During one of the early rounds of elections in Alexandria a street battle erupted between NDP guys wielding swords and Muslim Brotherhood members who came at them with chairs. The army fired tear gas at groups of voters in Brotherhood strongholds to keep them from reaching the polls.
How extreme was the Muslim Brotherhood, really? That’s the argument that never ended in Egypt, in large part because the Brotherhood refused to admit where it stood. People saw what they wanted to see. Anti-Islamists feared the worst while optimists hoped the Brotherhood’s self-identification as moderate was sincere.
Would they actually ban alcohol if they came to power? Who knew? They wouldn’t say. Would they force women, even foreign women and Christian Egyptians, to wear the veil? No one had any idea.
“Islam is the solution” was their rallying cry, but they said they wanted to build an Islamist state democratically.
They also claimed, at least sometimes, that they were not sectarian—a difficult thing to believe considering that they wanted an Islamist state. “I went to a Muslim Brotherhood rally,” Hounshell said. They chanted Muslims and Christians, we are all Egyptians.”
The problem for Egyptian Christians (who make up between 10 percent and 15 percent of the population) wasn’t that the Muslim Brotherhood wouldn’t recognize their right to live in Egypt and be Egyptians. The problem was that they stood a real chance of losing some of their already diminished rights and being forced to live by the code of another religion.
Mubarak’s regime was secular, yet even under him, Christians were blatantly discriminated against when it came to government jobs. In a country where huge swaths of the economy are controlled by the government, that’s a serious problem. They also had trouble building churches. Muslims could build mosques, no sweat, but Christians faced years of bureaucracy, and regime apparatchiks routinely said no. So Christians feared that if the Brotherhood ever ascended to power, the already existing discrimination from the secular state would only increase under an Islamist state. Why wouldn’t it?
“The Muslim Brotherhood is run mostly by old people,” Hounshell said. “The old guard is definitely less moderate and less democratic. But they are also more willing to make concessions to the regime. They really don’t believe in democracy. The younger members, though, are more democratic. At least they seem to be. They talk a good game, but the way this will all play out if they ever come into power ultimately is unknowable.”
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To those who were easily and perhaps willingly fooled, Mubarak appeared to cry uncle after sustained U.S. pressure to open up his one-party state and hold real elections. But the reforms were a farce—and hailing his just-kidding charade as a sign of progress in the Middle East was naive and reckless.
Human-rights activists and independent politicians—most famously Saad Eddin Ibrahim and, more recently, Ayman Nour—continued to be harassed, arrested and booked on trumped-up charges. And since kicking around his opponents during “campaign season” wasn’t enough to guarantee victory, Mubarak worked over the voters as well.
In early 2005 he announced that he would allow candidates other than himself to run for president. Millions of Egyptians were ecstatic. Finally they would have an actual choice in an election—a first-time experience for everybody. Yet no one who wasn’t already registered to vote under the old system, in which Mubarak was the only candidate, would be allowed to vote in the supposedly real election at the end of the year.
The Egyptian government knew better than to imitate the Syrian and Iraqi Baath Parties by claiming to get 99 percent or even 100 percent of the vote. That didn’t mean Mubarak actually won a normal election. It only meant he was a tad less obvious about it.
He was still pretty obvious, though. The democratic opposition parties only won 3 percent of the seats. It all went according to government plan, then. Kicked-around parties like al-Wafd and al-Ghad had no better chance of beating Mubarak at his game than the Green Party had of winning the White House in the United States.
“Rigging elections is a sport here,” American political scientist and long-time Cairo resident Josh Stacher told me in his office. “There are 2,000 different ways to do it, and the methods vary by constituency and region. When all else fails, they just physically block people from voting.”
All else failed in the Nile Delta during the third round of elections, including the physical blocking. Military police fired not only rubber bullets but also live ammunition at voters, killing at least eight and wounding more than 100.
