A special kind of silence

Suddenly, the loud din of the air winds down. The lights stop humming, the fan stops whirring. It is dark and quiet, except for Bikhatirha's loud “oof.” The power is out at the clinic. A sign of the seasons, it's the first outage of many more to come, I think to myself. Summer is here.

My instant reaction is to sulk, as if I have been conditioned to associate a power outage with a massive inconvenience and a forced pause on life. We were sitting in silence before the lights cut, and we continued sitting, silently, in darkness for a few seconds. Bikhatirha grunts and gets up from the wooden bench we're all sitting on. “Is the whole street out?” She asks, her voice slicing through the thick quiet and fading away as she enters the other room to look for something.

“How should I know. Probably.” The sole woman in the waiting room asks in response. Because of her niqab, I can't see her in the darkness, her voice––and her young daughter sitting next to her––are the only things that place her. “Allah is great,” she sighs cryptically, Egyptian Arabic for “hopefully this is fixed soon.”

The woman's young daughter, playing with the flame

Bikhatirha, over 75 years old and as nimble as a feather, comes back with two candles and a match. Hands shaking from too much insulin, she lets one candle burn for a few seconds before pouring some of the wax onto the wooden table. She sticks the candle into the waxy mound. A radius of light shines from the sole candle. She dumps out an ashtray filled with the ashy butts of cigarettes––illicitly smoked by men who think I can't smell their secondhand from across the hallway, and who hide them, like children, still lit, behind their backs when I walk past. I sigh in a sense of failure when I see how much ash is on the table. She lights the second candle and sticks it in the ashtray.

"Can the doctor just check up on me by candlelight?" The woman in the waiting room asks despondently.

I laugh and very quickly realize she wasn't joking. I consider turning my laughter into a faked coughing fit, but decide that it's okay if she thinks I'm weird. The lack of electricity is clearly no obstacle. Then again, why should it be? The only thing this clinic needs electricity for is an ultrasound machine, the lights, the fan, and an internet connection installed only for me.

Black outs, something that usually disrupts the very fiber of what productivity means to me and my peers, does not disrupt a moment of work and life at the clinic. In fact, it has given us something to talk about. Pausing the loud din of Cairo for a few minutes is enough to remind us, four very different women in a small room, to talk.

The Doctor is doing his Maghrib prayer––the fourth of five daily prayers in Islam––to be done after sunset. As we wait in the warm glow of candlelight, we laugh and ask each other about the inanities of life. So and so got into a fight when he was caught selling bongo (marijuana), so and so can't find a wife for their son. Did you hear, the workshop owner next door didn't want to pay for his worker's injury? And, the inevitable question: Who will you vote for?

It is refreshing to work in a context in which the only consequence of a power outage is silence: a special kind of silence, one that amplifies the voices of conversation.

The young daughter of the niqabi woman waiting is clearly unenthused. She reaches out and begins playing with the flame. Passing her finger through the top of the bright orange fire quickly once, then again, and again. “Bas!” Stop! Her mom barks. She stops only long enough for her mom to re-enter gossip with Bikhatirha, the woman who knows everyone and everything that ever was in the last century of Al-Sabtia, the working-class steel industry neighborhood this medical clinic serves.

Too soon, the lights loudly hum back on. Almost on cue, the Doctor walks out with a kind smile and gestures for the woman to enter his office. The candles are blown out, conversation stops, and our silent vacuum of technology is sucked away to make room for the infamous Cairene street orchestra.

Visitors

Having old friends come visit you in a new home is a rare treat. There is always the push-and-pull between homes, but when your worlds come together peacefully, and those friends mention how you "fit here," it makes my crushin'-on-Cairo heart flutter.

Walking around the city for 10 days showing around the fresh blood made me stop and notice the markings on the wall; I realized just how complex Cairo's beauty can be. And even more-so, how the conflict itself can add elegant beauty and depth. From graffiti to stunning light in ancient markets, I, once again, was enchanted.

Yellow box: "We're the ones of Al-Tahrir", a play on a famous movie and movie poster "We are the ones of the bus". Underneath: "Those who died, their rights and demands are called for. The revolution continues. January 25, 2012", referring to the preparations for the one year anniversary of the revolution. The V for Vendetta masks on the top left and right are common, showing the Egyptian version of fighting against a regime. 

