A Day in Cairo, Part V

It was right around two-thirty when Emad and I parted ways, he to his home, and me back toward the Citadel. The main gate would just be re-opening after midday prayer. My water supply was restocked, which was good because I was really starting to feel the heat. I hadn't put any sunscreen on my arms, and I was now starting to wonder if that was a huge mistake. I was wearing a wide-brim hat and jeans, so only my arms had been open to the sun all day. But now my exposed skin was hot to the touch and quite red in color. I was mystified because my arms don't typically sunburn very badly and only at the beginning of the summer; of course, it was now almost the end of July. But Egypt is much closer to the equator (and hence the sun) than America, and the sun's heat much more intense.

I was starting to get tired as well, not just because of the heat, but because I had been carrying my very heavy backpack all day long. I figured I had probably walked a few miles already, plus I hadn't gotten any quality sleep in over two days. I climbed the hill up to the Citadel the second time and began walking the direction Emad had earlier indicated was toward the main gate. I had no earthly idea how large the Citadel actually was. I estimate it was another mile to reach the gate. I was so hot and so tired. I stopped to rest along the way, sitting down in a shady spot under a tree.

I was sitting by a busy street alongside a small neighborhood nestled beneath the bulwarks of the Citadel. As I was resting, several children came by, saying little but making it very clear that they wanted things. Surprisingly, the first boy asked for a pen instead of money. I didn't give him one. This is an all-too-familiar scenario to anyone who has traveled in the developing world, but this time something happened that I didn't expect. A man walked by, saw him pestering me, and in a chiding manner told him to leave me alone. What a remarkable gesture of cultural self-respect, I thought.

A few minutes later, two girls approached me, probably nine or ten years old. I was taken aback by their forwardness, as they simply walked up and, with any word of greeting, simply held out their hands with an impatient look on their faces. Clearly, they were accustomed to being given things by rich-looking white foreigners. I offered a greeting only. They were unmoved.

"Pen," said the more outspoken of the two.

"I do not have," I said. Well, that wasn't technically true, I did have some in my backpack, but I didn't want to fish them out. [For those who are untraveled, there are many reasons why succumbing to these kind of requests is a bad idea. For one, it enables behavior in children like what I've just described, but as I intimated earlier, it also undermines their own sense of cultural self-respect.]

The same girl spoke again. "Money." It was almost a demand.

I repeated myself, "I do not have."

This was a flat out lie, and she knew it. She gave me this look of scornful incredulity that really cut me to the quick. I couldn't believe myself. I've been in this very same scenario in my life many, many times. It's not like I don't know what to do. There are literally dozens of ways to handle this kind of situation with cultural sensitivity without resorting to actual lying. I was ashamed. Realizing they weren't going to get anything from me, the two girls ran off. But as they did, the second girl took a swing at the bottle of water I was holding. She didn't knock it out of my hands, but she was trying to. "I deserved that," I thought to myself.

Moments like these are one reason why I love cross-cultural experiences so much. When we are uncomfortable, we tend to do things we don't normally do. We are less pretentious, more honest, and behave in ways that more closely portray what's really going on inside us. In this case, I was shocked by these children who seemed to have no shame and just felt too tired and self-important to actually deal with them. So I dismissed them out-of-hand by escaping from the truth, and I got caught. With one swift motion of a hand, a young Egyptian girl had preached a sermon more piercing than any I had heard in church that whole year.

After this episode, I stood up and continued walking. By the time I reached the main gate to the Citadel, I was utterly exhausted and starting to get light-headed from the heat, the physical exertion, and the lack of sleep. Besides, it was three o'clock already, and I only had one hour left before I had to return to the airport. The Citadel has stood for 800 years, I figured it would wait a few more until I can return again. So I drank the rest of my water and flagged down a taxi.


Two hours later, after changing clothes in a tiny restroom stall at the end of the airport terminal, I sat down to wait for my flight and opened my laptop computer. It had been quite a day, the cultural highlight of the entire summer, and I wanted to capture as much of it as I could while the memories -- the people, the conversations -- were still fresh. As I sat, typing furiously, I noticed a curious thing. My arms were NOT sunburned! I couldn't believe it. They had simply felt like it earlier in the day because that's how hot my skin was from the direct sunlight. Then it dawned on me -- this was why Egyptians had been telling me all day long that most tourists come in January!

What a day! I hope to have many more like it, both in this life and in the life to come.

I'm sure I will.

A Day in Cairo, Part IV

Here a mosque, there a mosque, everywhere a mosque-mosque … that’s what it was like for the next forty-five minutes. Al-Muayyad mosque, Saleh Talaea mosque, Ishaqi mosque, Al-Maridani masque – oh, what’s this? the Razaz Palace ... cool! – Al-Aqsunqur mosque, Khaier Bek mosque, the famous "Blue Mosque" – whoa, another palace! – then up the hill to the stone wall. I had finally reached the Citadel. I knew the majestic Muhammed ‘Ali mosque was towering above me on the other side, because I had seen the spires from the road. But from the street, all I could see was wall – fortified battlements stacked 30 feet on top on each other. Impressive. I wonder what it must have seemed like when it was built 800 years ago. I walked out to the main square of the intersection, and everywhere I turned, I saw more really old stuff. The day was now in full heat, and I was starting to get hungry. I stopped in the shade to rest, drink water that was now warm from being in my steel canteen, and snapped several photos. I set off again around the south side of the Citadel to find the gate.

