Egypt Reveals a Different Kind of Intensity

As fall semester wound down, I found myself eagerly anticipating my departure for Egypt, where I am currently partaking in a Columbia program in ancient history and archaeology. It was not a generic anticipation—it was a pronounced, “I need to get the hell out of here” anticipation. But Columbia’s academic environment was not the problem. In short: I was tired.

First, I was tired of the pace of life at Columbia and in New York. I am not an obsessive worker, and—unlike much of campus—I rarely go to Butler; however, semesters at Columbia have a constant intensity due to an inexplicable aesthete of campus life. Solution: spend a semester on the remote Dakhleh Oasis, a speck of life in the vast, barren Sahara.

Second, I was tired of the outsized and overbearing radical voice on campus. Its unceasing propagation of identity politics was just one disturbing example of the ideological stranglehold it has tried to place on this campus. Solution: experience the Arab Middle East firsthand, without the media or out-of-touch academia.

Undoubtedly, this semester has constituted a change from the pace of the city and the culture of campus. The first month was devoted to a survey of Egyptian history from pharaonic times through the Roman period with emphasis on Egypt’s oases. Each of the eight students was responsible for two short presentations that were the only course assignments. Needless to say, the workload has not been overbearing.

Daily life here could not be more different than in the city. Because the oasis’ underground aquifers are running dry, we take three minute showers—and not even every day at that. Whereas my concept of a view was a Schapiro single facing 115th Street, now I climb to the house’s roof and see palm trees, the majestic Libyan Escarpment, and the first traces of desert sand in three directions. While I spent more of first semester at 1020 than I care to admit, “going out” here consists of walking 30 minutes to town and sitting over hookah and the occasional brew. It’s a “no frills” lifestyle—and it could not come at a better time.

Yet, over the last three weeks, I have discovered a different kind of intensity. The middle month has centered on archaeological fieldwork in a fourth century Roman city. Alarm clocks ring at 5:45 a.m., and we excavate from 7:00 a.m. until 2:00 p.m. Another two afternoon hours are spent working at home. The intensity here is one of a collective mission. The excavation season is short and there is a tremendous amount to accomplish. Everyone here is passionate about archaeology, and the sense of collective responsibility means that no one wants to let others down. An otherwise brutal schedule becomes manageable, even desirable. Unlike the taxing intensity of New York, the intensity of this team of people has been invigorating.

How then does campus radicalism tie into this semester abroad? One of the radicals’ most insidious effects on campus is an attempt to impose a monolithic approach to analyzing identity, ethnicity, and culture. Coming to Egypt was thus both distancing myself physically and ideologically—I wanted to look at a new culture unfiltered. It is fitting that I came here around the 30th anniversary of Edward Said’s Orientalism, the book which spawned an era of scholarship devoted to scolding the West for “essentializing” non-Western culture. In Egypt, I stumbled upon a cultural case study that was impossible to ignore.

At the heart of the matter is a fundamental question: can one essentialize culture in a productive but evaluative manner that sheds light on both its strengths and weaknesses? I’m sure as hell going to try.

When I arrived I could not forget what Thomas Friedman wrote about U.S. foreign policy and Arab attitudes toward America. Friedman argued that the U.S. was propping up undemocratic regimes in Middle East countries, and the populations of these countries hated that our government was complicit in suppressing freedom. Friedman’s argument led me to expect palpable animosity.

Instead, I found broad interest in engaging with Americans. Our first night in Cairo, we were stopped by inquisitive strangers. Though it took 15 minutes to exchange mere pleasantries, they did not grow impatient, instead trying to help us with our nonexistent Arabic skills. After one afternoon in a Cairo coffee shop, our waiter recognized us from across the street and went out of his way to bid us good afternoon.

This spirit spilled over into local hospitality, on the warmth of which the Arab Middle East prides itself. In Dakhleh, we met Samih, the proprietor of a local hotel. We had drinks one evening, and he refused to allow us to pay. Samih and his brother Eslam knew that the birthday of another student was coming. Though we had met Samih only weeks before, he prepared a dinner for us on top of a sand dune at the Sahara’s edge.

Yet Egyptian culture can admittedly leave you shaking your head, too. At the heart of the matter is an unhealthy sexual repression embedded in the local culture. At the birthday dinner, we danced to Eslam’s drumbeats, and the girls were particularly moved. Yet no sooner did they start to dance then one of the locals called out “sharmuta!”—meaning prostitute—to chuckles from some of the others.

If I did not have space constraints, these stories would be endless. I’ve learned that American perceptions of our perceptions elsewhere are warped. The liberal argument that our Middle East policy has diminished Americans’ standing abroad appears to be a tall tale. The people here are as able as any others to distinguish between governmental policy and the individuals they meet. Moreover, Egyptians will bend over backwards to make foreigners feel welcome and at ease.

I have also learned the costs of an exceedingly traditional upbringing. Egyptian men understand poorly how to interact appropriately with women. Too often, women are objectified. And the women’s constant need to be careful for fear of conveying the wrong meaning takes a toll on them.

In boiling down my experience with Egyptian culture, have I run the risk of oversimplifying? Certainly. Have I forsaken detail and nuance for a bigger picture? You bet. But these are arguments in favor of more exposition, not less. Concluding that my “Western gaze” which “essentializes the Other” nullifies my observations and argument is a flimsy argument—no matter what Edward Said and our campus’ radical minority think.

The author is a Columbia College junior majoring in history. He is spending the semester in Egypt.