EVERYONE IN CAIRO’S Bab El-Shaariyya neighborhood knows Hagg Salim El-Qady — or at least his konafa, which he’s been making in his shop for the past 25 years. “I am the only person in the Republic of Egypt who makes handmade konafa all year long,” says 56-year-old El-Qady, who has been working in the business for four decades, since inheriting it from his grandparents as a teenager.

His hyperbole is understandable when you accept that making the sweet delicacy is his life’s passion: Whatever the season, you can always find a tray of handmade konafa waiting for those who appreciate the taste of what El-Qady calls “genuine food.”

Sadly, though, fewer and fewer people have a taste for the genuine. El-Qady complains that handmade konafa isn’t popular these days, saying much of the problem has to do with the high cost of living. He sells one kilogram of his Ramadan favorite for LE 4; the machine-made variety used to cost slightly less, but this year, even mass-produced konafa has gone up to LE 4 per kilogram.

Yet El-Qady never thought of buying a machine. “A chemical powder is added to the ingredients of machine-made konafa, which makes it tasteless,” he whispers conspiratorially.

“This chemical powder is like an enhancer that glues the mix to the tray it’s blended in. I heard rumors that this substance causes damage to the colon, that it is banned in Europe,” he adds knowingly. “We apply force by hand to mix the ingredients, so the result is something good, something edible. Whatever ingredients are used in it, you feel instantly while eating.”

While machine-made konafa dominates the market, El-Qady’s shop caters to select customers who come from near and far specifih cally for something more authentic. In the past, small pastry shops used to buy his konafa, but now those shops manufacture their own products.

Mohamed Allouba Hany Salah El-Din Gomaa softens sharp edges to make more child-friendly fawanees — fawanees that he now exports to Jordan and the Gulf.

“During the summer months — May, June, July and August — there is no work at all. But during Ramadan, work booms for the first couple of days and then it slows down and keeps on fizzling out throughout the year,” says the veteran konafa maker.

To make a show of Ramadan traditions, many konafa vendors who normally use machines sell the handmade variety during Ramadan. El-Qady is unconvinced, brushing away their efforts. “Konafa sold in such shops is of lower quality because the sellers lack experience and practice in the handmade field. This is my primary job, so my work is more perfected,” he says.

“I only earn a profit in Ramadan. The day I bring back lots of profit, I go home happy to my wife and kids,” he says. El-Qady has seven children, three of whom are married. The needs of the rest of his children have forced him to consider giving up his lifelong passion.

“I am going to retire after this year because I am very tired of this profession. This is my father’s and my grandfather’s job and I have worked in it all of my life, but I need to support my family,” he says, frustrated. “In the past, I used to have more than one working tray and I used to work the whole day, but now it’s different.”

He has no clue what he might do if he retires as planned, but he’s thinking of starting another small business.

Samir Sobhy Hassan has been making konafa with El-Qady for 25 years. He agrees that work is very slow throughout the year, saying the shop is sometimes closed for several days in a row, often opening only for a couple of hours a day. To support himself and fill the vacant hours, Hassan has another job with a printing shop on Mohammed Ali Street, which hires him to deliver printed materials.

But Hassan says that making konafa with his bare hands gives it a “different taste.”

“I feel happy that I am working with my hands without using the easy, advanced methods used today.”

And if El-Qady gets out of the business? Hassan says his boss has said he can join him — but he might also seek out another konafa maker who could use his expertise.

While modern technology is slowly driving one industry to the brink of extinction, it’s proving a boon for the practitioners of at least one other traditional Ramadan occupation.

In the busy area of Taht El-Rab’ in Downtown Cairo, Hany Salah El-Din Gomaa, along with his 11 uncles, have been making fawanees (Ramadan lanterns, the plural of fanous) in their string of shops for more than 65 years. Two months before Ramadan, Gomaa’s fawanees light up the street, the extravagant displays beckoning passing customers.

“We don’t sell during the month of Ramadan, only in the two months before. As soon as Ramadan ends, we start preparing work for the upcoming year,” Gomaa says.

Two months to sell an entire year’s work might not seem enough to rake in enough profit to sustain the business for the rest of the year, but Gomaa’s family has a strong name on both the local and international market. Their shops cater not just to Egyptian individual buyers and local vendors, but export their wares to Jordan, Kuwait and Qatar.

Between their shops and workshops, Gomaa’s family works around the clock to finish orders from across the country and abroad in the months leading up to their peak sales season.

