Memories for sale
In the heart of old Alexandria, the relics of history are sold off wholesale. Fatemah Farag shops at Al-Attarin
In the wake of the 1952 Officers' Revolution, the foreigners comprising Alexandria's cosmopolitan community upped and left, one after another. We have a clear image of them: Harry Tzalas, Adre Amicien and others have given us bittersweet memoirs of their lives in, and exodus from the city.
But where did all their furniture go? The answer lies in the narrow alleyways of old Alexandria at Attarin market and Souq Al-Sa'ida ("the market of the Upper Egyptians"). The latter is said to be the wholesale supplier of the former; both specialise in old furniture and early 19th century paraphernalia, from old china to the telephone switches that were once state of the art equipment in Kind Farouk's ministries. Carpenters are there in abundance, mending and copying old items of furniture.
Al-Attarin not only sells history, but has created its own. "Everyone here inherited his shop from his grandfather" explained souq merchant Mohamed Hassan, "no one buys into the market, this is a profession that runs strictly in the family."
Some specialise in old doors, others sell furniture; Mohamed Tawfiq's speciality is gramophones and old wall clocks. "I can fix anything that was made to tick," he tells me proudly as we sit on the street, his shop too narrow and cluttered to provide us with space to sit and talk. Stacked around us are items for sale: an old golf bag with clubs, a rusted Coca Cola sign and an old fashioned child's toy. Radios big and small vie for floor space, while the clocks he has fixed line the walls of his shop. He takes great pride in them: "That one is at least 90 years old; the one next to it took me over a month to get working. They all keep perfect time now."
Walking in and out of the tiny shops, I am told that the market was set up at the turn of the century, when the then glamorous city of Alexandria drew to its shores poor farmers and people who had something to run away from. Then, it was considered a town where you could "make it." "Alexandria used to be something else," Ahmed Bayoumi, a second- generation merchant tells me. "At home we have photographs of the way it used to be, with beautiful gardens and many beautiful people."
His neighbour Masoud remembers: "A long time ago I owned a very small plot of land in Sohag with seven brothers. It was no way to live and so three of us came here and started this business." It is obviously a good business in spite of the modest setting. Most of those interviewed were reluctant to talk about their work for fear that the information might reach the tax authorities. But Masoud vouchsafes that "Most of our customers are foreigners. They come from England, France, Belgium and the United States -- from everywhere in the world." And while this clientele is good for business -- they buy in bulk and don't haggle over prices -- it is draining the market, indeed the city, of its heritage.
"They come here to buy their history," muttered Tawfiq, whose father "a native Alexandrian" set up shop in the 1940s. "Today, it is much more difficult to supply the shop. Alexandria hardly has anything left, and every two or three weeks I travel to the cities of the Delta to buy things." "When an Egyptian buys from me," he explains, "sooner or later, in 50 years or maybe a 100, that item will come back to the market. Someone buys a gramophone and years down the line his children break it or lose interest and the market gets it back. The foreigners, however, take it and leave for good."
Tawfiq can no longer provision his shop from Alexandria. He relies on the once-affluent Egyptians of the Delta towns. "Long ago, when lots of furniture was imported for the foreigners, affluent farmers and clerks from the Delta would come to Alexandria to buy things for their children's trousseaus. This is what I am buying now."
Bayoumi concurs: "Alexandria used to be full of stuff because so many foreigners lived here, and this used to be a very active port, boats from Europe came in all the time, and passengers would bring all their furniture with them." Not any more. Many of the merchants have switched to second-hand furniture. According to one merchant: "People come from rural areas to buy this stuff on the cheap. Things are not what they used to be, but it is still a living."
Merchandise is identified as English, French, Italian, Belgian, Turkish or "old Egyptian" -- furniture made locally in imitation of imported wares. "You have to have a good eye to know what's original," smiles one merchant. But Tawfiq is adamant that everyone in the market is honest. He has his own ways of resisting the ravages of time. "I rarely sell to foreigners, and when I do, I never sell in bulk and always ask a much higher price than I would from an Egyptian. And of course there are some things that I simply will not sell." He points to a gramophone, a Pianola and an old radio. "I've bought and sold many things but I've never seen the likes of these. These I keep."
It's not much to hold on to.
"Where are the old days?" Bayoumi wonders. "We look for them in the old movies, in the architecture of the old city and in this old furniture. But these memories are being taken from us piece by piece and all we can do is watch them disappear."
