A Week in The Hague

Bussing into The Hague from Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport, I realize that I have no idea what people from The Hague call themselves. I know that there is a city in Oregon called "The Dalles," but I do not know what those people call themselves either. So much for comparison being able to help a brother out. As we step off the bus and into the World Forum Novatel, I decide that people from The Hague must be called "Den Haagians" because that sounds much cooler than "The Hagueians." Den Haagians it is, then.

I am in The Hague this week, attending a conference. In some ways The Hague feels familiar, but in other ways, it is another planet compared to Cairo, the city in which I now live.

For starters, thousands and thousands of people cycle here. I like this. Doesn't matter that it is colder than a witch's tittie in a brass bra and pissing rain, Den Haagians cycle everywhere; to work, to yoga, to the organic grocery store, to pick the kids up from school ... everywhere. I like this, too. I also like that Den Haagians do not wear spandex when they ride, nor do they wear helmets, or knee pads, or elbow pads. They ride to get from point A to point B. They do not ride a million miles an hour, so they are not too worried about the catastrophic accidents that obsess us pansy-ass Americans. And they don't worry about what their bikes look like, either. They ride around, sitting way up high on these great, curly-Q monstrosities that weigh a ton. Some of them have giant wicker baskets hanging from the front handle bars. A lot of them have hard-tails and side satchels suspended off of the backs. Some of the bikes have front, plastic windscreens, making their riders look a little like Dutch versions of CHiPS officers. I like all of this, except the plastic windscreens. I could do without them and the accompanying CHiPS look.

Another related aspect that makes me feel at home in The Hague is that almost every major street throughout the city has been retrofitted to include dedicated bike lanes both coming and going. I cycled in Memphis in the days before the Green Line, and I have to say that combat cycling, sharing narrow streets with two-ton automobiles, is an experience that is very much overrated. I see no combat cycling in The Hague, unless you consider two people racing one another to get to the bike parking post first as fitting into the defintion of combat cycling. 

So The Hague is a city seemingly built by cyclers for cyclers. Old people cycle here and so so young people. Kids cycle, too. I feel at home in this regard, a fellow cycler in a city of cyclers. I am among my people.

But I am not; not really. 

In some ways The Hague is a different planet for me. First off, I am not cool and stylish. I am not even from Europe. I don't have a job in a design firm or in an organic grocery store, like everyone else seems to have here. And I am not nine feet tall. As a people, the Dutch strike me as being very tall. They are tall people riding tall bikes and living in tall houses. When they marry one another, they have tall babies who grow up to be even taller. This is how I feel anyways. Like I am the shortest man in all of Holland. Or a man from Planet Short-Male visiting Planet Den Haag.

There is no garbage on the streets here, either, and this makes me feel like I am on another planet, albeit a wonderfully clean planet. During the past several years, I have lived in both Egypt and China. Cairo is cleaner than almost any city in China, but Cairo is still a massive, polluted city amidst a nation that is developing. Walking down trash strewn streets is sadly a part of life in Cairo as it was in China. But here, not so much. It's like a bunch of Den Haagians gathered together after an Earth Day party one day and decided that with such limited space, land is actually worth something and should be respected and kept clean. And maybe they also decided that they did not want to float around in a sea of rubbish. Maybe they did that, too. Whatever the means, the ends are justifiably clean streets and recycling kiosks 'round every other corner. Different planet.

And the clocks! All of the clocks work here, even the ginormous ones built into most of the city's ancient cathedrals. Even those clocks work, keeping accurate time! I remember living in Faribault, Minnesota years ago. Every shitty little bank in Faribault had more or less the same signage out in front of the bank. And part of this signage was a digital clock that never kept accurate time. One would think, as I did at the time, that it cannot be all that difficult to have a digital clock keep accurate time. Not so, apparently. But in The Hague, these ancient clocks set in these ancient towers keep the correct time. Totally different planet.

And then the are the trams. The Hague has these narrow trams that tens of thousands of people use every day. The trams are electric powered, fed by a series of above-ground cables that appear everywhere throughout the city. So instead of the unbiquitous six-lane highways that we have in our great, American cities, The Hague has two lanes for autos, two lanes for bicycles and two lanes for the trams. This is cool, but this is a way different planet than the ones with which I have become accustomed. Planet Hometown USA did not have these kinds of things. Planet Cairo doesn't either, although Planet Cairo does have a lane for donkey carts, which is kind of cool.

So you have a city of tall cyclers living in their tall homes and cycling to and from their cool design jobs every day. Add to that, a city constructed with a cycle-friendly, recycling conscious ethos in mind and with public clocks that work. Tall people that do not want to cycle to and from work can always take the trams. On top of this, every nation on the planet has a nice embassy here, so The Hague also has this groovy, multi-cultural, pluralistic political vibe to it (side note: none of the embassies in The Hague are surrounded by barricades, which makes The Hague very much a different planet).

