Matt
Hello Good People,
I had a striking, nay stunning, realization the other day which undoubtedly merits sharing with you, the countless loyal readers of this blog. Adel, one of my Arabic teachers here in Cairo, recently had a beautiful baby boy (ma sha Allah!) by the name of Jaleel. When he mentioned the name, I didn't think much of it then, but it was impossible to shake the feeling that I already knew someone by that name.
Now by and large the vast majority of men in Cairo are named Muhammad or Ahmad which makes the phonebook in my cell phone a nightmare. The other day when I sat down for chess, there were 4 Muhammad's, 1 Ahmad, and a Rafeeq. Needless to say, last names are a must in this city. But I digress.
For whatever reason I kept mulling over the name Jaleel, until it hit me. There is only one other person in the world I know with that name: Steven Q. Urkel, star of the 1990's sitcom Family Matters and icon for all those kids who grew up watching TGIF on ABC, was played by Jaleel White.
A follow-up question came to mind. Was Steve Urkel Muslim? A little bit of legitimate research later (read Wikipedia) and the answer turned out to be yes. Who knew?
Perhaps I should prepare a letter to the Muslim Public Affairs Council giving my highest recommendation that Jaleel White become their new spokesman. Such a figure so ingrained in the television consciousness of America is sure to make inroads in inter-religious dialogue. Brilliant!
Thanks for reading.
Showing posts with label Cairo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cairo. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
"Egyptian price"
(Lauren) Jill 23-07-2007
Marium's post of around 18 July made reference to "Egyptian price," that is, at many places there is a different admission fee for Egyptians and for foreigners.
When I was in Egypt last year, I went with a Cairene friend to the wonderful Al-Ahzar Park, and she wanted me to remain mute, "her Turkish aunt who didn't speak Arabic," so we would get in on the locals' fee.
This year when I went to the park by myself, the ticket seller asked, "Foreign or resident?" [I replied, "Guess," quite obviously indicating what I was.] Yes! You've come a long way baby! I, who am the weakest of the weak in Arabic (but slowly getting better).
And I got off the waitlist and into Fall '07 Beginning Arabic I. Alhamdullilah! Repeating it from last year.
I work in the university library and in the last year a gentleman who was over 85 and worked in the Circulation area died. At the time I said to a colleague, "When I'm 85, I'll probably still be taking Beginning Arabic I."
[I know I said I wouldn't post, since I'm not Traveling; I'm back in the Southern part of Heaven. But this tale, which amuses me, does have to do with my recent Travels.]
Marium's post of around 18 July made reference to "Egyptian price," that is, at many places there is a different admission fee for Egyptians and for foreigners.
When I was in Egypt last year, I went with a Cairene friend to the wonderful Al-Ahzar Park, and she wanted me to remain mute, "her Turkish aunt who didn't speak Arabic," so we would get in on the locals' fee.
This year when I went to the park by myself, the ticket seller asked, "Foreign or resident?" [I replied, "Guess," quite obviously indicating what I was.] Yes! You've come a long way baby! I, who am the weakest of the weak in Arabic (but slowly getting better).
And I got off the waitlist and into Fall '07 Beginning Arabic I. Alhamdullilah! Repeating it from last year.
I work in the university library and in the last year a gentleman who was over 85 and worked in the Circulation area died. At the time I said to a colleague, "When I'm 85, I'll probably still be taking Beginning Arabic I."
[I know I said I wouldn't post, since I'm not Traveling; I'm back in the Southern part of Heaven. But this tale, which amuses me, does have to do with my recent Travels.]
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Resorting to the Canadians
Marium
Canada came to our rescue the other day.
Yup. Canada. Who wud've thought?
But I guess the situation called for those peace loving, culture sponging, not such a big army (the Canadian army?) country.
The Friday market is an event in Cairo that takes place in the City of the Dead, which is a mini "city" inside Cairo. But this is a city that consists of five cemeteries. Cemeteries that existed for centuries before the overpopulation of Cairo. They were virtually left alone, with no inhabitants except for grave diggers and tomb makers. I mean come on, they were and still are graveyards.
