She had barely turned fifteen when a country nobleman from Upper Egypt called Hamada al-Qinawi came forward to ask for her hand and a dream she had entertained since the age of ten came true. Her departure represented the first farewell and first wedding celebration in the family. Hamada was an acquaintance of Amr’s. He adored Cairo, so when his father died he had moved there with his mother and leased his thirty feddans of land to an uncle in Qina. Rashwana, Radia, and Surur’s wife, Zaynab, visited the man’s house in Darb al-Qazzazin.
“Hamada’s mother is devout. No religious duty is above her,” Rashwana said to her brother Amr.
At a gathering in Amr’s house attended by Amr, Surur, and Mahmud Bey Ata, Surur Effendi said, “The groom is unemployed and has no skills. That’s bad.”
“He has thirty feddans,” said Amr.
“Even so, he is barely literate,” replied Surur with unfounded conceit.
“A man’s value is in his money,” said Mahmud Ata.
“He is from a good traditional family,” said Amr.
From what she could see through the gap in the mashrabiya Sadriya was pleased with Hamada’s appearance; he was tall and strong, smartly dressed in a jubbah and caftan, and had manly features. She was wedded to him in a house in Khan Ga‘far that he rented from the dimwitted pastry man. Mahmud Ata furnished the reception room, Ahmad Bey gave jewelry and clothes, and Abd al-Azim Dawud provided the wedding dress. Sadriya began her married life with Hamada resting on her mother’s instructions, her blessings, and superior skills as a mistress of the house. Hamada represented a complex problem. They were mutually affectionate and each felt a strong need for the other, but Sadriya was naturally sensitive and irascible and very stubborn while her husband was a narrow-minded chatterbox who loved glory and authority. His unlimited spare time left him free to interfere in things whether or not they concerned him. She was not accustomed to a man snoring away until noon, waking up, and interrupting her housework to talk endlessly about his family, its merits, and his own illusory virtues, followed by foolish comments on her work, about which he understood nothing. He knew his religion only by name and did not pray or fast. Barely a night went by when he did not stay up late at the Parisienne, drinking wine and dining on appetizers. Yet they did not shun marital relations or children, and so she gave birth to Nihad, Aql, Warda, and Dalal. Nor did they refrain from futile debates, hence he would boast about his family of landowners and she would in turn extol the families of Ata and Dawud and Shaykh Mu‘awiya, the hero of the Urabi Revolution. The discussion would sometimes become heated and they would exchange cruel insults. She strove to hide the steam from the cooking pot under a tight lid and solve her problems herself without involving her family. But Radia perceived what was going on through her own intuition as well as from the man’s excruciating chatter. “A wife has to be a doctor,” she said to her daughter.
“You must visit the relevant tombs,” said Sadriya.
“What is the point in visiting tombs for this? The best remedy is to cut off his tongue!” said Radia.
The truth was that it was not just Hamada’s wife who suffered from his irritating chatter; on visits he would inflict it on the families of Amr, Surur, al-Murakibi, and Dawud until it became a joke among the relatives. It became clear that her husband’s eyes knew no shame and followed every pretty girl who passed by. Sadriya grew increasingly uneasy.
“Have you no shame?” she asked him disapprovingly.
“There’s no harm in looking,” he scoffed.
But she caught gestures between him and the beautiful widow who lived in the house opposite. A fire ignited inside her and blew the sleep from her eyes. She stayed awake until the time he usually came home from an evening at the Parisienne then left the house and went out into the street, wrapped in the darkness, with a bucket of water in her hand. Hamada approached, cleaving his way through the pitch-dark night. She felt the door of the widow’s house open and the woman’s blurred outline appeared dimly in the doorway. The man paused and turned toward it. Sadriya hurried into the middle of the road and hurled the water at the woman in the doorway, who screamed and tumbled backward into the house. Hamada was startled. He looked in Sadriya’s direction, “Who are you?”
