Built with a grant from North Korea, the dome of the October 1973 War Memorial Panorama looms from behind its surrounding wall, looking like a cross between a futuristic fortress and an ancient mausoleum (now that I put it this way, I wonder if that was intentional, as such an aesthetic marriage encompasses Egypt’s dominant visions of its future and past). Matt and Aaron had apparently set their hearts upon visiting this phenomenon some years ago, and at last a suitable Friday morning came along and we rallied our troops. We supposed that we would most likely have the place to ourselves and thus could monopolize the knowledge – and entertainment – of its employees.
Upon first arrival, it seemed we might be right. We circled its imposing walls under the noonday sun looking for an entrance. Each time we passed an iron-barred window into the Memorial grounds, one of the boys squealed. Mounted warplanes and tanks glistened in the sun, their snouts pointed upward in frozen triumph unfortunately rendered ridiculous by their clearly defunct status. The collection contained the only two Israeli tanks allegedly captured in battle. Matt and Aaron wanted their pictures taken astride those tanks. But when at last we found a staffed peephole, the many employees lounging behind it did not see fit to give us any further instruction or attention than to sling a vague finger in the direction from whence we had come. Okay. For such a ghost-town of an attraction, especially in Egypt, you’d think we would be treated to, if not showered with, a bit more obsequious attention. Not so; we lumbered around the majority of the wall’s circumference before infiltrating, a privilege earned at ten pounds a person, plus two more if we wanted to take pictures.
What photographable sights awaited us indeed: iron-cast war-scenes stretched across the monstrous walls; odd Korean-Egyptian hybrid propaganda posters leered from the shadowed surrounding fences. We bucked at our harnesses, but Ringleader Matt wanted to make sure that we didn’t miss the central spectacle. As it turned out however, we need not have rushed to make the advertised 11:15 showing (what a surprise, I know). “There will be a three-parts show,” one of the many milling employees explained to his anxious, foreign ticket-bearers. “But we will start them when the people come in sha’ allah . . . just wait over in the cafeteria.” When the people come, eh? In sha’ allah. We made our way over to the “cafeteria,” a gazebo in which sitting down meant being laden with unordered snack products for which one was later asked to pay. But sure enough, the people came. Families mostly, but a good number of youthful couples also had made the October 1973 War Memorial their date destination that Friday noon. At last, the operators decided we had reached critical mass and called us over to the first attraction.
We filed into a crummy theater with a dias of battered movie chairs facing a long, narrow curtain that could not possibly cloak a movie screen. Indeed it did not. When the lights dimmed and the curtain parted (aided by a youth whose sole job description may well have been, “Pull the curtain the rest of the way open when the mechanics give out, which they will”), perhaps the most extensive and pathetic diorama we had ever seen spread before us. A replica of a desert battlefield threatened in the dull glow of Christmas-style lights embedded in its papier-mâché dunes and plastic tanks. Our unison snort was not shared by our co-patrons however; they sat in what must have been respectful, perhaps even reverent silence as the ridiculous spectacle unfolded. With some loose correspondence to the deep-voiced commentary, plastic planes and rockets began to lauch across the scene on dental floss trajectories. Strobe lights and fog-machine emulsions accompanied recorded explosions. At moments the overall impression was almost convincing, until about mid-way through when one of the rockets got stuck on its string halfway and remained dangling, red and impotent, above the battlefield. The irony was killing me. However, I discovered at the end that the irony was most likely not seized by the diorama’s operators, nor indeed its visitors. Despite the foreboding toll I apprehended in the all too wilted-looking depiction of the Egyptian offense, the commentary did not recount the end of the war. The narrators rather saw fit to end with Egypt’s epic invasion of occupied Sinai. We assembled in the second decrepit theater, this one boasting industrial strength air-conditioners that blasted the back-row observers (us). Perhaps the fabula continues in Parts Two and Three?
Hardly. Part Two added movie footage to the diorama version of the Sinai invasion but took no step in the war’s chronology. Unable to part entirely with the 3-D theme, the designers had placed the screen in the back of a shadowed stage lined with ominous cloudy murals and containing still more papier-mâché dunes and palm trees. Fifteen minutes of black and white explosions later, we were no closer to the conclusion of the glorious 1973 War. The still-victorious Egyptian guests trooped out in a jolly mood and lined up for the grand finale in a majestic hall featuring mosaics of battle plans and planning battlers, alongside others depicting traditional Pharaonic scenes. The flock of employees did not allow us to linger for long however; they herded us into a winding staircase that could almost be described as lush, with red carpet and little floorlights along the edge of each stair. The masterminds behind this were pulling out all the stops on Part Three. We were in for a treat.
