YOUR GUIDE to El-Nazla is a cute, one-eyed little girl named Rahma, whose serene smile does little to prepare you for the sour faces roaming the settlement’s narrow streets and crowded back alleys. The twinkle in her big, brown eye blinds you to the fact that the little seven year old innocently taking your hand is just another social outcast, one of the village’s band of outlaws.

Appearances in El-Nazla are deceiving. Some two hours from Cairo, deep in the heart of Fayoum, it is surely one of nature’s most spoiled children. The hamlet is framed by rolling green hills into which families have carved thickly carpeted steps for grazing land. A stream lazily winds its way through beds of bright yellow roses planted where the steps meet the earth. From this vantage point, nothing disrupts the richness and charm of El-Nazla’s surroundings — except for the desperately poor and disfigured villagers.

El-Nazla, you see, is the heart of the nation’s illegal fireworks industry, a trade that routinely claims eyes, limbs and even lives.

“Are we on the agenda? Are we worth talking about? We’re worse than garbage — at least they do something with that.”

With every second family having at least one member who is physically disfigured, it is easy to mistake the villagers for mutilated victims of war, but the sole fight here is one for survival. The hamlet’s residents eat, sleep and go about their daily business surrounded by low-grade explosives, yet swear on the lives of their children that their products are perfectly safe and innocent forms of amusement. Disaster comes only from negligence, recklessness and occasionally bad luck, they say, claiming their biggest problem is that the outside world simply won’t leave them in peace.

Master firework-makers have called El-Nazla home for generations, but life as they knew it came crashing to an end in 1994. As the insurgency of the last century heated up, the Ministry of Interior issued a decree criminalizing the possession of 52 kinds of explosives, including the low-grade black gunpowder used to make firecrackers, sparklers and other fireworks. The rationale was a sound one, authorities explain, saying that would-be terrorists used to empty the contents of firecrackers into much larger packages, adding match-heads and nails to the mix to create deadly homemade bombs.

“If we prevent a child from playing with something as small as a bomba, he’ll grow up to be a sissy.”

In the years since, lawmakers have toughened the penalties for both dealing in illegal fireworks and for using them. Under Article G:102 of the Egyptian Criminal Code, “Whomsoever uses or attempts to use banned explosive materials in a way that threatens the safety of another person shall be sentenced to a term of imprisonment of up to life.” If the prospect of a life sentence weren’t enough, the code stipulates that any adult who kills another person with banned explosives, intentionally or through negligence, may be sentenced to death. (Minors guilty of the same offenses are sentenced as youthful offenders.)

Mohsen Allam Abu Rahma says fate chose his daughter, who lost an eye when a firework blew up in her face while she was helping her family turn out a batch.

Those caught in possession of the materials needed to make fireworks can be prosecuted before the same national-security tribunals faced by those caught making full-scale bombs.

Legal sanctions and the deaths and mutilation of loved ones have done little to convince El-Nazla’s outlaws to take up another trade. Instead, they complain about official harassment and bitterly decry what they claim is government indifference as they play a deadly game of cat and mouse with police. Sometimes, sentries posted in the hills send advance warning of the raids. Sometimes not. When they don’t — or when a hiding place for equipment wasn’t well chosen — the penalty is usually a three-year jail term.

“Fireworks aren’t a game, they aren’t a source of fun. They’re an annoyance, a source of noise pollution and a serious danger.”

Few give up the trade when they’re released. It’s not that they want to take on the law, El-Nazla’s residents say, it’s that they have no other choice. They’re tired of waiting for the government’s help — for “salvation that never comes,” as one man tells us. Bordering a village of more than 500,000 people, there’s not a single workshop, factory or small enterprise for kilometers, government-funded or otherwise. Only ugly poverty, filthy streets, angry faces and backyards full of drying fireworks.

But activists and lawmakers stress that poverty doesn’t give anyone the license to create dangerous goods that can cause lasting physical injury. Fireworks, they say, are a public safety issue that affects makers and users alike.

