You know you’re an expat Gael if…

[Yes, yes, I know people get annoyed when I write in Gaelic and don’t provide a translation. That should be on the list, actually. But never mind, here’s the translation. New things I just thought of, and the odd translator’s note, are written like this].

… if Jamie MacCrimmon is your favourite Doctor Who character, but you’re a bit confused as to why he doesn’t speak Gaelic (and isn’t part of Clan Leod).

… if your accent is messed up. You can go from Lewis to Argyle to Canada in but one sentence.

… if you’ve waulked a bed-sheet. On stage.

… if someone’s accused you of speaking “Elvish” after hearing you speak Gaelic on the phone.

… if you’ve been invited to join the nearest Còisir Gàidhlig… and it’s only ten hours’ drive away.

… if you’re fed up with explaining that no, you don’t speak “Celtic”, you speak “Gaelic”.

… if you’re not quite sure about this whole “Clan” business… because your “clan” isn’t so important as being a Gael.

… if you’re fiercely proud of your language, but you only speak it when you’re around other Gaels.

… if you’ve only been to Scotland but once, and most of your knowledge of its geography is from classes at the Sgoilean Nàiseanta of the local Commun Gàidhlig or from classes by telephone with Sabhal Mòr Ostaig.

… if you can’t convince people that there are but seventeen (or eighteen) letters in your language, after they’ve seen it written down.

… if you’ve never visited Stornoway, but from what you’ve heard, it’s a massive cultural centre and metropolis.

… if you’ve heard the “garlic” jokes too many times.

… if you’ve heard and read every possible surprised reaction from Scottish Gaels on finding that you’re in Australia… where you were born and raised.

… [if you don’t care about your Clan but at the Highland Gathering, when you set up a tent to promote it].

… if a lot of your friends have the surname “MacLeod”, but at the Gathering, you hate them… because they’re tartan is so ghastly bright yellow.

… if you’ve punched the computer screen for telling you (again) that BBC Alba i-Player doesn’t play on your continent.

… if you’re annoyed by the assumption that you’re part of the English-speaking cultural majority… just because you’re white.

… [if you’re annoyed by the term “Anglo-Celtic”, because you’re not Anglo but just Celtic].

… [if you can properly use the Gaelic Gasp/ Swedish Schwoop… and know that what Stephen Fry did and said about it on QI was wrong].

… [if you get annoyed by the neopagans. Gaels are Christians, didn’t you know?]

… if you’re a Christian, but you’re not quite sure what to make of the Free Church.

… if you wish Clan Donald would shut up about Clencoe already!

… if you understand every word in “Outlander”.

… if you’re teaching Gaelic at the community centre, and more than half of the students are there only because they watched “Outlander”.

… if you suspect that Adhamh’s dialect is influencing all the actors on Outlander.

… if you still write fadas in both directions.

… if you write every letter in “am màireach”, “an uair”, “an nis”, and “an nochd”.

… if you write “cèilidh” with a “dh”, and you’re against any other spelling (such as “céili”).

… if you sometimes feel that you’re more Scottish that 99% of Scotland… just because you speak the language.

… if you yourself make up the entire youth section of your local Comunn Gàidhlig.

… if you can read Manx… but only with your eyes closed.

… if you are against tartans on principle (because they’re a product of English imperialism)… but sometimes the “Scottish Expat” part of you is stronger, and then you wear yours anyway.

… [if you know what Hogmanay is, but you still call it “New Year’s”, because that’s the literal translation from Gaelic].

… [if you avoid saying “glè mhath” because you know someone will make a whiskey joke if you do].

… if you didn’t watch “Outlander” for two years because the title of the first episode was spelt wrong.

… if you put “Scottish” on your high school application where it asked if you were part of another culture… and you were very annoyed when the school told you that “Scottish” wasn’t a different culture to “Australian”, and they wouldn’t believe you when you said that it meant you spoke another language.

… if you play fiddle at cèilidhs, bush dances, and on stage… but you are annoyed when Australians play “nighean donn bhòidheach” so fast. It’s a broken-hearted air, not a jig.

