In my "Inbox"

Hello dear,

I am so happy that you emailed me. I understand that it is not dry or formal, but sometime I myself organize myself better in the written word. Also when we talk face to face we may interrupt each other and lose our lines of thought. I totally agree with you.

Reading your message, I have some thoughts.
First, it came to my mind on the way to Alexandria that you never replied to my words (since i always speak like a machine-gun giving no one room to take the mic :) and only then it struck me that i may have upset you.

I read your email and realize things that I never knew. All I know about your experience about taking hijab off is that the people at the place you worked were really bitchy, you said something about looks from the neighbours and said that your parents and brother especially are OK and fine and understand where you are coming from. That's all I know. I didn't realize that your were preached by others.

I guess my ignorance about this comes from the fact that we have been barely keeping in touch in recent years, and naturally when you said those things to me in the car in Roxy the first time i saw you without it, you were just brief as the moment allowed. Believe me I am totally in the dark when it comes to these feelings and experiences u expressed below.

It is very important to me that you remember that from that day in Roxy till the day in front of berry Cafe, I never really gave you a speech about the matter. Yes, I admit you could sense that my eyebrows were up :), but I asked you out of curiosity "when did this happen?' and similar questions.

Ma3lesh one last thing, please forgive me for getting the feeling that you are confused about hejab. I based it on the conversations we had in the summer about neqab. I made an assumption and I was wrong... forgive me. You told me in the car in Roxy that you had a headache for the diversity of opinions and that's why I kept thinking about it. At times i think what if I had the same confusion, what would be the right conclusive argument.

Believe me I wasn't patronizing you, or painting a picture of the girl who went for haj and seen the light and back to guide the astray. and what i told you was my true thoughts that crossed my mind therein Saudi, not jumping at a chance to preach you dear, didn't realize that you were preached before, I just wanted to answer the question you asked me long time ago about how do we know that hejab is the right thing, that's all.

Discover Islam on your own dear, I am sure you get extra thawab for it. It is also true that nothing is wrong with young people who were bred from birth into Islam without the mental process of disbelief and questioning and then belief, example Osama iban Zaid, and abdulal Ibn Omar. The Arabic below:

ثبت في الصحيح عنه أنه قال: { سبعة يظلهم الله في ظله يوم لا ظل إلا ظله } ومن ضمن أولئك { شاب نشأ في طاعة الله

habibti, No one has the right to be part of this process you are undergoing, because it's between you and God. People should stay away because You NEITHER harm them with hejab or lack-of OR ask for their contribution, advice, or help.

It's unfair that you are prejudiced against because you once wore the veil. What if you were never veiled, no one would then have hovered and hovered, and hammered and hammered on the subject. It is unfair, because what is the difference.

Love for now dear,

Yasmine

One reason I wanna leave Egypt

Today is one of the few days in the year when I go home, walk strait into my parents’ room, say a good evening and say “Do you know what the worst thing you both have done in your life is? It’s teaching us manners.” This is usually followed by a narrative of the incident that triggered my anger and frustration with the way my parents raised me. Today, it was a stupid man at the supermarket who tried to jump line and rudely forced me to raise my voice in a public place for the first time in my life.

Without getting into details of what happened, because it is not really the point here, I have to say that I could have avoided the scene had I asked the cashier to just say who of us came first and not talk to the guy at all. But I had to since he waived hands in my face, shushed me, etc.
It took the usual to calm down. Venting to mom and dad, a shower, dinner, and watching cartoon (Last time it was Ratatouille. This time it is WALL-E).

Two hours later, I'm left alone with my thoughts. Day after day, I'm actually more determined to leave Egypt. You might say "No one leaves their country because of a rude man at a stupid supermarket" and I couldn't agree more.

I want to leave because my brother feels safe walking on the streets any time of day. I don't. He doesn't check his shadow to see if someone is following him. I do. He does not press the central lock the moment he gets into the car. I do. He doesn't pray every day that no one grabs him on the street. I do. He hasn't started the habit of walking with his MP3 on because he doesn't want to hear the nasty things someone might harass him with. I do. He does not get people jump line in front of him because he's a man. I do because I'm a girl. He can answer his cell phone on a cab, the subway, or the street. I don't do that to avoid the double possibility of harassment.

To keep it short and simple, let’s say that one major reason I want to leave Egypt is being "a girl who doesn't feel safe any more." Other reasons are already here in previous pages. You’ll sure hear more soon.

Since I can’t leave today or tomorrow morning, I’ll stay forever grateful for Walt Disney.

Ladies Only Plz

It seems guys that deadlines are my muse. I have a life changing exam in twenty-two days and as usual I’m not studying enough (at all?) Instead, I'm reading a new book, visiting the dentist, chatting with my mom, writing to you, AND started going to the gym! yay...

It is the same place where coach Nour works. The reason I chose this gym was not to check him out. I haven't run into him yet because he's a gym room trainer and I've subscribed for the aerobics only.

I had phoned them three days ago and an Omar said "Why don't you come attend a class for free and then decide?" I accepted the invitation.

I arrived just in time, got changed, and joined in. It was a very good class, I have to say. The coach knew what she was doing and I didn't get bored. It took me around ten minutes to realize that, although it was an "L.O." (ladies only) class, there was a young lady in her mid twenties wearing tight rather see-through white pair of pants, tight pink long-sleeve cotton blouse, and a headscarf. Yes, a headscarf. If you're Muslim you might know where she's coming from. Ready?

Ok, in Quraan there is a verse (24:31) that says women should not show their beauty except to a limited group of people among whom is 'their women'. There are two interpretations for this 'their women': either Muslim women only or women in general. So apparently she believed in the first interpretation of the verse. Which she is entitled to and I'm OK with. I myself used to go to the gym room and exercise with my veil on and it was perfectly fine. What I found interesting was the fact that throughout the whole class, especially during the cool down, she was actually showing more than her hair; her back, stomach, and %^&*$# !!

I finished class and went upstairs to get changed. I have to say that the ladies changing room is one of the least place I like anywhere. Although there was five vacant cabinets where they can get changed, they insist on just doing so in the middle of the room. Well, it's just not comfortable, man! Why do you impose your body on others!! Most of them don't have something to show off actually, which makes it EVEN more uncomfortable.

I then went to the reception check the class schedule and complete the registration.
- Evening, Omar.
+ Evening. How was the class?
- It was very good, thanks. So, I need your help with the schedule.
+ Sure.
- Since you know all classes.. errr.. I have no problem at all with mix-gender classes except with those where we have to use mats.

(Silence and puzzled eyes)

- I mean if it is hip hop, jump in the air kind of thing, cycling, etc .. cool. But lying on the floor with a gentleman next to me .. you know?
+ Oh, I see your point.

He grabbed a highlighter and started marking the L.O. classes and those that match my criterion.

+ We have great Salsa and Tango classes.
- Sounds interesting, but no thanks.

hmm, the guy does not seem to get the point. He gave me a look close to 'how non-progressive old-fashioned'

- You can sign me up for belly dancing, though.

He raised one eye brow without looking me in the eye. After all she's not that ...

In my "sent" mail

Habibty Yasmina,

How's Alexandria? I hope you're enjoying your work and stay there :)

The one and only reason why I'm sending you this e-mail is that I love you, so please keep this in mind while reading.

Yesterday, when we were sitting in your car, I was really touched seeing tears in your eyes. I was touched even more by the sincerity of your words; I know you care for me a lot.

There is one thing that you probably don't realize. Like everyone else who has talked to me about that Hijab issue, your urge to advise me blinded you against whether I want to hear it or not. Actually I don't. And starting today, I won't. You realized the truth behind hijab. Why not let me realize it too for myself?

It's been ten months now since I took the headscarf off and incidents of people preaching me or giving me 'that' look hasn't stopped. This all caused me more trouble than good. People just want to push me to do what they think is the right, to dress like them, to eat like them, to talk like them, etc. This has all given me psychological pressure I won’t get into discussing now. People want to advise, to say what they want at my expense, to get anything off their chest and throw it onto mine. And not in a million year will I comply unless I want to.

I will just do what feels right for me. I've forever taken myself out of stupid fake social frames: "the polite girl", " the girl who drives in the right lane only", "the straight-hair girl", "the future submissive wife", "the honor of the family", "the hijabi girl". I'm redefining myself according to what I want only. I'm going to do this at my own pace and no one else's. Let the rest of the world keep fooling each other and themselves.

