Issue No. 607
Living
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10 - 16 October 2002 Issue No. 607 Living |
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 | Recommend this page | ||
Mood Swings: Season's greetings
Most will vouch for a total of two seasons but I persist in seeking out rudimentary signs of autumn and spring. Spring may be well nigh impossible to pinpoint, less visible in the pollution-saturated aerosphere of the crumbling metropolis. But in Alexandria, no doubt, in late September and October, something about that particular combination of temperature and humidity, the rustling of certain stray leaves against ongoing lullabies of the Mediterranean, the hesitant attitude of pedestrians, even the hiss-hissing of vehicles undecided as to whether they are coming or going, whether their summer break is about to commence or end -- however subtly, indeed almost inaudibly, something manages to whisper, "Autumn!". And the sound, as unheard as it is arresting, tends to be so instantly engaging, so squarely within the scope of nature-attuned humanity's incorporeal hearing apparatus, it breaks the veil of ice covering one old memory or another, severs the scaffolding that keeps together the exterior aspect of the soul. And you end up availing yourself of all that has come to be associated with this time of year; autumnal melodies bubble forth -- to infinity.
Which is not to say that autumn is all about romantically imbued recall. It is also about the peculiarly Egyptian, ever more desperate wait for the briefer, the more universally relished of the two seasons. Others -- in the Maghreb, in Turkey and Iran, in the hinterlands of post-industrial Europe -- may think of the weeks in question as auguries of the cold. The wintry vision signals long icy nights and days like soggy blankets wrapped around the sun, movable feasts of unceasing discomfort and ever-present dreams of warming your feet by the fireplace. In Cairo, by contrast, winter is the happiest thought. More than anything else, it's a matter of giving your overworked air-conditioners their long- awaited break -- of finally shedding the insufferable weight of perspiration, of enjoying an unmediated breeze by the corniche or awaiting your sweetheart in a leather jacket. Whether or not it is registered as such, what the sound of autumn whispers to most people is a message of relief. "The long horrid summer is over," it intones. "Soon the New Year will be upon you and, while you are merrily partying indoors, the streets will be bathed in that gorgeous aura. Remember..." Winter, not autumn, is the magic word; and it implies content.
Like those ever-elusive Cairo springs, autumn tends by and large to be too intangible to be noticed. It is winter that begins with falling leaves. October is not the cruelest month; it is the most melancholy. Its memories are invariably dusky, its atmosphere saturated with the debris of severed connections; the loss, by death or other means, of loved ones; the failure to keep going; the never-never dream. It comes with the back-to-school syndrome, this distressing sense of coming to an end. The traffic congestion may be more bearable than its summer counterpart, but it descends with abrupt cruelty. You begin to see children everywhere, in elaborately formal uniforms, mouthing the most ludicrous obscenities while they wait for conveyance on the streets. Their shrill voices recollect the swish-swishing of Alexandria's end- of-summer cars, the harmony of rustling and sea noise. This is your day off from work and you feel you should be enjoying it more; perhaps your plan to wander through the streets by way of welcoming the new season wasn't as astute as it seemed. Yet another work week has to pass before you can find your way to the Mediterranean again. Now there is simply too much exhaust, the overcast sky inspires nothing but despair. Confused, you take a sharp turn, speed up and occupy your favourite place in a familiar downtown café. But the waiter seems to be equally disoriented and he keeps you waiting. The customers, few as they are, are remarkably, eerily silent. The coffee is not hot enough. You leave...
Last Sunday was the first day of winter. It was also the 6th of October. Insofar as it can be described at all, the feeling was one of resignation. The sun shone brightly without being too painful -- in itself a rare treat. People were friendly and obliging. Phone calls redeemed relationships. Yet the melancholy was still there. Paradoxically, it was a function of the most cheerful aspect of the day: the memory of victory, the Egyptian people's only celebrated military triumph -- a thought which, in redirecting the mind towards matters social and political, brings along its own unnecessary baggage. Waking up to the sound of low-flying aircraft -- more disturbing than anything I had heard for months -- the only thought that lodged itself in my mind was that of war. Iraq, the Iraqis, US retaliation: you can hardly go on enjoying the not-too-bright sun of the end of summer once you notice the huge state security trucks parked on either side of the road on your way to work. Olive green, menacing, they were there to intercept some invisible demonstration. And no matter how frequently and emphatically you are told that the aircraft in question were actually part of the 6th of October celebrations, it is impossible to forget that this is exactly what it would have sounded like had the war cast its unique shadow over the city of Cairo.
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