Chapter Forty-Seven
CAIRO, EGYPT
I lie to Papa. The next morning, I tell him that I’m off to the shops to choose a special wedding gift for Catherine and Porchey. Instead, after breakfast, I leave Shepheard’s by the side entrance, and slide into the automobile where Mrs. Seton waits.
As we progress toward Qasr-El-Aini Street where the Zaghloul residence is located, I cannot quite believe my actions.
Here am I, in an automobile with an American woman I’ve just met, about to interview the Mother of the Egyptians.
What would Mama say? I wonder. Would she be horrified or impressed at this rare access?
Am I foolish to take time away from our hunt for Hatshepsut’s tomb?
More important, what would Brograve think?
I imagine that he’d cheer me on, and I smile to myself at the thought.
The vehicle slows as we approach an elegant French-style mansion, surrounded by a wall with a wrought-iron gate.
Armed military guards stand on both sides of the gate; and when Mrs. Seton gives her name, we are admitted.
We pass through a small manicured garden with bougainvillea, pepper trees, and rubber plants.
Guards patrol the perimeter and flank the front door, reminding me that this is not really a residence any longer.
It is the headquarters for the nationalist movement, and I cannot quite believe I’ll be granted admittance.
The imposing black front door opens, and a lovely young woman with chocolate-brown eyes peering out from under a headscarf says, in a mixture of French and Arabic, “Welcome. The Umm El-Masriyeen will see you now, Mrs. Seton and…” She trails off, having not been introduced to me.
“This is my assistant,” Mrs. Seton answers, careful not to use my name.
My stomach flutters at this bold deception—especially given the timing—but I proceed.
Mrs. Seton and I follow the young woman into a salon decorated with multicolored Turkish carpets, framed photographs on the walls and tables, and Louis XV furniture covered in gold brocade not unlike the sort we have at Highclere. There, the similarities end.
At the center of the room sits a slender, middle-aged woman in a European-cut blue-and-tan silk dress with stylishly waved gray hair peeking out from a black silk headscarf.
Around her, like the petals of a flower, sit more than a dozen women, several of whose clear, fair skin, dark eyes and hair, and beautifully symmetrical features are visible.
Their attire, however, varies wildly, and some head coverings obscure their wearers’ faces, aside from their eyes.
The styles range from an elegantly made-up woman wearing the latest Chanel dress and matching hat with a chin-covering of tulle to a woman in a long black shift wearing a garment I’ve heard called a yashmak, a coarse piece of black cotton cloth held in place by brass chains and a nose ring.
It occurs to me that these women represent the disparate classes and belief systems of Egyptian society—pasha, Copt, fellaheen, Muslim, and everything in between.
And yet, here they sit side by side, at one with Madame Zaghloul.
And I wonder where Ahmed’s mother and sister and wives and daughters would fit into this assembly of women, or even if they’d support Madame Zaghloul’s cause.
Mrs. Seton and I bow in greeting. En route to Qasr-El-Aini Street, we realized that we were uncertain of the protocol, and determined this would be the safest approach.
In response, Madame Zaghloul’s delicate, fair oval face lights with the smile of a kindly aunt and she says, in French, “Ladies, there is no need for such formalities among us women. Please join us.”
We take the two empty seats closest to Madame Zaghloul, and accept a cup of tea poured by the same young lady who opened the front door.
Mrs. Seton and Madame Zaghloul exchange pleasantries about the weather and loveliness of Cairo, and then the interview begins.
Mrs. Seton is a deft questioner, quickly eliciting Madame Zaghloul’s background as a prime minister’s daughter, her youthful marriage to her older husband, and her years in purdah as her husband climbed the governmental ranks.
I take copious notes of their exchange, playing the part of Mrs. Seton’s assistant.
“I had no intention of ever leaving the safety of my home and my community of women friends and family before. It had been enough for me.” She describes her existence until 1919.
“What changed?” Mrs. Seton asks. “Because when you stepped out of purdah, you stepped right into a powerful movement of women, arguing for freedom for Egypt.”
“We”—she gestures to the women encircling her—“have always known that Egyptians would govern our land best, even though we’ve been under the yoke of the French, the Ottoman Empire, or the English for centuries.
When the English began promising us self-governance, we thought freedom was imminent, and my husband began to unite and energize the people by forming the Wafd.
But when he was exiled for his efforts, I knew I had to resist following my husband to Malta, which was my heart’s desire.
