Mother Love

Egypt, much like a mother goddess, occupies a space between history and mythology. At times, she is kind and benevolent, but often her wrath strikes unannounced. Like many of your children, I love you and fear you. For the former, I’m grateful, and for the latter, I’m confused. Is it common to fear one’s mother? Is it normal to fear one’s country? We walk on the blood of martyrs, a teacher once told my class! Another time, we were huddled by the thugs the school hired. I had no doubt the teacher spoke the truth, but I didn’t understand what he meant. The country that didn’t need to bury its children is yet to exist. We never meant to disrespect the martyrs. Are we not all martyrs at the altar of our love for Egypt?

Don’t say what Egypt has given you, but what shall you give to Egypt. A song that embodied Egyptians’ love for their country. Their sense of nationalism and pride. Doesn’t a mother give to her children? Doesn’t a mother protect her children? But then The people and the police are at the service of the country. A slogan that stopped me many times. It implied distance and distinction between you and us. It implied that Egypt is an alien creature, removed from its people. I understood that Egypt could be without Egyptians. I was riddled with the guilt of my expectations. Inadequacy for my lack of ability to give to Egypt. I didn’t know what or how I could give you. 

They call you Um-al-Donya, mother of the world, and I see why. The cradle of civilization, and it makes sense. You are the goddess that created life. You gave the world math, physics, astronomy, and religion. Your greatest gift of all was consciousness. How could we not be proud? How could we not sing your songs and shed our tears and blood for you? I stood in your defense many times; I had to. For your churches and your minarets. For your fields and your desert. For your mountains and your seas. For the endless warmth and generosity of your people. True Egyptians that you seem to cast aside with and without reason.

Much like Gabalawi, you have become secluded in your home up the hill. Thugs run wild like street dogs terrorizing your children. They claim to be you. They talk on your behalf. They act on your behalf. Their anger is yours. Their wrath is yours. Your children whisper in the run-down alleys that once were your garden. They have become weak and disheveled. Poor and malnourished. You’re losing your children, and what’s left is your dogs of war. They’ll say I don’t love you; it’s not true. They’ll say I don’t care, which is also not true. I simply walked as far as I could to scream my truth without fear of repercussions.