A Nation on Fire

 

Pablo Picasso

 In remembrance of the victims of bigotry and violence everywhere in the world…

 

The sounds of street dogs barking madly outside the house woke me up in the middle of the night; my room was pitch black. I reached for the alarm clock, it was 2 a.m. I felt troubled and was sweating heavily as I got out of bed. A myriad of fast images went flashing before my eyes, through my mind; I must have been dreaming. These were images of my grandmother, who passed away five years ago, in her house, and many smiling faces of my family who gathered around the dinner table sharing laughs and stories. It was a peaceful scene, but something happened towards the end of the dream that troubled me. Someone started knocking on the door heavily and screaming.

The feelings of disturbance accompanied me the whole morning. It was already a troublesome day, with clashes between Islamists and police force taking place, following the overthrow of the Muslim Brotherhood President. 

That afternoon, my father’s family gathered at grandma’s house, where my uncle currently lived, to watch the news and have dinner together. The situation was intense, and clashes heated up after the police started to evacuate the Islamists sit-ins, with hundreds of causalities taking place. The whole family was watching the news closely over dinner. For a fraction of a second, the scene froze. I remembered my dream.

The next moment we started hearing a heavy knocking on the door by what appeared to be a dozen of angry people. They were shouting and ordered us to open the door, otherwise they threatened to burn us alive. They were calling us pagans, traitors, pigs and other names. 

Screams, cries and prayers filled the inside of the house. My father and one of my uncles went upstairs to bring their guns, and my other uncle gathered the women and young children at the back of the house. We started hearing heavy gunshots just outside the door. I closed my tearful eyes and recited the Hail Mary.

A House in the Sky

It was another night for Samba to sleep outside in the rough dirty streets of downtown Cairo. His father in law, Moussa, was home that night, and he hated nothing in his life more than the twelve-year old boy.

Whenever he was home, Moussa would shout at Samba, beat the hell out of him, and rip him off of the few pounds he had been saving out of his work in the garage. Samba’s mother would stand in the corner helplessly watching her son beaten up by the ruthless old man. She was a weak woman with a poor health, and had seven young kids other than Samba. After the usual beating course, Samba would stare at his mother with many unanswered questions running in his mind.

But Samba was a brave strong boy. He was naturally gifted and full of life, and hardships only made him stronger and more resilient. Out of his seven brothers and sisters, he loved Rooka and Ziko the most. The six-year old girl and the eight-year old boy were his favorite. They were like his little children, and he was like a father to them. 

Every other night, after finishing his work at the garage, Samba would buy dinner and sweets for his little siblings and would meet them by the football court of the abandoned school building at the end of their street. They would spend the whole night eating, telling stories to each others, making fun of Moussa, or simply gazing at the stars on the sky and making shapes out of them. Some nights, other children from the neighborhood would join them for a heated football match that would last all night long. Some other nights, the three children would climb to the rooftop of the abandoned school building to spy on the neighbors or watch the wedding celebrations taking place at the close-by youth center hall. They loved dancing to the music filling the air, and sometimes would sneak in to the crowded hall to steal a piece of gateaux or a bottle of coke.   

One night, Samba’s older brother knew about the food that Samba brought only to his two young siblings. He was filled with envy, and hurried to Moussa and told him “Samba is spending his money on food and sweets that he gives only to Rooka and Ziko. He knows we are in need for this money as well. You should teach him a lesson.”

 Moussa was filled with anger, and that night, he followed Rooka and Ziko to the football court. When Samba saw him, he tried to hide the food but Moussa had already seen it. He grabbed Samba from his shirt and slapped him on the face “You dirty pig. I spend every pound I earn on your sick mother’s medicine and feeding your brothers and sisters, and here you are enjoying your time eating and drinking.” He started putting his hands inside Samba’s pockets to steal his money, but samba kicked him off in his balls. He quickly grabbed his knife out of his pocket “If you came one step nearer to me or my brother and sister, I swear I will kill you.” Feeling angry and in pain, Moussa looked at him and the young children, spitted on them and walked back towards the house. He shouted from afar “don’t you dare come near the house again. I’ll cut your legs off if you did.”

