Arriving in Cairo

Near the end of January 1983, I obtained a visa, borrowed 400 pounds from friends and family, and bought a ticket to Cairo with funds provided by Kent University.^[1] I left a few days later for a country where I knew no one and whose language I did not speak. My only precious property was a notebook that contained a few names and addresses given to me by friends and professors. I was less confident than I had been on previous fieldwork projects, since in addition to the normal difficulties, I also faced financial and political constraints.^[2] I kept asking myself if this was a realistic endeavor. Would I be accepted by Egyptians? I wondered. Wouldn't the very people I wanted to meet and make friends with ask me what a young Muslim woman was doing traveling around the world by herself? I had not yet realized that the pursuit

[1] As an Iranian I was disqualified from most grants, particularly since I had decided to carry out my fieldwork in a country other than my native land. Most Western-based agencies did not (and most still do not) encourage horizontal contacts among "Third World" scholars and students. Third World governments, particularly Middle Eastern ones, are not keen to provide financial assistance for social sciences, partly because they consider social sciences a nuisance that encourages democratic demands and social unrest.

[2] At the time, the Egyptian government, like all other governments of the region, was worried about the possibility of Iranian visitors advocating an Iranian-style revolution. I imagined, and others warned me, that as a single, Iranian, Muslim woman who left England to live in a poor neighborhood of Cairo, I would arouse the suspicion of the national security office.

of education and knowledge of other Muslim cultures is as legitimate a reason for departing from the accepted norms as one may have.

Outside of my native Iran, I had never been in a developing society, and on arriving in Cairo I found myself making comparisons between Iran and Egypt, and occasionally Britain. I immediately registered for an Arabic course, and friends of friends helped me to find affordable lodging and academic affiliation. I also began the process of joining the Department of Anthropology at the American University in Cairo as a research fellow.^[3] Next, with only a map and the advice of my Egyptian contacts, I began to explore the neighborhoods. During the first few weeks I felt strange; it was as though I was walking through my school history books and my grandfather's bewitching stories. Cairo has always been a significant center for Middle Eastern culture and art, and despite the diminution of its role in the twentieth century, it continues to have a special place in the minds and hearts of Middle Easterners.

Modern Cairo, like many major cities of the Third World, has grown far beyond its maximum capacity of about 2 million people. Current estimates of Greater Cairo's population vary from 12 million to 14 million. Given the state of available resources, it is a major challenge for the authorities to provide basic services such as water, sanitation, electricity, public transportation, medical care, schooling, employment, and, most of all, housing. Industrialization and the consequent waves of urban migration have caused the metropolis to expand in all directions, encompassing many of the surrounding villages that historically provided vegetables and fruit for Cairo.^[4] These villages now house thousands of migrants and Cairenes who have been unable to find a residence in Cairo proper, forcing the villagers to urbanize as the city arrived at their doorsteps. The urban experience of the people of these villages differs markedly from that of other rural migrants (Oldham, el-Hadidi, and Tamaa 1987; Hoodfar 1989). Many of the formerly poor farmers with a meager parcel of land (sometimes as small as 40 square meters) were suddenly considered among the richer residents of the area, and many have become landlords who rent to poorer migrants. Furthermore, although

[3] Originally I had hoped to join Cairo University or the prestigious Islamic university Al-Ahzar. However, an Egyptian contact warned me that since I was Iranian, the very political atmosphere of national universities might compromise my position. Thus I joined American University.

[4] Abu-Lughod (1961) and others have shown that the bulk of Cairo migrants are of rural origin, with only a small percentage from other urban centers.

they are now integrated into the urban life of Cairo, the villagers have not had to give up membership in their community of origin.

For my research I had planned to locate a poor neighborhood, similar to the ones where I had worked in Tehran before and after the revolution.^[5] Within a few weeks, I realized that most of my assumptions about the level of poverty in Egypt were wrong. Egypt, though poorer than Iran, had a much more equitable distribution of income (Abdel-Fadil 1980; Beattie 1994). Having been introduced to poverty by the mud hut neighborhoods that bordered some of Tehran's middle class suburbs, I quickly grasped the impact of public-oriented economic and social policies on the standard of living. Largely through subsidies, the Egyptian government had ensured affordable minimum basic food and clothing to the majority of its population.^[6] In some amazement, after days of walking and riding buses around Cairo, I realized that although the city appeared to be run-down, its poorer neighborhoods were very different from Tehran's shantytowns. Rather, it had many large and growing informal housing areas; that is to say, most owners owned their land but had no permission to build on it.^[7] Officially, many of these lots were zoned as agricultural, not residential, despite their current high population density.

