The Mummy Daddy

"So, what do you want?" Zahi Hawass thundered at my students.

They're a mix of Arab & American journalism students, who are here in Egypt (and later, Qatar) for a 3-week mideast journalism bootcamp. The course is made up of field trips and seminars. We were in Hawass' cavernous boardroom as part of an archeology field trip.

His official title is Secretary General of the Supreme Council of Antiquities and Director of the Giza Pyramids Excavation. He would much rather be called Egypt's Indiana Jones, complete with the hat.

Today, no monument or artifact in this country can be officially "discovered" by anyone other than this man. If your donkey falls into a hole and you find an ancient tomb down there, you call Hawass' office. His convoy blazes to wherever you are, and he discovers whatever you've found. So, in Egypt, this man is pretty much every mummy's daddy.

"What are you here for?"

"Well, Dr. Hawass..." one of us offered an explanation, and the students began their questions:

"What role does archeology play in boosting tourism, and thereby driving the economy?"
"What kind of environmental concerns do you have when it comes to preserving antiquities?"
"Do you worry about terror threats against the ancient sites?"
"What's the difference between the status of women in ancient Egypt, and modern Egypt?"
"How come most of our excavations are undertaken by foreigners, and not Egyptians?"

Hawass was loud, outspoken, and almost flippant:

"Tourism is the enemy of archeologists... I want to make tickets more expensive..."
"People are ruining our heritage by bringing in so many millions of visitors..."
"I told George W. Bush that he cannot bring democracy to the Middle East... these people need dictators... who kill people every now and then... to preserve stability..."
"The woman should take care of the house first..."
"I am writing letters to congressmen... fighting with museums... to recover the Rosetta Stone... and so many other artifacts that were stolen from us..."

We went on for over an hour. One of my students had to change an hour-long tape in her camera. Each answer was a lecture, a litany, a lament. Long and strong.

I wanted to ask a question: "You say you're trying to recover stolen treasures. Given the current state of the Egyptian Museum, and the poor condition that most of the antiquities there are kept in (badly built cases, no climate control, no labels, etc. etc.), how would you preserve the stolen artifacts that might be returned to you?"

For once, the man was silent... and then the answer: "I am doing that now."
"Okay..."
"That's it."
"That's it? That's your answer to my question?"
"Yes."
"Well, thank you for your time."

Applause, photographs, autographs.

Mugamma-thon: Running the Gauntlet

Cairomaniac had her first experience with Egyptian bureaucracy yesterday. She needed to get her visa transferred to her new passport, and went to the dreaded Mugamma.
What a trooper! I've never dared to go.
Read about it here.

UPDATE: I went to the Mugamma with Cairomaniac a couple of days after reading this. Boy, was I surprised. Lots of people, lots of paper, lots of rubber stamps, lots of windows to go to, and a handful of actual computers. But, in that ugly, big brother building, things seem to somehow work. Read her entry here.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Above photograph by Cairomaniac. Rest by various journalists, including Per Bjorklund.

Khamsin sandstorms come quite abruptly. All of a sudden, it gets hot, and hard to breathe. You smell the sand in the air.

Sunday was one of those days. As the sky turned yellow, only 3 of my students showed up for class. The rest had taken the day off.

The ones I did see at school were quite shaken.
"Three of my friends were standing on the sidewalk and were arrested."
"I don't know where my friends are."
"A riot cop told me to keep walking or face the consequences."

It started out as a day of protest by underpaid textile workers, against rising food prices and low wages. But it quickly became a storm of resentment against this country's government. People talked of organizing mass gatherings in public places across the country.

The Egyptian constitution permits protests. But according to the law, any gathering of more than five people could be considered illegal. And consequences can be brutal.

So, pop quiz: Wages are in the toilet, bread is becoming pricier by the day, your people are upset about it, and they want to let you know. What do you do?

Answer:












Go here to read blogger Hossam El-Hamalawy's report.

All day Sunday, Cairo was crawling with riot police. Mind you, this is one of the most over-policed cities on the planet. But yesterday, they probably broke some police presence record. Many protests were shut down before they began. The ones that did begin were gassed and beaten out of existence.

Many bloggers were pre-emptively arrested.

By the evening, the khamsin sandstorm had blown over, leaving behind a dust-coated city, a horrible aftertaste, and millions who still can't afford bread that still costs too much.

Update: It's not over yet. More here and here.

Champions of Africa?

All text & photographs in this post copyright Yasir Khan 2008

Ask most Egyptians if they're African. You'll hear a resounding "la" (no). They're Egyptians. Not Africans. Not Arabs. People here proudly proclaim they're different.

They're descendants of the Pharaohs.

But last night, after their 6th victory (2nd consecutive) in the African Nations Cup (football), Egyptians were definitely Africans... and damn proud of it. This nation of party animals kept us awake until the wee hours.

