'From the Diaries of a Driving Mother ' as a published in The Writer's Drawer

'From the Diaries of a Driving Mother' edited by Beryl Belsky.

Essay As published in The Writer's Drawer.

From the Diaries of a Driving Mother
by Abeer El-Gamal (Egypt)

"Watch out, Mummy! Watch out! He's breaking your mirror," Nora screamed. A smashing sound deafened my ears as I woke up terrified but grateful that the accident was only a dream. I felt like a small, helpless animal being hunted by a large brutal one. Our black Lancer had turned into a rabbit being chased by a vicious dark wolf, intent on biting off the creature's left ear before devouring her.

I did not know how much I hated driving until I had that dream. Driving through Cairo traffic is a nightmare, a circus in which you perform without training. I spend half my days driving my twin teenagers Nora and Ali to private lessons, tennis coaching, doctors' appointments and outings with friends. Driving not only strains my back and neck, due to the hours spent sitting in the car in streets like clogged arteries, but it sucks all my energy, shatters my nerves and raids my dreams.

A woman driving in a male-oriented society triggers all kinds of reactions that men would normally repress in other situations. Whether they admit it or not, most men believe women should stay home to make kofta or mahshy and leave the outside world to them. Since they cannot afford to do this, men express their innermost feelings in malicious forms toward women in the streets, and women drivers get the lion's share. That surely doubles the risk of my daily journeys with the twins.

In my dream I was driving the twins as usual, but we were heading to two different places at the same time. I kept driving back and forth on the same road, Tareek al-Nasr, never reaching either destination. One moment I went toward al-Mokatam, where they were supposed to have a private lesson, and the next I was heading in the opposite direction leading to al-Ahly club, Nasr City. I drove in my cautious, or rather "slow," manner, as my kids describe it. As it did in reality, my driving triggered two contradictory reactions in the twins, according to the destination I was heading. When I drove toward the club, they shouted, "Faster mummy, go faster, we'll be late for training." But when I went in the other direction, to the private lessons center, they were kind enough to support my lame driving, saying, "Take your time, mummy; the teacher is never on time."

Usually, Nora is never silent on our drives; she bugs me about one thing or another and interrupts my desperate attempts to focus on the road. She is continuously planning some event or other: a surprise birthday party for a friend, an outing to the mall, a color festival, a paintball battle or a sand-boarding day.  She is practical and clever enough to figure out that the best time to discuss the details of any of her projects with me is when we are stuck in the car. At home I am always busy, but in the mandatory prison which is our battered, shark-faced Lancer, there is no way I can escape her. Sometimes I listen and sometimes I scold her, telling her I need to focus on the circus going on around me or we won't make it to our destination.

The other day Nora declared, "Mummy, we have to be there before five. It's the deadline for onsite registration."

"There, where?" I said stupidly, as I maneuvered to avoid a sure attack from a minibus aimed at my mirror.

"Mummy, don't you ever listen to me?"

"I do, sweetie, I do all the time. Where do you want to go? Is it tomorrow?" I tried to soothe her.

"Nooo, it's on Friday. We're going to the tennis colony for the championship."

"And where is this 'colony'?" I endeavored to sound patient and looked quickly at Ali through the front mirror, hoping that he might object to Nora's plan, but he was immersed in his BlackBerry chat as usual.

"It's on Ismailia Road, 35 km away," she said.

I flinched at the thought of driving amidst the wildest trucks and buses on the Cairo-Ismailia road. I gathered up my courage and said, "We don’t have to participate in every tournament; let's restrict ourselves to the ones in the city. You know I hate to drive on highways. What do you think, Ali?" I tried to enlist his help by glancing at him again in the mirror.

"Heh? What did you say, mum?" he inquired in his absent-minded way.

"You are being a zombie again. Why don’t you leave that thing and join the conversation? I asked if that colony tournament is really important." I was starting to get really nervous.

"I don't want to go. If she goes I'll participate only to be with her." He said in that casual manner that plays on my nerves.

I was happy to get his support but angry that he was letting his sister down as he always does when she needs him. I promised Nora I would think about it and tell her my decision when we got home.

Ever since they were in kindergarten, Ali and Nora did everything together. He was the lazy one. He wanted things just as much as she did but did not exert any effort to get them, letting her do the work and fight the battle for both of them. He played the king and she was the minister who had to carry out his plans. To me it was neither fun nor fair: it enabled him to sit back and relax and let her do the dirty jobs, just like most women do in real life. It was neither a game nor child's play as everyone around me insisted; it was a life-defining experience that would last forever. On most days she would carry both her own and his school bag from class to the school gate where I waited for them. He often ran to give me a hug while she trudged behind with the bags and it made me crazy that she did it voluntarily and he took it as his lawful right as king. Every time I intervened to prevent his early male dominance and her submission, I regretted it because both of them have accepted their roles without hard feelings and everyone accused me of endangering their bond as twins. My husband believed I worried too much about a matter that meant nothing to anyone but my own "disturbed" mind which detected gender differentiation in every small action.

