What would you say if, out of the blue, someone offered you an all-expenses-paid trip to Israel? Back in December, London’s Union of Jewish Students did just that, and last Friday I flew to Tel Aviv with seven students from across Britain for a trip described, in rather poor taste, as an ‘election/post-war special.’ Having never been offered a free trip in my life, my initial reaction to the invitation was one of suspicion, and I immediately started searching for a hidden agenda, wondering what line I might be expected to buy on a visit to a country with such notoriously bad PR.

The recent campaign by the Israeli Defence Force in Gaza, which left between 900 and 1,300 Palestinians dead, has led to worldwide protests, student campaigns and calls for a boycott, leaving many Israelis feeling frustrated at what they see at Europeans’ failure to understand their need to defend their state. Despite my reservations about going, however, I decided that seeing one side, however potentially biased, was better than seeing neither. I reassured myself that I would take everything presented to me with a healthy dose of scepticism, whilst vowing to keep an open mind.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but after arriving in Israel I quickly found myself caught off guard. Yes, I met the caricature of the gung-ho IDF man, full of bravado and machismo, and the cynical civil servant, tired of European liberals who like to ‘play utopia.’ But I was also exposed to a series of thoughtful, liberal voices who presented a compelling narrative of the Jewish struggle to break free from their history of exclusion, persecution and permanent minority status. A visit to Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust museum, as well as meetings with a range of academics, journalists and civil servants conveyed a powerful sense – real, imagined, or somewhere in between – that the Jews are not only a victimised people, but also one that has been let down time and again by governments, regimes and individuals that failed to protect them. There is a deep need to prove the country’s strength, and to never allow the Jewish people to become victims again.

This, I discovered, is the crux of the Israeli psyche. It is within this framework of fear that Israelis view Sderot – the town 1km to the north of Gaza, battered by rockets for the past eight years, and the second intifada – the five-year Palestinian uprising that began after the breakdown of peace talks in 2000 . The residents of Jerusalem lived in constant fear of suicide bombers who targeted buses, cafes and bars. This sense of insecurity was apparent in the run up to elections, in which right-winger Avigdor Lieberman saw his popularity swell on the basis of a campaign that described the country’s Arab citizens as an ‘internal terror threat.’ Demands that Arabs prove their loyalty to the country in order to retain their citizenship struck a chord with voters, and on Tuesday Lieberman’s Yisrael Beiteinu party achieved an unprecedented 15 seats in Israel’s new parliament.

The Hebrew University’s Dr Gideon Rahat rejects these ultra-nationalist politics, describing Lieberman a ‘threat to Israeli society’ for ‘turning Israeli Arabs against the state of Israel.’ So too, do many others, but this week’s elections nevertheless saw Israeli politics take a step to the right, in what most analysts see as a disillusionment with the peace process. But Israel’s 20% Arab population, too, feels disillusioned, with most simply shrugging their shoulders when I asked how they’d use their vote.
We were scheduled to meet three Palestinians but, tellingly, two of them were unable to make it due to problems with permits and border crossings. On election day we visited the controversial West Bank wall, designed to prevent suicide bombers but condemned by many as an exercise in land-grabbing. There were no Palestinians at the usually busy crossing point – that day the West Bank was closed, its residents forbidden from entering Israel – but during the five minutes we stood there we watched an Israeli settler speed across the boundary in his car.

I found it strange that the trip, which placed so much emphasis on the importance of understanding the Israeli side of the Middle East conflict, failed to present any detailed analysis of the other side of the story – that of the Palestinians. The anguish of losing their land and their homes, the humiliation of years of occupation and the desperation of poverty were given little consideration, and it would have been easy to have come away feeling that the Palestinians are entirely to blame for their plight.

It is for this reason that, for me, the most inspiring voice of the trip was that of Robi Damelin, who is a member of Parents’ Circle, a group that brings together Israelis and Palestinians whose family members have been killed in the course of the conflict. She usually works in a pair with Ali Abu Awwad, a Palestinian whose brother was shot dead by an Israeli settler, but he had unable to cross into the West Bank from Jordan. Damelin’s son, David, a Master’s student who was active in the peace movement, was called up by the IDF as a reservist in 2002, and soon after was killed by a Palestinian sniper. She now tours schools in Israel and the Occupied Territories, and gives talks across the world, in order to share her story. She tells how, during a talk in the West Bank, a schoolgirl once told her that her son deserved to die. ‘She came from a bereaved family,’ says Damelin. ‘I talked to her about it. I asked her what colours her tears were. She got up in front of the whole class and came up and apologised. That took a lot of courage.’

