Sometimes I feel certain guilt for not writing enough in Arabic. English, as some may know, is technically my third language. Yet when I started expressing myself more around university time, it was indeed in English — the readings, the research, the papers, the whole lot. It was the American University after all, yet still in Cairo. And I am Egyptian.
When a decade following graduation I took writing as a vocation it was essentially in English. Being in Canada at the time followed by the U.S, it seemed like the natural course of things.
I can still remember a school-bud, Ismail, recounting to us what his father said when on our senior year he mentioned the American University as an option.
“Yabny dah este3mar fekry” ( يابني ده إستعمار فكري ) — “Son, that’s intellectual colonialism.” As much as we all laughed then, his sobering statement remained with me to this very day.
What makes an Arabic-speaking Egyptian become so westernised, that he becomes a writer in English, and an alright one at that? Certainly education helped pave the way; probably also my upbringing and early travels, and lots and lots of reading. Of course music and movies, but mostly music due to the lyrics. You can find more about the topic in the previous From English as a Third Language to Author — How I Expanded My Vocabulary.
So French school then American University, what did one expect, right? It’s also the most spoken language in the world, including native and non-native speakers. But what about writing more in the Arabic language — I was born into — beside English? Because I do enjoy and even miss it.
Expressing myself in Arabic reminds of simpler, younger times. Being the class clown at school and the court jester within the family. The puns, wordplay, songs among more creative silliness that came out from the experience of going to a strict all-boy catholic school while at the same time having Sheraton Hotels as a home for 20 years. Humour, it seems, was one way I was trying to make sense of the whole thing. Except maybe the few non-Egyptian ex-girlfriends and beside education and working in hotels, most of my verbal communication was conducted in vernacular Arabic. That was before social media of course and before relocating in my early 30s.
As such, as I matured along with my linguistic abilities and philosophical views, I began contemplating how being a multilingual communicator can be a bridge that connects certain gaps between different languages, roots, cultures, histories, and most importantly, people.
There are about a dozen Arabic articles and poems on One Lucky Soul [links found down below], out of 670 in English. Quite telling.
There are a bit more bilingual posts on Facebook, like the one about how the word ( ألوف ) “Aloof” happens to mean opposite things in Arabic and English. Also several stories from the school days and some jokes that are written solely in Arabic without translation. Those posts ought to be compiled somewhere.
Lots of legitimate pondering to work on.
Now that I am residing in Egypt following a decade in North America, connecting with more people through Arabic in addition to English often flirts with my mind. I wonder what if more Egyptians or Arabic-speaking people in general got the chance to read my writings and be exposed to my thoughts and queries — including the psycho-philosophical stuff. This leads me to want to translate such writings one day, though I should do it myself.
On the other hand, there are also non-Egyptians who live in Egypt — or in Arab countries — much more now than, say the 80s. Perhaps it would be fun for them to learn about the origin of a colloquial term or an expression or three, especially that oftentimes the literal meanings may cause confusion. To learn a language means to also learn about the culture.
I hold that communication is what brings us Earthlings a bit closer together. It’s what bridges the gap between people from different countries, cultures, mindsets. Apart from language there is otherwise music, which can transcend the constructs and limitation of language or the intellect as a whole while speaking more to our hearts
Alright, following this sentimental introduction, here is a jolly list of Egyptian Arabic words ( كلمات ) and terms ( مصطلحات ), their literal meanings, pronunciation [in Italic], usage, and possible equivalents in the English language. Some are found across several informal Arabic dialects, others are solely Egyptian Arabic vernacular — “Masri” — or more specifically colloquial.
This article could be considered the sequel to Some Arabic Sayings and Their Translations — أمثال عربية و ترجمتها. While the first from 2016 was about common traditional idioms, proverbs, and adages usually intended to convey a certain message, herein are simple and shorter expressions.
There is also Words With Italian Origin That Are Still Used Today In Egypt.
Now let’s go. Vamos. Vamoose. Yalla. Allons-y.
“Son of a female player” is the literal translation of “ebn el la3ibah”. As in your mother is a player, but not necessarily as a participant in a sport or game nor a musician; certainly not the informal meaning for men who have many sex partners.
