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Tag Archives: Salam Center

Rubies in the Rubbish – Conclusion

14 Saturday Dec 2013

Posted by noreennanz in Uncategorized

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Cairo, Christianity, Copts, Egypt, personal change, Pilgrimage, Salam Center

It’s about ten days before Christmas as I write this, and I’m in the middle of Christmas parties, baking, shopping and all the usual pre-Christmas rush.  And yet, my thoughts are still in Egypt, as I reflect on what this trip, finished more than a month ago, means to me.  I’m still hearing from Reda and Hanel through Facebook, and I read whatever news I come upon that pertains to Egypt.

I sit in my bed every morning, as before, read the Bible and devotional books and pray, but I’ve added a new element to my prayer time.  Sometimes I look at the pictures of Jesus and Mary that Reda gave me.  I think about Mary and what an open, compassionate woman she must have been to agree to mother the most compassionate of human beings there ever was.  I see myself as a woman like her in some ways, certainly with the same capacities.  If she was compassionate, I can grow in compassion.  So I pray for more compassion in myself.  I look at the picture of Jesus, imagining the depths of love, compassion and power contained in this man.  He is, after all, resurrected from the dead, and has the power to resurrect all that is dead in me.  I reflect on the verse in Colossians, “For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God.” (Colossians 3:3)  Surely this is the secret the sisters possess in order to live in such peace and joy.  They live, not caring that much whether they live or die, because they know they have eternal new lives, hidden and protected in Christ Jesus.  They consider their old lives to be rubbish.  The sentence St. Paul wrote to the Philippians has taken on a deeper meaning:  “I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things.  I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ.”  Philippians 3:  8-9.  Paul goes on to describe more of the life I have seen in these sisters:  “I want to know Christ – yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, attaining to the resurrection from the dead.”  Philippians 3:  10-11.

I feel some embarrassment writing this, but I am unsure where my embarrassment comes from.  Is it something within me, or am I reflecting an embarrassment burdening our modern Western society?  These words sound so old-fashioned, so far from the way we in the West live our lives.  But it is precisely because this way of living has become so rare that my time with the sisters and their friends is so precious to me.  They have influenced my thinking and my approach to God.  The time I spent there continues to influence how I prepare for Christmas.

Being there was good for me in so many ways.

I had the chance to live around Christians whose very lives depend upon their faith.  They rely on God for everything.  They will not give up their faith, even if it costs them their lives.  Not only that, they refuse to open themselves to hatred or revenge.  They will continue to love and serve other Egyptians, even if some Egyptians hate them enough to kill them.  They remain open, loving and tolerant of differences.

It’s not only the sisters who live such courageous lives.  It’s also people like Reda and Marleen who refuse to join the western, materialistic mindset, even Mary in the gift shop at the airport.  Copts don’t date, they don’t have sex before marriage, and they don’t divorce.  I can imagine many people I know who feel trapped in their lives.  They long for a better partner and they recoil at the thought of a lifestyle that they consider restrictive.  They might consider this Egyptian mentality rigid and reactionary.  But I don’t see the people I met as trapped.  To the contrary, I think they’re onto a secret of happiness – sticking with relationships, even when they’re difficult.  I saw sisters complaining about other people to Sister Maria.  But they try again the next day.  At the Salam Center, they don’t teach putting up with abusive behavior either.  That’s not it.  There, they teach people how to live constructively in relationship.

Living with radiant, cheerful Christians who are true to their faith, to their principles, and who love, showed me that there are groups of Christians who are really good examples of the faith..  They truly live in, for, and love Christ.  This has opened me up to looking for more of the same positive faith here in Germany, where so many people focus on the weaknesses of Christians.  That’s what makes it in the newspapers and on the internet, and that’s what people talk about.  They talk about bishops who build lavish homes instead of humble Christians who live generous, joyous lives.

At the Salam Center I had a positive experience of life in community.  Sister Maria runs the center with a steady, yet gentle hand, and not as an autocrat.  She listens to the complaints and arguments of others, and they state their opinions and grievances openly.  It felt good to be around her and the other people I encountered, day after day.  It felt good not to run away into ever new people and experiences.

I valued my own good qualities because I saw them as valued by those I encountered there.  For instance, people there kept talking about my kindness.  This is something I’ve never particularly valued.  I’ve valued competitiveness more, because that’s what our society values.  But seeing my kindness as something they treasure helped me to treasure it too, and to work towards developing more kindness and dropping the competition.

