A temporary calm, more a sense of exhaustion than of resolution, had descended over the city by morning. Qasr al-Ainy Street looked like it had been hit by a war. Charred skeletons of burned vehicles smoked amid piles of rubble, trash, and broken glass; a gas station halfway to Tahrir had been plundered by protesters, its petrol siphoned out to fuel the fires. The Egyptians seemed as stunned as we were by the transformation that had taken place over night, and like us inspired by a voyeuristic desire to record the wreckage, all of us perhaps seeing ourselves reborn as conflict-zone photographers, documenting disaster for the eyes of those elsewhere.
Tanks squatted at each entrance to Tahrir, many tagged with anti-Mubarak graffiti that echoed the slogans scrawled on every wall and storefront. Down with Mubarak. God is great. Long live the revolution. Soldiers checked our passports, then waved us through.
Inside the square the scene was much the same. The Mugamma, the hulking, labyrinthine edifice at the heart of Egyptian bureaucracy, was untouched, but the manicured lawns around it had been flooded, turning one side of the square into a murky lake whose oil-slick surface bobbed with trash. At the opposite end, flames still licked through the gutted remains of the NDP headquarters, sending a thick plume of smoke overhead that darkened the sky and stung our eyes.
We proceeded cautiously around the central median, taking pictures, trying to understand how we ought to feel about the scene before us. Destruction is sad, even when it's a necessary precursor to the creation of something better.
There was a commotion on the opposite side of the square. We couldn't see what had happened -- had a group of overenthusiastic protesters gotten too close to a tank? -- but suddenly the sky was whistling with bullets. Tear gas exploded right beside us. The crowd panicked, and we were swept in a rush of frantic moving bodies to the edge of the square. We broke free and moved toward a side street at a jog, shielding ourselves first under the awning of the nearby KFC, then beneath the overhangs of a row of papyrus shops and travel agencies. Finally we turned a corner, slowed to a walk, and began the search for an international phone line.
With mobile service and the internet still down, Chris hadn't been in touch with his editors since the previous evening. We tried a string of Downtown hotels, all shabby establishments that cater to backpackers and other less well-heeled travelers with an appetite for their gloomy, faded colonial charm; finally, forty minutes later, we ended up at the Four Seasons, where Chris was able to use the facilities in their business center to contact Abu Dhabi. On our way out, my cell phone rang -- service had been restored, although text messaging would remain unavailable for another week.
We returned to Tahrir, where the mood was as relaxed now as it had been tense two hours earlier, to gather quotes for Chris's latest piece. A group of young girls in headscarves told us they were hopeful that the events of the previous night would show Mubarak how serious Egyptians were about wanting him gone. When I asked them what they thought of the hundreds of soldiers now deployed throughout Downtown Cairo, they expressed absolute confidence that the army would stand by the people no matter what. Personally, the guns, heavily armed tanks, and other signs of military might now visible on every corner made me nervous -- how rapidly could those guns be turned on the people, and with what devastating consequences, was a scenario that would cycle frequently through my imagination in the weeks that followed -- but to the protesters they were a visible pledge of solidarity. One point on which everyone we talked to was adamant, once they learned we were American: this was their revolution, and if America thought her long fingers had any business meddling in it, well, she was very much mistaken.
We returned to the Four Seasons that evening so that Chris could file his story via fax from the business center. At the hotel we ran into two other students from my Arabic program, and while Chris wrote the piece on his laptop, we had drinks at the hotel bar -- $14 cocktails served by black-suited waiters, which we sipped sitting in leather armchairs beside a plate-glass window overlooking the darkening curve of the Nile River. Across the water, an unknown building was smoking. Just below us, knots of people moved along the corniche. Some brandished clubs, and seemed to be headed for another altercation with government forces. Others seemed in a hurry to get home; a lone taxi appeared, and was immediately waylaid by a dozen people clamoring to be let in. In the bar, American jazz played softly, and the waiters pressed us with more complimentary nuts, pretzels, and olives. I overate, as though storing up strength for the days ahead.
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| Burned cars on Qasr al-Ainy Street. |
Tanks squatted at each entrance to Tahrir, many tagged with anti-Mubarak graffiti that echoed the slogans scrawled on every wall and storefront. Down with Mubarak. God is great. Long live the revolution. Soldiers checked our passports, then waved us through.
Inside the square the scene was much the same. The Mugamma, the hulking, labyrinthine edifice at the heart of Egyptian bureaucracy, was untouched, but the manicured lawns around it had been flooded, turning one side of the square into a murky lake whose oil-slick surface bobbed with trash. At the opposite end, flames still licked through the gutted remains of the NDP headquarters, sending a thick plume of smoke overhead that darkened the sky and stung our eyes.
 |
| Midan Tahrir: A tank inscribed with anti-Mubarak graffiti; the NDP headquarters smolders in the background. |
We proceeded cautiously around the central median, taking pictures, trying to understand how we ought to feel about the scene before us. Destruction is sad, even when it's a necessary precursor to the creation of something better.
There was a commotion on the opposite side of the square. We couldn't see what had happened -- had a group of overenthusiastic protesters gotten too close to a tank? -- but suddenly the sky was whistling with bullets. Tear gas exploded right beside us. The crowd panicked, and we were swept in a rush of frantic moving bodies to the edge of the square. We broke free and moved toward a side street at a jog, shielding ourselves first under the awning of the nearby KFC, then beneath the overhangs of a row of papyrus shops and travel agencies. Finally we turned a corner, slowed to a walk, and began the search for an international phone line.
With mobile service and the internet still down, Chris hadn't been in touch with his editors since the previous evening. We tried a string of Downtown hotels, all shabby establishments that cater to backpackers and other less well-heeled travelers with an appetite for their gloomy, faded colonial charm; finally, forty minutes later, we ended up at the Four Seasons, where Chris was able to use the facilities in their business center to contact Abu Dhabi. On our way out, my cell phone rang -- service had been restored, although text messaging would remain unavailable for another week.
We returned to Tahrir, where the mood was as relaxed now as it had been tense two hours earlier, to gather quotes for Chris's latest piece. A group of young girls in headscarves told us they were hopeful that the events of the previous night would show Mubarak how serious Egyptians were about wanting him gone. When I asked them what they thought of the hundreds of soldiers now deployed throughout Downtown Cairo, they expressed absolute confidence that the army would stand by the people no matter what. Personally, the guns, heavily armed tanks, and other signs of military might now visible on every corner made me nervous -- how rapidly could those guns be turned on the people, and with what devastating consequences, was a scenario that would cycle frequently through my imagination in the weeks that followed -- but to the protesters they were a visible pledge of solidarity. One point on which everyone we talked to was adamant, once they learned we were American: this was their revolution, and if America thought her long fingers had any business meddling in it, well, she was very much mistaken.
We returned to the Four Seasons that evening so that Chris could file his story via fax from the business center. At the hotel we ran into two other students from my Arabic program, and while Chris wrote the piece on his laptop, we had drinks at the hotel bar -- $14 cocktails served by black-suited waiters, which we sipped sitting in leather armchairs beside a plate-glass window overlooking the darkening curve of the Nile River. Across the water, an unknown building was smoking. Just below us, knots of people moved along the corniche. Some brandished clubs, and seemed to be headed for another altercation with government forces. Others seemed in a hurry to get home; a lone taxi appeared, and was immediately waylaid by a dozen people clamoring to be let in. In the bar, American jazz played softly, and the waiters pressed us with more complimentary nuts, pretzels, and olives. I overate, as though storing up strength for the days ahead.
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