I kept having to leave to be able to stay, until I could no longer stay and had to leave.
We softly hummed as we walked towards Villa Belle Epoque, 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. 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 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.
 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.”
 Mayfair hotel is a two floor establishment in Zamālik, that is more like a high end hostel.
 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.
Quickly making my way to campus to sign some paperwork related to student internships. The Manshiyyah protest had come together after all and had made its way to the head of Port Said St. in front of the Bibliotheca. I join. It was now 5:00 pm. Still warm and light, no Alexandrian rain that day. Even when it did rain in the coming days, it was always a gentle drizzle, one that we found comforting, an excuse to be quiet for a while. The chants had already changed “The people want to bring down the regime”
Which people? There were so many peoples. Peoples who would change, align and realign. A constant state of flux. Peoples who two and a half years later, cheered or stood silent as the military came to power, as over a thousand people were killed in a few hours, seeing them as the other. As another people.
If I had written this then, I would have written about the…
(To be read out loud like a performance)
Rumble of the ground beneath our feet. Echoes of our collective being, our voices that bounced off each other, off the walls, amplified, intensified, floating, only to return unto us in intoxicating mouthfuls, savouring their flavor. Unbridled sense of joy at the realization that we were not dead. We were not dead. Leapfrogging through hurdles, years of mistrust. You can smile randomly at that man down the row. He will not harass you. Not today. That elusive moment that we are now forever doomed to chase, to try to recapture. Like the centaur, the unicorn, the phoenix.
But I cannot write that now. How can I?
News had reached us that the protest that I had left earlier, had regrouped, made its way finally through the barricades and was now heading towards us. Both protests joined would be U n s t o p p a b l e. Stopped they had to be.
One of my non-Egyptian students suddenly was walking next to me, camera in hand, taking shots, smiling. Hugging, I urge her to go. Go. Go. A few minutes earlier, we realized. What was happening. A row of high ranking police men, most of them in their official uniforms, shiny stars and eagles on their shoulders were behind us. Walking. Trudging. Grudgingly. Police cars and trucks behind them, slowly edging their way. In front of us, at the end of Port Said St, in front of the Jesuit Cultural Centre, row upon row of the lowest ranking security personnel were standing . Black harsh uniforms. No shiny stars and eagles on their shoulders. Used to standing for hours in the scorching sun. Used to following orders. Used to beating people up. A Pincer. They made sure we saw. To scare us. We could still leave if we wanted, via the side streets. Don’t remember seeing anybody who did.
Dusk. We link arms. Need to get past those black rows ahead. Don’t break the line. Hold it. No matter what. No matter what. “If we step backwards, push us, don’t yield” we are told. We push. And push. Batons come down. Gunshots are heard. Panic. Human smell of fear. Everyone yields. Running. Running. Thinking
Please don’t let me fall and be trampled on. Please don’t let me fall and be trampled on.
We all were afraid of something. One thing. Many things.
Scattering left and right. Running into allies. Standing in doorways. I am standing in a doorway in a side street. Turns out it’s a dead end street. Two girls standing next to me. One crying, shivering. Only eighteen. Shshhhh. Look her straight in the eyes, and make half a dozen promises that I don’t know that I can keep. But I make them anyway. We all hold hands quietly. Looking across the other side, another small group, in another doorway. We wait. And wait. They wait. Not going to go away. Want to teach us a lesson. We could wait here all night, wouldn’t make a difference. We look at each other, across, nod our heads, decide we will come out. All together. Line us up against a wall. Raise their batons. Arms and hands raised and crossed to cover head and face. One knee raised across to protect whatever can be protected. Instinct. We brace ourselves. Sobbing is heard. Sounds of feet running, running, shouting. Abracadabra. Men standing in front of us, telling us to crouch. They take the blows. Shouting “You don’t get to beat the girls”. Don’t know who they are, never got to know their names, don’t remember their faces. It was dark. For whatever reason, and in whatever name they did that for, we are grateful. Grateful.
The shiny stars and eagles come now. Make us walk single file. Tell us to get lost, go home. Jeer at us “Hope you are happy with yourselves now, we’ll see if you will ever protest again.” Can’t help giving him a look. Never gave it before. Have never given it since. A look that resounded with years of reading about beatings, forced disappearances, deaths, sodomization of people in the stations, corruption, and abuse of power that they had carried out. A hushed whisper behind me “Look ahead, please for my sake don’t look at them”.
We walk away, away. Some stay not too far off, listening to the shots. Thinking if things calm down, we can regroup. Traces of tear gas seen. Getting late. Nearly 10 pm. A phone call from home.
Ring the bell, walk through the door, tell them “I am famished”. Ask casually if anything was mentioned in the media about Alexandria. Not really. General mention in al Jazeera of protests. No footage. No mention of guns and teargas. Sigh of relief. Will spare them the details.
 عساكر الأمن المركزي
 On a personal level, more than any other form of violence at that point, I was most afraid of that. Not that I glorified at all being a victim of any other form of violence like being beaten or shot, but for some strange inexplicable reason I felt that being trampled on entailed a certain loss of dignity, a certain denigration of one’s humanity.
 “البنات ماتضربش فاهمين”
 “اتظاهرتِ يا ماما أنتِ وهي؟،فرحانين بنفسكوا أوي مش كدة؟ عشان تبقوا تتظاهروا تاني، يلا يلا”
Cairo had its Tahrir, a centre to which people gravitated. Stubborn Alexandria defied that. We tried, we did, choosing different centres to gravitate towards and stay put in. MaHtit Masr, Sidi Gaber… but it eluded us every time; was it because of the nature of the coastal city that both beckoned and mocked circumscription? So we gave up and chose to walk, to map the city with our feet and voices. To rediscover it and in the process rediscover our selves. Experiencing sensations that we never knew existed, realizing that whatever we felt or did exceeded the sum of our individual bodies and selves. We walked for hours on end every day, a new route, a new area, a new street, changing our slogans, adapting to each place, resting our voices and walking in silence at times, feeling an expanded sense of safety in our togetherness, despite the raw fragility of our existence. A sense of safety that managed to quell our fears and gently efface the effects of decades of shared aloneness, a mass aloneness that we had become so accustomed to in spite of or maybe because of our overly populated streets . And we made sure that people heard us and saw that we were not the Lebanese Hizbullah-Iranian infiltrators-Israeli Zionists-Qaeda affiliates that they said we were, we were Egyptians just like them. Or were we?