Читать книгу Judge Me if You Can - Sami Sabet - Страница 6

The Early Years

In 1962, my mother, brother, sister and I travelled to Egypt for what I had thought to be our annual holiday. However, it was earlier than usual, and my mother was pregnant. We stayed at my maternal grandparents’ flat for about three weeks, then moved to a new one, a couple of miles away. It was on the seventh floor of a block situated on the corner of two main streets, opposite Heliopolis hospital. From our large, L-shaped balcony, we could see a good deal of the suburb Heliopolis. To the front was a very wide road with two carriageways for cars and buses, separated by pavements enclosing tracks on which the metro travelled. On the left side was an equally wide road divided by a tree-lined garden running along the length of it. Beneath us on our block were a grocer, fruit and vegetable shop and a couple of offices.

A few days before the end of May, my grandmother came to stay with us. Two days later, she took my mother to the hospital across the road from where we lived. On the first of June, my second brother, and youngest sibling, Sirkaak, arrived, and became the only sibling not to be delivered at home, and by my father.

A scuffle between Saudi Arabia and its neighbour, Yemen, had broken out. Egypt had sided with Yemen, resulting in tension between it and Saudi. Despite this fallout, the Saudis asked my father to stay, offering him citizenship and the position of Minister of Health. He felt strongly about the situation and the unfairness of the Saudi Government towards the Yemeni people. His strong beliefs forced him to reject the offer and resign. Three months later, he gathered our belongings and returned to Cairo for good.

My mother had to hire a maid to help her with household duties and look after my baby brother and sister. Semita, my older brother, and I were both sent to the local Primary School, about half a mile away, on the same side of the road as our flat. We had returned to a much busier, more cosmopolitan environment to that of Taif. Our 8-storey block of flats, along with the shops underneath, dwarfed any building in Saudi, and the metro line, which covered the whole of the Heliopolis suburb, was only one of many all over Cairo.

Our neighbourhood was fairly new, with several blocks of flats being built further to the east of us. These numerous building sites offered brilliant opportunities for me to explore. Apart from the metro and buses, there were very few cars on the street, though it might not have appeared as such compared to Taif, due to the enormity of Cairo.

When we were in Saudi Arabia, I was very fond of Ali, who took good care of me and played with us. When we left, I was startled that he had bought me a pen as a present and nothing for my siblings. I guess this fond memory of him drew me to the builders and security guards working on the building sites. Some of them displayed his mannerisms and had similar accents, encouraging me to visit, talk and drink tea with them. They told me stories about where they came from, the families they left behind, and how they lived. Most of them had come from Upper Egypt to find work, as there were no jobs in their villages, and they needed to make a living. They had to leave their wives and children back home, because they could not afford to bring them to Cairo, or because the children were at school and could not relocate. Living on site and working every day, they barely spent any money in Cairo, sending it to their families back home instead.

At school, I made a lot of friends and enjoyed many adventures, challenges, and a great deal of fun. I liked my teachers and felt that they appreciated my hard work and ability to acquire and assimilate information quickly. Although the school was within walking distance from home, we enjoyed riding on the metro. Neither myself, my brother, nor my friends were given money to buy a ticket. Instead, we would jump on the back bumper of the train, hang on for dear life, and get off at the stop opposite the school. More often, however, we would get into a carriage and, when the conductor approached, we would move away from him, until the nearest stop, where we would jump off. It was great fun, although it was for a very short distance. On our return from school, we walked, talked and frolicked with our friends.

On some evenings and during weekends, we would be taken to my maternal grandparents’ flat to stay. My grandfather, a short, stocky man with glasses, was a headmaster of a large, well respected private school. My grandmother, who was taller, did not work and spent a great deal of time with us. I loved being with them in their massive flat with, at the front, an office with a guest reception room and balcony on one side, and their bedroom and another balcony on the other. In the middle section was a large reception room connecting these rooms, together with a big dining room and a wide, long, corridor, which in turn led to a kitchen, cloakroom, two further bedrooms and a bathroom. One of the bedrooms had its own balcony, whilst the other had two – one on either side. It was the only flat on the fourth floor of the building.

I used to walk around, admiring all the antique furniture and ornaments in the reception areas. An archway separated the lounge and dining room. Net curtains, acting as a partition, gave me a mysterious anticipation when walking from one room into the other. I loved the brass and, even more so, the bronze ornaments. One of my favourites was of a man standing in a chariot, holding a raised whip with his right hand and, in his left, the reins, connected to two horses with heads held high, appearing to be charging at speed. The whole sculpture was mounted on a rectangular, solid piece of marble, measuring approximately 50cm by 30cm.

One item, which made a huge and lasting impression on me, was a grandfather clock. It rested against a wall halfway down the corridor. I used to sleep in the room on the other side of that wall, and could hear its ‘tick-tock’ sounds and chimes all night. It had become a comforting sound, which has stayed with me throughout all these years.

