Well, I still wonder what happened to that little twelve-year old girl. It makes me think of the famous Life Magazine photo of a beautiful green-eyed Afghani girl. Then years later another picture of her was taken. She was in her thirties, her face revealing a woman beaten down by a difficult life. She looked twice her age. It was hard to believe that innocent little child ever existed. I hope little Om Ahmed didn’t end up like that. I hope she kept fighting and never lost her will. I imagine her being stubborn and defiant and never letting anyone break her soul or spirit. I hope she escaped the misfortune of being born neither to education nor to wealth and being born in a country that turned a blind eye to oppression.
Don’t get me wrong, I am so glad things didn’t go as she planned that day. I’m quite lucky for that turn in events, but nevertheless, I don’t dislike her. How could I? Actually, I think I understand and possibly even identify with her.
“Om Ahmed, I think we have mice. I thought I had rat poison but I can’t remember where I put it.”
“I know Madame, I’ll go get it.” She ran into the kitchen and back to the living room proudly holding her find. Perhaps she was expecting Mama to thank her and tell her what a smart girl she was.
Mama knew it had to be her. She confronted her and the she denied it. Finally Om Ahmed broke down in a fit of tears and confessed to putting the poison in my milk. I don’t know if they beat her first (it was not uncommon to beat your servant those days) or if they simply sent her back to her village. Whether or not Mama and Baba punished her, I’m sure her family beat her for ruining a good source of income. Mama says they just sent her home.
It’s hard to imagine Mama or Baba living that kind of life with a child servant, Especially Mama. Over the years I’ve forced her to look at things differently. Baba, he’s harder to get to. I’m not sure how much he’s changed. He came from a life of service based on a system not very dissimilar from the cast system; a kingdom. I think much of Baba’s initial programming has remained untouched. The same things he was desensitized to in Egypt he is still desensitized to. Perhaps lack of sensation was a way of survival for him. I know this much, he keeps most of his thoughts to himself.
It must be harder being Mama. She feels and analyzes just like I do. Her culture taught her to accept but over the years she’s started questioning things. Now, I could never imagine her hitting a little child, but that wasn’t always the case. They used to hit my brother and I when we were young but now she denies doing that, although both my brother and I remember the same stories clearly. Now she says she never believed in hitting. They’ve both changed in the past 35 years of living in the states, but Mama more than Baba. I’m sure they were capable of hitting a servant, especially Baba. It would be considered the right thing to do because some one had to enforce the rules. I recall seeing servants being hit and hating the site of it. After Om Ahmed my parents hired another servant girl to take care of me. I’m not sure exactly how many we went through. I know my Aunt Fayza, who is the wife of Mama’s brother, often hit her servants. I remember one boy in particular when I was older and visiting from the states. He couldn’t have been any older than eleven or twelve. She’d use her hands, a shoe or whatever was available at the time. She was known for giving all of her servants a really terrible beating. But she did school the boy and send him to learn a trade. That was a rarity, so perhaps she wasn’t all bad, and perhaps she was.
I have an image that’s never left my mind. I see a girl crouched in a corner crying after she was beat, but I just can’t see where I was or who did the hitting. Maybe it was Aunt Fayza or maybe it was Baba. I can imagine him doing that only because I’ve seen the severe beatings he used to give our dog Dandy when we lived in upstate New York. Dandy was a thirty-five pound all black long shaggy haired mutt. If he pooped in the house or misbehaved, Baba would kick him in the stomach with all his force repeatedly. Dandy would scream and squeal, ending up in a corner somewhere, just like the servant girl I remember. My brother and I would just stand there watching Dandy cry, knowing there was nothing we could do. To be honest with you, I think I remember doing myself a few times too. It seemed normal. I hate to think about it.
Medical experts say Arsenic kills by causing a multi-system organ failure. It’ symptoms start with mild headaches and progress to stomach pains, vomiting and delirium.
