Hello Everybody,
Just a small note. Marium's new blog can be found here: http://karachiitis.blogspot.com/. The link on the right has been changed to reflect this. We wish her all the best in these difficult times.
Thanks,
Matt
Showing posts with label Marium. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marium. Show all posts
Monday, December 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
In the Name of Religion
Marium
The Hijab has always been a symbol of religion for me. I admire my friends who wear it and wish that I had the determination to wear it as they do.
I have never felt the "need" to wear it. I believe that I can be modest without it. I believe that religion is inward. And outward..but a lot more inward for me.
When entering a mosque, tombs of Prophets and holy places in Islam, one is required to wear a scarf on one's head as it signifies respect and modesty.
And in the House of God and the resting places of Prophets, I believe, as others do, that the hijab is a necessity.
Now, I'm sure there are some who agree with my opinion on the hijab and some who don't.
But this is not a blog about the hijab or its place in Islam.
Its about the hijab and its place in my life.
And in Israel.
It was Sarah and I that got to taste the difference that religion can make in one's life in Israel. Especially in a place like Hebron.
Hebron is the final resting place of Abraham or Ibrahim and his wife Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca and Joseph.
Sarah, Sam and I decided to visit their tomb after we spent the day in Ramallah.
We got to Hebron at 6 p.m. and the tomb was closed to everyone except Muslims and Jews.
After convincing the guard at the gate for the Muslim side of the tomb of my "Muslim-ness" I was allowed into the Muslim side.
I walked up to the door leading to the tomb and was stopped by two young Israeli guards. I fixed my green hijab on my head and stared at them for a second.
“Where are you from?” they asked.
Pakistan.
Without a word I was let into the tomb.
It wasn't peaceful in there.
I didn't feel peace in resting place of Abraham, the father of Judaism and the Prophet that built the Ka'aba in Mecca, the holiest place in Islam.
There was an eerie kind of solitude. I peered into the tomb of Sarah and said a prayer. Walking towards the grave of Abraham, I was stopped by a man who took it upon himself to explain to me who and where each Prophet was.
He pointed to a closed door and told me that the grave of Joseph lay behind it.
“Is it not open to Muslims?” I asked, since Joseph is an important Prophet in Islam as well.
No, he said. It was part of the Jewish side of the tomb. There was a time when it was open. When Muslims and Jews mingled and prayed separately but in unison. That was before a man from the Jewish side came to the Muslim side and killed 29 Muslims.
While they were praying.
Ask a Muslim: Who is Abraham?
He is a Muslim. Obviously
Ask a Jew: Who is Abraham?
He is a Jew. Obviously
It wasn't that obvious in the tomb.
I reached up and grabbed the railings of the window that looked into the grave of Abraham. It is a large oval and rectangular shaped coffin with a green, rich cloth covering it.
It was sprinkled with words in Arabic. I read the name of Muhammad and the verses from the Quran.
I said a prayer and looked up to see my friend Sarah's face peering into the room from the other side. I yelled her name.
She didn't hear me.
I yelled out to her again.
And our eyes met.
and I felt the divide.
There stood one of my favorite people in the world. And I couldn't share this moment with her.
We silently looked at each other.
The Muslim and the Jew with a Prophet in the middle.
Is he mine? Or is he hers?
Does it even matter?
I walked out of the Muslim side to meet Sarah and Sam. I didn't take off my hijab as I walked down to the Palestinian shops where Sarah and Sam stood.
We met a Palestinian man, Jamal who said he would show us a birds eye view of Hebron from the roof of his apartment building. We agreed to go with him and as we walked towards his house, Sarah and I went on the main road.
Jamal and Sam walked off to the side road which was cut off by road blocks.
"She's Muslim, she's Muslim, she's Muslim," said an Israeli soldier to another as he poked him with the butt of his gun.
"Yes I am," I said.
"You can't go in there," he said pointing to the Jewish part of town.
Why not, I asked.
You're not Jewish.
Okay but I'm American.
Doesn't matter. You're not Jewish.
There was a fork in the road. I stood in the middle of it as these two guards told me where I could go and where I couldn't.
One side led to the Jewish part of town. One to the Muslim. and all that separated them was a couple of meters and two guards.
Sarah was allowed into the Muslim side but I was not allowed into the Jewish side. We walked over to the Muslim side.
After talking with our Palestinian friend, we headed back to the streets and to a bus stop. My hijab was still glued onto my head.
Two buses went by and didn't stop.
Our Palestinian friend didn't know why.
There was a group of soldiers that stood across from us, from what seemed to be a checkpoint into the Muslim side of town.
We saw boys, old men, women enter the checkpoint and stared as they were searched.
The first bus went by. And then another.
