Graduation at the Pyramids

I have a guilty admission to make, a type of admission that many a New Yorker or Londoner or Memphian could make. Manhattanites don't visit Lady Liberty and Londoners rarely tour the Houses of Parliament. Just like a surprising number of Memphians never make the pilgrimage to Graceland. Here's the admission: Dana and I had yet to make it to the Pyramids until June of 2014. The closest ancient structures to our flat in Ma'adi, and it took us almost a year to cross the river to Giza to see the last Wonder of the Ancient World still standing.

In our defense, we arrived in Cairo in late July of 2013 just as former president Mohammed Morsi was being booted out of office. Then there were the violent clearances of camps of protestors. Note: ancient wonders lose their allure when bullets are whizzing about and barrel bombs are being ignited. And there was the damn curfew and the massive street protests every Friday after prayers. We follow a Muslim work week here in Cairo, so Friday and Saturday constitute the weekend for us. Another note: ancient wonders lose their luster when throngs of angry protestors are throwing Molotov Cocktails at nearby security forces. Most Saturdays we did not really feel brave enough to be driven down towards Tahrir Square to cross the river to Giza. By the time the situation here in Cairo was safe enough for us to easily go for a visit, we found that we already had other plans; we had shit to do. So we kept putting off a trip to the Great Pyramids.

Until June.

June is graduation month at Cairo American College (CAC), and the graduate Eagles of CAC have their graduation ceremony at the Pyramids. Yep, every year the school rents out the sound stage just in front of the majestic structures in order to host the two-hour graduation ceremony. The place has to be the all-time, Top-5 greatest graduation venues in the universe. Let me tell you, the ceremony is THE most important tradition at CAC, full of pomp, processions, and speeches. And the spectacle plays out with the the Great Pyramids and the somber face of the Great Sphinx in the immediate background. 

Let me tell you something else, the ceremony is an absolute mother----er to prepare for. Planning begins almost a year in advance, characterized by preliminary negotiations with the Ministry of Antiquities and with the U.S. Embassy. This year these negotiations were more than a little difficult. Following the preliminary meetings, there are security details to plan out, seating arrangements for a couple of thousand spectators to be arranged, and local police with whom to consult. Then there are more meetings. At one point this year during a later round of negotiations, the Ministry of Antiquities jacked up an already astronomically high rental fee. At another point this year, the diplomats at the U.S. Embassy expressed their fears that they would not be able to permit their families and their CAC graduates to attend the ceremony due to security concerns. When a suggestion was offered to perhaps hold the ceremony in the gym, the outrage expressed made Tea Partiers seem sane and tame.

So the tense negotiations finally end and the decision is made to go ahead with graduation at the Pyramids. CAC grads and their parents heave a huge collective  sigh of relief as Dana and I make plans to attend. One of our colleagues scores a great rate at the historic Mena House Hotel just across the street from the Pyramid complex and so Dana and I make arrangements to stay. The hotel is over 100 years old and has played host to royalty, celebrities, and scores of politicians. Back in the late 70s, Anwar Sadat, Menachem Begin, and Jimmy Carter met at the hotel for one of the rounds of peace talks between Egypt and Israel. One of my favorite authors, Arthur Conan Doyle, stayed here as did both Winston Churchill and Dwight Eisenhower. Walking the marbled halls, peering into paneled oak rooms filled with trophies and old guns and over-stuffed red leather chairs, it is easy to imagine Ernest Hemingway and his buds here, getting absolutely sloshed while planning their next big hunt. That is the kind of ambiance the Mena House Hotel possesses.

The day before graduation, we set out from our school to the hotel. We are being driven in one of the school vans. Thank goodness too, because the neighborhoods surrounding the Pyramids and the Mena House are poverty-stricken. At one point while stopped at a stop sign, beggars and cart-drivers run up to the sides of our van, beating against the sides and demanding money. It is a little bit frightening.  

A few tense minutes later, and we are ushered through the gates of the hotel. Check in goes quickly. We are on foot now, walking through the lush gardens of the hotel, a far cry from the streets just outside of the hotel walls. Passing through several sets of metal detectors, we are gently escorted to our room, one of the rooms with a Pyramid view. And the view is astounding.

We are now gypsies in the palace. We eat at what is reported to be one of the finest restaurants in Cairo. We stuff our faces full of Indian food. We watch the sun set behind the Pyramids. We order room service.

It is all lovely until 4:30 AM the next morning. That is the time I have to get up in order to catch the bus over to the ceremony stage. The venue owners will not allow us to set up the night before, so we must complete the ceremony preparations the day of graduation. The bus ferries us, groggy and sleepy-headed, to the venue where we are greeted by an army of CAC and security staff. They have been waiting for a while, and by the looks of them they are already well into a second pack of cigarettes and a fourth or fifth cup of tea.

With scores of able-bodied individuals to help, the set-up goes quickly and efficiently. The graduates, resplendent in their crimson and white robes, arrive right on time. Proud parents and equally proud, if not a little relieved, faculty stream through the security checkpoints to take their seats. Invocations are made by imams and pastors, Muslims and Christians. Students take to the podium to deliver well-rehearsed speeches. Parents cry as graduates cross the stage to received their diplomas. Tassels rake across mortar boards and then those very same mortar boards are tossed high in the air.

And all the while, the silent stone faces of the Great Pyramids peer down upon us from on high, watching impassively as the ceremony draws to a close.

As parents and graduates slowly exit the venue, Dana and I walk towards the timeworn monoliths. Today's ceremony has been a metaphor for our year here: lots of planning and preparation punctuated by unforeseen events and peppered with a healthy dose of chaos. But amidst the chaos, there is a beauty and a timeless sense of majesty looming in the distance, providing a rich backdrop against which we play out our daily lives. We go to work, spending our week days in much the same manner that we did when we were in Memphis. We have similar ups and downs, we share similar school-related triumphs and frustrations. Different from our existence in Memphis however, we are foreigners in an ancient land. We are amazed at some of the sights and sounds of our foster country. Sometimes we are frightened because this can be a dangerous place and these are dangerous times in Egypt. 

And all this time, the sun rises and sets on the Great Pyramids and on the Great Sphinx. And the Nile flows gently and easily just as it has done for thousands and thousands of years.

An Inconvenient Election

After two days of voting and then a hastily organized third day of polling, Egyptians have elected Abdel-Fattah al-Sisi as their new president. With 97% of the vote counted, the former Field Marshal seems to have garnered over 90% of the ballots cast. That is a landslide, but the results are far from a mandate.

