Mom's First Day of School

7.45 pm

I’m fifteen minutes late for my first school appearance. Yes, three years into the post and I still have to go through that first-day-of-school trauma AGAIN!

I drive up on Central Avenue. I tune in to 100.3 hoping for a feel good song. Sure enough, one of my favorites is playing and I stretch my lungs out to sing my anxiety out of my system. Yes, I sing loud!

As I enter the meeting room, I tell myself: it won’t be so bad. It’s just another PA meeting. I’m a pro by now!, I’ve gone from shy shadow member, to elected PA president to outspoken member in three years and I loved every moment of it. But that’s in the boys’ small, family-style French School, where almost all 20+ families are expats, roamers like me.

This all American community school is a totally different story!

I step inside the meeting room and I see a judging panel: 6 or 7 moms and one dad facing the rest of us moms and also one dad who constitute the school parents body.
Everyone looks at me and I tell myself it’s only because I’m late!

But why are they seated as panelists? I pull out a comforting mental image of our French school PA meetings in Panera Bread coffeehouse where no one can tell who is a member, a treasurer, a president or just there for the coffee. We just all gather around the long wooden country table and do our meetings over crunchy bagels and hot coffee, while out toddlers enjoy turning our working papers into their coloring sheets.

I grab a chair in the last row of seats and I stare at the panel speaking about past and future events and I realize from the number of jokes floating around the room that:
1- I’m the only non-American in the room.
2- I’m the only new comer.
3- I’m probably only the only person who has no idea what a parish breakfast means!

I’m hyper ventilating. I try to find ways to calm my nerves down. But then I realize I’m simply hot because I forgot to take my heavy coat off! I do so as quietly as possible. I see one of the panelists inquiring about me and I wonder; how on earth will I introduce myself? What will I say? “Hey, I’m Laila. I’m the only Egyptian Muslim here, and I have two boys who go to the French school next door and one daughter who attends this wonderful American catholic school. But hey, I have no identity crisis… none what so ever.. I’ve only been a roamer for 13 years. I’m cool….all cool!!!”

I get my moment and I do introduce myself. It actually happens fast and without any bumps. Except, I can’t find my English words, and I have this weird Franco Egyptian accent that no one can identify. Oh!!!! I suddenly realize: I speak Franco English at the American school while my French friends from the French school think my French is tainted with English. I can’t think in Arabic any longer. Who the heck am I? Why can’t I master any language? Why am I constantly at a loss of words and proper sentence structure?

I’m grateful they don’t comment much about my obvious struggle with the vernacular. Some brush it off to normal anxiety for being a first time school mom (at this particular school) and they all welcome me aboard!

I come back home and I tell my husband all about it. I’m so excited I finally found a way into my daughter’s new school. Though it’s doubtful I will ever integrate as successfully as I did in an all-roamers school. But in a couple of years, when all those thoughts will be once again neatly tucked inside a memory box ready to be shipped to our next destination , I will sit in my airplane chair, look down on New York and feel good about it all…

Up until it’s time to brace myself one more time for my first PA meeting, in another roamer school, in another roamer post with another group of intimidating parents who seem to have already formed an invincible tight-knit community to which I can’t possibly belong!

SandTurtle -- Expats' right to vote

The speed at which Sandmonkey makes his leaps intimidates me… Not because he’s so young and politically active. But because, like many post-revo activists.. he’s too quick to create blueprints and the leader-hungry Egyptians are fast to follow in total devotion. That’s what I call counter-revolutionary! When we start following a herd mentality and stop thinking for ourselves.

Maybe I should branch out of my blog and give my political doppelganger the name Sandturtle.. for I, for one, sure take my time to digest what is going on the Egyptian political landscape. And I like to stop and graze at every little minute detail till I fully appreciate it.. No wonder I’m miles behind on his tracks!

So we didn’t vote in the referendum.. when I did the math (can’t even recall how I did it), I figured my NO vote wouldn’t have tilted the balance in my favor even if it was loaded with 8 million expatriate NOs. Mainly because we have already made a few wrong leaps: 1- all expats would have voted.. 2- they would have unanimously voted NO.. 3-their new found Egyptomania is really founded on what’s best for Egypt not for their personal interests as dual nationals and Egypt’s foreign policy.
But that’s a different issue… for a future blog post!

We were simply defeated in the first round, but who’s counting? we went down face first but we’re up again , before the guy with the whistle counted to ten and raised the MB’s hand in victory. I know I’m up again and I’m more focused and steady on my ground.

