J’ai vécu, durant les révolution du printemps arabe en Égypte. Je ne peut pas vous dire ma nationalité, ni mon age. Tous ce que je peux vous affirmer, c’est que j’ai participé a se mouvement révolutionnaire à distance. Je suis un cyber-activiste qui estime que tout liberté doit être donné a n’importe quel individus. 

Avant que la révolution éclate le 25 janvier 2011, il y avait déjà des rumeurs. Les évènements en Tunisie, la critique de Moubarak était au centre des discussions avec les clients. C’était un sujet qui concernait tout le monde. 

Travailler au centre de la ville me permet de ne rien rater de l’actualité du pays. 

L’ampleur de l’évènement a obligé le café de fermer temporairement. J’ai suivi la foule. Je me suis joins à la manifestation. Il m’a paru que pendant ces rassemblements, la place Tahrir était un gigantesque café en plein air où chacun pouvait s’exprimer. 

Je m’appelle Anna, je viens de Dresden en Allemagne.

Je suis venue visiter Paris le temps d’un week-end prolongé avec mon compagnon. On s’est dit qu’en décembre il y aurait moins de touriste qu’en été. 

Le samedi, nous sommes allés aux Champs Elysées. On m’a dit que ce lieu était un des incontournables de Paris. 

Mais quand je suis arrivée, une foule de manifestants était sur place. Il y avait du bruit, les gens se bousculaient. Des fumigènes étaient brandis et on ne distinguait même plus l’Arc de Triomphe à travers les panaches de fumée.

On m’a aussi parlé des boutiques de modes des Champs-Elysées mais les rideaux de fer étaient baissées et les vitrines masquées par des panneaux de bois.

J’étais à la fois surprise et déçue. Je ne m’attendais pas à un tel chahut. Voici l’image que j’avais désormais de la capitale française !

I could not imagine at my age that I would live through another major, if not historical event as I turned on the radio on November 17, 2018 and got ready for work. The anchors were discussing the usual stuff, like how it was another chilly day, typical for November, before switching to the topic of the national news and the protests set to take place later that day. Laughing and joking, their nonchalance was no different than how they would typically cover the latest political news. I walked down the stairs of my apartment building, and winced. I had to remember to get more Doliprane to soothe the aching in my joints from the endless days I spent scrubbing floors. At sixty-three, I really wanted to retire, but I needed this income to survive.

As I walked through the town to get to my employer’s home, the cars around me turned to life and the streets gradually filled with people beginning their morning rush. Most days blended into each other, the same burnt-out faces rushing to their mind-numbing jobs, compared to the seemingly boundless energy of the children going to class, not yet disillusioned by the world. The morning was cold, and my already dry hands were already beginning to crack. At least this employer was kind, albeit a bit too meticulous about the state of his home.

My employer, Mr. Chevalier always kept the news playing in the background as I worked, so I often used the sounds to distract myself from the tedious tasks. This morning, the anchors resumed their usual banter, dismissing the gravity of the protests. As the morning dragged on, however, their tone began to shift. I could hear their voices growing increasingly high-pitched, along with Mr. Chevalier’s disgruntled reaction as he sipped his coffee—which was as bitter as he was. I overheard a mention of roadblocks outside of the major cities, which at first seemed like a fanciful idea to me, one that would obviously not be practical, but the anchors seemed worried. Evidently, these roadblocks were keeping people from entering or leaving the city. I wondered how others would be able to get to their job or even go about their day, especially those who depended on their jobs in the city to feed their families. 

My next employer was always at work when I cleaned, so I spent the rest of the afternoon unaware of the progression of events taking place around the country. I could not get the thought of how quickly these protests seemed to escalate out of my mind, and I eagerly awaited the moment I could return home to hear the latest news on the radio. Walking home, everyone seemed more stressed than usual, or maybe it was just my imagination. Were there less people? Was there less traffic than usual? Had these roadblocks managed to succeed? The questions raced through my mind as I unlocked the door to my tiny apartment. I rushed to the radio to hear the updates on the situation. The anchors sounded tense as they described how people were unable to get to work or leave the city due to the roadblocks. It seemed there were more of them than planned. Was this the beginning of another revolution? It seemed that so many major events in French history had been started by a seemingly insignificant idea, a match that only needed one spark to explode out of control. 

