Old Egypt

ElBaradei went on walkabout again today, and I went too.

It was Old Cairo that was buffeted with change this time. I descended from the taxi, underfed and underslept to be immediately bellowed at, in English, by a gentleman demanding to know whether I was the girl in the taxi with a camera asking about Old Cairo. I wasn't. I was then apprehended by a man who talked at me about the importance of a memorial to Egypt’s prisoners of war for 10 minutes, including stomach-churning details about bones being carried off by dogs.

On the subject of bones being carried off by dogs, the media scrum was much smaller today than it was during the Dr’s previous appearances. There were notably fewer TV crews, for example. I wondered whether this was the first sign of rust on the shiny change bandwagon.

ElBadz and his (windsurfing) brother Ali arrived and off we all went. The procession was silent as it blundered its way down Mar Girgis street (is that its name?), photographers sending startled tourists flying as they scrambled all over the shop for the ElBaradei money shot.

Call me crazy, but I thought that since it had been advertised on the elbaradei2011.com website, and since ElBaradei was surrounded by about 40 supporters, and since it took place at 10.30 a.m. as opposed to say 1 p.m. (leaving journos plenty of time to write and file our copy while not requiring that we get up too early), the visit might, possibly, have something to do with politics. I threw caution to the wind and tried to ask the doctor a question.

“Hello, Dr Mohamed I’m Sarah from Daily News Egypt,” I said putting out my hand.

He ignored the hand.

“May I ask you a quick question?” I asked.

“No”, was the resolute answer. “Not now”.

Maybe I looked like I had just found out that my husband had been cheating on me with a chair leg, because Nice Guy Ali ElBaradei smiled and said “not now ha ha” in a kindly way.

“This is a personal visit,” Meanie Mohamed said over his shoulder, as he and his supporters marched onwards in their matching T-shirts.

Monsieur Le Change

So that was that. I and other journalists were left wondering what the point of the exercise was, while tourists just wondered who the bloody hell the man at the eye of the camera storm was. I heard “president” said in at least three languages by tour guides during the explanation.

A weird incident happened on the way to the synagogue. A girl was lying on the ground, her foot bleeding. She appeared to be mentally disabled. Suddenly a Coptic monk and a photographer were wrestling over the photographer’s camera, the photographer protesting “wallahy masawwartaha” [honest to god I didn’t photographer her]. The monk was having none of it, and eventually ripped the lens off the camera. The photographer got it back in the end but it was all very bizarre.

There was more walking after that, a spot of light chanting, before everyone went home.

There’s something wrong with the ElBaradei campaign for change, or maybe it’s just that the excitement his initial return generated has fizzled out.

While I think it’s slightly duplicitous (for the reasons listed above) of ElBadz to suggest that his visit today was of a “personal” nature (i.e. media piss off) he isn’t under any obligation to talk to journos if he thinks that this will convince the world that the purpose of today’s exercise was about reaching out to the people. This would have been more convincing however if he had elected to go to an area whose population is not 50% tourist.

House rules

On Saturday morning I had to get up early to cover the first session of the trial of lawyers Ahmed Seif and Gamal Eid and geek Amr Gharbeia, who are being targeted by that bloody ctrl+c judge. Again.

While we waited, a group of us discussed the protests and sit-ins that have been taking place outside parliament for months. Having woken up at 8 a.m. and left the house without breakfast cos of the dodgy alarm on my fucking mobile phone (which refuses to be stolen or confiscated or fall down the toilet or be sold) I was feeling unusually curmudgeon. Alas my interlocutors were subjected to me setting out my stall and forcefully selling my theory that the government has allowed the parliament protests to happen – while forcefully cracking down on other types of demonstrations - because they serve its purposes.

This theory is based on the following:

- The protests and sit-ins have been allowed to happen, which in itself, in Egypt, is evidence of regime approval

- Al Ahram has written sympathetically about the protests at least three times. A change in editorial staff is not enough to explain this radical change in policy from a state mouthpiece.

- When regime stalwart Ahmed Ezz made his appearance on CNN he mentioned the protests, saying something along the lines of “every morning when I go to my parliamentary office I pass the protests” i.e. Egypt is a blooming oasis of free speech and democracy

- The protests are easy to contain and the permanent sit-ins are (to my knowledge) all protesting for economic – rather than the more “combative” political – demands

Twenty-four hours later I was standing in Qasr El-Aini street talking to a worker from the Amonsito company who was rolling his shirt up to show the marks left on his chest and arms by a policeman’s blows. Negotiations about workers’ demands between the government, state-controlled trade union and Amonsito employees failed. Workers left the People’s Assembly where the negotiations had been taking place and security forces attacked soon afterwards. Eight arrests were made and three workers were injured.

Lovely Dr Moftases talked to workers about the injuries they received and the fantastic Philip Rizk was filming the worker who showed us his injuries when a particularly obnoxious police officer, in his early 20s and his summer whites, who has clearly just graduated from the Police Academy, appeared and interrupted the filming. You can see him at the very end of this video. The usual bullshit ensued. We were instructed to produce press IDs before our mobile phones were taken from us.

“They were filming police officers,” the eager young policeman whined to a plain-clothed officer. “No we weren’t”, we said.

The phones – including that of Moftases who wasn’t bloody filming anything – were taken to another, more superior, police officer, with a deep tan and piercing blue eyes and the general feel of someone who doesn’t deal straight. He and Moftases wrestled, literally, over his phone for a bit like rugby-playing schoolboys, before Moftases relented. Meanwhile two policeman deleted all the images and videos on my phone. They did the same to Moftases and I think to Philip. They tore a page out of Moftases’ notepad on which he had written details about one worker’s injuries.

Later that evening they did to the protests outside parliament what they did to our mobiles, wiping out the demonstrations and threatening anyone who refused to leave with arrest.

As usual, I’m left trying to identify a logic in security bodies’ actions when perhaps there is none. Did Amonsito workers get too loud? Is Mubarak expecting an important visitor from abroad? Was this just another attempt to wrongfoot us, the troublesome public? I can’t help but wonder what they’re planning, what changed, why suddenly the demonstrations stopped being a pretext to boast about public freedoms and became a hindrance.

But ultimately what’s the point of analysis when a police officer, on the subject of our shooting a mobile phone video in what is supposedly a public street without their permission, said to Moftases, “feih 7ad bey3mel keda? Elly dakhel bayt yesta2zen el awwel” [it’s not polite to do that. People entering others’ houses should ask permission first].

Fady the Child gets engaged

The view from Dronka. I didn't want to leave

When you leave Cairo heading south, the further away you go and with each passing hour, the more you imagine that you have invented the city. On the train the horizon of never-ending soaring concrete gradually thins out into a thread, turns into the flat line of a weakening heart with only very occasional peaks of isolated towns and villages.

In between is all that green. Donkeys and buffalos and emptiness. At level-crossings people, animals and vehicles wait as the train storms through. On riverbeds women wash dirty clothes in filthy water, in a field of long grass a man rests on one side, propping himself up on one elbow and contemplates something, oblivious to the roar of the train. In the towns and ‘cities’ Cairo is again absent and in memory the idea of it grows more and more absurd. A mirror’s reflection, it stops existing unless you’re seeing it.

A second visit to Assiut, and this time it seemed even smaller. Only the huge, sprawling university campus seems to have grown. On Friday nights there are church meetings, and in the early evening doors open to let out hundreds of beautifully dressed, coiffeured women. We bought ice creams and the shella [Sharshar and his gang] watched the parade. Sharshar joked that at this time it is as if ma2soora el mozaz etkasaret – the “babes pipe” has burst.

A huge advertising hoarding bearing the image of a former police officer and the words, “el eltezaam mesh kalam” overlooked the church we were standing by. It was an election poster for the Shoura elections. Someone told me that in a previous incarnation the man was a state security officer known for being unusually tough and unforgiving. As you stand at the entrance of this particular church his giant face is the first, and in fact the only thing you see.

Assiut City is a city with three hotels and three restaurants the shella deem worthy of their patronage. It has a splendid governorate building which when we were there had a row of brand new Caterpillars parked in front of it. Its streets are filled with unveiled women, a fact I didn’t think I would notice, but I did. Drivers stop at red lights. It is extremely clean. It is hundreds of kilometres and a world away from Cairo, its downstream neighbour.