Mubarak’s regime didn’t fail merely in politics. It spectacularly failed in every way a state can possibly fail. The economy was moribund. The habitable regions of Egypt were so overpopulated that cemeteries and garbage dumps had been transformed into slums packed with millions of people. Barely half the population could read or write. The state was a mafia with an army; its grubby paws stifled and profited from practically everything. Just walking around, I felt hopeless depression and dread like a dead weight.
Democratic and Republican administrations in Washington both described Mubarak as a moderate and an ally. They gave him $2 billion a year. To a certain extent he was “our son of a bitch.” And that was precisely the problem.
Stacher explained how it looked to Egyptian eyes. “Mubarak’s NDP fires tear gas at people who line up to vote. ‘Made in the USA’ is stamped on those canisters. When this sort of thing happens, lots of people here compare themselves to Palestinians living under foreign occupation.”
The popular Egyptian notion that Mubarak was an American “puppet” is understandable to a point. The U.S. government was far too cozy with the man. At the same time, it was a bit of a stretch. His state-run media organs propagandized relentlessly and hysterically against the United States, arguably more so than any other newspapers and TV stations in the Middle East.
The U.S. was frequently compared to Nazi Germany. (At the same time, Egypt’s media wallowed in Holocaust denial.) Al-Qaeda’s man in Iraq, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, was described as an American agent. Colin Powell, according to government weekly al-Ahram al-Arabi, accused the Sudanese government of genocide in Darfur as part of an American plot to steal oil. Just a few months earlier al-Mihwar TV had the audacity to air an interview with an Egyptian general who claimed that Vice President Dick Cheney admitted that the September 11 attacks were hatched by rogue elements in the White House. These are mere samples of what Mubarak’s government-controlled media cranked out on a regular basis. No one who airs and publishes this kind of nonsense can honestly be counted as a friend or an ally, let alone a “puppet.”
The Bush administration, to its credit, pushed for democratic reforms in Egypt, but it wasn’t enough. Gently prodding a dictator who is otherwise treated politely and as a friend doesn’t work if he’s not a reformer. The Nasser-Sadat-Mubarak regime created Egypt’s 21st century problems in the first place, and Mubarak turned out to be a little like Assad in Damascus. He created problems only he could solve, and he refused to deliver.
The very idea of a good autocrat is for the most part an oxymoron, but they do pop up here and there. Robert D. Kaplan defined such a rare creature as “one who makes his own removal less fraught with risk by preparing his people for representative government.” Mubarak missed that mark by a couple of time zones.
Still, his government could only do so much damage to a thousand-year-old city like Cairo without physically tearing it down. I wanted to see the oldest parts of the city, places where dreary human-storage units didn’t make up the skyline. I also wanted to see the blogger Big Pharaoh again. I liked the guy, and his pessimistic view of the place more or less lined up with mine. So we met at my hotel and took the subway as near as we could to Khan el-Khalili, the ancient souk near the Fatimid walls of the old city.
We got off the subway a half-mile or so from our destination and walked through a concrete catastrophe of a neighborhood on the way. Most storefronts were either closed permanently or shut behind grimy metal gates that p
ulled down in front of the entrances like garage doors.
“Don’t eat anything from these guys,” Big Pharaoh said as he gestured to a man selling food that was spread out on a rickety outdoor table. “If you eat that, you’ll die.”
“I’ll die?” I said. “From what?”
“From a horrible disease.”
I’m sure he exaggerated, but I duly noted his warning.
“We’re coming up to the place where a bomb went off earlier this year,” he said. “Are you okay with that?”
“I live in Beirut,” I reminded him.
“Are you sure?” he said.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said and laughed. “It’s not going to explode again. Who planted it, anyway? Al-Qaeda?”
“Some guy in an extremist organization. Don’t worry, everyone hates them.”
He complained about how some parts of Cairo that used to be beautiful became squalid, in particular one area where derelict European-style architectural wonders were blanked out by an octopus of freeway on- and off-ramps.
“May God damn Nasser in hell all over again!” Big Pharaoh said.
