A Typical Evening

A refresher from the heat.

“انتي عسل” (You are honey) The man shouted as we walked across the road in front of the Ramses Hilton, having just watched Clash of the Titans in 3D. Awful film, I don’t recommend it. We will be going to see Robin Hood, aka the “Tea Partier” next week. Thankfully Sarah Palin does not star as Maid Marian. I would never be able to stomach a film, even with my favorite actor Russell Crowe, if I had to listen to any words from her that lasted for over 10 seconds. As for the accusations of Robin Hood’s tea party sentiments, I am not sure I quite comprehend since he seems to be the embodiment of wealth distribution and socialism. I guess I will just have to see the film.

Cairo is getting hot these days. We are regularly making it into the 40‘s...for you American types, 100‘s. The heat accentuates the vibrant bouquet of petrol, dust, sheesha, and koshari wafting in the streets. It is followed by a finishing taste of some sort of carcinogenic chemical in the mouth. Cairo is, for the obsessive compulsive germ killing, anti bacterial handwash using, typical American, worse than the Nightmare on Elm Street. I long ago stopped caring. I admit to carrying hand-sanitizer with me should I ever truly get into a real mess but in the end I am not sure if it is anything more powerful or effective than a placebo.

We made it to a famous قهوة, or cafe, in wist ilbalad (downtown) where we engaged in one of my favorite Egyptian past times, drinking delicious blends of fresh fruit drinks combined with a fruity شيشة sheesha. For me it was a cocktail of freshly blended mango, strawberries, and banana garnished with fresh fruit around the rim and complemented by cantaloupe sheesha. After about 10 minutes we were laughing hysterically together, our bodies not accustomed to nicotine in vast quantities. Thankfully my sheesha smoking habit is generally limited to a once or twice a month periodicity. But again, breathing the air here is comparable to something like smoking two packs of cigarettes a day. I don’t think cantaloupe sheesha will add greatly to my exposure to unhealthiness. I know I have built up immunity anyway, I stopped getting sick every couple weeks about 5 months ago. I noticed more than anything my loss of the ability to smell. When I travel elsewhere it comes back after a few days. Upon my return to Cairo it is like I smell it all again for the first time and wonder why I have never noticed this smell before. After 24 hours I am reacclimatized and no longer notice anything peculiar.

The waiters joked with us and constantly tried to figure out my nationality. I am usually accused of being German, followed by Dutch, and Russian a distant third. Oh, and French is suggested as well because of my appearance of “sophistication” that I do not necessarily agree with. I thought my still heavily accented arabic would give my nationality away. “هي مصرية” (She’s Egyptian) My friend told them. They laugh but are thankfully not too prying. The coals on the hookah get changed more often than the other customers, the man likes to talk to two women more than anyone else. Through the screen I see the men across the street glancing at us as they sweep the floors of their shops for probably the 5th time that day. The call for مغرب maghrib is echoing in the busy streets. I take a moment to relish my surroundings, the taste of cantaloupe and strawberry, the fading light, the continual smile of my good friend who seems to be one of those people blessed with happiness and bringing it to others. I think this place has changed me more than I know. I wonder what I will be like when I return after years spent here.

The Experiment

The higab cultural experiment had begun about a week ago. The endless files of honking cars and taxis, shouting men, long violating stares, had driven her to see what happened if she did enough to make herself look Egyptian at first glance. She knew her Egyptian friends received their fair share of inappropriate attentions as well. But she wanted to see how drastic the difference was, between being Egyptian and being a Western as a lone female walking on a sidewalk.

She walked out and at first noticed the drastic drop in noise she had come to acquaint with Cairo’s busy streets. Oh, the noise was there but the honking had dropped to maybe a quarter of what it had been before. She keep walking wondering if perhaps she had stepped out in a freak moment. She passed the Coptic church, no one, especially the leering security guards, gave her a second look. She did not feel herself being undressed with raw and shameless stares that felt no compulsion to look away, even though they were aware that she was aware of what they were doing. Even better, she knew she would be free to “stroll” through Cairo a bit more and enjoy the scenery. Perhaps she could stop and draw or take pictures without being swarmed. She did remember being told if you walk too slow, Egyptian or not, and seem as though you have no purpose then men will think you are “looking for something.” Well, she had a tool to make herself more invisible at least.

Here men did not like their women to laugh loud, especially in public. Laughter and a loud voice draw attention to a woman. They suggest that she would like this attention brought to her. She should want no male attention or attraction except for that of her husband. Therefore, loud laughter is nearly as provocative as tight clothing that shows the body’s shape and form.

She sat with a friend who, in addition to his wife and family, had become her friend over the past few months. She liked to listen to the thoughts of an Egyptian man who she already knew was a good person, a good friend, and with whom she had an agreement for both sides to be open minded and not take offense. He and his wife, both quite educated, were of a conservative mindset with regard to Islam. He had lightly, though not overtly, suggested through the months that she might try wearing the higab and loose clothes to better her experience. Many Egyptian women wear the higab as a form of fashion, their bodies are fully covered but clothes are brightly and beautifully colored, shapely, and even tight, just like the match stick jeans worn in the US. But according to some, this is not the correct; the true higab is something that does not show the shape of body parts, specifically areas like the chest and hips.