… if you only met your grandparents but once or twice, but you had “grandmothers” and “grandfathers” in many elderly Gaels.

… if you argued with a high school teacher over “indigenous” people. You’re indigenous, but you just don’t live in the place you’re indigenous to. Yes, you have white skin, but the English conquered and suppressed your ancestors, too.

… if you know the names of individual fruits and vegetables, but you didn’t understand the phrase “glasraichean ‘us measan” the first time your teacher said it to you.

… if you know the English equivalent of every Gaelic name, but you can’t always explain the connection between he two.

… if you know the difference between a “surname” and a “sloinneadh”.

… if you know the difference between a “native speaker”, a “lapsed native speaker”, a “background speaker”, a “background learner”, and a “raised background speaker”.

… if you know the date of the Battle of Culloden. It wasn’t in 1745.

… if you know that your language was once the third-most-spoken language in Australia, after English and Irish.

… if you know that Gaels are Gaels. But you can’t understand why the Irish won’t speak to you if you’re not Irish.

… if you know that there was once a bill taken to the Canadian parliament to make Gaelic the third official language.

… if you know someone who can only swear and pray in Gaelic (and you know that the two things are basically one and the same).

… if you know exactly how many Australian words are actually Gaelic.

… if you get really angry when someone says to you that Gaelic is a dead (or dying) language.

… if you get frustrated when a fellow Gael (or aspiring Gael) has an untranslatably English name, because you never know how to address them. Just how does the vocative case work with a name beginning with “J”?

… if you didn’t put the newly-translated “Sòisgeul Eòin” (Gospel of John) down for a week after it arrived. (You had no idea Scripture could be that gripping).

… if your version of the Irish national anthem goes: “Sinne fianna fail… a tha faoi gheall ag Èirinn… chan eil fìos agam… mu dheidhinn na faclan!” [“We are the brave heroes… that are fighting for Ireland… I don’t know… the words!”]

… if you’ve ever travelled to another city for a weekend Irish-language school… just because you’re curious.

… if you use the word “Gàidhealtachd” to mean “Highlands”, even though you know that the real Gaeltachd is in na h-Eileanan Siar.

… if you speak German… only because so many Gaelic-learners are from Germany. Why is that, anyway?

… if you prefer Am Briathrachas over Dwelly’s, but to be honest, that new dictionary with sound files on learngaelic.net trumps both!

… if you play Rùnrig on the radio just to prove that all Gaelic music isn’t boring, traditional, slow sean-nòs (which you love).

… if you know what shinty is.

… if you know the difference between “walking” and “waulking”.

… if you follow the caman scores.

… if you find it amusing that Seumaidh Friseal calls Clare “mo nighean donn”, and you sing “ho-rò mo nighean donn bhòidheachd” every time he does.

… if you’ve loved the song “Is Gàidheil Mi-i-i-i-i” from the first time you heard it, and you vowed to learn it.

… if you can understand Irish, but Irish-speakers say that they can’t understand you.

… if you know when fiddlers know the words of the tunes they’re playing.

… if you can remember the time when there was no Gaelic on the internet.

… if you can pronounce “a dh’fhaithgheàrr”, but no-one believes you when you do.

… if you call shinty “caman(achd)”.

… if you’re afraid you’ll forget your own language.

… if the thing you want most in the world to do is go to the Royal National Mòd.

… if one of your parents (and all her side of the family) don’t understand Gaelic. And most of the other side of your family doesn’t speak Gaelic either.

… if more than half the songs you know are about how evil the English are.

… if there are towns in Scotland whose names you only know in Gaelic.

… [if you always need a moment to connect “Fort William” to “Gearasdan” and vice-versa].

… if a Lewis accent is the most amusing thing you can hear.

… if you’re a subscriber to several FaceBook groups consisting entirely of pictures of signage misprints in Scotland.

… if you can sing three verses of “O Fhlùir na h-Alba”, but you don’t know the words in English!

… if you wanted to learn the bagpipes when you were small.

… if you resent being called a “Scot”, because you’re not; you’re a Gael!

… if you became a radio presenter just because the newest presenter on Scottish Radio Hour was anti-Gaelic.

