Reading about Haiti’s recent earthquake reminded me of being in Cairo in October, 1992 during its earthquake. I was part of a team evaluating a U.S Agency for International Development program training health providers in family planning.
It was my second week in Egypt, and an ordinary day when I hailed the cab in Tahir Square after my meeting at the USAID office. I was returning to my hotel. The weather was typical for Cairo; hot and humid, and there were teeming masses on the streets. I was glad to be sitting in an air-conditioned taxi, watching the pedestrians, many of whom walked faster than the crawling traffic. I liked racing with them from the comfort of my cab; it distracted me from my frustrations with the traffic and added some excitement to an otherwise tedious trip. I selected a young man wearing a royal blue shirt as my opponent. His stride was steady and firm and he seemed focused on getting to his destination as quickly as possible. When we started out, we were neck and neck; then the traffic stopped and he got a block ahead. But the cab started again and we caught up with him. This went on for several blocks; he was ahead, then we caught up and surged ahead, and it looked like we were winning when he turned the corner and the race came to a premature end. I wondered, who would have won.
With the race over, I settled back in the cab, glad that it was Thursday, and the end of the work week in Egypt. The cab turned into a quieter street with fewer cars and I was thinking about the weekend, when I heard a loud rumble, an unfamiliar sound I had never heard before on Cairo streets. I looked around for what might have caused it—had the cab hit something, or lost a wheel, or did a building collapse? I found nothing amiss, but I was uneasy. Something is happening. When the taxi stopped at the traffic light, I heard another rumble and felt a jolt beneath me, like the earth had moved. Was that an earthquake I wondered, but when the light changed the cab started up again, as if nothing had happened. The driver just shrugged his shoulders when I asked. Perhaps he didn’t understand me, or didn’t know how to respond to me in English. I was anxious, but saw we were in Zemalek, an upscale and lovely neighborhood, not far from the Marriott Hotel, my destination, and my anxiety quieted down. As the cab pulled to the curb, I saw large crowds of people congregated on the sidewalk and many more rushing from the hotel. “What’s happening” I asked as I exited the taxi. “There’s been an earthquake, and we were instructed to evacuate the hotel,” came the reply.
I joined the milling crowd and looked around for my evaluation team mates, also staying at the hotel. The crowd was dense---it was a large hotel—and all the guests were standing on the sidewalk, wondering how long they would have to be there, and whether their room would be safe to return to. Then I spotted Maureen getting out of a cab. If I had to stand on the sidewalk in the heat, I couldn’t imagine better company than Maureen to pass the time with.
I met Maureen Clarkson about five years earlier when we both worked in Somalia. Ten years older than me, trained as a nurse and Canadian by birth, she was fair-haired, tall and willowy, with a warm smile and wicked sense of humor. She saw me standing on the edge of the crowd and headed towards me. “Can you believe this,” she said breathlessly, repeating herself as she caught her breath. “I was at a meeting on the first floor of the El Katib Hospital, in a poor area of Cairo, when the earth started shaking. The hospital administrator thinking it was an earthquake, suggested we end the meeting. As I walked outside, I was caught up in a surge of nurses, orderlies and medical personnel fleeing the building. Where are the patients, I thought, who is taking care of them? I looked up, attracted by the calls for help, and saw them hanging out the windows. Then I saw a few hobbling out on crutches, and some in beds and wheelchairs, conveyed by orderlies. The evacuation was a mess and it seemed like the staff had left the patients behind, uncared for. “Can you believe this,” she repeated again., shaking her head. Nodding my head, I commiserated, seeing confirmation of the tales we had heard about the indifferent health system, particularly when it came to the poor.
We returned to our rooms, after about an hour and an all-clear signal from the hotel. All the rooms and corridors had been checked, and although there were many cracked walls and ceilings, none were deemed dangerous. I was on the 14th floor, and as the elevator doors opened, I saw the damaged hallways and then the ceiling in my room. I immediately turned on the TV, to get the news and a clearer picture of what had happened. I sat by the large window overlooking the Nile River below and thought of “that ole Man River that keeps rolling along”. Its eternal nature was calming.
For a moment my mind wandered to an earlier trip to Egypt, when I piggy-backed some sight-seeing to a meeting in Israel of the World Federation of Public Health Associations. Awakening in the early morning hours on an overnight train to Luxor, I lifted the shade to see a flat green fertile landscape and peasants plowing with oxen. The train moved but the scenery hardly changed; oxen pulling a plow, men holding the plow as the earth was turned. It was like a picture from Biblical times. The cultivated green and fertile land stretched as far as the eye could see, but when viewed from a plane, the sharp demarcation between fertile land that became desert when the Nile couldn’t reach it, was dramatic.
The CNN newscasters were piecing together the information, as they were handed bulletins.
