Zamalek sha'a (apartment)

Christmas Eve in Cairo

"Merry Christmas!"

We've heard this all day today, and expect to tomorrow as well. It's so refreshing to hear the words of the season I grew up with in Catholic Chicago; words I myself barely say in P.C. America these days - instead going for the bland "happy holidays". I hope America catches up with Muslim Egypt - a land, a country, a culture, a people proud of their Muslim-"ness", their Islamic-"ness", and still happy to please those of us who celebrate Christmas with a very hearty, smiling "Merry Christmas."

There is hope for us in America - many of my friends, and I, and many others* are taking back Merry Christmas as well as happily stating Happy Hanukkah to those for whom it is meaningful. So, let's get back to it ... and if you've had a Happy Hanukkah already, great! Happy to hear that. And if you're celebrating Christmas, have a Merry one!

Tomorrow, I'll hope to continue to hear the Merry Christmas from my Muslim brother, friends, and strangers alike.

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* I distance myself from the right-wing nuts who want to "take back Christmas" with their own "right" to separate themselves from everyone who doesn't celebrate or observe it. They're too far gone for my taste.

Eagles, Bob Marley, and Cairo Taxi

Nevenka and I experienced the best taxi ride ever in Cairo. We got into the cleanest taxi ever; one with a meter (so there would be no question about the fare at the end); with the quietest driver; and with great music. Well, "great" is relative. The previous taxi we were in was blasting bad "pop". This one started out with the guitar prelude and smoothly into "Hotel California." I apparently started singing along and the driver took note - and raised the volume, obviously to please me (or drown me out? :-)

Before the Eagles had even finished their tune, the driver (who had to be "my age", which is to say a lot older than most other drivers we've had lately) skipped through whatever CD was in his system until he decided Bob Marley was suitable for Cairo traffic at night. He was right. Although we were stuck in normal (slow, beeping) traffic, Marley was crooning out that we had no reason to "worry" 'cuz "every little thing's gonna be alright". And he was right. We ended our ride much too soon! (Bob was still singing) The meter read only 4.50 LE (Egyptian Pounds), which is less than a dollar! I was so happy, and "generous", I gave him a whopping pound-fifty tip, i.e., 6 LE (around $1.10)!

Madrid, September 09

the quickest of blogposts - nearly a 'tweet' on twitter - arrived today; felt like i was 'home' (even if Spain might serve as a "third home" after Cairo and Boston/USA). just feels great to be here. work to be done - building new programs for Northeastern (students and faculty); then, off to Belgrade for the more/most important aspect of this trip: Nevenka.

Egypt, Syria, Qatar: Journalism & MidEast Studies Dialogue, 2009

I've not posted here at all this summer because I set up a special blog along with my colleague Carlene Hempel (co-leader on the journalism dialogue) and our 25 student bloggers.  

To see what I've been up to from May 3 - June 5, please see:  

http://denissullivan.wordpress.com/ 

And to see our students stories, and their blogs (and Carlene's), see:

http://northeasternjournalisminthemiddleeast.wordpress.com/

and stay tuned for 2010!  

Philip Rizk - detained, "disappeared", finally home with family

For the past few days, Egypt (and many destinations in Europe and the US) has been a swarm of activism and action by friends, family, and others over the fate of a young Egyptian-German blogger, activist (on Gaza especially), and student at American University in Cairo: Philip Rizk.

Philip was detained (or "kidnapped", more accurately) by Egyptian authorities on Friday February 7; police refused to acknowledge that they actually were holding him; initially, they denied his parents' access to Philip. A wave of local and international protests ensued, and under this global "watch", the government finally gave in. Philip was released on February 10 and is home with his parents, an Egyptian father and German mother.

A friend of mine here in Cairo, an "unintended activist" as I call her (she had no reason to become a human rights activist in Egypt, as this is not her own nation), issued the following email to those of us who cared to watch for, pray for, and work for Philip's release:

• "While Philip is safe, many other bloggers and activists remain in detention. The New York Times could run a profile of a political prisoner in Egypt every day for the next year and only begin to scratch the surface of the thousands of people who are locked up because they spoke up, wrote a blog, or went to a demonstration. Without foreign passports and connections to international media, their situations will receive almost no attention. Please keep them in your thoughts and keep pressuring Egypt and other governments to release prisoners of conscience and allow freedom of speech, press, and association."

As I "blog", I myself wonder ... am I one of the 18,000 or so known bloggers in Egypt? or is that the number of Egyptian bloggers who are writing about their country, their society, their economy, their hopes and dreams for a better Egypt? These bloggers have our support - no matter what their ideology or approach (unless they are advocating violence ... then they should simply have our attention, and our vigilance against their views and actions). Democracy bloggers, bloggers for freedom of speech and conscience have more than an uphill struggle in Egypt - they have intense police scrutiny! Let's keep an alternative eye out, and keep a light shining on the dark practices of Egypt's police and especially their secret police, the infamous mukhabaraat.