There are some similarities, of course, like the tiny, barefoot girl struggling along the corniche using both hands to carry a heavy plastic bag half her size. She looked somewhere between three and forty years old.

Assiut is so small that on the first night when two non-Assiuty members of our party decided to leave the hotel for an exploratory midnight stroll without our Assiuty hosts they inevitably ran into three of the Assiuty hosts. A fourth Assiuty host later ran into this party. All by chance and limited geography. They went to eat Koshary and then regretted it the next morning.

Guess who!

The purpose of this visit was to attend the engagement party of Fady the Child (another member of the shella) in the town of Mallawi, governorate of Minya. We set off at dusk for the roughly two-hour ride, passing by the corpse of the Safo soap factory and a hamlet where people’s front doors quite literally open onto the fast agricultural road. There have been numerous, bloody accidents.

We listened to this amazing song as we went.

Malawi, or at least the streets leading up the motraneya [main church, unsure of a better translation] where Fady the Child got engaged are incredibly narrow and crowded.

The narrowness led to an interesting occurrence. Upon the conclusion of the engagement ritual Fady the Child and his sweetheart got in a car adorned with flowers which was followed by friends and family in a convoy for the customary zaffa [wedding convoy]. We followed. We thought we were going to the Mallawi Swimming Pool Club where the engagement party would take place. Instead we left Mallawi proper and followed the happy couple’s car as it did the swerves into oncoming traffic that tradition dictates are necessary to mark and celebrate impending marriage.

At a crossroads the happy couple’s car made an abrupt stop. Two young men on a motorbike got off and started firing noisy blanks into the air. Suddenly a car started doing high-speed circles around the happy couple’s car, in the middle of this busy crossroads, which would be fine except that another driver decided to do the same in the opposite direction. The gun kept firing. Shella member Usha in his car had to make an emergency stop to avoid all this. Tragedy was narrowly avoided. And then a trailer lorry whose driver was unapprised of the festivities appeared and tragedy was narrowly avoided again. Everything in Mallawi is narrow. We concluded that marriage parties purposefully drive to this spot and slip traffic policemen fifty pounds to look the other way because it is the widest spot in Mallawi, and the only place big enough to allow zaffa madness.

We survived, and proceeded to the engagement party at the Mallawi Swimming Pool Club.

This photo isn't straight

This was the largest engagement party I have ever been to. There must have been around 300 people sitting around that swimming pool. Fady the Child and fiancée sat on the throne (el koosha), as speakers played music at approximately a million decibels.

Fady the Child danced like his life depended on it, helped by the shella and a group of animated young men one of whom danced better than any woman I have ever seen. On the sidelines a cameraman walked through the 300 people and shone a light in their faces. Their image was shown on a projector screen. Girls put their heads together and smiled coyly, a group of three toughs with unbuttoned shirts and prominent necklaces smoked and winked. Some people just stared into the camera blankly. The shella occupied themselves with a cigar Haidar Wahm had brought.

The next day was the final day of the trip, and the Pig wanted to go to a monastery named after a saint he likes, called Anba Karas. It turned out to be a collection of seven churches whose entrance is opposite a furiously busy toc-toc and microbus stop, in Dairout.

Only one of the seven churches is built out of stone. The rest are makeshift constructions made out of wood, and even the church built out of stone has a wooden roof. A guide who took us around told us that they are forbidden from building permanent structures because of laws obliging them to obtain permits which never come, or depend on the mood of the governor in place at the time. Last year, during a sectarian incident, the monastery was attacked by mobs that tried to break down the door and threw Molotov cocktails.

You would never guess though, that this had happened. All is quiet, all is good. And outside el sa3eed, Upper Egypt, plods along, vast and remote, completely overshadowed by its upstart and anomalous little sister, Cairo.

GOVERNMENT EXERTING “BEST EFFORTS” TO PUT AN END TO THE EGYPTIAN PEOPLE

A member of the Banned Organization shortly after he interrupted Sorour. His family have been informed.

CAIRO: A National Democratic Party MP yesterday urged the government to intensify efforts to put an end to the Egyptian people, who he described as “standing in the way of Egypt’s progress”.

Rizel El-Zeft was speaking during a parliamentary session during which members of the Banned Organisation challenged government plans to use deceased citizens to construct a wall around ports of entry into Egypt.

NDP member Mofeed Shehab said that the wall was a first step to removing from Egypt “elements determined to unweave the weft of our society by bringing with them subversive ideas about promoting bald-headed jumped up secretaries to positions of power”.

Shehab said that this could not be allowed to continue, citing the millions of Egyptian pounds that had to be paid out during the last elections in order to ensure that Egyptians voted for the correct candidate.

A member of the Banned Organization interrupted Shehab in order to condemn the presence of baton-wielding thugs during parliamentary and local elections.

Shehab joined the member of the Banned Organization in condemning the thugs who he said are too expensive for the value they provide.

He stressed that as a business-friendly government issues of cost-saving and quality must take priority, adding that if the member of the Banned Organization continued to interrupt him he would ask NDP member and goalkeeper Ahmed Shobeir to benchmark his head.

“If we must have elections, I suggest that we use special electrified voting cards. This way, if a citizen makes the incorrect choice in the polling station he is dispensed with immediately without the need to employ excessive numbers of personnel for this purpose”.

The debate then turned to the issue of protests.

"I don't know why the Interior Ministry is so lenient with those who break the law. Instead of using water hoses to disperse them, the police ought to shoot them; they deserve it,” NDP member Hassan Nashat El-Rassaas proclaimed.

He was immediately rebuked by PA speaker Fathy Sorour.

“And I suppose you’ve sat down and done the calculations about how much the bullets would cost?” Sorour said, before shouting “STOP! HAMMER TIME” and throwing his mallet at El-Rassaas’ head.

As El-Rassaas’ lifeless body was removed from parliament Sorour said, “one down, 79,999,999 to go”.

The issue was taken up by NDP member Ahmed Ezz who said that protestors are dealt with adequately by karate death squads who beat them to death at a quarter of the expense. Ezz added that the use of this traditional method of crowd control is also better for the environment as it does not involve smoke emissions, as is the case with canons - a method of crowd control proposed by the head of the PA’s security committee.

Ezz also proposed that citizens’ bodies be buried in the foundations of constructions in the new cities in order that potential building land is not taken up by cemetries.

The Banned Organization member asked Ezz who would live in these buildings if the NDP was planning to get rid of the entire Egyptian people.

Ezz objected to the accusation with some vigour, even throwing his cushion at the Banned Organization member while condemning his “twisting of the facts”.

“Egyptians who possess two nationalities or two companies will be spared the clean-up,” Ezz explained.

After the debate members of the Banned Organization were invited to throw themselves off the October Bridge at its highest point.

Howa dah el 7al Habib El-Adly said, dusting off his hands as he walked away through Cairo’s deserted streets.

Gigolow

"Hey! Pretty lady! I have coffee, you want?"

I left the demo fuming yesterday and wanting to draw blood out of someone and anyone, and luckily found that my friend Hadeel had sent this by someone called Karin Badt (“professor of cinema and theatre in France”).

In the days before the Internet, Debbie and Mike and Jason and Sharon parachuted into a country for ten days, observed the country through a tour bus window or experienced meaningless encounters with tourist industry workers whose “friendship” they construed as a rare window into the hidden world of this ancient land and its mysterious people.

Debbie and Mike and Jason and Sharon might share their reflections during the photo slideshow in their living rooms, in between having a laugh about the image of them pointing at the hieroglyphic with the erect penis. A postcard is possibly the extent to which these reflections would be recorded for posterity.

But now, thanks to the Internet and lax submissions policies, the whole world can read that fucking postcard.

Badt’s path has quite clearly crossed with an obnoxious, salacious hustler in Luxor whose bit of patter and apparent attempt to get her in bed she misinterpreted as an anthropological examination of Egypt’s sexual mores.

Or maybe she did indeed stumble across a concealed pearl (“Mike/Mohammed”) in the algae of Luxor’s tourist touts. Let us examine the evidence. I suspect Mike/Mohammed is a figment of Badt’s imagination but we’ll ignore that and proceed.

The first paragraph reads like a Mills & Boone novel. Maybe Badt’s being ironic. We’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and move on, but not before pointing out that most of my female friends if asked whether they “would like to know the difference between making love to an Egyptian woman and a European woman” by some turd would tell him to shove his wisdom up his arse and exit-left immediately.

