The Waiting Game

Today I heard quite a different story about Egypt. A new perspective I’ve never considered. It’s all about patience. It’s a waiting game.

*Paraphrased, and sentences in no particular order*

Ahmed: It’s a waiting game. We cannot fight from the outside and from the inside. On the outside, we have Europe and the U.S. mad because we are trading with and becoming closer to Russia and China. Internally, we are fighting terrorism. So the intellectuals and those associated with NGOs are saying “stop, just stop” (to the protestors and the dissent). We are waiting for things to change, and I believe that the president wants democratic reforms in Egypt. 

What of the Egyptian military controlling so much wealth and power. Does it truly want democratic reform that would threaten that?

Ahmed: The world runs on power, and it’s hard to give all that up. It’s also hard when you have nobody to give it to (i.e. no well organized political force to be trusted outside of the military, as the MB has been outlawed). I am reading between the lines, that’s how I know that’s what he wants. But security is the most important thing right now, and terrorism must be eliminated. 

Do you think things will change to realize the goals that were first articulated in 2011 or do you think the status quo is the way it will remain?

Ahmed: Things are already changing. I mean, I just kicked a police officer out of my house. I would never have been able to do that before. You see, you have to “give them another face’, meaning that you can approach them as someone who protects you rather than someone to be opposed to. I go downstairs on Jan. 25 and ask a group of officers, “Is it safe? Can I go out?” Their faces change and they say, “Of course! Go! Go! We will protect you.” I go to Talat Harb square and ask why there are so many police officers there. They say, “It’s Jan 25.” I ask, “Is it safe? Can I go to the square?” They respond: “Please go! We are here to keep you safe.” There are two faces to the police, and I want a dialogue. I don’t want to oppose them. I respect them and the military. I want to say, “Let’s have democratic reform after 30 years of this bullshit.” If they say no, khalaS, then that’s ok. But I want that friendly, civilized dialogue. 

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“Ahmed”’s remarks reminded me that the situation here is more complex than “support” and “opposition” to the current regime. People have mixed identities and allegiances. Wealth and power have “literally married each other,” so you cannot exclude one group without excluding another. MB, the military, and business, the holy trinity of Egypt, are all intertwined in a way that dialogue is a more palpable course of action than blind protest or alliance. Lives are entangled, politics are complicated, and social life is divided. A reminder of the complex state of the world.

———————

  

I also learned some unsettling things about the “private” sphere today. Ahmed was apparently scolded by the doorman/guard downstairs for having girls up to his apartment, saying that it was risking the reputation of the building. Ahmed waived off the man, so the man went to the police. The police came to investigate. Apparently, such “cases” are of great interest to the police because it is exciting to deal with women with “low morals” (definitely not my words), for reasons to which I will leave to the reader’s imagination. The doormen/guards are part of a union that has sway over who lives in their buildings can be turned out or forced to live elsewhere if they cause trouble. The boundaries between the public in the private are blurred here in a way that I never really understood, especially when it comes to personal privacy and the proper boundaries between authority and the home. A police officer waltzing into your house to ask about girls? The threat of having someone “filing a report” about this at the station? 

As Ahmed says, “welcome to the third world. We have the laws on paper but their practice is totally different, and everyone understands that.”

The world is complex, as are the blurred lines between public and private and relationships with authority and loyalty. 

Half of me is totally appalled, the other is fascinated and wants to know more.

I'm glad I came to Egypt.

5 Years Later

Five years to the day, I am back again.

Stepping off of the plane and onto the dark tarmac, that familiar, overpowering, and choking smell of car exhaust filled my nostrils. The entrance hall of the airport was once again full of Egyptians and foreigners lining up for passport processing. I once again fell into the mindset of “what’s next”: How much should I pay for a cab? Would something happen with my passport? Would I be detained? Exiting the entrance hall into the baggage claim area, my anxiety once again washed over me as men rushed toward us, offering this and that price to ride in a limo, then a taxi, then another taxi. My expression hardened as I once again racking my brain for the necessary vocabulary for negotiating, bargaining, rejecting, and playing the hard to get foreigner. Having Billy with me eased my worries and I let him take the reigns of our journey to downtown Cairo. I had no need of my rusty, coquette Arabic. Finally, a gentleman undercuts the offers for freedom from the airport. Thank god for Billy’s patience and personality. Exiting the airport was just as I had remembered it. Hundreds of people standing, sitting, and hovering around the entrance, waiting to leave, waiting receive their loved ones. As we pushed our cart of baggage through the crowd and the stares, a man looks me in the eye and recites that comforting phrase: “Welcome to Egypt.” I smile and thank him. I’m relieved to see a kind face and hear those words. 

The cab ride is as it always was. Darting in and out of traffic at 50 miles per hour, nearly missing several cars. I noticed the missing seatbelt in the back seat halfway through the ride. As usual, and perhaps stupidly, I have neglected to even look for it when I got into the cab. I heard a while back that it was rude to wear a seatbelt in  cab. It was a sign that you don’t trust your driver. I don’t know if that’s actually true, but at this rate, it didn’t matter. I heard Billy chatting with the driver up front and I struggled to understand their conversation and secretly hoped that the driver wouldn’t speak to me. I didn’t want to embarrass myself. I felt like a child. All I wanted to do was eat something, shower, and sleep. “Tomorrow I will begin to relearn what I don’t remember or never knew,” I thought. “There will always be tomorrow.” 

The couple days that I have been here have been like waking up from a dream of what I had pictured Egypt to be as reality washed over me. That old, familiar reality of the fast paced movement of people, traffic, and life in Cairo. I’ve been excited as I remember how to conduct business: ordering food, the number of expressions of gratitude ending or beginning with “Allah”. The wonderfully seasoned tastes of ful (fava beans on pita bread) and baba ghanoush. The unsatisfying taste of Nescafe instant coffee, the small portion sizes, and fresh juice, and meeting the bawab (doorman who cares for the security and cleanliness of the apartment), a pleasant man who sits under the stairs smoking his cigarettes and warming himself by pot of coals. Everything was so familiar, and this time I meant to do it right. 

Well, almost everything. The revolution has taken its toll on this country. Freedom of speech, press, and association are greatly stifled. I’ve been told that no one speaks of politics anymore. That’s too bad. I was counting on speaking with cab drivers as I used to about political life in Egypt, elections, and the president. Such things are not only forbidden, they are criminal offenses and the mukhabarat are everywhere (secret police), stalking the cafes and the streets, listening to conversations. Who knows, the cab drivers might also be mukhabarat or informants. A friend told me that conducting research in Egypt is also difficult, as research on modern topics, from art to music to politics, are also banned. Questions about the military are strongly discouraged, and if they come up, it’s all “I love the military” and “Long live the military.” To conduct a survey on the street, you need permission. Research has gone underground. Journalists are being arrested or taken out of the country for their safety. The apartment I am staying in downtown was searched before the anniversary of the revolution to check for subversive materials. Thank god Billy was gone. An American was recently arrested for speaking about politics with locals at the pyramids. He was doing what we all do: learn vocabulary in class and practice with Egyptians. He’s being charged with inciting violence and insurrection. I’m told that an American passport no longer has the same clout it did before the revolution. 

These are the rumblings around Cairo.

I am beginning to have doubts about whether my project will, in the end, be approved by the ministry. I will meet with my coauthor this week to speak about the status of our project and how it should be framed and sold as to get the proper permission. 

If parts of my entries are vague, it is to protect myself and those around me. “They” are watching. 

On a related note, I am reminded about the pettiness and the childish dramatics that surround dialogue in the United States about “government tyranny”, including the recent takeover of federal government property in Oregon by an armed, rightwing militia. Government tyranny is not the ownership of land by the federal government. It is not ensuring through regulation and legislation that businesses and individuals cannot discriminate against LGBT or minorities. It is not the government imposing background checks or other restrictions on gun sales. Tyranny is the constant fear that your words will land you in prison without due process. It is the pregnant silence imposed on the expression of your political opinions and your participation in civil society. It is the exaltation of the state over the individual. It is that silent reinforcement of that fear. Those Americans who lament about “tyranny” are naive and have no idea what they are talking about. More than anything, it demonstrates their lack of knowledge of the world around them. They would be laughed out of a cafe by old, liberty-deprived men smoking hookah in Wusut al-Balad. What paranoid and dramatic queens Americans can be. 