Back to the hijab issue. For me it's the least of my worries. Apart from the fact that there's a God out there, I'm questioning every single thing in Islam because I want to understand and base my faith on what I believe, not what family, sheikhs, TV programs, and books tell me to believe. I also know that God gave us brains to use them

I've starting a journey and know that God will give me guidance. Even if I may seem to you and others like someone who is heedless or confused, I know I'll come out a much stronger Muslim than anyone else. I'll have based faith on conscious efforts and not on what’s written in my ID (female, Muslim, single)

Why I'm telling you all this? Because I really care for not having any hard feelings against you the way I do for some others. In no way was this message meant to be dry or formal. It’s just a piece of my mind we never get to talk about because we’re always busy talking about shoes, purses, and men :))

Love xxx

N

99.95

I was at school this morning. Heading to the library with a carry mug of hot tea. Although I had decided to boycott university food because it was unhealthy and OVERpriced, it was too cold to stick to principles.

I stopped by an unhealthy-packed-stuff stand to get cookies.

-- Afternoon, do you have milk or butter cookies?
~ Yes, here you go.
-- How much? A hundred pounds? :)
~ No, 99.95 only ;)
-- Oh, that's less than Mubarak's 99.99% votes
~ You, see? We're better than other things in life.

I handed the guy the 4.50 pounds for the cookies.

It struck me how people who may have nothing in common turn out to have something in common. An bitter understanding realities.

Mocaccino

Cairo, 1.35 pm
Library. Second floor.

Looking for an Arabic radio station. I couldn't find a good one, or have I developed a westerner ear?

I'm not in the mood for heavy gulf 'g' and 't' if you know what I mean.

Thirsty but will drink later.

Poor Matt is reviewing my writing sample.

I should be telling you what has been going on since I last blogged but don't have time now as you can see.

Back to searching for an Arabic radio station. Can't find any.

It's about time to start writing this damn last paragraph of the paper.
No, work on the summary table first.
Deadline in four hours.

Quraan station. That's better now.

If only the guy at the computer next to me stops munching crisps!

Alright! 12 Times New Roman, double spaced. Make it 11, 1.5 spaced. Looking good.
"In this literature review I deal with the efficacy.." Efficacy? Where did i get this word from? Stupid GRE!! Effectiveness? Efficacy?
"In this paper I have reviewed three studies that deal with.."

I am not really in the mood for analyzing Quraan verses now. AOL will do.
Hmm, Jazz Latino is fine.

Mocachino is the right thing to do now.

Going down the stairs.. hop! hop! hop!

Five little firemen standing in a row....1, 2, 3, 4, 5 they go
Up on the engine with a SHOUT .... Quicker than a wink the fire is out

Here is the smiley librarian. Smile and walk strait out. It's not time for that "Whassup!" chat plus he doesn't know I'm probably at least six years older.

Where has the sun gone? el gaw bard (it's cold).

- One mocaccino please. Here you go, LE 12.

Mmmm, warm and chocolatey, but the best part is the small cube of chocolate they hand you with every cup. Cafe Tabasco, you're the best! I hear thier branch in Mohandessin serves beer. Is it wrong to buy from them, then? Well, it'll be haraam (forbidden) to stay at hotels then. Long story. Let's not get into this now.

Climbing up the stairs.. up! up! up!

Five little monkeys jumping on the bed .... One fell off and bumped his head
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said .... "No more monkeys jumping on the bed!"

Man, I'm out of breath. I need to start believing in sports before the end of the year.

Sneakers off, cross-legged, hair down although you may not be able to figure that out.

Alors!
"In this literature review, I deal with a question that all teachers have to answer every time..."

Gosh, ending a paper is as hard as ending a relationship.

"In this DAMN literature review, it was clear that the decision regarding whether to provide feedback on writing or not, in what form, and how often..."

Cairo, 4.56 pm
Library. Second floor.

Hennoooo!?

I am supposed to be reading two chapters on teaching methodology (I am one chapter behind) and an article on probability sampling. But who cares! I am also supposed to be watching my diet and instead I am treating myself, for no reason, to a plate of home made cinnamon and vanilla cookies stuffed with strawberry jam. In order to waste more time, I decided to make tea with milk. No milk. Good. I got changed and went down to buy some.



I passed by the hairdresser’s I told you about two times before, the name of which I never cared to know. I decided to go in. For the first time ever I was the only customer there. The owner, who had a toothache, was resting her head on the counter and the three young assistants were chatting their time away.

I walked in and Aleyya, who once told me ‘Call me Kooki’, stood up to attend to me as usual.


- Hello, Kooki. Wow, is this your after Ramadan new look? Nice gold highlights.
• Merci. Do I look nice.
- As pretty as a full moon, as always.
• What do you need today?
- The usual but please don’t change me into a clown. Let my eyebrows look the way you see them.
• Ok, ya gameel , (beauty)!

She turned on an aging cassette player and put the tape on her favorite side. She started singing … in my ear of course. If there is anything I should be grateful for, it would be that she does not sing off key. Then she hums, then she sings, then she gets angry and stops everything.
“He’s a jerk,” she said to one of the other two girls while resting her hand on my head. “I told you. Dumb him. He doesn’t even deserve to see your shadow.”

Then she sings again. And starts her regular attempt at getting me to talk and say any information beyond my name. And of course I stick to ‘NO’ for reasons I might blog about later. So I dress differently to look older and more serious, never take my car key with me, never wear high heels, and never answer my phone in order not to give her a chance to start a conversation. Unfortunately, it seems all this has made me look more obscure to her and helped grow her curiousity.


• Are you engaged?
- No, Aleyya.
• Mafeesh boyfriend (in English)?
- Hmm. No, Aleyya.
• What do you do?
- Teacher.
• Of what?
- English.
• I love languages but I dropped school.
- Why?!
• Because my family back in the village wanted to marry me to my cousin and I told them I wanted to work and would get a job in Cairo. But my boyfriend wants me to go back to school.
- Good. What grade are you in?
• I’m in Year Ten. And he’s in Year Nine. He’s younger than me but he’s mature.
- He must be, otherwise you wouldn’t have fallen in love with him.
• That’s true. He is a real man. You know? When he sees me wearing any tight clothes, he boils with jealousy and fights with me and sends me home to get changed. Another time, when we were once invited to the same wedding. Oh, my! The bride was my best friends and pushed me to dance, I started dancing and in less than a minute he gave me that look … oh, my… like fire. I felt as if he slapped me on the face and stopped immediately. It took me ten days after this incidence to make up with him.
- Well, Kooki. It seems that he cares for you a lot. But I don’t see why you won’t continue your education. Have you thought about home schooling? You won’t have to go back to the village to attend school.
• That’s a good idea. I will check it out.
- Great. And another thing.
• What?
- I know he loves you but take good care of yourself.

She smiled shyly and went back to singing again when one of the girls’ telephone rang.
“Hello! … Evening!… Who is it?... No, wrong number,… you’re welcome,” the girl hung up.

Still talking in my ear...
• Fatma has a twang, no? She’s block nosed!
I started laughing.
- What are you saying?
• Yes, she is. Didn’t you hear her say “Henno!” instead of Henno?
- Well, you said Henno instead of ‘Hello’ just like she did now.
• Me?? No. I have a beautiful Henno. It drives men crazy.
- Really?
• Yes, once a man called and it was the wrong number. After he hung up, he phoned again to say “Miss, you have a beautiful Henno. Can we be friends?” I told him No a million times but he still phones every now and then.
- But, Aleyya. I still believe you said Henno!
• And I believe you'll look more beautiful with no eyebrows at all. What do you think?
- I think you have the sexiest Hello ever.

Dear Driver,

Dear Driver,

You are kindly asked to fasten your seat belt, mute the sound on your computer especially if you are in public, or use earphones with moderate to low volume. We are Your Gateway to Egypt .

I told you to mute or lower the volume. We consulted our best psychologists and they all agreed (of course) to our idea of including sound on this webpage. We thought it might harm your beain cells if you did not hear noise while reading about traffic.

As you can see, everything in the new traffic law is for your safety and happiness, especially the one regarding not allowing "acts of public indecencies" in your car. It says 'do not allow' and not 'do not perform' ;) hehee.

We added only two new terms to the existing traffic law in order to be able to name it New Traffic Law. The new terms were inspired by your generosity. You area asked to buy a first-aid kit and a triangle warning sign. By doing so, you will not only help the West understand that we don't ride camels any more but also contribute to the welfare of your fellow Egyptians who imported triangles and kits. We know that most triangles on the market do not reflect light at all. We are not perfectionists, so do not be one.

