A TIME FOR CHOOSING:

‘Hosni Mubarak, the plane is waiting’ (Yasmine Rashidi, 1/26/11, NY Review of Books)

By the time we arrived, Tahrir Square was filling up again with protesters, about 15,000 of them. Young men in their twenties with football-themed hoodies and Puma sneakers were everywhere. Young women too—some of them veiled, many of them not. Fathers with young children on their shoulders and by their sides filled the square’s grassy center. I spotted Al-Ghad party leader Ayman Nour, and the outspoken newspaper editor Ibrahim Eissa who was fired last year for being too critical of the regime. Hala El Koussy, the well-known artist, was there too, and I noticed Amr Shalakany, a law professor at the American University in Cairo, carrying an Egyptian flag. Someone pointed to the novelist Alaa El Aswaany, in the distance. I could just about make him out through the crowds, wearing a burgundy scarf. Some members of the Muslim Brotherhood were also in attendance, spotted by a journalist friend who had interviewed them in recent weeks. They were there as independents, since the group’s leaders had decided it would not participate in the protests.

The streets were strewn with rocks and other debris from earlier scuffles with police. I was told that protesters and riot police had clashed, and that the police had already fired tear gas. We waited, expecting it to happen again. The chanting grew louder, and the crowd grew too. By 4:30pm, I heard someone say that the last of the marching protesters had arrived in the square. News reports estimated that 20,000 to 40,000 people had gathered there. I debated this with journalists and friends: no one agreed on a figure.

Around the square, security forces began to move in. A bearded man in faded jeans and a faux suede jacket raised a speaker and called on the crowd to chant louder. A young man, about 19, climbed a pole and raised the Egyptian flag. A young girl in a pink sweater hoisted a banner, asking Mubarak to step down. She must have been about nine. She was smiling and seemed to think that this was a celebration. As the sun began to set, activists insisted that people remain here all night, or until Mubarak yields. They chanted for courage. “No one will die”.

For hours, this went on, chants interrupted by the firing of sporadic rounds of tear gas. Phone networks were cut and the light had dimmed. Reports were trickling in that there had been no mention of the protests on state TV, and that even Al-Jazeera coverage was sparse. No one seemed to be leaving. Small crowds tried to, but people cheered them back, telling them not to fear, to be one, to unite. Most of them stayed. By late in the evening rumors started to circulate that the Minister of the Interior had given orders for live ammunition to be used after 10 PM. In an uproar, the crowd shouted that they were still not scared, that nothing would move them except defeat of their ruler. They moved closer towards the police barricades, shouting into the air that the force of the citizens was stronger than any ammunition the police might use.

I had been close to the front of the crowd, facing the riot police. When I heard talk of live ammunition, I retreated back into the center of the square. I wondered if it might be time to leave, but others around weren’t flinching.

We waited.

Close to 1 AM, we sensed something was about to happen. The number of riot police had increased, we noticed more shielded trucks in outlying side-streets, and the security barricade the police had erected seemed to be inching closer, closing in on the square. Suddenly, there were groups of thugs—strongmen in cotton shirts despite the cold—both moving among the protesters and in the surrounding streets. The riot police pulled down their masks.

The attack was ruthless. The police fired round after round of tear gas and began to strike protesters indiscriminately with their batons; the thugs, who were beating down on protesters—in some cases with metal chains and knives—seemed to have orders to kill. With the air thick with sulpher, people fell to the ground, many toppled by the sheer force of the security forces moving in. Water canons smashed through the crowds.

Hours later, many of us were back home, checking our Twitter and Facebook feeds for news and wondering what would happen next. Would there be a curfew, would the president release a statement, would the state concede anything? What would tomorrow’s papers say? People joked that the ruling family had just landed at Heathrow, a hundred bags in tow. Ayman Nour tweeted that his son had been detained. Activists slammed Hilary Clinton’s remarks describing Egypt’s government as “stable and looking for ways to respond to the legitimate needs and interests of the Egyptian people.” A picture of an empty tear gas canister circulated, the zoom focusing in on ‘Made in USA’. Organizers circulated a message that the protests would continue, tomorrow, the next day, and Friday after midday prayers.

“Don’t forget,” tweeted one activist, “that in Tunisia it took a month. #Egypt is bigger, it will take more. #jan25, keep it alive.”

At the time of this writing, protests have begun again. I can hear the echo of sirens in the city, and I’ve been receiving tweets about what’s happening downtown, about arrests and “abductions.” Our friend Mohamed has not yet been released from the custody of state security. In all, 860 protesters were arrested throughout the country, and three people were killed. A journalist friend who is out covering the events posts on her Facebook page: “Cairo is under siege today. By the government’s thugs and security apparatus. Protests, kidnappings, beatings, arrests, tear gas. What the hell!”