The Economist - USA (2020-11-13)

44 Middle East & Africa The EconomistNovember 14th 2020

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tember25th,alsoraisedeyebrows.Itin-

cluded5.7bnkwacha($275m)forfarmin-

puts,suchasfertiliser—a300%increaseon

thepreviousyear.Itmaywinoversomeof

the56%ofZambianswholiveinthecoun-

tryside.Anothercraftytacticiscancelling

thevoterrollandreplacingitwitha new

one.Zambianshavebeengivenjust 30 days

tosignup.Manyfearit willbehardertoreg-

ister in opposition strongholds. “Lungu

hopestodisenfranchiseasmanyopposi-

tionsupportersaspossible,”arguesSish-

uwaSishuwaoftheUniversityofZambia.

MrLunguhasnothadit allhisownway.

OnOctober29thparliamentrejecteda bill

thatwouldhaveremovedconstraintson

thepresidentandmadeiteasierforhimto

winre-election.Thedefeatsuggeststhathe

doesnothaveanirongriponhisparty,es-

peciallyamongitsBemba-speakingelites

hailingmainlyfromthenorth-east.

But weak “strongmen” are often the

mostdangerous.Afterthebill’sdemise,a

furtheranti-democraticbacklashmayoc-

cur,fears MsMiti. Therulingpartyhas

shownitselfwillingtothrottlefreedoms.It

hasputalliesofMrLunguontheconstitu-

tionalcourt,whichin 2018 ruledthathe

couldstanda thirdtimeforpresident,con-

trarytotheviewsofmanyZambianjurists.

AuthoritieshaveshutZambia’smaininde-

pendentnewspaperandatelevisionsta-

tion.pfthugsharassjournalistsandoppo-

sitioncampaigners.

Andmusicians.InhisstudioMrChama

pointsoutthatmanyofhisfriendsarepaid

toplaybythepf, orhavereceivedmoney

fromayouth “empowerment”fund,an-

nounced in August. Though he worries

aboutwhatwillhappennext,he would

nevertakethecash.“Bettertobedeadthan

aliveina deadcountry,”hesays. 7

W

hen nadeen ashrafwas walking

through a wealthy part of Cairo last

month, she was not surprised to hear sex-

ual comments aimed her way. Most women

in Egypt have experienced sexual harass-

ment or violence. But her catcaller was sur-

prised when the 22-year-old philosophy

student jumped into the taxi he was driv-

ing. “I had an hour-long conversation with

him,” she recalls. “It was so foreign to him

that this was sexual harassment.”

For much of this year Egypt has wrestled

with the problem of sexual violence and

the issue of women’s rights. Men there

have long policed women’s behaviour, us-

ing antiquated notions of morality, while

tolerating crimes by men against women.

But lately young women like Ms Ashraf

(pictured) have been challenging the coun-

try’s conservative, male-dominated cul-

ture, using social media to amplify their

voices. It has not always gone well.

The reckoning began in June, when a

student at the American University in Cai-

ro (auc) posted a warning on Facebook

about a former student, Ahmed Bassam

Zaki, whom she accused of sexually harass-

ing and blackmailing women. Days later,

after that post disappeared, Ms Ashraf

launched an account on Instagram called

Assault Police, which repeated the allega-

tions against Mr Zaki—and listed more. He

was soon arrested. Assault Police was born

out of anger, says Ms Ashraf, who also at-

tends auc. “I was very frustrated that wom-

en’s voices were not being taken seriously.”

Around the time of Mr Zaki’s arrest, oth-

er cases began making headlines. A woman

alleged that a group of wealthy young men

drugged and gang-raped her at a five-star

hotel in Cairo in 2014. Another woman,

called Aya Khamees, accused a man of

rape—and accused the police of ignoring

her claims. It seemed as if Egypt was having

a #MeToo moment. The National Council

for Women, a government body, urged oth-

er victims of sexual violence to come for-

ward. Parliament approved a law guaran-

teeing them anonymity. Assault Police now

has over 200,000 followers.

But the progress was largely illusory.

Take the alleged gang rape, which was re-

portedly recorded by the attackers. It took

weeks of campaigning by activists before

the Public Prosecution Office moved, al-

lowing some of the suspects to flee the

country. Five men have since been arrest-

ed; at least two suspects are still at large.

Three of the men arrested have been

charged with rape, which they deny. Ab-

surdly, the authorities also charged four

people who came forward as witnesses

(and two of their acquaintances) with vio-

lating laws on “morality” and “debau-

chery”. The media have characterised the

incident as a “group sex party”, smearing all

involved, including the alleged victim.

This has had a chilling effect: once-vocal

women have gone into hiding.

After Ms Khamees was turned away by

the police, she broadcast her accusations

on TikTok, an app for sharing short videos,

where she had more than 100,000 follow-

ers. Days after the video went viral, the po-

lice picked up the entire group who had

been partying with her that night. The au-

thorities seemed as concerned with their

use of hash and the mixing of unmarried

men and women, as with Ms Khamees’s

claim that a man had held a razor to her face

and raped her. Her attackers (she accused a

group of people of facilitating the rape)

were charged with rape and other offences.

But Ms Khamees was also charged—with

prostitution, drug use and “violating fam-

ily values”. Only after she completed a pro-

gramme to “correct her concepts” were the

charges against her dropped.

These cases are indicative. Egypt has

laws against sexual violence and harass-

ment (the latter enacted only in 2014), but

victims keep quiet for fear they will be

blamed and shamed. The authorities have

been known to subject women to so-called

“virginity tests” and to ask about their sex-

ual history, often using the information to

CAIRO

But are the men of Egypt listening?

Feminism in Egypt

Speaking up about sex crimes