As for the wisdom behind raising the fine and not trying to enforce the existing one, we would like to explain to you the threefold wisdom behind this. First, raising the fines gives you and all our dear citizens something to talk about after the issue of skyrocketing prices has lost its appeal. Secondly, this decision goes back to the same principle of trusting your financial cooperation spirit. Thirdly, many people will try to avoid getting fined by staying at home and, therefore, the Egyptian family will regain its stability and strong ties.

Because we care for your sanity, we strongly advise you not to surf through the website. If you insist, we encourage you to read in Arabic or French depending on which one you do not understand at all.

Thank you for being such a passive citizen,

Egypt State Information Service

Coming up: Areas surrounded by the green belt of Cairo will be subject to 'clean air' tax.

a flower

My name is the plural of the name of this flower.

El Balad

Last Saturday, I lost an aunt. Let’s say I loved her because she was my mom’s sister.

Last week, I visited her twice at the hospital. She was better the first time I saw her. I told her how pretty she looked, kissed her head and hand, and prayed for her.
On Thursday she looked at young brother and sisters and said “Ok then, I’d like to say bye-bye.” My mom and many other people believe that a person knows they are going to die before they do. I do not know if they base this belief on religion or tradition.

Although farewells are on my top ten list of things I hate in life, I decided to go follow her to her final destination. And although big family gatherings are on the same list, but I knew that this one is different.

It was when we arrived that I realized that I had never visited my mom’s village of origin. Although she was born and raised in Cairo, she is so proud of this village and refers to it as ‘el balad’, the country, meaning hometown. I believe the majority of, if not all, Egyptians have roots in the countryside and you get to see an empty Cairo during holidays because everyone is visiting ‘el balad’, their hometown.

This balad, which is less than an hour away from Cairo, is nothing but a peaceful green peace of heaven. And it is not surprising to see angels there. People in my mom’s family who have not left the village have hearts as green as the fields that surround their houses. They have eyes that smile with tears in them, just like babies. Each one of them has a warm aura around them that instantly touches your heart. They remind you of things you have forgotten about long ago and make you think you must be an evil person.

And there she was lying in the mosque where people gathered to pray. Then she was left alone. We gathered around her grave and prayed for her for long. I left the gathering after a while and walked around the silent graves that lied in the middle of cotton and wheat fields.

I saw names very familiar. Here was the name of my aunt’s husband. He was the grandpa of my childhood friend and because I stayed at their house often, he was my grandfather too. I used to see him wash up and get ready to go to the mosque. My cousin and I used to wait for him at the window and open the door for him. He would take candies and lollipops out of his white galabeyya. “Thank you, Geddo,” we would both say.

I walked further and saw a white marble stone with black words carved in it to read “Here lies Moneera Haamid Qutb who returned to her Lord on December 5, 1989.” I felt my heart beat hard. I had missed her more than I thought I did. I told her that I love her and wish she was there. I do not remember many things about this lady who was a real hanem, lady in Turkish. She got married when she was twelve years old and her husband, my grandpa, used to carry her down high trees. She grew up to later raise nine children on her own after my grandpa died. She did not know how to read or write but had the wisdom of the most sophisticated person you can ever meet. She raised her children without consulting child psychology books, only her heart. She had the strength of a hundred men and my mom is nothing less than that.

I walked through the cotton fields and back to where everyone was on the road getting ready to leave. We were driving back and a train sped next to us. I wanted to tell everyone on that train not to forget to water their green hearts before they wither in the heat of the city.

Get married or get old

Two months ago I decided to quit my job and be a full time student. When I was submitting my resignation, the chief accountant, the nicest version of an Egyptian woman in her late forties, advised me to go to the social security department and claim the money that was being deducted every month from my salary. Using what calculators have left me of mathematical abilities I knew that this money would keep me comfortable maybe for the rest of the year. I was told that the whole procedure would take around two months, which is … OK!

Although I’m known to be a patient person, I do have a short tolerance span with nonsense and stupidity and there is no place on earth where you can find a huge amount of both like you would in an Egyptian government department.

I decided to drag myself out of bed one Thursday morning to go to the Social Security department to which my last employer is attached. It occupied two floors of a big residential building in an area located one-hour’s drive away from my place. The offices were simply the rooms of the apartments with desks fitted into every corner. Filing shelves were squeezed in every possible inch and stood tired of the heavy dusty untidy paper and sick of citizens fighting with clerks.

I arrived there around eleven in the morning and after passing by five offices I was directed to Apartment Four on the fifth floor which carried a sign: “Pension”. Although I didn’t see how my document should be with that of pensioners, I was not so surprised. I elbowed my way through the zigzags of people till I finally stood in the middle of a room that had three desks and four frowning employees.

‘Good morning, I would like claim my social security money,’ I told one of the ladies.

She was working on a document and didn’t lift her head. She pointed with her pen to the opposite desk. I turned around and repeated the same sentence. The ladies was sitting behind heaps of files and paper, drinking tea and munching at an oily sandwich. She stretched her arm, took my document, shoved it in the middle of one of the heaps.

‘I’ll investigate. Come back in two days,’ she said.
Because I knew that two days meant more than a week, and because I didn’t know how on earth the oily-sandwiched clerk would remember where she placed my documents and what I needed, I went back after a month.

Last Tuesday I decided to check how things where going. Fifth floor, Apartment Four, Pension Department, the office opposite the main door. I was happy to see the office almost empty. It seems people didn’t want to get angry during Ramadan. The clerk I needed to see was not at her desk and I had to wait for ten minutes and bear with the silent female clerk who kept scanning me from head to toe and the noise coming from the other office; a citizen was shouting at one of the clerks for not finishing his document. ‘Have mercy. The man died six months ago and his wife and children need this pension,’ he yelled.

Good, our lady is back .

‘Good morning. I came a month ago to ask about my social security money’
‘What’s your name?’

She opened the cabinet beside her, pulled a brown folder and got my document out.

‘You have another sum from your previous employer. Go upstairs to Mr Mostafa in the archives and ask him to see if the other department has transferred this money to ours.’

Wow. I’m really astonished. I completely didn’t think about that. Great, the government has kept my money? Interesting. Full of excitement, I climbed the stairs to the archives and I am telling you, this is one job you would never want to do and a room you would not want to stand in for five minutes. But who cares now. I have some more money. I could travel abroad for a week or so. Maybe invest in learning a language. I could also buy a professional camera and take photography classes. Or maybe take my brother’s advice and change the car before GAT is here. No, no. I'll attend the wedding of two best friends in the States.

Back to earth at Apartment Four.

‘No, the money is not here yet.’
‘Ok, I will write you a letter to take to the other department and ask them to … Eh da? What’s this? You’re not married?’ she gasped.
‘No, I’m not married. WHY?’
‘Not even engaged? Good that I looked at your hands.’
‘Well, what has this to do with what we’re doing here?!’
‘You can’t claim your money if you’re not married. This is the law.’
‘Why?!’
‘You have to be either married of fifty years old to be able to take it.’
‘Fifty? Five zero? And wwwwait! What has my future husband to do with my social security money?’
‘Why are you worried? It doesn’t mean he’s going to take it from you. And this is the law.’
‘What if I told you I’m not actually married and not planning to ever! I left my job and I want my money back. It’s my right.’
‘Then wait till you are fifty. This is the law.’
‘What if I need it now for an emergency, to study, to GET married, or …’
‘This is the LAW. I didn’t make that law, no?’

The lady started to get mad at me and I started to laugh. I tried to explain to her that I do understand it was not her who made that law, and that I was hoping to get the rationale behind it.

For the hundreds of nonsensical laws in Egypt there is usually a made up reason. This time I really could not imagine any reason. Not even a stupid one.

Official Letter deliverd on the Cairo tram

Thirty eight years ago, my dad wrote a one-page ‘official’ letter and put it in a sealed envelope which he addressed to Mister/ Mohamed Salah El-Din. His handwriting has not changes at all, although he thinks it has improved. He has changed his signature, though, which is more beautiful now.

On August 8th, 1970, my dad was sitting on the tram with uncle Salah, my mom’s brother. They had been friends for over seven years. They were also members in the same hockey team. Throughout those eight years, my dad used to visit my uncle regularly and was always welcome.

It seems during that time that my dad grew in love with his best friend’s sister, my mom. He sometimes managed to take a glance of her walking around the apartment. Or got lucky when she answered the door with her hair rolls mass up around her head. He was also there when my mom was eighteen and my uncle was bossing her around to wash him a pair of socks. She had had enough and ended up punching my uncle in the face and this is how he learned to wash his socks himself.