In the first presidential elections after the 2011 Revolution, the first "free" presidential election in Egypt's history, Mohammed Morsi won in 2012 with roughly 52% of registered voters casting their ballots. That kind of participation is about what voter turnout is in the U.S. during a presidential election when voter participation is considered to be "excellent." Compared with the U.S. there are many factors that contribute to non-voting behavior in Egypt: grinding poverty, comparatively low literacy rates, lack of understanding of voting procedures, a sense of disenfranchisement among those living in poverty, etc. The point is that 52% registered voter participation in the 2012 Egyptian presidential elections was considered to be "quite good."

Fast-forward to the Egyptian 2014 presidential election, the election pitting Mr. al-Sisi against leftist, Hamdeen Sabahi. The hope is that voter turnout will be higher, higher than the 2012 presidential election. With high voter participation, the victor could claim a strong sense of legitimacy. Under those kind of circumstances, a landslide victory would give the election winner a mandate. No such luck this time around. Voter turnout after the first two days of voting was an anaemic 37%. 

Blaming the perilously hot weather and a minor Muslim religious observation, authorities announced a federal holiday on the second day of voting and then abruptly announced a third day of voting. Registered voters who stayed at home were even threatened with a $70 fine (a large sum for some Egyptians) for not voting. When the votes are all finally counted, it is doubtful that vote turnout will have climbed above 40%.

This is bad news for al-Sisi on several fronts. First, he cannot claim anything remotely close to a mandate. Having garnered 90% of the vote he may try to make this claim, but he will face valid criticism and opposition in doing so. Secondly, the now-outlawed Muslim Brotherhood (MB) and other conservative Muslim groups like the MB encouraged their followers to boycott the elections. Low voter participation fuels these groups and their causes. Although this election's relative low turnout is likely to have been the result of apathy and disenfranchisement, the MB and groups similar to the MB will claim these numbers as a sign of support. Finally, the numbers intimate that the fragmentation that has prevailed in Egyptian society since Mohammed Morsi's ouster last summer will probably continue. None of this is good news for incoming President al-Sisi.

And there is another dark and scary number lurking in the shadows. In the 2012 presidential election over 13 million Egyptians cast their vote for Mohammed Morsi, the same Mohammed Morsi that now languishes in prison. As a result of the 2014 election, Abdel-Fattah al-Sisi will have captured something close to that amount of votes. For all of the idolatry and talk of a cult of personality associated with al-Sisi, he will have garnered roughly the same number of votes as Morsi captured in the previous election. 

Given that massive economic restructuring in Egypt will have to soon commence, these numbers are quite inconvenient for the new president.

One Step Up and Two Steps Back?

One step up ... maybe

Following months of speculation, Egypt's worst kept secret was this week finally made public. Field Marshall Abdel Fatah al-Sisi, the commander-in-chief of the armed forces who led the ouster of former president Mohammed Morsi, communicated his resignation from the military in order to run for the presidency. In a televised speech aired earlier in the week, al-Sisi announced his resignation, declaring his presidential candidacy. 

For many Egyptians this is good news. Al-Sisi has an almost cult-like following.  A career infantry officer, he is cut from the same military mold as Nasser and Sadat. In his previous speeches he has focused on security and stability, two themes popular among business owners and shop keepers. He is a devout Muslim who often quotes from the Koran, a personal characteristic that is popular among Egypt's poor and working classes. In his speech this week he stressed security, unity, hard work, and prosperity. Who doesn't support these ideas?

For some Egyptians the promises of a brighter future ring hollow. For them the prospect of an al-Sisi presidency represents catastrophe and failure. In 2012, when president Morsi tapped al-Sisi to head the armed forces, conservative Muslims and members of the now-outlawed Muslim Brotherhood inwardly cheered. They saw in al-Sisi a kindred, pious spirit. Finally one of their own, a conservative Muslim, was heading Egypt's revered and powerful military apparatus. Less than a year later, al-Sisi was leading the charge against President Morsi, a charge that led to Morsi's fall and subsequent incarceration. A charge that led to the downfall of the Morsi government. Al-Sisi's former Muslim Brotherhood supporters now view him as a traitor. 

Some liberal-minded university students do not support al-Sisi either, although they do not see him as a traitor. Liberals view al-Sisi as another Mubarak, a former military commander assuming the reigns of the state. A return to business as usual. An outright denial of the ideals of the 2011 revolution.

Given the public display of flags, posters, even al-Sisi shaped chocolates however, the former general's supporters seem to grossly outnumber his detractors. Al-Sisi is expected to win the upcoming May elections by a wide margin. With elections just two months away, the only other candidate in the presidential race is Hamdeen Sabahi, a liberal/leftist politician and poet who finished third in the 2012 presidential election. Sabahi is popular among college liberals but is seen by most as a rather obscure leftist.

Pragmatists would question why either al-Sisi or Sabahi would want to seek the presidential post. The job will certainly not be easy. The next president will administer over an Egypt where one in every four or five citizens lives on less than two dollars per day. An Egypt where the government annually pays billions of dollars toward bread and fuel subsidies. An Egypt where inflation rates are rising into the double-digits. An Egypt where weekly public protests and clashes result in multiple deaths. An Egypt where daily power outages and rolling blackouts have become commonplace. To solve these crippling problems will be no easy task. Both al-Sisi and Sabahi have good reputations going into this election. Given the daunting tasks at hand, they have much to lose.

Two steps back ... certainly

If it wasn't al-Sisi's candidacy grabbing international headlines, it was Egyptian judge, Saeed Elgazar. Judge Elgazar is the man who this week sentenced 529 arrested protestors to death. The trial took place in the Minya district, a couple of hundred kilometers south of Cairo. 

Clashes between security forces and pro-Morsi demonstrators in Minya came to a head last August with protestors attacking a local police station, killing one officer. Security forces then overwhelmed the protestors, arresting hundreds. The protestors' trial was held this week. It lasted two days. Only 150 of the defendants, wearing their required white coveralls and locked behind a crowded cage in the courtroom, were present. The rest of the defendants were held in various prisons and detainment units throughout the country. Defense attorneys were not able to meet with most of the defendants. Testimony during the two-day trial was scant. In the end, 529 of the protestors received a death sentence. Judge Elgazar acquitted only 16 people. 

Human rights organizations immediately condemned the proceedings. Human Right Watch, Amnesty International, and even the United Nations Human Rights Commission have all criticized the conduct of the trial for its lack of respect to the rights of the accused and absence of procedural due process. Government officials and legal experts in Cairo were quick to distance themselves from the ruling, pointing out that provincial courts operate independently of the federal courts. The same Cairo officials were also quick to stress that the Minya ruling was subject to a federal appeals process. Few here in Cairo expect the sentences to be carried out, believing instead that a successful appeals process will overturn the decision. Still ...