… if the history of your people begins and ends with the Clearances.

… if you watched dodgily-taped episodes of Dòtaman, even though it hasn’t shown on television since years before you were born.

… if you call television “taidhsearachd”.

… if you call Bob the Builder “Calum Chlachair”.

… [if you can sing the Postman Pat theme song, but only in Gaelic (it’s Pàdraig Post)].

… if “the Koala Brothers” dubbed into Gaelic is the best thing you’ve ever seen on television!

… if you understand the spoilers on “Outlander”, because they’re in Gaelic.

… [if you were the only one in the cinema getting the joke about the name of the bear in “Brave”].

… if you wrote in Gaelic online for Gaelic Twitter Day.

… if you’re sure “Suas leis a’ Ghàidhlig” is the national anthem of Scotland (because it’s more stirring than “O Flower of Scotland”).

… if you’re forty years younger than every other Gael in your state.

… if you did a Welsh-language short course, but you got annoyed with the other students for being so slow… initial consonant mutations aren’t such a difficult concept to grasp! [translator’s note: this one worked better in Gaelic, because the entire phrase “initial consonant mutations” is one word, “sèimheachadh”].

… if you did Scottish Country Dancing when you were younger.

… if you’ve dropped in on the Cornish-language class at the Celtic festival… just out of interest.

… if you know that Gaelic and Scots aren’t related. Your language is just called “Gaelic”… isn’t not “Scots Gaelic” at all. [Google Translate, take note].

… [if you’ve ever spent ten minutes explaining the difference between Scots and Gaelic].

… if you’ve seen every Gaelic-language video on YouTube… and you’ve seen every Irish-language video on YouTube… and you’re thinking of watching the Welsh-language videos just for fun.

… if you are translating silly “You Know You’re If” memes into and from Gaelic.

… if everyone knows your clan from your name, but no-one cares one white about it so long as you speak Gaelic!

… if you’re not sure you’re writing proper Gaelic, and you’re afraid someone will call you “àmadan” and tell you “your Gaelic is like a small child or a Gall”.

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Me, Languages, Colonialism, Community and Identity

I’ve probably talked about being a TCK before on here, in an “oh, by the way” sort of way (actually, I’m not convinced I am a TCK, but I read a statistic a few years ago that something like 80% of TCKs doubt their TCK-ness, and most of the time it seems like a better explanation for some of my weirdness than me simply being weird, even though I was born and raised in my mother’s home country). Even though I’m Australian, I went to the German Ethnic School, and I spend a lot of time on the internet claiming to be a Scottish Gael. I’ve never really felt the need to explain why all this is, really.

But recently, there’s been a bit of kerfuffle in the language-learning community over “eco-linguism” vs. “linguo-tourism”. Insults have been slung about selfishness and about thoughtless name-calling. You’re colonialistic, or you’re ignorant, and so on. If you really want to know what’s going down, go and read about it for yourself. This post is based on a comment I made over on Loving Language.

colonialism

The picture.

It was probably the picture at the top of the screen that set off that rant-like comment. I’d been mostly ignoring the whole debacle, but a single picture turned “linguistic colonialism” from an abstract concept to something that hit a little too close to home. Other things seem to have worked their way into the rant, too. Things which have been simmering for probably a long while. Conversations I’ve had, articles I’ve read and written. Things not worth commenting on individually, but which all contribute to the whole which resulted in this reaction I had to a simple picture.

The thing is, colonialism is something close to me. Close to my family. And not in the best way. It’s something I’ve learnt to ignore and not talk about, particularly since I’m working in an ethnic radio station side-by-side Indians and Bangladeshis and Pakistanis and Malaysians.

It’s not just because I live in Australia, and I have relatives who will happily refer to my family as “living in the colonies”. It’s because both of my father’s grandfathers served in the Indian Army. It’s because my grandmother was born in British-occupied Lahore and my grandfather spent his youth in British-occupied Malaya. It’s because my great-grandparents knew each other in India long before my grandparents met and married in the UK. It’s because my grandfather taught me to count the chickens in Bahasa, and because I’ve been known to say “jaldee, jaldee” to little kids to get them to move along.