Abu Rahma was sitting on what passes here for a sidewalk when we approached him. “That look” on his face made the 30-something man look old enough to be the village ghost.

The way he stares at his daughter makes it clear that her loss hasn’t yet registered. The accident, he will soon tell us, happened five months ago while the family was busily turning out a batch of fireworks. It is the very definition of a family business: Women and young children are an indispensable part of the process, packing finished explosives with small stones, then wrapping each deadly little ball in white paper before winding the package closed with wire.

Men have a more dangerous job: Mixing, then baking the explosive material their wives and children will later process. Those making el-bomb start with two simple raw materials. One is shipped into El-Nazla in large rocks and must be ground into a white powder, while the other arrives crystalline and is ground in a small mixer until it too becomes white and powder-like. Acid is added and the loads are weighed, then portioned out in precise quantities. Next is the mixing process, the most dangerous step as any amount of friction can set off an explosion. Mishandled, the smallest pebble or grain of sand can take lives and burn down houses.

Fate, Abu Rahma says, chose his daughter this time.

“She’s the apple of my eye. Maalesh, it could have been worse,” he says. “My brother, his wife and their children were all gone in a second. The village is full of martyrs.”

Mohsen Allam Though El-Nazla borders a village of over 500,000 people, there’s not a single workshop, factory or small government-funded enterprise for kilometers.

“Safe, safe, safe. It’s safe to use and sell, even safe to make. ‘Safe is their mantra, as if saying it often enough will make it true.”

When it comes to life and death, Abu Rahma says, everyone in the settlement has the same philosophy: “In death, we believe. Life is waking up to the constant struggle with the government. It’s harsh, ugly and shows no mercy. Their people have a twisted theory: They tell us, ‘Stop dealing with that stuff because we care for you and don’t want you killed or disfigured.’ As if they really care. We say, ‘Thanks a million, we appreciate your concern,’ for who wants to be killed or disfigured? Just give us an alternative: a job, a workshop, a factory, a small project.

“This is a village with around 500,000 people, and we have nothing,” he continues. “We’re not on the map. The government keeps talking about the average citizen. What about the gutter citizens? Are we on the agenda? Are we worth talking about? We’re worse than garbage — at least, they do something with that.”

Abu Rahma throws his arms up in desperation, then grows quiet.

“I never wanted to work in el-bomb, my parent’s old-time profession. I wanted to be a mechanic. I have an industrial diploma specializing in car mechanics. At one time, I paid LE 200 to get another job, but got nothing. Some people here are better-educated than me, they have bachelor degrees, but it’s the same story for all of us. At one time or another, we all tried to get out of what turned out to be our only way to make a living. Nobody wants to upset the government. We don’t want to be fugitives. But can’t they see? I have to support a family of six.”

Like many villagers, Abu Rahma wonders why he’s being “harassed” by officials instead of the “big fish” in Cairo. No one in El-Nazla digs raw materials from the ground, we’re told. Instead, it’s shipped in by merchants in El-Muski, near Khan El-Khalili, who make the real profits. These traders pay El-Nazla’s residents peanuts to make their wares, delivering raw materials just before dawn to try to avoid checkpoints, then driving the finished goods back to their Cairo shops, where the wholesale distribution process begins.

Mohsen Allam Amm Fathi Saad and his family see no harm in the bomba industry.

“We go through hell every day,” Rahma’s dad says. “We struggle as if we’re in Palestine so we don’t starve like the Africans. What we manufacture is harmless, it’s weak stuff, it hurts no one but us. Look at my girl: Do you see a happy face? Should I be a proud father? I can’t even get her treatment at a hospital because no one cares about us. For five months, I’ve been chasing anyone who can help her, but nothing. To hell with them. Whether they like it or not, I’ll put bread on this table. Tell me, ‘Quit this job and steal,’ and I will tell you, ‘There’s nothing here to steal.’”