Since August and the crackdown on political protests, over 16,000 people have been arrested. Most are still awaiting trial.

Whale Watching in the Sahara

Mud-mounds and bluffs overlooking Wadi Al-Hitan

We are heading out this morning, two passengers on a whale watching expedition to the Wadi Al-Hitan, a part of the Eastern Sahara. Meghan, one of the teachers with whom we work, put this expedition together a couple of weeks ago, and she has issued a 100% guarantee that we will see whales today, albeit dead ones. Very dead. Millions of years dead.

50 million years ago, most of Egypt was submerged beneath a shallow sea, a sea that was home to an abundant amount of marine life including a primitive type type of whale known as a basilosaurus. A cross between a small whale and an alligator, a basilosaurus could grow to 20 meters in length, and it swam alongside tortoises, crocodiles, and sharks. The waters teemed with life with the basilosaurus floating happily atop the food chain. The fossilized remains of the basilosaurus' lush marine environment can be seen in the eastern portion of the Sahara Desert. Located a couple of hundred kilometers southwest of Cairo, Wadi Al-Hitan is a part of this area and is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. This is our destination.

Including Hany, our very experienced guide, and his two compatriots, there are fifteen of us traveling in the caravan this morning. Dana and I have shared previous adventures with several of our fellow travelers. Sarah, Rick, and their two children, Matthew and Emily (who speak better Arabic than all of the rest of us put together), joined us on trips to Luxor and Old Cairo. Joe and Rosanna trekked to Luxor, too. This morning, we gather at a local market just before clambering into our ships of the desert. Were we to make this journey a century ago, we would be climbing onto comfortable camel perches adorned with brightly colored Egyptian woolen blankets. Today, we climb aboard dusty Toyota Landcruisers.

The drive there proves fascinating, however. We exit the main highway just outside of Giza, off-roading across hard-packed sand for many, barren kilometers. Our driver, Hamdy, is a tall, handsome man that hails from a remote village in central Egypt. He wears a keffiyah (checkered headdress) and an alabaster galabiya (traditional men's robe). As the blackened rock and firm sand under our wheels give way to shifting ochre dunes, we discover that Hamdy has two wives and three children. I note with interest that the wives live in separate towns. We also learn that Hamdy likes American R&B. He is particularly passionate about R Kelly, and we listen to the first four episodes of Trapped in the Closet. Treading a fine line between jocularity and horror, Joe sings along. He knows a disturbing amount of the lyrics. Hamdy is (sadly) impressed by Joe's singing and films one of Joe's impromptu segments; coming to an Egyptian YouTube channel near you.

After two hours of coursing through the dunes, we drop precariously. It is as if all of the land fell at once, a broad valley stretching as far as I can see. Here and there, copper colored mesas rise above the shifting sands. The horizontal striations along the sides of the mesas tell a story of  millions of years of receding water levels, the story ending with a dead sea and an ocean of dust and sand.

When we arrive at Wadi Al-Hitan however, we grasp that there is more here than dust and sand. Hany leads our caravan of three Landcruisers into the site parking lot. UN funding has ensured the maintenance and upkeep of this place. Several one-story buildings, domed structures made of sun-dried brick, provide visitors with shade, modern toilets, and even an area to cook meals. Hany, purchases tickets for our group, gives us a brief introduction about the park, and then leaves us to enjoy the hike on our own.

The hike takes one to two hours. We see ochre, toadstool-like rock formations, mud-mounds that are millions of years old. Our path meanders through these magnificent features. Beneath some of the mud-mounds lay the preserved skeletal remains of basilosaurus. Some of the best specimens from the park have long since been taken to museums for further inspection, but 15 or so fine examples have been demarcated and preserved. The best skeleton, a relatively small basilosaurus, is encountered about halfway through the hike. The creature's crocodile-like head and snout still have some teeth intact. The animal's fins and spinal column are easily discernible; the intact fossilized remains of an ancient whale in the midst of a desert. Incredible.

I would love to stay longer, but today is hot. The midday sun hammers down on us. Our water goes quickly; lips begin to feel baked and crispy. We head slowly back towards the park entrance. An hour-and-a-half later, we are sprawled out under one of the site's shelters, Hany serving us a cooked lunch of okra and tomato stew poured over a bed of rice. Also incredible.

Ged rockets down the dune

We regain our strength and pack up. The day is not over yet. Hany leads our caravan out of the park and toward a nearby shifting sand dune. We park at the base, the dune rising several hundred feet above us. Time for sandboarding. Imagine snowboarding except on sand. That's sandboarding. No helmet, no pads. Just you, your board, and the dune.

The kids take to it immediately. It takes us adults a little longer. Matthew and Emily, the youngest of our troop, bound halfway up the dune and glide down. At first they sit on the board, but then they muster the courage to stand, surfer-style. Before long, they are asking Hany to wax the bottoms of their boards so that they can go faster. Once the adults get the hang of it, they are pretty good, too. Ged, the tallest of our group, manages to make it the farthest up the dune, and he summits with a freshly waxed board. He slaloms down at quite a speed, making it look easy and oh, so much fun.

The trouble with sandboarding though is that it is such a trudge up the side of a shifting sand dune. Step ... slide down, step ... slide down. I make it about a quarter of the way up. I am panting, thighs burning from the exertion. In the time it takes me to amble  up, Matthew and Emily have been up and down and are on their way back up again. Ah, to have that much energy again.

The sun begins to set, our sandboarders casting impossibly long shadows down the slopes of the dunes. The kids take a couple of more runs, and then we need to leave. Hany tells us that foxes and jackals roam these parts after dark. What he does not say is that we are also in a relatively conservative part of the county, and that it is best to be back in Cairo before it gets too dark. So we pack our boards, climbing back into our modern ships of the desert.

We drive out of the dusty, barren valley. The land looks gaunt and thirsty. Driving away, it is difficult to believe that ages ago, this place was very different. That once upon a time, this area teemed with life; that the valley that once was a sea bed and home to millions of sea creatures.

*This week's photos by Dana Purpura.

