Author Archives: Kishan S

About Kishan S

Hey y’all. I’m Kishan, a rising junior from Carmel, Indiana. I am a Public Policy major and a Chemistry minor at Duke, and plan to enter medical school and be a pediatric plastic surgeon in the future. I have been fascinated by the history, culture, and language of the Middle East since high school, and Duke has allowed me to pursue these interests through various courses and the DukeEngage program. I love traveling and reading, and eventually plan to open public health clinics in the Middle East as a philanthropic endeavor. I cannot wait to immerse myself in the culture of Cairo and begin our partnerships with the organizations. I can’t wait to share my experiences with you all.

Plastic Adhesive

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The past week and a half, the pungent smell of plastic adhesive glue, strong enough to mend furniture and lay down tiles, filled the nursery room. Amber and I had cut out what seemed like hundreds of paper fawanees, the traditional lanterns hung around the city during Ramadan, and decorated them with as many designs as we could think of. We then took colorful pieces of string, and dipped our fingers in the glue to stick the lanterns onto the string. We hung the strings of lanterns from every ceiling possible, covering the entire complex with fawanees. It was an incredible sight, seeing the designs and colors brighten the dusty, cold walls of Ana-El Masry, and as I walked away my last day of work, I couldn’t help but think of how this project was a beautiful metaphor for my entire experience in Cairo.

When I came to Egypt, I knew I was going to fall in love with kids we worked with. But I also had anxiety about abandoning them at the end of the summer, just like Amanda. Most of the kids have never had healthy relationships; they didn’t have families that taught them about love. I felt like I was going to form amazing connections with them, and then leave, sadly contributing to the hardships in their lives. The only way I knew how to cope with this problem was to shower them with more love and affection, and cherish my time with them. I have to believe that I changed the kids’ lives, just like they changed mine. The plastic adhesive glue, meant to stick things much stronger than just paper and string together, didn’t always work. The paper lanterns would fall off; there wasn’t always enough glue; someone would accidently step on them and mess everything up. But just like my solution with the children to give them more love, no matter how frustrating it was to glue lantern after lantern, I picked the string back up, slathered more glue on my finger, the lantern, and the string, and welded the two together again.

I would come in every morning the last week to see stacks and stacks of construction paper, scissors, glue, markers, and string, just waiting to be molded into the fawanees. By the end of that week, I was so sick of them, I didn’t want to make another one. At times, I felt the same way with Ana-El Masry. I got frustrated, upset, confused, angry, and felt helpless at points on the trip. Day after day trying to discipline, keep order, and work through disorganization can really wear on a person. But when I saw all the fawanees hanging, with the kids admiring them and smiling chanting: “Ramadan Kareem!” the frustration in making them seemed so small. On the last day of work, the kids all shared memories about the last two months and told us how much they loved us. Just like seeing the fawanees, seeing the kids appreciate and remember even the smallest things we did for them erased all the hardships, at least for that moment, and I couldn’t help but cry from sadness and happiness.

When the glue is applied, it’s a white, thick paste that is not aesthetically pleasing in the least. It looks sloppy at best, and does not look suitable to display. But when it dries, it dries clear, seamlessly suspending the paper lanterns in the air. They may be crooked, flopping around in the wind, or hanging upside down. But what matters was they were there, they were part of the string, on display for the kids to see. At work, there were days when things were sloppy. There was no order; the kids would run wild through the compound, wreaking havoc, beating us up, spitting on us, and kicking us. But today, at the end of 8 weeks, the glue has dried, and all I can see are their smiling faces. They all have their issues, hardships, and some were undoubtedly better than others, but they are all forever imprinted in my mind as beautiful little memories.

One of the lanterns we made!

Naturally, smearing the glue with my fingers, I was bound to get a little dirty. Some days my hands would be covered with the white substance. The glue would dry as a thick, clear film on my hands. At first, I was relieved I could peel the glue right off when it was dry. But now that’s my biggest worry. Will the kids, the staff, and the Egyptians I have connected so deeply with the last 8 weeks just peel me right off their hands? Will I ever get to see their faces again? Will they even remember me if I come back? These questions are now haunting me, and I only anticipate that fear growing when I am back on American soil.