Gomaa says that in the past, there were more kinds of fawanees, but most of them have been replaced because they were either made entirely of glass and could be easily broken, or they had sharp edges that were dangerous for young children. Since most customers have kids, he’s made modifications to the fanous to satisfy market demand.

With the technology and various resources available today, the process of fanous making is less limited and time consuming than before. “Now it is easier with computers, because it enables us to have drawings on the lantern. In the past, they were plain with only colors painted on them,” Gomaa says.

“I choose the drawing or a Qur’anic phrase on the computer, and then I scan it. If I like it, I decide on a size and print it on a shablona [silkscreen]. Afterwards, I print it on the glass of the fanous and use paint to color it,” Gomaa says. “It doesn’t take much time. With all the materials available, three people could work on a fanous and finish it in five minutes.”

As a fanous maker, Gomaa feels that his job has a spiritual purpose because it caters specially to the month of Ramadan. “Because my profession is for the holy month of Ramadan, you feel a special happiness doing it,” he says. “In other times, people may ask me to fix a fanous, but it’s not the same feeling.”

With lantern prices ranging from LE 15 to LE 130, Gomaa’s customers come from all walks of life. For home use, people buy the medium-sized one that costs LE 30, hotels and restaurants usually buy the biggest sizes in the most expensive styles.

“The main difference between customers now and before is that customers rarely bargained in the past, but today customers bargain to take the product for less. People think that we sell the fanous at double the price [for which it should sell], but we don’t,” Gomaa swears.

He admits that some people prefer the imported plastic fawanees from China — particularly those equipped with sound chips to play Chinese interpretations of favorite Ramadan songs — but he hardly considers it competition. “Egyptians like old things,” he says. “The Chinese fanous is more of a toy. Last year, people bought the Chinese variety because they were still new on the market, and customers wanted to try them out.

“This year, though, our authentic fawanees are more popular than the imported plastic ones.”

In the dead of night, when the streets are empty and people are safely sleeping in the comfort of their homes, one man silently dons his galabeya and slips quietly into the night. He carries the tools of his trade with him: a drum fashioned from car headlights covered in leather and a small hose he uses to beat it.

Roaming his neighborhood’s silent streets, he wakes up the residents by name, singing and reciting God’s praises at the top of his lungs.

Farrag Hassan Shehata has been a mesaharaty for 22 consecutive Ramadans, leaving his home at 1am and patrolling the streets for some three hours as he rouses the residents of Al-Salam City to take their sohour, the last meal before the next day’s fast begins.

For his efforts, all Shehata can expect are a few pounds alms; sometimes, all he gets is an expression of excitement lighting up the face of a child. It doesn’t put bread on the table, but he says the job is satisfying.

“It’s enough for me to see the kids excitedly saying ‘The mesaharaty is here! The mesaharaty is here!’ I feel happy and content.” During a spiritual month like Ramadan, Shehata feels the impact of every doaa he says. He says he “forgets himself” while he is chanting prayers in the streets, and for a brief moment he feels he is “flying in the air” and can shut out the harsh reality of the life he lives.

Shehata’s existence might seem like it comes from the pages of a storybook, but in reality it’s an uphill struggle for survival. He says that the donations people give him during Ramadan can only cover a meager portion of his expenses, going in full toward the rent of his old, small apartment that barely accommodates him and his family.

At Shehata’s home the furniture is covered in dirt. The walls are rusted and look like they are going to collapse any second. The place is empty and cold except for the two Qur’anic phrases hung on the wall as a sign of hope.

With six children to support, Shehata’s wife works to help make ends meet, but still their income remains modest. With two married children, Shehata supports the other four with the little money he has from his job, his wife’s work and the LE 80 he gets in social assistance payments.

Born in 1947, Shehata didn’t start out as a mesaharaty, having started his working career as an office boy at Benzion, a state-owned department store. Plagued by a lung disease, Shehata was constantly absent from work and was subsequently fired. He says he gave the store documents proving his medical condition, but they still gave him his marching orders.

In poor health, Shehata does his job with the help of his 14-year-old son, who is mentally challenged. Sometimes, when Shehata gets tired, his son beats on the drum for him and reads the list of names to be called in the neighborhood.

But Shehata feels that Ramadan is no longer the month of tradition it once was. “In the past, people used to meet me in an unbelievable way. They used to throw open their windows [as a sign of welcome]. People are not like before. They don’t have compassion anymore,” mourns Shehata. “Nowadays, everyone works to gain money. They don’t have time for anything else.”  et