But since Cairo decided to become the mother of 18 million people, she has finally had enough. She opened her gates to the hallowed areas of graves and tombs and said, "Move."
And people did.
To this date 5 million of Cairo's inhabitants live in the cemeteries. Alive and kicking.
But the city is not just home to dead people and living people. It is also the infamous location of the Friday Market. A place where you can find toilet seats, bathtubs (all stolen of course-from where, I don't know and I didn't ask), snakes (yup, real slimy snakes), dogs, turtles, fish, clothes and food. Big, bustling, rowdy and sweaty, that market was a crazy mess. And full of men.
Lots and lots of men.
As a journalist, the City of the Dead is probably an ideal location for a story. I mean who wouldn't want to read, see and learn about this completely fascinating city? So one of the stories I have to complete on the fulbright program is on the City of the Dead and the life that lives within it.
So I went, with another friend who is a videographer, armed with two cameras, a video camera and an audio recorder. And two male translators.
We ended up at the dog market. I have never seen a place that is so frighteningly insecure. Dogs on leashes, dogs without leashes, puppies in cages, men yelling, women selling silver chains and leashes and oh my God, is that a rotweiler without a leash?
By God it is.
In a market that was mostly full of local Egyptians, the arrival of one girl that could be Egyptian but was possibly foreign, one white, blonde hair blue eyed girl with a video camera and two clean cut Egyptian boys, was not a regular event.
We managed to talk to a man who sold dogs and let us in his little chained off area, in which a rabid dog was tied up to a steel railing. It did not look happy.
We started to shoot. And then we were surrounded. Some men walked into the blocked off area, suffocating us with questions, "Where are you from? Who are you?" and "Honey! Honey! "
We spoke to a man who volunteered to be interviewed and I started shooting the market from the closed off space ignoring the men as they blew kisses in our direction, motioned for us to take pictures of them, asked if us, the two honey-ies, were married.
"You cannot shoot here! You are American!" yelled a boisterous man in Arabic. My friend who doesn't speak much Arabic did not understand him and kept on shooting. He then pushed his face into one of our translator's face and demanded that we stop shooting. His friend tried to calm him down and said, pointing to me,"
"Hiya Muslimah" (she is Muslim)
He gave me a nod and said, "Hiya. Mashi."
He basically gave me permission to continue because of my religion.
I don't think I've ever had to use my religion before to get a story. Its a weird feeling.
"Her! She cannot work here," he then said, pointing to my friend, "she is American."
My friend turned around and said, "No. I am Canadian."
His demeanour softened.
Canadian eh? Canada, Very good.
He then proceeded to sit down on the chair and give us an interview about his dogs and the dogs that he sold.
He is a delightful man, when you aren't American.
The point of this story?
Since I've been in Egypt, the anti-American sentiment has been strong. Very strong. But always kept under fake smiles and whispered words. No one has ever blatantly spewed hate about America in our faces (not including the shop keepers that always chide me for living there and not living in Pakistan).
Moreover, being a journalist, and an American one at that, has always caused trouble.
For example our driver, who is our guide in the city of the dead always retorts back at us when we ask questions about drugs, gangs and theives that are rumoured to live in the city.
"you have that in America too," he says, sneering, "America is the biggest country with so many drugs."
Everything turns around and makes a 180 degree turn when you state your American-ness. You then become a journalist who is not out to explore the greatness of Cairo, its uniqueness and its beauty. You become the evil reporter who is out to spread a vicious and uncivilized image of Egypt and Egyptians.
Yes, it is not easy being an American journalist in Cairo.
And for once I guess its okay to be Canadian.
Even if they dont have an army, eh?
Canada came to our rescue the other day.
Yup. Canada. Who wud've thought?
But I guess the situation called for those peace loving, culture sponging, not such a big army (the Canadian army?) country.
