From Cairo To Tel Aviv.....why?

From Cairo To Tel Aviv

After travelling to far and exotic destinations and exploring unknown cities Africa and Asia, I responded to an old dream. A dream to visit Palestine, a land separated by a thin dotted line on maps and by endless restrictions in reality. It was not only about crossing the borders or finding a way to reach Palestine, I had to overcome a lot of psychological barriers. Will my trip be an act of naturalization? Am I acknowledging the occupier? Am I supporting their economy by spending my few dollars there? Will my trip be regarded by the Palestinians as an act of solidarity or a traveler’s mere selfishness? My concerns kept looming as I was exploring the possibilities of the trip, how to get there? Will I be allowed in? What will be the consequences there and here? The procedures at Ben Gurion airport made it clear that this won’t be an ordinary trip, but one that involves Human rights, Politics, Anthropology, Geography and History in every single step. As soon as I was allowed to leave the airport I headed to Jerusalem, the Holy city under siege, where I was hit by its glory, the persistence of its people and my emotional vulnerability. My few days were spent in roaming the ancient cobbled alleyways, visiting the eternal monuments, praying in al Aqsa mosque and emerging in endless conversations with the Jerusalemites. Every scene in Jerusalem was dramatic, and every word was a statement, I was not a traveler moving around monuments with his camera, I was an Egyptian exploring how Palestinians live, survive and struggle in their homeland in the 21st century. The more discussions I had the more I understood that every Palestinian is making Palestine a fact through his daily actions, selling in the Bazaar, praying in al Aqsa, speaking Arabic or even being there, all of these actions make Palestine a fact and not a term circulating in the political arenas. I resisted the allure of Jerusalem and visited Bethlehem, Al Khalil, Acre and Jaffo ( which is now known as Tel Aviv) to see as much as possible of a land shreded by barb wires and UN decrees. I enjoyed the rich Palestinian collage in my short trip, laughed, complained and cried with people ruled by the Palestinian authority and others by the state of Israel. Most importantly I understood, or at least tried to understand what is happening in Palestine.

My Dubai :-)

This is my Dubai The Dubai I enjoy and the one I understand :-)

Gods shopping near the Shivs & Krishna Mandir temple, where Hindus and Sikh share the tiny space. I listened to my first Sikh prayers while surrounded by statues and photos of Lord Krishna, Ganesh, and other familiar Gods.

A touch of Persian Art on the Eastern bank of the "Persian" Gulf

Bastakiyya shaded markets, busy even at 8 am

Crossing the Creek in an Abra. A refreshing authentic experience that costs only 1 Dirham in the City of Gold.

Snorkeling while walking in Shandagha

Impressive restoration work to numerous traditional houses......

Delightful architectural and decorative details......heaven!!!

A reminder of a maritime culture that was the reason d'etre of Dubai

A SUPER spicy chicken Biriani cooked with love :-)

