in, or as a result of, conflict. This impression was so strong that I wrote a press release to that effect, a press release which was checked and approved by Detta.

[A note on that same press release: “400 women from 39 countries including Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Iran and Iraq” turned out to be 223 women, from 28 countries not including Afghanistan, Tajikistan or Iraq. A few potentially good stories were complete non-starters.]

It turns out I was wrong, as were many of us, and we feel betrayed. Follow the Women can - and does - take on any cause, and any point of view, including (especially?) that of the sponsors. Apparently the organisation is “above politics”, though from the very first day and reiterated every day, politics dominated the speeches.

The first time we heard Detta speak in public was at the Sabra Shatila refugee camp in Beirut, which I spoke of below: she stood up and agreed with the passionate, and deeply political, Palestinian rhetoric. At the UNESCO opening ceremony it got worse: “All these things make me think that there’s a plot against this region. I’ll let you think about who’s behind it: it’s clear who’s benefiting” she said.

And there is the first clear statement of Follow the Women’s aims: “We are cycling for peace” she says. There is nothing about women, although the Yahoo group homepage says: "Follow the women is an ambitious initiative, to gather women to cycle for solidarity". It does not look promising: if it was about women it should have already been said. I came for the women: I don't know if I should I stick to my principles and just leave?

Follow the Women!

I'm in the Middle East for an all-women bike ride but:

I can't bloody well cycle AT ALL!!! Went to the hospital for an x-ray on my ankle, sprained in Damascus a few days ago - it's not broken but the doctor was very clear: "if you want to have an ankle like that [i.e. massively swollen] for the rest of your life, go ahead and cycle". I've saved €165 on bike hire but how bloody annoying is that...I have padded pants for no reason at all! (Sorry Mum, thank you anyway! Do you think you can take them back to Cliff Pratt?)

But I got over the depression of the hospital visit and joined in the spirit of the trip. There wasn't any biking today anyhow - just a visit by bus to the Palestinian refugee camp Sabra Shatila (in Beirut); the opening ceremony at UNESCO and a massive dinner and general celebration.

But what is "Follow the Women"? What is it for? What is it about? That will take the whole trip to work out I think: there doesn't seem to be an easy answer which gives interesting differences of opinion, but a little more clarity would help me work out what exactly is going on and what I am representing. I hope a picture will emerge slowly...

Getting the bikes for hundreds of women ("I think 220 at the moment, there'll be more and more with every day" says the woman-in-chief, Detta Regan) was a mission, with spare time spent sprawled over the concrete in the sun, talking - mostly at first grouped by country. The Italians are instantly recognisable in their blue uniforms; other teams are more gradually identified, but it turns out other countries have uniforms. The Danish T-shirts have caused quite a stir, with "dialogue" written in Arabic, English and Hebrew - more original than airtex biking tops, but the Lebanese organisers (the Progress Youth Organisation, a social wing of the political party Progressive Socialist Party) are already giving "advice": "I don't mind at all, personally, but I can't say that about everyone". They blatantly do mind.

(There's a Shane from the L-Word lookalike which is fairly distracting, especially as she's as taciturn as Shane so has the same air of mystique.)

After lunch and an impromptu concert from various Arab girls, we go by bus to the Sabra and Shatila Palestinian refugee camps (the place of a massacre in 1982 by the Lebanese Christian Phalangist group, sanctioned by Israeli forces who were controlling the area at the time). Welcomed by music, we are ushered into a memorial garden with a huge flower display dedicated to Follow the Women. We listen to passionate speeches from unidentified Palestinian leaders under the hot sun - "we will not rest until we have our own land!" (Applause). "We will sacrifice our lives to have our own land!" (Applause and cheering). And so on. Detta responds: "We stand with you!". I'm not sure that I do.

We do not venture into the interior of the camp. There are a lot of us, I can see it would be difficult, but it does seem a shame. [I've since found out that security is a nightmare, with tens of thousands of guns stored up inside.] Instead, we go to the hotel and prepare for the welcoming ceremony at UNESCO.

First was speeches in the auditorium. Various welcomes: Detta responding with "the idea is to cycle through the Middle East for peace"; but no mention of what is important to me, and that is we are all women. The next official used an unfortunate phrase right after this: "we need to end the cycle; the cycle of violence".

Next was the bus to a lovely restaurant by the sea, and dancing afterwards. My ankle didn't feel up to it, so I wandered back along the sea to the hotel...

