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What I have to say from Cairo
Sep. 15th, 2012 06:19 pmThursday night, tired, still a little jetlagged, I walked the few blocks from my hotel to a sandwich place I'd seen recommended in a lifestyle magazine-thing, which had an English edition and a iphone app, so targeted at expats and that segment of the Cairene upper class who speaks English. The shop was down a dark streets (no streetlights), next to another, indistinguishable, but it had been recommended, and the prices were obscenely low by my agnabi standards (plus I'd dropped over a hundred pounds on lunch at a Zamalek cafe, I needed to economize). So I headed in, and ordered in my terrible Arabic.
The man behind the counter clarified what I wanted in perfect English (they always do), tried to convince me to get a second sandwich ("Not tonight, I'm saving it for another visit, since this is so close to me!" I said cheerfully), and then asked, once he'd placed my order, where I was from.
"I'm American, from New York," I said (because all real Americans know New Yorkers don't count; plus, saying this often has the consequence of people talking about their friends, relatives, acquantainces, etc in New York).
His face got a little sad, and he glanced at the TV in the corner, showing a salah jum3a somewhere in the world. "Some people, they are not being good to Americans right now," he said quietly.
"I know," I said.
We chatted politely about my reasons for coming to Egypt. I made fun of my bad Arabic (as always, saying I studied fus7a in university impresses people; they shouldn't be impressed, my fus7a is atrocious). He had had experiences that were relevant to my work, so I asked him about them, politely, explained what I was doing. My sandwich came out from the kitchen, and he invited me to take a seat and keep talking.
After a few minutes, he said, "We talk all the time about how we are Muslims in this country. But if we look at what we are doing, we are not being good Muslims. We are not following the example of the prophet. He never said to hurt anyone."
"We have the same problem in America," I said. "People say they are Christians, but they are not doing what Jesus would want them to do."
"When someone says he is Muslim, you know he is not acting like a Muslim," he said, nodding.
"The more they say it, the less they are!" I said. We both laughed.
When I had finished my sandwich, I thanked him, and told him it was delicious. "How much do I owe you?" I said, reaching into my pocket for the pound coins rattling around there.
"For you, nothing. It's your first day," he said.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course."
"Thank you," I said, smiling. "I will be back."
I left that night, wandered around my neighborhood, where I was the oldest woman on the street without a headcover, and, I think, the only foreigner. I went back to my hotel, happy to be here, happy to have met this man.
Last night, I stayed in my hotel room, and flipped between BBC World and Al Jazeera English. Most times I want to practice my Arabic, but I needed to understand everything, last night. I ate dinner in my hotel, and the tv in the restaurant played a Coptic priest and an imam critiquing insults to religion while I ate shorobat 3ads and baba ghanoug.
I'm going back out tonight. I want to pay for my sandwich this time.
The man behind the counter clarified what I wanted in perfect English (they always do), tried to convince me to get a second sandwich ("Not tonight, I'm saving it for another visit, since this is so close to me!" I said cheerfully), and then asked, once he'd placed my order, where I was from.
"I'm American, from New York," I said (because all real Americans know New Yorkers don't count; plus, saying this often has the consequence of people talking about their friends, relatives, acquantainces, etc in New York).
His face got a little sad, and he glanced at the TV in the corner, showing a salah jum3a somewhere in the world. "Some people, they are not being good to Americans right now," he said quietly.
"I know," I said.
We chatted politely about my reasons for coming to Egypt. I made fun of my bad Arabic (as always, saying I studied fus7a in university impresses people; they shouldn't be impressed, my fus7a is atrocious). He had had experiences that were relevant to my work, so I asked him about them, politely, explained what I was doing. My sandwich came out from the kitchen, and he invited me to take a seat and keep talking.
After a few minutes, he said, "We talk all the time about how we are Muslims in this country. But if we look at what we are doing, we are not being good Muslims. We are not following the example of the prophet. He never said to hurt anyone."
"We have the same problem in America," I said. "People say they are Christians, but they are not doing what Jesus would want them to do."
"When someone says he is Muslim, you know he is not acting like a Muslim," he said, nodding.
"The more they say it, the less they are!" I said. We both laughed.
When I had finished my sandwich, I thanked him, and told him it was delicious. "How much do I owe you?" I said, reaching into my pocket for the pound coins rattling around there.
"For you, nothing. It's your first day," he said.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course."
"Thank you," I said, smiling. "I will be back."
I left that night, wandered around my neighborhood, where I was the oldest woman on the street without a headcover, and, I think, the only foreigner. I went back to my hotel, happy to be here, happy to have met this man.
Last night, I stayed in my hotel room, and flipped between BBC World and Al Jazeera English. Most times I want to practice my Arabic, but I needed to understand everything, last night. I ate dinner in my hotel, and the tv in the restaurant played a Coptic priest and an imam critiquing insults to religion while I ate shorobat 3ads and baba ghanoug.
I'm going back out tonight. I want to pay for my sandwich this time.
