The Urchin

My senses were suppressed by unintended sleep but I still felt the movement subliminally of something near my feet. The effort of moving my sedentary eyelids wasn't as considerable as comprehending what forms my sticky sweet and lethargy drugged brain was fed. The desert and the sea were there; as they had been when I succumbed to the inadvertent siesta. They looked... strange, like someone had painted half a sheet the paper blue and then folded along the divide but the paper splayed back out to a semi open state that elevated the blue higher than the white. From my vantage it looked as if the sea was rising above me and the next swell would sweep away me and my book and the... It was the dog. I instantly felt gratitude it wasn't the girl again, then... what? Shame? Pity? No not pity. That was earlier. The mutt was the sort of skinny that comes from eating to little and moving to much. I had tossed him scraps of my chicken the day before and he was the cautious melody of grateful that comes from being abused by shopkeepers and pitied by tourists. He had first approached me a step or two at a time. Just to be sure I wouldn't produce a broom and strike the instant he was in range.
Not quite like the girl. She was about six or seven and trying to peddle bracelets made of thread twisted like the coil of a whip. She had approached me with more gusto than the dog. Maybe that's why I had the first pangs of apprehension when I felt the dog near me; not because I found her company distasteful, but because of what vile things Jiminy Cricket whispered in my ear after.
"You buy one?" she in the staccato English of someone not quite sure of their words but sure their time is limited.
"Bee kem?"
"Ohhh you spoke arabee. What color you want?"
"Laa laa. Bee kem?"
"Pay what you think is fair."
"Black and red if you have them."
The perfectly pronounced and complete sentence stunned me into submission for a few tempos. In that time the girl had started pulling string off the spools in her bag.
Her bag. The first time I noticed anything about her was her bag. It had the flare and cut of something expensively European but was several years old as evidenced by splotches of black and gray on the handle which snaked round to cover the bottom.
"Whats that?" pointing to my upper lip which was iced in droplets of sweat.
"Sweat. Water" I said though my hand as I wiped the accumulation off.
"I don't get that." She quipped. "I'm brown." Too true.
The rest of her wasn't in much better shape than the bag. Her pink shirt had morphed into a Nantucket red. Her hair and feet were the sort of dusty gray that too much salt and sand produce over time. She had finish unwinding thread off her spools.
"Hold this" she said as she forced my index finder into loop of thread that needed a bit of coaxing to fit low enough so I could hold it.
After carefully selecting several threads of different colors from the tangle she started winding them around the lace stretched between her hand and mine. It was mesmerizing. She moved with the precision of a craftsman who is so practiced she just moves. No thinking. No planning. Just swift exact movements. Wind, wind, wind, wind, twist a loop and pull tight. She must have been left handed because she was holding the cord with her right hand and doing all of the precision work with her left.
"Where you from?"
"America. And you?"
"I'm Bedouin." I had noted that the instant came into my sight but I didn't feel like pursuing the topic so I let a silence settle.
"What State are you from?"
"New Hampshire"
She made a clucking noise between her tongue and palate which is the Bedouin thinking noise.
"The capitol of New Hampshire is Concord." I must have shown surprise somehow because she laughed the high pitched laugh of a child who is positively thrilled and excited.
"I have a map. The man down the street trys teach me English. He reads map to point."
She made a flourish with the end of the loose threads that had been wound about a third of the way down the remaining threads. Her thin fingers selected a few more white than black this time and started winding again.
"New Hamsheer have snow?"
"Lots and lots."
"Twenty meters?" I chuckled and she stopped winding to look into my eyes. Then she went back to winding.
"No, where I live we get one or two meters per year." The shoulder slump was so subtle I almost didn't see it in the sun. Disappointment maybe?
"But north of me they get three to five meters." Her sagged frame rebounded instantly.