I was walking up the ramp to what I thought was an entrance when an Egyptian man stopped me. He introduced himself as Emad.

“You can’t go in this way anymore, the gate has been sealed. You have to go around to the other side to get in. However, it is closed for prayer now and won’t reopen until 2:30.”

“That’s fine,” I said, “I am actually looking a place to eat.”

His face brightened. “I know a place that is clean and has good food. You must eat at a place that is clean so you don’t get an upset stomach. Follow me.”

Back we walked in the direction from which I had just come, then we turned off into the annals of the neighborhood. We stopped in a restaurant that was very clean, just as he said, and the restauranteur brought out a salad with tomatoes of leafy green, rice, and kafta (a dish of meat served on a bed of chopped parsley). At first I thought it was lamb, but no.

“It’s camel,” the cook said.

My impromptu tour guide announced that he was going to sit at another table and let me eat in peace, but I insisted that he stay and talk to me. I apologized that I wasn’t able to pay for his meal, but he assured me he had already eaten lunch and didn’t want anything.

Emad, married with two daughters, had been a policeman in a former life, but financial hardship had forced him to change careers. He went to school to study law and had recently passed his exams to become a criminal lawyer. From the best I could tell, he was working as a sort of intern. He said he wouldn’t be able to start actually practicing law until the following year. Over lunch, I pumped him for information on navigating the taxi system in Cairo. I was concerned that perhaps I had paid too much on my earlier ride, but he reassured me that the price I had paid was fair. However, the rules were different returning to the airport than departing from the airport. With great amusement, I listened as he gave me instructions on how to get back to the airport. One does not often get such candid cultural advice from a near-stranger.

“You will go out to the Bab Zuwaila [the South Gate] and call a taxi. Tell him you want to go to the airport, and ask him how much. He will say, ‘Eighty pounds.’ You will say, ‘Fifty.’ He will say, ‘Seventy.” You will say, ‘Fifty.’ He will say, ‘Fifty.’ Then you will go.” He nodded his head to emphasize the final point. I smiled in recognition and thanked him profusely.

After eating, I would have returned to tour the Citadel, but Emad insisted on showing me the mosque in his neighborhood. It was the Al-Maridani mosque, built in the 14th century, one of the buildings I had passed earlier and stopped to photograph. He wanted to take me to meet the imam and climb the minaret, which he claimed offered the finest view of the entire city of Cairo. He said that the money donated to the mosque for such a tour would go to helping orphan children in the neighborhood. I'm sure he was telling the truth about this, given what I had already seen while walking through. It was a very short walk from the restaurant, no more than five minutes.

We arrived at the mosque and went into the "office" to meet the imam, who was exceedingly kind. We exchanged pleasantries, and I explained that I did have very many Egyptian pounds left and that I needed them to get back to the airport. He gladly exchanged my American dollars, and I made two deposits in the donation box, one for the mosque tour and one to climb the minaret. Emad proved an excellent tour guide, although he spoke rather quickly and it was difficult to catch everything he said. The mosque was extremely simple and very old, yet beautiful. The only ornamental color of any consequence was in some stained glass up in the dome, which was still original according to Emad. The glass was arranged in some kind of geometrical pattern and an Arabic inscription, both of which I can't recall. Not stunning, but elegant ... in a nostalgic sort of way. Looking up, I really felt like I had been transported back in time hundreds of years.

The stairs of the minaret at Al-Maridani rank among the most memorable spiral staircases I have ever climbed in my life (right up there with the Statue of Liberty and the Bunker Hill Monument in Boston). These were old and uneven steps, having survived centuries of use. I couldn't help myself; I felt childishly giddy as I followed Emad around those stairs to the top of the minaret, fifty feet or so above the street. Emad hadn't lied about the view. It wasn't the highest perch in the city, but the location was well clear of any tall buildings or other spires. I could see the entire city laid out beneath my feet, from the Citadel all the way to the Tower of Cairo along the Nile River. I took a few photos, but none of them captured the moment with ample justice. I looked around for ten minutes or so, so my eyes could soak up as much as possible. I felt a strange combination of thrill and sadness as we climbed back down.

This was the end of Emad's tour, and I paid him well for it. I reflected on what breath-taking experiences would have been missed had I traveled with an agency or simply visited the traditional tourist destinations. Instead, it had turned out that the Egyptians themselves had shown me their own city, offering me the best of their hospitality and charm, and nothing disappointed.