The evening belonged to Egypt's star player Mohamed Aboutraika. He scored the only goal in the finals against Cameroon, in the 77th minute of a very tight game, and became the lord of the streets for a night.

Aboutraika was a political hero here a few days ago. He earned a yellow card in the game against Sudan. After scoring a goal, he lifted his jersey to show an undershirt inscribed with the message “Sympathize with Gaza”.

The yellow card was for for violating a no-politics rule. But to the people here, he was a champion for the Palestinian cause.

At that time, Egyptians were Arabs. I think.

Light Blooded Egyptians

All photographs in this post copyright Yasir Khan 2007

As we drove by the presidential palace a few days ago, my taxi driver pointed to the large, treed compound that was surrounded by guards, and smiled.

"Look mister! Look all ze security!"

"Zey keep zem here to protect us from our president."

If good humour comes from great pain, then Egyptians have got to be some of the funniest people in the world. This is a country where things are just barely bearable. Just barely.

And just enough effort is made by the powers to keep it that way - if there's too much prosperity, people no longer depend on the government, and bureaucracies become irrelevant; too much poverty, and you will have a revolution on your hands.

There's virtually no middle class here. Just the very rich, and the very poor. About 44% of Egypt's 80 million people live on $2 a day. Every year, Egypt's free universities churn out thousands of graduates who can't find work. Engineers make about $300 a month, and usually have second jobs. The police force and most government institutions are make-work projects so unemployment won't spiral out of control.

They call it ad-damm khafif, or "light blood". It's the Egyptian term for a sense of humour. Every day, I see Egyptians' light, acidic blood work its magic. And they love to turn it upon themselves.

Take for example, the local english language music channel here. It's called Melody Tunes. They play the usual MTV/VH-1/BET fare, and are fairly up to date.

The best part of watching the channel, though, are their promo videos - hilarious 30-second spots where ordinary Egyptians make complete fools of themselves with popular western songs in everyday scenarios. And they sing them in their heavy Egyptian accents:






Sometimes I'll watch Melody Tunes only for these.

There are a few more on youtube.

Putting the "G" in Sovereignty

I'm sorry I've neglected Khan-un-Drum lately. Final exam season just ended here. I've been busy.

I stand accused of keeping this blog only for the purpose of impressing my wife while she was away from Cairo. This charge is spurious. I categorically deny it. On with the show:

A few weeks ago, my friend Mr. Yosri Fouda invited Suf and me to dinner. Post meal, we went to the uber-posh Garden City Club for drinks, and ran into an animated conversation:

"But it's ours! Why should we not use it? Leih??" The woman's bejeweled fingers made a questioning gesture. Her fingers on the other hand flicked a cigarette.

"Ya'ni I know that," said the man in the dark suit, shelling a pistachio. "But people will get confused."

The argument was about geem - Egyptians pronounce the "J" (the arabic letter "jeem") as a "G" ("geem"). So, Jamal becomes Gamal. Jezira (island) becomes Gezira.

Sometimes, the geem finds its way into english. The result can be comical. Take a look at the restaurant menu in the picture.

The woman was arguing with two TV journalists that Egyptian broadcasters ought to pronounce the geem on air, as they would normally, when talking to fellow Egyptians.

Egypt is the Hollywood of the Arab world. Egyptian movies, sitcoms, and news shows are watched by millions from Morocco to Muscat. Egyptian arabic, then, is the most well-known dialect. No matter where an Egyptian goes in this part of the world, everyone will understand him. He, on the other hand, will have no clue what they're saying.

Regardless, Egyptian broadcasters will switch to modern standard arabic, when they're on air, and a jeem will no longer become a geem.

The guys at Garden City Club thought that pronouncing the geem on television would alienate their pan-Arab audience.

"Bas, the geem is ours. We should be proud of it!" ranted the woman whose country receives the largest amount of US foreign aid after Israel.

"It's a question of Egyptian sovereignty!"

Me Read Arabic Kwayyis

This photograph copyright Yasir Khan 2007

This sign says "manhole", even in arabic. I found it at the construction site of the university's new campus in the middle of the Egyptian desert.

I've been reading arabic quite fluently since I was a boy - result of a religious upbringing, wherein I was taught the Qur'an. It's the speaking part that I'm trying to get a handle on now.

This next picture is from my colleague Tiffany Vora. She found it while shopping for moisturizer. I hear this product is popular with those of us who are here without our significant others.

Za Bollywood & Za Beoble

I have no idea how fast my taxi was moving this morning. The speedometer was stuck at 120 km/h even when we were still. But, at times, we were flying.
The driver glanced at me in all of his 8 rear view mirrors as we hurtled across the Qasr El Nil bridge, towards downtown Cairo, and asked the inevitable question:

CABBIE: Anta min-ein? (Where are you from?)
ME: Min al hind. (from India)

I've stopped telling random people that I'm from Canada, because ultimately I'll have to tell them that I'm originally Indian. So why bother?

