On worthless husbands.

Hey, my friends – I hope you're all enjoying watching the Democratic National Convention with the luxury of real-time tv. Waiting for 1 minute BBC videos to buffer, only to watch news that happened a good 10 hours or more before, kills some of the excitement of the campaign season.
Or…. I just showed my cards and admitted the extent to which I am a politics nerd. Don't judge me.

So I have received some complaints that my blogs might be a bit verbose. Sorry. It's only that I miss being able to recount my day to you all over a beer and with wildly gesticulated hand motions. Verbosity will have to do. I do it because I love you.

Regardless of how long my previous posts have been, this one will be lengthy without any apologies whatsoever. As one of my closest friends in Egypt is my former host-sister, Gigi—a woman whose husband beats her and just gave birth to a baby girl—there can be some heavy moments. For now, I need a little cathartic release to deal with this all.

My day began ordinarily enough with a frustrating phone call to my Arabic tutor. I haven't had Arabic class for 3 weeks, thanks mostly to my teacher being on vacation. I was sure I had been told that classes would resume again last Sunday. No, I'm informed—inexplicaby, I won't have class until Ramadan, which begins on September 2nd. Furthermore, they rescheduled me so that my teacher can break the fast on time at 6:30pm. The problem is that they rescheduled me when I have work. I'm going to talk to them today to hopefully get my money back.

In any case. Arabic class was cancelled, and my evening was unexpectedly free. I decide to go to Maasara to hang out with the family and relax in their soothing presence. When arrive, all appears to be well. Gigi is recovering from her C-section last Monday, and looks like she's finally had a chance to sleep. Her daughter, Myrna, is looking less like an alien.

I ask how things are with Hasam, Gigi's husband. "Not so hot," is the response, as is expected. After all, he refused to pay for Gigi's c-section, saying that he didn't care if Gigi or the baby died. He hasn't paid for any of their medicine. He hasn't even asked to see his daughter. In other words, as shitty as they come. The problem is that they need him to sign two documents for the government claiming Myrna as his daughter. Otherwise, big legal and social problems for Myrna.

Gigi's mom and sister went to Hasam's apartment to have him sign the first paper. He apparently spent the entire visit insulting them. They just smiled and took it in order to get his signature on one of the documents. Ballsy, shrewd women, to be sure.

"By the way," Gigi said nonchalantly, "he's actually on his way over right now." What?? I should have known something was up—all of the women had their hair in curlers, which they only do for special occasions. I panic slightly. How will I react when I see him? How will he act in front of me and in front of them? Can I be polite to someone so vile?

They prepped me for the meeting. Rule number one: We are all very happy to see him.
Rule number two: I never lived with them. If he knew that, he might start including me in the verbal abuse as an outsider interferer. Instead, I'm to say that I'm a friend from church.
Ruler number three: Hasam is trying to make Gigi go home with him right away. We are to continue to insist that Gigi is not well enough to travel yet—NOT that she doesn't want to, and hopefully, never will. So we're talking up the blood pressure and post-op pain. Got it.
I don't have long to wonder what Hasam will be like, because he arrived only moments later. The instant the doorbell rang, the curtain was up: the family turned on the charm and smiles like I have never seen before. Here they wre, cracking jokes, bringing him endless cups of tea and fanta, letting him hold and kiss the baby whose life and well-being he has cared nothing about.

I was not about to be the one to crack. If the family could smile at the devil, then so could I. I tell you, though, it was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

Then came the icing on the cake: He's a pediatrician. My jaw dropped visibly; I couldn't help it. How this doctor—whose two daughters from his previous marriage have to be escorted by the police to visit him because he beat them so badly before—is allowed near other people's children, or can be so brutally ruthless to his own, is beyond my comprehension.

The evening wasn't all bleak, however. At one point, we left Gigi and Hasam alone to talk, and we all shuffled into the living room. Gigi's sisters-in-law brought down a boombox. Everyone—from the arthritic father to the 2 year old girl—began dancing. And in a confirmation of solidarity, the family told me to dance with them—which is the first time they've let me dance with their male relatives around. "You're our sister now," they said. To see the family celebrate—and to join with them—in the midst of such a difficult evening was very moving.

Shortly thereafter, their pastor arrived. It's traditional to celebrate a birth one week after it happens—it's called "Subooa." Without money to throw a big, proper party with food for all the neighbors, they opted for an intimate, spiritual evening instead. The family began clapping and singing worship song enthusiastically in Arabic, and I was able to clap along and feel a part of the moment well enough. Very conspicuously, Hasam sat there silently glowering, and finally got up and left the room. The family continued undaunted. Pointedly, the pastor spoke on the theme of loving your enemy. I squirmed uncomfortably, realizing that this central message from Christianity was meant precisely for people like Hasam and situations such as this. Truly, people who can understand this, much less do this, are saints.

Hasam around 10:30pm, with lots of smiles and invitations to return.
The moment he had gone and the door was closed, the family gathered into Gigi's bedroom and erupted in a collective release of emotion.

He had hurled insults at Gigi when they were alone together. He had refused to pay for any part of the surgery, for medicine--and even more upsetting, even for the cost of the taxi so she could go to the doctor to get a painful rash from her c-section checked out. $4 for a taxi, and he won't even do that. Gigi was yelling as she was venting, which I had never heard her do before.

The family looked worn out from such an elaborately staged evening, which resulted in very little. The mom is going to go back to his apartment in a day or two to have him sign the final birth certificate. Once that's done, they don't need to put up with his shit, and I'm sure he knows that.

I spent the night there and left at 7am so I could go to my apartment and clean up before work. I had never seen Maasara as peaceful as it was that early in the morning--I was suddenly noticing these new alleyways and corners that I had never seen during the day before. The morning sun coming through the dust in the air was really beautiful. I felt better.

Taking the microbus and the metro to Garden City, like i used to do every day when I lived there before, was also strangely soothing. I feel a lot of solidarity commuting with the Egyptians, even though I love my fairly solitary walk that I do every day now. But crammed into the back of a microbus, squished between Egyptians who seem fairly nonplussed to have me there, is a good feeling in some ways. like I belong.

Tonight my roommates and I return to Maasara—this time, to celebrate Myrna and have a proper (if small) Subooa. It's time to eat, laugh, and dance, and leave all worries about Hasam for another day.