Meat comes from a cow! (Or a sheep)

With the Islamic feast of Eid al Adha (the Festival of Sacrifice) upon us, there has been a lot of talk in the media and comments about the practice of slaughtering animals, with some people erroneously calling it “barbaric”, “inhumane” and “cruel”. The animals are slaughtered to celebrate God's substitution of a ram for Ibrahim’s (Abraham's) son, and the meat distributed between family, friends and the poor. Despite common misconceptions by many people, the animals are not just killed for the sake of it and then left to rot. In fact it is haram (forbidden) in Islam to wantonly waste food.

We, like many people in Cairo, had animals on the ground floor of our apartment block for several days leading up to the first day of Eid, when they are traditionally slaughtered. Just a few sheep and a couple of cows. My two boys, aged four and seven, spent a couple of days patting them, feeding them, even giving one or two of them names. So as the time when they would be killed grew ever nearer, I wondered how the scene would unfold. Of course the boys were a little sad and tried to convince the neighbors who had bought the animals not to kill them. Then, on the morning of the first day of the Eid, when the gazzar (butcher) came to do his task, a long discussion unfolded because he considered one of the lambs too young for slaughtering. The boys were thrilled with this unexpected development, especially as the lamb in question had been named ‘Blackie’ and had somehow maneuvered a special place into their hearts. ‘Blackie’ was finally taken away and replaced with a larger lamb.

When the time came for the animals to be killed, I took the boys inside our flat, very reluctantly on their part. Despite these lambs and cows being their “pets”, they still wanted to watch the ritual killing, the youngest one saying, “I want to watch them go up to God.” But no, I didn’t think it was something they should see at such a young age. However…

…after all the animals had been killed (a mistaken assumption on my part) and the boys were again playing outside, apparently another cow was produced. I don’t know if I overlooked it or if it was a late addition, but either way, the boys witnessed the slitting of its throat, and whatever followed, at the back of our building. My oldest was a little sad and cried for a few minutes because he had considered it his ‘pet’, while my youngest was not perturbed at all, merely fascinated by the whole procedure, which he related it to me in all its gory detail after it was over. Now, the next day, they are completely unruffled by the experience and talk about it quite matter-of-factly.

The people who speak with abhorrence about the practice of slaughtering animals for Eid al Adha need to remember that they are killed to be eaten, just as animals in other countries are killed in abattoirs, and just as thousands of turkeys are killed for Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations – the only difference is that here, it is done out in the open and not behind closed doors. And the children know where their meat comes from - and it’s not a Styrofoam tray in the supermarket.

Questions about Egypt: part 2

(10) How do Egyptian kids spend their free time?

Kids here have a LOT of homework, as I am discovering on a personal level. A lot of homework, a lot of books, a lot of notebooks, a lot of tests. And very heavy school bags. So they spend a lot of time studying and revising for tests! The national education system here in Egypt is not geared towards instilling children with a love of learning, but more towards learning by rote and passing exams. Not my cup of tea, but my kids are in school here primarily to solidify their Arabic, so fortunately it’s not something I need to take into account in the long term.

But I digress… kids and free time. From my own observations they play football (as in soccer, not rugby) in the local gardens, visit family, go to their sports club if they belong to one (very expensive to join so only the middle classes and up can afford them). Older kids will go to the malls and hang out with their friends. My kids like to ride their scooters, play football with the local kids and watch Tom and Jerry on TV (very exciting as we don’t have it in Australia, at least not that I’ve seen).

(11) Do Egyptians play sport and if so what?
They do, but not with the reckless abandon with which we throw ourselves into it in Australia. Although sport does seem to be increasing somewhat in popularity, it is difficult here because the culture is not geared towards exercise at all so you really have to make an effort.

There are a couple of cycling clubs and a running club that I know of here in Cairo that I had good intentions of participating in… but now realize that I was being foolishly over-ambitious.
As I mentioned, the middle-and-higher classes will often belong to a 'club' where they can play sports like tennis, squash, swimming, football and martial arts. But they are pretty exclusive and the average Egyptian would not be able to afford to join. There are also some youth clubs called markez shabab that are more affordable, maybe around 50 Egyptian pounds a year (about AU$10) but I don't know anything about the quality of them.

Walking is—while I would hesitate to use the word ‘popular’—certainly something that I have seen people, including many women, do.

Whether they play or not, most Egyptians are mad for football (soccer). And I mean MAD. It was actually suggested to me that I not have my son’s birthday party as planned, because there will be a big football match on that day and nobody will want to come to the party (but I am forging on with it regardless).

(12) Are there sports grounds for the boys to play on?

Not really, no. There are often gardens (or small parks) in the centre of the streets in residential areas where they can kick a ball around or climb a tree. But in terms of actual playing fields, you would have to go to a sports club. Egypt has not yet caught on to the concept of providing free community sports grounds.

