4. Salah
Not all Egyptians approach the subject with such fire and brimstone. As sunset approached on our second day in Basata, Salah paused next to where Aaron and I lounged on the spread of cushions and straw mats. He must have either been in a chatty mood or had been waiting for a moment to engage us in conversation, because, after the customary exchange of “masa’ al-khayr, ‘amil eh, humdu lillah,” he squatted next to us and began to ask questions. First, as usual: how had we gotten interested in Arabic? Where had the money for our scholarships come from? What did we want to do later on? Then, as usual, our responses led to a discussion of American politics, in which: I give my diatribe about why Americans are not a political people and why in turn they feel no sense of international responsibility; Aaron reminds our interlocutor that only a very small crust of strange people are leading America, and thereby the world, to this sorry state of affairs. Salah nodded, piecing together (I hope) our broken renderings of these ideas with the patience his demeanor implied. Then he weighed in:
“So, that top crust is the Jews, right? Isn’t the Bush administration mainly controlled by Jews?”
“La!” Aaron bristled and began his pre-verbal gesturing in hopes of thwarting any further inadvertent falsehoods. Struggling to suppress the emotion in his voice and speak in measured but forceful Arabic, he began the speech I have heard him develop over the past few weeks. The gist: the Bush administration has strategic interest in Israel to further its longterm ambitions in the Middle East, but has no particular love for Jews as a people. Furthermore, the momentum of this administration stood to face resistance after the Congressional elections in the fall.
“Isn’t the Congress mostly Jews?” Salah posed the question in a mild tone, but with conviction, as if aware that we might protest but unable to ignore the accumulation of what he had been told his whole life.
Of course, Aaron and I both denied this obvious error with vitality augmented by the magnified emotional affect of our speech in Arabic. Salah listened in silence. Unlike most Egyptians with whom we had discussed this topic, he never interrupted or protested, but rather appeared to weigh each utterance as a new object for contemplation. I wondered whether most of what we said really was news to him or if he had had this same conversation with scores of previous American tourists in Basata. His questions implied that he had not: why would an American join the army? Oh, was there unemployment and poverty in America as well? Oh, poor immigrants might prefer to die for a cause than to live hapless lives in the lowest rungs of American society? He asked, listened and nodded for over half an hour, then someone called him away on a task and he said he would see us later. We did not get the chance to talk to Salah again.
5. Babaya!
“Your name is Haroun? I am ABU Haroun!” trumpeted the jolly juice-seller at the corner of Tahrir and al-Dokki Streets, the man responsible for a sizeable chunk of our mango-dependent happiness.
Aaron returned his cheer. “Babaya!” he crowed, opening his arms. “My father!” (The prefix "abu" means "father of in Arabic names) We slurped our chewable juice and waited for Abu Haroun’s next move. Ever vigilant.
Abu Haroun had not finished with the topic of his name. “This is a family name,” he continued. “Because my grandfather” – and he leaned in to whisper into Aaron’s ear – “was Jewish! An Israeli!”
“Aaaaooohaarrggghhh,” ventured Aaron, searching for an appropriately ambivalent noise. Does one show enthusiasm and incriminate his Jewishness? Or does one stare down one’s Jewish nose at Abu Haroun with nonchalance, or even faint contempt? While we addressed these questions in hurried silence, Abu Haroun had fished out his identity card to prove his claim. He held the yellowed posterboard up under the floodlights outside the juiceshop, cupping his hands around it as if to guard its inflammatory contents from the surrounding patrons’ eyes. “You see? Abu Haroun! A Jewish name! It’s true!” We nodded and squeaked affirmatives as other juice-stand loiterers craned their necks to see the card. Nice, very nice name, nice Jewish name, nice Jews (?).
Abu Haroun seemed content to carry on the dialogue without our imput. “The Israelis are not bad people,” he observed with magnanimity. “I think they are a good people. All people are good. It is their governments that are bad! In America, in Egypt, in Israel, it’s the same problem. If they let us be, we would all get along. Don’t you think?”
Yeah, we thought so all right. But Aaron wasn’t about to come out and say, “Yeah, kind of like right now! I’m Jewish, and yet I’m not trying to eat your babies! We’re just enjoying some juice and looking at each others’ papers. Mish ma‘’oul!”
