January 1, 2008

2007 has passed. What a year. I slaved over a senior thesis, graduated from college, said goodbye to Ann Arbor, and entered Cairo. I received a Fulbright grant, but I lost my uncle Rupert. In all it was a year. The good and bad, with the former hopefully outweighing the latter, it was my 23rd year and I am happy for it.

I rang in the new year with my sisters. It has been so much fun having them here in Cairo with me, since they have been around I have even forgotten that they normally don't call the city home. Of course it has been strange playing tour guide, translator, and team leader, but as long as I remember to wear these new hats proudly, it has been a blast. We went west to the White Desert, north to Alexandria, and back south to Giza, taking awesome photos along the way which of course shall be posted ASAP. And while I am not used to playing tourist here in Egypt, it has been fun seeing things, like err the Sphinx, that I really have no excuse for not yet having seen. he he.

For New Years, my friend Liz came over with her newly engaged fiancee, Heath. Over wine and pizza, we played games until the new year came along. The toast was eventful, we broke a glass, which I like to think is good luck, right? Either way, it was really fun, and while we didn't pay the 500 pound package for a trendy Egyptian night on the town, I think we got our own money's worth. So Happy New Year to everyone, I know I am a bit early for you guys, but just thought I would let you know that on the other side, things are a-okay.

Really? Australia? Really?

I had to post the photo or else no one would believe me. So about 2 months ago, my sister sent me "package" of airheads. They are my favorite candy, and she had decided to send them into a small envelope with a letter to me. My sister, Markell, had been scoring the highest for successful mail to me in Egypt. Apparently San Francisco and Cairo have a direct postal route, and my other family and friends were confounded how my sister was able to send me mail when they seemed to fail so consistently. So when Markell asked me if I had received my airheads, and I kept saying not yet, we were surprised, but assumed that they had been lost like the other forgotten letters sent by my mother and boyfriend. We forgot about the airheads, and hoped that some customs officer was enjoying my gift.

That was all until last Tuesday, when I found this is in my mailbox. It was a badly beaten, and taped up envelope from my sister. Immediately my eyes went passed the Arabic script Egyptian customs tape, and saw the bright yellow strip of tape which sealed up one of the corners. The tape loudly and proudly proclaimed "Opened by Australian Post for Inspection by Quarantine" No joke. See photo for proof. It went to freakin Australia. Why? You will have to take that up the International Union for Postal Workers, cause last time I checked, Australia is not on the way from the states to Egypt, nor does Cairo some how sound like Australia, so I really have no explanation. All I got is my airheads, and that makes me happy enough.

Sheep and Cow

Cow and Sheep in my Courtyard. But not for long.

Not Sacrificed yet...

This is the cow that I have not allowed myself to name, mustn't get too attached now guys. Read "Sacrifice" if you are at all confused, not that the name doesn't give too much away.

Sacrifice

Yesterday I was washing my laundry in the tub, when I heard a strange sound. First let me explain that I have taken to washing my clothes by hand, and I don't really know why. We have a washing machine, and my roommate prefers to use that modern appliance. But for some reason, the ludite in me has encouraged me to wash my clothes by hand in the tub. Anyways, I was washing my laundry in the tub, when I heard a strange sound. Actually, it wasn't a strange sound at all, it was extremely familiar for any kid who sang "Old McDonald" or for any person who has been to a farm. I clearly, distinctly, heard a Moooooooo from outside. For a brief second, I wondered if a cow might have wandered into my apartment in downtown Cairo. But there was also construction going on in our apartment building, so I wrote the mooing off as a strange drill or bovinely inspired chain saw. I continued to wash my clothes and forgot about the strangely familiar sound until I opened up my window to hang my clothes.

My window overlooks the inner courtyard of our building. As I opened up the shutters and began to hang my freshly washed underwear on the line, I couldn't help but notice a cow staring up at me. Our eyes met, and she let out that unmistakable call which I had previously, and correctly assessed as a "moo". Before I recovered from the shock of actually finding a cow in my courtyard, I noticed that in another corner is a sheep, grinning at me. I quickly scan the remaining two corners, expecting to find a camel and goat, but luckily the barn yard surprises ended with the grinning sheep. The cow and the sheep never stopped staring at me, and in fact I seemed to make the two of them a bit nervous. The cow mooed and the sheep nervously danced back and forth, utilizing the slack of the rope which tied it to a water pipe.

Perhaps this would be a good time to explain why these animals suddenly appeared in my courtyard. There is a Muslim Holiday coming up, called Eid al-Adha, which means "Feast of the Sacrifice" You can probably see where this is going, but its a good story so stick with me. This holiday commemorates the willingness of Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) to sacrifice his son. Remember this story from Sunday school? In Judaism and Christianity, Abraham is commanded by God to sacrifice his son Isaac to prove his obedience to God. Muslims believe the same general story, but with a few different details. Muslims believe that God ordered Ibrahim to sacrifice his son Ismael, and after preparing to carry out God's command, the prophet finds that God has replaced his son with a ram. The ram is sacrificed and Ismael is spared, all because of Ibrahim's willingness to put his trust in God.

So to remember both the mercy of God and the obedience of Ibrahim, Muslims sacrifice a sheep, goat, camel, or cow for the Eid al-Adha. This is only for those who are able to afford the animal, and it is custom for a large portion of the sacrificed animal to be given to the poor who themselves cannot afford an animal to slaughter. Eid al-Adha is both a time to commemorate the spiritual significance of Ibrahim's sacrifice, and also a time for the community to pull together support the less fortunate.

