Lalla Fatma N'Soumer
09 April, 2010
One That's Stuck With Me
From a little paperback anthology of American women poets found on a dusty shelf in a second-hand bookshop years ago...this one has stuck with me.
The Poet's Wife Makes Him a Door So He Can Find the Way Home
by Nancy Willard
Nobody else makes doors like a poet's wife.
If she made a revolving door,
summer and winter would run like mice in a wheel.
If she made a door for the moon,
the dead would cross over alive.
Each door is a mirror.
So when the poet loses his way,
crossing the desert in search of his heart,
his wife hoists her lintels and straw on her back
and sets out, feeling his grief with her feet.
She calls up a door that shimmers like water.
She unfolds her palm trees and parrots.
And far away, his belly dredging the dunes,
the poet hears his heart spinning
straw into gold for the sun.
The palms bow. The parrots are calling his name.
He remembers the way home.
The Poet's Wife Makes Him a Door So He Can Find the Way Home
by Nancy Willard
Nobody else makes doors like a poet's wife.
If she made a revolving door,
summer and winter would run like mice in a wheel.
If she made a door for the moon,
the dead would cross over alive.
Each door is a mirror.
So when the poet loses his way,
crossing the desert in search of his heart,
his wife hoists her lintels and straw on her back
and sets out, feeling his grief with her feet.
She calls up a door that shimmers like water.
She unfolds her palm trees and parrots.
And far away, his belly dredging the dunes,
the poet hears his heart spinning
straw into gold for the sun.
The palms bow. The parrots are calling his name.
He remembers the way home.
07 April, 2010
The More Things Change...
Nefarious War
by Li Po (c.750)
Translated from the Chinese by Shigeyoshi Obata
Last year we fought by the head-stream of the So-Kan,
This year we are fighting on the Tsung-ho road.
We have washed our armor in the waves of the Chiao-chi lake,
We have pastured our horses on Tien-shan’s snowy slopes.
The long, long war goes on ten thousand miles from home.
Our three armies are worn and grown old.
The barbarian does man-slaughter for plowing;
On his yellow sand-plains nothing has been seen but blanched skulls and bones.
Where the Chin emperor built the walls against the Tartars,
There the defenders of Han are burning beacon fires.
The beacon fires burn and never go out.
There is no end to war!—
In the battlefield men grapple each other and die;
The horses of the vanquished utter lamentable cries to heaven,
While ravens and kites peck at human entrails,
Carry them up in their flight, and hang them on the branches of dead trees.
So, men are scattered and smeared over the desert grass,
And the generals have accomplished nothing.
Oh, nefarious war! I see why arms
Were so seldom used by the benign sovereigns.
by Li Po (c.750)
Translated from the Chinese by Shigeyoshi Obata
Last year we fought by the head-stream of the So-Kan,
This year we are fighting on the Tsung-ho road.
We have washed our armor in the waves of the Chiao-chi lake,
We have pastured our horses on Tien-shan’s snowy slopes.
The long, long war goes on ten thousand miles from home.
Our three armies are worn and grown old.
The barbarian does man-slaughter for plowing;
On his yellow sand-plains nothing has been seen but blanched skulls and bones.
Where the Chin emperor built the walls against the Tartars,
There the defenders of Han are burning beacon fires.
The beacon fires burn and never go out.
There is no end to war!—
In the battlefield men grapple each other and die;
The horses of the vanquished utter lamentable cries to heaven,
While ravens and kites peck at human entrails,
Carry them up in their flight, and hang them on the branches of dead trees.
So, men are scattered and smeared over the desert grass,
And the generals have accomplished nothing.
Oh, nefarious war! I see why arms
Were so seldom used by the benign sovereigns.
Remembering Namir and Saeed
“We talked about photography and what we would do after the war. Namir was good, he was a kind man, he was brave.”Namir Noor-Eldeen was the Reuters photojournalist killed by U.S. forces, along with his driver, Saeed Chmagh, and ten others, in the shooting documented in a classified military video recently released by the Web site Wikileaks. Lens, the photography blog at the NYTimes Website has this remembrance that includes some of his amazing work. And here are the tributes from colleagues and friends on Reuters' blog from the day after the shooting in 2007.
Peace/سلام
06 April, 2010
Progress?
