El Alamein 22/10/11

Yesterday, having received an email from the British Consulate, we attended a memorial service for the fallen soldiers of the Battle of el Alamein, which ended in November 1942. The battle ended attempts on the part of the Axis forces (Germany and Italy) to occupy Egypt, the Suez Canal and Middle Eastern resources once and for all, and the near-total Allied victory can be summed up quite simply with two now-famous comments from Winston Churchill:

"This [Alamein] is not the end, it is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

"It may almost be said, 'Before Alamein we never had a victory. After Alamein we never had a defeat.'"

With these two quotes in mind, it is easy to forget the reality - despite the battle being by all accounts a great success and one of the most decisive battles of the Second World War, over 50000 men were killed in total over a period of just two weeks, including around 13,500 from the Commonwealth forces.

The cemetery is located down a slight hill from a road that runs along the coast; after a raucous bus journey the silence is immediate and overwhelming. Markers stretch out in neat little rows perfectly maintained and planted with trees and shrubs, looking out to sea, with a cool breeze swirling the dust underfoot and tugging at the clothes of those in attendance as they wander up and down, scrabbling desperately for something to say but for the most part finding nothing. As the Reverend Mike Parker from Cairo is later to point out, it is an awesome place, in the truest sense of the word; larger by far than an ordinary graveyard, but unlike many sites across Europe, just enough that a single human can begin to comprehend the tragedy.

In an attempt to explain the sensation I remember one of the many drawn-out, contemplative speeches from The History Boys in which Hector comments darkly that on modern-day tours of Auschwitz, 'nothing is apropriate'. Banal chatter fades away here, all self-regarding thoughts forgotten. Even writing about it now feels a little hollow. There are no words to express the profound smallness, nor the solemnity, nor the sorrow visitors cannot help but feel; though it hardly seems to matter, as it is not a day meant for us.

For a militant atheist whose family members as far as I know have not died in war for many generations, I am shocked by the discovery that just one message inscribed on one marker from family or friends, one message of love or religion (or both intertwined), can reduce me to tears and I concentrate instead on not walking over the ground beneath which men are buried, and helping someone look for an MI6 grave I am fairly sure does not exist. A small gathering of people across all nationalities, many of which have served in armies themselves and many more who it later becomes clear have relatives buried here, mills about until their shadows begin to lengthen in the early afternoon, and then the ceremony begins.

It is a beautiful memorial service from start to finish - the British ambassador, James Watt, opens the ceremony and is clearly as moved as anyone else by the surroundings. Wreaths are laid, first by officials from the Commonwealth and Allies and then by private mourners. A section from St. John's Gospel is read, as well as the obligatory but all-encompassing Ode of Remembrance, prayers led and a two-minute silence in this most silent of places dutifully observed. A very young choir from the British School in Alexandria sings two hymns that tug at the heart while soldiers stand around the memorial, eyes down, silhouetted against the darkening sky. No-one is left untouched but, as the ceremony draws to a close and people rise from their seats, chatting, shaking hands, taking last-minute snaps of the final resting place of well over 7000 men, 800 of which will never be identified, everyone is left essentially unchanged - perhaps as they would have wanted.

In full knowledge of my own inadequacy I hand the ending of this post to the esteemed poet John Jarmain, who served in and survived the North African campaign but was later killed in Normandy.

John Jarmain - El Alamein

There are flowers now, they say, at El Alamein;

Yes, flowers in the minefields now.

So those that come to view that vacant scene,

Where death remains and agony has been

Will find the lilies grow ---

Flowers, and nothing that we know.

So they rang the bells for us and Alamein,

Bells which we could not hear.

And to those that heard the bells what could it mean,

The name of loss and pride, El Alamein?

--- Not the murk and harm of war,

But their hope, their own warm prayer.

It will become a staid historic name,

That crazy sea of sand!

Like Troy or Agincourt its single fame

Will be the garland for our brow, our claim,

On us a fleck of glory to the end;

And there our dead will keep their holy ground.

But this is not the place that we recall,

The crowded desert crossed with foaming tracks,

The one blotched building, lacking half a wall,

The grey-faced men, sand-powdered over all;

The tanks, the guns, the trucks,

The black, dark-smoking wrecks.

