"We are raised on comparison;
Our education is based on it;
So is our culture.
So we struggle to be someone other than who we are."
(J. Krishnamurti)
I worry about sending my kids to school. I worry for many reasons. The other night at dinner I asked them, “What did you learn today?” My pre-schooler told me that he learnt that the moon was made of rocks, which he picked up from God knows where, but he picked it up, which suitably impressed me. My school-aged son, who is in year 2, told me, “You know, I don’t really learn anything new at school.” Which kind of got me thinking, What is he getting from school? Is school a vehicle for knowledge or is it just dumbing kids down?
I’ve always been of the mindset that the main purpose of the modern education system is to produce a workforce; cogs in the wheel of society to keep it functioning; mice on a treadmill to maintain the status quo.
Pablo Picasso said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” How that quote tears at a parent’s heartstrings! And I have to ask myself, What role does formal education play in this loss of artistic expression and imagination?
It often feels as though I have to counter what my 7-year-old picks up at school with the truth, particularly when it comes to the question of peer pressure and the desire to appear ‘cool’. Why do second graders feel the need to be ‘cool’? And what is ‘cool’ anyway? We all went through it. Everyone wants to fit in at school, and so beliefs and self-perceptions are moulded around this insidious principle without realization, to the detriment of individuality and self-awareness.
“Mama,” he recently asked me, “what are girls’ germs?” Where does one start with such a question? And so I told him that I’m a girl and he likes me. His cousins are girls and he likes them. His grandma and his teta are girls and he likes them. Girls are people just like boys – what’s not to like? He pondered this for a minute before concluding that he would inform his friends of this fact. Which he did, and now most of them agree that ‘girls’ germs’ don’t actually exist. Just in the same way he suddenly mysteriously didn’t want to hold my hand when approaching school. “You know,” I told him, “most of the boys here love holding their mum’s hand. They just think that it’s not cool. But you should do what you want to do.” And now he holds my hand again.
He also doodles around the edges of his homework. But this is not considered ‘appropriate’. But why not? I like the doodling. I don't like the fact that I'm expected to tell him it's not 'appropriate'.
In grade 1 he got put in the remedial reading group. He’s always been an excellent reader, and when I prodded the teacher for an explanation, she confessed that he was put in this group to make up the numbers for government funding. Hmm. I guess because he has an ethnic-sounding name.
In grade 1, my nephew was chastised by his teacher for humming tunes at his desk because “It might disrupt the other children.” Very sad.
Let’s give our children the space to be who they are. Even in school.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
When silence is deafening
Friends in Australia and the US have been asking me what has been going on in Egypt the last couple of weeks. Who is Khaled Said? What is this situation about? What happened to him? What’s going on?
Khaled Said is a 28-year-old Egyptian man who was brutally beaten to death by two plain clothes policemen in broad daylight in Alexandria on June 6, for no explicable reason. There have since been huge demonstrations – the most effective, powerful and heart-wrenching being the silent protest in Alexandria last Friday – and Khaled has become a martyr and an icon for change in Egypt, particularly for the movement against regime-sanctioned police brutality, which is routine. Of course there are countless others who have met the same fate, but this case has outraged the public and received widespread attention because it was in broad daylight and not behind the walls of a police station. There have been extremely graphic before-and-after photos of Khaled circulated that are impossible to ignore.
An Egyptian friend Shady explains the situation in more detail:
“The facts are that Khaled was brutally killed in the middle of the street by two plain clothes police informants (death/torture squads). They literally executed him by smashing his head into pieces (broken skull) in the middle of the street. They banged his head into the floor numerous times until his face became totally deformed. To make things worse, instead of bringing the killers to justice, the police have fabricated all sorts of absurd, illogical lies about Khaled (such as claiming that his smashed skull was a result of him falling off the bed while being transported to the ambulance!), which no one believes as the pictures and witnesses blatantly refute this. Furthermore, the corrupt system has utilized all state-controlled media to unleash a smear campaign against the poor victim, claiming he was a drug dealer. And finally, it's brutally cracking down on all demonstrations to try to silence any resistance.
“There are two stories about why he was killed: (1) He asked to be treated with respect; (2) He was about to expose cops who were dealing in drugs (there’s a video on the net showing this) and it’s claimed that the killers are in the video. The one sure thing is that there's a massive cover-up story.
“You might wonder why the police are doing this. The reason is to maintain their brutal image so as to terrorize people against showing any resistance to the regime. And they can never let any one of the police go to trial at any cost, even if they murder people.
