Letter from Egypt

The first few days of a people's revolution are assumed to be about universal chaos and confusion. On January 28th, the fourth day of the People's Revolution in Egypt, the main media focus was of course Tahrir (Liberation) Square, which was indeed a whirlwind of police and demonstrators.

Tahrir was the nexus of the revolution, and galvanized protestors were already planning a late afternoon march straight towards the Ministry of the Interior. Still, within the square, the word on everybody's lips was tension. Standing together as one was forging stronger bonds of solidarity, but Tahrir was also shouldering the alarming reality of its situation: at any moment, its members were prone to dangerous attack from Mubarak's incensed security force.

Indeed, there were already infrequent, but increasing, shouts of spying and vandalism. News cameras, of course, performed their job recording the stress of Tahrir to the world at large. The tension at Tahrir, however, was not representative of Cairo's nearly 20 million residents. While several hundred officers were able to completely surround the square and harass its participants, ten thousand additional security forces were making their way through the untold number of Cairene backstreets.

I live a seven-minute walk from Tahrir Square. My street, Gamal e-Mahasen, is like any other in residential Cairo—the cast of characters here is constant, and the majority of us see the same faces every single day. Gamal e-Mahasen includes the four men who run the sandwich shop, the two families with snack kiosks, a group of older women at the grocery store, an elderly key-maker, a tailor, and his apprentice. Besides these faces, there are several younger boys and girls who are always about running errands. Finally, there are the bawabs (supers), one man for each building, as well as their cohorts—usually two or three younger boys who help park the cars and carry furniture. This is the makeup of a Cairene street.

Everybody mentioned above more likely than not lives in a small apartment right beside their business, spending the entire day within the confines of Gamal e-Mahasen. There is no street sheikh, or street leader, to speak of. We all know each other extremely well and feel at ease sharing our company, our service, and our help and advice.

This has been the system in Cairo for hundreds of years. As an older, homey neighborhood street, this is no spontaneous gathering of strangers, and no sudden government aggression could ever plunge our community into chaos. On the afternoon of Friday the 28th, as a breakaway flank of government officers stared down the alleyway which opens onto our street, they found not only the younger, more bravado men of Gamal e-Mahasen blocking their path, but also, behind them, older men ready with Pepsi (which greatly alleviates the effects of teargas), younger boys behind them with water, and women leaning over them all, from their balconies, ready with additional bottles of water as well as paper towels!

As security officers began firing their teargas canisters, the boys would start tearing off a few rolls of toilet paper. And as the men began to emerge—sneezing, crying, and shielding their faces from the smoke—both young and old would move towards them, offering paper, water, Pepsi, and bread. A makeshift clinic was set up for the wounded in the middle of Gamal e-Mahasen, just beyond the reach of the teargas. As soon as they were treated, many would head right back into the haze. Those who needed a longer breather could retreat to the safety of an apartment, where the women of Gamal e-Mahasen would tend to them.

This is the way our street operated during the initial hours of the violence. Standing at the corner and observing in silence, I was most impressed by the complete and total calm on the faces of each of my neighbors. Everybody dutifully went about their business and nobody panicked, even if he or she had no idea what they were facing. To the residents of Gamal e-Mahasen, it didn't matter who or what came out of the haze; if they had their own territory secured, they would be able to handle it.

By evening, the mood outside had changed. It seemed as if all the gas and dust from that afternoon had risen up, high into the air, and was only now starting to fall back to Earth. It was that profound silence one feels before the storm. Apparently, Mubarak's security forces had shed their uniforms and were now running about looting stores and homes. Already, al-Jazeera had reported a prison breakout south of Cairo and was now showing brief footage of young men in leather jackets storming ritzy, shop-lined avenues and upper-middle-class residences—smashing, grabbing, and shooting at will.

I was sitting in my apartment along with some others in my building—all of us stuck inside because of the curfew—listening and watching with mounting unease. Outside, however, Gamal e-Mahasen Street was calmly at work. I started to hear a loud banging noise coming from downstairs. Descending the stairs to our building's entryway, I saw my super—Ghad—and his younger assistants busy with a chisel and hammers. Each of them was armed with a lead pipe, but all were laughing and in high spirits. Ghad explained to me that he was removing part of the tile foundation in front of our front door. Apparently, the two gold-plated lamps just above our entryway were prime targets for looters. By removing the tiling and creating a sizeable hole underground, which he then covered with a rug, Ghad hoped to twist the ankles of would-be thieves. Ghad then winked at me and gave a surprisingly hilarious cackle before returning to the job.

The image of Ghad chiseling away at his man-made trap could very well have been that of a man securing his home against bad weather. You know, deep down, that you will outlast the storm; you simply have to put in a little more effort. The small preparations are methodical, even meditative. True, the approaching storm is frightening because you never know where it might hit, but it doesn't plunge your mind into chaos. The knowledge that you, along with your neighbors, have the wherewithal to pull through is self-assuring. You simply roll up your sleeves and get along with business.

Hosni Mubarak has left the presidency and Cairo altogether. While the political arena in Egypt is evolving, this doesn't affect daily life in the street. In fact, as most major news outlets have reported, the majority of Cairenes are now hard at work sweeping debris off the walks, clearing the streets, and repairing broken windows. The intent is to get back to a normal work routine as soon as possible.