As beautiful as this holiday is, it sadly requires the participation of the two animals in my courtyard, and many more of their comrades around the world. The sacrifices are public, and it is said that those who are squeemish about blood should stay inside during the day of the sacrifice as you might see more than one on the walk to the store. I fully appreciate the sanctity of the sacrifice, and the fact that there are religious regulations meant to ensure a swift and least painful death for the animal who is giving his life. If anything, this holiday is a deliberate reminder of the sacrifice of a living creature in order that we might eat and live. I am also not an vegetarian, and wish that I could find within me the strength to watch the reality of where my meat comes from, but cowardly I can't. Perhaps this is why I don't eat meat that often, and why I am happy that I will be out of town when the day comes that my courtyard is empty once again.

Cruising on the Nile

Sometimes I have to remind myself that the river I live next to is the Nile, the mother of Civilization. I may be on the Nile, but at least I am not in denial. get it?

Blue Mosque

Directly across from the Hagia Sofia, stands the stunning Blue Mosque. Said to have been built as Islam's answer to the beauty of the Byzantine church, the Blue Mosque certainly nails first impressions.

Hagia Sofia

Pauline in front of Hagia Sofia in Istanbul. Greek for "Holy Wisdom" this magnificent Byzantine church was later converted into an equally magnificent mosque. Her green backpack is also magnificent.

Christians believe in Allah?!?!?

For some reason, a lot of my friends and family are shocked to find out that there are Christians in the Arab world. This is of course amongst the greatest irony of all time because Christianity began in what is now the Arab world, in a little town of Bethlehem, in the Arabic region (for lack of a better word) of Palestine. Christian Palestinians live as neighbors with their Muslim counterparts, and the same goes here in Egypt, where Coptic Christians (Egyptian Christians) are no less a part of Egypt than their fellow Muslim citizens. Copts speak Arabic, praise Mubarak, and in general are impossible to distinguish from their Muslim neighbor. I must say that there are some Copts who do not consider themselves Arab. This of course brings on the question, what is an Arab? My favorite, and one of the most agreed up definitions is that an Arab is one whose native tongue is Arabic AND who considers himself or herself to be...wait for it...Arab. So, it turns out I have no right to snicker when my Coptic friend tells me in Arabic, that he is in fact, not an Arab. As long as one sees himself as a non-Arab, then who are we to force that affiliation upon him? Within the past twenty years, due to fluctuating political trends, tension has arisen between Copts and Muslims, but despite the alarmist attitude that some take, the situation on the ground continues to be one of relative peace and coexistence. For example, as much as my Coptic friends might warn me of plots by Muslims to convert Copts, they still have as many Muslim friends as they do Christian. I am sure that there are Copts and Muslims who would disagree with me on this, so know that I am speaking just from my own experience in Cairo and understanding of the history.

But back to the Arabic, my favorite of course. I know that there are Christian Arabs, or Christians whose native tongue is Arabic, but I still find it delightfully refreshing and exciting to find Bible stories written in Arabic. I know better than to be surprised, but I can't help it. Because Arabic is the holy language of Islam, it is easy to forget that another religion might use it to express its own tenents and prayers. It is here where it is most clear that "Allah" is not the exotic God of the "Muhamaddens" but is just the Arabic word for The God, the same god of the Jews and Christians, and Muslims alike. Therefore in Arabic bibles, you see the word "Allah" thousands of times. Coptic Christians use the same expressions of "In sha Allah" and "Ma sha Allah" that their Muslim counterparts have made famous.

Today I toured around Coptic Cairo which is in the part of town known as "Old Cairo", duly titled for its old churches, mosques, and synagogues. After looking around the interior of the famous Hanging Church, I found the nearby giftshop, where I probably spent more time flipping through bible story coloring books in Arabic. After purchasing "Noah's Ark" and "The Story of Jesus" I stumbled upon a night light that I just had to buy. You know how night lights are supposed to be comforting and calming for a child that might be scared of the dark? This night light was just that, if you find a close up of a crucified Jesus with his wounds agape and the expression of "Why have forsaken me, my God" to be comforting. For this was exactly the icon of the night light, and I just had to have it. Later that evening I terrified my roommate by placing it unsuspectingly in the bathroom. She is Jewish, but I have a feeling that night light would even scare Billy Graham.

Power of Music

It started with Nelly Furtado, playing "Say it Right" as I walked confidently through the subway, singing to myself that the men staring at me "don't mean nothing at all to me....." I was no longer the out of place foreigner, but a misplaced diva strutting down the metro platform. Then it moved on to Tupac's "Baby don't Cry", reminding me that I gotta "keep my head up, even when the road is rough, never give up." If I am tired, the rhymes quicken my pace, if I am feeling timid, the words empower me. You can see the trend, play the song, and I go to another world. All that I want of the streets in Cairo is to belong, and the music helps numb my self-consciousness. So whether its Michael Jackson's "Beat it" Ryan Adam's "Gonna make you love me" or even Trick Daddy's "Cause I'm a Thug" I am addicted to listening to music in the streets of Cairo.

Before I forget, I would like to say a word or two about listening to music while walking through life. In general, I am not a fan. Back home in Ann Arbor I was the first to criticize the daily use of the ipod, isolating individuals on campus, limiting hellos to a brief wave and an awkward "how are you" left hanging without a response because my friend is apparently really, really into music. This all changed when I got to Cairo, ironically where it actually became on option that I might be hit by a car on a sidewalk. The music removes me, lifts me up from the chaos, and lets me feel like I am the only viewer of the movie around me, cause why else would there be a soundtrack? The music changes your mood, and thank god for it, because for some reason there is nothing like the abrasion of the streets of Cairo to bring down your morale.

"Young man, theres no need to feel down." what was that? "I said young man, pick yourself off the ground" oh no she doesn't, she doesn't actually play..."theres no need to feel unhappy..." drumroll please..."its fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A!!!!"