“The regime is stealing taxes from people to fund the police, whose job is to protect the regime at any cost. Hence, those who are supposed to protect us are actually killing us, with support that reaches all the way to the Head of State. Hence, the police have ended up being the biggest mafia gang in the whole country.”
Last Friday 18 June – in a stroke of brilliantly conceived and implemented activism – Egyptian men, women, teenagers and children dressed in black and stood in silence for one hour along the corniche in Alexandria and Cairo demonstrating their fury at the government for the brutal killing of Khaled and countless others like him. They stood in silence, some praying with outstretched hands, some reading the Qur’an, some reading the Bible… and they stood a few feet apart so as to circumvent the law against public demonstrations and avoid the identification of any ringleaders or organisers.
As Shady said:
“This was a truly innovative technique as the previous demonstrations were brutally knocked down by the police mafia. The police have the 'dirty jobs' squad... plain clothes squads who kidnap and beat the demonstration leaders. This time the demonstration was spread out across kilometres, which made it very difficult for the police to stop them. This is a Ghandi-style type of demonstration!”
And another Egyptian friend Ramy said:
“I always thought this is the way to demonstrate, not with violence or hate slogans. This is the way it must be done, and this is the way you grab the world’s attention... not with violence and not by screaming and creating hate slogans. I’m sure the next one will be even more successful. The nation has started to have a PULSE after thirty long years of sleep.”
When my Australian friend Mandy read about and saw photos of the silent demonstration in Alexandria, she said:
“This is awesome – it's a pity more people in Australia and around the world aren't more aware of it and showing their support for such a huge moment in history! I had a dinner party last night and told them all.”
I hope everyone outside of Egypt is talking about this at dinner by the end of the week.
There is another silent demonstration planned for this Friday 25 June, apparently to be led by Mohammed ElBaradei. Let’s hope the international media gets behind it and the countries that finance the government stop looking the other way.
And, finally, a quote from Shady:
“A minuscule feat of resistance can trigger a ripple effect of epic proportions. The initial spark that unleashed the whole civil rights movement in the USA in the 1960s started when a black lady refused to give her seat to a white lady. In the end, this led to the freedom of the black people. Never underestimate your action, no matter how small... a single word can be as sharp as a sword.”
The domino effect, which starts with one gentle little push, is unstoppable.
God bless Egypt.
Khaled Said is a 28-year-old Egyptian man who was brutally beaten to death by two plain clothes policemen in broad daylight in Alexandria on June 6, for no explicable reason. There have since been huge demonstrations – the most effective, powerful and heart-wrenching being the silent protest in Alexandria last Friday – and Khaled has become a martyr and an icon for change in Egypt, particularly for the movement against regime-sanctioned police brutality, which is routine. Of course there are countless others who have met the same fate, but this case has outraged the public and received widespread attention because it was in broad daylight and not behind the walls of a police station. There have been extremely graphic before-and-after photos of Khaled circulated that are impossible to ignore.
An Egyptian friend Shady explains the situation in more detail:
“The facts are that Khaled was brutally killed in the middle of the street by two plain clothes police informants (death/torture squads). They literally executed him by smashing his head into pieces (broken skull) in the middle of the street. They banged his head into the floor numerous times until his face became totally deformed. To make things worse, instead of bringing the killers to justice, the police have fabricated all sorts of absurd, illogical lies about Khaled (such as claiming that his smashed skull was a result of him falling off the bed while being transported to the ambulance!), which no one believes as the pictures and witnesses blatantly refute this. Furthermore, the corrupt system has utilized all state-controlled media to unleash a smear campaign against the poor victim, claiming he was a drug dealer. And finally, it's brutally cracking down on all demonstrations to try to silence any resistance.
“There are two stories about why he was killed: (1) He asked to be treated with respect; (2) He was about to expose cops who were dealing in drugs (there’s a video on the net showing this) and it’s claimed that the killers are in the video. The one sure thing is that there's a massive cover-up story.
“You might wonder why the police are doing this. The reason is to maintain their brutal image so as to terrorize people against showing any resistance to the regime. And they can never let any one of the police go to trial at any cost, even if they murder people.
“The regime is stealing taxes from people to fund the police, whose job is to protect the regime at any cost. Hence, those who are supposed to protect us are actually killing us, with support that reaches all the way to the Head of State. Hence, the police have ended up being the biggest mafia gang in the whole country.”
