The Mulid of Sayeda Zeinab

Imagine a loud karaoke room, but set outside and turned up to the maximum with the subwoofers blasting a man’s voice and drumming and horns. Fill the streets with cars and Egyptians swaying to the beat to celebrate the birth of Sayeda Zeinab, the grand-daughter of the prophet Mohammed (PBUH).

A wall of sound surrounds us, but it is really more of an assault on the eardrums than anything else. It is at this moment that I realize the Western ear is clearly more sensitive than the Egyptian one. Our hearing has been spoiled by regulations modulating decibel levels. We sell ear plugs; silence is observed on Sundays by banishing church bells; we have an “inside voice” and an “outside voice.”



Men are swaying back and forth on their heels, almost like they’ve been possessed by the Holy Spirit. Pendulum-like…Back and forth. Back and forth. We might as well be at a southern Baptist revival meeting, minus the preacher.

An elderly woman, veiled in black, to my left, sways back and forth, to and fro, aided by her companion, who greets my gaze and smiles briefly. I try not to stare.

I am with Tom, a 21 year old British wanna-be journalist. He ventures into the breach of the crowd with his blackberry camera to capture a photo or two. A few minutes later, an Egyptian man with a bottle of liquid – 7 up?—oil?—playfully douses Tom’s hair with the strange concoction. And then laughs, revealing his brown, tea and tobacco stained teeth.

We return to the cheap hotel of my Egyptian friend Mohamed Aly. It is now filled with visitors from upper Egypt. They can be identified by their crisp galabeyas (flowing robe) and headdress, which are not normally worn by most Cairenes.

One room is full of middle-aged men, seated against the wall, drinking tea, smoking sheesha and chatting. Each time a new visitor enters the room, he goes around the room and greets everyone with “Salaam Aleykoom” or peace be upon you. It seems to be a necessary ritual.



As we are invited to a meal next door, I notice charcoal in a metal tray outside the room. The local fire marshal probably is unaware of this. (or maybe he is aware).
Another room is reserved for food—a few large communal plates of pita bread and potato cubes, chunks of boiled beef with some bits of fat attached. A cross-eyed man with a cane and a galabeya approaches and welcomes us. Another man—perhaps a caretaker?—quickly ushers him away from us. (Is he afraid that the man’s presence will disturb us?)



The man across from me is from Suhag in Upper Egypt and greets me warmly as we share bread and boiled beef. Then, the perennial question, “deenak ey?” or what’s your religion? I try to be coy and quote the Qur’anic scripture, “In Allah yeHdee min yesha’!” or God leads those whom he wills. It’s a fairly nebulous statement open to interpretation for many people. However, for this gentleman, it is not enough. He presses on, “so, what’s your religion?”

We return to the first room with the sheesha imbibers. I sit first next to a gentleman who speaks basic English. He interrogates me in the King’s English; I respond in Egyptian Arabic. He asks why I chose to study the Egyptian revolution, of all the revolutions.



I then sit next to an Arabic teacher who works at a local high school teaching girls. He asks me for my opinion of the Jan. 25 revolution. Odd. I tell him, “I should be asking you the same question!”

Every few minutes, another attendant asks me if I want tea. Or food. Or a sheesha. Or a cigarette.

“La…shookrun!” No, thanks!

On the last night of the Moulid, we visit the Sayeda Zeinab Mosque.

The Crowds, elbow to elbow, body pressed against body, arm on shoulder, flows forth like a small river. There is no turning back. Pilgrims remove their shoes at the door, but are given only a split second.

Several bowabeen or doormen take the incoming supply of shoes, and hand each pilgrim a small tag with a number. Wait—is this an actual system?! I hold onto my shoes, despite their protests, not wanting to lose them in the confusion.

The crowd is mostly men, upper Egyptians of galabiyehs; they are pilgrims here to worship Sayeda Zeinab, the granddaughter of the Prophet Mohamed. As I enter, a man grabs my hand and asks if I am from Malaysia. Indonesia, I respond. (not really, but I am playful). He then introduces me briefly to an Indonesian pilgrim before I am conducted forward.

As we approach the exit, a small group of men – seated on the carpet, begin talking with Peter, my American classmate from MN. The usual questions pepper him: where are you from? What do you do? Your religion? I serve as the informal interpreter. The men—mostly in their late 20s and early 30s, are a chocolate complection, with a mustache or two, and a working class flavor. They are from Assiyut and arrived two days ago. They have stayed at the mosque ever since, praying and sleeping and resting.

“Why are you here?” Peter asks them.
“For the Mulid of Sayeda Zeinab,” They respond.
“What do you hope to get out of this?” Peter presses further.
“To honor Sayeda Zeinab,” they explain.
It is that simple.

Walking with Dr. Yasmin

“look at the fingernails—see how black they are? That’s Fungus in there!” exlaims Yasmin, an Egyptian dentist living in Dubai.

Sure enough, at the end of the old man’s wrinkled fingers were blackened fingernails, like a character out of the Lord of the Rings. He grabbed a few used glasses on the countertop and asked me what I wanted. “A cup of sugar cane, please!” While I heard Yasmin’s words, my thirst was stronger than my repulsion or disgust at the fungus in the fingernails. I put the glass to my lips, said a quick “Bismillah” or “in the name of Allah” and began drinking.