The Friday market is an event in Cairo that takes place in the City of the Dead, which is a mini "city" inside Cairo. But this is a city that consists of five cemeteries. Cemeteries that existed for centuries before the overpopulation of Cairo. They were virtually left alone, with no inhabitants except for grave diggers and tomb makers. I mean come on, they were and still are graveyards.
But since Cairo decided to become the mother of 18 million people, she has finally had enough. She opened her gates to the hallowed areas of graves and tombs and said, "Move."
And people did.
To this date 5 million of Cairo's inhabitants live in the cemeteries. Alive and kicking.
But the city is not just home to dead people and living people. It is also the infamous location of the Friday Market. A place where you can find toilet seats, bathtubs (all stolen of course-from where, I don't know and I didn't ask), snakes (yup, real slimy snakes), dogs, turtles, fish, clothes and food. Big, bustling, rowdy and sweaty, that market was a crazy mess. And full of men.
Lots and lots of men.
As a journalist, the City of the Dead is probably an ideal location for a story. I mean who wouldn't want to read, see and learn about this completely fascinating city? So one of the stories I have to complete on the fulbright program is on the City of the Dead and the life that lives within it.
So I went, with another friend who is a videographer, armed with two cameras, a video camera and an audio recorder. And two male translators.
We ended up at the dog market. I have never seen a place that is so frighteningly insecure. Dogs on leashes, dogs without leashes, puppies in cages, men yelling, women selling silver chains and leashes and oh my God, is that a rotweiler without a leash?
By God it is.
In a market that was mostly full of local Egyptians, the arrival of one girl that could be Egyptian but was possibly foreign, one white, blonde hair blue eyed girl with a video camera and two clean cut Egyptian boys, was not a regular event.
We managed to talk to a man who sold dogs and let us in his little chained off area, in which a rabid dog was tied up to a steel railing. It did not look happy.
We started to shoot. And then we were surrounded. Some men walked into the blocked off area, suffocating us with questions, "Where are you from? Who are you?" and "Honey! Honey! "
We spoke to a man who volunteered to be interviewed and I started shooting the market from the closed off space ignoring the men as they blew kisses in our direction, motioned for us to take pictures of them, asked if us, the two honey-ies, were married.
"You cannot shoot here! You are American!" yelled a boisterous man in Arabic. My friend who doesn't speak much Arabic did not understand him and kept on shooting. He then pushed his face into one of our translator's face and demanded that we stop shooting. His friend tried to calm him down and said, pointing to me,"
"Hiya Muslimah" (she is Muslim)
He gave me a nod and said, "Hiya. Mashi."
He basically gave me permission to continue because of my religion.
I don't think I've ever had to use my religion before to get a story. Its a weird feeling.
"Her! She cannot work here," he then said, pointing to my friend, "she is American."
My friend turned around and said, "No. I am Canadian."
His demeanour softened.
Canadian eh? Canada, Very good.
He then proceeded to sit down on the chair and give us an interview about his dogs and the dogs that he sold.
He is a delightful man, when you aren't American.
The point of this story?
Since I've been in Egypt, the anti-American sentiment has been strong. Very strong. But always kept under fake smiles and whispered words. No one has ever blatantly spewed hate about America in our faces (not including the shop keepers that always chide me for living there and not living in Pakistan).
Moreover, being a journalist, and an American one at that, has always caused trouble.
For example our driver, who is our guide in the city of the dead always retorts back at us when we ask questions about drugs, gangs and theives that are rumoured to live in the city.
"you have that in America too," he says, sneering, "America is the biggest country with so many drugs."
Everything turns around and makes a 180 degree turn when you state your American-ness. You then become a journalist who is not out to explore the greatness of Cairo, its uniqueness and its beauty. You become the evil reporter who is out to spread a vicious and uncivilized image of Egypt and Egyptians.
Yes, it is not easy being an American journalist in Cairo.
And for once I guess its okay to be Canadian.
Even if they dont have an army, eh?
