Letters From Egypt
Franz Zheng
Dear Mother,
I write as we make our progression to the Sinai. I am fine. For sure, we are fine, no need to worry about our security.
Everything is great – food, drink, attractions, etc. We are served the best items available with utmost cordiality, as it would have been in London. Praise the glory of the British Empire, the captain had said. He spoke about the history of Egypt, from the very ancient pharaohs born in the time of Christ, to the Age of British Protection, in this century. I was much entertained by his tales.
We will arrive in the Sinai in a half hour. It is a beautiful peninsula, with friendly and hospitable citizens; the captain told us that. I am looking forward to having a great time there. I asked him whether we could take any photos of the attractions. He said no. I had, of course, expected this reply. I am a war photographer; I may only record battle scenery for the Times, and abstain from enjoying myself.
Yours, Tim
30 October 1956
(II)
Dear Mother,
We arrived in the Sinai two hours ago. There were lots of beaches of the colour of white. The colour palette for me, though, is dim grey. Always clouds are restricting the occurrence of blue skies. The only visible elements were the few dull seagulls flying through instruments of dark. When we were marching towards our destination, we listened to the radio for news.
The Israeli Army had occupied the Sinai within two days. Egyptian President Nasser called on the U.N. a propos to reprimanding this invasion. The Israeli claimed the ancient Israeli Kingdom’s possession of the Peninsula. Great Britain and France, despite controversy from what I could only say is a place of abundant betrayal, supported the militaristic exploits of the Israeli –
“Stop running the radio! Stop!” Said the captain suddenly, with his face a dark green. I could not tell what had irked him. Then he informed me. “How dare they speak such vitriol? Our support is justified! Our support is generous! Our support is glorious! The Israeli require our assistance to reclaim their ancestral possessions, which have been seized by savagery! In the past that was the Arabs, then the Mamluks, succeeded by the Turkish, and now the Egyptians. None of them have the right to rule the Sinai!”
I quietly struggled to note what exactly he was saying. Justified. Generous. Glorious. Arabs. Mamluks. Turks. Egyptians. I observed him carefully. He has long thought of this, I thought. But I must ask.
“Why do we support Israel?”
“Have you not been informed of the matter of the Suez Canal, my friend? Well the Egyptians just took it, didn’t they, ripped it right out of our hands? It’s a British possession, to be sure. We, the British, rebuilt this canal in their favour; and surely they had gained. But they rebelled against us. Us. We received no thanks and only hate, as we always do. Their new so-called president just declared it his; such violation of all reason! These disdainful wolves have met their end; Britain has joined the hunt. Prime Minister Eden is well prepared to recover British territory.”
The Suez Canal. As you know, mother, I had read extensively on the subject before embarking upon this journey. I am simply gathering opinion, here, by feigning oblivion, if you had not noticed. Long belonging to the Egyptians since the age of pharaohs, this Canal was the key to economic boom and military expansion, if Egypt did have such aims in mind. I agree with him: the Canal was the greatest jewel of Northeast Africa. Its construction was, at least partially, in our credit. Though I will attempt another query.
“Sir, pardon me for asking, but Egypt has always claimed legitimacy over the Canal, has it not? They built this canal, as you said, in history, until it was rebuilt for further use – Britain improved its facilities. We improved their condition. Yet we have not owned it, if I may – allude to history.”
The captain looked at me with his brows knitted.
“There’s nothing to history, my friend. All political matters.” He said.
We are now arriving at local accommodations, and will settle down. My dear mother, I do miss you frightfully and it will be a great pleasure to reflect upon my trip further in later letters that you will receive, undoubtedly, in due time.
Yours, Tim
31 October 1956
(III)
Dear Mother,
It has been three days without letters written. I do apologise for my neglect, but I have been otherwise occupied. The most curious incidents have occurred since my reception.
Upon arriving we were greeted by a group of local busboys in quite a delightful, if not obsequious display. They were all wearing black uniforms and black shoes; I could not imagine that they were dressed like that, since my impressions of Arabic people was always men who put headscarves on their head, and women with thick scarves on their necks and mouths.
