More thoughts on Cairo -- streetlife observations

It is a city out of focus, blurred by smog and the clamor of its streets. Outdated cars rattle their way through the crowds. Horns note a turn or a watch out! or a go faster. Grime is engrained in every surface from the windows of the rusted black and white cabs to the faded cloth handles of the old mens' waterpipes. Dust is everywhere, coating the thick leaves of the rubber trees with a brown film.

It is a loud city, loud in the quiet, punishing way dreams are when they are distorted by fever. Everything whirling, surreal, out of control, sleepy but frightened and vigilant like a hostage in the trunk of a car just before he loses consciousness to an inhalation of carbon monoxide.

Occasionally the smog melts away and the glare of the new-found sun awakes the drugged people so that they sit up, blinking and disoriented; however, like hostages kept in ignorance of their whereabouts they people only truly wake up at night. It is then that their world, their entire existance, changes. In the orange glow of the streetlamps and the blinding fluorescense of the storefront window displays, the sleeping people come alive.

It is then that one notices the juice stands with their swinging nets of mangos and pommegranates and the sickly-sweet sugar cane juice served in mugs like frothy, chartreuse beer. The odor of rotting guavas mixes with whifs of vomit from the back alleys. Charcoal and sweet apple smoke waft from the shisha parlors with their sawdust floors and elderly clientel.

Skinned cows, a silly shade of fuscia, hang in the butchers' windows with their tails flopped forward revealing their indignity to the world even after death. Balding men in plaid shirts hustle among the taxis on their way to unknown appointments, their foreheads marked by the black, ashy callous of prayer. Great, black lumps of shriveled old ladies park themselves on the sidewalks, selling packets of tissues or twinkies.

A man in a galabiyya, the traditional ankle-lenth shirtdress, digs into a McDonalds hamburger, and a young man passing a girl on the street hisses "ishta." Literally the word means "cream," but it also means the young man is lower-class, uneducated, and ignorant of the fact that the girl was walking on this street for purposes of her own, not simply for his pleasure. But to reply would only earn the girl more unwanted attention so she pretends that the man was never there and the moment passes, though this interaction will be replicated every day all over the city between countless young men and women.

The Hijab: Your Questions Answered!

A simple wrap-and-tuck job: Me wearing hijab at the Suleymaniye mosque in Istanbul

I write this title with a bit of sarcasm in my tone; however, based on some comments and questions I've received from the people back home, I've decided it would be instructive for many to clear up some things about "the Islamic veil." Here I present a brief summary of hijab and other forms of coverings which Muslim women wear, informed by what I've observed here in Egypt.

In Egypt, about 90% of people are Muslim, 9% are Coptic Christians, and 1% are other Christians. Coptic women do not veil themselves so what I will be speaking about here pertains to Muslim women. Although most women that I observe in Cairo are covered (wearing hijab or more), many, including many Muslims are not. Before I get into the specifics of what I believe this indicates, I'll take a moment to explain some forms of covering.

Hijab:
The most basic covering is the hijab, sometimes called a headscarf. The hijab is simply a scarf worn around the head, concealing the hair, ears, and neck (although some women wrap their scarf into a large bun at the base of their necks and leave their necks uncovered). Wearing the hijab in Egypt usually also entails covering the arms to the wrists and the legs to the ankles. Depending on personal preference, some women take this to mean wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans while others eschew pants in favor of ankle-length skirts. This style (of Western dress and hijab) is most common among younger women and teenagers.

This photo is of a girl in London wearing this style of hijab. (You probably wouldn't see that little triangle of skin above her chest in Cairo).

Khimar:
The khimar is a covering which comes over the head, revealing the face, but extending over the shoulders to waist-length. It is worn with an ankle-length skirt of similar fabric (my guess is rayon) and the result is conservative but flowing and probably pretty comfortable. This is standard uniform for many older women in Cairo and khimar of many colors can be seen daily.

(o.k. so obviously these aren't my photos. I'm going to work on post some of my own.)

Abaya:
A black covering which drapes over the head, covering the forehead but revealing the rest of the face. It extends to floor-length and has wrist-length sleeves.

Niqab:
The niqab is a veil worn across the face just under the eyes. This can either mean a separate piece added to an abaya or it can be a piece which covers the face and forehead entirely, leaving a slit for the eyes. Women who wear the niqab are usually conservative enough to also wear black gloves.


Sometimes a niqab may be part of a larger veil called a...

Boushiya:
The boushiya is a niqab which ties around the back of the head, leaving a slit for the eyes. It also has another veil of sheer fabric attached just above the eye slit which may be lain back over the top of the head or pulled down to cover the eyes.

Sorry for the miniscule pic. Though I have seen women wearing the boushiya, I haven't taken pictures of them. They're not circus freaks or tourist attractions, and if a woman feels the need to be that covered, I'm guessing she doesn't want her picture taken. Respect.

