"Malesh" by Andi and Hillary

Chaos. If we had to describe Cairo in a phrase, it would be ubiquitous chaos. And, while this makes for a very interesting and enjoyable cultural experience, it also means that in order for most things to work out the way you want them to, it usually takes an act of God. Consequently, we quickly made the acquaintance of our good friends “malesh” and “insh’allah”.

“Malesh” is a much-used Egyptian phrase that translates as “no problem”. Closely linked to malesh, is the Muslim phrase “Insh’allah” which means “God-willing”. These two phrases are heard everywhere in Egypt. We began using the phrase “malesh culture” to describe Egyptian culture because daily hiccups in plans are inevitable in the chaos of Cairo.

An example of this would be the first Wednesday of classes when we had planned (and been clearly told that it would be possible) to watch the US-Algeria World Cup match on the community center’s TV with our students and to have the other Downtown site over. However, ten minutes before the match we discovered that the center did not get the channel with the game and all of our plans were shot. Our community facilitator Muhammad then jumped in, and we all followed him around Cairo in hopes of finding a coffee shop that could accommodate seventeen people. As usual, everything worked out wonderfully and our students enjoyed watching the game with a pack of fifty Egyptians at an outdoor café.

After this very malesh incident, we realized that we were the only people who had been bothered by this unexpected chain of events. The “can do” Western attitude with which we had grown up is at complete odds with the malesh culture. In the West, we want to be able to control and predicate every moment instead of just letting things flow. We are scared of being wrong, messing up, getting sick because we believe that those things get in the way of our lives. In actuality, that fear-inducing mentality gets in the way of living.

This prompted Andi to remark that she had read that language reflects the culture around it. She admitted that since the first day of Arabic 1, she had been perplexed with the popularity of the phrase Insh’allah because to her Western mind it always seemed a rather fatalistic statement. For example, why couldn’t a simple question like “Do you want to go to the movies tomorrow?” by sufficiently answered with yes or no. Andi’s remarks also reflected my previous mindset. After that conversation, we made a decision to let the Western impediments melt away and since then, slowly, we have found ourselves adapting to and even enjoying the malesh culture.

So, we were prepared for our next malesh moment. It was a week later and we had spent the hour before stressing about readying materials for class (the printer ran out of ink). Four p.m. rolled around, and we began to wonder where the man with the key to our classroom was. We continued waiting until 4:15, when we finally ended up calling him. At 4:30, he returned the call and finally let us know - half an hour after class was supposed to start - that he wouldn’t be coming in with the key.

For a brief second, our Western selves panicked. “What to do?” our minds screamed. Then, the malesh set in and we decided to take an impromptu felucca ride with the class. The hiccups that followed seemed negligible. We had to lead a class of about sixteen refugees through the congestion known as Tahrir Square to the Nile. Malesh. When we arrived, the felucca driver told us he could only fit twelve people on a boat. Malesh, we got all twenty plus the driver on it. Ten minutes later, we were sailing along the Nile, dangerously low to the water. Malesh. Instead of stressing, we all found ourselves enjoying the situation.

Now, when mysterious air conditioning fuel drips on us or when we unknowingly buy and eat liver from a street vendor, we find ourselves saying “Malesh” and truly meaning it. We have fully adjusted to this Egyptian mentality, at least we hope so. Insh’allah

A Sudden Burst of Energy

On Saturday July 3rd, we went Ana El-Masry at our scheduled time. When we arrived to the complex, to our surprise it was extremely quiet. The complex was lacking the incredible energy and the loud voices of the children. We looked for a staff member to figure out what was going on. We were, then, informed that the older kids from ages 9-16 had been sent to a three day camp, and that the only children in the complex were the nursery kids. The staff member led us to the TV room, where before we entered the kids were quietly and orderly playing and watching TV. As soon as they felt our presence, chaos broke loose. The kids suddenly acquired a burst of energy. They were so happy to see us. Immediately, kids wanted to play Ms. Mary Mack, Jacks or just sit on us and talk to us. The kids fought for our attention. They all wanted to sit on us, hold our hands, or play with us. Some kids created trouble just to get attention. However, slowly the kids began to fall asleep. The sudden burst of energy was only temporary, and their little bodies could not fight sleep anymore. After the 3 hours that we were there, most of the kids were asleep on the floor or on couches. I took the opportunity to take these pictures, for this would probably never occur again.

A Little Fresh Perspective

Through a trip with the Arab Academy, some of my peers and I met a girl named Rachel who seemed very interested in our work with St. Andrews and the refugees and asked me if she could come visit our site one day. I told her what channels to go through to get permission, she did so, and the next thing I knew she was sitting on the metro with me on Wednesday heading to Ain Shams. As we approached the site, she confessed to me that she knew nearly nothing about the situation of refugees here or what’s going on in Sudan. I assured her that I, too, knew very little about the subject. Yet I went on to explain to her that northern Sudan is Muslim and that southern Sudan is Christian and where Darfour falls in all this. I explained how you can tell from looking at my students that most of them are either Darfourian or northern Sudanese but not southern. We finally made it to class and during the break halfway through, as she was getting to know some of the students, the subject of gangs somehow came up and I expressed my surprise at her not knowing about the gang violence that has arisen from the uprooted Sudanese youth. I immediately checked myself and realized that there was no reason she would know. There was no way she’d have learned about any of this from just living in Cairo. I was actually caught pretty off guard by how much I did know- while I’ve been enjoying my work, I hadn’t really taken notice of how much experiential learning I’ve been doing in the process.