Later, Aaron confessed that he thought Abu Haroun might have lied about the Israeli grandfather to trick him into admitting that he was an Israeli himself, no doubt inspired by the sheghala-spread rumor. I couldn’t quite swallow that, especially since Abu Haroun had showed us his card, but it did give us pause. How much more complex might Egyptian attitudes toward Israelis be than their obligatory mouthfuls of superficial denouncements might suggest? Months before when first confronting the issue of Jew-concealment, Aaron and his friend Matt devised a reality TV-show to address this question: “Hey! You’ve Just Been Talking to a Real Live Jew!” The premise is simple: a hidden cameraman captures a conversation between a Jew and an Egyptian, preferably one in which exchange of salaams and names leads to some kind of good-humored discourse and tea-drinking. Then, right after the congenial Jew leaves the scene, the cameraman jumps out of hiding and trumpets, “Hey! You’ve just been talking to a real live Jew!”, capturing the hoodwinked Egyptian’s reactions on live TV. The variations in these responses would provide the entertainment for the series’ viewers. If presented dramatically enough, it may even appeal to the wider Egyptian audience and, in sha’ allah, win some compassion for the Jews. Unfortunately, these two Jews’ courage and means do not yet match their creativity, and we have thus bypassed enough precious data to comprise a whole season of H!YJBTTARLJ!
Also unfortunately, for every one of those occasions I am sure that one hundred more will follow. For example, each time we get into a cab. We know the drill; Aaron sits in front with the driver, I sit in back with ears perked to catch whatever conversation they might strike up. If the drive is long enough, we can expect to end up discussing Israel via the reprise of now-familiar motifs: Americans, are you? Why do you study Arabic? Well, blimey. Ma sha’ allah. You know, I do not like your president. He is not a good man. Why have you voted for him? America and Israel are destroying Lebanon. Isn’t that terrible?
So what do you want us to do about this, sir? And what, might we add (not aloud) are you doing about it, besides posturing before your American passengers? Not that you could do much else, nor could we, besides come here and try to learn the language. However, the length of taxi rides and the often surly attitudes of drivers usually discourages even Aaron from setting them straight in any detailed sort of way. Most often we just nod and say “Ah, aiywa, sa‘ab giddan . . .” Yes, yes, very difficult, naughty Israel, irresponsible us. Sorry. We exit the scene without embroiling ourselves further and go on about our business. However, playing this role in the majority of conversations does begin to weigh on one’s conscience, as well as one’s self esteem. Must we, Jewish or no, accept this constant brow-beating as an inevitable part of our lives in Egypt? Would we do better to add yet another lie to the mix and say that we aren’t American, or is it rather our responsibility to reveal that some Americans are trying to make a difference? What right have they as a people to critique us as a people? If their all-powerful president had access to the same international dominance as ours, would he make any less trouble? And for all the accusations of apathy we Americans receive from Egyptians (and everyone else, for that matter) for letting somone like Bush rise to and stay in power, Egyptians’ dissatisfaction with Mubarak’s reign has provoked no manifest initiative for change. On the contrary, when we question Egpytians about their opinion of Mubarak, the age-old “illi ya‘arifu ahsan min illi maya‘arifush” rules the day:
“Of course he does bad things, but at least we know what to expect from him.”
“No, he isn’t perfect, but the Muslim Brotherhood would be worse so we may as well keep him.”
“Anyway, he’s a clever politician . . . he makes sure everyone gets what he wants, that’s all.”
“I don’t see anyone else presenting an alternative. The opposition factions just argue with each other, so we can’t depend on them to solve any of our problems.”
“And besides, he’s funny! He fits the role of a powerful leader.”
Sound familiar, American liberals? Okay, so we don’t have the threat of a Muslim Brotherhood, nor have I always known exactly what to expect from Dubya, but such details aside, one can find all of these arguments on the lips of common Americans in defense of their president. Of what then, my Egyptian cousins (assuming that you represent, as you say, Oumm ad-Dunya, the Mother of the World), can you accuse us? Of gaining our livelihood based on the advantages our nation’s current wealth provides? Of worrying ourselves only about what concerns our lives and our families directly? Of basing our vision of the outside world on television images, since we grew up in the center of a vast country without means or reason to travel? Of failing to stage a full-scale revolution against our vagabond president? Or simply, of being born into a nation at the zenith of its global supremacy, thus making our political apathy tantamount to complicit imperial terrorism? If these be the possible allegations, a comparison between American and Egyptian nationalisms and political consciousnesses may be the next project worthy of undertaking. A suivre.
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