I did my best to accept their relations the way they were since they were both happy. Meanwhile, a question kept buzzing in my head: "Why can't their bond work the other way round?" I dared ask my husband once and he simply asserted that it was the most natural thing in the world for the girl to "serve" her twin brother and that in time they would switch roles when he became a man. "Honey, you are the only one who tries to go against the tide; just leave them alone to manage their own business," he wrapped the whole matter up in his usual nice cool manner that left me speechless.

And I tried to leave them alone, not all the time, though. Once, when they were in grade five, they went too far and I had to intervene. They were doing their finals when Ali gave Nora his exam sheet to answer for him before she did her own. The teacher, who had been my student in college, was furious and called me, and I rushed to the school. It was not the act of cheating that drove me and the teacher Siham crazy; we were more concerned about Nora's self-denial at such an early stage of her life.

"That's it. I can't leave the twins alone anymore and you have to help me fix their relationship," I told my husband angrily that day. But of course, I had to sail against the tide alone. I kept nagging them about the importance of cooperation, and the need for mutual give-and-take, but nothing worked. I tried to be discreet and never accused Ali of negligence or dominance, but it seemed that neither of them cared.

That night, after the dream, I decided I would not drive to the "colony" on Friday. I would take the day off – off housework, off the twins, off driving. "Dad will drive you there safely and spend the whole day with you," I broke the news to them. I had delegated the chore to my dear husband. Let him sail against the tide for once.

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Cairo Runners

 

I have never seen my son as enthusiastic as he was Thursday nights!

 Why?

He was thrilled actually not because of a fun outing with friends

 or a relaxed evening stretching on a sofa in front of his favorite NBA channel. 

But because Thursday night is Cairo runner’s eve.   

Abdalla had been playing basketball ever since he was six. Basketball is part of who he is, it is his passion and dream, his love and joy.

But he loves Cairo runners even more!

Friday after Friday, he returned home with exhilarated spirits and a huge enchanting smile.  The energy he brought home proved contagious and soon Ali and Nora joined the fantastic event.  Then all their friends joined.  Their enthusiasm built up as Ali started to proceed to the finish line earlier every week. The way they all described the event made me feel I was missing a lot.  

Yes, I admit... I am lazy, I have always been and probably will ever be. As a young girl, I hated PE classes. I never practiced any kind of sport; I would rather coil on a sofa and read a book.

My kids kept teasing me every week. They became Cairo runners’ advocates and fans.  They wanted to spread awareness and joy. They told family and friends it was not just for young people, that elderly men and women joined, that all of them had fun.

They never gave up on me, they kept nagging me about my laziness. Every single Friday they wanted me to join. They said that four generations of families came together, shared the energy and the fun.

I felt ashamed of myself, I felt like a ninety years old lady afraid to set foot in the street that early in the morning.

But I did it at last! 

I wake up at six a.m. and joined the Zamalek run.

What a joyous occasion!  

Radiant positive energy sprinkled all over the place as thousands of people gathered for warm up.  Some competed for the long route, while others chose the short route and were thrilled to complete it.  I walked at my own pace like many people and enjoyed every step.  Young energetic volunteers facilitated the whole thing. Some held route signs, others ran along to help whoever needed help and ensure the safety of all runners. I was amazed at the professional organization skills those young people mastered, at the spirit of good will and enthusiasm they spread. The philosophy, the idea and the timing of running Cairo on a Friday at seven in the morning are not only original but perfect as well.

It had been such a long time since I last saw our Cairo at its best, as it wakes up gracefully, cheerfully, enthusiastically, to breathe unpiloted, or at least less polluted air. As I walked by the Nile, I realized how much I had missed by not joining each and every one of these events.

I invite everyone to join Cairo runners, to seize the chance to have free quality time with family, friends or neighbors who hardly meet in the business of our daily hectic lives in the big city.

All mothers, please accompany your little ones to this fun-filled occasion. After all we all want our kids to be active and keep a healthy life style and maintain good health.

We can all run this town with joy!

With Cairo Runners.

