A colleague was complaining with a broken heart from the difficulty of the Thanaweya Amma exams (general Baccalaureate or High School Degree examination – the official one in Egypt). I looked at her with a big surprise and the following conversation took place:

 

-       What was the problem?

-       The exam was very difficult!!!

-       Ok, and what’s wrong with that?

-       ……(perplexed shocked silence)….. Everything is wrong! Exams are not supposed to be this difficult! They are supposed to be suitable for the average student!

-       But if they’re suitable for the average student, then the distinguished students won’t have a chance to excel!

-       If they’re made to distinguish special students then the average student will get a bad grade!

-       So?

-        ….(even longer and more shocked silence) ….. So they will not get into a good university!

-       But that’s not possible! They will still get into a good university but with a lower grade.

-       That’s not true! Last year the good universities required over 98% grade for entrance. If the exams are hard, my child won’t get near this grade and won’t get into a suitable university.

-       That’s last year … if the exams are difficult then everyone will get lower grades and then the universities will accept lower scores.

-       But this will never happen! Students who didn’t study will just cheat from their neighbors and still get good scores, while my child will get a poor score.

-       If the exams are difficult then even those who cheat will not find anyone with correct answers to cheat from … so on the contrary your child has a better chance if they worked harder now.

-       But my child wants to get a good grade!!!!! Children feel really horrible if they work hard all year then get a poor grade!

-       Why?

-        ….. (no comment)

 

It was the end of the conversation and probably the last time she ever gets into a conversation with me. As it turned out, there are two basic rules governing how parents and students approach these exams:

 

Rule number one: One Must Get High Grades!

Rule number two: One Needs Easy Exams to Get High Grades!

 

And as could be seen from the previous very real conversation, the whole idea of high grades has almost nothing to do with what university the student targets: it’s almost an independent factor! All parents are looking for easier exams and higher grades, even if that really stops to have any meaning in itself.

 

It reminded me with the concept of “money illusion” from the economic textbooks: if everyone has more money, they feel good, even if in fact the prices went up swallowing the value of that extra money. We all remember from childhood years the question we asked our parents: if there’s a place where they print money, why don’t they just print money for everyone as much as they want?

 

Well, it seems someone picked the idea: exams are becoming easier and scores are free for everyone! Enjoy the fruit of stupidity as it flows into top universities which then are required to lower their standards to accept the new flood of mediocre students who hardly manage through their years of education and finally graduate to become horrible doctors, engineers, accountants, lawyers or whatever miserable profession they decide to get into.

 

How on earth do you want me to be treated by a doctor who scored 98% in their Thanaweya Amma exams but who really doesn’t remember how the chemical reactions of medicine take place in the body … because “that subject I didn’t really study since it was a very easy exam.”

 

I am speechless … but believe me, the above scenario DID HAPPEN and will continue to happen as long as “score illusion” still exists even among the top and most educated of this country!

 

We 3agaby!

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تابعت عن قرب بعض مباريات المونديال بجنوب أفريقيا الأيام القليلة الماضية، ولم أتمكن من منع نفسي من التفكير بألم في كل ذكريات الأصفار المؤلمة التي نالتها مصر من جراء العدو الأعمى خلف ملاعب كرة القدم في الوقت الذي اعتقدت فيه أن نجاحات الكرة كافية وقادرة على إخفاء باقي أخفاقات النظام، ولكن ينكشف المستور في لحظة ليعجز الفشل عن الاختباء وتظهر الخيبة التقيلة أمام العالم بفضائح دولية ننشر معها كل الغسيل الوسخ بالمياه العكرة التي تصل رائحتها عبر السنوات.

كان الصفر الأول الشهير عندما قررت مصر أن تستعرض العضلات وتتقدم بملف لاستضافة المونديال بدلا من جنوب أفريقيا. ورغم كل الاستعدادات على قدم وساق وكل الادعاءات الباطلة عن عظمة البلد العريق وقدراته اللولبية على إخفاء البلاوي، إلا أنه أخفق في ستر ما يكفي. ويتضح فيما بعد حجم الوعود الكاذبة التي قدمها النظام، ورغم ذلك يفشل في إقناع العالم بقدراته على الكذب. يعني حتى الكذب ما نجحناش فيه!!

