Politically Homeless

“Your place is in the kitchen,” Father thundered, his green eyes bulging out of their sockets. “You don’t need more education. You had more than enough already for a girl.” That phrase, “for a girl,” always seared my soul. It limited my opportunities ad infinitum, whether for higher education, going to the movies, attending cultural events or just belonging to a club. Those activities were reserved for boys. I was the extra hand at home, Stepmother’s helper, if not replacement. I’d become a spinster for life if a suitor didn’t ask for my hand soon. In the 1950’s that was the cultural pattern in Cairo for Armenian girls who were lucky enough to complete high school. “You can’t feed a husband with books, you’re a woman!” Stepmother echoed, “You’re destined to keep house!” as if I wasn’t doing it already. Housekeeping is not rocket science for heaven’s sake! How long does it take to tidy up a place, or fold grape leaves over seasoned ground meat to make sarma? When was the last time a housekeeper won a Nobel Prize? I looked at my parents with glassy eyes, pursed lips and a poker face, an acquired habit developed at the Immaculate Conception English High School in Cairo I had just graduated from. The Irish nuns had helped me gain self-confidence. Otherwise I would have lost my temper and hollered back to my parents, an unforgivable sin. Father accused them of “raping my mind.” He didn’t suspect that they saved my life, by channeling suicidal thoughts towards hope and patience. Sister Mary Visitation taught us a phrase that remained etched on my brains: “I can and I will.” There and then I made up my mind. “I will challenge that destiny. You can’t stop me! Without that promise to myself I would have burst from the anger piled up in me. School, my only escape, was over now and I felt like a caged bird. “I told you several times. You never listen to me. Quit reading those stupid books!” Father drilled, “They’re useless when you’re hungry! Learn to sew. Start learning a trade, otherwise you’ll starve! Of what use is your high school education now? Tell me!” Five years ago my high school education had been threatened the same way. Had it not been for my older brother Kev’s sneaky intervention reporting to Aunt Esther about my staying at home, I would not have had the opportunity to attend secondary school. Aunt Esther kept an eye on us. She had intervened on my behalf while Uncle Avedis, Mama’s brother was alive then giving more weight to her authority. It was different now. Survival had been the preoccupation of my parents’ generation. Father’s family and townspeople had fled south from their birthplace overnight, when they learned that the French would withdraw from Asia Minor per the terms of the 1920 Armistice, leaving behind the lands they had conquered and the promises they had made. The deportations and massacres of Armenians, Assyrians and Greeks, long-term natives of Asia Minor, would inevitably follow to cleanse the Ottoman Empire from infidels, as had happened in other cities already. Father had witnessed the emaciated shadows of human beings marching through his town to their death in the Syrian deserts. Even history recognized these victims, categorizing them as “the starving Armenians,” adding insult to injury. Some of them managed to sail to Egypt where a refugee camp had been established for escapees. Egypt, then a Protectorate of the British, had been hospitable to these impoverished remnants of a proud nation that wanted to keep its identity intact. The local Egyptian-Armenian communities had extended a helping hand to their displaced compatriots, to facilitate their absorption into the Armenian circles. Charitable organizations and benevolent patrons had financed the education of children whose parents could not afford the tuition fees in Armenian schools. Father was a proud man. He would never accept help from anybody, but education was expensive, so it had better not be “wasted” on a girl destined to stay at home for child rearing. The boys, Kev and Burt, deserved it better. They were a source of pride, the prospective successors to the family throne and its eventual finance managers. Times were changing though. Working outside the home had become acceptable for girls during and after World War II. The British Army offered employment and fair salaries to women, but in the 1950’s the British were gradually pulling out. Although we never suffered starvation, father humbly picked up the last precious crumbs of bread from the table as if they were particles of Holy Communion. His fear of hunger never subsided. World War II had revived the apprehensions of the Immigrant Armenian community that had barely found its footing. "What will happen to us now?” was the general concern. Mother was a woman ahead of her time: well educated, insightful, intelligent, and versatile. Unfortunately she died in 1941, two years into World War II, but not before passing on her reading addiction to us, if it had not passed on through her genes already. She probably turned over in her grave hearing the verdict about my future course. Stepmother did not measure up to mother’s emancipated ideas. She was very proud of her primary school certificate. She could not see beyond the tip of her nose. She was against my continuing education. I could see more housework being piled on my shoulders. “You’re somebody else’s property,” she always reminded me, bemoaning her own situation unabashedly. Marriage would take me away from home and “all that money” bestowed on me would be lost, or it would benefit another family. It wouldn’t even count as dowry! Father’s disinterest in education had solid foundations. He had made it in life, with diligence and tenacity. “When you work hard you succeed,” was his motto. During his teenage years survival had taken priority over education. He could not understand my obsession with books that yielded no visible benefits. He considered reading a waste of time. Actually, most men in his time frame considered it a disadvantage to have an educated wife.