I'll admit, I didn't choose the Village People on purpose knowing that it would be the best choice I have made since I applied for a Fulbright. I was fumbling with my ipod the other day, keeping it in my bag so as not to be that foreigner who counts her money while holding a map while wearing a an ol' glory fanny pack. I just wanted a song, any song, and thought that whatever I managed to get would do the trick. Then I heard the blaring of the horns...that snappy tempo, reminding me of 6th grade dances that I would rather forget. I groaned cursing myself for having such a horrible song in my possession...when suddenly, I looked around and understood. Every man I saw was no longer walking, he was promenading. The groups of men on the sidewalk weren't talking about the funny American girl walking down the street, they were discussing the great new community center where they can wear hard hats and Native American head dresses. I seriously thought that any second they would break out in the tried and true synchronized dance, which of course is a sort of universal language of its own. Y-M-C-A! We would give each other high fives and someone would do a back flip, it was going to be sweet. From that day on, I decided to put the Village People on the top of my play list. Who said Egyptian men were machisto? From what I can tell, they don't want me, they just wanna dance.

Sense of Humor...

You gotta have a sense of humor to survive in the mideast, this goes for both visitors and permanent residents. Even serious topics sometimes are made the subjet of jokes, not because they aren't taken seriously, but because life is hard enough without some comic relief. For instance, an American might get seriously offended if an Egyptian makes a joke about terrorism. "That's not funny, how can they make a joke Osama bin Laden? I don't appreciate someone making light of 9/11." I completely respect each person's right to take offense at what they feel is appropriate, but I would be very skeptical of an American telling an Egyptian to take terrorism seriously. Egyptians have had more than their share of terrorism, the 90's were practical a constant exchange of terrorist attacks and crack downs in this country. Even in the past few years, there have been attacks at resorts, and certainly there have been numerous attacks foiled before they were executed. I probably shouldn't be posting this on my blog, and my intention seriously is not to terrify my mother, but rather to prove that no one needs to remind Egyptians that terrorism is a serious subect. But, like I said, this doesn't mean that you can't crack a few Osama jokes once in a while.

The other day I was at the gym, and I struck up a friendly conversation with one of the trainers. "Morning of Goodness".."Morning of Light!".."Morning of Sweet Cream!"...and so on. He was thrilled that I knew the Arabic greetings, and went to go find my sports bag which they keep in a giant closet. My "sportsbag" is actually a grocery bag, plastic and horriblly difficult to see amogst the dozens of addidas bags in the closet. He was having trouble finding it, and I went back to see if I could help. We finally spied the bag way in the back of the closet, we laughed at how far back it was, and then my hero practically fell into the closet in his efforts to grab the bag. When he emerged, we laughed again (lots of laughing when lost in translation) and then I began to thank him for his efforts. However, one really formal way of saying "striving" or "effort" in arabic is..drumroll.. jihad. So I didn't think twice and excitedly said.."Thank you so much for your jihad!" While he knew what I was tyring to say, he also knew that I was American, and knew what most Americans think of when they think of "jihad". He laughed and said..."no no..I am not Osama bin Laden!!!" I laughed (again) and made it clear that of course I know that "jihad" linguistically just means effort...striving, and continued to awkwardly thank him for his "struggle" for my bag. Just about to leave, I realized that I didn't even know the name of my valiant trainer. "Sorry, what is your name?" A sheepish look came over his face, he smiled, and the looked down at his name tag which read "OSAMA". Then of course, we both laughed.

Days of our Lives

Despite popular rumors that Egyptians spend their days building pyramids and nationalizing canals, the daily life here in Cairo is pretty calm. Well, calm is probably the wrong word, but lets just say that life here is no more glamorous or terrifying than it is in the states. Except for the fact that you get to remind yourself that "YOU ARE IN EGYPT!!!!" everytime you begin to forget exactly where you are located on the globe. My point is that the Mideast is not quite as thrilling when you are actually here, and you realize that even in this region, life is still made up mostly of the day to day grind.

Today was one of those ordinary days, but it was an exceptionally good one. It was Sunday, which is the first working day in Egypt-weekends are Friday and Saturday-so I went to school in the morning. I continuously confuse myself regarding the days of the week. Today is Sunday, but because it was the first school day after the weekend, I keep thinking it is Monday. Same thing happens on Thursday, which is the last weekday before the weekend, so I always think that Thursday is Friday. And then on Saturday, which is the last day of the weekend, I think that because it is Saturday we still have Sunday off. Confused yet? As you can see, it's quite a mess.

After Literature class, I had a sandwich at the University cafeteria, and then headed off to the Fulbright office to check my mail. Luckily, I get to avoid taxis and haggling for a fair price as I can take the metro to the office in Giza. Think of Giza and Cairo analogous to St. Paul and Minneapolis, except a lot hotter and without those damn gophers. The subway here in Cairo is amazing, it really is the best thing that has happened to the city since the sphinx. You walk down the stairs and suddenly you aren't in Cairo. You are in Washington DC, Paris, New York, Mexico City, Moscow, Tokyo or any other metropolis which has realized the genius of cheap, quick public transportation. You push your way to the front of the ticket booth, ignoring the kissing noises and hissing (which in this case is actually not directed towards you, but rather at the ticket seller as a way of getting attention) achieve your yellow ticket, and head towards your line. As the train approaches, people begin to run. Now I should have mentioned, the metro is not for the faint of heart. It can be packed, getting off and on the train is often a non-voluntary act, as you can be picked up by the crowd and carried to and fro. But the Metro is one of the only places in Cairo where I have heard my male friends tell me, "you are lucky to be a girl." The reason for this is because women have the option of the "women's cars" which are located at the front of the train. While plenty of women feel comfortable riding in the co-ed cars, I personally always walk down to the women's cars, as I feel better pressing my foreign-self up against a bunch of women as opposed to those men who might welcome being smushed up next to a foreign woman. Another plus is the considerably better smell associated with the womens car, a difference that the men of Cairo may never have the privilege of noticing. Getting on and off the train you will hear a "yalah Guma'!!" which roughly translates to "lets go gang!!" as people push and shove and crowd surf on and off the cars.

