Whispers from the Sea

غيوم في يوم العيد

2011-12-06T12:03:00.001-08:00

أجلس في شرفة البيت المطلة على الحقول وأشجار الموالحوالفاكهة. رغم الخضرة المحيطة بالمكان والتي أعشقها واشتاق إليها دوما، رغم تحليقالحمام كأطياف رقيقة تحمل الهدوء والسكينة إلى النفس، ورغم تمايل أشجار الرمانوالجوافة والزيتون مع نسمات الخريف فيما يشبه صلاة كونية بديعة، ينتابني حالة من التوتروالضيق العميق. فالسكينة يقطعها صراخ قادم من عدة ميكرفونات محيطة بالمكان، يصعبتمييز ما يقال من هذا الضجيج المتنافر... فصلاة هذه أم معركة؟

التقط عبارات بها تجريح بأصحاب الأديان المغايرة، انتفضمن عنف نبرة الصوت وتهجمها، اسمع كلمات لاذعة عن المرأة، انكمش داخل نفسي وأسرعإلى داخل البيت وأغلق النوافذ، يخترقالصراخ الزجاج والجدران وينفذ إلى رأسي الذي قارب على الانفجار، الوذ بحجرتيالصغيرة ولكن يلحق بي الصياح ويدق بعنف على باب الحجرة، أكاد أشعر أن البيت يهتز ويترنحتحت وطأة المطارق الغليظة التي تصيح بلا توقف.اندس داخل السرير واتدثر بالألحفة والبطاطين لعلني أجد دفئا ومهربا من قسوة هذاالسيل الجارف من حناجر باردة لا تعرف الرحمة...أعيد هذا أم إعلان حرب؟

بعد ما يبدو أنه دهر من الزمن تسكت الميكروفونات ويعودالهدوء إلى المكان، ، انتفس الصعداء واخرج من مكمني، أعيد فتح النوافذ والشبابيك،واستقبل نسمات الخريف المحملة بروائح البرسيم والتبن والروث الممزوج بطين أرضناالطيبة. أدلف إلى شرفة المنزل مرة أخرى وأحاول أن أستعيد سكينتي وصفاء روحي، أتأملمخلوقات الله وآياته في السماء والأرض وانصت إلى صلواتها وتسبيحاتها...استعيد هدوء نفسي،واتعجب لبشر لا يبصرون .

أتطلع إلى السماء، أري طيورا محلقة في سماء صافية تحملهاقوة أجنحتها الهشة، وأري غيوما رمادية تتجمع في الأفق تسبقها ريح باردة، ارتجفللحظات وإعود أدراجي إلى داخل المنزل.

Memoires of an Egyptian Pharmacist

2011-10-29T05:25:00.000-07:00

What does it mean when having accessto a pharmacy and a bakery is a dream come true…a privilege to be proud of andthank God for?

What does it mean when an earthquakedestroys three quarters of a village, killing and injuring tens of itsinhabitants…but neither officials nor the media seem to take any notice??

What does it mean when the death ofinfant children is a normal everyday fact of life?

It means you are probably living inone of Egypt's 3747 villages, invisible, voiceless and marginalized. This is what we end up realizing when we read"Memoires of an Egyptian Pharmacist" (2008) written byKarima El Hefnawi, a pharmacist and longtime political activist. The memories document in simple butcompelling language stories from her sojourn in several of Egypt's villagesduring the late 1970s up to the early 1990s where she worked in differentpharmacies. Active during the student movement of the 1970s, she graduated fromuniversity in 1976, and chose to work in distant and impoverished villages toserve the poor and needy rather than open a pharmacy in Cairo and make moneyserving the well off and rich as many of her peers chose to do.

The book includes 19 differentstories from rural Egypt that touch on the cultural, the social and thepolitical starting with the story of the villager's joyous disbelief that theyfinally have a pharmacy in their village and don't have to travel longdistances to get medicines. Anotherstory tells of women during the Gulf war of 1990 desperately waiting for hoursin front of the pharmacy to receive calls on its telephone from their men folkworking in the Gulf region to reassure them that they are well and safe.

"اصل البيت وقع...بس ربناستر..." "You see…our house fell down…but God was merciful"

One of the stories recounts theevents in a village in Upper Egypt located near the epicenter of the earthquakethat hit Egypt in 1992. Although 17 people died and tens of others were injuredand the majority of the houses in the village were destroyed, the media andofficials focused their attention and efforts solely on the high rise buildingthat collapsed in the upper class district of Heliopolis in Cairo. Foreignrescue teams joined salvage operations at the building while villagers wereleft to die below the rubble of their homes.

We learn of the midwife who helpsgirls in distress, saving their reputation and possibly their lives in these deeplytraditional and conservative communities. Death is also a constant visitor inthese villages, reaping the lives of small infants during their first weeks of lifeor of young men victims of complications of bilharzias, the longtime scourge ofrural Egypt, or that of men victims of wars in distant lands where they havegone in search of a livelihood to provide for their families.

Despite the often bleak realities ofrural Egypt depicted in these stories, they are at times not without humor or atouch of tragic-comedy. Thus we hear of the wife who wanted the exact type andcolour of the medicine that her neighbor took because when she did, she gavebirth to a baby boy; of the “Sheikh” who conned villagers into buying for him acertain type of cologne to break spells (3amal) while in fact he resold thecolognes in a shop he owned; and of the elderly man who refused to enter thepharmacy as long as there was only “a young girl” (the author) inside ratherthan a male doctor, but who finally succumbed when he needed urgently to takean injection.

The book offers short, simple butendearing glimpses into the “other” Egypt that many Cairenes may not be awareof, the “other” Egypt that has not changed much since the 30 or 20 years whenthe events of this book took place, and has continued to suffer neglect and povertytill this day. But it is the deep thankfulness expressed by the villagers insimple yet moving words for a lot of what we take as granted in life thatendears them to the reader.

"Then the villagers beganto gather in joy and thankfulness to God for all these blessings. God was surely very pleased with them…he hadblessed them with a pharmacy. This village had entered history from its widestdoors"

"ثم بدأ أهالي القرية فيالتجمع ابتهالا لله شاكرين لكل هذه النعم، لقد رضي الله عنهم رضى كبير وأنعمهماخيرا بأجزخانة، إن هذه القرية قد دخلت التاريخ من أوسع أبوابه"

On Shoes and Boots

2011-10-11T02:12:00.000-07:00

I like watching shoes.

I like to watch as they come and go. What a variety of shoes there are! You can see big and small, highheeled and flat, fancy and plain, worn-out and new, expensive and cheap…a wholeworld of colors, models, and fashions….you can never get bored.

That’s why I like watching shoes.

Some come in bright colored groups that shuffle and mingle and are fullof excitement. Others are loners, pacing and lingering. And then there arethose who come lovingly in pairs, side by side, polished and smart, dandy andplayful, walking slowly, softly, tenderly…

Oh I love watching shoes.

If they could only talk, what stories they would tell! The roads they’vetrodden, the homes they’ve entered, the places they’ve gone too, the journeysthey’ve made from one pair of feet to another…..just imagine the life of ashoe!

Hey I just love watching shoes!

One day the boots came. They were only a few, just one or two. They weredark bulky boots. I watched them atfirst, but they were boring and dull and all looked the same.

I preferred watching shoes

Then more of them came. They marched, they stomped, standing row afterrow. Now the shoes hardly came…where had they gone?

I kept on watching.

Then one day I glimpsed the sole of a boot. It had a man’s face stuck to its heel.

I like watching shoes…..but I don’t anymore.

مشاهد من مصر ما بعد الثورة (3): نريح أعصابنا...أو...الطالبان في باكستان

2011-09-29T04:19:00.000-07:00

المكان: ناديالجزيرة الرياضي بالزمالك

الزمان: صباح يومربيعي من شهر مايو 2011

المشهد الأول

زوجان يجلسان في هدوء وسط منطقة مفتوحة تحيط بهما الأشجارالباسقة وأحواض الزهور وتمتد أمامهما مساحات واسعة من ملاعب النجيل الأخضر. يحتسيالزوج فنجان من القهوة السادة في حين تشرب الزوجة كوب من عصير الليمون المثلج.تسود جلستهما حالة من الهدوء والسكينة...أو هكذا يبدو...وتحيط بهما نسمات ربيعيةرقيقة تحمل إليهما من حين إلى آخر هتافات غاضبة للمتظاهرين في منطقة ماسبيرو علىالضفة المقابلة من النيل.

الزوج (وهو يتأمل جمال الطبيعة المحيط بهما): "ياااه...الواحد من زمان كان محتاج القعدة دي...هدوء وخضرة وعصافير وهواء نظيف...بعيدعن كل حاجة...شئ مريح للأعصاب".

الزوجة: "فعلا...كنا محتاجين ده من زمان(ثم تطرق بأذنيهالالتقاط الهتافات القادمة عبر مياه النيل ):"...بس سامع...سامع الهتافات...االناسزعلانة طبعا...ما هو احنا مش حنخلص...كل يوم يحرقوا كنيسة... كل يوم يرعبواالناس...ده بكره..."

الزوج (يقاطعها وفي صوته نبرة تمزج بين العتاب والحنان): "يا حبيبتي احنا قلنا ايه؟؟ احنا جايين نريح أعصابنا ونغير جو ونبعد شوية عنالسياسة والأحداث...شايفة الشجر والورد...سمعا العصافير".

الزوجة (وفي صوتها مزيج من الخجل والضيق): "ايوةأيوة...الشجر والعصافير... فعلا".

يعود الزوجان للصمت و الهدوء وتأمل الأشجار والورودوالإنصات للعصافير.

المشهد الثاني

يلفت انتباهالزوجة رجل ملتحي يسير بالقرب منهما ثميجلس إلى مائدة لا تبعد عنهما كثيرا.

الزوجة (وفي صوتها نبرة توتر وانزعاج): "بص...شوف الرجلده...اهو واحد منهم أهه...ده بكره يملوا النادي...ده بكره مش حانعرف نقعد القعدةدي...ده بكره..."

الزوج (وهو يقاطع زوجته للمرة الثانية وفي صوته مزيج منالعتاب والضيق): "وبعدين يا حبيبتي...مش معقول كده...هو كل واحد بدقن حتخافي منه؟؟وبعدين الرجل ده شعره أشقر...وشكله خواجةخالص...ركزي في الطبيعة والقعدة الحلوة دي وبلاش التوتر ده...احنا جايين نريحأعصابنا".

الزوجة (وهي تحاول السيطرة على انفعالتها وتوترها): "حاضر...حاضر...نركز في الطبيعة".

