I rummage my bag for a pen. The employee waiting for my
signature looks furiously at me under her reading glasses. I get more nervous
and it takes me longer to find the pen when I think about how many pairs of
eyes behind me stare indignantly at me.
Oops… it is red. The one I use to correct my students’ papers.
Now I have to delve deeper into the bag to find a blue one. The fidgety steps
behind me in the queue sound like war drums. Sooner than I expect, I will hear
words darting in the back of my head like arrows.I swear in my head that the moment I get home
I will turn my big fat bag upside down on the floor and throw away all the
items that crowd it and make any attempt to find anything a torture.
As I walk home, the strap
of the bag cuts deep through my aching shoulder. I remember mother’s complaint:
“you took all your books to school when you were young. I tried to convince you
to leave the ones you don’t use every day but you always insisted”. Having all
my books and notebooks made me feel secure then. I kept the habit when I got
older. The things I loved made me feel safe and I kept them close: my
favoritebooks,the fountain pen my uncle gave me,the golden chain my father gave me when I
was twelve, the huge fur coat my husband bought me in America and piles and
piles of things that crowd the rooms in my house . My hand bag was no
exception. I kept myself surrounded by memory- infused stuff and carried all my
luggage around.I felt safer knowing I
have everything I need handy.With
years’ worth of accumulated stuff, I felt heavier, shackled and entangled in a
web from the past and now is the time to get rid of the extras. I need to live
lighter, feel lighter. I will start with my hand bag.
I open the door, throw the burning hot keys and the sun glasses
on the coffee table and decide to skip the shower until I take care of the
bag.Now that is one brave decision and
I might as well reward myself with a cup of earl gray tea to push me through
the hard job.My uncle loved earl grey
too. The kettle clicks indicating water is boiled and wakes me from my
thoughts. When was the last time I emptied the contents of my bag? I fail to
remember. When I want to change bags I usually take everything in a bag and
stuff into another. I choose the big ones that won’t revolt against the volume
and the weight of my stuff.When was the
last time I de-cluttered my messy life? Five years ago when I moved into the
new apartment? I don’t remember getting rid of things back then, I only came up
with new ways to store them.
One step at a time. Take it easy nice and slow. I encourage
myself knowing that it would not be easy to part with my things. My
things.Parts of who I am, just like the
five extra kilos I keep within and carry around, failing to let go of.I will have some fun doing it too. No, no,
no.Not the diet. That will come later.
It is only a simple task of cleaning up a cluttered bag, I assure my anxious
self. It would be like a game: I will sit in the middle of the big sofa with
the bag on my lap, just like a new born.I will put the things I have to keep on my right. Everything else will
go on the left, even if it is used occasionally it will go in the trash. I take
the last sip of earl grey and touch my aching right shoulder to push my
hesitant self forward. From now on I won’t have to carry a heavy bag. Even
more. I will get rid of the huge sack like bags. I will get out my pretty
medium sized bags and start using them. I will change bags every few days
instead of hanging on to a black one that goes with all outfits. If I don’t use
my bags then I will have to get rid of them too. That would be a fit
punishment.
God that hurts!It feels
like delving inside your very soul and grabbing out all the rot.To my right I put the small purse with the
money and ids.Another swollen purse
lies on my lap, refusing to go to the left side.I don’t even remember what is inside it so I get
everything out.Photos of my husband and
children, not one photo each, but a set of six recent photos in case I needed
to apply for something. And many photos of all the stages of their lives.The twins appear in the hospital room in
their pink and blue baby hats, my older son in the kindergarten graduation
uniform, my older daughter holding her favorite Barbie dolls are just a few
examples. My parents appear in a black and white photo by the sea and my young
niece in a lovely red dress when she was six months old. Many other photos keep me smiling for an hour,
bits and pieced of my life. How can I move around without them? I keep them on my lap until I have the courage
to decide if they go to the left. I will
need another session of deep down delving. I postpone the whole task for
another day.
The Most Secure Place in the World by Abeer El-Gamal (Egypt)
Fareeda heard the click of the elevator door open as she sat at her desk, staring at the monitor, eyes intent, fingers hesitant to hit the keyboard. The sound was followed by heavy footsteps in the corridor leading to her apartment. She jerked up and went over to have a peek. Maybe it is Adham, she thought. Male steps thudded in her direction. The closer they got to her door, the less hope she had they were her husband’s. His steps would definitely bear more rage if he ever decided to put an end to her punishment.