Fifteen days had passed, and the tensions had only grown. The Gilets Jaunes, as they called themselves, inspired by the yellow vests they chose as their symbol, had formed, and it seemed they would not be quiet now that they had a voice. The news had informed me that although at first they were simply protesting a diesel tax, they now expected social reform. I wondered if the government would cave or if this increasingly worrying situation would drag on into the holiday season. This Saturday was the third one of protests, and it seemed to have gained momentum from the first one. Once again, I was cleaning Mr. Chevalier’s home, much like every other Saturday, while he watched BFMTV, the only accurate news source according to him. I pretended that the living room needed extra dusting just so that I could listen to the anchors.

“It seems the protests have intensified. They are becoming agitated, and there may soon be confrontations with the police,” declared one of the anchors.

“We are hearing reports that vandalism has increased. There are demonstrations in Marseille in response to the recent building collapse. Meanwhile, in Paris, the Gilets Jaunes have invaded The Arc de Triomphe and vandalized it. Here are the shocking images of this attack on one of France’s most prized monuments,” commented another anchor. I quickly turned around to watch the screen. Mr. Chevalier cursed at the tv while I watched, baffled by the events taking place. It was all I could do to continue cleaning, and try to carry on normally as Mr. Chevalier stomped around the room, huffing and incensed.

“Are you seeing this outrage, Nicole?” he inquired, turning to me. It seemed like a rhetorical question. Unsure whether to respond, I simply nodded my head and tried to get back to work before he chided me into a political debate. I needed this job to afford rent and food, and besides, Christmas was just around the corner. 

By the end of the day, it seemed the public and the government were still trying to process the events of the day. Violence and vandalism had wreaked havoc throughout the country. How could so much tension and violence arise at a time predicated on community and peace? 

Everyone had anticipated President Macron’s speech, eager to hear how he would address the crisis. The question on everyone’s mind was whether he would be able to ease the tension and appease an increasingly aggrieved population. It seemed not everyone would be happy regardless of his reaction. As the amount of protests grew, I watched, finding myself agreeing more and more with their demands, but unable to speak about them openly in conversation with my friends or family. I worried every day for my nephew, a police officer in Rouen, who so far had not encountered the violence of the protests. He had called me last night while I ate dinner to tell me that he was being dispatched to Paris to assist with regulating the protests there. I was afraid to tell him how I worried for him, but my dreams that night were filled with nightmares about what could happen. I had heard stories of the people injured on both sides, seen the people who had lost an eye due to a rubber bullet on the news, and watched as the more belligerent protestors assaulted police officers. 

As I listened to Macron’s speech, I had hoped Macron would be able to pacify the masses, at least to a certain extent, but I found myself growing increasingly disappointed with his announced reforms. Raising the minimum wage by a hundred euros did not seem like an adequate response to the various demands of the protestors. He obviously seemed to be missing the point. The disappointment only increased the next day as the public discovered he would not, in fact, raise the minimum wage. 

As I cleaned the following Saturday, I could not stop my hands from shaking as I thought about my nephew, in Paris for the expected protests that day. I cannot understand how mothers can carry on when their children are in situations such as these, when I could hardly stand the thought of my nephew potentially in harm’s way. I tried to tune into the news as much as I could, grateful for once in my life of Mr. Chevalier’s obsession with BFM. At least I could have some idea of how the protests were going to unfold. I heard the anchors discussing how thousands more policemen had been deployed than protestors in an attempt to maintain order, but after seeing how some of the confrontations went, I understood how it took only one angry person to incite a massive riot. I couldn’t help but to empathize with many of these protestors, normal people who were struggling to buy basic necessities that had become increasingly difficult to afford in the past few years. I saw myself in the women who had grown tired of exhausting work with low pay and little respect, but with no other option but to continue working. 

Turning on the radio at the end of the day, I listened in horror as the anchors callously discussed the accounts of police brutality: rubber bullets, tear gas, beatings, all while the majority of the protestors peacefully protested. My nephew called that evening to inform me that he was okay, and as relieved as I was to learn that he had not been harmed, I couldn’t help picturing him as one of those officers, swinging a baton or spraying rubber bullets at helpless people with friends and families. The physical scars from that day would heal, but the mental and emotional ones would never leave. Was this behavior something I was willing to support? It seemed it was growing more difficult to pretend that I could balance between the two groups as everyone in my life seemed to be taking sides. 

