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Al-Ahram Weekly 25 - 31 March 1999 Issue No. 422 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 25 - 31 March 1999 Issue No. 422
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Focus Profile Features Travel Living Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters The eiderdown
By Fayza Hassan
When I was around 12, I developed asthma. Those were not the days of specialists and laboratory testing and everything really depended on the intuitive skills of one's family doctor. Ours was the most famous paediatrician in Cairo, a Swiss guru who kept every mother in town -- including mine -- on her toes with his pronouncements. According to him, Egyptian children's ailments had two major causes, the torrid summers and the consumption of foods unsuitable to the climate. It is not by chance that most of his patients spent long holidays in the same Swiss resorts. He sent them there. He only promoted certain areas however, namely those around the village of Choir, his home town. Neither the French Alps nor the Tessin were blessed with the unique air that would ensure rich families' offspring a trouble-free winter. My mother was convinced that, if she did not heed his advice and head for Zurich come June, we would not survive.
For us children, Switzerland was a gastronomical feast. Restricted in Cairo to a strict diet of steamed vegetables, grilled meat and the hated cup of fenugreek (probably our doctor's wink to alternative medicine or to Egyptian popular beliefs), during these holidays we were encouraged to gorge ourselves on chocolate, fresh cream, wild strawberries and anything else that took our fancy. We slept long hours, energetically breathed the pure mountain air and took long walks in the forest to stimulate our appetite. Our parents often went so far as to rent a chalet in order to avoid hotel fare, which was not up to the required nutritional standards. Back in Cairo, we were expected to draw on these provisions of good health until the following summer.
My asthma was therefore the unwelcome hiccup in a well-oiled machine, looked upon as a betrayal, a sign of my lack of gratitude. Hadn't my mother followed the doctor's instructions, and had he not prescribed the best for me? After several careful examinations and a trip to a children's clinic in our doctor's beloved Zurich, I was declared completely healthy. The obvious conclusion reached by the medical authorities consulted was, therefore, that the problem must be psychological. Was I jealous of my brother and sister and hiding it? Did I have problems at school? Did I crave more attention? I could feel my mother's worried eyes upon me. I felt important. I overheard conversations and indulged in introspection. Was anything at all bothering me? Although I was quite aware that I harboured neither hidden resentment nor secret worries, I did not mind the new status conferred upon me by my ailment. I particularly liked the idea that I could escape punishment for my peccadilloes, since my poor mother was told that undue agitation could bring about an attack. She never noticed that it didn't; nor was I about to tell her that I actually considered myself quite spoilt. I rather enjoyed the idea that she considered herself responsible and pampered me constantly. I am not even sure that I clearly knew then what brought about the attacks, but perceived that they happened in winter, in my room, and only at night. Summers, spent in Switzerland, were asthma-free, of course. Even later, when holidaying abroad had become impossible, I did quite well in Alexandria.
Nevertheless, I did use my "condition", which never really bothered me in any appreciable way, more than adequately in my teens to escape the parental acrimony typical of those terrible years. When I married, I moved to Alexandria and, for a whole winter, forgot completely about asthma. The fact that the problem had disappeared so suddenly convinced my mother further that she was somehow the culprit. I was pregnant, and we did not travel to Cairo for a few months. When the baby was born, I took her to visit my parents. It was winter and I was very cold. "Wait," said my mother, "I'll get you your old eiderdown." She came back carrying the lovely warm goosedown quilt that I had cherished for years. The moment she spread it on the bed, I started gasping and wheezing -- exactly like in the old days. When I recovered, I couldn't help feeling a little resentful. The fruit of years of successful blackmail had been destroyed overnight.