Over the next two months, I identified three neighborhoods that were appropriate for my research and arranged to live with a family in one of them. The household included two parents, six of their eight children, and the grandmother, and it later also included me. The residence was a small two-room apartment, and the father was constructing a third room on the second floor in his free time.^[8] The two daughters—one was finishing primary school teacher training and the other was

[5] For a comparative approach to my fieldwork experiences in Cairo and Tehran, see Hoodfar 1994.

[6] The situation was of course far from perfect. Many of the policies favored urban areas over rural (Waterbury 1978), and some have argued that the rich drew more benefits from the system than the poor. However, the fact remains that before Egypt adopted more aggressive structural adjustment policies toward the end of the 1980s (Sullivan 1992; Lofgren 1993a, 1993b; Parfitt 1993) the nation had very few cases of severe malnutrition (Khouri-Dagher 1986).

[7] For a description of other informal neighborhoods, see Tekçe, Oldham, and Shorter 1994.

[8] The father was an unskilled worker who had migrated to Libya for four years and had saved enough money to buy the piece of land on which he gradually build after his return. The construction of the second and third floors is now completed. One daughter is married and is living in the ground floor flat, where we all lived before. The third floor is occupied by the eldest son, whose marriage is eagerly anticipated by everyone except himself.

entering her last year of high school—took it upon themselves to help me with Arabic lessons and other necessary social skills. They delighted in having me repeat words with dubious meanings in front of their friends and in retelling all the social and linguistic mistakes I made. As one of the daughters aptly said, I provided them with their summer fun, and, in return, they taught me Arabic and the essentials of Egyptian sha'bi (grassroots) life. By October 1983, I felt confident enough to move on my own to my second research neighborhood where I lived until the end of April 1984, when I returned to Britain.

Contrary to my worries, I found that people readily accepted my reason for traveling alone, and they adopted me as their fictive sister, daughter, or aunt. If, at times, being Iranian rather than Egyptian (or at least a white European) was a drawback, in most situations being Muslim was an advantage, particularly after the women tested the extent of my Islamic knowledge. As a Middle Easterner, I knew the significance of being invited to share meals with families. Drawing on my earlier fieldwork experience, I announced that I was vegetarian, which my friends in the neighborhoods took with much amusement, since their reason for not eating much meat was financial, not ideological.^[9] Moreover, my favorite foods were ful and tam'iya (two bean dishes) and mulukhiya (a green vegetable dish), which are the most common foods of low-income people. This meant that my neighbors could freely invite me to their homes, and indeed during the entire time that I lived on my own, I rarely cooked or ate alone. If I refused an invitation and stayed in my flat under the pretext of studying for my Arabic courses, invariably some food would be sent, along with someone to keep me company.

Indeed, I found it very difficult to stay in my flat except to sleep at night. The idea of living alone and being left alone is very unpleasant to Egyptians and they could not accept that I, their friend, should be left alone. Initially, many families, particularly those who did not have older sons, tried to convince me to move in with them; however, aware of the consequences that belonging to a particular household would have for my interactions with other members of the neighborhood, I resisted.^[10] I explained that my father had allowed me to go to Egypt only on the promise that I would live in my own flat in a decent neighborhood,

[9] Ideally, entertaining a guest involved big meals with a substantial amount of meat. Since the poor cannot afford meat, they often refrain from inviting people to meals. However, a guest who arrives at mealtime is always welcomed to join the family meal.

[10] Initially I had thought their continued insistence was due to their eagerness to receive my rent. However, as I got to know people more, I was ashamed to realize that it was their extreme generosity and genuine affection for me as a single young woman that was the basis of these repeated invitations.

and since he did not know them, naturally he would not agree. Culturally and religiously, respect for one's parents' wishes is a highly praised virtue, so my friends felt disarmed and settled for keeping me company as often as they could.

