A 3-Dotted Moment in Our History

Dear Seif,

So many people tell me, “Thank your lucky stars you’re not in Egypt!” They tell me that if it was up to them, they’d pack their family onto a plane in a shot, in a flash, in a second. The country is not stable; it’s going down the drain, they say.

Over facebook, I stumbled upon the news that a train crashed into a school bus in Assiut. The fact that the children were Lara’s age and your age made it even more personal for me. Whenever anyone posts pictures of dead or injured children, even children who are crying, I avert my eyes because anything to do with children gut-spears me. But I looked at the pictures of the dead children this time, and looked at the pictures of their shattered parents. I was a mess afterwards. I don’t know what made me look; I wish I hadn’t.

Weeks later, over facebook, I stumbled upon pictures taken by a dear ex-student of mine. The pictures were gruesome featuring rubber bullet dents on skin, blood, blood, blood, fire, smoke, policemen throwing stones at protestors, policemen smiling from their hiding place, directly staring into my student’s camera lens. I quickly checked the date of the pictures and was crestfallen to find out that they were freshly uploaded: November 20th and 22nd, 2012. I sent a zillion messages to whoever was on facebook chat. What is going on? What is happening? Is everyone okay? Is anyone at Tahrir?

It’s happening all over again, Seif. I was hoping that a new, elected president would be our savior; would be what the people and country needed. But the sheer numbers protesting in the street are huge. Morsi has made some changes that are worrisome to the highest degree. He claims that in order to protect the revolution, his decisions are to be above the law. The constitutional changes he wants to implement are also non-negotiable. He did make some decisions that seem to be good, but nothing compares to the dark shadow he casts by working towards being above the law. Of course this won’t sit well with people; hence the large protest at Tahrir where, again, men, women and children are camped out. And again, a stone is thrown which leads to tear gas, rubber bullets, bloodshed and uncertainty.

Uncertainty. Being away from it all, being continents away may seem like a blessing. I think so many people would do anything to trade places to get out of Egypt. It feels weird for me, though. I feel so disconnected. Even though I have a live feed of what’s going on in Tahrir, it’s not the same. I feel like a soda can that has taken a good shaking and is bubbling up all over without any release. I have obsessive thoughts about what’s happening in my country; how my family are doing; what the consequences will be.

When we were in Egypt amidst political mess after mess, we were all in it together. I’d vent to co-workers and family, they’d vent to me. We’d cry, we’d tell each other the latest satirical jokes to get through the day. At night, we were a phone call away. Now, we’re in the middle of another political mess, and I have nothing but a laptop screen and a live feed to look into, and a small chat window to cram my questions inside. There’s no catharsis for my fears.

In a few days, Morsi supporters will head to Tahrir where anti-Morsi protestors are camping out. This does not bode well. I know many of my friends will be in Tahrir; perhaps even some students. All I have is Facebook and Youtube and my pessimistic, obsessive mind to bide time with through this three-dots moment. All I can do is pray from continents away.

Love,

Your apprehensive mother, Rania

And the Winner is…

Dear Seif,

I’m not really sure what to write, but this day is another historic moment, so I should document it somehow… Today, we found out who our next president is – a president who is elected for a change; for the first time.

From my previous post, you know that both Shafik and Morsy were catastrophic presidential options to choose from, in my opinion.  From that day until now, strange things have happened in a row.

My friends on Facebook started a War of Words, hurling insults at Shafik supporters, or Morsy supporters, or insulting those who chose to abstain from voting. I always thought that my network of friends understood the meaning behind democracy, but we are still taking baby steps. Tolerance of opposing views is something that we have to work very hard on.

Parliament has been disbanded by SCAF based on some technicality.  I was at my school, camping at the stadium with 130 students at that time.  Many parents were worried about their children’s safety; many supervising staff were saying silent prayers as there was unrest all around the country.  Thank God the unrest did not reach us and students were delivered safely to their parents the following day.