I wondered: Is this because of my hijab?
We asked Jamal and he said it might be.
I refused to take it off.
No way.
The hijab isn't and wasn't a part of my identity. So why did I feel the need to wear it here? I refused to take it off. And I don't exactly know why. All I know is that I refused to be discriminated against based on my religion.
No.
It wasn't right and I wasn't going to give in.
I was not going to take the hijab off.
We waited and soon a group of 4 to 5 Israeli soldiers walked towards us.
I held my head high. My head covered with a green hijab.
I didn't smile.
But they did.
What's the matter, they asked. We told them we were trying to get a bus but it wouldn't stop.
They offered to stop one for us.
And they did. As soon as a bus went by, they stopped it and said something to the driver in Hebrew. We got on the bus and were on our way back to Jerusalem.
I'm not going to talk about the Israeli bus ride or the Jewish settlements we passed by.
The little green towns, people walking dogs, old women sitting on benches and children playing in parks.
I won't talk about the big train/bus station we were dropped off at or the woman who stared at me for at least half an hour on the bus.
This post is about identity as most of my posts are.
It's hard to deal with, the problem with identity and where it fits into our lives. And it gets harder everyday.
It bites at me as I leave the mosque, hide in a dark alley and take off my hijab.
It awakens when someone asks me what religion I am, what nationality.
Wearing a hijab is proclaiming that your identity is what you look like. You look Muslim, therefore it seems to be a big part of who you state you are.
Without a hijab, you merge into a crowd, faceless and unimportant.
You do not wear your identity.
And that in itself is a blessing. Especially in a country like Israel that is divided by nationalist and religious lines.
But in Hebron, it is not about nationality. It is just about religion.
I can now understand why some women would decide to wear the hijab for political reasons. It is a theory that has floated around the world as more women started wearing the hijab after 9/11. Some analysts have argued that more women started wearing the hijab after 9/11 to support their religion as they felt it was a religion that was under attack.
As Amin Maalouf explains in his book, “In the Name of Identity,” we as humans tend to cling to the identity that we feel is under attack.
Islam was/is under “attack,” so wearing the hijab signifies support for it.
I understand that.
Because if you are going to be prejudiced based on my religion. So be it.
I wear my religion and I wear it proud.
As I write this, I am sitting in an Israeli coffee shop in the New city in West Jerusalem.
I came here right after I went for the afternoon prayer to the mosque. I left the mosque with my hijab on my head and entered the coffee shop with my hair in a bun and my hijab in my bag.
I've heard stories about girls not being let into Israeli shops because they wear the hijab.
And I wanted to try and see whether the same thing would happen to me.
Would they stop me at the door if I was wearing a hijab?
Would I take it off if they told me I couldn't go in?
Or would they surprise me with a smile. And help me get to where I have to go?
Israel is a country of contradictions. A country where you expect interrogation and are given a smile in return.
Its a place where I see guns, a separation wall, inequality and discrimination. But it is also a place where an Israeli rabbi says to me that God is one; Muslims and Jews are one.
If we are one, why do we need walls?
I look around this new city and see children in baby carriages, soldiers with guns talking on cell phones, iced lattes and Mercedes'.
Life doesn't seem so bad. Until you remember that the coffee shop you are sitting in was probably once the home of a Palestinian. A Palestinian who probably still has the keys to his house. A house that no longer exists.
In its place is a coffee shop where I sit sipping an iced latte, my head uncovered and no one questions my right to be here.
The Hijab has always been a symbol of religion for me. I admire my friends who wear it and wish that I had the determination to wear it as they do.
I have never felt the "need" to wear it. I believe that I can be modest without it. I believe that religion is inward. And outward..but a lot more inward for me.
When entering a mosque, tombs of Prophets and holy places in Islam, one is required to wear a scarf on one's head as it signifies respect and modesty.
And in the House of God and the resting places of Prophets, I believe, as others do, that the hijab is a necessity.
Now, I'm sure there are some who agree with my opinion on the hijab and some who don't.
But this is not a blog about the hijab or its place in Islam.
Its about the hijab and its place in my life.
And in Israel.
It was Sarah and I that got to taste the difference that religion can make in one's life in Israel. Especially in a place like Hebron.
Hebron is the final resting place of Abraham or Ibrahim and his wife Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca and Joseph.
Sarah, Sam and I decided to visit their tomb after we spent the day in Ramallah.
We got to Hebron at 6 p.m. and the tomb was closed to everyone except Muslims and Jews.
After convincing the guard at the gate for the Muslim side of the tomb of my "Muslim-ness" I was allowed into the Muslim side.
I walked up to the door leading to the tomb and was stopped by two young Israeli guards. I fixed my green hijab on my head and stared at them for a second.