Their extreme generosity was sometimes an obstacle to writing up my field notes. Except for the two afternoons a week when I left the neighborhood for my Arabic lessons, I spent every day socializing and keeping company with the women, going vegetable shopping in the local suq (market), visiting neighbors, walking to the local hospital, discussing problems of budgeting, prices, children's education, soap operas, and marriage proposals, and assessing the virtues of potential grooms and my friends' dreams and aspirations for themselves and their families. I was eager to find time to write notes on these discussions and observations. This proved to be very problematic. Almost every morning, sometimes as early as 6:30, I was summoned by a child, who would knock on my door as a messenger or of her or his own accord to say that her or his mother wanted me as soon as possible; often the child would remain until I was dressed and ready to go. When I finally managed to return to my flat in the evening, if my light was on for more than fifteen or twenty minutes, I would hear a knock on my door and find a couple of women who had come to keep me company. When they saw that I was writing (or studying, as they said) they would say, "Don't worry, you continue studying and we'll just sit here on the bed so you won't be alone." Although I was deeply touched by their concern, in my long years of student life, away from home in Britain, I had become accustomed to reading and working alone and I often found it difficult to concentrate in the presence of others. Soon, however, I learned to use what was my major worldly possession at that time, a small cassette recorder. I would come home in the evening, light a candle, and lay down on my bed while I talked into my cassette recorder. I also made sparse notes while visiting and whenever I had a chance.^[11] Later I discovered that some of my friends enjoyed hearing their voices on cassette tape, so I also recorded some of our informal discussions or interviews. Toward the end of my stay in 1984, I spent many evenings

[11] I noted key words to remind me of significant points and observations. This was not considered unusual since I used the same notebook to record the new Arabic words I encountered.

at the home of a friend who lived in another part of the city, trying to transcribe as many tapes as I could, organizing my data, and making sure I had all the information I needed to write my thesis.

After having lived in Cairo for fifteen months, my departure at the end of April 1984 was a sad one. Nothing in my training or my Middle Eastern upbringing had prepared me to say good-bye to people who had befriended me, protected me, and given me their shoulders to cry on when I was homesick, sad, and frustrated over the destructive and senseless war between Iran and Iraq. I left not knowing when, or if, I would ever see them again.^[12] I was delighted when, quite unexpectedly, a research proposal I had submitted with an Egyptian friend to the Population Council to look at the impact of international male migration was funded. Originally, I planned to study households with couples present. However, as my research progressed and I saw the important role of migration among low-income communities, I realized that my research would benefit if I broadened my sample to include households whose male head had migrated to the Gulf. When I suggested this to a friend, she too was enthusiastic and we developed the proposal. Thus, a year later, in 1985, I returned to Cairo and the neighborhoods for another year of fieldwork on the impact of male migration on the role of wives and the well-being of children left behind, which had become a controversial subject in Egypt (Hoodfar 1996b). This time I did not live in the neighborhoods but commuted daily, though I frequently stayed overnight with friends in the research areas. This trip was followed by several other shorter visits to the neighborhoods and my friends in 1988, 1992, 1993, and 1994. In 1984, however, given the kind of constraints that I faced as an Iranian anthropologist, carrying out a longitudinal research project in Egypt appeared to be more wishful thinking than a real possibility.

Living in the research community proved to be extremely valuable, and provided me with the chance not just to familiarize myself with the values and attitudes of people in the neighborhoods but also to participate as a community member. Furthermore, I developed a better understanding of day-to-day problems, such as the lack of adequate and safe transportation, water, electricity (particularly in the heat of summer), and shortages of subsidized basic foods. More important, I

[12] At that time my passport was about to expire and I had to explain to both Iranian and Egyptian authorities why I needed to be in Cairo. Neither official found my explanation of doing anthropological fieldwork convincing.

learned to appreciate the strategies that people devised to deal with these daily crises. For instance, had I not been living under the same conditions, I doubt I would have understood why women did their laundry in the middle of the night, or why they preferred to join the informal economy rather than work in a factory where the wages were higher (see chapters 4 and 6).

Although I felt somewhat bitter when I compared my situation with that of the well-funded North American and European researchers who enjoyed a support system for learning the language, getting visas, and making contacts with colleagues in the field, my poverty and powerlessness in the field were not without advantages. It was hard for neighborhood people to imagine that, having come from England, I was as poor as they were. Sometimes they gently teased me and called me "goldless princess," since I had no gold jewelry, which represented the economic status of neighborhood households. But I felt the poverty deeply, and particularly in the first nine months of my fieldwork I passed many nights worrying about how to raise yet another $100 to renew my visa, whether I had the money to buy an Arabic textbook, and whether I could pay my rent and still afford a gift of sweets and fruit for the families who fed me day after day. During this time I learned to budget.

