(18) Tell me something I don't know about Cairo that I haven't asked you yet!
Cairo is all about the people. Even though it has changed dramatically, even in just the last ten years, there will always be something indefinable about Egyptians. I’m not even sure what it is, because, well, it’s indefinable; it’s something you have to experience locally. There is a lot of unhappiness here these days, with the state of the government, the economy, the widespread suffering. And it’s noticeable in the people, who don’t have the same level of joie de vivre that they have had in the past. But even with all of this, there is still a certain level of fervour in the way life is lived that I haven’t experienced anywhere else. Egypt has been through a lot, but she always bounces back, and she will this time too.
(19) Are the boys speaking mainly Arabic or English?
They are definitely speaking more Arabic. They really only speak English at home with me and Arabic with everyone else, including their school friends, street friends, shopkeepers, grandparents and taxi drivers. I discourage them from speaking English whenever I can… it’s not like they need the practice. They frequently translate for me when people speak too quickly for me to catch the details of what they are saying. I often speak Arabic with the kids when we are out because I have found it makes things a little easier as a foreign woman if men know that you aren’t a ‘new arrival’ in the country and have some understanding of the culture.
(20) What is the standard of living there?
It is extremely varied. There are people living in abject poverty and others at the opposite end of the spectrum who are filthy rich. There is a lot of money in Egypt, but unfortunately it doesn’t get shared around fairly, for various reasons, well one major reason… but I won’t get into politics because I really don’t know much about it. But there is no balance at all. Sometimes I will be in the middle of negotiating with a taxi driver about my fare… Foreigners always get charged more (which seems fair enough), as do women (which is definitely not fair) …Anyway, there have been times when I have been in the midst of protesting if a taxi driver asks for more money (because that’s the habit one defaults to here), when I think, What are you doing? This is nothing to you, this five pounds. And it could be everything to him.
Because of the culture, there is also no welfare system in place to assist those with nothing, except bread subsidies, and even those have been under threat. The welfare system as we know it just doesn’t exist in Egypt, because it is expected that people will be taken care of by their families; there is a very intricate system outlined in Islam about this which is supposed to be followed here.
(21) What are the boys enjoying most about being back in Cairo?
Well, Nazar would say the overabundance of cats in the streets—he’s in cat heaven, even though he’s not allowed to touch them. Not that my prohibition is much of a deterrent for him. Ziad would say the Pyramids and going to Khan al-Khalili markets.
Some other things they enjoy: Having many other kids in the building to play with; going to the small grocery store right next door on their own to buy things; being able to walk to school; hailing taxis, saying where we want to go, and paying the fare at the end; the amazingly sweet oranges; aish baladi (Egyptian bread similar to whole wheat pita but much rougher and much tastier); ghazl banat (fairy floss bought from a man who walks the streets with his cart).
But really I think what they love the most is the interactive existence they have here. They fraternize with everyone, from the men in the shop next door, to the neighbours and bawab’s (doorman’s) kids.
(22) What is something new that you've experienced this trip?
Well, the joy of pomegranates, as evidenced by my previous post. And having the vegetable seller chopping up the vegetables for me into little cubes to make torli, which is a tomato-based vegetable casserole type of dish made with potato, carrot, onion, zucchini, and probably any other vegetable you happen to have on hand. That was a delightful, time-saving discovery for me that kept me happy for two days. And the other thing I have noticed—and perhaps the most satisfying for me—is that because my Arabic has improved, I am able to catch more of the local humour. Not all of it—there’s still a lot that flies straight over my heard—but definitely more of it!
(23) What is the thing they most want to do when they're not in school?
We really just hang out. They will often play with their new friends in the neighbourhood which I encourage because they can learn ‘street Arabic’. It’s great to see them with their little friends, slapping their hands and putting their arms around each other. Men and boys here are not afraid to show affection for each other and it’s usual for them to walk down the street holding hands or with their arms slung around each other, something that would obviously raise eyebrows in the West.
(24) Are you able to get out of Cairo for breaks and if so, how often can you do this?
In theory, yes, it is quite easy to get out of Cairo for the weekend or a few days. There are many places to go, depending what you like to do. There’s Alexandria just a couple of hours away by train, the North Coast, Suez, the Sinai... Geographically, Egypt is in the centre of the world, so many places are accessible outside the country as well, if one has the time, the money and the inclination to travel further, especially to Europe, Afria or the rest of the Middle East.
