The tent-makers of the Khan el-Khalili Part 1

Feeling brave today, we head out to the Khan el-Khalili, Cairo's oldest and largest souk. Dana and I are traveling with 25 other intrepid adventurers keen to try out our haggling skills and naively believing that these skills have been cultivated in us through some strange process of cultural osmosis. We have after all, been in Egypt for one month now; surely we have picked up some haggling sense.

We are led by three veteran American teachers whose collective experience with Egypt adds up to almost 50 years. Like us "newbie" teachers, these "long-timers" are looking forward to breaking up the monotony of the military imposed curfew. Unlike us though, they have forged relationships with some of the Khan merchants, and they are looking forward to reestablishing those relationships after months of summer holiday travel back to the U.S. The Revolution has been terribly unkind to these merchants, and our veteran guides want to pass the torch on to us in terms of continuing to promote and sustain excellent relationships with some of them. It is a noble goal, and one that the Khan's merchants very much appreciate.

The main tourist entrance to the Khan is daunting. Our driver lets us out in front of one of the many huge mosques that surround the souk. In the courtyard in front of the mosque, hundreds and hundreds of people are milling about, mingling and chatting over strong Turkish coffee and hot tea. We take a narrow walkway to the left, skirting around the courtyard. To the left of us now is a row of worn down cafes and small restaurants selling teas, coffees and felafel pitas. The rectangular seating areas in front of the cafes are sadly empty. Hosts from the cafes stand out in front of their establishments, menus in hand, trying to entice our group in for a seat. We are perhaps the first group of foreign tourists of the day, and we may be the last. Before the Revolution, the Khan el-Khalili rivaled the Great Pyramids in catering to vast numbers of foreign tourists per year. I get the strong sense that today that we are the only group that has yet arrived.

Crowding through the narrow walkway with the cafe hawkers to our left and the mosque on our right, we enter into the Khan. The Khan el-Khalili has been Cairo's main souk for almost 800 years. More or less rectangular in shape and encompassing many city blocks, the Khan is a tangle of narrow, intersecting alleyways lined with every kind of souvenir stall imaginable. Stall owners and shop workers stand before their stores, hoping that passer-bys will make eye contact and strike up a conversation.

"You see something you like, sir, we have everything, yes everything you could ever want. Please come in and let me show you."

"A pashmina for you madam, perhaps an Egyptian perfume jar? Very beautiful, very good quality."

"Please come in for some tea! Everything almost like free today."

"Ah, it is my turn now! Ahmed has the finest leather in the Khan! Ask anyone! Please, please come in!"

For people whose livelihoods are slowly dying a long and tortuous death, the stall hawkers of the Khan are not even remotely close to the most aggressive I have ever experienced. For the most part they are polite, perhaps overly friendly and always smiling. Some seem resigned to simply use their English, which is sadly getting a little rusty.

"You from America?" one merchant asks. He is smiling, and he does not seem to know that he has asked me a very loaded question (no pun intended).

"Yes," I respond hesitantly. 

"I love America. We have missed you very much." He stretches out his hand, vigorously shaking mine. "Please be welcome here."

We are heading to meet Mustafa, a glassmaker that our guides have known for years and years. Mustafa has two small shops in the Khan. The glass shop and the factory (not located within the Khan) that goes with it, he inherited from his father, who inherited it from his father, and so on. He runs the shop and the factory with his older brother. His brother spends most of his time on the factory floor while Mustafa, who speaks excellent English, spends most of his time in the shop. The shop adjacent to the glass stall is run by Mustafa's wife, and she sells ladies apparel. Mustafa warmly greets our trip leaders, shaking the men's hands and giving them a quick peck on first one cheek and then the other; a sign among men of a long-standing relationship. He bows to our female trip leader. 

Our guides introduce us one by one. Mustafa offers us each a tea or coffee. We look around and chat. Business has been slow, of course, but still okay. I note that Mustafa's shop is enclosed by a glass facade and swinging glass doors; air conditioning inside. Compared with the other vendors of the Khan, he is doing alright. Still, the air conditioning is off until we enter the shop.

Like many of the glass merchants here, Mustafa makes his creations with a thin, almost papery kind of glass that shimmers in the light. Most of his creations, baubles, ornaments, perfume holders, goblets, and tea pots are made of colored glass; rose, emerald, and sapphire. They are all beautiful, and I know more or less at the outset of our visit with Mustafa that we shall not emerge from his shop empty handed.

And we don't. Many interesting events happen while we are chatting with Mustafa. Somehow, almost mystically, we purchase a water pitcher and silver-rimmed glass set (less than $50). Two of our trip leaders make arrangements with Mustafa to visit his brother at the factory and to take the first steps into learning how to blow glass. Dana drinks the strongest Turkish coffee she has ever had in her life and avoids drinking any of the nuclear-strong dregs at the bottom of the cup. As we bid Mustafa and his wife farewell, perhaps the most interesting aspect of our day becomes public knowledge. Unbeknownst to most of the group, including me, we are off now on a real adventure into the part of the Khan where Egyptians, not tourists shop; and we are searching for Tariq, the finest tent-maker in all of Cairo.

