It is June 29, the eve of the massive day of protests anti-Morsi forces have been awaiting for months. Nearly every time I've gone into the metro, there has been a young man with a clipboard pacing the platform. Tamarrod? he asks to passersby, holding out a pen. Tamarrod means "to rebel" -- and the movement has been gathering huge numbers of petition signatures, 22 million according to their last claim, against Morsi. Indeed, most people I see on the metro platform of all stripes do sign, although one bearded man laughed and snorted -- La, tabaan! -- Of course not!
There is once again the escalating sense -- not at all unfamiliar to me after a year in Cairo -- of a city on the verge. No one really knows what will happen tomorrow. As Michele Dunne wrote on the Atlantic Council's EgyptSource blog, the best (and unlikely) scenario would be protests large and powerful enough to force Morsi to make democratic compromises incorporating a broader coalition. Another scenario is that the protests won't really be large enough to affect major change, as was true of recent brief outbreaks of unrest. Finally, a not impossible outcome could be violence significant enough to spur a military takeover (again). Although many secularists hate the military and the Brotherhood, whispers of a military coup of sorts are not too rare. Indeed, it seems to me, the military is really the only other organized power base besides the Brotherhood. Fifteen million people may have signed the Tamarrod petition, but this doesn't mean they're all liberals with any kind of shared vision -- and it certainly doesn't mean they have the capacity to form an organized replacement for the current regime.
I'm sitting in Shakawa this afternoon, a cafe near my apartment in Dokki, watching muted footage of demonstrations on TV as Arabic pop blasts in the background. Exactly this time last year, I was sitting in the same chair, watching footage of people going to the polls to vote in the second round of presidential elections. Although some were already feeling bitter about their less-than-ideal choice between the Brotherhood and the old regime's felul. But there was still a prevailing sense of cautious optimism that essentially free elections were actually happening. This Wednesday, though, Morsi delivered his State of the Union address. The written text should have taken an hour. He spoke for more than three. He rambled in a seemingly random fashion, calling out names of specific officials and questioning their revolutionary credentials. He claimed that tourism in Egypt had risen dramatically. He didn't mention the four Shi'a men killed by a mob just outside Cairo.
We were in Imbaba, a mostly poor neighborhood north of Dokki, the night of the speech. Miriam and I ate dinner with our friend Manar at tables set up in the street at El Prince, a meat (mostly liver) restaurant. Afterward, we were walking with her to her house on a quiet street when we heard the speech coming from nearly every apartment window. Everyone was listening, and many were mocking it. Manar's mother was once in the army, but left to have children. She used to wear miniskirts (like everyone! she said), but had grown more conservative -- especially after making the hajj in 2011. Though she, Manar, and her sister, are quite religious, none had any use for Morsi. He's mixing religion and politics, came the familiar refrain. That's not right. Maybe no one could have solved our problems right now, but he made a big mistake by only gathering advisers from the Ikhwan with no experience in governing. The whole family rolled their eyes every time Morsi claimed an achievement. Still, none would be going out on the 30th: They would stay as far from politics (and violence) as possible. As the speech played in the background, Manar's mother asked us about religion. Manar, having just discovered excitedly that she had met her first Jew (Miriam), hesitantly told her mom. I would have had no idea! I can't even tell you two apart! she said. As we were leaving, she kept thanking Miriam for changing her ideas about Jews. We always think of Israel... she kept saying, But you are so sweet and beautiful and speak Arabic! I'm so glad to have met you.
We left Manar's house a little after midnight. As we rode down the Corniche, we saw the extent of the gas crisis -- another problem haunting Egypt. Hundreds of cars waited in line at each gas station we passed, at least the ones that still had gas at all. Vendors walked down the lines with newspapers. People drove by yelling about how much Morsi sucks. Some people parked their cars and got out to socialize with people further up. A joke circulated about people ordering McDonald's delivery to the 300th car in the 3rd line, etc etc. When I actually ask people why there's no gas, however, no one seems totally sure. Taxi drivers have told me that the problem was the government giving all Egypt's gas to tiny little Gaza. The government says the problem is caused by "rumors". If the government knew what to do, it seems, it would do it: it's totally not in its interest to have tense, frustrated people gathering for hours as general panic and anti-Morsi sentiment rises.
Yesterday, the 28th, was the warm-up day. Sitting in my living room in the afternoon, I heard loud music down in Mesaha Square. I looked out to find a truck equipped with megaphones circling below. Erhal ya morsi, erhal! boomed the voice. Get lost, Morsi! Then the music again. Later on, I was at a baby shower. It was close to downtown, but still quiet -- the warm-up demonstrations, it seemed, were toward the outskirts of the city, at Brotherhood headquarters and the presidential palace. In the living room, however, some of the older relatives were watching TV. It was broadcasting live footage from Alexandria. The Brotherhood's headquarters in Sidi Gaber had been burned down. So it's begun, I thought. The party continued in the main room. Moghat, a goopy brown drink brimming was spices was passed around. The soboa, as it's called, is held a week after the baby is born. The baby, in this case a little girl named Amina, is put inside a pink cradle with lots of froufrous and bounced up and down. A kitchen knife lies next to the baby and salt is sprinkled around the house to ward off the evil eye. Someone (at one point me) loudly bangs on a brass bowl, initiating the baby into the sounds of the real world. Someone else follows the baby with incense, accomplishing the same with smell. And of course there is dancing...