“Where are you from?” they asked.
Pakistan.
Without a word I was let into the tomb.
It wasn't peaceful in there.
I didn't feel peace in resting place of Abraham, the father of Judaism and the Prophet that built the Ka'aba in Mecca, the holiest place in Islam.
There was an eerie kind of solitude. I peered into the tomb of Sarah and said a prayer. Walking towards the grave of Abraham, I was stopped by a man who took it upon himself to explain to me who and where each Prophet was.
He pointed to a closed door and told me that the grave of Joseph lay behind it.
“Is it not open to Muslims?” I asked, since Joseph is an important Prophet in Islam as well.
No, he said. It was part of the Jewish side of the tomb. There was a time when it was open. When Muslims and Jews mingled and prayed separately but in unison. That was before a man from the Jewish side came to the Muslim side and killed 29 Muslims.
While they were praying.
Ask a Muslim: Who is Abraham?
He is a Muslim. Obviously
Ask a Jew: Who is Abraham?
He is a Jew. Obviously
It wasn't that obvious in the tomb.
I reached up and grabbed the railings of the window that looked into the grave of Abraham. It is a large oval and rectangular shaped coffin with a green, rich cloth covering it.
It was sprinkled with words in Arabic. I read the name of Muhammad and the verses from the Quran.
I said a prayer and looked up to see my friend Sarah's face peering into the room from the other side. I yelled her name.
She didn't hear me.
I yelled out to her again.
And our eyes met.
and I felt the divide.
There stood one of my favorite people in the world. And I couldn't share this moment with her.
We silently looked at each other.
The Muslim and the Jew with a Prophet in the middle.
Is he mine? Or is he hers?
Does it even matter?
I walked out of the Muslim side to meet Sarah and Sam. I didn't take off my hijab as I walked down to the Palestinian shops where Sarah and Sam stood.
We met a Palestinian man, Jamal who said he would show us a birds eye view of Hebron from the roof of his apartment building. We agreed to go with him and as we walked towards his house, Sarah and I went on the main road.
Jamal and Sam walked off to the side road which was cut off by road blocks.
"She's Muslim, she's Muslim, she's Muslim," said an Israeli soldier to another as he poked him with the butt of his gun.
"Yes I am," I said.
"You can't go in there," he said pointing to the Jewish part of town.
Why not, I asked.
You're not Jewish.
Okay but I'm American.
Doesn't matter. You're not Jewish.
There was a fork in the road. I stood in the middle of it as these two guards told me where I could go and where I couldn't.
One side led to the Jewish part of town. One to the Muslim. and all that separated them was a couple of meters and two guards.
Sarah was allowed into the Muslim side but I was not allowed into the Jewish side. We walked over to the Muslim side.
After talking with our Palestinian friend, we headed back to the streets and to a bus stop. My hijab was still glued onto my head.
Two buses went by and didn't stop.
Our Palestinian friend didn't know why.
There was a group of soldiers that stood across from us, from what seemed to be a checkpoint into the Muslim side of town.
We saw boys, old men, women enter the checkpoint and stared as they were searched.
The first bus went by. And then another.
I wondered: Is this because of my hijab?
We asked Jamal and he said it might be.
I refused to take it off.
No way.
The hijab isn't and wasn't a part of my identity. So why did I feel the need to wear it here? I refused to take it off. And I don't exactly know why. All I know is that I refused to be discriminated against based on my religion.
No.
It wasn't right and I wasn't going to give in.
I was not going to take the hijab off.
We waited and soon a group of 4 to 5 Israeli soldiers walked towards us.
I held my head high. My head covered with a green hijab.
I didn't smile.
But they did.
What's the matter, they asked. We told them we were trying to get a bus but it wouldn't stop.
They offered to stop one for us.
And they did. As soon as a bus went by, they stopped it and said something to the driver in Hebrew. We got on the bus and were on our way back to Jerusalem.
I'm not going to talk about the Israeli bus ride or the Jewish settlements we passed by.
The little green towns, people walking dogs, old women sitting on benches and children playing in parks.
I won't talk about the big train/bus station we were dropped off at or the woman who stared at me for at least half an hour on the bus.
This post is about identity as most of my posts are.
It's hard to deal with, the problem with identity and where it fits into our lives. And it gets harder everyday.
It bites at me as I leave the mosque, hide in a dark alley and take off my hijab.
It awakens when someone asks me what religion I am, what nationality.
Wearing a hijab is proclaiming that your identity is what you look like. You look Muslim, therefore it seems to be a big part of who you state you are.
Without a hijab, you merge into a crowd, faceless and unimportant.
You do not wear your identity.
And that in itself is a blessing. Especially in a country like Israel that is divided by nationalist and religious lines.
