Sayyid is a wiry man in his mid-twenties who lives near the Giza Pyramids and works part-time hustling tourists. He’s also my research assistant and guide through Cairo’s labyrinthine slums. The Egyptian word for slum is ashwa’iyya, whose root meaning is ‘chaos’, ‘randomness’ or, in this case, ‘unplanned’, but the etymology goes further. Ashwa is what the Arabs called an old camel that had lost its eyesight and barged around the camp wreaking havoc. This image of bestial disorder lies just beneath Cairo’s venerably chafed hide, especially now, as the power of Egypt’s self-organized uprising fades to memory.
Sayyid’s sinewy arms are covered in cutting scars, dozens of short horizontal slashes inflicted while under the influence of sedatives and painkillers. He says he quit pills eight years ago as a promise to his girlfriend. He showed me pictures of Zeinab (who was ‘dying to meet me’) saying he needed 4,000 Egyptian pounds ($665) to be formally engaged but hadn’t managed to save up. Yet Zeinab had waited for him for eight years, refusing other suitors. So I agreed to accompany him to her house in an ashwa’iyya not far from his. En route, Sayyid said he hadn’t seen Zeinab in 28 days and six hours. I assumed she knew we were coming.