Badt however senses she is being admitted into an inner chamber and says “yes”.

Mike/Mohammed informs Badt that his first step as a Don Juan began in pubs in the English countryside where he had “experiences with European women”. Mike claims to be stunned the first time he is set upon by one of the lady predators in the pub and describes his “it’s no coffee!” encounter with the innocence of a choirboy invited to polish the church silver by Father McRandy.

Note also the “the sun setting in the desert hills behind him, with the Valley of the Kings just beyond”- scene-setting with the finesse and subtlety of a “your name in papyrus” souvenir.

I didn’t know this but apparently in England it’s considered vulgar to ask for sex and people offer coffee instead – fancy! All those missed opportunities I misinterpreted in job interviews etc. But again this is Mike/Mohammed describing his fascinating encounters in the UK and obviously not actually Badt making up a load of old shite.

Mike/Mohammed was taught to give pleasure by a “British lady” through “using his mind” to “resist for one hour” [Mike/Mohammed apparently slept with Paul Mckenna]. Again, right-minded women who had made it this far into the conversation would deduce that douchebag Mike/Mohammed is offering coffee, but Badt is either oblivious or feels that duty calls and she must resist.

The conversation turns to Egyptian women and Mohammed/Mike “looks downcast”, as well he might given that his first attempt to get into Badt’s knickers failed.

Apparently, ALL women are circumcised/circumsized [sic] in Egypt and sex is a painful, two-minute affair for women and merely a “chance to relieve themselves” for men – who lucky for all the circumcised/circumsized women haven’t had Mike/Mohammed’s Paul Mckenna experience.

Mike/Mohammed was once married but the union failed because he married an inanimate object.

“She was a board,” he said. “That’s why the marriage failed”.

Confirming his douchebag factor +100 Mike/Mohammed tells Badt that he and the board had one son that he has never seen. The marriage was arranged of course – “as are most in Egypt” but the difference is that his was arranged in a hardware store because he married a board and he’s a tool.

There is then the inevitable description of sex with circumsized/circumcised women the reading of which is arguably more painful than the act itself.

“I had known what it is like to have sex with a woman who has pleasure, and it’s such a difference. Egyptian women don’t feel anything!” Mike/Mohammed says breathlessly, possibly while gyrating his hips.

Badt points out that Mike/Mohammed had just told her that “there’s a sex trade in Cairo [and Luxor, and it’s sitting with you]” and we think she’s finally catching on, but alas it was only to ask whether “all prostitutes are circumscribed [sic]”.

Mike/Mohammed, Luxor’s answer to Dr. Heba Qotb, says that of course they are all, but whether he’s talking about FGM or the enclosure of prostitutes within defined bounds is uncertain.

Mike/Mohammed makes another attempt at Badt by telling her that he’s “lonely” in Luxor and spends his days with tourists to “pass the time” wink wink. “Like with you, we had a chance to talk, and so we passed the time. And I will never marry again, I’ll just have an affair here and there, that’s it – and have you got the bloody message yet you stupid woman”.

Mike/Mohammed’s attempts fail but even as he is dropping Badt off he is making a last-ditch attempt, telling her about an Australian girl with whom “he had the opportunity to spend the night”.

The account ends with a UN statistic about the number of women in Egypt who have undergone FGM in Egypt, and a picture of a pharaoh.

I am so sick of chancers making green out of Egypt with tinpot bullshit like this.

Badt, sweetheart, if you want to discuss FGM, talk to an expert and circumcised women. If you want to discuss sexual relations in Egypt talk to more than one person and preferably have a point to the whole exercise.

If however you want to peddle stereotypes about British women, fetishise Egyptian men and reproduce bullshit about Egypt “substantiated” by a half-arsed paragraph at the bottom, then mission successful.

Does the Huffington Post pay for submissions? Pay me. I’ll sing you any motherfucking tune you want to hear.

Conscript

Kefaya, slowly awakening after its hibernation, organized a protest today, exactly a week after the police battered demonstrators on April 6.

The existence of a sort of nervous anger immediately struck me when I arrived. Around two hundred people were assembled outside the public prosecutor’s office. The usual buffer zone of absent black-clad riot police lined the perimeter of the area. Beyond them the men in suits and sunglasses.

A group of young people began congregating at one end of the pen in which the demonstrators were being held. The slow surge gradually gained intensity, to chants of, “why are you fencing us in?” The riot police started looking unsure. Suddenly there was an enormous push and the steel barrier between protestors and the police was lifted up. The riot police – conscripts, from impoverished backgrounds – hesitated, looked behind them for orders. Reinforcements were brought in and the surge was stopped.

On the other side of the road Bahaa appeared, and began chanting. Bahaa is a protest veteran who seems to like to take risks if not actively provoke the police. Today he swaggered (there’s no other word for it) up and down 26th July Street waving his arm above his head while police officers chased behind him making a feeble attempt to pen him in. He continued marching and shouting. Other protestors joined him when it looked like the police were beginning to lose patience.

At the same time protestors under the impression that Bahaa was being arrested again tried to storm the barrier. Concentrating on this, I lost track of what was happening with Bahaa. The next time I looked he was prostrate on the ground surrounded by people throwing water on him in an attempt to revive him. He had apparently fainted.

He woke up, got up and again started chanting, before pulling off an officer’s hat and throwing it in the air. This seemed to be the last straw. The beating began, and from my vantage point Bahaa disappeared in sea of arms and fists. One officer actually slapped another across the face after pulling him off Bahaa.

Sayyed, another demonstrator who went to Bahaa’s aid was also set upon, after he slapped an officer who had been hitting him across the back of the neck. They chased him down like a pack of dogs and then roughly four officers beat him unconscious. You can see it the video below. An officer pulls them off while behind him Sayyed slowly slips down the car the officer is propping him up against.



Improbably, Bahaa reappeared after this, topless, his hair dripping wet from the earlier dousing of water and his trousers half falling down his legs revealing what looked like a black thong-type affair. Some of the demo wolf-whistled. But Bahaa looked both pitiful and manic. He was again set upon by tens of police officers who flagged down a passing taxi and attempted to bundle him in. They were unsuccessful and the taxi driver sped off. Another taxi was stopped and Bahaa pushed inside. Four of five officers got in with him and sat on top of him. I don’t know where he was taken.

One positive thing: for the first time, I saw Egyptian protestors (admittedly less than 10) being allowed to demonstrate in the street unmolested. I also heard chants of "the street is ours" for the first time today.

There was calm after Bahaa and Sayyed were assaulted, and demonstrators began leaving. A protestor sitting on the railing next to me tried talking to the conscripts. Attempted to persuade them to refuse to obey orders because once they’ve finished their service they’ll go back to their lives where they’ll be fucked over by the state they’re currently protecting. They looked up impassively. Childlike is not the correct epithet, because these are hardened men who will use their batons if instructed to.

Wretched is a better description. Wretched and stoic and, as usual, they – the silent poor – were on the frontline of Egypt’s relentless march to a better future: quite literally standing between the old guard and the forces of change, absorbing the blows of a battle not really being fought in their name. How will Mohamed ElBaradei or Hamdeen Sabahy or the workers’ movement reach these people? Once they take off their uniforms and disappear back into their underworld; illiterate, uneducated, too busy surviving on the margins to be angry, too marginal for their anger to count. Who will reach them?

I fought the law, and (for now) the law won

I attended my third “April 6” last Tuesday, and have been pondering why the police went ballistic ever since.

If you follow events in Egypt you’ll know what happened. If you don’t, this video sums it up.

Jack Shenker, the Guardian’s fantastic writer and raconteur extraordinaire presents his analysis of events here. I agree with his view that protest in Egypt is cyclical, and is often galvanised by events/opportunities not necessarily linked to the grievance to which the protest give voice.

Shenker says however in his last paragraph:

Oppressive autocracies the world over have a dizzying array of tactics in their arsenal to cling on to power – from media manipulation to strategic support from superpowers – and it is only when they are feeling at their most vulnerable that the basest of these tactics, naked violence, is resorted to. Tuesday's clashes indicate that in Egypt those vulnerabilities are bubbling to the surface; both ElBaradei and the grassroots campaigners below him are in a position to take advantage.

It’s this - the idea that Tuesday’s violence was the product of vulnerability - which I take issue with, and by Jove I’m going to tell you why now.

Ready? Go.