(13) Do you play backgammon? Is that one of the common sights in Cairo? (I have this vision of little old men sitting outside their shops/houses playing.)
Backgammon here is called tawla and yes, I do play. Or, more correctly, I used to play. And very well, I might add. My very first visit to Cairo I learnt to play tawla really well. But playing with Egyptians can be a little annoying because if you don’t move your pieces fast enough, they will move them for you!

And you are right, it is a common sight to see men sitting in local coffee shops smoking shisha, drinking ahwa (strong Turkish-style coffee) and playing tawla. It’s one of the quintessential sights and smells of Egypt.

(14) What's the best time of day for you? And why?
It depends on the day. I like the evenings when I am at home with the door closed to the world. Which I know sounds a little contradictory, given that I have just said that I love Cairo… but anyone who has been here will understand what I mean. Cairo is amazing, and yet also requires (at least for a foreigner) 100% engagement just to get through the day, in terms of dealing with everything in another language, negotiating every little thing, battling the 'system' (and I use this term very loosely); even crossing the street. So, while maneuvering through the joys of Cairo, I also encounter many frustrations along the way — frustrations on which it is a relief to close my door at the end of the day.

(15) How much coffee are you drinking?
About the same as I would drink in Australia; just in the morning to rev up my engine. I don’t generally drink ahwa unless I am out in a coffee shop.

(16) Will you travel outside Egypt for holidays seeing as you're so close to so many other places?
There are so many places I want to visit that are so close to Egypt… and yet so far. Morocco is probably at the top of my list, along with Tunisia, Libya, Lebanon… I could go on, but am just frustrating myself. Unfortunately I may not be able to travel much as I have the boys in school here. But you never know, with swine flu mania at a peak, there is talk of the schools closing for December and January.

(17) What is something you will HAVE to bring home with you (apart from the boys of course!)
Alas, the things I want to bring back with me are the things I can’t bring back, and the things that keep my heart in Egypt. It’s the intangible things, like the sound of the call to prayer five times a day; practicing my Arabic with taxi drivers; watching my kids play and speak street Arabic with the local kids; the energy and atmosphere of Cairo; the incessant beeping of car horns (well, maybe not); the feeling of being completely alive.

Don't assume; just ask! Questions about Egypt: part 1

How much we assume about people... the positive and the negative, the big and the small, the unusual and the mundane. When we only have a portion of the truth it is often easier to fill in the gaps with assumptions. It's the easy way out, the lazy way, the way that requires no real observation, no real enquiry, and no real thought. We've all been guilty of it. You believe what you choose to believe, what other people (media or otherwise) would have you believe, or what is easiest for you to believe. It is the path of least resistance, the path of assumption that results in a kind of typecasting... of individuals, of countries, of cultures. But things are not always as they appear.

And so... my point being... I wish more people would take the time to ask questions, whatever the subject, and whoever is on the other end of them. It would clear up so many misconceptions. A friend of mine in Australia has been sending me questions to answer about Egypt and, while my answers may not be the same as the next person's, here are a few of my answers to her "Fifty questions for Emily". I'm just happy someone is asking:

(1) Are there camels where you are?
There are no camels where I live, but at the Pyramids there are plenty! They are about 45 mins away, on the other side of Cairo to us. (I guess that would be the sister question to "Are there kangaroos hopping down Sydney streets? ")

(2) I saw a story the other day about Egypt banning the veil in women-only areas. So... do you have to wear the burqa/veil while outside?
From what I read, that story was taken out of context and misquoted. My understanding was that Sheikh Tantawi was saying that women don't need to wear niqab (the full veil with only the eyes showing, which is not that common here in Egypt) if they are in a women-only class at university without any men present. I think he suggested that in residential areas of universities, women wearing niqab be required to show their faces for identification purposes if asked, as apparently there have been instances of men wearing it to sneak inside.

I don't have to wear any kind of head covering at all in Egypt. But I do dress modestly and respect the culture... most of the time I dress the same way I would in Australia: jeans and a t-shirt. You can pretty much wear what you like in Cairo, but if you show your legs above the knee or cleavage or shoulders you will get hassled by men. A lot of tourists dress inappropriately for the culture here, which irritates me as it is disrespectful and, in my opinion, rather boorish.

(3) If "yes" to question 2, how do you feel about that?
Personally, the niqab is not a concept that I am comfortable with. But I also feel that it is a woman's right to choose to wear it if she believes it is the right thing to do - and if she has chosen it for herself in the absence of pressure from anyone else. Most Muslim women here only hear a headscarf, and the younger generations often wear that with jeans and tight-fitting clothes. Each to their own. I would find niqab very restrictive, although there are times when the anonymity would be nice! I don't know if I would choose to live in a place where I was legally required to wear a particular piece of clothing, no matter what it was. But in Egypt, covering your head - or your whole body - is an option and not a governmental requirement.

