I tie on Raafat’s shark tooth. The plan is to meet at Sanaa’s house in Mohie El Din then pray at Mostafa Mahmoud and start the protest from there. It’s mom’s first protest ever. We take the metro and are informed in El Malek El Saleh that the metro won’t be stopping at Sadat or Nasser, so we get down in Saad Zaghloul. The phone networks are cut off. I need to call Sanaa and tell her I’ll be late. We search for a landline and find one opened shoe shop and I ask the vendor to use the phone, “bera7tek, bas ana maleesh da3wa, law 7atetkallemy fel mozahrat balash tetkallemy”. I dial her home number but it’s already too late to reach Sanaa on time so we take a cab to Mostafa Mahmoud.
Driver: enti ray7a dars?
Me: Ah.
Driver: Tab balsh ennaharda, 3ashan 7’ater mama balash ennaharda.
Me: *smile*
Driver: Zakri kwayes ya Rab tetla3i wazeera!
Me: *laugh*
Driver: Bted7aki leeih, mahi 3a2esha 3abdel Rahman mahi kanet zayek f yom men el ayam.
ya3ny ma la2eitch 3’eir di???!!!
Driver: 3al 3omoum Mostafa Mahmoud mesh 7’atar; fee amn ah laken hady.
We get down in El Batal A7mad, have a cup of coffee in Baskin Robins; there is a table with six women, as old as mom and look a lot like her. They have their fanny packs and nestle bottles. We head to the mosque.
I go upstairs and prepare for prayer. The imam starts his speech and says it’s in two parts; one is the continuity of last week’s speech and the other one about the current situation. He asks the prayers to switch their phones off; everyone laughs. He talks about self-control and repressing anger. I am hastily disturbed by the speech and pray alone quickly and go downstairs to stay with mom. He continues the speech and he turns out to be a very eloquent person, who says that we should have the right of free expression without any destruction or attacks on public or private property or security personnel. The crowd applauds him, men and women.
The minute the prayer is over, slogans of freedom and “esqat el nezam” are screamed and shouted. Central Security Forces make a barrier behind the mosque; the demonstrators spread along the street and are visible all the way beyond the horizon, in a never-ending beat.
A group of 4-5 people run in the direction of a small side street, we follow then realize what they're doing and go back. "ضموا! ضموا!" We make the same journey as on the 25th, all shouting “ENZEL” and “Ya ahaleena dommo 3aleina” “Enzel ya Masri”. We bump into Tarek Barrada, and then Sherif. They both don’t know either of them is there. We see the women from Baskin Robins. Someone hands me a mask.
As soon as we reach Sheraton, they start the tear gas bombs, heavily. “سلمية! سلمية! سلمية!” Very heavily nothing is even visible; they are on the Galaa Bridge. I see Mr. Hany carrying is a camera, I go over and hug him. Then run back. We are stuck there for nearly an hour and the tear gas is suffocating; I have the mask over my face, with a Dettol wipe inside and my scarf over it. Sometimes someone chases after the can of steaming gas and throws it over in the Nile. We cheer and applaud. I can’t shout or take my breath it burns. I can’t even open my eyes. Someone hands me onions. Another puts some vinegar on my sleeve. Mom is very tired too and we are led to Sheraton’s air vent. People are vomiting and collapsing. We meet Dawood, mom’s documentary-making friend from drama class and he takes a picture of us. A reporter asks me what “ارحل” means, I say “leave”. He turns out to be Fisk. We start marching across the bridge and run into Amin Haddad. I see Hazem Shaheen and Salma from a distance, Salma looks very tired. Most of the people who came from Mostafa Mahmoud are very posh.
We manage to cross the bridge then are stopped at the beginning of Asr El Nil Bridge. A girl, half as tall as I am, in her mid-twenties, collapses in my arms "sa3deeni sa3deeni 7'alleeki ma3aya" "malek? Fi eih? Malek?" She's hysterically crying and her voice is scratchy "7awtouni el kelaaaab" she falls to the ground, bal7a2ha and I pull her back up, she keeps squeaking "ya kelaaaaaaab" I keep hugging her, not having a clue what to do! I look for mom, she's doing pretty much the same with another one who looks already unconcious, surrounded by 5 guys who want to help but are feeling awkward touching her. "Ya gama3a erfa3o regleiha, ana doctoooor wAllahi!!!!" One of the 5 guys tells her to sit and rest for a while, she darts back "WANA A2AL MENKO WALLA EEEEIH" Now back to the one in my arms "ya kelaaaaab ya kelaaaaaab" Mom yells at her "Law ta3bana rawa7i beitek! Law 7'aifa rawa7i beitek! Ennama law 3ayza tkammeli hena lazem temseki nafsek shwaya, FAHMA WALLA LA2?" She shuts up immediately and goes elsewhere.