Despite restrictions, I have been waiting for my second reckoning with Egypt since I was so abruptly evacuated from the country in 2011. I had left an irritated, defeated 22-year-old. Cultural and linguistic exhaustion had beaten me down, and I couldn’t wait to leave; or at least that’s how I now remember it. I had felt so alone here, and now I realize that it was all my fault. I tried so much to push myself to learn, but I realize now that I never really left the comfort of my expectations for others and for this society. I had expected the slightest amount of effort to return a thousand times the reward, and I paid for that mentality every day. It was the high standards and the great expectations that I’ve always had for others that were my doing-in. This time will be different, I hope. I am older, a bit wiser. I’m less anxious and more certain of who I am and what I have to do. There’s so much freedom in that. I used to write about how I needed to dive into the chilly waters of the unfamiliar, and eventually I would become warm again. Reflecting on that, it seems that I had only submerged myself halfway, leaving the rest of my body to shiver exposed. Plunging head first is the goal of this trip. I have 3 and a half weeks to do this. I can do this. I will tread carefully knowing that Egypt has changed, relegating myself to observer where I must and exploring curiosity when I can. It’s a different time for me and for Egypt. So much has changed and so much is still the same. 

Here I go again.

New Egypt

The following is a piece of prose from an acquaintance of mine in Egypt after returning home to Alexandria from studying in New York.




The birds are chirping, and the early light of daybreak is hardly enough for me to read my own handwriting. While my biological clock has awoken me as it is accustomed to in life across the ocean, my heart and my soul have also awoken at Cairo's daybreak, being too stingy to miss even a second of life in this city.

And that is what marks this city for me-- life. At daybreak, the birds are chirping, the people (especially taxi drivers) are beginning their commutes, honking of course, and alley cats are resolving any loose ends from last night's arguments.

I arrived yesterday afternoon, not knowing what to expect. It did not hit me until very late that I was traveling. But with each leg of the journey, a part of me acknowledged the fact, and bit by bit the significance of the trip sunk in. The culmination of this slow realization came somewhere 36,000 feet over the Nile delta and the Mediterranean. I began to see the land and sea below, and as the plane continued to descend, farms, trees, roads, and cars appeared. I realized that my motherland in 2011 would be a very different place than it was only a year ago.

And, although Umm Kalthoum's voice may have had a part to play, a welling of emotion consumed my chest and made its way upward while the plane descended closer and closer to the earth. Until finally, tears welled up in my eyes. I knew this would not be Mubarak's Egypt that I grew up knowing. The stale sense of suffocation would be gone, that was for sure. The question was what will have remained? What would persevere? And so, my imagination and anticipation competed with the Kalthoum-esque nostalgia for a place in my heart-- something I have not felt before.

The question of 'what has changed?' framed my mind as I stepped off the plane. I observed people's faces and attitudes. It was clear the crushing weight of oppression had been lifted, and in its place remained hope, life, dreams. Even the guards at customs, known for their stubbornness and poor tempers, seemed more easy-going. When we stepped outside the airport, the sun warmed our skin with its embrace, welcoming us home.

The ride home to Zamalek began with my grandmother's drivers in the front, and my dad, my brother and I squished in the back. From the window, Cairo's perpetually jagged profile called out with subtle changes. Mubarak's previously omnipresent face was nowhere to be seen, replaced instead with Egyptian flags. Murals dedicated to the revolution lined some streets. We approached Zamalek, and the eternal waters of the Nile peaked through the winding bridges and apartment buildings. In the distance stood a haunting, charred-black skeleton of a building. It was the former NDP headquarters. Finally, we took the downward sloping exit into Zamalek. A flyer for a new political party caught my eye. A group of teenage boys were painting the sidewalk in front of one of Zamalek's historical landmarks, Kasr Aisha Fahmy. "This is unbelievable," I thought.

When we arrived at my grandmother's flat, the welcome was especially loud. The embraces tighter. The kisses lasting longer. We were all thankful to have the chance to see one another again. Fate had been kind to us. History had played out favorably, and we all sensed it. Thank God for keeping us together; for protecting our family, our country.

The sun is finally up, and now it is time to make my pilgrimage to the Nile. I think a nice walk through Zamalek will do. Shagaret el-Dorr. El-Mar'ashly. Abul-Feda. The cars. The people. The trees. The sounds. The voices. The sun. 

Life.

--
Sherif Metwally

Fear

Sometimes it just swells up from somewhere. Like on my way home from apartment hunting. This place, I don't know where it comes from. It's fleeting and enough to shock the smile off of my face.

It's starts in front of a television screen. The sun is setting outside on the balcony, the last rays radiating on my bare toes. It starts with a fixation on this television set. It slowly sucks me into the chaos 3 hours south of me. Places I've been, places I loved visiting. A whole district engulfed in flames. Anger. Brimming to the top, bursting at the seams. Mobs over-running and burning armored paddy wagons, pushing them into the Nile. Water cannons blasting, people being gunned down and targeted to be run over by security forces. Police beating men and boys, blood running down their faces. Smoke engulfing the hail of rubber and live bullets firing on crowds of people. The prayer at sunset begins, silence falls along with thousands of human beings to their knees. A creeping dusk rolls through my screen, filling the sitting room, and out the balcony. Cairo is on fire. The smell of smoke fills my nostrils, as if I were there. But this wasn't my imagination. As the warm glow of street light filled the room, so did signs of the same angry strife in Alexandria. Men shouting outside, boys running, guns shooting in the background. Was that an M-16? Had the jails been breached here too? The man on my screen sounds concerned. "Get out! Don't let them in! Shut the door, you hear me? Shut the door! The police are coming...maybe to shut down the station," shouts the reporter in Arabic. Bangs on the station door 3 hours south in Cairo. Will my only source of information be cut? No phone, no internet. No television?  More shouts, my heart almost stops. Where the hell was I?

My thoughts are perhaps the most terrifying to me. How am I going to get out of the country? The road to Cairo is closed, trains shut down. I can't get to the airport. I don't even want to leave this apartment to get my belongings across the neighborhood. How do Egyptians see me? A collaborator with their government? With my "money" that all Westerners are purported to carry? Will I be a target in this revolutionary furious fervor? No, my Arabic is good. I'll speak Shamy, they'll think I'm Lebanese. Just enough time to walk to the consulate. I won't take a cab, I don't want to die. What? Die? Christ, did I really just think that? I thought about being detoured somewhere awful, kidnapped, ransomed. The television beckons me back to reality. Night has fallen on the 6th October Bridge over the Nile as the city descends into a night of fiery chaos. Al-Jazeera survives feed cuts to illuminate events as they explode. The National Democratic Party building is set on fire, the ultimate symbolic challenge to Mubarak and his legitimacy.  I remember my words from Tuesday "There is no turning back; this regime will fall." Looters sack government buildings and throw Molotov cocktails. It's happening fast, I can't process this from the comfort of my ottoman.

I turn out the lights as I wait. I don't want to draw attention to myself. I wait for them to come home. They're both late. Are they hurt? I smell smoke. A jet flies over head. A jet? I've never heard planes OR jets over Alexandria. Had the military been deployed? Distant, riotous screams echo through the narrow streets of Kafr Abdu, my neighborhood. In this instant, I realize that I am alone in the most true sense. I have no information. My friends are gone, and I don't if they are injured, tear gassed, kidnapped, or...yeah, dead. It wasn't the Egypt I knew yesterday. I was trapped in an apartment with no way out. My eyes began to water. I'd never been so alone, so afraid. So not-in-control of my life, or events around me. Again, I instinctively reach for my cell phone to call home to say I'm alive...shit, they don't work. I grow angry. How can someone just cut off information from a population? How is this legal?! This man is toying with lives! And mine, goddamn it! Fuck Hosni Mubarak and fuck the police, fuck the government-hired thugs, and fuck all of his party members. Most of all, Fuck you Vodafone for cutting off my service! You are cowards and dupes; I hope that they hang you all for treason against your people! You are causing death and supporting a dictator!

This wasn't my fight. I was a peripheral figure in a total system shakeup that was tearing the old fabric of society and challenging the very root of authority that had held Egypt together for the past 50 years. There could not have been more uncertainty than in that moment in Kafr Abdu for me. Never in my life had I felt this helpless, unsure, and afraid. This is the epitome of fear, something I had never had the displeasure of ever experiencing. Thoughts oscillating between entrapment, hopeless prospects of escape, death, injury, and the bombardment of images, smells, and sounds of anger and destruction boiling into the tired streets of Egypt.

Despite the lengthy description of what just preceded, the memory lasts a second at most. I don't see or smell or hear, but I feel it. This complicated experience that ignited every one of my senses channels itself through an electric chill that runs from my brain down my spine and back again. It stings my eyes, wipes the smile off my face, and stops any activity I am engaged in. For that split second, I feel so terrified.  I'm not here, but in that sitting room in front of a television screen. I feel it.

This is Fear.

Sometimes I still feel so alone.

Arab Rap fuels sentiments of political change

Probably one of the most poignant manifestations of what is coming to define this transnational movement.

http://mideastunes.com/syrias-statement-no-1-arab-rap-a-networked-protest/


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Satisfaction for those who accept it-الرضى لمن يرضى

To some extent, I agree with that. I've found myself in quite an impasse in my life. If asked in November, "what are you doing when you get home from Egypt?" I would have said "Well, I'm coming home in June, then off to visit my family for a few weeks, come back to Ann Arbor to get a sublet, and then move off to school in September to start 5 years of academic slavery and come out to do something wonderful, impacting, and amazing."