Thursday, July 19, 2007
A Tale of Two Brown Countries
Marium
I am brown. Skin color wise. A native of Pakistan my skin has always been olive brown and is now turning to a crisp mocha (I've tried most sunblocks in town. Nothing seems to work).
My skin gets me places in Egypt. It saves me from harassment that other foreign girls go through. People tend to assume I'm one of them and in this part of the world, thats a blessing.
But once they find out I'm Pakistani the love for my color, heritage, religion seems to dig deeper.
"Pakistan? Osama?" *big grin*
Yes, yes apparently the lord king of the infamous new age hasheeshis is no longer Saudi. He is now an urdu speaking, bhangra dancing, indian head bobbing Pakistani.
Yes, being from Pakistan gives everyone around me a good laugh.
But in this blog I rant not about my association with a psycho crazy guy, or rave about the fact that, "you are Pakistani? For you egyptian price!" but talk about the Middle East and Pakistan.
No, we are not part of the Middle East.
But lately, if birds of a feather want to flock together, we might as well start doing the Dabke too.
The Lal Masjid or Red Mosque crisis in Islamabad shocked the world, astounded Pakistanis and in the Egypt, my arabic professor joked about how he studied in a school near the Red Mosque. Joking, of course (he has a warped sense of humor).
My point is: The more crazier or shocking Pakistani politics become, the more some Middle Easterners tend to relate to us.
I might be completely wrong. It might just be because the Arab world can finally point at someone else and say, "Ha, Wala, you are worse of than us," or "Join the psycho Islamists club." Or it might be that most Arabs are just really interested in world politics. Mumkin. (Possible)
My view on the Red Mosque crisis is intricate, delicate and extremely complex. To completely understand it, or for me to even begin talking about it, one must understand three points: who and where these "Islamists" came from, the fact that a man can be desperate enough to wear a bhurka and heels to escape from police and the need of a dictator to "win" the upcoming "elections".
Its a touchy subject.
But in Cairo, as I look into the rearview mirror of a cab, driving 100 km an hour, staring into the eyes of a taxi cab driver as he asks me about the situation in Pakistan, there is a connection and there is an understanding.
It is the "real Ahlan wa Sahlan (Hello and Welcome)," one that states, "hey I understand your problems and I know where you're coming from."
And as I reply to his question about mosques being blown up with women and children inside, presidents vying for affection from world leaders and tragedy over religion, gender and oppression, he tsks with sympathy and I think:
We aren't so different. And it has nothing to do with my skin.
Its when we sit and discuss how the Muslim Brotherhood isn't very different from the Jamaat-e-Islami in Pakistan that I feel "accepted" in this culture that isn't very different from mine.
And hey, if the mutual unstability of two countries gets me the Egyptian price and Egyptian love, I'm willing to be Pakistani and stay Pakistani. Otherwise it seems to be a sinking nation, one that won't gain fame for its awesome food and amazing people, but with its association with the people next door.
Not the world's biggest democracy. The other neighbours.
Pakistan gains notoriety due to its infamous connection with crazy "madrassahs", dictators, poverty, oppression of women and bombings of mosques. And it doesnt seem like we are going to be off the axis of evil list, part two, anytime soon.
It makes me sad. And it makes me worry about its future. But in Cairo, it makes me more Egyptian and it makes me more Arab.
And I plan to learn the Dabke as soon as I can. Although Egyptians don't really Dabke. Oh well.
I am brown. Skin color wise. A native of Pakistan my skin has always been olive brown and is now turning to a crisp mocha (I've tried most sunblocks in town. Nothing seems to work).
My skin gets me places in Egypt. It saves me from harassment that other foreign girls go through. People tend to assume I'm one of them and in this part of the world, thats a blessing.
But once they find out I'm Pakistani the love for my color, heritage, religion seems to dig deeper.
"Pakistan? Osama?" *big grin*
Yes, yes apparently the lord king of the infamous new age hasheeshis is no longer Saudi. He is now an urdu speaking, bhangra dancing, indian head bobbing Pakistani.