معسل/maasel sheesha is the harsh tobacco flavor of only the most hardcore Egyptian men

The view from the minaret of Al-Azhar Mosque at sunset

Peeking into one of the rooms inside Al-Azhar, from the roof. No, we were not supposed to be up there.

"Drawing through the walls" on Sheikh Rihan Street, just on the other side of the AUC Tahrir campus. This wall was constructed by the military to protect the Ministry of Interior.

Murals on Mohammed Mahmoud Street, the site of the unrest during the month of November and sporadically afterwards. This street, lined with art, serves as an artistic commemoration for the martyrs of the revolution. According to a nice man on the street, this mural depicts the ancient Egyptian ritual for celebrating/mourning the death of a martyr.

An unfinished mural depicting daily life during the current gas shortage. The women are holding canisters of cooking gas, so as to get them refilled.

The veiled woman in red is Samira Ibrahim, the woman who took her military doctor to court for the 'Virginity Tests' that she underwent after being detained during a protest. The doctor was recently found innocent. The line of soldiers around her are all of one face: the doctor. The hieroglyphics say: Nadine is the Queen Ruler of Nutella and All Cute Kittens must Love her.

The view looking up from inside The Citadel, Mohammed Ali Mosque

Inside Mohammed Ali Mosque

An antique store behind Khan El-Khalili, the bazaar

boo!

Light fixtures inside a tucked-away mosque

How to breathe, how to vote

November 18^th, 2011 marked the beginning of what many called the second revolution. International news outlets reported on what they dubbed “Revolution Redux” in Cairo, and the city was once again suffocated under plumes of tear gas. I was antsy to witness revolutionary fervor in Midan Al-Tahrir for myself after spending January 2011 in college, under my covers and glued to Al-Jazeera's live stream. I ventured out onto Qasr Al-Einy street, one of several arteries leading to the Square. Still blocks away from the civilian check-points, I felt for the first time the tell-tale burning sensation in my nostrils that I have yet to forget. Through the wafting clouds of tear gas, I felt my heart start to race, my eyes widened in fear, and I couldn't breathe.

It was a semi-familiar feeling; as a child, I had asthma. It's been almost 10 years since the last time I felt my throat involuntarily close up, but this time, on Qasr Al-Einy, it was different. It wasn't my body attacking itself, but the government––my government––attacking me.

When I went back to Chicago in February of this year, I landed and my throat started closing up at the most inopportune moments, making me cough violently. The first time my mother heard me cough from the other room, she knew: “your asthma is back. I remember that cough.” God bless mothers.

I was looking forward to Chicago as a detox of sorts: no more black boogers; no more brown water in the shower; no more chlorinated water supply; no more hissing; and no more tear gas in the air. I didn't expect to enter dust and pollution-free American air just to have an asthmatic relapse. I came back to Cairo and just like that, my cough was gone.

I landed and found Cairo calm. The momentum for demonstrations has grinded to a slow halt, the number of martyrs is no longer growing, and normal daily life has resumed. However, this city has yet to forget. Roads are still blocked off, embassies are still heavily guarded, revolutionary graffiti still loudly present on walls, and the radio is eternally repeating clichéd questions: “callers, tell us, has the revolution been stolen?”

Candidate Abu Al Fotouh. The graffiti
underneath reads: "Once, a man went to cheer and died", about
the Port Said football riots in which 74 died

Strolling down Qasr Al-Einy the other afternoon, I was admiring the picturesque, clashing effect graffiti had on the wealthy antiquity of buildings on the street. I like imagining Cairo decades ago, before the sepia tone, the negligence, and the deterioration set in. I love the graffiti: an oppressed voice on a city whose will was lost in the past eras of power, wealth, and corruption. I noticed, crossing the street, two men holding rags to their faces. Instantly, I took a deeper, cautionary breathe, trying to identify tear gas in the air. I had flashbacks to scenes of women fainting, people running, and men with blood-shot eyes and keffiyehs handing out surgical masks on this street; I had flashbacks of not being able to breathe, and then I realized that I could take my breathe. No tear gas. The men were only sneezing or coughing, coincidentally at the same time. I inhaled deeply, and realized that not only did I not cough, but that I hadn't since I arrived back in Egypt.

