Expat on the move - Packing lists

Relocating to a new country has a very unique effect on our dialogues.  I can’t claim that our conversations lately were as free flowing and fluid as they’ve always been. As we grow older and our positions in life become so vastly different, the common threads that usually weave themselves into interesting conversations begin to thin out. 

He talks mostly about work and I listen only when he mentions the kids, my friends or my workout routine.  I talk primarily Yoga, Soul Spinning and Swim classes and he listens only when the words “lucrative” or “paid consultancy” permeate my free flowing monologues.  Otherwise, we communicate great! (Smirk)

So when I started telling him about my plans for packing up the house, I didn’t expect much. I was proud with my decision to designate all the Thomas tracks and trains as family heirloom, his silent appraisal of the car roofing came as no surprise.  At least he wasn’t rolling his eyes… yet.  I kept talking anyway.

-      -  I don’t think I want to give the kids’ Thomas stuff away.

Silence

-      -  Maybe just the train table but not the tracks

More silence

-      -  I mean those tracks represent years of our boys’ early childhood

Silence .. I’m thinking: eventually he has to give in and engage, or else, his neck will go stiff on him for staring at the car roof for so long.. and we still have five more traffic lights to cross before I drop him off..

-      -  You know what? I’ll put it all in a big box.. Maybe I’ll send it with you on your first visit

There is a sudden neck movement. Yes, I finally got his attention. I keep staring ahead, focused on the road

-      -  Why would I take a box full of train tracks on my first visit?

-       - I don’t know, you’re going anyway, you might as well take some stuff with you

-       - Yeah, but after that first visit, I will go and settle for 6 months. So I’m thinking: I need to carry as much of my personal stuff as I can. Otherwise I’m stuck for months till the container arrives.. You know, essential things like suits, shirts, shoes….

-       - Really?? You want to take your clothes? But a single box of Thomas tracks is too much for you? That’s just silly!

Oohhh, did I just say that? Did I actually just say that?

Blessedly, I only had one traffic light left and he was kind enough to laugh, just laugh!

He did do the Choo Choo signal as he left the car however, and I think I heard him sing: they’re 2, they’re 4 they’re 6 they’re 8.. Shunting trucks and hauling freight………..♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬♩♪♫♬

I have to concede to the fact that... when overwhelmed I tend to panic about the ridiculous stuff, start packing the trivial "heirloom" items, spend hours making to do lists with all the things I should have done in the past 5 years, never bothered, but now must, absolutely must do before I go!

Coffee Talk - Expat Wives : WHen is it Ok to UNFOLLOW?

It’s been three days and I’m still jetlagged. The upside to lag in this beautiful weather is that, unlike everyday of my life, I actually look forward to an early morning activity and am usually ready to pounce by 8 am.

Hanan, as upbeat and energetic as ever, suggests we make use of the weather+ my sunny humor and go for a brisk walk by the beach instead of the usual first coffee after a long summer break.

We talk about anything and everything, our vernacular speed matched only by our fast steps on the grass. We mention the number of UN and foreign-service spouses who, this year, have decided to NOT follow their husbands wherever they were posted. 

One friend decided to stay behind because her son is knee deep in IB, her private business also on the rise. One friend landed a dream job and has also decided to stay on. Another survived the Saudi experience for a whole year and has vowed to not go back.  The examples were too many and we started to analyze why we, the expat spouses, have suddenly decided to rebel!

The cycle goes like this…

Our moms all shared a common denominator: a relatively traditional upbringing geared towards a woman’s ultimate goal to become a dutiful wife and a great mom.

For some reason, along the path to womanhood, our parents realized that life did not quite always work this way.  Some moms hesitantly tasted the forbidden pleasure of life outside her domestic duties.  Some have even managed to establish flourishing careers and have achieved huge success.  Other moms, thrown into a world that forced them to rely on their limited skills and provide for themselves, have also, along the way, realized that we are not as sheltered as our ancestors used to be.

End result????

They all invested in their daughters, us, to become well-rounded, highly educated, very skilled and autonomous individuals.  They equipped us so well to face a world that is usually unfair and harsh.  But then, our lot decided to go the traditional way and married roaming career-driven spouses.  We didn’t just hit a brick wall.  We all collided into that huge Dam that is called Sacrifice, head on!

So here we found ourselves, molded into a traditional role we were neither tuned to nor trained for all our youth. We were expected to follow, nurture, support, pack and follow again.. and again..and again….

