Looking for the mouse

By Fayza Hassan
My yoga teacher walks into the room as I watch television. He is a quiet and patient man, tolerant of people's weaknesses, and seems to have made peace with himself long ago. He observes the screen for a few minutes, while I place a Bach CD in the player. "Aren't they ashamed?" he wonders aloud. "The most powerful people in the world in their sophisticated flying machines, unable to catch one mediaeval barefoot warrior on his horse. It reminds me of the man who brought a cannon into his house to shoot an annoying fly! I doubt they will ever catch him," he adds pensively. "They cannot begin to understand the way he thinks."
He is referring to Bin Laden, of course, whom many Egyptians see as having vindicated their feelings of powerlessness and humiliation by Israel and the US, and proven once and for all that one does not need a formidable army to inflict grave damage on the mightiest country in the world.
As I concentrate on breathing in and breathing out, his words linger in my consciousness. Without wanting to make light of the World Trade Center disaster, most Egyptians have begun to see the devastation wrought in its aftermath as out of all proportion. Ironically, although all the people I know are staunchly against the Taliban and what they represent, I hear Muslims and Christians alike expressing sympathy for the plight of the Afghans every day. How different is Bush from Sharon? they ask. Both strike the poor, the weak and the dispossessed, and use tanks, planes and bombs against old guns and slingshots. Both direct their rage against women, old men and children, and call terrorist anyone who dares to stand up to them.
Extending my leg ceilingward, I tell my instructor: "They are planning to carry on their vengeance and attack Iraq, Libya, Sudan and Syria once they finish with Afghanistan." He smiles soothingly. "Let them extricate themselves from the mess they have created for themselves, and then we will talk." A few minutes later, he adds: "Why don't they send their well-fed ground troops out against the starving Taliban? Surely a strong, affluent young American, filled with good food since his birth, is worth several of these famished beggars? In fact, the Americans are running scared, and this is why they need the cooperation of the whole world and this appalling arsenal to support them."
I have just noticed that while he speaks he forgets to tell me to relax and breathe normally. I am therefore forced to keep the pose while he finishes his diatribe. I don't enjoy it one little bit. I therefore decide not to answer. My passion for exercise is very moderate and if we are going to engage in a political discussion, I must have a cup of coffee and a cigarette. As I try to concentrate on a particularly painful posture, however, I suddenly burst out laughing and fall backwards. Fortunately, nothing moves my instructor much. He just asks me to lie back and breathe deeply three times. I do as I am told, but have great difficulty not giggling again, as I contemplate in my mind's eye a scene from the past.
One night, a friend of ours was alone at home with her young son. She had always felt very comfortable in the large apartment when her husband was away, but on that night in particular she became alarmed by a suspicious noise coming from the kitchen. She called her son and they discussed the matter. He suggested that she close the kitchen door and forget about it until morning, but she argued that she would never be able to go to sleep. Finally, they decided to investigate the origin of the sound. When the light went on in the kitchen, they could observe a tiny mouse inspecting the pots and pans and dirty dishes left in the sink. The mother squealed. She was terrified of mice. The son was not much happier at the sight of the little creature. In the absence of his father, he was the only man in family, however, and therefore felt compelled to defend the fiefdom. The only acceptable course was to go to battle. He ran to his room and came back dressed in his fencing suit, complete with mask and sword. He dashed right and left, making exaggerated motions with his weapon. He opened the pantry and kicked at the collection of brooms. He swiped at cups and saucers and broke an impressive number of plates and glasses, all the while uttering fearful war cries. For a time, the kitchen was turned into a regular battlefield. The boy had forgotten his original aim and was revelling in the violence for its own sake. When his mother screamed and began to jump up and down, he was brutally brought back to earth. The mouse, apparently terrified by the din, had sought refuge up the poor woman's leg and inside her skirt. It was hanging in there for dear life. Abandoning the garment to its unwelcome visitor, mother and son run out of the kitchen, locking the door behind them. Tomorrow, 'Amm Abduh would get the mouse and clean up the mess, they told each other. From what I remember, the mouse was never caught.
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