The College Hill Independent

Back

Letter from Cairo
Protest, apathy, and lockdown
. . . by Shekinah Elmore
[illustration by Kea Johnston]

In Egypt, nothing runs on time, especially if time is to be measured by the precision of minutes instead of by the nuance of feeling. The only exceptions to this rule of tardy departures and arrivals are the trains that run from Midan Ramses Station, and the American University in Cairo shuttle buses that take students from the hostel on the island of Zamalek to the campus downtown and back again. Every twenty minutes, one bus leaves from Zamalek, and one leaves from just outside the University’s library. However, today the shuttle bus not only departs late, but is also prevented from parking once it arrives on campus because of the spectacle that has usurped its bay. The time is just after 11:00am and the horn-happy din of Mohamed Mahmoud Street has been replaced by the thick silence of diverted traffic and military presence, signaling that civil disobedience is afoot in Cairo.

For two solid blocks, a semi-human wall of paddy wagons, armored carriers, and armed soldiers decorate both sides of the empty street. In the center ring of this minor circus, just to right of the McDonald’s, a gang of soldiers in riot gear helmets stands still and poised for action. Their guns, batons, and buckles periodically achieve brilliance as they catch the glare of the ascending sun. For westerners who haven’t been in country for more than a brief tourist trip, the city must look occupied, and the hundred or so soldiers and officers sure evidence that some sort of conflict will soon rip the semblance of order at the seams. For a seasoned veteran of seven weeks, however, the scene is little more than a gentle reminder of how the Egyptian government treats protests. This particular dispatch of troops is in response to the anti-war ‘teach- in’ that I will be attending today at the American University in lieu of going to class.

From under the hijab
Today, in addition to the requisite long pants and long sleeves, I’ve chosen to cover my head in simple, white cotton. The headscarf, or hijab, in combination with my brown skin, gives me the freedom to look less American and perhaps even Sudanese. A non-American foreigner can pass through a bit easier on days of protest. A woman in hijab can pass through the city more freely on any day.

Descending from the shuttle, I walk with a reserved step through the military forest. Due to the blockades, I’m free to walk the few meters across Yousef el-Gindy street, and onto the ‘Greek Campus’ without the fear of being clipped by a taxi. Before I cross, I run into Harold, a fellow ‘study abroad’ student. He is an easygoing anarchist/atheist from Brooklyn who is attending college in Washington. He carries the bright but unpolished look of an outdoorsy Northwesterner, or an activist Brunonian. My raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders ask “Protest?” His crinkled forehead and slight rocking forward answer “Yeah,” and we move through the guarded gates and on to the main event.

Past the concrete gray library on the left, a brick path leads around the cafeteria, up a few shallow stairs, and finally opens up unto the expanse of paved courtyard, one side raised high above and one part a valley below. The courtyard is what makes the Greek Campus the place to be. It is constantly overflowing with well-dressed college kids connecting with each other both in person and through beeping mobile phones.

The differences today are few. The vaulted portion of the courtyard has become a mixture of stage and status quo. A huddled group of some twenty odd faculty, undergraduate, and graduate students dominate the scene. Both the men and the women wear the traditional black and white scarves of Palestine around their necks and shoulders, or have them tied around their backpacks and arms in solidarity with the cause. Their coterie stands off toward the side of the platform, eyes fixed in seriousness or darting in anxiety, and overall looking far more serious than the sunny day and the throngs of equally sunny young adults would require. A podium, a small sound system, and a red-letter banner that reads “No to the occupation in Palestine, No to the invasion of Iraq,” in both Arabic and English complete the subtle aberration. Surely, it isn’t for this meager gathering that an army of officers, wielding riot gear and all manner of rifles, has gathered. If the Rhode Island State Police or the National Guard had to gather their ranks any time a dozen or so students at Brown decided to speak about their views, the security budget of the state would certainly soon be spent. Yet a gathering that looks to me like it could easily morph into a talent show or an awards ceremony looks to the Egyptian Government like the youthful sparks that could set a street, a neighborhood, a town, a city, a country on fire. The sparks must be contained, because, as even I can tell, there is a good deal of dry kindling in Egypt.

Between neocolonialism and tyranny
“Is anybody listening?” a low, booming female voice demands of the mostly unengaged and chitchatting students. A slew of designer ring tones and poorly muffled giggles answer her query. But the organizers are faithful to their collective and individual causes, and continue with fervency in the face of apathy.

The forceful-voiced woman hands the microphone to Dr. Khaled Fahmy, a native Egyptian and a professor at NYU. His appearance is slightly wrinkled, but hardly bent, and it’s apparent that he is graying everywhere but in the eyes, which still remain wide, open, and demanding.

“The people of the Arab world must not feel that they have to choose between the neocolonialism of President Bush and the tyranny of Saddam Hussein,” reads Dr. Fahmy from the sheets that he’s prepared. “There are other solutions for the Iraqi people and for the Arab world. We must do what we can in Egypt to support them, to support the procession of human rights, and democracy brought by the people.” His voice bespeaks a great urgency, a need to convince not just those gathered here today, but also the people and the leaders of the Arab World that not standing behind Saddam does not mean abandoning pan-Arabism, does not mean siding with the West.

Speakers from the crowd, from the steps, from the stage, young and old, male and female, hijabed and free-haired, Iraqi and American, native and foreign, light and dark-skinned, creedless and Qur’an-bearing, overwrought and soft spoken, peaceful and powerful, all shuffle in quick succession to the vaulted altar to say their piece. The messages melt under the noontime sun and run into one seldom-broken stream. One particular speaker, however, catches me. Her name is Sara and while she has lived in Cairo for the past four years, she comes from the Sudan. This is her first year at the university.

She proceeds to the microphone without ceremony, takes it with a modicum of grace, and holds it close to her mouth. “All you have to say is no,” she says. “It’s not that difficult a thing to do. We’re all students. We can read, and think, and learn, and speak out. All you have to do is stand up and say no.” The audience is caught by the simplicity of her words. No rhetoric. No assault. No specific angle or curiously slanted morality. Only the words of a young girl who left her friends, and her family, and her homeland because of a civil war who is now trying to offer some encouragement to those young people trying to stand against a war for their friends, and their families, and their homelands in a country that would rather they sit and sit quietly. “Thank you.” Sara departs center stage with no event. A mix of hearty applause and inane chatter follows her exit.

At 7:00pm, a solid eight hours after the beginning of the teach-in, the last stragglers are beginning to make their peace with the fact that dispersing is the next logical step. The campus buzzes under the tutelage of scattered streetlights and cats, who inhabit it more freely when the people have gone. The Cairo sky has taken on the familiar layers of sand and smog, trapping the city in an interminable and dusty twilight. Time drags under my feet as I walk through the iron campus gates and board the shuttle to return home. Through the windows the dust and the questions fly at my eyes with equal force. Will this demonstration, born in the world of academia, send out enough ripples to rally others and to soften the heart of say, Pharaoh? Or shall it be that the clash between the will of the people and the will of the state must lead to strife, and to loss, as it seems to have done through history? The sand, the wind, the time will blow over us all. The mystery lies in who will stand and who will remain standing.

Shekinah Elmore B’04 could soften the heart of Pharoah.

Back to Indy Home