I know one thing for sure. I have to come back to Cairo; even just for a day. I have to see the kids who have changed my life again. I have to reconnect with the Egyptians who offered so much to me, who welcomed me into their homes and shared their thoughts, memories, and feelings with me. It simply wouldn’t be right to never come back. When I get back home, I have a feeling that there is going to be a hole in my heart. A hole where those kids live, where they laughed, cried, sang, and learned. I pray one day I can fill that hole. But until then I’ll be using the plastic adhesive glue to hold my heart together.

 

Breaking the Cycle

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The imam’s words echoed through the Sultan Hassan mosque on a blistering hot Friday afternoon as I sat amongst hundreds of Egyptian men practicing the sujud (where one’s head touches the ground as he recites subhana rabbiyal a’alah [Glory be to my Lord, the Most High]). I had called Ustaaz Lo early in the morning to ask him if I would be allowed to attend the first Friday prayer of Ramadan with him, and to my delight, he agreed to take me. I was awestruck by the mosque; its beautiful, massive marble ceilings with intricate and colorful designs full of writings from the Qu’ran, the incredible sense of community amongst the Egyptian men around me, and the words of the imam’s salat (Friday prayer) ringing through the air. I was entranced as I bowed my head to the ground and chanted along with the salah (prayer). It was an out of body experience.

The imam giving the salat at Sultan Hassan mosque

The imam spoke on two points: 1) Ramadan and the principles of fasting and 2) Syrian refugees in Egypt. The imam discussed the lessons on fasting: learning patience, to restrain desire and self, and share experiences with those who have none (for instance, the poor in their daily struggle with food). Ustaaz Lo later told me a story that the imam had told during the salat. The imam explained that any man who sleeps with a full stomach while his/her neighbor is hungry is not a believer. This story drove home the point of the fasting teachings. Secondly, the imam insisted on Egypt’s obligation to shelter and feed the thousands of Syrian refugees who have sought haven in Egypt. The stories of these Syrian refugees’ suffering and leaving behind everything they have earned were meant to evoke compassion amongst the Egyptians. The imam asserted that Syrians without a place to stay or NGO to support them need help, and the Egyptians must provide that help.

It’s no secret that Americans are largely Islamophobic, and the horrific events of September 11, 2001 intensely propagated this fear. But the fear is largely skewed. The mesmerizing words of the Qu’ran were soothing, and as I bowed with those around me, I felt a connection to the people, the words, and the higher power that they all worship. Despite the heat and blaring imam’s voice in my ears, it was oddly peaceful. All religions offer their own problems, and Islam is not immune to this; for instance, Taylor, our site coordinator, went to the mosque with us, but was not allowed to pray in the same area we were. I am well aware of the extremists groups that have become the predominant connotation of Americans’ thoughts on Islam. But I stand firm in my belief that the Islamic religion is absolutely incredible, and no more frightening than any other religion. Christian and Jewish extremist groups are not immune to violence or sexism, but this often goes unsaid. Groups including the Irish Republic Army, the Orange Order, and the Jewish Defense League are all examples of extremists groups being just as dangerous as their Islamic counterparts.

The Al-Rifai'i Mosque

I am astonished at the Western media’s influence over the way this incredible belief has become tarnished, and that feeling hit me extremely hard when I felt such peace during the prayer. I wish I could explain how welcomed I felt into the mosque (we were invited to multiple Iftars during the prayer, the evening breaking of the fast during Ramadan), and what it meant to be a part of such a powerful experience (the fact that it was the first prayer of Ramadan made it even more special). But it’s something you can’t know until you feel it yourself. I will forever remember that moment.

The tension between the American perception of Islam and the Middle East’s insight into America’s views is a vicious cycle.  Throughout the trip, I have become more and more frustrated just thinking about how America feels about the Middle East as a region, and the exceedingly incorrect stereotypes and generalizations it has made. How could they believe that these people were dangerous and venomous? These people who have welcomed us with open arms, and opened our eyes to experiences none of us thought possible. But this week we visited Al-Azhar mosque, the oldest institute of higher learning in the world, and were greeted with some hostility. As we entered the mosque, a man confronted us, angrily shouting: “Israeli wa American akhrog!” (Israeli and American leave). I think we were frankly shell-shocked. This was our first experience being unwanted, and we were too stunned to respond. Ustaaz Lo eventually came to our rescue, and calmed the man down, ushering us inside. But some of us were pretty shaken up; how could a mosque, a place of worship and acceptance, attract such people?