We got our “panorama” all right. The circular room had a vaulted ceiling and seats facing in all directions, all of which stared full into a never-ending ring of life-size illustrated carnage. Almost immediately, the lights dimmed in the house and rose on the mural and our seats began to move. Closer inspection revealed that the “carnage” applied only to Israeli soldiers and encampments; the Egyptians featured in the mural were more likely to be seen holding a flag aloft while leaping from heaps of burning rubble into golden, smoke-schmeared skies. We sat alternately transfixed and beside ourselves as we revolved to new scenes of destruction and glory. It turned out our backrow seats – out of two rows – proved a better position for viewing the full extent of the spectacle: with each new perspective on the painting, the young couples leaped up to pose for portraits, or sent each other to take dramatic single shots. Aaron and I of course did not pass up this photo-op. I hope the other lovebirds did not take offense at our more clownish approach however; they all maintained absolute gravity in the painted presence of their heroic compatriots.
We emerged a bit subdued. Sustained attempts at suppressing our laughter had exhausted what guffaws we might have loosed, so we milled through the hall of mosaics emitting muted “hoo hoo hoos” and snapping pictures. We then embarked on a sweltering tour through the concrete-mounted weaponry, now swarmed with field-trip groups of Egyptian schoolchildren. Nice day for a climb on an evil Israeli tank, isn’t it kiddies? They hopped about and giggled to their hearts’ content, not unlike my twenty-something American male companions. A joyous memory indeed, the October 1973 War, when presented this way! I wondered if the Japanese had built any such war memorials immortalizing abbreviated histories. I wondered if we Americans had any for the Vietnam War. Probably.
So what do we make of this phenomenon, coupled with the fact that many Egyptians do see their recent history as valiant and true, and their present misery as the sole fault of a West-corrupted government?
I will first posit the caveat that the majority of Egyptians with whom we have conversed are cab drivers. But I must note as well that this vocation bridges a further societal cross-section than in American or European society: most cabbies have a second profession, which may be anything from plumber to professor, and have taken up taxi-driving as a kind of moonlighting job under the exigency of Egypt’s deteriorating economy. I reckon we have met the full gamut too, considering the range of conversations that the same opening lines have led to. However, when I say “range,” I mean more specifically “range of histrionics” because the main thematic line regarding their country changes little: Egypt is Oumm ad-Dunya (the mother of the world), Egypt is rich in culture and welcomes all visitors as brothers (numerous times, in English, before demanding that they pay three times as much as local brothers). On the other hand, there are those who see fit to complain over the extent of Egypt’s current folly, but they tend to focus their criticisms more on politics than on economics. Their vision of the country’s problems seem to revolve around foreign policy, particularly regarding Israel. They speak much more of the Mubarak regime’s failure to take any decisive action against the ongoing atrocities in Palestine, Lebanon and Iraq than of its failure to spread the country’s riches beyond the top rungs of society, or to stop the ongoing atrocities in Egyptian prisons.
Not that we don’t fuel such misguided boasting; nothing but praise for Oumm Musr passes our lips in the company of what we have come to see as the principal heralds of her nationalism. No, we are not just tourists! We have come from faraway lands specifically to live in your wonderful country! We love living here, we assure each of them. Such wonderful people, so open and friendly. And yes, we have tasted molokheya (Molokheya is a murky stew of spinach-like greens, garlic and oil, eaten over meat and rice. Although I fear it may be one of the strongest proofs indicated by those in support of Egypt’s culinary deficiency, it is actually not that bad), and are aware that it is Egypt’s national dish, of which all Egyptians should be proud! We are here only for the year, but by golly, we’d be durned if we didn’t end up sticking around, we like it so much. An objective me, seeing my sweaty limbs squeezed, longsleeved and skirted, into the back seat of yet another dusty cab on my way to or from yet another day of grueling classes and punishing heat, might scoff at such unhesitant acclaim. Indeed, my continuing ability to pipe out this now-perfected panegyric bears testament to my desperation to use the language at all. However, in the context of these short conversations, patriotism is the name of the game.
Where can we find a parallel voice for American patriotism? Certainly not in the same context; let us imagine ourselves in a taxi in America’s largest city, New York. We must take into account first of all the likelihood that the cab driver is a recent addition to the melting pot, thus lessening the likelihood of his ability to discuss America’s national character in its official language, let alone his feeling any motivation to do so. Most often, he will not talk to you at all, but rather garble into a cell phone in his native tongue. He could not care less whether you are a Jew or a foreigner or a criminal. But then, one would be hard put to claim that New York represents the epitome of American culture and opinion. No; one would more likely fall upon a diehard American nationalist at a truckstop in southern Missouri. Since many have multiple American flags affixed to their trucks, they are easy to pick out. Here are some views one may convey if you made the U.S. of A. your topic of conversation:
“No one messes with my America!”
