This post is long overdue, but forgive me - I've been a little distracted the past few days.
A quick summary, just in case you're living in an ice cave but faithfully following this blog. Last Tuesday Egypt was rocked with massive protests against the 30-year-old Mubarak presidency. Inspired by the Tunisian uprising last month, civil unrest in Egypt had been growing for several weeks, and was fueled through the organizing and grievance-airing capabilities of social media such as Facebook and Twitter. Wednesday and Thursday were relatively quiet (except in Suez), but on Friday the country exploded after prayers. The security police had been using water cannons, tear gas, and rubber-coated bullets (and possibly live bullets) on protesters since Tuesday, but the deployment of the military into the streets of Cairo, Alexandria, and Suez seemed to change things.
Except it didn't. For reasons that seem inaccessible to the American mind at first glance, the protesting Egyptians cheered the arriving military, welcoming them with flowers, kisses, handshakes, hugs, and vows of solidarity. Violent protests continued throughout Friday. The Cairo and Luxor headquarters of the National Democratic Party - Mubarak's party and the only legal political party in Egypt - were burned to the ground, and the flames in Cairo threatened the Egyptian Museum right next door (more on the museum in a minute).
Then things went from bad to bizarre. Finally, after days of violent protests, Mubarak appeared on television Friday early afternoon my time - the middle of the night in Egypt - and delivered this speech:
Basically, Mubarak spent 11 minutes claiming that he's always understood the Egyptian poor and has done nothing his entire life but work for them. He pointed out that the protests could only have occurred thanks to the extensive - !! - freedoms of press and assembly - !!! - that Egyptians only enjoy thanks to him and his tireless work for them - !!!!. And then, the coup de grace was delivered when Mubarak announced that he was dissolving the government and that a new one would be appointed by him on Saturday.
Cue the filling of posts with military cronies, the surrounding of foreign embassies (in my old neighborhood) with tanks, and the deployment of fighter planes into the Cairo skies this morning.
I actually had my hands clutched to my face while I listed to the live feed of Mubarak's speech. The level of delusion, backwardness, and outright contempt for the people that were exhibited in that speech were truly shocking. That sounds trite, I know, but true - the hair stood up on the back of my neck and I couldn't seem to get my eyes to focus. The sheer audacity of ignoring tens of thousands of people chanting "Go away Mubarak!" while simultaneously claiming to have your finger on the pulse of the nation ... I'm tempted to say that I haven't seen this much disconnect from reality since W's administration, but I think Mubarak wins the prize here.
It's not my intent to fully or accurately chronicle the last week's events, because Al Jazeera has been doing a masterful job of it, and the New York Times hasn't been too sloppy either. Too good a job, actually, as evidenced by the Egyptian government's forceful closure of the Al Jazeera bureau this morning. Rather, I'd like to write a bit about what I've been seeing and feeling. Which is mostly exhaustion (I've been glued to Al Jazeera's excellent streaming coverage of the events), pride, worry, and deep sadness.
I'm going to start by expressing my driving pride in the people of Egypt. To be perfectly honest, based on my experiences living there for two years, I wasn't sure the people had it in them. That's what happens when you live under authoritarian regimes for something like 6000 years - you learn to cope, and if you're a little person you move on with your life the best you can and try to avoid attracting the attention of the powerful. I wrote about this a lot when I lived in Egypt. So yes, I'm proud of their resilience and their refusal to take what Mubarak's dishing out - but I'm horrified when I think about my students being shot with tear gas and rubber bullets.
Let me clarify one thing here, so I don't give myself airs. I had a fantastic life in Egypt. I lived in a beautiful apartment in a posh neighborhood, I ate at fancy restaurants, I hired drivers to take me places, I went scuba diving when I could, and I traveled as much as was humanly possible. I taught at a private university where the language of instruction was (supposedly) English, and my students were the English-speaking elite of Egypt.
To be blunt, I did not walk like an Egyptian. But I had eyes, and ears.
I'm also worried as hell about what's going on over there, both in terms of the politics/future of Egypt and in terms of the friends and colleagues I left behind. I'm only going to address the second part here. Why so worried? Because on Friday afternoon (my Friday afternoon, the middle of the night in Egypt) the government shut off the internet and mobile phones. No kidding. So although I'm glued to Facebook and Al Jazeera, I can't get any direct news from my friends in Cairo. Thank God for Facebook, though - the band of ex-AUCans scattered around the world has been really diligent in posting news gathered first- through fifth-hand about the safety of our friends.
Speaking of social media, it's really striking that I, ten thousand miles away, probably have more information than my friends in Cairo. These events - I suppose it's only a revolution if Mubarak leaves - have been happening on television. I've been watching them. Which makes Mubarak's anachronistic conviction that he can control the flow of information all the more puzzling. Hell, if you're going to shut off the internet, you might as well wear a t-shirt that says "Evil Dictator."
All this information also meant that I could see the flames reaching for the Egyptian Museum, home of Egypt's phenomenal cultural heritage. I'm too tired to summon the words to describe my visceral connection to this museum, how it feels to have childhood dreams laid out in front of you, how many hours I spent exploring the museum. What I can tell you is that I actually cried yesterday when I saw this footage:
I can't imagine where Zahi was Friday night - I would've expected him to be laid out on the steps of the museums himself, or hiring a private army to protect the museum. Ordinary Egyptian protesters and the military formed a human chain around the museum to protect it from looters, but that heartbreaking show of solidarity just wasn't enough - the looters may have come in from the roof or the ticket office. It seems that they were arrested, but the damage has been done. Why would you rip the heads off two mummies? What does that accomplish?
My faith in humanity is shaken when I hear about things like this.
The second time I cried yesterday was when I spoke with my father on the phone. He made a few comments about watching the Egyptian events on TV, but I suddenly felt exhausted so I changed the subject. I told him about the string quartet we'd seen on Wednesday, and the play we volunteered at on Friday. My father responded by saying, "Well, I'm glad you're living a good life in California while your friends are dying in Egypt."
I got off the phone as quickly as I could, and then I burst into tears.
I'm sure he must have been joking, but his comment thrust right to the heart of the maelstrom of emotions I've been experiencing for the past few days. I've had a lot of friends contact me for my opinion on events, and I'm glad that they did. I've noticed, though, that my friends - none of these friends have lived in Egypt - have split about 50/50 on their assumption of my emotions. About half have said something like, "You must be glad you're not there!" and the other half has said, "You must be disappointed that you're missing such an historic moment!"
I don't know how I feel. Or rather, I'm feeling too many contradictory things. I'm glad I'm not in physical danger (there, I said it). I'm glad I have access to information because I'm here in the US. But I'm ashamed that I encouraged my students to think for themselves and to demand access to information, then walked away. I obsessively watch real people fighting to determine their future from the safety of my house in California, and I talk as if I were right there with them. My heart hurts to see flames and pockmarked buildings and burning palm trees along the streets I used to walk every day. And then I walk out of my house and try to go about my business.
I want to say, Kollena Masryeen! We are all Egyptian!
But then I hit "publish post" on my live internet connection, open my window to the rain, and walk downstairs for lunch.
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