We all pondered this thought as we left Al-Azhar to have a forum at the Arab African Research Institute, and couldn’t seem to find an answer. Dylan raised the question amongst the researchers there, and they struggled to answer our question. What they told us was now, more than ever, mosques are the place that incidents like that will happen. As the revolution and government have evolved, places of worship have become havens for Egyptians with these views. The doctors insisted that they were our allies against people who speak unjustly of America. They explained that mosques attract many uneducated people who are more likely to speak ill of Americans.

The ceiling of the Al-Rifai'i mosque

They assured us our frustration was not unfounded, but much of Egyptian’s angst stems from America’s perception of them, America’s unwavering support of Israel, and their view of the American government as constantly intervening in Middle Eastern affairs. Without overt American intervention in Middle Eastern affairs and Islamophobia, much of the Egyptian’s people’s uneasiness would not exist. Both parties are misunderstood, and the lack of large-scale dialogue will perpetuate the problem. The walls between these two regions that have so much to exchange–culturally, economically, and politically–must be shattered to end this damaging cycle. There is a saying that a circle is round and it has no end. I am anxiously waiting for this saying to be proven wrong.

America: Take Note

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Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. That’s all I have left. That’s all I can think about. No matter what I’m doing; eating, sleeping, walking, playing with the kids, or sitting in a café, the constant voice in my head reminds me that the end of a trip I’ve barely started to process will come to an abrupt halt soon. Even as I write, images ingrained in my mind from the past 6 weeks are flashing through my head, and I can hardly find the words to say what this entire trip has meant to me.

When I came here, I expected to get very close to the children, and be extremely sad when we had to say our goodbyes to them in broken Arabic. I don’t know how I’ll explain to them why we’re leaving and what they mean to me now. They’re beautiful little faces full of hope hide pain that I cannot fathom. They have evoked so many emotions in me: frustration, sadness, joy, and love. But in two weeks time, I have to accept the fact that they may just become memories.

What I didn’t expect when I came to Cairo was to meet Egyptian friends. I had no idea how close I would grow to the mid-20 year olds whom we teach English to at our secondary NGOs. My relationships with these incredibly hard-working and caring people have developed into friendships that I hope will continue well into the future. They work their butts off at jobs most of them are not happy with, and still dedicate 4 to 5 plus hours (travel time, classroom time, and after-class hang out time included) of their time to learning English in order to volunteer at Al-Kayan. They’re barely older than me, they act a lot like me, and yet, I feel as though they are miles ahead of me in maturity. I have a tremendous amount of respect for the way they live.

By befriending these Egyptians, I have gotten the opportunity to step into their shoes, and experience aspects of Egyptian culture the average tourist does not. Their generosity to us is astounding; and they’re genuine interest in helping us experience Egypt to the fullest has added so much to my experience here.

For example, one of my friends, Ahmed, invited Desmond, Dylan, and me to an Egyptian bachelor party of sorts. Now in America, this is completely unheard of; you don’t just take random tourists you meet to a friend’s wedding event. And to be honest, I don’t know if it’s that common in Egypt. But I had expressed interest in going to a wedding, and Ahmed made sure I was going to get that opportunity.

He helped us travel about 2 hours outside of our home in Cairo to a small town in Giza where his family and many, many, many cousins live. He introduced us to all his family: his brothers, cousins, father, and friends. They showered us with attention: endless bowls of meat, rice, bread, salad, fruits, and sweets were brought to us on command. They brought us perfectly sweetened chai, freshly pulped and chilled mango juice, shishas, and cigars. They “made” us (secretly we all wanted to) dance with the groom in a huge circle with music blaring, fireworks bursting through the air, and the crown chanting for the newlyweds. This was my first taste of Egyptian culture away from our Duke Engage bubble, and boy was it sweet.

Ahmed, Desmond, Dylan, and I

Dylan and the groom dancing

Ahmed and his family welcomed us with open arms, and I couldn’t help but think to myself, would I ever do this for someone I had known for a month? As much as I wanted to say yes, I knew the real answer. What is it about Egyptian culture that makes them so generous? In America, this generosity to strangers is quickly dwindling. Maybe, I thought, Ahmed is just an exception to the rule of normal Egyptians.

