A once-promising land reclamation project for new graduates is now a wasteland of lost hope. Yasmine Fathi investigates It all started in 1989 with a tempting offer from the Ministry of Agriculture and Land Reclamation. Under the auspices of the Mubarak National Project for Young Graduates, the ministry offered all class of 1983 university graduates plots of land in Sahl Al-Husseiniya, in the Sharqiya governorate north of Cairo. The project encapsulated several top government policy directives: to solve the increasingly pressing unemployment problem, especially among university graduates; to create urban centres outside congested cities and to expand already ambitious land reclamation plans. With these goals in mind, the government offered each graduate five feddans of land in Al- Husseiniya, along with a monthly aid package of flour, butter, tea, cheese, and a LE50 salary. "It was a dream offer," said Mohamed Gomaa, an agricultural engineer and area resident. "I had another job lined up, but I passed on it for this land. I felt my future would be more secure here," he explained. Each graduate was also provided with a small, one-bedroom house. The cost of the land and house, LE11,000, was to be repaid in yearly instalments from income earned by cultivating the land. The offer was appealing enough for 4,800 graduates to sell their homes and possessions in order to afford a spot in the reclamation scheme. Today, however, the settlers live on poor land, lacking adequate water, health care, education and security, and with no relief expected from the government that promised so much. "We don't have jobs or comfortable homes. We can't cultivate the land or make an income. They left us stranded in the desert," said Sabry Attia, one of the graduate settlers. He considered the settlers "Like an army expected to fight without any weapons." The scheme seemed doomed from the beginning. Although contracts were signed with the ministry in 1989, officially turning the land over to the graduates, the new settlers found the area occupied by locals. Only after four years of legal battles did the graduates take full possession of the land, but the settlers' problems had only just begun. Once settled in Al-Husseiniya, they found that the land was of such a high salinity that cultivation was difficult, if not impossible. "We never knew the land had such high levels of salt. It was a huge shock," Gomaa said. Walking across Al-Husseiniya, one can see the problem with the naked eye. The salt concentration in some areas is so high that it collects on the surface of the land, giving the earth a whitish hue. Residents have unsuccessfully attempted to remove the salt deposits from the soil, but the salt resurfaces every time. Although detrimental to cultivation, the land's high salinity is perfect for fish farming, a lucrative trade that has drawn investors to the area. And while such small fish farms proliferate, those participating in the graduates' project are barred from attempting to do the same, as they are only allowed to use water for land reclamation, not fish farming. Fish farming on reclaimed lands is illegal, punishable by one month imprisonment and LE5,000 fine. According to Mohamed Salem, an agricultural engineer who settled in Al-Husseiniya 10 years ago, the position of the government against fish farming is counter-productive on all counts. "Not only does raising fish purify the land, it's also a wise investment. It allows us to earn an income until the soil is clean enough to be farmed," he explained. General Mokhtar Imam, head of the Al- Husseiniya District Council, initially denied that the land in Al-Husseiniya was saline and could not be cultivated. "There is nothing wrong with this land," he told Al-Ahram Weekly. "These graduates forgot about the land for the past decade, and only when the ministry started asking for repayment did they remember. That's why they made no complaints 10 years ago." However, when asked why the investors were allowed to farm fish, Imam inexplicably changed his tune. "We let them raise fish because the land has high levels of salt and cannot be cultivated," he said. The graduates also complain that while the investors' supply of irrigation water is steady, theirs is erratic. The investors who cultivate rice in addition to fish work green and lush plots, compared to the arid and lifeless land of the graduates. "They [the government] supply water one week, then cut it off the next", said Sayed Mohamed, another of the graduate settlers. "The way they manage irrigation is killing us. The land is salty and needs a continuous flow of water," he stressed. Attia complained that, "Our land is thirsty. The only way to get water is through bribery. But where can we get money when we have no income?" Not only is the land thirsty in Al-Husseiniya, but so are the residents. Although water pipes were being instaled, the government cut off funds for the project in March and the contractor halted work, leaving the Al-Husseiniya settlers without access to potable water for their daily needs. Their only relief comes once a week from a truck carrying plastic jerricans of water. However, the truck, which fills each container for 35 piastres, brings water from unknown sources. "We have no idea where the truck gets this water from," complained Mervet Hussein, the wife of one of the graduates. "This water might be filthy and packed with germs. We buy it, but our children pay the real price. It's either drink this water or die from thirst," she continued. There is also a dearth of medical facilities in the area. The village was given one ambulance, but it was burned out three years ago and never replaced. The village is situated 30 kilometres away from the nearest town, putting any resident with a medical emergency at grave risk. "Last month my neighbour's diabetic mother had a high sugar level and died because we could not get her to the hospital in time," Gomaa recounted. Hussein, the graduate's wife, remembered one of her pregnant friends who went into labour and had to be taken to the hospital on a tractor. "What if she had died on the way?" she asked bitterly. The small clinic provided by the government often lacks skilled staff. Imam, however, stated that the Medical Administration does have an ambulance, but lacks available drivers. "Maybe we should postpone death until they find drivers," Gomaa countered sarcastically. Medical assistance cannot even be obtained by phone, as there are no phone lines in the villages and mobile phones either get weak or no signals. "Today I woke at dawn, and paid 10 pounds for a ride to the nearest phone to call my family and see how they're doing," Attia said. Settlers who brought their families with them to Al-Husseiniya must send their children to the local primary school, Mohamed Shaarawy. The school, a small wall-less, gate-less building with a muddy swamp in front, only staffs two teachers. "Those two teachers can't handle all the children, so they just tell them to go play outside," explained Hussein, who has two boys and a girl at the school. Imam pointed out that many teachers refuse to work in Al-Husseiniya because it is considered too far away. These teachers end up spending more on transportation than their monthly salaries. "If they [the residents] want them to stay, then they should provide them with housing in the area," Imam said. No preparatory or secondary schools exist in the village either, and the nearest schools are too far away to walk. "Most of the time we reach school during the second or third period due to the long distance," said Waleed Ismael, a second-year preparatory student. In addition to the weak educational system in Al-Husseiniya, the area lacks any recreational facilities. "Look at these children," said Hussein, pointing to a group of children playing in front of the village mosque. "They're filthy, playing barefoot in that swamp. Do they look like the children of university graduates?" The villages in Al-Husseiniya are also without an effective police presence. The local police station has only one officer in charge of the whole area, and many residents report that theft has become widespread. Hussein complained that on numerous occasions pigeons were stolen from her home, and she knows people who have fared even worse. "My friend's living room was ransacked and the front door was stolen," she said. "They put us in a desert and expect us to thrive. Sometimes, the only way to survive in this place is to steal," she continued. To top it all off, this September the government asked the settlers to begin paying their yearly LE400 instalments, with a one-time LE1,800 deposit. "They are the ones who should pay us for the years we wasted in this place," Attia countered. Imam indicated that last July a committee was sent to Al-Husseiniya to investigate the situation, suggesting that a remedy would be forthcoming. However, most residents do not feel optimistic. "They have promised us before that they will take action but they never did," said Gomaa. Today, the not-so-young graduates feel lost and unable to pick up the pieces of their lives. Their land is as barren as it was 10 years ago and their city is a sham. Today, they call Al-Husseiniya the "prison without walls". "Although there are no bars around this land, we can't get out. We sold and sacrificed everything to be here. Now it's too late," Gomaa lamented.
