lelyn’s blog

I

 

I made it to Egypt, finally, and I survived the first 48 hours.  I haven't really studied Arabic much since I graduated three years ago, but I am happy to report that apparently I know how to speak Arabic quite well.

 

I won't be staying in Cairo.  It is far too expensive to rent an appartment here in the summer, so I am moving to Alexandria where there are fewer Saudi tourists who inflate the price of everything.

 

I am busy making friends, but as I don't know anyone in the University system it is somewhat difficult.  All in good time.

 

First impressions:

 

(1)  Traffic is crazy.  There are no traffic lights.  There are no lanes.  There is no speed limit.  There are no seat belts.

 

(2)  Everyone here makes their living on tips, and every ten feet someone will try to sell you something you don't need.  If someone takes your bag to carry, they must be tipped.  If someone gives you directions, tip.  If you buy a soda, tip the cashier.  If you eat in a restaurant, tip.  And if you don't know what to do, tip.  If someone on the street suddenly wants to be your friend, they are probably selling homemade perfume.  They are very persistant, and you really do have to just walk away.  (I am becoming a real jerk because there are many things I won't tip for, and I have limited resources.  What am I?  Some jerk tourist?  An easy mark?  I don't think so.)

 

(3)  People have no problem asking questions about politics and religion within the first few minutes they know you.  Everyone knows who Obama is.  No one understands what an Atheist is.  Mostly I tell them I'm Christian, it saves time.

 

(4)  Egyptians love life.  I see them everywhere, dancing and singing in the streets.  Children climb on top of each other.  In the mornings each shop keeper will sweep and mop the sidewalk in front of their shop.  Trucks come by with sand, then they dump it on a corner, then men fill sacks with it.  The sand is used to fill in holes in the sidewalk.  Several times a day prayers in Arabic are sung over loudspeakers throughout the city.  Everyone is busy all day long respecting each other and showing love for the world.  There is bonecrushing poverty here:  it is as if the people had nothing to survive on other than the beauty of their city.

 

II

 

"This place is ready to explode," she said to me with great relish.  Her name was Karen or something, and I stood there having a nice conversation with her and her fiance.  They were from northern California.  At that moment we were in an art gallery during the opening of a new collection of photographs of grafiti.  She was really excited by the idea that Cairo was on the verge of violent revolt.

I am not convinced.  However, I left her with her enthusiasm.  People need drama.  They really will die without it.  Have you ever met someone without any sense of passion or imagination?  Zombies are real.

Cairo is so bright and hot.  The hungry masses stalk the streets.  They know the system is corrupt.  They know that Islam is the answer.  I am not convinced.

But what alternative?  Young men in fancy Dolce And Gabana shirts harass the girls, pick pockets in the subway, run around on drugs, swaggering down the street like some kind of mix of Omar Sheriff and Tupac.  No wonder they hate American culture.  Look how we are represented to the world.  Soulless wonders.  Zombies.

But I have discovered Abdul Rahman Bedoui, who is a great commentator of Nietzsche in the Arabic language.  Perhaps he places too much emphasis on the idea of the Superman, but at least he knows that human values must be central, must be primary to economic values.  He writes in the context of revitalizing Arab culture.  This one book, this one writer it took me years to find, and for which I had to come here to the other side of the world.

I see a lot of religious nuts here, same as in the US.  But I also see a lot of moderates who are scared to death of what might happen in an Egyptian theocracy.  Will it be the same as in the Sudan, where overnight Sharia became law and everyone selling alcohol was taken directly to jail?

I cannot foresee what direction this country will take.  But explode?  Let's not exagerate.

 

III

 

Why was Mohamad the Prophet so important?  First and foremost he was important economically.  He made the world honorable.  Merchants from Lebanon could travel in their boat, traversing half the world, to Morrocco and sell their goods there for a good price without being hassled, robbed or otherwise fucked with.

 

The modern traveler to the middle east must re-enact this epic connection of trust and bravery.  He is the prophet Mohamad, calling the faithful to a trusting relation.  Today I signed a contract for an appartment.  I found a Samzar, and together we contracted a bowab.  I will come back to this.

 

Today, as I awaited the Samzar, I read the words of Hosni Mubarrak.  He was replying to loud declamations that Egypt was corrupt and incapable of supplying the basic needs of its citizens.  His responce:  there are too many people here.  Every newspaper ran the headline:  the large growth of the population has not kept pace with the material growth of the country.  Malthus all over again.

 

And that got me wondering:  is Islam making people have lots of babies, in some lame attempt to take over the world?

 

But as always, conspiracy theories are abundant, and conspiracies are lacking in organization.

 

It's not that Islam makes people get married and have babies.  It's just that in order for a young man to have sex, he must be married.  You can't even talk to a woman in public here.  That's how bad the conservatives have made things.  I used to smoke at my window.  The woman across the way was cooking dinner.  She was wearing a t-shirt and jeans.  She saw me and waved.  She disapeared.  She came back wearing a viel.  That's how bad the conservatives have made things.

 

So I sat in a cafe this morning and I asked this retired gentleman, Hassan, who sat next to me if Islam says people must marry.  He said no, that people don't have to marry.  He himself married at the age of forty one.  That was his generation.

 

I met a cab driver recently who had to get married.  He was not happy.  He said "there is no happiness in Cairo."  And then he laughed.  (Cairo is always full of joy).  My friend in the hotel must get married soon, although he knows he shouldn't.  As a young man, he should be out having adventures.  But if he does not marry, his religion will not sanction any kind of sexual activity.  This is his generation.  Moors have become much more strict.

 

So anyway, it is my beliefe that if sex outside of marriage is allowed, people will have fewer children.  If marriage is the only way to have sex, people will have lots of children.  Why use birth control if you've allready "bought the cow," so to speak?

