For those who can afford it, gated communities springing up around the edges of Egypt's noisy capital offer a different kind of life. But is it better, asks Hazem Zohny* Perhaps better described as the City Cacophonous, Cairo, the fabled City Victorious, has reached chaotic extremes with its bustling rhythm sounding much like a full size orchestra hopelessly out of sync. Add onto that disturbing pollution levels, so-bad-you-have-to-laugh city planning, and the sort of traffic jams where one can empty a fully charged phone battery just trying to kill time, and the bitter Cairene cocktail experience is almost set. Topping it off is perhaps what worries most: to be a young, modern Egyptian woman is to suffer incessant staring or worse, each time you venture for a walk in your own streets. The result? The last few years have seen a mass exodus of those who can afford it, packing up and leaving the centre for the suburban serenity to be found in their newly enclosed, gated-communities on the outskirts. Just how repulsed Cairo has left these former inhabitants is only too evident in the tens of security men monitoring the "borders" of their exclusive compounds. But, undoubtedly, these residential bouncers are there for good reason. Though some are a mere dozen kilometres from Cairo's innards, one step inside these lavish havens reveals a hidden -- and bizarrely contrasting -- world of green grass, with children laughing and running, thoroughly bred dogs guarding magnificent villas, freely dressed women, and of course, one too many BMWs. The message is clear: We have worked hard to earn this piece of heaven and now we want to raise our children somewhere safe and free from all the hazards of Cairo. Indeed, as one who has partaken in this very exodus, I can attest to the fact that life on the outskirts certainly has an element of "extended vacation" to it. Even leaving the relative tranquillity of Zamalek, having the option to merely sit in a garden at any time, to take a deep breath and not feel lightheaded, to be free from hearing a car horn every second in the distance -- yes, life seems good. Yet there is something sinister lurking behind the laughter of the merry children here; there is something amiss in the SUVs stuffed with groceries and flat screen TVs; indeed, at times it feels like there is a dead body in the middle of the road that no one seems to notice. The reference here is to an all-too-dismissible, yet undeniable, ambience of segregation. Egyptian society, for a long time now, has been such that the gap between the haves and the have-nots is one of enormous extent, bridged only in fleeting commercial transactions, or through a nod to the bawab, or doorman, or perhaps a two minute superficial conversation about politics between a taxi driver and the passenger who's Mercedes was in maintenance that particular day. Otherwise, the haves have done a pretty good job at closing themselves off in their own luxurious, quasi-liberal world. The worry now is that this tiny group of people, which (incidentally) also hoards the vast majority of the nation's wealth, has found an even better way to close itself off in its own domain -- "gated communities". It seems like a win- win situation: the rich happily hide behind high fences and the not so rich don't have to suffer seeing what they can't have. In reality, however, this is a recipe for a dangerous clash of cultures. The first -- and most disturbing -- symptom of this clash presents itself in the children of these communities: walking through a Christmas carnival in one of these compounds where children take turns sitting on Santa's lap to receive their toy (without the slightest thought of cultural imperialism seeming to cross any of the parents' minds), what language would one expect to hear? It's certainly not Arabic. These Egyptian children are being raised with English as their first language, and it comes at the cost that many of them are growing up inadvertently learning to perceive Arabic "as that language the lady who comes to clean uses." Moreover, many of these children go to schools equally cut off from the reality of Cairo -- for them, the only real time they get to engage with the city, and the culture therein, is as they drive through it. And, of course, shopping is done in colossal malls where beggars aren't allowed, and there is inevitably no appreciation for the cultural spice that can only be found in small, personal shops in which customers may grow to share some affinity towards the owners. The real problem behind growing up in such a bubble becomes particularly evident when one considers that it is these very children that, like their parents, will most likely grow up to direct the course of this country. Yet if one is to be raised utterly alienated from the reality of the situation, if one is to grow up with broken Arabic and the idea that they are inherently different from (or, worse, better than) the "commoners" whom they rarely interact with, how will they possibly relate to the people that make up over 95 per cent of this country -- regular, everyday Egyptians? Of course, one may argue that this escape from Cairo is a necessary evil. In one sense, the staggering number of children in the capital suffering from respiratory problems due to pollution almost leaves able parents morally obliged to raise their children outside the city. In a similar sense, parents who do not wish to cover their daughters in drapes and who want to give them the freedom to walk around and play without suffering accusing stares (and the serious identity crises they often lead to) are also obliged to run for the gates. But more than anything, perhaps, Cairo is in dire need of dispersion -- its infrastructure is creaking with the pressure. Often literally. Crucially, however, this exodus, though a necessity, needs not be an evil per se. The danger of further alienation between the classes exists even in the heart of Cairo, with some Egyptian children raised in the middle of Mohandiseen with poor Arabic and a general obliviousness to the human condition around the corner. They might be exceptions, but let us not raise an entire generation like them. For once in our modern history, let us plan ahead -- let's not buy up land in the middle of nowhere, place a flag by the entrance, and become forgetful of everything outside that cocoon. Let's not spend half our days commuting in gas-guzzling vehicles because the government knows that even if it did miraculously provide decent public transport it wouldn't be made use of. And critically, let's not raise a generation of khawagat, or foreigners, but let us teach our children that they are entitled to their own -- perhaps different -- sense of identity, while still giving them the skills and awareness necessary to engage with their surrounding culture when need be. Ultimately, it is in the hands of parents to ensure that their children are educated about the dangers of classism, and about the importance of having the ability to effectively interact with any segment of society in a non-discriminatory manner, and that is something parents can succeed or fail in doing regardless of where they live. * The author is a freelance writer and editor.
