Late Entry: Anti-Corruption Crusader Leaps Into Egypt’s Presidential Race

The youngest in a crowded field of presidential contenders, labor activist Khaled Ali is also the last to announce his candidacy. Not that it was his fault. Until turning 40 this past Sunday, he wasn’t technically old enough to run for the country

Mr. Ali (center-left) is ready to be a contender (Gigi Ibrahim)
Mr. Ali (center-left) is ready to be a contender (Gigi Ibrahim)

CAIRO -- Legally too young to run until this past Sunday – his 40th birthday – lawyer and labor activist Khaled Ali has just thrown this hat into the ring for Egypt's first post-revolution presidential race. He faces a crowded field that includes Amr Moussa, the ex-secretary general of the Arab League, and Hazem Salah Abu Ismail, an ultra-conservative television host.

"My entire platform is built on the basis of social justice," Ali said Monday in front of a crowded audience at the Journalists Syndicate. "I am the simple folk's candidate."

With the election set to take place this coming June, Ali's announcement comes a bit "late," admit some supporters. "Not many are familiar with labor movements, so we will have to work extra hard to spread the word and make his work known," said Magdy Saleh, a member of the Pharmaceutical Workers Syndicate.

Ali is not, however, an unknown in Egypt, where as the founder and director of the Egyptian Center for Economic and Social Rights, and a legal activist for much of the last two decades, he made a name for himself as a staunch advocate for social justice, especially in the public sector.

He also led the case against government corruption during the Hosni Mubarak years, taking government officials to court for illegally selling public land and public sector factories. Most notably, Ali was able to get verdicts on cases that returned some large companies to the public. He was also a driving force behind a 2001 ruling to grant professionals' and workers' syndicates more freedoms, as well as a 2010 decision to increase the national minimum wage.

Drawing a crowd

Running as an independent, Ali believes he is strengthened by his history as an activist, crusader for the poor and a force for change. The main points of his platform include making Egypt a regional hub for economic cooperation, protecting natural resources and mineral wealth, reversing corrupt government deals from the past, rehabilitating farmland, and solving unemployment while ensuring workers' rights.

Many representatives of workers' and farmers' unions traveled a long way to attend Ali's announcement and endorse his candidacy in appreciation of the work he has done with them in the past. "He repeatedly stood with workers from our areas and fought to get their rights. That is why I made the four-hour trip over to stand with him. He is the right man, and will always fight for the right causes," said Samir Naguib, who heads the Quarry Workers Syndicate in Minya Governorate.

Before handing in his official candidacy papers, Ali must gather at least 30,000 endorsements from at least 15 governorates, or from 30 members of Parliament, to be able to officially run. Coming from a simple rural family in the Daqahlia Governorate and working in a legal NGO with modest funding, Ali and his campaigners acknowledge they will be running at a financial disadvantage.

Assuming he does meet the requirements, Ali's likely opponents – besides Amr Moussa and Hazem Salah Abu Ismail – will include Abdel Moneim Aboul Fotouh, a former member of the guidance bureau of the Muslim Brotherhood; Mohammad Salim Al-Awa, an Islamic scholar; Bothaina Kamel, a leading political activist in last year's revolution; and Ahmed Shafik, an Air Marshal and the last prime minster under Mubarak.

Read the full story by Mohamed Elmeshad

*Newsbites are digest items, not direct translations

Photo - Gigi Ibrahim

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The Food Truck, A Sign That The White And Wealthy Are Moving In

In San Diego, California, a researcher tracked how in the city's low-income neighborhoods that have traditionally lacked dining options, when interesting eateries arrive the gentrification of white, affluent and college-educated people has begun.

Balboa Park Spring Fling Food Truck festival

San Diego Food Trucks via Facebook
Pascale Joassart-Marcelli

SAN DIEGO — Everybody, it seems, welcomes the arrival of new restaurants, cafés, food trucks and farmers markets.

What could be the downside of fresh veggies, homemade empanadas and a pop-up restaurant specializing in banh mis?

But when they appear in unexpected places – think inner-city areas populated by immigrants – they're often the first salvo in a broader effort to rebrand and remake the community. As a result, these neighborhoods can quickly become unaffordable and unrecognizable to longtime residents.

An appetite for gentrification

I live in San Diego, where I teach courses on urban and food geographies and conduct research on the relationship between food and ethnicity in urban contexts.

In recent years, I started to notice a pattern playing out in the city's low-income neighborhoods that have traditionally lacked food options. More ethnic restaurants, street vendors, community gardens and farmers markets were cropping up. These, in turn, spurred growing numbers of white, affluent and college-educated people to venture into areas they had long avoided.

This observation inspired me to write a book, titled The $16 Taco, about how food – including what's seen as "ethnic," "authentic" or "alternative" – often serves as a spearhead for gentrification.

Take City Heights, a large multi-ethnic San Diego neighborhood where successive waves of refugees from places as far away as Vietnam and Somalia have resettled. In 2016, a dusty vacant lot on the busiest boulevard was converted into an outdoor international marketplace called Fair@44. There, food vendors gather in semi-permanent stalls to sell pupusas, lechon (roasted pig), single-sourced cold-brewed coffee, cupcakes and tamarind raspado (crushed ice) to neighborhood residents, along with tourists and visitors from other parts of the city.