 

So anyway, I asked Hassan if this weren't some government ruse to hide its incompetence.  They can't even put up traffic lights, so they blame the increase in population.  What the hell happened in Egypt?!

 

And this guy tells me that all the Jews left, and then all hell broke loose.

 

I had never thought of it that way.

 

Jews had been here in Egypt since before the prophet.  When Israel declared its existence in 1948, suddenly Jews were unwelcome throughout the Muslim world.  Is that the fault of Islamic extremists, or of the Zionists who illegally stole Palestine?  I don't know.  What I do know is that it is extremely sad that Jews who had lived in Egypt for a Millenium had to leave because a few European Jews decided to make their own little colony in Palestine.  But that's how it happened.

 

What I didn't figure, and what Hassan was telling me, was that the loss of these Jewish people directly affected the ability of Egypt to manage its affairs.  Without Jews a huge sector of trade had left the country.  Alot of proffesionals went with them.  Essential services were no longer to be found.  The country has not yet recovered.  This is what Hassan was telling me.

 

Then he told me how Abraham came to Egypt.  Then he told me that Joseph came to Egypt, and that he was the one who put Potiphar's house into order.  Then he told me that Moses was an Egyptian Prince, who was forced to leave because of Pharoanic oppresion.  The Jews had the true religion, and the Egyptians (the Pharos) refused it. 

 

At this point I realized that I would never understand Egypt.  Who gives a fuck about all these ancient religious types?  Well, they are remembered in egypt.

 

I came to Egypt like one sold into slavery, like Joseph, and today I tried to get an appartment. 

 

A Samzar is someone in charge of a neighborhood.  He finds an appartment for you, and connects you with the Bowab.  You sign a contract with a Bowab, and then you pay both of them.

 

My deal was good, but not as good as I wanted.  It took me hours walking through the streets and waiting in cafes to find a Samzar.  Then I had to haggle for the appartment.  I haggled the price down to half of what was originally demanded.  I was Joseph.  I was Mohammed.

 

Then, since this is a cash economy, we scoured the city for an ATM.  For hours we walked.  In the heat.  Extreme heat.

 

I mean it was hot.

 

None of the ATMs was working.  So I called my bank, while the Samzar waited.  Did I mention that the Samzar is very important?

 

The bank, in America, told me that I had exceeded my daily allowance.  I thought that was interesting, since I hadn't taken any money out.  They had a record of money coming out.  No money had come out.

 

Just then I looked up and saw:  a sign advertising prosthetic limbs.  This family had set up a little shop where they constructed prosthetic limbs for people.  This was their family profession.  In every neighborhood you have a butcher, a baker, and the guy who makes fake legs to replace the legs you've lost.  It was moment of pure terror.  What will these guys do if I can't pay?

 

Well, I filed a claim with my bank, and apparently there was a problem with all the ATMs associated with Bank Misr (Egypt Bank).  I paid the Samzar what I had on me, half his fee, and he explained to the Bowab that I would pay him tomorrow.

 

Hopefully the ATMs will work tomorrow.  Hopefully they will sort out the fact that they have recorded 350 dollars coming out of my account, that I did not recieve.  Somehow, I managed to sort all of this out in Arabic.

 

Some Mohammed I turned out to be.

 

Why can't the Egyptian government take care of its citizens?  Why is the traffic so fucked?  Why are people having so many children, and so little sex?  Why is it so difficult to rent an appartment in Cairo?  Why are the ATMs messed up?  Why have the Jews left?  I blame a hatred for life.  Time and again people react to suffering with foolishness.  Well, not me.  I am happy.  I am living the dream.  I am in Cairo.  And tomorrow I will have an appartment, instead of this crap hotel room I've been living in.  I am Mohammed.  I am Joseph.

 

IV

 

There were recently demonstrations in Perls against a law that was passed against people making bread in their own homes.  This is an example of the governments new "business friendly" attitude.  Apparently the Egyptian government thinks that privatization and the "free market" are the answer to their problems.  The socialist party is impotent after multiple failures to provide basic services, and after the collapse of the Soviet Blok there is increasing doubt in the world that the socialist model is manageable.

 

I figured out why you don't drink the water in Cairo.  The pipes are largely leftovers from the British colonialist period.  After water goes through the treatment center it goes through these lead pipes which in many places are completely destroyed.  The water then runs directly through the ground, picking up impurities and amassing underground.  The water wells up to the surface from time to time causing major flooding in public thoroughfares.

 

In Perls the local fisherman eat what they fish out of the Mediteranean.  This food is now illegal.  Business is the new king, and capitalism is in direct conflict with local traditions.  Last year there were also demonstrations in the same area, leading to violent confrontations with police.  People are starving because there are no jobs, and now their only method of getting food is against the law.

 

Egypt is currently privatising its health care system.  They are setting up a system of outsourcing to private health care organizations in an attempt to improve service.  How they are going to avoid the kind of corruption that plagues other systems of the same ilk is unclear.

 

People here are poor, so the government is selling the country to Europe. 

 

Huge public works projects are in the works to improve the infrastructure, like better roads.  The streets of Cairo are lacking in traffic signs and traffic lights and lane demarcation lines.  The rising price of oil is inflating the price of not just gas, but other services as well which also depend on the oil industry, everything from electricity to manufactured goods.  Saudis are making more money, so in reaction the market raises the price of food, rents and bottled water.

 

The people here are poor, and Egypt is trying to become a part of the free market.  If you are visiting here from abroad you will pay twice as much for a ride in a taxi.  The driver knows that you are inexperienced and that he will never see you again.  He has every reason to rip you off.  And so, when I'm out and about on the town it is not unusual for me to get into a yelling match with one of these con men.