Rooka and Ziko were crying so hard, but Samba took them in his arms and hugged them tightly. They couldn’t eat that night, and instead they climbed the rooftop of the abandoned school; it was a little windy up there. They lay on the ground beside each other and gazed at the stars. Rooka pointed up towards the sky, “Do you see that house over there?” “Where?” Ziko asked. “That one on the right side of the moon. The one with the garden and the big tree. I have an idea, we can live there. We can take a plane and go up the sky and live there. Moussa won’t be able to reach us.” She looked back to Samba, but he had fallen into a deep sleep, with his fist clenched tightly around his small knife.

A Fresh Start

 

Shana creations

 It was a lazy Saturday afternoon in one of NYC neighborhoods. Dina decided to spend it in a nearby café and start reading the novel she bought last week. It was written by a famous Egyptian author about a rural young woman who went through a journey of self-discovery after moving from her village to Cairo. Dina had been looking forward to start reading this book. She knew she had to prepare herself well for the myriad of old and painful memories it might bring to her.

After finishing the first chapter, Dina felt exhausted and homesick. She placed the book down and ordered some coffee. Her mind went struggling with hundreds of memories and thoughts at the same time. She knew she had to release them on paper, and so she pulled out her notebook and pen and started jotting them down.

“I was an average young woman. I had a beautiful curvy body, but used to hide it under layers of clothes. My thick curly hair was always wrapped up in a bun. I carried inside me an overwhelming sense of guilt for being unveiled and not following the rules of God, as my family used to blame me. I tried to cover up for guilt by hiding my beauty. I wanted to make a point to myself and others that I wasn’t trying to seduce men to lust after me. I just didn’t like wearing a veil, it made me feel more chained than I already were. 

The constant street harassment I faced on my way to and from work made it more complicated for me to accept my femininity. Every time I hit the roads, I had to hear dirty sexual words about my butt or breasts no matter how hard I tried to hide them. Without realizing, I came to believe that these parts of my body are unclean, and I despised them and myself for being a woman. 

My trapped feminine energy distorted my whole life. I loved watching American movies back then where women looked like butterflies with carefree spirits. They had no overly controlling family, or men around them who believed that women were created to satisfy their desires.  

As I grew older, and gone from one arranged date to another, I lost faith in love. Arranged dates were more of a market, with women as commodities for sale."

Dina felt more exhausted than before. She could feel the emptiness inside growing. She took a deep breath and fought the tears in her eyes. As she looked across her, she noticed a nice young man who had been watching her for quite some time from a nearby table. He gave her a big smile, got up and approached her. 

“You are so beautiful, why do you look sad?” The man asked her. “Do you mind if I invited you for a drink?”

His invitation stirred in her mixed emotions. She wasn’t used to talk to strangers comfortably, especially men. She pictured her mum with her black long dress sitting on the couch beside her at their old house when she was a young girl, and warning her of lousy men and playboys “take care from men who deceive you with their sweet words and airy promises. They want nothing but to drag you to their nets and steal your virginity. A real man knocks the door of your house to take you as his wife, and not like a thief who breaks the window in the darkness. The most expensive thing in a girl’s life is her pride, her virginity, and keeping herself intact for her future husband.” 

“This is Absurd!” Dina found herself shouting loudly. 

“Aburd?” the man asked. “I’m sorry if you found my invitation absurd. Have a nice day” 

“No, wait” Dina held him from his hand while he was about to leave. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was…er…talking to my mum…I mean to myself!” 

He looked at her in confusion, and then smiled warmly “Oh,I do this all the time. Mums are like ghosts you know, they never leave us even when we grow up. Well, if she doesn’t mind, I can invite her for a drink too!”

Dina laughed “I don’t think we can. Mum will be always part of my past, exactly like my village and old house, but she can’t be part of my present. She passed away ten years ago and I think it’s time for her words to rest in peace too.”