Matthias Rathmer

Seeds

of

Wrath

Egypt between

revolt and reality

Translated into English by

Deborah Langton

Matthias Rathmer has lived and worked in Cairo for many years. His novels and other writings are available in bookstores, all well-known international online bookshops or at www.epubli.de.

I’ve had these thoughts so often. I’ve dismissed them so often. Is it right to be open about what a country and its people can show you? Can you really believe what you see and hear? Yes, it is right. And yes, you can. And must.

My thanks to my wonderful wife. She proofed the German version with such patience and created a remarkable cover illustration which captures the book to perfection. And she’s been at my side through thick and thin. Thank you for our extraordinary life together.

And thank you to everyone else involved for the ideas and the prompts, intended or not. Apart from a bit of poetic licence, easily spotted, everything did happen as I’ve described it. It was as fun as it was mad.

Copyright © 2016 Matthias Rathmer

Cover illustration: Stephanie Rathmer, acrylic on canvas

Translation ©: Deborah Langton, München

Published by: epubli GmbH, Berlin

www.epubli.de

ISBN

‘Rebellions usually fail, otherwise they’d be revolutions. But a failed rebellion leaves its mark on history, creates an imprint which partially disappears only to reappear later, so it does change the world.’

(Johannes Agnoli)

Darek, my dearest friend! We miss you so much. You were magnificent. You were the truth. Life, and life alone, wanted this. Obeying life won’t work. You’ll stay in our memories forever. You are the best.

Preface

to the English translation

Oh, dear! A couple of weeks after the publication of the German edition of this collection of short stories, I had a visitor. A representative of the Egyptian Ministry of the Interior, or so he made himself out to be, needed clarification. While his escort waited at the garden gate in best bouncer pose, we sat together on the terrace in an almost companionable atmosphere, drank tea and water and chatted through one of the short stories.

The gentleman, who had clearly benefited from a high level European style of education, wanted to know whether I was in possession of certain documents that had come from the Ministry of Education. If that were the case, which it wasn’t, I replied, I certainly wouldn’t pass any such documents on and, more than anything, wouldn’t reveal who’d given them to me, something the visitor was now pressing for. For a while we talked about protection of one’s sources. That didn’t help. For understandable reasons, our opinions remained different.

Without a doubt, he’d read this particular short story. But he hadn’t got it. The content hadn’t required any statistical analysis of the Egyptian education system nor of planned or past reforms. I had simply put down on paper the reality, a deplorable state of affairs, and had let everyone battling with the mismanagement have a chance to speak. It needed no more than that. It had all been said.

Well now, he said at the end of our conversation of barely an hour. He’d only been sent to recover the documents, he told me. The fact that they were not there, at least not with me, meant everything was now clear. I’d have liked to have had a much longer conversation with him, heard more about him and his department over a beer or two. But he politely turned down my invitation. Id had all been said for him, too.

Like I said, the chap was very friendly and very nice. He was educated. He claimed to have read only this one story in the collection. Neither could he say whether colleagues were scrutinising any of the others. So it looked like farewell. Here’s why. Because he knew that I knew how much of a fool he took me for, it was useless to try and say anything further.

It may be that my visitor had actually been asked to do rather more, like finding out if I was a terrorist, an enemy of the state or a just some pathetic hack who needed to be shown his bounds. And I’d probably been able to make it clear to him that none of these applied. Here’s why. All I’d done was observe. Like I did anywhere else.

In the run-up to publication of the German edition I was asked repeatedly if I had any concerns about the possible consequences with the Egyptian authorities. Nearest and dearest saw me banged up ready for deportation at best. What I had written might stir the Egyptians to displeasure, annoyance or wrath, even. And that’s in spite of my seeing and experiencing it all at first hand in their country.

I remain firm in my conviction. We shouldn’t take ourselves too seriously. If a bit of writing like this can help things be seen from a different perspective and be talked through, then it’s achieved a lot. Anyone who cannot, or will not, have this type of discussion, won’t make any difference.

Just to make that clear again. What these short stories and essays relate has already taken place. It’s just reality. At any rate, the reality I saw on these occasions. Where necessary, in order to protect individual rights, I have introduced a few subtleties. If we’re talking fantasy, dreams and imagination, then these are easily recognisable as such. If you’re used to reading with understanding, that is. Quite apart from the fact I do mean well for this country and its people. Truly.

The tale of the belly-dancer came about through several interviews carried out with various authentic characters in the field. Their personal experiences were both risqué and informative. And the two Salafists from Maadi, I really did meet them. Thank God I’ve never heard anything of them since. The desert trip happened exactly as I described it and the motor madness in this country continues at top speed. Even the proceedings inside the Mugamma went exactly as I’ve written. Superhub Jussuf was allowed to carry on his trade as before. And how important President Sisi is for Egypt, well, that seems pretty close to the reality. He hasn’t made any complaints so far, anyway.

Some have lamented the exposure, both large and small-scale, that my writing has given to Egyptians and their society in the piece entitled ‘It’s good to know’. A few readers have seen a degree of malice alongside the fond humour and all the madness. Well, OK. Everyone is entitled to an opinion. But I’ve left it all the same in the translated version. I’m telling you. Anyone who goes around being provocative like the Egyptians do, whether deliberately or not, shouldn’t be surprised at my occasional, admittedly sardonic, remarks.

And finally... To be able to observe, to be permitted to observe. That has been a joy, a gift and a necessity. It was enjoyable, challenging and not always that easy. Not simply to close your eyes to it. At a time like this when, above all in Arabic Muslim lands, any critical voices among journalists and authors are being muzzled, subjected to confused accusations and violence on the part of their supposed rulers, the debate about truthfulness is needed more than ever. Anyone who can’t do both is a problem.

German and English are different. Wow! You don’t say! But it needs mentioning. Germans have failings which they can do something about. But when it comes to the shortcomings of their language when translating it into English, well, that’s not their fault. The language could all too easily end up with a semantic and morphological clumsiness. Overcoming this was the task of the translator.

Deborah! You’ve done a great job. With huge commitment, professionalism and insight you’ve made it possible to bring these tales from another country to a significantly wider audience. I’m really grateful to have had the chance to do this, as well as for our teamwork. Here’s to the next time!

Nick! I’ve given you a lot of hassle! I’m sorry. I can’t imagine anyone more relaxed and composed for putting the final gloss on future projects. You’re a fantastic polisher! If you’re up for it – here’s to the next time, too!

1

Seeds of wrath

Oh, Egypt! What’s to become of you? Your people are proud but their country has achieved little. Your people like to be governed but only until hunger, dissatisfaction and frustration with the future drive them out onto the streets again. And meantime the rich have got richer and the poor have got poorer. One thing’s indisputable. There’s more than one time-bomb’s ticking away along the Nile. Weapons are cocked. Have been for years. Deaths are totted up here like profits anywhere else. Anyone whose faith is different is hunted down. Anyone whose thinking is different is an enemy of the state. Society is deeply divided and reconciliation is not on the radar.

It’s true the fight with the demons has gone a bit quiet. But the conflict remains unresolved. Something else is indisputable: another storm will break. Because sooner or later, however patient and self-assured Egyptians are, however resilient their homeland – its ruler and his elite are again on course to test to breaking point that typically Egyptian desire for hope. Then it fizzes over again, that typically Egyptian boundless energy which will lead straight to the next outburst of fury. But hang on. Let’s look at this in the right order.

First up, the people do have other characteristics which are both important and positive. There’s a primeval quality that ought to make us feel they really can do peace and justice.

The fact that they can’t is for different reasons. The vast majority of Egyptians really are exceptionally peace-loving modern people. Yes, really. In many places they are by nature so friendly that you’ll struggle shamefully with their openness. They’ll often demonstrate an admirable, spontaneous readiness to help, especially towards foreigners. Their equanimity, their Mediterranean charm and their hospitality could really teach Europeans, especially we rule-loving Germans, more than just a thing or two about more life-enhancing qualities than the usual mental and spiritual toil of western culture. OK. Not always. But mostly. And that’s the same everywhere.

Most Egyptians have the usual human shortcomings, just like everyone else on the planet. Eliminating these is as demanding as it is challenging and so the problem isn’t addressed. They, too, strive to satisfy the basic human needs of security, safety and prosperity like people do in every corner of this crazy world. You could say they take a quantitative approach, so with a huge scale retreat into their own private lives. And, amazingly, they also take a qualitative approach, in the knowledge that it’s better to live with disappointments than with shattered illusions. Millions of Egyptians, male and female, oldsters or children, persist in the assurance, perhaps closely associated with their faith, that everything comes to he who waits. Sooner or later. Millions of people just want a quiet life.

But despite everything that goes on, life here could be good, especially for foreigners with no money worries, were it not for one particular national characteristic kept hidden in everyday encounters. Warm and open-hearted as they are wherever they meet you, they do also have in essence a particular state of mind found in many parts of the land. It’s often concealed, kept in check. Woe betide you if you trigger it. Their wrath. Once stirred, never mind who or what by, this trait will make its presence felt with a speed the average European can’t handle. Anger usually comes first, annoyance, indignation or an insult. That’s when the soul starts to seethe and the veins pulse. One wrong word can suffice for an outburst of emotion in which all sense of balance is lost. And if an Egyptian’s sense of honour is constantly disregarded and, with it, his sense of justice, then any perspective he ever had on personal fulfilment is lost; the wrath of one individual morphs into the uncontrolled energy of the masses, once so feared by every pharaoh.

Those ‘Days of Wrath’ have had a long-lasting impact on Egypt. The people had put up with it for long enough. They’d lived under the regime of President Hosni Mubarak for thirty years before they streamed onto the streets in January and February 2011, inspired by the Jasmine Revolution in Tunisia. They stayed out on the streets and squares for well over two weeks, protesting about Mubarak’s authoritarian rule with its characteristic security machine, about not having any say, about the refusal to reform, abuse of office and corruption in the state, the economy and the civil service.

Today, a few years on from the national unrest and the rebellion (nothing more than this) , still pitifully referred to by many Egyptians as the ‘Revolution’, there is another autocrat ruling the land, as much of a dictator and despot as ex-president Mubarak and his government were. The first free elections in the country after his removal were won by the Muslim Brotherhood. They were the only viable opposition party who could organise themselves fast enough. Their victory, and what they actually wanted and how they went about it, brought the Egyptians a further variation of that embittered rage which typifies the country to this very day.

First of all they were upset with the covert rulers, more than anything the military, a force in society without whose goodwill and agreement nobody in the Nile can expect to govern. Indignation came next, worry about the threat of a distinctly conservative Islamisation, anger about questionable political decisions, outrage at the lamentable level of competence. The Muslim Brotherhood had never been liked. Now they were leading Egypt straight to disaster. Insolvency and economic collapse threatened. Every month the sense of wrath increased, so much so that a military coup put an end to the spectre of the Muslim Brotherhood. General Sisi removed Morsi.