Then came voting day. Voting between Oh My God Part I and Oh My God Part II. I walked in the voting station and found my body doing things despite myself: I was clearly scowling, I kept exhaling in frustration, I was shaking my head “no” and I found my nose curling upwards. I had no control whatsoever over all of this. I stared at the voting ballot with two faces I could never relate to staring at me with smiles. And then I did what I did. Sorry to be vague, Seifo, but I can’t write which way I went. I either voted for Shafik, or Morsy, or nullified my vote. The fact that I can’t reveal what I did is sad and it shows you how people are so unforgiving of any of the 3 options.

Then Morsy declared he won based on preliminary results. So did Shafik. Both camps were celebrating. To me, it felt like a big fat joke. An embarrassing joke. Intolerance continued to rise amongst the nearest and dearest of people around me. I was being attacked for my decision, even though I always keep a low profile when it comes to politics.

And today, I switched on the TV nonchalantly to witness who will be dubbed the next president. This should have been a happy moment – a goosebump moment. Instead, I am indifferent. The announcement dragged on and on and on – facebook lit up with jokes about the prolonged speech. I wish we could just make announcements that went like this, “Hello. And the winner is… Morsy.”

You were going crazy, as I deprived you from watching your beloved cartoons. You got a yo-yo from your room and tried to hypnotize me with it, commanding me to switch the channel.  When I shooed you and your yo-yo away with the back of my hand, you began to chant, “El sha3b yoreed el cartoon channel!” Lara joined you as well. That didn’t work either by the way.

Well, the winner is Morsy. In fact, he’s making his first speech as president as I type. I listened to about 5 sentences before deciding to write to you. Your dad listened eagerly at the beginning, then dosed off with his mouth open on the bean bag next to me.

And that’s it. That’s the historical moment documented for you.

I pray that Morsy will be able to lead us (as much as he can with SCAF holding so much power) in a positive way. He certainly doesn’t represent me, but then again, I’m not representative of the majority in my country. I hope that the majority who have so much missing in their lives, whether it be lack of education, jobs, opportunities, etc., finally get to be heard and get to be acknowledged. If Morsy can achieve that, then I would be happy.

Time will tell.

Love you,

Your unexcited mother, Rania

What’s 4 More Years After the End of 30?

Dear Seif,

As presidential election results spewed out of the television and radio, I spent most of yesterday in one position: my palms flat on the top of my head, my elbows digging into my knees. Occasionally, I’d look up at your dad in bewilderment, shake my head, then return to the former position.

The ink is still fresh on my pinky. I had selected the candidate who was in third place – he was so close to second… so close yet so, so far away. The two candidates that made it are the two I am most scared of; the two I couldn’t possibly vote for; the two that I couldn’t picture leading Egypt into the corrupt-free, modern country many dream of.

I won’t get into the long list of reasons why I feel that either candidate symbolize many steps backwards. I will tell you that my initial reaction was: I will not vote. I just can’t get my hand to tick off either one of them. Hours later, after the sting of the two slaps in the face subsided a bit, I decided to think less with my emotions and more with my mind.

One of these candidates is worse than the other – who? I don’t know yet. But I will study it and I will discuss it with those whom I trust. I will do a pros and cons list just like I do when I have to make a tough decision. And then, much as I abhor the thought of it, I will stand in the re-voting line and cast my vote. I think what is worse than voting for either one of the unfortunate candidates, is to not vote at all; to not make my voice heard or count for something.

Voting this time around will ironically be based on who will be more easily removed once the four years are over, and who will not damage the country most.

Thinking positively, I am very proud that the majority of Egyptians voted for more moderate candidates. Our downfall was that our vote was split. Because this is all so new to us, we are learning from our mistakes. What’s four more years after the end of thirty years of Mubarak? And in these four years, our eyes will be more watchful, more wise and less forgiving of corruption.

Let’s see what the future has in store for us.

Love you!

Your trying-to-be-wise-and-patient mother, Rania

A Life-time of Waiting for these 10 Minutes

Dear Seif,

 

I wish I had an inspirational story to tell you about casting my vote in the first democratic presidential elections in Egypt. I wish I could tell you that I stood in a very long line of women with a clear conviction of the person I was going to elect… it would have sounded better!