A Collage

The 1980s chandelier with two sad burnt, and three-exhausted yellowishbulbs. The plastic flooring with its parquet pattern, jumping in three artificial brown shades and torn in several places. The reddish coarse rectangular carpet, that appeared in this room suddenly, and I didn’t know the reason. The Chinese TV with its silly logo covered by dust. The circular glass table top laden by photo frames, silver, metal and ceramic ones that once were given as presents in birthdays and motherdays, all sleep under a blanket of neglect, the black and white photos are of people I don’t recognize, while the fading colored ones are of those defeated by time. The rectangular table carrying the plastic tray, the torch, the torn telephone index and the fresh folded newspaper. The old wooden sliding door that moans at every move. The two worn out pinkish synthetic cushions resting on the white plastic chair. I will never see them again. Never. I still remember my visits, which were not as frequent as I wish. They were short and far apart. Silence, loud TV noise or the unneeded rambling of a nurse stole the few minutes I was willing to spare. Her voice was always tender, till she refused to speak. Now I struggle to put these visits in the right and logical order. The silent phase is easily placed at the very end, but what about the previous phases, when she said so little, when she stared at the space, when she looked silently towards the noisy TV. Now I’m trying to remember everything, how she refused to eat. There was the phase of nonstop talking, this was a very short phase, she talked and talked and talked, and took me back to the 1940s, and in other visits we were in the middle of the 1960s, with her parents and her husband, all her beloved ones, who had left her alone. But there were other visits when she replied to my bland questions by a smile and “el hamdolella”, we mentioned a few members of the family, the politics, the weather and work, and for most of her questions, I had to return the “el hamdolella”. Memories have no mercy, the good ones tend to fly, while the tough ones torture you and stay. I want to escape from these visits, from the room that vanished quickly and can be only recreated by me. How many times did she say, “ yalla go back home, yalla you look tired, you have work tomorrow”? How many times did both of us stop talking, as if we realized that there is nothing cheerful to say? I used to go to meet her, glimpses of her, traces of her, but no, she was not there. But I still see her moving around the orange trees in a trousers and a shirt, with a colored scarf tied in a trendy way, moving in our farm in Fayoum. A cosmopolitan lady sitting in the fields feeding me oranges against a biblical background of peasants and beasts. That shot could have been easily taken from a Hollywood movie or an Imperialist poster. I see her shining among her guests; I was too young to remember how she was dressed, her jewelry or her hairstyle, but that can be guessed from photos. I am good at these historical collages. I prefer her old photographs without the veil; the veil does not suit her, standing like an empress, elegant and tall. Sitting by her mirror holding her long pearl necklaces, I still see her silver kohl container with its decorated handle, reflecting patterns in the mirror. This scene is my favorite; my empress is checking her jewelry, the rings always looked beautiful in her slender fingers. I have a few more great scenes, when I was young; I always had the feeling that whenever I’ll step into the terrace, she would be sitting in a sunny corner having breakfast with my grandfather. It seemed like an eternal scene, the white plates on a small table, the orange juice glasses and the bowl of black olives, cheese and salad everything is still fresh to me. Sitting with a cigarette and a porcelain cup of coffee, a rare scene that I have always recalled. Deep down I loved the fact that my grandmother never cooked, let other boys enjoy a granny’s cake while I contemplate her grace. I don’t know what to say, they say we will meet in heaven, but will she ever confess why she was silent. While everyone was trying to be in charge as she was finally leaving her home, I collapsed alone, wondering why she was that nice to me. Why did she love me in such a way, why did she scratch my heart with her gradual disappearance and painful silence, why did she taught me “unconditional love” years before I hear the term from psychiatrists.I’m sitting now shuffling my memories that seem fewer everyday. The same person who taught me love showed me how death is cruel, and now I’m that helpless kid again. I need to see her again and tell her everything, all the untold stories, all the gossip, all my problems and fears. Now, I wonder how long and boring her days have been, the same room, the noisy TV, the bad lighting and the crackled off white paint, only interrupted by very few erratic visits, of people who were always keen to leave. My whole week are barren, only these 20 minutes- visits could have saved me from these memories and such a torturing game. I mourned her many times before, but how will I ever overcome the pain. Other people left and took their fair share of condolences and sadness, but she is a different case, she shattered me and left, and took the little kid away. No one is more vulnerable than a person without memories, and these memories were all what I wanted to save. I can still hear her singing to me, but the real fear is if one day I don’t hear her voice again.

It was not meant to be :-(

The most delicious donut, Huge cacti, One Spanish missionary church, 26 stunning sunsets A deeply embedded psychological disorder, These were the results of my failed expedition to the New World. Since then I have restricted myself to three ancient continents!

The Deadline

“ where is the blue folder? It was here on the table” He screamed “What happened? Why are you screaming? Just look for it. If it was there it will still be there….. you invaded our dining table by your books, papers and folders….” She replied indifferently while moving towards the kitchen, but he interrupted “Is that the proper time to complain about your beloved dining table, I told you the folder was there, I left it yesterday, everything is wrong this week, everything is wrong…” “Have you checked your car? You always leave your stuff there?” she raised her voice so he can hear her. “The car…” he murmured, before answering his mobile…”Sure, sir….I’m sorry, …yes, I was supposed to submit it this morning, yes, I know sir, it is urgent….I’ll work on it tonight….. sure, of course…..Thanks sir, goodbye”. “These are old newspapers…..a novel…. The children’s magazines….” He kept throwing stuff across the room, while screaming in a theatrical way….”menus…more menus….. last year’s annual report…. Where is that blue folder?” “Calm down, throwing stuff and screaming won’t help”. She answered firmly, while rotating in the kitchen to perform her daily curse. “I know, I know, but please spare me your wisdom tonight…..I have to find that folder, and I promise not to leave my stuff here again….. “ he said while shuffling the piles on the table for the third time. “I hope so” she murmured absentmindedly while washing the dishes.

