Al-Azhar park is a load of rubbish. At least, it was. But in 1984, the Aga Khan Trust inaugurated a project to transform this five hundred year old pile of rubble and waste into Cairo’s most inspiring green space. And thirty million dollars, eighty thousand truckloads of accumulated debris, and one re-discovered 12th Century wall later, al-Azhar park was opened to the public in 2005. Situated in the heart of historic Cairo, not far from the famous Khan el-Khalili bazaar, al-Azhar park nowadays is quite literally a breath of fresh air. A much needed lung transplant for this heavy smoker, with its millions-of-old-cars-a-day habit. An enthusiasm of green that is faintly disorientating: grass, bushes, trees…foliage! Not a word you need often in Cairo, a city which proudly puts the urban into jungle. Strolling along the smooth stone paths, admiring the lake, and stopping for refreshments in one of the cafes, it’s easy to forget where you are. The traffic grumbles in the background, but it’s muted, interrupted by only the occasional horn. Compared to the crunchy fumes of the city, the air here is mountain-clean, and sharp with oxygen. Groups of men and groups of women lounge around on the grass. Courting couples cosy up in public safety, each holding one end of a shared mobile phone; the more daring might risk the whisper of skin on skin. Families unpack picnics onto precisely manicured lawns, while their children rough-and-tumble down the gentle slopes, closely watched by wizened grandmothers: dignified women whose faces are etched with long years, but whose gaze is softened by indulgence and nostalgia. This park was not here when they were young. Yet today, something is different. Conversations are muted, and there is little laughter. Tubs of food are being anxiously arranged, again and again, as if by a waiter on his first day at work. Even the sun seems apathetic, sullen red as it slinks below the spire of a gray tower block. Gazing out over Darb al-Ahmar—the higgledy-piggledy patchwork of buildings that bounds the park to the west—the scene is one of exotic poverty. The boxy houses look fragile, like a façade made of Lego. Lines of washing are strung up across flat rooftops, swaying indolent in the breeze. Further south, the mosque of Mohammed Ali watches over the city from on high. Its pencil-thin minarets pierce the sky like twin rockets, fading from view as the day’s light dims. Lights flicker into life. Minarets lit up gaudy in green and orange; a few with flashing fairy lights, colors spinning from red to green to blue. A hush pregnant with expectation sweeps over the city. “Allah-u Akbar…â€, the syllables drawn out, quavering, almost hesitant. “Allah-u Akbar…â€, becoming stronger now, as hundreds of muezzin from all over Cairo announce the sunset call to prayer. An otherworldly symphony in an alien key, the sounds blend together, echo around the city and roll in from all directions. It’s a mournful, haunting sound, the approach of an army of ghosts. For eternal minutes this song of devotion and submission swells forth and recedes, waves of religion enveloping all in their path. When the chorus finally fades away, the park has been transformed. Young men are lighting their first cigarette of the day, and families are breaking their fast with dates and water. With the rush of sugar, energy courses through tired limbs. Dull eyes become clearer, and Egyptian joy once more shines through. Between mouthfuls of dried fruit and nuts, people begin discussing their plans for the evening. Peals of laughter ring out across the park, and music starts wafting up from one of the restaurants. The children are still rolling around on the grass: too young to fast, Ramadan means nothing to them. The grandmothers watch over them, protective. They have a lot to learn. BM