A Synagogue in Ma'adi

Meyr Biton Temple from Road 13

A dusty, forlorn synagogue stands in Ma'adi just where Road 13 meets Orabi Street. From the pavement you can barely see the temple for all of the trees, reeds, and weeds. Look above the treetops though, and you can see the second story, the butternut colored blocks, the central dome. Walk around the building. Here and there you catch a glimpse of stained glass windows and inlaid Stars of David. See the hastily built brick walls surrounding the temple, the locked gate in front, the padlock encrusted with sand and dust. Tarry too long in front of the gates, and one of the bowabs from across the street will rise from his perch to shoo you away. Try to take a picture and you may be met with a vigorous shaking of the head, a wagging of the index finger, and a "la, la, la!" (no, no, no!). Even if you are not shooed away, you will be suspiciously watched. Given the bowabs' withering stares, you won't linger, and you will probably leave with many more questions than answers.

― That looked like it used to be a synagogue. What happened?

― Do you think it is abandoned?

― Does anyone still pray there? Does anyone take care of it?

Meyr Biton Temple, 1934
Courtesy, Bassatine News

In 1934, times were very different in Cairo and in Egypt. Howard Carter had discovered Tutankhamen's tomb just a a little over a decade before. Fuad was king. British influence was still strong. Those were the days before World War II and the pograms, before the Six Day War and the Arab-Israeli conflicts.

In 1934, landscaper and developer Meyr Yehuda Biton had a synagogue built for a burgeoning Jewish community in Ma'adi. It was not built to be grand or imposing. It was built as a place where a small but growing community could gather together to celebrate and pray. In 1934, the Meyr Biton Temple was finished and services began. Those services would come to an end just thirty short years later.

Barricades blocking all the streets around the temple

Today the streets around the synagogue are barricaded, blocked by palisades of police barriers, twisted metal bars, and recumbent spiked metal poles that look as is if they belong in a medieval weaponry museum. At half-block intervals, bowabs sit in their makeshift, metal stands warding off all but the most stalwart passerbyes. Overgrown trees and weeds choke the median between the street and the temple walls. It appears as though the same is true on the other side of the walls. At irregular intervals throughout the week, a policeman stands guard on the street in front. Motorists drive past, oblivious to the building's significance, its history, its legacy.

Jewish communities have been a part of the Egyptian social fabric since the days of Alexander the Great. Some Ottoman rulers in Egypt enjoyed the counsel of Jewish ministers and advisers. For hundreds of years, Alexandria and Cairo were renown for their vibrant Jewish communities. Just before the outbreak of the first Word War, the Jewish community in Egypt had been estimated at 80,000 strong; this according to most religious demographers.

But then the First World War was followed by another one. Pograms in Egypt's larger cities were not unheard of. And then came the creation of Israel. Some Egyptian Jews, Zionists dreaming of a Jewish state in the Middle East, left. Conflict between the people of Israel and the people of Egypt followed. More Egyptian Jews left, emigrating to Europe, South America, the United States. Then Nasser came to power, proclaiming Jews as enemies of the state. An exodus ensued.

According to a U.S. State Department report on international religious freedom published in 2007, only 200 native-born Jews remained in Egypt. Until this month, only 12 of the 200 were still here. Last week, Nadia Haroun, the sister of the President of the Jewish Community Council (JCC) of Cairo, passed away. The remaining 11 members of the Jewish community are all female and quite past child-bearing age. The future of the Egyptian Jewish community looks bleak.

But thanks to the work of the JCC, the interior of Meyr Biton Temple has recently been refurbished and is open to the public. It is advisable to contact the JCC first so that someone from the JCC office can contact the local caretaker, but entrance to the synagogue can be arranged. One blogger recounts his experience inside the temple,

In the entry, I saw a photo of the congregation from the early 1930s: women in old fashioned dresses and men wearing Turkish fezzes. Signs reminding the ladies to keep quiet still hung on the wall, in both French and English, as if the people from the photograph still gathered here. The bookshelves were filled with prayer books, many of which were close to 100 years old. I prayed that night from a siddur issued to soldiers in the British army during World War II. While this army prayer book did not contain a complete Shabbat service, it did include a prayer for going into battle, another for the wounded, and a special blessing for the royal family including Princess Elizabeth (now Queen Elizabeth II).

Although the synagogue's facade suggests otherwise, a light still shines inside the Meyr Biton Temple. One hopes that the light emanating from the altar will continue to shine on.

A Walk in Old Cairo

There are seven of us in our small traveling group today, and we are heading on a self-guided walking tour of Old Cairo, that section of the city dating back to before Roman times. Two thousand years ago, the Romans ruled Egypt from their administrative center in Alexandria, a city to the north of modern day Cairo. Cairo wasn't even Cairo when the Romans arrived. It was a tiny, backwater trading community that the Romans called "Babylon." As a part of their administrative occupation of Egypt, the Romans erected a fine, twin-towered trade post here at the base of the Nile Delta. The foundations of the mighty, Roman towers would one day serve as the foundations of the city of Cairo.

Roman Towers

Old Cairo is five metro stops to the north of us. Our group meets at one of Ma'adi's two metro stations. We pay our £1 Egyptian (about 15 cents) and board a modern, relatively clean train. Twenty minutes and no hassles later, we exit Mar Girgis Station. Crossing the street, we immediately encounter the remains of the old Roman towers. Cairenes call it the "Babylonian Fortress," and its robbed-out, stone-and-brick edifice looms three or four stories above us. Rebuilt and reinforced many times, the towers once guarded the lively river traffic sailing up and down the Nile. Two thousand years ago, the Nile flowed right up to the base of the Babylonian Fortress. Thanks modern engineers dictating the course of the Nile, today the river flows a couple of miles away to the west of us.

Coptic Museum

We follow the curve of one of the Roman towers towards the nearby Coptic Museum. This small museum (£60 entry fee) houses artifacts dating from the beginning of the Coptic Christian era of Egyptian history up to the Islamic era. We see delicate bronze pieces as well as a handful of extremely well-preserved textiles. The defining aspect of the museum however, is its richly carved wooden ceilings. The glorious ceilings, a product of skilled, local artisans, are a part of the 2006 restoration of the museum. The frescoes, bronzes, and ceilings make for a stunning masterpiece.

Interior, Hanging Church

Just down the street from the Coptic Museum is the famous Hanging Church, a Coptic Christian church that is over one thousand years old. The church has been in continuous use since being built. It was erected atop the ruins of the ancient Roman walls, hence its name. Inside, the church has the cozy feel of a small, wooded chapel, a nave packed with wooden pews and two side aisles. Gilded icons of saints and apostles adorn all of the walls. Light streams in from windows high above. A large stone pulpit, held aloft above the church pews by thirteen stone pillars, dominates the nave. Each pillar represents Christ and his Apostles. I note that one pillar, presumably the one representing Judas Iscariot, is hewn from dark marble, a stark contrast to the others.