A Day in Cairo, Part III

It was 10:30am when I finally went back up that alley I had walked down three hours earlier, and I pulled the map out of my pocket for the first time. It took me about 30 minutes of observing and few blocks of walking before I was finally able to pinpoint my location. As is typical of a major Muslim city, there were mosques and minarets everywhere. Except here in Islamic Cairo, every single mosque I saw looked as old as the Tower of London. I later learned that most were not quite that old, but many date back 500 years or more. I found a building that looked particularly interesting, asked the police outside if there was a fee (who promptly waved me in), and went inside. At this point I didn’t yet realize it was a mosque, so I received a “hissing at” (African way of getting someone’s attention) and was reminded to remove my shoes.

It turns out I had stumbled into the mosque named Al-Azhar, the oldest Sunni (thank you, Sam, for correcting me) mosque in the Islamic world and home of the first Qu’ranic university. It was built in 970. I was circumnavigating the white marble courtyard when an Egyptian man in western dress invited me to come inside to the qibla. I stepped through a wooden door and into a stone world of 1000 years ago. The floors had modern carpets, but everything else looked more or less original. He showed me the tomb where the king and his wife were buried. I think he said this was the king who had built the mosque and raised one of the minarets. I say "I think" because I only understood every third sentence, he spoke in such a thick Arab accent. [However, I caught that his name was Osman, and he was a teacher at the university.] Still, the tour was wonderful. I paid a small fee to a Muslim man for making change of my large Egyptian pound note, made a donation to the mosque, declared “No, I didn’t want to go to the top of the minaret for another twenty pounds,” and tipped the man who kept my shoes. I laced up my travel boots, consulted the map, and set off to find the Citadel.

I hadn’t walked but across the street and past the next building when another Egyptian man stopped me and invited me to come to his shop right down the way. After all, the other shops across the thoroughfare (in the Khan al-Khalili) were so, so expensive, and his craftsmanship was very good.

“I am going to the Citadel,” I said. “I don’t have much time.”

“Yes,” he replied, “you can come to my shop and then keep going to the Citadel, it’s right on the way. You can just look, no need to buy.”

“OK,” I agreed, albeit a bit reluctantly.

We wove back through the labyrinth of narrow city streets, with men whizzing by us carrying various kinds of food and drinks on trays to one shop or another. It was lunchtime. He turned me into his shop that contained some of the finest wood and stone-work I had ever seen – mostly chess sets and jewelry boxes, carved in wood and bone and mother-of-pearl. Every piece contained intricately detailed inlay work in every sort of geometrical design you could imagine, all perfectly symmetrical. I probably stood there for 30 minutes, looking at piece after piece, each one more resplendent than the next. I was truly saddened to tell him that I was not able to buy any of them. He walked me back through the maze of shops, took a turn, then stopped in the middle of the street and pointed up.

“See those two towers?” he asked. "When you get to them, you will be at the south gate (called Bab Zuwaila in Arabic). Go out the gate, turn left, and walk straight all the way to the Citadel. Don’t turn right or left, just straight. Thirty-five, maybe forty minute walk.”

“Shukraan,” I thanked him, and shook his hand farewell. “Ma’a salaamah.” Off I went again.

A Day in Cairo, Part II

I emerged from the taxi at about 7:30am in front of the Khan al-Khalili market in Islamic Cairo.

The markets were not yet open, and wouldn’t until around 10am. I didn’t want to take out my map and look at it right away (and be swarmed right off the bat with folks offering to help me find this and that and the other thing), so I kept the map in my pocket and just walked around a bit, to get my bearings. I was right outside a very old-looking mosque (turns out was built in the year 1154), so I walked around the minaret on the left side and down the alley. I had walked about 100 yards when I was stopped by a young Egyptian man, mid-twenties maybe (learned later he was 26), who welcomed me to Egypt and asked where I was from.

“The US,” I said.

“Ah, the US,” he replied, “my brother lives in the US, in Illinois, Chicago, where Obama comes from!”

We laughed and introduced ourselves, and I stepped into Ahmed’s shop to have a look around. Next came one of the most delightful cultural experiences of my life. He was selling all sorts of Egyptian knick-knacks, everything you would expect, from busts of Pharaohs to stone-carved pyramids to small wooden camels. And of course, every single item came in black basalt, polished copper, sterling silver, glittering gold, and the gratuitious plastic composite painted to look like wood. We started talking as I had looked around his tiny shop, I don’t even remember what about. I was genuinely interested in the items he was selling – the craftsmanship of every item in the store was absolutely astounding. After about 20 minutes, he insisted that I take something to drink. He must have sensed the concern on my face, because he promptly dismissed any notion that I was under obligation to buy anything.

“You are my friend. It’s OK, even if you don’t buy anything. This is Egyptian hospitality. Would you like a Coke?”

“No,” I said, “but I really love coffee.”

“No problem, I bring you coffee.”

He disappeared down the street (leaving his friend with me in the shop) and returned a few minutes later. A few minutes after that, a older man, obviously a restaurant owner, appeared with a brown plastic serving tray on which sat a tall glass of water and an espresso mug resting atop a small saucer. The bronze coffee boiler was in his hand, and I watched him pour my coffee right in front of me (Arabic coffee is boiled over a fire in a small bronze pitcher with a wood handle and then poured into the cup, grounds and all. The dregs settle to the bottom, and you stop drinking when you get to them). Ahmed drained the glass of water in three seconds flat, leaving me to sip my coffee as I continued to browse all his fascinating artifacts from modern Egyptian market culture.