Arriving at the Fulbright office, I am delighted to find that I have received two packages from friends. I sit on the nice couches and ration my precious gifts, enjoying the cool air conditioner and welcoming environment of the office. I go to the office more than many students, because the director has allowed me to play the grand piano in the reception hall. It is an oasis of sanity amidst the bedlam of the city, and I always relish my time there.

After returning to campus, I met with May, an Egyptian Masters student that I had been introduced to through a mutual friend. She studies English Literature, and while I always prefer to speak Arabic with my Egyptian friends, I honestly forget that she even speaks the language as her English is so good! This is our second meeting, but she already feels like an old friend. Originally from Alexandria, this is also her first semester in Cairo, so we exchange battle stories and laugh over our shared experiences.

I return home to catch up on studying and laundry, but as I am hanging out my underwear to dry on the line outside my window, my neighbor, Nahida, comes out into the courtyard. She calls up to me and asks me how I am doing, and this reminds me that I need to return to her the dishes in which she gave us food. I decide to also give her 4 bulbs of garlic, as she had given me some onions last time when I didn't feel like going to the store. I ring the doorbell and she greets me with a smile and a number of greetings. But then her happiness turned sour when she saw that I had brought a gift..."what's this!?!?" she demands, peering curiously at the garlic cloves. "Well I wanted to return the favor, since you gave me onions last time, I thought I would give you some garlic." Nahida immediately starts into a string of "La, la, la, la, la (no, no no no no)" and her husband chimes in, "la, la, la, la," I think that this is just the routine that we play, so I push the garlic towards her telling her "please, take it TAKE IT, PLEASE!?" But Nahida and her husband continue, telling me that they have plenty of garlic, and that I cant give them gifts because I am a part of their family. "I am like your mother, you are my child." This dialogue continues for a while, and eventually I give in, no match for the seasoned veterans of hospitality. I miraculously escaped being invited in for a snack, but promised that I would make it another time, and I headed off to the gym.

I return from the gym and begin to cook my dinner. My roommate, Sammy, and I are discussing the day's events, and in the middle of eating my omelette, we hear the doorbell ring. It is the upstairs neighbor who has come to bring Sammy a sock which fell off the laundry line into the courtyard. She had washed it, and Sammy was very grateful for the sock which she had assumed was a goner. But our neighbor was not there only to return the sock, she also had to retrieve some fallen laundry of her own. We go outside to the balcony, and after a fruitless search, she spots the fallen item on a ledge which is impossible for us to reach. She suggested a broom, but I was afraid that such a plan would only end up with the laundry on the street and an angry neighbor in our apartment (although I would be armed with a broom if it became necessary). I asked Sammy to spot me, and crawled up on the ledge and reached down and grabbed the illusive clothing. Our neighbor was thrilled to have back her laundry, I was happy to have played superwoman, and Sammy was thankful to not have to write a regretful letter to my mother about how I fell off the roof trying to save some a baby's bib. Just another day in Cairo.

Teacher?

Despite my own misgivings about my ability to speak English, I have become a teacher in an ESL program for Adult Refugees at St. Andrew's Church. Cairo is the new home for thousands of refugees, largely from the Sudan, but also from Iraq, Somalia, Ethiopia, and other neighboring countries. My class is almost all Sudanese, with about 25 men and 5 women. Yes I know, 30 students. You may ask yourself, who placed the linguistic fate of 30 souls into the hands of an unexperienced and unqualified Pauline who this very day couldn't think of the word "motivation" -true story. I originally came to St. Andrew's to volunteer as a tutor for the Adult Education Program, where the only responsibility I would have would be sitting in a library, looking friendly, and waiting for an eager student who might have a question or two. As fate would have it, the teacher of Elementary III was leaving after Ramadan, and so the program director asked if anyone would be interested in teaching his class for the remainder of the semester. When it was clear that there was either no one qualified or no one interested (or both) I raised my hand, confessed my complete lack of experience, but stressed my committment and dedication, and nailed the job. It was decided that I would sit in on the class, learning from my predecessor, and becoming familiar with the various strategies of ESL so that the students wouldn't completely revolt and turn me in for a refund when I took over. It is a good thing that I eventually took over the class, because my presence proved quite a distraction to the lesson. I think I inspired a mix of curiosity, pity, and I like to think respect-although this false hope on my part is probably what inspired the pity. My predecessor, Pasquale, soon weened me off my position as observer, to assistant, and finally to teacher in less than a week. This Tuesday will be my third week teaching Elementary III, and I must say that each day, each minute, is still as thrilling as the first. I still can't get over the fact that when I walk into the room, there is a bit of a hush of chatter. When I smile and say "Hello Everyone" I receive 20 hellos. When I say "A-salaam alaykum" (peace be on you), I receive 30 "wa-alaykum a-salaam." I take my time erasing the board, enjoying the fact that for once during the hour and half, I am controlling the silence, and I am not afraid of it. Aside from those 10 seconds of wiping the board clean, silence is the only thing that scares me in that classroom. You should see the look of gratitude I give the students who answer my questions, ask me queries about vocab, and volunteer to do the readings. We discuss the meanings of "recognize" "professional" and learn that "Engineer" has a soft g and "pretty" becomes "prettier". I love the moments of shared humor, like the time that I asked the class what the word "tourist" meant, and one of the students pointed at me. The students beam when I resort to using Arabic in order to explain confusing vocab, and they have been very, very forgiving when it comes to roll call. I am thankful for every Muhammad, Ahmed, or Mariam I can get, and no matter how I try, I make an fool of myself when it comes to pronouncing the unfamiliar names. I am officially that teacher who simply can't prounce a grouping a syllables, and I must say that my students are much more forgiving than most people in my college classes. I am thankful for our text book, as without it I would have no idea how to teach anythng other then the english language should not be taught by a babbling tourist. However, the text is far from perfect. I am sure it would be great for teaching English in 1983 to upper middle class Americans with a penchant for PC subject matter that is still completely unapplicable to the lives of those who need to learn the damn language to begin with! These Sudanese refugees are reading passages entitled, "Which way do you prefer to shop?" which discusses the pros and cons of shopping through A. Phone in Catalogs B. TV Infomercials or C. Computer Shopping-The way of the future? In what way exactly will the phrases "Computer Shopping" or "Home Shopping Network" be useful to my students who would prefer to learn English to further their livlihoods than to discuss the consumer culture of America in the 1980's. But aside from these frustrations with the material, the class is the highlight of my week, and will certainly be one of the best things I do here in Cairo. I wanted to get involved with the program so that I could contribute something to the community, more so than just buying bottles of water one after the other. And when I enter the gates of St. Andrews, I immediately feel like I belong. Its not that I have particularly felt like a leper here in Cairo, but the streets are definitely not my home. And when I enter the gate, you just know that you there because you are needed. I enter the teachers lounge and greet my fellow teachers who are nothing but smiles, jokes and compliments, and I feel like I like I am among old friends. And when I guide my students to the correct answers, and can't keep up with their over enthused participation, I feel like I am actually making a difference.