Yes, being from Pakistan gives everyone around me a good laugh.
But in this blog I rant not about my association with a psycho crazy guy, or rave about the fact that, "you are Pakistani? For you egyptian price!" but talk about the Middle East and Pakistan.
No, we are not part of the Middle East.
But lately, if birds of a feather want to flock together, we might as well start doing the Dabke too.
The Lal Masjid or Red Mosque crisis in Islamabad shocked the world, astounded Pakistanis and in the Egypt, my arabic professor joked about how he studied in a school near the Red Mosque. Joking, of course (he has a warped sense of humor).
My point is: The more crazier or shocking Pakistani politics become, the more some Middle Easterners tend to relate to us.
I might be completely wrong. It might just be because the Arab world can finally point at someone else and say, "Ha, Wala, you are worse of than us," or "Join the psycho Islamists club." Or it might be that most Arabs are just really interested in world politics. Mumkin. (Possible)
My view on the Red Mosque crisis is intricate, delicate and extremely complex. To completely understand it, or for me to even begin talking about it, one must understand three points: who and where these "Islamists" came from, the fact that a man can be desperate enough to wear a bhurka and heels to escape from police and the need of a dictator to "win" the upcoming "elections".
Its a touchy subject.
But in Cairo, as I look into the rearview mirror of a cab, driving 100 km an hour, staring into the eyes of a taxi cab driver as he asks me about the situation in Pakistan, there is a connection and there is an understanding.
It is the "real Ahlan wa Sahlan (Hello and Welcome)," one that states, "hey I understand your problems and I know where you're coming from."
And as I reply to his question about mosques being blown up with women and children inside, presidents vying for affection from world leaders and tragedy over religion, gender and oppression, he tsks with sympathy and I think:
We aren't so different. And it has nothing to do with my skin.
Its when we sit and discuss how the Muslim Brotherhood isn't very different from the Jamaat-e-Islami in Pakistan that I feel "accepted" in this culture that isn't very different from mine.
And hey, if the mutual unstability of two countries gets me the Egyptian price and Egyptian love, I'm willing to be Pakistani and stay Pakistani. Otherwise it seems to be a sinking nation, one that won't gain fame for its awesome food and amazing people, but with its association with the people next door.
Not the world's biggest democracy. The other neighbours.
Pakistan gains notoriety due to its infamous connection with crazy "madrassahs", dictators, poverty, oppression of women and bombings of mosques. And it doesnt seem like we are going to be off the axis of evil list, part two, anytime soon.
It makes me sad. And it makes me worry about its future. But in Cairo, it makes me more Egyptian and it makes me more Arab.
And I plan to learn the Dabke as soon as I can. Although Egyptians don't really Dabke. Oh well.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
A month in Cairo, May-June 2007
(Lauren) Jill
I was in Cairo 26 May-22 June, 2007 at
Matt is currently studying at
Altho I am such a slow learner, especially with vocabulary (those of you who know me know how true this is—but I can do it! I can learn this fascinating language), I was constantly in conversations with Egyptians, in far-flung parts of the city. Without wanting to generalize, I found the people to be so warm, so helpful, so welcoming, so interesting. I also had the good fortune to be a guest in some homes.
I also saw incredible poverty and homelessness, and some cruelty to some dogs which I can’t even take in.
I went on 2 outings organized by
The other ILI outing I went on was a day trip to
Otherwise I went off by myself. Again to the rather new Al-Azhar Park, in Islamic Cairo (of course), which I highly recommend to anyone. To Old Cairo, which was very moving to me: the old churches, the oldest mosque on the continent; I didn’t make it to Ben Ezra Synagogue before it closed. Because of getting into one of many conversations, “hanging out” with people in front of a bookstore—also interacting with Egyptian women and with Americans.
