To Islamic Cairo and Back

Sometimes it gets to you more than others.

Sometimes it's fine; it rolls right over you, through you, past you, and you don't even notice it. Some days I don't mind it. But other times, it picks at me, wears me down. Sometimes I just can't take it.

But let's back up.

Last weekend we decided to head out to the area known Islamic Cairo, the center of historic Cairo. It's home to the (in)famous Khan el-Khalili market, and the world's oldest university at al-Azhar mosque. Islamic Cairo is known for being radically different than its big-city surroundings. It's a veritable labyrinth of dirt streets chocked full of bazaars and specialty shops, interrupted by the vast expanses of several famous mosques such as al-Azhar and Sayyidna al-Hussein (where Ibn al-Hussein, the grandson of the prophet Muhammad, is believed to be buried, making it one of Islam's holiest sites). It's a more conservative and untouched version of downtown Cairo.

I was told that Khan el-Khalili, and Islamic Cairo in general, would be an adventure. I guess in a certain way that was right.

It was Friday, jumaat, the day of prayer, so Hafsa and Hammad headed down to pray.
Sarah, Jacob and I left a little after they did, with plans to meet up after prayer. That was really all we were going on.

None of us really knew the area. Jacob had walked through it once. We got out of our taxi, per Hammad's directions, we looked around. There was no mosque, just a very busy roundabout lined with shops selling bolts of fabric and odd-looking tubing. We called Hammad, who told us to "walk towards the mosque." I craned my neck and could see the minarets of at least four separate mosques. Huh. Jacob set off towards where he thought al-Azhar was, and Sarah and I followed. I was totally unconvinced of our direction, and as we dodged minibuses across a four lane highway, I was not really pleased.

An auspicious start. I have to admit that I've been getting frustrated--probably unduly--with following people through Cairo. It's really my own damn fault for not busting out a map and figuring out where we really should be going. But in the last four weeks here, I've spent a lot of time following people who may or may not know where they're going but say that they do. It's a guy thing, I know. And I really do appreciate them stepping up to get us to our final destination. Thanks, boys. I don't give you the credit you deserve.

But sometimes, when I'm picking my way delicately through the refuse-filled gutters of the streets, keeping my eyes on the ground to avoid oh-so-lascivious eye contact, only to look up and see my headstrong guide with a very bemused look on his face, I get frustrated. Today was one of those days.

But let's back up.

As soon as I got out of the cab, I realized that I wasn't in the best mood. Cairo is a loud city, far noisier than anything I'd expected, and Islamic Cairo was no different. The clogged streets run thick with cars using their horns to communicate for any possible situation. Traffic jam? Use your horn. Car ahead of you going a little too slow? Horn. You see someone you know three rows over? Horn time. You pass a pedestrian on the street with about 6 inches of clearance? Horn again.

So it was loud. And I had a headache. And as soon as I stepped onto the street, it began.

It started as we were crossing the street. I was trying to dodge a minibus when a group of Egyptian men approached me from behind. I had gotten separated from Sarah and Jacob, who had safely made their passage, and was stuck in the middle of the street thinking skinny as cars whizzed past me on both sides. The men were standing next to me in a similarly precarious position, but they seemed to be focused on different things, namely me. Calling out to me, slinging various "terms of endearment" at me, and--I kid you not, straight out of Borat--"very nice, how much?"

This is pretty common. Men unabashedly stare at even the most modestly-dressed American girl, look her up and down with bedroom eyes, and call out names like "honey" or "cream." Some girls have had their butts grabbed, some have been pinched; others have been subjected to even worse treatment that doesn't allow for mention. I'm lucky in that I've only been subject to verbal harassment, and that usually I can let it slide. A perpetual iPod helps.

The most common perpetrators of harassment in Egypt--and, I would argue, in most countries--are lower-class or impoverished unmarried males. The reasoning for this attitude varies, but a common argument is that the price of a dowry in Egypt is so high that many men remain unmarried into their 40s. Reading a discussion board in the "Stop Sexual Harassment in Egypt!" Facebook group finds suggestions on how to cure this social ill, many including facilitating marriages in impoverished areas. Some argue that if we raise living standards or alleviate poverty, harassment will cease.

I'm not sure that I buy this argument altogether; I think a change in attitude is necessary, as poverty in and of itself does not beget discourteous behavior. It's a socially ingrained attitude, and there's no clear-cut way to change it. While by no means do all or even most Egyptians condone sexual harassment as acceptable, there seems to be a sort of ennui about ending it. It's frustrating as a target of harassment not to be able to do anything about it. I've been told several times that I am a guest in Egypt, and must abide by their social mores and cultural habits. I generally have no problem with this, as it's not all that different from my own practices. But by ignoring the catcalls, degenerate stares and wayward touches, I feel like I am both condoning their behavior and encouraging the stereotypes of foreign women.

I've heard that even hijabi girls are not free from harassment, and I believe it. There are several AUC groups dedicated to women's issues like this one. I've never seen an Egyptian girl receive harassment, however, and in Islamic Cairo that day, it was very clear that the shopkeepers and customers alike were blind to anyone but me. It is impossible to be anonymous in Cairo. Every move I make is watched. Eyes track me. And usually, it doesn't bother me. Usually I smile graciously at a compliment, or keep my eyes straight ahead when walking through crowds.