(25) Is there a lot of "Can so-and-so come over after school?" or is this not a cultural thing?
No, this doesn’t happen at all, at least not in my experience.
(26) What typically Australian thing are the boys missing?
They adapt fairly easily between Cairo and Sydney now, so aren’t missing much. They sometimes miss their Australian friends… and when we are in Australia they miss their Egyptian friends!
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
The joy of pomegranates
Pomegranates (romaan) are one of the joys of life. I really don’t know why I’d never tried them before. The juice, yes, but never the whole fruit. I guess they seemed a little difficult to navigate. But a couple of months ago I was at the fruit seller and spied a mound of pomegranates. I pointed to the box and asked the fruit seller if they were nice to eat. “Aaah, helw, helw,” he said (beautiful). So I picked one up, turned it between my hands, and asked him how to eat it.
He took it from me and split it open easily, ripping it apart with his bare hands, holding one half and handing me the other. He showed me how to bend the flesh back to make the seeds pop up so they could be effortlessly fished out and eaten. He brought the pomegranate up to his mouth and took a bite. I had expected a verbal explanation, not a theatrical demonstration. So I did as he had done, first bending back the flesh to expose the seeds and then, feeling a little self-conscious and awkward with him eagerly watching me, took a tentative bite. The seeds burst between my teeth as I slowly bit into them, and I thought I would die of pleasure. The sensation was exhilarating! How have I never experienced this before? I wondered. My God, this is amazing! All my bashfulness vanished and I took another bite, even better than the first, with the fruit seller standing by with a huge grin on his face.
Life just seems a little different with pomegranates in it.
He took it from me and split it open easily, ripping it apart with his bare hands, holding one half and handing me the other. He showed me how to bend the flesh back to make the seeds pop up so they could be effortlessly fished out and eaten. He brought the pomegranate up to his mouth and took a bite. I had expected a verbal explanation, not a theatrical demonstration. So I did as he had done, first bending back the flesh to expose the seeds and then, feeling a little self-conscious and awkward with him eagerly watching me, took a tentative bite. The seeds burst between my teeth as I slowly bit into them, and I thought I would die of pleasure. The sensation was exhilarating! How have I never experienced this before? I wondered. My God, this is amazing! All my bashfulness vanished and I took another bite, even better than the first, with the fruit seller standing by with a huge grin on his face.
Life just seems a little different with pomegranates in it.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
The Moments
El ganna taht akdam al omahat. Mish bi balash.
(Heaven lives under the feet of the mother. We don’t get it for nothing.)
A lot of the joy of Egypt for me is in the moments. They pass so quickly, but they are what stick in my mind, and over the years have become a beautiful, intricate tapestry filled with vibrant colours, words, sounds and, most strikingly, people.
A couple of months ago, I was waiting with my two small boys at a forn (bakery) on Sharia el Nozha in Masr Gedeeda for the mini pizzas I’d ordered for my son’s birthday party to come out of the oven. The boys were not in the mood to stand patiently that day and, after about fifteen minutes, all hell began to break loose. The mayhem began slowly, with the usual running around and inability to sit still, and soon led to them running through the restaurant next door and climbing the rickety staircase up into the eating area. With the restaurant owners laughing and saying “Siibhom, siibhom, masfish moshkila.” (Leave them, leave them, it’s no problem.) I knew that threatening the boys with the wrath of someone else’s authority wasn’t going to cut it this time. “La’a di moshkila kibeera,” I told them, as the boys ran towards the big open window that overlooked the street below. “Homma mish waladeen, homma erdeen.” (No, it’s a big problem, they are not boys, they are monkeys.) After much coaxing, I managed to drag them back downstairs to the forn, where I instructed them, in my most authoritative tone, to sit calmly until the pizzas were ready. Turning my back for a minute to go and check when my order would be ready, I heard shrieks of excitement coming from the boys, who had taken off their shoes and were using them as missiles to throw into the air at each other to catch. They coupled this with rolling in the street in an effort to make themselves as filthy as possible. I just closed my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and said “Erhamooni ba’a” to myself (have mercy on me).