وحين أتابع المباريات يتضح تماما لماذا كان يجب أن تسقط مصر في امتحان المونديال!!! بما أنني لست من محللي كرة القدم اللولبيين وأخصائيي الكرة، إلا أنني أتابع بمنطق المتفرج وأقدم ملاحظات قد تنفع النظام في المستقبل!

أولا: هناك فرق واضح في درجات الحرارة بين مصر وجنوب أفريقيا. تصور الفارق أن تلعب وتتابع المباريات في درجة حرارة 30 أو أكثر في مصر، بينما تتابعها في حرارة 20 مثلا في شتاء جنوب أفريقيا! بالطبع مدرجاتنا الخالية من الاستعدادات للصيف لم تكن الخيار الأفضل بالمقارنة في نفس التوقيت ببلاد أخرى. وحين أتابع إعلانات ملف قطر الذي يتقدمون به لمونديال 2022، الإعلانات كلها تظهر المدرجات المغطاة! ياترى ليه؟؟؟؟

ثانيا: اختارت جنوب أفريقيا مدينة كيب تاون لاستضافة أهم المباريات، وهي مدينة ساحلية لطيفة هادئة مرحة تخلو من مخلفات المدن الصناعية الكبرى مثل جوهانسبرج العاصمة. وهذا أيضا على خلاف ما فعلناه في مصر باقتراح استضافة المباريات الكبرى بالقاهرة: عاصمة التلوث والزحام والمخلفات في العالم الثالث. تصوروا معي لو كان الاقتراح بالاسضافة في الأسكندرية أو شرم الشيخ؟ هل كان يلقى نفس النتيجة؟

اكتفي بالتحليل عن الصفر الأول وانطلق للصفر التالي.

الصفر الثاني جاء مع نتيجة النزال المصري الجزائري، وليس النزال الذي تم في الملعب ولكن الذي تم في ملابسات الماتش الذي استضافته مصر والذي توالت فضائحه حتى الأيام القليلة الماضية. لقد قام المشجعون باستضافة لاعبي الجزائر بأفضل وسائل الترحيب والصداقة المتناهية، حتى أن اللاعبين كسروا الأتوبيس على أنفسهم من الداخل ليخرجوا ويشاركوا الترحيب الدافئ لإخوانهم المصريين. وطبعا الرواية الرسمية كانت على كل الألسن حتى جاء الصفر الثاني: اتهام واضح لمصر وتسجيلات وشهود على أحداث العنف المصري ضد الجزائريين والحكم على مصر بالغرامة!!!!

الصفر الثالث والذي جاء في أعقاب الصفر الثالث كان التقدم بملف اعتداءات الجزائريين على المصريين في السودان، وهو الصفر الأصعب في اعتقادي لأن النظام قد عقد النية على الحصول على واحد-صفر بأي شكل في هذا السباق بالتحديد. لقد تفضل علية القوم بمشاركة المشجعين البسطاء والسفر بأنفسهم وترك كل مهامهم الشاقة بمصر للتشجيع بالسودان. وبعد هزيمة مصر الساحقة العادلة من الجزائر، هتفوا صارخين بالظلم الذي تعرض له اللاعبين والمشجعين المساكين. ولكن، ويا للمفاجأة: لا يوجد دليل واحد كافي ضد الجزائر! لا أعلم إن كان أحدهم قد أشار إلى شهادة السيد علاء والسيد جمال باعتبارها شهادة حق تكفي لإثبات الواقعة، ولكن النهاية البائسة بحفظ التحقيق تثبت أن الروايات الرسمية للأنجال المحترمين كانت تمتلئ مثلها مثل سابقاتها، بمبالغات وأكاذيب لم تصدقها محكمة الفيفا …. مع أنه مين الجزاير دي يعني اللي يصدقوها؟؟

في الحقيقة فضيحة مصر بلغت أقصاها بالفعل مع نتيجة كاس أفريقيا الذي انهالت فيه مصر على فرق أفريقيا حتتك بتتك كأنها فجأة تنتقم منها ضد أحداث كأس العالم – وفجأة تأتي الأجوان المتتالية. فهل قررنا التخلي فجأة عن كأس العالم والاكتفاء بالتمسك بكأس أفريقيا؟ لكن يبدو أنه لم يصدق أحد غيرنا أن كاس أفريقيا هو أهم كأس في العالم!

لا أحد يدري. ولكن الأصفار المتلاحقة تظل تطاردنا حتى نعثر على “الواحد” الذي طال انتظاره!