Africa

I am in Africa. Egypt is an African country located geographically in the north-eastern corner of the African continent, and I am located in the African city of Cairo. Does this sentence sound strange to anyone else but me? The truth is, we don't associate Egypt with Africa. When we think of the ancient pharaohs and Egyptian civilization, we don't think of Africa. When we think of the current Arab Republic of Egypt, whose citizens speak Arabic and practice Islam or Coptic Christianity, and whose government plays a crucial role in peace or war in the Middle East, we don't think of Africa. When you think of Egypt, whether or not you think of Cleopatra or the Suez Canal Crisis, chances are, you aren't singing Toto's Africa. Without thought to the political or historical significance, the average American has separated Northern Africa from sub-saharan Africa. Maybe its because their image of an Egyptian isn't the "Black African" that they associate with Africa, or maybe because they assume that the "dark continent" could not have contained the superiority and sophistication which was the ancient Egyptian civilization. Part of me hates this chasm between the idea of "Africa" and the continent itself. Why shouldn't the diversity and various cultures of Northern Africa, including Egypt, be a part of our general image of Africa? In the US, if used without context, the word Africa conjures up three primary images: poverty, starvation and the "Black African". This distinct idea of Africa is reflected by the use of hugely ambitious sentences, such as "Raising money for children in Africa." "Oh she is studying in some country in Africa." or "Well what do you expect, it is Africa." Such ridiculous generalizations make you think that this "Africa" is an exclusive club, and that no matter how general your sentence is about this "club", it will some how apply to every African country. In fact, the only moments that I hear Americans refer to Egypt as a part of Africa is when remarking on the poverty of the country..."You know when I see the poverty here I remember that we are in Africa." This is the mindset of "Egypt is poor because it is African and Egypt is African because it is poor". When I hear such comments it is all I can do to ask the commentator if the extreme poverty they saw in Honduras was also because Honduras is located in Africa? Why is it that Africa is given the blame for Egypt's poverty but is refused any credit for her pharaonic glory? Personally, I don't think it makes much sense to force countries to obtain lifelong memberships with geographical continents, which make such odd pairings as Tunisia and Zimbabwe. Personally, I think it makes a lot more sense to ditch the idea that plate tectonics dictate social or economic boundaries, and rather use historical civilizations and movements to see how certain peoples are related to one another. With this method we can say that yes, Egypt is African. But it is also Mediterranean, and Arab, and Greek, and Roman, and Ottoman, etc. Egypt deserves to be more than simply another African country, and Africa deserves to claim Egypt as her own.

Ding Dong

As I lie in bed, reading my favorite David Sedaris story, I hear the shriek of our doorbell. It was around a quarter to 11:00pm, but its Ramadan, and its Egypt, so I really shouldn't have been surprised if our landlord who was supposed to come at 6:00pm to fix the air conditioner was finally showing up. I was in my pajamas, but unlike the average Egyptian, I don't like to answer the door in only boxers and a tee-shirt. For as conservative as the average Egyptian is on the street, what they wear in the house when they open the door is entirely different. I wait for the ding donging to cease, recalling that Christmas when Markell and I cowered in silence, giggling in our cowardice, but nonetheless hoping that the persistent carolers would just leave us in peace. "Ding-Dong" "Ding-Dong" "ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong" I must say I admired this unknown caller's persistence. I threw on a skirt and a jacket, and checked the peephole, and smiled. I opened the door to find our downstairs neighbor, Um Muhammad, who is about 4'11, and all smiles. "Were you sleeping?" She asks brightly, and then gestures that I follow her downstairs. After noticing my hesitation, she explains that she has some food for us, bringing her hand to her mouth and rubbing her belly, demonstrating her previous career as a mime. I figure out that she is going to be giving me my favorite Egyptian dish, "Mulakhia" which is a delicious green soup whose content I still really haven't figured out. I follow her downstairs and she brings me into her apartment, and gives me some stuffed peppers "Mahshi" and my desired "Mulakhia". She put the food in "to go" bowls and waved me on my merry way back to my apartment. As I put the food in the fridge, I thought about the courtship of Egyptian neighbors. Two days ago she gave us a Hibuscus drink and a Date cocktail, then we progressed to food, and now I can only assume that soon our relationship will progress to a four hour dinner which will perhaps seal the deal.

