All for Mubarak

On the evening of September 3, my Egyptian journalist friend Khalid and I headed to the square in front of Abdeen Palace for the last major political rally of the campaign for Mubarak. Most of the city’s security forces, it seemed, were already there. The 500-room 19th century palace served as the royal residence until Egypt’s monarchy was abolished in 1952. The royal location seemed fitting, because I felt as though much of the crowd was waiting to see their king.

Now, admittedly, I’ve never been to a major campaign rally for President Bush or any other seated U.S. president, which would of course entail a large security presence and attract thousands of cheering, loyal followers. What made this feel so different? Well, the type and level of security presence, for one. They were everywhere: masses of riot police in bullet proof vests and face shields, rows of regular police officers in white uniforms, Republican guard troops and regular army. Security forces in suits and ties controlled the crowd, and many more were probably in street attire blending in. I didn’t see any tanks, but there was at least one piece of major artillery mounted on the back of an open truck.

There was almost no hardened security on the roads leading up to the gathering, in fact, just a few portable metal gates that could be lifted to allow dignitaries in. The rows of riot police instead were posted by the small entrance where all non-VIP Egyptians who wanted to join the rally would enter. Getting into the rally, we soon found, required pushing single file past the phalanx of forces, getting looked over by plain clothed security men and uniformed officers--some of them carrying mimeographed lists of invited guests--handing over all cell phones and cameras, passing through a metal detector, and finally entering the open area. The men who were pushing through, determined to show their support for Mubarak, were generally young (under 25), and rough, for lack of a better word. Khalid said it was his distinct impression that many of these men were actually in the Egyptian army.

Around the back of the square, where the dignitaries and journalists were supposed to enter (and we ultimately ended up), things were much calmer. There were only Republican Guard troops and plain clothed security. Once my name was found on the appropriate list, a call went out--I had just gone from a nobody/bothersome intruder to someone entitled to enter. I was ushered into the square, past the large stage where the president would speak, threaded through rows of seats, helped up onto a chair to climb over a low fence, and then dropped into a thicket of empty chairs reserved for foreign journalists and told to stay there.

I couldn’t see the bulk of the rally from where I sat. But my section was not calm or contained. The crowd was just next to me--almost all men, waving signs and chanting. “With our souls and our blood we sacrifice for you O Mubarak” “We love you Mubarak” Many were wearing new Mubarak t-shirts. At one point, someone got into a tussle and a chair was thrown. The crowd responded by chanting louder for Mubarak. The security forces remained calm, in all, they seemed very comfortable with the crowd’s enthusiasm.

The campaign then projected onto huge screens a slickly produced video featuring Mubarak, his wife, Suzanne, testimonials from religious and other leaders, and scenes from Mubarak’s last 24 years in power. Tall banners hung around the rally showed different varieties of healthy looking working men--a waiter, a construction worker in his helmet--endorsing Mubarak. On stage were an array of “regular looking” Egyptians--women in veils, young men--town-hall style. But they never, as far as I could tell, said anything.

In fact the entire event consisted of an introduction for Mubarak, Mubarak’s entrance amid much cheering, and an hour long (I’m guessing here) speech in which Mubarak laid out his program for the future. Every few minutes the crowd returned to chanting and shouting for Mubarak (Gamal, tell your father we love him!) so that he was quite hard to hear. An amateur body builder in a cut off t-shirt emblazoned with the word "Fussball" leaned in to help translate the speech for me and a Finnish journalist. (My Egyptian friend had been denied entry.) A cameraman fell or fainted, causing another brief ruckus. The speech went on and on-- I hoped it would end soon.

When Mubarak was done, he left the stage, and the event immediately came to an end. The 400 or so party faithful in front of the dias quickly got up, and within a few minutes I was back over the fence and out of the rally area. “What did you think?” an Egyptian man in a suit asked me once we were out. “Chaotic,” I said. “You couldn’t even hear what he was saying.” “That is the Egyptian way,” he told me. “You cannot stop them from expressing their support.” I bummed a cigarette from him and he gave me his card--he was a member of the central NDP committee.

As the crowd dispersed and I found Khalid, I noticed that many of the women who had been in the rally were collecting empty water bottles and putting them into boxes they carried under their arms. A row of buses lined up to collect the rally’s participants. “It shows you how poor they are, that they are collecting bottles,” Khalid said. Khalid, who had gotten into the rally along with the other Egyptians after he leaving his camera at a nearby sweets shop, said he had heard many Mubarak supporters worrying about how they were going find the correct bus to take them home to their neighborhoods on the outskirts of Cairo. It was Khalid’s impression that most of them had been paid to come.

On the way home, Khalid and I stopped at the sweets shop to retrieve his camera. He had bought three bags worth of a sweet pastry, kind of like an Egyptian elephant’s ear, in exchange for asking the store to hold his camera. It occurred to me that the pastry--fried dough covered in powdered sugar--reminded me a little of the rally we had just seen. The fried dough was the single-party, autocratic security state of the NDP. The powdered sugar was the coating of democracy, just lightly sprinkled over it.