Women mocked and ridiculed on election day

In an election year meant to champion women, the politics of a patriarchal system overshadow prospects for change

The crowd outside Cairo's Nile-side Cilantro café had begun to gather by 7.20 am today. They filtered in and out of the trendy local coffee shop waiting for parliamentary contender Gamila Ismail.
Ismail, the modish ex-wife of Al-Ghad party leader and former presidential contender Ayman Nour, had called on supporters to gather at this meeting point by her home at 7.45am, to then head collectively to the voting stations in her electoral district of Qasr El-Nil.
She showed up late, close to 9am.
One of 469 women who were contesting 508 available parliament seats today, Ismail is an outspoken critic of the ruling regime and a staunch advocate for change. A former life and style TV presenter, long-time activist, and co-founder of her ex-husband's opposition party Al-Ghad, Ismail chose to run as an independent this year rather than vying for one of the 64 seats that have been reserved exclusively for women. The quota, which was initiated in 1979 when former First Lady Jihan Sadat garnered a guarantee of 30 seats for women, has been revived this year after a two-decade hiatus. It is now formally cemented into the constitution as part of wider electoral amendments that were introduced in 2007. Currently, there are just eight female MPs.
This morning, when the bilingual mother-of-two turned up, over one hour late, with striking lipstick, layers of make-up, coiffed hair, and dark “Vogue” branded sunglasses, her quest for an independent Qasr El-Nil seat – one she hoped to steal from NDP rival Hisham Mustafa Khalil -- began to unravel, when she was dealt a series of political antics and blows.
Driving out from the upper-middle class residential district of Zamalek, to her first electoral stop across the bridge in downtown Cairo – an area lined with Ministerial buildings and the operational nucleus of the ruling National Democratic Party - Ismail had just a handful of people in tow. Most of them journalists, all of them women, one of them her son.
Her first surprise came when she arrived at her district's first voting station, where she was informed that there had been a change in her candidate number – from 17 to 14. Retaining composure as she complained that this would result in a loss of votes, an officer manning the station smirked that, in fact, it may work out in her favour. "Who knows how many supporters number 14 had. Surely more,” he said. “You may now get all his votes.”
Ismail has been know to erupt into fits of anger, and was frequently captured on tape screaming to police during her now ex-husband's 2005 presidential campaign that ended with him behind bars. But on this cloudy Cairo morning that people grumbled was London grey, the 44-year-old remained calm. She took note of her new candidate number, gathered her trailing teenage son Nour, and headed to the first of her voting stations. There, she was greeted with more bad news; her electoral stations had been changed, to locations out of her constituency bounds, and into neighboring districts.
“I will wait and see what happens,” she said. “It is disorganized,” she told supporters, refusing – quite out of character - to wield an accusatory finger at the regime for its antics to pulverize opposition and critics.
But in Bulac, where Ismail's ballot boxes were alleged to be, she was turned back, again. There had been a change, she was told – back to square one, back to the original voting station plan. Her supporters were being led astray.
“They are messing her around,” said one observer. “She would have been better off sticking to the women's quota.”
But even for those women battling for the 64 allocated seats, the political landscape has been no more forgiving – neither in the run-up to the elections, nor today. In Helwan today, supporters of Basma Ahmed Mohamed, who is backed by the Muslim Brotherhood, complained of being stalled from voting at electoral stations. Police made requests for ID copies, additional paperwork, and stamped voting cards – all attempts to irk incoming voters. At one voting station, they temporarily suspended entry, in the hope that voters would tire of waiting and head home.
In the lead-up to these elections, the evidence of a system fraught with the politics of patriarchy was clear, and the intimations of an election day that would undermine the women's quota was manifest in ransacked offices, threats to supporters, and the consistent destruction of candidate campaign banners and posters. That shenaniganry continued into today – as Ismail toured her Qasr El-Nil constituency, young children tore down her posters, ripping them into twos and fours, throwing them to the ground, and stamping down on them with muddy shoes.
“She is using her beauty to try to win votes,” a young girl of ten said. “Hisham Khalil is offering services, he listens to what we need. She offers nothing.”
The young girl was not alone – a group of schoolchildren were diligently tearing down posters alongside. Obviously bribed. With what, they wouldn't say.
This election, which was meant to champion women, has instead turned into yet another marker of an electoral system plague with mockery and corruption. It has also reaffirmed the mindset of a nation sceptical and jaded. Today at the polls, even women couldn't secure the vote of their own. Turnout of women, although marginally higher than the last election year, remained low.
“I didn't even bother to vote,” said Sabah Ahmed, a teacher from the Qasr El-Nil district where Ismail is running. “No-one will make a difference. If the men can't even bring change, how will a woman?”
Reem Leila and Salma Shukrallah contributed reporting.