by Sarika AryaThe girl was running into the police station. On the way back from work, stuck in muid-afternoon traffic, I noticed her through the window of my taxi: she was wearing a light pink hijab, a long-sleeve purple t-shirt, and jeans in spite of the heat, symbolizing her devoutness to Islam. She ran up the stairs into the white dilapidated police office, sliding past the men (she was the only woman there) who were hovering around outside – narrowly escaping touching any of them, not even allowing her body to brush them accidentally, in her rush to find sanctuary inside. But there is no guarantee that sanctuary, let alone justice, is what she got. In Egypt, the human rights culture is not so much of zero tolerance, but zero accountability.
According to a 2008 US State Department human rights report on Egypt, the Egyptian People's Assembly (the popularly-elected representatives of the Egyptian parliament), discharged 1,164 lower – ranking policemen for misconduct and abuse of power. The same report documents a shocking case in which a 13 year- old was electrocuted by a detective, a 15 year- old was tear- gassed by a policeman, and a human rights activist and her colleague were physically assaulted by a policeman in a courtroom where they were seeking justice for a torture victim. In fact, in this incident, one victim received head injuries so serious that he remained unconscious for about 30 minutes.
The total degeneration of civil society in Egypt poses a serious threat to human rights. Consider the most basic scenario: a woman walking on the street. Even a fully-covered girl is at risk for sexual harassment. According to the Egyptian Centre for Women's Rights, 69% of sexual harassment occurs on the street and 42 % in public places (22% is on the beach and 6% at the workplace.). In 2008, the Centre surveyed 1,010 Egyptian women, of whom 83% reported they had been sexually harassed. Often times, it is those who are supposed to be upholding the law: traffic wardens, policemen, soldiers – men in uniform – who are committing this abuse. An American friend of mine in Cairo recalled being whistled at by a police officer, "I turned around, and said to him in Arabic, 'Do you have any dignity? You should be ashamed of yourself. You're a policeman." He was so shocked that this blue- eyed, blond- haired, American woman was reprimanding him in Arabic, that he was ashamed. But often times it is not as easy or even safe to respond. My two girlfriends and I walked past a group of train conductors lounging in Ramses Station, only to be whistled at, tongues clicking, men muttering "You're very beautiful," over and over in Arabic. We had another uncomfortable experience when a truck full to bursting with policemen all carrying handguns rattled down the street, clicks, whistles, and catcalls following the women who passed it. If these men hadn't been speaking Arabic, I would have thought the truck was full of sick chickens: it both looked and sounded like it anyways, what with all the clucking and purring.
When civil servants are the very perpetrators of abuse, when even the courtroom – which is supposed to be a place of justice – becomes a torture chamber, and when the elected government suspiciously receives 88% of the vote, how can human rights enforcement ever be taken seriously? The total lack of accountability manifests itself in complete apathy to and acceptance of the bleak human rights situation.
Think of this: it is not uncommon for a sexually harassed woman to blame herself for the ogling stares that make her uncomfortable, the whistles that haunt her, and even the grabbing hands that may lead to her self-imposed house arrest and isolation from the rest of society.
Respect for human rights is only as strong as respect for the legal authority that mandates those rights in the first place. While Egypt has a constitution, legal restraints that technically prevent most human rights abuses from occurring, and even pro-human rights government projects (like pamphlets that use Islam to discourage sexual harassment – particularly targeting men since, according to a ECW report, 62% of men surveyed admitted to engaging in harassment), there is still a human rights- resistant mentality, especially because this has been the norm for so long. Some even classify it as lethargy: a laziness to change one's behavior; submissiveness to human rights abuse that one can not only become accustomed to but also even profit from.
My flat mate, Meredith, and I, fed-up with being unable to walk down the streets without someone nearby whispering, "Hello Seniorita," even if we looked our grungiest selves, found ourselves eating our feelings of frustration at an Italian restaurant often frequented by expats. Shortly after the waiter took our order, Abhinav and Anna, two foreigners at the table next to us, engaged us in some friendly conversation about their lives as managers (of finance and housekeeping, respectively) for a certain world-renowned five- star hotel in Cairo. (We were asked not to reveal their names or the name of the hotel, so as not to risk their jobs or give the hotel bad publicity.) Meredith and I vented a lot about our frustration at being mistreated because of our gender, wondering what could possibly be the root cause of this problem and marveling at the limited efforts undertaken to prevent it and enforce the law.
Abhinav and Anna sympathized with us. Abhinav remembered a time when a male coworker, married and in his 40s, giggled to him about a girl's cleavage. Abhinav was shocked that in a professional workspace, high school humor was considered mature and funny. Moreover, there is no guaranteed way to deter such behavior: Abhinav's predecessor was fired for reprimanding an employee over a similar issue. As it turned out, the employee's connections (despite his lowly job) were good enough to secure his boss's immediate removal.