I've followed the women for a day and am writing in bed in Hotel Legend (I'm trying to type quietly because of two sleeping women and one reading one). I have a headache, but only because my head is so full of what's been happening, or maybe standing in the sun listening to fairly standard Palestinian rhetoric and watching Palestinian children in army garb doing traditional dancing to nationalist songs...I have forgotten pretty much everyone's name already, but the conversations have stuck, from the Palestinian nurse who is paid by an NGO to go into schools and talk about sex to the Iranian journalist who lied to the Iranian authorities in order to come, so no photos of her can be published...

The three women in the room are all great [later addition: they all turn out to be three of the firmest friends from the trip]: Irish Mary, and two Danish doctors, Jutta and Mette. I have the first real analysis of FtW with Jutta, in that we agree that Detta's speech at the refugee camp was disturbing in content, tone and especially the "we": "we" have not been addressed directly by Detta since we arrived, and we certainly don't have a unified set of opinions on this region. Unease is setting in already.

Tomorrow is the first cycling day, and I will watch with jealousy...

From a cafe in Beirut

It's strange being here, after a year and a half. I worried that I'd feel dislocated like this in Damascus, but Damascus hasn't changed so it just felt normal...I now know that I didn't understand from newspapers and friends what was happening here in Beirut at all. I just drove past downtown to get to this cafe in Hamra, where I'm writing...downtown used to be, well, downtown, as in it was one of the centres of shops, restaurants, cafes: now it's just tents and tents of Hezbollah who moved into the area in December 2006 and still haven't left - even the roads into it are blocked. Solidare - one of the main parts of downtown - is still accessible, but people don't go there anymore so the restaurants and shops are all closed, "like a film set", said one lone tourist. It's so peculiar seeing the traffic all turning off before it gets to what used to be a main and busy part of Beirut. I still can't really get over it - a Hezbollah camp right in the middle of Beirut, and no-one can shift it. "It's just to make their point" said Beiruti Elie, "that they're here to stay".

But here in Hamra everything is more recognisable. People are out in the sun, wearing clothes that are much less conservative than in Damascus: the atmosphere is freer despite everything. I had a huge argument with Damascene friends Ola and Khaled about Beirut: "I don't understand" they both say "why all foreigners love Beirut. Why does everyone go on about Beirut?". To all foreigners I know, it's quite obvious (especially when compared to Damascus) but it was tough arguing the point and ultimately we had to leave it unresolved. It was all good-natured - in fact, pretty funny, I wish I'd taped it - but there wasn't even common ground. Later Khaled said "of course I feel freer there, but...": for me there can be no buts. I feel freer here and that's surely reason enough to prefer it. Khaled's point was that there is freedom but still no democracy; there are more newspapers but each is as narrow-minded as the Ba'ath newspaper in Syria - just because there are more narrow-minded political parties here doesn't make the country any less narrow-minded. That may be true, but on the street level the city is more carefree and therefore more enjoyable. Apart from the shock of downtown, it's good to be here.

And the weather's pretty nice, which I can take advantage of and wear a vest top, unlike in Damascus.

What I haven't got a feel for is whether there is still as much going on as I used to drool over when I lived in Damascus. I don't really have time to check it out, except via Jan and Elie (and if anyone knows, they do, oh initiators of the hug campaign). An awesome-looking exhibition has unfortunately just finished, which showed propaganda posters from all sides from the fifteen years of the civil war here, charting the development of graphic style and skill. I went to CD-theque in Ashrafiye and, although small, it had cool books, magazines, CDs and DVDs - not much in the way of new imported books but lots of arty Lebanese publications and recent DVDs. I guess I'll wander around here, and go out later to see what Gemayze, the bars and clubs area, is like now. Though if I describe this side of Beirut then I should really talk about Damascus' status of being Arab Capital of Culture this year - something Jan is taking advantage of for a project, thereby arguing against his point that nothing happens there. But that would be difficult, as I did not see one single sign for anything cultural...

There seem to be political focus groups in here, talking earnestly about the future of Arab countries in lots of languages with overlaps and exchanges between different groups on different tables, like an office of a think-tank. Perhaps I should talk to them before a wander round Hamra - it's better than supporting American capitalist hegemony in the form of Starbucks, which is where I used to meet communists.

Until tomorrow, when I'll be wearing padded pants along with 400 other women.

Salamat.