Men, whatever is wrong with you?

When you're twenty four, young, successful, ambitious, respectable and loved by many, you look forward to an engagement enthusiastically. You imagine spring days and hot summers spent with whom you cherish and breathe a sigh of relief that God has given you all that you've asked for.
When three months later your relationship ends because your ex refuses to certify that his apartment, your future home, is his, and instead documents that it's his mother's, you break down. What's wrong if the apartment is his mother's and not his, I wondered? Well, in the future, if your husband dies, your mother-in-law could have the right to throw you and your children out in the streets. If she is wicked of course, and in this jungle, you really have to take precautions of all the roads that diverge infront of you.
But you're just 24, so after the shock is over and after all the tears and sorrows are spent, you sit back and think of the long days ahead, of all the chances that will still present themselves in the future. You just know that you did nothing wrong, that the blame is not on you. That you are still fresh and lively and oh, how many young and presentable men would be interested in you. It can't be the last chance. There are no last chances when you are just twenty four.
The days go by and you are now twenty seven. You have lost hope of ever settling down. You will live and die a medical spinster. It has ended. It is all, all over now. Twenty seven year olds are too old and wasted to marry. Ripe and mouldable twenties and maximum twenty-ones are the cat's meow.
Until a familiar face arrives. A face you wouldn't have even dreamt would think of you. A dreamy, innocent face. A successful neuropsychiatrist, mind you his profession. You blossom again, you keep thinking; is it true, is it even possible, that I have found the love of my life? The love that would linger on behind a loaded and almost unbearable life? At last I will have a child of my own, to raise and pamper and adore and take good care of and die for!
Everything goes smoothly as it should be, a couple of arguments here and there but who doesn't argue? I believe that the lack of arguing is a problem. The lights are turned on, the engagement party is prepared, the few, intimate guests share little chit chats and heart-felt laughs, soft music is played...
'Dah benna m3a-ad...
w law w7na bo3a-ad...
akeed rage3 w law beny w ma beno bla-ad..'
You start preparing for the wedding, you choose the wedding gown and your tailor starts cutting and mixing...you gather bits and pieces of your future household...wrapping it up to protect it from the dust.
But you have arguements from time to time, naturally. You are hurt but you try to 'come on yourself ' because you want this story so much and cannot imagine that it could just end, and that your nights would return darker and heavier. You try, but you fail.
This, in short, is my sister's story. Today she broke off her second engagement. You know when tragedy occurs for a second time, you just suspend your belief for a while. You go through a phase of denial. It can't be true. She isn't going to go through another break-up - oh, no, she won't. But she went through more than just another break-up this past week or so, and the way I see it, for no logical reason. Her fiance had female friends whom he used to go out with and call frequently. When my sister objected telling him how this is unislamic and that she wouldn't accept this kind of relationship in his life, he replied saying...
'So, are you the one who is going to make decisions? Are you the man of the house or what?'
Imagine this! This is how an adult, educated, religious Egyptian guy thinks. This is how he thinks in the 21st century. That being the 'man of the house' means that you make orders, and that your partner or whatever armchair you are married to has to obey silently and that is that.
It doesn't mean that you make your partner feel safe. It doesn't mean that you forgive. It doesn't mean that you tolerate. It doesn't mean that you accept your differences, knowing that she accepts you as well. It doesn't, of course, mean that you enjoy those differences. No. Being 'the man' in a relationship means that I do what I see is right, and not take into consideration my partner's opinion. She is a woman. She lacks religion and mental abilities. It means that I choose to live our life the way I want, because, come on, I am the man. What would she want more than a successful, handsome and religious husband? She should just take it and shut the fuck up.
My sister is no angel. Yes, when she's angry she sometimes hurts me with her words. But as soon as she calms down she runs up to me and hugs me - a hug that wipes out any bitterness in my heart. A hug I never see except in idealistic TV sitcoms.
How come men lost the ability to tolerate? I keep imaging myself in my deathbed, and wonder how people do not imagine themselves in the same position. In my deathbed I wouldn't wish I had lost someone just because he was once rude to me. I was intolerable myself at times. Sure I was. In my deathbed, I would know that this human bond that ties me to all those I know is the most valuable thing I ever had, and ever will in another life. What with the tensions, what with normal everyday issues...they will pass. They will pass and love will live on.
How come people do not realise this fact and just find the easiest solution to abandon one another? HOW COME? Yes, my question is to men though I know there are same-minded ladies out there...but I want men to answer me. Why would you trade loyalty and comfort for sheer arrogance and control? What would happen when you eventually control your partners and turn them to speechless models of patience? Would you be happy then? Is this your way to paradise?
Whatever is wrong with you?

Candle in the Dark

I'm shining like a candle in the dark...

when you tell me that you love me !

حلم عبثى

كنت واقفة محلولة الشعر وسط الزحام

وفى صدرى مرارة الاحساس بالاهمال واللامبالاة

تركت البيت بعد أن فاض بى الكيل من تجاهلهم لى

فجأة رأيت أبى ينظر حوله بتمعن مرتديا تلك الحلة الرمادية المحببة الى نفسى

جريت اليه و سألته بتلهف

أتبحث عنى أنت يا أبى؟

نظر الى بشىء من الخجل

!!!وقال ...بل كنا نطلب وجبة الغداء من المطعم المقابل

....................................................................