But Abhinav had an even more shocking story for us. Here is a brief summary of the legal status of prostitution in Egypt, as described by the US State Department report about human rights in Egypt in 2008:
“Prostitution and sex tourism were illegal but continued to occur, particularly in Cairo and Alexandria. Prostitution existed in cities and in some rural areas. Sex tourism existed in Luxor and Sharm El-Sheikh. Street children were subject to prostitution. Most sex tourists came from Europe and the Gulf.”Despite its prohibition, like so many other things in Egypt, the weak enforcement, lack of accountability, and the social norm to operate on a who-knows-who basis, means that it continues, even on the grounds of a five- star family hotel. There, married men, pimps, and the ‘goods on sale’ gather to exchange numbers, money, and make the final deals –but all under the guise of meeting new people. Amused by our amazement, Abhinav and Anna invited us to the famous casino and then the outdoor café at the hotel to do some untraditional bird- watching, “Come see for yourselves.”
It’s high season for prostitution in Egypt: Gulf men (Arabs from the oil-rich Gulf states) flock to vacation spots in the relatively cooler northern part of the Middle East, while their wives and children jet set off for fun times in Europe: shopping at Harrods, Euro Disney, and other equally liberal family alternatives. This particular 5- star hotel in the heart of Cairo is no exception to these summer patterns. Our guides, our insiders into this forbidden world, led us to the hotel casino, usually a hotspot for prostitutes and particularly non-Egyptian prostitutes, since only foreigners are allowed into the casino (gambling is illegal by Islam, which is the main influence on Egyptian law). But the casino was dead. Meredith and I became skeptical but they told us it was early, so we decided to just wait it out at the café.
The café was full of Gulf men dressed in their traditional garb, white robes (called thobes), red and white checkered headscarves encircled with black rope, smoking shisha, and sipping Turkish coffee. The ‘Gulfies’ outnumbered the other foreign visitors who were scattered across the outdoor café and Egyptian themed restaurant and enjoying the supposedly family- friendly atmosphere, oblivious to the underground red light district that was slowly evolving around them. We sat in the center of the café. Gulf men sat close by at the tables all around us, and although it was very hot and humid they looked comfortable. We waited. It was nearly 10:30pm. Suddenly, Anna nudged us, indiscreetly nodding her head towards a girl walking by, muttering, “Look, there’s one.”
Besides us strolled no, strutted, a girl with straight, shiny, black hair extensions, which framed a powdered- white face. Her eyes were entrenched in dark eyeliner and her lips were painted a bright ruby red. She wore tight jeans with sparkles embedded on the back pockets (what we came to realize was staple clothing for most of the alleged prostitutes) and a black corset on top of a thin black see- through top. Her visibly uncomfortable high heels clackity- clacked on the cement in sync with the swaying of her hips. She was an expert. It was clear that she was using the moment walking past the line of tables occupied by Gulf men, potential customers, to show-off the commodity she had to offer: to model herself. The men engaged in this window- shopping, and we watched them, their eyes following her hungrily as the waiter seated her in full view of them. In a few moments she is approached by a Gulf man who, to the unsuspecting eye would just appear to be making conversation with a fellow hotel guest (who just has some bad fashion sense) who he happens to know. But it is just an act.
In fact, much of this society wears a costume. We learn that many hotels experience a similar prostitution problem, but there is something striking about the scenery of the hotel in question. It is beautifully crafted: under gilded terraces encrusted with the Muslim star and crescent, these men, having just returned from Saturday night prays, buy some women and indulge in infidelity. They appear to be puritanical, in their sparkling white robes, they travel from the most Islamic of states, but they betray the very traditions they enforce at home without (it seems) blinking an eye, a pang of remorse, or feelings of guilt under God’s all powerful and ever watchful being.
It suddenly becomes evident that the Gulf men next to us are engaged in a telephone conversation with a lady sitting across the aisle. The woman has pencil thin eyebrows that appear to be drawn on, straight brown hair, and a corset that is squeezing her artificially enlarged breasts – “That’s one,” whispers Anna, excitedly. Throughout the conversation, the woman is making hand gestures; it is clear they are negotiating a price. Then, the phones turn off, and the man gets up, leaving his friend at the table, and makes his way straight towards her under the guise of making friendly conversation. He has a limp: one foot drags behind him, and as he nears her table he cracks a toothy smile, wipes his sweaty brow, and takes out a wallet from his back pocket. He shakes her hand in introduction, sits down, and says something that makes her bellow with laughter. They share some shisha, shake hands again, and continue talking: a deal has been struck.