Since then Muslim Brothers have been, and still are, severely under attack, forced underground again, declared a terrorist organisation, their leaders and followers alike mercilessly hunted down, arrested or killed. The consequences are all too clear. Wrath has again been stirred; this time amongst the suppressed and to such an extent that its response to the violence wrought against it cannot be more aggressive and brutal. They bomb and kill in fury. Their wrath has turned to loathing. Hardly a week passes without reports of deadly soldiers, police or members of government murdered in response to the murder and terror directed at the Muslim Brothers. Sow the seeds of wrath and wrath is what you’ll get. Suppression triggers brutality. And although all involved claim to be various shades of practising Muslim, the lives of others cease to be sacred because retaliation defines all behaviours.

On top of that, as if this merciless domestic hostility between the powerful and the powerless is not already burden enough, there are quite a few others knocking about the place – the sympathisers and the cosmopolitan – who are also defined by violence and cannot tolerate those around them. Islamists, Salafists, Jihadists, Extremists, Terrorists, and Fundamentalists – if representatives of these groups were to confront one another out in the country’s deserts, they themselves wouldn’t know who, or what, the others were.

There is one particularly difficult struggle going on. In the north of the Sinai Peninsula the Egyptian army is fighting bravely and unsuccessfully against an offshoot of the so-called ‘Islamic State’. Egypt is part of the Arab front opposing the slaughter and barbaric deeds of this self-styled theocracy. The bestial acts of terror in Paris in November 2015 were condemned in the strongest possible terms by president Sisi. And in doing so, he also asked for better help in his fight, and more than anything more respect for it, against the people who were threatening his country, his people and every single stabilising achievement, however small, in the process of rebuilding.

Something often gets forgotten. Without ever wanting to, Egypt has become part of that gateway to hell created some years ago by the irresponsible and desperate foreign policy of the west in the Near and Middle East.

Sisi and the army are fighting a tough, relentless battle on several fronts against the murdering lunacy of so-called ‘Islamic State’, against the terrorist threats coming from Libya and against the radical Muslim Brothers. No voices are raised against this stance, nobody is there who remembers that this level of terrorism cannot be dealt with militarily. Quite the opposite. The President has prepared the population for the fact that this could be a long fight. The fact that his approach also includes the elimination of all oppositional forces for the maintenance and development of his own power in the country, does not really seem to bother anyone. Because the media, especially the elements he’s not so fond of, have long been switched off by the necessary laws, only very few people still know how much success there has been in the violent struggle is. And how little.

Any foreigner planning to stay in this country any longer than the duration of a normal holiday must at the very least understand the Egyptian people, what is happening in their country in these turbulent times, what makes them tick and what stirs them up. Given that the government and its opponents are fighting it out to the last breath, millions of Egyptians are living extraordinarily calmly with terror and with death. With good reason. And it’s a tradition, anyway.

So, as already said, they’re friendly people, outgoing and enquiring. They’re mostly hard-working, excitable and those who live in the city are loud and lively, apparently quite unable to bear a silence. They bother to make their own luck, given the affluence of the west before them, the poverty of their own continent behind. It would be good to get a handle on their pace of life, their wishes and their concerns. It’s like all over the world. Egyptians are fighting for their personal luck like anybody else.

But at the end of a day spent in the thick of their ways of doing and being, there’s still always something that can’t quite be grasped. That feel-good sense of wonder, that exquisite feeling of delight that travellers are hooked on gradually slips into a sense of disappointment. By the end of the week the longing for enchantment has been reined in. The mind struggles with its loss and the spirit with incomprehension as to whether you can have a decent life in a system not fit for purpose.

Next come feelings of confusion and bewilderment. Then, by the end of the month, the questions are crowding in about the point of trying to get along. That’s when the realisation kicks in; how big a show it all is and how limited the awareness. And then a whole year’s gone by and you’re still wondering how on earth people can live in this non-society with a perception which, at best, recognises the moment, and in a lethargy which stems from a whole society that is alienated because one or two of the lead guard want it that way.

But then again, it’s what the people of Egypt are, and the way they are, that can actually be so stimulating and exciting; their lightness of being and their uncomplicated satisfaction. And yet because millions try, quite logically, to flee the national dilemma by withdrawing into their private life with its healing qualities of peace and comfort, the whole country remains unreconciled with itself and a national catastrophe has been evolving during the course of which people carry on living as a matter of routine. Never mind whether it’s reasonable.

The rebellion of the Arab Spring, expected to bring so much to so many, has actually taken Egypt a step backwards. The Mubarak regime was to give way and, with it, all the social injustice, the nepotism and corruption. Then came a historic experiment with the Morsi government, the desire for a modern state marked out by democracy. A lamentable failure. Now there’s another ex-General in power, reacting to the insanity of violent acts of terrorism with equal military toughness and brutality. With the middle of 2016 violence has decreased. But! How long will it take?

Egyptians have been living with this dual between evils for more than two years. The country is smeared with traces of blood, branded with death and terror. Violence and counter-violence are routine. The Muslim Brotherhood and the government hate one another. Mutual demonisation. Once there’s a layer of contempt, forgive and forget no longer works. Whether in secret and silence or publicly and passionately. Millions are celebrating a President who shows no mercy. Millions are suffering under this dictatorship. And even more simply want some peace, and that’s in spite of all the crises, in spite of the desperately spiralling cost of even the simplest of lifestyles, something which makes every new day a colossal challenge.

And there’s more. The vast majority of Egyptians are peace-loving people. They’re always keen to help, are mostly friendly, often interested in everything and will always take the trouble. If one or two of them don’t quite manage the eagerness expected of them, and if the urban types of Cairo, Alexandria, Suez, Luxor and Assuan are on a shorter fuse than those in the country, and are more grasping and pushy, then given the millions competing with all the challenges, it’s hardly surprising.

If they can do it or not. Egyptians love order more than anything. They like to know that things are regulated. Going back to Ancient Egypt, the people feared nothing more than the loss of their cosmic force due to a weak Pharaoh and believed this would cause them to slide into chaos. History repeats itself and not only in another ‘revolution’ that consumes its children.

In between the Old Kingdom, the building of the Pyramids, the Middle Kingdom, the heyday of art and literature, the New Kingdom, the era of the master builders, and the later period when the Persians reigned supreme over Egypt, there always came a period of anarchy, of disorder and confusion during which the country would be divided or ruled over by outsiders. Scholars describe these as interim periods. And Egypt is living through one such period now. That’s to say. The problems of now are homemade and typical for human beings in our century.

The fundamental causes of the conflict in Egyptian society are absolutely not, as the west all too hastily and insensitively decrees, about Islam or ethnic disputes. The bitter battle is motivated entirely by worldly matters. With Sisi’s blessing and protection, a few elite groups in a different guise are today defending their economic and political positions of power. They’re quite unscrupulously lining their own pockets, helping themselves to huge portions of the country’s resource only then to squander it, and blocking any development towards a modern society. They obstruct the building of any useful infrastructure and grossly neglect all education and vocational training for the younger generation. It was no different under president Mubarak. And those who were eventually democratically elected would have treated the country in exactly the same way had they not been toppled by the military.

In the naïve expectations of the west, the Muslim Brotherhood were, on account of this perceived success, almost feted and viewed as the harbinger of a democratic development. They, of all people, were romantically idealised as bearers of the salvation of western values of freedom and democracy. What was forgotten was the reality of their special parts of history, the waves of violence and the bloody assassination attempts, their closeness to well-known terrorist organisations in the region and their readiness to break any law, without hesitation, to serve their own interests.

When, after decades spent underground as an illegal organisation, they replaced the President with Mohammed Morsi after their 2012 election win, they tried everything, and did so in a totally undemocratic way, to ensure the power they had won was exercised by them alone and without challenge. Only about one third of Egyptians had voted to bring them to power. And a dialogue with those who had not voted for them did not take place. They made a high-speed assault on the constitution so as to establish their vision of an Islamic Egypt. Their inadequacy and incompetence became increasingly apparent. Once the mass protests started, they clung greedily and immovably to their office and their ideology.

Beyond dispute is this. Sisi’s military coup brought a premature and unlawful end to initial training in democracy. Now the Egyptians are actually living under a dictatorship again, although they themselves like to see it rather differently given their political inexperience. But the violence emerging from the Muslim Brothers and the terrorist brigades with whom they are friends, is revealing yet more about them. Anyone who, in wrathful brutality and unscrupulous greed blows up and murders his political opponents, loses every right to a fair debate. Their justification for attacking ‘only’ state representatives and institutions is in itself a tacky farce. Even soldiers have families, even judges are human. The terror wrought by the Muslim Brothers shows uniquely how little a conservative form of Islam under brand Morsi would have been able to stand democracy.

All of a sudden many Egyptians were shocked at what they themselves had brought about. Because they had not taken part in the voting, they were now supposed to live under the strict rules of a conservative form of Islam. Just as the protests grew daily, so the wrath of the masses was stirred once more. Many are still enthused that it was Sisi and his army who drove out Morsi and his followers. The former General became saviour of the whole nation.

That Sisi doesn’t want real democracy either and reacts to violence with violence is viewed by most Egyptians as a necessary evil. He has created order. And that includes all those unprepared to bend. Now, because Muslim Brothers are, as far as is possible, switched off, he goes in pursuit of the secular opposition the moment they dare criticise his regime. In the name of a global security, of the new hard line, all is allowed. Many of the activists of old who once took the streets by storm are still mysteriously vanishing. Then they turn up again weeks later after interrogation, torture and threat. Very few people have any concerns about this. Egypt has become the torture capital, quietly, secretly, and yet so brutishly. Most Egyptians can live with that. It’s called nameless cowardice in civil affairs.

In the weeks and months before 25 January 2016, state repression of liberals, or groups with different thinking, had attained a degree of severity and intransigence that was unknown even in the Mubarak era. Anyone not with us, is against us and must be a Muslim Brother. That’s the watchword in vogue. Human rights organisations ascribe to Sisi and those who serve him the greatest wave of intimidation of dissidents in modern history. There are announcements almost daily about organisations being searched and shut down, and detention of activists, bloggers, photographers and journalists. There’s no doubt about it. The regime is worried.

During the run-up to the fifth anniversary of the so-called ‘Revolution’ every critical voice capable of stirring up the masses is expected to be silenced. Social networks already indicate that this dictatorial course of action creates more disquiet and resentment. At all levels of the population, resistance is getting louder. Like before. And then, one day, it’s back, the wrath of the people. Wrath born of wrath.

The mood suggests that a certain sullenness has spread amongst the one-time rebels and their followers. The people who once raged with such energy, who fought on the city streets with a pride in justice, who wanted a democracy but with only a vague idea of what it is and yet so passionate and enthusiastic. Those with control over their existence have long become indifferent. They’ve got enough money or they’ve left the country, or they wearily calm down, wallow in individualism and go their own, narcissistic way.

