The problem with democracy is the people

In a new story Lara Marloweresponds to Article 21 of the Universal Declaration of Human rights, as part of a continuing series in association with Amnesty International to mark the 60th anniversary of the declaration

A TALL SUDANESE servant in a white robe and turban opened the door and led the way through the residence, gliding over Persian carpets and marble floors. Dust hung in shafts of light. Here and there, the glint of gold leaf or brass, rainbows cast by bevelled mirrors on cream-coloured walls.

The Ambassador sat in a wicker chair on the veranda. "Hello Woodrow!" he said, rising to receive the late arrival. "How good of you to come! Cynthia will join us later. She's suffering from one of her migraines."

A ceiling fan whirred above them. As a clock chimed the half hour, the timer on the irrigation system kicked in. The sprinkler heads hissed and spluttered before spraying arcs of water across the lawn. The ambassador's golden labrador raced about, grabbing sprinkler heads in his muzzle.

"Ustez Mohamed!" Woodrow said. "It's great to see you!" The white-haired historian set down his whiskey glass and cigar to shake the journalist's hand.

"So you two know each other," the Ambassador said, turning to introduce silver-haired Khadija Sultan, "our neighbour, and a formidable businesswoman", Miloud Ramadan, whom he described as a human rights lawyer, and Miloud's pregnant wife, Aliya. The young woman's thick, black eyeliner reminded Woodrow of the Cleopatra soap package.

"Woodrow has been covering the election," the Ambassador announced. "Tell us what you saw, Woodrow."

"Well, the worst place was the polling station in Agouza," Woodrow said, watching the other faces, afraid he might offend them. "It was chaos. There were teenage girls screaming, gouging each other's faces, pulling hair. The police were bashing people with rifle butts, and I saw them break padlocks on ballot boxes. Very civilised."

The coffee table was laden with raw almonds floating in bowls of ice water, pistachios, carrot and celery sticks, biscuits coated in sesame seeds.

Khadija Sultan reached for an almond. "A catastrophe," she muttered, shaking her head as she peeled the outer green flesh from the almond. "My foreman was killed in a polling station. Can you imagine . . . a gunfight between Islamists and the President's supporters - in central Cairo! It's nearly impossible to find an honest foreman. I don't know how I'll run the factory without him."

"My dear, try to care a little for your own country!" Mohamed scolded Khadija. The look she shot him spoke of past quarrels. "Before the election even started, they arrested 600 members of the Muslim Brotherhood. Almost all of them were delegates who were supposed to monitor ballot boxes. I know several of them, and I honestly believe these people were trying to play the democratic game, such as it is here. They are educated, moderate people and they know how crude the power of the state can be in a Third World country. They were sentenced to five years in prison. I cannot accept it with a good conscience."

Woodrow slyly pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and began taking notes. The Ambassador scowled at him.

"So Mohamed," Khadija said. Woodrow had never heard anyone address the ageing historian and television personality without the honorific prefix ustez. "You've got a soft spot for the Islamists. Just wait until they come to power. I promise it will be the end of your cuties and whiskey!"

The older man ignored her. "I'll tell you how elections are rigged in this country," Mohamed continued. "There is never much of a turn-out, because people know better. At the end of the day, delegates from the President's party fill out the ballots, under police supervision, so everyone registered on the list votes. They make a dash next to each name. It's a foregone conclusion the NDP will get at least two thirds of the seats, because He has to be elected by two-thirds of the parliament, and He wants to be President forever."

Khadija and Miloud exchanged uncomfortable glances. A waiter refilled the drinks.

But Mohamed was relentless. "This country is suffocating. Most of the ministers have held the same posts for 20 years. Did you hear about the demonstration two weeks ago at Cairo University? They arrested 50 students. Five were sent to jail on the attorney general's orders. The other 45 were taken to the central security camp with their families. They're being kept there without food or water, because they want to intimidate them. They have to buy food and water from the guards."