*This week's photos by Dana and Kyle Purpura

The Curfew

In late May and early April, 1992, Los Angeles residents experienced rioting in the wake of the Rodney King verdict. Looting was widespread and arsonists' flames seemed to pop up on every corner. The LA police force was not prepared for the huge scale of the civil unrest, and so Mayor Tom Bradley called in the National Guard, imposing a dusk-to-dawn curfew. The ferocity and widespread nature of the riots, combined with the extraordinary decision on the Mayor's part to impose a curfew, scared the hell out of a lot of residents accustomed to a relatively easy pace of life and the rule of law. I know. I was one of them.

I remember vividly the troops deploying in the neighborhoods experiencing the worst of the violence; armored personnel carriers disgorging thousands of helmeted, battle-ready soldiers, weapons locked and loaded. The men in uniform had orders to fire on anyone engaged in looting or arson. It all scared the living hell out of me; none of these kinds of things ever happened in Ohio, my boyhood home.

I was 26 years old when the riots occured and frightened as I was, I had some semblance of style; style that was about to be cramped by the imposition of an evening curfew. In the evenings I wanted to be out with friends to see and be seen. I certainly did not want to be cooped up in my tiny apartment. On the first night of the curfew, zombified after having watched live news broadcasts for most of the day, I went to bed early-ish.

I awoke early the next day naively planning to go to the bank and do a little grocery shopping. Looking back, I really do not know what I was thinking. Young and dumb is an excuse only up to a certain point, after which the person in question is just plain dumb. And on the second day of the curfew, that dumb person was me. I drove to the bank first. The bank was absolutely packed with people, frenzied customers rushing each of the harried tellers, angrily demanding to withdraw as much money as possible. I had never witnessed a run on a bank. "So this is what one looks like," I remember thinking to myself. The grocery store was worse. There I saw hoarding of the first magnitude, shopping carts careening through the aisles with some customers randomly scooping items into their baskets.

With no fresh supply of money and no groceries, I returned home, passing a couple of military checkpoints along the way. I felt like the fabric of society was ripping apart. For me, that second day was the worst. Fortunately, calmer minds prevailed throughout much of the LA Basin, and the curfew was lifted after just five days.

The Egyptian curfew, my second experience with such a thing, is now two weeks old, having been imposed by the interim government as a measure to deal with the "anti-coup" protests. Nearly a thousand people have died in the past two weeks, and the government really does not seem to want this kind of bloodshed to continue; they also do not want a Syrian-style civil war. To the government and the military leadership supporting the government, a curfew seems a good option to allow for things to simmer down a little.

I have to say that I agreed with that option for the first few days. When interim president Adly Mansour announced the curfew, I felt a keen sense of relief. Being 47 years old, I no longer possess any style, and so an evening curfew fairly well fits into my ordinary evening routine; or so I thought. Style or no style, after a two weeks of being in by 7:00 p.m. every night, I am now very tired of the curfew. I feel limited and confined. I cannot even go out for an evening stroll for fear of being stopped, questioned, and probably arrested.

But it is not all about me. The curfew is slowly killing an already anemic economy. Depending upon who you ask, the Egyptian unemployment rate is currently hovering somewhere between 13% and 20%, and it is rising. Like many cultures shaped by an arid climate, Egyptian society is predominantly a late night culture. Late meal times help famlies to avoid living in stifflingly hot houses during the heat of the day. It is not uncommon for Egyptian families to have their main evening meal at 9 or 10 p.m. This is also prime time for local restaurants and cafes, not to mention grocery stores and supermarkets. All of the economic activity that accompanies a late night culture has now been shut down for the most part, and local businesses are considering shedding jobs in the wake of seeing their business decline by 50% to 75 %.

On August 24th a small miracle happens and local officials, sensing a rapid decline in support for the anti-coup movement (and perhaps also responding to recent news articles about the economic impact of the curfew), announce a relaxation of the dusk-to-dawn travel ban. Shops, restaurants and cafes can remain open until 9 p.m. One of our friends comes over for an impromptu, celebratory dinner. We eat and chat, joking about our newfound two hours of relative freedom. After the meal, we walk our friend back to his flat. It is the first time we have been out of our apartment after 7 p.m. in over two weeks. Call us silly, but we feel as if we have just won a major struggle to enhance our civil liberties. I cannot help but wonder whether Egyptian nationals feel the same way.

* This week's photos courtesy of Dana Purpura

The Sands of Time

There has been some form of cultural organization in this place for at least 8000 years. At that time most of the great Sahara Desert was not yet great, being occupied mostly by dry grasslands. Desertification, hastened in part by overgrazing, was just beginning to establish itself. Long ago, here in the Nile Valley, a number of independent, small societies began to coalesce. It is here, in the broad river valley that stretches endlessly from the lush jungles of equatorial Africa to the wide delta emptying into the Mediterranean, that the nation of Egypt was born.

If legend is to be believed, two of these small, independent Nile valley societies grew prosperous, becoming small kingdoms. The Nile, a broad, azure ribbon meandering through arid and semi-arid regions, brought fertile soil to these kingdoms, it's gradual and regular flooding depositing fresh earth every year. The gentle flooding was regular enough to allow ancient farmers to use the river as a basis by which to distinguish the seasons; the development of a calendar was not far off. The river also served as a trade route, connecting the two small kingdoms and bonding them in ways that even conquest could not accomplish. 

