What happened over the following days was momentous and quite unexpected by most Egyptians. I don’t think we realized the potential we had as individuals and as a people to create change. Once this realization started dawning on us, we would not allow ourselves to be convinced that we could not take our country out of darkness and into the light.

We would not settle for less than Mubarak stepping down from power. We fully realized that the removal of Mubarak and his regime would create a huge power gap. We fully realized that there was only one power in Egypt besides the National Democratic Party that had any experience and popular support to step into that gap; and that was the Muslim Brotherhood. We were completely aware that once Mubarak and his regime were removed we would be in for trying times. I remember discussions about this going on and on between revolutionaries between January 25 and February 11. I remember saying those words over and over to the various journalists who contacted me for interviews at the time and who repeatedly asked, “But what happens after you remove Mubarak?”

Egyptians lived through a few days of euphoria and national pride after Mubarak was ousted. But as the days moved on the reality settled in: now what?

I spent the first couple of months after the revolution obsessively following the news and the late night talk shows that hosted every sort of analyst imaginable. So many events happened during the following weeks and months that it’s almost impossible for me to list them. Many Egyptians continued to go to Tahrir Square in hordes on Fridays to keep up the pressure on the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF) to respond to the demands of the revolution. I didn’t feel a need to do this myself. Although I understood the benefit of keeping up this pressure, I also did not feel that we all should be doing this. We needed the country to re-stabilize, I felt. I had done my job. I had toppled a dictator. It was now the turn of the politicians who have the needed knowledge and expertise to figure out how to get Egypt back on track and into democracy.

I continued to try to follow events. I started noticing that there were too many political players appearing on the scene. I remember tweeting that the Egyptian revolution was like a thunderstorm that cleansed the country but then the creepy crawlies came out of their holes. Many people started announcing they would nominate themselves for presidency. Many many others started forming more political parties than I thought possible. Factions that had been underground for years – or at least oppressed by the previous regime – began to surface. It was impossible to follow it all or to understand it all.

Many frightening things were also happening on the ground. Political activists and protesters were being detained and allegedly tortured by the military police. Protests that seemed to start peaceful somehow ended very violently with many people dying. There were days when I feared for my children’s lives. Many of these violent events were in close vicinity to my children’s school.

Stories began to surface about thugs and bandits disturbing the peace, robbing people, violently beating them up, and in some cases killing them. Who were these thugs? On whose behalf were they acting? Or was Egypt descending into a general lawlessness?

The general discourse of politicians, political activists, SCAF, the police, ministers, religious leaders, and the general public became overwhelmingly coarse. An “either you are with me or against me” mentality reared its ugly head. I saw this quite frequently happening from Twitterers (tweeps) I was following. Things were being said along the lines of “If I hear anyone say such and such one more time I’ll block them.” The very same people who risked their lives for democracy in Egypt were incapable of recognizing the right of others to see things differently than they did.

Life in Egypt post-revolution had become extremely stressful. While all this was going on I was going through my own personal challenges. I was an unemployed, divorced, 42-year-old mother of four children suffering from major financial loss in a very unstable Egypt at a time of global economic crisis.

With all this going on, I was scared shitless.

I needed to find a way to deal with it all. I stopped following the news and the late night talk shows. I was completely turned off from Twitter by the level of discourse I was witnessing. I took an extended holiday and visited with friends outside of Egypt.

Many thoughts went through my head over the subsequent months. To understand what was happening in my country, I resorted to more private discussions (as opposed to Twitter) with trusted friends on Facebook. These discussions were more thoughtful, considered, and balanced. I was able to get more calm analyses. Friends who were well connected whether with activists, politicians, the Muslim Brotherhood, or the army would explain what they had heard and how they saw events. Phone conversations ensued followed by meetings. We all just wanted to try to understand what was happening so we could decide how we should act or react as individuals.

Safety became an important consideration. Friends traveling abroad would come back not with chocolates and cute clothes as gifts but with gas masks and mace.

There were times when many of us, including me, started thinking it was time to leave the country. I had never thought that before. It was never an option for me. But with the situation so precarious and my search for work not bringing the results I was hoping for, I started thinking that maybe looking for work abroad was my only option.

Over the past year I was asked a few times by journalists for interviews to update them with the situation in Egypt post-revolution. I declined every single one of them. I had nothing to say because I had no idea what was going on. I didn’t understand what was happening in Egypt. I still don’t. I’m not alone. I haven’t heard a single person, not even the most experienced analysts, say anything that indicates that anyone has a grip on who is doing what and for what reasons in Egypt.

It’s a mess.

But it’s our mess. And we’re going to clean it up somehow.

It’s been a really really hard year for Egyptians. We’ve all worried about money and jobs and personal safety. We’ve all struggled getting up some mornings. We’ve all felt pangs of pessimism. We’ve all succumbed to conspiracy theories. Listen. If there was ever a time when we had a right to believe in conspiracies it’s now!