I grew up by the ocean in south Florida. I learned to swim early enough that it's been said I spent nine months in the water (the womb), nine months out, and hopped right back in. Another friend once said God must have screwed up in the lab because I obviously should have been born a fish. I've been a diver since I was a kid and even spent a stretch working as an instructor after college. Even these days, when I'm away from the ocean for far longer than I'd care to be, I find ways to surround myself with little reminders - a bowl full of grain of rice-sized cowrie shells and quarter-sized sand dollars I picked up on dives back home, some paper-thin, deep purple shells I collected in southwestern Turkey, an intact seagull skull scavenged from the beach near my mom's, and lots of sea glass and sea beans. These days it may be a year or more between dives for me instead of the six or eight a day routine I kept up while working on dive boats, but the feeling is always the same when I hit the water and swim straight for the bottom - like going home.
Given all that, you can imagine my reaction to Pres. Obama's announcement on the expansion of offshore drilling. It's not a solution to anything and including it in climate change legislation is insulting. We've still only managed to explore about five percent of the world's oceans and seem intent on destroying them, one way or another, before we can even get a glimpse at the rest.
Oceanea
Surfrider
(images from the Surfrider Foundation, map from NYTimes)
Peace/سلام
"Collateral murder" and Langston Hughes
Wikileaks reveals video showing U.S. air crew shooting down Iraqi civilians
Let America Be America Again (1938)
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
Let America Be America Again (1938)
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
05 April, 2010
Happy National Poetry Month
OK, I'm five days late, but...April is National Poetry Month in the U.S. Unfortunately, the way most people are introduced to poetry in school seems to lead to them swearing off it forever for fear of not getting it. I keep poetry books by my bed the way some drunks stash a bottle. Gets me through. I'll try to share some of the good stuff over the next few weeks. Loosen up, read a little, and try to stop worrying about "getting it" and focus on feeling it. Also try this in front of certain works of art and at the opera or ballet. I've converted more than a few in my time.
Eating Poetry
by Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
Eating Poetry
by Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
03 April, 2010
P is for Procrastination
My housemates are throwing some sort of Easter fête for our block and friends farther afield tomorrow. It's less about Jesus and more about lots of food, games and activities. And Bloody Marys. They went a bit nuts. Our kitchen table is buried in little plastic toys, chocolates, jelly beans, stuff for dying eggs...and somehow celebrating Easter now involves a goat piñata. I am reminded of trying to explain to my then-husband, new to the U.S., how bunnies, chocolate and eggs related to Jesus. So, I guess a sacrificial paper goat fits right in, really. In the interest of putting off work, I'm making two Key lime pies. Because why do the work you should be doing today when you can put it off for tomorrow? And you can never, ever, have too much Key lime pie. Ever. No, really, ever - I once brought a KLP to a haggis dinner.
Peace/سلام
Peace/سلام
01 April, 2010
Love
My mental bandwidth is gummed up and my thinking is scatter-shot, but I still want to communicate. So, for now, I'll take a cue from If Charlie Parker was a Gunslinger..., one of my favorite blogs.
Gerda Taro and Robert Capa, Paris, 1935.
Gerda Taro at work during the Spanish Civil War.
He survived Spain, became famous, but never married. Thankfully, she's finally beginning to get the attention she deserves.
Peace/سلام
Gerda Taro and Robert Capa, Paris, 1935.
Gerda Taro at work during the Spanish Civil War.He survived Spain, became famous, but never married. Thankfully, she's finally beginning to get the attention she deserves.
Peace/سلام
31 March, 2010
Four by Dorothy and a Pastiche for Gamze
Because my friend said she still hadn't gotten around to reading Dorothy Parker...
News Item
Men seldom make passes
at girls who wear glasses.
Indian Summer
Song of Perfect Propriety
Chant for Dark Hours
And a Dorothy Parker pastiche I whipped up in barroom on-the-spot poetry challenge years ago:
Typical Man
A typical man I met on the street today
asked me,"What do you do for your pay?"
"A writer," said I.
And like a sock in the eye,
he said, "Oh, my dear, what a shame."
Peace/سلام
News Item
Men seldom make passes
at girls who wear glasses.
Indian Summer
Song of Perfect Propriety
Chant for Dark Hours
And a Dorothy Parker pastiche I whipped up in barroom on-the-spot poetry challenge years ago:
Typical Man
A typical man I met on the street today
asked me,"What do you do for your pay?"
"A writer," said I.
And like a sock in the eye,
he said, "Oh, my dear, what a shame."
