Thursday 13 June 2013, (08 AM)
Today is my birthday; I completed eighteen difficult years on this earth. But my new year seems to be bleaker from its beginning. My father is in hospital in Cairo in a criticalcondition; he was shot and seriously injured. My elder sister shocked me with the bad news in an email today. I am baffled about what to do. It is bad news for me despite the thorny state of our relationship; he is still my father and I still respecthim; yet I disagree with his attitudes. He is still the patron of our family. He had been taking part in a demonstration when police forces in Egypt clashed with the ousted president’ssupporters in Cairo. I know I should be rushing to his side, but I cannot leave my exams in London and go to him.
Thursday 13 June 2013, (04 PM)
I need to prepare myself anyway as I cannot concentrate on my revision; my thoughts are scattered and conflicted between Cairo and London. Will I see you again my father? Despite my differences with you I admire you for carrying on your struggle; don’t be defeated; I know you as a strong man. My mother and my sister are relying on your support for them.
I have not seen my father for more than nine months since I left Egypt for my studies; his image grows bleary day by day;I don’t even see him in my dreams. However, I still remember his tall figure, prominent muscles, and his serious face withhis thick, black beard. “The beard, my son, is a very essential part of Muslim image. We are asked to follow the Prophet, even in his maintaining of his beard,” he used to advise me with his rough voice. He was, I mean, he is a pious man “Every Muslim, in his house, should participate in building apromising society for everyone.” This was one of the ten handwritten posters he posted up on the walls of our flat. In all my memory, he had never missed one prayer in the local mosque alongside the community congregation. “Praying in the mosque is a must, my son.” He used to repeat this to me almost every day since I reached my seventh year. I used to accompany him to the mosque. It was also a compulsorily act to accompany him to the mosque for evening prayers every day and for Friday Prayer every week. My problem had always been with dawn prayers; to break away from my small dreams and leave the warmth of my bed was agony to a young boy. To get up, wash and go to the mosque about half an hour before everyone else seemed so unfair to my young self. My father wanted me to recite some verses of the Qur’an in the mosque even before prayers.
I can remember talking with other boys and moaning about how strict my father seemed compared to theirs. Even at quite a young age, I began to realise I needed to be careful what I said or revealed. The difficulty of wanting to please my father, the feeling of conflict – the lure of football in the courtyard with all the neighbourhood kids versus my duties to my dad.
Reaching puberty was an unfortunate development for me. One night when I was about eleven, I had a heavenly dream; I saw myself flying over the big park in our city with the most beautiful girl in my class. I remembered my first naïve kissfrom her and started to feel a stream of warmth, blood running slowly inside me. All of a sudden, I heard my father’s rough voice: “Dawn prayer son.” I felt that the park, the trees, the flowers that made of pure clear pink glass were suddenly smashed and I woke up in a confusion of frightening emotions; I had my first wet dream. I could not lie to him “I need to take a shower, father” I said in a faint voice. “Is this your first wet dream, son? Now you are a young man. Ok, I will go and you can follow me later.” From that night, I was forced to fasten a towel around my waist, keeping the knot at my lower back to avoid sleeping on my back and elude getting warm (and get erection); doing so, as he always used to say, would save me having showers every time. During the day time, he kept knocking at the bathroom door whenever I stay longer than five minutes asking me to free the bath. I overheard one of his companions advised him to check on me “as boys these days get different means to relieve their sexual energy.”
The list of forbidden things got longer in my teens: watching TV was on top, listening to music, using the internet and social media, especially Facebook. He broke my small music keyboard and prevented me from practicing my favourite hobby. I used to escape from time to time to go to any internet café to read, listen or watch what was not halal in our house. When I asked mother to tell him to be less harsh with me, she was sympathetic but didn’t have the strength to disappoint him. There was only one exit for me, to study hard, get a scholarship and finish my degree abroad; he didn’t mind sending me abroad to get a good degree and feel proud of me. That was my plan which I achieved.
Friday 14 June 2013 (06 PM)
After a sleepless night, I decided I must go to Cairo. I found a reasonably priced ticket and prepared my luggage. I felt a strange mixture of relief at making the decision to go and dread at what I might find when I got there.
