I can feel the sun, the wind, and more!

White, blue, canary yellow, phosphoric green, red, orange, pink .. plain and patterned. I have scarves of almost all colors and materials. I loved them and I still do. They had always made me feel safe and some people thought they never kept me from looking ‘elegant.’ I had wrapped my scarf around my head every time I had left my apartment, opened the door, or gone out on the balcony. For four thousand one hundred and ninety five days of my life. It never bothered me or kept me from doing what I wanted. Even by the sea. I always kept it on and had my way of enjoying the water and the fresh air.

After six months of intensive reading about several issues in religion, I now have my own personal beliefs regarding many of them. Those beliefs are not the primary reason for my decision. When I honestly think about it, I know I only did this because of a growing feeling within me that what I have in my heart and mind doesn’t go any more with what I put on my head. My decision stemmed from a ‘growing discomfort.’ This is the simplest way I could put it.

I know I’m going against what almost every practicing Muslim believes to be an obligation just like the everyday five prayers. It’s the only visual distinction between us and non-Muslims. So by taking my veil off, I, as a Muslim female, threaten what the authoritarian religious masses are trying to do – resisting change imposed by the west and going back to fundamentalism because it’s the only solution. Feeling weak as a nation in chaos, the best thing to do is to cover up their women because they are the honor of family and society. To them, I am blemishing the image of purity and make men’s life more difficult because I represent temptation. I am that girl who, with the help of Satan, has been deluded by her own sick mind into taking off her veil. I will commit sins with every hair I have on my head every time a man sees it. On the Day of Judgment, I shall be dragged to Hellfire by this hair. This all explains why a colleague’s jaw dropped to the floor when she saw me unveiled and recited a verse in Quran used when disasters happen.

I also know that I’m putting myself and my family through painful social pressure. I live in a neighborhood with a Muslim majority; many of them are bearded, veiled or even face covered. We’ve lived here for over quarter a century and have always had the reputation of a ‘decent family.’ So how come my dad and brother let me do this? Yes, it’s their fault in the first place because they allowed me to travel alone, study a lot and work in too liberal environments. They should have tried to get me a husband earlier before I reached that stage. I’m in my late twenties and being the way I am, chances of getting suitors , religious suitors, are reduced.

In the middle of all this I hear “You’re our only daughter. We want you to be happy and we’re sometimes worried about you. Don’t listen to anyone. I’ll never allow anyone to talk about you or judge you. People should learn to mind their own business. One neighbor saw you this morning and I was on the balcony especially for that. She looked up to our balcony to see if we were there and I just gave her this yes-we-know look.” my mom said when I phoned to tell her how much I loved her and felt blessed to have her and my dad as my parents. I realize how hard they are trying to hide their worries. But I can just feel it there in their hugs. I hear it in their prayers. I sometimes wish I were a typical Egyptian daughter, just for them.

All this headache! I wish I could tell the whole world that it’s much simpler than it may seem to them, that I am not interested in being different, that I still love my religion. It’s just the way I am. This is ME.

Cairo, the veiled Bride of the Nile!

A glittery headscarf, high-heels, a silk blouse, an embroidered shawl and mascara. I was wearing all this as I went from the B5 parking level, through the six G levels, and 40 more floors. I went out of the elevator and walked in a corridor dimly lit and romantically designed.

Chair tucked under me by a perfumed waiter. “Enjoy your evening!” he said softly intending not to disturb the first overwhelming moments. Overwhelming is the word.

Up in the revolving restaurant of the Grand Hayatt hotel, Cairo looked like a shy bride. She, too, was wearing a veil.

“I feel jealous, Cairo... for you look far more elegant.”
Her smile beamed at me as she welcomed me into her bright night.