The Hague is a city that simply works. And by that, I do not mean that it is a city full of employed people, although it seems to be. No, what I mean is that things work in The Hague. All of the things that have fallen apart in other places in which I have lived and worked - things like clean air and clean streets, organic farming that is the rule rather than the exception, sensible urban planning complete with huge tracts of green spaces, quality and reliable public transportation, etc. - all of those things work here in The Hague.

And that makes for a delightful place to visit and presumably a delightful place in which to live.

Terrorist bomb attacks on the 3rd anniversary of the uprising

We were warned.

Friends and family warned us, of course. But they are people not necessarily in the know. We take that into consideration. 

We get email updates from the US Embassy. Long, tedious messages. They are virtually identical, week after week. Americans living in Cairo should avoid public places, blah, blah, blah. Some government hack cutting and pasting the same message, week in and week out. American citizens should remain vigilant. Of course we should. I could say the same thing about Memphians, right? Be vigilant, Midtowners!

We were warned. 

This week's cut and paste job from the Embassy includes an additional blurb about remaining vigilant over the coming weekend, the 3rd anniversary of the uprising that toppled the Mubarak regime. I scan over it, blah, blah, blah. I toss the message into the virtual incinerator. I don't think anything more of it.

We were warned.

It's early morning the next morning. The sun isn't up yet. I have been up for an hour or so, well into my second cup of coffee. It is so quiet. I am writing.

A jolt. The air thuds and the windows rattle. The walls shake. Sonic boom? I have only heard one in my life. Maybe. The rumble is longer, though. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The northern end of the apartment sounds like it is falling. I start running for the back of the flat. The hallway is so long all of a sudden. Roused awake, Dana is calling out. Not a sonic boom. I don't know how I know, but I know. Not a sonic boom. An explosion. And it sounds close.

"That was a bomb!" Dana says as I reach her. I sit next to her on the edge of the bed. She is still too sleepy to completely register what she has just said.

"Yeah ..." My voice shakes. One stupid word of affirmation, and my voice shakes. 

We hold each other for what seems like a long time. Long enough to make sure the back of the house is not crumbling. Long enough to make sure there is nothing burning.

"That was an explosion," I say quietly. "I am going to get on Twitter to see."

I go. I start my search with "#Maadi". There is already a lot of activity. A dozen or so people are commenting. All heard the explosion. So did people in all the surrounding suburbs. Huge explosion, they all say. 

A freelance journalist lives a couple of streets over. I follow him on Twitter. You do that kind of thing when you live in a foreign, not-so-safe country. You get to know the people in your neighborhood who know things. My friend the journalist knows things. This morning he is already on it, #CairoBomb. The explosion came from downtown, he says, identifying the district. Smoke is rising from the area, and gunfire has been reported. He is on his way. I am sitting in my living room, terrified and embracing a cup of coffee. I am also wondering what the hell kind of bomb can be felt from miles away.

I start to Tweet-follow another guy, a freelance journalist here in Cairo. He, too, is heading downtown, #CairoExplosion. From him, I learn that a huge bomb went off in front of one of Egypt's downtown government buildings, one of the places where police and security personnel meet. There are reports of fatalities already. There is a crater where the bomb went off. There is damage to the building across the street from the security building, a museum of Islamic art. Hundreds of people are already milling about, chanting about God and the destruction of the Muslim Brotherhood.

More comments from people all around Cairo come streaming in. What the hell, they ask? The shit is hitting the fan, they say. The Muslim Brotherhood is behind this, some say. Others say it is a rebel, terrorist organization. This organization tweeted last night on their Twitter channel, promising to kill police.

We were warned.

By this time, my two Twitter friends have arrived on the scene downtown. Both are beginning to comment upon what they are seeing. The entire front of the security building is damaged. There are people everywhere. A handful of men are heading into the building to find survivors. They can hear them, screaming and moaning. Some of the men are carrying out bodies, crudely wrapped mummies. Then my Twitter friends go silent. I follow others on the scene. A couple of tweets warn western journalists to stay away, that the early journalists on the scene were mobbed. I walk back to the bedroom, making sure all of the locks on the front door are bolted.

About an hour after the explosion, BBC picks up the story. Details emerge involving a pick-up truck packed with explosives and charging the gate of the building. There are confirmed fatalities. There is a crater in the middle of the street where the bomb detonated. Western journalists have been detained and forced to show identification and credentials. Once identified however, they are free to continue their investigative reports. A terrorist organization with no links to the Muslim Brotherhood claims responsibility. Hundreds of Egyptians have gathered outside of the damaged building and are chanting pro-democracy and anti-Brotherhood slogans. Police and security forces are pouring into the area. The Minister of the Interior is on his way. There will be an investigation launched, and the planners and perpetrators of this heinous act will be brought to justice.