Sceptical of those who promote ‘hummus and hugs’, Damelin has used her and Abu Awwad’s shared pain as a starting point for an exploration of the nitty-gritty of politics, war and peace, and she now believes that ‘you have to talk to everyone; even Hamas.’ This sentiment was echoed by Khaled Abu Alia, the one Palestinian we did manage to meet, who argues that Israel’s refusal to recognise the democratically-elected group ‘made them into heroes.’ But those who support such views are in the minority, as the declared aim of Hamas’ charter – the destruction of the state of Israel – currently makes dialogue out of the question for most.

I came away from the trip with the feeling that I had, as expected, been shown just one side of the story, but rather than any anticipated crude propaganda, I was offered an intelligent, nuanced exploration of the Israeli national consciousness, and the fears and insecurities of its citizens. I’ve come to understand that many liberal Israelis are uncomfortable with their country’s actions, but that they are also scared for the safety of their children. It’s a story that I’m incredibly glad I’ve heard. But I also left feeling uncomfortable at not even having visited an Arab-Israeli village, let alone the West Bank, because it was deemed too ‘unsafe’ by the organisers. That is surely the point. It’s all very well for Israel’s liberals to covet peace, but until both sides are forced to confront not only their own feelings of insecurity and fear, but also those of their ‘enemy’, there can be little hope of the understanding that is needed for peace.

In a country where every house has an in-built bomb shelter, where Palestinians face the humiliation of daily checkpoint searches, and where Jewish and Muslim children attend different schools, it remains too easy for Arabs and Israelis to dehumanise the threatening ‘other’, blocking out their suffering and justifying actions taken against them. Fear is a powerful force, and despite projects that try to bring the two sides together, most Israelis have never met a Palestinian, and vice versa. ‘Peace is possible when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable,’ declares a letter from Desmond Tutu on the Parents’ Circle homepage. But, for the time being, while rockets are fired and walls are built, it is ignorance and fear that reign supreme.

In the past, the idea of ‘ethical trendiness’ has seemed somewhat a contradiction in terms. Living a green lifestyle used to conjure up visions of anorak-wearing vegans frantically monitoring their recycling bins, or of gap year tragedies wearing Peruvian hemp cloth and protesting against carbon emissions. This was, however, before Anya Hindmarch.

The British designer extraordinaire created the £5 ‘I’m not a plastic bag’ cloth shopping tote in collaboration with Sainsbury’s, in order to dissuade the public from using non-biodegradable plastic bags. The response was astounding; in one day, 80 000 people in England queued up to buy it. With a bag that was both stylish and ethical, Hindmarch made green living cool. Soon celebrities from Natalie Portman to Gordon Ramsey entered into competitions to display their green credentials.

“I am not a silly trite fashionista”

But the secret to the phenomenal success of ‘I’m not a plastic bag’ was Hindmarch’s timing. Indeed, this is her consummate skill: the ability to know what people want before they do. This derives from her ability to think in the mindset of the average woman. Indeed, when I ask her who her greatest fashion influence is, she replies: ‘Probably my mother because she was my first influence – and mothers are a subliminal influence which is quite brainwashing! Also though, I think I design lot for myself. Not because I think I am my own ‘muse’, far from it! But because I am probably my own harshest critic and share many of the roles that women have. If it works for me, it tends to translate into working in store.’ She has managed to reach heights of international acclaim in her career, and raise five children. It is a feat that few parents have juggled and managed, and an experience which Hindmarch translates her designs.

I asked her about the infamous ‘I’m not a plastic bag’ idea, and how it came about. ‘I wanted to make people aware that doing what I used to do – that is to say, going to the supermarket and taking 30 plastic bags because I’ve got five children, going home and putting all the bags in the bin and, ultimately, the landfill – is stupid.’ More widely, she draws her inspiration from the everyday: ‘I’m influenced by things as diverse as a colour or a street lamp or the way someone walks. You’re out and about and suddenly you realise you’re obsessed with the emblem on a museum door handle.’

In addition, Hindmarch has managed to distinguish herself from the plethora of mass produced brands by emphasising the uniqueness and personalisation of her designs – she combines British humour with the bespoke. She refers to this as the DNA of a brand – the personal touches, such as an image of a 1950s film icon delicately emblazoned on an inner lining. One of the designs that encapsulates this is the Bespoke Eburt bag launched in 2003. The inside of this bag has a secret message in the buyer’s own handwriting. It is this attention to personal detail that sets Hindmarch’s designs apart from the culture of the ‘It-bag’, which seemed as ostentatious a representation as any of the overconsumption of the noughties.

