The Pharaohs

Ok, so I’ll admit it.

I cheered just as hard as anyone when we scored that goal in the last two minutes. After we’d all just basically given up all hope, that goal just shocked us all. I screamed until I was hoarse. And I’m not even a football fan. I don’t even know the names of all the players. I only watch if it’s a qualifier or a final or something.

Honestly, what a rollercoaster match. A goal in the first two minutes, and a goal in the last two extra minutes of injury time. And two goals from the Algerian side that were inside our goal but kicked out. Absolutely unbelievable. It couldn’t have been more perfect if it was a movie. As El-Koshary (Egypt’s amazing version of The Onion) tells us, that’s “concrete evidence that prayer works!“

I’d opted out of going to the stadium at the request of my parents (and honestly, I just wasn’t up to the hours of waiting and hours to get out in the midst of men gone crazy) but after the match my friends I cruised the streets. I inhaled so much Raid and Perosol bug spray–basically what people do is spray it and light it to create fire. Crazy.

It’s amazing to see us all so united and happy, it really is. No matter how cynical I may be, the emotion gets to you. The power of emotion is unbelievable–imagine if we could channel it all into something else.

(Watch more videos of the celebrations here).

And the crazy thing is that we haven’t even qualified for the world cup! Now we’re just tied. We still have another match to play on Wednesday in Sudan. If we win, we will reach the World Cup for the first time in 20 years and only the third time in our history. I don’t think I can deal with the tension again.

Ok, so happiness aside, here are my two cents:

I get that football gives Egyptians something to be happy about. It disillusions us into thinking that we are still great. Gives us pride in ourselves which we severely lack.

But to commercialize religion and patriotism and bottle it in ads to make money? Disgusting much?

To be 63 years old and fall from a fourth floor balcony and die because you were trying to fix your satellite to watch the game?!

To stand in line for hours and hours shouting “we want tickets! we want tickets!” but not the same when we had a bread crisis and people stood in line for hours to get bread only not to find it?

The amount of heartfelt prayer going on. Have we prayed that hard for Gaza? Just watch the people going Ameen:

Amber adeeb crying on TV?

To get so hyped up on emotion that’s invested and poured out over football? (See a roundup of everything leading up to the game, including killing owls and attacking the Algerian bus here).

And I can’t get over the hatred invoked between the two countries. Even if we’d lost, Algeria, an Arab country, would have played. Kudos to Ahmed Mekki, a famous half-Algerian, half-Egyptian actor and singer, for his song telling us to “Wake up!” (Watch it here and read the lyrics here). How tactless is going to celebrate in front of the Algerian embassy?

I’m so happy we won. I’m glad we found a common hope to unite under. But what does it say about us when we say we only unite for a sport? When we only feel patriotic when there’s a game?

Sportsmanship is honorable and is about representing your country, but shouldn’t be the only venue where you express love for the country, this love being subject to the score! Cheer for Egypt, but that should be a reflection of deeper rooted patriotism and pride that inspires service to the country and compassion for its people, things that are rarely felt with the same intensity as a goal, not pursued as passionately as a goal and not mourned so bitterly as a goal. w nader lamma 7ad bey2oul 3aleiha ya Rab.

I just wish we could unite this way–all Arabs–for something truly worthwhile. Think of what we could accomplish.

Egypt vs. Algeria

The world has gone crazy.

I cannot believe how the only thing anyone can discuss right now is the football match between Egypt and Algeria on the 14th of November. I was having dinner in Makani in Mohandesin tonight (that’s a sushi restaurant) and it was all decked out in flags! Guys in the streets are already selling flags at every corner. The cover of Campus Magazine is the historic penalty shot of 1989. Persil’s ad invokes the “prayers of mothers.” Coca Cola has a kick ass ad reminding us of 1989 that even managed to make me feel patriotic (over football). Even Hitler is all worked up over the game. Ditto the Troy people. And Mel Gibson in Braveheart.

I get it. If we win, then we get to play in the World Cup. Great.