“I now know how life can get too busy for family to talk. But I have many things to tell you. Do you realize how angry I am? I know I look so peaceful to you, but I do get quite angry sometimes!
I get angry when I know that the cost of these two hours up in this restaurant can feed two families for a whole month… when I know I’ll be spending more than 11% of my life in traffic (although I forget all this on a late night ride)… when I think about my 31-year-old brother who has a job and a house and can’t get married because he still needs $ 5000…when I look at a neighbor who has been engaged for four years because he can’t afford refurbishing and furnishing his apartment with the minimum… when I pass by the Ministry of Health and see people camped outside the building waiting for a merciful look. I even feel guilty for being healthy… when I watch a 40-second clip on u-tube of an officer torturing a suspect and wonder how much time it took him to get that heart of stone… when I feel guilty every time I drive by a crowded bus stop… when I remember how my mom has spent her life "prioritizing" and not buying herself a single thing she loved…and when I remember the pain of sitting on the floor in packed lecture rooms on hot summer’s days. I was always trying to listen to professors talking about Renaissance, literary criticism, Hamlet, George Orwell, Blake and many others who I don’t remember anything about now. I was busy trying to breathe.

One more thing I want to tell you. A secret I have to share with you. As cruel and crazy as you get sometimes, I failed to hate you. I did. I throw myself into the arms of your people on the streets when I'm tired.
I see you in the eyes of my mother when she says she’ll only leave you maybe when she’s dead. I still get tears in my eyes when I hear songs and poems written to you, or when I see a tired smile on the face of a poor man saying ‘alhamdulellah’. Thank God for everything. I let myself get lost in the scented alleys of your old streets and read million stories written on the tired walls of proud buildings.
Looking at you from up above, you look pretty… dressed up to the nines. And even prettier deep in your heart, behind your glittery veil.”

Om Somaya

One of the few people who have witnessed all stages in my life is someone I hardly talk to. She always seats herself in a strategic position where she could observe everything around her - from footsteps to weddings and funerals. She sits, in a white plastic chair, wrapped in her black shawl during winter or holding a hot cup of tea with mint in summer evenings.

For eleven years she was there every morning I went to nursery or school. She was the one who received my university acceptance letter. She wished me a warm goodbye the few times I took my suitcase to the airport. She glanced at whatever bag I carried in an attempt to know where I came from. Whenever we received guests, family or friends who usually looked and dressed differently from what she is used to, she made a point of both welcoming them and wishing them goodbye on their way out.

“Reuters” is the title she's earned with no competition. She's one of those women for whom news feel too itchy to be kept untold. She waits for you to greet her to make a reply sealed with a mouth gesture that means “What a world!” in an attempt to make you ask her ‘What happened, Om Somaya?’ She will never waste this opportunity to tell you that a police car came in the middle of the night to mercilessly grab Sheikh Mahmoud from his wife’s arms as a suspected member of the Muslim Brotherhood group. Or about how the gallant residents of the nearby alley beat life out of three new tenants and dragged their prostitute out to the street with nothing on but a bed sheet. Or about the poor Om Mohamed whose husband turned out to be married to a second wife in Saudi Arabia where he worked for nine years.

I address her the same way I do my aunts “Good morning, tant” (auntie). “Good morning, sweetie” she would usually reply and add a couple of prayers depending on what she thought I needed then. “May Allah help you with your job”, “… bring you back safely”, “… rest your deceased’s soul in peace”. There is, yet, one prayer she hasn’t changed over the past year: “May Allah send you a good man.” She started saying this prayer the same day I graduated from university. It became more frequent from my mid twenties on. Now, approaching the end of my twenties, I am a ‘poor’ girl whose suitors are blind enough not to see her. For Om Somaya, a representative of the vast majority of the Egyptian female voice, a woman’s ultimate aim is to get married and have children. No other goal in life will make up for this one.

“The shadow of a man is better than that of a wall” is the proverb /slogan that explains why a lot of women feel pressured to get into a life they don’t want or tie themselves into a marriage despite clearly seeing how terrible life will be later. If she complains about her life she will be asked to have patience so that people, of Om Somaya’s type, don’t talk and gossip or so that God rewards her in the afterlife. A team of female brainwashers will quickly network using telephone calls. The team usually consists of the mother, sisters, cousins, neighbors, and married friends. All of them will discourage her from getting a divorce and tell her that it’s “the women who makes the relationship work”. If all attempts fail and she gets a divorce, her life will be a series of stories to be told in a blog titled ‘Be dead but not a divorcée’

Four days in Istanbul

9.25 pm.

Sitting at a small table by the glass ceiling-high window, cozy café on Istiqlal St., Istanbul. Eating warm brownie and neglecting a strong cappuccino. Feeling so tired having walked for over nine hours. Glad I had recently started the habit of carrying my notebook around. I opened it, rested it on my waist and the blue pen started writing everything on my mind now.

