24 - 30 January 2002
Issue No.570
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Al-Ahram Weekly Online 24 - 30 January 2002 Issue No.570 |
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Arson and upheaval
The harrowing fires which swept Cairo half a century ago followed a savage British massacre of Egyptian policemen. Maurice Guindi witnessed it all
The conflagration that engulfed Cairo on 26 January 1952, aptly dubbed "Black Saturday," was the belated backlash of a momentous decision made by a national leader about 15 months earlier. British forces occupying Egypt since 1882 had withdrawn to the Suez Canal zone two years after the end of World War II, and negotiations to get them to pull out completely got nowhere.
British intransigence forced the hand of Prime Minister Mustafa El-Nahhas, who headed a Wafd Party government, to take drastic action. He unilaterally abrogated the 1936 Anglo-Egyptian treaty which he himself had concluded. The memorable words he used to announce the action in a parliamentary speech in October 1951 were: "For the sake of Egypt, I signed the 1936 treaty with Britain, and for the sake of Egypt I hereby declare its abrogation as of today." The words were music to the ears of Egyptians at large and a signal to activists to take action. And act they did.
From Port Said in the north to Suez City in the south and from the British garrison base of Abu-Suweir in the west to the banks of the Suez Canal in the east, Egyptian nationalists waged a guerrilla war against British forces. They attacked camps, ambushed military vehicles and shot at British soldiers. They used all kinds of ploys, including booby-trapped vegetable and fruit carts at street corners and main intersections.
Egyptian police helped the guerrillas and the British knew it. This brings us to the carnage at an Ismailia police station on 25 January 1952. The British had an axe to grind with that particular station and decided to get rid of that thorn in their side. At dawn on that day, they besieged the station with troops and deployed field guns and armour, including a tank, around it. Using a loudspeaker, they asked the police force inside the station to surrender or else. But they made one mistake: they omitted to cut the station's telephone lines. Thus the police commander was able to contact Cairo for orders on how to react. The word from Cairo was firm: resist to the very end. That order was issued by then Interior Minister Fuad Serageddin, a close associate of Prime Minister El-Nahhas. The rejection of the British ultimatum in effect meant suicide. All the Egyptian policemen had to defend themselves with were antiquated Lee Enfield rifles. The outcome was never in doubt.
When the dust settled that morning, more than 60 policemen lay dead in the rubble of the station. Some of the bodies were torn to pieces and hardly recognisable. The British also captured more than 200 policemen in Ismailia. The massacre electrified the nation and the reaction was swift. The following day, 26 January, all hell broke loose in Cairo. The dominant sentiment was rage, bitter rage, and a compelling desire for revenge. The turbulence began in the morning with policemen demonstrating at two points in the capital. One of them was Giza, where the demonstration was joined by university students and ordinary citizens. The protesters marched towards the cabinet offices and the royal Abdin Palace, both close to the centre of the city. The sequence of events afterwards was unclear but around noon, word came that the rioters had set fire to the Opera Cinema, located on a square about 200 metres from Abdin Palace. This was the opening shot in an eight-hour rampage. Frenzied crowds literally took over downtown Cairo and nearby districts, torching cinemas, restaurants, hotels, clubs, department stores and other establishments - over 700 in all. The attacks targeted British-owned establishments in particular and foreign property in general. The British Turf Club on Adly street across from the Metro Cinema was set ablaze and nine Britons found inside were killed. I saw the body of a dead Briton on the sidewalk being kicked time and again by half a dozen fuming rioters. A short distance away, I saw Groppi's, a renowned Swiss- owned confectionery, set aflame after being smashed up with iron bars and sticks. French pastry, broken bottles of syrup and juice, all kinds of cookies, pieces of cheese and cold meat littered the street outside and the rioters kept trampling on them. Another scene of wanton destruction that I saw was the old Shepheard's Hotel -- or what was left of it. By the time I reached the hotel, it had been reduced to a charred, smouldering hulk.
While all this was happening, there was a completely different scene at Abdin Palace. King Farouk was hosting a special banquet in honour of the birth on 16 January of Prince Ahmed Fouad, the son he had by his second wife, Queen Nariman. The Cairo fires naturally disturbed the peace at the sumptuous lunch. The guests, including government ministers, other senior officials and the military top brass, probably lost their appetite and rushed to telephones to see what could be done to stop the street madness. Finally, army troops were sent into the city, a curfew was ordered and martial law was declared.
Political repercussions followed in quick succession over the next six months. El-Nahhas' government was dismissed. Then a string of other cabinets -- five in all -- were appointed and summarily dismissed. The army ended the turmoil with a 23 July coup that overthrew King Farouk, sent him into exile on 26 July and declared a republic two years later.
Many factors had combined to produce the turbulence -- a king who made a good start but became a profligate halfway through his 16-year reign; weak governments plagued by bad judgement; and British political dictates and brute military force. Add to all this a discontented army where the "Free Officers Movement" led by Gamal Abdel-Nasser secretly made preparations for a revolution at the opportune moment. That moment presented itself on a silver platter in July, ending a six-month-long nightmare.
Farouk's dissolute private life was a blemish that hurt Egypt's image and greatly eroded his popularity. His slide downhill began after he divorced his first wife, Queen Farida. He became a regular customer at nightclubs and gambling casinos like the Kitkat, the Auberge des Pyramides and the Royal Automobile Club. He was frequently seen in public with women. His trysts and escapades were proverbial. In one case, a vice squad patrol approached a car parked on an outlying road late at night, not knowing who was inside. The patrol flashed its lights and, to their amazement. Farouk emerged from the car brandishing a pistol and fired several shots in the air. A foreign- looking woman was seen in the front seat. The policemen, who had a press photographer with them, froze. Farouk came forward, looking grim, and asked each policeman for his name. He did likewise with the photographer, also asking who his employer was. He ordered the photographer to surrender his camera, dropped it on the ground and smashed it with his feet. Then he walked back to his car and drove away. That photographer, who was a friend of mine, told me the story and said that for the next two days he was down with diarrhoea.
And when Farouk decided to remarry, he chose to snatch another man's fiancée. Nariman had been engaged to Zaki Hashem, a prominent lawyer who later became Minister of Tourism. The engagement invitations had already been printed before Farouk accidentally saw Nariman at a jeweller's shop. By royal command, he appropriated her for himself. This cost him the very little that was left of his popularity.
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