Too bad I’m standing on the wrong side of the ocean.. and unless I take the plunge and fly to Cairo every time the Military Council holds an election, I’m afraid I have no chance of getting even the tip of my toes wet..

But I don’t just want to wiggle my toes in the wet political sands. I don’t want to sit and gaze at the shifting tides of Egypt.. I want to get soaked in its politics and I want to feel the waves of campaigns, grassroots movements, political education efforts and galvanizing forces leading to our first ever presidential elections!
I want to be part of it without having to drop 3 kids and fly 12 hours to go cast a vote. I want to put my long years of communication work to spread voter awareness and mobilize expat voices here in New York.

How hard can it be?..

Last I checked, we were over 300 thousand Egyptians registered in the Egyptian Consulate here.. I have to update the numbers.. And if we started here.. it will go viral.. do I dare ask how many we are across the US?

Just imagine,,, running an elections-campaign for the first Egyptian president.. But here in New York, for New York based voters. And another for Chicago voters.. How about LA voters, any takers? And we won’t have to either be Red or Blue? We’ll have a real democracy with real choices and too many hues to choose from.

Obama said it.. he wants American youth to learn from our example. Wouldn’t be fun to teach American youth how to build a truly functional democracy on their own turf?
Now that’s an idea… if only we expats could vote…

Revolutionary Egyptian In New York

I was really hesitant to blog about politics… First, I didn’t want to get arrested at the airport and be subjected to body search and electrocution. But really, what stopped me is FEAR of RIDICULE. Simple and clear!

I thought and still think we’re all political amateurs; brought together to share a game but we barely know its rules. We know we broke its old rules. We know those didn’t work well for us and the game was neither just, nor fun in the end. We know the old rules discouraged many and left us all quite ignorant and apathetic. And we know we have just created a chance to make up our own rules. The only problem is…. We’re too many, and we’re too loud and we’re still too ignorant. But very few concede!

The thing is.. I need to be 10 years younger to really break into this virtual world and mould it to my will. But I have the leverage of having a foot in each generation.

I’m a revolutionary girl at heart and when people say, it’s the youth revolution, I nod my head in agreement. In my mind, I’m included!

But I’m also a mother.. This alone, empowers me and gives me the credibility no teen-ager can amass. You see… just by virtue of being a mom, I have to think selflessly. I want the best for my kids. I want freedom, justice, a good living standard, education.. most of all, I want hope!

But I’m also young enough, to want all that for ME!.. I want to breathe Freedom, to speak Honesty, to work Justice. And I want to reap the ROI in my lifetime…
I leave the big problems of democracy and autocracy and technocracy and all this revolution lingo that I can barely understand, to the experts and I tackle the issues that concern me directly.. namely EXPATS' RIGHT TO VOTE.

Two months into the revolution, I think it’s time to write about the things that will change the course of my life..

When I went back to Cairo to protest, I went looking for my voice.. Luckily I found it in Tahrir Square… I wasn’t sure I had much to say but I chanted and screamed anyway. I was happy with my new-found power.

Today, I’m not searching for a voice any longer, I’m searching for something to say. I got my voice back.. the question is: what do I do with it?

My options are clear:
- I can spend hours furiously debating with my virtual friends on FB and Twitter and Skype.. But as the March 19th referendum has shown: my virtual community accounts for less than a third of the Egyptian population. Besides, they’re already sold to my ideologies and judging by the fact that I still can’t vote from afar… we don’t have much leverage when it comes to influencing public opinion.

- I can join a party and start rallying for support. I don’t mind especially that one specific party has already lured me in with its liberal ideology and very charismatic leaders. But will that be an effective utilization of my skills and resources? Especially that I don’t live in Egypt?

- I can launch a campaign to allow expats to vote. Now that’s a start…

If I could gather a group of friends, living in and around New York City..

If I could brainstorm with them on messages we want to send out, what would we say?

- We are Egyptian
- We have a voice
- We want to vote because.. We can… and We should
- It’s not just our right… it’s our responsibility.. it’s the price we pay for democracy!

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.

Do You Want To Waste Some Time???

That’s what my friend B said to me on a Friday morning as she offered to accompany me so that I don’t feel alone while I… well, waste my time.

I had the babysitter booked, my gym clothes on and enough mental strength to detach from the good company of friends to go and do my two hours of workout. But New York Sports Club had other plans. Without prior notice, they decided to shut down for the day.

I looked at the door sign which said: we’re closed, but all I could see were my precious $$$$ bills flying away and into the babysitter’s wallet. I can’t go home! I thought, not yet willing to accept defeat.