(4) Do you and the boys celebrate Christmas there?
Yes, we do celebrate Christmas. But it's not a religious celebration for us so much as just fun for the kids and a chance to get together with friends. Although I guess it is religious in the sense that it is Jesus's birthday; but for Muslims, Jesus is a prophet and not the son of God. The Coptic Christians here actually celebrate Christmas on 7 January, but we stick to 25 December. I think Santa Claus comes on both days.

(5) Is there anything you can't get in Egypt that you're missing?
These days you can buy most things in Cairo. I do miss the convenience of things that allow me to be lazy and cut corners, like buying pre-packaged salad! But that is probably a good thing. You can't buy Vegemite (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vegemite) here, as far as I know, but I brought a good supply with me. Also, cheap paints and canvases for the kids to create their masterpieces on. And I really miss not having my car. It's exhausting getting around Cairo with small kids without one.

(6) Do they have big shopping centres like Westfields?
Yes, there are big Western-style malls here just like in Australia... glitzy, glamorous, and overpriced, with escalators that make me feel ill due to the low side rails. I don't really tend to go to them much though, unless there is something specific that I need. Last time I went to City Stars, a gargantuan mall here, the boys went a little crazy after drinking 7Up and tried to jump in the water fountain, so I generally try to avoid enclosed spaces as much as I can.

(7) Have you got any good lentil recipes I can have?
You have to try koshari, which is lentils, macaroni and rice with a tomato-based sauce. Koshari is Egyptian fast food and so tasty. Try this recipe: http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/mar/03/traditional-koshari

(8) In light of traffic in Cairo, how do you get around?
I walk or take taxis. I would like to drive here, but I don't have a car. The best time to get anywhere quickly is Friday mornings before pray time, when the streets are virtually empty.

(9) Tell me about the areas you like going to.
I like going to the markets, and Old Cairo. And I love going to some of the beautiful mosques such as Al Azhar and Ibn Tulun, where you can just be still for a while. The pyramids amaze me every time I go, and are most beautiful at sunset when most of the people have left. If you speak a bit of Arabic to the security guards, if you are lucky they let you stay a bit longer past closing time. But one of the best places to be in Cairo is just at home after you've been out battling the bedlam for hours... a little sanctuary in the midst of all the chaos.

Little terrorists

When you go grocery shopping you might expect to buy things you hadn’t planned for. Or perhaps to bump into someone who you haven’t seen in a while and have a chat. Maybe sit and have a coffee. You don’t, as a general rule, expect to have your small children called terrorists. Call me crazy, but that’s just me.

A while ago I was in the grocery store with my two boys, in a fairly multicultural area of Sydney, and said something to them in Arabic (which, when small people are involved, seems to be so much more commanding and imperative than English). The man behind us in the checkout line then asked me a question. The exchange went something like this:

Man: What language are you speaking?
Me: Arabic.
Man: Oh… (knowingly) …they’re little terrorists!
Me: No, but you’re a half-witted imbecile. (That is, in fact, what I didn’t say but wished I had said in retrospect.)

So the question here is: Does speaking Arabic (or being Muslim, for that matter) make you a terrorist? If it does, then by the same logic, and using erroneous but widely spread stereotypes, the following must also be true:
Speaking French makes you romantic.
Speaking German makes you a Nazi.
Speaking Hindi makes you of sub-par intelligence.
Speaking Italian makes you a good lover.
Speaking Australian makes you laidback.

Today I met a French woman and a German man on the beach and we got talking. My first thought wasn’t that she must be a fabulous cordon bleu chef, or that he may quite possibly be a white supremacist. No, we were focused on the life-sized crocodile sand sculpture they were creating, with no thought of casting each other with suspicion because of our accents or the swarthy hue of my child’s skin. That’s how normal, informed people interact.

I think.

The oasis

Years ago, on my first visit to Cairo, my friend who I was travelling with and I spent a lot of time sitting in a downtown cafe until the early hours of the morning; talking, playing backgammon and drinking copious cups of tea. After a week or so of this, we were ready to have a wander around the city that we had as yet barely seen in daylight.

We walked along the street, with no idea where we were going. We just kept walking. Although it was only April, it was already so stiflingly hot that soon my jeans were sticking to my legs and my hair was glued to the back of my neck. After walking for a couple of hours we were wilting fast, thirsty and tired with no idea where we were. The small street we had started out from had somehow, without us realizing it, morphed into a multi-lane highway the width of the River Nile.

We started to cross the road in order to catch a taxi back and, like all wet-behind-the-ears travellers new to the joys of Cairo traffic, got stuck in the middle, with cars rocketing by so fast we just froze. If I felt a sense of rising panic, I don’t remember – although I’m sure I must have. What I do remember is the scene directly in front of me, which even now floats before me like a slow-motion movie scene: sandwiched between the two directions of traffic-laden highway was an oasis of dishevelled grass with a couple of small trees that provided the smallest amount of shade. Beneath one of the trees sat a large extended family who appeared to be extremely happy with their prime position in the middle of the large, noisy, polluted highway. Oblivious to the maelstrom circling around them, they sat around an enormous picnic hamper and ate their late lunch.