In the same way, I valued my profession as a teacher of English as a second language, because I could see that my teaching skills were openly valued there.  People could see and hear what I did in the classroom and they expressed approval and sometimes even admiration.  This helped me stop taking what I do in the classroom in Germany for granted.   In Germany, I think native speakers of English who teach their language are seen as people who do this for lack of having found anything more lucrative to do.  I remember reading an interview with the American crime novelist Donna Leon, who lives and sets her novels in Venice.  She said that in the beginning of her time in Venice she was forced into (horrors!) teaching English in language schools.  It took doing it in Cairo and seeing how much the Egyptians value this to place a high value on what I do.  These days, I’m looking at teaching as a wonderful career, and I see the logic and the great sense of purpose I can find in being a teacher.

I loved the openness and candor of the Egyptians I met.  I have found this each time I’ve been in Egypt.  When I meet warm people, there is a synergetic effect – I warm up!  These Egyptians are unafraid of eye contact or of showing who they really are, even if it is their softer, more vulnerable side.  Their heroes are godly people from the past and present, not rock, movie or sports stars.  The people I met are unafraid of admiring the character qualities they find in people, and they even want to emulate this!

Sometimes they would walk right up to me and say things like, “You have beautiful eyes.”  “You have kind eyes.”  “You’re beautiful.”  “I like you.”  I responded to their openness, and it opened me up.  I smiled and related to everyone from my heart, because that’s how they related to me.  I’ve tried bringing this back to Germany.  I recently said to a casual friend of mine as I said good-bye, “You’re so sweet!” He smiled and seemed delighted with what I said.  I hope he was.  In Germany people don’t go around telling each other that they’re sweet.  At a Christmas party I smiled long at another woman, looking directly into her eyes.  I don’t know her terribly well, but I like and respect her very much.  She smiled back at me.  We weren’t making passes at one another.  I wouldn’t have smiled at her like that if I hadn’t experienced the same thing in Egypt.

At the Salam Center, I saw the distractions we have in the West as simply that – distractions.  They do not improve our lives.  I have a deeper desire to concentrate on the essentials, on the important things like love, and to let the other things drop.  Living in that environment helped me to see which activities are distractions and which are life-bringing.

I have rarely felt such supreme happiness as I felt while at the Salam Center.  Sharing my gifts and my self with people who valued this made my days!  And I shared my happiness with God, talking about this in my moments alone with God.  I didn’t care about all the deficits at the Salam Center, things like broken doorknobs and wading through sand to get into the convent, feeling that joy, that happiness.  That is an essential.  That is something worth more than gold.  Well, you can find it at the Salam Center.

At the Salam Center, I felt like I belonged to a group, and that this was a group I wanted to belong to.  I respected their values and even shared most of them.  Those I didn’t share, like the kissing of icons, I could at least understand.  In this community I felt completely accepted, desired, and valued.  What can be better than that!

And so, here I am now, living again in Germany, profiting from the treasures – from the rubies I discovered in a center near a rubbish heap.  These treasures have the ability to enrich my daily life.  They also create a hunger in me for more.  Insha-Allah, Lord willing, I will return to the Salam Center, not only to share more of myself, but also to receive more of what these marvelous people have to share with me.

 

Rubies in the Rubbish – Day Thirteen

09 Monday Dec 2013

Posted by noreennanz in Uncategorized

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Breakthrough at Caron, Cairo, Christianity, Coptic wedding, Egypt, intellectually disabled, Josh Groban, Pilgrimage, Salam Center, travel, You Raise Me Up

Remember the chicken I saw in the sink, about to be killed?  It turns out they had to kill it because it had broken its leg.  Mariem said there was no way they could have saved it.  I feel better about eating this poor chicken now.

It hasn’t taken long for the chicken to become a topic of friendly joking.  They laugh about my sadness, but they also understand.   Sister Maria says she wouldn’t like to watch a chicken being killed either.  Today we will eat it, in gratitude that it gave its life for us.  And we will give our lives for others – we probably won’t die today, but we will have given our lives, which is also a sacrifice.

Today is party day.  My last day, for tomorrow I fly back to Germany.  I hand my clothes, now washed and dry, over to Marleen, and work one last day with the kindergarten kids.  Bolla’s still hyperactive, his breath smelling smelling of Doritos, but Jameena has finally learned which direction to draw the half-circle in for the “d”.

Marleen’s daughter Alvera is visiting the school today, so I get to meet her, and we walk back together to the Salam Center.

