It takes a village to raise an idiot
Don’t travel to Egypt now; Always have your passport with you, they warned me, the Attorney General, Keith Allison, isn’t he your friend? We don’t know what Trump would do!” They advise me every day. The morning news is a constant stream of Trump’s latest vanity affair, his administration’s reckless policies, impulsive decisions, and juvenile political maneuvers, becoming a new art form.One day, it’s the deportation of student protestors speaking out against genocide in Gaza and praising Pro-genocide protestors as patriotic. The next is tariffs imposed at random products and countries. Entertaining renaming the Gulf of Mexico, seizing control of the Panama Canal, occupying Greenland, and—just for good measure—sharing our military strategy for attacking Yemen with the media; another form of Trump’s transparent who gives a f**c policy, while Biden secretly shared them with our allies, and Obama the champion of democracy and the political Ayatollah of liberals, as Aljazeera explained in his secrete “Kill lists” was “Barack Obama’s blind spot He opposes the death penalty in the US, after lengthy trials, but issued kill orders for Muslims overseas with no trial at all.” Another form of American fatwa. I am interrogated by friends and foes alike; their looks at the coffee shops are full of sympathy and suspicion. My friends want to make sure I’m grateful that Biden’s Genocide plans were discreet, and my foes want complete loyalty and submission to the new king. The question came at the coffee shop from an old friend who I hadn’t seen for years, a blond James Dean-looking 70-year-old man, a conservative republican lawyer with a knack for nonsensical conservation and a racy sports convertible cars with a personalized PRO_POLICE license plate: “ It got me off a speedy ticket” he bragged once. At the coffee shop, he asked me, -What do you think of Trump? with a mockery smile. Well, before I delve into this and tell you what I think of Trump. I already spent four years talking about him in his first term. let me tell you a story about Rafat, the village idiot. He sat down with a curious interest. I was born in a small village in the heart of the delta, people’s interest in the outside world didn’t exceed the village corn fields, a place with one street, one mosque, one school, one river, and one idiot his name was Rafat; and ever since no mother in the village dared name their loved ones Rafat, it takes a village to raise an idiot. Rafat a darker man with a well-built body, with unshaved face, and unkempt hair, in his 30’s. 40’s, or even 50’s, hard to tell, he had no ID or anyone to give an alibi for the day he was born. Rafat was a stranger, an outsider; he was morally and politically neutral, a modern man who somehow belonged to everyone and anyone, a non-threatening fellow. He had no known family or place to live, yet he was as much a part of the village as the call to prayer or the animal morning walk to the farm. He was protected by his idiocy and his enigmatic life, reflected everyone’s hidden self or secret. Village leaders feared his brutal honesty and the poor envied his careless free spirit. Rafat showed up at weddings, funerals, and any social public celebrations he was given his space, welcomed in our kitchen where the mothers and daughters of villages were preparing meals, he was fed; at and during local celebrations, he was a spectacle, a spokesman for the uninvited, and a folk hero for unprivileged. Everyone, and then, you see the village’s Children tormenting him, chasing him out of the village through the dusty roads, where dogs looked on in disbelief. Adults tolerated him, dismissing his outbursts when he ranted about the village’s tangled web of, moral depravities, corruption, and secrets. In a village like ours, everyone had a story, and every story had a secret for Rafat to spill, saying out loud what everyone whispered in dark rooms behind closed doors, Rafat was indiscriminate with brutal honesty, which made him safe and his tails were the talk of the town; however, his stories melted away like morning dews, making room for new tails. Rafat became a village myth and folk hero, where villagers blamed and contributed lots of stories to him, things he had never said or done. Refat cleansed and mudded the village’s morality fabrics and formed their collective memories. Refat was tolerated by the villagers for his venerability and powerlessness. However, he was a mirror of the village’s vices and values, reflecting uncomfortable truths. It takes a village to raise an idiot, but the real tragedy? Unlike the old days when people in the village could ignore their fools, in modern days, we don’t have that luxury.
Ahmed Tharwat
Host and Producer of Arab American TV show BelAhdan
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Contacts: ahmediatv@gmail.com
On the narrow street, the dog suddenly stopped and seemed confused, looking at a black blanket of berries covering the street sidewalk under a small tree extended its branches from my neighbor’s backyard and unlike the neighborhood trees, this one bearing fruits! Lots of it, much to my surprise, it was Mulberries (tout) tree, my childhood tree that grew up accustomed to on the bank of the river in my village Meet Swaid, on the Egyptian delta. As Kids, we played around it, climbed it, farmers and animals took refuge under it from the summer heat. The Mulberry tree was generous, and village kids not just eating its sweet fruits berries, before TicTok and Facebook, we used their leaves for feeding silkworm we raised at homes, a summer pastime amazing hobby. The silkworms become a currency for exchange where we can barter and share. The silkworms munched on the hand-picked fresh Mulberry leaves for 20-25 days, then start weaving their silk threads around themselves, building their colorful private cocoons, a constant hard work that takes around 48 hours to build. Each worm stays inside the cocoon for 10-14 days; then turns into moths/butterflies that finally oozed out of the cocoons giving us a live demonstration of Darwin evolution theory in a few weeks. The Mulberry trees prefer hot weather, and dry soil doesn’t need much care. My small village was known for its wild Mulberry trees, which invited intruders from the village across the river “Meet Fars”. Nobody owns the mulberry trees, they are wild, and they are for everyone to share; whoever can climb it can enjoy its fresh berries while shake the high branches for the rest on the ground to share; all you needed is to say “Hiz” shake it, then the mulberries would fall on the ground as sweet hails. The berries come in different colors and types, blacks, whites, and radish berries. Waking up early in the morning before others arrive for the berries hunt, putting a tarp under the tree for a harvesting feast, is the best time where the early bird gets the berries.
The male mulberry tree is called” elDekar”” which means simply; the male does not grow fruits, usually bigger with big trunk and branches providing a great place for people and animals to rest under its shadow.. The Mulberries don’t get enough respect in America; The berries fruits are neglected, ignored, and abandoned in the street not far from the trunk. Not sure of the American negative attitude toward the Mulberries trees, but it may be the fact that the Mulberries trees came to America from China. There is no advocates groups for Mulberries trees, or #MulberriyToo movement to march to stop the mulberries abuse. Americans don’t eat Mulberries fruits; avoid them at any cost, keep their kids away from them; for them, they are messy, sticky and the stain is permanent. I stopped by my neighbor’s house the next day, and I told her about my mulberry tree childhood love story, asked if she would mind me having a few berries on my morning walks. “Please help yourself, I have no idea how it ended up in my backyard,” she mussed with a smile. Now I have the mulberry tree all for myself, where I stop by every morning tasting its sweet fruits which bring lots of sweet memories. Mulberry fruits are nutritional, rich in fiber. Lots of vitamins C , K, and rich in Iron, high in protein, calcium, magnesium, and mineral. A 
My Old House in the village as stands NOW
