Mad World IV : The Iftar

I had a feeling it was coming. Right as soon as I saw Frank land on my windowsill I could already smell the ma7shy and hear eight loud concurrent and incoherent conversations over the sound of a blaring TV set. I usually run over to him in jittery anticipation of my next message, but this time I edged over hesitantly, looked in the message that was attached to his leg and sighed painfully. Ok, so it’s Iftar at the family gathering tomorrow then. “Oh lord, see me through this one more time” I prayed.

Beads of sweat started forming on my forehead as I rode in the taxi on the way, hugging the giant watermelon I bought as a present so as not to walk in empty handed. The thing is, I love my family and know they love me, but if there’s any place in Egypt where I feel most out of place it’s there at the family gatherings. They call me ‘El Khawaga’ (the foreigner) because I was raised abroad, talk English well and used to teach at an English school. Whenever someone calls me this I always remember the Khawaga’s in old Egyptian movies, speaking in a heavy French accent and always saying ‘ya khabiby’.

I finally get off in front of the old building, pay my fare and the taxi zooms off, leaving both me and the giant watermelon covered in black dust. Just as I was wiping myself off, a huge arm wraps around me and pulls me into a bear hug; it was my uncle who had apparently just arrived now too. I let myself go into the hug and take in a lungful of dry sweat mixed with cigarettes. Finally we let go, he makes fun of my giant watermelon and I laugh uncomfortably, then I see his wife standing next to him and immediately find myself in the predicament I find myself in with all female relatives, do I go in for a hug or the distant handshake? I opt for the safer of the two options but end up getting pulled into warm cleavage, and the three of us start walking up the steps of the building together. A few moments of awkward silence pass, mainly because it had become recently known that my uncle had married a second wife for the last two years, and this first wife apparently doesn’t know. He is of the seemingly religious type who always spends hours at Islamic teachings and the mosque, but it turns out that at least half of those times he was with the other lady. For a second I imagine him at the mosque praying piously and then an hour later wearing leather underwear and pouring hot wax over the other woman as she sensuously strokes the zebeeba on his forehead, but then my eyes accidentally meet his and I get freaked out by the feeling that he knows what I’m thinking.

Thirty minutes later and I’m in the armpit of the evening. Right before Iftar, the 15 or so people are making small talk and catching up, while trying desperately to avoid the topic of my Uncle’s second marriage. At this point I try to be as politely silent as I can be, recovering from being pulled roughly into about 5 large cleavages and having my hand crushed in a few tough male handshakes. Like I predicted, the scene was one of chaos; think Bosnia or Palestine on a bad day. Literally dozens of conversations going on at the same time from people in completely different areas of the room, in topics ranging from last nights football match to the rumours of the presidents demise to how young people today have no morals; everyone talks loudly and gestures as if they are on a stage performing in front of millions. I could even overhear some people talking about other people who were present in that very same room! For a moment I imagine getting up, taking my clothes off and dancing wildly like a chicken, just to break up this madness.

Right on that note my mother asks me, “So Selim, how’s your job at that nice school?” I get caught off guard as I’m still thinking about dancing like a chicken, but I also hadn’t told anyone about being fired a while ago nor my subsequent mental disturbances. “Oh, it’s going fine” I reply coldly, trying to send all the telepathic signals I can to change the subject. Almost as a Godsend, the prayer suddenly goes off and I find myself alone in the living room, everyone is already on the dinner table on their second set of stuffed pigeons. It’s a good thing I didn’t bring Frank.

“Why aren’t you eating?” my grandmother shouts into my ear as she leans over just inches away from my face, drenching the entire left side of my head in mucus and bits of rice. I restrain myself from wiping away the things that are now sliding down my neck so as not to offend her, but instead motion manically to the pile of bones and leftovers on my plate. “You have to eat otherwise you won’t be strong!” she explains. “God damn it, I’m a middle aged, unemployed psychopath, I think physical strength is the last of my concerns right now” I think, but nod politely anyway. My other extremely fat aunt chimes in “yes, you must try my kobeba” with half a chicken wing hanging out of her mouth.

After massacring half the poultry and cow population of Cairo, we head into the living room for some more absurd discussions and the obligatory Ramadan TV programs. As we walk in my mother grabs my arm and whispers into my ear as she pulls me towards her. “Selim, you must talk to your sister about getting married. She isn’t listening to anyone, and for Gods sake, she’s 33!” Now let me explain something about my dear old mom, she has travelled the world and considers herself an intellectual and makes fun of the Egyptian population for being ignorant. She has been through life-threatening operations and survived it bravely. Half the time she argues how the hijab is not something legitimately required by the Koran and the other half about how stupid girls are to get married so young here without falling in love. But what happened when my both beautiful and smart sister started creeping up her 30’s? Yes, that’s right…

Before I could say anything to defend my sister I get pulled in the other direction by my younger cousin, who wants to catch up with me since we hadn’t met since last year. Now my cousin is a very nice young man, but he is of the kind who smokes hashish everyday, drinks, and dates loose girls…but come Ramadan he is the martyr of martyrs, and gives you the impression that he is so close to God it makes you want to cry and ask for his blessings. “Did you see the new Booby ads for Melody TV? It makes me sick” he declares solemnly, shaking his head. “Didn’t I see your picture with her posted on facebook when she was in Marina this summer?” I bluntly asked. He grins sheepishly and replies that he did it just because his friends wanted to. Right…

Everyone settles down as we get focused on the new Ramadan programs on TV. Two hours later and I’ve already lost half my brain cells and the rest are going quickly. I start frantically scratching my head and looking around the room for anyone even remotely disturbed by the retarded, one dimensional characters and plots, but all I see are robotic smiles and the television glare reflecting in focused eyes. “But why is this even remotely interesting? Nobody talks like that! Not everyone in the world dramatises, cheats, robs, lies, connives, and not everything is about love and divorce!” I argue in my head.

Then it hits me like a truck. I scan the room again slowly with a terrified expression. Oh my God.

Oh my…God.