Om Ahmed (Ahmed's Mother) part 1

Childhood memories of Egypt. Child Labor issues.

“Mama, you didn’t tell the police? Maybe she needed help psychologically or therapy or something.”
“Therapy? No. We just sent her back to her village.”
“But Mama, it was the equivalence of slavery. Didn’t you feel bad?”
She replied quickly like the answer was programmed in her being. “Hanan, it wasn’t slavery. They were paid.”
“But, did you give the child the pay or did it go directly to their parents?”
“We sent it to her parents, but I’m sure by improving her family’s life, it also improved her life. You have no idea how poor some of those people are. If they didn’t send their kids to work, they would have nothing. The children know that. They know that’s what has to be done.”
“Where was she from?”
“From Sophia.”
“Wait, her parents were from the same village that you’re from?”
“Yes”
“Wasn’t that humiliating to her family knowing that their daughter was working as a servant to a neighbor?”
“No, not at all. They appreciated that we gave her work and that she would be living with people her family knew.”
I became persistent and stubborn as I usually do when it comes to proving my point. “But their lives were stolen right from under their feet. They had the right to play and go to school and just be kids and It was all taken away from them. I don’t care what you say. It’s slavery. Indentured slavery!”
Mama never replied. Partly because she knew I was right. Partly because she knew it was no use arguing with me.

I imagine she didn’t know the exact name of the compound that could cause injury and eventual death but she did know that something in the rat poison would do the trick. She was sure of this because she was smart enough to understand what the skull on the box meant. The rest was scribble since she couldn’t differentiate one letter from the next. She knew they formed words and how nice it would have been to be able to read and understand those words. That path was not for her or for anyone in her family, especially not a girl. The pretty scribble was for a lucky group of people that she would never be part of.
Om Ahmed was born in small village on the outskirts of Cairo. Her family didn’t own land and they didn’t have a trade. They survived by being farm hands and on the generosity of those around them. It was charity but not what we know of as charity. When a villager helps out another villager it’s like family helping family and it’s kept quite. If you give to a family in need, you don’t tell a soul or else your good deed will go in vain. That’s what the Koran taught us; it’s meant to preserve the dignity of the family receiving the charity. As her mother had more children the poverty grew and no amount of money her father earned was enough to care for them. So her parents did what many did. They sent their kids to work. Often these young boys and girls would leave their towns to go work for the middle and upper class city dwellers. The money the children earned would be used to cloth and feed those still at home.
Om Ahmed had been working as a servant in different homes since she was ten years old. She was twelve now. I’ve seen many like her during my visits to Egypt and although it has been a few years since my last visit, I’m sure there are many more like her still there. I couldn’t understand why they named her Om Ahmed. It means mother of Ahmed and I know this was common for a mother who for example really did have a son named Ahmed. I remember hearing certain people in Cairo calling my mom Om Hanan so I’m used to it that is if it’s a mother with a child of that name. Mama said she didn’t know why they did that either because she was a little girl who had no children but she said some villagers did name their children Om this or Om that. One famous example is a singer named Om Kalsoum. She never had any children but her name is mother of Kalsoum.