“A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow because her hour is come; but as soon as she is delivered of the child she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world.” (John 16: 21)
WATANI International
7 December 2011
“A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow because her hour is come; but as soon as she is delivered of the child she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world.” (John 16: 21)
Thus has Life always had the last say at the moment of birth. This is when the spirit cries out as it brings forth another being; when the cries of two spirits mingle as once their bodies did; when life pronounces its final, unnalloyed victory.
The newcomer snuggles into the bosom of its mother. Tenderly she holds the fruit of her womb, feeding it from her breast, kissing its tiny fingers, and all memory of the pain and anguish fades away.
The years roll on. The babe leaves the mother’s bosom to crawl on the earth, walk upright and run into the horizon. The mother looks on, proudly and hopefully, her eyes on the same horizon, her heart fearful of the great Unknown.
The time: 25 January 2011
The place: Cairo, Tahrir Square
The event: A new birth
The time: 25 November 2011
The place: Cairo, Tahrir Square
The event: What Life did new birth bring?
O Egypt, my mother:
Year after year, you have laboured with the birth of your children; a boy here, a girl there; you showered your love freely upon all—upon those born yesterday, a year ago, a century before. They were born on your yellow sand, your lush green Nile banks; in mud-brick homes and in majestic mansions. Some ate delicacies, others slept with no supper. They queued at the doors of schools and universities, at the doorstep of cardiac and tumour clinics; they dreamt their romances away at the idyllic turquoise of the Mediterranean waters where their beloved film star Laila Murad dreamt of her Prince Charming; they lived at the foothills of Muqattam, or they were buried under its rockslides.
O Mother Egypt,
You laboured not once but twice. You anguished over the birth of your children, and again at their rebirth.
Why in January, Mother Egypt? Did you insist the rebirth should be in the coldest month? To revolt against the cold, the hunger, the isolation?
O Egypt, how difficult is your labour! How painful and unrewarding!
You survived it to see the children you gave a new birth to turn against one another.
O my children, O my loved ones,
I lived to see you killed, not once but twice. First at the hands of poverty, disease, confusion, and at the hands of enemies in war. Yet what is all this compared to the second killing?
O children of my womb, you turned against each other. You, my flesh and blood, bit and snapped at each other’s flesh and blood.
I sit and watch, biting my lips, tears of bitterness rolling down my cheeks.
Has your rebirth brought no new life? Have you been used by some malevolent force to destroy one another?
O my loved ones,
You with whom I laboured to give birth to purity, to replace the corruption which had spoilt my land. My soil is still warm with the heat of your spilt blood, spilt at the hands of your brothers.
What do I say now, What do I do? Do I uncover my head, beat my breast, cloak myself in black, and cry at the top of my voice: Would that I never lived to see that day!
O Mother Egypt,
How seering is your pain! O Mother, do not give up on us.
Lose not hope! O Mother, we have been together, you and us, through pain and treachery before. Your wounds and ours at times appeared incurable. Yet, with love, patience, and faith, we overcame. Doom had to precede the renaissance.
My children,
I wait for you. I wait here, on our land, on our soil.
I wait in white robes, flowers and lilies around my neck. In my right hand, I hold a candle; In my left, an olive branch. And I wait…
Atallah is a writer and a journalist at Watani. She recited this piece at a seminar held by the Giza Cultural Palace earlier this month.