Is there an age or year of your life you would re-live?
No, it does but only, in our imagination.
Just close your eyes and go back in time. There are your big family gatherings, school trips, and your last year at high school with all its hardwork and true friendship. And here’s your wedding day, your first baby in your arms, your second playing around, and your third holding your hand. And could one ever forget that first day in a foreign land, the first friend abroad, and the new life. Can you ask time to stop at one of these moments, days, or years? I might have made that wish years ago, but not anymore.
There are pleasant moments, days, and years in one’s life, and there are also horrible ones. That’s life. It goes up and down. It’s hard to pick one day, or age or year without living the whole experience of it. That’s how we grow and how we change. Haven’t all these years and days and moments made us who we are today? Haven’t they given us all these wonderful memories to relish and re-live in in our imagination?
But of course, the major historical events are all related, like blood brothers, to inhuman man-made catastrophes, major catastrophes. So why not let the ‘big’ leaders of the world and their loyal devotees answer that? Their answers probably wouldn’t be different from what we learn at school.
So, let’s make it personal. Can there be a bit of alteration? Something like, ‘what is the best day you can describe as the major historical event in your life? That’s better, much better this way.
I was waiting at home, running from one window to another and looking out for my father. He used to bring my end of year exam results every year. I had never disappointed him, but this time was so different. I was shaking from head to toe. It was the result of my final exams in high school. I studied hard that year with no private tutors, no extra help. I lost too much weight and looked miserable. All I wanted was to pass with honourable results. And I did. I glanced at my father walking down the street towards our house with a big smile on his face, and I knew I did it. Not only did I get honourable marks, but my result was the second highrest at my school. Such an event had never happened in the history of my family.
That was the major historical event in my life. First, because my parents were so proud of me. Second, because my life had changed significantly after that day.
Knowledge, creativity, honesty, dedication, and talent, I was thinking of as the main qualities that would make a great teacher. Still, there was something missing, I thought, as an old memory of my school days crossed my mind.
One day in the last month before final exams at my high school in Egypt, it was also the last year, a group of my class, including myself, headed to the agricultural class. By the way, it was one of optional subjects that students had to choose and attend but was not graded. Wouldn’t it be boring to learn about flowers and plants only theoretically without outdoor practical lessons? Of course it would be, but what else could we do? We attended and to make things worse, our teacher was as dull as the lesson. Nothing in her features, her style, and her voice was relating to nature and its beautiful creation.
On that day and before starting the lesson, our teacher assigned some students to do some cleaning in the class while others were instructed to make some readings in the textbook. My friend and I were choosen to wash some plastic plant pots and as I headed to do my job, my friend volunteered to wash them all. It was so kind of my friend, I thanked her and went to the table to start my reading.
A few seconds later, like a captive lion that had just escaped from its cage, our teacher was roaming all over the class searching for her prey – me. Deaf and blind , she kept asking others about me as her bloodshot eyes searching all the faces in the class though I was sitting right before her. Then, the veil on her eyes was lifted and they fixed on me as she ordered me to stand up. I did, feeling my heart would stop beating. I had no idea why she was mad at me.
‘Why didn’t you do the job I assigned you? She yelled and I told her about my friend’s offer, and even my friend, drying her hands with a towel, indicated that she was the one who wanted to do them all. But our teacher was not listening to reason or truth. She screamed while explaining how I was careless, disrespectful, and lazy student. I burst into tears for I had never been any. It wasn’t my earnest tears that had thrown cold water on our teacher’s blazing anger but a sentence uttered by one of the students.
‘You’ve gone so far, miss. You know you shouldn’t behave like that’, said one of the students. The teacher turned to the girl and looked so ashamed. She didn’t approach her because she understood well what the girl meant. Both the teacher and the student were christians, and the first impression the teacher’s behaviour has on a class of both Christian and Muslim girls was her prejudice against me as a Muslim. A few minutes later, she calmed down and asked me with a broad smile to join her and study my lesson at her own desk as if that was a great privilege.
