Good Addictions

At Cairo airport, Edward’s aunt Samia picked him up together with an unknown distant cousin, Dana. He had called his aunt from the airport soon after landing, apologizing for his earlier-than-expected arrival – sudden change in plan. I need to return to the U.S. early to attend to some university matters, he contrived.

Edward had last met his aunt years ago and he barely recognized the lady standing next to the taxi stop, the place she had instructed him to meet her. She was now in her early fifties. The frowns and laughs and smiles and exclamations over the years etched unmistakable wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Visible flab hung beneath her arms and she had a noticeable double-chin, one which she had cosmetic plans for. She was well dressed and well presented. Dana, now seated next to her in the car, was in her late twenties, had recently returned from the U.S. after completing her MBA, and was looking for a job in Cairo. Like many Egyptians, both Samia and Dana were trilingual—spoke French in addition to Arabic and English. Dana had fine features, was not necessarily beautiful – if beauty is a virtue – but with sunglasses and makeup and hair professionally done every couple of weeks, she could be attractive. Having travelled to a few places, she thought very highly of the things she knew and the topics that concerned her, but had never lived a day out of her own wallet, thanks to mom and dad – at any rate life is about convenience. And her curiosity mainly hovered around the familiar.

On the way to Samia’s home, they asked Edward about America, about New York. The aunt bragged about how she loved ‘the Big Apple’.

“Broadway!… The serenity of Central Park. Then the bustle, the lights of Time Square! These billboards!”

“Time Scare, if you ask me,” Edward slipped humorlessly, but they didn’t pay attention.

“What shame – I haven’t had time to cook for you. But you surely must give us time to prepare at least a quick bite. You must be famished.”

“No really aunti, you mustn’t…”

“In my rush to get you, I forgot to talk to Fatma! Dana – call Fatma tell her to start preparing dinner right away. And tell her to take out our new Rosenthal set. And call the cousins…

“Damn the day they gave you a driver’s license! I would die to know the idiot that put you behind the wheel,” Samia yelled and honked at the car that just veered towards her.
Then, in a systematic split-personality fashion, the aunti delightfully switched to Edward, and joined by Dana, talked about how it was cold in New York at this time of year.

“So how was your trip to Israel?” They finally asked.

He was still not entirely at ease with being asked about Israel so casually and not Palestine, especially from Palestinians. But be practical… Or was it denial…

“It was a mix of different emotions. In a sense it was –“

“Did you have a chance to visit the family house in Ramla?” Samia said.

“Yes, and I actually-“

“Isn’t it beautiful? I’d spend so much time in the balcony when I was five with your dad, who was, what, three at the time.”

“Do you know that the hospital where you were born, an old heritage site, the Israelis took over and turned into a boutique hotel?” Edward said affectedly.

“How nice,” the aunt said, and she was not being sarcastic.

They were waiting now at the traffic light.

“So the situation in Jerusalem is quite…” Edward started but sooner than he opened his mouth, his aunt, with nostalgic eyes and proud smiles, was staring at him through the rear-view mirror, then turned and looked straight at him, taking a hypnotic deep-dive into his eyes and face, examining him in detail. Dana was talking on her cell.

“He has his father’s eyes! Unbelievable. Come give me another hug,” she almost cried in an exaggerated fashion and, with the left arm on the wheel, extended her right one back to grab his head closer, while simultaneously watching out for the traffic light to turn green. If but she was as good a conversationalist as multi-tasker.

Edward had decided from the start not to mention his little adventure with the Israeli authorities lest word reach his parents. With his head in a semi-locked position in aunti’s octopus arm, he thought he better be quiet and just give short, agreeable answers when spoken to. Most people don’t like to discuss heavy furniture anyway, he thought.

At home, his aunt called everybody and everybody started pouring in, though nobody that Edward knew. It was boisterous. Besides the butler, the maid, the driver— and this was not necessarily a rich family, just a working upper-middle class one but labor is cheap in Egypt, Edward reminded himself— there was the neighbor that seemed to be a permanent fixture in the house, and more relatives. Egyptians are famous for being sociable, and though this was a Palestinian family living in Egypt, over time they had been Egyptianized and talked and behaved in the same animated, humorous fashion as the descendants of the Pharaohs.

After meeting everyone, Edward was shown to his room and soon enough, Dinner was announced. A long table carried a dozen or so sumptuous dishes, large and small—meat balls stuffed with pine and nuts, spinach in lemon and sumac, kushari, hummus, fava beans prepared with garlic, coriander and finely chopped tomatoes sprinkled with cumin, lamb stuffed with spiced rice and almonds, grape vine leaves and stuffed zucchini – sorry leftovers from yesterday, aunti explained while Edward salivated; salad, rice and a basket of bread. Everything smelled delicious and Edward, starving after a long ordeal and being somewhat of a guest of honor, was glad to be served first.