She had been harboring the thought that it was just a period she had to put up with. A temporary thing, she whispered to herself. Adham would not leave at such a critical time when she was a couple of months away from her viva, her thesis defense; he could not be that cruel. She clung to the idea. She did not want to lose hope completely. Her left eye, red-rimmed with last night’s sleeplessness, remained glued to the door lens until a huge man with grocery bags in both hands moved past the door and continued to the other side of the corridor. As the steps faded away, she turned and leaned her back against the door. Her dreams shrank as her body slid down until she was on the floor. To hell with the viva and the PhD and the literary career! All she worried about was how to get to Kroger’s or Piggly Wiggly without a car. There was no supermarket on campus, and even if there were, how would she carry the twins and walk any distance to buy anything. The stroller was in the car with Adham. Maybe he had what was left of the stipend too! What if one of the twins got a fever or diarrhea? Who would take them to the hospital? She had never spoken to any of her neighbors. She had listened to Adham and did not mix with “strangers,” Americans or international students who came with their families to study at USC (University of Southern California) like her. He had left his family and career in Cairo to come with her and the least she could do was be a good wife and obey him. He was all the company she needed; good wives did not need anyone but their husbands.
Fareeda and Adham had come to the states a week after they had married and since then she had been busy as a bee: attending classes, getting pregnant, studying, cooking and cleaning, meeting her kind old supervisor, making sure the konafa and basbousa that Adham loved had just the right amount of syrup ˗ and writing when he went out to get the groceries. Of all the things she loved, writing annoyed him most. She had to be a good wife. She must be a good wife before anything else. She could not afford to be bored or tired or both. She was on a mission assigned to her by her university ˗ getting her PhD ˗ and another assigned by Adham ˗ having an American baby which would guarantee their escape from Egypt if things got nastier than they could take. Thank God, after nine months of marriage she had given birth to two! Yara and Hassan, and ensuring their safety and well-being became her principal mission. Her lovely twins attracted the attention of everyone wherever she took them; they opened doors that Adham wanted shut and got her in trouble. Neighbors and colleagues congratulated her and volunteered to help, some offering free babysitting, others wanting to type her dissertation. She could not accept. She ran to classes, hurried back home in the breaks to feed and change the babies, stuffed vine leaves because Adham loved mahshy and typed her dissertation with one finger and one eye fixed on the letters. Back in Egypt you could do such silly tasks for cheap! Even better, your supervising committee would accept handwritten documents! It would be unprofessional and impolite to hand Professor Roy handwritten chapters.
What would have happened if Adham had let her accept people’s help? She loved leaning on others; her father had been her support ever since she lost her mother when she was twelve. She thought she could lean on Adham whenever she needed but she was mistaken. She had tried to convince him that their life would be richer and more fun if they had friends. But Adham was adamant. “He has always been obstinate,” his mother used to brag when they were engaged. In America a couple of weeks after their marriage, he had demonstrated this trait, and closed the conversation with the seal of talak (divorce). "If you speak to anyone behind my back you will be talek,” he said and slammed the door behind him to smoke a cigarette outside. He hated the smoke detectors which would send all the residents of the building downstairs if he dared smoke in the apartment.
Huddled behind the door with her eyes shut, Fareeda did not worry that her neighbors and colleagues thought she was snobbish, or maybe an extremist Muslim who wore the hijab and ignored everyone but her old professor and a few female colleagues in her class. She was not worried she had to miss classes or go hungry. Only the babies mattered. She was alone, abandoned by her husband in a campus building in the middle of nowhere, in a country where she had no one. A sudden dizziness overcame her as she sat on the cold floor in the darkness, hugging her knees. A bundle of misery or a woman of steel and silk, as Mrs. Ross called her all the time? She missed her daily conversation with Aunt Om Emad, the koshary bowl, decorated with hard-boiled egg halves around it like a yellow and white necklace, which she gave her every time Fareeda visited. She missed Dada Magda who ran to bring her milk tea the moment she entered her office at the university, and am Ibrahim who insisted on parking her car backwards and saving her the shady spot under the big tree. She missed the sunlight on her father’s balcony and the cactus pots on the floor that outlived her mother. She missed her mother’s dresser and the smell of the perfumes and makeup she had kept clean and orderly since her death. Darkness and gloom crept inside her as she sat on the floor behind the door, counting the things she missed. And Adham, the only man she had ever loved. Darkness soothed her. She needed all the layers of darkness she could get, she thought. She wished she was shrouded and buried in a tomb like her mother. With layers of soil heaped upon her, she would be safe. No one would need her or count on her anymore. She would be free of hope, trouble, ambition, chores, doubts, love and need. But she would surely miss the babies. Would she still worry about their feeding time, their unchanged diapers and their shot appointments? She might also miss her books, the novel she had started before she got married and never had the time or energy to complete. She would miss her father and Professor Roy and his sweet wife. And Adham.
