The 'Real' Egypt (part 5 of 6)

As with all tours, the days in Egypt passed at a grueling grind. A week went by without unpacking. We walked in the hot sun over ruins, slept in the bus, waited each morning for Moumoud who was never on time (nothing in Egypt is on time), haggled with street vendors, and were constantly on the go. I was alternately excited beyond belief and bored to tedium. So many of my notes from the trip are scrawled words, hastily written scraps in between events attempting to preserve the swirl of input.

One day we stopped at a store where they sold carpets. They were all hand made and had the unique look of the Mid East woven into their multi-colored, silken designs. In the showroom, there were several looms set up and children of about seven or eight years of age wove the carpets with nimble-fingered dexterity. The guide tells us tiny fingers are required for the detailed work.

“Great,” Ruth commented in a low voice, “shouldn’t these kids be in school?”

“They are very poor,” Dr. Rifai said. “They work half the day and go to school in the afternoon. They use the money they earn here to help support their families.”

I wondered if this were true or if Dr. Rifai’s national pride sought to sugarcoat the less splendid aspects of his homeland. At the same time, I felt I was somewhat naive. Outside this store people tended goats and lived in dirty houses that looked like a good wind could knock them down. These children were healthy-looking and were earning money in a clean, cool environment. Egypt was not America. Why did I constantly impose my own sense of right and wrong on everything? Is child labor so wrong when the alternative is poverty and ignorance due to lack of money? Didn’t I myself have a paper route at this age? Maybe Ruth and I had read too many Dickens novels.

It’s like one man said as we cruised down the Nile in a boat belching out thick, black smoke. “You want us to use something else to power our boats? What would you have us use? We do not have the technology you do in America. You Americans want us to protect the environment but how are we to build our country if we cannot do anything? You don’t think of these things.”

Egypt has rules that make sense based on the realities within its borders. Not only the realities of life forge this national fabric, but also the history, religion, culture, and a million other details. They come together just like the thousand silk threads these children weave into a tapestry. Within the final design, the individual threads are so enmeshed as to be undetectable by the passing shopper.

So many threads.

Threads of national pride. A woman at an economic summit listening to the Governor of her province speak about the business climate. I see pride and determination etched into her face. Some Americans talk about how our country has oppressed people. I can tell this women would spit in my face if I suggested to her she were oppressed by anyone. And what hubris to assign everyone not as economically well off as we to the class of “the oppressed.”

Threads of history. One student at the summit was called on to make a statement about Egypt and, not knowing what to say, stated how Egypt had once been the leader of the world in art, engineering, science…everything. And it could be that way again. The last part was quite idealistic, but the audience responded with cheering from a fiercely proud people.

Threads of religion. There was a man with one leg and no arms hopping in the median of a street and begging for alms to be placed in a tin cup around his neck. “Look!” Alf snickered, “an Egyptian kangaroo!” I’d given up being disgusted by this point but Ruth shot a pointed rebuke at Alf. “He’s a person,” she finished. “Show some compassion! He could be homeless!” Dr. Rifai interposed: “All good Muslims give a certain percentage of their income to charity. I wouldn’t be surprised if that man lives in a very nice house.”

Threads of culture. Young men hold hands in Egypt all over the place. It’s just the way it is. Such an open attitude to towards male comradeship is impossible in America. Then again, we don’t enslave our women in shrouds and stone homosexuals (at least not openly).

And the largest thread of all, the Nile herself. We took a falooka ride on it. Sailing in a zigzag pattern over the serene waters at twilight is one of the most peaceful memories I possess. The wind blew softly over us and the water whooshed against the edge of the falooka. The quiet peace of the river makes clear the many instances of Egyptian lateness. It’s easy to see how time would be of no object in a land with a river like this at its core.

And, what about the threads I can’t see? How much wisdom flashes before my blind eyes like hieroglyphs on the surface of a river?


End Part 5...I'll be posting a part a day for the next week.