A Wall Crumbles

The Qasr Al Aini wall coming down--the first stone has just fallen from the right side
(a video taken from a friend's camera to be posted ASAP)

The ground under my feet shakes for a full second, maybe more, as one of the giant concrete stones tumbles to the asphalt. On this Friday afternoon, a few dozen young men gather (many at the bidding of a Facebook event page) to tear down one of the seven ad hoc walls that the military installed in downtown Cairo to protect its Interior Ministry headquarters after several bouts of street fighting since late November. For more than three months now, this particular wall on Qasr Al Aini Street, combined with several rows of barbed wire on the other (non-Tahrir Square) side, has locked down a half-kilometer stretch of what was until recently one of the busiest streets in Cairo.

The wall stands next to the Egyptian Institute, which used to hold invaluable manuscripts from Napoleon Bonaparte's three-year scientific expedition/colonial invasion of Egypt at the end of the 18th century. The building was torched during clashes in December resulting from the breakup of a sit-in in front of the cabinet building. Some artifacts were saved, many destroyed. The building is now covered by metal scaffolding, presumably to facilitate repairs, but I only ever see construction workers on the roof pushing around dust and rocks.

Around 5:15pm, the first block falls from the western side of the wall. Men and boys have scaled the 4-meter high wall and push from different directions, while others work on the ground with the help of two long prying sticks and a cloth strap--all improvised tools for this unusual task. The guys take turns explaining to each other the best method for moving the stone, and onlookers chime in their advice from a safe distance below. The stones must be immensely heavy, since young men thick with muscle huff and puff as they try to move just one at a time.

With success in sight, the guys count to three in Arabic and make a coordinated push/pull. The block falls to the ground as if in slow motion, sending bystanders scattering and a cloud of dust pillowing into the air. As the ground shakes, the men leap with satisfaction and a leader among them begins a chant against military rule. The crowd, which is beginning to grow, erupts in cheers and applause, while the guys atop the wall stare down the police standing 100 meters away on the other side as if to say, Whatcha gonna do about that?!

Before long, the guys are back to work on the next stone block of the top row. When I return to the scene three hours later, the top row is on the ground and the second row is on its way. The crowd has grown to about two hundred people, including some women and children. I jump up on one of the discarded stones to watch the men at work. It's a group effort with more than a dozen people aiming at the same goal, but they have a strategy down and each stone takes about 20 minutes.

I spot some friends on the other side of the wall and we trade notes about what's going on. Nobody is quite sure who is actually doing the physical work of disassembling the wall. Some of the guys identify as Ultras, Egypt's notorious football hooligans who played an important role in the revolution and in the February street clashes and who are currently protesting outside the cabinet building. Others deny association with any group.

We're also not sure what to expect from removing the wall. On the other side there are police, and unless they move there could be a violent confrontation. The point is proven immediately when the appearance of reinforcements send the people near the wall scattering back to the safety of the other side. It's a false alarm--nothing to fear right now--but a discomforting hint of what may be coming.

When I pass by the street again around 1am, the wall is now completely horizontal--3 rows deep instead of 3 rows tall. The blocks will have to be moved to the side if traffic is to pass, but perhaps this is a solution--take down the wall to resist the military, but leave it in the street to prevent renewed clashes with the police. The people on the street at this hour have clearly been distracted from removing the wall. There are a few groups of young men talking/arguing and one group seems particular rowdy. Avoiding their heated exchanges, I weave through the discarded stone blocks and peer over at the other side to find just a handful of police talking in groups. If it weren't for the uniforms, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference between the two sides.

A Syrian face in the Egyptian crowd

The Khawaga Experience

Most foreigners, even those who stay for a while and learn the language, have similar experiences being treated as Khawagas (the Arabic equivalent of gringo) in Egypt. You get stares everywhere you go, often peppered with a healthy dose of English phrases ranging from the innocent (Welcome in Egypt!) to the amusing (How can I take your money? and I love you! are my personal favorites). As a Westerner in Egypt, it's assumed you're made of money (which, comparatively, is often close to the truth) and so are constantly offered opportunities to rid yourself of your burdensome cash.

