Sweet Endings

Sitting on the shabby red and blue carpet on the kitchen floor, Sabah Mahmoud watched as her five older sisters and mother mixed one kilo of sugar, four lemons and a half cup of water in a pot on the stove to make a honey-like dessert. Little did she know that the sticky concoction would one day make her a well-known name in the coastal city of Alexandria. Growing up in a small, one-bedroom house with five sisters and two brothers in Karmouz, Sabah had no choice but to make the most of what she had. Forced to sleep on the floor and never enjoying the luxury of a warm bath, Sabah had dreams of becoming a doctor. But she had to give up her dream and her education when her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. On Sabah’s eighth birthday, her mother passed away, leaving her nothing but that sticky recipe. With her older sisters all married, Sabah was left in charge of her two younger brothers and her father, who suffers a heart condition. “At that point, I knew I had to throw away my dreams of wearing a white lab coat,” says Sabah with a serious expression, “and instead take to the streets to find whatever job I could, to sustain my family.” For an eight-year-old veiled girl with no basic education, opportunities were very limited. “I tried working as a maid for our neighbor but I was treated very badly, so I quit,” explains Sabah not wanting to go into details. It seemed to Sabah that she would never get a job as she watched her father grow sicker and her brothers sleep hungry at night. It was then that she heard a new hair salon was opening and was looking for workers. Sabah barely knew how to brush her own hair, but she was eager to learn and do whatever she could to earn money. Walking into the Fam hair salon, she was mesmerized by what she saw. “I saw people smiling, I heard laughter, people were actually happy,” recalls Sabah with a wide smile. A Greek couple, whom she only knew as Mr. and Mrs. Taky, owned Fam hair salon in the Salah Salem neighborhood. “I remember running into the store begging them to give me any job,” explains Sabah, her face showing the excitement of that day. “And with the friendliest smile on his face, Mr. Taky said it would be okay. I was ecstatic.” She loved the foreigners and treated them like her family. She worked day and night cleaning and scrubbing the floors. “Even though I was not educated — and that is still something that bothers me to this day — the Greeks were so nice to me that I actually felt part of them,” Sabah says. “I felt educated.” About a month after Sabah started working with the Greeks, it was Mr. Taky’s birthday. Still with no substantial money, the girl decided to pull out the sugar and lemon recipe and make the Greek family her mom’s special dessert. She began by cutting four lemons in half and putting them in a rounded silver pot. With no proper measuring cup, Sabah poured what she assumed to be one kilo of sugar into the same pot. Adding a half cup of water, she was now ready to put the mixture on the stove. She watched as the sugar began to dissolve and the lemons slowly come apart in the boiling liquid. After a few minutes, when bubbles started forming on top of the mixture, she took a metal spoon and slowly stirred the sticky mixture. When it took a golden brown color, it was time to turn the heat off. Covering her hands in a towel, Sabah poured the mixture from the pot onto a flat plate, but a small amount fell on her hand and arm. Loud cries and the sounds of stomping feet filled the kitchen as the eight-year-old screamed for her father, “Help! My hand is burning.” By the time her father came in, though, Sabah’s hand had cooled down and she had begun cleaning up the mess on the floor. There was still some mixture on her arm, so closing her eyes tightly, she pulled the sticky honey-like substance off her arm and discovered something that would end her days as a the salon janitor. “Babaaa!” she screamed again, at the top of her lungs, but this time it wasn’t for help; this time it was to show her father her new idea. It was then that she realized her mother’s recipe was the same one for halawa (literally “sweet”), a traditional hair-removal technique. “I remember running into work the next day with the biggest smile on my face, yelling to Mr. Taky about my mom’s recipe,” she recalls. Sabah used her recipe on Mrs. Taky’s arm and then started to do the same for customers. People started coming to the salon just for Sabah, and with her friendly smile and loud laughter, people grew to love her. Fourteen years later, Mr. Taky informed her that he was shutting down the salon and moving back to Greece because he wanted his children to go to university there. Her brown eyes tearing even now, Sabah recalls that day 20 years ago. “I cried so much, maybe even as much as when my own mother died. It wasn’t because I was going to lose my job, it was simply because I would never see my Greek family again.” Not wanting to go home and not knowing what to do, she watched as they packed up the store and left. “I remained in the house for a month, unable to understand what had happened,” she explains. “I hated life for giving me something so great and then taking it away.” Soon after, a salon regular knocked on her door and asked for a halawa wax. Asking to come in, the customer told her that many customers really wanted her and that even though the store shut down, they would be willing to have Sabah come over. “I was so happy! I knew I had loyal customers,” Sabah says, adjusting her black veil. “You know that lady that came to my door step, I now wax for her grandchildren.” Today, while some women don’t leave their house without making sure their phone and wallet are in their handbag, Sabah Mahmoud does not leave her house without her silver pot of halawa. Thanks to her loyal customers, Sabah was able to sustain herself and her family. Now 45, she is married with two children of her own and remains in the waxing business. Lemons and sugar have given her a profession, and now she has a new goal. With a loud laugh her customers have come to know well, Sabah notes, “I hope one day, I can get a motorcycle so that I can easily go from one customer to another.”  Hanna Al Amrawi, a student in the Rhet 341 Travel Writing Class at the American University in Cairo, was one of three winners of an Egypt Today student writing contest in May.