thoughts from exile :)

News channels broadcasted groups of protestors last night on the 6^th of October bridge, near Maspero (see picture), attacking each other with rocks and fireworks. The associative clash of bright, playful explosions with their being leveled and fired into crowds was horrifying.

I'm not watching the news now. Instead of focusing on the violence, witnessed always (with the exception of a few scuffles—from a car accident, from the gas shortage) on TV screens, I'm going to write on the Egypt I do know, the one I saw every day till the government pulled us out.

Early yesterday morning I made the acquaintance of an older gentleman in my building I'd seen before at the mosque. The streets were quiet, more or less empty of cars and their chaotic urban choir of horns and engines. There was a rare peace and stillness.

We took the elevator and got to talking: the usual stuff—where I'm from, why I'm in Cairo, etc.—but he was warmer and calmer than most. He introduced himself as Prof. Muhammad Elgibali (relation to Dr. Alaa??) from Cairo University; I didn't catch what it was he taught. 

I dropped the news of the day's mandatory evacuation, which he dismissed as nonsense. Egyptians are peaceful, I'm not in danger. I can stay with him and his family on the fourth floor, I'll be perfectly safe.

Touched by his words and demeanor—also by my sadness and disappointment at leaving—I actually thought for a second. 

(In all likelihood, too, I would be perfectly safe.)

But it was mandatory. There were already transportation and flight arrangements, in a few hours I would have a room booked in Gammarth, Tunisia. The encounter ended as they all did that day: that it had been a pleasure, that I hoped to see him again soon, and that God protect the Egyptian people.

Egypt is no paradise these days: its politics make people angry, its economy makes them desperate. My experiences downtown—scammers, aggressive beggars, and occasionally just plain hostile people—wore me down and made me afraid to trust Egyptians' kindness. Being cleaned out by my flatmate in Shubra on the first day of class didn't help. It isn't paradise—basic notions of caution and common sense still apply.

But behind this (and, in my experience, far from downtown) remains much to be remembered and admired. A lot has been said, and I agree, about how Egyptian society (Arab society in general) is more community-oriented than in individualistic America. A strange example, but the first thing that comes to mind, is arguments: a dispute arises, and people get involved, take sides, tell the one to leave the other alone, support the one's case against the other's, or the other's against the one's. 

You're never alone. On a bus once, with only a vague idea of where it was headed and where I would get off, I eventually had half the passengers bombarding me with "raayih feen?" and "where are you going?" (Overwhelmed and embarrassed, I stepped off the bus early and spent a half-hour searching for the river.)

Interactions (same-sex) are friendlier and more open. Once in America I put my hand on a guy's shoulder while talking and he instinctively started into combat stance.

There's more I can say but I'd need to get abstract and philosophical, and spend my first day in Tunisia in the hotel rather than out meeting old friends. Suffice it to say that, even as things heated up in Cairo, I never, outside classes in Zamalek (pictured) or my apartment in Dokki, felt like I was in any danger. 

 

I never felt surrounded by people I couldn't trust, people who wouldn't rush to help me should anything come up. When an American was attacked in May by a knife-wielding homeless man outside the Embassy, it was ordinary Egyptians—and not the police—that came to his aid and apprehended the assailant.

I hope in five days to board a flight back across the Mediterranean, not the Atlantic. I hope to be back in my Dokki apartment, making good on the July's rent I had to hurriedly put down. I hope to be back in class, learning the odd verse of classical poetry with Ustaaz Amin, following Umm al-Dunya's almost Maha-esque "Rihlat Abdallah" with Ustaaza Nirmeen. I hope the country can straighten itself out politically and economically, and work toward the better future its people deserve. The thing I hope for most is also the thing I'm most sure of: that this Egypt I've come to know survives, continues to strengthen bonds and bring people, Egyptians and visitors, together.