A place in the city
Youssef Rakha seeks out a community of two
If you attended the party of an artist in whom the two of them happened to have a professional interest, you might be disoriented by their presence. Remarkably unassuming in the way they behave, they are often elaborately dressed --metal-studded leather, esoteric pendants, in-your-face colours, rock-star hair-styles. Talk to them and you might hear the trace of an accent straining for survival in a voice now happily adjusted to Cairene Arabic. However uninviting the surface packaging, this odd pair of performers -- the one squat and aggressive, the other skeletal and subdued -- turns out to be surprisingly warm. They are not literate enough to be overconfident about what they say, but not simple-minded, either. Sophistication fails them, revealing ever-present concerns. Yet they never lack focus, hope and self-awareness.
They are always mentioned together: Basem and Salib. Their surnames (Wadie and Fawzy, respectively) hardly ever merit the attention of those who know them. Two struggling, provincially-rooted singers in their early 20s, they are becoming increasingly well-known in the independent arts scene. What they dream of, ordinarily enough, is fame and fortune. But the most striking thing about them is their determination to establish their worth. Sometimes they complain of being in financial straits. Homesickness is a recurrent theme, as is the fact that they have "been here" long enough to establish themselves more widely. But they remain essentially happy creatures, the pride of their birthplace and its glamorous adventurers, though seldom its ambassadors. Endure the initial confusion and their engaging conversation will not be your only reward.
In the candle-light of the party in question, sooner than later the stereo will be switched off. And within seconds one or both of them will have grabbed a table or some other surface for drumming. A small gathering will form around them. The host -- himself, more often than not, a self-styled connoisseur -- will begin, however obscurely, to look like the purveyor of a rare herb anticipating the response of his customers. The drumming is impressive enough, but it is not until their voices are heard that the full effect of this unexpected intoxicant is registered. The voices, one earthy and dynamic, the other as ethereal and constant as a beam. They are so clear and powerful they recall the most celebrated talents of the century. But their unique, unaffected sound confirms the identity of their owners. They will remind you that the human voice is an instrument of magic. Looking at the two performers, it is hard to believe that the sound emanates solely from them.
Basem and Salib know better than anyone that it is by virtue of this gift that they work and live in Cairo -- with two friends from Minya, in an apartment in Giza. The little money and status the move brought about was their initial reason for leaving Bayadeya, one of the largest villages of Minya, close to the town of Mallawi, after having completed their secondary diplomas. Salib, whose name means 'cross' in English, was selling clothes with his elder brother in Ras Al-Barr. Basem had joined an institute of demography. They were choir singers in Bayadeya until 1996, when they were offered the opportunity to live in Cairo.
Seven years on, they are earning enough to support themselves and make a much-appreciated contribution to their family expenses but not to build a future for themselves. Once there is enough money, they tell you, they will go back, get married, maybe start a small business of their own. But in the same breath, they speak of the difficulty of persuading their people of the viability of a career as a "singer in Cairo", of the rift that has grown between themselves and other young men from Bayadeya and the impossibility of returning empty-handed.
Yet ask them about their village and you begin to doubt how much of a choice being in Cairo really is. When you lie down in the dark after a day's meetings and rehearsals, a month of struggling to make ends meet, subject to another bout of homesickness, and you remember your village, what is it that comes to mind? "Quiet", says Basem in a neutral tone. "Boredom", adds Salib. Beyond the river bank, the vast expanses of vegetation, the weaving of palm leaves into crosses to accompany new white galabeyas on Palm Sunday, a small revolt against efforts to stop the tradition of carrying the icon of the relevant saint around the village on the feast day, they speak of urban influences creeping into the life of the fellahin. The vast majority of young men have left Egypt's rural areas for the cities or for Gulf countries. Narcotics, as opposed to home-brewed cane spirits, have been introduced into café life. The time they spend in the village now consists of moving from one house to the next, greeting neighbours and family, walking down the river bank or sipping tea on one of the low roofs overlooking the Nile. The only thing about the village they seem to hold dear is the relatively widespread availability of church- or NGO-organised activities: the sports club, the educational establishments, and the choirs, which were, after all, their passport to a new life.
Rumours about Basem and Salib have accumulated in Bayadeya, including one that they are financially well endowed. Among their peers they have become style icons and heartthrobs. Their less than prosperous existence in Cairo provides a sharp counterpoint to this rumour, yet their increasing confidence around town, their expanding list of connections and ability to impress even the most ardent critics have helped them feel at home. Seeing them wander around town in woolly hats, bearing a leather-covered oud , one senses their efforts to expand the scope of their professional lives. In addition to travelling, they have formed their own troupe with Maged Soliman and Laila Sami. They join the ranks of groups such as West Al-Balad for internationally-funded multidisciplinary arts events and they collaborate with contemporary visual artists. Such professional development has altered them personally. Their gaits, the ease with which they socialise with co- workers and their willingness to attend parties all testify to an increasingly seamless integration into Cairo life. Not far from now, one suspects, homesickness will afflict them more often while they are in Bayadeya. Cairo is inevitably their home. "Of course one feels alienated," says Basem. "But at least time isn't as big of a problem as it is in Bayadeya," adds Salib.
Within Cairo, work and work- related leisure seem to be their only pursuits, though. And herein lies the question. Outside of the context of their singing, do Basem and Salib have a place in the city? The question seems to slide past them, presenting no great obstacle. Lighting one of the candles while he speaks, sipping wine, Salib will give you a look of comprehension. He tells you they meet people, no doubt, but given their busy schedules it is hard to keep up with Cairo-initiated relationships. By then, Basem will have appeared, smiling knowingly, playing with his wooden pendant. One has enough people to associate with in the context of work, he explains. But, more importantly, one is more than satisfied with one's existing friendship. They have been together virtually since they were born. They know each other's ins and outs better than anyone. They quarrel all the time, but they never hold a grudge against each other. They eat together, sleep together, work together, and together they socialise with friends from Minya. What more do you want, the look on Salib's face implies. Turning away momentarily, he greets another party-goer. "Salib," he presents himself confidently. "In English," he adds, laughing, "means cross."