Mama says when she came home I was screaming. It must have been pretty bad because she actually took me to the hospital and knowing Mama and Baba; the hospital was usually a last resort. Wait, maybe that’s because we grew up never having health insurance in America but in Egypt health care was socialized. So off they went with me in hand to the hospital. I’m sure she was reading her memorized verses from the Koran over and over again, just like she taught us to do when we’re scared.
“Bism Allah Alrahman Alraheem”, she would say. It means ‘in the name of God, the compassionate, the merciful’. She would follow it with the rest of the opening Sura (prayer from the Koran than go to her other memorized Suras. Mama says she took one of my aunts, Baba’s sister with her. I think it was my aunt Layla. We lived within a five-minute walk from two of Baba’s sisters and his parents. She says once they got to the hospital the doctor did some tests. She doesn’t remember if he forced me to vomit or not. He said he was sure that I was suffering from Arsenic poisoning. Mama couldn’t understand how that could be possible but he told her it was the main ingredient in rat poison.
“Do you have rat poison at home?” he said.
“We do but I never use it. I haven’t used it in ages”
“Madame, it happened within the past few hours. Who was with her? Are you and your husband the only ones that live at your home?”
“No” she said. “We have a servant, a young girl that stays with us. She was with her until I got home from work. But she’s never used it. She doesn’t even know where it is. It’s not in a location that’s easy to find.”
“Ok” he replied. “Give this a few days. Don’t mention anything to her right away. A week from now, ask her to go fetch the rat poison for you and see what she does.”
Mama did just that.
Now she looked at the yellow carton placed upon the counter. Right next to it, a bottle of milk that she just finished warming. She turned to her right and walked three short steps to the sink. She opened the drawer below it and inside was a number of half hazardly thrown utensils. She sifted through the items, most metal, some wood and plastic. The sound of metal clinging against metal almost put her in a trance. She was forgetting her purpose. The objective was blurring and fading away. It was as if her hands were summoned to keep searching through the heap of utensils, for what she no longer knew. The melody of clinging and clanging was so very comforting like the melodies her mother used to sing to put her to sleep. “Nami, nami ya Om Ahmed”. Her Mama’s voice was soft and she would place her hand on Om Ahmed’s forehead and slowly smooth the hair to the side of her face. Eventually she would leave the waking world.
Om Ahmed shook her head and looked up, as the baby’s whales became incessantly more demanding. A ray of light came in through the small window above the sink shining directly on her face. At that moment she possessed the twinkle in her eyes, the glow that she thought only the free, the elite and the smart could have.
She gazed down and in her hand was a spoon. Taking it she returned to the carton opened the top and filled the spoon until it was heaping with the powdery white dust. After unscrewing the nipple off she transferred all that was in the spoon to the bottle of milk. With a sponge she wiped the lines along the neck of the bottle where the nipple screws in, where the powder settled into the crevices and then she wiped the white dust that fell on the counter around the base. As she screwed the nipple back on, a crackling sound could be heard, caused by the tiny unseen particles that remained.
The rest was a fog. From the kitchen to the bedroom where the baby lay in its basinet she went. The hungry child fed ravenously suctioning its mouth to the nipple. Shortly after it fell asleep and so did Om Ahmed.
As soon as her day ended it would begin again. Early in the mornings the Man and woman of the house would head off to work and she would stay at home to take care of their nine-month old baby girl. At that point in the day, she became the servant to a screaming, spitting, crapping machine. Sometimes when it wasn’t demanding, when this little creature wasn’t taking and taking, Om Ahmed would gaze at it closely. She would stare at its pretty cream colored flesh, its rosy cheeks, velvety hands and clean tailored clothes. It had a glisten in its eyes that only the lucky were born with. It was a shiny sparkle in the blackest of black eyes. She thought about how her own mother could never have seen that sparkle in any of her children’s eyes when they were babies. Her siblings, like her were born in the same two room home the family of seven still lived in today. Her clothes were left over from her older sisters and even before that left over from villagers who donated them to the poorest families in the village when they’re own children outgrew them. Before she left the village she thought all children had black under their nails and dirt covering their feet. This one, this little being, was the chain that bound her and separated her from her home, family and neighborhood friends. She was brought to this home primarily to take care of the little girl and her cleaning and cooking responsibilities were secondary.