But in Hebron, it is not about nationality. It is just about religion.
I can now understand why some women would decide to wear the hijab for political reasons. It is a theory that has floated around the world as more women started wearing the hijab after 9/11. Some analysts have argued that more women started wearing the hijab after 9/11 to support their religion as they felt it was a religion that was under attack.
As Amin Maalouf explains in his book, “In the Name of Identity,” we as humans tend to cling to the identity that we feel is under attack.
Islam was/is under “attack,” so wearing the hijab signifies support for it.
I understand that.
Because if you are going to be prejudiced based on my religion. So be it.
I wear my religion and I wear it proud.
As I write this, I am sitting in an Israeli coffee shop in the New city in West Jerusalem.
I came here right after I went for the afternoon prayer to the mosque. I left the mosque with my hijab on my head and entered the coffee shop with my hair in a bun and my hijab in my bag.
I've heard stories about girls not being let into Israeli shops because they wear the hijab.
And I wanted to try and see whether the same thing would happen to me.
Would they stop me at the door if I was wearing a hijab?
Would I take it off if they told me I couldn't go in?
Or would they surprise me with a smile. And help me get to where I have to go?
Israel is a country of contradictions. A country where you expect interrogation and are given a smile in return.
Its a place where I see guns, a separation wall, inequality and discrimination. But it is also a place where an Israeli rabbi says to me that God is one; Muslims and Jews are one.
If we are one, why do we need walls?
I look around this new city and see children in baby carriages, soldiers with guns talking on cell phones, iced lattes and Mercedes'.
Life doesn't seem so bad. Until you remember that the coffee shop you are sitting in was probably once the home of a Palestinian. A Palestinian who probably still has the keys to his house. A house that no longer exists.
In its place is a coffee shop where I sit sipping an iced latte, my head uncovered and no one questions my right to be here.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Pick a Border, Pick an Identity.
Marium
It was 4 AM when we got to the Syrian border. I was with Mike Mallah, his sister, cousin and his friend. Four Jordanians and a Pakistani.
American.
I exited Jordan with my American passport and nervously entered the Syrian border security with my American passport carefully tucked away in my wallet, with my green Pakistani passport in my hand.
"Pakistani?" the tall syrian asked.
"Yes."
It was a reunion. A happy one. Syrians love Pakistanis apparently. They especially love the ones that speak broken Arabic.
"How long for a visa?" I asked.
The Syrian smiled and waved his hand.
Five minutes.
I glanced over at my Jordanian friends who were still in line.
Could it be? Could I really enter Syria without letting them know that I also had a blue passport?
Five syrian soldiers crowded around the window. A thin glass window seperated me and a group of Syrians. I felt warm, welcome and if there had been no window, I would have even expected a hug.
Yalla Ya Pakistan, they exclaimed.
"Where is your exit stamp from Jordan?"
Oh no. My heart dropped. I smiled. Gingerly taking out my American passport, I handed it to the Syrian and said, "Here."
Silence.
He took my Pakistani passport and threw it at the window.
"You are American."
It wasn't a question.
No. I'm Pakistani. I'm not American. I dont live in America. My family lives in Pakistan. We might be going for Umrah (the smaller Hajj) in Ramadan to Saudi Arabia. I am Muslim. I am Pakistani.
"You are American."
"How long for a visa?" The American Pakistani asked.
"We dont know. Possibly 6 hours. 7 hours. 8. A day. Two days. Damascus has to give us clearance."
"How long for a visa?" the Pakistani had asked 5 minutes before.
"Five minutes."
I decided to wait for the visa. I watched as my American passport was put aside, forgotten and my Pakistani was given back to me.
I waited for 2 hours. I got up and went to the window that said "foreigners" and asked for my passport. I decided to go back to Amman. It wasn't worth it.
"Wait," the sympathetic Syrian said, "just wait a little while longer."
Im Pakistani, I told him. Im American, I told him. Im not shit, I told him.
Give me back my passport.
The cab driver who was driving me back to Amman asked me where I was from.
I am American, I replied.
Tomorrow I am going to Israel. I've been there before. Last year I was at the border for a very, very long time.
"You're Pakistani?" the Israelis asked.
"Im American," I said, "I'm not Pakistani."
I live in America. My family lives in America. I've come to see Jerusalem. I know very few Pakistanis. I dont live in Pakistan. I am American.
"How long will it take?" I asked the Israelis.
"We dont know. 6 hours, 7 hours, a day. We dont know."
But I'm American.
"You were born in a terrorist country." they replied.
Im American. Not Pakistani.
Im Pakistani. Not American.
In this world I can't be both.
Pick one.
Or just lie.
