Tag Archives: photos

Ben, Hoda and their Kabt Ill Katab

How wonderful is a wedding in any language.

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Hoda and Ben recently realized they had found their soul mate. Last Friday, surrounded by family and friends  they joined hands and declared their love in a magical wedding ceremony against a backdrop of the sun setting in a blaze of glory over Port Phillip Bay.

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Living next door to an Egyptian Family for over fifteen years has been a delightful experience. We have learnt so much over those years and been included in many celebratory occasions: cakes at the end of Ramadan, sweets and gifts exchanged at Christmas and bowls of nuts, spices and snacks during the year have not only expanded our culinary tastes but also our knowledge of a different culture. Both families respect and understand their different religions. To be Christian or Muslim simply means trying to be the best people we can be.  To me, we are taking different paths that lead to the same destination.

It has been a privilege to watch Hoda grow from a vivacious little girl into a beautiful young woman. We met Ben for the first time on Friday night and immediately fell in love with his outgoing friendly nature and happy smile. His entire family were supportive, fun loving people.

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We wondered how different this marriage ceremony would be compared to the others we had attended and were amazed at the similarities. Out of respect for the English and Arabic cultures present, the Imam conducted the ceremony in both English and Arabic . Both fathers gave their blessing, the happy couple said ‘I do’, papers were signed, cake cut, and, instead of a soprano singing Oh Perfect Love, Hoda and Ben had an Australian belly dancer who, much to the delight of the guests, managed to entice the recently married couple to join her dance.

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The wedding breakfast was superb. How wonderful to be able to taste a portion of all the entrees, mains and sweets, instead of having to choose one or the other.  Sometimes it’s impossible to decide

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We have a special relationship with Hoda’s grandmother.and were delighted to see her surrounded by her lovely daughters and son. I wanted to take a picture of them all together but we were all so busy having a good time the evening was over before we realized it.

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The most fun came from a photo booth set up to one side of the restaurant. We wandered over to see what all the shrieks of delight were about only to be dragged in front of the hidden camera. Hats were plonked onto our heads. Because you had no idea when the photo would be taken some of the photos were hilarious. Ours included.

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Several seconds later we were handed a strip of photos which we then put into a book  and were asked to write a message to Hoda and Ben . Our photos followed a collection of very funny pictures complete with rabbit ears and hysterically laughing faces. The caption  underneath was ‘Your crazy cousins’. I loved that Hoda’s name had the Wonder Woman sign beside it and Ben was obviously Superman.

We had a wonderful evening and wish Hoda and Ben a long and happy life together

hearts linked

ANZAC Day 2015: The Solitary Soldier

One hundred years of memories.

Recently I was approached by a 97 year old friend, Margaret who wanted me to help her collate extracts of letters, photos and artefacts from WW1 for a book for her family. I thought she may have a couple of letters etc. When she arrived with a bag filled to the brim with faded letters, diaries, photos, cartoons and coins I realized she had an invaluable record of what life was like for the everyday Australian foot soldier during World War One.

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Margaret managed to print several copies of letter extracts and memorabilia at Officeworks to give to the family on the 100th Anniversary of the ANZAC landing. It was a labour of love.

Writers are always trying to see things from another’s perspective and as I read the letters, some written in pencil, others in fading ink that Margaret’s father sent to his mother I found myself asking the questions that nag all writers: How, When, Where and Why? But the biggest question of all was,  ‘What if … What if Margaret’s father had not returned, like so many other men… How would Margaret’s mother (a young fiancée at the time) have felt after losing him.’  How did all those women, forever bonded by the loss of a loved one in a universal sisterhood  feel year after year? The result was the following story.

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MY SOLDIER

 ANZAC day. The last post has long sounded. The plaintive call lingered in the early morning mist and slowly died as the first flush of dawn lightened the sky. The speeches are over, marchers gone. I bend to touch the delicate blossoms placed at the base of the tall granite column. Blossoms that will soon fade and die. Red roses, bright camellias and a handpicked bunch of hardy daisies that will outlive the others by a mile. How many years have I come to this spot? Too many to remember. Beauty Spot, it is called. An integral part of Carrum, right on the mouth of the Patterson River. A place where mothers bring their toddlers to play and fishermen sit on the low stonewall dreaming of the catch of a lifetime. There is the fresh clean smell of salt and spray: a fitting place to close the eyes and dream of what might have been, to remember the handsome face, coiled puttees, kaki clad faded figure in the ornate frame over the fireplace.

The diamond you slipped on my finger that wintry night in June flashed promise and hope. The dream of manly boots next to my fluffy slippers. A line full of nappies and a cradle to rock. The joy of a family to cook for, a family to love.

That last night we danced and clung to each other before we hurried home to the rented two-roomed flat. The next morning the gate squeaked and I wept into my pillow.

I quietly read the words forever-inscribed in stone. To the imperishable memory of the soldiers of this district that gave their lives… Simple heartfelt words from a grateful community. I am always surprised at his simplicity. This is not an ostentatious crowded statue with flags flying and rifles raised in anger.

Here is one solitary soldier standing upright and alone, hand gripping his rifle barrel, the butt resting on the ground. At ease, but ready and waiting for…, what?

I have never known war, but when I gaze at him I can smell the acrid smoke, hear the whistle of shells and the cries as mates fall. I have lived my life under sunny skies and yet I can identify with his quiet sadness, his overwhelming sense of loss. The telegram read, ‘We regret to inform you that corporal T K Wells VX1068 of the AIF Infantry…’ I thought of planting a tree. At least then there would be something living and growing.

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Recently I drove in heated comfort past an Avenue of Honour where row upon military row of silent trees flashed past in the kaki haze of a misty morning. Tall old trees, some over fifty years, planted when young soldiers fell. They no longer stood at the edge of endless paddocks. Ballarat was running out to embrace them, to include them into the teeming life of what is now a city. There were so many trees. Each one a son, daughter or husband and I saw the ghosts of their kin stretching back as far as the horizon. Like a stone in a pond, so may lives caught up, like mine, in the far-reaching circles of the wars to end all wars.

I was shell-shocked for months until it finally seeped into my unwilling brain that you would never again be by my side, your arm around my waist as you kissed everything better. But life goes on and I have known love. Not your love but the worn tartan slippers beside mine in front of the dying fire are comfortable.

I shiver as I gaze up at the long list of names etched into cold stone and run trembling fingers over the rough rock. So many did not survive to witness this new millennium, to drink in the beauty of spring blossoms, or to come here year after year. I gaze up at his strong young face and wonder what he would think of my knotted veined hand pressed against my heart. Time shall not weary them…

The glow in the west bathes him in gold as I sit and dream. And there’s talk about moving him. Some people want a car park, others, townhouses with sweeping bay views. Cart him away to some easily forgotten spot? Over my dead body. I’ll not let them take my soldier. Not this time.

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