But we’re going to make this right. No matter how down we ever get we always remember those who gave their eyes (literally) or their lives to this country. We will honor those eyes and we will honor those lives.

I found work. By the grace of God I found work. I’m staying in Egypt.

So, mysterious forces of evil acting on this beautiful country of ours, BEWARE. We will not allow you to take over this country again. The people of Egypt fear no more. We may not all have the same vision of how to deal with the situation we’re in, we may feel lost as to how to do this, but we’ll figure it out. By God, we’ll figure it out.

Defining success is a good place to start. Each one of us defines it differently. A good general definition that can apply to anyone is that success is what gives you a feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment. Success depends on what your objectives are. Imagine yourself after retirement looking back on the past 40 years. Do you feel you’ve accomplished something with your life? Do you feel you lived your life to the fullest? Do you feel you’ve left a positive lasting mark on society…on someone…anyone? Is your life now – at retirement – as satisfying as it was before you retired? Have you structured your life so that satisfaction lasts a lifetime?

If your answer to one or more of the above questions is no, you need to re-think your life strategy.

Start by defining your priorities in life. Don’t look at the small picture while doing this. Look at your life as a whole. When you near the end of your life, what do you think will make you feel satisfied with how you lived it? More importantly, if you were to die today, in that brief moment between life and death, would you be able to tell yourself that you lived your life the way YOU wanted to?

What satisfies me and makes me feel successful may be very different from what makes you feel satisfied and successful. It all depends on our objectives in life and on our priorities.

The priority of some people in life is to raise one or more children to be healthy, productive members of society. The priority of others may be to make a name for themselves in their line of work. The priority of others may be to better society. And the priority of yet others may be to live a life of self-discovery. Many people, including myself, may want to achieve all of the above. What’s important is that you decide what your main priorities are, to order them according to importance, and to start working on achieving them.

Enough with the generalizing. I can rarely relate if general guidelines are given without examples. And since this is a blog – my blog – the easiest and most relatable thing for me to do is to tell you how I see things.

I have many objectives in life. But when I ask myself what is most important to me, if I could choose only one thing in life to focus on, it would without question be letting my children know that they were loved by their mother. There is absolutely nothing that is more important to me than that. That is the one most important thing that my father gave me and I want to be able to hand that down to my own children. As a result, I realize that much of my life and what I do must revolve around my children. Many of my important life decisions revolve around this main priority.

I also believe, though, that to be a loving mother, there are other aspects of my life that I need to attend to. There are other priorities in my life that I need to give time to. My children need to eat, be clothed, go to school, and all that costs money. So I must work. If I had to, I could deal with working for the singular objective of making just enough money to keep my children above the poverty line as long as they knew they were loved. When I am able to, I want my work to be meaningful and my definition of that is having a job where I feel I am giving to society. With this line of thinking, my first priority is loving my children. My second priority is giving to society. I’ll do both as long as the second does not take me away from my children to the extent that they do not feel loved. Once this happens, it is time for me to shift away from my second priority to focus on my first.

This line of thinking continues in all other aspects of my life. I prioritize spiritual fulfillment, having dreams and making them happen, being surrounded by family and friends, and many other things. I’ll do it all as long as I am able. But when one starts affecting the priority above it, I’ll shift my focus back to the more important. As long as I am able to make my first priority happen, I am a satisfied woman who feels successful.

I have also realized for many years now that we go through phases in life and each phase requires and allows us to focus on some priorities at the expense of others. When children are young, they need more time and attention from their parents than they do when they get older. It is easier to focus on our education at certain times of our lives than others. Career-building usually happens at particular phases in our lives as well. We decide what is more important for us at different phases.

I focused on my basic education when I was young. After I finished by bachelor’s degree, building my family was more important. When my children grew older I started focusing on my career and gave yet more time to continuing to build my education. And once I accomplished those I started giving more time to spiritual fulfillment and accomplishing other personal dreams I always had. While in one phase, I was not feeling sorry for myself because I was unable to fulfill some of my other goals right then and there. I knew that the time would come for that and that now was the time to focus on my current and most pressing priorities.

When I retire, I don’t want to find myself all alone because I focused too much on my career. I also don’t want to wait till I retire to do some things in life that I’d rather do while I’m younger and healthier. And I want to make sure that when I retire I’m as healthy as I possibly can be so that I can continue to live a full and satisfying life when work isn’t taking up a significant amount of my time. So I incorporate things into my life now that ensure I have a chance at a full post-career life. I have hobbies, I try to keep in touch with friends, I exercise as much as possible. I’m not perfect at any of those but when I reach retirement I can truthfully tell myself that I tried.