The air is still thick, but the energy is different. Instead of the men stationed on corners distributing help and aid to those affected by the gas, or collecting donations, there are political posters and graffiti lining the street. I took a closer look at one of the posters, and realized it was for a presidential hopeful: Abu Al Fotouh, an ex-Muslim Brotherhood member. Maybe, I thought, this is where the energy is being redirected. Away from civil unrest, and towards the maintenance of a fair and free democratic system––towards elections.

Perhaps it is progress. Perhaps it is seeing a poster for the upcoming presidential elections for the first time, and thinking maybe this is what the revolution was for. Maybe we've succeeded, although I think the revolution has indeed been stolen. Despite the corruption, despite the unjust riot control, despite the thick pollution, and the oppressive state of human rights, I have hopes that Egypt is healing itself through progress, just as it heals me.

I saw some of the first signs of democratic progress on the same street on which I found myself struggling to breathe while the military attempted to stifle our voices––the very same voices that will soon vote for President. I can take deep breathes now, knowing that movements take time, and comforted by the subtle markers of growth. It is right to criticize, but even more right to appreciate what has been accomplished. Abu Al Fotouh doesn't have my vote, but the freedom––uncorrupted freedom––to choose is hopefully on its way––we can all hang out in Horreya until it gets here.

Destined to Return

Cairo is a loud place of contradictions: enchantment and frustration; nationalism and departure. Ultimately, when I was away, its cacophonous din seemed to be calling for me. Now that I am here, the noise is so much more than dissonance: it is the ramblings of an irrelevant regime, the chants of protesters, the cat-calls from young shabab on the street, and the whispers of lovers in hidden parks. The contradictions might make Cairo's music sound off-key, but, if I listen closely, I can hear the harmony.

I made the decision to move to Cairo early on in my last year of college. The move was not spurred or influenced by employment, but rather, a call to embrace my culture and witness revolution. I spent from January 25th-February 11th clutching my pillow while staring open-jawed and teary-eyed at Al-Jazeera live stream. The revolution that culminated with the removal of then-President Hosni Mubarak accomplished more than just a social political victory; the revolution brought together the Egyptian diaspora in a previously inconceivable way. The revolution, the martyrs, the violence, and the hope made us forget about Egypt's many faults and remember what it is that keeps our hearts yearning for بلدنا –our country. After all, “Once you drink from the Nile, you are destined to return.”

The Egyptian connection around the world was electrifying. I like to think that optimistic revolutionaries, dreamers, 20-somethings, and weathered sages everywhere felt their worldview change: there is hope for the determined and hopeful. Diaspora Egyptians, my family and I included, felt a stabbing pain of shame for being absent. I already knew that I was going back, but now I was relentless in my pursuit of purpose there. I will vote. I will ask questions. I will listen. I will contribute. I will drink the tap water.

All idealism and theorizing aside, there is something sobering about a one-way flight away from home. I spent months wishing I was in Cairo, hours reflecting on childhood memories, and days fantasizing about how meaningful each experience was bound to be. But, my airplane ride over was melancholy and full of doubt: why did I leave? I kept asking myself. Four months later, I still repeat this tired question, but I ask it in reassurance rather than uncertainty. Every stroll down Cairo's busy streets will undoubtedly frustrate or enchant; yet, it is always the enchanting moments that deserve to be remembered.

Five times a day, my enchantment starts with just one voice. One voice that beckons me awake, and one voice that compels me to turn off my music. It is the voice that permeates even the darkest alleys, that travels amidst the beige, satellite studded rooftops, and that seeps through my leaking windows. Soon, the asynchronous mosques in the city endearingly known as the city of 1000 minarets will broadcasting their calls. One chimes in. Then another. Mere seconds apart.

Come to prayer, come to prayer.

In rounds, they go off, and soon I can't hear anything except a din of faith: "Prayer is better than sleep."

On most days, the call to prayer falls into the background of daily routine, or we laugh at how out of sync the mosques are, but sometimes the beauty and awe are palpable. Palpable, like the dust and corruption that taint daily life. Palpable, like the tension in the quiet days before the revolution's one-year anniversary.

For many foreigners and Egyptians alike, Cairo is a place of contradicted emotions. Ultimately, we are all called back to this place of spirituality, hypocrisy, beauty, and disintegration. I have fallen in love with it's antiquated charm, and that love is never easy.