A family discussion in name

In many families in Tanta, as anywhere, there comes an evening when everyone gathers to decide something together: whether to sell the old flat, who will look after an ageing parent, what to do with the land outside town.

When it works, it is a remarkable thing. Each person speaks, and the youngest cousin is heard with the same patience as the eldest uncle. Nobody can hide behind somebody else, because afterwards there is no one to blame except the room. While one person talks, the others actually listen rather than rehearse their reply. People change their minds when a better argument arrives. And when the decision is made, those who lost go along with it.

That is a great deal to ask of a family. It rests on trust, on shared history, and on the knowledge that everyone will still be at the same table next Friday. It is why it works with a dozen people and rarely with a hundred.

Then there is the other kind of evening. Everyone is invited, the table is laid, and the eldest uncle explains what is going to happen. Questions are allowed. Votes are not. The decision was made before anyone arrived, and the gathering exists so that it can be called a family discussion.

There is nothing wrong with that second evening in itself. An uncle with the nerve to set out plainly what he wants for the family, and why, can do a lot of good. People like to know where they stand.

But it is an announcement, and nobody at the table is fooled. Calling it a discussion asks people to bring the care, the listening and the willingness to give way that a real one demands, and then gives them nothing to spend it on.

If you want to hear what people think, ask them properly, and in a way that lets them answer. If you have already decided, say so.