Made in the USA

Suddenly, the streets became dark. They filled with the noxious fumes of tear gas right outside your door that made you stand, feeling like a helpless idiot, coughing with your eyelids pressed together, thick, mascara-stained streams of hot burning liquid falling thickly down your cheeks and onto your clothes, with a huge crowd of people running at you telling you that, “The Military are clearing the square! They’re clearing the square!” There is even an older man in a wheel chair pumping his arms in the crowd, trying to pull away from the soldiers. You’re scared that somebody is going to be in his way, that he won’t get away fast enough.

But you are not afraid because you are nearly outside your door. All you have to do is walk into the building and take the elevator up to your apartment and pretend like this isn’t even happening. If you want. You look towards the end of your street- the end that flows into Tahrir Square- and you are surprised to see real soldiers. Real soldiers with real guns and real canisters of tear gas that say, “Made in the USA” across their bodies. The canisters sound like fireworks when they’re shot. And you see a stream of smoke that, from a distance, might look beautiful.

In the darkness of a half moon, we gathered in Tahrir at midnight, blocks away from my apartment. The streets were full of young people, mostly men, wearing surgical masks or scarves to protect themselves from the tear gas that was sinking heavily in the air. We passed a number of those injured in the protests on that day, or the day prior. They wore their bandages like badges won in battle pinned to one eye; the sides of their heads. Some limped. There was a mixture of fear and joviality amongst those assembled in the crowd. Most of downtown was locked and closed. The side streets were deserted of any kind of commercial activity. But in a fast food restaurant down the street (open and packed), people ate shawarma on stools with their masks hanging limply around their necks, eyes blood-shot, talking about the police and the army around the corner.

There were many groups present in the square: there were the more conservative Islamist elements, liberal social activists, older people, children, vendors selling masks alongside coffee and tea and nuts, cotton candy. They were all waiting for some sort of provocation. Or just waiting. Most had tear-stricken faces. Some carried bottles of vinegar or saline solution for those that had been in the midst of the gas. Along the angle between the streets of Talaat Harb and Tahrir, young men were bent over, crouching, tearing apart pieces of the pavement for the next confrontation with whomever decided to enter the square. I didn’t want to be standing next to them when they began to throw these hunks of stone. But for the most part, everyone waited.

The noisy street- the one with the loud bangs and shots and mysterious noises emitted from its distant recesses- was the street with the Ministry of the Interior. Many in the crowd purposely marched towards its choked entrance. They wanted to be there. Those who decided to stand in this street seemed to be taking a particular risk. This street was of particularly sensitive strategic importance and had witnessed a number of violent clashes in the past year. One friend strode forward, scuba mask strapped across his eyes. I was too afraid to go in. I worried that if something happened, I would be crushed, or unable to move.

There would be no exit in this kind of crowd. Every few minutes, something happened on this street that caused my body to pulse with adrenaline. On cue, the streets raises its right hand and begins cheering and shouting. On cue, the outskirts of the crowd comes running out of the street, only to be shouted at by a man, “Go in, stay where you are! Keep your post!” Occasionally shots were followed by sprays of rubber bullets. The crowd was a veteran crowd and seemed to know to expect this. Everyone ducked in unison. The mood remained excited and expectant. On the roof of a building facing me, a man holds a machine that is spraying white gas into the air. I start pushing against my friend’s arm, I want to pull away from this area. It’s too crowded.

There is nowhere to go. I want to run to my apartment, not in the opposite direction. If something happened, it would be impossible to cross the square. A friend has told me that there are snipers positioned all across Tahrir. They are maintaining posts from the high apartment buildings overlooking the square. “Who are they aiming for?” I wonder. The smoke from the roof, I think, is more tear gas. It turns out to be a fire extinguisher. Why any compatriot would choose to employ a device that resembles the smoke of a tear gas canister in front of a crowd that more resembles animals in a cage, I wonder. Everyone cheers when he raises his hand and punches the air.

These days, everyone seems to have an opinion about the protests that are happening downtown. Most of those claiming an opinion about this issue seem to come from neighbourhoods further away and less affected by social inequality, poverty, and all of the associated indignities of being disenfranchised and powerless. Most of these opinions are belittling. They are trivializing the political activism of groups that are genuinely confronting a military that is currently controlling their country, on the brink of elections that could be disastrous at worst, and inconsequential at best. Most of these opinions fall around the blaming of the vague, catch-all term: Baltagiyya, even in light of Tantawi's speech, and the military re-entering the square Wednesday as some sort of good-cop saviour.

The idea of the Baltaggiya overwhelming these protests is not nuanced, and it serves to blame both government or army operatives and youth protestors; blaming the operatives for working within crowds to exacerbate a situation by acting violently, therefore allowing the military to step in, and the young, mostly male, protestors who similarly act violently, and wasting everyone’s time by blocking traffic and simply getting in the way. The blame mostly falls on the shoulders of the young male protestors.

The youth- the very young- the uneducated- the unemployed- the dissatisfied- the ungratified- the instigators- the rock throwers-the fighters on Mohammed Mahmoud- that are represented in these protests are also a critique of the system that created them, They have as much a right to object to a system as anyone else. And yet I know just from simply asking many of them, that they won't be turning out to vote today. And walking past the voting centre in Zamalek today, a long line snaked around the side of Maison Thomas, and the line was nearly all women. Despite the injustice of the past year, and the past 30 before this one, I sincerely hope that people take this opportunity to assert their opinions and beliefs at the ballot box.
If they choose not to vote, well, they must then choose not to be disappointed by whatever the results happen to be.

Marie-Jeanne Berger