A Life of Privilege in Alexandria

I was born in Alexandria, as was my mother—the daughter of a Palestinian Jewish mother from Safed and a father from Tbilisi, Georgia. My father was born in my grandparents' lavish three-storey
stone country house in Aley, nestled in the Shouf mountains near Beirut.

We Anzaruts are British by birth and descent. My father served with distinction at El Alamein under Montgomery, and later became a banker of considerable repute. A *lauréat* and alumnus of the École des Hautes Finances at the Université de Nancy, he graduated first in his class with an average of 99.99%.

My mother was equally brilliant. She was editor of Agence France-Presse in Alexandria and became the first woman admitted to the all-male Press Club there.

Among her notable interviews were King Farouk and Mrs. Rommel, when the latter visited El Alamein.

Our family belonged to Alexandria's elite circles—members of the Alexandria Sporting Club and the Club Royal de Chasse et de Pêche in Silsilleh. It was a beautiful, idyllic life in a spotlessly clean, thoroughly European city.

Witness to a King's Fall

Everything changed with King Farouk's expulsion from Egypt. I witnessed his departure firsthand, driven from the Palace of Ras el-Tin in the U.S. ambassador's limousine early one morning.

Thanks to my mother's press credentials—the *sahaffa - press* pennant on her car—we were permitted to watch at close proximity.

A motorboat carried the deposed king to his British-built yacht, the *Mahroussa*. Immediately after, another boat followed, filled with police demanding that Farouk return the gold bullion and priceless treasures he had taken aboard.

The former king aimed his gun at them, threatening to shoot anyone who attempted to board the yacht. The police, still intimidated by their former monarch, departed empty-handed.

The Exodus of 1956

In 1956, while my parents were in Europe, news of the Suez Crisis reached them along with urgent warnings from the British Embassy in Cairo: all British citizens must leave Egypt immediately.

They took the first plane back to Cairo, where we had recently moved to a superb penthouse on Rue Adly, near the synagogue. Our apartment featured two wraparound roof gardens overlooking the magnificent Muqattam Hills.

Within a week, my mother had arranged everything for my departure: warm, made-to-measure clothes, exit and return visas on my British passport, and a suitcase packed with expensive gifts from Khan el-Khalili for my father's cousin's family in Whitley Bay, Northumberland, who had responded to my father's telegram with "Edna is welcome."

A Final Farewell

I returned to Alexandria to bid farewell to my beloved *Nonno* and *Nonna*, who insisted I walk through Alexandria one last time.

At the Sporting Club, desolation reigned. I sat in the golf house restaurant where waiters rushed to offer pastries and *ahwa sukkar ziyada* (sweet coffee). They were terrified.

"*Mazmazelle* Edna, what are we going to do? How are we going to earn a living?"

I walked down the beautiful Corniche by the Mediterranean Sea to Silsilleh, revisiting the superb city of my birth.

The usually busy, lively streets were eerily empty. Shops stood boarded up behind metal railings.

Alexandria was in mourning.

I managed to take my precious luthier-made classical guitar out of Egypt with me.

The Final Hours

After my departure, my mother approached the Swiss Ambassador, asking him to carry some money for me in his diplomatic pouch. His response was stark: "Madame Anzarut, que faites-vous encore ici? C’est plein de Nazis. Voulez-vous être transformée en abat-jour? PARTEZ! PARTEZ!” (what are you still doing here? It's full of Nazis! Do you want to be turned into a lampshade? LEAVE! LEAVE!")

My parents wasted no time. They immediately bought airline tickets and packed the permitted one suitcase and one blanket. Since they had not yet been officially expelled, both exit and RETURN visas were stamped in their British passports.

My mother filled all the vases in our penthouse with beautiful flowers, drove our cars one by one to separate public garages, and threw the keys into the Nile. As they waited for the taxi to take them to the airport, loud banging erupted at the door with roars of "*EFTAH! EFTAH!*" (Open! Open!)

The police had arrived with an expulsion order.