But what really kills me? The Mobinil radio ad campaign entreating all 80 million Egyptians to gather at 7:25pm, 5 minutes before the match starts so we can all pray together. To go “ya rab.” Because if we all pray together, we’ll all win.

That’s why we’re all going to pray?!! Not because of the social, economic, political problems this country suffers from, but because of a game??!!!!!

Let’s just hope God ignores the prayers of those nasty Algerians.

In any case: GO EGYPT!!

Fatness

Today I felt like taking revenge against myself. So, I woke up, and proceeded to eat & drink, within the space of two hours:

1) Half a sandwich of melted cheese.
2) A burger sandwich with cheese and tomatoes and lettuce and ketchup
3) A slice of basboussa
4) A 250 chunk of thick Norwegian salmon with lemon.
5) Nescafe
6) Half a box of Anthon Berg chocolates with raspberry cream filling.
7) Half a Mars bar.
8 ) A small chunk of white sour cheese

And now I feel very, very sick.

I’ve been fat all my life.

Well, perhaps not as a fetus, but soon after that.

I was a chubby kid who ate too many fruit roll ups, but still not fat.

Then the teenage years came along, and things spiraled out of control. A little bit chubby, I was teased mercilessly, which only made me eat more. The fact that I was top of my class and quiet and shy only intensified the teasing, which turned into bullying. I didn’t tattle tale, which made it worse. I got fatter. I didn’t go out. Didn’t have a boyfriend. Then I wore the hijab. Stopped ballet, gymnastics, and swimming. Suffice to say, I finished high school as the fat girl.

University changed my life. I grew up. Made friends. Lost weight. Dressed a little better. But I was never normal, never slim. Always just a little fat. And never had much fashion sense. And always the Fat Smart Pretty-ish Girl. Then my friends started pairing up. Getting engaged. Getting married. Getting babies. I got a little fatter. A little lonelier. A lot more successful. A little thinner. A little fatter. Yo yo style.

Being fat colors your life. People look at you, and all they see is fat. It doesn’t matter how fashionably you dress. It doesn’t matter how pretty your features are. It doesn’t matter how clever, funny, smart you are. All people see is fat. And being fat, for some reason, gives people license to take you less seriously. Everything you say or do means less.

And I’m only, literally, 10kg overweight.

Which, in one way, actually makes it worse. To think that I’m only 10kg away from being ‘normal,’ from fitting in, yada yada. If it was 50kg, then oh well, it doesn’t really make a difference. It’s like being forth place in a race. Just. almost. made it.

It makes me mad, because I still don’t understand why this goal in life, this itty bit thing that compared to all I’ve achieved is nothing, is the one that stumps me and I still can’t reach. I really don’t eat that much. I excersice. I lose weight, I gain weight, then I settle back in the same 3 kg range.

And what’s even more annoying is that with every achievement I make, I know that losing weight would be seen as a better achievement. Which pisses me off even more–that your weight means more than what you do, and that I care that people care.

I’m feeling just a little bit emo today.

Miss Independent

Sometimes, on days like today, I feel confused.

I’ve always believed that environment plays a humongous role in how we turn out to be, way more than our genes. Nurture beats nature in my book.

And at the end of the day, the truth is that most women in Egypt have been raised to think that marriage and babies and home are their lot in life, and that unless you have the hubby and kids—regardless of what kind of wife or mother you are—then your life hasn’t really started, and you’ll never really be successful.

So on a day like today, when I really really hate my job, and I’ve just received news from one friend that she’s getting engaged and from another that she’s giving birth today, all I want to do is crawl under my blanket, watch old episodes of Buffy the Vampire slayer, and drink an oreo milkshake.

On days when I’m tired of work, I can’t seem to stop–no matter how hard I reprimand myself–the following thought from forming: “why are you doing this? putting yourself through all this hassle when you don’t need to? Why can’t you live a life of leisure since you can, and spend your life socializing so you can find a husband?”

I know, it’s revolting.