Your priorities and phases will be different from mine. You are not expected to live your life the way I have or to have my priorities. What you should expect from yourself is to live YOUR life based on YOUR priorities. You should be able to look at your life today and confidently say that you have a sense of self-satisfaction with what you are doing NOW. And you should be able to look at your life after retirement and know that you have something to look forward to.

Now sit down and prioritize. Work on your priorities and balance the time you give to each based on their order of importance. Do not dwell on what you cannot accomplish now. If you can’t accomplish it now it isn’t one of your priorities now so it’s not important now. The time for those things will come later.

I can truthfully say that I’ve lived life. I’ve done the things that are most important to me. And I have many things to look forward to when their time comes. This does not in any way mean that life or life’s choices have been easy. But I’ve tried to do as best I can. I’m satisfied. Alhamdulillah. Thanks be to God.

I have no idea when it started. I always assumed the ringing was some sort of a normal, inner physiological refusal of silence.

The first time I noticed the ringing in my ears might not be normal was the only time it really disappeared. I had complained to a doctor about my pre-menstrual syndrome (PMS) and he suggested I try taking half of a mild anti-depressant pill for two weeks a month. He said that should help with my PMS symptoms. The very first thing I noticed a few hours after taking my first pill was how quiet everything had gone in my head. I wasn’t sure at first what was missing until I thought about it a bit. The ringing. The ringing was gone. What a tranquil feeling that was.

I didn’t take the anti-depressant for long. It was causing me to be very apathetic. I was losing the fire in my belly that made up a large part of who I was. And as a psychiatrist later assured me, I was not depressed to begin with.

This ringing in my ears is a medical condition called tinnitus. Many things can cause tinnitus but for many people, the cause of their tinnitus will remain unknown. Things like hearing loss, exposure to loud noise, impacted ear wax, problems with the inner ear or the jaw joint, and stress and depression have been linked to tinnitus. It’s possible to treat tinnitus in some people by treating the underlying cause. But for others, it is a condition that will remain with them. All they can do is train themselves to mask or ignore the sound.

I’ve had this sound with me for so long that I do not normally notice it unless I focus on it. When I focus on it the sound gets louder and louder until it’s deafening. Sometimes when I’m sitting comfortably and quietly at home reading a book the ringing will come to the forefront of my attention. If there are other noises in the house, the television set turned on or the children roaming about, the ringing is completely and subconsciously tuned out.

One in five people suffer from tinnitus. I’m part of that one-fifth of the human population.

There is a ringing in my ears. A constant, high-pitched ring. I wish it could go away.

I’m itching to tell that story.

Email me at tellnadiayourstory@gmail.com. Send a few short paragraphs that summarize your story and why you think that story needs to get out.

If I find your story interesting, I’ll get in touch with you and we’ll discuss how I can use my voice to get your story out.

Michelangelo's Finger of God

you need to confront the confusion you already had but did not want to face.

My father taught me almost everything I know about religion; i.e. Islam. I did my own readings, of course. I had a phase of about six years while studying medicine in university when I became a bookworm of Islamic knowledge. Just the other day I decided to organize my personal library at home. I thought I’d organize my books according to subject. I came across the books I bought during that time and I was horrified. Besides a number of books that guide one to the best methods of preaching Islam to others, and other books about how to purify oneself to a place of high moral and ethical standards according to Islamic philosophy, there were books such as Leadership and Following in Islam, Dying with Passion, and The Methods of Ideological Invasion. My books were chosen usually as either required or recommended reading by Muslim Brotherhood “sisters” and “brothers” who were mentoring me at the time. It was pounded into my head that one should not stray from books written by certain authors so as not to have my head messed with, basically, by writers following a non-pure path of Islam. And since I was still young, impressionable and pretty much ignorant and incapable of making up my own mind for myself – or so I was made to believe – I was instructed to follow the advice of those brothers and sisters who were more worldly and knowledgeable than me.

Many years later, I now clearly see how cult-like that part of my upbringing was. My head became lazy. I turned into a person who resorts to certain authorities on religion, i.e. Islam, rather than figuring things out with a mind open to all possibilities.

My father was my most trusted authority of all. He spent his whole life studying Islam and doing comparative readings on the world’s religions. He came to conclusions of his own. He talked about his conclusions with me, my brothers and sister quite frequently. When we needed advice on what was right or wrong according to Islamic law, we’d resort first and foremost to our father for guidance. He always had an answer. I didn’t really need to do much homework of my own. My father had already done it all for me.

It’s been awhile now, years really, since I realized that something was wrong with the way I had been approaching religion. Firstly, the only real knowledge I had, if you can call it that, about religion was about Islam. I have hardly any real understanding of other world religions and philosophies. And my understanding of Islam itself is very narrow and stems from a limited number of resources.

Over the past five years, perhaps more, I’ve had questions spinning round and round in my head about Islam, religion, and God. The most I’ve ever really done about those questions is to tweet, Facebook, or blog about them; discuss them with some trusted friends; or experiment a little.