Back on that tram my dad handed an envelope to uncle Salah and asked him to open it after he left. My uncle agreed. When my dad got off, he read the letter and kept smiling to himself until he arrived home.
It read:

Cairo 8/8/1970
I am writing to you to tell you about a matter of a special nature, which I expect to be unexpected. Therefore, I decided to write this letter fearing confrontation, and allowing you time for discussion and consultation without any pressure. In short, I would like us (to become in-laws).
I believe you clearly understand what I mean and that I am talking to you as the man of your family, with all due respect to your brother Gamaal. My family and I hereby officially propose to you:
Kamaal (my dad) : BSc physical education. 25 years old
Father: BA law. Clerk at the Military Personnel Department. Vice president of the Filing Department
Hussein Middle brother. Lieutenant Pilot in the Air Force.
Ahmed: Student in high school
I would like you to consult those who may be concerned after making sure no one else has proposed.
Please keep this matter as a secret between you, Gamaal, Samia (my mom) and your mother until it is announced in due time.
In case someone has proposed, please do not disclose my request as I would be embarrassed and would not be able to visit you at home any more.
Finally, I will be waiting for you at home on Saturday 15/8/1970 at 7 pm.
If you need any further information or clarification you are welcome to come on Monday or Wednesday.
Kindly note and execute these steps with extra care.
Kamaal

Two years later, my parents got married. The whole family knew about the letter which has been a successful way of teasing my dad in big gatherings. I personally use it often on certain occasions, such as when I need my dad to do me a favor. He would rather do it than hear me read the letter.

Baba, did you talk to her brother without asking her opinion?
How could I talk to her about that matter? Of course not. I followed the right channels. I couldn’t cross her brothers.
Oh, I wish you'd had cell phones. At least you'd have texted her to know if she agreed.

It has been thirty eight years and thirty one days since my dad proposed in this letter, which explains how he could put up with such a difficult person as my uncle and which is one reason I like old yellowish letters.

Things that make me HAPPY

Hmm .. there are many of them actually .. Do you have time to read this?

It feels great to find money in a jacket or pants I don't wear often. Even greater if I'm broke :)to remember someone's name, to go through my grandpa's photos and documents (usually hidden by dad and dug out by me), to walk on a wooden bridge, to wash my mom's feet and give her a pedicure, to meet people who are out of this world, to hear someone sincerely praying for me, to go faster than sixty km/hour in Cairo, to smell cappuccino and eat warm brownies topped with vanilla ice cream, to chat with a good friend, to sunbathe (discovered lately), to sleep on a fresh pillowcase, to roll lie down on grass, to hear a policeman say 'thank you', to try to cook and it works, to see my brother's wardrobe tidy, to pass by my elementary school, to watch cartoon, to unpack, to buy someone's some flowers, to receive a letter, to help a child do their homework .. once, to hear a talkative person say "I'm in a hurry", to wade in the water, to write with a fountain pen, to go snorkeling, to stand on stage and act for a great audience, to go cycling for twenty minutes, to read a page turner book, to pass by a warm bakery, to go home to find my mom had made my favorite dish (stuffed grape leaves and yogurt salad), to attend an unexpectedly good concert, to sing a baby to sleep, to lose weight without going on a diet, to wear silver, to travel to a new country and get quiet people next to me on the plane, to know someone really accepted my apology, to smell one good cigarette being smoked in a car, to see my parent's wedding photos, to feel the wind in my hair, to forget a bad memory, to remember where I parked, to take a nap in winter, to be able to say 'no', to eat chocolate, not to be followed by a shop assistant offering help, to get a non-smoking silent taxi driver, to talk to a friend on the phone and think of a name for her unborn child, to visit a place I used to play at during school holidays, to buy stationery, to forgive someone, to open the window when it's raining, to pray and know I'm heard, to be busy, to eat good new salad, to look at my nursery ID and school record, ...

I'm sure I'll remember some more later. I'll keep you updated ... in a different color.

Oh, the sound of a typrwriter, yellow paper, drinking tea with milk, strumming a guitar, ...

My stepmother

Egypt is my mother
Her Nile is in my blood
Her sun is in my tan
Her face is in my features
Even my color is that of wheat
The color of your harvest, Egypt

These are not my words, but those of a song known to every Egyptian around my age. We all know it well and probably sang it at school at some point. It has always brought filled us with enthusiasm to make this country the best place on earth.

A couple of weeks ago, I walked into a bookstore famous for its good choice of what to put on its shelves. I found a book that I have seen standing in the same place of the display for months. It’s titled “Egypt is not my mother, … she’s my stepmother.” I knew that the author was using the song I told you about and he was sure that everyone would recognize it. I didn’t quite understand what he meant by the stepmother part or by the picture he chose for the front cover.

I bought the book. It’s a collection of short articles which the author decided to compile in one book. After reading a couple of them, I started to understand why he realized that Egypt was his stepmother.

Last Thursday, I was driving my cousins home late in the evening. There was a traffic jam in an unusual spot of the city. When I approached the end of the street I saw that the reason was a ‘lagna’ – literally means a committee or a checkpoint and Egyptians call it a ‘kamiin’ –ambush. In the traffic world of Egypt, it means that a couple of middle or high ranked traffic police officers and a number of soldiers have parked their cars to do one of two things: 1- to comb the area looking for a suspect, or 2- to check everyone’s licenses (!) which should be OK.

It was a kamiin of the second type.

I approached the soldier and he asked for both the car and my driver’s license. I handed them to him and, seeing that they were fine, he kept them and walked to the front of my car and bent over to check whatever.

He handed the licenses to the officer who was already holding enough of them. Because Egypt is my mother, she’s taught me what to do in these situations. I parked the car and walked over to the officer.
“Kheir? Hope things are OK. Can I have the licenses back?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Obliteration of numbers on the plate.”

I didn’t respond. I left him surrounded by the many motorists who were begging him to get their licenses back. I walked to my car and did as the soldier did earlier. Numbers on the plate perfectly readable if you are standing a month away. The plate is bent at the bottom due to driving on the blessed bumpy streets of Cairo.
“There’s nothing wrong with the plate.”
“We don’t think the same.”

Okay. Now I understand. Ramadan is almost there and they need some money to go grocery shopping. Egypt, my mother, also taught me this and told me that if I argue with this officer I might end up being beaten up at some point or maybe go home with a smashed car and still with no licenses in hand.
“What do I need to do?”
“Pay 150 pound now or we keep the license and you collect them later from the traffic department.”
“I’ll pay now.”

I got the money and waited for my turn to pay.

Despite all the hatred my heart has for Egyptian police officers, I found myself looking at his face trying to have eye contact with him. I wanted to tell him what my mouth couldn’t utter. I wanted to ask him when the last time he had a good night’s sleep was or if ever ate food bought with blessed money. I wanted to tell him that he would be another reason why I want to leave this country although I love it more that he did. I wanted him to see the cold anger that was boiling inside me.

He never lifted his eyes off the receipt book. He handed me my receipt, both licenses, and the change.
“Thank you,” he said and I was now sure that he was not fully an Egyptian police officer yet. There was a trace of conscience somewhere between his ribs, which was not enough, though, to stop him from turning a deaf ear to all the voices around him.

Back in the car I looked at the receipt and it read:
(.. and they paid the minimum fine for ‘changing the shape of the plate’). Oh, great. He didn’t even have that trace.

And yes, I now think that Egypt to him is definitely a mother who, to me, has started to feel like a inhumane stepmother.

Sunrise .. at last

On the notice screen, it had said that sailing from Luxor to Qena would be at 5:30 a.m.. I had been tossing in bed since 1:00 a.m.. Insomniac for a reason.

I expected the vibration caused by the movement of the boat to help me sleep. It did not. I got off bed, put a comfortable dress on, passed through the bar, grabbed a cup of tea, and went up on deck. I thought I was going to be the first person there but she was.

She was carrying a camera with as many lenses as the times you would envy her. She kept moving in her white linen shirt and khaki pants, from side to side, taking photos of the green farms, the proud palm trees, the little boats, the fishermen, and the small houses that hugged the Nile and followed us whenever we sailed.

I sat quietly on a comfortable sofa, enjoying everything she saw and watching her playing with her camera. The sun started to shyly come out behind the palm trees and in no time it was up right in front of us.

"Excuse me, do you mind taking a picture of me?"

She took my camera and, before I even suggest, lifted my arms and I turned to face the sun. I felt the cold wind play with my hair, the sun shine inside me and wash away the pain of too many sleepless nights, the trees caress my face and promise me .. things.

