To Egypt, with love

مصر التي في خاطري و في فمي ، أحبها من كل روحي ودمي

As I sat glued to my TV screen, staring in wide-eyed awe at the developments in Egypt, it occurred to me that it was only three weeks ago that I had jokingly waved goodbye at the Cairo sun before boarding my flight back to London. I never imagined that Egyptians would be making history in my absence, or that the Egypt I hope to return to soon inshAllah will be very different from the Egypt I left behind.

It has been difficult over the past few days to sift through the sheer volume of conflicting thoughts and emotions and reconcile the goosebumps running down my spine with the tears welling up in my eyes. Pride, pain, fear, anxiety, anger, frustration and grief had all been not so neatly packed and delivered in a single bird’s eye view of Tahrir Square. A couple of days ago my flatmate asked me which of these emotions I felt most strongly. Unable to shake the sound of fear in the voices of my family and friends back home or the images of the mothers weeping over their dead, the armored tanks patrolling the streets and the familiar landscape of Cairo going up in smoke and flames, my heart was aching with grief over what was lost and anxiety over what was yet to come.

But yesterday, the overwhelming emotion was pride. For years, Egyptians have been accused of being passive, apathetic citizens, hoping for change, but too afraid to make it happen.  Yet in only a matter of days, decades of “walking close to the wall” melted away to reveal a determined, resilient people. To borrow a phrase from a Model Arab League conference at AUC, Egyptians finally decided to “veto the apathy.” Not only have they been unwavering in their demand for a dignified life, but they have displayed a collective solidarity that would make anyone proud to be Egyptian.

It warmed my heart to hear how in the absence of the police, youth were creating neighborhood watches to safeguard the streets against looters and criminals; how people formed a barricade around the Egyptian Museum to protect our history; how they took it upon themselves to keep the streets clean; and how they offered free food and medical care to sustain the protestors. In this inspiring video by the Daily News Egypt, I saw youth display a sense of pride and ownership that I had never witnessed before. It was then that I realized that the cities and places I cherish may have gone up in flames, but the spirit of my people had been mended, not broken.

I felt this same sense of empowerment myself when I joined a demonstration in front of the Egyptian embassy on Saturday. It was possibly the only moment throughout the past week when I didn’t feel helpless and isolated. I reflected on how easy it was for me to protest compared to those to whom protest meant the possibility that they would not make it home in one piece. As I effortlessly snapped hundreds of photos in plain view of the London police, I remembered how as a student journalist in Cairo I was not allowed to take pictures of the April 6 protest of 2008.

Protesting in front of the Egyptian embassy in London on January 29, 2011.

And now the entire world is tuning in to watch potentially one million people march from Tahrir Square to the Presidential Palace to demand the resignation of President Mubarak. Israeli officials, who made the stupid mistake of expressing their support for the Mubarak regime and creating even more incentive for people to overthrow him, will be sweating profusely at the thought of another unfriendly neighbor in the Middle East. What both Israel and the US fail to recognize is that this is a situation they can neither control nor manage through any amount of political pressure. That Mubarak has to go is no longer even debatable, and this is reflected in the shifting international rhetoric that has moved from talk of “dialogue” to that of “transition.” His delayed responses to the escalating unrest have not only been ludicrous, but too little, too late. And while some believe an end to the protests to be the solution to the worrisome political, economic and security situation in Egypt, this will not and cannot happen without his departure. That he is still stubbornly clinging onto power is in fact mind-boggling.

The most difficult question to answer is what happens next. The long-standing idea that it’s either Mubarak or the Muslim Brotherhood has been refuted by the grassroots and pluralist nature of this movement. My hope is that it will bring about a real, positive change and that the Egyptian people, as well as their political leaders, will be able to maintain their spirit of unity in the face of the difficult times ahead.

Only one thing I know for sure: I should not have waved goodbye to the Cairo sun as I was boarding my flight back to London; I should have waved goodbye to the Egypt I had always known, and prayed for a better Egypt to embrace me when I return.