It’s not just about Sudan or refugees either. As I was walking Rachel back to the metro after class, she told me I should really consider being a teacher. I would have normally replied with a polite thank you and awkwardly changed the subject, but she said it so genuinely that I asked her why she’d made the comment. She explained that when she observed Brendan and me in class, it seemed like we knew the strengths and weaknesses of our students so well and like we knew exactly what was appropriate in what situations. I was not only flattered by what she said, but also began to see how naturally someone learns things like that. The process was so gradual that I needed another westerner to be dropped in midway through to give me a point of reference. The whole experience got me excited about what else I’m going to discover I’ve learned once I get home and encounter an even starker contrast.

Beyond

Dear Faithful Readership,

I'm back. It's been far too long. I've been trying to give other DukeEngagers a chance to reflect on the blog...that, and I have been too exhausted to write anything coherent. With a light weekend fading behind me, and a two-hour nap tucked in there today, I now write to you.

The Zohan has asked us to either post pictures and describe them or write about something that surprised us in our week this week. I'll top that. I'll do both. But first, let me describe the title of this post. A few weeks ago- I think it was about the same time that Hannah and Hillary posted about the Luxury of Theory- I was going to write something titled "To Ambivalence and Beyond." A reference to Toy Story 3, which came out that weekend, it was about how I'd moved past my frustration that I described in my previous posts and how I had come to "embrace the chaos" of Cairo (thank The Great Andrew Simon for that nugget of goodness).

Essentially, I discovered that people like myself are products hearing "Can't Isn't In My Vocabulary" too many times. Our successes so far in life have been spawned by the positive self-image that President Obama so eloquently picked up on in his 2008 campaign: the "Yes We Can" philosophy. Our votes matter; our voices matter; our abilities can indeed bring about change. However, I had to shed myself of all these ideas that I could instigate change or success, instead hugging tight the pessimistic notion that I could not succeed whatsoever. This way, every little thing seems like a victory. It is a hyper-cynical concept- one very foreign to me, and I find myself to be quite a cynic in the first place- and I don't think it's a good life philosophy, but it works for NGO work in Cairo. Once you can put forth an attitude of ambivalence towards the obstacles you face here, everything immediately brightens up. I call it my “Small Victories” philosophy.

Thus, we get to the "beyond" part. Now weeks after changing my mindset, I feel better. I have not had difficulty in dealing with the world around me, save nearly being mauled by the clowder of feral cats a few nights ago as I emptied the trash. I have enjoyed teaching more, enjoyed my NGO work more, and have enjoyed this experience more once I took a step back and realized that I might not be able to have the same profound effect I expected to have.

Having caught you up to speed, what was it, then, that surprised me this week? How my beautiful patience has been worn so thin. I genuinely am marveled by how patient and outgoing I have been over the past three weeks. Sure, I complain about things just as much as the next guy (if not more) but I still keep my nose to the grindstone. But eventually the grindstone, well, grinds you down. This week, after one of the worst days ever (the kids at I the Egyptian were truly too much for me to bear; I decided that if Dante wrote the Inferno about DukeEngage Cairo, I'd be put in the circle with hundreds of uncontrollable 2-9 year olds), I snapped at my students in English class.

Let me lay it out for you: we were playing a game where they split into two teams, and they decided not to listen to me when I split the teams. This is a usual occurrence, so no big deal, right? Wrong. That day they decided to pick on the adorable, socially-awkward six-year-old. The boys on either team kept shouting at each other and at him about how he was on the other team; eventually, the boys started pushing the poor kid to either side like neither of the teams wanted him. I didn't tolerate it. I didn't tolerate it because 1) I identify with little kids that get made fun of and there just ain't no way I'm going to let it happen to someone else, 2) I was a socially-awkward kid (and I guess I still am), 3) because this boy is particularly sweet to me, 4) because I couldn't muster up enough patience to deal with it any other way. In beautifully correct Arabic, I told them to sit down and that he is on Team 2. When one of my students decided to mock Team 2, I spun around and told him to "Sit! Here!" and there was immediate action followed by immediate silence. Of course, I didn't yell or do anything wrong; I merely used a surprisingly stern voice and all of my 6'5" frame. Plus, I did the right thing. Rule #1: No picking on kids in my classroom.

But I was still surprised. Where had this come from? I love teaching these kids. In the Ain Shams Dynamic Duo, I am the carrot and Maheen is the whip. How had I transformed? Had I assimilated into the Egyptian culture, where arguing and shouting is a daily occurrence, or had a part of the American get-worn-down-and-finally-explode culture somehow eked through? Did the Small Victories Philosophy fail me, or was it a natural reaction that anyone would have had?