 

Last night I went to a night club. You should have seen it.  It cost 50 bucks to get in the door, not counting tips.  This country is poor.  The room was packed.

 

The singer drenched his voice in echo effect.  The rhythm section was huge, I mean about twenty dudes with doombeks and hand drums.  There was an accordion, an Oud, and a synthesizer set so high Soft Cell would have blushed.  Professional singers.

 

Included in the price of entrance is a fruit plate with watermelon, grapes, apples and something the locals call "Cantelope" but you and I know that it's really Honey Dew Mellon.  If you show any interest in it at all your waiter will come over, put some fruit on your plate and then cut it into even smaller pieces.  Every time you lift a cigarette to your lips he will rush over to light it.  If you try to pour yourself some water he will rush over and grab the bottle out of your hand to pour it himself.  I mean this country is poor.

 

If you ask where the bathroom is, a man in a very nice suit will walk you to the bathroom.  In the bathroom a couple of teenagers will rush to give you kleenex.  Take it, as there is no toillette paper in the stalls.  When you come over to the sink, squeezing your way past some Emirate prince and his bodyguard who think they're some hip-hop Elvis,  the same teenager will turn on the faucet, spray soap in your hand, give you more Kleenex to dry your hands, take the kleenex to put in the trash, and spray your hand with disinfectant.  I know this country is poor, but who the fuck asked this street trash waif to clean my hands for me?!  He must be tipped a buck, or all hell will break loose.  On your way out don't forget to tip the cleaning ladies.

 

The show really is magnificent.  A belly dancer of indescribable beauty comes out.  Sometimes you won't be able to see her because of all the waiters and security.  The Saudis are out, and they are throwing money around.  I mean literally, every now and then the Saudi princes in the front row will take a big wad of cash and throw it up in the air.  This is a poor country.  Those Saudis walk around like God's own children, like their shit don't stink.  For the cash they throw the people on stage come over and sing just for them.  The dancer takes them up on stage and dances with them "leaving room for Jesus."  I mean a hundred bucks at a throw.  And this goes on all night long.  The waiters are there to pick it up.  I saw it as beneath me to grope after their money, and so did all the good Egyptians in attendance. 

 

I can't help but think that embracing the free market, and inviting the investment, and hence ownership, of Europe and the US, will only deepen the divide between rich and poor. 

 

V

 

My appartment has two bedrooms, a living room, a small kitchen and a bathroom which not only has a proper toilette, but also a bedet.  The paint is sloppy.  There is a strip of blue at the bottom of the walls in my living room, and there are blotches where the yellow dripped down.  The appartment is full of clues about the life the previous tenants led.

 

Epypt is so poor that a local villager, at the insistance of his Samsar, sold his kidney for 3000 dollars.  When his father found out the man was disowned because selling your own kidney is against Islam.  Then for months no one would employ the man.  He is quoted as saying:  "I would sell my heart for a decent job."

 

My appartment is eight stories up, and the bathroom is chastly located on the interior.  My balcony overlooks a park and the Abdeen Palace.  Two doors lead out to that Balcony, one from the Parents room, and one from the Children's room.  The Children's room has two beds and a window.  The parents must have been scared to death that their children would fall out.  They must have strictly forbidden the window being open.  I'm certain the children would wait until the parents got to sleep so that they could open it, and then maybe spit just to watch their saliva fall down to the sidewalk.  The parents, in turn, were waiting for the children to fall asleep so they could enjoy their marriage, so to speak.  No one was getting any sleep.

 

Egypt is so poor that there are syndicats for beggers.  People send their children to work for these begger networks.  The syndicat will very often maim a child to increase profits from begging, taking an arm or a leg or all of the above.  At least the parents don't have to do that themselves, as is done in Iraq.

 

I don't think the father was very liberal in his conception of women's rights because the little butain flask that feeds my stove leaks gas every time I use it.  If the man of the house had ever gone into the kitchen he would have smelled it, and he would have fixed the leaky connection, as I have done.

 

But what is most impressive about my appartment is the state of the bathroom.  The small shelf on the bathroom mirror is broken, with only sharp shards of glass sticking out.  The sink was broken at one point and glued back together.  The lintel inside the door frame is broken where the deadbolt might lock, as if the door had been busted into from outside.  Indeed the door bulges in.  This was the site of battles.  This is where the woman went to cry, where the boy went to masturbate.  This is where they went to get away from the man of the house.

 

I geuss in rural China the men would sometimes kill one of their small children so that the others could have meat, but that is not something an Egyptian man could live with.

 

Egypt is so poor that recently there have been a handfull of cases where men have come home one night and cooked poisoned rice for their family, to kill them whom they could not support.  Mercy killing.  That's how poor this country is.

 

There was a newspaper left for me in the appartment that was dated the 20th of May, 2008.  The headline read:  Government Committee Established to Research Monetary Resources for Improved Infrastructure.  Is this a clue, a message from hell?  Did money trouble break this family? 

 

There are cracks in all the furniture, and it makes me wonder.

 

VI

 

97 percent of women in Egypt have had some sort of genital mutilation.  The majority of these cases are type 1, clitori..omy, involving the removal of the prepuce (clitoral hood).  A smaller percentage involve complete removal of the clitoris, and an even smaller minority involve the removal of part or whole of the labia.  According to polls, this practice is embraced by men and women of all races and religions in Egypt.

 

Five years ago almost no women in Egypt wore the headscarf (hijab).  Now they nearly all wear it.  A man cannot address a woman in public.  Marriages are arranged, and the couple usually meet under parental supervision.  Women are subordinate to men, and a woman whose honor is in question, through infidelity, rape or pre-marital promiscuity, may be killed by her family so that they save face.  Without honor, a man cannot find work, and his entire family will bear the shame.

