Tying a Windsor

The International Herald Tribune Daily News

April 28 2011

By Philip Whitfield

Two billion will be glued to the goggle box on Friday watching Prince William Arthur Philip Louis of Wales and his fiancée Catherine Elizabeth Middleton ‘getting spliced’ as we Brits say.

Or, as William’s dad harrumphed on the dear couple’s engagement day: “They’ve been practicing for long enough.” He should know as a womanizer before, during and after his marriage to William’s mum, Princess Diana.

As with many a center-stage drama, the real plot is unraveling in the wings. Truth be told, according to the British Tourism Board, visitors to the UK declined by 15 percent in July 1981 when Charles and Diana were married and by 8 percent in July 1986 when his brother Prince Andrew married Sarah Ferguson.

Asked on the radio the other day how many VIPs would be trooping through Heathrow Airport for the wedding, Anita the Greeter told listeners it was a very manageable 20 parties. Whereas, there’d be 40 to 60 regulars getting the VIP treatment.

Why are the Royals struggling to hold their grip – beyond the couple of hours of nuptial rubber necking and the peculiarity of the tabloids’ attention?

Egyptians will recognize the answer: The Brits are fed up with the antics of society’s apparently untouchables. In recent times there’s been the disclosure of Prince Andrew’s sordid business dealings with unsavory oligarchs. His brother Prince Charles (or to give him his formal title Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, KG, KT, GCB, OM, AK, OSO, CD, SOM, GCL, PC, AdC (P) FRS (Charles Philip Arthur) has to labor under the loathing of a public that remembers Diana adoringly.

And with the singular exception of the Queen who reached 85 last week, the rest of ‘The Firm’ as the Royal Family calls itself, evokes considerable distain prancing around at gymkhanas or wobbling out of West End nightclubs at an ungodly hour when most of their subjects are safely abed.

At times such as now, it’s as if the Windsors are a unique breed, prodded by a band of livestock merchants eyeing up the potential of a new generation of frisky youngsters to morph into media freaks.

Even their handle disguises the Windsors’ provenance. Realizing the family moniker Saxe-Coburg and Gotha wouldn’t cut the mustard with British troops limping home from the trenches, King George V name-changed to Windsor eighteen months before Germany admitted defeat in World War I.

The last time an English monarch lost his head on January 30th 1649 it was chilly enough for 49-year-old Charles I to wear two vests for the short shuffle to the scaffold outside the Banqueting Hall in Whitehall. He asked a hanger-on, a bishop, to lend him a cap to keep his head warm for a minute or two before it was severed with an axe.

Charles’ unexpected last thoughts? ‘Does my hair trouble you?’ The executioner paid £100 for the two-second wallop replied in Olde English: ‘Tuck it in, your majesty.’

Charles’ crimes were to claim the divinity of kings, unbeholden to common folks, and tried as ambiguously as those such as the Mubarak gang on a charge sheet listing ‘tyrant, traitor and murderer.’

The Brits did without a monarch for 11 years, before reverting to kings and queens after deciding a monarch’s foibles were preferable to Mr. Oliver Cromwell’s dictatorship.

But, whereas Egyptians summoned up the courage to topple a perduring Pharaoh and his edacious offspring, the British are cowards when it comes to cutting the Windsors down to size.

Mostly, the Brits fear a republican-style presidency, conjuring up scary visions of ‘President’ Tony/Gordon/ Dave et al while the occupants of 10 Downing Street and the Foreign Office are reduced to parliamentary hogwash. Would a British President flip-flop partners à la mode de Sarkozy to boost his election chances?

There are more subtleties. To royal nitpickers, the current heir fell on his sword being divorced, compounding the misdemeanor by bedding and wedding a divorcée. The Supreme Governor of the Church of England, as he would expect to become if and when crowned, is supposed to be above such imperfections.

It’s suggested by some that Prince Charles should take a pass, as the hoi polloi seems to desire, and wave William and Kate through the gate into Buckingham Palace. Others suggest that would be a pity: let King Charles #3 and Camilla take the flak leaving William and Kate free to come in after the regicides have settled for clipping the royals’ wings along the lines of Scandinavian heads of state, who oftentimes take the bus or bike it into the office.

That way the Brits end up with the best of both worlds: keeping their King and Queen while pretending they’re ‘just like us’ – stopping off at their local grocery store to pick up a frozen pizza on the way home (as they do now) and joining the line at the department store when they need new pants (as Kate did the other day).

The cable from Cairo? Your loyal servants observed the Royal Wedding with bangers and mash at a street party in Maadi. Next week, they’ll obediently resume aiding natives unseat locally unelected heads of state. God Save The Queen.

