Next Year in Cairo

We'd been planning our trip for over a year: six first cousins, ranging in age from 50 to 70, who hadn't been together in one city (let alone one country or one continent) in at least forty years; a 93-year-old uncle who hadn't seen his nephews in more than twenty; second and third cousins -- children and grandchildren of the cousins -- who had never even met. For some of us, it would be the first trip back to the place of our birth since having left it more than fifty years ago. For others, it was a journey to the fabled place of origin, the ancient city about which we had all heard so much.

Along with my oldest cousin in the U.S., I was the informal organizer of what we had taken to calling our "family reunion," though it was much more than that and we all knew it. My brother called it a "reconciliation of sorts with the country that had made our parents unwelcome," and I shared his view. Overcoming my initial fears, I had already gone back numerous times, and I loved the place. The collective journey back to our homeland had been my idea, and I had worked to reassure everyone that we would all be safe and happy. As the date approached, we exchanged eager emails across the oceans . . . old photos were unearthed and shared, memories began to spill forth, anticipation ran high. An eleven-year-old in public school in London was excused from his exams so he might attend; a 65-year-old in California who rarely traveled because of a debilitating back injury decided he would come.

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