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.

Jan28 Part III

Large plumes of tear gas billowed in the distance as I walked toward the square in front of the gates to the opera. Exactly one year earlier I had passed through those gates wearing a suit and tie, thrilled to watch the Cairo symphony perform. This day I wore cargo pants and a green military jacket, believing for the first time in five years that Egyptians were taking their destiny into their own hands.

As I looked around nothing made sense. Riot police had blocked the Qasr El Neel Bridge, or the Palace of the Nile Bridge, with a line between the iconic statues of lions atop the pillars of bridge’s entrance. On one side of the square protestors were pleading with police officers to stop what was going on. The officers ignored them and spoke on their walkie-talkies. At one point a young man pulled away another man screaming at an officer because he knew such efforts were futile.

The crowd was swelling in the square. I looked up to the base of the statue of Ibrahim Pasha, one of Egypt’s great military leaders of the 19^th century. My friend, the Paris Match correspondent Alfred de Montesquiou, was taking notes on the scene. We talked about the enormous restraint Egyptians were showing, that if this day had occurred in other countries, the crowds would have acted with mob-mentality violence. He said he was amazed that after a fight broke out between a single police officer and a group of protesters, the group had carried the injured officer over to his fellow policeman for medical care.

We jumped down off the base of the camera when we saw several men rushing through the crowd carrying a body toward an ambulance. When we reached the ambulance a man was inside yelling. Many people gathered at its door and the as the driver was trying to reverse the vehicle. When it left, a man was standing with his white shirt steeped in blood. He began crying. Someone he knew, a woman, had died. Men embraced him in consolation.

Another group carried a man into the back of car and drove off. A tall, muscular young man in a white tank-top had a long slice down his arm. A medical practitioner examined his arm and told him he would be ok, and then attended to a man on the ground. A few men shouted to make room. When the space opened up I went in front of his feet to film what was happening. He rolled over on his side. His shirt was above his waist and I saw several round holes of blood on his back. He had been shot with a shotgun from behind–shot while running away.

The bridge had opened up, so I moved onto it. When I got about three-quarters of the way across it, men started Asr prayers around 3pm. The bridge went almost completely quiet. When they finished, they stood up and started moving. The police immediately fired tear gas into the crowd. Everyone headed back. In the scariest moment of the day we were pushing forward with our heads down. I was afraid if I fell, I would be trampled.

I got off the bridge and saw someone who had been hit with too much teargas. It was Simon Hanna, a producer for Reuters. I told him not to rub his eyes because it would make it worse. He had witnessed the previous days protests and the effects of the tear gas were making him lethargic. I looked across the street and saw another journalist, Ashraf Khalil. I called out his name and met him. We hugged, and as usual he had a big smile on his face. He told me his wife was freaking out that he was there, but that he needed to report. Ashraf is tough journalist who covered the Iraq War. He was not about to miss this. We spoke briefly; he had to keep moving. I then ran into Alfred, who wanted to head back to his hotel to file a story. The battery of his camera had died and he lost the photographer. He wanted to continue reporting, but he decided the story was too important to hold. I walked back to Midan Doqqi and we parted ways.

There I found the most incredible sights. A group of people sat in a circle on the street while singing national anthems and a Shiekh Imam (a revolutionary singer of the previous generation) song together. The square was packed. In its middle people were standing in rows as if they stood on risers in a choir, and they too were singing, and chanting "Aeesh, horreya, karama insaanaya," or "Bread (life), freedom, human dignity." I walked over to a wall on top of the bridge above the street that runs perpendicular to Tahrir Street. A man below me was making the peace sign with his fingers. Beyond him, and beyond my eyesight, thousands of people were walking toward us. As they passed to my left people on the sidewalk clapped and cheered them. I found Simon and stuck a microphone in his face and asked him if the protesters could make a run at Tahrir Square. “There’s a seemingly endless stream of protestors,” he said as he pointed in the distance. “There are tens of thousands, up to a hundred thousand–if not more–continuing to march up Kobri Qasr El Nil toward Midan Tahrir where they were stopped before, but with these numbers, I think there will be no stopping them at the moment.” I asked if he was calling it a revolution. He answered, “I think there’s no stopping it now. If not today, if not tomorrow, it’s this week. His days are numbered. Previously they were calling this to be Mubarak’s last day.”

“There’s no end in sight for these people. And they’re gonna get what they want. They have to; it’s too much now. It’s gone too far.”

As he said this, the crowd was chanting, “The people want the downfall of the system.”

Jan28 Part II

The police on the bridge next to Doqqi Square had fallen back. Protesters had climbed on top of their abandoned police trucks waving their hands for everyone to continue. One man with long grey and black hair on top of a truck held an Egyptian flag above and behind his head. He must have for the first time understood what it meant to be free, stomping on top of a riot police truck, clasping the flag of his motherland victoriously.

I marched ahead on Tahrir Street, or Liberation Street, beside the Opera House complex. The buildings of the Opera, like the name of the street I was walking on, had a symbolic meaning. I was once told they stand at the site of the old Shepherd Hotel, which was burned down by Egyptian revolutionaries against their colonial British occupiers.

I felt desperately alone after losing my companion for the day, Nermine. I felt ashamed that I had left her in a cloud of tear gas. I hoped to find her ahead, imagining that she pressed on without me. To get over my loneliness I started interviewing people. I saw a man urging another protester not to attack the police who were standing on the sidewalk watching. I asked him what he said to the other man. He said that they are brothers. He told the man the protesters are respectable people. They do not hit anyone or break anything.”

As I walked away another man got in front of the camera and showed me an empty tear gas canister and said the police were hitting them with that. I asked him where the tear gas came from. I told him it says Jamestown, Pennsylvania; it’s from America. I thought to myself that it this is my home state and I realized later that my middle name is James. Another man put a canister in front of the camera and read what it said, “Made in U.S.A.”

I continued walking and found two men holding a sign that said, “Esqot Mubarak” or “Topple Mubarak.” I asked why they came to the protest. They said 30 years with Mubarak was enough. They wanted neither him nor his son Gamal in power anymore, nor his National Party. I asked that them if Egypt changed, if rest of the world could change. They said, “Masr om el donya,” a famous expression that means, “Egypt is the mother of the world.” They said that all of the protests of the world would come from Egypt. Up ahead, a famous actor, Khaled El Sawy, was walking with a crowd beside him. They shouted, “We want gas! We want gas!” to mean that they were ready to face the tear gas. When they gave El Sawy a minute to speak, he said that Hosny Mubarak and the National Party must leave.

Jan28

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...