Alas, I will never know. What happened happened, and I did the right thing. I had ventured into the beyond weeks ago and this is simply part of exploring that grey, misty world. My students finished the game and enjoyed the rest of the day. No residual feelings. Teacher and students still get along. My patience repaired the hole in its wall. Discipline was properly disseminated.

I guess you'd call that a small victory.

Here is a picture of some of the kids in the nursery at Ana Al-Masri. Don't be mistaken by how calm they look. At least four sets of hands were grabbing my camera as I took this. Half of my pictures from that day have fingers in the frame.

This is Andi playing with some of the kids. She is awesome. Everyone ought to know that Andi is quite possibly amazing in every regard, particularly at playing Miss Mary Mack.

Pictures!

These are some pictures of us working with the three different NGOs. The first picture is from the day when we observed the classrooms at St. Andrews. We were able to see how the teachers worked with the students and gain strategies for our classes. The second picture is of Ruba and me with our students in Hay el-Ashr. We had a social outing that day at a nearby pizza place. Our rule for the dinner was that everyone had to speak in as much English as possible. We played word games and "I Spy", which they enjoyed very much. The picture below (top left) is of Nusaibah, Maheen and Moana teaching at Al-Kayan. Six of us work with Al-Kayan three times a week. On Saturdays we teach the staff English. We always have a lot of fun with the students there. The last two pictures are of Hillary and Max playing with some of the students at Ana el-Misry. Seven of us go to Ana el-Misry three times a week as well. It's been a great first half!

Reflection on Reflections

This weeks’ reflection dinner marked our first month in Cairo. As we shared our stories of our most recent experience with our St. Andrew students- taking our students on an outing- I realized just how much exposure we had had to Egyptian society in the past month. We discussed the problems that some of us encountered when we took our refugee students to the Egyptian museum or cinema, and our conversation, which touched on issues of race and poverty, forced me to think about how the service-learning purpose of our trip influences the way in which we interact with society around us. When I think back to the past four weeks, I realize how Cairo had started to grow on me. I was surprised by how quickly we had adjusted to the way of living here, the work ethic, the culture- all just in under a month. Our work at the two community project sites has enabled me to come into contact with Egyptians from all walks of life in a way and become both a part of as well as an outside observer of Egyptian society- where I can both appreciate and critique my experience and purpose here. When we shared our observations of attitudes towards our refugee students, I noticed how we appeared to have taken their treatment personally, feeling frustrated and upset over the treatment of our students in a way that even the students themselves did not seem to feel. This, to me, was one of the greatest indications of how closely we had started to build connections with the population we were serving, making their pain our own, and to me, this has been the most rewarding aspect of the time we have spent here so far. I can already tell that returning home after 3 weeks, is going to take longer than an 11 hour plane ride.

To Tourist? Or Not To Tourist?

As we passed the halfway mark, meaning a whole month had elapsed already, very little changed in terms of our daily lives. I can speak Arabic a little better, and I know my way around now, and haggling comes a lot easier. But few other changes can be found between now and our first week, really. It's been like a major birthday, where you know you're supposed to feel older, but you really don't.
The frustrating part of this? I still get looked at as another American tourist. Trust me, I stick out in a crowd here, and it's a little disheartening to know that I could live here for years and still get the "Welcome to Egypt" greeting from strangers on the street who just want to interact with a foreigner. By this point, the impulse I have to restrain is the desire to turn to them and tell them off in Arabic, proving I'm not just some tourist and explaining to them that I live here.
But what makes me not a tourist? Just because I'm here for two whole months, or I live in an apartment, or because I take classes and teach and volunteer? So what? Two months is a seriously short amount of time, and, as our Pyramid tour yesterday proves, we still want to go around and do all of the sight-seeing and get all the obligatory Cairo pictures we think we need. Where's the distinction?
The unfortunate truth is that I don't think there's much of one. Yeah, we might be slightly more conscious of our dress (especially compared to some of the scandalous outfits I found on people yesterday in the Pyramids area...), but I know I still show my ankles most of the time - something you just don't see on most of the female residents here, even those women who don't veil. And my Arabic isn't that great, especially not my Amiya (colloquial, spoken Arabic).
The big difference, in my mind? What we'll eventually take from the whole experience. Yeah, we'll bring home the pictures, and the souvenirs, and we'll have been to many of those "you've got to go" places. But how many tourists have our microbus stories? Or will remember the contented looks on a bunch of street kids' faces as you let them rest on you to watch a subtitled 'Sword and the Stone?' While we're here, they seem like such little things, lost in the daily bustle as we rush from place to place, from experience to experience. But I have a feeling that, when we go home, it's gonna be Mustafa's smile as he rests his head on my arm, or the kid running up to the microbus' driver seat and stealing the keys, which stick in my mind a lot better than the crowded Pyramids area or whatever other obligatory "Cairo" feature.
Unfortunately, this knowledge does little to curb the comments I get walking down the street, but at least it helps me curb my temper.