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Since 1996, my husband Brad and I had been living in
rural Georgia in an intentional Christian community called
Jubilee Partners. Brad was responsible for maintenance. I
was responsible for the refugee program that brought us
into contact with hundreds of Bosnians, Afghanis, and
Sudanese. In fact, it was through these refugees that I
always said, “I can travel the world without leaving home.”
Despite this, I had always desired to live abroad with my
family. I wanted not just to expose but immerse my kids in
another culture, another language, another way of life.
Brad and I had wondered and discussed and prayed about
the possibilities. Could our family in a small way bridge the
gap of misunderstanding between Americans and Arabs,
between Muslims and Christians? Could we give an
alternative to news about bombings and terrorism by
focusing on ordinary men and women going about their
daily lives? Could we live in a place like Egypt, the most
populous and poorest Arab country and convey our
experiences of everyday life to Americans?
Once we had decided we to go, the next question was
how to get there? We had heard many positive things
about Mennonite Central Committee (MCC). The
organization had volunteers in numerous countries and,
while they had projects, their focus was mainly on
relationships with people. We also embraced their
commitment to peacemaking and non-violence. And
fortunately they embraced us. Though we were not
Mennonites, when we were offered a three-year position in
Egypt, we immediately took to the idea.
A day after learning about our assignment in the town of
Beni Suef, we went to a bookstore and read from The
Rough Guide to Egypt. “Beni Suef is one of Egypt’s poorest
governates. With high unemployment due to a shortage of
arable land, there’s no reason to visit the ramshackle
capital of Beni Suef, 140 km south of Cairo.”
“Sounds like our kind of place,” Brad concluded.
Welcome to Egypt
Egypt was described to us as “chaos of the senses” –
crowds of people shuffling about, exhaust fumes from cars
and buses, horns honking incessantly, vendors yelling out
name of wares for sale, the call to prayer emanating from
centuries-old mosques. After a whirlwind week of
orientation, we were disoriented and overwhelmed.
One day, while out walking we spied a juice bar with net
bags of oranges and mangoes hanging from the ceiling
and colorful wood shavings on the floor. We pointed to the
fruit, used a few rudimentary words and hand gestures and
were served delicious, fresh-squeezed orange juice. The
owner kindly rounded up some plastic stools for us to sit on.
We finished our juices and paid, or at least tried to.
“Khalli! Khalli!” said the storeowner. Brad and I looked at
each other, puzzled, as that didn’t sound like any of the
Arabic numbers we had learned. So how much? We had no
idea so Brad shoved some money toward the man. He
threw his hands up in the air. “Khalli,” he said again, and
we stood there in uncertainty. Maybe it wasn’t enough
money, so Brad offered him more. The store owner just
laughed at us, shook his head, and refused the extra
amount.
So he didn’t want more money. Hmmm. It was all quite
comical and confusing at that point. We shrugged,
gathered our packages, and began to walk away, leaving
the initial offer of money still sitting on the counter. We were
further confounded when, a few seconds later, his
assistant, a young boy in an imitation Nike baseball cap,
caught up with us and gave us a small wad of bills as
change.
Late that night, I looked out the window of our sixth-floor
apartment to check out the view. The traffic, both people
and cars, was still going strong at midnight. Beni Suef is no
sleepy little town. Several men were sitting in chairs around
a TV, watching a soccer game, occasionally letting out a
whoop of approval. But I was most fascinated by the family
near us, who had a small, flat roof. Mother and young sons
were sitting while Father was rolling out a plastic mat. They
lay down on it while he ducked back downstairs and emerg-
ed with a small black-and-white TV. Sleeping on the roof
looked like an idyllic way to beat the heat.
Still, I wasn’t quite prepared for all the noise, trash, and
chaos of the streets of Beni Suef. I thought about the juice
bar owner and that curious word, “khalli.” We would find out
that it means “keep your money, it’s on the house.” We
would hear it repeatedly in Beni Suef. It’s a typical gesture
of Egyptian courtesy, and customers politely respond by
again offering the money, which the shopkeeper finally
accepts. The juice bar man could have kept all the money
we offered, but he had sent it back, giving us almost
everything we had given him. I was touched by his honesty
and kindness and was reminded of another fact I knew
about Egypt: Arab hospitality. It was world renowned, and
rightly so. We would have many experiences in discovering
for ourselves the richness of Egyptian generosity.
God Talk
Talking religion was more difficult. Though I always
searched for common ground, I often found that with many
issues between Muslims and Christians, there was none.