 

In 1979 a law passed to protect women's rights made it more difficult to marry several women, and more difficult to divorce.  In 1985 another law reversed the earlier 1979 law.  But I ask you, is a law that protects a woman's right to an inherently one-sided relationship really a protection of her rights?  It still remained nearly impossible for a woman to ask for a divorce.

 

Although many women these days go to University, many others are taken out of education early to protect their honor by limiting their exposure to males.  Others get their degrees only to find their employment options limited by segregation in the work place, or by the demands of their husbands and fathers.

 

I really try to be open minded, and I really try to not pass judgment on difference, on cultures that have different rules than I am accustomed to.  But seriously, WTF?!

 

Here there are women who are killed when on their honeymoon the groom finds out she is not a virgin.  Many doctors perform surgeries to restore apparent virginity. 

 

So here's my question, and I don't think it's too ethnocentric:  is anyone happy?  Someone will say that there is a different conception of happiness that is fulfilled with arranged marriages.  The couple may never know the burning pang of love that we in the west seem to covet, but they are often comfortable with each other.  And they have avoided the hell that westerners put themselves through while seeking a mate.

 

So maybe it's not about happiness.  Maybe what I really wanted to say was:  didn't you ever do something just because you wanted too?  And I can ask that question of Americans.  Society gives you a bunch of ideas about what you should have in your life:  a car, a house, a degree, a wife and kids.  So, did you ever in all your life even once DO something just because YOU wanted to?

 

And if someone did step out of line a little, should that person die, or be excluded from the cares of society?  I would say no, and I don't think there's any way to convince me otherwise.

 

I came to Egypt to learn about humanity, and to see a different way of life.  I wanted to see an alternative way of dealing with modernity.  However, the more I learn about this country, the less I want to know.  I don't want this country to dissappoint me anymore than it allready has.  Which leads me to another issue:  corruption.  But that will have to wait for my next installment.

 

VII

 

I talk to alot of cab drivers.  I talk to alot of people about cab drivers.  Usually before I go to a new place I will ask a local I trust about how much the ride should cost, and I demand the price a local would pay.  After all, I am living here with a permanent adress and everything.  Most cab drivers feel they have to take advantage of foriegners in order to make a living, or maybe just a little bit better.  Most cab drivers have college degrees, often in engineering.

 

So, why are they driving cabs?  Well, I geuss it's because there are no jobs.  Here's my question:  how come the Egyptian government hires a French company to build their subway when they have so many engineers driving cabs?  It's not like they can't do without a few cab drivers. 

 

Likewise:  how come they have to hire a French company to clean the streets of Cairo, when everyone I know is complaining that there aren't any jobs?  Why don't they get organized and do it themselves?  Don't they know that everything a foriegn company does for you leaves you in their debt?  Do they really want France to own their subway?!

 

I have made some good friends here, and one of them suggested to me the other day that Egypt should hire a foriegn CEO to act as President of Egypt.  It would be someone who wouldn't hook up his family over anyone else, someone somewhat above corruption.  And if that person did a bad job, they could always fire him.  Sounded good to me, and I intend to call my congressman as soon as possible to ask for an Amendment to our constitution so that we Americans can hire a foriegn president.

 

But that's just the problem:  corruption.  Instead of hiring someone who is good for the job, people here hire their close and distant relatives and friends.  It's pretty much accepted common practice.  They have no word for nepitism.  They call it wasita, and it carries no negative connotation.

 

Instead of public works they spend billions of dollars on expensive parties (no exageration).  They pacify the poor, somewhat, by subsidizing electricity etc.  But the kernel of all this corruption is the education system.

 

Children's parents often pay teachers to pass the children each year, while they never once go to class so they can help support the family (probably by begging).  This has become normal.  There was recently a huge scandal, with new details coming out daily, about the final exams from High Schools.  This test is like the ACT, the SAT, or for you French types, the BAC.  It determines your fate.

 

Students were having nervous breakdowns because the tests were too hard.  So the government got involved and found out that teachers were selling copies of the test with the answers just a few hours before the test.  There are even claims that teachers were having sex parties with their students in exchange for good grades and test answers.

 

So these bonehead kids couldn't pass the test even though their teachers had given them all the questions and all the answers.  Forsooth, many of the questions were poorly worded.  One Algebra question for sure, we know through later analysis, was badly translated from Arabic to French, which was the language that test was taken in.  It is almost certain that as this thing continues more and more structural problems within the tests will surface, proving the suspicion that the test is in need of revision.

 

But also, there is the brazenness with which the test copies were sold.  People stood out on the sidewalk in front of the schools yelling out the tests they had and how much it would cost to get a copy, as if they were selling the morning newspaper.  Others were caught because they faxed the tests to someone who then turned them in.  Fax numbers are traceable, duh!  Whoever did that one probably paid their way through school.

 

So, back to my original question:  why can't Egypt make its own subway, why can't it clean its own streets, why can't it fix its own pipes?  Given it's huge work force and all the people with degrees driving taxis, this should be easy.

 

The answer is:  (1) the government is too busy spending money on secret police and cocaine parties, and (2) even the people with degrees can't do it, because they never really got an education.  That means that even the local "experts" are incapable of functioning in the fields they are supposed to be knowledgable in because the education system is corrupt and has been for decades.

 

Which brings me back around full circle to taxi drivers.  What is money?  To them, money is something they are handed from the sky.  The service is not worth 5 pounds or 20 pounds, its worth whatever they can get from you.  Money should be the expression of an honest good or service that people need and that is given to them.  That is what I would call an economic event: value is added to human life.  Not to these taxi drivers, to them the service they offer has no relation to the money they get.

 

So if Egypt needs new subways, no one is thinking: what a great way to stimulate the economy and get people to work.  They are thinking:  we don't have the money.  Don't they see that making something of use is what generates money?!

