Close Your Eyes and Cover Your Ears

Friends and family, I'll begin by warning you this post will not be the warm and fuzzy or even vulnerably honest insights from the heart. This post contains material that may not be suitable for ears and eyes of youthfully pure hearts. Even as I sit to rattle off a recitation of the evening, my very very expensive dinner threatens a retraction. If you have a light stomach, now would be the time to stop reading.

We arrived home from another visit to the Sakkara Country Club around 2 p.m. Weary from a weekend with wired middle schoolers, we unpacked the bus, wished well our young friends and spread the lengths of Maadi for an afternoon of recuperation.

Unenthusiastic about the looming dinner and dance party glaring over the ensuing evening, I munched down some real food just before pursuing my sweet, sweet bed to claim its promises of rest. Dreaming of dandelions and lollipops, I woke to the reminder of a much anticipated video chat with the fam. Elated with some exciting news, I forgot to wish my dear, blessed mother a happy birthday. It is here that I make my public apology for all to read. Please forgive me, Mother, for my unintentional memory slip.

Dinner at Max's Steakhouse and Restaurant, chased quickly after our chat, where I was introduced to Max himself. A side of potatoes, mussels, steamed vegetables, and one and a half rib eyes later, we kissed a cup of chocolate ice cream with hot fudge on the lips. Purposely slowing my collision with the coming events, I debated on whether or not I should attend this momentous dinner/ dance party. Giving in to the anticipated peer pressure, I swerved from the could've-been conversation and just took it upon myself to tumble on towards the party.

Arriving 20 minutes late, I was the first to arrive at the plotted location. Slowly but surely, our crew began to stumble in at faltering speeds. Some of us ate. Some of us chatted. We all laughed and reenacted our favorite moments of the weekend. Eventually our party grew to its invited size as we taxied toward Rio Del Cairo, restaurant slash dance club minus the dance club, since it is that special time of year where Ramadan negates any normal fun anyone would normally be allowed to have.

They stole our cake (we were celebrating a birthday, not my dear mummy's) and drew together several tables to seat us near the melodious enjoyments of Egyptian techno and hip-hop draining from a single seemingly broken and distant speaker. Lyrical attempts rejected by my ears coupled with the dimly lit exterior and tender smells of the opaquely green Nile forced from my curious lips, "This is where the magic happens, huh?" We sat. They poured the 20 of us some water just as one of our culturally aware friends informed us that there would be a minimum 55 L.E. (Egyptian Pound) note given to each person regardless of decision to order. It did not take long for us to spring from our seats and depart the premises. Oh, and I almost forgot, the dance floor was closed. Its Ramadan.

Before we continue, please allow me to preface with an explanation of the environment near the entrance to Rio Del Cairo. It resides in a part of town known as the Cornish (pronounced: Koor-neesh). Here there is a highway of sorts, home to innumerable speeding vehicles excelling at speeds that put drag strips to shame. In order to cross this road, there is a great deal of tact required. I recall a quote from our fearless leaders Travis, on our first experience with this raceway. "On average 3 people a day die on this road." Extreme but gullibly believable. Lights flash like strobes. Horns wish they could melt together to recreate the magical Egyptian hip-hop of our favorite Nile club. Cars zoom and people yell, both out of excitement and frustration.

Being one of the first to exit this deceptive, danceless devo, I glanced around grabbing the initiative to taxi back to our new destination: Travis's flat. I glance at my watch. 10:45 p.m. I glance to the right. Troubles of peoples ebb and flow from our central locale. Swinging my head from right around to left, I glance at cars parked poorly in spots hardly large enough for a person to reenter their vehicle, a woman waiting for a break in traffic robed with the normal and highly modest black garb and headdress toting a baby wrapped in red linen characteristic of this area of the world, more flashing traffic, a tree, and arriving alongside my left are some of our compadres venturing out to assist in taxi claiming. The fullness of laughter and smiles screeches to a eerie halt as we spin to notice our darkly clothed woman and child crash to the heavy heap while attempting to cross. The inciting car did not halt like our laughter.

Whether intended as humor or truth, Travis's former words peeled off in my head. "On average 3 people a day die on this road."

As if in slow motion, and yet very quickly, several bodies swarm the scene. It was in this moment that I first jumped to assist only to be covered with the realization that I had nothing to offer that was not already being done by 3 other people more equipped than I. I stepped back crying for a way to help and all I knew what to do was pray. "Oh God, do what you do best, right now." I remember thinking, this should seem very surreal. But it wasn't. It was very real. Woman in black lying on the ground. Baby in red, who knows what condition. The first time my gut wrenched was when I realized I did not hear anyone crying. Not the woman, not the baby. No one. I still hope my lack of perception was only because of the shouts of the crowd to filter the traffic around the fresh scene.

So what now? The onlooking conversation moved into serious and helpless speculation. Gordon and I started with thoughts on how anyone dressed in black could cross a street like that, especially in a country where vehicles neglect to employ their headlights. I added that it is for this reason specifically that I do not wear black or even dark clothes at night here. This was not the proof I wanted to satisfy my theories. While we noted on the details, others just gawked in disbelief at the presiding moments.

I also discovered more thoughts on the escaping motorist plaguing my consciousness. He did not stop. Why? Gut wrench. Would I have stopped? or powered on to forget as quickly as possible the life altering events that just occurred? Would I own up or cower out? I am still uninformed on the condition and physical harm that came to the woman and unsuspecting child. They may have died. They may have walked away, though I fear this is not the case. Nevertheless, there are moments when I ponder whose suffering will cause more damage; the medical bills of the woman and family, or the mental torture that man will inevitably be strangled by for the rest of his natural life? For whatever reason, and I cannot explain it, I identify with the cowardice driver.


But this story is not about me. To you this may be a story read and think nothing about, but to the man who taps these keys now, fingers tremble for a lack of understanding.

I apologize to my parents. I wish you would not have read this entry but alas, this is the culture I have voluntarily embraced. Take the following to heart; I do not wear black at night and my awareness serves me well. But I do not boast in anything of my own, only the glories of my Lord Christ. May his Spirit rest on both families tonight and the rough nights to certainly come. Let his people pray.