Livin’ at a massage parlor

Of all the anecdotes I thought I’d be sharing about my time in London, I never thought I’d be able to tell the story of how I was mistaken for a prostitute—not once, not twice, but several times. And no, I haven’t been walking down any seedy alleys or standing on the street in high heels, a wig and fishnet stockings. Yet somehow, a series of desperate lonely men have managed to find their way right to my front door.  Let me illustrate:

 Guy #1

This was only a couple of days after my roommates and I had moved into our apartment, and the intercom rings with our first house call.

 Hello?

Hello.

Yes?

(Unintelligible mumble) Who is this? Open the door.

Who is this?

Uhhh….Tim…

Sorry, you’ve got the wrong place.

 Ok, so the guy was probably lost. No big deal, right? But a couple of days later…

 Guy #2

Hello?

Hello.

Yes? Who is this?

(In a thick British accent) This is Peter.

Yes?

(Still in a thick British accent) Is this a massage parlor?

No…

…

Strange. Why would anyone mistake a house in the middle of a residential area for a massage parlor? (At this point, we thought a massage parlor was where people got massages. We didn’t realize it was actually a common synonym for brothel, but I’ll get to that in a minute.)

In the meantime…  

Guy #3

 Hello?

(Weird accent I cannot place) Hey yaaa.

Yes?

Hey yaaa. Let me in yaaa.

Sorry, you’ve got the wrong pace.

 And a few days after that…

Guy #4

 Hello?

Hey…(Mumbles something)

I’m sorry what?

(Mumbles again)

I’m sorry, I can’t hear you?

I’m here to see a girl.

Umm…sorry…you’ve got the wrong place.

 And another week after that…

Guy # 5

According to my roommate, this guy was so incoherent, he sounded like he was in desperate need of a drug fix.

Hello?

Hello.

Yes? Who is this?

(Mumble) This is Jim. (Mumble)

What are you looking for, Jim?

(Mumble, Mumble, Mumble)

I’m sorry Jim, you’ve got the wrong place. 

Now, at this point, we had a theory: the people who lived here before us were either prostitutes, drug dealers, or prostitutes who dealt drugs.  We didn’t have to wonder for long.

Guy #6

 Hello?

Hello. (Mumble)

I’m sorry, what?

(Mumble again)

I’m sorry, what?

(More mumbling)

I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. What was that?

So, which girl do you have tonight?

I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong place! 

So, which girl do you have tonight? Which girl do you have tonight?! We managed to get over the screaming and the wide-eyed shock long enough to catch a glimpse through the window of Mr. Which-Girl-Do-You-Have-Tonight as he looked around nervously and scampered off.

It was pretty clear by then, but we decided—probably through some combination of denial and wishful thinking—that we needed to investigate further to confirm our theory. And sure enough, all it took was one conversation with the friendly receptionist at the dental office downstairs to confirm that yes, the previous tenants were prostitutes, yes they worked from home, and yes, that’s why the landlady kicked them out four months ago and refurbished the entire place.

I couldn’t believe it. Those same walls where we eat, sleep, study and pray were home to all sorts of activities I don’t even want to think about. All I could think was, thank God the furniture is all new.

And at least the next time our intercom rang, we were prepared to make a run for the window and catch a glimpse of the latest customer.

Guy #7 

Hello?

Hello.

Yes?

Ehh…is this a place where they give massage?

No, sorry. You’ve got the wrong place.

As he walked away from the door, we saw a man in a long beard dressed in a white shirt, a black vest and a yarmulke look around nervously and make his way back to his delivery truck. I guess the prostitutes’ repertoire of customers was just as diverse as London itself.

Different, just like everyone else

I was kneeling with my hands and forehead pressed firmly against the cold concrete floor when I felt the first trickle of water splatter off my coat. As I lifted my head and put my hands on my knees, a few more droplets landed on my face and made their way down my cheeks.