Marleen and Alvera

Marleen and her daughter Alvera

I love walking back because I can see so much more than in the car, but this is only the second time I’ve been able to do that.

banner/street barricade

A street barricade/banner for a street wedding reception

This time we come to one of those cloth barricades in the road.  On foot, we can walk through it and see why it is closing off the street.  On the other side, the barricade is a festive banner, and the street is full of garlands and lampions.  It’s a wedding, Marleen says.  I take pictures.  Someone sitting at the edge of the road, supervising the decoration, says “Welcome” to me.  What a wonderful country this is!

A lot of meat is being sold today.  Marleen tells me that poorer people have one or, if they can afford it, two meat days a week – Thursday and Sunday.  Today is Thursday.

Today I’m back in plenty of time to visit the center for the intellectually disabled today.  I walk into the center, unannounced, and find that not one of the workers here speaks English.  When I say the name “Tesoni Maria”, though, it’s my entry ticket, and they offer me a chair.  I sit down in a room of happy bedlam – two children today are celebrating their birthdays.  Most of the children are sitting in chairs or wheelchairs along the edges of the room.  I was once a social worker who worked with intellectually disabled children.  I have never seen such a high staff/client ratio as what I see today.  The room is swarming with women.  It seems they’re waiting for something to start happening.  Then I hear it – “Happy birthday to you…” in English, with an Arabic rhythm.  Everyone starts clapping.  At first the kids are pretty quiet, with only a few clapping.  Someone walks around the room, painting faces.  Before long, aides are twirling kids around in pirhouettes, dancing in line, holding kids and dancing with them.  What happy havoc!

Intellectually disabled children's center.

It’s party time! At Seeds of Hope, the intellectually disabled children’s center in the Salam Center hospital

I leave the room and explore the center a little.  I hear more music, the kind adults might listen to.  I find a room of teenagers who are also intellectually handicapped.  One boy is dancing frenetically to Arab pop music.  Some of the staff are also dancing.

One of the highlights of my first trip to Egypt was an evening dancing with the staff (male) of the ship on our Nile cruise.  Today I get to dance with the women and kids.  It’s wild, and I love it, even though I’m a bit embarrassed.  I don’t really know how to dance at all.  The women dance very sensually with each other.  This time I’m dancing with Coptic women.  They dance exactly the same way the Muslim men danced with me.  Last night Reda, one of the teachers I work with, said to me, “The Egyptians are all one.  And we have 4,000 years of unity.”

I love the unembarrassed sensuality of this dancing, but its overtness makes me, who was born with Baptist legalism in her blood, feel uneasy, as though I were transgressing some moral code.  In the evening Sister Maria, Sister Malaka and I chat about the day, and I talk about the dancing.  “It’s like at a wedding,” Sister Maria explains.  And this physical expression is very important for the handicapped children.  They need this outlet.”  I ask if men and women in Egypt dance this way together.   They look shocked at my question.  “No, Coptic men and women never dance together.  Muslims usually don’t either, but a few do.”

It’s party time for my classes with Reda, too.  He has allowed me to plan the lessons for the day, and I’ve planned a song, “You Raise Me Up,” sung by Josh Groban.  This song has a strong personal meaning for me.  It was chosen and played for me when I was at a Breakthrough workshop in January this year, working through a personal crisis.  My therapy group listened to this song with me, and laid their hands on my shoulders, head, and arms.  I felt then, for the first time that I can remember, a truly cherished part of a group.  It was an important time on my healing journey.

But, I quickly see that this song will not work for the fourth-graders.   It’s much too difficult for them.  No problem, I have another song in my smart phone, “I Will Love You Monday (365)”, by Aura Dione.  I’ve used this song with my German students to teach them the days of the week.  The fourth grade class here is now learning the days of the week.  But an unanticipated emergency occurs.  Faida, one of the kids, has cut his hand badly and needs medical treatment.  Reda leaves with him for the pharmacy, and I am left alone with the classroom.  I, who speak next to no Arabic.  I can’t even say, “I don’t speak Arabic.”  But I write the days of the week on the blackboard, and words like today, tomorrow, and yesterday.  We get through it all just fine.  One kid, Ibram, one of the brightest kids in the class, keeps asking me something I don’t understand.  Finally, he simply walks over to the board and writes the words in Arabic with blue chalk.

Thankfully, Reda and Faida return, and we can go into the fun part of the lesson.  But as soon as I play the music, the lesson threatens to disintegrate as the boys start dancing.  “They’re acting like they’re at a wedding,” Reda says.   But I play the song and point to the words on the board as they’re being sung.

