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.