Our Travels in Egypt

The Egyptian woman is devoted to tomorrow and its message

The Pharaohs of Egypt, pioneers of civilization.. the Valley of the Kings, the legend of death

Taha Hussein loves Lebanon.. and Amina al-Said has dozens of friends among us

The Hussein Quarter in Cairo, an Eastern symphony.. and glimpses of the past

He who travels to Egypt is no longer an Ibn Battuta, for she lies within range of a short-winded airplane.. a neighbor to whom the Lebanese hasten in every season. This one goes to touch with his own eye, in surrendered wakefulness, the obstinacy of the Pyramids; that one to tuck into her handbag two pieces or more of Egypt's fabric, brocaded with the sweetness of colors; and that other to carry back to the lovely girls who wait a bracelet, a necklace, and a soft shoe..

Egypt loves the visitor and welcomes the tourist, and she has a surprise for everyone. To her one says: to you we shall return again!

My visit to Egypt was short.. its days passed with overwhelming speed.. yes, they were days — how lovely if they could be renewed..

Like every tourist I had to wander through the worlds of the Pharaohs.. their power is astonishing, and their skill confounds history, which is still searching for the key.. for the secret of the secret. It was the Pharaohs of Egypt who laid the cornerstone in the edifice of civilizations..

What phantoms of jinn they were, to whom the secrets of wonders surrendered — and they harnessed them greedily, for the coquetry of their ambition and the wantonness of their luxury, in life and in what comes after life!

The peak of the pyramid is sharp.. very insolent.. Why, facing this swollen triangle, did I feel a longing for weakness.. Yes, for in weakness there is rest and tenderness, and reassurance too..

As for the Valley of the Kings at Luxor.. it is the legend of death that is almost past believing.. for the Pharaohs lived for death, not for life. Their tombs are halls of level expanses, their walls arabesqued with speaking lines.. The Valley of the Kings is a citadel of the dead. In it they speak and stand fast before your eye in a confident mockery that astounds us but avails them nothing..

Nor has everything in this valley been discovered.. The inspector of antiquities told me that the scholars are still discovering new tombs to this day. And how many of these scholars have devoted years to searching this strange, overflowing patch of ground.

As for talk of Egypt's museums, gardens, and clubs, it is longer than long. Egypt is faithful to her past and her present. The important thing, in my view, is that her spacious clubs fill a great void: they are refuge, outing, and lovely rendezvous... How delightful are the Maadi Club and the Gezira Club!

Like the Pyramids, Taha Hussein drew me in Egypt. I visited him in

his elegant "villa," "Ramatan," on Pyramid Street.

No.. our man of letters can see.. I tasted the ripeness of his optimism and loved his love for Lebanon and for the air of Lebanon. Taha Hussein is a mother-word that does not grow old.. As for Egypt's woman of letters, Mrs. Amina al-Said, her office at Dar al-Hilal commands the pick of her hours. The activity of this writer is astonishing.. her pen has a share in more than one newspaper and magazine, but she gives the most of what she has to her own magazine, "Hawwa," the most widely circulated of Egyptian magazines.

And our lady has dozens of friends in Lebanon whom she recalls with eagerness one by one; most of them she came to know during her many visits to Lebanon.

As for the Egyptian woman in general, I have not much to say of her, for I knew her for days, not years.. I saw her everywhere, holding the reins of every kind of work and activity. She is pleasant, "lovable," and earnest; she is devoted to tomorrow and its message. She no longer sways on swings of flowing brocade.. Yes, the Lebanese woman surpasses her in elegance and grace, and I do not know whether to thank God for that or not.. that is not my department!

There remains the talk of Cairo's nights! In those nights lies the loveliest consolation for the heat of the day, when it strikes and shackles.. Cairo's nights are breeze and gaiety and light... I shall not speak of the Auberge, nor of the Fontana, the Mena House, and the Omar Khayyam, nor of the lofty Opera hall, for they are all of ever-renewed splendor. What I loved was the evening spent in the "Hussein Quarter" on one of the nights of Ramadan. The "Hussein Quarter" is a symphony of the East, nestled between the folds of a safflower-dyed shawl..

In the "Hussein Quarter" there are cafés squatting on every level space. In them hands interlace as the cups of fragrant green tea go round.. and hasten, too, to applaud everything.. their own rejoicing selves.. the unlettered learned orator as he sifts present and past with the sifting of a bold, clever man..

In the "Hussein Quarter" I heard a hunchback not of Notre-Dame calling, "Who wants literature from me?" — and under his arms a heap of aged literature in thin yellow pages..

And in the Hussein Quarter I chased after the seller of prayer-beads, to fill my pocket with green, yellow, and red beads to which my wrist inclines and over which my neck bends, while he, in his homespun simplicity, sells them to keep the fingertips company in the hour of meditation on the outspread nights of Ramadan.

The "Hussein Quarter" is a shawl from the past.. colors upon colors. A joyous simplicity.. that does not deceive!

And after all, talk of Egypt is like the tales of Scheherazade.

But he who visits Egypt is no longer an Ibn Battuta... she is a near neighbor, and beloved.