“Plenty of countries built ugly crap like that after World War II,” I said. “It wasn’t just Nasser. I know what you mean, though. Even most Westerners have no idea how badly he ruined this place.”
“Some of them love charismatic dictators,” he said. “Like Castro and Qaddafi.”
“Qaddafi is only charismatic if you’re outside Libya,” I said. “Inside he has all the charisma and charm of a serial killer.”
Nasser wasn’t as bad as the mad scientist ruling Tripoli. No doubt about it: Egypt was in far better shape than Libya. Egypt had people who could say what they wanted without being yanked from their beds in the night, as long as they didn’t act on their opinions in public. Egypt had intellectuals. Egypt had art. Egypt had opera. Egypt had restaurants with menus. Most Egyptians didn’t partake of Cairo’s high culture, but at least it existed. In Libya it did not. Not under Qaddafi. He wouldn’t allow it.
We walked past an old mosque set 15 feet below street level, built by Sharf el-Din and his brother in 1317–37 A.D. Just in front of the entrance was a courtyard of sorts created by the walls of the two buildings next to it on either side. The entrance was shut, and the lights set up to illuminate it were turned off. This mosque, unlike most, had no minarets.
I walked down the stairs and tried to open the slender wooden doors in case they were open. They weren’t. Just to the right of the entrance was a plaque identifying the mosque as Monument Number 176.
You can spend a lot of time gawking at extraordinarily well-preserved monuments if that’s what you’re looking for in Egypt on holiday. Cairo suddenly seemed a better tourist attraction that I had so far given it credit for. The city as a whole is pretty shabby, but Beirut—which is in much better shape—is effectively only 150 years old. It lacks the sense of history and wonder that Cairo, dumpy as it is, can rightfully boast.
Big Pharaoh and I continued walking toward the old market on a busted-up sidewalk walled off from four lanes of traffic by a metal fence that looked like a 5-foot-tall, mile-long bicycle rack. Shuttered and boarded-up storefronts eventually fell away and were replaced by brilliantly illuminated shops selling all manner of oriental art, jewelry, housewares and textiles.
On our left was an 800-year-old Shia mosque built by al-Saleh Talai in 1160 A.D. (This one was Monument Number 116.) Marble Roman-style columns flanked the entrance below a classical Islamic arch. The doors of this mosque were made of tarnished hammered metal and looked original. It appeared to be in pristine condition, at least on the outside, for such an old building. I thought of an old saying about Europe and the United States, where Egypt can stand in for Europe. In Europe (and Egypt), 100 miles is a long way. In America, 100 years is a long time.
“You see those men in white robes and white hats?” Big Pharaoh said and pointed with his eyes toward two traditionally dressed men crossing the street. “They are Shias from India who moved here with Sadat’s permission to live next to the Fatimid mosques and take care of them.”
The Fatimids founded Cairo and built the oldest remnants in the historic center. Some parts of the ancient city walls still remain, along with an enormous metal door—impenetrable by medieval armies—at one of the gates.
“Khan el-Khalili is just up ahead,” Big Pharaoh said. “You will love it. It is very exotic.”
“Is it exotic to you?” I said.
“No,” he said. “But it will be exotic to you.”
I’d spent enough time in Arab countries by then that the exoticism had worn off, but I could still appreciate it. Khan el-Khalili is exactly, precisely, what I always imagined the Middle East would look like before I went there. Shopping—or buying things, I should say—never interested me much, but getting lost in the twisting narrow streets while gawking at gold, silver, hookahs, spices, jewelry, antiques and dramatically colored bolts of cloth reminded me that I was far from home and that I should savor my time while I could.
Some of the hustling shopkeepers could be endearing and entertaining when they weren’t annoying.
“Welcome to my country!”
“How can I take your money from you?”
“I don’t cheat as much as the others!”
Neither of us wanted to buy anything, though, so we set off for food.
I saw small birds the size of my fist being roasted by an ancient man at a food cart.
