Morning Walk

Most mornings, we enter the shadows of tall concrete and brick apartment buildings

that line our walk to the canal, stepping carefully onto sidewalks with high curbs,

and newly laid tile with some uneven dusty gaps, a few unkempt cats watching for tidbits

while others are eating from dishes and look respectable.

                After several blocks, we turn the corner onto Ghomorea Street with its porticoed walkways,

vestiges of a more refined European past, and then slip into a side alley

that opens onto Palestine Street. There, we climb granite stairs

 and get a high look at what’s coming or going on the Suez Canal before us.

Have the night fishermen returned to their harbor?

Has a cruise ship from America or Europe docked the evening before?

Are any gigantic cargo ships passing by from any other where on the globe,

Or are the swooping black-headed terns the only movers over the waters?

                We descend and continue on towards the corner where deLesseps,

that French mover and canal maker was knocked off his pedestal when the natives rebelled

against all things foreign in 1956. At the bodiless base of the statue, we turn left

and walk past the flowing fountain, the lemon-blossomed trees, and wooden benches

where a few cats sniff out trash bags tossed by passersby.

A sun-braised mosque towers before us where we turn right

and walk past fishermen newly returned from the night waters,

their plastic square mats on the sidewalk piled with gray prawns,

 blue-tinged crabs, or small striped silvery fish. 

Loaded  trucks emerge from open metal gates of the docks and scuttle off to their appointed

markets. We hold our noses and quicken our steps as we hurry toward the sea.

                In front of the Shooting Club, we mount several steps to the Korniche

and scan the northern horizon of the Mediterranean to see how many ships are headed which way.

The other day we counted 26 large vessels in a row, following some invisible leader.

We continue west along the Korniche where turbaned trash collectors sweep

 and collect the previous evening’s droppings from many careless hands--no trash bins in sight.

                Near the bend in the metal fence we find Mohammed setting up his cardboard tent

with a newspaper fortress on the flat copestone of the low granite side wall

 against the high black metal fence surrounding a green hedge.

Here, sheltered from the sun, he imbibes the sea breezes as he reads,

listens to the news, and scribbles page after page,

 giving and taking treasures from the world of words.

Sometimes a vase of fresh chrysanthemums sits by his side.

“Life is to enjoy!” he says, but then wonders how it will all end.

We greet each other and journey on into our separate commitments

-or sometimes sample a morsel of each others’ minds.

                We continue down the Korniche to the opening by the row of palms,

now encased in a row of nearly completed red tile-roofed shops.

We greet the nearest worker and continue city-ward to our flat

by the Cathedral where we breakfast leisurely and prepare for the day ahead.

                Soon, our steps will return us to the land from whence we came. The weight and wonder of this place by the sea will journey with us as we give thanks to God for all.

Where Learning Lives

View from our balcony of east harbor in Alexandria in the early morning when the Korniche (walk along the water) is relatively empty, unlike evenings when it is full of people enjoying the breezes.

Ptolemy I (who succeeded Alexander the Great)  would be proud.  This I decided after a three-day stay in the coastal city of Alexandria last weekend.  No, he probably would not be amused at all the high-rise buildings hugging the Mediterranean Sea. He might not like seeing the crowds of human and auto traffic on the streets and beaches with their noise and refuse. However, he would find the treasures of the mind still alive.

     This amazing library also houses museums, art exhibits, a planetarium, and cultural events. I happened in on a folk group named “Ebn el Balad” practicing for a performance. I recommend that you listen to them on Youtube. 

Not only was love of learning evident in the library, but as we wandered among the streets of Alexandria, we chanced upon a large book market of thousands of titles, and we spotted numerous bookstores elsewhere.  I did not see this apparent valuing of books in any other place we have visited in Egypt. It seems that most people here, as in most of the world, are tied to some technological device rather than books.