Silence!!!!!!

Shsh shsh shsh my father’s shout, another faint shsh will always follow. Trrrnn Trrrnn and my name is called to pick the phone. Ding Ding Ding and I’m asked to open the door. Gggesh Gggesh and I wake up suddenly to shut the TV. The Eisha Adhan, Ooops I forgot to pray Maghreb again. Beep Beep Beep, Vooo, Vooo, the crazy streets of Cairo _______________________ The scary silence of Arizona, no shouting, no laughing, no Beep Beep and of course no Adhan. Beep Beep Beep, Shamefully back to Cairo after only five weeks. Bla Bla Bla the endless questions of nosey people and fake friends. Beep Beep Beep, the crazy streets of Cairo________________________ The threatening silence in a living room. Tuck Tuck Truckk familiar sounds coming from the kitchen. The endless crying of babies. A quick loud fight every now and then. Beep Beep Beep, the crazy streets of Cairo, the Adhan again and again. Bla Bla Bla the lies and boring gossips of colleagues at work.___________________________ The expected silence of death.

A Hadrami Night

I was pushed by the noise and the sudden erratic movements around me out of the bus. Half a sleep and completely dizzy from the monotonous movement of the old bus, I followed the crowds towards ramshackle coffee shop. Theoretically I was standing in the middle of a straight line connecting the Hadramout desert to the fertile highlands of Yemen, or in a bus stop half way between Mukalla and Ta’iz. The passengers who were either snoring loudly or just rocking in their seats a few minutes ago were jumping energetically in front of my tired eyes. The scene was getting clearer as I approached the hut showered by blue, green and white fluorescent lamps, where dozens of skinny teenagers were quickly serving the sleepy passengers, stirring coffee and tea, selling cigarette packets and biscuits and even cooking spicy liver and beans. All these noisy, after mid night activities scratched the beautiful silence of a balmy desert night. The quick short shouts characteristic of the Yemeni dialect of all the hurried impatient clients echoed with a loud happy monorhythmic song against the anger of numerous kerosene generators of different sizes and shapes. All these sounds danced with the pleasant aromas of coffee, tobacco, freshly baked bread, spices and the unavoidable lingering smell of burnt kerosene. Without any intension of eating or drinking I walked around the irregularly shaped rest house, inspecting the cheerful carnival happening around me, while trying to identify the bus driver within the crowds. My previous road trips taught me that asking about when will the bus leave is utter naivety or a sign of disrespect to the passengers, driver and the whole culture, so I surrendered to the fact that as our crawl was interrupted suddenly it will be suddenly resumed. As enlightened people live to kill their ego, I travel to kill that arrogant fussy touristy attitude, when I worship my itinerary and concentrate mostly on checking the not-to-be missed highlights of my destination. I reminded myself that I travel for moments and places exactly like these. A few steps away from the glow of the cold lamps were enough to disperse the kerosene’s itchy smell, and to spread a dark blue moonless sky studded by endless stars in front of me. I cannot remember for how long I was washed by the blissful stars and the fresh breezes welcoming a new hot day till the mythical serenity around me was interrupted by my own happy sighs. I returned back to my fellow passengers who were still whirling in their lively conversations. Healed from the tourist rush, I accepted the first invitation to join a group singing, joking, quarrelling and reciting poetry at the same time, It took them a few minutes to slow down and pace their dialect to my Egyptian ears, I picked a ripe date from a plastic bag in the middle of the circle and dove in the chat trying to answer their thirsty questions of why, how and where. We left sluggishly after repeated calls from other passengers, I moved towards the bus fare welling that magical spot that I do not even know its name.