And then while browsing my friends’ links, I came across this post by Wandering Scarab that just depressed the hell out of me, especially this bit:

Freedom comes with responsibilities. And these women want the freedom without the responsibilities. They don’t really want to be equals. How many of them believe that it’s a man’s responsibility to solely provide before and after marriage, whereas it’s optional for women? How many of them believe that it’s okay to work within the confines of the prison that they have created for themselves? How many of them believe that they have the right to manipulate men? How many of them believe that women should be able to choose their line of work freely, but at the same time believe that there should be special conditions for women who need to go home early so they don’t walk home late at night? How many of them believe that a women is entitled to a good home and money that is to be supplied by the husband?

Deep deep down, so deep I don’t even realize it sometimes, I believe that women should work only if a) they need the money b) they’re providing something to their communities c) they love it and it doesn’t stop them being attentive wives and mothers. And at the same time, I believe men should still provide fully for their wives. My conditioning, not matter how much I want to believe otherwise–that both men and women should contribute to the household–is what it is.

I make more than enough money to live on comfortably, elhamdulela. And yet I’m not at all perturbed that my father pays all my bills, down to the coffee I drink in the morning, and the gum I get from the kiosk. I still get pocket money. I’ve never really felt the desire to be “independent” and to “live alone.”

So here’s the confusion: If I believe that my husband is the one who has to pay all the bills, and would never marry a guy who says he wants me to contribute to the household (if he doesn’t need my help) then how can I, simultaneously, say that the guy I marry has to let me work? If I tell him you can’t stay home, doesn’t that mean he has the right to tell me you have to stay at home?

And if I’m not willing to accept any of the drawbacks of being independent (ie paying your own way for everything) then do I have the right to say I want the benefits? Like going out when I like, doing what I like, working where I like, etc? Wandering Scarab tells me:

This is not equality. This is special treatment. Women do not deserve better but are entitled to the same rights as everyone else, and that includes all the responsibilities that are an extension of those rights.

One of my favorite Arabic books is The Open Door by Latifa Al-Zayyat, a story of Laila, the Egyptian girl living in a post-revolution Egypt and struggling to abide by society’s rule while at the same time rebelling against them. I identified so much with Laila. Wandering Scarab quotes a friend as saying:

Laila is an emotional , timid, young girl who is restive under society’s heavy-handed control, yet dreads being called defiant or recalcitrant. She will talk the talk, and will be content with limited success. I think she seeks relief and some measure of change but nothing audacious or earth shattering. Dont expect her to take drastic measures or to reinvent herself. The risks and costs are too great for her to do that. Yes, she is emotionally and socially stunted, and will produce another generation of slightly less stunted daughters. Change will not come at an exponential rate.

I found myself nodding here. It’s harsh, but it’s the truth.

Here’s my truth: I do a lot of stuff. I work the job I want to work. I’ve traveled to at least a dozen countries this year. On my own. I come and go as I like. And yet I do not want the responsibilities of being independent. I like coming home and not having to cook or clean. I like the fact that I buy and shop and travel and eat out without paying anything myself. I live a great life, elhamdulela.

But I know that I only do all this because my parents permit me to do everything. They have given me the freedom. What if tomorrow my dad tells me I don’t want you to work anymore? Or I forbid you from traveling? The truth is, I’m not going to rebel. Or move out, though I can.

A big part of it is because of society: Although I enjoy stretching the boundaries, I still follow the rules. (ex I don’t stay out late). It stifles me sometimes, but I work around them. But a bigger part of why I won’t rebel is because of my faith.

I hate that saying I’m not going to rebel and I’m going to stick to the hand I’ve been dealt in life somehow makes me seem weak. Or old-fashioned. Like you have to be all rebellious and feminist whatnot, and if you’re not then you’re obviously living in the past/ submissive/ controlled/ brainwashed etc.

What is so wrong in believing men and women are different? Why do we have to be superwomen? In every facet of life, division of labor and specialization is considered a great thing. But not when it comes to marriage or working/ raising kids.

I think equality is overrated. I’s much rather have special treatment.