“Yes more Viagra,” some cousin, fat with an un-tucked shirt remarked as aunt Samia poured fava beans onto his plate.

“And this is our Egyptian humpty dumpty,” another younger cousin jumped in, pointing to the fat cousin.

“Just ask my muzzaz about my weapon of mass destruction,” humpty dumpty swung his massive waist upwards. To the amusement of Edward, this frivolity continued throughout dinner. And apparently, there were indeed pretty muzzaz interested in the heavier cousin, because of his lighter side.

While several conversations were going on simultaneously, Dana addressed Edward,

“So your father is related to the Sama’ans? Do you know that my aunt is married to the brother of your uncle Jameel? No,” she corrected herself. “I think the brother of your—“

Several of the seated joined the conversation. When, in her self-absorbed fashion, she finally managed the genealogy, she was very pleased. It was one of those things that Edward felt obliged, out of courtesy, to go along with. And he wondered if her passions were genuine or her curiosity beyond the pretentious. What is it about family trees that people find exhilarating?

“So your father tells me you’re about to complete your PhD in Political Philosophy from Harvard. Is that right? Your parents must be really proud,” his aunt said.

Edward had tried to convince his parents to travel along with him to Egypt (at least not to be alone facing the Inquisition,) but the timing was not appropriate they said. Was the timing ever appropriate? Or was it the laziness of old age? Or that fixated, permanent anxiety that discouraged them from back-traveling to these backyard and backstreet countries of childhood? He had also labored to get his parents to travel with him to Palestine.

“You want me to go back and get searched by the Jew that stole my home and country? You want me to get more humiliated? No, thank you. Let them enjoy the harvest of their theft, bon apetit, but spare me the further humiliation,” his father, Basem, would burst out.

At some point during dinner, Edward couldn’t hold it in: “So what do you think about what’s going on in Palestine-Israel?”

“What Palestine?” his aunt’s husband said with a discounting smile. He then turned authoritative. “Listen. If the Arabs were any good, we would have beaten Israel. We’re just an incompetent, corrupt bunch, let’s face it. More than three hundred million of us and they’re just six million. And they’ve got America in their back pocket. If the Palestinians themselves are divided with so many informants, what do you expect? Let’s not tire ourselves with expired topics.”

“Now let’s talk about the important stuff, Harvard guy. How about the Israeli girls in Tel-Aviv? I heard they’re muzzaz,” humpty-dumpty said excitedly.

“Don’t know about Tel Aviv, but there’s something about girls with guns.”

Aunt Samia wore her proud smile while flooding Edward’s plate with sweets. Edward returned a smile that was a mix of amusement and sadness. He was sociable enough, his face, faccia, façade provided a good enough front, cover, illusion. Fasad – coincidentally meaning corruption in Arabic… He sipped on his wine and pondered… Forget about Ramla and the house and humiliation, this will have to be thrown in the attic and locked up for future memory. But Ramallah, West Bank – couldn’t get half-a-decent glass of wine with the lamb at the restaurant. Was alcohol the poison behind the ills of our Middle-Eastern societies? Not fasad? Not the unrepresentative governments? Not imperial influence? Religious fundamentalism, bigotry, tribal mentality, classism, sexism? What a waste of energy.

Over the next few days, he felt like a walking billboard around them. Harvard guy. New York. These relatives, kind as they are, but… Pavlov’s good-citizened dogs drooling over buzz names. Brand flags anchored deep and fluttering high into moonless minds. Canine tails waving in stupid excitement, and helplessly, unconsciously. But what if I could not hold a conversation? Isn’t kindness all that matters at the end of the day?… Their eyes sometimes resemble those of calculating owls. I should better embrace Seneca’s advice and manage expectations.

He was slightly tall and of medium build. Though his face was pleasant, he could not always force a smile in front of camera, and this group liked, even more than Kushari for breakfast, to take pictures on the silliest of occasions. Documenting the dullness of the everyday and the fakeness of smiles. Free stuff that exposes the vulgarity of over indulgence – how he hated the digital camera in the wrong hands.

One of the main things he’d planned on doing while in Egypt was to visit the house where his parents had lived many years ago after the exodus from Palestine. So he went to Zamalek, that district in Cairo which is an island in the Nile known for its hip cafes and fancy sports clubs and a beautiful bridge “kobri” built by the famous French architect Effel. He sauntered to the northernmost tip of that river-island where the Nile can be seen from all sides. A new building had sprouted in place of where once stood his parent’s apartment building, so he quickly learnt. And why not? Only a romantic fool laments a piece of manmade and man replaced rock. Here was… now isn’t, now washed away. No memory. No baggage. Zen. Detachment from all. Om.