"Who are they?"
"The people that live north my home."
"Whats north?"
"Above my home."
"In the sky?" I chuckled again but this time she didn't droop. Then I registered that she had been smiling since she spoke. A joke?
"Silly silly" she managed to get through a giggle. "I know people can't live in the sky."
The thread had almost run out so she stopped talking for a second to tie off the threads.
"Do you have...?" and she made a motion I didn't catch.
"I'm sorry?"
"You know..." then she made the gesture again. It was sort of a twist of the left hand so the palm was facing down which she then crossed her right over so she could rub her fourth finger on her left hand between her right thumb and index finger.
"Am I married?" Bingo.
"Yes! Are you married? With a... with a... waf, wif..."
"Wife?" I volunteered.
"Yes! Are you married with wife?" She paused her work to look up for the second time since she started.
"No. I'm not married." The dejection in her transparent childish face was devastating.
"No wife?" She had asked hoping to cling onto the one last chance allowed by her vocabulary.
"Nope." She sighed then went back to the winding. I started to fidget because the string was cutting off the blood to my finger.
"Stop! Stop!" She grabbed my finger and the cord in her minute hand. Then she slid down to a kneeling position like a mechanic trying to get a better view of an auto's suspension as she adjusted the loop.
"There. All better" she said like she had saved me from a horrible fate. She gave the half finished bracelet two subtle tugs to make sure her mechanic's eye was correct.
"A Russian woman told yesterday that her finger would" she cleared her throat as if to make sure she didn't mix up words then she said something in Russian.
"Do you know what that means in English?"
"I think it means 'my finger will fall off' but that can't happen," she looked into my eyes again, "Can it?" There was something urgent in the look she gave me, like I was the only person who could assuage her fear of losing a finger.
"Not if you keep moving the thread a little bit." Her apprehension instantly dissolved into her normal bright demeanor.
Another pause to tie off the threads.
"All done! Where do you have it?" I extended my right wrist to her. She gave a slight smile; the sort you give yourself after you think something is going to happen, then it happens just the way you knew it would.
"How tight? Good?" I placed two fingers under the band to space the bracelet away from my skin. She tied off the loose end then snipped the spare threads with a pair of scissors that looked to be of the same origin as her bag and just as worn.
"Thank you."
"You are welcome, sir."
I pulled out three pounds from my pocket and gave the crumpled brown bills to her.
"No five?"
"Too much."
"Okay. Thank you."
She bounced up and waltzed between my book and the low table.
"Have a nice day."
"You too." She disappeared.
The guilt came swiftly. Then the shame; who combined with the first assailant to make a biting synergy that was enough to distract me from my paperback and look across the sea towards Saudi Arabia. Three pounds? I could see she was dirty, likely hungry, and probably without a real home to go back to. Three pounds? It wasn't the bracelet that made me ashamed. It wasn't completely the fact I gave her 53 American Cents. What was it then? I stared across the rough blue to the distant shore. That was it. It wasn't that I regretted my position in life or resented hers. The epiphany had come when I sipped my coke. That was it wasn't it either. Not the coke; the external form of which is know world round as is the product inside. The physic of the coke was immaterial. The essence not the external form was what made me conscious-stricken.
Was I regretting my position in life when compared to hers? Not exactly but it could be that I regret her seemingly limited potential. What could she do? Hawking bracelets on the beach will only get you so far and then... So what do I do? I could accept my moral turpitude and do nothing. I could raise money and help the street children.
On my way out of the restaurant I gave the attendant ten pounds and asked him to buy the girl lunch when she came by again. He was shocked. After asking me several times if I was sure before he finally conceded and took the bill while giving me an incredulous look. So that is what I do. Pray solipsism won't kill me and write bad literature in the vain hope that it will emancipate my soul.

