Be sure to also read Christopher Kenneally's article:
"In Cairo, Walk Like An Egyptian."

In early November (1997), as I prepared a freelance submission from Cairo for a newspaper's travel pages, I anticipated the editor's first question: "Isn't that a dangerous place for tourists?"

I imagined I would reply with a jaunty reminder that terrorists' bombings in the Paris Metro hadn't put that city off-limits for Americans, so why should the Egyptian capital be treated any differently? Of course, I knew why Cairo was different from Paris, or London, or any other destination enticing to tourists but not without -- ahem -- occasional security problems. The ancient city on the banks of the Nile inhabits the Islamic world, and more specifically, the Arab world. Thus, for many people who only know of it from television news reports, Cairo might as well be labeled on a map with a skull and crossbones, like a jar of poison or a barrel full of hazardous chemicals.

Yet I believed what I had to report about Cairo -- particularly, the rewarding time I'd spent exploring the dense network of alleys and back streets that branches out from Sharia al-Muski in the city's medieval quarter -- might help to counter this perception. I even thought I owed it to the many Egyptians who made feel welcome there to make such an effort.

Then, on November 17, militants from the Gamaa al-Islamiya (Islamic Group) movement attacked the temple of Hatshepsut in Luxor, 350 miles south of Cairo, killing 60 tourists. In more than five years of terrorism directed by fundamentalists against foreigners in Egypt, this was the worst incident of its kind. The murderous raid on innocents struck at the very heart of the nation's $2 billion tourism industry.

Foreigners who were in Egypt at the time began filing out of the country in as orderly a fashion as possible. Those who had made plans to go hurried to cancel them. Western governments, including our own, issued travel advisories to their citizens, and Egyptians who made their living catering to such visitors lamented the loss of business. In Luxor, residents reportedly spat at the bodies of the assassins when they were brought down from the mountain where they had fled.

Not surprisingly, I knew better right away than to waste the postage for my manuscript and a colleague's photographs. My story about Moustafa, the eager shoe-shine at the Fishawi cafe, and Hassan, the young proprietor of a stall in the Souq al-Attarin spice market who let me sample a kind of frankincense reputed to soothe sore throats, slipped into a file folder, where it died.

In the lexicon of the writing trade, that article was "spiked." This graphic term suggests to me more than the literal image of sheets of paper impaled on a desk accessory. I feel as if I have driven a nail through a living creature, then shunted it away even as the thing still writhed.

If I think of Moustafa and Hassan in Cairo, I wonder if they could possibly be bent over in pain, like the cursed victims of a voodoo doll. This is what terrorism seeks to do, after all. Its victims are not only those who are killed or wounded, but countless others who suffer the effects of the fear -- communicated through the international media like a virus -- that is terrorism's greatest weapon. In Egypt, terrorism has grabbed the headlines, and is driving out whatever does not correspond to a tableau of violence and hate. It is winning a monopoly on the world's attention, one story at a time.

Be sure to also read Christopher Kenneally's article:
"In Cairo, Walk Like An Egyptian."

Christopher Kenneally is the author of The Massachusetts Legacy and the Compact Boston Insight Guide. He has written articles for The New York Times, Boston Globe, and The Independent in London. As a contributing editor for Escape Magazine, he and Derek Szabo have reported from Northern Ireland, Egypt, South Africa and Uzbekistan. His email address is Wroxman@aol.com.