Traces of a vibrant Vernacular Nubian Architecture in Egypt

Fig() Nubia Location Introduction: Nubia is a geographic region concentrated along the Nile, which is cut nowadays by the Egyptian- Sudanese borders. The name Nubia is said to come from the ancient Egyptian ‘nbu’, which means gold, in reference to the famous gold mines of the area. The Nubians have their own languages and a distinctive culture that differed a lot than the rest of the Egyptians. They had suffered from the disappearance of Nubia in 1964, by the construction of the High Dam and the creation of Lake Nasser. The “displacement” has been a chattering and traumatic experience that has affected, and is still, affecting the Nubians. As a result most of the Nubians are driven by a nostalgic urge to preserve their cultural and architectural heritage and recall the details of their lives in the old villages before the disappearance of Nubia itself. The Nubians are always known for their strong attachment to Nubia, and till now the Nubian community is very proud of their cultural heritage, tens of thousands of them were born and raised in big cities hundreds of Kilometers away from Nubia. However, they still speak their ancestors’ languages, and have the ability to recall many incidents that happened in their grandparents’ times.

Fig() Photos showing the setting of the villages along the Nile in Old Nubia (Hassan Fathy Photographic collection at the American University in Cairo) The Loss of Nubia and its architectural heritage Architect Hassan Fathy lamented the loss of the Nubian vernacular architecture, “ Nubian vernacular architecture continued to be ignored by the rest of the world until 1963, when the area was to be flooded for the third time”. He recorded Nubia’s vernacular architecture before its disappearance in 1963, and today the drawings and photographs taken by Fathy and his team, in addition to a few books are all what have been left of a rich and distinctive vernacular architectural style.

Fig() Plan, elevations and sections of a terraced row house in Old Nubia

Fig() Gharb Suhail village, which is a narrow stretch of land between the Nile bank and the desert In order to study and examine the architecture of Nubia, the researcher visited Gharb Suhail village in Aswan, which was formed in 1902, when the Aswan Dam was erected, the inhabitants of a few small islands south of the city of Aswan had to leave their villages that would have been covered by the river and to settle there. Accordingly this village was built and inhabited by Nubians for decades before the displacement crisis of the High Dam, and is renowned nowadays for its dwellings built in the traditional Nubian architectural style, and is referred to colloquially as the “Nubian Village”.

Fig()The inhabitants of Gharb Suhail village are engaged in a number of activities catered to tourists, like folk musical performances and traditional crafts Gharb Suhail village has reestablished itself as a major tourist destination in Aswan after the inauguration of the Nubian Museum in 1997, because the Nubians did not accept the “musification” of their heritage, and insisted on revealing their culture to the visitors of Aswan. The people transformed their homes into multi-purpose establishments, where handicrafts are produced and sold, ethnic dishes and drinks are cooked and served, live music and dances are performed and even crocodiles are bred and displayed. Moreover the inhabitants started and developed a special touristic itinerary, where the visitors reach the sandy shores of their village by boats, to be greeted by dancers and musicians and ride decorated camels to roam the sandy alleys of the village before visiting one of the “Nubian Houses’ and spending the day. The awareness of the people of Gharb Suhail and their attitude towards cultural heritage is exceptional among Egyptians. Their small touristic establishments aimed at preserving their intangible cultural heritage (music, songs, dances, henna decorations, cooking,…) in addition to their traditional architecture and handicrafts. Accordingly, the people of the village understood that building and decorating their houses in the traditional methods will not only attract more tourists, and make their village a unique destination, but will be an integral part of their attempts to preserve their cultural heritage and identity. The friendly and exceptional extroverted atmosphere enabled the researcher to visit a number of houses, and enter the public parts where visitors are received. The recent touristic activities resulted in a few changes in the dwellings; accordingly it is noteworthy to present an example of a dwelling that receives tourists, such as Mr Fouad Salah house. The large house rests on a hilly location and is spread on three different levels. A small rectangular garden precedes the dwelling; it accommodates a small projecting guest room, a tiny free standing toilet in the northeastern corner and the rest of the area is planted to provide a shady sitting area. The house is divided into three sections: • The main rectangular courtyard • The side entrance and the service area • The coffee shop and souvenirs area

Fig() The plan of Mr Fouad Saleh House, Gharb Suhail village, Aswan

Fig() The central courtyard covered by a newly added thin reed roof.