 

After standing in the blazing sun for hours the last time I voted during parliamentary elections, I was totally prepared this time around. I got a bottle of water with me, packed some pretzels to share with my neighbors-in-waiting, and wore a loose white cotton shirt to deflect the heat.

 

Pulling up at the voting station, I was surprised to find no lines whatsoever; only a scattering of women coming out of the school. Although it was good news – no one craves standing in a long line in the heat – I was a bit disappointed. I was looking forward to brushing shoulders with women from different backgrounds and hearing what they had to say about our first true elections.

 

Standing near the gate was a TV reporter and a cameraman. The woman gave me a friendly smile and asked if she could interview me. I smiled back and said, “Thank you,” and walked passed her. Me talking about politics? I’d turn the interview into a comedy show! The fact is, Seifo, I didn’t know who I wanted to vote for up until today – the day I voted. I was very clear about who I didn’t want, but the rest… I kept shuttling back and forth between voting strategically in order to avoid those whom I did not want, and voting for the candidate that had a program that showed promise.

 

Inside the school, a female volunteer asked me for my voting number. She told me that I will need to wait as there was one woman ahead of me at my station. A few seconds later, the female volunteer shook her head and apologized to me, saying she was mistaken and that I should proceed immediately to another desk that was available. She apologized to me three times for keeping me waiting; waiting being a whole 30 seconds or so… I thought to myself, “Is this woman for real?” It amused me how polite and courteous everyone was. It’s refreshingly different.

 

In the voting “cubicle”, I took a moment to study the ballot, looking at the colored pictures of the candidates. “This is a historical moment,” I thought to myself. “Take a mental snapshot and remember this.” I found my pen passing by the candidate I had contemplated on voting for purely for strategic reasons, and placed a check beside the candidate I felt could lead Egypt in a better direction. I then placed the ballot in a clear box and graced my pinky finger with ink for the third time in the span of a year.

 

On my way out of the school, the same reporter asked me again, “Could I take a few minutes of your time for an interview?” Again, I shook my head and thanked her.  She told me, “I insist! I really want to interview you!” I told her, “I’m shy,” and waved good bye to her.

 

That’s it. That was my voting experience. It took a total of 10 minutes including driving to and from the school. And now for the real wait… Will the candidate my parents and sister voted for win? Will the candidate my in-laws voted for win? Will the candidate my husband and I voted for win? I’m excited, I’m scared, I’m paranoid, I’m optimistic…

 

I hope that my next letter to you marking our fifth president is a positive one full of stories of inspiration and glory.

 

Love you,

Your indigo-fingered mother, Rania

A Dirty Game of Jenga, One Human at a Time

Dear Seif,

This is one letter I will not read to you after I finish writing. It’s too sad because it’s too senseless and I can’t explain senseless to you now; I don’t even have a proper explanation to soothe myself.

Remember the game of Jenga that we play? One wooden block carefully removed at a time, trying not to let the whole wooden tower collapse? Well, now I feel like if one more piece is removed from my structure, my faith that good will prevail in the world will come toppling down. Remaining positive at this moment in time is so, so hard.

A year ago today, people would screech to a stop, get out of their cars and would seat their children on top of a tank. Sometimes the soldier in the tank would carry the child and pose for a happy picture.

I wonder when people look through their numerous tank pictures and video clips captured on their phones… do they wear that same smile of nostalgia on their faces? I for one visited the picture of you standing in front of the tank in Tahrir, holding the Egyptian flag and looking highly uncomfortable. My eyes keep shifting to the soldier standing beside you and I wonder… was he one of the pawns used to kill and humiliate innocent civilians?

The chants on the streets have changed from “Down, down with Hosni Mubarak” to “Down, down with military rule!” The term “civil disobedience” has surfaced again since our 1919 revolution. Many people believe that the military wants to send a powerful message to those who dared stand against them: either us or chaos and bloodshed.

The result? Too horrific. Who writes the script that it’s okay to beat an elderly woman with a baton? Or to kick a woman repeatedly – sole of a shoe on bare skin – in the chest instead of covering her exposed upper body? Who writes the script that it’s okay to have no security protection in a heated soccer match and to seal shut exit doors? Who writes the script that it’s okay for a man to be killed then dismembered and burned right after he drops his wife at the airport? Or that a single mother gets shot twice in the head on her way to work at 7:00 in the morning? Who can come up with such a scenario?

