Under Siege

After a troubling weekend, I feel particularly connected to the abstract and omnipresent anxiety that seems to have become the hallmark of my generation, both in Egypt and at home. However, as I read the news coverage of the weekend, and of the post-World Cup riots in particular, I have the depressing feeling that the international press does not recognize, or at least isn't reporting on, my claim to that hard-earned angst.

What coverage there has been has focused mainly on the soccer game itself, in Sudan, and has centered on the debate of whether or not there actually was violence perpetrated against Egyptian fans at the levels reported. Coverage of the riots has mentioned how the Egyptian government seemed to encourage this outlet for popular frustration at first since it was, happily, not aimed for once at the Egyptian government. Then, journalists concede, the government realized all this protesting was more destructive (of storefronts) than productive, and called in the riot squads to quell the disturbance.

What the newspapers have not mentioned so far is that although nothing has happened in Zamalek since Thursday night (possibly due to the huge contingent of riot police cordoning off every ingress to my street, or possibly due to a falling lack of interest in attacking the Algerian embassy), the police barricades remain in full force. Hundreds of officers in full riot gear pose an intimidating obstacle to the performance of even the most basic tasks such as grocery shopping and catching a cab (the above photo is shot out my apartment building door and shows the road I would normally walk to the grocery store).

To do either, I must walk at least a block in any direction under the stares of dozens of loitering young men in imposing black uniforms. They leer and call out in Arabic, which happily I don't understand, and in English, which unfortunately I do, and in the universal language of lewd gestures, in which I am also fluent. The sudden increase in concentration of gross young men this weekend has changed the tenor of my neighborhood, which is generally upscale and inhabited primarily by foreigners and wealthy Egyptians. Normally, the office boys, market stockboys, currency exchange workers, etc. who hang out on the sidewalks of Zamalek, step out of my way to let me pass, often avert their eyes from mine, and generally keep a respectful distance. However, the crowds of shouting, whispering, giggling, and sometimes groping soldiers seem to have granted permission to the local workers' basest behavior. Men who have seen me pass their shops and used to greet me as a customer, now leer as I pass and young men who would have jumped out of my path now hold their ground and mutter at me as I hurry by.

This government-sponsored filling of the streets with poorly-supervised, poorly-mannered young men has created a claustrophobic, siege-like feeling that kept me in my apartment most of the weekend and compelled me to travel with a friend when I did venture out. I, thankfully, have not experienced any physical harassment, but it is happening. As his contingent slid the heavy metal pole barricade fences aside to let her pass, one of them reached out and grabbed my friend's roommate on the ass. This is a crime in Egypt which, if reported to police, is punished by a mandatory three years in prison. But to whom, exactly, do you report sexual harassment, when it is perpetrated by a police officer in full view of twenty other police officers? You don't report it. You hurry home.

Which is exactly what I wish the government would order the hoard of creepy men in Zamalek to do today: GO HOME.

The anxiety that I and the other women in my neighborhood felt today when we saw that even after two uneventful nights the riot police have maintained their positions, and their suggestive grins, is visceral and real. The stress of police occupation, and particularly, sexually aggressive male occupation, is tangible in Zamalek today. My friends in and around Brazil St. are sleeping poorly, dressing conservatively, not wearing makeup to work, and, in some cases, not going to work to avoid having to pass through the police barricade. Those of us that did go to work are already dreading having to return home at dusk, a time of day which women in Egypt already recognize as emboldening harassers by lending the cover of semi-darkness to their stares, whispers, and touches. Zamalek could use some protection from our protectors. Some spotlights, literal and figurative, would help.

Hey Reuters, NY Times, AP and Co.: Can we get some reporters down here please?