أنت فين يا واحد!!!!!!!

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English Below

اصطدمت السيارتان أمام عينه ورأى الساقط على الأرض وسط بركة من الدماء على إحدى طرق القاهرة السريعة، فلم يفكر لبرهة أو يتردد … أوقف سيارته وأسرع نحو الجريح

 

 

لماذا يبدو هذا التصرف غريبا؟

 

 

لأن في بلدنا العزيزة هناك قاعدة تدرس بوضوح مع دروس القيادة و تعد أهم بكثير من إشارات المرور: إذا رأيت حادث (أو حتى إذا تسببت في حادث) عليك الجري بأسرع ما لديك، لأنه من الوارد جدا أن يتم اتهامك على أنك المتسبب ولا يتركك المارة أو البوليس حتى تكون قد عوضت الجميع عما تعرضوا له أضعافا مضاعفة – هذا إذا لم يوجد بموقع الأحداث من يريد الانتقام منك وإلباسك تهمة لا تدري لها اصلا

 

 

ولكن هذا الرجل الشجاع الذي تكرمت بصحبته بالأمس لم يفكر بكل هذا … لم يفكر للحظة أنها منطقة شبه مقطوعة من المارة وقد لا تتوقف سيارة أخرى من هلع المنظر… لم يتردد لأن بصحبته فتاة قد تصاب بالهلع أو يحاول أحد مضايقتها … لم يقلقه شيء سوى أن هناك شخصا بالخارج بالحاجة لمساعدة وقد لا يحيا حتى يأتي آخرون

 

 

ولكن كالعادة ما أن تتوقف سيارة حتى تتجمهر سيارات تالية كأنما تمخض عنها الهواء، ويحضر الأخصائيون والمتعاطفون والمتفرجون والغاضبون جميعا ليقوم كل بدوره المعتاد في مثل هذه الأحداث

 

 

لماذا لا يبدو هذا غريباً؟

 

 

لأنه باختصار هناك بالفعل “ضحية” يمكن تلفيق التهمة لها – اي الرجل الشجاع – وبالتالي يقل الحظر على بقية السيارات والتي غالبا ما تقف للفرجة قبل أي شيء واحيانا قليلة للصراخ في وجه من يعتبرونه المذنب الأساسي. في النهاية يتحول الرجل الشجاع إلى مذنب أو شاهد وفي الحالتين تصبح السيارات التالية في موقف القاضي أو الشهم … وهي مواقف تخلو تماما من أي شبهة اشتراك في الحادث

 

 

وتطوع الرجل الشجاع أولا بالاتصال بالاسعاف … ولكن بعد قليل أدرك أن الأمر مستحيل لأنه لا يعرف أسم المنطقة أو كيف يصفها للإسعاف … فقام بالتطوع بما هو أخطر: بنقل المصاب إلى أقرب مستشفى وهو غارق في دماؤه

 

 

لماذا يبدو هذا التصرف خارجا عن حدود العقل؟

 

 

لأنه مع الأسف التطوع بالمساعدة مثل هذه في موقف مثل هذا يعني تأكيد أنه المذنب وليس آخر … وآثار الدماء المحتمل داخل سيارته يكون الدليل الأوحد في حادث مثل هذا

 

 

ولكن تجمهر البشر بعد دقائق وامتلأ الشارع عن آخره بمن يصيح وينادي ويطلب الإسعاف – لقد دفعت شجاعته الجميع على إبداء المرؤة والشهامة واصر البعض أن يكون صاحب الشرف في المساعدة

 

 

وهنا انصرف الشجاع ليدع للمصاب بعض الهواء ليتنفسه بعد أن تجهمر جيش لا يعرف مصدره ليعرض خدماته

 

————————————————-

 

لن أذكر أسم الشجاع لأنني أتمنى أن يرى الكثيرين أنفسهم ابطال هذه الحادثة …. أتمنى أن يأتي اليوم الذي يرى فيه كل مصري نفسه هذا الشجاع

 

======================================================

 

Two cars pumped in front of his eyes on one of Cairo’s highways, and he saw a man fall down amid a pool of blood. He didn’t hesitate for a single second …. he simply stopped his car and rushed to the wounded man.

 

 

Why would this sound strange?