CS starts beating with sticks, using more tear gas and water cannons. They start shooting at us with rubber and live ammunition. They are also shooting something that appears to be small shots that disperse in all directions, strong enough to rupture the skin yet you can still see them lodged in people’s bodies and faces. “اثبت! اثبت!!” The men in front of start praying, the CS front line is almost 10-15 metres away. More wounded protesters are carried, drenched in blood. Someone walks over, swaying, beaten on his bloody head and swelly black eye. Mr. Hany!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Blood is shooting out of his shot right arm and his shirt is smudged with blood. Mom takes him and walks with him. I start taking stuff out of my bag; wipes, water, trying to help anyhow. He says “أنا باموت” I say “لأ!!! انت مش بتموت!!!!!”. We take him to the fat end of the bridge and some people take him to the hospital. We are on the bridge and I start crying. Mom convinces me that he is only minorly hurt. A guy whispers mom to take me and go home because we are tired. We ignore him. At this part of the bridge is where all the wounded are, waiting to be taken to the hospital. We crawl our way forward again. A brave young man with black curls climbs the CS vehicle of a soldier who shoots gas and aims to beat him, the soldier sprays a yellow substance on him. We are cheering. We keep going back and forth. I can see more protesters on the bridge next to us, fighting just like us. CS soldiers in floats come from the side of the bridge in the Nile; shooting more gas. A CS vehicle storms through us, its water cannon on. We are on the side, though I feel some water sprayed on my hand. Mom: “يا ولادالكلب! يا ولاد الكلب!” They start shooting at us again, people storming backwards in enormous force, we are immensely squeezed “يا ولاد الكلب! يا ولاد الكلب! يا ولاد الكلب! يا ولاد الكلب!”. People start throwing rocks to fight back. We jump to take shield in the Nile casino. In front of it on the Nile bank there a large-bearded man with a zebeeba and he’s praying with 6 others. Now they’re saying a do3a2. I keep saying amen, amen, amen, although I’m too distracted to concentrate on what they’re saying. We enter the club. I notice a cut on my elbow and Mr. Hany’s blood on my hands and clothes. Mom rests on a chair; there are a few other people with us; all middle-class minimum, who acted as if they owned the place. Someone who works there comes to politely asks us to leave so that the others don’t come in as well and “destroy the place”. He is hushed down by a snobbish man in his thirties “Masri enta awi!” they start fighting and I can’t take it anymore “مش وقته! اسكتوا بقى! اسكتوا بقى! اسكتوا!!”.
Things calm down and we go back up, then complicate again and we go back again. Mom keeps smoking. I tell her I’ll go outside and come back again, she makes me promise. Outside they managed to push the crowds backward separating them into both streets. Our side has very few people, like a hundred or so. Fire is set to a motor bike; I don’t know who did it. I go back to the club and give some guys the bottle of water left. Someone comes in wounded, I hand in wipes. Soldiers on the bridge see us and throw rocks and tear gas at us, we take shield. A rock shatter hits me on the leg. I go to where mom is, she was so worried. Now almost everyone hops in, many many are wounded. I tell mom I’m going again to check. A red-faced, teary-eyed teenager “LA2A! Maya LA2!” and others pour coke on his face, when he is better he shouts “fein ebn el wes7’a elli rash el mayaaaa” Splotches of blood on the floor and the casino staff are bewildered “ya3ny e7na fat7eenloko el makan w saybeenko bra7etko, wento ta3melo feena keda?!” I almost step on a huge blob of clotted blood. Outside is pretty much the same.