Time passed. The kingdoms continued to grow. Monarchs grew powerful. Let's call the southern kingdom 'Upper Egypt,' because of its relatively higher land elevation. Let's call the northern kingdom 'Lower Egypt.' It's location in the Nile delta was at a lower land elevation in comparison to its southern neighbor.  As their status and prestige grew, the powerful monarchs of their respective kingdoms each chose a unique crown, a symbol of their success: for the ruler of the southern kingdom, an alabaster, oblong skull-cap of sorts, elongated and stretched at the top; for the ruler of the northern kingdom, a crimson cylinder with a sprout at the front and a high cowl at the back.

Some time around five thousand years ago, the people of the two successful Nile kingdoms united under one king and one unified crown, the pharaoh's crown that we recognize today; this being made up of the basic elements of the separate crowns worn by the monarchs of pre-historic Egyptian kingdoms shrouded by the sands of time.

Since then, unity among the people of Egypt has ebbed and flowed like the steady flooding of the Nile. The unity forged five thousand years ago came to an end a thousand years later with the coming of a group of either immigrants or invaders that the ancient Egyptians called the Hyksos. The Hyksos were probably a Semitic people pushed into Egypt from the area we would call the Middle East. Strong Egyptian pharaohs were eventually able to drive out the Hyksos, but there would be other invaders hundreds of years later coming at fairly frequent intervals; invaders from North Africa, invaders from the southern parts of Africa, invaders from the nearby Assyrian Empire, and finally invaders from the mighty Persian Empire. All of the invaders brought a demise of Egyptian unity long since established. Invaders brought new technologies and new ideas, however. There was the inevitable intermingling of peoples. Egyptians changed and adapted, ultimately renewing their unity and identity.

Then came Alexander and his fellow Hellenes. Wealthy Egyptians once again adapted, but this time they took on Greek customs and social mores. Egypt became a part of the Hellenic world and the Mediterranean world. A period of gradual urbanization followed as well as a gradual demise of old ways and customs. The powerful city of Alexandria, with its renown library and lighthouse, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, was born. More intermingling ensued. Even today, the women of Alexandria are considered by Egyptians to be among the most beautiful in all of Egypt with their ebon hair, smooth olive skin and hazel/green eyes.

Then came the Romans, and Egypt became a colony within one of the largest empires the world had yet seen. Yet even more intermingling occurred. During the Roman period, Christianity quickly and quietly spread to the area. A unique Coptic Christian community developed independently of the church in Rome. Within a half a millenia, Rome became a distant memory for the people of Egypt, but the Coptic Church remained.

Some 800 years after the Romans first arrived, the prophet Mohammad began his preaching, developing a following on the Arabian Peninsula that would soon gather sufficient strength to spread throughout the Middle East and North Africa. Islam came to Egypt quickly through a clever combination of Arab conquest and conversion. More intermingling occurred with the coming of the Arabs. Intermarried or not, the Egyptian aristocracy had to be conquered, but ordinary Egyptian farmers found comfort in the words of the Quran and the egalitarianism of Islam. People converted by the thousands. Today, Egyptians are predominantly Muslim. 

The Kurds came generations later to establish a kingdom within the larger Muslim kingdom. Then came the Turks, followed by the Ottomans. Each successive wave of conquest brought more intermarriage. 

Some 200 years ago, an upstart, Albanian general named Muhammad Ali, wrested control away from Ottoman rule and founded the Kingdom of Egypt, a monarchy that was to continue until the Egyptian Revolution of 1952 and the coming of Gamal Abdel Nasser. Although initially successful, the monarchs of Egypt became embroiled in European politics, intimately and inextricably enmeshed in European disputes. Close ties with Europe and the end of World War II would prove to be these rulers' undoing as a wave of anti-monarchical fervor gripped Egyptians in the early 1950s. 

The revolution of 1952 was orchestrated by a council of generals, chief among these being General Nasser. A republic was declared in 1953, and one of the ruling generals became the republic's first president. Within a year, he had been removed in favor of Nasser. Calling himself a 'president,' Nasser ruled until his fatal heart attack in 1970. After Nasser's death his protege, Anwar Sadat, presided over Egypt.  I remember Sadat, the man who signed a controversial peace agreement with his Israeli counterpart, Menachem Begin; an agreement that would ultimately contribute to Sadat's assassination in 1981. Enter Hosni Mubarak, Sadat's successor. Mr. Mubarak ruled Egypt from 1981 until the Arab Spring Revolution of 2011. The Revolution ended with the first-ever democratic elections in Egypt and the first democratically elected President, Mohamed Morsi. 

Of all the various Egyptian governments to which I have referred, Morsi's government has had perhaps the shortest life span, lasting just a little over one year. Today, Morsi is being held by the interim government to answer for crimes he allegedly committed in 2011. Where he is being held is unknown. Ironically enough Morsi's predecessor, Hosni Mubarak, has been held under house arrest since Morsi took office. Mubarak is being held in a heavily protected military hospital located just a few short kilometers from where I write. Rumors in the local press, swirling like the sands along either side of the Nile, indicate that he is due to be released by the interim government any day now.