 

 

Because in this dear country there’s a clear rule that must be taught together with driving lessons, and is far more important than knowing the stop signs: if one sees an accident (or even is involved in one) they should run as fast as they possibly can, because it is quite likely that they get accused of being the cause of the accident, and then neither police nor passer-bys will let one go until they have repaid everyone for the damage they caused tenfold – of course assuming there’s no one with particular animosity who wishes one bad or wishes to lock them in a case out of sheer cruelty.

 

 

But this brave man, with whom I had the honor to share the ride, didn’t think about all that! He didn’t give a damn that the location is totally empty from witnesses or passer-bys who could help; he didn’t hesitate that maybe the lady next to him might freak out or be subject to harassment; he simply worried about one thing: there’s a man out there who needs help, and may not make it till others arrive.

 

 

However, as usual, as soon as one car stopped long enough, a fleet of other cars start to crowd around from thin air. Suddenly all the experts, the observers, the angry, the curious and others join to play their respective roles in similar situations.

 

 

Why doesn’t this sound strange?

 

 

Simply because they perceive that there’s already a “victim” at the scene; namely the brave man; and that significantly reduces the risk on others. The brave man become either guilty or a witness … in which case the newcomers would be the judges or the rescuers – a situation which has no chance of being involved in the accident itself.

 

 

The brave man first proposed to call an ambulance … however he gave up on the idea since he had no clue about the address or how to describe the location. So he volunteered with a seriously dangerous proposal: to carry the wounded man to the nearest hospital while soaking in blood!

 

 

Why does this sound totally insane?

 

 

Because unfortunately offering such big help in these situations proves that one is guilty … and the traces of blood to be found in his car would only be proof of that. “Why else would he do that,” many will wonder.

 

 

However, it was few minutes before the massive crowd was hit by this bravery and people started screaming to call an ambulance while others displayed expertise in handling the wound … all somehow touched by the show of bravery and intending on taking part of the honorable act.

 

 

By this point the brave man decided to leave the scene and let the poor victim gather some air amid this crowd anxious to help.

 

———————

 

I will not mention a name for this brave man because I hope that many will see themselves as heroes for this story … how I wish a day would come when every Egyptian would see himself as this brave man!

 

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حظيت أمس بشرف الحضور والمشاركة في مؤتمر “مصريون ضد التمييز الديني” الثالث بعنوان“الإعلام والمواطنة”. والحق أن المؤتمر كان بالنسبة لي مفاجأة ليس لأن موضوع الإعلام وتشويهه في مصر هو موضوع جديد ولكن لأنني اكتشفت بحق معنى أن تكون صحافيا مصريا في عهد كهذا الذي نعيشه

 

 

أن تكون صحافيا مصريا اليوم يعني أنك “راجل غلبان” تعمل لحساب آخر يطلب منك انواع مختلفة من المستحيلات وتحتاج معها ان تكتشف انواع متفاوتة من الحيل للتعامل مع هذه المتطلبات، بما فيها الاتفاق مع بعض “المصادر” لتسهيل الحصول على المعلومات المستحيلة وما يترتب على ذلك من “سبوبة” للمصادر المعنية ويمكن أيضا “سبق صحفي” في حالات نادرة.

 

 

أن تكون صحافيا مصريا اليوم يعني أن لديك عدد غريب من الموضوعات لتغطيه في حوالي يومين من الضروري أن تقوم خلالها لزيارة لثلاث محافظات وتقابل عشرة أشخاص. بالطبع لأنك مصريا فأنت لن تقوم بأي من هذا وسوف تتمكن من الحصول على التليفونات المطلوبة وتقوم بالاتصال بأصحاب الشأن وتنقل عن ألسنتهم اي شيء هم على استعداد للإدلاء به بدون مشاكل. يفضل طبعا عدم العمل في موضوعات شائكة مثل الدين والجرائم وخلافه والاكتفاء بأخبار المحليات احتياطي يعني

 

 

أن تكون صحافيا مصريا يعني أيضا أنك يمكن أن تشارك في كل مهرجانات السينما وتقابل كل المشاهير وتلتقط لهم الصور – واحيانا حتى أن تنشر عنهم الشائعات، بشرط أن تكون حويطا بما . يكفي لئلا تنكشف أنك تقريبا لا تدري شيئا عن الموضوع  . قد يتاح لك الوقت لتتفرج على الخمس دقائق الأولى من كل فيلم ولا يتطلب الأمر كثيرا لتعرف كل ما تريد عن القصة والحبكة الدرامية والبطل والبطلة ومن القاتل في المشهد الأخير. بالطبع هناك أفلام تخدعك ولكن قليلا ما يأتي أحدا بعدها ليحاسبك أن ما كتبت هو عن جهل بالفيلم وليس عن نقد بناء