So I headed back to my friends, but they were wrapping up their coffee morning. I looked at my watch and I still had a full hour to… well, waste. I had nowhere to go… the time was too long to just sit still, and way too short to try and squeeze in any meaningful errand. Besides, I couldn’t think of anything meaningful to do!

So B and I decided to go shoe shopping. It’s always good therapy. And around Xmas time in New York, it’s also cheap therapy.

As I came home, upset, frustrated and thinking what a waste, it suddenly hit me! I actually spent a morning most working moms (including myself in previous lives) can’t even dream of.

I had coffee with good friends. I went shopping. I bought a new pair of Ballerinas for peanuts and I was not alone or lonely for a single moment.

So why am I always so stressed about a small change of plan? Why am I always looking for what I don’t have? Namely, a good job. Why am I looking at all this as “wasting my time”?

First of all, I think of it this way, because we do call it this way!

Second, many of us are frustrated in New York. This is a land that has so much to offer… if only you had the money to spend without any remorse.

Third and what I call a revelation, I, unlike many of my European and Australian friends, am not going back home for any future, near or far. My friend Mel knows she’s leaving by the end of the year and automatically fall back into her old routine as an MD. K is already volunteering as a teacher to beef up her CV before she goes back home. Opportunities await those who go back. That applies to me if I chose to go home too.

But it’s not a choice now, is it?

And that’s where all my angst stems from. Knowing that I really have no choice…not knowing whether I should just give up and enjoy my freedom or wait and hope for another career boost. But that latter isn’t really a choice either, because freedom in NY comes with a price tag. The private school fees, the babysitter, the expensive children’s activities all conspire to make freedom, an undesirable bargain at the end of the day!

Enough whining, I’ll go peek at my new Ballerinas in their fancy box and dream on….

Nostalgia and Lost Hopes - The "H" Exchange

It’s 2.15 pm. Tam finally slept and even in her sleep she tried to cling merciless to my arm. I have one hour of freedom (within the confinements of my home of course unless I want to risk arrest by ignorant macho NYPD guys who never had to deal with a clingy and very cranky child for any length of time). What do I do?

I could catch up on HOUSE, or Desperate Housewives. I could finish my book. I could browse the internet and look for fall fashions I would never buy. Not because I hate shopping. Not because I have no money. It’s because I would never find the occasion to show them off!

So much to do and so little time for me, that like every day of my life these days… I sit and stare at the walls and watch the precious hour fly me by.

It’s weird because I usually sit downstairs where I could see the boys as the bus drops them off. I don’t want them to arrive just yet. But I do waste my free time away sitting aimlessly on my comfy leather couch waiting for them.



Today, I master all the courage and energy I have and move from my downstairs couch to my upstairs desk. You’d think I live in a grand chateau where marble stairs keep winding their way up to heaven. I actually live in an attached condo unit in a small community that hasn’t been constructed yet. So my neighbors consist of skeletons of to-be very pretty condos, a bunch of Mexican workers till 4 pm and a few leftover tractors parked in my (supposedly very cute) cul-de-sac.

I’m upstairs and I check my mail. Here is an interesting one from a good friend of mine. She’s far away from home on a work mission, in one of those godforsaken lands that look impressively huge on the map but are actually vastly empty once you set foot on them. Not a single landmark to see, a culture to taste, or a souvenir to bring back home. Her e-mail is quite alarming!

See, H rarely complaints. Like all of us she questions her decisions a lot. But when she moves forward, she doesn’t just walk in strides, she leaps. That’s what I love about her, her zest for life and living her dreams.



H and I go back a long time. We finished university a year apart, both majoring in communication. We weren’t friends back then but we shared a common professional passion. Years later we met in NY, both newlyweds and both finishing our Graduate degrees in Journalism & Middle Eastern Studies. If that didn’t bring us immediately closer, our little boys sealed the deal when they were born only one year apart.

I read her mail and my heart goes out to her. Homesick and nostalgic for her kids, H is miserable she missed her flight (tech issues). For one moment, stranded in a bug infested airport, she feels lost and confused. She wants to get home to her kids and 24 hours later is simply unfathomable.

As the minutes unfold, our email and FB exchange gets deeper.

I find myself sharing with her a similar moment I had a couple of years ago when I got stuck in fancy Dubai airport (because I slept in front of the gate and missed my flight).

I was so exhausted and so eager to go back to my kids (was still breastfeeding so some parts of my physique were just as eager to go back to Amman) when somehow I woke up to see my flight moving away from the gate and my lone bag standing there on the tarmac.