Ohhhh…the sugar rush was so satisfying; the sweet, sweet, sweet sensation of sugar cane on the tongue and down the esophagus was simply too rewarding to think about the warning of the dentist. I thought of the old adage, “what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.”

Preachers and Protests

On my way to work, the Imam’s voice from the nearby mosque was delivering a Friday-like sermon, yet today is not Friday. I caught the words “Bin-Laden” peppered intermittently. The vendors and a few seated men were paying rapt attention. As I approached my office, I asked a few men outside about the voice broadcasting on the speaker system. They explained that sometimes, the Imam teaches students about the Qur’an or religion, so was simply practicing a sermon.

When I arrived at the non-profit office upstairs, the door was closed. Apparently, they had moved and did not notify me. Oh well.

Below in the quad, one of the men I had asked earlier about the mosque broadcast approached me. It turns out he is deaf and mute. With only a few signs, he explained that he was married (pointing to his wedding ring), had four kids—two boys and two girls, who were all grown and out of the house, leaving him and his wife (he made the sign of a person with breasts) alone in the house.

I wrote my name in Arabic for him and he wrote his, Azmy. A middle-aged man with some missing teeth and short cropped hair, he signed that he has seen me walk back and forth a couple of times in the last week. As I left him, I wished him peace. I have a feeling I will see him again soon.

Protests in the metro system
A group of maybe 50-100 metro workers staged a boisterous sit-in inside Sadat metro station, starting yesterday. Not knowing what was going on, I asked a man near me for an explanation. He said the workers were demanding that the metro system director leave his post because of corruption.

The protesters had a few signs, but kept their protests civil and to chants. A young metro worker to the side explained that before Jan. 25, this kind of protest would not have been allowed or tolerated.

How much for a fridge repairman?

How much do you pay the repairman? In the US, it’s fairly straightforward. He quotes you a price and you take it or leave it. In Cairo, usually, you don’t ask for the prices before a visit. The repairman does his work, then quotes you a price. If you ask for the price before the visit, this means you are a foreigner who deserves to be screwed.

Typically, a plumber who comes for ½ an hour to an hour to repair your kitchen or bathroom pipes will usually get between 5-10 LE ($1 to $2). However, several other variables can also complicate the final price. For example, where do you live? Are you in a working class neighborhood? Or in Zamalek, where most (rich) foreigners live? How good is your Arabic? Are you a fresh arrival? Does the repairman come with an assistant? Do they take more than an hour? Are the repairs complicated?

Now, fast forward to yesterday when Showky, the fridge repairman came to fix our refrigerator, which has been acting up for the past 2 weeks or more. The freezer does not freeze and the rest of the appliance is lukewarm, causing much of our food to spoil. Before Showky arrived, my good friend Mohammed Aly’s mother had told me to pay between 80-100LE and not a guinea more. I also repeated this very statement to my Korean roommate, who has been in Cairo for a year. However, when the repairman arrived and quoted her 250LE, she asked him to drop it only 25LE to 225LE. When I arrived, I didn’t argue with him, as I thought we could renegotiate after he finished. He spent a good hour or two replacing the Freon gas, making loud knocking noises here and there during my Arabic lesson. When he was finished, he asked for his money.

When I tried to renegotiate, he became furious. The smile turned upside down. Even my tutor Mustafa tried to intervene to say that our roommate did not have the right information and had made an ill-informed decision. They spent a good five minutes or more back and forth. I decided that it was all a big waste of time, so just paid the man.

When I asked him If he would return if the fridge acted up again, he said non-chalantly, “who knows?”

He was starting to irk me, so I wished him peace, “Salam Aleykoom” and ushered him out the door.

My tutor Mustafa and I agreed on this: much of life in Cairo is like buying a T-shirt at the Khan Al-Khalili Bazaar. There’s some give and take, and no price is ever set firmly.

Return to Tahrir: Second Day of Rage

Friday was the second day of rage in Midan Al-Tahrir or Liberation Square. The army, fearing violence, protested the protest by staying out. Police were mostly absent as well. Despite fears, the protest remained peaceful and people governed themselves accordingly. Here are some images from the event.



To enter Liberation Square, we first had to show our IDs to pass through this volunteer security line.


Fishing for freedom.


A number of improptu debates formed within the Square. Men were debating men; men with women; young and old; most were heated, but civil. One or two turned into shouting.


"Mubarak was president for 30 years. What did the people have to eat during this time? Nothing but chicken feet!"









Martyrs of the revolution are honored on a poster.



A painted Egyptian flag was quite popular for the protest.



How did they get up there?

Revolution is all around us

Midan Sayeda Zeinab is a working class neighborhood close to downtown Cairo.

After a koosharee dinner next to my hotel, my friend Mohammed Aly, his friend and colleague Ismail and I walk to the burned police station around the corner. During the revolution, more than one half of all Cairo police stations were systematically burned by the people. As we approach the burned out edifice, I see a vendor on the side. His wares are covered and tied up for the night.

Amr, the youthful vendor, is perhaps in his mid 20s. He sports a scalp of short, curly hair drowned in gel. He is in a dark T-shirt and slippers.

“See, this WAS the police station. NOW, it’s the WC (toilet),” he explains as he unleashes a loud laugh. He seems delighted. A little too delighted. Like a man who had exacted his revenge and now was experiencing shadenfreude.

