Hussein

I sat at the curb of the dusty pavement amongst many others as the call for Maghrib rang the air. As the people scattered in an oddly organised way towards the mosque to pray in congregation, I couldn't help but think that there were certain elements of this society that hadn't changed since I was born here and more strangely, since the times of the pharaohs. Behind me were the alleyways that led to the market place designated to curtains and similar things. There, busy mums and newlyweds went about their way in choosing the perfect pair of curtains for their homes , not aware of the hustle and bustle surrounding them , unlike me. It had probably been just more than a decade since my mum and I walked these streets on a regular basis before I had traveled to England. It was because of this fact, that I had such a great appreciation for this moment.

We were at the mosque of Hussein, the son of the fourth Islamic Caliph, Ali ibn Abu Talib. The mosque stood great with its minarets as a symbol of protection for this building that had stood here for centuries. The surrounding areas were filled with Egyptian nationals and foreigners alike, each with their own agendas. The familiar narrowness of the alleyways had served to be exactly like those of the typical alleyways I would see in the films and magazines depicting Egypt. Shop owners and enthusiastic assistants had demonstrated an array of languages as they tried their utmost to entice the foreigners to their stall. The look of triumph when successful in doing this was worth a thousand words, as if their momentary purpose in life was fulfilled. Their hard work had paid off. The souvenirs were plentiful and colourful from shisha stands, glass pyramids to the piles of papyrus, adorned with paintings of Egyptian pharaohs from long ago.At every turn , a teenage boy would aim at selling you a glass of dodgy looking lemonade that I would have to politely turn down. This, it seemed, did not discourage him ,as I would see him again half an hour later, this time silently giggling to myself at the irony.


The smell of the spices being sold at the markets mixed with the smell of stale smoke assailed my senses at a rate greater than I expected it to, at times causing me to sneeze uncontrollably. Young children ran about , in joyful ignorance of their surroundings. At times, I was so lost in this atmosphere I held so dear and missed greatly that I forgot the multitude of sound surrounding me. It was a strange sight , the great tourist buses alongside the infamous Egyptian cab , both trying to head to their destinations as quickly as possible. The backdrop to this was the mosque and the markets that occupied the other side of the road. As strange as the picture looked , I would not have had it any other way.


The time for prayer had now ended as the imam completed the final section of the prayer. This was signalled in two ways, both as manifest as the other. The first was the fact that I could hear it, as was common in so many Muslim countries. The second was the swarm of worshippers that were now leaving the mosque and returning to their lives, once again, as they did five times a day.


The scene was so spectacularly busy that words would not suffice in narrating what I felt as I sat there. It was as if I was lost in two periods of time, two ages, two segments of my life that I could not succeed in piecing together. The old Cairo was as vivid and present as the new Cairo that was emerging. The Cairo I called home when in my infancy was still lingering and had not made itself difficult to find even amongst this new Cairo that tried its hardest to attract those from beyond its confines. The people were still as warm as they were; regardless of the possessions they called their own. It was this Cairo that had, simultaneously attracted visitors, old and young, familiar and unfamiliar. It was this part of Cairo that had held on to the realities of its past, by being obedient to the act of the call to prayer, never hastening or delaying - carrying out its duties to the worshipping masses. Ultimately, it was a part of Egypt that did what Egypt did best -exist in silent grandeur while it attracted, served and welcomed the company surrounding it.

Ramadan fever in Egypt

The streets have gone through a noticeable change since I came here two weeks ago. Now, as I look outside the balcony, I see the makeshift soup kitchens ready to serve the fasting masses that cannot afford to do so themselves. I hear the recitation of the noble Quran being played through amplifiers from the insides of mosque to the insides of garages. Recitors of different names all succeed in adding to the distinct atmosphere just before the start of Ramadan here in Egypt.


The television stations are wishing their viewers a blessed month as they attempt to advertise the programmes of the coming month, apparently the best shown throughout the year. The Mufti of the famous Azhar mosque even has airtime signalling the beginning of the month. I ask my sister-in-law is this is a special year or is it always like this. She replies by saying that it is during Ramadan that the spirit of Islam really makes a difference to the lives of many Egyptians. Already a welcoming people, their warmth and kindness is only multiplied during these thirty days. This was confirmed by the abundant soup kitchens now filling the streets.



Lights are assembled in every colour in every street as they flash in the spirit of Ramadan. The famous lanterns I was sent once a year back in London now displayed themselves in all their glory. Some of these were as tall as me, in contrast to those that could fit in my palms. Accompanying these was the famous song 'Ramadan is Coming' that I could remember listening to while I was a child, here in Cairo.


Although Ramadan asks the one fasting to abstain from food and drink during the hours of the day, the spirit of these people are not dampened by any means. Quite the opposite, I have noticed. It seems that the month of fasting serves to strengthen and reinforce what the people here hold dear, especially when it comes to interacting with each other.

Dear Muhammad

Dear Muhammad, I write this letter with the tools of my age yet the sentiments are as true as the days you lived.

Dear Muhammad, during past centuries you have remained the legend admired by many, the scholar who benefitted the Ummah, the human looked up to by masses and will always remain the man chosen by Allah to convey his message.

Dear Muhammad, you didn't ask to lose your father, mother, grandfather, uncle and wife in a portion of your life yet you remained patient through a trial that would break the strongest of men.

Dear Muhammad, how blessed must the cold walls of Cave Hira feel to have been the place of comfort all those moments as you wept and pondered over the troubles of this life.

Dear Muhammad, you didn't ask to be ridiculed, humiliated and belittled in your attempt to teach those around you of the divine message you had. However, you battled on with inner strength and faith in a way no other being could imagine doing.

Dear Muhammad, no person could have asked that their daughter be the one to remove objects thrown at them by those whose aims were to hurt you, yet you struggled on.

Dear Muhammad , you are one of a few who can claim to have been removed from the place you call home more often than usual.

Dear Muhammad, the battlefield seemed to increase and fortify your trust in Allah as well as inspiring those amongst you, a feat few men can say they have achieved, with sincerity in their hearts.

Dear Muhammad, only a handful of favoured men have a divine message to their names, and only you have had the privilege of carrying the final one.

Dear Muhammad, blessed are you, when Allah had chosen to convey the true message through you although those around you were ever-deviant.

Dear Muhammad, none other than you have the title of the walking Quran.

Dear Muhammad, so blessed and chosen were you that you received a special teacher and Messenger from Allah, in the form of Gabriel.

Dear Muhammad, so happy should our Ummah be to have an intercessor in the form of you, the beloved of Allah.

Dear Muhammad, know that you have a place in the hearts of millions, regardless of the degree of faith we hold.

Dear Muhammad, know that your Ummah wish for our Lord to send you peace and blessings upon you every time your name is mentioned.

Dear Muhammad, know that although our hearts waver at times, their lies great belief in you as the final messenger of Allah.

Dear Muhammad, may Allah forgive us for forgetting the incomprehensible sacrifices you made for us.

Dear Muhammad, may Allah forgive us for adding to or taking away from you Sunnah, an act you warned us against gravely.

Dear Muhammad, if I could have told you those many years ago, I would say thank you for conveying Al- Islam, on behalf of the many Muslims that it has brought a light to.