In the Forest (Kinsthetic, Organic description written for Linda Cleary writing workshop)

In the forest where none can pass but you, I track you through the dark looped tunnel.  I can hear you panting heavily, gusts of your hot breath touch my skin but I can never reach you.  I stretch my arm towards you; my muscles ach with it, my pulse quickens, the veins on my wrist pulsate loudly with the need to feel you.  I keep crawling behind you trying to keep your pace but sweet starts to bead on my forehead and seep into my eyes.  My heart drums heavily; my chest feels like an old accordion struggling to stretch. I long for more oxygen; I pause to take a deep breath, I try to draw in a whole lungful of air but it feels like steel splinters piercing through my lungs.  Suddenly there is more light than my eyes can handle; I squeeze my lids shut and slowly open them to adjust to the light; there is more space to move and air to breath but you are gone. I rise on all fours; I stretch my back upwards like a cat in the sun; every muscle and tendon ach with the attempt. I force myself into standing; my feet squawk and my knees shake under the weight. My body feels funny erect after all that crawling, my muscles are tense; my shoulders are stiff and clenching. I look for you in all directions, there is no trace of you, only the pain intensifies in my neck with every move. I think I will lose you forever; I will never be able to reach you or touch you again.  With these thoughts the pain gets wilder, creeping slowly from the right eye, to the right ear, then passing quickly from the back of the neck to the other side of the head; I feel you in my bones, defying, accusing and mad at me. The pain stretches its paws to cover the back of my head, rushing towards both shoulders. It feels like soft yet heavy liquid cement passing through tubes in my head until it hits splashing on the open surface of my shoulder plates and upper back. It changes instantly into thick sheets of hard concrete spreading layer upon layer forming a stiff heavy bulk that makes the slightest movement a torture. For a moment, I think I will never be able to move from that spot.  Then, I can hear your voice, sweet and tender like always, calling my name. I turn around but there is no trace of you; your presence permeates every cell in my being; I feel you under my skin. Here you are walking slowly behind me, the way one creeps away from an animal that might attack. You look at me with scared eyes. Do you think I might hurt you? I turn around; I reach for your hands but you take a step backward, out of my reach and run towards the tunnel again. I try to move; I drag my feet through the dirt; I am heavy and aching; the blood vessels in my temples jump with rage; my hands ball into fists. That concrete plate on my back stretches to cover my chest. I stoop; I crawl slowly towards the tunnel, hoping to get a feeling of your breath around me.



Excerpt from The Scent of Paper published in The Writer's Drawer

The Wedding
Excerpt from a novel-in-progress, The Scent of Paper, by Abeer Elgamal (Egypt)

Hala ran from the front door to answer the phone, but the ringing stopped before she could reach it. She had come home after driving the children to school and attending a meeting in the department. She hated it when Salem assumed she was still out if she failed to pick up at once. He called every now and then, making it impossible for her to complete any task without interruption. She threw her keys and handbag on the sofa and sat down on the rocking chair, moving nervously back and forth; she knew he would call again soon. Part of the chair's base was on the wooden floor while its front rested on the carpet. With every movement it produced two different, though equally annoying, sounds, and it threatened to plunge backward at any moment. She had just received the news: the university had withdrawn the scholarship from the English department. There was no way she could go to the States for her PhD. It was the end of a dream she had worked so hard to accomplish. 

It was her day off and she had planned to be alone with Salem. Things had gotten worse lately as she was preoccupied completing the requirements for the scholarship, and she hoped she could do something to amend matters.  She could not bear Salem's silence and his moods; his sarcasm and bitterness cut through her being every day and she blamed herself for not trying hard enough to soothe his worries about their future.

She sat there, waiting for him, dreading the storm, anticipating what shape his eruption would take this time. She knew it would not be like the previous ones. There would be something more violent than breaking things or burning her diary or throwing stuff on the floor. That scholarship meant so much to him; he counted on it more than she did; it could have been a safe escape from the tedious life he had been living since those problems started at work. It would have given him a pretext to skip the family obligations that were starting to weigh heavily on his shoulders, with one unmarried sister, Maha, and a widowed one with four children, with all their problems.  One question kept circling her mind like a whirlpool: How can I tell him this? A feeling of heaviness and stagnation took over her body as she continued to rock herself back and forth on the chair, despite the dizziness she started to feel.

Salem called again and she grabbed the telephone instantly. She did not dare tell him the news over the phone. Instead she said that her mother had volunteered to take the children from school to sleep over and to take them to the club next morning. His voice on the other end was tired and confused, with the sounds of heavy machinery in the background. She repeated what she had said to make sure she got the same answer more than once. Strangely, he did not seem to mind her arrangements.  Maha was not coming over that weekend; she was in Alexandria with Laila since her husband had died and it would be the first time in three or four years they would spend the weekend without her.  It was a shame she would have to tell him the bad news then, when they had it to all to themselves…  

What had happened to the Salem she had fallen in love with?  When did all this start? At the wedding and the three months of frustration that followed? Or on the first night, when Maha had stayed over, to the dismay and anger of her mother? Automatically, her hand reached out for the diary, hidden under piles of books, and she began to write:

Salem invaded me from the first moment. I liked his self-confidence and the authoritative way he spoke to me, looking directly into my eyes and exploring me from inside. He accused his mother of not informing him he had such "beautiful relatives," referring to me and Mother, the first time we met. It was mid-year vacation, and we were visiting my grandparents in Mansoura, just me and Mother because Ahmed was on a trip to Luxor with the university.  Even Mother, who was rarely impressed with anyone, liked his way with words. It was the first time we had ever met, but he began using the term " we": we  are going to do this, and we will go this place and so on, as if  he could decide for us, as if we belonged to him. Mother believed that his education abroad had certainly done him good.  I knew later that our meeting in the club was not accidental. His mother, a distant relative of my father's, had seen me once in Cairo on a family visit and had called Aunt Ameena to arrange a meeting. It was my first year after graduation and I had spent a turbulent summer trying to get the job I wanted in the department, until I finally did so in September. They were supposed to come and visit us in Cairo but Mother, who had not seen him before, did not want to have any obligations towards them if they made a formal proposal. Besides, she knew how I felt about matchmaking, after I had refused her best friend's son a few months before. She believed then he was a perfect suitor and accused me of being a romantic and naive girl who did not know what was good for her; she even blamed father for not supporting her.

Salem was different. He kept calling me every day, inviting me to go out on our own. It did not feel right and I said no every time until he stopped and was satisfied with long phone calls. He was working in a big company and everyone kept stressing what a brilliant engineer he was. There were no mobile phones then and he had to use the land line. We talked for hours and he asked me all sorts of questions, thousands of them, and somehow I enjoyed how he invaded my life. I looked forward to the time I would finish teaching, and rather than hang out with Deena and Nesreen or go home and read a book or talk to Ahmed on the balcony, I'd pick up the phone when he called and allow him to go deeper and deeper into my being. He never contradicted me; he read me like a map with all its details, and I loved it. He made me feel I was the center of his universe. When I asked him about himself or his job, he said nothing mattered to him anymore.

Strangely, Mother knew it was him who kept me on the phone for hours, and she did nothing about it. Then one day she said, "Salem and his mother are coming on Thursday to see your father. If you want me to turn them down, say so now. We don’t want to lose all our friends because you refuse their sons!" She was as matter-of-fact as ever, but she did not hide a sense of cheerfulness, mixed with her usual pride. I kept silent. He did not call that day and I was angry he had not told me he was proposing formally. I was confused: why did he have to be so mysterious and secretive? It was obvious it was only a matter of time before he proposed. I was waiting and I wanted to hear it from him; I wanted him to ask me and I wanted to say yes, before anyone else knew what we were planning. My anger faded away when they came. We were engaged on that very first visit, without a party, without even telling Uncle Mahmud or my friends or anyone.

His mother insisted we get married as soon as possible. Mother did not like to be rushed into any decision, but she managed to accept this without a big fuss. Ahmed was happy for me and said he would finally get rid of me, but I knew it would not be easy for him, or for me. From that night on, Father never went to bed before spending an hour or more with me. He said that I had become a guest in his house and he had to make sure I was perfectly satisfied. I waited for him, no matter how late he came from the clinic. His hug made me feel protected, like the times when we were young and he would come to check on us before he slept.

I was already considering wearing a hijab before I met Salem, a stylish and modern one. The idea became more appealing when Salem encouraged me, or rather, pushed me into wearing it. He said he would not share my hair with anyone, and that if he spotted any man looking at me he would kill him. I loved his aggression with words: I will kill; I will tear; I will smash. I never took them as real signs of violence. I loved his strength and decisiveness and his ability to lead anyone to the conclusion he wanted.

Uncle Mahmud was in Paris, then, attending a conference. He was thrilled about the news of the engagement and the hijab. "I will go with anything that makes you happy, my little princess," he said over the phone. The silk scarves he brought me were the most beautiful gift he had ever given me. I loved to wear them. They were so soft and kept sliding away from my hair, and Salem would watch me push my hair under them and smile. "You look more attractive in a hijab. Where can I hide you from eyes? Maybe I have to eat you all up and bury you inside me," he always teased. Indeed he did this, but in a completely different sense.

The wedding hall radiated with her happiness. She chose baby orchids and white pearls to decorate everything, the kosha (wedding throne), the guest tables, the buffet. And Uncle Mahmud insisted on paying for them, as part of his wedding gift to her. Her dress and her flower bouquet, which she had no chance to throw to the girls at the end of the party, had the same theme. It took Hala, Deena and Nesreen endless visits to the dressmaker to get the dress and veil embroidered the way she envisioned it: three different sizes of pearls alternating with lace orchid flowers threaded through the corsage and the train, small ones on top, bigger ones following. The veil had the same pattern; it was made up of three layers, all embroidered like the dress's train. Hala's mother Nahid checked with the hotel every day to make sure everything was going according to plan. It was perfect: the scent of the flowers, the reflection of the tiny white lights on the pearls, the soft music and the lovely couple dancing in the center  with all eyes focused on them. Salem, handsome in a black suit, white shirt and red bow-tie, whispered something into Hala's ear as he pulled her closer to him.  She blushed as she caught sight of Ahmed, looking distracted at the farthest end of the hall.  I know how he feels; he has been avoiding me for a long time for fear of this moment. I was too busy to notice his withdrawal; how I will miss you, brother.