And it’s because all this is shameful. “Colonialism” is such a bad word, particularly in Australia, where it means “white invaders killing the locals”. Home Rule is a good thing, and it didn’t dispossess hundreds and thousands of Anglo-Indians who had never known a home other than Lahore or Lucknow, Culcutta or Bombay. My grandmother was stopped in the customs queue every time because her paperwork said she was born in Pakistan, but I didn’t even realise until I was a teenager that my family had spent two generations in India, or that Urdu (“Hindustani”) was part of my vocabulary.

Colonialism isn’t a clear-cut thing. I’ve known Aboriginal people to get stuck into me – and any white person – for maliciously coming over here and invading. It’s a major point of debate, argument, name-throwing and campaigning here at the moment. I don’t speak back against it, because my family was literally in the army that did it – if not here, then in other countries like here.

And you know why that is? Because after the English invaded our land, my clan had the good sense to be traitorous and swear allegiance to the English (well, German) king. That’s the only reason we’re one of the largest and most powerful clans today, and why we weren’t killed and scattered across the globe like so many of our brother and sister Gaels, most of whom won’t recognise us as Gaels because we were Anglicised so quickly. The colonised had become the colonisers. So many of those “white invaders” in the 18th and 19th centuries in Australia weren’t invaders at all, but refugees, looking for a new home after having lost theirs for one reason or another.

So, do I do the same thing? Or would I, rather, given the money and half a chance? Yeah, sure, I’d travel to Scotland in a heartbeat to immerse myself in the language my ancestors lost. I’m getting more and more curiosity about Lahore, so I wouldn’t half mind visiting this place I’ve only just realised had such an impact on my family. I’d travel the world if I could, yeah. I’d see the sights and have delights on every foreign shore. I’d probably try and learn a bit of the language, and I would almost certainly come away with a few new dishes, just as those evil colonial ancestors of mine did.

I’m pragmatic enough to realise that there are languages I probably should be learning just to exist in my local community. Doing the hospital chaplain thing and realising that I can’t communicate with half the people in the ward. Finding three Italians but exhausting what little I know within a minute with each of them. Greek and Vietnamese and Serbian and Madi: there’s a long list of languages I should come to grips with to be useful in my community.

Is it “colonialism”, then, in this new and negative meaning of the term, to say that they’re not my language, and that frankly I don’t care about them as much as I should? It rankles at me that I’ve lived in Adelaide all my life, but don’t speak the local language, Kaurna, even though there are only a few dozen speakers of Kaurna in the world and all of them speak English first. I can learn community languages for their use, but it’s dying (and reviving) indigenous languages that really make me care.

Learning Gaelic is like discovering part of myself that’s been squashed over the centuries. It doesn’t make sense, here on the other side of the world, but it’s helped me build a community in both countries, and to see the colonial history of Australia in a whole different way. It used to be the third-most-spoken language here. There are now less than 1000 speakers in the whole country.

My family’s been on both sides of the colonialism thing, and it’s easy to emphasise the one side over the other. The Gaels, the indigenous people of Scotland, were invaded and brutalised and suppressed and brainwashed and poorly-treated and re-educated and bribed and helped just as much as the indigenous people of any other country the English invaded were. It’s just that, with our white skin, we blended in after we learnt the language, we joined the military and joined the occupying forces and became half of the “Britain” that formed the British Empire.

My family escaped the Clearances by assimilating, and so even though we lost our lands to the government, we didn’t suffer at English hands. We became part of the hierarchy, part of the establishment, part of the military. So many of the rulers and officials and land-owners and everyone else who made the Clearances happen weren’t English invaders at all, but Scottish landowners – Gaels themselves – who had to turn on their own people to survive.

And my family spent two hundred years on the other side. The British Empire learnt how to build empires on its own soil. Even into the last century, “England” could stand for the whole of the United Kingdom, even though that included Wales and Ireland and Scotland. Every trick that the British Empire ever used to subdue and assimilate and destroy local cultures was trialled and tested and perfected at home, and it was those people on whom it had been trialled and tested and perfected who then carried it out on the next generations.