I play “You Raise Me Up” for the fifth and sixth graders.  I am amazed that my unruly fifth grade class sits quietly and listens to the song.  One boy mimics playing the violin as Josh Groban sings the refrain and another acts like a schmaltz singer, but generally, the kids are amazingly receptive to the song.  “Good, good,” they say afterwards.  Nessma, the girl who is most disruptive, asks, “How old is Josh Groban?”  I say, “Thirty-seven.”  I’ve no idea if that is true, but Reda is thirty-seven, and I want her to get an idea of the age difference.  “I hope he will wait for me to grow up, because I want to marry him,” she says.

The same thing happens with the sixth graders.  They love the song.  They are open to its emotionality.  And that is precisely what I love about Egyptians.  They are not afraid of their soft feelings.  For them, saying, “I love you,” and “You’re beautiful” are as natural as saying, “I’m hungry.”  I need this frank openness, this candor.  Their openness opens me up, and they respond.  The Egyptians seem to love me, and then I respond with love them, then they love me because I love them.  I love these kids.

I add a game to the sixth grade song activity.  I’ve cut out phrases from the song, and lay them out randomly on the table.  They are to walk single-file around the table as the song is played, picking up the phrases they hear.  The one who picks up the most pieces will get a prize.  But they cheat!  They pick up phrases out of turn, or grab them away from each other.  Soon, it’s a wild free-for-all, with mad grabbing and ripping of papers.   But I’m happy, because they loved the lesson.

Rubies in the Rubbish – Eating with the Sisters

05 Thursday Dec 2013

Posted by noreennanz in Uncategorized

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Cairo, Christianity, Copts, Egypt, Egyptian food, Nuns, Pilgrimage, Salam Center, travel

Even though I understand barely a word of Arabic, I can see that these sisters know how to get down and have a good time! They laugh a lot at the dinner table, when Sister Maria allows conversation. They laugh and converse afterwards.

Sometimes I think they’re gossiping about some sister or other, but there doesn’t seem to be any bitterness among them. The sisters don’t all eat together. Some are off at various jobs, or not available, so you never know how many will be at the table.

For breakfast, served at around 8 am, we usually have pita bread and a couple kinds of cheese. One is a really strong, salty cheese. Nagette, who lives with the sisters, indicated to me that if she eats this cheese she throws up. I find it pretty unpleasant too. The other cheese is more like a creamy version of feta cheese. They tear off pieces of rucola, tear off a little bit of bread, a little cheese, and eat it all together. There are usually hard-boiled eggs from Mariem’s chickens on the table. The sisters drink black tea for breakfast. Sometimes they get foul – cooked fava beans – for breakfast, which they eat with pita bread. This is a real highlight for them. Then out come the limes, oil, tahini, cumin, and salt, which make foul a tasty meal.

Egyptian breakfast

An Egyptian breakfast, made just for me

Lunch, at 2 pm, is the highlight of the day. We have chicken about every other day or so. The sisters don’t eat pork. They don’t like it, Sister Maria tells me. Sometimes they eat is stewed beef. The sisters eat soups like a green bean soup or the famous molokhaya, to which they can add rice, or just pile some rice along with their chicken or other meat. The rice is always a combination of rice and vermicelli noodles. Once or twice we’ve had a meat-filled dish something like puff-pastry quiche. Sometimes, particularly on Fridays, the food is vegetarian. It can be a macaroni dish, or French fries. There is always fruit for dessert.

The evening meal, served somewhere between 8:30 and 9 pm, is usually the same as breakfast, but sometimes there is a raw vegetable like cucumbers or tomatoes. There is also usually plain yoghurt, served in glasses. Sister Ologaya, who directs the hospital during the day,  makes the the yoghurt every evening from milk and a starter she buys at the market.

Sister Ologaya

Sister Ologaya

After the meal, the sisters collect their dishes and the leftover food and water pitchers, bringing it all into the kitchen. Then someone starts hand-washing the dishes, while someone else rinses and puts the dishes onto a drying rack hanging from the wall. A third person will put the dishes away.  The first week I was here, I wasn’t allowed to help at all, but by now they let me help in the kitchen.

Marsa

Marsa, the cook

Marsa, the cook, came to the convent as an orphan. I’m not sure how old she was at the time, but the sisters adopted her as their own sister. She is always smiling. Every day she has a new English phrase for me, with something in Arabic she wants me to learn. I love this beautiful, tender woman. She works very hard in the kitchen.  For some reason I can’t discern, she doesn’t eat with the sisters.  I know she is beloved by them.  Still, they can be pretty hard on her when she neglects to do things they really want, like warming up their pita bread in the oven.  Martha’s cheery statements she reads to me, messages like, “You are welcome here anytime!  Please sit down.” are part of why I love this place.