But the next afternoon, three of our friends from Kayan invited the volunteers to their home in Giza for “lunch” (yeah, more like a feast for the pharaohs). They came all the way to Garden City (about an hour away) to pick us up, and assure we got to their home safely. Upon arrival, we were given tea, juices, and snacks. I was frankly astonished at how kind their family was to absolute strangers. I noticed the Egyptian generosity again, and started to believe that the two experiences were far from a coincidence.

Our feast!

After stuffing our faces with delicious chicken, sambousek, rice, spiced potatoes, meat, and countless other delicious treats, all of us began dancing, laughing, and conversing in half-English, half-Arabic. As I sat and listened to their father and mother talk about how lucky and honored they were to have us in their home, something hit me.

Our whole group at the house

These people don’t have a lot. They work hard for everything they own, and, yet, they are so willing to give to others because it’s simply the way both their culture and religion are. They are in many ways similar to us: they want to find jobs they love, they want to get married, have children, raise families, and just achieve happiness. But in some ways they are so far from how I see myself and a majority of Americans: many of us work hard, but we see that hard work as ours to keep, not to share with strangers.

Egyptians seem to see a true value in spreading their infectiously happy and bighearted personas; something that America is badly lacking.  In an earlier post, I had written about how I saw a huge disconnect between Egypt and the U.S. where the U.S. has a clear edge. But this is a complete 180. The Egyptian people are living more fulfilling lives because they find joy in little things, like opening their homes and taking time out of their days to do things for others, more often than Americans do.

I will be depressed to leave both the children and my incredible Egyptian friends. I will be even more distraught that I probably will never have the opportunity to give them in America what they gave to me in Egypt. But to them, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that they gave me experiences I will never, ever forget. They gave me something much bigger than a tangible gift. For that, I will always remember them, and will constantly be reminded of them when I’m back home. I will strive to be more like Egyptians: to ignore the little inconveniences to me in order to give people memories and experiences they won’t forget. Americans: take note. The Egyptians got us beat on this one.

 

Highs, Lows, and Highs Again

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Sitting in Arabesque with our whole crew, I was overcome with excitement, anticipation, and anxiety. The café was jam-packed with eager Egyptians awaiting the momentous announcement that would ensure one of two fates: angst and chaos among the hundreds of thousands of people in Tahrir Square, or elation and merriment. I could feel myself stirring, impatiently awaiting a name: Ahmed Shafiq or Mohammed Mursi, to be uttered from the lips of the head of the Supreme Court Farouk Sultan. As I tried to make sense of the Arabic swirling through the café, I was overcome by my emotions: with a Shafiq win, the country was sure to go up in flames with protests, violence, and pandemonium. Earlier in the day, Ustaad Lo and Taylor (our on-site coordinator), had attended evacuation training to ensure we were prepared for the worst. I certainly wasn’t ready to leave Egypt. My adventures and love affair with Cairo had just begun, and yet, I faced the incredibly real possibility of being on the next flight back to Indiana. I couldn’t come to terms with leaving Cairo so soon, but those thoughts clouded my mind as Sultan read page after page of voting results from each governorate.

Please, I thought, please let Mursi win. For my own selfish reasons, I couldn’t help but pray Mursi would come out on top; I thought we would stay in Cairo if this were the case.  Ustaad Lo had texted us right before the result-reading extravaganza had begun: “Mursi got it, no worries :).” I’m not sure how Ustaad always seems to know these things, but I was foolish to doubt him. When the final tally was read and Mursi was announced as the new rais (president in Arabic), clapping, cheering, and horn-honking ensued. Throngs of people filled the streets, flashing peace signs and Egyptian flags as the city erupted with joy. I, too, could not stop smiling. We were safe, I thought, we’re staying! It’s an interesting dichotomy to note, though, that Mursi’s winning and the Ikhwan (Arabic for Muslim Brotherhood) coming to power may mean peace now, but the future is uncertain. Will a so-called Islamist president coming to power result in Egyptian society moving backward? Or will Egypt continue its ascent to a fully functioning democracy?