Saad, the student who lost his brother a few weeks ago in the soccer match, came to school yesterday. I found myself running to him as soon as I spotted him in the hallway. I hugged him as hard and as long as I could without making him feel uncomfortable. I kept saying that I loved him so much. I observed him smiling, interacting, going to class. But will he ever be the same again? How does one compensate a brother? May Omar Mohsen’s soul rest with the angels.

Hany Loka, a parent at our school, was killed on his way back from the airport. Some of the teachers knew him personally. One teacher told me as her eyes watered that he was such a considerate man; how he helped her out without even being asked to. A friend of mine knew him as he was once her school mate. She said that he always wore a smile and was one of the fastest runners she had known. This man left behind three young girls. May his soul rest with the angels.

Nermine Khalil, another parent at our school, was shot twice in the head. Many of our teachers knew her personally. One teacher looked so pale, as if she was about to faint; she told me as her hands shook, “Her daughter is with my daughter in the same class. Nermine used to make sandwiches for her daughter every morning. Who will be making sandwiches for the girl now?” She began to break down how a simple, regular day would never be repeated again in this girl’s life. I saw a picture of Nermine Khalil on facebook. She and her daughter were standing side by side, smiling from their hearts, wearing matching black and white striped cardigans.  How this picture hurts… May her soul rest with the angels.

Apart from the random murders, kids are being kidnapped. Two HSBC banks were robbed. Cars are being stolen in broad daylight. One of the things I loved most about Egypt was… I hate to use the word was… how safe the streets were at any time of day or night. Rape, kidnapping, torture… those weren’t things we’d think about when walking in the street past midnight.

Our lives have changed, now. Your dad and I sat with you a few days ago and went through all sorts of scenarios – if we ever got lost from each other, if a stranger approached you and told you that we were looking for you, etc. When I told you that if, for any reason, a stranger told you to go with him/her somewhere and tried to force you, you should scream and not be ashamed to do so. Your wide eyes started to water and you hid your head behind my back to conceal your tears.

Now, we don’t allow you to go to the supermarket on your own to get juice while we wait in the car; something we used to do so that you can feel a bit of independence. Now, I don’t allow you to open the car window beyond an inch, even though our A/C is busted and you are sweating in the back seat.

I always lock the car door – I usually do that anyway – but I find myself checking that it’s locked repeatedly, running my finger across the lock just to make sure.

I say a prayer before starting the ignition – I usually do that anyway – but I say it more often every time I find a truck slowing down in front of me and another truck closing in on me from behind.

My mind wanders every Monday, thinking whether or not it was the right decision to allow you to stay an extra hour in school for your paper mache club. Yesterday, while driving to pick you up from school, I saw an ambulance with its blaring siren going down the same street. I kept following it with my eyes and pleading, “Please don’t take a left… please don’t take a left… please don’t take a left!” It didn’t take a left. May God protect who the ambulance was going to pick up.

I’m writing this letter to document how this moment in time feels. How statistics you will read about in the future are about real people; names with faces; names with children; names with once regular lives.

May there be no more Jenga blocks removed. Please.

Love you,

Your mentally exhausted mom, Rania

A Soccer Ball is Black and White

Dear Seif,

Last year on this very day, the Battle of the Camel took place. Today, 74 people died.  They left their homes to cheer for a soccer match held in Port Said, and came back in wooden coffins.

I found out about what happened at 5:00 a.m. today when I opened facebook to check the news feed before preparing you for school. I was horrified to read the number of deaths; horrified to read that one of my students, Saad, was looking for his brother who did not return from the Port Said soccer match. A picture of Saad’s brother, Omar, was  posted. Trying to think positively, I felt that his brother would be found and prayed that he wouldn’t be injured.

During morning lines, a minute of silence was observed for those who lost their lives. The national anthem was sung by two students out of 300 which was dismal as usual. I dove into my first lesson whole-heartedly to keep my mind busy so that I didn’t have to digest the pain of what happened yesterday. I didn’t want to know details. The number was sad enough; human faces and the stories that went along with them would be too devastating.