And then there are all the meek and the mild, those who know nothing because they have never had any schooling, no teachers to stimulate their minds and talents, together with all the poor who prefer to place their fate in the hands of their god because what’s needed in life’s daily battles is some support. In the final analysis it has turned out like it always has in the history of mankind, when the individual has no idea how to come to a suitable arrangement with the state and, in any case, did not know which worldly powers had pulled strings behind the scenes.

The approach back then was to do everything at top volume and in glorious technicolour. Energetic, combative, true to the Egyptian mentality, they wanted democracy yesterday, tomorrow at the latest, in its entirety. It was seen on the internet as a vision of salvation, presented primarily by young, western-oriented citizens from the cities. They’d forgotten about all the others, the old, the mass of believers, the people outside the city, the uneducated and all those with less knowledge. And they had nothing more than impetuous desires, no knowledge, no experience, no new political culture, no new parties ready to form a union or a coalition, no figures of leadership, no structures, no dedicated constitution, no power-sharing and absolutely no politically mature citizens.

And when, after the first free elections, the Muslim Brotherhood came into government, hundreds and thousands stepped up to the barricades again, more enraged, more disappointed, more frustrated, not wanting them, of all people. Torn in two, stirred to a wrath that claims the soul, the deaths of brothers and sisters part of the calculation, murdered, hunted down and driven out – first the army was able to get some stability back but with yet more violence, with yet more deaths. And so it stayed as it was going to be, at best a storm in a teacup. And today a former General rules the country, a representative of the military which, as guarantor of power, functions in exactly the same way as Islam.

Sooner or later any outsider, here as a guest of Egypt, will ask why the Egyptians make so little of what they have, why for years there has been daily repetition of the same mistakes. In many case the reasons are, superficially at least, quite obvious. The military and the ruling powers keep, and have always kept, the country under their control economically and socially. Many business sectors and markets are owned by a very small number of fat cats who view the core values and creation of a free, social market economy as a threat to their own positions of power. Corruption and nepotism stir up a sense of social injustice in the young, and do so to a dangerous degree. The massive bureaucracy of an overblown administrative machine gets in the way of any independent initiative. And the state education system offers inadequate preparation for anyone who is then supposed later to run it.

This paradox leaves everyone shaking their heads in bewilderment because the potential is undoubtedly there for prosperity and fairer distribution. The conditions for economic development are highly favourable. Egypt has the benefit of a huge domestic market. There are ninety million consumers to satisfy. The country lies at the interface of the surface route from Africa to Asia and the sea route from Europe through Suez to the Indian Ocean. As the largest country in the Middle East in the most strategically important location, Egypt enjoys the attention of world powers and does so very much to her own advantage. There are trade agreements with the most significant markets, Europe and North America. What is more, the country has appreciable sources of energy. While oil and gas are dwindling, energy generated by wind, water and sun are available in almost unlimited quantities. Even the supply of tourists is still nowhere near exhausted.

And it’s obvious. All the troubles of the past do mean there’s a huge price to pay in economic terms. Investors beat a hasty retreat, others were never serious in the first place. The government continues to pay out far too many subsidies and unemployment and poverty are at unacceptable levels. But the Egyptians are at the ready. They want to work, and hard. Although not all of them are particularly qualified, the motivation’s there. In most. But more than any, it’s the millions of young Egyptians who are pushing to escape the downward spiral once and for all. And besides. There is a real fear of what all today’s troubles will bring in the future. Egyptian’s population is exploding. With population growth of almost two per cent, that’s one and a half million more people to be provided for each year.

As already said, an elitist clique, notably the military, stands in the way of change and all the much needed developments. They do not want to share, and are incapable of doing so. But it would be simplistic to ascribe every problem in the country to them. The biggest of all challenges is actually the individual. More than all of these deplorably managed economic and market affairs, the people have one basic problem and that’s with themselves and their identity. The average Egyptian thinks first only of his own advancement, and that means his own and that of his family. Me, myself and I. You do what you want, I’ll make my own way. The Egyptian people do not want to be a society, and are not able to be one, either. If a clinical condition could be ascribed to Egypt, it would social paralysis from the neck down.

What cuts across all strata of society is this frightening sense of individualism. There’s no such thing as self-reflection, readiness to take responsibility or contribute to a supportive society. The mere mention of social capability and social intelligence mostly brings only questioning looks. The narcissism in this place is quite unbearable. And yet at the same time it is a matter of indifference as to how much people own or have in the bank. The usual social norms buzz with nothing more than hearsay. And yet in many places an Egyptian behaves and thinks, if he does ever think at all, without any regard for the interests and needs of those around him. Observations like this are neither arrogant nor racist. They are the reality.

It was because of these shortcomings that their little rebellion, the Arab Spring, failed. And it is significant that it did not start with Egypt. Even if the individual has no idea what should be written in an agreement with the state, every communal protest remains a short-lived awakening but with no end-point, no strategy and no objective. There are millions over millions of wishes expecting to be fulfilled.

I want dignity and prosperity but have not understood that this means giving a little. To step back and not take oneself so seriously – anyone who lives purely for the here and now, as do Egyptians, has not learnt anything, will not learn anything and so can’t organise anything. Quite apart from the fact that regular tax contributions really are an exceptionally useful way of getting a supportive society off the mark. Plenty want it but nobody wants to cough up for it.

It is quite typical of the Egyptians to go in for something which is supposed to bring rapid improvement for the individual and yet to go about it with no clear perception of the realities, with no awareness, and a naïve national emotionalism that’s almost unbridled. I want what other people have got. I can do what other people can do. I want democracy. I want it tomorrow. And if it’s not here by the day after, then I don’t want it anymore. It was this same attitude and behaviour that flipped ex-President Morsi into power. Yes! Yalla! We want the Muslim Brotherhood, we want change, out with the old regime. But sharia law, any toughening of Islamic legal provision in public life, hey, we don’t want that.

That’s why it now suits the Egyptians, as their disappointing participation in the last elections has shown, to go all huffy and stick their heads in the desert sand. All because they didn’t get what they wanted and didn’t get it yesterday, whatever it was they’d been after. Quite apart from the fact that pretty much every candidate up for election came out only with slogans in line with the government. Now it’s back, that general sense of powerlessness, the paralysis of an unnamed civil cowardice which is, in many places, veiled in a religious lethargy of Islam, characterised by humility and obedience because man, directed by God – according to his strong faith – carries no guilt for his behaviour. If God doesn’t want all that, then I can’t do anything, anyway. Really anything.

Yet again the Egyptians are in the stranglehold of the rich and powerful. Yet again military top brass are in control. And yet again, they want no redistribution of anything. A small group of players keep the people in ignorance and poverty because if they were to change anything, then they themselves would become the oppressed. That’s how it is. That’s how Egyptian society has given President Sisi and his government such a reception. He makes sure there’s peace in his own ranks so that the withdrawal into private life, mostly into a patriarchy, can take place without disturbance.

Because I can’t change anything else anyhow. That’s how Egyptians like to be governed. But there’s also this emotion which so typifies the nation, and that’s the sense of wrath, the social impact of which has not been reckoned with.

At the end of October 2015, when the Russian Metrojet Airbus came down over Sinai, there were no survivors among the two hundred and twenty four mostly Russian passengers and crew. During the flight from Sharm al Sheikh to St Petersburg a bomb exploded on board. The savages belonging to so-called Islamic State admitted responsibility. As a direct consequence of the incident, numerous international airlines stopped all flights to the popular holiday spot.

For the victims and their relatives this tragedy had its own special significance but it had a yet further destructive element. Just as Egypt’s important tourist trade had started to recoup some of the heavy losses sustained over the years, with bookings buoyant and money being spent, now the holidaymakers stayed away in their droves after the plane crash. This new disaster and its consequences point up a key problem with Egypt. The place is desperately dependent on doing business with tourists. Cash subdues wrath.

Germans are not the only Europeans to prick up their ears when there are issues in this country. They are wondering whether they can still have a fancy holiday at prices that won’t push them back into overdraft. Instead of the Lakes and Mountains coach tour, surely it’ll be OK to go back to all the fun of the Nile once the Egyptians have calmed down again. But, according to European security sources, they haven’t. Light-heartedness doesn’t look like this. And those Arabs in North Africa, they’ve always been unpredictable, ever since that funny rebellion of theirs.

And besides. The centres of tourism between the pyramids and the Red Sea, between the Mediterranean coast and the Aswan Dam are quite safe. Well, as safe as anything can be. Even in deepest Bavaria, a falling roof-tile could land on your head. These Ali Baba types and their mates have got their eye on Majorca, too. The Egyptians do loads, really loads, to protect those areas. But entirely for their own purposes. That their tourist offering needs a thorough overhaul, that fresh ideas and independent thinking are not only useful but also bring valuable income, these are all things that Egyptians still have to learn.

It’s like this. Egypt and the Middle East have, like several other classic holiday destinations, become in recent years too complicated for any restful holiday in the ideal, sophisticated eastern style. If package holidays in a particular country are being warned against, then it means there’s something wrong with that destination and, for the average German, the average Egyptian is no longer worth running up credit for. This has fatal outcomes because now, more than ever, they desperately need every incoming flight to be full. Precisely because personal prosperity is balm to the soul of every Egyptian, the bikini-clad millions must come back, even if this means more money for the national and international business cliques.

Tourists of the world, unite! Come on over and visit! Come and form your own impression! It’ll be quite different from the one created by the frenzied, irresponsible headlines spewed out everywhere by the west’s gawping tabloids. Provided you don’t come here wanting to ask, live and in real time, one of the so-called Islamic State nutcases how his Mum is; and you don’t want to go on a desert run with arms smugglers and terrorists from Libya; and you don’t try to explain the Muslim Brotherhood that paradise doesn’t exist; provided you conduct yourself as you would expect an Egyptian to if he steps into your world and your local pub, then you’ll be as safe as you can ever be anywhere in this mad world.

Any foreigner living here as a guest wonders sooner or later who, and with what kind of lifestyle, actually manages to find any enrichment. When different cultures in private life nudge up against the boundaries of tolerance, then conflicts both big and small are only too likely to result. They are often argued out quite openly and honestly even if there is no solution. Some sort of way of living together is arrived at and shapes the everyday. Egyptians are masters at this.

Anyone who knows how to get round the shortcomings, anyone perceived to bring benefits for others, will inevitably come to the fore in dealing with foreigners, given a marked aptitude for insight and a herculean ability to compromise. In shocking contrast to the practical intelligence brought by the individual, there is indecision, yes, dishonesty, on the political stage. Diplomats and politicians on both sides are mutating into hypocrites.