Last Friday 18 June – in a stroke of brilliantly conceived and implemented activism – Egyptian men, women, teenagers and children dressed in black and stood in silence for one hour along the corniche in Alexandria and Cairo demonstrating their fury at the government for the brutal killing of Khaled and countless others like him. They stood in silence, some praying with outstretched hands, some reading the Qur’an, some reading the Bible… and they stood a few feet apart so as to circumvent the law against public demonstrations and avoid the identification of any ringleaders or organisers.
As Shady said:
“This was a truly innovative technique as the previous demonstrations were brutally knocked down by the police mafia. The police have the 'dirty jobs' squad... plain clothes squads who kidnap and beat the demonstration leaders. This time the demonstration was spread out across kilometres, which made it very difficult for the police to stop them. This is a Ghandi-style type of demonstration!”
And another Egyptian friend Ramy said:
“I always thought this is the way to demonstrate, not with violence or hate slogans. This is the way it must be done, and this is the way you grab the world’s attention... not with violence and not by screaming and creating hate slogans. I’m sure the next one will be even more successful. The nation has started to have a PULSE after thirty long years of sleep.”
When my Australian friend Mandy read about and saw photos of the silent demonstration in Alexandria, she said:
“This is awesome – it's a pity more people in Australia and around the world aren't more aware of it and showing their support for such a huge moment in history! I had a dinner party last night and told them all.”
I hope everyone outside of Egypt is talking about this at dinner by the end of the week.
There is another silent demonstration planned for this Friday 25 June, apparently to be led by Mohammed ElBaradei. Let’s hope the international media gets behind it and the countries that finance the government stop looking the other way.
And, finally, a quote from Shady:
“A minuscule feat of resistance can trigger a ripple effect of epic proportions. The initial spark that unleashed the whole civil rights movement in the USA in the 1960s started when a black lady refused to give her seat to a white lady. In the end, this led to the freedom of the black people. Never underestimate your action, no matter how small... a single word can be as sharp as a sword.”
The domino effect, which starts with one gentle little push, is unstoppable.
God bless Egypt.
Friday, March 26, 2010
A world gone mad
Given the overabundance of conspiracy theories generally abounding throughout Egypt, I was rather surprised recently, while exiting the country through Cairo airport, to have an encounter that made the rest of the world look like it’s gone bonkers.
The boys and I were going through passport control – a place where one is generally conditioned to act as responsibly and sensibly as possible in order to avoid the flaring up of any prickly situations. Spying the official stamp through the glass, four-year-old Nazar asked the officer if he could stamp his hand.
In a beautifully fortuitous misunderstanding, the officer told Nazar, “Sure, just come in through this little door,” and stood up to let him into the booth. Hardly believing his good fortune, Nazar scurried inside, closely followed by his brother. Once inside, the officer gave Nazar the stamp and helped him stamp our three passports. He chatted to him, asked him his name, showed him how to hold the stamp, and guided his little hand as he stamped our passports. I was pretty much gobsmacked at this blatant toleration – in fact, encouragement – of such unregulated, spontaneous behaviour!
And the best part…? The security guards and police looking on with pleasure, smiling, seeing the situation for what it was, rather than what it wasn’t.
While the rest of the world is tying itself in knots and falling over itself to follow the ‘rules’, it is a relief to experience a moment where kids can just be kids. Where a four-year-old climbing into a passport booth to try out a stamp is actually okay, and not a cause for a national security alert.
The world has gone a little mad. And so I ask myself: Where does one draw the line between security and inanity? Between cautious and ludicrous? Funnily enough, it is clearly drawn in a Cairo airport passport control booth!
The boys and I were going through passport control – a place where one is generally conditioned to act as responsibly and sensibly as possible in order to avoid the flaring up of any prickly situations. Spying the official stamp through the glass, four-year-old Nazar asked the officer if he could stamp his hand.
In a beautifully fortuitous misunderstanding, the officer told Nazar, “Sure, just come in through this little door,” and stood up to let him into the booth. Hardly believing his good fortune, Nazar scurried inside, closely followed by his brother. Once inside, the officer gave Nazar the stamp and helped him stamp our three passports. He chatted to him, asked him his name, showed him how to hold the stamp, and guided his little hand as he stamped our passports. I was pretty much gobsmacked at this blatant toleration – in fact, encouragement – of such unregulated, spontaneous behaviour!
And the best part…? The security guards and police looking on with pleasure, smiling, seeing the situation for what it was, rather than what it wasn’t.
While the rest of the world is tying itself in knots and falling over itself to follow the ‘rules’, it is a relief to experience a moment where kids can just be kids. Where a four-year-old climbing into a passport booth to try out a stamp is actually okay, and not a cause for a national security alert.
