I can't believe it was two months ago that I was in the airport in Cairo on my way back to Beirut. I wrote about my experience upon my return. Here's what happened:
Friday mornings in Cairo–before salaat el gomaa, or Friday prayers–have the few hours of relative quiet in a city of at least 20 million people. On Friday, January 28 the quiet of the streets felt like the calm before a storm.
A former colleague, Nermine, picked me up at the airport and brought me to her home before we left for the protests. Her brothers met us in the street. They wore scarves to protect themselves from tear gas. I also brought towels after reading online about techniques to stay safe in a protest.
Nermine served me sandwiches. I wasn’t hungry, but it is considered rude in Egypt for a guest to turn away food. I also had a long day ahead and could use the extra strength. Al Jazeera was on the tv. The host was taking phone calls from Egyptians who complained of poor wages and corruption and said it was time–after 30 years–for President Hosni Mubarak to step down. Suddenly the video cut. The Egyptian government had blocked the channel. We switched to Al Jazeera Mobasher, which was broadcasting instructions on how to change the satellite coordinates to watch the channel.
Nermine’s mother was nervous. Her hand formed a tight fist and even her toes curled up onto her sandals. Yet somehow she still had a kind look on her face when she looked my way.
We drove to Mohandesin, on the Giza side of the Nile River in Greater Cairo. When we got out I told Nermine that if anything happened we should meet back at her car. The government cut off mobile phones service, so we had no way to get in touch if we separated.
We walked to Mustafa Mahmoud Mosque, one of the most crowded mosques for Friday prayers. Before we reached the square in front of it, I asked Nermine to stop. I told her we were about to face something big and we should say a few prayers before going ahead.
I had spent the previous four evenings deep in prayer and meditation before going to bed in Beirut. Tears ran down my face much of the time. The tonglen meditation practice I conducted involves taking upon the suffering of others and sending them love. I felt overwhelmed, literally believing I was receiving the suffering of Egyptians. I can recall only a handful of times in my life when I have begged God for help with all my heart. These nights were the first time that those pleas were for someone else.
The scene was calm in front of Mustafa Mahmoud, although people shuffled about with a certain amount of nervous energy as lines of riot police surrounded the area at a distance. The regular crowd of the faithful filled the mosque and prayed in several rows into the street. Behind them in the garden, many people sat and watched, a few prayed. In between, some journalists were taking pictures and conducting interviews. I ran into a few colleagues: Alfred de Montesquiou, the correspondent for Paris Match magazine, and Simon Hanna, a producer for Reuters who had the day off.
At the end of prayers, they turned their heads to the right and to the left to wish peace to their brothers. After a pause of only a few moments they stood up and started chanting, “Eshaab, ureed, isqot in-nizam,” or “The people want the downfall of the system.” Spoken in formal fosha Arabic, the Egyptians had clearly taken the slogan from Tunisians, who used the same words to as they toppled their regime.
The crowd swelled as they reached the main thoroughfare, Gamaet id-dowal el Arabia Street, or the League of Arab Nations Street. I ran into a friend, Nagwa, who works as a fixer for journalists. We hugged and she flashed a big smile as she said, “We’re really doing it!” I told her I would see her on the side of victory.
The police barricaded the street to divert us onto Batal Ahmed Aziz Street. When the crowd had all moved onto the street, the policed formed a line and marched behind us. Nermine went back to talk to one of the officers, but he said he wouldn’t speak with anyone. We ran ahead to join the crowd. I was eager not to stay in the back of the protest. I read the fringes of a protest are dangerous places where police may attack. It didn’t matter, though, because more and more people joined the march from side streets. Standing from a high vantage point, the stream of heads went as far as my eye could see in both directions. As we passed buildings people waved from their balconies, mostly older couples, women and children. One of the chants from the protest included “Enzel! Enzel!” or “Come down! Come down!” In other words, join the march.
I gave Nermine the microphone of my video camera. I was filming everything. She gave a passionate speech about changing the government and respecting the basic rights of people. She began joining in the chants for the first time. She asked me why I wasn’t chanting. Part of me felt a journalistic duty not to join in the slogans, although I knew whose side I was on. Another part of me felt that I had no right to chant. It’s not my revolution. Although I have taken Egypt is an adopted homeland–former colleagues even gave me a plate that says Ibn el-Neel, or Son of the Nile–I’m not Egyptian. I wanted to feel that I was a witness, so that I could never take credit for what happened. The real credit belongs to the Egyptians themselves. I was inspired by their courage, peacefulness and unity. I was particularly impressed with women, who began new chants when the peoples’ voice lowered, and urged them forward when they became sluggish.
As we walked along Nermine spoke with one of the riot police, asking him why he didn’t put down his arms and join us. A higher-ranking man told her to stop talking to them. The protesters were chanting to them, asking why they were on the sidelines when they receive such meager salaries. When we reached the end of Batal Ahmed Aziz Street, we turned left onto Tahrir, or Liberation, Street. The very end of this street is Midan Tahrir, or Liberation Square, the main site of protests in Cairo during the previous days. Well before that point the police had set a barricade at Midan El-Doqqi, at the bridge next to the base of the Sheraton Hotel.
People started shouting “Gas!” to indicate tear gas was in the air. We could see plumes of it in the distance, but it has a tendency to disburse, so you might feel the effects of it without seeing the smoke around you. People lifted surgical masks and towels to their faces. A strange buzzing/humming sound was ringing in the air. I never figured out where it came from, but I will never forget that eerie tone.
A police truck in the square was on fire. I heard that it started driving over people until they disabled and burned it. More people were moving from the front lines coughing and squeezing their eyelids tightly. We neared the front of the crowd, about a hundred meters in front of the police barricade, when the tear gas started burning my eyes and nose. Every time the gas overwhelmed people, a crowd came to their rescue by splashing cola and water in their faces, sticking onions up to their noses and spraying vinegar on their scarves.
The police were continuously firing canisters of gas in the air. I warned Nermine that the best way to deal with tear gas is to run away. She asked me why and I told it’s simply too powerful. She was incredibly brave, eventually naïvely so. As people turned back from the gas, she shouted –as many others did throughout the day–words like “Off!” “Ma-ergash!” and “Yalla!” or “Stop!” “Don’t go back!” and “Let’s go!”
It was clear to eventually reach Tahrir Square the demonstrators would have to break through the police line at the bridge. The scene there was chaotic and we were close to the front. Nermine grabbed me and told me to come forward with her. We only moved a few feet at the base of the Sheraton before the gas overwhelmed us. I saw Nermine ahead of me, but I couldn’t continue. I turned back and went around the corner where a few dozen people were coughing and gathering at an ambulance. I got near the ambulance when someone asked me if I could breathe and needed the oxygen mask. I said I was ok and went back looking for Nermine. I couldn’t find her. Eventually I believed she had moved ahead because by this time crowds were starting to rush across the bridge. I would not find her for the rest of her day, but her bravery and words rang in the back of my head at times when I needed to press forward.
More to come...