Well, here I am. Home in February. No personal space to speak of, sleeping on the couch of a friend, working at Starbucks again, and no prospects of school for the next year. 8 "no letters" and an inconvenient (perhaps unnecessary?) evacuation from a revolution later, I find myself caught in a weird time warp. I've spent the past few months worrying and impatient. Will I get my belongings back from Egypt? I wore the same 3 outfits for a month in a half. I accepted that it wasn't going to happen and I was more than ok with that. But they came, one by one, to UM for me to pick up. I had no job when I came back. I panicked. 2 weeks of searching led to nothing. I broke down and asked for my job back. I got it, however inglorious it is. I was worried that I would lose all my Arabic. I was quickly employed by my professor to work on his book with him. I'm kept up all hours doing work for him and meeting with him at the drop of a hat. It's annoying, but hey, I get to keep up with Arabic and supplement Starbucks.

My point is that I've realized that the universe does work in mysterious ways. The stars do conspire for us in the end. It's just not the perfect picture I had in my head. This weird place that I find myself in right now, at this second in my life, will roll right off my shoulder. But later. Not now. Now I have an unprecedented opportunity to build up myself. I might not have gotten into graduate school this round, but I still want it more than anything. I was made to be there. It's not really my fault that I didn't get in. It was such a crap shoot now that I look back at it all. Reading my blogs from last June, July, and August, I can't believe that I somehow managed to study for the GRE, work on a personal statement, and research the few schools and contacts that I did, all while adjusting to the unprecedented events that kept pounding my brain into a pulpy mush.

But now I have time, and perhaps that's the biggest blessing in this whole situation. I've never had time to concentrate on myself and get my shit together before. It's always been...well...rather half assed. I've always been so busy, my mind so cluttered. Yeah, it stings to have what I thought of my future fragment and crash down in front of me. But ironically, there's nothing to clean up. I'm just going to work on that damn GRE because I know I can beat it. I'm going to figure out what I'm going to do for work for a year. I'm going to find out what I'm going to do about my living situation here in Ann Arbor for the next year. I have a lot on my plate right now, but somehow it doesn't feel so rushed, not so life-or-death.  I can take my time. I'll have bad days where I just want to give up, where I'll call home and look for some kind of consolation about how I feel like such a loser, feeling insecure and underserving, beating myself up because this is not an ideal situation. It's natural. But I know it's not going to end here. I've been through a lot in the past 10 months. My mind and expectations have been totally unraveled and patched back together. Reality and Ideality are currently not congruent. I know that they never will be, but I'm determined to make them as harmonious as possible. Right now, I'm going to build myself up. I deserve it.

If I learned anything from the Arab Spring and the events that drove me out of Egypt, it's that it's never over. It's always evolving and ever-surprising. What made the old man in the coffee shop smoking his sheesha from dawn to dusk everyday playing backgammon throw it all away at the sight of thousands of young men and women in the street? What made him break his routine and secure life? Some might say he was fed up with it all. I think he was waiting for the opportunity his whole life and seized it. But he had to wait for the visual infrastructure, the outward mobilization of public weariness. He couldn't have abandoned his Turkish coffee alone. If Egypt's tired streets can rise up over night, I think one man can do the same in his own life. But first, I have build. Without that foundation or my own personal infrastructure, the opportunity will mean nothing, and I'll be sitting around with my own shot glass of sludgy coffee, wishing it would all just somehow get better.

Everything that I have now, at this moment in time, is wonderful, and I won't forget that.

I sound like a goddamn fortune cookie, always hopeful, always optimistic. Well, I don't have a choice.  "Il faut cultiver notre jardin," said Voltaire. "l'Existence précède l'essence," said Sartre. I still agree completely.

"This is your life, are you who you wanna be? When the world was younger and you had everything to lose." -Switchfoot

It's not lost. It's just "later".

__________________________________________________________________________________

24

Talking to everyone in Morocco today, I find myself missing it all. Egypt for me was one hell of a ride. By December, I had lost all feeling, happy or sad. I just didn't really care about anything. I felt finished, exhausted, and mentally drained; like all I was doing was merely existing. I believe in this state of nothingness I found myself. I proved to myself that I could do anything. My mind wasn't even required to function as I existed on a plane between my reality and some circle of fantasy I could never wrap my head around as it slipped in and out of my control. Some days were doable, others drove me mad. I never shook the constant hyper-sensitivity to the way people interacted with me. Everything came with a price, a stipulation, a doubt. Perhaps I did end up using my mind. Yeah, I did. It was all smashed up, warped, and scarred up. I grew skin. I grew up. Yes, in the end, Egypt made me a better person. I just didn't see it until now. Things now here in America just seem so petty and small. Such a perspective makes me "smarter".

The few minutes each night I would take with my I-pod onto the balcony and watch the traffic below, 100 meters away. My attention would fade in and out between the muffled noise of incessant horns and my thoughts on the day and my progress socially and academically. Those warm nights, set against the soft glow of the lamplights above the power sprayers at the gas station at 2 a.m. were the the few moments every day where I could escape to the recesses of my mind. Towards the middle of December, it was a rather empty, meaningless endeavor as I faded into the music in my I-pod. The words became merely words. That deep connection I have with music had faded away, and I knew I was in trouble.

I miss it all though. I miss those few moments every day. I miss not working at this goddamn hell hole job at Starbucks. I miss GRE study parties with Di Di. I miss my and Zi Zi's initial (and creepy) research  project of getting into Alexandria's gay community. Shit, what a weird, uncomfortable trip that would have been. I miss running on the Cornish, with people watching in wonderment as I raced past them. I miss living on the sea. I always told myself coming back home that I would go sit on the rocks and watch the sunset. I never did. I regret that now. I've run naked through the desert under the stars, feeling free as I've ever in my life. I watched the sun rise on Mt. Sinai after hiking to the top. But I've never watched an Egyptian sunset. Perhaps it just means it's not over, this loving-disdainful relationship I have found myself in. In the end, I can't deny it. Those 8 months changed my life and will always be a part of who I am and who I will become. I've experienced so much. One thing was for sure. I wasn't finished. But with what? I never made any formal "goals" as was recommended. I think it's because I never knew exactly what I wanted out of the experience. It would definitely have made my life easier, but I chose instead to roll with the waves. In the end, it was the best. I prefer flexibility and I have a hard time with sticking to rigid goals. I was more of a spectator in Egypt than a participant. It hampered me making many friendships; I felt that just too exhausting. I regret that as well. However, I don't know if I were to change that if I had another chance. Personally, everything was so exhausting and I dealt with it differently than many of the other students. I was so concerned with perfection, and if I couldn't be perfect, I didn't try. Wow, that's big...I have a hard time learning because I hate making mistakes and get embarrassed too easily.

I miss my Flagship family. I heard I wasn't missing much, but I think if I was there with them in Morocco, it would be alright. Things just didn't work out in the end with my stipend. Sigh.

Today was my birthday, another year older. No, I don't feel any different from yesterday. I'm almost halfway to 30. I can't help but feel I'm behind in my life. I'm 24 and only have my bachelors and the prospects of grad school this year are waning with each painful, passing day I hear nothing back. This is probably the most waiting I've ever done. I hate it. And no, I don't feel more virtuous for waiting. I'm ever-annoyed, this ball of irritation sitting on my stomach each day I wake up. I don't even realize it's there anymore. I just feel edgy. I want an answer so I can plan my life for the next year. My mind's scattered between all these possible routes my life could take. Which major should I use? Should I apply to take a teaching certification exam to teach French or Government in high schools? No, I want to go to school. Should I look for a job as a translator at the hospital? I just don't want to be stuck at Starbucks. This man told me he wanted me to put the cream in his coffee the other day, like I was his damn servant. Of all the things I hate in the world, it's another's condescension, like I'm some kind of servant. Pam told me that there are worse people in the world. I know, I've seen them fall from power in a matter of days. I hope that man choked on his cream. I can't do that job any more. I'm still too sensitive and susceptible to treatment like that. Nothing I have done in my life would have led me to come back to the coffee shop scene. I want to do great things.

I know this little period in my life will pass. It's just accepting the humbling reality that I might have to wait more. Time is so elusive, it's a little snake. All the possible paths I can take, I just want to take the right one. I don't want to be hasty, but I don't want to wait. I need to figure out where to pick and choose.

I've been tired of living in such a weird, fluid state of existence. I want something stable, long term. I am at a point in my life where I'm looking for security. I never really found it's absence incredibly intoxicating, but I think now more than even it's become so important. I want to settle down and start my future, even if I have to wait a bit. I'm convinced I know what I want.