The situation was so absurd that my parents burst out laughing. The policemen were shocked—no one had ever laughed at them before.

"You're too late," my parents exclaimed, showing them the suitcase, blanket, airline tickets, and passports.

Then my father roared back at them: "*BARRA! BARRA! EMSHEE MIN HENNA!*" (OUT! OUT ! GET OUT OF HERE!)

My parents took one last look at our beautiful flower-filled home and descended in one of the five elevators to their waiting taxi.

New Beginnings and Tragic Loss

After arriving in London completely dispossessed, my father's banking reputation served him well. He was headhunted by Recanati, and within a year, my parents owned their own home in Orpington, Kent. They chose this location because older Alexandrian friends, the Cohens, wanted them nearby, and it was a lovely area.

My father was tasked with acquiring British merchant banks and reorganizing them into one large institution.

Tragically, the terrible stress my parents experienced during the Nasser years took its toll. My beloved father—my best friend—developed a horrific, painful, incurable cancer of the esophagus and died in England at age 52.

My future husband Laurence, a consultant structural engineer, had been working in California for a year. He returned to England to marry me, and we emigrated to Canada. We will celebrate our 63rd wedding anniversary in June 2025.

Return to a Lost World

In 1982, we traveled to Israel to celebrate our youngest son's Bar Mitzvah. Egypt had just begun allowing direct flights between Israel and Cairo. Laurence decided to purchase tickets to Egypt, as he and our three sons wanted to visit the country of my youth.

I refused to return to Alexandria, which according to a friend of my mother's had become a huge *ziballah* (garbage dump) stacked upon other *ziballahs*.

In Cairo, I recognized absolutely nothing. We were constantly followed by the *mukhabarrat*—the not-so-secret secret police. The taxi drove past our former boutique penthouse highrise several times, but I couldn't recognize it. The lavish marble entrance with its superb shimmering crystal chandeliers hanging from high ceilings was gone. Extra flats had been crammed into the space, and balconies were crumbling everywhere.

The overpopulated city was so polluted that the pollution burned right through the fabric of my dress.

We visited our old exclusive club, the Gezira Sporting Club, which was filthy and partially taken over by the city.

Upper Egypt's Decline

In Upper Egypt, we were again followed constantly by the *mukhabarrat*. Having visited this region at least a dozen times with my parents, I was horrified by what I saw. What had once been dry, healthy, and pristine was now an unhealthy, dusty, humid, filthy mess. A type of stone cancer had attacked all the monuments, and the splendid tomb of Seti I in the Valley of the Kings was permanently closed as part of the walls had started to collapse.

In the past, the air had been dry and extremely healthy, with a gossamer film of tiny colorful granite particules embellishing the breathtaking views.

A Final Confrontation

Upon our return to Cairo, we discovered that our three sons' backpacks had been torn to shreds. I went berserk. After everything they had done to us in 1956, how dare these people destroy our sons' possessions!

It has now been concluded that Nasser's Egypt stole the equivalent of sixty billion U.S. dollars from the Jewish community.

I demanded compensation for the destroyed knapsacks.

Airport security confiscated our eldest sons' Canadian passports and ordered them to follow. Our sons—all 6'2", extremely athletic and tough from playing soccer and rugby, racing sailboats, and competitive skiing.

I suppose those thugs believed they were members of Tsahal (the Israeli army).

I became absolutely enraged. Hopping over the barriers, I raced after them, kicked the security men, grabbed the passports, and yelled at my sons to rejoin their father immediately.

I was finally taken to the *rayess* (chief), an evil-looking man, and demanded a refund of U.S. $150 per knapsack.

Much to my satisfaction, he agreed to pay the greatly inflated price.

The Second Exodus

We returned to Israel by coach, crossing the Suez Canal—ironically, given the Suez Crisis that had driven us from Egypt decades earlier.

Unlike some people who leave Egypt with nostalgic lumps in their throats, I departed that country repeatedly thanking God—*Baruch Hashem*—a million times for our Second Exodus.