The world has gone a little mad. And so I ask myself: Where does one draw the line between security and inanity? Between cautious and ludicrous? Funnily enough, it is clearly drawn in a Cairo airport passport control booth!
Monday, March 1, 2010
Soul-shards
A while ago, I was talking to my sister-in-law Gwen about Egypt. She, like many others, was trying to get to the bottom of its magnetic pull on me. We talked in circles… actually more like figure 8s or overlapping squiggly lines… and came to no palpable conclusions.
Sure, it’s the people, the culture, the atmosphere, the music, etc etc… I could go on all day. But why is the pull there? Where does it come from? And why is it so indefinable?
Then she told me about soul-shards, which I still don’t fully understand despite googling it numerous times. The concept was conceived by mathematician Douglas Hofstadter in his book, I am a Strange Loop, where he talks about a day he saw his mother grieving over a photo of his recently dead father, lamenting that the photo had no meaning, that it was just a useless piece of flat paper with dark spots on it. He instinctively disagreed with his mother, and used the analogy of Frederic Chopin’s piano sheet music to tell her how he felt in an attempt to bring her a tiny degree of comfort:
In the living room we have a book of the Chopin études for piano. All of its pages are just pieces of paper with dark marks on them, just as two dimensional and flat and foldable as the photograph of Dad – and yet, think of the powerful effect that they have had on people all over the world for 150 years now. Thanks to those black marks on those flat sheets of paper, untold thousands of people have collectively spent millions of hours moving their fingers over the keyboards of pianos in complicated patterns, producing sounds that give them indescribable pleasure and a sense of great meaning. Those pianists in turn have conveyed to many millions of listeners, including you and me, the profound emotions that churned in Frederic Chopin's heart, thus affording all of us some partial access to Chopin's interiority – to the experience of living inside the head, or rather the soul, of Frederic Chopin. The marks on those sheets of paper are no less than soul-shards – scattered remnants of the shattered soul of Frederic Chopin. Each of those strange geometries of notes has a unique power to bring back to life, inside our brains, some tiny fragment of the internal experiences of another human being – his sufferings, his joys, his deeper passions and tensions – and we thereby know, at least in part, what it was like to be that human being, and many people feel intense love for him.
Why are we drawn to certain music, certain people, certain places? Why do some places make us feel alive and uplifted, while others leave us unaffected or even numb? Why do some things tear at our hearts and never let go? Maybe there’s something to this soul-shard theory, and if so then Egypt has sprinkled her soul-shards over me with reckless abandon. I think they must be in the Nile water.
Sure, it’s the people, the culture, the atmosphere, the music, etc etc… I could go on all day. But why is the pull there? Where does it come from? And why is it so indefinable?
Then she told me about soul-shards, which I still don’t fully understand despite googling it numerous times. The concept was conceived by mathematician Douglas Hofstadter in his book, I am a Strange Loop, where he talks about a day he saw his mother grieving over a photo of his recently dead father, lamenting that the photo had no meaning, that it was just a useless piece of flat paper with dark spots on it. He instinctively disagreed with his mother, and used the analogy of Frederic Chopin’s piano sheet music to tell her how he felt in an attempt to bring her a tiny degree of comfort:
In the living room we have a book of the Chopin études for piano. All of its pages are just pieces of paper with dark marks on them, just as two dimensional and flat and foldable as the photograph of Dad – and yet, think of the powerful effect that they have had on people all over the world for 150 years now. Thanks to those black marks on those flat sheets of paper, untold thousands of people have collectively spent millions of hours moving their fingers over the keyboards of pianos in complicated patterns, producing sounds that give them indescribable pleasure and a sense of great meaning. Those pianists in turn have conveyed to many millions of listeners, including you and me, the profound emotions that churned in Frederic Chopin's heart, thus affording all of us some partial access to Chopin's interiority – to the experience of living inside the head, or rather the soul, of Frederic Chopin. The marks on those sheets of paper are no less than soul-shards – scattered remnants of the shattered soul of Frederic Chopin. Each of those strange geometries of notes has a unique power to bring back to life, inside our brains, some tiny fragment of the internal experiences of another human being – his sufferings, his joys, his deeper passions and tensions – and we thereby know, at least in part, what it was like to be that human being, and many people feel intense love for him.
