Revolution Hangover

February 14, 2011

Valentines day

February 12, 2011: Egypt's voice is heard.

So much has happened here. The energy of the place is so amazing and intense; I have to read my own blogs to remember what I was doing.

It has been ten days since my arrival. It feels like months since I was in the states. The day after Mubarak's resignation, Ernesto and I took a long walk to downtown to see what was going on in the square.

We cross from Zamalek, the island where we are staying, to the East bank of the Nile and make our way South along the river towards the celebrations. There are many people out. Smiling, carrying brooms and dust pans sweeping up the dust and debris left from the 18 days of protests. Little children with little flags atop their father's shoulders. Parents lifting their kids up onto the tanks where they wave flags and pose for the camera.

We continue towards the square and the sounds get louder, the crowd thickens. Two little boys, Ibrahim and Mahmoud, follow us from the burnt NDP headquarters and continue to ask me to take their picture.

Volunteers are busy repainting the black and white stripes on the curbsides and make a human chain around the medians while the paint dries. Ibrahim and Mahmoud have disappeared into the crowd now.

Posters are hung in a string displaying portraits of those martyrs who died for their cause. Speeches are made. Chants are sung. Poetry and Arabic hip-hop rhymes are pushed through the speakers. There are at least 4 different stages that we pass with various activities. One starts blasting music, the stage full of youth dancing like crazy towards the crowd. I take a short video just pushing my way through the throngs with my camera above my head. Half of the video catches only sky and buildings, but the music is the sound of people in jubilation.

I am in search of water. All along this way, various people have stopped us and asked to have their picture taken with us. They take turns swapping cell phones and posing with us. A few times, I hand over my camera as well. I wish I had taken down their names, but then again, they never asked for ours either. One kid stops and starts talking with Ernesto who, being the journalist that he is, starts taking notes. Meanwhile I am left with Osama, and Ibrahim (yes, another one). Osama seems quite smitten. I can’t get most of what he is saying to me. The Egyptian dialect still makes me very confused. I somehow gather that he wants to have coffee later, or hang out or something. "No, sorry." He still lingers around with his friend, constantly snapping pics with the cell phone. Some strange little middle-aged man shows up and starts taking pictures of me with his own phone. Creepy. I put up with it for a while, then finally, "KHALAS!" (Enough!), I push his hand down and move him on his way.

We keep moving. I find a young boy selling water. He has the sweetest face and smile, his clothes have not been washed in ages, his feet are covered in dirt from the streets, and he wears girl's flip-flops with plastic flowers on the straps. He is beaming. I ask for two waters, hand him a 5 and let him keep the change. When he sees my camera, he jesters for me to take his photo, and stands proudly bearing his water bottles. Snap. He comes over to inspect the results. Smiles hugely and gives it a thumbs up.

Amid all these people, elated, volunteering, enjoying, there are these small kids, out trying to capitalize on the crowd as best they can. One little girl, not more than 6 years old, has the same appearance of my water bearer, curly dirty locks, little dress, dust covered skin, desperately trying to sell packets of tissue. People pat her on the head, but aren’t buying. I have no small change.

So many times walking in these streets, I see children like this. I can’t overcome the feeling of being helpless to lift them out of this life they are living. My heart breaks when I think of them. It makes me wonder if this movement will actually change the society and not just the regime. I have mentioned this before, but the point keeps coming back.

A man who was visiting with my friend Ahmed last night, told me that the EU gave money, $2 million, to help with the poorest people on the streets and that it all was pocketed. I don't know how much legitimacy any of these rumors have, but there are plenty of them.

Ernesto has an interview at 6:00 pm. We have had our fill of the square (which is more like a circle) and find that wonderful little hobbit Eden, the Felfela. A man comes in with a leather jacket and closely shaved head. He is our age. Mr. Sharkawi. His father has been in prison for more than 14 years without trial or cause. He is excited and sad at the same time.

"You know, before ten days, I would have told you that this was impossible in Egypt. Every one was scared of the secret police. The same ones who keep my father. They took me and kept me for 20 days, blind-folded the whole time. They beat me and electrocuted me, and interrogated me, just for passing letters from my father to the proper authorities and human rights groups about his treatment and his unlawful imprisonment. I am happy for the first time, there is a chance that I might be able to get him free now. But I don’t even know where to start. Who do I go to? Maybe the military? I don't know. I do know that if you don’t respect your self, no one will respect you. Mubarak and this regime, they didn't respect their own people, so no one in the world respected us. Now we stood up finally, and people in the world, now they respect us."

It is truly amazing what has happened here, "but now what?" is the question on every ones minds.

…

The atmosphere was different this morning. I didn't leave the house the entire day yesterday, not even a foot outside the front door. I watched the street go by from the balcony. But there is a tangible feeling in the air. Ernesto calls it the revolution hangover. I think it is a perfect term. This could go so many different directions and each expert has their opinion. They love to compare it to other revolutions, or other countries. They dig through the last 100 years of Egyptian's 3000-year history to try to find the answer.

The truth is, there is no way to predict this future. But what ever it is, those who sat in Tahrir square, who continue to do so in some cases, those who have relatives still in prison who are innocent and have never been charged, those who are still hungry on the streets, will not let this movement die as long as their grievances are not heard and their demands not met. Now that they have seen what they are capable of, they will not stop until this revolution has seen its promise.