While seated on the river bank watching the sunset and the beautiful ‘Kobries’ in the distance and the boats quietly sliding by, he thought about his parents again. They had always talked about the good ol’ days in Egypt when they were young and newlywed. They must have sat and watched that same sunset forty years ago. All that good had to come to an end when overnight, their business became the property of the government. Nationalization. Nasser. That famous Egyptian leader of the sixties, revered by many Arabs for being the one leader of his time to fight for independence from imperialist influence and stand for Arab nationalism. But then this alienation of foreign nationals and seizure of their property. The expatriates flocked out, almost in a knee-jerk fashion. Mass migration. For the Ibrahims’ it was America and Brooklyn where Edward was born and raised.

While reflecting back on Dana, Edward thought how he might have been raised a different person with a completely different life had his parents not left Egypt. He couldn’t tell for sure which life would have been better. He didn’t like to pass judgment that way. And what if his grandfather hadn’t left Palestine in forty eight, risking massacre and surviving?

Struggles- endless. The only hope we have is to enjoy sunsets and music and beauty. Schopenhauer’s aestheticism. Suspension of the will. No personal agenda, no ego. Beauty for beauty’s sake. How beautiful beauty is. The sunset. At least for the moment. Before it is over.

A small fishing boat gently passed by. A flock of pigeons huddled closely in their nest box, blank eyes, constant murmurs and coos, driven only by thoughtless instinct without any idea about why they’re crammed into that spot, at least as far as Edward could tell in this observable universe. Or maybe survival or some random offshoot of a habit beneficial for adaptation, the evolutionary biologists would have their say.

Pigeons always boomerang back to the place where they are born. Salmon returns.
Is the desire to return to Palestine an overly romanticized notion? That’s not it – he corrected himself, almost with self-reproachment. He sipped on the mint tea he’d just bought from a street vendor, and looked back towards the river.

Empathy is a beautiful blue butterfly that keeps flying away…

He couldn’t help his thoughts about this leftover offspring of British colonialism then nursed by America. Israel is growing, cleansing itself, and in very good health, the world can rest assured. Appropriating more land, setting up new colonies. Refusing to return the lands it occupied. The wall, carving out more land from the West Bank and annexing it to Theirs Truly. Redirecting all the water to those settlements and to Israeli towns. Monopolizing and crippling at will the Palestinian economy via systemic restrictions, rendering the Palestinians, in many ways, slaves. And why not? Who’s to stop it.

And then using its media power houses to make itself look honorable. Continuing to claim moral superiority, the victim fighting Palestinian terrorists.

The pigeons flew away. It was getting dark and the Nile was serene and soothing. Iridescent tiny lights shimmered in the distance from across the other side of the river, a river which, since ancient times, was the main artery for one of the oldest civilizations. Edward now pictured slaves on primitive boats made from planks of wood tied by papyrus, transporting stones from the quarries to the Pyramids. A hundred thousand slaves toiling for one tomb was it? Talk about equality…

“Edward! Are you Okay?! You’ve been staring at the Nile forever,” Dana said.

“Hi! Didn’t see you,” he said.

“I’ve been standing here for more than ten minutes waiting to see if you would notice me,” she smiled.

They had planned to meet at Sequoia Cafe in Zamalek and Dana had arrived on time and had been waiting by the entrance when she caught glimpse of Edward in the distance. He was lingering by the river bank. She thought he would look her way but he kept staring straight at the river, so she finally walked over.

As they entered this trendy outdoor spot at the tip of the river island, a most beautiful view of the Nile greeted them. White canopies hung over white sofas and white tables. Dana looked pretty but also gave the appearance that she’d put some serious work beautifying herself for the night, Edward’s last in Cairo.

In the very back of her mind, Edward was quite ‘suitable’. He passed the ‘background check.’ He was a Christian Palestinian just like her and from a ‘good’ family. It turned out that they were not really related. The family connection was too distant. He was well educated, held a promising future and was reasonably handsome, though sometimes too quiet. She didn’t mind living in America.

They let themselves sink in one of those sofas.

“How do you like the view?” she said with a smile.

“The Nile is magical,” he returned.

“They have great Mojitos. I’m getting one how about you?” She looked at the waiter then at Edward.

“Two please,” he told the waiter.

A little later, while reaching with her straw to fish a piece of mint out of her Mojito, she said,

“So how do you like Egypt?”

“Love it. There’s so much energy. People have a joie de vivre. Their humbleness gives them a sense of elation.”

“How come you’re leaving so soon? You’ve barely seen anything of Egypt,” she said in a girly, sweet voice.