Como se dice....

My friends and I often joke about how we can no longer speak English. We struggle for basic words, our search for "humanitarian" results in "humanoidistic", "knife" becomes "tool use cut sandwich sharp" and so on. It's not that our Arabic has become phenomenal, or that I have taken to expressing myself in Egyptian poetry rather than bother with English prose. Quite the contrary, my Arabic is only plateauing while my English descends, placing me smack in the middle of linguistic no-man's-land. Instead of being content with this battlefront, today I decided to enter a new theatre of non-communication. I was happily doggy-paddling in the pool at the Intercontinental hotel-were I am a gym member with access to the pool--when a plump spanish woman smiles between her water treading to ask me something I can't understand. I pause doggy-paddling to kick myself for having fogotten all my Spanish. I studied it for 5 years, went to both Spain and Mexico, and had acheived a sort of fluency before I decided to study Arabic and throw all my subjunctive and imperfect expertise out the window. Here I was, staring dumbfounded at a very nice Spanish woman, and all I can mutter is "Perdon. No Entiendo. She smiled, and we proceeded to chat as best we could, which went something like this. "I study (ARABIC WORD) for time in (ARABIC WORD) Spain." -oh thats great, where did you study? Madrid? " I (ARABIC WORD) study (ARABIC WORD) near by Madrid. -oh me! why we live right near Madrid also, Alcala de Heneras did you say? oh goodness! My husband works there...sweetie! oh mi carino! Come speak to this nice little girl who doesn't speak a word of spanish but is funny to talk to. So now walks over her nice husband, who is very patient, and who thinks its funny that I clearly an struggling to spit out the deeply hidden spanish. It turns out that when he is speaking, I understand 95 percent of what he is saying, and I am excited by this. I try to blurt out answers to questions that I now understand, but am met only with language obstacles. When asked if I find the arabic language to be difficult, I answer... "Yes. The Arabic Language is -how the hell do you say difficult in spanish?? sa'ab?? no no that's arabic..okay, deep breaths...how do you say difficult in english-uh, difficult, okay, spanish is close to english, difficult is....dificil!!!!" How do you say "different?!?!?"...ah, diferente!! "Hotel?!?!?!...ah, hotel!!" And so on and so forth. I didn't remember how to say "week" until I was back in the locker room, and just a few moments ago I recalled how to say "the same". I believe I am going to create a new language called Sparabish, where anything goes, and you actually can also communicate with grunts and theigh slaps if the word escapes you in all three languages. Perhaps this will force upon us a new convivencia, where peoples of different cultures and religions understand one another, and are brought together by a good game of charades. Sparabish also gives my linguistic incompetence the sort of legitimacy which comes with a title. I believe my crowning moment of idiocy was in our discussion about Thai food, when my attempted "tengo miedo" over spicy food turned into "tengo mierda" over spicy food. If you don't know spanish, learn it. Laughing at Pauline's mistake will be well worth the effort.

Superhero of Cairo

While Cairo is not the setting for too many Marvel Comics, there is a superhero who guards the streets, protects the innocent, and helps clueless americans cross streets. A few weeks ago, I went with my roommate to find some new pillows. We heard that "Carpet City" was the number one place for pillows, and we hoped to find replacements for the cement blocks which we were currently using. The only problem was that when we asked people where Carpet City was, everyone had a different opinion. Imagine the scarecrow in the wizard of oz crossing his arms, pointing in opposite directions, and then nodding adamently. After the wrong guesses of a taxi driver, shop keeper, and friendly pedestrian, we ended up in an open market which we hoped was "Carpet City". After a game of charades with one of the workers--we didn't know the word for pillow--we began to realize that this store was not the famed Carpet City, nor did the owners know, or want us to know, the location of their competition. We were lost, without pillows, and very close to dispair when a figure clothed in black swooped in to save the day. But this isn't Gotham city, its Cairo, and the hero wasn't Batman, it was a Munaqaba. The term "Munaqaba" simply means "the one who wears the niqab", which is the head scarf which fully covers the face except for the eyes, and is made of lose black fabric. Our hero, was just such a woman, and was in fact, the first fully covered woman who I had ever been rescued by. "Do you guys need some help?" she asked in perfect English, her eyes smiling for her hidden mouth. "Carpet City? Oh yes I know exactly where it is! Here, come with me and I will show you." We learn her name is Rowiya, that she grew up in Houston (hence the perfect accent) and that she speaks French, German and English in addition to her native Arabic. She walks quickly, gracefully, and seems completely uninhibited by what looks to me as yards of black cloth. Her hands are covered in black gloves, a fact emphasized when she extends her hand protectively in front of the 10 lanes of traffic which stand before us. "Let me stand on this side"-placing herself in between us, her cubs, and the uncoming traffic. Without blinking, she strides in front of flying cars, as if she and the beat up peugots are rehearsing for a dance recital, and their steps are choreagraphed and seamless. On the otherhand, Sammy and I are doing a lot of blinking, in fact I think my eyes remained closed most of the time as we clung close to her side. We tried to ignore our instincts and the adrenaline which was building in our veins, and just held our our breath till we reached the median. The second 5 lanes were just as harrowing for us, and just as carefree for our savior. With her cubs safe on the otherside of the street, Rowiya shakes our hands, smiles (I assume) and tells us to be safe and to enjoy Cairo. We are flabbergasted to have survived, and mumble astonished words of gratitude, I believe I may have offered her my first born child at one point. The memory of my words are a blur, as was the traffic, but what is still crystal clear for me are her eyes. Warm, young, bright, and a tinge heroic. She was a masked superhero who went in and out of my life like a ghost, and whose acts of goodwill I will always remember even if I never saw her face.