My destiny was to rise up and serve as my husband’s second self in his absence. ”
“Was this difficult for you? Did you find it hard to rally people around you, because you are a woman?” Mrs. Seton asks gently.
“The women gravitated to me and the work of the Wafd cause immediately. True, they felt uncomfortable at first, when we began passing our pamphlets in public and educating the people about the cause. By the time I initiated the boycotts of English goods, the women had grown more at ease staging protests and marching. When they began to see the impact of their efforts—the boycotts alone caused great harm to the English businesses—they left their discomfort behind and claimed their roles proudly.” Madame Zaghloul’s voice is soft but firm, and I see why women from all strata are comfortable yet motivated in her presence.
“How did the English and Egyptian men respond to your women?”
“At first, they paid us no heed, except for the occasional Egyptian man who told us our place was in the home, never mind that we always wore face coverings out of doors. And why should they pay any attention to us? For so long, the Egyptian women had been out of sight and inconsequential. But when our actions began to have economic repercussions, we were called agitators by some, blasphemers by others, and inspired patriots by our allies.” An expression of pride appears on Madame Zaghloul’s face as she utters these last words.
Mrs. Seton nods along. “Your story is so inspiring, Madame Zaghloul, particularly the way you’ve banded together women from all walks of life to become the emblem of independence. I cannot wait to share it with my readers.”
Madame Zaghloul dips her head modestly and says, “Any power I wield comes from my husband and from God. I am only the conduit. As women, we do whatever is necessary and use whatever means at our disposal for the larger good of our families and our country. No matter how uncomfortable, no matter if it violates the rules of our societies, no matter if it puts us in harm’s way.
In my land, this is how it has always been done.
And we will continue to do so in the face of this deception that the English will actually allow Egypt to become an independent country. ”
How like a modern-day Hatshepsut she is, I think, doing what her country and people need by whatever means available to her and justifying it similarly.
“So brave,” I half-whisper, quite without thinking. Mrs. Seton and I had decided I should stay silent if possible, and avoid introductions if we can. It seemed the best way to mask my identity.
“Pardon me? What did you say, Miss—?”
“Herbert, ma’am.” I answer simply and soften my accent.
I can’t quite imitate Mrs. Seton’s American way of speaking, but I try not to make my own plain.
I hardly want to draw attention to my aristocratic English background in this company, at this time.
Even though my father has supported the cause for independence in a general sense and is actually friendly with her husband, I don’t imagine my presence and my deception would be very welcome.
I have no intention of saying more, but Madame Zaghloul waits expectantly for me to continue. So I say, “I am very moved by you, Madame Zaghloul. Your story reminds me of another Egyptian woman, a historic one.”
Mrs. Seton shoots me a less-than-pleased glance. This exchange extends far outside what we decided was safe.
“Who might that be, Miss Herbert?”
“The Pharaoh Hatshepsut, ma’am.”
“Ah, the woman who dared to lead,” Madame Zaghloul replies, and at first, I wonder if I’ve mentioned something unseemly. “She created a better land for her people, and even though she colonized other lands, she gave them rights and better treatment.”
Mrs. Seton rushes in, attempting to explain away my remark. “My assistant has a long-standing fascination with the history of your country.”
“You are English?” Madame Zaghloul asks me. She must have heard the accent, despite my efforts.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You are unlike any other English lady I have encountered.”
“Is that so?” I’m uncertain how to react. Is this a compliment or an insult? Either way, I keep my tone amiable.
“Yes, most English women make no attempt to know us. Neither historic Egyptian women nor modern ones. They will not mix with us; and on those rare occasions when our paths cross, they ask insulting questions, like how many wives our husbands have or whether we have indoor bathrooms. They make assumptions based on preconceived notions, without any knowledge of our past, our present, or our future.”
“I hope to be different,” I answer honestly. And then, inspired by Madame Zaghloul, I venture, “I hope to be as brave as you—and Hatshepsut—one day.”
She beams at me, and I sense that her reaction to the mention of Hatshepsut had been one of surprise rather than discomfort.
“That is a worthy goal, Miss Herbert. To reach it, you must understand that our ancient history isn’t in the past. It reverberates within and without, in our blood and in the world around us, and galvanizes us when necessary.
Women, Egyptian women in particular, are like the desert sand.
We are walked upon every day by people who are oblivious to our fine, yet strong, grains and who take our presence for granted.
But then, one day, we will sweep up into a mighty storm and transform the land. ”