 

 

أن تكون صحافيا مصريا يعني أحيانا ان يوجد بعدك “ديسك” يمكنه تقريبا أن يغير أي شيء تكتبه إن لم يشابه أولويات المطبوعة أو لم تكن لغته “مثيرة” بما يكفي  . فيمكن للديسك المحترم مثلا تغيير عنوان موضوعك أو الاكتفاء بربع الحقائق المكتوبة. وليس من النادر أن يقرر الديسك الاستغناء تمام عن كتابتك والاكتفاء بالتصريحات الرسمية عن الموضوع وفي هذا السلامة للجميع

 

 

أن تكون صحافيا مصريا يعني انك تعمل على الأقل في جريدتان وثلاث محطات تليفزونية تعد فيها أربعة برامج. وبالطبع لأنك شخص ذكي لا يحب إضاعة الوقت فأنت تتأكد من دعوة كل ضيوفك في التليفزيون للإدلاء بتصريحات للجريدة أو إجراء حوار أو حتى كتابة موضوع بدلا منك في أحيان نادرة طبعا – فأنت تتقاضى أجرا لا “يأكل لقمة عيش” ومطالب كل يوم بتقديم الحقيقة العارية للعالم

 

 

أن تكون صحافيا مصريا يعني أنك تستطيع القيادة بسرعة قصوى والركن في أي مكان بسيارتك لأنك تعرف أنه لا يوجد رجل مرور واحد يريد التورط بوضع أسمه وصورته في الجريدة صباح الغد بل ويمكنك أحيانا الاستفادة في استخراج الأوراق الرسمية ورخصة المرور بدون حتى عناء الذهاب بنفسك للقسم

 

 

أن تكون صحافيا مصريا يعني أنك تشقى خلف معلومة أو تحقيق يتضح بعد قليل أنه لا يهم أحدا

وينتهي به الأمر في سلة المهملات مثل آلاف أمثاله والتي لم تعد مهمة بالمقارنة بأخرى . وقد تكون أحيانا الوحيد الذي يعرف الحقيقة ولا يستطيع حتى النطق بها أمام الآخرين لأن قصتك قد شوهت بالقصة العامة ولا يوجد ما تستطيع أن تفعله سوى الذهاب للعمل في الصباح التالي

 

 

أن تكون صحافيا مصريا يعني أيضا أن هناك الآلاف التي تقرأ ما تكتبه والمئات التي تنتظر أخبارك أو كتاباتك لأنك بالنسبة لهم الأفضل على الإطلاق

 

 

أن تكون صحافيا مصريا يعني أنك تجلس في مؤتمر مثل مؤتمر “مصريون ضد التمييز الديني” وتستمع إلى حوارات تدينك أو تشكرك بشدة على أعمالك وأقوالك ولكن أيضا تستمع لشكواك بصدق وتقترح مساندتك في سعيك لأن تقدم المزيد. وتجد الفرصة لأول مرة للقاء زملائك في الكفاح وتكتشف أنك لست الوحيد الذي يعاني وأن هناك الكثيرين مثلك. كما تستطيع للمرة الأولى الجلوس مع اساتذتك كبار المهنة ومحاورتهم وسؤالهم والاستفادة من خبراتهم

 

 

أن تكون صحافيا مصريا اليوم يعني كل الاحترام وكل اللعنة … كل المميزات وكل المسئوليات .…كل الخير وكل الشر… كل المزايا والعيوب

 

 

أن تكون صحافيا مصريا اليوم فأنت في الموقع الوحيد الذي يمكنك من الوصول لقمة المجد أو أسافل الهاوية ما بين سطر وآخر … وعليك اليوم أن تختار بنفسك أيها تريد

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It occurs to me around this time, when it’s “By Monet’s” birthday, to write about the same topic: writing. The reason a writer ever holds a pen is NEVER coming from outside, because then it would be a false alarm and false gift. A writer holds a pen and gets attached to the white papers because for a writer this is the REAL world!