But the stories poured in. One of my students told me that Saad was waiting for his brother at the train station; every time the train stopped and people poured out, he’d look to see if his brother was one of the lucky ones. I told my student to keep me posted with any news – I still felt that he would be found. My student went to check facebook and came back to tell me that Saad’s brother was found, but that he was dead. He told me the place of the funeral and the time.

I don’t know Omar Ali Mohsen, but I know that he is… he was 23 years old. He went to AUC, and he was going to graduate this month. My heart aches for him, for Saad, and for his mom and dad. It feels like a hand is squeezing my heart in a tight-fisted grip. I couldn’t stop shaking after hearing the news; my whole body from head to toe was convulsing. More stories poured in. More names, more faces, more details, more sorrow.

Another student received news today that her two school-aged cousins were kidnapped right in front of their house for a ransom of 5 million EGP. My heart became saturated with anguish and anger.

Anger was shaking me from within. How can human beings act as the lowest of animals? And the question is… Why? For what? For paper that can be torn? For power that is naked when we go to the grave?

74 people died today because fate has it that they loved soccer.  Soccer – a ball that bounces, that is hard when it is kicked, that provides euphoria when it brushes against the net, that is black and white in color. Today is a black day; the color of mourning. It is a day that took away innocence. I can focus on the feeling that black provides.

Or I can make the choice to focus on the white smooth squares on the soccer ball. White being that the souls of those who died will unite us in sorrow, and unite us in action. There is outrage, but with outrage, there comes action. We saw that last year, and it’s continuing still.

This continuing revolution has shown me the ugly side of so-called humans who hang on to trivial material and titles, but it has also shown me beautiful people. May we see more beautiful people as this revolution unfolds. I’m counting on it.

Love you,

Your hopeful mother, Rania

Revolving Reflections of a Revolution: Trying to Absorb Mubarak’s Trial

Dear Seif,

Beyond the 18-day saga of uncertainty during Mubarak’s crumbling regime, came a movie that is seared in my mind.  The day Mubarak and his two sons were on trial.  Your dad, my reference on everything to do with politics, told me that Mubarak would most likely not be put behind bars “due to health reasons”.  I didn’t make plans, therefore, to watch the trial.  Instead, I needed to go to work to get my salary before the cashier closed.  You were coming along with me to see your Teta afterwards.

The TV happened to be on, and right before switching it off to go to work, I caught a glimpse of something that made me do a double-take.  Was that Mubarak? Surely not! Oh my god, it was Mubarak, Alaa and Gamal behind bars!!! I felt an army of ants tingle up my arms and neck – the same feeling I got when the Vice-President announced that Mubarak was stepping down.  It’s not just in cartoons that your jaw drops down from extreme surprise.  I had one of those cartoon-like jaws extended as far south as possible.  My eyes were also bulging… not a pretty sight, I’m sure…

I looked at their white prison clothes that replaced the suits I was accustomed to seeing.  How did they feel changing out of their clothes and lives, I wondered… What was behind that poker-face look Gamal was wearing? I remembered how dignified he was as a speaker in my own graduation.  I remembered how I wished he’d become president one day.  Something didn’t look humble about his expression; I wish it had.

Alaa seemed to be a little less harsh.  It amused me to see that he was holding a Koran.  At first, it pulled at my heart.  Then I realized that its purpose was probably to do the very thing that I had felt – to gain people’s sympathy – so I hardened.  I don’t like it when people use tactics to toy with my emotions; I feel manipulated. Ironic coming from someone who worked in advertising for 9 years, right?

Mubarak had my full attention.  He was on a gurney, propped up by a pillow. He looked bored.  He looked like he was watching a TV series right before going to bed.  I had so many emotions rushing through, getting tangled in each other.  Astonishment pushed away by sympathy, elbowed by anger.  I had to pack my emotions away as time was running out and I needed to get paid.  The cashier was going to close for many days as there was a long holiday coming up.  It took everything in me to lift my finger and switch off live history.

