Bad Ambassadors

Violence

Mahmoud asked us if we wanted to hang out with him in his mum's shop one evening. We both laughed as we hadn't known that his mum even owned a shop and we'd known him for nearly half a year by this time.

"What kind of a shop is it?" I asked.

"It's just a shop," he replied.

"What can you buy in it?" Ben asked.

"Just stuff."

"Oh, come on. What kind of stuff?" I asked.

Mahmoud frowned. "Guys, it's not important. Will you go with me or not?"

"First," Ben said, "We want to know what kind of a shop it is."

"It's hard for me to explain. Come along if you wish or not."

Intrigued, we agreed to it and walked to his mother's shop, which was in a backstreet, residential area not far from his parents' home and faced onto a crossroads. As soon as Mahmoud had pulled up the roller shutter, we barged past him to get inside it. The floor area was roughly four metres squared, so it didn't take us long to conduct an inspection of all the ware. Despite our best efforts, however, we couldn't figure out what kind of shop it was since we weren't able to decipher the Arabic on the plain packaging of items which were arranged in neat rows upon the few shelves.

"What is this?" Ben asked shaking a package in the air."

Mahmoud rolled his eyes. "It's a... It's a kind of cloth for... um... wiping... wiping at a sink."

"What about this then?" I said giving another package a rattle.

"It's a... a... It's a... What d'ya call it? You wash your hands with it..."

"Like soap?"

"Exactly. Soap."

Funnily enough, neither Ben nor I could categorise the shop either, so, a little bored, we sat down on some stools and resorted to stirring Mahmoud about the lack of customers. "Was there really any point in opening?" Ben quipped after we'd been there nearly an hour without anybody entering whatsoever.

I pointed to the shops opposite. "Even they're getting some customers."

Mahmoud shook his head.

"Has your mum ever sold anything?" I added.

He let out a long sigh. "Guys..."

So this is the kind of mood we were in when a small crowd of men began to gather in the dimly lit crossroads outside. They stood facing the building opposite us. Soon others joined their ranks. The sound of roller shutters closing filled the air.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"I don't know," Mahmoud replied. "Some trouble perhaps." He ushered us out of the shop and pulled down the roller shutter. He was intent on leaving, but Ben and I stood gazing at the developing spectacle. Crowds had gathered in the streets to watch the gang as the numbers swelled. There were at least 40 of them now, and some had knives, some truncheons. One man was even brandishing a samurai sword. Heads peered down from tenement windows and balconies with a Colosseum lust.

A splinter group strode towards the besieged building. Then, without warning, silhouetted figures in the balconies above began to hurl bricks down at the attackers. The raiding party retreated back. Projectiles then began targeting the bulk of the gang, which dispersed them temporarily. I understood now why all of the shop roller shutters had been shut; this was premeditated strategy. Eventually, the counterattack waned as the ammunition ran out. A second raid attempt successfully breached the building. The crossroads looked like it had been hit by a missile.

A couple of elder Egyptians, who had been standing close by to us, began a terse exchange with Mahmoud. When it was over, we asked him what they'd said.

Mahmoud looked once or twice over his shoulder before saying, "They want you to leave."

"Us?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Why?" Ben asked. "What's it to do with them?"

"Ya know... because you're foreigners, they don't want you to see this side of Egypt."

I glanced around and felt eyes, real and imaginary, boring into me. Another man yelled at Mahmoud, flicking his hand at us, and, intimidated, we shrank to the back of the crowd, where we heard the sounds of the raiding party dragging their victim out of the house, his mother screaming out to them.

In the days that followed, as gossip spread throughout the neighbourhood, Mahmoud was able to tell us that the young man who lived in the building had insulted someone in the gang and revenge was delivered by slashing his face with a knife. We asked why they couldn't have phoned the police, and he answered that they would've got there too late to stop them and would have been overwhelmed in any case.