12 - 18 July 2001
Issue No.542
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Al-Ahram Weekly Online 12 - 18 July 2001 Issue No.542 |
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Revitalisation or depression
Mohamed El-Sayed Said* identifies the disease
Many stars of stage and screen have died in the past few years. Their passing did not elicit much reaction, however; only Soad Hosni's mysterious suicide managed to shock the nation. Was this due to her fame? In part, no doubt. The real reason, however, is that her suicide was motivated by the disease that has afflicted the entire nation: depression.
The theme of national despair is well worn. Many writers have said that our society is seized by a deep sense of collective depression. It has been possible to disregard this diagnosis, however, especially since it comes as something of a shock to a nation that is known for its wit and joie de vivre. Appearances, indeed, still justify this stereotype. Every gathering is punctuated by jokes and laughter; clever remarks are the order of the day in cafés and literary salons alike. People invade every inch of greenery in the dusty city to celebrate national festivals or just to escape the heat inside the concrete furnaces we call houses. Theatres showing comedies are always full, and comedians compete to have their audiences rolling in the aisles with laughter.
This desperate hilarity is part of the problem, however. The seriousness of our illness could have been concealed if our national character was solemn, serious, orthodox in its adherence to moral dictates, and known for its deep reverence of rigid traditions and etiquette. But life -- ebullient, irrepressible life -- is the wellspring of our character. Soad Hosni was the same: so vibrant, so alive, that the depression, when it came, invaded every cell of her being. She showed us the joy of youth, demonstrated an intense desire for happiness, epitomised the art of living and loving. Many others were more famous, but depression left them alone and chose her instead -- chose to destroy her merry personality, to silence her contagious giggle forever.
But was she alone? Deep depression has claimed others, and suicide has seemed equally inexplicable when it struck those known for their humour -- those, indeed, whose humour was their daily bread. Salah Jahin, the wittiest Egyptian cartoonist and poet in modern history, is a notable example.
There is something indeed quite telling in the parallel between Salah Jahin and Soad Hosni. The first was a great intellectual who still enriches our national life with his brilliant poetry written in colloquial Egyptian Arabic, or 'amiyya. He was unique among those of his generation, not just for his love of the ordinary Egyptians, but for his extraordinary talent in communicating with them. His passion for Soad Hosni sprang from this gift, for she symbolised the free and forthright, but quintessentially ordinary, generation of the 1950s.
For other intellectuals who had reached maturity in the 1950s and 1960s, depression during the 1970s was almost inevitable. The 1952 Revolution had stolen their pivotal role in society, then their dreams and, most importantly, their freedom of spirit. For some reason, many were punished more or less severely for having helped formulate, or simply believed in, the slogan of "all for one" that ushered in the more dictatorial aspects of the 1952 regime. The majority reconciled themselves with their marginality without sinking into depression, simply because the slogans they saw fluttering in the breeze during Nasser's era were theirs. So while the intellectuals were not content, they were not outraged either. Later, however, even those who had resigned themselves to watching from the sidelines were baffled: the slogans, but especially the values and the very spirit of national life, changed radically. Many came to the conclusion that they were to be robbed of any role in national life, besides their freedom to choose the goals for which they struggled. A tiny minority of intellectuals were so frustrated by the defeat of 1967 that they turned to Sadat for succour, simply because he, as they saw it, admitted that the nation was incapable of pursuing big aims and triumphalist slogans. Salah Jahin was one of those who took revenge upon his own early faith in the victorious march of the revolution by supporting the leader who betrayed its very spirit. But this vindictive self-destructiveness eroded his soul and betrayed him in return, leading to depression and death.
Hopes for national revival were dashed in the 1980s. The intelligentsia discovered that long isolation from communication with the people had left them with a lasting disability. Money had become more important than words, greed had displaced great values; the nation's nascent soul had died, and the clumsy display of power taken its place. The enjoyment of beauty had given way to aimless hedonism. Isolation is now complete.
