What we’ve found is that Egyptians have a true love-hate relationship with Americans. Merchants–who still suffer from the decline in tourism after the Luxor tourist massacre of 1997 and the lapse in air travel since September 11–want us back. The government tries desperately to assure visitors that they’re safe. When foreigners travel in the Sinai, they often receive a military escort from checkpoint to checkpoint. When we go to Luxor next week, we will travel on a guarded “tourist train” from Cairo.
“We love Americans,” I was assured by a young man selling paintings done on papyrus leaves in the Sinai village of St. Katherine’s. “Tell your countrymen that Egypt is safe.” Not all Egyptians feel that way.
The next week, my husband and I were touring the Pharaonic Village, a Cairo tourist spot where actors re-create ancient Egypt. An Egyptian cardiologist, who was visiting the site with his Jordanian friend, was aghast when he learned I was an American living in Egypt. “You are not afraid?” he asked in surprise. No, I’m really not. I’m wary, but fascinated by this strange environment.
I’ve learned that if I respect the local traditions, I’m more likely to be accepted. When I wear a scarf to cover my hair, old men will chase off the hordes of curious children who grab me and ask for money, something they won’t do when my hair is uncovered.
I rarely admit to being an American in public. Following the U.S. Embassy’s advice that it’s better not to get into political discussions, I usually say I’m from Canada. During my first trip to the market in Ismailia, my friends proudly responded “we’re Americans” when a vendor asked them their nationality. The man launched into a long diatribe in Arabic, shaking his fist and spitting out President Bush’s name. When a crowd began to gather, we quickly left. I could understand their anger; Bush is vilified in the Arabic press as someone who hates Muslims.
There’s a vast gulf in Egypt between the haves and the have-nots. Those lucky enough to be born into good families live a very nice life. Wealthy Egyptians have beautiful homes in the city and vacation houses on the Gulf or the Mediterranean. Most visiting Americans live in luxurious apartments in tree-lined Cairo suburbs.
Still, the poverty here is appalling. Three years ago we went to Kosovo to care for refugees after the war. But not even those conditions prepared me for Egypt. Twenty million people live in Cairo, most in crowded tenements. New high-rises go up seemingly overnight. The construction is so rapid and shoddy, I’d be afraid to be in one during an earthquake. Thousands live in the mausoleums of the City of the Dead cemetery near the historic Citadel.
The countryside is less crowded, but the people are just as poor. Few tourists ever see the Bedouins who live in tents on the landfill outside the village of Abu Suweir. They “ragpick” among the discards, their animals grazing what little grass grows on the polluted ground.
Most people here are farmers, carefully utilizing every drop of water that’s channeled from the Nile to their land through a complex canal system. Many live only on beans and bread and have no electricity or running water. Yet if we happen to stop in front of their homes to take a picture, we’re invited in and offered tea and their meager food.
I’ve made other friends, too. The educated young man in our video store, who speaks very good English and loves to talk to me, can’t understand why some of his fellow countrymen hate Americans. “We all worship the same God,” he puzzles. “What does it matter if we call him Allah and the Jews call him Jehovah and you call him God?”
Last month my husband and I climbed Mount Sinai in the dark to watch the sunrise from the spot where many (Muslims included) believe God gave the Ten Commandments to Moses. As we waited with climbers of all nationalities, a Roman Catholic group from Colombia broke into fervent hymns. Their singing added a mystic quality to the experience. I prayed that all people could have the experience of living in other cultures; when we understand those who are different from us, maybe peace will follow.
