the good life, but so often stumble on our egos.” She glanced briefly at Amir.
“The ego is indeed a big stumbling block. The Buddhists and Kabbalists suggest that if we can stand back, listen, and give up the temptation to react, our egos may flow away into the silence, into the Great River of Life. Each tradition—the Jews, Buddhists, Copts, Muslims, Essenes—offers us tasks to prepare us for the Way: sacrifice, poverty, fasting, prayer, giving, forgiving. The Tao says he who is gentle and yielding is the disciple of life. I think this may be what Mohammed meant by ‘submission.’” Ibrahim raised his glasses and rubbed his nose. “Enough of my philosophizing for today, my children. Can you take me home now, Amir?”
A few minutes later, Amir returned, and the taxi pulled out into the busy traffic alongside the Roman aqueduct. Gazing out the window, he said, “Grandfather has lived here all of his life, and although the building is falling down around him, he refuses to move.”
“This life may make the Tao easier,” Justine suggested. They both smiled.
Amir suddenly leaned forward and told the driver, “El ahramaat, Sawe Taks
.” The driver made a U-turn and headed west toward Roda Island.
“The pyramids?” She was surprised. “I thought you were taking me back to the Shepheard.”
“You haven’t been to the pyramids yet, right?” His dark eyes sparkled playfully.
“I just arrived yesterday, so you know I haven’t been there on this trip. I’m not fond of being abducted,” she said lightly.
“Ah, but it’s the right time of day. The sunset is almost upon us.” With that, Amir took out his phone and checked for texts. As he read one, Justine thought she could see anguish wash across his face, and he remained on his phone for the rest of the drive.
As they rode in silence, she allowed herself to relax, gazing at the miles of new development east of the Nile and recalling the conversation with Ibrahim.
After a few minutes, she leaned forward and addressed the driver. “Hassan,” she said, reading the nametag hanging from the dash. “Are you from Cairo?” she asked in Arabic.
“No, miss,” he said over his shoulder. “From Aswan. To the south.”
“Aswan is so beautiful. You must miss it.”
“
Iwa
, I miss my mother, my brothers. But no work in Aswan. Few tourists since 9/11.”
“I understand. It was a tragedy for all of us. Do you have family here?”
“Good family, but sad for me. For my daughter, Adara. When she was six, she pulled boiling water off stove. Scar her body. Horrible, Miss. Horrible! Now she sixteen in year three secondary school. She depressed, isolates herself. She says she won’t marry—no one will want her.”
In the rearview mirror, Justine watched Hassan’s eyes moisten; she turned to see if Amir was listening. His fingers had stilled on the keys of his phone, and without looking up, he nodded solemnly. Health coverage didn’t exist in Egypt, at least not for families like Hassan’s. “Let me talk with our agency doctor,” she told the driver. “I’m not sure if anything can be done, but give me your phone number.”
“Thank you, Miss,” he said, handing her his card and falling quiet.
As the pyramids began to rise above the glitzy shops of Giza, Justine’s attention was drawn to a black canvas-sided army truck in front of them. Four young soldiers dangled their feet from the back, kicking the air, laughing, and smoking. Soon the truck turned north onto the desert road, providing the young men with a clear view of the pyramids. None of them looked up.
“They didn’t even look,” exclaimed Justine. “One of the great wonders of the world in their line of sight and they didn’t look up!”
Amir smiled wryly. “We Egyptians cherish our history, but sometimes the youth pay no attention. Without history, the pyramids are just a pile of rocks.”
She turned toward him to see if he was kidding. He shrugged.
The taxi entered a gate
“The ego is indeed a big stumbling block. The Buddhists and Kabbalists suggest that if we can stand back, listen, and give up the temptation to react, our egos may flow away into the silence, into the Great River of Life. Each tradition—the Jews, Buddhists, Copts, Muslims, Essenes—offers us tasks to prepare us for the Way: sacrifice, poverty, fasting, prayer, giving, forgiving. The Tao says he who is gentle and yielding is the disciple of life. I think this may be what Mohammed meant by ‘submission.’” Ibrahim raised his glasses and rubbed his nose. “Enough of my philosophizing for today, my children. Can you take me home now, Amir?”
A few minutes later, Amir returned, and the taxi pulled out into the busy traffic alongside the Roman aqueduct. Gazing out the window, he said, “Grandfather has lived here all of his life, and although the building is falling down around him, he refuses to move.”
“This life may make the Tao easier,” Justine suggested. They both smiled.
Amir suddenly leaned forward and told the driver, “El ahramaat, Sawe Taks
.” The driver made a U-turn and headed west toward Roda Island.
“The pyramids?” She was surprised. “I thought you were taking me back to the Shepheard.”
“You haven’t been to the pyramids yet, right?” His dark eyes sparkled playfully.
“I just arrived yesterday, so you know I haven’t been there on this trip. I’m not fond of being abducted,” she said lightly.
“Ah, but it’s the right time of day. The sunset is almost upon us.” With that, Amir took out his phone and checked for texts. As he read one, Justine thought she could see anguish wash across his face, and he remained on his phone for the rest of the drive.
As they rode in silence, she allowed herself to relax, gazing at the miles of new development east of the Nile and recalling the conversation with Ibrahim.
After a few minutes, she leaned forward and addressed the driver. “Hassan,” she said, reading the nametag hanging from the dash. “Are you from Cairo?” she asked in Arabic.
“No, miss,” he said over his shoulder. “From Aswan. To the south.”
“Aswan is so beautiful. You must miss it.”
“
Iwa
, I miss my mother, my brothers. But no work in Aswan. Few tourists since 9/11.”
“I understand. It was a tragedy for all of us. Do you have family here?”
“Good family, but sad for me. For my daughter, Adara. When she was six, she pulled boiling water off stove. Scar her body. Horrible, Miss. Horrible! Now she sixteen in year three secondary school. She depressed, isolates herself. She says she won’t marry—no one will want her.”
In the rearview mirror, Justine watched Hassan’s eyes moisten; she turned to see if Amir was listening. His fingers had stilled on the keys of his phone, and without looking up, he nodded solemnly. Health coverage didn’t exist in Egypt, at least not for families like Hassan’s. “Let me talk with our agency doctor,” she told the driver. “I’m not sure if anything can be done, but give me your phone number.”
“Thank you, Miss,” he said, handing her his card and falling quiet.
As the pyramids began to rise above the glitzy shops of Giza, Justine’s attention was drawn to a black canvas-sided army truck in front of them. Four young soldiers dangled their feet from the back, kicking the air, laughing, and smoking. Soon the truck turned north onto the desert road, providing the young men with a clear view of the pyramids. None of them looked up.
“They didn’t even look,” exclaimed Justine. “One of the great wonders of the world in their line of sight and they didn’t look up!”
Amir smiled wryly. “We Egyptians cherish our history, but sometimes the youth pay no attention. Without history, the pyramids are just a pile of rocks.”
She turned toward him to see if he was kidding. He shrugged.
The taxi entered a gate
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