Hindmarch has all the genuine excitement about a bag of a sixteen year old girl: ‘I love bags because you don’t have to try them on, you don’t have to be a certain size, they can completely alter your mood…It is a form of self-expression, which is very important in life. It’s showing our colours. It’s tribal.’

“In one day, 80 000 people to buy her infamous bag”

Certainly, Hindmarch is passionate that fashion can be fun. However, she does believe that although ‘fashion is criticized for being frivolous, something like ‘I’m not a plastic bag’ shows its power to influence people. For me, it was about raising awareness, not about selling lots.’ She is keen to emphasise that she is not ‘ a silly, trite fashionista.’ This, she certainly is not. Business-minded and astute, she is fully aware of the pitfalls of the fickle fashion world. ‘The buyers can be quite ruthless at times and you have to keep telling yourself that ‘customer is king.’

Aside from transforming eco-fashion, Hindmarch is a key mover and shaker in political and social circles. She is keenly involved in resuscitating the Conservative party’s image and organized the annual Conservative Black and White Ball. If anyone can transform the Conservatives stuffy image, it is her. Unashamedly, she admits that perhaps her most pivotal role model is Mrs Thatcher, whose steely determination she has always aspired to emulate. Hindmarch got her big break at the age of 18, when Thatcher was in power, when she managed to persuade Harpers and Queen to commission her as a buyer, despite being so young. ‘I think I was pretty determined and quite persuasive. I think these two qualities are a common trait in being an entrepreneur. When I was 18, Lady Thatcher was pushing the nation to say, ‘get on with it. Get out there. Get going.’
So Thatcher is responsible for Hindmarch being on the fashion scene, but despite this, Hindmarch’s domination of the looks set to continue, and her creations will continue to inspire fashionistas everywhere.

Penis worship is alive and well. And I don’t just mean among male rugby teams, when they delight in getting drunk, getting lairy and getting naked. Devotion to the phallus has spawned a number of cultural celebrations across the world, most notably in Peru at Chucuito, and in Japan where there are not one, but two annual penis festivals. Wow.

Valentine’s Day has landed for the year – there is no way to avoid suffocating under the (ten million) roses, drowning in the (one billion) cards that are sent, or suffering (as one in ten under-25s do) feelings of inadequacy and depression. Call me a cynic, a humbug, a loner or a loser- but there seems to be better ways to celebrate all things relationship-related…with a little bit of penis worship.

The ruins of Chucuito, Peru lie in the middle of a rather picturesque village. On the southern shores of Lake Titicaca, the town was once the primary Inca settlement of the region and capital of the whole province. Aside from its landscape of town squares, colonial churches and agricultural fields, Chucuito has more to excite the eager visitor: the Inca Uyo, the penis sculptures.

‘Japan has not just one, but two annual penis festivals’

‘Donde está penis?’ The bemused local doesn’t reply. Is it your new alpaca jumper that’s putting him off? Try again: ‘donde está penis?’ Perhaps it’s your Spanish. Turn to charades to try and ask the question. On second thoughts – is miming such a good idea here? Never mind, your new friend has interpreted your meaning and cracks out into a grin – pointing you, bizarrely, towards the Santa Domingo church. A church? ‘Non, non’ – he takes your elbow and steers you to the spot next door, into the open temple of Inca Uyo.

What appears to be a mushroom filled garden from a distance is suddenly revealed to be a series of large phallic sculptures. The awed silence is only broken by the giggles of a young lady, enthusiastically trying to straddle the largest penis available. Like a king watching over his subjects, it rises from the centre of the temple as two more stand on guard either side of the entrance.

Some of the sculptures point upwards towards the Sun God, Inti, whilst others are directed towards the ground, towards Pachamama, or Mother Earth. Some of the guides joke that the Incas were so well endowed, had they been buried on their backs with full erections, you would be unable to see the difference here. Others explain how virgins used to sit for hours on top of the phalli, in the hopes of trying to increase their fertility. Even today, there are reports of women sneaking into the garden at night to pray for pregnancy.

Some historians believe the phallus-stones are a farce – impossible Inca ruins because they would never have survived the arrival of the Spanish, and their fondness for destroying indigenous idols. Were they, then, the result of some powerful leader’s perversion? Or built as symbols of power in a civilisation governed by men? Either way, Chucuito may or may not fire up your fertility, but it will definitely make you feel quite unashamedly in awe of the male member.