 

Strange? Not really! Because the more a writer sees the real world on the paper the more he can bring the empty papers to speak to the real world. It’s just like actors: unless they believe themselves no one will believe them … and there would be no cinema industry at all! The empty white papers have the same capacity to capture the attention and hearts and minds of the readers, but only if the writer can also see that!

 

A while back I received a very interesting remark from a reader (or critic, I really don’t know!) that he thinks I’m a basic, mediocre writer with hardly much taste, and little to differentiate my style from the rest of the writers; that my book and articles will not stand a chance amid the myriad of literature in the world much worthy of readers’ time. It was interesting! First, because it was my worst nightmare, and it came true! That means I should not be getting any more nightmares in the coming months. Second, because I never realized that maybe I was giving the impression of a conceited writer – which is not exactly what he says, but it does come through from the message. Last, because I never ran after the “Best Writer in the World” award anyway!

 

When I decided to open my drawer full of papers and share them online for the whole world, it was like speaking the most hidden secrets into a public microphone. Loud and clear all the inside of a person pours out on the white papers no matter how a writer tries to hide them with artistic talent or diverse manipulations.

 

However, with that comes a lot of criticism and wide range of opinions … and they are to be taken PERSONALLY. What does a writer do with criticism, I always wondered? There are many things I’m sure, but for me, it was a way to build my knowledge. For it guided me to where the challenge was with my first writings, and gave me insights into how others perceive my pearls of wisdom. The bad part of that is when people criticize who you are while criticizing your creation – intentionally or unintentionally. “Your hero is an illogical idiot who has a shaken personality and incoherent perspective,” no matter who the character is, part of the creation is inherent in the character of the creator – the insult is to me personally. Yet that also sheds light on me as a person! I start to see myself in different light … and also see a new picture that maybe in some ways better than the current.

 

However, some criticism must be dismissed … and sorry for the critic who identified himself in the above words … but that will NOT stop me from writing.

 

Now, maybe I’m not the best writer in the world – that remains to be seen – but nevertheless, I am a full writer. To stop writing for me would be like a painter not holding a brush or a director never approaching a screen. It is almost like being denied freedom! The earth would suddenly turn into a large prison if not for the pens and papers which open life up without borders to people who can only see on white backgrounds.

 

When you find a passion that strong, denying it would be just as seriously a sin!

 

On the occasion of “By Monet’s” second anniversary, I wish all my readers the best of luck finding their passions … and ask them not to worry … I will keep writing.

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The instant we reached the Sudanese eastern border we were thrilled. It has taken already one full day of travel from dawn to dusk and an overnight at an unidentified border town and near fifty kilometers of unpaved roads travelled on the back of a pick-up truck. By the point where we reached the border near mid-day, it was like finally reaching the long-awaited destination. The Sudanese border was a busy location; lots of men floating around, cars, trailers, donkey carts. It seemed like an active commercial center for cross-border action.

We were by far the only tourists in the vicinity. We stood out, but no one bothered us too much and we learnt to ignore the surprised curious looks. We went ahead to the border control office where the Arabic-speaking officers had to get up from their shady comfortable desks to check out meager luggage and tell us that it’s ok to go ahead … we didn’t seem like smugglers which are normally the only source of worry at this station.

 

Moving out of that office through a fenced door that indicates that now we have officially left the administrative boundary of Sudan and were approaching the boundary of the next destination … Ethiopia.

We walked over a busy bridge over a deep river and as we approached the other side of the bridge a massive conglomeration of young boys barely 10 year old collected around us asking if we want to exchange currency. It was a difficult step because we did have some Sudanese currency, but we weren’t sure whether we wanted to change money with these little boys or had better wait to find an exchange place in the border town. Yet as the Ethiopian border town revealed itself in front of us, our hearts started pounding hard!

 

There were few little huts buried in the little conglomeration of trees by the river. The last of these huts turned out to the be the uncontrolled unfenced border control policeman: exactly a single man sitting on a desk with stamps and a pen, looking at our passports to confirm validity, put the stamp and voila! We’re in Ethiopia.

 

Beyond the simple unexpected border control was the actual town … or village or whatever that could be called. A small unpaved street loaded with dust and noise, with little tiny houses built from tree trunks with steel sheets leftover from some form of construction subbing for roofs. Men, women and children were full of life at this mid-day hour in the street: women standing or sitting by the entrances talking or preparing food; children are playing in the muddy hot streets; men working on various things: some are fixing things, others building something, others not seemingly doing anything. The barely covering clothes and outlook for food sold on the road were striking views of poverty … a huge difference from the Sudanese affluent border which we just left.

