Marium
Ok so here are some random thoughts that I was contemplating while sitting at a restaurant on the corniche of the Nile with two of my friends.
I leave Cairo on Thursday to go to Luxor and then leave for Amman on Monday.
Man, Time flies. The summer is over and I feel like I just got here.
What is it about Cairo that makes time fly, memories become a blur and days become seconds?
I reflect on my summer in Amman last year and remember thinking that the summer was short, but it was not as short as this one.
Amman was my first love. It was the place where I first fell in love with sheesha and falafel, learnt how to pack tobacco in a sheesha, bought three...well the list goes on.
Amman was also the place where I met the best of people. Practiced my faltering arabic, got laughed at for speaking Fusa (Modern Standard Arabic) and perfected my bargaining skills. And got the perfect haircut.
I will never forget Amman.
But I never imagined that I would even think about replacing my favorite city in the Middle East from Amman to Cairo.
Cairo was too much to swallow when I first came here.
There was just too much going on. It was hard to think in Cairo.
But there was never a dull moment. Concerts, plays, crazy incidents, demonstrations, elections. You name it, Cairo had it going on. In contrast, as Sam so eloquently shows us in his pictures and blogs, Amman was and is pretty much about the royal family. And Oprah. And Dr. Phil.
Oh yeah. I watched a lot of Oprah and Dr. Phil in Amman.
But I don't think I have watched tv for a day in Cairo. There was no need to. Drama and sex, comedy and action, thriller and romance floats in the air of Cairo.
For example, tonight as we sat in this really nice restaurant, listening to a jazz version of ABBA's dancing queen, in walked a girl in a white satin tutu.
Yes, an actual tutu.
It was a spaghetti strap dress, splungingly designed to show off her new, plastic assets, with net hearts with gold sequins adorning her thin waist and a poof of fluff at her knees. She sashayed in wearing a wreath of white daisies in her hair and makeup that would put Marilyn Manson to shame.
She looked like a plastic version of Cleopatra.
She frolicked over to the table next to us with two overweight men and an older woman in a red t shirt and jeans, who was constantly on her phone.
The conspiracy theories about the white dress and its symbolism started to spin.
My friend and I concluded that she was part of an escort service that catered to Gulfi men who desired women in white and the older woman in red was the queen mother of this business. Thats putting in more eloquent words than what we were saying.
After conspiring for 10 minutes, my friend decided to go and ask. It seemed like the most logical thing to do. She asked what the special occasion was for such a lovely dress and the woman replied that she had just gotten engaged and they were out celebrating.
What? Two men? A woman in a tutu? And one in jeans and a red T?
We thought not. But as ABBA crooned about dancing queens and we discarded theory after theory, I thought:
Man, there's always something on in Cairo. And I think I have a different story for everyday.
For example or rather examples, take the Egyptian Taliban taxi driver who animatedly talked about his travels in the north of Pakistan while reciting verses of the Quran and took surreptitious glances at my American friends.
Or the little 6 year old boy who held my hand and told me that Muslim girls should cover their hair and maybe it was okay that I didn't cuz people in Pakistan did not.
Or the crazy french hairdresser who told me that I should not get BUNGS (bangs) because I did not like to dress up my HAAR (hair).
Or drinking tea with grave diggers sitting next to graves, smiling and shaking your head at bedouins as they offer you "cigarettes."
And walking down dark alleys in the shady part of town and finding a little store with boys playing video games and marvelling as the man in the store tells you that the wall you are leaning on is from the Mamluk dynasty.
Yes, Egypt is an enigma. She is the Nile, the pyramids and the people asking for baksheesh (tip) for handing you toilet paper in the bathroom.
Yes, she is Days of our lives, Desperate Housewives and Egypts next top model all meshed into one.
And I don't know if Amman will be able to compare anymore.
Perhaps, I'll find out next week when I head to Amman. But for now, I think I have given my heart to the Mother of the World.
So fickle.
Showing posts with label Egypt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Egypt. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
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:
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
My Pulitzer Prize Photo
Marium Chaudhry
Snap. Stop. Stare.
As an amateur photojournalist I tend to do the first of the three actions rather than the last two.
On our trip to the Sinai, I decided to try something new. I decided that I would leave my camera in my bag and try to venture out into the desert without my beloved partner.
There is power in the shutter of one's eyes. Forget the big lens that straps itself on the hollow body of a camera. Using a camera to capture a moment is like a strong, healthy man using a cane to walk. Cameras are a curse if you don't know when to put them down and a blessing if you realize that your eyes are stronger than any camera lens.
I saw the most amazing sights in the Sinai.
From nights of utter blackness strewn with stars, from bedioun men calmly comforting camels and mountains enamating holiness, I saw Egypt's beauty in the span of 48 hours.
And I have nothing to show for it.
But I do have the pictures in my head. In this blog, I will try to show you my pictures of my Egypt, my images of its essence. For I am jealous of the camera that speaks for me. And this is my moment to shine.
But in the nights of the Sinai, shining is a feat left to the stars of the Arab world. In the pitch dark of hallowed desert winds, the sky speaks for itself. I have heard the black ink sky being compared to black velvet and stars to diamonds. I disagree with this analogy.
