All language subtitles for From.Meir.to.Meir.2021-English

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I don't remember the first time
I traveled, as I was so young.

But I've always traveled a lot.

Traveling is a part of my life.

Sometimes I choose to travel,
but it's not always my choice.

I don't like empty houses
and abandoned streets.

But I certainly like to return home.

How many of us can choose their journey?

Who can decide when to leave
and when to come back?

Or even decide their destination?

I was born in Alexandria.

All my family and relatives
used to live there.

My grandmother, Saneya Loza,
and my grandfather, Habib Malek Barsoum,

were originally from a village
called Meir.

Meir is almost 400 kilometers
south of Cairo,

in the governorate of Asiut,
next to Qusiya,

near the ancient Muharraq Monastery.

Many of the residents of Meir are Copts.

I was very close to my grandmother
and she always talked about Meir,

how much she loved this village
and how proud she was to be from there.

My grandparents got married in Meir,

in my grandmother's family home,
the Loza House, which was built in 1934.

Meir was the place
where their key life events took place,

the place where they met…

where they have roots
and where their parents were buried.

The place they left, but never forgot.

Especially my grandmother.

My grandma was attached to Meir
and I was attached to my grandma.

I grew up very curious to see Meir,

even though we have
no remaining relatives there or property.

When I had a chance, I decided to go.

When I told my grandma, she was very happy
and she sent her greetings to Meir.

-Do you have the keys for upstairs?
-Yes.

The other one was torn down,
unfortunately.

-Who are you?
-I am Saneya Loza's granddaughter.

Welcome.

The first time I went to film in Meir
was in 2008.

Many people opened their homes
and hearts to me

only because I had roots in Meir.

I was curious to see the places
that were important to my grandmother.

Meir was a vibrant and crowded village,
full of gatherings and occasions.

If you go near any house there,
you'll probably find the door open

and people are sitting outside.

If a door is closed, it probably means
that the house residents are traveling.

When you go into any house,
they will buy a variety of soft drinks.

Televisions are always on.

If you visit a bride,
she'll open her cupboards

to show you her trousseau.

I was invited to many occasions.

I attended Demiana's baby shower party.

And I also attended Bassam
and Mariam's bachelorette party.

Clap your hands!

And on Sham el Nessim,
they urged me to come early to film.

They wake up at dawn
and hammer onions on the doors,

and those who don't, the winds
of the khamsin will overtake them

and they will be lazy all year.

I grew to love the village and its people.
I wanted to know them more.

Everyone told me
that I had to talk to Samir El Qommos.

I was born and raised in Meir.

I went to primary school in Meir.

Meir is a very fertile village.

As the saying goes, "An unlucky man will
remain unlucky even if he plants in Meir.

If his plants grow,
the birds will eat them."

This is my father, Father Luka,
and me, Samir, when I was five.

This is Father Hanna, my grandfather.

His father was a priest.

And his uncle was also a priest.

How long have the Meir priests
been from your family?

Since the fourth century.

The priesthood was taken from my family
during my era in 1962.

If I had been ordained, I would've been
a priest for 47 years today.

I am an encyclopedia.
Everyone knows I'm Meir's record keeper.

I keep records for Meir
and for the whole diocese.

I got to know Madiha.

She was living with her parents
because her husband was working in Kuwait.

Her mother was in mourning

because Madiha's 19-year-old brother
had passed away.

One of the friendliest people I met
in Meir was Um Michael.

She was always smiling.

Um Michael is a widow
and she has three married daughters.

Her youngest son Michael
still lives with her.

She worked at the primary school

and she invited me
to come film the school party.

Who knows "The Bird"?

"The bird is chirping."

"Filling the world with rhythm."

"Luxury is not our goal."

Let's see who can eat the tomato
without touching it.

Start!

Don't touch it with your hands!

Good!

Here's the winner! Clap for him!

I spent a lot of time
with Abdeltawab and his kids.

Romany, Kirolos, Marianne and Mariam.

Speed up, please.

When they talk to him
They tell him how nice his clothes are

And the man controlled by the woman
May God destroy the woman

-They're there.
-I hope you slap…

And the man controlled by the woman

The sect is almost over…

Romany in particular
always accompanied me.