The girl will sleep comfortably tonight in the hotel. Abhinav and Anna assure us that the waiters and hotel staff know exactly what’s going on. In fact, both have unintentionally brushed shoulders with prostitutes late in the night. Anna recalled a girl knocking on her door at one in the morning, mistaking it for her customer’s. Abhinav received several phone calls from a girl using the house phones in the hotel lobby late one night, selling herself via conversation, searching desperately for a customer. Unsurprisingly, most of the hotel security are in on the business: either engaging in the prostitution themselves or receiving a small commission from the prostitutes and pimps for letting them break into the hotel market and use the hotel grounds. Moreover, it would be nearly impossible for anyone to prove prostitution was even occurring: anyone could excuse the behavior as two innocent people meeting and ‘having fun.’ It could also be very dangerous for any one individual to get involved– especially if the prostitution turned out to be part of a greater sex trafficking scheme, which the police were beneficiaries of. This is not an unlikely scenario. It remains a don't ask- don't tell policy.
A very beautiful girl, who appeared to be in her twenties, with long brown hair, a tight grey t-shirt, jeans, and a black belt with the word’s ‘Fire’ encrusted on the buckle, strides over to an overweight Gulf man in jeans, green shirt, and glasses. He is sitting with a more traditionally dressed Gulfie and a young boy who is no older than her. The Gulf man in green has been whistling at her for about ten minutes, and is thrilled that he has successfully captured her attention, giving her a greasy smile when she shakes his hand as if she were businesswoman in an office instead of a prostitute trespassing in a hotel. He handles the entire transaction: it is clear that he has done this before. Despite coming from (and probably doing his utmost to promote) a culture where men and women can’t even bump into each other on the street without making one another feel uncomfortable, he has no qualms in brushing a pudgy finger across her belt, along her hip, “Shu hada ‘Fire’?” (What is this ‘Fire’?) I notice, that despite her profession, she pulls her shirt down uncomfortably, covering her exposed midriff and crossing her arms.
She’s incredibly young. No wonder she is uncomfortable. Anna tells us it is not uncommon to see fourteen and sixteen year old girls here, trying to make a dime. A woman in an abaya, a black robe traditionally worn by more religious Muslim women, walks by. Her lack of head covering, says Anna, is a surefire signal that she is actually a prostitute. Apparently it is now fashionable for prostitutes to wear some religious symbols, as it makes them even more alluring. One woman has been wondering the café relentlessly, for over an hour, looking for a buyer. Her weight is working against her: she is obese, and it is heartbreaking to watch her, her eyes desperately searching, searching, searching, circled in sad eyeliner. She looks like a lost clown.
Meredith and I ask Abhinav and Anna, What about STDs, STIs, AIDS? “Who knows?” they say. This is a dangerous, undocumented, and unregulated world, which the law enforcement itself has no shame participating in and to some extent, even facilitating and sponsoring. On the other hand, Abhinav tells us a story about a prostitute who got married. Her husband remains unaware of her past - how? Well, the general lack of sex education meant that she could turn off the lights and do anything (effectively nothing) with her young customers, and convince them it was sex, even if it wasn't. "You would think they would naturally understand that she had cheated them," Abhinav says, "But some, especially the young and uneducated, have no idea." On another occassion, Anna got word through one of her housekeepers that there was blood on the bedsheets in a hotel room. It was revealed that the room had been used by a couple who had been married in the hotel the previous night. Anna and Abhinav assumed the woman had been the unfortuante victim of violent abuse. It was later found out that the woman's new husband had mistakently sent her to the hospital because he did not realize that bleeding was possible, and even normal, when a woman loses her virgnity.
The night is drawing to an end, and we decide to stop by the casino on our way out. It’s close to midnight now, and the gambling tables are buzzing. We run into the obese woman, and she scowls at us, embarrassed that we seem to know her true identity. But she is also frustrated: two hours ago, the casino would not have carried so much competition. But now, as soon as we enter, we see two women, clearly prostitutes, chain- smoking cigarettes on the red velvet couch at the door, waiting to snag a man looking to splurge his winnings. “Enjoy Cairo,” says the doormen, smiling at us warmly as we leave, and using the traditional Islamic salutation to say goodbye, “Masalaam,” which literally means, “With peace.”
We are overwhelmed: the society is contradictory, hypocritical, disordered, has weak law enforcement but for almost thirty years has been at the mercy of an authoritarian ruler who claims to be president of a democracy, it is at once oppressive of women, but also preaches Islam, which at one point was the foremost feminist movements in the world. As we leave the hotel and the tourist police give us the eye, probably fighting the urge to whistle at us, two appropriately-dressed young girls walking quickly with their heads bowed, not speaking, we wonder – what did we expect?