-Arrived at Istanbul on a charter flight full of Egyptians. Amazing how they followed rules once they were outside their country.
-Bus to hotel: Istanbul by night brings me memories of parts of Kuwait and Dubai. It’s less crowded, cleaner, and more civilized than I expected. Fresh air.
-I loved the narrow steep streets. (They were good exercise)
-First morning there. Wooow .. I am in Europe.
-No one is staring at me in my curry yellow head scarf. Now I know how foreigners in Egypt must feel being scanned everywhere they go for simply being different-looking.
-I feel cold and lonely.
-Elegantly dressed people walked up and down the main shopping street.
-Things I have never seen on Cairo street: people kissing and hugging, a gay man in female dress and full makeup, people playing music and singing for money, a cute red street car I had always wanted to ride-and I did, a flag marking a gay club, Christmas lights everywhere.
-Galata Tower: climb in the elevator and view Istanbul by night… as if a sky full of colorful twinkling stars decided to come down and cover houses and streets.
-A cozy shop/cafe by the tower sells female accessories and clothes, has warm decoration, and is owned by an elegant lady in her mid-forties who makes good turkish tea. She speaks little English but can communicate perfectly well with her eyes and smile.
-For some unconscious reason I thought I’d understand Turkish and everyone would understand my Arabic. All attempts failed on both sides.
-All signs are in Turkish. Hmm .. now I need to use the bathroom. Shall I walk where it said ‘Bay’ or ‘Bayen’ ? The latter is safer. I was right.
Four more words: evet ‘yes’, giris ‘enter’, cikis‘ exit’, su ‘water’.
-Aya Sophia. It was great to see a wall painting of Virgin Mary carrying Jesus hanging above the word “Allah” written in gold Arabic calligraphy.
-The Blue Mosque. Must have been designed by a genius. I felt so peaceful inside it.
-Alcohol everywhere.
-People are the same wherever you are - they smiled, laughed, walked, loved and cried the same way.
-One big difference between cafés in Cairo and those of Istanbul: majority of customers in Cairo, as noted by a French friend, “are teenagers dressed and looked the same, walked around the café talking on their cell phones in English”
-Turkish music came out of bookstores and music stores. Filled the air with a special charm. I don’t remember any of the songs and can’t forget their effect.
-I need to change some money. ‘Please sir, LE 100’. He handed me 16.5 Turkish liras. I was too tired to think this was true. Took the Egyptian banknote back and handed him $50.
-A side street had a number of restaurant designed similarly. People sat there talking and having dinner. Three musicians carrying lute, violin and drum walked around table singing to diners. Lovely strong voices.
- Still have 4 hours before going to the airport. OK. Take the subway.
Excuse me. How long is the trip?
Two minutes.
No. I know there’s one every 2 minutes. (miming) How long is the trip?
Two minutes.
OK. Whatever.
I got on and sat by the window. After two minutes the car stopped and everyone got off. I looked at the driver. He figured from the look on my face there was a mistake, waved me sit-down and refused I paid any money. Glad the man who sat opposite me kept looking at my face while I was crying-it felt good that someone understood something was wrong.
-I passed by a woman selling bracelets on a dark side street. She started shouting as walked by her. I got scared and thought she might have wanted me to buy something. Didn’t even look back and walked to my hotel.
-Brownie tastes great.
-I wish I could sit with the six young Turkish people having coffee near my table now. I would love to make sense of whatever they are saying. I want to know you, people.
-Now I wonder how other European cities are like, how they looked especially around Christmas time. I wonder if I would be comfortable and happy living in one of them.

11.05 pm.

I sat on the bus heading towards the Airport. Not sure how the four days really felt. One thing I am sure of, though… for some reason I am not going to be the same after this trip.

