The African Flower of Zion

It was midday. The blazing sun set in the middle of the sky as we boated across the deep alabaster waters of lake Tana. “See that island over there,” the boat man pointed towards a small secluded island in the middle of the lake, “this is where many Orthodox monks take refuge after ordination. They spend the rest of their lives alone, away from the hustle of everyday life. They plant their own food, spend the hours of the day praying, and sleep under the open sky. “  

We headed towards Zege peninsula to visit one of the oldest Orthodox convents. The boat anchored and the guide took our hands to help us up the slippery trek towards the convent. After fifteen minutes of hiking the muddy trail amid thick bushes and strongly scented shrubs , we finally reached the convent of mercy.  Just before the entrance, we hardly made our way through a nagging crowd of sellers trying to force us to buy their colorful handcrafts. A young child followed me holding Jesus and Mary’s painting on a piece of hairy sheep skin leather; another two girls besieged me while holding cross pendants made of buffalo bones and leather. Eventually, we made our way through the entrance, and suddenly the noise and haste were replaced by a peaceful silence. 

A round bamboo cottage stood alone in the middle of the convent, surrounded by greenery. “This is Ura Kidane Mihret, one of the oldest and most enchanting churches in Lalibela.” The guide said. There was nothing enchanting in its exterior, and I wondered what made it so special. Before stepping into the church, the guide asked us to take off our shoes. 

The moment I stepped through the church’s door, I froze, eyes wide open. The whole interior of the church was covered with breathtaking murals up to the ceiling down to the floor. I was overwhelmed by the sudden waves of beauty and colors- bright red, yellow, and royal blue- that overflooded my eyes. The murals told the story of Christianity from an Ethiopian perspective.“When this church was built, people didn’t read or write, and so the monks painted these murals to educate people about Christianity.” The guide explained. 

I stood there in silence, my eyes raced through the paintings of black Jesus and Mary with their Ethiopian features, and the fragnance of burned incense and old wood invaded my nose.  I heard soft murmurs coming from the other side of the church, a monk was praying. “What is he saying?” I asked the guide. He answered;

“Stand tall, stand tall, my African flower of Zion.

For I am your guardian lion, an armored Lord on his throne.” 

A Crow's Pilgrimage

It all started in the western desert, where my ancestors lived thousands of years ago.  They built their congregations of nests in the crooked branches of the rising acacia tree, drank from the gracefully flowing waters of the oasis springs, and soared high in the limitless sky.  My great grandmother used to tell me stories of creatures that lived in the desert a long time ago. There were all sorts of flying, crawling, swimming and walking species. In the early morning, and with the first rays of the rising sun, snakes would get out of their caves looking for food, birds left their nests and flew towards the horizon, and insects mingled with the golden sand particles.  At night, the silence of the desert was penetrated by the sounds of howling wolves, night crickets, and hooting owls night-guarding the desert under the moonlight. 

But there was this one creature that my grandmother feared the most; She called it human. There were hundreds of thousands of them everywhere. These were big creatures that walked on the surface of the earth like kings and queens. All the creatures of the desert feared them for they were strong and smart. They cut stones out of the mountains and built huge houses and temples in the middle of the oasis. They roamed the desert on horses, and crossed the lakes by boats.   Every autumn, the humans plowed the fertile lands of the oasis and sowed different cereals, waiting for the harvest in the spring. They fed on the ripe dates of the lush palm trees, fruits like guavas and pomegranates, and the different cereals they harvested; they drank  spring waters  and rich cow milk mixed with honey and spices; they worshipped the sun, known to them as God “Ra” who ruled over the sky, the earth, and the underworld. 

My grandmother used to tell me that this was the golden age for our ancestors and for the whole creation, for they all lived in harmony and there seemed to be enough for everyone to survive and prosper.  As decades passed by, life took different forms. Humans started to change and get stronger, or as described by grandma, greedier.  Dwellers of the desert wanted to expand their powers to further lands, and so wars erupted between different races.  Thousands of humans died, houses and temples destroyed, and lands were set on fire. A great famine occurred during that time, and there was a mass starvation and diseases everywhere.  There was no food for humans or animals to eat, and death crawled heavily on the surface of the earth. Many species of animals, birds and fish were said to forever disappear after the great famine.  As years passed, the dwellers of the desert mingled with other races who, like the birds of prey, fed on animals, and sometimes birds…but not us; for they despised us, and believed that we bring bad luck. Whenever they heard our cawing voices, they chanted a spell to drive bad luck away.   Life was never the same as before.

