5 - 11 April 2001
Issue No.528
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Al-Ahram Weekly On-line 5 - 11 April 2001 Issue No.528 |
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Sharing the sky
The first time I became acquainted with the concept of absence I was three. I must have been a rather clinging child, because my mother never said goodbye before leaving the house but waited for me to be engrossed in play, then sneaked out. My grandmother was left to deal with the screaming once I had discovered what I considered a major betrayal. I did not like my grandmother on these occasions, and blamed her secretly for my mother's disappearance.
On that particular evening I had somehow discovered my mother's absence but decided not to say anything because I did not want to hear my grandmother's falsely carefree voice telling me that she would be back soon. I therefore dragged a chair near the window, climbed on it and stuck my forehead to the pane, waiting for the lights of the car heralding my mother's arrival.
Probably worried that I may fall, my grandmother tried to make me leave my perch. Annoyed at my stubborn refusal, she finally hissed: "Don't bother waiting, because she is not coming back." At that point in time, I had never contemplated such a possibility. I imagined a life without my mother and wanted no part of it. When she came back, although I had fully intended to tell on my grandmother, I found myself unable to utter the words. They remained inside my head, a new weight that I had to carry around, the first secret that I could share with no one. At night in my bed I would make up scenarios in which my mother abandoned me, and invariably cry myself to sleep.
Growing up, this original fear took different forms. I couldn't bear to see anyone leaving, not even casual visitors. I felt obscurely that those who departed were bound never to return. I would only fall asleep when I heard my father's footsteps on the stairs. When he was late, my mother would explain that he was meeting his friends at Al-Shams café, and only the thought that he was sitting in the sun while it was night for the rest of us consoled me a little.
In 1956 I saw my teachers, friends and parents' friends go one by one. The Gezira club was as cheerful as a desert and so were the familiar streets downtown where we no longer stopped to chat with acquaintances. For a while I refused to make new friends because I was sure that everyone would be leaving soon.
I began thinking that I belonged to a cursed generation and the feeling of emptiness I had experienced at the window that day long ago returned to stay, especially when our turn came to make our way to distant shores.
When we returned to Egypt after a long absence, I made my husband promise that we were never going to move again. I was sure that another separation would kill me. For a few years my wish was granted. My father had died while I was away, but the rest of the family was in Cairo. Every night, I tucked the children in and locked the front door before joining my husband in front of the television with a feeling of jubilation. I was blessed.
Little did I know that the worst was to come, in the form of an American husband who took my older daughter away to Florida. I was so shattered that I was unable to talk to her normally on the phone. It took us years to patch up the rift that developed between us. I did not see her for ten years; my grandchildren were already grown when I finally met them.
One evening, as I was visiting them in Florida, the children invited me to lie on the lawn with them and look at the stars. They were naming the galaxies for me when I suddenly noticed a larger star, shining more brightly than the others. I recognised its shape at once. "That's Mir," I told them enthusiastically. "I see it clearly in Cairo from my dining room balcony." They had no idea what I was talking about; nor did they show undue curiosity but, as they resumed their chatter, my heart grew lighter. They were no longer so far away since we had the sight of Mir in common. I watched in dismay the other night as my old friend disappeared into the ocean. One more bond had been severed.
By sheer coincidence my mother, who has recently developed a tendency to reminisce about her childhood, was telling us about the time her mother took her to a convent in Switzerland and left her there for several months. "I had no idea where she was or if she was ever coming back," she said, traces of the old anxiety in her voice, "but I used to look up and think that we could never be completely cut off, since we shared the same sky." Fayza Hassan
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