Amr points to his head and shows me a gash the size of a quarter. A scab has formed already, but it is recent. Amr spent a year wara al-shams or behind the sun. Street slang for prison. For what? The police saw him as a trouble maker and arrested him one day.

“The police wanted to buy a small item from me for 4LE, but then return it the next day and demand their money back.” If they do this repeatedly, “How do I eat?”
He laments his run-ins with the law. “My luck is bad.”

With six sisters and his widowed mother to support, Amr is at the stand daily. In the evenings, he and his younger brother take turns keeping vigil for thieves. He puts his hand underneath the blanket and shows me a knife about a foot long—Crocodile Dundee size.

When he learns that I am originally from China, he wants to do business with me. I quickly explain that I know nothing of trade or business. Amr then offers me Hasheesh, or marijuana. He then requests a gift from me—a machine that can roll joints. I tell him that I’ll look into it.

Amr shows me two tattoos; a coiled snake on his arm. The second one on his shoulder blade is a woman. Who is she? A former lover? A pop star?

As we leave, my friends walk a little faster than me. With the concern of an overprotective den mother, my Egyptian brother Mohammed Aly warns me, “Take care! There is no government now, no police. He deals in drugs. He is not a educated man. Take care!”



President Hosny Mubarak is being erased from all around Cairo, starting with the eponymous Mubarak Metro Station. The station is now being called shoohada "Martyrs Station" after the brave souls killed by Baltageya (government thugs) during the revolution.



Mohammed Aly, my Egyptian brother poses next to a sign in the metro station that declares, "We build the future."

Summer in Cairo, part one

I have arrived safely in Cairo. Simsim (Sesame), an Iraqi refugee who has been here 7 years, and a friend of a friend, picked me up. He must have done this before since he had a piece of paper with my name scrawled on it, like the other chauffeurs waiting for their guests. He is about 30 and has an Egyptian girlfriend.

After we placed my bags in his car, he asked me if I wanted to stop by the duty-free shop. I didn’t really need anything, but Simsim needed alcohol. So, off we went.
As we re-entered the airport doors, the metal detector seemed abandoned, so we proceeded. Of course, our cell phones set off the magnetometer, but the security guard on the side – half asleep, waived us through.

As we pull out of the parking lot, the wooden traffic arm barrier slams down on his windshield. No damage is visible. Simsim speaks politely with the parking attendant, “hey man, please be careful!”

“Welcome to Egypt!” I reply. On the drive to downtown, Simsim tells me he’s a manager at Cook Door, a fast-food restaurant in downtown that’s known for its Viagra Sandwich. I tell him that I will have to stop by for a bite later. We are in a Honda 4 door. “In Iraq, there was a system for driving. Here, no system.” It took him a year to get used to the fluid traffic of Cairo.

We pass a large mosque for the police with twin minarets that reach for the sky. A few minutes later, we pass another majestic mosque. It is also for the police, but for special occasions such as weddings and celebrations. (Are there any more occasions for the police to celebrate these days?)

The roads are clean and smooth. We are still in Masr Gedida, or New Cairo, northeast of downtown. A white van speeds past us and cuts in front without signaling.

When we park close to my hotel, Simsim says normally, we would not park here; however, now the police do not monitor the parking so much. Perhaps, this is one unintended benefit to the revolution.

I'm now at a cheap hotel in Midan Talaat-Harb for 85LE / night (or about $15). I had to bargain them down from $35 / night or 210LE. I think speaking Arabic helped somewhat. I don't see anyone else here on the floor. Tourists have been scared away in the last few months.

I am searching for a simcard so I can reconnect with a few friends. I stop by Midan Al-Tahrir, Liberation Square, which is just a few minutes away. Several dozen young men are milling about in the middle, surrounded by taxis and the regular flow of traffic. Many of them still have protest signs. Gamal, a middle-aged vendor explains that there was a demonstration today and next Friday another large protest will take place. Is it about human rights? The elections? “About freedom!” explains Gamal.

It is good to be back.

No Longer About Bread—Egyptians Want Mubarak's Head

New America Media, Commentary, Andy Lei,
Posted: Jan 29, 2011

The last time Egyptians took to the streets was spring 2008, to protest the rise in food prices, especially bread or aish, also the Arabic word for life. For Egyptians, the two are synonymous. A dozen died, becoming “bread martyrs.”

Before then, Egyptians rioted in 1977. Again, over bread. Their popular slogan: "The people are famished." About 800 perished before the army crushed the protests.

On Jan. 25, 2011, Egyptians took to the streets once again. Not for bread, but for Mubarak’s head.

To continue, click here No Longer About Bread—Egyptians Want Mubarak's Head

Nien Cheng, 1915-2009

A great lady has passed away this week. I was fortunate to have met her in 2006 in her living room over tea. Here are 3 wonderful obits:

Charles Krauthammer

washingtonpost.com

The spirit of Nien Cheng

I like your ride, Mr. President!

I was escorting some friends around the East Wing of the White House on a public tour last month when serendipity hit us: the Director of the Visitors Center, a woman of salt and pepper hair and a commanding voice, greeted us from behind.

“Are you giving a tour today, sir?”

I thought that perhaps I was in trouble.

“Yes, ma’am.” I responded.

“Would you be interested in participating in a departure ceremony?” she asked.

