Last night, my sister and I went for a walk with an Egyptian friend of hers. The three of us settled ourselves in a tea/shisha hangout frequented by locals, many of which are artists, in the neighborhood. We sat in chairs lined against the wall below several trees. And throughout the entirety of our stay, felt bird droppings fall on our heads and laps. "It's good luck!" We reassured each other. My sister informed me it was the "cool" spot to sit, as we could view people walking back and forth on the street ahead and all the people sitting and socializing in the cafe.
It wasn't even ten minutes into the conversation that the 28 year old graphic designer began to talk of the Uprising and the current Revolution (January 25th is considered the Uprising. All the days thereafter, which include today, are the Revolution). With absolutely no questions from myself nor my sister, he began to recall the happenings of January 25th. I had my audio recorder in my bag and thought to pull it out, but quickly realized that this was not a conversation to be recorded. I have chosen not to write his name as a protection to his identity.
He began his story by saying, "I remember running. Running through the square. I had never smelled that smell before. I had never seen what I saw that day." He shook his head back and forth and looked to the ground.
"What smell?" I asked. "Tear gas." He responded. "I was running and I fell to the ground, on my face. And then I jumped up again and kept on running." He told us that he came upon a car, and decided to walk around the backside of it over to the passenger door. To this day he said he doesn't know why he decided to do that, because as he approached the passenger window, someone in the driver's seat hit the gas. He watched people get run over and die right before his eyes. He shook his head again and looked to the ground, taking a puff off his shisha. "If I had gone the other way I would have been killed. I just don't know why I didn't go that way."
"I have lost four friends," he said. He described two of them in more detail. "One was a male who worked for the Opera, the other a female. Both of them around my age." He continued to shake his head. "Friends tell me things I did that day that I don't remember. Ways I acted that I can't believe I acted. It was like someone gave me a shot of anesthesia." He pretended to inject himself with a needle. "I had no power over my body, but it was doing things."
"It was a strange day in my life," he said.
It was very apparent to me at that moment the trauma that this man had endured. It has been 8 months, and he spoke of it as if it happened yesterday. And he wanted to speak, he needed to.
My sister turned to him and asked, "Do you remember seeing me on February 1st? I was walking into the square, you were walking out?" "Yes." He responded. "Do you remember you told me that you carried people out of the square whose brains were hanging out of their heads?" Emotionless he responded, "Yes." "Do you remember that you began to cry?" My sister asked. His eyebrows lifted, "No," he said. A smiled filled his face, "I cried?!" "Yes," my sister said.
"It's good to cry." I said. "You should cry."
The table was silent for a bit. We watched the people chatting around us and walking back and forth, an occasional poop dropped from the trees above. And then he began to talk about how after the Uprising, he was called into the Army to serve. He told us how he was really unhappy to go, but after being there for two months, he feels he has a purpose in life. That before he was lost, didn't have any direction, and now he does. He doesn't want to fight, but the routine he has been given keeps him aligned, and to him it feels good.
"They popped my head like a balloon and sucked out all the air." He took his finger and poked his head and made a hissing noise imitating a popped balloon. "I don't have to think anymore, the Army has taken all of it out of my head. It is very nice."
This idea was very interesting to me, but the conversation had taken its course, and it came to an end. Another day, another day. He thanked us for the conversation, shook our hands, and excused himself from the table.
It wasn't even ten minutes into the conversation that the 28 year old graphic designer began to talk of the Uprising and the current Revolution (January 25th is considered the Uprising. All the days thereafter, which include today, are the Revolution). With absolutely no questions from myself nor my sister, he began to recall the happenings of January 25th. I had my audio recorder in my bag and thought to pull it out, but quickly realized that this was not a conversation to be recorded. I have chosen not to write his name as a protection to his identity.
He began his story by saying, "I remember running. Running through the square. I had never smelled that smell before. I had never seen what I saw that day." He shook his head back and forth and looked to the ground.
"What smell?" I asked. "Tear gas." He responded. "I was running and I fell to the ground, on my face. And then I jumped up again and kept on running." He told us that he came upon a car, and decided to walk around the backside of it over to the passenger door. To this day he said he doesn't know why he decided to do that, because as he approached the passenger window, someone in the driver's seat hit the gas. He watched people get run over and die right before his eyes. He shook his head again and looked to the ground, taking a puff off his shisha. "If I had gone the other way I would have been killed. I just don't know why I didn't go that way."
"I have lost four friends," he said. He described two of them in more detail. "One was a male who worked for the Opera, the other a female. Both of them around my age." He continued to shake his head. "Friends tell me things I did that day that I don't remember. Ways I acted that I can't believe I acted. It was like someone gave me a shot of anesthesia." He pretended to inject himself with a needle. "I had no power over my body, but it was doing things."
"It was a strange day in my life," he said.
It was very apparent to me at that moment the trauma that this man had endured. It has been 8 months, and he spoke of it as if it happened yesterday. And he wanted to speak, he needed to.
My sister turned to him and asked, "Do you remember seeing me on February 1st? I was walking into the square, you were walking out?" "Yes." He responded. "Do you remember you told me that you carried people out of the square whose brains were hanging out of their heads?" Emotionless he responded, "Yes." "Do you remember that you began to cry?" My sister asked. His eyebrows lifted, "No," he said. A smiled filled his face, "I cried?!" "Yes," my sister said.
"It's good to cry." I said. "You should cry."
The table was silent for a bit. We watched the people chatting around us and walking back and forth, an occasional poop dropped from the trees above. And then he began to talk about how after the Uprising, he was called into the Army to serve. He told us how he was really unhappy to go, but after being there for two months, he feels he has a purpose in life. That before he was lost, didn't have any direction, and now he does. He doesn't want to fight, but the routine he has been given keeps him aligned, and to him it feels good.
"They popped my head like a balloon and sucked out all the air." He took his finger and poked his head and made a hissing noise imitating a popped balloon. "I don't have to think anymore, the Army has taken all of it out of my head. It is very nice."
This idea was very interesting to me, but the conversation had taken its course, and it came to an end. Another day, another day. He thanked us for the conversation, shook our hands, and excused himself from the table.
Wow. Wow.
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