Perfidiousness

Not to sound pedantic but my preferred example of hypocrisy and its best friend, irony, is the life of Justus von Liebig and the results of his work. Like most good intentioned scientists, Liebig started out wanting to help his fellow man. True to form of other altruistic scientists his first invention was Sulfur Mustards which became prolific in World War 1 trench warfare before being defamed then used again in Egypt and Sudan fifty years later. The diminutive is that this chemical development was the genesis of chemotherapy which saves a respectable number of cancer patients per year. The voluminous irony though is that Liebig was the first person to make a process for Nitrogen fixing fertilizer economically viable. This single invention allowed farmers to stop the time consuming process of rotating crops and just revitalize their fields instantly. The irony is that without Liebig's nitrogen work the world's population (especially in China) would be far outstripping the ability of farmers to produce enough food to feed everyone. The hypocrisy is that Liebig didn't consider any of his works to be significant enough to change peoples lives in any momentous way.
Which brings me to Fashion in Egypt (Ok so maybe that was a bit pedantic). My humble estimate is that roughly three quarters of native women wear head scarves while an additional ten percent wear a full burka (click the links for pictures). Where I see the hypocrisy is that most younger women choose to wear highly colourful head pieces which naturally attract the eye and draw attention to the girl. Isn't it just a touch hypocritical that the article of clothing that's main purpose is to dehumanize the wearer is emphasising the only visible aspect of the Arab woman's femininity?

Dating

Yes, dating. Why dating? Scrutinizing the way courtship, marriage and how people interact in a society can offer some excellent insights. Due to a prevalence of religion in Egypt, dating is slightly different that in the States. Now please understand that my meager knowledge of this topic is holistically secondhand and/or hearsay. So to remove ambiguities here are a few of the most pertinent questions answered.

What is dating?
The popular definition is: Where a young man and woman (or boy/girl) are in a one-on-one intimate relationship, spending time together alone, "getting to know each other" in a very deep way before deciding whether that's the person they will marry. Quaint, eh?

Is dating forbidden is Islamic culture?
Yes

What, what?
Dating in Islamic countries is highly frowned upon by religious doctrine but I will get to that later.

Is "dating" in Islam comparable to dating in America?
Yes, but no. It's purpose as a selection process is slightly different and the standard procedures are very different.

How is it different?
The biggest disparity is the amount of family involvement. The Quraan states quite explicitly that couples should always be accompanied by a family member because "Whenever a man and a women are along together they are accompanied by Satan." This is slightly reminiscent, to me at least, of the British World War 2 poster advocating carpooling that proclaimed "When you ride alone you ride with Hitler" and had a nice little picture of a Wanker riding with a ghostly fuhrer. Furthermore couples should "lower their gaze to guard their modestly." Good thing the Brits didn't advocate that practice while driving.

Ok so step 1: Pray that Allah will send a suitable mate your way. This applies to both men and women.

Step 2: Family meeting! The pertinent members of the family gather to investigate and discuss potential nominees. After consensus is reached the mother or father will approach the head of the selectee's household.

Step 3: Meeting the date: This stage is the closest thing to "dating" and is always conducted in a group setting meaning the couple will always be accompanied by a family member, usually the mother of the girl. This reminds me of the courtship strategy suggested by Joshua Harris in "I Kissed Dating Goodbye", a book which many parents of my high school contemporaries forced their progeny to read. Mr Harris's thesis is that the concept of dating should be exchanged for a "Group Courtship" which I do condone however Mr Harris did not foresee the probability that if a couple, Christian or otherwise, get married they will be spending time alone and will have no bearing on how their now spouse is during the non social hours. This rather skewed view of Ah well, target your market as they say. Mr Harris has sold a million copies of his book and 300,000 of the accompaniying study guide (these are mostly denim jumper home schoolers after all).

Step 4: Background check time. The families ask about the other family by talking with friends, family, co-workers, religious leaders, and of course, Google.

Step 5: Pray again. Just to make sure all the metaphysical bases are covered.

Step 6: Decision time. A while ago the powers that be decided that the people who are to be married should have final say in who they marry. This was done to avoid making women a commodity and discourage marriage becoming a parental business venture.