Rubies in the Rubbish – Day Ten

23 Saturday Nov 2013

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Cairo, Christianity, Copts, Egypt, Pilgrimage, Preschool education, Salam Center, travel

When I used to live in New York City, I learned a saying:  “If you can live in NYC, you can live everywhere.”  I often think of that here at the convent, where life isn’t as comfortable as in my apartment back in Germany.  But so what?  So what if the shower drips all over the bathroom floor and there are also the occasional monster cockroaches?  You stamp on the cockroaches and you mop up the floor after the shower.  No big deal.  I could live here.  Life here is so fascinating, all the senses are stimulated to the max.   I’m not bored for a second.

There’s the sounds, for instance.  Last night I went to sleep to the sound of tuk-tuk and car horns honking, firecrackers (again) and loud music coming from some nearby music.  I liked it – first a woman singing along to some sort of flute-like Arabian instruments, and then a man.  It sounded foreign to my ears, yet nice, even calming.  Rather than read myself to sleep, I let the music do it.  At this moment I hear a man speaking over a loudspeaker.  Is he selling something?  Is he a politician?  Is it someone praying?  No idea.  In the morning I hear the thump-thump-thump of women beating or pounding rugs against the window ledges, getting rid of all the sand from the previous day.  A couple of times a day I hear a loud metallic clang-clang-clang.  I don’t know what it is, but imagine it to be someone riding on cart, pulled by a donkey.  I’ve seen this – huge propane gas canisters used for cooking, loaded onto a cart.  I often hear a saw buzzing.  There’s the perpetual sound of the roosters screeching.  I think they sleep from maybe 9 pm until about 2 am.  And in the daytime, there are children from the school and pre-school downstairs, yelling – uh – reciting their lessons.  There are the birds chirping all day, and the calls to worship, reminding everyone that there is one God and that we are to worship Him.

And the smells?  We’re only a few blocks from the garbage dump, but it doesn’t stink here.  Even the garbage dump doesn’t smell any worse than some of the streets in New York City in the summer’s heat.  I wonder if the air in this part of Cairo isn’t that polluted after all.  There are hardly any cars on the dirt roads, only small craft shops like lumber mills.  What I smelled yesterday, traveling through the quarter by tuk-tuk, was the aroma of bread baking and sometimes the acrid scent of charcoal.  The churches smelled of incense or of rosewater, sprinkled over relics.   Sometimes I smell meat being grilled, or the spicy aroma of meatballs – kofte.  And always, the faint smell of baked dust.

Today I am privileged to attend my first Coptic church service, upstairs in the convent.  It reminds me of a Greek Orthodox service.  For some reason they go up three times for the bread and again three times for the wine.  Later, I find out that there is no particular reason for this, except that the entire loaf of bread has to be used up, as does the wine.  At the end of the service, the priest sprinkles water over everyone, concentrating on me!  And we all share the remaining bread from communion.  There have to be at least three loaves of bread for communion.

As we leave the parking lot to go to school, the guard hands the driver a big chunk of communion bread.  The driver takes it, kisses it, and hands it to me to break off a piece for myself.  Today the driver is Refa’at, instead of Rohmy.  Whereas Rohmy always turns on the radio to pop Arab music, Refa’at listens to what sounds like a Coptic church service.

Refa'at

Refa’at, one of the drivers at the Salam Center

School is wonderful, but tiring.  Wherever I go, children accost me, asking me, “What’s your name?”  At the center, at the school, no matter whether they’re in my class or not.  Today, as we all wait to be picked up, I end up teaching a group of girls my sister, your sister, her sister.  Another girl and I read in her English book, practicing the past tense.

I visit the pre-school program today.  I am struck by the serene beauty of this building.  It must be new.  The walls are straight, the paint shimmers a little, and the floors are clean, with smooth tiles.  Everything is in excellent quality, in its ordered place.  The classrooms have lovely pictures on the wall, and even in the corridor, there are tinsel ornaments hanging from the ceiling.  I know from the tour I had on my first full day here, that the “Happy New Year” sign is there, not because they’ve forgotten to take it down, but because the bright colors of the sign make a cheerful atmosphere.