What would her father do if he knew how lonely, helpless and worthless she felt? Would he still tell her to look at the bright side? Would he insist she could always light a candle in the darkness but never force darkness into light? She felt a sudden twinge of guilt; she was betraying her father; he wanted her to be strong and happy and successful. “There must be something to feel grateful for in any situation,” he would say whenever her enthusiasm wavered. She was in America, working on her PhD. She was married to the man she loved and she had wonderful twins. Gratitude sneaked into her as she hunched in the darkness, leaning on the door of the apartment that never felt like home. She was grateful for the couple of hours she could be on her own, weak and miserable, before one of the twins cried and woke the other. She could enjoy the luxury of remaining in her place on the floor, behind the door of 1311 Cliff Apartments, in the darkness with nothing to do but cover her eyes and pretend time had frozen for her.
She pressed her fingers hard on her eyes to evoke something pleasant, to ward off the misery and pain. She remembered how her father had invented the formula when her mother died: “All you need is to close your eyes and press them gently inside your brain. There…let’s do it together. Do you see your mother and feel her warmth? Can you smell her body and feel her soft hands on your cheeks?” Even the aroma of the cakes she baked jogged in colorful ribbons from the kitchen to Fareeda’s nose. “Everything is there inside you, you just have to delve in and grab it. Your mother was a happy woman, and she is happier now, that ethereal joy that we cannot feel until we join her in heaven. Only she needs to see us happy and we can grant her that wish.”
It worked back then. It should work now, she thought. She pushed herself back into her mind with all the strength left in her. There she was in the safest place on earth with her father in their sunny living room, playing chess. A black and white Ismail Yaseen movie played and they were laughing. Even better, she was at her desk in the same room, writing while her father read the newspaper. She was writing the short story that won her the first prize of an international student contest, the one that drew the attention of Professor Roy to what he called her “stunning talent,” the one that made Adham feel jealous and neglected even though it was written before they ever met, the one about her father, the one she titled “The Most Secure Place in the World.” Writing made her feel whole, healed, worry-free. Her father’s company accentuated the sense of security and self-worth. She wished she could freeze time at that moment of pure distilled happiness and fulfillment. But her mind refused to conform; it jumped to the moment that crashed her life down like a row of dominoes. She pressed her hands harder into her eyes to will herself back, but she had already left the most secure place in the world. She was back in her present reality, hunching on the floor in a place that never felt like home.
What if Adham had never seen her diaries? What if he had not read how lonely she felt? The mere thought of him coming across her diary was enough to upset her stomach. It brought back to her mind the stain in the kitchen sink and suddenly everything came alive: the smell, the sensation and the orangey color of the flames eating her days. She did everything to remove that stain. That sooty, stubborn stain haunted her. It bothered her more than the ink stain on Adham's pants that triggered the first “good wife’” sermon only four days after their marriage. She used every detergent: Clorox, steel wool, both thick and thin. Nothing worked. She never knew stainless steel could get stained! At some point after he left she was afraid the stain was there inside her mind, confronting her whenever she came into the kitchen. The smell of burning of the plastic pink cover of the diary still invaded her nose, and the hissing of the burning paper, fading away, line by line, word by word made her feel her whole being was deteriorating, day by day.In the middle of a lecture she would stop hearing the professor. She could only hear Adham panting heavily behind her. Gusts of his hot breath burned her skin and she would have to reach her hands under her silk scarf to feel if it was really hot. It was not. Adham was not behind her, he was in the apartment with the twins while she was in class, studying for her damned PhD.
