An Orphanage and Silver Linings
“You’ll have many hassanahs because you did this,” my sister-in-law, whom I’ll call “Re,” told me as we watched her older brother and mother load bags of oranges, clementines and bananas into the back of the car. It was my first full day back in Egypt, and I had found myself volunteering to go with some of my in-laws to bring fruit and sweets to a local orphange.
Hassanahs are like freckles, she explained: to Egyptians (or Muslims, for that matter) hassanah’s are marks of good deeds. I don’t really believe that freckles mean that one has done good deeds, otherwise a girl like Re would be covered in them (then again, how do I know; she wears a hijab, so maybe she is).
The orphanage was located just a few blocks away, in the masjid (mosque) complex that we passed all the time. At night, the small minaret is lit up in green. We climbed all the way up with our bags of fruit to one of the many floors, where we were let in by one of the boys. The house mother–what would you call her?–greeted us and took stock of our gifts while we sat on a pair of aging yellow couches and were greeted by the boys. There were about 13 or 14 of them, all between the ages of 7-9yrs old, and most of them had been there together as babies, as the photograph on the wall witnessed. They were running about and watching TV, as they had finished studying for their exam, and they came up and shook our hands. I tried to utter a “salam alaykoum”–perhaps a bit too formal for a bunch of elementary-age children–and I’m sure they thought I was crazy because I didn’t speak any Arabic to them, since I don’t think anyone explained that I was, in fact, American.
Thus, as my mother- and sister-in-law chatted with the house mother, and young hijab-wearing aid girls bustled around moving a huge washing machine, I was able to observe with my usual silence. The boys lost interest in us, except for in my brother-in-law, whom they gathered around and sat in his lap. There were two common rooms with the bedrooms grouped around; to me, it didn’t look much different than the sparse flat my husband and I are staying in. A couple of the boys started playing a form of soccer with a pink balloon, and in a gesture of friendliness I would hit the balloon back to them when it came my way. We stayed for maybe an hour, and then it was time to go.
“Tell me, was it really sad? Did you feel sad?” My husband asked me when I met up with him and we went out with one of his friends to a Cinnabon (yes, that staple of every American mall exists in Cairo, and like all American brands is considered ‘expensive.’ Interesting note: I had yet to ever eat in a Cinnabon until Cairo). I looked at him and said, “Yes it was sad, of course.” I couldn’t imagine having no parents, and especially no family who would want to look after you.
But yet, at the same time, it wasn’t really that sad. Sure, those boys had no family and had to rely on donations to live. But there they were, (presumably) healthy and taken care of, getting their education and having fun. They didn’t seem sad or constantly preoccupied by their situation. In fact, I bet they mostly gave it thought when people like us came with donations and sympathetic smiles. My husband’s question got me thinking about what I would call “set” or “stale” emotions. Set/stale emotions are those emotions that we feel that we are obligated to feel during a certain situation, like when someone dies or something seemingly bad happens. But I think that sometimes these set/stale emotions prevent us from seeing the bigger picture, and especially from seeing the good in a perhaps unfortunate situation.
If a person dies, it is certainly saddening; but what if that person was in extreme pain, with a disease like cancer? At least when they die they are at peace, and no longer suffering. Or if you lose your job: as long as you have enough money to survive until you find a new job, perhaps losing the job is a blessing because you have the opportunity to reevaluate your life and what to do. In retrospect, this is what “every cloud has a silver lining” is all about.
The boys at the orphanage were being taken care of, and they have probably learned two of the best lessons a person can learn: humility and gratitude. Those lessons alone are enough to merit a person, in my person, a hundred hassanahs.
S-L-M
Jealousy and Respect in a Cairo Café
What do we do when we meet someone new? Depending on our culture, the norm may be to shake hands or give a small wave; it may be to give a sort of “fist pump;” we might give one or two kisses on the cheek, or a small hug, or even rub noses, as is the norm in some Asian cultures. This simple-seeming tradition is one of the most important that the global traveler must manage in order to respect local tradition.
Nevertheless, I found myself offended the other day when meeting some of my husband’s friends at a café the other day. In Egypt, it is common for people to shake hands with each other upon greeting, even if they’re friends; girls often give a kiss on the cheek or a hug, not unlike European and Latin cultures. My husband introduced me to some of his co-workers who were already seated in the café, and I proferred my hand to say hello. One by one they shook my hand, albeit reluctantly and with a shake like a flopping dead fish. Remembering my sister’s remarks about how she hated a person with a limp handshake, I mentioned this to my husband after we had sat down.
“It’s a sign of respect,” he said. “Because you are my wife, they don’t want to touch your hand.” They can’t touch my hand? I looked down at my hand. I was wearing woolen fingerless gloves. Was it really such a turn-on for a guy to touch a married woman’s hand? Although I had not insulted their culture—they might have felt uncomfortable shaking my hand, but when I offered it they weren’t about to refuse—I myself almost felt insulted. I wasn’t some precious cargo, meant to be hidden away behind a purdah curtain, and I disliked the fact that my married status meant that guys were afraid to even shake my hand.
However, whereas the guys in our group seemed to be concerned with respect and propriety, the females were most certainly not. The two stylishly-dressed (and, with their blonde and red coifs, decidedly European-style) women who also happened to be my husband’s bosses barely greeted me or even gave me the time of day, even though the one was a native of Berlin, Germany, and knew perfect English. Except for the few times my husband tried to draw up a conversation between us, they basically pretended that I did not exist. I was prepared to dismiss this as a nervousness to communicate in English, or a preoccupation with the Munich vs. Ali team football match, until my husband himself brought it up to me.
“They’re jealous of you because you’re pretty. They act like that towards the pretty employees in our store,” he explained, which in fact explained nothing. The two of them were way more stylishly dressed, and themselves pretty. I had had experience before with the petty jealousy of Egyptian girls, especially concerning those who were enamored with my husband, but it still made me shake my head. I don’t care what country or culture you’re from: wearing your jealousy on your sleeve and displaying it is disgusting. We can’t help but feel jealous at times, it’s just human nature unfortunately, but to obviously show your jealousy is just rude and classless.
Like many of my other café-going experiences here in Egypt, this one thus came with a lesson in human interaction that did not go unnoticed. I spent most of my time willing myself not to think about the absurdity of not being able to shake hands, or female jealousy, and instead tried to concentrate on people watching through the plate-glass windows, eating my arguably-decent pizza and watching the football game (even though I am no great fan of sports.) The highlight of the night was being introduced to one of the co-workers, a man who had spent 7 years living in Queens, New York, not far from where I lived. He loved Queens, loved the people and thought the weather was fine, and had even been to my hometown! It’s a curious window that seems to open up when you meet someone who intimately knows your hometown when you’re so far from home, as though you instantly have a bond with this person that transcends niceties or cordial remarks.
And guess what? When we said good-bye, he shook my hand, firmly, which made me remember that you
S-L-M