I still find it all so beautiful. I'm still idealistic and prefer to wear my heart on my sleeve. I'm still impatient. I still am my biggest competition. I still have this animosity for what was done before, though it's ultimately made me a better person to other people. I will still give my all to those who deserve it, and I will always love you with all my heart if I told you I love you.  I no longer use the word "LOVE" lightly anymore. It's too precious of a word to be wasted in passing utterances. I'm still looking inside for answers, and to those glowing lamplights from my Egyptian balcony. I miss you. But it's not over. I'll be back. Here's to everything before me, I just gotta make it happen, and that's absolutely the hardest part. Egypt, we'll meet again, in sha' allah.

الذبح -The Slaughter

The bright glow of the lanterns hung low above us, crowding the already congested popular quarter of Alexandria's Izbit Sa'ad district. Like every other "sha'aby" (common) area in Egypt, my senses were inundated with innumerable stimuli: the boisterous voices of the meat and fruit vendors, the countless shoppers bargaining and shouting to them how much their bag of dinner will weigh: "3ayiz 3 kilo tamaatim (I want 3 kilos of tomatoes!). The live birds scrambling to escape from their wooden crates, children screaming and throwing around a soccer ball through the puddles of muddy, brown water. The tram whizzes by with young men dangling bravely out the door and playing Russian Roulette with the telephone poles, jumping on and off as it slowed, stopped, and jolted back to life at a rickety, lightning speed. The smell of butchered meat and fruit filled my nostrils as I sat at that cafe table with the other students, smoking a sheesha (hooka) and enjoying the shay bi-na3naa3 (mint tea) and the wonderful generosity and hospitality of Jordan's boss, the cafe owner in this little corner of Izbit Sa'ad, not 5 minutes from the dorms.

I stop smoking the sheesha as my stomach begins to turn. It's time to stop, my stomach can't really take the strength of this water-filtered tobacco. Before our small party leaves the cozy affair, the butcher comes over, excited to see foreigners enjoying their sheeshas and offers for us to witness a dibHa (a sheep slaughter) to commemorate the end of Eid. I am curious, and decide to stay for a closer look, for the "cultural experience".  As our party crowds around, the butcher and a group of men drag over a very reluctant victim and force pin it to the ground. I felt awkward and a weird sense of sympathy for the sheep. It knew it was going to die, I could see it in its jerky, panicked movements and through the dark, empty, and fearfully-dilated pupils. 

Everyone was smiling and laughing. It became surreal when the butcher beckoned over his son, not older than 4; an excited gleam in his eyes. The butcher bent down in his white robe with his son, extending a large, sharp knife to the sheep's neck as it continued to kick and bleat. The son grabbed his father's hand and the knife. They began to saw through the neck. The animal bleated as it swung it's head around in circles, dying slowly. Blood gushed and squirted from the gash, raining back down and filling the holes in the ground with puddles of red, reflecting the bright glow of the lanterns above. After a minute, the beast succumbed to the bloodletting. It lay there, twitching its legs every few seconds, the last nerves dying as the brain slowly shut down and the heart pumped the last beats of blood to the extremities. 

The butcher picked up his son, both laughing and smiling, excited about the young boy's first slaughter, a sort of rite of passage.  "That was not Halal (religiously correct)," said Muhammad, my academic director who joined us for the cafe excursion. The animal should not have suffered. I kept telling myself over and over, "alright, I feel fine. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Blood? Maybe I'm over this irrational sickness of seeing it." Just then, the excited commotion of my classmates and the street began to muffle, and my ears began to ring. I went deaf as I turned around to leave. "Guys, will you come with me? I gotta go, like now. Let's go!" I said impatiently. I knew what was happening, I was going to faint for the first time in my life. My fight or flight mechanism kicked on and I wasn't responding accordingly as the blood flooded from my head to my legs. "Run!" they said. But I walked, slowly, as I negotiated with others the terms of our departure. My vision blurred, as if I had just rubbed my eyes. Deep purples and blues clouded the bright lanterns and the smiling faces. I thought "Oh God, please let me get out of here. Don't let me be the white kid that faints because he can't handle a slaughter. Don't let me faint on this dirty ground. Don't let me have to go to the hospital or be carried out. I will die of mortification." "Matt, you need to sit down and put your feet up!" an indiscernible voice called to me. No, I thought. I just need to get out and I'll be ok. If I stay, I'll faint. I stumbled out as my legs wobbled, half blind and totally deaf. 

The 3 of us finally make it to the open air and I slowly regain my ground. I felt nauseous, but damn it, I resisted fainting! Talk about will power. That was until we turned right onto the open street and found a large group of children playing soccer. Fuck, a dysfunctional white guy and 2 white, foreign girls. This was going to be annoying...

The kids stopped playing soccer and stared at us in wonderment as we approached, our eyes toward the main road behind them to catch a cab the hell out of there. As predicted, these little shits were true terrors. Poking and prodding the girls, making comments at us, and yelling broken, common "Egyptian English" at us. "Hello, how are you? What is your name? How old are you?" Frustrated, unsteady, and absolutely overwhelmed I turned around and yelled at them as loud as I could in Egyptian Arabic: "Watch your mouths and respect yourself! Don't you have any respect for anyone older than you?!" I did it, I couldn't resist the urge. I should have just ignored them. They began to throw stones at us, so I picked one up and threw it back and charged back at these little shits. I stopped. What the hell was I doing? Get a grip, get in the damn cab! They came up to one of the girls to apologize, and she turned around, told him that he was a little shit and his apology wasn't good enough. That set him off again, calling her a whore and a bitch until a passing man told the children to shut the hell up. We finally escaped to the street and waited in the dark for 20 minutes. No one wanted to take us to Khalil al-Khayat. That's the thing about Egyptian cab drivers. If you're not going far enough away, they might not take you. It's all about the customer, how much he looks like he can afford, how far he's going, how he's dressed, etc. Assumptions galore in this game of give and take, bargaining and haggling. It's an art, and unfortunately for us, we weren't feeling very artistic. I finally found a cab and stumbled my exhausted ass up the stairs and plopped legs-up on the couch. 

Alberto finally came home and looked pitifully at me. No words were needed. It was all understood. I was later consoled to know that there are even Muslims that can't handle a slaughter on Eid. I don't know why I was so shocked to know this, it makes sense. A human is a human, we all have our tolerances, and our religious and life experiences don't necessarily dictate our behavior or biological/physiological reactions to stimuli. The adjectives we use to describe ourselves sometimes just doesn't encapsulate the whole person. Sometimes it takes a shocking, impromptu stimuli to show a person's true character, their true weaknesses and tolerances, and their noble strengths. Sometimes 50 years of stagnation, decline, and despair can reverse with one spark and explode into 80 million angry voices screaming for bread, freedom, and human dignity. 

History

I think a gut reaction shows who You really are. It's a spontaneous, internal spark that thrashes you, propelling you forward, changing forever what you tell yourself is is all under control and you're so sure of who you are and what you can accept. You turn inside out, the internal becoming external, the cacophony of hypocrisy is silenced with the new, deafening congruence between the outer and the inner. Sometimes it takes a ritualistic slaughter and a temporary paralysis of the senses to realize one's capabilities and where the boundaries are drawn.

I've never really had the stomach for blood.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________

I bit the bullet straight, no chaser.

The heater kicks on, knocking every metallic part into the the wall as I shoot up, sweating, gasping for breath. Was that an M-16? A tank? I slam my hand against the wall to regain my balance as I squint through the darkness. It's so warm; too warm. I'm not there. The strong smell of the musty dirt in Andrew's bachelor pad and Karim's cigarettes fades away from my nostrils. The image of the moonlit balcony morphs into Venetian blinds. They gently rattle, pierced by the frigid cold. They replace the lull of the lapping Mediterranean in my ear drum. I feel embarrassed as I fall back into my half-delirious dream phase. 

It happens all the time. Walking down State Street. A drop of a skateboard and it's four wheels make my head jerk. The bang of the heater makes my heart leap.  The motors of the cranes downtown fill me with hope for a second as it triggers an image of a tank rolling through the street. My minds jerks my thoughts toward reality again from my split-second strays from the moment. I looked out that window of the 15th story of that apartment down onto the soft glow of lamplights in the heart of that Egyptian night, shots and explosions ringing in the distance. Inundated with this visual audio stimuli, along with the laundry list of conflicting internal emotions, this moment is forever burned into my mind.

February was the most trying month of my life. I arrived with nothing (I still don't have much). The sting of being told "no" by 6 universities still lingers; I still can't even say that I've processed it. It feels how I imagined it would be to be dumped. Ironic those relationships never even began and they were over. I broke my vow not to return to Starbucks realizing finding a quick job after Egypt was not really a realistic option, especially when I was still waiting to see if I could make a commitment to a "real" job for a while. I still don't know. I decided again to put my head on the chopping block and applied late to Rice and MSU; I didn't feel like taking no for an answer. Realizing that I would rather continue my education rather than apply for programs I thought were challenging enough for me was a huge realization that cost me hundreds of dollars in app fees. Sigh.

