Love After Love

The time will come 
when, with elation 
you will greet yourself arriving 
at your own door, in your own mirror 
and each will smile at the other's welcome, 

and say, sit here. Eat. 
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 

all your life, whom you ignored 
for another, who knows you by heart. 
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, 

the photographs, the desperate notes, 
peel your own image from the mirror. 
Sit. Feast on your life. 

- Derek Walcott

To protest or not to protest

It struck me when I got here: how tired people are. Tired of ‘the situation’, tired of protesting, of deciding who to protest against or what for, of not being sure if all that protesting would actually lead anywhere or change anything. Weary, they seemed, with their vision of a better Egypt somewhere hidden among the exhaustion of trying to get to it and no longer knowing where to find the motivation and the strength to overcome differences and once (or twice, or so many times) charge ahead and fight for what they’ve been fighting for since January 2011 – almost 3 year now.

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On a wall between AUC Downtown and Garden City.

Last Sunday evening, as I left my Arabic class in Downtown, I realized that the streets were rather empty.  While I slowly walked towards Tahrir Square to cross the bridge behind it on my way home, I noticed a strange smell, something in the air that stung my eyes and nose. Tear gas. Most shops along the road were either closed or closing, with a few people still sitting on chairs in front of their doors.

From a street to my right I heard people chanting, but as the road towards Tahrir was more or less empty, I kept going to see if it was still possible to cross the square or if the army had blocked it off completely. I ended up behind the tanks with a few fire engines, ambulances and about seven people. By now I could see the protestors on the other side of the tanks and the police trucks in the next street off the square. I asked one of the seven people who was who. They are Muslim Brotherhood, he said, and we are with Sisi.

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Protesting behind the book stalls, Downtown Cairo.

The police trucks advanced on the protestors, aided by a water-spraying fire engine. Then more tear gas. The protestors retreated to the next side streets, chanting slogans and holding up four fingers. A guy who was standing next to me behind the army vehicles rolled some perfume on my hand to counter the burn of the tear gas. We talked and he invited me to come see the other side – so we turned into yet another street and found our way towards the demonstration a bit further into Downtown. These are not just Muslim Brotherhood, he told me, a lot of them are university students. They are angry because a few days ago the army killed a student on a campus. The protestors had assembled on a crossroad of two of the wider avenues, and were standing there, chanting slogans led by two teenage boys on top of their friends’ shoulders. The little stalls selling corn and fries were having a good evening, serving those in the demonstration as well as the people who were shopping in the streets around it.

At some point, there was talk of moving. The mass of people turned towards what my newly-made friend said was the courthouse, but stopped as the police trucks and army tanks had blocked the road next to it. People slowly moved forward, in small groups, while the street vendors started packing up their wares. The police fired a few tear gas canisters, moving the protestors back to the crossroads. Some people from the demonstration tried to tear of some tree branches to make a fire, but others came to extinguish it. A young guy who picked up a stone was told to put it back down. From a small alley a woman came running, screaming Get lost! Go away! We don’t want you here, you are not Egypt! WE are Egypt! You aren’t! Angry people tried to argue with her, but then the police started firing tear gas again and everybody just ran, ran, ran in all directions. We hid in a little alley where a pissed-off waiter was stacking chairs as his business for the evening had come to an end.

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Protesting on the intersection of two avenues.
 

Just as I came out of the alley again, the police truck passed, a few young boys in front of it running towards the protestors with stones and empty bottles. Instead of ducking and running back into the alley, the few people around me told me to stand still – to quietly wait until the trucks had passed. They yelled encouraging remarks at the police trucks, thanking them for dispersing the demonstrations.

By that time, the protestors had run off in so many directions, it was hard to know if there was anything left of the demonstration. Life returned on the avenues, the shops reopened and the vendors uncovered their stalls again. My new-found friend asked me if I had enjoyed the action. I demonstrate every Friday, he said. I asked if he thought the government was listening. He said it’s not for the government, but because we need to send a message to the Egyptian people that we don’t think it’s right, what is happening now.