But like I said: this day, it got to me.

I was vaguely annoyed that these men were ogling me as I was trying to navigate the street, but then one of them jostled me, bumping me into the path of an oncoming tour bus (which summarily honked at me). I stepped back, running into one of the men, who proceeded to scream "FUCK YOU!". He then set off on his own into traffic, but not without stomping on my leg in his rush to rid himself of me. Once traffic had satisfactorily cleared, I made it to the other side. I rolled up my pants leg, and saw that I was bleeding where he had run into me. I almost lost it right there.

And we still had a far ways to go, and we didn't know where we were going. As we tried to walk on the busy sidewalks, avoid stepping in bio-hazards and follow Jacob, a barrage of praises ("Nice ass!"), sweet talking ("So pretty!") and inquiries ("Marry me?") assaulted my right side. I did my best to keep my head up, or down, whatever the situation required at the time.

I didn't believe the girls who had told me that eventually you would reach your breaking point; I thought I was impermeable to any words thrown at me. But they were right: it wears on you like water on a stone and eventually, you cave.

And several times I almost did. The shopkeeper who traced an outline of my curves in the air with his palms? The two boys on the street who turned around and stopped when I passed? The man who followed me for three streets calling out to me? I almost lost it. Probably a good thing I didn't, though, because I'm not so interested in going to jail here. But after our 20 minute walk to Khan el-Khalili, I was in poor spirits, and not in the right frame of mind to accept and embrace the bustle that embodies that famous open-air market. I think I snapped at Jacob (sorry, Jacob). I was almost ready to hail a taxi and come back later, but I pressed on.

We wandered through the narrow streets filled with perfume shops, wholesalers and knockoff vendors. I bought two scarves; Sarah bought a fake Chanel handbag. The shopkeepers were aggressive, but usually backed off when we gave our standard answer: "La, shukrun," meaning no thank you, we don't want to see what you have upstairs or test the quality of your scarves.

After awhile in the dark alleys of Khan el-Khalili, we tried to meet up with Hammad and Hafsa, who by this point were in Sayyidna al-Hussein, where non-Muslims are not allowed. We were wary to go to into al-Azhar on our own (which entrance did we use? were there areas we shouldn't go into?), but we eventually went in, only to be immediately greeted by a man whose job appears to be to divert foreign tourists, take them on a quick and dirty tour of the mosque, and then ask for money. We knew what was happening, but we pretty much had to go along with it. He showed us a few prayer rooms, a school room, gave us some literature on Islam, and then patiently waited for his baksheesh.

We had left our shoes in cubbies at the door, as you must walk barefoot in a mosque. Upon reclaiming them, upward palms were shoved in our faces from the men lounging in chairs nearby. We walked around a bit, and then left. Almost immediately Hafsa and Hammad called; they had just entered al-Azhar through a different door. We walked around the building and found them, sat in the mosque for awhile and took some pictures in the marble-lined courtyard. The sun was setting, and we decided to find some food.

On the way out, our "tour guide" was trying to hustle a nice German couple who was insisting that they didn't want a tour--but ended up with one anyway. Again, it's tough to be anonymous in Cairo; due to my mood, this hustling was irritating me more so than usual. I tried to recognize it for what it was and move on, but it was hard to do.

We went to el Fishawy, a 24/7 coffee shop in the heart of Kahn el-Khalili. It's been in the same location since the year 970. We ordered an interesting drink called sahlab, a hot and creamy milk and cornstarch based drink seasoned with rose water, pistachios, raisins and coconut. It was basically a meal in and of itself. It was too sweet to finish, but it definitely helped calm me down.

After negotiating some major crowds around the mosque again (Hafsa and Hammad went back to pray), meeting some Egyptian kids who were very interested in us, watching Hafsa have to fight her way through a throng of women at the female entrance to the mosque, and haggling (and losing) with a taxi driver for the fare back to our dorms, we returned.

I don't even remember what we did that night; I think I might have passed out. After being around so many people, I needed some time to myself. I'm nostalgic now for the time I used to spend by myself in Oregon. The long car drives out to Gresham, Tanasbourne or the Sheriff's Office now seem divine: nothing but me, my faithful Focus and my iTrip. My house at night, when everything sleeps. Taking the long way home and driving through the wheat-tinted countryside of Scholls and Kinton are just a memory. I miss solitude and quiet.

In the subsequent days I've found myself still a little on edge, tolerance-wise, but I'm trying to work through it. I don't know if my comrades here are having the same experience. The word of the week is frustration, but it's slowly started to dissipate.

I'm not trying to paint a negative picture of Egypt; I'm definitely enjoying my time here. But let me reiterate: in this blog I'm simply describing the things that have happened to me, and how they make me feel. Some days are more difficult than others for me, but most of them are an easy breeze (metaphorically, not literally, although that would be nice given the upper respiratory infection I seem to have developed from the pollution!).

And when I feel so frustrated, when I feel like I want to give in, give up and get out, I simply remember:

To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.