Salem did not allow her to think of anything; he was holding her tight, then letting go of her waist to look deeply into her eyes. It was her first dance in public and she was afraid she might look awkward or trip over his foot in the highest heels she had ever worn. Her fears were not justified; Salem was almost carrying her around, lifting her body off the floor. She felt she was gliding. 

I was happy. No, no, happy is not the word, elated, soaring above the world, with Salem literally lifting me off the floor and holding me so tight to him that I could hear his heart beating against the music and the clapping of our friends, whenever he bent to kiss me or whisper into my ear.  I did not know if people noticed all that or not. Nobody had time to comment; nobody talked about that night ever after. It all went so fast and then came the black out, inside me and out.

 I wanted to go on dancing forever. He said he was not ready to stay till the end of the party and that he would take me home when the guests were busy eating. I laughed my heart out. Mother would kill us then, after all the trouble she had gone through to prepare the party the way she believed fit for us. Then Salem's mother Aunt Fatma sent Maha to ask us to sit down and rest for a while, which we did.  She wanted me to wear my shabka (present from the groom) early on in the party so that all the guests would get a chance to see it. She handed Maha a tray decorated with lace and ribbons, with the red velvet jewelry box open on it. Then she left Salem's side and stood by me, next to my mother. Maha stood by Salem and handed the shabka to him, piece by piece, starting with the rings. He took such a long time fastening the necklace around my neck. He was facing me and did not see that all the young guests, his friends and mine and Ahmed, had clustered round us with cameras to capture that special moment. Then I felt something falling heavily on the ground and saw Maha dropping the tray and running in front of me to the other side.  Father ran towards Aunt Fatma who was stretched on the floor, her head right under my feet. I had never seen mother as devastated as she was that night. She moved quickly behind me, holding me in my chair with all her power, preventing me from standing up, as if she knew I was about to faint. The last thing I saw were Maha's eyes blaming me for their mother's death.

I did not see Salem for three months after that night. He came every now and then and I refused to see him. I could not look him in the eye, until Uncle Mahmud convinced me to go home. He said Salem was a mature man, and a believer as well. There was no way he would blame me for his mother's death. His words touched my heart and I began seeing Salem when he came to visit. In a couple of weeks, he convinced me to go home. Maha was there too.

Ahmed inserted the Quran cassette in the car player, hoping his mother would calm down when she heard it reciting. He had seen his mother angry many times before, but he had never seen her face so red with rage like that night. They had just left Hala's apartment after taking her to Salem, three months after the wedding party. Hamdy could not see why his wife was so upset, which made things even worse for her.

"What kind of people are these?  How can she allow herself to be with them on their first night together after those terrible months? How can Salem let her do this? What about her married sisters?  Don't they have any sense at all?"

"You just said it. Things have been terrible for all of them, not just for our daughter." 

But this is their special night; they are starting a new life. Can't she leave her brother alone with his bride? Haven't they been through enough? Isn't it sufficient that Hala decided to go to her house wearing black in order not to hurt his sister's feelings? She is a bride, for God's sake. Can't you all see that?"

"Mother, I'm sure Maha won't stay over. I'm sure she'll leave soon."

"Why didn't you let me ask her to come with us if you were so sure she would leave anyway?  It would have been a nice compliment to drive her home."

Hamdy had to interfere again in his calm, reassuring voice to prevent Nahid's outburst against Ahmed. He knew she would go on blaming him forever.

"That would have looked terrible – for us to ask her to leave. It is her brother's house after all; we are not entitled to do that."

"Poor Hala, how can I help you, my daughter? You have fallen into a deep well! And your father and brother don't even care."

Nahid continued to wail in the back seat of the car, lamenting the bad luck of her daughter until they got home. She wanted to call Hala and make sure Maha had left, but Hamdy and Ahmed talked her out of the idea. 

As soon as her parents and Ahmed had gone, Hala began to serve the dinner her mother and Dada had spent the whole morning cooking. The meal was still hot, but Salem and Maha took some time to come to the dining room and it was beginning to cool. She felt nervous; there was something weird about the place; it did not feel like the same warm, cozy home she and Salem had spent days supervising workers over and arranging furniture in. She had to reheat the dishes when Salem and Maha finally came into the dinning table. She felt she was sharing a table with strangers in a place she had never seen before. Maha did not bother to help her clean up after dinner, so she made tea, served dessert and joined them in the living room. She felt they were a united front she could not penetrate. They would stop their conversation abruptly the moment she entered the room. Their other sisters called to say hello to her, one after the other. She felt that everything was prearranged, and that she was excluded from their inner circle; she was the outsider. There was something about them that made her feel guilty, unwelcome, banished, and utterly lonely, in her own home.

