As the number of single mothers continues to rise, Serene Assir listens to accounts of tragedy, hope and heroism Egyptian tradition is such that few things are worse than being a single woman -- except, perhaps, being a single mother. And though cases of unmarried women single-handedly raising children remain rare in Egypt, those of divorced or widowed women bearing the economic, social and emotional brunt of parenthood are countless. Many take on the role of both parents while the father moves in with a second wife, serves a prison sentence, works abroad or completes up to three years of military draft. "Problems are particularly acute in the case of women raising children in economically depressed areas," Mona Shadi, programme coordinator for the Association for the Development and Enhancement of Women (ADEW) told Al-Ahram Weekly. "The women we reach out to often lack all the basic guarantees to which the state entitles them. Many cannot read or write, many others lack identity cards since they are registered under the name of their former husbands, and thus they have no access at all to the authorities -- never mind the ability to seek help." "This world is a dirty place," 23-year-old Ashraqat, mother of Shurouq, says with a mixture of fervour and despair. Ashraqat discovered she was pregnant one month after signing her divorce papers, following a brief but abusive stint of wedlock, during which her husband took advantage of her economically even as he forced social restrictions on her. Now, she lives in Cairo, having left her native village of Bilbis in the Sharqiya district, but earns her living as a belly dancer in Hurghada nightclubs, where she can work without the necessary documentation. "I remember when he used to promise me we would make our dreams come true," she told the Weekly. "Now I know the truth." (While we have this conversation in a traditional coffee house, the owner shakes his head at me disapprovingly, walking by; later he tells me off for sitting with someone so "low"). Ashraqat went to school up to the age of 14, and was dancing professionally by 15. The man she loved came from a better-off family, so when she was married she imagined she would no longer have to dance (or otherwise employ her body) to make a living. "But my husband would bring clients into the house, then take the money afterwards. I had everything I could possibly want, I even had a really nice mobile phone, but he took control of my life and made me do things I didn't want to do. "By the time I discovered I was pregnant it was too late. When I told my mother, she beat me -- she'd been against the marriage since the beginning. But she was to forgive me later on, and now she helps me. My father, well -- he treats me and my daughter like strangers. That's okay. I don't need anyone, I can manage without. Now you ask me whether I'd do it all over again? No. I'd marry the person my parents choose, someone with money. It wouldn't matter whether I loved him or not. This is no life..." This bitterness, the sense of being excluded, Shadi explains, tend to be incorporated into the way single mothers bring up their daughters -- an added problem. As if to confirm this, Ashraqat explains that "what I teach my daughter is this: If someone picks on you, hit him. You can never be strong enough." ADEW seeks to address this issue by holding programmes for children as well as mothers, Shadi goes on to point out: "We frequently succeed, but just as frequently we fail." Ashraqat's experience, though an extreme example, remains broadly relevant. "As a divorcée," she explains, "I am desired by many men, because they know that I am not a virgin, and as a result they think I'm an easy target. But everything I do," she pleads, "I swear, though I know dancing is sinful -- I do it for Shurouq, so that when she grows up she has all the things that I didn't have. I love her..." Such an attitude of self-sacrifice is seen across the board. It may be innate in all mothers, but it stands out with particular force in those who undergo the most painful trials. "When the children's father passed away," Um Sherif, 67, tells the Weekly, "my life was already difficult enough. God, I had 14 children to take care of!" Eight were hers, the rest her husband's -- by his first wife. "The youngest was just two years old. Now," she says, "they all have homes of their own, and they are all happy." Um Sherif lives in a semi-agricultural area deep within one of Cairo's poorer districts. She can neither read nor write, but three of her sons are electronic engineers in the Gulf, and two work in respectable businesses in Cairo. Hers is an impressive case: She fought against all odds to raise her children, and she managed extraordinarily well. A strong woman, she is proud of her achievements. "I never accepted help from anyone. I knew that if my children were to be happy, I would have to do it all by myself. I thought of remarrying, but when I saw how prospective husbands would seek to interfere in the upbringing of my children, I decided against it." But according to social perceptions, it is a misfortune for a woman to remain unmarried. "Yes dear," Um Sherif says, defiantly, "but if you listen to what people say, you'll find it impossible to breathe. I learned this very early on in life. People love to interfere, but in order to survive you must do what you feel is right." That said, social prejudice cannot be ignored as a negative factor in the lives of single mothers. "My sister is a teacher," Mervat told the Weekly, "and has always been well-to-do. She divorced her husband following an unhappy marriage, and brought up her son and daughter comfortably, without experiencing pressure from anyone. It was her son who turned against her in the end -- once he married, he started despising her, cursing the fact that she chose to live independently." Yet the principal problem seems to stem from an area beyond the social, strictly speaking. A woman raising children on her own is a woman without support in Egypt, and though this is increasingly acceptable at the social level -- women gain in respect, particularly, as they grow older -- bureaucratic issues stand in the way of true emancipation. Tasks as banal as renting a flat become a problem because business deals are usually made with men. Registering a child under the mother's name remains legally impossible. "And now," Ashraqat says, about to set out for Hurghada, "I've got to make sure I'm ready for the big lie: When the policeman wakes me up while we're on the bus to ask for my ID, I'm just going to have to pretend I'm too exhausted to fetch it. And as I'm not wearing any makeup, he'll hopefully be taken in by the innocence of my expression. Let's just pray he'll leave me alone." Shurouq looks beautiful in the photographs Ashraqat shows me. To this day, without an ID card, the mother is fighting out the case for the custody of her child.