U need a formal permission to volunteer

After trying for 20 days to go on this visit, I finally managed to get myself off bed at 8 in the morning. I drove for about 15 minutes and found a parking behind the school. As I approached the front gate flashes of my childhood memories played in front of my eyes. I saw my mom holding my hand on the first day of school. I was wearing checked shirt and navy blue skirt. I hid behind my tiny blue glasses and, when this didn’t work, I tried to hide behind my mom. I remembered the xylophone and accordion I played every morning, the big bell I always wanted to ring but never got to, and the huge year six boy who once pushed me on the playground. I remembered my trembling voice every time I took part in the live school broadcast.
At the gate, there was a short slim man wearing a thick moustache that seemed to be what kept him balanced. He turned out to be a teacher although he would have passed for a doorkeeper. He showed me to the principal’s office and introduced me to him, to Mr. Esmat.

Me: I used to be a student here more than 20 years ago and I’d like to volunteer.
Mr. Esmat: Sorry, you’d like to what?
Me: I’d like to … volunteer.
Mr. Esmat: Ok. Please have a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.

The lobby was a three-ring circus: there were at least 5 parents, 10 secretaries and teachers, and 3 maids. In the middle of the principal’s messy office, there were three university interns sitting at a table copying down something, an office boy, a teacher using the telephone, and a secretary stamping documents.

Mr. Esmat: Ahlan wasahlan.
Me: Thank you.

I handed him a copy of my Arabic resume. After reading it carefully, he sat forward and listened to me talk about my plans for the school. He responded well and told me about the type of students I could be working with. Then we reached an expected point of the conversation.

Mr. Esmat: Look, miss. I’d love to have you here I’m sure we need your help. But you know that employing takes place via the ministry not me. And we hire part-timers the same way.
Me: Me. Esmat, I am here to VOLUNTEER. This means I don’t want any money. Not even for resources.
Mr. Esmat: Ok, there is only one thing that you might need to do.
Me: Anything.
Mr. Esmat: You need to go to the office of Heliopolis department of education, ask for Mr. Mohamed Abdel Hady. You need to get a security permission from him.
Me: Sure. Where is that? (“Here we go,” I said to myself)

He gave me the address and some directions. I took the car and headed to Abbaseyya Square, kept running around in circles of people, buses, cabs, cars, and fumes. I miraculously found an underground parking.
Mr. Abdel Hady’s office was a small room located on the second floor of the building. I walked in to see a man drinking his tea,... and two women, one reading the paper and the other on the phone.

Me: Good morning. I’m looking for Mr. Abdel Hady.
Woman 2: He’s not here yet. (it was 10:20 am)
Me: When is he expected to arrive?
Woman 2: (after scanning me) We don’t know. He never says.
Me: I mean do I need to wait for half an hour or two hours?
Woman 2: Either. We don’t know. What do you need him for?
Me: I need a security permission.

After I explained what I needed it for, the man put his cup of tea on his desk and sat up straight.
Man: Do you think you can just walk in and out of the school just like that? Anyway, we can’t issue that for you. Neither can Mr. Mohamed. You need to go to the main department of education on Abdou Basha square.

I drove around crazy packed side streets until I found it. I walked into the office that had a sign reading “Security.” There were three men talking loudly and enthusiastically about the previous evening’s Egyptian football match. The guy I was supposed to talk to was trying to make his point clear: it was the defense’s mistake. The other two totally disagreed. I stood there feeling invisible.

Me: By the way. You are absolutely right. It was the defense’s fault. I saw the match.
Man: Of course it was. Did you see when number 10 stood there doing nothing? Was he paralyzed?
Me: No, sir. It was because those players just care about the money they take and they have no real love of the game.
Man: You’re right. (he angrily banged the desk then smiled broadly) How can I help you?

I explained what I needed and he said that I had to go the Ministry of Education with a letter of request, a copy of my ID, and two photos. He also said that most probably it would get rejected as the security department always wants to avoid any reason for “headache.”

I smiled and didn’t comment. I left the office regretting two things: not using that morning for something better and not watching the football match I lied about... I wanted to know whose fault it was.

Follow Instinct

Place: Egypt, Cairo. Maadi. A quiet apartment on the fourth floor.
A room with a desk. Huge library covering all four walls. Two walls have been added using a partition.

Time: Early Saturday morning

Who: Shiekh Yusuf El-Badry (Independent Islamic Scholar) + a friend doing her master's about Islam and female genital mutilation + "lucky" me doing interpretation.