Philip Whitfield is a Cairo-based writer. He can be reached at pjwcairo@yahoo.com or twittered @mohendessin.

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Turning over a new leaf

The International Herald Tribune Daily News

April 26 2011

By Philip Whitfield

An economist taught me it took 80 years for America to turn an agricultural economy into an industrial powerhouse, 18 years to restore Japan and Germany to normalcy after World War II and 8 years for China to do what all three did. Egypt’s trying to transmogrify itself within eight months.

The unanticipated consequences mirror a legal conundrum. If you demolish your house and the mice you didn’t know existed in the basement flee into your neighbor’s, should your neighbor sue you, the wrecking gang or the council for responsibility?

A youngish mum I respect, who busses tables in Mohandessin to put her kids through a good Cairo school that charges LE 4,000 a year fees per pupil, is faced with the unanticipated consequences of Egypt’s revolution. She sat down for a while (restaurants are shadows of their former bustling selves) and told me what had happened to her kids.

Until 24th January her two girls, one aged 12 the other 7, played joyously with their best friends in the playground. She enjoyed chit chatting at the school gate with other mums before the kids came out. After the prolonged vacation prompted by the revolution all three found their world turned upside down at the school. The girls’ friends not only refuse to play with her daughters anymore, but their mothers cut her dead at the door. They all blame the waitress and her girls for upending the status quo.

What are they saying, I asked? They say the Christians were behind it, she responded. Uh? But I know some of the Tahrir Square leaders and I read their tweets and blogs and there’s not a Christian among them…Doesn’t seem to matter, she said. Please, please help me to get to Canada…there’s no future for us here.

Spool back a few years to the beginnings of the revolution in Northern Ireland in the late 60’s. The civil rights campaign began with peaceful marches to bring the world’s attention to unjust cronyism, corruption among some officials, particularly Protestant-led councils allocating public housing to fellow Protestants, sometimes to single women regardless of the overwhelming demands of homeless Catholic families. Thugs organized by a Protestant preacher dispersed marches Camel-charge style.

Both sides ignored history. Latent hatreds surfaced. Guns and explosives were spirited in. Soon a reenergized Republican Irish Republican Army (IRA) was engaged in a night-and-day battle with a resistance movement, the Ulster Defence Association (UDA). The dust hasn’t altogether settled almost 50 years later and the last time I checked, more than 3,500 were killed, many innocent bystanders.

Here’s the rub. Egypt and Ireland share uncanny similarities. In early 19th Century censuses the British estimated that 5 million people lived in Egypt and about 5 million in Ireland. Now there are something like 70 million Egyptians and 70 million Irish. The big difference is that 65 million Egyptians live in Egypt (occupying a third of tiny Ireland’s acreage) and 5 million live abroad, whereas 5 million Irish live in Ireland and 65 million live abroad.

Forced to fall back on potatoes to survive at he time, the Irish failed to anticipate that the potatoes they had were extremely susceptible to blight. A million Irish died from starvation and a million took to the boats to America beginning the Irish Diaspora and skewing their demographics for evermore.

The unexpected consequences of reform in Egypt have apparently unleashed a latency that threatens to destabilize the everyday relationships of Muslims and Christians. Ignoring what’s going on is as bird-brained as planting the wrong strain of spuds.

Rather than helter skelter towards reform, those who want to rule should be making sure the unruly use tolerance to heal society’s wounds. Instead, I see a vengeful, unbecoming metaphorical lynch mob grabbing ropes and timber to hang the unconvicted awaiting justice in Torah. They should be wary of the unexpected emerging later on in the saga. The first pictures of the Crucifixion only went up on the Vatican’s walls 400 years after the event.

The other day I went to see people I’ve worked with for a few years in their office. We can’t talk here, their supervisor said, ushering me to an unaccustomed, closed conference room. What’s up, said I?

We don’t talk to one another any more, the supervisor said. There was a big row between the No’s and the Yes’s just before the Referendum. We don’t talk to each other now. I looked around the office: early-30s Egyptians who observe Islam respectfully, but lightly. Previously best buddies, now they can’t stand working with each other. And like the waitress’s kids, they walk home tearfully and rarely go to sleep dry-eyed.

Wisdom passed down via the Pharaohs over thousands of years accepts universal free choice and freedom of expression bound up with mutual respect and rejects bigotry that puts kids in the playground at each others’ throats or co-workers in purdah.

The lesson: don’t try to second-guess the outcome of social change. Your enemy’s enemy isn’t necessarily your friend. And don’t chirp if you flutter into the glop. A sly fox might gobble you up for lunch.

Philip Whitfield is a Cairo-based writer. He can be reached at pjwcairo@yahoo.com or twittered @mohendessin.