Chapter 4: Lovers

"I don't like this one bit."

She gazed sternly at Jokla as if to confirm that this last statement was in no way rhetorical and that she did want, and need, consolation from him. "Darling," he began, "You always worry about things. Every single time we move, you think that something bad is going to happen." "No, but this time it's different, I feel very worried," she snapped back, "The last time we took a much shorter journey than this."

His eyes wandered around the dimly-lit street corner as he thought of another way to console her. For as panicky and sensitive as she was, she was still the love of his life, and who else would support her if not him? His beaming eyes surveyed the group which comprised of family, friends and new acquaintances. This gave him comfort despite the creeping feeling of nervousness that Jekla was putting him in, for as much as he tried to be brave he too was becoming edgy.

"Hey, Jmaro," he yelled out to his cousin sitting lazily on the ground a few meters away, "Why don't you come over and we'll all sing a song."

Jmaro slowly picked up his head and looked their way with the speed of someone at least twice his age, his distant eyes making it seem like he is almost deciphering the words. Despite his laziness he was well-known for having the best voice of them all. This became especially useful at times of worry to sooth the spirits of the group. Jmaro shifted his weight and with heavy steps walked over. The others, seeing this, gathered around and they all sang one of the known songs together, lead by Jmaro, of course. As the final words were uttered, Jekla leaned in close to Jokla and nuzzled her face next to his. "I miss the children," she whispered into his ear, "Do you think we'll ever see them again?" The moment she asked this he felt a sharp tear in his heart and a lump in his throat, for this was something he also feared. In their short life, they had heard many stories and seen many of their friends and relatives disappear, led away by "the others" to God-knows-where. They themselves were often moved, but this was the first time they had left without their young. "I'm sure they're fine, and we'll be taken back to them tomorrow. This is just another trip my dear." He gently rubbed the side of his face against the smoothness of her woolly white coat. "Everything will be alright." Jekla let out a purr and leaned in even closer to him, their bodies not only comforting but warming each other in the cold winter evening. His words had indeed put her at ease to a big extent. "I love you," she whispered.

Loud footsteps behind them alerted Jokla who turned his head to see what was happening. "Look dear, here he comes again. I think we're going to go back now!" he beamed. With that, her face lit up and she gasped, "You mean we're going back to the children?" "Yes, I think so!" he replied joyfully, feeling happiest that his love was now smiling and happy.

The man walked over to the group with a younger apprentice, for he never did this alone, not if he could help it. Though he had done it dozens of times before, it was always good to have someone else to help with the restraint. The dim, yellow light coming from the old streetlamp reflected fiercely off the big knife he held firmly in his right hand. He stood, towering over the group, thinking which to begin with. He patted his little helper on the back and reminded him of the prayer they must say during the procedure. The little helper assured his mentor that he knew it by heart.

"Ok then. Let's start with those two."

My eyes suddenly snapped open, and I felt my heart pounding hard.

I awoke from this dream much, much earlier than I would usually wake up, to the familiar sound of animals screaming, signifying the arrival of Eid El Adha, the Islamic feast that arrives a couple of months after Ramadan. It is a joyous time in Egypt, full of massive, publicly-performed, blood-soaked slaughters and more recently, public molestations. And being a vegetarian in Cairo around this wonderful festival is like being a human-rights activist in Nazi Germany during the holocaust.

So I didn't wake up in the best of moods, and there wasn't much chance of going back to sleep either. There also wasn't much chance to lay in bed for a few minutes, reconnecting with reality and planning the day ahead as I usually do, with the horror film soundtrack blasting from outside.

I reached over and grabbed the notebook and pen beside my bed and proceeded to write my dream into a short story. Tears filled my eyes as I wrote the ending and heard the animals scream outside. If they have to die, at least some kind of art can come from it. Maybe this will eventually get published and Jokla and Jekla can get immortalized...