You see, there, I’m emphasising the “victim” part of my ancestors’ colonialism saga. I shouldn’t do that, because it obscures the truth: my family, my own grandparents and great-grandparents served in the occupying force. There’s a lot of pride in that, pride in the Empire, pride in what was achieved and what it makes us. My cousins speak with posh Public School accents and plan to join the army. My grandmother – that same grandmother who used Scots and Gaelic and Urdu words in her speech, who was so down-to-earth and sensible, cooking in the kitchen and weeding in the garden and teaching me to sew – was one of the most ardent imperialists I’ve ever met. “The Crown can do no wrong”, regional accents have no place on television, and just why “the colonies” want to become republics is a complete mystery.

And that’s a part of me, too, probably more than singing in Gaelic about the Clearances can ever be. And sometimes I need a reality check to remind myself where I really come from.

So I’m a TCK. It’s something borne out of three centuries of colonialism and the resultant generational homelessness. There’s always going to be two warring parts of me, one saying “put down roots, form a community”, and the other one saying, “move already! your horizons are too narrow!” Hopefully one day I’ll be able to do both.

Until then, there’s no use in getting upset over a bunch of twenty-somethings travelling the world and learning languages. They’ll get older and wiser and more pragmatic. They’ll put down roots and get dug into their communities, and their youthful “linguistic tourism” experiences, however colonialistic they might have been, will give them a little more perspective than someone who’s just stayed cemented in the single community all their life, and an extra way of connecting to the others in the community, and of building it up for later generations.

george-campbell-hay

George Campbell Hay in the 1970s. [Gordon Wright]

And as for me, I’ll continue speaking Gaelic, immersing myself in reclaiming that part of my heritage. I’m not the first of my clan – my family – to do so. One hundred and one years ago, George Campbell Hay (who looks scarily like so many male members of my more immediate extended family) was born – I’ve only just discovered that. Like me, he was born and raised English-speaking. Like so many of our clan, he served in the British Army and was an ardent Scottish nationalist. Like me, he was caught by a love of the Gaelic language as a teenager, and he persisted in learning it.

I’ve learnt important world languages. Yes, they’re all European, and I can’t help that. Now, I think, it’s the time for me to learn those endangered languages I’ve mentioned earlier. Learning Gaelic has given me a deeper understanding of language loss. Yes, it’s sad when an immigrant community loses their language, but there’s always the lingering thought that “they still speak it in the homeland”. When indigenous languages die, that’s it. They’re gone.

I’ve been told by people that Gaelic is dying. I’ve been told by people that Gaelic is dead. It’s not, as far as I can see, and I don’t think it ever will die. The numbers of Gaelic-speakers are rising among the younger generations. There’s government support for it. No, the Celtic languages that are alive now aren’t going to die. Two of them already have, and they’ve come back to life.

What about Kaurna? It’s been revived, but it doesn’t have the sort of support of Cornish or Manx. What about Narungga or Pitjantjatjara or Barossadeitsch? Maybe if I took the time to learn them, to build up – even if it’s just with the addition of a single person – those communities, maybe they would start to stand a chance at surviving. Maybe I can begin to undo some of the destruction my ancestors (and all those like them) wrought.

I still get bitten occasionally by a love of some exotic foreign language. Okay, more than occasionally. I’ve been harbouring a secret desire to learn Maori for years. Russian’s been on my list for almost as long, and Arabic is also vying for attention. Would it be so bad, if I had the money, if I travelled to learn one of those languages?

Yes, maybe I wouldn’t stay there indefinitely. Maybe I would. I don’t know that. As I’ve said, I’m a TCK. I’ve a feeling my feet will keep me moving my whole life. Or perhaps I’ll find somewhere I can settle down and contribute. I really don’t know.

But all the while, I am building connections. Maybe not always in my local community. Gaelic is useless as far as the local community is concerned, although it has given me a small handful of people within the same city with whom I now socialise regularly. It’s also given me connections across Australia, connections in Scotland and the potential for connections in Canada and New Zealand and Ireland. Maybe they’re not building my local community. Maybe they are. Maybe they will one day.