Isn't this a great photo? What lovely Egyptian women: Ghadeer, Mae, Hend, Amira, and of course, Alexandria. I am somewhere in there also, trying to blend in just like Waldo. They were wonderful young women, so interested in learning about the real United States, knowing that there simply had to be more than Bush and his cowboys. They were also very eager to teach us about Islam, and to show us that Muslim Arabs were more than Muhammad Atta and Osama. They were quick to distance themselves from "Gulfi" women, arguing that the political and social oppression of women in Saudi Arabia and other Gulf States is as abhorrent to Egyptians as it is to Westerners. We talked about the trend of Egyptian woman marrying later in life, divorcing abusive husbands, or choosing to never marry. Ghadeer glowed as she spoke about how women are beginning to realize their rights within society and within the marriage, and that traditional roles of husband and wife are being questioned. All of this, she added excitedly, was of course within the framework of Islam. Before leaving, Hend clasped my arm and warmly thanked me for my choice of research, entitled "The role of Egyptian women in Political and Civic Leadership". She was thrilled that my research considers the posibility of women's empowerment through Islam, not assuming that the faith oppresses its female believers. I told her that there are many western scholars who have taken this approach in their research, and gave her a few professors and books upon which I have relied. It is nice to know that my work here might actually make a difference in someone's life, even if it is just asking someone to reconsider a previously assumed notion about women, Egyptian or American. It is just amazing how with each sentence of conversation, I am forced and re-forced to admit my own stereotypes. In a conversation regarding American cinema, Mae--dead center of the photo-excitedly proclaimed that her favorite movie was "Meet the Fockers". I almost choked on my tea, laughed, and then asked her if she liked it better than "Meet the Parents." She thought about it, smiled, and decided they were both excellent. I consider myself to have a pretty open mind, but as exhibited by my near choking emergency, I am not perfect. Remember, there are two things that transcend space, culture and religion: women's empowerment, and Ben Stiller, toilet humor, Barbara Streisand as a sex therapist.

Sabah al-Kheer (Good Morning!)

I am not a morning person. Simply that. But here in Cairo, life comes at you fast, and I can't afford to be off my game in the morning. The good, the bad and the ugly all happen here before 8:00am. My alarm sounds at 7:15, and I open my eyes to take in my surroundings. I hear my air conditioner chugging away, not quite a plane taking off, more like a lawn mower caught on a branch. I feel my fluffy pillow which was recently purchased at the mysterious store named "Carpet City" which suprisingly was also famous for its pillows. I burrow my head into the fluffy delight and recall that this pillow was the pot of gold at the end of a long, dirty rainbow road which no taxi driver knew how to navigate. I rub my eyes and see my white washed walls, which I have covered with my photos of my friends and family. I also see that it is 7:20 am, which in my opinion, is way to early to be stumbling around Cairo. Slowly, key word being slowly, I make my way to the kitchen and turn on the gas to light the stove, boil water, and make myself some delicious Nescafe. I am in my own personal Maxwell House commercial as I open the bottle of the freeze dried coffee, and smile as I smell the stale aroma, anticipating the rush of caffeinne to my system. I decide to eat cerael and open the fridge, secretly hoping that overnight a gnome had replaced my falsely advertized "SoyFresh" soymilk with a nice carton of Vanilla Silk. Of course I am not holding my breath, and begrudgingly grab my disconcerting soymilk which tastes slightly like vodka. Slightly ironic of an Egyptian product, isn't it? After I throw down breakfast, my roommate and I lock our door, and face the world. It is about a twenty minute walk to school down a busy, lively street. As long as the traffic permits, we always choose to walk in the actually street. Everyone does, and the sidewalks are usually vacant. Why? Because here in Cairo it actually does rain, but only on the sidewalk. Every five feet you will see water dripping from high above, forming puddles. Cairo rain falls from the thousands of air conditioners that decorate the buildings, and if you aren't careful, you will find yourself taking a freon shower. Okay, so maybe it isn't freon that is dripping, but everyone seems to agree that walking in the street is the only way to walk in Cairo. As we weave through parked and moving cars, we dodge puddles, rotten vegetables and men who think kissy noises and purrs are appropriate forms of greeting. I have almost perfected my dead stare and the dirty look that can answer for me when solicited with a "oh Sugar, do you speak English?...I love you..." If the suitor is particularly persistent, I may spit out some Arabic to prove to him that I am not the American lush of his fantasies. "Shame on You" can work magic here, especially if it is used strategically in bigger crowds. Never underestimate the power of a good old fashioned public shaming. Despite their best efforts, I am not held up by these obstacles of patriarchy, and my walk to school is direct, brisk and empowering. I never look passing men in the eye for fear of unwanted attention, but it is amazing what one can absorbed from a glazed over stare at that place above their heads or at a sea of torsos. It's not that Egyptians aren't friendly people just because they don't smile and wave at strangers on the streets. There is simply a different definition of what is appropriate in public, and what is appropriate for the private space. Friendly interaction is saved for inside the work place, the school, the home, or even inside a store when you are working with an employee. Simply smiling at strangers on the street may be normal in Nashville or Ann Arbor, but in Cairo, it is seen as strange and an event worth making kissing noises after. Of course I also pass women on the way to work, but they seem to always go without much notice. Quietly walking alone or with a friend, colleague, or husband, they watch me just as the men do. They want to see what I will do when the men give me a wink, or if I have done something to provoke such attention. I still wonder exactly what they think when they see me in my loose, modest wardrobe. Is she American? Don't all American women wear mini-skirts? Is she Lebanese? Israeli? I just don't know, and guess will always wonder what they think. I try to move so fast that I am a mere blur in their radar screen, but I am sure that for the shop owners on the busy street, I have become a regular curiosity.