Tonight (and every night) the streets are ours

Prompted by Tuesday’s events I picked up “Life as Politics: How ordinary people change the Middle East” by Asef Bayat, which I have been meaning to read ever since I bought it. It’s a really interesting read. Bayat’s thesis is that, unable under repressive regimes to resort to traditional channels of dissent, ordinary people challenge authority and carve out a space for themselves (intentionally or otherwise) in their every day lives in seemingly mundane ways. Bayat gives the example of people who illegally build informal housing that the government is then forced to recognise by installing water and electricity etc. Bayat calls it “creating realities on the ground”.

Bayat talks about the significance of public streets in the relationship between a repressive government and the people it denies a voice:

Here, conflict [between the public and state officials] originates from the active use of public space by subjects who, in the modern states are allowed to use it only passively – through walking, driving, watching – or in other ways that the state dictates. Any active or participative use infuriates officials, who see themselves as the sole authority to establish and control public order.

Anyone who reads this blog regularly who have an idea that I spend my life covering protests in Cairo that take place almost exclusively in these places:

1. On the steps of the Journalists’ Syndicate

2. Outside the public prosecutor’s office

3. On the steps of the Doctors’ and Lawyers’ Syndicates

And more recently:

4. Outside the People’s Assembly

5. Outside the Cabinet Office

The agreement between state security and protestors is this: You can say what the bloody hell you please. You can even turn your protests into sit-ins. You can be in the thousands. But only if you’re in one of the five places listed above.

(I’m excluding here workers’ on-site protests because – as significant as they are – I don’t think factorys and company premises count as public space, in most cases).

As Bayat says, there is no such thing as public space - with the meaning of space belonging to the public, with all that that implies - in Egypt. This has implications for any kind of potentially collective behaviour, even the most mundane, such as when Shady Ahmed played guitar in Zamalek and was surrounded by confused police officers within minutes.

The last time I witnessed violence like Tuesday’s was during the protests against the Israeli invasion of Gaza, when men coming out of Friday prayers erupted into ‘spontaneous’ chanting.

However, the last time I saw a mass demo was also during the Israeli invasion of Gaza, when hundreds of mostly Muslim Brotherhood protestors demonstrated outside parliament and then marched to the Doctors’ Syndicate where they protested some more, unmolested by the police.

I’m not claiming that I’m making an earth-shattering point here, but the key here is consent: my yard, my rules.

Which brings me onto the next issue, the fact that the April 6 Movement informed the Interior Ministry that they would be protesting in advance.

Tommy, you gonna let him get away with that? You gonna let this fucking punk get away with that? What's the matter? What's the world coming to?

I’ve never heard about a group notifying the Interior Ministry in advance that they’re protesting. It’s unnecessary mostly because 1. The Interior Ministry always knows everything in advance and 2. Protests are almost always held at one of the five places listed above.

Unsurprisingly, the Interior Ministry informed the April 6 Youth Movement that it had banned the march, a day or two before it went ahead. Seventy or so brave young people were able to briefly congregate outside the Shoura Council despite the efforts of state security officers.

Have you ever watched Goodfellas? Remember when they do the huge airport heist and Robert De Niro warns gang members not to buy anything flashy afterwards for fear of attracting the cops’ attention, and one of the members and his wife come into a bar in new fur coats and they end up hung up in the meat freezer?

State security had a similar reaction, because the tiny protest was essentially a big, “up yours, I don’t care what you say, this is my street too”.

No kids, it aint.

Hit first, ask questions later

The Interior Ministry is like an easily provoked, irascible man in a pub. Generally always spoiling for a fight, seeing insults where there are none. Ask the Nadeem Centre about that. Aside from the many accounts of torture and abuse in police stations documented by NGOs, the kind of “naked violence” which Shenker describes took place (in addition to the Israeli attack on Gaza protests) in December 2009 during the Gaza Freedom March, when peaceful protestors decided to obstruct traffic in Tahrir Square and were immediately pounced on my the police.

Again the common factors in all these protests are:

1. Protests taking place in an area other than the five fucking places I spend my life in, and

2. An absence of prior consent, and

3. A complete disregard for the inevitable international condemnation of the violence

My point is this: the regime (and specifically the Interior Ministry) did not feel vulnerable on Tuesday, it felt insulted. The violence was punitive, not defensive. It was about reminding the April 6 Youth Movement (and Egyptians in general) about who they daddy is.

Having said all that, I lift my cap to protestors for the challenge. Fuck this regime, keep pushing.

The ElBaradei factor

If I’ve explained my reasoning sufficiently clearly you’ll see that I think ElBaradei has nothing to do with these events. The same would have happened if the protest had gone ahead and ElBaradei and his many spectacles had decided to retire in 2011, instead of 2010.

A far more interesting question is why ElBaradei’s visit to Mansoura was allowed to go ahead so freely. I heard a rumour that ElBaradei was initially scheduled to pray at a far larger mosque in Mansoura accommodating thousands of men, but that he was asked to change this to a far smaller mosque. I’d be interested to know if this is true. Was some kind of agreement reached?

As I suggested in my last post, the regime’s absence from Mansoura is worrying. I wonder if their silence is because they’re waiting for his National Coalition for Change to implode from within. I wonder if they have other plans. I wonder what their reaction would be if ElBaradei decided to have a Friday post-devotional stroll in downtown Cairo in the coming weeks. I wonder if the arrests of Egyptian National Coalition organisers in Kuwait is a message that, ElBaradei being untouchable at the moment, they’re starting at the very edge of his bubble and working their way inwards.

Silence

To the Delta today, where I watched ElBaradei do his stuff through a rugby scrum of media in Mansoura.

As usual, the trip there was odd. After disembarking from a microbus driven by a man with a predilection for using the front of his microbus to sexually harass the back of lorries at the speed of light (we arrived from Cairo in record time. He truly was a maniac) I got in a taxi.

An old, nearly blind, man got in the back, guided by a young man on a break from army service, and we set off after the old man both finished entreating God for a safe journey and managed to shut his door after several attempts.

The army recruit got out, we continued on our way. The old man held forth on various topics in a thick Delta brogue, before asking, “wel usta menayn?” [and where is the driver from?]

The driver said he was from a certain village. The old man was going to the same village.

“Tab ow2af. Ow2af khamas da2aye2”, [stop. Stop five minutes], the old man said.

“Delwa2ty?” [now?]

“Ah” [yes].

We stopped in the middle of a side street.

“Ta3raf enta ___?” [do you know ____?]

“Aywa” [Yes].

“We ____ ebn _____?” [and ______ son of ______?]

“Aywa. Tab ya 7ag ana ma3ya zabou-“ [Yes. Hag I have with me a custom-]

“Mashy. Ta3raf el 2ahwa elly 3and awwel el balad?” [OK. Do you know the coffee shop as you first enter the town?]

And so it went. The driver stared at me, smiling, as he answered. I stared back. We had got through half of the town’s inhabitants before el 7ag was persuaded that we could proceed while he continued his survey of the land.

I arrived fucking early – thanks to that lunatic in the microbus - at the Kidney Centre where ElBaradei would be visiting his friend Dr Mohamed Ghoneim. Luckily I needed the toilet. I went to a KFC. The toilet door had what I assumed was ‘push’ written in Chinese (?). What can it mean?

Outside the streets were clean and empty and burnt white in the sun. I like Mansoura a lot. There are two entrances to the Kidney Institute. At one there was the usual gaggle of patients/relatives waiting to get in. At the other was a journalist fighting with the Institute’s security, also about getting in or something.

The Egyptian political opposition arrived and then they started fighting with security, too. Apparently only five names had been put on a list. Like in a posh nightclub. A big hoo-hah then broke out within the Egyptian political opposition about whether the names on the list should go in, or whether no-one should go in, in protest. In the end George Ishaq went in, but only after cracking a joke about who would be praying in the mosque with ElBaradei during the Friday prayer. “Everyone’s praying except me. I’ll pray next time”.

More standing about in the sun while ElBaradei was inside. I spoke to a pharmaceutical sales manager in a ElBaradei T-shirt who said that ElBaradei makes him feel that there is still hope, that the country still belongs to “us”.

ElBaradei came out and as usual there was pandemonium, mostly the fault of the media, who descended on him like vultures. He retreated into a mosque to pray while outside onlookers and supporters gathered.