The faint twinge of guilt she felt whenever she remembered Adham taking care of the babies got stronger, piecing through her heart like a helix of metal splinters. She relived that day, when he found her diaries and rushed to the kitchen where she had just finished the dishes. She relived it over and over - that day when she turned to look at him and leaned her back to the sink and stretched her arms behind her, holding the sink for support. Her muscles ached with the move, the veins on her wrist pulsated loudly with the flood of humiliations he heaped on her. That day his voice had a thick, gravelly quality she had never heard before. He said she was hiding things from him, keeping her life to herself and not sharing it with him. His rage tied her tongue; it was one of the rare times that she was at a loss for words. She could not tell him she never meant to hide the diary; it was there by her books all the time. She wanted to tell him she had wished he had read it and discussed it with her, hoping he would understood how she felt about everything, without having to tell him face to face and be ridiculed for every word and emotion. Up to that day she had never given up on their relationship. She was patient and confident things would improve, gradually. She waited for him, wholeheartedly and enthusiastically, to return to her and bring her back to her real self. But he never did, not even after they had the twins. She learned not to keep a diary again.
Why did he not leave then, why now when she was a couple of months away from her viva, in a country where she had no one to lean on? She wished she could un-graduate with honors, un-write the story, un-win the prize, un-get the scholarship to the States. She wished she had never left the safest place in the world.
C’mon Fareeda, be strong, the babies are counting on you, your father is waiting for you, your students and colleagues. Don’t fail them. You are strong. Mrs. Roy called you “steel woman.” She marveled at the young scholar from Egypt who had young twins and could still do research, attend lectures and win writing competitions. She said you did it without help, with grace. She said she liked your silk scarves and your colorful modern hijab and labeled you “silk lady.” A woman of steel and silk does not collapse behind a door and cry out of pain and misery. C’mon, get up, run to the phone, dial Professor Ross’s number and reschedule an appointment to discuss the last chapter. But she could not move, every muscle, nerve and tendon in her body ached with the attempt. The marching ants that attacked her the day Adham burned her diary re-emerged, spreading over her head, marching down the back of her neck, and multiplying as they moved victoriously down her shoulders, stopping right under her bra line. At the sound of the phone ringing, the army of ants changed strategy. War was all about tactics and deception. Every ant stood in place, rigid like a stone until they received the order: ready, aim, fire. Millions of stings, fierce malignant bites covered her skin surface, from her skull down her back. She wished the pain would not stop. She wished it would move down her legs, and prevent her from reaching the phone. What if it was Adham calling? He would assume she had gone out without permission. On all fours, she stretched her back upwards like a cat in the sun, and struggled to get up.
“Hi, steel lady, how are you?”
The irony of the phrase! Fareeda thought. A steel woman collapsing on the floor, waiting for an always furious husband who had decided to abandon her and their babies for no particular reason but an avaricious look in the eyes of a neighbor that she did not even notice!
“Mrs. Ross, I’m fine, alhamdo le Allah. How about you and Prof. Ross. I was just thinking I should call you.”
“Ah ha, you’re ready as ever! I wanted you to come over with your family and meet Roy at home, not in the department. I miss your twins and thought I could steal some time with them while you work with my husband!”
“Mrs. Ross, that is so kind of you. But I am so sorry, the twins are sick and I didn’t have time to finish the chapter. I was going to call Professor Roy to apologize.”
“Oh that is sad. What’s wrong with them?”
“Ah… fever, and diarrhea, I think it has to do with teething. They are cranky and they want me around all the time.”
“My poor babies. What about your husband, is he being helpful?”
“Of course, it’s just he can't handle them alone when they are not well.”
“Ah, I see. I can help him. I don’t have much to do and I would be glad to come to your apartment when you have to attend classes or write.”
“Mrs. Ross, this is too much really.”
“I’m serious. Ross would not mind dropping me at your apartment before going to the university and picking me up on his way back. You know how enthusiastic about your work he is.”
“I hate to disappoint him… it looks like I might not be able to finish according to plan.”
“Don’t worry, dear. We will help you through everything. Just take care of the precious babies and everything will be fine.”
Fareeda hung up and collapsed at her desk. She stared at the pile of printed papers that needed editing and touched the red marker on top of them. She stared at the desktop. The darkness of the monitor irritated her puffy eyes. She hit a key on the keyboard. The document she had opened a couple of days before Adham left was still there, mocking her, reminding her she was a failure.
C’mon, it’s the final chapter, she whispered to herself. Com,on, Fareeda.
She started typing. It was as if her father, the twins, her fellow students and Mrs. Roy had extended their hands inside her and pulled out all the ideas she needed to finish her chapter. It soothed her to lean on them.
'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.
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.
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.
The Wedding Excerpt from a novel-in-progress, The Scent of Paper, byAbeer 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?"
"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.
Hala wished she could undreamthat memory and unlivethose 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.