يعود الزوجان للصمت و الهدوء وتأمل الأشجار والورود والإنصاتللعصافير.

المشهد الثالث والأخير

تحدق الزوجة في موبيلها وهي تتابع رسائلها، ثم تنتقل إلى رسائل تويتر. فجأة تصرخ...

الزوجة: "ينهار اسود!!"

الزوج (وهو ينتفض من على كرسيه): "ايه... في أيه...حصلايه..!!"

الزوجة: "دول بيقولوا أن الطالبان في باكستان فجروا عربيةمفخخة وموتوا80 وأصابوا 200...ما هود ه الي أنا خايفة منه... بكره ده اليحيحصلنا...ده بكره..."

الزوج (وفي صياحه مزيج من العصبية والغضب واليأس): "لا لالا لا ....مش ممكن...كده خلاص...هي حصلت الطالبان...وفي باكستان كمان!!! لالالاأنا مش قادر...انا أعصابي باظت...انا ماشي...أنا مروح...."

الزوجة ( وهي تحاول لملمة أشيائها لتلحق بزوجها الذي قامغاضبا من مكانه ): "استنى...انت زعلت ولا أيه...هو فيه ايه؟؟!!"

ثم تلمح وهي تقوم من مكانها الرجل الملتحي وهو يقرأجريدة باللغة العربية.

الزوجة (وهي تشعر بنشوة من صدق حدسه وثبت حسن تقديرهللأمور): "الله...ده بيقرأ عربي اهه...يبقي مصري...يبقى أكيد واحد منهم...أما الحقأقول له عشان يعرف أني كنت على حق".

وتركض للحاق بزوجها الذي اختفى من المشهد تماما هربا منزوجته والمظاهرات والأشجار والملتحين والعصافير والطالبان في باكستان.

مشاهد من مصر ما بعد الثورة (2): الشيعة في الميدان - قصة من وحي الحقيقة

2011-05-19T04:33:00.000-07:00

المكان: ميدان التحرير

الزمان: أول مايو - عيد العمال

المشهد الأول

مجموعة من أنصار حزب اشتراكي جديد يتجمعون باللافتات والمنشورات عند ناصية شارع قصر النيل مع ميدان التحرير. يبدو عليهم الحماس الشديد، فاليوم أول يوم منذ عقود طويلة يتم الاحتفال بعيد العمال في مكان عام وبمشاركة مجموعة من الأحزاب الاشتراكية والشيوعية والعمالية الجديدة. ترفرف في قلب الميدان الأعلام الحمراء التي تحمل في وسطها رمز المنجل والمطرقة ، وترتفع اللافتات التي تهنئ عمال مصر بالعيد وتبارك نضالهم وتطالب بحد أدنى للأجور وغيرها من المطالب.

تبدأ واحدة من أنصار الحزب الجديد في توزيع بيان الحزب عن عيد العمال على المارة. وجهها مبتسم ومشرق فها هي الأحزاب التي كانت تحت الأرض حبيسة الظلام والملاحقة الأمنية تخرج إلى النور في تواصل مباشر مع الشعب والجماهير، وها هي رايات اليسار المصري العتيد ترفرف عالية حفاقة في قلب القاهرة...في ميدان التحرير.

يتوقف أحد المارة - وهو شاب في منتصف أو أواخر العشرينات من العمر- بعد أن أخذ البيان من المرأة وتفحصه، ثم ينظر إليها مبتسما وهو يقول:

الشاب: طب هي أيه الاشتراكية...؟

المرأة: (وبعض علامات الدهشة على وجهها...): يا سيدي الاشتراكية ببساطة هي....

الشاب (يقاطعها): أنا عارف أنها من أيام عبد الناصر....

المرأة: فعلا لكن كانت نوع آخر من الاشتراكية و خليني أوضح لك.....

الشاب (يقاطعها للمرة الثانية): لكن هي بدأت من أيام ثورة 1919...أصل أنا خريج تاريخ.

المرأة ( مع تزايد علامات الدهشة على وجهها): لا لا لا (وتضحك)...ثورة 1919 كانت ثورة ضد الاحتلال الانجليزي، أما الاشتراكية....

الشاب (يقاطعها للمرة الثالثة ومتحدثا بنبرة واثقة وقاطعة): يا ستي دي بدأت من أيام ثورة 1919 أنا متأكد....ده أنا دارس تاريخ.

المرأة تنظر له في حيرة واندهاش وتعجب...وتصمت.

المشهد الثاني

يأخذ أحد المارة - وهو رجل في أواخر الثلاثينات أو أوائل الأربيعنات من العمر- البيان من المرأة ويقرأه برهة ثم ينظر إليها بقلق ويقول:

الرجل: انتو حزب جديد؟

المرأة (بافتخار) : أيوة

الرجل (وعلامات القلق والحيرة على وجهه): بس أنا عاوز اعرف حاجة...

المرأة: ايه هي؟؟

الرجل: ايه حكاية الشيعة الي في الميدان دول؟؟

المرأة (وعلامات الدهشة والاستغراب على وجهها): أي شيعة تقصد؟؟

الرجل: (وهو يشير بيده باتجاه قلب ميدان التحرير): الجماعة الشيعة دول الي رافعين الأعلام الحمراء.

المرأة (وهي تضحك بعد أن تبين لها اختلاط الأمر على الرجل): لا لا لا...دول مش شيعة ...دول الحزب الشيوعي...الي هو...

الرجل (وهو يقاطعها): هما بقوا حزب كمان؟؟!!

المرأة (وهي تحاول جاهدة أن تشرح للرجل): حضرتك مش فاهمني....دول مش شيعة...دول الحزب الشيوعي...دول حاجة تانية...دول...

الرجل (وفي صوته نبرة قلق وغضب وفي عينه نظرة إشفاق على المرأة الغير واعية بالخطر المحدق في قلب الميدان): يا ستي شيعي شوعي...يعني هي فرقت في النطق...كلهم بتوع إيران زي ما قالوا...ده لازم الأزهر والجيش يكون لهم موقف من الكلام ده....ربنا يستر على البلد دي.

المرأة تنظر له في حيرة واندهاش وتعجب...وتصمت.

مشاهد من مصر ما بعد الثورة (1): القطار- قصة حقيقية

2011-04-27T06:50:00.000-07:00

المكان: عربة رقم 1 درجة أولى من القطار المتجه من القاهرة إلى الإسكندرية

الزمان: صباح يوم ربيعي من شهر أبريل 2011

المشهد الأول:

زوجان يجلسان يقرأن الصحف ومن حولهما صمت مطبق، فلا صوت لثرثرة الركاب أو ضحكاتهم أو أحاديث مطولة على الموبايلات كعادة ركاب قطارات مصر، الصوت الوحيد المسموع داخل العربة صوت احتكاك عجلات القطار بالقضبان، وخشخشة ورق الجرائد حيث الجميع منكب على قراءة الصحف ومتابعة الأخبار وتطورات الأحداث.

من حين إلى آخر يعلو صوت طفل صغير يجلس مع والدته خلف الزوجان:

الطفل: "حسنى مبارك وحش....حسنى مبارك وحش"

الأم: "بس يا حبيبي...بس"

الطفل: "باطل...باطل...باطل..."

الأم: "وبعدين يا حبيبي...بطل شقاوة"!

المشهد الثاني:

رجل ملتحي يرتدي جلباب ومن فوقه معطف أنيق بني اللون، يحمل في يده رزمة سميكة من الأوراق ويمر على المسافرين واحد واحد، يتحدث معهم برهة ثم يعطيهم ورقة من الرزمة. يصل إلى حيث يجلس الزوجان.

الرجل الملتحي: "طبعا حضرتك مسيحي..."

الزوج: "اشمعنا يعني، حضترك بتسأل ليه"؟

الرجل الملتحي: "أنا اسمي "..........." وأنا مرشح لرئاسة الجمهورية (يعطيه ورقة من الرزمة) و أؤكد لك أنني احترم الكنائس والأخوة المسيحيين".

الزوجة (في غاية الانفعال والعصبية وهي تنظر إلى لحيته الطويلة ولونها المائل إلى اللون الأحمر ومشاهد من قطع الأذن وهدم الأضرحة وحرق الكنائس تتراقص أمام أعينها): "أولا أنت ليه بتفترض إن إحنا مسيحيين؟ عشان أنا مش محجبة؟!! لعلمك إحنا ولا مسلمين ولا مسحيين، إحنا مصريين، إحنا مواطنين مصريين!!! ولو إنت مرشح للرئاسة بجد لازم تكلم الناس على أساس المواطنة مش أي حاجة تانية"!!

يقف الرجل واجما بعد أن باغتته الزوجة بكلامها وبالنبرة الحادة في صوتها.

الزوج ( ضاحكا في محاولة لتخفيف الأمر وأيضا رغبة في معرفة المزيد بعد أن أثار الرجل فضوله): "والله يا سيدي أنا بحييك على شجاعتك، بس كلمنا شوية عن برنامجك".

الرجل (الذي استعاد حماسته بعد سماع النبرة الهادئة والمرحبة للزوج): "البرنامج بسيط، احنا عاوزين نعمل لكل واحد بيت بحتة ارض، والضرائب 2% بس عشان نشجع الاستثمار ونوظف الناس على أن تكون المرتبات عالية، ماتقلش عن 1500 جم".

الزوج: "كويس، بس مش الـ2% دي قليلة شوية، مش أفضل ضرائب تصاعدية؟"

الرجل الملتحي: "أبدا، إحنا عاوزين نشجع الاستثمار عشان ييجي مصر، أنا حتى بعت خطاب للرئيس أوباما وقلت له أن المصريين بيرحبوا بالشعب الأمريكي وان احنا مش ضدهم وبنرحب باستثمارات من كل حتة في العالم. وكمان عاوزين السياحة تزيد، يعني هدفنا 70 مليون سائح".

الزوج: "والله برنامج طموح جدا ويبدو إن أنت باذل جهد كبير".

الرجل الملتحي: "أشكرك، انا فعلا لفيت مصر حتة حتة، بيت بيت، وكنت لسه في الصعيد".

الزوجة (تحدث نفسها وهي تتابع الحوار بين الرجل وزوجها): "ناقص يقول زنجة زنجة...دي ايه الأشكال دي!! قال مرشح للرئاسة قال!!!"

المشهد الثالث:

القطار يصل إلى الإسكندرية وينزل منه الركاب.