About half an hour later, I had finally decided on two small stone carvings and asked if Ahmed would set them aside for me. I intimated that I wanted to look around some more and come back later in the afternoon to negotiate the price and purchase them. I explained that if I didn’t find what I was looking for during the day, I may come back and buy more than what I picked out. He said that he himself was only going to be around for a few more hours, then he was going home to sleep (he had been up all night manning his shop).

"OK," I said, "let’s negotiate the price now."

By the time all the negotiating was done, I had purchased four carvings instead of two! But I had gotten a good price and, best of all, paid with American dollars instead of using up my Egyptian pounds. He wrapped my purchases in newspaper and put them in a plastic bag. Then he pulled up a chair in the alley opposite his shop and invited me to sit and drink some tea.

“Mint?” He asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Once again, Ahmed disappeared down the street and came back with a clear glass of piping hot tea containing a few leaves of fresh mint. He sat down on a stool next to me, and we continued talking while I drank tea. Somehow we got on the topic of popular music, and as it happened we knew some of the same artists (many thanks to Allison for introducing me to some of the pop music from the Middle East). He played songs on his phone for me, and we laughed and laughed. After a while he told me that his other shop would be opening in another 30 minutes, his jewelry shop back in the market itself. So I continued to sit and talk with Ahmed, meeting some of his friends who also owned shops on the alley, drinking iced licorice tea from street vendors as they walked by (all of which Ahmed paid for), enjoying the coolness of the shade and reasonable quiet of the morning foot traffic. Of course, the man who came to open his other shop was about 15 minutes late (everything in Africa runs on relationship, not time), but as soon as he came and was ready I ventured into the market with Ahmed to see his jewelry. He had some amazing stuff, both in gold and silver, but I didn’t need any. I looked for about ten minutes, said farewell, and went on my way.

I couldn't believe I had spent almost the entire morning shopping and visiting with Ahmed, drinking tea and coffee, meeting several people and still having barely any recollection of what we actually talked about for all that time. It just wasn’t important. But we had talked and enjoyed each other's company, and I had a really wonderful time.

A Day in Cairo, Part I

(July 26, 2010)

Our travel plans got hi-jacked this summer while in Kampala, Uganda. Allison’s boss called to inform us that her project in Nigeria (our original destination) got held up for one reason or another and to ask if we could go to Zimbabwe instead. No problem! I had never been to Zim before, and we had a lovely two weeks in Harare, including an adventurous weekend jaunt over to Victoria Falls. However, we had already booked my ticket back to the US from Abuja, Nigeria, and we couldn’t change it. So in order to get back to the States without having to buy a whole new ticket, somehow I had to get from Harare, Zimbabwe to Abuja, Nigeria. Enter EgyptAir. They had the cheapest fare across Africa, from Johannesburg to Abuja via Cairo. Being that these are cross-continental flights, they run them through the night. Translated: a 16 hour layover in Cairo, Egypt over daylight hours. Score.

This was the first opportunity I’d ever had to travel the way I’ve always wanted; to explore a entirely new city by myself without knowing the language, without a tour guide, without a plan or schedule, just some money in my pocket and see where my feet take me. [Note to self: July is NOT the time to do this in Cairo, Egypt, especially after having slept only a few hours the previous two nights, one of those being on a plane. But I wasn’t going to let 36 C and some fatigue stand between me and old-town Cairo.] The plane landed at Cairo International Airport early in the morning, and I excitedly, and sleepily, disembarked. I filled out my immigration card, laid down fifteen US dollars on the visa counter, and – stamp! – I was in Cairo, Egypt.

I had done a little homework about the city and decided NOT to see all the major sites in one day. Thus, I had already ruled out the pyramids and the antiquities museum, but instead planned to visit the old part of the city called Islamic Cairo. Before leaving the airport I made two stops: the ATM to withdraw 300 Egyptian pounds (about $55); then the convenience store to pick up a pocket map of Islamic Cairo and a bottle of water. I hadn’t even finished counting my change when a middle-aged man approached me, asking if I wanted a taxi. Of course I did, so off we went.

I wish I could have tape-recorded the conversation that ensued. I had had precious little experience with Middle Eastern culture, thankfully, or I probably would have been a complete wreck. It took the entire 20-minute ride to negotiate the price of the taxi. We sat side by side in the front of the car, with him speaking very loudly, almost shouting but not quite. I knew to expect this; else I probably would have paid what he wanted right off for fear of offending him. [I used to really hate haggling prices, but I’ve since learned not to be afraid of it. Now I kind of get a rush off it, actually. It’s like an extemporaneous, comprehensive exam of all the social skills you’ve ever learned in your life shrunk down to one conversation that typically lasts no more than 5 minutes, if that.] This particular negotiation felt a bit like a handling a conversational time-bomb. He couldn’t believe that I was in Cairo for one day only and did NOT want to go to the pyramids, the museum, or the downtown district. He was positively incredulous.