New races of humans emerged and filled the desert. They made sure to erase all traces of previous civilizations, and so they went on demolishing all the houses and temples, and building grandiose structures in their place. One day, a hoopoe came to my grandmother’s nest to tell her that something terrible is going to happen in the coming days: the lord of the desert had decided to build a huge kingdom in the heart of the oasis. He was going to uproot all the palm trees in the middle of the oasis, and fill in a large part of the grand lake to make a huge ground for the mansions of his kingdom.  The bad news turned into reality, and the Lord started his evil plans. The desert trembled in pain as thousands of trees were chopped and the nests of inhabitant birds crushed ruthlessly;  the flowing waters of the grand lake were interrupted by concrete blocks;  the enchanting essence of Acacia trees and guava leaves were replaced by the toxic smell of cement and burning wood ashes. Fish got poisoned by the cement in the water and died, and birds fled the desert to find a refuge somewhere else. 

My family were among the migrating birds. They fled to the east towards the Nile Delta. They had heard from many birds before that this area was known for its fertile land and the endlessly flowing River Nile. It took them ten days to arrive to the new land and settle down. They chose a grand sycamore tree and nestled in its thick branches…there I was born. 

Although  I had never seen the desert, I was enchanted by the stories my grandmother told me about it. In my heart, I felt like a refugee, I didn’t belong to the big city with its hustle and bustle. I had this deep longing to go back to where my ancestors once lived, but it was all in the past. I felt lonely where we lived; no snakes, no fish, no foxes or guava fragrance filling the night breeze; only blocks of cement, sick scrawny trees, and garbage dumps everywhere. Humans were humans, whether in the city or in the desert; their greediness and disconnection from the creatures around them was the reason for our misery. 

And a day came where I was standing silently on a tree branch, watching the world from above, and enjoying my solitude. I saw a little human spotting me from afar. He came slowly  towards the tree and smiled cunningly. As I was getting ready to flee that intruder human, he quickly picked up a big pebble from the ground and threw it towards me. It hit my head, and I cowed in pain before I lost consciousness and fall from the tree to the muddy ground. 

As I opened  my eyes slowly, I found myself laying there in darkness, gazing at the starry sky. A fresh cool breeze swept by my face, Carrying a reviving essence of guava and pomegranate trees. I was so tired that my  eyes drowsed shut again, and I moved deep inside my very soul. Deeper and deeper I went inside, until I lost track of time and space. But it was not long before the sound of flapping wings brought me back to where my body lay. I opened my eyes and glanced towards the glaring sun in the blue sky.

The flapping wings were those of my grandmother.  she called me to rise up and follow her to the heart of the desert.  I was mesmerized, and with no hesitation I followed her, not knowing where we were going.

The rocks were white as pearls, and fresh waters flowed like dancing mermaids in the great lake. I gazed towards the infinite horizon and saw a  huge acacia tree in the middle of the desert. I was finally back home. I knelt down in front of the tree and called my ancestors spirits. The silence of the desert was suddenly penetrated by the cowing voices of thousands of crows who filled the skies and flew over me. I flipped my wings and soared high with them towards the sun, my pilgrimage.

An all-inclusive playground

In a dimly-lit corner of the bedroom, Zeid sat on the desk, actively engaged in writing the first draft of his project proposal. Crumbled paper and empty cups with traces of coffee covered the top of the desk. Silence enveloped the room, interrupted only by the ticking clock and the scratching voice of pen on paper. Zeid had been writing for eight straight hours, so engrossed that he barely noticed the clock pointing to 3 am.

During these long hours, he was driven by a force stronger than his exhaustion. He had to bring his dreams into reality, and jotting them on paper was the first step to do so. This was the moment to surrender to his calling.

A year ago, Zeid Left everything behind and came all the way from Sao Paulo, where he lived for the last twenty years, back to his home country.

It wasn’t an easy step. After the success he had achieved as an arts performer and youth program director in Sao Paulo, returning back to a country that once oppressed his ambitions was a challenging step to take. He used to think that he would never return to Egypt after the twenty good years he spent in Brazil. But everything changed after the twenty-fifth of January, 2011, a day deeply marked in the history of his country.

Zeid spent the weeks following Jan 25 glued to the TV, watching in anxiety what was going on in Egypt. He was overwhelmed with scenes of millions of citizens flooding the streets, taking refuge in them until the dictator stepped down. Feelings of pride flooded him, mixed with a slight tinge of shame for not being part of the uprising.  These feelings slowly turned into an irrational desire to leave everything behind and go back to Egypt. He didn’t have a plan back then, only a burning desire!

In a matter of few months, he settled everything down in Sao Paulo and flew back to Cairo. It took him several weeks to restore his balance after struggling with a heavy sense of culture shock. Everything felt and looked foreign to his eyes, even his neighborhood in historical downtown Cairo, where he was born and raised up for the first twenty years of his life.

The once beautiful neighborhood with tree-lined streets and neo-renaissance architecture was completely deformed. Old beautiful architecture was lost amid the newly rising haphazard shapeless buildings in dull colors. The trees-lined streets had been turned into a shelter for street vendors, heaps of garbage lying everywhere, hiding the remains of a once glorious neighborhood. Zeid was surprised to witness a large number of Sudanese refugees residing in his neighborhood. It was a sad reminder that the whole world is in turbulence.