“But why is this necessary? Should a woman be ashamed of her body? Should she think her body evil in some way?”

“No, no of course not. But she should not attract men to her with her body. The only person allowed to feel attraction towards her is her husband.”

“Yes, but is not this the problem of the man and not the woman if he feels this attraction? Should he not exert control over himself?” She asked.

“I understand what you think but here is not like the west. There are no relations before marriage. This is utterly forbidden. If a man has no money, etc then he cannot marry. So he may be a young man but unable to have relations. It is very hard for him to bear seeing women and not feel attraction. Seeing the shape of a woman’s body causes this and it is wrong. This is why our prophet said to marry as early as possible, so that there is an appropriate outlet for these feelings.” He said.

“Again, did not God make women’s bodies in this shape? How could his creation be something that must be covered? And did He not also make men driven to be with women? Why is it only the women who must suffer from this circumstance? Why is there not more solution directed towards the man and controlling himself? And do you think women suffer no desire for men? Do you think women do not look upon the bodies of men?”

“A woman must only attract her husband. And the direction for dress is clear, I cannot argue this. Whether we agree or not there must be faith, for this is what is said.”

“It does not say these things in the Quran from what I understand.”

But the Quran is not the source for all things in the religion, such as the five prayers. These come from the Hadith and the life of Mohammed. She already knew this. Ah well, it was only a discussion anyway. Sometimes she thought of it as only a culturally relative situation with arguments found world wide voiced more strongly. For example, a young teenager, or any woman really, who dressed a bit on the “scandalous” side with respect to American culture would be seen to have loose morals or look somewhat inappropriate. Why do we have these thoughts? Do we think she is drawing undue attention to herself and her body? She is probably knowingly doing it as well, perhaps making it more justified to criticize her. Granted, the American “lines” have significantly more freedom and are without much of overt language of Islam. But in the end, some of the same feelings about women and their bodies are harbored world wide.

Ah well, she had her invisibility cloak for Cairo now. She felt protected by it. She had more appreciation now for why some women might choose to wear it. A friend of hers had commented that he was surprised she had lasted as long as she did without eventually covering up. Was she giving in by doing it or was it simply opening a few more doors and windows into life here? She couldn’t answer that question.

Countryside Impressions

The Egyptian countryside, الريف (irreef), had been an area of interest for her since her arrival in Egypt. Like the countryside in all countries, it is where old traditions still have continuity. It is the seed, the roots of a country. No matter how hospitable a country or culture, the hospitality found in the countryside is greater, deeper, and always genuine. The Egyptians harbor some of the same negatives about the countryside as many westerners. They regard some of the traditions and conservative sentiments as backward, uneducated, unsophisticated. But it is still the root, the place where many return home every weekend to be in the house of the family. Where on Fridays, الجمعة, the smell of mashi cooking in every house can be smelled throughout all the streets. The stuffed squashes, small eggplants, peppers, grape leaves, and cabbage leaves were some of her favorite foods here. And in the country, everything was fresh, picked that day, eggs laid by the chickens and ducks on the roof, the meats freshly slaughtered. The butter, cheeses, and breads were made by the household. In fact, she was not sure if anything in the house was store bought. If there is truly love to be found in food, then there was more love and bonds of family in food such as this than in any she had ever eaten. It was sad to think that joys such as truly fresh food were few and far between.

She came to them, the family of her friend, in their garb. The higab in place like she was Egyptian, the gilbaab worn to lose the definition of any womanly curves. They had never met a foreigner before, and certainly not an American. Like most Egyptians they had a satellite dish and access to hundreds of channels, both Arabic and Western. They knew parts from American movies; this was their exposure to American culture. Well, that and the great war against Muslims in Iraq and Afghanistan. But Barack was president now, and everyone knows he’s actually a Muslim. These thoughts of course run simultaneously with the known fact that the rich Jews and Israel actually run the United States. In fact, many were sure it had been Israel or Bush himself that had planned the events for September 11th. It was a great conspiracy so that America had the pretext to go to war against Islam. And didn’t Bush even say that this was a holy crusade?

But here she was, dressed as them. Here she was, quiet and humble, but friendly and warm. She always thought to herself, thank God I come from the South, the center of hospitality in the US. She was not uncomfortable with giving or receiving in this manner. And although it was thickly accented and they had to speak slowly from time to time, she spoke arabic. Not just classical arabic, she spoke egyptian arabic. She knew the religious sayings for greetings, eating, and all other occasions. She had put for effort to learn their culture. The folds in her higab were perfectly correct and in egyptian style. She participated with the women in the kitchen, was eager to learn the techniques for cooking in the egyptian style, and sat like a student thirsty for every word they might say about their world. This was not the arrogant American they had all expected. She was glad she had waited until she knew many of these things and the language before she ventured out to meet countryside Egyptians.