“Get home, you shameless creature!” she shouted enraged.
He was staggering that night. He entered the house in silence then shouted angrily, “I’ll show you how savage I can be when I need to.”
But in his drunkenness he was overcome by laughter. He collapsed onto the sofa saying, “You’re a madwoman like your mother!”
She quarreled with him for a while, then they reverted to friendly relations and bickering, although the matter was not laid entirely to rest until he fell ill. He developed high blood pressure that affected his heart and he had to give up drinking. A general apathy came over him, which in certain guises took on the appearance of wisdom. Then came sorrow; Sadriya lost her daughter, Warda, in the prime of youth, and then lost her father and her sister Matariya. Finally, Hamada died on a visit to his family in Qina. Sadriya remained in Khan Ga‘far, refusing to move to her son Aql’s house despite his strong devotion to her. When Radia sensed her health was deteriorating she said to Sadriya, “I want you by my side to close my eyes.…” Thus, she shut up her house and returned to the house of her birth to be beside her mother, who favored her above everyone. Radia was over a hundred years old and Sadriya was herself approaching ninety, although she was in full possession of her strength and still active. The final days passed in a turmoil of memories; her mother recalled songs she had sung in the last quarter of the nineteenth century then passed away. Sadriya closed her eyes, wanting to cry but unable to.
Sadiqa Mu‘awiya al-Qalyubi
The third daughter of Shaykh Mu‘awiya and Galila al-Tarabishi, she was born in the old house in Suq al-Zalat half a year after the shaykh was put in prison. She was more beautiful than her two sisters, Radia and Shahira. Indeed, with her fair complexion, rosy cheeks, symmetrical features, ample black hair, and succulent slender body she was an unrivaled beauty in the quarter. In the family she was surpassed only by Amr and Radia’s daughter Matariya, who shared the same roots but was more light-hearted and urbane. She was the only one not to claim her portion of the shaykh’s religious upbringing and grew up the pure fruit of Galila’s heritage. She was kind toward others and loved singing, justified by a fine voice. Because of her beauty and geniality, she enjoyed the greatest share of Radia’s children’s affection.
A few years after her father’s death and one year after Shahira married, a Syrian dentist resident in the quarter presented himself and she was wedded to him. They moved into a new building in Faggala. It was not long before disaster struck; her husband died before she conceived and she herself contracted tuberculosis. She returned to Galila’s arms, seeking warmth and healing. The family’s hearts were shaken by her bad luck. Her beauty withered and her life was transformed. Pain assailed her and there was no hope of recovery. She felt she was sinking into the abyss. She grew tired of the desperation, the suffering, the insomnia, the coughing, and in a moment of dark despair threw herself into the well. Galila screamed and caring neighbors rushed to her side. They extricated her on the point of death. She suffered hours of agony through a long feverish night, surrounded by her mother and sisters, Radia and Shahira, the doorway choked with male relatives and neighbors. After an excruciating struggle she passed away shortly before dawn, at the height of youth, despair, and suffering.
Galila grieved for a long time. She ordered a firm wooden lid to be placed over the well and that it never be used again. She dreamed about her daughter from time to time and once said to Radia, “On the night of Sidi al-Sha‘rani I saw Sadiqa standing on a white cloud near the well. Her face was bright and she was smiling.”
Radia had deep faith in her mother. “Did she speak to you, Mama?” she asked.
“I asked her how she was and she told me that God had forgiven her for taking her life. She told me this to
put my heart at rest,” Galila replied.
“Praise God, the Merciful and Compassionate,” cried Radia.
“I saw her at her most beautiful, like in the old days,” said Galila.