In the morning she felt too embarrassed to go and shower after Salem did.  He tried to make it sound normal, and advised her to get used to Maha's presence with them, at least for a while until she could go home and stay by herself. She dried her hair and wore the lovely rose lace dress her mother had suggested for the occasion, and the necklace that came with her shabka. She prepared breakfast and tried to feel at home. When her family came in the afternoon, with the wedding presents, she did not feel like a bride on her saba7ya (day following the wedding, when the bride's parents come to give gifts) . She felt she was performing a role in a play. The house and the people around her were fake; she could not bond with anyone, not even with her own family. All that mattered was preventing any reference to the night before. She made sure she was never alone with her mother because she knew she would ask all sorts of questions. She enlisted Ahmed's help so that Nahid would not embarrass Maha with questions, and he came to the rescue, never leaving his mother's side. Hala sat by her father and felt a sudden urge to put her head on his shoulder, as she did when he would come to check on them every night as children. She wanted to hug him and talk to him about her day like she did then, but there was a glass wall separating her from the rest of the world.

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UN verbing

Hala wished she could undream that memory and unlive those moments. She wished Salem uncontrolled her waking and sleep. She wished he unfound her diary, ungot mad at her, unaccused her of being a selfish wife. She wished she unwoke up to a body as heavy as a sack of sand, to a tight stomach and clenched muscles. She wished that sooty stain in the kitchen sink unplayed on her nerves all the time and that smell of burning uninvaded her lungs when she unexpected.

Every time she came into the kitchen, the stain bothered her. She untried to clean it; she unused Clorox, unscrubbed it with steel wool and unadded all sorts of detergents that unscratched her fingers. She unwatched the flames eating up the pages, line by line, word by word. It unhurt to sit at her desk later and untry to remember all the events in their engagement that she registered in the diary and unentitled it “Happiest moments of my life”.

What if Salem unrushed into the kitchen unwaving with her diary in his hand as she just finished the dishes? What if he unapproached her until their bodies almost untouched and she could unfeel his hot angry breath on her face and neck? What if he untore the pages and unthrew them in the sink as she unleaned to it and unstretched her neck back to see what he was doing? What if she unstayed in the kitchen after he left and uncontinued to take in the fumes of the burning plastic  cover? What if she unopened the window or unturned on the water to stop the burning and the smell?

 She carefully pulled herself out of bed, tiptoed to the kitchen to remove the sooty black stain from the corner of the sink before making Salem’s breakfast.

My Treasure

My Treasure

I recently discovered a treasure I had had for 17 years without even noticing it was there by me all the time. It was near me all the time, especially through bad times. It never left my side and I was too obscured to recognize it until I got one of the worst times of my life. For 17 years my treasure bloomed; it opened up little by little, slowly but steadily and now I enjoy it in its fullest glory. On my bleakest days, when I am too sick to move and too proud to ask for help, my treasure lays itself wide open in front of me, offering fountains of pure love and sincere help. He makes himself at my service whole heartedly and gracefully and lovingly and the manner he does it makes me feel stronger despite my fragility, proud to have someone like him despite my weakness, happy even in my misery.

Ali is my treasure, my pride and joy, my man and son and friend.  Thank you God for my treasure: the sweetest, kindest and most graceful human being I have ever had in my life. May Allah keep him safe, sound, happy and loving forever.

Mothering: Excerpt from Safe or Sound

I had the best evening with Kooky and Semsem, after Salem and Maha left. I resisted them so much; they wanted me to watch a Disney movie with them and I had piles of plates in the sink and wanted to finish tomorrow's lunch because my schedule is really tight with six hours of teaching three different classes and I still had to prepare some materials.  I said OK, when you decide what movie to watch, come and tell me and I will watch as much as I can when I clean up the kitchen. But then Kareem said,' Mama, do you know what I really want to be right now?  I want to be your mother and you my son.'  When I asked why, he said "because then I will choose to sit and watch the movie with you!" I was amazed at the logic of my sweet five year old son, and his way with words. It was simple as that. And I just could not resist it.

I went to the kitchen, turned the stove off and closed the door so that I will not see how badly the kitchen needed cleaning. TO HELL WITH THE KITCHEN!  I sat on the big sofa between the twins and we played The Lion King, again , maybe for the fiftieth times, but it felt different this one time.  We got a blanket because it was cold; we snuggled, laughed, tickled, and hugged. We cried when Mufasa died and sang along with Simba and Nala and danced with "I just can't wait to be king" and roared like a lion till we almost lost our voices.

 I wish I can do this more often . l wish I have time to engage with the twins in fun activities and stop being a caterer for food, a driver or a teacher. I realized after that night how much I needed them and how much I wanted to be a real mother. Mothering is not something you do by instinct; you really need to learn and my best teachers so far are my lovely twins. 