 

As in education, they would much rather just pay and have someone else do it for them.  And that is why Egypt will always live off of tips.

 

VIII

 

Everything in Egypt starts from impossibility.  That's what Doctor Sa'ad told me.  The government is trying to privatize education.  The way they are doing this is by not building enough schools, so that people are obliged to send their children to a private school, if they send their children to any school at all.  So they pay the school, and then because the classes are devoted to preparing the children for the test (via memorization of past test questions and answers) to get real learning the parents must pay the teachers for private lessons.  These are the same teachers who work in the school, and they must charge for private lessons in order to feed their families.

 

In short, the Egyptian government is treating education as a service, not as a right.

 

So, we start from impossibility, and the plan is to first challenge these practices in the courts.

 

I have decided to volunteer my services at The Right To Education, Cairo branch.

 

It took me three hours to find the place.  I took the subway for an hour, and then a microbus.  I didn't know that there was no official busstop at my destination, so I would have to tell the driver when to stop.  Fortunately I expected a problem like this, so I asked my fellow passengers.  Because no one understands classic Arabic (especially when spoken by a foriegner), I had to ask several people.  Then I finally arrived at Salaam.  On one side of the street is Musakin al-Dubat (Officers' Quarters) and on the other side is Sof al-Dubat (Enlisted Quarters).  I didn't remember which was the one I needed, but I knew I had to find building 26 where I would meet the boss Abdul Hafiz.

 

Naturally I picked the wrong side, and I found a building 26 where another man named Abdul Hafiz lived, and he didn't know anything about Education Rights.  So I continued. 

 

I was ready to give up when I saw a child waving to me from the window of an appartment on the seventh floor.  I wove to him.  He started yelling at me:  "ya Habibi!" (My dear friend!)   Then I couldn't give up.  That kid could be the next Naguib Mahfouz!  They had me again.

 

I went on.  My Abdul Hafiz was going to Alexandria to challenge the teachers' union who was only allowing people from the Muslim Brotherhood into the union.  The law states that to become a member you have to be a citizen of the "United Arabic Republic."  The UAR was a short lived experiment where Syria and Egypt were made into a united state.  After two years the Syrians felt dominated, and they broke with Egypt.  So basically, no one is a citizen of the United Arabic Republic, and therefore no one has the right to be in the Teachers' Union.  The rule is ignored whenever it suits the purpose of the Muslim Brotherhood.  If The Right to Education group can challenge this practice in court, then the administration of the Union will be taken over by the Ministry of Education, which is something that no one wants.  So this is their bargaining chip.

 

That day there was to be a meeting in Alexandria, and Abdul Hafiz wanted me to come along.  At the last minute the Union refused to let an American enter the meeting, so I stayed in Cairo and hung out with the Acountant for Education Rights, my friend Islam (that was his name).

 

He payed for the cigarettes and beer; I payed for the burgers.

 

Islam was a moderate Muslim.  You can tell if someone is moderate by which verses of the Koran they choose to quote.  I let him know that though I respected people's religious beliefs, I was an Atheist.  He quoted the Koran "You are all different, for thus have I created you."  He went on to quote the Prophet "If you trespass against anyone, then you are trespassing against me."  He was telling me that it was okay.  I was accepted.

 

We shared alot in common.  We both loved Italian Neorealism.  We both found the American spirit of independance admirable, and the prideful ethnocentrism of its foriegn policy reprehensible.

 

I told him the story of how I once went out with a girl only to find out she was the sister of a good friend of mine.  Those were the days when I was a real slut, and I didn't have anything to give to a good woman.  I never called her again, out of respect for him.  To this he replied that I was not American:  I was Egyptian.

 

Then I told him how I was a donar insemination, that I was raised mainly by my mother's fourth husband.  This was scandal to them.  An Egyptian woman cannot easily get divorced, and if she does she cannot find a husband again unless she is very beautiful.  They told me that in Egypt a woman is like a bag of potato chips, you can only open it once.

 

After all, we were very different in some ways.

 

On our way back downtown our microbus was stopped.  Traffic had to wait while Mubarrak's car returned home.  Once he had passed we waited for the cops to let traffic go through.  Everyone was honking their horns like crazy.

 

You have to understand, dear reader, that the horn is the only traffic law in Egypt.  Cars will not stop to let a pedestrian pass, so they honk their horn in warning.  Where traffic lights exist, people don't stop at red lights, they honk their horn to let people know they are coming through.  They slow down a little on a green light, and honk their horn to let people know they are coming.  When there is a traffic jam the honking is unbelievable.

 

This honking is the cry of the people for passage, for order, for justice, for the future.

 

Sitting there in Heliopolis, waiting for the President to pass, the people of Egypt voiced their discontent with their car horns.  It was the mother of all horn honking.

 

IX

 

I live on the eighth floor.  I walk down crumbling stairs, past wild cats.  I tell the daughters of my Bowab good morning, and then I'm out in the street.  Trash doesn't pile up in my neighborhood, but it threatens to in some places.  The sun hits you like a cinder block.  As I leave my apartment building and look to my right a man is lifting up a skinned cow which he butchers right there on the sidewalk.

 

I think about the words of Ahmad Otman.  He says that once upon a time freedom was envisioned as a liberation from colonialism.  The debate about freedom in Egypt never got any further than that.  Then came the current era, a time of strong internal chains.

 

No one walks on the sidewalk because it's too uneven, too crowded with men drinking tea, men welding, men reupholstering car seats, men assembling chairs, beggars doing their best to communicate their desperation.  We walk in the street, barely beyond the path of oncoming traffic.  All too often cars will drive in the opposite direction down a road too narrow for two cars.  A teenager rides his bike in and out of traffic, a five foot by five foot tray piled high with bread is balanced on his head.

