A parallel universe. There really is no
other way to put it. More than anything today, Egyptians of all political
stripes, whether devastated or delighted, are experiencing the surrealist sense
of a parallel universe. In that universe, the all-powerful and ineluctable
Pharaoh of Egypt, Hosni Mubarak, is a prisoner in a hospital somewhere, and a
bearded, shabby, obscure Islamist called Mohamed Morsi, a veteran of Mubarak’s
prisons, is shown around the presidential palace by the same presidential guard
that would never have allowed him within a mile of Mubarak’s person. Less than
eighteen months ago, such a scenario would have been too far-fetched even for a
movie spoof.
When Mubarak, his wife
or his son made a public appearance, it was the culmination of careful
coordination and preparation intended as much to preserve the aura of grandeur
of the First Family as to shield its members from friction with the public. Especially
when you are preparing for the succession to your son, you cultivate the
unapproachable mystique of royalty.
By contrast, today in
his first public appearance in Tahrir as President-elect, Morsi concluded a
passionate, theatrical speech by flinging off his jacket, waving aside his
guards, and wading into the crowd of thousands, making a show of relishing his
‘bain de foule’, or bathing in the crowd, as the French say.
Suzanne Mubarak, and
Jihan Sadat before her, fully embraced the publicity and power of her role as
‘First Lady.’ In the eyes of the world, where rumors of their greed and
ambition rarely penetrated, the two attractive women were reassuringly
Westernized; their elegance and polish did credit to Egypt in state visits and
international women’s conferences. They shared much: both were half-British, on
the distaff side; both married young, to officers of more modest backgrounds; both
continued their education later in life and earned advanced degrees while their
husbands were in power. Both espoused the typical causes of child welfare,
education, and in Suzanne Mubarak’s case, the arts.
Mohamed Morsi’s wife Naglaa
Mahmoud comes from a different world. She is not an Egyptian Everywoman, as the
New York Times wrote recently; she is an Islamist Everywoman, and many Egyptian
women would deny that she represents them. She is not just ‘veiled’, as so many
Egyptian women are, with a headscarf; she wears a ‘tarha’ or prayer veil, that
sweeps down to her knees. Unlike Turkish President Gul’s wife, who makes every
attempt to look attractive and stylish in spite of her headscarf, wearing six-inch
ankle boots to meet the Queen at Buckingham
Palace , Morsi’s wife, by
contrast, seems to make every effort to look as severe and dowdy as possible.
Although she
accompanied her husband to the United
States , where he studied engineering while
she gave birth to two of their sons, she herself holds no college degree. Naglaa
Mahmoud keeps her maiden name, not as a sign of independence from her husband,
but rather in adherence to the convention of Muslim societies, where a woman
never takes her husband’s name. In fact, ‘Suzanne Mubarak’ and ‘Jihan Sadat’
never existed outside of media parlance; legally, they kept their maiden names,
as evidenced by the court charges, after the revolution, against ‘Suzanne
Sabet’, the maiden name of Mrs. Mubarak.
As nervous observers
in Egypt
today try to decode style for substance, President-Elect Morsi and his wife
will come under the closest scrutiny. How will Morsi, a virtually unknown
back-up candidate brought in at the last minute by the Muslim Brotherhood to
contest the presidential elections, deal with the pressures of office? But
Egypt has a history of dark horses, once dismissed as lightweights- Sadat was
derided as Nasser’s yes-man and Mubarak as an accidental president- who, finding
themselves elevated to the position of president, prove to have the tenacity
and cunning to not only hang on to power but to sustain their rule for decades.
Morsi might prove to be just such an accidental president, confounding expectations.
Whether that is a prospect to be dreaded or welcomed depends on where you stand
in a divided Egypt
today.