Twelve letters sent to twelve parties. That was all it took to change the lives of 5,000 people who woke up one day to find themselves no longer welcome in the place they call home.

It may sound like the stuff of nightmares, but it is exactly what happened to the residents of Geziret El-Qorsaya, also known as the island of Bein el-Bahrain, located across from Maadi.

The letters were sent to the 12 original landowners, many of whom died 30 or 40 years ago. But their grandchildren live on. The standard letter all landowners of the tiny island received brings with it an end to a way of life. Half of the 5,000-plus residents of El-Qorsaya are either farmers or fishermen, their lives intertwined with the life of their island. They do not just live on the island; they live off it.

Officials have declined to talk about the issue even as bulldozers continue to fill the shores surrounding the island with earth. Rumor has it the island will be vacated to make room for a recreational park surrounded by the villas and palaces of a select few. Giza MP Mohamed Abul Enein, who owns a mansion on the island, has consistently reassured people that no harm will come to them. But the residents are skeptical. Although they have not been told who wants them out or why, they have all declared that they will fight until their dying breath. Egypt Today spent a day with the island community to hear their stories.

It is easy to reach El-Qorsaya. A few meters after the main entrance to the Pharaonic Village, steps lead down to the riverbank, where a small ferry shuttles island residents between their homes and the shore. For 25 piasters, we joined them on the trip. The boatman, recognizing us as non-islanders, asked us whether we were artists or journalists. Our inside man on the island was artist Mohamed Abla, who faces losing his home and studio if the islanders are evicted.

Stepping onto the shore of the island was like stepping out of Cairo. Although traffic could still be seen on the mainland, it could not be heard or even smelled. It was a long walk to Abla’s studio, and as we treaded the rich, moist earth, the artist came to meet us. The sound of the trucks working on the new island plans became clearer as Abla spoke. “They are cutting off the water which feeds the fields. Ducks and birds which used to land here have drifted off because the water is stagnant. They have built two mud bridges and are filling up the area between them. They will turn it into a new island,” he explains, pointing toward two trucks working busily nearby.

Mohsen Allam Artist Mohamed Abla risks losing his livelihood.

Abla takes us first to Om Mohammad, whose family lives closest to the action. “They want to take the land that feeds us. This is our land, this is our house,” she begins. “They have taken the water. How will we eat? There are five families living here. They sent us letters of eviction 20 days ago; all the families got them. We cannot live outside the island. Our lives are here.

“El-Islah (The Land Reform Authority) says we need to give over our land to the army. If they are going to give us flats, how are we supposed to live? Our husbands are farmers. We have lived here for a hundred years. We have no other village. My great grandfather is buried here [] We pay our dues, we pay rent to the government, and we have all the receipts.”

Om Mohammad’s land overlooks the Nile. We can see the bulldozers working as she speaks. The stench in the air is unbearable. She says it is the smell of stagnation, as the water is no longer running after it was blocked off.

“We cannot even move around. Our boat is now on the other island with some relatives,” she says. Nor is her family able to get water for the fields or animals. “We sold everything to build this house, where are we supposed to go now?” she asks.

In the middle of a clover field we next meet two women whose husbands work as hired hands on the island. Nadia Osman Mohammad and Saadiyya Labib own apartments and have also received eviction notices. “They say they want us to leave. The man who received the letters, the owner of the land we live on, says we will not get any compensation because it is not our land, it is the that of the government,” says Nadia, who has lived here for 22 years. Saadiyya, who has lived on El-Qorsaya for 35 years adds her voice: “They did not tell us when we are supposed to leave, they just said leave. We are living in fear.”

Mohsen Allam El-Qorsaya’s residents suspect government promises are hollow.

On our way to meet Amm Ahmed Abdel-Moati, the sight of the Nile shimmering under the sun reminds Abla of the first exhibition he put together after moving to the island six years ago. “I felt the place and the atmosphere, and I chose to live here because I wanted to live in this atmosphere after my studio in the Musafir Khana burnt down [] Of course I can find another place outside the island, but these people cannot. But I can’t imagine how I will be able to paint if I go somewhere else. The issue is that nothing is clear. We do not know who is doing this, and if we talk to the men operating the bulldozers, they say, ‘We don’t know.’ We ask the officers, and they [just] say, ‘We have orders.’”