It was compounded by the fact that I had this sudden sense of loss. My husband had just informed me about the move to NY (he was leaving three weeks later) and I lost all sense of achievement and reality. So my first instinctive reaction was: "Why the hell did I come to this conference.. I've never left the kids before, and now what? In a few months I'll be a useless soccer mom and this conference will not equip me for suburbian life in NY!"

I was right about all the above, including the pain that two unplanned missed baby feeds induced!

But H and I have since forked away from our common path. She stayed in NY, and the seeds we both planted for a meaningful career (we had grand ideas on how to educate journalists around the world and write life altering stories) have quite yielded in her little backyard. So it is imperative for me to remind her of her goal and how fast she’s leaping to achieve it. It is also imperative to explain to her that her kids will be fine without her for a few days. (yes, we complain and complain but the two of us can’t really deal well with parental separation).


I want to add that I actually long to be in bug infested nowhere land now than have my arm so tightly woven into my daughters dress as she peacefully naps through my hour of freedom.


But I don’t!

If I do, I would have to admit that I have failed to achieve my dream and that I now live it through her life.

Where she stays on to work on the seeds we planted, I have to uproot myself every time I start reaping some results and start all over again. Until a certain moment - which happened a few weeks ago - when I suddenly declare failure. I give up!

The fact is, I’m sitting here and telling HER story. What does that say about me? I’m out of my own stories to tell so now I’m borrowing from my friends’ interesting lives! That’s scary!

It’s 3.15. My time is up and I have to go take position on my leather sofa for the boys when they come in looking for me.

A final thought crosses my mind: “What will I do with my life when the day comes and they stop looking for me?”

Coffee Talk - Interfaith Friendships

Mix 6 ladies, who have just met, yet know that they have at least a whole school year to look forward to together. Add coffee, milk, tea and a homemade Pumpkin cake. Start a neutral conversation about kids, school life and adapting to a new home and BAM! You’ve just planted the seeds of at least a couple of budding friendships, the kind that lasts a life time despite cultural, geographical and sometimes language cleavages.

That’s how we survive as expat wives with school age children!
We look for companionship everywhere we go: at the Gym, with other spouses of our partners’ colleagues, wives from our native countries. And we’re often told to find the most meaningful interactions in the most unexpected places.

I didn’t!

I mean, I do go to the Gym, I hang out with Egyptian ladies and I occasionally socialize with my husband’s peers. But it’s in the kids’ school parking lot where I found myself as a mother, a woman and an expat wife.
I was taken in by a warm group of friends, all expats from different origins and all united for one simple goal… ROCK NY while we’re at it :)

And we do.



In a few months we had conquered the streets of Manhattan… on bikes. We have danced the night away and went home in style in a stretch limo and champagne. We got dressed in the wildest 70s fashion and danced silly to a full house of school families and teachers. We received standing ovation, not just for our choreography, but for our spirit and positive vibe.




This was last year. It was my first year in Westchester.

Last Monday we gathered around my dining room table, 8 ladies whose children frequent the same school. The same girls who rocked the city last year minus those who have left but plus more who have just landed in Westchester.

We sipped our coffee and had our cake. We talked about school and the activities that await our lot this coming year. It was sweet, formal and easy conversation….. For about an hour!

But then we found ourselves unraveling our most inner thoughts about faith, religions and coping with our own hypocrisies. As layers of our values were peeled one after the other, our true characters suddenly came to light. None ashamed of her belief or the lack of it! None really caring if the others agreed or thought her weird! Because as expat wives we can afford the luxury of honesty. We appreciate the true values of kinship, acceptance and respect. We know that in a matter of 1, 2, or 3 years, we will be hugging each other good bye probably to never meet again. And that is the core of what we have together, a true and honest appreciation of each other and of the challenge we face to be happy, content and fulfilled no matter where we live.

Last Monday my friend Alex concluded as she was standing at my door: “I’m glad we can talk so freely about ourselves and know that we will be respected for the difference and diversity that we bring to the table!”

It’s funny, because a year into this great friendship and after a series of deep conversations, and even after last Monday’s coffee talk about faith, I don’t think I know which sect of Christianity she belongs to, or where exactly I can find any differences between Muslim me and Christian her. I never asked. It never seemed to matter. Somehow, our core values are more similar than the published gaps between our religions. And that’s what matters!

It seems to me that every new post is also a new chance to reinvent myself and explore the world beyond the realms I grew up within. So far, I like most of what I see. And I find it quite comforting that a bunch of Muslims, Christians, Jews, Non-Believers ( I didn’t know that people in Japan don’t generally follow a dominant religion) and maybe others can gather around my coffee table on a Monday morning and enjoy a cup of coffee together.