When boarding was announced for my Paris-Cairo flight last Thursday, one of the round, middle-aged ladies sitting behind me at the gate rose from her seat and proudly yelled out, "Ya habibti ya masr!" - Oh my beloved Egypt. A man several feet away shouted back: "Ahla balad fel donya!" - The most beautiful country in the world. Although I heard snatches of conversation among my fellow passengers that suggested they were touching on politics - a topic that rarely ends on a high note these days - it didn't seem to sour their boisterous mood.
Now, four days later, the death toll has topped 70, three large governorates are under 9pm curfew, and Morsi has imposed a State of Emergency on those particularly restive areas. This was a favorite Mubarak instrument in curtailing civil liberties and right to due process. In Cairo, daily life continues in its resilience to chaos, with shadows of the dark events occurring sometimes only blocks away passing over and becoming almost forgotten before they flicker by again. This morning, I took the metro to the refugee school as usual, pausing to change trains at Sadat, the metro station for Tahrir. A skinny young man in a ski mask stood on the platform gesturing at passing trains to shut their windows. As soon as I stepped out, my nose began to twitch from the tear gas that had seeped into the station from the square above. It struck me later how relatively unconcerned everyone seemed as we moved together through the station with our faces in our sleeves or, in some cases, surgical masks. Turmoil has established itself as relative normalcy.
The night I returned to Cairo, the eve of the anniversary, I ate dinner with friends at a seafood restaurant on an anchored Nile boat and chased it with ice cream from the peculiarly named (and more peculiarly themed) Wings in Flavours -- a restaurant whose main shtick is chicken wings dipped in bizarre flavors. It was a calm evening, but the next day's importance hung in the air and I made plans to meet my Egyptian friends after Friday prayers.
Just after noon on Jan. 25, Sarah and I arrived at Mostafa Mahmoud mosque in Mohandiseen. It was this bastion of upper middle class secularism that I had marched from back in November when liberals were raging against the Ikhwan constitution. The imam was giving his khotba, his sermon, which was broadcast via loudspeaker to the growing crowd milling around outside. "El adl asas el molk!" (Justice is the basis of rule) he proclaimed, quoting a prominent disciple of the Prophet. There was no doubt as to whom the imam was directing his message. He then quoted a hadith, a saying of Muhammad that appeared on many posters that day (alongside pictures of Morsi with his eyes poked out, lest anyone miss the connection): "When he speaks, he lies. When he makes a promise, he breaks it. When he reassures, he betrays." Morsi must listen to the opposition as much as to his own supporters, the imam warned. But a battle of Egyptians against Egyptians will do no one good. Lines of men had formed to pray outside, prostrating themselves in unified solemnity as if in preparation for just such a battle. The instant they finished, a shout went up from one of the crowd and the chanting began. Thousands seemed to materialize instantaneously and banners were unfurled. The far larger-than-life faces of prominent Egyptian women - from Umm Kolsoum to feminist champions of the last century like Hoda Shaarawi (known for unveiling) and Doria Shafik (the right to vote) - sailed above us. (I knew I had come to the right march!) Nearby two women carried a banner in English with the words: "Women choose their own fate... Not your Islamic state." A few feet away, however, a group held up a sign that read: "No to the American occupation." "Hey, if we turn you in as spies, we will be heroes!" joked our Egyptian friends. One sometimes gets too comfortable and forgets that liberalism, secular liberalism even, does not necessarily mean embrace of the United States.
A few posters below:
Doria Shafik presides over the march
"No to the American occupation"; "(Morsi): Liar, hypocrite, insult to Islam, ..."; "Because of you, Egypt, we're going out in the streets."
In the crowd
Another crowd scene
Leading the chant
Leading the chant
The unifying feature of the posters and the slogans chanted that day was their opposition to the Muslim Brotherhood. Its followers were known as kherfan - sheep - and the lines I'd learned in November ("Bee'a, bee'a, bee'a - al sawra ya Badie" - Sold, sold, sold the revolution, oh [MB Supreme Guide] Badie and "Down with the rule of the Supreme Guide", for example) were repeated. A new favorite was a chant that said something like "It's the 3rd Jan. 25 with no Ikhwani among us!", a reference to the Brotherhood's absence from Tahrir at the beginning of the revolution with the implication of its having stolen it later.
