9:31. I rolled over to turn off my cellphone alarm, which was chirping in my ear. I burrowed my face deeper into the hard mattress and scratchy sheets I was laying on. I didn't open my eyes yet. I was sleeping at my host family's house in Maasara, as my 16 year old host sister was still deep asleep on the couch next to me. My first conscious thought this morning: "I'm home." The bed was familiar. I could find my way through the apartment blindfolded. The noise of the propane tank vendor banging on his damn metal cans in the street was a familiar cadence. I don't like falling asleep with someone else in the room with me, but I really enjoy waking up that way. Knowing Sara was fighting to hold on to the last few minutes of sleep too was a comforting thought. My home. My bed. My sister.
10:20. I had finally gotten myself out of bed (the unspeakable luxury of working the swing shift), dressed, and was now munching on french fries for breakfast with my host mom, Um Hani. They're in a pinch for money right now, with doctor's bills piling up, so french fries is what we've got to eat. I loved it. Sara and I had to shake Um Hani awake at 10am, and she was looking cranky. I giggled. Here is a true family moment--mom in her pajamas, grouching good naturedly about giving Sara her lunch money, wanting to get more sleep but wanting to fuss over us even more.
I really had to get going in order to get home to Garden City in order to shower, change, and so forth before I went to prep my English lessons at work, but Um Hani was in a chatty mood and looking for someone to talk to. I curled up and cuddled with her as she told me all about how she had gotten married at 16, but how she would never--under any circumstances--let her 16 year old daughter get married to anyone that young. Apparently Sara, the youngest daughter, had a cousin in upper Egypt who wanted to marry her.
"No way," grouched Um Hani. "I know about women in Upper Egypt. All they do is sit at home, eat, and make babies." I giggled a little bit, seeing a lot of that same description in Um Hani herself, but glad to know that she still had plenty of spunk left in her.
11:15. Um Hani stuffs one last french fry into my overly-full belly, and I'm finally out the door. I get a phone call. Phil Rizk has been kidnapped by the security forces. My God.
Conversations in which you receive bad news are usually terribly inarticulate, simplistic--even glib. This morning's was no better.
"Phil Rizk has been kidnapped."
"Oh, wow, really? Man. Wow. I can't believe that. Wow."
"Ya, I know."
"Really. Wow. Do we know any details?"
"Not yet."
"Man. Ok. Man, that's awful. Wow, well, thanks for telling me."
"Sure, alright. Talk to you later."
"Ok, see ya."
I remember having a similar conversation when I found out about Patrick. Or when my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time. It takes time for these things to sink in, and it seems like our mouths just kind of blabber for a while to stall and give us time.
Bad news rarely punches me in the stomach--rather, it just sort of shifts everything off kilter. It snaps me into a heightened awareness, a kind of alert unease. After I hung up the phone, I resumed the conversation I was having prior to hearing the news, but the whole time my brain was pulsing, "Phil Rizk is kidnapped. Phil Rizk is kidnapped."
I should mention here that Phil is an acquaintance, not a close friend. I had a beer with him once, but beyond that, I only ever crossed paths with him as a guest speaker for my study abroad program, and know him more as a "friend of a friend" kind of capacity. Hearing bad news about this level of acquaintance is painfully awkward.
I feel really upset about this. Wait, why? I don't really know him that well. But come on, do I need to justify feeling upset about someone I know getting kidnapped? I'm upset. But then, think about his close friends and family--I mean, they *really* feel upset. You can't really compare yourself to that. Are you sure you aren't just trying to get on the "I know Phil Rizk" bandwagon now that he's a little famous? No-that's a ridiculous thought. I know him. This is a terrible thing--I'm allowed to feel upset.
And so on, back and forth. Or maybe no one else is as neurotic about such things?
I am cautious in wanting to check that I'm not feeling upset for selfish reasons. It's such a simple thing to let upset feelings cover over an underlying feeling of guilty inadequacy. When an acquaintance is struck by tragedy, we are left feeling clumsy. Twiddling our thumbs, a sense of uselessness creeps in: if only I had known him better, been there when it happened, done something sooner. Making a big show of emotion becomes a kind of way to counteract our inadequacy. I really worry about doing that.
4:15. After I arrived at work, my mood became noticeably more agitated. I went into a classroom to do my lesson preps alone, instead of chatting with my coworkers like I usually do. I had brought with me a tomato/cucumber/red pepper salad in a tupperware bowl, and began distractedly eating it with my hands as I stared at my curriculum guide. I wanted chocolate. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to go home now. I noticed that my hands and jaw were clenched. I'm upset.
Staring out the window, I watched veiled women and men in galibayas and teenage delivery boys on motorcycles passing by the window. A sweet potato vendor wheeled by his portable oven and wrapped hot potatoes in some kid's algebra homework. The breeze was warm. Isn't this the Egypt I know and love? But what about the police state and security forces--isn't that Egypt, too? These too images were difficult to bring together in my mind.
Somewhere in Egypt right now, Philip Rizk is in prison. Two school boys walked by, snacking on Doritos and talking loudly. How many Egyptians never have to interact with the security forces. And how many Egyptians have been abused and harassed by them. Which Egypt should I see when I look at the street? Which Egypt should I interact with?
I sigh and admit to myself: there is something selfish about feeling upset about this kidnapping. I am upset not only for the safety and well being of an acquaintance, but because this kidnapping points a finger back at me: He's an activist. Why aren't you?
I sit back and consider my life in Egypt: my host family, my internship, my friendships and relationships at my English center. All of these things are satisfying, all of them worthwhile.
What about Gaza? What about the Sudanese refugees you said you were going to volunteer with? What about human rights, women's rights, voters' rights?
I listen to the string of accusations circling in my mind, and then consider the costs of activism. Do I believe in a cause so strongly that I would be imprisoned for it? Tortured for it? Kidnapped for it?
I drank a strong cup of black tea in the sweet afternoon sun, letting these unsettling questions wash over me.
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