Among the performers, I made out one whose height was below average and sans-mustache. His face was covered with an invisible light. How could I describe that invisible but visible light? I could see it. He was nervous, frightened, with eyes like a doe.
It was so enticing that my hands flew out of mind’s grasp. They were searching for something they usually held. The camera. They were searching for the camera. They always do that during wars when I am spotting something memorable. But it could not be recorded; that invisible light. I did not end up taking a picture.
We had our first dinner at 7 o’clock that evening. We sat, four people, in the plated-gold vacancy of the embassy restaurant: the captain, the driver, me, and the manager. The group of attendants were serving our meal, preparing food for us.
I forgot almost everything that was said that evening. The only thing that I remember was that little boy delivering me a cup of coffee. The doe-eyed boy. His motions were slow, almost the same as the speed of a snail climbing a tree. I blinked, patiently. Nobody seemed to notice. He had become invisible. He must have been thinking about something. I did not know. I might never have the chance to know. It was excruciating, punctuated by the exacting slowness of his pouring. I remember his eyes. They were not constantly looking at mine; seemingly, he was the victim, and I had a pistol. By coming here, I had joined the hunt.
“Please enjoy your coffee, sir.” He said in a low voice.
What a polite boy.
That night, I retired to my quarters, but I could not for the life of me fall asleep. I paced around in my chamber, unable to clear my mind or further muddy it. I could not write; I could not read. It was perplexing. I felt like I was in limbo.
I decided to abandon the thought of sleeping. Three hours later, I looked at my watch – it was almost one o’clock in the morning. I threw on my clothes and sat dutifully by the table, deciding what to do next.
Coffee. I needed coffee. What remained of my precariously hanging consciousness informed me to dial the embassy’s telephone for help. Egregious. No one would initiate a phone-call at midnight. No one would answer the phone at midnight.
“Hi, hello?” A low voice was speaking.
It was familiar. It must be the little boy.
“Could I have a coffee delivered to my room?” I asked.
No response for a while. He must be preparing, I thought.
“Yes, certainly, sir. We have ones prepared already. I will bring it to you now.” The boy answered.
I opened my door for him to come. He was still dressed like he was last night, clothes untampered with and incredibly clean.
“Thank you so much for bringing me that.” I said, grateful and rather too tired for social custom.
“It’s all right.” The boy said, without much propriety either. His voice was lighter this time, like a boy’s, and genuine. One is far less affectatious at one in the morning. Again, I saw the invisible light on his face. This time, it was clearer for me to observe. It betrayed a person determined to find something. I too was determined to find something.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I have something to ask you.”
The boy seemed confused.
“Where are you from?”
“Cairo.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
His voice has lowered back to its original tone. I felt the inopportunity of this interrogation immediately.
“Sorry for the – arrogance – of these questions, as I suppose –” I flailed my arms around. “ – I was just wondering what motivated you to be a waiter here. I am a war photographer, and it is in my interest to gather personal narratives from war sites. It is, really, the purpose of my trip, and I would be indebted to you for your participation, if you are willing to make such an – offer.”
“Any way I could be of help, sir.” The boy answered, also politely.
The boy was called Ibrahim. He was born in a middle-class Egyptian Family in Cairo c. 1940. He was the youngest child among his siblings. He lived through W.W.II when Egypt joined the war on the side of the British Empire. Both his father and mother were soldiers in the Egyptian Army. They lost their lives in German East Africa. The war ended. His two elder brothers and an elder sister became Egyptian revolutionaries. They fought for Egyptian Independence. They were all executed by King Farouk I.
This name was, unfortunately, either omitted from the volumes I had studied or my memory. “Who is King Farouk I?”
Apparently the Egyptian monarchy was established in 1922 by Fuad I, a once-beloved king who fought against the British Empire and obtained semi-independence. However, the next-in-line king Farouk I sided with the British to oppress the revolutionaries. Luckily, he was overthrown in 1952; the Arab Republic of Egypt proclaimed to be the new democratic government.
“I realise that I would be an invader, from your point of view.” I said.
“Never mind that, sir.” Ibrahim answered. “You are not your empire.”
I wondered what he meant by that.
“What made you work here?”