I knew that finally admitting to a decision made long ago was what took the sleep away. I felt overwhelmed by how stupidly I agreed to be hurt and how easy doing what I knew to be right seemed.

I went back to my cabin, did not draw the curtains and could finally sleep that day.

I finally agreed to 'Let Myself Be'.

Dancing on the street

9 a.m.
I woke up to a familiar sound of heavy metal bars being thrown on asphalt. I did not move out of bed. I knew what it was. They were bringing stuff needed for a wedding that was going to take place on the street later in the evening.

11 a.m.
I looked from the balcony and saw the equipment. From so many previous observations, throughout all my life actually, I knew that those bars were later going to be built into a stage which is of the type needed for a band and not a DJ. Since there would be a band, and unlike the DJ weddings, this promised an all night celebration.The possibilities this kind of stage bring are:
I) a belly dancer, beer and hash
II) no belly dancer (if they do not have enough money) but there is still beer and hash
III) there is none of the three and it is merely going to be a noisy evening
I always pray for Scenario III to happen and it rarely does. This time, because I wanted to take pictures of the belly dancer and hash, Scenario III did happen.The occasion was the henna of a guy who lives at number twenty four on my street. A henna is a celebration that takes place on the night before the wedding day. The women of the family bake henna herbs and put candles in the middle of it and passes it around for people to dye their hands with it.

11 p.m.
I took an interesting short clip instead of pictures of people cracking hash.
I wanted to share it with you because …
… I love the song: the tune, the Upper Egyptian beat, and the lyrics. It makes you want to dance to it.
… it is an authentic picture of how some Egyptians celebrate their happy occasions on the street. They rent a stage, chairs and colored lamps for which they steal electricity from the closest lamp posts. They hire a DJ or a band which come with their huge speakers. For financial reasons, some families would rather give the whole neighborhood a six hour headache than renting a celebration hall at a club.
… this celebration tells you that although the guy’s henna was not held at the Marriot by the Nile, he and his family were still extremely happy. On the street yesterday were people who came out to share the happy occasion. They were wearing their gallabeyyas and black dresses, listening to music that reminded them of where they originally came from, dancing in groups and individually, kissing and hugging and shaking hands and congratulating each other.
… (in case you have not noticed) there was a veiled girl wearing a rather tight outfit, dancing on the street just beside a bunch of guys. Just a quick reminder, the henna was on the street, which means that tens of people were watching from their balconies. I was one of them. This girl’s family was most around. Everyone was clapping hands and having fun. I would say some of her male family members, a brother, an uncle or some cousins, were probably around as well. No one thought it was inappropriate because for them it was absolutely acceptable for her to compliment the family of the couple by dancing.
… this supports my theory about the increased harassment on the streets of Cairo. Here was a female that I am sure the majority of guys around thought to be sexy. Yet, no one dared to stare, harass or bother her. If they had done, it would have meant they disrespected her family and the whole thing might have turned into a huge fight. This, in turn, would have translated into an attempt to ruin the celebration on purpose. Everyone knew the rules and everyone did follow them.
… those same men who knew very well how to behave are the same guys who hang around the street and harass girls they do not know. So they do not need all the ‘Would you accept this for your sister?’ slogans promoted to face the increased sexual harassment incidents in Cairo.

3 a.m.
The band suddenly stopped playing and started putting their instruments into their cases. Everyone droped silent and seemed to know what was going on. There was a white microbus behind stage. I thought it was the one that came to pick up the band. My mom said this was not the case.
I saw a slim guy with a pistol in his belt and I instantly knew what was to come.This was supposed to be a police van patroling the area to make sure things were alright. This meant that they were there to stop the celebration because the tent was blocking the street and the music was too loud.What they were really doing, as I am sure most of you have already guessed, was roaming around to find opportunities for “dinner”. One of the groom's family went over to them and gave them some money (Mom says LE 50 to LE 100). The microbus reversed and drove away.

The keyboard was out of its case again.

Viva Egypt.

Five days to remember **

Day 4: On Deck
It was an hour before sunset. I decided to use the deck before the Italian guests returned back from their tour.
Half an hour later, a guy who was in the pool with his son a while ago walked towards me.

“Hi. Do you speak English?” he asked.
“A little,” I replied and did not stand up.
“So, are you Italian?” “No, Egyptian.”
“You’re on holiday?”
“No, on business actually. I’m the English trainer of the staff.”
“Oh, really. Well, their English is already good.”
“Thanks, I let them know you said so.”

He was a huge guy in his, I'd say, mid-forties with a big mustache and a beard. He was wearing shorts and a big T-shirt. Or maybe he made it look so. He was standing bare feet.
A minute later, a lady in a khaki linen dress walked towards us.

“Hey, you missed the sunset,” he told her.
“I know,” she replied.
“Oh, we haven’t introduced ourselves,” he said and we did.
“This is my wife Carine. Carine, she’s the English instructor of the staff here.”
“Oh, your English is very good. You’ve never studied abroad?”
“Not, yet,” I replied. “Is this your first time in Egypt?”
“No,” she replied. “We came here twenty years ago on our honey moon. We stayed three days with our backpacks in a felucca. This time we’re here with the kids.”
“You’ve made a very good choice,” I said.
There was a nervous silence after which Carine said “Ok. We don’t want to keep you from enjoying the sunset. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure to meet you, too.”
I shook hands with both of them. And they went back to their subbeds.

Later in the evening. I walked into the restaurant for dinner and the whole family was there. For some reason, they looked to me like the couple in The American Beauty, unhappy. The husband sat with his back to the door and was doing the talking. A couple of minutes later, the wife and the son left. She passed by me and we both avoided each other. The husband and the girl sat silently. When they were leaving, he looked at me.
“Busy evening. No tables. Sorry you had dinner late.”
“I know. It’s ok, though.”
They left the restaurant and I never saw them again.

Hmm. In any case, I would have felt jealous the way she did. Maybe more, actually. Is it a mid life crisis? Plus …

“Ok, Miss,” the waiter interrupted my thoughts. “What would you like for dessert?”
“No, nothing, Ayman. I’m already full.”
“No way. Brownie with vanilla ice-cream or sweet baked pumpkin?”

Day 5: Sidi Aboul Haggag

Five days ago I took this picture because it looked interesting to see a mosque inside a temple.
Only today I knew it was of Aboul Haggag, a sufi leader whose lineage goes back to Prophet Mohamed and who came to Luxor and built this mosque at the time when the whole temple was buried under the sand. When they discovered the temple the mosque stayed there.
Today was the last day for the preparation made to celebrate Aboul Haggag’s ‘moolid’– birthday.
People gathered in the park behind the temple and belt a celebration tent close to his grave. I was having lunch with two of my students who insisted on showing me a bit of the city and treat me to lunch.

We sat at a restaurant overlooking all everything, Luxor temple, Aboul Haggag’s mosque, the tent, the little accessories and toys stands, and the Nile.
It was almost ten in the evening and we decided to leave.

The place where Aboul Haggag was buried was being restored but were still going in and out trying hard to reach his grave. Once they reached it, they put their hand on the green cloth covering it, recited some verses of Quran and prayed for what they wanted. Some of them thought that, since he was related to Prophet Mohamed, he could be a mediator and ask God to give them what they wanted. Some of them even sat there at the foot of the grave. Others were chanting and sitting around someone who later gave a sermon.
Best of all were the mothers and children sitting on the grass outside enjoying the cool breeze of summer.
Best of all was not the luxurious boat for which people paid tens of thousands of dollars.
Best of all was the people who sincerely welcomed me and tried to make me happy.
Best of all to know that good people have not vanished from the world yet.

Five days to remember *

Sunboat III was going to sail for one day and I had to move to Sunboat II and board at the restaurant of Boat IV. You got that? Anyway!

It was lunch time. I walked into the other boat, introduced myself to the cold-faced receptionist. I entered the restaurant and my initial impression was confirmed – there is an unfriendly atmosphere for some reason. Waiters in the restaurant kept looking at each other and in less than one minute everyone knew who I was.

“Would you like to drink something, Miss?” one of them asked.
“Red wine, please!” I replied. Without smiling. His eyes grew into two tires of a huge lorry. I smiled and looked at my plate. “Just water, please.”
“Ok. Revenge on the 22nd. I’m in your class then,” he smiled the reply and went to get the water.