Excerpt 3 The Good Wife

Hala went into the sitting room, the one saved for guests and never used by the family, the chairs that usually outgrew their owners and see more than one generation.  The rocking chair, her mother's, looked inviting with its soft crimson velvet fabric and the golden embroidered cushions on it,  but she was too restless to sit down. She was attracted by the patch of sunshine outside and went straight to the window to get a feeling of warmth that she desperately needed. She was faced with the neighbor's laundry hanging, neatly organized: small pieces on the front lines, followed by the bigger ones. The clothes looked whiter than any clothes she had ever washed or hanged; the type of radiant whitens that Hala believed was possible only in Ariel commercials.  How she envies that woman and admires her housekeeping skills, without even knowing her name. They talked only twice, once when their eyes met while both were busy hanging clothes and the second time when they met by the elevator and she took the opportunity to ask her about her maid. She has always wanted a maid to come once a week but for years, Salem did not agree, especially after the incident of the little servant they had when the twins were little. He does not trust strangers, he would simply announce and if she insisted he would proceed with the "the good wife" sermon. A good wife does this, a good wife does that and would go on forever and she would drop the subject and try to be a "good wife". 

Sophisticated (excerpt 2)

Sophisticated 

   The word "sophisticated" has always fascinated me                  

for no apparent reason; maybe because it had no equivalent in Arabic, my mother tongue, an exact equivalent, that is. I was fond of Arabic and believed it is richer and more expressive than English (which is true) but ever since I started to study English literature, I fell in love with English. I kept the little dictionary uncle Mahmud gave me in my handbag all the time and opened it on the bus whenever I had nothing else to read; never bothering about my colleagues who believed me to be a book worm and joked  about my transistor dictionary. It was the eighties and   and students would carry transistor radios and later Walk-mans and earphones, while I was reading a novel or writing in my diaries on our way to and from the university.

On our very first drama class the word "sophisticated" acquired new connotations for me When Dr. Negm, trying to explain its meaning picked me out of the fifty nine students as an example of a "sophisticated" lady. That was something, for your professor to ask you to join him in front of the whole class and  act like a living model of he a fictional character as sophisticated.I found the situation very flattering; and I loved the way other students started to elaborate on the meaning of the word just by looking at me: classy, elegant, and expensive, of good taste, has great expectations. The blood rushed to my face and Deena told me I looked ridiculousness and thus negated the main point of being sophisticated with my shyness. She believed that being daring is an essential component of being a sophisticated person and this, both I and Deena were sure, was never part of my personality. Deena believed that with my neat, trendy French clothes, shoes and bags, my styled hair and a touch of expensive perfume, together with my perfect pronunciation of a language that other students struggled with, I might pass as one. But to those who know me well I am a shy, dreamy and naive girl. Deena was my best friend since first grade and sometimes I felt she knew me better than myself.  She  was right; an attractive appearance, love of literature, dreams, and "great expectations" are not enough qualifiers  for a sophisticated person.  I was thrilled for the description all the same and I tried to maintain the "shell of circumstances" that made others think I was sophisticated. Can you blame an eighteen year old student to be thrilled when described with the big word "sophisticated"?   

The Dream

 Diaries of a Driving Mother

"Watch out Mummy!!! Watch out; he is breaking your mirror", Nora screamed and then a smashing sound deafened my ears as I woke up terrified, but grateful that the accident was only a dream. I felt like a helpless little animal being hunted by a huge brutal one. Our black Lancer miraculously turned into a little rabbit chased by a dark vicious wolf that aimed at biting its left ear before devouring it.

I did not know how much I hated driving until I had that dream. Driving through Cairo traffic is a nightmare; it is a  a circus in which you perform without being trained. I spend half my days driving my twin teenagers, Nora and Ali, to private lessons, tennis training, doctor appointments, and outings with friends. Driving does not only strain my back and neck- having to spend hours tied to the car seat in streets that look like clogged arteries- but it also sucks all my energy, devours my nerves and raids my dreams. 

A driving woman in a male-oriented society triggers all kinds of reactions which men would normally repress in other situations. Whether they admit it or not, most men believe women should stay home to make "kofta" or "mahshy" and leave the outside world for them. Since they cannot afford to let their women stay home, men express their innermost feelings in malicious forms to women in the streets, and driving women get the largest share. That surely doubles the risks of my daily journeys with the twins.  

