In the early 1980s I became enchanted by anything Egyptology: The statues, the jewelry, the pictures and narratives that appear in my coffee table books, and fictional novels. It was over a decade later, when a dream to visit Egypt came true. In 1998 I enrolled in Teen Summit 1000, a tax-exempt organization in Philadelphia. Its mission was to educate African American youngsters—age 14 through 18—and enrich them about their culture and heritage.
The organization also sought adults for the program—Group Leaders—to mentor the children (Students). I enrolled as a group leader and along with the students, once a month we gathered in Philadelphia to participate in the curriculum which included Black History, fund raising, tours, lectures, and personal empowerment. At the end of this two-year program, if all requirements were met, Students and Group Leaders qualified for a 10-day round trip to Egypt.
Last week, I pulled from my bookshelf, the journal of my Egypt sojourn filled with memories of the eight-day itinerary. Pasted on different pages were my airline ticket, passes to the Valley of the Kings tombs, the Cairo Museum, and meal ticket souvenirs; I looked at my photo album with the dozens of pictures I’d taken. These were site visits I wall always cherish:
After I descended to the bottom of the Giza Pyramid, I sat in silence on the catafalque where once a Pharoah’s tomb had been placed thousands of years ago.
In the Cairo Museum where statues of people rose twenty or more feet toward the ceiling, voices of other tourists echoed off the walls. I was astounded by and wondered how hundreds of miniature beetles, fashioned in turquoise or onyx, each to the exact size, lined in precision for us to admire.
There were the crowded streets of Cairo, the incessant honking of horns, the strumming of lutes drifting from small shops, the aroma of perfumes that overwhelmed my senses when I walked into those shops, and the heavy odor of history saturated the air in this ancient land.
On the 8th day, and the final evening of this Sojourn, I chose to delay sleep in my bed and wandered onto the terrace of our hotel where tables with rattan chairs beckoned me to sit. Beyond the terrace, it was dark except for a spattering of lamps still lit inside houses. Immediately I was drawn to a table with a chair near the edge of the terrace. Within minutes a gray cat—a stray—slipped onto my lap. For an hour, the cat’s motor purred, and I returned its joy by nuzzling its fur.
Cats were sacred to the Egyptians. They were the protectors which kept away the rodents and scorpions in homes, and protected crops from birds. Cats are painted on tomb walls, with their heads on images of deities that represented justice, fertility, or power. Mummified cats found in the tombs, were the companions for their masters or mistresses, guaranteeing safe passage to the afterlife.
I am a lover of cats. Growing up, cats were a part of our family’s household; and when they died, they were buried in our gardens, to rest among the backyard flowers and hedges.
Here on this Egyptian terrace, in a strange land, a stray cat had slept on my lap until unexpectedly, the Islam Call for Prayer filtered through the silence. As magically as it had chosen to appear, on my last night in Egypt, the cat slipped away in the darkness.
The Bucks Underground Railroad 