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.