There isn’t much to buy, either. Rabie Mohamed Abdel Aziz, a 48-year-old father of six whose left arm was blown away just below the elbow, runs a tiny kiosk that sells literally almost nothing. On our visit, he had only naddagha, a low-cost type of hard candy. Still, he says, it’s better than following the herd — he’s been out of the trade since the material he was working exploded in his hand. He can’t rely on his wife for help, he explains, because she has “bad eyes.” Forced into retirement with children to support, he pulled strings until the local Ministry of Social Affairs office offered him a grant of LE 80 per year to help him set up his kiosk.

“If they don’t sell, we can always suck them,” Abde Aziz bellows in his distinctive voice, laughing heartily.

Amm Fathi Saad Abdel Hadi is El-Nazla’s official spokesman and one of the few in the settlement who doesn’t make his living making fireworks. It’s not that he’s afraid, Amm Fathi declares. During his 30-year career as officer in the armed forces’ weapons and ordinance division, the now-retired armorer had plenty of opportunities to handle “the real stuff,” as he calls it. After retiring in 1996, Amm Fathi returned to his native El-Nazla, where he now sees firecrackers as children’s playthings — nothing more, nothing less. “This isn’t chemistry or philosophy, it’s common sense,” he sums it up.

We would have bought it if he hadn’t shared with us his theory about the inherent goodness of the stuff: “Do we want to raise our children to become chickens or lions? What’s the big deal for a child to play with el-bomb? Is it a canon, a bullet, dynamite? It’s a children’s plaything that holds no threat or danger. It makes a little noise — just a little. And today, every third one doesn’t explode. Nobody wants to hurt children; we want to put smiles on their faces.

Mohsen Allam Maimed for life, many residents still petition the fireworks cause.

“Fireworks do more than bring happiness to our celebrations,” he booms, “they also teach the child at an early age to be strong and fearless, to grow up to be a brave soldier. It prepares him in peacetime to be tough in times of war. If we prevent the child from playing with something as small as a bomba, he’ll grow up to be a sissy who runs away or freaks out if he hears an old man’s cough. You’ve got to learn that the war isn’t over — we’re living in a time of cold war.”

His pearls of wisdom aside, Amm Fathi stresses that the villagers grew up with no other source of income.

“If the government sees us as crazy people who hurt themselves and others, why don’t they put us in rehab and change our behavior, then? We have no workshops, no factories, nothing. It’s a poor village that survives on fireworks, a bit of pottery and a little agriculture. If the authorities fear the danger of making explosives in homes, why don’t they help us build workshops to industrial safety standards and let us work under their supervision?

“We can even export to other countries,” he claims. “Fireworks are international. We have the experienced labor, so instead of importing or smuggling them in from China and selling them, why won’t they support us? Fireworks are ‘Made in China,’ so why not ‘Made in El-Nazla’? Ours are cheap, only for LE 1; theirs are for LE 5, so we really help you save money.

“The whole village survives on this job. The grocer, barber and carpenter work when they work — and starve when they starve.”

Mohsen Allam Rabie Abdel Aziz now runs a kiosk to support his family.

Try telling Amm Fathi that the government isn’t about to help create jobs in a banned industry and he’ll hear nothing of it. “Are we dealing in drugs or prostitution?” he demands. “El-bomb has been here since forever, since Fatimid Egypt. We inherited it from the Jews. During Nasser and Sadat, firecrackers were sold on public buses. Only recently did the plight start. Instead of punishing us, let them punish the real terrorists. They raid our houses and take innocent men from their families.”

Abdel Rasoul Aly Zayat was one of them, sent to prison for three years. While the youth of the village assure us that the young teacher had nothing to do with the fireworks trade and claim the police fabricated the case against him, his wife quietly admits the truth. As she puts it, the father of three made peanuts as a teacher, so he did what everyone else in the village does to try and make ends meet: He “made el-bomb.”