I told myself to be happy and pleasant. After practicing my facade of dignity and a cool composure, I walked into my sister’s home to see laughter and smiles. Nothing was unusual about this Christmas gathering. The food was the same. The people were the same. Even the decor was the same save for a new rug my sister had bragged about the entire evening. Yet, something felt different. I cringed as my family moved onto the inevitable conversation of the topic of the Gilets Jaunes.

“They are trying to do good things, but their methods are completely wrong. They are risking injury and getting way too violent. I worry about Kevin dealing with some of these people,” remarked my sister. I found myself unable to meet her eyes even as it seemed she was speaking directly to me. Can she sense how uncomfortable I feel, I wondered.

“They are all a bunch of delinquents just trying to destroy stuff and wreak havoc. Then they cry ‘police brutality’ when I protect myself and do my job,” interjected Kevin. I could not imagine this sweet boy, who used to catch bugs and take them outside rather than kill them, could regard people in such a cold light.

I bit my tongue to keep from responding, but as the conversation continued, I could not hold back any longer. “What about all the people who are just trying to survive in a country that is making it increasingly difficult for them to do so? How do you feel knowing those protestors you beat and hit with rubber bullets or tear gas are mothers, sons, daughters, fathers?” I asked, my voice growing louder, “How can you disregard the innocent people’s right to protest?” 

The room fell silent from my sudden outburst, stunned at the uncharacteristic break from the calm and quiet Nicole everyone had always known me as. The rest of the dinner was tense, with the silence only punctuated by the ripple of the curtain against the windowsill. No one seemed to know how to rebound from this, apart from remarking on the vivid colors of my sister’s new rug for the 50th time. 

I left that evening with my head held high, trying to hold it together, but my hands trembled as I stepped into the cold. By the time I got home, I knew I had to do something. I had watched this country change since I was a child, but now it seemed it was taking a turn in a direction that I could not allow it to go in without at least trying to fight back. As I drifted to sleep that evening, I resolved to do my part-to finally take part in the fraternité I had learned about all of my life. 

The last straw was when I read that Macron had proposed a law restricting the right to protest. There was no way I could allow myself to live in a country that sought to take away one of the most sacred freedoms of any democratic country. It was a chilly February day, but the train to Paris was warm. I thought to myself, “it’s so easy to get lost in the crowd, to have your voice disappear in the void.” It was not until I realized that it is in this collection of voices, all singing together a common song for a common goal, that the sound of true democratic expression can be heard. I thought about the cold weather that day in December, my aching joints, the price of doliprane. I knew my nephew was somewhere in the masked wall of police, but the shields and uniforms made him indistinguishable.

We were being swept away by two different currents, each carried ceaselessly in the opposite direction by our beliefs. But the freedom to express these beliefs is what so many French people have fought for since the revolution. I tucked my scarf and gloves neatly into my bag, put on a yellow vest, and stepped into the sea of protestors gathered around, filled with a renewed sense of hope. Now, I have joined them. 

The morning sun slowly sifts through Zahra’s apartment windows, filling her living room with a warm, golden light. She sinks into a wrinkly leather couch, overlooking the distant cityscape silhouette as it is gently overcome by a blue sky. The city air is textured with traffic grumbles, a cacophony of honks and beeps. Outside, people pass and cars come and go, but Zahra remains still, fixed in place like a spinning vinyl record.

 

Her left hand is haphazardly clasped around the fine handle of a teacup. But with her right, the young journalist is glued to her phone, taking in the endless conveyor belt of Twitter activity.

 

#Jan25

 

#Jan25

 

#Jan25

 

  

In. Out.

 

Zahra’s sigh swallows the room. An oppressive stillness now hangs in the air, waiting for her to interrupt.

 

As if under a spell, she reaches for a small book that lives on her coffee table, hidden amongst novels and glossy magazines. Zahra’s shallow inner rhythms remain distant as she opens it, seeking solace in its aged, delicate pages. They are thin yet crisp, slipping through her fingers one by one. Zahra can feel them grow frailer with every touch, as if they could crumble in her hands at any moment.

