The Egyptian Revolution: What Does It Mean for the Jews?

words + photos by Carolyn Handler Miller

Jews and Egypt. Two words that rarely meet in the same sentence. Unless you happen to be talking Bible talk and are retelling the story of Exodus, as we Jews do every spring during Passover. Or unless you are talking politics, and are discussing Egypt’s relationship with Israel.  Or unless you possess a torn old photo like the one I have, plus a burning curiosity and the chance to travel to Egypt.

You see, the relationship between Jews and Egypt is a highly personal one for me, and one that the revolution in Egypt brought into sharp focus.           

A large branch of my family once lived and thrived in Egypt until the 1950’s, when another Egyptian revolution, one barely remembered today, ultimately pushed Egyptian Jews into exile. In 1952, during that earlier revolution, King Farouk was forced to abdicate and soon after, Gamal Nasser took over the reins of government. Unlike the laid-back playboy king, Nasser was unfriendly to Jews. During the 1956 Suez Crisis, he declared them enemies of the state and Jews were no longer welcome in the country.

So the entire Egyptian branch of family fled to Paris. At that point, we, the American branch of the family, lost track of them. As far as we all knew, the story ended there.

And we might have forgotten all about them, except for this old black and white photo set in a broken wooden frame. It had been passed down from family member to family member and had finally fallen into my hands when none of my cousins showed any interest in it. Though they mocked the old-fashioned looking group, I found them fascinating. I longed to know more about them and their exotic life in Egypt.

The photo captures my Great Grandmother at a family reunion in Alexandria.

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Farewell, My Home Sweet Home

 by Carolyn Handler Miller

The sign went up about two weeks ago. It was probably a good thing I wasn’t in Los Angeles to witness the event. I might have started to cry. But a few days later, one of the realtors sent me a photo of it. There it was, firmly planted in the ivy by the stairs leading up to the house: the sign proclaiming that my house was up for sale.

photo by Chris AbbottGoodbye, house! Technically, of course, it’s still mine, until an offer is made and accepted and the deed changes hands. But with multiple showings and strangers tromping through, checking out the rooms and peering into closets, it feels like it has already passed out of my possession and somehow become a public space, like a library, or, God forbid, a gas station restroom. And eventually, it will truly belong to someone else.

Please don’t get me wrong. I’m totally behind the decision to sell it. I’m not being forced into this by the sorts of miserable circumstances that have recently propelled so many people out of their homes. Actually, I’m letting it go for a positive reason – to become a fulltime resident of Santa Fe, New Mexico, a place I truly love. My husband and I have been splitting our time between Santa Fe and L.A. for the past eight years, but a new opportunity has now made living full time in Santa Fe completely feasible.

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Horseback Riding Off The Grid

by Carolyn Handler Miller

Because of a silver-colored horse named Concho and a notorious outlaw named Billy the Kid, my tether to the digital world got snapped. And, as it turned out, I was grateful. I’ll explain.

It all started about a year ago, when I heard about an intriguing trail riding vacation called the Tunstall Ride. It had a Billy the Kid theme and was based in southern New Mexico, major Kid territory. According to Beth MacQuigg, the ride manager, there would be three days of trail riding and we’d be traveling over some of the same rangeland that the Kid would have ridden over.

Riders would be housed in guest rooms on a private ranch adjacent to the property where the Kid once worked as a ranch hand. Known as the Tunstall Ranch, it was owned by his boss, Englishman John Henry Tunstall. Billy was riding with him one day when Tunstall was gunned down, was the first person to be murdered during the infamous Lincoln County War. 

That bloody conflict aside, the land we’d be riding over was reputed to be some of the Kid’s favorite country. Beth told me that most people would be bringing their own horses, but for those of us who were horseless, like me, rental horses could be provided. As someone who loves horses, trail riding, and Western lore, the Tunstall Ride sounded immensely appealing, and I signed up. I signed my husband up, too. Though Terry doesn’t ride, he could hang out at the ranch and join us for meals and explore the historic sites with us that we’d be visiting without the horses.

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FALLING IN LOVE WITH AN ARROYO

by Carolyn Handler Miller

Arroyo. The word doesn’t exactly conjure up magic. In the Southwest, where arroyos exist in some abundance, they are usually just scruffy riverbeds without water. Sometimes these dry channels are brightened by a few brave weeds, but more often they are littered with garbage – everything from plastic water bottles to old car parts and rusty shopping carts. Arroyos also tend to be the kind of place where dead bodies are found. Murdered dead bodies.

So I wasn’t at all impressed when the condo sales agent I was trailing around pointed enthusiastically out a window and said: “And right over there is the arroyo!” She obviously thought this was a worthwhile selling point. “There’s a trail along it that goes for miles,” she went on. “Nice for walks!”

But I was far more interested in things like closet space and the size of the rooms. My husband and I needed a part-time residence in Santa Fe for our work, and I was concerned the condo would be too tiny for us.

As it turned out, we bought it anyway, though the arroyo certainly didn’t factor into our decision.  But after some weeks there, I started to feel itchy to get outdoors and remembered the sales agent’s words: “Nice for walks!”

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