A few girls I know have actually fit perfectly into that domestic mold.  Most however, have fought viciously at first, given up when kids popped out one after the other, waited it out with a small job, a consultancy, a degree here and there. And when it was time to rise, like a dormant volcano that has suddenly risen from its slumber, they have revolted.

They are the girls who truly hunger for a little more than domestic gratitude, a lot more than what their spouses can offer ( I mean intellectual input rather than $$$$ and Egppps). 

They are the girls who believe that they can and should pursue their own path rather than follow and accept another person’s path.

On the outset, you’d think what a selfish generation. Do they think they can have it all? A man, a house, good kids and a career of their own??

The truth is YES! We are that generation! Educated, Rebellious, Strong and Confident (not that much!).  And I don’t see that selfish! We only live it once and we – in many cases (not always) – have a choice!

From all my peers who have already made the leap and stopped following, I don’t see an ounce of selfishness in their blood.  In fact, I see a zest for life so strong, that it somehow overflows and reflects on their motivated and focused kids. The few wise men, who have accepted and supported, have so far, maintained a very critical balance and thus have kept their marriages quite stable. Hint Hint J

Admiring each and everyone of them, Hanan and I slowly fall into silence as each drifts in her own thoughts! I just turned 40.. but my baby girl is only 5! When will my time come?  I didn’t dare ask her what she was thinking at this point.

Minutes after, Ramadan TV series and silly commercials overtook the rest of ourtrek. As expected, I went back home quick to cook for the kids before they came home… hmmmmmmmm.. Did I just confess that I turned …… Better get working on that bucket list!

When Election Day meant Hope for Egypt .... Oh well!!!! At least we had One day to Cherish

It had rained the day before. I know, in Westchester, when rain and morning-after are logged together in the same sentence, humming birds, green trees and the fresh smell of grass come to mind.

But this is Cairo, there are never enough trees for any birds to nest on, the closest we have to grass patches are water drenched green swamps in what was initially designed to be green public squares. Even in lush Maadi, the school I was to go cast my vote in was located in a muddy, beat-down street a few blocks away from the lavish villas and old-Maadi houses this neighborhood is so famous for.

I woke up way too early and way too excited. Afterall, I was going to get my thumb inked for the first time in my life!

Days before, we sat in big groups over Greco coffee and Abul Sid shisha (water pipe) going over appropriate attire to detract attention, exit strategies in case of violence, proper behavior to dodge Islamist groups intimidation and where we would all meet after we vote to celebrate this historical moment in our lives.

On the morning of… my cousin Laila (yes, we tend to all carry the same first name in my family), my friend Hedy, my sis and her friend (who were voting next door) stood dutifully in long winding lines. We were early and we were met with many familiar faces. Maadi is big by most people’s standards, but this is Egypt, 88 million citizens and somehow you always end up bumping in all the people you know. Everywhere you go, you’re in familiar territory.

By mid-morning, the wait gets boring, apparently, our judge is still sleeping and some volunteers decided not to go for the job of observers. There was a call for new volunteers from the lines, I wanted to help but it was either spend a whole 12 hour days in that voting room observing, reporting on violations, and helping clueless voters, or be frowned upon for not wanting to help build our country!!!!

Where did that attitude come from? Over-zealous, first time voters blinded by the prospect of writing their own national history I guess. I tried to explain that we all wanted to help, but we had small children and short notices don’t help. Again, more frowning and a few nasty remarks about my lack of patriotism.

Meanwhile on the other side of the muddy road, Islamist parties had organized themselves and with such positive energy have stationed their laptops and volunteers to guide the, by now super tired, voters to their designated voting rooms.

I did my part, I took pictures, I talked sense, I officially complained and I reported violation.. After all, the rules were clear: parties were not allowed to campaign on the day of! But the lack of internal organization and the long wait were ripe environment for any takers. No one was more readily organized than the Islamists and sure enough, the street was flooded with yellow banners, untamed beards and scary black Niqabs.
When the doors finally opened, the lines went in fast. The process was relatively painless, except when a young woman clad in a huge black Niqab cut the lines, and pushed her way in to vote!

Hedy, Laila and I tried to block her path. We argued that for such a supposedly pious woman she should respect her fellow citizens and wait for her turn. She begged to be let in:
- They called my number, she argued
- No they didn’t, Hedy firmly replied. You and I carry the same number and it hasn’t been called yet.
- But I’m carrying a sleeping child, she said
- Well, so are a dozen other women whose turn you’re so impolitely ignoring
- OK, then I’ll go home
- Great… Who needs another Islamist vote? I told her. With this outfit, no way you’re voting liberal I assume!
- If you’re really going home, get out of the line and walk back, Laila told her
- But I can’t, can’t you see my long black dress will be muddied?
- Really now< I was quite angry by then… we have to push aside and muddy ourselves for your highness simply because you chose to come vote in a dragging black robe on a morning like this. Your decision to cover yourself from the whole word doesn’t make you a better or cleaner person, you know!
In the end she won… she managed to push her way in, moan and beg the army soldiers at the gates, vote before the rest of us and so proudly flaunt her black gloved hand at us. We couldn’t tell whether she was inked or not.
Later that day we heard reports from other stations that Monaqabbas performed multiple votes for their party and no one dared question their identity under the black Niqab!