My dad’s death made me come face to face with my own mortality.

No. That’s not it. That’s a load of crap.

My dad’s death meant the loss of my main trusted source on religion. And the realization that it’s about time I grew up and did what my father did and figure things out for myself.

I’m no longer concerned about where a path of spiritual/religious discovery might lead me. This was a major concern of mine many years ago. What if I come to question Islam so much that I feel it’s not the right religion for me? What if I come across another religion that suits me better? What if I continue to like Islam but I come up with my own understanding of it that conflicts with traditional views? What if I start questioning the existence of God? What if I die while going through this process, having doubts about God and religion in my head, and God then sends me to Hell because of it?

But the Qur’an itself encourages people time and time again to think and to question. That’s an integral part of the religion. The thing is, this is frequently interpreted to mean that non-Muslims are required to think and to question until they ultimately realize that Islam is the one true religion. That interpretation doesn’t make much sense to me. In practice, my experience has been that if I myself start questioning and thinking, I’m judged as being a bad Muslim on the verge of disbelief. Why do we Muslims think it’s an obligation of non-Muslims to discover the one true God and the one true religion but we don’t require the same open process of ourselves?

I’m not worried about this anymore. I don’t care what society thinks about my questioning and doubting. It’s my right, my obligation even, to doubt and question and think and arrive at my own conclusions and personal convictions.

The big question is where do I start? I’ve been asking myself this question for years. Years seems to be a recurring theme in the past paragraphs. Damn it! Why is it taking me so long to start working on this?

I’ll tell you why.

First of all, reading religious texts bores the hell out of me. Any religious texts. They are difficult to understand and tedious. There is something that is just WRONG about that. If God expects normal, everyday people, illiterate slightly unintelligent people even, to believe in Him and/or in a certain religion, why would He make the manuals so difficult to understand of one’s own accord?

Someone might answer: that’s why God sent prophets and learned scholars. But even some of the things they say are difficult to comprehend or just simply aren’t very logical.

If there really IS a God, I can’t help but believe that He would have devised a way for a simple-minded person like me to get the information that I need in a way that is suitable for my intelligence level and my aptitude for learning.

For example, I have never been one for learning much through reading and academic study. I learn through doing. And there are so many people out there who are like me. How do I go about discovering religion and God through doing? What do I do? And how do I find the time to do it – whatever “it” is – and still do the other things I need to do like making a living and taking care of my family and myself? How do I go about figuring out God and religion without turning it into a life-long process? I want to be able to find at least SOME answers within a reasonable amount of time! Or is it that God expects us to go through the process itself and not that we need to come to conclusions? But wouldn’t that be cruel of God? Leaving us (well me anyway) in the dark like this? Shouldn’t simple people like me be able to go through a relatively short but important process that allows us to reach at least some convictions of our own that we weren’t brainwashed into believing?

I’m desperate, folks, as I’m sure you can see.

I have some ideas of what I’d LIKE to do to get this process started. I’m not certain I can actually do what I’d like to do, though.

Before I make a final decision on how to start my process of spiritual and religious discovery, I thought I’d throw these thoughts out into the blogosphere. Maybe someone out there has an idea for me that will click.

PLEASE don’t tell me to read books. Just don’t go there.

PLEASE don’t tell me to sit in on religious sermons and lectures. Blah and major nausea.

PLEASE don’t preach to me your own religious thoughts and convictions. As I revealed above, I know all the sneaky methods there are to know about trying to convince others that one’s own thoughts are the one true thoughts.

Be innovative. Be creative. Think out of the box.

Give me some ideas!

In the next scene in the dream my Baba was lying outside the grave on the ground. My two brothers, my sister and I were around him talking. Baba was weak from, well, being dead for three weeks. But he was happy we were all around him.  I started trying to find my cousins in the village where my Baba is buried to help us carry him to a nice bed so he could recuperate.

I woke up from that dream feeling good. It was a nice dream. I saw my Baba. He was all right. Everything would be all right.

I later started analyzing what the dream might mean.

My Baba was ill for several years before he died. He spoke about death a lot. He had been into hospital, had had operations, and he loathed the experience. I traveled to the UK for a long holiday in early August. Just before that, though, my Baba got a bit more ill than usual. My brother, sister, ex-husband and I all gathered around his bed to convince him that he needed to see a doctor so he could get the right medications for his condition. He felt that visiting a doctor meant he’d end up in a hospital. He did not want to go to the hospital. His memories of his last experience were so horrible. I told him we would not take him to the hospital even if he was dying. I told him I understood. He wanted to die on his own bed, he said. I said we understood that and promised we would not take him to the hospital if he got ill. We just wanted him to see a doctor to ease some of his pain with the right medications. About two days after that I went on holiday. I came back to Egypt three weeks later after a phone call from my siblings telling me that Baba was admitted to hospital in a coma. There was nothing they could do. There was no alternative. I know there was no alternative. But it pains me to no end that my Baba died in a hospital bed.