There were cars everywhere, screeching along the highway bumper to bumper with their horns blaring nonsensically. But there was the family, in the middle of this vortex, as though they'd discovered a hidden paradise. The older ones sat close to the hamper talking and watching the children as they played around them. A young woman sat with her back against a tree, a baby nestled in her arms, feeding it from her breast. A very old woman sat still and seemingly sombre in her black robe and headscarf until one of the little boys fell laughing into her lap. Giving him a hug, she handed him a chicken leg before being rewarded with a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. A couple of young men joined in the children's games, chasing them around the trees and, when finally catching them, picking them up and turning them upside down until they screamed with frenzied excitement. They had taken a prosaic piece of highway and transformed it into their own personal Utopia.

As cars poured down the highway, I resigned myself to a long wait until a break in the traffic would allow us to cross to the other side. I looked back at the family, who were now all waving at us enthusiastically. And then, suddenly, one of the young men ran into the street, dodging cars, and helped us to the grassy strip. The whole family cheered and clapped, showering us with enormous smiles and cries of "Welcome!" Amused by their passionate cries, we shouted back, "Thank you!" The children had stopped playing and stood with their arms stretched above their heads, still waving vigorously. The old woman pulled herself to her feet and came over, pointing to us then to the food, making eating motions, insisting that we stay and eat with the family.

Not wanting to intrude, we shook our heads and said we couldn't stay; we had to go. The young man helped us to the other side of the street and hailed a bus, which stopped in the middle of the busy highway to collect us. We thanked the man, shaking his hand as we climbed aboard. Looking out the window, I watched him cross the street back to his family, ducking between cars, buses and motorcycles with ease.

And this is what it is like in Egypt. Especially Cairo, which on the surface is a place of habitual chaos, frustration, confusion and mirages. A place that twists you and tests you beyond any preconceived limits you may have had. Where often you trust people and they rip you off; where you don’t know who is your friend and who you can rely on. Time and time again you reach a point of utter frustration or total despair and then, from nowhere, an oasis will appear like magic. An oasis in the form of a smile, or a kind word, or a gift from someone who has so much less than you. Or a family offering to share their food or help you across the street. This is the real heart of the Egyptian people.

Start with the boys

“If we want good men for the future, we must start with the boys.” Steve Biddulph

When I read this quote, a few anecdotes come to mind, two from Australia and two from Egypt:

Australia
1. A few days ago I had a conversation with a couple of young Australian guys who’d had an ephemeral brush with the Arabic language. “I went out with a Lebanese girl for two years in high school, so I know some Arabic,” one of them told me. “She was a sharmoota,” he finished, laughing at his own cleverness. “Then why did you date her?” I asked him. He just shrugged and laughed again. “I guess she was nice.” After two years of dating an Arab girl, was that all he had brought away from the experience? That she was a nice slut? Charming. He threw the word around like he was handing out candy, talking about his ex-girlfriend like she was a street tramp, in a bizarre attempt to impress a stranger. I doubt she would have laughed it off if she’d known what he was saying about her.

2. My 6-year-old little boy came home from school recently and asked me what a bitch was, “Because one of the boys in my class called one of the girls a bitch.” I asked him what he thought it meant, and he didn’t really know, but took a guess: “Does it mean she’s a bit silly?”
“It’s much worse than that,” I told him, wondering how one simply explains the concept of ‘disrespect’ to a 6-year-old. “It’s very rude. It means she’s dirty on the inside and it’s a really bad thing to say. You should never say that to any girl, even if you don’t like her.”
He looked at me solemnly. “She’s actually very kind so he shouldn’t have called her that.”

Egypt
3. It was early afternoon and I was at a friend’s place in Cairo, sitting in the living room with her teenage son while she was busy at the other end of the house. My friend had cooked a meal, which the rest of us had already eaten, and the rest of the food was still on the stove. Her teenager had just woken up and was lounging on the couch channel surfing. Apart from the low hum coming from the TV, the house was quiet and still. Then the teenager’s voice, strident and demanding, cut through the stillness: “Mama!! Aiz akol!!” He wanted to eat. There was no please. And this was not a request. It was more of a command. Bring me my food. Having known this sweet, polite teenager since he was a little boy, I was appalled. “What is this?” I asked him. “Your mother is busy at the back of the house. You have two legs; go and get your own food.” He looked sheepish and stood up to go and serve himself, but didn’t make it out of the living room before his mother came hurrying in with a plate of food for him.