A woman dressed head-to-toe in black was sitting in the street with her teenage daughter, selling lettuce and other salad leaves. She had witnessed the pandemonium unfold and, smiling at me in solidarity, just said, “Malesh, malesh.” (Never mind)
But the pearl of this whole incident only came to me two days ago, two months to the day later. I was passing by the same forn again. The same woman was there, sitting in the same spot, selling her vegetables. She smiled at me and we exchanged greetings. She looked at the boys, who on this day were not rolling in the dirt, but were being unusually calm. She remembered them from that day two months earlier, and said, “El ganna taht akdam al omahat. Mish bi balash.” (Heaven lives under the feet of the mother. We don’t get it for nothing.) I’ve read those words many times before, at least the first part, and have always loved them. But hearing them said to me directly, in the flesh, from another mother, gave them a whole new meaning, a whole new depth. It was a feeling of solidarity, of unity, of sisterhood. “3andik inteen,” she added, “3andee tamanya!” (You have two. I have eight!) So I guess with eight children, her place in heaven is very secure.
I am grateful now that the boys were so naughty that day, grateful that they made me so crazy that I wanted to tear my hair out in despair. Because if they had been good, if they had behaved themselves, I wouldn’t have had the gift of this woman’s beautiful, touching words that will stay with me forever.
(Heaven lives under the feet of the mother. We don’t get it for nothing.)
A lot of the joy of Egypt for me is in the moments. They pass so quickly, but they are what stick in my mind, and over the years have become a beautiful, intricate tapestry filled with vibrant colours, words, sounds and, most strikingly, people.
A couple of months ago, I was waiting with my two small boys at a forn (bakery) on Sharia el Nozha in Masr Gedeeda for the mini pizzas I’d ordered for my son’s birthday party to come out of the oven. The boys were not in the mood to stand patiently that day and, after about fifteen minutes, all hell began to break loose. The mayhem began slowly, with the usual running around and inability to sit still, and soon led to them running through the restaurant next door and climbing the rickety staircase up into the eating area. With the restaurant owners laughing and saying “Siibhom, siibhom, masfish moshkila.” (Leave them, leave them, it’s no problem.) I knew that threatening the boys with the wrath of someone else’s authority wasn’t going to cut it this time. “La’a di moshkila kibeera,” I told them, as the boys ran towards the big open window that overlooked the street below. “Homma mish waladeen, homma erdeen.” (No, it’s a big problem, they are not boys, they are monkeys.) After much coaxing, I managed to drag them back downstairs to the forn, where I instructed them, in my most authoritative tone, to sit calmly until the pizzas were ready. Turning my back for a minute to go and check when my order would be ready, I heard shrieks of excitement coming from the boys, who had taken off their shoes and were using them as missiles to throw into the air at each other to catch. They coupled this with rolling in the street in an effort to make themselves as filthy as possible. I just closed my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and said “Erhamooni ba’a” to myself (have mercy on me).
A woman dressed head-to-toe in black was sitting in the street with her teenage daughter, selling lettuce and other salad leaves. She had witnessed the pandemonium unfold and, smiling at me in solidarity, just said, “Malesh, malesh.” (Never mind)
But the pearl of this whole incident only came to me two days ago, two months to the day later. I was passing by the same forn again. The same woman was there, sitting in the same spot, selling her vegetables. She smiled at me and we exchanged greetings. She looked at the boys, who on this day were not rolling in the dirt, but were being unusually calm. She remembered them from that day two months earlier, and said, “El ganna taht akdam al omahat. Mish bi balash.” (Heaven lives under the feet of the mother. We don’t get it for nothing.) I’ve read those words many times before, at least the first part, and have always loved them. But hearing them said to me directly, in the flesh, from another mother, gave them a whole new meaning, a whole new depth. It was a feeling of solidarity, of unity, of sisterhood. “3andik inteen,” she added, “3andee tamanya!” (You have two. I have eight!) So I guess with eight children, her place in heaven is very secure.
I am grateful now that the boys were so naughty that day, grateful that they made me so crazy that I wanted to tear my hair out in despair. Because if they had been good, if they had behaved themselves, I wouldn’t have had the gift of this woman’s beautiful, touching words that will stay with me forever.
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