I think my dream is my way of trying to make amends with my dad. I wanted to get him to a nice bed. If I got him to a nice bed everything would be all right. He could even die again there. It would be all right.

After conducting my extensive self-analysis I started a new bout of sobbing. “I’m so sorry, Baba!” I cried out again and again and again. That then merged into my normal sob of just “Baba. Baba. Baba!” I can hear a five year old child in me saying that when it comes out.

I had never before experienced this kind of loss. I have lost grandparents. I have lost uncles and aunts. But none of that comes remotely close to the loss of a parent. I knew it would be hard when it happened. I just didn’t realize it would feel this… odd.

I’ve always known that a large part of my self-identity was linked to my father. He has been such a huge influence in my life. Losing him has been like having the very foundations of my identity experience a serious earthquake.  Who am I without my Baba? Am I the same person? Do I need to be the same person? Is it time to figure out who I am as a separate individual?

One of my beautiful friends from India told me when my Baba died that having a parent die is like finally getting the umbilical cord cut. It’s true.  The umbilical cord has been cut and it feels like I’m thrashing around in the dark, knowing that the light is near, but I just have to focus my thoughts and get over the initial panic to reach that light.

I’ve seen friends lose parents over the years. For the most part I only see the brave face they put on for us. When it happens, I realize they are going through a very difficult time. But only now can I truly comprehend how difficult it really is.

It seems irrelevant how old a parent is when they die. It seems irrelevant how old their children are when they die. We still feel horribly orphaned when our parents pass away.

I’m almost 43 years old. My Baba was 73 when he died. He was ill. He knew and we knew he’d die eventually. None of that makes any of this any easier.

For all of my adult life, my Baba was my confidante and main supporter. I could tell him almost anything. I discussed my problems with him and he gave me advice. When I did something interesting, I wanted him to be the first person to know about it. As he got into his late sixties and became ill, it became difficult for him to discuss problems with me. He couldn’t handle the stress of problems anymore. Problems worried him too much. So I had to eventually stop telling my Baba everything. I ached horribly at the loss of that part of our friendship. But I still had my Baba. We still had our special things. He was always the last person I called before my plane took off from Cairo and the first person I called just as my plane landed back home during some ten years of frequent business travel. He was usually the only person to call me when I was traveling just to make sure I was all right.

Ten days after my Baba’s death I went on a week long holiday. After the holiday ended and the second I hopped into my car to drive myself back home from the airport I broke down crying. “Baba! Baba! Baba!” I came home from a trip and I couldn’t call my Baba to tell him I was all right. Where has my Baba gone? Who ripped my heart out of my rib cage?

I still moan and sob. But the bouts of crying are gradually becoming less frequent if not less intense. They last for one or two minutes and then I snap out of it and move on until the next bout of crying hits me a day or two later. Something will remind me that I should call Baba or that Friday is coming along and I should stop by and visit. Or I’ll suddenly remember seeing him dead and wrapped up on his hospital bed. He was so beautiful. He was so peaceful. He was smiling. But he was dead.

My Baba is dead.

Baba…

Baba…

Baba…

By the grace of God, all four of his children were with him to say goodbye.

Along the years, I’ve learned there is no such thing as a perfect parent. My Baba was neither a perfect man nor a perfect parent. No one is. But in my heart, I’ve always seen him as perfect even though in my mind I was aware of his imperfections.

My father was my one constant. I was always certain that there was this one person in my life who would do absolutely anything for me. He took care of me and my brothers and sister till his last breath. When we were university students, my father would come from Saudi Arabia where he worked to visit me and my brother in Egypt for a few days every few months and cook lots and lots of food that would go into the deep freezer. He absolutely refused to allow me to learn to cook so I could focus on nothing but my studies. As an adult, if I stayed at his house for a few days, he still washed my clothes. Which reminds me of the day some years ago when he picked up one my of very old bras in the laundry and called out, “Whose dead mouse is this??” At my despicable age, my sister and I would still run to our Baba when we had a disagreement: “Baba, Aisha did such and such!” He’d give a deep sigh, gently close his eyes, and listen to our complaints, muttering under his breath, “Mafeesh fayda [there’s no hope].”

When I was a little girl, I’d walk behind my father to place my feet in his footsteps thinking that maybe that way I’d grow up to be like him. I think that’s how I got my hard headedness “دماغي الجزمة”.

My Baba was a very passionate man.

His first and foremost passion was his children. He wanted us to be the best we could ever be. He pushed us to study hard. I remember getting a B on an exam in the 6^th grade and getting a long talk from Baba. “You are so much better than a B,” he told me. He explained that I should give my all to whatever I do. Baba is behind my constant strive for perfectionism – that thing that drives most of my co-workers nuts.