 

The surprise came to us when one of the young boys we exchanged money with said, “It’s now almost 6 o’clock.”

 

Our confused minds couldn’t quite make out how it would be possible that only one hour ago we left Sudan and it was 11 am, and we cross the border and it turns out 6! Only after a day and a half later in Ethiopia we discovered that they start counting the hours from dawn: 6 am being 24.00 and 7am is 1.00. The system completely baffled us and we almost missed a flight and a bus owing to this strange calculation of time.

Crossing the border from Sudan to Ethiopia that day was like crossing the border of time and space. The few meters that divide two countries had destined the millions in Ethiopia to hunger and poverty, and the millions in Sudan to battle and ideology: both cases most evident at the disparity between the two nearly attached border cities.

As we left Sudan, we made sure to have some tea from the ladies sitting by the side of the road. That was the best possible tea one could imagine, filled with fresh herbs and rich aroma. On the other side of the border, the tea suddenly disappeared and became the luxury of the few, while the coffee experience dominated … almost always fresh out of the field into the cup giving off a taste and smell that cannot be equaled anywhere else in the coffee-dominated world.

 

This experience reminded me that sometimes the artificial barriers we create eventually become the prison inside which humans lose their freedom.

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I watched the small fleet of doves emerge in the early morning out of their home into the open air. He waves and waves for them to go right and then go left. They obeyed as if he held them all by a large extended invisible net. Few rounds in the air, then they go back home … they go back to the man waving … and back into the large box … back to prison!

 

How could anyone who tasted freedom learn to go back, willingly, to imprisonment?

How could a bird that found its way to the open skies accept to be held in the cage once again?

How can any man convince others to give away their freedom so easily?

 

“They find food every day, it’s safe here” one doves-tender told me. So they just go back because they do not trust that the whole wide world so full of open earth with growing food will not have enough to feed them? How could their instinct not guide them to the open fields? How did he manage to make the food in the cage feel like it’s so indispensible?

 

“They find shelter, otherwise wild birds could eat them,” another dove-tender explained. But don’t they also learn how to hide or defend themselves in nature? Don’t all living creatures live under the threat of a predator? Worse even: their own tender could choose at one instant to eat them himself, isn’t this just as ironic?

 

“They’re just used to me, they know I won’t hurt them, and they love coming back,” a third dove-tender said. Is it possible to learn to love the jailor because he leaves a few hours of freedom every day? Is it possible to teach oneself to admire the prison and love the bars keeping one from flying?

 

“They’re afraid … full stop!” This last dove-tender was probably right, “Aren’t we humans like that as well?”

 

Indeed, we humans are just like that! We prefer the protection of a dictator to the risk of rebellion. We prefer the safety of an abusive relationship to the loneliness of society. We prefer the safety of a routine useless job to the venture of creativity. We prefer the guarded bars of the comfortable homes to the dangers of travelling the open world.

 

And the worst part is that we eventually learn to call our prison HOME.

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Speak softly, love and hold me warm against your heart

I feel your words, the tender trembling moments start

We’re in a world, our very own

Sharing a love that only few have ever known

Wine-colored days warmed by the sun

Deep velvet nights when we are one

Speak softly, love so no one hears us but the sky

The vows of love we make will live until we die

My life is yours and all because

You came into my world with love so softly love

 

———————————————————

Sometimes when my words fail, I look outside for others … I found nothing better to dedicate to you.

Happy Birthday my dear

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She held her ring in her hand and clasped in to her heart warmly while a soft unconscious smile hovered over her mouth. It was the most precious thing she ever had in her life, though it’s fake without a single gram of gold in it. The day her late husband, her boyfriend at the time, brought it to her, on her birthday, as a gift of his eternal love at a time when he didn’t have a penny. Later on money flowed and there were no problems in getting the gold and diamond, but still that one ring was the whole world!

 

He touched his lighter warmly with admiration, the same as he has done over the many years he carried it, till the barely-visible engravings were all gone. Although he stopped smoking, he would never go anywhere without this close-to-heart piece. It was a gift from his wife when he started his own company … risking their whole fortune to try and so something of his own. She believed in him, and wanted to help give him the best outlook among clients. She gave him the lighter so he’s never seen with those ‘ugly plastic things’ which he used and hated.