The "new AUC"

A "unilateral cease-fire" from Israel - how very thoughtful

Israeli politicians and military officials have called for unilateral cease-fire - just in time for America's savior, Mr. Obama, to take office.  I'm sure he and his people appreciate it.

Meanwhile, Gazans continue to discover more bodies under the collapsed buildings, hospitals, schools bombed by Israel over the past 23 days.  Given that 1/3 of the 1,200 killed (so far) have been children, we might expect that this ratio will continue.

I write from Cairo, host to supposed "peace-making" talks, or at least "bilateral cease-fire" talks.  Let's hope.  Not "hope" as in "Obama Hope", but hope for an end to the slaughter of innocents - the 3 (three) Israeli civilians who have been killed over the past month; the near-400 Palestinian children plus another 200 or so innocent women killed in that same time.

I won't say more.  I will leave it to Ellen Cantarow, "friend of a friend".

I COULDN’T SAVE A SINGLE CHILD

When I was a child my mother used to cry, “I couldn’t save a single Jewish child.”  

Now I am my mother: I cannot save a single child in Gaza.

Not the ones wrapped in green cocoons lying row on row, surrounded by throngs of grieving men. I cannot comfort the fathers who jump up and down in agony, screaming as their children lie dead before them on the ground. 

I cannot comfort the mother whose eyes, ravaged and blanked by terror, stare beyond me from the photograph, nor save the little one with bloodied, bruised face who stands beside her, nor the older brother, the only two who survived of six. I cannot say, “Come, we have a big, comfortable basement with a bed for you and the children, and a bath, and plenty of food. We will take you and shelter you.” I cannot welcome them to a home full of calm, of sunlight, with the warmth of potted plants, the refrigerator full of food, the showers waiting to receive them, the warm water streaming down to comfort their bruised and tired bodies. 

I cannot save a single Gaza child. 

Not the ones I saw on Al-Jazeera lying dead with heads all bloodied, under blankets on the ravaged ground. Not the little one, maybe 2, maybe 3, bloodied bandages covering her bloodied skull and face, her bruised lips showing and part of one dull and hopeless eye, her helpless bigger sister, surely no more than 4, beside her. I cannot take her and bring her back to normal life, hug her and sing to her, take her to my piano and ask her to listen to the strings as I run my fingers over them, watch while her face lights up with pleasure as she spots my cats, hold her, and hold her, and hold her….

I cannot save the little girl, maybe 5, who says the soldier stood and looked at her, then shot her hand and then, as she turned to run to her mother, her back: “One bullet went out my back and through my stomach.” Will doctors in a hospital the siege had already drained of medicines and equipment, a hospital where patients must share beds, where the floors are full of the wounded, and the blood pools around them --- will the doctors working quickly, as expertly as they know within the chaos of the terrified families pouring in from the terrified streets of Gaza City, will the doctors working as quickly as they know, but in this wasteland, save her? 

I cannot save the newborn Mohammed, monitors on his chest, a respirator over his tiny face, born within the ground-shaking, ear-splitting terror of bombs falling from F16s, into a life from Dante’s inferno, a life where the smoke of exploding shells and bombs gags the other children, the women, the men, fleeing helpless before the behemoth wielding their “pure arms” to crush these “two-legged cockroaches,” [Yitzhak Shamir's infamous phrase] these Palestinians of whom Golda Meir said, “There are no Palestinians,” and whom the Hebron settlers curse in savage scrawled grafitti: ARABS TO THE GAS CHAMBERS. These people of whom the Rabbi said, “One Arab is not worth a million Jewish fingernails.” About whom Avigdor Lieberman, that man of the Israeli people, says, drop the atom bomb on them as the Americans did on Japan. 

I cannot lift the dark-faced, dark-haired teenaged girl from the stretcher, rock her in my arms and say, “Darling, Shhh, it will be all right,” because it will not be alright. She is already dead, face down on the stretcher where the hopeless cover her body while I watch her image at my computer. 

It will not be alright. 

It will not be alright. 

It will not be alright. I am my mother, and it is 1942 all over again, and this is the Warsaw Ghetto – different, I’ll admit. I’ll admit they aren’t killing everyone. Just some of them. Only 400. Only 600. Only 800. Only 1000. When does “collateral damage” become malice aforethought? When does that malice translate as “deaths?” When do deaths become “a massacre?” How many in a massacre? A holocaust? The shoa Mr. Vilnai wanted?

I cannot save a single child in Gaza. I am my mother, and we are weeping together. 

ELLEN CANTAROW Counterpunch, Weekend Edition, January 16-18, 2009