He wanted to show me
all the places he loved in Meir.

They took me
to the feast of the Virgin Mary

and they showed me
what they usually do there.

I also met Um Youssef.

She invited me to bake cookies
with her for Easter.

Do it like this. Hold it and press it.

-What do you think, Um Youssef?
-Yes, it's fine.

Um Youssef is a brave woman.
She raised her kids alone.

She is considered lucky
because her husband has a job in Kuwait.

Why did you come to our village to film,
Miss Maggie?

I've been trying to answer
Um Youssef's question for years.

Are you going to answer my question?

I don't remember what I told her that day.

I probably told her
I heard about Meir from my grandma

and from many people
who are originally from there.

A lot of families come from Meir
and they are all proud of their origins.

There are many old families here,

like Luka Helmy Greiss, Meir's mayor.

GARAYSSA STREET

The Greiss family are known as "Garayssa."
Their mansion is on the edge of town.

I can see it from the Loza House balcony.

I had read about it in a book
about Egypt's important mansions.

My maternal grandfather built this house.

They were known all over Asiut
as the "Garayssa."

They liked to host dignitaries,

so they built this mansion

to be a presentable place for hosting.

Ever since I remember, it's been the same.

Nothing has changed.

Same carpets, tablecloths and furniture,

everything is in its original state.

Mona Greiss is the only member
of her family who still lives in Meir.

The Greiss is a good family.

They donated five acres of land

to build a hospital in 1951.

BEHMAN STREET

Dr. Benjamin Behman is one
of the pioneers of psychiatry in Egypt.

He's originally from Meir.

Meir gave Egypt many important doctors,

like Dr. Fathi Nassif Loza,

one of the most famous neurologists.

He was the manager of Behman Hospital,

and before him, Dr. Behman established it.

He was also from Meir.

He decided to sell his land in Meir

to buy land and build a hospital.

…Upper-Egyptian, enlightened farmers.

Not "farmers."

There's also the Khanagra family.

There's even a Facebook page
for this big family

from all over the world.

All these people are proud
of being from Meir.

But they all left, just like many people
who live in Meir want to leave.

I'm going to breathe in all the smoke.

The fan will make it burn faster.

You're choking everyone, man!

Do you have an apple flavor hookah?

-Apple tobacco!
-You have to put…

-Aluminum paper used for cigarettes.
-Put cellophane here.

The cellophane used for cigarettes.

-You put the tobacco over the cellophane.
-Put it on the fire.

You put the tobacco on it
and put it on the fire.

They write a warning:

"Smoking causes death
and destroys health."

But it makes no difference.
It's an addiction.

You're used to the stuff.

I've been smoking since I was six.

I swear to God.

Ever since he was a baby.

I was younger than Kirolos.

I can only read a little.

What do you mean?
Can you read the newspaper?

Not to that extent,
the writing is small and confusing.

Kirolos, what do you want to be
when you grow up?

Me?

Nothing comes to mind.

Whatever.

Whatever.

What do you mean? You have to decide.

If God would be kind enough to me,
I'd love to go to Kuwait.

Something like that.

-What do you want to do there?
-What?

-What do you want to do there?
-I'd do any kind of work.

-What?
-Any job.

You'll get paid for anything you do there.

-Dollars!
-Yes.

Over there, if you carry dust,
they'll pay you good money.

Dust on the floor is worth money.

Dollars.

The dollar is equivalent
to 20 or 24 Egyptian pounds.

Up to 28 pounds.

You get money from Kuwait
and spend it here.

You never wanted to be a doctor
or an engineer?

An engineer?

He would have liked that,
but he's illiterate.

We've accepted a tough life,
but it hasn't accepted us.

You've got to have money.
If you don't, you're worth nothing.

Money has blinded people.

How could you say that?

That's the truth. Mind your own business!

Romany, the hookah melted in your hand.
Give a puff to Dad!

Dad is sitting there for no reason.

He melted the hookah in his hand.

For God's sake, give him a puff!

I raised the kids with my husband away.

I got married at 16
and he's only been home for six years.

Kids compare themselves to others.

They ask, "If you can't afford it,
why did you have me?"

They all want to live like those
whose fathers work abroad.

