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.