Peace/سلام
29 March, 2010
Blame the Jet Lag... or Florida
"Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot." Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Not that anyone should care, but I'm completely knackered, extremely slap-happy, and a bit consistently dizzy at the moment. I woke up at just before 5am this morning. Full-on woke up; just got up and went downstairs for coffee. And yet I still accomplished next to nothing today. My brain feels like it's been run through the blender like a piña colada...man, I loved those as a kid (sans rum!)...I digress. I blame jet lag and my own stupidity and lack of boundaries in taking on perhaps too much this semester. Oh, well. As my mother helpfully noted, "It's just another five weeks." At which point I dropped into full-on panic mode. Somehow my preferred use of the term "month and a week" had buffered the reality of my situation.
Anyway, I felt compelled to share this story I came across today from my home state, which only serves to highlight the truth in our unofficial state motto: "All the nuts roll down to Florida."
Not surprisingly, "The Impaler" is now running as a Republican. Should fit right in with the Grand Old Party.
Do yourself a favor and go read some of Hiaasen's books and then you'll understand where I'm coming from in more than the geographical sense.
At the moment I must present myself to the poor souls who are in a project group with me. Nothing like working with the living dead!
Peace/سلام
Not that anyone should care, but I'm completely knackered, extremely slap-happy, and a bit consistently dizzy at the moment. I woke up at just before 5am this morning. Full-on woke up; just got up and went downstairs for coffee. And yet I still accomplished next to nothing today. My brain feels like it's been run through the blender like a piña colada...man, I loved those as a kid (sans rum!)...I digress. I blame jet lag and my own stupidity and lack of boundaries in taking on perhaps too much this semester. Oh, well. As my mother helpfully noted, "It's just another five weeks." At which point I dropped into full-on panic mode. Somehow my preferred use of the term "month and a week" had buffered the reality of my situation.
Anyway, I felt compelled to share this story I came across today from my home state, which only serves to highlight the truth in our unofficial state motto: "All the nuts roll down to Florida."
Not surprisingly, "The Impaler" is now running as a Republican. Should fit right in with the Grand Old Party.
Do yourself a favor and go read some of Hiaasen's books and then you'll understand where I'm coming from in more than the geographical sense.
At the moment I must present myself to the poor souls who are in a project group with me. Nothing like working with the living dead!
Peace/سلام
28 March, 2010
Gone to Texas
"You may all go to hell and I will go to Texas."
Davy Crockett
Back in Austin at the end of a long, wonderful, busy trip. Woke up this morning and it me a few minutes to register where I was, whether it was day or night and what I was supposed to be doing. My brain felt like one of those little comic strip flip books.
I dive right into the final five weeks of the semester and several tons of related assignments. I'll break down the trip and resulting summer plans at a later time. Right now I have a mountain of readings, research and project tasks to stare at and try to make sense of...and likely procrastinate about a bit more.
Peace/سلام
Davy Crockett
Back in Austin at the end of a long, wonderful, busy trip. Woke up this morning and it me a few minutes to register where I was, whether it was day or night and what I was supposed to be doing. My brain felt like one of those little comic strip flip books.
I dive right into the final five weeks of the semester and several tons of related assignments. I'll break down the trip and resulting summer plans at a later time. Right now I have a mountain of readings, research and project tasks to stare at and try to make sense of...and likely procrastinate about a bit more.
Peace/سلام
24 March, 2010
Istanbul'da...
Just a quick posting before I head off to another meeting. One week goes by much faster than I expected and I'm already feeling that heavy, creeping sadness as my departure date gets closer. It's been a very busy week, with at least one meeting every day with a different organization. One meeting may lead to my designing and implementing an outreach and evaluation project with refugees in late summer. Looks certain that I'll be dividing my summer between projects (and improving my language skills) in both Cairo and Istanbul, which thrills me.
I've managed to see squeeze in visits with just about all my friends here, too, which has been wonderful. Staying at a friend's pad overlooking the Bosphorus in Arnavutköy. A few people have commented that it's as though I never left or that it certainly didn't feel like a year and a half. It certainly felt a long time to me.
Off to listen to Selim Sesler with a friend tonight. Ricocheting between meetings on the European & Asian sides starting early tomorrow, but how I do love my ferry rides.
Peace/سلام
I've managed to see squeeze in visits with just about all my friends here, too, which has been wonderful. Staying at a friend's pad overlooking the Bosphorus in Arnavutköy. A few people have commented that it's as though I never left or that it certainly didn't feel like a year and a half. It certainly felt a long time to me.
