Mood Swings:
Letter to
an Irish mother
By
Colette Kinsella
I am a lucky person, fortunate enough to have one of those Irish families that does what only families do best, namely worry their green-and-white socks off that their youngest, most tender and most insane (according to mother) siblings/offspring should choose to live in weird and far-off places -- in this case Cairo -- chasing all sorts of dubious adventures and generally having an amazingly good time. In this uncertain time, however, worry beads in certain parts of the "emerald isle" are being worn extremely thin as my family waits for the long- expected news that number six has been kidnapped, bundled into an aircraft and taken to Saddam Hussein himself to be used as a human shield against the Western onslaught. Of course, it is difficult for those on the outside of any society to know exactly what happens on the inside -- and this applies both to the Middle East and the West. We depend on the media for our information and in many cases are unable to discern how biased particular information may or may not be. For families across the globe, it can be difficult to know how safe it is for their relatives living abroad at times like this.
Many of my expatriate friends here in Egypt are being warned to take extra precautions in their day-to-day lives, to change their routines and not to frequent places particularly popular with Westerners. This has resulted in a sense of unease among certain members of this community, particularly those who tend to remain inside their expatriate bubble, associating mainly with fellow foreigners and thereby failing to get a real feeling for the atmosphere in Cairo.
As an employee of an Egyptian organisation, I consider myself lucky to associate with Egyptians on a daily basis. I take the underground to work, battle my way through the throngs of people and taxis downtown, buy fuul and ta'miya for lunch from the local joint, bargain for a bunch of bananas in front of the building where I work and generally function pretty much like anybody else during their daily routines.
And I never, ever see another Westerner on any part of the trip into work. Among the throng of dark-skinned, dark-haired Egyptians my typical white Irish skin and red hair make me stick out like a sore thumb. In fact, I am probably about as visible from space as the Chinese Wall. And never have I been the object of animosity. Never have I felt threatened; quite the opposite, in fact. A recent trip into the desert just outside of Cairo illustrates this point quite nicely.
Last week, nine other intrepid photographers and I decided to head out to a beauty spot to try out new lenses, techniques and generally have a good time away from the insanity and chaos we lovingly refer to as Cairo. We drove to Fayoum oasis, a mere 90-minute drive from the metropolis. What could be better than a walk along the beautiful lakes of Fayoum and Wadi Rayan, a stroll over the sands of the erstwhile seabed, tripod in tow, Canons and Nikons slung nonchalantly around one's neck, dreaming of fame and fortune and the cover of National Geographic?
So off we sped in three cars, eight Egyptians and two foreigners. Anybody living here will know the country is strewn with checkpoints, and I think the police manning the Fayoum checkpoint were having a quiet day until we turned up. The sight of two white, freckled faces (both of us having Irish blood) caused quite a stir. The cars were herded to one side, mobile phones, walkie-talkies and high-ranking officers were produced. Much-animated Arabic exchanges took place to discern our nationalities, destination and duration of stay in the area. There was a lot of fuss, all because of us -- and I must say, I felt like a film star. Now I know what Madonna goes through whenever she pops out for a pint of milk.
After about 15 minutes of excitement, we were appointed five -- yes mother, if you are reading this, five -- armed chaperones to look after us for the day. It was their job to make sure we got back in one piece. Not that any of us felt in the least bit threatened, let me stress. But the powers that be have decided to take extra care of any foreigners roaming around isolated areas, so who am I to argue?
I like to think we livened up what would otherwise have been a boring day on the job for these five tourist policemen. We dragged them over dune and dale, up rocks, down escarpments, around the lakes and through the oasis city, stopping here and there to photograph obscure bits of the dune-scape. They must have thought we were mad. But they kept up with us. Every sandy step of the way. By the end of it, though, even they were getting interested in the photography -- I think we almost bonded.
We finally parted company 10 hours later -- now that is what I call dedication to the job -- and we were delivered safely back to the Cairo road.
So, mother, put away the worry beads and go off and put the kettle on. In fact, I can easily say I feel safer here than I do in most parts of Dublin.