Kindergarten

Kindergarten

At this pre-school, unlike a German Kindergarten, the children sit at little desks and have to recite things the teacher says.  I see no squirming, apparently no ADS children.

Kindergarten groupo.

Kindergarten group.

As I leave the pre-school, I run into Sister Monika, who is supervising the work on the garden.  Work there is progressing nicely.  Tomorrow they will be able to turn on the fountain.  I ask about the work at the entrance to the convent.  There’s nobody working there today.  “Again, nobody showed up today to work.  Every day it’s the same.  Three days out of five, there’s no one there.  I could kill them!”

I laugh, and then say, “But you’re a Christian.  You can’t kill the workers.”

“Today I’ll kill them.  Tomorrow I’ll be a Christian,” she says, and we both laugh.

Sister Monika

Sister Monika

I want to go to my room, but I need to buy water first.  At the shop, I have to engage in small talk.  On my floor of the hospital I have to first greet all the workers.  I find out that this floor is devoted to training programs.  They all want to talk to me.  Hanel wants my email address.   They are all eating a sandwich, and insist on my eating one with them.  I just want to finally get to my room and escape from all these people.  Besides, I’m afraid to eat the sandwich.  It has cucumber and tomato from the market in it.  My bowels have been acting up a little, since I ate some cucumber the other day.

Heba, Hanel, and me

Heba and Hanel, two of the office workers, and me

  

I dutifully eat the sandwich.  The cheese is hard and very salty, the same kind of strong cheese I eat every day with the sisters.

“You like?” somebody asks.

“Not very much,” I answer truthfully.  But I finish it, and dash to my room, where I can be free of the press of humans for an hour or so, before I walk downstairs and over to the convent for lunch.  Those few hours in my room are also precious to me.

Rubies in the Rubbish – Day Nine

21 Thursday Nov 2013

Posted by noreennanz in Uncategorized

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Cairo, Christianity, Copts, Egypt, Pilgrimage, Pope Shenouda, Salam Center, Soeur Emmanuelle, travel

Today’s adventure begins with a simple request at the breakfast table.  I ask Sister Maria if the next time someone goes shopping at the souk (the market) if she could pick up a few things for me.  I’ve got it all written down on a list.  I try to explain to her what I want.  She understands most what I mention, but she has no idea  what coriander is.  “Why don’t you go with Sister Marina to the souk today?  Then you can pick out what you want for yourself.”

Hurray!  This is the only request I have for the entire two weeks, to have someone buy spices and hibiscus tea for me.  To be able to go to the souk myself – a local one at that, is a dream come true.

At eleven in the morning we head out with one of Sister Marina’s friends, Nermeen.

Nermeen

Nermeen

Sister Marina, Nermeen and Noreen are out for an adventure on a Sunday morning.  Much to my surprise, the souk begins right outside the gates of the Salam Center.  Soon after we begin our walk, I spot something that looks like coriander (cilantro) leaves, but they could be flat parsley – it’s hard to tell them apart.  I ask what it is in Arabic.  “Khosbara”, she says.  Sr. Marina leads us down a block or two to a spice, rice and dried beans shop.  She orders everything from the man in the shop.  I walk over to a barrel of what looks to me to be coriander.  What is this in Arabic?  “Khosbara”, she replies.  Bingo!   I order hundred grams, a big bag of kerkaday (hibiscus tea) and a hundred grams of cumin.

Man selling spices

Man selling spices

I don’t know how to say “chili pepper” in Arabic, so I use the word “pepper” and then point to my mouth and pant.  Aha!  I leave the shop with fifty grams of chili pepper as well.  All this for fourteen Egyptian pounds, about €1.50, or about $2.00.  Mission accomplished.  We saunter back towards the center.  Sr. Marina stops in a mobile phone shop to ask about something.  In the shop, I notice posters of Pope Shenouda, Jesus, Mary and various saints.  I make a mental note of it.  I’m in a Coptic shop.

Coptic phone shop

Coptic phone store

I see a strange-looking red fruit or vegetable.  It turns out to be dates, which come in various colors.  I later learn that red dates are Sister Maria’s favorite fruit.

red dates

red dates

Once outside, as we pass a spice shop much closer to the center, I ask Sister Marina if the shop we bought the spices in is owned by a Copt.  She nods her head.  Just as I’m about to jump to the conclusion that all the Copts mark their shops with their posters, and that the Center only shops with the Copts, she stops at a cucumber stand where Muslim women are shopping.  By now, I think I can tell the difference.  There is a bit of haggling about something, but soon we leave, and Sr. Marina is content.  She’s even purchased some sweet potatoes for me when I mention that I love sweet potatoes.