 I still don't have my clothes from up north from my stepdad. Good-intentioned, but I'm freezing down here without my sweaters. 

I can't believe how expensive things are in this country. I can't believe some spend 31.32 Egyptian pounds on a latte.  I can't believe people berate me like spoiled children when their drink isn't the exact "iced decaf tall non-fat/soy 2 pump mocha/2 1/3 pump sugar-free cinnamon dolce light whip latte" mess that they ordered when people are being gunned down by their government in Bahrain because they want democratic institutions. It really puts my job, and my life for that matter, into perspective.  I feel sorry for these poor people. They have no idea that their little upset has fallen to an undetectable "zero" on my caredar. But I continue to smile. Their rude, condescending remarks about my intelligence don't bother me as much as they did before I went to Egypt. I remember someone once told me that one day, I won't care about what people thought of me as I got older and "wiser". All I could do was say that he'd somehow "given up" on himself. No, he was right. When you're younger, you can never really fathom sagacity. A build-up of life is required, and it's something that cannot be recorded and learned through words or paper. It's ironic that I realized this a year later in this woman's bougey, overpriced latte.

Though February was a crash course on the consequences of being unprepared for a return to America, I feel better about March. I'm making headway in sorting it all out, trying to keep a smile. Or at least a straight face. Yesterday was the first day in a long time I was so tired that I my stresses soaked through. So damn cranky; it felt like everything was just falling apart and I was making no progress. It was like the line of customers all day from the pillar to the counter that showed no sign of slowing all day. No matter how fast I worked, how much I smiled, how much I tried to reinforce happy thoughts and pleasantries, I wore down. I cracked. I've felt so tired for a couple weeks now, and it's starting to get to me. I just want to nap, but this all-over-the-place schedule won't let me. 

I need a hug.

For the first time in a while, I don't get to call a lot of the shots in my own life. I'm learning humility through constant exposure to the word "sorry" and "no". It's more like a refresher course I wasn't expecting to take. 

Keeping a positive attitude is a skill I'm still trying to learn. Yes, I'm alive. Let's start there. I didn't die in Egypt. Everyone keeps reminding me. But really, do we have to start with such a trite, unrealistic baseline? I'm worn out, but I'm hopeful. I started running long-distance again. My body is starting to come back alive, I can feel it in my chest when I breathe. (God, I have a chest?) I gave up snacking, it reinforces the exercise. I missed running so much in Egypt. You lose one, you gain one. I have my friends, family, projects, determination, and my stamina. I still have my pride and good judgement. I'll wait this one out. It's going to be good for me. 

Otherwise, I'll just sell myself on the street corner or join an Arab rebellion. Either one will be quite profitable for either my pocketbook or resume.

I feel positive about what lies ahead, even escaping Starbucks. There's been too much good over the past few months for me to be mopey. Cereal, my one unshakeable addiction, is no longer $10/box like in Alex. I also found this great guy who I really care about and makes me the happiest I've been since...well, I can't even remember. I love spending time with him.  He, too, has dreams, ambitions, and motivation. It's contagious. It's sexy as hell.

As my oft-quoted hero Sartre said, you are a blank canvas and it is up to you to decide what goes on it. "l'Existence précède l'éssence." Your past doesn't determine who you will become. I always knew that, and I've watched year after year as opportunity just seemed to fall into my lap. I took it. Such luxury might be out of my reach for the short term, but I'm confident that it'll be back when I'm ready to seize it. 

So-

I raise my cereal bowl to the future, wherever it may be. Or rather, whatever I will make of it.  

Janus

A quiet, calm, and calculated cataclysm.  Gravity weighs in, takes me down.

my greatest sacrifice; my choice. My conscience has never been more clear.  I've monkey wrenched it all.

If I accomplish nothing further in my life and if I were not to see the sun shine another day after this rainy February night.

I finally saw it for what it was. I felt what it could never be, what it could and might be; I sensed what it always had been.

 I can die knowing I came to know what I always knew.

The Descent

Day 6 of the Rebellion

Day 2: Andrew's apartment

So much has happened within the past 24 hours as the situation has quickly deteriorated into organized chaos. The police have completely left the scene and the military has taken over the city. There's an APC at the end of the our temporary shelter. Just a week ago I would take a cab, pay my 5 pounds, and cross the street to the university. It's surreal to see such a safe, familiar place turn into a deserted, eerie calm. 

Yesterday me Alberto were just waking up at Darci's apartment when we heard a knock on the door. It was Andrew. He couldn't get a hold of us all Friday while the protests turned into riots and lit Alexandria and Cairo ablaze. We had to leave Kafr Abdu to a more "centralized location". Luckily we had packed our emergency bags the night before with all my bare essentials: electronics, toothbrush, change of clothes, passport, and newspapers (for posterity). Darci wasn't happy to get up, or to know that it was Andrew that was making us leave. "Darci, Andrew's here. He says we have to go with him. Muhammed's downstairs waiting to take us in his car. You have to pack a bag." I was furious. While I understood the importance of getting us into one centralized place in case of evacuation, I thought it was asinine to move us to Chatby, closer to Muhatat Ramel and Manchia which was torched not only 10 hours before and where protests seemed to be centralized. My foreignness came back into focus as I trudged downstairs in my pajama pants, coat, backpack, and carrying the dog. The realization that I didn't belong here anymore struck me as Egyptians stared at us walking down the street to our "safe car". I felt my stomach turn. We get to leave, you have to stay here. I thought I'd be back to Kafr Abdu to get my stuff. Thoughts ran through my head. Do I have to pay rent now? What a trivial point at this moment. 

Muhammed was irritated at Mubarak. I was too, and I wasn't even Egyptian. I still couldn't believe his speech last night. "I'm with the poor" and "I've worked tirelessly for 30 years to help their situation" and "I've dissolved the government and you will have a new on tomorrow that I will appoint." I would hardly call these solutions. It would later be announced that the head of internal security was appointed vice president. Really? In a country where the people loathe the security forces and the police, it seemed that this appointment wasn't a compromise to the people, but a challenge. Mubarak must be so out of touch, delusional, or clinically insane. It was one of the most foolish political decisions that could have been made. بداية النهاية (beginning of the end) said Muhammed. I wasn't so sure. هو ساب البلد للحرامية، لصووص يعني (he left the country to thieves), referring to Mubarak's rule in general. I felt encouraged by his hope, and by the citizens who were directing traffic instead of the police. The people were really coming together. 

Then reality and a slew of haphazard decisions and irritating conversations filled the cold, dusty apartment in Chatby. 9 of us sat together trying to coordinate our plans. The position was still that were still no plans to evacuate. I planned to go home before the 4 pm curfew and at least go pack my bags. Then there was the phone call. The Middlebury program was evacuating. The game changed. With a series of quick phone calls between our holdout and Washington, it was decided we should also evacuate. I was so relieved. My stuff, I wanted to get my stuff. We would get it the next day, starting at 9:30 am. I joked about the investment I had in my material possessions, but I was serious. I have one change of clothes. I brought everything to Egypt. If i left without it, I had nothing. I didn't think things had deteriorated to the point they are today. People started arguing. Many wanted to stay, and Andrew fed the fire with his "expert" assessment of the situation. "We're not leaving unless we are in immediate danger." What the hell does that mean? Why are we waiting until that point? I wanted more of a concrete answer. "Matt, I'm sorry I can't give you more than that. I'm not making those decisions." I became angry. Are you telling me that these idiots in Washington, who have thus far claimed that they're not "going to alter the program in anyway" are in charge of making these assessments? "I told them it's not as bad as it seems on the news," said Andrew. I felt sick. I could be here for a long time because people are not assessing the situation properly. People started arguing whether American Councils has the right to pull us out and if they really had us by contract. Many wanted to stay. I understood how exciting it might be to be here during such a historic moment in Egyptian history, but my gut was telling me it was too dangerous. "There are millions of Egyptians going through the same thing, why would I be any different? Why should I have to leave? I have Egyptian friends and people I know. I just can't believe their friendly smiles would ever turn against me.," claimed one student. "Because we're not Egyptian," I thought. "We're clearly foreign, you're American. The growing anti-American sentiment over this rebellion was becoming clearer by the day. We see more random Egyptians each day rather than those familiar, friendly faces. It's suicide to stay," I thought. It was a naive notion to stay and think our lives would continue as normal or as if we could deal with this. It was idealistic and romantic that the famous "Egyptian generosity and hospitality" would just carry through this. They are people, not machines. As society deteriorates, so does the individual. Another wanted to stay with the host family. After hours of endless speculation and debate over American Council's power over the group, it was handed down that we all had no option, otherwise they would have to pay the entirety of the program fee back. This stopped all conversation, and I thanked God. 