Could her new attempt overcome my shock and my hurtful feelings toward her irrational conduct. Never.
Wisdom that’s the missing quality I was looking for and I believe a great teacher should have it.
Which food, when you eat it, instantly transports you to childhood?
Have you ever tasted Egyptian mango? It’s special, so sweet, so juciy, and so refreshing. It always brings back some of my childhood’s messy and joyful memories.
I would never forget how my mother used to teach us a how to eat properly and stay clean when eating mangoes. Mango etiquette! That’s the rule:
First hold it tightly in your plate. Second, cut it into two halves. Third, carefylly separate the two halves. Fourth, put the one with the seed aside in your plate and hold the second half. Fifth, use your dessert spoon carefully, don”t dig into the mango as if you’ve never seen any. Sixth, spoon it’s juicy flesh bit by bit. Seventh, After you’re done with the first half, put it aside in your plate and repeat the same process with the second. Don’t ever pull the seed with your hand, just spoon out it’s flesh.
Phew, that needs Job’s patience, and of course most children don’t have any especially if their mouths are watering. Therefore, we understood the method, but never applied it. Once we got the fruit, we had a small bowl, we peeled it, and bit and licked. No cutlery, no etiquette. And, we ate the seed like a lollipop. Thank God, we had never made this- no etiquette mango scene at a stranger’s house. Mother always used to be in charge of the cutting process. Besides, we always were entertained by mango juice when visiting others- something like economically wise.
In my childhood, and as I was fond of this delicious fruit, and still am, I expected everyone else would be. I even wondered whether there was anyone who could destest this nourishing fruit. Many years later, I found one who finds mangoes disgusting both in taste and smell. ‘I don’t understand how and why you like it so much? It makes me feel sick.’ He’s always telling me and never eats any. Imagine, that’s my elder son.
First, I imagine this box will be full of some old toys, old favourite clothes, audio tapes, photos, books, colouring books, cards, and candies and sweets. Perhaps there’ll be more items, but I won’t care as much about them, I would only and mainly have rummaged through that box to find one particular thing.
It’s my first notebook. My childhood pieces of writing. My first writings, my innocent thoughts, and my childish handwriting. I can imagine how precious memories will rush into my head. Memories of my parents’ old house, my father’s voice, my mother’s cooking, my old siblings noseness, my schools, and my old neighbourhood.
Would any other make me feel the same? Perhaps, but not as strong as those first writings, especially after discovering that writing has always been there deep inside me.
By the way, I found this prompt on Instagram. Try to think about it and write something about yours.
The Arabs and people in the Mideterinian region in general like cats. They are such adorable creatures that make your heart melt as they rub themselves against your leg, or give you one of their begging meows.
One day, my family and I moved to a new house. The area was so beautiful but so quiet especially at night. Then, a few days later, and just before going to bed, I heard meowing at the doorstep. My husband and my boys, who were still young at that time, went downstairs and opened the door. There, they found our cute night visitor; a tabby taking shelter under our small shelter. When I joined them, the cat was still meowing at the door. She had a collar, but apparently all she wanted was to get inside our house. I let her in and she straightaway started rubbing her wet fur against us. Later on, I discovered that it was the pet of my next door neighbour. So, she wasn’t a lost cat. From that day on, the cat became our popular and so welcomed guest.
We had moved again, but I still remember that cat and its name, and still have its photos.
Unexpected situations can make you feel either happy or miserable. Have you ever, when got embarrassed because of something, found yourself burst into a laughter instead of crying. Unexpected things can indeed make you wish the ground will open and swallow you up though later, if not at the same moment, you will laugh from the bottom of your heart.