Gaelic and German together have helped me understand the immigrant experience, such as it is. Being a white “Anglo-Celtic” immigrant – or the child of a white “Anglo-Celtic” immigrant – is not being an immigrant at all. But you don’t get to lecture me on not understanding what it’s like to have to study in my second language, because I’ve both studied and functioned day-to-day in my second and third and fourth languages. And you don’t get to lecture me on not understanding what it’s like to live in a foreign country, because I’ve been confused by foreign supermarkets and got lost in foreign towns and been unable to communicate with foreign authorities.

And maybe that’s what “linguo-tourism” does, in the end. Yes, maybe all those young twenty-somethings who are going off to spend two or three years splashing all their western money about in some other country can seem young and arrogant and naïve at the moment, and maybe it does seem a bit pointless to spend time in a city and not put down enough roots to stay there, but in the end, if they end up going back to wherever they came from, they’re going to better understand the people who don’t have that choice to go home, and they’re going to be better people, and better communicators, and better community members.

Young people don’t always have the same perspective as someone who’s “been there and done that”. And I say this as a young person. Even I think some of the “linguo-tourism” behaviour seems a little arrogant and spoiled at times, but I won’t judge it as wrong.

Community is important to me. I tried to pretend I didn’t need it for a lot of years. But not everyone’s community is the same, and not everyone’s way of relating to community is the same.

In Gaelic, the first thing one Gael asks when meeting another is not about the weather, it’s about the ceangal. It means “connection” or “link”. We’re all connected, we just need to work out how. Sometimes it’s as simple as speaking the same language (although in a language community that small, it’s rarely just the language, even for someone with no Gaelic-speaking family members like me). From those links, then, we can build our community and our future.

The first title I gave this rant was “Where are you from?” I can answer that, I suppose: “Not here. But also here.”

The second title I gave it was “Why I’m a TCK”. I suppose I’ve answered that one, too: “Colonialism.”

So I’m going to have to settle for giving it less a title and more a collection of nouns. Me, Languages, Colonialism, Community and Identity.

The Fifth Day – Staying Home (Jerusalem)

I slept soundly last night, a solid nine hours until I was woken by the wake-up call.

I couldn’t detect much swelling on my foot, and the rest overnight certainly helped. Moving very slowly, I was finally ready to head down for breakfast. I’m a bit cold-y and queasy, so I was planning to just have a cup of tea.

When I got down to the dining room, the leader of the group cornered me to tell me off for not saying anything about my foot last night. “You shouldn’t tell everyone in Australia before you’ve told us!”

I thought I hadn’t done much damage to it last night! I mentioned it to the group member helping me on the wall when I did it – “Ow, I just landed a bit funny” – but by the time lunch was over, I’d gone pretty numb. The temperature dropped dramatically over lunch – it even hailed for a few minutes – so that probably contributed. I knew it hurt a little after I’d rested for a bit before dinner, but I didn’t realise just how much it hurt until I was ready for bed.

It’s not like it’s broken or anything. It’s not even bruised.

And I did ask to miss some of the walking today. Just because I didn’t specify why!

Although, as it turns out, it’s not possible to just miss the tunnel walks this morning; I’d either have to go on the bus and wait, or miss the whole day. Since the group leader had already told me off for not ice-packing my foot last night, and I was pretty close to tears by this stage (no doubt in part due to the fact that I’m still exhausted – I’m not tired, really, anymore, but still exhausted), I decided to stay at the hotel today.

“After all,” I said something along the lines of, “For a tunnel and two fake things, it’s probably best to stay and rest for other things the rest of the week.”

“Don’t say ‘fake things’!” I was admonished. “That’s very offensive!”

The Upper Room is a traditional site, so I concede it’s probably not fake. A lot of these traditional sites, I’m sure I’d rather enjoy, were it not for being with a group of Pentecostal-Baptists who generally scorn anything involving Catholic/Orthodox tradition, with a tour guide who makes no secret of his opinions on anything.

But the other thing this afternoon is the Garden Tomb, and we already had a long diatribe a few days ago from our fearless guide about how it’s a very recent tradition, it gives you an idea of how it would have looked but it’s mostly wishful thinking, and so on, and so forth.