Off to listen to Selim Sesler with a friend tonight. Ricocheting between meetings on the European & Asian sides starting early tomorrow, but how I do love my ferry rides.
Peace/سلام
18 March, 2010
Shanghaied
I was kidnapped this evening, not by extremists but by a tiny old man. I'd waded back into Khan Khalili to try to find a few specific mosques and historic sites and ended up wandering the tight back streets south of al-Azhar, where I'd walked around a few days ago. Didn't have a destination in mind, but all of a sudden a wiry little man appeared at my side and sputtered quickly in broken in English that he would show me the way out, his name is Fatih, the fact that his photo was published in a guidebook, that he has friends all over the world, that I would come with him because he was going my way to mosque and would I like tea or coffee. That he managed to cram all this information into about five seconds time was impressive. He insisted, insisted, I let him show me the way "out". "I not guide," he said, "no money. No money!" I knew this meant a sales pitch for something was inevitable. We were nowhere near the souq and on a rather dirty little back alley, so I figured he couldn't be selling anything, or at least not much. I kept insisting that I knew where I was going and was just out for a walk, but he would have none of it, ever so sweetly insisting I have a rest and some tea with him. He walked at a rapid shuffle of a pace and quickly arrived at a worn wooden door, which he unlocked with great flourish to reveal a downmarket Ali Baba's cave the size of a bathroom stall stuffed with old brassware, old found items and some inlaid boxes. He insisted I sit and ran off to fetch tea for us. I figured I'd sit for a minute and move on. I was wrong. As soon as he returned with a glass of dark tea, he launched into a sales pitch for the inlay work he, his father and grandfather had all produced (the few remains of which he indicated were all he had left to sell). He also seemed to be recruiting me, asking me at various moments to bring him a new version of the guidebook to Egypt, a camera phone for his daughter and more customers when I return to Egypt. All of this was delivered in his breathless, rapid-fire manner of speech while I just sat and listened and tried to figure out how to leave. He pulled out a few of the tiny boxes and just as quickly explained their merits while I tried to explain I hadn't intended to shop and didn't bring much money, that I'm just a student and I really was not in the market for anything. Of course that was just another form of engagement and he somehow interpreted this to mean the duel was on. With every protest from me, he lowered his price until he was willing to give me the little box and "you pay next time you come back." No matter what I tried he just smiled and continued his one way haggling mixed with questions about my family, studies and work. He kept gesturing to the collection of photos of himself with foreigners over the decades and business cards from around the world to emphasize his claims of fairness. It made for an interesting conversation but for the fact he didn't listen to a thing I said. It was getting late and I realized I wasn't going to win this one. I even tried explaining in Arabic that taking something without paying or paying such a low price made me feel shameful. No dice. With great flourish he finally stated that he would only take what I felt fair. In the interest of ever leaving the place, I paid him about 1$, more for the tea and conversation then for the little box. I am no expert in inlay, so for I know it'll be like the tourist items I saw in Istanbul and the stickers will fall off in a week. With that he jumped up and grabbed an old copper bowl, green with age and full of junk - buttons, scrap bits of inlay work, beads, coins... He declared he must give me some gifts to go in the box and quickly picked out a few choice items, put them in the box and wrapped it tightly in newspaper. And just as quickly we were off down the alleys, which actually made for an interesting tour. He showed me a few graves of principal early figures in Islam along the way and introduced me to the butcher, backer and lattice work maker along the way, again all at lightening-shuffle speed. He left me with an energetic handshake and many thanks at the old gates and I was left to drift back towards downtown through the souq and ponder what had just happened. Sure, I felt taken advantage of, but somehow Fatih managed to do it so I didn't much mind.
Peace/سلام
Peace/سلام
17 March, 2010
Musings
Sitting in the lobby, having tea and eating the last of the little, round loaf of bread some Copts gave me today when I visited the Christian district. I've loved these little loaves and the tradition of giving them to the congregation since the Coptic fathers in Jerusalem gave me a stack at Gethsemane.
Tomorrow is my last day in Cairo before heading to Istanbul for a week. Then it's back to the U.S. and a very busy end of the semester. I'm more than a little worried about getting back on the wagon with my courses. The larger issue is just not wanting to go back to the U.S.