We leave the Hanging Church to wander around the walls of the Christian Cemetery. These ancient walls surround most of the area that the Cairenes refer to as Old Cairo. We are on the outside of these walls, and we traipse through a lively Cairo neighborhood characterized by mechanics' shops, tiny cafes, mosques and trash heaps. Curious local residents eye us as they make their way to their afternoon prayers. Their awkward stares suggest that they have not seen foreign tourists in this neighborhood for a long time.

Jewish Cemetery gate,
Ben Ezra Synagogue

After wandering through an ancient Christian and Jewish cemetery, we stumble upon the Ben Ezra Synagogue. The oldest known synagogue in Egypt, there has been a house of worship on this site for at least 1100 years. Amidst the mosques of Cairo, it is easy to forget that northern Egypt was once the center of a vibrant Jewish community. Ancient records of land exchanges show that the land beneath the modern day Ben Ezra Synagogue was purchased by one Abraham ibn Ezra of Jerusalem for the purpose of establishing a religious community. It is believed that a synagogue was built not long after. As if this site needed any further historical gravitas, there is a powerful local legend about this place. According to the tale, several thousand years ago a pharaoh's daughter found an infant floating in a reed basket amongst the lush vegetation along the river Nile. She kept the child and named him, Moses.

Interior, Mosque of Amr ibn el-As

Having visited several Coptic Christian churches and a synagogue, we make our way north towards the Mosque of Amr ibn el-As, the first mosque in Egypt and on the African continent. 1300 years ago, Amr ibn el-As was the Arab general whose forces defeated a Byzantine army in the vicinity of what is now Old Cairo. Amr was a companion to the Prophet Muhammad. Legend tells that shortly before his death, the Prophet foretold that Amr would one day conquer Egypt and would be kind to its people. Muhammad's prophecy was fulfilled years later when Byzantine forces were beaten by Amr's crack troops. The rest of the region was occupied without much bloodshed. As it turns out, Amr ibn el-As was lucky. Relations between the people of Egypt and their Byzantine rulers had become quite uneasy in recent decades, and the people of Egypt seemed to welcome these new Arab invaders. Amr became a kind of governor of Egypt during the early days of

Visiting the Mosque

the Muslim Caliphate, and during this time, many Egyptians converted to Islam. It seems that the conversion was not coerced. Many Egyptians would have embraced the egalitarianism of Islam. Others may have converted to avoid the tax that Amr placed upon those who did not follow the tenets of this newly introduced religion. Whatever the explanation, the people of Egypt converted to Islam, setting into motion a spiritual revolution that would make Islam the religion followed by more than 95% of the people here.

Having started our journey at 10 a.m., we are exhausted by 3 p.m. Today, we stood before Roman gates; marveled at Egyptian wood carvings. We experienced the quiet piety of one of Egypt's most famous Coptic churches, and we gazed at the spot where Moses was plucked from the River Nile. At the end of the afternoon, we were consumed by the vastness and solemnity of Africa's first mosque. Our self-guided walking tour of Old Cairo proved to be a captivating and inspiring sojourn.

*This week's photos by Dana Purpura (and one by Rick Harman)

An Oddball Week in Cairo

Years from now when I look back upon our time in Egypt, I will recall the odd events of this past week. This has been a week where the entire interim government unexpectedly resigned, where soldiers took the place of striking bus workers, and where an elderly Army doctor held a press conference to announce he had found a cure for AIDS and Hepatitis C. Even by "National Enquirer" standards this had been a curious week in terms of the stories grabbing Egyptian headlines.

Outgoing Egyptian Prime Minister, Hazem Al Beblawi.
Photo by World Economic Forum, CC license.

On February 24th, aging Prime Minister Hazem Al Beblawi gave a televised speech announcing that he and his interim government had resigned. In the July, 2013 wake of President Mohammed Morsi's ouster, Beblawi and the 30 other cabinet members, the heads of Egypt's various Ministries, hastily assumed office. Seven months later, they are leaving. In a Kennedy-esque, farewell speech, Beblawi stated, "it is time we all sacrificed for the good of the country. Rather than asking what has Egypt given us, we should instead be asking what we have done for Egypt." No real reason was given for the resignation other than a vague nod to a "need for new blood.' Given that over one thousand people have died in protests since Beblawi assumed the role of Prime Minster, this was perhaps a unfortunate turn of phrase. Never really popular with the public, Beblawi has been criticized for the harsh crackdown on protests and for mismanaging the economy. Recent nationwide strikes among public sector workers and an ongoing energy crisis have swelled the number of government detractors. However, none had demanded the government step down, so the resignation came as a surprise. Beblawi will quickly be replaced as Prime Minister by the head of the Ministry for Housing, while many of the other cabinet heads will continue on in a stewardship role. The new government will be Egypt's sixth since the Arab Spring Revolution of 2011.

Supporter of Field Marshal el-Sisi.
Photo by montager, CC license.

Meanwhile, current Defense Minister and First Deputy Prime Minister, Field Marshal Abdel Fattah el-Sisi is still waiting to announce his candidacy for president. The popular general did not comment on the government resignation, this despite his membership in the cabinet. Egyptian media outlets have speculated for month's about el-Sisi running for president. With presidential elections tentatively scheduled for April, the "Quiet General" still has yet to announce his intentions.

This week the Army was called upon to assume a rather unique task, that of driving the city's buses. Thousands and thousands of public workers, public transport workers included, took to the streets this week in what they hope will be the beginnings of a general strike. As a result, some members of the Army were called upon to maintain the nation's rickety public transport system. Striking workers included bus drivers, trash collectors, and even some doctors and dentists. They want an increase in the minimum wage. Egypt does have a minimum wage currently set at 1200 Egyptian Pounds per month. That is about $170. However, the minimum wage only applies to a fraction of Egypt's public workers. The law does not apply to any worker in Egypt's private sector. Many Egyptians earn less than $100 per month. In a country where per capita GDP is about $3000 and where an estimated one in four Egyptians lives on less than $1.65 per day, the striking workers feel a moral obligation to have their demands met.