Why are we drawn to certain music, certain people, certain places? Why do some places make us feel alive and uplifted, while others leave us unaffected or even numb? Why do some things tear at our hearts and never let go? Maybe there’s something to this soul-shard theory, and if so then Egypt has sprinkled her soul-shards over me with reckless abandon. I think they must be in the Nile water.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Beauty in poverty
I think of Veruca Salt from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. No matter what her parents gave her, it was never enough. She always wanted more; she was always looking for the next thing, the next toy, the next pet, the next ‘high’. She never took even one moment to be grateful for what she had – and she had a lot! Pretty much anything she asked for.
And even though she was an outwardly pretty little girl, she was truly ugly. Insufferably obnoxious, and petulant to the point of being aggressive. All through no fault of her own – I mean, if you’re conditioned to be an ungrateful wretch since birth, there’s little hope of you being anything else.
In an ironic and beautifully synchronous twist, I just read an article about Suri Cruise, who was spotted boarding a helicopter in Jamaica carrying a new $900 designer handbag (just what every 3-year-old needs!), a drop in the ocean of her alleged $3.5 million wardrobe. At the end of the article, the following question is posed and readers are invited to have their say in an online forum: Do you think Suri Cruise is over-indulged by her parents? What a ludicrous question. Is it really necessary to have an online forum to determine something that is blatantly obvious!? The answer is YES!
There is such poverty consciousness in the West. To a ridiculous extent. People living in million-dollar homes, running multiple cars, buying designer clothes and iPhones, who actually think they have to be careful with money. People who think they need to tighten their belts. Here’s an idea: don’t tighten your belts; tighten your expectations. Downsize a little. Take off the mask you’re wearing and stop trying to get stuff just because everyone else has it. Stop trying to be someone you’re not just for the sake of appearances. Nobody really gives a toss anyway. Really. It’s like when you go to a gym class and you worry if your legs look too fat or your bum looks too big: nobody is looking at you! Everybody else is only worrying about how they look!
When I was a child, we lived down the road from the local postman. He only had two children who weren’t, as I recall, any larger than normal. And yet, he built a MANSION to live in. Not a house, not even a large house, but a MANSION. Two stories. Several living rooms. Superfluous bedrooms. It was truly absurd. And for what? All I can think is that someone has to clean that house, and I’m glad it’s not me.
When I think of all this, I see a certain beauty in poverty. And while those who are up to their necks in it would no doubt disagree, there is beauty in poverty because there are fewer masks. Who can be bothered donning a mask when they need to get the next meal on the table? Who has time for pretense when their children are hungry? Who will go to the trouble of wearing a mask if they are truly happy, truly sure of who they are?
When you have no expectations, the simple things mean a lot – and there is a very specific kind of beauty and honesty in that. I’d much rather hang out with Charlie than Veruca.
And even though she was an outwardly pretty little girl, she was truly ugly. Insufferably obnoxious, and petulant to the point of being aggressive. All through no fault of her own – I mean, if you’re conditioned to be an ungrateful wretch since birth, there’s little hope of you being anything else.
In an ironic and beautifully synchronous twist, I just read an article about Suri Cruise, who was spotted boarding a helicopter in Jamaica carrying a new $900 designer handbag (just what every 3-year-old needs!), a drop in the ocean of her alleged $3.5 million wardrobe. At the end of the article, the following question is posed and readers are invited to have their say in an online forum: Do you think Suri Cruise is over-indulged by her parents? What a ludicrous question. Is it really necessary to have an online forum to determine something that is blatantly obvious!? The answer is YES!
There is such poverty consciousness in the West. To a ridiculous extent. People living in million-dollar homes, running multiple cars, buying designer clothes and iPhones, who actually think they have to be careful with money. People who think they need to tighten their belts. Here’s an idea: don’t tighten your belts; tighten your expectations. Downsize a little. Take off the mask you’re wearing and stop trying to get stuff just because everyone else has it. Stop trying to be someone you’re not just for the sake of appearances. Nobody really gives a toss anyway. Really. It’s like when you go to a gym class and you worry if your legs look too fat or your bum looks too big: nobody is looking at you! Everybody else is only worrying about how they look!
When I was a child, we lived down the road from the local postman. He only had two children who weren’t, as I recall, any larger than normal. And yet, he built a MANSION to live in. Not a house, not even a large house, but a MANSION. Two stories. Several living rooms. Superfluous bedrooms. It was truly absurd. And for what? All I can think is that someone has to clean that house, and I’m glad it’s not me.
