take place tomorrow afternoon, on Flood Day.
I told my colleagues that I would meet them in an hour at the residence.
I need to be alone, for a change.
The missing nose of the Giza Sphinx has nothing to do with S.I., we were just told. If there is one single destruction of which they are innocent, that is it. Napoleon blew it up (not proven) long before S.I. existed; then he spread war all across Europe (proven).
As to the Sphinx itself, S.I. destroyed it, of course, with much publicity at the time.
It occurred soon after the Flood, once they’d seized power. The Pyramids followed the Sphinx, as well as any temple still standing. In fact, little is left from the wonders which, for centuries, fascinated tourists, artists and scientists all along the Nile Valley.
The debate of the day in Cairo is whether the Sphinx should be rebuilt with its nose or without! One would think that, after over twenty years of oppression,
Egypt would have more urgent issues to consider.
In fairness, the situation is well in hand.
The Interim Government has solved the water shortage; food is available again; the wounded and orphans are properly cared for; even the Internet is now accessible (when there is electricity).
I admit that the Sphinx is a symbol.
It represents Egypt’s glorious past.
Rebuilding it would cost comparatively little and would enthuse the population with hope, connecting the survivors with their personal and national history. Hope is in the air, in and outside Egypt – and icons will fan it into flame.
I advised against the nose, however.
Our scars tell who we are.
We can’t ignore them, even if they remind us of sufferings unspeakable.
Like everybody, I lost almost everything. Now standing alone on Cairo’s West Bank, I look in the mud at the scattered blocks, remains of what used to be the Giza Sphinx.
I once stood there, long ago, before the war; before the Flood.
A twenty-four-year-old young woman, I danced between its colossal paws, challenging the monster to jump on me, since the man I loved disregarded me. I wish I’d known then, that the statue was called “Abū al-Haul – The Father-of-Dread”.
I was vain, possibly sinful, although not as bad as, say, Don Giovanni. (When was Mozart last played on this planet, I wonder?) Like in the opera, though, the statue moved and answered.
The beast of stone leapt upon my beloved.
Then upon my soul.
No wonder it’s gone from its pedestal. Over the past twenty-five years, that monster has run wild all over the world, shredding peace, destroying peoples, desecrating hearts. Hatred gone viral.
REGINA | 67