Amman, King Hussein Bridge, Jordan, Israel border. Take I.

Friday 25^th January.

Action!

I got a servise taxi to the King Hussein bridge around 10am. I was still feeling pretty weak so it was touch and go as to whether I was going to leave that morning. In the end, my evaporating window of time on my Indian visa was the deciding factor. Everyday I spent in, freezing, Amman was a day I wasn’t to spend in warm and sunny India.

… I have dragged myself out of bed to check my email. Actually I have dragged myself out of bed to eat breakfast: the email part turned out to be an unexpected occurrence. I am sitting in the Palace Hotel foyer listening with half an ear to Al-Jazeera on the TV. People are scattered around the breakfast area and through the archway, the reception buzzes with its usual hive of activity. As usual I have asked my breakfast without an egg. The waiter will bring me an egg and I, for my part in this charade, will not eat it. For this I will earn a reproachful look. I don’t care. I am not eating a boiled egg and he is just going to have to find a way to get over that. I am on to chapter two of The Great War of Civilisation: The holocaust of the Armenians by the Turkish at the start of the 20^th Century - throughout the First World War. The Turks decided to try to eradicate the Armenian nation with brutal efficiency. They created death camps in the then northern and eastern Syrian provinces: in places such as Aleppo and Dier Ez Zor. Places I visited, having no idea these events happened. Places with unmarked mass-graves containing thousands of Armenians. They shipped or marched them to these camps before executing them. Many did not survive the journey. Torture and rape was commonplace along the way. Further thousands more were taken into the lakes in Armenia and slaughtered. To save bullets soldiers would rope several people together and shoot one and then throw them in the lake. The fresh cadaver would be dead-weight and drag the others down. As the weaker ones drowned then the dead-weight increased until the whole line was dragged under. Today Turkey still refuses to recognise its actions towards the Armenian people as genocide, let alone a holocaust. The Turkish government have, several times since, coerced, cajoled, and dissuaded public organisations from also recognising this. Organisations which include the British War Museum’s Holocaust Exhibition, The English Government’s The International Holocaust day, and the American Government.. The Independent actually published an article on this, written by Robert Fisk. If you read it note the observation of the Israel government. The refugees - that were able - fled en masse from their homeland. They marched, on foot, through the desert from Armenia, to Baghdad, to Amman, and to Lebanon, fleeing the annihilation of their people. I met their grandchildren now living in Doura. Hitler was thought to be heavily influenced by the treatment of the Armenian people at the hands of the Ottoman Empire: it gave him ideas. Nearly a million and a half people were thought to have died. What constitutes a holocaust? What constitutes a genocide? And who gets to decide? I am sitting contemplating this we a news flash comes on Al-Jazeera. Car bomb goes off in Doura, Esst Lebanon. Fuck,..

I left the hotel around 10am with a cut down version of my rucksack. The rest went into storage in The Palace. I took a taxi to the Hussein Bridge. The bridge is a pain in the arse to get to but provides a very useful function; one which I will explain shortly. I got to the bridge and border checkpoint around midday. It was closed. It was closed as Friday was a holy day. Of course it was. I knew that. I didn’t know they closed the bridge though – given that the Shabbath didn’t start until tomorrow evening. Parle – you toilet. Quite. I would have appreciated the taxi driver letting me know the bridge was closed before he took me there. I could have got a taxi north to another border check-point but I specifically wanted to cross here. I know I said I would explain as to why but this is neither the time nor the place. Things will become clear by and by. The taxi back to the Palace cost me the same going out and I had to check in to a room again and pay an extra night. Not best pleased was I. The staff were pretty sympathetic. They even put me on to a Dutch guy who was looking for a taxi the next morning. We agreed to book a car for 8am. It turned out not crossing that day would be a good thing as I was exhausted once more. I checked my mail and quickly caught up with Marcus and Nat. A bomb had gone off in East Beirut the day before. It freaked me out a bit because it took me ages to get hold of them. In the end I had to Skype Rach and ask her to ring Nat’s mobile. This time the bombers were targeting a member of the police force, one Wasim Eid. He was person responsible for heading up the investigation into the recent bombings. Mmmmm… He, along with five others, died in the explosion. Marcus and Nat were close to the detonation but far enough away not to hear it. Hearing the news with growing panic I suddenly realised how my nearest and dearest back in the UK felt. Incidentally: Marcus and I had decided against visiting Yemen. Two Belgium tourists were shot there the week before by individuals claiming to be linked to Al-Qaeda. As much as I wanted to see the country the situation changes somewhat when you are deliberately being targeted by people with murder in mind.

I spent the rest of the day taking it easy and resting.