Often the first line in a conversation with a stranger on the street here is, Where are you from?(Sometimes I answer this and then ask, And where are you from? to which they laugh and say, Egypt, of course!) In America, this question is often considered impolite because everyone in America is from somewhere else and the assumption that someone looks different and so is not from here is unacceptable. Not so in Egypt. While the Egyptian identity is complex and multi-faceted, there seems to be an inherent concept among many Egyptians about what an Egyptian looks and sounds like. Some of my halfsie friends (half Egyptian, half American or European) are infuriated when they don't fit seamlessly back into society here and have to explain that they are, in fact, Egyptian.

Personally, I've begun to blend in pretty well. My Syrian, Lebanese and Italian pedigree gives me an ambiguously Mediterranean complexion. I've grown a light beard. I've learned not to overreact to unusual sights like a family of six on one motorbike. I've picked up some of the subtle non-verbal sounds and signals that Egyptians use constantly. And my Arabic has improved to the point where I can navigate almost any situation.

Sometimes--when I'm in a particularly touristic location or with one or more foreigners--all of that means nothing and people just know I'm not from here. But more often these days, I am taken for an Egyptian until I open my mouth. At that point, people ask directly, Where are you from? to which I vary my response depending on the situation. With authorities or people I'm likely to meet repeatedly, I respond with the truth and indulge in their flattery of my Arabic skills. With others--sometimes for fun, other times for the sake of privacy--I switch between two adopted nationalities: Spanish (I lived in Madrid for four months and speak the language) or Syrian (my grandfather's original nationality). Recently, however, people have begun to preempt me with the simple question, Syrian? to which I happily respond affirmatively. I'm not sure whether it's my appearance or accent or what, but every time it happens I become more confident in the Syrian part of my identity!

Being Syrian in Egypt

Being Syrian in Egypt has several effects. First, it makes people speak to me exclusively in Arabic rather than try out their English on me when they know I am coming from America. The Syrian dialect is considerably different from Egyptian, so Egyptians often take my poor pronunciation and limited vocabulary as a manifestation of that difference.

Second, my Syrian self is welcomed much more warmly than my American self. This is a matter of culture, history and politics. Arab culture, though modern in many ways, still values close personal ties as it did a few hundred years ago when tribes were the primary form of organization. There's a saying that goes something like: Me and my brother against my cousin; me and my cousin against the stranger. In my experience, there is an unspoken hierarchy of preference: Egyptians, then Syrians and other Arabs, followed by non-Arabs (and within that last group probably non-Arab Muslims and Westerners first followed by non-Western non-Muslims). When I introduce myself as American, Egyptians are almost always warm and welcoming, responding with the customary compliment The best people! There is then invariably discussion of US foreign policy, Hollywood blockbusters, or work visas.

As a Syrian, though, I am embraced as brother. Part of this is simply that Syrians are Arabs and most of them are Muslim. But Syrians have a special place in Egyptians' hearts. The two countries were united for four years back in the 1950s under Nasser's pan-Arab project, and during protests in the past year, the unifying chant of Egypt and Syria are one hand has been heard often. Both countries have traditionally been centers of power and learning in the region. An Egyptian once even told me that Egyptians think Syrian women are the most beautiful and Syrians think the same of Egyptian women. I'm not sure about that last one, but it does seem to be true that Egyptians have a stronger affinity for Syrians than for any other one people in the world. Lucky me!

Finally, being Syrian in the current political climate elicits sympathy and discussion of the revolution in that country. This has created some challenging linguistic situations for me, as I'm not certain of the most convincing and authentic way to express grief and hatred in Egyptian Arabic, a language that is big on phrases. (A quick example: when somebody dies, the traditional term of consolation in English is I'm sorry, which Egyptians find very strange--unless the person offering condolences was responsible for the death. Instead, they use a call and response that translates roughly to you May your life be long.) So when Egyptians learn I'm Syrian, they usually say what I assume is something nasty about Assad and then I feel unable to respond appropriately. Or they start talking about the details of recent events, which I usually don't follow very closely, and so I become lost.

