Little Moments

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

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

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 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....and rows.... of lifeless little children…lying quietly… side by side.

Reflections on Azazeel by Youssef Ziedan

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

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

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

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.