Friday Mornings in Cairo

When you come from the West

And you think of Islam

You perhaps think about wars, and ladies covering their faces, and a strange language, 

But I am from the West, 

And I live in the East, 

And when I think about Islam, 

I think about Friday mornings in Cairo. 

And how, for a few hours before midday, the city is finally, fleetingly still-

sleeping bodies still in their houses, dogs still laying, nothing rouses.

And how, since yesterday's sunset and yesterday's Mahgrib, that Lady Cairo has quietened; shhhh, she says: shhh, calm down, it is nearly Friday.

Friday mornings are sacred here.

We sleep in, soundly resting knowing that no-one and nothing else is awake either. 

Supermarkets are empty, streets are solemnly sleeping. 

And so we- the outlanders- acquiesce; absorbing the quiet that has fallen like a blanket of fog over an otherwise boisterous metropolis. We sit, and we listen to the silence, and respect the muting of activity that Friday mornings demand of the society we exist in. 

At midday, the Azaan calls: and the city springs to life again- adhering to their duties, honouring their callings, celebrating their civilisation. 

And we know it will be noisy again- 

Until Friday, before midday, when Cairo sleeps in.