Day 3: Up, up, up we went
My alarm clock went off at five forty in the morning. I jumped out of bed and in no time was dressed and ready at the reception. At five fifty-five a tall local guy walked hurriedly towards me
“Good morning, Ma’am. You must be Ms. Sherine.”
“Good morning. I assume it’s me who you’re looking for. Can I see your list?”
“Sure, Ma’am.”
“Okay, I’m not Sherine, but this is my cabin number. So, it’s me. AND, I’m not a VIP, ... please,” I smiled and handed him the slate. He smiled back and we walked to the minibus that took us to the boats.

And I thought I was early. Five small motor boats were already full. I stepped in and out of all of them till I reached the last one. There were cups and saucers, cake, tea and coffee. A young man attended to everyone and in less than five minutes we reached the west bank of Luxor. Another minibus was waiting for us and drove us through green fields till we reached our destination.

Hot-air Balloons of all colors were rising above the houses. It looked as if the kids inside the houses had tied them to their beds the previous night.

We got into the balloon, and got safety instructions from a Captain Ahmed, a mid-twenties guy who spoke English with a mixture of Luxor accent and many mistakes. But we all understood him.

We started to rise above the fields and I felt I had wings.
I became everyone I saw.

A woman shepherding goats by a small canal on her field.

A farmer ploughing his land using two buffalos another using his own legs.

Ramsis II on the walls of Habu temple.

Another balloon passenger looking my direction.

A young child lying in bed on the roof of his house and waiving to the passenger of the balloon that just passed above him. His eyes smiling more than his lips did.

“Where are we going to land, then?” I asked the captain.
“Anywhere. It depends where the wind takes us.”
“I see. And what has the poor owner of the land to do with all this balloons thing.”
“A couple of years ago, farmers used to love seeing us land in their fields and always welcomed our guests. Now, if I land in an arid field, the farmer will come crying about the ‘gold’ he had planted the day before. We usually have to shut him up with a hundred pounds or so.”
“What do you have to do to be a balloon captain?”
“I studied for a year and a half before I got the license. You do eight courses, three of them are medical. Here, have some water, you’re standing right under the flame.”

Dinner Time
It was eight forty five. I was wearing something that followed the dress code on the boat. A white blouse with white satin collar and cuffs. A touch of make-up and off I went. The restaurant was almost empty as I expected.

I walked in and the two waiters, who were my students, greeted me with a big smile. One of them walked over and tucked the chair under me while the other brought the menu.
I made the order and waited.
Less than five minutes later, the appetizer arrived. And ten minutes after that I was having my soup.
“Hey, Ayman. Sorry, since you’re not busy now. Would you mind explaining the unexplainable presence of this amount of utensils? I assume this is for soup. But what is up with the others?”
“SURE, Miss. My pleasure,” he said and in less than thirty seconds he enthusiastically explained the order in which the knives and forks were used.
“Oh, ok. I am glad it’s not a seven dish menu,” I said after thanking him.

The following day, during a quick chat during lunch, I discovered that this waiter, Ayman, came from a village in the Nile Delta called Tonoub. A name that has an unforgettable place in my heart. It was where my mom’s aunt used to live. We visited her almost every summer. I believe this place is what made me so in love with the countryside.
“Small world, Miss. This is where I come from,” he said pointing to his chest and his face brightened up.

Five days to remember

It was one of the very few times in my life that I received something I needed without asking for it. You know that feeling when you have been walking under a summer’s sun for an hour and you finally you decide to make a turn and find yourself walking through a narrow shaded alley?
That is what happened to me over the past few days.

A couple of weeks ago, I was contacted by a previous employer and asked if I was interested in teaching a Tourism English intensive course on a boat in Luxor. “I am in for it!” was my reply without asking about any details.

I spent five reviving rejuvenating self-assuring days of my life. I was given a chance to step outside my current self and see her through others’ eyes, the thing I had been trying to do for months.

I headed to the airport on early Saturday morning. On the airplane, I sat next to and behind a group of French tourists who seemed surprised why I was not as excited as they were. I was just still hot with the two hours’ walk in the sun I told you about.

At Luxor airport, I was met by a quiet Mr. Khaled who was holding a sign with the company’s logo. He greeted me with a broad smile, carried my laptop, pushed the trolley to the micro bus and, in less than ten minutes, escorted me into the reception of the boat. These things never really happen to me in Cairo. At least not getting anywhere from the airport in ten minutes.

Day 1: Abercrombie & Kent Sunboat III. Cabin 108.

I can never describe how warm the boat and the cabin felt; it was one of the places that immediately make you feel home. That could be one reason why Sunboat III is more expensive than the more modern Sunboat IV. The boat can accommodate for thirty two guests only and the friendly staff can and do take excellent care of every single one of them.

“No, Miss. We’re talking abut VIP’s. The First Lady, ambassadors, the owner of CNN, the Chief of CIB, Naomi Campbell, Gulf Kings and Princes, etc. With A&K, you expect ZERO mistakes,” a tour operator and one of my students once told me.

I was still at the stage of testing the waters. I did not leave my cabin often, nor wandered around.

In the evening, I took a walk by the Corniche, listened to the quietness of the city and watching the sunset.

Day 2: Moroccan?
“Yes, speak some Arabic please. People here are already debating whether you are Moroccan or Tunisian, Miss,” one of my students said teasingly. It seems that being silent made them think I was trying to be mysterious.
“No, my color can only be that of someone from Aswan, no?” I answered.
“No way! You are Aswani?” his eyes gleamed.
“I have Aswani roots and my dad is your color,” it felt proud to say so for some reason, although I have never been to my dad’s village, nor was he born there.
“That’s what I thought. You can’t be but from here. You look so much like my fiancée. Same everything. I call her Nefertary,” he replied.
“And you are Ramsis II?” I asked him.

Glitter

Today I revisited the hairdresser I told you about in Shower Gella and for the same reason: to have some fun, but I am not sure if I did.


I walked in and there was no less than eleven women crammed into the little shop. I spotted the girl who usually attends to me and she was having lunch as usual.


“Should I come by some other time? I think you are busy today,” I asked her, feeling claustrophobic.
“No, no. I’ll be with you in a minute,” she replied

I squeezed my body between a mom with two little girls, one of who was jumping up and down like a chimpanzee, and the other, a five year old, was getting changed! The other lady was taking up one third of the seat that was made to accommodate two only.


Oooh, wow!! A bride. How nice. Hmm, she is not smiling a lot. She will probably smile later.
The hairdresser and owner of the shop, Om To’aa, was taking care of the bride, for who else would dare to handle such an important client? The bride's make up was done: tons of foundation and powder that must have blocked off the oxygen from the bride’s skin. And, of course, the point was to make her look as fair-skinned as possible. She had dark fuchsia and blue eye shadow and a thick layer of mascara. She looked pretty anyway.


My granny used to think that God brightens up a bride’s face no matter what. I think she was right, for I have never seen an ugly bride in my life.


Om To’aa had tied the bride’s hair into a pony tail and was now rolling thick hair strands to transform the bun into a fountain of hair, a do I last saw in the 1980s something. Then she decorated the bun with small white artificial flowers and glittery gel.


“Spray!”


And she sprayed the poor girl’s hair as if raiding a cockroach’s colony. The girl did not object. She still looked pretty.


“This is for when you take it off for your husband.” Take what off?!
Suddenly, the hairdresser took a glittery ornamented triangle shaped white piece of cloth and started tying it over the hairdo. Ok, a veiled bride. She still looks nice with the glittery veil.
Another layer, another layer, a pink flower here, a chiffon veil over her face. Her friends started taking pictures of her, asking her to pose here and there.
Why is she not talking or smiling?


After ten minutes, her family was outside waiting for her.


“Yalla, hurry up. Give it to me,” Om To’aa took a rectangular piece of ornamented silk cloth that had two holes in it. It turned out to be a face cover. Oh, ok. A niqabi bride. Hmm.


“No, no. My brother is not going to like this. It’s too attention seeking,” the bride said.
“Are you crazy? Nothing is showing of you, and you are a bride, and you are nineteeeeeeen,” one of her friends, who seemed to had had enough, started to shout.
“Still. He’s going to get angry. Let me use the side with no glitter.”
“Oh, what’s the point of coming here then? I swear nothing is showing, not even your eyes.”


She finally put the face cover on and went out to meet her groom and family. In less than one minute she was back into the shop. No one said anything and I did not understand what was going on.


Usually, it is just the groom being a bit late. This time, it was the brother being an @#%$^$& (Yes, seven letters). He insisted on going home to get something to COVER his sister. I had no idea how he was planning to cover her because she was already covered head to toe. I could only imagine him bringing a white bed sheet.