يحمل الزوجان حقائبهما وهما يتجهان خارج المحطة، ويلمحان الرجل الملتحي وهو يجر ورائه حقيبة سوداء فاخرة وفي استقباله رجل غير ملتحي يرحب به بشدة.

ينزل الطفل مع والدته من القطار وتتجه أنظاره إلى أرفف البائعين المكدسة بالأطعمة والحلويات والمشروبات. لا تجذبه أكياس الشيبسي بنكهة الجبنة أو الجمبري أو الشطة، ولا كانز الكوكاكولا والسفن أب، ولا حتى أصابع الشيكولاته والعسلية أو أكياس البونبوني، فقط شيء واحد يشد انتباهه بقوة وتلمع عيناه وهو يتأمل ألوانه الثلاث، ثم يمد يده الصغيرة ليأخذه.

الطفل: "أنا عاوز ده يا ماما...أنا عاوز ده..."

الأم (وهي تنظر له وتبتسم): "حاضر يا حبيبي".

يمسك الطفل يد أمه وباليد الأخرى يمسك علم مصر...ويسيران معا خارج المحطة.

Illusions of Absolute Control and Egypt's Revolution in "Violet and the Bekbashi"

2011-02-16T03:43:00.000-08:00

Despite the numerous literary works over the years that addressed the Egyptian Revolution of 1952,"Violet and the Bekbashi" by Amr Kamal Hamouda (2010) is maybe the first to delve into the world of the second-ranking Free Officers (the group of officers that led the military coup in the 1952 Revolution) and their role and impact following the revolution. The novel sheds light on how a movement that began with much daring and promise, was undermined at the hands of these mostly unqualified officers, and by the illusion of absolute control and the ensuing mismanagement and corruption this entailed. The same regime we observe in today’s revolution is the one being created at the time, and bears the roots for its own destruction.

Building a Web of Control

Spanning a period stretching from the 1950s to the 1970s, we are taken through the life of the young colonel or bekbashi Youssef Abdel Moneim (bekbashi is the rank of colonel used in pre-1952 Egypt). A patriot who displayed exceptional courage and daring during the 1948 war in Palestine, he was among the young officers disgruntled with the king and the British presence in Egypt.

Joining the Free Officers movement, he participates in the 1952 coup d'état against the king which ushered in a new era that raised the banners of independence and social justice. As a second-ranking officer, he is placed, like many others of similar rank, in positions of authority in political and economic bodies throughout the country in order to secure the new revolutionary regime's power and to ensure that all is kept tightly "under control". The latter is a key phrase mentioned throughout the novel, emblematic of the new regime's obsession to maintain and safeguard its rule and authority.

However, in this attempt, trusted cadres such as Youssef were appointed to leading roles regardless of their qualifications or competencies. Youssef is an action-oriented decisive man, not very happy with books or reading, and more comfortable with straightforward issues that are settled quickly and decisively. "He took the file on fertilisers and tried to read it. He tried to understand, but the numbers clouded in front of his eyes…all his life he hated reading…..Every new project or file was like a hammer beating on his head "

Moreover, he is uncomfortable and overwhelmed by the exigencies of political life and the intricacies of the power struggle within the regime. "Youssef followed closely what was going on…and his distaste grew. True he was counted among Gamal's (Abdel Nasser) and Abdel Hakim’s  (Field Marshall Abdel Hakim Amer, the Egyptian Minister of War and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces until 1967) group…but he nonetheless had to bear the burden of having to prove his allegiance every day…even every hour”

However, the positions of power and authority that these young officers attained were intoxicating; the privileges and benefits seductive. It was no surprise that they held tenuously to their positions and strongly opposed the forces calling for the return of the army to the barracks and the restoration of democracy and legislative life during the 1954 crisis. "To leave this luxury and power…to be moved every now and then between (the army barracks in) Wadi Houf, the Hackstep, El-Salloum and Al-Arish?? No, this can never be".  Yet the inevitable implications of all this was failing performance and growing corruption.

All this is paralleled by Youssef's complicated private life. Feeling trapped in a ‘dry marriage’, he jumps into an extra-marital relationship with a married woman of stunning beauty, Violet. Palestinian by birth, she finds in this dashing ex-officer and prominent official the security and protection she yearns for. Their love affair is consummated in one of the many apartments that were entrusted to Youssef and other fellow Free Officers following the revolution, as safe houses, where weapons were stored for precautionary purposes, to be used against any possible counterrevolutionary action.

Youssef further abuses his newfound position of authority and privilege to support his mistress and her family and to pay off her husband after he discovers his wife's adultery. We see how he is involved in financial misconduct and mismanagement while heading a major corporation, showering top officials, family members, and friends with gifts and discounts as well as financing his romantic liaison. The resulting critical losses in the company lead to Youssef's removal from his position. But rather than being punished for his misconduct, he is placed elsewhere in the government structure.

Despite his financial indiscretion, Youssef is not a major player in the power games and corruption surrounding him. We see throughout the novel how he is shifted from one position to another, indicating how he – and those of similar rank – were used and kept "under control" to ensure that they serve the system and the regime, and also to ensure that they never turn against it; a condition that at moments aroused Youssef's bitterness. However, we also see how he  himself strived to keep both his marital and extramarital life firmly under control, using money, power, connections, and sometimes force.

Tragic Implications

This however proves ultimately illusory for all parties concerned. The 1967 defeat was evidence of acute failure and loss of control, a defeat that eventually paved the way for a sharp reversal in the Nasserist era policies. One of the striking moments in the novel is when Youssef witnesses in shock and disbelief the post-1967 student and worker demonstrations in Tahrir Square calling for "democracy and change". "During his entire political life he was convinced that people revolted because of hunger or poverty or to resist an invader. But to protest and revolt for their dignity...this was something new for him."

Youssef's grip on his life gradually slips away: his wife distances herself from him, immersing herself in poker games; at the same time facing increasing difficulties in maintaining a double life and making ends meet following the post-1973 liberalisation policies. Youssef appears more a relic from the past as the world changes around him and old comrades join the bandwagon to maintain power and enrich themselves. The final blow comes from Violet who, thanks to her now-grown children, opts for the possibilities of wealth and riches in the new market-oriented Egypt, leaving Youssef to head to the Gulf region alone in search of a new beginning.

Although written about a past era, Violet and the Bekbashi is deeply relevant to our times and to the uprising Egypt is witnessing today. It carries a poignant message to those under the illusion that maintaining an iron grip and disregarding peoples' rights, freedoms and dignity can build a nation or bring prosperity. It also describes much of the corrupt and misguided practices of the regime which have eventually led to the dissatisfaction we see in the streets today.

Amr Kamal Hamouda (born 1954) is a researcher, commentator and writer on oil and energy. This is his first novel.

Published in Ahram Online: http://english.ahram.org.eg/News/5210.aspx

Letters of a Political Prisoner to his Beloved

2010-12-09T01:55:00.000-08:00

I look at the night through the bars,
and despite the weight on my chest
my heart still beats with the most distant stars.
Nazim Hekmat

These words written by Turkish poet Nazim Hekmat who spent a third of his life in prison for his leftist political views, is an expression of how man or woman can defy the most challenging and oppressive circumstances as long as their hearts "beat with the most distant stars".

The memoirs "Letters of a Political Prisoner to his Beloved" (1977) by Mostafa Tiba are written by a man whose heart never lost touch of the stars, never lost faith in his fellow man and never lost his ability to love despite having spent 12 years of his youth (1952-1964) in Egyptian prisons. His story is that of many Egyptian intellectuals, activists and revolutionaries of the left who spent years in prison during the 1950s and 1960s.

His story begins with his arrest in 1952 for his activities in communist groups, just a week before the July revolution when Egypt was still a monarchy and he was only 27. In 1954 he was sentenced by a military court to 10 years of hard labour. After completing his term in 1962 he was detained in prison together with many others until his release in 1964.

He recounts his journey from one prison to another: Misr Prison, Abou Za'bal, Tora, and finally to the distant desert prisons "Genah" and "Mahareek" in the Kharga Oasis. This "inner exile" into the desert is the most striking part of his memoir. Tiba and his fellow inmates, many of whom were doctors, engineers, lawyers, artists, writers, poets, students and workers, never let prison, or exile break their will or their belief in their cause. Rather, they created through sheer will power, creativity and team spirit a throbbing and lively oasis in the middle of the desert.

لقد حسبوا أننا سنستسلم لقسوة الصحراء فتدفنا رمالها و نحن أحياء أو على شفى الموت عطشا أو جوعا. و قررنا أن نخوض معركة استمرار حياتنا. قررنا أن نبني في قلب الصحراء واحة، ليس فقط لنأكل فيها و نشرب، و إنما كي نقرأ و نكتب و نتعلم و نرقص و نغني و نمارس كل نشاطات الحياة.

They believed that we would succumb to the harshness of the desert, that it would bury us alive with its sand or leave us on the brink of death from thirst and hunger. But we decided to continue fighting for our lives. We decided to build an oasis in the heart of the desert, not only to eat and drink, but also to read, write and learn, to sing and dance and exercise all the activities of life.

And indeed they defied the jailor's chains and whip with culture, art and free thought. They organized an egalitarian community where all had duties and rights, where all worked with their hands without any special privileges, where lectures and plays were organized, newspapers published, where artists painted, sculptured and made pottery, and where the literate taught the illiterate and many learnt knew languages such as English, French, and Russian. At Genah, where they spent 3 years, there was nothing but a tent prison surrounded by barbed wire. It was the prisoners themselves who, through ingenuity and the will to survive, built a water supply system from a nearby well, constructed an oven and kitchen, prepared an atelier for painting and planted flowers, roses, trees and vegetables. In the Mahareek prison they built an actual Roman theatre and a swimming pool, and reclaimed 100 feddans of land planting them with vegetables and fruit.

Many of these prisoners of thought came out to become renowned intellectuals and artists: Fouad Haddad wrote many of his poems in Genah prison; author Khalil Kassem wrote his famous "Shamandoura" and writer and journalist Salah Hafez wrote his play "Al Khabar", Mohamed Hamam became a well known singer, and Ismail Sabry Abdallah became a prominent economist, while many others wrote plays, political analysis, and historical essays while in prison.

There is no sign of bitterness or revenge when reading through Mostafa Tiba's 66 letters to his beloved. Despite the loss of 12 years of his life behind bars, despite the beatings and torture, the hunger strikes, the death of friends and colleagues, despite the moments of despair…it is love and hope that one can sense throughout his memoires…love for Egypt, for his friends and comrades, for humanity, for freedom, and even for his jailors who eventually came to respect and sympathize with these political prisoners, turning a blind eye to all the cultural activities they held in prison, the books they read, newspapers they produced…activities that were officially not permitted.