"You are in Cairo for one day only, and you do not want to see the pyramids or the museum? This is crazy talk! Nowhere else in the world can you see the pyramids, only Cairo, and you will not see them. You are crazy man!" I must confess that, even though I was prepared for this experience, I was still quite unnerved.

He wanted to take me to all those places, of course, and for only 300 pounds. He couldn't believe I would resist such a good price. I lost count on how many times I politely (yet firmly) refused, but it must have been close to a dozen. At long last he understood (finally!) that “yes, I only want to go to Islamic Cairo” and then be picked up later in the afternoon, if possible. He dropped me off in front of the Khan al-Khalili, the main market just outside Islamic Cairo. I paid him 90 pounds, which was more than I wanted to pay but felt right based on how the negotiation had proceeded.

My day in Cairo was barely 30 minutes old, and it had already been an adventure.

A Juror and a Christian, Part 5

After the trial was over, I was wrestling inside. I suppose one could make a good case that the United States has the best justice system in the world, in terms of dispensing justice. Yet it certainly seems that what was done in that courtroom was far from actual "justice." Undoubtedly, Thomas Sowell would write me off at this point as being transfixed on "cosmic justice" (meaning from a divine, or omniscient, perspective), which is humanly unattainable. He would say that we must be content with our human limitations and do the best we can. And I agree with him.

However, my heart yearns deeper. Justice is written into us. It is in our nature as humans that what is good ought to breed life, and what is evil, death. Wrongs must be set right, however one defines that process. Yet even the "best" justice system in the world falls terribly short of actual justice. The law was obeyed, but justice was not truly achieved.

This got me thinking. What is justice anyway? I admit that my definition has largely been distilled from Christian theology, but the question needs an answer. It's difficult to answer. Obviously, there is something terribly wrong with the abandonment of all moral constraints. Such a world would allow Hitler to conquer (and consequently destroy) the entire planet. Evil exists in the world, and it demands a response. Passivity is not an option. Conversely, the same is true of virtue as well. My fraternity's creed correctly states that we (humanity) must take action on behalf of what is good. Therefore, in my mind, just has two primary facets -- the correct response to evil and the correct action on behalf of good. But enough of my philosophizing...

I think I've reached the conclusion that true justice (i.e. - Sowell's "cosmis justice") is humanly unattainable. Humans are simply not powerful enough to actually do it. Only Jesus can. Actually, "Judge" is one of His titles in Scripture. And yet another reason why I believe Christianity is true. I can face the reality of human limitations with hope, because my hope rests in a divine Person (Jesus) who is able to make wrongs right and will do so when He returns. And that truth is very comforting in the middle of injustice, which is where we find ourselves here on planet Earth.

A Juror and a Christian, Part 4

I felt twinges of nervous excitement and anxiety when I got the courthouse on Thursday morning.  In all honesty, I was mostly worried about being selected as an alternate juror.  After having sat through three days of the trial, I didn't want to have to wait in a room while everyone else deliberated!  That would have been a pretty big let-down after having invested so much already.  But I wasn't selected as an alternate, nor was I appointed the jury foreman; so we all went into the jury room at about 10am.

The deliberation was nothing like what I had expected it to me.  There was very little organized discussion.  Instead, there was generally multiple conversations going on at once, often alternating between expressions of emotions and rational thought and interspersed with, "Are they bringing us coffee?"  (which they did!)  I was really surprised by the amount of frustration in the room, but now that I reflect on it, I suppose it was very natural.  We had been there for over three days already, we had listened to intense testimony, we had precious little evidence on which to decide the verdict, and there were twelve people who all had to agree by the end.

I honestly believed the defendant was guilty.  We hadn't deliberated very long at all before it became obvious that everyone in the room truly believed that he was guilty.  However, the only direct we evidence we had for his guilt was the testimony of one material witness, and that testimony was not "water-proof," so to speak.  However, all the circumstantial evidence led to the conclusion that the material witness was telling the truth.  So essentially, in my mind at least, the main question was whether the testimony of the material witness combined with the circumstantial evidence defeated all reasonable doubts.  The gentleman who sat next to me on my right was vocal from the outset that he didn't believe there was enough evidence to convict the defendant.  However, not all were convinced.

We decided to start discussing the sixth charge, since that seemed the easiest of all.  Within five minutes everyone was ready to return a guilty verdict except for me.  This was the charge of the threatening phone call to intimidate the witness.  In order to convict the defendant of this charge, the law clearly stated that the prosecutor had to prove that that the defendant intended to interfere with the witness' testimony.  I wasn't convinced that the motive had indeed been proven from the evidence.  We hashed it out for several more minutes, and I asked for some more time to think about it.  So decided to come back to it later.

We moved on to the incident itself and talked ourselves in circles for over two hours.  No one raised their voices during this time, but frustration clearly filled the room.  In retrospect, I don't think we were really deliberating the case.  Rather, I think we were simply externalizing the tension we all felt: all of us truly believed the defendant was guilty, but none of us were sure.  It was like it just took us all several hours to resign ourselves to the fact that, according to the law, we had to return a Not Guilty verdict.  