Suddenly Frank lands on the windowsill and flutters his white wings to get my attention. I scurry hastily to him, greet him, and take the note attached to his right leg, which turns out to be a reminder that the wedding, which my mother had told me about previously at the iftar, was tonight. I give Frank a kiss on his little head and bid him farewell, as he majestically takes to the sky.

At around 7 p.m., I began getting ready. I showered, shaved, and put on my black evening suit. Just as I was flipping the second fold of my tie while standing in front of the mirror, it suddenly occurred to me how stupid ties really are. I mean, why on earth do we wear a piece of cloth around our necks in this kind of heat? If it covered some vital genital region I can understand, but this, it's pointless! We might as well wear them around our heads like Rambo. So...I thought I'd make a statement; after all things change with the act of only one person. So I tightened the red tie around my head, grabbed my wallet, and went to get a taxi.

The driver was looking at me strangely, for some reason, the first half of the trip. Then we encountered heavy traffic suddenly, which seemed to take his mind off me.

"Do you think there is an accident ahead?" I curiously asked.

"God knows..." he replied.

After about half an hour of literally inching forward at a retarded snail's pace, we finally discovered the reason for the hang-up.

"Oh, it's a wedding..." he explained, then leaned out of the window and shouted, "You sons of bitches! I hope you get divorced!"

"I don't understand. What's happening?" I asked.

He looked at me like I was an alien and then went on to explain. Apparently people in Egypt like to celebrate weddings by having all the close relatives and friends take to the streets at the same time and drive very slowly, honking their horns and clapping. The idea is to almost completely block up a big street with their caravan of cars. Of course the direct relation between a union of man and wife and the unnecessary misery caused on everyone else in the street by this insane act...I could not understand.

We finally arrived a little late, but the security guards at the gate evidently had a big problem with my new fashion statement, so I was forced to remove it and wear my tie properly. I walked into the hotel, which is owned by the army and was told that no one had shown up yet, so I decided to wander around for a while. I was amazed at how incredibly luxurious army hotels were; floor to ceiling windows, crystal ashtrays and shiny marble floors. "So this is where the money's going," I realized. For a second I thought about sneaking out some of the obviously expensive ashtrays and giving them to some street children outside, but quickly decided against it. No, my attack on this corrupt system must be more planned and powerful than that. I need to find a way to take one of the big mirrors, but later. Later...

After circling the hotel a good dozen times, I hear the sound of the zaffa and head towards the lobby again. A smile comes to my face as I see the bride and groom coming down the stairs. I myself, had only been in loves a few times before. Unfortunately I had yet to experience the oh-so-coveted two-way love, and it always filled my heart with hope to see it blossom before me. To know that every one of us has their soul mate waiting for them somewhere, and it's only a matter of time...

I clap with the rest of the people to the music of the loud zaffa band. They sing old folk songs about marriage and how beautiful the bride is, but then I get startled to hear them chant, "El Bint Beida...beida beida!" (which translates to the bride is white, oh yes, the bride is so white!) My jaw drops and I freeze mid-clap. How racist!? What if she wasn't white, would they simply edit it and sing, "The bride is black, oh yes, black as the night!" or would they leave it out altogether? Still, it seemed like I was the only one disturbed by this racism as everyone else clapped and sang along about the bride's fair complexion, which I must say, was due to six coats of makeup.

"Selim! There you are!"

"Hi, mom," I said and hugged my mother.

She held me back, studying me.

"Who tied your tie, a blind person?" she complained as she fixed it in the middle of the crowd.

We continue watching the remainder of the racist zaffa together, then follow the crowd like smiling, clapping sheep into the main ballroom and proceed to watch the katb el ketab commence. The mazoun starts reciting verses from the Koran, and everyone in the room diligently echoes the prayers. Then I get another shock once again when the groom follows the "procedure" by asking the father in Arabic, "I want to marry your young virgin daughter," and the father answers, "Ok, I am now giving you my young virgin daughter."

