The huge flag billows above me, the red, the white, the black slowly come down. I stare. Wondering. Imagining. What would happen if it were to be shredded into a thousand little confetti like pieces? Would they fall with a thud? Or splatter with a squish?
Feet treading, treading feet.
It is December. Every day after work, we meet or don’t, to confirm the plan for the evening; a protest, a meeting, giving a workshop about electoral laws, engaging with people on the streets about economic rights, screening Kazeboon. Some days, we have dirty water hurled at us, words flying in anger. Some days, we are chased. Most days, we are not.
It’s a weekday. Early evening. Since Friday, the incident of the girl with the blue bra had gone viral. Heavy clouds gather above. Gusts of wind make their way from the sea. It is not raining. Yet. We gather in front of the bibliotheca Alexandrina. The Facebook announcement had said that this would be a woman’s only protest; parallel to one taking place in Cairo roughly at the same time.
The route is towards downtown this time on the corniche. Placards with images of a stenciled blue bra abound. Today there are many familiar faces from different places. Over the months, different people had joined and left “the revolution”. Our feet start to shuffle. The chants start. About the military, about the girl in the blue bra. We start off in the two digit numbers, little by little we increase in numbers and momentum. Men start to appear. Men we know as friends, not foes. They are on the outer circles. I thought it was supposed to be a women’s only protest, that means something today. I am told they are here to “protect us”; to make sure that no harm comes to us. I shrug my shoulders. Isn’t that the point we are trying to make? We Should Not Need Protection. We Should Not Need Protection.
We are several hundred. Not a big protest by usual standards. Today is different. Different ages. Powerful. Angry. Sad. Resilient. Persistent. Joyful in our collectivity. Our feet stomp. The ground rumbles. The wind cannot drown our voices.  We push onward. Cars drive by us, some slowing down to read, to listen. Giving us a thumbs up. Others shake their fists or look away in contempt. We are all that is wrong with the world.
I stop. I open my mouth, nothing comes out. I open it again trying to explain to those surrounding me why those chants don’t…the voices drown mine and I end up looking like a fish gasping for air. I continue walking along, stomping. Silently.
 Kazeboon was a collective campaign that was started to show the violations and excesses of the Egyptian army. The campaign consisted of distributing fliers, stickers, and doing screenings in streets of compiled videos that documented all the army’s human right’s violations, transgressions and exposed its lies.
 It is hard to put this in words, the energy is difficult to describe but it is different from any other protest I had been in over all the previous months, years. I have to admit it was my favourite. It felt like we weren’t just protesting that incident but all the macro and micro-aggressions that we feel and are subjected to as females on a daily basis.
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روحوا هاتوا رجالة من تونس