Witnessing the Revolution in Egypt

By: Sarah Amos

February 4, 2012

I’m sitting in Euro Café, eating chocolate mousse pie and sipping a cappuccino while Fairuz is gently playing in the background. Not your typical first blog entry for Egypt. A better one might be, “I’m sitting in a smoke-filled awha that overlooks the Nile and avoiding the stares of old, bearded, shisha-smoking men…” The shouts of Tahrir Square are inaudible in the affluent island bubble of Zamalek. Instead, the car horns of overeager taxi drivers fill the streets.

It feels utterly inauthentic to be sitting in an aptly named Euro Cafe. This isn't Cairo. This is some in-between land of foreigners and wealthy Cairenes, where you're more likely to find a panini than a taamiyya (falafel) sandwich. But I’ve had my fair share of taamiyya in the past few weeks—and stuffed pigeon, which actually tastes like chicken, but a bit crispier. I’ve challenged myself to break the upper-class bubble and explore more of “real Cairo,” but this requires a certain confidence in my fledging Egyptian colloquial skills, as well as an ability to withstand catcalling.

Today, however, I gave up on trying to seek cultural authenticity and settled on a Western standby where I knew I would get Wi-Fi and not have to struggle speaking colloquial. I have been in Egypt for three weeks, and during this time I’ve marched in Tahrir, partied on the Nile in a felucca (sailboat), and taken seconds off my life with each Egyptian taxicab ride; but I haven’t documented any of it. I am failing as a journalist in the technological age.

Every night, I either collapse from the exhaustion of trying to cram as much “Egypt” into my day as I can, or I stay up Skyping friends and family back home, trying to convince them that yes, I am safe, and no, the sky is not falling in spite of what they see on the news.

But riots erupted in Tahrir last Thursday when 71 attendees of a soccer match were killed by thugs in the Port Said incident. Since news networks weren’t providing information quickly enough, I found myself logging into Twitter to get real-time updates of what was happening in the square. Along with being a lapsed blogger, I am also the lamest of tweeters; I have currently tweeted only 32 times. Here I am claiming to be interested in journalism and news media, yet I consider Twitter to be one of those newfangled inventions I’ll never get the hang of.

But that’s changing. Being here for only three weeks, I’ve been infected with a revolutionary spirit. And I don’t mean that I’m in the square protesting: to be clear, this is not my revolution, this is not my fight to fight. But it’s hard to ignore the mounting criticism against the Supreme Council of Armed Forces, whether it’s the shouting of protestors, the constantly growing steam of denunciation on social media outlets, or the graffiti on public buildings and walls.

The passion of these protesters is unlike any activism that I’ve seen in the United States. While the number of Egyptians still actively involved in the protest movement is declining, those who still go to Tahrir every Friday—and nearly every night since the Port Said incident—are bent on eradicating corrupt military rule and the feloul (remnants) of the old regime. Their rhetoric is dramatic, but deservedly so. I’ve heard proclamation of “Fight ‘til we die!” from seemingly reserved young women.

Several female students have told me that prior to the revolution, they were not involved in protests or politics. I’ve heard many protesters say that they hate politics; they don’t want to become involved in politics, but simply want to protest against the status quo. It’s disheartening that so many of the young people who are fighting for the liberation of their country are too jaded to become involved in the political process that is necessary for reconstruction. At the same, however, they don’t stand much of a chance against the deep-seated system of the prior regime, as well as the thoroughly developed network of the Muslim Brotherhood and other Islamic groups who are now vying for political power.

The image of a young man with an eye patch holding an Egyptian flag is being reproduced on large scales in pro-revolution media, public art, videos, logos, and graffiti. There is an amazing short film that poignantly captures the betrayal that many of the revolutionaries feel, and it does a far better job than I ever could of visually explaining the behind-the-back dealings that fuel so many conspiracy theories.

This past week has been strange at the American University of Cairo (AUC). For starters, it was only a three-day week because we had Sunday off. It was a welcome break, but one that was brought on by terrible circumstances. A senior at AUC was killed in the riots of Port Said. His picture is everywhere on campus, blown up to supersize proportions and covering academic buildings. Some students carry black flags around campus. I was caught off-guard when I accidentally walked by a noontime prayer service that some were holding for him in the main square.

I didn’t know him, so I can’t even imagine the shock that his friends must be feeling. From my perspective, it’s just sadly strange that mourning the loss of a classmate has become a reluctant part of the status quo here.

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