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Authors: Saeida Rouass
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Square,â I told him, laying out my terms.
âSophia, do not make permanent decisions based on temporary feelings,â he warned me.
XIII
The Battle of the Camels
Wednesday 2nd February
Over the next few days I continued to bide my time. Eventually I would get what I wanted. I just had to wait and play along with my father the same way I did when gaining his approval to study literature at university. It was a process and by the time my father agreed, he had already unknowingly been subjected to a whole host of hints and innuendos. I had to make him think that my going to Tahrir was OK and to do that I had to plant the seed in his mind and speak to it in soft loving words until it fruited or I would have to force the issue, possibly through the use of my mother as a second pressure point. Either way, I had a strategy and a purpose and that was invigorating. It meant I missed the Million Man March, but what is one woman amongst a million men?
In the end the camels put a stop to the possibility of mevisiting Tahrir Square immediately. For a moment a window opened and I was given a millisecond to prise it wider. But it was slammed shut before I could. The regime had a trick up its sleeve, and the sleeve was billowing enough to fit a camel.
Camels in Tahrir Square were not something I or anyone expected to see. There was a contrivance in it that made it impossible to believe camels had just strolled into Tahrir Square and happened upon a revolution. These camels were being driven by men with swords, clubs, rocks and whips. I had visions of them riding into the Square on the camels’ backs, charging the crowd like an Arabian gladiator movie scene. The idea was comical, but the reality was not.
The camels, the horses, the Molotov cocktails and the glint of a sniper’s weapon on a rooftop being caught by the sun were a dire warning. The situation had escalated. They were a warning that even the army couldn’t protect you. The regime would see this city, this country, turn to civil war rather than walk away.
The battles commenced, all over the city, all over the country. The Mubarak supporters unleashed rocks from rooftops, watching them fall onto protesters’ heads. Bribes started to be offered, protesters in Tahrir Square handed food to switch sides as though all it would take was a hearty meal. A carrot in exchange for a principle. Stand-offs between pro-Mubarak and protesters, and the Museum increasingly becoming the location of a bitter feud.
I received a text message telling me to join the Mubarak supporters and confront the disloyal criminals. Was the sender talking directly to me? Calling me to take up arms? Sitting in my pink bedroom, I was encouraged by the regime to throw rocks at unsuspecting people below.
But at least it meant the network was working again. I had a glorious hour surfing the internet and talking to my friends, a lot of whom were at Tahrir Square. I read about us on blogs, in online newspapers. I filled in the gaps of my knowledge and later shared the details with Mustafa. Hewas thrilled to have acquired another news source, though he already knew much of what I told him. He had moved now to under our communal staircase for good it seemed. At night the bowab locked the building door with Mustafa and his packed-up stall inside, minus any fruit as it had all sold by now. It just happened, he didn’t ask anyone if he could and no one suggested he should. One night he packed up his stall and rolled it to its position under the stairs. He stayed there and everyone pretended he had always been there.
Later as the day turned to one of Departure, I read about Shahira Amin. I told my mother about her. I described how she walked away from a position she must have earned through every pore of her skin because she was sick of being part of the problem, a messenger of lies. I told her on the Day of Departure, another Friday, how the Muslims had knelt down to pray in Tahrir Square and how the
âSophia, do not make permanent decisions based on temporary feelings,â he warned me.
XIII
The Battle of the Camels
Wednesday 2nd February
Over the next few days I continued to bide my time. Eventually I would get what I wanted. I just had to wait and play along with my father the same way I did when gaining his approval to study literature at university. It was a process and by the time my father agreed, he had already unknowingly been subjected to a whole host of hints and innuendos. I had to make him think that my going to Tahrir was OK and to do that I had to plant the seed in his mind and speak to it in soft loving words until it fruited or I would have to force the issue, possibly through the use of my mother as a second pressure point. Either way, I had a strategy and a purpose and that was invigorating. It meant I missed the Million Man March, but what is one woman amongst a million men?
In the end the camels put a stop to the possibility of mevisiting Tahrir Square immediately. For a moment a window opened and I was given a millisecond to prise it wider. But it was slammed shut before I could. The regime had a trick up its sleeve, and the sleeve was billowing enough to fit a camel.
Camels in Tahrir Square were not something I or anyone expected to see. There was a contrivance in it that made it impossible to believe camels had just strolled into Tahrir Square and happened upon a revolution. These camels were being driven by men with swords, clubs, rocks and whips. I had visions of them riding into the Square on the camels’ backs, charging the crowd like an Arabian gladiator movie scene. The idea was comical, but the reality was not.
The camels, the horses, the Molotov cocktails and the glint of a sniper’s weapon on a rooftop being caught by the sun were a dire warning. The situation had escalated. They were a warning that even the army couldn’t protect you. The regime would see this city, this country, turn to civil war rather than walk away.
The battles commenced, all over the city, all over the country. The Mubarak supporters unleashed rocks from rooftops, watching them fall onto protesters’ heads. Bribes started to be offered, protesters in Tahrir Square handed food to switch sides as though all it would take was a hearty meal. A carrot in exchange for a principle. Stand-offs between pro-Mubarak and protesters, and the Museum increasingly becoming the location of a bitter feud.
I received a text message telling me to join the Mubarak supporters and confront the disloyal criminals. Was the sender talking directly to me? Calling me to take up arms? Sitting in my pink bedroom, I was encouraged by the regime to throw rocks at unsuspecting people below.
But at least it meant the network was working again. I had a glorious hour surfing the internet and talking to my friends, a lot of whom were at Tahrir Square. I read about us on blogs, in online newspapers. I filled in the gaps of my knowledge and later shared the details with Mustafa. Hewas thrilled to have acquired another news source, though he already knew much of what I told him. He had moved now to under our communal staircase for good it seemed. At night the bowab locked the building door with Mustafa and his packed-up stall inside, minus any fruit as it had all sold by now. It just happened, he didn’t ask anyone if he could and no one suggested he should. One night he packed up his stall and rolled it to its position under the stairs. He stayed there and everyone pretended he had always been there.
Later as the day turned to one of Departure, I read about Shahira Amin. I told my mother about her. I described how she walked away from a position she must have earned through every pore of her skin because she was sick of being part of the problem, a messenger of lies. I told her on the Day of Departure, another Friday, how the Muslims had knelt down to pray in Tahrir Square and how the
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