Fig() Photos of the side entrance, note the crocodile face adorning the door, and the utilities area beneath the vaulted entrance vestibule.

Fig() Photos of the service courtyard connecting the side entrance and the kitchen to the coffee-shop area, and separating this part from the rest of the dwelling

Fig() Photos of the coffee-shop area, showing the decoration of the vaulted seating area. This dwelling is a great example of how a building can be creatively divided into two separate parts. When Mr Fouad was asked about the change of the character of the house, the roofing of the courtyard and the location of the private and semi-private parts, he indicated that he is very practical and flexible with his requirements, and the use of spaces. He did not object roofing his courtyard, and even placing ceiling fans in it, as he still considers his dwelling a traditional Nubian house, in spite of the changes and modifications he has been undertaking. Mr Fouad showed a remarkable awareness of his Nubian heritage as he listed the different architectural and decorative elements around him, the vaults, the domes, the brickwork, the light blue color of the walls and even the habit of spreading clean sand on the floors of the courtyards. Another example is the house of Mr Abdul Wareth, which is perched on a mound above a number of houses of the village and enjoys a commanding view of the Nile. It is preceded by a few planted terraces that create a buffer between the alley and the elevated dwelling.

Fig() The plan of Mr Abdul Wareth House, Gharb Suhail village, Aswan

Fig() A view of the terraces preceding the house of Mr Abdul Wareth Fig() A view of the side entrance of the house

Fig()Photos showing the courtyard of the house, with its trees and kiln

Fig() Photos of the loggia overlooking the courtyard and roofed by a thin reed roof

Fig() Photos of the domes roofing loggia overlooking the courtyard and roofed by a thin reed roof These two examples indicate how Nubians are not only aware of their cultural and architectural heritage, but are creative to adapt their dwellings to their current needs. The Decoration of the Nubian house: Decorating the entrances was among the most distinctive architectural features of the Nubian house. Highlighting the house’s entrance was intended by every family to personalize the building and eventually the entrance decoration became a symbol of the family.

Fig() Photos showing the emphasize of entrances through their architectural and decorative treatments (Hassan Fathy Photographic collection at the American University in Cairo)

Fig() Intricate designs painted on the inner and outer facades of a Nubian house (Hassan Fathy Photographic collection at the American University in Cairo)

Fig() The Nubian villages are characterized by their colorful dwellings, the color palette includes, but is not restricted to, white, light blue, blue, yellow, ochre and brown Decoration and plastering, were the responsibility of the female members of the family. In addition to painting a number of other decorative techniques were used such as: 1-Adobe brick filigree: Circular and rectangular openings were filled by adobe bricks forming triangular shapes. The zigzag shape resulting resembled the waves of the Nile, which they considered to be associated with life and prosperity. 2-Wall-mounted objects: Colorful and shiny ceramic, wooden and metal plates were used to decorate the facades and the main entrance. Mummified or dried wild animals and birds were also incorporated in the house decoration. These were chosen according to the different powers they possessed to protect and divert the evil eye away from the house and the inhabitants. The horns of goats, sheep and wild antelopes protected these animals through their lives, and so their horns were believed to have the power to protect houses where they were hung up after the animal had been killed.

Fig () Stuffed crocodiles, birds and horns are mounted on the entrances of the dwellings of Gharb Suhail village Concluding Remarks: By surveying these examples, the following remarks could be deduced: • The vaulted entrance vestibule creates a buffer, even psychologically, between the street and the courtyard of the house. • The courtyard is the most important space of the house, and it is usually separated into a service area and a more formal area either by paving or laying simple brick courses. • Vaulting is the main roofing system and the vaults are usually concealed behind high parapets. • Decoration is a very important aspect of the Nubian house, and is one of its most distinctive characteristics. The decoration of the houses includes the great care given to painting the walls in cheerful yet light colors and the brickwork formations adorning the gateways, side entrances and some sections of the vaults. This brief study aims at emphasizing the rich and diverse artistic and architectural heritage of the Nubians that is on the verge of disappearance.