4. A couple of months ago I was at my friend’s business in Cairo. One of the female employees had brought her 2-year-old son to work with her. He was a very cute little thing who didn’t speak very much. Until he decided he wanted to leave, at which point he made his voice heard. “Yalla Mama!” (Let’s go) he shouted at her, standing at the door, his little hands on his hips. When she didn’t leave immediately with him, he screamed at her aggressively. “Yalla mama!!!” She quickly moved to leave, until my friend said to her: “Don’t let him speak to you like that. You have to stop him doing that now, or he’ll never respect you. ” And to him: “Don’t speak to your mother like that in front of me.”

Why are young men calling their nice ex-girlfriends sluts for an easy laugh?
Why are first graders calling their classmates bitches?
Why are teenagers speaking to their mothers as though they’re the hired help? (and the hired help shouldn't be spoken to in that way either)
Why are 2-year-olds ordering their mothers around?

Maybe because they hear other men in their life saying these things.
Or because nobody tells them it’s wrong.
Or because they’re angry about something.
Or because they get a pay-off, whether it’s a plate of food in front of them, or extra attention, or a feeling of power.
Whatever the reason, none of these things are right, and none of them are exclusive to any culture.

Steve Biddulph is right. If we want good men, we have to start with the boys — whether we’re their parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, friends, teachers, neighbours, or corner store owners.

The hand that rocks the cradle

“Heaven Lies Under the Feet of the Mother.”
- Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)

Somewhere in the world a child sleeps
and somewhere a woman screams
for all the world to hear
if only they will listen.

Sometimes it’s not enough,
I suppose,
to speak aloud inside your head
and assume you will be heard.

And therein lies the quandary.

So many women, so many mothers, the world over, screaming so loudly that it is deafening to them… but nobody else can hear because it is all contained within. It’s like screaming underwater and expecting to be heard. Throwing a blanket over yourself and expecting to be seen. Staring at a wall that won’t look back, let alone talk back. Mothers can’t complain. Mothers can’t get sick. Mothers can’t have desires. Mothers are voiceless. Mothers are invisible. Mothers have to have the dinner on the table. Mothers have to suck it up.

This is how it has been for generations of women. Take an average woman raising her kids in the 1950s, 60s, 70s, 80s… An average woman in Egypt, Australia, the US, the UK…

It’s quite ironic, really, that Egypt is known as The Mother of the World, with mothers being one of the most voiceless groups in society. And not just in Egypt, but everywhere. It’s a universal theme pretty much the world over: the mother, the heartbeat of the family; the mother, invisible to the world.

The funny thing is that all mothers begin as little girls. Girls who think about doing all sorts of things, of becoming all sorts of things, and not just ballet dancers and princesses. I spoke to a few middle-class women in Cairo and asked what they would change about their lives if they could, and this is some of what they told me:

“…I would study something I loved, like psychology. But I studied law and I never worked one day as a lawyer. I finished university, got married and had children.”

“…I would travel the world… go to London, go everywhere. But what can I do?”

“…I would become an ambassador and work in the diplomacy field, travel the world and experience other cultures. At the same time, I would show them my culture and show them an example of an Egyptian woman, because I believe that the world thinks that Egyptian women are uneducated. In Egypt at the present time, there are female judges and female ministers in parliament.”

“...I wish I had time to draw. I loved to draw when I was younger. And I was good at it. I haven’t done a drawing for years.”

I’ve heard my own mother’s stories of her childhood and adolescent dreams, which were quite lofty: she wanted, among other things, to travel to Africa to work with Albert Schweitzer, the Nobel Peace Prize-winning missionary; and to be an orchestral conductor; and perhaps (if time had permitted after her conducting commitments) be a flight attendant so she could see the world.

I’ve seen disillusionment in the eyes of many women, in Egypt, Australia, the US, and many other countries… and have been on the receiving end of their ‘confessions’ about how frustrated they are. Secret confessions, because there is a very specific guilt associated with feeling this way.

I guess the question here, for these women and millions of others like them, is: What has happened? How did the gap between these dreams and reality become so wide? Why is there no middle ground? Why is there no halfway point?

So many women, especially mothers, talk with wistful enthusiasm about how they would like things to be. “Next time around, I will go and live in the south of France and be a painter.” “In my next life, I’m not having so many children!” “I always secretly wanted to be a romance novelist.” Next time around? Next life? Always wanted? Secretly? What the hell is going on here? There is no next time around. Unless you’re a Buddhist, this is your one shot. And why all the secrecy? No one should have to secretly want something; there should be open ears available to hear about it.

Many women make such statements like a kind of mantra which, repeated often enough, becomes who they are. They become a package of haunted longing for what they didn’t do, for what they once wanted and, under all the layering of everyday life, still desperately want, although the shape of their desires may have changed over the years. Maybe they don’t aspire to the house in France anymore; maybe an afternoon painting once a week would be enough to fill that space in the heart.

