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Al-Ahram Weekly 19 - 25 August 1999 Issue No. 443 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 19 - 25 August 1999 Issue No. 443
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Features Profile Travel Living Sports Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters The last straw
By Fayza Hassan
Wherever I go these days, I find young women in important positions who accomplish their tasks with poise and efficiency. Many are married with young children, a fact their employers consider rather normal and for which they often make special allowances.
Forty years ago, when I landed my first job overseas, things were quite different. My first prospective employer extended unsolicited advice on the innumerable dangers incurred by children of working mothers. He did not hire me -- for my own good -- nor did half a dozen managers in other companies. When I finally found employment, the position offered was neither lucrative nor interesting and my appointment was furthermore peppered by barely disguised threats that I would lose the job if I took unwarranted days off, or if my performance was in any way hampered by my duties at home. I decided to make the best of it, however, and laboured at pleasing my bosses and colleagues. I came on time and stayed late without ever claiming overtime pay. I took work home and refrained from pointing out that I was entitled to annual holidays.
It was a large company and there was only one other woman working on my floor. Like me, she always seemed to be doing more than her share. Unlike the men's desks, ours featured piles of files that never seemed to decrease. When the boss strolled in in the mornings, he often stopped to chat with "the boys" but never acknowledged our presence, not even gracing us with a perfunctory "good morning". To him we were invisible and I doubt that he knew our names. "It must be all these files hiding us from his view," I once told the other woman, but she looked fearfully around and did not answer. She rarely spoke anyway, and all I knew about her was that she was a widow, supporting four children on a less than adequate salary.
Years went by, but the only thing that changed in my professional life was the amount of work, which increased steadily. It was said that the company was doing well. One morning, I was called in to the boss's office. At once, I imagined that I was about to be fired although I was quite sure I had made no mistakes that warranted such a measure. When I walked in, the man behind the desk barely looked up. "The young man you have been training, Bob, will be put in charge of your department," he said coldly. "He is still quite green and will need help. I expect you to assist him." Since nothing more seemed forthcoming, I left, elated at the thought that I still had my job.
Bob was a nice enough chap, not very bright but always courteous. I had my doubts about his managerial talents, but it was really not my place to point out his shortcomings and I was quite willing, at this stage, to give him all the support he needed. Unfortunately, the promotion changed his demeanour overnight. He developed an attitude and a reckless disregard to the consequences of his decisions. I had a hard time not telling him what I thought of his skills. On one occasion, having read a particularly offensive letter he was addressing to one of our best clients, I decided to warn him. Forgetting that he was now my boss, I pushed open the door of his cubicle. He was reading a magazine, his feet on the desk. "Get out," he said rudely, "and next time you come in here don't forget to knock."
It happened at once. In two minutes flat, I had collected my things and was out of the building. I ran all the way to the train station, sobbing. The next day, I found a better job at three times the pay. Why had I waited so long? I asked myself, and so did my old boss, whom I found waiting for me when I came home that night. Why had I not complained, asked for an increase in salary, extended holidays, whatever I needed? He seemed puzzled at my stubborn refusal to change my mind. I had always seemed so content, so willing to work. He had never imagined that I was not perfectly happy with my lot. Did I want Bob's job? He would give it to me tomorrow.
For many weeks, he took to calling me at least once a day, and so did Bob who apologised profusely. I was missed, they said, and they had had to hire two people to do my work. I never went back, but I have often wondered at the weight of the straw that breaks the camel's back.