One day in May 1963, we were at the flat with other members of the family. My grandmother was in bed, though it was in the afternoon, and members of the family were standing in groups, talking to each other. I went into the study and heard my father speaking to my grandfather and a couple of other aunts and uncles. He said something like, “I am afraid there is nothing that can be done…it could be a matter of minutes…”

The women started screaming and hurriedly walked into my grandmother’s room. As they stood around the bed, I walked to the bottom of it and stood there, at her feet. Looking around, trying to understand what was happening, I saw my mother and aunt standing next to her, with my father’s sisters and mother on the other side. She was lying on her back with her eyes closed and everyone looked sad and tearful. People would come into the bedroom, look at her and, with a sorrowful expression, walk out again. I thought, “Why, with all this noise around her, did she not wake up and open her eyes?” It felt as if something was wrong and that I had to stay to see what would happen.

With all the commotion, no one noticed me. After what seemed a long while, my grandmother started to toss and turn in bed, as if having a seizure. She seemed to be trying to get loose, like the man I saw, chained on the back of the truck in Saudi. Suddenly, she became still, and her mouth dropped open. Everyone started crying and, some, screaming. My mother and aunt bent over her and hugged and kissed her. They were crying uncontrollably, while the others, also, crying, walked over to console them. I touched her exposed feet and found them cold and hard. Someone got a large scarf and wrapped it around her chin and head to force her mouth shut. Then, they pulled the cover over her face and head. They then realised that I was there, and quickly ushered me out of the room.

I remember wondering why I was unable to cry like them but felt that I wanted to memorise this moment. The day was Thursday 16th of May. I walked to my favourite clock and heard it chime six times; it was six o’clock in the evening. I sensed that this was bad and knew I would never see her again. Funnily, for some reason, I remembered the rose petal jam and butter sandwiches she used to give me for supper; I loved them and continue to look for and enjoy them even now. I would never forget the moment I last saw my adorable, kind, and elegant grandmother.

We spent the following three days at her house. On the following morning, wrapped in a white sheet, looking just like a sweet with its wrapping twisted at either end, my grandmother was taken out of the house. Semita, Snats, Sirkaak and I were not allowed to attend her burial. However, over the following three days, members of the family and friends came to pay their respects and offer their condolences. Waiters were walking around offering mourners Turkish coffee and water. The radio was on, broadcasting verses from the Koran to do with a person’s death and expectations of Heaven thereafter. After this period, we were taken home, and back to normal life.

My father decided he would open a private clinic in central Cairo, where most clinics were found. He eventually found one in a road called Sharie Sherieff, similar to Harley Street in London. Along with this, he also decided we should move nearer to his work and the centre of the city.

We moved into the elite island on the river Nile, called Zamalek, which was connected to the mainland by four bridges, two into town on the east side and two to the west. The building in which the new flat existed was only two stories high, sharing the wall enclosing the Officers’ Club on its west side. Our flat was of average size, comprising one huge master bedroom, a very large second bedroom, a bathroom, cloakroom, large kitchen-breakfast room and three reception rooms, each of similar sizes to the master bedroom. In the dining room was a rectangular dining table with eight chairs, of which two were carvers, and a sideboard storing plates, glasses, and cutlery. The room was so big, I used to ride my bike around it and, on its dining table, play ping pong with my brother and friends. There were three balconies and, through the kitchen-breakfast room, more access to the outside through what was called the servants’ staircase. We used it to climb to the roof, play and, when organised, watch a famous singer, Om Kalthum, perform in front of the president and other senior officers, on stage in the neighbouring club.

My brother and I went to the local government school, whilst my sister found herself in a private preschool called ‘Baby Home.’ We also joined the very exclusive Gezira Sporting Club, set in approximately 400,000 square metres of land, housing an outdoor cinema, six swimming pools, two football pitches, two gyms, basketball, volleyball, tennis and squash courts. It also housed restaurants and cafes, various activity areas, croquet lawns, a nine-hole golf course, and a horseracing track with large stand and stables. It was magnificent and the most exclusive club in Egypt at that time.

At school, I was always first or second in class, captain of the basketball team, and helped run the student social club, where we played board games, backgammon, chess, and many other games. We also set up groups to discuss or debate any topics we felt inclined to explore. Every day, before classes, the whole school attended a morning assembly outside in the playground. Everyone would stand in line, along with their classmates, while the headmaster would greet us and speak about forthcoming events during the day and other topics.

One day, he introduced a teacher who was going to lead us in performing some physical activities. He started by showing us how to do the first one. In my eagerness, and wanting to do it well when asked, I practised it. I was only 10 years old. He saw me and promptly asked me to join him at the front. With a very loud, aggressive tone, I was asked if I had heard him give the order to start the exercise. I replied, sorrowfully, that I had not and apologised. To my surprise, he asked me to hold the palm of my hand out and proceeded to hit it with a cane. I was in shock and pain.

This had never happened to me before, as I was always well behaved in class and completed all the tasks asked of me. Whenever there was misbehaviour, and the teacher could not find out who was responsible, he would cane everyone except me. Instead, when he approached me, he would ask me to sit down, without punishment, knowing that I would never break a rule. As far as I was concerned, on that day, I had not done anything that deserved such punishment. Apart from the pain, I felt embarrassed and humiliated in front of all my friends, teachers, and the whole school. Everyone seemed surprised and gasped as I was dealt the blows. I detested him and had no intention of carrying out his stupid instructions. Staring at him, desperately holding back tears, I turned and walked away quickly to my classroom.