Today she didn’t need to be part of any special or elite group. She didn’t need to know how to read or write. She already knew what the contents of the box were capable of. Back home she had seen with her own eyes the lifeless remains of the creatures that feasted on the pretty white powder. One day when she was looking through the cabinets, she came across it. It was below the sink all the way in back of the cleaning supplies and practically hidden in the corner. Maybe it was the box that was seeking her all along. Her Mama had kept a similar container in their home and Om Ahmed knew exactly what it did. She placed the box of rat poison right back where it was but its location would never leave her mind. It almost haunted her, willing her to make use of it. Until that moment she was able to resit the temptation.
I’m in love with this song. I just want to listen to it over and over again.
I Dreamed A Dream
There was a time when men were kind,
And their voices were soft,
And their words inviting.
There was a time when love was blind,
And the world was a song,
And the song was exciting.
There was a time when it all went wrong…
I dreamed a dream in time gone by,
When hope was high and life, worth living.
I dreamed that love would never die,
I dreamed that God would be forgiving.
Then I was young and unafraid,
And dreams were made and used and wasted.
There was no ransom to be paid,
No song unsung, no wine, untasted.
But the tigers come at night,
With their voices soft as thunder,
As they tear your hope apart,
And they turn your dream to shame.
He slept a summer by my side,
He filled my days with endless wonder…
He took my childhood in his stride,
But he was gone when autumn came!
And still I dream he’ll come to me,
That we will live the years together,
But there are dreams that cannot be,
And there are storms we cannot weather!
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I’m living,
So different now from what it seemed…
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed…
In my mind I can see Om Ahmed and exactly how she looked. To see this picture I combine everything my family told me about her with memories I have of other servants. She had a young childish shape that was hidden by the baggy calf length dress that tied at her waist. The dress gave her the appearance of a woman much older than her twelve years. A light olive complexion and sullen deep brown eyes peered from underneath her thick eyebrows. When her shoulder length hair wasn’t tied in back it was kept out of her face with a scarf that was secured behind her head. When she was indoors her feet were usually bare and black on the bottom from the endless dust that used to blow into our apartment through the windows, finally settling on the black and white tile that stretched the length of the three-bedroom ground floor apartment. Back home in her village of Sophia she was usually shoeless even outdoors but here in the big city her employers demanded that she not leave the house without shoes. On her knees she would scrub their shiny black and white tile, dust, and sweep. Twice a week she would hand-wash their cloths until her knuckles were a burning red. The Madame of the house usually needed help with the cooking. Then Om Ahmed would serve it and not until her dinner time duties were done would she take her own plate and sit on the floor in the corner of the kitchen to eat. I’m not sure if she chose to sit on the floor because servants were expected to eat there or because as many villagers do, she preferred the floor.
I know, I know, I look at the picture now and I laugh a little and simply wonder how I could have possibly taken her seriously. But then I was just a little girl that was sold on the power. While most of the country, especially healthy young (and old) men were sold on her sexiness, I didn’t see actual blatant ‘SEX’. I saw someone pretty who wow’d everyone she came near and could do things on other woman (or man) ever could….not to mention she had this unbelievable truth syrum like lassow. I prayed to be Wonder Woman. Perhaps, somewhere deep inside I was seeking not only recognition but also the super human strength. Perhaps, I just wanted to be the embodyment of proof. What was I aiming to prove? That being a woman did not equate to being inferior.
I imagine she didn’t know the exact name of the compound that could cause injury and eventual death but she did know that something in the rat poison would do the trick. She was sure of this because she was smart enough to understand what the skull on the box meant. The rest was scribble since she couldn’t differentiate one letter from the next. She knew they formed words and how nice it would have been to be able to read and understand those words. That path was not for her or for anyone in her family, especially not a girl. The pretty scribble was for a lucky group of people that she would never be part of.