Finally, someone suggested that we listen to the recording of the 9-1-1 call.  We probably spent over an hour listening to that call and talking about it.  The call itself was about 5 minutes long, and I think we played it back at least 4 times.  We continued to banter back and forth until the guy sitting across the table from me said, "Whoa!  Listen ... she [the material witness] says, 'I didn't see it.'"  The discussion between the 9-1-1 operator and the material witness was confusing, but it seemed clear that the phone conversation was taking place as they victims were being chased then as they were attacked.  There was a lot of crying and hysteria on the recording, as well as a lot of Spanish being spoken in the background.  At one point, the material witness cries out, saying, "I think someone's been shot!" (although this wasn't the case - the victim had just been hit in the head and fell to the ground)  Some frantic conversation ensued as the 9-1-1 was trying to ascertain the condition of the victim.  At one point he asked, "How did he get hit?"  The material witness then replied, "I don't know, I didn't see it."  After this, the deliberation come to a quick conclusion.  While tape certainly didn't disprove the testimony of the material witness, it did call into question what exactly she saw and what she didn't.  And because we couldn't be certain that the defendant was even there, none of the first five charges could be proven.

We ate lunch and then returned to the discussion of the phone call.  After a little more discussion, I agreed to return a Guilty verdict for that charge.  While the intent of the phone hadn't been absolutely proven, the circumstantial evidence left no other intent reasonably plausible.  I had doubt, but I didn't have a substantive reason to doubt.  Therefore, we voted Guilty for the sixth charge.  The rest was quite anti-climactic, actually.  We went down to the courtroom, the foreman read the verdict, the judge made some comments, and we were dismissed from the courtroom.  We never did hear the sentencing.

After we were dismissed, the judge came up to the jury room and talked to us for about 15 minutes or so.  He talked to us a little about the trial, saying that he thought the case was tried pretty well.  One of the guys talked about how he wished the verdict had gone the other way.  The judge replied, "Ah, but that's the beauty of our justice system.  The evidence just wasn't there."  The judge told us that just about everybody involved were illegal immigrants which made everything much more difficult.  But then after that, he admitted to us that two of the other three assailants had already pled guilty to the crime!  This information was gut-wrenching.  As of that time, the leader of the perpetrators had not been arrested because he was on the run.  My assumption is that he has returned to Honduras.

I know at least three of us jurors left with knots in our stomach.  The whole situation was awful.  Only God knows for certain, obviously, but a guilty man had been acquitted.  Why?  Because the law forbade it.  The requirements of conviction had not been met.  But was justice done?  This was the question with which I now wrestled; and the answer was an emphatic, "NO!"  So now what?

A Juror and a Christian, Part 3

Prior to arriving in court on Wednesday morning, I remember thinking about the case from the perspective of the defense attorney.  Should I put the defendant on the witness stand?  If so, and the defendant's story is different from the only material witness, then it follows logically that one or the other is lying, or possibly both.  In this case, putting the defendant on the witness stand could actually work against him, especially if it seems like he is lying as he is on the stand.

We waited quite a while in the jury room on Wednesday morning before being called into the courtroom.  As we were waiting, I began to reflect more specifically on the question, "What does Scripture say about this (this entire experience)?"  I was drawn to the latter part of Romans, particularly chapter 13.  In that chapter, Paul discusses, in frustratingly sparing details, some thoughts concerning government and civil/criminal justice.  I will discuss this further later.

Finally, we were called down to the courtroom (the jury room was a floor above) and the prosecution rested his case.  The defense attorney then recalled the police officer who had arrived on the scene the night of the incident.  He answered one question related to one particular detail of the testimony of the material witness.  She said that he had started laughing upon seeing the victim on the ground, thinking at first that the victim was drunk instead of injured.  He testified that he never started laughing.

The defendant took the stand.  He wasn't defiant, but he certainly was not forthcoming about any information.  He sat leaning back, sometimes with he arms crossed in front of him.  He didn't even give an alibi, not really.  He merely said that he went home after work and started to watch TV because he needed to rest for work early the next morning.  In cross-examination, the prosecuting attorney asked him if he remembered that specific night or whether he was simply following his normal pattern of behavior.  The defendant answered, "I remember it because the next day I was arrested."  The defendant's testimony probably lasted a grand total of 15 minutes, much of that time being taken up with the interpretation of questions and his answers.  Being a juror in the case, I think that putting him on the stand was a mistake.  After hearing the defendant's testimony, I was more inclined to believe the material witness.