By the time prayer had finished there were some 300 people gathered outside the mosque, chanting and milling about and generally excited. ElBaradei fought his way out of the mosque and we turned left. A tight ring of National Coalition for Change young people encircled him. A second ring of journalists surrounded them. Beyond the journalists were a random collection of supporters, men who had been praying at the mosque and curious onlookers. In total I estimate that there were between 500 – 800 people there. The chanting filled the street. It rose up the balconies of the buildings surrounding us and cut through the traffic brought to a standstill by the surge of people.

The crowd was so intense that ElBaradei sought refuge inside a building for around 20 minutes before his jeep came and carried him off. (I later learnt that he held a short press conference. Missing the main event is rapidly becoming my trademark).

There was no uniformed police presence during all this, and very few identifiable state security investigations officers. I remembered a book I just finished reading called the Soccer War by Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuscinksi. He talks about silence:

SILENCE: People who write history devote too much attention to so-called events heard round the world, while neglecting periods of silence. This neglect reveals the absence of that infallible intuition that every mother has when her child falls suddenly silent in its room. A mother knows that this silence signifies something bad. That the silence is hiding something. She runs to intervene because she can feel evil hanging in the air. Silence fulfills the same role in history and politics. Silence is a signal of unhappiness and, often, of crime. It is the same sort of political instrument as the clatter of weapons or a speech at a rally. Silence is necessary to tyrants and occupiers, who take pains to have their actions accompanied by quiet.

I find it extraordinary that today a man unconnected to the regime was allowed to walk through an Egyptian street, and that hundreds of people were allowed to congregate around him unmolested by the police. Tomorrow there’s going to be a protest for a minimum wage in Cairo, and the street will be black with uniformed riot police.

Where were they today? Why did they allow Egyptians to gather together and experience a sense of genuine optimism without knocking seven shades of shit out of them and of hope?

I overheard two middle-aged men speaking while ElBaradei was hiding inside the building. One was saying, “they can’t touch him. He’s protected because howa ragel 3alamey [he’s international]” – as in he’s a former international diplomat.

I contended that that the regime doesn’t fear anyone, if past experience is anything to go by.

“No”, the second man said. "It does fear something".

What? I asked.

“Us. The people,” he replied.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bs81JOMAgo*

Mubarak’s triumphant return to the homeland in his carpet slippers has, as usual, caused an outbreak of nauseating sycophancy and puke-inducing paeans worthy of a Greek deity.

His highness glided down on Saturday from his plane onto terra firma via an electronic staircase (beat that, ElBaRaDEi!!). The speed at which he was conveyed southwards reminded me of that moving belt at Yo Sushi restaurants. Next to him was that dish Suzie, looking tremendously spritely in contrast to Le Hoz, who wobbled into the arms of the waiting notables, where he was embraced.

There was a minor discussion on Twitter and Facebook about why he didn’t kiss Pope Shenouda when everyone else got a cheek to cheek. It was decided that since Pope Shenouda was granted the longest chat with Mr M – complete with trademark jokey finger-wagging (oh, but he’s such a card that Hosny!) – Mubarak made up for it.

Even while the electronic stairs were still rolling the tributes begun. I was listening to the radio on the way to the cinema when normal programming was interrupted for a NEWSFLASH of officials’ responses to Hosny’s return, each trying to outdo the other for grandiloquence and arse-kissing.

That gnome Fathy Sorour declared that “Mubarak is the father of all Egyptians and the father has returned to his children”.

The gold star however goes to the sinister Safwat Al-Sherif, who affirmed that the President’s airplane touching down in Egypt was akin to “the soul returning to Egypt’s sons”. By my analysis Safwat means that either:

- Egypt’s citizens were all dead without realising it until last week

or

- Mubarak has re-possessed us all after a brief hiatus.

Shereen meanwhile ensured prime concert bookings in the best and most profitable locations for the duration of the current regime with this offering.

No-one though can hope to outdo journalist Momtaz El-Qot, a man who seems to live for toadying, who has made of it his raison d'etre.

His last memorable episode was on Mubarak’s birthday, when he published a picture of the man on his rag’s front page with a giant headline something along the lines of, EGYPT’S HISTORY BEGAN WITH YOU (if someone has a link please send. I’m sure I’ve got the sentiment right but the wording wrong).

Never missing an opportunity, while Mubarak was convalescing in Germany, Momtaz penned him an imaginary letter from the (imaginary) Egyptian people expressing their (imaginary) love in colloquial Egyptian Arabic.

I’ve copy-pasted some of it below with links which I think illustrate the wonderful truths of Mubarak’s Egypt which Momtaz so lovingly lists. I stopped near the end because quite frankly, Momtaz has more stamina for obsequiousness than I do for finding links and keeping the bile down.

English only readers: as you can see, it’s in Arabic – sorry darlings.

NOTE: I realise that having an English introduction for something in Arabic on an English-language blog is a bit odd. But then so am I, so logic to the wind!

*This is a deliberate title not a cock-up. Copy-paste it into your browser cos the hyperlinking's gone mad.

