"David!"

It is unimaginable how difficult it is to take care of a baby. Just being with one alone for a couple of hours is exhausting. My godson's sleeping next to me now, tired from an entire morning of 'sword fighting' with a badminton racket and vacuum machine tube, overly excited from watching disc after disc from his huge Disney DVD collection.

How quiet he is, silently snoring, his little stomach falling and rising with the rythmic breathing and with the beating of his little heart. What a precious little being, and almost two.

I have been here three days, and we seem to be getting closer. No longer does he start to scream when I try to hold him. When he hurt his little finger playing earlier, he walked up to me, and stretched his arms out, wanting me to hug him, to hold him, to comfort him. I held him on my shoulder, and whispered in his ears. "It's alright... It's alright... Aslan is a big boy." He seemed to understood, and stopped crying. A tear, streaking half way down his soft cheek, stopped in its track. And he smiled. He looked deeply into my eyes, as I stroked the sore part of his finger, and he smiled ever so sweetly.

There are those moments, such as those, which are so precious that it moves you. Looking into a baby's eyes, it seems as if you are looking into your own... deep down inside, an innocent and curious creature is playing around and exploring the world still. And when he graps onto your fingers, and clings close to your body, you would you wish the moment would last.

But a baby is a curious little being, and every moment something new attracts its attention, and off he goes to touch, feel, play, and be up to something that will make you have to clean up long after he has moved on to fumble with another thing that he really should not be touching. Especially my godson could be such a handful. Even his nanny has commented that he is "one naughty after another naughty"... one moment he could be playing with his mother's makeup kit, drawing his own legs and knees with black eyeliner, and the next minute he could have his fingers on the bucket, and just before you try to stop him, the mop will have fallen, and dirty water will have spilled all over the place. As you try to mop the floor clean, he is playing with the kitchen cupboard, and taking out all sorts of noodle bits and trying to build something on the floor. You tell him "No!" and he goes into his room, and starts to bang the door loudly, again, and again and again, till your ears are sore and mind starting to irritate. You raise your voice, but he looks back at you, appealing for sympathy, for after all, he is but a baby. But a clever and mischievous one at that.

In those moments when he has done something incredibly dangerous, like licking on a knife for left over bits of chocolate paste, or playing with the electric socket, I wonder how my mum used to be. Was I ever so naughty? Did I also make her feel like there is only so much more she could take? And yet, all these years, she has remained with me, given me love, warmth and care like no other in the world would. She did that, while having a long and tiring job, while having to take care of my brother and my dad. And there was me to take care, me, being the youngest and smallest of them all. How could I ever repay that, in any way?

I sit next to Aslan, sleeping still, and still sleeping. His breathing light and gentle. How peaceful he looks, how angelic and loving. Let no one take that peace and love from him.

Istanbul: mini Europe and Asia

Istanbul first caught my sight as my plane ascended slowly and soared toward Israel. Gradually, the city's bright light captured my attention outside the little plane window. The higher the plane flew, the more of the city I was able to see. A bustling expanse of yellow lights, shining and straddling the tips of two world continents. I liked it as soon as I saw it.

Four days later, I would have another opportunity to see the city from close up. Transiting in Ataturk International Airport, I had around six hours before my onward flight. A friend of mine told me I would be risking it if I rushed to the city centre and did some sightseeing and then rushed back to catch my flight. But then again, he did not know how good I am with directions, and he certainly did not know how acute my 'rat' senses are in finding my way around foreign places.

Within half an hour of landing, I was riding the light railway toward the Sultanahmet. The elevated train passed commercial parks, highways, and apartment blocks, between which huge Turkish flags draped and flew majestically in the wind. Like Israel, this was another country where patriotism is a national hobby, and where insulting the country or Turkish identity is (in)famously liable for a hefty prison sentence. Thankfully there was no for me mention the Armenian Genocide.