Who told you men should not weep?

“Shut up…. Stop it…stop it” my wife shouted at my two monsters for the third time since they got in the car a minute ago. They continued their fight over the barely charged IPad, while cracking the empty plastic water bottles filling my car. Someone found it difficult to park a few meters away from the ATM so he sieged us and we had to wait. The hysterical screaming continued while the security guard was trying dramatically to pull the ATM worshipper towards his car to set us free. While Iooking for my pain killer pills that I usually toss everywhere, the stout fortune teller that became the latest addition to our circus, street, knocked on the windscreen. “Let me show you, let me show you…your fortune”… Her blackened teeth revealed the usual lazy greasy smile, as her henna dyed hands opened to let three sweat- soaked shells breathe. Her synthetic black dress blocked the view, and the car’s noise swallowed me in a strong whirlpool. A firm hand pulled me out. “This time you have to listen to me” I followed the strong sweet voice helplessly. The vulgar fortune-teller, turned into a luscious stunning creature. The complexion which suffered Cairo’s smog for decades was being washed by golden sun rays. Her hair escaped the tight cheap scarf to fly around a wild angelic face in thick dark tufts. I stared at the buxom woman in front of me, partly nude and partly loosely wrapped by a huge creamy linen cloth. Her mysterious, yet genuine smile complemented the glitter of numerous chunky silver amulets adorning her neck. I had to follow…. Her delicate feet caressed the ground in front of me, that Saharan Medusa dragged me against an eternity of sand dunes. My breathes disappeared in the balmy weather, my steps felt lighter and lighter, till I realized that I was turned into one of Gibran’s celestial creatures. A void within a void polluted only by my thoughts, desires, fears and regrets. Time was not allowed to interfere in this journey. I only had to keep moving in the cloudless curvy ocean of sands, chasing her melancholic hymns . The footsteps stopped by a palm grove, as thick as a vague dream. I looked for her around me, waited for her voice, walked around the palms, and searched for what I didn’t know. “Come…let us sit here”, she leaned on a pile of reddish patterned cushions and stared at a lilac sea. The sea, which seemed turbulent, was softly hushed by her stares. The hymns, the whispers of the waves, the songs of endless birds and her voice danced around my head, which she gently placed on her lap. “ Sshhh …. Just enjoy”….” I’ll tell you everything….. you just have to wait”. All the sounds dissolved in complete silence as she finished her last words. Again a void within a void, that was awaken only by her tears. She sighed, touched my forehead, the abode of my legendary headache, stroked tenderly, and murmured….”my god…there is a lot to say”. Her tears dribbled on my forehead, which she caringly pressed, while singing the saddest tune. “Your soul is full of grief…. You heart is drenched in pain….”. More tears washed my face, more sad tunes filled the air. I looked through her curly hair, towards a violet sky, I searched for my old friend, the arrogant moon. “Stop fleeing…stop hiding” she added while stroking my forehead more and more. The moon glowed on her tears, her sadness covered me, and forced me to weep. A breeze moved her hair exposing the sky to my eyes. I searched for more stars, while waiting for her words. “ Let me push this dirt away…. Your fears, worries…. Your regrets, my god you regrets have endless roots”. My sighs and tears crescendoed, she smiled compassionately and said, “cry, cry…..who told you men should not weep?” Her voice echoed monotonously . Her face spun around me, her hair gathered the stars, hid the moon and scratched my eyes quickly. “Let me show you, let me show you…your fortune” ….”I said stop it, give me that IPad …sshhh…stop shouting” “sorry, I’ll move the car right away”. I gazed at the blackened teeth, the greasy smile, and the synthetic black dress, before looking around and getting the car out of the crammed parking space.

Book Review: Did You Try Qat?

Book Review: Did You Try Qat?

