Dena Rashed discovers that the spirit of Ramadan has yet to reach the village of Shabramant It is a sunny day, but not too hot for those who are fasting in the village of Shabramant, Giza. The narrow streets are quiet considering it is morning, the prime time for peasants and small shop owners to begin the business of the day. Only the children returning early from school, according to shorter Ramadan schedules, bring the streets of this small village to life. Silver-coloured paper decorates the alleys, replacing traditional hand- made lanterns and coloured paper. It is the only sign of festivity in this ordinary village. A journey to Shabramant starts out enthusiastically, in the belief that you will find the joy of celebrating Ramadan on the streets, in the buildings and among the people. But the reality is much less colourful. Villagers are preoccupied with daily material worries. In popular culture, the villages of Egypt are portrayed as the centre of all that is wholesome and charitable, the keepers of social tradition and values. But villages of this simple structure have changed, along with the changes that have swept and altered society as a whole. Naturally, celebrating Ramadan has also mutated. "It is not Ramadan that has changed; the people are just not the same anymore," said Salah Kassem, a grocer who has become critical of people's attitudes in recent years. "Now it is rare to find a true human being." Kassem and his wife, who are originally from Shabramant, remember the good old days, "when people were honest and always stood by each other." "We are not desperate people," he said "but we have been through tough times." Kassem continued that decades ago acts of charity during Ramadan were done confidentially, not publicly because "people did not need to show off their good deeds." But now, for example, a man decided to sponsor a ma'edat al-rahman (charity banquet) in the area, but has since asked everyone in private to participate with him. "So in the end, he has basically done nothing and everyone else assumes he has done it all by himself and he does not deny that." On the other hand, for the lady selling vegetables with a big smile on her face on the main street of the village, life is genial. "One can still feel the warmth and kindness of the people during the holy month," according to Fathia Salama, the landmark on the road. "It is always nice to know that people still care about me and try to help me as much as they can." Salama has been a widow for the past 27 years, and managed to single-handedly raise a daughter and a son. But as you walk around the streets of Shabramant, the mood becomes more sombre. Even the once grateful Salama cannot hide her disappointment that life is a struggle. For her, it has been difficult to maintain a decent living with the increasing prices of goods. "Most of the people around here don't have a stable job, so their livelihood is not comfortable and whether a man or a woman, the breadwinner has to take care of everything," she said. The main butcher of the village, Arabi Ahmed, shares the same concerns with Salama. "The most important things for any of us are food and stability," stated Ahmed, unaware of a young girl playing with the only piece of buffalo meat hanging in his small shop, at LE23 per kilo. Although the price is high for many Shabramant residents, it is still very low in comparison to the price of meat sold in the city for LE40. "Twenty or 30 years ago people did not make a lot of money, but life was cheap. Now people are in conflict because they can't afford to buy more than one kilo of meat for a family of four or five people." As Ahmed recounted his memories of better days, his neighbour was trying to hide his disappointment with his dry sense of humour. "I will simply say life is great," quipped Abdou Dweidar, a peasant whose neighbours call the omda (mayor), "except that everything has changed, with our incomes diminishing and our needs expanding. It is too much for the people to bear." Even TV takes the blame, in Dweidar's mind, taking away all what once was Ramadan tradition. "The strong voices singing Ramadan songs and the prayers by famous voices like El-Naqshabandi are being replaced by young and feeble voices, taking away all the memories associated with this beautiful month," he opined. Inviting friends and acquaintances to iftar has always been a Ramadan ritual that existed for centuries in the villages as well as the cities. But it has not been continued lately by the people, as Abdel-Ghani Gomaa explained. "I remember Dweidar's father used to grab us from our hands to join their daily iftar, but now people don't do that much," noted Gomaa. "Cohesion as we knew it is diminishing by the day." Nonetheless, signs of solidarity and cohesion could still be seen on the streets of Shabramant. A group of young women, sitting on the doorsteps of one house, are helping each other prepare the meal of iftar, while their children play in the alley. Badria mentioned how Ramadan has become a busy month for her and her female neighbours. "The first 10 days are dedicated to visiting the family, then another 10 days for sewing and preparing the dresses for the Eid, and the last 10 days for preparing the kahk," she listed. "If we don't organise our time we will never get things done." As a child, Badria's life was much simpler. "When we were young we used to make our own fanous [Ramadan lantern] out of a salmon box and a tiny candle," she remembered. "Nowadays, children have grown up and stopped playing with lanterns," she added, never stopping the meticulous cleaning of the vegetables for iftar. Today's ready-made lanterns, imported from China, are not only criticised for their foreign looks but for their prices as well. "I have four kids, and each fanous costs LE15; how can I afford to buy each one of them a fanous ?" wondered Amin Abu Seri'e, who has trouble finding a decent job. But with or without the fanous, joyful children without a care in the world are found in every corner of Shabramant. A lacklustre Ramadan is not the only cause of the village's pensive mood. For example, the residents of one alley have been living a nightmare for weeks, when the old sewage system broke and flooded their homes. "We are afraid the houses might fall because of the effect of sewage on the walls, and none of our complaints have caused local officials or our MP to help us," charged Ragab Ahmed, a resident whose house is flooded with sewage on a daily basis. Another resident, Wagida Mohamed, suffers the same problem. "We can't really enjoy Ramadan since we have been living in this mess for some time," complained Mohamed. "My daughter has been removing the waste in buckets all day to throw it in the nearby canal. It is horrendous." The local council's sewage truck broken down several weeks earlier, and some conniving individuals saw an opportunity to make a quick buck. "Two men decided to rent private trucks and charge us LE40 every time they remove the waste," said Mohamed. "We can't afford that, so we do it manually and risk constant flooding and a tiresome process." Sarcastically, Dweidar likened the holy month to a villager called Ramadan who was passing by. "Our Ramadan is like this Ramadan walking by in a tattered galabyia and muddy feet."