An old friend told me once about her first visit to Madame Tussaud Museum in London. The place was so packed and after seeing so many make-real human statues, she stopped before one of them. She was so fascinated by the design of the necklace around the lady statue’s neck. My friend stretched her arm and fingered that beautiful piece of jewellery. But, all of a sudden, the statue moved its head and its eyes fixed on my friend. Oh, my … you aren’t a statue; my friend gasped and apologised to the lady who smiled in understanding. After her shock and embarrassment, my friend kept laughing until her tears washed all over her face.
Whenever I go to London or hear about Madame Tussaud Museum, I can’t help laughing as I remember this unique memory of my friend.
What’s a secret skill or ability you have or wish you had?
I believe every one of us has some hidden talents. Sometimes, the discovery of your hidden talents struck you all of a sudden. Oh, really, how I haven’t realised that I was talented in so and so; you said and regret the time you’ve wasted without developing it. But, sometimes, you also just keep doing special things unaware of how much you’ve been blessed with such a talent. The good news is that in any case, you are having at least one hidden talent which others will recognise about you even if you can’t admit that yourself.
Writing was my favorite hobby since I started going to school. I used to help my mother writing letters to her family as it would have taken her so long to write any and her handwriting was not good. My older splings were not interested, but I was. Year after year, my writing compositions scored the highest marks of the class for my school grades. Over all my school years, writing was such a hobby, one of things I like and am good at.
Then, one day on my second year at university, our Arabic tutor assigned us a task to write a piece of our own choice. Arabic was one of the compulsory modules. He gave us one week to finish the assignment with the promise that the best fives would be published in that year’s Arabic textbook. Our essays shouldn’t be more than one page.
My father had passed away on the same year, just a month before I received this writing task. Wthout thinking twice; I chose a title and poured my feelings during these days into the one page piece. Two weeks later, I received my friends’ congratulations as my piece was published in our Arabic textbook. “The Fate We Can’t Escape!” My eyes fixed on my work title, couldn’t believe I had made it.
Writing has been my hidden talent which I’ve come to love and work on year after year.
You know that the most important aspect about the word ” influential” is the nature of the influence not the term itself. In other words, your most influential teacher is not necessarily the one who makes a good impression on students, nor should s/he be a good person.
I was in year seven when a new teacher introduced herself to my class as our English teacher. She was beautiful, chic, and clever. Since then, I loved my English lessons and did my best to be one of the best in my class. However, there was a significant issue which, despite my young age, I couldn’t overlook. She was unfair and she was one of those compliments seekers.
One day, when she was collecting our English homework, I told her I couldn’t do mine because I had joined the school trip with some students in my class the day before. She told me I had to be punished. I told her that it was my first time not to hand in my homework on time. She insisted on the punishment. I was punished. I wept from all of my heart when my friend, sitting next to me, was forgiven. My friend joined the same trip and couldn’t do her homework either. But, my friend was a good compliment giver. Unfair, I said in my head and hated my teacher.
But you know what? Years later I earned a degree in English language from one of the first and most prestigious universities in Egypt. And a year later, I married and moved to live in the UK. And, later on, I started my journey for postgraduate studies.
My teacher may have not been a good example, but I am certain that she was one of the hidden forces that pushed me to study English more and better. Did I know that I would need English that much later on in my life? Absolutely not. That was God’s plan and my teacher played a significant role in it.
What movies or TV series have you watched more than 5 times?
Could that be only me? But, would you really watch a movie or a TV series five times or more? I think that’s too much. Wouldn’t that be like watching everydays news that are useless to both your brain and your life!
It’s a great fun when a family snuggle together to watch a movie. Something funny, interesting, or even creepy as long as it suits them all, would make a good family time.
To be honest, if it wasn’t for my children, I wouldn’t have watched most of the movies I did. And, three times is the maximum number we watched any. And to be even more honest, if there ever is a third time, we become uninterested and one by one slip away from the gathering.
Perhaps, being a full time mother, trying ber best to find time for her own hoppies, watching movies more than once is too much for me.
Pure and Simple 