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affordable than beer. The sellers are gone now.

To get to the used book market you can either
enter from Harat al-Atrak, a small street filled
with religious bookstalls, turning right toward
the old city walls, now vast piles of medieval
rubble. Or you can take a taxi to the end of
Azhar Street, getting off at the Benetton, and
walking to the right until you find the market.
I find a treasure the first time I go there: an
incomplete 19th century lithograph edition of
al-Maqrizis Khitat. But the volume I need for
my dissertation research is there. Because its
incomplete, the seller subsequently negotiates a
huge discount for me with the bookbinder.
March 1998. At some point, the Ezbekiyya book
market has moved back to a newly renovated
space in Ezbekiyya, back by the National Theatre.
Friends introduce me to Mustafa Sadeq, a wellregarded book merchant in the market. We sit
down and he listens to me as I describe the kinds
of books I am interested in for a project on the
representation of women and prostitution in
Egyptian literature. Each week I come back, he
has found a new pile of titles for me to peruse,
most not related to what I am working on, but
some very much so. He tells me he has a stash of
books for me in his storehouse and invites me
to come over there. Its located in an alley in the
Hilmiyya neighborhood, not far from where I
used to study Althusser on Fridays.
Mustafa Sadek is waiting from me when I arrive.
He rolls open the iron door and we step inside.
He points to a stack of dusty old magazines
and journals. I look at the first magazine and
cant believe it. I thumb through pages of erotic
stories that are accompanied by photographs of
naked women in suggestive poses. I look at the
date on the periodical: 1934. I look at the next,
same thing. And then more. Finally, I look up
and find him smiling at me. I know you are
not only researching literature but also some
impolite things, he says with a sly smile.
The trove costs me every thing I had in my wallet,
and still I owe Mustafa. On my way home, I go to
meet Shehata an Egyptian poet and novelist
for tea. I pull out all the nudie magazines Ive
just purchased and say, Can you believe this?!
I never knew this stuff existed, he murmurs
over and over. This is an important source. We
need to do something serious with this. Can I
borrow this and show it to an editor. Together
we might figure out a way to republish this as a
historical document. I wrap up the magazines
for Shehata. We agree to meet up, as we always
do, a couple days later. Shehata doesnt come,
and he stops answering my emails. Years later,
when I finally see him again, he apologizes for
disappearing. He was in the midst of a messy
divorce. When I ask about the magazines, he
claims he gave them back to me. I never see them
again.
July 2002. Some old classmates from Cairo
University have opened a great bookstore
Sindbadlocated just behind the Cosmopolitan
Hotel in the revitalized Bourse neighborhood.
I go there and browse for hours. Despite its
tiny size, this bookshop holds more treasures
than the bigger stores around the corner. One
afternoon, I am sitting with Abdel-Rahman S.
brilliant brother of the brilliant Muhammad
S.who is now not just a professor at Cairo
University, but also one of the principal

shareholders in Sindbad. He and his wife had

just had me over for lunch a couple days earlier,
and were sitting around talking while waiting
for our old professorEgypts leading left
literary criticto meet us there. The subject
now, as before, is American imperialism and the
efforts of Egyptian intellectuals and artist to
boycott Israel. Abdel-Rahmans rambunctious
and precocious eight-year-old son is with us all
afternoon, bored out of his mind, entertaining
us by asking questions that go beyond his years.
At some point, the kid starts referring to me
as the imperialist, colonialist American, and
everyone laughs. He disappears. Minutes later,
Abdel-Rahman and I go out to find the boy. We
watch him walking down the pedestrian mall
pulling on an Egyptian conscript who had been
stationed outside the bank on the corner. The
boy points at me and calls out, See! See! Fire!
Fire! The soldier doubles over in laughter, not
able to believe his eyes when he sees the boy has
produced the Zionist enemy he had promised.
By the time we arrive, the boy has grabbed the
soldiers gun and points it at my belly, singing
out, There he is! The imperialist enemy is right
here! You have to shoot him. Everyone who is
watching this scene unfold finds it hilarious.
The soldier laughs so hard he cries. I get angry
and leave right then. I never see or write to
Abdel-Rahman again.
In May 2011, I meet this boy and his mother,
walking back down Champollion Street from
a protest in Tahrir. He is a young man now,
and is carrying the red banner of a nascent
political party calling itself the Revolutionary
Youth. I introduce myself to him, but he has no
recollection of ever having met me before. His
mother is embarrassed to be seen with me.
July 2006. This was my first summer to get to know
Dar Merit, the small, independent publishing
house owned by Muhammad Hashem. Unlike
other publishers in Egypt, Hashem is not afraid
to publish things that might get him in trouble
with the censor. Hashem is not interested in
control, even though sometimes that means
typos, as I found when I translated a bitter and
impolite novel by the Nubian writer, Idris Ali,
that Dar Merit had published.
When you go into Dar Merit, you will be asked
whether you would drink coffee or tea. If you
stay long enough two things will happen. First,
Muhammad will roll a fat joint and pass it to you.
Second, back in those days, the great Egyptian
poet Ahmad Fouad Negm would probably come
over around nightfall for an impromptu literary
salon. I count myself very fortunate that those
two things happened to me as often as I wanted
that summer.
In January 2011, Dar Merit became something
of a forward base of operations for young
revolutionaries. Any poet or critic or artist or
singer or stagehand who needed tea and a place
to rest would find it at Dar Merit. Were it not
for Dar Merit, we might not have any serious
literary accounts of the 2011 uprising. In recent
months, Mohammad Hashem has spoken about
moving away from Egypt for good.
November 2012. One of the best places to buy
scholarly editions of classical Arabic thought
is Mutanabbi Bookshop, located on Sharia
al-Gomhuriyya. When I go there to ask for a

