The Lunatic has taken over the Asylum.rambling thoughts: New one added

When War Touches Friendship (A conflict 3,550 kilometers away strikes fear in the heart of one citizen reporter)

I first met Ranwa at Oxford at a conference organized by the English-Speaking Union. The ESU is an international charity formed in 1918, aimed at forging international friendships through the use of the English language. It was a week-long conference, attracting participants from all over world and was held at Magdalen College, one of the colleges of Oxford University.

The lecture theatre was full that morning. There was a respectful silence as the first speaker began the session. I actually surmised that the silence could have been caused by the miasma of Monday morning blues. None was so inflicted with that malaise than yours truly. I wasn't feeling too bright and bushy-tailed but somehow managed to conjure up some interest as I listened to the speaker. 

Then the door opened with a creak and about 20 pairs of eyes, some censuring, some curious and some indifferent, turned to see who it was that dared to come in late for the first seminar on the first day of the conference. There stood this girl, smiling sheepishly, an apology in itself. The thing that struck me about her was her luminous beauty. She had masses of black curly hair, cheeks that dimpled when she smiled and large doe-like eyes. She was looking for a place to sit, and I waved her to come and sit next to me. She smiled at me, obviously embarrassed that she had disrupted a seminar. I was blissfully oblivious to rules then as I am now, so I smiled back and shrugged my shoulders to show that it did not matter and made space for her on the bench. It was a beginning of a wonderful friendship.

Ranwa and I stuck together like limpets and rocks. We clicked just like women can, without experiencing the frissons of jealousy or cattiness only women can. 

During the day both of us attended the conference sessions. We heard, we spoke, we discussed, we debated. We met people from Mauritius, Japan, U.K., Bulgaria, Kenya, the U.S., India, Pakistan, Morocco, the Soviet Union, Korea, Taiwan and other countries. The exchange of ideas from people all over the world was stimulating and enjoyable. 

When we were not attending seminars or lectures, we toured Oxford, that wonderful old city with so much history. Going for boat rides, browsing the bookshops, visiting the world-famous Bodleian library. Of course we did not forget that essentially girly activity that has universal appeal, shopping. 

Come every night we'd go out, checking the place out, dancing, having a few drinks and then spending the night chatting away until the wee hours of the morning. Then we'd meet again for seminars. Ranwa was never late after that Monday morning. The only thing was, she skipped breakfast so that she wouldn't be late anymore.

My friendship with Ranwa blossomed. We chatted as if we were old friends. We gossiped. We speculated. We moaned to each other. We shared confidences and discussed love lives, in my case, lack of it. In short, we did things millions of girlfriends all over the world did and still do. The difference here was that we were both from different religions, cultures, and races. 

We don't even share the same mother tongue. We were from two different parts of the world which the twain never thought of meeting. Yet here we were, as if we have known each other for ages. For the first time I understood what the concept of sisterhood meant.

It was difficult to be cynical and jaded when Ranwa was around. Her bubbly and effervescent personality made everything exciting, everyone a friend. One afternoon we were on our usual loitering exercise around Oxford. Suddenly she gripped my arm and said excitedly: "Look, look, that is a restaurant from my country!!" 

She had seen the flag of her country hanging out of the window. I thought good-naturedly: "Get a grip woman, you only left your country last week and you'll be home next. Anyone would think that you are homesick because you have been away for years."

I couldn't help but laugh and get carried away with her excitement as she dragged me up the steps to the restaurant. She popped in, spoke to the restaurant people in her language and arranged dinner for more than 20 of us. That night, all of us, without the watchful eyes of the conference organizers, ate delicious food from a country we had never been to, smoked the hubble-bubble and generally had a fantastic time. 

Ranwa then got all of us on the floor dancing to her traditional music which she got the restaurant owners to play. We all tried to do the dance like the natives. We huffed and puffed and our hips felt like a ton of lead as we tried to do the swirls. We were as nimble as a group of elephants stuck in mud. 

Then Ranwa took to the floor. She tied the shawl with hundreds on gold medallions hanging from it around her hips and started dancing. She swirled and swivelled, and boy, could she swivel. The tinkling sound the gold medallions made as she moved was plain music to our ears. 

The men in our group looked agape, their eyes widened in admiration, a few of them getting hot under the collar. We girls cheered but I did notice an envious look here and there. I was so proud of my friend. She had class, grace and style and I revelled in the sheer joy that she exuded as she executed a dance as old as time. It was brilliant to see a woman hold the attention of so many men. Even now, years later, I look back to that night as one of the most wonderful nights of my life.

When it was time to say goodbye, it was most difficult. Especially saying farewell to Ranwa. She made me promise that I'd visit her, and she promised me that she would take me to her favorite bar in her city, which was run by a man with lapsed Communist inclinations and whose walls had posters of Che Guevara. I was intrigued. It sounded like a place where Ernest Hemingway would have spent a month or two. 

Her description of the capital city she lived in conjured a magical place of bustling days and sultry nights. All the pre-conceptions I had of life in that part of the world were banished by the time Ranwa finished her narration.

We did keep in touch, though not as often as I would have liked to. But I knew that if I needed a haven and a friend, Ranwa would be there for me. I was absolutely delighted when Ranwa met her Dr. Right and they got married and settled in Egypt. 

"You have to come and visit me, habibti" (darling). She always called me that. 

As usual I said "I will, I will," but I didn't. I was determined however, that once my life was satisfactorily settled, I would visit Ranwa, Ali and her stepson in Cairo. 

I wanted to meet Ali. Anyone who'd make my friend happy was a hero in my eyes. She was looking forward to my visit, she said. She knew of bars and clubs that she would like to take me to. Ah, that girl knows me so well. She even promised to look out for a job for me. That was how close we had become.

I've been worried about Ranwa over the past few weeks. This morning I got an email from her. I replied and asked her whether she was still in Egypt. I got this chilling reply.

"Yes, but I am taking the first plane out, with my baby in me. My country is burning and the world is watching while my people are being butchered. I have become a radical. I have no choice. It is in self-defence."

Ranwa is Lebanese. That magical city she lived in was Beirut. I am even more worried for her now.