My Christmas with the Copts

It was on Christmas Day last year that a telegram came to Cairo for a nurse to go as soon as possible, to take charge of a case of typhoid in a Coptic family at Assiout.

I was not altogether sorry that it fell to my lot to be the one to go, and the next morning, I was on my way to Cairo station to catch the 8 a.m. train for Assiout, feeling rather curious as to what might be before me.

Most of the way the railway lies quite near the Nile, and all the land is cultivated; but beyond this, on either side, one could see the yellow, sandy desert. Soon I had to close all the windows to keep out the dust, but, nevertheless by the time I reached my destination everything, including myself and portmanteau, was thickly covered with desert dust.

I was met at the station by a Coptic, gentleman, who drove me at once to the house of his uncle.

The house proved to be a large one – in fact, quite a mansion – and built in the native style.

I was taken up-stairs to a large landing-room, used as a dining-hall, and having all the doors of the numerous rooms opening into it. Here I was introduced to my patient’s father, and afterwards conducted to my bedroom. It was a large room with very little furniture besides the bed and mosquito-net, but handsomely upholstered and carpeted, having a window opening on to a little balcony overlooking a beautiful garden below, and with a picturesque view of the Nile and desert beyond.

My patient was a little boy – an only son – between two and three years of age. He was a pretty little curly-headed fellow, with the native brown complexion, and big brown wistful-looking eyes. I found him lying on a bed inside mosquito-curtains, and his mother with him, while sitting on the floor were several other women, dressed in native black costume, with shawls over their heads. I discovered afterwards that these Coptic ladies – about seven in all – were relatives, and had come to take up their abode in the house for as long as the child was ill.

The first few nights seemed very strange and curious, for these ladies would lie down anywhere to sleep; simply wrapping themselves up in thick wadded quilts, without removing any of their clothing. They would lie down at my feet, or anywhere about the rooms or landing, and often I could scarcely avoid treading on one or two. They would sleep and snore peacefully enough till perhaps the little patient cried, and then they would all come trooping in, talking very loudly, and, from what I could gather, would ask each other what the nurse could have given the child to make it cry so. The mother would yell at me, shaking her fist, and refuse to let me come near the bed, till, in despair, I had to go and call up the father to restore order and make way for me to carry out the doctor’s directions. Then when the child slept again, things would settle down as before.

It was curious to find how the mother dreaded having the little boy washed, and, in spite of all my efforts at coaxing, I could not succeed in persuading her to let me do it for two or three days. Nor would she have his clothes taken off; and he was always fully dressed in frock and petticoats night and day. At last I got the father to insist. After that I was able to get him washed and dressed every day, and he really looked a sweet little fellow with a clean face and his pretty brown culls combed out, but most wofully thin and wasted.

Knowing only a little Arabic, it was often difficult for me to make myself understood; but after a week or so we got more used to each other, and the ladies began to trust me, and proved quite friendly when they found I was as anxious for our little patient to get better as they were themselves.

They kept me constantly amused and interested with their queer ways.

Leading out of the landing loom was a small kitchen with a charcoal stove, where the Arab servants made coffee for the ladies. This loom had two windows in it, and through these all rubbish of every description was thrown and allowed to accumulate in great heaps below. It was in this kitchen that the ladies took their meals, and it amused me to go in just when they were having “ashur,” or supper. There they would be, sitting on the dusty floor in a little circle, with a tray in the centre containing dishes of various cooked foods, such as dressed tomatoes, greens of various kinds, stewed mutton with strongly flavoured gravy, and generally cheese made from goat’s milk; then each would have a flat native bread-cake and break off pieces to dip into either one of the dishes before eating it.

After supper one or two of the elder ladies would produce long pipes and sit placidly on the floor smoking them. One day a cat appeared, and I happened to call, “Puss, puss, puss!” when, to my surprise, everyone began to laugh uproariously. It seemed to sound so odd to them; and after that I would often call “Puss! ” just to amuse them. It was very difficult to get any of my clothing washed, and when I did venture to try and get a few aprons done, I found the kitchen boy with an enormous box-iron full of hot coals ironing my aprons, minus any starch, on the dining-table. It is needless to say that they were as limp as a rag when done, and only fairly clean.

It was a great joy and relief to us all when our little patient began steadily to improve from day to day. I like to remember the day when he was allowed a poached egg for the first time. No one was to poach it but myself, and the father stood watching me all the time. Then when we took it to the little fellow, in a saucer, it was really pathetic to see the women all round the bed, so eagerly watching every mouthful he took, and the doctor sitting close by, quite as interested as anyone else.

Christmas is kept by the Coptic Church on January 6th, and these good people entertained many friends in the rooms down-stairs on that day. In the evening I had brought to me a cup of “gerfah,” their Christmas drink. It was made of cinnamon boiled in water, sweetened with a good deal of sugar, and afterwards had dried nuts grated into it, forming rather a pleasant drink.

January 11th saw me on my way back to Cairo, feeling most thankful that my patient was doing well, and, on meeting his uncle a month or two later, I heard that he had made a good recovery and was quite himself again.

by Dora H. Cunnington
From The Quiver Magazine, published in 1897