Om Ahmed was born in small village on the outskirts of Cairo. Her family didn’t own land and they didn’t have a trade. They survived by being farm hands and on the generosity of those around them. It was charity but not what we know of as charity. When a villager helps out another villager it’s like family helping family and it’s kept quite. If you give to a family in need, you don’t tell a soul or else your good deed will go in vain. That’s what the Koran taught us; it’s meant to preserve the dignity of the family receiving the charity. As her mother had more children the poverty grew and no amount of money her father earned was enough to care for them. So her parents did what many did. They sent their kids to work. Often these young boys and girls would leave their towns to go work for the middle and upper class city dwellers. The money the children earned would be used to cloth and feed those still at home.
Om Ahmed had been working as a servant in different homes since she was ten years old. She was twelve now. I’ve seen many like her during my visits to Egypt and although it has been a few years since my last visit, I’m sure there are many more like her still there. I couldn’t understand why they named her Om Ahmed. It means mother of Ahmed and I know this was common for a mother who for example really did have a son named Ahmed. I remember hearing certain people in Cairo calling my mom Om Hanan so I’m used to it that is if it’s a mother with a child of that name. Mama said she didn’t know why they did that either because she was a little girl who had no children but she said some villagers did name their children Om this or Om that. One famous example is a singer named Om Kalsoum. She never had any children but her name is mother of Kalsoum.
“Om Ahmed, I think we have mice. I thought I had rat poison but I can’t remember where I put it.”
Medical experts say Arsenic kills by causing a multi-system organ failure. It’ symptoms start with mild headaches and progress to stomach pains, vomiting and delirium.
As soon as her day ended it would begin again. Early in the mornings the Man and woman of the house would head off to work and she would stay at home to take care of their nine-month old baby girl. At that point in the day, she became the servant to a screaming, spitting, crapping machine. Sometimes when it wasn’t demanding, when this little creature wasn’t taking and taking, Om Ahmed would gaze at it closely. She would stare at its pretty cream colored flesh, its rosy cheeks, velvety hands and clean tailored clothes. It had a glisten in its eyes that only the lucky were born with. It was a shiny sparkle in the blackest of black eyes. She thought about how her own mother could never have seen that sparkle in any of her children’s eyes when they were babies. Her siblings, like her were born in the same two room home the family of seven still lived in today. Her clothes were left over from her older sisters and even before that left over from villagers who donated them to the poorest families in the village when they’re own children outgrew them. Before she left the village she thought all children had black under their nails and dirt covering their feet. This one, this little being, was the chain that bound her and separated her from her home, family and neighborhood friends. She was brought to this home primarily to take care of the little girl and her cleaning and cooking responsibilities were secondary.
In my mind I can see Om Ahmed and exactly how she looked. To see this picture I combine everything my family told me about her with memories I have of other servants. She had a young childish shape that was hidden by the baggy calf length dress that tied at her waist. The dress gave her the appearance of a woman much older than her twelve years. A light olive complexion and sullen deep brown eyes peered from underneath her thick eyebrows. When her shoulder length hair wasn’t tied in back it was kept out of her face with a scarf that was secured behind her head. When she was indoors her feet were usually bare and black on the bottom from the endless dust that used to blow into our apartment through the windows, finally settling on the black and white tile that stretched the length of the three-bedroom ground floor apartment. Back home in her village of Sophia she was usually shoeless even outdoors but here in the big city her employers demanded that she not leave the house without shoes. On her knees she would scrub their shiny black and white tile, dust, and sweep. Twice a week she would hand-wash their cloths until her knuckles were a burning red. The Madame of the house usually needed help with the cooking. Then Om Ahmed would serve it and not until her dinner time duties were done would she take her own plate and sit on the floor in the corner of the kitchen to eat. I’m not sure if she chose to sit on the floor because servants were expected to eat there or because as many villagers do, she preferred the floor.
