Down the street from our house in Abbassia, there was a butcher’s shop. Its slaughterhouse had been working full capacity since the early mornings. The animals’ blood had been discarded and it was trickling down our alley; such a nasty day especially for the tenants on lower floors in the buildings around the shop. This included us. My mother had no clue whom she could complain to in such situations because even speaking to a brick wall was more effective than attempting to talk sense to that butcher and his gang. Not to mention, it was safer to talk to the wall for it will not threaten us with a sharpened Singa sword. At the end, my mother would give in her appeal, act as if nothing is happening on the street and tell us to draw our shutters closed . We did not belong to the mayhem and we could not stop it.
Our alley was around four meters wide. It barely let one car pass through. There was a beautiful old building across from our house. It was sold to some rich traders from Upper Egypt and they demolished it to build a twelve stories building block. A few of these storeys were illegal. It stood in front of us like a black deed, as my grandmother used to say, blocking the last source of sunshine that reached our house through one of our living room windows. The new neighbours closed off the first two floors and basement in the new building in order to use the space as storage units for their supermarkets which they so enthusiastically labelled ‘Cairo’. My mother tried to call the municipality many times, but in vain. We didn’t have any important connections for them to even return our calls. Also, no way would we talk to the building owners or their extended family with their expensive cars and motorcycles. So, we had to forgot about the municipality and the sun.
As a last resort, we would escape to a little green space on the other side of our street. It was a 15-minutes walk from home, and relatively cheap and clean. It was a find for us girls to have a cup of tea and enjoy some sun. It was a good compromise, until a posh landscape consultancy decided to embark on a landscape mission to construct this only green space in the vicinty with carousels, restaurants and hardscape. They even called it the Paradise Village of Happiness and Sustainability with an entrance ticket of 15 Egyptian pounds. Apparently, they perceived greenery and fresh air as a dispensable redundancy which we did not deserve. We, the daughters, had already left this neighbourhood long before, but my mother who still lived there, of course, was very pissed off; and to be honest heartbroken. Eventually, we went on with our lives; business as usual. We closed our shutters forgetting the sun and the green as if again, we don’t belong.
Every now and then something is taken away some old trees, a revolutionary urban space, a beautiful building or a nostalgic cafe. A few months ago, the revolutionary urban square of Tahrir was transformed into a prestigious project. The right of memory has been snatched from us to be replaced by a beautification project. A pharaonic obelisk has been installed in the middle of the square and is to be surrounded by four pharoanic statues transferred especially from Luxor. Ther is a water fountain too. Needless to say that twelve governmental and consultancy entities have taken part in this beautification project. The pharaohs must be impressed. The place is forever haunted by those who never belonged there anyway.
Then the bulldozers came, snatching every last piece of memory that connects us to the city, a beautiful house that is claimed to be within the boundaries of state development, an old palm tree inherited over generations that is now forbidden. A great grandfather’s tomb deemed to be useless. Lucky are those who are not forcefully evacuated. Lucky are those who are ignored and left to close their shutters and un-belong.
This time, the right of air is taken away. A bridge is constructed hastily to connect some overcrowded place with another. It passes adjacent to the residential buildings. Were the residents consulted? They saw the bridge coming from beneath like a creeping spider web engulfing them. Like us many times before, I have a feeling the residents don’t know who should they complain to or maybe they chose not to? If they do, will they be taken seriously enough? If the residents are lucky enough, they will be left where they are and not forcefully evacuated. If they are lucky enough they will be ignored and left to close their shutters and un-belong.
ما بين الحدود InBetweenLands 