Although he deals with many political issues of the time, his main focus is on the human side of incarceration, on the ability to find hope amidst despair, to find strength in adversity, to create beauty and life amidst a barren desert and with the simplest means possible, and the will to uphold each and everyone's right to a decent life, freedom and love. And it is with love that he wrote his memoires, and with love that he lived and shared his hopes and dreams with those who came to know and admire him.

و تخرج من أعماقي و أعماق كل الزملاء ضحكات تحكي نغماتها سيمفونية معاناتنا و آلامنا و أحلامنا و حبنا....سيمفونية الحياة.

From the depths of my heart and those of my colleagues flowed laughter, a laughter whose tunes tell the symphony of our suffering and our pain, of our dreams and our love .... a symphony of life.

Mostafa Tiba died in 1996 at the age of 71. He worked as a journalist in Al Ahram news paper and wrote a number of political books as well as one novel "A Yellow Car Without Numbers".

The Human and Intimate in Maguid Tobia's Short Stories

2010-12-03T08:35:00.000-08:00

Maguid Tobia (1938- ) is an Egyptian novelist, short story writer and journalist, born in Menya in Upper Egypt . His passion for writing began with a passion for reading which started at the age of 14. Coming to Cairo for his university education, he fell in love with cinema and theatre and began his first attempts at writing in the form of radio dramas. This was followed by his first short stories appearing in the 1960s where his first collection "Fustuk Arrives to the Moon" was published in 1967, followed by "Five Unread Newspapers" in 1970 "Khamas Gara'ed lam Tuqra'" and "The Following Days" "Al Ayam Al Talya" in 1972 with other collections to follow over the years. He also published a number of novels among which was Taghrebet Bani Hathout which has been listed by the Union of Arab Writers as one of the 100 best Arabic novels of all time. Moreover, a number of his short stories have been turned into film such as Sons of Silence (Abna' al-Samt).

Many of his short stories focus on the social and political issues of the time, touching on Egypt 's wars with Israel , corruption and oppression as well as the changes and transformations that swept Egypt after the open door policy in the 1970s. Other stories are of a more intimate and universal nature, depicting childhood, parenthood, aging, and love in all its forms and diversity.

One of his very moving stories is "His Handkerchief " or "Mandeluh" a story about a soldier returning home and agonizing on how to tell his best friend's mother that her son had died at the front. This agony is embodied in his own handkerchief which he uses in a attempt to hide his tears, and which the mother, believing that he is using it to wipe his sweat from the road, takes it to wash, giving him instead her son's handkerchief, which in turn causes the soldier even more distress. As the young soldier attempts to hide the dreaded news from the mother, she finally realizes what she has been sensing and fearing in her heart - but trying to deny- in the eyes and behavior of her son's friend as she stands in the balcony pressing and hanging his handkerchief to dry.

In his story "If You Love Me" or "Law Kunt Tuhebeni" he touches on how love –and life - feed on the imagination and our attitude towards life. The ability to "feel" the warmth of spring in the cold of winter, to "see" the magnificent in the mundane, to find great pleasure in simple endeavors and to create and re-create the extraordinary from the ordinary…is what the fire of life – and love – is all about.

Tobia often uses fantasy and animals in his stories to depict moral and social issues. In his story "The Incident that Took Place" "Al Hadetha Alati Garat" he tells us a story of a young bird, angered by how corrupt human officials put the blame on birds for the wheat they steal, decides to bravely confront the truck carrying the stolen wheat, only to be killed in his attempt. His heroic act is sung by the birds like the story of Adham El Sharkawy, the Egyptian Robin Hood-like hero, symbolizing how the small and weak…but free and proud…can always challenge and resist injustice and wrongdoing and be an inspiration to others.

Finally I leave you with a quote from one of his stories "Those Small Gestures""Telka al- Lamasat al-Saghera" where a man celebrating his 40th birthday is overwhelmed with negative thoughts and regrets of how life has passed him by without much to show for, only to be inspired and rejuvenated by the smile of a little girl, showing that happiness and satisfaction can often be found in the little moments and details of life and that regardless of everything, life is worth living.

"He walked briskly towards his home, feeling refreshed and happy by the girl's welcoming gaze and her waving at him. He entered the apartment, still struck by the girl's sweetness and innocence. He found himself wishing her and her parents happiness and health. He undressed and wore his pajamas and got into bed feeling relaxed and at peace with himself. He turned off the light and quickly fell asleep without the aid of a sleeping pill... but he dreamt of a child that looked just like him, a child who sneaked from behind his mother in Upper Egypt, and headed towards the ruins of the ancient temple. There he saw the goats of the gypsies and began playing with them. Whenever they pushed him down he quickly got up again, and went on playing and jumping."

Pictures

2010-10-15T04:31:00.000-07:00

I came across them as I was walking in the garden, heading towards my favorite spot by the sea. A young couple, totally absorbed in themselves, taking pictures of each other with a mobile phone camera. The girl was maybe in her mid twenties, a bit on the plumb side, with a beautiful rounded face and a flowing mane of blonde hair. Given her dark olive complexion I assumed her hair colour wasn’t natural. The young man was probably the same age, very thin and much taller than the girl. There was something about them…about the girl that caught the eye. Her face was lit up with an aura of excitement, of ecstasy as she tossed her hair left and right to pose for the pictures. Then I watched as she held the boy's arm and stood on her tip toes, bringing her cheek right close to his as her outstretched arm clicked a picture of their smiling faces, with the sea in the distance behind them. Then she turned the boy around, and again, cheek to cheek, clicked another picture of the both of them, this time with the trees and flowers of the garden in the background. Again they moved and floated from one position to another, with the girl, radiant with emotion, always leading the way. A keen observer would make no mistake in guessing who the active partner and who the passive one in this dance of love was. When they had finished, I watched as the girl gave the boy an impassioned look, then, taking his face in both her hands, kissed him…on the lips…in full view of everyone.

I was taken aback by the audacity of the girl, by her boldness and daring in a country where such a public display of affection is strictly frowned upon, considered an act of indecency punishable by law. I looked away and continued my walk towards the sea, leaving them behind in their amorous embrace. But I couldn't help feeling a pang of envy. When I was their age such an act in public would have been scandalous and unthinkable. Had things changed that much while I wasn't looking?! Had young women become this assertive and liberated?! As I approached the sea, I welcomed the sense of freedom it always gave me. The lingering picture of the enamored couple made me think how wonderful it would be to live freely and openly, with nothing to hide…to feel and express ones emotions without fear or shame…without secrets to conceal or inhibitions that cripple.

As I headed back some time later, I saw the couple still where they had been. This time the young man was standing up, smiling at the girl as she sat on a bench in front of him. I looked at her as she tied her thick hair in a golden bun. Then from somewhere she pulled out what looked like a long black scarf. In a blink of an eye, and with quick and experienced hands, her hair was totally hidden under a black veil. Then she stood up and in another second she had all but disappeared behind a black 'abayia, with nothing of her left visible except her hands and face …still flushed and beaming with love. She gave a long passionate look at her partner then turned and walked away, with the young man following her at a distance.

I watched them in amazement and wonder as they disappeared into the horizon…a small black figure followed by a tall shadow…and all I could think about was those pictures…those many…many pictures.

In the Name of Allah

2010-08-16T10:32:00.000-07:00

"In the Name of Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful…."

The boy's beautiful voice filled the room with the recitation of Surat Mariam. His mother sat listening with reverence, totally absorbed in the young voice chanting the words of God. How proud she was .that her own son had been blessed with such an angelic voice. How often had he made grown men cry with his impassioned recitation? How many times had he softened hard hearts while praising the beloved Prophet (PBU)?

"O Yahya, hold fast the Book.’ And We gave him wisdom while yet a child…"

She remembered when her father had discovered the gift that God had blessed his grandson with and had made sure to give him proper training with one of the famous Chanters in their town. She recalled how her boy sat in this very same room, day after day reciting and chanting over and over again the many verses of the Holy Quran. How she had fretted and worried about him when his grandfather had taken him from village to village, town to town, so that others would be blessed to hear the purity of his voice in praise and supplication to God.

"And tenderness of heart from Ourself, and purity. And he was pious…"

How proud she had felt when visitors had flocked to their home just to listen to her boy. She recalled the shy smile on her son's face when hearing the words of praise and adoration from his audience and admirers. What a future he had ahead of him as a great chanter.

"And dutiful toward his parents. And he was not haughty and rebellious…"

She closed her eyes as his sweet voice floated through the room, giving her a sense of peace, tranquility and deep love…of acceptance and resignation to the will of the Almighty.

"And peace was on him the day he was born, and the day he died, and peace there will be on him the day he will be raised up to life again."

Suddenly the recitation stopped. She opened her eyes feeling a pang of anxiety as her heart skipped a beat. She stared with apprehension at the silent tape recorder. Her shaking hand slowly and cautiously removed the tape. Thank God…it didn't seem to be damaged. She placed a soft kiss on it with her lips, then pressed it close to her heart. This is all she had left of her son …a small tape that carried his voice…and her soul.

"In the name of Alllah…" she whispered as she carefully reinserted the tape and pressed the "rewind" button. Yes, it was working properly. Then she pressed "Play". She sighed with relief, holding back a tear. A quiet sadness echoed in the room as once again the soft captivating recitation of the beloved voice flowed gently from the old tape recorder…..

"In the Name of Allah… the Compassionate … the Merciful…."

A Scent of Rose Water

2010-07-19T03:41:00.000-07:00

He clung to his mother as they walked towards the Moulid, smelling the soft scent of rose water that floated from her head scarf as the evening wind blew refreshing ripples of cool air against their faces. He was the happiest little boy in the world. At last he was going to theMoulid. How he had pleaded and cried to be taken there. Many in his family, even those younger than him, had gone before. They came back with amazing stories: of parades of chanting men in flowing white robes; of storytellers chanting tales; of puppet shows; of brightly coloured swings; of games they played and little trophies they won; of magicians, toys and delicious sweets. How he longed for that world! But he had never gone. Every year the Moulid came and went to their town but he was left at home, never allowed to go.

“There’s nothing for you to see there” his mother always told him. “You’ll only get lost or hurt my sweetest”.

And when he cried in anger and desperation she told him that he was her special little boy, that she would bring him beautiful gifts, that she would bake him his favorite cookies…she promised him so many things. But he never calmed down until she took him in her arms and hugged him tenderly, holding him until he fell quietly asleep amidst the soft scent of rose water.