“The government guaranteed me with this job. And the Sinai is quite beautiful. And I have no family, so I came here alone.”
He showed no anguish nor grievance when he spoke that he was without family. I supposed that he would shed tears, but he did not.
“Sir,” the boy started, a bit tentatively, and I motioned for him to continue. This encouragement spurred him on. “Sir, if you really are a war photographer, I’d like to say this for the record.” He drew a long breath. “The Suez Canal belongs to us. It cannot be British property because it never was. And now the Israeli have the Sinai, and they want us to give the Canal away. You – you act like the Germans in the last war, claiming things everywhere that are not yours to claim.”
His words remain in my head. We were the invader, to be sure, but mother, perhaps we were in the wrong all this time. I remember the peace-loving, virtuous Britain without imperialist characteristics; my nation is now controlled by a mixture of unconscious thoughts of imperialism, colonisation, and expansionism, and it is not the true motherland that I can claim to be mine. I do not know what to fathom of this. We can take, we can take – but it will not be right, and perhaps not Christian.
I will be much occupied in the coming days, as violence along the border intensifies and I will set out to capture moments of tension. I may contact you soon, but I cannot make any promises. It is currently 3 A.M. What I can tell you is – I am looking forward to committing myself to sleep.
Yours, Tim
3 November 1956
(IV)
Dear Mother,
The war is over. Oh, but you have surely known by now, from your routine morning news! What happiness is this!
It was a quick war. I believe the U.N. had issued official condemnation to British and French involvement – I will refrain from commenting on that matter. The U.S.S.R. also threatened to intervene, as they do. We retreated their troops on the 7th.
I found Ibrahim by the hallway today with a glow on his face. He declared he was supremely happy. I was, by comparison, on the losing side, and more sedate. The driver did not show any feeling, did not react to the news even when I walked to the front specifically to inform him; he drove us to the port without speaking a single word of the war. The only person in our crowd to show resentment was the captain. He was complaining about the weakness of the British Empire in taking the Suez Canal back.
“What a humiliation for our glorious empire! They ought to take it back!” He enunciated. I could not help but imagine him as a wounded tiger, furiously roaring. And I could not agree with him.
“Perhaps the time is ripe to reconsider our assertions,” I said. “Our nation took a step away from imperialism – the correct step – by losing; the Egyptians have always owned the Suez, haven’t they, anyways? This is the right thing to do. We suffer no losses today.”
“Let us not speak any more of this, my friend.” The captain responded.
We were finally to leave the embassy. I could not say my stay was entirely without turbulence here, and though I will always owe it for its insight, I am quite eager to leave, to devour new sights. The group of attendants were there to bid us goodbye, as they were when we arrived. Before leaving, I went to find Ibrahim for the last time. The invisible light was still shining on his face.
“Goodbye, sir.” He said lightly.
And at that instant I knew no parting words would be necessary. “Goodbye, Ibrahim.”
The attendants became smaller and smaller, until I could not see them. Ibrahim was waving among a sea of black linen, the only flurry of motion, and he was mouthing something akin to “farewell”. We would not meet again. Of course, I am not my empire, yet I still wonder which of us he meant those words to reach. Perhaps both.
We will arrive at Alexandria in two months, and then we will return to England by ship. I shall continue writing to you. I believe there will be much to write about; my journey is far from over. Do tell Alfred, however, to please start preparing my wardrobe for a reception at Chesterfield.
Yours, Tim
12 November 1956
(V)
Dear Mother,
I am at the port of Alexandria, and greeted by a beautiful sight. The beaches are all golden under this sun, glamorous and quite vivid. I have not seen such colour in what I think is a long time. The skies here – the skies! A man has never been more grateful for his camera.
I hope to see you by the next month.
By the bye, I am hearing now that the Right Honourable Sir Anthony Eden resigned his prime ministership two days ago. Perhaps I should be more surprised than I am. Consider me astonished, then, and also rightfully scandalised by the information that His Ministry witnessed one of the greatest moments in human history: the restoration of Egyptian control over the Suez Canal.
I am looking forward to having more conversations with you after we return.
Yours, Tim
11 January 1957