Twice to the headquarters of the
To a service at the Episcopal/Anglo Cathedral, whose complex now is primarily a refugee home for Sudanese and other refugees. There are many refugees in
Once I was getting a meal across the street from AUC and I thought, “Maybe I’ll run into Mariam.” That would have been nice.
Oh, and so much wonderful music. I can’t begin to describe what all I heard (and saw). One was a free weekly Sufi ... event. Not only were the dervishes/dancers amazing, the musicians were superb.
from Matt: "a forum to share our reflections and insights [without being overly critical of the government]” Mine: I continue to love Egypt and Egyptians, who [collectively] have such warmth, humor, and hospitality, often in context of situations of considerable difficulty. With 1 exception, the people with whom I spoke make a differentiation between “Americans” and “the American government,” so I heard nothing ill spoken about the American people (except a few comments about a few Westerners who were inappropriately dressed).
It was so great for me to be in 1 place for a month. One can hardly imagine 2 places more different:
Friday, July 6, 2007
Still Alive
Matt
Hello all. Sorry for the extended silence, but there has been much transition recently and precious little time to spend at the computer. Work with FINCA in Jordan finished up well with the completion of a few projects and another visit or two to the Palestinian refugee camps. After a brief visit to Petra, a contender for one of the New Seven Wonders of the World (deservedly so), my travels took me to Cairo where I have just finished my first week of classes at the International Language Institute, a wonderfully professional outfit. With 5.5 hours of class time per day (all in Arabic) and couple hours of homework, the academic frenzy has begun again.
Rock formation in Petra
Cairo is a remarkable place with tons of energy and blaring music and traffic and just about everything else you could ever ask for in a large urban center (including the only subway on the continent of Africa). The cafe culture is refreshing, with men playing card and backgammon every day until the early morning hours, reliably smoking sheesha and drinking a cup of tea. I have invested in a chess set so I can meet these men, practice my Arabic, and relive the unfettered glory of my days as a competitive chess player. Swoon ladies, swoon.
As I adjust to a new life in Cairo, I will begin to write more frequently. Currently a piece about Hamas and Fatah is in the works and I still owe you the second half of "Scattered Thoughts from Jordan." Thank you for your patience with this.
Lastly, it is with great pleasure that I inaugurate a new feature here at Tar Heel Travelers. Please allow me to introduce "Globalization At Its Finest", an ongoing photo-documentary project which highlights the rapid pace of technological, cultural and economic integration happening around our world. All the authors are invited to share photos around this theme and you at home are welcome to send photos which we can publish here. The first entry:
Cell phone call on the way to work.
Hello all. Sorry for the extended silence, but there has been much transition recently and precious little time to spend at the computer. Work with FINCA in Jordan finished up well with the completion of a few projects and another visit or two to the Palestinian refugee camps. After a brief visit to Petra, a contender for one of the New Seven Wonders of the World (deservedly so), my travels took me to Cairo where I have just finished my first week of classes at the International Language Institute, a wonderfully professional outfit. With 5.5 hours of class time per day (all in Arabic) and couple hours of homework, the academic frenzy has begun again.
Rock formation in PetraCairo is a remarkable place with tons of energy and blaring music and traffic and just about everything else you could ever ask for in a large urban center (including the only subway on the continent of Africa). The cafe culture is refreshing, with men playing card and backgammon every day until the early morning hours, reliably smoking sheesha and drinking a cup of tea. I have invested in a chess set so I can meet these men, practice my Arabic, and relive the unfettered glory of my days as a competitive chess player. Swoon ladies, swoon.
As I adjust to a new life in Cairo, I will begin to write more frequently. Currently a piece about Hamas and Fatah is in the works and I still owe you the second half of "Scattered Thoughts from Jordan." Thank you for your patience with this.
Lastly, it is with great pleasure that I inaugurate a new feature here at Tar Heel Travelers. Please allow me to introduce "Globalization At Its Finest", an ongoing photo-documentary project which highlights the rapid pace of technological, cultural and economic integration happening around our world. All the authors are invited to share photos around this theme and you at home are welcome to send photos which we can publish here. The first entry:
Cell phone call on the way to work.Thanks for reading. Check back soon.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Peace in the Middle East
Marium Chaudhry
We're writing for the Arizona Daily Star on their blog website.
