Fan fury

By Fayza Hassan
Back from Paris, my daughter was lyrical about life in the city of light. She had walked for hours -- really walked, without twisting her ankle or falling into a hole -- all over the city. People were not particularly welcoming, she conceded, but the surrounding order and harmony largely made up for their rudeness. "Would you like to live in Paris?" I finally asked. She wasn't really sure, but merely existing in Cairo was particularly taxing, she said. She cited pollution, the traffic, the impossibility of finding a parking space, the crazy ways of drivers on the road, the general apathy, etc... Of course, she knew she was lucky to be living in her own country amidst loving members of her family, but she just wished things were not always so difficult. I stressed the positive points, but did not discount the possibility of her moving to Paris one day. Who could tell what fate had in store?
"Don't forget that Egyptians are amiable, and generally nicer than people are elsewhere; they are usually helpful and rarely aggressive. We should count our blessings, really," I told her.
That evening, driving home from Zamalek, I was counting them still. I had spent the evening watching television with my mother, and she had commented bitterly on the increase of violence everywhere. As I reflected on our conversation, trying to see the present global turmoil through the eyes of someone who had lived through two world wars and therefore shouldn't be too surprised at the chaos wrought on the world by the superpowers, I steered the car around the corner of the Ahli Club and came to a dead halt, faced with a long queue of stationary cars and a great deal of noise.
Crowds of young boys, maybe a hundred, were blocking the street. Some were dancing, others clapping, many roaring vigourous slogans. There were shouts, followed by frantic applause. Many youngsters perched on the wall of the club opposite the Opera House exit were dropping onto the footpath intermittently. The line of cars was creeping along and all I could do was follow. Strangely, the procession was not accompanied by the usual honking of horns. Only the voices of the boys broke the silence. There could not have been a serious accident, I reflected, as I moved forward at a snail's pace. It looked too much like a celebration, but what were they celebrating, and why were the cars stopped up front?
It had been a particularly hot day and the car's air conditioning was not doing a good job. I had finally rolled my window down, hoping against hope for a cool breeze. By the time I was close enough to realise what the crowd was up to, it was too late to attempt closing it. A group of boys had spotted me and decided I would be a perfect subject for their prank. Some climbed on the hood of the car and jumped up and down, while others began to hit me on the head and shoulders. "Don't be afraid to hit her, she is a grandmother," shouted someone; "she can't hit back." He was quite right. I had quickly decided that the best course of action was to do nothing. I did not want to excite them more by addressing them directly. I knew that no help was forthcoming from my fellow motorists, who were either as surprised as I was, or simply terrorised by the unusual violence.
Fortunately I was tightly strapped in; the seat belt restricted my movements and I could not see myself fumbling with the mechanism fast enough to free myself and slap one of my aggressors in the face. This would have no doubt unleashed their fury and instead of the ineffective, albeit humiliating blows that they managed through the open window, who knows how much more unpleasantly this encounter would have ended?
Finally the cars began to move and the boys dropped off one by one, at first running to catch up with their disappearing prey and then abandoning the race as they spied other unsuspecting motorists coming round the bend.
How could this happen, I wondered, as I finally reached the Corniche heading for Maadi, what did it mean? What had been the point of the performance? My bag had been left untouched on the back seat, my mobile phone was still on the dashboard and no one had attempted to snatch my watch or bracelets. Beside, no one had been seriously hurt: it was not real violence; nothing like the scenes I had watched on television that evening. It was more like aping violence, only half-heartedly getting into the act.
The following day, as I recounted the incident, I was surprised to find out that everyone I spoke to was aware of this kind of behaviour. "There was a football game away and Ahli won, that's all," said a colleague. "The fans were celebrating at home." Were we following the example of European football hooliganism, and would it become dangerous to be out after a game? "Well, you will be relatively safe as long as you keep that red car, and the Ahli keeps up its winning streak," joked someone. Perhaps Paris is not such a bad idea after all, I thought to myself. But the French keep going on strike, and they don't like foreigners. I tried to think of life on a deserted island, if any were left. I would certainly die of boredom. A better idea, I finally decided, would be to get a more powerful AC for the car.
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