The first few months of his new life in Cairo were slow. He slept till late in the morning, and spent the afternoons strolling in the busy streets of Cairo, watching people from afar, just watching, taking mental images and writing notes. Zeid wanted to give a space for the voice in his heart to ripen. Every night, he would lock himself in his room, writing for hours; it was his way of digesting what was happening around him and communicating with his inner self. 

Something happened a few days later that opened Zeid’s eyes to the calling in his life. That evening, he was having his regular cup of tea at the outdoor cafe down across the street from his home. He enjoyed watching passersby, while slowly sipping the sweet, hot tea served to him in a glass cup. A group of children from the neighborhood were playing a heated football match on the side of the busy street, interrupted regularly by rushing cars and passersby. On the other side of the street, three Sudanese young boys sat on the sidewalk, watching in anticipation the ball running through from one player to another. One of the players eyed the Sudanese boys and shouted fiercely “What are you looking at, you monkeys? Go back where you belong!” He picked up a pebble and threw it at them. They screamed and ran away, hiding in the dark side street where they lived. The scene left Zeid with such an outrageous pain in his heart that he was close to getting up and rebuking the attacker, but he controlled his anger and reminded himself that the attacker was a child unaware of what he was doing. He thought how cruel this life was, as if it wasn’t enough for those Sudanese kids to be forced to flee their torn country, only to face rejection and violent discrimination in their transitional so-called “home”. As Zeid went lost in his thoughts, alarming shouts brought him back to the scene at the street. One of the children playing football was hit by a rushing car. He wasn’t seriously injured, but went on crying loudly in shock, while people gathered around to make sure he was okay. Zeid hadn’t yet recovered enough from the first scene to take in the second. He got up in a rush, anger and resentment filling him, and went for a walk to unwind the tension. He thought to himself “What the hell am I doing in this crazy place? This is a country that kills its innocent children.” He fought back tears as he walked by the demolished historic school building that had turned into a garbage landfill. “Is it fair for children to risk their lives playing football in the middle of busy streets, while empty grounds are being occupied with dumpsters?” He thought. “If I were the governor, I would turn this piece of land immediately into a playground for all children to enjoy: boys and girls; poor and rich; Egyptians and Sudanese.” It eventually hit him. He didn’t have to be the governor to change the status quo. All he needed was faith, persistence and effort. This was his calling, scary yet clear.

Zeid spent the next few weeks stirring around the idea in his mind, putting it on paper, doing research, and talking with the district government officials, neighbors, local businessmen, and random people at the neighborhood café. Some people told him he was wasting his time; that those children’s need for work and money is more important than football matches and useless play. Talking with some of the government officials dried up his enthusiasm. One afternoon, he sat at the cafe, feeling drained and thinking of dropping the whole thing. As he was drinking his tea, a middle-aged man approached him; he wore a large copper cross on his chest.

“Are you Mr. Zeid?” he asked.

Zeid looked at him hesitantly “yes?” he answered.

The man asked to join Zeid for a cup of tea. “Let me introduce myself. I am father Habib, the priest in charge of the Sudanese refugees’ service in Sacre Coeur church on the next street. I was finishing some church-related business at the governorate building, and Mr. Mahmoud, the district official, told me about your proposal of turning the demolished school building land into a playground for all children, including Sudanese children. Mr. Mahmoud asked if our church would be interested to finance such a project since we always work for the interest of the Sudanese refugees in the neighborhood. I talked with the church administration yesterday about the project, and they gladly voiced their interest to finance it, after receiving a clear and detailed proposal of course.”

Zeid couldn’t believe what he was hearing. At the time one gate closed, another was widely opened. It was a message from the heavens that this project will happen with or without him. The choice was left for him to either be part of it or withdraw in silence and leave the field for others. It didn’t take him much time to decide.

That night, he went home, closed the window curtains in his bedroom, turned on the dim red light of his desk lamp, and spent eight straight hours conceptualizing his ideas and drafting the proposal; he named it “An all-inclusive playground” The images flashed vividly in his eyes as he envisioned this 800 square meter land in the middle of his neighborhood sectioned into a mini football field, an open-air theatre with a big stage and several rows of chairs, and a huge tent set up on a 300 square meter land for the indoor activities and a library corner. The proposal started with the vision: “An inclusive playground where all children- regardless of their color, nationality, religion or sex- can play together and access the small wonders of arts, sports and entertainment.”

He knew he was going to face challenges that would try to stop him from turning the dreams inked on paper into reality, but the memory of the three Sudanese boys running away in shame after being attacked by other kids, and the child who was this close to getting crushed by a car while playing football in the busy crowded street made him more determined to take the risk. After all, his whole life was built around dreams turning into realities, and some faith-building obstacles to overcome in between. 

And with the first rays of the rising sun and the songs of early birds, Zeid was almost done with the first draft of his proposal.  It was time for him to go to bed, carrying a large, content smile on his tired face and a large, ambitious dream in his wild heart.

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.