Duration: Two hours of explaining and giving proof from Quraan and 'authentic!' hadith that female circumcision is allowed, and even recommended, in Islam and not haraam. He supports his views with scientific evidence.

Question from me: If you are that sure about what you're saying and other people are also sure that the opposite is true, who is a simple Muslim with a simple mind going to follow?
Sheikh: They follow what their fitrah tells them to do. (=follow their sound instinct)

insomnia unveiled

How’s your vacation? Are you having a good time? This is of course what I receive from whoever knows I am on vacation for a ‘whole’ month. What they don’t really realize is that I wanted to go back to work 3 days after the vacation started. Since I am out of my usual routine, my mind decided to start and develop its own alternative routine. It started everyday with being insomniac, waking up late (of course), going out, returning home to work until after midnight and then be insomniac again. This time it was different… for a good reason you’ll know in a bit. It’s 7:13 am and I haven't had a wink of sleep. I am at my cousin’s. She’s fast asleep since 10.30 pm last night after complimenting me by talking for half an hour while dozing off. So I started my insomnia early. It was a couple of hours later that this conversation took place.

My condition: flu, sleepy/sleepless eyes, and a fired brain. We were discussing advice regarding graduate programs in the UK (I guess you already got tired of hearing about that)

ME • Thanx 4 the advice … be careful. It's 3 in the morning. U're becoming Egyptian.
HE - lol. I know. After opera, went for dinner, then the party and didn't see time fly... but you still have your evening ahead of you! (I had decided not to talk with anyone about it until Saturday. I couldn’t)
• I don't think I'll sleep b4 dawn
- Ya, that's what i mean
• Insomniac tonight as well (waiting for a ‘why?’)
- You're funny. Any particular reason or is it that you just prefer living at night? (Good/Bad he asked)
• I usually prefer.. but not when I have flu. I decided t discuss Hijab with family tomorrow… don't know where to start, and no idea what to expect.
- Oh, is that why you're delaying sleep?
• I just can't sleep
- Good luck
• keep having image of many people's reactions
- I'd like to be more helpful, but not sure what else to say
• U can't really. It's a hell of music I have to face. I think many people will be happy (donno y), and more will be angry … and some furious
- Do you think it would be more acceptable if, having lived abroad, you came back without it?
• I don't know … really don't know what to expect
- Well, taking it by steps, it's great you went through the process of questioning, whatever the conclusion is; and great too that you have the courage to bring it up with family. The next steps, to an extent, can take care of themselves
• OK 1- I have a conservative family (a bearded brother/a bearded father/a veiled mom)
2- They don't read about religion
3- I live in a Sunni neighborhood full of men wearing beards and women wearing niqaab
4- My extended family is all veiled except 1 (she’s considered a bit of an outcast)
5- My female cousins who are my best friends were raised in Saudi Arabia (!!!)
6- people at work will split … half of them (mainly Christians) will be happy assuming I'm leaving my religion, the other half (Muslims) will be equally angry for the same reason and I HAVE to DEAL with all that while focusing on my work.
(I didn’t know it was that serious, I could even think of 6 more)
- That's a lot
• Thanx 4 reading
- Sorry, it's an understatement
• Hmmm .. understatement. Ok. How comforting !
- Sorry
• By the way ,,, I put it simply
- I guessed
• Hmm .. "good luck " was a good response ,, u see?
- But if i may tease you a moment, this is one more reason why I have always said, however much I love women, and appreciate their company, I am definitely glad to be a man
• I really wish I were a man too. In a world like the one I live in!!! It's definitely a man's world. It's just not what the majority think which makes me wonder sometimes if I'm doing the right thing.
- But the right thing is usually contextual, and no objective standard exists really
• If I think what I am doing is the right thing (at least now) it is pushing me away form my surroundings and that's not an easy thing for someone who cherishes her family a lot.
- I realise, so perhaps the matter comes down to this: would you still wear the veil for social reasons? But I suspect, in part based on past conversations, that your questioning is not limited to the hijab. And therefore the underlying issue is whether you keep your conclusions private, turning your practice into a social behaviour, or whether you want to publicise them, in which case there will be a certain amount of work, discussion, comforting, education, or consensus building with those whom you love
• I'd go for the second option ..with as little publicising as possible, as much comforting as possible.