My Baba could be one very scary dude at times. He literally made grown men cry as my sister will confirm. When my sister and I reached a marriageable age, we started getting suitors, as one does in Egypt. My father was a suitor interrogator. No one – really…no one – was good enough for his daughters.  One day I asked my Baba why he said no to every young man who asked for my hand in marriage. He told me, “You are not going to get married until you finish your studies and graduate from college.” I asked him why he was even accepting suitors into our house in that case. “I’m scanning the market so I know what to expect when you do graduate,” he laughed, quite irritatingly I might add.

And that doesn’t even describe the half of how scary my Baba could be. Just as a simple example, Baba was driving in Cairo one day with my sister and brother in the car. Probably moving too slowly, he angered the driver of one of those menacing red public busses we have in the city. As he passed by my Baba’s car, the driver yelled out some obscenity to my father referring to his long beard. Baba got out of the car, opened the trunk, took out the crow bar, and rushed to the bus driver’s door to beat the shit out of him. Evidently and luckily for that driver, people held my father back and he was unable to achieve his goal. Anyone who has seen me get out of my own car in a storm of road rage will now know where that comes from.

My Baba worked very hard to give off that scary persona. He was quite proud of it. But my brothers and sister and I and people who knew him could easily see behind that scary exterior. My Baba was actually a very mushy, loving, and kind man. He had a growl that made me run when I was young. But as I grew just a bit older, I saw through him and would only laugh and roll my eyes saying, “Baba!” I tried using that growl on my own children sometimes. I get the same rolling of the eyes and “Mama!”

Baba was extremely passionate about chemistry. Research and teaching were not a job to him. They were so much more. His students were almost as important to him as his children. I’ve been with him so many times going through an airport or walking on the street and a young man or woman would come up to him to kiss him on the hand or give him a hug. After a short, loving conversation, my father would tell me that was one of his students.

My father was also picked up like that on the street in Egypt and in Saudi Arabia by complete strangers. My Baba did not only look scary. He also gave off an air of … let’s say sainthood or holiness, بركة baraka in Arabic. And my father really knew how to work it! This baraka quite frequently worked to our advantage. Baba would get special VIP treatment because of it sometimes. More importantly, it got me and my sister more suitors. One night, my sister and I – many years after we both married – were in Mecca with my father doing a small pilgrimage umrah. We stepped onto the bus to head off to our car after we were done but my father was held back by someone on the street. When he eventually boarded the bus I asked him who that was. He told me it was a man – a complete stranger – who was asking if he could have the hand of one of his daughters in marriage. My sister and I spent many a night arguing about which of us that man was actually targeting. My Baba’s only statement to these arguments was that the man targeted him and not us. He just wanted to be related to my Baba and his baraka. I cannot tell you how many times along the years I heard that. My Baba adored being adored.

My Baba was one of the greatest storytellers alive. One of my favorite things about Baba was that he’d forget (or feign to forget) that he told us one story from his past or another and tell it to us all over again. Many times. For years. I loved that because it meant that I could hear him tell the story again. The stories we heard most were from his childhood. But he also loved to tell a good dirty joke. My father had a favorite joke that involved shit. And anytime he could make a play on words and come out with the Arabic word for fart, he’d do so. Baba would also say “and as the saying goes” a lot. But there was never a real saying to follow that. He’d just say another normal sentence. And we’d all laugh and say “Baba! That’s not a saying!” And he’d innocently look at us with a “huh?” expression on his face. I loved listening to my Baba speak.

My Baba was a great patriot. He loved Egypt. He loved Egypt so much that even though he married an American woman (my mother) and lived in the United States for some 25 years, he never applied for American citizenship. My father had problems with the Egyptian government for years at the time of President Gamal Abdel-Nasser. While studying for his PhD in the United States, he made a political statement that resulted in an order from the Egyptian government to return immediately. Had he done this, he would have been thrown in jail. So he was forced to remain in the United States for many years, unable to go home. The easiest thing in the world would have been for him to become American. He never did. He would never be anything but an Egyptian, he’d tell us.