Since the revolt, it has been said, and still is, that the west has to make a decision once and for all. In between two poles, there’s a real dog’s breakfast. At the one extreme, a suitable realpolitik with the Egyptian government. At the other, an implementation of the constantly propagated values of a basic democracy based on freedom. This is exactly what happened when President Sisi visited Germany in June 2015. While he was welcomed by Chancellor Merkel with military honours, the President of the Bundestag and second in the state at the time, Norbert Lammert, representative of a highly regulated, democratically elected parliament, had distanced himself from Sisi well in advance.

It was just to the taste of the Egyptian leader, himself a former General, to march in to brisk military music performed by people in the smartest of military uniforms. He always liked this kind of show. The fact that behind this polite posing he had been attacked for his harassment of the Muslim Brotherhood and of the opposition, and had been asked to think just a little, from time to time, about human rights, was met with his familiar broad smile. He knew. He was needed. Egypt is needed. After all, that was what the visit was all about. Because between east and west the land of the Nile is the last, reasonably stable Islamic country in a religion which is constantly characterised by the merciless terrorism of extremist lunatics and other radical Muslims of the trouble spots of Libya, Yemen, Syria and Iraq.

In reality the visit was no more than a bit of political theatre, embarrassing at times, performed for the public by Merkel and Sisi. It was a production of meaningless babble with which one of them faced the other for the first time and which the other had to endure. In all conflicts one stays engaged as a way of sending out a sign to those watching. Of course. It is already important enough to have general agreement on defence and on fighting local and national threats but beyond that Egypt is of little significance to Germany, neither economically nor politically. But.

The actual influence of the Germans on the Egyptians was, in the past, almost always hugely overestimated. In the tradition of all Egyptian Presidents, the glowing militarist, Sisi, does not allow himself to be drawn into talking about his appearance as an insurgent in the turmoil of the troubles, and absolutely not as an Islamic male who would tolerate neither the sexual orientation of the former Foreign Secretary nor the weaponry of such a commanding woman.

Anyone who has followed Sisi’s rise will know how much the soldier in him dominates his manner. Anyone who watches Sisi knows how sharp and strategic he can be. And anyone who knows him will realise how much of an influence Islam is. All these characteristics make it very obvious how little of a democrat he is. And anyone who has had to get to know the country and the people will also know that it really does rather lack anything that could make for a free, democratically organised country, most especially mature, educated citizens. Democracy will be developed and established only in protracted and complex stages. Simply to try and import it, all wrapped up by the west, made in the image of the west, will be doomed to failure for that very reason, quit apart from another basic issue about how democratic Islamic countries can actually, fundamentally, be.

If the west, including the United States, continues to claim to have political relevance and influence in Egypt, then that really is a consciously dishonest act, a fudging of reality which it will take a lot of persistence to persuade others to believe. Sisi just accepts money. That’s all he does. Subsidies from selected areas for the Egyptian army had definitely been stopped in 2013. But millions of US dollars started to flow out of Washington again, in the age-old tradition, as did the millions of euro from Berlin for science and for schools, and all quite independently of political developments in Egypt.

So, as still seen and reported, these subsidies do not mean that Sisi has made concessions on policy or human rights. In the diplomatic tit for tat, there is simply nobody there who comes across as intelligible and who, more than anything, wants things to happen. Nobody is resolute about axing the annual bank transfers of dollars and euros if Sisi continues to refuse a dialogue about freedom and basic rights with his ideological opponents. In the long battle against Islamic militants in an unstable region, Egypt is quite simply needed too much. That alone is enough to give up on human rights and a reconciliation with Egyptian society.

Sisi is shrewd. He has given back to the Egyptians something which keeps a large part of society calm. And still does. Egyptians can be proud of their country again, maybe because the new Suez Canal was completed in record time. That certainly gives energy and importance, particularly for the dissatisfied and the protesters. Meantime the President is, above all, a man of the army. And the Egyptian army owns almost half the economic power in the land. Without the military, nothing happens. Nothing. It’s been like that for decades. Ever since the appearance of a certain General Nasser in the nineteen fifties. It would be laughable to believe that any of these gents, the Generals, would let their business dealings and influential activities be interfered with by any remotely democratic social grouping. So long as these soldiers wield such enormous power, so long as all those who can remember – whether loudly or timidly – the value system of the west, will do very well not to lose hope. This will be in itself both burden and task for the future. For decades to come, Egypt will definitely not be a democratic state.

Sisi has long since hooked himself and the country up in quite a different way. Sisi really likes entering into pacts with Russia and China because they’re good for business, all the more so with the financial world and shared values of influential Arab states. This clique of leading Gulf States, more than anything Saudi Arabia, favour an Islam they can control, moderate, direct. Together, they march in step against that form of Islamisation they can very much do without. For the same reasons given by Sisi for his constant, unbending battle against the Muslim Brotherhood, the sheikdoms are fearful that the conservative and more fundamental interpretations of the Koran recently becoming apparent will cause the future loss of reforms. Moderate Islam assures the status quo. It keeps the faithful in a state of mental immaturity.

Talking of Islam. Religion is the opiate of the masses. That’s what Marx said. Under the influence and ensnared, then. That’s how it should stay, my Egyptian friends. It isn’t right to have a go at you because of all this. To you, your religion is sacred. Full-stop. However much the mind fights against being determined by the transcendental, whether these are stories or people – peaceful Islam, like any other religion, isn’t at all a bad force for getting along with one another. So when a taxi-driver, after an accident that’s his fault, declares that it was actually Allah behind the wheel, the influence of faith on real events can at least be given some thought. Millions of Egyptians live with this idea. The problem isn’t that they believe. It’s their chronic sense of fatalism that’s so worrying.

Just one final aspect of your preparation for what has been written here about your country. I’m talking now to all my Egyptian friends. Because it is well-known how easy it is to incur your displeasure, and so as not to offend you at a moment’s notice, here is one important tip. What you might consider to be ridicule and disdain is commonly known as satire.

Sometimes satire hurts. Deliberately. But satire is no more than an exaggerated form of words that explains the management and mismanagement of society. And those who indulge in it are only trying to find a form of words which will bring about a change of the better. So, before you send out your aliens policing authority with a reprimand, do make an effort not always to want a German car, and a German car alone just because it comes from what you call Alemannia. Can you already manage a smile? Then we’ll be OK!

2

Two and two make I don’t know

‘What do two and two make?’ Rania, the teacher, asks the group as she picks up a piece of chalk and writes the numbers on the board. When she makes the downward stroke and turns the corner for the right-angle, the chalk screeches on the dark green surface.

They’re all lined up in the classroom like organ pipes; the little ones at the front, the big ones behind. In between are the ones who have never really been sure of their place. The tables and chairs have obviously been brought together piecemeal from all over. The room is light and clean. In spite of the heat outside the working temperature is bearable. On the wall are children’s paintings, number charts in Arabic and posters about the charity.

A few of the children groan loudly about the dreadful noise, some have covered their ears while others eagerly lean forward, each with a hand enthusiastically raised, the index finger pointing excitedly to show they know the answer.

‘I know! I know!’ some call out, almost begging to be allowed to shine for the sheer logic of their calculation.

Rania had used a different technique with the chalk to shape the second number. Now she stands in front of the class. She’s wearing a white summer dress and smiling gently. Her gestures for the children to be quiet have only a very gradual effect. ‘Habir!’ she eventually calls out.

All those with arms raised now lower them immediately as a matter of course. It’s quiet. Unusually quiet for a gang of schoolchildren of this age. One girl holds her hands against both sides of her face while her elbows press hard into the table.

‘What do you think?’ Rania is asking again. ‘If I’ve got two apples. Then I get two more, how many have I got altogether?’

Little Habir maintains an embarrassed silence and shifts uncomfortably on her seat. She’s squirming. She buries her face. It’s quite clear she doesn’t know the answer.

‘Come on now, Habir. You knew the answer last week. What did we learn? Can you remember?’

The girl, probably around ten or eleven, is looking even more intimidated. Then her expression hardens and she stares straight ahead as if to protest against being led further into showing her ignorance.

A little boy from the row in front turns to Habir, presses his thumb as firmly as he can into his own palm and shows her the remaining four fingers.

‘Mahmoud! You know what the rules are. Tell me how many apples there are if every one of you has the number of apples I want to hear Habir say.’

The boy turns away immediately and starts counting up on his fingers. It’s gone even quieter.

Meanwhile Rania has gone over to young Habir’s table. She puts down two pieces of chalk. Then two more.

First the girl looks up at her with huge, frightened eyes. Slowly she turns her gaze to the small, white sticks on the table in front of her. She agonises, closes her eyes, leans back and stares straight ahead again.

‘They‘re not apples,’ a mystery voice enlightens them all from the back.

‘Habir! Two and two are…’ Rania tries patiently to help and places all four pieces of chalk on the table at the same time. She crouches down to put herself at the same level as the girl’s desk.

‘I don’t know,’ the child says with a sob in her voice and cradles her face in her arms with the shame of it all. She starts to cry. Not even the gentlest of words can console her.

There were touching moments aplenty that day. But the impact of witnessing this girl’s despair at not being able to do simple addition went beyond all other emotions. Later on, when she was skipping around at break with the other girls, she was shouting out the answer the whole time. ‘Four! Four! Four! I know the answer! Four!’

Perhaps she’d been nervous. Maybe my being there had unsettled her. And yet once Rania had explained to me that little Habir had only been attending school regularly for a couple of weeks and that she suffered from severe learning difficulties, I thought it highly likely she’d still struggle if asked to imagine three plus three bananas instead of two plus two apples.

I was in Manshiet Nasser, a settlement in Cairo roughly halfway between the centre and the Al Azhar University, situated at the foot of the Muqattam range of hills. More than six hundred thousand Egyptians live here. The majority of the homes and hovels had been thrown up illegally over several decades. And still hundreds upon hundreds of people went on moving in, people who hadn’t managed to make a go of things elsewhere in the city, people who had no choice other than to live in these wrecks of largely unfinished buildings.

Informally, as the city council likes to describe it, the Zabbaleen, or rubbish collectors, have also settled here. Nobody knows their exact number. Estimates suggest sixty thousand. With their donkey-carts piled high or their mini pickups, mostly clapped out, they’re immediately known to everybody as an indispensable part of the Cairo street scene. Thousands of families, mostly Coptic Christians, work not only as supplementary rubbish collectors but many more specialise in marshalling and recycling a huge range of materials.

The moment you drive into the area you can’t miss the mountains of plastic bottles, cans, old textiles or cardboard. Dozens of huge, white refuse sacks made out of jute are stacked alongside one another. Collections of metal, glass and food waste lay next to them. Scrapped electricals, pieces of cable and wood. The more expensive the raw materials, the more men there are hanging around to guard them. Instructions are being barked out. Voices shout for order. Tons of this rubbish is stored in derelict clinker buildings. It extends from one corner to the next and from street to street. The stink of rubbish, decay and decomposition is almost overpowering. Countless cats and their pups are on the prowl. Pigs are being kept in a roughly built pen in a backyard. A swarm of carts and trucks trundle back and forth, loaded to the gunnels with the overnight pickings from every nook and cranny in the city.

