Al-Ahram Weekly On-line 16 - 22 November 2000 Issue No.508
Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875

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Out of time

By Mona Ghandour

With every sunrise, time awakes anew from its slumber. Some pant to catch up with its inexorable course; others have struck a deal with the clock; others yet try to kill it with innumerable weapons; and most are its false witnesses.

The hero of our story is one whose fate is not of his own making. His only role in life is to count, to tick off the seconds and minutes; but with time, he has lost his memory, and become a false witness. At the outset of every journey, he comes alive: a flick of the driver's nonchalant fingers sets him in motion, and the regular click begins, asserting his presence for the time being. This motion is unreal, however: the numbers do not budge, and continue to indicate the same figure throughout the journey, no matter how long.

Time is money, but he sits motionless under a coat of artificial fur, senseless to his surroundings, lulled by the Qur'anic verses that keep misfortune at bay. Overcome with boredom, he may find some distraction in the doll left there by the driver's daughter to keep watch, and remind her father not to go too fast, for death may be around the corner.

He may be shielded from evil by a five-fingered palm, which wards off the envy in the enemy's eye. But what is there to envy? All the signs were there from the start, spelling out the certainty that this would be a miserable experience. At the beginning of the journey, the driver's reassuring smile allows you to believe that you are in control. Like the metre, however, you are just a lifeless entity with no say in the matter at all.

You have no control over the traffic, the speed of the vehicle or the volume at which the singer's voice emanates from crackly speakers. In downtown's blazing midday, any singer's voice is a bombardment, a loud and senseless assault on tired pairs of ears.

The Qur'anic verses prompt you to give yourself over to your fate. Just surrender, and say a little prayer. If you arrive at your destination, it is by His grace alone. If you don't it is by His grace that you have served as a good example for others -- for those, at least, with the wisdom to learn from your mistakes. Rest assured: if you die, you will do so in peace and tranquillity. So fasten your seatbelt, and hope for the best.

Out of sync metres on taxis or daredevil cabmen on horse-drawn carriages point out to a different concept of time more in tune with the drivers' need than their clients' desires photo: Thierry Gicquel

Like the metre, however, the seatbelt is a liar. After all, your days are numbered. Nothing will befall you unless God has decreed it.

A seatbelt is a tie that restrains and imprisons the passenger. The driver, too, in spirit and body, is imprisoned in a tin can no bigger than a needle's eye. The city tightens its grip and stifles him.

The city has conquered invaders and subjected time to its will. It has withstood age bravely: the Mother of the World may be an old woman, but she is clothed in patience. Despite her long suffering, she has learned a kindness of sorts.

The metres come to the city from all over the world. They surrender their national identities, counted out in dirhams, dinars, francs or yen; the numbers spin endlessly, meaninglessly, in the black box that dances to the street's frantic rhythm. The metre loses its function and its nature in Cairene space and time. Is Cairo not the victorious? It is a name the city has done much to deserve.

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