During my first visit to Cairo in the summer of 2010, I made an effort to hit as many of the obligatory tourist spots as I could. Homesick, feeling exhausted from the heat, and a bit strapped for cash, I didn't get to them all. On one of the days, though, I managed to fit in some time for the Egyptian National Museum. With the exception of the gallery dedicated to King Tut's belongings, it was an hour and a half that I wished I could get back. It struck me as unorganized, mismanaged, and dirty. On my second trip to the city a year later, an American I met at my hostel persuaded me to go to the Islamic Art Museum with him. I expected to find much the same as I had in the Egyptian Museum, but was pleasantly surprised to discover a pristine museum with an amazing collection of well-organized artifacts. On Friday, a car bomb went off at the police headquarters building, close enough to the museum that much of it was severely damaged. The National Library and Archives were similarly affected. Exactly how much was destroyed is still unclear, but the loss of even a few of the works of art at the museum is a tragedy.
I was devastated by the news. Priceless works of human creativity and knowledge were now gone because of one act of violence. And somehow, that fact outweighed the human toll in my mind. Four people had died and fifty were wounded because of the explosion. On the next day, the third anniversary of the 25 January Revolution, at least 29 were killed and hundreds injured or arrested. In spite of this, I kept returning to the loss of artifacts and documents. And I felt guilty as hell because of it. I knew that human pain and suffering should mean a lot more to me than the destruction of material things, no matter how old or beautiful. This should have especially been the case with violence in Egypt, a country I had come to love during the time I lived there.
Eventually, I realized how I could feel the way I did: I was far enough that I was able to, and it was easier and less upsetting for me. Because I now live half a world away from Egypt, I have the option to shut out the violence and loss of life. Improvements in communication and recording technology allow us to have nearly-instantaneous reports of events through Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube. But if we want them to, they can be no more than images or sounds on a screen, happening to extras in a movie rather than to real people whose lives have been torn apart by turmoil. We Americans have a knack for dehumanizing and ignoring negative events around the world.
In the days after the explosions, a big part of me wanted to do just that. Not in spite of my connections with the country, but because of them. Being upset about millions of dollars of repairs to the museum and library was easier for me than reflecting on the hellish roller coaster that Egypt has found itself on since its revolution. It was easier for me to lament the destruction of a thousand-year-old Islamic manuscript than the death of someone's father, mother, brother, sister, or friend. It was safer, because I was afraid that if I allowed myself to think any more deeply about the situations there, I would completely lose hope that Egyptians will one day live in a just country that doesn't swing from one brand of despotism and rights abuses to another.
In the end, another thought about the Islamic Art Museum helped me not to give in to feelings of futility and despair. In the articles I read about Friday's explosions, there was no mention of the possibility of leaving the building to decay or be abandoned. It will be at great cost, but the building and its collections will be rebuilt and restored. They won't be allowed to be in shambles forever. Like the museum, Egypt has a chance for a future, even though much has already been lost. As long as there are people who love the country and its people, who are committed to rebuilding Egypt and transforming it into a country better than the one it had been before the revolution, there is hope.
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