“It’s very offensive to many of our group members! They’re not fake!”

“I’m sure they’re not,” I allowed, “And I’m sure if I were less tired and sick, I’d be less offensive.” Right then, I didn’t care. Also I was trying to convince myself that I wouldn’t miss too much by staying home for the day.

“It’s like that conversation the other day; you’re being a bit judgemental.”

Remember that conversation that messed me up all night? Yeah, apparently it was about me being a bit too judgemental. That’s not how I recall it. Maybe everyone’s just hearing me wrong to how I intend it. The other night, I’d commented on how the tables of Korean Catholic tourists were praying before dinner, and how we hadn’t prayed over our meals the entire trip.

“Well, that’s your responsibility!” I was told harshly then. “You can’t blame anyone but yourself for not praying!”

“I have been saying grace to myself,” I insisted. “I just thought it odd that on a Christian tour, we haven’t been saying grace, that’s all. I miss it.”

“How do you know we haven’t been saying grace?” one asked, and another added, “Our knees are raw from praying!”

In an attempt at levity, I scoffed and said, “Yeah, because Baptists are known for praying on their knees.” (That’s sarcasm, by the way).

I have no idea how we got from there to me trying to defend my Anglican church and the Anglican tradition (“we’re up and down throughout the service”), and then I was accused of saying people from other churches were wrong.

“I don’t think other churches are wrong. I consider myself anti-denominational. There are lots of traditions among Christian churches, and I think each tradition has merit. There’s nothing wrong with the various traditions, they’re just different expressions of faith and different ways of doing things.” (Also, you know, we’re commanded throughout the epistles to “keep the traditions as they were taught to us”. I have a much better time accepting a tradition more than a thousand years old than I do one that started a few hundred years ago).

How anyone could think I’m judgemental of other denominations is beyond me. I grew up non-denominational, I’ve spent formative years of my life in Baptist, Pentecostal, and low-church Anglican churches, I’ve visited Lutheran and Adventist churches, I have good friends who are Catholic, and I’m currently splitting my weekends between a traditional Anglican church and the Church of God Seventh Day.

“Although,” I couldn’t help bur point out at the time, “I’ve noticed some people at college can be very judgemental about other denominations.” It’s been a major sticking point of mine last year – one of the lecturers actually said that we shouldn’t visit other denominations in case we ‘get confused’!!!

“We shouldn’t talk about denominations,” I was told, “We should just say whether people are Christian or not Christian?”

“So you’re saying we should pass judgement on whether other people are Christian or not? How is that any different?”

Even if I’m anti-denominational, I have no problem with other people choosing to identify with one church tradition or another. But honestly, it’s one thing to observe people’s behaviour and deduce from the fact that they’re praying both before and after the meal and crossing themselves that they’re Catholic; it’s another thing completely to look at someone and say whether they’re Christian or not.

“Would you say they’re Christian?” I asked, gesturing to the Catholics.

“That’s not for us to judge.”

“It’s just that I’ve known lot’s of people from the Baptist tradition who will say right-out that Catholics aren’t Christians.”

This Christian/not-Christian thing has been a recurring theme on the trip. Yuval stated boldly the other day that he doesn’t always believe someone when they tell him they’re a Christian. “Maybe if they say they are a Believer, or a follower of Yeshua, then I will believe that they are Christian.”

Right. So I tell people, “I’m a Christian,” but he wouldn’t believe me? It’s not like I’ll go around saying “I’m a Baptist” or “I’m an Anglican”. I might say “I’m a Christian and a worship at an Anglican church at the moment”, but I’ll always identify myself first as “a Christian”.

But, according to Yuval, that’s not good enough. He doesn’t trust people’s self-identification as Christians. They’re Ethiopian Orthodox, maybe, they’ll identify themselves as Christians, but he’s not going to believe them. How can he make that decision? If someone tells me they’re a Christian, then they believe in God and follow Jesus, and I’m going to assume that’s true until it’s proved otherwise, because they’ve told me that.