Further east is the huge cave church of St Sama’an, the largest Coptic church in the Middle East. On high days and holidays it is packed and more than ten thousand faithful pray within these impressive architectural surroundings. I had arranged to meet her halfway there. She was on time, as she politely but firmly made it clear on the phone to me while I sat in a taxi waiting for the dispersal of a traffic jam caused by a small delivery truck.

The smells emanating from every pore of this district were now well-nigh intolerable and my ears were being subjected to an unbearable level of noise. Children and youngsters darted here and there, climbed up on the waste tips or gave the men a hand. Weighty sacks were emptied or filled, then dropped moments later onto a loading area. Enormous container trucks waited to receive recycling materials. A bulldozer and a digger made endless deliveries. If something fell to the ground then it had to be retrieved come what may. Then at last. I was on the way out of this stench and roar. I could see her some way off. She was flagging down a taxi. She got in. Her freshness and energy did not really sit well with this environment, I thought as we greeted one another. I still had no idea just how extraordinary this day was going to turn out.

Rania isn’t her real name. When we’d arranged this meeting, she’d made it extremely clear that neither her identity nor any photos were to be published. She explained her fear of what she described as unpleasantness from the authorities because sooner or later I was going to ask her about the conditions which marked out the whole dilemma facing school policy in Egypt. This is where anonymity is a useful self-preservation tool. The system and those upholding it did not welcome any critical voices.

Rania was a teacher from another district. She was in her late twenties, married with two children. She came here once a week, to one of those poor districts of Cairo that is Manshiet Nasser, to the Rubbish Collectors’ slums, to do voluntary work with five other teachers at the school run by the organisation, Stephen’s Children.

The building extends over two floors and does have windows and doors, one feature alone which sets it apart from the numerous ruined buildings in the neighbourhood. Donations and extemporised art shows have made its existence possible. The welfare people call this sort of place a communication centre, a place where help of all types is available. The charity runs ninety centres like this across the whole city.

Maggie Gorban, the figure central to the leadership of Stephen’s Children, and Cairo’s Mother Theresa, as she is referred to with as much reverence as admiration, has meanwhile become known far beyond the borders of Egypt. The sixty-five year old former computer science academic has been nominated several times for the Nobel Peace Prize. She has involved herself in social flash-points between Christianity and Islam and speaks on behalf of the slum dwellers with a particular focus on the Copts, and yet also for those with no declared faith. However extraordinary this merciful soul and mother to all street children was, however appealing the prospect of perhaps meeting her the same day if her time and work permitted her to do so was, it was actually to meet another woman that I had come here. That woman was now sitting next to me and struggling to put into words the full scale of a catastrophe.

It was the main break of the day. Maths was done, reading and writing were next on the agenda. I was watching little Habir’s playfulness. Her tears had dried. She was skipping about quite happily. She ran past us several times and proudly called out that she knew what two and two made.

‘I could have wept with her,’ Rania suddenly burst out, took a deep breath and looked at the carefree child whose future was, as she added without emotion, sealed at birth.

For a moment I didn’t know what to say.

‘Sometimes I think it’s better to stay in ignorance. If you’re happy, that is.’

Again there was nothing to say in response.

‘Well then. Whatever.’ After a short silence, she began to offload her feelings. She gave me a quick overview of the basic features of the Egyptian school system and sketched out how the ideal school-life would conclude with the start of a course of study at university or, after the appropriate professional training, the start of a professional career. From her own sphere of work she had, in addition, an insight into the work of a commission which had recently formulated some proposals for reform of part of the education system.

That was how I knew her. Nonconformist and determined. Prior to my visit to this school I had met her on two previous occasions and seen at first hand how fond her pupils were of her. Superiors and peers alike attested to her professional and personal competence with such intensity that these repeated hymns of praise became so powerful that you could be forgiven for feeling quite disconcerted by them at first.

I’d first met Rania at a barbeque given by a mutual acquaintance. It wasn’t long before all the kids were round her, like bees round a honeypot, while she played and fooled about with them as if she’d known them for years. I love to see people with a passion for their work. In Rania’s case this devotion was infectious. She came across as entirely genuine and earned real respect in return. ‘No’ meant ‘no’, a warning came first and then the explanation. Teachers who radiate charisma like this, who never use their greater knowledge to make excessive demands on others, who support each individual as much as possible in the class, have every right to be in school. In my time I have met plenty of trained educators who would have done better to stay away, both for their own good and those of others.

After the maths class the children had put together a shopping list for the supermarket. Those who couldn’t write ‘banana’ had drawn one instead. This went on for just under an hour. Aunt Maggie was stuck in a traffic jam. Due to an array of other appointments she’d cancelled her visit today. This meant the kids had the benefit of a longer break because the visit from on high would have occurred during their lesson time. Rania was convinced her pupils’ concentration was fading. Just a quick look at their written efforts on good nutrition had shown her that much.

We were sitting on a wall in the shade of a tumbledown house and looking across at the little educational establishment which brought so much. The charitable organisation had converted the front rooms into two teaching rooms. Beyond that was little more than nothingness, I thought to myself.

Because the street children were not allowed to sleep or eat here, there was something magical about this place Rania told me, something all those who came here tried to protect as they would precious treasure, most of all the children themselves. During the previous winter, when it was getting unbearably cold for the slum-dwellers in their miserable shacks towards the centre of this district, the kids themselves had set up their own night-watch to guard their tables and chairs. Otherwise it’d all have been snapped up for firewood. Perhaps the spell of this energetic desire to fight for knowledge came from the children’s will to do something for themselves and their own futures, in spite of all the odds. But it was probably because nobody had shown them once in their life how to value anything which did not bring in money.

But still she battled with herself and seemed unsure how to teach them about things you can’t see. It was only later at home, as I listened to the recordings I’d made of our conversation in order to get them down on paper, that I realised how her passion was tearing her apart.

While the little ones are going mad at play, testing to destruction the ball Rania had suggested I bring as a gift, the teenaged members of the class are busy keeping themselves apart from one another. Two boys are trying hard to get a borrowed frisbee to spin properly. The only three girls in the class are watching. They keep leaning close to one another to whisper and giggle in an engagingly daft way. Omar, a thirteen year old lad, who had been remarkably quiet during the lesson, is sitting to one side and reading a German story book he’d grandly presented me with the moment I had arrived.

‘He can’t read at all,’ Rania said, seeing me looking at him.

‘Can he at least say something?’

‘Guten Morgen! Ich bin zwölf Jahre alt.’

‘Not bad! How about if I teach him he’s a year older?’

‘What use is that to him?’

Rania was right and I start thinking of a sensible answer. What she’s doing is much better for him, enabling him to do sums, to read and write in his own language. Every scrap of his attention is needed.

‘He’s got another story book from Finland and one from France.’ Then she goes on to explain. ‘They’re donations. And when I tell them they’re allowed to do whatever they really enjoy for half an hour, he goes for one of those books.’

‘So he enjoys reading books he can’t make head or tail of?’

‘No, he probably wants to show that he’s keen to learn more than we can give him here.’

‘I see,’ I reply, never once having been in a situation like that myself.

Rania smiles as I eventually cotton on to her little joke and then wonder what she would do if it were true.

‘Once, his parents came here during break while he was playing with the others. They immediately took him home, saying he’d better get to work if he wasn’t learning anything.’

I pause for a moment, as surprised as I am touched. We both remain silent for a while and watch her pupils running with boundless enthusiasm after the ball or the constantly wobbly plastic disc. They want to learn everything, even how to play.

‘They come and go,’ Rania eventually continues. ‘A lot are here for six months, others for a couple of weeks. It’s nearly always the same. The parents come along and say their children have now already learned the basics.’

‘For what?’

‘For life. What else?’

‘They mean more for their life,’ I comment. ‘And what about those who could get into a good school?’

‘Many make the leap. Most don’t. But we fight for all of them.’ Rania looks full of thought. ‘Education in our country is a question of money more than anything else. If you’re born in Egypt and your family can’t find enough money to fund you, then you’re excluded from any useful education. And so you’re excluded from the community. And that’s regardless of your intelligence or your natural talents. There’s simply nothing for you in Egyptian society because nobody makes it possible for you to get in. The street children in slums like this really are the ones that nobody cares about.’

‘Why?’ I ask, cautiously, and struggle to find the appropriate words to say more because I can see Rania’s own words have really moved her. ‘What do you think? Why is education such a difficult thing in Egypt?’

Rania gives a shout of laughter before obviously marshalling her thoughts as any professional would. ‘The Egyptians have too many children. Year after year. Or should we say the poor Egyptians do. And this level of need brings huge problems. On top of that, we’ve made a lot of mistakes in the past and are still suffering from these now. Then there were reforms. Then the reforms were reformed. Secondary level was reformed but not primary. Then parts of the primary system were re-organised but others not properly aligned. Around only one third of children get a kindergarten place. There was, and still is, incessant reorganisation of some individual departments. But not of the whole system. And, of course, every reform costs money. A deciding factor is how much we can spend on our schools each year. If the state says it has to invest the money elsewhere then, as a rule, we are usually the ones who get nothing, or very little. And that’s how it’s always been.’ As she looked at me I saw something noble, almost prophetic in her face. ‘For example, we now know that under Mubarak, contrary to all promises made, millions of dollars were used for purposes other than those originally intended. That was money from abroad, from charities. It was intended purely for our schools.’

I am aware that Rania is deliberately using the first person plural here. While I’m musing on how much she sees herself as part of the system, she suddenly gets off the wall and starts pacing up and down in front of me.

‘We simply have problems that are too numerous and too big. Again. In our country education is first and foremost about money. Wealthy Egyptians can afford the international schools. They mostly offer a highly regarded education on a par with other countries. Only the elite can pay for this, or should I say only those who consider themselves to be elite.’

‘So, you mean the private schools, based in larger cities,’ I say and attempt to find the words to help rein in her increasingly agitated mood.

But there’s no stopping Rania now. ‘That’s right. British, American, German and more. There are two hundred schools like this. And when you think that on average around a thousand children go to each of these schools, so about two hundred thousand altogether, you’ll see how the majority are really up against it. More than twenty million Egyptian children and young people go to the state schools. And every day there are more. More and more. D’you see?’

I’m seeing here a woman so engaged with her cause it’s as if she’s been called before the President to tell him at first hand, free of all restrictions, what she thinks of the Egyptian education system.

Even more involved now, she’s striding back and forth as if giving a lecture, moving from left to right, then back again, gesticulating furiously. She then stops to emphasise a key point and disregards completely the kids who, quite bemused, are watching her unusual behaviour and following the speech.

