This is certainly true in Kafr el Arbein, Egypt, birthplace of my friend, Hamdy Nossair. Hamdy is president of Orlando-based HLO Tours and has taken me to visit his village several times over the years. My most memorable visit occurred last fall during Ramadan, the Muslim Holy Month, which is a time for fasting and charity.

"I usually help the village primary school," Hamdy told me. "Many students are poor; their parents can’t afford school uniforms or tuition and the school can’t afford proper supplies."

So, I decided to help. Then I called some Vero friends who visited Egypt with me in 1997. Almost overnight, they raised $600, more than enough to make a difference.

Few Americans were on the EgyptAir flight from JFK to Cairo. Egypt has not been a popular destination since September 11, 2001. Ironically, 2002 was a record year for tourism in Egypt, even without us. Egyptians are fond of Americans, but many feel our absence since 9-11 somehow means we hold them responsible. It’s like blaming the State of Oklahoma for Timothy McVeigh.

Kafr el Arbein lies about 40 miles north of Cairo in the fertile Nile Delta region. A ten-foot wide irrigation canal leads to and through the village. Beyond the canal is an orange grove and beyond that the farmers’ fields. They grow a variety of crops on their small plots, all familiar foods.

Most homes in the village are brick apartment-style buildings clustered together. Chickens, dogs, cats and goats roam narrow dirt streets. Homes have electricity, indoor plumbing, television and cell phones. In fact, the only real differences are clothing (they wear full-length cotton galibayas), language (they speak Egyptian Arabic) and where they worship God (in mosques instead of churches). Everyone knows everyone else, people congregate to talk and gossip, discuss farm prices, politics, or the Imam’s latest sermon.

Hamdy’s childhood home features a courtyard lined with pew-like benches among the ficus trees and loofa vines. That was where I would spend most of my time, chatting with locals, sipping tea and smoking a sheesha, the Egyptian water pipe that burns aromatic apple tobacco and is a ubiquitous symbol of Egyptian social culture.

Upon our arrival at Kafr el Arbein, we were greeted by a welcoming committee that included Mayor Abdullah al Meged along with many of Hamdy’s relatives and friends.

"Welcome, Mr. Milt," the mayor said to me with arms outstretched.

"Salaam Alykum, Hedrita Omda (Greetings, Your Honor)," I replied.

Mayor al-Meged was in his late-60s, stood about six-foot three inches tall and sported a bushy grey moustache. He wore a black galibaya and black-framed glasses with coke-bottle lenses.

He knew only a few words of English and spoke them in his deep, stentorian voice.

"How are you?" He held out a pack of L&M’s. "Cigarette?"

"I don’t smoke," I said, "No thanks."

But he continued to offer the pack and again said, "Cigarette?"

This time I responded in Arabic, "La, shokrun (No thanks)."

He continued to ignore me, so I finally took a cigarette and thanked him as he lit it.

We then went inside to see Hamdy’s mother. She was a frail, shy woman, barely five feet tall, always dressed in a black galibaya. At age 76, she was battling cancer and weighed no more than 80 pounds. She spoke no English, and rarely left the house. She knew me from prior visits, but could never remember my name and insisted on calling me "George Bush."

Later, as I sat outside with the greeting committee having tea and sheesha, a booming voice proclaimed, "Mr. Milt, you have come back to see me!"

The voice belonged to Mohammed Gouda, a 35-year old attorney who practiced in Benha City, seven miles away. He was dressed in a navy blue business suit and colorful tie, carrying his briefcase.

We hugged and kissed cheeks. He greeted the others in Arabic then turned to me with a smile and said, "Mr. Milt, I believe you have brought me a gift, yes?"

Several weeks earlier, Hamdy told me that Mohammed wanted a shirt from America. His four-XL size was difficult to find in Egypt. My wife bought the only one available in Vero, a polo shirt at T.J. Maxx.

I gave him the shirt and he immediately removed his jacket to try it on. "A perfect fit!" he announced, parading around the courtyard. "Where did you find this beautiful shirt, Mr. Milt?"

"I bought it from Omar the Tentmaker."

He burst out laughing, then translated and everyone else laughed. "Mr. Milt, if you ever need an attorney in Egypt, I will not charge you!"

I thanked him and noticed the others weren’t so pleased. Attorney Gouda had a reputation for demanding cash payment up front for his services. He was no Atticus Finch.

I had no problem falling asleep after they left, but at four AM, I was awakened by a booming bass drum.