Hmm, they really are anal about the whole virgin "bikr" thing. But what if she wasn't a virgin? Would they exchange it with, "I want to marry your young sexually-enlightened-but-overall-more-experienced daughter"? Or would they just leave the whole sex thing out and put in another adjective to sound length-wise, like "I want to marry your young brunette daughter"? I snicker at the idea, but stop myself violently when I notice people giving me murderous looks, obviously misunderstanding my laughter for doubting the bride's virginity. I get a vision of myself being hung from the ballroom chandelier and set on fire by the crowd.

Once the solemn religious phase ends, everyone gets up and the evening moves to the dance floor. This is signalled by the DJ putting on a trance song with an Arabic vibe that is often played at weddings; little does anyone know that it's called ‘Good Morning Israel' and is by Eyal Barkan, an Israeli. So everybody in the army hotel ballroom starts dancing and clapping to ‘Good Morning Israel,' kind of like an Israeli wedding dancing to Ana Bakrah Israel (‘I hate Israel'). Hmm...

A large woman wearing an equally large diamond necklace comes over and greets my mother.

"Is this your son?" she asks, pointing at me.

"Yes, this is Selim."

I shake her hand, and she turns back to my mother.

"He looks just like his father," she exclaims.

"I know...it's a nightmare!" my mother jokes and both of them laugh.

I don't.

"Is he engaged or anything?" the woman asks.

"No, I've been begging him to just find someone and make me happy.

But what can I say...men!"

"How old is he?" she enquires.

My mother looks over at me, "You're 27, right darling?"

"28," I answer.

"He's 28..." my mother repeats.

"Wow! 28? What's taking a handsome boy like him so long to meet someone?"

"I don't know; it's driving me crazy, dear."

This entire conversation between them occurred literally right next to me. It's like I was five years old...or invisible.

"Have you met Mahitab, my daughter?" she asks my mother.

"Of course, I met her when she was younger, but I haven't seen her for years!"

"Well, I'll go find her, dear."

I stop listening to their conversation about me before she even leaves. This was the first time I actually look around at the people involved, especially the women. They are either veiled and clinging like weed to their fiancé/husband, or they're single and wearing what pretty much amounts to lingerie. The single ones frantically scan the room with hungry eyes in search of a potential suitor.

"Go on, Selim, go and dance with the other youngsters," my mother commands.

"I think I'll just stay here, mom."

"Selim...I didn't bring you here to just sit. Go! Have fun! Be social, for goodness sake!"

I slowly got up, feeling defeated. I definitely knew how Khaled, her husband, must feel. My mother has a way of getting people to do what she wants.

I join the pack on the small dance floor and clap along. The mood shifts to balady music and everyone goes crazy, jumping and singing along. I suddenly feel incredibly out of place; it's almost as if I was still wearing my Rambo head tie. The DJ plays songs about Aantar (a tribute to guys who can fuck well) and El A'enab (a tribute to nipples) between constant chants of "aywa ma'ayaaaa" and "feen El zaghrootchaaa?" as veiled and non-veiled girls shake what the lord gave them and the men take in eyefuls. Yes, these were the same people reciting Koran a second ago.

Slowly the people began to thin out on the dance floor, so I too returned to my seat, next to my mother.

Eventually the large woman returns with her daughter. She was a skinny version of her mother, large necklace and all...

"Mahitab, this is Selim," her mother introduces. I shake Mahitab's hand, gently, so as not to dislocate anything.

Suddenly my mom gets up from her chair. "Here darling, sit here," she instructs Mahitab. "I need to go and speak to your mother about something."

Why you sneaky bastards...

This whole thing made sense now, why my mom had insisted I attend this wedding; it was for this ambush. Two rich families, leaving their children together like two Persian cats in heat, nudging them closer in order to keep the bourgeoisie, pure-breed bloodlines going...

Though I'm familiar with the expression "beggars can't be choosers," this still annoyed me greatly, for I knew that the chance of meeting your soul mate like this was as low as the chance of meeting a transvestite in a mosque. My mother leaned close to me before she left, "Don't screw this up," she whispered in my ear, "And don't tell her you teach retards," and left me to bond with Mahitab.

