Hag Mustafa had honey-colored eyes and milk-white teeth. He was a jovial man, invariably dressed in a 1980s safari suit. He gave me the honorary title of doktora. I descended the steep staircase into his shop, a cavern piled with books.... As usual, he offered me a cup of dense Turkish coffee. His delight was apparent as he sifted through the stacks on his desk for my prize. Finally, he seized a stained and weathered cardboard book...
"What would the children enjoy more?" asked my mother on our daily morning call.
".... Make fatta."
"Fine. I will tell Beshir to make molokhiya. Children should eat greens." Our conversations always followed this pattern: she asked for my opinion, I gave it, and she did what she wanted. "I had something else to ask you. Why are you still with him? Did your father and I raise you to eat shit and then stay for the second helping?"
A string of businesses lines the street: Nouby, the antiques dealer; Cilantro, the coffee shop; Thomas Pizza; the Bank of Alexandria; and a windowed corner store, Diwan-the bookstore that my sister, Hind, and I founded in March 2002. In the years after, Hind and I opened sixteen locations (and closed six) across Egypt, but each one of our stores emulates the look and feel of this one, our flagship, our firstborn.
pickThis memoir from one of the founding owners of Diwan - a bookstore chain in Egypt - tells the story of the store & story of Egypt. From censorship, to managing daily life as a female business owner, to class issues & political turmoil the author uses books to tell her story. I learnt lots, and loved her honesty. It‘s written 6 years after leaving the bookstore and at times that distance gives a feeling of detachment and history to her story.
Chronicles of a Cairo Bookseller | 