Its called "Cairo Calling."
my blog is up!
check it out
sam, stop eating those watermelons.
http://regulus2.azstarnet.com/blogs/cairocalling
We're writing for the Arizona Daily Star on their blog website.
Its called "Cairo Calling."
my blog is up!
check it out
sam, stop eating those watermelons.
http://regulus2.azstarnet.com/blogs/cairocalling
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Ode to Ola
Marium Chaudhry
Before I write about my latest epiphany, I thought I would introduce myself (or rather cuz Matt said we should :)). Born and raised in Pakistan, I studied at Carolina and graduated this May. Now I'm traveling through Egypt for the summer with 11 journalism students from Arizona, Nebraska, Utah and Maryland, taking pictures, writing stories, talking to people and pretty much having a good time. We 're all here on the Fulbright program, doing different stories on the Middle East and learning how to be journalists in the Middle East. Even though I am a broadcast journalism major, I opted to work in photojournalism since I enjoy that a lot more. Its hard being part of a group of journalists that all pretty much have preconceived stereotypes of the Middle East, dont drink tap water, complain about the heat and are absolutely horrified about the intense amount of smoking in the region.
I am guilty of enforcing this stereotypes as well. Which leads me to my next blog.
Journalists think that they know everything.
As a group of people that work around the world, most journalists tend to think that since they write about something, they know more about it than others, aren't sensitive to other people's opinions and feelings, and don't realize that their actions might be offensive and judgemental towards others.
I am guilty of this stereotype as well.
Ola taught me differently.
I met Ola yesterday at the Cairo tower, a high rise in Cairo from where you can pretty much see most of the city, even the pyramids in Giza. The midday sun is one of my seven plagues. It never leaves you alone, takes the longest time to go away and is the most awful lighting for any kind of photography. Needless to say, pollution and the light made the majestic pyramids look like tiny specks of brown mud. So I sauntered around the tower, cursing the sun and complaining about the pollution, when I was pulled aside by a little girl who was probably around 6 years old. She took me to her parents and her two other sisters and then proceeded to tell me how beautiful I was. We then started to fight about who was the prettier one, me or her. "anti gamila, la anti gamila"...I met her father and her mother, who were from Cairo. I started snapping photos of the little girls, chatting with their father about Pakistan, America and Egypt. Out of the corner of my eye I saw their mother walk to the side of the tower staring at the suffocating city below.
She is a Niqaabi, meaning that she wore the black Muslim dress that covered everything but her eyes. I didn't think she would let me take photos of her since most women wearing the Niqaab (and we had been warned about taking photos of them at a journalism briefing before) are not very susceptible to being photographed. Nevertheless, I tentatively walked over to her, started talking to her and asked if I could take her photo. She said ok.
Her name was Ola.
I took a multitude of photos of her, most of which were washed out because of my archenemy. I started feeling uncomfortable as some of the students on my trip, when they saw me taking photos of Ola, started snapping away as well. Sensitive to the fact that she might be uncomfortable, I thanked her, told her her eyes were beautiful (basically because I couldn't see anything else) and walked away.
She spoke to me while I photoshoped. I sat and stared at her photo for a good 15 minutes before I actually started to work on it. Here I was, snapping photos of a woman who was all covered, was not an anomaly from where I was from, but I took atleast twenty pictures of her because I knew that the stereotypical image of a covered woman is what sells. People exclaim in shock when they realize that a photog was able to get close to a niqaabi and take her picture. What we don't realize is that these shrouds in black are actually women. They are real. There is someone behind all that black and there are eyes that peek through the tiny slights of black. Ola taught me to be humble and to realize that the best picture may not necessarily be the one that shows the most humanity. So this is my salute to the women in black.