When I think of all this, I see a certain beauty in poverty. And while those who are up to their necks in it would no doubt disagree, there is beauty in poverty because there are fewer masks. Who can be bothered donning a mask when they need to get the next meal on the table? Who has time for pretense when their children are hungry? Who will go to the trouble of wearing a mask if they are truly happy, truly sure of who they are?
When you have no expectations, the simple things mean a lot – and there is a very specific kind of beauty and honesty in that. I’d much rather hang out with Charlie than Veruca.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
God is God
Many many years ago, the first time I stepped foot in Cairo, I met someone called Ibrahim. He wore a suit and tie, had a shortly clipped beard and moustache and, with his precise enunciation of every English word, sounded more Indian than Egyptian. He was one of those people who had the ability to talk at length about any subject even if he knew next to nothing about it – a skill that is even more impressive in a language that is not your first. He would speak to anyone for hours on end about any number of things and his English, along with his grooming, was impeccable. On top of that, he was the only local I had met who was not a chain-smoker. He was well travelled, perceptive and had many things to say that were worth hearing.
And then there was his friend Medhat, who was like a roll of sticky tape whose end could never be found. Such a peculiar soul. So many different people rolled into one body.
The day I met Medhat, I had been sitting in Amira Coffee Shop (which no longer exists) deeply engrossed in conversation with Ibrahim who, although I had met him only the day before, already considered himself to be in my inner circle of friends. That’s what it’s like in Egypt… strangers in the morning, close friends by evening.
“Medhat,” said Ibrahim as he introduced us, “can read your palm.” So I shrugged and held out my hand. Medhat called over the waiter and asked for a pen, which he used to scrutinize my hand without having to touch it and possibly cause offence.
More than two hours passed before Medhat dropped his pen and declared he had finished. "You are an open book to me. You think you have secrets, but I see everything. I see thoughts you do not even realize you are having." Okay.
Talking about life and fate and choices, our conversation soon steered towards their religious beliefs. Medhat and Ibrahim wove their words together as though they were one person, finishing each other's sentences with ease, each picking up the other's explanations and elaborating on them.
The cornerstone of their life, they said, is their unquestioned belief in one God. For them this was not just a belief but an undeniable fact. Alternatives were never pondered. "Christians use the word God, Jews use the word Yahveh, Muslims use the word Allah," said Ibrahim. "They are just three different words for the same being."
Just as water is still water whether you call it water, maya, agua, eau or something else. It doesn’t change what it is. Water is water. And God is God.
“God,” said Ibrahim, “is still the same God, no matter what name you use, no matter what religion you follow."
I asked them many questions, and for each one they had a detailed and eloquent answer. “Islam,” Medhat stressed, “is not just a religion. It is a way of life. If you accept that you also accept that Allah controls the fate of the universe and everything in it.”
“So there’s no freedom of choice?” I asked. Maybe this helped explain the general laissez-faire attitude I had seen around me.
“Everything that will happen is already written,” said Ibrahim. “But people are still free to make their own choices.”
This reminds me of a conversation I had with my friend Adora a few days ago, about how difficult it is to marry these two concepts of pre-destiny and free choice together. We came to the conclusion that perhaps it could be that while the destination is already written, the journey you take to get there is your free will and depends on the choices and decisions you make along the way.
Growing up, Islam had always seemed so complicated and inaccessible; a strangely cultish religion that had no point of familiarity for me. Years later, when I met these people, I realized that the source of my impressions had been nothing more than a knowledge gap.
The more they told me, the more I understood the way my new friends lived their lives. When you see Paradise and Hell as tangible places and know to your core that the true rewards come after death, it’s not difficult to forfeit a little in this life. The promise of no earthly limitations for eternity makes any restrictions during the physical years seem a small price to pay. And yet around me I still witnessed a sense of general restlessness and frustration. The belief that fate is decided for you in advance by a force that surrounds you, watches you and, it seems, inhabits your very soul, seemed to often manifest as a lack of purpose and searching for anything else.
But obviously I was seeing them through my eyes - and it made me wonder how I was viewed through theirs.
And then there was his friend Medhat, who was like a roll of sticky tape whose end could never be found. Such a peculiar soul. So many different people rolled into one body.
The day I met Medhat, I had been sitting in Amira Coffee Shop (which no longer exists) deeply engrossed in conversation with Ibrahim who, although I had met him only the day before, already considered himself to be in my inner circle of friends. That’s what it’s like in Egypt… strangers in the morning, close friends by evening.
“Medhat,” said Ibrahim as he introduced us, “can read your palm.” So I shrugged and held out my hand. Medhat called over the waiter and asked for a pen, which he used to scrutinize my hand without having to touch it and possibly cause offence.