“Come on, Seif, let’s go! Quickly!!!! I want to catch the rest of the trial at Teta’s house!” You sensed the urgency, but you were pushed out the door and down to the garage anyway.

The streets were reflecting the sun’s brightness, uninterrupted, as far as the eye could see.  Our car was almost the only thing that moved.  I reached work in record-time.  The guards whom I usually greet at the gate were not to be seen.  I could hear a loud TV coming from their small room; people were huddled inside.  I didn’t have to wait in line as usual to get my salary.  I was worried not to find the cashier, but sure enough, he was there.  I asked him how he could tear himself away from seeing the trial; he told me that he left his wife adhered to the TV, but that he had no interest whatsoever to follow what was going on. “Whatever will happen will happen,” he said in a nonchalant manner.

Watching the rest of the trial with your Geddo was quite entertaining as he was very animated.  We watched, to our horror, Mubarak picking his nose. I remember thinking, “No! No! No!!!! You don’t DO that when you’re televised to the world!!!” When you pick your nose, it most certainly means you will be picked on… How undignified. Gamal and Alaa were doing a cha-cha with the cameras, trying to shield their dad from the camera lens. That drove your Gedo crazy.

I remember feeling so disappointed when I saw Gamal’s expression as he walked towards the truck that was to whisk them away to prison. It was full of cold conceit; a calculating look – the kind of look that you see on the face of a serial killer or something. I used to respect him. I guess I didn’t know anything about him. Your Geddo started shouting at the TV in disgust after seeing that look and was more furious when some officials talked to them with what seemed like sympathy.  Alaa covered the camera with his hand. Oh how your Gedo resembled Warner Brother’s Taz at that moment!

That night, I bought 5 copies of the Al Ahram newspaper still warm from the press, that featured a picture of Mubarak and his sons behind bars.  Having it in my hands, holding paper that was the mouthpiece of the ex-regime, made it so much more real.

Guess what, Seif? Just yesterday, Mubarak’s lawyer announced that since Mubarak didn’t sign a paper indicating a formal resignation, he is still legally the president.  So far, people have turned this news into sheer comedy as is typical of our country.  I am worried, however, what after tomorrow might bring… the first anniversary of Jan. 25.  Fireworks or fire bombs? I wish I knew… I wish I knew… Your father is going to be joining one of the processions. Here we go again!

 

Love you,

Your mother, Rania, caught in what seems to be a saga…

Revolving Reflections of the Revolution: an Outing to the Supermarket

Jan.  20, 2012

Dear Seif,

It is with mixed feelings that I reflect on what hit us a year ago. Sheer terror and sheer ecstasy in a compact amount of time.  With the anniversary of the Jan. 25th Revolution coming up in a few days, so many memories have revolved from the back of my mind to the forefront.  I’ll share with you one that is still fresh with the 5 senses in my mind: our outing to the supermarket.

Remember when we were cooped up at home for 18 days? It was too unsafe to venture beyond our neighborhood, there was a curfew imposed, plus there was a gas shortage so we had to conserve every drop in case of emergency.

Our outings consisted of a trip to the supermarket.  Your dad would put on a smile and a sing-song voice as he tried to make going to the supermarket and a drive around the block sound like we were taking you to an amusement park.  Lara would smile widely in response, oblivious to how strange things looked from the car window.

“Look… look at the tank ya Seif,” your dad would say.  I studied the faces of the soldiers like a tourist peering at an alien culture.  I tried to capture every detail of the tanks and the soldiers with my eyes – perhaps the more I saw them, the more real they would seem.

You saw men flat on their faces in the middle of a small roundabout; their wrists tied to their ankles.  Soldiers were beating the soles of their feet with batons.  Foreshadowing things to come? You wanted to know why they were doing that to the men.  They were thugs and the soldiers were keeping us safe.

We reached the large supermarket we usually shop at.  I’ll never forget the sight and how it felt.   The supermarket that was usually buzzing with activity and sounds was full of ghostly, stoned faces moving silently from isle to isle.   Again, I looked at the faces of all those strangers and felt that we shared something in common other than sad, blood-shot eyes.  It’s a strange feeling, knowing that you and everyone around you are simultaneously feeling the same way: shock.