In my dream, I was driving the twins as usual, but we were heading to two different places at the same time. I kept driving back and forth in the same road "Tareek Al nasr", never reaching any destination. One moment I went in the direction leading to Al Mokatam, where they were supposed to have a private lesson, and the next I was in the opposite direction leading to Al Ahly club, Nasr city. I drove in my cautious, or rather "slow" manner, as my kids describe it. As it did in reality, my driving triggered two contradictory reactions in the twins, according to the destination I was heading.   When I drove in the direction of the club, they shouted "faster mummy, go faster, we will be late for the training" but when I went in the other direction, to the private lessons' center, they would be kind enough to support my lame driving saying: "take your time mummy; the teacher is never on time".

Usually, Nora is never silent on the way; she bugs me for one thing or another and interrupts my desperate attempts to focus on the road. All the time, she is planning for some event: a friend's surprise birthday party, an outing to the mall, a color festival, a paintball battle or a sand boarding day.  She is practical and clever enough to figure out that the best time to discuss the details of any of her projects with the driver, which is me, is when we are stuck in the car. At home I am always busy but in the mandatory prison which is our battered shark-faced Lancer, there is no way I can escape her. Sometimes I listen and sometimes I scold her to be able to totally focus my attention to the circus around me or I will lose control over our destiny.

"Mummy, we have to be there before five, it is the dead line for onsite registration". Nora decided enthusiastically.

"There where?" I dared to ask the stupid question as I maneuvered to avoid a sure attack from a microbus that aimed at my mirror.

Mummy, don't you ever listen to me?" Nora objected."

"I do sweetie, I do all the time. Where do you want to go? Is it tomorrow?" I tried to comfort her.

"Nooo, it is on Friday, we are going to the tennis colony for the championship."

"And where is that 'colony'? I tried to sound patient and gave Ali a quick look through the mirror, hoping that he might object to Nora's plan, but he was immersed in his blackberry chat as usual.

It is on Ismailia road 35 kilos away", she said."

I flinched at the thought of driving amongst the wildest trucks and buses on Cairo Ismailia road. I gathered my courage and said "we don’t have to join every championship; let's restrict ourselves to the ones in the city. You know I hate to drive on highways. What do you think Ali?" I tried to enlist his help with a quick look at him through the front mirror.

"Heh? What did you say Mum?" he inquired in his absent minded way.

"You are being a zombie again. Why don’t you leave that thing and join the conversation? I asked if that colony championship was really important?" I was starting to get really nervous.

"I don't want to go. If she goes I will join only to be with her." He said in the most causal manner that played on my nerves.

I was happy to get his support here but angry that he was letting his sister down as he always did when she needed him. I promised Nora I will think about it and tell her my decision when we go home.

Ever since they went to kindergarten, Ali and Nora did everything together. He was the lazy one; he wanted things just as much as she did but he did not exert any effort to get them; letting her do the buzzing job and fighting the whole battle for both of them. He played the king and she was the minister who had to carry out his plans. To me it was not fun or fair; it entitled him to sit and relax and let her do the dirty jobs, just like most women do in real life. It was not a game or a child's play as everyone around me insisted; it was a life-defining experience that will last forever. On most days she would carry both her and his school bags from class to the school gate where I waited them. He often ran to give me a hug while she toiled with the bags and it made me crazy that she did it voluntarily and he took it as his lawful right as the king!!  Every time I interfered to prevent his early male dominance and her submission, I regretted it because both of them have accepted the roles without any hard feelings and everyone blamed me for endangering their "twins" bond. My husband believed I worried too much about this matter that meant nothing to anyone but my "disturbed" mind which detects gender differentiation in every little behavior.

I did my best to accept their bond they way it is since they were both happy. Meanwhile, a question kept buzzing in my head: why cannot the "twins bond" work the other way round? I dared to ask my husband once and he simply asserted that it is the most natural thing in the world for the girl to "serve" her twin brother and that in time they will switch roles as he becomes a real man. "Honey, you are the only one who tries to go against the tide; just leave them alone to manage their own business", he wrapped the whole matter up in his cool nice manner that left me speechless.  And I tried to leave them alone, not all the time though. One time when they were in grade five they went too far and I had to pitch in. They were doing their finals when Ali gave Nora his exam sheet to answer for him before she answered hers. The teacher- who was once my student in college- was furious and called me and I rushed to school. It was not the act of cheating in this incident that drove me and Siham crazy; we were more concerned with the complete self denial Nora was capable of at such an early stage of her life. "That is it. I cannot leave the twins alone anymore and you have to help me fix their relationship", I told my husband furiously that day. But of course, I had to sail against the tide all by myself. I kept nagging them about the importance of co-operation, and the need of give and take simultaneously but nothing worked. I tried to be discreet and never accuse Ali of negligence or dominance but it seemed they both did not really care.

That night, after the dream, I decided I will not ride to the "colony" on Friday. I will take the day off, off housework, off the twins, off driving. "Dad will drive you safely and spend the whole day with you", I broke the news to them. I delegated the whole thing to my dear husband and let him sail against the tide for once.  

Abeer Elgamal
abeerxx66@yahoo.com