Burqa:
The burqa is a large piece of fabric which fits like a cap over the top of the head and extends to floor length usually in two pieces like a khimar and skirt. It has a screen over the eyes rather than a sheer piece of fabric that can be pulled back like a boushiya.



It is important to note that I have never seen a burqa. Burqas are worn in Afghanistan and have become especially symbolic of the repression imposed by the Taliban. They are NOT typical of the dress worn in more central countries of the Middle East such as Egypt, Jordan, or Iraq.

Moreover, following the invasion of Afghanistan, the term burqa has wrongly been used by many Americans to describe any sort of Islamic veiling. This is indicative of ignorance on the part of the American public of the nuances within and between Muslim societies. Also, this inattention to detail suggests a larger and more problematic tendency within America to view any sort of veiling as oppressive. It follows from this that many of the people who misunderstand the nature of covering wish to impose their concepts of "freedom" on the Muslim societies of the Middle East. Just why that is a bad idea I'll get into in a later post.

Ma' salama -- Goodbye, or literally, (go) with peace

Kitten Watch: the mood is tense!

Time for a cute little interlude about my dorm's newest residents.

When the two cats who live in our cafeteria got down to business no one expected that those mongrels could produce such cute little things, but then Adolf (so named for her moustache) was found to be a girl when she carried six tiny kittens into the dorm and deposited them underneath a dwarf palm in the courtyard. A week or so later, students who had previously chased Adolf away from their dinners are sharing leftover chicken with her so that she can feed her babies. Most of the Egyptian students seem uninterested, even disgusted with the little family, but the internationals have taken up a constant watch of les petits chats.


Adolf, as it turns out, is a pretty trusting mother now that the kittens can move around by themselves. She doesn't object to the kittens being held, (I even stole one for a bit to surprise my friends on the sixth floor) and a few names have been aggreed on by some of the residents -- Mish-Mish (Egyptian for apricots), Shib-Shib (flip-flops), and Spiderpig (the runt).

Babies!!!

You think you know...but you have no idea

My fans have been clamoring for an update, and I'll admit I've been remiss in keep the blog updated. The reason I haven't produced a new post lately is that I'm starting to feel that Cairo is too complicated to blog about. There is simply no way to adequately describe what it's like to live here; you have to experience it yourself to get the picture.

That said, if you want to keep in mind as you're reading the blog that this doesn't even begin to describe this place, then maybe I can keep you all updated.

So what's new in al-Qahira? Basically, lately I've been going to classes (Colloquial Arabic, Modern-Standard Arabic, Development, International Security, and Environmental Politics) and adjusting to how school works here. Classes here are much, much smaller than at Northwestern and attendance counts a lot because some of the Egyptian students have trouble with participation because of their limited English skills. Also, my non-arabic classes have become increasingly frustrating due to some of the worst lecturers I've ever had. I'm starting to realize just how good a school Northwestern is...

As for how the rest of my day goes, between classes I fight the hoards of perfumed, Gucci-clad AUC students who sit with legs stretched across the stairs on Greek Campus. After the first few days, I learned that the only way to get to classes in the social science building is to forcibly shove them aside or step on their bags and notebooks. This is just one of many examples of how living in Cairo forces you to dehumanize the people around you. Whether stereotyping the Egyptian AUC students as superficial, spoiled, and ignorant or shunning the filthy children who beg near the shuttle stop or ignoring the existence of men when you pass them on the street, what one does to get by in Cairo's social system can morph an empathetic and dynamic person into a deaf and blind shell.

More thoughts like these later. The hour of iftar (breakfast during Ramadan) approaches, and I must get some din.

Float like a butterfly

As it turned out, it was the apricots that did it.

It was not the shawarma or the greasy french fries or the koshary or the coffee, although it could have been any one of them. True, the shawarma and the koshary were both from reputable places, but there's always a risk with Egyptian food. And the coffee...well, for a while, I was convinced it was the coffee.

The day before, a friend and I had gone to Costa Coffee, an upscale chain with American prices. When we walked in, the manager told us we could sit upstairs as there was a "problem with the water" downstairs. Glancing over his shoulder, I noticed the entire downstairs of the shop was flooded, and I thought to myself it must be somehow related to the flooding we'd just passed on a nearby sidestreet. We didn't think anything of it until we got upstairs and realized by the smell, that the water on the floor downstairs wasn't simply a burst pipe. It was a sewage leak. We stayed and ordered, although neither of us could say why. Personally, I attribute my inaction to not wanting to be thought squeemish or ungracious to the staff. After all, who in Egypt hasn't encountered some raw sewage from time to time? Of course, this line of reasoning was completely illogical, even dangerous, but I didn't consider that at the time.

My friend ordered strawberry juice and I, a cappucino. Her strawberry juice came bottled; my cappucino was made at the shop. For that reason, I deduced, my run-in with raw sewage had caused my illness.

