The moment I stepped off the plane and into the hot, moist atmosphere of Cairo airport, I realized I was in another universe. The scent of incense drifted through an intricate lattice window. Donkeys laden with vegetables weaved their way through an orchestra of blaring car horns; street merchants announced their wares with a siren cry that made me jump; men prayed on the pavement, wearing pyjamas; and women threw buckets of peelings from balconies above. It was a mad, chaotic patchwork quilt of smells, noise and colour and came as quite a culture shock to me. But despite its strangeness I soon felt at home. For the first time I didn’t have to hide or be embarrassed about my origins. Moreover, everyone admired and respected both halves of my cultural background.
We stayed at my uncle’s house in Cairo. The Egyptians wore western clothes, watched dubbed Hollywood movies and had many of the modern conveniences found in England. But as I sat on the replica 18th Century French furniture, a loudspeaker in the street outside began bellowing the call to prayer. This triggered a wave of prayer calls that slowly unfurled across the Cairo rooftops and into the distance. Even on television, Clark Gable was cut off in mid flow, as a sign came up in Arabic, announcing the evening prayer. When everyone got up to pray, I was left sitting alone at the table, I felt a little uncomfortable.
After prayer my cousin Nihal, who had been helping my aunty fry some food in the kitchen, came in carrying a steaming dish.
“You like beetles?”
“Er… I’ve never had them!” I said, feeling a little queasy.
“I like them too much!” She put the plate on the table. “Especially I like Paul; he’s too cute!”
“Oh… .” I said with a sigh of relief, “Yeah I like them, but they split up a few years ago, you know!” Egyptians loved everything British and knew a great deal about the UK, though their information seemed to be about a decade old.
“Split up?”
“They don’t play together anymore.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Well bands do that after a while… .”
“Georgie Best!” interrupted Hamdy, giving me the thumbs up. “Manchester United! Good.”
“Well I support Spurs actually”
“Sopurs? What is Sopurs?”
“Tottenham Hotspur – they’re a football team.”
Nihal showed me a picture in an Egyptian newspaper of Ayatollah Khomeini hugging a little girl. “Awww, he is such a good man!”
“The people seem to love him.”
“He says there is no difference between Sunni and Shi’ah. He says we are all Muslims and should be united.”
Nihal was a very strong minded, independent woman who took her freedom to do as she wanted for granted. She didn’t wear a headscarf and had very western habits and tastes. Yet she seemed completely comfortable about identifying with traditional, orthodox views – something most Egyptians I met seemed totally at ease with despite being relatively westernised.
“Eat, Hassan!” said Aunty Ola as she sat next to me. “We made you English food: Fish and Chips!”
“Do you say your prayers, Hassan?” said my uncle.
“To be honest, no, I don’t.”
“Oh you must pray! Prophet Muhammad said that ‘Prayer is the key to Paradise.”
“I’m not sure I really believe in all that. I mean why does God need us to pray?”
“God doesn’t need us to pray. But we need to pray. To give thanks and seek His help.”
“I still don’t see why we have to give thanks or ask for help through prayer.”
“Have you read the Qur’an, Hassan?”
“A bit.”
Uncle Fouad took a book from the shelf.
“Here’s an English translation for you. I want you to promise me you will read it.”
I was reluctant to promise something I didn’t want to do, but as I was a guest in his house I could hardly refuse. I thought I could read a few pages then politely put it to one side.
“Thanks. OK, I will.”
“Insha-Allah,” prompted Uncle Fouad.
“Insha-Allah,” I replied.
The next day my father and uncle had gone out, leaving me at home with Aunty Ola. So I picked up the Qur’an, as promised, and began to read. To my surprise I found I couldn’t put it down. The Qur’an is not like any ordinary book. It doesn’t follow any of the conventions of standard prose. It has no definite beginning or end. There is no plot to follow and no neat resolution. It seems to jump rather abruptly from one account to another. Even its style changes with little warning, from a steady narrative to fast paced rhyming prose. Yet I found it strangely irresistible.
“Alif Lam Mim.”
I looked up at Aunty Ola who was quietly sitting smoking a cigarette as she read a magazine full of beautiful women strutting down a cat walk.
“What does Alif Lam Mim mean?”
“Nobody knows.” She smiled. “Some chapters of the Qur’an begin with letters of the alphabet. Scholars have tried to explain them. But nobody knows for sure.”
“You mean it’s a mystery?”
“Yes.”
I liked mysteries.
<snip>
I spent most of my two weeks in Egypt just reading the Qur’an, with the occasional trip to meet other members of my newly discovered extended family. There, also, the conversations invariably turned to religion.
“A friend of mine says that only by believing in Jesus can I be saved, because he died for our sins.”
“Islam says the opposite,” said Magdi. “The Qur’an says:
“Whosoever follows the right path, benefits his own soul and whosoever goes astray harms himself. No soul shall bear the burden of another.”(17:15)
“Islam is the religion of our ‘Fitrah’ (inborn disposition); it is in complete harmony with our natural instinct.”
“Then why can’t everyone see it?”
“The prophet said; “Men are asleep and only when they die they awake.” That’s the nature of this world, Hassan. If everything was clear and easy, then there would be no test.”
Magdi gave me a book of Hadith (sayings of Prophet Muhammad) which I read from cover to cover. One hadith in particular touched me deeply:
“(God says) I am as my servant thinks of me. I am with him when he remembers me. If he comes to me a hand’s span; I come to him an arm’s length. If he comes to me one arm’s length, I draw near to him by two outstretched arms. If he comes to me walking, I come to him running.” (Bukhari)
I really enjoyed this Hass. Perhaps you could direct me to similar chapters of your work, the hot stuff, the juicy stuff. Spare me the family tree. Just the more diverting vignettes of your odyssey. You may be a pathological optimist, but I liketh what I see.
Topic: Egypt protests: Three reported dead in 'day of revolt'