A constant source of anxiety was not being able to afford suitable gifts for members of my very wide network when there was news of a wedding engagement, childbirth, or trip. The gift exchange is an important means of reaffirming one's membership in a network. Worst of all was that the gifts and their material worth became common knowledge, and depending on how the community had assessed my financial means, this would signify the value I gave to my friendships. This also meant that I would have to spend an equal amount on gifts for each household I visited. Early on in my fieldwork, however, an incident occurred which helped me to resolve the gift problem, to some extent at least.

One day, I heard that Amira, who helped me a great deal with my Arabic, had successfully passed her teacher training exams. I innocently bought a bunch of flowers for her. This created a great deal of laughter, and soon neighbors were called to come to see my gift. Amira explained to the others, "She has brought me this bunch of flowers, just like we see on TV! I never thought anyone would bring me flowers."^[13] Then

[13] Baladi women, if they could afford to buy flowers at all, bought them only for weddings. No one in these neighborhoods bought cut flowers for themselves or as hospitality gifts.

she turned back to me and said, "Among us we don't have money for flowers. We buy something useful. What can we do with flowers?" I realized my rather stupid mistake, but all the same, with a straight face, I told her that she could look at them and enjoy their delicacy and beauty. Their laughter made up for my mistake. The flowers sat in a plastic jar for months afterward and served as a running joke that resurfaced whenever they ran out of topics to tease me about.

Flowers were not very expensive in Cairo, certainly if one knew where to buy them and was prepared to bargain. As a strategy, I decided to act the naive foreigner and continued to buy flowers for all special occasions. The women continued to laugh at me for treating them like my agnabi friends (literally, "foreign," but usually reserved for white Europeans and North Americans). But I felt there was also a sense of pleasure and satisfaction in receiving equal treatment from me, despite their social-class differences. When the Ford Foundation granted me a small subsidy for field expenses, my situation eased a little and I managed to buy a camera with which I took color photographs that were much appreciated gifts.

Another question that tormented me was how to explain what I was doing. Social research, particularly anthropological fieldwork, is not a very widely understood concept in Egypt or the rest of the Middle East.^[14] I tried my best to explain what I was doing there besides learning to speak Arabic, but I did not know whether my Egyptian friends understood me and my research. One day, to my amazement and delight, two of the women, introducing me to their friends, explained that I came from England but that my parents are Muslims from Iran.^[15] Maryam and Najwa went on to explain that my father had sent me to Egypt to study Arabic and learn about Muslim people and Muslim

[14] On one occasion when I went to see an official to inquire about whether I should obtain permission for the kind of research I intended to do, and, if so, what the legal procedure was, I tried to explain my thesis topic and that I would conduct my research by just meeting and observing people. He became cynical, and maybe also a little annoyed, since my study did not appear serious to him. I doubt that he believed that such work could be considered doctoral field research. He said, "If that is what you call research, then I suppose that every tourist in this country will need to come to my office." In the end, his only instruction was that as a non-national, I should report my place of residence to the local police, which I duly did.

[15] I was always introduced as coming from England, which technically was true, but also could imply that I was English. I suppose it was more prestigious to have a friend from Europe, but at the same time they were very proud I was a Muslim. I became keenly aware that the two credentials have very positively affected the way the community perceived me and presented me to the others.

families, not just from books but by living with sha'bi people of Cairo; they added that he could not send me to Iran because of the war with Iraq. They told their friends that I was taking Arabic classes at American University in Cairo but that my accent might be difficult to understand; Maryam and Najwa would "translate" for them. In any case, they concluded I had made a lot of progress over a few months. After that, I accepted the women's definition of my mission in Cairo. As my Arabic improved, I explained that I was writing my thesis on sha'bi family life. They understood this to mean I was writing an exam for my professor at American University about sha'bi family life. I was often deeply touched by their patience in making sure I fully understood the issues in question, because they wanted me to get good marks on my exam so that my father would not regret sending me to Egypt.