I couldn't believe these conversations took place. People kept talking about what they were going to do when they get back when this all "blows over." Opium and comfort for those who just couldn't picture their Egyptian lives ending. I understood that they wanted to get us back here when it was all over, but I think this is an unrealistic expectation. This would spiral into chaos. And it slowly has, even since these conversations took place. As night fell, 

------

I had to stop writing that day. Too much was happening too fast, and my undivided attention was required. We were assured that we would get our stuff before we had to leave. That dream became unrealistic as we woke up Saturday morning to a phone call by Muhammed that people had broken into a police station, stole guns, and were roaming the streets that morning. Leaving his house was impossible until early afternoon when he came over to see what essentials we needed. He left to grab us food from Fathallah. A deep wave of hopelessness swept over me.  The curfew at 3 was creeping up, the last chance to get my stuff was waning. Materials were just that, and I was safe for the time being. But everything I've ever owned and that was important to me was in this country. Andrew said he was sorry I would have to leave my stuff behind. Though his statement was meant to somehow break my stubborn, contemplative silence, I couldn't help but feel angry at him. He was able to pick and choose everything in his apartment that he wanted to take with him. I never had that option. I was told that we probably would not have to evacuate, and even though I insisted, I was not allowed to return from my house back to Darci's to grab more clothes. When it became clear we would be evacuating, I panicked and insistent. But when Muhammad came back, he offered to grab my stuff. He called back an hour later and said that there was no way he could have gotten into my district because the military had taken it over and there was a checkpoint not letting him through. Apparently looters had sacked the neighborhood and no one that didn't live there was allowed in. It was clear I would lose everything because I was stuck in that damn, suffocating apartment. Andrew wouldn't let me leave. "I can't allow you to do that." I was stuck between a rock and hard place. I disdained his existence and his official authority over me, but I was also remembering the men on the streets with guns. I was conflicted, but I stayed. I stayed in that damn apartment and watch the already under-populated streets empty as men with pipes and sticks take over the neighborhood to keep looters and cars out. Rumors of illegal checkpoints set up across the city fueled fears, people being drug out of their cars, beat, and things stolen from them were reported everywhere. As darkness fell in that apartment for a second night in a row, I stood on the balcony. Egypt was silent. I had never seen this before. Not a car to be seen. A tank at the intersection of Port Said and Qanat Suez. The sound of gun shots competing for control over the sound of the lapping Mediterranean waves in the distance pierced through the eerie stillness of Alexandria's revolt. Our neighborhood seemed so safe, but I knew there was no guarantee. I kept thinking of what I said to Dr. Ghabali when he visited us a few weeks prior. "I think there should be a plan in case something happened.  We didn't even get a statement from American Councils until 5 days after the church bombing. What are we supposed to do in case of an emergency? We're still not clear. Egypt is secure, but as we saw, that security can change to chaos in a matter of minutes." Dr. Ghabali said he would get back to me. He never did. We only received instructions on emergency procedures a mere 20 minutes before the internet was cut from Andrew. We didn't even follow that. All tangents aside, I thought about how I was right. Egypt's stability was a carefully orchestrated sham. Though inspired by Tunisia's Revolution a few weeks prior, unrest has been building up in Egypt for decades. 40% of the population living off less than $2 a day, 40 million living at or just above the poverty line, police brutality, murder, and disappearances sanctioned under the country's Emergency Law, Mubarak's 30 year rule, fraudulent elections, 30% illiteracy rate…I could go on. It was a matter of time before it exploded into a fury of chaos and a downward spiral into the present situation. I knew Andrew would be wrong all along, but it didn't matter now. I tried to ignore him and his delusional optimism and constant mind changing on key decisions involving my safety, but I couldn't bring myself to do so. One more day, one more goddamn day. We had to get out of that apartment. I was even annoying myself with how difficult I was being. As I walked to the end of the hallway and into the darkness of the kitchen, I looked out from the 11th story onto Chatby and the city lights. Muddled gunshots tore through the air. It was so surreal to see such a safe place become a war zone. I could not believe this was Egypt. 

Perhaps the most striking moment of this whole experience was when our professor Radwa came over to check up on us. She had taken part in the protests on Friday. They had walked 20km peacefully, 200,000 strong. That is until men with motorcycles rode up and started wreaking havoc. She said that it was the police that had released thousands of prisoners as they retreated from the cities, and it was them and the plain clothes policemen that had provoked the violence and the destruction. They started burning everything, threatening and beating protesters. She said she had left because the danger and the violent turn it had taken. All while describing her experience, she was speaking so fast, tears, anger, and disbelief in her voice. My eyes teared. "This is not who we are!" she insisted. "These men should be court martialed, Matthew." I agreed. These policemen were only Egyptian in name. They were ferocious animals taking command from one of the most vindictive leader on the planet. "We knew the government was repressive, but we never expected this." It was inhumane, animalistic. To release prisoners onto your population. To cut the internet and all forms of communication off. To withdraw police from the cities. To refuse to step down when everyone hates you. The absolute arrogance was astounding. The whole basis for a government is to govern a people, not to force yourself upon them. A country and a nation should be for and by the people. I know Jeffersonian democratic principles are not an NDP concept, but not even security was being guaranteed by this government, a point it has always pointed to. There was no more legitimacy in this Party, no more credibility. How could Mubarak continue? His speech on Tuesday night (Feb. 1) confirmed his stubborn arrogance. He would not be running, even though he "didn't plan on running again" anyway. Does he think Egyptians are stupid? 8 more months of his rule is not going to quiet the streets, or bring back security. No, the people have been clear: "al-sha'ab youreed isqat al-nizam!" (The people want the regime to fall). 

I do wonder how long the People can keep it up though. Yesterday, Feb. 1, over a million people took to Tahrir Square in Cairo, the epicenter of the protests. I had never seen so many Egyptian flags in my life. Never so much national pride, a current that has been relatively latent since I had come here in June. Watching this from Zenit's living room in DC, chills ran down my spine. But rail service had been cut between Alexandria and Cairo, along with the only road. Food was running out in Alexandria, and security was become increasingly an issue in that part of the country.  The economy was shut down. How long could people air their grievances before they were forced to return to their work? The government is playing a game of chicken with the People, that much is clear. As Zenit said, it's like a mother letting her daughter scream and throw a fit without giving in and buying the toy. Except this child was starving, abused, and denied her fundamental rights to choose the life she wanted. Social Services would not be called, because the mother was the director. This daughter is at a crossroad. The next few days will determine whether she gets her toy or if she will be silenced. One thing is for certain, the People are no longer afraid of the government and certainly not the police. They have the military on their side. The won't be abandoned, and the police will not be accepted until their oppressive and brutal tactics are officially rescinded. Whatever the outcome, Egypt will emerge a different country. After Friday, it had already changed. It was indeed the start of a Revolution. 

--------

Evacuating the next morning, we had to leave poor, confused little Poopsie with the doorman of the TAFL center. It broke my heart. I realized at that moment that I loved that dog. We drove through Alexandria in our university bus for the last time for a while at least. I tried to take in every last image I could upon my release from our hideout. The mall had been looted of everything, tanks deployed all around it. Our NDP sanctioned exit out of the city made me a bit sick, as did the fact that Dr. Ashraf, Dean of the University, was affiliated with the Party. I felt like I had betrayed principle being evacuated under the auspices of Mubarak's regime. Our flight to Amman was delayed, and I afraid we would be stranded at the airport. This was not before a panicked, childish Andrew threw a fit at the checkin line and yell "ALRIGHT, ALL THE AMERICANS RAISE YOUR HANDS!" in front of hundreds of Egyptian and Arab travelers. Yeah, those were American tear gas canisters, "Made in the USA" stamped across them. They all knew it. I felt as if I died inside as I yelled back in a reflex of anger. "ANDREW, DON'T YOU EVER DO THAT AGAIN!" This antagonism continued the whole trip, especially when we arrived in Amman and we were about to miss our connection. A panicky Andrew was yelling at the top of his lungs at the travel agent to get us out of the airport. We had to go tot he connections desk and said in a most whiney voice "WILL SOMEONE JUST PLEASE GO STAND IN THE LINE." "ANDREW WE ARE IN LINE!" "NO WE'RE NOT." "THERE IS NO GODDAMN LINE, THIS IS AN ARAB COUNTRY!!!!"  I exploded, I couldn't believe it. I had never been under the direction of such an incompetent child. I blamed my program for hiring him. He was not the man for the job. I missed Robyn. I knew that she would have had all the answers, calm and collected, and responsible. But Robyn was a one-in-a-million find; not too many programs were blessed with her inherent personal skills and her uncanny ability to make problems disappear. I missed her at that moment, my very rare resentment for another human taking the humanish form in Andrew. What a toolbox. 