It was 4 AM when we got to the Syrian border. I was with Mike Mallah, his sister, cousin and his friend. Four Jordanians and a Pakistani.
American.
I exited Jordan with my American passport and nervously entered the Syrian border security with my American passport carefully tucked away in my wallet, with my green Pakistani passport in my hand.
"Pakistani?" the tall syrian asked.
"Yes."
It was a reunion. A happy one. Syrians love Pakistanis apparently. They especially love the ones that speak broken Arabic.
"How long for a visa?" I asked.
The Syrian smiled and waved his hand.
Five minutes.
I glanced over at my Jordanian friends who were still in line.
Could it be? Could I really enter Syria without letting them know that I also had a blue passport?
Five syrian soldiers crowded around the window. A thin glass window seperated me and a group of Syrians. I felt warm, welcome and if there had been no window, I would have even expected a hug.
Yalla Ya Pakistan, they exclaimed.
"Where is your exit stamp from Jordan?"
Oh no. My heart dropped. I smiled. Gingerly taking out my American passport, I handed it to the Syrian and said, "Here."
Silence.
He took my Pakistani passport and threw it at the window.
"You are American."
It wasn't a question.
No. I'm Pakistani. I'm not American. I dont live in America. My family lives in Pakistan. We might be going for Umrah (the smaller Hajj) in Ramadan to Saudi Arabia. I am Muslim. I am Pakistani.
"You are American."
"How long for a visa?" The American Pakistani asked.
"We dont know. Possibly 6 hours. 7 hours. 8. A day. Two days. Damascus has to give us clearance."
"How long for a visa?" the Pakistani had asked 5 minutes before.
"Five minutes."
I decided to wait for the visa. I watched as my American passport was put aside, forgotten and my Pakistani was given back to me.
I waited for 2 hours. I got up and went to the window that said "foreigners" and asked for my passport. I decided to go back to Amman. It wasn't worth it.
"Wait," the sympathetic Syrian said, "just wait a little while longer."
Im Pakistani, I told him. Im American, I told him. Im not shit, I told him.
Give me back my passport.
The cab driver who was driving me back to Amman asked me where I was from.
I am American, I replied.
Tomorrow I am going to Israel. I've been there before. Last year I was at the border for a very, very long time.
"You're Pakistani?" the Israelis asked.
"Im American," I said, "I'm not Pakistani."
I live in America. My family lives in America. I've come to see Jerusalem. I know very few Pakistanis. I dont live in Pakistan. I am American.
"How long will it take?" I asked the Israelis.
"We dont know. 6 hours, 7 hours, a day. We dont know."
But I'm American.
"You were born in a terrorist country." they replied.
Im American. Not Pakistani.
Im Pakistani. Not American.
In this world I can't be both.
Pick one.
Or just lie.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The Battle for my Heart
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Coming of Age
Marium
They were faces in my eyes.
Flashes of brown and black as I snapped away.
Click. Shout. Click. Voice breaking. Click. Sob.
Members of the Bedouins, nomadic tribes in the Sinai, were holding a press conference in a tiny office in Cairo a few days before they were holding a major demonstration, generally called a strike here, in Al-Arish, a city in the Sinai.
They spoke of experiences that shot shivers up my spine. Sisters raped, brothers thrown in jail, detained, shot, killed, homeless, tears, raised voices, fists in the air.
Snap.
A group of us were at this conference, which was sponsored by the Democratic Front, a new political party in Egypt. The Bedouin cause had been adopted by this party, as one of their grievances against the government.
Journalists asked questions, people had tears in their eyes, tempers flared.
The Bedouins, supported by the Democratic Front were going to hold a strike in three days; a strike to protest the government's treatment of their people.
Enough was enough, they declared.
Later on, we found out that we, as journalists, were offered a chance to go cover the strike in the Sinai that weekend.
Bring it on, we thought.
Hold up. This is dangerous. We don't have press passes, we don't know who is driving us there. There will be police. Will it become a riot? Guns? Shooting?
We had discussions about going to this strike with our professor and with each other. Our professor recommended we not go but was leaving the choice up to us.
We were pumped. We were ready. We were journalists.
And we were scared.
I woke up the morning of the strike, preparing to leave with two other reporters, my closest friends on this trip.
I assessed the trip in my mind. We don't know who was taking us across to Al-Arish, which is 45 minutes away from Rafah Crossing - the border with that Egypt shares with Gaza. We don't know where we would be staying that night.
The Bedouins at the conference promised to get us to the strike regardless of how and when. They promised to get us there.
Desperation.
I felt it in the their desire to have us there. To have anyone there.
Can anyone hear me, I thought I heard them say. My sister was raped. My brothers, shot.
Am I worth your time? Am I worth your life?