Informal street vendors are casualties.

A public-private partnership called the City Heights Community Development Corporation, together with several nonprofits, launched the initiative to increase "access to healthy and culturally appropriate food" and serve as "a business incubator for local micro-entrepreneurs," including immigrants and refugees who live in the neighborhood.

On paper, this all sounds great.

But just a few blocks outside the gates, informal street vendors – who have long sold goods such as fruit, tamales and ice cream to residents who can't easily access supermarkets – now face heightened harassment. They've become causalities in a citywide crackdown on sidewalk vending spurred by complaints from business owners and residents in more affluent areas.

This isn't just happening in San Diego. The same tensions have been playing out in rapidly gentrifying areas like Los Angeles' Boyle Heights neighborhood, Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood, New York's Queens borough and East Austin, Texas.

In all of these places, because "ethnic," "authentic" and "exotic" foods are seen as cultural assets, they've become magnets for development.

Food vendor at outdoor international marketplace called Fair@44.

Fairat44 via Instagram

A call for food justice

Cities and neighborhoods have long sought to attract educated and affluent residents – people whom sociologist Richard Florida dubbed "the creative class." The thinking goes that these newcomers will spend their dollars and presumably contribute to economic growth and job creation.

Food, it seems, has become the perfect lure.

It's uncontroversial and has broad appeal. It taps into the American Dream and appeals to the multicultural values of many educated, wealthy foodies. Small food businesses, with their relatively low cost of entry, have been a cornerstone of ethnic entrepreneurship in American cities. And initiatives like farmers markets and street fairs don't require much in the way of public investment; instead, they rely on entrepreneurs and community-based organizations to do the heavy lifting.

In City Heights, the Community Development Corporation hosted its first annual City Heights Street Food Festival in 2019 to "get people together around table and food stalls to celebrate another year of community building." Other recent events have included African Restaurant Week, Dia de Los Muertos, New Year Lunar Festival, Soul Food Fest and Brazilian Carnival, all of which rely on food and drink to attract visitors and support local businesses.

Meanwhile, initiatives such as the New Roots Community Farm and the City Heights Farmers' Market have been launched by nonprofits with philanthropic support in the name of "food justice," with the goal of reducing racial disparities in access to healthy food and empowering residents – projects that are particularly appealing to highly educated people who value diversity and democracy.

Upending an existing foodscape

In media coverage of changing foodscapes in low-income neighborhoods like City Heights, you'll rarely find any complaints.

San Diego Magazine's neighborhood guide for City Heights, for example, emphasizes its "claim to authentic international eats, along with live music venues, craft beer, coffee, and outdoor fun." It recommends several ethnic restaurants and warns readers not to be fooled by appearances.

Longtime residents find themselves forced to compete against the "urban food machine"

But that doesn't mean objections don't exist.

Many longtime residents and small-business owners – mostly people of color and immigrants – have, for decades, lived, worked and struggled to feed their families in these neighborhoods. To do so, they've run convenience stores, opened ethnic restaurants, sold food in parks and alleys and created spaces to grow their own food.

All represent strategies to meet community needs in a place mostly ignored by mainstream retailers.

So what happens when new competitors come to town?

Food vendor at outdoor international marketplace called Fair@44.

Fairat44 via Instagram

Starting at a disadvantage

As I document in my book, these ethnic food businesses, because of a lack of financial and technical support, often struggle to compete with new enterprises that feature fresh façades, celebrity chefs, flashy marketing, bogus claims of authenticity and disproportionate media attention. Furthermore, following the arrival of more-affluent residents, existing ones find it increasingly difficult to stay.

My analysis of real estate ads for properties listed in City Heights and other gentrifying San Diego neighborhoods found that access to restaurants, cafés, farmers markets and outdoor dining is a common selling point. The listings I studied from 2019 often enticed potential buyers with lines like "shop at the local farmers' market," "join food truck festivals" and "participate in community food drives!"

San Diego Magazine's home buyer guide for the same year identified City Heights as an "up-and-coming neighborhood," attributing its appeal to its diverse population and eclectic "culinary landscape," including several restaurants and Fair@44.

When I see that City Heights' home prices rose 58% over the past three years, I'm not surprised.

Going up against the urban food machine

Longtime residents find themselves forced to compete against what I call the "urban food machine," a play on sociologist Harvey Molotch's "urban growth machine" – a term he coined more than 50 years ago to explain how cities were being shaped by a loose coalition of powerful elites who sought to profit off urban growth.

I argue that investors and developers use food as a tool for achieving the same ends.

When their work is done, what's left is a rather insipid and tasteless neighborhood, where foodscapes become more of a marketable mishmash of cultures than an ethnic enclave that's evolved organically to meet the needs of residents. The distinctions of time and place start to blur: An "ethnic food district" in San Diego looks no different than one in Chicago or Austin.

Meanwhile, the routines and rhythms of everyday life have changed so much that longtime residents no longer feel like they belong. Their stories and culture reduced to a selling point, they're forced to either recede to the shadows or leave altogether.

It's hard to see how that's a form of inclusion or empowerment.The Conversation


Pascale Joassart-Marcelli is a Professor of Geography and Director, Urban Studies and Food Studies Programs at San Diego State University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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