Cairo is still home to a gaping rich-poor divide: Serene Assir looks into life on one of the city's more distressing margins Gaps between rich and poor are present all across the world. Wealth in the hands of the few, deprivation for the rest of us: that is the norm. Yet the north-south discourse finds renewed credibility in studies showing that geography will often be a key determinant of wealth. Egypt is no exception: the south still suffers greater political and economic marginalisation than the somewhat more urbanised north. There, poverty affects all aspects of life, limiting opportunities. Little surprise, then, that illiteracy rates in the southern governorate of Al-Minya should reach a whopping 51 per cent, as compared with the northern governorates' figure of 19 per cent, according to the latest United Nations Human Development Report (HDR) for Egypt 2005. Yet the geographical outlook will often oversee significant unevenness: for every upper to upper- middle class neighbourhood in Cairo, for example, there are several -- amazingly close -- areas where people can barely subsist. "You have Maadi, which is where the United States and Israeli ambassadors live, and just a few blocks away, you have the Basateen area which is overpopulated with people who can hardly make ends meet," one Cairo taxi driver, Hussein, told Al-Ahram Weekly. "God help them. The visual and material contrast between the villas and the mud houses is abominable." And in the same way as it defies space, poverty defies time: development models prove hollow once you realise that in many cases the poorer areas are older than their plush counterparts. One example of this is old Agouza which predates both of its richer next- door neighbours, Agouza and Mohandessin, home to statesmen and tycoons alike. "As children we could see the Pyramids from out here," said one old Agouza native son, haj Abdallah. "Now the high- rise buildings prevent us from seeing anything. This area was once a village -- we, its original inhabitants, have become the city's poor." Indeed the rapid expansion of the metropolis, which now subsumes numerous such villages, has often also resulted in their being entirely razed. (The equally impoverished Boulaq Al-Dakrour, which still incorporates large expanses of agricultural land, provides a similar story. Boulaq lies a bridge away from Doqqi and Tahrir Street, home to ministries, middle-class flats and new terraced houses). All that remains of old Agouza are a labyrinth of alleyways lined with mud and brick houses -- some painted in traditional turquoise or deep red -- and stories of dispossession. "Our situation here does not change." Um Ragab, the mother of four, lives with her family in a one-room mud house built by her great grandparents. "As you can see, we are all poor; our livelihood insecure. I was living well enough until my husband Adli was run over six years ago -- ever since, he has been unable to work. Now I try as hard as I can to make ends meet for all of us with the LE80 I make each month cleaning at a nearby school, and with any help I can get from generous people." Um Ragab is ashamed of relying on charity to push up her income, but she has no choice: "how else am I to feed my children? Religious associations and non-governmental organisations do good work, but the LE20 or LE30 they manage to give out every once in a while simply isn't enough." Indeed welfare provision by the state is sorely lacking. As for provision by associations working on the margins of the state, the Future Foundation, a non-profit organisation spearheaded by President Hosni Mubarak's son Gamal -- also the head of the National Democratic Party's Policies Committee -- was established for the benefit of the dispossessed, and is in the process of completing a building in the heart of Old Agouza.. "The government says we're going to be able to move in there," old Agouza resident Ali Gohar said. "But at the same time they're trying to buy off all our land, the land in which we grew up and to which we belong. So I believe the idea is in keeping with government plans all across the country: first buy off the land, then raze the houses on it. Already they've removed the fruit and vegetable market, which they transported to Lebanon Square in Mohandessin." The trick is that, given the people's poverty, even a terribly unfair offer of LE10,000-15,000 is irresistible to most. Yet the flats in the new high-rise -- the real compensation -- are built for a maximum of three children, "whereas many of us have up to eight". Catch 22: inhumane living conditions, or else being stripped of all that remains of your sense of dignity: your home. This is further complicated by illiteracy and inability to adapt to the surrounding urban environment. "I wonder what it would've been like if I could read or had an education or some kind of skill," says Um Ragab, "but, stuck with my lot, all I can do is praise God that my life is no worse than it is, and that I have it in me to try and give my children the most I can." And while all her children go to the nearby government school, she complains that even state-supported education is costly, what with registration fees and private tuition necessary for passing exams. Poverty figures again and again. Avian flu has deprived thousands of families who supplement their income by breeding chickens of that extra bit of income, for example. "My brother used to breed chickens," Um Ragab went on. "Now he's had to cull them. He is looking for something else to do now, but the days go by and the money is running out." Nor have low sanitary standards helped: the alleyways of old Agouza are, for the most part, dirt tracks heaped with rubbish, with chicken carcasses now added; and international concern notwithstanding, campaigns to remove the risk of infection from such densely populated areas have failed. Women tend to be at the receiving end of endemic poverty in old Agouza. Sitting on a straw mat, 30-year-old Um Gihad, mother of four, discusses her husband's violent behaviour. Hard though it may be to link domestic abuse to poverty, such abuse is undoubtedly less likely to be challenged in the poorer neighbourhoods. "I worry about him being angry with me," Um Gihad said, playing with her toddler daughter. A walk back into Agouza reveals a different world. Overlooking the Nile, the area -- home to Nobel laureate Naguib Mahfouz -- is full of trees; it is "beautiful", according to lawyer Michel Iskandar, a resident of Agouza, "especially nearer to the Nile". Mercedes Benz and BMWs dot the streets, and Jeep Cherokee's only service centre in Cairo looks busy as workers prepare cars for the city's jet set. Yet standing one street away from old Agouza, 25-year-old Mohamed Mustafa, another resident of Agouza, feels the difference is superficial: "I spent two years looking for a job after I graduated. Most of my friends here are unemployed. Although it stands to reason that our situation is for the most part better than that of those who live in old Agouza -- we seem to have better facilities -- the prospect is bleak." Mustafa went on to explain that, irrespective of qualifications or aptitude for work, "the truth is that I found a job only thanks to a wasta [an influential contact]. And I believe the same goes for the vast majority of young Egyptians today." Mustafa blames overpopulation. "The population is growing, and yet the number of jobs seems to be shrinking," he said. Indeed, according to the HDR, Egypt ranks the highest worldwide in the exponential increase in building and population. "My fate and that of young men in old Agouza are, for the most part, one and the same. The problem exists across the country." Feeling let down by promises of development -- which more often than not turn out to be opportunities for capitalisation that benefit entrepreneurs more than anyone -- Gohar explained that the inhabitants of old Agouza are happy where they are: "we don't want to move, least of all if our new homes will be even more cramped than the old. It seems to be that it is the fate of the poor to be transferred from one place to another, separated time and again, until we are so far out of the picture that our problems are no longer of concern to anyone." For hajja Aziza, 80, moving is by no means an option. "This area, this house -- they are all I have. They may not come to much, but I am happy. At least here, I have my memories." Yet it may not be long before the more crucial issue of money becomes an immediate priority for other members of hajja Aziza's family, while questions of home and identity take second place.