I admire their stamina. I do not yet have a deep enough knowledge of Egyptian politics to agree with one side or another, but I believe that with a new (draft) constitution that allows for citizens to be tried in military courts and that severely restricts the right to protest, it is important to keep standing up against the system  – because it oppresses you, or because it oppresses those around you, because once those are down, who knows who will be next. Beautifully said by Omar Robert Hamilton: … tyranny is upon us again. We do not need to agree on the details or what exactly comes next. We just need to say no.

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Tanks and soldiers blocking off Tahrir Square, Downtown Cairo.

To protest or not to protest, that is not the question.

Bas kidda*

Oh, Cairo.

People warned me about you. They said you are crazy - dirty, noisy, and overwhelming. That you are dangerous and crowded. That I wouldn’t be able to walk for 5 minutes without being verbally harassed and touched and bothered. That your polluted air makes it impossible to breathe.

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Balcony in an alley in Downtown Cairo.

Maybe they are right, Cairo. After all, I’ve only been here for two weeks and a bit, so I don’t know you that well yet. And yes, you are loud and busy and dusty, so dusty I want to take a huge bucket and hose down the tree in front of the house (and while I’m at it, hose down the balcony as well. And the rest of the house.) Your air is brown, at times, and your drivers do like honking. And yes, sometimes I want to slap the next guy in the face before he even attempts to talk to me, because I don’t want to wonder if what he is going to say is yet another nasty proposal.

But you know what?

I like you. I really, really like you.

I like your wide avenues that create space in and between the neighborhoods. Your have trees everywhere, and parks, and boats that go up and down your river. Your people accuse each other of being liars, but I keep meeting people who are friendly and helpful and who follow up on their word. And they are quick to laugh and almost always return my smile. You have the easiest metro-system in the world, and it is so fast and reliable and cheap I still have trouble believing it. And you’re big, Cairo, so incredibly large – it makes you just the right mix of life and anonymity, with the people in my street knowing exactly what I’m up to but no one outside of that caring one single bit, all 18 million of them living their own life in their own way. And you function – your telephone system functions, your internet, your water supply, your electricity… maybe it offends you, umm el-dunya,** that I doubted any of that, but remember that I've come from Beirut, the shiniest city in the Middle East, where none of that works.

I also like your style. You pull off a combination of old-time European architecture with bustling alleys in a way that very few can. No one is tearing down your beautiful old buildings and replacing them with expensive luxury crap. Your stray cats want attention more than they want food, and your people give it to them. And your language, Cairo, your language… it is so soft and round and – dare I say it? – cute, I could listen the kida kida kida’s and ah’s that almost sound like oh the whole day.

So yes, Cairo, I like you a lot. Thank you for taking me in and making me feel right at home.

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Sunset at Qasr el Nil - bridge.

* Kida can mean many things, but in this sentence it means 'just (like) this'.

**Cairo’s nickname, meaning Mother of the World.

Good point

The other day I was on a mini-bus with a 5-year old Egyptian girl sitting next to me.

"Are we friends?" she asked.
"I don't know, when do you consider someone your friend?" I said.
"Maybe when I like to play with them?"
"Could be. Or when you go over to their place or they visit you."
"Or when I dance with them? And want to hold their hand?"
"If that's the case you're definitely friends."
"Oh and when I don't bite them. Because you should never bite your friends, right?"
"Right."

Mijn adres

Vandaag

heb ik mijn huisnummer verwijderd

en de naam van mijn straat aan beide uiteinden

ik heb alle wegwijzers weggedaan

Als u mij ondanks alles toch wilt vinden

moet u aan de deur bellen

van ieder huis van iedere straat, stad of land

Het is een gesel of een weldaad

want als u een bevrijde ziel tegenkomt

beschouw die dan als de mijne

Amrita Pritam

Uit: Daan Bronkhorst (samenst.) 'Liefde kon maar beter naamloos zijn – 150 dichteressen voor Amnesty International.' Breda, De Geus, 2000.