So the government resigns, a wildly popular general has no comment, and members of the nation's military assume the roles of bus drivers. Although these headlines in and of themselves would make for a pretty interesting week, the biggest oddball headline came from Major General Ibrahim Abdel-Atti. He is an Army doctor and the head of a cancer treatment and screening center here in Cairo. This week, the aging general held a press conference, announcing that he had found a cure for both AIDS and Hepatitis C. In a presentation given to reporters, General Abdel-Atti showed a short film that explained the "miraculous" procedure. He explained that the procedure simply involved transfusing a patient's blood, removing all traces of the virus, and then pumping back in the healthy blood. Simply, really. "I will take the AIDS from the patient and I will nourish the patient on the AIDS treatment. I will give it to him like a skewer of Kofta to nourish him," he stated. Although Egypt has a low prevalence of HIV infections, the WHO estimates that Egypt has the highest rate of chronic Hepatitis C sufferers in the world; about 5.5 million out of a total population of 85 million.

It has indeed been a week of strange headlines. Meanwhile, a Cairo police officer was killed yesterday morning, the latest in a series of drive-by shootings targeting local police. There were also more fatalities in Egypt's restive Sinai. Much like school shootings in the United States, these headlines and others like it were relegated to the second and third pages of Egypt's broadsheets.

An Egyptian Doorman - the Bowab

Depending upon the building, he can be visible or invisible, homespun or cooly professional, intimidating or welcoming. He is a bowab, a doorman, and he is unique to this corner of the African continent.

He is certainly unique to me. Doormen were not a part of my upbringing in rural, southern Ohio. Growing up, the only connection I made with doormen came via the television. I remember Ralph the doorman on The Jeffersons, and I can vaguely remember the disembodied voice of  Carlton the Doorman on Rhoda. The bowab of my building in Ma'adi doesn't look at all like Ralph, and he does not sound at all like Carlton.

For starters, he has hardly a tooth in his head and he speaks almost no English. When I met him for the first time, I shook his hand and gesturing to myself, said "Kyle." He smiled a toothless grin, likewise gestured to himself and said something. Since that day I have replayed that "something" several hundred times in my head, and I still have no idea what the hell the man said. Every syllable he uttered sounded like soft cheese being squished, his breath a curious mixture of stale cigarettes and halitosis. There was even some spittle. Consequently, I do not know my bowab's name. Neither do any of my neighbors; and I have asked all of them. I can only assume that they too, received the same halitosis-fueled, squished cheese and spittle welcome that I received. Six months on, and I hesitate to reintroduce myself. It would be awkward, and I am not certain that I want the mental replay pinballing in my brain for the next six months.

Not all buildings in Ma'adi have bowabs, but most do. From what I gather the residents of a building can get together and decide to hire a bowab. They may do so to project a sense of status (probable in times past) or to project a veneer of security (very probable in Egypt today). When the residents decide to hire a bowab they must decide how much to pay him and then where to deploy him. The bowabs of whom I am aware all work for a few hundred Egyptian pounds per month, each resident contributing a part of the total amount (1 Egyptian pound = .15 $US at the time of writing). Many bowabs have some sort of separate security hut provided by the building residents or owner. Located just off the street in front of the building, these huts make a perfect perch in which to sit or sleep, depending upon the time of day. Our bowab likes his afternoon cat nap at around 3 p.m., for example. Some bowabs have a built in living unit just inside the building's main entrance. Usually no bigger than a closet, these units can be a bowab's home. Occasionally the units are larger - but not much - and can accommodate the bowab and his family.

Bowabs are often very handy, washing cars, repairing household appliances, making minor vehicle repairs, etc. On our morning walk to work for example, we see many bowabs out washing luxury vehicles. Unbelievably, some building residents have their vehicles washed every day. It's not the money paid that astonishes me but rather the utter waste of water resources, particularly in a country where water is acutely scarce. That's not the bowab's fault, by the way. He is only trying to make as much of a living as possible. When they wash cars or make minor home repairs, bowabs do charge for the additional work, and they usually work for a lot less than 1$ per hour.

From what I understand, bowabs have traditionally worn galabeyas (shown in photo above), sandals and some kind of headdress. On our morning walks to work, Dana and I certainly see traditional bowabs, usually elderly gentleman puttering around the front of a building, bidding us a smiling "sabaah al-khayr" ("good morning"). But this is modern Egypt, and today's bowab is more likely to be smartly dressed or perhaps even uniformed. One bowab that we see almost every morning wears designer jeans, a leather jacket and engineer boots. He greets us with a smile and a polished, "good morning sir; good morning madam." Our bowab is a little less sporty and polished; he wears a "pleather" jacket. But he does ride a well-worn, Dayun motorcycle (two bonus points for sportiness).

Our bowab does not work weekends and nights. I think he sub-lets to a night bowab and a different weekend bowab. We only pay our main bowab, so I am assuming a sub-let situation (although I sometimes worry that we should be paying our night and weekend bowabs separately and that we are seen as those "cheap bastards upstairs"). Our night bowab is named Ahmed. I know this because he speaks a little English and understood my introduction when I made it months ago. Unlike our main bowab, I understood Ahmed's response. Ahmed is young and looks like he desperately needs a sandwich. A strong gust of wind would surely knock him over, but he is extremely nice and hip. Ahmed has a phone and a very busy text correspondence that he seems to keep up throughout the night. I am uncertain as to whom Ahmed is texting at 3 a.m., but I have a mental image of hundreds of weekend bowabs texting one another throughout the night to keep each other awake.

On the whole, the bowabs that we encounter are gentle and extremely courteous. We greet them every morning and they always return the greeting. A few bowabs are obviously practicing their English, and they try to sneak in a couple of additional words each month. I smile, speaking slowly. I imagine sometimes that they must think me as the village idiot.

Just when I think I have the whole bowab thing figured out, I am forced to reconsider. In the very early hours of the morning, I am awakened by the din of raised voices from the nearby street corner. I get up out of bed, peering out of a corner window to the street below. Some ten to fifteen young men are standing in the middle of the street, facing off against one or two of the bowabs that mind the apartment building on the corner. Although I cannot understand what is being said, the voices I hear convey a sharp sense of anger and malice. Shouting turns into a shoving match, the young men closing ranks around the two bowabs. Then, from every street leading into the intersection, I hear the running footfalls and brief shouts of other men. Within a minute, the menacing young men are surrounded by twenty or more bowabs, each carrying a thick stick or staff. One particularly brawny bowab carrying something just short of a tree trunk walks calmly into the circle of young men and says a few quiet words to one of lads. He towers over the young man, hefting his club as he is speaking. The young ruffian does not look him in the eye. Without a further word, the young troublemakers slink quietly down the road. The bowabs are still chatting as I climb back into bed.

I sleep more soundly than I ever have since arriving in Egypt.

