I found myself alone on the bridge. I thought of following Galal, but I looked toward the square and decided there was indeed no point. So I turned and walked along the corniche. I would go home to see my father if I got tired.
I was still looking at the ground as I walked, mulling over my theory. We couldn’t see anything through. We were no good at finishing things. We created momentum but faltered at the end. It really applied to everything. We made good films with naive endings, love stories that were brilliantly romantic but ended in unnecessary drama and complications. As a generation, we sucked at finishing things.
I was startled out of my thoughts by the noise of a protest march behind me. They had started early that day. I automatically stood aside and looked over at them. Large numbers filled the corniche as far as I could see. From where I stood, they seemed like the contents of a giant bag of variously colored beans, strewn all along this stretch of the corniche. Among them were recognizable uniforms: one group dressed in the black gowns of lawyers, another in the white coats of medical doctors. It was like a scene from a 1960s operetta: the extras representing the different sectors of society, surrounded by “the promising youth.” The only difference was that this was not state propaganda, but its opposite. I stood on the sidewalk farthest from the Nile and watched them pass. I didn’t know where they were heading, but I took a few steps, and then joined them, my thin voice repeating their chants.
The march was heading toward the center for false news: Maspero, the state television building. I started imagining the battle that would ensue. The numbers were amazing. These wild beasts—the protestors—were surely going to break into the building and fight. With these numbers, we would certainly win and occupy the building. Then it would have been a real revolution. The protest extended for a few kilometers on either side of the building. The soldiers on their tanks were getting nervous; officers talked urgently into their radios. They seemed scared, and that was a good sign: they had recognized our obvious advantage.
Protestors on the front lines started talking to the military personnel. “Hey, buddy, good morning,” I overheard someone say to a young-looking soldier, who only smiled and looked away. I felt my blood rise. “Buddy”? And “good morning”? How was that the attitude of a revolutionary? Why weren’t we breaking into this building that everyone agreed was a locus of oppression and corruption? Only later would I understand that there was an implicit agreement to never force entry anywhere. People kept arriving at targets and just standing there. Maybe out of fear. Maybe to preserve the principle of nonviolence. Maybe out of some presumptive trust in the military or respect for public property, which time and time again would be put above the people and their lives.
And so, even at that moment of overwhelming advantage, the protestors refused to force their way in. When I asked someone why we weren’t at least going to the square instead, he replied with confidence, “The square is already full. They will fear us more if we stand here. This is a very important location. You’re too young to understand.”
I nodded in genuine agreement. “You’re right. I really don’t understand anything at all.”
I ended up standing there for about eight hours, moving between the shade of a tree across the street and the front line by the barbed wire. I tried to read the expressions on the officers’ faces, and when everything persisted in making no sense, I went back to the tree.
Finally I got bored and decided to go home to check on my father. I called and found him in an edgy mood.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m going to get dressed and go out.”
“What’s the rush? Wait, I’ll come get you.”
“No, no, stay where you are. Aren’t you at the square?”
“No, I’m by Maspero. Don’t go to the square. Meet me in Talaat Harb. I’ll be at Groppi in half an hour.”
I ended the call and started walking. It was impossible to find a taxi, so I walked all the way to Talaat Harb Square. The sun was setting, and numbers were picking up. So was my heartbeat as I stood outside Groppi. I saw my father crossing the street, and at the same moment I heard a gunshot. I ran toward him. He was looking around, trying to determine where the noise had come from. I took his arm and pulled him quickly toward the sidewalk. Before we had time to say anything, a man came running at a mad speed, heading toward Tahrir Square and screaming, “He stepped down! He stepped down!” We exchanged looks of incomprehension. Who had stepped down? We headed toward Groppi, and found people there hugging each other and talking frantically. There had been a short statement from the former chief of intelligence and newly appointed vice president. The regime had fallen. The president had handed over his authority to the armed forces. I jumped up and down. I turned to my father to hug him and saw him standing at the door, far from me. He was smiling in relief. His face faded, then disappeared.
33
I brought out all the cleaning tools from the wooden cupboard under the sink: the disinfectants, yellow dusters, floor cleaner, upholstery powder, bleach for the toilet, and glass cleaner. I emptied all the small trash cans into one big garbage bag. When I was young, my mother used to always give me the chore of changing the trash cans. I used to do it grudgingly. I took the full bag outside and put clean bags in all the cans. I lined up the cleaning products neatly at the kitchen threshold