Wait a minute, I thought. Do I even know you?
I pulled on my socks as I sat on the bed. There is a risk, I heard a voice saying in my head. Is it worth going?
We don't know who is taking us. We might get turned away by the police at the checkpoints. So many ifs and mights. Oh, and the possibility that we might get shot by security.
It’s my birthday on July 4th. Will I ever see the day I turn 23? That’s absurd. I will turn 23 and I will moan about getting older.
The idea of not being alive for my 23rd birthday because there was a minute possibility I wouldn't come back from a Bedouin strike was ludicrous.
Getting shot? Oh, come on.
I was scared, but not fearful for my life.
This might be the Middle East but I was aware that getting shot was so rare, that the possibility of it happening was near to nil.
I want to be a foreign correspondent. That‘s why I am on this trip. And even though I didn't expect to be faced with the prospect of being smuggled into an area of high contention to cover a story on this trip, I imagine that I will be doing it some time in my life.
Might as well start now.
Was I trying to prove that I wasn't scared? No. I was scared.
But there wasn't a moment that I did not feel safe. Once the feeling of security dissipated, I would throw in the towel and say that this job wasn't for me.
Until that morning, I felt safe about going.
I sipped my diet coke, anxiously waiting for our Bedouin driver to call our translator. We waited in silence.
We slept. Two hours went by before he called. He said he was going to meet us and take us to another man who was then going to drive us to the village where the leaders of the strike were at.
Another driver? Wait a minute. This was getting too sketchy. He then changed the route that we were taking.
This didn't sound right.
We knew the Bedouins wanted us there. But we had to trust the people that were taking us. And frankly, we didn't.
We called it off.
Not because we were scared. Not because we feared for our lives.
But because there was no trust. And I didn't feel safe anymore.
Are you worth my life? Only if I trust you.
There was light on my face. A tiny candle shone in front of me as my friends sang happy birthday. Everyone smiled and laughed, jazz rang in my ears, and I was happy.
As I smiled at the candle and thought about what I wanted most in my life. I thought of my niece, my sisters, my brothers, my family, my friends.
My sister was raped, my brothers, shot, I heard the Bedouins say.
Is any story worth dying for? Their story could be my story. Their family could be my family. Family is family wherever you go.
What means the most to you, probably means the most to someone else.
If they want their voice heard through you is it that bad to give it to them? They don't have one of their own.
Would I give my brother my voice?
I blew the candle out.
Happy Birthday.
They were faces in my eyes.
Flashes of brown and black as I snapped away.
Click. Shout. Click. Voice breaking. Click. Sob.
Members of the Bedouins, nomadic tribes in the Sinai, were holding a press conference in a tiny office in Cairo a few days before they were holding a major demonstration, generally called a strike here, in Al-Arish, a city in the Sinai.
They spoke of experiences that shot shivers up my spine. Sisters raped, brothers thrown in jail, detained, shot, killed, homeless, tears, raised voices, fists in the air.
Snap.
A group of us were at this conference, which was sponsored by the Democratic Front, a new political party in Egypt. The Bedouin cause had been adopted by this party, as one of their grievances against the government.
Journalists asked questions, people had tears in their eyes, tempers flared.
The Bedouins, supported by the Democratic Front were going to hold a strike in three days; a strike to protest the government's treatment of their people.
Enough was enough, they declared.
Later on, we found out that we, as journalists, were offered a chance to go cover the strike in the Sinai that weekend.
Bring it on, we thought.
Hold up. This is dangerous. We don't have press passes, we don't know who is driving us there. There will be police. Will it become a riot? Guns? Shooting?
We had discussions about going to this strike with our professor and with each other. Our professor recommended we not go but was leaving the choice up to us.
We were pumped. We were ready. We were journalists.
And we were scared.
I woke up the morning of the strike, preparing to leave with two other reporters, my closest friends on this trip.
I assessed the trip in my mind. We don't know who was taking us across to Al-Arish, which is 45 minutes away from Rafah Crossing - the border with that Egypt shares with Gaza. We don't know where we would be staying that night.
The Bedouins at the conference promised to get us to the strike regardless of how and when. They promised to get us there.
Desperation.
I felt it in the their desire to have us there. To have anyone there.
Can anyone hear me, I thought I heard them say. My sister was raped. My brothers, shot.
Am I worth your time? Am I worth your life?
Wait a minute, I thought. Do I even know you?
I pulled on my socks as I sat on the bed. There is a risk, I heard a voice saying in my head. Is it worth going?
We don't know who is taking us. We might get turned away by the police at the checkpoints. So many ifs and mights. Oh, and the possibility that we might get shot by security.
It’s my birthday on July 4th. Will I ever see the day I turn 23? That’s absurd. I will turn 23 and I will moan about getting older.