Deprived of both her husband’s teaching salary and what little he made from fireworks, Omm Mohammed (who spoke on condition she not give her own name) is living on the charity of others.

“What’s wrong with making children’s playthings and selling them?” she asks. “What crime or sin did he commit to be thrown in jail? Three years? The prostitutes, the thieves, the drug dealers are treated better. The government claims they’re protecting us, that they fear we would hurt ourselves. Let them worry about someone else. I work in this thing, and I know it doesn’t hurt me. It’s an honorable and decent job that keeps us away from the streets. There are terrorists who hurt the country — we’re not them. Besides, how would we do something destructive to the country when we work in it, day and night, and our children play with it?”

As she talks, it’s easy to lose your mind as you watch another woman who lost three fingers to a fireworks accident stand there and vigorously nod in agreement, talking over us about how safe fireworks are.

Mohsen Allam Esmat Abdel Rahman now makes tea instead of lucrative bombas.

“I have a diploma, but I can’t put it to good use,” Omm Mohammed says. “We have nothing here — not a factory, a company, no other source of income to earn a living. We do nothing haram. We don’t sell drugs. I make a gift, I prepare a present that children happily buy. I don’t put a gun to their heads.”

Mohamed El-Sawy, founder of Zamalek’s popular Sawy Culture Wheel, agrees that Omm Mohammed and her friends aren’t putting guns to children’s heads —they’re putting them in their hands.

El-Sawy says he’s never liked fireworks, but admits he’s the exception, not the rule. “I’ve always hated the yellow stain it leaves on the floor and the filth it leaves behind, the paper and pebbles, so I decided to boycott el-bomb at an early age.”

This year, the high-profile business leader and cultural entrepreneur launched a national campaign against fireworks in print and through his own outdoor billboards and signs, which he controls through his Al-Alamia Advertising Agency. Its slogan: “A child’s eye is precious: Say ‘No’ to el-bomb and all kinds of illegal fireworks.” In addition to the billboards and fliers his team has been distributing in recent months, El-Sawy has given talks at the Culture Wheel and elsewhere to try to convince citizens that the time-honored tradition of setting off fireworks during El-Eid isn’t a harmless bit of fun.

Ashraf Talaat Mohamed El-Sawy

As he sees it, El-Nazla’s residents will only give up their trade when the nation — taught from birth that el-bomb is an indispensable part of celebrations, particularly during the eids and Ramadan — stops consuming what they produce. Many people, he explains, are completely unaware it’s a criminal offense to own fireworks, not just a tiny violation of a meaningless city ordinance. People are easily mainstreamed into habits and behaviors that turn out to be disastrous, he suggests.

“Do you believe that parents reach into their pockets for money to give children to buy something that can cause them physical disability for life? It makes no sense. When you point it out, they drive you nuts with their casual comments: ‘Come on! You’re blowing things out of proportion. You’re making it a big deal! Let the children play, and have fun — don’t spoil the eid,’ and on they go.

“Attitudes like that make me think that society as a whole doesn’t give a damn,” he says. “Nobody cares to stop for a second and think it over. Even the well-educated people put their brains in neutral and follow the herd. We need to reevaluate what we do every now and then. Behavior, concepts, habits need to be revisited, redefined and modified, if necessary, for the betterment of all. Fireworks aren’t a game, they aren’t a source of fun. They’re an annoyance, a source of noise pollution and, worse, a serious danger. When you tell people that fireworks disturb sick people, they give you the cold shoulder. When you tell them a firecracker can give an unsuspecting old man a heart attack if it’s tossed at him, they grin as if you’re joking.

“Maybe if you tell them, ‘It can take away your child’s eyes, because it has countless times,’ you can get their attention.”

El-Sawy is not expecting change overnight, noting that anyone who tries to stand up and effect change is usually singled out. He smiles as he recalls the Ministry of Environment calling to inquire who was behind his campaign. “We told them, ‘Nobody. We just took action to help improve our society.’ It seems they liked the answer, because they sent us a letter of appreciation.”