First thing first. In Arabic parlance ‘ebn’, son and ‘bent’, daughter [of] is usually used before a swearword, as an insult. “Ya” is added before it if addressing someone or to call or get their attention. In more linguistic terms, ‘ya’ is a vocative particle preceding a noun used in direct address.
However, sometimes the word following “ebn / bent” is meant affectionately as an exclamation of encouragement or an endearing praise. So “ebn el la3iba” here was often said as young boys about someone playing sport, doing a certain move or trick or so. I guess there was something daring in saying the clean form “ebn el” which is usually left for swearing by adults. But in any case, all these ebn / bent forms are essentially to describe a person not their mothers or fathers.
The expression remained till adulthood as some kind of flattery within the clean dialect; also as an exclamation — as someone watching a sport game would utter rather enthusiastically.
Funny that “bent el la3iba” is seldom used. But for some reason you’d almost never say or hear: “ebn / bent el la3eeb”, a male player. Could it be because the mother is the one who gave birth?
With equal energy or enthusiasm, there is “ebn / bent el magnouna” ( إبن / بنت المجنونة ) — son / daughter of a mad woman; your mother is crazy. It is usually said casually to someone who did or is doing something seen crazy or daring. It is not much of a [real] cuss word or profanity, but it can be uttered angrily as an insult in fights. Whether it is meant in a positive light or negative depends on the context and, when said out loud, the tone. But it’s nothing too expletive.
Again here, almost never “ebn / bent el magnoun”. Mothers apparently get most of these.
“Son of a gun”, a euphemism for son of a bitch, may be one equivalent as clean as “ebn el eih” or “bent el magnouna”, despite gun being masculine, in Arabic that is. Both expressions can be used positively or negatively.
Imagine saying to an Arabic speaking person “ya ebn el mosadas” ( يابن المسدس ) and it will mean nothing to them, not good nor bad. Just a funny and absurd combination of words. Like son of a chair or daughter of a shower curtain.
On the other hand, “ebn / bent el gazma” ( إبن / بنت الجزمة ) is a common swearword in Arabic. It means “
Son / daughter of a shoe”. Say this to an English speaking person; well, don’t... unless they truly deserve it.
In English, “son of a bitch / whore” seem to be the main swearwords used involving parents, or once again, the mother. In Arabic there are a lot more variations and, dare we say, more creativity when it comes to swearing. Basically you can add any noun, but also its own adjective and it will still be utterable. “Son of as dirty whore” in English for example.
At school, for instance, we learned a new literary Arabic word from a book we were studying: “el 3abd el 2abek” ( العبد الآبق ) — meaning the runaway slave. As such, for a few days or so I kept jovially using it on the boys in “Yabn el 3abd el 2abek”. Being so unusual, absurd, and certainly untrue, everyone would laugh.
إبن إليه — بنت اللذينا •
‘Eih’ means ‘what’, normally used alone as a question [?]. So, “Yabn el eih — ya bent el eih” means “Son / daughter of a what”. Yep.
‘El lazina’ means “those who”. So “son / daughter of those who”. Normally a verb would follow but not in this usage.
Both expressions are mostly used as an enthusiastic direct response to someone doing something special, smart, daring, cheeky, or mischievous. A kind of flattery, perhaps implying that we have no words to describe their mother or father.
; that we’re speechless.
However, polite people who don’t like to swear may use it in negative connotations. As in: “Ebn el eih didn’t deliver on time”, “Bent el lazina overcharged us”.
Unlike the positive use, this negative one is always used when referring or talking about someone behind their back and not to their faces.
ولاد ناس : إبن / بنت ناس •
In “Welad Nas” or “Ebn / Bent Nas”, ‘welad’ is children while ‘nas’ is people. Literally translating as “children of people” or “sons and daughters of people”. While ‘welad’ is often used as a genderless noun, ‘walad’ is a singular boy — as ‘ebn’ in son — and ‘bent’ is both girl and daughter. But what does it actually mean? Of course as humans everyone is a son or daughter of people.
Well, in Egypt it simply means coming from good homes; those were well brought up and have manners. Sometimes it means old or traditional families, or the sons and daughters of someone or the other in the society.
Other people may describe someone as one, but it is seldom said about oneself. Because it can sound like showing off as it can also be a divisive or polarising statement.
Some people may add the word ‘akaber’ after “welad nas", meaning grand. But it is often edited out.