HE

He kept preaching, promising and inspiring them, he saw the light, believed in freedom, dignity and pride. Moving around them, throwing the seeds of a different tomorrow among the desperate souls. Touching their hearts and awakening their old buried dreams.

They leaned on his courage and strength, considered him their hero; they gave him a divine flair. Each day they add to him more, whatever they lack he will have by default. For them, now he is the hero, the one who can defeat for them, all the evils of the universe. The one who will change their lives, destinies and despair. But the hero was aware, he was one of them, an ordinary man. Not a hero, and not a miracle but just someone who dares. One who longed for freedom, a man who felt the injustice and could not bear.

His mother was silent, yet she knew how people could push their hero to death and then cry. How many gods were created and then killed by the cowardness of man? Her fears increased with their gossips and complaints; as the voices were heard in every lane. He shouted ‘Tomorrow is done by your own hands, freedom is only what you need’. The oppressed did not understand, they wanted bread, they wanted gold, they wanted someone to promise, and convince them just to wait.

His enemies were quick and ready; they knew how weak his fellows were. His friends started to divide the kingdom, the one he drew in air. The hero, felt the danger, but now it was too late. His mother cried and tried to save him from this fate.

They killed the hero, the one that they had made. Did they betray him? Was he too pure to be among them? Do they really deserve dignity, freedom and all his other dreams?

Some people mourned him, but the majority at that time did not really care. The lanes became empty and silent; the oppressed missed his words, his hope and his dreams. The years had passed, and as the oppressed gave birth to oppressed, the land was still in chains. But people are still waiting for him; it is always easier to wait.

I heard this story in Toledo and Granada and now I see it in Palestine!

Yalla ya bet

Ramses Square, 1956

“Yalla ya bet” Fatma’s uncle pulled her suddenly to get out of the train station; she opened her sleepy eyes to see the huge Ramses statue filling the sky. She stumbled while trying to follow her uncle’s quick steps, and absorb the new scenes and sounds of Masr. Her first minutes in Cairo were strange; she could not understand how people live in these high buildings, how the streets are wide and clean, where is the dust and dirt that invade her villages alleys. How can women move with such short dresses and no scarves? Her mother won’t have believed this, but her mother died last week and as her father wanted to please his new young bride, Fatma had to leave.

The old Nubian butler was always nervous; he believed that I was stupid, lazy and good for nothing. He kept shouting and cursing, but the more news about foreigners leaving the country, the more nervous he became. After few months, our Italian masters left, as Oum el Donia was turning her back to the whole world. I did not know that I’d miss the piano, their parties and the young lady’s colorful short dresses that much.

From a house to a house, and from a lady to the other, there was always the same, “Yalla ya bet” , even when she became older her husband made sure to repeat it as much as he could. It seems that all the people of Cairo don’t have time or don’t care to remember her name. Fatma forgot her village and her life there, it seems that her life started when she first stumbled in front of Ramses. Cairo became familiar, and became home, that poor peasant made her own roots, but she doesn’t know who won.

Ramses Square, 1981

“Yalla ya bet” Fatma followed her mother in the crowded streets of Ramses Square. They had to take two microbuses to reach the square and then walk for a while. She looked at the crumbling moulds of the buildings; the entrances, the grand staircase, the stained glass windows and the intricate handrails; these were faint reminders of Cairo’s Belle Epoque, yet she did not understand. The littered corridors, flashy colors and blocked balconies did not bother her. All of this was too good compared to the slum where she lives, an instant concentration of peasants who wanted to be part of Cairo.

She was squeezed by the crowds and noise, in a narrow room filled with smoke, half filled tea glasses, flies and endless piles of papers. Her wedding ceremony will start, but who mentioned a wedding or a ceremony, she should be grateful that she would get a paper. Her father was clever enough to find her a dying Saudi husband, who also wanted to take a part of Cairo, and for him Fatma was white and tender and will be a fresh addition to his collection of wives. At that time Fatma was not there, as if she was only watching, she kept gazing at the part she can see of the Ramses statue from the small window.  Fatma did not resist, she was sure that it’s only a nightmare. Only in nightmares parents sell their daughters, only in nightmares men import young girls and call this marriage, only in nightmares one’s life can be ended by a single piece of paper, so she only has to wake up.