Omar Mohsen Fady El-Habashy

El-Sawy says the dangers of fireworks have been compounded by advances in technology and the violence of the world around us. Now more than ever, the tools and resources available to manufacturers help them make more destructive things. Need a more concrete example: Look no further than Giza, where the Interior Ministry reported last month that three university students, an electrician and an unemployed man prepared a homemade device packed with el-bomb and match-heads and threw it at the façade of a working-class cafeteria, shattering it and damaging a number of parked cars.

Terrorism? Hardly: It was a revenge attack targeting the cafeteria’s owner, who fought with the alleged perpetrators when they refused to pay for the beer they had consumed.

Worse things happen, particularly in slums and alleys, where little children turn the firecrackers into even more serious threats. It’s common for them to unwrap el-bomb, add nails and matches, put the ingredients in empty bottles or jars (sometimes in shoe-polish boxes) and climb to the roof of a building to toss the deadly weapon at unsuspecting passersby.

As hard as it may be to believe, these little terrorists really think they’re playing, says Salwa Abdel Azim, a professor of sociology at the Faculty of Education

“Children love scary stuff,” Abdel Azim says. “They love to scare and be scared. They grow up enjoying stories about Omena El-Ghoola, who kills little children and bakes them in her oven for dinner. They don’t have the ability or maturity to evaluate the consequence of their actions, so they think that when they throw such bottles or firecrackers on streets, they’ll only scare the daylights out of you, that they’ll make you jump up and down like a maniac and they’ll have a laugh as you clown around for them. They don’t really see that you could lose your eye or a limb unless you actually do. Then, they feel that something went wrong and start the ‘We were playing, we didn’t mean to hurt anyone.’

Mohsen Allam Security police clampdowns on Ezbet Abu Hasheesh , once a thriving fireworks and manufacturing site, have wiped out the illegal trade in the area.

“Other children are violent by nature, so give them violent TV and parents and you have a little explosive in the house. Parents are in a social coma, they no longer guide their kids. They’re busy making money and forget to check and see what their children are watching, buying, and playing with. Society nurtures a culture of violence, so it only reaps what it sows.”

Some people have worries bigger than managing broods of violent kids, and Fady El-Habashy was once among the best of them. Until his recent retirement, the Interior Ministry general headed the Cairo division of Mabahess, the Egyptian equivalent of the US Federal Bureau of Investigation. Now one of the nation’s top lawyers, El-Habashy maintains deep ties to state security apparatus and says there were pressing national security reasons for the government to intervene and stop the manufacturing and possession of fireworks.

“Possessing black gunpowder and other kinds of explosives is only legitimate and permissible through licenses issued by the Interior Ministry, mainly to mines and stone quarries,” El-Habashy explains. “But there’s always a way to turn the law on its head and steal these components for the fireworks industry. The problem is that at a certain time, amateur terrorists prized these materials. They used to unwrap el-bomb and other fireworks, take the gunpowder and turn them into primitive bombs. There were many cases — both political and purely criminal attacks — that called for serious action. First and foremost, it’s the danger of the components that makes them illegal, not to mention the social, criminal, and political repercussions of abusing them.”

El-Habashy bristles when told of El-Nazla’s claim that el-bomb is merely a child’s plaything, completely harmless.

Mohsen Allam This firework could have cost a child his life. To others it costs LE 1.

“Ever heard of someone playing with explosives and preaching about safety? They’re trying to justify violating the law by claiming it’s not a big deal. They innocently show you a small bomba, as if it’s a little pet that you can safely keep, and wonder where’s the harm. We have filed cases that speak for themselves and we have to trust facts more than tears. The fact is there have been many explosions caused by firecrackers, many houses have been destroyed, many innocent people have died and many shops have burned down, particularly in the slum areas where they take refuge and build their workshops in the dark.