It was nearly 70 degrees and sunny, lending the afternoon an aura of springlike optimism. Families marched along with their babies and old ladies leaned over their balconies holding up two fingers in solidarity and sometimes waving flags. Leading the chants in our area were two men about my own age who rode along on the roof rack of a car. At least once, a middle school student - a girl - was hoisted onto a friend's shoulders and led them herself. To one side of us passed Amr Hamzawy, a beloved member of parliament among liberals. I then felt a tap and saw another friend, Ahmed Farag, who was featured in this Egypt Independent article the day before. As we neared the Corniche, another one of the perhaps ten marches originating from different corners of the city streamed across the overpass above us. We looked up to see the marchers from working class Imbaba showering us with leaflets like confetti and cheering. Stopped for a while, I overheard an unveiled woman scolding another in full niqab. "El deen mosh keda!" she shouted. "El deen mosh mota'aseb!" ("Religion is not like that; religion is not fanatical!") The woman in niqab, apparently there alone, was a rare sight in that particular crowd. I couldn't hear her response to the other woman, but she carried a sign that read: "Tomorrow will be the Last Judgment unless you do not allow the Ikhwan."
After a little over four hours of marching, we reached Qasr el Nil Bridge, gateway to Tahrir. Strangely, feluccas with their neon lights on and a scattering of passengers drifted by beneath us. What an odd time for a party boat, I kept thinking. The square itself, when we arrived around dusk, was pulsing with a celebratory energy. Rage blended with nostalgia. The biggest winners of the day were the street food vendors - popcorn, baked potatoes, even a shawarma guy who had rigged up his giant meat wheel in the back of a pickup truck and was enjoying steady business.
In truth, though, there was not much for us to do in the square and little room to move among the crowds. Plus, it was getting dark and I wasn't sure it would be safe much longer. I formed a kind of conga line with three male friends and we began to push through the pack. Suddenly, a stranger's hand found its way through our human sandwich, squeezing me from behind. My own hand shot back, seizing his wrist and twisting it. I couldn't see the face to whom it belonged but I held on as long as I could while shouting fuck you, fuck you, again and again. Nothing in Arabic came to mind. The men around us looked blank and confused, and then the hand slipped away.
Revolutionary Shawarma
In truth, though, there was not much for us to do in the square and little room to move among the crowds. Plus, it was getting dark and I wasn't sure it would be safe much longer. I formed a kind of conga line with three male friends and we began to push through the pack. Suddenly, a stranger's hand found its way through our human sandwich, squeezing me from behind. My own hand shot back, seizing his wrist and twisting it. I couldn't see the face to whom it belonged but I held on as long as I could while shouting fuck you, fuck you, again and again. Nothing in Arabic came to mind. The men around us looked blank and confused, and then the hand slipped away.
We got out as quickly as possible. Later I read about more than a dozen women who were seriously assaulted by mobs of men around the square that night. I am sharing this article not to scare anyone, although it is very scary, but to spread awareness of the horrors that can and do happen. Teams of volunteers are going out from the anti-harassment campaigns now to patrol -- but they need to travel in groups of 15 men in order to be any kind of match for the perpetrators of these disgusting crimes.
I made a beeline for the metro a few blocks away, at Naguib. I said goodbye to my friends and breathed a sigh of relief. Less than five minutes later, the metro stopped in the tunnel. The conductor's voice sounded. All I could make out from the crackle was motazahereen, demonstrators. The lights dimmed. The doors opened. The matrons in my car let loose apocalyptic screams. We were about two-thirds of the way between Naguib and Sadat stations, and Ultras had blocked off the tunnel. There was little to do but get off the train and begin walking back to the station from whence we came along the narrow concrete platform that ran alongside the track. It was both dingily eerie and comedic: some people were inexplicably pushing with full force in the opposite direction (that of the block), one lady was taking pictures and flashing us a thumbs up from inside the car, and the man in front of me on the platform found it an excellent time to repeatedly turn around to ask for my name, country of origin, phone number, whatever he could get.