My Baba raised us in the United States but fed us an unsurpassable love for Egypt. He eventually brought us to Egypt where my brothers and sister and I all went to university. He’d continue to work, however, in Saudi Arabia for the rest of his life. My Baba loved Egypt, but found living in it extremely difficult. He never ceased to complain about the stifling political environment, the corruption, the chaos, the filth. My Baba was a very ill man in his final few years. But when the revolution of January 25, 2011 erupted, he was given a new breath of life. My sister and I were his only two children in the country at the time. And we were women. But every morning he’d send us both out to Tahrir along with our girlfriends telling us to go topple that dictator, fully aware of the danger involved. I’d come home every evening to tell him about the gun fire, the tear gas, the deaths. He was proud. And he’d just push us on. On the day of the infamous Battle of the Camels, he sat at home watching the atrocities happening on TV. He called me on my cell phone as I stood on top of a tank at the front lines to make sure I was all right. I told him I was fine and explained the scenes in front of me. He told me to take care of myself. And that was that. I walked into the house that night, exhausted. My father was sitting in his favorite lazy boy chair watching the news on TV. I looked him in the eye, shook my head, and he smiled with a twinkle in his eye. One day, he decided he wanted to visit Tahrir. He could barely walk but nevertheless he did the rounds in Tahrir and thanked every soldier, doctor and revolutionary he could for bringing change to Egypt. He kissed some of their hands to honor them. He eventually sat down on his small folding stool while people gathered around him to listen to the stories of the man of baraka. My father told stories of Egypt’s greatness. He urged the young men and women listening to him to continue their struggle for freedom. My father lived to witness that. Alhamdulillah. Thanks to Allah.

Baba, I’ll miss your hugs. I’ll miss you being the last person I call from the plane as I go somewhere in the world and the first person I call when I return – just as the plane lands on the tarmac. I’ll miss you being the one person that calls me while I’m away to make sure I’m all right. I’ll miss you giving me twenty Egyptian Pounds that you find lying around somewhere so I can get myself something. I’ll miss your smile, your deep belly laugh, the twinkle in your eyes, and how you roll your eyes in exasperation at us. I’ll miss your complaining. I loved your complaining. It was never from the heart and we all knew it. I’ll miss seeing your eyes light up every time one of your grand children walked into the house. Oh how you loved your grand children and how they love you. I’ll miss your stories. I’ll miss your tears.

I haven’t lost my father. I will miss him more than any words can describe. But he is a part of me. I can feel him in me. He has left me with the one love I could always depend on. I will cherish that forever.

I love you, Baba. Be at peace now.

This is a social networking experiment in narrative writing. I invite you, the reader, to engage now as a writer. Add a paragraph in the comments section that builds on the first paragraph in the story and subsequent paragraphs developed by others.

You are allowed only one paragraph per post. You are allowed one post for every three posts made by others. Your words may be subjected to some minor editing. Your post may not be used if it does not flow properly with the rest of the narrative or if it is deemed inappropriate for other reasons. Do not let this last statement stifle your creativity, however.

Develop the storyline and the characters as the process progresses.

Identify yourself as the owner of your words unless you wish to remain anonymous. But do realize that the final product may possibly turn into a New York Times Best Seller or a Hollywood movie, in which case you might regret not making mention of your name to get credit for your words.

Now have fun! And let’s see what this story is all about!

To my shock, horror, and utter disdain, I resorted to reading a celebrity book this summer. I needed something light and funny to read after an exhausting two months of work.

Tina Fey’s Bossypants was my first ever celebrity book. I’m not here to review it. But I do want to refer to one chapter she wrote composed of three simple sentences:

What Turning Forty Means to Me

I need to take my pants off as soon as I get home. I didn’t use to have to do that. But now I do.

I have been laughing for the past month over that chapter. I can absolutely relate.

I’ve decided to put together my own What Turning Forty Means to Me list. Men and women out there: feel free to add to my list in the comments section!

What Turning Forty Means to Me:

• Body odors. New and disturbing body odors in places there were no odors before.
• I can distinctly remember watching movies in my 20s and 30s where the 40/50 year old woman looks in the mirror and feels her face and neck, disapproving skin changes she seems to be discovering. I’d always shake my head, frustratingly click my tongue, and think, “What is wrong with this woman? Did she not realize she’d get old one day? Did she not know that with age come certain changes?” After forty, I look in the mirror and I’m completely shocked by the person who looks back at me. Who is that old woman in the mirror, I ask? Why is her face falling off her skull? Why is she melting like that?? Why did no one warn me this would happen??
• What’s the deal with the nails? Why do they become all ridgy (from the noun ridges) and stuff?
• It’s perfectly all right to fart out loud in front of one’s children. Holding in those nasty gases is unhealthy.
• I need much more space to sleep in. I sprawl now. A queen-sized bed barely provides enough space.
• I’m hot then I’m cold, I’m cold then I’m hot…
• I’m making friends with my PMS (pre-menstrual syndrome). I’ve come to accept it and enjoy its company. It entertains me. Can’t say that for the rest of the world, though. Last month’s PMS resulted in me publicly yelling the following at a good friend, “Don’t you DARE sit next to me. You were a HORRIBLE diving buddy during that last dive!” He wasn’t even my buddy during that last dive. He was someone else’s.
• Don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me. I can’t stand the human voice. (Why does no one talk to me?)
• Joking inappropriately with the children is perfectly all right. Two days ago we were walking through the mall and I noticed a lingerie shop showcasing a black bra and panties with red tassels on them. “I should buy a black bra and panties with red tassels on them,” I tell my 12, 13, and 17 year old children. Twelve year old son, “You are NOT going to buy that, Mama.” “Oh yes I am,” I dare him. “Oh yes I am!”
• Where did I put my glasses? KIDS! I NEED YOU TO LOOK FOR MY GLASSES AGAIN!
• Why can I never hear the television at the same volume that my kids can?
• Looking at gorgeous, thin, firm, confident 20 year old women and thinking, “That won’t last for long. SUCKER!”
• Hair is starting to appear in odd places and to disappear from other normal places.
• I’ll climb a mountain. But don’t ask me to bend down and get something from under the bed. My back and knees hurt too much.
• During the 1992 Cairo earthquake, I refused to leave a shaking apartment because none of my clothes were ironed. My current motto: No one’s looking at you. Just throw on any ol’ thing.
• I’m still figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.