So be it; none but us has known that land;

El Alamein will still be only ours

And those ten days of chaos in the sand.

Others will come who cannot understand,

Will halt beside the rusty minefield wires

And find there, flowers.

The awkward moment

'Coptic Cairo' is a historic part of town situated within Old Cairo, or Masr al-Qadima, known for its numerous religious buildings and Roman remains. A short journey on the train from the center of town leads us to this pretty and relatively quiet district on the southern tip of Rhoda island. On leaving the station we immediately find ourselves on the doorstep of the Hanging Church, also known as St Muallaqa or the Church of the Virgin Mary.

The Hanging Church derives its name from its position over the southern tower gate of the old Babylon Fortress, with its name suspended over the passage, and is arguably the most famous Coptic Christian Church in Cairo. It was probably built between 600 and 700AD and has a fascinating history, more of which can be read here.

Below are a few images from our walk through town in order to find the Monastery and Church of St. George. Coptic Cairo is peaceful and stands in contrast to the surrounding districts largely due to the lack of traffic and bustle. Most of the locals we see are sat alone or in pairs in cafes by the roadside, and if they are working, it is behind the counter of a postcard shop. Even the security men at the metal detectors seem half-asleep and chuckle as we pass.

The Greek Orthodox  Church of St George here has been burned down many times; the current structure was built in 1909 and still has some of the beautiful old stained glass windows, and houses a variety of works of art depicting the story of St. George. It is one of the very few round churches in the East and stands next to a Greek Orthodox cemetery. There are no tourists here despite the church's fame, and the graveyard stands empty except for a security guard who, on seeing our dismayed faces at what appears to be a break-in, explains that many of the ornate burial places are so old they are beginning to fall in. The place is silent, and a cool breeze blows through; it's easy to forget we are in Cairo at all.

Below, a few from our walk back out to the main road, through a partially hidden alleyway lined with shops selling old books and even older black-and-white photographs (the bellydance top Tasha is trying on would not fit and a policeman came over to help!). We also briefly enter a synagogue, the first I have ever been in, which stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the Christian structures and is again hugely impressive.

The citadel is located on the top of Muqattam hill near the centre of Cairo in an area famed for its enormous, grand mosques overlooking the highway. Unfortunately we have no time on the way to stop and take photos of this part of town, let alone the huge and sprawling City of the Dead nestled in a walled area close by (our only male companion refuses to go and 'look at poor people') - but I will certainly be going back to have a proper look at both.

We arrive at the Saladin Citadel of Cairo in the last of the dying sun and walk up the hill to come face-to-face with the spectacular mosque, almost 900 years old and still in use today. The citadel was first fortified by Saladin to protect it from the Crusaders and has since undergone numerous additions and renovations, and today is also the site of a Writers' Union, National Military Museum and Police Musem.
 

Today, tourists dressed in apropriate garb are also allowed inside the mosque, and despite the hushed talk and the groups of awestruck non-Muslims the overwhelming feeling is one of absolute peace and majesty. The afternoon prayer begins as we sit inside under the beautiful domed ceiling and the faithful move to the front to listen to the imam; as with a mosque I visited in Jordan earlier this year, several Cairo inhabitants are dozing against the wall, entirely content and safe in the presence of God. Not for long though; the citadel is closing for the evening, and so we unwillingly begin the walk back to the entrance.

Tomorrow: el Alamein memorial service, back in Alexandria. I would like to point out that a day immersed in the history of Cairo, or at least in the physical remains that inspired us all to actually sit down and learn when we arrived home, cost each of us less than £10 English - once again testament to the age-old Arab understanding that money cannot and will never account for everything. For an ordinarily militant atheist such as myself to admit to feeling not merely impressed but humbled is a huge step, and I urge any future visitors to use their time in the city to its fullest, as we left with the feeling, as always, that there was so still much more to discover.