The election results did ensure one thing; for the past week and a half we had been on lockdown in Garden City. There is only so much to do on Qasr Al Ayny, where we live, and to be frank, we were all a bit stir crazy. While we may have been upset about not being able to explore Cairo, it did mean a significant break in working with our NGO’s and attending Arabic classes. The next day we were shocked back into reality: 8:00 AM wake up call, hour and a half nauseating bus ride to Ana El-Masry, 6 hours of teaching, then an equally tolling bus ride back to our apartments, followed by a two-hour teaching session at our secondary NGO’s.

Pulling into Ana-El Masry the first day after the election, a strange feeling came over me. We had discussed at Duke Engage academy that the first few weeks would be the honeymoon period: enthrallment with the culture, kids, and people we encounter on a daily basis. But they had assured us this would wear off. I don’t know if I didn’t believe it, or if I thought I had beat the dip in morale, but climbing out of the microbus that morning, it hit me all at once. I wanted to go home. I wanted America. I wanted it all to be over. It was so strange to feel this way after such a contradictory experience less than 24 hours before.

My mood certainly improved upon seeing the children and how much they missed us. Hugs and kisses were bestowed upon us, but the day seemed to last forever. I’ve been teaching music to the kids with Ryan, but attempting to sing English songs and teach the kids basic musical notation has proved infinitely more difficult than I imagined. Picture the controlled chaos, mix in the language barrier with children and staff, and it’s a recipe for serious frustration.

Not only had I begun to realize this frustration, but one of the children I’m particularly fond of, Hassan, had been complaining of a serious sore throat. His eyes welled as he explained in Arabic to me that he felt so tired and his throat hurt so bad he couldn’t talk, swallow, or eat. My heart ached as he broke down to tears. I took him in my arms as my own tears had begun to form, watching him in pain. I immediately wanted to take him to the doctor and get him medicine. I held his feverish body in my arms and wanted to take all his pain as he muttered Ana buhibak, Kishan (I love you, Kishan). I kissed his forehead and went to find Taylor to ask if we could take him to the doctor. She was, of course, sympathetic, but explained we couldn’t just take him to the doctor without a fairly extensive release process. As we left to return home, I thought of my habibi (sweetheart) Hassan, and prayed he would recover. I didn’t expect to be overwhelmed with emotion seeing him cry, but I couldn’t help myself.

Hassan and I

Hassan

We arrived back at the apartment with just a few minutes before we had to mobilize ourselves and head to Al Kayan to teach our English class. At this point my frustration and longing for home had returned. I was mentally and physically drained. Before the election, I had gotten into the groove of the schedule. But the break had allowed me to relax, almost too much. After two hours of English class, I was so excited to go back to the apartment and finally stop sweating (I feel like there is almost no time where I’m not sweating in Egypt unless I’m sitting in the apartment). But just when I thought our day was over, Ustaad Lo and Taylor informed us we would be going to dinner as a group for a reflection session. The day that never ended was about to get even longer.

Don’t get me wrong; I love the kids at Ana-El Masry and have absolutely loved being in Egypt. I would not trade anything for the experiences I’ve had thus far, and will always remember the work I’ve done, the people I’ve met, and the events I’ve witnessed. But this day…

We sat in a Yemeni restaurant and had great conversation over delicious food. I cannot praise Ustaad Lo enough. He always knows how I am feeling, even if I cannot put those feelings into words. I remember him telling me that what I was feeling was completely natural. He reassured me, and encouraged me. Spending just ten minutes with the man, I saw the day in a whole new light. The rollercoaster of emotions had returned to a peak.

Ustaad Lo always says that the cure to human interaction is human interaction. When I first heard these words, I believed them, but didn’t understand them. But talking to Ustaad, just having him to listen to how I was feeling and his reassurance and belief in what we are doing here in Egypt put everything back in perspective. Frustration is growth, longing for home fosters appreciation, and exhaustion means hard work and intense engagement in the tasks at hand. The never-ending day I then saw as a blessing. Everything I felt was exactly what I believe the personal growth that comes with Duke Engage is about.

We arrived home from the restaurant around midnight, and I was completely drained. You would think this would be the end of the story; but no, there was yet another mushkila (problem) that we encountered. Our flats are on the tenth floor of our apartment building, and there is just one functioning elevator. It was not working when we got home. With bags full of groceries in each of our arms and our first full day since lockdown behind us, this was the last thing we needed. But, oh well, what’s ten flights of stairs to work off dinner?