كلام يبقى حمد الله على السلامة الناس كلها عايزة تاخد تأشيرة .. وتروح المانيا عشان تزورك وتقولك ألف مليون سلامة عليك .. وحمدالله علي سلامتك . الناس في بلدنا طيبة واللي في قلبها علي لسانها .. الناس في بلدنا بتحبك وبتدعي ربنا ليل ونهار إنك ترجع لنا وإنت بكل صحة وعافية . لكن يا سيادة الريس إحنا في العشرة أيام الأخيرة من الشهر .. يعني المرتبات خلاص !! وكمان هدايا عيد الأم .. وكلها مصاريف زيادة .. قلنا نبعت لك جواب . ياتري نكتبه إزاي؟ ! بكلام الجورنالجية .. ولا بكلام عبدالباسط ومحمدين ومرقص وأم محمد .. قلنا ياريس نكتبه بلغة المصريين ولاد البلد اللي بيحبوها .. واللي عارفين إنك أكتر واحد بتحبها وبتحبهم . وبعد .. يصل ويسلم للسيد الرئيس .. ألمانيا .. مستشفي هايدلبرج يا ريس : ألف ألف مليون سلامة عليك .. وترجع لنا بألف سلامة وبسرعة .. بصراحة يا سيادة الريس مفيش حاجة في مصر كلها لها طعم من غير متكون معانا .. خدنا علي كده .. شايفينك ليل ونهار رايح جاي عشانا وعشان ولادنا وعشان مصر اللي إنت أكتر واحد بتحبها .. وحياتك كلها كانت عنوان لكل مصري أصيل حب بلاده .. وكان همه كله انها تفضل دايما راسها مرفوعة في العلالي ... يعني فوق .. في السما اللي كتبت منها في ٣٧ أحلي أنشودة للنصر ... لسه وهنفضل طول العمر بنغنيها . أنا عارف يا سيادة الريس إنك متضايق قوي عشان إنت بعيد عن مصر وعايز ترجع بسرعة .. مش هنسي يوم من الأيام كنا مع سيادتك وسافرنا ٥ دول من دول الخليج في ٦٣ ساعة ... يعني يوم ونص .. ننزل في مطار ونطلع لمطار .. من مباحثات لمباحثات .. وساعتها كلنا حسينا بالتعب وكانت أول مرة نعرف فيها إن منصب الرئيس ده حاجة تانية غير اللي إحنا فاكرينها .. يوميها سألت سيادتك ليه يا ريس مستعجل دايما .. ليه مانبتش يوم في كل دولة نستريح فيها !! يوميها يا سيادة الريس قلت حاجة مش هانساها : » انتوا عايزين تباتوا عشان تلفوا وتروحوا تشتروا حاجات وتشوفوا البلد .. أنا بقي هعمل إيه .. هستني جوه الفندق ولا القصر .. يعني سجن .. لا هعرف اروح ولا آجي .. أحسن نروح بلدنا نشوف شغلنا «. يوميها بس يا سيادة الريس عرفت إن الرئاسة مش جاه وأبهة وبروتوكولات وموتوسيكلات .. دي هم كبير أوي .. ومتعب قوي .. ربنا بيختار له ناس قدرهم مابيبقاش ملك إيديهم . > > > ساعتها يا سيادة الريس رجعت لزمان .. يوم نصر أكتوبر .. يوميها ياريس كنت بالنسبة لنا البطل .. في مدرسة المساعي المشكورة كنا كلنا فخورين قوي إنها مدرسة البطل حسني مبارك صاحب الضربة الجوية .. كل واحد حاسس إنه جزء من الضربة الجوية .. كل واحد كان عاين صورتك معاه .. وكنا بنتمنظر علي زمايلنا في المدارس التانية إننا في مدرسة حسني مبارك صاحب ضربة النصر . بعدها اختارك الرئيس السادات نائب له .. يعني منصب وصلت له وأنت أصلاً في قمة المجد والنصر .. مش هننسي أبداً ياريس يوم لما وضعوا نياشين النصر ورتبة الفريق أول علي كتفك وسط هتاف نواب الشعب .. الشعب البطل اللي السادات وحسني مبارك كانوا ولاده .. كانوا رجاله لأنهم اختاروا طريق صعب .. طريق يرجعوا فيه كرامة بلدهم .. حتي لو كانت حياتهم هي التمن .. اختاروا إنهم يعملوا اللي عليهم والباقي علي ربنا .. حياتكم يوميها ياريس كان ثمنها غالي .. ثمنها كان عرض وشرف وكبرياء مصر .. مصر اللي العالم كله افتكر إنها خلاص في خبر كان بعد هزيمة مُرة .... هزيمة ماحاربش فيها جيشنا خالص . صدقني ياريس بكلمك من قلبي .. طول اليومين اللي فاتوا الناس في بلدنا زعلانة أوي .. زعلانين عشان عملت عملية .. حاسين ياريس إن إحنا السبب .. إحنا تعبناك قوي .. طول عمرك شايل همنا وبلدنا مليانة مشاكل .. تعبناك لأنك بدأت من أول السطر .. البلد كانت مفلسة .. يوميها مكانش فيه ولا مليم عشان نشتري قمح .. وساعتها عارفين إنك اتصرفت ياريس .. ومن يوميها بدأت تبني مصر كلها من أول وجديد .. شوارع وبيوت وكهربا وميه وتليفونات .. هَم مايتلم !! لكنك كنت قدها وقدود .. > > > بصراحة إحنا عارفين .. عارفين إنت عملت إيه لبلدنا .. وازاي حافظت عليها من كل المؤامرات .. لكن دايما إحنا بننسي .. أصلنا طماعين !! وما صدقنا إن فيه واحد بيحبنا وبيسمعنا وعمره ما زهق ولا هيزهق مننا .. وهنفضل دايما نقولك عايزين وعايزين ..وعمرنا ماهنقولك كفاية .. أصل البحر بيحب الزيادة . وإنت طلعتنا من القمقم يا ريس .. كنا فين وبقينا فين .. معدش حد في وجودك يا ريس ممكن يروح ورا الشمس .. وزوار الفجر يا ريس .. خدوها من قصيرها من يوم ما اختارك شعبنا عشان تكمل بينا المشوار . ياريس معلهش .. عايز أقولك حاجات كتيرة .. لكن أنا متلخبط .. مش عارف اقولك علي اللي في قلبي وقلوب كل المصريين .. حاجات ياريس هي اللي خلتنا نحبك .. بصراحة مش هنحبك لله في لله !! لكن إنت ابتديت ياريس من أول يوم ... اسمك عرفناه وقبله كلمة بطل .. أول يوم عرفناك كنت في قمة المجد يا ريس .. الرئاسة عمرها ما كانت في بالك وتاريخك قبلها هو سجل شرف وعزة وكرامة .. من أول يوم رئاسة شفناك بتطلع الناس من المعتقلات وبدون ضجة ولا شوشرة .. شفناك يوم ما عملت أول مؤتمر اقتصادي .. شفناك وإنت بتلف في المصانع والمزارع .. بتكلم العمال والفلاحين .. بساطتك ياريس وحبك لشعبك ..خلت الناس كلها تحبك وروحها دايماً معاك .. دي حقيقة والله يا ريس .. حتي اخوتنا اللي لسانهم طويل الأيام دي !! عارفين قلبك وحبك وسماحتك .. عارفين إنك إنت اللي فتحت باب الحرية وشجعت الناس يقولوا ويشاركوا . خليت الناس يا ريس في مصر الفرعونية ينسوا كلمة الخوف من الحاكم ... لأول مرة من ٨ تلاف سنة .. صحيح اللي بيقولوه الجماعة إياهم زاد شويتين عن الحد !! لكن صدقني ياريس كله عارف ومتأكد من صبرك وحبك وحلمك .. عمرك ما غضبت من أي واحد فينا .. إنت صحيح بتغضب لينا لكن مش علينا .. بتغضب لو أي حد مس مصر بأي كلمة ولا همسة . كلنا عارفين ياريس إنك كبير في تعاملاتك مع كل دول العالم اللي بيحبونا واللي بيكرهونا واللي نص نص !! ساعات بتعدي ... بس بمزاجك ... وساعة الجد يا ويله يا سواد ليله اللي يفكر يهوب بكلمة علي مصر .. > > > عايزينك ترجع بسرعة ياريس .. مش هننسي عملت إيه في بني سويف الأسبوع قبل اللي فات .. كل الحكومة مشغولة في حل أزمة البوتاجاز والكيروسين والبطاقات الذكية واللي مش ذكية !! فجأة شافوك ياريس وبحاستك ونظرتك اللي دايما باصة لقدام بتقول للحكومة .. شوفوا حل للبطالة .. خلوها أولوية قبل أي حاجة .. الظاهر الحكومة كانت بدأت تنسي حكاية البطالة وفاكرة إن التلاتة ونصف مليون فرصة عمل اللي اتوفروا في التلت سنين اللي فاتوا كفاية يسدوا رمق الناس . صدقني ياريس ساعتها ربكت الحكومة .. وعرفتها إنك علي طول أقرب واحد لينا .. عارف إيه مشاكلنا .. بتعيش معانا همومنا .. وكمان بتحلم نفس أحلامنا .. إنت منا ياريس وعمرك ما كنت أبداً بعيد عنا . ياريس من يوم ما حضرتك رحت ألمانيا .. وعملت العملية .. الناس حاسة إن فيه حاجة نقصاها .. حاجة كبيرة وغالية علينا قوي ياريس .. الناس كلها بتسأل إمتي هترجع .. وحشتنا يا ريس كلنا .. وحاسين إن الأيام اللي غبت عنا فيها سنين طويلة وصعبه علينا . الـ ٨٨ مليون يا ريس قلوبهم بتدعي ربنا سبحانه وتعالي إنك ترجع لنا بألف مليون سلامه .. سلامتك يا ريس هي سلامة مصر كلها .. لكن اسمح لي أقولك ياريس عايزينك ترجع .. عشان حاجات كتيرة عايزينك تكملها . قلت لسيادتك إحنا طماعين !! لكن إنت عودتنا علي كده .. طول عمرك بتوفي معانا بأي وعد لك .. والبرنامج الرئاسي لسه عايز زقة .. وانسي ياريس إن قرار ترشيحك مرة تانية مش هيبقي ملك لك .. القرار ملك لشعبك .. وطول عمرك ياريس كنت جاهز دايماً للندا .. ندا الواجب .. طول عمرك ماردتش طلب لشعبك . صدقني ياريس عايزينك ترجع لنا بسرعة .. الشعب كله ياريس بيتحاما فيك .. ولو الحكومة عملت حاجة كده ولا كده !! عارفين إنك مش هتسكت وأول واحد هيقولهم » استوب «.. كله إلا الغلابة .. إنت الوحيد اللي حاسس بينا . عمرك ماكنت بعيد عنا إلا ساعة الشديد القوي .. وربنا ما يعيدها ولا تشوف حاجة وحشه أبداً تاني .. والحمد لله ربنا استجاب لدعاء ٨٨ مليون مصري » في وش العدو « مش عايزين حد يحسدنا .. وأولهم الدكتورة مشيرة خطاب وزيرة السكان !! > > > عايزينك ترجع ياريس عشان الدكتور يوسف بطرس غالي يخف علينا شوية !! ويشوف له حل في حكاية الضريبة العقارية .. ويعمل التعديلات اللي سيادتك قلت عليها .. صحيح إحنا عارفين اللي فيها ... عارفين إن مواردنا مش أد كده .. عارفين إن سباق الأرانب اللي دخلنا فيه وبقينا ٨٨ مليون بياكلوا كل حاجة .. ونتيجة أي اصلاح ما بنحسش بيها .. عارفين إن الموازنة فيها عجز .. ولكن ربنا دايماً ساترها معانا ياريس .. والله العظيم طول ما إنت معانا .. عايزينك ترجع لنا بسرعة ياريس عشان تفتح بقية مشروعات المية والصرف .. وجودك ياريس معانا ومتابعتك لكل حاجة .. هي الحاجة الوحيدة اللي مطمنانا إن إحنا ماشيين دايماً لقدام . عايزين نشوفك تاني بسرعة ياريس مع العمال في المصانع الجديدة اللي في وش العدو بقوا ٠٥١١ مصنع .. مش ألف بس !! عايزين نشوفك معاهم .. وهما بيضحكوا من قلبهم لما تكلمهم وتسأل عن أحوالهم .. عايشين فين؟ .. بيركبوا إيه من البيت للشغل؟ .. بياخدوا كام؟ عايزينك ترجع بسرعة ياريس عشان فيه شوية قوانين جديدة كده ممكن الله أعلم .. تحتاج منك توصية .. ولا ضبط للبوصلة .. زي قانون التأمينات الجديد وقانون التأمين الصحي . عايزينك ترجع ياريس عشان تروح بنفسك تشوف الهايبرات الجديدة بتاعة رشيد .. بتشغل ناس وكمان بتبيع بأسعار أقل .. عشان بتبيع كتير .. وإنت طالبت بزيادتها .. ودي هتوفر ٠٠٧ ألف فرصة عمل . عايزينك ترجع بسرعة ياريس عشان تروح المصانع الجديدة والمناطق الصناعية والمناطق الحرة .. عايزينك تفتح بقية الموانئ اللي بنيتها ياريس . عايزينك ترجع بسرعة ياريس عشان هيعملوا الموازنة الجديدة .. ولازم توصيهم علي العلاوة الاجتماعية الجديدة في يوليه عشان يعملوا حسابها من دلوقتي .. ومحدش يفكر يلغيها ولا يقصولها !! > > > عايزينك ترجع بسرعة ياريس عشان تتابع بنفسك حل مشاكل الفلاحين اللي إنت بتنصرهم ودايماً واقف معاهم .. وشلت ديونهم .. أصل الدين هّم يا ريس .. وكلهم ملهمش إلا إنت ابن أرضهم الطيبة ياريس .