 

Otman goes on to say that in Egypt people put a great deal of value into the authority of men.  A minister or a general does not have to wait in line.  If no one of importance is present, then there is no line:  there is a crowd all surging forth at once. 

He once saw a rich man's son cutting down a tree, and so he asked him why was he cutting down this tree.  He said to the boy that he should let the tree live, so that the two of them could grow up together and so that when the child becomes a man he can rest under its shade.  The boy said: "Are you a soldier?"  "No."  "Then it's none of your business."

 

In a nearby garden children are playing football.  Others are wrestling on the sidewalk.  Others are having a parade, aping a military march or a political demonstration.  Everyone is singing.

 

Egypt is a great big musical, or an Opera even.  I look into a pasta shop to see that the cook is waving at me singing some Arabic song.  I can't understand the words to the songs here, but they all sound like impossible love.  Egyptians sing while they play chess.  They sing while they are driving.  They sing in between sips of tea.  If the conversation lags for even a few seconds, you can be sure that someone will start singing.

 

Otman goes on to elaborate what Egyptians must do to be free.  (1) They must break their reliance on western science by participating in it, by adding to the progress of science rather than being dependant on it.  They own cars, but they cannot design their own internal combustion engines.  (2) The individual must stop submitting itself to public opinion.  Society must be tolerant of difference, or no one will be free.

 

Further on the traffic has been completely stopped.  On the passenger side of one taxi a door is open.  The driver in the taxi next to it reaches over and closes the passenger side door of the first taxi.  The driver smiles and thanks his compatriot.

 

So I notice that the acceptance of Difference, Otman's second point, is directly related to his first point, the need to be masters of science.  Difference is the engine for genius, for success, for invention, for mastery.  In this Otman is calling for a scientific attitude towards human identities, and a cultural participation with the rest of the world, as rivals and not as slaves.

 

I ask the way to the post office, and the man I ask takes my hand and walks me three blocks away to my destination.  When I try to tip him he refuses. 

 

There is so much good in the Egyptian national identity, so much bravery and willingness to live, even the hardest of lives. 

Eliot's Mess

It was a heavy night, and there was nothing to do but try and shake it off.  Jimmy and Steve called Jenny and Suzy, and Bill wandered by.  They pooled their resources.  Twenty-something’s with jeans on, they didn’t bother to comb their hair before they left the house.

The night was warm.  The girls were pretty, but not so pretty that they made the boys nervous.  They quested amorously for each other with a particular blend of experience and naivety.  Some kind of loud music was playing on the radio, and none of them had ever heard anything like it before.

There is something garishly beautiful about the American night.  Neon lends a squalid splendor to run down hotels, gas stations and bars.  There is a never-ending string of billboards, and even if they don’t entice a boy to buy in, they certainly give him an appetite.  Possibility hung in the air, and it was intoxicating though illusory.  No one would ever escape the Law, but some would at least try.  And who knows?  Maybe anything could happen out here.  At least they were going to make their connection.

Suzy pulled the car into the driveway, and got out.  She would go around the back alone while the others waited.  Several minutes passed.  Jimmy became restless, and got out of the car.  He lit a cigarette.  He took a piss in some bushes.  What the fuck was taking so long?  Finally Suzy reappeared.

Bill was the master blunt roller, and the night became hazy.  Everyone was in college.  Everyone had just met.  Conversations that had been going on for at most a month were continued.  Someone’s teacher was a dick.  Someone else was going to start practicing Buddhism. 

They drove around until the quart of whiskey ran out.  Then they retreated to someone’s apartment.

Steve put on a movie to avoid the uneasy silence that was developing.  It was a terrible comedy, and they all soon lost interest.  Steve was putting his arm around Jenny.  Jenny was trying to find some excuse to move away from Steve.  She began to look around the room.

Jenny noticed Suzy wasn’t moving.  “Let’s have some fun,” she said, and she went into the kitchen to look for a marker.  “What’s going on?” slurred Steve.  “I’m going to draw a mustache on Suzy!”

No one wanted to notice that Suzy wasn’t breathing anymore.

They started by drawing, with thick, rich, black magic marker, a big curly circus mustache on Suzy.  Then they drew a penis with big floppy balls on her left cheek, complete with precum just touching her lips.  Then they shaved her head and posed her in various sexual positions while Steve took pictures.

Then things went further.  They stripped her naked and wrote on her bare chest where no air was moving in and out “kill the rich” and on her ass where no blood pumped “the poor find comfort here.”  They drew a yin/yang symbol on her back.  Her belly read:  “Al Qaeda is my baby’s daddy.”  It went on and on until she was covered from head to toe.  Then they carried her to the car and drove to the park downtown.  They tied her to a tire swing, legs duct taped open, arms taped up on the cold steel chains.  She was someone’s daughter.

This is where the neighborhood children found her.  This is how their parents saw her soon thereafter.  This is how the police left her as they roped off the crime scene.  It was one hell of a gag.  The coroner’s office marked her cause of death as accidental drug overdose.  No one ever knew just who it was that had vandalized her, or if that had happened before or after her time of death.  She would never graduate from college, never have a job interview, and never raise children.  The others would.  They would multiply, and cover the earth with their shame and mockery.

   

            He is hung over, which would be fine if everyone would stop screaming.  They are losing their minds outside his apartment, banging on the door, screaming and yelling, choking and running.  For half an hour this goes on, and he is just too lazy to go outside and tell them to shut up.  He thinks it will end soon, but it doesn’t.  He gets up, trying not to wake up too much.  He unlocks the dead bolt and opens the door just as far as the chain will let him.

            Outside is some woman with a face and large hands wearing a floral print as she bangs on the door, bangs on his consciousness, poking her little needle into his hangover.