"A Little Rebellion Now and Then," Part 3

August 15th, 2013. The day that Egyptian security forces break up protests in two areas in Cairo. I am at school watching and listening as the events unfold. I am aware that the media outlet pundits are taking full advantage of their sudden prime broadcast time. Because of this the groups that sustain the protests, mainly the Muslim Brotherhood, garner the global airtime that is vital to their ongoing cause, the reinstatement of a democratically elected president. Egyptian security forces and the Egyptian Army, not that they necessarily want this, gain experience in crowd control, riot suppression and street combat. General al-Sisi and interim president Adly Mansour win the opportunity to present to all Egyptians and to the global community that today's struggle is a noble cause against terrorist elements. Meanwhile people like me who value individual rights and human contact get depressed. As the day wears remorselessly on, my spirits remorselessly sink. It doesn't seem to matter that hundreds of people are being killed. It doesn't seem to matter that mosques are being burnt, that property is being indiscriminately destroyed. The situation seems entirely devoid of sanity.

Rumors swirl among staff at school, making it difficult to determine fact from fiction. There is talk of evacuation. Teachers who were present for the 2011 Revolution say that the situation today is worse than anything they experienced two years ago; certainly the death toll is higher. There is talk that more weapons are pouring in from the Sinai and that other cachements of weapons are beginning to trickle into the Sinai from nearby Syria. There is talk of al-Qaeda operatives in the region. Orphans are allegedly being paid by the members of the Brotherhood to be present during the protests thus insuring that children will be among the dead piling up in the mosques near the protesting sites. Marches to the main constitutional court in our neighborhood of Ma'adi are apparently being planned. Hundreds of Coptic churches are perhaps being razed by marauding bands of extremists. No one feels safe amidst the swirling rumors, and so we are called to a briefing.

Fortunately our school has a dedicated security department who are in constant contact with the security details at both the U.S and U.K. Embassies. Based on very current information, we are told that hundreds of Egyptians have indeed been killed today. All embassies have closed for the day, but none have as yet closed for good. Egyptian security forces have contained the protests in both areas and have not found evidence of large caches of weapons. Marches in Ma'adi are not happening. Up to 50 Coptic Christian churches in the country have been damaged by fire and/or looting, and we are told to avoid going near these churches at the moment. There is a national, military curfew being put into place that will be in force from 7 p.m. to 6 a.m. People caught out after curfew will be subject to being stopped and searched; possibly arrested. The curfew will be in place for the foreseeable future. The local streets being relatively calm, we are then told to go home.

We do, and quickly.

There are three or four small general grocery markets between our school and our home. Depending on which walking route we take, any of these grocers offer us a wider variety of foods than we were able to find at our previous international posting. We do not know how long we will be house-bound, so we stop by the nearest grocer, arranging to have several bags of food and water delivered to the house. One of the many fantastic aspects about our neighborhood is that all local businesses will deliver ... anything. Inside, the store is a beehive of activity. We are not the only ones who want to stock up "just in case." We are nonetheless able to purchase everything we need for the next couple of days, and we head for home.

Just a few steps outside of the market, the streets are quiet. We pause to take a few pictures of the empty, tree-lined streets to post back to concerned family and friends.

We arrive back, safe and sound. A few minutes after we are back, the groceries arrive. We buzz the delivery person up. He enters our flat, arms full of our bags and large plastic jugs of water. I thank him, looking him in the eye and shaking his outstretched hand firmly. This is a regional custom among men, and one that I try to practice. He beams, pausing.

"My name is Hamid."

"I am Kyle."

"Please to meet you, Mr. Kyle." He pronounces my name more like 'keel.'

"I will be at the store every day. You may be a little frightened, and this should not happen. Anything you need; any time not feeling safe, please come," he says. He is earnest.

We shake hands again. I want to cry.

"Thank you, Hamid ... Thank you."

"Ma'a Assalama!" he says as he leaves.

"Ma'a Assalama!" I respond. The phrase we exchange, Hamid and I, translated means 'good-bye with peace and security'.

"A Little Rebellion Now and Then," Part 2

Around dawn on August 15th, Egyptian Security Forces backed by the Egyptian Army move in to break up the sit-in protests near Cairo University in al-Nadha Square and in the areas surrounding the Rabaa al-Adawiya Mosque. I should say at this point in my narrative that these two areas of the city are nowhere near one another. Many times when we watch a broadcast depicting violence from a place in which we are unfamiliar, we assume that the entire area is experiencing the horror we are witnessing. This is most often not the case. Cairo University and al-Nadha Square are located in a quarter of the city called Giza. Giza is a massive patchwork of urban clusters and small farms located on the western banks of the River Nile. The area most famously plays host to the Pyramids and the Great Sphinx. Several kilometers away to the east, across the Nile, is the heart of Cairo, the city proper. Densely populated and home to millions of people, Cairo is a teeming, bustling, pulsing jumble of high-rises, low-rises and no-rises, packed with narrow streets and every type of small market imaginable. Within this urban bazaar lay the Rabba al-Adawiya Mosque, one of the city's larger worship communities. For those of you who are interested and/or concerned, Ma'adi, the community in which we reside, is several kilometers to the south and the west of the al-Adawiya area, just on the east bank of the River Nile. During the protests, the al-Nadha and al-Adawiya areas look like titanic shanty-towns turned into war zones while most of Cairo's vast neighborhoods outside of these areas go on as normal or are very quiet.

Aware that weapons cachements from the Sinai have been slowly trickling into at least one of the areas, security detachments that move in to break up the al-Nadha and al-Adawiya sit-ins are prepared for stiff resistance. During the previous night, police cordon off both areas, allowing only one safe access/exit point through which protestors can leave. This tactic stongly suggests that the police "have rats to catch" and are interested in more than simply dispersing the protests.