Transferring to the city tram that would snake further toward my destination was a easy, as I seem to have a natural affinity with public transport systems in whichever city. I stood there, amid rush hour traffic, blending into the crowd of commuters of veiled women, business men in suits, and trendy youngsters on their way to school. Outside, the scenery reminded me of any other large European city, the only difference being the language, and this indescribably sense of vibrancy and energy that hung in the air. Of course, this was only Istanbul, and not at all representative of the whole of Turkey. But I did not feel a stranger here more than anywhere else I have been in Europe. And is this diversity and acceptance of difference what many Europeans fear? Yellow taxis vied with buses, automobiles and motorcycles for limited spaces on the congested narrow streets. The modern public tram seemed to leave this all behind, as it swiftly moved forward.

I searched for a good place to get off... should I go take the ferry first, or go see the renowned Blue Mosque? Or perhaps the Great Bazaar, or take the old funicular railway up the hill? In the end, it was my hungry stomach, and the sight of a long queue outside a bakery that made the decision for me. Within minutes, I was munching on croissant-like buns, and washing it down with freshly squeezed carrot juice. Believe me, four days of eating nothing but matza crackers, matza buns, matza everything, any bread, especially freshly baked and still warm in your mouth, was a heavenly delight.

Spilling my carrot juice all over myself I wandered the streets of Istanbul. The wind was freezing, and I had only a light hoody and sweater on, which meant I was shivering on the outside, but excited on the inside. The mighty Bosphorus called with its winds and waves, and I was attracted to it immediately. Close to the embankment, I could see the city with its split personality, sprawlingly divided on three shores. Ferries rode the waves to and fro, as trams and buses rushed on the roads and pedestrians swarmed the pavements, hurrying on their way to unknown destinations. I stood and watched all this buzzing energy around me, as the city and its life started to grow on me and entice me even more.

I boarded a random ferry, and set sail with the seagulls that flew next to me, escorting me out into the open waters. On the map, it seemed like no more than a broad river that separates the city into two, but out there on the mighty waves and in the fierce winds, you could not but be awed by the immensity of this channel that not only marks the physical divide between Asia and Europe, but also links the Black Sea with the Marmara and Mediterranean. Behind us, the ferry trailed a white confusion of bubbles and foam. Around us, in the distance not so far away, lay a fascinating mixture of ancient fortresses matching descriptions in 1001 Arabian Nights. Here and there, dotted the soaring minarets of majestic mosques next to swarms of colourful buildings of all shapes and sizes, of origins Oriental and Occidental, with in the background a host of towering modern skyscrapers. Normally, before visiting a place I would have all the history and background of famous buildings mapped out in my head, but this ignorance from not knowing what I was looking at was a strange form of bliss. I could just sit back, relax, pull on my clothes to keep warm, and enjoy the scenery.

I wandered through the cobbled streets, unsure where I was going. But my feet somehow took me to a mosque (which I later learned was the New Mosque, built in 1663). Never have I been so close to a mosque before, and I carefully tread into the hallowed grounds. I looked up, admiring the beautifully carved domes, the sharp spires of the minarets, and the gilded crescent moon, visible behind a flock of lowflying pigeons... Suddenly, I felt something brush against my feet, which immediately gave me the creeps. I looked down, and saw a pair of green eyes look back at me, softly and seeking attention. A sweet brown and white cat had parked herself on my feet, and was butting against my knees with her head, miouwing softly. My first and only friend in Istanbul, who seemed to want to follow me wherever I went. Except, she somehow knew not to enter the mosque when I did.

The high domed roof and glass-stained windows, colourfully decorated tiles on ceilings and walls, exotically carpeted floors, gilded railings and attractive calligraphy inscriptions together were beyond words. In the serenity of the mosque, I felt I was intruding, but then again my lonely presence was rivalled by the commotion of a group of tourists that entered as I turned to leave.

I ventured in an unknown direction, letting my feet and instincts lead the way. In a grass field were dazzling blooming tulips, right before me in the land where they originated from (thus not the Netherlands, despite common misconception). Going further, I was led into narrow alleyways that fed into other sidestreets, which flowed into yet other lanes that were full of shoppers. All sorts of merchandise, from fresh food to cloth to daily appliances to delicatessens to souvenirs were on display, and lead the way towards the famous Grand Bazaar. If going to the local market in The Hague was exciting, the experience in the Bazaar was bewildering. All those smells, sights and sounds was dizzying to experience at once, and I was torn between slowly admiring it all and the urge to soon find a way to the tram that will shuttle me to catch my flight. After haggling for some cheap souvenirs, and increasing my luggage load, I sped toward the exit, into the lazy midday sun, pushing past crowds of shoppers and vendors, and eventually found the stop where I needed to be.