A woman behind me murmured to her friends: so they lie, cheat, trample and seduce.. That’s what the Islamist party women do to win.

And win they did, a sweeping victory for a party that most of the Maadi population can’t identify with. How?

Months later, sipping coffee in Panera and dreaming of a steamy cappuccino with my Maadi friends back in Greco, I still wonder!

How did they win our district over? How many Monaqqaba voters did I see that morning? Including the pushy lying one with the sleeping baby, probably two or three. How could the outrageous Salafi Al Nour Party take my Maadi by storm on that Monday morning on Election Day? I can’t imagine the mostly secular crowd, in jeans, sweaters and fancy chignons stood so patiently for hours to vote Al Nour or even the F&J Party.

God help us in the next few weeks when, along with their Islamic peers the F&J Party, Al Nour translate their surreal ideologies into a constitution that will govern our lives and our children’s lives for generations to come.

Egyptian Women living abroad. The Revolution and Tahrir Square

We Are Egypt Too!

Experiencing the Tahrir Square uprising from Afar – the Expat turmoil

Chronicles of a Virtual Egyptian Revolution

Monday morning in Westchester New York, my friend calls me from Cairo and tells me: Hey, we’re having another demonstration tomorrow. Why: I ask him. People are high on the Tunisian revolution and they want to ride the wave. Cool, I say. Yes, he answers, looks like it will be big this time.. They always are! I tell him.

Monday evening my sister tells me: we have the day off tomorrow. Why? I ask her. It’s the Police forces day. I can’t help but laugh. Is this a joke? I ask her. Of all the forces we have and the police celebrate their..what? corruption? Terrorizing techniques? Bullying?. No, she says, but I think they’re also watching the demos closely tomorrow, I think it will be big this time. Yes of course, haven’t we seen it all? I remind her.

Apparently NOT.

Tuesday 25 January 2011

My sister calls and says she heard it was a huge demonstration. Did he respond? I ask her. No, she says.. Oh well! So how was your day off?

Meanwhile in Tahrir, my cousin was tear-gassed and interrogated and crowds were dispersed. Egyptians didn’t know, local media showing turmoil unfolding elsewhere in Lebanon and Tunisia.

Wednesday - Thursday 26, 27 January 2011

My sister says they won’t leave the square. What are they asking for? I ask her. They want him out. I smile. They want freedom. My smile widens. They want the whole system to come undone. Now I was laughing.. Wishful thinking, I say.

Later on Thursday she calls and says she passed by the square earlier and it was empty. She also saw police forces marching towards it. Best traffic today, she says.

The First Friday, “Friday of a Million Man March”

4:00 am New York time, I wake up, fiddle with my remote control to find CNN and BBC. I log on and connect to Al Arabiya and Al Jazeera. I upload the guardian’s minute by minute blog updates and its Arabic equivalent from Al Shorouq. I look for my sister on Skype and she pops up and says: ten more minutes.

I connect to Facebook and wait… a wait that would soon become a daily ritual for the two weeks that followed.

From New York to Tahrir Square

Two weeks later and on a flight to Cairo, I put my pen down and close my diary. I was too scared to bring in any cameras or laptops after the horrors some journalists friends have seen. The airport was empty but for our small group which boarded in Munich.

Hours earlier I was still glued to all my visual gadgets collecting news, aggregating facts and posting them on my Facebook wall. I have developed a growing following; mostly expats who have come to rely on my updates and the accuracy of their content. For days, I lived only on my Wall. My kids had learnt to avoid me. Living on boiled Pasta and endless hours on Wii, they had accepted the standstill that had gripped my home since that first Friday.

“I’m proud of you,” my son said to me one morning. “I know you’re keeping people informed about what is happening in Cairo and I know this is a very important job.”

It was all coincidental. Rumors were circulating faster than air. Egypt was off the virtual map and many had to rely on slivers of information passed on. I was lucky.. I had contact with two people who still had access to the Internet. I started posting updates through their eyes. It wasn’t enough, their own knowledge was quite limited to disillusioned local television and I started devouring international media coverage, checking sources and only posting what I found credible as news.

