Al-Ahram Weekly | Opinion | Accents of hope and despair

		Al-Ahram Weekly Online 21 - 27 June 2001 Issue No.539
Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875		Current issue \| Previous issue \| Site map

Accents of hope and despair
Amr Shalakani*, in Ramallah, wonders whom anti-normalisation discourse is hurting most

Palestine is probably one of the last remaining Arab countries east of Egypt where the Egyptian accent does not inevitably trigger the image of cheap labour. In Palestine, the Egyptian accent has been shielded from most of the negative connotations of "massarweh" -- a somewhat derogatory plural used in reference to cheap Egyptian labour on the Hashemite bank of the Jordan River. For a number of contradictory reasons, the accent continues to lead a romanticised existence in the occupied Palestinian territories.
My Egyptian accent continues to charm most of the Palestinians I have met since moving to Ramallah last September with allusions to a captivating world, a world that, I fear, is no longer there. For them, I speak in the accent of the lost world of Egyptian black-and-white movies, of a fundamentally gregarious and warm people; the accent of numerous cultural artifacts, of singers and actors from Umm Kulthoum and Faten Hamama to Amr Diab and Adel Imam. Mine is the accent of both urbane sophistication and working-class histrionics, of love and wooing and, of course, of the people endowed with the best sense of humour in the world.
Over the past nine months, my accent has saved me from many a difficult situation. I first experienced its power to charm a couple of days after arriving here. I had been driving in the middle of Ramallah, and quite inadvertently broke a red light. A policeman materialised and started to admonish me. He was seriously angry, and a hefty fine seemed on its way. When I pleaded, quite innocently, that I hadn't noticed the light, he suddenly broke into an endearing smile. "You're from Egypt?" he asked, beaming from ear to ear. My affirmative response led to a 10-minute chat. He was visibly thrilled to have met an Egyptian; he extolled my country's virtues, and imitated the Egyptian accent with such love in his eyes that I blushed with pride. All the while, a raucous traffic jam was forming behind my car. He couldn't have cared less. Finally, he let me go after giving me his telephone number and insisting I get in touch with him if I ever needed anything. This has happened to me over and over. I just have to open my mouth, and some difficulty with a Palestinian Authority official is resolved.
The accent has a downside, however. First of all, it objectifies me as a cultural artifact -- much like the "dumb blonde," the classic target of American jokes, every time I open my mouth I fear people have stopped listening to the substance and are fixated on the form. During the first political demonstration in which I participated, I was in a large group heading towards an Israeli check-point. The atmosphere was very charged. Suddenly everyone around me ducked, turned around, and started running in the opposite direction. I did the same. Apparently the Israeli troops had shot something at us. I was not sure what it was (the options extended from tear-gas canisters to plastic-coated steel bullets and live ammunition). In the midst of confusion, I asked one of the shabab next to me: "Why are we running, exactly?" He stopped running, flashed the same sweet smile I was getting accustomed to, and asked the predictable question: "Are you from Egypt?" I wanted to scream back: "Yes, and get over it! We seem to be in some life-threatening situation here. Just tell me: what have the Israelis shot at us?"
The same irksome scenario was repeated during the first class I taught at Bir Zeit University. After I had gone through the syllabus and laboriously explained the course requirements, one of the students raised her hand. I expected her to ask me a question about the assigned material. Instead, with a naughty smile on her face, she asked: "Does the course include a free trip to Cairo? I have not seen the Pyramids yet..."
Anecdotal pleasantries aside, it was soon obvious that the accent's implications are not merely cultural. Mine is not just the accent of Umm Kulthoum and Adel Imam; it is also the accent of the Arab dream -- of defiance (Gamal Abdel-Nasser and Arab nationalism), but also of despair (Anwar El-Sadat and Camp David). It is a constant reminder of both success and failure, a source of pride and shame. But in both cases, it brings an unmistakable appreciation of the important position Egypt occupies in the Palestinian imagination. More than ever, the accent has made me appreciate the serious obligations Egyptians have to the Palestinian cause. As my stay in Palestine extends, instead of wallowing in the effects produced by my Egyptian accent, I feel increasingly ashamed of how very little Egyptians are doing to help the Palestinians.
Today, as these facts gradually sink in, the Egyptian accent leaves me with an ever greater sense of anger at how Egyptian anti-normalisation discourse has acted to deny Palestinians the moral and physical support derived from having fellow Arabs in their midst. When the same Bir Zeit student asked me why there weren't more Egyptians working here in Ramallah, I explained our anti-normalisation policy. For most Egyptian intellectuals, a visit to the West Bank is tantamount to recognising the legitimacy of Israeli occupation. She seemed genuinely puzzled. Her response was an expression of clear logic: "But obviously we are under occupation. That is why we need more Arabs to come here and help. When the French were occupying Algeria, many Arabs moved there and joined the resistance movement. Why wasn't that normalisation with French occupation? Palestinians are not a bunch of beggars to whom Arabs should merely throw financial assistance. If you care about the cause, you should do more. You should come here and help -- or at least come and see for yourself what our life is like, and then tell the world outside. Besides, you are not teaching at Tel Aviv Law School; you are teaching at Bir Zeit, the national Palestinian university. Why is that normalisation?"
She is right. For the past decade, Egyptian intellectuals have constantly cited anti-normalisation as the last remaining instrument of resistance to Israel. It is meant to remind Israel that an official peace with the Egyptian government does not guarantee a warm peace with the Egyptian people until the Palestinian tragedy is resolved fairly. As one of the very few oppositional stances available to Egyptian intellectuals, anti- normalisation has become a powerful force of intimidation -- dissenters who question its wisdom often risk the very dangerous charge of treason. Anti- normalisation, however, was never a coherent oppositional discourse. It is rife with internal contradictions. Its supporters include good faith activists, as well the hysterical polemicists who use the discourse apologetically, in order to avoid engaging with the Palestinian tragedy in any active or imaginative way. As my student pointed out, it could hurt the very people it claims to support. Its intimidating qualities prevent its good faith supporters from critical investigation, from trying to come up with an intelligent strategy that assists the Palestinians in a proactive way, while disciplining Israel into decolonisation.
Of course, I didn't tell my student that. I couldn't ruin it for her -- she liked my accent far too much.
* The writer is a lecturer of law at Bir Zeit University.

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