As we climbed the pitch-blacked, creepy staircase filled with bats, cats, and who knows what else, my legs and head began to ache. I needed sleep, badly. As we approached the tenth floor, we saw the door from the stairwell was locked. We tried our room keys to no avail. Now with heavy bags and heavy legs, we sat dejected in the dark stairwell. I wasn’t sure whether to scream, cry, or laugh. There was no way into our apartments short of breaking down the door, and no one to help us open it. To make a long story short, we sat and waited for help for around two hours (we were told it would be ten minutes, Arab Standard Time at its finest). When the bawab (door keeper) was finally able to jiggle open the locked door, and we entered our apartment, I burst into laughter. Was today a dream or real?

As I write this blog post, I am smiling to myself. I have made it so far; it hasn’t been easy, but I’m learning, growing, adapting, and definitely laughing along the way. I may be changing the lives of children, but my life is changing too. I see things like I have never seen them before. My appreciation for the world around me has grown immensely, and I don’t foresee this changing. Being in Cairo presents a new experience and opportunity every day, but it’s up to me to seize those opportunities. I still wake up some days and think, am I really here, during this historic time and with these incredible people? There are moments when I think khalas (enough), but I think without those days, the experience would be far too surreal. Before this day, I had only skimmed the surface of what Duke Engage and Cairo have to offer. But with each passing moment, I am digging deeper. By the end of the trip I expect to find whatever it is that is buried deep within this incredible place.

Zero Mobility

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Every morning my cell phone alarm blares at 7:45. My eyes are heavy and I fumble in the dark to find my phone, dazed, confused, and annoyed from the sound that has awoken me from my deep slumber. I stumble to the bathroom to get ready for the day ahead, and as soon as the hot water hits my face, I remember their faces—the beautiful little faces that greet us every morning. After a long and bumpy ride into literally the middle of the desert, I forget how little I slept and how long the day will be. I can only think of the smiles on their faces.

The kids at Ana-El Masry are different from any I’ve ever worked with. They are absolutely crazy! They bite us, kick us, hit us, and pinch us. But they also love us. They hug us, hold our hands, kiss us, and attach themselves to our legs all day long. It’s a strange feeling to be so frustrated when one of them repeatedly slaps you in the face so hard that you get bruises, and then gives you a big sloppy kiss on the cheek. It’s been impossible not to fall in love with them. Every time we leave Ana-El Masry I get teary-eyed. It seems so unfair to leave them every day as they pout “Bukra?” (Tomorrow in Ameya).

Working with the kids every day, I can’t help but imagine taking them back to America; to give them opportunities that are not even remotely possible for them given their current state. But I have to constantly remind myself that the life Ana-El Masry gives them is better than the one they would have without it. They have a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and teachers who care about them. Their horizons expanded immensely the day they came to Ana-El Masry, and even though I cannot give them everything I want to, the staff cares for them intently and they are living a better life.

Every day at work reminds me of the disparity between America and Egypt. I have absolutely loved my time here, getting to know the wonderful people and seeing their passion for their work. But Egypt lacks mobility. The children at Ana-El Masry are stuck in a poverty trap.  It’s hard to ignore the stark contrast: in America, socioeconomic and educational mobility is possible, and happens frequently. In Egypt, it seems like the poverty cycle keeps people chained to their social class no matter how hard they work to move.

Growing up in America has given me so many opportunities that I haven’t seen until now. Even the smallest luxuries can make a huge difference in one’s ability to achieve. I wish there was someway to provide these opportunities for the perseverant and arduous people of Egypt.

Little Muhammad and I

I know the day will come when I have to kiss my Muhammad (the little boy in the picture) goodbye. But until then, I want to teach him and all the other kids everything I can, as well as learn from them.  I have already found that every day I learn more about myself through this process. The kids have already taught me to be more patient and forgiving, as well as stern when need be.  And with each passing day, I’m sure I’ll learn more. When I look back on this whole experience, I hope I can say I lived in the moment, and ignored the harsh reality that the end would eventually come, and I may never get to see the kids again. Until then, though, I’ll be plotting to take my Muhammad home with me!