Having visited the White House just a few times over my six years in DC, I’ve learned that when the President departs the White House for Camp David or any appointment via helicopter, a small group of people – usually close friends and special guests – are gathered on the south lawn to greet the president. Surely, this lady wasn’t asking us regular folks to join her in this special event?

“Yes, that would be nice.” I chirped back enthusiastically.

She then led us outside the hall, through a small garden and onto the circular driveway. There were a few dozen other guests waiting by the South Portico. To our left was the South Lawn and in the far distance, the Washington Monument. The weather was quite warm and humid—typical Washington DC summer weather.

After about 10 more minutes of waiting, the Presidential Helicopter arrived.

Toot-toot-toot…Toot-toot-toot…
Toot-toot-toot… Toot-toot-toot…

As it approached the landing area, it created a wind that pushed us back a few inches.

Toot-toot-toot…
Toot-toot-toot…
Toot-toot-toot…

We were instructed not to yell anything to the President. However, waving was acceptable.

A few minutes later without much fanfare, the big “O” -- President Obama exited the White House and strolled along in his suit. He waved calmly at us and then strode onto the helicopter. His aides followed behind him, toting some bags.



After we left the White House, and reflected on this special experience over lunch, we thought how luck had played a large part in all of this: first, one lady in our group carried her purse, which was prohibited on all White House tours. I had to return to the hotel with the purse, causing at least a 10-minute delay.

Then, when we tried to enter the gate, the Secret Service man told me that the person who requested the tour had to be present; otherwise, we could not enter. Another 15 minute delay.

Finally, when we entered the White House, I gave our group a very extensive and detailed tour, trying to explain each and every photo on the wall. By the time we got to the White House bowling alley area, the director of the Visitors Center found us.

A room with a view

I am in Dupont Circle now. Actually, in a room in a house in the Dupont neighborhood. As I peer outside my window, a bird (pigeon?) is perched on the windowsill of the bathroom. She is incubating some eggs. The owner of the house has advised me to be extra careful not to disturb our feathered friend as I take my shower.

Ah...what a life. To not have to worry about finding a job or apartment.

ANSWER TO letter to Nathalie Berard--an unwanted French houseguest

After some hesitation and some serious consideration, I have decided to post Nathalie's response to my long letter from April. I welcome your feedback:

* * * * *

Saturday, May 9, 2009 8:33 AM

"Dear" Andy,

Now that i'm back home, i came to read your email with attention.

I just cant believe what i just read.

This is not a letter or a complaint about my behavior. This is a trial !!! You missed your vocation.

A trial, i dont know how to say this in english, a trial with 100% charges. I forgot : there is two sentences with good feelings u had about me and then there is, let's say, four pages of charges.

Four pages in which you dissect every move i made, every word i said, every minute we spent together. You wanted to make a 100 % charges trial and u did it.

How come u felt so hurt that u come here to say such horrible things - this is just beyond my ability of comprehension.

I dont feel like saying bad things to u. I dont have any anyway. I liked you. I liked you when we were writing to each other before we met ; i liked you after we met. I enjoyed your personality.

Now, lets make a nice resume about me : i am a liar, i am a thief, i am a french white trash (nice thing to say),

None is this is true. I have been speaking to you as a friend. When i meet people that i appreciate i dont bother asking myself if i should say this or not. U use everything i ever told u in your trial. Why ? I cant be a liar, Andy, because i am a very straightfull speaking person, i dont even know how to lie.

You have the nerve to write things about that man i told you in Paris (telephone and so on). Up to you. Still your trial.

Anyway, i am not going to take every of your point and answer it. What's the point. I dont have to defend against an somewhat obsessional accusation from a somewhat obsessional guy.

Why are you obsessional ?

So, some things i remember from your CRAZY email.
I didn't steal anything from you or from anyone. This is absolutaly insane. I didn't steal anything to anyone in my whole life. $
I didn't lie about anything or to anyone. Didn't do it in my whole life.

About that guy Meher : And about you by the way. Maybe living in Cairo, being away from home and so on drive you to be paranoïd about people that you meet, i dont know. You really believe that i stole an AC REMOTE CONTROL ?!!
It was decided from the beginning that i would stay there a night to see whether i like it or not and whether i decide it or not to take the room. I decided not to. I didn't like the behavior and the manners of this man. Point.

About Iman : you werent the last one to complain about her and think that she is maybe not the best girl in town. I met other people who happened to know her and none of them liked her. Related me some kind of strange and not so good behavior of her with people.
Iman literally persecuted me with her requests of papers, contract signature and so on. I dont like that kind of behavior (even thought asking for papers, contracts and so on might be normal). Iman gave me a hard time while being in her flat. Now you dissect everything you saw from me and her. I could also dissect everything that happened from her and relate it to you. But what's the point ?
Yes, after the last night, after waiting for hours that she goes out of her bedroom, after telling her that i had to go out, so would she be nice enought to give me a key or confirm that she would be here when i would be back, after hearing her from behind her keylocked bedroom (thing that she has been doing with everyone and that hurted everyone) that she was soooo tired (at 3PM after a 14 hours sleep), i decided it was enought, went to the room, pack my things and told her i was leaving. Then only she went out of her bedroom.
I had a 50 LE note in my purse, i throw it to her (yes, i admit it).
I should have been more patient ; maybe she should have behave another way. She behaved this way not only with me and not only me disliked it. Was it normal that she didn't return my phone calls ? Would have she done it and i would not have spend another night at your place.
About the money ; Iman asked for more than anyone will ever asked for a week's stay.And what she asked for was not, in any case, justified. Iman and i agreed on a more fair price.
Ah yes, Iman invited us to a sudanese restaurant : great. You are so mean in your writing about me, Andy, that the only way to answer you is also to be mean. But do i feel like it ?
I'm not sure. So i will not say anything about the invitation of Iman to a restaurant. But everything u say about my terror of spending money can be said about her.