But this year he was adamant. He was already ten years old, he wasn’t a baby anymore. He had a right to go just like everybody else! She finally acquiesced after his incessant pleading. They would go…but on one condition…he would stick to her no matter what. He would make sure to always hold her hand and never wander off on his own. She warned him it would be crowded and easy for a little boy like him to be lost.

Yes…yes… yes…he had agreed to every word she said…he was in seventh heaven…at last he would go!

As they approached the Moulid grounds, he shivered with excitement as his body vibrated with the multitude of sounds, voices and music that met his ears. The air was thick with all sorts of smells: incense, tobacco, spices, dust, smoke...an endless aroma of familiar and unfamiliar scents. He was in utter awe and rapture to what his senses were capturing as he clung to his mother, feeling safe in her presence as they both slowly navigated their way deeper and deeper into the crowds, slowly discovering this magic world he had always dreamed of.

He was overwhelmed by the mesmerizing devotional chanting emanating from the many tents that were erected around the Moulid, at times finding his body swaying back and forth to its rhythmic beat; he giggled with delight as he listened intently to every word of the puppet show; he was thrilled by the ride he took on the swings, feeling as if a hand was lifting him up into the heavens; he ate and tasted a multitude of delicious sweets, savoring new and unfamiliar flavours.

Music filled the air, but it is one particular sound that caught his attention …it was the melancholy singing of a rababa…how he loved it. It must be a storyteller chanting his tales. He followed the sound…slowly slipping away from his mother’s side…moving in the direction from where the music came. Before he got too far the rababa stopped. He stood there for a moment, hoping the music would resume, but it never did. He suddenly realized that he was standing all alone…not knowing in which direction to turn. He called out to his mother but she was nowhere near him. For the first time since he came to the Moulid he began feeling a deep sense of fear…people were bumping against him…he fell several times…he was all alone…not knowing where to go or how to reach his mother…was this what she had meant by being lost??? He stood there in horror and began crying…yelling out for her.

“What’s wrong little boy?” he heard a man asking him. “Are you lost?”

“He seems to be blind”, came a woman’s voice. “How could anyone leave a blind child all on his own like that??” she added with indignation.

Just as more people were gathering…just as he was reaching the pit of despair, he felt two strong hands holding him by his armpits, lifting him up in the air and in a fraction of a second he found himself in his mother’s arms.

“Didn’t I tell you not to leave my side” he heard her shouting in a panicked voice. “You scared me to death”, she yelled as she held him tighter.

“Sorry mother”, he sobbed with relief as he began feeling safe again in her comforting arms and the familiar scent he adored.

“Don’t I always tell you to be extra careful," she said in a more tender voice. “You’re special…your eyes can’t see like the rest of us…you can’t wander off on your own like that”.

“Yes mother”, he said in a weak voice as he buried his face in her bosom. He knew she was right…but he had just wanted to listen to the storyteller and the music of the rababa.

Despite this scare, coming to the Moulid was a dream come true. It was a world that had aroused every sense in his body and would forever remain etched in his memory. But fornow, he was happy heading back home…wrapped in the safety of his mother’s embrace…and the soft scent of rose water.

Sleepers...Awake!

2009-12-31T00:48:00.000-08:00

It was already past midnight. She was feeling so tired and worn out. She had been working for days on end, from morning till night. Another important report had to be finished and delivered before the end of the year. It was a critical moment in her career. It would open so many doors for her, so many possibilities and opportunities. There was still a lot to do and she knew she had a long night ahead of her. But she was feeling so tired. Fatigue was setting in, seeping deep in every part of her body. Her back was aching, her shoulders feeling numb. She looked into the screen of her computer feeling her eyes heavy from the strain of long hours of work. She would take a few minutes rest then go back to work. She opened the radio and lied down on the sofa. They were playing Bach's Sleepers, Awake! one of her favorite pieces. It was, calm, soothing, uplifting. She closed her eyes as the soft sound of the oboe floated through the air. How long had it been since she had heard it last? She couldn't even remember. When had she last gone to a concert? In fact, when had she had time to do anything truly meaningful? Her days were all the same, a string of duties and monotony…a rush to do everything…and nothing. She thought of him for a moment as the music permeated her mind and soul…filling in the empty spaces…but she quickly brushed the thought aside.

She stood up and opened the balcony, stepping out into the cold winter night. She was amazed as she saw a full moon shining like a sliver ball in the heart of the dark sky. She stared at it with her weary eyes as the music followed her out into the crisp night air. Thoughts of him came back again. She couldn't resist this time and for a moment she sensed that he was there with her…that his arms held her tight as they both looked up at the bright shining jewel decking the midnight sky...was that him whispering in her ears…was it the heat of his body that was keeping her warm…?

Tears rolled down her face as she stood there, in a magical trance. As the last note of Bach's Sleepers, Awake! was played she re-entered the room and shut the balcony. She looked for a moment at her desk and at the pile of work waiting for her.

She calmly shut her computer, turned off the lights and went to sleep.

Forbidden

2009-08-11T03:39:00.000-07:00

He couldn’t get his eyes off the gorgeous beauty lying in front of him. He tried turning round and walking away, but he just couldn’t resist the temptation of looking. He knew it was forbidden, that he should brush away the thoughts that were coming to his mind…but the temptation was too strong, he just couldn’t help himself. He looked again, feeling a formidable desire swelling inside of him. No…he must be strong…he wasn’t a child anymore…he’d better leave right now…he knew better than this. If he dared do what he was thinking of doing, and his wife found out, she would really be upset. He turned to go again but hesitated at the door. Why be so hard on himself…why not break the rules once in a while… what was wrong in a little moment of pleasure …even if it was forbidden?? He was human after all for crying out loud! He looked again. No, no, he must act like a responsible adult and control himself. He could end up paying a high price and hurting himself and those he cared for if things went wrong. He’d better leave right now! He took one last look. But he knew he shouldn’t have because all of a sudden his defenses broke down. He felt his heart pounding faster …he was perspiring heavily…an aching desire gripped him mercilessly. Oh he just couldn’t resist this!! To hell with all the rules!!

He plunged forward, grabbed the knife and cut two big slices from the chocolate cake. He put them on a plate and began eating like a madman….God it was delicious!! He groaned with pleasure as he savored the juicy cake and felt the chocolate icing slowly melting in his mouth...it was pure ecstasy! He knew his wife would be mad at him. He was overweight, diabetic, with a history of heart problems. Sweets like this delicious beauty were strictly forbidden. But there were times when he couldn’t bear this deprivation. He loved chocolates and sweets, let alone this magnificent cake baked by his wife for their guests.

As he finished the last bits of cake on his plate he began feeling guilty that he had weakened and succumbed to his desires. But on second thoughts...what kind of life would it be if we couldn't enjoy some sweet little pleasures every now and then...even if they were forbidden.

The Café

2009-05-24T02:09:00.000-07:00

He tried walking at a faster pace, but it wasn’t that easy with his bad leg and walking stick. He remembered when it used to take him just ten minutes to walk to the Café, now it would take him over twenty minutes. But today was a beautiful winter morning, a bit chilly but fresh and clear and he would enjoy the walk. He was excited to see the Café. For several months now it had been closed for renovations. They had been long boring months. The Café was more like a second home to him and had been so for many years. There he met friends, discussed everything from politics to sports, read the papers, sipped his Turkish coffee and watched the hustle and bustle of life in the main square in front of the Café.

It was a simple Café, like many others, but it had its own very special character and charm that had captured his heart and made it one of his most favorite places. He remembered the first time he went there as a young boy with his father. It was his first venture into the adult world and he had been completely fascinated by the place. He loved its beautifully colored tiled floors with intricate floral designs; the mirrors that stretched throughout the upper portion of the walls giving it a more spacious feeling and a sense of infinity; the now faded pictures of its proud owners hanging over the wood paneled counter welcoming all those who walked into their world; its large terrace with its enormous green canopy stretching like an endless green sky overlooking the square. But most of all he was enchanted by its mystical aroma…its almost ethereal scent…a mixture of coffee, cardamom, and tobacco, …of tea, mint, and cologne….of laughter, whispers and sighs.

After his wife died, he had made it a habit to go to the Café everyday. He found solace there among friends and its clientele, as well as the waiters who knew him so well. Even when he was alone he enjoyed its warm atmosphere and the sounds and smells of life that vibrated within its walls. And now, in his twilight years, the Café was a refuge from an ever changing world, a little haven where things still seemed familiar and real.

He was now entering the street where the Café was located and was full of excitement and anticipation as he got nearer. Most of the regular crowd would already be there by now he thought to himself as he tried to quicken his pace, almost feeling the taste of their exquisite Turkish coffee on his lips.

The moment he entered the Café he was struck by the complete change that met his eyes. Gone were the beautifully colored tiles, the mirrors, the faded pictures, the wood paneled counter…even its beloved aroma had disappeared leaving in its stead a dull and artificial scent. The spacious terrace had been enclosed within the Café itself and the outside world was only visible through a barrier of glass and steel. Even the clientele was different…he couldn’t see any familiar faces.

He stood there for some moments trying to absorb the change that had so abruptly struck his eyes and senses. A waiter approached him inviting him to take a seat. He didn’t recognize him either nor any of the other waiters.

“What would you wish to order sir,” he asked.

“Can I have a Turkish Coffee?” he replied in a semi-dazed voice.

“I’m sorry sir, but we don’t serve it.”

“How come?” he asked in bewilderment” “You always did.”

“I’m sorry sir, but we’re a different establishment now. We’re an international chain…we serve coffee with over 20 different flavours,” he replied in a proud tone as he handed him the menu.

He took a quick glance at the brightly colored menu. It had dozens of items, many with exotic names. He gasped at the prices…they were way above what his meager pension could afford.

“Eh…I forgot I have an errand to do…I may be back later on…thank you”, he told the waiter in a weak voice as he handed him back the menu.

He awkwardly made his way out of the Café, feeling a growing chill creeping all over his body. For the first time since his wife died he felt tears come to his eyes. As he slowly crossed the street his body began to shake. He didn’t know if it was from the cold or from the deep sense of loss that had so intensely gripped him. He just stood there in the middle of the street, feeling the entire weight of his seventy eight years pressing down on his shoulders…almost crushing his walking stick. In the distance he could see cars speeding in his direction….but all he could do was just stand there…shaking…in front of the Café…

Out of Africa

2009-04-28T03:04:00.000-07:00

"I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills..."

