Day One (Part One)…

 

For a month we had been reading what had been unfolding in Tunisia. For a couple of weeks, we had been following and talking about the preparations and instructions within the group pages. For days we had been posting on our own pages, and phoning friends trying to convince, elicit support, what we would later learn to call to “mobilize” or just to rev up our own courage amongst a general attitude of sarcasm, disbelief and hostility towards the call for nationwide protests on the day. A disbelief that even we secretly harboured. There were years of previous experiences of low turnouts, fear that had become inscribed on our bodies and a tide of seemingly unending rehearsals for a moment that never came. A disbelief that we had learned to hide when people scoffed at us day in day out, saying “you don’t have a chance”. They were right, we were wrong. We never had a chance. Not a real one anyway.

Instructions were read about writing signs of why we have chosen to protest. Instructions about how to use proxies, how to always carry coke cans to wash your eyes with to neutralize the effect of tear gas- which proved ineffectual when the time came, your eyes stung so hard you could not open them, groping around- what to wear so as not to stand out, not too baggy as to be easily grabbed by, but comfortable enough to be ready to run. And run. Instructions to always have a text ready to send immediately before your cell phone is confiscated, to one of the human rights’ lawyers on the list. Your name, your address, your ID number, a family member’s phone number. And “I have been arrested”. End text. A text that could be the difference between a chance disappearing forever and being found. Alive.

(A single black screen appears like those used during silent movies with white writing in small font)

Lesson One: Avoid confrontation with the security forces whenever possible.

There were a few starting points. The first was what used to be called Mohammed Ali’s square, later called La Place des Consuls, and which to our parents’ generation and ours was simply known as Midaan al-Manshiyyah. At 12 “o” clock. Reaching there on time, the Midaan was relatively empty. Usually crowded, overcrowded, bodies jostled left and right, bumped into unapologetically, side stepping every couple of minutes to avoid this or that. Now, hardly anybody there. As Egyptians we were usually never on time. Why on earth did I think that it would be any different when it came to starting a demonstration or revolution? Not that we knew it would be one then, or whatever it has been named and renamed ever since. Lower ranking security personnel in plain clothes permeate the place. Easily identifiable. Where and when did we learn that skill? Not at school for sure. Others loiter. Are they just onlookers, passersby, potential protestors? I wait, walk around the Midaan, look down the side streets for signs.

Lesson Two: Never start a protest on your own, especially in wide-open spaces. Wait, bide your time.

Impatience. Jumping into a taxi, I decide to go to another starting point at the other end of town. A hotel called Wardit al-‘Asaffrah. A hotel that belongs to the military forces. A piece of information that I did not know back then, like so many other things. It is now 1 ‘o’clock. Made a phone call to a number, one of many I had on my contact list. All equally anonymous to each other at that point. In response to my question, “there is a demonstration starting twenty five metres up ahead, go down the side street”.

Lesson Three: Always start in narrow side streets if possible. Police cars cannot reach them. Enough momentum can be gained. Easier for people to join, feel safe before heading onto the main streets.

Sure enough. There were three people there. I joined them. Starting to walk and chant. Chants that evoked possibilities. That evoked the wish for caring others. That wanted to shake people out of their apathy, our zombie like existence. Numbers increase. We look up, look up, look up imploringly, smiling at those in the balconies. Quickly propped up red brick apartment buildings with no paint, so close to each. Almost suffocating. Eclipsing the sky. We look down, burst open or clogged pipes leak raw sewage mixed with mud. We plod on. We are now in the tens. A woman walks next to me asking me what my signs mean. I start to read them out to her “I am against the institutionalization of corruption, and …….”[1] and then stop, realizing that the handwriting is not the problem.

Lesson Four: Use simple language that speaks to the people surrounding you. Remember why you are there, what you are passionate about.

Putting the signs down, rolling them up, I stop to talk to her. We talk about what she wants for her children. The things that need changing. Her daily challenges. Her husband’s hard work, his health. We walk on. We are now in the hundreds. A man comes up to me telling me I should walk at the back. Looking back at him, I tell him I will do no such thing. He apologizes, telling me that he was just thinking of my safety and that it is totally up to me. Finally seeing familiar faces, an older couple who are friends. We walk on. It is 3 ‘o’clock. Barricades meet the protest, trying to stop it from reaching the corniche. Attempt after attempt is made via different routes, each time we are met with cars, barricades and blockades. No violence. Yet. The protest breaks up.

[1]  أنا ضد مأسسة الفساد و تقنين البلطجة” و”
“ أطعمة ومياة للشرب لا تسمّم أطفالك، مسكن كريم يليق بآدميتك، ورعاية صحية جيدة، هي أشياء من حققك كمواطن ومواطنة”

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s