For now, though, the celebration is over and tomorrow we'll be inside, watching the news.
There is once again the escalating sense -- not at all unfamiliar to me after a year in Cairo -- of a city on the verge. No one really knows what will happen tomorrow. As Michele Dunne wrote on the Atlantic Council's EgyptSource blog, the best (and unlikely) scenario would be protests large and powerful enough to force Morsi to make democratic compromises incorporating a broader coalition. Another scenario is that the protests won't really be large enough to affect major change, as was true of recent brief outbreaks of unrest. Finally, a not impossible outcome could be violence significant enough to spur a military takeover (again). Although many secularists hate the military and the Brotherhood, whispers of a military coup of sorts are not too rare. Indeed, it seems to me, the military is really the only other organized power base besides the Brotherhood. Fifteen million people may have signed the Tamarrod petition, but this doesn't mean they're all liberals with any kind of shared vision -- and it certainly doesn't mean they have the capacity to form an organized replacement for the current regime.
I'm sitting in Shakawa this afternoon, a cafe near my apartment in Dokki, watching muted footage of demonstrations on TV as Arabic pop blasts in the background. Exactly this time last year, I was sitting in the same chair, watching footage of people going to the polls to vote in the second round of presidential elections. Although some were already feeling bitter about their less-than-ideal choice between the Brotherhood and the old regime's felul. But there was still a prevailing sense of cautious optimism that essentially free elections were actually happening. This Wednesday, though, Morsi delivered his State of the Union address. The written text should have taken an hour. He spoke for more than three. He rambled in a seemingly random fashion, calling out names of specific officials and questioning their revolutionary credentials. He claimed that tourism in Egypt had risen dramatically. He didn't mention the four Shi'a men killed by a mob just outside Cairo.
We were in Imbaba, a mostly poor neighborhood north of Dokki, the night of the speech. Miriam and I ate dinner with our friend Manar at tables set up in the street at El Prince, a meat (mostly liver) restaurant. Afterward, we were walking with her to her house on a quiet street when we heard the speech coming from nearly every apartment window. Everyone was listening, and many were mocking it. Manar's mother was once in the army, but left to have children. She used to wear miniskirts (like everyone! she said), but had grown more conservative -- especially after making the hajj in 2011. Though she, Manar, and her sister, are quite religious, none had any use for Morsi. He's mixing religion and politics, came the familiar refrain. That's not right. Maybe no one could have solved our problems right now, but he made a big mistake by only gathering advisers from the Ikhwan with no experience in governing. The whole family rolled their eyes every time Morsi claimed an achievement. Still, none would be going out on the 30th: They would stay as far from politics (and violence) as possible. As the speech played in the background, Manar's mother asked us about religion. Manar, having just discovered excitedly that she had met her first Jew (Miriam), hesitantly told her mom. I would have had no idea! I can't even tell you two apart! she said. As we were leaving, she kept thanking Miriam for changing her ideas about Jews. We always think of Israel... she kept saying, But you are so sweet and beautiful and speak Arabic! I'm so glad to have met you.
We left Manar's house a little after midnight. As we rode down the Corniche, we saw the extent of the gas crisis -- another problem haunting Egypt. Hundreds of cars waited in line at each gas station we passed, at least the ones that still had gas at all. Vendors walked down the lines with newspapers. People drove by yelling about how much Morsi sucks. Some people parked their cars and got out to socialize with people further up. A joke circulated about people ordering McDonald's delivery to the 300th car in the 3rd line, etc etc. When I actually ask people why there's no gas, however, no one seems totally sure. Taxi drivers have told me that the problem was the government giving all Egypt's gas to tiny little Gaza. The government says the problem is caused by "rumors". If the government knew what to do, it seems, it would do it: it's totally not in its interest to have tense, frustrated people gathering for hours as general panic and anti-Morsi sentiment rises.
Yesterday, the 28th, was the warm-up day. Sitting in my living room in the afternoon, I heard loud music down in Mesaha Square. I looked out to find a truck equipped with megaphones circling below. Erhal ya morsi, erhal! boomed the voice. Get lost, Morsi! Then the music again. Later on, I was at a baby shower. It was close to downtown, but still quiet -- the warm-up demonstrations, it seemed, were toward the outskirts of the city, at Brotherhood headquarters and the presidential palace. In the living room, however, some of the older relatives were watching TV. It was broadcasting live footage from Alexandria. The Brotherhood's headquarters in Sidi Gaber had been burned down. So it's begun, I thought. The party continued in the main room. Moghat, a goopy brown drink brimming was spices was passed around. The soboa, as it's called, is held a week after the baby is born. The baby, in this case a little girl named Amina, is put inside a pink cradle with lots of froufrous and bounced up and down. A kitchen knife lies next to the baby and salt is sprinkled around the house to ward off the evil eye. Someone (at one point me) loudly bangs on a brass bowl, initiating the baby into the sounds of the real world. Someone else follows the baby with incense, accomplishing the same with smell. And of course there is dancing...
For now, though, the celebration is over and tomorrow we'll be inside, watching the news.
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