Ola and her daughter at a cafe in the Cairo tower. They are holding parchments, souvenirs from the Cairo tower that have a person's name in hieroglyphics and your fortune.
Ola
I like to think of this picture as the younger version of Ola. Like daughter, like mother in this case. Perhaps if I ever run into Ola again, I might get to know her and she might be as amazing as her daughters.
Before I write about my latest epiphany, I thought I would introduce myself (or rather cuz Matt said we should :)). Born and raised in Pakistan, I studied at Carolina and graduated this May. Now I'm traveling through Egypt for the summer with 11 journalism students from Arizona, Nebraska, Utah and Maryland, taking pictures, writing stories, talking to people and pretty much having a good time. We 're all here on the Fulbright program, doing different stories on the Middle East and learning how to be journalists in the Middle East. Even though I am a broadcast journalism major, I opted to work in photojournalism since I enjoy that a lot more. Its hard being part of a group of journalists that all pretty much have preconceived stereotypes of the Middle East, dont drink tap water, complain about the heat and are absolutely horrified about the intense amount of smoking in the region.
I am guilty of enforcing this stereotypes as well. Which leads me to my next blog.
Journalists think that they know everything.
As a group of people that work around the world, most journalists tend to think that since they write about something, they know more about it than others, aren't sensitive to other people's opinions and feelings, and don't realize that their actions might be offensive and judgemental towards others.
I am guilty of this stereotype as well.
Ola taught me differently.
I met Ola yesterday at the Cairo tower, a high rise in Cairo from where you can pretty much see most of the city, even the pyramids in Giza. The midday sun is one of my seven plagues. It never leaves you alone, takes the longest time to go away and is the most awful lighting for any kind of photography. Needless to say, pollution and the light made the majestic pyramids look like tiny specks of brown mud. So I sauntered around the tower, cursing the sun and complaining about the pollution, when I was pulled aside by a little girl who was probably around 6 years old. She took me to her parents and her two other sisters and then proceeded to tell me how beautiful I was. We then started to fight about who was the prettier one, me or her. "anti gamila, la anti gamila"...I met her father and her mother, who were from Cairo. I started snapping photos of the little girls, chatting with their father about Pakistan, America and Egypt. Out of the corner of my eye I saw their mother walk to the side of the tower staring at the suffocating city below.
She is a Niqaabi, meaning that she wore the black Muslim dress that covered everything but her eyes. I didn't think she would let me take photos of her since most women wearing the Niqaab (and we had been warned about taking photos of them at a journalism briefing before) are not very susceptible to being photographed. Nevertheless, I tentatively walked over to her, started talking to her and asked if I could take her photo. She said ok.
Her name was Ola.
I took a multitude of photos of her, most of which were washed out because of my archenemy. I started feeling uncomfortable as some of the students on my trip, when they saw me taking photos of Ola, started snapping away as well. Sensitive to the fact that she might be uncomfortable, I thanked her, told her her eyes were beautiful (basically because I couldn't see anything else) and walked away.
She spoke to me while I photoshoped. I sat and stared at her photo for a good 15 minutes before I actually started to work on it. Here I was, snapping photos of a woman who was all covered, was not an anomaly from where I was from, but I took atleast twenty pictures of her because I knew that the stereotypical image of a covered woman is what sells. People exclaim in shock when they realize that a photog was able to get close to a niqaabi and take her picture. What we don't realize is that these shrouds in black are actually women. They are real. There is someone behind all that black and there are eyes that peek through the tiny slights of black. Ola taught me to be humble and to realize that the best picture may not necessarily be the one that shows the most humanity. So this is my salute to the women in black.
Ola and her daughter at a cafe in the Cairo tower. They are holding parchments, souvenirs from the Cairo tower that have a person's name in hieroglyphics and your fortune.
Ola
I like to think of this picture as the younger version of Ola. Like daughter, like mother in this case. Perhaps if I ever run into Ola again, I might get to know her and she might be as amazing as her daughters.
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