Women romanticize their future lives, all the while barely contemplating the possibility that they could have creative contentment now, in this life. Many women, from many generations, have been tied to the home and all that entails: kids, husband, housework, three square meals on the table. Of course these are huge accomplishments in themselves but, for many women, they are also intrinsically unsatisfying to her creative spirit, whatever form that might take. And they also entail a drudgerous monotony that can lead to restlessness, a low sense of self-worth and, ultimately, a burning inner fire that is fueled by a sense of loss at what could have been — but what has instead remained locked away in their heads and the dwindling recesses of their hearts. Having nowhere else to go, the discontent in their souls will in time seep out the edges like a trickle of poison.

How has society overlooked the needs of women for so many generations? How can any society flourish to its full potential and raise children into worthwhile adults when the women raising them have no creative outlet? Mothers, in raising their children, are moulding the future of humanity, the future of the world.

The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.

And the heart that loves the child needs refueling every now and then. It needs a sanctuary.

Where is the girl who wanted to be an ambassador? Where is the teenager whose ambition was to be an orchestral conductor? Where is she hiding, the young girl who wanted to be a psychologist? She is in the kitchen every day cooking a hot dinner, her disappointment and anxiety piling up around her next to the carrot peel. Feeding her family while neglecting to feed herself. She is taking care of the housework, the swimming lessons, the laundry, the ironing and countless other tasks, all the while feeling like her life is slipping away.

One of the things that gave my mother joy was the vegetable garden where she grew huge red strawberries as sweet as icing sugar and as big as a small fist. Perhaps those strawberries were the manifestation of everything that was in her heart that remained unspoken and undone for so many years. Every woman, every mother, needs to have a ‘strawberry patch’ into which they can pour what is in their heart and soul, so they don’t internally combust. And they need time and space to cultivate their ‘strawberries’, whatever they might be.

Women in Egypt. Women in Australia. Women wherever. They’re not much different. What is it that makes them the same? It’s what is inside them. It’s the dreams that lie dormant, waiting for a spark to reignite them. It’s the things that remain unspoken.

Take any average middle-class mother in Cairo, a woman perhaps of my mother’s generation. I think how hard it would be for her to view me as I live my life, watching on as I leave the house, jump in a taxi and go wherever I like, with no one to answer to but myself. She never had that freedom. It was never appropriate for her to just go and sit alone in a café sipping coffee and having space for her own thoughts. That would have been seen as both idle and inappropriate. In a culture that reveres the mother, the mother, the mother, where the mother comes first, where the mother is so respected and adored, there is little consideration given to the real needs of the mother, the real needs of the woman that she is, outside of being a mother. The need to have time to nurture herself and express herself creatively so she is able to be replenished and then in turn give back to her family and consequently to society. Because before she became a mother she was a girl, a teenager, a woman, with cumulative experiences, hopes and yearnings that didn’t simply disappear the moment she gave birth.

And so she continues on, as millions around the world do, sucking herself dry, and allowing everyone around her to suck her even dryer, until at some point there may be little left but a woman mourning for a life half lived.

All men and women should go to their mothers right now and ask them: "What did you want to do when you were a girl? What were your dreams? What did you love to do? What part of yourself did you shut away? What small thing can you do today to reopen it? Please, speak…"

When the mother has time to take care of herself, the children will thrive. The mother is the heartbeat of the family, the heartbeat of society, the heartbeat of the world. Boom boom boom.

El tarzi

“Where else but in Cairo?” I ask myself. Nowhere else that I know. Actually, definitely in Greece, probably in Turkey, possibly in Italy…

I was taking a walk with my two small boys, aged three and six, strolling hand-in-hand with them down a local street near our flat in Heliopolis, when I was unable to stop them leaping into a building site filled with large mounds of dirty sand and suspiciously dangerous-looking poles and wires. By default, my mind leapt to visions of the laundry I would have to do, rather than the fun factor of the small people (a frequent mental conflict as I struggle with the opposing scenarios of minimizing mindless labor output for myself, and maximizing fun and experience for them). After factoring possible danger into the equation, I called them back to the footpath while their clothes were still in relatively pristine condition.

They ran ahead of me and screamed. Wondering who had been attacked by what, I saw up ahead an old motorcycle standing on the footpath. Beside it were two men and a small boy of about ten. My boys asked if they could ride the motorcycle and the men, without a second thought, lifted them up onto it. There they stayed for about ten minutes while I chatted to the men, exchanging small talk, waiting for the boys to have their fill so we could continue our walk.

“Come on, yalla,” I said to them, when I’d had enough polite conversation. “Let’s go to the kiosk and get you some chocolate milk.” The kiosk had been our destination, after which we had planned to return home.

“We are tailors,” one of the men told me. “Our shop is just here, downstairs.” I peered down into what looked remarkably like a seedy North Hollywood strip mall, and nodded politely. One of the men ran down the stairs and quickly returned, his outstretched arm holding a business card, which I put in my bag. “Come down and the boys can play with our son,” they offered. "His name is Moustafa." I smiled and said thank you, but we had to continue on our way. Despite my best efforts to extract them, the boys had suctioned themselves onto the bike and refused to budge; they were not going to relinquish a real life motorcycle in any way close to willingly.