It was another rainy afternoon in London and I was sitting with my body facing southeast and my back against an old brick building, completing my noon prayer.  It was a ritual I had preformed more times than I could count, but there was something very new about performing it outdoors in a foreign country, with the rain tickling my nose and bouncing off my eyelashes.

To be honest, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of creating my own prayer space in the midst of a university campus.  Although my friend and I had chosen a quiet, nearly deserted corner to make our own, I was anticipating the awkward stares of confused passersby and maybe even a request from campus security to refrain from performing religious rituals in public spaces. But with the prayer facilities locked for maintenance, I had to swallow my fears and rise to the occasion.

It wasn’t long before we were back on the street, incident-free. As I played (and lost) a game of tug of war with a gust of wind to keep my umbrella intact, I reflected on how simple it had been. A few students had walked past us, but as far as I could tell, no one gave us a second glance. I realized that my fears were just the excess baggage I had carried over from Egypt, where shameless stares were commonplace and the presence of security, or any men in uniform, for that matter, was a cause for concern, not comfort.

I had also carried the notion that I would be different, a stranger to the city. Although I never anticipated that my headscarf would be a cause for concern, I knew I was bound to stand out in the crowd. My first few days here reaffirmed that belief: the friendly glances from other veiled women as they walked by, the people who would suddenly start speaking to me in Arabic before I could even open my mouth, and the unexpected salam alaikums from random strangers—on the street, in stores, at school, you name it.

When I started to lose count of these recurrences, I realized that the city might be strange to me, but I was certainly no stranger to the city. It’s not only because there are thousands of well-integrated Muslims in London or that the sight of a woman in a headscarf is as common as the words “mind the gap” on the tube, but also because the city embraces a staggering diversity of cultures and human experiences.

Africans, Asians, Whites, Arabs—all with their countless subdivisions—are familiar faces that greet you in every store and on every tube ride, chattering in languages you don’t understand. And every day that I walk through the streets of London, taking in the novelty of places I vaguely remember from old games of monopoly—Strand, Oxford Street,  Piccadilly, Trafalgar Square—I am captivated by this diversity and the realization that I may be different, but I’m different, just like everyone else.

Londontown

It’s been a long time since I’ve had the will or motivation to put thoughts into words and update this blog. But when I set off to start my one year masters in London, I promised a few friends that I would use this adventure as inspiration to start writing again. This may be long overdue, but for those friends—and for anyone else who cares to read this—I will do my best to offer Egyptian-style fool for thought on life in Londontown.

“Money talks, bullshit walks”

It only occurred to me last weekend that in all the trips I had made to the Pyramids—and there were quite a few of those—I always missed the most interesting thing out there.

It hit me when our slick-haired tour guide, latched onto the front left door of our Jeep Pajero with his right arm thrust through the window and the rest of his body dangling dangerously outside, let out a loud chuckle as he yelled, you know the system, money talks and bullshit walks!

Probably just as proud of his ability to crack a joke in English as his feat of bribing the guards to let us near the Pyramids past 4 p.m., he clung onto the car as if it was the most natural thing to do, hopping off only once we had reached the gate.

That’s when I decided that my friends—one Egyptian and one Australian—could admire the monuments of ancient Egyptian civilization all they wanted, but this time, I was devoting my attention to the guide.

For most tourists, the culture of camel keepers, peddlers and self-appointed tour guides are probably the downside of going to the Pyramids. It’s nice to get a picture on a camel or pay someone to give you a quick history lesson, but often, you can’t shake off the feeling that you’re being milked for money.

Dressed in blue jeans, a white shirt and a black leather vest, our guide fit the profile of the street-savvy, self-appointed historian: his English was fairly good, he threw in a question about which city in Australia my friend had come from, he could recount the basic history of the Pyramids, he showed us how to pose like we were holding the Pyramids in our hands, and, like a true marketer, he wrapped up his tour by arranging a photo op with the camel and offering to take us to the papyrus shop (or ‘museum’ as he liked to call it), the Egyptian perfume store and the bazaar.