A few weeks ago, I found myself in one of the more difficult of these situations. I asked a stranger on the street about a protest down the street, and before answering he said, You're not from Egypt, where are you from? I told him I was Syrian and to my utter surprise he responded, Me too! Where are you from?! Shit! I thought, but I recovered and told him Aleppo where my grandfather was born and where I visited relatives two years ago. It turned out he was from Homs, and he had left two months earlier. We talked a little about the events there, about which again I was inadequately informed for a good conversation, and then he asked, So where exactly in Aleppo are you from? I rolled off the name of my cousins' neighborhood, and then found an exit from the conversation before he asked me for the street name.

Despite a few incidents like this, I've found it extremely interesting that people regard me as Syrian and gratifying in a place where identity is so important and the language is so difficult.

Through the Looking Glass

There's not much I can say about this remarkable image. I took this photo today on Qasr Al Aini Street, looking down Sheikh Rihan Street. The wall was built after the December clashes in front of the Egyptian cabinet building. There had been a sit-in there for about a month to protest the installment of a new government by SCAF (Supreme Council of the Armed Forces, i.e. the de-facto presidency) in the wake of earlier clashes on Mohamed Mahmoud Street. The clashes ended with the building of this and another wall and the gating off of the entire compound that holds the cabinet building and the parliament buildings.

Artists are volunteering to paint these images, in an attempt to honor fallen comrades, challenge the military non-violently, and keep the people's attention on recent events. Painting real images on the walls is just one strategy, but it appears popular and has begun to appear on other walls as well.

One artist I spoke to said, "To them this is a wall, to me it's a canvas." He was working on a wall nearby pictured below, which if I understood correctly refers to a scene described in an ancient Egyptian mythological story. The imagery is not yet clear to me, but the main quote on the wall says, "Let us see the light of the day."

The scaffolding on the left-hand side surrounds the Egyptian Institute, a building that once stored thousands of ancient manuscripts from Napoleon's scientific invasion of Egypt in the late 18th century. It was burned nearly to the ground during the December clashes, only some of the priceless artifacts were salvaged.

Street Art & Identity

There is an unending source of creativity spilling out onto Mohamed Mahmoud Street these days, in contrast to the unending violence and brutality that marked it during recent clashes. The pictures above come from the wall of the grammar school adjacent to the American University and were taken last night as I was walking home from the Tahrir metro stop. This continuous image stretching almost 100 meters appeared a few days ago as a compliment to graffiti on the other end of the wall, parts of which are shown in these pictures.

Images of Egyptians killed in the football massacre in the city of Port Said in February....which led to deadly clashes on this street for the following week.

The street sign in the bottom right reads: This is your address, Tahrir

The two faces: Mubarak on the right, Tantawi on the left

The soldier and the protester face off here

The last few images have a clear influence from ancient Egyptian paintings, making for some gorgeous and very original graffiti...but also raising the question, why the Pharonic imagery? I've seen several artists at work on this street in the past few weeks, but they're often surrounded by news cameras or groups of onlookers. As I walked home last night, I came across one of the artists atop a ladder painting hieroglyphics (he's featured at the end of this Al Jazeera English report). He was alone so I took the opportunity to ask him about the art.

What's the idea behind the Pharonic characters and imagery, I asked. He explained that he and his partner, who was working nearby, were seeking to create a truly Egyptian expression by combining Egypt's triumphant past with popular Egyptian images. They painted portraits of the revolution's martyrs to commemorate them and the other images to remind Egyptians that the fight is for Egypt, all of Egypt, not any one particular version of it pushed by political parties or movements. They chose to paint on Mohamed Mahmoud Street and not in Tahrir because, he said, this is where the revolution is now; it's not in Tahrir anymore, this is where people are fighting and dying these days, and people need to know that.

In some ways, this is an insightful analysis of the fact that a figurehead was removed after the 18-day revolution last winter, but much of the regime remained intact, and the task now is to dismantle the institutions of oppression and the culture of corruption.

One man from a group of passing Egyptians snarkily asked the artist why he was writing in a language nobody understood, and instantly he got defensive. I understand it, he said, and so should you because it's part of your history as an Egyptian. Do you want to live in the Egypt that began with the entrance of Islam in the year 693 or the Egypt that has a history stretching back seven millenia, the artist retorted.