A couple of weeks later, I fell ill with a fever. My mother informed the school, and, for the first time, I had to stay home. I missed my friends and the activities we normally enjoyed. After school, to my mother’s surprise, almost the entire year came to ask about me. They had to wait, as mum did not want them to be infected – and, of course, there was no room for them all! I was told to look outside our balcony on the first floor. I could not believe what I saw. At least 60 pupils, standing in three rows, were waving and shouting, “May you get well soon!” I thanked them and we had a few conversations about what they did at school, how the club did not open, and several other interesting happenings. My mother told me that the time had come when I must go inside to rest. So, I thanked everyone and waved them goodbye. I felt better for seeing them, and also appreciated the effort they had gone to, just to come and ask about me.

On Thursdays, Semita and I, along with two other friends, would take our bikes out and ride around the area. We would explore new places, initially on the somewhat large island on which we lived before we expanded our routes to include suburbs further afield. It was fantastic and very informative. We rode through much poorer areas with dilapidated houses, dirt roads, and green fields beyond, where we discovered a local small airport with a lot of private, single-engine planes flying into and out of it. We learned a great deal about aeroplane technical details, about flying and the use of wings and rudders, as well as the type of fuel they use.

This proved very useful, as, sometime later, my cousin Tutu came to visit and brought with him a petrol-driven, remote-controlled plane. It was empty and he was not sure if he could buy normal fuel for it, from the local petrol station. I told him about the airport and the fact that, probably, he would need a special aviation fuel, which was found there. My brother and I took him there and managed to purchase the fuel. We filled the plane and took it to a large field nearby. There, we were able to fly it and spent a couple of hours taking turns to do so. It was a great experience making this plane fly at differing heights, turn in the air and land. I felt like I had become a pilot and, indeed, thought that I wanted to become one when I got older.

One Thursday, we decided to venture further out than normal and rode our bikes towards the Pyramids of Giza. After riding for three hours, we began to see the largest one, Khofo, in the distance. However, we realised it was getting late and turned back. By the time we got home it was dark and my mother was there, waiting for us. With her arms crossed, she looked very angry and started to shout at us, demanding to know where we had been and why we were so late. We tried to explain that we did not mean to. However, she had the last word. Our bikes were to be locked in a cupboard for three weeks; we would not be allowed to ride them. It was final and there was nothing we could say or do to change this.

As we were members of this brilliant Gezira Club, we went there whenever we were not at school. This was mainly on Fridays, and during some afternoons and school holidays. A couple of our friends were not members and we always had to find a way to smuggle them in. Once there, we would go to the kids’ garden and play marbles. There were many different types of plays, all resulting in winning or losing marbles. Some people would set up their marbles in different designs – in a straight line, forming a triangle, or other shapes, containing from two to six pieces. They would draw a line, about three to five metres away, behind which punters would stand. The idea was to hit the set-up marbles by throwing or rolling your marble at them; a bit like bowling, or the French game, Pétanque. Some marbles were bigger, and others more colourfully decorated, rendering them more valuable. Over the months we became experts and had accumulated a number of these exquisite ones. Over time, I had enough marbles allowing me to control the games and have others trying to win my collection. I was lucky in that I won more marbles than I lost.

I had not been taught to swim but felt that I wanted to be in the deep, Olympic sized pool. Through watching other people swimming and learning from books, I decided to teach myself. In the shallow end of the pool, I went down the steps and stood in the water in the corner with one hand holding the side and the other holding the adjacent side. I raised one arm over my head, bringing it down, reaching for the other side. I continued to increase the distances, and number of strokes needed, until after several practices I was able to perform the front crawl, swimming the width of the pool. Further observations of other swimmers and reading swimming instruction books taught me the correct techniques.

Later, I decided to join the swimming and diving clubs and received professional training. During the spring and summer holidays, I used to visit the club every morning for practice and more advanced training. Not only could I swim fast and over a very long distance, but I could also dive from three-metre springboards as well as five- and ten-metre platforms. I was able to dive backwards and perform somersaults and twists from all levels. Unfortunately, I did not get the chance to continue this to national competitions, as my parents kept taking us away to the coastal towns of Port Said and Alexandria for holidays lasting two of the three summer months.

I loved my life in Egypt. Along with many friends, there were many activities to enjoy, within the club, school and around town. My grandfather would come to visit us once every two weeks and give my siblings and I ten piasters each. They would buy sweets with their money, whereas I would buy fruit, like watermelon, mangos, figs and prickly pears, for the whole family. I occasionally bought the odd bar of chocolate for myself, with spare cash. Sometimes, I would treat my friends, or the porter’s children, offering them drinks, or confectionary. It made me happy to see everyone enjoying themselves.

I used to collect Snats from her school and take her around the island on the bar running from underneath the seat to the front handlebars of my bike before heading home. Visiting our relatives in Heliopolis (a suburb of Cairo, about 10 kilometres from where we lived) was a real treat and thoroughly adventurous. Life was indeed good then.