The store owners were just as enterprising—they started with the usual, welcome, welcome, they offered some historical background about how papyrus was made and which perfume oils were preferred by which Pharaohs, then they advertised their selection of souvenirs with a discount just for you, all the while assuring us that we were not obliged to buy anything and that they were happy just to teach us a thing or two about ancient Egypt.

It’s easy to brush it all off as good sales tactics. This network of guides, camel keepers, peddlers and store owners thrives on tourism. Both they and the police guards probably turn a good deal of profit from late-comers like ourselves, who would’ve never enlisted a random guide if we hadn’t needed someone to let us in past the 4p.m. ‘curfew’.

But it wasn’t just about money.

As I watched our guide explain how the Pyramids were built and the perfume store owner—another slick-haired man in blue jeans and a bright yellow sweater they call the ‘Dr.’—explain how Cleopatra used to put the oil on her knee so that Marc Anthony would have to kneel in front of her to smell it, I could detect an undeniable sense of pride in the stories they were telling.

If there’s one thing Egyptians are most proud of—besides the 1973 war, a few Nobel laureates and possibly the height of the Nasserite era—it’s the legacy of ancient Egyptian civilization. More than anything, Egyptians want foreigners and tourists to go home thinking that Egypt is a great country filled with warm, hospitable people.

And if you can get past the unscrupulous salesmen, the marketing tactics and the money talks, bullshit walks system, you might actually catch a glimpse of these genuine feelings.

Forsa Sa’eeda: فرصة سعيدة

About 24 hours before the Al-Hussein bombing in Cairo, I made a promise to a stranger.

Settled in the window-seat of the Alexandria-Cairo train armed with a copy of Sophie’s World to get him through the two-hour ride, he smiled as I—after several minutes of confused debate with his American friends about where I should sit—finally made my way to the aisle seat next to him.

His first question was fairly predictable: “May I ask where you learned to speak English so well?” But it was only about a half hour into the ride that I realized that sharing a train ride with an English-speaking Egyptian girl was about all this Swedish student could ask for, or at least that’s how he put it.

Initially, I wasn’t too excited about the prospect of playing the tour-guide for two hours. I had sat next to my fair share of American students who wanted to chat about everything from why Egyptian milk spoils faster (it doesn’t) to what’s the best way to learn Arabic quickly.

But Johan Ibn Johan, as I will remember him, was different.

As the train sped towards Cairo, the voices of his friends sharing what they had learned of Egyptian pick-up lines soon receded to the background, and I became engrossed in a conversation about philosophy, politics, literature, travel and language, among other things. Before I knew it, time flew by.

What was interesting was that rather than asking generic questions about Egypt or about Islam, he asked me personal questions, and not in the introductory, making small conversation kind of way—What were my strengths, weaknesses? What did I think of philosophy? How would I like to die? (Apparently, this last question is not such a shocker in Sweden).

It was my identity as an Egyptian Muslim woman which had probably captured his interest, but I didn’t get that familiar feeling of being viewed, by virtue of my identity, my language skills, and probably the scarf on my head, as the ideal spokesperson on Egypt and Islam.

Time and again, I found myself struck by how honest I was being with this stranger, and, more importantly, by how thirsty he was for new experiences. If he could spend a day in the life of someone, it would probably be me, he said. Behind it there was a genuine yearning for a new perspective.

Twenty-four hours later, as I read the news of the Al-Hussein terrorist bombing, I found myself wondering whether Johan Ibn Johan, who had first come to Egypt as a tourist a few months ago and, moved by the experience of spending some time with a poor but proud Egyptian family, decided to dedicate 6-12 months to learning Arabic, would have come back if the attack had happened during his stay.

Would he still have that same thirst for experience, or would the sound of the blast be more powerful than the memories of Egyptian hospitality and the promise of a new perspective?