“Unfortunately, my return ticket is not easily changeable, and I’ve got to finish this eternal PhD.”

“And then you’re going to become a professor?”

“That’s the plan.”

“I’d like to find a job and move out of my parents’ house, though it might be difficult to convince them to let me live on my own,” she said.

After a few minutes of silence, she said in an interrogative tone, “You are quiet.”

After some reluctance, he just blurted,

“Don’t you see what’s happening to the Palestinians just next door?”

“You’re stuck on that one?” She said in a somewhat belittling tone.

“If you see a crime and you do nothing, you’re an accomplice.”

“I say just move on. So have you thought about where you’d like to teach? I read that Columbia offers good compensation and New York is, well, New York is New York!” she said with a wide smile, almost victoriously.

“Besides, I need a place to crash in my favorite city,” she continued, feeling humorous. Maybe even more than just crash, the thought teased but she suppressed it. She wasn’t one who would harbor hidden agendas or flirt with such far-flung ideas. At least so she told herself.
Seeing that he was quiet still and not terribly impressed, she felt a bit more obliged:

“Don’t dwell on the past. We need to move forward.”

“But this is not the past.”

“Aren’t the Mojitos just perfect? I like it that they don’t over do it with the sugar. You know how some places just go all out with the sugar…? I mean it is not nuclear science but so many places mess it up.”

“Yes I agree. Like a cup of cappuccino, easy to make but easy to screw up.”

“You think you can make a difference? Come on,” she nudged him and broke a condescending, cynical smile.

“History offers ample examples. The sad part is not that we don’t make a difference. It’s that we don’t even try. This is the present. Gaza has been under siege for god knows how long now. There is continuous suppression, land appropriation. Daily check points, home demolitions. Don’t you feel anything for the Palestinians? Your own people?”

She was working hard at reaching one piece of mint stuck at the bottom of the glass, not cooperating (the piece). When she looked up, she noted a look of dismay on Edward’s face and the sudden silence made her realize she had to respond.

“Yes but Palestinians are self-destructive,” she finally said. “So tell me, do you like Boston?”
Now that the elusive piece of mint was captured, she nibbled on it slowly with utmost pleasure.

“True that unlike Jews, we don’t help each other. There’s a lot of corruption and there are many Palestinian informants helping Israel. But does this mean we wash our hands completely from all that is happening there? Resistance is our duty. And Boston is just fine.”

“You want to be ruled by Hamas? Do you know how they treat Christians?” She said.

“I think in some ways Hamas’ ideology is not much worse than Zionism. We need liberation from both Zionism and Hamas. Imagine in this day and age, using as argument, over two thousand year old scriptures, when the earth was flat and center of the universe, to claim with mad obsession a piece of land as holy and exclusive? A promised real-estate. Promised by the ultimate real-estate broker, God. Et pas Mon Dieu. Mio Dio. Isn’t that crazy fundamentalism? The borders of Europe will be re-drawn many times if just looking at the last few hundred years. But the clearest example- the US -it will have to be returned to the natives. Of course religion is used as a tool by all sides. But these Palestinians were terrorized into leaving. They were expelled at gunpoint, unarmed civilians, about sixty percent of the population.”

Dana was sending a text message while Edward was talking.

“Didn’t the Arab governments tell the Palestinians to leave? On radio? What you just said might very well be just based on Palestinian or Arab propaganda,” She said.

“You don’t have to read Arab or Palestinian historians if you’re skeptical about impartiality. Read Israeli historians Ben Morris and Illan Pappe. They will tell you. They based their findings on IDF archives, on the memoirs of Ben Gurion, on Palestinian accounts. There was no radio. There was Irgun and Stern and Hagana. Even Einstein and other prominent American Jews wrote a letter to the New York Times in forty eight warning about Israel’s fascist and ultra-nationalistic designs and terror.”

“The number of Palestinians massacred in forty eight is very low. Nothing compared to today’s numbers,” she said.

“True. Many more were massacred in the revolt between thirty six and thirty nine, but that was in a sense leading to forty eight, and what happened in forty eight is mainly Zionist terrorist activity designed to get the Palestinian civilians to flee. There was also rape. In that sense, their terror succeeded.”

Dana’s cell phone beeped. She received a text message which she attended to excitedly.

“Maybe we don’t really deserve our freedom,” Edward said contemplatively. “We expect it to be handed on a silver platter served with whip cream and strawberries. Even then we’ll find something to complain about.”

“Listen – a couple of friends are going to join us. So did you say whip cream and strawberries?”
She was not being facetious. She was sincere for she really only registered that sentence and it did brighten her face.

“They’ve got great deserts here, let’s get some,” she continued.