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group of people nor part of a passive audience.
    The news becomes just one big lie of omission. I felt like I too was living a lie of omission. That I was faced with the option of teasing those omitted details out into the open, or pushing them back down, beneath the ground I walk on.
    I decided to tease them out of my father. So began a long dragged out conversation to come to the issue. Getting straight to the point is not much appreciated in Arab culture. So I began with asking him what the weather was like. It was an important question because it was my first reference to the outside world that entire evening. He just nodded. ‘The usual,’ he said. So I continued. ‘Where did you go? … Who did you see?’ Until eventually my father looked up. ‘People are talking about it but every one is usual … normal. Everyone is happy, smiling he said, addressing the issue directly.’
    We all relaxed a little at that moment. Partly because the news was reassuring, but also because my father too relaxed. He no longer had to carry the weight of thinking in detail about ensuring his family’s safety.
    ‘I think tomorrow we should visit your uncle,’ he said, almost in a chirpy mood.
    We all smiled. We were going to see Uncle Ali in Zamalek.

VII
A family reconnaissance
    The following morning, after a leisurely breakfast, we all showered, dressed and got into the family car. The next hour was total chaos. The noise of the traffic was insane. A consistent beep. There was just a persistent hum with sudden bangs to the side for the entire journey. Sometimes it was my mother beeping or my father stretching his hand from the passenger seat to partake in the conversation.
    The car horn in Cairo is not used only to alert people to danger. It is a language. The beep can mean: go; stop; come; hello; goodbye; watch-out; you donkey; amongst other things. It is a vocabulary and therefore a permanent presence on any car journey in Cairo.
    By the time we all got to my uncle’s we were frazzled. The airconditioning in the car meant we still looked decent. Make-up still in place, no sweat patches on the back. But, we did have to compose ourselves before stepping into their block.
    Uncle Ali is so different to my father. Though brothers, their personalities are wide apart. They are both doctors and in that respect have a lot in common. But, if my father gets a joke, my uncle looks puzzled; if my uncle takes offence, my father is the last to notice. They do both have moustaches though.
    Regardless, everyone is happy to see each other and there are hugs and kisses at the door. By getting there early we can spend the entire day with them, leaving just after dinner. A long dragged out visit with time for a host of conversations.
    It makes me laugh how my father always calls the household Uncle Ali’s. It is also Aunt Nora’s.
    As soon as the hellos and kissing are done my mother and father switch what we usually hear them call each other. They go from ‘your mother’, ‘your father’ to ‘your brother’, ‘your sister’.
    My father started, ‘Nora, your sister here, she almost killed us on the road,’ pointing to my mother. Aunt Nora laughed, because my mother is actually her sister. She continued the joke, turning to her husband and saying, ‘Tell your brother he says that every time,’ now pointing to my father. My uncle then turns to my mother, passing on the banter like a sprinter in a relay, ‘Tell your sister …’
    They could go round and round like this forever it seemed to me. This family ritual of theirs was so old to me now. It bored me to tears and as a younger grumpier teenager I often prayed they would try to be original for once when they saw each other. I remember standing in their corridor once screaming at them, ‘We get it, get over it.’ They all looked at me as though I had finally lost my teenage mind, as expected.
    But having a paternal uncle and a maternal aunt married to each other has its advantages.