*
It was a black night. That’s the only way I can describe it. On the Abd al-Moneim Riyad, Champollion, and Qasr al-Nil fronts, the violence didn’t abate. On Qasr al-Aini, it stopped and started. The groups fighting on the inside defended the entrances ferociously. Galal came and went, returning to us for a few minutes, then leaving again. One time he came back with a head injury. He wasn’t bleeding, but he had a big bump on his forehead and held his head in pain. But that didn’t stop him from running back to the front.
I called my father at short intervals, every hour or two, to joke with him and reassure him that we had the square under control. He was panicking because of the news he was watching on TV, but hearing that I was fine calmed him down.
I didn’t subject myself to any violent confrontations that night. I knew my limits. Nothing terrified me more than those rocks flying around. I couldn’t bring myself to pick up a rock and throw it at another person, or even throw it into the air. It was then that I discovered I was a coward. I couldn’t partake in the violence, which I viewed with awe and fear. I understood the position of self-defense in the context of a battle like this. Let the fighters fight. The most I could do was be present. I was just a body to add to the numbers of protestors. I couldn’t contribute anything more than this. Or that’s what I thought. Until I found myself a few hours later holding a hose and helping someone fill Molotov bottles with fuel.
I was in a trance and couldn’t object. The young man who requested my help looked poor and would have been called a thug by the TV news, but he was on our side. I was leaning on a parked motorbike when he came to me, out of breath, his head in a bandage like most men in the square, and carrying an empty bottle. He said in a worn-out voice, “Hey, miss, hold this bottle for a minute.”
I automatically did what he asked. He proceeded to open the motorbike’s tank and insert a primitive hose into it. “Now give me the bottle, and hold the hose like this.”
“Right, yes,” I said in blind obedience.
I held the hose while he tilted the bike at a certain angle until drops of fuel started to trickle into the bottle. A few seconds passed before I understood what I was doing. What if this bottle killed someone, which wasn’t at all unlikely? In the seconds that followed, I contemplated dropping the hose and running away. But I didn’t. I waited until he was done. He took the hose from my hand, closed the tank, and said as he rushed away, “Thanks, miss. We’ll be victorious, God willing!”
I murmured under my breath, “You’re welcome, buddy. You and whoever will be hit by this.”
It was unequivocally the longest night of my life. The night wouldn’t end and the violence wouldn’t stop. The sound of banging on the metal fences grated on my nerves. The battle continued till daybreak. We were continuously calling our friends to check if they were still alive. No one came out of the battle intact. We were all casualties in one way or another. Some were injured by bricks, others were traumatized by what they had seen or experienced, some lost their eyes, and then there were those who lost their lives. Things got calmer on the second day, and by daybreak the protestors were winning. The others were finally beginning to retreat, overcome by courage and numbers, and above all by determination. I do think that battle affected, on a personal level, everyone who took part in it. If you’ve witnessed so much violence and blood and fought for your own survival, it would be impossible to stay the same. Something changed in each one of us. My fear of violence increased, but also my support of its necessity in the face of overwhelming force. We all became more determined to carry on, and above all to maintain our sense of humor.
I heard someone recount to his friend how difficult it was to lead the captured camel down the steps of the metro station. “The camel gave us such a hard time!” I cracked up, just imagining the scene: the revolutionaries leading a camel down the steps of the underground metro station, which was used as a makeshift prison for those thugs they could detain. There was much debate in the square as to what they should do with the camel—slaughter it or hand it over to the army? Some said we should slaughter it, grill its meat, and eat it. Others thought that would fill the square with more blood, and we already had enough. The final verdict was to hand it over to the army, ending one of the most absurd discussions I’ve ever heard in my life. Revolutionaries discussing the fate of a captive camel, as they adorned lampposts with horse reins that were jokingly referred to as the spoils of war. The kind of absurdity you’d be hard pressed to find anywhere but in Egypt.
But the battle did finally end. The phase of counting losses that followed was painful. Hundreds of people died that day. Hundreds or maybe thousands were injured. People lost eyes, and some lost their sight altogether. The losses were huge. Still, the spirit of the square was like a magic balm over these wounds. The square was mighty and clear: it had power and influence and spirit. It supported and healed. It had a face and a voice. With unbelievable continuity it pushed us to carry through what