‘Let’s take the Egyptian teachers. They’re mostly poorly paid and badly trained. They all earn the same amount regardless of their ability or commitment. That’s not great for anyone. The good ones teach privately and, in doing so, are letting down the state schools as well as the children they teach. This means there are divisions again. Once again money is guaranteeing a better education and thus better opportunities. Then there’s this. No matter how much money the government has in its budget for education, it’s never enough. Every year, for example, eighty five per cent of the state coffers alone goes on salaries. And that brings us to another big problem. The conditions and the equipment in schools themselves. Many buildings need repairs, many are so dilapidated that people must be afraid of moving around inside them. And sometimes I don’t have even a stick of chalk to write on the board with.’

Little Habir is standing in front of us in amazement and looks at Rania, her eyes wide.

Rania has made clear her concerns and views, all of which have become an furious irade, and now stops abruptly. ‘It’s good, Habir! Go off and play again, won’t you?’

‘When my Dad talks like that my Mum always ends up getting a beating,’ the child said. Her eyes raised all her fears, those she’s knowing from home.

When Rania translated that for me, I had a moment of horror. As I watch the girl skipping away I think to myself, she’s only got a couple more years. Then her father would marry her off to get her out of the house so she doesn’t cost him money any longer, so that she has children, so that she can support the entire family. For a future like this she really does not need any qualifications.

‘Sorry!’ Rania continued after a suitable silence about the girl’s wretched situation. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I get out of my cradle.’

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing and this confuses her, quite understandably, then recover myself and explain that the idiom she’s searching for about losing one’s composure is about a pram and not a cradle.

‘Whatever,’ says Rania. She has now regained her poise, that presence which is so easily sparked into anger if talk turns to the injustice and inequalities inherent in the official education policy. Now she starts talking about the everyday occurrences at school when there are up to fifty children sitting in her classes. And that’s if they are all fit and well. When she asks me directly if I can imagine what that’s like, I simply nod in agreement. It’s only when I think about it afterwards, while she’s teaching, that I really see the scale of what she was fighting this morning. Only then does some trace of understanding start to work its way into my consciousness.

Fifty ten year-olds, fifty bundles of savagery with no education. Penned in. Fifty moods, fifty types of chaos. Fifty times, fifty rebukes. Fifty existences as decreed by the state. Fifty fights for survival. Fifty wife-beating fathers, fifty beaten wives staying strong. Fifty opportunities in morning class. Fifty lost childhoods thereafter. Fifty talents, fifty cases of hopelessness. Fifty cases of ignorance, fifty cases of frugal living. Fifty innocents. Fifty non-complainers. I hope. I hope at least one of these children will make it.

‘Cautious estimates suggest that around a third of Egypt’s population can neither read nor write. Many believe the proportion to be far higher. And more than half are women and girls.’

‘Say again?’

‘There are more than thirty million people in Egypt who are illiterate. And more than half are women and girls,’ Rania repeats, as emotional as she is insistent, looking at me with such severity it was as if I’d trotted out for the fifth time the grandmother’s funeral excuse for not doing my homework.

‘Sorry!’ My mind was wandering a bit. ‘But yes, I’ve read about this issue. There’s a suspicion that whoever came up with these figures was expected to come up with precisely those.’

‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘And the overseas organisations say it will only increase. That the Egyptian government is closing its eyes to the true scale of it. Overseas organisations also say that the policy on schools in this country is a disaster of education policy itself. Both now and for the next generations.’ Rania appraises me with an even more determined look. ‘I saw an interview with our President a couple of weeks ago. He thinks the country’s well on the way. That there have to be underlying assumptions. That we can’t solve all the problems all at the same time.’

I’m asking myself if I have misheard again, as her piercing gaze hardens and makes me wish the ground could swallow me up immediately.

‘Do you see? It’s overseas organisations that say this. Our own people remain silent. Including most teachers, by the way. And why are they silent? Why are they all silent? Because they are ashamed by it. Egypt, oh so proud Egypt, is ashamed. And there‘s nobody here to do anything to change things.’

Just as I want to assure her that she’s here and really doing something, that her level of engagement is deeply impressive and that success is always a question of degree, she excuses herself and claps her hands. I watch her cautioning the children not to move any further away from the building because the ball, which had turned out to be the best possible toy to bring, had rolled across the road.

Rania sits down beside me again on the wall. ‘All in all I call it the downward spiral of brainwashing the population. The slomotion of desaster. Because anyone who has not attended school, who has no awareness of it, puts little value on his children having a good education. Parents who fail to send their children to school for a month at a time have to pay a fine. Usually. Ten Egyptian pounds. It’s obvious they’d rather send their children out to work. But in reality even this is rarely charged or paid up. Soon they’re supposed to be paying a thousand pounds according to the school superintendent’s office. Do you know what’ll happen then?’

‘We’d need another reform,’ is my pithy reply, as I try to imagine the chaos if all the children in the land were suddenly sat on the school bench.

‘The whole system, the whole country is in a permanent state of reform,’ Rania states with an admirable objectivity. ‘If everyone has A Levels or vocational training then there won’t be enough work to go round. Where are the offices and factories they’d be employed by? Where’s the work? There are times when I think that that’s the real reason.’

‘You mean that’s why the school system is being consciously neglected? Because the authorities know the majority won’t be able to do anything with an education?’

‘That’s exactly what I do mean. What’s the point of good marks if there’s nothing to do with them afterwards? While schooling in our country is wasted time, while schooling isn’t worthwhile, our miserable situation won’t change.’

‘You’re talking about control by the state, about a method. You’re talking about the self-interest of the state,’ I say, probing now for more.

Rania agrees only silently at first, turning to me after a few moments with a look that clearly spells out her full understanding of the situation. ‘That’s definitely the case. That’s the system. If you already know you have no answers, then you’re better doing nothing than asking the right questions. If our society were better educated then more questions would be asked and people would be more critical. And in doing this they become a danger to those who rule over them. Questions will be answered. People with greater knowledge will, sooner or later, protest against things which they’ve never thought about before.’

‘That’s always been the case,’ I say after we’ve both said nothing for a while. We permitted ourselves this silent bonding with confidence because the full impact of the most important reason for this lamentable schooling policy in Egypt had become crystal clear.

‘Always is far too long,’ adds Rania and shakes herself out of the burden of her knowledge. ‘I’m sorry. We can certainly talk about this later or another time, but now…’ She points at her watch and starts to call the kids together; energetic and enthusiastic, she claps her hands.

It’s almost as if our conversation has reminded her of the enormous task before her when she comes to this place. That talking does not help. That she should not waste any more time. That too much time has already gone by. I agree and ask to come back to it at the reading class a bit later because the recording I’ve made of our conversation needs a couple of written annotations.

As I watch her getting the children to assemble, I hear the call of the muezzin in the distance. I’d have liked to ask her for her views on the influence of religion on the country’s education methods. Before my visit I’d read that many officials running the system were of the Muslim faith. I’d heard about RS and Citizenship teaching which went beyond the merely beneficial. To be a real global citizen, it’s never too soon to give attention to a dialogue between faith and knowledge. I dismiss the ideas constantly put forward about whether it’s better to learn English than to study the Koran, whether, and if so, how, parents can be brought into school. I’m noting down my first comments when, all of a sudden, Habir’s standing there in front of me.

She looks up at me rather doubtfully. Her demeanour is diffident. Obviously, I think to myself, she wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how.

Doesn’t know indeed! Just as I’m about to help by asking her whether she still knows how many apples she’s got if she already has two and gets two more, she holds out her small hand towards me, puts on the sweetest of smiles and flutters her eyelashes at me. „Mister, Mister! Inta quais!’

Mister, Mister! Nice kind mister! I’m really shocked. Habir’s begging from me. And she’s begging in language that gives away how experienced she is. She wants money. She has learnt that someone like me is bound to have cash on him. She has learnt that persistent leeching works if childlike charm is added to the mix. She has learnt that dignity can’t satisfy hunger. What possible importance could the answer to a simple addition sum be to her now?

‘I haven’t got any small change,’ I reply sternly in her own language, something which she initially ignores. Her begging turns more clinging, more demanding and, in the end, so unacceptably insistent that I respond exactly as I have been doing for a long time to approaches of this kind. ‘That’s enough. I don’t want any of this!’

For a moment her facial features register bitter disappointment. Little Habir then lowers her head as if trying to look coy, bestows upon me a reproachful look and walks away. She does it so as to show me that begging and pride are two fundamentally different matters. Then, after just a few steps, she’s skipping along as happily and light-heartedly as can be and, just before going back into the building, turns round and sticks her tongue out at me.

This country’s determination to beg for handouts is something which used to amaze me but now I’m gradually slipping into equanimity. In the end I’m smiling about her clever bit of play-acting and just hope she carries on wanting to pass through the doors of this little school in both directions.

After the first reading lesson, during which the children read out extracts from a fairy tale, I say my goodbyes. Omar asks me if I have learnt anything and whether I’ll be coming back. This makes the others laugh. Even little Habir shakes hands with me. Now she’s just as she was at the start of my visit. Shy, tiny, fragile, unknowing and innocent. As I try in vain to encourage her to give a little smile, I think to myself how for her the classroom is a world with little in common with her own reality. But I hope one day she’ll hold this in her memory as a positive experience of learning and she’ll see that knowledge will in no way harm her own children.

In the short break I join Rania in handing out the money the kids need to get hold of the food from the supermarket, the food which they’d all previously written about as good for them. As robustly as I had subdued the child’s begging, I make it clear that protests about putting learning into practice were not permitted.

Rania’s warm farewell is sincere, and we agree to meet again soon to talk through how the day had gone. Once outside, looking back at this unusual little building, I slip into a state of sadness because I know that a fairy tale will come true for very few of the rubbish collectors’ children. And who knows when or for how long.

A few days after my visit to the settlement full of rubbish, Rania got in touch. She spoke in her typical confident kind. First she told me all about how stressful the supermarket excursion had been. The kids had been so impatient they’d gone the following day, together with another female teacher, and there’d been quite a few tears. Because each child had taken a wire basket, there hadn’t been enough money to get everything on the list. Then, on top of that, there’d been jealousy about who had the most or the biggest products.

Anyway, the outing was sufficiently useful for a compromise to be reached. First of all, the next maths lesson gave the opportunity to look at how much money each one of them had. Next they all bought exactly the same goods. Pedagogically valuable, was Rania’s smug verdict, and a warning about the implications of undertaking such an exercise. All the children had suddenly become extremely hungry and worried about the ‘use by’ dates expiring, or wanted to get back as quickly as possible to surprise their families. Anyway. They all wanted to get home fast.

I found myself smiling several times, and Rania agreed, however unusual this type of teaching was here, that she’d really had fun making this foray from class into the real world. Moments later she was back to being the confident teacher. She offered to get me a summary of current data and information about the Egyptian education system. And she started to apologise for what she saw as her disorganised thinking and comments during our conversation while sitting on the wall. She said the numbers she’d referred to, with a few exceptions, were right but not absolutely accurate. A different list would refer to reforms which had been planned by the central education authority. For the future. Whenever that might be.

