I have never
loved anywhere the way I have loved Egypt; similar to the love of a woman
to a man by loving the way she feels when she is in his company, Egypt
evokes emotions of security and safety, as being in proximity to my husband
makes me feel like more of a woman than I felt before him. What remains
of Egypt when you are outside of its borders is what has become my definition
of it, the essence of it survives in what we take with us, what we pack
in the suitcases of our psyche. I have spent the better part of Saturday
morning listening to Egyptian music online and trying desperately to remember
where I was when I heard the songs for the first time, none of them were
here, all of them were isolated moments in time, in our Kitchen in Maadi
making Turkish coffee and listening to the new Ahmed Barada song on that
new radio station on FM, what was it called, I struggle, Nile FM maybe,
then in the car on the way to work listening to a new Elissa song, or Angham
when I bought her new tape and my husband issued a rule against blasting
it out of our sound system on repeat until I tired of mediocre music, then
I always end up looking for So3ad Hosny's ya-wad-yat2eel because it reminds
me of Zouzou and of an Egypt I never knew, an Egypt that came and went
before I was born, but endures in music and in film. My final destination
always seems to be Om Kolthoum, a woman I did not begin to appreciate until
I grew older, but her music reminds me of my mother and father and how
they loved her and how I could not understand why. I think I do now.
What remains
are fragments, the art of Lehnert and Landrock which hangs on my walls,
and the faint taste of Egyptian food, the sound of my mother on a long
distance line, and the crippling sense of a failed relationship with Egypt
which one remembers fondly but forgets the details of why it failed, only
certainty in the fact that it can never be revisited and a reminder of
why those of us who left... left.
I think it
is a common naive misconception that it is easier abroad that it was in
Egypt, my story is evidence of the exact opposite of this assumption, I
live a difficult life here and my life in Egypt was unrealistically padded
in luxury but lacking any concrete possibility of a good future. I honestly
can not determine which is better, I will never be anything but an Egyptian
woman. I wonder if I want to be. I will never prefer Tim Hortons over Turkish
Coffee. That I know I don't want to do. What happens when we spend our
days never belonging, always feeling brutally alone and never being able
to be part of a greater community, never quite fitting in, not in Egypt
and not outside it. I think my life has been reduced to music, art, and
taste, all connected with a very intimate relationship with God, and a
suspension of belief in my strong opinions about life in general because
they have proved to be too abrasive for reality.
I know that
this experience has made me a stronger person, I think it has shown me
that I can do things I never thought I could, and I think it has made me
much quieter which may or may not be very good. I think it has made me
love the people I love more profoundly, and discard meaningless relationships,
it forces you to be efficient with your time, with your effort, and your
emotions. I think it slims your wasted energy.
I notice lines
around my eyes that were not there a year ago, some of them could be called
laugh lines, but most of them are a result of worry, they make me look
more interesting, a young face with older eyes. I find the combination
quite curious and a starter of many interesting conversations where I have
to admit that snow had an entirely different meaning before I was knee-deep
in it.
I wonder if
my parents are okay, I wonder if I can communicate just how grateful I
am to them for everything they have given me, some days I think it is the
reserve of love I have that makes me get out of bed, I think I must be
stronger, I must endure for them, I must make them proud. Funny how sometimes
we become our parents, how when you are at the bottom you find strength
is those who love you even if they are too far for an embrace. Separation
is the most cruel aspect of leaving, the void does not get smaller, the
pain in my chest of missing my mother does not get any better, I have just
become much less vocal about it.
So what do
I do... I get out of bed every day and hope that today is better than the
day before. I try not to worry and I try not to succumb to the episodes
of not being able to breath when things get too overwhelming. I hug my
husband a little harder, and I try to smile more even when I don't feel
like smiling. I write an e-Mail to Le Cafe because that is also where I
always end up, it is nine years of my life, this medium so please be gentle
with it. I stay positive on the phone, and I spend all my money on phone
cards. I try to tell my friends that I love them, and I become more brutally
honest with people who drain me. I miss people more and try to enjoy the
aspect of it that indicates that I am grateful for having people to miss.
I wear snow boots and my knees get used to -30 temperatures, I wear body
lotion for survival not pampering. I try to remain warm in my heart. I
try not to become a hard person. I slip on the snow and get up, and slip
again, and think this is insane, but I get up again. I think in the end
it is all about getting up not about how many times you fall. I listen
to my music on Saturday mornings, I try to remember smells and find that
those are the hardest to remember, I try to remember the sounds of Egypt
and I know I will one day be able to go back and stay for as long as I
can. I ask God to be with me. I listen to So3ad Hosny and it reminds me
of everything, but also of my husband. I tease him about it, and we turn
up the volume on our laptop in the tiny one-bedroom apartment that we share,
watch while it snows outside, and live with the absurdity of all these
elements coming together. And my lines, I am not too worried about them,
they keep the interesting conversations coming.
Is that not
what everybody does?
Mona |