In closing arguments, the defense attorney went first and did not really help matters given the circumstances.  But this is where I thought the assist D.A. really did an outstanding job, and I think so even more now that the case is over and I've had some more time to think about it.  First, he pointed out all the things about the case that were NOT in dispute.  Two men were badly beaten, one almost to the point of death.  Everyone agrees about the weapons used in the crime.  Everyone agrees about the fact that there was a feud going on in the family.  Really, the only detail about which there is dispute (as it relates to the defendant) is whether he was there or not.  He admitted, as the defense attorney had pointed out, that the only direct evidence for the crime comes from the testimony of one person.  However, he pointed out that much circumstantial evidence corroborated the testimony of the material witness.  He didn't say this in court, but I later thought, that virtually ALL the circumstantial evidence corroborates the testimony of the material witness.  Conversely, the only bit of circumstantial evidence that gave credence (but did not prove in any sense) the defendant's testimony was the fact that the material witness did not identify the defendant to the police until the following day.  The prosecuting attorney also made much of the fact that the defendant certainly did not act on the stand like a man falsely accused.  In this last statement, I fully agreed with him.

After lunch, then, the judge read the charges and instructions, etc., which took the whole afternoon, as I described earlier.  At the end of this, the judge informed us that two jurors would be randomly selected to be alternates (because there were 14 of us at that point) and a jury foreman would be appointed.  However, since it was very close to the end of the day, all of that would take place the next morning.  So everything was now completed, and it was time for the jury to deliberate and come to a verdict.  The judge reminded us that the word "verdict" comes from the French, which in turn comes from the Latin.  It means to "speak the truth," regardless of the consequences.

That night I rested easier, actually, although I was now dreading the lottery to come the following morning.  I must confess that I really didn't want to be chosen to sit out of the deliberation process, especially after having gone through the entire proceedings up to that point!  

A Juror and a Christian, Part 2

The court spent all day Tuesday listening to the six witnesses for the prosecution.  The experience was not a pleasant one.  The witnesses were good witnesses and performed admirably on the stand.  However, the two primary witnesses (the eyewitness and the woman who received the threats) were understandably emotional while giving their testimony.  Clearly, these women had suffered immensely on account of the violence.

On top of this, the defense attorney comported himself horribly throughout the entire case.  I remember thinking to myself after he had started to question one witness, "If the jury returns a Not Guilty verdict, it won't be because of the defense attorney!"  The attorney openly scoffed at witnesses, mainly during his closing arguments but also during his examination.  He asked leading questions, which made me kind of mad, actually.  Most of his questions were poorly worded and difficult to understand; in one instance, he questioned a witness for ten minutes regarding one detail and still didn't really get the information he was asking for, a scenario he could have avoided by asking a good question in the first place.  He was a bit elderly, probably in his sixties, so it was understandable that he would have trouble with details.  However, he was mixing up dates while questioning witnesses, referring to people by incorrect names, and  fumbling for questions.  In my opinion, he was thoroughly unprofessional.

In contrast, the heroes of the case were the court interpreters.  Many of the members of this family were Honduran, including the defendant, so the entire dialogue of the court had to be translated into Spanish.  There were two court interpreters, a young man and a middle-aged woman, who traded off about every 30 minutes.  Quite frankly, I was astounded at the performance of these individuals.  There were two witnesses who didn't speak English, so they translated those examinations for the entire court (all the other times they were translating for the defendant only).  These interpreters translated EVERYTHING, even down to the "um" witnesses would utter between words.  They reflected intonation and voice inflection.  They would catch words that were repeated and thoughts that were left unfinished by the speaker.  It was a spectacular performance.  It still amazes me to think that those two people do that every day, day after day after day.  What a profession!

The assistant district attorney, who was prosecuting the case, mirrored what I would have conceived him to be.  He was young, tall, extremely well-dressed, articulate, wore a wedding band and glasses.  He made his case very well.  The witnesses were, in order: the police officer who arrived on the scene the night of the attack; the woman who testified to witnessing the attack; the detective assigned to the case; the police officer who arrested the defendant the following day; the woman who received the threatening phone call; and the man who was severely beaten.  The other victim did not appear in court because he had been in the country illegally and consequently was deported back to Honduras.  

Having been a security officer in the past, I was less than impressed with the police officer who responded the night of the attack.  The material witness for the entire case was the woman testified next.  She had been walking with the other two men when they were attacked, she was ignored by the attackers and had opportunity to call 9-1-1, and she had talked both with the 9-1-1- operator as well as the police officer who arrived on the scene.  She testified, in no uncertain terms, that she had seen the defendant wielding a piece of wood ("like a 2x4 board") and hitting Victim A in the head and Victim B in the back.  She also testified that she had seen him kicking both of them on the ground.  However, she admitted that she had not identified the defendant to the police that night.  In her brief interview with the police, she had only identified two of the four men.  The following day she saw the defendant on the street and called the police, identifying him at that time.  He was then arrested.

We would have then heard from the police officer who made the arrest, but he was in the restroom.  It was getting on toward lunch, so the detective was brought in instead.  His testimony was largely immaterial except that he gave the details concerning the positive identification of the defendant that occurred after the defendant's arrest.  The arresting police officer then appeared in court and testified that the material witness had told him on the day of the arrest that the defendant had carried a gun and said to them the night before, "Who wants to die tonight?"  This was different than her testimony given on the witness stand.  In court, she had been clear, consistently, that it was one of the other men who had brandished the gun and threatened the victims with death.  She had also testified that the gun had been tossed to the defendant in the middle of the incident.