What, I thought, is the worst that could happen? We go downstairs… the kids play… the men pretend to be nice and then act like sleazebags in the presence of a foreign woman and we leave, never to see them again. Not the most appealing proposition. Having run out of options, I got the boys off the bike by unashamedly lying to them: “We’ll come back on our way home,” I said, waving goodbye to the men and the boy and walking away with no intention of returning. But divine intervention had other things in store for us that day.

Moustafa whipered something in my oldest son’s ear and they ran down the stairs; the little one broke free and followed; I followed them, irritated; and the two men followed me... a trail of people descending the stairs into a strip which housed the tailor shop and a makwagi (ironing shop) where the makwagi, who was busily ironing men’s business shirts and trousers, looked at me curiously.

While the three boys busied themselves running back and forth along the cement strip, up and down the stairs, and jumping on and off the motorcycle, I stood and chatted further with the two men who, it turned out, were brothers, although there was no physical family resemblance. Their names were Sobha and Adel. As Sobha talked about wanting to visit Australia, I waited for the usual line about his cousin living there... but it never came. He just wanted to visit Australia because he’d read about it in a magazine and thought it looked like paradise on earth; we both knew he didn’t really believe that he would ever have the chance to go. “But a man can dream,” he told me.

When we got on to the subject of Islam (which unfailingly happens to me in such situations) the eyes of both men watered a little, and glazed over the same way a mother’s does when she looks at her newborn child. “I can’t express to you,” said Sobha, placing his hand on his chest, “the feeling I have in my heart when I think of Rabenna (God). I wish for all the world to have this feeling.” At that moment I wished for all the world to hear this man and see the virtue in his eyes. I wished for people to see men like him as the face of the Arab man, the face of Islam, and not men like Mohamed Atta and Osama Bin Laden.

We went inside, sat down and continued talking while they worked and customers came and went. They gave me a pile of fashion magazines to flip through, most of their pages filled with stylish Islamic dresses and hijabs, a few showcasing foreign fashion with designer evening and wedding dresses. Once we had finished exchanging Arabic music that we liked, Sobha announced firmly: “You are now our sister.”

After a while they ordered fuul and hawawshi , called the boys in and insisted that we eat with them, even though I said we had just eaten and weren’t hungry. They lead us into the back of the shop where we ate the most delicious hawawshi I have ever tasted.

When it came time to leave, the men and I shook hands, and the boys hugged goodbye. As we walked away I was thankful that I had been led down those stairs, thankful that Moustafa had whispered in Ziad’s ear, thankful that I had not just walked away with my initial assumptions about those men intact. But mostly thankful that, for the thousandth time in this city, my eyes had been opened.

The common third culture

On my first visit to the Middle East in 1993, in a rural village near Tanta in Egypt’s north, I saw a framed photograph on a blue-washed wall in a house with well-stamped-down dirt floors. The photo was of a man and a woman on their wedding day. The groom wore a white suit, the bride a meringue-style stark white wedding gown, her hair ornately done.

The photo surprised me – a reaction which, when I considered it later, somewhat perturbed me. What surprised me was that this couple looked no different from any Western bride and groom on their wedding day. And the similarities went beyond their mere physical attire. Both were bursting with pride and happiness, big smiles lighting up their faces. If I were to use this photo and nothing else as my yardstick, I could have been anywhere in the world where love between a man and a woman, if even for a moment, transcends everything else.

Once I had waded through my preconceived notions of how such emotions were infused through cultures alternate to my own, I realized that one such moment was captured inside that photo hanging on the wall. It unnerved me to think how close I had come, while believing myself to be open-minded and impartial, to not even seeing what is such an undeniable natural law.

It was a graceful and unexpected lesson that we are not as dissimilar as we think we are. It is a fact that seems blatantly obvious, yet is hard to appreciate until experienced first hand. And it is something we need to constantly remind ourselves of. Simple and seemingly innocuous assumptions can be completely wrong. Seeing that photo was a gift that made me appreciate that.

When living in a cross-cultural world, you take from the other culture the aspects of it that make sense to you and enrich you, while at the same time dealing with the challenges that arise because of it. Language is one area that both exhilarates and frustrates. Two Arabic examples that touch the tip of the linguistic iceberg are the ubiquitous Asalaam aleykum (peace be with you) that accompanies every situation, every hello, every goodbye. And the customary Aiza haga? (Do you need anything?) that concludes any meeting or telephone conversation with family, friends or even distant acquaintances. When first living in Cairo, these two simple phrases, among many others, made an immediate impression on me, while at the same time highlighting one of the differences between Eastern and Western culture. Why, I wondered, did we not think to do it here? Wishing someone peace or asking if they need anything now seems like such an obvious thing to do, but it is not something we in the West do as a matter of course. Unless, for example, we are invited for a meal at someone’s house, at which point it would be polite to ask if we can bring anything. But it’s generally a cursory offer. Our watered-down - and rather insipid - version would be ‘drive carefully’ or ‘take care’. The fact that these phrases did make such an impression made me realize how insular we have become in the West.