They want mobiles, televisions
and satellite antennas.

They wear nice clothes,
not like the ones whose fathers are here.

Before the feast,
if someone has three or four kids,

how can they afford to buy new clothes?

If he works abroad,
it's easy to do all that.

My husband works in Kuwait.

He couldn't come back home
for the last three years.

I have never visited him,
we can't afford it.

I have six kids.

What should I get?

Beans and falafel.

And get some bread from the fridge. Okay?

Do you need the light?

Mona,

do you want me to cool it for you?

I am just like everyone else,
maybe even worse.

I have six children in school.

My daughter who studies in Cairo
needs a lot of money

and the one in secondary school
takes private lessons.

They all need money
for their private lessons.

The cost of living is high.

People never bought government bread,
we used to bake our own.

Now we buy subsidized bread
because wheat costs 450 pounds.

How can a simple peasant,

who gets paid per day
and depends on God for his daily bread,

how can such a person survive nowadays?

That's the original letter.

And this is the paper before translation.

And this is the second letter.

When the green card response letters
came back,

those who won the green card
had applied through me.

People thought I had a lucky streak.

Everyone started applying through me.

90% of Meir's residents apply through me.

Also 90% of a neighboring village
apply through me.

I have clients from Asiut and Dayrout.

Some even come from Alexandria or Mahalla.

Anyone who knows someone in Meir
sends through me.

Even if they are from Cairo,
they send it through me.

Sometimes people
write their address as Meir,

even if they live in Asiut.

As they feel Meir is a good omen.
They send from Meir and through me.

I was at work when my sister called me.

I couldn't believe it
till I saw it myself.

I held the letter in my hand
and couldn't believe it was for me.

It was a big joy, I was close to tears.

Nothing is impossible with God.

But I couldn't believe that I won
the US green card lottery like my brother.

My brother applied
for six consecutive years and he got it.

I got it after him,
maybe seven years later.

How long have you been applying?
Seven years?

I haven't gotten lucky yet.

My siblings and I applied.

I was doing it for fun.

It was like an annual game.

It was like an annual tradition.

You could win or lose.

But I won.

It doesn't surprise me
that people want to leave Meir.

Everyone I know has left.

And all my generation of cousins
have emigrated from Egypt.

In Cairo, I spoke with people
who are originally from Meir,

but have never lived there.

This is Grandpa Loza,
the one who built the house.

My father, Dr. Fathi Loza's grandfather.

He was from Meir.
They went there during the summer.

I was lucky enough to go with him
in the early '90s.

Since then, whenever my work brings me
to Asiut for a medical lecture,

I always pass by Meir.

They are all deeply rooted here,

they love their village
and the people in it.

Our grandparents instilled
this sense of belonging

and the love for the land.

Anyone who dies in Cairo
is buried here in Meir.

I spend a night there, in October.

They ask me why I do that, I answer:
"Just like the navy."

-What ties you to Meir?
-My origins.

When someone asks me
if I have a foreign gene,

I say that all my ancestors are from Meir,

from both sides of the family.

No one can take that away from you.

When people talk about passports nowadays,
as it's a fad to have foreign passports,

I say I only have
the Upper-Egyptian passport.

I have no other passports.

My grandma told me why they left Meir.

She and her siblings
went to the American School in Asiut.

My grandfather also
went to the same school.

When he finished school,
he went to France to study dentistry.

They used to write letters to each other.

When he returned,
they got married and left Meir.

In the beginning,
they visited Meir over the holidays.

Eventually they stopped going
to Upper Egypt

and they remained in Alexandria
till the end.

My grandma's cousin, Samir Loza, told me
how the rest of the family left Meir.

Grandpa Loza had 400 to 500 acres
when he died.

The master plan was for his oldest son,
Sargious,

to take care of his brothers' land.

My uncle Nassif was at Cairo University
and then he established a legal practice.

My father, Fahim Loza, was in Oxford.

All together, then they divided the land.

When they divided the land,
everyone took their share.

Things started getting smaller.

Dividing the land gave them
less reasons to stay in Meir.

That's true, but migration from villages
started earlier, I think.

People started leaving villages
to go to the cities.

It wasn't only in Egypt,
it was all over the world.