On the plane, we called Professor Nahla to tell her we were leaving then. I talked to her: "tawhishini giddin giddin!" (I miss you so much) I said. She began to cry as she said she missed me too. I cried. It hit me all the people I was leaving. It was so unfair. I hated Mubarak and the NDP. I'm glad their HQ was burned to the ground and he had to contend with the anger of 80 million people. He will pay. If not in this life, then the Next. 

Sitting in Reagan International waiting for my flight to board to go back to Detroit, I remember these moments that will no doubt shape my future, how I will look at the world, and inform the future course of my studies. They are the lens through which I will see my world. We'll see what the next week brings. Things are turning so fast, it's a total system shake up. I'll keep my cautious doubts about progress, with an optimistic squint to the future.

Friday, Day of Anger

12:30 pm

The internet cut out last night around midnight before we all settled in to watch the Dark Crystal. Despite Jim Henson's attempt to assure us that fantasy could be found even in Egypt, the reality of what lay ahead the next day began to set in. I sprang out of bed this morning at the first prayers of Friday sounded through the loud speaker outside my window.  I found my mobile network shut off, my Skype status a gray, lifeless X, and my gmail not loading. No news. No communication. Server and internet down. No matter, I'll just post this later. I thought of running over to Vodafone and Link DSL and demanding whether they were Egyptian or National Democratic Party members. I know they ultimately control those switches. Those traitors. No matter, I think the government was too late to stop anything. This has been in the process of organization for days now, and the mosques are the agreed upon gathering place. How did they do it in 1977? There was no cell phone, there was no internet. Egyptians have to know this. The blocking of technology won't stop people from feeling empowered and taking to the streets, waving that flag in front of the riot police. 

Glancing out the window to let Poopsie out on the balcony, my eye caught the red, white, and black of the Egyptian flag waving in the wind down at the gas station across from the construction site, where workers were busy laying foundation. That was the first time I've seen a flag outside of the context of a government building. There was another one directly across the street. As Prayer still echoes through the rooms and halls of my apartment, an uneasy anticipation sweeps over me; what's going to happen in a mere hour when mosque lets out? I wanted so bad to be able to follow events as they unfolded today, to know who is in power. I want to know numbers, I want to know progress. But again, I will have to wait. I'm getting better at the waiting game. Patience takes time. Anyway, this isn't about me. It's about the future of 80 million souls, tired of violence and economic struggle. Until we all know, Darci, Alberto, Poopsie, and I will stick together with our french toast and eggs. 

To the People of Egypt, I'm praying for you. May God guide you.

3:48 pm

I came to my senses after taking a tour outside the apartment after a demonstration of thousands of people marched past on Abu Ir. I'm staying indoors today.  Darci and Alberto left a few minutes ago. Al-Jazeera is reporting that Mahatat Ramel is burning, and the witness said she's not sure where the smoke is coming from. Suez  has troops deployed in the streets. I couldn't convince them to stay, no matter what I said. I'm afraid for them. I told them to take a cab to make sure they have a way back and that they don't have to take the tram and be with a bunch of people. They decided on the tram. "I've always wanted to protest against The Man," said Darci excitedly. Me too, but my gut says no. I'm going to listen to it for a change, despite what I want. I ran to my room, took my scarf and soaked it with water and gave it to her. "Just in case of tear gas," I said. With a hug, they went out the door. "You want anything to eat?" Alberto called to me going down the stairs. "Foul with egg." I told them they need to be back by 5:30 or I'm going to freak out. I hope they come earlier. Oh Andrew, you're wrong. Things are falling apart all around, and I can't get ahold of anyone. I guess I'll just wait for something to happen. Tick. Tock.

1:11 am

They came back around 7:30; by that time I had decided I was taking Poopsie to the American Center tomorrow morning after the curfew was lifted at 7am. Thoughts raced through my head as I watched Al-Jazeera footage flash before my eyes. I felt stuck, scared. Will I find a cab to get there? I don't have a phone, I don't have internet access. What the fuck am I supposed to do? My anger turned towards Andrew and his stellar "experienced" expertise on the situation; protests were called for tomorrow, he said. But they probably won't deteriorate or be as big as Tuesday. I began to scream at him, realizing eventually that he wasn't here. He sent out our evacuation plan not only an hour before the internet was cut last night. What if my mother hadn't emailed him, which spurred his evacuation plan email. I wouldn't know what to do. I still don't know what to do. I forget what street the American Center is on.  Unfortunately, I can't look it up right now. I don't have the internet. I still cannot believe that he is in charge of my safety. He will no longer be; I'm no longer dealing with Andrew; he's an incompetent child that is out of touch with the situation. Much like the government. If he had been following the news as closely as I was, rather than the "major news outlets", he would have logically concluded that the anger in the streets, the participation of the Muslim Brotherhood, the effect of al-Baradei on the movement, and the sheer numbers and violence caught on video would have led him to conclude that Washington's stance of there being "no plans to alter the program in any way" is an out of touch, foolish, irresponsible, and idiotic response. If I ever see Andrew again or if I end up staying here, he will hear from me in a way he has never done so before. I plan to take this to Rafah's office in Washington. This is entirely unacceptable; there is no coordination now; it's chaos. We're alone. 

All I have is al-Jazeera

Events focused mostly on Cairo and the 6th of October Bridge, the veritable traffic artery of the city. Riot police and protesters played cat and mouse, firing tear gas and retreating, the demonstrators throwing rocks and sticks and retreating. One girl was hit in the head with a tear gas canister and died instantly, her body along with another young man being loaded into a van by protesters on the way to the hospital. Protesters took over a police mobilization van, trying to push it off the bridge into the Nile. They failed, so decided to set it on fire. It's still burning as the usual Cairo over-crowded traffic resumed later in the night. The National Democratic Party's HQ was torched, threatening the National Museum of Egyptian Antiquities, around which protesters formed a chain to keep looters out. The most powerful image today was a man falling to his knees, waving at the police, then another man. It was time for the sundown prayer. God entered the protest and an eerie quiet fell over the scene as Egyptians lined up, prostrated, and bowed down in prayer. No one fired and allowed them to continue. I think we all know what would have happened if they were attacked while praying…

Fire continued to grip the city as Egyptians began to storm the foreign ministry building, followed by the police entering the al-Jazeera HQ over the live feed site. "اقفل الباب close the door! The reporter yelled. The military enters just after prayer as Egyptians greeted them with cheers and fist pumps. Until they found out that it wasn't the military proper, but the Presidential Guard, sent to protect key buildings, including the burned-out NDP Headquarters. One tank was surrounded by 400 protesters blocking its path. It appears now that the military is in fact in line with the regime. It's too early to tell; signals are mixed and there is too much chaos in the streets. 

Alexandria is the same. Mahatat Ramel was a war zone and deserted. Manchia district was the epicenter of rage. After no news about my city, video started to trickle in: government buildings, and it looks like the Courthouse, were on fire. Cans were burning, a police station was on fire. Alberto and Darci saw a car explode. The police retreated completely, and the demonstrators took over the city. Just as al-Jazeera announced that the military had reached Alexandria, I heard planes flying overhead and tanks firing far away. Control was being restored. Or so it sounds. I have no idea. I still hear the explosions and gunfire. I left Darci's apartment to get my "oh shit" pack, just in case we have to flee. A choking smell of the burning city filled my lungs. The curfew, imposed at 6 and largely ignored, was being obeyed in my area. The lights were off. Streets were deserted save the occasional car. An eerie silence gripped my neighborhood, with the background of military might dull in the distance. 6 people have been killed here. 

What is in store for tomorrow? 

We were all sure that the government had fallen. Inundated with images on the media, what I was hearing, smelling, and feeling, we all thought that Mubarak was 1. still in Sharm al-Sheikh 2. dead 3. left the country 4. would announce his stepping down. Waiting 4 hours for the long awaited "important announcement" by the President, I was disappointed by the speech. He would not relinquish power and is dissolving the Cabinet. Really? That was all? No one on the street is going to stomach this. They want him gone. He tired to paint himself as the tireless leader of the poor, but over 30 years, he has yet to deliver and raise up this 40% of Egyptians that live under or just above the poverty line. His brazen arrogance that he has control over the situation has baffled me, totally unexpected. He is out of touch with reality, and has a smug attitude that demonized the "youth" for taking to the streets and tried to advance a position of "cooperation" with the people and lauding the democracy that characterizes the Egyptian political system. As he continued to speak, I became angry. So angry; and I'm not Egyptian. Stepping out on the balcony, I began to hear renewed booms and jets overhead. This is not over. This will continue to be bloody. Al-Jazeera said that the leader of the Muslim Brotherhood said that they will not accept him staying in power, and want the military to come and save Egypt. A difficult position because though largely removed from the day-to-day runnings of the country, the military is considered under the strict control and loyalty to the President. They are not hated like the police and security forces are. As night fell, the police and security services retreated, and the military seemed to be welcomed, I had hope. Now I'm not so sure. The military on the side of the people was a key to Tunisia's successful revolution. Loyalties in Egypt are blurred, it appears. 

