Our friend Ahmed called earlier today. He was in Heliopolis patrolling the streets. People are going crazy because Mubarak’s palace is located there and rumor is he’s back. I told Ahmed to leave, but he said he had to stay with his family. I told him to bring his family to us, and he said, “All Egyptian people are my family. I don’t think they’d fit in your apartment.”
We started rationing cigarettes. Food is scarce, and there is no water to take a shower. We’ve been discussing our options and what it would take for us to leave. We are seriously considering fleeing to Gaza. We heard about a sit-in for foreigners and decide to attend. We’re thinking the worst scenario is someone bombing Tahrir, but maybe if there are enough foreigners they will be less likely to do that. The problem is that most foreigners have left already or are afraid of Tahrir.
Later I took my dog for a walk in Dokki. Everyone was cheering “revolution dog.” She took a piss next to a police officer. It was fucking great. One guy asked us if we were afraid. L said, “We feel safe with you guys out here protecting the streets.” The man replied: “I’m glad you feel that way. This is what we want to give you.” The good people are very good. The bad people are very bad.
We left the sit-in to meet up with our two Irish friends and our Egyptian friend Muhammad. The chanting from protesters was insane. A few minutes later we were treated to a meal of foul. People holding Tunisian flags were marching through the streets, chanting something like “Leave today, Mubarak!” in Arabic. “Bas! Bas!” (“Enough! Enough!”)
As we crossed the Kasr el Nil bridge we spotted some tourists. They were funny to look at and appeared confused. We listened to Muhammad’s account of everything he’s seen. It was completely different from our experience and we will never understand. Then we crossed the second bridge, Kasr el Aini—the one with the lions. I wished I understood Arabic so I could read the protestors’ signs. As we weaved through the crowd it felt more like Cairo than it had in days. Merc was with us and he was nervous. We stood next to tanks as soldiers checked our passports. “Let’s get out of this place, man,” Merc said. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine,” I replied. “You see that?” he asked. “Are those mortars?” Of course, I lost reception immediately after he said that. When I got it back we were stooping it on a side street off El Bustan.
Shortly after our rest I lost my friends in the crowd while trying to chase down and photographed a guy with a sign that read “Fuck American and Your Aid.” “Min Amarika,” I said while asking permission to take a picture. When I looked up all my friends were gone. I wandered around like a lost child for 20 minutes. My sweater came off a bit, exposing a fragment of shoulder. A man looked at me with disdain.
“Revolution haram?” he asked. I found my friends a bit later. “Never do that again,” they said.
I started talking to another guy in the street and he pulled down his pants to show me his bullet wounds. People stopped us and urged us to take pictures of their signs, most of which were in Arabic. A lot of people who passed us said, “Welcome to Egypt.” One guy said, “Welcome to our revolution.” My friend’s mom called and asked if he was at the protest as helicopters circled overhead.
We learned that the foreigner sit-in didn’t exist and met up with four Irish friends who were drinking booze in Talaat Harb Square. We wanted some tea but none of the shops were open. We spotted a man collecting trash in the street and started helping him. People took pictures of us, the unusual looking foreigners sitting on the curb. It was by far the most people we’d seen in Tahrir since the protests started. People were dancing. It felt like a huge party. With all this celebrating I couldn’t imagine anyone coming in here and ruining it with violence. People were saying there were two million people in Tahrir.
Someone asked me, “Where are you from?”
“America.”
In an angry voice: “Blah blah blah, Obama. No pictures! We don’t support the foreign policy.”
We calmed him down with smiles.
There were a lot of people in the Muslim Brotherhood in the area we were hanging out in. They were wearing red and white scarves. Eventually we made it to a really cool café with some Egyptian people my friends met at the protest last night—one’s an actor and the other is a high school student who doesn’t know what he’s going to do after the protests. They started playing Xbox and smoking shisha. L hit on an attractive Egyptian woman. She was about 25 and very responsive. He wooed her with his speaking skills.
The guys we met said that the military has urged everyone to stay in Tahrir. A march is hard to control and lends itself to vulnerabilities. But just having everyone here is amazing. He said that no one ever dreamed it could be this massive. People started singing Arabic songs in unison. I had no idea what they are saying.
One of our new friends asked me, “What are you doing in Egypt?” I said, “Mish arif.” (“I don’t know.”) High fives all around. The high-schooler said, “Rachel, I have some advice for you: If you trust in yourself then you will find the way.”
We stayed at the café for a bit, and I ended up sitting next to possibly the most intelligent person I have ever met. There have been conflicting reports about how many people are attending the march, but he said the number was two million and I believed him. He is 19 years old and wore a hat. He told me he has been in love seven times and fired from at least two jobs. He has an amazing outlook on life and said, “I don’t see my future in Egypt. Education is bad, work is bad, plus the girls don’t have sex.”
We decided to leave after that, and my new best friend came home with us to cook dinner and meet my dog.
RACHEL POLLOCK
Also by Rachel Pollock:
THESE CAIRO PROTESTS ARE A PAIN IN THE ASS
LAST DAYS OF CAIRO
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