Letters [2]

Dearest,

I can imagine myself rambling to you whilst you are torn between indulging me and sighing at the excessive detailing, but I will ignore the latter emotion and focus only on your indulgent look as I share these particular two stories with you.

Me and the girls have taken turns (or actually, my cousin has assigned us all slots and we dare not cross her) in being responsible for setting up and cleaning up for the iftar being served in Nadi, and a similar rota for taraweeh prayers to set up a programme for annoying children and giggling teenagers being a nuisance during prayer times.

As it happens, I seem to have been unfortunate in the date I was given, as my partner did not turn up and I found myself alone. The brothers were particularly helpful before Iftar, they set up three tables for the women, and prepared the plates, the cups, the dates, the juices and the cutlery, as well as carrying up most of the soup and the food themselves. The turnout – a Friday night – seemed to also favour me, and we had double the amount of people anticipated and so I had to set up extra tables and traipse up and down the stairs to get extra drinks and soup.

Of course, the prayer mats had been set up for the Maghreb prayer and were left in place for the coming Isha and Taraweeh prayers as there’s only an hour between them it doesn’t seem worthwhile to remove and put them back down again.

Having just completed my responsibilities, been the delightful hostess, checked there was sufficient food for everyone, I sat down to break my fast with my friends and relished the feeling of having an hour to myself, there would be no rushing to put away the food, clean the kitchen, make the tea for my dad and the Turkish coffee for my mum, as well as the last minute dash to throw on an abayah before hurrying off to the mosque in less than hour.

Little did I know. There were lots of children. Different ages. And they were running around. All I heard suddenly was a shriek from a widow that was looking devastated at the prayer mats. Her eyes beseeched me to do something before she lost her temper. I shook off a laugh and summoned a serious face before telling off the children and telling them I will count to ten while they fix all the prayer mats back in place. The children squealed in delight at this game and managed to tidy up the mattresses to my approval. However no sooner had they done so, they went ahead and started running. Something had to be done quick.

There was nothing for it, I had to spend the hour finding creative ways to distract the children in a way that would keep them off the mats as the crèche hadn’t opened yet (thankfully it opened two days ago, but that’s another story). There were two girls that were particularly cheeky, both happened to coincidentally hold the name Leena, one was Iraqi, and the other Egyptian. I asked them both what the capital of Iraq was, the capital of Egypt was, and the capital of Palestine. They didn’t know. I gave them a shocked look and told them I will complain to their parents – how dare they not know this minimal knowledge?

I have to admit, I gave them quite a telling off, they were young girls, not yet ten, but to me they seemed to have committed an unforgivable crime, and I wasn’t sure which one was a greater crime, to not know their own capital, or to not know the capital of Palestine. Disappointment made me blunt and I feared later that I had been too appalled despite all my work with young children.

The scene I want to share with you however, was at the end, an Egyptian lady came up to me, and told me we’re leaving, but my daughter Leena refused to go without introducing me to you.

I can’t find words to explain what I felt at that moment. I finally know what they mean when they say that being a teacher is a fulfilling job.  If only you were there to capture that feeling of mine!

***

Someone made a comment once on facebook a while back that the people that want Morsi gone are so much more than his supporters. I couldn’t help retorting jokingly that he was disregarding all the non-Egyptians vote of confidence, that we are all behind Morsi.

A few comments here and there, the majority of Egyptians – decidedly anti-Morsi, but all respecting Palestine, and our political disagreements was gently done.

Minutes later, an Egyptian made a comment in the most maye3 lebanese ever, insulting me and telling me that while I may represent Palestinians, I shouldn’t dare let Lebanese cross my lips, or talk about Lebanon – a long comment that honestly, was lame enough to make me laugh and bored me for me to not even remember what he said or finish reading it, however at the end he ended with “and don't bother replying to me because ana ma bysharefni a7ki ma3 hek nas aslan” bla bla.

His spew of insults only made me laugh. However what happened next made my heart ache, a beautiful but such a painful painful ache, that I couldn’t help prevent the tears that flowed down my cheeks.

See, I didn’t even need to retort to such a silly comment, the Egyptians – even those that had disagreed with me vehemently on Morsi – rose to my defence. The owner of the post demanded an apology on my behalf or threatened to delete his friend. I didn’t understand half of what was being said, but one thing stood out so clearly

M: m3lesh enta btl7s keda :D da fe3lan tl7is eli ana shayfo!! L2 ana mayshrfnish a3raf nas betl7s aslant :D walahi m3rft el ragel b 100 b set da lw ragel aslan :D

A: لا هو التلحيس الرسمي إني أقول شو و متلك و تحكي ...

ألتلحس الرسمي ان هي مكلمتكش أصلا....و أنت تكتبلها قصيدة نص صفحة و في الآخر تقولها ميشرفنيش و متلك 

و نور اختي الصغيرة على فكرة...و من الأخر يا تعتذر يا تمسحني

I couldn’t tell that person how much that comment meant to me, how it made me feel, how seeing someone quick to defend and being a brother, how painful it was, how much I ached to have an older brother, how the tears fell.

All I could do, was whisper allah m7ayi hek rjal. Allah ykhaleelek rjalek ya masr.

 ***

Are you bored yet from me? It’s ok, I don’t mind, let me talk, blot out the words and just listen to my voice. I don’t want much, just a nod here and there, an indulgent smile, let your mind wander, but keep me close.

Someone started their story with me by a Umrah, and it made sense for me to end it by another Umrah. It worked as a balm of some sort. Before, it was really hard to wish them happiness, to ignore all the pain and be selfless, wish them joy with a friend other than me – I believe myself irreplaceable – don't you agree with me dearest? Could I be replaced?

Umrah healed that part of me, the selfish selfish part that couldn’t let go. Even if a memory hurts, I think I’ve forgiven. I’ve forgiven everyone but myself, I don’t think I will ever be able to forgive myself. The faults in my life seem so large, yet, I somehow still beg God to forgive me. Do you think they’ve forgiven me too?

Have you forgiven me?