That said, one night in the streets of Cairo a police officer responded back to my nephew who was trying to get us out of getting busted spray painting by repeatedly and naggingly telling him: “Hadretak, we are the sons of people” ( حضرتك احنا ولاد ناس ).
“So we are the sons of dogs*?!” ( يعني احنا ولاد كلب؟ ) was the man’s hilarious reply. Pfff.
You can check the full story in Funny Drug-Related Stories 2.
*“Son of a dog” is one of two major swearwords that finally mentions the father. The other is son of a ‘khawal’ ( خول ), a gay man, aka faggot.
كل تأخيرة [و] فيها خيرة — معلش •
“Kol ta2kheera fiha kheira” means every lateness has good in it.
Hmm. This may be the only full sentence and actual adage in the list. But it’s here because it is still told to me on occasions.
Well, the phrase is said as consolation when you have been waiting for someone who didn’t show up on time or something that didn’t take place on time; when there is tardiness.
If we really think about it, however, it’s a nonsensical platitude. The generalisation and the assumption in the message makes it sound like other vague, hollow phrases such as “Everything happens for a reason”. True or not is not the concern here. But hey, it’s almost always used to comfort someone or even oneself and uttered with good intent.
I think that mostly it still holds due to the [almost] rhyming of both words. Everyone loves a rhyme.
Speaking of consolation, another common Egyptian expression you would hear everywhere is ‘Ma3lesh’ ( معلش ). Originally from Classical or Literary Arabic “ma 3aleih shei2” ( ما عليه شيء ), nothing on him, it was uttered by judges back in the days about those were deemed free in court.
Eventually the phrase was contracted to become the single word ‘ma3lesh’, meaning it’s alright, it’s OK, or it’s nothing — to trace it back to its origin; do not be upset or worked up. The expression is used to console someone who went through or is going through something hard or unfortunate; as a way to downplay or minimise the misfortune while seemingly calming people down. An example of it being used is the event of a car accident or mid a quarrel.
Depending on the context and situation, it may also be part of an apology. Sometimes “ana assef” ( أنا أسف ), I’m sorry, may follow ma3lesh.
فك الأسير •
When younger and wanted to get a joint from a friend who had been smoking it for a while without passing, we would sometime say: “Fok el aseer” — release the prisoner of war.
Once while watching a Portuguese show for some reason [yeah, don’t judge me], the dubbed English translation mentioned “Release the prisoner” when a woman wanted to get the joint from someone nearby. Until then, I thought the expression was purely Egyptian Arabic slang, perhaps even exclusive to our circle of friends. But nope. Joints apparently tend to be held captive by stoners all over the world.
In fact, in the U.S the expression is “Don’t Bogart that joint”. It’s a slang term derived from famous actor Humphrey Bogart; because he often kept a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, seemingly never actually drawing on it or smoking it. It is often used with joints but can be applied to anything.
I wonder what they say in other countries.
Puff, Puff, Pass.
إتفضل •
While walking in the streets of an Arab country you may hear the word ‘Etfaddal’ ( إتفضل ) or more formally ( تَفَضّل ). Based on the root ‘fadl’ ( فَضْل ) graciousness, the meaning of this one too depends on the situation and context.
When a group of people are sitting down or even just one person and another passes by, the sitter would cordially say ‘etfaddal’, as in come join in; enter. It is an offer or invitation to join the sit-in, group, or meal.
The other situation is when someone is eating or drinking [often tea] when another happens to pass by or is sitting nearby — especially when an eye-contact is made. Here the person would generously say ‘etfaddal’, meaning “have some of this food or drink”; as an act of sharing, or more precisely, readiness to share.
The majority of people realise it’s a mere kind and generous expression and refuse the offer. The same with ‘Khally’ or “keep it”, said by some taxi drivers [among others] about their fees after having a cordial conversation with the passenger. Especially in such instances, the invitation to not pay is not to be taken literally.
Public Service Announcement: Please pay you cab drivers in Arab countries despite them saying ‘khalli’.