X factor

I will admit it: I’ve become shamlessly addicted to the X factor.

Anyone else watching it? Can you believe Danyl and Miss Frank were bottom two?! Oh, the horror!

Personally, I’m rooting for the retarded Stacey. John and Edward have to die.

Here I am

Did you miss me?

Forgive me for being away for so long, I just got kind of bored with writing.

How’ve you all been doing?

I’ve been doing good, really good. Achieved an amazing milestone in my career, got promoted, have the best career ever, yada yada.

Still no boy though.

One of the most profound statements I ever heard about the expectations of marriage in our society was: “Girls are ingrained to think that their life until they get married is nothing more than the tetr (opening credits) of a sitcom.”

And I can’t seem to stop internalizing it.

Anyway, how’ve you all been?

Ramadan is Here

Ahhhh….Ramadan. The month of feasting, sorry, fasting. The month of family, bumming off of work, road rage, and basbousa.

Cairo habibti

Finally back home after a looooong summer. My loyal readers, thank you for not giving up on me. I’m back, and bigger than ever (figuratively and literally—why oh why do we gain weight in the summer)

Coming back to Cairo was like coming home. Duh.  Back to the noisy, polluted city that is part of me. And yay for the bridge on kilo 4.5!! (An area notorious for its insane traffic because of a bottleneck–a 6 lane street that suddenly becomes a 2 lane one). They’ve been working on it for a year and it’s finally done. And hello? Why has the Citadel turned green?

Anyway, I spent a day in Cairo before packing my bags and heading to Sahel for one last week before Ramadan. A wonderful week, beginning from seeing the strange Dr. Olivee structure on my way there (what IS that??) and having the nice lady in the restroom bathrooms rationing out toilet paper rolls, to having mango orgys by the pool and sitting in the tired old open-air cinema in Zahran market.

As I think I’ve mentioned before, I’m not at all into partying/ the new Sahel scene so I stayed far away from Hacienda/ Marassi/ Sky etc. For me, Sahel has and always will be about swimming, eating, sleeping half the day,  staying up all night at friends’/ relatives’ houses, and perhaps playing a tough game of Bank El-Haz (Egypt’s version of Monopoly). Akhery Marina. And speaking of Marina, has anyone else noticed the freaky four signs that go “Remember Allah.” “He’s always watching.” “You might meet him now.” “His door is always open?”

Q: Why does one of the new Pepsi cans look like the packing of Always?

Jeans

I need a new pair of jeans. I’ve been living in a pair I bought from Debenhams (of all places) for over a year. Owing to the fact that the size jeans that’s not insanely tight on my butt is usually loose on my waist (big butt and smaller waist), I hate buying jeans. But I had to today, and I can admit (shamefully) that I caved into the pressure to buy a ‘good’ pair of jeans.With the excuse that they would live longer, of course. So off I went cavorting about this pretty city (obviously not in Egypt) in search of jeans.

But unfortunately I was shamed. Every ‘good’ jeans store seemingly only caters to small girls. 7 for all mankind? 30 inch waist (UK size 12) is their ‘biggest’–fat girl, just die. Ditto Rock and Republic. Even tacky Apple Bottoms (which hilariously kept playing the ‘Low’ song mentioning their jeans over and over and over) didn’t have anything over 28 inches. It was so bad I eventually thought of sulking over to Debenhams again. Eventually though, I found an ok pair in River Island. And then treated myself to some divine ice-cream.

El Shatafa

No matter how long I’ve been away from home, there’s one thing that I always end up missing more than anything: el shatafa.

For those of you who live in this region, you know what I mean. For those of you who don’t know what it is, basically it’s a hose with a metallic nozzle used to ‘wash’ in the bathroom.

I’ve been abroad dozens of times and I still don’t understand the appeal of tissue paper. Tissue paper to dry water, that’s ok. But tissue paper to clean up after going to the bathroom is plain old nasty. And even bidets, the closest thing to a shatafa, isn’t much fun–how exactly are you supposed to ‘aim?’