Abdel-Moati is tilling his land with the help of his two grandsons. The toddlers, both of whom are no bigger than the axe in their grandfather’s hands, are brandishing mini-axes which they occasionally use; more often than not, they are scurrying around like puppies. Abdel-Moati rests his axe to talk to us.

“I am 65. The land has been ours since the time of my grandfather. He died here, and so did my father. I live in this house over there. We plant the land and live off it. We have asked the government for nothing. We do not have pensions and we never ask for help. We just want to be left alone.”

He too speaks of the rotten water. “We are afraid to use it for the land.” Yet, despite all the hardship he will now have to go through to obtain water for his land, Abdel-Moati refuses to consider leaving his home. “We pay the rent to the authority. We pay LE 750 every year. Every June we pay,” he says.

Abla explains that people like Abdel-Moati are covered by the land reform laws. “Anyone living on a piece of land for over 15 years and paying the government dues on time has the right to own this land,” the artist explains. Abdel-Moati interrupts, shouting: “If we have stayed here for 60 years, only then let them kick us out. If we have lived here for 70 years, let them kick us out. We have lived here for over 100 years. These children you see are the fifth generation living on this land. I am not going anywhere. They can do whatever they like. I am sure I will not move.”

Mohsen Allam Cranes and other construction equipment now crowd El-Qorsaya’s skyline.

On the patio of Dr. Mohamed Mostafa, a surgeon trained in Germany, Abla reflects on the environmental aspect of the problem as we wait for Mostafa to join us.

“They say the bulldozers belong to the Nile Protection Authority. But what they are doing is polluting the Nile, filling it up, and decreasing the surface area. The media is not talking about the environmental aspect, the plants and birds that are specific to the island. All migrating birds stop here to rest. They want to surround it with stones, pour cement walkways, and make it an exclusive place, thus killing off all the plants and wildlife. The residents, on the other hand, instinctively protect the environment, helped by the few with the background to do this consciously. They will destroy all this. Why does development have to be one sort only? Why don’t we do something different here, setting an example to the world? The country has sold everything that can be sold. Only the land is left. Islands may be an attractive investment, they thought. And this is not the first time. It happened before in 2001, when a Saudi investor wanted to buy the island,” he recalls.

Mostafa has his own clinic outside the island, but he provides all the medical assistance needed by residents of the island free of charge. Like Abdel-Moati, he is adamant that if need be, he will die defending his home. “On both sides of my home are two other homes: One is a palace, the other a one-room house. We live together equally,” he explains. “I looked for a quiet area to live surrounded by plants and trees when I first came from Germany. Of course I could not afford a place in Cairo, so I chose this place. At first, there was no running water, telephones or electricity. We suffered to build this house, to make it livable. Now that it is clean, and some businessmen are starting to live here, they think the island is too good for the peasants. I heard it with my own ears, that these people live in a place which is too valuable for them. Some of [the businessmen] bought lands here, but then they thought, ‘Why buy? Let’s just take the land.’ But this place has become part of me, I am not going anywhere.”

It breaks Mostafa’s heart to see what is happening to his beloved island. “When we have a problem, we do not take each other to court. We sit and talk and we solve this problem. We are like a family, there’s no difference between us. I do not lock the doors here. We live in paradise, and [the developers] cannot bear it.”

One of the biggest problems the community talks about is the lack of transparency. Though they cannot begin to fathom who wants them out of their homes, they can identify the force carrying out the orders. “The state is taking the land,” Mostafa says. “They took the land of one lady, but she did not make problems because she has relations with the people in authority.

Mohsen Allam One of the many homes scheduled for demolition.

“Nobody has spoken to us, nobody will tell us anything. I am not leaving. They can beat us, shoot us, they can do anything they want, but we are not going anywhere. They have to come and get me, either dead or in handcuffs like a common criminal.”

He leads us up to the roof of his home from where the whole island is visible. Pointing toward the plot of land he owns, the surgeon explains that he has managed to become completely self-sufficient over the past few years. “I do not buy any meat, poultry or vegetables. Look at those huge palms over there; I brought them here in little pots. They took years to grow like this,” he says sadly.