10567 miles to the north-east of Chucuito is Kawasaki. The Japanese celebrate Valentine’s Day, as date when women are obliged to buy gifts for men. The men reciprocate a month later on ‘White Day’, when the gifts are supposed to be white chocolate and marshmallows, yet tend rather to be, thoughtfully, presents of lingerie. Fast forward a few more weeks to the first Sunday of April and there is a rather different celebration of love, affection and harmony: the Kanamara Matsuri, or Iron Penis festival.

‘The silence is broken by the giggles of an enthusiastic young lady trying to straddle the largest penis available’

At the Wakamiya Hachimangu shrine from about 10am to 4pm, the penis dominates. Portable penis shrines are paraded down the streets, large radishes (daikon) are carved into penis shapes and carried around, and giant wooden penis sculptures are straddled for good luck.

Legend has it that the festival was originally held to celebrate the vanquishing of a sharp-fanged female demon, which had a nasty habit of biting off male genitalia.The town shrine had been built to honor the gods of iron and was used to make swords, and so one day a resourceful monk thwarted the dangerous demoness’ antics by making a huge penis out of iron. Her teeth were shattered, the private parts were saved, and the iron penis became a cause for annual celebration. The area also used to be overrun with brothels in the Edo era, and prostitutes would attend the festival to pray for protection against sexually transmitted diseases.

Whilst the festival has, to some extent, turned into a drunken, raucous celebration of all things penis-shaped, it also is an example of a free spirited rejection of prudishness and Puritanism. It is used to raise money for HIV research and AIDS charities, and the curious mix in the crowd includes childless couples praying for pregnancy (next stop: Peru), a large gay and lesbian crowd and Tokyo’s transvestite ‘new half’ community. Indeed, a couple of years ago the festival was held at the same time as a local election – and the penis beat the politics. Several candidates were winding through the revelers and trying to canvas votes on their loudspeakers – perhaps neither the publicity nor the photo opportunities they were looking for.

The Iron Penis festival may well exhaust all save the keenest penis worshippers, but Japan has another one to offer as well. This one, it seems, is taken more seriously – at least the town priest and officials intend it to be, anyway. For most of the year, Tagata Jinja, a shrine just north of Nagoya, is very quiet. It was built approximately 1500 years ago in honour of the daughter of an old feudal lord, called the kami. The smaller building of the shrine – the Shinmeisha – contains a large number of natural and man-made objects, almost all of which are shaped like a penis, and are used to worship this female deity. Most of the visitors are young couples hoping to conceive, or singletons searching for a spouse, and they come here to pray to the phalli in peace.

And then March 15th arrives – and with it come the country’s hoards, the sake drinking, the dancing…and the two and a half meter wooden phallus carried above the crowds. Hounen Matsuri is a celebration of renewal and regeneration and supposed to focus upon the female deity enshrined in Tagata. However, it is difficult not get carried away with all things phallus when there are penis shaped sweets to suck on, key chains and sculptures to carry as souvenirs, and azuki filled dumplings, schlong-shaped of course, to eat as the sake is drunk.

‘The giant wooden phallus seems to grow in size each year’

The procession is the main event of the festival, in which the giant penis is carried by 12 men between two shrines, a distance of just over a mile. A priest leads the parade, scattering salt on the path to purify the route, and is followed by standard bearers carrying a banner painted with an alarmingly detailed penis. Next come the local dignitaries in gold shawls, a group of musicians playing ancient court music, and then some purple-robed women carrying small wooden models, in you guess what shape. Behind them is a collection of Shinto priests, one of whom dresses up with a red face, large protruding nose and a shock of hair to represent the deity who led the sun goddess to earth. A sake cart excites the audience in time for the arrival of the main event – the carriage of the two portable shrines. The first is a wooden statue of Takeinadene-no-mikoto, the visiting husband of the agricultural deity, and the second is the huge wooden penis.

Each year, a new giant wooden phallus is carved from a large cypress tree, and each one seems bigger than its predecessor. Originally, it was attached to a straw effigy of a samurai warrior, yet when this was deemed too risqué, the effigy was discarded and the phallus was enlarged to one metre long and paraded by itself. Now, however, it has swelled to over double this size and weighs nearly 300 kg. No wonder both the male and female festival goers get quite excited.

So regardless of your gender, or whether you’re hetero/homo/bi/trans or metro sexual – if Valentine’s Day leaves you feeling blue, think about the cultural institution that is penis worship. This Japanese and Peruvian delight in all things phallus is rude rather than prude, cheerful rather than cheesy, and eclectic rather than erotic. In their celebration of the power of the penis, they celebrate the real love of loving.