Chris Daniels

When I was in 5th grade my father moved to Egypt for his job.  He was an Air Force pilot and was sent to Egypt to teach their pilots how to fly F-16’s.  I had not seen my father in over 7 months, but Christmas was rolling around and we got to visit him for 3 weeks. Along with seeing my dad we toured all over Egypt. 

During many of our excursions we took a horseback ride to the Pyramids of the Desert east of Cairo, near the City of the Dead. 

I got up today to lead some American tourists through the City of the Dead and to the Pyramids of the Desert.  I hoped all things would go well today for I needed the money for my family.

(The Egyptians would do everything to appease me and my family.  They viewed my white skin as a meal ticket.) 

But alas the trip did not go as I planned. 

This whole trip made me realize just how safe and clean my neighborhood was, and how frightening situations seemed to arise from all corners of a foreign city. 

(You can become so accustomed to the position of upper-middle class white America that when the situation arises when that power is stripped from you, you become helpless.  Being in the situation where your power of class, nationality, race, and gender don’t mean a thing is a very humbling experience.) 

On the ride out there we were told that there would be a point at which we would have to gallop and move quickly.  We then passed a beautiful white horse standing alone in the sand dunes nibbling on a small piece of grass.  But as we neared closer, a pack of wild dogs came running over the sand dune barking and snapping.  Our guide familiar with this situation proceeded to gallop away as fast as he could.  We all proceeded to follow suit and soon we entered the City of the Dead. 

(I can still taste the smell of rotten flesh, some fresh some very aged.  It is a taste and smell one will never get over.  The smell of iron in the blood and tissues permeates your sinus.  It brought the harshness of the area to the forefront of your mind the dead people, the dead horse, and the dead whiteness.  The other whites saw it and smelled it some turned up there nose and others ignored it but the smell and taste is something that to this day reminds me of the Dead City and of death itself.) 

I know this is not the place for a young American child to be, it’s quite dangerous due to the terrorists and his susceptibility to sickness out here.  This all became apparent to me like a vision from Ra.  As I took the tourists past a farm I saw this beautiful white horse.  It stood like a symbol of majesty, like the white family that was on the tour this day.  But as we neared the horse a pack of wild dogs came tearing over the hill.  I knew the horse was as good as gone.  The wild dogs came in quickly and decisively and cause as much damage as they can before darting of; they remind me of the terrorists here. 

As we walked through the tombs and graves...

(I can still taste the smell of rotten flesh, some fresh some very aged.  It is a taste and smell one will never get over.  The smell of iron in the blood and tissues permeates your sinus.  It brought the harshness of the area to the forefront of your mind the dead people, the dead horse, and the dead whiteness.  The other whites saw it and smelled it some turned up there nose and others ignored it but the smell and taste is something that to this day reminds me of the Dead City and of death itself.)

...my horse decided to take an alternate path away from our guide and my parents.  Being small and not in control of my horse I could not get it to correct our path and it proceeded to run through a field filled with the decaying corpses of animals and men alike. 

Seeing the dead and how they were treated scared me and made me panic.
 
(This image still sticks in my head for many reasons the first is how one can become powerless from positions of power, how one can be faced with their own mortality at such a young age and how smell and taste can be locked so firmly into ones olfactory system, enough so to make one sick to the stomach after 11 years.) 

One of the horses got unruly and ended up dragging this white child through the open graves of the City of the Dead.  He was quite terrified, I guess they do not deal with death well. 

After my father came to my rescue and regained control of my horse he led me the rest of the way to the pyramids. 

On the way back to were we started we encountered the beautiful white horse again.  This time though it was not the majestic beast it had been.  It had been taken down and ripped open for a snack. 

(I can still taste the smell of rotten flesh, some fresh some very aged.  It is a taste and smell one will never get over.  The smell of iron in the blood and tissues permeates your sinus.  It brought the harshness of the area to the forefront of your mind the dead people, the dead horse, and the dead whiteness.  The other whites saw it and smelled it some turned up there nose and others ignored it but the smell and taste is something that to this day reminds me of the Dead City and of death itself.) 

It made me thankful for the country in which I live. 

As we came back the majestic symbol of whiteness was ripped open and colored red.  It showed me just how dangerous this place is to other people.  These whites truly would not have survived here without me. 

(The power of America is no longer with you and you notice that relying on the fact that you are American won’t do a bit of good of the natives don’t want it to.) 

They should return to their country before the terrorists do to them what the dogs did to the horse.  There is no true tolerance for whiteness in this land.

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