Industrialization and migration to cities
was a worldwide phenomenon.

Not just in Egypt and the south of Egypt,

but all over the world,
and for educational purposes.

I know that they moved from Meir to Cairo

so that the kids could go to good schools.

I'm pumping for nothing, there's no water.

Abdeltawab has no land or property.
He gets paid per day.

Sometimes he cleans houses
and sometimes he works in the field.

Make it bigger-- it popped.

See how big Mariam's bubble is.

Boy, don't chew gum, only girls chew gum.

Take it off your nose.

One day he was working
in a field called Karoot,

a place Romany and his siblings
love to visit.

When you aim for something,
you have to get it.

Are you trying to catch birds?

I'll get you two or three
to eat for dinner.

Part of what we inherited,
my father's inheritance--

There was a land in Karoot,
in the desert-- the land was utter chaos.

The Loza land can't be in this state.

We have to be men. I made a vow.

I said I will make everyone see
how this land will flourish.

If I have to spend money on each tree
to make it bear fruit, I will do it.

And I managed to do it.

I kept taking care of the land
until I sold it for good money.

The day I handed it over,
I cried my eyes out.

-Really?
-Yes.

It was like you uprooted
a plant from the ground.

It is considered a shame to sell the land.

…the mansion
and the peasants' houses around it…

LOZA 1934

They sold the big house,
but my father showed it to me.

We kept a small part
which used to be the office.

It's quite a big house,
it had three floors.

It still belongs to the family.

Shahira took the classic salon.

When they sold the house,
every family member took something.

My father took the salon.

It's like it was, this is it.

After that I took it
and it's very precious to me

because it's from Meir.

And I have the china
from the Loza House in Meir.

My grandmother gave it to me.

She treasured it because it belonged
to her grandmother Sereira.

She took it when the house was sold.

It's very precious to me too,
and I like to use it.

These earrings belonged
to my great grandmother Sereira.

Sereira was my father's grandmother.

What we hear about Sereira
is that she was a very good woman.

People still remember her.

I was astonished
that after all these years,

people still call us
Sereira's descendants.

My aunt told me that Sereira
was not only charitable,

but even though she lost her eyesight,
she used to stand in all the feasts.

That's what my aunt said,
she would stand beside her

and she would know everyone
in the village by name.

She had an impact on people.

I know that these were her earrings
and I am proud to have them.

But I am more proud
of what this woman did.

Despite her difficulties,
she still managed to give.

People should know how important
Upper-Egyptian women are.

One thing I inherited from my grandmother
is a tune I can still play.

Grandma loved this hymn
and she tried to teach me to play it.

My grandma and her sister used to play
the piano on Sundays at church.

They had a piano at home.

When my grandma got married,
the piano stayed with her younger sister.

Her sister died when she was 20.

When she died,
they gave the piano to the church.

One of the first things I did in Meir
the first time was to go see this piano.

And I went there multiple times after that
to see if it was still there.

One day, Abdeltawab was hired
to make keshk. I went with them.

The keshk season was one of the things
I wanted to attend in Meir.

Keshk is a hassle to make.

In the name of the cross.

-Take this.
-Sit down.

-Do you like to eat it like this?
-Me?

-Is this the right way to eat it?
-It is!

It's nice.

Keshk is a genuine
Upper-Egyptian food staple.

Grandma used to make it a lot.

I have the recipe in a cookbook
that belonged to my grandma.

And like her, I say

we make the Upper-Egyptian keshk
not the "northern" recipe.

My father used to say keshk
were the first cornflakes in the world.

He used to crumble it in milk,

or put it in his pocket
if he was going on a trip to munch on it.

We get it every year.

And we also ask for Upper-Egyptian bread.

These are traditions
that we hold on to dearly.

They have to travel.
Many of the youth can't find any jobs.

There aren't many job opportunities here.

When you left Kuwait,
why did you settle here?

Why didn't you go to Cairo or Alexandria?

I have a plot of land here,
how can I leave?

This is our land.

To live in the city, one must have…

People who go to cities have a future
or a business.

You have to be young
to create a new community and a family.

But if I go, I'll be a stranger.
I'll be a stranger to them and vice versa.

If we all leave the village,
who will stay?

