The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but seeing with new eyes. --Marcel Proust
It
is very rare to be alone in Egypt. Particularly if you are female, but
even if you are male. This is true within the home and also outside of
the home. Even having a bed to yourself is rare. It is not uncommon for
unmarried people to share a bed with two or three same-sex relatives,
usually siblings and cousins. Young children sleep with older siblings
or with their parents. Co-sleeping is a wonderful byproduct of this
scarcity of personal space. Although it is frowned upon by many affluent
societies, co-sleeping
has been linked
to greater emotional well-being over time in addition to promoting
better, safer sleep and helping to stabilize physiology (breathing,
heart rate, and body temperature) in the short-term.
In
Egypt, an entire floor of an apartment building in the city or an
entire village in the country might be related. Children run from one
apartment or home to another without permission or notice, being fed,
cleaned, and disciplined by just about everyone they encounter. Their
parents do not worry about where they are even though they can't see
them, because, wherever they are, they are surrounded by relatives. You
almost never see a homeless
person in Egypt. You may see a family
living together on the ground of an abandoned building, but rarely will
you see an individual living on his own even in the street.
Just because we are never
alone doesn't guarantee that we won't ever feel lonely. Still, the
research is unequivocal: Social isolation is like poison. Social
integration, on the other hand, is a powerful protector of mental and
physical health. Although there is a great deal to be depressed and
anxious about if you live in Egypt—for example, poverty, lack of employment opportunities even when you are educated, having to cross the street
—it
is hard to focus on yourself enough to actually feel anxious or
depressed. As I prepared to return to The States from a long stay in
Egypt during my early 20s, my relatives and friends worried incessantly
about my returning home to an apartment of my own. The very thought of
it made them sigh loudly and sadly. I would giggle and dismiss their
concern, assuring them that I had lived alone for years. But they were
right, and I was wrong. I guess Egypt had gotten under my skin. As it
turned out, I could barely hold onto myself in all that space those
first days back home. I was
wahidah ('alone'; but, more accurately, lonely).
At
the same time, I found that I had developed a profound appreciation for
the simplest things upon my return to America. I couldn't stop kissing
my nephew (that, actually, was no different from before). I always had a
remarkably deep love for my two sisters and two brothers, but there was
something about being worlds away from them with so little contact for
so long. It was still the case that we could not (not I in Egypt, nor
they in America) easily afford the international calls at the time, and
despite that I would be starting my Ph.D. upon my return to The States, I
had barely used email by that point in my life (which, for better or
worse, seems shocking now). After that separation which was excruciating
while willful, I was so happy to be relatively nearer to my siblings
again that I could easily let things go
—not
because I became passive in Egypt, but because I had actively learned,
and decided, that I would much rather love them than be 'right'. This
became my general approach to life. I fought only what seemed to me the
most important of battles. I didn't have a sense of entitlement about
many things at that point in my life, but I did feel certain that I am
entitled to being me and that others are entitled to being whomever they
are. Interestingly enough, giving people the space to be themselves
often means overlooking the things they do that don't please you. So I
worked at becoming the woman I
wanted to be, a woman who is not
easily bothered by the relatively insignificant unpleasant things that
people do. This way, they could be them; and, in letting the small
things go, I could still be me.
I also came to understand
the extent to which my happiness and my smile are my birthrights. Even
if it is true that only people born in America, or other wealthy
nations, say such things. I was
aware that my happiness, which I somehow wear very visibly, led me to be
perceived as not serious enough and/or not smart enough in the very
serious academic world that I was just joining at that time in my life.
But—after months of trying to tone down the happiness radiating off of me so that people wouldn't call
me magnuna (crazy), and holding back my smile so that it wouldn't be interpreted as an invitation for inappropriate behavior
—that
just didn't seem all that important to me. Certainly, not more
important than feeling happy and smiling. Certainly, not more important
than being me.
I was immeasurably grateful
for my freedom and savored it like never before. I was bubbling over
with gratitude and renewed understanding of what a privilege it was for
me to choose to save marriage and childbearing for later and, with all
due respect to my Baba (Dad), also to not have to still be living in my father's home. (And I know that Baba will not take offense to this, because he—even more than his children—savors
his freedom. This, I am certain, is what sustained him through
migration, nearly complete separation from his family of origin, and
the overwhelming burdens of single fatherhood and financial strain that he would carry in America.)
I was grateful to walk outside with my arms exposed; to soak up the sunshine. After months spent in a conservative
Saiidy ('southern';
often used in a derogatory or humorous manner to imply backwards) town,
where I had trained myself to look down or away, particularly when
older men were around, I slowly relearned my steady, brave gaze. Sadly, I
stopped thinking in Arabic; but gratefully my Spanish
—which, oddly, seemed to get buried as my Arabic grew
—returned in its place.
And,
of course, I had a renewed appreciation for the space that I take up in
the world. Although I had to adjust to spending most of my time alone
studying after my time in Egypt, where I was never once alone outside of
the house and almost never alone inside of the house, I profoundly
appreciated the space in the world that was uniquely mine. My
300-square-foot apartment adjacent to the 405, one of the world's
busiest freeways, off of Santa Monica Boulevard seemed blissfully serene
after returning from Egypt. To be sure, all things in life are
relative. Los Angeles seemed more like a countryside to me (just a
diverse, interesting, and magical one in which all things are possible)
compared to city life in Cairo, which can only be described as a
constant state of emergency physiologically-speaking.
2013 is here. Many people enter a new year with resolutions: finally stop
smoking, exercise regularly, focus on the present, be more patient. I
have never been big on resolutions (or maybe I should say, I am big on
them year-round), but I do have a resolution for 2013. My resolution is
more like a hope or a prayer. My hope is that we
—Egyptians living in Egypt, Egyptians living in America, Egyptians and all people living everywhere
—will
find a way to bridge the very best that our worlds have to offer. The
very best of Egypt's interdependence and communalism, and the very best
of America's independence and individuality. To have the companionship
and shelter of loved ones to hold onto at every turn, while also having
the mental and physical space to grow and the freedom to be as we are:
to radiate as much happiness as our bodies want, to smile easily and
often, to look wherever our eyes take us, and to soak up the sunshine. I
don't want to do those beautiful things without being surrounded by the
people I love, but I also don't want being surrounded by the people I
love to mean that I no longer have the ability to do those beautiful
things. I want to live in a world where I can have incredible closeness
with the people I love
and the freedom to know what it is that I love. I want that for my children, and I want that for your children, too.
*The
ideas and opinions expressed here do not represent the University of
Southern California, the Leonard Davis School of Gerontology, or any
research funding agency.
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*The ideas and opinions expressed here do not represent the University of Southern California, the Leonard Davis School of Gerontology, or any research funding agency.