CABBIE: Ah! Hindi! Naas kwayyis. (Indians are good people)
ME: Shukran. (Thanks)
CABBIE: Mitabbitshan? (????)
ME: Effendim? (excuse me?)
CABBIE: Mitabbitshan! Mitabbitshan! (WTF??????)
ME: Aasif. Ana mish-fahim. (sorry, I don't understand)

At 120 km/h (or whatever the real speed was) the man let go of the steering wheel and started to punch the air.

CABBIE: Mitabbitshan! HA! HA! HAAAAA!
His arms were flailing by now.

CABBIE: Aflam hindi! (Indian films!)

Of course! He was talking about "Amitabh Bachchan", the small "g" god of bollywood cinema! I'd heard that Egyptians love Indian films. They've even hired bollywood actress Celina Jaitley to be "the face of Egypt." When Bachchan visited Egypt in the '90s, it was pandemonium. Kids skipped school, people skipped work. Everyone lined the streets to get a glimpse of him.

ME: Aiwa... Amitabh Bachchan! Ta'arif hu? (do you know who he is?)
CABBIE: Tab'an! Ragl halwa 'awi! (Of course! Great man!)

Our brief Bachchan love-in ended as I paid, got out of the cab, and walked in to my office. There was a notice on my desk about the university's Desert Development Center (they research desert agriculture, among other things). They had fresh honey for sale at their kiosk, and I thought I'd check it out.

ME: Izzayak? (how are you?)
HONEY MAN: Alhamdulillah. Ayyi Khidmah? (Thanks to god. What can I do for you?)
ME: Endak 'asl taaza? (do you have fresh honey?)
Honey Man looks up at me as he's packing my jar of honey.
HONEY MAN: Hadratak min ein? (where are you from, sir?)

Oh brother...

ME: Min al Hind...
HONEY MAN (smiles): Min al Hind? Mitabbitshan?

Ramadan Blues

All pictures in this post copyright Yasir Khan 2007.

The sun sets. You eat. And then you talk about the fast. Out pours a day's worth of lamentation, and wisdom cooked in the depths of empty stomachs:
"You know, I swear, it's harder this year!"
"Why are we not allowed to drink water? Your body needs water! Surely, god understands that."
"The prophet said this religion is supposed to be easy. It's not supposed to be torture."

And there are the sheepish admissions:
"I'm just pretending now. I go to work, skip lunch, and nobody knows."
"My assistant was so energetic the other day. I asked her, 'Are you skipping the fast too?' And she started to giggle."

Among elites and expats in Cairo, this is the great Ramadan Conspiracy. And a tremendous source of Ramadan Guilt.
At recent iftar in a posh neighbourhood, our non-Muslim expat host held court on his balcony. He needed a drink. But he was surrounded by Muslims who had just broken their "fast." And Muslims who do normally drink, tend to give it up during Ramadan.
So, we talked. Conversation about global and regional politics raged until it came to a logical end. A few seconds of silence, and then...
... "Alright, who would like a drink? We've got juices, water. We also have some gin, and wine."
Silence... hesitant looks...
"Ya'ni, it's Ramadan... er... but sure I'll have some wine."

Cleopatra is for commoners

Bassel, my TA, was horrified today. He discovered I am smoking Cleopatras - the local brand.
Like most other things here, they're cheap (about $1 a pack), and they do the job.
Foreign brands cost twice as much - a whopping $2.
"But why?" asked a wide-eyed, perplexed Bassel.
"I just wanted to try them."
Now I was perplexed. What's the big deal with Cleopatras?
So I asked one of the guys who helps us around the office.
"He's right, doctoor," said the smiling, gentle, Egyptian man.
"Cleopatras are for the lower class people."

Where are you from, really?

This wouldn't be a blog about living away from the home country, if I didn't write about this.

But then again, I'm asked this question even in Canada.

For the most part, Egyptians think I'm a local. How do I know this? Well, if I'm with other obvious foreigners, I am completely ignored. I could be a driver, a gopher, or anybody else who can be loosely defined as "the help." The only question I'm usually asked (in Arabic) is in the "what are you doing here?" range.

If I'm by myself, the advantage is that I end up paying local prices for almost everything.

That is, until I open my mouth. Instantly, I get service, along with a suitably jacked-up price. And the question: "Where are you from?"

Inta min ein?

Min Canada.

Ah! Canada kwayyis! Wa lakin, aslak eih? (Canada's good. But where are you from really?)

When that happens, I feel like I never left home. Canada, that is.