 

She opened her diary on the spot where she kept the flower. It’s been too many years since it lost its freshness and color, however, it didn’t matter at all! Her late husband gave it to her to make up for their first hardest fight. He promised to not allow anything he says or does to hurt her from then on. Although more fights came and more apologies, there was nothing like that first flower!

 

He was sure to wear this tie on this special occasion. There was no doubt about it! It lost color and form since ages, but still was the most favorite. His father gave it to him for graduation, and ever since was used for interviews and formal meetings and every time he had to wear a tie. He even bought suits just to match it! Although the father never thought of it more than a practical gift for a son out of college, it was the world to the son.

 

She insisted on wearing the bead necklace to the party although it hardly matched anything she puts on. But it belonged to her late mother, and she could never imagine wearing anything else except that.

 

He held the book in his hand and started laughing. When he asked for it the first day, she refused to give it to him, asking him to go buy his own copy. Only much later did she accept hesitatingly, offering to see him on a later date to give it to him. The date marked the beginning of their life-long relationship

 

Some things just completely cease being things. Some things become just simple carriers of happy delightful memories which we enjoy to savor at difficult times. It hardly matters what color, shape or age it shows. It hardly matters what it’s made of or what is its content. It only matters that it’s there, accessible, available to look at, touch, smell or even just remember its existence to be able to recall to memory all the good things connected to it. It becomes the small lock that connects the soft invisible threads of the memories together, allowing them to flood the brain at the instant when most needed. They bring back the whole situation linked to them as if they’re clicking a button of memories in the brain.

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Have you ever tried growing something at home which you eventually eat?

 

Growing food is a totally magnificent experience. Unlike growing usual plants, the dimension of time and patience grows in an utterly different way. Waiting for a flower to bud is one thing but totally unlike waiting for your tomatoes for the salad.

 

When growing something, I learnt, it takes much longer time than is needed to eat it. The fresh leaves for mint require about a month to grow and they’re barely enough for one cup of tea! I wait for that one cup very patiently, and then once there, it’s a most enjoyable experience. The refreshing aroma of the freshly cut leaves just out of the soil is beyond description. It’s as if they’re loaded with life and holding on to its roots, calling out for the next phase of growth. As soon as the hot water touches the leaves, they burst out with this unique powerful smell that fills the entire room. One would think it’s a whole bunch of leaves and not one meager stem with barely over five small leaves. You’d wish to not drink the warm cup to keep this smell as long as possible, yet the temptation to also taste that amazing drink is also very strong. Your lips touch the hot water with the leaf, and this overpowering taste just bursts in the mouth, nose and eyes. You seriously wonder: how can these few barely-noticeable leaves have this big effect?

 

From that day onwards, you wait and wait and wait, and every day go check out your mint plant to see if there’s a new leaf about to show up, and make sure to tend it carefully and wait impatiently for the following month to come.

 

Is it worth all this hassle? Sometimes you wonder. You decide to buy fresh mint next time in the supermarket … and get ready for the amazing experience every day from today onwards.

 

Yet the fresh leaves from the bunch barely carry the smell from your one stem at home. You add more and more leaves just to get anywhere close to that experience of the home-grown plant. The hot drink smells barely like mint and hardly tastes, so you keep adding more leaves to get the effect you want, only to realize at some point that the leaves also carry a strong after-taste at that point, so you stop adding more and settle for a lesser taste and lesser after-taste. Alas! The poor leaves in the supermarket have been kept away from their soil for too long and lost all that life and taste that you found in the plant at home. You throw away the rest of the bunch at home and go back watch your little plant grow just a tiny additional inch every day and wait for another month to get that wonderful unforgettable experience from one cup of mint tea.

 

Amazing isn’t it?

 

We all consume food and eat everything ready from a shelf and never think too much of all the effort, patience and care that goes behind it. And without noticing, all this food cared for and patiently tended ends up far away from its land to the extent that it only remotely resembles what it was like many days or week or even months back when first extracted. At some point, it loses life and has to go back to the soil to become part of the life of other plants.

 

Amazing indeed!

 

The modern style of life removed us all from having to worry about what to eat next, but also took away much of the taste and life of what we eat and drink every day. It’s a blessing to be able to find the food you need next to home and not have to walk or drive for hours to get it for sure. But it’s important to remember as well where it came from.

 

It’s a great idea to grow at home something to eat!

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