“In the right quantity, these so-called ‘safe materials’ can bring down mountains. Even if you take it in small quantities, as they do, and add small pebbles, this can easily cause permanent damage to a child’s eye. Nowadays, they make big fat bombas for LE 1 to attract more clients, and they dare talk to us about safety?”

El-Sawy couldn’t agree more, saying he has zero sympathy for people who claim it’s a legitimate way to make a living.

“When you claim that this isn’t harmful, you’re an arrogant, selfish person who turns a blind eye to the obvious. You’re misleading yourself and others. They want to feel good about themselves, but they don’t deserve my pity. It’s exactly like those who make mattwas (switch-blade and spring-loaded knives) and tell you that you can use it in good ways. For them, it’s a source of income that serves purely personal interests.”

When we suggested that his awareness campaign might be broadened to try educating those who make the goods in places like El-Nazla, El-Sawy liked the idea — but not too much. “They would instinctively reject us because our advice won’t suit them. They would likely kick us out before we could have a serious talk.”

One of the best things about being in uniform is that you don’t really need an invitation to stop in for a talk, says El-Habashy, who notes the industry is now dying because of stepped-up police surveillance.

“It’s not like people are walking in the streets throwing el-bomb,” he says. “Those who get caught are instantly taken away, and there are frequent raids not only of manufacturers, whose locations are known to the authorities, but also of the distributors, who are mainly located in El-Muski. And we’re not only fighting the locals, as they claim, but particularly importers who smuggle firecrackers into the country in containers of picture frames or hide them in cargoes of incense from Asia. We confiscate millions’ worth every year.

“Our main concern is to protect citizens’ lives,” El-Habashy continues, “yet the power of the law isn’t the ultimate cure. The law criminalized homicide, but that’s never stopped people from killing.”

“Security police raids won’t really eliminate the problem,” El-Sawy adds. “It’s no different than drug-dealing: You don’t eliminate it by watching the borders alone. People must reject it. Society must say no. Only when those who make and sell fireworks find no market for their products will they give it up.”

Look no further than Cairo’s Ezbet Abu Hasheesh neighborhood, just one Metro stop from Ramses Square, to see how effective El-Habashy’s colleagues have been of late. Once a thriving fireworks market and manufacturing site, it’s now a virtual ghost town, the trade abandoned not by converts to El-Sawy’s call but by the application of the authorities’ iron fist.

Railroad tracks cut the Ezba’s narrow streets, dividing it in half. People line up on both sides selling robabekeya (the local term for used goods of all descriptions). The only one who seems to be having a good time is a street-cat stretching in the sun on a worn out couch set next to the street. Nearly every one of what authorities estimate were some 200 workshops has been shut down.

The Ezba has been hit by regular raids, and Interior Ministry detectives still roam its streets each day for regular checkups, ensuring that the generations-old trade remains extinct here.

Esmat Abdel Rahman, an ex-manufacturer, owns a tiny shop where he now fixes tea for workers. It’s hardly as lucrative as making fireworks, he says. “There were good old days when we used to have wallets. Now, we don’t sew pockets into our trousers. We can’t afford a decent living. And it’s as if you don’t have the right to complain — unless you’re looking for trouble. What turned them against us? El-bomb isn’t a hazard. When a taxi driver takes his cab onto the streets, chances are he could get himself and his passengers killed. God only knows how many accidents he might get himself into. Same with the fireworks. Only God knows the accidents it could cause.

“The truth is that the good side of fireworks overwhelms its bad side,” Abdel Rahman continues. “Besides, a good worker should be cautious and protect himself. Why blame el-bomb for the mistakes of its maker? Instead of importing fireworks from abroad and selling them for LE 4, why not allow me to sell them for LE 1?”

Not too long ago, he recalls, it was safe to sell fireworks in public. Police officers would even buy them for their children.