Still, as I said, it was the apricots that caused my dysentery, fever, and fainting. I learned this a few days after I had recovered, when I ate the apricots again and began to feel sick. I thwarted the illness the second time with an "abdominal antiseptic" obtained from the AUC clinic. It just goes to show, however, that in Egypt anything can knock you down at any time.

As I see it, life in Egypt is like a boxing match against a pretty tough opponent. An inexperienced fighter doesn't anticipate the punches that come at him, so when he get up from being punched, he is quickly knocked down again.

On an average day during my first weeks in Egypt, I would make it down to the shuttle in the morning to find that it had left ahead of schedule. There would not be another for an hour, so I would need to get a cab, but it would take me several tries to find one that would aggree to take me where I wanted to go. Often cabbies would simply shake their heads and drive off. Others would wait until I got in, then half a block later demand a ridiculous price, and I would have to get out and find another cab.

Arriving at school, I would have to negotiate the AUC "bureaucracy," a euphemism for describing the system of self-important people who are paid despite their complete disregard for the fact that they have jobs to do. The worst of this set is the director of the International Student Services Office, a witch of a woman decked out in a suspiciously wig-like coifure and shimmering pancake makeup caked inches thick on her face. This woman -- let's call her Tomato -- carries a Louis Vuitton purse, is directly decended from the prophet (and "has the certificate to prove it"), and appears to derive sadistic pleasure from telling people she can't help them.

Nevermind that there are nearly 400 international students this year, she insisted on acting as "advisor" to all of us. Nevermind that there wasn't enough time in the day on the designated advising days to meet with all of us or that the signup sheets for appointments didn't get one as far as crossing off a name from an earlier appointment and substituting one's own. Nevermind that having an appointment was the only way to add a class, because meeting with Tomato was no guarantee that one would get a class, regardless of how many credits one's home university required.

Once, for example, I came to an appointment with a page-long list of backup courses in case the witch didn't allow me into the classes I wanted. (At a previous appointment, she had refused to let me take upper-level political science lest I, a non-major, "undermine the reputation of the school"). As I read through the list of more than 20 courses, she declared each one closed. When I finished, she asked me if I was satisfied with my schedule. Trying to keep my cool, I explained that my university required me to have five courses, and as I only had four, I needed another course. She told me that it was my responsibility, not hers, to find a class that was open and that I should come back to see her when I did.

And that would only be half of an average day.

Where am I?

Standing in line at the dorm cafeteria’s register, I am suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of everything moving towards my center. My extremities feel light as if all the blood had left them, and I worry that if I don’t lie down soon my core won’t be able to support the rest of me. I briefly imagine my neck flopping over under the weight of my head and my legs collapsing underneath me. I begin to panic, annoyed by the Egyptian girl who has cut in front of the line. She’s pretty, and she ignores the rest of us and speaks to the cashier in rapid Egyptian Arabic conveying that she’s a classic AUC student: over-privileged, under-worked, and utterly self-involved. My panic seems to raise my already high fever a degree. I can feel it burning in my eyeballs. Things are getting blurry.

I’m sure now that if I don’t at least sit, I will collapse. I’ve hardly eaten today – just a quarter of a granola bar that made me nauseous the moment I swallowed it. I had gone home at lunch, missing half of my classes on the first day of school here in Egypt, and despite sleeping the whole afternoon, my condition had only gotten worse. Now there had been nothing on my stomach all day and though I don’t have a thermometer, I can tell that I now have a higher fever than I’ve ever had before.

I rummage for some one-pound bills so I can quickly give the cashier money and make it to a chair before I collapse or throw up. The closed-in feeling intensifies. Everything is blurry. The bill is 3.75 EP. I hand the man 4 pounds. He slowly begins to get change but I cut him off – mish mushkilla – and turn to go back though the cafeteria up to my room. I know now I won’t make it that far. I WILL throw up. But I don’t want to. There are people around. And I just don’t like that feeling. I see a blur that I assume is a chair and make my way towards it, trying to hold myself together just long enough. I try to put my drinks on the table next to the chair, but my depth perception fails me, and I let the Sprite and water bottle fall further than they should.

I am so sure now that I will throw up that I know I must decide whether to push my body to make it to the restroom across the courtyard or to let the inevitable happen here in the cafeteria. I stand and begin making my way across the courtyard. I know when I make it to the other side because I feel my foot nudge the step. Blind and clutching the doorframe, I try to feel my way over the step.

I don’t remember the fall.

When I open my eyes, I can see again. People are swarming me as I lie on my back on the floor. Most of them are the dorm’s bawabs – doormen – in their navy and red uniforms. A round man with an air of authority pushes through the bawabs urgently to kneel beside me. His hair is neatly trimmed and on his forehead is the distinctive mark – like the gray smudge of Ash Wednesday – of a Muslim who has prayed five times a day for many years. He begins asking me questions – what is my name, am I on medication, do I feel sick? I try to answer, but my own question, which has been nagging me from the back of my mind since I arrived in Cairo two weeks ago, has grown stronger.

How did I get here?