by N E. David
In a staged uprising, it had begun following Friday Prayers. Opposition leader El Baradei had arrived and hundreds of thousands of protestors had come out onto the streets to demonstrate. There were reports of looting and some of the prisons in the city had been opened and then burned down – allegedly on the orders of the Minister of the Interior. This tactic had allowed the inmates to escape en-masse in an attempt to terrorise the protestors. And to make matters worse, the police had deliberately been withdrawn from the streets so there was no-one to enforce the law. Chaos had ensued and the military had been deployed to assist.
Coupled with this, after four days of continual protest Mubarak had made his first address to the nation and as a concession to their demands had pledged to form a new Government. His announcement had been met with scepticism and derision by the protestors. International fears of violence had grown, and later on the Friday night clashes had broken out in Tahrir Square between revolutionaries and pro-Mubarak thugs, leading to several injuries and the death of Karim Ragab. It was a confused and disorderly scene. Travelling around Cairo was never easy at the best of times, but getting back home, Blake realised, was not going to be straightforward.
His problems began with airport security. He’d checked onto the plane at Luxor without issue, but on arrival in Cairo he was stopped at least twice and asked to explain the purpose of his telescope and tripod. The thinking seemed to be that he was a mercenary hired by one side or the other and that his equipment was some sort of sophisticated weaponry, and it was only after he’d assembled it for inspection and shown them his bird guide that he was allowed to pass. With the personnel on guard excitable and a large number of guns on display, it was a worrying moment.
Then there was the question of transport. The shuttle bus he’d normally have used had been cancelled as there was no access to the city centre. He thought it might be safer underground and he considered taking the Metro, but in the light of Carpenter’s comments about the closure of stations, there was no guarantee he could get off where he wanted.
He settled for the flexibility of a taxi and was faced with the inevitable touting. You’re a tourist? And being of Western appearance and trailing luggage, it was not unreasonable to suppose that he looked like one – either that or a newspaper photographer come to take snaps, his telescope mistaken for a camera. You’re staying in Cairo? Your hotel will be closed. They’re all closed. You come with me. I show you nice place that’s open. Blake’s polite but insistent refusal was met with disappointment – it was a scam of course, and the driver would not now be earning his commission. To compensate he quoted double the usual fare, citing the hazardous nature of the journey. After a prolonged bout of haggling, Blake met him halfway and they eventually set off down Sharia Al-Druba. Some things in Cairo hadn’t changed.
It was a long and convoluted journey. They couldn’t take a direct route (that was understandable) so instead made a detour to the south – but even then there were alarms and excursions every step of the way. They’d barely started out in Heliopolis for instance when they were subjected to the unnerving crackle of gunfire.
The road the driver had chosen took them through old Cairo and a maze of narrow backstreets jammed with traffic. And what with this and the temporary roadblocks and informal security checks, what was nominally a one-hour trip turned out to be almost two. They arrived in Dokki in darkness – only to be confronted by a makeshift barricade erected across the entrance to the neighbourhood. Unable to make further progress by vehicle, Blake elected to pay the driver off and got out to walk the five-minute distance to his apartment.
It was these last few hundred yards that proved the most difficult. The barricade had been hastily constructed from a selection of wooden pallets, corrugated metal sheeting and anything that could be found lying about and was manned by a self-appointed militia. In the absence of the police, it seemed that the people were taking the law into their own hands. Partially obscured by the dark, the militia presented a motley and scary appearance. Brandishing a wide array of weapons (Blake saw sticks, golf clubs and at least one machete, but thankfully, no guns), they demanded to see his ID – although when he produced it they were still doubtful, saying he might have stolen it. There was no-one to vouch for him and it seemed he’d reached an impasse.
To break the deadlock he suggested they send for Abdu and after what seemed like an eternity, the old doorkeeper appeared. Wearing his usual toothless grin, he made a merciful sign of recognition and Blake was finally admitted. When at last he turned the key in the door of his apartment, he couldn’t wait to get inside. He’d never felt so glad to be home.
The following day was a Sunday and after the excitement of the Friday and the Saturday, Cairo seemed relatively calm. Peace had descended out of a blue sky and the barricades were quiet. There was less traffic than usual and what there was of it worked at a slower pace. The frenetic bustle he’d left behind seemed to have gone out of the place and it was as though the city was enjoying a lie-in.
He’d been away for just over a week so there was little food in the flat. Early in the morning he went across to the corner shop for supplies. Mr Sayeed, the owner, was already out sweeping the pavement in front of his store. Blake was puzzled.
“What’s this?” he asked. “I don’t often see you out here.”
It was an unusual occurrence – displays of civic pride were few and far between in Cairo.
“I’m cleaning up,” said Mr Sayeed, proudly collecting years of accumulated rubbish into a plastic bag. “You see, Mr Blake, we are in charge now. We can look after ourselves. We don’t need the police, we don’t need the army, and above all, we don’t need Mubarak! Thanks be to Allah, we have the shabab! They will protect us now!” (It was the shabab, or youth, who were manning the barricade). “I can tell you, Mr Blake, if the police so much as show their faces here they will get their noses broken!” Plastic bag in hand, he straightened his back to address his client. The tidying could wait – customers always came first. “You want bread? We have shamsi or baladi – which would you prefer?”
