“I can’t imagine why anyone would be sad to leave Egypt these days,” someone said to me.
Well, I'll tell you why. It’s sad because Egypt is a journey, not a destination. It’s
a place that reveals itself slowly over a long, long time. It is found in the
details, in the minutiae of everyday life, hanging in the air waiting to be
walked through so it can seep slowly through your skin and into your heart.
It’s in the calloused hands of the butcher as he prepares
your meat. It’s in the rising fury of an argument that reaches a swift crescendo
before evaporating into nothing. It’s in the smoke wafting around the dora
mashwy carts. It’s in the boys who walk with their arms draped around each
other and the girls who link arms with their friends.
It’s in the voices of the people, who all talk at once and
over the top of each other and yet still manage to generate a sequential conversation
out of the jumble of words. It’s in the play of the bawab’s children who
can invent really good games on the spot (or so I’m told by my kids).
It's in the scent of the stifling, polluted air that hits you in the face when you step beyond the glass enclosure of the airport.
It’s in the dust that settles in your skin and hair and in
the dirt under your fingernails. It’s in the tone of voice of the taxi drivers
when they talk about their love for their country, even when she’s at her most unlovable.
It’s in the constant little frustrations when you’re there
and the longing for it when you’re somewhere else.
Egypt is like a sweet, fleshy pomegranate that
you have to tear open with your bare hands. It's an intertwining mess of tart, white, unsavoury pith and glistening scarlet juice pods that burst with sweetness if you
have the nerve to take a bite—the sweetness that you'll miss out on if you worry
about getting the juice on your clean shirt.
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