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the hopes, strengths, weaknesses and grievances of an emergent world.
    It is not really a rich city, any more than Egypt is a rich country. It is, though, a capital of formidable character and natural power. It stands there at the head of its teeming delta like a watchtower at the gate of a lush garden, and around it the world seems to lie supine, so that when this old city stretches its arms, its elongated shadow spreads across Asia and Africa and along the Mediterranean shores like the image of a genie. It is unlike any other city on the face of the earth: just as the greatheart Nile, passing proud but placid through the hubbub of the capital, marches down to the sea with a sad deep majesty all its own, as of a man who has watched the cavalcade of life pass by, and wonders what all the fuss is about.
    Gamal Abdel Nasser’s revolutionary regime, although I admired it in many ways, was frankly autocratic, and I often had occasion to write about its techniques, both in the city and in the countryside.
    If you leave your car for long in the village street of Bai-el-’Arab you are likely to find things scribbled in the dust on the windscreen: a funny face perhaps, a name or two, an obscure witticism, and ‘Long Live Gamal Abdel Nasser!’ There is probably not a village in the Egyptian Republic whereyou can escape the impact of al-Gumhuria – the regime led by Colonel Nasser which, in the eyes of its supporters, is now dragging Egypt by the heels from its misery. This does not mean that Bai-el-’Arab looks or feels very different because of the junta’s ruthless reforms. It remains largely inviolate, like a thousand others, all but untouched by the material progress of a century or more, still deep in poverty and ignorance.
    Its intricate jumble of mud huts lies off the main road in the delta country north of Cairo. From its dusty courtyards, across the fields, you may see the great white sails of the Nile boats sweeping by. Near by, blindfold oxen tramp endlessly round their water-wheels, and men with their clothes rolled up to the thigh pump water into irrigation canals with archaic instruments. The fields of cotton, wheat and beans are dazzlingly bright. The narrow roads are lined with trees. Only an occasional car passes by with an alarming blast of its horn.
    Both Muslims and Copts live in this small community, and it is easy to enter their houses, for they are friendly and hospitable. As you drink their coffee you may see for yourself how the fellah , the Egyptian peasant, lives: in squalor indescribable, sharing his mud floor with dogs, goats, chickens, turkeys and sometimes cattle, with a hard bed to lie on, and an open fire to cook by, and a litter of junk and tin cans, the whole enveloped in a pall of dust. Dirt and want dominate the lives of these people, but their society is not without grace. Their courtesy is instinctive, and here and there you will find traces of aesthetic yearnings; a door-knocker made curiously in the shape of a hand, some childish colourful wood-carving, an ornamental tray or a trinket of beaten brass.
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    A convoy of cars recently arrived in this village bringing a high dignitary of the regime, Major Magdi Hassanein, and a number of important visitors. They were welcomed with ceremony, for the purpose of the dignitary’s visit was to choose suitable fellahin from Bai-el-’Arab for resettlement in Liberation Province, an enormous agricultural area which is being reclaimed by irrigation in the western desert. A good house, new clothes and secure communal living were among the prizes for selection, and the response was ecstatic. In a field beside the road a marquee of large carpets was erected, and a band struck up a reedy melody, all third-tones and offbeats. Caparisoned Arab horses performed their celebrated dance – the haute école of rural Egypt. Slogans of enthusiasm were shouted, and the women shrilled the queer high-pitched whistle they reserve for weddings and such