A group of older Englishwomen pass within hearing distance of my perch. “You would think that, after all these years of British presence, the Egyptian women would adopt some of our practices,” one heavily jeweled women in her forties says to another.
Her equally gilded friend chimes in. “We’ve shown the Egyptian women how to step out of purdah, leave behind the insular world of women, and interact in society, haven’t we? Yet they remain in their homes, behind closed doors.”
I’ve heard Mama speak of purdah, the practice of certain groups of women in Egyptian society of keeping themselves separate from men who aren’t family members. I understand it can take a physical form or manifest in the women’s attire. But I don’t recall Mama ever speaking of it disparagingly, as are these women.
“Or behind their veils,” a third woman echoes her sentiment. “I never can get straight the different types—the burqa, the yashmak, or something else entirely. Who can keep track?”
“I think their class dictates what sort of head covering they wear”—the second woman pauses—“or perhaps their religion?”
“Either way, they’re stuck at home, or covered up when they venture out. Even poor Queen Nazli is a prisoner in her palace. All bejeweled and dressed up in her finest, but nowhere to go,” the first woman adds.
“The only woman who seems to be going anywhere is that wife of Zaghloul. Stirring up trouble and organizing demonstrations,” the second woman says with a sniff. “If only she channeled that energy and joined society.”
So provincial and ignorant, I think. Not to mention these women don’t see the irony in chastising the Egyptian women for following their traditions and staying within the confines of their worlds, when these women effectively do the same thing.
Incredulous, I stare out at the sea of couples doing the one-step to Jolson’s ragtime ditty. Unlike in England, men outnumber women here three to one, providing dance partners aplenty. Not only do our British troops remain in Egypt, waiting to be recalled home after thewar, but an abundance of civil servants, businessmen, and governmental officials reside here on a more permanent basis. Despite the fact that there are many men from which to choose, I’m not drawn to any. They are too like those at home.
A slight breeze stirs, and I close my eyes for a moment, hoping to dry the beads of sweat on my forehead. If Mama saw the perspiration, she wouldn’t be pleased. Yet it’s hardly avoidable in this country, even in its so-called winter.
“Not a fan of the one-step?” a deep, amiable-sounding voice asks. I open my eyes, and turn toward the sound. Standing on the other side of the marble column is an impossibly tall, mustachioed officer. Well, impossibly tall by my standards; at five feet and barely one inch, I find anyone over six feet tall to be gigantic. And this gentleman certainly qualifies.
“I feel as though I’ve one-stepped my way across Cairo over the past week,” I answer. The one-step craze had overtaken London nearly a year ago, but it had taken some time for the simple dance to hit Cairo. And now it’s all anyone wants to do on a Egyptian ballroom floor.
“Ah,” he says with a wide grin, “let me guess. You’ve just arrived from England.”
“You guessed right.”
“How are you finding Egypt?” he asks. Unlike the many other times this polite query has been asked of me, his question seems in earnest. I decide to return it with an earnest answer.
“Am I in Egypt? I feel like I could be in London or back home in the Hampshire countryside for that matter from the looks of things.”
His eyes widen in surprise at my unflinchingly honest remark, and then he chuckles. “It’s uncanny, isn’t it? The way that damp, green England has been re-created here along the Nile and in the Egyptian desert. Have you been to Gezira Island yet?”
I take a step closer to him. This is the first time anyone has addressed the two, very distinct Cairos head-on. The preindustrial, labyrinthine Egyptian Cairo butts up against the gaslit, manicured English Cairo, and yet never the twain shall meet.
“When I stepped onto Gezira Island, I could hardly believe my eyes. The tree-lined, paved residential streets with their garden gates and rose gardens? The club with tennis courts, golf courses, and even a racecourse? I could have been in Wimbledon,” I practically exclaim.
“I know; it’s almost eerie.”
“How did this second England form in Egypt?” I ask, with a shake of my head. I don’t really expect him to respond; I know it’s not exactly typical ballroom banter.
A thoughtful expression overtakes his face, as he pauses before answering. “Well, we are told that British officials and their families need a place apart—so their children can be educated properly and so that hygienic distance can be kept from the Egyptians. There seems to be an almost rabid fear of illness, which people blame on the Egyptian way of life. Plus, the general understanding seems to be that the Egyptian women are meant to be kept away from anyone who isn’t family, especially men.”
I’m impressed with his reply, particularly since he seems to have a degree of skepticism for the explanations put forth by the powers that be for the “necessity” of this strange separate existence. Since he seems willing to engage in the topic, I press a bit further. “That doesn’t seem quite logical, does it? Don’t English military men, civil servants, and businessmen have to interact with Egyptians at work? Don’t English people have Egyptian staff working in their homes? Even Egyptian women, in some cases?”
“That’s very true,” he says, his brows furrowing as he considers my questions. Am I asking him to reflect on a subject he hasn’t contemplated before? One he’s accepted at face value? “We do engage with Egyptians in our offices, and we do have them working in our homes. But we are told to keep a ‘healthy distance’—which does seem incongruous.”
“Could it be that the artificial barrier between the two cultures serves a different sort of purpose than hygiene?” I ask this surprising chap. I haven’t found a single other person here in Cairo with whom I could have this sort of conversation. Could I push him even further? I decide to try. “No wonder they’d like us to leave.”
I expect him to pontificate on the importance of English presenceto maintain Egyptian order and modernity, the usual justification for protecting our economic and military interests here, and the need to preserve our interest in the Suez Canal. Instead, he says, “I know. I mean, we won’t even interact with the French here.”
I stare at the unexpected reference to the way—true to form—the English in Cairo hold themselves apart even from the French. Then I burst into laughter at this spot-on irreverence. “Unless it’s for a match at the Fencing Club,” I add.
Our eyes meet, and merriment overtakes us both. He’s the first person I’ve encountered who sees the layers of hypocrisy and contradictions here about which I’m just learning—and can still find some lightness. It’s refreshing.
“So what brings you to Egypt, then?” he asks, genuine curiosity in his eyes.
“The history. And a pipe dream about finding a pharaoh.” I am about to explain when “Swanee” ends, and a crush of dancers exits the ballroom floor toward the terrace doors where we stand. I lose sight of the man at the same time I hear Mama call to me. By the time the crowd clears, he is gone.