Safa Hussein Qabil
She was the second child of Samira and Hussein Qabil. She was born and grew up in the house on Ibn Khaldun Street. She suckled in her wholesome, affluent cradle under the protective shade of days of glory and well-being and the lush greenery of al-Zahir Baybars Garden. Samira’s children were good looking, healthy, and successful, but Safa was the most beautiful and joyful of all. How she played with and danced for her grandmother Radia and exuded pure warmth everywhere she went. She grew up modest and forbearing and worshiped life above the various principles of her brothers and sisters. Hussein Qabil adored her; to him she was a treasure more beautiful than any he bought or sold. She did well at school and enrolled in the English language department at the faculty of arts. Hussein Qabil died, leaving a deep wound in her heart. She could feel her mother’s pain as she adjusted the family to a different standard of living, and a darkness blacker than the darkness of war and air raids settled over her. On her rounds she met her young male relatives from the families of Surur, al-Murakibi, and Dawud but it was Shakir, her uncle Amer’s son, who cast the net of interest and admiration over her. He was a medical student and they were able to meet often away from family traditions. Her heart was weaned in his hands and she believed he was the man of the happy future she anticipated. She noticed he was keen to shroud their relationship in secrecy but did not grasp the significance. “Who are you afraid of?” she asked him one day.
“Mama!” he replied bluntly, annoyed.
She was surprised at him and his mother and surmised he was not the man he ought to be. One day she returned from college and found her mother dejected and frowning. Knowing the strength of her mother’s restraint she realized something was wrong. “Your uncle’s wife, Iffat!” Samira said indignantly.
Her heart contracted and she felt her hope disappear.
“She told me categorically that I must keep you away from her son,” Samira said.
“But I’m not pursuing him,” she cried angrily.
“Close the door with latch and key,” Samira said distressed.
There was no way out. No escape from the pain. But why?
“They look down on us,” Samira went on. “It was the same for your aunt Matariya before.”
“How do they see themselves?” she asked furiously.
“That’s nothing to do with us. I want to trust you.…”
“You can trust me completely,” she said disgusted.
She drank pain and humiliation. However, she had inherited some of her mother’s unique personality traits, namely the ability to withstand calamity, and the relationship was severed in disdain.
She graduated and was appointed as a translator in the university administration—thanks to the good offices of senior men on her mother’s side. She caught the attention of the assistant secretary and he asked to marry her. The man was about twenty years older than her but enjoyed high rank and a good income. She weighed up the offer and decided it was perfectly suited to her circumstances; she realized too that she was more “practical” than she had thought. She was married to Sabri Bey al-Qadi in his villa in al-Qubba Gardens. Her new existence accorded her the life of plenty, doting and generous husband, and motherhood of two sons—Ali and Amr—that she desired. The July Revolution played as it liked with her family, and so her brother Hakim prospered while Salim perished. It was her good fortune that Sabri al-Qadi was related to an important officer so was quickly promoted and appointed to the post of head clerk of the ministry of culture. He was pensioned off in old age but continued to encourage her until she became a director general. She supervised Ali and Amr’s education until they entered the diplomatic service. Thus, this branch shone in the diamond era of bureaucracy and was spared the evil of the storms.
Amer Amr Aziz
THE FIRST GIFT FROM THE UNKNOWN to flood Amr and Radia’s hearts with joy, satisfaction, and pride, Amer confirmed the conviction held in Bayt al-Qadi Square that a boy is better than a girl. He came resplendent with a handsome face that borrowed the best of Radia’s features—a straight nose, high forehead, and the fine facial symmetry for which Samira would later be known. His calm nature, piety, and impulse to lead and protect came from his father. How often he would assemble his brothers and sisters on the roof to play at being the Qur’an school shaykh, wielding in his hand a stick that timidity and kindness prevented him using. He grew into a smart and elegant young man who would stroll about the city quarters smiling and musing and sit cross-legged before al-Hussein’s tomb in fervent prayer. He was always good at making friends with neighbors of his own class and higher ones, and scoundrels could never provoke him. He was also a favorite at the mansion on Khayrat Square and with the Dawud family. He did well at school, excelling in science and mathematics and, thanks to eminent relatives, was granted a remission of fees. Thus, his father was relieved of a burden he could not bear while embroiled in arranging the marriages of Sadriya, Matariya, and Samira. From childhood, Amer and Abd al-Azim Pasha Dawud’s daughter Iffat were drawn to one another. It began on the roof in the shade of the hanging washing and, with passing days and visits, developed into love and hope for the future. This all took place in secret, but exuded its scent like a rose. Love was the first thing to get the better of the arrogant girl who saw her family as superior, as though God had created no one but them for nobility.