At this point, back where I started, I reconnected with Sarah and we found a taxi to take us home. Less than five minutes later, we were stuck again, this time on the massive 6 October Bridge that spans the breadth of the Nile. No traffic was passing. So we got out and walked across, a peculiarly serene experience amidst the mayhem. The lights of the Foreign Ministry building spelled out "25 Jan" in Arabic.
Back home at last, I scrubbed the soot of the metro tunnel off my hands and changed into a fancy dress and silver heels. I felt ridiculous prancing outside in that outfit given the circumstances. But I was on my way, quite improbably, to the wedding of a friend in Heliopolis. An hour and an extortionate sum later, I was at Dar al Hay'a al Handeseyya, the Engineering Authority Club. The zeffah, the entrance of the bride and groom to the boisterous tune of traditional squawky horns and drums, was just getting underway. The hired dancers pushed me into the circle with the couple. The other friends of the groom and I then hurried into the banquet room, lining up to welcome the newlyweds to the tune of Chris Brown's "Forever". The room glittered with tulle, mirrors, cascades of light, and at least one disco ball. In the center was a dance floor and a platform with a loveseat draped in gold for the bride and groom. Three giant screens adorned the walls, channeling the constant live feed of a ubiquitous videographer a few yards away who captured every smile, shift, and nose twitch of the bride and groom.
Things began in earnest with a slow dance for the couple, accompanied by a smoke machine. The guests - a mix of city people and village people, of Egyptians and English (the bride's family), of women in short skirts and flowing hair and women in full niqab -- looked on together. Then the dance groups kicked in, and they continued all night long, some sporting galabiyyas, tambourines, and turbans, others tight boy band button-downs. They had us guests practically doing cartwheels around the room all night in a dizzying exercise of joie de vivre.
Meanwhile, the videographer kept us updated on the couple's activities up front. They fed each other red punch from each other's cups, and then a family member (of the groom I suppose) ceremonially presented the bride with what is essentially a dowry. A case was opened to reveal an array of gold, silver, and diamond jewelry for the bride. Although the cake was cut and the rings exchanged midway through the night, it was nearly midnight when the dinner buffet was unveiled. (If they did that first, a friend explained, everyone would just eat and leave!) Grumblings were heard about the village relatives making off with doggie bags of meatballs and sliced chicken.
I figured after the food that things were wrapping up. But then the rainbow clowns showed up on stilts, and with them the whirling dervishes with light-up skirts. Certainly this was a high note to end on.
There had been no talk of politics during the wedding, at least not within earshot. Around 2am, my friend Ryme and I got in a car with some of her friends to head home. We arrived quickly at the Corniche, but found the bridges closed. The driver rolled down his window to ask advice and tear gas filled the car. Volunteers - from the area I suppose - stood on the street waving traffic back. Someone handed us cotton balls doused in vinegar to hold to our noses. The street to our right was littered with debris and burning tires that flickered in an uncharacteristic darkness. Some people seemed to be just standing at the waterfront, as if nothing unusual was going on. But we could also see groups of young men, shabab, clustered along the road, agitated but uninterested in us. We turned around and drove back in the direction from which we'd come. The day tapered to an end in an impromptu slumber party at the groom's cousin's apartment, a calm end to a day of extremes.
The next morning, we rode home in our wedding clothes. The taxi driver reminded us, though we knew already, that the Port Saeed decision had come out while we slept. Twenty-one soccer fans from the canal city sentenced to death for their role in the post-game riots that led to more than 70 dead last February. If they were found innocent, Cairo ultras said they'd seek deadly revenge, and vice versa. The Port Saeed people feel victimized. Families and friends of the sentenced stormed the jail almost immediately, killing more people in an attempt to free those in prison, who were to be killed for their role in killing others. Bloodshed for bloodshed.
