Jan28 Part IV

We decided to head toward Tahrir Square again to see if the crowd could break through to it. It looked like the police were again holding ground at Qasr El Nil bridge. We were tired and getting hungry. I suggested we look for a restaurant, buy as many sandwiches as we could afford to hand out to protesters, and call it a day. Then we ran into a friend, Bakry. He asked if we had seen his girlfriend and a group of friends. He looked worn out. Tear gas had earlier rendered him unconscious. Some people took him in, and nursed him back to health with some sandwiches and tea. I asked him to tell me what happened on camera. He said he didn’t want to do anything for the media at the moment. Tired and dejected, he sat on the middle of the road. A stranger asked if he was ok. He was angry and fed up with his country. I asked him if in his dream he ever imagined it would be like this. He said, no he didn’t.

We told him our plan about the sandwiches and he asked if we were hungry. We said yes, we were. He pulled out cheese sandwiches from his pocket. I devoured one. He seemed to have energy all of a sudden, as if helping someone else gave him strength. We walked to the bridge. It was open and now covered with water from cannons of the riot police trucks. We walked to the end and the police pushed us back again with tear gas. Bakry was keen not to lose us. He grabbed my hand and Simon’s hand and we went back toward the police again. This went on several times, until we came very close to Tahrir Square. I sat down on the ground. I pointed the camera at my watch to note the time. A tear gas canister landed a few feet next to me without me even realizing it. I jumped up and ran back. People around me were coughing. I couldn’t see.

We stood on the bridge, feet wet from stepping in puddles. Simon and I were ready to give up. Bakry insisted we move on and try one last time. It was dark. We walked into Tahrir Square, Liberation Square, to the sound of rhythmic banging on the metal poles holding up the handrails of the sidewalk. The police had been pushed to the other side. It looked like a war zone. A large fire burned and I saw the most amount of smoke of the whole day. People were walking into it.

I climbed up on a stone block with a metal grate above the underground metro line. I turned to a guy beside me, and told him that they had taken Tahrir Square. It was over. He said it wasn’t over, many other cities had to follow. But what they would do next, he said, he didn’t know.

It was over for me. I had reached Tahrir, or liberation, so to speak.

I walked back toward the car after about six hours in the protests, wondering if my friend Nermine was waiting. I managed to find a taxi by the grace of God. I landed back where I started, in front of Mustafa Mahmoud Mosque. I walked toward the street where Nermine’s car was. A friend of a friend stopped me to chat. I asked him how he felt. He was happy and amazed. Originally he didn’t want to join the “Facebook revolution,” but changed his mind after seeing a video on Youtube of an Egyptian who stood in front of a riot police truck that was firing from its water cannon.

I arrived at Nermine’s car just as she left. She had found a ride with a friend after waiting for an hour for me. It was dark and the streets were becoming unsafe without any police. I ran after the car, shouting her name, but it was too late. She left the key to her car with a boweb, or doorman, named Awwad and instructed him to give me my bag. I sat on the stoop next to them. I had nowhere to sleep. The only friend I knew with a place was on the other side of the city. After seeing the chaos in Tahrir Square, I knew I couldn’t make it to his apartment safely, even if I could walk for at least an hour to get there. I somehow had the feeling earlier that Nermine wouldn’t be there, and that I would end up where the bowebs were sleeping. Indeed, with typical Egyptian hospitality, they offered me a place to stay.

We descended into the garage and they made me a cup of tea. Within five minutes they called me their brother. We talked about what was happening. They insisted the protest was largely economic. They were tired of no work, lousy pay and a bunch of corrupt politicians and businessmen who robbed the country. Awwad told me of a friend who studied formal Arabic and could only find a job as a boweb. We chatted for some time, but they understood I was tired, so they set me up in a small room off to the side. I was prepared to sleep in the beds where we were drinking tea, but they insisted I sleep in the room because it was protected from the draft coming in from the garage entrance. The room was only a bed with metal walls around it–no floor. It smelled of insecticide, which was unpleasant, but relieving because I wouldn’t have to deal with cockroaches. They put my bag with me to protect from thieves. I was exhausted, but the day’s events swirled in my head. I slept on and off, at points hearing banging sounds from the street from what could have been gunshots. I wasn’t sure. I learned then that liberation does not come in a day.