Chez Pharaohs

So - the pyramids. There is little I can say on the matter that has not already been written, documented, analysed and imagined in the past, except that none of the written evidence can prepare even the most moderate history buff for the sheer majesty and weirdness that is the structures in reality. Nevertheless, in a halfhearted attempt to learn or share something new, I listened intently to our guide (a recent graduate in Egyptology from Cairo) and discover the following:

• The pyramids were so huge, and so methodically built, not as a means of protecting the treasures within but because while the ancient Egyptians were certain of the eventual resurrection, they weren't sure exactly when it would take place. Hence the tombs had to be built to last. A long, long time.
• The sarcophagus was effectively the home of the spirit of the deceased until it reached the afterlife, and as such many of the intricate hieroglyphs found inside are in fact spells, or 'magic formulae, to render the food and drink provided useful to a non-human entity.
• The shape of the pyramids reflects the common ancient belief that the world began with just one mountain, and the sun.
• There are no more pyramids after Ramses II due to the threat posed by grave robbers, who would go so far as to steal the mummies themselves.
• The 'Curse of the Mummy' - the affliction suffered by a number of explorers - was probably largely due to having exposed an environment that had not been disturbed for thousands of years, and resultant bacterial infection.

The first site we visit is Dahshur, the location of the pyramid of king Snifru and the infamous 'bent pyramid' built for his father (bent on account of what we can only assume was a miscalculation on the part of the ancient Egyptians - the slope becomes abruptly steeper on halfway one side). The second structure stands right by the roadside and is to be frank highly confusing. It's impossible to tell even from a distance of about ten yards how big it is, or isn't. It is, however, possible to go inside. 

Up some perilous, winding steps roughly cut into the side of the pyramid that really ought to carry a health warning, we reach the entrance - our pyramids are given a cursory glance by a sleepy old man and then we duck inside a tiny tunnel, about one metre high and illuminated eerily by glowing strip lights. It's not a steep slope but I attempt to look down to the end - and then immediately wish I hadn't. It is certainly not the place for claustrophobics and you can feel the air thickening with each step, as well as a sharp but musty smell Vicky likens to bad hair dye. 

Finally we reach the bottom and the tunnel opens out into a large, cool room with a sloping ceiling, empty aside from a wooden staircase. This leads to another room only partially open to tourists; the rest has been reduced to jagged rocks and rubble. The silence is deafening. Retracing our steps back up we are all surprised at the amount of exertion getting out requires - it doesn't hit you until near the top, and you emerge with baby giraffe legs that continue to shake for several hours afterwards. Curse of the Pharaohs indeed.

Next we see the Step Pyramid of Djoser, a short drive away:

On the same site is a vast burial complex reached through an impressive roofed colonnade:

Finally we go to Giza. By the time we arrive it's around 3pm and stands in stark contrast to the other two sites, which were relatively quiet and look more or less the same as their counterparts in 19th-century black and white postcards. Even now, following the Arab spring and in the middle of October, Giza is churning with tourists from all over the world. Against our will our attention is drawn to cuddly 'crazy camels' (followed by a rendition of 'I like to move it move it' from an over-enthusiastic or possibly overtired stall owner), necklaces are jangled in our faces, and we are inundated with offers of rides on grumbling beasts of burden - apparently common practice is to divert the route away from the back of the pyramids into the desert and then charge tourists to return; that is assuming the animal survives the journey. Westerners trudge back and forth up the hill to the tombs, and take well-aimed photos so they appear to be kissing the Sphinx after regarding the queue of others hoping to do the same with the utmost disdain.

Nonetheless they are awe-inspiring, and we wish we had arrived sooner. If I lived in Cairo I would certainly pay the small price of a ticket to come here for a whole day, if only to sit in the shade of the five-thousand-year-old remains. Our guide explains that while from a distance the middle pyramid appears larger, it is in fact the one on the right hand side closest to the entrance that is the biggest - the very tip has been broken off but its true height is still clearly marked with a flagpole.

Below are the photos I was able to take before the whole site closed down for the night in preparation for the evening light show, which we unfortunately missed. Thankfully though, due to the rule that only 300 people may enter the Great Pyramid a day, we have vowed to return.

 

Cairo, round two

To clarify: this post is purely about the city, and not the various tourist sites we visited during our stay there, or I will be writing until midnight and Mewtwo Strikes Back won't watch itself.

On Thursday afternoon, following a day's worth of lessons that were impossible to take seriously due to fizzing anticipation, we make our way down to Misr station in Alexandria; this in itself is a bit of a challenge as most texts still refer to it by the old name, al-Raml. After around twenty minutes of screaming "Al 'atar!" (the train!) at exasperated taxi drivers we arrive and make a dash for the first class carriage at the far end of the platform; tickets were bought a few days before, when we discovered what should have been anticipated long ago: Arabs do not queue.