In North America I would sometimes find myself in a situation when I’m eating something and someone looks at me. Funnily, while the sentiment of wanting to share remained, there was no suitable English word for ‘Etfaddal’, which would baffle me since, between three languages, I usually find the right words for whatever I want to say. But here there was none. Eventually, I settled with ‘Please’ accompanying an extended hand gesture. However, it certainly does not come close to the warm-hearted ‘etfaddal’ or to the richness of the Arabic language. Different worlds, different word. ⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
This is one linguistic example depicting the warmth, generosity, and congeniality of Arab hospitality and the nomadic, tribal culture it embodies. For after all: Sharing IS Caring.
زغروتة — زغردة •
Being multilingual, you often wonder about the meaning of certain rarely used words in the other languages you speak. One of those unusual Arabic words is “zaghrouta / zaghrata” ( زغردة / زغروتة ); from the verb “zaghrat / zaghrad” (زَغْرَد / زَغْرَتَ ), meaning sing.
Now, this is a peculiar sound you would hear some women produce in Egypt, usually to show emotions in wedding ceremonies among other joyous celebrations. Apparently, the Arabic word originates from the sound mules make through their throats.
The expression, however, is found in other African and Arab countries as well, with slightly different versions of the sound and words to describe it, depending on the geographical location.
I recall once in the beginning of my writing journey thinking if the word even has a translation to English — being a non-western expression and all. And since one would rarely, if ever, find themself witnessing a ( زغروتة ) while at the same time trying to translate the Arabic word into English, I never checked it. Until recently when watching a docuseries about African tribes from the 1600s, titled African Queens: Njinga.
In one scene, a ( زغروتة ) was heard, slightly different than the Egyptian ones one was accustomed to, yet the sound still retains a certain similarity. Looking at the subtitles, I could read ‘ululation’. Oh! So that is it, I wondered and instantly decided to check it out. Yes indeed, the word exists!
Ululate (v): From Latin ululo, means to utter a loud, usually protracted, high-pitched, rhythmical sound especially as an expression of sorrow, joy, celebration, or reverence; long, wavering, high-pitched vocal sound resembling a howl (عول) or a wail (عويل) with a trilling quality. The ululation is produced by emitting a high pitched loud and wavering voice accompanied with a rapid back and forth movement of the tongue and the uvula (the baby tongue at the back of the throat).
Interestingly, the word does sound like the actual sound: “Lulululuiiiiiiiyy”
and hence it is considered an Onomatopoeia.
According to the English description, ululations can also be heard in funerals and not just on happy occasions. But in Egypt, at least to my knowledge, women don’t do it to express sorrow or sadness. Some may howl/wail to mourn the dead though, but those remains different sounds which lack the usual sense of joy typical zaghroutas transmit.
And now we know. Lulululuiiiiiiiyy
عنيا — عيني •
‘3enaya’ means “my eyes”, while the singular ‘eini’ is “my eye”. It is an affirmative expression usually said as an endearing response when you ask someone to bring you something. As in, I would give [you] my eyes to please or serve you. Often heard in local cafes, eateries or shops among other places and circumstances.
The word may be accompanied by a gesture of the index finger pointing to their own eyes. Sometimes the index and middle one are used to point to both eyes.
Another common response a customer would hear in stores and eateries is ‘to2mor’ (تأمر ) or ‘to2morni’ ( تأمرني ) — meaning “you give me an order” or “ta7t amrak” ( تحت أمرك ) — under your order.
The Lebanese people take it further than losing one’s eye(s). The sweet mother of another school-bud would instead endearingly say: ‘To2borni’ ( تؤبرني ) [with a b rather than m] — meaning “You’d put me in a tomb”; as in I would die for you. It is sometimes used as a response to us saying “thank you”; almost like a “you’re welcome”.
And this rather intense expression is casually uttered at the dinner table and elsewhere, to show how much you love and care. Quite the passion, huh. Syrians, too, apparently use it.
يا كابتن •
This one brings back childhood memories. So in the early 80s, usually at sporting clubs and beaches, us boys would call each other ‘captain’. But only those we did not know; otherwise we’d use their actual names. It was the common term of address for boys of certain age. So, you want to play ya captain?”. Sometimes in the playground “Captain, captain, do you want to become friends?” — “tesa7ebny ya captain?” ( تصاحبني يا كابتن؟ ). Ha.
