Abas' story

I know it has been a long time since I've written anything, but I haven't had much worth writing about until today. It's been a few weeks of school work and mostly monotony.
Today, however, I arrived at the Old Campus in downtown Cairo to teach my music class. When I reached the classroom I am supposed to teach in, Abas (the Sudanese refugee who runs the music classes overall) was standing outside his room. He didn't have any students yet, so we sat in my room and talked for about 45 minutes until one of his students showed up. It's 4 now and I have no students yet, so I'm assuming that I won't be teaching today. That being said, I learned more about life in a half hour from Abas than I think I've learned in any class this semester.
Abas has been sick for about a week or so (as I have, but I've only had a cold), so we started by talking about that for a few minutes. (Apparently Middle Easterners like to explain in more specifics than I am ever ready for how they are sick. If you're sick, they want you to tell them details.) Anyway, somehow the conversation moved to Abas needing to call his brother, I think to borrow some money. He mentioned that he had to sell his guitar for some money, noting that he would "buy another one later." This is a man who loves music more than anything, it seems, and the guitar is his instrument, his way of expression. Upon him telling me that he had to sell his guitar to make ends meet, it saddened me deeply. He said that his apartment costs 750LE a month, the equivalent of about $150, and apparently he has trouble paying for it. This is the same man who bought me dinner last time he saw me and refused to let me pay for it, no matter what.
Abas then explained how much he loves America and wants to eventually get his paperwork in order and procure enough money to move there. He had the opportunity many years ago but couldn't afford the visa. His eyes lit up as he was telling me that he heard that all Americans love music and that people play music in the streets. At first, that sounded ridiculous to me, but the more I thought about it, I realized how much music there is in DC that I could go listen to, often for free, but I don't make that part of my life there. He seemed disgusted that people in Cairo don't appreciate music. Abas loves jazz and can't understand why Egyptians don't.
He moved on to tell me about his past; he had a "beautiful house" and land in Sudan. He spent about four years in and out of jail for no apparent reason; no courts, no law. Eventually, about 6 years ago, he was able to leave, but he had to abandon everything he had in Sudan. He still has a paper to prove the ownership of his land. One day, he'll have a new house and land, he says.
He told me about the family members he left behind. At least 8 have disappeared; he knows that two were killed, according to the International Red Cross. When he went to inquire about the file that said who killed them in order to include it in his report for the International Criminal Court, the file had disappeared.
To anyone reading this entry, this is just another story about another refugee, I know. There's no way for me to convey the power of hearing this story first-hand. The way he could say his two nephews were killed while conveying that it was senseless but at the same time almost routine is impossible to duplicate.
I thought I was coming here to teach today; I didn't expect how much I would learn.