Most of the landowners and tenants have valid legal documents proving their right to exist on the land, leading Mostafa to allege that the government is grasping for any excuse to evict them.

“They want the people to be thieves. They are trying to find any loopholes to make the people look like criminals. If the landowners are thieves, then take them to court, but you cannot just send the army to evict them. There is a decree to make the status of these people legal. We went to the authority; they said, ‘No, we have no orders.’ Why should we believe the government?

“They know what they want to do with the island; they just do not want to publicize it. This bridge here, look, they are digging here, filling up there. I think it will be a yacht dock. I do not know exactly, but from the way they are working it is obvious that they are following a specific blueprint. It becomes clearer every day. But as far as we are concerned we must leave and not ask anything. We are thieves and crooks and must be kicked out.”

Mohsen Allam Dr. Mohamad Mostafa fears the worst for his island. “We live in paradise, and [the developers] cannot bear it,” he says.

Mostafa claims he can see straight through MP Abul Enein’s declaration that the digging is to beautify the area and plant trees because it is ‘the lung of the city.’ “What about all the greenery, all the palms and trees and clover, don’t they produce oxygen too?” Mostafa queries scathingly. “We will do everything they want if all they want are more trees and more manicured shores. We can do all that, and if we don’t, then you can kick us out. We import socks and shoes and trousers and boats and technology; why don’t we import some laws as well?”

Ibrahim, the boatman who had helped bring hundreds of guests to the island for the wedding of Mostafa’s son, takes us to Hagg Maher Gomaa’s home, where we find him sitting on a bench waiting for us. As we sit, breeze ruffles the tree leaves. We are looking upon the wider branch of the Nile, facing Dahab island and Maadi beyond it. It is like sitting inside a fairytale, albeit one with a horrible twist at the end. No one feels this more than Gomaa, whose family is one of the oldest on the island.

“We have lived here for 126 years,” he begins. “During the time of the flood, very few homes existed on the island, only the ones on hills. There were about three homes, my grandfather’s was one of them. I am a fourth-generation resident, my grandchildren are sixth-generation residents. Yet they want to throw us out. May God punish the businessmen. But no matter what, we are not going anywhere. This is our land, and the land of our grandfathers. I have more roots than the prime minister. He is the one with no roots in the country.

“Our MP has helped, of course. I am talking about Azab Mostafa, who is [a member of the] Muslim Brotherhood. They help us seriously; they will discuss the issue at the People’s Assembly, they say. Abul Enein makes lots of promises; he says no one will leave their home, and that they want only 80 percent of the lands. This means they will let us keep our homes but will take the land. They might as well let us die.

“He told Mona Shazly, host of the popular talk show El-Ashera Massa’a, that only 20 percent of the land is occupied. They do not count the agricultural land. Ninety-nine percent of the land is occupied. If you take us and put us in palaces, what will we do? We are farmers and fishermen. We need land and water. I will be unemployed; I will become a terrorist [] I do not need anything from them, I just need to be left alone.”

Mohsen Allam Hagg Maher Gomaa’s family is among the oldest on El-Qorsaya.

Looking back at his life on the island, Gomaa recounts: “We brought electricity to the island in 1973, and in ‘95 we bought a new generator. We have no schools, no medical center, no club, nothing. The sick go to Dr. Mohamed. Why would you build a recreational park when you have given me no services? Consider me human first, and then make me a recreational park.

“They think this beautiful, clean place is too good for us. Leave us alone, we do not want your services. Every new prime minister thinks of the same idea, and decides to relocate us. The same happened with Atef Ebeid and with Kamal El-Ganzoury. But then the MPs interfere and the president tells them to leave us alone. We should call it El-Tortaya [The Cake] instead of El-Qorsaya. We live on 78 feddans. It is a very small area, why won’t they let us live in peace? I hope the president hears of our plight, and calls these people off.”

As the sun starts to set over Cairo and the lights of the city begin crowding around the island, time may be up for this unique community. But they are not planning on giving up without a fight. et