‘Rania! It’s all been said,’ I remarked when I had the chance to break in on her efforts at greater accuracy.

In contrast to her usual style of holding forth, she remained silent for an unusually long time before asking a question which only those who’d read her story could possibly answer. ‘But has it?’

3

A belly button rules the world

Marusha. The very sound of her name stirred his favourite fantasies. He’d been trying for at least six months to get to meet this exotic woman. And now it was time. He took another look at the photos she’d sent him. She was young and bewitchingly beautiful. A creature of such perfection would be just the thing for a liaison of a couple of days if she was clever enough to be up for it. This was how he saw the spell she’d cast over him. Life was offering him yet another glittering adventure on a plate. That was the kind of thing he loved. Feeling chilled, tingling with sexual anticipation, he sipped on his tomato juice, his eyes on the stewardess as she moved down the aisle of the plane, her buttocks tracing horizontal figures of eight in the air as she went.

Marusha. She was tall, statuesque, with flawless, sun-kissed skin and passionate dark eyes. At first sight everything about her had ignited in him the most overpowering desire to get as close as close could be. That she was Egyptian was irrelevant. He knew nothing of this country and its people. Neither was it of any interest to him. If the Arabs decided to have a go, then the place and time was up to them. If the rumours were anything to go by, she was a valuable confidante with enough knowledge to report on the double standards amongst high-ranking military and political public figures whose unveiling could cost them their office and their lives.

Half an hour later the plane was on its descent to Cairo airport. He loved prospects such as this, when he was there to satisfy the appetites of greedy tarts. If they wanted to be on the title page, then he’d compose the necessary tribute. In the evening he planned to wine and dine, purr a few choice words and then spend the night with a dream of a woman with whom an entire nation was infatuated. He knew the effect he had on women. And he was smart. This little princess would be a push-over. Getting shot of her afterwards was another matter.

He’d planned everything with great care during his journey from the airport, that much was sure, because a disappointment would spoil the whole of the next day for him. The arrangements could get messed up, something the Egyptians seemed to be known for, and maybe she wouldn’t be able to oblige him on this particular night or she might be having her period. After all, he’d travelled the world. There were always surprises and so it was right and proper to put short-notice substitutions in place.

The man on reception at the luxury hotel had taken his details, checked his visa, taken the usual credit card imprint and started to pick out some tourist leaflets for him. ‘May I recommend….’

‘That’s kind of you,’ he cut in quickly. ‘I’m only here one night. I’ll just need a second pillow. That’s all.’ He gave a meaningful wink.

‘Sorry, sir!’ The receptionist said, not realising his mistake.

‘I’d like a second pillow.’

‘Sir, perhaps you’d like to go to your suite first. I’m sure you’ll find everything you need for a pleasant night.’

This Egyptian chap clearly didn’t get it and kept on smiling at him foolishly. Tonight I want to see one of the hottest women in this city lying next to me. That was the universally recognised translation of the pillow request, especially when it was accompanied by two hundred Egyptian pounds being pushed across the counter. Even then the half-wit didn’t get it. But he was prepared for this, as well. He had with him the details of the city’s bars where he’d find someone to sweeten his short trip if he couldn’t have Marusha. He went to his room, slept for three hours, freshened up both body and charm, dined on fish and then, as arranged, was sitting in the hotel lobby at seven on the dot.

‘Excuse me. Is it Herr von Eden?’

‘That’s me. Raring to go.’

‘Welcome to Egypt. Ahlan wa Sahlan, we said in Egypt. The Minister of Tourism sends his regards. He hopes your stay in our country will be most agreeable.’

Two Egyptian men had approached him. They didn’t look at all bad in their tailored suits, he thought to himself. Their German was almost accentless. They left the hotel together amid the usual meaningless pleasantries and took their seats in the black limousine waiting outside.

‘It is expected that the Minister will have difficulty making time to meet you in person today. However, he will definitely be available tomorrow afternoon at Sakara Country Club.’ One of the men, whose name he’d forgotten almost as soon as they’d been introduced, was sitting next to him and fussily putting papers in order.

‘May I ask if you have already made a decision as to whether you’d like to visit El Gouna and the Soma Bay on Sunday or Monday?’

‘Monday would be fine,’ he lied casually, although he knew full well that by then he’d be back in Hamburg with an exciting story on his laptop and another notch in his bedpost. ‘The team and the photographer are going straight to Hurghada on Monday.’

‘Exactly as you wish. We’ve prepared everything.’

‘An excellent choice,’ commented the driver. ‘Monday’s forecast for the Red Sea area is exceptionally good.’

While these two minions were ruttling on, he was contemplating with great pleasure how well his plan was going. Yet again. He saw himself as the Liar King. This was how he’d talked round his editor and publisher. These uncivilised North African idiots actually believed he’d come here to report on an exclusive new Egyptian resort for a men’s magazine with a global readership. Tits and tourism always sold well. If you went about it the right way. Hence the interview with the Minister to flatter him into opening the right doors whilst never intending to print a single word of his comments of little or no interest.

He imagined her standing before him. Marusha. She was the reason he was here. His official mission was her stage performance. Afterwards he’d pay her, with another tidy sum on top of that if it meant he could gift her fair and square with the force of his steely virility. He knew his craft. The following week the image of this diva from the land of the Pharaohs, this new age Cleopatra, would gaze out from the front page of his magazine, her scandalous revelations about the ruling elite made public. And his name would be in lights as the investigative journalist.

Their car, with its two-vehicle police escort, glided along the road called Nile Corniche and through Cairo by night. He looked out at the river, its magnificence making him feel like royalty entering the city, the water lit up by the mass of floating restaurants and small typically Egyptian sailing boats called felucca. They stopped outside a fashionable nightspot with terraces stretching towards the river banks, palms and other trees decorating its lawns. It was as if the red carpet had been rolled out for him as the chosen champion. He was buoyed up by his ingenuity and superiority in equal measure. Here he was. The conqueror. The hero. The stallion. He didn’t need to go on concealing his intentions for too much longer.

He’d helped himself twice to the sumptuous buffet. Grilled chicken with vegetables, a preventative measure against the diarrhoea which took hold so easily in countries like this. These upmarket surroundings really did create the right mood. Near the banks of the Nile, this well-known watering-hole had closed off part of its grounds. A bunch of tough guys with shaved heads were on the gate. Around two hundred guests had gathered beneath the protective white roof and sides of a contemporary Bedouin-style tent. Everyone was chatting, eating and drinking. He had to admit that the Egyptians really knew how to put on a good party. He savoured his second glass of Long Island Ice Tea, made with best imported alcohol, and feasted his eyes on the backsides and low-cut dresses of good-looking women once he got bored with the tourism sector business people.

He tolerated bad covers of old rock numbers and, even worse, the efforts at karaoke, meaningless speeches and a wedding ceremony, about which the only thing he knew was that the daughter of a stinking rich Egyptian was marrying an English good-for-nothing from an even wealthier family. He played the game well, gave eloquent answers to all questions put to him about himself and his trip and contributed suitable conversation topics. He had everything in the bag. He was ready.

In the bathroom which served first and foremost the ladies and their various deceits, both major and minor, he had tested out his professional equipment in secret. The thirty million megapixel camera in his souped up smartphone was ready for use, the battery fully charged and the lens cap, disguised as a cover, in place. He had to throw a few shapes on the dance-floor to some tedious music with overweight old dears and young chicks who did nothing for him at all but enable him to skilfully with the assembled company.

Eventually, just as his impatience and bad temper were reaching danger level, the father of the bride stepped onto the dance-floor. He had no interest in what the man said. He stepped back again. A burst of applause. The lights went out, torches flamed into life and the drumming picked up speed. The show started dramatically. All the guests were staring at the stage as if hypnotised. Suddenly she was there, resplendent in the glare of brilliant spotlights.

It was her. Marusha, the new queen of all Egyptians, sex on a stick, a woman hallowed, a breathtaking, full frontal attack on any man’s hormone levels. It was as if she’d stepped out of a Campari advert exuding a scent more wicked than any lustful sensuality he’d ever had a whiff of before. This fairy-tale creature was licensed to kill. This angel with the fabulous curves, clad in no more than a wisp of cloth, had been fashioned by the devil himself. Her long mane of dark hair swished wildly and every sinew, every muscle in her body moved with the rhythms. It took only seconds for everyone to fall spellbound. Eyes were transfixed in fascination, mouths fell open, intrigued. Marusha was dancing. Cleopatra had arisen.

This was why he was here. Perks of the job. Marusha. Absorbed in her own personal rapture, mistress of movement with no let-up, the smile on her face powerful enough to dispel stresses, strains and lies. It didn’t matter now how many photos he’d shot. He’d dived under a few elbows and forgiven trampled feet in his time. It was worth a few knocks to set this woman on the stage she truly deserved. The longer she danced, the deeper he sank into his lustful reverie. He saw her lying before him, naked, ready for anything; he slavered at the thought of love’s juices simmering nicely, moistening the flesh, sizzling, then an ecstatic union in the game of love with him in total control. The queen of the night would be his, and his alone.

Her performance was really far too short but he knew why. She would be dancing again, just for him. Energised, he watched her leave amid wild applause all round. She exited the dance-floor, flanked by two men. Like all the others who had been craning forward to see her, he gradually calmed down and savoured the knowledge that everything was as he wanted.

‘So? What did you think of her?’

‘This woman could resolve all conflicts. Do you know what I mean? Any! Absolutely any!’

‘Yes! We are very proud of her,’ replied the secretary to the Minister. ‘She is, well, how can I put it, seen not without controversy as an ambassador for an aspect of our culture which many truly enjoy.’

‘That’s an exceptionally poor joke on your part. Your President should think about taking her with him on every trip. She is powerful. She would have any opponent eating out of her hand. Or she could smooth over every disagreement with just a smile. Whatever you wanted.’

He always fell in easily with obtuse banter and came out on top when it came to guffawing and letching with a crowd of other men. Not much longer to wait, he reassured himself and viewed his minders as if he was the victor awaiting the prize. He chatted on for a while about inconsequential matters, had a couple more drinks and had just decided to make a move on a raven-haired Sudanese woman when the secretary’s driver came over to him. His pulse quickened.

‘Fräulein Farak awaits you in your suite. We have taken the liberty of arranging champagne and camomile tea. Should you have further wishes, do not hesitate to make them known to us.’

What an announcement. A divine prophesy. She was there. She was ready to receive him. It wasn’t the wrong time of the month, after all. The last unknown was resolved. He gave a polite, relieved thank you, took his key card and got into the lift feeling good. The Minister’s secretary had had him brought back to the hotel. Every detail had been taken care of. He was permitted to record the interview and was to let the lady know whether he planned another photoshoot with her, something still to be organised. His journey through Egyptian officialdom had annoyed him right from the start but nothing in this life was for free. He had won. That was what it was all about. A night of red hot passion now beckoned invitingly.