With these simple words begins "Out of Africa", the memoirs written by Isak Dinesen, the pen name used by the Danish author Baroness Karen Blixen (1886-1962). The book, published in 1937, recounts the 17 years of her life from 1914 to 1931 that she spent in British East Africa (modern day Kenya) on her coffee plantation and gives a vivid picture of Colonial Africa during the closing decades of the British Empire.

Her life in Kenya begins when she moved there to marry a distant cousin, Baron Bror von Blixen-Finecke. Together they established a coffee plantation on their farm located in the highlands, six thousand feet in altitude. "The geographical position and the height of the land combined to create a landscape that had not its like in all the world….it was Africa distilled up through six thousand feet, like the strong and refined essence of the continent." However, differences between them and her husband's infidelity led to their separation in 1921 and ultimate divorce in 1925. Maybe for this reason, it is no surprise that he is not mentioned in her 389 page book, except for a passing reference to "my husband" in one of the pages. Karen Blixen, an independent, courageous and capable woman, continued to manage the farm until poor crop yields and falling coffee prices during the Great depression pushed her more into debt and having to sell out in 1931.

One of the most moving things about this book is how the author conveys her strong feelings and love for Africa , its land, animals, nature and most of all, its people. Although she uses language that today may be judged as having racist or colonial undertones, she viewed the Africans with respect and affection, and unlike her colonial and European contemporaries who perceived them as savages or simpletons, she saw them as a people who, although different in culture and traditions, had dignity, nobility and beauty. She was a colonial settler, owning 6000 acres of land, but in certain parts of the book you can sense her awareness that this land truly belonged to the Kikuyu tribespeople who lived and worked on her land and who were termed "squatters" by the colonial establishment. "My squatters…were born on the farm and their fathers before them and they very likely regarded me as a sort of superior squatter on their estates". Near the end of the book, she sadly reflects on the fate of the Kikuyu after her farm is being sold off and they are forced to move elsewhere by the new owners: "It is more than their land that you take away from the people, whose Native land you take. It is their past as well, their roots and their identity. If you take away the things they have been used to see and will be expecting to see, you may as well take their eyes."

Isak Dinesen or Karen Blixen was a story teller and maybe for this reason her book is written like a combination of stories about the many people who touched her life and the many events that marked her stay in Africa. She tells of the culture and customs of the Kikuyu who worked on her farm and their big Chief Kinanjui “a crafty old man, with a fine manner, and much real greatness to him.” She talks of the Masai, a proud semi-nomadic cattle-owning nation with a warrior culture, who lived across the river from her farm on a tribal reservation after having been forced to leave their lands to make way for white settlers. She laments their fate: "They were fighters who had been stopped fighting, a dying lion with his claws clipped, a castrated nation". She speaks of the Somali Muslims who worked in Kenya, such as Farah Aden, her close and loyal assistant who helped her on the farm and remained faithfully at her side till the end. She contrasts the differences in perception about death, fate, time, justice and other issues between the African and the European: "A white man who wanted to say a pretty thing to you would write: I can never forget you. The African says: We do not think of you, that you can ever forget us."

She also writes about the Europeans who were near to her heart and who were regular visitors to her farm. They were mostly people who were close friends with the Africans, who were one with nature and who were non-conformists like herself. Foremost of these was Denys Finch Hatton, a hunter and the man she loved for many years. Although she never explicitly mentions in her book the nature of their relationship, her affection and adoration of him show through her words: "“When he came back to the farm, it gave out what was in it – it spoke… When I heard his car coming up the drive, I heard, at the same time, all the things of the farm telling what they really were." She flew with him over Africa in his airplane, in what she described as one of the greatest "and most transporting pleasure of my life on the farm." But it is while flying his plane that he crashed and lost his life in 1931. It is very moving to read her account of his death and burial on a ridge in the Ngong Hills according to his wishes. Just as he had taken in Africa through his eyes and mind and made it part of himself, "now Africa would receive him…and make him one with herself."

The last part of the book is heart wrenching as she describes the failure of the farm and its sale and her state of denial and inability to grasp the fact that she had lost everything and would have to leave the land and way of life she had come to love so dearly. "It was not I who was going away, I did not have it in my power to leave Africa , but it was the country that was slowly and gravely withdrawing from me, like the sea in ebb-tide."

Karen Blixen returned to her family's estate in Denmark at the age of 46. She dedicated her time to writing and was nominated twice for the Nobel prize but never won it. Some of her other works include Seven Gothic Tales, The Angelic Avengers, Babett's Feast, and Shadows on the Grass. Out of Africa was her most widely known work and inspired the Academy Award winning 1985 film of the same name. She died in 1962, never having returned to her beloved Africa again.

"If I know a song of Africa, of the Giraffe, and the African new moon lying on her back, of the ploughs in the fields, and the sweaty faces of the coffee-pickers, does Africa know a song of me?"

Little Moments

2009-03-10T05:51:00.000-07:00

She lay beside him on the bed, watching him as he slept. His breathing was soft and gentle as he lay on his back, his right hand on his chest and his head turned towards her. She loved these quiet little moments when they were all alone, when she could simply rest for a while as they lay side by side, and watch him sleeping peacefully. She looked at him with loving eyes. Her hands softly touched his forehead, moved down to his nose, then to his lips. He was gorgeous!

Six months ago she would have never believed she would be so consumed by a love like this…a love she had never known before and never imagined to exist. It's true it had brought her restless nights and days of anxiety …but it was at moments like this one that she could sense the depth of an emotion that sometimes overwhelmed her and brought tears to her eyes.

An afternoon breeze floated softly into the room from the window behind them, gliding gently over the two bodies stretched out on the bed. She caressed his light brown hair, feeling it’s softness on her fingers. “I love you my sweetest”, she whispered as she slowly bent over him and placed a small kiss on his forehead. She smiled as his scent filled her nostrils…a delicate perfume that made her heart flutter with emotion.

She gave a deep sigh as she gazed at him. Would she ever be strong enough to watch him walk away one day…it was bound to happen wasn’t it? She knew that. But she quickly brushed the thought aside…it was silly to think of that now when life offered them plenty of time to share and so many things still to come.

He began to move. He never napped more than an hour. He opened his eyes, rubbing them with both his hands.
“Hi there tiger”, she said giving him a big smile. He glanced back, his face showing the familiar signs she knew all too well. His hands reached out for her…she knew what he wanted…she took him in her arms….

She looked at him tenderly as he suckled at her breast. Her little angel was always hungry when he woke up. He had such an appetite! He paused for a moment, milk on his mouth, looking upwards at his mother. She gazed down into his soft brown eyes…and for a brief little moment…she saw the world.

On Alexandria: Capital of Memory...Land of Saffron

2009-02-26T06:15:00.000-08:00

What is it in Alexandria that grasps the soul and the imagination? What is it about this city that triggers so much passion and emotions? Is it the scent of its glorious past? Its cosmopolitan history etched in its buildings and streets? The whisper of its sea? The warmth of its cafés?

"Capital of Memory"..."City of the Soul"... “Land of Saffron”... these are some of the words with which Alexandria has been described by some of its native sons and by some of those who have lived in it for short periods of time, only to have the memory of their stay in this ancient city deeply carved in their minds.

It is interesting to compare and contrast how Alexandria was seen and perceived by two different authors and how both expressed their distinct thoughts, feelings and impressions on this city in their literary works. Lawrence Durell (1912-1990) and Edward Al-Kharrat (1926- ) are two prominent literary figures who were deeply touched by Alexandria. For both of them, this city was the main setting and central character for some of their major works of fiction. However, Alexandria signified very different things to each of them.

Durell spent 4 years in Alexandria during WWII. That stay inspired his foremost literary achievement and magnum opus, The Alexandria Quartet, first published in 1957 with Justin, which was soon followed by Balthazar, Mountolive, and Clea, the last to appear in early 1960. The first three novels are three versions of the same story set in Alexandria on the eve of World War II, and the fourth is a look back at events of the first three. Durell was more infatuated with Alexandria’s “Hellenic” past , the roots of Western civilization, more than he was with the Alexandria he saw with his eye and which he described as “ a big sordid city haunted by its past”. Thus in the Alexandria Quartet he evokes the city’s wonderful past , describing it as: “Alexandria, princess and whore. The royal city and the anus mundi.” Alexandria: “the Capital of Memory.” Moreover, Durrell focused in his novel on the city’s cosmopolitan upper class community and the many foreigners that crowded wartime Alexandria but largely left out Egyptians and their culture and society, only depicting them in a mystical and exotic form. For this reason Edward Said saw the Alexandria Quartet as an Orientalist text in that it portrays a mystical Muslim/Arab world that exists primarily in the Western mind.

On the other hand, Edward Al-Kharrat, an Egyptian novelist born in Alexandria to a Coptic Christian family, depicts his native city in a much more poetic and intimate manner, labeling it “City of Saffron” (“Turabuha Za’faran”) the title of one of his three novels on Alexandria, the other two being Girls of Alexandria (“Banat Iskendereya”) and My Alexandria (“Isanderiyati”) which were largely semi-autobiographic al novels. Al-Kharrat was active in the Egyptian national movement and was imprisoned for two years in 1948 for his nationalist and revolutionary activities. He was deeply influenced by the Arab literary heritage such as The Thousand and One Nights and other classical texts, and by Coptic and Christian readings as well as by Russian novelsists and English Romantic poets. All these influences combined to produce Al-Kharrat’s unique poetic language that was rich with symbols, metaphors and myth. And it is with this language that he described his beloved Alexandria, a city which he saw, unlike Durrell, in it’s entirety: in its ancient past and modern present, in its diverse cultural heritage, in its richness and beauty, in its Egyptian heart and soul as well as in the multitude of its diverse ethnic and faith communities. I leave you with some of his beautiful words on his Alexandria…Land of Saffron:
إسكندريتي...مدينتي التي أعرفها و أصونها في عمق قلبي، و أعشقها حتى التدله، و التي ترابها زعفران، حلم و تراث عميق و ساحة حب، و الكد، و مساءلة للمجهول وفي وقت معا. الأسكندرية شط يقع على حافة بحر الأبد، حافة المطلق. الأسكندرية هي هذا المحيط السحري اليانع النضرة على حافة كون ملحي شاسع بل غير محدود. الأسكندرية عالم ساطع و نقي و نظيف و حي، متقلب بروائح خصوبة جديدة دائمة التجدد، و لكنه هش- - يقع على حرف هوة لا قرار لها، متلاطمة، خادعة في لحظات هدوئها ، فيها سحر جذاب لا يقاوم، و جمال لا يمكن أبدا الإحاطة به و الانتهاء من تملي مفاتنه، قوية الأذرع ممدودة الي تدعوني دعاء لا أكاد أعرف كيف أصده، دعاء في الاستجابة له وقوع القضاء الذي لا مرد منه على هذه الحافة الهشة القلقة. بين الحياة و العدم ، بيتي و وطني. إسكندريتي هي الست وهيبة و حسنية و تلميذات مدرسة نبوية موسى و حسين افندي مراقب الكبري بين غيط العنب و راغب باشا و فتاة باب الكراستة التي أنقذتني من الشرطة العسكرية، و المعلم عوض صاحب سيرجة الزيت. إسكندرية رفلة أفندي و أخوالي ناتان و يونان و سوريال، أسكندرية شارع 12 و وابور الدقيق و أصطبل عربات الحنطور جنب ترعة المحمودية، أسكندرية أصدقائي من جابر إلى المردني، و البنات اللتي أحببتهن: مصريات و شاميات و يونانيات ، كلهن من بنات أسكندرية حقا و لسن أجنبيات أو غربيات أو غرائبيات. أسكندرية الريس نونو و بيوت الفراهدة وعمال مخازن من عم على و الأسطى مرسي النجار إلى أبو شنب العجوز و حميدو شورتي. و أسنكندرية سيدى المرسي أبو العباس و الكنيسة المرقسية، لها أبعادها الأسطورية حقا و لكن لها صخرها الواقعي و تراب أرضها في أن معا.