oct- 2014

medieval work on jinns and afreetMuhammad

bin Abdallah al-Shiblis Akam al-marjan fiahkam al-jann. The men smile politely. My
question embarrasses them. We dont carry
stuff on khurafatsuperstitions, one of them
finally admits. They advise me to go to Harat alAtrak, in the quarter behind al-Azhar University.
If you want books on superstition, youll find
them there, he tells me. Its already well after
dark, but I go. I get to the alley around 9PM
and the shops are starting to close. I ask in one
shop, and they direct me down the street. The
shopkeeper is rolling down the iron door when
I arrive. But he knows he has a copy and so he
reopens for me. Its not an old edition, but it is
also not cheap.
By 10PM, I am sitting in a caf on Champollion
Street reading the book while I wait for my old
friend Ahmad. He arrives around 11PM. By that
time, I have gotten into the subject of jinn, where
they live and their special habits and customs.
As it turns out, jinn society is as developed and
complicated as human society.
I am reading a chapter on how to tell if you are
married to a jinn when Ahmad comes in. He is
with Sabry, another old friend from the same
Marxist-Leninist gang. I read to him a short
passage about how jinn like to haunt bathrooms
and how they can climb a stream of urine to
attack a mans penis. For the next hour, they
tell me about how they knew people who had
married jinn.
Jinn are everywhere, Ahmed said. For
instance, take Old Sergeant. He comes walking
down the street in his old wool overcoat, like
hes on patrol. Youre out there playing in the
alley with your friends, and you salute him. And
when he returns the salute, he accidently knocks
his head off and it rolls toward you! This didnt
happen to me, but it did happen to a kid in my
neighborhood when I was growing up.
Sabry jumps in, Or the woman who knocks on
your door late at night, calling your name. She
has the most beautiful voice. You crack open the
door and see a woman wrapped tightly in a black
shroud, her face covered, and she pleads with
you with that sweet voice. She is cold and she
just wants to come in and get in bed with you so
she can warm up. And as soon as you open then
door all the way, she rips off her veil and its a
ghoul who wants to eat you.
As were sitting there, the night drags on. My
friends are sick of my questions about the
state of the revolution. And tonight, they are
grateful for the chance to talk about something
else. I havent seen them in such a good mood
for a long time. Ahmad grabs the book and skims
it while we take a pause from talking. Down at
the end of the street, another demonstration is
getting started. Crowds of young people stream
toward the Midan, others come running back
trying to get away or get home, blood on their
faces, tears in their eyes, clothes torn. Some
are smiling and laughing, others crying. All
are exhausted but somehow invigorated too.
Ahmed lifts up the book and says, Listen to
thisthis is about the kind of demon who lives
in old ruined palaces.
ELLIOTT COLLA is american novelist, he
writes fiction and translate (Arabic to English)
and teachs modern Arabic literature at
Georgetown University, USA.

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BUYING BOOKS IN CAIRO

In this post Elliott wrote at 15th Sep, about on buying (and reading, and
discussing) books in Cairo, over the span of many decades.
To read the full article:
http://www.elliottcolla.com/blog/15/9/2014/buying-books-in-cairo
[Tomorrow night, I will be joining a
distinguished panel of poets, activists and
scholars speaking about poetical and political
freedoms at George Mason Universitys Fall
for the Book festival. This is part of an ongoing
DC-wide effort to contribute to the Mutanabbi
Street Starts Here DC Project. Rather than give
analysis, I thought I would talk about poetical
and political freedoms by way of my relationship
to the book markets of Cairo. This is what I will
read tomorrow night, though more in the style
of a slide show. See you there!]
September 1985. My first year as a student in
Cairo. I visit Cairos main book market located in
the famous area of Ezbekiyya. When Napoleon
tried to conquer Egypt, this was the site of a
man-made lake surrounded by the ornate palaces
of Turkish Pashas and high-ranking officials of
the late Mameluke state. A century later, during
British rule, the lake had been filled in and
the area converted into a vast entertainment
district. Bars and theatres, cabarets and brothels
catered to Cairos elites who met in this border
zone located between the medieval casbah and
the new colonial downtown. By the time I get
to Cairo, most of this history has disappeared
under flyovers and Soviet-era concrete projects.
Still, a few sordid belly-dance clubs still hold
out over near the decrepit old fire station and
post office.
The book market is literally fastened to an old
black iron fence. Inside the bars, sit the stately
gardens of Ezbekiyya Park, completely off-limits
to the general public. Outside, the book market
stalls cling to a tiny strip between the fence, a
chaotic bus depot, and the busy streets of Ataba.