At dawn security forces, semi-hooded men in dark uniforms wielding automatic weapons and backed by armored personnel carriers, move in with tear gas and, so the interim government claims, rubber bullets. Relatively speaking, the al-Nadha protestors respond quickly, stampeding through the one safe exit point. Some are killed in the stampede. There is some shooting, and some die of bullet wounds having been shot in the back. As far as I know, there are no fatalities among the security forces here. By noon the protest has been cleared, and police have secured the area.

The al-Adawiya area is much more problematic. As women and children rush toward the one exit point, shooting from both sides begins in earnest along the roads leading into the protest camp. By noon fatalities have piled up like so many draped corpses lined up in the mosque. Heavier weaponry is mobilized. Snipers take to the rooftops firing down on the crowds below. Fatalities increase. 

I am watching all of this transpire via Internet from the safety of our school. By the afternoon it is clear to me that there will be hundreds of fatalities today. Most media outlets are by now showing images of dead bodies piled up in nearby hospitals and mosques. I know how I am feeling at the moment but wonder how some of my Egyptian colleagues are feeling. I speak with "Mani" and "Fawaz," two women that work nearest my office, gently asking them about how they are feeling about the events as they unfold. 

Both women are Cairenes, peole born and raised in Cairo. Both are mothers. Mani, the younger of the two, is a modern Muslim (she does not wear a covering over her hair). Fawaz, the elder, is a Coptic Christian. As well as being fellow colleagues, they are close friends by the way (a narrow ray of hope that is not lost on me). They are in agreement about today: it is sad, but it is the inevitable result of a large, angry minority causing trouble amongst the people of Egypt. Both are supporters of the interim government, and they see the protestors as reckless individuals putting religious interests before natonal interests. 

"These people," Fawaz explains, "want a nation of Islam. They don't care about Egypt. They don't care that we have been a country for thousands of years. They reject this."

"They don't understand that we do not want Sharia law. We do not want a return to the Morsi government. They don't see that the Army is our sons, that the Army is the people," she continues, "they are all one." I note that Mani is in agreement. As a mother of a son and a daughter, Mani tells me that one day her son will proudly serve the nation. I find out that Egypt has compulsory military service for its young men. Most all men serve in the army at one point in their lives or another. According to Mani and Fawaz, men see military service as a kind of rite of passage, much the same as I have found that both Korean and Norwegian men see their compulsory military service.

Then I ask a rather obvious question: how on earth did a member of the Muslim Brotherhood win the recent national election? Fawaz, as if expecting the question, has a detailed answer.

"Three reasons," she begins. "The poor people of this country are conservative and religious. They have never voted before, and they liked a candidate from a religious background. Morsi from the Freedom and Justice Party and the Muslim Brotherhood was that candidate."

"Second," she continues, "we are tired of Mubarak. Ahmed Shafik was his Prime Minister, you know. Even so, Shafik won just below 50% of the second vote. But, we wanted to try a new style of government, a new party out, you know. We wanted to give this Muslim Brotherhood a chance. We didn't know that they would begin making so many bad decisions."

"Third ... and no offense meant, Mr. Kyle," she resumes, making me wonder where this conversation is about to go. "The visit from Hillary just days before the run-off election made it seem to many Egyptians that the American government was supporting Shafik like they supported Mubarak. We didn't want this any more; I am sorry if I offend." 

"No offense taken, Fawaz," I sheepishly respond. 

I do not know if what she is telling me is the absolute truth, but it is her perception and a perception shared by her friend, Mani. Perception being reality, it might as well be true. If true, the unintended consequence of a Hillary Clinton visit to Egypt just days before a run-off election between standing Prime Minister, Ahmed Shafik, and Muslim Brotherhood candidate, Mohammed Morsi, may have tipped the scales in Morsi's favor. This is morbid irony.

I return to my office, trying to continue to work despite the onslaught of press coverage from the BBC, CNN and Al Jazeera; press coverage that I just cannot seem to switch off.

"A Little Rebellion Now and Then, " Part 1

I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical. 

Thomas Jefferson in a letter to James Madison

Paris, January 30th, 1787

More and more I find myself delving into the life of Thomas Jefferson, particularly the phase of his life that he spent as an American foreign minister to France, witnessing first-hand the beginnings of the French Revolution. He wrote the quote above during this period of his life. Referencing the quote, Jefferson is, ironically enough, not referring to events in France but rather to events that were unfolding in western Massachusetts at the time; events that were concerning Jefferson's close friend, James Madison. The rebellion in question was Shays' Rebellion, led by the eponymous Daniel Shays. The revolt sparked up in 1786 and lasted for almost a year. The issue surrounding the rebellion was ostensibly one of personal debts and debt collection but more generally reflected the sluggish economic conditions facing western farmers at the time. Shays was a former revolutionary soldier who felt that he had fought for better than he was getting. He surrounded himself with like-minded individuals, took up arms and began a loosely-organized campaign of protest and intimidation, originally targeting state debt collectors but later devolving and targeting any state official who happened to be close at hand.  During the ensuing rebellion, property was destroyed and people were killed. Shays and his rebellious compatriots were eventually subdued and brought to justice but not before terrorizing western Massachusetts communities and drawing the concerns of the likes of Madison and even George Washington.