This is what happens when Pauline leaves

I am very, very sad. I knew that by going to Cairo, I would be leaving my friends and family for a year and that they might miss me as much as I missed them. But I knew that life would go on usually without me. But maybe I was too modest in assuming that life would go on as usual without me, because I know there is a place in Ann Arbor that misses me very, very much. That place is the Big House, the sacred ground that has recently been disgraced by the triumph of both Appalachian State and now Oregon. Oh the Humanity!! Falling from number 5 to unranked in the polls was bad enough, and then the wolverines had to go and prove that the loss to app. state wasn't just a fluke, it was inevitable. Why? Because that frizzle frazzle fan who sounds like an ambulance siren and swears like a sailor isn't there. She isn't there to scream words of comfort to Henne, telling Chad it's okay that he just threw an interception. She isn't there to mock the referees when they make a bad call, then to congratulate them when they make a proper one (of course always checking with Judge Wade to see what I should scream first) She isn't there to try and catch hot dogs from hot dog man, and then to cheer "let him stay" a the security drags him away after he refuses to stop projecting the delicious hot dogs for us to eat. She isn't there to dance to the fight song, especially that trumpet bit that is so good. She isn't there to wish the wrath of God upon the other team, but at least she doesn't have to watch our cheerleaders make that stupid "N". So, if Chad, Mike, Lloyd, or Mario are reading this blog--I know they are big fans--I want to say to you all, that I know its hard. I know it may seem like the games just aren't worth winning if Pauline isn't around. You might just want to give up and roll over, or just fly to Cairo and join a cultural immersion program to be near your number one fan. But you can't give up, you must persevere. You have to make do with Steve's voice, even though its an accepted fact that Pauline is louder than him. Remember that even though I may not be in the stands screaming like a maniac, over here my blood still runs maize and blue, and I really don't want to explain to the camels why I am crying all the time over a pack of wolverines.

Dirty Nails

I have short finger nails, for piano it became a habit, but here in Cairo I have had to make cutting my nails a daily activity. Why? Having dirt under your nails seems to be form of citizenship here in Cairo, and even if you are germaphobe-like most foreigners petrified of eating a bad falafel or falling in the Nile-you will find dirt underneath those nails within two hours of washing your hands. What have I been doing?? I ask myself, trying to remember if I stopped to dig a few holes in the dirt on the way to the bank, because my nails seem to suggest that new hobby. It takes no more than a trip to the bank, a trip to the store, or a ride in a taxi for the insidious dirt to sneak up those small crevasses and snuggle in for the ride. The culprit, I believe, is the dirty money. Literally, dirty money. Not money from a drug deal or a laundering scheme, but just straight up money with at least one centimeter of dirt coating the paper. Is that Fifty pounds? I don't know, looks like a twenty to me....Twenty pounds or twenty piaster??? The piaster is the equivalent of a cent, except it is much, much more useless. First of all, they are in the form of bills, so it is quite easy to mistake the 50 pound note (lots of money) with the 50 piaster note (barely considered money) Maybe at the mint the bills were separate colors, vibrantly different, but after a few shifts in the streets of Cairo, you are lucky if you can distinguish between the now muddled colors and script. You just can't escape the dirt, the way you can't escape the noise, the traffic, the sounds the smells and the life of Cairo. And as much as I enjoy my shower at the end of the day, I am glad that I can't fully escape the vitality of this city. I guess this just proves that you can't get the real experience without getting a little dirty yourself. But don't worry, this hallmark moment won't keep me from washing my hands like I am scrubbing in for surgery every chance I get.

Learning to Cross Streets

Welcome to my blog! With my first entry entitled as "Learning to Cross Streets", one might assume that this Fulbright scholar intends to build bridges between my culture and that of old Cairo. While this allegorical purpose is charming and would fit in with my pledge to "build understanding" between the United States and the rest of the world, there is in fact a literal meaning behind this title. In Cairo, you seriously have to re-learn how to cross a street. Honestly. If you go by the old-fashioned rules of the US, you will never end up on the other side of the boulevard. Traffic here is a video game in which taxi drivers get bonus points for how many clueless tourists they almost run over, for how many "traffic lights" they ignore, and for how many lanes they swerve in and out of in the span of 100 yards. I had always heard that the traffic here in Cairo, lovingly called "zahman" by locals, was atrocious, but nothing could have prepared me for the shear insanity. The first time I was dropped off by a taxi on the wrong side of the street, it took me 15 minutes to timidly wait for a gap in traffic. The cars come at approximately 40 mph, more if there is a green light, less if there is a red (but actually stopping is optional, as are head-lights at night). As I waited, I watched with amazement and jealousy as savvy Egyptians, gabbing on their cell-phones, casually weaved in and out of the oncoming traffic. If they couldn't cross the entire 5 lane road in one go, they would wait on the white dotted line, as traffic whizzed by, nipping their coat tails and hijab, never batting an eye-lash. While I don't think I will ever acheive the talent exhibited by Cairo's locals, I hope that by the end of my stay I will truly learn how to walk like an Egyptian.