An all-girls, STEM school in Cairo

Both in the U.S. and in the UK, "STEM" is an acronym for science, technology, engineering, and mathematics and is currently a hot topic in educational circles and debates. The use of STEM as an acronym goes back at least to the early 2000s where it begins to pop up in the academic and periodic literature associated with America's competitive technological edge or lack thereof. By 2006 the acronym wormed its way into George W. Bush's State of the Union address and not long after, STEM wriggled its way into the American Competitive Initiative and the America Competes Act. These initiatives promoted the increase of funding - both public and private - into state and local education programs designed to elevate student proficiencies in math and the sciences. They have have been surprisingly successful as hundreds of STEM programs throughout the U.S., backed by federal block grants, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, NASA, Siemans, the Battelle Memorial Institute, and almost all sizable state-funded universities, are now very well established.

I am just a bit surprised then when I get a call from my school head wanting to know whether I am interested in going with him and another colleague to visit an all-girls, STEM school located within a few kilometers of our international school in Cairo.

"Count me in," I say. Inwardly and arrogantly, I am thinking that there is no way in hell that there is really any such thing as a local, all-girls, STEM school. All-girls, yes; but STEM, no way. I log the date and time in my calendar, thinking that this visit will be good fun; arrogant ass that I sometimes am.

The day of the tour arrives, and we pile in one of our school's sedans along with Mohammad, our driver. The STEM school is close, less than 10 km, but having driven half that distance, I discover that we are a world away. After we drive out of the green, tree-lined streets of affluent Ma'adi, we motor into the dusty residential blocks that make up much of Cairo's southeastern dwelling enclaves. We pass by square after monotonous square of partially finished, cinder block hulks, rebar sprouting from tops like ungainly tufts of hair. Here and there we see a finished porch, either freshy painted or newly tiled, in the middle of an obviously unfinished building, the sign of a family having already moved in amidst the debris of a construction site. Or maybe just squatters making themselves at home. Nothing here is finished. Sand covered construction materials litter the streets and the entrances to almost every one of the buildings, the visible signs of an aborted construction boom that met its demise along with ousted president, Hosni Mubarak. 

After experiencing some difficulties navigating the streets in this immense tangle of cement and metal, we finally find our destination, the Girls' School for Science and Technology. The school is mostly finished, which is in stark contrast to the taller buildings that surround it. The school occupies an entire city block, wholly surrounded by a high, cement wall. Atop the wall at odd intervals, electric cables sheathed in plastic look like clots of oddly colored weeds. At some point there will be light fixtures atop these walls but not now; the school is not yet completely finished ... or paid for ... or both. We pull into a paved courtyard, driving right up to the front of the school. I note that there is no security detail or member of staff to stop us. We simply drive up, exit our vehicle, walk into the school, and begin looking around.

After several awkward minutes, a woman in modern dress, her head covered by a tight fitting, brightly colored a scarf, emerges from an office and greets us. She introduces herself as Nagla and tells us that Jan is ready to meet with us.

Jan? Who the hell is Jan? I have never heard of an Egyptian named Jan.

Nagla leads us through a couple of secretarial offices and into what appears to me to be a board room. Oblong oak table with matching matching chairs with padded leather seats and backs - check. Digital overhead projector - check. Large pull-down screen at the far end of the table - check. A couple of oak, three-tiered bookshelves - check. Inspiring and heavily romanticized art prominently displayed on three walls - check. Yep, board room. Except that some woman's large purse has vomited its contents all over the middle of the table. A leather satchel has commited the same atrocity on the floor just in front of the pull-down screen. Jan is sitting at a chair toward the center of the table, sifting through the stuff that the purse spewed up.

Sandy haired, feisty and bespectacled, Jan is the founder and CEO of the Teaching Institute for Excellence in STEM or TIES for short. TIES is a STEM centered consulting firm based in Cleveland, Ohio. Back when the STEM debate began in U.S., Jan saw an opportunity to move away from her thirty-year career in private education. She left her principal position and founded TIES. Since then TIES has worked with all kinds of schools to create STEM programs. Because of the success TIES enjoyed with those early partnerships, Jan has served as a STEM consultant to both Presidents Bush and Obama, a rare feat in and of itself. Jan is here now at the behest of the Egyptian Ministry of Education, opening STEM centered schools in Cairo. We are standing in the board room of the girls' school. The boys' school is across town. I cannot be more shocked.

We sit down, and Jan tells us a little of her story. Initially invited to Egypt by a forward-thinking minister in the Mubarak regime, Jan came to offer her expert advise on the feasibility of opening STEM centered schools in a developing nation. She is now working with her fifth or sixth Education Minister, she cannot quickly recall which. Two STEM schools offering a three-year program to promising, Egyptian teens are in operation with another ten schools in various stages of planning. The boys' school is in its third year of operation and will graduate its first class at the end of this academic year (2014). The top boy in the school has aleady garnered scholarship offers from many of the Ivies in the U.S. The girls' school is in its second year of operation, and Jan tells us that the school's top female students will probably enjoy similar offers.

"We don't hire math teachers and science teachers," she says proudly, "we hire successful Egyptian engineers and then train them in the best educational practices in the States. The Ministry made it clear to us from the outset that aside from the American tertiary education training that some of its teachers receive, that this is a program for Egypt and Egyptian students. We are not recreating a little America here, but rather planting the seeds of a educational reformation with a curriculum designed by Egyptians to specifically help to solve the problems Egypt faces."

She tells us a little more about what makes these schools special. All of the students are on 100%, merit-based scholarships provided by the Egyptian government and the corporate sponsors partnering in this endeavor. Both schools have basic dormitory units to house the 300-or-so strong student body. Classes run for ten months out of the year with students receiving instruction in STEM, English, Arabic, and religion ... in that order. The schools are mandated by a special decree that allows them to operate independently of the Egyptian public school curriculum, and this decree has been staunchly supported by the Mubarak administration, the transitional government that followed Mubarak, the Morsi administration, and the current transitional government administration. The schools and the decree that bestows upon them the special license to operate are not going anywhere; they are here to stay.

Dumbfounded, we thank Jan and leave her to her planning. She has only a couple more days to spend here in Cairo before jetting back to Cleveland. Leaving the board room behind, we tour the school. We are led by one very proud school principal. He shows us around the cement and cinder block facility. For the most part, the school is basic. We walk through hallways of unpainted, gray cement. Many of the language classrooms are small and packed with desks. It is not uncommon, says the principal, to have class sizes of up to 50. There is a large courtyard that doubles as playing field and open-air cafeteria. What makes this school a little different is its fabrication labs. These are large classrooms jammed with every piece of equipment that I would expect to see in a state-of-the-art design technology school. The principal tells us that this is where most of the students like to spend their time. I do not blame them. The fab-labs are very, very cool.