Your email is dishonest. This is what happens when we decide in advance that we are going to "kill" somebody. This is what happens, and what is the aim, of a 100 % charges trial.

Now, you assume all the worst about me. Shall i have to persuade you of the contrary ? You perfectly know that i was going to treat you all to thank you. Probably not in a sudanese restaurant. I didn't have time and you would then refuse my attempts to clear up things. This is normal. You do that when you just ENJOY doing a trial to someone.

Now, here is my point of view. What u say about the way i handle money is not completely false. There is truth in it. It has nothing to do with a supposed to be devilish nature of mine or a supposed to be "bad" nature of mine. It has to do with lack of money. But it also has to do probably with other things and yes, i should work about this with a psycho analyst. As it comes to you, you, also, have probably things to work out and things you could work with a psychoanalyst. It would not be the same things as me but i guess there would be a bunch of things you could work about. This email of yours for example. Think about it.

What else, my god ?! Ah yes. By the way, thank you for making me such a reputation in town ! Never mind. I wont do the same about you. Again, what's the point. But you see, everything you say, and the fact that you have been talking to as much people as you can about me remind me of something : i did exactly the same thing with my "story" with the egyptian guy of Luxor. So i guess, something really disturbed you about our meeting. Exactly as something really disturbed me about that guy. Again, think about it, "sweetie" !

Yes. My whole point of view about my "stay" with you. My point of view is you made a big deal out of nothing. Here you are, dissecting every of my move and word when we were together. As for me, you put me up during, what, 3 nights ? What is the big deal about it ?
We got along well, had nice talks together. Every of your reproaches to me, let me tell you, has very little to do with my stay in your flat, do you realise this ? Ah yes, i "stole" your lonelyplanet... Did i ? Isn'it on your shelf ?

I let my luggage in your place. Didn't know it was such a big deal to let luggage in your place, my god !! I did this not because i wanted to invade you, guys, but because it was more convenient while i was looking for a place. I, myself, would never be shocked by such a thing if somebody was leaving its luggage in my place in Paris, even for weeks !

You let me your bed. Next time, dont do it. If it has to traumatize you to this point !

On the whole again, you may have some points in what you say. I say this assuming that you will understand it, as an intelligent person. You should just try to be less dramatic, less insulting and less final in your conclusions.
You should also try to be less arrogant, less violent. Some questions about yourself would also be useful for you, my dear. I hope you will not become that horrible guy that sometimes show up behind your intelligence.

Chinese-american guy.
Bye.
Nathalie

Wow! You speak Arabic!

The Arabic proverb says, “He who knows the language of the foreign people--may God protect him from their evil ways.” In some ways, the ability to speak Arabic is like possessing a magic key that opens doors. I noticed a few examples while in Cairo:

• In the Mari Girgis neighborhood—as I was walking towards the Art Museum Darb 17-18, a security man tells me in simple English, “Sorry, closed. This area not open.” I tell him in Egyptian Arabic, “ya amm.” Or Hey Uncle—I want to go to the museum. It’s open daily except Friday and it’s very close.” He replies, “You speak Arabic? Ok, come in, please!”

• Even at the market when I purchase postcards, the vendor tells me, “you get a discount because you speak Arabic.” Of course, he says this partly in jest, but I understand his intention.

• At the Cairo Airport, a security man asks me to remove an item from my bag. I ask him in Arabic, “small or big bag? Is my water bottle a problem?” “Hey—you speak Arabic?! No problem at all. Please just go through!” I sometimes think that maybe one day I can show up with a small gun, but as long as I speak Arabic, the staff will waive me through.

Earlier this week, I was in New York. I passed a hot dog stand in Battery Park and overheard the vendor speak Egyptian Arabic on the cell phone. I stopped and thought I had to speak to him. He never got off the phone, so I asked him in Arabic, “I’d like a bottle of water.”

He replied, “$1.50” in English.

I had just bought a bottle earlier in Flushing, Queens for $1.00, so told him in Arabic, “Hey uncle—that’s a bit expensive. Can you make it cheaper? Maybe $1.00?”
He replied in English, “ok.”

This morning, while in Jersey City, New Jersey, I entered an Arabic corner store and asked the vendor in Arabic if he had “koosharee” the famous Egyptian dish of macaroni, rice, lentils and grilled onions. He replied, “insha’ Allah” or God Willing or “yes.” We spoke for a few minutes. I then asked him if he had Molokhayeh, or Jew’s Mallow, a thick green soup popular in Egypt. Again, he replied, God Willing or “yes.” And proceeded to pull out a small tub from the fridge. “I give it to you—free!”

“Allah yekhaleek!” May God Keep You, I thanked him.

I somehow doubt that he would’ve done the same had I simply asked him in English.

Come home!

First conversation with the parents after my return from Egypt:

My Father: we’re worried about you. The economy is hard. Come home!