So here we are in Cairo. It is the middle of August, and an Egyptian rebellion led by two main factions are causing both local and global concern. This particular revolt, yet another chapter of the "Egyptian Revolution" of 2011, started not long into the holy month of Ramadan in early July when President Mohammed Morsi was removed from office by the Egyptian military led by General Abdel Fattah al-Sisi. It seems that not all Egyptians agree that Morsi needs to go. Two factions immediately begin holding protest vigils. The first faction, composed primarilly of liberal-minded students attending Cairo University, stage sit-ins in Nadha Square near the university. Attended by thousands, this six-week vigil is reminiscent of the Occupy Movements in the U.S., the protestors publically lamenting the military overthrow of a democratically elected president, the first in Egypt's long history. Most of the al-Nadha protestors may not really like Morsi, but they like the idea of a military coup even less. To them, the coup seems like Mubarak-era business as usual. The second faction, the larger of the two and composed of members and supporters of the Muslim Brotherhood, descend upon the squares and neighborhoods surrounding the Rabaa al-Adawiya Mosque. Thousands strong and made up of men, women and children, the protestors in the al-Adawiya area surround themselves with make-shift barricades if cinder block, rebar, tires, and sand bags.  They build lean-to's of corrugated iron, invite local merchants in to set up temporary shops, and even set up splash pools for their attending children. Local residents observe that these protestors are here to stay; and they are. Muslim Brotherhood spokesmen proudly proclaim that they will continue to hold their vigil until President Morsi is reinstated. Nothing can make them move. As one week blurs into two weeks and two weeks into three, the al-Aldawiya camp gradually grows larger and larger, tentacles creeping into surrounding neighborhoods. Local residents complain of being bullied and intimidated by the evangelized, bearded Brothers. Residents are further distrubed by clandestine shipments of oblong, wooden crates, trucked into the area. 

"This happens almost every night," they say.

I wake up early on the morning of August 14th, practicing what has already become a morning ritual: drinking strong Italian coffee and trolling the news for a half-an-hour. The news is not good. Marching protestors in the al-Adawiya area are clashing with local residents, protestors brandishing machetes and clubs and area residents pelting them from above with stones and bricks. "Security forces," the phrase used for specially trained police units, slowly mobilize into the area under the pretext of providing residents with a greater sense of security. It is true that residents are by now in a frenzied state, feeling constantly threatened by the squatting protestors. But the interim government has additional reasons for moving in. Now that Ramadan and the Eid Celebration have passed, the government reasons that every decent, law-abiding and employed citizen has by now returned home to work. The government further reasons that only those trouble-making and "terrorist elements" (the phrase used by state media outlets for the past couple of weeks) remain in the al-Adawiya area. Safety and security come first, and this set of protests is about to come to an end.

At dawn the next day, Egyptian security forces backed in the distance by the Egyptian Army move in to take control of both al-Nadha and al-Adawiya. They move in initially with tear-gas canisters and water-cannons, but they have taken note of the clandestine wooden crates that have crept into al-Adawiya camps, and they are well prepared.

The Muslim Brotherhood

They are an organization that has been around for almost a century. On this hot, sunny morning, they are chanting and looking rather intimidating; and thankfully they are not at all interested in me or the knot of teachers with whom I am traveling. They are the members of the Muslim Brotherhood, an Egyptian institution formally established in the late 1920s to promote Islam throughout secular Egypt and to provide charitable aid to people living in places where the government and the local NGOs either don't or won't go. They are also, at least technically, Egypt's ruling political party, having captured more seats as a result of the elections in 2011 and 2012 than any other political party in Egypt. They even won the Egyptian presidency in 2012. President Mohammed Morsi is a prominent member of the Brotherhood.

That all changed on July 3rd, 2013, when the army under the command of General Abdul Fattah al-Sisi forcibly removed President Morsi and many of his top aides and political party members from office, placing them under arrest and detaining them at a yet-to-be-disclosed location.

Constitution thus suspended, al-Sisi has organized an interim government backed by his military. Within the next six months the interim government promises a modified constitution, a fresh round of elections and a more transparent, more democtratic society. While many Egyptians approach these promises with an interesting mixture of hope tinged with skepticism, the members of the Muslim Brotherhood have become outraged and evangelized as a result of recent events. Even as the crowds supporting the removal of President Morsi dissipate, they are replaced by crowds demanding the reinstatement of President Morsi and the re-establishment of democracy. Thousands of Brotherhood supporters have descended on the Rabaa al-Adawiya Mosque in the northwest quarter of the city and on the grounds of Cairo University across the River Nile in the Giza area of the city. The sit-in protests have lasted since July 3rd, and the protestors say they will stay until Morsi is reinstated. The leaders of the interim government, General al-Sisi and interim President, Adly Mansour, have promised to clear the protestors and restore complete order. Impasse established.

That brings us to today where bus-loads of Muslim Brothers are being shipped into our quiet neighborhood to stage an "impromptu" protest. The target, the headquarters of British Petroleum. The issue, the perceived tacit support among Western firms toward the interim government. BP headquarters are just down the street from our school, and the presence of the chanting, bearded members of the Brotherhood has prompted our school buddy and guide, Tina, to pick us up from our flat this morning and show us an alternative route to the school. 