After we arrive back at the center, Sr. Marina announces that we’re going to visit a church.  We head out onto the street again.  I notice that the building adjacent to the Salam Center has a loudspeaker.  This must be the source of all those deafeningly loud calls to prayer that wake me up at 4:30 in the morning, and sometimes keep me awake.  I ask Sr. Marina where the mosque is.  That’s it – the building next to the center.  “Two mosques,” she says, and points down the street.  That’s what I’ve been thinking – that there are two mosques near the center.

Apparently it is a long walk to the church, because Sister Marina tries to hail down a tuk-tuk.  We struggle inside, three women with generously padded hips, trying to fit onto a seat built for two.  I notice that the driver has a picture of Pope Shenouda on the windshield.  A Coptic tuk-tuk.  Before we even have a chance to get started, two menacing-looking young men accost the driver and Sr. Marina.  I have no idea what the problem is, but Sr. Marina and Nermeen decide this ride is not worth getting into trouble over.  We walk to the church, which is about a half hour away.

This church, Abousefin, says Sister Marina, is the local church, the one the sisters worship at when the priest doesn’t come to the center.

When we first walk into the building I notice a huge lobby.  Its vastness reminds me of the mega-churches in America, with their huge everything.  There is a huge poster of some man hanging on the wall.  In contrast to those of Shenouda and other popes and saints, this man is dressed in a suit and has no beard.

I notice that at the back of each of the three sanctuaries, where there are icons (paintings of saints and various popes), there are also glass cabinets with embossed velvet objects.  Sister Marina stops before one of them and kisses the cabinet.  “Santa Marina,” she says, her eyes dreamy, her voice reverent.  They lead me through the entire church, a seven-story building.  Each of the three is nearly identical except for the saints honored in each one.  Occasionally Sr. Marina and Nermeen touch a picture reverently or kiss a cabinet holding relics of saints they’re particularly fond of.

Sister Marina at shrine

Sister Marina with the relics of Saint Marina, her patron saint

The other day when I was walking with Sister Elleria to the hospital, a postcard with a picture of Joan of Arc happened to slip out of a folder and fall to the ground.  She almost jumped to pick it up.  “Who’s that?” she demanded.

“Joan of Arc,” I answered.

“You mean Jeanne d’arc?  I love her!” Her eyes glistened like wet wave-washed sand, sparkling in brilliant sunlight.  “Do you know anything about Jeanne d’arc?”

“A little.”

“Could you tell me what you know of Jeanne d’arc? I love her very much.”

“Here.  Would you like the postcard?”

“Would you really give it up?”

I was only carrying the postcard in case I’d be giving a talk to women.  Then I could possibly have used the card to illustrate Joan of Arc as an example of someone who knew her destiny and had the courage to go “outside the box” to fulfill it.  I’d already given the talk, and hadn’t even used the card, so I handed it to Sister Elleria, who held it reverently.  In her lab, where she analyzes blood samples, we sat and talked.  She has a poster of various saints in her office.  She explained each one to me.

“Do you like the saints?  Do you pray to them?”

“Well, not really.  I’m a Protestant and we believe that talking to God in Jesus’ name suffices.”

She tried to explain to me why studying, thinking about, imagining the faces of, and talking to the saints is such a wonderful thing.  Judging from her beautiful, soft, glowing, cheerful eyes, she must have an advantage over me.

I see this same phenomenon today in Sister Marina and Nermeen, who often look dreamy-eyed as they kiss this cabinet and brush this picture or that.  We come across some red velvet curtains shutting off the altar areas.  Each curtain has beautifully sewn, glittery appliqués depicting St. George and St. Mark.

St. Mark, by Sr. Amina

St. Mark as created by Sister Amina

I learn that Sister Amina of the Salam Center has designed and sewn these marvelous pieces.  An elevator attendant takes up seven stories, to the baptistery.  Sr. Marina introduces me to the priest, a man with those same soft eyes I am seeing everywhere I encounter Copts.

We leave the church.  Outside the church, I spot a soldier, dressed in the white uniform they wear during the summer months.

soldier guarding church

Soldier guarding church

Later, after my return to Germany, I learn that this church was attacked by Islamists a few months ago.  When they arrived at the church, a crowd of people, both Muslims and Christians, formed a line in front of the church to protect it.  The Islamists didn’t fire.  They tried a second time, and again people around the church formed a human shield.  This time, though, the Islamists found a man who had a picture of Mary in his workshop.  They killed him.  I wonder if the man whose photo I saw isn’t the man who was killed by the Islamists.