You went to check out the candy section, your dad and I went to search for basic supplies.  Hardly anything worth buying was left on the shelves.  Your dad got a scoop from a friend on the phone that we could find missing essentials at the mini-market inside a gas station nearby.

I was delighted to see that there weren’t many cars parked outside the mini-market, and that three different families were coming out of the shop with yellow plastic bags.  There was something to buy! We found milk, we found juice, we found bread, we found pasta,we found snacks.  You asked if we could buy you a box of jelly beans – we told you that you could choose whatever you wanted and that it would be allowed.  We wanted to please you and Lara in any way possible.  You couldn’t believe your ears and took Lara by the hand to choose candy that was once forbidden to you.  The joy on your faces made me instantly tear.  How could our life change so suddenly like that? Could we keep you safe? Were things going to get worse? Were we going to run out of money?

Paying for the food, everything seemed too expensive (although none of the prices had changed).  I never needed to look at the cost of anything before; I just paid.  Given the fact that all banks were closed and ATM machines weren’t operational, our cash was being depleted without the guarantee that we’d receive our salaries at the end of the month. At that moment, I felt the pinch of living on a tight budget.

Our outing was over.  We went back home and made sure to miss the news to rest our heart for a little while.  We sat together in the TV room and enjoyed the food we were blessed to have.

I asked you today what you remembered from our trip to the supermarket. You described to me the prisoners that were chained, and you even remembered how we tried to visit a friend nearby later that day, but were refused into the compound for security reasons. I guess Lara sitting in her car seat looked too suspicious… You didn’t remember being allowed to eat loads and loads of contra-ban candy.

Love you,

Your nostalgic mother, Rania

Two steps forward in the journey of 1,000 miles

November 28, 2011

Dear Seif,

It took a total of five and a half hours for your dad and I to vote for parliamentary representatives; 3 hours for your dad, two and a half hours for me.  Since our voting stations were not in the same school, I told your dad to vote first while I waited in the car.  The last time we voted, it went by like a breeze so I didn’t anticipate a long wait.  Well, there was nothing breezy about this time around…

We approached your dad’s polling station by 8:10 a.m. and found hundreds of people standing in a line that wrapped around the school’s walls.  Your dad parked the car in a strategic and entertaining location for me: I could see the tail end of the line along one side of the wall, and I could see people rounding the corner before reaching the line.  It provided me with comic relief  to see people’s faces change drastically as they rounded the corner and saw the long line looming ahead of them.  Many had the same reaction in terms of body language: before they rounded the corner, they were walking briskly and energetically.  Once they rounded the corner, they would slow down, slap their foreheads and say our famous Egyptian lamenting lines, “Yalahwyyyyyyyy!!!” or “Yanhar abiad!!!” One young man embraced the long line by saying to his friend, “This turn-out is a very good sign.”

I was provided with more entertainment when a large black 4-wheeler stopped right next to me and out walked presidential candidate Amr Moussa.  He walked a couple of paces, then he stopped and searched his pockets.  He had clearly forgotten something very important (his national ID perhaps?) because he stepped back inside the car and was whisked away.  He returned around 20 minutes later.  I was curious to see if he would stand in line like everyone else.  Yes, he did.  People started to huddle around him and a professional photographer with a tripod snapped several pictures of Amr Moussa with the masses.

By 11:00 a.m., your dad returned looking exhausted.  It was my turn next and I was confident that it wouldn’t take longer than half an hour – that’s if any women bothered to leave their jobs/homes to vote.  Upon arriving to my designated polling station, it was my turn to slap my forehead and wail, “Yalahwyyyyyyy!!!!”

Women, women, women, as far as the eye could see along the walls of the school twisting and turning around gardens, pathways, garbage dumps…  I bid your dad farewell, knowing that I would see him thousands of steps and a heat stroke later.

I joined the line.  In front of me was a woman dressed in neqab holding her son’s hand, and behind me was a university student.  I got to know almost everything about my neighbors-in-waiting; God knows, we had enough time! After an hour or so, the woman in neqab and I became chummy and she even offered me a ride back home so that your dad wouldn’t be inconvenienced.  So sweet… and her son is named Seif, too! (But you have much better manners!!!).