This extends well beyond mere language, which is only one outward manifestation of a trend that has spread to plague-like proportions in the West: the general absence of any real sense of community. Certainly, there are exceptions to this rule, particularly in smaller communities where people tend to interact more. I have lived in a good spread of cities around the world, including Sydney, London, Los Angeles and Cairo. If someone were to ask me what is the common element between the first three places, the answer would be unequivocal: no real sense of community; at least in my experience.

This changes briefly and dramatically in times of crisis, such as a natural disaster, when people come together because they suddenly have something in common that binds them at the hip, if only for a short period of time. I was living in Los Angeles during the earth-shattering (funnily enough) 1994 Northridge earthquake. Immediately after the big shake, just after 4:31 in the morning, all the neighbours stood together in the communal courtyard of the apartment complex, swapping stories and feelings about what had just happened. By 5:30 someone had set up a makeshift coffee urn and had hotdogs and biscuits laid out, and everyone was chatting as though they had been friends for years, even though most of us walked past each other every day barely exchanging more than a polite nod. It was fantastic, and the buzz running through the air was palpable. The feeling of oneness with the neighbours, that we were ‘all in this together’, lasted a few weeks before it fizzled out completely and people got back to ‘normal’. During the six years I lived in L.A., this was the only time I really spoke with most of my neighbours, other than a cursory hello when passing them.

In Western countries, your home is not only your castle, but also your fortress. People are a lot more reluctant to let their guard down and let people in, both figuratively and literally. By and large, life is more measured and considered, from how you behave towards your friends to how you bring up your children. The ‘pop in’, for instance, is not really the done thing. Visits to friends and even family must be organized and scheduled in advance, not made impulsively or with a quick phone call half an hour beforehand.

Of course the pop in is not unheard of, just very out of the ordinary. Because, as a general rule, life in the West is ultra-planned and ultra-structured; days, evenings and weekends mapped out, often weeks in advance, with military precision. The resulting lack of spontaneity seems to have resulted in an insidiously dwindling appreciation for life’s simple pleasures. Somewhere along the way our culture has lost sight of the important things and, in doing so, we have lost something far greater: kinship and a cooperative spirit. Every man, it seems, is an island.

In the Middle East, life is more interactive. You sit on the balcony with a cup of tea and wave to your neighbours. If your car breaks down in the street, people rush to help you push it to the side without being asked. When you bump into a friend in the street who you haven’t seen for a while, chances are they’ll insist you come to their place for coffee immediately, without whipping out their day planner to see when they might be available at some point in the unforeseeable future. Life is lived far more in the moment – not in the future or in relentless preparation for it.

When straddling two cultures, it is often the simplest things from the other culture that make the most sense and seem to be obvious common sense. Such as two children sharing a plate of food and, as a result, learning how to share and consider another person without having to be told in words. Or tying one end of a rope to a basket (sabat), attaching the other end to the balcony, and using the basket to pull groceries up into your flat.

Negotiating the waters of another culture is often a delicate procedure. For example, the Arab hospitality code is so strong that for a foreigner such as me it is best to consume whatever refreshments are offered at a very slow pace. This way you don’t put yourself in a situation where you must decline to accept what is offered - an action which may very well cause offence. During my first visit to a friend’s family home many years ago I learnt, after my third refill, to sip my tea at very irregular intervals and take very small bites of my food.

Perhaps surprisingly, spirituality is one area where I have found a significant overlapping of ideas. The belief that everything is preordained by a higher power is a principle of many faiths, whether they be an organized religion or a looser version of spirituality. Everything is written… Whatever is meant to happen will happen… Everything happens for a reason… Fate… Destiny… They are all versions of the same thing.

In this day and age particularly, it is normal to aspire to certain things in your life and pray (in whatever form) that they will happen, whether it be a house, car, child, job, relationship, holiday or any other multitude of things. Often, people would be willing to sell their soul to have what they desire, and be devastated if they do not get it. If, on the other hand, you believe that what you have desired does not come to you because it is not good for you or will cause something negative in your life, disappointments are much easier to deal with. Knowing, conversely, that if something is good for you, it will come to you if and when the time is right.

People can have approaches as different as chalk and cheese but still end up at the same destination with very similar ways of thinking. As a Westerner, I have learnt a great deal from the Arab culture and I hope that my Arab friends have learnt something from mine. The trick is to consider yourself fortunate enough to be able to take the best attributes from both worlds and incorporate them into your life.