Saturday 15 June 2013 (09 AM)
At the airport, I was about to forget my trolley after drinking my coffee. On the plane, I stopped for seconds to remember my seat number. Will I see him alive? How would he receive me after that long time?
As I was waiting for the plane to take off, I started to have that feeling you often get before a plane journey, about who I should be telling about this trip – especially as I had made the decision to go so hastily. My thoughts turned to Maria. Three months had passed since she left London and her studies with me at college. Her mother had died and she had to go back to take care of her old father in Cyprus. She was really the only person I’d made a strong connection with here in London. I met her the first day of the induction week. I was standing alone and was far from having the courage to talk to anyone, let alone a foreign girl. But she did. She greeted me warmly and began a conversation which lasted for an hour. I was filled with happiness, satisfaction and a new excitement about my life in this cold, tough city. A longing for tomorrow. That was the beginning.
We started to meet almost every day. After a while I felt she had a lot of the same characteristics as my sister and mother.She used to buy vegetables and come to my place to cook for me. She managed to revive my love of music and helped me to buy another keyboard and practise. Maria had become my closest friend. I started to teach her Arabic, and we used to listen to Arabic music together, and watch Arabic films. But alas – when she left for Cyprus she hadn’t come back; I was torn apart. I heard my father’s voice waking me up for prayers. We were about to land in Cairo.
Saturday 15 June 2013 (09 PM)
I managed to visit my father in hospital; we didn’t talk; he was in a coma. It was horrifying for me to see the state he was in. The strong man of my childhood, reduced to a dribbling, helpless body in a dirty bed. I returned home with my mum and sister without any of us saying anything. Everybody was keeping their thoughts to themselves.
Sunday 16 June 2013 (07 PM)
My sister washed my shirts, underwear and socks and put them aside next to my trolley; my mum cooked some food to take with me for the journey back to London. She brought it to me in my old room. I saw signs of old age on her face. I hugged her “Don’t worry mum, he will be fine, God willing. I will come back after my exams.” She gently pushed me aside and opened my trolley to put the food and arrange my clothes. The trolley was not empty; there was a pyjama top, a red onewith little white flowers. “Oh my God!” I whispered to myself. It was the one Maria had left in my room, and which I’d been sleeping on over my pillow since the day she left. My mother got it out silently, raised it towards me and asked with accusation: “What is this, son?” I couldn’t answer her sudden question with the speed she wanted. I stuttered and paused then said with false courage: “It seems that I took my housemate’s trolley by mistake, mum.”
She swallowed my fictitious clarification and advised me to return it to its owner. I was not stable for a few minutes; I claimed I was dizzy and sat down; my sister dashed to the kitchen to bring water for me. What should I say to you mum?
It’s hers; it’s Maria’s. It was in February; she had caught a horrible cold. I’d never been to her room before, but summoned the courage and took a nice Arabic film with me.The weather was freezing and she didn’t mind when I stayed a while after the film. She surprised me, by telling me I could take the old sofa in the lounge and leave in the morning. After an hour, she woke me up terrified; she was shivering out of fear; she had a feverish nightmare and begged me to lie down next to her until she fell back asleep. I squeezed myself in less than half a metre in the little single bed, hardly able to breathe with anticipation, but trying to remain as still as a log, my thoughts were not steady. I closed my eyes, but I could not stop the beating of my heart from getting faster and louder. Maria was wearing that red pyjama top; it was soaked with her sweat. Maria’s body started to fill the bed with warmth; her smell spread in the room. Suddenly she screamed “No, no, mum!” I woke her up and calmed her down “Don’t worry Maria, I’m with you.” I hugged her and voluntarily opened the cage for my bird to fly freely in the sky with Maria’s. Maria felt a lot better when she woke in the morning, but we were shy around each other. When she left for college, I couldn’t help myself. I took that red pyjama top and couldn’t decide whether, I hoped, she might or might not realise. This red piece of cloth, a trophy of my first sin, mother, my sin of love.
Tuesday 18 June 2013 (10 AM)
My father died in hospital this morning in his coma. God bless his soul.