Four years later Fatma returned to the same office, the smoke, the half filled tea glasses, the flies and the endless piles of paper were all the same, but the place seemed dirtier and uglier. This time her parents did not come, only a young girl on her shoulder, this time Fatma is not watching, she is dying to get another piece of paper to prove that this girl had a father. After several humiliating hours she had to leave and without noticing she was whispering, “ Yalla ya bet”. 

Ramses Square, 2010

“Yalla ya bet” Fatma was shocked, this was the first time to be called a “bet”, but suddenly she realized where she is, a dirty clinic hidden in one of the alleys near Ramses Square. The rough woman kept shouting “ Yalla, yalla”, it was Fatma’s turn, she pushed her fear and followed that woman, the butcher had a sick smile, he tried to comfort her, while the woman was pulling her cloths. His eyes and hands were eating her body; he believed that he has all the right to taste a bite before burring the problem. The humiliation was too much for her; his fingers were creating new scares, and opening the fresh wounds. The disgust and shock were greater than her fear, she started trembling and shouting, bringing the rough woman to the scene and ending the butcher’s invasion.

The anesthetic’s strong smell and the cold tools touching her skin took her back to Mustafa’s first touches. The first and only man to love, the one who tried to change her character, the way she talks, the way she dresses and even her feelings. In fact he succeeded only in changing her body. Fatma gave him everything, the more she gave the more he asked for more.

Dizzy and tired, she put on her clothes slowly, unable to walk; she had to stay for a while in the crowded reception.  The monotonous soundtrack of the women’s gossips was as painful as the surgery, was she punishing herself. Was it her fault to love? Or the real fault was that she loved Mustafa. Suffocated by the thick air of the room and the women’s stares, she dragged her legs and left. Accompanied by her bitter memories and Mustafa’s words, she walked slowly. Like a sandy storm, his words were hitting her, “ I won’t marry a girl who’s not a virgin”, she smiled as she reached the main square, for the first time she realizes that large mounds of rubbish and some street kids were replacing the grand statue of Ramses.

One Egyptian Pound

I’m becoming the one Egyptian Pound note. I was born shiny smooth and clean, the magnificent temple of Abu Simbel is adorning one of my faces, while the Complex of Qaitbey is artistically rendered on the other.  These great monuments are surrounded by Ancient Egyptian and Islamic motifs and patterns, not as mere space fillers but as reminders of Egypt’s great pasts and glories.  Artistic Arabic and English Calligraphy indicate my identity, Nationality and even my value. All these patterns and images are laid on a sandy colour, the colour of the great monuments of Egypt but also it’s the colour of its vast deserts, a colour that evokes feelings of pride and depression at the same time.

 What is happening to me, I feel as if I’m dwarfing, I’m no longer the one that can fulfill dreams; people are mocking my value and doubting my existence. But am I really weakening? Am I getting useless? Wasn’t I a goal and even a sort of pride for Egyptians for decades? Haven’t I been competing furiously with other European currencies? Why am I now diminishing by newly born currencies of recently created oil states?

There are no answers and no answer can satisfy my frustration or heal my grief. I’m getting tired; I’m wrinkling, my cuts are stretching and my skin is getting fragile everyday. Thousands of people are abusing me; snatching me rudely from hand to hand and then dipping me carelessly in their sweaty pockets, or throwing me on their dusty desks, with their rough impatient fingers. Teenagers keep doodling on my faces, some writing poetry, sending regards and some just leave their silly nicknames.

Frankly I’m witnessing the decline of my country, the vulgarity of the people and unable to bear all this ugliness. Now every day seems to be a lifetime while waiting to be executed, I’m being used till the last drop of colour on my aging skin and then people burn me happily as for them I’m an unhygienic piece of paper. Anyway I’m hearing that I’m gradually being replaced by a coin, it’s sturdier, more colourful than me but when you look closer you find a lonely sad pharaoh surrounded by a kitsch circular border. OK may be this coin is more suitable for Egyptians now, may be it suits there rough fingers and bad taste.