More than two hours passed before Medhat dropped his pen and declared he had finished. "You are an open book to me. You think you have secrets, but I see everything. I see thoughts you do not even realize you are having." Okay.
Talking about life and fate and choices, our conversation soon steered towards their religious beliefs. Medhat and Ibrahim wove their words together as though they were one person, finishing each other's sentences with ease, each picking up the other's explanations and elaborating on them.
The cornerstone of their life, they said, is their unquestioned belief in one God. For them this was not just a belief but an undeniable fact. Alternatives were never pondered. "Christians use the word God, Jews use the word Yahveh, Muslims use the word Allah," said Ibrahim. "They are just three different words for the same being."
Just as water is still water whether you call it water, maya, agua, eau or something else. It doesn’t change what it is. Water is water. And God is God.
“God,” said Ibrahim, “is still the same God, no matter what name you use, no matter what religion you follow."
I asked them many questions, and for each one they had a detailed and eloquent answer. “Islam,” Medhat stressed, “is not just a religion. It is a way of life. If you accept that you also accept that Allah controls the fate of the universe and everything in it.”
“So there’s no freedom of choice?” I asked. Maybe this helped explain the general laissez-faire attitude I had seen around me.
“Everything that will happen is already written,” said Ibrahim. “But people are still free to make their own choices.”
This reminds me of a conversation I had with my friend Adora a few days ago, about how difficult it is to marry these two concepts of pre-destiny and free choice together. We came to the conclusion that perhaps it could be that while the destination is already written, the journey you take to get there is your free will and depends on the choices and decisions you make along the way.
Growing up, Islam had always seemed so complicated and inaccessible; a strangely cultish religion that had no point of familiarity for me. Years later, when I met these people, I realized that the source of my impressions had been nothing more than a knowledge gap.
The more they told me, the more I understood the way my new friends lived their lives. When you see Paradise and Hell as tangible places and know to your core that the true rewards come after death, it’s not difficult to forfeit a little in this life. The promise of no earthly limitations for eternity makes any restrictions during the physical years seem a small price to pay. And yet around me I still witnessed a sense of general restlessness and frustration. The belief that fate is decided for you in advance by a force that surrounds you, watches you and, it seems, inhabits your very soul, seemed to often manifest as a lack of purpose and searching for anything else.
But obviously I was seeing them through my eyes - and it made me wonder how I was viewed through theirs.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Strong arms to steady him
“The spirit of a boy is too great for just a family to contain, and his horizons are wider than a family can provide for. By mid-teens, a boy wants to leap into his future – but there must be a place for him to leap to, and strong arms to steady him. This means building community links in order to help boys. In many ways, the women’s movement has dehumanized men, reduced them to stereotypical two-dimensional caricatures. If we want good men for the future, we must start with the boys." (Steve Biddulph, Raising Boys)
Another noteworthy day of dichotomous extremes for me in Cairo yesterday. It started with an interesting conversation with a taxi driver who randomly asked me if I got hassled a lot as a foreign woman in Cairo.
I had to laugh, and told him that this phenomenon is not exclusive to Cairo. Go to any city in the world and you’ll find a carbon copy of the same thing. That I actually feel safer in Cairo than any other city in the world that I’ve lived in or visited.
I told him that yes, sometimes I get hassled, but over the years you develop some sense of how to avoid it, such as wearing dark sunglasses, not catching people’s eye, not being too friendly (how sad is that?), looking like you have a destination to get to. He told me that men like to look at women, that it’s hard not to if they’re right in front of you, that it’s human nature, but that it becomes a problem when it goes beyond an automatic glance when someone or something inadvertently enters your field of vision. And he’s right. It is human nature, and women look at men just as men look at women. Just as one would glance at anything interesting or attractive or unusual that they come across. Unless people walk around with blindfolds on, it’s kind of hard to avoid. But as he said, a look and a leer are two entirely different things.
Later in the day, I took a stroll down the street with my kids to celebrate Egypt’s nail-biting victory in the African Cup. They wanted to wave flags and shout “Masr!” (Egypt) at the top of their lungs. So we bought flags, waved them, felt the excitement, said “mabrook” (congratulations) to a few people and then headed home. Crossing the street, we passed by a group of mostly teenage boys, a few older, and they slapped the kids’ hands happily. It was all fine until one of them grabbed me and I swung around and shouted, but there was no way of knowing which one of them it was. I snatched the kids’ hands and kept walking, with one or two of the group saying to me, “We’re sorry, we’re really sorry” and “Who did that? Who touched her?” I guess in the end it doesn’t matter—it generally only takes one person to brand a group. I got home, incensed, infuriated, ropeable. But appreciative of those who had stood up for me and apologized.