You’d think this title would be reserved for coaches or actual team captains of various sport teams around the club, like Amr Atata from Gezira Club football team and Captain Mohsen and Gamal from the basketball. But calling an 8/9-year-old boy sounds funny, now at least. Actually the coaches would also call us captain. Maybe to give us some confidence, maybe it was just the way it went. In return, we would likewise call them captain so and so.
The term was somewhat new lingo to our generation. Because my grandmother and her sister would sometimes say it all amusingly, as if it’s their first time to use it in such context, which is when addressing a young boy. I actually doubt that in my father’s childhood “ya captain” existed among young boys.
Following a certain age around the teenage years, we stopped hearing ‘captain’ outside of the sport environment. It almost like it became inappropriate to use it with a 14-year-old boy or older.
I wonder if kids today still use the term.
حضرتك •
Literally meaning “your presence”. ‘Hadretak’ or ‘7adretak’ is used as a term of address and sign of respect, could be to elders, uncles/ants, bosses, or someone who represents a source of authority.
In the Arab world some grown children may say to their parents 7adretak / 7adretek when addressing them — rather than ‘you’, “enta / enti” ( أنت / أنتي ). The more endearing “3ammi / 3ammeti” ( عمي / عمتي ), uncle and aunt from the father side; and ( خالي / خالتي ) “khali / khalti” from the mother side.
Those words are equivalent to the non-Arabic Oncle and Tante used by the more educated sections of the Egyptian society.
‘Hadretak’ is
equally used with older family members or relatives; as in the elders, as well with friends of one’s parents.
As kids and teenagers ‘Hadretak’ is normally used without much thinking. In my case, when I relocated to Canada after living in Egypt for 32 years I sort of grew or matured on a different level. So when returning for visits I began feeling that these “older” people are not much older, in terms of mental age. I began seeing myself as equal who doesn’t require to use a title to address another human being.
About respect? Well, why can’t we respect each other without titles? So I began using 7adretak / 7adretek less and less, while keeping oncle and tante to close family members also those from the grandparents generation. Maybe even only with the grandparents generations — whoever was still around.
It is like kids in the West who address their parents as well as elders as ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’, again out of respect. While a bit strict, formal, and military-like, the children probably stop using it as they mature to a certain age, or so they ought to.
With the same root ‘Hadar - 7adar’ ( حضر ), meaning arrived, we also have another word ( حاضر ) ‘Hader - 7ader’, meaning present. In school, when they would call each kid’s name to check the attendance, the formal response by each was ‘hader’: I am present.
At some point the use of hader included saying yes in a polite way. Again, it became an affirmative response to when parents or bosses ask something of you, similar to “yes, sir”.
Literally, ‘mashi’ means walk or move; from the root “mashy” walking.
However, the somewhat novel implied meaning of ‘mashi’ came to mean: yes, OK, alright, keep going, cool.
As I recall, it was used by car valets (sayes) in certain busy areas around Cairo who would help drivers park their cars just by saying ‘Mashi’ — also ‘Ta3ala’, meaning ‘come’ — while using hand gestures. Of course these territorial beings expect a certain fee. Some actually make a whole lot of money from this ‘business’.
But ‘mashi’ was also used as an informal expression of agreement by the help, as in maids and drivers among the working-class section of the society.
I also recall that in the 1980s my maternal grandmother as well as my father being displeased by the then-new use of the word. For them it was ‘unrefined’ or ‘unsophisticated’ street lingo. They would often make a fun remark to any of us who would say it, but never to those who actually used it. Something to remember though, is that both their fathers were born in the late 1800s, that is two centuries ago, so they were naturally brought up “old school” when Egypt was still a Kingdom.
My grandmother, Madame l’Ambassadrice, was also the wife of a diplomat; hence been dealing with a certain type of worldly and somewhat educated people for a large chunk of her life.
Language, you see, is part of our upbringing and sometimes we may resist the novelty just because it’s new. Neither them nor even my mother ever utter/uttered ‘mashi’ themselves.
It seemed the usage of ‘mashi’ we’re discussing herein has made an appearance sometimes in the second part of the 20th Century, maybe late 1960s or 1970. Not too sure because I wasn’t there. Yet likely as some agree, it was following the 1952 Coup that new words came to being in Egypt while others seemed to slowly vanish. What I do remember from childhood is that the word almost intruded into our everyday dialect and vocabulary; that it was used by certain kind of people and not others. One, for instance, wouldn’t easily find it in dialogues in old classical black-and-white Egyptian movies.