But the sickness that plagued intellectuals was not immediately contagious. The rest of society remained immune. Throughout the 1980s, Soad Hosni could still pursue her career in show business, could continue to project an image of happiness and vigorous youth, albeit one tempered by privation and disappointment. One of her last films, The Shepherd and the Women, expressed this frustrated thirst for life, and the failure to fulfil one's desires and aspirations. Still, the curtain had not yet fallen; the bright lights had not been swallowed in gloom.
Just as the jokes for which Egyptians were once renowned dwindled into the repetition of tired witticisms adapted to new circumstances, optimism faded. People are acutely aware of this, even as they seek out cheap and vulgar entertainment and straggle into private theatres to absorb stale, artificial efforts at humour.
Life is increasingly parochial and segmented; a very fanatic form of localisation had reduced collective action to the petty events and the narrow interests of the nuclear family. Of course, national soccer games, major disasters, or popular soap operas on national television continue to rouse us; shared disgust at Israeli arrogance and aggression against the Palestinians and other Arabs is perhaps the closest we can get to a communion of feelings connecting us to former expressions of national life.
Depression eventually overcame even the most ordinary people. Soad Hosni's personality in her best- known films no longer expresses anything real. Young women today no longer seek happiness. They are no longer straightforward and free. They are exhausted and devitalised, oppressed and brainwashed by the prevailing conservatism. Since the moment of their birth they are taught that marriage and motherhood are the only legitimate goals. They do not care about public life; they deny themselves even the right to love and, when they do feel any passion for life, they are deprived of opportunities to express it.
A clear sign of national depression is the religious fanaticism that swept the minds of the country's young people during the 1980s and 1990s, burning away their humanity and leaving very little that was fresh and open in its wake. The aims of human existence are reduced to rituals: brutal material and moral violence, and a formal compliance with pre-ordained rules. Another sign is the moral decadence of the arrogant upper class. Vapid in thought and action, it is characterised by a strange blend of consumerism, lust and triviality that degrades and pauperises the private sphere.
The greatest source of national depression, however, is the absence of an ideal or a sense of orientation. People are increasingly inclined to think in terms of hopelessness and failure. Everyone feels that something is blocking the road to progress. Everyone complains that nothing works. The country is trapped in chaos; we have no idea where we are heading. Everyone recognises and appreciates the improvements made to the material infrastructure, but political, spiritual and moral uncertainty prevails. Millions of people can see for themselves that other nations, once far behind us, have progressed in leaps and bounds. Even in comparison to other Arab countries, we do not produce the best singers, the best authors, the best education or even the best comedies. Egypt hardly has the best economy or the best industry in the Arab world. We turn here and there asking for help; but where must we begin? Even in sports, we are systematically the losers. Remaining in Egypt has become synonymous with failure; migration is seen as the best option to improve one's career or one's life. Every discussion features a discussion of conspiracies or our national character: whom must we blame for the failure?
At the same time, we indulge in long bouts of self- glorification, flattering our sense of pride by repeating to ourselves that we are good as individuals but bad as a system. The proof? Egyptians who succeeded brilliantly abroad.
What is it that pushes people to despair and self- contempt? Failure alone is not an adequate explanation, since we are not alone in having failed.
On the face of it, the problem is the conflict between our sense of being an old and great nation on one hand, and our below-average performance in almost all areas of modern achievement on the other. People are convinced they can succeed, but do not know how. The high hopes placed on the 1952 regime were frustrated, but we do not really know why; nor do other parties or ideological formations offer a viable alternative.
Hence the prevailing sense of entrapment. People know what is missing and what is wrong, but they do not know what to do to emerge from this dilemma. As the sense of crisis deepens, so does the sense of helplessness. In this sense, we are all Soad Hosni.
We share this crisis with many other nations whose present reality has reduced them to the ashes of what they once were. They, too, lack sources of inspiration capable of replenishing people's conscience and national will. Like us, they lack a clear sense of direction, developed and articulated by courage, wisdom and clarity of mind. They lack credible systems that cannot be prejudiced in the interest of the powerful and the opportunistic. Is there really a way out? Can we recover from self-pity and despair? By all means. We are not alone.
* The writer is deputy director of the Al-Ahram Centre for Political and Strategic Studies.
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