The topic of voting came up – people all across the line were discussing who they were voting for and why.  The woman in neqab said she had no idea who she was going to vote for because she had no time to research anything; she only came because she didn’t want to pay the 500 EGP penalty for not voting.  The university student behind me said she studied the options for 5 days and only today was she confident of her vote.  She was going to vote for those who supported the revolution.  One girl close by said she was going to vote for the “salafy” group – she even called it that.  Her choice didn’t seem popular judging by the facial expressions of those who heard – their heads snapped around to check out the person who uttered the word “salafy” and “voting” in the same sentence.

Since I had all the time in the world, I decided to count how many non-veiled women I could spot.  I counted around 26 including myself.  I was a minority.  Even the women dressed in neqab outnumbered us.

Nothing earth-shattering happened during my voting experience.  It was not very organized; we were instructed after waiting for hours to split up into four lines instead of one.  There was a lot of scrambling and jostling.  Some lines moved fast while others were stagnant which caused women to hurl some soprano notes at the military. I was lucky to be in the faster line.

Two and a half hours later, I walked out of the school with a very ugly black ink stain on my pinkie (what happened to cool fuchsia?). But I’m proud of that stain, and I’m proud of all the women that stood in line because they stood for something.  Sure, some were there only because they didn’t want to pay the penalty fee, but many were there to vote for a new Egypt.

Your grandfather always says the following quote to me, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”  Well, amidst all the turmoil and uncertainty, this is our second step forward since the revolution.  I hope that when you are older, you will stride and see things that we could only dream of.

Love you,

Your sore-legged mother, Rania

Holding on to “this too shall pass”

November  22, 2011

Dear Seif,

Here we go again, Seifo… uncertainty, tension, and fear.  Tahrir Square – the place you and I went to clean almost a year ago – is filled with scenes that makes my heart drop down an elevator shaft.  You saw on television young men being carried on top of shoulders, dripping with blood or dangling lifelessly as they were rushed to make-shift hospitals in the street.  You reached for a baseball bat and told me how you wanted to hit the people responsible for these crimes.  Your 8-year-old eyes should not be seeing such violence nor thinking such thoughts.

What a time we’re in, Seif… A few days ago, I went to the Swiss embassy at 8:00 a.m. with 40 middle and high school students to apply for a visa for our winter trip.  We could smell tear gas wafting our way, coming from Tahrir Square several blocks down. Some students began coughing lightly and their eyes began to tear instantly.  I was tense the whole time, not knowing what to expect. I was relieved to pack the students back into the bus and drive away from the epicenter of unraveling violence.  Upon returning to school, it was like a ghost town… hardly anyone came.

This week, school has been crazy.  During morning lines, we observed a moment of silence for those who died in the few days that passed.  Egyptians killed by Egyptians.  Due to lack of student attendance, teachers haven’t been able to give proper lessons.  We were dismissed at 12 noon today because of the “million man march” that was due to begin at 4 p.m.  Students kept asking if there would be school tomorrow.  I couldn’t answer beyond, “Yes, unless you hear from school administration.” There is something very unsettling about uncertainty… it breeds more fear.

I’m back to making repeated and annoying calls to your dad since his office is near Tahrir.  My calls are not just to know if he’s okay, but to make sure that he’s not at Tahrir.  You never know with your dad… I still remember January 28, 2011; the feelings I went through on that day are stitched to my mind and heart.  I’m traumatized by it, actually… I still can’t talk about it without crying.  I thought I was fine, but apparently I’m not.  I’m waiting for “time heals” to kick in.

Parliamentary elections begin next week.  Some people don’t want it to happen and will probably put up a fight.  I’m scared that we might spiral beyond control if clashes continue.  The uncertainty of what will happen to this country feels like anticipating a tsunami that will either just miss us or drown us all.  I hate to be negative, Seifo… it goes against everything I try to teach you.  I just need to vent because I have an overwhelming feeling of sadness growing inside me.  For now, I will hang on to the proverb that goes, “This too shall pass”.  May it pass with no more casualties.

Love you,

Your hysterical mom, part II