Blocks away from the school, we can hear the cadence of hundreds of chanting men. We ask Tina if she can understand any of the chants. She cannot understand much of it, but she can pick out the Brothers' mantra, "Islam is the solution." We cross one of the spoked streets of Ma'adi, and I look right, up toward the nearby intersection and the BP building. In the distance, I see bearded men holding aloft several placards. I can distinguish images of President Morsi and slogans written in Arabic. A few of the men are wearing dishdashas, the flowing white robes that are relatively traditional in Cairo and kumas, the circular caps worn by some men in the region. Others are dressed in more Western garb. From my vantage point, all seem serious. I also spot one or two police officers, present, I suppose, to buffer the protestors from would-be onlookers. I do not however, see any onlookers. Most of the local residents out this morning are doing exactly what we are doing, giving the marchers a wide berth thus avoiding any possibility of trouble.

We arrive safely at school to find the talk among staff, not surprisingly, centering around the protest march. Demonstrations are scarce in Ma'adi and something of a novelty for staff members with experience with the region's language and customs. One veteran member of staff witnessed this morning's march up close. She said she smiled and waved to one of the Brothers, who smiled and waved back, only to be admonished by one of his seniors. Discussion about the march continues on campus throughout the day.

For safety reasons, a number of us leave for the day together; there is, after all, the sense of safety in numbers. Our gate security guards let us know that the march ended quite some time ago and ended peacefully. We take our normal route from the school back to our flat. We do not see any trace of the march. The litter and detritus was long ago swept away, as if sweeping away the chanting images of the protesting Brothers. It is almost as if the march never happened; almost. The following day BP contacts our school's senior administrative team to inform us that they are re-evaluating their policies with respect to security and accompanying families. This could mean fewer BP-sponsored students at the school. Already this year, both the US and UK embassies have temporarily evacuated accompanying families. These families may or may not return. Other firms, namely Hyundai and Samsung, are relocating from Egypt to Rabat, Morocco. The Hyundai and Samsung families will never return.

I think about what all of this means for our school and Egypt in general. Our school enrollment drops. That's no good, especially for Dana and me. Egypt loses out on current foreign investment opportunities and future ones, the investment climate being much safer in other locations in the region. This is no good, either. In a nation with extremely high unemployment, Egyptians need all of the job opportunities they can get. Neither is the current impasse good for foreign firms already operating here because firm owners now feel as if they have to relocate, and they cannot recoup some of their costs. About the only group that benefits from the chaos is the Brotherhood. They are able to stage these marches, causing firms to think twice. When firms do bolt, taking their valuable jobs with them, the Brotherhood can claim that the interim government is mis-managing the economy. The pragmatist in me sees a Catch 22.

The humanist in me however, sees the potential for a brighter Egypt, IF and only if constructive dialogue between the anti-Morsi camps and Brotherhood, pro-Morsi camps begins to happen. 

So far, no talks have been planned.

Encounters in Ma'adi

We spend our first full day in Egypt touring Ma'adi, the affluent, Cairo suburb in which we live. We are met at our flat by Tina, an American English teacher who came to Cairo to teacher for two years only. That was eight years ago. On this bright sunny morning, Tina is serving as our school buddy as well as our local tour guide. She speaks decent Arabic and knows Ma'adi well. She tells us that there was not a buddy system when she first came to the school; it was sink or swim in the good old days before the Arab Spring. That has all changed now. William, the school superintendent and seasoned overseas veteran, ushered in a comprehensive school safety network and buddy system for the school's 175 faculty. He leaves nothing to chance. Tina will be our constant companion for the next several weeks until we become more acclimated to Egyptian customs and social mores.

We walk through a narrow maze of apartment blocks and small, upscale shops. Ma'adi is intensely green. Every road and madan (roundabout) teems with tropical trees and flowery shrubs. Dana and I recognize several varieties of plants we have in Memphis: hibiscus, lantana and crepe myrtles. Some plants we recognize but are foreign to Tennessee. We stroll past the occasional banyan tree, for example. Other plants, like a tree that looks quite like a giant wisteria in full bloom, are completely new to us. Noting our interest, Tina points some of them out.

Not too far from our flat, we stop when Dana and I spot a two-story poster of General Abdul Fattah al-Sisi suspended from one of the apartment flats. The poster is flanked by two rather prominent Egyptian flags fluttering in the warm breeze. Tina tells us about the school's experiences during the final weeks and months leading up to the recent coup. She is politely interrupted by an older Egyptian man walking past us. He greets us and, pointing up at the poster, he flashes a smile giving us a thumbs-up sign. He is a supporter of the coup and is hopeful of a more transparent and democratic process to come. He is not alone. Millions of Egyptians participated in the public demonstrations that culminated in the July 3rd departure and subsequent arrest of President Mohammed Morsi. Many here see General al-Sisi as a protector of the democratic process.

We continue on our walk through our section of Ma'adi. The school is within an easy walking distance to our flat, and so Tina shows us the way to the school. We approach the school from the east. Cairo American College was established and built in 1945, making it one of the oldest international schools in the world. The school facility takes up an entire block in residential Ma'adi. Indeed, the school is a landmark here, and the residents of Ma'adi take good care of it. The school grounds are surrounded by a 15-foot stone wall with informal security posts at odd intervals along the base of the wall. Two years ago during the early phase of the Revolution, these posts were manned by local police armed with semi-automatic rifles. Today CAC security people man the posts, armed with a lifetime of experience living within Ma'adi and a deep knowledge of the local residents. The CAC security group has helped the school further integrate into the local community. They love their school, the teachers and the kids as much as they love their community; indeed they see these elements as one and the same.

