Muslim Brotherhood the New Brown Shirts

That sign behind me doesn't say Benevolent Men's Club...It says Muslim Brotherhood Headquarters. It's a blurred because we had to move fast or else face some serious trouble...


Anyone out there who believes the Muslim Brotherhood is a myth or that these guys are still men of ideas and simple faith who gather together every Friday to play cards and shoot the shit or that they are not interested in pretty much crushing anything Judeo-Christian in the world, had better listen up.

The MB exists.
They are filled with rage and hate directed at the west.
They carry weapons.
Dangerous weapons. AKs locked and loaded with doubled-up banana clips held together with both duct tape and colorful cloth, the colors of which represent a specific set of beliefs (see paragraph no. 1).

Not only are Jews unwelcome in Egypt, they require special documentation. There is, at present, one synagogue left in Cairo, but it is a tourist attraction now since there are estimated to be less than 200 Jews left in a city of ten million inhabitants. I can bet that estimate is inflated. Because if I were a Jew here, I'd be leaving. 

In many ways, Egypt and much of the Middle East has become pre-war Germany and the Muslim Brotherhood, the new Brown Shirts. The police command little respect here as evidenced by the motorists who fearlessly scream and shout out obscenities at them. Perhaps it's always been that way or just perhaps, the police aren't exactly the ones in charge here. People, especially women, have experienced their physical brutality in the streets.  

Not only is it dangerous for me to admit I'm an American (I've been Canadian for weeks), but should I tell anyone who cares that my significant other and our daughter is Jewish, I might have a real problem on my hands. Perhaps you feel I'm being overly dramatic. Trust me, I don't want to test my theory out in any which way possible. So I've kept my mouth shut, my eyes and ears open, and my fingers crossed as I make my way across the desert country.

Listen, in many ways I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. But it's one thing reading about what's happening here in the papers, but it's quite another thing living it. Fearing it. It's disconcerting, to say the least. knowing there are countries that exist in the world where my loved ones are not welcome, not to mention, safe. 

 Martyrs R' Us....

At present, the Middle East is exploding. What results from fallout of that explosion remains to be seen. One thing is for certain, if the Muslim Brotherhood continues to take charge, like they have in Egypt (much to the dismay of many Egyptians, especially women), then a major Judeo-Christian vs. radical Muslim conflict is inevitable.

But wait just one minute...I totally forgot about 9/11/2012 Benghazi, Libya raid and the simultaneous attack on the US consulate in Cairo's Tahrir Square...I've forgotten about more than a decade of conflict in the Middle East. We already are at war. Or perhaps I should be a little more open-minded and objective about the whole situation. In the words of the late journalist Martha Gellhorn who spent her fair share of time in pre-war Germany: "Fuck all that objectivity shit."
  

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Bombs in the Desert

It's one thing to get up early. Before the dawn when the streets are quiet and the dampness that comes with the cool night leaves a sheen of dew on the macadam and the garbage that litters it. After a night of sirens, some distant gunfire, shouting (in Arabic), I might have been better off not sleeping at all. But somehow I managed a couple of hours in which I dreamed that I was driving my car down a steep cliff with no brakes. Go figure. When I woke up I was already running late for the driver who was to meet me in the lobby of my hotel for the drive to Abu Simbal where the famous temples carved out of stone are located.

Under normal circumstances, the 200 KM drive across the desert would be a no-sweat, garden variety tourist activity. But in today's climate in which the American consulate emailed me a warning about nationwide demonstrations taking place today all across Egypt and that Westerners had best watch their backs, the drive takes on a different luster altogether.

Inside the lobby, the driver, a small, thin dark man greets me, handing me a box lunch. He speaks almost no English and I wonder if he can smell me since water in the city of Aswan has been unavailable for 24 hours and I pretty much reek. He smiles anyway while leading me to the van parked outside on the curb.

I get in, and he drives, picking up some tourists along the way. Some Germans, a couple of Brits, and some Aussies. No Americans. We don't proceed to the highway. Instead we drive to a rallying point where dozens of other vans and buses are parked. Attending to the rides is an army of machine-gun toting soldiers. They examine the rides inside and out. The also check the undercarriages with a tool made from a long aluminum handle with a big round mirror attached to the end. He's checking for any explosive devices that just might go off during the ride.

It's early. I sip a Nescafe that was prepared for me roadside by a robed and turban-wearing old man. My stomach is rumbling from the lentil soup I should not have eaten the evening before with a Nubian family on an island surrounded by the Nile waters. I'm not in the best of moods and now I have to worry about getting my ass blown off on my way to seeing one of the most amazing archeological wonders of the world.

As we cross over the dam on our way to the desert, my mind drifts to the young woman who operates the small desk inside my hotel. She is a pleasantly attractive Muslim girl who wishes to go to New York one day. When I tell her I write thriller novels for a living she smiles and the smile becomes infectious. She asks me if I was afraid to come to Egypt. I tell her I wasn't afraid. That I'm more afraid of walking certain streets in my hometown at night. But that was before my van was to be searched for the bombs.

Many hours later, when I make it back to the hotel, exhausted, covered in sand and sweat, she smiles that smile. It draws me in so much that I find myself approaching the front desk instead of trudging up the stairs to my room.

"We have water," she announces in her Arabic-accented English. I get the feeling she's been waiting to tell me this all morning and afternoon.
"Wonderful," I say. "Thank you very much."
That's when she holds up her hand, makes a fist.
"Give me the rock," she says.
I raise up my right hand, make my own fist, touch hers.
We share a moment...a connection...a life far away from the possibility of bombs.

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