Knowing the panic and fear that can grip people after such events, I even find myself wondering whether he has altered his travel plans after news of the attack near Khan El Khalili—the very place he might go to buy souvenirs for his family and friends back in Sweden.

Our train ride ended with the standard, Forsa Sa’eeda (It was a pleasure meeting you) and a promise to update my blog.

Johan Ibn Johan, I hope you’re not in a hurry to say your Forsa Sa’eeda to Egypt as well.

Nothing says “we hate you” like a giant shoe

The shoes flying towards George Bush’s head last month were a symbol of contempt for the former president. Today, a six-foot statue of a giant shoe stands in the town of Tikrit, Iraq, as a symbol of respect for the man who threw them.

Erected  in Saddam Hussein’s hometown in honor of Muntazer al-Zaidi, the Iraqi journalist who hurled his shoes at Bush, the inscription on the monument reads, “Muntazer: fasting until the sword breaks its fast with blood; silent until our mouths speak the truth.”

Photo: AP

Al-Zaidi’s shoe-hurling incident may not have accomplished much in practical political terms, but it was a last round of humiliation before Bush left office and a testament to the degree of Iraqi contempt for the man–and the policies–they hold responsible for the bloodbath that is now Iraq. And it was contempt witnessed by millions of viewers worldwide and applauded by millions of Arabs.

This monument does more than cement Al-Zaidi’s status as a national hero–that’s what street names and look-a-like statues are for. But this monument is not a statue of Al-Zaidi; it’s a statue of his shoe. It’s as if the artist, along with every resident of Tirkit, are also hurling their shoes at Bush and his policies.

They say  a picture is worth a thousand words and actions speak even louder. I say symbols speak the loudest.

NOTE: A few hours after I first posted this, the monument was removed. Apparently, it was too much sole for the Iraqi governemnt to handle, so they requested its removal and even sent police officers to make sure it was gone. An official said, “We will not allow anyone to use the government facilities and buildings for political motives,”–political motives that were too embarassing for their American allies, that is.

Is Chavez the new Che?

When I was younger, I used to see pictures of the same young man with long hair in a lot of random places—on t-shirts, on wall posters, and even on the occasional Egyptian soap series. When I asked my mom who he was, she told me he was Che Guevara, the big revolutionary.

I didn’t get it.  Why was an Argentinean man halfway across the world, whose name I couldn’t even pronounce properly, popular enough to be plastered on the bedroom wall of a random teenage soap character? (Give me some credit, I was only 10).

I was reminded of that moment last night as I watched footage of a delegation of Egyptians presenting the Venezuelan ambassador with a token of appreciation for Hugo Chavez’s expulsion of the Israeli ambassador during the latest war on Gaza.

The footage was aired on journalist Ahmed El Moslimany’s show, El Tab’a El Ula (First Edition). Apparently, immediately after the expulsion of the Israeli ambassador, El Moslimany had called on his viewers to send thank-you letters to the Venezuelan embassy. The letters flooded the mailboxes.

El Moslimany then decided to take a delegation of 10 (out of several hundred volunteers) to personally deliver a gift to the Venezuelan ambassador, and another to a representative from the Bolivian embassy to thank Bolivia for it’s decision to cut ties with Israel. The delegation included El Moslimany himself and Egyptian journalist Wael El Ibrashy.

Nearly 10 days after the ceasefire (which we all know isn’t really a ceasefire), Egyptians are still wrestling with the fact that while Venezuela and Bolivia had actively severed ties with Israel, Egypt had resorted to rhetoric—and weak rhetoric at that. The words, Did you see how Chavez kicked out the Israeli ambassador, are still part of everyday conversations and Facebook names and statuses still read Chavez.

Sure, President Mubarak’s words on the eve of the ceasefire offered some comfort:

“Egypt is working towards the end to the aggression and securing its borders with Israel and the Gaza Strip and it will never accept any foreign presence of monitors on its land. I say this is a red line – I have not and will not allow it to be crossed.”