The sky in the Arab world is as dark as you want it to be. At first glance it is like black ink. But the longer you look at the sky, the color glistens from black to dark blue and to slight shades of white.
Stare.
The stars are not like diamonds. They are strewn in the sky like marbles that fall out of a child's hands. Glassy and clear. They twinkle like diamonds but are not as capricious as diamonds. Diamonds are fickle mistresses that shine for anyone that lays their eyes on them.
Stars in the Egyptian sky shine for those who take the time to look at them. They twinkle for a second and then quietly stop blinking as if waiting to see if one is really staring into their eyes.
Stop.
My camel stopped right at the edge of a bundle of rocks on Mount Sinai. My camel, who was named Asfour, and who, my camel driver, Sobh, swore was sent for me from heaven, was in love with wandering off to the edge of the mountain. I rode a camel for two hours to the top of Mount Sinai in darkness.
All I could see was the light from Sobh's flashlight and the stars in the sky. Sobh animately started talking about his camel's digestive problems as I felt Asfour's stomach rumble beneath me.
Stricken with fear of falling off the camel and equally scared that my camel was going to throw me off the mountain I held on for dear life and took a picture.
It is the most beautiful picture I've taken yet. Worthy of a Pulitzer. And its all in my head.
Asfour crunched her feet on the ground as Sobh grinned, his old face, brown with lines that crisscrossed from the edges of his eyes to the cleft in his chin. His eyes were brown and old, his beard, shaven and white. My green bag hung on the bright red saddle that was strapped on Asfour's back. My red and brown embroidered shawl covered my head as it lazily wrapped itself around my shoulders. The mountain looked sinisterly brown. The sky looked white with the blaze of stars. And at that one moment all the stars twinkled together.
There is some thing about Egyptian nights that even cameras can't capture. A feeling of utter beauty that cannot be translated onto film. There is not one person that travels in the orbit of these nights who is not touched by its winsome path. Unless they walk through it with their eyes closed.
For there are moments that are lost in adjusting the speed of a camera's lens, moments like the grin of a bedioun camel driver as he explains that camels drink water after three days, seconds when a shooting star races through a sky illuminated by galaxies, and a split second when you think to yourself, “did that camel just turn its head around and smile at me?”
Moments. And it can take exactly that moment, the one that you actually take to look at the picture around you instead of holding an artificial lens next to your eye that can define your entire journey.
Snap.
Snap. Stop. Stare.
As an amateur photojournalist I tend to do the first of the three actions rather than the last two.
On our trip to the Sinai, I decided to try something new. I decided that I would leave my camera in my bag and try to venture out into the desert without my beloved partner.
There is power in the shutter of one's eyes. Forget the big lens that straps itself on the hollow body of a camera. Using a camera to capture a moment is like a strong, healthy man using a cane to walk. Cameras are a curse if you don't know when to put them down and a blessing if you realize that your eyes are stronger than any camera lens.
I saw the most amazing sights in the Sinai.
From nights of utter blackness strewn with stars, from bedioun men calmly comforting camels and mountains enamating holiness, I saw Egypt's beauty in the span of 48 hours.
And I have nothing to show for it.
But I do have the pictures in my head. In this blog, I will try to show you my pictures of my Egypt, my images of its essence. For I am jealous of the camera that speaks for me. And this is my moment to shine.
But in the nights of the Sinai, shining is a feat left to the stars of the Arab world. In the pitch dark of hallowed desert winds, the sky speaks for itself. I have heard the black ink sky being compared to black velvet and stars to diamonds. I disagree with this analogy.
The sky in the Arab world is as dark as you want it to be. At first glance it is like black ink. But the longer you look at the sky, the color glistens from black to dark blue and to slight shades of white.
Stare.
The stars are not like diamonds. They are strewn in the sky like marbles that fall out of a child's hands. Glassy and clear. They twinkle like diamonds but are not as capricious as diamonds. Diamonds are fickle mistresses that shine for anyone that lays their eyes on them.
Stars in the Egyptian sky shine for those who take the time to look at them. They twinkle for a second and then quietly stop blinking as if waiting to see if one is really staring into their eyes.
Stop.
My camel stopped right at the edge of a bundle of rocks on Mount Sinai. My camel, who was named Asfour, and who, my camel driver, Sobh, swore was sent for me from heaven, was in love with wandering off to the edge of the mountain. I rode a camel for two hours to the top of Mount Sinai in darkness.
All I could see was the light from Sobh's flashlight and the stars in the sky. Sobh animately started talking about his camel's digestive problems as I felt Asfour's stomach rumble beneath me.
Stricken with fear of falling off the camel and equally scared that my camel was going to throw me off the mountain I held on for dear life and took a picture.
It is the most beautiful picture I've taken yet. Worthy of a Pulitzer. And its all in my head.