“Because nasty kids or thugs put them in bottles and misuse them, you start punishing those who make them,” he says.” What kind of logic is that? If I make a mistake, punish me. If I sell something illegal, hang me. If I violate the law, arrest me. But I’m doing an honorable job. El-bomb has always been a decent job. It made doctors, engineers and ministers. Those who sell the wire, the paper and the pebbles make a living from it. It boosts the national economy and secures jobs for the youth.

“Yet we can no longer work for fear of the government. They raid our houses and confiscate our stuff. My son is fighting to get a job, to no avail. There are no jobs in this country — and if there are, find us one.”

Safe, safe, safe. It’s safe to use and safe to sell. Even safe to make. “Safe” is the fireworks seller’s reflexive, unthinking mantra, as if saying it often enough will make it true.

“It’s a children’s plaything. There’s no danger in it at all. It’s safe,” says Abdel Rahman. “I’m ready to make it anywhere, while sitting home having a cigarette next to fire. On the roof, in the street. The only danger in making fireworks is police harassment. What’s wrong if I make it and sell it for 75 piasters? We’re all going to be happy. A woman used to make 10 bags — a bag has 50 bombas — in a day while attending to her household chores. A child can make 10 or 15 bags a day and pay for his school tuition and books. My daughter got the best trousseau from making el-bomb. Thirty guys were chasing her nonstop because she was a winner. Now, my other two girls can’t get the attention of a passing dog. We no longer bake kahk for El-Eid or buy new clothes.

“And the worst part is that you can’t even hear a single firecracker in the Ezba, like other places around Cairo.”

The 55-year-old adds that he and his colleagues are ready to sign written waivers taking responsibility for their actions if they injure themselves making fireworks, if only they could go back to work.

“People who live in collapsing houses do the same, they accept that,” Abdel Rahman says. “A carpenter can nail his finger while working, a doctor can leave a towel inside a patient’s heart, a construction worker can fall off the scaffolding because his legs went numb, yet we don’t stop them from building houses. Every job has its downsides.”

His friend Mohamed Hassan, until now a quiet observer of our conversation, jumps in here. “We don’t want to violate the government’s regulations,” Hassan says. “We want to keep our country safe. We just wish they would punish those who make mistakes, not us. The government is exaggerating the story. We don’t want to make enemies with them. They help us all the time and want the best for us. If they’re officially saying it’s dangerous, then I won’t do it. I don’t want to cause problems for my people, be it in Cairo or elsewhere. All those who work in el-bomb are from Fayoum. Fayoumis would rather die before they steal or do something haram. I stopped working nine years ago. Some are still working in the dark, but I don’t think it’s worth the headache and harassment.”

Youssef Anwar Abdel Hafeez, another Fayoumi, sides with Hassan. “We have no education, no jobs, no income,” he says. “El-bomb was a means of survival. It made the whole Ezba alive. Now, I work mainly in robabekeya, and since the [terror attack at] Muski, they’ve been tightening their grip on us even though our material is completely different than these explosives. Theirs are high explosives, ours are harmless. It hurts no one but us. To hell with el-bomb, just let them offer us a job, even for LE 10. We stopped making firecrackers because it’s not that profitable. We’re not selling drugs or bango. What you earn in the morning is what you spend by the evening. When the government raids your house and seizes your material, you lose LE 100 in capital. It happens again and you stop because it just doesn’t make sense anymore.”

Abdel Hafeez says El-Muski is now the biggest source of firecrackers in Cairo, home to large wholesalers who bring them in from El-Nazla. “We get three visits a day from the police and [El-Nazla] gets visited once or twice a month. It’s a blessing they should cherish.”

But the people of El-Nazla aren’t counting their blessings. Instead, they have learned to accept that there’s a physical price to be paid for making a living at fireworks. Surrounded by others who made their sacrifice at an older age, little Rahma looks up at her pained father and tries her best to cheer him up.

“Don’t be sad, Daddy,” she says, covering her bad eye. “I lost one, but look! I got to keep the other.”  et