Sometimes you would hear simple-minded peasants among the subordinate, less educated portion of society sometimes taking it further by combining both ‘mashi’ and ‘hader’: “Mashi 7ader” ( ماشي حاضر ) — often said when addressing their bosses or landlords.
What remains interesting is 40 years later the expression seems to have thrived and survived. As I found out through Sabina, the lovely Italian woman who makes yummy home-cooked food at Amanda Market here in Dahab. Whenever asking her to keep me this or that till I’m back from the beach, she would reply with a simple bubbly ‘Mashi’. Other times she would tell me the total in Arabic numbers. She’s been living in Sinai for about eight years so maybe that’s how she practices.
As noticed, I may sometimes use ‘mashi’ but only when talking with certain common people, like workers, handymen, dealers. I have probably never used it with family members.
One final Snapple Fact to conclude this bit is that in Yemen, ‘Mashi’ means no — from ‘ma’ shei2’ ( ما شيء ), no thing. So it is somewhat of an antonym or the opposite of the Egyptian version. Without knowing this simple piece of info, Yemenis in Egypt or Egyptians in Yemen may face some funny confusion in their everyday interactions.
‘Efendim’ is originally a Turkish word that was borrowed into Egyptian Arabic ever since the Ottoman Empire. Meaning ‘sir’ or ‘mister’, it is a respectful reply to someone calling you. For Turks and Egyptians, ‘efendim’ and ‘afandem’ are used when responding to someone who has a certain authority over oneself, sometimes in the military.
It could likewise be a reply followed a question mark when one does not hear or not understand what had been said. So ‘afandem?’ here means “excuse me?, what?”
Efendim/afandem is related to “Effendi /Effendy”, which was former title of nobility in the Ottoman Empire and the Caucasus, meaning sir, lord or master. It was especially used with for government officials and men who are members of the aristocracy.
When used as a form of address in Egypt ‘ya’ is added before ‘fandem’.
Famous examples are the department stores “Omar Effendi” founded in 1856 Egypt. Also Youssef Effendi who first introduced the mandarin fruit to Egypt during the era of Muhammed Ali, the Ottoman Albanian ruler of Egypt from 1805 to 1848, after bringing the saplings from the Island of Malta. As a token of appreciation, Muhammed Ali named mandarine in Arabic after the man: Youssef Effendi ( يوسف أفندي ), becoming youssefi ( يوسفي ) and sometimes contracted in Egyptian Arabic to youstafandi ( يوسفندي / يوستفندي ).
More about the topic can be found in another earlier article The Difference Between Mandarin, Tangerine, and Clementine.
Having direct Turkish roots in my paternal family as well as with several other relatives left and right, we grew up using certain words at home, which other more “purely Egyptians” would not. And it only became apparent when growing up and meeting different people with different backgrounds and from different social circles. Our Arabic dialect and vocabularies slightly varied.
I recall when at some point younger me replaced it with ‘na3am’ or even ‘eih’ to reply to my father, he kind of corrected me: “It’s called Afandem”. However, if we really think about it, ‘na3am’ is ‘yes’ in proper literary Arabic. So he was almost subconsciously favouring the Turkish-borrowed word because his own family and upbringing.
Unlike ‘hadretak’, I still use ‘afandem’ to this day actually, sometimes sarcastically as a question. It’s like a response to hearing something strange, stupid or ridiculous. Like “what?!, huh?!”. I also kiss women’s hands and tip my hat to them. Uhu.
Outside of the realm of police, military, governmental institutions and large organisations you don’t hear afandem or ya fandem much nowadays, certainly not here in Dahab among the Bedouins. The formal Turkish word didn’t make it to Sinai it seems.
So as we have seen in the list, terms and their usage indeed develop with time and among different cultures. Many words have more than one meaning and may mean different things depending on context. Language, Ladies and Gentlemen, is alive, constantly changing and evolving according to the demands of each era. This also makes it elusive; beautiful yet also limiting. I still absolutely love it, or them more likely.
And the Egyptian Arabic language is no different. Some word almost disappear, which will follow in a coming article, others stick around while also shape-shifting to include different meanings. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed conjuring.
سلام — Peace
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