Asfour crunched her feet on the ground as Sobh grinned, his old face, brown with lines that crisscrossed from the edges of his eyes to the cleft in his chin. His eyes were brown and old, his beard, shaven and white. My green bag hung on the bright red saddle that was strapped on Asfour's back. My red and brown embroidered shawl covered my head as it lazily wrapped itself around my shoulders. The mountain looked sinisterly brown. The sky looked white with the blaze of stars. And at that one moment all the stars twinkled together.
There is some thing about Egyptian nights that even cameras can't capture. A feeling of utter beauty that cannot be translated onto film. There is not one person that travels in the orbit of these nights who is not touched by its winsome path. Unless they walk through it with their eyes closed.
For there are moments that are lost in adjusting the speed of a camera's lens, moments like the grin of a bedioun camel driver as he explains that camels drink water after three days, seconds when a shooting star races through a sky illuminated by galaxies, and a split second when you think to yourself, “did that camel just turn its head around and smile at me?”
Moments. And it can take exactly that moment, the one that you actually take to look at the picture around you instead of holding an artificial lens next to your eye that can define your entire journey.
Snap.
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.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
A Man of the Nile
Marium Chaudhry
His name is Jamil. I instantly knew Jamil was not from Egypt. Why? He said his name was Jamil and not Gamil, a phonetic difference that separates Egyptians from all other Arabs. As we swayed back and forth on the Nile, with 12 journalists drinking beer and smoking, Jamil and I spoke about his home, his family and his job.
Riding a Fallukha, the name given to the boats that reign over the Nile, I chatted with Jamil about his a job that rewarded him with around 50 Egyptian pounds (almost 10 dollars) per ride. He told me he was from Iskanderiyah and lived with his wife in Cairo. His two sons and daughter were still in Iskandariyah. He moved to Cairo to earn money to send to them.
Strange, I thought. I had heard about Egyptians leaving Cairo to go to other Arab countries to make money but had rarely heard of it being the other way around.
What I didn't realize at the time was that Iskandariyah is a city in Iraq. He never mentioned it and my limited knowledge of cities in the Middle East resulted in the question, "Where is Iskandariyah?" He obligingly answered drawing imaginary lines in the air as he explained where it was. I nodded and listened while thinking, "God, I'm really bad with directions and geography...did he just say Bahr Al-Abiyad or Bait Al-Abiyad??"
Oh well, we continued to talk about his life and his job. I now realize that he must have come to Cairo as a possible refugee from Iraq and was captain of his fallukha after escaping war and leaving his children behind.
Its not a lot of money, he said, referring to his job, but its a living.
Here are some of the pictures I took of him. I think they tell more about him and his new life than I can.
A boat pulls into the dock as the manager of the fleet of fallukhas watches on. The Fallukha is the main way tourists can enjoy a scenic and serene ride on the Nile. One ride usually costs around $10.
Jamil prepares the boat for the next load of tourists that are waiting to board the Fallukha.
Jamil pulls the rope to adjust the mast (that nearly hit me on the head) as we prepare to venture out to the river.
Jamil waits until the sun sets before he turns the boat around.
As the sun sets and the city lights bloom, Jamil silently watches the tourists on his Fallukha. This ride will be the first of a long list of Fallukha rides on his list for that night.
His name is Jamil. I instantly knew Jamil was not from Egypt. Why? He said his name was Jamil and not Gamil, a phonetic difference that separates Egyptians from all other Arabs. As we swayed back and forth on the Nile, with 12 journalists drinking beer and smoking, Jamil and I spoke about his home, his family and his job.
Riding a Fallukha, the name given to the boats that reign over the Nile, I chatted with Jamil about his a job that rewarded him with around 50 Egyptian pounds (almost 10 dollars) per ride. He told me he was from Iskanderiyah and lived with his wife in Cairo. His two sons and daughter were still in Iskandariyah. He moved to Cairo to earn money to send to them.
Strange, I thought. I had heard about Egyptians leaving Cairo to go to other Arab countries to make money but had rarely heard of it being the other way around.
What I didn't realize at the time was that Iskandariyah is a city in Iraq. He never mentioned it and my limited knowledge of cities in the Middle East resulted in the question, "Where is Iskandariyah?" He obligingly answered drawing imaginary lines in the air as he explained where it was. I nodded and listened while thinking, "God, I'm really bad with directions and geography...did he just say Bahr Al-Abiyad or Bait Al-Abiyad??"
Oh well, we continued to talk about his life and his job. I now realize that he must have come to Cairo as a possible refugee from Iraq and was captain of his fallukha after escaping war and leaving his children behind.
Its not a lot of money, he said, referring to his job, but its a living.
Here are some of the pictures I took of him. I think they tell more about him and his new life than I can.
A boat pulls into the dock as the manager of the fleet of fallukhas watches on. The Fallukha is the main way tourists can enjoy a scenic and serene ride on the Nile. One ride usually costs around $10.
Jamil prepares the boat for the next load of tourists that are waiting to board the Fallukha.
Jamil pulls the rope to adjust the mast (that nearly hit me on the head) as we prepare to venture out to the river.
Jamil waits until the sun sets before he turns the boat around.
As the sun sets and the city lights bloom, Jamil silently watches the tourists on his Fallukha. This ride will be the first of a long list of Fallukha rides on his list for that night.
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