We look into a couple of more classrooms, and we encounter four of the school's teachers, two men and two women. The principal tells us that they are collaborating in grading part of the final semester examinations that the second-year girls are just finishing. It is here that I become amazed at what I am seeing; and just a tad bit envious. Here are four teachers collaborating and obviously enjoying themselves while examining and assessing student work. This is something that most of my teachers can't/won't/don't do; and there are all kinds of reasons as to why not. Mostly to do with institutional constraints, for sure, but I am not here to fight that battle. I am astounded by what am observing in this all-girls, STEM school in Cairo, an element of teaching and assessment that I find so lacking in the U.S. and international schools that I have seen.

I ask about the final exam the teachers are assessing. One of the teachers tells me that the examination is divided into several parts. What we are seeing is the written portion of the exam, the part reserved for assessing a student's basic learning. The other part of the exam is designed to assess how well the student can relate her learning to real world situations. I ask the teacher for an example. She tells me that the other parts of the final examination are project-based. In one project, for example, a team of students has designed and built a model for a better sanitation system for this building and others like it. Another team of students has built a mock-up of an air purifier. Still another team is trying to design a better engine for Cairo's notoriously dirty tuk-tuks. She directs my attention to some of the "art" on the classroom walls; student created blueprints for the various designs she has just described. The students are graded by a team of teachers and experts from the corporate world, some skyping in for the students' final presentations.

I am floored. And I am suddenly feeling very small and very ashamed of myself. 

We thank the teachers for their time, bidding them goodbye. They tell us that they are quite pleased to have met administrators from "the famous international school in Ma'adi." 

Okay, now I really feel small.

The three of us walk silently back to Mohammad and our school's waiting sedan. I cannot speak for my two colleagues, but I am feeling very humbled and more than a little ashamed of myself. I came today thinking that I would have a laugh, or maybe that I would have some kind of grand wisdom to pass on to this developing school out here in the boondocks of Cairo's dusty residential suburbs. Instead, I am walking out of a school that is in some ways, years ahead of any school I have known. 

And I am hoping that someday soon, a couple of teachers from the all-girls, STEM school in Cairo can visit us and maybe teach us a thing or two.

How to dismantle a terrorist bomb

It's a sunny, Friday morning. Blue skies. Billowy, dreamy clouds meandering about. Birds singing. The whole bit. I am in the front room of our flat reading the morning news, the morning sun streaming in. It has been a quiet morning in Cairo.

Just before 10 a.m., I feel a soft thud, as if someone two floors down has slammed a door. There were people mucking about downstairs earlier, so I imagine the noise could be them. Still, there hasn't been any commotion down there for at least an hour. 

Could it be? No way. Not again.

It IS Friday, though; the day when protests happen throughout Cairo. Protests usually occur in the early afternoon, just after the noon prayers. Two weeks ago, on another Friday morning, a few explosive devises detonated throughout the city, killing several police officers and wounding scores more. One of the city's popular museums, one particularly well known for housing treasured artifacts from Cairo's medieval history, was almost totally destroyed. 

Surely, not again. 

And then just a couple of minutes after the first, I feel another thud. Strange, but I don't panic. Two weeks ago, I did. Not this time. Instead, I calmly open my Twitter app. Sad really. I suspect that two bombs have just detonated near enough to me to feel them, and yet I am calm. Can this be right? Is this how it is supposed to work?

My application opens to the bloop-bloop-bloop of a continuous Twitter feed on #Cairo. Two small bombs have exploded near a military checkpoint on one of the bridges that connects Giza with our suburb, Ma'adi. A reporter for one of the local news agencies happened to be crossing the bridge when the first bomb exploded. He is tweeting from the scene, reporting a number of injured police officers and a lot of broken glass. He says that the devices were small, nothing like the car bomb that exploded two weeks ago. It is difficult to say from a tone deaf tweet, but I am inclined to think that there is more than a hint of relief in the reporter's updates. 

So on this bright, Friday morning, I ask myself a brutal question. When is it okay to stop being scared of the bombs?

Sadly, there is nothing novel in this particular question being asked. Loads of travel blogs tell me that Laos is the most bombed country on earth, so I am certain that millions of Laotians have at some point in the past, asked this very question. I know folks in the UK asked this question in the 70s, 80s and 90s. I can imagine that some of current residents of Baghdad ask this question every day. 

The question is a first for me.

I get a sense that quite a few of my colleagues at school have already answered this question. Some stop being scared a long time ago. They taxi downtown to clandestine clubs. They take photos of gathering protestors at Tahrir Square. They cycle through military checkpoints on their way to neighboring suburbs, suburbs that have suffered through recent protests and clashes. They plan their weekend travels based on the same Twitter reports that compel me to stay indoors. If there is trouble in Giza, then they go to Festival City and Ikea instead. They think me crazy for allowing my routines and patterns to be altered. They say that the odds of being involved in an incident are still astronomically high. 

Some of my acquaintances however, have answered the question and have behaved in exactly the opposite fashion. A teaching couple that began the year with us have already evacuated, breaking contract, never to return. Others are counting the minutes until they depart in June, moving on to other international schools in other locales far safer than strife-riven Egypt. Some of my colleagues have cultivated a deep mistrust of Egyptians, and they seldom leave their houses.

I am of the opinion that anywhere measured in double-digit kilometers near an explosive device set by terrorists is too close. If I can feel the crump of a detonation, then I have chosen poorly. If I can hear the crackle of gunfire, then it sucks to be me. My blue-collar, lower-middle-class, small town American upbringing simply did not prepare me for frenzied teens toting RPGs and extremists in galliabayas burying IEDs by highway checkpoints. 

But by the same token, I do not see these teens and extremists behind every neighborhood tree and corner. I do not think twice about walking to and from school every day, nor do I worry when I stroll down to the shops for groceries. I think your average Egyptian simply wants all of this horseshit to stop so that he or she can get back to work and provide for the family. Dana and I dine in local restaurants. Egyptians tend to smile and say hello to us every single day. We return the smile and the greeting. Average folks in Egypt are pretty much average folks anywhere. 

So much for taking the middle ground. 

But taking the middle ground may not be so helpful on a day-to-day basis. If, for example, on a Friday, Dana and I are invited to a downtown, Cairo restaurant, do we go?

Do we?