On I went to the airport, on my way home. But I made it a promise to myself that one day soon I would come back here again.

Israel: Borderlands

In front of us were the white cliffs of Rosh Ha Nikra. Between us and the blue, blue Mediterranean, a stretch of white sand that stretch for 10 kilometres up to the Israeli-Lebanese border. Beneath us, bicycles we had stumbled and hopped on just moments before, and had ridden to get away from the unbearable traffic and din of the city.

We cruised down the beach, smiles on our faces. There is something about a bike, and the freedom that comes with it, that makes me so happy. It makes me so happy, that my friend noticed it, and how it made me smile like I have not done for a long, long time. It makes me happy to feel the breeze in my hair, to know that, for a few precious moments in life, I can be in total control of the way, and speed, to get to a place I want to go. For a person whose life is basically rudderless and going with the flow of things, that is a precious experience... just as precious as the beauty of the calm waves, the clarity and freedom of the mind and soul mixing with the humming sound of tires echoing on the path below.

All that water before me, silent, vast, and endless... Somehow it all connected with the all waters of the Pacific that wave so peacefully below the mountains where my late dad now rests. Like many moments in the past few days, moments in which I experience profound beauty and awe, I again could not but prevent myself thinking of him. Once more, I was reminded of how dad was missing all this, how he could never have a chance to experience and enjoy what I could, and still can... A gull called, and brought me back to the silent waves, to the whispering winds. My friend too seemed deep in thought.

On an empty stretch of beach we sat. If you just stared out to sea, if you just listened to the slight whisper of the warm wind next to your ears, you could not begin to imagine how surreal it is that less than two years ago, rockets were raining down on the very towns of Haifa and Nahariya (among others) that we had just passed by on the train journey northward. We were close to the borderlands, the area which three successive wars, and countless little scuffles, had left behind carcasses of rusty tanks and a deep entrenched scar made of barbed wire and outposts that ran on the top of the hills separating Lebanon and Israel. All it would take is a bullet, or some mad soldier, from either side and the would once again become the firing range triggered by deep-seated animosity and distrust. A sail boat, a fishing boat... and look closer, and you would see an Reshef-class rocketship waltzing around and keeping the peace in Israeli waters.


But further we did go. After doing the must-see Rosh HaNikra grottoes, pushing our way through the underground caves and past loud families with obnoxious children, we ventured toward the border. For us international lawyers, it seemed like the 'right' thing to do, even though I deep down I knew it was really risking a lot. Signs along the border constantly remind the wandering and daring tourist not to go any further. But we went further, as if they were not there. An Israeli army jeep stopped at a gate, where we stood and pretended to admire the sea that lay beneath our feet. The soldiers seemed to be aware of us, and did not leave the area until we made our way down the slopes again.

We did not return to the beach like 'normal' tourist would. Instead, we took a dirt path that lead to an area that was overgrown with wild shrubs, and that had picknick tables that seemed to have been out of use for a long, long time. Again, another sign warned us (with three exclamation marks) that the border was ahead, and told us to stop. But stop we did not, and instead seemed to taunt the warnings by going further. The lost boot of an unfortunate soldier randomly lay in the middle of the track, the skin dusty, torn and eroded in the blazing sun. Memorials rested on either side, dedicated to the pioneers who had laid the founding blocks of the towns and kibbutz in the area. A crème-coloured tank slept camouflaged in the bushes, its belly webbed over with cobwebs, the metal peeling with rust, the turret pointing out to the rocketship still leisurely sailing on the Mediterranean.

"Let's go up the hill," my friend said. I hesitated, because it looked steep, and to be honest I was a little afraid. Standing there in my bright blue swimming trunks was not exactly the best form of camouflage in an area notorious for kidnappings by Hezbollah fighters who would not flinch to snipe you from afar. And I knew, beyond that ridge, up there, we would be able to see Lebanon... and Lebanon would be able to see us.