“An earthquake, measuring 5.9 on the Richter scale has hit the Cairo area, though the epicenter is in Dahshur, about 18 miles south. There has been widespread destruction in Dahshur, with hundreds of buildings destroyed and many casualties. There have been several after- shocks, and people are being advised to take precautions.” It was too early to know the true scale of the damage, and the newscasters kept repeating the few facts they had. I shut off the TV and looked at my watch. It was almost 6 PM in Cairo which meant that it was noon on the east coast, and my sons might be hearing the news. I need to wire them that I am safe.
There was a long line in the hotel’s Business Office. Other visitors seemed to have the same idea. As we stood in line, everyone spontaneously shared where they had been when the earthquake struck. None of the stories were particularly harrowing, though we all had the urge to share as a way of releasing our anxiety. I stood around for a while, and then I realized I was hungry, not having had lunch in all the excitement. I decided to have an early dinner and return later, though I expected the line would still be long. At least, I thought, I won’t be hungry.
I thought of a quick dinner in one of the hotel’s indoor cafes, but they were all closed because of damage from the earthquake. I wandered out to the Garden Restaurant, a popular place for tourists and hotel guests, with little lights framing the restaurant’s perimeter.
It was crowded, but because I was alone they found a small table for me close to their outdoor brick oven. From there I could watch pita being made by three traditionally clad Egyptian women wearing long colorful print dresses with complementary headwraps. They were middle-aged and worked continuously pounding and kneading the dough. When ready, they placed the dough on pallets and into the open brick oven, removing the ones that were done. The diners, mostly hotel guests, were largely foreign: European, American and Middle-Eastern. Women with head scarves and long dresses accompanied by men in traditional Arab robes sat amidst women in short dresses coiffed and made-up Westerners. The evening was warm, and a full moon lit up the sky. I relaxed as I munched on my warm, fresh pita straight from the oven, and the accompanying grilled shashlik. But I couldn’t help thinking about the contrast between my life at that moment, and those affected by the earthquake.
It was late by the time I finished dinner and sent my cable. I spent the next two days reviewing the evaluation questions the team needed to address, noting the gaps and identifying the
the information we still needed to collect. Intermittently, I turned on the TV to get updates on the earthquake’s casualties and damage; each news bulletin showed a worsening picture. The brunt of the earthquake was centered in old areas of Cairo, with houses built of adobe which couldn’t withstand the seismic force. The reports unequivocally stated that the earthquake was unusually destructive for its size, because the buildings were poorly constructed and over-crowded.
On Sunday, I kept my appointment with Ibrihim, at the offices of The Egyptian Young Doctors Medical Association, which held the training contract with USAID. As I arrived at their office, I saw a large van parked outside, with Ibrihim and several staff loading boxes and bulky bags onto the vehicle. I waved to Ibrihim, a thin, lightly brown complexioned man in his mid 30s, helping load the truck. He jumped down and approached me. “Good morning, Myrna. I hope you had a restful weekend in spite of the terrible news in Cairo.” Ibrihim, a gentle man, even when we talked about the potentially explosive topic of Egyptian-Israeli relations, was also unfailingly polite, and in the two weeks we had worked together had established a comfortable and trusting relationship. He was my expediter with his organization, arranging for me see the people and get the reports I needed to do my job. “I am so sorry,” he said, “but we are gathering food and supplies to bring to Dahshur. I can’t meet with you but have left the reports you asked for with the office secretary” By then, Abdul, the Director, had joined the conversation, and he was more vociferous and angry. “It is now 3 days since the earthquake, and the government has not sent any relief assistance at all. The survivors are homeless, hungry and frightened and the government does nothing,” as he turned away to spit. “Only the Muslim Brotherhood is providing assistance and we are collaborating with them. They actually help people and the people have put their faith in them.” I expressed my sympathy about the situation, and said I understood that this relief effort took priority over everything else. I asked Ibrihim to call me when he could.
That brief interaction gave me a window into how young professionals like these doctors viewed the Egyptian government. Though none were fundamentalists in their views about islam, they were quite sympathetic towards the Muslim Brotherhood, because they saw it as the only group that actively cared about the Egyptian people, and could be counted on when assistance was needed.
Two days later I met with Ibrihim and the evaluation proceeded on schedule. But the conversation about the earthquake and the failure of the government continued to dominate the chatter in the office. Abdul and his staff had been deeply affected by the destruction they saw, the helplessness and misery of those affected and the failure of the government to help. If they were cynical about how poorly Egyptian government institutions worked before, here was their proof.
By the time I finished my work and was ready to leave, reliable statistics on the effect of the earthquake was available: 6500 injuries, 545 fatalities, 8300 buildings destroyed and 50,000 people left homeless. The Western press noted that the government was heavily criticized for their failure to provide effective relief and assistance, and that the Muslim Brotherhood, a reviled organization in the west for its association with terrorism, was the only group that came through for the poor displaced Egyptians.