Meir will be empty.

Would you like some tea, Mario? Come here.

Here it is!

Everyone should have their own cups.

My daughter is a pharmacist in Asiut.

She tried to convince us to sell our house
and move to Asiut.

Her father refused.
He said, "This is my hometown."

They can visit us here. I have--

For a person to move
from one place to another,

he must have relatives surrounding him.

Otherwise, he will feel trapped,
like strangers do.

People's words resonated with me.

What do people who don't have
the chance to travel do?

-The devil made him do it.
-They took him to Qusiya.

He's young, in his twenties-- 21 or 22.

As you can see,

we all gathered because the boy killed
himself and they took him to Qusiya.

We're all preoccupied.

Saber's son. Saber Narooz.

He burned himself to death
and they took him to Qusiya.

Why did he do that?

-I don't know, dear. Only God knows.
-No one knows.

We weren't here,
we live on the west side of the village.

I came to see what happened.
I don't know anything, dear.

The suicides,
like the boy who killed himself today,

it's… the family's fault.

His wife had a baby two weeks ago.

The baby needs milk
or needs to go to the doctor or whatever.

And the man had no money. None.

And he didn't have a military release,
he couldn't travel.

He always needed money from his parents.

He would sell household items
and cause problems.

All the doors were closed in his face.

So he thought that this was
the only solution.

He just wanted to end his own life.

My brother-in-law took his own life.

He, too, swallowed the insecticide pill.
He committed suicide.

I think people lose their will.

When all doors close in their faces,

they become powerless and helpless.

I don't know.

It makes me sad,
whenever I hear that someone…

Because they lose both life
and the afterlife.

Those things never happened
in Meir before.

My mother's cousin couldn't have kids.
She was the one with the problem.

She tried for a long time,
but she didn't succeed.

Her husband left for the US.

He would call and say
he wanted to marry someone else.

Yes.

An American woman called her,

she said she was his wife
and that they had a daughter.

She said they could have her come
to the States as a housekeeper.

So she committed suicide.

She couldn't take it, nor take the words
of her family, so she killed herself.

Sometimes these suicides happen
because a woman can't have kids.

The husband keeps nagging
that he wants to remarry,

and when the woman can't take it anymore,
she takes the pills.

My uncle told my father,

"Your son threatened to kill himself
if you don't treat him better."

My father humiliated him in front
of everyone if he did something wrong.

It hurt my brother a lot.
He was already a young man.

My uncle told my father,
but didn't tell us.

We had no idea.

And one day, when he was in the field,
my father made fun of him.

So my brother left,
he went to church and it was closed.

Really. It was Wednesday at 8:30 a.m.

He was working in the field
and my dad made fun of him, so he left.

He used to beat him and swear at him.

And you can imagine, a young man
needs respect and encouragement.

He found the church closed,

so he took a pill and he died.

We took him to the hospital,
but it was too late.

When a suicide would happen,
and I witnessed this,

some people would say,
"How can these losers do this?

How can they kill themselves?"

The shock is that the people
who said this, killed themselves too.

These are situations I lived through
and witnessed.

Calls come to the church,

"You shouldn't do funeral prayers
for those who kill themselves."

That's what we all used to say

when the cases
were all people outside the church.

Now it's people who are always at church.

They lived inside the church,
they served within it

and they killed themselves.

If they too did this, then I think
we must look at suicide differently.

I mean--

I don't know what to say,
it is a phenomenon worth studying.

It shows that people are…
far away from God.

And that people are under pressure
and they can't deal with it.

It's contagious, people are tired.

I assure you if anyone sensed
that someone was going to kill themselves,

it would have been prevented for sure.

But those people exhibited no symptoms.

Not even depression?

They were people who suffered
just like everyone else,

but they talked normally,
laughed normally.

They led completely normal lives.
Nothing out of the ordinary.

Suddenly we hear that there was a problem.

And most of them were good,
reasonable people.

I… don't know why people do this.

The prodigal son

represents all of us.

He feels dissatisfied with his life.

He feels trapped,
he wants freedom, he wants wings.

He either wants to flee

and leave this community,

or he begins to sin against his society.

The first sin a person commits
are sins against the self.