If you can't beat them (or imprison or defame them)...

Thank you to Moftases for the photoshopping on the royal head.

Flaxing muscles

I went to a sit-in today in downtown Cairo by workers from the Tanta Flax and Oils Company. About 350 men have been sleeping on the pavement there since Monday, in the cold, because they’d like to be able to feed their families, and sometimes wages don’t come without a fight. It’s the usual story: public sector company is privatized and sold off. Investor buys it (at a huge discount) and then proceeds to slowly and systematically dismantle it with a view to selling the land on which the factory stands and making a tidy profit.

The only problem is that new investors are contractually under an obligation to “protect” the workers who come as part of the package, which means that they can’t just sack them, shut up shop and walk happily into the sunset, pockets bulging. One common strategy is to force workers out on early retirement, another to make life as intolerable as possible (especially for those active in defending workers’ rights) in the hope that they will quit of their own accord. The results are invariably a reduced, and demoralized workforce.

While Egypt’s steady privatization has made it a star pupil with the World Bank, these policies are far from popular amongst the people they most directly affect, as it well known. I spoke to one worker today who told me that he had the option of joining a private firm but opted for Tanta (when it was still government-owned) “because the state protects me in a way private companies won’t”. Tanta workers are not the first formerly public sector workers I have spoken to who reject the idea that the government doesn’t owe them anything after the integration of their company into the private sector. In fact, several such workers I spoke to continued to refer to themselves as public sector employees.

I’m poorly equipped to discuss with authority the economic merits or otherwise of Egypt’s privatization process, but its effects as I have witnessed them have largely been extremely negative. And certainly the trickle-down benefits lauded by the architects of this process has yet to be felt amongst the majority of Egyptians. But I really understood as I spoke to workers today that the privatization process is an affront to some workers not merely because it (usually) impoverishes them and threatens their working futures. On an ideological level, men in their 40s, 50s and 60s are bearing witness to the tearing down of the last remaining vestiges of a legacy which has informed their whole lives; the idea that the state will protect them. Privatisation of these men’s factories is a multi-pronged attack. On their security, their livelihoods, sometimes their pride and always the belief system which has underpinned their whole existence.

Times and economies change and that’s life, some argue. There are always victims on the road to progress. Alas these victims are often steamrollered multiples times by this progress. Tanta workers have been battling for almost a year for basic entitlements. What they want now is either for their factory to work properly (raw supplies aren’t being renewed and machinery is being removed, they say preventing them from working) or for them to be made redundant with the severance pay they are legally entitled to. The company is doing neither.

It has offered them half of the sum workers believe they are entitled to as redundancy pay. Workers have recently been informed that they won’t be being paid January’s salaries because they haven’t been working (they were on strike). Yesterday, as workers were thinking about putting up a tent to shelter them from the cold security officers stormed their gathering attacking four workers in an attempt to get to activists from the Tadamon [Solidarity] group who have been supporting the workers. You can see a video of the arrest of the activists here. They were subsequently released shortly afterwards.

I went back the same evening and workers told me that they're not intimidated. But they also said that this is because this protest is their resort: there's nothing else they can do after this, and how can they go back to their families and the factory and Tanta having failed?

I had left the sit-in shortly before the attack happened, and encountered another of Egypt’s odd moments of irony. As I walked away, wondering whether Egypt’s government is in professional training for the Screwing Over Your Own People Olympics or just doing it for fun, I walked onto Qasr El-Eini and found it empty. Big men in suits and shades carrying machine guns in 4x4s were parked on the side of the road, waiting to escort out parliamentarians. Behind them a sea of cars, ordinary Egyptians, were being held up. Without wishing to labour the image – you get the idea – walking along, the workers’ chants still audible behind me, it felt like yet another huge Up Yours from the men in charge.

Guide to writing about Egypt

Authentic modern Egyptians. Bonus point for donkey. Source here

REJECTED BLOG POST FROM CAIRO

In Egypt, writing an article follows a formula as old as the pyramids themselves*

By: I be earnin big Gs, baby

CAIRO: Your first paragraph, and you will use it to paint a stunningly authentic picture of Egypt for your inferior, under-traveled readers: a pastoral scene of the Nile Delta perhaps, or a portrait of poverty in Cairo’s gritty, urban chaos as described to you by your stringer. There will probably be a headscarf in there somewhere, being gently caressed by the wind of Egypt’s uncertain and precarious future.

Whatever you choose, your first paragraph must mention at least one of four things: the Nile, the Pyramids, overcrowding or Egyptian fatalism.

“At this point, a quote is long overdue,” chuckled Mohamed Father of Eight, who will usually be employed in something sufficiently blue collar-y as to give what he says that all-important authenticity. Make sure however that he is mellow and an exponent of the famous Egyptian sense of humour - despite the fact that he is being fucked over sideways by life.

You will describe Mohamed either cheerfully smoking a sheesha in a sidewalk café while resigning himself to God’s will, or masterfully cutting his way through Cairo’s notorious traffic in his taxi, throwing out colourful expletives at other drivers to the symphony of the capital’s car horns.

“Insha’allah what I say will include a word in transliterated Arabic. The reader will recall hearing this word during the pharaonic dress-up party on the Nile cruise he did in 1994 and realise that he has a deep and unshakable understanding of Arab culture and Islam in particular,” Father of Eight said, inevitably and suddenly looking older than his 40 years.

But you have lived in Egypt for eight months and were once told by a man in Dahab that you speak Arabic better than Egyptian themselves: useful because you attempted to use this expert Arabic at the police station later, after you realized that the disaffected youth had pinched your wallet because he can’t afford to get married in Mubarak’s Egypt.

In short, unlike your cosseted reader, you realise that the seemingly mundane minutiae of Egyptian society are portents of something more sinister, and also a useful way of filing copy when news is slow.

80 million Egyptians disagree. You know however that the double shock of Sadat’s 1980s economic opening – or Infitah [your readers wont know this one. You are superior] – and the Dina video scandal has deeply scarred this nation and rendered the opinions of the general public irrelevant vis-à-vis your theories.

“Another quote at this point, this time by an expert who will gladly come out with any old bullshit in order to see his name plastered all over your international publication,” commented Dr. Bo2ayn Aihkalam, author of El Forsa Betdo2 and a part-time dental hygienist.