I think Mohammed Ali, who ruled Egypt from 1805 to 1848 would also be proud. He is credited with creating “a grand modern city” wherein normal secondary schooling was excellent and people spoke four or five languages because of the mix of nationalities. While Egyptian education, in general, is much maligned today, I felt that somehow Alexandrians have better opportunities to learn, having had strong foundations in the past.

Saint Mark, one of Christ’s disciples who brought the teachings of Christ to Alexandra in A.D. 49 and was martyred for it, would also be happy to see that today the Coptic Orthodox Church is alive and well in the heart of downtown Alexandria. His initial teachings of the words of Christ also gave birth to the monastic communities that are still alive in the deserts of Egypt.

To the right is an icon of Mark that we saw inside Saint Mark's Coptic Cathedral in Alexandria.

From the hum and bustle of life in Alexandria, we went to the lovely Coptic retreat center of Anaphora to spend a few quiet days before returning to noisy Port Said. Besides being a retreat, this place is also a center of learning that has a sizable library and teaches such practical skills as weaving and organic agricultural methods. We stayed in one of the rooms pictured at left. The ancient domed structure keeps the space cooler than would any other style.

It was there that we met a team of Polish and English scholars who are working to put together a research library of ancient Coptic texts (6^th century and later) found nearby in a monastery called Deir el Surian. You can read about this amazing project if you look up “Levantine Foundation.” Saint Mark would be so happy that someone cares about preserving these precious works of Christians who were his “disciples.”

As teachers here in Port Said, we often hear stories from students who are angry about the poor state of education in their classrooms and in this country. Thus, it was refreshing to find that there were, and still are people in Egypt who care deeply about learning and are doing something about it. Yes, both Ptolomies I and II would be glad, as are today's Coptic scholars who are trying to keep their language and history alive.

Ahmed

Ahmed, you could say, is just one among hundreds and thousands of Ahmeds in Egypt, like the stars in the sky.  However, like a planet among stars, this student has a unique shine.

Last week in class my students were discussing types of crime and ranking them as: not very, somewhat, or very serious. Typically, most students agreed that murder of humans is the most serious. Knowing that many Egyptians consider it bad luck to kill cats, I threw out the question, “How serious is it to kill a cat?”

Several of the students smiled and said, “Not very serious.” 

Ahmed, however, disagreed. With a very serious expression he asserted, “It’s very serious! Then he proceeded to tell us of having hit a cat on the street and seeing, in his rear view mirror, its death struggle. “I didn’t sleep for two nights after that,” he said.

Two of the girls looked at him amazed, and one of them burst out  “You are so kind!” I think we were all surprised at this admission of his feelings.

Last night Ahmed, who works full days and attends class ten hours per week (two classes), came late and then almost immediately left the classroom to take a long work-related phone call. I was a bit annoyed that he had missed half the class, even though it’s hard for him to show up given his tiring job and busy schedule.

However, after class he came to me and said shamefacedly,  “I’m so sorry. I know I came late, I didn’t bring my book, and I didn’t do my homework. I’m a bad student. Really, I respect you and I like your way of teaching. I’m so sorry!”

True! He does not shine in academics, but what’s not to love about a young man with this kind of drive, honesty and sensitivity?!

Red Sea Reverie

Red Sea outside our hotel in Ain Sokhna

I thought it was a tale of twenty years ago when they said

dolphins swim in the Red Sea waters along the coast at Ain Sokhna,

but what did I know?

Much longer ago, young Saint Antony (251-356 AD) gave the poor his hefty inheritance

And headed for the hills west of the Red Sea to live with God alone,

But what did he know?

And even longer ago, when Moses saw that bush burning strangely in the desert

And heard God calling him to lead his people out of Pharoah’s wilderness of sin and slavery,

What did he know?

So little we know.

Antony, through duals with demons and desire for God, became the father of

many who left home and sought in the Egyptian desert the wisdom of

a life lived on bread and prayer inside a solitary cave.

Yet, I wonder what he knew of dolphins and roses,

Of children’s laughter, of songs and sunsets?