And I thought, That’s going to be my boys. They’re going to be among the ones who protect women and show them respect and know right from wrong. The ones who don’t follow the pack mentality and think that disrespecting any women is okay. Because the people in their lives will make sure of it.
Some fortunate boys learn through osmosis, from being around good men who treat women as they should be treated. Some are just lucky to be born with an ingrained sense of what is right. But either way, boys need to be taught right from wrong when it comes to how to treat people, especially girls and women. Parents, and anyone else who is around boys, need to take every opportunity to reinforce this and bolster boys’ integrity and self-pride so they don’t feel the urge to verbally or physically take their frustrations out on the first unsuspecting female who crosses their path.
Boys the world over have, in many ways, been kind of overlooked. They are often expected to be ‘men’ too early, before they are ready for it, and when they are ready for it, they don’t know how; they are often conditioned to repress their emotions, to hold back their tears when they feel sad. But little boys are just as delicate a creature as little girls, and they need just as much nurturing.
It can be a fine line between growing into a good man and growing into one of the others, and all boys walk this tightrope. There are lots of good men out there, and they are what little boys need as role models and mentors to make sure they become one of the good ones.
Another noteworthy day of dichotomous extremes for me in Cairo yesterday. It started with an interesting conversation with a taxi driver who randomly asked me if I got hassled a lot as a foreign woman in Cairo.
I had to laugh, and told him that this phenomenon is not exclusive to Cairo. Go to any city in the world and you’ll find a carbon copy of the same thing. That I actually feel safer in Cairo than any other city in the world that I’ve lived in or visited.
I told him that yes, sometimes I get hassled, but over the years you develop some sense of how to avoid it, such as wearing dark sunglasses, not catching people’s eye, not being too friendly (how sad is that?), looking like you have a destination to get to. He told me that men like to look at women, that it’s hard not to if they’re right in front of you, that it’s human nature, but that it becomes a problem when it goes beyond an automatic glance when someone or something inadvertently enters your field of vision. And he’s right. It is human nature, and women look at men just as men look at women. Just as one would glance at anything interesting or attractive or unusual that they come across. Unless people walk around with blindfolds on, it’s kind of hard to avoid. But as he said, a look and a leer are two entirely different things.
Later in the day, I took a stroll down the street with my kids to celebrate Egypt’s nail-biting victory in the African Cup. They wanted to wave flags and shout “Masr!” (Egypt) at the top of their lungs. So we bought flags, waved them, felt the excitement, said “mabrook” (congratulations) to a few people and then headed home. Crossing the street, we passed by a group of mostly teenage boys, a few older, and they slapped the kids’ hands happily. It was all fine until one of them grabbed me and I swung around and shouted, but there was no way of knowing which one of them it was. I snatched the kids’ hands and kept walking, with one or two of the group saying to me, “We’re sorry, we’re really sorry” and “Who did that? Who touched her?” I guess in the end it doesn’t matter—it generally only takes one person to brand a group. I got home, incensed, infuriated, ropeable. But appreciative of those who had stood up for me and apologized.
And I thought, That’s going to be my boys. They’re going to be among the ones who protect women and show them respect and know right from wrong. The ones who don’t follow the pack mentality and think that disrespecting any women is okay. Because the people in their lives will make sure of it.
Some fortunate boys learn through osmosis, from being around good men who treat women as they should be treated. Some are just lucky to be born with an ingrained sense of what is right. But either way, boys need to be taught right from wrong when it comes to how to treat people, especially girls and women. Parents, and anyone else who is around boys, need to take every opportunity to reinforce this and bolster boys’ integrity and self-pride so they don’t feel the urge to verbally or physically take their frustrations out on the first unsuspecting female who crosses their path.
Boys the world over have, in many ways, been kind of overlooked. They are often expected to be ‘men’ too early, before they are ready for it, and when they are ready for it, they don’t know how; they are often conditioned to repress their emotions, to hold back their tears when they feel sad. But little boys are just as delicate a creature as little girls, and they need just as much nurturing.
It can be a fine line between growing into a good man and growing into one of the others, and all boys walk this tightrope. There are lots of good men out there, and they are what little boys need as role models and mentors to make sure they become one of the good ones.
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