Now it’s your turn! What does it mean to you to be forty?

For as long as I can remember I have asserted my independence and been proud of it. I make my own personal decisions and take permission from no one. I have my own money. I own my own things.

I recently realized that I have only done this, however, under the guardianship of a male. The first 24 years of my life my guardian was my father. The following 17 years of my life my guardian was my husband.

Why do I call them guardians?

When I think of my father and of my now ex-husband I think: protection, stability, guidance, companionship, someone to trust in, someone to resort to or to fall back on…

Throughout my 41 years of male guardianship I never would have called my father or my ex-husband my guardians; especially not my ex-husband for the principle of it. He was though. They both were. I realize this now.

For the past year, since my divorce, I have been without guardianship.

My father is now an old man. He is in need of his children to take care of him. My father was my everything. I always always knew that if anything went wrong, my father would take care of it for me. This was not a hope. This was knowledge. I knew this as a matter of fact. I always always knew that if I needed guidance or counseling I could go to my father and that he was wise enough and knowledgeable enough about the world to alleviate my concerns or to point me in the right direction. More often than not I’d make my own decisions based on my own guidance. More often than not I’d solve my own problems without anyone’s help. But I was always safe in the knowledge that my father was there for me.

My husband is now my ex-husband. Regardless of the fact that our relationship did not work out, in the back of my mind I always felt that if I had any problems it was my husband’s responsibility to stand by me and protect me.

And always in the back of my mind I felt – no matter how financially independent I was – that it was my father’s and my ex-husband’s responsibility to provide me with financial stability.

That is how I was raised. That is what my culture tells me. That is what my religion – or my understanding of it – dictates.

“In Islam,” my father has always taught me, “a woman never need worry. There is always a man responsible for her. If not her father then her brother. If not her brother then her husband. If not her husband then ‘those in charge’ [أولي الأمر].”

Whether my father said this to me once or a million times, I am unaware. But this has been in the back of my head for as long as I can remember. He might as well have said it a million times. It has given me comfort. I felt I always had this safety net. And because I had a safety net I felt emboldened enough to assert my independence. I felt free enough to go out into the world and make mistakes. I had the courage to try new things, to be creative, to dream and to achieve my dreams.

I thought I was a strong, independent woman.

I’m not so sure of that now.

My self-perceived independence emboldened me to aspire to a healthier, happier life and to free myself from an unhappy marriage.

After all, I had my own successful career. I was making my own money. I was bearing much of the responsibility for myself and my four children.

Enter 2010.

Divorce.

I look under my feet.

My safety net is gone.

There is no husband. My father is old and ill. He is no longer capable of being there for me financially or for counsel and guidance.

I stand on the small piece of stable ground I have underneath me and I cannot move forward.

There’s a woman inside of me that I do not recognize from before. She’s not one of the alter-personalities I have come to know in myself over the years.

I can see this woman’s face. It is dark and thin and wrinkled. Her hair is grey and is in a state of disarray. Her thin-lipped mouth is open. Always open. It is distorted into a crooked vertically oval shape. And from it comes the most horrifying silent scream I have ever known to exist. She never closes her mouth. The silent scream is never-ending. I am the only one who hears her.

I find myself at the edge of a precipice. The very edge. Before me I see the ocean. Rolling waves spurt misty salt water I can almost feel gently touching my skin. Below me are ugly, jagged rocks. I can step backward and stabilize myself on well known ground. My hesitance could disorient me enough such that I lose my balance and fall to a hideous death. Or I can believe in myself. I’ve always known I can fly. Always. I can decide I don’t need that safety net any longer to take that bold step forward. I can believe in myself, spread my wings, close my eyes and have faith, and push myself off the precipice as I put my trust in myself and in the friendly breeze to take me places I’ve never been but have always dreamt of visiting.

Screaming Woman: be quiet. Calm yourself. Have faith. I will keep you safe. You will be protected. I will protect you. Do not look behind. Do not look below your feet. Look forward. And fly. Just fly.