            “Mister!  Dey’s a fire!”

            “So, fire somewhere else!” he yells back, closing the door.  He lies back down.

            He has to pee.  He sits up.  He is hungry.  He leans way over to grab a cigarette.  The bed tips over a bit.  He doesn’t know how to fix it, how to fix anything.  The smartest thing he has ever done is to accept the disorder of the world.  He catches his fall with one hand, the other extended towards the cigarettes.  He can’t reach.  What the hell?  He lets himself fall, finally reaching the cigarettes.  He lies out on the floor.  He lights a cigarette.

            Did that face just say “fire?”

            The phone rings.  He stretches out, reaching for the phone.  He can’t reach it.  He hoists himself up.  His phone is buried under unopened mail.  Credit card applications.  Charitable organizations looking for contributions.  Chain letters.  Desperate souls.  Unpaid bills.  A Christmas card from his mother.  It took a full minute for him to find his super slim cell phone.  Outside sirens were blaring way to close.  He pushes the green button, speaks into the phone just in time to hear the person on the other end hang up.

            Are people dying better today, than they did one thousand years ago?  Probably not.

            He slides open the window curtain.  Yup, there’s a fire truck.  There’s the ambulance.  The patrol cars.  The woman hollering about her insipid spawn.

 

Ashes to bile

That I should live the day

When they bury my child

 

            He slides the curtain shut again.  Maybe it’s on the news.  That would be neat.  He turns on the TV.  The sound still doesn’t work, and the local news can barely be made out on the screen for the static.

            “Oh shit,” he thinks, “I had a dentist’s appointment today.”  He looks at the clock on his microwave from across the room.  Nine forty-five.  He is forty five minutes late.  No wait.  He never set the clock back for daylight savings time two months ago.  He can make it if he hurries.  Fuck, he might as well.  He grabs his keys and leaves, forgetting his driver’s license, his cell phone, his sunglasses and a long crooked trail of broken hearts.

 

So hello everyone, this is Lelyn.  I'm back from my deployment to the Persian Gulf.  I had a moment out there where I wasn't sure I'd make it.  I cracked up.  There was no possibility of seeing a doctor, so I just stuck it out.

We saw alot of ports, and were extremely limited in what we could do, where we could go, and who we could talk to.  We spent alot of time out to sea.  I feel like I just got out of jail.  When I go to work (basically one day out of three now) I cannot believe that ship was my entire world.  My coffin rack was my personal space.  The bridge was my occasional outing.  Aux 1 was my home.  I feel wounded.  Maybe I've always felt that way, but I really feel like going on deployment took something from me.  I know it gave me alot back too.   A couple of days ago I went to art crawl.  I started crying because I saw that alot of art and thought had been going on while I was gone.

And now my country is facing presidential elections.  Every four years we indulge in a little hope that things will change.  Here's my diagnosis:  nothing is changing.  Hillary is funded by beer, cigarettes and weapons, just like Mccain and just like Obama.  Don't expect truly dynamic change from any of those people.  Don't get your hopes up for this country.

As for me, well, I geuss I'll never change.  I'm still writing and making music.  I got myself a drum machine and a printer for my computer.  I quit drinking and started trying to get published.  Yes, I'm actually submitting my poems and stories to literary magazines and publishing houses.

Four months from now I will be expatriating to Egypt.  Not for good.  I'm not deluded into thinking that Egypt is better than America (I'm speaking in terms of justice and human rights).  I want to go over there and see what new human technologies the Arab can give us.  I do believe that the middle east is different.  That's my new project.  Actually, it's been a dream of mine for a long time, and now I can see myself actually doing it. I haven't had hope in a very long time. I like it.

They are burying my Grandmother, and I am not there.  I used to spend my summer vacations and every Christmas at Grandma’s house.  My mother and I led a nomadic existence while I was growing up, and so Grandma’s was the only “home” I had.  They sold the house, located on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, after Katrina came through.  Once they put my Grandparents in a rest home, the decline had begun.

            I didn’t visit often enough, and not as often as I could have.

            When I think of my Grandmother the first thing that comes to mind is not her face.  Instead I imagine her kitchen.  I liked helping her cook and bake.  I didn’t like helping my Grandfather in his shed or in his den with his computers.  There was something mean about my Grandfather that seems to have faded over the years.  The next thing I remember is my Grandmother sitting quietly as Grandpa yelled at us for leaning forward to eat our soup.  Nothing was ever good enough for him, and that is why I stopped going to visit.  I can’t help but wonder what she could have done without him.

            Some have said that we do not mourn so much the passing of a loved one, as we grieve our self going on without them.  There is some truth to that.  I know for certain that my Grandmother lived the life she wanted to and that she died without any regrets.  She was the gentlest person who ever lived.  She made flower arrangements for the church she went to.  Every time I visited she always asked me how my bowel movements were.  I imagine the topic embarrassed her as much as it did me, but she had to ask because she cared for my well-being. 

            Perhaps she should have left my Grandfather, but that choice isn’t ours.  It was hers, and she chose to be loyal.  People today prize independence over loyalty, and I can’t help but think that it makes us a bit lonelier.  I meant a lot to this person.  She loved me better than she loved herself.  Goodbye Grandma, I love you too.