The idea of not being alive for my 23rd birthday because there was a minute possibility I wouldn't come back from a Bedouin strike was ludicrous.
Getting shot? Oh, come on.
I was scared, but not fearful for my life.
This might be the Middle East but I was aware that getting shot was so rare, that the possibility of it happening was near to nil.
I want to be a foreign correspondent. That‘s why I am on this trip. And even though I didn't expect to be faced with the prospect of being smuggled into an area of high contention to cover a story on this trip, I imagine that I will be doing it some time in my life.
Might as well start now.
Was I trying to prove that I wasn't scared? No. I was scared.
But there wasn't a moment that I did not feel safe. Once the feeling of security dissipated, I would throw in the towel and say that this job wasn't for me.
Until that morning, I felt safe about going.
I sipped my diet coke, anxiously waiting for our Bedouin driver to call our translator. We waited in silence.
We slept. Two hours went by before he called. He said he was going to meet us and take us to another man who was then going to drive us to the village where the leaders of the strike were at.
Another driver? Wait a minute. This was getting too sketchy. He then changed the route that we were taking.
This didn't sound right.
We knew the Bedouins wanted us there. But we had to trust the people that were taking us. And frankly, we didn't.
We called it off.
Not because we were scared. Not because we feared for our lives.
But because there was no trust. And I didn't feel safe anymore.
Are you worth my life? Only if I trust you.
There was light on my face. A tiny candle shone in front of me as my friends sang happy birthday. Everyone smiled and laughed, jazz rang in my ears, and I was happy.
As I smiled at the candle and thought about what I wanted most in my life. I thought of my niece, my sisters, my brothers, my family, my friends.
My sister was raped, my brothers, shot, I heard the Bedouins say.
Is any story worth dying for? Their story could be my story. Their family could be my family. Family is family wherever you go.
What means the most to you, probably means the most to someone else.
If they want their voice heard through you is it that bad to give it to them? They don't have one of their own.
Would I give my brother my voice?
I blew the candle out.
Happy Birthday.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
The Bedu
Marium
Some photos from the multimedia project I'm doing on the Bedouins of the Sinai.
Our bedouin guide, Farhaj Suleiman...loves the desert but lives in the city of Nuweiba...says that the desert is in the blood of every bedouin, regardless of where and when they are born. They always come back to it.
The aunt of one of the old bedouin guides. The white sheet that hung behind her illuminated her face that was covered with a black shawl.
Salim, one of the bedouin guides. It was a full moon the weekend I was in the Sinai.
After dinner, our young bedouin cook doused the fire and waited as we finished our food.
Farhaj said something that really struck me. He said that the life of the bedouins as they know it will finish in 5 years because of borders and privatization of land.
He hoped that his children would understand the life of the real bedouin, the lives of his father and his father before him. "Its in our blood," he said.
He asks one question: One day the Sinai belongs to Israel. Another it belongs to Egypt. Where do the bedouin go?
Are you Egyptian, he was asked.
No, I am a Bedouin.
Some photos from the multimedia project I'm doing on the Bedouins of the Sinai.
Our bedouin guide, Farhaj Suleiman...loves the desert but lives in the city of Nuweiba...says that the desert is in the blood of every bedouin, regardless of where and when they are born. They always come back to it.
The aunt of one of the old bedouin guides. The white sheet that hung behind her illuminated her face that was covered with a black shawl.
Salim, one of the bedouin guides. It was a full moon the weekend I was in the Sinai.
After dinner, our young bedouin cook doused the fire and waited as we finished our food.
Farhaj said something that really struck me. He said that the life of the bedouins as they know it will finish in 5 years because of borders and privatization of land.
He hoped that his children would understand the life of the real bedouin, the lives of his father and his father before him. "Its in our blood," he said.
He asks one question: One day the Sinai belongs to Israel. Another it belongs to Egypt. Where do the bedouin go?
Are you Egyptian, he was asked.
No, I am a Bedouin.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Bakh-ing in the Muslim World.
Marium
Our translator had trouble explaining to us what “Bakh” meant in English. Sitting in the Sinai in the middle of the night, we were learning different sayings in Arabic with six Bedouin men. Why were we in the middle of the deserted desert? It was part of an excursion called Bedouin night, a time when Bedouin men take people to the desert, cook food, play music and dance.
“Bakh,” one of the men said, flaring his nose and baring his teeth.
We looked at him with blank expressions and watched his face fall. Our translator was unable to explain what bakh meant.
“Bakh,” she said, motioning us, forcing us to understand, “you know, Bakh.”
Talk about lost in translation.
And then the meaning of Bakh materialized in a series of comedic performances.