“I demand Israel today stop its military operations immediately. I demand from its leaders an immediate and unconditional ceasefire and I demand from them a full withdrawal of Israeli troops from the Strip.”

It’s nice to know that Cairo wasn’t going to let Condoleezza Rice and Tzipi Livni make decisions on Egypt’s behalf without so much as a consultation, but these words were too little too late, especially for those people demonstrating in the streets.

So the thank you notes and tokens of gratitude are being sent to the Venezuelan embassy instead of the Presidential Palace, because it was Chavez who did what Egyptians had hoped their own government would do.

Now,  Chavez is no Che. But Egyptians–and Arabs–are finding in him that same inspiration they saw in Guevara. Feeling betrayed by their own governments and outraged at the Israeli injustices, they are rallying around Chavez because whatever his political motivations were, he gave them some respite.

So, at least as long as the war on Gaza continues–and the latest Israeli air attack confirms that it’s far from over– Facebook statuses are still going to say, ‘Chavez’.

I’d rather be inspired by George Bush

“Information is moving. You know, nightly news is one way, of course, but it’s also moving through the blogosphere and through the Internets.”

Sometimes, George W. Bush’s notorious media blunders can be an unexpected source of inspiration—that is, if you can sift through the quotable gibberish to figure out what the “misunderestimated” president is trying to say.

So here I am, writing my first entry into the endless sea of information moving through the blogosphere.

The problem is when you come across a different kind of media blunder—the kind you can’t brush off with a few chuckles and hope no one will use for inspiration. In an editorial in the Washington Post, former U.S. ambassador to the United Nations John Bolton proposed “The Three-State Option” to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Proposing what he admits is an unpopular and obstacle-ridden solution, Bolton suggests a scenario where responsibility for the Gaza strip and the West Bank is reverted to Egypt and Jordan.

Bolton called the re-extension of Egypt and Jordan’s political authority over the Palestinian territories “an authentic way to extend the zone of peace and, more important, build on governments that are providing peace and stability in their own countries.”

Actually, there’s nothing authentic about it.

Bolton’s scenario suggests that the Middle East is an undifferentiated mass of people with interchangeable identities.It ignores the essence of the Palestinian struggle and makes light of the cause that’s cost hundreds of thousands their lives since 1948. Just because Arabs like to talk about brotherhood doesn’t mean the Palestinians are happy to be annexed off to Egypt or Jordan. Palestinians have been fighting for over 60 years for an independent homeland, and in one fell swoop Bolton denies them that right and decides that the best solution is just to give up on that dream.

Issues of identity and nationalist fervor aside, there’s nothing peaceful about Bolton’s solution either. Dumping the problem of Gaza and the West Bank on Egypt and Jordan will destroy, not build on, whatever peace and stability their governments have managed to sustain. Egypt will become preoccupied with fighting whatever’s left of Hamas and, conveniently for Israel, shoulder the burden of keeping Qassams from flying out of Gaza before it becomes the next victim of an Israeli invasion under the pretext of self-defense.

Extending Jordan’s authority into the West Bank might seem less complicated, but Jordan will have to deal with an added 2.5 million Palestinians to its population and face the messy ordeal of contesting the PA’s control over the territory.

The only winner in this scenario is Israel. Bolton finds comfort in the fact that the conflict “lies within the boundaries of three states nominally at peace,” but why wouldn’t he? Members of the Israeli government would all sleep better at night knowing that their peaceful neighbors in Cairo and Amman, propped up by U.S. support, will do their best to reign in any loose cannons before they got too far.

In 22 days, Israeli forces killed 1203 Palestinians, including 368 children and 105 women–another link in a chain of atrocities committed by Israel over the course of their occupation.They have bombed schools, hospitals and an UNRWA compound.

And the tragedy is that American politicians can still only see what’s in the best interest of the aggressor.