“Muslims can pray any time and in any place,” said my
friend Negwa one day. “But Christians don’t ever pray. You
can only pray in a church.”
Negwa’s confusion made sense. Muslim prayers are at
five set times each day. Prayer tie is announced on
loudspeakers on every mosque. Television shows are
briefly interrupted. Store clerks and employees leave their
workplace and go to areas reserved for praying.
Even everyday Muslim speech is sprinkled with references
to prayer: “Basketball practice will start after the noon
prayers.”
Since Negwa never saw Christians pray, obviously they
didn’t do it.
“We are waiting for Jesus to come,” said Negwa without
warning. “Then all our problems will be solved and there will
be peace in our lives.”
Come again? Did I just hear a Muslim tell me that she is
waiting for the second coming of Christ? Seeing my
surprise, Negwa continued. “You don’t believe me? There
was a sheikh on TV the other day, crying and begging for
Jesus to come and end our miseries.”
Maybe there was more to share between us,” I thought,
“than obstacles to divide us.”
One day, a local priest, father Tomas, stopped by for a
visit. I was curious about the current state of affairs
between Muslims and Christians. “Officially, Muslims
represent 90 percent of the population in Egypt ,” he said.
He paused to shake his head. “There are a few good
Muslims, and we know we must love them all, but many
Muslims just wish we weren’t here.”
There were times when I wondered if it had been a
mistake to come to Egypt, giving up the good life we had.
We had stretched ourselves more than I thought possible:
Rebecca sitting on a café stool in an outdoor restaurant
when a young man walked by and ran his palm over her
hair; Emily at the beach with a hand full of suntan lotion
when an unknown man dipped his fingers in and started
rubbing her shoulders; Nicolas napping on a bus when the
bus hostess started tickling him. Women I had never met
would often approach me so closely I could feel their breath
on my face and would kiss me when we parted. Even Brad
would get used to holding hands with men.
We yearned for a normal, boring, humdrum day. But that
day was a long time coming.
From A Thousand and One Egyptian Nights: An American
Christian's Life Among Muslims by Jennifer Drago.
Copyright © 2007 by Herald Press, Scottdale PA 15683.
Used by permission.
rural Georgia in an intentional Christian community called
Jubilee Partners. Brad was responsible for maintenance. I
was responsible for the refugee program that brought us
into contact with hundreds of Bosnians, Afghanis, and
Sudanese. In fact, it was through these refugees that I
always said, “I can travel the world without leaving home.”
Despite this, I had always desired to live abroad with my
family. I wanted not just to expose but immerse my kids in
another culture, another language, another way of life.
Brad and I had wondered and discussed and prayed about
the possibilities. Could our family in a small way bridge the
gap of misunderstanding between Americans and Arabs,
between Muslims and Christians? Could we give an
alternative to news about bombings and terrorism by
focusing on ordinary men and women going about their
daily lives? Could we live in a place like Egypt, the most
populous and poorest Arab country and convey our
experiences of everyday life to Americans?
Once we had decided we to go, the next question was
how to get there? We had heard many positive things
about Mennonite Central Committee (MCC). The
organization had volunteers in numerous countries and,
while they had projects, their focus was mainly on
relationships with people. We also embraced their
commitment to peacemaking and non-violence. And
fortunately they embraced us. Though we were not
Mennonites, when we were offered a three-year position in
Egypt, we immediately took to the idea.
A day after learning about our assignment in the town of
Beni Suef, we went to a bookstore and read from The
Rough Guide to Egypt. “Beni Suef is one of Egypt’s poorest
governates. With high unemployment due to a shortage of
arable land, there’s no reason to visit the ramshackle
capital of Beni Suef, 140 km south of Cairo.”
“Sounds like our kind of place,” Brad concluded.
Welcome to Egypt
Egypt was described to us as “chaos of the senses” –
crowds of people shuffling about, exhaust fumes from cars
and buses, horns honking incessantly, vendors yelling out
name of wares for sale, the call to prayer emanating from
centuries-old mosques. After a whirlwind week of
orientation, we were disoriented and overwhelmed.
One day, while out walking we spied a juice bar with net
bags of oranges and mangoes hanging from the ceiling
and colorful wood shavings on the floor. We pointed to the
fruit, used a few rudimentary words and hand gestures and
were served delicious, fresh-squeezed orange juice. The
owner kindly rounded up some plastic stools for us to sit on.
We finished our juices and paid, or at least tried to.