You only harm yourself, not anyone else.
He destroys himself with his own hands.

I'm going to wear a new pair of glasses.

-I take the old ones with me to work.
-For work.

I have had these for two months.

-They're cuter than the other ones.
-Yes, they're newer.

Both Muslims and Christians
commit suicide here in Meir.

Lots in Meir.

There's one on Najarin St.

Another on Qatayta St.

And another one here on our street.

And… here's another one.

That makes them four,
but I won't say their names,

because I don't want to be hurtful.

The first woman was abused by her husband.

And she was a good woman,
God rest her soul.

The second was a married man with kids.

He shot his son and injured him.

They arrested him,

he took the pesticide pill
at the police station and he died.

The third was a woman on Khanajra St.

Her husband used to love her,
but his mother tortured her.

They left Meir
and bought a house in Asiut.

She killed herself.
Her husband remarried four months later.

There was a teacher
at the agriculture school.

He used to take bribes from the students.

The parents filed a complaint
at the police station.

While he was on his way
to the police station--

he was in a tuk-tuk--

he took the pill
and died in front of the police station.

Here also, another man was upset,
so he burned himself to death.

Here in this street.

Another woman swallowed the pills
when her husband died.

Samir kept talking.

He used to record all the village events:

marriages, deaths and causes of death.

He was very keen on keeping records
just like his ancestors used to do.

It was clear from his records
that there were many suicides.

Yes, he was old and his kids were adults.

They had a fight, so he took the pill.
I wish they would ban it.

They banned it from pharmacies.

It's not sold in pharmacies anymore,
it's only sold in the insecticide store.

If you want to buy pills for wheat,
you can get it at the insecticide store.

Everyone who has a problem
commits suicide?

It's a losing game.

Are most of them men or women?

Mixed. Both. Women, men…
It's one thing they have in common.

Not just for one group. For everyone.

-Mostly old or young people?
-What?

Old people or young people?

Both, no-- most of them are young.

Old people want to live forever.

Explain.

Old people want to live to be a hundred.

It's the young people who have it hard.

They give up and kill themselves.

You belong in the cemetery!

I wish.

-I look forward to that day.
-No worries.

If you are in a hurry,
just buy two pills and get it over with.

No way! I would lose everything,
this life and the afterlife.

-You'll be an infidel.
-Thank God!

I have enough to eat and drink. Thank God!

Anyone who does that is an infidel.

If you want, I can buy you some.

Shut up, kid! You talk so much!

You can end your life with only one pound.

Easy. Two pills cost 50 piastres each.

No way. I have enough and I am fine.
Thank God!

Every day God supplies my needs.

-I swear! Everyday.
-Just like I said,

old people want to live forever.

She's scared of dying--

Do you think
swallowing a pill is right, Miss?

And young people--

Shut your mouth, you silly kid!
You're an infidel!

-Whoever does that is an infidel.
-Yes, of course.

No, they're not infidels.
They're desperate.

No, he will lose this life
and the next one.

I went to Um Shenouda,
whose son burned himself.

Since he died, I can't sleep.

He was something good in my life
and now he's gone.

Was he alone at home?

No, we were home.
But his room is on the third floor.

You didn't sense anything?

By the time we sensed something
was wrong, we broke the door.

Is he aware that he was born, raised,
was married and had a son?

Is he aware that he is someplace else now?

If he lacked anything here on earth,
will God give it to him there?

If he needed something

and he couldn't get it,
will God give it to him there?

Here it is, Romany.

In front of the camera.

I left Meir wondering if I come again,
who will still be here?

Who will leave? Who will stay?

And if someone traveled,
where would they go?

I returned 12 years later.

The village seemed emptier.
More houses were closed.

More people traveled.

Some of the people I filmed with before
were now reluctant to film

due to the rise of social media
and Facebook.

You're going to be in the film!

They're filming everyone.

I was eager to see the people
I visited before.

You haven't changed a bit.

People who know me since high school
say I haven't changed.

-This is your house, right?
-Yes, the living room is upstairs.

We fixed it up a bit,
but we haven't painted yet.

-Your husband was in Kuwait?
-Yes, but he's been back for ten years.

He returned shortly
after you filmed last time.

He got hepatitis B and so they let him go.