It was a wake-up call. During Ramadan, Muslims fast from five AM until five PM every day – no food, drink, smoking, etc. So Muslims must eat breakfast before five AM. After breakfast, they go pray at the mosque, then to work or school.

The wellspring of dignity for Muslims in the Middle East is their religion. Outside of family, it is their primary source of hope in lieu of governments that have failed them economically and politically. Every day begins with the first of five amplified calls to prayer. They pray at work, home, in the field or the mosque. Their language is filled with religious references and expressions. Homes are decorated with verses from the Koran, their Holy Book, as are government offices and entertainment venues. Religious programming dominates local Egyptian TV and radio. People routinely carry copies of the Koran and read it at work, lunch, or on vacation. This is not a government or right wing conspiracy to force religion on people – it is the importance of religion in their lives.

At five o’clock that first evening of Ramadan I sat down with Hamdy’s extended family at "break fast." We began with a traditional cup of dates, then ate a Thanksgiving-size meal. Everything was delightful and most of it recognizable, even to traveling Americans who consider McDonald’s in Paris foreign cuisine. Local dishes included beef or lamb stew, fried chicken, shish kabob, rice, potatoes or macaroni, lentil soup and lots of fresh vegetables.

The evening meal was eaten with all immediate family members present. Happiness for these people comes from family. Their sense of belonging comes from the village or tribe. Their inner strength and dignity comes from their beliefs and traditions. These are the foundation of Egypt’s 6,000-year old civilization.

After our meal, we sat out in the courtyard drinking tea and visiting with neighbors who dropped by. That’s where I announced our Ramadan gift for the children of Kafr el Arbein. I showed them photos of the Vero Beach folks who had visited back in 1997 and said they had contributed money to buy supplies for students at the primary school. Everyone was quite pleased. Egyptians love their children above all else and they were happy to learn that Americans felt the same way.

Next morning, I took a cab to Benha City with Hamdy and one of the primary school officials to buy supplies. There we purchased pens, pencils, composition books, science kits and other materials. We then went back to Hamdy’s house, and along with other members of his family, filled 345 plastic bags, one for every student at each grade level.

Then came the highlight of my trip – giving out supplies to students. The primary school was a modern, three-story brick building where 32 teachers taught grades one through five. Supplies were scarce. Many students worked with pencil stubs and scrap paper. Teachers were paid $50 per month.

Each class came to the principal’s office where Hamdy, his niece and I handed a bag to every excited and grateful student. Needless to say, I became an instant celebrity in Kafr el Arbein. From that day on, whenever I walked down the street, kids would run up and say, "Hallo, Mr. Milt!" Their parents frequently invited Hamdy and I for tea, dinner or dessert.

Every evening after dinner, Mayor al Meged came over, said "Welcome" again and offered me another cigarette. Later, Mohammed Gouda would make a grand appearance, usually on his way home from the office. He spoke English loud enough to be heard in the next village. The mayor would lean toward me and say, "He sound like donkey." We would laugh and then he would ask, "Cigarette?"

One evening, a chemistry professor from the local college came by and spoke flawless English. I asked where he learned to speak so well and he answered, "While I was getting my Ph.D. at the University of Florida."

I was in the house one day and walked by Hamdy’s mother’s room. She called for me. "George Bush," she said, her only English words. She motioned for me to sit by her on the bed, then got up and closed the bedroom door. She went to her dresser, moved around some clothing and produced a box of expensive dessert pastries. She handed me one and smiled approvingly as I ate it, then another and another. I suddenly realized why Hamdy was always asking what happened to the desserts he bought for his nieces and nephews.

My last night, as we sat around the dinner table (actually on the floor picnic-style because they had no table large enough), I told them they would always be my family when I came to Egypt. At that they all started weeping, men and women alike.

The world of Palestinian-Israeli hatred and al Qaeda and was far from this place.

Did I mention that these people were all poor? Hamdy’s family had only a donkey, a bicycle or their feet for transportation. Many families I visited could not afford meat except during Ramadan. Yet, they always had fruit or cookies and tea available when I visited them. Their homes were well-kept, their clothes always clean when not at work or play.

I never felt a sense of poverty. As my mother once told me about growing up in a cold water flat during the Great Depression, she never felt poor because everyone else was in the same boat.

The villagers of Kafr el Arbein convinced me that we are all in the same boat of life, and maybe, if we focused on our similarities with other people instead of our differences, the ride would be a lot more enjoyable.