ذكرنى هذا الحلم بقصيدة توماس هاردى, فيها تتعجب امرأة عمن ذا الذى ينهش قبرها؟

هل هو حبيبها فى حياة قد مضت؟

لا...لقد تركها حبيبها تمضى مع ماضيه وتزوج ثانية

من؟ أعز أقاربها؟

لا...فما الجدوى من زرع الورد على قبرها و هى الآن فى قبضة الموت؟

أعدوتها هى اذن...التى تنهش قبرها الآن؟

لا تكترث عدوتها بمكانها الآن...ولا تستحق كراهيتها بعد اليوم

انه أنا يا سيدتى العزيزة...جروك

أرجو ألا أكون قد أزعجتك

حقا!!! كيف أنسى قلبك الصادق؟

كيف أساوى بين وفائك و غدر بنو جنسى؟

سيدتى, لقد نسيت أن هذا قبرك

لقد جئت كى أدفن تلك العظمة هنا

حتى لا أجوع فى تسكعاتى اليومية!

Ah, Are You Digging On My Grave?
by Thomas Hardy.

"Ah, are you digging on my grave,

My loved one? -- planting rue?"

-- "No: yesterday he went to wed

One of the brightest wealth has bred.

'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,

'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave,

My nearest dearest kin?"

-- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!

What good will planting flowers produce?

No tendance of her mound can loose

Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

"But someone digs upon my grave?

My enemy? -- prodding sly?"

-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate

That shuts on all flesh soon or late,

She thought you no more worth her hate,

And cares not where you lie.

"Then, who is digging on my grave?

Say -- since I have not guessed!"

-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,

Your little dog, who still lives near,

And much I hope my movements here

Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...

Why flashed it not to me

That one true heart was left behind!

What feeling do we ever find

To equal among human kind

A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave

To bury a bone, in case

I should be hungry near this spot

When passing on my daily trot.

I am sorry, but I quite forgot

It was your resting place."

تعليق على ما حدث

I wanted to blog about some personal incidents and events…I even woke up and fell asleep forming the draft but never actually writing anything…local news, however, sprang out suddenly and I just felt it necessary to have a say, to make a comment – or even to scream.
Last Tuesday I was checking omraneya.net when I found the title clear and bright, 'Islam Nabih sentenced for three years in jail.' And it felt like a million pounds! I haven't blogged about Emad El Kebir before, or how he was arrested for no apparent reason than trying to defend his brother who was being harassed by the police. And what was the Captain Islam Nabih's reaction? He stripped him from the waist down and together with a Corporal they beat him up and sodomised him with a stick! And to spite him even more, they videotaped him. A total fuck. Bloggers, human rights activists and even unheeding Egyptians knew about the case Emad filed against the policemen , and everyone was holding his breath until the verdict came in. Immediately afterwords, I waited for Al3ashera Masa2an…and the show hosted the lawyer of the defendant and the accused, and later Emad himself. Significantly, however, an anonymous policeman called in and among moments of silence, stuttering and a disheartened voice, he wondered how on earth they were supposed to treat such thugs? And insisted that they face hell to restore order to the streets, and that no one is cooperative, and that they feel hated and even inferior!
Okay, respected policeman – what the heck do you expect us to feel about policemen when most of what we see from them is either cruelty or indifference? Thousands of our friends, family and beloved ones are run over every day by high-speed vehicles. 22 people died of torture in the past year – torture you have committed, respected policemen of this country. Girls are molested every half an hour in the streets of Cairo or so they say in broad daylight and do not find one single policeman to run to. Not one. It's now a myth that Egypt's streets are safe…those who are supposed to provide us with safety are simply NOT THERE. Women's bags are being robbed and the women dragged along by cars, helplessly trying to regain the few pounds left to feed the children, and what the hell are you doing? Sodomising innocent people. This is your policy, your religion.
The following episode of Al3ashera Masa2an began with a call from a high-ranking police officer, professional liar and nutcase. He insisted on the good examples of policemen that are never given as much attention as the few corrupt among them. But I was amazed at how he commented on the killing of a girl in El Matareya area while trying to stop the police car from taking away one of her relatives. She tried to block the road, but the car just went on, hitting her, then running her over. 'What were they supposed to do? She was the one who hung on to the car!' i.e. The bitch got in our way. The bitch had to die. This is their logic. There is no talk of pushing her away or even pepper-spraying her (which in another context could also be considered an excessive use of force), but they just killed her…Simply.
The sentence the infamous policemen got is a beam of hope, as considered by many, including myself. However, this trial is a double-edged weapon. It is an attempt to silence humanitarian voices that are accusing the government of ignoring incidents of torture. It's like the Ministry of Interior is telling us, 'See? We've sentenced a policeman to prison and hard labour. Shut the fuck up now.' It is intended to grab our attention away from all of the 22 murders and God-knows-how-many torture cases that are being examined or forgotten in Egypt. Last Tuesday, I was hopeful, but deep down I was terrified, deep in my heart I hoped so dearly to God that other tortures don't go undercover, for there is no worse feeling in this world than injustice.

As Salama Ahmad Salama says in this week's edition of Al Ahram Weekly, we Egyptians are so used to catastrophes that nothing can shake us anymore, to the extent that tens of our young, ambitious and frustrated youth drowned while trying to cross over to Italy and not many care, not a lot of us noticed. What's done is done, nothing can be said more than what's been said before about illegal immigration, their hopes and dreams together with their blessed souls and any spark of light in their families' life was just washed away – finished. Done.