Learn about computers. When the economy improves you can find a job in any store.

You can take a computer course. If you don’t have a degree you can’t find anything.
Our door is always open to you. After all, we’re one family.
Don’t think like Americans – and not living with the family.
If you have any difficulty, tell us. These are my thoughts.
Of course, my hope is that you come home.”

My Mother: If you can’t find a job, then come home.
Go to a San Jose computer company to find work!

Perhaps, my parents know that I have no intention of returning home to live with them or to find work. However, they persist in inviting me home. I simply say "un huh..." and don't argue.

There is no acknowledgment of the study of Arabic, or perhaps, how valuable this new skill may be. No questions about whether I want to return to the Middle East. My mother does ask if I want to return to Egypt specifically. I say not for now, although I don't rule out a future return. Both of them are more concerned about my future than even I am. Perhaps, this is a natural aspect of being parents.

Yvonne and Mahmoud: a vignette of an Iraqi refugee and her son

On our walk to Nasser Metro Station tonight, we ran into Yvonne, an Iraqi woman and Mahmoud, her four year old son. She asked Lee and me for directions. At first, I thought she was a beggar when she approached us as a mother and child are quite common sights in the streets of Cairo.

“Where are you from? Where do you live?”

She was dressed in normal clothing meaning pants and a shirt; uncovered—with no veil. Yvonne used to be a police woman in Baghdad. I stared at her face. Somehow, the mascara in her eyes made her claim a bit incredible, but I had no basis to believe she was lying. She has lived in Cairo for a year in the new neighborhood of 6th of October. Neither she nor her husband has any work. “There are not many opportunities here.”

She revealed that she used to live in Kurdistan. (Is she Kurdish? We wondered)
In the 10 minute walk to the Station, Mahmoud had a big smile and was full of energy. He jumped, skipped, hopped, ran ahead. And did everything a four year old does—explore and see the world with fresh eyes. I offered my hand and he grasped it as if I were his older brother. Lee did the same. At times, both Lee and I held his hand, so that he would swing temporarily between us. His mom seemed more focused on talking to us in Arabic. She was on her way to a market to get some things. “They are really cheap here,” she explained.

When the name Saddam Hussein came up, Lee uttered, “Allah yarhamu” or may God rest his soul. Yvonne objected. Vehemently. I could not understand all the words, but it was clear she was upset at any mention of the dead dictator.

As we approached Nasser Station, I mentioned that I teach English at the St. Andrew’s Church and if she ever wanted to improve her English, she could register for classes there. She replied that she once stopped by, but there were just too many people.

We arrived at the Square. Mahmoud spotted a ballon vendor on the side of the road. He seemed captivated by all the figures, and kept returning to it, even though mom insisted that he not stray from her side. Before she could utter good-bye to us, I asked her to wait for one moment as I returned to the balloon man. A minute later, I bought an inflated airplane balloon and handed it to Mahmoud. He seemed ecstatic with the new toy. Mom thanked me.

We parted ways: Salaam Aleykoom!

Give me your bag, please!

I am in my last week here and have yet to depart Cairo, yet I know I will miss it already. Can this be possible?

Yesterday, I took the microbus to my afternoon tutorial of Ahmed, a 7 year old child prodigy. There were no available seats, so I became an Egyptian for about 10 minutes and simply contorted my body and leaned over the contours of the seat backs, with my head bumping lightly against the ceiling. I had my backpack with me, so the gentleman by the window seat motioned to me to hand my bag to him for safekeeping. I complied.

While riding the buses, I have observed that it is quite common for strangers to offer their laps as temporary storage areas for other passengers’ bags or heavy items. After 10 minutes or so, a seat opened up in the back. I finally sat down and my bag returned to me. I fished for the small bag of apricots and offered them to the gentleman who safeguarded my bag. He refused, of course. So, I insisted two more times. He finally relented, as I expected. I then offered every passenger around me the same bag. They all refused politely.

After this gentleman left the microbus, I commented to the man next to me: “Did you see that? That’s what I love about Egypt—it really feels like a big family within one community. In my country, we don’t have this.”

He expressed surprise.

Can you understand now why I will miss this country and its people so much?

Mormons in Ma’adi

For the first time in a while, I got up early on a Friday morning. I put on a white shirt and slacks. And I accompanied Joseph, my Mormon roommate to a service with the Church of Jesus Christ, Latter Day Saints. In Cairo? Well, yes, of course. It seems these days that Chinese businessmen and Mormon missionaries are becoming more common in these parts of the world.

After a 20 minute metro train, we walked toward the church, or ward as Mormons call it. We bump into Kevin, Joseph’s friend, who is now in Cairo studying Arabic intensively at AUC. He served a two year mission in Brazil recently and recounted days of being stuck in traffic in the middle of Carnival celebrations, with scantily-clad women or nearly naked bodies running around. “It was a challenge,” he remarked.

The ward is really a house with a large community room, plastic chairs and a podium on a low stage. Two ceiling fans work frenetically above us to cool the room. Parishioners numbered around 60 or more, but now that summer has arrived, and many have left Egypt for home, attendance has dwindled to about 30 or so. One woman has come from Alexandria, a 3.5 hour train ride. All the men are in ironed white shirts with ties, except for one in a pink shirt. I am the only tieless man. Somehow, the formality of Mormon services always reminds me of business meetings. One couple is visiting from California. Another man is working out of the US Embassy temporarily.