Seduced by the tantalising smell from inside, Blake took one of each and together with some cheese and a few vegetables he completed the rest of his shopping. As he walked back across the road he was pursued by the tang of disinfectant. Mr Sayeed had followed him out to resume his cleaning and was mopping down the steps. Little by little, Egyptians were reclaiming their country.
After breakfast he made a pot of coffee and took it to his desk where he sat with his bird guide and notebook. Behind him, the muted sounds of a subdued city drifted in through the open window. After previous trips away it had been his practice to reorganise his bird list and compile a report of his visit. But this time he could not, for as soon as he started he realised that the list was still incomplete. At Karnak there’d been Red-breasted Swallows and a Bee Eater – but he could not for the life of him remember whether it had been Blue-cheeked or Little Green. Compared to everything else, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. Try as he might, he could not focus on birds and his head was full of the same subject he’d successfully pushed to one side on the aeroplane with the judicious use of the newspaper.
Why had he let Lee Yong go in the way that he did? It went against the grain but could he not at the very least have taken some form of contact? Somewhere he thought he might have written down a mobile phone number – but was it hers or was it Reda’s? A forwarding address would have been better – or anything that would have allowed him to stay in touch. After what they’d been through together, it didn’t seem a lot to ask. At the airport, he’d had to push himself to use the words he professed to despise so much –Perhaps we’ll meet again sometime – but he’d lacked the courage to follow it through. Such trivia came so easily to others, why couldn’t he do the same? In the end he’d done nothing and he was left with the thought that he’d let an opportunity slip through his fingers. Reda had rejected her – and so, in his own way, had he.
He poured
another coffee and tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t shake off his feeling of self-reproach. After an hour of inconclusive contemplation he grew exasperated with himself, and in a fit of pique finished off the list the only way he knew how, adding Reda and Spoonbills after Lee Yong and Hossein Rasheed. Thinking it would put an end to his torture, he meant to rip the page out, throw it into the bin and start over. But when the time came he could not bring himself to do it. What he’d written down was the truth – it told a story, although it wasn’t the one he’d intended.
Eventually he got up from the desk and began wandering round the flat, searching for some form of distraction. In the kitchen he looked through the cupboards to see if he’d forgotten anything at the store. In the sitting room he checked his answer-phone for messages, but there were none – a fact which only added to his depression. Then, as if to prove he still had a friend, he rang Carpenter on the off-chance. Rather predictably, there was no reply. Finally, when he’d exhausted all the possibilities, he decided to abandon the project for the day and settled for an early lunch.
That afternoon he took a stroll down to the barricade. He’d been boxed up in the flat for almost twenty-four hours and needed to stretch his legs. It was also an opportunity to make his face known to the shabab – he didn’t want to have to call on Abdu every time he needed to go in or out of the neighbourhood.
At close quarters and in daylight the shabab were nowhere near as frightening as they’d appeared in the dark. They were mostly fresh-faced lads from the locality and their purpose, they told him, was to prevent infiltration by strangers. There’d been reports of pro-Mubarak thugs and plainclothes police entering the suburbs and creating unrest through looting and violence. The shabab had sworn against this and were determined to defend their families, their friends and their neighbourhoods against all-comers. They would rather die, they said, than fail.
With the intention of clearing them from the streets, the Government had imposed a curfew for sixteen out of the twenty-four hours of the day. The shabab had vowed they’d ignore it – and to show proof of their defiance, when the appointed hour arrived and a flight of jet fighters flew low overhead with a deafening roar, instead of going home as they were supposed to they shook their fists and gestured rudely. You don’t scare us like that! Neither they, nor the tenants of Tahrir Square, were going to be easily evicted.
And so the protests continued.
Monday was another quiet day. But that wasn’t to say things had returned to normal. Quite the reverse – things were far from normal and if anything, it was much too quiet. During the hours of curfew the buses and the trains stopped running, and apart from those who relied on their own efforts for a living, no-one was going to work. Across the road from Blake’s flat, Mr Sayeed continued to sweep the pavement with newly acquired pride, but there was little in the way of passing trade to disturb him. Like an engine that lacked oil, deprived of its commerce the city had ground to a halt.
As for Blake himself, he was unsure as to what normality was any more. After a lifetime accustomed to work, he’d returned from holiday on Saturday and had spent Sunday supposedly tidying his affairs. Now it was Monday and normality meant he’d have gone into the office. But even if the political situation had been otherwise, he couldn’t go in now, and it was the fact that this comfort was denied him that induced a feeling of restlessness. He called the Embassy twice, but the switchboard was closed. He tried Carpenter again but there was still no reply. This lack of response and the unnerving quietness of the place began to make him feel uneasy. It was as if he were being lulled into a false sense of security.
In the meanwhile, the city slumbered on – but there was an underlying sense that sooner or later something was bound to happen.