They were warm and deep people. Expressive people. Loud and vibrant when they argued about family matters, proud and confident in their life. The father was full of personality, and full of love for all his children. There were smile and laugh lines around his eyes. He was proud of his strong wife who had born him six children through the years. They were grandparents now, and beamed with pride. Two of their daughters were university educated and the other was well on her way. The sons worked in Kuwait for good money, and would be home later to live on the upper floors of the building when they started their families. The second floor flat was reserved for the eldest son and his family, the third floor for the second son, and the roof kept the chickens and ducks they used for livelihood. Families generally occupied one building together for their entire lives.

She walked the streets with the mother, arm and arm as her daughter. Until she spoke, no one knew she was an agnabeya. Her accent was still very thick, but she was happy people could understand her. Children could play in the streets here. The traffic was mules, bicycles, and pedestrians. Everyone knew each other and their children. Every one watched the children to ensure no harm came to them. She makes it to a shop with the mother who purchases gifts for her daughter, son in law, and grandson. She gives the man no money, this is not necessary. The bill will be settled later when the shop keeper meets up with the husband. There is music echoing from various parts of the village, there are three weddings that night. The people will celebrate well into the night until the dawn. Other families in the village take their tea and look out across the rooftops of the houses watching the celebrations. She is arm and arm with the younger sister who is talking with a gleam in her eye about the brides. The music will get louder when they arrive, that’s how you know the bride is present. The minarets call for Isha, the evening prayer. The father is behind them, turned towards Mecca conducting the prostrations. It reminds her sometimes of yoga and the sun salutation.

The tea is full of sugar, like most Egyptians take it. She used to have almost no sugar, but after half a year she began to drink it like the Egyptians. She tries to dress like them. She plans to observe Ramadan in the summer just to feel what it is like. Her cultural anthropology field work classes are coming back to her now. She will never be Egyptian and never understand the culture fully. She knows this. But she takes pride in thinking that she is surely trying to give it her best effort.

A Glimpse of Cairo

Her cumbersome feet never fit correctly into any pair of shoes. The best found thus far were sturdy sandals, but after a few hot hours in the summer Cairo sun, the bottoms of her feet were beginning to blister. It was either the heels in her Merrells, her toes in the ballet flats, and her soles in sandals. Had there never been a shoe invented for her feet? It is possible I do not walk correctly, she thought as she stumbled down the broken sidewalks of famous Talaat Harb Street. I think one of my legs is longer than the other, that’s why I am always tripping or gracelessly scraping my foot. I am naturally unbalanced. Uncoordinated.

Welcome, says the man at her side, hoping to break her zen like trance that enables her to see her surroundings yet ignore the distractions of Egyptian men trying to gain her attention every few seconds. She had been here over half a year but still the barrage of welcomes come every day. Some are harmless, most are not. They echo with desire, or sometimes with nonchalant feeling that does not expect results. She is a western light haired harlot walking alone, never mind her conservative dress. They all know she would lay down in the filth of the road, in the shadows of the minarets, to give into her uncontrollable womanly passion. She hides behind her dark sunglasses, the headphones in her ears make it more plausible that she simply has not heard or will not hear. Maybe it will cause them to give up faster. Sometimes she recites a verse from the Quran. They always laugh.

The unfortunate thing about sandals is that her feet always get dirty. Garbage and dust, the putrid and fermented smell of the streets, the feces of animals, cigarette butts, saliva from mouths of brown stained tobacco teeth, rotting skins of mangos, sugar cane juice, and plums. The washing of feet has so much more meaning in this world. She is listening to Mozart’s Requiem, having recently returned from marbled Vienna. She laughs to herself remembering a snippet of the audio guide from the Hapsburg palace tour. There was a long ago royal yearly tradition of washing the feet of peasants in an act of humility, symbolic of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. The peasants were picked after they were thoroughly cleaned and had undergone an extensive medical examination. Best not pollute those sanctioned by God himself with the dirt of the streets.

The same buildings she saw in Europe are here in Cairo, grime covered and rotting in heat waves. Already showing more signs of decay than the immortal ancient structures always conjured up in thoughts of this city. She is walking to Groppi’s again, wondering if her previous twenty or so sights of the patisserie that was legendary in its heyday had somehow escaped her tendency for nostalgia. It was still there, sterile, dust covered, without any of those redeeming qualities that can still be found in an aging beauty.

Very good, what’s your name? Russian, no? The stink of his breath close to her is almost enough to break the trance. Another one of them so sure that she must be a harpy in the disguise of white skin. No, there is nothing she has been missing here. Whatever was here died long ago.

How much she wanted to love the romantic decaying places of Cairo, mentioned so gracefully in The English Patient or the guide books. But this Cairo echoed pain, anger, suffering, loss and hate with the stern concrete buildings and rotting neoclassical remnants of a day when the West was embraced. In the hard and congested streets there is now a clinging to religion and faith on the verge of fanaticism without the understanding of why. It is the West that brought them here. It is America. It is Jews who control everything. It is globalization. It is anything but themselves. They are not agents of change in this already predetermined world. Best only to turn to Allah and emulate the days of the prophet, and the white harlots don’t count. They ask to be harassed, to be objectified, to be regarded with no respect. The deserve it for tempting us from our chastity. Their immorality causes earthquakes.