The visit to the village scheduled for tomorrow was pushed back, so I'll not be able to go this trip. The organization assured me they'll expect to see me when I return in May or June, insha'allah. A few meetings fell through, but overall I think it was a good way to start getting a feel for the place and the work being done here. Spent a productive hour with several staffers from an intergovernmental organization this morning. Decided to hit the library Thursday morning and instead walked along the Corniche to enjoy the cool weather, from my meeting in Maadi to the Coptic churches. Of course the enjoyment of the walk was somewhat tempered by the fact that I was walking beside a six-lane highway, but it was pleasant none the less. The Coptic quarter is a bit odd because it's essentially an enclosed area. Not that there are not churches elsewhere in the city, but this little cluster of historic churches unfortunately ends up feeling a bit Disney-ish with everyone herded together. Still there are some lovely details to be seen and as there are active congregations meeting in these churches, some while I was there, it provides a nice glimpse into a different and often overlooked element of Arab culture. By the way, for those who don't know, the service is (obviously) conducted in Arabic, which means reference is made to Allah. Yes, God is God, no matter how you say it. Visited Ben Ezra synagogue, but again, no photography is allowed.
So, tomorrow I'll hit the library for a bit when it opens and see if that bear fruit. I'll likely spend the rest of the day kicking around the old city. Somehow, calling it "Islamic Cairo" seems a bit silly and redundant. I may even brave the Khan again. There are a few sites I've missed, but mostly I just like kicking around that part of town. I'm certainly not as anonymous as I am downtown, but I get along just fine. Other than non-threatening stares and the random English word - usually "Welcome." and "Hello."- the only "harassment" I've received so far has been the throngs of school girls who have mobbed me at every site I've visited, wanting to talk and have me pose for photos with them. They've been surprised and amused that I speak Arabic, even if only Fusha, and it's never a chore to blow some stereotypes. They've also been quick to steer me away from school boys, who they typically describe as "stupid" and "dirty" though they seem fine to me, if a bit hyper. Always funny to see universality of "boys are gross". At the citadel, some of middle schoolers I'd talked to inside spotted me on my way out as they were getting ready to board their school bus and shouted me over to introduce me to even more of their friends. Their teachers were a but mystified, but gracious.
Also gracious was the older woman on the metro women's car who, after exchanging only a few words with me when we got on the train, ended up finding a seat and somehow making space for both of us and insisting that I sit with her. And then there was the woman who let me share a tiny both with her and her daughter at the koshary place I popped into this evening at rush hour. The little girl might be kindergarten age and spent the rest of our meal staring at me while her mom tried to get her to finish her meal. The girl and I finally gave up the fight to finish at the same time and my teasing agreement and gestures that there was simply no space left in us to stuff koshary met with a big smile and giggles.
When I moved to Syria in 2006, I'd actually considered going to Cairo instead. I'm glad I didn't. I feel like, for me, I made it here at the right time. I like it here, am getting my bearings, and will be glad to come back, though the summer heat will undoubtedly be a major challenge (to say the least). Yes, the place is mental, but it's somehow manageable. Yes, it's dirty and sometimes smelly, but it's somehow - even at it's worst - what I might call lush. It's a city of sensory overload. You smell dust, frying oil, bread in the oven, shit, exhaust, the damp of the river, the stink of the river, grilling meat, sweets, mint, incense, diesel, sweat...sometimes in sequence, sometimes all at once.
Unless it all collapses tomorrow and I have some horrid experience to radically alter my opinion, I've found people here to be generous, kind and helpful. They are also very blunt at times. Some may be rude, like the angry man in the ticket office at the pyramids who chewed me out about trying to use my school I.D. for a discount instead of an international student I.D. (though my card was accepted everywhere else), but those folks are not endemic to Egypt. Walking the Corniche today, I was rather sure I was close to the Coptic quarter and stopped to ask directions from an elderly man sitting in the gateway to one of the lovely gardens along the Nile. He said I was indeed close and gave me the brief directions I needed. As I stepped off the curb to run the gauntlet of traffic, he called me back and asked several times if I'd like him to walk me there and insisted he didn't mind. I declined with profuse thanks and he reiterated the directions before asking if I was certain I would be alright and waving me off.
The place is a good lesson in going with the flow, or as I've been joking to myself, going with the crazy.
So, one more day of floating in the current and sometimes swimming for an eddy.
Peace/سلام
Tomorrow is my last day in Cairo before heading to Istanbul for a week. Then it's back to the U.S. and a very busy end of the semester. I'm more than a little worried about getting back on the wagon with my courses. The larger issue is just not wanting to go back to the U.S.
