“Egypt is the gift of the Nile,” the Greek historian Herodotus once wrote.
The Nile was born of a fissure torn in the earth some thirty million years ago, becoming the longest and most majestic of all the rivers of the world. In ancient Egypt prayers were sung to the Nile and in praise of its fertile, nourishing waters. The people cultivated crops in the black silt of its delta, and fished for bountiful catch in its crystal-clear waters. The rustling reeds of the Nile were made into papyrus, the material that brought writing and culture. Feluccas and longboats sailed over the waters under the white light of the Orient; the Nile was the backbone of Egypt, with all her great cities built along its waterside.
Then the Pharaoh ordered his people to slay all the newborn males of the Hebrews. Brutish men invaded the cities, knives drawn, killing the children before their parents’ terrified eyes. The population of Egypt must be purified, and the coming rebellion smothered in its cradle, for the Hebrews had become a threat. Yokheved had given birth to a son, a boy so beautiful that he appeared shrouded in a halo of light and grace as he lay on her belly. But Yokheved feared for her son, condemned to death when he had barely yet begun to live. She hid him away for days, weeks and months. Nobody must ever see him, or know of his existence. She soothed his tears and pressed him against her breast to smother his cries. Then one morning, Yokheved made the most painful decision any mother could make: she wrapped her son in linens, kissed him tenderly on the forehead and placed him in a basket of reeds along the banks of the Nile. She prayed to the river to take care of her son. Her prayer was so long and full of devotion that she saw the basket disappear, carrying off her infant along the infinite blue. The reeds sang, and the herons lifted their long legs in sadness. The child had been saved; she was sure of it.
The Pharaoh’s daughter was bathing in the Nile with her maidservants. An air of mystery appeared to hover over the waters; an unseen presence or a fleeting mist. As it departed, the Pharaoh’s daughter espied an object in the water, and she felt faint. Something was coming into view, but what was it? One of her servants exclaimed: “Look, there’s a basket floating on the water! Perhaps it carries a message.” The Pharaoh’s daughter swam out to claim the basket that was floating along. She heard cooing and whimpering, and then the baby smiled up at her. Who would abandon a baby on the Nile? This could only be a Hebrew child. “What’s your name?” the Pharaoh’s daughter wondered, as one servant carried the baby and another caressed its timorous feet. The Pharaoh’s daughter placed her hand on its forehead and felt the warm softness of its skin. The boy had no name, and the basket contained no message. But how beautiful he was! His eyes were as dark as the silt of the Nile. He did not cry, but appeared to smile knowingly at the Pharaoh’s daughter, as if already a man. She decided to call him Moses, which meant ‘saved from the waters.’
The fisherman cast his net out over the Nile. The river was filled with history, and every morning he contemplated the sun as it rose over these mysterious waters. Where was the child who would be saved from these waters to defend the oppressed of our time?
Alan Alfredo Geday