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.