The visit to the village scheduled for tomorrow was pushed back, so I'll not be able to go this trip. The organization assured me they'll expect to see me when I return in May or June, insha'allah. A few meetings fell through, but overall I think it was a good way to start getting a feel for the place and the work being done here. Spent a productive hour with several staffers from an intergovernmental organization this morning. Decided to hit the library Thursday morning and instead walked along the Corniche to enjoy the cool weather, from my meeting in Maadi to the Coptic churches. Of course the enjoyment of the walk was somewhat tempered by the fact that I was walking beside a six-lane highway, but it was pleasant none the less. The Coptic quarter is a bit odd because it's essentially an enclosed area. Not that there are not churches elsewhere in the city, but this little cluster of historic churches unfortunately ends up feeling a bit Disney-ish with everyone herded together. Still there are some lovely details to be seen and as there are active congregations meeting in these churches, some while I was there, it provides a nice glimpse into a different and often overlooked element of Arab culture. By the way, for those who don't know, the service is (obviously) conducted in Arabic, which means reference is made to Allah. Yes, God is God, no matter how you say it. Visited Ben Ezra synagogue, but again, no photography is allowed.
So, tomorrow I'll hit the library for a bit when it opens and see if that bear fruit. I'll likely spend the rest of the day kicking around the old city. Somehow, calling it "Islamic Cairo" seems a bit silly and redundant. I may even brave the Khan again. There are a few sites I've missed, but mostly I just like kicking around that part of town. I'm certainly not as anonymous as I am downtown, but I get along just fine. Other than non-threatening stares and the random English word - usually "Welcome." and "Hello."- the only "harassment" I've received so far has been the throngs of school girls who have mobbed me at every site I've visited, wanting to talk and have me pose for photos with them. They've been surprised and amused that I speak Arabic, even if only Fusha, and it's never a chore to blow some stereotypes. They've also been quick to steer me away from school boys, who they typically describe as "stupid" and "dirty" though they seem fine to me, if a bit hyper. Always funny to see universality of "boys are gross". At the citadel, some of middle schoolers I'd talked to inside spotted me on my way out as they were getting ready to board their school bus and shouted me over to introduce me to even more of their friends. Their teachers were a but mystified, but gracious.
Also gracious was the older woman on the metro women's car who, after exchanging only a few words with me when we got on the train, ended up finding a seat and somehow making space for both of us and insisting that I sit with her. And then there was the woman who let me share a tiny both with her and her daughter at the koshary place I popped into this evening at rush hour. The little girl might be kindergarten age and spent the rest of our meal staring at me while her mom tried to get her to finish her meal. The girl and I finally gave up the fight to finish at the same time and my teasing agreement and gestures that there was simply no space left in us to stuff koshary met with a big smile and giggles.
When I moved to Syria in 2006, I'd actually considered going to Cairo instead. I'm glad I didn't. I feel like, for me, I made it here at the right time. I like it here, am getting my bearings, and will be glad to come back, though the summer heat will undoubtedly be a major challenge (to say the least). Yes, the place is mental, but it's somehow manageable. Yes, it's dirty and sometimes smelly, but it's somehow - even at it's worst - what I might call lush. It's a city of sensory overload. You smell dust, frying oil, bread in the oven, shit, exhaust, the damp of the river, the stink of the river, grilling meat, sweets, mint, incense, diesel, sweat...sometimes in sequence, sometimes all at once.
Unless it all collapses tomorrow and I have some horrid experience to radically alter my opinion, I've found people here to be generous, kind and helpful. They are also very blunt at times. Some may be rude, like the angry man in the ticket office at the pyramids who chewed me out about trying to use my school I.D. for a discount instead of an international student I.D. (though my card was accepted everywhere else), but those folks are not endemic to Egypt. Walking the Corniche today, I was rather sure I was close to the Coptic quarter and stopped to ask directions from an elderly man sitting in the gateway to one of the lovely gardens along the Nile. He said I was indeed close and gave me the brief directions I needed. As I stepped off the curb to run the gauntlet of traffic, he called me back and asked several times if I'd like him to walk me there and insisted he didn't mind. I declined with profuse thanks and he reiterated the directions before asking if I was certain I would be alright and waving me off.
The place is a good lesson in going with the flow, or as I've been joking to myself, going with the crazy.
So, one more day of floating in the current and sometimes swimming for an eddy.
Peace/سلام
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