Sr. Marina stops a tuk-tuk driver.  We climb in.  Another Coptic tuk-tuk, but this time we actually get to go somewhere.  We’re off to another church or two.  This is my first tuk-tuk ride ever.  The time I went whitewater rubber rafting a few years ago with my nieces and nephews was not more exciting than this.  Our hips alongside one another are simply too wide to fit into the seat.  Nermeen motions for me to sit on her lap.  I sit there, my head almost bumping the roof, so I lean over the driver and hold on for dear life.  We laugh a lot on our joy ride to the church.

tuk-tuk driver

Coptic tuk-tuk driver in front of the church

The church, the one they call a cathedral is nicknamed Santa Maria by the metro stop (Ezbet El Nakhl).  We’ve been in the same neighborhood as the Salam Center all this time!  The church is actually two churches across the street from one another.  One of the buildings has a bookstore, and Sister Marina shows me a book with Soeur Emmanuelle, the founder of the Salam Center, on the cover.   How I wish I could have met her!  After my return to Germany, I listen to an interview with her in French, and she sounds so lively, so human!  But seeing her photo, I feel I have a connection to the founder of the Salam Center, as well as to those living there now.  Unfortunately, the bookshop is closed.

Again, I notice Sister Marina and Nermeen kissing and touching a lot of pictures.  In one of the churches, again separating the sanctuary from the altar area, there is another beautiful appliquéd curtain.  It’s the Virgin Mary.  I am particularly struck by the beautiful work on Saint Mary, as well as her soft eyes.  Again, the seamstress was Sister Amina.  Sr. Marina, Nermeen, and I reverently touch the curtain.

Virgin Mary, by Sister Amina

Virgin Mary, as depicted and sewn by Sister Amina

In the cathedral church of Saint Mary, there is an icon of Saint Marina.  I take a photo of Sister Marina next to her favorite saint.

I ask her who gave Sister Marina her name.  She stops, turns to me, looking at me with soft eyes, and says in a hushed tone, “Father Shenouda”.  It was the Pope himself who blessed her, who gave her her habit, her cross, her name.  Five other sisters at this convent received their names from him at the same time.

We look at the pictures of the twelve apostles at the front of the church.  Unlike the gothic paintings or statues of the various saints I see in Catholic churches throughout northern Europe, these saints all look wonderfully kind, soft, and gentle.  I think the Copts must value kindness and gentleness above everything else.  They study and collect pictures of the lives of these saints like teenagers collect pictures of sports or movie stars.  The difference is, the saints are truly positive role models.  At this moment I wish I had grown up in a Coptic culture rather than in a sober, icon-less Protestant church.

“We don’t worship the saints,” said Sister Elleria.  “We admire them. We honor them.  I hope to be a saint one day, but I don’t hope to die for my faith, like Jeanne d’arc did.”

We look at a large photo hanging on the wall of a man from our time.  He’s a priest, says Sister Martina, who was shot dead by Islamists.  A martyr.

“I fear for you all here,” I tell her.

“No need for fear.  We have Jesus in our hearts.”

Sister Marina’s cell phone rings.  It is Sister Maria.  They talk for a minute or two and then Sr. Marina hangs up.  “I love Mother Maria,” she says in English and again in Arabic.  We’ve been practicing the phrase “I love…”  Nermeen nods her head.  “Me too.”  I agree.  Me too.

It’s time to go back to the convent.  We’re all hungry.  We find another tuk-tuk.  We bump and jerk along dirt streets and avenues until we reach the center.  And then a nasty scene takes place.  The driver is not content with the money Sister Maria has paid him.  Nermeen and I each offer to contribute some money of our own, but Sr. Maria won’t let us.  “He got the same amount as the other driver – five pounds.”  Judging from his face, I’m hoping there won’t be a terrorist attack on the center.  Sister Maria later tells me that he wanted more money because there was a foreigner in the group.  Whenever there are foreigners present, people want more money.

Back at the center, we find Sister Amina still seated at the table, finishing her lunch.  I show her the photograph in my cell phone, her depiction of Saint Mary.  She looks at it, smiles, kisses my cell phone and hands it over to another sister who wants to see the photo.  She also looks, smiles, and kisses it, without a hint of embarrassment or shame.

Sister Amina

Sister Amina showing someone baptismal clothes she has sewn

I don’t understand this culture, but I like it.

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