“Do you know what those are?” Big Pharaoh said. They looked like tiny chickens.
“Nope,” I said.
“They’re pigeons,” he said. ‘They are stuffed. The cooks stuff rice—” he broke off laughing. “They stuff rice up its ass.”
“Do you want a kebab?” the cart owner asked. “A pigeon kebab?”
“No, thank you,” I said and walked on.
“We don’t waste food in Egypt,” Big Pharaoh said. “We eat every part of the cow here.” That seems to be the case almost everywhere in the world except in the U.S. and Canada. “We eat the brains, the testicles and even the eyeballs. But I have never eaten an eyeball.” Every man has his limits. “And I never will.” He didn’t mention testicles one way or the other.
“The brains are delicious,” he said. “You would love it!”
Perhaps. But neither of us particularly wanted bovine noodle for dinner that night. So he took me instead to a restaurant called Egyptian Pancake near the entrance to Khan el-Khalili.
“This is the best pancake place in all of Egypt,” he said.
Egyptian pancakes are more like slabs of thick pita bread than the breakfast fare of the United States. I ordered mine stuffed with white cheese and tomatoes. Big Pharaoh ordered his stuffed with beef. We ate at an outdoor table and talked about travel.
“I went to the Greek side of Cyprus when I was 5,” he said.
“I didn’t like the Greek side of Cyprus,” I said. “The Turkish side is more interesting. The Greek side has no identity. It’s like a gigantic outdoor frat house for British louts on a budget. It could be anywhere. If I flew all the way across the world just to go there, I would be pissed.”
“I got lost on the beach,” he said. “I was 5 years old. I remember screaming for my mother, and of course I was screaming in Arabic. I went up to all these Greeks asking if they had seen my mother, tears streaming down my face, and none of them understood me. I remember thinking I was going to spend the rest of my life here in Cyprus.”
“Obviously your parents found you,” I said.
“My father found me, and I ran up to him and hugged him like crazy.”
“Where else have you been?” I said.
“Bulgaria,” he said.
“I would love to visit Bulgaria,” I said.
“I went there when it was communist,” he said and laughed. “Communist Bulgaria! It was bad. My father didn’t make as much money then as he does now. So when we wanted to go on vacation, all we could afford was a communist country.�
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We both thought that was funny. But, hey, I was willing to visit a communist country. I went to Libya, for God’s sake, when I could have gone to Prague.
“Bulgaria is beautiful, though,” he said. “The mountains, the forests, amazing. We went to a place called Butterfly Island. It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen. In the spring, the entire island is covered in butterflies.” He made sweeping gestures with both his arms. “I had not even heard of it until my family went there.”
I had not heard of it until he told me about it.
“What’s the best trip abroad you ever took?” I said.
“My best trip ever was to Los Angeles. I was in heaven! When my family came home and the plane touched down in Egypt, my sister wept.” He drew lines down his cheeks with his fingers. “She wept.”
Chapter Three
The Next Iranian Revolution
Iran/Iraq Border, 2007
In a green valley nestled between snowcapped peaks in the Kurdish autonomous region of northern Iraq, an armed camp of revolutionaries prepared to overthrow the Islamic Republic of Iran. Men with automatic weapons stood watch on the roofs of the houses. Party flags snapped in the wind. Radio and satellite-TV stations beamed illegal news, commentary and music into homes and government offices across the border.
The compound resembled a small town more than a base, with corner stores, a bakery and a makeshift hospital stocked with counterfeit medicine. From there the rebels could see for miles around and get a straight-shot view toward Iran, the land they call home. They call themselves Komala, which simply means “Association.”
Abdullah Mohtadi, the Komala Party’s secretary general, and Abu Baker Modarresi, a member of the party’s political bureau, hosted me in their meetinghouse. Sofas and chairs lined the walls, as is typical in Middle Eastern salons. Fresh fruit was provided in large bowls. A houseboy served thick Turkish coffee in shot glasses.
Tower of the Sun: Stories From the Middle East and North Africa Page 6