06 OCT 07

 

 

They send you down, and you go.  It is hot, and you are thirsty.  Every ten seconds you wipe the sweat from your brow.  You haven’t been sleeping well or often.  The order comes to align NR 1 Evap, and you just barely hear it over the noise of the other machines.  You are in a hurry.  It happens before you’ve noticed it.  A valve isn’t open all the way.  Pumps burn out.  Alarms are going off in rooms you don’t know about.  Soon you are lost in a sea of Khaki uniforms.  You are caught without the book.  Anything you do must not be your own, it must be from and of the book.  There’s a captain in your mind who is emasculating you.  You are yelled at, made an example of.  Friends you once had now hold you in contempt.  They will blame you for their next 24 hour shift.  Intermittently you are aware of the heat, of the sweat, of the thirst.  The very air is against you.  You are finished, numb, beaten.  You are not allowed to stop moving.  Under the gaze of your superiors you will fulfill the required tasks complete with all the necessary gestures.  You are a slave to the ceremony of the Evaporator.  You must feed the boilers.  Nothing you do right will ever erase your momentary error.  5 minutes of carelessness make 5 hours of work and 5 days of paperwork.  Prison waits for you over in the shadows for his opportunity to take you away.

But you are not done yet.

The lights go out.  You spring into action.  Your feet move without you.  Your hands are better than your mind.  They know how far to turn the valves, and how quickly.  You are stopping the flow of steam with precision and intentionality.  A moment ago your confidence was dashed and you were less than nothing.  You don’t have time now to feel bad.  You don’t have time for the book.  You don’t have time for feelings, memories, personal pre-histories, abstract ideas or broad humanitarian causes.  You only know the machine.  You shut your mind and descend the tunnel.  An hour later you are done, and no one is trying to pat you on the back.  They are stuck in their own hells, until they can blame it on someone.  No one has sympathy for anyone.  They are going to take your male appendage from you, and they will wrap it in that uniform you have failed to fill out.

Finally you realize that it’s all a great big joke.  Rank, progress, personal betterment, a family, a sensible car and a refinanced mortgage, an education, a good job, a fat pension, everything they ever dangled in front of you to make you move.  All illusions.  The joke of it is power.  They make you do what they want you to, and jip you in return.    The world isn’t fair and never was.  You will fail, it is predestined.  And you laugh because you know you’re a fighter.  You will never quit, and you will never quite win.  You will die one day, but regret won’t be among the feelings you have at the end.  You won’t mind not winning, because you have seen through it.

 

22 NOV 07

 

Before I get out of the Navy I have to discuss my future goals with a career counselor.  Further patronizing.

Goals:

Short term:

• To save money in preparation for my approaching discharge.
• To pay off my truck payment.
• To study up on Journalism.
• To send my resume off.
• Improve my typing skills.
• Get educated about VA benefits.
• Have a full medical physical.
• Diversify my investments/transfer my TSP to an IRA.
• Begin serious writing/ trying to get published.
• Get organized for expatriation.

Long term:

• Return to school to pursue a PHD in Philosophy.
• Become a famous writer.
• Continue my savings/investment plans.
• Learn German and Ancient Greek for reading.
• Begin making amateur/ art films.
• Survive as long as possible.
• Not get married/ not have children.
• Rent an apartment/ not own a house.
• Stay healthy.
• Be increasingly politically active.
• Work hard until I die to make the lives of those around me better.

 

 

 

28NOV07

For months we had waited for this moment.  The Captain was coming down to inspect.  He stepped through the scuttle I had painted five times because others kept stepping on it.  Did he notice the paint job was new?  He moved without comment past the brass nozzles I had spent hours shining.  He didn’t seem to notice that we had painted the bulkheads, the overhead and the deck of the large space.  He noticed the torn and faded lagging just outboard of 2 AC.  He failed to comment on our paint job for 1 and 2 Refrigerator, 1 SWS Pump and 3 Fire Pump.  He noticed that we had painted the Evaps and their foundation, and he went on to notice a dozen rust spots, more lagging issues and dust deep behind a knot of piping connected to machines we don’t own, operate or maintain.  We passed the inspection as barely satisfactory, which meant we wouldn’t have a re-inspection involving another month of hard labor without sleep.

Things were looking up.

Outside the water lapped at our hull, rushed into our sea chest.  The sea was in love with us and strained endlessly to wrap us in her embrace.  Last week a fitting on the sea water pump broke off (again), flooding my space at a rate of 30 gallons per minute.  Mother Ocean was rushing in to threaten human life with her salty kisses.  I was the first on the scene, carrying out my initial actions quickly and completely.  My efforts were recognized, but not officially.  Some of the crew even whispered to each other that I had probably caused it.  Everyone on a ship becomes a little like a rat and a snitch, paranoid and dangerous.  I leave them to their judgments, and I stand by my own.  It was my first time fighting off major flooding, hopefully my last, and I had made it.  I am getting to be good at what I do.    

 

I

 

I have been given liberty in Baharain.  I am not allowed to leave base, and of the two bars on base one is off limits.  I am at my designated liberty station.  I would like to taste some of this thing called “freedom” everyone is busy selling and buying simulacres of.

 

II

 

The Ocean seams to be rippling, but it is only the movement of the ship.  I go up topside every now and then to see if it is light out.  Then I descend.  It is hot in my workspace, but cooler than it is in the main engine rooms.  Aux one smells like salt water and oily waste.  Sometimes the fiber glass from lagging pads gets all over my arms.  Tired limbs are still moving, still completing tasks.  Slavery I accept out of kindness to my fellow slaves.  Let it never be said that EN3 Masters made someone else carry his load.

Outside in the greater world, Iranians with angry hearts direct their radars in my direction and wonder why they shouldn’t have nuclear weapons too.  I often wonder the same thing.  Madness that anyone should have that kind of power.  Israel has it, and they are mad.  Korea has it, and they are mad.  The US has it, and we are mad.  Why not Iran?

I don’t really care what these people do with themselves, or to their neighbors.  I just want to go home.

Our Captain is quite mad.  He volunteers for the most dangerous assignments.  Best damn ship in the Navy, all the admirals love us.  Three more months. 

I

 

> Hello, I'm a sailor.

>

> I like my rack, because I like to sleep. People lea