Moses, that fugitive shepherd, was shocked into reluctant obedience

to the One God who gave him courage to face down a powerful king,

and a sea that any sensible person would never think could part.

I wonder if he spotted any dolphins diving for cover

As they swam through a sudden wall of waves in that sea?

And I, sitting on my balcony by the Red Sea in the morning, marveled to see

the graceful arcs of a half dozen dolphins swimming along the

aquamarine coast toward a further point where they turned

and came back for another showing in the deep blue waters of the afternoon

beside a lightly pebbled beach with shells like alabaster.

So little we know of God’s ways.

So little we know of God’s world.

At St. Anthony's monastery with Laurice Louis and Father David.

 This is the site of the first monastery in Egypt, begun in the third century. Antony first lived in a burial vault in the mountains for 20 years. Eventually, he travelled to the inner desert (this site) where he found a spring of water and lived in a cave near the top of the mountain. While there, a few disciples gathered around him, and this was the start of Christian monasticism. Many came to him in his later years for prayer, healing, and inspiration. He lived to the age of 105. We made our way to the first chapel through the arched doorway seen in back.

The first formal monastic chapel was constructed in this building in the fourth century.  There is a new chapel on the grounds for the 90 monks who live there now.

This monastery is situated by the mountains, less than an hour off the road by the coast of the Red Sea.

Inside the chapel are various icons. This shows Christ at the top, and Mary holding Jesus at the bottom. This one is the central icon of the small chapel.

To the right is the "keep" where monks kept themselves safe from marauding Bedouins in the sixth century.  They entered by way of the wooden bridge and then pulled up the bridge so that no one else could enter.

Who Are the Students?

Esther's group of elementary level students in classroom

We teach lovely young women in modern jeans

Scarved  in pastels and browns

Alongside those whose hair flow freely

beside nuns in black habits but open faces

And sharp young men who look like they

could be in high school anywhere in the U.S.,

but they are in private classes all over Port Said

this year before entering public schools again next year.

We teach managers, accountants, and logisticians

 who work in companies like CGM,

that keep the ships moving through the canal

to and from ports all over the globe.

One is a cardiologist longing to join family

in Canada, and a filmmaker/artist,

Trying to raise her family here.

Another, holding the second rank

in city government, hopes with

better English, to become the first.

A few are bankers and customer service reps

for phone companies or medical supplies,

or just lost jobs or abandoned the insupportable.

Others are teachers or students from

Port Said University across the canal.

They major in music, or swimming, or logistics,

and are trying to pass their English exams for the

jobs they know will be difficult to find here.

A few are just released from the army,

And some are waiting to enter, hoping for

that one year soldier’s designation, rather

than an officer’s three-year role. After all,

these are not safe times for young men to serve.

All are pilgrims of hope, and I am their student.

The Givers

Last Saturday, I bought some little foil-wrapped Easter chicks of Lindt chocolate and gave them, with cards, to folks who are so kind to us here. I thought it was a small gift for their always graciousness in answering our ignorant questions, interrupting their work in their shop. I was feeling a bit left out of family Easter gatherings as we had no home to go to during the weekend, other than our own, so I tried to think what I could do for someone else. Then Tuesday, I was talking with Ms. S. and asked if she would accept if I invited her to my flat for tea. She said, “Of course”!–if it was on her day off. She arrived with her hands full of several kinds of bread, some coconut pastries, and samples of the smoked fish, salted fish, and sardines that most families ate together on Monday. So much for trying to give something away, I thought!

A view from the balcony where I study with Ms. H.

Today, I met with Ms. H to have another Arabic lesson in the clubhouse by the seashore.  I took with me some fresh apple crisp that I had made this morning—small payment for her always gracious “I’m with you” when I ask if she has time for another lesson, not to speak of her paying a driver to pick me up, tipping the gate keeper, buying me tea with a gorgeous view, etc.  She says her greatest happiness is to give things away and to be with people that she likes being with. She doesn’t know how much she has contributed to MY sense of well-being here. We laugh a lot as I struggle over weird pronunciations and we talk about our lives. As if these gifts were not enough, she presented me today with a lovely little box decorated with traditional Egyptian figures playing musical stringed instruments.