The lift’s bell sounded repeatedly as he went up through the floors. That was it – the huntsman’s call, a harbinger of the ancient art of seduction. Standing at the door of her suite, he mustered all his powers, did his neck relaxation exercises, took off his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves just enough to look casual, took a deep breath and stepped into the room. He walked towards her with his most meaningful look. ‘You must be…oh, pardon me. I know it better. You are Marusha. I’m delighted you’ve been able to make time for me.’

‘The pleasure is all mine,’ Marusha responded in the style of the grande dame. ‘Isn’t that what you say where you come from?’ She got to her feet.

She offered her hand and, as he took it, the electricity was palpable. The goddess of the night, the queen of the dance, this gorgeous woman was here, smiling at him, speaking perfect English, wearing a cracking little black number which suited her to a tee. ‘You already have a drink?’

‘I have, yes,’ she said, gestured towards the camomile tea and sat down again.

‘Good. That’s very good. If there’s something else you’d like, please tell me. Just say. Feel free to put our budget to the test. You’re to have everything you want. May I?’ With a couple of slick movements, he had plugged a microphone into his smartphone and placed the two items on the table, ready to start recording. He’d been looking at her in the meantime. She was wearing precisely four items of clothing. That dress, knickers and a pair of high-heels out of which he planned to drink the second bottle of champagne after the first round of sex. She came across as relaxed. But he knew she was actually nervous. Every woman was rather sensitive when put in this situation for the first time.

‘You’ll have to be patient with me. It’s my first interview. For outside Egypt. Oh, sorry! I meant with someone from Germany.’

‘No problem!’ he interjected and settled himself next to her on the sofa. How sweet, he thought, as his elation lubricated his lechery. She’s a media virgin. ‘The more relaxed you are, the easier it’ll be for us both. So don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. Promise!’

As Marusha responded to his remarks with an enchanting smile of agreement, he could happily have made an immediate move but it wasn’t the right moment. First he needed to get her to like him, then to trust him, and finally to desire him. The camomile tea business bothered him, as did her body language, the legs crossed one over the other suggested a reticence, a girlish caution which was always a tease. The hunter held sway over the prey. But his approach had to be a careful one in spite of his slavering appetite. That was the skill. He called it reining in desire. It was so hard not to go straight for it when her charms, at close quarters, were even more sensual and desirable than on any stage.

‘Tell our readers about yourself. All I know is you’re twenty-nine, a beautiful woman and currently the most sought after belly dancer in Egypt.’

‘Is that so?’ replied Marusha. She cleared her throat, retreated briefly into a teenage shyness and sipped at her tea. ‘I don’t know. I just enjoy doing it. And, as a woman, I feel it’s important to stand firmly by the cultural values of our country.’

Well, something’s been standing firmly with me, that’s for sure, and will do so even better inside you, my girl, he said to himself lasciviously. But to her face he said: ‘Have you any brothers or sisters? Particularly sisters? Where are you from?’

‘I was born in Assuan. That is Upper Egypt. My parents still live there. I visit them whenever I can. I’m an only child and have spent most of my life in Cairo.’

‘I suggest, as I’ve given my word to the people who made this trip possible, we don’t talk about the crises in your country and not about the revolution, either.’ As his own private source of lust, he sat there wondering what it would be like to suck on her nipples.

‘I’m under no restrictions. I am who I am. If I’m expected to talk about the revolution, then we can talk about it on condition that it’s of interest to you and your readers.’

‘Politics is never as exciting as people, I always say. I’ve heard that you teach dance as well as performing on stage.’ He had helped himself to a whisky from the buffet bar and started to look at her with much greater interest so that she would realise how much he valued her and anything which concerned her.

‘That’s right. That’s my absolute passion.’

‘And your belly dancing courses are said to have become so popular that bodyguards are needed on the door at the fitness studios when you’re teaching the other women.’

‘Yes, that’s right, too. But to be honest, I really don’t understand what all the fuss is about. I’ve been teaching belly dancing for five years. All we want during the classes is to practise in peace. Get some exercise. And to shine a bit as women while we do it. Belly dancing is completely unsuitable for men. A few have had a try. It just looked so funny. Most of us just want some time out from the everyday. It’s the men who have a problem with that. Not us.’

‘And financially? I would like to think your commitment is worth it financially.’

‘I get by. I give private lessons here and there. That tides me over pretty well.’

He smiled at her for so long that she smiled back. That made a connection. Get over here, you minx and rub your gorgeous arse against my prick, his filthy mind ran on. At the same time he sought out, and found, her dark and lovely gaze in order to demonstrate the depth of his understanding of the point she was making. ‘Your classes bother one man in particular.’

‘Yes, he’s a respectable business-man. He reported me, the studio we use and the authority responsible for it. He lives mostly in Europe and carries out his business over there.’

‘Do you mean by that he should be more tolerant?’

‘I don’t know him. But yes. I know his name and where he lives. And on the face of it, that’s true. Both his daughters are, in any case, young, modern and open-minded. Quite the opposite to him. And they’re pretty. Maybe that annoys him.’

‘The minister’s secretary told me that this particular father thought up something very unusual in order to take action against you and your classes.’

‘Yes, he had scaffolding put up outside the studio, a huge hole drilled in the wall and then got the classes filmed. Supposedly as evidence for his complaint.’ Marusha uncrossed her legs, straightened her dress, and then crossed them again.

 For a brief moment there he’d caught a glimpse of the grotto of delights. Happily she was wearing black, finely worked lace that fitted where it touched, a sure sign that she knew what she’d invested in those undies for. ‘And you reacted to this in an equally unusual way.’

‘Yes, once we’d discovered the hole, well, you couldn’t really miss it, we made our own video of the class and put it on the internet.’

He grinned broadly. ‘And almost a million clicked on it in a matter of days.’

‘That’s a real success story, isn’t it? Almost all those who clicked on it, then watched right to the end. He wanted to demonstrate how wicked and shocking we supposedly are. And we defended ourselves against that.’

She was speaking out as she really was. Wonderful. He was on to a good thing here. Of course, he’d also seen this little film show, amateurishly recorded but full of boobs and bums worth jumping on any intercontinental flight for so as to share the participants’ near lock-in. ‘But it all had quite the opposite effect.’

‘Yes!’ she said, the pride showing in her face. ‘Belly dancing has never had so much attention.’

‘The belly dancing itself, or you and your dance students?’

‘We didn’t edit anything out. If some of us are suppler in the hips than others, then that’s how it is. The ones who stayed at the back were new. They were a bit embarrassed. I think they were primary school teachers from a German school.’

‘So, is belly dancing a skill or is it culture?’ He knew perfectly well what his question meant as he began to outline the perfection of her body with hand gestures.

‘You mean sex or culture, stripping or culture?’

‘Ok, then! If that’s what you want to think!’

‘Sorry, what do you mean by if that’s what I want to think?’ I’m not with you. What do you mean?’

‘Egypt’s a rather conservative country. And Islamic at that. It must be quite clear to you that conflicts like that are going to crop up.’

‘That may be so but it’s not my problem. I respect our religion. We dance behind closed doors. And the women who come to my classes are there of their own volition. In this case it’s probably more a personal anger because his own wife was dancing with us. And in the front row. I’m sorry to say that. But it seemed to be necessary. I’ve found out since that he always books two seats on Egyptair and would rather do jigsaws when he’s at home. He shouldn’t be surprised that nobody wants to see him. But that’s his problem.’

During her little speech he made it clear how much he liked her answer. The fact that she’d been so open and willing to talk like this led him to believe that she’d also be prepared to reveal all about the secrets and preferences of a certain clientele in this country. Everything comes to those who wait. As a modern, self-assured woman, she was either incredibly naive or actually had no concerns at all about doing what she wanted, he thought to himself. It didn’t matter to him either way. His attention was caught by her long, graceful fingers and her nails, painted the same blood-red as her luscious lips. His mind conjured up some wild foreplay. ‘I don’t want to offend you. But aren’t you oversimplifying things a bit?’ This was it. This was the moment to gain her trust. He showed her all his understanding although something different was going on in his mind. He made his face look kind and friendly.

Marusha maintained the posture of the fine lady ready for any verbal attack. ‘I’ll say it again. We did not drill that hole. We wanted simply to show that we don’t do anything forbidden. We didn’t even have our belly dancing costumes on. Just normal bikinis and comfortable sports stuff. Including the two German women. So there. The bikinis were new designs from Italy, a really good label. But then they’re always the best fit. And the exercise we do on hands and knees when we move our backsides back and forth helps with better breathing technique during the actual dancing.’

This kitten really has class, he summed up to himself with relish. But she isn’t afraid to bare her claws, too. That’s the way! Just bend over now, you little devil, like in your exercise classes, he was thinking lecherously, just turn and show me your pretty little arse. We’ve talked for long enough. ‘Like I said. I didn’t want to offend you. Champagne?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘So, you’re facing this complaint coolly and calmly, are you?’

‘Yes. Perhaps someone should film what he gets up to when he’s abroad. If he can make a video, too, then things’ll be even. I have nothing more to say.’ Marusha took a deep breath and lay back voluptuously in the cushions. ‘Or maybe I do. A spot of champagne, please.’

Cheers, he said to himself gleefully, and filled her glass. Just drink it down, queen of the senses and mistress of the night, so that you’re nicely willing and compliant. ‘How would you yourself explain the enormous success of your classes? Doesn’t it also have something to do with the fact that the Islamists under President Mursi, and with them the greatest critics of this type of dancing, have been ousted?’

Marusha drank deeply, swallowed and gave a shout of laughter. ‘Could be. But don’t forget. Every little girl dances at home in the living room as early as age six or seven, just like her older sisters or friends’ mothers. Belly dancing goes back a long way with us, even to before the Pharaohs. We call it the ‘Dance of the East’. The movements are thought to make childbirth easier. And I’ve heard that more and more European women are learning it in their own countries. And that’s fantastic. There are even studies being carried out by international researchers. They say that belly dancing is beneficial for women. For example it helps with depression during the menopause.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Come on! I’ll show you what I mean. Come on!’ She had got to her feet and was holding her hands out to him with her a heavenly, easy charm.

She was ready. She’d opened up. Sooner than expected. She was offering him the first physical contact and he was absolutely burning to touch her. This little woman must surely now have heard the mating call that her subconscious mind had recognised a while back.

She took hold of his hands, placed them on her hips, pressed her back against his upper body and swung her hips rhythmically from side to side, then backwards and forwards. ‘Like that! Just like that. We relax our muscles and nerves with these movements. We’re self-aware. We think of nothing. We let ourselves go. The pelvis rocks. And that’s how we experience a new unity of body and mind.’

His knees started to tremble, his pulses raced, there was only the flimsiest of cloth between their most intimate parts, those movements, the scents, wicked to the core. A deep sigh.