One of the men, Salim got up and slowly started ambling towards the white pickup truck that we had driven to the mountains. In his starch white thobe and his red and white kufiya wrapped around his head, he slowly tip-toed over to the car, sneakily looking at his friend who was about to get something from the truck. Salim hid underneath the truck, crouching low before his friend unknowingly walked over the the car.
Salim leapt out from underneath the car and yelled, “Bakh!” and everything fell into place, as his friend fell to the ground.
Bakh in Arabic means “Boo” and we got to see Bakh in action.
Laughing, we watched as Salim scurried off into the darkness followed by our raucous laughter as his friend chased after him. Watching two adult men in their white thobes and red kufiyas “bakh-ing” each other certainly put things into perspective for us.
Bakh, Boo, laughter and jokes are all the same wherever you go. Even if it is the Arab world.
Salim rushed back to the camp-site, wheezing and laughing. He smiled as he realized that we finally understood what Bakh meant. He whipped out his cell phone and then proceeded to show us videos of people “bakh-ing” each other, videos downloaded from web.
Even the bedouins have better cell phones than me, my friend Zoe exclaimed.
Salim boyishly shoved the cell phone under our noses making us watch cats jump on dogs, men jumping from trees and a dog bakh-ing a monkey. It is still beyond us how a dog could actually say “bakh” which it does in the video but thats one thing that even translation can't help us figure out.
After the men lost interest in playing pranks on each other they started playing games. It was the weirdest competition I have ever seen. Men in their later 20s and 30s, possibly even 40s were trying to see who could stand on his hands and lift his legs, while squatting on a rock.
It has to be one of the strangest things I have ever seen in my life. But one that made me laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here I was with my friends, lying under big thick blankets, about to sleep on the sand in the desert, and the bedouins were playing like a couple of children.
I fell asleep with a smile on my face as their laughter rang in our ears, late into the night. No one was apparently successful in the squatting game. But Salim did manage to bakh someone else.
Score: Salim 2, everyone else: 0
We'll have to get him next week.
Bakh!
Our translator had trouble explaining to us what “Bakh” meant in English. Sitting in the Sinai in the middle of the night, we were learning different sayings in Arabic with six Bedouin men. Why were we in the middle of the deserted desert? It was part of an excursion called Bedouin night, a time when Bedouin men take people to the desert, cook food, play music and dance.
“Bakh,” one of the men said, flaring his nose and baring his teeth.
We looked at him with blank expressions and watched his face fall. Our translator was unable to explain what bakh meant.
“Bakh,” she said, motioning us, forcing us to understand, “you know, Bakh.”
Talk about lost in translation.
And then the meaning of Bakh materialized in a series of comedic performances.
One of the men, Salim got up and slowly started ambling towards the white pickup truck that we had driven to the mountains. In his starch white thobe and his red and white kufiya wrapped around his head, he slowly tip-toed over to the car, sneakily looking at his friend who was about to get something from the truck. Salim hid underneath the truck, crouching low before his friend unknowingly walked over the the car.
Salim leapt out from underneath the car and yelled, “Bakh!” and everything fell into place, as his friend fell to the ground.
Bakh in Arabic means “Boo” and we got to see Bakh in action.
Laughing, we watched as Salim scurried off into the darkness followed by our raucous laughter as his friend chased after him. Watching two adult men in their white thobes and red kufiyas “bakh-ing” each other certainly put things into perspective for us.
Bakh, Boo, laughter and jokes are all the same wherever you go. Even if it is the Arab world.
Salim rushed back to the camp-site, wheezing and laughing. He smiled as he realized that we finally understood what Bakh meant. He whipped out his cell phone and then proceeded to show us videos of people “bakh-ing” each other, videos downloaded from web.
Even the bedouins have better cell phones than me, my friend Zoe exclaimed.
Salim boyishly shoved the cell phone under our noses making us watch cats jump on dogs, men jumping from trees and a dog bakh-ing a monkey. It is still beyond us how a dog could actually say “bakh” which it does in the video but thats one thing that even translation can't help us figure out.
After the men lost interest in playing pranks on each other they started playing games. It was the weirdest competition I have ever seen. Men in their later 20s and 30s, possibly even 40s were trying to see who could stand on his hands and lift his legs, while squatting on a rock.
It has to be one of the strangest things I have ever seen in my life. But one that made me laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here I was with my friends, lying under big thick blankets, about to sleep on the sand in the desert, and the bedouins were playing like a couple of children.
I fell asleep with a smile on my face as their laughter rang in our ears, late into the night. No one was apparently successful in the squatting game. But Salim did manage to bakh someone else.
Score: Salim 2, everyone else: 0
We'll have to get him next week.
Bakh!
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.
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.
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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