“I’m a Believer,” he wants me to say. Right. A believer in what? That Jesus is God? Satan believes that! A “Christian” is someone who follows and strives to emulate Christ – it’s in the name. I may be a Believer, but I’m a Christian more to the point.

But anyway, back to this morning. I concede I was a bit harsh in calling the Upper Room and the Garden Tomb “fake”, but in all fairness, I’m sure Yuval’s going to call them that not in so few words. He can be quite emphatic about places he doesn’t think are genuine. I was trying to hold back tears from the dressing-down and just wanted to get out of the conversation at that point.

So, yeah, maybe I should have told someone about my foot last night. But I didn’t realise it was quite so bad – and it’s not like it was very bad – and it doesn’t do to complain, anyway, particularly when no-one else seems to be having any trouble. I know I’m overweight and not as fit as the rest of them, and I don’t want to seem like the stereotypical unfit fat person. I’ve conceded enough weariness on this trip – I missed climbing Mount Arbel and Tel Dan last week – I don’t want to be a burden.

Not to mention, as I said, I didn’t realise how much my foot hurt until literally when I was typing up the last post right before going to sleep last night. When I got back, I was aching all over from exhaustion and just wanted to take care of that first. And it’s not like I didn’t try to get out of some things today. Would I have tried to miss out on half a day’s sightseeing for no reason?

On a completely different topic, it seems the Great Synagogue trip was overrated because the ushers wouldn’t let them in at all, so they walked for five minutes there and back for five minutes of standing at the door peering in.

So, after finishing my tea and asking for a bag of ice from Nader (who ticks our room numbers off as we go into the dining room), I’m back up in my room elevating my foot. I expect room service will be around sometime soon, although I’ll just ask them to deal with the bathroom (all our towels are wet).

I don’t mean to imply in these posts that the whole trip has been bad. It hasn’t. I can see how it might seem that way, since I’m usually pretty tired at the end of the day, and I tend to state the negative and leave the positive to speak for itself. (I’m trying to work on that). I’ve really enjoyed a lot of things (although there are many I think I’d have enjoyed a bit more with a bit more time and walking a bit slower).

But please, please, if you get worried about me from something I’ve said in the posts, please don’t start contacting the group leaders to tell them off! I just can’t deal with the headache of being pulled aside and told off for telling people in Australia about my problems; about being told that she’s got texts telling her things that I, per the rules laid down at the beginning of the trip, should have told her first. You may have all day overnight; I might plan to say something first thing in the morning but by the time I get down to breakfast, the message has already got through the wrong channels and then I’m in trouble.

And I’m sure it’s not meant to come across like a telling off. “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to; it’s not like we’re in school.” Yeah, but it seems like that. Maybe it’s because I’m immature; maybe it’s because I’m recently out of school; maybe it for who-knows-what, but it seems like we don’t get much choice in a lot. Yeah, maybe they say we do, but when it comes down to it, we get frowned at when we try to sit out of things without giving a good reason (“utter exhaustion” is not a good reason), and maybe it’s because he’s not the best with English but Yuval always comes across a little judgemental and condescending if you ask out of something.

I’m getting off-track, and I should definitely stop complaining now. I’m sure everything will seem nowhere near as bad after I’ve slept a little more. I so wanted to enjoy this trip, and see everything I could – and I have enjoyed it, for the most part. But I’m not as up for everything as some of the others in the group are. I can’t keep the pace they do. I can’t take the noise they can. I spent ten hours a day with twenty-five people, I can’t face games with them in the evenings when all I want to do is process the day and go to sleep.

I can’t believe the trip is almost over. I want to stay for longer and see more. I want to go back to some of the places and see them again. There’s so much here, and the prices of everything aside, it’s a good country to be in.

But, on the other hand, I’m glad the trip’s almost over, because I don’t know how much more I can take. It’s a relentless pace – it has to be, I suppose, to see everything. And we’re a more leisurely trip than most! I can’t imagine that. And trying to get on with twenty-five people is wearing on me, too. It’s easier with some than others, and I think sometimes I just take things the wrong way.

So please, no more texting when you’re concerned about me. I’ll be fine. I can handle it. It’s not all bad.

(Even if, right now, I feel like having a good cry and going back to sleep).