We begin promptly about 9:35am with a hymn. Thereafter, some announcements and then a testimonial from a missionary mother about the difficulties of living abroad. “I was getting used to life in Utah when Jed took me around the world.” The theme of today’s service is the Temple and Ordinances. She speaks of “exultation in the celestial kingdom.” And how building temples is one way of being Christ like. “Have the temple be an example for us.” She ends her talk with “in his name –Jesus Christ -- we pray, Amen.”

A young man named Hayden speaks for a few minutes. He will serve his upcoming mission in the Ukraine. “We must follow the counsel of the Prophet (Joseph Smith). There is a three-fold purpose of the Church: 1. Spread the Gospel 2. Perfect the Saints 3. Redeem the dead” Apparently, it is a Mormon practice to convert dead souls into the Mormon faith.

The President of the ward – a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair -- makes some brief remarks: “Can we be as good as the Lord expects us? In sports, those who are most successful in baseball can fail 70% of the time. And fail 50% of the time in basketball.”

After the service, the study session focuses on the Temple and Ordinances. A young man leads the study session. He comes from a mixed background: His grandfather worked in the Auschwitz concentration camp as a SS officer. His grandmother was an inmate at the same camp. Somehow, years later, they met up and married, producing his father. But, through rehabilitation of the dead, he has managed to reconcile and heal the wounds, so to speak…

He reads from the Book of Mormon, which is the size of a fat brick with gold trim. It’s really the Old and New Testament, the Book of Mormon, the Doctrines and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price all in one edition.

When it concludes, we mix and mingle a bit. I spot Bertram, my Nigerian teaching colleague from St. Andrews, the Sudanese refugee ministry. A member of the Ibo tribe, Bertram’s last name is Anyaegbudike, which means “someone’s look who does not frighten a warrior.” In other words, a gentle man with a kind disposition. About 5’ 5”, he is perhaps in his mid 30s and speaks with the warmth of a high school guidance counselor. He only joined the Mormon Church about a year ago. Bertram said that while he was an ecumenical Christian before, he was attracted to Mormonism because of the “clean lifestyle” that it offered.

“They are very honest and straight people. No drugs, no smoking, no non-sense.”

He has been in Cairo for more than a year and will be here for four years altogether before he returns to Nigeria. He pulls me in for a warm embrace and smiles from ear to ear. He is quite surprised to see me. We chat for a few minutes. He hugs me again before he takes off.

Just another morning at a Mormon Ward in Cairo.

Late night visit by the Egyptian Police

The door bell rang. 11:35pm.

Two men entered. Rabiyeh, our doorman arrived with Mohamed, a plane-clothed police officer, who said he wanted my name. So, I said “Andy.”

He had a blank piece of paper and proceeded to write it. I dictated it to him slowly, “ أ ن د ي Alef Noon Dal Yeh.” And then my last name: “ ل ي هLam Yeh He Marbuta.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment. Did he want it in English? Did he expect me to hand him my ID?

“Why do you need my name? What is this about?” I inquired.

He didn’t explain himself except to say he needed it. I was very suspicious. Swine Flu?

My roommate Joseph followed my lead and simply gave his name in Arabic. “Yusuf.”
“What is your passport number?” he continued. I had given a copy of my passport to the supervisor when I first moved in last November, as I’ve always done with my previous landlords. So, instead of fishing out my passport, I simply told him, “you should ask the manager for it. He has it.”

Then, suspicion turned into annoyance turned into anger. I pressed him again: “why do you need this information?!”

“We are afraid for you,” He responded cryptically.

So, I responded matter of factly: “If you have no good reason, then go. It is very late now and I have to go to class in the morning. Salaam Aleykoom. Peace be upon you. Good night.” I shook his hand as he left. He had an unfulfilled look in his face, perhaps surprised by such unanticipated resistance for such a simple piece of information.

I am no civil libertarian, but the longer I live in Egypt, the more I feel like I need to protect my privacy, avoid the police and get a gun.

A night of Belly-shaking in Cairo

If belly dance is anything like we saw last night at the Sherazade Hotel then it is very much dying and rippling to a deafening demise.

The man at the door promised us young, vibrant things shaking their goods. “Are they fat and sweaty?” I inquired? “No, they’re sweet!” With that, we paid our 10LE admission into the seedy place.

My German friend Martin and I talked about how it would be a shame to leave Egypt without ever seeing a belly-dancing show. So, he checked out a few hotels and settled on the Sherazade. He, his girlfriend, and my friend Anita ventured into the house of ill-repute.

High ceilings and red light bulbs greet us. Surrounding us are oil depictions of past dancers in their former glory. We are the only customers present, except for the wait staff and the band, waiting listlessly. Smoking and banging on their drums. The stage before us is a square platform about a foot from the floor.


I speak to the first drummer, Sayed, a man in his mid 40s with a mustache and band-aids covering most of his knuckles. He tells me that he has been at the hotel for four years now. He’s traveled from Alexandria to Upper Egypt beating his drum to the swaying dancers. “The shows on the riverboats are generally much better,” he confided in me.


I tell him that I look forward to the music. The second drummer waves me over and says that they would appreciate 50LE for “tea money.” This is the Egyptian euphemism for tips.

