Egypt

Ah, Cleopatra.

On 23 July Egypt celebrates Revolution Day. We all need a bit of revolution from time to time, right? Yes, it’s all very well to have sphinxes and pyramids and hieroglyphs, an amazing history and a canal. But sometimes you need to shake things up, too.

We know that there have been people living in Egypt for millennia. That about 8000 years ago agriculture and construction emerged. We know about Pharaohs. We know that Cleopatra was a quite a lady, captivating first Julius Caesar and then Marc Antony. We know that later on Egypt became part of the Byzantine empire—right?

Oh, and I guess for those of us who have watched The Ten Commandments every year at Easter growing up, we know that Moses had a few things to accomplish in Egypt before leading the Jews through the Red Sea and across the Sinai Desert. (My Old English teacher used to talk about this, expressing his disbelief at this part—the Sinai is a small desert, he said. Walk a straight line in any direction, it’s not going to take you 40 days to cross. Try three. Still, it’s easy to get turned around in deserts…)

Let’s skip ahead, because I’m not seeing much about pirates in the history in front of me. The Suez Canal. Good stuff. I visited the Panama Canal a few months ago, so obviously the Suez Canal goes on my list of things to see in the future. I’ve become a canal fan.

And then there’s Revolution Day. In 1962 the Free Officers Movement led a military coup that removed the Egyptian monarchy and established the country as a republic. The future president Gamal Abdul Nasser was part of the movement that brought about this change of power structure. (The first president of Egypt was Muhammad Naguib—he lasted about a year.)

And for a poem? Why, I thought you’d never ask. Today I have a poem for you by Amal Dunqul, “The City of Wrecked Ships.” I need to take better notes, because I can’t remember where in all my many library trips and web searches I found this one. Hopefully I’ll update that later.


The City of Wrecked Ships

I feel I am alone tonight;
and the city, with its ghosts and tall
buildings, is a wrecked ship
that pirates looted long ago
and sent to the oceans’ bottom.
At that time the captain leaned his head
against the railing. Beneath his feet
lay a broken wine bottle, shards
of a precious metal. And the sailors
clung to the silent masts,
and through their ragged clothes
swan sad fish of memory.
Silent daggers, growing moss, baskets
of dead cats… Nothing pulses
in this acquiescent world.

—Amal Dunqul
translated from Arabic by Sharif S. Elmusa and Thomas G Ezzy