I only realized the impact of my endeavor when I disappeared for two hours, and came back to a number of frantic queries. Where are you? What happened? Are you ok? Were the messages pasted on my Facebook wall from many expats with whom a strange and very solid bond was forged.

By the time Egypt came back online, we were quite informed, naturally emotionally involved and very tired. It came as a shock when friends back home started to virtually shoot at us. We were losers either way. Those of us who supported the revolution were deemed irresponsible and careless. Those who were skeptical were accused of being no patriots. Since my self- imposed mission was to deliver updates, I suffered the least. But it got me furious and curious. I wondered how true my virtual experience was to what was unfolding on the ground.

Photo by Akram Reda.


The trip was hatched, planned and booked in less than two hours. While transiting in Munich, my worry over three small toddlers back in New York was overshadowing any revolutionary excitement I might have developed in recent days. But when I landed in the Square, I was finally home and all my worries simply faded away.

Arriving on that last Thursday In Mubarak’s reign I went straight to the Square. I wanted to see for myself. I wanted to lend my voice to those of the million protestors camping there. It didn’t matter if I were a late bloomer or if believed from the start. In the Square no one questioned your motives. Everyone appreciated your presence.

We entered from the Falaki entrance (named after a famous building cornering that street), and after six or seven personal and ID checks, I was allowed inside the Square. I was prepared for the waves of humans that hit me. After all, the scene was already imprinted on my mind from the various media I had been watching. But the energy that engulfed me when I heard the first chants was surreal. I let myself go with the flow; chanting at times, raising my hands in solidarity, swaying to the rhythms of music on a stage nearby and laughing at the occasional printed jokes hanging on tent walls. At that moment I knew. I was right to come back. My kids would be fine for four days, but my life would be forever changed after.

On the first night in Tahrir Square, Mubarak made his third speech insisting he would remain in power. I was sure the crowds would turn violent and judging by my own anger, I couldn’t blame them. Once again, I was wrong! I went home and watched the scene I had left moments earlier just as crowds insisted in one single voice: He leaves. We won’t!


That first night at the square I found my voice. The next morning, I made sure it was heard.

The last Friday.. The Friday of Departure

Right after Friday prayers we headed to the Square and this time, I decided to leave the chanting crowds and go meet the dwellers of the campsite. I sat next to a Poet from Damietta. He was bare foot and quite modest in his manners, but his thoughts were a goldmine.



He showed me his red leather book where he keeps his hopeful rhymes. “This is my Agenda,” he asserted. “This is what they call foreign plots and conspiracy plans.”
His words were so poignant, his politics so clear that he put my humble political savviness to shame. I listened.



A fellow musician took his words and started chanting, we all followed in chorus.
Every hour a young man with a cell phone to his ear would come and announce updates from other manifestations elsewhere.

“They arrived to the presidential palace in peace,” was his last announcement. “And the army is distributing water and food.”

Cries of relief and cheers reverberated through the plastic covers of our shabby tent. So the army was still on board. Rumors of army attacks were finally put to rest. Only then did I realize how worried I was all morning!

As slogans were crafted, and jokes were circulated, I could see the mix of hopelessness and resilience playing on every face. He won’t bulge, that part was clear. I was more hopeless than many and I felt that nothing short of a miracle was needed to break this stalemate!

Once more, I was proven wrong!

Hours later, Mubarak stepped down. The Square came alive with a new, earth shaking strength, and fireworks (though normally banned) cracked on top of our heads.

I wasn’t chanting anymore. I was screaming at the top of my lungs: “Raise your head up high… you’re Egyptian!”


We did it. I did it. I made it to the Square, I added to the numbers. I helped keep it peaceful and civilized and I connected with at least 2 million Egyptians on that Square in a way I would have never dreamed possible.

Watching from afar you can only watch and react to the scenes unfolding before you. You worry and you fear. You hear gun shots echoing too close while talking on the phone with Egypt. You follow the progress of thousands of prisoners as they close in on your neighborhood and your family home. You wake up in the middle of the night to keep the civilian vigilante, who happens to be your young nephew, company as he protects your family from armed thugs and criminals. You see tanks piling up around the Square but you can’t see your friends and relatives who are camped inside.

But when you step inside the Square, you don’t hear or see any of that. You only see a sea of Egyptians from all walks of life, gathered for the simplest and most noble human right: freedom.

Two weeks watching from afar in terror and complete paralysis. Only in Tahrir Square did I finally feel safe and free.