I was still unsure, but this is when my own sense of insecurity contrasted greatly with my friend's feel for adventure. She was someone who relied on her natural instincts, who loved her freedom, and who acted on the whim of her feelings. She was one who would never let anyone tie her down or restrict her dreams or wishes. And for that I admired her... but to be honest sometimes was a little afraid of, for compared to her, I was a tame city-boy, afraid of a slight cut or a bruise.

She leapt ahead, and starting to climb. Rocks rolled under her feet, and triggered a little avalanche as loose pebbles slightly crumbled and tumbled down the hill. I followed, carefully, trailing the path that she had created before me. A sudden pain I felt through my shorts, and I turned to see that sharp needle-like thorns had poked themselves into my skin and made a number of scratches. I moved on up, regreting that perhaps my Birkenstocks may not have been the most clever climbing gear on this hill that was getting steeper. Looking up at the ridge above, at what lay beyond that corner, and at what may lie before us if we could make it up there, I silently wished we would make it up there without being noticed.

Then I slipped and fell, smashing to the ground on my side, and as I would later discover, smashing the camera I had stupidly put in my pocket. The pain was instant, as I had scraped my palm as I tried to stabilise and prevent myself from falling further. The camera struck my upper thigh, and I was sure I would bruise later. I did not want to continue any more, and momentarily started to shake from the fall, but I told my friend to go ahead, as I sat in the blazing heat and waited for her return.

Sitting there, halfway up the hill, surrounded by thorny bushes and shrubs, I felt like vulnerable. I tried to cover myself by pulling my shirt over my head, but it felt ridiculous. I looked around, and explored the land below... the town with well-maintained groves and green lawns, the stretch of white sands that shimmered in the hot afternoon sun, the gorgeous blue, blue hue of the sea that spread into the horizon. And here I was, alone in no-man's land, while my friend had gone on an adventure without me. Perhaps I was even being watched... by some bearded and hidden Hezbollah soldier... or by some wild creature hiding in the bushes nearby, that had earlier given us quite a scare. The melodramatic mind of mine wondered whether I would have to wait here until nightfall...

My pocket trembled. A text message from my friend. I turned around, to see her waving at me from the top of a large boulder on the hilltop. I waved back, relieved to see her, and mostly, to see her still alive and well. I made my way downhill, as agreed, and loitered around the bushes next to the defunct tank, and waited for her to appear. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, then another ten... but still there was no sign of her. I started to wander, and wonder where she had gone, and in my mind I recalled the terrible things I had read in the news what they do to kidnapped tourists or foreigners... terrible things. Ahead was the barbed high fence that cordoned off the abandoned picknick area, and which reminded me again that we should not have been there. A white fertiliser bag floated like a fallen balloon down the hill, and landed not far away. I picked it up, and started to wave it around, hoping it would get some attention, especially that of my friend, who seemed to have simply vanished. I dared not call or sms her, for fear that might trigger unwanted attention on her part. The rocketship still circled the bay, keeping a close watch, and in the distance I could hear the gentle rumble of jeep engines as they climbed the military road up toward the hill.

"Davvvvid...! Daviiiid!"

I walked up to her, and gave her a big hug, , excited to hear the sound of my friends voice, and relieved to see her image appear from behind the bushes. "You're alive!"

Of course she was. She has gone through so much adventure, so much more in her life, and come out strong and unscathed, if not stronger and more thick-skinned. And this little venture into one of the most potentially volatile places on Earth seemed no exception. Her smile, bravery and sense of personal accomplishment brushed away whatever fear or hesitation that was there, if ever they were there. Behind us, the border stretched, unmarked, still, and still deadly as ever.


We sat in the pool, our own private pool, and felt the sea weed tickle our feet. The water was colder than expected, the current strong, and I had difficulties standing on my feet. Waves washed again and again in my direction, trying to push me down, and make me stumble and fall. More than once I stubbed my toe, and felt the salt seep into the wounds and cuts from the jagged, potholed rocks. Below me was a world of fish and serene green, waiting to be explored, waiting to be visited, but choking on the sea water I could not but go up to the surface again, and feel the waves push me back ashore. I sat there, for a while, watched the waves brush by, watched the setting sun dance and sparkle on the surface of the sea. The same sea that connected with everything else half way around the world.

Behind us, the border stretched, the dangers, the warning signs, and the potential for an outbreak of war and raining rockets, far, far away.