I do not read Arabic in 1985. So, I mostly look

around at the posters. During those years, most
of them featured the Indian beefcake actor,
Amitabh Bhachchan and a woman provocatively
fixated on a snake, her full red lips about to kiss
it.
amitabh-bachchan-wallpaper5-.jpg
Among the piles of used books, I find heaps of
English-language books. Most are those cheap
simplified editions of classicslike Wuthering
Heights and Great Expectationsthat fill the
markets of former colonies. I find a scientific
treatise entitled, Spontaneous and Habitual
Abortion. The seller tells me it costs 25 piastres,
maybe about 5 cents. I mumble something in
pigeon Arabic and put it back, the bookseller
smiles. I go back often that year.
November 1989. The Berlin Wall has fallen
or is falling. Around then, the book market is
removed from the fences at Ezbekiyya, during
the building of the Midan Opera Metro Station.
It is hard to tell whether anyone noticed. It is
hard to tell if anyone cares.
Everybody tells me I need to read Naguib
Mahfouzs novel about the death of God. The
only problem is that times and mores have
changed since Awlad haritna was first published.
The novel originally came out in the Friday
sections of al-Ahram in the late 1950s. Now it is
banned in Egypt, deemed controversial and unIslamic.
Everybody tells me that I can find the novel if
I go to Madbulis Bookshop in Midan Talaat
Harb and ask for it discreetly. I go there and

linger suspicious around the various sections

of the bookstore. Its like Im looking for porn.
Different employees come to ask if they can
help. Finally, I gather up the courage and say,
They tell me you have copies of Awlad Haritna.
The man doesnt even look at me. He mutters,
Theyre wrong, whoever they are, and he
keeps dusting the pile of books in front of him.
June 1990. The cold war is over, but Saddam
Hussein has yet to invade Kuwait. I still want
to find a copy of Mahfouzs novel. I go back to
Madbulis one afternoon. As soon as I enter, a
skinny young man about my age asks if he can
help me. I casually mention the title, and say
nothing else. He disappears into the back and
emerges with a book in a plastic bag. Anything
else? He smiles at me. For the next 23 years,
Ashraf becomes one of the first people I see
whenever I return to Cairo. For the last six
years, he makes a point of always asking about
my daughter, even though he has yet to meet her.
February 1991. The new world order has begun,
and three Cairo University students are killed
protesting Mubaraks decision to lend support
to American troops. During these months, I
have a standing date on Friday afternoons to
meet a friend, Ahmad. We meet at the used book
stalls just off Midan Sayyida Zeinab. I begin to
find lots of books I need for my studies. I find
a complete run of the literary magazine Fusul.
And lots of old issues of al-Talia. I find classics of
literary criticism, 1950s editions when scholarly
publishers like Dar al-Maarif had editors. Ahmad
and I wander among the stalls for an hour or so,
then go off to a caf just off the square where
we discuss the reading he has assigned me for
the week. For months, I have been reading Louis
Althusser under Ahmads tutelage. Later, when
I return to graduate seminars in Berkeley, his
lessons stand me in good stead.
January 1994. Cairo Book Fair. An annual event
when all the publishers of the Arab world, and all
the booksellers of the city, bring their wares out
to a Soviet-era fairground for hosting industrial
expositions in Medinat Nasr. Its as cold and
gray as ever, a day for drinking hot tea. I go out
there with a group of leftist friends. We are all
proudly wearing the same thick wool overcoats
we bought in the outdoor market behind Ramses
Station. Before we get there, Ahmed shows off
the multiple hidden pockets his sister sewed
into the lining. We spend the day wandering
around the Moroccan publishers tables, where
the most interesting stuff is being sold. Ahmed
fills his pockets. We visit some of the salons
where poets and critics and philosophers debate
topics of the day. A group of Egyptian literary
critics sit on a panel and discuss the Libyan
Brother Leaders collection of short stories
entitled, The Village, the Village! The Land, the
Land! We laugh as some critics talk about how
sophisticated Qaddafis writing is. We wonder
how much they were paid. We look around, but
Ahmed is not with us. Later on, we learn he has
been arrested for shoplifting. He tried to run
away when they caught him, but his coat had
more than 30 books in it.
June 1995. I find out that the Ezbekiyya book
markets had been relocated some time ago back
behind al-Azhar University, in the neighborhood
of al-Bataniyya. In 1985, hashish was openly
sold in the streets of Bataniyya, and was more

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