We stop to chat with Abdel, one of the security men that Tina knows well. He greets us warmly, like family members. After asking about summer experiences and the health of family members, the talk soon strays toward the ongoing revolution. Abdel tells us that his nephew is among the protestors holding a pro-Morsi sit-in vigil outside of the Rabaa al-Adawiya Mosque in the northwest quarter of the city. He worries about his nephew's safety given the temporary government's promise to break up such sit-in vigils. Still, he applauds the protestors' cause and their bravery.

"President Morsi," he continues, "is a good man in his heart. He is a moral man who loves his country and his people."

"But" he says, holding up his index finger, "such a man like Morsi is maybe not so good for the times now. I think now maybe we need a different man, maybe better for the times now. Someone like Mohammed Ali," he proclaims, making a reference to the Egyptian unifier who wrestled his kingdom away from the ruling Ottoman Empire some two centuries ago. We wish Abdel and his family well, and we continue on with our neighborhood tour.

I learn a valuable lesson today. Passions here in Egypt run deep, and everyone has their own opinion of the situation. As an American, I am uncomfortable with the idea that a democratically elected person was deposed by the military. As much as I disliked President Bush, for example, I acknowledged his legitimate right to rule based on electoral results. Sometimes we have to wait until the next election to get a better government. On the other hand, the humanist in me sees something special about millions of people taking to the streets to protest a government they see as being unfair. This is a kind of passion for democracy we do not typically see in the West. 

What I learn is that I need to listen. This is not a time for me to chime in, but it is a great time for me to observe. And like all Egyptians, it is also a time to wait and see.

The next day, Dana and I feel comfortable enough with Ma'adi to walk to school without Tina. As we emerge from our flat, the mobile rings. It is Teresa, and she is on her way to pick us up. There is a large Muslim Brotherhood, pro-Morsi demonstration forming just outside of the British Petroleum offices in Ma'adi. The offices are just down the street from the school, and we need to take an alternate route. We wait, and Tina duly picks us up. We take another route to the school, but from a distance I get my first look at the members of the Muslim Brotherhood.

Arriving in Cairo

I half expected that we would be landing amidst a guerilla skirmish. In my mind’s eye our nervous pilot would be sweating over his instrumentation, manhandling the aircraft through a narrow, heavily-patrolled air corridor; any deviation resulting in gunfire crackling from guerilla bands below. I expected to be rapidly ushered from the flight by helmeted soldiers. I expected to see barb-wire barricades and sneering German Shepherds; maybe a few wafting wisps of tear gas.

Instead, many of the Egyptians on the Frankfort-Cairo flight clapped as we touched down. Maybe they were expressing relief that they would soon be released from 3 ½ hour screaming session that one of the two-year-olds on the flight provided, but I rather think that they were genuinely happy to be home. My wife and I were greeted near the gate by a smiling, mustachioed Egyptian travel agent representing our new school; for once we were the people whose names were on the signs being held aloft by welcoming travel reps. Like VIPS, we were ushered through customs, immigration, and visa processing in less than ½ hour, a new personal record.  Our smiling agents then grabbed our bags from the conveyor and ushered us through the terminal where our school administrators waited along with school vans and drivers. So much for my tough-guy entry into Egypt.

Driving from Cairo International’s location in the northeast of the city to our ultimate destination in the southeast of the city, I scan the horizon for blackened columns of smoke, the tell-tale signs of current revolutionary activity. I see none. Businesses seem to be going about as usual along the highway, a crowded mixture of families in cars and trucks hauling everything from heavy construction equipment to refrigerated goods. What I do see is a lot of small, litter-strewn sand-dunes outlining much of the highway. I also see block after block of unfinished 10 to 15 story apartment buildings. These, as it turns out, are the tell-tale signs of Egypt’s Arab Spring. Started by contracting firms patronized by the Mubarak regime, the firms simply vanished two years ago, leaving behind hundreds and hundreds of half-finished, squared hulks, now quietly collecting dust and sand amidst the sprawling Egyptian suburbs.

45 minutes later and we are dropped off at our new 4-bedroom flat in one of Cairo’s affluent suburbs, Maadi. Many of Cairo’s 100,000+ expats live here. It is a labyrinthine enclave of low-slung executive apartment buildings, tree-lined streets, and small merchant shops. Maadi also plays host to our new school as well as a score of upper-end restaurants, many fine green-grocers and a western-style mall that sells many foreign foods. I noted with a strange mixture of delight and horror for example, a smashed box of Fruit Loops in the street not too far from our flat.

The entrance to our flat is green and welcoming. Our smiling building guard, Mohammed, shakes our
hands and introduces himself to us as we head up the broad, marble staircase, drivers toting our luggage in tow; they refused to let us help. We open our flat door to a gorgeous 10-room apartment complete with built-in kitchen and two balcony/sun-rooms. Our new school has even left us a bouquet of flowers on the dining room set and has stocked our kitchen and pantry with survival food and coffee; bless them.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that Egypt is a nation experiencing an ongoing revolution and quite a bit of very recent political and economic turmoil. I know there will be difficult and dark days ahead. I know this intellectually. This evening however, as we unpack our belongings, showering up after 20+ hour day of travel, I feel a sense of comfort and ease here that I have seldom in my travels abroad experienced before. Living here, it will be difficult to avoid getting lulled into a sense of security and complaceny.