 

She stops at a faded shot of a young girl flying through the air, swinging in the arms of an older brother. Her cheeks are rosy, and her face is plastered with a sheepish grin, beaming through the pages.

 

The picture reminds her of a world she can barely remember.

Zahra looks up, catching her own reflection in the window’s glass—sunken eyes and grown out hair. She shudders, and closes her eyes.

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Mahmoud Salah: Kom Ombo, Tuesday, January 25th, 2011

I open my eyes to the familiar hazel swirls of the ceiling and the shrill ringing of my alarm. My body falls into autopilot as I get ready for the day.

It’s January, so there are still two months before we harvest the sugarcane and barley. Today, I intend to head to the field to maintain the machinery, meet with the seed dealer, and start working on the taxes. My father used to handle the taxes, but ever since I dropped out, it became my job. School was a bit of a waste of time if you ask me… I was in the technical agricultural track, but honestly, much of the work on the farm doesn’t require the maths and sciences they teach—and that’s when the teachers actually teach. I’ve learned more the last two years from watching my father operate the rotavator and burn the sugarcane than a book could ever tell me about the soil. Not to mention, the government dictates the crop planning rotations anyway, so it’s not like we get to call all of the shots.

Part of it makes sense to me, given the importance of food production combined with the limited arable land and almost mercurial nature of the climate. But at the same time, this is the government we’re talking about here. The same government that started a coordination committee to combat corruption, and ended up being just for show. Everyone knows that the people with friends in government and who can afford it find better terms for themselves with a bit of money to grease the gears.

My train of thought evaporates as I wander into the kitchen and the scent of fresh coffee and ful medames washes over me. My mother has left breakfast ready on the table, but she isn’t here to say good morning—I can only imagine she’s rousing that sister of mine to get ready for school. Zahra’s bright when she wants to be, but I swear, she could sleep through anything and the world would pass her by. 

As I dip the warm pita bread into the fūl, my mind begins to wander again. I remember on the news, just over a month ago: a smaller produce vendor than ourselves in Tunisia set himself on fire to protest his abuse at the hands of the police. Typically, there aren’t many news pieces on abuse here by the hands of the police, but this reminded me of a specific scandal last year, where a man named Khaled Saeed was beaten to death for posting a video on YouTube of some cops sharing drugs after a police raid. Unlike other cases, where we might only hear whispers on the street, this case exploded on the internet. This case generated so much international coverage that the government even opened an investigation into the officers who arrested him. 

Come to think of it, the reason any of this police stuff came to mind is because today is National Police Day, a holiday created more than 50 years ago to honor the officers who gave their lives to protect people from the British military. This year, though, the calls to rally are to protest the police who have abandoned the people. The more I think about it, the more I start to doubt the justice our system supposedly provides. Perhaps if I have time after work today, I’ll go see how the protest turns out...

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Zahra Salah: Cairo, Egypt. 2021.

In. Out.

Zahra realizes that her eyes had fallen shut. Her tea must be cold now, mutating into a pale, silky beige. Her mind swirls with dusty memories of long ago. Tracing her fingers over the pair of innocent faces, Zahra thinks back to that day, a distant decade before, when she was shielded from reality: blissfully unaware of how the world was shifting beneath her feet. It might be foggy, but she can just make out some fragments here and there, distorted by naivety and confusion and time and space. 

She didn’t know then that she had said goodbye, groggy-eyed when Mahmoud left for the farm that day. After work, he had ventured to the center of the action, drawn to the demonstrations like a magnet. Zahra can still remember his warm hug and characteristically cheerful goodbye. 

Sitting at home, glued to the tv: Zahra and her parents watched the violent clashes erupt between police and protestors. While her eyes were fixed to the screen—mesmerized and confused by the unfolding action—her parents spoke in a hushed whisper, with one question on their lips. Now, it echoes through Zahra’s ears: Is he ok? 

The rest is a blur. Her brother was trapped behind bars. Followed by days of painful silence, which turned into weeks and then years. Where did he go? The question still lingers. Since then, Egypt has experienced perennial chaos: new presidents, bombings, uprisings, underscored by an ominous quiet in the form of a silenced independent media.

Zahra couldn’t help but wonder: what would her brother think of the world she lived in now? 

She took out her laptop and began to type: Mahmoud might be gone, but Zahra was finally ready to share his story with the world.