I looked in my closet for something to wear. Something beautiful, something made by hand, something timeless. I chose a dress, almost a hundred years old, a symbol of care, of agelessness, of attention to detail. But more than that, a dress with a story.
I chose this dress to wear with my Raven & Lily jewelry because every Raven & Lily necklace or bracelet has a story, too. A compelling story, a worthwhile story, a story of sadness and of hope.
Because beauty, oh, beauty is lovely...
but goodness, yes, Goodness, is even better.
Every Raven & Lily purchase you make gives directly back to these women. See my favorite pieces RIGHT HERE. And for the next 2 weeks you can save 25% on all your purchases with the code RALMARYAM. Just in the nick of time for Christmas!
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(This is a continuation of the tale: Cairo: and a tale of a man with {maybe} 2 or 3 wives. If you haven't already, read Part 1 of the tale here, part 2 here and Part 3 here.}
As soon as I got in
the car, Ahmed's phone rang. He silenced it and kept driving. Then he looked at me and said, So things are not good here in Cairo. People
are in the street. People are protesting over decisions Egypt's president is making.
I know - I heard. This
all must be exhausting for you, I said.
The phone rang
again and Ahmed stopped it again. Then he
said, People are going to the presidential
palace to protest. Many people are
getting hurt and some even killed!
The phone rang one
more time but Ahmed ignored it.
I think someone's trying to reach you, I said.
Yes, he said. It’s Fouzia.You
know, my dead brother’s Palestinian wife.
Oh,I said. Is she still bothering you, Ahmed?
No,
he replied. We’re getting along. In fact, we’re getting along fine.
Really?
I asked, my
voice wondering.
He explained, I was just visiting Fouzia in Ismailia where she lives. She made the very best meal. She knows how to make incredible
fish! And her eggplant...! Fouzia had everything waiting for me for when I
arrived….a whole table full of food. I
ate like I had never eaten before!
He paused before continuing, However, my wife is not happy. She doesn’t like that
Fouzia and I are getting along. My wife said
next time I go to Ismailia to visit the family, she is coming with me.
What
do you think about that idea? I asked.
Ahmed looked at me from the driver’s wheel and
shouted, I think it's a terrible idea, hitting the steering wheel with his hand to make his point. I’m not
bringing my wife, for sure. My wife is
sick, anyway, he said.
Nothing
too serious, I hope, I responded.
Ahmed replied, My wife’s
too fat is the problem. She’s so fat
that her knees are bothering her. You
should see her belly. She doesn’t move
around enough, he said, shaking his head. The doctor gave her some medicine, he added.
I’m
sorry to hear that, I replied.
Well,
it’s not good, Ahmed said. Fouzia doesn’t have that
problem --she’s a regular size. And Fouzia is strong! She works and works, and
it’s not a problem. She’s also smart. I can see why my brother picked her. You know how those Palestinian women
are. They are good up here, he said, tapping his temple to show me.
Picking up a conversation we had had earlier, I asked, So is
Fouzia okay now with her daughter marrying your son?
Yes, Ahmed said, and he smiled a big smile. As long
as things are good between Fouzia and me, there’s no problem for them to get
married. My son is so happy – he really
loves that girl. He said to me, “Papa,
make things right between you and Fouzia.
I want to marry her daughter.” So
of course, I had to. They will now marry in the Spring, he said
proudly.
Are your feelings for Fouzia changing, too, Ahmed? I asked. Are you thinking about taking her as a second wife?
Ahmed looked at me from the wheel and then
looked back at the road and said, Fouzia
wants to marry me. Every time I go to Ismailia she says, “You’re
a good man, Ahmed. You will marry
me. You know that’s the right thing to
do.“ Yes, that’s what she says.
So, are you going to? I asked.
No, he replied. Definitely not. And then he added, At least not now. My wife would
be too angry. No, not now, not now.
You
mean maybe later you’ll marry Fouzia, I asked?
Oh I
don’t think so, he replied. I
really don’t think so, he said again. And then he paused and said. Maybe,
maybe next year….
I was quiet then.
Ahmed ran a hand over his face wearily before saying, You know, my son went to the
Palace to protest, to make his voice heard. It's dangerous maybe. But we need things to be right!
I hope he is careful, I replied.
And then it was time to get out of the
car.
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