Clearly, one of the issues in the rebuilding of Egypt after the fall of Hosni Mubarak is the reconstruction of the Egyptian identity, and this street art is reflective of that intellectual and social battle.

Before I left, the artist on the ladder lost his balance and as he grabbed the ladder to regain it, he knocked his bucket of red paint off its hook covering himself with paint and splashing me as well. Water soluble, he assured me, and in fact it was!

--

In addition to that initial wall on the first block of Mohamed Mahmoud Street, people have begun painting the concrete block walls put up by the army on the side streets after the February clashes. There are walls on five consecutive blocks, from Tahrir into the adjoining neighborhood of Abdeen. Each street and each wall has its own feel. The ones closer to Abdeen, where local residents are less than thrilled about having revolutionary activity in their midst, have little graffiti or have been whitewashed at some point.

Closer to Tahrir, young artists were painting street scenes this afternoon on two walls. On Faliki Street, the scene was of artists painting a wall. On Yusuf Ghindi, the scene presented a continuation of the street as if the wall were not there; sidewalk, trees, cars and people headed to a natural vanishing point. One of the artists' friends, a guy named Ghali, told me the idea was to open up the neighborhood, to make like the walls weren't there. He joked with a young guy on a bicycle that he should keep on riding, as the street was now open and he could reach the other side.

For now, at least, the neighborhood is only figuratively open. The walls remain, traffic is quiet, business is slow, but at least the tempers are relatively cool for now. Today was the first day to register candidacy for presidential elections in June, so things are bound to start heating up again soon.

Cairo's Real Revolution

They said it couldn't be done. They said the Egyptian people were complacent and even lazy.

But the Egyptians proved their naysayers wrong. The Egyptians finally said, kifaya! Enough!

So, just one year after they pushed Mubarak off his throne, Egyptians built the third Cairo metro line.

The first stage of the "yellow" line opened last week, connecting Ataba to Abbasyyia and running through some very congested neighborhoods. Plans for later stages would extend the line in both directions, east to the airport and the new AUC campus and west to Zamalek, Imbaba and Mohandissen. Extensions are slated to come on line in a couple years, but this first stage was supposed to be completed at least ten years ago, so it's really anybody's guess.

Nonetheless, it's intriguing to imagine the possibilities of a transportation system to match greater Cairo's busy population of approximately 20 million. The two old lines run north-south and east-west, hitting some major neighborhoods but missing many more. The subsidized rate of one Egyptian pound (~15 cents) per ride is a great deal if the metro goes where you need to go. It's overcrowded, a good indicator of the need for expansion. Other public transportation (city buses and microbuses) take you wherever the metro doesn't at about the same price. But they're vulnerable to Cairo's notorious traffic, uncomfortable and unsafe.

There's clearly a need for more metro lines, but the question remains whether expansion will be affected (positively or negatively) by the political situation. While it might not make the sexiest slogan, it's certainly reasonable to suggest that an effective public transportation system is part of the demand for dignity and humane treatment that Egyptians are demanding from those in power.

---

I tested out the new line last night with a friend, making a trip to a delicious Uighyri (~Chinese Muslim) restaurant in the student neighborhood of Drassa. Connecting to the new line at Ataba, we made the trip in half the time and a tenth of the cost of a taxi. While the connection at Ataba was long and a bit confusing, the new train and stations made up for the wait. Bright, clean and uncrowded, I felt like I was stepping into a Viennese U-bahn! The contrast was only sharpened on the return trip when we transferred back to the old line where the mass of people jolted me back to reality. I think I might ride the new line once a week to see how long it takes for people to discover its existence and integrate it fully into the Cairo metro system.

Inside one of the new cars

New Bike Rack

I went to take care of some administrative matters at one of AUC's downtown buildings, which was bisected last month by one of the newest concrete walls downtown, and found this unusual sight. Other walls have become a public artspace, covered in colorful graffiti, political slogans, and even a few quotes from the Quran. The one on Faliki, however, has turned into a makeshift bike rack. Way to adjust to a changing urban landscape!

I'm working on a longer piece about this neighborhood, the walls, and how the neighborhood has adjusted to three months of on-and-off violence. Coming in a week or two!