Next, the woman who had received the threatening phone call was put on the witness stand.  I don't think anybody in the courtroom had any doubt whatsoever ... she was clearly terrified of the defendant.  During the entire examination, she acted like a woman who had been through a horrific ordeal (as she had, of course.  Her husband had been beaten nearly to death.).  She was emotional yet gave her testimony admirably.  Finally, the victim himself came to testify.  He showed us the scars on his head, told us he couldn't smell any more because of the attack, explained to us that he has trouble remembering things now; but most importantly, he doesn't remember the attack.  He only remembers being approached by the first attacker and then waking up over three weeks later in the hospital.  This was the end of the first day of testimony.

That night, Tuesday evening, was the most difficult time for me personally, I think.  I was distracted the entire evening, thinking about the case.  Thankfully, I had something fun to work on, planning a camping trip next month with some friends.  But I was very uneasy at the thought of having to eventually make the decision regarding the guilt or innocence of the defendant.  It took me a little while to fall asleep that night, too.  Particularly, I was pondering whether I could, in clear conscience, return a Guilty verdict based on the testimony of only one witness.

A Juror and a Christian, Part 1

I have just completed one of the most fascinating experiences of my life.  For the past four days, I have served on a trial jury for a criminal case in the Suffolk County Superior Court in Massachusetts.  I am going to blog about the experience because of the complexity of the case and the difficulty with which we (the jury) reached our conclusion, the personal tension I have felt in considering all the evidence, and the impact this experience has had (and will continue to have, I suspect) on my thinking about Jesus, the existence of a divine Being in general, and how the principle of justice relates to my Christian faith.

First, I will lay out the general order of events.  I showed up for jury duty at 8am on Monday morning and sat in the jury pool waiting room until about 11:30.  At that time, about 50 of us were called up to a courtroom on the 8th floor.  The jury selection process took two full hours, and I was selected as Juror #7.  After the jury was selected, we broke for lunch then heard opening statements from the lawyers before court adjourned for the day.

The story we heard during opening statements was, in a word, tragic.  The vast majority of the parties involved were all related to one another.  A feud developed in this extended family until the tensions erupted one night, resulting in a violent fight.  Four men ambushed two other men on the street late at night, at least one of the four saying, "Who wants to die tonight?"  Between them all, they were carrying a gun, a piece of wood (not a bat, but like a bat), and a metal loop-cap from a chain-link fence post.  One of the two men had his bashed in like a pinata and was in a coma for almost a month.  The other man was beaten but did not have serious injuries.  Other than these six men, there was only one other person present, a woman who had been walking with the two men when they were ambushed.  Approximately a month and a half after the incident (and after the grand jury hearing) the common-law wife of the man who was severely beaten received a call from one of the four men (and a second in the background) receiving threats of rape.

The man on trial was one of the four alleged men who had committed the crime and made the threatening phone call a month later.  There were 6 counts against him: 1) Assault with intent to murder Victim A; 2) Assault and battery with a dangerous weapon as a joint venture against Victim B; 3) Individual assault and battery with a dangerous weapon against Victim B; 4) Assault and batter with a dangerous weapon as a joint venturer against Victim A; 5) Individual assault and battery with a dangerous weapon against Victim A; 6) Intimidation of a Witness against the common-law wife of Victim A.

The work day was over by this time, so everybody went home.  We returned on Tuesday morning and heard all the witnesses for the prosecution.  It turns out that legal proceedings are agonizingly slow.  It took all day to hear testimony from 6 witnesses.  On Wednesday we heard the two defense witnesses and listened to closing arguments, which took us all the way to lunch.  After lunch, the judge then read us the charges, read the laws applicable to the charges, and the instructions to the jury pertaining to the charges.  While we were waiting to go back down to the courtroom after lunch, we asked the court officer escorting us how long he thought it would take for the judge to read us all the instructions.  He responded, "Oh, like two hours, probably.  There's six charges!"  At first we thought he was joking, so we all laughed as were lined up in the hallway.  But when he didn't laugh along, we realized that he was serious ... and he was.  It took a full two hours for the judge simply to read us all the instructions pertaining to the charges at hand.  So, once again, we all went home and returned on Thursday morning to start deliberation.  We deliberated for four animated hours before coming to a verdict on all 6 charges.

In this entire process, I found myself wrestling with some serious, serious questions.  Humanly speaking, how do we define justice?  How do I define it?  Now that the case is completed, has justice been done (to use the biblical terminology)?  And especially, how ought I as a Christian to think and act as a participant on a jury in the American system of justice?  Does being a Christian make a difference?

I feel that I need to tell this story mainly for my own sake; and if others benefit, so much the better.  I have spent a lot of time thinking about the concept of justice this past semester, and I am amazed how God allowed me to have this experience now, at its conclusion.  In the following posts, I'll talk about each particular day of the trial and record some of my mental processes and emotional reactions.  Finally, I'll talk about why this experience has affected me so much in terms of how I think about God and Jesus ... and why being both a juror and a Christian has mattered so much to me in this process.