Now it's late Tuesday night, and the curfew is broken in the governorates, Port Saeed has declared itself an independent nation with a new flag, and here in Cairo clashes continue sporadically on Qasr el Nil Bridge about 2km away. It's hard to tell who is even fighting anymore. Last night the luxury Semiramis Hotel was looted by thugs, and for a brief moment protesters stopped fighting the police to turn in the thugs to them. The chief of staff of the army warned this afternoon that the country could collapse if things continue in this vein. But as we wait to see what happens, and hope to God that he's wrong, we go to the movies, we eat out, we go to the supermarket, and we go to class. We even went to the BMW showroom and sat in a few dream cars - a suggestion of Seeko's. Please, let's talk about anything else.
Back home at last, I scrubbed the soot of the metro tunnel off my hands and changed into a fancy dress and silver heels. I felt ridiculous prancing outside in that outfit given the circumstances. But I was on my way, quite improbably, to the wedding of a friend in Heliopolis. An hour and an extortionate sum later, I was at Dar al Hay'a al Handeseyya, the Engineering Authority Club. The zeffah, the entrance of the bride and groom to the boisterous tune of traditional squawky horns and drums, was just getting underway. The hired dancers pushed me into the circle with the couple. The other friends of the groom and I then hurried into the banquet room, lining up to welcome the newlyweds to the tune of Chris Brown's "Forever". The room glittered with tulle, mirrors, cascades of light, and at least one disco ball. In the center was a dance floor and a platform with a loveseat draped in gold for the bride and groom. Three giant screens adorned the walls, channeling the constant live feed of a ubiquitous videographer a few yards away who captured every smile, shift, and nose twitch of the bride and groom.
Things began in earnest with a slow dance for the couple, accompanied by a smoke machine. The guests - a mix of city people and village people, of Egyptians and English (the bride's family), of women in short skirts and flowing hair and women in full niqab -- looked on together. Then the dance groups kicked in, and they continued all night long, some sporting galabiyyas, tambourines, and turbans, others tight boy band button-downs. They had us guests practically doing cartwheels around the room all night in a dizzying exercise of joie de vivre.
The bride and groom appear before the guests
Wedding dancers
Clowns and dervishes
I figured after the food that things were wrapping up. But then the rainbow clowns showed up on stilts, and with them the whirling dervishes with light-up skirts. Certainly this was a high note to end on.
There had been no talk of politics during the wedding, at least not within earshot. Around 2am, my friend Ryme and I got in a car with some of her friends to head home. We arrived quickly at the Corniche, but found the bridges closed. The driver rolled down his window to ask advice and tear gas filled the car. Volunteers - from the area I suppose - stood on the street waving traffic back. Someone handed us cotton balls doused in vinegar to hold to our noses. The street to our right was littered with debris and burning tires that flickered in an uncharacteristic darkness. Some people seemed to be just standing at the waterfront, as if nothing unusual was going on. But we could also see groups of young men, shabab, clustered along the road, agitated but uninterested in us. We turned around and drove back in the direction from which we'd come. The day tapered to an end in an impromptu slumber party at the groom's cousin's apartment, a calm end to a day of extremes.
The next morning, we rode home in our wedding clothes. The taxi driver reminded us, though we knew already, that the Port Saeed decision had come out while we slept. Twenty-one soccer fans from the canal city sentenced to death for their role in the post-game riots that led to more than 70 dead last February. If they were found innocent, Cairo ultras said they'd seek deadly revenge, and vice versa. The Port Saeed people feel victimized. Families and friends of the sentenced stormed the jail almost immediately, killing more people in an attempt to free those in prison, who were to be killed for their role in killing others. Bloodshed for bloodshed.
Now it's late Tuesday night, and the curfew is broken in the governorates, Port Saeed has declared itself an independent nation with a new flag, and here in Cairo clashes continue sporadically on Qasr el Nil Bridge about 2km away. It's hard to tell who is even fighting anymore. Last night the luxury Semiramis Hotel was looted by thugs, and for a brief moment protesters stopped fighting the police to turn in the thugs to them. The chief of staff of the army warned this afternoon that the country could collapse if things continue in this vein. But as we wait to see what happens, and hope to God that he's wrong, we go to the movies, we eat out, we go to the supermarket, and we go to class. We even went to the BMW showroom and sat in a few dream cars - a suggestion of Seeko's. Please, let's talk about anything else.
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