“I will hold forth on the downtrodden Egyptian people and gladly back you up on your assertion that a phenomenon which is more or less common to all mankind is unique to this country,” Aihkalam said, speaking in his clinic on a busy Wednesday afternoon.

Now draw tenuous links between all the above. If your story is a political piece suggest that the creation of a Facebook group called “Elboradei lovers” with 312 members one of whom is wearing a green t-shirt means that Egypt is on the cusp of an Iran-style revolution.

Try to squeeze in a reference to Copts, bloggers, the Muslim Brotherhood and bread queues if at all possible. Mention sexual harassment, the African Cup of Nations, succession and Amr Diab and you will have a royal flush, sir.

If however your story begins with either “letter from Cairo” or “Cairo journal” you are relieved of journalistic duties such as fact checking or conveyance of useful information.

Structure your story in ever shorter, staccato sentences.

Thus.

Make sure to talk a load of bollocks.

After a long and uninteresting journey mostly round your own prejudices the reader will be conveyed to his final destination.

Which is that, in the eternal city, when Egyptians have colds, they sneeze.

* This post is a blatant rip off of this brilliant idea, and was written in rage after reading this.

A few 'yo mamas' would have been quicker

I just want to record here because I forget these things, and because I have nowhere to record them, that this man:

Cracked me up at a protest I covered today.

He had something against People’s Assembly chief Fathy Sorour. I mean more than the usual dislike of Fathy Sorour. It was personal, I felt. Like Fathy Sorour had introduced this man's sister to crack cocaine or something. He stood outside the metal barriers for about 40 minutes, and every time someone chanted something, he tailored it to assuage his Sorour vitriol.

Thus:

الحزب الوطني هو المسئول

The National Democratic Party is responsible

became

الحزب الوطني و سرور هم المسئولين

The National Democratic Party AND Sorour are responsible

and

يا مبارك ساكت لية انت موافق ولا اية

Mubarak why are you silent, do you approve or what?

became

يا مبارك و يا سرور ساكتين بية ..الخ

Mubarak and Sorour, why are you silent...etc

but my favourite was this:

مصر لكل المصريين!

Egypt is for all Egyptians!

which our friend rendered

مصر لكل المصريين ما عدا سرور

Egypt is for all Egyptians except Sorour.

Occupy in the sky.

This is where Tony was hiding the WMDs

Tony Liar’s appearance before the Iraq Inquiry coincided with the release of this heartbreaking short documentary film on the killing of a nine year-old boy by the Blackwater private security company, and my reading of a book called “In Cairo With Kitchener”, published in 1917.

“In Cairo with Kitchener” is a gem of a book, written before governments had to dress up imperialist ambitions as acts of philanthropy, before they had to go through the tiresome processes of securing a United Nations rubber-stamp for their invasions and justify their actions retrospectively, eight years too late.

“In Cairo” is written by Sydney A. Moseley, a British journalist who spent two years in Egypt, and who is largely motivated by a desire to complain about interference in the publication and content of his book by Lord K himself. Moseley is a name-dropper par excellence and is the type of journalist who likes to shoehorn himself into the story, so this act of censorship seems to have thrilled him.

Mosely writes in the book’s preface that the Al-Shaab newspaper reported that an introduction had been written by Minister of Public Works Ismail Sirry “Pasha”, without Sirry actually having read its contents. Sirry, “having learned that the book contained many reflections on the British Agent [Kitchener]…has gone round telling all those he met that he did read the book before writing the introduction”.

We are told that Sirry did not know that Moseley would take an attitude of “frankness and independence” in his book. References to Kitchener in the edition I read were unreservedly sycophantic, so I can’t understand both what the author means by “frankness and independence” nor what the bloody fuss was about.

In any case, a strange irony has been given to the book, 90 years later. Moseley unwittingly reveals the British occupiers in all their crass, orientalist, arrogance - but he also says a couple (very few, admittedly) of things which still ring true today.

Below are some of Moseley’s thoughts on his sojourn in “the Land of Paradox”, as he insists on calling Egypt.

“There are evils in Egypt which exist not so much as a result of British policy, but because of the crass stupidity and overwhelming conceit - which always go together – of individual officials. These persons, some of whom I mention in the following pages, constitute themselves as modern Egyptian gods and expect idolatry of Ra in the twentieth century. Those who have been inured to the enervating and narrowing atmosphere of the Land of Paradox accept this well enough. The few bolder, who do not go so far as to worship, take care, nevertheless, not to blame where they are unable to praise.” - Note the separation between “individual acts” and “policy”, a favourite stratagem of the politician. No comment on “modern Egyptian gods”.

“’Robbers and blackmailers are, in Egypt, treated more fairly than editors accused of infringing the Press Law.’”

“The suppression of newspapers and newspaper men in Egypt is nothing new”. - Ya ragel.

“This unparalleled interest in his [Lord Kitchener’s] coming can only be set down to the reputation and prestige he had gained on the banks of the Nile. There could, indeed, be no plainer proof of the old saying that nothing strikes the Oriental imagination so much as success in war”. – Obama still busy trying to strike that oriental imagination.

“It is unusual for an Egyptian crowd to cheer” – he forgot to add, “under occupation”.

“It is true that on this score [Egypt’s 1st parliament] criticism has not been lacking; but while one who desires to record a situation as it actually is must examine such criticism, it should be borne in mind that a first parliament, like the first of lesser institutions, must take time before it can be rid of its defects. Only time and British representatives can do that”. - vomit.

Moseley wasn’t entirely oblivious though, and devotes an entire chapter to the consideration of “Why the Englishman is disliked”.

“The statement has been made by bewildered [LOL] British students of Egyptian politics that the Egyptian does not like the Englishman. This charmingly frank and innocent conclusion is arrived at with a tinge of bitterness…

After all we have done for them – which they fully admit – they will be glad to see the back of us [fancy that!].

Strangely enough, these writers have said nothing of the Briton not liking the Egyptian. Perhaps these students failed to notice the stand-offishness of the superior British official towards the common Egyptian. If they had given heed to this obvious fact they would have saved themselves a host of doubts and theories. The British have a natural aptitude for governance abroad [they beat insubordinate natives round the head with their stiff upper lip]. This must have originated before our advent in Egypt ; for, well as we have done there, we could have accomplished much more – the friendship of the Egyptian, for instance – if we had been wiser in our choice of civil servants. As it is, we appear to have been at pains to send our snobs to Egypt. The Land of Paradox has become the City of British Snobs.”- Again, the policy isn’t wrong, IT’S THE INDIVIDUALS. Got it???

“The fact is, the cringing and abjectness of the native have transformed many responsible Britons in Egypt from masters tolerant towards their inferiors into the kind of tyrant who recalls Egypt’s darkest history”.- It’s the natives’ faults, just like in modern day occupations where occupying troops commit atrocities because of the pressure of having to fight those ungrateful recalcitrant natives. Btw Moseley thinks that Egypt’s “darkest history” was under the Turks, who he intensely dislikes.

“The more general type of man who schemes for an “unfettered” Egypt is generally the bloated half- Turk, half-something else, whose interests, in the main, are mercenary and nothing else. He has actually no more aesthetic sentiment about the political state of Egypt than a gamoose. Let him obtain unlimited fodder at the expense of others, and he will content. It was individuals of this type who wrote the pages of Egypt’s blackest history. Heaven forfend that we should permit him to hold sway again!” – heaven forfend indeed!

“Consider yourself very fortunate that you, an outsider, should have been chosen for this wonderfully good fortune [of the British occupation. I kid you not]. You know that the reason why we sent great Englishmen thousands of miles from our own misery in order to keep yours was because circumstances, in the very inspiring form of finance, necessitated those early steps…Since he was already there the Englishman thought he might just as well knock the country into shape; for the surroundings, after all, were good to look at and the climate most inviting.” – That is: right we’re here robbing the country, let’s build a few roads.

““Self-indulgence and corruption have eaten the heart of the Turkish oligarchy,” wrote Lord Milner.

“It is the curse of the whole vast region which still lies under the blight of the Ottoman dominion, that the governing classes are devoid of the morality which essential to governing well”.

That class would again govern Egypt if England left Cairo to-day”.

I'm always astonished that countries formerly occupied by the British didn't collectively invade Britain and beat its rulers around the head with the latters' sense of entitlement.