As a Middle Easterner I was keenly aware of the importance of reciprocal relationships, so I took great care to return my friends' favors, kindness, and love in whatever way and to the extent I could. I helped with housework and food preparation, which meant cleaning mountains of vegetables. I watched babies, took children to the hospital, and, through my contacts outside the neighborhoods, located the best low-cost medical services. Young mothers often asked me about contraceptives and requested that I consult with my professor and my friends at the university.^[16] I helped the children with their studies, particularly math and English. I also helped with Arabic dictations, which the younger children loved as it allowed them to correct my accent and laugh at my mispronunciations and made learning more pleasurable.

During my first period of fieldwork, I often wondered whether they were aware of the importance of the knowledge and training they were giving me, both for my studies and for my life. And I wondered what contributions I was making to their lives. The following episode convinced me that perhaps my relationships had more impact on the lives and thoughts of my friends than I had realized.

In January 1984, after I had lived in the neighborhoods for a year and had made many friends there, I decided to carry out some informal but more systematic interviews to see how women and men described their contributions to the household. I started with some of the younger mothers whom I knew very well. Having explained this to Umm Walid, she said I could interview her while we were cleaning some rice for dinner. I began by asking how many times a day she washed

[16] University professors were held in high esteem, and people often thought my professors knew whatever there was to know.

her dishes, what her housework included, and so on. At first, she joked as she answered me. However, seeing me writing down her responses, she suddenly became quiet and looked at me in a puzzled way. Then, looking worried and distressed, she went to the balcony and called Nasser, a friend of her husband who had finally passed his high school exams after several attempts and was looking for a job. When Nasser walked in, Umm Walid explained to him that in a few months I would have to go back to England and write an exam for my professor. Would Nasser agree to answer some important questions for an hour or two? I tried to explain that it was not Nasser I wanted to interview, since he knew nothing about housework. Her expression grew even more worried and she said,

You stupid, you are going to fail your exam after all that money your father spent to send you here. Who cares what I do and how many times a day I wipe Walid's bottom? Nasser is educated. He knows about life and important things in Egypt and can tell you important things and you will get a good mark.

I was very touched by her concern, and at the same time angered that she reacted as if her work was insignificant, even though she had told me many times how important domestic work was for the family. Meanwhile, Nasser had taken a seat and asked her for a drink and was trying to convince me that he could answer any questions, as he knew it all. Finally, after an hour or so, Nasser left, but Umm Walid refused to answer my questions. She said I should show my questions to my professor. Only if he approved would she answer them. I had to agree. Some days later, after convincing her that my professor did not object, I carried out the interviews with her and other women, in the midst of much laughter and joking as they were not used to anyone taking their domestic work and ideas seriously, never mind as the subject of research.

My return to the neighborhood in 1985 was understood to mean that I had done well on my exam and had won a scholarship to do more courses, exams, and research about Egyptian sha'bi families. A couple of months after my return, I visited Umm Walid, who was in the middle of a dispute with her husband. He accused her of being a good-for-nothing woman who did nothing all day while he worked to support her. At this point, she angrily turned to her husband and said,

Tell me if I do nothing from morning to night, if looking after two boys, cooking and cleaning and running a home with the meager money you give is nothing, then why would American University send a student from England

to ask me about my work? Why don't they send someone to ask you or Nasser what you do? Tell me!

Her husband looked first at her and then at me and, half in anger and half in amusement, told me, "See, you have made these women so bigheaded we cannot even say a word to them." Then he demanded that his wife make tea for me and we went back to socializing.

In another incident, a young woman had found a job as a teacher in the Gulf, but her parents were reluctant to let her go since unmarried Muslim women should not travel and live on their own. She asked them what was wrong with traveling, pointing out that I, a Muslim woman, had come to Egypt where I did not even know the language. Hadn't I lived all by myself and wasn't I well behaved, she asked. Hadn't they on many occasions praised me as a symbol of the modern Muslim woman? Finally they agreed. She went to the Gulf and helped her family improve their financial situation, and later she married another Egyptian migrant and set up a home for herself.

The few incidents of this kind were among the more rewarding experiences for me. I realized that my interest in the details of everyday work of women as well as men helped many women gain a new consciousness that they could use to their advantage. To some degree, I believe I contributed to the evolution of their worldview and thoughts as they contributed to mine.