The US won't yet pick a side, saying it supports it's long relationship with Egypt, yet denouncing the use of violence against its citizens, demanding that the internet be turned back on, and both sides to show restraint. The US is in a delicate position: should it support this sclerotic, unpopular, autocratic regime, or should it stand behind its ideals of freedom of speech, assembly, and association that it has been touting all evening on the media? Both cannot happen. The government announced it will "rethink" its aid to Egypt, which receives the second highest amount of foreign aid due to the Camp David treaty that ended the Arab-Israeli war of 1973. International law and treaty issue. Can the US just withdraw the treaty legally? I don't know because I don't have the Internet. Will it? I think it depends on the events on the ground. If it looks like Mubarak will fall, like almost reassured, I have a feeling that the US will withdraw funding in order to save face with the Egyptian people and will endorse American ideology. Speculation, but I don't think the US will modify it now, no matter how much they "rethink" it. The US is at a crossroads: ideology or strategy? Pick the first and the government survives, Egypt will no longer be the bastion of US foreign interest in the Mid east peace process as it is now, but will not look so evil in the eyes of the people (who are picking up tear gas canisters and bullets that say "Made in USA" and rightfully blaming my country for these weapons used against them). Espouse a dedication to strategy, you prop up a dictatorship, tacitly denying Egyptians basic human and political rights, and ruining our already-weak and tainted reputation on the Arab street. A true crossroad.

"This is North Korea style communication shutdown…completely inhumane… violation of human rights…he needs to backtrack immediately." Adel Iskander, Al-Jazeera analyst

When I wake up tomorrow, Egypt will be a new Egypt. The people have broken a barrier of fear against the police, which have proven to be ineffective yet brutal. People are just not afraid anymore. They are emboldened. I felt it today when i was out to see what was going on. People were excited, smiling, running, chatty. Fervor has gripped this country and it won't die down until they get what they want. They won't back down until Mubarak is gone. A New Egypt has been born. No matter what the authorities or the NDP say, this is a revolution. The Egyptian Revolution of 2011. 

Where is Mubarak?

An important question that has yet to be answered...or even asked.

It's been two days since protests and riots have broken out all over Egypt, from Alexandria in the north, to the Sinai desert in the east, to Cairo and then Assiut in the south. Yesterday in Suez, a huge group of protesters over powered the police and burned the ruling National Democratic Party's main building in the city. Communication was severed to the city, including all cell phone service and internet access. Reports trickled in about the rumored-use of live ammunition on the crowd to disperse. These reports are still not confirmed, and I can't find anything on Suez right now except this video of the government building burning:

Protests continued in Cairo yesterday, though in smaller numbers. This video was taken at the main square in front of the Mugam3a (Egypt's centralized "secretary of state" building):

And this little gem from last night in Cairo as well:

Protests have been by and large smaller, less organized, and more sporadic. However, they have increasingly become more violent as the regime clamps down on dissent, firing rubber bullets, tear gas, and sound grenades to disperse the angry masses. The groups have also narrowed down to a certain population yesterday: the shebab (young men). The possibility for violence has increased as yesterday shows, with women and children reportedly mostly absent from the demonstrations. Police have been reportedly getting so angry with protesters that they were ripping large pieces of concrete off the road and hurling them at protesters. I'm shocked that through all of this, only 6 people have been killed. I'm not surprised that over 800 have so far been imprisoned according to human rights groups.  

concrete hurled:

http://blogs.voanews.com/breaking-news/2011/01/26/egyptian-riot-police-clash-with-demonstrators/

Here are some pictures, courtesy of Time:

In front of the Mugama3a: January 25, 2011

President Mubarak

Protesters Praying at Sundown

First day of protests: Downtown Cairo

Time has the situation right, and where it's headed:

http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,2044558,00.html

So far today, the Egyptian stock market has closed. It fell almost 6.5% in the first 15 minutes, or about the same amount it fell ALL DAY yesterday. The Egyptian pound is falling against the dollar like mad. 

http://www.xe.com/currencycharts/?from=USD&to=EGP

What do people want? Here's a list of demands:

This youth opposition coalition was the main organising force behind Tuesday's demonstrations. It started the call for the "day of anger" on Tuesday, 25 January, citing a list of demands on its website. They included the departure of the interior minister, an end to the restrictive emergency law, and a rise in the minimum wage. The movement is urging Egyptians to "take to the streets and keep going until the demands of the Egyptian people have been met".

Courtesy of BBC:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-12290167

Calls have, however, been largely centered around the denouncement of the regime in general and for Hosni Mubarak to leave. These voices have been growing louder.

In addition, the oppositional candidate hopeful for next year's presidential elections is flying back to Egypt today from a self-imposed exile in Austria. What does that mean? I can only speculate. In a move that is reminiscent of the return of Ayatollah Khomeini to Iran during the 1979 Iranian Revolution from France, Al-Baradei is flying back to Egypt to support the protesters and march with them against Hosni Mubarak's regime. This may drive out more protesters who support him; this may be the "leader" or at least the "face" of leadership that this movement needs to pick up speed and gravity to ouster the National Democratic Party from power and lead Egypt to change. I keep thinking, however, about the cab driver a couple months ago: "مش عايز البرادعي؛ هو عايش برّى ومش هيعرف أنا عايز أي" (I don't want al-Baradei, he's lived abroad and he won't know what I want." There is dissent against al-Baradei as well, as he is seen as disconnected from the daily struggles of Egyptians. He's not the "common man". But we'll see; having him return certainly puts a promising twist on these events and could give the opposition that organization and "push" it needs to confront the Egyptian security forces. According to CNN, he will participate on Friday after prayer, along with the Muslim Brotherhood, which has largely stayed out of the conflict. Their participation, however, worries me. So far, this movement has been about "Egyptians" and a united, national rise against the regime. Throwing in the moderate Islamist group could put a religious spin on the conflict, perhaps alienating the 10% Christian minority. Worst case scenario, the movement falls apart as unity gives way to sectarian divisions. On the other hand, their participation would add a concrete backbone to the movement as it is the most popular grassroots political and social organization in Egypt. This will indeed fuel and reinforce the movement. 

Traditionally in Muslim countries, the mosque plays a crucial role in politics and social gatherings. It is a place that is usually out of reach of the state and its security forces, and for good reason. Interfering in the gathering of people to pray in one of the most pious regions on the planet would lead to a direct confrontation between the population and the government. It would be political suicide to interfere with the inner workings of your typical moderate mosque. Tomorrow is Friday, which means it is the Muslim holy day (like Sunday for Christians, Saturday for Jews). This furnishes the opposition and angry protesters the perfect protection to gather without being interrupted or dispersed by security and police. The situation has the potential for better organization and more citizens turning out than Tuesday. Coupled with al-Baradei's return and the participation of the Muslim Brotherhood, I expect the protests to be huge, and the future uncertain. 

I can't stop refreshing Twitter (which seems to be working again) and Facebook pages covering the events in Egypt (especially R.N.N), and I just started filing a CNN i-Report because the Western media outlets seem to be ignoring this country and focusing instead on Oscar nominees. 

The government assures that these protests will amount to nothing and Egypt is "stable". Even the US is starting to doubt this, and called for Mubarak to implement wide sweeping reforms. The US stake in this conflict is huge. They don't want to see their strongest ally in the region ousted, but they fear that a stubborn, unresponsive Egyptian government will lead directly to that. The US position on Egypt has taken a rhetorical 180. Israel earlier pledged its support for the Mubarak government, and for good reason. The treaty between the 2 countries that have kept peace since 1973 could be at risk, depending on whether or not the current government falls and who takes over? The scary Islamists? I doubt it. If anyone, I fear that the military would intervene as interim government. I hope I'm wrong. This is what happened in 1952 when Nasser rose to power and the King was ousted. Hopefully, if the government does fall, the military will be more responsive to the people and recognize the need for democracy and effective, transparent governance. Fingers crossed on so many levels. 

On the way to the airport yesterday, Zenit said that people weren't being allowed to gather in the squares, and there were police crawling everywhere. She said that people were gathered in small concentrations, and tearing down and burning pictures of Mubarak all over Cairo. Today, there were reports that people weren't even present in Tahrir square, where the main protest took place Tuesday. That's seems so odd.

Tomorrow, I'm going to go down to Sidi Basher district to watch what unfolds after Prayer. I expect, with all the indicators and conditions ripe, tomorrow will explode. I still can't believe that the Egyptian monster of discontent and dissent has begun to shake the once-thought indestructible and stable foundations of Egyptian government control. Don't worry, I'll be careful. You know me ;)