Then in another quarter of Cairo, a second bomb goes off. And then a third. And then a fourth. We do not feel the thud of the subsequent detonations. They are smaller apparently, but no less lethal. By now my two Twitter friends, #CairoBomb and #CairoExplosion, are up and broadcasting again. They write that in each of this morning's bomb attacks, it is police and security force detachments that have been targeted. However, two of the security detachments targeted were operating near metro stations. There are more casualties. The bombings seem to be a part of a coordinated effort. Local hospitals put out tweets, asking for blood donors. This is bad.

We were warned.

A new constitution was to have put an end to security concerns, we were told. We didn't really believe the rhetoric, but we certainly thought there would be some security in the days immediately after the referendum. Maybe the disgruntled and disenfranchised would just give up in the wake of the results of the popular vote. Not so, it seems. 

Having nothing to which to compare our present experience, Dana and I are a little numb this morning. We will stay indoors, of course; a self-imposed curfew. We will continue to follow the Twitter accounts and news reports. We will continue to wonder as to whether or not we will have school next week. Or if the Embassy will be pulling out. Or if the current situation escalates, and we are evacuated. We will wonder whether we made a mistake. We will wonder, like another one of my Twitter-friends, whether #Cairo will end up like #Damascus or #Baghdad.

The "Red Pinkie" Referendum

It's Thursday, break, and I am starving. I head up to the cafe on the third floor of the school. Kemal, a Coptic Christian in his mid-40s, runs our cafe there. I see Kemal a couple of times per week. I always ask about his family, especially his 9-month-old daughter. In exchange, he always serves me a nuclear-strong cup of coffee so that I can re-start my heart when needed.

Today is different. Today Kemal greets me, proudly lifting aloft his left-hand pinkie finger. His finger radiates the color of dried blood or raw meat. For a second, I think he has caught his hand in the meat slicer. He is wearing the wrong face, I tell myself. He is smiling, head held high. He is not grimacing like he has been disfigured. And his pinkie isn't hanging by a flap of skin, gushing blood. Nope, Kemal is proud, proud of his blood red pinkie. Dipped in a vat of permanent ink to guard against double-voting, Kemal's pinkie is a badge of pride and patriotism.

"I voted yesterday, sir!" He looks as if he has discovered buried treasure. And maybe he has. Just maybe. It is too soon yet to tell.

My friend Kemal is one of many millions of Egyptians who are taking advantage of the opportunity to vote on Egypt's newly forged, draft constitution. Held over two days, the vote is simple, "yes" or "no". The implications behind the vote however, are not so simple.

First off, there is the constitution itself. It is a big, bulky document written by legal scholars. I have been following the constitutional proceedings closely, and even I have not seen it nor read it. Now, I do not read Arabic, so maybe the draft has been published in the local press without my knowing it. Possible. But I don't think so. Even if the constitution has been published, most Egyptians do not have Internet access. A lot of Egyptians have only a rudimentary ability to read and write. The vast majority of Egyptians lack a university education. So, I can't help it. I find it remarkably difficult to believe that folks like Kemal have read the document they are being asked to accept or reject.

Then there are the Chinooks. The massive helicopters thudding and lumbering above the heads of all of the referendum voters, droning slowly like big, fat bumble bees gorging on the pollen encrusted flowers below. The pollen laced flowers below don't have much choice as to whether or not they want the bees to harvest their golden grains. I am not sure referendum voters have any more choice. The current military-backed regime organized the framework for the draft of the constitution. They have a vested interest in a "yes" vote. A "yes" vote is a vote for the military action that removed President Morsi from power. A "yes" vote gives the current regime a sense of credibility and legitimacy. A "yes" vote means that the action was not seen as a coup, and that means investment money from countries like the U.S. can resume.

I imagine that the Chinooks are packed with shock troops ready to quell any disturbance. Or are they there to intimidate? To encourage a resounding "yes"? The answer to these questions is not so clear cut. It's complicated, not as simple as just a "yes" or a "no."

Then there is the issue of the "no" vote. Followers of the now-illegal, Muslim Brotherhood have been instructed to boycott the vote rather than to vote "no." They believe that participating in the referendum would be tantamount to endorsing the military coup; something they will never do. All of the bloody protests since President Morsi's removal from power have centered around the idea that the coup was and is an illegitimate action taken against a democratically elected individual. Participating in a referendum engineered by the military government installed after the coup would be treason. So how many Egyptian "no-sayers" are there in the electorate if the Muslim Brotherhood sits the election out? The answer is, not many.

So the referendum is a foregone conclusion. The question is how many voters will show up to vote on a document that they haven't read and whose legalities they do not really clearly understand.

If people like Kemal are any indication, lots of voters will show up to proudly cast their "yes" vote.

We'll see.