Side by Side

2009-01-10T03:17:00.000-08:00

I watch them as they lie side by side, four beautiful little children. The eldest is surely not older than six years of age, the youngest…maybe six months or a little more. Three girls and a boy. Their little faces carry similar features: small pointed noses, hazel shaped eyes, and a freckled complexion. The eldest girl has long beautiful chestnut hair tied in a pony tail…how attractive she would be as a young woman. The second girl has a cute dimple on her chin, and the boy has heavy dark brown hair with curls covering his forehead. As for the little one…the youngest of the four, she has an angelic smile that no madness in the world could ever erase.

They lie there side by side, three sisters and a brother, so quiet and peaceful. I stare at the small red flowers on the little ones pink pajamas. She must have stared and wondered at them as she raised her arms in the air like she does every night before dozing off to sleep. I smile at the funny cartoon figures on the boy’s green pajamas… and remember the similar ones I bought for my own son not that long ago. I can imagine how much commotion these four little children could create, how much they could fill the world with laughter and shouting, with childish pranks and teasing, with wonder and questions, with life and love.

But now they lie quietly, side by side…on a thin blanket on the hospital floor. I worry that the bitter winter cold will seep into their frail little bodies from the dampness beneath them. But then I remember that they don’t feel anything anymore…neither cold nor warmth, pain nor relief, love nor hatred. They lie silent and lifeless. The fires of hatred have reaped their lives and that of many others, descending upon them with a vicious wrath in the early hours of the morning.

I watch as they lie on the floor, their pale faces covered with dust from the debris of their demolished home. Stains of blood deck their pajamas matching the color of the small red flowers. I watch in silence, numbed by sadness and helplessness. What barbaric mind could have wrought such destruction? What monstrous hand could rain showers of death on these innocent ones? In what deep dark pit of hatred and injustice has humanity sunk to?

I stand there motionless and speechless as silent tears of anger and despair stream down my face. I wonder if their little hearts pounded with fear as they heard the screaming of fighter jets and missiles over their heads…or did it all happen while they were sound asleep…dreaming of an innocent world filled with red flowers and funny cartoons?

I stare at the floor of the Gaza hospital and watch the four of them as they lie in silence…while behind them stretch rows…and rows of lifeless little children…lying quietly… side by side.

Reflections on Azazeel by Youssef Ziedan

2008-12-20T05:08:00.000-08:00

The novel Azazeel by Yousif Ziedan is one of six Arab literary works short listed for the second Arab Booker Prize to be announced next March 2009. When it was first published this year (2008), Azazeel caused a stir, mainly in religious circles in Egypt. It was seen by some as a critique of the Egyptian Coptic Orthodox Church and an attack on the Christian faith. However, a closer reading of Azazeel indicates a different intention. The novel, by shedding light on a historical period in Egypt and the Middle East and on the 5th century theological differences regarding the nature of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, underlines how religions - all religions - are often manipulated for wordly purposes/interests and how countless injustices and cruelties have been committed in the name of God. It is a message relevant to all religions whether Christianity, Islam, Judaism or other faiths and it is relevant to our present times as much as it was 16 centuries ago. History is evidence enough that no religion/faith can claim the upper moral ground when it comes to what its followers have sadly perpetuated in its name throughout the centuries. And it is the average man/humanity at the end that has paid a high price for this.

The novel also highlights how history is often distorted by those who write it-especially if they are those in positions of power and authority - and how weaknesses, failures, defeats and the credibility of opposing ideas are often obscured or undermined to present us with a different version of reality that is more fitting to the interests of the powers that be.

The novel also dwells on the dichotomy between reason and religious dogma, between science and faith. Hypa, a monk and the main protagonist of the novel is a symbol of the constant tension between these elements. His name itself is derived from that of Hypatia, a 5th century Greek scholar from Alexandria, considered the first notable woman in mathematics, who also taught philosophy and astronomy and whom he witnessed being killed at the hands of a Coptic Christian mob in the streets of Alexandria. Hypa is a man of science and medicine, a poet and avid reader traveling with a baggage of books (including religiously forbidden books), but also a monk and a man of religion. That is why throughout the novel he is haunted by doubts and questions. He is a man with a sincere and genuine conviction in the humane and compassionate principles of his faith but is disillusioned and torn by the violence and repression condoned by the religious establishment of which he is a part. He goes through a lifetime journey of questioning and discovery, and at the end can only make the choice that leaves him one with himself and his convictions.

Azazeel is a novel that invites us to reflect and re-think many of our established beliefs/world views and "taboo" subjects. It is an invitation to re-read and re-discover history, to understand the real forces, interests and issues at play, and from that understand more our reality today, and how to build a future that is more inclusive, just and free of prejudice.

His Laughter

2008-10-21T07:51:00.000-07:00

She loved the feeling of fresh sea air blowing against her face as she cycled along the beach road. On her right side were the soft sands of the beach stretching out into the beautiful turquoise sea. On her left side stood rows of elegant summer houses with brightly colored gardens. Every day, just before sunset, she cycled four laps along the beach road. She loved the sense of freedom, of movement and of speed that cycling gave her…of being in control. Day after day she felt her strength growing and the muscles in her legs getting firmer as she peddled longer and faster.

She was nearing the bend at the end of the beach road and going on into her second lap when she saw him there like she did every day, standing behind a car parked in front of one of the summer houses. As usual, he was leaning his arms on the top of the car, gazing at the sea or chatting with people or just staring at those strolling or cycling by. He always had sun glasses on but she could tell that he was in his mid or late thirties. He seemed pretty good looking with an attractive tanned face. But what attracted her the most was his amazing laughter. Many times she could hear it long before she saw him. It was that kind of warm gregarious laughter that seemed to send ripples of joy out into the air, touching and uplifting everything that came in its way. The laughter of a caring and kindred spirit. It always made her smile somehow…inside out. One thing though that made her feel a bit uncomfortable was how he sometimes seemed to stare at people. At times she could almost feel his intense gaze on her as she cycled past him.

As she started her third lap she could see him still standing there. But this time she heard him shouting out. There was a little girl on a tricycle in the middle of the road. As she turned the bend she saw him come out from behind the car towards the girl. She was shocked the moment she saw him and almost slammed into the sidewalk. He came out walking on two crutches. He only had one leg. His right leg was amputated from above the knee. He slowly moved towards the little girl and stood in the middle of the road as she cycled back to safety onto the side walk.

She didn’t know why she suddenly seemed out of breath…why she felt so much weight in her legs as she struggled through her third lap …why she had a lump in her throat. Even though she didn't know him personally, she had developed a kind of affinity towards him, the kind that grows between perfect strangers who somehow become a part of each others lives and daily routine. His captivating laughter had deepened this feeling even more so.

Coming back for her last lap she noticed that he wasn’t there any more. But as she slowly turned the bend the echo of his familiar laughter reached her ears from somewhere. She could almost feel it rippling past her unto the beach, floating softly over the sea and vanishing into the golden red disc gently descending into the sea. For a fleeting moment she could have sworn that the sun was smiling just before it disappeared into the turquoise waters.

Old

2008-09-23T03:22:00.000-07:00

He walked into the restaurant. It was crowded. He found an empty table at the back near the window. He took his seat and looked at his watch. He was glad he had come a bit early to reserve a table before his family came. On weekends the place was always full. He ordered a lemon juice as he waited.

“My back hurts a lot these days…” he heard someone talking behind him.
“I underwent a sonar the other day….” came the reply.

From their voices he could tell they were elderly. He had just caught a glimpse of two men sitting in the table behind him when he had taken his seat. They were both talking in loud voices as most older people do…probably because they couldn’t hear so well.

“Did you hear about the new hospital ? It has an excellent cardiac unit…” the conversation went on.
“Yes, I visited a friend there the other day. His daughter was with him. He’s lucky…if ever I get hospitalized I won’t have anyone with me….” came the answer in a tone of regret.
“Do you know that my daughter calls me only once a week??? They have no time for us anymore!” exclaimed the other
“What I worry most about is dying at home alone and nobody finding out except after many days….”
“I think about that too. But if you’re gone so what!? Why worry about something if you’re dead and gone!!”

Oh a typical conversation between old people he thought to himself as he overheard them talking....and how depressing it was!! Illness…loneliness…death… ungrateful kids…and the list goes on! He’d heard it so many times before. In the future he’d make a point never to sit near elderly people…no point in spoiling an outing with this type of dispiriting talk!
He looked at his watch again…they were late.

“Did I tell you I bought a plot in the new cemetery...”
“No you didn’t…but good for you. When my time comes I’ll have to be taken to the family cemetery in my hometown…it’s a long way. I just hope it won’t be a hot summer day when I go!!!”

There they go again he thought to himself. The conversation was starting to irritate him. If the restaurant hadn’t been so crowded he would have changed tables. He was hoping the family would hurry up and come. He glanced at the doorway…His eyes brightened up…there they were at last.

He waved to his daughter. She came towards him and gave him a big hug.
”Really missed you sweet heart” he said in an emotional voice as he held her tightly, “It’s been ages”.
Then came her husband…his grandson…his wife…and their twin girls. The two little ones jumped into their great-grandfathers' arms. He tried picking them up as he stood but that was too great a feat for his aging back and weak legs. He almost lost his balance and slumped back into his chair.

