The Islamic call to prayer sounds five times per day; in Cairo it is invasively loud and often poorly delivered by an amateur muezzin. Between microphone feedback and much unseemly coughing and throat clearing, the prayer is rarely the hearkening to higher realms it was meant to be. I am convinced that most Cairenes are at least partially deaf. There’s no other explanation for the acceptable decibel levels around here, which rival those of a heavy metal rock concert. I’ve come to terms with the prayer in various ways, taking the opportunity it offers to alter my train of thought, leave my desk and stretch, even go to the window and listen sometimes, wondering how such a screeching clamour might be construed as a sacred call. When that doesn’t work, I use ear plugs. Yet I still remember my early days in Cairo, when I found the prayer enchanting and the city’s noise so inspiring that I often sought it out.
I was a regular attendee of mulids. The burial places of those considered close to god are the focus for these celebrations, which last several days, attracting droves of pilgrims and locals. Far from grave, mulids unleash a bacchanalian abandon reminiscent of the pagan festivals of yore. The nights are spent in virtuous revelry, the days in a kind of divine hangover. With their riotous lights, deafening music, clusters of swaying trance dancers, snake handlers, shooting galleries and kiddie rides, the mulids attract millions who have practically no other opportunity for community entertainment. They’re New Year’s Eve, birthdays and anniversaries all rolled into one.