“We’re gonna git them Talibans, Dubya said he’s gonna git ‘em and we’re gonna git ‘em.”
“Our boys are over there doing the Lord’s work. We’re bringing democracy and freedom to those people, ‘though I’m damned if they deserve it, crazy Ay-rabs.”
I admit that my selection of comments may seem unjust, as it focuses on what sounds like the least educated Americans’ assessment of their nation’s international role. However, samples from more eloquent sources provide even more depressing evidence of the same worldview. For an overwhelming wealth of examples that inform our current foreign policy, refer to any of George W. Bush’s official statements and actions. Few could deny that that he encourages a flavor of American nationalism steeped in jingoistic audacity. Many have remarked upon the increasing militarism in American culture. More and more, all initiatives take on a martial air. Whether geared toward foreign guerilla outfits or one’s own waistline, we must wage “a war on terrorism,” “a war on cholesterol,” “a war on crime,” and so on.
Nonetheless, an increasing number of Americans have begun to exhibit a sense of irony or even bitterness concerning their native land. While the disgruntled left has kept up a steady stream of impotent grumbling, I have started to hear unexpected dissatisfaction from speakers for the right. A conservative California rancher I ended up next to on a plane from Denver to Minneapolis struck up a conversation with me about Middle East politics after I had the stupidity to reveal that the novel I was reading was Egyptian. My neighbor in 14B, let’s call him Steve, pummeled me with the usual unpleasant array of familiar rhetorical questions followed by his own conceited answers, such as:
Q) Why do these crazies to kill themselves for religion?
A) Oh, of course, because they’re crazy! ‘Nuff said!
Q) So tell me, really, what’s the deal with these veils anyway?
A) I mean, besides that they’re all totally backwards and oppressed by even more backwards terrorist husbands.
As usual, the combination of my annoyance and lack of any direct explanations for what are admittedly puzzling phenomena to the American mind cleaved my tongue to my palate and I ended up offering little more than sophomoric sputterings in the Arab World’s defense. Whether or not he listened to them, Steve exhibited suspicion that a young female like myself would devote her studies to such a hopeless cause in the first place. And just what do you thing you might do about these goons, young lady, his repeated inquiry.
Fortunately, Steve did not limit his criticism to the topic of my academic studies. Buffetted by his assertive ignorance, Steve turned his disparaging eye to America.
“Americans sure are stupid,” he derided his compatriots. “They have no clue what goes on anywhere else in the world. And ya know what? They don’t need to. They can just get fat in their suburban homes and swimming pools and they don’t care . . .”
If the common American was not to be admired, their president deserved utter contempt:
“Dubya is the stupidest president we ever had,” Steve esteemed. “He just leads us into one mess after another. First Osama and Iraq. And now look at all this immigration shit. If he keeps letting these illegals in, it’s not gonna be America anymore.”
But Steve, are we not a country of immigrants?
“Sure, my grandfather was an immigrant, he came over from Poland and worked his ass off, made a living and learned the language. English. These Latinos don’t learn English.”
Why should America not become a bilingual nation?
“No way! We have always spoken English and we always will. That’s the language of America.
Besides, Americans are too stupid to learn Spanish. Americans can’t speak any other languages.”
In the end, despite his glimmers of protectionism for some alleged American character, Steve saw fit to praise only one aspect of American culture outright:
“Country music. That’s something homegrown American, that no one else has got. Now that’s good stuff, goddamn.”
Yee haw, Steve. Crimony, aren’t we there yet?
***
I have not yet heard an Egyptian take such a censurous attitude toward his country and people. However, one does come across the odd joker who prefers to play off his foreign-given reputation rather than deny it.“You’re Americans, eh? Know what I am?” Our cab driver veered through traffic and turned to Aaron with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
No, what are you?
“A . . . terrorist! Hahahaha! Eh? Just like all of us! Terrorists! Isn’t that right, isn’t that what Bush told you? Hahaha!”
Er . . . heh heh . . . no . . . that is . . . sorry . . . what? Eek. Please don’t kill us. As if relishing our anxiety, the cabbie spun the wheel this way and that with newfound inspiration, still chuckling at his joke. We exited his vehicle in a state of bemused disquiet. Did he really find it funny that the dominant world power characterized him as a terrorist because of his ethnicity? Probably not; but what then to make of his bitter laughter? I realized in that moment how far I was from achieving the proverbial ethnographic goal: putting myself in that cabbie’s shoes. I quickly remembered the ethical scruples that had prevented me from majoring in anthropology: namely, how on Allah’s great Earth could I possibly presume to thus re-shoe myself at will?
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