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.