First class, on the fast trains at least, is not hugely different from the ordinary setup except for a few inches more space between seats (there's enough room to lie almost flat, very handy at 4pm) and an optional meal. As with Cairo, the outskirts of Alexandria are lined with modern concrete apartment blocks, though with the addition of 'old-style' decor on one wall only - the one facing the train line. A journey predicted to take two and a half hours takes around three, mercifully shortened by sleep.

Ramses station is crammed; we have to fight to get off the train and plummet through crowds, arms firmly around all valuables in typical Brit fashion. Our suspicions regarding the morality of the average Cairene citizen are confirmed when Olivia (who studies Arabic at Exeter and lives in the district of Mohandessin) welcomes us with "I've just had my phone stolen!", explaining our failure to get in contact up until that point. To be fair, this was a one-off occurrence, and most Egyptians are so opposed to theft that passersby will chase and kick the sh*t out of thieves operating in the vicinity on your behalf - but it does nothing to calm our nerves at this point. We get into a white taxi (black ones are unlicensed) and go to the hostel, a few streets away from Tahrir. There is no Arabic word for 'hostel' and with good reason; the establishment we find ourselves in is a far cry from the image of rows of bunks, prison-style, in a whitewashed room crawling with cockroaches, and instead is closer to a cosy fifth-floor hotel, albeit one with high-fives on entry and for £4 per night. We didn't say a word.

Later on we venture out to eat - by this point it's about 10pm and, surprisingly for a Thursday, full-scale protests are well under way in Tahrir and spilling out into the surrounding streets. We turn a corner, wondering where all the shouts are coming from, and come face-to-face with an advancing demonstration, banners waving under the night sky. Our hunt for a restaurant from then on resembles the old Pacman games and we are forced to duck into alleyways and find alternate routes to avoid being swept up in the crowd - though a shopowner assures us it is quite safe. 

Dinner this evening takes place in the upstairs of a takeaway - the bottom floor is jam-packed - and feast on grossly cheap mezze and warm flatbreads. The other main dish in Cairo, on the go at least, is called koshari (above) and consists of a pile of white rice, white noodles and white pasta with a few crispy extras sprinkled on top, if you're lucky. I go to bed that night with the kind of crippling stomach cramps one can expect after spending 70p on a main meal - but sleep it off. My immune system seems to be better than most.

                        

The following night, after the Pyramids (still to come!), we experience the polar opposite; an evening at one of Cairo's most luxurious restaurants, Sequoia, on the banks of the nile. Listed in most guidebooks and full of Western tourists and expats alike, it does to be fair serve the best shisha we've had so far and provide a huge array of cocktails in a huge white tent at the water's edge. We have a fantastic evening only partially overshadowed by the 2am curfew, and pile into a taxi home thoroughly content.

                        

Our final day in Cairo is spent sightseeing in town and this involves attempting to navigate the underground system, which turns out to be surprisingly simple (although one of the stations we want has recently had the name, Mubarak, hastily scrubbed out and changed), with tickets costing the same regardless of the journey and a women's carriage at the back of each train, which is a mercy at this point. However on the way back at the end of the day we suffer something of a transport disaster which I blame entirely on myself, having spent most of the afternoon whingeing about wanting to sit down and get more of a feel for Cairo: we get stuck in unmoving traffic for two hours. We are trying to get to Khan el-Khalili, where the huge bazaar and numerous cafes are open well into the evening, but instead get to know the real al-Qahera alternately smoking and sobbing through taxi windows, accosted by old men selling tissues and listening to Qur'anic verses.

When we get back to Alexandria, the contrast is stark and immediate - the sea air hits us like an opened freezer door in the depths of hell, and it smells of home. I can physically feel my mood lifting, and my brow unfurrowing. Cairo, we realise, is everything it's cracked up to be, and then some.

Chez Magda

Below are a few photos from our trip on Thursday to Magda Abou-Youssef (who runs ACL along with her husband)'s home by the beach, in a quiet suburb filled with villas belonging largely to wealthy Egyptians and expats. Had a lovely day involving games of uno, night-swimming and a dog that as it turned out was taller than me.