It occurred to me then that Muslims also use plain white sheets to wrap a body before burying it.


I also remembered something else I learned lately: people we feel sad for can be the happiest on earth.


I do hope she is one of them.

Gusteau

"If you keep thinking about what you've left behind, you'll never be able to see what lies ahead."

Chef Gusteau to Remy ~ Ratatouille

A Scoop from Paradise

We arrived there at quarter to one in the afternoon.

“Are those a sample of the tens of virgins good men are going to get in paradise?” I said to my friend upon seeing the bunch of girls standing by the gate to receive guests. They were in their mini-skirt-and-tank-top uniform having all sorts of hair styles and colors. They seemed to be so professional, dancing to music at the reception.

She laughed at the comment and we got off the car, leaving her husband to drive around Marina and find a beach to stay at. We got the tickets and walked behind the straw walls that had earlier made it impossible to see what was behind.

“What are these three guys doing in here?” it felt good to ask in that tone you know.
“They're cleaning the beach and will leave at one pm, Miss. Please have a seat or go get changed till they leave,” the female security officer answered.

Four hours later the beach was packed. It was the first time for me to see so many female bodies in one place: swimming, singing and belly dancing, smoking shisha, laughing, chatting, sunbathing in their bikinis, lying down in hammocks or on the grass, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. All in no more than a six hundred meter square beach. A female only beach called Yashmak.

My friend and I went into the sea, chatted, laughed, and sunbathed for a while before she left to spend some time with her husband. I read a couple of pages of the new book I brought along, went back into the sea, and lied down in the sun. It was not long before a crusade of women came to occupy my friend’s sun bed and the space around it. I still have no idea how many there was of them.

No, I’m not going to swim today. I have skin très délicate.
Oh, I love your bikinis, très joli. Where did you buy them?
I bought them last time I was in Italy. They were two hundred Euros or so.
Lilly? What do you think of my new hair color?
It’s suits ta coleur a lot. A couple of highlights would make it even more beautiful.
Well, my coiffeur suggested I do that when I get bored. He knows that I’d be back soon asking for a color change?

Yes, that was the only bad thing about the day. Being on a female only beach has its advantages and disadvantages, you know?

I have to say it was one of the few good days I had in a while, though. The company was as good as sunbathing for the first time. My friend is one of the coolest girls I know. We get a long very well. She is funny, outgoing, smiley and smart.
She kept code switching between Arabic and Spanish talking to me and her husband.

The three of us decided on Chinese food for lunch at around five thirty. At the table, her husband talked to me for the first time.
Enti modarresa?
Wow, you speak Arabic?
Shwayya. (a little)
We chatted in Arabic, had lunch, and started the drive back. They both switched back to Spanish after a while. I enjoyed listening to the long strings of incomprehensible lively Spanish utterances mixed with the many strings of thoughts passing my mind.

Yes, I am still conservative and I do not mind, rather, I enjoy it as much as the tank-top uniformed girls enjoy their lives.

Singular and Plural Masculine Pronouns in Egyptian Colloquial Arabic

Are you going out?

Yes, mom. I wont' be late.

Where are you off to?

Zamalik. I'm meeting an ex-(male) student who's back from London and wants to say Hi.

What shall I tell your brother, then?

Tell him "I'm meeting an ex-(male) student who's back from London and wants to say Hi."

Why the headache? Some things are better left untold.

Mom, tell him whatever you want.

I'll say ex-students phoned and you're going to have coffee with them.

In two minutes

'I'm leaving tomorrow and I have been holding myself. You know how much I love you, no?
You're just like any of my daughters to me and I hope you don't get upset.

You have been to Aya's funeral and you see how it could have been you. She was among us a week ago. Life is short, dear. This is the life of testing, and the other is the life of eternity. You'll see the truth of all this in your grave, a dark hole in the ground.

You think you look more beautiful without the veil? I swear you don't. Your beauty was in your headscarf. You looked as pretty as a full moon.

God is always there for those who watch him in their actions and follow his straight path. Don't forget him so that he doesn't forget you.

May Allah guide you, love.'

news

My mom heard the news and sent my dad to tell me.

You never know how they feel until you lose one the way they did.

I see her smiling at everyone. I see her delicate body dancing at a wedding. I see her talking to me when I ran into her on the subway. I see her twenty happy years gleamining in her eyes. I see myself in her place.

And now she is gone. One cousin instead of the other would have been lost. That simple.

Oh God, I am not ready to meet You. I am just not. Please do not take me unless You are happy with me. Do not take me unless my heart is as pure as snow. Do not take me now. I need your guidance and do not know where to look for it. I am tired and have never ever been that tired before. I really cannot take it any more. I feel the whole world on my shoulders. I lost my smile, the taste of everything, and do not want to lose myself.

You know me better than I know myself. You know how fragile I have become and how weary and confused I have been. I never doubted Your presence and never will. I feel it in every breath I take. If all that is happening to me now is because of something I did, please forgive it and make me forget it. If this is all a test, I am unable to bear it. I do not want to hear them talk about You. I do not trust anyone anymore. They all claim to know the path to You and I just dislike their voices. I need You to help me find You and know that I will never have peace again unless You give me guidance. Only You and no one else.

Only you can rest her soul.

By Sunset

- Ok, then. Why is pork prohibited? And please don’t give me the ‘it transmits diseases thing’ because this could also be caused by beef.

All these kinds of questions have been dealt with for years. I’m not going to try to answer them for you because I don’t think this is your problem. You need to find answers.

- I've tried and no one has been able to provide plausible answers. Plus, if there were such answers, why are these questions still being asked?

You know what? I think you're dealing with the whole thing in the wrong way. You need to start with open heart and mind and then seek guidance, and not by taking two issues, pork and alcohol, and rotating around them.

- I still think if these are simple questions on my mind, there should be equally simple answers.

Listen, some people go into religion and try to find answers that help them do what they want and justify what they do. Others truly want to find answers and they don’t merely aim at proving they are right. They are after the truth. If you are of the first type, I'm telling you, you will keep digging for answers that appeal to your desires and end up going round and round in a vicious circle because you will not want accept an answer that doesn’t match what you want. There are answers for everything if you have an open heart. And this is where you should start.

- And how do I find those true answers?

Ask trustworthy people.

- Oh, really? And where are they? And who do you trust? And who qualifies as a trustworthy source? They all follow someone before them - there is nothing new. Plus, there is usually more than one answer to almost every single question and some questions just exist without answers.

Listen, I really am telling you. I myself once doubted the presence of God and now I am at peace with everything because I did want to find true answers and worked hard. It was not an easy stage at all, but here we are. I’m not saying it’s over for me, I’m always reading and trying to educate myself, but my faith is unshakable now.

- And how did you reach that?

Seeing millions of people around me believing in this book - I don’t think it's nonsense. I don’t think that your heart beats because it beats. He is making it beat this way for you.

I was sitting at the head of the table. She was sitting to my left. He to my right. I kept moving my eyes between them wishing this conversation never ended or that it never started.

I do not know if sitting between them was by any chance symbolic.

The heated conversation ended after sunset. I have listened to this same discussion before. But it is usually louder and much more heated. It is always between another two: my mind and my heart.

And I have always wished a sunset could end it.

Surreeeeeender II

I will not be ablet to go to this weekend's session but at least I can share with you the announcement.

Study Circle This Week: Polygamy;)

Hello everyone,

Here is your chance to learn how to share your husband with other wives:)))))) Just kidding. But I bet you will be interested to know how some women were more than happy to do this and in fact found their husbands other wives. Well, you will get to meet some, at least ONE.

We will cover the historical background on this subject and its relevance to other Abrahamic religions, Judaism and Christianity and how polygammy has been practiced for centuries. We will take a close look at Islamic stance on this subject and will examine the positive and negative aspect of this controversial topic.

Please bring with you all your questions and a dish to share with others. The time is from 5-9 pm at my home in (..........) Address is attached for anyone new.

Please RSVP as soon as possible as I may have to turn down some late responders if we have more than we can fit in the house.

Looking forward to see your shinning faces:)

Peace,

(..............)