“Khalli! Khalli!” said the storeowner. Brad and I looked at
each other, puzzled, as that didn’t sound like any of the
Arabic numbers we had learned. So how much? We had no
idea so Brad shoved some money toward the man. He
threw his hands up in the air. “Khalli,” he said again, and
we stood there in uncertainty. Maybe it wasn’t enough
money, so Brad offered him more. The store owner just
laughed at us, shook his head, and refused the extra
amount.
So he didn’t want more money. Hmmm. It was all quite
comical and confusing at that point. We shrugged,
gathered our packages, and began to walk away, leaving
the initial offer of money still sitting on the counter. We were
further confounded when, a few seconds later, his
assistant, a young boy in an imitation Nike baseball cap,
caught up with us and gave us a small wad of bills as
change.
Late that night, I looked out the window of our sixth-floor
apartment to check out the view. The traffic, both people
and cars, was still going strong at midnight. Beni Suef is no
sleepy little town. Several men were sitting in chairs around
a TV, watching a soccer game, occasionally letting out a
whoop of approval. But I was most fascinated by the family
near us, who had a small, flat roof. Mother and young sons
were sitting while Father was rolling out a plastic mat. They
lay down on it while he ducked back downstairs and emerg-
ed with a small black-and-white TV. Sleeping on the roof
looked like an idyllic way to beat the heat.
Still, I wasn’t quite prepared for all the noise, trash, and
chaos of the streets of Beni Suef. I thought about the juice
bar owner and that curious word, “khalli.” We would find out
that it means “keep your money, it’s on the house.” We
would hear it repeatedly in Beni Suef. It’s a typical gesture
of Egyptian courtesy, and customers politely respond by
again offering the money, which the shopkeeper finally
accepts. The juice bar man could have kept all the money
we offered, but he had sent it back, giving us almost
everything we had given him. I was touched by his honesty
and kindness and was reminded of another fact I knew
about Egypt: Arab hospitality. It was world renowned, and
rightly so. We would have many experiences in discovering
for ourselves the richness of Egyptian generosity.
God Talk
Talking religion was more difficult. Though I always
searched for common ground, I often found that with many
issues between Muslims and Christians, there was none.
“Muslims can pray any time and in any place,” said my
friend Negwa one day. “But Christians don’t ever pray. You
can only pray in a church.”
Negwa’s confusion made sense. Muslim prayers are at
five set times each day. Prayer tie is announced on
loudspeakers on every mosque. Television shows are
briefly interrupted. Store clerks and employees leave their
workplace and go to areas reserved for praying.
Even everyday Muslim speech is sprinkled with references
to prayer: “Basketball practice will start after the noon
prayers.”
Since Negwa never saw Christians pray, obviously they
didn’t do it.
“We are waiting for Jesus to come,” said Negwa without
warning. “Then all our problems will be solved and there will
be peace in our lives.”
Come again? Did I just hear a Muslim tell me that she is
waiting for the second coming of Christ? Seeing my
surprise, Negwa continued. “You don’t believe me? There
was a sheikh on TV the other day, crying and begging for
Jesus to come and end our miseries.”
Maybe there was more to share between us,” I thought,
“than obstacles to divide us.”
One day, a local priest, father Tomas, stopped by for a
visit. I was curious about the current state of affairs
between Muslims and Christians. “Officially, Muslims
represent 90 percent of the population in Egypt ,” he said.
He paused to shake his head. “There are a few good
Muslims, and we know we must love them all, but many
Muslims just wish we weren’t here.”
There were times when I wondered if it had been a
mistake to come to Egypt, giving up the good life we had.
We had stretched ourselves more than I thought possible:
Rebecca sitting on a café stool in an outdoor restaurant
when a young man walked by and ran his palm over her
hair; Emily at the beach with a hand full of suntan lotion
when an unknown man dipped his fingers in and started
rubbing her shoulders; Nicolas napping on a bus when the
bus hostess started tickling him. Women I had never met
would often approach me so closely I could feel their breath
on my face and would kiss me when we parted. Even Brad
would get used to holding hands with men.
We yearned for a normal, boring, humdrum day. But that
day was a long time coming.
From A Thousand and One Egyptian Nights: An American
Christian's Life Among Muslims by Jennifer Drago.
Copyright © 2007 by Herald Press, Scottdale PA 15683.
Used by permission.
| Book Excerpt |
| One Thousand and One Egyptian Nights By Jennifer Drago |
| Jennifer Drago and her family went to Egypt as Mennonite missionaries in the hope of opening a dialogue of friendship between Christians and Muslims. What they got was three amazing years in Beni Suef. |
| Copyright 2008 OurFaith Digest |