Hakim.... London's Calling

Last night I went to a Hakim concert, in London... yes that's in London, at the Shepherd's Bush Empire. I have to say it was a great chance to reconnect. Us expats, the Egyptians that have continuously wandered the earth have a very unhealthy relationship with the mothership. It's like she's our grandmother, whom we love, but that don't share many values or history with. There are many things that we respect about her, but there are too many things about her frumpy, unhip, ignorant ways that grate against are developed modern self identity. And as we are rarely willing to admit, often she embarasses us. If she's our grandmother, whom in a sense we still love and cherish, then all her people are our aunts uncles cousins and extended families. The one's we mix with on holidays, but keep absolutely seperated from our real lives. The ones that you know that they know that you know that they know.... that you are a boozing, womanizing, decadent westerner... who's clothes reveal a certain effeminateness. You are the stranger. Thing is you get older and the relationship starts to evolve. Your values change. Unlike in real life, where people pass on and there are few second chances. Rather than only exist in a life of regret as with the mortal world with Egypt you do get another chance. That if you apply wisdom, patience and compassion you can truly redefine your relationship and build something that is mutually beneficial. She needs you, and you knew that and neglected her all these years out of fear, misaprehension and shame. But what we fail to realise is that you needed her even more. That you were adrift for years, teased about your movies, and your maids, and your poverty by people that have only realised that a car isn't really just an armour plated camel and that there aren't little djinn inside the radio. So what does that have to do with hakim. A great deal. To me Hakim is Egypt (good thing no one reads this due to potential offense). He isn't like Amr Diab all buttered up in nice tight jeans and tank top as American as apple pie. Hakim is foul bil salata, sandwich ta3miya from toothless 3am Bul Bul fi warshit 3arabiyat Egypt Air. Hakim is the egypt that laughs rather than cry. That has suffered deprivation so that when he has, he wants to enjoy, sing dance and grin like a maniac. Hakim can't believe his luck because he's still there, still fighting, still going when he should have been consigned to a life of being someone else's Bilya. And when I was there last night seeing the crowds of Egyptians screaming out for their heritage, waving their Egyptian flags, singing a long and dancing with such abandon... muhagabat and non... alike. I felt joy. Even the two taxi driver types that scared the French wannabe belly dancers that I poo poohed on earlier in the night.... "Oh my Goood Becky... They're sooooo beee2a". Scored and danced the night away with the cutes little French girl I ever saw. And I was proud. But mostly proud that the deep tabla rythms that have been surging through the streets of Cairo for centuries were surging through my blood too. I was proud because I too realised that I am still Egyptian, no matter what. And because I can shake my waist better than any wannabe French belly dancer any day..... Youssef