Stop Being Mean to Yourself: A Story About Finding the True Meaning of Self-Love by Melody Beattie Page A
Authors: Melody Beattie
Tags: Self-Help, Personal Growth, Self-acceptance, Self-Esteem, North, Beattie, Melody - Journeys - Africa
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waiting for me. He didn't eat; it was Ramadan and still daylight. We sat on the bench outside the shop talking while I ate. I was so hungry I felt only slightly guilty about eating in front of him.
When I finished eating, I looked around for a restroom. I didn't see one in the store. Essam said there was none in the shop, that tourists usually went somewhere in the village to use facilities. Then he said I was more than welcome to go to his home, which was next door, and use the bathroom there.
Page 105
I followed him around the store, through a courtyard littered with children's toys, to the door of a sprawling one story home. It looked new and fairly modern. Essam told me that in the village of Giza his house was considered a mansion. He lived there with his aunt, his sisters, his brotherinlaw, and their children. He told me to go in, turn to the right and I would come to the bathroom. I walked into a maze of rooms, then found a series of rooms each of which seemed like part of the bathroom.
The first tiny room contained a sink. I wasn't sure if the water worked or not. In the next room, a faucet projected out of the wall. I guessed that was the shower. In the next room was a toilet. Next to it was a large basin of water and a wooden ladle for flushing.
When I exited the bathroom and walked back through the house, I inadvertently turned the wrong way. Suddenly I was standing in the midst of a room of women.
They were sitting on the floor on layers of rugs and pillows, watching television. They wore long, colorful dresses. I smiled. One woman, the woman in the middle, motioned for me to sit down next to her.
I did.
They didn't speak English. I didn't speak Arabic. So we just sat there. Their eyes glowed. They seemed so happy to have company. I got a little nervous after a while.
I didn't know what to do next, and they didn't want me to leave. Finally, Essam entered the room.
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He talked to them for a minute, then turned to me.
"They like you," he said.
When we returned to the bench on the sandlot, I told Essam what his nephew had told me and asked him if it were true that women were allowed to marry more than one husband.
Essam shook his head. "No," he said. "That is not true. Women are allowed one husband. Men can take four wives."
"What about divorce?" I asked. "Can a woman divorce her husband if she's unhappy or they have serious problems?"
Essam shook his head again. "No. The woman cannot divorce her husband. Only the husband can divorce the wife."
"That's not fair," I said. "It doesn't sound like a good deal to me."
A heavy pause filled the air.
"It is not a good thing to be born a woman in this country," Essam finally said. "It starts at birth. Everyone gathers around waiting to hear whether the child born is a male or a female. If they come out and say it is a boy, fireworks! The people scream and cheer loudly. They celebrate—sometimes for days! But if they come out and say it's a girl, there is silence. No one says a word. The people act like they heard nothing. They turn, walk away, and Page 107
return quietly to what they were doing."
As I listened to Essam tell me about Egyptian women, I again felt a faint stirring within me, as I had outside the pyramids my first night in Cairo. For much of my life, I had quietly raged about being a woman and about the inequality in power, not just between the sexes but between people. It seemed to me that so often, certain people of title, role, and sex were naturally afforded power—it was an entitlement of sorts—while others had to work so hard for this same power, often even to convince others or themselves that they had power. I had raged, albeit silently, about the constraints I felt—the expectations, the limitations, and the constant need to prove my power—power automatically bestowed on some whether or not that presumption of power was warranted.
Sitting in the sandlot, I began to see that some of our beliefs about power are
When I finished eating, I looked around for a restroom. I didn't see one in the store. Essam said there was none in the shop, that tourists usually went somewhere in the village to use facilities. Then he said I was more than welcome to go to his home, which was next door, and use the bathroom there.
Page 105
I followed him around the store, through a courtyard littered with children's toys, to the door of a sprawling one story home. It looked new and fairly modern. Essam told me that in the village of Giza his house was considered a mansion. He lived there with his aunt, his sisters, his brotherinlaw, and their children. He told me to go in, turn to the right and I would come to the bathroom. I walked into a maze of rooms, then found a series of rooms each of which seemed like part of the bathroom.
The first tiny room contained a sink. I wasn't sure if the water worked or not. In the next room, a faucet projected out of the wall. I guessed that was the shower. In the next room was a toilet. Next to it was a large basin of water and a wooden ladle for flushing.
When I exited the bathroom and walked back through the house, I inadvertently turned the wrong way. Suddenly I was standing in the midst of a room of women.
They were sitting on the floor on layers of rugs and pillows, watching television. They wore long, colorful dresses. I smiled. One woman, the woman in the middle, motioned for me to sit down next to her.
I did.
They didn't speak English. I didn't speak Arabic. So we just sat there. Their eyes glowed. They seemed so happy to have company. I got a little nervous after a while.
I didn't know what to do next, and they didn't want me to leave. Finally, Essam entered the room.
Page 106
He talked to them for a minute, then turned to me.
"They like you," he said.
When we returned to the bench on the sandlot, I told Essam what his nephew had told me and asked him if it were true that women were allowed to marry more than one husband.
Essam shook his head. "No," he said. "That is not true. Women are allowed one husband. Men can take four wives."
"What about divorce?" I asked. "Can a woman divorce her husband if she's unhappy or they have serious problems?"
Essam shook his head again. "No. The woman cannot divorce her husband. Only the husband can divorce the wife."
"That's not fair," I said. "It doesn't sound like a good deal to me."
A heavy pause filled the air.
"It is not a good thing to be born a woman in this country," Essam finally said. "It starts at birth. Everyone gathers around waiting to hear whether the child born is a male or a female. If they come out and say it is a boy, fireworks! The people scream and cheer loudly. They celebrate—sometimes for days! But if they come out and say it's a girl, there is silence. No one says a word. The people act like they heard nothing. They turn, walk away, and Page 107
return quietly to what they were doing."
As I listened to Essam tell me about Egyptian women, I again felt a faint stirring within me, as I had outside the pyramids my first night in Cairo. For much of my life, I had quietly raged about being a woman and about the inequality in power, not just between the sexes but between people. It seemed to me that so often, certain people of title, role, and sex were naturally afforded power—it was an entitlement of sorts—while others had to work so hard for this same power, often even to convince others or themselves that they had power. I had raged, albeit silently, about the constraints I felt—the expectations, the limitations, and the constant need to prove my power—power automatically bestowed on some whether or not that presumption of power was warranted.
Sitting in the sandlot, I began to see that some of our beliefs about power are
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