In the evening, as I was trying to open the elevator door, our gatekeeper, who had just

returned from vacation in Upper Egypt, motioned for me to wait. He went into another room and produced from a paper bag some little balls of baked fermented grain balls and a lovely round loaf of flat bread called Al-shamsi, or sun bread, that is a type of sourdough bread made primarily in the villages and rural areas south of here. I had never seen it here. I received that bread as though it were bread from heaven, something quite precious that was made by his wife who lives many hours away, whom he sees only on rare holidays. He is considered a poor man, yet is so generous, many times offering to share things like a few strawberries or other bits of food he may be eating when we pass through the hallway. I occasionally have given him things to eat also, but nothing I consider so precious.

All of these acts of kindness as well as the gifts given by our students—the baby seahorse plucked from the canal wall, dried and varnished, made into a key chain; chocolate Easter bunnies brought all the way from Canada; a home-made chocolate cake, offers for help with travel plans, and other sweet gestures have been downright humbling to me. I hope that if I haven’t mastered Arabic here, at least I will not forget to take with me the lessons on generosity that have been shown us here.

"Smelling the Breeze"

     All of Egypt was celebrating something this past long weekend. First came the Easter services, followed by Sham el-Nessim (explained later).There were all day liturgical services on Friday.  Thursday through Saturday, black draperies with the symbolic Coptic cross were found throughout the churches.

Then on Saturday night from 8:00 to 11:30, Coptic Christians gathered for a mass to end the long lenten season and celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. Here, a procession of all the men and cherubic boys and youth serving at the altar in "our" cathedral make a procession around the church following a picture icon of Jesus on the cross which folks on the sides reached out to touch as it passed. After this service, we were again invited to dine with the bishop, the priests, the nuns and orphans and finally retired at 2:30 a.m.

  

On Sunday, this church held an all-day "fair" with entertainment for youth and a score of adorable children. We discovered some amazing ice-cream that we didn't know existed.

     Finally, the national holiday known as Sham El-Nessim, or "smelling the breezes" came on Monday. This spring celebration began at least 4,500 years ago in the pharonic age and was a celebration of renewal of life and the beginning of the agricultural growing season. To this day, people everywhere fill the parks and beaches with their colored eggs, scallions, smoked and salted fish called "fiseekh".  The tradition of eating this fish comes from the ancient practice of storing and salting fish from the Nile when it flooded and deposited an over abundance of fish on the banks around people's homes before the dams were built. This fish smells and tastes like it was kept for thousands of years claim some of my students who declared I'd go back to the U.S. and never return if I tasted it...hmmm.

Here some folks are setting up their cloth  "tent" for the day in a nearby park that is usually rather empty. I investigated one large circle of people and found a man and his wife and son performing simple magic tricks with a stick, an egg, a funnel with water, and a drum. Bystanders threw a few coins or bills into the center to show their appreciation.

Not a giant croquet set!

These are the frames for the rows of tents that were then set up the next day by the Mediterranean, as you can see below.

Muslim women in long black skirts take to the water along with everyone else. I met one young lady fully covered, dripping from head to toe, who had just come out of the water and stood there shivering, trying to talk English with me. Her younger brother and his friends then repeated the two lines most children try on us: "What's your name? and Welcome to Port Said" or "how old are you?"   It doesn't seem like they ever get much beyond the first day's lesson in English. Their father finally said something to the children and suddenly the boy said to us: "go!"  Don't know what that was all about. Did the parent think they had bugged us long enough, or was there some other reason? One of my students said some Egyptians are afraid of everything and everyone.  So many questions...
      In the far end of the beach, we meet the walking innertubes.  Here and there, horses would gallop past us with young fellows bending into the wind, enjoying the ride.  Some folks were flying kites with bright colors and long streamers.  It was a truly gorgeous 70-degree day to smell the breezes.