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