A guy plucks out pavement tiles to break and throw at the soldiers. Another one says “Leih bta3mel keda?” “Leih? 3ashan lamma no3od no3oul selmeya w…”
The guys rest and go back again to continue “Yalla oum ya Masri!” “E7na gayeen hena 3ashan no3od 3al Nil?!” We keep resting and then go back outside to buy water and chocolate from the koshk outside. “Ezzayek ya o7’t May?” I turn around to find someone with a light fuzz that is intended to be a beard and a red and white turban wrapped around his head. It’s Serag, May’s Baragilian colleague. I intentionally put my hand out to shake his, he only allows me the finger tips. I give him wipes for the gas and he thanks me. Mom goes back inside. Not much is happening; we are about fifty now. We are talking with the CS soldiers, a woman is lecturing them on how God will never forgive them for killing their brothers. “Mesh 3ayzeen neshta3’al wAllahi, wAllahi ma 3ayzeen neshta3’al”. I give them the cold bottle of water we just bought.
I go inside to fetch mom so we could move to the other side, we are trapped from either side of the street and they won’t let us pass. A big guy in civilian dress and the biggest taser I have ever seen in his hand says “lamma el donia tehda 7adretek te2dari to7’rogi men henak, bas entazero l7ad ma el donia tehda”. He turns out to be an armed forces officer, and when we try talking to him, he says he's not allowed to. The garden between both streets is locked. We sit on the side walk with five other people: a non-veiled woman in her forties, a small guy in his twenties with gelled hair and his pinky nail overgrown, a tall big guy with a Southern accent in his thirties, a green-eyed guy with a big kersh and a receding hair-line who is obviously very well educated. A very handsome blond in a suit passes by and explains how he only needs to get to his Swedish embassy but can’t. A high class family appears, a twenty-something green-eyed brunette tying the Egyptian flag around her shoulders urges them irritatingly to go join the protest on the other side, “Perry! Ehdi shwaya!!” yells someone who appears to be her mother. They float away.
The CS soldiers use the garden to get to the other side, some of them stay inside. We are trapped for about an hour, talking and talking. And laughing.
The protesters manage to push the cordon back, we are still attempting to cross the bridge, but mom decides to wait in the club. I tell her 7arou7 w agy ageebek men el ta7reer. She lost hope, but I don’t and go anyway. They start the tear gas again, and start pushing us back again. A gentleman poured some vinegar on his blue checkered scarf and gives it to me and runs. We keep pushing back and forward and by Maghreb, we crossed. People start calling for prayer and I urge them “نصلي في الميدان” but la 7ayata liman tunadi! I march back in utter joy to bring mom back, can’t help over-smiling. I bring her and we are standing on the bridge, for a long time, so long mom wants to go home and I keep arguing not to “we have to finish what we started”. The protesters are falling back with the continuous tear gas; I keep yelling “اثبت! بترجعوا ليه؟؟!!!”. The CS start shooting at trees on their side, setting them on fire along with a car and an apartment. Fire is set to the NDP main building, and we are hearing rumors about more fires being set to CS vehicles and police stations. A woman starts wishing the army will come and save us, her son answers “why do you think they’ll be on our side?”. CS start shooting again and the people start rushing back again. Mom falls on her face and grabs me by my backpack, causing me to fall on my knees on the steel studs separating the lanes on the bridge. The men help me up and carry mom, joining hands to make way for us to safely cross to the other side “sekka! 7areem! Sekka!”. Mom has had it and we walk to the metro.
We enter the Opera metro station, dragging our legs behind us. I sit on the floor. People are covering their faces with their hands from the residual gas, but I can’t sense anything. We change directions in Mubarak, the closer we are to Sadat, the more people are coughing, I still can’t sense anything. “الله يحرقك يا مبارك!” cries out a woman. I reach to grab the blue checkered scarf, it’s not there; I am extremely mad at myself.
We stop to take a cab in Maadi “15 geneih!” mom agrees unthinkably, I dart at her; she was either too tired to argue or too tired to notice. The cabbie explains how there are explosive riots in Arab and how fire was set to a SC armor. There’s no one on the streets. No one.
I take off my clothes, noticing the blood stains on my vinegar-smelling jacket and scarf.
I call Shady and realize it was the first time we actually spoke to each other. Shady has a very distinct, deep voice. Suez is still fighting, but the fire's fading out.
I keep playing Diana Damrau’s Beethoven’s Magic Flute’s Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen in my head to sleep.