Our eyes met, and we smiled politely at each other and took nervous sips from our glasses. She would be pretty if she wasn't so flesh-and-bone. "It's pretty funny, eh?" I began, breaking the silence, "... how they treat us like Persian cats?"

"Excuse me?" she asked, leaning forward and straining to hear, "What about cats?"

"You know how they..." I started to explain, but then realized this would probably not make sense to her, "never mind."

I took another nervous sip from my glass then began looking casually around the room.

"I don't like cats," she suddenly said.

"What?"

"I don't like cats. I love dogs though!" she exclaimed with a big smile.

"That's nice..."

"Do you like dogs?"

"Sure..."

"Look," she happily said as she pulled out her phone and showed me a picture of possibly the ugliest inbred dog I had ever seen in my life, "This is Fresky!"

"Yeah..." I nodded, "Cute."

"I love him...he's my baby!" she beamed.

"Well, he's certainly, er, lovable..." I replied.

"The last time we were on vacation I couldn't stand his absence for long, so we cut the holiday short and came back!" she exclaimed, then frowned and continued, "I was worried how they were treating him at the dog kennel; people can be so cruel."

"That's very sweet..." I said with a smile as I shifted towards her in my seat, suddenly interested in her recent sensitivity, "Well, since you feel that way you might be interested in something...I read in the news recently that an international Animal Rights group was coming to Cairo to save all the street dogs from abuse."

"Street dogs?"

"Yeah."

"But they're gross..." she blurted, cringing her face.

"I thought...you said you loved dogs...?"

"Yeah, good dogs...like Fresky. But street dogs are just...disgusting!" YOU are disgusting...

I shifted back in my seat and took another sip of water. I knew it was too good to be true.

She began telling a story of the time she was walking Fresky, and street dogs kept coming closer. I hardly looked her way, hoping that she would get the hint.

"So...what do you do Selim?" she asked after a few moments of silence.

I paused for a moment.

"I teach retards."

It took about five minutes until she excused herself and left. My mother came back promptly and wasn't happy about finding me sitting alone. "Where is Mahitab?" she demanded as she took her seat.

"I don't know...she went to the bathroom...I think she's doing drugs in there, mom," I joked. She didn't find it funny.

"Don't be silly, Selim, she's a lovely girl. Why did she leave? What did you do?"

"Nothing, I swear!"

"Honestly, Selim, I don't know what to do with you..."

I spaced out as she scolded me and glanced around at the guests. Everyone looked hungry. Like really, really hungry. They began chugging down the water and gobbling up all the olives and breadsticks. When they were finished, it looked like some people were about to start chewing on the plastic bottles and table cloths. What made it even worse was at some point the big screens showed the food in the buffet being filmed. Rice, macaroni, salads, beef, chicken, duck, soup, cakes...all showed up, one by one on the huge screens. Why would they torture us like this? What's next? Were they going to start coming out with trays of food and hover them under our noses for a few seconds and then move on...?

Suddenly doors swung open leading to the buffet. By the time I stood up, it became like the Million Man March. I went to the salad table, which was empty. Everyone was cueing for the meat; for a delicious slice of Jokla or Jekla...

I picked at my salad alone at the table. My mother hadn't returned back. I assumed she must have gone and sat with other friends of hers. She seemed quite disappointed with me. Fifteen minutes later, I located her, excused myself, and explained that I felt a bit ill, and went and found a taxi to take me back to the comfort and safety of my kingdom.

I reflected on the night during the journey home.

Every once in a while you go through an experience that may only last a couple of hours but completely embodies the culture of an entire nation. Now I don't like to judge people, let alone an entire culture...but in the span of five hours, I've witnessed people celebrating union by blocking traffic, I've seen people singing praises about how white the makeup of the naturally dark bride is, an army hotel that probably took half the country's education budget to build, Koran reciters singing about nipples, a wedding speech that sounds like a bargain for a goat and confessed Israel-haters dancing to ‘Good Morning Israel.'

With that said, I really don't understand why they wouldn't let me in with the tie around my head.