Tag: Tuesday

Day One (Part Two)…

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 [1]. 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.[2]

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”[3]. 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.”[4] 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.

[1] عساكر الأمن المركزي

[2] 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.

[3] “البنات ماتضربش فاهمين”

[4] “اتظاهرتِ يا ماما أنتِ وهي؟،فرحانين بنفسكوا أوي مش كدة؟ عشان تبقوا تتظاهروا تاني، يلا يلا”

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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”