"I hear a lot of detainees are tortured," Woodrow remarked archly.

"Of course they are." Mohamed replied. "It's all of a piece. You're Pharoah and you want to stay in power, but you need the Americans' support. So you have to hold elections. But to win the elections, you have to arrest people and torture them, humiliate them so they won't be Islamists . . . You should write about Tora prison, south of Cairo," Mohamed said, turning to Woodrow. "They give the prisoners female names, and force them to bugger each other."

The more furiously Woodrow scribbled, the more Mohamed talked. Then the old man turned on Miloud.

"You're supposed to be a human rights lawyer. Why don't you denounce these abuses?"

Miloud squirmed in his vanilla-coloured suit, and Cleopatra watched his face, one hand on her pregnant tummy.

"I used to be more outspoken," the lawyer admitted. "I spent three months in prison. Oh, I know Mohamed. You did too. Under Nasser. It was different in those days. But then I saw the bombings and assassinations, and I suppose I thought the Islamists were the greater evil. I don't want them to come to power, because that's what will happen if we have free and fair elections. We'll end up with an Islamic republic, and there'll be no more elections. I know the regime's not worth defending. I want us to have democracy, like Europe or America. But I don't know how we get there. I've thought a lot about it, and there is no solution."

"You're pathetic," Mohamed said softly, and the others pretended they hadn't heard him. Then he raised his voice again. "Ah, the problem with democracy is the people!"

"You created the fundamentalists," Woodrow said, looking at Khadija and Miloud. In ordinary circumstances, he would not have spoken out in front of the Ambassador, but Mohamed's presence emboldened him."You created them, and now you have to live with them."

Khadija shifted her bulk in her armchair. "We are fighting terrorism, Mr American Reporter," she intoned. "You don't do that with the declaration of human rights in one hand and the constitution in the other. You don't fight terrorism with kid gloves. You media are like the so-called human rights groups, who only care about fanatics and terrorists."

"The government is wasting the country's time on this silly conflict," Mohamed said. "They have no ideology - not secularism, not democracy. They are spoiled and corrupt."

Khadija rolled her eyes. The Ambassador's wife stood like a ghost in the doorway. "Dinner is served," she announced flatly. A smile of relief spread over the Ambassador's face. It was twilight, and the air had cooled. Cleopatra pulled a shawl over her shoulders.

As the guests made their way towards the dining room, the Ambassador placed a hand on Woodrow's forearm, to hold him back. "Now Woodrow," he said. "You have to be careful of Mohamed. That was the whiskey talking. You know, he enjoys a special status in this country. He feels he's untouchable, but nobody takes him seriously anymore. I was at the presidential palace this week, and they really are trying. If you write these things, they'll only get discouraged. You do understand, don't you Woodrow?"

"Of course, Ambassador."

The head waiter lit the dining room candles. When all were seated, the shrimp cocktail served and the Chassagne Montrachet poured, a non-descript man walked in and whispered in the Ambassador's ear. Woodrow recognised the political councillor.

"Election results just in," the Ambassador announced with a cynical smile. "The President's party has won an absolute majority. Don't worry, they've left a few seats for the Wafd and the leftists, but the president will be re-elected."

The Ambassador raised his glass.

"To democracy!" he said.

The guests raised their glasses, looking sheepish. Surely the Ambassador mocked them?

"To democracy!" they murmurred in unison, clinking their crystal glasses.

Article 21

(1) Everyone has the right to take part in the government of his country, directly or through freely chosen representatives.

(2) Everyone has the right of equal access to public service in his country.

(3) The will of the people shall be the basis of the authority of government; this shall be expressed in periodic and genuine elections which shall be by universal and equal suffrage and shall be held by secret vote or by equivalent free voting procedures.

This is one of a series of 30 stories and essays by leading Irish writers marking the 60th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human rights. The series was created by Sean Love for Amnesty International and continues next Saturday