The Morning After

We softly hummed as we walked towards Villa Belle Epoque[1], breaking out into a spontaneous skip every now and then. We had started the day in no rush, hurrying nothing and no one, reveling in the quiet.

The night before, after the long day, after the ebbs of disappointment that had been effaced all of a sudden by the rush of excitement and relief, after losing friends then finding them, then losing them again, after the incessant ring of the cell-phone, after loud music being blown out of speakers and cars, after the continuous syncopated car honks bursting in unison, after walking and seeing the endless waves of traffic and bodies heading towards downtown and out of it, I had felt too tired to make it to al-Māʿdī to spend the night at friends, despite H and R’s appeals. Instead, I walked to Zamālik-which was quicker than taking transportation and I enjoyed watching people’s reactions and overhearing their conversations about what had happened- and stayed at the Mayfair[2]. With its elitist reputation and dense ex-pat presence, the mood in Zamālik was very different; there was hardly any visible registering of the news of Mubarak’s stepping down. It’s as if one had stepped into a parallel universe where none of the day’s happenings had occurred. People’s faces were almost morose. Brooding. Tense. I shrugged it off, “of course, people in this area have vested interests in preserving the status quo, that is why they aren’t celebrating” was my interior monologue. Perhaps, an unfair and naïve judgment. In the months to come, we would all realize that those who had vested interests in Mubarak’s regime were so many, far beyond our imagination and did not have to be well to do or living in upper end areas. In the months to come, we would realize that we had nothing to celebrate that night, nothing at all. The celebration was part of the problem.

In the morning, after a quick breakfast I made my way to H & R’s[3] place in Māʿdī. R said that she was going to invite us both- her younger sister H and I- for brunch at the Belle Epoque. We decided to walk, enjoying the sight of the green trees that drooped over the balconies of the two or three story buildings, the bushes that cocooned the gates and entrances. The scene was idyllic, as well as surreal, especially as we walked into the hotel. Such a far hue and cry from the eighteen days with its boundless din, energy and stress. I realized walking in how out of place I looked, for during the eighteen days I had paid so little attention to what I was wearing. I had stoically worn only jeans and alternated between two pullovers with a shirt underneath and a sweater or cardigan when it was cold. Black boots were my footwear and which I would continue to wear for the next five months – even when all the walking had worn them down-as if not wanting to let go. The pullovers I put to rest after that. Forever. In my mind, I felt it silly to pay attention and think about what I was going to wear during that time. I had also thought that that would help me blend in. To look more Egyptian. Jeans and a simple pullover, no different from many others. Gone were my colourful dresses and bright headscarves, my hipster silver rings, my favourite tops and dress trousers, my blazers.

We were led in and seated by the pool. After ordering and while eating, several times one of us started a sentence and then it just trailed off. But we enjoyed the silences. We needed them. Different birds twittered and sang and we tried to identify them. We were the only people there. We didn’t know what to say, how to express what we were feeling, or what would be relevant. Then little by little, we started to talk about what was possible, about what we hoped for, for the country, about what we wanted to do, what were the priorities. A lifetime of dreams and wishes all bottled up, came gushing out. R said that she was going to leave corporate work as she was tired of it and how meaningless it felt. She would give up her fat salary and work for a NGO instead or work freelance. She wanted to do something meaningful. H said that she would work towards her goal of opening a cultural space, one that would focus on bringing events and workshops to neglected cities like Damietta, Port Said and not Alexandria or Cairo that already had several cultural spaces. And I. Well, I said that going into politics was never the aim for me, it was just something that I felt I had to do, and that now I would focus my attention in any free time I had on an educational project or education reform on a volunteer basis. I thought then and still think now that education was the bud and the root. Now nearly six years later, R has quit her corporate job and is working freelance. H has her cultural space in Cairo that focuses on doing wonderful cultural workshops and events in Damietta, Mansoura and Portsaid. And I. I left.

[1] Villa Belle époque is a boutique hotel in Māʿdī and which is described as “A colonial-style country house in a peaceful neighbourhood with great staff a cool pool and a gorgeous garden.”

[2] Mayfair hotel is a two floor establishment in Zamālik, that is more like a high end hostel.

[3] R and H were friends and had participated for a few days in the demonstrations in Alex after I had phoned them and on one day we had actually rented trucks to gather and collect garbage off the streets when the garbage’s stench was starting to become a huge problem. The government had stopped collecting garbage in Alexandria. Some say it was a form of punishing people for revolting. They had returned to their jobs in Cairo at the end of January or beginning of February.

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