We arrived about midnight, with the promise of dancing lasting until sunrise. One girl per hour until Fajr, the first prayer.


The first dancer is young, but shows more flesh than vigour. She shakes her behind, but my guess is that she has never taken a single bellydancing class in her life. She arrives with a pink skirt above the knees. Heavy mascara. Semi-dyed brown hair. At best, she is between skanky and West Virginia strip-club material.

I scrawl a hasty note in Arabic, “Are there tomatoes or eggs to throw at this girl?” and pass it to the man at the next table. He takes the note, and asks me to follow him to the back where there is more light. He reads it and asks me what’s the matter. I show him my displeasure. He assures me it will get better and chuckles. Apparently, he’s a regular patron and says he comes nightly.

When the second girl comes on about an hour later, she tries a little harder than the first. She actually moves around the stage to entertain us. At one point, a patron—I suspect he was a plant—approaches her and unleashes about 10 bills in front of her body as she sways. Another man—the busboy—picks up the bills and hands them to her. Is this meant to encourage the rest of the patrons to shower her with bills?

The “dancing” became so dull that Martin and I started writing Arabic sentences to each other and diagramming them grammatically. I fell asleep half-way through her “dance.”

We stayed until about 3am and then left. After we paid the bill and walked down the stairs, one man accosted Martin for additional tips. Business is slow. And it looks like it’ll remain that way for some time to come if these dancers continue to underwhelm the audience.

A Car ride with Rania and her girlfriends

Rania is one of those people who seeks movement. She grew up in Dubai, lived many years in Cairo, and studied seven months in Winona, Minnesota, but attended more parties than classes. “My dad got upset at me because I wasn’t doing so well in my studies.” She sports a nose stud, exudes warmth like the sun and for a 21 year old Muslim girl, drinks on a regular basis. We met at Horreyya, the local watering hole for expats and lapsed –or rather, liberated—Muslims. At the time, she was with her Egyptian boyfriend. She kept looking my way, smiled at me and asked me the standard questions Egyptians usually ask:

"Where are you from? What do you do here? Do you like it here?"

I tried to ignore her as her man was glued to her hip and I was with my two roommates at the time.

A month later, I met her again at a local jazz club. She was alone, so I asked about her boyfriend, thinking that if he were present, I did not want to take a chance talking to her. “Oh him? He is no longer my boyfriend as of 3 days ago.”

“I’m so sorry to hear,” I tried to console her. Secretly, I was quite pleased.

“However, since I’m drunk now, I want to call him. I really miss him,” She confided in me.
“Wait one day at least,” I advised her.
“Why?” she inquired.
“So you can give him the gift of missing you!” I explained.
She then turned around. She was wearing an outfit that was open in the back. On her lower back was tattooed the word A M I R A, Arabic for Princess.
“And if a man can’t see this clearly, can he come closer for a better look?” I joked.
She punched me lightly on my arm.

Thereafter, we traded emails by Facebook. More than a few months passed.
We finally met up last week in Midan Tahrir in front of Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC), a big landmark in downtown. In her four-door, Honda-like car, were two other girlfriends. Rasha, 21, the first girlfriend, was driving the car, and in her senior year of college. Long, black hair flows from her head.

The second girlfriend, 22, also wore a nose stud. She just graduated. “My dad, an investment banker, has been in prison for 20 years, since I was two.”

Understandably, she hates President Mubarak and the Egyptian government.

“Does it seem like we are ‘high’ now? Don’t you smell something?” She asked me, with a mischievous smile.

“Sorry, my sense of smell is very weak. I generally can’t smell anything,” I explained myself, but understood her question quite well. I did grow up in Berkeley after all (!)

Rania explained,

“everyone here smokes hasheesh or uses it in some form, but the government doesn’t care.”

Rania was wearing gold jewelry on her left hand that includes a gold watch and bracelet. With a strong sense of nostalgia, she declared, “I’d give anything to return to Minnesota, because I love the people there. I’d give anything to see my last boyfriend, who was from Ethiopia.” Despite her studies abroad, she does not believe in America as an extraordinary place. “I see America and Egypt at about the same level. Neither one is better than the other.”

We drove around and around for nearly half an hour. I tried to give them directions to find parking, to no avail. Their sense of direction was like that of a blind man’s.

We stopped at a juice stand. Thereafter, we had a long, drawn-out discussion about religion and Islam. When they asked my religion and discovered I have none, they were surprised. Shocked.

Rania’s two girlfriends apparently have never met anyone secular, or who has no religion.

When they asked about Buddhism, they were disgusted that anyone can worship the Buddha—a man.

Dad-in-prison-girlfriend declares, “The Quran is perfect, with no mistakes.”

In my most diplomatic way possible, I tried to tell her that the Quran is full of mistakes, factual and scientific. However, the Quran is not alone in this. So is the Bible and the Torah.

Dad-in-prison-girlfriend: “As you know, men cannot wear gold because it is forbidden in Islam. Science has now proven that there’s something in gold that harms the skin and the health. Also, many women pluck their eyebrows, but Islam forbids this. And now science has shown that by plucking the eyebrows, it is harmful to the health. So, Islam makes a lot of sense.”

I listen attentively and do not respond.

After a while, Rania gets a call from her brother, who says he wants his car back. So, we return to Tahrir, where I am dropped off. Somehow, I don’t think I will see those girls again anytime soon.