It began on the Tuesday morning – quietly at first, starting as a low murmur of voices in the street outside. Then, as the day wore on, it grew to a fully-fledged crescendo. Singing and chanting, like a floodtide coming unstoppably into shore, a sea of faces was passing by his window, heading for Tahrir Square. It was difficult to tell, but it looked as if all of Dokki had turned out. Slowly but surely, and in ever-increasing numbers, the people of Cairo were on the march.
The sound drew Blake out onto his tiny balcony. In the road below a throng of protestors was moving steadily towards Sharia Tahrir and the Gala’a Bridge. He’d seen gatherings like this before – and had been in them in fact. It reminded him of trips he’d taken to football and rugby matches with his father when he was a youth – the long walk through backstreets, alone to begin with and then in company as others joined from side roads, until finally they’d arrive at the ground surrounded by the excitement of a massive crowd. United by the support of their team, they cheered for them, just as the protestors cheered now. But what united these supporters was not that they were of one faction or another, but the idea that they were Egyptians. It was not just the shabab who were marching, but citizens of every age and class – the rich and the poor, men and women, covered and uncovered, Muslims and Christians. Whole families, even children, were involved.
Some carried banners and placards they’d created especially for the day. The slogans ranged from the obvious such as MUBARAK OUT! and DIGNITY, JUSTICE AND FREEDOM to the more satirical eg. THE LAUGHING COW WILL SOON BE IN TEARS. (La Vache Qui Rit was not just a popular cheese in Egypt, it was also a nickname for the reviled president). Many were humorous in content and there was much laughter. It was an altogether good-natured gathering.
At around midday, Mr Sayeed emerged out of the corner shop and stood on his freshly-swept pavement, watching the crowds passing by. Here was the potential for trade – and masses of it – but none of it was coming his way. After a while he went back inside and ten minutes later he reappeared with his wife. Taking his keys from his pocket he locked the door, and arm in arm they joined the throng.
Blake was left alone and retreated back into his apartment. He switched on the television and tuned to Al Jazeera where images appeared of Tahrir Square packed to capacity with peaceful demonstrators. Here and there, music was playing and there was singing. In the background, buzzing gently overhead, police helicopters circled the scene, powerless to act. Gradually, and without ado, the centre of Cairo had become flooded with people. And now that the army had pledged not to intervene, there was nothing the regime could do about it.
Later that night, Mubarak appeared on state-run television for the second time. In response to the overwhelming display of public opposition he announced certain concessions, namely that he would not seek another term of office and that he would stand down after the elections scheduled for September. It marked a significant change in his position and for the moment, it looked as though the crowd had beaten him.
When the speech was over, Blake switched the television off and slumped into his wicker chair. He was still troubled and the events of the day had done nothing to relieve him of his feeling of restlessness. The people of Cairo had spoken and the revolution had moved on, but he had remained silent and if anything, he felt as if he’d gone backwards. In fact, he was more unsettled now than he’d been the day before.
He got up and went over to the window. The heat of the day had passed, the night was turning cold and there was a moon now too, high and white above the city. He drew back the shutters and stepped out onto the tiny balcony. Across the street a light was on in the room above the corner shop and he arrived just in time to see it turned off. Having watched their president admit defeat, Mr and Mrs Sayeed were on their way to bed. They could count themselves happy with their day’s work as along with a million others, they had marched and they had won.
Blake felt a surge of resentment and brought his fist down hard on the iron rail. What on earth was he thinking of? Why should he feel envious? The Sayeeds were no more than simple shopkeepers – but he would give anything to be in their shoes right now. They’d helped to salvage their country from the grip of a dictator, while he had done nothing. Why had he not marched wi
th them? It would have been easy enough – all he’d needed to do was step outside the downstairs door and he’d have been swept along with the tide. Instead of which, he’d chosen to stay put on his balcony and adopt his usual stance of observer.
It pained him to admit it, but the reason in his eyes was simple. However much he liked to think otherwise, he was not, and never could be, an Egyptian. He loved the country and he loved its people – but he was not one of them. He’d failed to understand their need for revolution and when Reda had outlined the reasons, he’d shied away from it. They were desperate for change, but he wanted things to stay as they were, the way he had always known them, the way the country he called ‘his’ had always been. And yet it was no more ‘his’ country than it was Mubarak’s. What right did he have to dictate?
When he’d been in the company of the others, he’d prided himself on how ‘Egyptian’ he was and he’d despised them for their British ways. How shallow he had been! The fact was, they had more genuine ‘roots’ than he did. He’d chosen to abandon his – and the country he’d adopted had not adopted him. High up in the sky, the moon closed its face to him and disappeared behind a straggling cloud. His life was full of regrets, and for one intensely bitter moment he wished he’d never come to the place. He’d failed in his career as a diplomat and he’d chosen instead to write meaningless notes that would never be read in a dingy back office. He once might have thought himself in love, but had not had the courage to disclose his feelings. And now the country he professed to belong to had cried out for help and he’d been unable to give it.