The Power of Et-tallaaga

I have always been somewhat observant of other people’s personal habits. Some of them are disgusting, funny, unbearable, boring, hilarious … etc. My dad, for example, if he wakes up in the middle of the night, the first thing he does is to go to the kitchen, eat something sweet, and go back to bed. My mom makes herself a big cup of tea in the morning and rarely finishes it. One of my cousins has the habit of taking a bite of whatever you have in your hand. So if a big group is eating and she has just finished her lunch, she’d still ask everyone to let her taste what they are having. Another cousin is always dead tired after work. She goes home and lies down on the couch in front of TV without even changing clothes, and in the process deprives everyone of the communal space. She falls asleep in less than five minutes. Ask her to go get changed and then sleep and you get the “I am not asleep. I am watching the program”. If you try to convince her, you will be making the gravest mistake ever. You will create the grumpiest person ever for the rest of the day. A young cousin of mine, poor thing, would look at the ceiling whenever she is telling a lie. Her sister, another poor thing, has to start off a lie saying “shoofi, khallini a’oolik” (look, let me tell you). Yes, I do have many cousins.

I do not really know many of my habits, although there are a few I can identify. Like my mom, I rarely finish my cup of tea. Like my dad, if I wake up in the middle of the night, I will grab something from the fridge, usually fruit. Whenever I am in a bad mood a cartoon will fix it if the shower does not. During the days I am studying for a final exam, I have to buy a new pen, with the unconscious hope that it will write the correct answers on its own. I keep my note pad in my purse all the time. It is full of notes I rarely, if ever, look at or consult later. Oh, and I am the deadline girl. Last year, I submitted an application on May 22nd at 4.20 pm and the deadline was May 22nd at 4.30 pm. Another very bad habit of mine is forgetting a lie after telling it. So I would tell you “I went to the cinema on my own” and then talk to another person in your presence saying “Yes, I remember. It was right after we went to the cinema last week.” No stares or winks from that person can help me understand I am being such a clumsy liar and worse than that stupid teenager who always spoils plans.


But really … one of my habits is a funnily and nonsensical one: I open the fridge when I am not hungry or thirsty, stare at things aimlessly, just to THINK something over. Why not open my wardrobe for instance? Why not look outside the window? Why not sit down and write my ideas down? Why not anything other than et-tallaaga? Is it the coolness that comes out or the colorfulness and the smells? No idea!!

I caught myself doing this very thing today. My dad caught me as well. I asked him why he thought I open the fridge to think and he gave a friendly chuckle and said that people sometimes do things for no reason. I actually believe there must be a reason for this. Not that I have some unemployed cells in my brain to use and wonder about this. It was just interesting to realize a habit I have had for so long. I realized it at a time when I was thinking to myself why I was automatically doing the same mistake. Is it simply, like my dad said, that people sometimes do things for no reason?

Surreeeeender

The best place and time to write a blog entry is in bed on a day off. You sleep in, stay in bed for fifteen minutes thinking about a couple of things you have been avoiding, quickly get up before they haunt your day, and have a good breakfast. Your father will be making all sorts of noise in the kitchen and you think you would pay a year of your life and be able to live on your own. Go to your room again, sit in bed with your computer on your lap, turn on the fan, play some music, and definitely use headphone or the same father will come to ask you “Where did you get this Bach concerto from? You know.. the first time I heard it. Your uncle Ahmed and I used to share the same room and he never liked classical music. But your uncle Hussein loved it. I was in high school when my dad insisted I had a violin tutor. You granny did not like it and told him “You’re going to ruin the boy’s future.” Have you heard Paganini’s … …”


Then you start writing. You have a topic on your mind and that is why you decided to write, no? Instead of being to the point, you start off writing an unnecessarily long introduction. You are still thinking about those same topics you thought you could avoid. You decide to go ahead and write.


Stop Bach and play Fayrouz. She is much more peaceful.


Last Friday, June 27th, at 5.30 pm, I was standing in front of her door. This meeting had been arranged two weeks earlier. I had received an e-mail titled ‘Muslim Female Study Circle.’ Having been looking for some place to attend Islamic lessons, I immediately e-mailed back.

Because the …


Oh no please not this song. Skip.


Because the e-mail was in English and sent by a lady studying at the American University, I assumed the meeting would differ in nature from those I dislike. At least people with good education do read a lot and tend to have a slightly more open-minded approach to religions, customs, and traditions.


I was received by the housekeeper. I walked in the living room to see five young ladies in their twenties. I said Salamo Alaykom and my name. They replied to my greeting and none said her name. I sat at the nearest chair although I wanted to sit on the floor.


It seemed it was one of my most silent days. I sat there saying nothing for almost thirty minutes not even engaging in their chat with eye contact. An hour later the hostess came in and I stood up to greet her and thank her for having me in her house.


She was a smiley lady in her mid fifties. If I was not told earlier she was Iranian, she would have undoubtedly passed for an Egyptian. She spoke very good English as she had lived in the States for over fifteen years. She was wearing a green embroidered dress and an olive green heard scarf. It took me a while to realize that she must have kept her head covered because there were a couple non-Muslim girls around.


By the time she started the lecture, we had become ten: two Americans, two German, five Egyptians, and one I did not know where she was from. She kept her eyes fixed to her feet and never uttered a word.


Oh, I love this song.


I decided to sit on the cushions scattered on the floor. I was now sitting on the side of the room that had the foreigners. It seemed that sitting there and having my hair styled into a funny way I was why I got asked if I were Egyptian!


The lecture was supposed to be on the ‘purification of the soul’. Half of it, though, was spent on how our hostess got married the first time and another time to a Sheikh who was already married to two other women and had nothing to offer. And how she accepted him because she wanted to learn about religion from him.


I had been warned by a couple of friends that this lady was so strict and judgmental. And before I came I decided not to throw in any of my ‘questions’ so that I do not generate digressions and confuse others. Besides, I was there to see if she was the kind of scholar I have been looking for.


“The happiest life you can ever have as a woman is one that is lead in accordance with what Allah has ordained for you. As Muslim women, surreeeeeender to God and do whatever He asks us to.” she said moving her arms in a gesture similar to that made by a boxing referee upon counting ten.


"So if Allah asks you to cover your head, you just do it because He knows what’s best for you. Allah says in His book …” and she recited a controversial verse from Quran.


I was about to jump in but the youngest among us was too fast. “But this verse was revealed only for the wives of Mohammed because Allah wanted them to be distinguished from other women,” she said. Her mom gave her that gaze apparently for daring to say something contrary to the hostess she had been videotaping.


“Yes, I know this incident and we will dedicate a whole lecture to Hijab later insha’allah” was the only reply.


“Your well being is like a triangle: physical well being, spiritual balance, and your mental peace. They are three tubes connected to each other. If there is a clog somewhere, you feel imbalanced.”


‘I like this tube idea. But what if some of your spiritual ideas cannot pass through the mental tube?’ I did not ask.


“If you were married and you spent six hours cooking a meal for your husband. When he comes home he says I do not like all this food. I would rather have a cheese sandwich. What do you do? You smile warmly, go the kitchen, and make him a sandwich. What if he looks at this wall and says that this tree in the painting depresses him? I would immediately walk to the painting even if I liked it and take it down.”


At this point, I and the three foreigners sitting around me had been nervously shaking our feet for too long. I felt the ‘feminist vein’, that someone once told me I had, starting to pulse harder. Again I was too slow. The lovely Italian next to me started talking nervously.


“But iif my moother or my faather diid not like anysing in zee house, any of zem will change it. Zey boos respect each oozer and listen to each oozer. It iiz not always my maama. Zey may joke aboutiit but she does not have to change the decoration only because she iiz zee wooman,” she said.


One of the Egyptians replied that the woman would do it out of love and in order to please her Lord.


The American by my side whose face had already turned tomato red said “But why doesn’t he do the same and respect her choice and also attempt to please HIS Lord?”


“I guess it goes both ways. But woman tend to compromise more in general. We have an Egyptian proverb that says ‘A ship with two captains will sink’. So if the woman always wants to be equal to a man in a relationship, things will never work. There are major decisions in life and those need a man to make them,” the Egyptian mom replied.


At this point I knew how the rest of the conversation will go. I walked over the hostess to thank her and kiss her goodbye.


“Thank you so much for having me over. I will try to be here next time insha’allah. I just wanted to tell you that you made a grammar mistake while reciting one of the verses in Quran and you know this is not really accepted at all. You either know the verse well or you say the meaning. And the Prophetic tradition you mentioned is weak one actually. You also gave a bad example to everyone here calling your first husband and the father of your children an ‘idiot’ three times. This is in no Islamic. And actually I think your lectures will do harm to those young Egyptians. You’re consolidating what their moms have been teaching them: be submissive to your man so that Allah is pleased with you. At the same time, you are confirming what those foreigners think of Arab and Muslim women.”


I only said the first two sentence and left in disappointment and frustration.