“We’ve educated our children in European schools to make them suitable for one of the family’s doctors or public prosecutors,” Farida Hanem Husam said to Abd al-Azim.
“Amr’s my cousin. There’s no one more upright than him,” said the pasha.
The hanem shared his sentiments. She loved Radia and was particularly fond of Amer so she soon came round. Amr and Radia were delighted. Amr was proud and boastful of his grand relatives and considered a marriage connection with them a great accomplishment. Mahmud Ata Bey had been considering Amer as a husband for Shakira and when the young man fell into the hands of his rival he said to Amr, “Hamid can be Shakira’s.” With this Amr’s happiness was complete, exposing him to his brother, Surur’s, reproach. Surur blamed him for ignoring his daughters, but Amr defended his position using the beauty of Surur’s daughters, who need not fear being left behind, and the poverty of his own children who needed support, as excuses.
“They wouldn’t give you a son,” Surur said bitterly.
Amr was hurt but in his modesty simply replied, “Praise God. A man knows his place.”
Surur hid his anger. “Brother, you’ve become a dervish. You never get angry.”
Amer wanted to enter the faculty of medicine resting on his talent for science, so that he might be “suitable” for Iffat in the full sense of the word. But his father chose the teachers college because it was free of charge.
“It’s impossible to get a scholarship into medical school. The eye sees but the hand can’t provide,” he told his beloved son.
Amer was a model of obedience and accepted truths however bitter. He said to his father, feigning approval, “The teachers college is excellent at any rate.”
Iffat and her family were forbearing. Iffat told herself a teacher she loved was better than a doctor she didn’t. Amer digested his harsh disappointment and proceeded on his path crowned with success and satisfaction. He worshiped the 1919 Revolution along with the rest of his family, took part in the demonstrations, and welcomed Sa‘d with an open heart. He was in his final year at the time and working life soon took him away from the immediate action. The marriage was arranged for the following year. He became a guest in his family, in whose hearts he left nothing but goodwill, with the exception of a certain enmity between him and his brother Hamid on account of the latter’s rebellious nature and unruly behavior. How many incantations and amulets Radia expended to drive the evil spirit away from th
e two of them! However, as soon as they began their working lives the murk cleared. Abd al-Azim Dawud built a house for his daughter in Bayn al-Ganayin. He fitted it with electricity, a water supply, drains, and a small garden at the back, and Amer and his Europhile wife moved in to begin a long and happy married life.
The marriage shook Amr’s family from the first day. It was quite clear that the new wife was of a different species to Amer’s sisters as she had graduated from La Mère de Dieu, spoke several languages, was a skilled piano player, and knew all about France, its history and its religion, and almost nothing about her own country’s heritage or beliefs. Moreover, she prided herself on this in spite of the spirit of nationalism unleashed with the 1919 Revolution. Her strong, overpowering personality swallowed her meek, gentle husband’s and the young man did not dare remind her that fasting was a duty in Ramadan; he fasted alone and prepared his own meal before daybreak. She also dazzled him with her unintelligible conversation and skill at the piano. When Adli’s supporters came out against Sa‘d Zaghloul, Amer found himself a foreigner in the Dawud family. He avoided disturbing the peace in defense of his latent Wafdism and kept it to himself. Iffat had no serious interest in politics, though she went along with her father out of loyalty. “There’s no comparison between the noble Adli Pasha and your Azharite leader!” she would tell her husband. But Amer would smile and spurn the quarrel.
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