They paid him a settlement.
That's why I opened the store.

My three daughters got married.

The oldest one has two boys.

And the youngest has a son

and she's pregnant--
her due date is next month.

The middle one has a son
and is also pregnant.

The youngest, Youssef,
is still not married. He went to Kuwait.

He finished school

and he finished his studies
at the institute,

then his uncles said they wanted him
to join them in Kuwait.

It's better than Meir,
so I agreed and he went.

He stayed there for a year and a half,
and then came for a holiday.

And now he's there.

Because my girls got married

and my son is away,
the holidays became hard.

Last Easter we went to church
and came home.

My husband and I sat at the table
and it was empty.

I said, "Remember when the kids were here?

The house was boisterous
and the table wasn't big enough.

Now it's just me and you."

I put the food on the table,
but we didn't eat.

My husband cried
and said the full house is now empty.

They all left.

Full houses are great.

So many people left.

Young people leave for work
and get married elsewhere.

Many homes are now closed.

No one moves here.

Some people come to visit their families,

but no one comes to settle here.

My daughter, Mervat, is away.
She's in America.

I went to the airport
and traveled to see her.

We went to New York first,

then we took another two-hour flight,

then we took another
half-hour flight to Nashville.

I liked it. It's very quiet.
You don't see any people.

It's tough that they are so alone.

They only see people at church
or at work, that's it.

But at home,
they only see cars on the street.

They do not see any people.

How did the last 12 years treat you?

It's not 12 years, 13 or maybe 14.

They were tough.

Even at night, I can't sleep.

I always think of my son who died.

Because I had him after four girls
and Mokhtar.

The tears stay with me.

His wife remarried two years
after he died.

Samir El Qommos died in 2017.

His son still has all his records.

He used to love to keep records
and write everything down.

He was very organized.

Here people don't keep records on deaths,

marriages or baptisms.

So he was keen on keeping
a record for the village.

How many people died every year,
how many births.

He wrote the cause of death,
he always asked about it.

During the last ten years,
there were suicide cases.

Mostly by taking the pills
used to preserve wheat.

It's called the insecticide pill,
it's sold in pharmacies.

We noticed that none of the suicide cases
were from old-aged people,

they were all young people.

The people I wanted to see
were Romany, Kirolos and their family.

When I visited them
they told me that Romany died in 2016.

My life has changed.

He died in 2016. He was 24 years old.

Or 25 years old.

"Blood poisoning, Romany Abdeltawab."

-Where did he die?
-He died in the Amal hospital.

JOSEPH SAMEER FAHEEM

I remember very well.

When you left, you told me,
"I'm sure I will see you again."

And here we are, so many years later.

-Come here, I'll film you.
-Come.

Make it bigger!

Pop it! Did you see how Mariam did it?

I'll leave if I get the chance.

Do you want to move to Cairo?
Or do you mean America?

I want to move to Paris.

-What?
-Paris.

I want to live anywhere other than here,
but my dream is to live in Paris.

I love my village.

When I visit my daughter in Alexandria,
I like to come back here.

If people don't see me for a day or two,
they come and ask about me.

In cities, people don't care about anyone.

Here they gather around each other
for weddings, funerals and births.

We were born here and our ancestors
were born here, so we love it.

Bad things might happen here,
but we have no means to go elsewhere.

Twelve years ago,
Um Youssef asked me why I was filming.

Meir is a village
just like any village in Egypt.

I think now I know why.

It's because I got to know
the people of Meir.

Even though there is no street
named after Um Youssef or Um Shenouda,

or a famous castle
that belongs to Romany's family,

or a square named after Samir el Qommos,

I wish everyone would know them
and know the people of Meir.

The piano will end up in the junkyard
in a few years.

But I will still remember the tune
my grandma taught me.

Land gets sold, houses get torn down
and others built in their places,

but it's the people
who make you go visit a place.

I'd love to go to Meir again,
to visit the people I met there,

and see their children and grandchildren,
even if they leave Meir.

When we meet again,
they will probably say, "Come on in."

And they will take me with them
on new journeys.

Open the monastery, priest
We are from Meir

Open the castle, priest
We are from Cairo

Open the monastery, priest
We are from Meir