“It’s not easy being old my sweeties” he said with a chuckle as they both clambered up his lap and kissed him, "It’s not easy being old...”

Call to Prayer

2008-09-11T05:48:00.000-07:00

Allah Akbar…Allah Akbar…The call to dawn prayer came gently to his ears, slowly awakening him. Haya ‘ala el- Sala…Haya ‘ala el-Falah…How he loved Sheikh Fadl’s voice…so pure…so warm…so divine. It made him feel as if the Almighty himself was calmly nudging him to wake up and guiding him gently to pray. Although he lived a few blocks away from the mosque, he could still hear Sheikh Fadl’s beautiful melodic azzan as it floated softly through the early dawn silence. For many years since he was a child he had heard this enchanting voice. Never had Sheikh Fadl, come rain or sunshine, failed to climb the long and winding stairs of the tall minaret five times a day to call the faithful to prayer. And never had he himself failed to answer his call and perform his religious duty …for how could anyone listening to this divine voice that touched both heart and soul fail to obey. He remembered how, as a child, he had once woken up trembling from a bad nightmare. At that same moment he heard Sheikh Fadl’s call to dawn prayer coming from afar. His heavenly voice soothed and calmed him. It brought peace to his heart and made him feel safe in the embrace of God's love. He knew from that day that the Almighty may be far above in the heavens, unseen and untouchable, yet he was near and ever so close with his mercy and compassion.

He continued to listen to the call to prayer as he lay in bed… …but why was it getting louder?...what was happening to Sheikh Fadl’s voice?...why was he shouting like that?...what was going on???

He woke up in bed with a start. He had been dreaming again of Sheikh Fadl and his call to prayer. He gave a long deep sigh as he got out of bed. Sheikh Fadl had died many years ago and nobody climbed minarets any more. There were microphones now…three of them from three different mosques in his street. They were open at full blast, all at the same time, bombarding his ears with what was supposed to be a call to prayer, but what was for him a jumble of shouting, hoarse voices and static. He knew that things changed with the times, but he could never reconcile himself to what others considered a sign of progress and modernity. He felt he was being roughly shaken awake, held by the neck and dragged out of bed by a harsh unfeeling hand. The cold metallic shouting from so many mosques only touched his nerves but never his heart. For him it felt more like a call to perform a mere ritual rather than an act of faith, a call that aroused the fear of hell rather than the love of God.

As he headed to the bathroom, he tried to shut out the ugly sounds that pierced his ears. He reached deep down in his heart and soul in search of the sounds of love, beauty and compassion stored in his memory from a distant past. From somewhere deep within, slowly and gradually emerged that divine and beloved voice…it gently enveloped him in an aura of peace and serenity…and it was all that he heard as he completed his ablutions and spread his prayer rug…the heavenly voice of Sheikh Fadl’s call to prayer.

Beaches of Marina

2008-08-31T15:37:00.000-07:00

“Yalla, wake up my love”, his mother said as she gently placed a kiss on his forehead. “You’ll miss the bus if you don’t hurry”.

He slowly turned in his bed. He looked at the time. It was 4:30 am. The bus leaving for Marina Beach Resort was at 5:30. He struggled to get out of bed…how he wished to have a bit more time to sleep! He went to the bathroom as his mother prepared him a cup of tea and some sandwiches. He’d drink his tea now and leave the sandwiches for the bus. He washed his face and dressed quickly. His suitcase was already packed from the night before. His body was still aching as he sat sipping his tea with his mother. He had done a lot of hard work during the past few days and all he dreamed of was a few days of sleep.

“Cheer up my sweetest..” his mother said in a tender voice as she looked at his tired face. “You’ll be at the seaside…the sea wind does wonders for you…you always come back looking great.”
“Yes mother…for sure,” came his blunt reply.
He was ready to go. He gave his mother a big hug and a kiss.
“Take care of yourself my dearest and call me when you get there”, came her concerned voice as he picked up his bag and headed for the door.

He had a long way to go to reach the bus, but he made it just in time. It was already full of young people like himself, some of whom he recognized from previous trips, all heading for the different beach resorts along the North Coast.

He took a seat by the window. He dozed off for a while, dreaming that he was lying on a golden beach with his beloved, holding hands and whispering in each other's ears. How he adored her and longed for them to be married!! Would that day ever come?? He woke up with a start as the bus stopped at the toll station. He looked out of the window and saw rows of cars packed with suitcases, bicycles and filled with happy smiling vacationers all heading for the beaches.

He finally reached his destination. It was already past 8:30 am. He jumped off the bus, greeting on his way all the familiar faces. He met a group of the guys heading for the beach.
“Hey, you’re late”, called out one of them. “You’d better hurry up”.

He ran to his room, quickly undressed and put on his blue overalls and white boots. He picked up his fork and ran for the beach. There was just a handful of holiday makers. Everybody else was still sleeping. He joined the group of men-in-blue and began sweeping the beach. Coke cans, food scraps, tissue paper, empty bottles, candy wrappers, all sorts of trash left behind by vacationers or thrown unto the beach by the sea had to be swept every morning. Everything would be clean by the time the crowds hit the beaches later on in the day. He slowly worked at his job, at moments feeling a strong desire just to lie down and sleep on the soft golden sands. He wished he had rested during his short break, but he had to work on his days off as well. It wasn’t easy making ends meet, let alone putting something aside for the future. He stood for a while under the shade of a wooden umbrella and looked out at the beautiful blue sea stretching out into the horizon. He felt a cool sea breeze gently brushing against his face. It reminded him of his mother’s words and her tender voice. He smiled as he went back to sweeping…and sweeping…the beaches of Marina.

A Lovely Day

2008-08-31T15:24:00.000-07:00

She felt the warm rays of the afternoon sun on her body, penetrating her woolen jacket and reaching deep into her bones. What a beautiful sensation it was! She slowly sipped her tea with milk, sweetened with a bit of honey, savoring every drop. It was one of those crisp clear spring days, not too cold and not too warm. She was sitting on the terrace overlooking the garden. She raised her eyes to the sky. Its dark blue color seemed to beckon her to reach out and touch it. In front of her lay the garden rich with colors. A canvass of violet, orange and yellow bougainvillea sprawled over the garden fence. Pink and red geraniums were in full bloom, their leaves a dark bright green. She had to remind the gardener to make cuttings and plant some new pots.

She took a deep breath, taking in the fresh air and the sweet scent of orange blossoms. When had they planted that orange tree?? Oh…that had been so many years ago! Now it stood majestically at the entrance of the garden, like a handsome woman, displaying her beauty every spring and arousing the senses with her deep perfume.

She held the tea cup in both her hands, feeling its warmth running through her body. The exquisite singing of a black bird could be heard from a distance. She closed her eyes and listened to it with reverence, as she had for many years now, awaiting this divine gift of spring, the "song of love" as she had always called it. For her, no music could surpass this enchanting mating song that seemed to usher in the birth of life and love anew.

The sound of laughter came from within the house. It was her grandchildren. They had spent a morning of story telling together. She had never realized how much fantastic stories her imagination could still conjure up until she sat looking into their beaming and eager faces as tale after magic tale flowed from her lips. It made her feel so much alive.

She laid her head back and took a deep breath as the scent of jasmine penetrated her whole being. How sweet life could be!!

"Mother!!" she heard her daughter calling from inside. "You better get in now…it's getting cold. Remember you have to rest…your chemotherapy session is tomorrow."

"Oh…those sessions!!" she cried out loud as her daughter pushed her wheelchair into the house. How she hated them.

"But at least," she thought to herself with a smile, "today had been such a lovely day!"

Waiting

2008-08-31T14:54:00.000-07:00

She swallowed the last drop of tea and put her cup down. She had drunk it slowly hoping he would have come by the time she finished it. He always came home at this time. She went to the kitchen and rinsed the cup out and laid it to dry on the sink. On her way out she put her hand on the pots on the oven. They were still warm. If he came now it would take just a few minutes to re-heat the food. He always came home so hungry! She went back to the living room and turned on the TV, browsing the different channels. Nothing much today…as everyday. He still hadn’t come. She turned off the TV and went to the window and looked out. His car wasn’t there …or maybe he had parked it further up the street and would walk back home. No sign of him yet. She went back in and sat on the sofa. She picked up the crossword puzzle and tried to work on it. She had always been such a wiz at it but now….why did it seem so difficult?! She heard footsteps coming up the stairs. “Oh that must be him!” she thought as she rushed to open the door. She blushed as she saw the upstairs neighbor going up. She quickly closed the door feeling embarrassed. How could she have mistaken his footsteps?? She new their sound by heart as she new everything else about him. She went back to the living room and turned on the radio. She liked the music that played this hour of the day. He loved it too and always listened to it as they had their dinner together. She waited. When would he come? It was starting to get dark now. She felt a cold shiver run through her body and tightened her shawl around her. She rose to her feet and went to turn off the radio. She looked up at the clock… its monotonous ticking throbbing in her head. She felt the familiar heaviness in her heart as the darkness enveloped the living room.

She sat in silence…. as she has sat every night since he left her two years ago……waiting.

Hands of Love

2008-08-31T14:28:00.000-07:00

I hold his hands in mine. Despite the visible signs of aging they still maintain their special beauty that I love so much. Their elegant shape, the long, delicate fingers, but most of all the energy of life they have always conveyed. Their sweet scent fills my nostrils as I bring them to my lips and softly kiss them.

As a child, these hands enchanted me. I watched in awe as I saw them bring forth magic tunes from a violin or a piano, or convert a piece of candy wrapping or scraps of paper into a little doll, a bird or flower. I was fascinated by the different shapes these hands took...a flying eagle, a lion’s mouth, an old man, as I sat wide eyed listening to tale after tale… transported from one magic world to another. I was captivated by how they worked on wood, leather, and glass creating endless works of beauty, how they cared and nourished all types of plants transforming our home into a virtual greenhouse. They were hands that seemed to breath life and beauty into all what they touched. And as they aged they never lost their vitality nor their passion to create.

Even as his illness progressed and he lost motion in most of his body, his hands remained alive. They would reach out to touch me as I sat by his bedside, finding my arm and pressing it gently. He could speak no more and hardly see, but his hands spoke many words: I’m still here…don’t worry...I’ve had a great life...not afraid to go…I love you…

I gently let go of his hands and take a last look at them as they rest motionless on his chest. They are lifeless now and wet with my tears. My heart is heavy. I know I will never see them again...those hands of creation…hands of love.